#I think eight is such a lonely character

[eorzeashan]

Sort of turning over thoughts in my head (and you've all seen enough of me yelling about swords lately) but even without the Inquisitor story, Eight and Talos already go way back -- before Talos ever meets the Inquisitor, Eight was often pirated from Intelligence to be Talos' bodyguard whenever he stumbled across dangerous knowledge or artifacts that would put a target on a humble archaeologist like him. they're good partners and good friends, and at first, Eight was not happy about being pulled into nonsense work for other branches, but as Talos tends to get wrapped up in situationsTM while gleefully chasing that spark of knowledge, things got rather...exciting and he found himself conscripted more and more on his expeditions (which he himself ended up liking and fostering his own fascination with the world which Talos studied). It's but one of the reasons why he expresses less derision towards Force-users compared to his other agent siblings.

This dynamic doesn't stop even when Eight is assigned to spy on Lord Zash (as my way of justifying him in the Inquisitor story) and even further beyond, where reuniting in the Alliance if the PC recruits both of them at the same time triggers a little cutscene where they happily point each other out, sort of like SCORPIO and Kaliyo.

I've also decided that whether in his own timeline of KOTFE/ET or a different Commander's, Eight's sword is one that he and Talos discovered on yet another scouting expedition to ancient ruins looking for Jedi remnants. They were too late to save the Jedi who sent the distress call from a remote planet of Je'daii ruins, and so unexpectedly ran into a trap of Zakuul Knights everywhere who had also intercepted the signal and lay in wait to try and capture the Outlander, but as Eight does, he protected both of them well enough-- but the situation was dicey enough that they had to hide in the Je'daii village.

Further discovery and Talos' nosey self revealed the site of many a Je'daii forge and one lone sword hidden under centuries of ash and dust, but Eight would note that it appeared to be unfinished, left on a whetstone all by itself. No sword guard, a misshapen piece strung together by wire above where the collar is supposed to be...it appeared the Jedi they'd come to rescue had spent all their lonely months trying to restore it. By this time, all the heavy fighting has long since snapped Eight's own vibroblade in two, so he takes it with him. It turns out to be the key to making it off-planet, as the original smith of the Je'daii sword made it as a lament to his people's descent into war and their own inability to find another way, and so left it as a gift to the future in the hopes that one day it would be used by someone unfettered by their mistakes, who walked the in-betweens and retained the strength that the smith lacked in their life. Eight's heart resonates with the force imbued into the blade, unbeknownst to him as this is, as he simply marvels at the craftsmanship and remarks that whoever made it put love and care into forging it, and decides that he'll be its custodian out of respect for the life that this one Je'daii lived. Talos urges him on to keep it and recreate the way it was used (mostly for his own anthropological studies), but also as a secret gift to his long-standing bodyguard of an agent who still walks with the soul of a warrior.

There's a lot of ruminating on the Force and the past during this little arc, and Eight is a bit starry-eyed by the thought that the Sith and the Jedi used to be one, like a confirmation to his dream of living side-by-side to both these respective cultures. He and Talos emerge from the gauntlet with a newfound appreciation for being tourists in this strange history, as well as the knowledge that someone from thousands of years prior could feel the same way you do now.

Anyways, long ramble aside, I really liked the idea that Eight's sword is still a Je'daii sword which opens his eyes to a bit of their storied past since he has little to no experience with Jedi but needs to understand them in his own way as well in order to truly live as part of their secret world. Like the red sageo cord on his belt dyed in the blood of Sith, I thought it'd be nice if he carried another's object of grief and unfulfilled wishes on his back like that.

There's something about ancient history and touching it as someone who has no relation to it that really speaks to me, and the idea of non-force users taking up their legacy is sweet, imo. Like we'll take care of you even when you're long gone. It's the kind of love that you don't really see between the Force-sensitive and Force-blind in-game.

And a sword must be used. It has no use without a wielder, even if its very existence is a question that cannot be answered on whether the world is better off without a weapon that can only be used for violence, good intentions aside. That sword was created to answer that very question, of which its blacksmith could not answer themselves and hoped for another to take up the blade in their place.

In that blade, Eight sees himself.

[monkee-mobile]

i cannot put into words well all my thoughts about how soft the monkees are I have SO MANY THOUGHTS it’s just so hard to type them out. my drafts are crazy right now.

it all just comes out like “when they’re all at home and it’s bedtime everybody just cuddling and chilling out to the guitar and singing with each other and talking oh my god you know they just like you know when like the blankets and it’s warm and mike is so gentle to davy and they sing and then read stories and peter likes the lights low” like that’s not what i meant to say at all i have whole narratives going i’m just kind of sick and i’m thinking about the monkees being so soft and sweet and davy curled up in a blanket in mikes lap while he plays the guitar complaining about bedtime and petting at mikes beard and mike picking at some chords as he tries to reason with the (NOT sleepy!!) little one—this is turning into davybaby !!

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ snuggles for hire

summary: first years try helping you out with your touch-starved problem type of post: short fics (blurbs?) characters: leona, floyd, jade, vil additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

"Really? That's it?" Ace scoffs.

"So, they haven't been hugged in a while. Okay? Neither has Deuce,"

Deuce glares. It's almost menacing. "That's not true, and you know it! I get lots of hugs every time I visit home!"

"I do, too. But that's just the thing, though, ain't it?" Epel says. "They don't have no home to get hugs from."

The huddle of first years goes quiet. Some days, you become such a part of their world, they forget you're really not from it.

"...Okay, point taken," Ace sighs. "But they have Grim! And he only stinks like, half the time!"

"If memory serves, Grim usually sleeps on the floor..." Epel says. "Poor prefect, all lonely. Now even their sleep is suffering 'cause of it!"

Jack rubs the back of his neck. "It must be tough, not having anything to look forward to,"

Another melancholy silence. Finally, Ace stands, hands on his hips.

"Well, let's do something about it, then. There are tons of boys at this school- one of them should be willing to help,"

It's eight in the morning after another disappointing attempt at rest, and now you can't even sleep in. Damn visitors.

You throw open the front door.

"What? What could you possibly- wh- Leona?"

The housewarden smirks. He looks a little too proud of himself for this early in the morning...

"A little wolfie told me you weren't sleeping well. Lucky for you, that's my specialty. Now, are you gonna let me in, or what?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, letting himself in and making himself comfortable on the couch in the foyer.

He pats the spot next to him.

"Listen..." you say. "I don't know what you heard, but I'm fine."

"Don't be proud. I don't pity you, I just... owe you. Now get your butt over here, yeah?"

Leona isn't so scary when he's asleep. He's more like... the world's largest pillow. Of course, you're at risk of being smothered until you crawl into a better position, but once you're on top, he's surprisingly warm and comfortable.

You can tell you're being watched before you hear anything.

And you think you might just know wh-

"Shrimpyyy!"

For two boys so tall, the tweels are awfully quiet. Especially when it comes to "surprising" you in random places. This time: the hall.

Floyd pulls you into a bone-crushing hug while Jade watches from behind, smiling subtly.

When he finally lets you down, you're dizzy. (Though, at this point, you'll take whatever physical touch you can get).

"Shrimpyyy, why didn't you tell us you were lonely? We had to squeeze it outta Spade," Floyd pouts.

"His face makes fascinating expressions when he's afraid," Jade says, merrily.

Before you can answer, Floyd's already got you under his arm (seriously? Where do they find the strength?) and is heading straight towards the hall of mirrors.

You already know there's no getting out of this one...

Floyd is, unsurprisingly, all over, from leaning his whole body weight against you to lying across your lap, to biting your shoulder (in his sleep...?) Oh, and he drools, too.

Jade sits on your other side, one hand holding yours, the other leafing through an almanac from twenty years ago.

You're almost hesitant to admit just how nice it really is.

"And nothing else has worked?" Vil says, throwing open the door to your bedroom with no regard for a "hello" or, "how are you?"

You blink. "...Hello to you, too. May I ask what you're talking about?"

He storms inside, standing over you with his hands on his hips.

"Just that I overheard Epel Felmier asking my vice housewarden if he would be willing to satisfy your need for physical affection. You've been struggling? With sleep? And you didn't think to come to me, first?"

He almost sounds... offended that you didn't.

"...Well... I wasn't making a big deal about it,"

"So, no teas, no vitamins, no pills- nothing has helped?"

You shake your head. He sighs.

"Perhaps it is purely psychological... very well. Get up. I hope you don't toss and turn much, I'm a light sleeper,"

Vil is completely still when he sleeps. No tossing, no turning, no drooling, no snoring. He also insists on sleeping on his back, you, clinging to his side, and a single arm around you. Just as elegant as when he's awake. He'd be a true sleeping beauty if not for the mumbles of nonsense that come from him every few minutes. You swear you can make out your own name, once or twice or three times...

He is warm nonetheless, and his mumbles and idle stroking of his fingers on your waist is enough to satisfy you for a night of good sleep.

[usedpidemo]

Mistakes were made, but not you (Le sserafim Yunjin)

“Why? Why weren’t you there? I needed you and you weren’t there!”

While Yunjin lashes out at you, grabbing at your shirt and using you as a proxy for the world and its ill-timed misfortunes, you can’t help but wonder if your presence would have changed the situation for the better.

Probably not. It’s one of those events that has to happen for character growth. 

—————

Tonight is supposed to be a night of celebration—a commemoration to the achievements, accomplishments, and accolades of the past year. The numbers and statistics never lie. They love her work, they love her artistry. They love her for what she sells and what she represents. But truth be told, Huh Yunjin couldn’t care less about what they think.

Thunderous cheers and colorful lightsticks representing different fandoms brighten the arena as the five Le sserafim members climb up the stairs to claim their award. Minutes ago, they pulled off the performance of a lifetime—an eight minute masterclass that represents everything the group stands for. You could see the exhaustion in their faces; barely mustering the strength to smile and wave to the crowd shouting for them. 

For the most part, the acceptance speech is nothing notable. Going through the motions, thanking the fans, the staff, the company, promising to do better in the future—it’s about as cookie cutter as it gets. As Yunjin tries her hardest to keep her tears from falling while she talks, the other four can only focus on her with varying weary looks. Chaewon looks especially worried; it’s her responsibility and burden to look after every single one of them. 

From the audience’s viewpoint, it’s seen as a non-issue, but the five girls recognize deep down it’s anything but. The only noteworthy thing is how suddenly quick they are on their feet heading backstage. It’s funny how everyone chases fame: to be in the moment, the spotlight. It’s funnier, Yunjin thinks, that she’d rather be anywhere else.

Unfortunately for her and the other artists attending, they’d have to wait a little longer. There’s backstage interviews and other idol obligations to do before they are finally let go. It’s not even worth all that lost time—that one award they receive ends up being their lone win for the night.

—————

Yunjin storms into your hotel room without a word with a fierce expression on her face. She doesn’t have to say it; she’s thankful she doesn’t have to spend another minute in front of the cameras, another minute being an idol—at least for the night.

In a sea of anger and auburn, Yunjin walks past you without acknowledging you at least once. She hastily drops off her purse on the coffee table before charging straight to her room and slamming the door. It’s easy to chalk up her frustrations on the monotony of the awards season—the countless hours of practice specifically for one event, the hours spent in the makeup room, the hours of interviews and fanservice—but you know she never acts like this. Rain or shine, hell or high water, she’ll walk around with a pleasant smile on her face.

Tonight simply isn’t one of those nights. You saw the whole ordeal happen in real time, and you’re already regretting the decision not to be there. At times, watching her on screen was tough. You can tell she was visibly uncomfortable, more clingy to her members than usual, when it’s normally the other way around. Admittedly, you have to give her props for holding herself back from crying when she has every right to. It’s a cold winter night, but that’s not the reason she’s trembling and shaking. It should be a night of celebration; instead, her sullen expression resembles the aftermath of complete, utter humiliation and defeat.

And it may as well be. You look through your phone; you find the messages from friends and acquaintances telling you the exact same thing; it might as well be considered spam. 

> Yo did you see what happened to Yunjin?

> Is Yunjin okay?!

> Yunjin fell! Fuck MNET!

> BRO YUNJIN FELL FROM THE STAGE WHAT THE FUUUUCK—

> Don’t tell her but I actually laughed when she slipped XD hope she alright tho!

Of course you know. It’s all caught on camera and in living color for the whole world to see. Even if it was cut from the YouTube edit, which is highly unlikely, it’s already out there on the internet spreading like wildfire. Numerous reposts with tens of thousands of likes, multiple articles immediately written after the incident—her name and her moment will remain immortalized in K-pop history for all the wrong reasons. It has the internet making jokes, it has the internet writing thinkpieces, it has the internet creating needless fanwars—it has the internet buzzing. 

You want to throw your phone from where your room is located—all the way up on the 27th floor—and pray it lands directly on a hater’s head. 

Sure enough, when you try to enter her room, it’s locked shut. The door won’t budge. All this awkward, quiet tension between you is terrifying, and sleeping her feelings off isn’t going to help anyone, not during these trying times. She needs comfort right now more than anything else. 

You give the door a respectful knock, only to be met with silence. Trying again and again leads you nowhere. Calling her name does you zero favors. Each futile attempt cuts away at your heart, little by little. Yunjin would rather isolate herself from the world than open up to anyone with no exceptions. Obviously, you have nothing to do with what happened (that is on the production team more than anyone) but you bear the responsibility and burden of being Yunjin’s partner, always there for her during the good times and the bad.

Now is not the time to give up or sulk. She needs comfort and love more than anything. She needs a shoulder to cry on. She needs a special voice to reassure her that everything will be okay.

Rummaging through her purse, you find one of her countless hairpins. It’s the oldest trick in the book—one that she always used to get you with guaranteed success. Already bent and straightened, perfectly shaped for picking—it’s as if she wanted you to reach her. You remember the disaster that was teaching you how to pick locks; dozens destroyed, to the dismay of her apartment doors, but she knew you’d need it at some point, and tried to help you to the best of her ability.

The lock comes undone. It’s a miracle, but it’s short-lived. What welcomes you as you enter her bedroom turns your uncertainty into shock and utter disbelief.

It’s imagery you only see in nightmares. Her bedroom completely ravaged and in utter ruin. Pillows, clothes, and objects scattered throughout the room. Yunjin is curled up against the wall with a blanket draped over her, concealing everything but her eyes. Bloodshot red from spilling her heart out. Around her feet lay two opened half empty bottles of alcohol and a spilled over wine glass. It takes everything not to drop to your knees or yell out “fuck” from the depth of your lungs.

Instead, it only comes out as an airy whimper, with your throat choked up seeing the sorry state your girlfriend’s in.   

Every little step you take may as well be tiptoed. Carefully treading into uncharted territory, who knows what you’ll end up meeting. The next words you pick will be the most important ones you’ll ever say. It isn’t as simple as telling her everything will be fine—that mistakes happen, life moves on, and this will be a memory she can laugh at a few years from now. She believes she’s ruined not only her career, but also her members, when anyone with common sense thinks otherwise.

With a deep breath and a gulp of your throat, you run through all the options. You pray you make the best choice.

“Jen Jen,” you mumble, crouching down in front of her, frowning. Try as you might, you can’t bring yourself to smile. You reach your hand out to peek through the curtain; she aggressively slaps down your palm. It’s as dire as you believe it looks. She sees the world crashing down before her. 

Watching her cry and hide herself away plucks away at your heartstrings. You don’t want to see her looking this sorry, this deflated. If her members—the people she’s closest with—couldn’t get through her, then how much less can you? Even so, you have to keep trying. Not as a fan nor an acquaintance, but as her partner.

Again, you’ll have to pick your way through another lock. This time, her heart. And it’s more delicate than any physical door. 

She’s drowning in her tears to realize the tug on her wrists. Little by little, you pull them apart. Yunjin’s bloodshot eyes glare right into yours, but she does nothing. Slowly, you curl your arms around hers, reaching around her back. For a moment, she appears vulnerable. Open. You press yourself close to her—

And then she hits you square in the face. 

Yunjin assaults you with a relentless barrage of fists, with one jab directly clocking your lips. They’re not the playful ones you’re used to. The kind that’s usually thrown after a serious argument, and you’ve only experienced a handful of squabbles. She sends you staggering back to the floor, violently screeching and attacking you. “Fuck you! Leave me alone!” she yells, punching you repeatedly with no sense of direction, only rage. You try to lift a hand in self-defense, only to be sent knocking down, to the point where you just give up and allow her to rip through you.

Looking into her eyes, having turned from grim to cruel, she looks as if you were there. As if you were the stage director. As if you were the one who pressed the button on the control panel. Her punches, aimless as they are, fucking hurt. You’re on the floor, defenseless, but you deserve it. You weren’t there when you should have been. The one award show you opt not to attend happens to be the one that ends up sideways. Of course she’ll pinpoint the cause back to you. That’s blind passion. That’s love.

She grabs you by the collar of your shirt, screaming right in your face, “Why? Why weren’t you there? I needed you and you weren’t there!” Angry as she is, you can tell she’s trying to restrain herself. She wants to humiliate you, but she also doesn’t want to smash your head through the marble floor. You have this ragged but innocent look on your face. The stubborn kind that would tell her that you won’t give up on her. That you’d happily take all the beating just to see her smile again. 

As it turns out, all she really needs is an outlet to air out her emotions. She has moved past her tears, and she has stopped beating you down, but everything else still remains. The glare. The dour frown. The fingers gripped to your collar. The room is silent, with the only sound filling the air is your low, airy hush of “Sorry.” Your hand rubs against her arm, conveying a message of reassurance that everything’s going to be okay.

Yunjin freezes. Unsure of how she feels, unsure of what to do. The moment stretches beyond the perception of time. You end up getting caught unprepared by what happens.

She doesn’t apologize for throwing you to the floor and verbally and physically assaulting you. You don’t really mind. A kiss is more than enough of an apology. Even more when it’s passionate, humming into your mouth before letting her tongue slip right between your lips, and her hands now pressed to your cheek. Lovemaking is how she speaks to you. Her lips do most of the talking. 

Her body does the rest.

Yunjin pushes you down to the floor. You watch her shed her leather jacket, in awe of her radiant beauty.  Her skin is porcelain, gleaming from the bedroom light. She’s a star, and shines like one. The reverence soon turns to amusement, mostly at how nonchalant she’s behaving. Minutes ago, she was hostile, out of control, threatening to turn you into a ruined mess. Instead, she’s about to leave you a ruined heap, but in a different way. 

She notices. She always does. Knows you like a book. She grins.

“You know I can’t be mad at you,” she says, lifting an eyebrow as she straddles on your lap. Smirking playfully, she’s making you double take and wonder if this was an elaborate ploy or if she was really upset. And if it’s the former, then you’d really feel betrayed and manipulated. “Sorry dear,” she adds, accompanied by a peck on your lips. “I know it’s not your fault nor mine, it’s just that we prepared so much and—”

“Don’t worry,” you interrupt, placing a hand on her bare shoulder, “I should have been there. I mean, what are the chances the one time I’m not there, this shit—”

“Shhh.” Yunjin plants a finger on your lips. “Babe shouldn’t worry about his Jen Jen’s performance. At least I looked cool falling, right?” she asks, both sweet and playful.

“Sure you did,” you chuckle, almost sucking on her fingertip as she points it directly at your lip. “Definitely the coolest fall I’ve ever seen. Will never be replicated. Ever. And I mean that.”

She laughs, heartily, even though she knows you’re flat out lying. “Yeah, because they won’t do stage designs like that ever again.” Then she kisses you again; she kisses you as if your lips are her lifeline. “I swear I’m gonna tell management not to do elevated stages when we go on tour!”

This is the Yunjin you know and love; the one that everyone knows her for. Laughs at her own jokes and her own mistakes, and smiles through it all. You’re amazed at how joined to the hip you both are when the cameras aren’t on. When you’re the only ones in the room—when she can truly be herself and not a fragmented version tailored to the public. You both have this special connection together that only you two can understand.

Her smile is so radiant, distracting even, that you recognize too little too late how tense you’re feeling.

“Jen Jen,” you tell her, looking down at her legs. She has a hand between her skirt, and her underwear is already partially down.

“What is it?”

“Can we take this somewhere else,” you tell her, flustered by your own request. There’s no skirting around the thought that you’d rather take her anywhere except for a cold floor in a messy bedroom. She hasn’t realized it yet, but you know Yunjin well; she would never let your imprints stick anywhere in her bedroom, hotel or her apartment, let alone make a mess. That, and for as much as you love the sight of her on top of you, you want to keep things on even footing—for now.

The expression she makes is priceless; it's all part of the charm. She rolls her eyes, scoffing at the thought, as if the very suggestion offends her. She takes a moment to let the notion sink in. “The audacity,” she thinks to herself, the idea seemingly harder to digest if anything else.

“You’re so unserious,” she comments, in the most blunt tone possible, it may as well be condescending. Her thighs press deeper into your jeans to further prove a point. If that’s what she wants., then you’re fine with that. It’s probably a better idea than yours, too. “You shitting me right now?”

“It couldn’t have hurt to ask.”

“Well it wouldn’t have hurt you to be here sooner,” she retorts, grinning, like those words are your biggest mistake. “Then maybe I would absolutely consider it.”

In reality, there’s nothing to consider, because you end up rolling on top of her after she first pounces on top of you. It’s how she usually greets you after a busy day: jumping straight into your arms, then it’s on to the bedroom.

But not tonight. You don’t make that far, just the table by the foyer, the chair she usually reads in, nearly tripping over the coffee table and landing somewhere more comfortable for you both in the living room. In your wake you leave behind a trail of clothes, yours and hers entangled together—mostly yours. It doesn’t take much to undress Yunjin when she’s dressed for the occasion, and by the time she’s halfway unbuttoning through your shirt, she’s on her knees, completely naked. 

She kisses you, leaves strawberry marked lips on your tummy, looking so wanton, so needy. Your eyes follow along as she continues down to your pants, before looking up to you with doe-eyed curiosity. She’s got an edge to her, they say, which really just means, “she’s really fucking hot.” Everything about her, from the attitude to the wardrobe screams fierce, someone who knows what they’re doing and doesn’t care about what others say. 

But behind closed doors, she’s more like the other girl you know. Someone she tends to look after. She looks vulnerable. It’s cute to watch her act like someone she’s not.

It’s impossible not to help yourself, to stroke your own ego, even at Yunjin’s expense. There’s no hiding that devilish grin; it’s way too obvious. Nodding, you brush your hand through her autumn colored locks as she undoes your jeans, reminding her who she really belongs to. 

“Fuck—oh God—” you moan, allowing Yunjin to do what she does best: use her lips to praise your cock. No preamble, no foreplay—just immediately taking you straight into her mouth. You were already hard, so it doesn’t take much effort for her to swallow you up. Both of you using your pent up frustration and impatience after weeks where it seemed as if you were worlds apart. 

Leaning back against the wall, you can only imagine how Yunjin looks taking it. Your hand firmly grips the back of her head, while she rubs her fingers along the length of your shaft. She forces out every curse and word of appreciation out of you with a deep tone, it’s almost concerning. 

“Slow down,” you mutter, knowing full well she won’t listen. Not for anything. Not for you. She wants this as much as you do. 

At first glance, it doesn’t really show—not in the playful, satisfied hums while she blows you nor in the slow, deliberate pump of her fingers around your base. It’s a little too leisurely for someone to act desperate. Then you peek through the curtain of sensory overload, and that’s when everything becomes clear. The furrow of her eyebrows, the fixated attention on your cock, the spread of spit and precum all over your erection. 

Maybe she does have a point after all.

She catches you staring, catches you slipping. Her eyes flutter open, then shut. In a flash, she goes from sipping on your cock to choking on it. Forcing you deep in her throat without your input. It leaves your head spinning, back at square one, with no control of Yunjin nor yourself, clinging your hands to the walls for support. 

“Jen Jen, shit—” you mouth, but it's near silent in comparison to the sloppy sound she makes gagging. It’s as if she’s laughing at you for looking so helpless against her.

The sensation of her slick mouth burns. Her ever increasing tempo and lack of care or comfort relentlessly pluck away at your resolve and restraint. Her eyes water as she violently pushes her own boundaries, her own limits. Stains gradually pile around her lips and chin, a mixture of her spit, seed, and lipstick. You have her hair wrapped around the print of your fingers, holding loose strands away from her gleaming face. Despite your best efforts, you aren’t able to see her beyond blurry little flashes and brief snapshots. Deep down, you’re set ablaze, with nothing to extinguish you. You look to the ceiling, to the side, anywhere but beneath you, trying to find some reprieve from the agony and tension pulling at your loins.

You end up finding it down there, where you want it the least.

Yunjin has you right where she wants you to be—tightly sealed between her strawberry lips as you helplessly cry out her name in a sea of curses and praise. Anticipating the moment you finally break, she zealously works around her gag reflex to keep you deep in her throat. It doesn’t help that she has your balls around her hand, rubbing away and humming in satisfaction at the big hot load that she’ll receive soon. At points, she’s pouting at the fact that you refuse to surrender yourself entirely to her, that you’re still fighting.

It’s a losing effort that ultimately delays the inevitable.

An echoed shout, a wide drop of your jaw, and right there, lightning strikes—you come undone. Yunjin welcomes you with an open mouth; your thick hot load spills down her throat without a single wasted drop. You’re left wide-eyed, shuddering, panting as your orgasm washes over you. Even so, she continues to squeeze away at your balls without remorse, pumping your cock to unload more cum down her thirsty, needy maw. 

Yunjin can’t hold in her delight and laughter after she licks your underside for any leftovers. You cushion back against the wall, your energy completely drained as she laps her lips and chin clean. Just like that, any remnant of what transpired hours ago, completely forgotten. It’s not a healthy coping mechanism—not in the slightest—but if it works, it works. 

That’s one department where Yunjin won’t let you down. 

“I wasn’t ready,” you huff, palming a hand on your thumping chest, cumbrously catching your breath. You mindlessly stare at the living room light, struggling to gather yourself. “Shit, Jen Jen, that was—”

“And we’re only getting started,” she interjects, quickly rising to her feet, pushing you upright. The grin on her face doubles down on the intent. “I’m not going to bed in a dour mood tonight, and you’re gonna help me feel better.”

God, she’s so damn good at this whole setting the mood thing.

You’re no different than anyone else, folding so easily as her fingers map out your body. Continuous circles around every part that belongs to her: from your hair, to your shoulders, arms, chest, down to your tummy, around your back, and everything else in between. Yunjin demands everything about you, her fiery gaze keeping you in tow. You’re tensing up, letting out these strained gasps, watching her watchful eyes dictate your every little move, reminding you who’s carrying the stick in the relationship.

She has you by the balls, quite literally—pumping you back to hardness—and she’s enjoying every moment of it. Teasing you with her flattering mien, she has every intention to leave you more tired and spent tonight than any day she’s worked in her life.

Then, a phone rings. It’s not the hotel landline, but from the pile around your legs. Suddenly, a lightbulb appears over Yunjin’s head, and the smirk on her lips is anything but subtle. 

“Would you look at that,” she teases, her grin growing an extra inch wider, and her ironclad grip loosens. Still, you have no room to breathe when she crouches down to dig your rumbling phone out of the pocket of your pants. She makes it a point to act shocked in response to the incoming caller, then shows her to you.

Kim Chaewon.

It’s an open secret within the group—how important of a piece she is between you two, the perfect reprieve and voice of reason when the other isn’t around. You’ve gotten tangled up with both Chaewon and Yunjin a few times, under the same guise of stress relief. In a way, they’ve grown closer together thanks to you. But the rather scornful frown she has tells you otherwise. As if she’s going to lose the one last thing keeping her head straight. Forget that Chaewon is respectful of your relationship; if she gets in the way between her and your dick, she’ll cut her down, and that goes for anyone else too, friendship be damned.

“Be a good boy and take care of the call, will you?” she asks, tone playful, handing the phone over to you. You have no say, other than to follow her command. In the process, you feel your groin tense up. You look down and find your cock sandwiched between her heavenly thighs, choking up from the new sensation of her creamy skin. 

When you try to look away, she redirects your eyes back to hers. Her palm meets your chin. Hard. She curls her lips, expressing disdain and reinforcing her control. There’s your first and last warning. 

You’ve never struggled so much just opening your own phone. It’s not that Yunjin just hacked into it; her imprints are everywhere. The very lockscreen is her kissing you, your face cropped out of frame and your homescreen is a candid photo of her more bold outfits.  If not for the texts from the other members and loved ones, you’d look like the creepiest, most obsessive stalker ever. You can feed tabloids and news outlets day-to-day information, down to the most intricate details. She’s a huge part of you, and it’s gonna eventually ruin you—

“Hurry up, dipshit.” 

Yunjin’s stern tone snaps you from your daze. Hard to maintain a steady head when she’s slowly choking you out and she’s thrusting your cock in and out of her legs, still sore from her blowjob and while you’re still reeling from your orgasm. She’s perfectly built for fucking for hours on end; you’re surprised you hasn’t caught on after so long.

“Hello?” Chaewon’s voice pulls your focus away, but only briefly. Almost instinctively, Yunjin’s legs press tighter against your hard cock in response. She raises her eyebrows, shaking her head, demanding you answer the call. No context clues, no verbal cues, just wing it. 

“He-ey, Chae.” Your voice comes out gruff, airy. A brief glimpse down and you find the growing stain on Yunjin’s thighs. Your cock entering and exiting the comfort of her legs. She doesn’t appear satisfied, not even a little. 

“Is Yunjin there with you? She’s been gone after we got back to our rooms. She's not been herself after—you know—and we’ve been trying to comfort her to no avail.”

“Yeah, she’s here with me—” you say, looking directly at her, and she nods, still stiff and sour. She leans forward, her tongue pressing against your skin, mumbling something incomprehensible on your neck. Somewhere along the lines of “If you tell her, I’m going to fucking kill you,” and she sounds like she means it.

Try to suppress your gasps and whine, you can’t hold yourself back. It affects your inflection, from gravelly and small to high-pitched and nasally. You’re one wrong move away from meeting disaster, and Yunjin is the one goading you to your own pitfall. She revels running you around in circles, leading you like sheep to a shepard. You can’t think straight from all this built up pressure. “She’s good! She’s doing just fine—”

Out of nowhere, she moans. Loud. Her tone is so obvious, it can’t be anyone but her. Any sort of illusion or pretense is immediately dashed, right then and there. You almost drop your phone, barely managing to save it with a glint of clarity.

You don’t hear from Chaewon for a bit, letting you indulge in Yunjin’s seductive motions. Your body is the perfect outlet for her pleasure: kissing and marking around her neck, her fingers tracing your arms to your chest, and your cock comfortably snug between her sculpted legs. You regain some semblance of control by pumping away between her warmth, but it’s hollow; she lets her thighs press down while you thrust quicker and quicker. At first, she’d been the one bringing all the friction, until your hips begin to glide involuntarily, the wetness dripping from her thighs and around your cock making the transition near-flawless. 

Soon, the room fills with the sound of her moans, till it becomes oh-so clear you’re fucking her. The call remains active, but you still hear nothing from Chaewon’s side. The phone in your hand is what’s holding you back, but even you feel your control slip away again; against Yunjin’s demand to pretend everything’s normal, when there’s nothing normal about the position you’re in. The only thing unusual is the fact that Chaewon isn’t there to watch, preferably while pleasuring herself.

“Shit, Yunjin, you feel so fucking good—” you sputter, clutching Yunjin’s nape as she curses and whines against your shoulder. Suddenly, you hear Chaewon again, but you’ve practically stopped caring. She’d understand.

“Yeah, well, I don’t blame her for going to you. I’d do the same right now, but I gotta take care of the girls as the leader.” Chaewon sounds so diplomatic about the matter, it’s almost surprising. “Just—” she pauses when Yunjin loudly kisses you, cooing and moaning about how big you are in the direction of your phone. “Please tell her to come back here by morning, all right?”

“Sure—thing.” Your tone jumps on the second word, as your cock hits a particularly deep stroke that teases the outline of her cunt. 

“Oh, and Kkura said hi, by the way.” 

You’re amazed at how understanding she is.

“Okay.” You look down and you see Yunjin adjust your cock around the entrance of her pussy with her hand, impatient and done with the teasing. All the possible replies to maintain normalcy and your best response ends up being a simple, hurried “Hi.”

“Bye.” 

You drop your phone right as Chaewon hangs up the call. Yunjin immediately kisses you straight in the lips, sliding her tongue between your lips. She lets out this strained whine when you grab her ass, lightly pushing her away. Miraculously, she doesn’t fight back or lash out. 

“Don’t you wanna cum right in my pussy?”

“No, Jen Jen. Let me finish right in your thighs.”  

Yunjin flashes this sad, deflated frown, but she ultimately concedes. She’s this multifaceted character only you might ever hope to understand. She's a perfectionist and wants things her way, but she’s also soft and vulnerable. You feel guilty making this rather huge request, but she reassures you by pressing your cock comfortably between her legs. Your worries soon disappear when the friction of her heat keeps your hips moving. The sight of your dick moving in-and-out keeps you preoccupied. 

Even she forgets about her disappointment too, hypnotized by the continuous rhythm of your cock. She pulls your head in, moans all these profanities of varying tones in your ear. The way you both pull each other’s bodies apart, your expressions twisting in pleasure, demanding more—you might as well be in bed, and not breaking your knees and backs against the living room wall. 

You’re not sure what’s going to break first—your legs, your back, your hips, or your cock.

“Oh—fuck—Yunjin,” you groan, losing yourself in her asphyxiating heat of her skin, on the verge of another climax. You have one hand marking her ass as you both grind into each other’s bodies. God, you’re both made for one another. Drowning in her tightness, you thrust deep between her legs. Same spot, same stroke, same result. You remember where and how well you’ve fucked her, it’s almost muscle memory to you. It drives Yunjin crazy. 

She senses your incoming orgasm and shouts. The need for you to cum isn’t a request, but a full demand. Something to be expected. Her voice hits those familiar high notes that aren’t far off from her usual recordings, and she firmly clings to you. As if you ever had any other thought than to finish on her pencilike legs. You let yourself succumb to the sensation, let all the pent up pressure set itself off while you bask in that delirious high.

The way Yunjin clenches her thighs around your cock, she may as well have snapped it off.

You both mirror each other’s expressions; eyes completely shut, jaw completely agape, resting in each other’s bodies. The only difference being that Yunjin is way, way louder than you. Your mind goes completely blank, with nothing but her name drawn out from the curve of your lips. Your back is aching; your knees are tingling, ready to fail at any time. Nothing registers for you except her voice, her endless moan that rings in your ear. It’s only after her legs involuntarily slacken their grip that you fall.

To the floor, that is.

And you stay down—a minute, maybe several, completely shaken up and your head still riding that high. Somewhere in limbo. One hand gripped to her waist, the other on her leg. You forget to breathe. Your brain doesn’t register the concept of exhaling, only taking in air. The world around you appears to pause completely. 

And then your phone beeps. Still dazed, you completely ignore it.

Yunjin brings you back to life. She has one hand gripped against the wall, the other on your hair—which you now just realize—gasping for much needed air. She can’t muster up the strength to open her eyes, so you assess the damage. It’s as disastrous as it looks: a huge splatter of cum around her legs, dripping down to her feet. To the floor. To your pants. 

You don’t say a word; you don’t really have anything meaningful or productive to add. The simple question of whether or not she feels better, but you know she’ll say it won’t be enough. That she wants your cum right in her pussy, no matter how spent or sore you are. Maybe you can quietly weave your way out of a nightlong bedroom session.

So you look at your phone, removing yourself from the situation. There’s two new messages, both from the same person—Chaewon. Nothing noteworthy, just the reminder to send Yunjin back early in the morning. The idol life never really stops.

Yunjin calls out to you, abruptly intercepting your attention. “Hey.”

You look up and find her looking down at the details, slowly gathering her bearings. She runs a finger on a sticky patch on her skin, then tastes your seed with her tongue. “What’s up?”

She ignores you for a moment to gather more cum to lap, then stares directly at you. “We should have done this in front of a mirror.”

You pause. It’s hard to believe Yunjin telling you this, when she’s been the biggest skeptic. She’d rather have it in bed, on the table—anywhere that won’t allow her to see herself. The uncanny image of a prim, desirable idol bent over while someone uses her.

With that in mind, you chuckle. “We do it all the time. Give it a break.” 

—————

You both end up doing it anyway.

It’s two in the morning, and you vividly have Chaewon’s request at the back of your mind. The group’s flight back home is in six hours, and Yunjin has to be there with them for breakfast. It’s not like you’ll be away long term; she has three days-off after today. Days when you can spend all the time in the world together to your heart’s content. But fuck, Yunjin is so goddamn insatiable, she can’t go at least three hours without your cock somehow around her. You don’t end up getting sleep, because she’s so needy for your cock she can’t help but stroke it or blow it back to hardness. 

Your suggestion? A late night coffee run that ends in predictable fashion: you, fucking Yunjin from behind in the comfort of a cafe restroom. 

Yunjin’s outfit barely qualifies as casual; if anything, it’s her performance fit (a sports bra and a short skirt) from earlier, topped only by the leather jacket she went to your room with. Yet none of that matters when they’re pooled on the floor, with your hand squeezing her bare breast and the other pressed on her shapely ass. And there’s your hard cock, pounding away at her soaked cunt like it’s second nature—which it is—and it’s quite the motivating sight. Watching it appear and disappear in her pussy, hearing her hushed pleas, echoed cries, and every lewd sound in between.

The cafe across your hotel is completely empty, which is to be expected. You can count the number of working staff on one hand, and most of them are fast asleep or busy on their phone. You’re not making any excuses for fucking Yunjin at a place like this; you’re merely laying out the scene. 

You can blame Yunjin for your precarious position. Any attempt to make some small talk she makes it about you. About missing your cock so much, about how she wants you to fill her pussy up and make her feel better. As if two orgasms wasn’t enough. You wouldn’t be surprised if she asked you to fuck her right then and there, in front of the cafe where everyone can see. You end up agreeing to a compromise, but it’s merely delaying the inevitable. The door is locked shut, nobody’s around to hear, and no one really cares.

If only it were that simple.

“Fuck—so—fucking—big!” cries out Yunjin, as if you were in the privacy of your hotel room and not in front of a public restroom. She gives it to you again, praises you in both murmurs and screams, her hands glued on the edges of the sink, eyes fluttering open and closed with her jaw agape on the surface. It’s as filthy as you imagined, if not more. Only you can see the full extent of the damage you’re making, and it is breathtaking. 

She beckons you to fuck her harder, give her more, tells you not to stop. The idea never crosses your mind. When she yells and mewls, she’s making sure each one is louder than the last. You can tell she has nothing to lose. If she’s going down, she’ll drag you down with her. 

“You’re so fucking tight, Jen Jen,” you groan out, looking at your entangled bodies in the mirror, at her arched back, at the curvature of her ass, at your cock spearing her hard. You puncture each of your next three words with increasing emphasis. “So—fucking—tight.”

As the sex dissolves into deeper madness, so does your restraint. You’re fucking her through the sink, pounding away with reckless abandon, with zero care for comfort. Thoughtless, impulsive drops of ‘tight,’ ‘fuck,’ and even a single ‘slut’ bomb—words that can get you cancelled on-air. Yunjin shudders, letting out this drawn out ‘yes’ in response, as if admitting the truth—to your utter surprise (sarcasm). Her core clenches against your cock, stretching her out. So wet, so needy—

It’s a strange thing to believe, but this is Yunjin’s first orgasm of the night. Her lands lay flat on the sink, and her mouth lolls wide, screaming your name like you’re the most important person in the world. The intense heat, the suffocating pulse of her cunt, drowning your cock—

Fuck, it’s too much for your already aching cock. And her thighs and lips were brutal in their own right. 

Moments after hers, your very own climax follows. You’ve already struggled holding back twice; whatever amount of resolve you had left is non-existent. Moving from her chest at some point, the hand on her hair yanks harder. Pushing your hips as far as they can go, wishing your cock can somehow enter her womb—you ignore the possibility that you might be hurting her. 

‘Hurts so good’ exists for a reason.

The remnants of your orgasm continue to leave Yunjin in shambles. A brief look at the aftermath, and the first impression is that you didn’t fuck her hard enough. Your hot cum spilling from her splayed, ruined hole, her clothes on the other side of the restroom, and your pants receiving some of her hot slick. Yunjin remains bent on the sink, huffing through her own climax, your hand deeply imprinted on her ass, and marks, scratches, and rosy patches on her back—vestiges of hours gone by. 

You remain like this for a little while longer: cuddling up against her frame while she rests on the sink, softly kissing around her ear, brushing strands of loose red hair. She’s gorgeous, there’s no denying that. When she performs, when she’s being herself, when she’s getting pounded hard—but she looks best when she’s calm, when she’s at her softest, at her most vulnerable. When you’re all alone and you both have nothing to hide. At the end of the day, you both need each other. For everything.

—————

You and Yunjin might as well be strangers. 

It’s as if the past seven hours happened in a different timeline. Both of you casually lounge in the still lifeless cafe, drinking the nonexistent traces of your iced coffee. You scroll through social media; Yunjin still dominates the trends and new reposts of the viral accident pop-up like they’re produced from a factory. She’s doing the same, reading through all the comments. Some memes, some praising her professionalism, some simply to get that verified ad revenue. 

This will be completely forgotten in a week. Yunjin’s career will come out unscathed. People move on. She will, too.

Yet you still remain awkward with her, completely undecided on the words that she really needs right now. She needs you more than just your body. 

“Jen Jen,” you whisper, before you freeze up at her anxious gaze. She waits for a follow-up, a sentence, anything. It never comes. 

She frowns. She’s not mad, only disappointed.

The sun begins to rise over the city, signaling the start of a new day. Knowing this, Yunjin adjusts her jacket and rises from her seat. You never told her once.

She walks through the door, and steps outside—but not before turning and taking one last concerned look at you. You quietly mouth ‘Love you,’ and surprisingly, she smiles. The Yunjin you know and love.

‘Love ya.’ 

—————

(A/N: againsorryfornotpostingmuchlatelyohgodivebeensobusy—

Ginger/red hair Yunjin didn't grow on me at first. Then the Good Bones teaser dropped. The strut. The attitude. The fact they allowed her to walk around in her bra and panties. What the fuck. I've been so down bad for her lately, and so are you. Looking forward to their new music! Thank you for reading!)

[cottagecore-raccoon]

The more I think about it, the more I think that Persuasion has my favorite premise of all of Jane Austen's novels

Anne Elliot as a character speaks to my soul. She feels tremendous guilt for a decision she made eight years ago. Her life is lonely, as she doesn't really have anyone she can truly confide in despite being surrounded by people. So she swallows her pain, the yearning she feels deep in her soul, and vows that if nothing else at least she'll be helpful.

And of course she is reunited with Frederick Wentworth (the one that got away) who seems to hate her now, and she just keeps going. She keeps being kind and supporting her loved ones while slowly carving out a life for herself. There's something about her classic heroism that just feels so attainable. I don't have Elizabeth Bennett's wit, or Jane Bennett's unwavering belief in the goodness of everyone, or even Elinor's constant composure. But I can be like Anne and just keep moving forward attempting to be helpful

Of course it all works out in the end, and Anne is finally surrounded by people who truly appreciate her, even if she had to wait an extra eight years. Others have observed the fairy tale quality of the ending, and perhaps that's why it speaks to me. The idea that if you just keep doing your best and being kind, you'll eventually find happiness

[delicrieux]

…TAKING WHAT’S NOT YOURS ! ⋆｡°✩

⋆⭒˚.⋆ chapter summary. the fireworks festival.

pairing. gojo satoru x f!sorcerer reader warnings for this chapter. swearing, character death (off screen, dw) wc. 6.3k author’s note. gege deserves to be charged for war crimes for what he's done, but besides that, thank u for reading once again. i really loved writing this story and agonizing about what it would be like to be with our dear satoru. he is, without doubt, a character that deserved so much better. but anyway, thank you again!!!! c u at the end of this xx

ੈ ✩‧₊˚

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | twny masterlist | < back |

CHAPTER 14: you know where to find me & i know where to look

you will not lie and tell yourself that being away from gojo isn’t strange and off-putting, even if you would like to. it’s different when either of you are on a mission, because, theoretically, now you know he’s just on the other side of the wall and you have chosen to not curl up beside him. you have slept alone for a long time, and it had never been an issue until now – there’s no one to be too warm against, no one to hog the sheets, no one to chew on your hair dreaming of something sweet.

the stockholm syndrome really got you, huh?

still, you sleep well. there’s enough space and you awake refreshed, with no limbs tingly or numb, but a bit lonely. the room is too big, and even if the view behind the curtain is nice enough to snap a picture, it’s not as charming without gojo pointing and saying, “heh, look, a bit more rain and it’s gonna be a landslide,” and you, naturally, nodding along, because he must be right.

you dress and douse yourself in a heavy, heavy cloud of the perfume he got you. gojo insisted on this one because he liked the way it smelled, and you are feeling better today and are willing to hear out another heartfelt apology. you are very nice and very merciful and deserve the very best for your endless efforts to steer this relationship into something at least vaguely harmonious.

maybe you can reconcile during a tasty breakfast with a cappuccino syruped with caramel and the foam resembling a cat. yes, you have put the pieces together – normally, you wouldn’t consider yourself a great strategist, but surprisingly, last night you had ran this situation through your head over and over and over again till every possible scenario and an equally possible outcome was engraved into the squiggly lines of your brain. you have never been more prepared for anything in your entirely life.

“i’ve learned my lesson,” are the very first words you hear when you open the door, met with a head hung low and an unhappy gojo satoru.

alright, this you did not anticipate. he looks a bit miserable. gojo always hated the silent treatment or the ignore policy the most, even when he was harassing you for his personal entertainment, but you didn’t think eight hours apart would make him like this. suppose he might not have slept at all; suppose you did leave on a sour note, a small good night and a strained smile he tried to mimic but failed, waiting till you shut the door before heading to his room.

you wonder how long he’s been antsy behind your door, waiting like a lost pet. you decide to assume he just got here instead of thinking of the more likely scenario that he sensed your cursed energy spike once you rolled out of bed and was at attention ever since.

“that’s nice,” you tell him. a soft kiss to his cheek seals the deal for both of you, and an ache you didn’t realize you were suffering from lifts seeing him instantly brighten.

“you smell nice,” he leans in, happily nosing the side of your neck, “and look nice. super nice. hello.”

“hi, good morning.”

“yes,” a toothy smile, and your fingers twining with his, “great, even, actually. didja miss me?”

you will not lie to yourself, but you will lie to him. you shake your head, as though disappointed by such an unfair and silly line of questioning, “it’s barely been a night. i was relieved, if anything.”

he wrinkles his nose, a look that borders on not so playful if taking in the arctic gleam of his eyes, “not funny,” the comedy will have to wait, it seems, he’s serious, “no jokes about that. or separation. ever. you and i are conjoined twins from now on. we could be permanently glues together by my infinity. now that’s an idea.”

a bit too frankensteinian for you, so you have to pass, “let’s leave the morally questionable experiments to shoko, please.”

“if you insist,”

well, now that the apology is out of the way and the awkwardness is cleared, you are prepared for a feast that he will pay for, “let’s go down to eat?”

if it weren’t for the slight downward twitch of the corners of his lips, you might’ve been fooled that all is fine and dandy. apparently, it is not. hesitation, from him, only comes when he’s preparing for something major and likely emotionally taxing. this, on an empty stomach, will not do, but drawing it out isn’t an option, either.

he squeezes your hand before you can come up with an excuse to avoid breakfast or this conversation, as this isn’t going at all like you have pedantically strung together. another squeeze, and you decide to never plan anything ever again, “…can we order room service instead?” he inquires, and you relax a little, glad you won’t have to have this conversation mid-hallway where any other guest could sneak up, “i, uh,” he won’t meet your eyes, “i’d like to talk a bit. first. if that’s okay?”

your insides are twisting into knots – not from the present anxiety but from the honesty in his quiet voice.

“sure,” you settle.

he nods and takes the lead, hand a little sweaty, face a little flustered – all very out of character, but very sweet. you let him drag you the whole of the next door down and you’re graciously let into the spotless, untouched space he had spent the night in. the curtains are open, the bed is pristine, and gojo is never this clean so it can only mean he hasn’t used it. you glance at him with a wordless question but he’s still avoiding your gaze.

has he really agonized over this the whole night? you have, too, a bit, but seemingly not nearly enough. maybe it’s his first time having a fight with someone; maybe it’s his first time being in the wrong and knowing that he is and actually doing something about it. too many maybes. you think he might be just as confused as you.

once the door is shut, he breathes out. perks up, finally, once you’re safely secured in his perimeter. he gestures toward the expanse of the bed, face morphing back into a rather placid expression that betrays nothing but an odd edge that doesn’t manage to leave his eyes entirely.

“after you,” he announces chivalrously. no ulterior motives there.

“uh-huh,” you sound, toeing the slippers off and climbing in. you scoot back till you’re pressed against the pillows, leaving ample space for him to join. he chooses a spot by your thigh, warmth pickling against your skin, and you really do forgive him, you decide, and you would probably forgive him again even he pulled the same stunt at this very moment. no, that is terrible, how has this idiot managed to ensnare you so completely?

once he’s fidgeted enough, he moves onto his next agenda, “the menu,” he pulls out a booklet from the drawer, placing it on your bent knees like a little gift. this all feels vaguely rehearsed, “pick what you want.”

that was always the intention, but you see that he’s trying very hard to work up the courage to something he wants to say, so maybe some good old fashioned enthusiasm from you will help him relax, “alright,” a hum for added measure, “hmmm…. mhmmm…. ooh, pancakes sound nice. like, maybe a mountain of them.”

“yeah?” his chin finds its usual spot on your shoulder, “pick between the triple and a tower.”

the picture showing off the pancake tower does look very impressive, not to mention delicious. however, you aren’t entirely certain you would finish one, as the heading reads over one meter!, which is simply ridiculous. thankfully, you have a man with a black hole for a stomach right next to you, “i’d like a tower.”

“sure, whatever you want.”

“and a cappuccino,” you’re not skimming out on that, even if it’s unlikely the barista will make you cat-shaped foam. maybe you can press gojo to bully them into doing it, but pressing gojo into anything at this moment would likely lead to another disaster, “with a double shot. possibly triple. how many shots do they do?”

“think one’s plenty enough,” his tongue darts out, wetting his lips. they appear  bit chapped, but nothing you can’t fix, “…can i get a kiss?”

…so much for wanting to talk. this is already familiar. he’s trying to change the subject.

“for good behavior?” you venture coyly, peeling your gaze away from the breakfast details to gauge his expression.

it makes him smile, small and wicked, “yup. best behavior, actually. i said sorry, it counts. right? say yes.”

“mmm,” you manage, thinking up another scheme. you would like to keep this on track. it’s likely he won’t dare to say it again and the implication of it will hang between the two of you until another fight, and another, and it’ll keep stacking up and up and likely higher than the famed pancake tower. his pupils grow larger the longer he waits for your permission. a small sigh, and your nails scratch at the nape, “maybe let’s eat first?”

his gaze flickers for a second, and then he gives you a kind, patient smile, “alright,” because he meant it when he said whatever you want.

“so nice of you,” you praise. his grin shifts. you recognize i – it’s the one he dons when he’s winning.

a quick call to reception, gojo’s back to holding your hand again, softly as not to crowd you. his fingers really are much longer than yours, and he measures them idly, more than used to the sight but still somehow mesmerized by it.

“i don’t like fighting with you,” he starts, voice even, though low, “the rest i don’t really care about, but you,” he tugs on your finger, “you just, doesn’t…” he trails off, confidence shaken by something invisible.

“i don’t like fighting with you either,” you share, hoping it will ease him. it seems to work, but only a little, “it sucks.”

“yeah,” he huffs, “super major sucks,” he draws closer and the mattress shifts. he finds home beside you, head once again nestled into your shoulder, like it’s the safest place on planet earth.

gojo always seeks refuge in physical affection. it’s a way he can express himself without using words. suppose you can pull him into your embrace and calm him like that; suppose he’ll feel a bit braver without your eyes so deeply focused on him, even if there’s always a chance he’ll take the easy way out and refuse to speak at all.

but that’s not what happens, “i just wanted to find a spot where we could watch the stars together.”

“oh,” you utter, unsure what to make of this yet. you are glad he has finally told you, but that still doesn’t explain why he was acting, dare you say, nervous before the argument. there has to be more. there always is, but you will never pry, because it’s painful enough for him already.

“didn’t work out the way i had hoped it would, though,” and now he sounds genuinely sad. a horrible feeling surfaces in you, “but we can still watch them tonight. if you want.”

“i do,” you assure him, “but you have to talk about what’s bothering you. i can’t read your mind.”

“thank god you can’t,” a hollow chuckle follows, “it’s a secret anyway. none of your beeswax.”

impossible, like always, but you wouldn’t really have it any other way. you card your fingers through his hair and he relaxes further, warm breath tickling the side of your neck. a small sigh, this time from him. now that he’s said all that he has wanted to say – which still doesn’t really explain anything, but is more than enough – he can pretend to be an overgrown cat and bask in your affectionate gestures.

it’s going to be okay. you hope he doesn’t see your little smile. lucky.

*

“is this supposed to be a white tiger?” you inquire, holding up a glass phone charm for his inspection. another pale, blue-eyed thing that has caught your fancy. soon, your dorm room will also include a private zoo of all the cute plushies and ornaments you’ve managed to collect with gojo’s money.

“doesn’t have any stripes,” he hums, twisting and turning the vaguely animal-shaped object in his palm. dusk falls on his shoulders, tinting the edges of his hair a soft lilac, “maybe a polar bear?”

suppose it doesn’t really matter, since all charms displayed at this stall look the same, and it surely has nothing to do with the talent of the man that made them. he gazes over them proudly, each sat in a small leather box with a lavish seat, ready to be taken home and hung by the mirror or looped around a cellphone. the monkey ones could maybe resemble monkeys if you squinted and took a lot of creative liberties, and the rest are just shapes with four legs and a snout. oddly cute, in an incompetent, unexplainable way.

“you wanna…?” gojo raises a brow, shades blocking the double-check he no doubt sends you. you nod vigorously.

he has learned his lesson from last time and carries a concerning amount of cash in his wallet. your tiger-bear is placed in its box and then wrapped in a little bow before being hidden in a colorful plastic bag that eventually makes its way to you. you bow in thank you.

the matsuri continues. the winding streets are blocked from traffic yet crowd with too many patrons; gojo pinches your sleeve and tugs when a particularly large wave of people try to separate you. even when they manage, and you’re momentarily disoriented from the sounds and smells and sights, he always manages to spot you first. maybe he just knows where to look.

gojo has changed from his usual garbs into a baby blue yukata. blue really is his color, and he looks so infuriatingly handsome that you have to glare at a sizable amount of people to let them know he is not available to be admired now, or ever, really. you have contemplated buying him a kabuki mask, but even then, his height and broad shoulders – not to mention that unshakable gait and all-over enticing confidence! – would somehow reveal him, and people would still stare or try to grab his attention. perhaps the mystery of the mask would be even more alluring. your hairs stand on end at the thought.

“m?” gojo, never one to miss anything and still latched onto your sleeve, tilts his head, “are you hungry? i sensed murderous intent.”

you hide your lips behind your fan – an expensive trinket gojo insisted to get you since it would match your baby pink yukata. yes, you have come in matching bubble gum ice cream flavors. when your head moves even slightly, the hairpins clink. the sound is light and satisfying, or so he said. you can’t hear it over the noise.

“no, not really,” you say, though the dango stand does look delicious, and the twinkling lights are inviting. your displeased eyes do not leave the group of high school girls donning their flowery yukata and giggling into their kakigori bowls. it is truly a blessing you have been born with a useless amount of cursed energy, because you would definitely use it for evil.

maybe gojo knows, and he graciously steps forward, blocking your sight from the rest of the people. another tug, and you snap into motion.

around you, lanterns sway, alight and warm; they cast low over the sidewalks and shine bright against the cobblestone walkways. in the corners of your vision, the glow swirls into endless rainbow-colored ribbons.

“how good are you at shooting?” he asks.

all dolled up and pretty, you can only clap your lashes  few times at the absurd question, “really well, why?”

“like, a bow or  a gun?”

“does it matter? both require concentration and precision,” you explain, “still, are we planning a heist or something? i don’t have any cursed tools on me,” and while the prospect of danger and adventure is enticing, you really are having fun just being here with him and would rather stay.

“nah, just a bit of friendly competition,” he grins, glasses drooping just enough to catch the mischievous twinkle in his eye, “wanna go against the strongest? you’ll be the only one to that lived to tell the tale.”

wanna do this, wanna do that? want food, a plushie, something absurdly expensive? if you asked for the moon, you wonder if he’d try to retrieve it. perhaps calculate if a missing edge wouldn’t spin the planet out of orbit and bring it back to you as a souvenir.

“i’d like a soda,” you say.

“let’s get you a cola,” he switches directions so quickly you almost collide into an equally mushy couple enjoying their date.

only you and gojo are not a couple, and this is not a date, and each time he recalls an insignificant detail about you and goes out of his way to do something small for you only because he wants to do it, it becomes harder and harder to remember the fact. pretending is awful, and it burns strangely acidic in the back of your throat. but it’s so warm, too, and you want to cling to his arm and press your cheek against his yukata. hide there, in his sleeve, like he always does in the crook of your neck.

gojo wouldn’t mind. once he gets you your tasty drink, you paint a kiss mark on his cheekbone with your lips. it’s faint and pink, glossy against the rose that steadily rises onto his face, and he doesn’t wipe it off, only smiles sheepishly.

eventually, you make it to the shooting range. it’s a large stall decorated with sea creatures and varying shades of purple and blue. you’re handed a large water gun and told to hold till the targets – large jellyfish – fall over, officially earning you a point. depending on the amount of points one receives, one might win a prize, or so the man in a pirate costume explained.

“ready?” gojo asks, fixing his glasses. you’re not sure how serious you should take this. your pride may be on the line, but this game is likely extremely rigged. he’s already the strongest, and whatever he’d receive from the pirate would ultimately make it into your hold without you having to steal or resort to anything desperate, like politely asking.

still, you are a sorcerer. if a friend and colleague is requesting, you must put on a brave front. it is the morally righteous thing to do, after all.

you put your hand on your hip and nod.

the game begins. three seconds into it you realize that the water stream is much too weak for you to successfully take down a significant number in the modest time allocated for this quest. still, you keep going, and several jellyfish fall by your skillful hand and steadfast accuracy.

no matter the physical differences or innate abilities, there should not be a lead in this competition, and if there were to be one, it would be you and your clear head compared to gojo’s impatience and petulant whining. as a matter of fact, he is not whining, nor is he sulking in defeat or trying to sabotage your chances.

he is barely containing his cackle over tightly pressed lips and quivering shoulders, his grip on the plastic so tight the bright red grip cracks a little.

the jellyfish stood in his path to victory keep falling one by one so quickly you take a second glance to ensure he’s not using an actual gun to knock them over. cursed energy permeates in the air like static after a storm, and you sigh, lowering your water gun before the timer’s up.

he's cheating. somehow you didn’t expect this, even if it was obvious from the start. should you scold him and be disappointed, thus ruining the fun for everyone out of principle?

you feel like he’s been through enough. even a fake argument would leave him discontent, and you even more so. besides, you doubt either of you would have won even the most useless trinket if you played fair and square. this you judge from the absolutely aghast expression of the stall’s owner, who might snap his neck at any moment if he keeps swinging it from jellyfish to gojo and back.

the bells chime. the game ends. with trembling hands, the pirate picks up the stuffed animal gojo pointed at and hands it over.

 “there you go,” gojo thrusts the penguin in your arms, and you take it, all fluff and cold seams, “for you.”

“okay,” you concede, cradling the stupid looking bird. it's cute.

you do not miss the owner checking gojo's gun for a malfunction. he does not miss the sly look you send his way before departing.

“where to next?” you can't wait. you have had fizzy drinks, munched on so many yakitori skewers you've lost count, watched a truly horrendous standup comedian and stayed till the end of the performance out of pity, and exchanged three handmade charms for a total of two plushies. your penguin will be named yukihira because that was the name of gojo's pet koi fish.

pet, as in it was in the pond, and gojo liked looking at it the most, hence he named it. there were no pets allowed in the gojo household, or any fun, for that matter. you didn't understand, not entirely, but you wanted to. a lackluster childhood burdened with responsibility so vast and complex it's hardly comprehensible. he wouldn't elaborate further, simply bury his face into the bend of your neck and kiss until the memory had finally, and perfectly, faded from your mind, and you could breathe just a bit easier.

“to sit,” gojo says, indicating the lone bench beneath the awning across the stall, “exhausted. gotta recharge for the next conquest.”

“how dramatic,” you comment, but take his extended arm and accompany him.

together, you remain unbothered, a tiny island amidst a current of shifting yukata, cork shoes, and the occasional colorful sandal. fireflies wink around, chasing each other like sparklers.

gojo fishes out his phone and clicks his tongue, reading the message you know is there. most likely another important thing to deal with. you wish he wouldn't have to worry about anything ever again, but that sounds ridiculous even to you.

“what's up?” you lean your shoulder on his. the penguin sits on your lap, quietly reflecting your somber gaze. it's round, black eyes are welcoming, so you poke its nose.

“nothing,” he decides, waving the thought away, “it can wait, probably.”

you make a face, “that doesn't sound very assuring.”

“unlike some, i have a healthy respect for privacy,” he grins, not taking his eyes off the device even when his tone softens considerably, “i won't interrogate you if you don't want me to. so the same goes for me.”

you snort. that's a lie if you've ever heard one, because he has never shied away of reading your messages along with you or providing helpful responses. still, you won't push. you trust him. if he says it's nothing, it means it's nothing.

a short silence settles. the air feels balmy, and a phantom wind circles you. one of the lanterns has blown out, and a little trail of smoke floats to the sky.

“huh,” you blink, the information suddenly resurfacing in your brain, “the sister event is next week.”

“ugh,” he shoves his phone back into his pocket only so he could rub the disgust off of his face, “don't remind me.”

you grin, “heh, how come? we can just send you alone. we'll win anyway.”

“always gotta do all the work,” he groans, then leans his head back, fixing you with a knowing look from the corner of his eye, “aren't you going to hold my hand?”

“want me to?”

his throat bobs, the simple question alone making his breath stumble as if he was walking down a dark alley, and hearing your voice had given him goosebumps. his voice is steady when he answers, “yeah.”

with one arm securing your precious yukihara, you reach over and take his hand. his larger fingers slide over yours, catching.

“so spoiled,” you tease. he lifts your hand to press his lips to your skin. now it's your heart's turn to waver. his eyes are crinkled happily, the crescent of his smile lighting up in the growing shadows. there's something playful hiding there, too, something secretive that he wouldn't share until he was sure you'd like it, and that patience of his, newfound and endearing, spreads like sweet nectar down your throat and bubbles a giggle.

“yep,” he agrees, so delighted his nose scrunches adorably.

you could stay like this forever, watching and enjoying the thrum and beat of a summer festival. the atmosphere, the laughter and tittering, the low chatter as people find their way from one thing to another. live in this moment, like a firefly caught in a glass jar.

at one point, gojo's cheek rests on your head, and you soak in the warmth. perhaps this is his favorite part. the glow of the lanterns is just the right side of orange and highlights the angles and divots of his face, while his other hand stays coiled around yours, and his thumb rubs small, soothing patterns into your knuckles.

“let's sit it out.”

“hm?”

“the sister exchange event. haibara-kun, nanami-kun, and suguru can participate for us,” you tell him, “we could hide in the clinic with shoko.”

he pulls back from his position, but only so he could survey you properly. his stare is less calculating than it is contemplative. behind his glasses, his eyes are burning quietly. at times, there's something almost solemn glazing over his expression, softening the sharp lines and allowing his features to relax. it makes him seem so much more mature and so unlike himself that you never know how to react.

“can't,” he says with a small sigh, finally coming to stand. he pulls on your hand and you scramble, grappling to keep yukihara from falling along with all of your things, “yaga would definitely beat my ass if i ever tried pulling something. but that doesn't mean i don't want to,” his smile widens, “thank you for the offer, though.”

“wow, a sincere and gracious rejection. thanks, satoru.”

“anytime,” he winks. you flick his forehead.

no pouting this time, though, no furrowed brows or crossed arms. instead, he bites his lower lip and seems to be wrestling with himself not to jump you. he is behaving extremely well by comparison, his touches never bordering on anything even remotely inappropriate for a public settling.

you appreciate the consideration. even despite the crowded space, he is focused solely on you, his finger grazing along your palm, tickling your wrist. if you smile any wider, your cheeks will start hurting. and if he continues looking at you like that over the rim of his sunglasses, your heart will start hurting instead.

“should we head to ashinoko?” you ask, keeping yukihara close, “or will there be too many people there?”

“probably, but it doesn't matter,” he reassures, “we'll find a spot. worst case scenario i'll let you sit on me. my shoulders, to be exact.”

how would you explain the sudden rush of blood to your head? “that won't be necessary...”

“why not? can't get much of a better view. and you get to play with my hair, too,” he tacks on, “or maybe i could hold your legs and give your-”

you take back everything you thought of good behavior and growth as a person, he is nothing but a lewd pest wanting to embarrass you in the middle of a romantic setting, the absolute traitor, and you have half a mind to stomp him to death right then and there. all the private tutors in the world couldn't teach him manners, and no stifling house rules could condition him out of his shit eating grin.

he is terrible, and you like him still, more and more each day. even now, when he looks on the verge of laughing, so pleased to have flustered you, while you try and fail not to panic.

“kidding,” he assures, “mostly. i would, if you asked.”

“satoru, pl-”

“wouldn't even question it.”

“sa-”

“got a list of places i could put my mouth. just say the word.”

you've lost. completely and irrecoverably. your shoulders slump, too tired to continue picking the pieces of your shattered dignity, “yes, yes, i get it. please stop talking.”

he shrugs, unbearably nonchalant considering he basically propositioned to make you cum between fireworks displays, “if you insist.”

unruffled by any objections, like he'd simply whisk you away to somewhere secluded should you demand him to, and it would be so easy. like he's itching for a chance, a sign, a simple smile. like he'd drop to his knees if you only said yes. you're almost appalled by his shamelessness, yet that, unfortunately, is part of his charm as well.

still, what a tease. you wish yukihara wouldn't have to hear such things. your dear penguin doesn't deserve to experience such trauma so early into your care. you are so very sorry.

“then...” you steer the topic back to where it's mostly harmless, not counting his smug look that would haunt you till the end of days, “let's go?”

“okie-dokie.”

you fall back into the crowd and lose all traces of rhythm. children push past you, twittering and shrieking, with their chaperones stumbling after them and rapidly bowing apologies left and right. the ground is smooth beneath your feet, stone flattened in ages by carts and soles alike. the two of you branch off and enter a lesser known forest path to avoid the onslaught of people rushing to see the performance at the hakone shrine before the fireworks.

the change in scenery is instantaneous. the suffocating density of bodies disappears, as well as the oppressive humidity. it's darker without the fairy lights and lampposts, the cicadas overlapping everything else. the air smells like fern, cut grass, and wet tree bark, oddly fresh and cool closer to the lake.

gojo stores his sunglasses into a discreet inner pocket. his eyes glint under a stretch of tree shadow, emitting a faint bluish glow, not bright enough to lighten his features yet remaining ever present. ever so beautiful. the woods seem to sigh around you, branches fluttering nervously above as he leans in, almost a specter.

“what's wrong?” your question brushes against the fringes of his hair.

“you're looking at me funny.”

“i am? sorry.”

“like you have so much you want to say.”

“oh,” you blink, then stare down at your shoes. a fallen maple leaf rustles when you step on it, giving a dry crunch, “not really.”

“yeah, well,” he scratches his cheek, “me too, kinda.”

a soft smile, this time, something private and indulging.

for a while you don't speak, not because you can't think of anything to say, but rather can't choose the right words. none of them seem enough, too sweet or too plain. the small trek through the damp forest path leaves your shoes a bit muddy and the hems of your yukata covered in dry flakes and pine needles, most having already blown away.

you hear it first – the deep, thunderous sounds of drums coming from the direction of the shrine. then, ways down the twisting tree line, you spot dancing lights. closer and closer, and the sounds become powerful enough to shake you, vibrating through the ground up to your legs. you hold on just a bit tighter, and gojo returns the gesture firmly.

he is quiet. his head is bowed, gaze focused ahead and somewhere else at the same time, like he's thinking about other things, which, knowing him, can be anything. he leads you off the path and you follow, passing between the foliage and low hanging branches. the weather grows colder. you're approaching the shore.

finally, the landscape clears. a thin border of black pines separates water from earth. wisteria vines drape over the whole scene like curtains on windows, billowing gently. the noise of the show is still loud and beats to the drum of your heart, each thud somehow too close and too obvious. from here, you can see the massive red torii gate stood in the shallows.

the water sloshes by your feet, and the sandy soil squishes pleasantly. far and wide, there are others waiting, too, all finding their own spots amongst the reeds and gravel. a few lanterns float in the moonlit surface of lake ashinoko, bright and orange, like the ones in the market district, and you watch, captivated, as their reflections spill over the shifting water. the chimes wind up to a symphony. it's beautiful.

gojo tilts his head to you, and his lips move, but you can't hear what he's saying.

“what?” you call, ticking a waiting ear in his direction.

the boom cuts through everything, the flash of gold drowning out his face, and you realize way too late what's happening. the crackle continues, and the air trembles, releasing another burst of fireworks. the light leaves fractals dancing over him, each one landing just so, as if aimed, cascading over his eyelashes.

he repeats the words, and something about his expression makes your heart stutter: longing and apprehension quickly replaced with shyness, almost endearing as he watches you expectantly. the sky glitters around, awash in blues and greens and whites, brilliant enough to blind. you can't look away from him.

he says it again, and again, and again, and you can't read the shape of his mouth because you're too afraid of what you will find there. the drums, the cheers, the changing lights, the words airy against your lips. he kisses you. you understand the phrase now, or you hope that you do, so you tell it back, quietly, so he couldn't hear you either:

“i like you.”

your hand finds purchase on the fabric at his chest. it's tight, and his grip is strong, cradling you with such care you can't help but shiver. each kiss is like that, little sips of air, barely enough to sustain either of you, and then he holds you and you let him, boneless, allowing yourself melt into the sure, enveloping warmth.

the light is dying, and you're dizzy. yukihara sits as a witness between your pounding hearts.

eventually, the display fades away into starlight. you want to say it again, but neither of you are brave enough to do it.

*

gojo: just waved nanamin and haibara bye bye on their mission 4:56pm

gojo: can’t believe you all left me w ijichi ( ⩌'︿'⩌) 4:57pm

you: where’s shoko? 4:57pm

gojo: clinic like a loser i dont wanna go down there lol might catch smth 4:59pm

gojo: when are u coming back 5:00pm

you: i just got here (˶˃⤙˂˶) but probably in a few hours, i won’t stay overnight 5:01pm

gojo: yeah u wont the hell 5:02pm

gojo: my girl gotta get back to me asap ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧waiting impatinetlyyyyyyy 5:03pm

you: omg lol just bumped into some salaryman and he almost knocked me over. i think he was frightened of my poorly concealed weapon and apologized heh 5:05pm

gojo: where is he? give him ur phone i wanna talk 5:05pm

you: he left already, it’s ok 5:05pm

gojo: teleporting rn 5:06pm

you: ? you can’t do long distances stupid 5:06pm

gojo: yeah and he better be grateful that i cant 5:07pm

gojo: r u done yet want u home 5:41pm

gojo: hello? no ‘yes my gorgeous blue eyed king'? rude 5:42pm

gojo: ok it has been an hour im gonna be serious, did you meet another boy or something? cant wait to murder him 6:33pm

gojo: dont tell me you got kidnapped. i will purple the planet 7:01pm

gojo: 10 mins until i start ripping at the seams and go psycho and rip the roof off the entire city. call me rn, and then, when youre done, i'm stealing you away for a month 7:15pm

gojo: ok in a bad mood now 7:46pm

gojo: we’re talking cthulu levels of bad 8:00pm

gojo: would it be dramatic if i were to jump over a cliff 8:10pm

gojo: hi this is principal yaga gojo has jumped to his death please text back and list everything you love and find sexy about him 8:12pm

gojo: ok ur freaking me the fuck out im coming to get u u can cry abt it later and yaga can scream and shit all he wants grade 3s shouldn’t take this long 8:25pm

gojo: gonna text u till you respond, u know that, right? 2:00am

*

MISSION REPORT: 15.08.2009

LEAD ASSIGNED OFFICIAL: YAGA MASAMICHI, 1ST GRADE

SORCERER: KAWAKAMI Y/N, 1ST GRADE

PROBLEM DESCRIPTIONS: 3RD CLASS CURSE CONFIRMED DISPELLING PROCESS (UNKNOWN – FIRST RESPONSE TEAMS)

REPORT REGARDING JOB ACCOMPLISHED: KAWAKAMI LOCATED CURSE SITE (CHICHIBU STATION UNDERGROUND) – SCAN FOR TARGET, CRITICAL INJURY; CURSED INHERITANCE-TYPE SPECIAL GRADE – ATTEMPT AT SEALING PROCESS FAILED, DISEASED APPENDAGES, LIMBS & 80% NECROTISED FLESH - UNKNOWN ANGULATION - TIME OF DEATH, 15.08.2009. 5.13PM.

CURSE CONFIRMED DESTROYED: 15.08.2009, 9.59PM, GOJO SATORU.

DEATH REPORTED: 15.08.2009, 11.03PM, GOJO SATORU. BODY RETRIEVED: 12.15AM, MEDICAL TEAM. FINAL EXAMINATION: 2:02AM, IEIRI SHOKO.

ACCELERATED FUNERAL CEREMONY IN EFFECT AS NEXT OF KIN; NONE.

JOB SOLVED: GOJO SATORU.

MISSION REPORT SUBMITTED: NANAMI KENTO, 18.08.2009.

CLOSED.

author's note:

1) so sorry it was planned from the start 2) i do wonder how long satoru would have really sat there in the ground levels of a train station when the fight was over. he did for an hour, but if he had the time, he would likely have spent more time saying goodbye 3) now u know why the cover image of the masterlist is the specific one where gojo wakes up w tears from a dream he had about his school days

before you lynch me, the technique of our dear reader really was in her lastname - kawakami. i'm a big fan of junji ito, and since there's already a ref in jjk of his manga (uzumaki), i though "huh, it would be sooo cool if the mc had a power like tomie!!!" so i wrote this. i wrote a lot of versions, some were a bit scary, so i scrapped them. tomie kawakami's power is essentially being able to clone and heal herself from a single strand of dna, along with a bunch of disturbing stuff, but that's one of the main components of her power.

so here, i present to you an endless amount of endings (2): a) reader has really died, getou has defected, more nice trauma b) reader has not died and returns at any point after the report is submitted, as per her cool powers. getou still defects im sorry some things are doomed by the narrative

either way, u can't get over something like this. megumi? satoru? suguru? shoko? they could never heal from this, no matter if reader came back or not xx

next time i promise to write something where no one dies and there is a happy ending. but for now, that's all, folks! i love u even tho u probably hate me. that's ok. i, too, am gracious and merciful.

tags (couldn't tag in bold!). @shokosbunny , @jotarohat , @fortunatelyfurrygiver , @alygator77 , @finnydraws , @mastermasterlist1p1 , @eolivy , @letsmyy , @staruus , @k0z3me , @damnshorty , @kaeyakaikai , @n4melesspers0n , @midnightwriter21 , @sillymercury , @byakuya61085 , @stillnotherapy , @mydearchoso , @plutoisaghoul , @byerno6 , @bqvz , @harryzcherry , @noira-l , @your-sleeparalysisdem0n , @satoryaa , @cccandynecklaces , @stuffeddeer , @cherriee-ee , @ducky1232

[izvmimi]

cw: children, dad!aizawa to eri, single mom!reader with a named daughter, fluff. repost.

“Hi, just wanted to introduce myself! I’m ___, our daughters play together sometimes.”

Aizawa looks blankly at you, heavy-lidded eyes trying to comprehend what you’ve just told him so matter-of-factly.

Daughter… daughter? He doesn’t have a daughter, he thinks, but he’s at the park, and you, standing before him, are convinced he belongs to one of the children running around, tripping on wood chips and making their way down the slide, and then he remembers once his eyes settle on her.

Yes, Eri. His daughter.

She’s almost eight now, and is still small enough for her age that she looks about six, the same approximate age as the bright-eyed girl holding on to her hand, and practically jumping up and down. The little girl has been pulling Aizawa’s not-really-daughter, up and down the jungle gym for the past twenty minutes, and Aizawa has only just realized that it’s the same girl every time. He’s been lost in thought, mind attuned only to immediate danger, not the shenanigans of small kids.

Perhaps he’s doing a bad job at this dad thing. How could he not have noticed?

“Hello, nice to meet you,” he says quickly, and you offer him a smile that is a little too understanding for his comfort. Can you read his thoughts? 

Aizawa distracts himself from further psychological tangents. He points.

“The one right there?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. You nod and turn to face them.

“Yes. Her name’s Akari.”

Aizawa glances at you again as you watch the children, wondering if he should say something about the kanji, if it includes the characters for the color red or the one for bright. Eri’s favorite dress is red. Should he try to make a joke? Is that what parents do to connect?

“Ah,” is all he manages to say.

“Eri is a very sweet girl,” you say. Aizawa realizes he should have introduced Eri properly as well, but you’ve filled in the gap.

“Yes, she is,” he replies. You look at him again, more intentionally this time, and Aizawa can feel himself tense up. He doesn’t know why. Perhaps it’s the earnest nature he can feel radiating from you, an innate friendliness he’s uncomfortable with. He doesn’t know.

“Can I set up a play date sometime?” you ask. “Akari is terribly fond of her and she’s been a bit more lonely recently.”

You aren’t disclosing the fact that her father has been out of the picture for a while. Why pour yourself out to this stranger?

“Sure.”

And that’s that.

Eri arrives a few days later, the widest smile on her face, at your doorstep, Aizawa standing close behind her. He doesn’t look any less tired, or any less out of it, but encourages her in a gentle voice to go off and play. She nods, and Akari is bold as ever, dragging Eri in as quickly as possible. You laugh as you get out of the two girls’ way before they run you over.

Aizawa remains at the entrance, his hands in his pockets. You try to think of something else to say to this man of few words, and he tries to as well. 

“… Would you like to come in? I have tea,” you offer. “Akari is probably showing her all of her dolls and toys in the back room, if you’re wondering.”

Aizawa opens his mouth, and you are certain he’ll say no.

He hesitates.

“Sure,” he says again.

There’s something in the air you feel shift as he crosses the threshold of your home, an odd sensation in your shoulders that fades by the time he takes off his shoes.

A feeling that he’s here in a way that’s more permanent than an afternoon tea.

Something you don’t yet understand but portends something new.

[rainbow-sunshine-unicorn]

"While what Violet said was through a haze of grief and trauma, what Anthony heard, at a very vulnerable moment, was that his mother would rather die for her husband than live for her children. And it’s very hard to not take that sort of thing personally."

YES YES EXACTLY like I have all the empathy in the world for Violet as a mom with postpartum depression and just a depressed person in general when Edmund died but at the same time you just told your oldest flat out you have no reason to live for WHEN YOU HAVE EIGHT FUCKING KIDS AND ONE RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU. She just told her son they aren't her air and there is NOTHING left for her in this realm like... that SCARS A PERSON.

dont get me wrong I still enjoy Violet as a character no one is all good all bad but... I would assume that even if Anthony and Violet's relationship becomes less fraught Idk if he would ever get over that no matter how fulfilling his life is now

I think it’s super interesting how Violet is a very loving mother who obviously wants the world for her children yet is a flawed parent in many ways. It shows you that flawed mothers are not necessarily just those who are like Portia but also those like Violet, who are “good” people.

Not that I think Portia and Violet are the exact same, but it’s an interesting juxtaposition, because you may think that both of them are on opposite ends of the parenting spectrum but the closer you look, the more you see, that both of their actions are motivated by wanting to do what’s best for their children and that it is this that lies at the core of a lot of their bigger mistakes as mothers.

Also, I think that her relationship with Anthony was fundamentally changed by him witnessing her raw grief. Though I think the other children, besides Gregory, Hyacinth and perhaps Francesca, were aware of her grief and absence from their lives, and it impacted them in different ways, for example, Daphne singing to Eloise over Violet’s cries, none of them truly felt the weight of it like Anthony. And I think this altered the relationship not only from Anthony’s perspective but from Violet’s perspective.

This character study perfectly articulates exactly what I mean. It summarises Anthony’s character and motivations in such a succinct way, I believe everyone should watch it!!

But throughout season 1, we see her treat him as though he’s Edmund’s replacement falling short rather than her son while simultaneously wanting him to treat her like an authority figure. She demands he arrange something for Daphne with a friend like his father would have, then later, berates him to renege when she considers Simon a better match. Yes Anthony does many things wrong, but he is navigating it from a very lonely place of extreme pressure and absolutely no one to turn to for guidance.

She waffles like this throughout season 2 as well, like insisting that she knows what he wants deep down while also accusing him of thrusting his responsibility upon his siblings, which is simply not true, considering Colin doesn’t even seem to understand the importance of balancing accounts. It’s only in the very last episode of season 2 that she seems to realise how much she has hurt Anthony but even then she apologises for the hurting him while she was grieving and not the way she has treated him subsequently.

I’m going to be honest, I don’t think Anthony will ever go back to being Violet’s oldest child rather than the half limbo state that they are in where he’s the head of the household and she’s his mother but also part of his household. And this is not because of a lack of love on either of their parts or because they are too different. Which is the tragedy of their relationship.

Anyways this is already too long, but Anthony’s last experience of unconditional parental love was when his father died, because the moment he did, in certain ways, he lost that from his mother.

I truly believe that the next time he experiences such unconditional love and affection is from Kate, who sees him at his worst, witnesses him make every mistake and still equally matches his feelings, his love and devotion and desire.

[sixpennydame]

Make. Believe. ❖ Act 3

Actor!Levi x Fem!Reader

The AoT Premiere approaches, but all Levi can think about is you.

Warnings/Content: NSFW, Minors do not interact, fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, creampie, infidelity (Reader has a boyfriend as first), mentions of AoT final season episodes

A/N: There will be a final drabble that highlights more of the AoT episode premiere event; I wanted this part to focus more on our two main characters, but I've been having so much fun with the extra details in the drabbles. I hope you've enjoyed my take on AoT Actor AU!!

Act 1 | Act 2

Levi can’t keep track of what country he’s in, what time zone or even what day it is.

But he knows it’s been 186 days since he’s seen you.

Japan had been a whirlwind of promotions for the last two parts of the Attack on Titan final season, with meet-and-greets, commercial shoots, and talk show appearances. Europe had been much the same, and although it was exhausting, it was also fulfilling, being back with the cast, traveling with his old friends. He was sad to see it end, but he was also excited about other projects that were coming up. And next month, he’ll be going to the Cannes Film Festival, where the movie you and he shot together will finally premiere. After eight months, he’ll see you again.

But before that, he’s returned to Japan for the premiere of the final two episodes of Attack on Titan. Jet lag is still hitting him hard, and he sighs when he looks over at the clock and sees that it’s only two o’clock in the morning. Another sigh escapes his lips when he looks over at the naked body beside him in the bed. He can barely remember her name - was it Jessica? Jessie? All he really knows is that she was sitting next to him in the bar of the Tokyo Grand Hotel and that she looked as lonely as he was. He feels guilty - he’s never been one for one night stands - but he was yearning to feel your body again; and if he couldn’t have you, then this was good enough.

These days, your face is everywhere. You’d recently contracted with Christian Dior and were now the model for Miss Dior cologne. As Levi had arrived at Haneda airport, there was a giant poster of you tangled up in silk sheets with your hair cascading down one bare shoulder. “What Would You Do For Love?” the poster asked.

When he walked in a posh area of Shibuya, there was another advertisement of you; this time you’re lying across a sofa in a black silk dress, the pink bottle of cologne pressed against your chest. Your eyes are half-lidded and sultry - the same kind of look you’d give him when you’d make love, all those months ago.

He reaches over and grabs his phone, the light from the screen illuminating his face in the darkness as he scrolls mindlessly through Instagram. He stops when he sees that you’ve posted a picture.

“Just finished filming season one! Now for a much needed break.”

You’re surrounded by your other cast members, all of you smiling. A man has his arm around you and Levi squints to look closer at the picture. He wonders if he’s just a friend, or if it’s something more, then he laughs at himself.

What is he doing? Why can’t he forget you?

He’s the one that made this choice, and he’s the one that pushed you away. You’re smart, ambitious, and beautiful - of course you’d find someone else to be with. But he can't help but wonder what it’ll be like to see you in person again, and with you on his mind, he eventually falls asleep.

Hours later, Levi’s phone is buzzing and chiming erratically and it jolts him awake. He turns off the alarm, then checks the time. “Shit, I gotta get up.”

He’d promised Erwin that they’d do a run this morning around the Imperial Palace Gardens. As he gets out of bed and grabs a t-shirt, an arm from the woman next to him reaches over.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey.” Awkwardness and regret drip from his voice. “This was fun but you’ve gotta go - I mean I - I’ve gotta go. I have somewhere to be.”

“Ok…let me just go clean up a bit,” she replies as she picks her clothes up off the floor and makes her way to the bathroom.

Putting on his running clothes, Levi shakes his head. They’re two consenting adults, but he can’t help but feel embarrassed about it all. He hates these kinds of awkward moments, especially when he knows he has no feelings for the woman.

He grabs his phone from the nightstand and notices there’s an unread message. When he unlocks his phone, he sees that it’s from you and his heart starts to beat fast.

“Hi. Have fun at the premiere tonight.”

That was it, but Levi reads it a few times. He types out a simple, “Thanks,” not wanting to be rude, but also not wanting to seem too eager.

He puts the phone down but after a few seconds, picks it back up again and types another message.

“How are you?”

He doesn’t realize that he’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Got some good news?” The woman is out of the bathroom and dressed.

Levi looks up from the screen then puts the phone down quickly. “Yeah. Maybe.” He walks over to her and kisses her tentatively on the cheek. “I’ll text you later.”

“You don’t have my number.” She’s seen right through his lie.

“Look I’m sorry, it’s just that I -“

“It’s fine, I wasn’t expecting more out of this anyway.” Before she opens the door to leave, she stops to look at him. “You’re a good man, Levi. I hope you find someone who makes you happy.”

—-

Erwin stands at the entrance of the Imperial Palace East Gardens, looking at his watch. “You’re late.”

“I know, I know, I got held up. Sorry about that.”

“Still jet lagged?”

“A bit,” Levi answers as he messes with his smart watch. “You?”

“Not really. Cold showers in the morning really help me to adjust.”

Levi laughs. “Of course. I forgot you did that.”

“Every morning. Let’s go.” Erwin and Levi start jogging down the path that leads through the East Gardens. It’s early spring and the cherry blossoms are at their peak in Tokyo, pink petals falling down around them.

When Erwin and Levi were on set for Attack on Titan, they would jog together every morning. It was something that Levi had always done alone, but found having a running partner comforting, even if they barely talked to each other. Erwin had a perpetual aura of calm around him, which was difficult to find amongst other actors. Levi hadn’t seen much of him since his character died, and both had been busy doing other projects; these past weeks doing promos for AoT made him feel like it was old times.

They finish an hour later back where they started, sunglasses on with the hope that no one will recognize them. “You ready for tonight?” Erwin asks as he walks up to a vending machine to buy a bottle of water.

“Yes and no. It’s bittersweet, to see something you worked on for so long finally end. But I’m proud of the work we’ve done on it, and I’m excited to see how the final episodes turned out.”

“Me too. It was good to be on set with you again, even for just a short moment.”

“Yeah, those were not fake tears coming down my face, let me tell you,” Levi admitted with a laugh.

As both men walked through the park, Levi reached into his pocket to check his phone and sure enough, there was another text from you:

“I’m doing good. :-)”

It elicits a smile from Levi and Erwin laughs. “What?” Levi asks defensively.

“Oh nothing,” Erwin replies, “that’s just an awful big smile. Must be someone special.”

“Someone I was trying to forget, actually.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because I’m an idiot and I thought it’d be better that way for her.”

“Ah, I see.” Erwin sits down on a bench under a sweeping sakura tree and Levi follows. “Levi, in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve always put others ahead of yourself. It’s one of the things I admire most about you. But sometimes, you should be a little selfish.” He puts a hand on Levi’s shoulder. “And it’s ok to go after the things that you want. When you do that, life finds a way of working itself out.”

Levi smiles. Even off-screen, Erwin had a way of saying the wisest thing, right when he needed it most. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

“‘Course I’m right,” Erwin grins. “And as your commander, my final order is for you to go after this woman with your whole heart.”

They both laugh and talk as they make their way out of the park and to the busy streets of Tokyo. When Levi returns to his hotel and enters the elevator, he feels his phone buzz. It’s another message from you, and Levi’s eyes go wide when he reads it:

“I’m in Tokyo to attend the AoT premiere. I hope you don’t mind.”

——

Iceland was cold. And lonely.

The last six months shooting the series had been an incredible experience. The cast was a mix of seasoned actors and newbies just starting out, and with a young, emerging director looking to prove himself, you knew that you were a part of something great. The days were long and sometimes exhausting, and often ended up with you collapsed on your bed looking over lines into the wee hours of the morning. For the most part, you were happy.

But god, you missed Levi.

That last night you saw him, you couldn’t understand why he thought it would be better for you two to be apart, but you pretended to be ok with it. And it had taken everything in you not to knock on his door the next morning when you were leaving. You’d seen the jealousy on his face that night - you knew he still cared for you. But your pride had you walk away without so much as a goodbye. It’s what he wanted, right?

So you tried to move on and forget him. You’d even started dating someone on set; a feeble attempt to prove to yourself (and to Levi, in a way) that you could be a working actor and keep up a relationship. He was nice enough and the sex was good, but it just wasn’t the same. Something was missing.

You knew Levi hated social media and never updated his Instagram account, so you started following his AoT co-stars, hoping to get just a glimpse of him. Every once in a while, a video would come out on YouTube of him in an interview with other cast members, and you’d smile at how awkward he was at being himself in front of a camera.

When the date of the AoT premiere was announced, you immediately contacted your agent to get you on the guest list. You’d loved Attack on Titan for years - you had to be there. And to be honest, you wanted to see that dark-haired, brooding man again, even if from a distance.

Filming was wrapped for the next several months, to give you all some much needed rest, but you only had one day at home before you were back on a plane and headed to Japan. As you arrived at your hotel in the darkness of the early morning, you got your phone out of your bag. Somewhere, in this sprawling city, Levi was sleeping. You wonder, does he ever dream of you?

You find his name in your contacts and send him a quick text. He probably won’t respond, you think to yourself.

When you wake up late that morning and see that he has, your heart skips a beat.

You can’t help but smile as you send him a reply. Then another. You fall asleep for an hour or so and when you wake up, he’s answered you:

“Of course not. I hope I’ll see you there.”

——

The area around the Toho Cinema Roppongi Hills is starting to fill with people as the time for the Attack on Titan, Final Parts 1 and 2 premiere approaches. A red carpet has been rolled out and barriers put up; press and media have started to set up in their usual places, in preparation for pictures and interviews with the cast. Premieres are a huge event, and something that Levi has been involved in more times than he can count, but this one - the final AoT episodes - makes him feel emotional.

Now that he knows you’ll be here, he’s glad he didn’t bring a date - not that he was looking for one. He, Erwin, and Hange had decided to be each other’s dates months ago and frankly, he wouldn’t have it any other way. The three of them ride in a limo to the cinema, along with their publicists and agents. All of them are silent, feeling the weight of this moment, until Hange breaks the silence as they pull up to the entrance.

“Ok, boys…the last ride of the three amigos..”

The three get out of the car and the cameras instantly start flashing. Hange gets between both Levi and Erwin and takes either arm in theirs, walking the red carpet and taking pictures before they separate for individual photos and interviews.

Levi usually likes picking his own clothes out for premiers, but he let a stylist do it this time. He walks down the red carpet in black pants and jacket, with a black mesh collared shirt underneath, which gives just the faintest view of his toned chest. Silver rings adorn his fingers, and he’s slicked back his hair, which he’s been growing out the past few months, just for fun. Photographers are yelling at him from every direction, asking him to look their way, or to take a picture with Hange, Zeke, or Erwin. All around him are the smiling faces of people he’s known for over 10 years, and soon, other celebrities and guests attending the event follow behind them. He looks through the crowd and sees you having your picture taken. You catch his eye and smile; he tries to make his way toward you but he’s whisked away by his publicist.

There are seats reserved in the front of the theater for the cast, with guests sitting in the rows behind them. He takes out his phone and texts you almost immediately upon sitting:

“Come to the after party? It’d be good to catch up.”

He sends you the address and a few moments later, receives your reply:

“I’ll see you there. :-)”

As he puts his phone in the breast pocket of his jacket, Hange reaches for his hand. “Are you ready for this?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he replies with a sigh, squeezing their hand tightly.

The lights lower and the screen lights up to cheers from the crowd.

—-

Watching the final episodes was emotional, to say the least, but the mood at the after party is joyful and energetic. Everyone is drinking, eating, laughing, and reminiscing. Levi is sitting at a table with Petra, Ulou, and Eld when Zeke runs up.

“Levi, Levi, Levi, I just heard the greatest idea!” He forces his way between him and Petra. “Cast tattoos!”

“What?” Levi laughs.

“Yeah! Eren, Mikasa, Armin, and the others are doing it - we gotta do it too. They’re leaving soon, so let’s go!”

“No, no, there’s no we in this,” Levi protests as he resists Zeke pulling him away from the table. “Besides, I’m waiting for someone.”

“Oh?” That stops Zeke immediately. “And who would that be?”

You thank your driver in your limited Japanese as you leave the car and enter the stylish restaurant. Walking through the crowded space, you see Eren and Mikasa laughing and drinking with a group of other young actors. As a fan of the show since its beginning, you are feeling like a total fangirl as there are cast members from every season around you. But as you walk around the room looking for Levi, you suddenly get nervous, thinking that maybe this was a bad idea; you’re not even sure what you’re expecting from this night.

Just as you think about leaving, you see him sitting at a table with the Levi Squad cast and Zeke, who has an arm around him. He looks up, sees you, and smiles, throwing Zeke’s arm off of him.

As he walks towards you, you admire how good he looks. He’s so sexy, you can feel yourself blushing.

“Glad you could make it” he says, pulling you in to kiss you on the cheek. His lips are soft, just like you remember them.

“I wouldn’t miss it. Attack on Titan has been my favorite series since forever. To be honest, I am so excited to be surrounded by the cast.”

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to some of them.” He places his hand on the small of your back as he leads you through the crowd. Your hunter green silk dress swoops down low in the back, so when his hand touches your bare skin it gives you goosebumps.

He takes you from group to group, introducing you to people you’ve only known through a screen. You laugh with Jean and Connie as they talk about the practical jokes they used to pull on Levi off-set; you sing Red Swan (your favorite opening song) with Armin and Sasha, Levi refusing to join in no matter how hard you all try; you take shots with Hange and gush about how much you loved their character.

Levi watches you and can’t stop smiling. He’d forgotten how good it feels to be around you, to talk and flirt with you. Your hand grazes his and when he weaves his fingers through yours, you don’t resist. Your eyes shine as you look at him; you don’t have to say a word but he knows you’re feeling it too.

The two of you eventually make it over to Erwin and you blush when Levi brags about the film you made together and your acting skills.

“No, no,” you interject, “Levi is the real talent. His acting on set was some of the best I’ve ever seen.”

Erwin smiles. “I’m sure you both complement each other well and that the movie will be spectacular. I’m looking forward to seeing it.” He gives Levi a knowing smile and lifts up his champagne glass.

“Levi! My buddy!” Zeke comes crashing through the group, clearly inebriated. “And who is this? It’s Miss Dior herself.”

“Oh you’ve seen those?” The way he says it brings a blush to your cheeks.

“Of course I have. You look absolutely mesmerizing in those ads,” he moves closer to you, “just like you do tonight.”

Zeke leans on a nearby table and gives a playful smirk. “How long are you staying in Tokyo? I could show you around, if you’d like.”

“She doesn’t need you showing her around anywhere.” Levi’s voice is forceful for the first time that night. You put a reassuring hand on his arm - you have to admit, you like seeing him a little jealous.

“Thanks for the offer, Zeke, but I already have extensive plans in Tokyo.” You give Levi a smile that lets him know that ‘he’ is the plan.

Erwin comes to the rescue of both of you. “Zeke, what’s this I hear about tattoos? Are we doing this tonight?” He puts an arm around Zeke and leads him away, giving you both a wink.

The restaurant is large and sprawling, built in the old Japanese style, but is an interesting mix of East and West, old and new. There’s a garden in the center with the main area and smaller, more private rooms surrounding it. Wanting to escape the noise and commotion, you lead Levi outside, “It’s a bit quieter out here.”

“And more beautiful,” Levi replies, as you walk across a small bridge crossing a koi pond.

“It really is beautiful out here. I’ve always loved Japanese gardens.”

“I wasn’t talking about the garden.” He moves closer to you as you lean against the banister of the bridge. “You look stunning.”

“You know why I chose hunter green, don’t you?” He shakes his head. “Because it’s Levi’s color.”

“Oh really?” He is in front of you now, his hand grazing your arm ever so slightly as he looks you up and down.

“Mmmhmm, he’s always been my favorite character.”

“Nice to know I have a fan.”

“I’m just one of many.”

“But you’re the only one that matters.”

That makes you giggle. “So flirty. Is that how you get the ladies these days?”

“I don’t want anyone else. I just want you.” He looks at you with his piercing eyes. “It’s always been you.”

His words are like music to your ears, but you’re determined to stand firm. You can’t let him off so easily. “That didn’t seem to be the case six months ago.”

“Because I thought it was for the best, but I was wrong. So wrong. And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

His hand moves around your waist and he pulls you close. The lights of the garden shine in his dark grey eyes as his lips softly press against yours. You can’t help but return the kiss, your mouth opening slightly, inviting his tongue inside. When he moves away slightly, you realize you’d been holding your breath.

“I never should have let you go.”

“Levi, I..”

A few noisy and slightly drunk guests amble outside, ruining the moment. Without a word, Levi takes your hand and pulls you to a far corner of the garden, toward the private rooms. He pulls back the heavy, velvet curtains separating the room from the garden and gestures for you to enter. The room is small and intimate, decorated in a western style with a large, ornate mirror. You walk around, admiring the wingback chairs and gilded furniture, and then you feel Levi’s presence behind you.

His fingers lightly skim your bare arms, leaving a trail of heat coursing through your body. You close your eyes when you feel his warm breath against your neck, followed by soft kisses.

“Levi..I’m seeing someone..” you manage to say.

“Oh yeah?” He responds gently in your ear before kissing your earlobe. “You sure about that?”

When you open your eyes, you notice that you’re in front of the mirror and can see Levi kissing along your neck and shoulders. He looks up and grins.

“Right now I only see you and me.”

He continues kissing along your shoulder until the thin strap of your dress falls down your arm. You can’t resist him, you never could, and so you give in to your desires. You lean your body until your back is pressing against his chest. One of his hands is holding yours while the other is moving the fallen strap down lower, exposing your breast.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he says as he looks at you in the mirror, his hand moving to cup your breast. “I’ve wanted to touch you like this all night.”

You guide his other hand lower, to the high slit of your dress, urging him to touch your thigh. “I missed you, Levi. So much.”

For you, it’s always been him as well. As much as you’ve tried to deny your feelings for him these past six months, all it took was one touch from him for it to all come back. And now you want more.

His hand finds its way between your thighs as his other hand massages your breast. “You’re already so wet for me,” he notices, as his fingers begin to rub your clit.

“You’re the only one who knows how to make me feel good,” you reply, then your breath catches as he pushes your panties to the side and sides a finger inside you.

It’s a beautifully erotic sight, watching yourself in the mirror as Levi pinches your nipple and pumps his finger in and out of you. You can’t help but let out a moan.

“‘Shhh, you don’t want someone to hear, do you?”

“I don’t care. Levi, I need you so badly.”

You turn around to kiss him, taking his jacket off and throwing it on the floor. Almost immediately, he has you pressed against the wall and is lifting your dress up to your waist. He’s unbuttoning his pants as you slide your panties down, but only get so far as taking them off one leg before he lifts that leg up and rubs his cock against you.

Levi has tunnel vision right now; all he can see is your perfect body, all he wants to hear are the moans of his name from your pretty mouth. And that’s exactly what he gets when he thrusts inside you. You bite your bottom lip as he pounds into you again and again. “I thought you didn’t care if someone heard us?”

“I’m trying to be good,” you reply breathlessly.

“Oh I think we’re well past being good.”

He pins your arm over your head as his other hand is still lifting your leg, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. You kiss and suck on his neck, leaving a small mark.

“Careful there..”

“What? Makeup can cover it up,” you tease seductively, referring to the first time you and Levi made love.

He lets out a soft growl. “Then I suppose now we’re even.” He picks up the pace, watching as your breasts bounce up and down with each hard thrust. You’re driving him wild; every nerve in his body feels completely alive.

“Levi, I’m…”

He knows. He’s feeling it too. He kisses you long and hard, then feels your walls spasm around him. It’s just what he needs to push him over the edge, and as he cums inside you, it’s as if the whole world has stopped; only your uneven breaths mark the time passing.

You continue to spasm around his cock as your mind goes completely blank. You can’t explain it, but Levi elicits the longest, most intense orgasms from you. It’s just how your body reacts to him - you can’t explain it.

He says your name in your ear, his voice deep and raspy. “Will you forgive me? For all the time we wasted apart. I don’t want to do any of this without you.”

“Yes. Yes, I forgive you.” You run your fingers through his silky hair. “I know we can make this work.”

Of course you forgive him. You’d forgiven him the moment you laid eyes on him tonight; maybe even before that.

The bottom of your dress falls back over your legs and Levi gently pulls the straps back up on your shoulders. You are his, and he is yours - it’s always been this way, and now both of you know it. As you fix your hair and touch up your lipstick in the mirror, there’s a commotion in the garden.

“Leeeeeviiiiiiiii! Where are you? We’re getting tattoos!”

He’d know that yell anywhere: it’s Hange.

“Yeah, come on, Levi! We’re all getting tattoos!”

And Zeke is with them.

“Goddammit. Let’s stay here a little longer.”

You laugh. “You should do it…for memories.” You cup his cheek and give him a kiss. “Get it on your ass, so then only I can see it.”

At that, Levi rolls his eyes. “Don’t make this weirder than it already is.”

He takes your hand in his, then meets the screaming duo in the garden. “Ok, fine, let’s do this,” he resigns, as he leads you along to join the group.

“You want me to come too?”

“Of course.” His face is serious, but there’s a joy in his eyes. “I don’t intend on letting you out of my sight.”

“Yes!” Zeke exclaims. “Eren, Levi is in! Let’s go!!”

And so you walk, hand in hand, out of the restaurant to find the others.

——

“There’s no denying that the two of you have an incredible chemistry in the film. Did that come naturally?” the interviewer asks.

“I think I felt that spark between us almost immediately. Wouldn’t you say?” Levi answers.

“Oh yes, absolutely,” you reply fondly.

It’s the week of the Cannes Film Festival and you and Levi are on the interview circuit. After the AoT premiere, you broke up with your boyfriend and stayed with Levi in Tokyo, then went with him to Singapore and Seoul as the cast traveled from city to city. The month flew by and the next thing you knew, you were both traveling to France.

You’re together everywhere, and the paparazzi have quickly deduced that you're an item. It’s been a hot topic of all the celebrity and gossip sites, but neither of you care - a rare occurrence, for Levi especially, who has always valued his privacy intensely.

“And you’re actually a couple in real life, correct?”

“We are.” You answer tentatively. “He tolerates me, anyway.” You make light of it, but answering this question always makes you nervous, since you’re not quite sure how much Levi wants to share.

“More than tolerate,” Levi squeezes your hand, “she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to my life.”

He knew this question would come up, because it always does these days. But he’s realized, he’s not concerned with the gossip or the naysayers; he knows that whatever challenges come your way, the two of you can ride it out.

He believes this will work, because he’s in love with you. And after this interview is over, he’s going to tell you exactly that.

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[very-straight-blog]

In my opinion, one of the main problems of HOTD is that the screenwriters decided to tell the story instead of showing it. Visual storytelling is very important in cinema, this is literally its essence, but in the series we see over and over again how the characters describe themselves and each other verbally, even when it's not necessary. I want to discuss this on the example of Aegon.

He appears to us as a controversial character - at the most basic level, the creators were able to show this even in the miserable eight minutes of his screen time. On the one hand, he is sarcastic, he likes to piss people off, he is kinda arrogant, but at the same time he is lonely, depressed, feels isolated in his own family, although he undoubtedly loves them. He is prone to hedonism in the most unhealthy manifestations, and also, apparently, to self-destruction. The problem is that we mostly get to know about everything that I've named from the words of himself or other characters, as well as from interviews with the actors and creators of the series.

Let's start with his relationship with Viserys. We can see Viserys spending time with Aegon during his birthday in the third episode and it looks pretty sweet, but then timeskips take place and the story of their relationship remains behind the scenes. Yes, we have just one diaogue in Driftmark, which doesn't give us much - it doesn't relate specifically to Aegon and his relationship with his father. In fact, we don't know anything about them at all and we only have Aegon's words:

And the screenwriters seem to think that this is enough, although his father's dislike is implied to be one of the main factors that shaped Aegon's character and personality.

Next, he talks about his relationship with Alicent and Viserys in this scene:

Again, the words - screenwriters don't show the audience in any way what exactly he's trying to do, how he's trying to meet the expectations of his parents. An ideal opportunity to reveal this quote would be to study his relationship with Helaena and their family - he didn't want to marry her, but did it anyway for the sake of duty, because that's what his mother wanted. As a result, I'm not sure that the audience even realized that they were married at all.

At the same time, the screenwriters decided to show Aegon's tendency to cruelty (here I won't make comparisons with books, this is a topic for another post). We have two cases - the first one with Dyana:

The whole episode of violence is completely left behind the scenes, the word "r*pe" is not even mentioned in the dialogue. (I'll also talk about how poorly this episode fits into Aegon's character in another post, otherwise this one will never end.)

The second one is this:

And again, they tell us about Aegon's cruelty, but don't show it.

Anyway, we have some examples of good visual storytelling, such as the coronation scene, where Aegon goes from this:

To this:

And we see how important love and recognition are to him, even if they come from strangers - from the crowd. Such moments only demonstrate all the wasted potential of this series.

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 2 / next.

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader (You), Lydia Martin, Scott McCall, Allison Argent Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 6.7k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, emetophobia, parental death (rip to your fake mom), descriptions of burning, depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Scott’s new-found abilities and the murky world they’ve been dragged into is making it pretty damn hard to keep his promise. 

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real and old family skeletons rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive? 

Maybe, the real question is how long will they want to? Chapter Summary: After an awkward encounter with Lydia Martin, Stiles realizes that his new acquaintance might be the perfect person to jumpstart his 15-year plan. You, on the other hand, aren't interested in discussing your ex-best friend; you're much more focused on the man who was attacked by the mysterious beast ravaging the town.

A/N: Thank you all so much for the support so far. So many of y'all have been so sweet :') Comments and reblogs are love.

Monday came, and you’d forgotten about Stiles Stilinski and his sweatshirt. In all fairness, you almost forgot your essay too. Lack of sleep, maybe, or perhaps lack of Wellbutrin—you’d also forgotten if you’d taken your pills before you left for school.

You crinkled your nearly empty can of Red Bull a few times and twisted the tab in circles until it snapped off. Nervous habit. You flicked the tab into a trashcan and squeezed the can until it crumpled in on itself. Okay, you’d definitely forgotten to take your pills. However, on your list of things to forget, homework outranked antidepressants by several places, so your day wasn’t off to the worst possible start in the world. Dr. Lin always said that you should spend at least five minutes every morning changing your ‘self-talk’ to ‘gratitude, not negatude’—she also said that consistently taking your meds was imperative to your mental health, but one out of two wasn’t so bad. See. Positive thinking; you were killing it. 

It was, however, pretty damn difficult to put a positive spin on a bloodied school bus cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. 

You lingered on the outskirts of the swarm of teenagers gawking behind the barricade that a few deputies were fruitlessly attempting to enforce. The back door of the bus was crumpled in the middle, wrenched open, and barely clinging to life with a lone intact hinge. More concerning, was the blood smeared across the yellow paint and the bloody handprints pressed against the windows. You peered through the mass of shoulders in front of you and cupped your hand over your eyes. There were four large gouges in the door and tears in the vinyl seats—claws: you realized. They were claw marks. 

Baffling. The entire scene was, in all sincerity, baffling. 

Awful, you quickly corrected yourself. The carnage was awful, first and foremost. It was awful, horrific, and totally tragic…but it was also bizarre. Animals, wild or not, generally didn’t hunt on school grounds; that honor was reserved for creepy super-seniors and perverse volleyball coaches. You chewed on your bottom lip and stewed. A bear seemed most likely, given the battering the bus took, but Beacon Hills was a long way from Los Padres. Mountain lions and coyotes, on the other hand, often strolled into small-town suburbia to snack on the occasional unaccompanied support animal. Still, you doubted they had the strength or dexterity to rip a steel door off of its hinges. 

The first warning bell rang, and it was especially shrill while you were lost in your own head. You managed to not flinch with a herculean effort and pushed through the remaining voyeurs towards the front doors. Stuffing your airpods into your ears, you turned up the volume on your phone until the bass vibrated all thoughts of coyotes, cougars, and bears out of your mind. Oh my. 

Positive: Ellie Rowsell’s ethereal vocals demanded your full and undivided attention. 

Negative: Ellie Rowsell’s ethereal vocals demanded your full and undivided attention. 

You grabbed your chemistry notecards, a few highlighters, and a fat stack of books from your locker just as an overly-cologned jackass shoved his equally pungent friend straight into your crowded arms.

Positive: You hadn’t gotten the chance to organize your notes by unit number before they scattered all over the floor. 

Negative: They were still scattered all over the floor.

Biting back a few choice expletives, you crouched down and gathered your notecards into a messy heap. You stretched across the scuffed tile for your highlighters; one brushed past your fingertips and rolled into the pointed toe of a sleek brown leather boot. You glanced up, apology ready, but your tongue went cottony when you locked eyes with Lydia Martin.

Lydia Martin was many things to many people, but you supposed the general consensus would be that she was the apex predator—regardless of what the bloodbath outside might lead a person to believe. Most students were consenting prey. Enthusiastically consenting, in fact. You understood the impulse. Knowing she could destroy you, that was the thing that made Lydia so undeniably captivating.

Lydia was…sublime. That was the only word for it. She was the duality of fear and attraction. She defined indefinable beauty—because she wasn’t just beautiful (anybody could be beautiful), Lydia was fiercely beautiful and, in the same breath, the grace of girlhood. She was…she suckerpunched Jordan Aadams in the third grade for making fun of your eyes without lifting a single manicured finger; that was the closest you could come to explaining the phenomenon Lydia Martin left in her wake.

Lydia’s thick red curls spilled over her shoulders as she looked down at the obstacle in her path. The angry pinch in her brows softened briefly once she made eye-contact with you, but she quickly corrected her slip and schooled her face into a blank expression. Returning her attention to her friend, Lydia’s heels clicked against the floor as she stepped over your copy of Metamorphosis and continued on with her conversation like it hadn’t ever stopped. Like you were just a mirage or a distorted oil-slick reflection—like you were a ghost who just wouldn’t fucking die already. You watched her go, forgetting to blink, until they reached Lydia’s locker on the other side of the hall.

Before she got extensions, Lydia liked to wear her hair in a French braid. Before she discovered full-coverage concealer, her freckles were golden against the fairness of her cheeks. Before everything fell apart, she was your best friend. 

In the end, it wasn’t a terribly dramatic thing. There wasn’t a melodramatic scene or an explosive fight; sometimes, you wondered if that would've been better. There was a certain kind of brutality to a slow, quiet death; one that lasted long after the hot water turned cold and shampoo stung your eyes. After the funeral, you could taste decay in your conversations, in your silences. The rot crawled listlessly—everything did back then—tauntingly sluggish. You saw the end coming weeks before you stopped speaking, and you didn’t even try to stop it. To be fair, Lydia didn’t either.

On the first day of seventh grade, Lydia had new friends; they all smelled like vanilla and owned matching couture purses. She’d always been magnetic, but evidently losing her only constant was her final quest before she transcended to godhood. You made her human; that must have been the problem. You were babies together. You were more than family. Now, you sat across from each other in a class you couldn’t bring yourself to care about, and you did not look at each other unless it was straight through.

You snatched the runaway highlighter and quickly sunk back against the wall, pressing into it like you could force your body through the cracks in the bricks or at the very least shed the sentimentality clinging to your skin. You darted your gaze across the hall and almost snorted when you saw the amount of people who’d flocked to Lydia’s side in the span of no more than thirty seconds. Lydia was unobtainable, unknowable—and yet ever so desirable. No one really knew her, so of course they all wanted to be her. 

Lydia only liked one of them, the new girl with shiny black hair and dark eyes; you could tell. Her top lip pursed ever so slightly when she was holding back a barbed comment and a violent eye roll. Usually, Lydia didn’t bother with niceties, but for whatever reason she’d decided her new persona should only intimidate peons with looks and confidence, never brains. It was a shame, really; her cave-dweller boyfriend desperately needed educating. 

You resisted the urge to look across the hall again and smoothed out the bent corner of a notecard until ‘alpha’ became ‘alpha particle’. A shadow fell over the pink-highlighted text, and you frowned. Glancing up, your frown cemented when you saw Stiles’s elven nose and remembered that you still had his sweatshirt wadded on your desk chair.

“Hey,” Stiles adjusted his grip on his backpack, “did your car make it home okay?”

You nodded and shut your locker with your elbow, bending with the wobbling tower of school supplies in your arms until it stabilized again.

“Cool.” He nodded a few times, mouth puckered like a duck, and scratched at the back of his neck, “So. You and Lydia, huh.”

You stared intently at your notes, “Is that a question?”

“No, it’s a statement.” He hooked his thumbs around his backpack straps and leaned back slightly, “And that episode of telepathic taekwondo was definitely a statement.” 

You glowered until ‘alpha decay’ and ‘helium-4 nucleus’ mushed together into an illegible pink blob, “I’ve got a statement for you—only two words actually.” 

“So it is a thing.” You could hear the smirk in his voice as he grabbed the books from under your arms.

You refused to feel grateful, even as you readjusted your grip on your cards and freed one of your hands, “Get lost, Stilinski.”

“That’s three words.” The smirk was deafening now.

The one-minute warning bell rang and a mass of students swarmed the hallway, effectively drowning out Stiles’s smugness with a sea of jock whooping and band geek trumpeting. You met his gaze and smiled, quick and sickly-sweet, before stepping around him, “Kindly. Choke.”

You ignored the sound of Stiles’s large footsteps following far too closely behind you. You wanted to be annoyed with him, but English was his first-period and he did have your books in his stupidly big hands. Instead of flipping him off, you focused your itching fingers on stacking cards and pencils on top of your desk until Stiles sat down in the seat next to you—without permission. You changed your mind; he was annoying. 

Stiles scooted the desk closer to yours with his feet, and the metal legs screeched against the linoleum flooring for you. “Was it like a ‘grew apart over the summer’ thing, or did some serious shit go down?”

You sighed heavily and lined your pencils and pens next to each other, first in order of length and then color, “Why do you care?”

His mouth remained open for a second, and then he shrugged a little too casually, “I’m a naturally inquisitive person.”

“You’re unnaturally irritating,” you grumbled, low in your throat, and scowled at your picked-apart cuticles like they had done you a particular disservice. 

Stiles huffed through his nose and threw his hands in the air, “Come on, I totally saved your ass Friday—very chivalrously too, might I add. I won’t even press charges for the theft.”

“Theft?” you finally turned around in your seat to face him at the accusation. 

Stiles nodded solemnly, “My sweatshirt. My most favorite sweatshirt of all the sweatshirts.”

Oh. You deflated a little; you’d forgotten about that pesky little detail again. You snatched your books off of his desk before your lives could become further entangled and replied flatly,  “I’ll overnight it.”

“No, I insist you keep it.” His smile was a little too crooked to be truly cocky,  “I’m a good guy like that.”

You tapped your pencil against your chin, eraser side up, and cocked your head to the side, “Isn’t it incredible how every self-proclaimed ‘good guy’ is exclusively terrible.”

Stiles’s face twisted into a petulant scowl as he collapsed against the back of his chair, and you were a little surprised that the desk managed to contain all of his gangly appendages without collapsing as well. “I like her, okay!” His exasperated confession carried to the next row of students, and Stiles melted into his seat when a jacked sophomore with no neck whistled lewdly behind you. Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles lowered his voice, “Actually, I’m kind of in love with her if you want to be technical about it.”

“Oh.” You blinked and then laughed.

“Don’t laugh, asshole.” 

“Sorry,” you grinned, not sorry in the slightest, “it’s just…isn’t everyone?”

Stiles shook his head and sighed wistfully, “Not like I am.”

You turned to get a better look at him and didn’t mask the doubt in your eyes. He was wearing a brown flannel that was practically mewling for a good ironing and a red t-shirt with the silhouette of a spider embossed over his chest. Spider-Man’s emblem, obviously. If you had to hazard a guess, you’d say it was the Andrew Garfield version. Regardless, it was blatantly clear that Stiles’s homeplanet was lightyears away from Lydia’s.  

You folded your arms over your chest and leaned back against your seat, “Have you even talked to her?” 

“Technically…no,” Stiles dipped his head from side to side like a bobble head and then pressed his palms together, gesturing with them every so often to emphasize the most ridiculous words in his sentence, “but we have a deep, unspoken connection, mostly via sporadic eye-contact.”

You just looked at him, unamused and unimpressed.

Stiles held up his hands like a director and kicked his feet onto his desk, “It’s about the long-game.”

“Gross,” you pulled a face. You weren't sure if you were referring to the gray wad of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe or the pride in his long-con. It was probably a bit of both.

“Are you gonna help a guy out or not?” Stiles nudged the leg of your desk with his sneaker—the gumless one, thankfully—and sent one of your pens careening towards the edge.

You caught it before it could hit the ground and glared at him. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m not an ‘in.’” You returned the pen to its rightful place between your pencil and purple highlighter: a perfect rainbow of neuroticism. You straightened your row of writing utensils again and swallowed shallowly, “I don’t even know her anymore.”

For the first time since Stiles had popped up in front of your locker like a chronic zit, understanding clicked in his eyes. Actually, he almost looked apologetic. Stiles sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and leaned forward onto his forearms, “So…what happened? Did you not make queen bee first-string?”

“No,” you bristled. After a long exhale, you crumpled in on yourself a little and mumbled, “Yes…kind of. I don’t know. I have my version; I’m sure she has hers.”

Stiles clasped his hands together and nodded sagely, “There are as many truths as there are people.”

Your brows scrunched, and your eyes went lidded as you flipped through your mental philosophy rolodex, “Camus?”

He shook his head and clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth, “Evangelion.” 

You were startled into a snorty chortle, “Obviously you’re a weeb.”

Stiles hid his amusement behind a slow roll of his eyes, “You’re at least 1/16 weeb if you know Evangelion is an anime.”

Before you could deny such blasphemy, you were distracted by the boy who usually sat next to you—Greg something, you were pretty sure—coming to a stop directly between you and Stiles. He lingered next to the side of his desk, breathing heavily through his mouth like some kind of sick prowler. 

Stiles glanced at him with a flat expression and then looked up again, brows shooting towards his hairline, when he didn’t leave, “Can I help you?” He jerked his head forward and shook it slightly, “Need a mint?”

Greg Something stared at him, red-rimmed eyes thoroughly glazed over, and you wondered if being faded at 7:45 in the morning was worth the tortuous five-hour wait until lunch. 

“No?” Stiles waved his hand in the air; Greg didn’t even blink. “Okay seeya.”

It took him roughly 30 seconds to comprehend what Stiles was saying, but eventually Greg shuffled towards one of the remaining empty seats in the middle of the classroom. 

“Thank you,” Stiles muttered before returning his attention to the side of your face.

You smirked slightly at your notebook, doodling a little bird with sharp talons along the margins of your notes on Kafka’s thoughts on absurdism—spoiler alert: the guy who wrote a book about a dude randomly transforming into a bug was a big fan of it. You added a long feathered tail to your bird and said, “It is his seat.”

Stiles scoffed and looked over his shoulder. You both watched Greg shove a handful of Cheeto Puffs into his mouth in slow-motion for a moment, and Stiles replied, “I think he’ll live.”

“Oh,” you shook your head a little, freshly bitten lips curling around the extended vowel, “I’m not worried about him.”

Stiles clicked his pen aggressively with his thumb and pressed his mouth together until his lips disappeared into a flat line. “If you would just answer my questions the first time, I wouldn’t have to keep asking them, so, for the love of god—” fortuitously for him, he was cut off by a loud scratchy buzz before you could succumb to your base instincts and throw an eraser into his flapping mouth. 

Principal Montoya’s voice crackled through the loudspeaker, “Attention students: I know that many of you are concerned about the…incident in the parking lot, but rest assured that the police have it well in hand. Classes will proceed as scheduled as they continue their investigation. Have a productive day, Cyclones.”

A resounding groan echoed throughout the classroom and into the hallway, followed by the hum of students breaking into various complaints. Mr. Lyman thwacked his pointer against the whiteboard, and the force of his swing sent the cartoonish hand on the end of the stick into rapid vibration—effectively shutting everyone up. The quiet was only disturbed by the rustle of zippers being unzipped and papers being smoothed when he instructed everyone to turn their essays in. 

You hastily wrote your name across the top of your paper and pointedly kept your eyes on the board when Stiles leaned across his desk. “Life’s short, y’know. One day you’re a traveling salesman, and the next you’re a grotesque, monstrous insect, wishing that you’d seized life when you had the opposable thumbs for it, so—”

“A man just died; have some class,” you interrupted him, voice dry as it was soft. Stiles might not care about getting in trouble, but you’d worked very hard to remain on a no-name basis with all your teachers. 

“We don’t know that he’s dead—or that he’s a he.”

“Oh yeah,” you jotted down the daily prompt in your notebook and muttered, “I’m sure the guy just decided to go home and sleep off the mauled limbs.”

“It could’ve been an animal,” Stiles huffed, bowing his head in submission when Mr. Lyman shot him a stern look from behind his desk. He continued with his hand over his mouth, muffling his words, “And they do run off to die alone.” 

You stared at him for a long moment. “That’s cats. Are you saying a bear ripped a bus apart for a cat.” 

“Well, if you say anything in that tone, it’s going to sound ridiculous,” Stiles muttered sullenly against his palm, and you were pretty sure that he was pouting behind it too.

You opened your mouth to reply and then squinted slightly when a boy with floppy hair skidded to a halt in front of you. His mouth was slightly agape as he looked back and forth between Stiles and Greg, who was now licking the nearly toxic orange dust off of his fingers. 

 “Sit, Scotty,” Stiles jerked his thumb towards the empty desk behind him. “Good boy.”

The boy, Scott you gathered, did not look amused, but he sat down behind Stiles anyway and leaned forward to whisper something in his ear. Stiles whipped around and responded in a hushed screech.

You were distracted from her eavesdropping when Lydia’s friend sat down next to Scott—directly behind you. Her jaw could cut glass. You dropped your chin onto your folded arms and refused to let yourself frown; the end result was a slightly constipated pout. It was just…Allison had just started going to Beacon Hills a few weeks ago, and she was already completely intertwined in Lydia’s life. 

Lydia was…prickly, so you were just surprised, that’s all, how easily Allison fit into her life. More palatable, you thought as you risked a peek over your shoulder; she must be more palatable than most. A terrible, ugly thing creeped over you, and you found yourself imagining Allison choking on her beautiful, silky black hair until her beautiful dark eyes popped out of her head. Just for a moment. A brief, awful, horrible moment—until you remembered it wasn’t Allison’s fault. 

“Hey.” You flinched when you felt a gentle tap on your shoulder.

You reluctantly shifted in your chair so that you could see Allison. You just looked at her for an uncomfortable moment, and Allison smiled awkwardly, “The tests.” You blinked and licked your dry lips, at a loss for words. Allison smiled again, a little nervous but still kind, “They're on your desk.”

“Oh,” you said dumbly and reached for the pile of papers on your desk that you’d missed during your lengthy period of dissociation. You kept one and then held out the rest to Allison, mumbling, “Sorry,” under your breath.

Allison looked at you for a moment, and you didn’t like the discerning look in her doe eyes. “It’s okay. I zone-out all the time.” 

You could see why Lydia liked her; she was nice, overly so. You felt that ugly feeling slip into your mouth again, bitterness coating your tongue, and you wished that Allison was catty or at very least a vapid twit who was either too stupid or too self-involved to notice other people—like the rest of Lydia’s circle. 

“I like your necklace.” Allison nodded a little towards the black chain around your neck. 

A heavy pendant rested just over your sternum; the maze etched into the stone had eroded in places, like it had been left out in acid rain for decades. You weren’t sure exactly what it was made of; your mother never said when she gave it to you, and you never asked. It didn’t matter much now. 

“Thanks,” you finally said, because that was what normal people did when they were complimented, and you were a normal person. Mostly. You swallowed thickly and bit down on the scab in the center of your bottom lip before adding, “I like your jacket.” You did. It was simple, unadorned by gaudy zippers and lapels like so many of the other leather jackets on campus. You would wear it yourself if you didn’t break into a sweat in any temperature warmer than tepid. 

Allison’s cheeks dimpled when she smiled, and you quashed the sigh rising in your throat. Her smile was magnificent. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure if I could pull it off, but my friend convinced me to—” Allison let out a little breathy laugh, “Sorry, you definitely don’t want to hear my jacket’s tragic backstory.”

You didn’t, not if it included hearing about Lydia’s fashion tips second-hand. Still, you scraped up a little smile, “As long as it doesn’t begin with a cow, you’re golden.”

Allison laughed and held up her hands, “It’s faux; I promise.”

“Ladies,” Mr. Lyman called from across the classroom, “I wasn’t aware that existentialism was so amusing.” You felt a dizzying heat crawl up your neck to your ears once you realized that the only noise in the room, other than Allison’s tinkly laughter, was the scratch of pencils on paper as students worked on their tests. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled at the same time, and Allison mouthed another ‘Sorry’ just for you before you turned around. Damn. You liked her. How incredibly inconvenient. You almost wished that Stiles was still pestering you so that you had a real reason to be upset—until you finally got a good look at the mid-term, more specifically at the thickness of it. You flipped through the lengthy test and looked at the ceiling briefly: Six essay questions? 

Positive: At least, you found a legitimate excuse to sulk. 

Negative: You felt a migraine coming on. 

Blessedly, whatever Scott had said to Stiles at the beginning of class was distracting enough to keep his, frankly obsessive, focus on him for the rest of first-period. You were even able to finish the final essay question without interruption—which was plenty difficult without being interrogated about your ex-best friend. You almost scoffed when you read the prompt: Whom do you sympathize with more, Gregor or his family? Who in their right mind would side with a pathetic parasite who couldn’t love anyone more than he hated himself? An uncomfortable, undeniable pang of melancholy sliced through your throat, and you were actually grateful for the distraction when the bell rang for second period and you had to pack up for chemistry. 

The impending chemistry midterm, however, was evidently a touch too distracting because you didn’t notice that you’d regained your lanky shadow until you were in Mr. Harris’s classroom and he stole the flashcard in your hand. Narrowing your eyes, you leaned across the lab table and rocked onto your tiptoes. Your outstretched arm shook as you struggled to even brush your fingers against the cardstock, “I haven’t talked to her in years. Lurk elsewhere.”

Stiles opened his mouth and then shut it again, head bobbing helplessly for a moment, “I was just going to ask you about…Gregor. That last question was a real piece of work, huh.”

You plucked the card out of his grasp while he was distracted by his social ineptitude, “Uh huh.” 

“Scout’s honor,” Stiles placed his hand over his chest and somehow made his big eyes rounder. His pink bottom lip jutted out ever-so slightly, but the quivering at the edges of his mouth gave him away. Sighing, he leaned his weight onto his palm: flat against the tabletop, fingers spread, and far too close to your own. He gestured erratically with his other hand, and you jerked back to avoid being smacked in the face. “Personally, I’m on Grete’s side. I mean, you can only take care of your werebug brother for so long without some kind of recognition before you snap.” Stiles shot a pointed look over his shoulder at his friend from first-period, and you thought the glare Scott returned was well-deserved. You could be biased, but probably not. 

“He was a little preoccupied by being, y’know, a bug.” You shuffled your notecards and frowned pensively at the question that ended up on top of the stack: What is the formula for Calcium acetate?  

“He could’ve said thank you in Morse code.” Stiles looked over your shoulder and added, “C4H6CaO4.”

You flipped the card over and pursed your lips. He was right. “I actually said the same thing,” you admitted begrudgingly as you grabbed the next flashcard from the pile. “Not the Morse code bit, that’s objectively insane. I did say that the best thing he did for her was die.”

“Damn.” Stiles’s forehead wrinkled as he let out a puff of air, “A little harsh.”

You picked at your raw cuticles and wished you could pull your bottom lip over your head. “It’s like you said,” you muttered as you folded your arms firmly over your chest, ducking your chin towards the divot in your breastbone, “she could only deal with his depressed bullshit for so long before she got on with her life and made new, sane, non-insect friends who actually go outside, and have fun at parties, and respond to texts.” You paused and remembered that you needed air to function when your lungs started to burn. Exhaling shallowly, you pressed your calves against the stool’s frigid legs until it hurt. Maybe, if you crushed your limbs together tightly enough, curled in on yourself closely enough, you could disappear. “And don’t, y’know, crawl on the ceiling and projectile vomit Exorcist style,” you finished weakly.

Stiles studied you for a moment, and it was like he could see every painfully tender spot inside you. You felt ants crawling underneath your skin and him seeing you, and you wanted to bolt before you came completely unstitched at the seams. “Well,” he trailed off for a moment, rubbing the back of his head, “in all fairness, being there…that’s kind of the deal when you’re friends—even if they turn into a disgusting bug.” You didn’t know that someone so caustic could sound so gentle, like ink running across paper.

“Siblings.” You swallowed and looked away from his unyielding gaze, but you still saw amber and understanding every time you blinked. “You mean siblings.”

“Sure.” Stiles smiled a little and slid his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, “Siblings.”

You swallowed again, couldn’t even manage a ‘see'ya’ or an eyeroll when he saluted you goodbye, and watched him saunter towards his seat next to Scott through your lashes with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. You felt a little sick once you realized that you weren’t relieved by his absence. It was all you’d wanted at the beginning of his inquisition, and yet…you wanted him to sit next to you. The epiphany struck you right in the stomach, and you felt a bit like one of your dad’s rare butterflies—tissue paper wings pinned to paper, fervently yearning to fly away, even if it meant ripping yourself apart. 

Normally, you thoroughly enjoyed not having a lab partner. The class had an odd number of students, and Mr. Harris either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care that you never joined another pair during labs. It was a toss-up, considering he seemed to loathe his job as much as he loved devoting his undivided attention to mocking Stiles. Speak of the bifocal-ed Devil. 

“Mr. Stilinski,” the contempt in Mr. Harris’s voice was sickeningly viscous. You imagined mucus dripping from his thin lips; it helped quell some of the righteous anger in your gut. He continued, and now he was spitting up slugs and snot, “If that’s your idea of a hushed whisper, you might want to pull the headphones out every once in a while. I think you and Mr. McCall would benefit from a little distance, yes?”

“No–” Stiles’s jaw hung open as he shook his head violently. 

Mr. Harris silenced him with a glare, and your fingers curled into your palms as you watched the condescension gloss over his smirk when Stiles complied. Your jagged, bitten-down nails pinched your skin; you quickly flattened your hands on top of the table before you did something stupid like draw attention to yourself. It was none of your business, after all, and you had a test to prepare for. 

You stared at your notes, reread the same sentence over and over again without comprehending a single word, until you felt the uneasy sensation of someone sneaking up behind you.

“Hey,” Stiles sat down on the empty stool next to you and kicked at your shoe lightly under the table. You hummed in recognition and slid your textbook over to make room for his things. 

Stiles’s face scrunched as he flipped through his own notes. You couldn’t read most of it—not that you were looking; his hand-writing was just glaringly atrocious. Everything was smooshed together and most of the letters were partially incomplete, like his pencil couldn’t keep up with his brain. You looked back at your own notebook, at the meticulously symmetrical loops and compulsively straight lines, and the corner of your mouth curled into a brief smile. 

The quiet was nice, but you couldn’t shake the irritation sticking to your fingers. You tapped your pencil against your notebook a few times, bit down on the inside of your cheek, and then said, “He’s a dick.” You spoke quietly, but Stiles still flinched. The highlighter in his hand left a long yellow streak across his textbook, and you winced. Truthfully, you were equally startled that you’d voluntarily broken a perfect moment of silence. 

Stiles didn’t seem bothered by the new mark permanently defacing his book, most likely because a good portion of the glossy pages were already more yellow than they were white. He angled his chin towards you and smirked, “Are you legally allowed to call a teacher a dick? Y’know, as the resident teacher’s pet.” 

You grinned at your notes, “I have the utmost authority, actually.”

Stiles leaned forward onto his forearms and struggled to keep his mouth impassive, “Oh, yeah?”

A loud, grating squeal of metal on tile and an even louder yelp interrupted your reply. A girl near the front of the classroom shot up out of her seat, almost sending her stool toppling to the ground, and then bolted towards the window overlooking the parking lot, “I think they found something!” 

Mr. Harris quickly lost control of the classroom as the rest of the class surrounded her, practically pressing their stupefied faces against the glass to get a better look at what, or rather whom, the EMTs were wheeling out of the thicket of trees just beyond the school’s perimeter. You hesitated for a moment before joining the stragglers. Morbid fascination dwindled after you were confronted with the reality of it—you weren't in any rush to see another dead body. 

You weren't ever supposed to actually see the photos; they were strictly evidence for the potential arson investigation. The coroner didn’t even want your dad to see the body. There hadn’t been any point, after all; it was completely unidentifiable. At the time, you thought it would help. You thought peeking at the case file while the Sheriff was on the phone might remind you of some crucial detail, hidden in the depths of your blackout—and, well, you thought it might finally make it real. Maybe, if you saw the proof, you’d finally believe that your mom wasn’t coming back. 

You’d been wrong, of course. Seeing what was left of your mom, seeing her like…that, it’d just made you puke. Your whole body had trembled from the retching, and then you were paralyzed, held hostage by a glacial streak of terror. Sheriff Stilinski had been so terribly understanding about the whole thing, like it was nothing: vomit on his office floor, trembling hands invading his private files. He’d just wiped the corners of your mouth with a tissue and rubbed your upper back in slow circles, just like her your mom did when you were sick—which ultimately sent you into another round of dry-heaving. You never felt the temptation to look again. 

You let out a deep breath when you looked out the window and saw the man on the gurney twitch. His jacket and pants were black, and his shirt was charcoal gray, dark enough to hide any blood stains. The only injury you could make out was a large gash on his face; it was still bleeding sluggishly, leaving a sticky red trail from his jaw to his neck. Your grip on your forearms tightened as your stomach lurched. 

The paramedics began to load the gurney into the ambulance, and the man surged forward without a single warning. His screams were raw, like they’d been ripped from his throat along with the flesh on his cheek, and every single one of the students crowded against the windows recoiled from the wailing. You swallowed the bile burning your throat. It was like they were watching their own, personal horror movie and couldn’t decide if they were more exhilarated or horrified—just itching for the jump scare. 

You stumbled back towards the door and bumped into Stiles and Scott. Stiles gripped your arm gently until you regained your footing.

“That’s not a rabbit,” Scott said under his breath. He looked as queasy as you felt.

“Or a cat,” you added quietly.

“But he’s alive,” Stiles nudged Scott a little, “that’s good, right? Dead guys can’t do that.”

Scott still looked like he was going to hurl all over Stiles’s white Vans, and you felt a flutter of sympathy. The only thing worse than puking was doing it in front of other people. “You might want to take him somewhere,” you spoke softly to Stiles. “He looks like he’s going to pass out.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded a little and wrapped an arm around Scott’s rigid shoulders, “good call.” 

His eyes darted around the classroom: big, and brown, and frantic—like a lost fawn. You nodded towards the dark corner Mr. Harris was dissociating in, “I’ll cover for you.”

“Yeah?” Stiles smiled a little, but he looked weary down to his bones as he started shuffling Scott towards the door. 

“Yeah,” your smile was a bit wobbly at the edges, “but only ‘cause I get a sick thrill out of fucking with dicks.” 

Your weak attempt to ease some of the tension in the air was semi-successful; Scott was still staring into another dimension, but Stiles looked positively giddy at the prospect of such a perfect setup. “I have, just, so many thoughts on that, but I’ll save them for after Scott—” he gave Scott a long look and scratched the back of his buzzed head, “gets his blood sugar up.”

It was sweet, you thought as you watched Stiles guide Scott into the hallway, lying to spare Scott’s pride. You thought Stiles would be a better liar, but maybe that was the downfall of being raised by a police officer. It was either that or the general social impotence. Not that you had much room to talk; silence was your preferred method of social interaction. 

The classroom was far from silent now. Students were spread out across the room in little clumps. Some spoke in furious whispers. Others weren’t as discreet, and you could hear every single preposterous word that left their mouths. The amount of sophomores who didn’t know that the California grizzly bear went extinct almost a century ago was a very depressing glimpse into the public education system, but at least there were only two boys howling obnoxiously at a few giggling volleyball girls. Rolling your eyes, you pulled out your phone and typed ‘Beacon Hills bus attack’ into the search bar. 

You refreshed the webpage obsessively, all throughout chemistry and art class, until an article finally popped up on your screen at lunch. You bit into your slightly bruised apple and squinted at your phone, immensely grateful for the empty courtyard as you came across the grittier details. 

You always ate lunch outside; it was quieter without the echoes of gossip and laughter, and the heady scent of cut grass was far preferable to whatever monstrosity the cafeteria was serving that day. Today, the afternoon heat made the earthy warmth especially thick in the air. Normally, you loved that smell, the smell of summer. It reminded you of frenzied August afternoons, running through Lydia’s sprawling backyard and swinging into brisk lake water, but the smell was quickly becoming suffocating the more you read. 

The man who was attacked was a bus driver. He was smiling in the photo they’d chosen to include before pictures of the crime scene, like a warped ‘before and after’ ad. You dropped your half-eaten apple into your lunch sack and shoved it to the side when you got to the background bits. Garrison Myers had a family, a wife and two daughters; they were praying for his unlikely survival. Your throat hurt, and you wondered if there was an apple chunk lodged in your esophagus. Swallowing hard, you scrolled down to the police interview. The deputy they managed to get a quote from clearly knew next to nothing, though he did posit the possibility of a mountain lion attack. You rolled your eyes. Maybe on PCP. 

The only thing you were sure of was that whatever kind of beast ripped a woman in half and slashed a man to ribbons in the span of a week wasn’t going to stop. At least, not until it was killed.

[detshin]

The talk about Kaito being lonely made me think of his introduction to Aoko and him showing off the rose trick and giving he was planning to give his dad made me think even then he was lonely and reaching out to Aoko to make missing their dads sting less for them both.

And this is before his dad "dies", he takes up the mantle of Kid eight years later and his mom leaves him for Los Vegas and the disbanding of the magician forums just making his feelings of loneliness worse. Doesn't help that most of the people that get close to him/ were already close to him are now a threat to him in some way now.

Kaito needs so many hugs.

Kaito is such a misunderstood character. He puts on a mask and is very charismatic at first and then you see the nuance. He's extremely lonely. He has Jii and he in part has Aoko. Literally that's it. I wish he'd embrace Hakuba knowing, get closer to him, he really could use a friend like him lmao

Makes me wonder how the dynamic would really be between him and shinichi once they find out they're related. Because I really don't think Kaito would ask for help tbh. As things are, Shinichi might be more interested in being around Kaito, than Kaito around Shinichi.

If they figure it out or are told, Shinichi knows nothing first hand about the Kid thing, he'd maybe just want to be around or in touch with Kaito. But Kaito??? He would be horrified because he's got a detective as family, THE detective, on top of that, what's gonna happen if he knows? Would Shinichi send him to jail? Would Kaito push him away if Shinichi tries to get to know him? Would he isolate himself even further from what could be a positive familiar bond because he's scared?

Ugh,... So many possibilities.

[spork-supremacy]

Animal symbols

So I started deeply thinking about the meaning of each animal everyone gets as a representation and came up with all this.

Octopus: Amazing at adaptation due to its camouflage ability, suits Jay’s ability to blend into any environment and find a way to gain companions as he adapts, (for reference see: the one time he gained a cult-like fanclub, the ninja reserve team, joining the administration and somehow becoming middle management.) It also demonstrates how his true potential lied in understanding that he didn’t need to change himself because he was okay the way he was. While he is good at adaptation, at his core he is always going to be himself, like how even though an octopus can change colour and patterns, they can never change their shape.

For funsies we can also have the fact that octopi have eight limbs and take it as a representation for how Jay also has probably the most extensive list of hobbies and weapon mastery out of the entire team from what we have been shown. Jack of all trades, master of none. 

Bird: The original phoenix design represented the rebirth and the continuous change of identity that Nya goes through as a character as she tries to be able to define herself, first just being Kai’s sister, to Samurai X, and then finally the water ninja. The change to water in the bird was obviously because of the element she gained, but it could also display her freedom and discovery of new identity, shedding the fire that came from her brother and becoming her own person. Like the phoenix the original bird died and reincarnated into something new as her true potential was reached through embracing of her power and new role.

Lion: fierce, often treated as a leader and protector, lions are often posed as a main character or authority figure in a story, as well as a creature with a considerable temper, and dubbed ‘The king of the jungle’ (despite mostly living in the savannah but I digress). This can refer the Kai’s need to be the protector/big brother figure of the group by wanting to take the mantel of the green ninja, the best of the best, the leader, until his eventual realisation that his true potential lies in being the guard to the green ninja and teach Lloyd as he grows and learns.

Wolf: pack animals loyal to their family, this is the first association when thinking about the behaviour of a wolf, their loyalty and dedication. This can be heavily reflected in Zane once, alone as he wandered around Ninjago aimlessly, dare I say as a lone wolf, before finding his family with the ninja. His true potential was reached once he was able to find his purpose, that he was built to protect those who could not protect themselves, but most importantly that came when he needed to protect his family. Like a wolf Zane is loyal to those he cares about and will do anything to ensure their safety, even if that means dying at least three times.

Gorilla: strong, protective, and courageous, these are the most prominent traits we can find in this animal. Of course Cole has all these traits, he possesses a super strength like no other, he is heavily protective of his friends, and he is one to never backdown from a fight. Most importantly his true potential was reached through gaining his courage and the ability to confront his problems, having the courage to tell his father he’s a ninja and wants to forge his own future not the one forced onto him. While it does take him until at least Master of the Mountain to be able to stop running away completely, in that moment he had all the courage he needed. Like the gorilla he is sturdy and courageous, able to get through anything.

Snake: The snake in the original green ninja gi calls back to how Lloyd was originally aligned with the serpentine, what we can also see it that the snake was an ouroboros. An ouroboros represents the completion of a cycle, or the concept of infinity, which can relate to Lloyd eventually gaining the golden power and fulfilling the prophecy of the green ninja. It can also represent the completion of the mission to restore and maintain balance throughout Ninjago through the defeat of the Overlord, as just another part of an infinite cycle of duty held by all members of the FSM’s family at some point in their lives. That fulfilment of his part of the cycle was what unlocked his true potential as he was able to achieve the ultimate power. Other than that Lloyd isn’t anything much like a snake which might be partially why his symbol was changed to that of a dragon.

Dragon: Often seen as the mightiest of mythical beings, in the context of Ninjago it also represents some of the oldest beings in the existence of the 16 realms. The dragon can also refer to his heritage as he is at least a quarter dragon. The dragon also best displays how mythical the power of green can be perceived as, it’s not a straightforward thing, either energy, power, personally I think it’s about general life force energy. Like a dragon compared to regular animals, Lloyd is powerful and a being above regular creatures, not completely something different but definitely not a normal human or elemental master for that matter. 

Conclusion: Half the team is just about protection and I’m definitely over thinking everything as this was supposed to be just a few lines, not 900 words.

[sophie-hatter-jenkins]

New Writing!

Ginny Weasley character study written for @ladiesofhpfest Character Chic. I'm really pleased with this one!

Body positivity is a social movement that promotes a positive view of all bodies, regardless of size, shape, skin tone, gender, and physical abilities. Proponents focus on the appreciation of the functionality and health of the human body instead of its physiological appearance. Eight lessons that Ginny Weasley learns about her body, and her changing relationship with it, throughout her life.

HUGE thanks go to two wonderful writers for their help:

Firstly @fizzyginfizz who beta read this for me and was so supportive and had so many brilliant suggestions, really building my confidence in this piece - thank you for everything!

Secondly, to @whinlatter, who has written several fantastic Ginny metas that I found super helpful when I was thinking through how to approach this piece.

They both have fabulous Ginny-POV WIPs, (Quidditch is for Losers and Beasts respectively), which you should go and read NOW if you haven’t done so already!

Rated M for language, mature themes and discussion/depiction of sex

9k words

Snippet below the cut

The Weasley family, as was apparent to anyone who cared to notice, came in two very different varieties

Some of them were really-Weasleys, like their Dad - tall, lanky, all hands and feet. Bill was a really-Weasley, as were Percy and Ron. The others were really-Prewetts, like their Mum. Charlie and the twins were really-Prewetts. Really-Prewetts were shorter and stockier, and just generally much more compact, as though the same amount of person was somehow compressed into a much smaller body.

Ginny didn’t really give much thought to the distinction between really-Weasleys and really-Prewetts when she was a child. Obviously she knew that some of her brothers were tall and thin, and some of them were… not. Equally obviously, she knew that her Mum was also… not. So yes, she knew - of course she knew. It’s just that she never really considered it in relation to her . Though to be fair, Ginny was very much on the small side, even before it became clear which side of the family she would take after, so perhaps the signs were there had she cared to notice.

Eleven year old Ginny was, quite frankly, absolutely tiny, just a little dot of a thing really. She felt so small and so intimidated as she huddled in the corner of her train carriage on her way to school for the very first time. Ron had promised to look after her on the journey, but he wasn’t there, and neither was Harry (lovely, lovely Harry), and Ginny didn’t know why. Instead, she made herself even smaller (which wasn’t hard, cocooned as she was in her hand-me-down robes, so large she could have used them as a tent), hoping that no one would notice her as she scribbled messages in her diary to her new friend Tom. She told him how tiny she felt, lonely and afraid and scared by this new world around her. Everyone else seemed so big and so confident, swishing their wands with abandon. Ginny already felt anything but; overlooked and overwhelmed, shrinking further by the second. 

Continue reading on AO3

[ja-stuff]

For the last 10 years

Character: Zhongli

Warnings: (Reader was never on the receiving end.) Reader has the Countdown Disease (?), light swearing, slight redundancy of words, light mentions of bleeding

Genre: Angst, only angst (no comfort at all).

Note: Another work that might have punctuation, sentence, and typographical errors as this is not yet 'again' proofread, but I just wanna post something to update you i'm still alive and writing lol. Please enjoy! ♥

09:00

[How alone must you feel every single day.]

You tossed to your left and stretched your arms out to the side where you know your partner is supposed to be sleeping early this morning. The coldness of the empty space sends disappointment in your system, slowly accept the fact that he will never stay like how he had always been in the last 10 years of your relationship.

You never knew that you would fall in love, you despised it from when you were little. So when you grew up and were of the right age, the thing you once knew you didn’t know existed in your system, overwhelming you with different kinds of emotions which drowned you to the core and you were not even expecting that it will be from an Archon Morax, Rex Lapis himself, or Zhongli as what you… everyone has been calling him in the last 10 years. 

[A home that was supposed to make you closer]

Trying to dismiss the waves of memories from the events which happened last night, you tried to force a smile and patted your shoulder lightly to encourage yourself a little to get through the day. You got up and unsteadily made your way to the bathroom to wash, knocking over a few things from the hallway of your cold home located at one of the mountains surrounding Liyue harbor. Grunting, you safely entered the bathroom and filled the sink with water, but the familiar rush of a headache coming to you followed by a nosebleed that painted the water a pale red made you think of the only flower you first and last received from Zhongli. You were reminded of the silk flower and the way how Zhongli gave it to you under a rainbow from where your house was standing in the last 10 years came rushing to mind as if it was just yesterday when he went and stirred up your world.

Then again, thinking about Zhongli made you relive the disagreements he made before leaving. The images of him being slightly irritated with how persistent you were from last night’s argument, how you pushed yourself into his bubble as your only wish for his acceptance, voicing out and trying to make him understand your feelings and what you have been through, from how you raised your voice at him for the very first time to put yourself in authority to make him listen and stay. But last night was too messy and none of the words you spat you could recall. Hence the memory of how you looked at his back turned to silhouette as it disappeared in one of Liyue’s coldest-darkest hours is so vivid as if it is his sign to silently dismiss the fight without even trying to speak his mind about the matter, leaving your growing anxiety worse. 

But just as the house was stirred last night full of hurt emotions and words, it is now too quiet enough to question yourself whether you have been living mute, deaf, and hidden in the last 10 years.

[A clock that ticks to remind you it’s enough]

Looking at your reflection in the mirror you read the clock that only you– you alone can see…

(Years:Months:Days:Hours:Minutes: Seconds)

00:00:00:08:02:55

Eight hours… Even with just the remaining hours you have, there is no Zhongli around to make you feel less lonely as you near your time to permanently leave him… To leave Liyue… To leave the world… You swallow the lump in your throat that was threatening to melt together with your tears and a heavy heart. 

“What the h–hell did I do?” you voiced out… “Was it so wrong to l-love?” 

“Was I not cut for this?” tears started to flow like a stream, “Was it so hard to receive o-one, when all I did was t-to g-ive?” trying to think of more questions, one thought got you.

“W–was I w–wrong to love an a–archon?” 

You trembled as you looked at your reflection in the mirror. Disheveled hair, a thin face, and deep and tired-looking eyes were all you have seen in front of you. In the last 10 years, this is the first time you see yourself so broken, that you do not have any idea how to keep a neat appearance in front of the Archon you loved in your final moments. 

“No– what was I–I think? He– he is the person I always love… How can I say that… I–’m sorry..”

You kneeled on the ground carefully touching it as you closed your eyes and silently whispered, “Zhongli, my love, I wish you would come home early today...” knowing well that your archon lover will probably pick up the waves of your voice just by the vibrations of the ground.

13:30

(Years:Months:Days:Hours:Minutes: Seconds)

00:00:00:03:30:07

[How Baizhu and the others see you]

It reads, three hours… You slumped on the chair across from Baizhu’s seat in his office, you waited for him to finish passing on some instructions to Qiqi who was at the counter of the Bubu Pharmacy.

“What brought you here Y/n?”

“I– uh… How do I look first?” you asked, putting on your best smile in front of the man who you had been close to ever since you became Ningguang’s maiden years ago.

“Uh… well you look the same? Come on, tell me what’s the matter?” Baizhu gets to the point directly. Your bright smile could not fool him, and you just looked at his standing figure that is currently examining the new medicinal herbs brought to the pharmacy this morning. You got up and sneakily hugged his back, which startled Baizhu but regained his composure.

“If you only need to hug someone, go ask your archon for a hug! I’m busy!” 

“Why are you so cold?” you chuckled

“‘Am not! So what happened? Take a seat.” With how persistent you were, Baizhu decided to stop what he was doing and listened to you.

“First off, here! Take this.” you gave him three sealed boxes wherein a time spell was cast. “Yours is the green one, Ningguang’s got the gold, and– Zhongli gets–”

“Wait?! You’re telling me to give this to your partner?! Hell no, why should I? You live in the same house.” 

“But you know he’s not always home…”

Upon hearing your words, Baizhu’s stubbornness subsided, and watched your shoulders droop. Somehow the action you did make him feel like he is missing something that you were not telling him.

“Are you leaving Liyue harbor?” you did not answer his question and remained still in your seat as you tried to steady your breaths. “Are you finally leaving him?” 

When Baizhu asked the latter, the emotions you have been trying to hide since making your way to Bubu pharmacy started to show. Hands trembling, and tears falling, you looked at Baizhu with complete sadness in your eyes, which took Baizhu seconds to a minute before he tried to search for answers in his box forcing it open but the item won’t budge. 

“Silly… Stop struggling! You won’t be able to open it until 18:00. Ah, right! Zhongli… his– his is this white with gold lining box…” you let out a chuckle before you wiped your tears.

“I’ll miss you, Baizhu…” You took a step closer to him and opened your arms in front of him. Baizhu did not move from his seat, he was not sure whether to take it too as your very actions slightly gave him a sense of anxiety that he never knew you’d ever make him feel… Not from you, a friend he knew that shone the brightest as long as he could remember.

“You know… Y/n, this is scary… you’re scaring me. Why? You can talk to me and Ningguang… Y’know?” slowly indulging himself with the warmth of your embrace, he could feel your heartbeat. A beating he has never heard before…

“Hey you– are you okay?!” he stood up leaving you standing still, he racked his desk drawers to look for some equipment to try and hear your heart…

“Thank you, Baizhu…” you whispered as you left the pharmacy and ran as far away as you could from Bubu pharmacy.

“By the way, your archon went here last night and he–” Successfully grabbing the item he was looking for, Baizhu turned around but was only met by the scent of your shadows crowding the whole office. 

“Y/n?”

14:45

(Years:Months:Days:Hours:Minutes: Seconds) 

(00:00:00:02:15:02)

Two hours… and he still hasn’t gone home. You thought it was late and you did not bother to cook yourself a meal for lunch, nor prepared a meal for Morax to eat… You sat on the newly bought gazebo outside your house to breathe Liyue’s fresh air for the last time. Smiling as you take in nature's welcome on your slowly weakening body, the warm rays of the sun touching your face as it also made your hair shine a different hue from your original hair color, the breeze of nature tickling each of your active senses, the breathtaking views of the mountains, and Liyue harbor overwhelming the extent of what your eyes can see… It’s more than that.

Yes, Liyue is more than that… As you were filled with a short amount of Joy in your alone time, you remembered the lantern rite. You slowly went inside the house and looked for the lantern you had prepared beforehand, lighting it up as you softly whispered and called “Xiao” a name that you know will come to you right away, making you meet the person you knew was close to the archon you love come with just one command.

“Y/n, you called?” the familiar voice and appearance of a boy a little taller than you appeared, his eyes fixed on the lighted lantern you were holding. 

“Hey, Xiao…” you flashed a grin, hiding the fact to him that you’re starting to grow a little weaker as your time ticks down. “Mind if I light it first?” you asked, voice as sweet as ever, melting Xiao’s cold soul. Reminding him how the last 10 years of being there to protect you on behalf of Morax’s command, this is the first time you initiated to light a lantern first, instead of being the last, and the sun is still up at that.

“I don’t but won’t it make sense? The sun is still running around Liyue, why light it this early?” Xiao questioned, “I just wanna be the first one to light it up for you this year… (When I see them, I’ll tell them you said Hi…)” you said but whispered the last sentence making Xiao squint his eyes trying to decipher words that were showing in your mouth.

“Here…” You walked past his figure and went to higher ground near the cliff at the back of your house. You closed your eyes and said your little prayers, as you slowly knelt and touched the ground once more to call for Zhongli, hoping that this time he’d come to you once you asked. As you let go of the lantern in broad daylight, your last words to give to Zhongli came out.

“My Morax, come home. I’m tired.” Once the silent words were delivered you felt a hot air surrounding you, and the ground shaking a little. “Get up, Y/n. I was being called by others again.” Xiao helped you up, and you just took his hand and touched his forehead. 

“Oh, I see! I hope I did not take too much of your time. Also, I wish for you to accept this, Xiao. I just wanted to thank you.”

“It is my duty. Part of my responsibility. It is my honor to be called by you, Y/n.” the words Xiao let out made you feel sad but you forced a laugh so he won’t suspect that something was going on with you at the moment.

“I think you should get going now. Thank you, Xiao.” He bowed to you and kept the small box you gave him, similar to the one you gave Baizhu.

“I wish to see him cry over me before I leave.”

16:50

(Years:Months:Days:Hours:Minutes: Seconds) 

(00:00:00:00:15:00)

Minutes… it says fifteen minutes… You only have fifteen minutes left to stay awake and see him, to thank him, to give him your last smile, to have your last talk with him, to ask him your last question, to receive the last assurance you ever wished, your last minutes to hear the words you wanted to hear more from him, last minutes to wait for him before you puff the last air you could ever breathe out, to give him your last I love you,

… and your last kiss to give him the last goodbye. Yet there’s still no Zhongli appearing in front of you. He hadn’t come to any of your pleads. He is not with you… He was never with you in the last 10 years of your relationship.

(00:00:00:0:07:00)

You sighed as you made your way back to the gazebo and sat on the ground where it stands and listened to the distant sound that the joyous people of Liyue harbor were making as they pulled their last-minute preparations for the festival. Every second felt like torture to you, thinking to yourself about how the man you loved the most did not give you the love that you deserved and was not able to give you the assurance you needed all the years you have been together. 

Now, you’re drowning in your memories of the past welcoming the pain you’re feeling, with your senses deteriorating little by little, and your eyes falling its last tears along with your vision getting blurry enveloping you to unwelcomed darkness in each passing second that not even the bright lights coming from Liyue’s Lantern Rite Festival can make bring back your sight, ‘It was nice seeing the region you made brighter than ever, Morax...’ 

“ Morax, I–.” were your last words before you breathed your last sweet breath, your head slowly dropping on the bench, as the sound of LIyue’s people started to move near the mountain 

17:00

(Years:Months:Days:Hours:Minutes: Seconds) 

(00:00:00:00:00:10)

Your time is up. Your lungs are burning as it tries to take in more air. You know that it won’t make any difference even if you ask to have your time extended to properly end things with Zhongli, but fate was never once on your side after you met him. All you ever experienced in the last 10 years was anything but not love and assurance. You believed that his heart was never with you after 1 year of being together, yet you never failed to lose hope that maybe one day, he’ll be able to see you and care for you like how you were with him. But wishing is a luxury to you when you are already with an archon who can give you that, ‘won’t it be too much to ask for a little more’ Yes, you believed it is true, but if only you were a little selfish, maybe this rare disease did not come looking for you.

Accepting the harsh reality, you thought to yourself that even at this moment, you could never bring yourself to hate Zhongli, not even once in the last 10 years have you thought of hating him even if it is too painful to love him but only one selfish thought came to you, touching the ground for the last time, you whispered in your mind. “I do not wish to meet you in my next life, Morax…” 

With your body losing its warmth, the last tear taking its last drop, and your pupils slowly dilating, comes the sound of the fireworks from Liyue harbor shooting at the skies reflecting the colorful sparkles dancing in your lifeless eyes…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aaaaaaaaah! How was it? I was tearing the whole time writing this one! Btw. Might make a Zhongli POV one. Unsure when to post as work has been keeping me lately. But I really hope you liked this one. Thank you so much for reaching up to this point, I appreciate it! Stay safe, hydrated, and take care sunshine!

Oh, and here's part 2!

Love,

Ja ♥

[pedroscurls]

Dirty Little Secret (Part 1).

Character(s): no-outbreak, age-gap!Joel Miller x fem!Reader Summary: You meet Joel Miller, the father of the bride. Word count: 1.9k A/N: Lol, I said I was gonna post this tomorrow, but I couldn't wait. I hope you guys enjoy this first part and thank you to anyone who reads this! As mentioned, idk what to call this, best friend’s fiancée’s dad!Joel x fem!reader? Lol, I feel like that's a bit complicated, but there's an age gap in this story. This is also pulled from my own experience (only the sexual tension... unfortunately nothin' happened lol🫣) Warning: age-gap (Joel is in his 50s, reader is in her early-30s) SERIES MASTERLIST

“So… Can you make it?”

“I wouldn’t miss it, Drew.” you tell your best friend, gently nudging his shoulder. “I just still can’t believe you’re finally settling down. I never thought I’d see the day.”

He laughs. Andrew - or Drew - has been your best friend since you were kids. You had moved into the neighborhood with your mom after she and your dad divorced and you remember how Drew and his family had welcomed you with open arms whenever your mom was too inebriated to take care of you. 

Living next door to Drew and his family was a godsend to you, especially at the young age of eight. They protected you. They made you feel safe, made you feel loved. It was always a stark contrast between your home and his. Drew’s house, from the moment you stepped foot inside, always gave you the warm feeling in your belly and you always found yourself never wanting to leave, not wanting to go back home to the empty and lonely feeling that you experienced every night. 

And now, over twenty years later, Drew and his family have maintained that unspoken promise to keep you safe, to protect you, and to always make sure that you were loved. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Drew rolls his eyes. “What about you? When are you gonna settle down?” 

Now it was your turn to laugh. You grab your wine glass and finish the last remaining liquid. “I’m not the marrying type,” you respond. 

“You won’t turn out like your parents,” he says softly. 

“Drew, I know,” you sigh. “I just– I don’t want to open myself up like that. It’s too scary.” 

“You never know,” Drew smiles. “I thought I liked being single, being with a different woman every week or so, but Sarah…” he lets out a sigh of contentment. “She’s just– It’s been four years since we’ve been together and I think I fall more in love with her every day.” 

“Okay, lover boy,” you chuckle. “We get it. You’re in love. You’re about to get married… But I agree with you. She’s the best, and she’s the only one of your girlfriends where she didn’t feel intimidated by me or our friendship.” 

Drew sighs, “I know. It’s the curse of having a woman as a best friend.” 

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. “The women before Sarah were just jealous and not confident or secure in their relationship with you.” 

Drew nods. “That’s true. Besides, you’re like a sister to me.” He smiles, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. 

“Like a big sister?” You tease. “Just kidding, we’re only a year apart.” 

“Yeah, and I’m the older one.”

Just as you were going to say something, Sarah steps out into the backyard and walks in your direction. You look over at Drew and smile to yourself, seeing the way his eyes light up when he sees her and how he immediately stands up to meet her half way, enveloping her in a tight embrace. 

“Hi, baby,” he whispers, gently kissing her temple. “How’d dinner with your dad go?” 

“It was good. He was asking about you. Same with Uncle Tommy.” 

“Ah,” he chuckles. “They’re gonna give me shit the next time I see them, aren’t they?” 

Sarah grins and you swear that you see Drew fall in love all over again with the sight of her smile. You can see her deep dimples on her cheeks and how her eyes soften and also seem to smile. It was one of the first things you noticed about her: the kind and warm look she gave you – it was the same look that Drew and his family looked at you. 

“You know it. Now, let me go say hi to my girl. Can you go inside and pour me a glass of wine?” 

Drew nods and kisses her cheek before he disappears inside the house. Sarah takes his seat and looks over at you, arching her brow. 

“What?” you ask. 

“I might have someone that is interested…” she grins. 

“Sarah,” you chuckle. “You and Drew need to stop playing matchmaker. The past two blind dates I have been on have been terrible.” 

“You didn’t even give it a chance,” Sarah sighs. 

“You know I like older guys,” you smile. “I just don’t want to settle down. Getting married and all that doesn’t have to happen for everyone.”

“I know,” she leans against you. “I just want you to be happy.”

“And a man isn’t gonna be the answer.” You look over at her. You can see the concern on her features – that was another thing that you learned about Sarah. She wears her heart on her sleeve and whenever she gets worried about the people she cares about, her face and expressions tell it all. “I’m fine,” you reassure her. “I got you and I got Drew. That’s all I need.” 

“Maybe I should set you up with my Uncle Tommy,” she teases, letting out a quiet laugh. “He’s older. Single. He needs a good woman to anchor him down.” 

“And why’s that?” you smile. “Is he trouble, Sarah?” 

She laughs, shaking her head. “No, he just hasn’t found someone yet.” 

“Like me,” you point out. 

“He’s older,” she chuckles. 

“Well, your engagement party is this weekend. I’m assuming he’s gonna be there?” you tease. 

“Oh my god, are you serious?” You see the light in her eyes, the excitement across her features. 

“No! He’s your uncle, how weird would that be?” 

“Not weird,” she laughs. “It’d be weird if it was my dad you were interested in.” 

“Isn’t he like fifty?” 

“More than that, fifty-six.” 

Drew steps out into the backyard with two glasses of wine, one for Sarah and another refill for you. 

“Is this an early celebration?” you tease. 

“We just wanna celebrate with you one-on-one before the pre-wedding festivities begin. It’s gonna be a lot,” Drew replies, sitting next to Sarah and wrapping his arm around her shoulders instantly. 

“Well, whatever you both need, just let me know. After all, I am your best woman,” you tell Drew. 

Sarah smiles and leans against Drew, bringing the glass of wine to her lips. “It’s gonna be fun,” she adds. “But Drew’s right. It will be a lot, so this is kind of like the calm before the storm.”

“Well, cheers to that then,” you laugh, raising your glass. “Cheers to you both and cheers for what’s to come.” 

You’re running late and by the time you reach Sarah dad’s house, there are so many cars that you have to park at the end of the street. You’re practically sprinting to the house, hearing the music and laughter coming from the backyard. You’re wearing a sleeveless navy blue satin dress that stops just past your knees, the thin spaghetti straps resting on your shoulders with a cowl neckline. Their engagement party is semi-formal and you can feel your feet begin to ache from the heels you’re wearing. 

Your hair is in loose curls and you’re about to knock on the door when it swings open. You look up at the man, feeling your breath immediately escape you. His hair is slicked back, tinges of gray in the dark brown. You notice his beard, patchy in some areas, his plump lips begging to be kissed, but as you obviously ogle this man, you don’t realize that he’s actually speaking to you. 

“Are ya lost?” his voice is deep, rough, and you just want to hear it against your ear as he’s thrusting– “Are ya here for the party?” 

“Yeah, sorry. I’m late. I’m Drew’s best woman–”

“Ah,” he interrupts. “You are late.” 

You can’t think. The sounds of the music and laughter drown out as you stare up at this man. He’s wearing black slacks and a dark green button up with the sleeves folded to his elbows. He’s staring at you too, though, hand remaining on the doorknob as he looks at you in amusement. 

“You gonna let me in or stand guard all day?” you say, trying to snap yourself out of this trance. For a split second, you forget why you’re here and all you can think about is talking to this man and having him take you up to his–

“That depends,” he smirks, the dimple on his right cheek appearing. “You gonna be polite and say please?” 

You blush. You’re sure he didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did, but you can’t help but notice the way his eyes linger on your frame. It gives you a bit of confidence as you step up to him, inches now separating your bodies. 

“Please,” you whisper. 

You see his smirk falter, his jaw tighten and instead of responding, he nods and steps aside to give some space between the both of you. 

“They’re in the backyard,” he adds. You step past him, looking over your shoulder at him to see that his eyes had fallen on your backside. When he looks up at you and realizes that you had caught him staring, he immediately clears his throat and points towards the driveway. “I’m just gonna–”

“Wait,” you interrupt, reaching out to rest a hand on his forearm. “I didn’t get your name.” 

“Joel,” he responds. “Sarah’s dad.” 

Then, he removes himself from your grasp and walks out, shutting the door behind him. You clear your throat, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“Shit,” you whisper to yourself. “He does not look fifty-six.” You turn on your heel, following the sound of chatter and music as you try to rid yourself of the lingering thoughts of Joel. 

Joel isn’t expecting Drew’s best woman to look like you. When he opens the door and you’re standing on his doorstep in that dress, it takes every ounce of him not to look at you from top to bottom. It helps, though, that he notices you staring at him like you want him. It actually gives him confidence that a pretty thing like you is finding him attractive enough that you’re distracted enough not to hear what he’s actually saying. 

But then he hears you say that you’re Drew’s best woman. It all but crushes him, crushes any ounce of hope he was holding onto that maybe at the end of the night he’d take you to his bed. You’re off limits and you’re certainly too young for him, but he can’t help himself. 

He can’t help but ask you to beg and say please to come in. 

And when you do, without any hesitation, he feels the blood immediately rush towards the center of his pants. When you step closer to him, Joel has to tighten his jaw and tighten the grip he has on the doorknob. It anchors him, gives him something to ground himself or else he is going to lose his resolve… quick. 

When you finally step inside and walk past him, he turns just slightly to glance at your backside. The dress you’re wearing accentuates every curve while remaining modest enough, but he can’t help himself. Though, when Joel does look up, he feels embarrassed that you’ve caught him staring. 

He has to step outside, has to create some distance between him and you, but then he feels your soft touch on his forearm and it causes a shiver to run down his back. After he tells you that he’s Sarah’s dad, Joel doesn’t bother to wait to see your reaction. Instead, he leaves you standing there while he steps out of his house, shutting the door behind him and shutting the door to the inappropriate thoughts that fill his mind.

next.