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celestie0 · 1 month ago

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gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch4. in a mother’s eyes

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 4/x

ᰔ words. 10k (omg a whole number...very sexy)

a/n. hellooo my ihm friends! hope you're all doing well. ahh i'm glad to finally be posting this chapter lolol. it's a littleee off tangent from what happens in ch3, but still has some important plot developments. it does dive into feelings of depression & anxiety, so just wanted to give a warning on that! but yea other than that i hope you enjoy and see you at the bottom!! :) also so sorry if there are errors i only had time to skim through it once :((

nav. ch1 :: ch2 :: ch3 :: ch4 :: ch5 (pending)

“Just go ahead and sign right here for me.”

You take the pen from the hospice nurse’s hand. It’s cheap black plastic with a pink fuzzy pom pom attached to the end of it with peeling glue.

Your eyes briefly flit across the paragraphs detailed in printed ink until your gaze lands on the highlighted lines at the bottom of the page. Your signature. Spouse’s signature.

“We’ll need to have your husband come here to sign the paperwork as well, since he’ll have to add your mother on his list of dependents, but we can certainly get started on expediting this process for you since the insurance has already been pre-approved,” the nurse tells you as she accepts your signed paperwork and then neatly tucks it into one of the compartment holders.

The afternoon goes by smoothly, with your mother surprisingly patient as she sits in the waiting room while you wait for the nurses to formally show you to her new room.

You thought that you could put off putting her in hospice for a little longer, because in all honesty, you weren’t prepared to let her go just yet. You weren’t prepared to not have her in the house anymore. But lately, she’s been putting herself in lots of danger, like attempting to take her own medications when she does not know the correct dosing, and forgetting things on the stove when she attempts to cook.

But the last straw was when you came home from a very brief run to the grocery store at night a couple days ago to see a handful of your neighbors out on the front lawn with your mother at their side. She had apparently gotten out of the house and walked down the neighborhood, then fallen on the sidewalk but was unable to get up. When your neighbors had found her, a miracle as they were just coming home from dinner and caught sight of her in the illumination of their headlights, they tried to help her get up but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even tell the firefighters that came by to help her what her name was, or what year it was, or where she lived.

It was when you realized you couldn’t even keep her safe anymore that you had to let go.

“Is that a wedding ring?” your mother asks, pointing a trembling finger to it as she lays tucked inside her new hospice bed, “are you married?”

You glance down at the ring Gojo gave you in the courthouse, almost surprised to find that you were still wearing it in good faith. “Yes, mom. I am.”

“Why am I here?” she asks you, “I don’t want to be here.”

You stiffen a little. Although you were mentally preparing yourself to answer these questions, the preparation didn’t make it any easier. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just for a little short while, okay? The doctors want to run some tests on you.”

“Who are you married to?” she asks.

“To Satoru,” you tell her, “our neighbor.”

She lets out a small gasp. “The sweet boy who fixed our A/C?”

You roll your eyes. not sure why your mother has hyper fixated on that memory with Gojo when most days she’ll look at you like you’re a stranger. “Yes mom.”

“Oh, I like him,” she tells you with an affectionate nod. She hesitates slightly, wearisome of some other thought that flashes through her mind. “How long have you been married?”

You let out a small sigh. This is already a conversation you had with her a couple days ago, and it doesn’t feel good to lie to her. It was hard enough to do once, but to have to constantly lie to her over and over again over all the smallest things just so that she stays calm and safe and happy seems to drain you of all your energy and happiness you had left in your bones.

Little white lies, that’s what they are. Harmless ones. That’s what you tell yourself to absolve yourself of the guilt.

“I’ll come back soon, okay? I’ll tell you more about him some other day,” you say to her, speaking gently in the way an adult would speak to a child. The way she used to speak to you. You could never exactly pinpoint when those roles became reversed.

You finish discussing some more insurance matters with the front-desk nurse as she puts together a small folder of documents for you. While she works, you glance at the little counter shelf that includes a plethora of pamphlets on how to deal with the complicated feelings that arise from putting a loved one in hospice care, and dealing with the emotions of having a relative with advanced stage dementia. They are pretty brochures, lovingly creased at the folds as if looked through multiple times by people who walk in and out of this facility, but seemingly only few take them home. You slip one of each into your folder when the nurse hands it to you, manage the best smile possible, and then turn on your heel to head out the hospice doors.

The sun is setting outside as you take the walk back to your car, which was purposefully parked a half mile away to afford you the luxury of a melancholic stroll. Somehow, you feel like you’ve left a piece of yourself back at the hospice. A feeling you can’t quite shake from your bones.

Your feet stop walking somewhere along the sidewalk on their own, the street lights above you flickering brighter into life as the sky is now a dusty gray with only streaks of purple. There’s a liquor store you spot across a small parking lot to your right, and you’re guided towards it, but not without a sickening feeling in your chest.

When you open the door, the bell at the top jingles, and you glance to the right where you see a lanky young man playing some sort of shooter game on his phone by the cash register. You grab a bottle of vodka, a bottle of white wine, some packs of skittles, one of the mini pizza boxes at the hot food station, and then dump it all onto the counter.

The young man scans all your items without even so much as sparing you a glance, but does take a look at your ID, then says, “Total’s $68.65, cash or card?”

“Card.”

Just before you tap your card, something displayed behind the cashier counter catches your eye. Something familiar, something tempting, something you weigh in your head about twenty times within one millisecond all due to the cortisol coursing through your veins and you eventually say, “Uh, and could I get one of those, too?”

The cashier looks behind himself to what you’re pointing at before turning around. “Sure.”

The same jingle is heard on top of your head as you leave the store, now with a burning hot mini pizza box in your hand as well as a plastic bag that carries your candy and the two clinking bottles of alcohol.

“Oh!! omg, y/n,” you hear a feminine voice call out and you’re instantly wincing. The last thing you wanted was to be bothered right now. You just wanted to go home and get drunk and then pass out on the floor of your living room. But alas, the world is small.

You turn around to see Hana come running across the sidewalk lot towards you, and when she’s about a few feet away, she glances down at your hands and all the things you were carrying. You quickly shove your last-minute purchase into your jacket pocket with a shameful conscience, and try to hide the plastic bag of liquor behind your calves. There was no hiding the pizza box, but at least that was the least incriminating.

“Oh, Hana, wow! What a coincidence seeing you here,” you say to her, pressing your lips into a small smile.

“Yeah, I um,” she points over her shoulder towards the hospice that’s standing tall in the darkness of night, cells with windows illuminated with light. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was a prison. “Remember I told you my friend’s mom is sick and she’s at this hospice?”

“Yeah,” you say.

“I was just visiting her mom with her,” she tells you.

“Aw,” you comment, “I see, I see.”

You adore Hana, you really do. She was there for you when the whole Yuna and Choso thing went down, picking your shifts up for a good week when you couldn’t stomach going into work when your ex-best friend’s stupid face was gloating in the halls over how she stole your boyfriend. Hana was there for you when you were a new hire and all the doctors were being bitchy about a “newbie in the ED”, but she stood up for you, even cussed the fuck out of one of attendings for the whole hall to hear when you were being disrespected by one of them. She’s someone you can beam about how hot the EMT and Firefighter men that stroll into the ED are, too. A priceless companion.

And even though you two have hung out after hours sometimes, it was still always a little awkward to see a coworker outside of work.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I actually, um, was going to tell you at our shift tomorrow, but I just admitted my mom to the hospice too,” you say, “and…thanks a lot for telling me about it. I really appreciate it. It seems like a wonderful facility.”

Her eyes briefly widen with surprise before they soften once again. “Oh, that’s wonderful, love. I hope all goes well. And your little insurance scam worked! Good for you!”

“Shhh,” you hiss at her, looking around yourself with paranoia, “the feds are everywhere.”

She laughs, sweet in the air, before the sound settles and she looks at you with something reminiscent of well-intentioned concern. Her eyes flit to the plastic bag you were still holding behind your legs. “Hey…um, if…if you ever want some company when you come to visit your mom, just let me know. I hope you know you don’t have to do everything alone.”

You blink at her, sucking in a short breath to respond, but it only leaves you as a slight puff of air. There’s a silent gratitude that you give her, because it’s hard for you to express any feelings with words, but you’ve found that the people in your life who know you best can always read you without them.

“Thank you, Hana,” you manage to say with a slight croak to your voice because you were fighting back tears.

She smiles at you. “Take care, okay? And see ya tomorroooowwwwww,” she coos at you, coming up to you to give you a small hug, a squeeze of your upper arm, and then she heads back towards the direction of the hospice.

You watch her walk away until you can’t see her anymore. And then you head towards your car.

When you arrive at your neighborhood, you park in front of Gojo’s house. You have a feeling that you won’t be able to bear the vast emptiness of your home now that your mother is elsewhere, and so you drag your feet up the stone stairs of his house with a heavy heart instead.

The spare key that he gave you weakly pushes into the keyhole with about as much force as your fingers can manage, and you realize they almost feel atrophied.

The house is dark when you step inside, spare for the ambient street lights shining through cracked open blinds on the windows, and the curtains rustle gently from the draft of the AC, a chill that reaches you too by the time you make it to the staircase.

It doesn’t seem like Gojo’s home. A glance at the clock tells you it’s close to 8pm. You briefly consider texting him to ask where he’s at, why he’s out so late, when he’ll be home, and what’s for dinner, but you can’t even bring yourself to pull your phone out of your coat pocket.

Weak legs manage to take you upstairs and you’re about to pass through to your room when the slightly open door to the master bedroom taunts you, like a peephole into some other wordly dimension. Like the wardrobe in the chronicles of Narnia. A portal into your fake husband’s life.

With a palm pushing on the door, you slowly crack it open, and you know the anxious voices in your head are getting worse by the day when the creaking of the door hinges sounds like a lullaby to you.

Was this an invasion of privacy? And did you really care if it was?

The room is big, with a king sized bed off to the left, sheets neatly made and duvet primly tucked under, like the way hotel beds are set up. You feel a slight flush of embarrassment when you remember you haven’t been making your bed in the mornings for the past couple days you’ve been living here so far, and you wonder if Gojo would judge you for something like that. If he’d think you were a messy or undisciplined person. If he would think less of you.

Truthfully, in a lot of ways, you still felt like a child. You barely weathered a lot of your formative adolescent years when dealing with your parents’ divorce, and you’ve had to put so much of your life on pause to take care of your mom ever since she got diagnosed. So here you were, in the body of a 29-year-old woman, yet still feeling so painfully juvenile. One that forgets to make her bed in the mornings, and on most nights can’t seem to stomach anything other than cereal for dinner. It was like you were still at a party that everyone else had left, except all it ever was is hell. Your life was such a stark contrast to the lives of other adults you’ve come across. The ones that wake up at six to go on runs, the ones that have paid off mortgages with five figures in their retirement accounts, oh god, the ones that meal prep, and the ones that, all things considered, have their lives together. The ones that don’t spend at least an hour of every day, in fetal position on their bed, sobbing until tears soak through the sheets of the pillow down to the feathers like bone, because you’re so overwhelmed with stress and preparing yourself for the grief of losing your mother which you know that, no matter how hard you try to save her from, will inevitably one day come.

You used to cook dinner every night, make your bed every morning, and go to pilates on the weekends. Back when you were a little younger and healed and excited to live life. But now, you barely get by. Your priorities are with your mother. You can’t remember the last time you did anything nice for yourself, including something as simple as the luxury of getting to come home to a clean house because you hardly ever had time to clean it, not with all the doctor’s appointments you were driving your mother to, not with all the extra shifts you were picking up at the hospital to pay off your debt, not with all the times you felt too depressed to even get out of bed.

But your mother is in hospice now, so you’ve made time, right? You’ve made the decision that everyone in your life has been begging you to finally do. So why do you still feel so empty inside?

By a quick survey of the room, you notice Gojo doesn’t really have many framed photos hung up on the walls or perched up on surfaces. None, actually. Only a contemporary painting above his bed frame and then a faded vintage horror movie poster plastered up near his desk. Not terribly odd, since in your experience most men don’t really do the whole “cluttering the house with millions of photos of their family” thing until they at least have a couple of kids and some purebred dog. The thought of Gojo someday setting up a little portrait photo at his desk with his wife’s—his eventual real forever wife’s, pretty face in it, posing with their two beautiful kids, makes an oddly melancholic feeling waft through you. You wonder if he would keep a two-by-two in his wallet, too.

Your feet move one in front of the other as your finger traces the surface wood of a dresser cabinet, something that looks a little vintage and oaky, in stark contrast to the modern minimalist vibe Gojo has set up in the rest of the room. A family heirloom, maybe? There’s no dust that coats your finger, which surprises you. If you were to run your finger across your dresser at home you’d have collected enough dust to snort down your windpipes like a recreational drug. But Gojo’s a real estate agent, making a living off of dressing houses up in perfect cosplay so that monetarily stable middle class families feel inclined to buy them. So you’re not exactly surprised he’s invested in keeping his own house in pristine condition too.

There is a little bit of chaos, though. Like the shirt he has haphazardly hung over his chair at his office space over to the right. There’s a coffee mug sitting there too, porcelain and reflecting the moon light off, but upon peering inside you see that it’s half empty with stale coffee. He’s got pens sprawled across the desk, in a fashion that suggests he accidentally knocked them over in a rush, and slowly, like some grounding exercise, you place them one by one back into the paper mache pencil holder. It briefly occurs to you that he has a lot of paper mache containers of sorts around the house. You lift up the pencil cup, turning it in your hand until your eyes catch something written on it with glittery pink gel pen.

i luv u unkle toru! -yur BEST FREND 4EVUR juno!!! :D

A small smile makes it onto your face. The handwriting was messy, more like scratches than smooth lines, and nothing less than what you would expect of a child. You remember making paper mache and clay trinkets at preschool for your mom and dad when you were younger. And you’re sure if you were brave enough to open the box of memorabilia that sits in your attic some day, you’d see your own scratchy scribbled handwriting on them. An innocence that is long gone and buried, never again to be delicately placed on desks or counters for all the living.

The draft from the AC reaches you once again, brushing over your skin and causing a chill to shiver down your spine. It kicks at the curtains as well, causing them to ruffle up towards you, baring the dark outside world into the streets. And you notice in that momentary glance that there’s a roof just outside the window that overlooks the backyard. A roof? Spotted by a depressed woman going through a quarter life crisis? There was nothing more tempting than that.

The window was easy to open, which only caused unease over the revelation of how easy it would be for someone to rob this house. You make a mental note to tell Gojo to get a ring camera or security system of some sort since he doesn’t seem to have one, but you can already picture him telling you something about how statistically low the crime rates are in this neighborhood compared to all the other neighborhoods, and then you’d tell him that it’s just for your peace of mind. But whether he’d compromise or not after that, you’re really not sure.

You take a seat on the roof, a little scared as you sit because of the slight slope, but it’s comfortable once you’re settled. You sit criss-cross-apple-sauce, staring out into the neighborhood of perfectly lined up suburban houses. You’ve got a better view into some neighbors' backyards, noticing that a couple of them had pools while some of them have big gardens. There's a cat resting up on a fence in the distance. A car drives by with headlights illuminating everything in its proximity briefly before zooming off. You glance up at the sky, and notice the full moon, but it’s too cloudy to see any stars. Or perhaps it was just the light pollution from the lamps making it difficult to see.

On instinct, your hand reaches inside your coat pocket for your phone, but your knuckles hit something else instead. A moment of brief confusion flickers through your head, but then you immediately recall the last-minute purchase you made at the gas station.

Your hand pulls out the object, and then you stare down at it. Squinting your eyes a little, because it’s a sight that feels familiar but also one you haven’t seen in so long: a pack of twenty Marlboro red cigarettes.

You’ve tried a lot of things to manage your stress over the years. Excessively working out, eating a lot of sugar, going on six hour hikes to touch grass, flirting with random men at bars, fucking Choso until he was rendered speechless, multiple types of antidepressants, you almost tried smoking weed once with your roommate in college but you wimped out last second. But the habit that had gotten you through the years of 21 to 24 is held loosely in your hand right now. It’s been five years since you quit, but resolve was often a fickle thing. As the saying goes, once an addict, always an addict.

There’s a brief moment of hesitation as you slowly peel the plastic off of the back, but then it all comes back to you like a reflex you’ll never forget up to where you slide a cigar up out and then pinch it between your two fingers. Forgetting to buy a lighter with the cigarettes is definitely something you would do, but because you remembered it was something that you would do, you remembered not to do it. The flick of the flame coming to life is ASMR you didn’t know you were painfully nostalgic for, and you balance the cigarette between your lips in that sort of movie-star way people used to obsess over back in the day. But just as you bring the lighter up to the end of the cigarette, and just before you can light it—

A hand shoots out in your periphery, grabbing your wrist and entirely stalling the movement.

You gasp, lips parting enough for the cigarette to fall from them and into your lap. The hand wrapped around your wrist is large and masculine, and you briefly consider screaming, but when you snap your neck to look at the perpetrator, you see Gojo crouched down next to you on this roof. You notice he’s wearing a black suit, a tie that was loosely secure hanging from his neck into the space between his spread thighs as he’s crouched, and whatever gel he had in his hair from earlier only barely remains as strands fall over his forehead haphazardly. He looks like he’s on the other end of a long work day.

You blink at him, expression plastered with surprise, but his is only earnest. With breathtaking blue eyes that you realize he could easily use to surrender a person just by looking at them, like the way he’s looking at you right now. His lips are pressed together into a firm line, as if to suppress some emotion, but the slight crease to his brow makes you feel like you’re in trouble somehow. Like he was silently scolding you for something.

“I—” you stutter.

He lets go of your wrist and discreetly pulls the lighter out of your hand. And then his hand reaches for the pack of cigarettes you were balancing on your knee, but on some reflex that you don’t even think about, you try to snatch them away from him, and now you’re both tugging at the same pack of cigarettes.

“y/n,” he says, “let go.”

“No,” you say stubbornly.

He sighs and tugs a little harder. “Give them to me.”

“But—” you stammer, voice becoming softer to see if that’d work on him, “I’m…” Your grip on them tightens. “I’m stressed.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, then finally loses his patience and snatches them right out of your hand. He stands up from his crouched down position to toss the pack off to the side onto the roof somewhere. You’re surprised when he lets out a sigh and sits down next to you on the roof, as if he felt the obligation to. His legs stretch out in front of him, but still bent slightly at the knees, and he leans backwards with his body weight braced on his palms laid flat on wood paneling behind him. “There are better ways to relieve stress,” he tells you candidly.

“Like what?” you ask, and just when he opens his mouth to speak, you clarify, “and don’t say sex.”

He shuts his mouth and his eyes flit up to the sky for a brief second. “Damn. I didn’t have a back-up answer.”

You roll your eyes, releasing a deep breath, then draw your knees to your chest before resting your chin on top of them.

“I didn’t know you smoke,” he says after a century-long minute.

You wince a little, because you were half hoping he was going to just drop the subject all together.

You bite your lip nervously and hug your knees to your chest tighter as if to hide yourself from him. “I don’t. Well, I haven’t. Um, not for a while.”

“Huh. I see,” he says.

Another silence passes, and as he shuffles next to you, the fabric of his suit brushes against the fabric of your coat, and you’ve become entirely too aware of the feeling.

“So,” he says, breaking the awkward silence, “your mom’s in hospice now?”

You nod, enthusiastic enough to where you won’t look like you’re entirely depressed about it.

“That’s good,” he says, “no issues with the insurance?”

You shake your head. “They need you to sign some papers by the end of the week though,” you tell him. “We’ll have to go in person.”

He nods slowly to affirm he’ll make time for it. “I really hope things get better for your mom,” he says, voice soft as he stares off into neighbors homes like you had been doing ten minutes ago. You see the cat that was resting on the fence get up, do a big stretch, and start walking along the length of the fence. Your eyes briefly glance at Gojo, and you notice his gaze is tracing the cat’s path.

“My—” you start, hesitant all of a sudden by the vulnerability you already feel swelling within you, most definitely due to sitting with someone on a rooftop late at night, but you decide that you’ll be nice to him for once, “…my mom seems to remember you a lot. More than she remembers me.” You let out a small humoring laugh, as if that fact doesn’t completely destroy you. “She was blabbering to me again for the seventh time about how you apparently fixed our AC.” You try to bite your tongue, but can’t help it when you say, “although I’m pretty sure you just pressed a bunch of buttons until it started working again.”

“Yup. That’s exactly what I did.”

You roll your eyes and sigh.

Another awkward silence.

“Can I ask you a question?” you say.

“Sure.” His voice sounds deeper, like he’s sleepy.

“Why did you agree to marry me? That’s not something people just do out of nowhere.”

He glances over at you, and you flicker your eyes to him. “Why? Having regrets?” he teases, with a slight nudge of his elbow to your side.

“Just answer me.”

He lifts his palms up from behind him and leans forward, placing his hands on his knees instead. “I don’t know. If something I could do would help someone out that much, I wasn’t going to say no.”

You hum quietly, still confused by his intentions. But you’re too jaded to question them.

“It costs nothing to be nice,” he adds.

You run soothing circles over your thigh through the fabric of your jeans. For some reason, your mind wanders to Choso. Thinking of all the years you wasted staying with him even though you knew his affections were long gone, just because you didn’t want to break his heart. Only to realize that you never had that privilege in the first place.

“I think,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you draw your knees closer to your chest, “that sometimes it does.”

A gust of autumn wind breezes by, ruffling the trees that the two of you are at eye-level with at the moment. You're pretty sure you’ve completely lost Gojo’s interest at this point, where he’s finally too tired to deal with your oddly cryptic attitudes and overall generally displeasing vibe, assuming this based solely on his prolonged silence beside you. You’re ready for him to get up and abandon you here on this roof, left to ponder every single thing you’ve done wrong in your life. It was any second now.

“Sometimes,” he instead speaks up, and it’s so surprising to you that you jolt a little bit, “you can do everything right, and people will still find a way to fuck you over. But I don’t think that’s any reason to stop being nice to others.”

You glance over at him, your eyes widening slightly, but he just continues to peer off straight into the night. His blinks are slow, lingering on being closed for a moment before he opens them again, and you’re mesmerized by the sight. The skin under his eyes is slightly dark from exhaustion, heavy with character that makes you aware that he’s just a person too. And for what feels like the tenth time this week, you realize that he’s—…handsome. And for what feels like the tenth time this week, your heart flutters in your chest.

He scoffs suddenly and dusts his hands off. “I sound like a fucking youth pastor.” He lets out an exhale before suddenly standing up onto his feet before you can think more on it. He looks off into the night again and lets out another exhale that sounds more like a sigh this time. “God, it’s getting a lot colder these days. Might have to start running the heater.”

You blink up at him with no commentary to add.

He looks down at you. His face is relaxed, but you can tell those eyes are distracted. A shimmering blue ocean in its own world while he attempts to stay present in this one.

He holds his hand out to you, and you stare at it blankly like you’ve got no clue what he intends for you to do with it. But you finally take the hint and curl your hand around his palm so that he can pull you up onto your feet too.

You stumble a little, falling forward from the sudden blood flow to your brain, but he holds you steady by the strong grip of his hands on your elbows. He’s close to you, close enough to where you can smell the faint lingering scent of his cologne. Something different than that expensive one he wore to the courthouse, but it’s comforting somehow. A fragrance that’s more him. And you feel nervous as you look up at him underneath pale moonlight.

He lets go of your elbows. You feel cold from the loss of his touch. But his right hand moves to gently hold your left hand in his palm, holding it curled as his thumb barely grazes the stone you wear on your ring finger; the one he gave you.

The way his thumb prods at the silver band is like he’s inspecting its quality, as if it has to pass some test to be worthy of sitting on your finger. Or maybe just any finger, if you were to quell the delusion. You’re not sure if he’s satisfied with his inspection.

“Where did you get it—” you blurt out.

His gaze flickers up to your face briefly before he’s back to examining the ring. “It was my mom’s.”

Your mouth gapes slightly in shock, heart dropping a little in your chest, and all of a sudden you feel guilty. Guilty that he put his mother’s ring on your finger for something that was fake, something that was essentially a business deal, something exchanged to you out of fraud when it was a precious family heirloom that should be exchanged with love. And maybe he didn’t care about it much, some people don’t care about the sentiments of objects. But your mind thinks of the oaky vintage dresser in his room, so out of place in the aesthetic of its surroundings, a decision you can only imagine him of all people, mr. “everything in this house has to look like an IKEA catalog”, would do if the dresser held some importance to him that was more than meets the eye. And so you’re compelled to think that maybe this ring did, too.

“Why would you give me this?! You could’ve just gotten a cheap fake diamond ring from a pawn shop and called it a day,” you ask him, suddenly feeling burdened by it.

“Well I wasn’t exactly given much time to think of other options.”

“But—” you start, only to realize you have no counter arguments for that.

He lets out a huh noise, like the sound someone makes when they’re pleasantly surprised by something, as he looks down at your hand that he still held in his. “It’s kinda crazy that it fits you perfectly. I wasn’t sure.”

Your mind wanders to when he slipped the ring onto your finger in the courtroom, followed by the kiss. Soft, sweet, the lingering warm sensation of his palm on your cheek as he cupped your face, the same way those heartthrob actors do in all those romance movies and kdramas that you watch on Friday nights while snuggled up in a blanket, wondering when anyone will ever kiss you like that. You remember the ghost sensation of his hand hovering over the small of your back, fingers lightly grazing the nape of your neck, his frame blocking out everything around you as he kissed you, just to pull away and for the two of you to then pretend like it never happened, as if it wasn’t one of the sweetest kisses you’ve ever known.

You slowly pull your hand out of his, the moment feeling too tender for your liking, and you clear your throat before flitting your eyes up to his.

“Rule #1,” you remind him with a soft whisper, “no touching.”

You purse your lips, watching his round eyes blink once, then twice, before he shoves his hands in his suit pockets. He rocks back and forth on his heels for a few seconds, nodding slowly in submission, and then he turns on them to head back to the house. You’re standing a little stunned from the abrupt ending to this trance of a moment on the roof, and you’re also a little surprised with how your chest is heaving a little bit with fast breaths, but you eventually snap out of it to follow him inside too.

You two make it back inside the house, with little words exchanged. You pretend to not notice the way Gojo tilts his head at his desk, like he’s confused about why it looks tidier than when he left it. You’re prepared to feign innocence or ignorance, but he doesn’t press you about it.

“Y’know,” he says from behind you, his chest briefly brushing against the back of your head as he pushes the bedroom door in front of you open so that you can head out into the loft, “those oversized 1800s-esque nightgowns you’ve been wearing around the house kinda make you look like a less-hot version of Ebenezer Scrooge.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

“Sign right here for me, sir.”

You watch as the nurse slides the papers across the high-raised counter of the hospice nursing desk towards Gojo, his eyebrows narrowing as his eyes skim the words on the paper and land at the highlighted lines where he’s been intended to sign. You feel nervous for some reason, as if he’d suddenly find something disagreeable and refuse to sign, then take you to the courthouse first thing to finalize a divorce and send you off to prison while claiming he was blackmailed into the whole marriage in the first place.

Instead, he pulls a pen from the chest pocket of his suit jacket, clicking the end of it and scribbling his signature onto the paper with some jet black ink that looks like it takes a second to dry. How pretentious of him. The pink pom-pom pen was right there.

The nurse behind the counter continues to chat with him about something, blah blah dependents, blah blah tax claims, blah blah you’ll receive an itemized bill in the mail. You’re trying your best to eavesdrop in on the conversation, but most of your senses are being occupied by examining all your surroundings. When you dropped your mother off at the hospice, your feelings were at the forefront of conscience, but now that you’ve had a couple days to come down from that overwhelming emotional high, you’re here to scope out the quality of this place you’ve just dumped your mom at.

The facility is clean and sleek, with a color theme of red and an ocean blue across the signs, the furniture, even with the paperwork they hand out. All the workers had color-coded scrubs based on their occupation or specialty, and none of them had stains on the fabric. You take a glance down at the modest leather pumps you were wearing past the creases of the long skirt, and notice that the floor was shimmering off their reflection in a perfect polish. It wasn’t bad, this place.

“Thanks, you too,” you hear Gojo say to the nurse behind the counter. He has a professional smile on his face, but still kind and genuine, which makes the woman at the computer something bashful and unable to make eye contact. He folds something that looks like a receipt into his chest pocket before tucking his pen back in there too and then turns to face you. You make a mental note to pay him back for whatever he just paid for, at least once you move some money around.

Your eyebrows lift, feeling a little dazed as you blink at him blankly.

“Alright,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, the sound of his shoes on the polished hospital floors satisfactorily tapping in your ears as he took a couple steps towards you, “where’s your mom’s room?”

“Huh?”

“What’s her room number?” he asks you.

“Y-You wanna go see her??”

“Of course I want to,” he says, “she’s my mother-in-law.”

You roll your eyes and pet the fabric of your skirt to smooth the wrinkles out. “You’re getting a little too invested in this role of fake husband.”

“I get to annoy you all day and ride the adrenaline rush of committing a federal crime,” he says, “of fucking course I’d get invested.”

You sigh, tossing some of your hair to behind your shoulder before glancing up at the signs, squinting slightly to locate the ward where your mother’s room is, before you hear an extremely high-pitched and somewhat catty feminine voice call out from behind you. You glance at Gojo’s face as he peers off to whoever’s behind you, and you see him visibly stiffen a little.

“Is that Dayton county’s sexiest realtooorrr???” the voice purrs, and you turn on your heel to see a blonde bombshell of a woman clacking her kitten heels down the glistening floors of the hospice, with another brunette bombshell just a few paces behind her. Bombshell #2 sighs something like “it issss” before they walk right up to your fake husband and take turns at giving him a playful squeeze of his bicep. You have to physically stop your jaw from dropping at the sight.

“Wow! Ladies, so–...so great to see you two,” he says out of polite obligation, and you immediately clock the fact that he doesn’t address them by name.

Bombshell #1 turns to look at you, all of her hair moving as one solid entity with the motion from all the hair spray that’s probably holding it up, and she points at you with a long slender finger that narrows into a french-tip. “Oh who’s this?? Another one of your clients??”

“Oh, no, she’s my–”

“I’m his wife,” you interrupt him, irritated for some reason.

Both the women chirp something out like oh! before their faces twist with confusion.

“I didn’t know you were married,” Bombshell #2 says in a thick New Jersey accent.

Gojo lifts his left hand up, the silver band on his hand glimmering under fluorescent hospice lighting. “Very happily,” he says, as if someone was holding a gun to his head.

Bombshell #1 crosses her arms, and you try not to stare at how nice her boobs look in the low scoop-neck jaguar print top she was wearing. You were no better than a man. And now you’re pissed off at the idea of Gojo glancing down too, but a flick of your gaze up to his face tells you he’s safe. For now.

“You weren’t married when I asked you if you were a month ago,” Bombshell #1 sneers at him. It’s true, the math wouldn’t make sense, but in his defense, this marriage was a fraud.

“Or when you took me out for dinner last week after I bought my house,” Bombshell #2 snarls with an undertone of hurt.

Gojo clears his throat beside you before pointing at Bombshell #2. “How is that, by the way?” he asks in an attempt to change the subject, “the half acre down on Maple Ave, right? You, uh, enjoying the pool?”

The woman let out an offended scoff and–were her eyes sheening with tears?? She puts her hands on her hips. “No. Mine is the three bedroom house with the cedar gazebo on 14th street.”

Her friend next to her rolls her eyes and smacks her gum between her cheek. “I’m the one that bought the half acre down on Maple Ave, jerk. Ugh!” She grabs her friend’s arm with a high-pitched hmph noise leaving her throat, and you can hear the other one sniffling subtly as she wobbles on her heels with her friend’s pull of her arm.

Right before leaving the two of you alone, Bombshell #1 turns to you and says, “I hope you find someone who treats you better,” and then they storm off together down the hallway, their perfectly blow-dried hair bouncing in sync with each stomp.

You blink at the sight, a little flabbergasted from the interaction, and then flit your faze up to Gojo. You see him awkwardly scratching at the back of his head with a grimace on his stupidly handsome face.

“That’s what you get for being a manwhore,” you tell him.

“I’m not a manwhor–”

“You went on a date with another woman while you were maaaaarrrieeeddd?!” you coo as you let out a fake gasp and slap your cheeks with your hands, “despicable, really.”

He lets out some disgruntled noise, the source coming from deep within his throat. “No. We weren’t fake-married yet,” he vindicates himself, “and it wasn’t a date. I just bought her dinner as a congrats for buying a house. Not a big deal. I do it for all my clients.”

“Satoru. You do realize you’re leading these women on, right? I mean, I’ve seen the way you talk to them. Even if you think you’re just being friendly, please know that your definition of friendly is most people’s definition of flirting.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true.”

He raises an eyebrow as he glances down at you. “Alright, how come this flirting in disguise of friendliness hasn’t worked on you then?”

You scoff in disbelief before crossing your arms. Maybe you did deserve a better fake husband. “You’re never friendly with me. You’re always rude to me.”

“What? I’m not always rude to you.”

“Well, you’re certainly much more rude to me than you are to other women,” you say, tapping the tip of your shoe with irritation.

“Can we not do this right now? We’re in the middle of a hospice.”

“God, you’re such a cop-out,” you mumble as you forcefully push past him towards the hallway that’ll lead you to your mother. You can hear that Gojo’s on your tail, following you down one of the more dimly lit hallways, and you can tell he needs to stall the strides of his Daddy Longlegs to not overtake your pace.

“What the fuck is a cop-out?” he asks you from behind.

“Look it up on urban dictionary, Grandpa. Unless you don’t know what the Internet is, either,” you spat.

You waltz right up to your mother’s room just in time to see a nurse making her way out with a clipboard in her hands. She glances over to you when she sees you approaching in her periphery.

“Hi! How can I help you?” she asks.

“Is it alright if we visit my mother?” you ask her.

“Oh! Sure, let me just clean her bed pan really quick.”

Your brow furrows. “B-Bedpan?? Why is she using a bedpan??”

The nurse stops in her movements. “Well, yesterday and today, that’s just what she has decided to use.”

You immediately become hostile. “That’s not right. She never needed to use one at home. Why is she suddenly using one here? Is that not a clear sign of deterioration? The restrooms must not be kept well enough here if she doesn’t want to use them.”

The nurse becomes something meek, her eyes widening as her mouth gapes slightly. “Ma’am,” she squeaks out, “we see this commonly with patients as they begin to adjust to hospice life. We’ll urge her to use the restroom, but as of right now, we need to prioritize what she finds most comfortable.”

Your expression softens, your shoulders relaxing from their tense position, and you duck your head a little with guilt. “Right…I’m sorry.”

The nurse presses her lips together with a well-meaning smile before shuffling into the room and closing the door behind her. You sigh and lean your back against the wall next to the number plate, cheeks flushing slightly from the confrontation. You have no idea how loud your voice was or who heard you. But you try to convince yourself that you’re just stressed and trying to look out for your mother, although the guilt still sits.

You glance up to see Gojo staring at you with slightly wide eyes, his hands shoved into his pockets, and he tilts his head to study your expression.

“What?” you snap at him.

“Are you doing okay?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

“Satoru,” you cut his questioning off by raising a palm into the air, “just—…just stop.”

His brow furrows together slightly, but before he can show any further concern, the nurse exits the room and holds the door open for the two of you.

“All set!” she chirps, and Gojo moves to hold the door open in her stead, and then the nurse bolts down to disappear somewhere down the hallway.

You hear Gojo let out a small huff of a scoff as he stares down in the direction the nurse ran off in. “Glad to know I’m not the only one that’s scared of you.”

You roll your eyes and walk into the room through the open door.

Your mother lays in her bed, looking out the window with her hands resting on top of layers of white linen sheets, her skin looking slightly paler than usual. You approach her bedside slowly and she finally turns her head to look at you.

“Hi mom,” you gently greet her, sitting down on the stool beside her bed, “how are you doing?”

Her eyes dart across the features of your face, and you briefly glance towards the wall to the right where you see Gojo standing from a slight distance.

“Oh, hi dear,” she says with a smile, and relief washes over you.

You match her smile with your own. “Mom, I brought someone here to see you.” You glance over at Gojo, who starts to close distance now as he approaches the foot of the bed, “this is Satoru, my husband.”

Your mother’s eyes widen, “Oh! I know him,” she scoldingly swats a hand at you, like you’ve embarrassed her somehow by assuming that she doesn’t know who he is, “he’s my neighbor!”

You sigh, “yes mom, the one that fixed the A/C?” You attempt to finish her sentence for her.

She looks confused for a moment, but slightly nods as if to avoid any further confusion for herself. “But—…but, why…” she trails off and then looks at you, “I’m sorry, are you my nurse?”

Your shoulders drop slightly. “No, mom, it’s me. Your daughter. Do you remember?”

Her face scrunches before it entirely relaxes to keep some image of composure despite the haze you know she feels in her head. “Oh…yes, yes…my little girl. I remember you, of course!”

Your eyes become layered with a slight sheen of tears, “I’m glad.”

“Where’s your father?” she asks, “he said he’d bring me some…oh dear, what—…he said he’d bring me tea. I’ve been waiting.”

“Mom, dad is—” you pause for a moment to think on your feet. You could either tell the truth, or a little white lie. You never know what to do. And either one comes with either guilt or sorrow. “Well, he’ll be here soon, I just wanted to come see you.”

“Oh okay…” she trails off, her eyes squinting at you once more with that same look of confusion on it, but then they drift towards Gojo. “Oh you’re a very handsome young man! You look just like my neighbor.”

Your eyes flicker up to Gojo, and he walks up to your side by your mom’s bed. “Yes, Mrs. l/n, I am your neighbor.”

“With the lemon tree!”

“The avocado tree,” you correct her with a small sigh. “And he’s my husband mom. And also our neighbor.”

“Oh I see I see…” she says, looking up at him, and in a moment that shocks you, she holds her hand up for him to take.

There’s a slight moment of surprise on his face too, but he accepts her frail hand in his, and you glance over to your mom to see her look at him with some look of peace on her face.

“Oh, sit down here, won’t you?” she tells him, and you both blink at her in a moment of hesitation.

He pulls a stool up to the side of the bed right next to you and takes a seat down onto it. Your mother holds his hand with both of hers now, soothing her palm over the back of it before she taps on it lightly.

“Oh, my little girl is very sweet. She would bring me flowers from the garden when she was,” she glances at you, confused once more, “well I remember her when she was so little but she looks…a little older now. Ah, but she would bring me such pretty flowers.”

Your heart aches in your chest. You never knew what version of you your mother would remember. Some days, you’re still supposed to be an angsty teenager that shuts doors in her face, some days you were just as you are right now, and other days, you were just her little girl. And it confused her, the image of not seeing you in the way that she remembers. In the only way she knew how.

“You’ll take good care of my sweet girl, won’t you?” she asks him.

And it knocks the wind out of you.

It drops your heart to the center of the earth.

The thought that, after so many moments where she doesn’t remember you, she still knows that you’re someone she wants to keep safe.

Your mouth gapes slightly, tears welling in your eyes and you try your best to blink them away, but you see Gojo’s hand slip out from being held by your mother’s hands, to instead use both of his to hold hers. Your eyes snap to his face, and you see that same earnest expression you’ve been growing used to seeing these days.

“Yes,” he responds, eye contact level with hers, “I will.”

A small puff of air leaves your lips, a single tear streaming down your cheek and you quickly swipe your trembling fingers to remove any evidence of it before you huff out a shaky, “excuse me.” And then you’re standing up off the stool, and in a few hurried steps across the room as more tears continue to stream down your face, you make it to the door to push out into the suffocating air of the hallway.

It’s hard to breathe, huffs and puffs barely leaving your lips as you struggle to pull air into your lungs while you storm down the hallway at a fast pace, your heels clicking underneath you in a way that only sets you off further. Suddenly, all the sounds around you make you sick to your stomach, a wave of nausea washing over you, and your nose burns with the intensity of the tears that continue to stream down your face. A few hospice staff look at you with concerned expressions, and you eventually reach a heavy-duty door that leads you out into a secluded staircase hallway where the dim lighting serves to relax at least some of your senses, but you still feel like you’re about to pass out.

Even in the haze of your emotions, there’s this glimmer of a memory that comes to mind. One from when you were younger and you were pushed on the playground at school. You cried and cried and cried in your mother’s arms, but even then, you didn’t want her to baby you. You would say to her, I’m a big girl now! in that same way a child knows nothing of what it truly means to brave the world.

That little girl had no idea that one day, there would be moments where she wouldn’t be remembered as her mother’s little girl anymore.

No matter how old you grow, you will always be my little girl, your mother’s voice echoes to you, the feeling of her squeezing you in her arms as she holds your sobbing little form in hers casting a ghost sensation across your skin.

In a mother’s eyes, you’ll always be her baby.

And that’s why it hurts.

Because it’s all fake.

It’s phony.

It’s not real.

This arrangement you have with Gojo.

And if your mother were to die tomorrow, there would be no one to take care of her little girl anymore.

Not in the way she believes there will be.

Of all the white lies, this one pierces you straight through your heart in a way that leaves you gasping for air.

Amidst your whirlwind of thoughts, you hear the door push open harshly, and when you glance over, you see Gojo standing in this dimly lit hallway as he turns his head quickly to the left and sees you standing there.

“Hey,” he says, catching his breath as he lightly jogs up to you, “hey, hey, hey,” he repeats with more concern now when he sees the state you’re in, and he seamlessly pulls you into a hug, your cheek pressing against his chest that feels warm even through the fabric of his suit jacket and shirt, and that familiar scent of him completely engulfs you.

You sob quietly, wiping your snot on his tie and your tears on the felt fabric beside it, your hands balled into tiny fists at your chest, squeezed between the two of you. You feel him tuck your head under his chin and his arms wrap around you tighter. You don’t even realize it at first, but suddenly, it has become easier to breathe.

Then, you wail, and you cry, and you sob, because you don’t have the words to even explain how you feel, about not just this, but with everything, a buildup of everything that has been suffocating you in your life that just comes crashing down on you all at once.

“I know,” he says, his palm resting on the back of your head as he holds your face to his chest, his voice soothing in your ears while you sob until there’s nothing left to cry. “I know.”

You two stay like this for another minute or so as you come down from the cries, your remnant sniffling echoing in the hallway while you wipe more of your snot on his jacket. You make the first move to pull your face away from his chest, but he still keeps his arms wrapped around you when you look up at him.

With your gaze darting across his face, you take in the blue in his eyes. Eyes that are looking at you so softly it’s suddenly hard to breathe once more. And when those eyes flit to your lips, your mouth parts slightly as you two breathe in unison.

It’s possible that you could have dreamed the moment you saw him lean down slightly towards you, his eyes still set on your lips, but it didn’t matter because you’re pushing him away with strong fists before you can even register the thought in your head.

He lets go of you entirely, his eyes wide once more, and you glance down at your feet.

A tender moment, just like on the roof, broken just because you can’t handle that—…that way, that intense way that he looks at you. New rule, no looking at me longingly like you want to kiss me. I won’t allow it.

“I want to go home,” you whisper, still examining your shoes. And you suddenly feel embarrassed that he had to see you this way. He’s supposed to be scared and intimidated by you, not holding you in his arms while you cry.

He’s silent for a moment, but you can tell he’s searching for things to say. “You don’t want to say bye to your mom before we go?”

You swipe your palm against the wetness on your cheek. “No. I just want to go home.”

“y/n,” he tried to convince you.

You finally look up at him. “Please.”

He breathes in a few breaths as he studies the features of your face in a way that makes you feel so seen that it’s frightening. But he slowly nods, then says,

“Okay.”

[end of chapter 4]

a/n. hi friendsss i hope you enjoyed :'') yea like i said at the a/n in the beginning, this chapter is a slight off-tangent from last chapter, but ch5 will continue with a lot of the stuffs that were brought up in ch3. but yea i wanted to explore the whole process of emotions reader would go through putting her mom in hospice, since it kinda felt like a big thing, hence why it got its own chapter. aaa i hope to see you in the next one!! much love from me :''0

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shnarky-blogs · 7 months ago

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Ugghh yuushi got me feeling things hhh, how about ghost ftm reader stuck between the walls (purposely or not) and yuushi coming home from wherever he went feeling pent up and seeing the reader making him hsjdhjsh

Heres your order my darling~

ᵗᵒᵗˢᵒᵐᵒᵗᵒ ʸᵘᵘˢʰⁱ ˣ ᵍʰᵒˢᵗ ᶠᵗᵐ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: normally getting yourself fucked while stuck on the wall👌.

𝔍𝔲ˢ𝖙 𝔡ᵒⁱⁿᵍ ʷ𝔢ⁱ𝔯ᵈ ᵍʰ𝔬ˢᵗ ˢ𝔱ᵘᶠᶠˢ ʷⁱ𝔱ʰ ʸ𝔲ᵘˢ𝔥𝔦<33

Yuushi got home from work and saw you awkwardly got stuck on the wall, tou let out little whines totally in need of "help".

Your pants was already down with your pussy already leaking out pussy juice.

Your upper half was prolly inside the wall, thanks to your ghostly powers you could practically go through anything.

But currently the sight of your bare ass with your leaking boy pussy was giving him a raging boner, he smirked and walked up to your only visible lower half.

"Seems like my pretty boy is stuck"

He spoke out grabbing your hips then pressed his thumb against your boy pussy, It was actually a cute sight for him to see you all acting so so vulnerable like this, its making his heart throb.. but you know what else was throbbing?

His cock (duh).

He instantly took his cock out to press it against your already slicked folds, his tip teasingly pressed against your hole while sliding in-between your pussy lips.

This made you squeal out in annoyance and kicked your legs.

"Hey hey, sweetheart calm down.. you're really that needy my cute boy?~"

He grin teasingly, knowing how annoyed you must be, he could already see that cute puffy teary face of yours, already begging for his cock to drill into you.

Finally, when your hole gotten slicker for him to pass, he slid into your warm inviting depts, His hands wrapped on your hips.

He slowly began to thrust in and out, Making sure your pretty cervix gets loving kisses from his tip.

Your whines echoes through the walls as your ghostly cold skin was warmed up by him again, it felt so good having something to warm your cold dead insides up after a long stressful day.

Soon his thrust grew faster and slightly sloppy, He lets out groans and grunts as he pushed in.. feeling every inch of your insides, his thrust then went to abit incoherent.

Hips having no rhythm, but still afford to hit those good spots in you causing you to cum on his cock, slicking it up more than it was.

His dick got deeper into your boy pussy, tip nuzzling against your pretty womb, wanting to fill it up already with his warm seed to help you warm the coldness in your body.

Later his hips stuttered as he piston into you, but exhustion wasnt even present on his face.

Finally he came, your legs grew tired from kicking to much, cum dribble down your thighs as he pumped you full.

Once down you manage to free yourself from the wall and Yuushi held you close, whispering in your ear.

"Round two pretty boy?~"

A/n- I made this extremely quick, there might be errors so sorry haha..

#bottom male reader #ftm reader #male x ftm reader #sub male reader #x bottom male reader #x ftm reader #totsumoto yuushi x male reader #yuushi x male reader #totsumoto yuushi

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darcylindbergh · 4 months ago

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I want all you vote blue no matter who folks to suffer just as much as all the disabled ppl you left on the wayside as soon as biden said the pandemic was over. All of you talk about solidarity but as someone disabled by covid its all so shallow. You are all so happy to stop masking and let covid keep killing. You cant even pretend its not true. 95% of dems stopped giving a fuck as soon as their guy said it was fine to. And every time i bring this up i get told i just gotta vote biden or other people will be in danger. Like me and those like me havent already been sacraficed by all of you. You all will have to live with that because i wont be alive much longer. Vote Blue! Vote Blue! Close your ears and vote blue because now YOU are afraid.

sure, we can deconstruct this one too.

this one's cleverer than ms terf because frankly a lot of disabled people DO feel abandoned vis a vis the pandemic and masking, and that's definitely something that needs to be addressed. but this anon is not addressing THAT - they want to address how i shouldn't vote blue.

here's a couple things we can pick out:

i've recently responded to posts about gaza and terfs, so this anon has simply picked a topic i haven't addressed yet like they're playing whack a mole

blames biden specifically for their topic of choice

pitches a you versus them division while explicitly attacking the idea that the left can express sufficient solidarity (implying it doesn't matter whether you vote)

specifically disparages voting for biden while scoffing at the idea that failing to do so will place other people in danger

make it personal while using inflammatory language: "i've already been sacrificed" "i wont be alive much longer"

mocks voting blue out of fear or out of the idea that failing to vote or failing to vote blue will result in a negative outcome

of course, not voting blue (either by splitting the vote, as in 2016, or not voting at all) will certainly not result in an improved outcome for disabled people. anon doesn't even pretend like there's a viable alternative that will improve life for disabled folks in the us.

failing to vote blue will just result in republicans in power - who are as a national platform anti-masking, anti-vaccinations, anti-obamacare, and anti-healthcare reform. so what we have here is someone who is using the disabled community as a cudgel to divide the left and discourage voting - because don't you know you specifically are a bad person for being against disabled people?

anyway here's a short list of things the biden administration has done over the last 4 years to improve the situation of millions of disabled folks in the us:

Biden's first 100 days re: disability reform

Biden admin recognizes long covid as disabling

Biden admin directs $200 million to programs supporting aging Americans and their caregivers (5 days ago)

HHS strengthened rule banning discrimination based on disability (May 1, 2024)

Dept of Education cancels student loan debt for over 300,000 disabled borrowers who cannot work (Aug 2021)

Biden admin seeks to end subminimum wage for disabled (and tipped) workers (2021) - Biden's DOL has been actively working on new regulations regarding disabled worker protections, although the recent decision ending Chevron deference by SCOTUS's conservative bloc will make it much more difficult.

there's definitely still more work to do - passing the marriage equality for disabled adults act, for example, and seeing through the end of subminimum wages - but republicans aren't gonna do it. these bills died in the republican-controlled house. voting blue down-ticket is the only way folks are gonna see any progress.

#darcy answers #deconstruction #us politics

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pureastrologywisdom · 5 months ago

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12𝔱𝔥 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱

The 12th house is something I love discussing as it is often either overlook, misunderstood, or feared. My title of this probably wont help with the latter, but it promise it’s not that bad. There is a lot of stigma around the 12th house, but through understanding it people can see it’s not that scary and really interesting.

In synastry, the people who unlock this area of your chart play an interesting role for you. Often I have seen these people become the torment of the 12th house person. In some ways plaguing their mind. You must remember that the 12th house also rules over addiction, and in other words obsession. Typically we would see addiction through substances in the worst culmination of this placement, however I have seen how this can take form in people too.

The 12th house person can find themselves feeling very strongly about the planet person. There is something about them they cant put their finger on, but they can’t get enough. Its some they cant gain control over in ways. The obsessiveness of these feelings can be difficult to handle.

For some people this it too much to deal with and if they fall on an more avoidant side, they will try and repress these feelings. It’s a constant pendulum of becoming unconscious to the feelings and then suddenly being overwhelmed by them. This is especially prevalent with someone who is more spiritually unconscious and hasn’t done work with their subconscious mind and feelings.

Often the planet person sticks with the 12th house person for a long time, even after they are gone. This is where torment can become more apparent, where you wish to forget the person can’t quite disappear, and the feelings car quite dissipate. This also links into the self-undoing qualities that are linked to the 12th house, often craving someone you cannot have or don’t allow yourself to be open to through fear of what they may open you up to or the potential dept of the connection.

As you work with your 12th house more you will find the people that activate it become less uncomfortable for you and it can becomes a placement of some beautiful deep and spiritual connections.

I tried to make this relatively brief and uncomplicated as I could, but if you want more content on this, let me know.

Much love,

Pureastrowisdom

P.s. Check out my last post if you are interested in a lilith reading from me <3

#astrology #astrology blog #astro notes #astro observations #astroblr #astro community #natal chart #astro tumblr #synastry astrology #12th house synastry #12th house #12th house astrology #love astrology #relationship astrology #intense astrology #astrology tips #astrology observations #astrology readings

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rene-darling · 2 years ago

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Hi hi 👋🏻! After I read your sneaky link fic I got an idea! Can I request those same characters having a realization that they like you more than just a sneaky link and then maybe confessing?

OMG ANON YOUR BRAIN>>>

Gn reader

WHEN- your sneaky links realize they like you more than just friends!

...Cyno...tighnari...xiao...kazuha...

Cyno

You and cyno have been fucking around for a little while but only recently has he started seeing you more often you've been catching some criminals for some quick cash or just for fun to hone your skills!

It's during these times when he meets you while at work that he truly treasures, he sees sides of you that he usually doesn't get to see while fucking. your personality, your interests and a bunch of other things

It's during this time where when you guys do fuck it starts to get more...intimate almost like something lovers would do..

Ever since he started to get to know you better it's like like the fucking has improved too! The kisses you share seem more passionate, especially from his side! They feel more personal and from the heart

one day it wasn't hard fuvking it was soft and gentle with more praise and talking in between it was after you were finished tucked in and asleep did it finally click in his head...was it just him or were you always so- so gorgeous it was like the moon was hitting you just right

You were spooning him when he turned around to face you and sank deep into your hand while he hugged you closer than humanly possible "I- I love you"

It was barely a whisper and he assumed you didn't hear it which is why he was surprised when you pulled him closer by the waist just to whisper "mhm..me to, love you cyno" he felt his heart skip a beat

Tighnari

At first, you would watch him groom his tail and ears or maybe you would go make some food or sometimes even order

But nowadays you insist on helping him groom himself, taking his fluffy tail into your hands as you softly brush it

He's mesmerized by you, staring into your soul by the mirror watching you softly brush his tail cuz you know he's sensitive you follow all the complicated steps of his grooming routine without complaint even going as far as to brush his hair and massage his ears!

It's during one of these times when he's sitting naked in front of you while you carefully brush him, making small talk here and there where he can't hold it in anymore "y/n" "ya-"

"I think I'm in love with you" is all he whispered while pulling you in, his arms wrapped around your neck as you passionately kiss him back

"tighnari" "hm"

"I think I love you too"

Xiao

Oh, xiao sweet and lovely xiao! It takes him forever to even comprehend his feelings let alone accept them!

Even after he realizes he refuses to accept them, he doesn't deem himself worthy of someone as amazing as you

It's the small things you do that make him feel on top of the world! When each morning without fail you make him food! When sometimes instead of having sex you gently comfort him all night your lovely voice putting him to rest when the bad memories plague his mind

After one of your rather rough sessions, his karmic dept starts acting up and he feels overwhelmed and especially tired, its during this when you come and gently pull him into a hug slowly messaging his back while reassuring him and muttering praise into his ear until he can't handle it anymore you're too nice to him no ones ever been this caring towards him before!

He can't help the tears he really can't! He feels soft and mushy he doesn't know if he even likes it or not! "xiao? Are you alright "

Through hiccups and stutters, he can only bring himself to say one line "I- love you, I really l-like you-" which is just followed up by more sobs as he hides his face from you, embarrassed

He gasps as you pull his face from his hiding spot and place a gentle kiss on the purple diamond on top of his head "me too xiao, me too."

Kazuha

It was usually just him making food for the both of you after a session after that he would go and take a bath but.. Nowadays you like to help him

When his legs hurt too much to reach up and grab something you would pick him up so easily si he could

When he starts making a specific dish and there aren't enough ingredients so you run to the store to quickly grab whatever he needs! You don't want to waste something he put so much effort in!!

And especially when you help him take a bath by rubbing soap up and down his supple thighs washing his hair so so gently even going as far as to help him dry it! You don't even question his desire to wear your clothes anymore! You pick out the cutest outfits for him!

It makes him realize how much he treasures you and these moments which lead him to confess "y/n" "yes kazuha"

"Whenever I see you my stomach starts fluttering and whenever I wake up to the sight of you next to me, sleeping calmly, it lights a warmth in me I can't describe, it makes me realize how valuable time is and I want to spend the rest of eternity with you, I love you, y/n" "..I'm not sure I can say such lovely words like yours to describe my love for you, but me too, I love you kazuha"

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crappymixtape · 9 months ago

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soft, sweet, sounds • part II

part II to this absolutely unhinged-fever-dream-blurb's worth of smut i wrote way too early in the morning – steve’s still your roommate and you’re still friends, right? or is there something more and you two just too chicken shit to put a label on it • 18+ | ( 1.5K – roommates -> something?, tiny fluff, medium smut, lots of idiocy, steve x you )

S O F T S W E E T S O U N D S • P A R T T W O 🎶 swimming pools, dani stocksdale

It was sticky sweet like popsicles by the pool. Soft like cotton candy clouds pulled across the sky. Glittering like sun on the water and easy. Too easy. Like you’d done it countless times before. Like it was nothing. Like it was supposed to be like this and maybe it was your newly single mindset, or maybe it was Steve, but right now? It didn’t matter.

“Y’okay?” Steve asked, breaths falling quick between you. Sweat beading across his forehead, his hair stuck and messy as the fan above did absolutely nothing to cool down the room from the July heat outside.

“Yes–shit–yeah,” you hissed through gritted teeth, Steve’s fingers digging into the plush of your hip, his other hand bracing him above you on the bed.

It was a slow drag. A lazy push and pull that drove you both crazy. Hands needy and searching. Lips desperate, pressed skin to skin, sucking soft lilac bruises to leave behind tiny traces of you long after you’d parted.

“Oh god, o-okay, s’good,” Steve’s breath hitched in his throat as you tangled your fingers in his hair and tugged at it, nails scratching at his scalp and making him see stars.

Less than a week ago you’d broken up with your boyfriend and your room mate Steve had come home to find you coping with a hand pressed between your thighs and instead of moving on – instead of maintaining the line between roommates – you’d broken the rules and now here you were.

Laid out on his bed with your panties on the floor and your shirt rucked up under your arms so he could push the palm of his hand up your stomach. Could see your embarrassing, nothing special, I-need-to-do-laundry bra. All white and dotted with baby blue spots, but Steve couldn't have cared less. You made his shitty, faded, ripped up Hawkins Athletic Dept. shirt look good.

“Wait–” the pinch between your brows deepened as he hit the soft, squishy spot at the back of you, your knees pressing into his ribs.

“M’sorry, want me to stop–”

“No, god–don’t stop,” your voice edged on desperation as you squirmed and slipped a hand between your thighs so you could rub little circles over your clit. “Okay, keep going.”

And when Steve picked up the pace again, dragged himself in and out, in and out, the combination of your fingers and him filling you up so good pulled a moan from you that was utterly obscene. The coil at the pit of your stomach squeezing tight as the movement of your fingers grew frantic.

“Y’close? You’re close, huh?” Steve let his head drop down, rested his forehead on yours and pressed a kiss to your temple, the tops of his thighs smacking into the backs of yours. “Let go, babe–you go first.”

“Faster,” you pleaded and his jaw ticked as he bit down on the groan you pulled from his chest. A low, warm, rumble that pushed you over the edge as you sucked in a gasp. Arched your back up off the bed for more, more, more as your hand fisted into the sheets to hold on for dear life. Pressed your body into Steve’s and pulled him with you, his hips stuttering as he came.

And as your limbs grew heavy Steve gently pushed himself away, a small gasp escaping you as he eased out, breaths slowing as each second passed. The warm air wrapping itself around you, lulling you into a haze. The kind that made you feel like you were floating. Like being between sleep and dreams, fuzzy and blurring around the edges.

You watched the fan spin lazy overhead, uselessly pushing warm air around Steve’s room and tried to stay present. Tried not to let your mind wander. Tried not to think about what ‘this’ was, what you were doing with your room mate and tried to just be.

Steve shifted against the covers next to you, his arm pressing into yours as he rolled onto his side. Looked at you with those big brown eyes, brows lifted ever so slightly in question.

“You wanna shower first or…?” his voice drifted off at the end of his sentence, hand running through his hair in an attempt to keep it out of his eyes.

“Oh, you can? I don’t have to work today,” you tried to sound casual, like you hadn’t just fucked your best friend, but even you didn’t believe you.

“Could be responsible and go together, conserve water.”

His half-assed joke made you snort, but even Steve couldn’t deny the tension that had been building between you two.

The first time, the time he’d walked in on you, had been unreal. He’d made you come once on his fingers, again with his mouth, and a third time over the kitchen counter after you’d tried to stop and make food. Had done things your boyfriend wouldn’t have dreamed of doing, things he’d refused to do, and made you question your standards for men because what? Were men actually like this?

Like Steve?

Because he hadn’t blinked an eye when you’d started to be more vocal the second time around. When you’d told him where to put his fingers, when you asked him to apply more pressure, when you said you wanted it harder and he obliged, but never failed to ask you if it was good. If you were okay. If that was how you liked it.

He put you first and god, it was so hot and you were down so bad.

“You still with me?”

You heard Steve’s voice, felt it pull you out of your head and when you turned to look at him across the pillow he was looking at you like he’d just said something bad. Like he regretted it and your brain scrambled to catch up.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I just–there’s a lot on my mind and–”

“No, no! You don’t have to explain yourself,” Steve reassured you, lifting a hand to push your curls out of your face. “It’s okay. I’ll just get outta your hair,” and he pushed up on an elbow to leave, but you cracked.

“Don’t!” fell out too quick, too fast. Had you sounded desperate? “Please. Stay?” you asked and he eased back down next to you, a little smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“What’s going on up there?” he wondered quietly, gently tapping a finger on your forehead.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to decide how honest you wanted to be with him. Debating whether or not you wanted to risk ruining this – whatever this was – and pushed a sigh from your lungs.

“Steve Harrington,” you started, his cheeks growing pink at the way you said his name, “You’re an anomaly.”

Brows knitting together, his mouth dropped open into a little ‘o’, not wanting to admit he didn’t know what that meant and it made you laugh. A small, warm thing that made his expression soften and he laughed too.

“Listen, Princess. Not everyone took AP english.”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously! I’m a what now?”

“An anomaly. Unexpected. Out of the ordinary.”

“Oh, great,” he teased, dragging out the vowels and you shoved at him as he chuckled, “I’m a weirdo.”

“It’s not a bad thing!” you insisted, feeling like you were losing the point, but then he smiled at you. Brushed the rough pad of his thumb over your cheek and shook his head.

“I know.”

“Good.”

Silence settled between the two of you then, the only sound coming from the fan whirring above. A quiet reminder that there were still words left unsaid and leveled the challenge of who would break it and of course Steve caved first.

“I just want you know that I’m not like, expecting anything from you. Or–or trying to put any pressure on this,” he gestured a hand in the space between you on the bed and gave you a small half-hearted smile.

“Oh, I don’t either! I mean, you’re part of this too,” you insisted, feeling guilty for the slightly crestfallen look on his face, and covered your face with your hands.

“Don’t run away,” he murmured, enveloping both your hands with one of his and tugging at it softly. Wanting, no, needing to be able to see you. “Let’s just be…whatever this is for now, hm? And–and we can decide if we want to make it something else later.”

You tentatively met his gaze through your fingers, let yourself get lost for just a minute in his warm, brown eyes, and realized how safe he made you feel. Realized how thankful you were for him.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay,” he whispered back.

Wrapping his arms around your waist he pulled you into him and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Your cheek. Your nose.

“Now about that shower–”

“Steve!”

“What? C’mon, race you?”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m fun. I keep things interesting.”

And he did and for just a split second you were okay with just being where you were. No labels. No pressure.

Just Steve.

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

#stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem #steve harrington stranger things #steve stranger things #steve x you #steve fanfic #steve x reader #steve x fem #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve smut

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monvante · 9 months ago

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persona non grata ╱ myg, 𝟏.

per·so·na non gra·ta: unwelcome or unwanted. not popular or accepted by others.

pairing: myg x f!reader

genre: suspense / noir / detective au

rating: mature | 18+

chapter word count: 3,067

content warings: crime, blackmail, missing person investigation, themes of violence and murder, 90's cult references, corrupt cops, mentions of physical fighting, cockroaches, depictions of dementia, substance abuse & addiction, reader is grieving a breakup;

next chapter | series navigation | masterlist

chapter i. goodbye, kanan.

Tuesday night, March 18th @ ViCAP Unit, Missing Persons Dept.

Your hands don’t feel clean. They just never do.

“It’s that same nightmare,” you rub them together, finding comfort in the heat.

Yoongi looks at you. He says nothing, because of course he doesn't. He already noticed the dark circles under your eyes this morning, how you looked at your cup of coffee with a bit more disgust than usual.

He admired your hatred, your devotion to your spiteful heart.

“Cockroaches.” Your sad chuckle is but self-mockery. Your gaze is crestfallen.

He’s left to calculate within the machinations of his mind whatever meaning there is in your nightmare.

Yet, Yoongi finds none whatsoever.

“Have you eaten?”

“Why?”

“Just asking,” he shrugs. “Take tomorrow off,” Yoongi hides his hands inside the pockets of his trench coat. His concern is disguised in his eyes, looking out the foggy windows of the department office. “You need it.”

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Let it go.”

“He was eight years old! He was a child!”

The air tightens in your lungs and your throat thickens with silence. You didn’t mean to sound so exasperated, you didn’t mean to sound like anything, but you’ll have to be the first to face your emotional ties to the cold case of a young boy whose face is ingrained in the back of your mind.

Yoongi gulps ⎯ it’s the first thing he does when the truth’s engulfed in his stomach. You glare at him, but he doesn’t budge. Not for a few seconds at least, taking a few steps back as he still refuses to look you in the eye. All cops are cowards.

“You wanna know why we got this case?”

Your brows perk.

“It’s not because we’re good,” he scoffs. “Last year... I confronted McKinnon about the money. He called me a snitch… I didn’t- I didn’t tell him you were in on it, but I figured he knew. That bastard just.. kept looking at me with those filthy eyes and I- I hit him, okay? I got him good. He deserved it.”

“Is that why you kept avoiding me all those months?”

“Kind of. He said we wouldn’t come out of it alive if the ACU so much as dreamt of it… So I kept quiet. He gave us a case full of dead ends and shit evidence to keep us busy… Said we deserved it.”

The Anti Corruption Unit had been onto the agents’ tail that month. Not that it matters. Nothing was found.

“Why– why didn’t you tell me?”

He runs a hand through his hair, slowing down his breath. In the same second, he fails himself and his fury comes out in full force.

“Fuck’s sake! And risk you being dead? Or worse?!”

There are drops of sweat down his temple. You can see them because the yellow street lights glisten against his skin and you figure he’s telling you the truth. Even if he wasn’t, you’d be inclined to believe him.

No one else in this godforsaken unit has a commitment to the truth like Yoongi.

Thursday morning, March 20th @ ViCAP Unit, Missing Persons Dept.

Agent Gerwig gives you a warm, tight-lipped smile when you pass her down the hallways. You hurry past the agents down the coffee machine, avoiding small talk and nearly tripping down the stairs on your way to Yoongi’s desk.

The insides of your stomach are twisting and turning as you rush inside, uninvited and breathless, waiting for him to acknowledge you behind his incessant typing and the meaningless emails he reads everyday.

Yoongi seems as still and lifeless as ever, which somehow comes as a comfort to you.

“Days off are supposed to make you look better, not worse. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He types as fast as he comes up with witty remarks.

“That’s because I have!” You spit back, fists closed tightly around the newspaper in your hands.

He quirks up one brow, enough for you to know you’ve got his attention.

“Here,” you toss it onto his desk. “Read it.”

November 27th, 1991. Solved case: Thanksgiving kidnappings linked to man apprehended by police.

“That’s Adam Bowen. He got arrested a night after Kanan went missing,” you huff, catching your breath. “They never considered him a suspect because… the timelines didn’t add up, apparently.”

Yoongi looks up at you from the large frame of his glasses.

“And?”

“Police always suspected he worked with his brother… but they never found enough evidence to prove it. They never even found said brother, the guy disappeared out of thin air and Bowen never told them anything. Not a word.”

He leans back, stretching his arms. His gaze diverts away from you or the paper altogether and he’s staring into space, seemingly at a loss for words.

“They got one brother, huh? Looks like it was enough for them to settle it,” Yoongi clicks his tongue. “Sloppy as all hell.”

In your heart, there’s some feeble hope, but most of it has been filled with despair and a fierce jealousy towards anyone who still maintained a sense of normalcy. Your last seven years have been haunted by nightmares, tainted by the faces of all the missing person reports hanging on your walls.

“We got a second half of the story to figure out.”

Yoongi nods. He closes off his laptop and puts his hands around his gun belt.

Friday night, March 21th @ Agent ___’s home.

Circe’s orange tail swirls around your leg before she’s meowing next to her empty bowl, with cute and threatening eyes glaring into your soul. You can barely catch your breath on the couch ⎯ you got shit to do.

Her paws trail happily after you once you’re pouring the pack of Whiskas onto her tiny plate, making a mental note to throw nearly all the home decor away before Easter comes. The apartment is filled with portraits, vases and candles Yuri generously left you with.

Such courtesy of your ex-fiancée to have abandoned all your memories and stories behind.

You’re running out of coffee, hope and sugar.

Yuri was not a bad man. It’s what you told yourself, once. He wanted the kids and the white picket fence life, away from violent gangs and city lights, where he’d craft the perfect nuclear family, worthy of homemade apple pies and Sunday barbecues.

But you liked the urban loneliness, your shoebox apartment and the green subway lights on your way back home. You liked the comfort of knowing every neighborhood like the palm of your hand, the ins and outs of every highway and the thought of heartless strangers passing you by, not caring for your name.

You missed him. His warm body pressed against yours and his golden, brown skin; you missed him selfishly ⎯ your comfort zone walked away and resentment grew alongside the fondness.

You hoped he was happy without you, but not too much.

When your co-workers asked you about him, a few days after he packed his bags, all you gave them was a shrug and a poor explanation, the kind that everyone does: we were incompatible, it wasn’t meant to be, I wasn’t ready. The list went on and on.

The only one to not probe was good old loyal Yoongi. He was indifferent enough to other people’s personal lives not to ask. When you told him, he patted you on the shoulder awkwardly and placed your coffee by your desk with extra whipped cream.

Saturday afternoon, March 22nd @ Rosefell Nursing Home.

Violet Bowen was not, by any means, what you’d call a reliable witness. She seemed pale beyond human comprehension and her words mostly consisted of hummings or muttering. The moment you saw her, you felt a sting of empathy too strong to ask her of her missing, possibly outlaw brother.

She had no other relatives nor close visitors, except for a caring ex-neighbor who’d bring her flowers every Friday. With nails painted a deep shade of red, she looked to be around eighty, but you couldn’t quite tell. Violet was in poor condition, plagued by dementia and the loneliness of lost loved ones.

Her caretaker is a vibrant, blonde nurse. A blonde Southern belle whose name tag read in big, uppercase letters.

CAROLYN R. NURSING ASSISTANT

It’s Yoongi who interrogates Violet, remaining unaffected by her lost gaze and brown eyes. He flashes her a picture of her brothers back in the 80’s, sporting what looks to be fluffy mullets.

She smiles then and her shaky hands point at Adam, but nothing else comes out of her aside from a gleam of life in her eyes. Even if she knew where they were, she wouldn’t tell them a word.

Carolyn’s smile grows disconcerted. Her hands lay on Violet’s forearm as she pulls a thick chunk of her blonde hair out of her face in typical Southern charm.

“I think my girl’s had enough here, yes?” She forces a grin, glancing over at Violet. “If you’ll excuse us, it’s tea time.”

Carolyn helps Violet out of her seat and into the cafeteria. You’re not sure if it’s bad timing or a deliberate attempt from the nursing assistant to end this conversation, but you’re leaning on the latter. Off they go, taking slow, mindful steps away from both of you.

You refuse to look at Violet’s way. Something about her made you want to cry your heart out; the thought of loneliness being an imminent threat to you, too.

“It’s pointless, Yoongi,” you mutter in your seat, slouching your shoulders. “She’s not going to remember anything.”

He hates to agree. Yoongi tsks, fiddling with his watch.

“Did you check her records at the reception?” He glances over at you, mind brimming with some sort of nefarious idea.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I mean- I didn’t check if she had any funds… It looks like all her properties and money were confiscated by the government, but I should run a background check on her bank accounts, to be sure.”

Monday afternoon, March 24th @ Tech Unit, Information Management Division.

Jenny’s doodles lie by her desk, making the room feel like a high school classroom. You haven’t spoken to her since December; what was once a blossoming friendship wilted away thanks to your cowardice and the desire to protect her from Deputy McKinnon’s claws. If Jenny found out, she’d jump the gun.

And she didn’t have the best aim.

Her Naruto sketches have improved greatly since you last saw them, a massive improvement for just a couple months. Both of you used to laugh at her poorly drawn stick figures, now it looks like she’s ready to take her comics career seriously. You’re happy for her ⎯ she’ll find a way out of this hellhole.

The air is thick and humid in the early Spring, but filled with an extra layer of awkwardness when she sees you from across the room. Jenny’s strides towards her desk are heavy with grief and resentment, but she holds her gaze your way.

“Have you had enough space from me after not picking up my calls?” She slides onto her chair, scribbling a few notes onto her monthly planner. “Long time no see, idiot.”

You don’t have much to say for yourself, even when your chest pangs with her affectionate, yet sarcastic use of the word idiot.

“A lot happened, is all,” you gesture sheepishly, hands reaching for the insides of your pockets.

“I can imagine.”

“I’m sorry, Jenny… I didn’t mean to-”

She looks up at you, eyes drenched with irony and something.. something which you can’t name. If it’s hatred or love, you can’t tell.

“Wat’cha want?”

You swallow dry and uneasy, unfolding the paper on your hand with Violet Bowen’s name and address. It’s crumpled and a little thorn ⎯ you were ready to throw it away seconds before coming into the Tech Unit.

“I- I need a background check on someone,” you mutter, lowly. “Bank account activity… Credit cards… Anything you can find from the last… thirty years, maybe?”

Your attempt at a chuckle fails, denouncing your regret. Jenny notices the furrow of your brows and how concerned you seem, ripping the paper away from your hands.

“Sure.”

The seconds fill with silence. You stand by her desk, waiting for a snide comment, a spiteful joke, anything. She looks at you like she knows you want to apologize again.

“Nice sketches!” You smile as a desperate invitation to make friendly conversation.

Jenny doesn’t cave in.

“You’re dismissed,” she nods at the doorway and hops onto her laptop. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”

Monday night, March 24th @ Agent ____’s home.

“Hey,” you mutter over the phone. “Just checking up on you and mom.”

“Finally!” Albeit sarcastic, your younger sister’s voice is nothing but chirpy, as it has always been. “We miss you, you idiot. You know that, right?”

Over the phone, you can hear your mom’s laugh and a few unintelligible words. It seems she’s adjusting to your dad’s absence. Somehow, you had stopped calling after the funeral. It’s not that you didn’t miss them back ⎯ you were sick of being flooded with memories every time you’d hear her voice. Like your dad was still there too, right beside her.

“Sorry, sweetcheeks. I’ve just been busy.” The explanations and apologies roll off your tongue.

“You know you can’t avoid us forever, right?” Her voice is so sober, it’s as if she’s older than you by a million years.

When you gaze out the window, loneliness overcomes you. The years spent playing hide and seek in your childhood home are long gone, replaced by miles of distance between you and your family ⎯ how you became so caring and so bad at expressing it like your father. You hate how much of you is made of all the people you love. And miss.

“You there?”

“Y-yeah, yeah I’m sorry.”

“I swear to God, you gotta stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” She pauses. “Acting like we don’t exist. Seriously. We miss you.”

A pang of guilt flashes through your chest.

“I know.” Your voice is small through the phone again. In between the anxiety and the seconds, you fiddle with your bracelet. “I’m sorry.. It’s been hell.”

“I promised you I wouldn’t tell mom about your breakup, but she keeps asking me. It wouldn’t hurt if you opened up for once.” She sounds more hurt than angry, vindicating your mother after all the months you spent avoiding calls and texts under the pretense of your busy adult job.

Even in the softness of her voice, her words feel harsh. You gulp down a threatening tear, staying silent on the phone. She was still right, though.

“Listen, we love you, okay? I don’t know what kind of shit you’re going through because you won’t tell me everything.. but dude, please, seriously just come visit us sometime. I know you’ve got your job and all, but act human for once. Please?”

“Okay, okay. I’ll try. I promise.”

“Good. I gotta go now. Mom wants to go grocery shopping for some french-whatever-pie and I promised her I’d help. Give Circe my love!”

You chuckle, sadly.

“Yeah… Yeah, it’s okay. I’ll see you guys soon.”

When the call ends, silence deepens. It’s your own doing, you know, but that doesn’t make it any less suffocating. Even when you crave solitude, you’re just plagued by loneliness.

Wednesday morning, March 26th @ Java café.

Today, Yoongi thinks you look a little better. And by better, it means rested. Of course, your gaze is still very much zombie-like, with glimpses of terror in your eyes when you look away.

But in this line of work, it ain’t all rainbows and sunshine.

It’s never rainbows and sunshine, he realizes.

“So,” you sigh.

“So.” Yoongi punctuates, giving you room to breathe.

Your eyes are distant, watching children play in the puddles from last night’s rainstorm. The weather has been cruel to this city, punishing sinners and saints alike with a dreadful fog in the mornings and plenty of humidity to drive your hair follicles to the brink of insanity.

“Bowen’s alive, Yoongi. There’s a big chance he just… got away with it.”

Your words aren’t met with so much enthusiasm. You suppose it’s the skepticism in this field ⎯ even the good news don’t feel like good news. Before his questioning and theorizing begins, Yoongi brings up a valid concern.

“Why didn’t his brother spill his whereabouts, though? It’s not like Adam had any reasons to protect his brother any longer.”

“Unless he did.” You counter-argue.

“Why, though? It doesn’t make sense. In ninety percent of the cases, you know what happens. So-called partners in crime turn against each other. It’s good ol’ politics.” Yoongi leans back in his chair, nodding at the waitress for more coffee.

“Maybe he had something to lose,” you purse your lips. The biting of your inner cheeks is such an instinctive habit of yours that it barely stings until you realize how much tension you’re holding in. “Or someone, you know?”

“Several someones.” Yoongi blinks. “Do you remember the Mormon Heritage cult?” His eyes narrow as he scrapes the top of his head.

Your back and forth is interrupted by the local waitress pouring hot black coffee onto Yoongi’s cup. He seems like he’s on a roll today ⎯ it’s his third cup. That you know of.

“Uhhh, kind of. They were a thing in the nineties, weren’t they?”

“Yeah.. well… the Satanic panic might’ve contributed to that,” Yoongi nods, slipping his mobile out of his pocket. His fingers are hasty, typing up a Google search so he can word vomit every single fact possible. “But we know that the Jesus believers can somehow always be worse.”

He sounds so snarky, it earns a laugh out of you.

“The Bowens were around that time,” he says. “I mean ⎯ the connection seems unlikely, but with these people, you never know.”

You sigh.

“McKinnon didn’t give us this case for nothing, huh?” Even with half a smile on your face, you can’t help but feel defeated.

“Cheer up, buttercup. I think we got a lead.” He smiles with his teeth for once in a lifetime, raising his eyes from his phone to meet yours. You know he is up to no good ⎯ and that can only be a good thing.

“Buttercup?”

#yoongi fic #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts imagine #bts imagines #yoongi x reader #yoongi smut #yoongi fanfic #yoongi x yn #yoongi x you #bts x reader #bts x you #bts smut #bts x yn #png: c001

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catscidr · 11 months ago

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hiiiii omg your childe fic was SO. CUTE. 😭😭🩷🩷🩷 sooooo could I request a scenario where alhaitham and reader are roommates???? romantic tension is real 🤭 imagine the lingering stares at his body (muscles) and getting caught ??? you cooking for him?? falling asleep on his shoulder on the couch?? helping him fix his tie for work???? he's so cute i am absolutely deranged i am so sorry ☺️☺️☺️ dating but not dating fr

i made this into a drabble-y format because i wanted to write things inspired by ur ideas without the story dragging on or being repetitive ueagdhfgs i GET the al haitham brainrot he’s so. aa. if i ever say no to romanticizing mundane life call the fire dept because that is Not me. also never apologize for being feral over a fictional man...... no one is immune to hot 2d men ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ cw: fluff, domestic life shenanigans, reader ogles his muscles bc Yeah, lowkey crack a little bit includes: gn!reader, alhaitham, lowkey modern au sorta kindof maybe wc: 1,3k

Living with Alhaitham is easy. Living with your feelings for him, however, is not. At first you thought you would simply get flustered by him because he looked intimidating and because you didn’t know him all that well- you were just a little scared of him and the way your heart raced around him was because of your body panicking. Surely. But, the more time went on and you got to know him, slowly but surely, he came out of his shell and your schedules began to merge to allow yourselves to easily (metaphorically) dance around the other, a seamless waltz that you perfected to a tee. And, to no one's surprise, you weren't perpetually flustered because of how scary he could look.

-ˋˏ his and your chores

Cleaning up after yourself when you live with someone is imperative; when you live alone you can let yourself go a little, but when you share a living space with someone it’s only courteous to keep your shared space clean of any messes.

You and Alhaitham had agreed that you’d share chores. Most of the time, when you were on picking-up-the-trash duty you wouldn’t need to do too much since he would have emptied out his own trashcan in the communal bin, and the same thing applied to him when it was his turn to maintain your shared bathroom clean since you’d do your best to keep it as clean as possible. However, one of the things you didn’t realize would affect you so much was when you had agreed to this “system” was when you’d see him do the dishes for the first time.

Something as banal as your roommate standing over the kitchen sink, sleeveless shirt exposing his muscles as he scrubbed the plates you had both used to eat dinner. Was it the water that would occasionally splash on him, making his black tank look even the slightest bit sheer and making you stare shamelessly, drinking in the sight? Was it his small scowl whenever he touched soggy bits of food in the sink? (making you wish he was scowling at you in a strange desire to have his attention even if it was as a result of a bad thing)

...it was probably because, when he was doing the dishes, you realized he always had his headphones in, and it allowed you to stare at him all you wanted when he wasn’t facing you because he was so focused on his task.

He caught you staring once, but you managed to convince him that it wasn't what it looked like (it was)

-ˋˏ coming back from the gym

Alhaitham went to the gym often, that much you could guess from his build. No one had biceps that thick from genes alone- you got to confirm your guess when you (literally) ran into him when he was coming back from the gym in the middle of the night. He promptly apologized (with an expressionless face) and explained that the gym was much quieter at 3am when you asked him why in the Seven he was at the gym so late. Though the flat was dark, you could still see the faint outline of his body from the small bits of moonlight shining through... somewhere. Peeling your eyes away from him you make your way to the fridge to do what you had come out of your room for- that good cold, mid-night glass of water.

His eyes followed your sluggish figure, scoffing amusedly. With only a few steps, he catches up to you and grabs the glass from your hands, chugging it. Some water dribbles down the side of his mouth down his chin and you do nothing but gawk at him, emotions a mess.

Should you be mad he so rudely took your glass of water? Or should you be grateful you could see how body properly, illuminated by the fridge light? One thing you knew for sure, you were going to need to grab a new glass of water since he stole yours.

-ˋˏ making food

With your chores separated, there was one thing you had agreed to do on your own- that being anything regarding lunch and dinner. Breakfast was easy enough; you’d eat a normal portion of a normal breakfast while Al Haitham would eat almost twice as much as you because of his workout routine (he had explained how he had to bulk and offered to pay for the extra groceries) so you often ate the same thing since it was more convenient.

Lunch was different. Sometimes you had places to be (whether it be work or class) and you wouldn’t be there to eat lunch, vice versa. The same thing applied to dinner. So, when you both were at the apartment at the same time for a meal that wasn’t breakfast, you’d make food for the other- but only occasionally. Basically, only when you felt like it.

The first time he cooked you dinner he made a hearty soup that, by taking one glance at it, made your mouth water. You insisted that he make more to keep as leftovers so you could bring some to eat when you had time between classes, but he refused, saying that it was best fresh.

So, he made you dinner more often. Every time he did you felt your heart clench at the domestic sight; Alhaitham in a corny, pink and frilly apron with his sleeves rolled up, carefully chopping up vegetables and tossing spices in the pot.

One time he accidentally cut his finger and you rushed to his side to help. You held his hand under the running water of the sink and had to force your brain to act normally- it was hard not to let it wander when you kept focusing on the feeling of his hand in yours.

A different time, he made you taste the broth by holding the spoon up to your mouth. The proximity nearly killed you.

-ˋˏ convincing him to play games together

Your roommate spent most of his time being productive, unlike you. Most of the time.

You offered to play games together every so often when you had first moved in. His answer was a polite no (but still equally gut-wrenching and embarrassing to be on the receiving end of) and you gave up for a while. It couldn’t be that bad to have a beefy, intimidating roommate you barely knew, right? It was fine if you stayed strangers and just... respected the other person’s space. Probably.

But eventually, your relationship changed from strangers to roommates to acquainted roommates. It was then that, when he saw you on your laptop in the living room, playing the role of Player 1 and Player 2 to solve puzzles, that he thought maybe he should just... play something with you. He told himself that he just felt bad for you, but part of him was actually interested in what you were playing.

He sat next to you, startling you from the sudden shift on the sofa.

“Is your offer still on the table?” he asked with an amused smirk, watching the character on your screen fall into poison. With a bashful smile you nod, placing the laptop closer to him so it could rest on your right thigh and his left thigh.

Explaining the rules of the game was easy enough; you’re fireboy and he’s watergirl, each of you have to go through your own door to clear the level and to get to those doors you have to solve puzzles with the other one’s help. Needless to say, you both learned a lot from each other.

You didn’t know your silver haired, perpetually calm roommate could raise his voice and he didn’t know you had such a wide, extensive vocabulary.

#୧ ‧₊˚orderup!#yes the game is fireboy and watergirl #i didnt want to have it be mario kart or uno #i like to think he'd be a little TOO into the game #“NO YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO STAY ON THE BUTTON ILL TELL U WHEN TO MOVE”#im projecting #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x you #alhaitham x gn reader #genshin x reader #genshin x you #alhaitham x y/n #genshin x y/n

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stuck-writing-sickos · 4 months ago

Text

In Poor Taste [P7]

(Yandere Reader Insert)

[Series Link]

[Content warning: religious trauma, sexual trauma, explicit language, violence, suggestive contents, addiction]

(Real talk? We are in a tie between Lukas and Yuki in terms of reader favorites ( lukas fans are in anonymous asks and they are freaaaaky.) First- sorry for the angst. Second, maybe this will warm some of us up to Lukas? But tbh? I wanna kick his ass all the time. So idk. Like i would NOT let myself near that man but i am an impartial creator. Im curious thooo lmk how we feel abt lukas so far 🫶 aside from wanting to sleep w him.

@perhapstheyregone)

Between interlaced fingers, the gaps seemed forevermore.

[Recap last chapter:

Lukas' POV: Lukas followed you and Yuki out, but his attempt to interrupt the moment was foiled by a very angry and drunk Hanao who argued with Yuki. Lukas could not understand what the argument was about except that it concerned a woman in the foreign dept named Sasaki. Hanao attempted to hit Yuki, but you took the punch instead. In the process, you threw Lukas out of the way and made him hit a wall, which excited him. Yuki noticed Lukas' strange reaction to the pain but did not say anything about it.

Your POV: after the fight, Yuki offered to take you home and asked Lukas to watch over Sasaki for the rest of the party. You and Yuki took a cab to your home. During the ride, you were too shaken up by a text your mother had sent, and it was revealed that your brother (who suffered from addiction) had relapsed. By the time you reached your apartment, it was clearly late for Yuki to take the last train home, but he still offered to walk you up to your door, seeing that you were unwell.

Yuki's POV: on the way upstairs, you cried. He was unsure what happened, but he tried his best to take you to your door, being as gentle as possible. You offered for him to stay the night, given that he was way late for the train. It was revealed here that Yuki was sexually abused by a family friend when he was a teenager, which resulted in his fear of any attempts at flirting coming from women. However, seeing as you did not have any ulterior motives except for trying to make up for the "troubles", he agreed, feeling more compassionate toward you. Here, he noticed that it was his first time willingly saying "yes" to staying the night at any woman's house.)

Lukas didn't like how teritorial he felt anymore. He didn't want to prove himself by sleeping with another person when you slipped away in Sakamoto's arms - even the mere idea made his skin crawl. He liked to tell himself that he was no longer burdened by feeling small and unspecial ever since he stopped going to church and started going to house parties where he would kiss and tell, but the feeling came back from time to time. He felt eyes from above watching him when he messed up women's bedsheet, his pleasure poisoned. "I'm not going back", he would think, "fuck all that", but when the show was over and the girl looked at him with doe eyes to search for aftercare he wanted to smother her with a pillow. But that wouldn't undo what he did.

Sometimes back in college when he would go back home for the summer, Lukas wanted to cry and beg to be let back into the safety of the church. "I was wrong", in that fantasy he would shout with his knees on the ground, "take me back". The neat front lawn and the rose gardens stayed the same, as did the trickling fountain with the chubby cherub, as did the blooming magnolia and cedar elm, as did the sounds of mourning doves. Still, he felt bare and naked under the blue summer sky with no clouds to shield him from the sun. He wondered if his parents would take him back in were he to come back this time donning the cloth of the progidal son, or if he had to wait for the heaven's gate to be sure of the feast. So he held back, coming back into the air-conditioned living room loud and obnoxious, hugging and kissing his family. Nothing changed. He would go into his childhood bedroom - it would be wiped clean of any dust or spiderweb, his stacks of old videogames laid in the corner, his movie posters on the wall. The blinds would be left ajar, letting sunlight filter through and hit the freshly made bed where he would lie in and notice how small the pillow had gotten. He would wait until dinner was served, and at the table everyone would sidestep his absence from the church. Sometimes, his father would ask for his Sunday plans, to which he would say "I'll meet you guys for lunch". His mother would nod, and the awkward silence would soon be broken by his sister's stories about what happened at school. Lukas couldn't even try to pity their faith - it was cemented into them, sturdy and unchanging. It was so strong, he suspected, that they still held out for him to come back one day and attend mass again. Though, summer would pass and he would pack his back and leave again with a couple of weekends plans in his pocket, missing the haze of liquors and perfume. Next time, maybe.

This summer there weren't any plane flights back to Texas. Instead, he lied in the hard, narrow bed, his leg hanging out of the thin blanket as he stared at the ceiling. Outside, he saw electric wires and concrete apartments spreading until the horizon. It was a different quiet - no cricket, no winds going through the trees, no tinkerings of subtle magic when he would hear an owl hooting over the rooftop. Plain silence, as if the city outskirt was holding its breath to wait for something else to happen.

He wondered about what Sakamoto and you were doing, and a pit opened in his stomach. Lukas thought about what he would do if he were there with you instead. Sex? The idea was hollow and laborious - that wouldn't do. He had come to the realization that he didn't want to do to you what he had done to others - to undress, to use, to fantasize about smothering. Instead, he wanted to get on his knees and listen to you with his head on your laps and his arms wrapping around your legs. He wanted to look up into your eyes to see them unreadable to the point of emptiness and your lips harsh and stern, the same way you looked at the pest who had harrassed you that night at the concert. He wanted you to raise your iron fist and beat him senseless for his beating heart and his unwitting erection. You would disregard the excuse of "I can't help it", refusing the wired-in biological plea of his body. None mattered but the stark difference between sinful and sinless - and he was sinful.

Yuki didn't know how it happened. You were on the couch with your quilt wrapped around you, freshly showered with your hair still wet, and he was at the sink making a ginger tea from what ingredients he had procured in your barren pantries and depressing fridge. Then he was seated next to you whose breaths were still short and nervous. He wasn't sure what to say, so he presented the tea to you nervously. You feigned a smile. He didn't. He closed the distance, unable to find anything to say to ease your mind. He asked what happened. You talked. He recognized the people in your stories from all the other conversations, but they used to be just names and surface-level anecdotes. Now he understood, he said. You looked the other way, your quilt slipping off, your neck bare. The water droplets glistened on your skin. He wanted to do something selfish now, but he didn't. In shame he looked down on his laps, feeling heat spreading through his body like a wildfire. He stuttered when he said that he was sorry, and that addictions wasn't something one could control. You said something about you being a coward, but your exact words escaped his spinning head. He said it was hard to be strong all the time, and that he hoped something could happen for you to let your guard down because you didn't deserve to be in survival mode all your life. At that, he glanced over, flinching a little to see you turning to him again, wide-eyed like a deer in headlight. The heat from his body was messing with his ears - he could not hear you correctly when you opened your mouth to speak, but he could make out that you had tripped on your words as well. His breath got caught in his throat. Reasons fled. He brought himself closer quickly, afraid to lose the moment.

But he didn't know how it happened.

No turning off the lights, no getting ready, neither lipstick nor perfume, he had you as you were. He felt heat within him, yet you were even warmer to the touch. You held onto him anxiously, nodding when he asked for your approval, and smiling at him when he was where he needed to be. He didn't notice the time, but it didn't matter - it was a Friday night, and he wasn't supposed to be anywhere else but the cat cafe he had promised to take you tomorrow's morning. This felt right, he thought, and from the look on your face when he leaned in to kiss your again after it was over, you agreed.

In the next morning when you saw Sakamoto hestitated before shyly picking up the condom wrapper you both had forgotten on the night stand, you knew he would have questions you didn't want to answer. You didn't say anything as you poured water atop the coffee filter and closed the lid.

"Is it from your last boyfriend?"

You felt his self-consciousness. His bare back was on you, the lines of muscles pressing against one another showing the tension vividly. The dress pants he had put on weren't so defined without the belt, leaving him dishelved. You looked down, feeling anxiety bubbling in your stomach.

"No... just someone I was getting to know."

You always hated this part. This usually would be time for the man to ask how many you'd gone through, what were they like, if they were better in bed. Then, when you refused to answer, they would scoff scornfully to say that you were indeed "openminded". You did not sleep with many people, but you knew any numbers above zero could put a dent in their ego. Nervous now, you swallowed, trying to fix your dry throat.

"It's not too old, is it?"

"3 months ago."

"I never heard about him, but sounds like he wasn't very nice."

At this he turned around. You didn't expect the smile on his face - it wasn't wry and disdainful. You thought it was a little smug, with his nose scrunched and the corner of his lips etching upward to show his teeth. Bashfully laughing, you covered your mouth with your palm, your other hands wrapped around your torso, clutching your shirt.

The playful look on his face dropped at that. You tried not to look at him as he walked over.

"I'm sorry. I was an asshole for that."

"No...", you shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut now.

The air hung heavy. You felt his breath over your shoulders.

"Are you trying to hide from me?"

"I'm sorry. I'm just overwhelmed."

He didn't say anything yet. You felt his arms wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest. His cool skin soothed your nerves.

"Do you regret it?"

"I was worried you might be."

That wasn't a "no" and you knew he noticed. You had violated your golden rule: no coworkers. Still, you would be a liar to claim that you never thought about him in this way. Those were fleeting thoughts, ones which you brushed off and treated as intrusive fantasies.

Last night proved you wrong.

You worried because outside of this apartment you were somebody else. You had a mother waiting for you to come home and inherit her fortune, a father who sat silently in his study mourning over the only masterpiece he ever wrote, and a brother who had just returned to rehab after three seemingly clean years. Under the sleepy, monotone current of Tokyo you brewed an urgency to come to their aids, to wait for their calls and texts. Every week, your mother's grievances about your father's lovers sat on your screen like a sour reminders. Any other, your brother would ask for money, and were you to see it fit you would monitor all the pictures he sent for signs of relaspe before wiring him what he asked, little by little, making sure to let your parents know behind his back. Sooner or later, a part of you knew the house of card you had built in Tokyo would topple under their breaths. You remembered the ultimatum they had given - if something serious happened to your brother, you were to go home.

Last night was a close call.

"It would be difficult at first, yes... but I think it will be okay eventually. I think my family will like you."

Your heart dropped. Your voice had no weight as you choked out "what?", stunned. Readjusting your body so you could face him, you saw his earnest eyes gazing at you.

"What?" - he asked back, puzzled.

"What do you mean your family?"

"I thought we were- I thought you-

He stumbled over his words, the light in his eyes dimming. His mouth was left hung open. He left his thoughts dormant at the tip of his tounge for way too long before painfully whispering "I thought this meant something."

You were frozen in his arms like a statue. He held you, his arms dropping down to your side, fingers lacing tighter than before. You wanted to say something, afraid that he would leave.

"It does."

"Then... the next step is to get to know each other, right?"

"Yes, but... what do you mean your family would like me?"

Was he thinking marriage because he felt he had used your body improperly? Or was he playing the same, disappointing game of overcommitment to string you along?

"It's..."

He went red to the tip of his ears.

"I was hoping we would get somewhere serious... but my family is complicated."

You didn't squirm away from him like you had planned to yet. Instead, you let your head fall to his chest, weary.

"Mine too."

The soft sunlight had turned into a glare through your curtain. You felt your skin dampen under the heat of his body when you asked - "so then... what do we do?"

He didn't say anything as he held you tighter.

"I can get through it with my family... but I-

You had mistaken his fear for indecision. Pulling yourself away, you had your eyes cast down and let the sinking feeling wash over. Whatever, you thought, the moment was real, but perhaps it ought to stay that way. It was for the best - after all, nobody made any promises. Swallowing all the tenderness you had felt and all the moments you had watched his kindness shine, you felt the weight of your family leaning against you.

He helplessly watched, unable to say that he didn't want you to suffer what was in store.

#yandere oc #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere male #yandere reader insert #yandere x reader #male yandere

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