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chaptersleftunwritten · 7 months ago

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Down on all fours

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Blurb: After you unwillingly come clean about your undying love for Eddie Munson, your life is swept into a whirlwind of deceit, lust, confusion and regret… and glitter that Eddie can’t seem to shake from his pockets.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader x Steve Harrington x Chrissy Cunningham

Warnings: 18+, slight angst (?), alcohol consumption, reader referred to as girl, cheating/unfaithfulness, drugs mentioned (weed), mentions of blood, depictions of violence, cursing, bodily insecurity, implied sexual themes. Character are 20+ and in a college setting!

divider by @cafekitsune

The movie theatre would never be the same anymore— not to you. Not since that day. A place once associated with joy and child like wonder, where you watched your beloved characters come to life on the big screen and where you could laugh openly, unattractively and purely with your friends.

Tainted. Forever changed.

But not forgotten. Never forgotten.

The memories have been eating you alive, feasting on your insecurity and your shame. Despite the look of fearful regret on Eddie’s face, you still thought about him.

Day and night— morning and noon. Before you slept and before you awoke each morning. He even infiltrated your dreams. Dreams are meant to be sacred, private affairs and yet, Eddie Munson still ruled them like the King of all of your desires. His ring clad fingers were still clutching onto your heart— squeezing and loosening his grip around the vital organ as he saw fit. He had the upper hand; the control.

He always did. He always has.

You couldn’t bring yourself to face them— any of them. Not Steve, not Robin, not Chrissy and especially not Eddie. It was peculiar, the addictive need to see Eddie no matter the cost— no matter the humiliation. It out weighed every sane thought you had.

You would steal glances at him from across a room, hiding in plain sight. Desperate for the shadows to claim you as their own; for the walls to hug you back. You felt other worldly, as if your soul was floating outside of your body and you had no rational feeling. No say. No voice.

Confessions should be freeing; but you have never felt so trapped. Chained. Soul tied.

Love conquers all, but love also might just conquer you.

It’s mid-week, and although college parties always attract unwanted attention you could never have prepared to see this many people crashing your family home. Precious photos were knocked over, the smashed glass from the frames line the top of shelves and cabinets- glittering them in a forbidden pixie dust.

Your bedroom has been occupied by a couple you didn’t recognise and if it weren’t for the pleasant buzz of alcohol coursing through your blood you most certainly would have screamed at them to leave. The sicker parts of you were envious of their engagement. Their human closeness and connection.

Why couldn’t you have that? Didn’t you deserve that?

So instead of blowing your top, you roll your eyes and scoff before slamming the familiar door obnoxiously loud and coke to nest at the bottom of the staircase; the wood is hard and cold against your bare thighs which causes you to pay some uncomfortable attention to your outfit. Sparkly, twinkly and stupid.

Your heart sinks to the abysmal pit at the bottom of your stomach at the realisation that nobody here really knows what this party is for. Who it is for.

Your birthday streamers that once decorated the walls proudly have become unpinned from the concrete, cascading down the wall in a massive spiral and hiding the message written on the plastic.

Happy birthday!

Not a single person had uttered those words to you the whole night. Even on a day where you were meant- born to be celebrated, you have been forgotten. A bystander in your own life. An observer in a theatrical play written for you. About you.

And the humour of it all?

You were used to it now.

Nothing could break your heart; because it was already in pieces.

Shreds. Splinters. Fragments. Puzzle pieces never to be solved or mended again. A heart shaped hole stamped into your chest where someone once lived.

Cobwebs inhabit the vacant crevasse, dust gathering on the sensitive walls. The sensitive walls that have hardened into a volcanic crust.

The only thing left behind in your impenetrable fortress? A single crumpled envelope with Eddie’s name written on it in cursive. The ‘i’ in his name punctuated with a loveheart.

He was the only tenant you wanted living there. And in reality, he should have been evicted a long time ago.

But nobody said love was easy. Nobody warned you that it would be this hard, though, either.

Was love supposed to make you this low? Was it supposed to make you find your bearings at the bottom of a red fizzing cup? The carbonated bubbles in your drink seemed to be your only friend tonight.

Would it really be your birthday if you didn’t cry at least once? Or twice… or thrice.

“Hey! Does anyone have any weed?” Your quiet attempt at a yell comes out of your mouth in the form of a drunken hiccup and you are debating the possibility that you may have stood up too fast, “Anyone? No?” Frustrated you pinch the bridge of your nose as you sigh loudly into your hand, your ears met by silence from your peers.

“I might.” You can hear a comedic tweak in his voice and you swear you can feel part of you die on the inside.

“Steve,” You say through clenched teeth, forcing a smile, “I didn’t know you smoked?” You also weren’t aware that he would be here— but you can’t deny the attention that this party is demanding from the neighbourhood. You are partly surprised that the police haven’t been called yet, but your neighbours aren’t known to be snitches.

“I don’t usually,” he shrugs dismissively, “I didn’t know you were throwing a party? Thankfully word travels fast in this town, huh?” His elbow gently nudges into your arm playfully, “There’s no better time for me to give you this.” He hands you a small box that has been wrapped all too perfectly in a sage green wrapping paper; brought together with a pretty black tulle bow. For a moment you are totally stunned, eyes inflated as you gawk down at the gift in your slightly shaky hands.

“You…” you search for the words, lost in his kindness and when you finally gather enough courage to meet his sweet brown eyes you nearly drown in their depths, “You got me a gift?”

He flashes you one of his signature Steve smiles and your drunk brain can’t seem to comprehend if this is a joke of not.

“Of course I did? You’re one of my best friends!” His voice is a happy chime as he ruffles his fingers through his chestnut gelled hair, offering the stiff strands some movement. You notice his pupils flicking between your face and the present in your hands, one of his eyebrows raise with subtle confusion, “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Yeah- yes! Yes, of course!” You set your empty cup down on a nearby table before your nimble fingers come to wrestle with the sticky tape, painted fingernails clawing like an animal to get to the goods inside. There is a nervousness that comes with the unwrapping of the gift and you don’t quite understand why. The moment feels significant… special. You finally feel somewhat special tonight.

Eagerly, Steve keeps his warm amber eyes trained on you. A soft, dreamy smile itching at his lips as he awaits your approval. You and Steve had been friends for such a long time, you even opened your college acceptance letters together in his family dining room with his parents. He had always been there for you, through everything. One of your best friends— possibly your only friend.

“I haven’t seen you around in a while— how have you been?” His voice is laced with genuine concern but all you can do is ogle at what is displayed in front of you. A shiny silver necklace that had been personalised to have your name dangling from the chain with small colourful charms decorating the metal plating sit inside of the small box that Steve had handed to you. It was beautiful. It was you. And not to mention… it perfectly matched your outfit.

“Shut up!” You gasp, picking up the chain from the safety of its box and dangling it in front of Steve’s face, the neon stream of lights from the party reflect off of its pristine surface, “Steve!! What the Hell? This is stunning!” You become a fit of excited girlish giggles and Steve shakes his head at your outburst, finding it adorable.

“You like it?” He is booming to be heard over the increasingly loud music and you squeal, fumbling with the latch on the chain.

“Like it? I love it! Thank you so much!” You reach around your neck, fighting to clip the necklace and Steve offers you a helping hand accompanied by an amused chucklez, “It’s perfect, Steve, truly! I love it, I love it!” You brush your hair over your shoulder, allowing Steve to access the chain and clasp it securely.

“There! Pretty as a picture.” He winks at you and you toy with your name displayed across your chest; an honest smile gracing your lips.

“Happy birthday.” His large palm rubs the flesh of your shoulder and you nod at him in acknowledgement. There is an after glow that lingers after Steve’s touch disappears and you are not even aware of where he wanders off to but when you realise that you are stood alone… you feel that all too familiar feeling start to creep it’s way back into your chest. An icy chill. A storm brewing.

“Steve?” You call out to him, however your voice is wasted with how small it was and goes totally unnoticed. Your eyes drink in the sea of dancing, sweating bodies around you. The number of people in your home is multiplying— like a deathly virus.

The perky smile falls from your cheeks and only then do you remember why you were even talking to Steve in the first place— you wanted some weed. You needed some.

Or did you?

You wanted to escape life. To feel free from the bounds of Eddie Munson, free from the shackles of your mind. This is the only way you knew how… sleep wasn’t an option— he could reach you there.

Even the darkest corners of your mind, where even the ghosts refused to venture, were haunted by Eddie— there was no fleeing from him. You were his.

But he was Chrissy’s.

You find yourself outside, sitting in the cool night air by the side of your house. Your face is flushed from the alcohol and your skin feels as though it is prickling with heat; fiery.

Your mini skirt hugs your hips and thighs and you fist the fabric, suddenly uncomfortable with the way your body looks in the garment. The way the flesh of your thighs squish the ground beneath you has you stifling a scream and you wrap your arms tightly around your torso to shield the rest of your body from the world.

Your eyes flicker and blaze with the mirrored light from the street lamps, the orange hues meeting the chunky glitter that dominates your eyelids. The heavy makeup was starting to irritate your eyes, but you would do anything to seem half presentable. Anything to feel and look your best.

A choked laugh emits past your lips; it was ludicrous. How you had been exiled from your own birthday party. Left to the wolves of the wild. You didn’t mind too much— it meant you could finally take off this weighty mask you had been hiding behind all night. No more untruthful smiles, no more biting back teary eyes.

You could finally feel. And breathe.

However, your reign of peace and solitude doesn’t last long as your ears perk involuntarily at an all too recognisable thundering chuckle. This whole time, you had been preparing for him to show face and yet you have never felt so startled. A deer in headlights.

The chains around your wrists tighten as you stiffen, unable to move. Unable to respond or breathe or think.

Eddie had arrived.

“Woooah! Lookie’ here! If it isn’t the birthday girl,” Even in the dim light of the garden you can see his Cheshire smile examining you, “What you doing out here all alone, Sweetheart?”

Your breath remains lodged tightly in your throat, wound up like a coiled spring and you are unable to speak. It’s almost as if you are paralysed— has he hit you with a tranquillising dart? Or was that just his cologne that had you so wrapped up in everything that he is.

He called you sweetheart…

He called you sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

His sweetheart?

“Hello? Are you okay?” His hand waves in front of your face, causing you to blink and flinch momentarily at the sudden action, “Aren’t you cold out here?”

“No…” a whisper is all you could manage. It’s all you could afford to give him.

There wasn’t much of you left to give. Soon you would be this vacant polished shell of a human being— beautiful on the outside and hopeless on the inside.

“Okay, well… Happy birthday.” He nods at you enthusiastically, his voice like a siren song lulling you to your demise. He shoves his hands into his ripped jeans pockets, letting out an exaggerated shiver before he says, “Hey, have you seen Chrissy? She came here an hour ago and I haven’t really heard from her.” He tries to disguise the worry in his voice, but you can read him like a book. The way his hands are twitching from his pockets to rub anxiously at his neck, or how he bounces on the balls of his feet— the adrenaline causing him to be restless.

You wish Eddie could do the same with you. You wish he could see past this makeup and this charade. You wish he could recognise just how much that simple sentence had ruined your evening.

Of course he was here looking for Chrissy, why else would he have showed up? For you? Please. The thought alone was laughable.

“I didn’t even know she was here.” Your chin tilts to your shoulder where you can eye the large window looking on into your kitchen. The lights are out but there are neon fairy lights twinkling and illuminating the darkness. It’s almost as if you are looking through a kaleidoscope.

It had taken you hours to hang all of those lights, only to watch other people enjoy their warmth instead.

“You should come back inside, you don’t seem like you’re having a lot of fun out here in the dark.” Eddie takes a leisurely seat next to you and out of instinct you shuffle a few inches away from him, trying to create as much distance as possible, “Are you wasted? You’re being eerily quiet.”

“It’s a party, Eddie.” You sigh, answering him without leaving a single beat, an abrupt newfound confidence helps you to untangle your voice, “People get drunk at parties— I just wish I had some weed.”

It was ironic, wishing for weed as you talk to a weed dealer.

“Is that really your birthday wish? To have weed?” His shoulders bounce lightly as he laughs, his hands coming to find his coat pocket. You shrug in response to his question, tipping your head back and swallowing the last of what was left swirling around in the bottom of your cup.

The truth was, you hadn’t even lit your birthday candles yet. There hadn’t been a right time and you didn’t want to be that person. But if you had sparked those candles… you would have wished for him.

Not for weed. Not for money. Not for beauty or brains.

You would have wished for Eddie Munson.

“Here.” He is careful to take your hand into his, gently prying your fingers open and dropping a bud of weed into your palm before he is securing your fingers back over it, “It isn’t much, I know that but… if I could make your birthday wish a reality then I suppose that’s pretty alright, huh?” He holds your wrist loosely in his grip and your fuzzy brain can’t compute if you are dreaming or not.

You had expected fireworks from his touch— a massive explosion of technicolour and bright blinding lights.

But what you got was far more sensual than that. An electric shockwave travelled along your skin from your arm to your back, zapping down every vertebrae in your spine and coating your body in a blanket of goosebumps. Every single one of your hairs stood on end and this might have been the most alert you have felt all day. You felt awake. Resurrected. Alive.

“Are you sure?” You gulp, mouth suddenly dry, “I can pay you…” You start to frantically search your person for any sign of loose cash— your bra, did your skirt have pockets this morning? No. Where the Hell is your purse?

“No- no! This is a gift, from me to you! It’s your birthday for crying out loud!” Eddie is holding both of your wrists now, his attempt to still your nervous jittery movements, “Just enjoy it, okay? Just… just smile.” His deep pleading voice is painful as it enters your ears.

Just smile.

Smile? Weren’t you smiling?

“Thank you…” up until this point you hadn’t fully perceived just how close of a proximity you and Eddie were nestled at. His slight body leaning in closer to yours, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. He was within kissing distance and all you could do now was stare at his dimpled smile. The sight alone was enough to cause your own lips to tweak up at the corners.

“Do you know how to roll a joint?” Eddie could evidently sense the growing tension and he pulls away from you, not in a moment of disgust and terror— but out of respect. Attraction was clear but Eddie was like a loyal dog to Chrissy. There’s no way he would betray her.

“Oh- uhm… no, no I don’t.” You laugh slightly as you look down at the drugs held captive in your hand. Your skin being tinged with the ponging smell.

“Luckily for you, I’m a bit of a master at it.”

“Eddie?” A whimper. A whisper. Weak. Sorrow filled.

“Yeah?” His heavenly eyes had you questioning why thieves ever bothered to steal art— when you were looking at a masterpiece.

A pause. Nothingness. Expectation. Shadows.

“Why do you hate me?” The question is shuddered out through constricted teeth and you find an ungodly comfort in that familiar ache inside of your sternum, “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me, Eddie.”

“I don’t hate you-“

“But you don’t love me. You don’t… like me.” You push your feet into the soft earth, coming to stand shakily in front of Eddie’s seated frame, “Every time I look at you, I can't help but hope you feel the same butterflies in your stomach when you look back at me.” Your eyes settle on the empty street, the only noise circulating the neighbourhood was coming from inside your house. Thumping bass beating in harmony with your heart, “But deep down, I know all you feel is pity."

“That isn’t true and you’re being cruel.” Eddie launches to his feet, darting to stand in front of you, “Where is this coming from? If I have hurt you, I assure you that it was never my intention— I could never hurt you purposely.”

“You didn’t have to purposely hurt me, Ed’s. All I had to do was sit back and watch you love someone else. Someone better than me… that was enough to break my spirit.”

A disruption shakes the interior of your house, a commotion surfacing and you can hear the cheers and whistles from your peers. Eddie clocks it as well, and you can see a panic distort his puppy like features.

“Please can we talk about this tomorrow, when you’re sober and… and we can both just figure this out? Please?” His hands find your shoulders, holding you steady as his chocolate orbs bear into yours. His attention is on you, but you can tell that his feet are ready to sprint indoors.

Quietly, you nod. Anything to please him. Anything to make him happy. Plus— you were also intrigued as to what was happening behind in you. Whatever it was, it had stirred up a whirlwind.

Eddie is quick to leave your side, like a whippet released onto a race track, taking the porch steps two at a time and you are hot on his heels. You are clumsy in your kitten heeled shoes, but you are right behind him.

‘I’ll follow thee and make a Heaven of a Hell.

To die upon the hand I love so well.’

William Shakespeare, Helena

“What’s going on?” You stagger into the shoulder of a Frat member, whispering an inaudible apology as he turns to glare down at you. Though, after he takes in your appearance his solid and annoyed expression softens into amusement and what you can only assume as blind lust.

“Harrington and Cunningham got caught banging in the bathroom— can’t believe you missed it! It was fucking priceless.” He drapes his heavy muscular arm over your shoulders and your knees nearly buckle beneath you at his weight pressing down on you.

“What?” You peek up at him through your eyelashes, clearly dazed. You have to make sure— you have to hear him say it again.

“Cunningham? Chrissy?” He is laughing rudely into your face and your nose scrunches distastefully at the stench of beer on his breath, “And Steve Harrington! They were fucking! He had her bent over the bathroom sink, man! His hands full of her hair— pretty sure the mirror is gonna be covered in lipstick!” Finally he unhooks his arm from around your neck and you feel like you may just float up to the ceiling.

You push away from him, using his massive hulking body to propel you further into the mob, your eyes desperate to find Eddie in the crowd. And when you do… it’s ugly.

Anguish, rage, indecision and fear blaze in Eddie’s tear glossed eyes. The gears inside of his head were working like clockwork and you knew where this was about to go as he stares murderously at Steve. Jaw wired tightly shut, nostrils flaring into bullet sized holes and fists so punishingly rigid that you can see the bones of his knuckles straining against his skin; turning his skin to a snow like shade of white.

Steve descends from the top of the staircase alone. His hair is tossed into a messy heap upon his sweat soaked head and you can read from his slumped and lazy stance alone that Steve is totally gone. His hands grasp the bannister, clinging onto the wood for dear life in hopes that he won’t fall down the steep steps.

“Eddie- no, don’t do it!” You try to move toward him as quickly as your boozy brain would allow, but it’s too late. Eddie is flying toward Steve like a bat out of Purgatory.

Time appears to speed up as you watch the violence unfold in front of you alongside the rest of chanting crowd. Eddie has smashed Steve against the wall by the collar of his shirt and you swear you hear some sort of cracking noise come from concrete from the connection of Steve’s back hurling into the plasterboard.

“Fuck! Guys, stop it!” Not only are you terrified of Steve getting beat to a pulp— but your parents would kick you out of the house if things got tarnished beyond repair. And that includes the paint work.

A brutish punch thrown by Eddie bursts Steve’s cheek open and you squeal in horror at the stream of pure gore that spurts from the gnarly wound, “Jesus Christ, Eddie!!” Marching up the staircase you wedge yourself between the two men and Eddie’s movements still. He allowed himself one punch. One good punch, as a warning and also as a courtesy. He didn’t want to frighten you and he also didn’t want to take advantage of Steve’s inebriated state.

One punch is all he needed to satisfy the sickening anger bubbling within him.

And then he fled— like a killer at a crime scene.

“Eddie! Wait- fuck!!” You curse, your hands finding your hair as you tug on the roots of the delicate strands. You are beyond stressed. All you can do is watch as Eddie weaves his way through the mosh pit of bodies who had all quickly gone back to dancing— like nothing had happened.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Steve blubbers next to you and you turn to him, your eyes widened with shock and distress but it doesn’t take long for your glare to become vexing.

“What did you do, Harrington?! If you weren’t already bleeding right now I would slap you in your goddamn face!” Your grip on him is scolding and hurried as you manage to help him down to rest on one of the wooden steps, your eyes unable to waver from the crimson leaking gash on his face.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…” His face rests in his hands as he breathes deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth. And just as you prepare to give him a bollocking of a life time, Chrissy emerges from sanctuary of the top floor, desperately trying to rescuer her bra straps back onto your shoulders. Her clothes are twisted sloppily around her body and she, too, is undoubtedly, totally, 110% fucking hammered.

Both your and the blondes eyes meet and your lips pinch downwards into a frown. Your head shakes disapprovingly and your mind is clouded with nervy thoughts for Eddie’s wellbeing and all you can conjure up to say to the dishevelled woman is;

“How the fuck did this happened?”

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sixeyesonathiel · 12 days ago

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a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

CH06 – scientific breakthrough : gojo satoru actually cares. terrifying.

pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader

summary : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. you invited him to play during recess? he chose studying instead. you tried to give him chocolates? he rejected them for the sake of your dental health. you called him boring and never looked back.

years later, you’re a party girl with daddy issues, and he's the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university. when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off—except gojo keeps finding you at every exclusive club, dragging you back to work like the menace he is.

you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

oh no.

tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending

previous | series masterlist | playlist | next

chapter summary : step six in ditching the world's most persistent nerd: do not let him see you unravel. do not let him wrap his jacket around your shoulders. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, ask him why he cares.

a/n : if you've ever thought 'being seen and understood is my worst nightmare,' congratulations, this chapter was made for you. warning: daddy issues, trust issues, emotional repression, and an overwhelming amount of unhealthy coping mechanism. please prepare for a descent into emotional instability, an aggressive refusal to acknowledge feelings, and the psychological horror of realizing that someone actually cares and perceives you. if you cry, just know i cried first. enjoy the suffering.

tuesday morning arrives with a weight that refuses to leave, pressing against your skin like a phantom touch. the air in your bedroom is thick, unmoving, the blackout curtains shielding you from the sharpness of daylight, but the world outside doesn’t wait for you to wake up. your phone vibrates relentlessly on the silk sheets beside you, each buzz stacking over the last—shoko and the others, no doubt demanding the details of your spectacularly underwhelming night.

you don’t need to read their messages to know what’s waiting for you—the sharp demands, the thinly veiled disbelief, the inevitable outrage the moment they find out. after everything, after all the effort, after every calculated move designed to have gojo satoru unraveling in your hands, he had remained untouchable. he hadn’t faltered, hadn’t stumbled, hadn’t even tried to resist—because there was nothing to resist. it hadn’t been a struggle for him.

your fingers hover over the keyboard before you scoff, throwing the device aside, silk rustling beneath it as you stare at the ceiling. what the hell is there to even say? no matter how you replay the night, the outcome remains the same: he had been amused, entertained, not once slipping from the effortless control that made your blood boil. there had been no hesitation in his gaze, no faltering in his movements, just that insufferable confidence, that detached curiosity, as if you were an interesting puzzle rather than a woman he should be losing himself to. it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, sharp and lingering, an unfamiliar frustration curling up your throat. you’ve never had to work for this before.

the thought alone is enough to send another wave of irritation through you, hot and unrelenting. it claws at your skin, prickles at the edges of your composure, demanding release, but before you can bury yourself beneath the covers and pretend the morning doesn’t exist, your phone rings. the sound is unmistakable—soft, elegant, demanding attention in a way that sends a slow dread curling through your stomach. your father. you stare at the name flashing on the screen, willing yourself to ignore it, but the moment stretches too long, the hesitation already an answer in itself. so you school your voice into something light, something detached, and press accept.

“morning.”

“good morning, angel.” his voice is smooth, warm, rich with indulgence, every syllable dipped in something sweet enough to rot. the way he says sweetheart makes your skin prickle, saccharine and too much, like a candy coating over something rancid. he is never this affectionate without reason. “did you sleep well?”

your grip on the phone tightens, knuckles paling beneath the pressure. why is he being like this? your mind flickers through possibilities, but none of them settle right. instead, you exhale, tilting your head back against the pillows, eyes tracing the crystal lines of the chandelier above you. “i guess.”

there’s a pause—long enough for you to hear the faint scratch of his pen against paper, the quiet clink of a glass being set down. then, almost absently, he says, “yesterday, you spent fifty million yen in one store.”

you don’t blink. “and?”

his laughter is easy, effortless, like you’re a child caught sneaking sweets before dinner. “fifty million yen—in a luxury mall.” he exhales, bemused. “my dear, you could have spent billions somewhere more exclusive. i didn't gift you a private jet for nothing.”

of course.

the implication settles like lead in your stomach. he doesn’t care that you spent. he cares where.

you almost laugh. almost. but it isn’t funny—it never is. because of course, it isn’t about the number, not about excess, not about waste. you were raised to believe that money was meant to be spent, that the act of spending was as natural as breathing. but there was a right way to do it, a way that upheld status, that reinforced power. the idea that you’d throw only fifty million yen at some glorified shopping center rather than invest in something truly worthy of your name is what bothers him. not the price tag, but the principle.

your fingers curl into the sheets, twisting them between tense knuckles. “it was an impulse buy.” you say, forcing lightness into your tone, feigning nonchalance.

“hmm.” another pause, long and measured, and you can already hear the faint smile curling at the edges of his words. “impulse is good. instinct is good. but you deserve the best, angel. never forget that.”

never forget that.

your jaw tightens, something sharp coiling beneath your ribs. you want to say something defiant, something that cuts, but there’s no point. he won’t listen, won’t argue—he never argues. he only corrects, like you’re a child who needs gentle redirection, a daughter whose worst flaw is an occasional lapse in judgment, a little girl playing pretend in a world run by men like him.

and then, just as you’re about to change the subject, he does it for you.

“by the way.” his tone is casual, smooth as a well-aged whiskey, but you know better. “i heard you’ve been spending time with gojo satoru.”

your breath catches before you can stop it, fingers twitching against the silk sheets.

you knew this was coming. you knew the second you stepped into satoru’s car last night that there would be eyes, that there would be whispers, that nothing you did would ever escape your father’s notice. it doesn’t matter how careful you are, how many shadows you slip through—his reach is longer, his influence deeper. he has always seen everything, and worse, he has always been waiting. waiting for you to slip, waiting for an opportunity, waiting for something he can use.

you school your expression, steady your voice, make sure nothing betrays the way your pulse thrums just a little too fast. “and?”

there’s a pause, deliberate, weighted just enough to remind you who controls the conversation. then, smoothly, indulgently, he says, “if you need help with anything—if there’s something you want—just let your daddy take care of it, hmm?”

your stomach twists so hard it nearly makes you sick.

you hate this part the most. the way he drapes affection over his words like a velvet sheath, disguising the edge beneath. the way he dotes on you, voice honeyed and rich, a father adoring his perfect daughter—his only daughter, his greatest investment. the way he makes you feel small, makes you feel precious, makes you feel like something to be protected rather than a woman who could destroy men if she wanted to. and the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that there is still a tiny, pathetic part of you that wants it.

that still craves it.

that remembers being seven years old, running to him in the halls of some grand, foreign estate, giggling, calling him daddy with all the love in the world before you were old enough to understand what he really was.

but you are old enough now. and you know exactly what he’s offering.

it has nothing to do with you. it never has. it’s not about protecting you, not about caring for you, not about making sure you’re safe, or happy, or even content. it’s about control. about power. about winning. he doesn’t just want you to have satoru—he wants you to own him.

because the gojo name is the only one that could ever stand next to yours without being eclipsed.

your grip on the phone is white-knuckled, nails digging into your palm. “i can handle it.” you say, and you hate how defensive it sounds, how it betrays you.

his chuckle is low, indulgent, a sound that makes something cold crawl down your spine. like you’re adorable. like you’re a child. like you don’t already know the game he’s playing. “of course you can.”

he won’t push. he never does. he’ll let the thought linger, let it fester, let you think it was your idea when you eventually cave. he has built empires on the backs of men who thought they were free. and maybe, if he were anyone else, you would admire it.

but he’s not. and you don’t.

he doesn’t scold you for partying. doesn’t call to ask if you’re safe, if you’re okay, if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you miss him. he doesn’t care that you spend your nights in the arms of men you don’t love, drinking yourself into a numb haze just to get through the week. the only thing that ever warrants a call is money. or business. or power.

you swallow the bitterness rising in your throat. “is that all?”

“that’s all, angel.” his voice is warm, pleased, dripping with effortless affection. like he loves you. like he’s proud. like he didn’t just remind you exactly what you are to him. “have a good day.”

the line clicks dead before you can answer.

for a long time, you just stare at your phone. the screen has long gone dark, but the weight of his words lingers, curling around your ribs like a vice, pressing down until your breath feels thin, shallow, insufficient. your pulse thrums in your ears, steady but too loud, drowning out everything else, leaving you with nothing but the sharp, bitter taste of control disguised as affection.

you already know how this plays out. shoko will take one look at you and see everything, utahime will start running her mouth before you even sit down, mei mei will hum like she’s already placing bets on your next move. you won’t let them see it. won’t let them see the way your chest feels tight, the way your thoughts are tangled, ugly, impossible to smooth out.

so you do what you always do. you overcompensate.

you drag yourself out of bed, tossing your phone aside, silk sheets shifting as you push to your feet. the room is dim, the air heavy with the scent of perfume lingering from the night before, a reminder of everything that should have gone differently. your bare feet press against the cold marble as you move, slow, deliberate, toward the walk-in closet that holds everything—every identity you’ve ever crafted, every version of yourself the world has demanded. rows of couture line the space, silk and lace and luxury draped on gold hangers, waiting. your fingers trail over the delicate fabrics, smooth and cool beneath your touch, before they stop on exactly what you’re looking for. before you even pull it from the hanger, you know how it will feel against your skin.

delicate lace, dangerously sheer, thin straps that barely cling to your shoulders. the kind of dress that invites attention, that commands it, that turns eyes whether you want them to or not. it’s impractical, inappropriate, something designed for dimly lit lounges and whispered promises, not for morning. but you don’t think about that. don’t think about the way the fabric shifts when you move, how it will ride up too easily, how it was made to be touched. you don’t consider the risks, don’t let the thought settle long enough to matter. you just want to feel different. anything but what you felt on that phone call.

your father’s voice is still there, thick with honeyed condescension, wrapping around your thoughts like a silk ribbon, too tight, too smooth. his words echo, threading beneath your skin, settling in places you can’t reach. never forget that. the indulgence in his tone, the amusement, the way he speaks to you like you’re a little girl playing dress-up in a world too big for you to ever truly hold. your fingers tighten around the fabric, the lace crumpling between your knuckles as you yank it from the hanger, careless. the dress is fragile, expensive, a masterpiece of design, but right now, it’s nothing more than a response. an instinct.

not a conscious rebellion—just something to drown out the sound of him in your head.

you slip it over your frame, the fabric whispering against bare skin, cool and weightless. thin lace straps sit precariously on your shoulders, barely there, teasing the line between elegance and something sharper, something that asks for trouble. the bodice dips lower than it should, the hemline threatens to ride up with every movement, but you don’t adjust it. don’t fidget, don’t fix, don’t care. you just let it be.

your fingers brush over the lace as you step in front of the mirror, taking in the reflection that meets you. bare skin, intricate patterns, sharp lines where softness should be. you don’t smile, don’t smirk, don’t pose. just look. at the way the fabric clings, at the way the dress was made to frame a body that is untouchable, untamed. at the girl who looks back at you, poised, effortless, unreadable.

not a child. certainly not an angel either.

you run a hand through your hair, exhaling slowly, releasing the tension in your jaw, in your shoulders, in the places his voice tried to settle.

you won’t see satoru today. won’t deal with any of it today.

you just need to get through the morning.

the moment your heels touch the pristine pavement outside the campus, the air shifts. conversations slow, falter, rearrange themselves around your presence like a ripple in still water. admiration thickens in the atmosphere, inevitable, predictable, a force of nature as certain as the pull of gravity. heads turn, necks crane, eyes drag over you in ways both deliberate and stolen, some lingering too long, some snapping away the second you meet their gaze. it’s an attention you know, an attention you’ve earned, an attention that normally fills something hollow inside you. but today, it barely registers. today, it’s just another weight pressing down on a mind already heavy with the residue of the morning.

they look. they always look. it’s the curse of beauty, the burden of being something designed to be admired, something that demands to be consumed whether you want it or not.

you can feel their eyes. the hushed murmurs, the split-second hesitations, the too-loud silence of those who don’t know whether they should stare or look away.

too short. too sheer. too much.

someone nearly walks into a pillar. another audibly gulps. one poor soul stares too long and gets smacked upside the head by his friend.

it’s nothing new. it should amuse you—the way people react like they’ve never seen a woman before, the way admiration tilts so easily into something flustered, something desperate, something stupid. you should bask in it, revel in the power that comes with turning heads without trying. but today, it barely scrapes against your consciousness. today, your mind is still tangled in the remnants of your father’s voice, in the slow-dripping venom of his words, in the way he made your entire existence feel like a carefully managed portfolio.

you don’t want to think today.

which is unfortunate, because the second you step past the gates, you are immediately ambushed.

“are you dead? kidnapped? in a coma? because those are the only acceptable reasons for why you didn’t text back—”

utahime’s voice slices through the air, sharp and unrelenting, demanding an answer before you’ve even fully stepped past the gates. her heels click against the pavement in rapid succession, a clear warning that she isn’t letting this go, not until you give her something. shoko is right behind her, exhaling a slow drag from her cigarette, eyes already half-lidded with unimpressed resignation, as if she’s counting down the seconds before this turns into a full-blown interrogation. mei mei lingers just a step to the side, not rushing to join but watching, a sleek predator in a silk blouse, gaze flashing with quiet amusement. she isn’t here to demand answers—she’s here to enjoy them. the longer you hesitate, the more valuable the entertainment becomes.

you barely get a breath in before utahime grabs your arm, manicured nails digging in, eyes widening as she takes you in like she’s seeing you for the first time. her gasp is so dramatic it practically echoes, drawing glances from the students loitering nearby. “oh my god.”

shoko exhales, letting the smoke curl lazily past her lips before finally giving you a once-over, her judgment slow, deliberate. “...you’re actually insane.”

mei mei hums, tilting her head slightly as she appraises your dress with something dangerously close to approval. “hmm. it’s a good look. though i think you’re about five seconds away from an old professor spontaneously combusting.”

utahime, still reeling, vibrates with barely-contained energy, her grip tightening around your wrist. “did you get laid?”

you jerk back, nearly stumbling in your heels. “excuse me?”

“that’s the only explanation,” she insists, gesturing wildly at your attire, nearly smacking shoko in the process. “i mean, this? this? this is an ‘i had amazing sex’ dress.”

shoko coughs out a laugh, nearly losing her cigarette, while mei mei arches a brow, intrigued.

you pinch the bridge of your nose, inhaling slowly through clenched teeth. “utahime—”

“so did you?”

shoko, ever the voice of reason, lifts a single brow, leveling you with a look that’s far too knowing for your liking. “this is about gojo, isn’t it?”

the air tightens, sharpens, a barely-there pause before—

utahime gasps. loudly.

“you didn’t reply because you were with him?!”

you groan, dragging a hand down your face, barely restraining the urge to physically shove her away. “no. i ignored you because i was sleeping.”

utahime narrows her eyes, leaning in slightly, searching your face for cracks. “suspicious.”

normally, you’d play along, feed into their assumptions, twist the conversation until it worked in your favor, thrive off the attention even as it disgusted you. but today, you just can’t. today, your patience is as thin as the lace on your dress, unraveling thread by thread, fraying at the seams. today, you just want the world to shut up.

“so,” shoko drawls, voice smooth, deliberate, entirely too knowing, “how’d the date go?”

silence.

a long silence.

mei mei smirks, slow and sharp, like she’s already decided this is the most entertaining part of her morning. utahime’s eyes widen, flicking between you and the others like she’s bracing for impact. shoko just stares, waiting, cigarette hanging between two fingers, the ember glowing faintly as if it, too, is holding its breath.

and then—utahime screeches.

“don’t tell me it didn’t work?!?”

you shove past them, making a beeline for the main building, your heels clicking against the pavement with enough force to warn them off. “i’m not talking about this here.”

“so it didn’t work!!”

you ignore her. absolutely not. you are not about to have this conversation in broad daylight, not when half the school is already staring at you like you’ve descended from a different plane of existence. their gazes cling like fabric caught on thorns, admiration and curiosity weaving together into something you should enjoy, something you usually enjoy. but today, it’s just another weight pressing down, another reminder of the eyes you’ll never escape.

unfortunately, your three best friends have never been known for their subtlety.

shoko matches your pace with infuriating ease, hands shoved into her pockets, exhaling smoke as she casually side-eyes you. “he didn’t react at all, did he?”

“not even a little bit?” utahime presses, still vibrating with residual disbelief.

you don’t grind your teeth. don’t scoff, don’t roll your eyes. you just… sigh. a slow, measured thing, precise in its weight, deliberate in its effortlessness.

“no,” you say simply, voice light, untouched, like last night wasn’t a complete failure. like it doesn’t bother you at all. “he wasn’t flustered. wasn’t thrown off. just amused.”

silence. a beat too long.

shoko’s cigarette pauses midair, a thin wisp of smoke curling toward the sky. mei mei’s fingers still mid-adjustment of her bracelet, the silver catching the light. utahime—predictably—is the first to react.

“okay, that’s not normal,” she says flatly, scanning your face like she expects to see a crack forming in your composure.

“definitely not normal,” shoko agrees, brow twitching upward, cigarette lowering just slightly.

mei mei hums, a thoughtful sound, gaze sharp beneath the weight of amusement. her nails tap idly against the gold clasp of her bag, rhythmic, unhurried, like she’s already dissecting you piece by piece. “and you’re… fine with that?” she doesn’t say interesting, but it lingers between the words, stretching the silence thin. she’s studying you, the way a predator studies a wounded animal—not out of pity, but curiosity, waiting to see if you’ll limp.

you shrug, careless, effortless, the picture of someone with nothing to prove. “why wouldn’t i be?”

the air shifts, subtle but undeniable, a quiet current of unease threading between you. your nonchalance is wrong, off, just enough to make them hesitate. they expected frustration, irritation, something dramatic—a sharp scoff, an exasperated eye roll, a low, venomous rant about how no one ignores you, least of all gojo satoru. but instead, you are calm. unbothered. untouchable.

except, they know you too well. they know the difference between control and detachment.

shoko exhales, flicking ash onto the pavement, watching you through the thin veil of smoke curling between you. “you’re taking this too well.” her voice is even, measured, but there’s something else beneath it—something wary, something bordering on concern.

“i am?” you tilt your head slightly, amusement threading through your tone, light and dismissive.

utahime folds her arms, gaze narrowing, the skeptical weight of her stare pressing down on you. “yes. you are. which is why i don’t believe you.”

your smile is easy, smooth, the kind that gleams like polished glass—pristine, impenetrable, impossible to crack. “then don’t.”

you turn without waiting for a response, stepping through the entrance, letting the doors swing shut behind you. the warmth of the building presses against your skin, heavy and familiar, but it doesn’t chase away the cold curling in your chest. their voices follow, softer now, hushed under the weight of what isn’t being said.

you’re fine.

really.

you step into the classroom, the cool air of the lecture hall settling against your skin like an unwelcome touch, sharp and grounding. the fluorescent lights cast a clinical glow over the rows of seats, the faint hum of the projector filling the silence as students murmur, shuffle, settle. you move through it with ease, slipping into your usual seat with the practiced grace of someone who has done this a thousand times before. nothing is out of place, nothing is unfamiliar, nothing is wrong. you are here, in your seat, in your body, in control.

you are not thinking about him.

but he is impossible to ignore.

he’s seated one row above you, posture as effortless as ever, one arm draped over the back of his chair like he owns the space around him. today, his glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, wire-rimmed and deceptively delicate, a sharp contrast to the well-fitted knit jacket layered over his crisp button-up. the fabric is expensive, subtly rich, draping over him in a way that suggests wealth without ever having to announce it. everything about him is composed, curated, intentional—right down to the way he doesn’t even look in your direction.

you don’t look at him either. not directly.

the lecture begins, numbers and strategies flickering across the screen, the professor’s voice a steady drone that fills the space without quite reaching you. you keep your eyes on your notes, let the pen move in smooth, precise strokes, let the rhythm of ink against paper give you something to anchor yourself to. satoru doesn’t move. doesn’t turn. doesn’t acknowledge you in any way.

the class drones on. you take notes. you listen. you exist.

you are fine.

and then, the lecture ends.

you push out of your seat immediately, movements smooth, efficient, calculated to leave. you don’t need to linger. don’t need to hesitate. the room is still filled with students filtering out, conversations overlapping, laughter cutting through the air in bursts of sound. you navigate through them with ease, heels clicking against the polished floor, your focus singular—get out, move forward, keep going.

and then—a grip on your wrist. the touch is firm, insistent, enough to halt you before you even see who it is. your stomach twists. you already know.

when you turn, it’s exactly who you expected—son of a major media company, charming in a way that feels practiced, manufactured, honed like a well-worn script. his smile is easy, his confidence effortless, the kind of man who has never been told no in a way that mattered. he’s been circling you for weeks, persistent in ways that should be flattering but aren’t, his interest another thing that clings like cigarette smoke—lingering, unpleasant, impossible to scrub off.

any other day you would've entertain his bullshit but not today—your patience is nonexistent.

you tug your wrist back, sharp and immediate, fingers curling into a fist to stop yourself from doing more. “not in the mood.”

he laughs, casual, dismissive, the sound curling around your spine like something rotting. “come on, don’t be like that.”

your eyes narrow, voice cold, cutting. “don’t touch me.”

he ignores you, reaching out again—too fast, too careless. his fingers brush against your arm, the movement not forceful, not aggressive, but clumsy, entitled, as if he is allowed. as if he is owed. you move to pull away, sharp and immediate, but it’s already too late. his hand catches, just barely, on the delicate lace of your dress—

and suddenly, the air shifts.

the sound is soft, almost insignificant, a quiet snap of thread, a whisper of fabric giving way. but the effect is immediate, mortifying. the thin strap of your dress slips off your shoulder, dragging the delicate fabric dangerously low—not enough to bare everything, but enough to make heads turn, enough to freeze the air around you, enough to make your breath catch in horror. gasps ripple through the lecture hall, sharp inhales, the rustling of movement as heads turn, attention crashing down on you in waves, heavy and suffocating. whispers start, too fast to track, words you don’t hear but know, voices curling through the air like the inevitable hum of scandal.

your breath catches, muscles locking—before anything else can happen, before you can even react, there is a presence.

him.

a shadow at your side, movement swift, seamless, a barrier forming between you and the world before you can so much as blink. fabric sweeps over your shoulders in one fluid motion, warm from body heat, enveloping you completely, drowning you in the scent of clean linen, something faintly sweet, something him. the shift in the atmosphere is instant, electric, the weight of his presence settling into the space like a hand closing around the throat of the moment.

gojo satoru.

he doesn’t just step in—he claims the space, effortlessly shifting the power dynamic, erasing everything else.

and for the first time in a long time since your group project with him started, satoru doesn’t look amused.

his voice, when it comes, is sharp, smoothed to a perfect edge, all the usual lightness carved away into something colder. “you should know better.”

it isn’t a suggestion.

it isn’t a threat.

it’s a simple, cutting truth, his tone even, satoru's words deceptively light, but carrying something weightier, something that lands with a finality that is felt. he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t acknowledge the way your body has gone rigid beneath the weight of his jacket, doesn’t give you even a second of respite before the next blow lands. “especially considering how much your father’s company relies on mine.”

the words sink deep, as intended.

the shift in the room is palpable, the media heir’s confidence cracking, realization dawning too late. satoru doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to—his name alone is enough, the weight of his position, his power, the gojo name rendering any resistance futile before it even forms.

your heartbeat is uneven, erratic, skin prickling under the lingering warmth of his jacket, the weight of it heavy against your shoulders, suffocating in ways it shouldn’t be. the scent of him clings to the fabric, clean linen and something faintly sweet, something distinctly his, something you refuse to acknowledge. it’s too much—too close, too consuming, too much like protection, like care, like something you never asked for. the last thing you want is to owe him for this, to let him think for even a second that you needed him. the humiliation coils in your gut, sharp and sickly, burning through your veins until you can’t stand it anymore.

you shove the fabric off immediately, movements sharp, rejecting it as fast as it was given, letting it fall from your shoulders like it burns. “i don’t need your help.” the words snap through the space between you, forceful, deliberate, a clear line drawn. you refuse to be saved. refuse to be something fragile, something handled, something pitiful. you don’t owe him for stepping in, and you won’t let him think you do.

satoru doesn’t blink, doesn’t budge, doesn’t react. “you really should stop punishing yourself.” satoru's voice is quiet, almost conversational, but it lands like a stone in your chest, rippling outward, impossible to ignore.

you glare, something clawing up your throat, something raw, something humiliating. “why do you even care?” the question lands like a challenge, sharp and biting, daring him to dismiss it, to laugh, to reduce it to nothing more than circumstance. because that would be easier, wouldn’t it? easier if this was just him being annoying, just another one of his games, another instance of gojo satoru moving because he can, not because he wants to.

because you don’t want him to want to. you don’t want him to care. but he doesn’t answer. and that’s the worst part.

because you need one. you need to know why. why does he keep stealing your food just to make you eat something healthier? why did he actually look close to mad? why does he care?

or—much better yet—for your own peace of mind, a denial.

for him to deadpan, to roll his eyes, to shrug it off. for him to tell you it’s just another one of his efficiency bullshit excuses, that you shouldn’t mistake it for anything else. that he just doesn’t want you to become a liability in your group project.

but he doesn’t say that, either.

his jaw simply tenses.

but he doesn’t say that.

his jaw tenses.

a flicker of something passes behind his glasses, quick and unreadable, buried beneath layers of detachment before you can grasp onto it. his expression remains impassive, unreadable, but something lingers, something you can’t quite place. he has an answer—this know–it–all should have an answer—but he doesn’t say it. doesn’t give you anything.

he doesn’t know, doesn’t understand why he stepped in so quickly, why his chest still feels tight, why the sight of you so exposed, so vulnerable, made his blood run hot. he doesn’t understand the flicker of heat that had surged through his veins, the sharp, immediate need to erase the moment before it could settle. he doesn’t know why he acted on instinct, why his body moved before his mind even registered it, why he still hasn’t looked away.

and it infuriates you.

you scoff, stepping back, your voice curling at the edges, something bitter and sharp cutting through. “forget it.” the words leave your lips like an exhale, dismissive, as if the conversation is over, as if it never mattered. but your hands are still curled into fists, nails biting into your palms, and his glasses still catch the light when he tilts his head, watching you too closely.

but the moment you turn to leave, his hand catches yours—not rough, not forceful, but firm. the warmth of his palm seeps into your skin, steady and unyielding, sending a sharp pulse of something worse than humiliation curling down your spine. you expect him to play it off, to let that insufferable smirk creep onto his face, to ruin the moment with some lazy, self-assured remark.

but when you meet his gaze—his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose, low enough that you can see over the frames, straight into his eyes.

blue. too blue. too much.

they're not clouded with amusement, not softened with that insufferable glint of teasing. no, they're sharp, bright in a way that makes something inside you bristle—like he's looking through you instead of at you, like he's searching for something beneath your skin, something you're not sure even exists. his expression is unreadable, but the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch ever so slightly against yours, betrays something else. something that shouldn't be there.

before you can rip yourself from his grasp, he moves.

it’s effortless, infuriatingly so, the way he lifts the fabric, the way his hands find yours, guiding them through the sleeves, pulling the jacket over your shoulders in one smooth, practiced motion. the dim light catches on his lenses as he tilts his head, just slightly, shadows flickering across the sharp line of his cheekbone. his eyes remain steady, locked onto you even as he adjusts the fabric, even as he lingers for just a second too long before letting go.

his gaze doesn’t waver. doesn’t flicker with amusement. only scrutiny. doesn’t give you the easy out you need.

it should feel like an afterthought, like he’s barely paying attention, like this isn’t something significant, but it is. the sheer difference in size between you makes it impossible not to notice—the way the hem falls well past your dress, the way the sleeves engulf your hands, the way his warmth still lingers, wrapping around you like something inescapable.

his touch is fleeting, brief, barely there—but it lingers. and worse, so do his eyes. everything about him lingers.

you should pull his stupid jacket off. should throw it in his face.

you should pull it off. should throw it in his face.

but you can’t.

because the ugly, clawing feeling inside you is worse than anything you were prepared for. the overwhelming wrongness of being seen, the raw humiliation of standing in the center of a moment you never wanted to happen, the sickening weight of why does he care? pressing down on your chest like a vice. the warmth of the jacket should be comforting, should be protective, but it only makes your skin burn, only reminds you of how exposed you were, how easily he stepped in, how quickly he moved to fix it. the feeling is unbearable, twisting through you like a blade, and the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that this warmth, this action, his hands steadying the fabric around you, makes you feel safe.

and you hate that. you hate him for making you feel that.

the words rip from your throat before you can stop them, sharp and bitter and cruel, cutting through the tension like glass shattering against marble. “you’re so fucking annoying, gojo.”

his hands still for a fraction of a second.

the silence is deafening.

you don’t look at him. you can’t. if you do, you might see something in his expression that you don’t have the strength to acknowledge. so you rip yourself away, storming off, the oversized jacket swallowing you whole as you put as much distance between you as possible. it’s suffocating, drowning you in the scent of him, in the reminder of what just happened, in the unbearable reality that no matter how far you walk, he’s still there.

his fingers linger in the empty air for a second longer before he lets them curl into his palm.

the further you walk, the heavier it feels.

the weight of it—of him—lingers on your shoulders, an unwelcome presence wrapped around you like a second skin. his warmth still clings to the fabric, seeping into your own body heat, settling into you, like something permanent, something that refuses to be shaken off. every step away from the classroom should be enough to erase it, to strip yourself of whatever the hell just happened, to distance yourself from the moment that left you raw and exposed. but it isn’t. it follows you, clings to your skin, presses against your ribs like a hand refusing to let go.

your fingers twitch, clenching into the material, curling into the oversized sleeves that drown your hands. the scent of his cologne—clean linen, something faintly sweet, something him—curls around you like smoke, invisible and inescapable, creeping into your senses no matter how much you try to ignore it. the fabric is soft, expensive, carrying the residual heat of his body, and the knowledge that it smells like him, feels like him, makes something unpleasant coil at the base of your spine. you should take it off. should rip it from your shoulders, should throw it into the nearest trash can, should leave it behind.

but you don’t.

not because you want to keep it. not because you’re grateful. but because you can’t stop thinking about how this is what it feels like to be cared for.

even if it was just for a second.

even if it was just him.

the thought makes your stomach twist, nausea creeping into your ribs, pressing against your lungs, making your breath come too fast, too shallow. your hands grip the fabric tighter, nails biting into the sleeves, the pressure grounding and unbearable all at once. this morning—this entire day—has been a mess of feelings you refuse to name, thoughts tangling together into something suffocating. first, your father. his voice, smooth and honeyed, telling you that you deserve the best while making you feel like nothing more than a business investment.

then him.

stepping in without hesitation, without amusement, without the usual, insufferable smirk that makes your blood boil. there was no teasing, no lazy drawl of your name, no game for him to win—just action, swift and certain, as if he had never considered doing anything else. he moved without thought, without calculation, without the weight of expectation that comes with every single person in your life. like it wasn’t about proving anything. like it wasn’t about power. like it was just—natural.

it makes you want to scream.

because that isn’t how this works. people don’t do things without expecting something in return. every kindness has a cost. every touch carries intent. every moment of protection, of care, of concern is a currency, exchanged for something greater down the line. that is how it has always been—how you were raised to understand it, how you have lived through it.

not your father. never your father. his affection is measured, conditional, something draped over you like silk until the moment it tightens into a leash. not the men who orbit you, their admiration always tainted with hunger, drawn to status, to influence, to power they will never be worthy of but still reach for. not the socialites who call themselves your friends when it suits them, when your presence elevates theirs, when being seen with you is enough to tip the scales in their favor.

so why the hell did gojo satoru—of all people—look at you like that?

why did he help?

why did he care?

your throat tightens, a sharp breath cutting through the mess of emotions clogging your chest. you can’t be here. can’t sit in this damn school, in this damn jacket, with the weight of everything pressing down on you like a vice. the walls feel too tight, the air too heavy, the fabric against your skin an unbearable reminder of something you refuse to name. you need out.

you don’t think about it.

don’t text anyone. don’t call for a car. don’t plan where you’re going, don’t consider what it means to slip away like this, don’t stop to care. you just move, heels clicking against the floor as you weave through the hallways, ignoring the eyes that follow, ignoring the way your hands are still curled into the fabric of his jacket. you keep walking—out the doors, out the gates, out.

the streets of tokyo are busy as always, a blur of high-end cars and polished shoes, businessmen murmuring over calls as they slip past, their conversations blending into the distant hum of the city. the world moves around you, fast and endless, people existing in their own self-contained universes, unaware of the hurricane twisting inside your ribs. you barely register any of it.

when you reach the curb, you don’t hesitate. you lift a hand.

a taxi slows in front of you almost immediately, the driver’s eyes flicking to you in the mirror as you slide into the backseat, as the scent of cigarette smoke and worn leather curls into your senses.

“where to?”

you exhale, a sharp breath, tilting your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city blur past—too fast and too slow all at once. your lips barely part as you murmur, “fujimori lounge.”

the driver raises a brow—because who the hell goes drinking at 9:30 a.m.? precisely a student in tokyo’s most prestigious academy, drowning in an oversized jacket that doesn’t belong to her. but you don’t acknowledge it. just tap your nails against your thigh, eyes distant, thoughts even further.

when the car pulls to a stop, you don’t wait. don’t even look at the meter. just toss a thick stack of bills into the front seat, stepping out like the transaction doesn’t register, like money means nothing—because it doesn’t.

the bar is empty. of course it is.

the air is cool, still untouched by the scent of spilled drinks and bodies pressed too close together, the dim lights casting long shadows over polished marble and expensive leather. no music plays at this hour. no laughter, no hum of conversation. just silence.

perfect.

you make your way to your usual seat, slipping into the plush barstool with the kind of ease that only comes from habit. you’ve done this before. you’ve done this a thousand times before.

the bartender—one of the few staff working this early—gives you a once-over, sharp eyes flicking from your bare legs to the jacket swallowing your frame, but he doesn’t say a word. just reaches for the top-shelf bottles, already knowing better than to ask what you want.

the first glass is poured. you down it without hesitation.

the warmth spreads through your veins, dulling the edges of everything you don’t want to think about, smoothing out the sharp edges of your father’s voice, of the way gojo looked at you, of the unbearable weight of something you don’t understand pressing against your ribs.

the second glass follows.

then the third.

by the fourth, you don’t feel anything at all.

satoru notices immediately.

your seat is empty in every class you should be in, the space where you should be a glaring absence that gnaws at the edges of his thoughts. he finds himself glancing toward the door every time it opens, expecting you to waltz in late with an excuse dripping in charm, a haughty smirk tugging at the corner of your lips like you’re doing the world a favor just by existing. but you don’t. the day stretches on, lecture after lecture, and you remain a no-show. with every hour that passes, something twitches beneath his skin, something that refuses to settle.

his messages go unanswered. his calls ring into oblivion. you haven’t responded to anything about your supposed meeting after school for your project—not even a half-hearted promise to maybe show up, only to flake at the last second. nothing. not a single snide remark, not a single excuse. just silence.

and satoru doesn’t care. he doesn’t.

he tells himself that. repeats it like a mantra, like a fact carved into stone, like if he says it enough, it will become the truth. but his jaw tics when another message goes unread, when another call goes straight to voicemail, when the space where you should be remains empty.

it’s only when he’s making his way through the parking lot, hand already tugging open the door of his car, that he hears it.

“she messaged me earlier.”

shoko’s voice—calm, level, just loud enough to carry in the open air. he wouldn’t have paid it any mind, wouldn’t have listened, if not for what follows.

“she’s at fujimori. don't wanna be bothered she said.”

a pause. then utahime, her voice sharper, laced with disbelief. “alone?”

his stomach twists.

it’s ridiculous, really. this is your scene, your world, the life you slip into without hesitation. he’s dragged you out of luxury bars before, half-exasperated, half-annoyed, when you’ve flaked on your project meetings to waste the evening draped over some rich heir’s arm, drink in hand, laughter spilling from your lips like it means nothing. you are never alone. you surround yourself with people who adore you, worship you, want you, because that is how you keep control.

but something about this—about you being there alone, in the middle of the day—it doesn’t sit right.

because you never drink alone.

he gets in the car and drives.

the city blurs past, neon lights bleeding into one another, an endless stretch of color and motion that barely registers. his hands grip the wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles white against smooth leather, jaw locked as his thoughts loop over themselves, tangled and restless. the expression on your face when you asked him why do you even care?—it won’t leave him. it lingers, sharp and insistent, digging into his ribs like something that demands an answer. and the worst part? he doesn’t know.

the air inside fujimori is warm, perfumed with aged liquor and polished wood, thick with the scent of exclusivity. low, ambient lighting casts shadows against plush velvet booths, a setting designed for discretion, for indulgence, for things meant to be forgotten by morning. voices murmur over the clink of expensive glassware, laughter lilting through the air in practiced, polite intervals. it’s a place for people with power, for men who make decisions that shape the world over drinks that cost more than most salaries.

he finds you easily.

you’re still wearing his jacket. and somehow, somehow, that feels like a relief.

legs crossed, posture languid, head tilted in that way that makes people lean in, drawn by the promise of something fleeting, something they’ll never get to keep. but you’re too relaxed, too detached, laughing at nothing, the haze of alcohol making your gaze unfocused, your movements a little too loose. satoru has seen you like this before—watched you toy with admirers, with suitors, with men who think they are clever enough to hold your attention. but this—this feels wrong.

and then he sees them.

older. sharp smiles. expensive watches gleaming under dim lighting. their laughter is just a little too indulgent, their attention just a little too fixed. and satoru knows them—not personally, but enough. they’ve shaken his father’s hand. sat in the same rooms, exchanged pleasantries at corporate events, discussed numbers and deals over glasses of whiskey worth more than some people’s entire lives. their wives always at their sides, poised, perfect.

they do not look married now.

his jaw locks.

he steps forward, weaving through the lounge with effortless ease, the shift in his presence enough to make bystanders instinctively move. his stride is unhurried, controlled, but there’s something unmistakable in the way he moves—an inevitability, a force that cannot be ignored. the ambient hum of conversation continues, but there’s a subtle ripple in the air, a quiet awareness settling over those who sense that something is about to happen. his eyes are on you, the way your head tilts back, the curve of your mouth as you laugh at something meaningless, the way the men around you lean in, hungry for whatever attention you decide to bestow. he doesn’t hesitate when he reaches you, fingers already reaching for your wrist, already ready to pull you out of there—a hand blocks him.

one of the men steps into his path, movements slow, measured, deliberately casual. posture relaxed, but gaze sharp, the kind of gaze that belongs to men who are used to owning every room they walk into. “this is a private booth,” he says, tone mild, the words carrying the weight of entitlement, of money, of power that has never been questioned.

they don’t recognize him.

they see the glasses, the slightly loosened tie, the academic air about him, and they make their assumptions. he is young. dressed well, but not ostentatious. someone from a good family, maybe, someone privileged, but ultimately unimportant. someone who doesn’t belong in their world.

but he recognizes them.

and when they finally put the pieces together, it’s going to be hilarious.

satoru exhales through his nose, slow, measured, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips—lazy, effortless, mocking. “yeah?” he hums, voice light, almost amused. “you sure you wanna play that game?”

the men hesitate.

because there’s something in the way he says it, something in the ease of his stance, in the weight of his presence, in the way he doesn’t look at them so much as he waits for them to understand. and then—one of them finally really looks at him.

their face drains of color.

because suddenly, the glasses, the academic demeanor—none of it matters anymore. suddenly, they’re not looking at a student—they’re looking at gojo satoru. heir to the same conglomerate these men answer to. the son of the man who can make or break their careers with a single conversation, a single change in investment, a single disapproving glance.

the atmosphere shifts.

“we— we didn’t realize—”

“you didn’t,” satoru cuts in smoothly, voice slipping into something sharper, something that lands just beneath the skin. “but you do now.”

none of them stop him this time.

his fingers wrap around your wrist—firm, steady, but not rough—as he pulls you up, out of that suffocating booth, out of that moment before it can cement itself into something worse. you stumble, caught off guard, the weight of your body pressing into his side for just a fraction of a second—and then you laugh.

soft, breathy, almost delighted.

your laughter spills into the space between you, curling at the edges like smoke, laced with something light, something dangerous. your head tilts up, gaze locking onto his with a look that is far too unguarded, far too open, like the alcohol has burned away whatever walls you usually keep so carefully in place. “ohhh,” you purr, voice syrupy sweet, the kind of sweetness that rots, the kind meant to draw people in just before they realize they’ve fallen too deep. “you came all this way for me?”

your voice is a slow drag of something intoxicating, the promise of something just out of reach, but your gaze—your gaze is challenging. you aren’t grateful, aren’t flustered, aren’t even the slightest bit embarrassed that he found you like this. you aren’t the kind of girl who needs saving, who lets herself be rescued, and you want him to prove it. you want him to falter, to hesitate, to take a single misstep in whatever this is.

like you’re daring him to say it.

he doesn’t.

his fingers tighten around your wrist—not enough to hurt, not enough to demand, but enough to make it clear that he isn’t entertaining whatever game you’re trying to play. instead, he just starts walking, dragging you toward the exit, not sparing a glance back, not indulging the way you sway into him with every step. he ignores the way your heels scuff against the floor, the way your body tips unsteadily, forcing you closer to him than you should be. he ignores the heat of you pressed against his side, the weight of your breath so close to his skin, the way his pulse betrays him, thrumming just a little too fast, just a little too loud.

but you don’t fight him.

not until you step outside.

the cold air outside bites against your skin, sharp and unforgiving, but the warmth of his jacket still clings to you, drowning you in a scent you hate. it’s clean, crisp—him. something expensive, something effortless, something that lingers no matter how much distance you put between you. the streetlights cast a soft glow over you both, stretching your shadows long against the pavement, turning the night into something slow, something tense. his grip is still firm around your wrist, his expression unreadable, his presence unwavering.

then—you move. not to fight him. not to shove him away. but to prove a point.

you step closer, pressing into him, the movement slow, deliberate, calculated. your fingers trail over his chest with an ease that feels almost lazy, like you belong there, like this is just another game you’ve played a thousand times before. beneath your touch, you can feel the faint pull of muscle, the subtle warmth of him even through layers of expensive fabric, the steady rhythm of his breath as he watches you. because he is watching.

he always does.

"you dragged me out here," you breathe, voice low, teasing, inviting. your fingers curl into the crisp collar of his shirt, tugging just enough to make the space between you even smaller. his breath is warm against the cold, the scent of him thick in your lungs, the weight of his attention pressing against your skin like something tangible. your lips part, just barely, a soft exhale slipping between them before you murmur, “so tell me, satoru—”

your lashes flutter, head tilting, nails scraping lightly against the fabric beneath your hands, a slow, teasing drag that makes the space between you feel smaller. your voice is low, velvet-soft, curling through the cold night air like something dangerous, something meant to ruin.

"isn’t this what you wanted?"

he freezes. not because he’s flustered. not because he’s caught off guard. but because of you.

because of the way you’re looking at him—your gaze laced with something honeyed, something sharp, something that dares him to take. because of the way your lips part, the faintest inhale dragging against them, the way your fingers curl just a little tighter into his collar, like you know exactly what you’re doing, like you know exactly what you are.

he stares at you through the thin lenses of his reading glasses, a slow, deliberate sweep of his gaze, drinking you in like he has all the time in the world. your face is flushed from the alcohol, skin warmed beneath the dim glow of the streetlights, and he lets himself look—really look.

your lips, soft and glossed, teasing the line between smug and inviting. your throat, delicate, the slow rise and fall of your breath betraying how hard you’re trying to keep yourself still.

your fingers, still curled in his collar, tension coiling in the space between your knuckles like you don’t realize you’re gripping him so tightly.

and your eyes.

your eyes are still the same.

he had thought they were pretty once. years ago.

when you had stood before him with that small, decorated box of chocolates, your hands had been just the slightest bit unsteady, fingers gripping the edges like you were afraid he might not take it. your cheeks had been warm, lips parting with the kind of anticipation that only a child can carry—pure, unguarded, hopeful. there had been no ulterior motives, no calculations, no layers of intent buried beneath honeyed words. just you, standing in front of him, offering something small but meaningful, something that was supposed to matter.

he had crushed that softness with logic. you shouldn’t eat too much chocolate. it’s bad for your teeth. the words had left his mouth so easily, dismissive, practical—because he had been young, because he hadn’t understood. because he hadn’t known that sometimes, words mattered less than meaning, that rejection wasn’t always about what was being refused but about who was offering it.

but he understands now.

except right now, what you are offering him isn’t something soft. this isn’t something innocent. you aren’t offering him chocolates anymore.

you’re no longer offering him something sweet.

even so your eyes are still as pretty as he remembers.

he doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring into them, how deeply he’s drinking you in, until he sees it. beneath the teasing, beneath the deliberate tilt of your head and the press of your fingers against his collar—there it is. the flicker of quiet desperation curled behind the seduction, the way your body is pressed against him not to invite but to test, the way your lips part not to tempt but to prove a point.

the way you want to make him just another man.

the way you need him to be nothing more than that.

highschool memories come rushing in, your name was always whispered through the halls. not just for the things you did, but for the things you got away with. you were the girl who walked through the world untouchable, draped in the kind of indulgence that made others jealous, that made them watch. dress code violations that should have warranted a suspension. skipped classes that should have landed you on academic probation. detentions that stacked like a house of cards, waiting for the inevitable collapse. but the school never sent notes home. never called. because there was no point.

because no one would answer.

he had watched you sit in detention, week after week. always by the window, chin resting on your palm, eyes fixed on something far away, somewhere else. the tip of your finger would trace shapes into the condensation, movements idle, aimless, as if you were reaching for something just beyond your grasp. the teachers muttered about your wasted potential, voices dipped low like they thought you wouldn’t hear, like they thought you cared. but you never flinched. never reacted. just sat there, quiet and unbothered, like the world outside that window was the only thing worth your time.

he never said anything.

not when your skirts got shorter, your nights got longer, your reputation turned into something sharp-edged and impossible to hold. not when the boys whispered about you with voices dipped in reverence and speculation, when the girls watched you with a mix of admiration and disdain. not when you stopped trying—not in class, not in conversation, not in caring about the things that once might have mattered. you had been a hurricane once, bright and full of want, but slowly, you had quieted. or maybe you had just hardened.

and he had watched. stood on the sidelines. did nothing.

perhaps it’s bystander guilt—that sick, gnawing feeling that he should have said something, done something, been something other than a silent observer while you carved yourself into something unrecognizable. maybe it’s guilt for all the moments he let pass, for the times he saw you staring out the window in detention, your breath fogging up the glass as you traced invisible shapes into the condensation. maybe it’s guilt for hearing the whispers about you and never correcting them, for watching as your name became synonymous with something untouchable, something ruined, something easy to want but impossible to hold.

but something completely illogical tells him it’s more than that.

it’s care.

not the logical kind, the kind dictated by necessity or responsibility. not the required kind, the kind that comes from duty or expectation. not the kind that is owed.

it is simply care.

and that terrifies him.

because if it’s care, then it means this—you, standing in front of him, pressing into his space, testing him, daring him to be just like everyone else—matters. it means you aren’t just another girl he’s known in passing, another classmate, another name in the endless list of people orbiting around his world. it means this isn’t just some passing moment, something insignificant, something he can brush aside and forget by morning. because he’s never done this before. never stood at the center of something so fragile, something so deliberately constructed, something that feels like a trap but is really just a test.

and that terrifies him.

because satoru knows you.

not just the version of you that leans in too close, that lets people get drunk off the warmth of your skin, the tilt of your head, the way you offer yourself without ever giving anything at all. he knows the version of you that sat by the window in detention, tracing patterns into the glass, eyes distant, already somewhere else. the version of you that used to try, that used to push and pull and want things in a way that wasn’t so calculated. the version of you that once held out a box of chocolates with both hands, cheeks warm, voice quiet, waiting for something that never came.

so when your fingers curl into his collar, when your breath ghosts against his skin, when your lips part in something that is neither an invitation nor a plea, he sees it.

anyone else—any other man—would take this moment for what it appears to be.

but satoru sees you.

sees the game, the performance, the careful layers of seduction that don’t ask for something but demand it. sees the way you are begging him—without words, without even realizing—to be just like everyone else.

so you can understand him. so you can predict him. so you can tuck him neatly into the same category as all the men who only ever wanted one thing from you. so you don’t have to question why he is different.

his hands settle on your wrists—gentle, but firm. his touch is steady, grounding, the heat of his palms seeping into your skin like something meant to anchor rather than restrain. for a moment, he just holds you there, letting the weight of the moment settle between you, letting the tension coil and tighten like a drawn bow. then, with an exhale, he pulls you away.

“no.”

your eyes flicker, just for a second. something wavers. your breath hitches, barely audible, but he hears it. and then, just as quickly, the mask falls back into place. you scoff, rolling your eyes, stepping back like none of this mattered, like his rejection is nothing more than an inconvenience.

“coward.” you taunt, sharp and biting.

but your hands are shaking.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t give you anything to grab onto. just watches you, lets the silence stretch between you, thick and suffocating, filled with all the things neither of you are willing to acknowledge. the streetlights flicker overhead, the cold wind curling between you both, but neither of you move. finally, he exhales, slow and measured.

“let’s go.”

you grumble, reluctant but compliant, moving toward the car with the kind of begrudging acceptance that comes when there is no other choice. he opens the door for you, guiding you inside without a word, the warmth of his hand barely brushing against you before he pulls away. you slump into the seat, arms crossed, head tilted toward the window, refusing to look at him.

he gets in the driver’s seat, shifts into gear, and pulls onto the road.

the city hums around you both, neon lights casting fractured reflections against the windshield, the steady rhythm of tires against pavement filling the silence. you don’t speak. don’t glance at him, don’t move, don’t acknowledge his presence. just lean your head against the glass, watching the world blur past, streetlights streaking across your features like ghosts of something unspoken.

he doesn’t speak either.

he grips the wheel a little too tightly as he drives, the tension settling into his knuckles, into the curve of his jaw, into the spaces between his thoughts where your voice still lingers. why do you even care?

the question had landed sharp between you, a challenge thrown like a blade, demanding something from him that neither of you had the words for. he should have laughed. should have dismissed it as easily as he does everything else, let the moment roll off his shoulders with that same lazy ease he wears like armor. that would have been easier, wouldn’t it? if this was just him being annoying, just another game, another instance of gojo satoru moving because he can, not because he wants to.

the city lights streak across the windshield, casting fractured reflections against the glass, flashing against your skin where you rest, half-conscious, against the window. you’re quiet now, so different from the sharp-tongued, fire-eyed girl who had glared at him hours ago, demanding an answer he hadn’t been able to give. but he’s had time to think. time to feel the weight of the silence, to sift through the mess of thoughts that refuse to settle.

“i have an answer now.”

your breath stirs, shallow, delayed, like his words are pulling you from somewhere far away. your body barely shifts, movements sluggish with exhaustion, with alcohol, with something that leaves you unguarded in a way you never allow. "what are you talking about?" your voice is quiet, blurred at the edges, stripped of its usual sharpness.

his fingers tighten around the wheel.

he cares because he does.

not because of logic, or obligation, or the neat, efficient reasoning he applies to everything else. not because it’s convenient. not because he’s supposed to. there is no clean-cut explanation, no calculated rationale, no easy justification. just care. the kind that isn’t required, isn’t expected, isn’t supposed to exist.

he has the answer now.

but you’re too drunk to even remember the question you threw at him this morning, eyes burning, voice laced with something sharp and aching. too lost in the haze of exhaustion, the weight of alcohol pressing against your bones, your usual armor stripped away piece by piece. the version of you sitting beside him now—quiet, unguarded, fragile in a way you’d hate—wouldn’t even care to hear it. so what’s the point? what’s the point of saying something you won’t remember, something you’d only deny in the morning, something that shouldn’t matter but somehow does?

he exhales, a slow, measured breath, fingers drumming idly against the leather steering wheel before finally leaning back, gaze shifting toward the dim glow of the dashboard. his glasses slide just slightly down the bridge of his nose, and he absently pushes them up, jaw tight, expression unreadable in the faint flicker of streetlights outside. for a moment, he just looks at you—the way your head tilts against the glass, the way your lashes flutter faintly, the way your lips are slightly parted as if you might say something but never do. his chest feels tight. too tight. like the weight of this realization, of you, is settling into a space he never made room for.

“nevermind.”

his voice is quiet, barely audible over the hum of the engine, but it carries. settles into the silence between you, lingers in the air as if waiting for a response.

and then, barely above a whisper—“idiot.”

it’s grumbled, half-asleep, but he still hears it, still watches the way your lips barely move as you bury yourself deeper into the seat, breath evening out.

he gasps, the sound exaggerated, scandalized, an instinctive reaction that’s far more him than the heavy, suffocating thoughts he’d been drowning in moments ago. “my iq is higher than yours!”

you don’t respond.

just shift slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at your lips, before sleep finally pulls you under. he scoffs, shaking his head, but there’s something softer in the way he settles into his seat, something almost fond in the way his grip eases around the wheel.

because despite everything—despite the frustration, despite the push and pull, despite the fact that he knows you’ll wake up tomorrow and pretend none of this ever happened—he still cares.

and he still doesn’t know what to do with that.

tag list : @s4ikooo1 @gojoswaterbottle @blubearxy @akeisryna @theclassbookworm @diorzs @nscuit @lolightrealm @rintarawr

comment to be added on the tag list! xx

#cross posted on ao3 #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #gojo x female reader #reader insert #gojo fluff #nerd gojo #nerdjo #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jjk x you #jjk fluff #satoru gojo fluff #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo fanfiction #satoru gojo x reader

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aliceinborderlandsquidgame · 2 months ago

Text

Ignored | Salesman x Wife!Reader

Summary: He knows his work can take much of his time. But the worse punishment its being ignored by you.

Warnings: Possessive!Salesman - Angry!Salesman - Violent!Salesman - Sad!Salesman - Manipulation - Toxic!Relationship - Suggestive - Grammar mistakes -

It was true. He had started to leave earlier and came home late. He was tensed, tired and angry. Everytime he had to face these excuse of humans made his blood boild.

But he was good, too good at it. And the money he got from it was a big amount. Enough to give you, his dear wife the life you have always deserve.

Splendind nights out, visists to the most precious places, fashion clothes and precious little details (expensive ones). He loved to pampper you in them. He could not help himself but pull his card out the moment he saw you looking at something. It was a reflex, even when you tell him that its not necesary he still insists.

If you want a private Island then he would do his job three times or even more times better.

You ask and he does. Thats how it works. The only thing he expects from you its to be at home when he comes. To get him with a delicious dinner, your soft voice making the stress go away. You would make him lay down on your lap as you play with his hair and tell him sweet nothings. Its almost unfair how much of a effect you have on him.

However, this past days these things have not been happening. Did food wait for him when he returned ? Yes. Where you there with open arms to ease him ? No.

It had started slow, you giving him simple responses when he talked to you. Mornings when you would say you were too tired leaving him to not really enjoy the shower missing your body against his. Not responding his messages or calls (He almost killed the next person he had to recruit when your voice email sounded back).

And at home you would give him the cold shoulder. Your attention on a book (that he got you and now he wants to burn) or your phone (that he hacks and sees what you are doing).

Honestly he is started to get tired of this. He has lots of patience with you. He loves you, in a insane way. But he cant help but feel...bad. The feeling makes him want to vomit because how the object of his love and adoration, the one he crafted and made a live with just...ignores him?

Yes he knows he can be difficult at times. He tries his best so you only see his good part. But this is ridiculous, no one would dare to disrespect him like that.

There is a centrain charm on your way of going against him. But he does not like it. He prefers the doting wife. The one who showers with love and affection. Not...this.

"We need to talk" Are his words on friday night after a long day recruiting and a cold and lonely shower.

He is quiet angry.

"Im reading" You said back not bothering to look up from your book.

Alright, now he is pissed.

He takes some steps towards you, his taller frame casting a shadow over you as he takes the book from you rather harshly.

"We need to talk, and we will" He says in a cold tone, making sure to mark the page you were reading before taking your arm and pulling you towards the bedroom.

The light blue walls and the big bed welcomes you as he throws you on the bed. Under other circunstances this would mean a good time, but with the look he is giving you right now, its not. Its a look you have never seen before, a look that sends shivers down your spine as he closes the door with a click and starts to walk around. Arms crossed as he fakes to think.

"What?" You ask seeing him go to the wardrobe and for the safebox pulling out a smaller box. He pulled out a syringe and a bottle with some transparent liquid.

"Dear...you are scaring me"

"Scaring you?" He asked with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "My Love, you should never be scared of me. I just want to talk" He did answer once more getting closer to her syringe in hand.

"Then for what is that-"

"Because I need to understand Love. I need to understand whats going on with you" He says anger in his tone. "You have been ignoring me for the past few weeks. Me, the Man of your life. Who gives your the world and does everytning so you dont have to lift a single finger"

One hand traces your face doing down to your neck giving it a grip.

"I work so hard, for you. I just ask for you attention. But you cant even give me that" He says pushing you down on the bed the syringe now close to your neck.

"Is there someone else ? Have you lost your love for me ? Im not enough now ?" He ask the syringe inches from your skin.

"N-no, please let me explain" You said tears falling

He does not move but gives a small nod so you can talk

"I...I was stupid. I started to feel like your work was more important. You have always be with me. You make time for me and we pass our days together. And then you...you start to leave earlier and be home late. You...you look different every time you get back. I thought..that if I did not give you my attention you would stop. But I never saw how much I was hurting you"

He does not move for a few seconds letting the words sink in. Then he leaves the syringe on the nightstand. He cleans off your tears kissing them.

"Oh my dear sweet wife. How could you be so dumb? My work would never be more important than you" He makes you sit on his lap as he moves you like a small creature.

"I have been under so much stress...and so much work. Im sorry I should have tell you. Last thing i wanted was to get ignored by you and hurt you. Not that I would ever do it"

Well, if you were seeing another men or women then yes. He would hurt you so much. You would be calling his name and only his. Never daring to think on going behind his back.

Much like right now. He is sure you would never ever again ignore him. Not after that scared he gave you. He still feels you trembling in his arms and its almost arousing to him.

Fear. Such a primal feeling. He loved being the one behind it. The face that was associated with the word.

"Shh my love. Its ok, we are ok. You wont ignore me again and now you know there is nothing more important than you" He whispers biting your ear.

"That syringe..."

He laughts, a well faked one.

"Do you really think I would ever hurt you my Love?" Yes, yes he would. If it did mean you staying with him and obeying him. "That was a bad joke on my side. My apologizes" He gives you a big kiss on your cheeck. "Lets order some food, we can watch a movie too and call it a night"

He sees you nod but before you can move he holds you in place one finger pointing at his lips.

You kiss him, not giving him much pressure but he is not letting you go that easy. He forces his tongue inside your mouth, tangles it with yours, his hips moves making you feel him growing hard under you. One hand presses your neck guiding your face as he leaves your lips and trails kisses down your neck and collarbone.

"Im almost temped to dich food and just have you" His tone is dark, possessive as he kisses you once more. "But I know you must be starving so we can save that for later"

You wont ever know that syringe did have a powerfull sleep drug...to make you unable to escape him if that was your plan.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~

How He feels. VS. How He acts.

#squid game imagines #squid game x y/n #suicide squad imagine #squid game x reader #squid game x you #salesman x reader #recruiter x reader

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darlinluxx · 2 months ago

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𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 | 𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐀𝐄 𝐁𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐊 ౨ৎ

pairing : saebyeok x fem!reader

fluff

warnings : mentions of blood

summary : you and your girlfriend have a horror movie marathon, but you aren’t the biggest fan of them

if you have any requests, feel free to message me <3

𝐓he popcorn is overflowing, a buttery mountain threatening to spill onto the already cluttered coffee table. you’re nestled into the couch, a soft blanket pulled up to your chin, trying to look like you’re not as terrified as you actually are. next to you, Saebyeok is practically vibrating with anticipation, her eyes already glued to the screen as the opening credits of the horror movie begin to roll.

you’d known this was coming, of course. a horror movie marathon had been Saebyeok’s idea, and it had come with a glint in her eye that you knew all too well — that mischievous, slightly devious look that meant she was about to indulge in one of her favorite things. and while she knew you weren’t exactly a fan of jump scares and demonic possessions, she’d promise it would be “fun.”

right now, the only thing that feels fun is the reassuring weight of her hand, warm and calloused, pressed against your thigh. you glance at her profile, her face illuminated by the flickering screen. she’s completely absorbed, a tiny smile playing on her lips as the ominous music builds.

you, on the other hand are already feeling a cold knot forming in the pit of your stomach. the image of blood coming from god knows where out of somebody in the movie flashes on the screen. you flinch, burying yourself deeper into the blanket. a small, chuckle rumbles from Saebyeok’s chest.

“scared already?” she teases, her voice a low murmur.

you try to play it cool. “of course not,” you reply, a little too quickly. “just appreciating the… ambience.”

Saebyeok lets out a soft laugh, finding your reaction endearing. the movie progresses, getting even more horrifying then you could imagine. you feel yourself shrinking further and further into the couch, your eyes squeezing shut during the more gruesome scenes. you hear Saebyeok gasp in delight at one particular moment, the sound a mix of fascination and something akin to glee that only she seems to experience with these kinds of films.

you feel a reassuring squeeze on your thigh, and you peek out from the blanket. Saebyeok is looking at you, a soft smile on her face. “it’s okay,” she whispers, her voice a low rumble that sends a comforting shiver down your spine. “just look at me.”

you do. you stare up at her dark eyes, the way the light dances in them, the gentle curve of her lips. it’s grounding, a lifeline in the swirling sea of nightmares on the screen. you lean closer to her, seeking the warmth of her presence.

the movie ends, the credits rolling again. you feel a small sigh of relief slip from your lips. you thought it was over when Saebyeok reaches for the remote. “next one.” she said, and you realize your ordeal is far from over.

a pant or familiar dread settles in your stomach as the title card for the next movie appears. you manage a weak smile, but inside you’re screaming. Saebyeok notices your apprehension, her gaze softening.

this time, she doesn’t sit beside you, instead she wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer until you’re practically nestled into her side. her presence is a comforting weight, a solid barrier against the rising tide of terror.

as the terrifying events unfold on screen, you find yourself glancing at Saebyeok more than the actual film. you’re still scared, yes, but your fear is somehow lessened, tempered by the warmth and security you find in her embrace.

by the third movie, something shifts. maybe it’s the fact that Saebyeok is holding you close like you’re the most precious thing in the world, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re starting to recognize the patterns, the familiar tropes of the genre. you’re less tense, less prone to jumping.

by the time the sun begins to peak over the horizon, painting the room in a soft orange glow, you two are both exhausted. your eyelids feel heavy, and you’re curled up completely on Saebyeok’s lap. finally, the last credit rolls.

Saebyeok leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “so,” she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep, “did you have fun?”

you look up at her, a genuine smile finally gracing your lips. “surprisingly,” you admit, “i actually did.”

and it was the truth. looking back on the night, it wasn’t the most terrifying images on the screen that stood out. it was the warmth of her hand, the soft rumble of her laughter, the feeling of her presence wrapping around you like a warm blanket. it was enduring the fear together, hand in hand, or rather, cuddled together on the couch.

even if you still prefer romantic comedies, you know you’ll do this again for her. because with Saebyeok, even the scariest of nights become something a little less terrifying, a little more bearable, and a little bit fun.

#kang sae byeok #kang saebyeok #sae byeok #saebyeok #kang sae byeok x reader #kang saebyeok x reader #sae byeok x reader #saebyeok x reader #squid game x reader #squid game

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verstappenf1lecccc · 11 months ago

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Hi lovely. Can you please do mafia Charles and he’s very protective over reader who’s younger than him and maybe his enemies hurt her and he goes crazy or smth — F1driverszona

Protection

babe asked so she shall receive, I swear I’ve never written a fic this quickly I hope y’all’s like it 🎀

*Perceval*

You know how you look at someone and feel your heart swell with pride and joy? That was how Charles was feeling the exact moment he saw his pretty little girlfriend get her bachelors degree. She looked so gorgeous in the white outfit he had picked with her, so pure and innocent.

Charles genuinely wondered how she hadn’t noticed all the security that constantly followed him. How was he only 27 with an entire estate under his name? It really made Charles ponder. Maybe she noticed but was smart enough to not bring it up.

Regardless, he was the proudest person in the room, eyes beaming with glee as she threw her cap up in the air with joy enriched onto her face. With her only being 20, their relationship was the root of all the gossip in town.

It was strange, really. 7 years wasn’t that bad. He knew her better than anyone, and she knew him the most. He never let such thoughts bother him, especially since he was running one of the most discreet underground mafia. Charles knew the risk of getting her involved in his life. He knew that she would forever be tangled in his dirty business, whether she knew it or not. He hated the way that she drew in people with her charm and charisma.

In Charles' world, more attention meant a higher probability of ending up dead. Just thinking about something happening to her made his blood boil. She’d never be harmed. Little did Charles know that pissing off the Russian Mafia came with its drawbacks. The Russians played fast and dirty. They’d attack where it hurts the most. Due to their undercover agent in her university, they knew exactly who she was. Every little detail from the timings she enters and exits the university to the car that comes to pick and drop her.

The Russians were smart, very smart. They knew the best way to hurt Charles was to hurt his girl. They knew kidnapping would not work as she was heavily guarded at all times. So they came up with a public declaration of war. They were going to attack her at her graduation ceremony, in front of everyone, and most importantly, Charles.

This was their way to send a message. Frankly, ever since y/n and Charles started dating, he was ignoring his priorities with the mafia and appointed most of the tasks to Kyviat, who turned out to be a traitor. Some may say Charles’s lack of attention caused him to lose the most important person in his life. Just as they called out her name, the first shots fired. Almost in an instant, Charles whipped his head so fast you could hear a bone crack. He knew this was planned. He prayed and hoped deep down it wasn’t a message for him. He knew Alonso’s daughter also went here and selfishly hoped it was for him.

All his prayers fell on deaf ears when he saw his precious angel falling, almost in slow motion, with her white dress that he loved oh so much turning ever so red with each passing second. He knew he messed up. He had so much love he still needed to show her. The engagement ring in his pocket felt like hot coal, burning him almost taunting him painfully. He had everything planned out, each moment, each step. He never expected her to be ripped out of his arms. He had destroyed homes and families.

He knew he had unpaid karma. And just when he started becoming a better person, he had to pay his karma in full. They say the day she bled out in his arms was the day hell froze all over again. Each of her deep and labored breaths haunted his soul for the rest of his life. He still had days where he could imagine her next to him. If people thought Charles was cruel before the shooting, they would be very wrong.

Seeing the love of his life lying still on a ventilator enraged a different type of devil in him. He hunted each and everyone involved in the shooting like he was hunting animals. He shot, stabbed, burned, bleached, skinned, and mutilated each and everyone. It was borderline psychotic. By day, a doting boyfriend in the ICU. By night, a cold-blooded killer on the loose.

Each morning when he returned, he would utter the same words over and over again, “ça aurait dû être moi, pas toi, ça aurait dû être moi, ma chérie, pas toi. je suis désolé je suis désolé.”

Charles had lost it. More than ever, his reign of terror only ended when she opened her eyes again. He never touched another gun or affiliated with the mafia ever again.

The both of them found a safe haven in the Swiss Alps, only returning to Monaco when everything was over, Charles becoming the most protective person ever known to have lived. His large hand placed on her ever prominent belly. Monaco saw the aftermath of what happens when you mess with Charles Leclercs wife. That was the only incident that ever involved y/n. Charles made sure of it after all she was his and he protected what was his. His overprotective nature plus his power made sure she was safe.

#charles leclerc x wife reader #f1 scenario #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #mafia!charles leclerc #mafia!f1 #charles leclerc #dad!charles leclerc #fernando alonso x reader #formula one #monaco #monte carlo #ferrari

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sunshowersanddandelionwine · 4 months ago

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au where the Riley family lives and simon gets into some Deep Shit™️ with some sort of group, whether it’s cartel or a terror org or what have you. And despite his and price’s and laswell’s best efforts, even the most privileged information eventually makes its way to the highest bidder. Which means that when this amorphous Group wants to hurt the ghost, they go after his most tender weak point.

They snatch Joseph Riley on his way home from school one day, and he’s terrified. He knows what his uncle does (vaguely and highly sanitized), enough for a kid his age to understand the gravity of the situation. So he has some idea of what’s about to happen.

Joseph doesn’t really have a good gauge on the passing of time, trapped in a dank, moldy cell in the ground with a single dirty window that doesn’t let in much light. The cuffs around his wrists are too tight, chafing against the thin skin. He’s hungry, thirsty, tired, but not scared. Okay, he’s a little scared but not as scared as he should probably be. Because he knows that come hell or high water, Uncle Simon is on his way.

That is, until the Group gets tired of waiting for Ghost to make a move and decide to send a message. They grab Joseph by the scruff and drag him out of the cell he’d memorized every inch of through the building. Joseph doesn’t know what’s happening, but whatever it is can’t be good.

And it isn’t. The door they come to is large, looks like it’s solid steel but with a weird sheen to it. There are claw marks digging into the frame and the ground. And a low, persistent growl echoes from behind the metal. Before Joseph can even think to speak, to beg for his life, one of the men unlocks the door, throws Joseph to the ground, and slams it shut behind him.

He falls in a crumpled heap, panting and coughing into the darkness around him. And then he freezes. Because the room is silent. The growl is gone. With the last bit of courage he has, he lifts his head from the dirty, iron-smelling floor and locks eyes with two bright blue irises glowing in the dark.

He’s heard stories of the wolves before, caught somewhere between man and monster. Some had come from Uncle Simon, some where rumors floated around school, some were just stories told to scare children. The stories all talked about the ferocious majesty of wolves, massive frames and thick fur and pearly white, razor sharp fangs.

This wolf is entirely unlike those stories. In the barely-there light leaking through the seam of the door, he can see just how bad the wolf is. His fur is ragged and hanging off his skeletal frame. Barely healed scars cut deep gouges into his face and flanks. And his eyes have no keen intelligence left, just base animal instinct. He’s watching Joseph silently, unmoving.

Joseph knows the wolf is starving, and he’s the unwilling lamb led to slaughter.

But the wolf doesn’t pounce. He inches forward, nosing gently at the bruises and scratches on Joseph’s face. He whines quietly when Joseph hisses from the movement. And he herds Joseph away from the door towards a tangled pile of dirty blankets and straw, curling around his shivering body with eyes pinned to the locked door.

Wolves are pack animals, and werewolves are no exception. When one werewolf soldier Sergeant MacTavish was drugged and captured, the Group thought they had themselves a mindless killing machine. They thought they could throw a child at a lonely, feral wolf and send the Ghost a gruesome message. They either didn’t know or didn’t care that pups, no matter the species, are precious to the pack. They gave Soap a pup, and he would protect that pup with his life.

(And when Ghost bursts into the cell not long after, blood soaked and wild eyed, he doesn’t expect to see his nephew, alive and relatively unharmed, with a massive guard dog curled around him. He doesn’t expect that guard dog to change back into a man. And he doesn’t expect that guard dog to stick around once he’s back on his feet, sticking to his side like he’s got no where better to be.)

#john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #cod mwf2 #Joseph Riley #call of duty #alive riley au #werewolf au #ghostsoap #soapghost #kinda?#I think it’s at least building to that end lmao #shoutout to irl wolves being puppy crazy #love that for them #wayward seeds

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sp4ceboo · 5 months ago

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SNIPPET FOR MY UPCOMING BAKUGOU FIC!!

genre: merfolk au, fantasy au, merman!bakugou x witch!reader, strangers to lovers, bakugou x f!reader, smut and angst and fluff

summary: in a world infested with purgers of magic, neither a clandestine witch nor a lone merman can remain safe for long.

tw for snippet: gore, blood, mention of death (fic will be 18+)

UPDATE: READ IT HERE

With a rusty squeal, the door swings wide, and with it comes the same influx of light that always spills greedily through, stinging your eyes and making them ache - the doing of a tiny, wayward star moulded from precious lamp oil. You blink away the tears that well up at your lash line, testament to your accustomation to the dark, and then blink again. Back when you took for granted the warmth of the sun on your face, you lived too far inland to ever see one in the flesh. You were still a witch under the disguise of a healer, though. You’d heard tales, seen artists’ renderings and gorey body parts wrenched off as trophies. None of those could have ever come close to preparing you for the sight before your eyes. A merman. Deep in enemy territory - so deep, in fact, that all those surrounding him, bar you, have murdered more than dozens of his kind each. He is on a galleon rammed bow to stern with killers. And yet, despite it, he has not fallen victim to the purge. Yes, there is a splintered harpoon sunken into his side, yes, he is limp and broken, but even so, shallowly, his chest rises and falls. He breathes. He breathes, and even that is beautiful. The lamp’s light reflects off his scales; he is mainly jet black, but broad swathes of orange run across the length of his powerful tail like they were drawn with the loving stroke of a painter’s brush. In parts, they darken into a ruby red that glitters and winks as the lamp light dances. Or maybe that’s just blood. There’s a lot of it. It soaks into the sheet they strain to carry between them, pools in the dip his weight makes, streaks in smears down his chest and face, coats his hands and is embedded under his sharp nails. You hope that all of it is not his, that he made them regret whatever they must have done to get a merman vulnerable enough and far enough from his pod to capture him. Deep lacerations cut all along his chest and tail, and one of the spines that extend from his sail-like dorsal fin is bent in a way that must mean it is broken. A smattering of scales reach wide across his shoulders and back and down his arms, some of them twisted and bent out of shape. Your eyes fall to the harpoon buried just below his hip, and you feel the bite of your nails digging into your palms. “Heal it,” commands the man holding the corner of the sheet closest to you. “We’ve been ordered to bring back a merfolk to be studied. It must be in peak condition.”

and yeah. so that's what i've been working on recently, it will be over 10k and most likely under 20k and im sO EXCITED!!

there will be a taglist, so if you want to be on it just reply to this post or message me or whatever is easiest :))

praying this reaches the right audience

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yandereunsolved · 1 year ago

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tw: yandere themes, murder, gore, minor suggestive themes

yandere James Patrick March who saw you walking through his hotel halls and had to have you all for himself.

yandere James Patrick March who threatens every entity in his hotel. If anyone so much as touches a hair on your head, they'll end up with a second death at the hands of a suave psychotic mass murderer.

yandere James Patrick March who leaves parts of dead bodies at your door as a present— like how a cat gives their owner a mouse as a sign of affection.

yandere James Patrick March who writes the most intimate and goery love letters to you. He signs off his initials 'JPM' with the blood of his victims. The longer he does it, the more likely it is that he's signed it with his own blood.

yandere James Patrick March who doesn't let you leave, even if you don't realize why. Oh, you are in the city for only a night? Suddenly, everyone you love and care about is sending you text messages about how they don't need how— how you should stay there. You can't pay? The mysterious owner of the hotel has waved all the fees. Your stay is free as long as you are here. Need a job?The hotel has a position has a maid. It's so easy. You barely have any rooms to clean. Are you scared of the hotel? Every ghost (and the handful of living people) are incredibly nice to you. They treat you like a god(dess).

yandere James Patrick March who watches you from the shadows. Whether you be searching for the ice machine or just exploring. He's always there. His eyes analyzing you like a predator who found their favorite prey. He's memorized every curve of your body and every preference of yours.

yandere James Patrick March who protects you while you explore. He's possessive. He's gotta make sure the Countess doesn't get her hands on you. He's gotta make sure that no ghost touches you. He's gotta make sure. Just incase.

yandere James Patrick March who refuses to reveal himself to you as of yet. He adores watching those cogs in your mind turn.

yandere James Patrick March who is obsessed with watching your complex range of emotions. Happiness. Sadness. Anger. Fear. Love. Lust. Adoration. Obsession. Need. Carnal need. All those precious, precious feelings. He needs to see all of those emotions on your delectable little features.

yandere James Patrick March who buys his darling the most expensive delicacies the world can offer. He places them right in front of you when you aren't looking. They always have bloody utensils with them. Just to remind you who it is that you belong to. What he is able to do to anyone that crosses the either of you.

yandere James Patrick March who always kills his victims in your vicinity. When you are sleeping he kills one of them in the next room. It makes his blood pump— thinking about that fearful expression you must be making. That small quiver on your addictive lips that he has not yet had the pleasure to taste. How tempting you must look in your night clothes. Of course, he's a gentleman. He makes sure that you get enough sleep beforehand. He doesn't want his precious jewel having sleep deprivation.

yandere James Patrick March who reveals himself to you right after a fresh kill. Blood is dripping down his bare chest, his pants are slightly unbuttoned, and his boxers are hugging his v-line. He flashes you his award winning smile. He gets down on one knee and presents you with the heart of his latest victim.

yandere James Patrick March who allows himself to indulge in your horrified shrieks. Who wants nothing more than to take you right then and there. Who wants to see the blood all over both of your bodies. Who wants to leaves long lasting marks that will scar you physically and mentally.

yandere James Patrick March who confesses this undying love to you in that very moment. He wants nothing more than to have you in his grasp— hugging, kissing, cuddling, choking, cutting, killing... and everything else in-between.

yandere James Patrick March who will never force himself upon you. He will preach his undying love and manipulate you, but never soil you with unwanted touches. Perhaps a few cuts, though. He sees those things as vastly different.

yandere James Patrick March who left you quickly as he came. He placed the heart on your bed and was gone in the blink of an eye.

yandere James Patrick March who periodically visits you from then on. Sometimes he gifts you things and others he does his best to spark up conversations.

yandere James Patrick March who will gladly threaten you with a weapon to get you to talk to him. He would actually be over the moon. Your fear is intoxicating to him. It makes him all giddy inside. He feels alive.

yandere James Patrick March who always gets that high from you. That special feeling he so zealously covets. That thing that trumps that special high he gets when killing. He's addicted. Addicted to you and your very presence.

yandere James Patrick March who will invite you to private dinners. Who will wear his finest clothing. Then he addresses your concerns and fully tells you everything. He tells you of how he has courted you and of how he confessed his love. He speaks with hearts in his eyes. If you disagree or break his trance... your inevitable death will come much sooner than expected.

yandere James Patrick March who then demands you cut off contact with anyone who presents as male. He doesn't want anyone having a chance with you. He's almost like a toddler in that way. A murderous toddler with a mustache.

yandere James Patrick March who is a dangerous man who lusts after power. A man that has only one weakness— you being able to step out of the hotel. This is only a momentary weakness. Another step in his plan. Do not play the 'I can leave and you can't' card too many times. Lest it fall from your hand and James picks it up.

yandere James Patrick March who immediately moves you into his, now your..., private suite.

yandere James Patrick March who leaves different pieces of clothing he'd like to see you in on your shared bed.

yandere James Patrick March who asks you how he should kill his next victim.

yandere James Patrick March who is ready to make you his eternal bride/groom/partner.

yandere James Patrick March who always makes sure not to scare you too much. His version of too much, mind you. At least until he's trapped you in here for all eternity with him. There's no need for him to rush things. He has all the time in the world.

#american horror story #james patrick march #yandere james patrick march #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #ahs hotel #jpm x reader #jpm #horror romance #james patrick march x reader #yandere james patrick march x reader #headcanon #yandere themes

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strnilolover · 6 months ago

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⌞ reset button ⌝

Warnings : some cussing, rage quitting, pet names (baby, sweetheart), fluff

A/N : I’ve literally been wanting to play Minecraft for so long but can’t find the motivation to play, and every-time i want to play, i have the urge to start a whole new world. anyways…you slightly rage quitting at Minecraft but matt being the sweetest <3

The familiar pixelated landscape of Minecraft filled the screen in front of you, and your eyes were narrowed in concentration as you ventured deeper into a dark cave system.

Your inventory was filled with treasures you had worked hard to collect: iron, gold, and, most importantly, a handful of diamonds. It had taken hours of exploring to get this far, and you had even fought off a horde of mobs to secure these precious resources.

Your heart pounded as you navigated the narrow pathways, carefully placing torches to light the way and ward off any lurking monsters. The eerie sounds of the cave echoed in your headphones—creaks, groans, the distant hiss of a creeper.

You could feel your nerves building up, but you were determined to make it back to your base safely. And then you heard it—a faint clattering sound that sent a chill down your spine.

A skeleton.

Before you could react, an arrow whizzed past your character, landing with a dull thud against the stone wall. Panic set in as you spun around, trying to locate the source. The skeleton emerged from the darkness, its bony frame moving with precision as it pulled back another arrow. Your health bar dropped with each hit, and you felt the tension rise in your chest.

“No, no, no!” you shouted, your heart racing as you tried to block and retreat at the same time. You fumbled with the controls, your fingers slipping as you tried to eat something—anything—to regain health. The skeleton kept advancing, each arrow knocking you further into a corner.

You could hear the blood rushing in your ears, your vision focused entirely on the screen. The screen flashed red as another arrow hit, and your heart sank when you realized you had nowhere left to run.

One last shot, and your character crumpled to the ground, your inventory spilling out across the cave floor. The dreaded “You Died!” message appeared across the screen, and you stared at it in disbelief.

“No!” you yelled, louder this time, the frustration boiling over. “Are you fucking kidding me?! Stupid fucking skeleton!”

In a fit of rage, you threw the controller onto the couch, the soft impact barely satisfying as you clenched your hands into fists. It wasn’t just the game—it was everything.

The hours of progress lost, the carefully collected diamonds now scattered, all because of one stupid skeleton. Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down.

From the other room, Matt had been minding his own business, scrolling through his phone when he heard your shout. His head snapped up, concern etched across his face. He pushed himself up from where he was sitting and made his way to your room, knocking lightly before pushing the door open.

“Hey, everything okay in here?” he asked, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on you—sitting on the couch, arms crossed, a deep frown on your face, your cheeks flushed in frustration.

You looked over at him, still fuming. “No, m’ not okay,” you huffed, gesturing towards the screen. “I died. I lost everything. Stupid skeleton shot me, and now all my stuff is gone.”

Matt’s eyes shifted to the screen, taking in the “You Died!” message still plastered across it. He tried to stifle a smile, but it was no use—he found your gaming frustration far too adorable.

He walked over to where you were sitting, plopping down beside you on the couch. “A skeleton, huh?” he said, nudging you playfully. “That’s rough baby.”

You shot him a glare, though it lacked real heat. “Don’t make fun of me,” you grumbled. “It’s just so annoying! I had so many diamonds, and now they’re gone. I don’t even know if I’ll find that cave again.”

Matt could see the frustration in your eyes, and his expression softened. He reached over, grabbing the controller you had tossed aside and holding it out to you. “Hey, listen. It’s just a game. We can go get more diamonds. I’ll help you. We’ll make it a team effort sweetheart.”

You looked at him, your frustration slowly beginning to melt away at the sight of his soft smile and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. Matt always knew just how to calm you down, even when you were at your most irrational. It was one of the things you loved most about him—how patient he was with you.

“Fine,” you muttered, taking the controller from his hand, though you couldn’t stop the small smile forming on your lips. “But if we die again — I die again, I’m fucking done and not playing anymore.”

Matt chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer to his side. “Deal. But with me here, I promise you—we’re gonna be unstoppable.” He reached for his own controller, ready to join in. “Besides, I’m not letting any skeleton get the best of you. Not on my watch.”

You sighed, leaning into him as he selected his character, the two of you loading back into the game. The warmth of his arm around you and the way he rested his chin lightly on top of your head made it hard to stay frustrated for long.

He had this way of making even the worst gaming losses feel like nothing more than a minor setback, just another challenge to face together.

“Okay,” Matt said as his character spawned beside yours. “First thing’s first—we’re getting you some armor. Full iron, maybe even diamond if we’re lucky. No skeleton’s gonna stand a chance.”

You glanced up at him, watching the way he focused on the screen, his brows furrowed slightly in determination. The same boyish excitement that filled his eyes when he played video games was back, and it made your heart swell.

Even over something as simple as Minecraft, Matt always took it seriously—because he knew it mattered to you.

“You better have my back,” you said, your voice softening as you leaned your head against his shoulder.

Matt gave you a confident grin, his fingers moving deftly over the controls as he began to gather resources. “Always,” he said, his voice filled with sincerity. “We’re a team, remember?”

A/N 2 : thinking of making a vampire!au for matt and possibly chris… but don’t know where to start. so if i’m not posting a lot it’s cause i’m frying my brain 🥰. But, i’m also not in the best place mentally right now, so i’m trying to work through that too. </3

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manias-wordcount · 1 year ago

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Wedding Night (Ganondorf)

Kinktober 2023 Day Twenty-One: Size Difference

𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁: 𝗼𝗻𝗲 || 𝘁𝘄𝗼 || 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

Your mother said that the night of your wedding might be scary. But she also said that if your husband was kind to you- if he was good to you, you would have nothing to worry about. You didn’t believe those words that she said to you when it was first announced that you were to be married into the Dragmire Family. But now that you’re here with your newly anointed husband right in front of you?

You don’t think the words could have rang any more true for another man.

Right now, you’re on your back. Your wedding attire was carefully discarded by your husband’s large hands all so gently, that you would have thought that the man was handling glass and diamonds and other precious jewels. By the time you were completely bare of everything, the nervousness must have been showing on your face. Because he was so quiet, so soft when he helped you lay down on the bed of consummation. So sweet as he helped you part your legs so, so slowly for him.

And so kind as he took one finger and pressed it to your lower lips, watching carefully as the most private part of your body welcomes in a stranger so easily.

Oh, how you gasped, and oh, how you moaned at the intrusion. You’re no stranger to your own body. You have touched and toyed and played with yourself before. But his fingers? They were so much larger. They were so much thicker. Somehow they managed to accomplish the same feat that not even three or four of your fingers could accomplish so easily- filling you up so easily. So smoothly. So- so perfectly. It almost set you running- racing out of the bed. But a large, firm hand being placed on your stomach stopped you. It keeps you in your place with just enough weight for the message to get to you loud and clear.

So you stay. You don’t run. You don’t cry. You stay. And maybe, just maybe…

…you open your legs just a teensy bit wider at the sight of the small, encouraging smile the King of Gerudo flashes at you for listening to him so readily.

“I forget just how small you are compared to me.” Ganondorf murmurs before looking back down at your body, eyebrows knitting together as a look of deep concentration spreads across his face. You could only whine in response as you felt the finger move further and further in. A loud, pitiful sound that makes your skin turn warm and your blood running hot beneath your skin. Yet the man in front of you- your husband seems to only relish in the sounds you make. Because they’re all made because of him. Because they’re all for him. Your dear, dear husband. Your dear, dear Ganondorf. “I’ve been at this for so long, and yet, you’re still so tight for me. I wonder why that is, my dear. Hmm?”

He with a lifted brow at a quick glance at your blissful expression, he throws the question in your direction. But you don’t answer. You can’t answer. It’s far too embarrassing for you to use your voice right now. Or is it that’s impossible to use your voice right now? You’re not quite sure, but this has you feeling all sortings of things that make it hard to think about anything except for what’s doing to you. And just how good he makes you feel.

The way he stands above you at the end of the bed makes him feel even taller- even bigger than before. Your eyelids flutter every now and then as you fight the urge to just lay there with your eyes closed and ride the singular finger buried inside you until you reach that peak you’re both searching for. It’s hard though. It’s hard fighting that feeling. Especially now that he’s listening to all the dumb little noises that pass through your parted lips. And the chuckle he lets out as he leans into you a little bit more- it makes you feel so, so very small in comparison. So, so very small.

“You're taking my finger very well, little one.” He compliments you, and you can’t help but coo at the words he says to you. “Ah, what a noisy little thing you are.”

He lets out another laugh at your lewd reactions and expressions to all that he’s giving you, and you can’t help but feel a wave of shame try to wash over you once more. But it’s quickly replaced by the tanned finger buried in your insides pulling back out and pumping itself in again at a pace that’s steadily starting to gain speed and intensity. It’s never too fast for you. It’s never too hard either. But it’s starting to curl and move like it knows what it’s doing. It’s starting to press and prod at places that make you gasp and whimper and moan clamp down on the offending appendage. But more than anything? It’s making you feel good. It’s making you feel warm and pleasured and a little bit dizzy.

But your mother said that if your husband was good to you- if your husband was kind to you- that he would make your world go soft and your mind grow fuzzy before he even enters you. Though she never said that he could make you feel like a cloud floating among the stars with just one finger and the beautiful purr of his gentle voice. She never said that at all.

“You’re so perfect for me. So receptive. So sweet.”

Ganondorf continues on with his praises. Voice warm as it hits you low, low, low in your body where it matters the most. You whine again at it all, unable to hold it in as the feeling of being called perfect while he takes such good care of you and your body. Every single thing he says- every little word he speaks to you- only manages to make you slip further and further into this headspace. It makes it harder and harder to focus on multiple things- anything at once. So much so that you’re starting to forget your own name and can only remember his. So much so that all you can see when you close your eyes is his olive-colored skin and kind, amber eyes as he touches you in places where no one else has touched you before. So much so that you don’t even know that you’re jerking and shifting and moving your hips in a way that is very unlike the blushing bride you’re supposed to be.

“Ah, But I do wonder…”

Or that the big, and heavy thing now pressing up against your inner thigh…

“If I’ll even be able to fit inside my wife’s precious little pussy without splitting her into two.”

…is supposed to be inside of you before the night is done and over with.

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daceydeath · 11 months ago

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Screeching Tires and Blood Stains

Pairing: Mafia Jongho x Reader Word Count: 3k Genre: Mafia Romance Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Swearing, Violence, Blood, Dangerous Driving, Explicit Activities, Drinking

Coming face to face with the realities of Jongho's criminal life had not been how you expected your night out together to go.

"Where is Jongho?" you begged, gripping the seatbelt so tightly that your knuckles were beginning to turn white.

"He'll be fine" Yunho stressed his eyes firmly on the road "you will be too I'll get you back safely".

"I'm not scared for me Yunho" you whimpered, not being able to focus on anything outside of the car, the scenery passing too fast for you to focus on. Jongho had ordered Yunho to get you in another car and get you back to a safe house as fast as possible. You hadn't even had a second to ask what was happening or even kiss him goodbye. Now you weren't sure if you were ever going to see your fiance again. The last sound you had heard other than the screeching tires as Yunho floored the engine was the sound of a scream which made your blood run cold.

You had known the life he led was dangerous, you had cleaned blood from his clothes more times than you could count and changed dressings on wounds at least once a month, but this was the first time you had actually come face to face with the danger he surrounded himself with everyday. Yunho often acted as your bodyguard. He was a gentle giant when it came to you and his loyalty to Jongho was unwavering so naturally Jongho trusted him to protect what he deemed most precious to him, you.

"I know, Jongho is going to be fine, he's a tough fucker" Yunho smiled wryly finally slowing the car now that he deemed it safe. "It's always a bigger deal if you are with us when something happens".

You hummed in understanding but the fear was still firmly entrenched in your chest like a lump of ice freezing you from the inside. The scenery was still passing your window in a blur, Yunho's foot still firmly on the accelerator not taking any chance that someone would follow you back to Jongho's apartment. The tire screech that followed you into the undercover parking garage was almost deafening no doubt leaving rubber in a thick layer on the smooth concrete as he finally hit the brakes before lifting you from the car and running into the waiting elevator only placing you on your own two feet when it started it's climb to the penthouse floor. He led you into the hallway nodding silently to the two men who guarded the entrance to the actual apartment, the message you didn't know officially but you had an inkling just watching the two men tense and take a more aggressive stance.

"I'll get you something to drink" Yunho smiled tightly, sitting you on the sofa and moving towards the drinks cart to grab you your standard tipple of choice.

"You're making me drinks? How bad is tonight going to be?" You sighed bitterly, your heart in your throat, looking into Yunho's eyes hoping he could see that you were demanding the truth from him.

"It could be really bad" he frowned, sitting down opposite you, pulling his hand gun from its holster and laying it on the coffee table "Jongho didn't see this coming tonight, I don't know what will happen". His candor was unusual. Normally he would soften news for you to prevent you panicking.

"You should be out there with him Yunho" you urged chewing your lip nervously "I'll be fine here, there's guys out the front and Jongho taught me to shoot" you looked at him knowing that if you could get him to go back your man was more likely to come home to you.

"He ordered me to stay with you so I will" he reminded you kindly before moving to take your hand in his. "If this goes to shit you will be looked after. I gave Jongho my word and he's given clear instructions".

"What the fuck does that mean?" You refuted angrily pulling your hand away from his as you heard loud yelling from the hallway outside. Whipping your head towards the sound with wide eyes, before a heartbeat later you found yourself pressed face first into the plush carpet Yunho pressed against your back, his long arm extended pointing his gun towards the sound. The front door burst open revealing Mingi and San, two of Jongho's enforcers, dragging a blood soaked Jongho into the apartment swearing loudly and still shouting at someone behind them.

"Fuck Yunho" San shouted as he spotted Yunho's gun trained on them “we don't need anyone else getting trigger happy tonight”.

"What happened?" Yunho grunted standing quickly, pulling you up with him, and moving to help haul Jongho's pained form onto the dining table making him breath heavily and grunt in protest.

“Were you followed Yunho? Did they see where you brought her?” Jongho growled looking at his friend.

“I got her away clean, man, you know I will keep her safe for you” Yunho replied solemnly.

"We were double crossed" Mingi spat through his clenched teeth, helping to get Jongho's shirt off of him while you stood motionless in shock beside the couch. "One of the soldiers was a plant".

"Was? I'm taking you fixed that problem?" Yunho smirked, helping to hold Jongho still while Mingi got his shirt and tie off the blood still flowing from his arm now running into the floor beneath the table staining the carpet bright vermillion. The front door once again opened as a man you know only as Doc rushed in followed by another man carrying a large medical crate.

"Is it a through and through?" Lee barked, opening one of Jongho's eyes wide to check his pupils, then felt for the pulse in his neck.

"Yeah doc, he's lost a lot of blood but he's still breathing" San replied swiftly, tying a tourniquet around Jongho's upper arm to stem the bleeding once more.

"Right get a needle in him and get some blood started" he ordered as the nameless man did as he was told.

"Will he be alright?" You finally managed to ask your voice faltering. Jongho hissed as the first needle entered the vein in his opposite arm and doc began probing the open wound in his upper arm.

"Of course" San reassured you "Doc will get him sorted out then if needed we will get him to a hospital but it's just a bullet wound" his smile was tight but he was trying his hardest to sound calm and in control. Jongho met your eyes for the first time since he had just about thrown you at Yunho screaming at him to get you out of there.

"San has got a few scratches on him. How about you help clean those up and get some clean clothes for me?" Jongho urged nodding at San and Mingi who nodded back in an unspoken agreement.

"Sure" you stuttered, walking towards the bedroom to get some clothes for at least Jongho and San. "I can do that".

San followed you, grabbing the clothes you offered him and heading into the bathroom to clean himself up, while you sat on the bed opening the first aid kit that you kept in the bedroom. San returned a few minutes later wearing sweatpants and no shirt, the small wound on his arm obvious but insignificant.

"Sit San" you tried your hardest to not let the shake in your voice obvious, following your wishes he did, letting you tend to the small graze that he didn't even seem to have noticed before Jongho had sent him with you.

"You're doing great" he murmured, pulling on a T-shirt and placing his hand on top of your head. "I'll swap with Mingi and you can look after anything that's on him". San picked up the clothes for your boyfriend and left to fetch Mingi.

Being left alone you took the chance to quickly change your own clothes, dropping the brand new dress you had worn onto the pile of clothes San had left on the bathroom floor. You would have to make sure they were incinerated later but for now you would wait for Mingi to change to another set of sweats and shirt sitting beside you on the bed.

"Ready for me?" Mingi asked softly trying to not startle you as he stepped into the room.

"Go clean up and I'll clean up anything you have that needs tending" you nodded letting him step into the bathroom with the clothes you had given him. You couldn't stop thinking about the sight of Jongho lying covered in blood on the table, how murderous he had looked being dragged by his friends into the apartment and what Yunho had said. What would you do if it did go badly? you weren't sure you could live without Jongho and would you even be allowed to just continue with life with all the things you knew and had seen in your time with him.

"Your thinking too hard" Mingi sighed sitting beside you on the bed "he's going to be fine, it's not life threatening" he gave you a small smile as you stood looking him over. Mingi has three small cuts that didn't even need dressing and a dozen bruises coming up so you carefully put some ointment on him before allowing him to finish dressing himself.

"Can I come out and see him again?" You asked meekly, putting away the first aid supplies.

"Course, docs got him hooked up to blood and saline so he should be back to normal soon anyway" Mingi grinned, escorting you out to where they were. You could hear hushed whispers as you stepped out of your shared bedroom but with Mingi's hand on your shoulder you continued to where they were still treating Jongho only he was now sitting in one of the dining chairs whilst Yunho cleaned the blood from the table.

"My love" Jongho sighed, his voice hoarse but still definitely loud enough for you to hear properly.

"Jongho" you sobbed, taking the hand closest to you and squeezing it.

"Hey love, no tears I'm fine" he tried to chuckle.

"Fine? You were just dragged onto your apartment and put on the dining table with blood pouring out of you!" you scoffed emotionally trying to not let the tears in your eyes escape your waterline and trying your hardest to resist slapping his shoulder.

"Doc has patched me up" Jongho smiled cupping your face with his other hand not noticing the dried blood all over it until it was against your skin.

"You scared me half to death" you pouted watching his eyes crinkle in a soft smile and doc removed the cannula that was no longer needed from his arm.

“That's why you love me though'' he grinned cheekily knowing you wouldn't argue you were just happy that he was fine. “You boys go home, get some rest and we will reconvene tomorrow to sort out what needs to be done”. You watched them all nod and one by one leave with Yunho being the last to go, his hand squeezing Jongho’s shoulder firmly before he let himself out.

“I'm sorry your pretty dress is ruined my love” he apologized genuinely, taking both your hands in his and kissing each of your fingers. “I'll buy you ten more to replace it”.

“Let me get you into bed first” you chewed your lip tiredly “you need rest”. He stood up easily, letting you pull him carefully behind you to his bedroom, sitting him down on his side of the bed letting him get comfortable against the headboard before you went back out to turn off all the lights. You returned to him smiling crookedly at you, his hair tousled from running his hand through it. Slipping the sweatpants you had put on off you were left in just one of his oversized t-shirts and your underwear.

“Do you need help getting into bed handsome?” You tilted your head as you crossed the room to him, noticing his eyes roaming up and down your body.

“No but I have had a thought” he started his soft eyes meeting yours while he cupped your cheek with his hand “I want you to move in here with me, I want to come home to you, I want to know you’re always safe”.

“I thought you wanted me to keep one step away from this life?” you furrowed your brows slightly even though the corners of your lips turned upward.

“I did but now I want you with me always” he admitted pulling you in to kiss you passionately, even in his injured state he easily maneuvered you into his lap pressing you against him and holding you in place with his hand on the nape of your neck.

“We can’t you’re hurt” you whispered against his lips, feeling his hard chest against your own, your hands bunching up his shirt to expose his flesh to you.

“I’m not that injured my love” he murmured back lowering one of his hands to squeeze and tease your tits making you whimper and shuffle in his lap “please let me touch you” he continued pressing his hips up against your barely covered crotch, you dropped your forehead against his shoulder letting him do whatever he wanted in that moment letting small noises leave your lips with each movement of his hands. Kissing his neck softly you felt the vibrations from his quiet groan through his skin encouraging you to keep kissing him.

“You’re so amazing letting me touch you, letting me love you” he rasped, swallowing hard and moving his attention to your hips, gripping them tightly and pressing you against his hardening dick helping you grid against him the way he wanted. “You going to let me fuck you yeah?”.

“Yes Jongho” you whined, his fingers brushing against your covered clit only to pull away again to help you lift yourself enough for him to pull his now weeping cock from his pants so that there would be nothing but the flimsy material of your underwear between you. Continuing your grinding against him he let out a low groan from deep in his throat moving your underwear to the side to easily slip himself between your folds to cover his length with your essence before gradually entering your tight hole and allowing you to sink down at your own pace, splitting you open and stretching you until you were so full you didn’t think you could possibly take anymore of him.

“Just a little bit more my love” he grunted, not moving his hips to let you control your own pace.

“So big Jongho” you moaned softly, not stopping your legs from sinking you down further on his cock. You heard him grunt as you finally pressed hips against his pelvis, the delicious mix of pleasure and almost pain making your head swim. Jongho’s head fell back against the bed frame with a soft thunk, his hands gripping your hips, his fingers digging into your skin. You began to roll your hips again unhurriedly enjoying the feeling of him inside you, his hands on you, his voice surrounding you as you began to find your leisurely pace. Your hands on his chest you leant forward to press your lips against his neck nipping and carefully sucking small love bites on his skin marking him lightly as yours and only yours as his grip on you tightened no doubt leaving his own marks on you for you to find in the morning.

“Fuck I’m so in love with you” He moaned his breath coming out in soft pants and grunts as you continued to ride him.

“I love you” you mewled the pleasure flowing through you making you move more desperately his whimpers making you need more as the image of him still covered in blood entered your mind making you feel everything so much more intensely bringing tears to your eyes your rocking hips moving faster as your got more emotional “I love you Jongho”. The first tear falling from your eyes onto his neck mingling with his sweat and making his skin even saltier against your tongue.

“I got you love, I’m here” he grunted loudly his hands now moving your hips as you began to lose your rhythm his hips coming up slightly to meet yours “Fuck my love I’m here, I’ll always he here he ground out as your walls started to flutter wildly around him.

“Fuck Jongho…Jongho” you cried coming hard around him, your walls milking his seed from him as he followed you with his own release. Slumping against him you continued kissing his neck lazily breathing in his scent as your eyes began to droop slightly. You both sat in silence, your bodies still connected as you came down from your highs only moving when Jongho helped you to lay beside him, your thighs burning too much for you to move by yourself gracefully.

“I know I scared you tonight my love” he started brushing his fingers against your back as you laid curled up against him “I’m sorry”.

“I know it’s your life Jongho, I’ve known for almost as long as we have been together. It’s a risk I knew existed but I never thought would happen in front of me. Is that naive?” You asked honestly.

“There will be retribution for what happened tonight so hopefully it won't happen in front of you again but I can’t promise it will never happen again” he answered truthfully “But I will protect you always and Yunho will take care of you if anything ever happens to me so you will always be safe”.

“I love you Jongho, I’ll get my stuff together to move in at the weekend” you grinned against his chest. Feeling him silently chuckle.

“I’ll let the guys know they will be moving your stuff for you then”.

A/N: Thank you for reading as always your support means the world to me as always I appreciate every like, reblog and comment my beautiful lovelies xx

Taglist (open): @christopher-bangnaldoskzz @armystay89 @damnyouficc @roamingpolar @tara-skyhold @bakedlilgoonie , @krishastumblernow , @mrsseals16 , @fawnpeaks @leeknowinggg @uno7 @tanzen-ist-gold

#choi jongho x reader #jongho x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez imagines #ateez smut #choi jongho smut #jongho smut #mafia au #ateez hard thoughts #ateez hard hours #ateez scenarios #ateez mafia au

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808airsoftbros · 11 months ago

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Vampire Kiss of Life's Reaction to you Getting Hurt

Julie Han (Alpha)

Big. Big. Big Mistake

Attacking an Alpha's husband especially if it's mating season is the equivalent of signing one's death wish and Miss Julie Han is no exception and is very unforgiving

Julie wouldn't love anything more than to rip the fool into shreds but first, she'd want to send them a final message before they die and feel nothing but dread and fear

But the most important part is that you are safe and ensure you are healthy and all wounds are treated if you sustained any

Would you be traumatized witnessing Julie rip apart the perp? Nope, Julie isn't a monster to let you see that and would likely tell you to stay in a safe hiding spot

"Mama? What happened?" Your innocent-self asked

"Oh, don't worry sweetie, that bad man won't hurt you any longer and I won't allow anyone to do so again, now come along sweetie~,"

Natty (อานัชญา สุพุทธิพงศ์) (Enforcer)

Oh boy... If anyone dares to hurt you in any way, Natty wouldn't hesitate to confront the perp and would ensure something like this wouldn't happen again

If they're are lucky enough that Natty is in a good mood, she might spare their life but not without several broken bones

Natty's super vampire strength can easily snap a human in half like a twig and lucky them that Natty is wise to know her own strength

But after she was done with them, Natty would constantly keep you close to her at all times and demands you to check up with her every now and then if she isn't around

"Come to mommy darling and I'll keep you safe and I promise nobody will be able to bother or hurt you when I'm around~,"

Belle (Shim Hyewon) (Blood Sister)

Belle is completely obsessed and possessive when it comes to you and you are the only thing that comes to her mind so you can imagine how she'll feel when someone lays their dirty fingers on you

She'd be livid and angry beyond the levels she never imagined in her life, Belle would nearly lose control of her emotions because she would feel at fault because she wasn't strong enough to prevent this

Belle would blame herself for failing you and worst of all, her sisters would be greatly disappointed but that was just overthinking thankfully and will handle the situation with pure elegance with a hint of blood

But what's more important to her is that you're safe and breathing, wounds will heal with proper treatment and Belle would go as far as make an example out of them

"Come near my precious baby and you all suffer the same fate as him..."

Won Haneul (Youngest Blood)

Oh boy, Haneul... How should I put this? Haneul is one of the most dangerous and powerful maknae Vampires in the sisterhood and she certainly won't take shit from anyone

Haneul takes her duty of being your wife and mother seriously just like her older sisters and has sworn to protect you from any dangers

She loves you to death and will do anything to ensure you're comfort and happiness so to see someone laying their hands on you is something that will surely make her infuriated with fiery rage

Haneul would chase them down if she has to letting one of her older sisters look after you while she was gone and will deliver a painful death to the person

"This is what you deserve for hurting my little angel and Hell has a special place for you..."

#kpop #kpop idol #kpop gg #bxg #x male reader #vampire au #kpop scenarios #kiss of life #kiss of life julie #kiss of life natty #kiss of life belle #kiss of life haneul #won haneul #kiof #haneul #shim hyewon #julie han #kiss of life headcanons

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glearyyyne · 1 year ago

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deja vu

Part 2

Synopsis: Since some things are precious but invisible to the eye, we forget them as life passes by. In which child Satoru forgot the promise he made to you as he grew up trying to fit into the expectations thrown at him, everything is fine until he began to dream about those moments he forgot, and he began to investigate what he forgot.

Word Count: 5,567 words

Warning: Imaginary friends, I don't know if this is angst anymore since it has a happy ending.

Note: Happy Birthday to me! (ᗒᗨᗕ) the title came from tomorrow x together's new song! go ahead and stream minisode 3. This is best to read while listening to deja vu! This was to be like long ass story but I'll just make a part 2 if everyone wants too. Have fun reading! <33.

_____________________________________________________________

Stomp stomp

Satoru stopped running when he made it to the garden of his household, he ran away again from his lesson just to have fun.

As Satoru stood on the pile of leaves, he carefully stomped out the melody of the Morse code, hoping to summon the person he had met in the garden. Each rhythmic stomp carried a message, a secret code only they shared.

"Satoru!" The voice called out, and he excitedly turned his head around to see you and the fennec fox that you weirdly named "Tomorrow.”

Upon seeing you, Satoru’s eyes lit up before he tried to rush towards you but instead, he tripped and landed right on his face.

He groans in pain with tears threatening to spill but you come towards him, kneeling and helping him to stand up.

He started seeing you after his 7th birthday. When he was wandering around alone in the garden that was like a maze, he saw you sitting prettily as you gently petted that fox.

You looked just around his age at that time, but he couldn't believe whether you were real or not since you looked like an angel to his eyes from how bright you were.

It was as if you were not a human being at all…

When you accidentally made eye contact with Satoru, that's how you two began to meet in secret.

"Are you okay?" you asked with a concerned look as Satoru brushed it off, telling you he was fine, even though there was clear evidence of blood running down his nose.

Despite his attempt to hide it, you could see the pain in his eyes.

Gently, you reached out and wiped away the blood with a handkerchief you always carried with you. Satoru winced slightly but tried to hide it with a weak smile.

"You really should be more careful, Satoru," you scolded softly, your voice filled with worry. "Let's get you cleaned up."

You led him to a nearby bench and carefully dabbed at his nose with the handkerchief, trying to stop the bleeding.

The fennec fox, Tomorrow, nuzzled against Satoru's leg as if offering comfort in its own way.

As you tend to him, Satoru couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth and safety wash over him. Being with you and Tomorrow always made him forget his troubles, even if just for a little while.

As Satoru sat there with you by his side, tending to his injury, he couldn't help but wish that this moment could last forever.

He wished he could stay like this with you, with Tomorrow following you two around, offering silent companionship.

Despite the pain in his nose, Satoru felt a sense of peace and contentment wash over him.

Being with you made him forget about the stresses and worries of his everyday life as the heir to the Gojo clan. It was moments like these that he cherished the most, moments of simple happiness and quiet friendship.

As you finished cleaning up his nose, Satoru looked up at you with gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you," he said softly, his voice filled with sincerity.

"I don't know what I would do without you.” He added.

You gave him a light-hearted chuckle as you told him it's nothing, as long as his nose is fine.

With a playful grin, you booped his nose gently, causing him to wince and whine as it still pained him even from a gentle touch.

"I'm sorry," you said with a sympathetic smile, realizing your mistake. "I didn't mean to make it hurt more."

Satoru shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips despite the discomfort. "It's okay," he assured you. "I'll survive."

You and Satoru shared a moment of laughter, finding solace in each other's company even in the midst of a small mishap. As Tomorrow nestled closer to both of you, the bond between the three of you felt stronger than ever.

As Satoru began to tell you about his day, you sat there listening attentively, giving him a genuine reaction to each detail he shared.

You laughed at his humorous anecdotes, frowned at his frustrations, and smiled at his moments of joy.

Lost in conversation, neither of you noticed the passage of time or the maid beginning to appear in the garden.

Satoru was completely engrossed in sharing his experiences with you, finding comfort in your presence and the ease with which he could confide in you.

While Satoru was still engrossed in telling his story, he was abruptly pulled on his wrist. Startled, he turned to face his personal maid, who had a frantic look on her face.

"Gojo-sama, who were you talking to?!" she asked, breathing heavily.

Satoru was confused. "Huh? I was talking to-" He turned his head to face you and Tomorrow, eager to show you to the maid, but to his surprise, the two of you weren't there.

Huh?

Confusion clouded Satoru's expression as he scanned the garden, but there was no sign of you or Tomorrow.

His heart sank as he realized that you and the fennec fox had vanished without a trace, leaving him standing there, alone with his bewildered maid.

The maid sighed in disappointment, her frustration evident as she scolded him.

"I'm disappointed in you, Gojo-sama, for running away from your lecture and being here alone! How would your father react if he knew this?!" Her voice carried a mix of concern and fear, knowing the consequences of Satoru's actions if his father found out about his whereabouts while escaping an important lesson.

Satoru felt a pang of guilt as he realized the trouble he could be in if his father discovered his disobedience.

He lowered his gaze, feeling ashamed for causing his maid such distress.

"I'm sorry," he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to worry anyone. I'll go back to my lesson now."

With a heavy heart, Satoru followed his maid back to the house, his mind filled with thoughts of you and Tomorrow, wondering where you had disappeared and if he would ever see you again.

The next day, Satoru returned to the garden, finding himself standing in the same spot where he had met you before. Hesitant at first, he debated whether to do the Morse code to summon you, but he shook off his doubts and began stomping his feet in the pile of leaves, creating the familiar rhythm.

Just as he finished, he heard your voice calling out his name. Startled, Satoru turned around to see you standing there, nervous but with a glimmer of hope in your eyes. Tomorrow hung on your shoulder, adding to the surreal scene.

"Satoru," you spoke softly, the sound of his name sending a wave of relief through him. Without hesitation, he rushed towards you, a smile spreading across his face.

"You came back," he said, his voice filled with joy and gratitude. "I was afraid I wouldn't see you again.”

Satoru added, "Since you suddenly vanished yesterday when my maid was scolding me," his tone carrying a hint of hurt. You gently held his shoulder, trying to reassure him.

"I'm sorry about it, but if you know about it, I don't know about the consequences I'll face," you explained, your words tinged with concern. Satoru's interest was piqued by your cryptic statement, and he looked at you with curiosity.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his brows furrowing slightly. He couldn't help but wonder what consequences you were referring to and why you had disappeared so suddenly the day before.

You brushed it off, telling him it's nothing he should be worrying about. Satoru was confused as to why you couldn't tell him, but he kept quiet. All he wanted to do was spend time with you and Tomorrow, relishing in the moment of companionship and friendship.

Though a part of him was curious about the secrets you held, he decided not to press further. Instead, he focused on the present, cherishing the time he had with you and the fennec fox. As he watched Tomorrow playfully scampering around, a smile formed on Satoru's lips, grateful for the simple joys your presence brought him.

On his 10th birthday, Satoru came across the garden, but there was no joy in his body. He mechanically performed the usual Morse code, his heart heavy with burdens he couldn't quite articulate. When you called his name, he turned around to see you smiling at him, Tomorrow perched on your shoulder as usual.

However, your smile faltered as you sensed Satoru's unusual demeanor. Concern etched across your face as you approached him cautiously.

"Satoru, is everything alright?" you asked gently, your voice filled with genuine care. Satoru hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to express the turmoil he was feeling inside.

"I came here to tell you that I will stop coming here," Satoru replied, his voice tinged with sadness. Your face showed an expression of hurt and a small "oh" escaped your lips. Satoru scratched his nape nervously.

"Satoru, will you promise me?" you asked, your voice soft but filled with emotion.

"Promise about what?" he asked, confused by your request.

"Promise me that you will meet us again and you won't forget the Morse code we created and also mine and Tomorrow's name," you told him with a smile, even though it hurt you deeply.

Satoru thought it wasn't that hard as he agreed, "I promise," he said with a smile. You smiled back, though a tinge of sadness lingered in your eyes, as he walked away to head inside his clan household. You stood there, staring at the ground, hiding the fact that you had a gift for him hidden behind your feet.

As Satoru disappeared from view, you let out a sigh, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside you.

With a heavy heart, you bent down and retrieved the gift you had prepared for him, clutching it tightly in your hands.

Despite the pain of saying goodbye, you knew it was for the best. Holding onto the hope that someday, somehow, you and Satoru would meet again.

With a determined smile, you tucked the gift away, silently vowing to cherish the memories you shared and to keep your promise to never forget.

But that promise slowly faded away as Satoru grew older, the memories of his childhood slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

Immersed in his duties as the heir of the Gojo clan, he became consumed by the weight of expectations and obligations.

As the years passed, the garden and the special moments he shared with you and Tomorrow became distant echoes in his mind, overshadowed by the demands of his position.

Slowly but surely, the memories began to blur, the Morse code becoming nothing more than a forgotten melody, and your name fading into the depths of his consciousness.

Despite his best efforts to hold on, Satoru found himself unable to recall the promise he had made to you that day.

It was as if a veil had been drawn over his past, shrouding it in a haze of forgetfulness.

With each passing day, the gap between Satoru's present and his cherished memories of the past widened, leaving him feeling lost and disconnected from the innocence and joy of his childhood.

As he continued to fulfill his duties as the heir of the Gojo clan, the promise he had once made to never forget slipped further and further from his grasp, lost to the passage of time.

Satoru woke up abruptly, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

His hand instinctively went to his forehead, feeling the dampness of sweat, and then to his eyes, where he could still feel the lingering dampness of tears.

He realized he had been crying in his sleep.

What the hell is that dream?

Confusion and unease settled over him as he tried to make sense of the emotions that had stirred within him.

His heart felt heavy, weighed down by a sadness he couldn't quite place. Was it a dream that had brought him to tears, or was it something deeper, something he couldn't quite grasp?

As he lay there in the darkness, the remnants of his dream slipping away like smoke, Satoru couldn't shake the feeling of emptiness that lingered within him.

Despite the warmth of his surroundings, he felt an inexplicable chill in his bones, as if something precious had been lost to him forever.

Satoru lay back again, his mind still lingering on the vivid dream. Who was that young girl in his dream? He swore he had never met them before. With a sigh, he glanced at his clock and realized he was awake earlier than usual.

Feeling restless, Satoru got up and headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth. As he stood in front of the mirror, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled over him. The memory of the dream lingered in the back of his mind, elusive yet haunting.

Despite his attempts to push it aside, Satoru found himself lost in thought, pondering the significance of the dream and the emotions it had stirred within him.

He is itching to know that person.

But as he rinsed his mouth and splashed water on his face, he resolved to put it behind him and focus on the day ahead. With a determined expression, he left the bathroom, ready to face whatever challenges awaited him.

At Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College, Shoko and Geto stared at Satoru as if they had seen a ghost. "You're early, wow," Shoko said, amused, while Geto remarked, "You look like shit, dude."

Satoru groaned at them for being annoying. "Knock it off, you two!" he told them frustratedly as he rubbed his forehead, already feeling a headache coming on.

Both Shoko and Geto sat down in front of him after grabbing chairs. "Was it some girl?" Geto asked teasingly.

"I'll punch you in the face," Satoru told him annoyingly, clearly not in the mood for their jokes.

Shoko giggled at the exchange. "So it is a girl!" she said happily, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Satoru sighed heavily, covering his face with his arm at the desk in an attempt to ignore Shoko and Geto's antics.

The two glanced at each other before shrugging and engaging in another conversation, leaving Satoru to his thoughts.

His mind began to wander, trying to unravel the mystery of the dream that had left him feeling unsettled.

Did he really forget something?

The thought gnawed at him, but his childhood memories were a blur, a part of his past that he often avoided digging into.

As Shoko and Geto's voices faded into the background, Satoru couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he was missing, something important that he had left behind in the depths of his memories.

But as much as he tried to push the thought away, it lingered like a shadow, taunting him with its mysterious presence.

Even though it bugged Satoru, he continued his day like he usually did.

Satoru woke up in the middle of a field on a hill. Looking around, he found the surroundings peaceful, but confusion flooded his mind as he tried to comprehend how he had ended up there. Just as he was about to shout for someone, he heard a squeak.

His head swiftly turned to see a fox? But it didn't look like a normal fox; its color didn't match the foxes he knew. Perhaps it was a specific type of fox?

He felt that this was the fox in his other dream.

The fox stared at him with an unreadable expression before turning around and running away down the mountain.

Satoru's eyes widened, and before he knew it, his feet unconsciously began to run, trying to chase after the mysterious fox.

As Satoru made it to the top of the hill where the fox had led him, he stared down to see someone's back facing him. They knelt in front of the fox, giving it a chin rub, to which the fox responded with evident happiness.

Satoru was about to call out to the person, but to his horror, he found that his voice wouldn't come out.

Panic surged through him as he tried to walk forward, only to find himself stumbling and falling through darkness.

The sensation of falling seemed endless, and Satoru's mind raced with confusion and fear.

What was happening?

Where was he going?

And who was that person with the fox?

Satoru woke up again, this time to the sound of his alarm blaring. He sat up straight, turning off the alarm abruptly as he rubbed his eyes.

The remnants of the dream lingered in his mind, leaving him feeling unsettled.

"Ah, my head," Satoru muttered, rubbing his temples in an attempt to alleviate the headache that had crept in.

The vividness of the dream left him feeling disoriented as if it had a deeper significance that he couldn't quite grasp.

Satoru thought back to the person he had seen in his dream, trying to recall their features. He couldn't shake the feeling that the person was just around his age.

Could it be that person and the fox were the ones from his dream?

Sighing, Satoru stood up and went about his usual routine, pushing the strange dream to the back of his mind for the time being.

But the nagging feeling that there was something more to it lingered, leaving him unsettled as he went about his day.

Satoru called out to Shoko, who was smoking in the hallway. "Mhm?" she replied, blowing out a puff of smoke.

"Let me guess, did you and Suguru make another bet?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Satoru shook his head, a serious expression on his face.

He leaned against the wall, contemplating his thoughts for a moment before speaking again. "What would you do if you had a dream that felt so real?" he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Shoko took another drag of her cigarette before responding.

"Well, I guess it depends on the dream. But if it felt real, I'd probably try to figure out why it felt that way. Dreams can sometimes be a reflection of our subconscious thoughts and feelings, you know?" she replied, her tone thoughtful.

"But all dreams are just made up?" Satoru asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Shoko shrugged, taking another puff of her cigarette. "Well, believe what you want. I already gave you my answer to that question of yours," she said cryptically, leaving Satoru to ponder her words.

Satoru tried to question her further, but Shoko began to feel annoyed. She rolled her eyes and sighed heavily, her patience wearing thin.

"Look, Satoru, I don't have time for your quarter-life crisis," she snapped, her irritation visible. "If you keep bothering me with these questions, I swear I'll kill you."

Despite her threatening tone, Shoko knew she wasn't strong enough to actually harm Satoru.

It was more of an empty threat born out of frustration than anything else.

Satoru huffed in frustration as he walked away from Shoko, deciding to ask Geto the same question.

However, his attempt didn't go as planned, as Geto's patience wore thin much quicker than expected.

As Satoru began to ask his question, Geto's annoyance boiled over, and he almost ended up getting beaten up by Geto for the umpteenth time for annoying him with his constant questions.

Satoru quickly retreated, realizing that perhaps he needed to find the answers to his questions on his own.

Satoru woke up, finding himself back in his clan household's garden.

It was a maze-like garden, designed to intrigue and challenge visitors. His eyes were drawn to a glowing circle, its color matching his own eyes.

As it began to move inside the maze, Satoru felt a curious pull, compelling him to follow the mysterious object.

With cautious steps, he navigated through the intricate pathways of the maze, the hedges towering above him like walls of greenery.

The glowing circle led him deeper into the maze, its light casting eerie shadows on the foliage.

Despite the uncertainty swirling in his mind, Satoru felt a sense of determination driving him forward. He had to find out what this glowing object was and why it had led him here. With each twist and turn of the maze, he moved closer to unraveling the mysteries hidden within.

As soon as Satoru took a turn in the maze, he slowed to a stop when he saw the same fox whining at the back of a glowing young girl.

The girl was crying and digging into the ground, pushing something that resembled a letter. Satoru's interest was piqued by the unusual scene unfolding before him.

As the girl turned around, Satoru thought he would be able to see their face.

However, instead of a clear view, their face seemed to glow, obscuring his vision and making it harder for him to see their features.

They carried and hugged the fox tightly, tears streaming down her face, while the fox whined softly as if trying to comfort them in return.

A sense of empathy washed over Satoru as he watched the heartbreaking scene. He felt compelled to approach and offer his help, but he hesitated, unsure of how to intervene in such a mysterious and otherworldly situation.

Satoru's mouth unconsciously opened, but once again, his voice failed to emerge. His hand shot up to his neck, gripping it tightly in confusion.

He felt a surge of panic as he wondered if he had suddenly become mute.

Frantically, Satoru tried to speak, but no sound escaped his lips. The realization that something strange was happening washed over him, leaving him feeling helpless.

The young girl stopped crying and stood up, still carrying the fox in her arms before suddenly running away.

Satoru's eyes widened in surprise as he instinctively followed them, breaking into a run. However, he couldn't seem to move forward.

Instead, he felt as if an invisible force was pulling him backward, preventing him from reaching the girl and the fox.

Confusion clouded Satoru's mind as he struggled against the unseen barrier, his heart pounding with frustration and urgency. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't break free.

As he continued to struggle, his vision suddenly went dark.

Satoru woke up again, finding himself back in his dorm room. He sat up straight, blankly staring at the wall, lost in thought. Was this moment real or just another dream?

To confirm, he pinched himself and winced as he felt the pain, concluding that he was not dreaming at this moment.

Sighing in relief, Satoru tried speaking and was reassured by the sound of his own voice.

He got out of bed and headed to the bathroom. As he looked into the mirror, he winced at the sight of his reflection.

His face appeared ruined from his messed-up sleeping schedule, with prominent bags under his eyes indicating how little sleep he had been getting.

As Satoru brushed his teeth, the memory of the garden dream flooded his mind.

He paused, toothbrush in hand, trying to recall the details of the dream. The image of the young girl burying something in the ground lingered in his thoughts.

"Maybe what the young girl buried was real," Satoru mused aloud to himself.

The idea took root in his mind, and he felt a sudden determination to find out the truth. Without hesitation, he made a decision.

"I should find out," he resolved, determination firm in his voice.

After brushing his teeth, Satoru quickly made up his mind to head back to his clan. He decided to ditch school in order to find the mystery of what the young girl had buried in the ground.

The maid spoke in a happy tone, "I'm so glad you came to visit, Gojo-sama," her voice filled with genuine warmth. She had been with Satoru during his childhood and had seen him grow up.

Satoru smiled back at her as they walked down the hallway together. "Well, I just had something to take care of here," he told her, keeping his purpose for returning to the clan grounds vague for now.

He didn't want to raise any suspicions about his sudden visit.

"You were just this small back then," the maid said, a fond smile on her face as she reminisced. She placed her hand on her waist, indicating Satoru's small height from his childhood days.

"You always ran away during lecture time because you had to go to the garden all the time," she chuckled, the memory bringing amusement to her voice.

Satoru froze on his spot, his mind intrigued by her words. "W-what do you mean?" he asked, his voice itching to know the answer.

"I mean you always had these imaginary friends," the maid explained gently, her tone understanding. "We saw that coming since you were a child. Maybe it was because you didn't have any other kids to play with at the time."

“You were always intrigued by the fennec fox or even those morse codes that you always show me.” She added

Satoru's eyes widened as the memories slowly started to come back to him.

The mention of the fennec fox and the morse code stirred something deep within him, unlocking fragments of his forgotten childhood.

"You should go ahead," Satoru told the maid, his mind consumed with the memories flooding back to him.

"But I thought you wanted to eat some food?" she asked, confused by his sudden change of plans.

"I just had to get something first from my room. I'll join later," Satoru reassured her, his tone urgent as he made his way towards his room.

The maid was about to protest, but before she could say anything, Satoru vanished, using his teleportation ability to make a quick escape.

She sighed and shook her head, accustomed to his unpredictable behavior, before heading to the kitchen to carry on with her tasks.

Satoru appeared in front of the garden, his determination driving him forward. He focused on remembering the path, trying his best to recall every twist and turn.

With each step, he made a conscious effort to scan the ground, searching for any signs of disturbance that might indicate something had been dug up.

As he navigated through the maze, Satoru kept an observation eye on his surroundings, his senses heightened with anticipation.

Every corner turned, every dead end reached, brought him closer to uncovering the truth behind the mysterious events that had unfolded in his dreams.

Satoru found a patch of dirt with growing grass, noticing how oddly dented it appeared.

Suspicion sparked in his mind, prompting him to dig into the soil using his bare hands.

"The gardener must not have noticed this. I guess they barely come to this part of the maze," Satoru muttered to himself as he continued to dig, determined to uncover whatever lay hidden beneath the surface.

Satoru's hand quickly grabbed the dirty paper, unfolding it with trembling fingers. His eyes widened in astonishment when he recognized the familiar handwriting—it was the letter he had made.

The realization sent a shiver down his spine as he struggled to comprehend how it had ended up buried in the garden.

Dear Future Me,

Hi! I hope you're having a good day! Remember that time when we met [Reader's name] and Tomorrow in the garden? It was super cool! We made a secret code together, just for us!

If you ever forget it, don't worry! It's

- --- -- --- .-. .-. --- .-- ! It's from Tomorrow, the fennec fox's name! Isn't that awesome?

I hope you always remember our fun times and our secret code, even when you're all grown up!

From,

Your 7-Year-Old Self! (⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠)

Satoru's world seemed to come to a halt as he read the letter, flooded with memories of the day he had written it with you by his side.

He remembered the joy of creating the secret code together, the excitement of writing the letter to his future self. It felt like a precious capsule of time, frozen in his memory forever.

[Reader’s name] and Tomorrow…

Quickly, he folded the paper and hid it inside his pocket, wanting to keep it safe and close to him.

With a final glance at the spot where he had found the letter, Satoru carefully replaced the dirt, covering any trace of his discovery.

As he made his way back, he felt a sense of urgency, not wanting the maid to worry about his absence.

After spending the day at the clan, Satoru returned to his dorm, feeling a sense of peace wash over him.

As he prepared for bed, he made sure to take a moment to memorize the Morse code, repeating it over and over in his mind until it became second nature.

With the Morse code firmly ingrained in his memory, Satoru climbed into bed, ready to embrace whatever dreams may come.

As he drifted off to sleep, he held onto the hope that he would find answers and perhaps even more memories waiting for him in the realm of dreams.

Satoru woke up on the hill, greeted by the sight of the fall season around him.

He scanned his surroundings, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tomorrow and you, but they were nowhere to be found. Determined, he searched for a pile of leaves, his heart pounding with anticipation.

When he finally found one, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

With steady determination, he began to stomp his feet onto the leaves, creating the sound of the morse code echoing through the quiet air.

With each rhythmic beat, Satoru felt nervous while hoping this morse code still worked.

He continued the morse code, trusting that somehow, it would lead him to see you again.

After Satoru finished the code, he waited anxiously for the familiar voice to call out to him, but seconds turned into minutes, and there was only silence.

Disappointment weighed heavy in his heart as he stared up at the sky, feeling a sense of hopelessness wash over him.

Just when he was about to give up, he felt a gentle nudge at his ankle.

Startled, he looked down to see the fennec fox, Tomorrow, rubbing its head against him, squealing and smiling in its own unique way.

"Tomorrow," Satoru whispered, his eyes widening in disbelief and wonder. In that moment, a spark of hope ignited within him once more.

Satoru was about to kneel and pet Tomorrow when he heard someone call out to the fennec fox.

Tomorrow's ears perked up, and with a joyful squeal, it darted toward the person, leaving Satoru momentarily stunned.

Turning quickly, Satoru's eyes widened as he saw you, someone he had been longing to see again, standing before him.

You knelt down and held out your hand, welcoming Tomorrow as it leaped onto your arm and perched on your shoulder, just like old times.

As you turned your gaze towards Satoru, your eyes slowly widened in surprise. "Satoru," you said, your voice filled with astonishment.

"You still-" Satoru began, but you cut him off.

"What took you so long?" you asked him.

Satoru was surprised by your words. "You still remember me?" he asked incredulously, pointing to himself.

"Of course. I've never stopped waiting for you," you replied with a smile, your eyes filled with warmth and sincerity.

Tomorrow whined softly, and you chuckled, giving the fennec fox a gentle chin rub as if you understood its whines.

"I mean, we never stopped waiting for you," you corrected yourself, including Tomorrow in your response to ensure they weren't left out.

Satoru couldn't help but unconsciously smile at the sight of you two together. He observed the both of you for a moment, taking in the changes since the last time he had seen you.

You looked more mature now, but still carried that familiar warmth in your eyes. Tomorrow remained the same playful fox, bringing a sense of familiarity and comfort to the moment.

"I'm sorry if I forgot our promise. You can punch me all you want," Satoru said, spreading his arms wide, and preparing himself for the certain punch he’ll face.

However, instead of a punch, he was taken aback as you stepped forward and enveloped him in a warm hug.

Tomorrow, sensing the affection, jumped down from your shoulder and rubbed its head against Satoru's ankle, offering its own form of comfort and forgiveness.

In that embrace, Satoru felt a wave of gratitude and relief wash over him, knowing that despite his forgetfulness, the bond between you all remained strong.

"What matters right now is that you're here," you told him, your voice soft and filled with warmth as you continued to hold him in the embrace.

Satoru felt a sense of peace wash over him as he slowly wrapped his arms around your back, returning the hug with equal sincerity.

"I won't forget you. Ever. I really promise," Satoru whispered, his words sincere and heartfelt, leaving you giggling softly in response.

At that moment, surrounded by the presence of each other and the playful affection of Tomorrow, Satoru felt a sense of reassurance that some bonds were truly unbreakable, no matter the passage of time.

He might just not want to wake up anymore.

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