#a while back i read a post saying that it is perfectly fine to just block certain people for slightly dumb reasons rather than hate on them

[cryoculus]

the art of war (and other distractions) ⟢

as a mandatory part of your post-grad program, you're required to log 200 hours as a teaching aide—which would’ve been fine, if you had any say in who you were working with. instead, you're assigned under professor jing yuan: esteemed war historian, charming bane of the faculty lounge, and the one man who makes grading ancient battle essays feel like a tactical skirmish of your own.

★ featuring; jing yuan x f!reader

★ word count; 12.9k words

★ notes; hi, hello part three is here! this is the last part of the series hehe and thank you kindly for patiently waiting <3 this contains non-explicit smut, so it's not that graphic but the goods are there, just a heads up. it's been so fun sharing this with you guys, writing this series genuinely made me love jing yuan so much more, he's such an endearing character to write. trust that i WILL be back for more JY, but for now, i hope you enjoy :3c

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

III. A (PERFECTLY) TIMED SURRENDER

Days later, you take the late train to the Luofu, like ripping off a bandage under the cover of night. Fewer passengers. Fewer chances to second-guess the whole trip. The hum of the engine is steady—something to hold onto while your thoughts spiral.

By the time you reach the hotel, your legs ache and your wrist hurts from dragging your suitcase up the uneven ramps. The lobby’s too bright. The hallway’s too clean. You scan the keycard, step inside, and barely get the door shut before your phone starts buzzing.

Jiaoqiu: you alive?

Jiaoqiu: did the train explode?

Jiaoqiu: i can ring up an ambulance 

You don’t even get a chance to answer before the call comes through. You sigh and accept it.

“Tell me you’re hydrating,” Jiaoqiu says without preamble, voice crisp with the background beeping of hospital monitors. “And that you wore the orthopedic sneakers I recommended. Or are you planning to let your spine compress into powder before your guest lecture?”

You drop your bag, toe off your shoes, and sink onto the edge of the bed.

“Hello to you too,” you murmur. “Aren’t you in the middle of your shift?”

He clicks his tongue. “I have five minutes before I need to run an ECG and bully someone into doing their rounds. Talk fast.”

You pick at the corner of the hotel blanket. “I haven’t even unpacked.”

“But you have checked all escape routes in case of a sudden general-shaped emergency?”

“You’re mixing metaphors. He’s a professor.”

“Sure,” Jiaoqiu drawls, “and I’m a resident who gets enough sleep. Humor me—have you seen him yet?”

“No, Jiaoqiu. It's three in the morning,” you say too quickly. “And I won’t. Hopefully. Feixiao said I didn’t have to see him.”

There’s a pause on the line, the kind that means he’s making a face.

“You know,” he says slowly, “for someone who writes so well about emotional honesty in literature, you are spectacularly bad at applying it to your own life.”

You lie down fully on the bed, one arm flung over your eyes. The jab stings, but not as much as you thought it would. “I came here to give lectures and not disgrace the Yaoqing campus. Not to do… whatever the hell you're insinuating.”

“This is you spiraling because you’re back on the Luofu and you haven’t figured out if you want to punch him, kiss him, or cry about it.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No you’re not,” Jiaoqiu simpers, just as a nurse yells something unintelligible in the background. “Okay, I really do have to go. But hey—if you need me to fake a medical emergency to get you out of a dinner with the literature faculty, my pager’s on.”

You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You’ll be fine,” he says, and for once, the teasing slips out of his voice. “You’ve done harder things than this.”

You know he means it. And you wish that helped.

“Sleep if you can,” your best friend adds. “And drink some water, for once in your life.”

The call ends, and the silence that follows is too loud. You let it settle around you like static, eyes on the ceiling. The bed’s too soft. The air’s too dry. And the city outside hasn’t changed a bit.

Unfortunately, neither have you.

The morning comes too early.

You sleep like a stone and wake up with the creases of the pillow pressed into your cheek, your mouth dry as paper. Unfortunately for you, there’s no time to wallow. You shower quickly, tug on your nicest set of “please take me seriously” professor clothes, and remind yourself that this is what you came here to do.

Before you leave, you hold a staring contest between yourself and the complimentary water bottle on the night stand. Jiaoqiu's doctor voice hovers in the depths of your mind, preaching about getting at least eight glasses in you everyday.

You chug it down with a forlorn sigh.

The Luofu campus feels the same. Maybe the lampposts are newer, and the fountains finally got cleaned, but the bones of the place are untouched. Stepping back onto it is like cracking open a memory and finding the ink hasn’t faded at all.

Professor Ying meets you just outside the entrance to the Literature Department, beaming like he’s greeting a prodigal daughter.

“You're here,” he greets with a theatrical flourish, “Back from the academic wilderness!”

You try not to laugh, but it's a futile effort. “It’s only been a couple years.”

“Too long,” he insists, pulling you into a brief, careful hug that smells like old books and black tea. “I’ve read your symposium paper three times. Feixiao sent it to me the moment it came out.”

“She did?” you ask, startled.

“Oh yes. She was very smug about it. Said, ‘Didn’t I tell you she’d be brilliant?’ and then called me an idiot for not stealing you back from Yaoqing sooner.”

You wince. “Please don’t let her do that.”

Professor Ying chuckles and waves a hand. “No promises. Now come—let me show you around the old place. We’ve rearranged the faculty lounge, and the printer still jams the same way.”

He walks you through the department like it’s a garden he’s proud of. Students trickle past with coffees in hand, the halls buzz with soft conversation, and the sunlight filters in through windows you used to nap under. You still remember which step on the west stairwell creaks. You still know the exact angle to push open the back door when it sticks.

It’s a kind of ache, how much you remember.

Professor Ying opens the lecture hall door for you like it’s a ceremony. “You’ll be in here tomorrow. The class looked excited when I told them—and a little terrified. I may have said you once debated a visiting scholar into submission using nothing but classical poetry when you were still an undergrad.”

“That’s slander,” you snort.

“It’s good press.”

You laugh, easing into your skin a little more with every step.

For a moment, it feels like you never left.

After a long day spent catching up with old professors you now call colleagues, classmates who never quite left the area, and (thankully) not a single run-in with the ghosts that still haunt the edges of your thoughts, you march back to your hotel room.

You sit at the narrow desk by the window, a cup of lukewarm tea cooling beside your tablet. Outside, the maglev sighs past in the distance like a ghost trailing the skyline. Your room is still and sterile, the air humming low and steady. On the screen of your laptop, a lecture outline glows a soft, officious blue—half-finished, overly formal, and far too rehearsed.

You scroll through it once, then close the file with a sigh. It reads like someone trying to prove she belongs here. Someone performing competence rather than believing in it.

Leaning back, you rub the ache from your neck and open a new document.

Lecture Title: When Literature Lies to Us: The Story of the Unreliable Narrator

You pause, watching the words settle across the page, lips twitching slightly. 

Why do we trust stories? What happens when they betray us?

Now, this feels closer. Not a defense or an argument. Just a question worth sitting with. The kind of question that curls through a classroom like smoke, unanswered and all the more alive for it.

Your fingers start moving again, slowly at first, then steadier as the shape of the lecture emerges.

You think of old paperbacks worn at the edges, of sleepless nights spent re-reading passages that made you feel seen, even if you didn’t quite know why. You think of a certain professor’s voice asking, “What makes this narrator trustworthy to you?” as if peeling back the layers of the page could reveal something about yourself, too.

As an added flourish, you list a few key texts—familiar ones, but sharp enough to cut:

The Soldier’s Regret, where the narrator insists he’s dying until the final line sees him stepping onto a transport home.

A City Beneath the Rain, a Xianzhou classic where a poet mourns a lover who may never have existed at all.

An early modern novel you loved, written entirely in letters, where each writer swears they’re telling the truth—even when their stories contradict.

The outline comes to life as the hours stretch on, your tea long cold, the hotel dim and quiet around you. It’s not quite done, but it breathes now—something that can flex and shift in a room full of undergrads who’ve yet to be told their instincts matter.

Just before you close the file, you add one last question at the bottom:

What does a narrator’s unreliability tell us about ourselves, when we choose to believe them anyway?

You sit back and let your eyes fall shut, just for a moment. The city outside hasn’t changed. But maybe the way you speak to it has.

Afternoons on the Luofu are always a little too bright, a little too fast.

You tighten your grip on your satchel as you weave through the familiar hallways, the low buzz of students and faculty washing over you like a tide you almost recognize. Professor Ying is already in the lecture hall when you arrive, flipping through a stack of notes he probably won’t use. He looks up as you step inside and grins, bright and familiar.

When he introduces you, he covers all the bases—your name first, then a flourish of accolades: recipient of the university’s best dissertation award, now a rising scholar in modern literary analysis, and a proud alumna of the department. He wears his pride openly, like a badge.

There’s polite applause. Some students look curious. Others scroll quietly on their phones. A few stare blankly, the way only undergrads facing an 2 p.m. lecture can.

You’re gathering your notes when a hand shoots up from the third row—hesitant at first, then more determined when you nod to acknowledge it.

The student, a boy with sleep-mussed hair and a skeptical squint, lowers his hand and asks, “If you were produced by the Luofu campus... why are you teaching at Yaoqing?”

The room goes a little still. Even Professor Ying looks briefly thrown, his easy smile faltering. It's not a rude question, just blunt in that way only undergrads can get away with—earnest, oblivious, and weirdly cutting all at once.

You don’t miss a beat. But somewhere under the practiced smile, something twists—a flicker of a memory:

Jing Yuan’s office, sunlight spilling across the floor, catching on the glossy leaves of the dracaena you'd nursed back to health together—Commander in Leaf, standing sentinel by the window. The slow, deliberate way he’d said, You’ll make a very kind professor one day.

You blink once, clearing your thoughts like dust off a shelf.

“I like to think the Luofu taught me how to think,” you say lightly, “but Yaoqing gave me the space to put it to use.”

A few students glance at each other, murmuring. Professor Ying recovers with a small chuckle, tapping his knuckles lightly against the podium as if to say good answer.

You smile, smooth down the front of your blouse again, and move on.

“I won’t keep you long,” you say, even though your lecture outline stretches past forty minutes. “But I’d like to talk about something we all rely on, whether we realize it or not—narrators. Specifically, the ones who lie to us.”

That gets a reaction—small but immediate. One student lowers their phone. Another tilts their head.

You write on the board:

When Literature Lies to Us: The Story of the Unreliable Narrator

Then underneath:

Why do we trust stories? What happens when they betray us?

You start slow. Not with definitions or textbook terms, but with questions that itch at the back of the brain. You ask them to think of a time they realized a narrator couldn’t be trusted—how it felt, what it changed about the story, what it changed about them as readers. You move through your examples—the soldier who survives the war he insists is fatal. The poet who mourns a lover never confirmed to be real. The letter-based novel where truth tilts depending on who’s writing it.

“The narrator,” you say, “isn’t a window. They’re a person. And people forget. People deceive. Sometimes they don’t even mean to.”

One student raises a hand. She’s got sharp eyes, a pen tucked behind one ear. “But if they’re lying… why do we still root for them?”

You pause, a smile curving across your face.

“Because we want something from them. Not facts. Not accuracy. Something else. Connection, perhaps? Or even catharsis. A version of the truth that feels more real than reality.”

A murmur ripples through the room—thoughtful, restless. You see it land.

By the time you’re winding down, the energy’s shifted. A boy in the back who looked half-asleep is now furiously scribbling notes. Another student lingers after class, asking about a memoir she read last semester where the author recants half the book in the epilogue. You answer what you can. Suggest a few titles. Smile when Professor Ying pats your shoulder on the way out.

“You had them,” he says. “Not many can say that before the first cup of tea.”

You shrug, still buzzing, still catching your breath.

“It helps,” you say, “when you care for the things you talk about.”

The rush of the lecture leaves a strange, lingering hum in your chest—an aftershock of nerves, adrenaline, and something warmer you don’t want to name. You tell yourself you should head back to your hotel, or get some lunch at the university cafeteria. Anything to stop your thoughts from buzzing too loud.

But instead, you wander.

It’s too easy to fall into old habits—feet tracing half-forgotten paths, mind slipping sideways into memory. Before you know it, the signs around you shift: History Department, East Wing.

The halls here are quieter, lined with heavy, wood-paneled doors and dusty glass displays of ancient banners and ceremonial armor. The floor creaks in the same familiar places. The scent of old paper and sun-warmed stone rises up to meet you, achingly unchanged.

You round the corner before you can think better of it.

There it is: the office tucked neatly into the bend of the hallway, where the afternoon light used to pool like a lazy cat across the threshold.

The door looks the same—scuffed at the bottom from years of use. But the plaque beside it catches the light too sharply, too new. When you step closer, you find that the name engraved in sleek, unblemished characters is not his. You don't even notice how your heart sinks at the sight of it.

For a moment, you just stand there, reading and rereading it, as if expecting the letters to rearrange themselves under your gaze.

But they don’t.

“Well, well. I thought I saw a familiar face sneaking around.”

You start, then relax instantly as Professor Yukong steps into view, arms crossed, the same amused smile tugging at her lips. She looks exactly the same, down to the deep green scarf she always wears when the weather starts to dip.

“I wasn’t sneaking,” you say, which is the sort of thing people only say when they absolutely are.

She hums. “Of course not.” Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a piece of hard candy, holding it out without ceremony. “Still like lychee?”

You take it, smiling before you even realize it. “You really never stopped doing this?”

"Some traditions are worth keeping," Yukong says with a wink. She steps closer, peering at you with an assessing glance. "It’s been too long, little one. You’re thinner than I remember. Are they working you too hard at Yaoqing?"

You shake your head, pocketing the candy. "Maybe."

Yukong hums, but doesn’t push. Her gaze flicks briefly toward the office door, and a knowing smile curls at the edges of her mouth.

"You know," she says, voice light, "this hallway’s been quieter these days. Not quite the same without certain... noisy neighbors."

Your expression slips before you can stop it.

She pretends not to notice. "The new fellow’s decent enough. Keeps his door closed, doesn't trail students behind him like ducklings. Not much for houseplants, though." She tilts her head, studying you over the rim of her glasses. "Shame."

You fold your arms loosely across your chest, playing along. "Sounds like a very serious improvement." 

"Oh, tremendously serious," Yukong agrees, eyes glinting. "But I'd say it's an even bigger improvement for that last tenant. He moved up in the world. Some might say way up."

You raise an eyebrow despite yourself.

Yukong smiles, pleased that she's gotten your attention. "New Dean of the History Department. His office on the top floor now. They even gave him a window big enough to land an airship, if you can believe it."

The news settles over you strangely, making your brows knit together. Jing Yuan? The Dean? You don't remember seeing that specific title in his list of credentials back at the symposium. This must be a recent development. 

...or that pesky professor just didn't want to brag.

"He's been busy these days," she adds, her teasing softening into something almost kind. "Too busy, if you ask me. The students miss him. Faculty too, though they’d rather eat chalk than admit it."

You force a small smile, your fingers tightening around the strap of your satchel.

"Good for him," you say, and you mean it. Mostly.

Yukong watches you for a beat longer, her smile turning a little wistful, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she drops another foil packet in your hands.

"Take another," she says. "You look like you need it."

You laugh again and accept, slipping a second candy into your pocket like a charm. 

The clouds have been gathering all afternoon, soft and gray at first, then heavier, darker, like they’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to fall. You adjust your satchel and quicken your pace, already picturing the kettle in your hotel room and the dry change of clothes folded neatly in your suitcase.

It’s time to leave campus. You’ve done your part—guest lecture delivered, awkward reunions sidestepped, mostly. There’s no need to linger.

Your steps slow near the path that forks toward the Humanities Building. Just for a second.

Top floor. Big window. The Dean’s office.

You imagine it, without meaning to—how it must look now. Probably neater than his old office. More formal. Less green. You wonder if Commander in Leaf made the move with him. You wonder if he still lets the sunlight in.

No, you think, firm and fast. No good would come of it.

You pivot toward the opposite direction, toward the gate. The greenhouse crosses your mind next, like a flicker of a different life. But that, too, you let go. You don’t need to revisit every corner of the past to know it still aches.

Then the sky growls low, and you’re rounding the last corner when you see him.

Jing Yuan stands half-sheltered beneath the overhang by the east wing annex, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other holding a phone to his ear. His coat is missing, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up unevenly. A folder is clutched against his side in a way that looks almost careless, and even if his silver hair has always looked professionally unkempt, there's a disheveled air to it that suggests he might be just a little stressed out. 

He looks different. Not unrecognizable or diminished, but human in a way memory never allowed.

Your body angles away before you even think, the instinct to retreat swift and familiar. It would be easy. One turn, a few quick steps, and this could remain a moment left unclaimed.

But then he lifts his head.

Those golden eyes, steady and unerring even in the fading light, find you the way they always have—without hesitation, without question, as if part of him had been waiting all this time without ever meaning to.

For a moment that feels stretched thin and breakable, you stand there, caught between habit and longing, between every line you once drew and the way he looks at you now, as if none of them ever mattered.

Jing Yuan speaks into the phone, low and brief, the words too faint to catch. A moment later, he slips the device into the pocket of his trousers and pushes away from the doorframe. He straightens—not with the polished ease you remember, but with something rougher, wearier, real.

The distance hangs there, dense and humming, like a question neither of you knows how to ask.

And then he says your name.

Not sharply, not even expectantly. Just your name, shaped by something quieter than regret and heavier than memory. The sound of it cracks something open in you.

You could turn away. You should. The kindness would be in the leaving, in preserving whatever fragile peace you've managed to build.

But you don’t.

Your shoes scuff softly against the pavement, and in the hush that follows, the wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain.

He watches you come closer, never once looking away. Up close, you see the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face, the ink stains along his fingers, the disarray he once would have hidden without a second thought.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Jing Yuan says to you, voice low and rough around the edges, as if unused to being this bare in your presence. “I didn’t mean to...” He glances down, mouth twisting briefly, then lifts his eyes again. “...catch you like this.”

You almost smile at the absurdity of it—as if any meeting between you now could be anything but inevitable.

Instead, you shake your head. “You didn’t.”

Jing Yuan exhales, a sound somewhere between a breath and a worn-out laugh, and rakes a hand through his hair—only making the mess worse. His gaze moves over you, steady and searching, lingering on small, familiar details: the way you shift your bag higher on your shoulder, the faint crease between your brows, how you stand like you might bolt if given the slightest reason.

“You’re here,” he says.

The words are simple. Deceptively small. But they land hard, knocking something loose in your chest.

You clear your throat. “Just until tomorrow.”

It’s barely a defense. Barely anything at all. His hand flexes once around the folder he carries, then falls still again. For a moment, you think he might let you go. That he’ll spare you the awkwardness, the ache. But instead, after a pause, he shifts his weight and asks:

“Would you walk with me?”

No demand. No expectation. Only an offering—set gently between you, like a bridge you could choose to cross, or leave untouched.

You should refuse. You know that. You should say you’re tired, or late, or that the rain is about to fall. But before you can think better of it, you nod—small, instinctive. 

“Okay.”

The faintest breath escapes him, but Jing Yuan says nothing as he steps back just enough to make room for you beside him.

You fall into step together, the annex wall sliding past on one side, the wet gleam of the gardens catching the silver light on the other. His pace is slower than you remember—not sluggish, but deliberate, as if he’s learned there’s no need to rush anymore.

The silence that gathers between you isn’t brittle. It’s heavier than comfort but lighter than regret—an old rhythm you didn’t realize you still knew how to follow.

After a while, Jing Yuan says, almost casually, “I was at a meeting, but I had to step out to take that call.”

You glance at him. His hair’s still mussed from his hands, another smudge of ink lingering on his knuckles.

“And you just left?” you ask, raising a brow.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “You can do the same thing if you so wished. Free will has its perks.”

You huff a quiet sound, half disbelief, half amusement. “That's what people normally call terrible leadership.”

“Really? I'd like to call it delegation,” he says easily. “An essential skill, grossly overlooked.”

“For good reason.”

The banter slips out before you can guard against it, familiar enough to be dangerous. You look away, toward the narrowing path ahead, and try not to feel how effortless it still is—how the space between you folds itself back into something it once knew by heart.

You aren’t the same people who parted ways all those years ago.

And yet, standing here, side by side, you can’t help but ache for how easily you once fit—and how, somehow, you still do.

"You should go back," you say after a stretch of silence, trying to infuse your voice with lightness. "They’re probably wondering where their fearless leader wandered off to."

He doesn’t speed up. In fact, his pace stays steady as ever.

Jing Yuan glances at you, the dryness in his eyes cutting through the moment like a quiet truth. "If I leave," he says, "how will I know you’ll still be here when I get back?"

The words hang there, not heavy with accusation but with something quieter, more dangerous. An openness you aren’t sure you can bear.

You stop walking. So does he.

The breeze rustles through the leaves, and for a moment, the world feels a little too still. All you can hear is the hum of the annex lights.

"I’ll be here," you say, your voice lower now, softer. "Let's have lunch tomorrow. We’ll catch up."

You mean it—of course you do—but even you hear the way it rings: a polite diversion, a way to push the conversation into the safer distance of the future.

And damn him, Jing Yuan hears it too.

"No," he says, with a quiet finality that doesn’t invite discussion. "Dinner. Tonight."

Your heart stutters.

Before you can find a reason to decline—fatigue, the night, the thousand little excuses—you hear him finish, almost gently: "I’d rather not wait until tomorrow. Not if you’re willing."

The weight of that "willing" breaks something inside you. It’s not a demand. It’s an offer. As if he’s still giving you an out, and he’s afraid of pressing too hard and losing what little ground he’s reclaimed.

You look at him, really look at him, and you realize it’s not the waiting you’re afraid of.

"All right," you say, the word slipping out before you can second-guess it, the surrender in it quieter than you expected. 

And for the first time tonight, he smiles. Not the faint, polite curve you know he shows the world, but something quieter. Something real.

It lodges itself deep in your chest, where all your carefully built walls used to be.

As promised, you waited for Jing Yuan's meeting to conclude, which didn't take too long, gratefully. Though he insisted that you could wait for him in his new office, you declined before he could even finish the sentence. You weren't ready for that. Not yet. 

Instead, you lingered by the empty seats near the entrance to the east wing annex, listening to the echo of footsteps in the hall, watching the windows darken as evening gave way to night.

By the time he reappeared, coat in hand, the rain had already started—soft, persistent, the kind that settles in like a quiet thought you can’t quite shake.

You hadn’t brought an umbrella. Of course you hadn’t.

Naturally, Jing Yuan had, and now the two of you walk beneath the narrow span of his umbrella, shoulder to shoulder, closer than you’ve been in years. Rain taps gently around you, but beneath the fabric, it’s warm—quiet in a way that feels almost private. You keep your eyes ahead, pretending not to notice the warmth between you—that it doesn’t feel like something you’ve missed.

Because how can you long for something that never was?

The familiar glow of a hotpot restaurant blinks ahead. You pause with him beneath the sagging awning, rainwater dripping in lazy rivulets off the umbrella’s edge. For a moment, neither of you moves. The rain drums softly above you, steady and unchanging. 

Then Jing Yuan pushes the door open, and you follow him inside—into a place that still smells like broth and memory, like nothing’s changed at all.

The chipped sign still wobbles in the breeze, and the heavy scent of broth and chili oil clings to the doorway like a permanent welcome. Inside, the scratched tables and handwritten specials plastered on the walls haven’t changed, either. Even the crooked "Cash Only!" sign still hangs stubbornly above the register.

You almost expect to hear Jiaoqiu’s voice ringing out over the chatter, arguing over spice levels, dropping chopsticks between rounds of hotpot. Instead, it’s quiet—almost wistful, like the place is suspended in time.

You linger just inside the entrance, phone in hand, caught between the past you knew so well and the strangely fragile present.

On impulse, you snap a few pictures—the menu, the battered counter, the little window where steam fogs up the glass, all of it somehow untouched, preserved.

Not two seconds later, a text notification pops up.

 

Jiaoqiu: MY KINGDOM.

Jiaoqiu: 🔥🍲🔥🍲🔥🍲

Jiaoqiu: do they have those do it yourself takeout bundles now

Jiaoqiu: if they do, PLEASE bring some home

Me: You know Mr. Choi doesn't believe in innovation.

Me: The best thing I can bring home to you is me.

Jiaoqiu: eh, i'll take it.

Jiaoqiu: wait a minute 

Jiaoqiu: why are you there, you never go there alone

Jiaoqiu: who are you with????

Jiaoqiu: answer carefully

 

You suppress a smile, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. Across from you, Jing Yuan is studying the menu, his focus sharp enough to suggest he’s planning a military campaign rather than picking dinner. You tuck your phone away before you can do something foolish—like tell Jiaoqiu the truth.

"You sure you can handle it?" you ask, eyebrow raised.

Jing Yuan leans back in his chair, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the picture of nonchalance. "I'm sure."

You give him a look. "They don’t joke around here. Medium spice is basically a dare."

"I'll manage," he insists, which is exactly the kind of overconfident answer you expect.

You hide your grin behind your menu.

The food arrives fast—plates of thinly sliced meats, mushrooms, greens, and a bubbling pot already simmering at the center of the table. The broth you picked is bright red, oily, and angry-looking.

Within minutes, Jing Yuan is coughing discreetly into his sleeve, eyes watering slightly.

You reach over with the calm cruelty of long practice and plop another pepper-laden meat slice into his bowl.

"You could surrender," you say, utterly deadpan.

He gives you a betrayed look that almost makes you pity him.

"My best friend, Jiaoqiu would've loved this," you add, laughing as you pop a non-lethal mushroom into your mouth. "He used to sneak ghost peppers into the hotpot just to see who cracked first. You would’ve been prime entertainment."

"He sounds like a menace," Jing Yuan says hoarsely.

That makes two of you, you muse only to yourself.

He looks... lighter this way. Less like the man who stands in doorways, all unreadable eyes and quiet intensity. In moments like this, he feels more like a person you remember—a man who lets you get away with your mischief, who lets go for just a moment.

Spicy downfall aside, you both fall into easy conversation—old stories, half-forgotten classmates, absurd tales of Jiaoqiu’s failed cooking experiments. The laughter slips in between your words, slow and genuine.

But then, somewhere between the second round of meat and the third refill of tea, the air changes. It’s subtle, a shift barely noticeable. But it’s there—the way the conversation begins to slow, the pauses that linger a little longer.

The air between you hums, heavy with more than just steam. You set your chopsticks down carefully, aligning them with a precision that fools no one. 

Across from you, Jing Yuan watches, quiet and steady. He doesn’t push. He’s giving you space, giving you the choice. To cross this battlefield or to retreat, like you’ve both done so many times before.

"You’re waiting for me to say it," you murmur.

The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely. "I’m waiting for you to stop pretending we don’t already know."

Your heart pounds once, a desperate thud against your ribs. Not from fear. From something that feels suspiciously like hope.

You draw a slow breath, tasting the words before you speak them. "We weren’t just arguing about literature and history at the symposium, were we?"

The memory flickers sharp and vivid—the way your words had clashed like blades, how each rebuttal left you a little more breathless, a little more exposed. You remember Zichen’s teasing afterward, Yingyue and Lihua's boisterous approval. But what holds the most gravity during those three days wasn't the keynote speeches. Or the panels. Or the debates.

Your lips still tingle from the spice of the broth, but beneath that, there’s something else—an unfamiliar warmth that lingers. The faint memory of his breath, so close, and the press of his hand against your cheek, as if he’d been holding onto something more than just the moment. 

Across the table, Jing Yuan’s eyes catch the light—deep gold, unwavering.

"If that was a debate," he says, voice dipping lower, "it’s the only one I’ve ever wanted to lose."

The table between you feels too wide now. Too much distance when you’ve already come this far.

You think back to the lecture you shared this afternoon. The unreliable narrator you told the students about whispers cruelly in the quiet corners of your mind, threading doubt through your ribs like a slow, relentless tide.

It’s too much. It’s too close. You will ruin this.

You know it lies.

Yet, you still listen.

"You were my professor. I was just your TA," you whisper, the old excuse slipping free before you can stop it. "It would’ve been wrong. It would've ruined everything."

For a long moment, Jing Yuan remains silent, his gaze steady, not quite judging, but heavy with thought. His fingers hover near the edge of his cup, unmoving, as if your words have settled between you like an unwelcome guest, lingering in the air.

There’s something almost imperceptible in the way his eyes shift, as if he’s measuring more than the space between you. A flicker of something deeper crosses his expression—something close to regret, but not quite. He exhales, slow and controlled, the faintest tremor beneath the surface.

At last, his voice breaks the stillness, though it carries a weight that suggests more than mere disagreement.

“You’re not just my student anymore.”

It’s not a reprimand. Not a dismissal. Just a simple truth, cutting through the deafening silence.

“And I,” Jing Yuan adds, quieter still, “have been waiting for you to see it.”

The ache in you grows so sharp you almost flinch from it. All those years spent holding your breath. All those moments you tried to name as nothing.

You look at him, stripped of every title, every excuse. Right now, he's just Jing Yuan—impossibly patient, as if he would wait forever if you asked.

"You still want this?" you ask, and your voice trembles just slightly with how much you want the answer to be yes. 

Jing Yuan leans in, slow and deliberate, as if he means to erase the distance between you piece by piece. His elbows rest on the table; his hand inches forward, close enough that if you reached out, you could brush your fingers against his. His smile finds you, quiet and unhurried, and it feels like coming home.

"I never stopped," he says.

And just like that, the world shifts.

Small. Tremendous. Inevitable.

Your fingers brush against his—tentative at first, a whisper of contact. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns his hand over, palm open, offering himself to you with a quiet certainty. The touch is simple, almost laughably so. No grand declarations or dizzying fireworks—only warmth, steady and unwavering, grounding you in a way nothing else ever has.

His thumb traces the back of your hand once, slow enough to make your heart stutter. When you glance up, he’s watching you with a softness that nearly undoes you completely.

"You know," you say, a broken sort of laugh catching at the end of your words, "Zichen would lose his mind if he knew we were holding hands at a hotpot restaurant."

Jing Yuan’s smile deepens, wry and unbearably fond. "Then we’ll simply have to tell him it’s been a long time coming."

Something in you breaks open at that. Something tender and foolish and irreparably yours.

"It has been," you whisper, squeezing his hand as you ground yourself in the moment. 

For a long while, you simply sit there, breathing the same air, the world around you blurring until there is nothing left except the two of you.

And for the first time in years, you don't feel like you’re balancing on the edge of something terrifying. You feel like you’re standing on solid ground.

Right where you’re supposed to be.

When you make it back to Yaoqing the next day, you let your suitcase down on the floor with a soft thud.

You toe off your shoes and cross to the balcony, the city basking in sunlight, its streets awake and bustling beneath a clear sky. Your little garden is exactly as you left it—orderly rows of potted herbs, trailing flowers reaching lazily toward the warmth, their colors vivid and alive in the light.

The contrast is stark, almost jarring after the damp chill of the Luofu night, where the rain had hung heavily like an unspoken thought.

Carefully, you pull a small pot from a paper bag that's accompanied you back home.

A dracaena stem cutting, the leaves still tender and new. Jing Yuan had given it to you when he saw you off the platform earlier this morning, wrapped in a makeshift sling of old newspaper, like something precious. Commander in Leaf told me to send you off with one of its offspring. 

You're grinning before you realize it. 

You set the pot down by the railing, nudging it into place among your other plants. It fits easily, like it had been waiting for a space here all along. Your fingers linger on the soil, smoothing it out with practiced care.

You're still crouched there, brushing a bit of dirt from your hands, when the front door rattles.

Jiaoqiu stumbles in a second later, still in his hospital ID badge and wrinkled shirt, his hair flattened strangely on one side like he’d tried—and failed—to nap in the break room. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you.

"You’re back?" he blurts, blinking like he’s seeing a ghost. "Already?"

You nod, standing up and dusting off your knees. "Got an early shuttle off the Luofu."

He blinks a few more times, as if trying to make sense of the timeline through sheer exhaustion. "You crossed half the goddamn continent overnight and beat me home from a shift?"

You shrug. "Missed my plants."

He snorts, rubbing his face with one hand. "Unbelievable." But there’s a smile tucked under all the grogginess, fond and exasperated at once. "Anything good happen while you were off having your midlife crisis?"

You hesitate, just a second too long.

His eyes sharpen immediately, like a bloodhound catching a scent. "Don't tell me... Oh my god."

You glance down, suddenly sheepish, then back up. "I had hotpot with someone."

"Someone." He squints at you, suspicious. 

"Jing Yuan."

There’s a beat of silence. Then Jiaoqiu lets out a full-body groan and throws his bag onto the couch with an unnecessarily dramatic thud.

"You’re telling me," he starts, stabbing a finger at you, "that you made a core memory with your boyfriend at our favorite hotpot place?"

You blink. "First of all, not my boyfriend."

Jiaoqiu waves you off, too tired for precision. "Core. Memory," he repeats, as if personally wounded. "Overshadowing years of beautiful, platonic hotpot tradition. The betrayal."

You laugh, too relieved and too tired yourself to take him seriously. "You’re ridiculous."

He sighs like he’s carrying the weight of a thousand lost hotpot dinners on his back. Then, quieter, almost grudging: "I’m happy for you."

You soften, the tightness in your chest easing a little. "Thanks, Jiao."

He grumbles something incoherent under his breath, shuffling toward the hall. "Tell your not-boyfriend I’m billing him for emotional damages."

You catch the faint slam of his door as he disappears into his room, leaving you alone again in the soft, growing light. Outside, the dracaena sapling catches a beam of morning sun, its tiny leaves trembling in the breeze. 

You smile, and this time, it feels like you���re finally growing into something new.

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Monday 10:12 AM

Hi Professor,

It's been a while since I sent one of these. No slides attached, no looming deadlines, just a slightly belated thank-you.

Thank you for the hotpot. And the dracaena cutting. And for not making it weird, even though I probably did, several times.

Private Leaf has officially joined the ranks on my balcony. He's holding the line bravely between the rosemary and a basil plant that thinks it’s a tree. Early reports suggest high morale.

Hope you’re settling back into the Luofu without incident, or at least with manageable levels of it.

All the best.

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Jing Yuan To: Me Date: Monday 11:03 AM

Hello,

I'm relieved to hear Private Leaf has survived the initial deployment. I trust he'll adapt quickly under your capable command.

As for making it "weird"—if you did, I was too busy trying not to burn my mouth to notice. (You were right about the spice level. I am still recovering.)

The Luofu persists. Minor uprisings among the administration, but nothing beyond the usual skirmishes.

I’m glad you wrote. Even without haunted slides or rebellious citations.

— JY

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Monday 11:27 AM

Glad to hear the Luofu remains unconquered. I was worried they might stage a coup in your absence and replace you with a sentient syllabus.

Also: you have no one to blame but yourself re: the spice level. I distinctly remember offering an alternative. You chose valor (and chili oil).

Anyway, I'll be moving Private Leaf to my office soon. If he turns feral without Commander in Leaf around to supervise, I reserve the right to file an official complaint. 

Thanks again. For everything.

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Jing Yuan To: Me Date: Monday 11:51 AM

If Private Leaf does go rogue, I recommend appealing to his better nature. Or bribery. That tends to work on young recruits.

You’re welcome. And if you ever need reinforcements—plants, spices, or otherwise—you know where to find me.

(Preferably somewhere outside a boiling cauldron of doom.)

— JY

In the months that follow that quiet but eventful dinner, you and Jing Yuan fall into some sort of routine. 

First are the visits. 

 

(The distance between the Luofu and Yaoqing isn’t something to scoff at. It takes a three-hour train ride for either of you to make the trip. And given how plainly Jing Yuan had said he wanted to pursue a romantic relationship with you—verbatim, so you couldn’t twist his words into something safer—figuring out how to manage that distance was the first obstacle on the list. Between your stacked schedules, it all felt a little impossible.

But Jing Yuan has a way of making things happen, when he truly wants to.

You never really expected him to follow through so effortlessly. Yet sure enough, every two weeks, Jing Yuan's visits become a rhythm—a quiet but steady thread between the two of you.

At first, it feels like a formality, just another professional visit between departments. Even Feixiao has vouched for his recurring presence at Yaoqing, but there’s something deeper in the way he manages to carve out space for you in the midst of his packed schedule.

And, in that small window of time, you realize that his visits aren’t just about business.

They’re about you.

Sometimes, you’ll find Jing Yuan standing outside your office, with that soft, knowing smile of his, always a little more than what you expect. The first time it happened, there was no forewarning, no heads up. You simply answered the annoyingly long string of knocks on your door with a shout directed at who you thought was Zichen, only to be proven wrong.

Shortly after, he made a home of your office chair’s twin—his coat slung over the back, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, your copy of Courts and Dust balanced in one hand. The light filtering through the window gives his hair a sun-warmed sheen, and the faint scent of the tea you made earlier still lingers between you.

Every so often, your gaze drifts to the faint scar etched along his inner forearm. A jagged line that speaks of something distant, a memory he keeps hidden. You've come a long way in many ways, but that question lingers.

Despite everything, you still don't have the heart to ask.

“You annotated this section twice,” Jing Yuan says without looking up, oblivious.

You swallow thickly, eyes returning to the spreadsheet of grades before you. “Because students never read it the first time.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that stretches gently but never pulls. He flips the page. You pretend not to notice that his eyes haven’t moved. Somehow, you feel like the roles have been reversed between the two of you. 

You shouldn’t be used to this already—his presence here, the second mug beside yours on the windowsill, the little routine forming like threads tugged quietly into place. And yet, the air doesn’t feel like it did on the Luofu, when everything between you was uncertain and bracing and unspoken.

“Do you always work like this?” he asks eventually.

You arch an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid if you stop, something will catch up.”

That hits a little too close. You shut your laptop.

“I meant what I said. About pursuing you." He closes the book, careful with the fragile spine, and leans forward just slightly. “I’m not expecting you to leap right away. We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t say anything for a while. But your hand drifts to the edge of the pot by the window—Private Leaf, sturdy and greener than ever—and you tilt it just so the sunlight catches the newest leaf.)

 

Then the phone calls.

 

(Jing Yuan usually gets in touch past midnight, and the hum of your desk lamp is the only thing louder than your heartbeat. Your students’ papers are spread in messy stacks, but all of them go forgotten the moment his voice filters through the line.

“You’re still up.”

“You’re one to talk.”

There’s a pause, the kind that feels like a hand brushing your sleeve more than silence. On the other end, you hear the faint sound of his kettle. He’s brewing tea, probably that floral blend he pretends not to like when he’s on campus.

“Did you eat?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. “Did you?”

“Answering a question with a question. You really are a professor.”

“You really are nosy.”

That earns a soft chuckle from him, and you imagine the curve of his mouth, the way he probably leans back in his chair as though he’s still in your office, opposite your desk. The space between Yaoqing and the Luofu isn’t short—not with classes, not with time—but somehow, his voice manages to bridge it like a warm coat thrown over your shoulders.

There’s no pressing need to define anything just yet. Only the ritual of it: he calls every other night when you bring your work back home, and you text him photos of your garden on Sunday mornings. He always points out which plants are thriving. You always leave out that you used his old notes to figure out the watering schedule for the skullcap.

Sometimes he tells you about his day. Sometimes he listens to yours. And at other times, like now, you both sit in companionable quiet, not saying much at all.

After a while, you glance at the time. “You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

But neither of you hangs up just yet.)

 

Lastly, the gifts. 

 

(When you completed a particularly difficult paper on the historical roots of literature, it was a surreal experience. 

That afternoon, as you sat in your office reviewing your notes, a knock on the door broke your concentration. It was too early for Feixiao to be dropping by, and Zichen would have just walked in. So when you opened the door, you weren’t prepared for the sight of a delivery—a box, elegantly wrapped in deep crimson silk, the kind of gift you only received for something truly special.

Curious, you carefully lifted the lid. Inside was a stunning bouquet, its colors a mixture of rich purples and soft pinks. 

It was beautiful, but what caught your attention most was the small card nestled between the petals.

In the language of flowers, these represent respect and admiration, a reminder of how you’ve blossomed into something extraordinary.

You smiled as your fingers traced the edges. Anyone could guess who they were from.

The flowers were a deliberate selection—a mixture of lavender for devotion and pink roses for gratitude. There were even a few sprigs of rosemary, signifying remembrance. Feixiao had likely spilled the news to Jing Yuan the moment your success was confirmed. And true to form, he had gone out of his way to choose something meaningful.

Taking the bouquet into your arms, you placed it gently on the desk, savoring its scent. A part of you felt the warmth of his thoughtfulness despite the distance between you. Even when miles apart, he found ways to show that you mattered, to celebrate your triumphs as if he were right there beside you.

Just as you admired the flowers, your phone buzzed with a message.

It was from Jing Yuan, as if he knew the moment you’d seen the bouquet.

 

Jing Yuan: I hope the flowers bring you as much joy as your success brought to me.

Jing Yuan: Congratulations on your accomplishment :)

Jing Yuan: I look forward to hearing all about it soon.

 

A wave of affection swelled in your chest, and as you gazed at the flowers, you couldn’t help but think—long distance might be difficult, but it was also filled with these quiet moments, these little efforts that somehow made the space between you both feel a little less vast.

 

Me: Thank you. I can’t wait for you to see it in person.

Jing Yuan: I suppose you're not excited to see me?

Me: ...Fine. 

Me: I can't wait to see you too.)

 

It doesn't happen all at once.

It’s a slow, careful unraveling, stitched together by quiet hours and smaller things that mattered more than you thought.

Of course, you don't let him do all the work—you reciprocate each grand gesture, each minuscule effort however you can. You even dedicate some Saturdays to spending time together at the Luofu. 

Whenever you hop off the platform, Jing Yuan is always waiting. Sometimes at the terminal, or at the station’s tea shop, casually flipping through a book while pretending not to check the time. The moment your eyes meet, the distance you spent hours crossing disappears completely.

It’s in the way he smiles. The way he reaches for your bag without asking. The way he says your name like he’s been carrying it in his chest the whole time.

You fall into a rhythm here, too. Late lunches in quiet places he’s memorized just for you. Shared walks through familiar gardens, the kind you once only saw from the edge of a memory. On quieter days, he brings you to his new office—still filled with neat stacks of papers, the same old Commander in Leaf thriving in the corner. He makes tea while you sit on the couch he’s cleared for your visits. 

You leave just as the sun begins to set, and Jing Yuan walks you to the station every time. He never makes a scene of it—just a warm hand at your back, a lingering look before the train doors close.

Back in Yaoqing, your days return to routine, but something's shifted.

You're no longer bracing yourself against absence. You're learning how to hold love gently, how to trust that it won’t fall apart simply because it spans a few hundred miles.

What grows between you and Jing Yuan doesn’t just endure the distance—it finds a way to bloom because of it.

After the flowers, the train rides, the playful banter in your office, the consistency remains.

It’s a weekend this time—his turn to visit—and the two of you had agreed on something simple: dinner, a movie, nothing extravagant.

The screening ran longer than expected. You hadn’t checked the time when you left the cinema—too distracted by the lingering warmth of his shoulder against yours, the way he leaned in to whisper sharp commentary beneath the film’s most dramatic scenes.

It isn’t until the credits finish rolling and you step into the cool evening air that you realize: the last train back to the Luofu left twenty minutes ago.

“It’s alright,” Jing Yuan says, unfazed and already reaching for his phone. “I’ll just find a place to stay for the night.”

That should’ve been it. You could’ve let him.

But something compels you—some small, braver part of you that’s grown louder since all this began.

“You don’t have to,” you say. The words come out too fast, but you don’t take them back. “Jiaoqiu’s not home. You can stay at mine.”

He looks at you. Not surprised, not smug—just quietly searching. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “He’s at a conference all week. You’ll have the couch to yourself.”

There’s a breath of a laugh from him. “Understood.”

And that’s how you end up here: your apartment a little too warm, the tea a little too hastily made.

Jing Yuan’s coat hangs over the back of your dining chair, and he’s already taken off his boots at the door like he’s done it before. You’re not really nervous per se, but something stirs in your chest as you watch him move with the same ease he had in your office, like he belongs wherever you are.

Later, you hand him a folded blanket, a pillow, and—after rummaging through your closet—one of your old college shirts and a pair of Jiaoqiu's sweats that got mixed up with your laundry.

“They might be a bit snug,” you murmur, not quite meeting his eyes. “But it’s better than sleeping in your coat.”

Jing Yuan takes them with a small smile. “You’re too kind to your stranded guests.”

He disappears into the bathroom for a while. When he reemerges, his hair is down—long, unbound, still a little damp around the ends. He runs a hand through it absently, like he’s used to the weight, unaware of the way it steals the breath from your throat. The shirt fits a little too well. The sleeves cling to his forearms, and the hem rides just short of his hips.

You try not to look too long.

He settles onto the couch, the blanket bunched loosely at his side. You think you’ve adjusted to the sight of him—seen him in every shade of light, every kind of mood—but somehow this version still catches you off guard. Hair loose, eyes soft, the curve of his mouth just shy of a smile.

“Thank you again,” Jing Yuan says. “I mean it.”

You nod, though your fingers are still curled a little too tightly around the edge of the mug in your hands. You’re not drinking anything. You just needed something to hold.

“I don’t mind,” you say. “It’s really fine.”

He watches you for a beat too long. You pretend not to notice.

“I would’ve booked a hotel,” he offers, almost teasing now.

“I know,” you reply, eyes flicking toward the darkened hallway. “But I didn’t want you to.”

That admission hangs in the air, soft and bare.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts, his knee brushing lightly against yours where you’ve drifted closer to the edge of the couch without meaning to. You don’t pull away.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable—it’s dense with something else. Anticipation. Relief. The ache of having waited this long and still not knowing what comes next.

And that’s when it happens.

You don’t remember who moves first. Maybe it’s both of you. Maybe it had always been coming to this. One moment, the air between you is thick with the weight of everything unspoken. The next, his hand is on your waist, yours curled into the borrowed fabric at his shoulder, and the distance between you vanishes completely.

His hand finds your waist, and your fingers curl into the borrowed fabric at his shoulder. Jing Yuan exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for months, and then he kisses you.

Jing Yuan's lips brush yours once, then again. When you answer with a soft gasp, leaning in like you’ve waited a lifetime, the kiss deepens. Heat coils low in your belly as his other hand finds the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting you toward him like he’s afraid of losing the moment.

You taste tea on his tongue, feel the slight tremble in his shoulders as you press closer. His hair falls forward, strands slipping through your fingers as you anchor yourself against him.

And just for a mere second, you remember the symposium. That moment you shared by the railings, months ago, when he’d almost kissed you. When you’d stood too close, hearts racing, silence stretching long enough to feel like surrender.

But this is no almost.

This is all the wanting you couldn’t name back then, poured into every kiss he gives you now. Every inch of you answers him with a need that feels long overdue. You can’t deny it any longer, not to yourself, not to him. You’ve been falling toward this moment for years, your lives tangling together in ways neither of you could have predicted.

“Jing Yuan,” you breathe against his mouth, like it hurts to say, like it means too much because it does.

He answers you with another kiss, deeper this time, needier. The blanket falls away. The pillow tumbles off the couch. You don’t notice. His shirt—your shirt—bunches under your hands as you slide them beneath the hem, seeking warmth, seeking skin.

When he groans, it’s not from surprise. It’s from restraint.

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, breath uneven. His lips are swollen, his hair a halo of silver around his face in the soft light.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs.

You nod, pulling him back in without hesitation.

“Yes.” 

There’s a deep, shuddering breath he takes before his mouth crashes against yours again. His hands find your hips, gripping you with a surety that almost feels like a command. You meet him, heady with the same raw want, the same urgency. His chest presses against yours, the warmth of his body seeping into you, grounding you in this moment. Every inch of space between you is burned away by the press of lips, by the roughness of his hand at your waist, pulling you closer, closer still.

Jing Yuan's breath quickens as he tugs you onto his lap, the motion fluid, practiced—as if he’s done this before, as if he’s always known this was the way it was supposed to be. His hands slide under your shirt, his fingertips warm against the bare skin of your back, a touch that sends a ripple of heat through you, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

You can feel his heart beating fast against your chest, just as frantic as your own. His kisses are desperate now, each one deeper than the last, as though he’s trying to imprint himself onto you, to remind you of every moment that’s led up to this.

The familiar scent of his cologne—woodsy, subtle—mingles with the heady perfume of your own desire. It’s intoxicating. You let your hands roam, tracing the hard lines of his jaw, the muscles of his shoulders, the soft curve of his neck. His skin burns under your touch, and you press in closer, your body reacting to his presence like it was always meant to.

When Jing Yuan pulls back again, his eyes are dark with the kind of hunger that makes your chest tighten. He looks at you like he’s asking permission for something that’s been building up for years.

This isn’t just about tonight. This isn’t just about the warmth of his body against yours or the heat of the moment. This is the culmination of everything—the quiet hours, the stolen glances, the letters, the lectures, the shared silences.

You don’t answer with words. Your body already knows what it wants, and it’s not about holding back anymore.

Without breaking eye contact, you slowly rise from the couch, pulling him up with you. His hand finds yours instinctively, the touch of his fingers warm, firm. You guide him to your bedroom with a steady, sure step, each one carrying the weight of everything unspoken that’s finally coming to the surface.

When you close the door behind you, the quiet of the room settles around you both, amplifying the thrum of anticipation that fills the space between your hearts. Jing Yuan doesn’t say a word as you turn to face him, but there’s something in his gaze—something hungry, but still searching, still waiting for the go-ahead.

You take a deep breath, feeling the moment stretch between the two of you, the years of careful distance and restraint dissolving into the charged air. With one last look, you close the distance, pulling him toward you as you kiss him again, but this time, it’s different.

It’s deeper. More desperate.

His hands are everywhere, sliding off your shirt, grazing your skin with the touch of a man who’s been holding back for too long. You respond in kind, your own hands trailing down the front of his sternum, feeling the way his heartbeat speeds beneath your fingertips as you undress each other.

Everything becomes a blur—the sharpness of his touch, the warmth of his breath, the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

You step back, guiding his hands with yours, leading him to the bed. There’s no hesitation this time. There’s no second-guessing. This is years of waiting, of longing, of wanting to finally let go. And as you fall into the bed together, everything feels exactly like it should.

Jing Yuan guides you through it with saintlike patience. His voice is a steady murmur, checking in with you softly—asking if you want this, if you're comfortable, if there’s any pain at all. You always knew him to be considerate, even as a professor, but you never imagined that kindness could stretch into something this intimate.

"Ah, I didn't think you'd be so sensitive," he murmurs sweetly. 

Thoughtful as he is, Jing Yuan still knows how to turn up the charm when he wants to.

His large hands are splayed across the plush give of your thighs—amber eyes admiring the mess between your legs. You've slicked up considerably, clenching around nothing as his lips draw into a candid smirk. You're not sure whether you want to pull his face into your sopping heat or bury your head under a mountain of pillows. 

"Really?" you groan. "We've been dancing around each other for years, and you still choose to draw it out?" 

He laughs. Of course he does. But Jing Yuan gives you some sort of reprieve when he moves lower down the mattress, hooking your legs across his broad shoulders before placing a kiss on your inner thigh. His gaze never strays from yours, intense and unrelenting.

"I'm a patient man, darling," he says. "I can string you apart until morning if I felt like it."

The words land like a challenge, and your body tightens in response. As much as you’ve longed for the kind of devotion he’s offering, you're too wound up—too desperate to wait any longer.

You need him. Carnally.

Fortunately, Jing Yuan is nothing if not generous. 

He makes you fall apart on his tongue with two fingers knuckle-deep in your cunt—mercilessly suckling at your clit as you spasm beneath him in the height of bliss. When he feels that the tremors of pleasure have calmed, his golden eyes find yours in the haze. You can't help the rush of heat that fills you when he swipes his tongue across spit-slicked lips. 

Jing Yuan surges forward, easing his large frame between your thighs so he can capture your lips again. The tangy aftertaste lingers on his mouth, but you devour each other like the world ends tomorrow, despite. 

"Can I...?" He frames the plea around a moan when you grind against his leaking shaft. "Y-You're free to refuse, of course."

Trust this man to ask permission only to retract it afterwards. You fight the urge to roll your eyes before laying down on top of your pillows, making sure the half-lidded stare you shoot him carries the message well.

"Jing Yuan," you start, spreading your legs apart for him once more. "If you don't fuck me right now, we're going to have problems." 

He pauses for a second, eyes widening by a fraction. As if he isn't used to hearing you talk like this. Still, the the astonishment fades quickly, replaced by a glimmer of amusement. He presses a light kiss to the corner of your mouth, voice low and teasing. "Do you have any condoms, darling? Forgive me, but I honestly didn't plan on getting to see you like this." 

Neither did you. But the universe works in strange ways like that.

"I've..." Your face heats up, embarrassment coloring your cheeks. "I've been taking contraceptive meds since we started...dating."

That draws his full attention. His gaze sharpens, interest unmistakable, and his smile takes on a new edge—pleased, warm, and just a little dangerous.

“Is that so?” he says, voice dipped in honey. “Now that’s something I wish I’d known sooner.”

You’re not sure you want to dwell on the implication behind his words. But it doesn’t matter—not when time feels like a luxury neither of you can afford. The urgency in your chest is mirrored in his touch, in the way his breath stutters against your skin. You love him so much, you can hardly breathe. 

Oh. 

You love him. 

Jing Yuan, completely unaware of the dawning realization, gathers the pearlescent liquid at the tip, lathering the rest of him with his own essence. His teeth catch along his bottom lip slightly as he eases himself between your legs. You nearly squirm when he rubs the head along your glistening seam.

"You're still free to refuse," he murmurs, but there's little weight to the words. 

You shake your head, legs circling his hips in a feeble attempt to bring him closer. Jing Yuan chuckles, nosing at the crook of your neck as his lips flutter over your pulse like a promise. 

"Please," you nearly beg. "We've waited long enough, don't you think?"

His breath catches—a hitch you feel more than hear. That word, please, does something to him. You feel it in the way his hands settle more firmly on your waist, grounding you both. In the way he lifts his head just enough to look at you properly, like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment.

"You're sure?" he asks, quieter now. Not doubting you, just giving you the chance to change your mind. He always has.

And maybe that’s what makes your answer so easy.

"Yes," you breathe, the word framed around a soft, easy laugh. "Always, yes."

That’s all it takes.

Jing Yuan exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something that’s been weighing him down for too long. Then he kisses you—slowly, thoroughly, reverently. You feel the shift in him, and in you. This isn’t about urgency anymore. This is about presence. About devotion. About making up for all the years of stolen glances and unspoken longing.

And when you finally move together, it’s not with haste but with the deep, aching patience of two people who have known each other in every other way. Everything is quiet now but the whisper of breath, the rustle of sheets, and the soft cadence of your name on his lips—spoken like a vow.

These things linger in the air like they wish to be remembered.

You’re not sure how long it lasts—entwined, breath mingling, the hush of your shared want settling over everything like a second skin. But eventually, Jing Yuan lifts his head again, eyes catching yours.

And gods, those eyes.

Gold like the moment before sunrise, like melted metal—brimming not just with desire, but with something quieter beneath. 

You reach for him without thinking, fingers threading into the long strands of his silver hair—silken and cool to the touch, like moonlight slipping through your hands. He leans into it, into you, a sound caught low in his throat.

Every line of him is taut with effort. The kind that speaks of restraint, not hesitation. The flex of muscle beneath your palms is measured and deliberate—each motion a study in control, until you feel it unravel. Slowly. Beautifully.

He moves with the kind of care only someone who has thought of this moment a thousand times could possess.

And when he presses his forehead to yours again, his voice comes out low and reverent.

“You're everything to me.”

Fingers digging in, you cling to him. Not out of fear.

But because nothing’s ever felt more right.

In the aftermath, you lie tangled in sheets and warmth, Jing Yuan's heartbeat still faintly pulsing beneath your cheek where you rest against his chest.

One of your hands drifts across his forearm, fingers brushing the pale scar that arcs along the muscle like a memory half-buried. You’ve seen it before—in passing, under rolled-up sleeves, or whenever he gestures too broadly during office hours. A dozen times, you thought to ask. A dozen more, you hesitated.

But now, in the hush between heartbeats, with nothing left to guard—

“What happened here?” you ask, your thumb grazing the seam of old pain.

Jing Yuan glances down, his gaze following the movement of your hand. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, with a soft exhale, he answers, “Military. A long time ago.”

You shift slightly to look up at him, head still tucked against his side. “One of the wars you talk about in class?”

His mouth quirks, but there’s no real humor in it. “One of those, yes. The more recent ones. My battalion was deployed when I was just a little older than my students now. We were green. Thought we’d be home in a month.” He pauses, voice softening. “It didn’t go that way.”

You don’t interrupt. You keep tracing gentle lines over his skin.

“There were three of us that stuck together,” he continues after a beat. “Yingxing. Dan Feng. And me.” The names come out carefully, like they’ve been resting at the edge of his mouth for years, waiting for the right moment. “We were always watching out for each other. Gods, we were stupid sometimes. Brave. But mostly just stupid.”

He’s smiling now, but it’s tinged with a kind of quiet grief, the kind that only comes from surviving what others didn’t.

“I remember once,” he says, eyes distant, “Yingxing tried to sneak a bottle of wine into base. Dan Feng caught him before I could, but neither of them gave it up. We ended up sharing it, passing it around in silence, watching the stars like idiots who didn’t know if tomorrow would come.”

You feel something shift in his voice—affection, longing, something deeper than memory. It’s not just nostalgia.

“You were close,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hums low in his throat. “Closer than we should’ve been, maybe. In that kind of place… bonds form quickly. And deeply. You hold on to what you can.”

You don’t press him. You don’t need to. The way he says their names tells you enough. There was love there. Complicated, perhaps. But real.

“I think about them a lot,” he says. “Even now.”

Your fingers still against his skin. He places his hand over yours, grounding the moment. And when he looks at you again, it’s not with regret—but with trust. You’re not just someone passing through. You’re someone who’s here now, who sees him, scars and all.

“They’d have liked you,” he says eventually, eyes soft. “Yingxing especially. He had a terrible sense of humor. You’d have put him in his place.”

You laugh into his shoulder, and he smiles at the sound—tired, but genuine. The kind of smile that only surfaces when it’s safe to do so.

“You don’t have to tell me more,” you say. “But I’ll listen. If you ever want to.”

He nods once, slow and sure. “I know.”

And in the quiet that follows, he presses a kiss to your temple and pulls you closer, your fingers still curled around the part of him that never really left the battlefield.

But then—a soft chime cuts through the warmth between you. A text notification. The real world, slipping back in.

Jing Yuan’s arm tightens around your waist, a soft, unspoken protest, urging you to stay. As if to say let it wait. You soothe him with a gentle kiss, brief and tender, your lips brushing his with quiet reassurance that you’ll return before you slip from his embrace.

You reach for your phone.

Jiaoqiu’s name lights up the screen, followed by a flurry of texts. You can feel the weight of golden eyes reading over your shoulder.

 

Jiaoqiu: are u home rn...

Me: Yes. Why?

Jiaoqiu: i'm bringing someone over

Jiaoqiu: don't judge me

Jiaoqiu: his name's moze

Jiaoqiu: one of the nurses from the er shift

Jiaoqiu: i've been trying to make this happen for a month now

Jiaoqiu: and we might've gotten close during the conference :3c

Me: Oh!

Jiaoqiu: yeah...

Jiaoqiu: so please tell me ure not in the living room

Jiaoqiu: or anywhere visible

Me: ...I'm just in my room

Jiaoqiu: perfect

Jiaoqiu: just keep your door shut 

Jiaoqiu: and don't come out for like an hour. maybe two

Jiaoqiu: three if he's enthusiastic

Me: No promises

Me: Also, you might want to knock first if you need me

Me: [Sent an image]

Jiaoqiu: hey

Jiaoqiu: HEY who is that in there with you 

Jiaoqiu: is that jing yuan

Me: Perhaps.

Jiaoqiu: oh my god

Jiaoqiu: are you fucking kidding me 

Jiaoqiu: i'm bringing home a man and you're also—

Me: Hey, this is a sex-positive household

Jiaoqiu: you know what 

Jiaoqiu: this is fine

Jiaoqiu: love this for us

Me: That's the spirit.

Me: Now you have to tell me when you guys finish

Me: So we don't all use the bathroom to wash up at the same time 

Jiaoqiu: oh my fucking god 

 

You don’t even get the chance to put your phone down before an arm snakes around your waist and tugs—gently but firmly—pulling you back into the warmth of the bed.

“You’re handling this like a military operation now?” Jing Yuan teases, voice smooth but carrying a hint of indignation. “Making sure there’s no friendly fire in the bathroom?”

You glance down at your phone—Jiaoqiu’s colorful messages still open—and let out a quiet sigh. “He’s bringing someone over, so I figured I should keep things lowkey.”

Jing Yuan hums thoughtfully. “Clever. But it feels a bit like a betrayal, doesn’t it?” His fingers trace up your side, slow and deliberate. “Here I thought we’d earned some peace and quiet tonight.”

You scoff, about to say something witty about splitting rent, but then he flips you gently onto your back, looming over you like the war god you’re pretty sure he used to be. His hair falls over one shoulder, tousled and shining silver in the lamplight, and his golden eyes narrow with mock offense.

“I fought a long campaign to get you in this bed,” Jing Yuan murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “Don't think I’ll surrender you now just because your roommate’s got a date.”

You laugh softly, curling your fingers into his hair and tugging lightly. “Surrender implies you ever stood a chance.”

That earns you a low, pleased growl, and then he's kissing you again, quick and claiming.

“Then consider this a counteroffensive,” he says, already pulling the blankets back up and tugging you under them.

“Didn’t realize this was a battlefield.”

“Oh, it is,” Jing Yuan chuckles, burying his face against your neck with a victorious sigh. “And you, darling, are already well and truly conquered.”

You laugh graciously, curling a hand behind his neck and pulling him into a long kiss—slow and sure and just a little smug.

The war is over. The treaties are signed.

And in the hush between heartbeats, you finally let yourself believe in the peace you’ve made together.

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[space-mermaid-writing]

Expectations [Tony Stark / Stephen Strange]

Summary: Stephen asks Tony for a date. Tony knows he will screw this up. Whatever expectations Stephen has of him, Tony isn’t going to meet them. Good thing Stephen loves to prove people wrong.

Tags: first dates, established friendship, Tony Stark needs a hug, first kiss, communication, fluff, emotional comfort

Author's note: I wrote this a while ago and I finally remembered to post it. Beta by @kvjjjjjj

Ko-fi | Masterlist | Read it on AO3 | Word count: 1.9k

Expectations

“I don’t know why you would want that.” Tony looked down at his hands, still holding a screwdriver and some part of his amor that he had been tinkering with. He frowned, before he glanced back at Stephen who sat at the other side of the table.

The sorcerer had put aside the book he had been reading to focus on the conversation.

Tony didn’t know why they were having this conversation. “It’s a hopeless case,” he added.

“I beg to differ,” Stephen objected calmly. He had his hands folded in front of him on the table, looking very much like a teacher or a parent who answered all of their kids' questions patiently – no matter how ridiculous they seemed. “I know your self-esteem lacks in this department and I’m very willing to prove you wrong.”

Stephen always loved to prove Tony wrong. To be fair, Tony loved to prove Stephen wrong as well. That was kind of their thing.

But this was different.

“I don’t do relationships.” He had tried. By god, Tony really had tried.

His last breakup had ended with him having half of a broken shield in his chest and bleeding out in Siberia.

And Pepper… yeah, that was never gonna last anyway. She had never understood Iron Man.

Stephen did.

But so had Steve…

Tony shifted his focus back onto Friday’s readings of the piece of armor on a screen just to stop going down that route.

“I merely asked you to go out with me. Not to move in with me. We can take it as slow as you want to.”

“Why are you so persistent about this?” Tony asked, irritation seeping into his voice. It was easier to get annoyed or even angry at the sorcerer than to listen to his own heart, which actually supported the idea of getting closer to Stephen.

It wouldn’t work out. Tony would mess it up like he always did. Stephen would grow tired of him, of his antics. Tony had too many of those.

“You know my reputation.”

“I don’t care about what people say.” That wasn’t what Tony had meant, but before he could say that out loud, Stephen continued. “If you’re so sure about it, why don’t you prove me wrong?”

He was baiting him with a challenge, not even phased by Tony’s off-putting reaction.

Tony sighed. This was a mistake. He just knew it. It would ruin the perfectly good friendship they had. "Fine. One date."

In the end Tony agreed to the date. Of course he did. He was a hopeless romantic at heart. Or maybe he was a masochist because he would get hurt inevitably. Most likely when Stephen stopped talking to him because of something Tony had done. Or hadn’t done.

There were many ways to screw this up.

_____________________

The date went great.

They were at a small Greek restaurant in a booth at the back, away from prying eyes. The staff was attentive yet not annoyingly so. The food was amazing, and there was never an awkward silence between them. Tony and Stephen talked about everything and anything.

Yet, something felt off. Stephen couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Tony looked dashing. All dressed up from the usual band shirt he wore in the lab and to the Sanctum. His suit jacket currently hung over the back of his chair, revealing the crisp button-up under it.

Stephen’s outfit matched. Initially, he had dressed more casually but as soon as he had seen Tony in front of the restaurant, he had used magic to step up his game.

They told anecdotes they hadn’t shared yet with each other. Tony listened to the sorcerer intensively, asked follow up questions and laughed at the right places.

In return, he was attentive as Tony rambled about the progress of his latest project.

For a date it went fantastic.

And yet…

The waitress came to clear the empty plates and asked if they wanted dessert. Tony turned to face her to hear about their options – and that was when Stephen realized what was bothering him: Tony’s smile didn’t change. It was the same smile he had worn the whole night talking to the sorcerer. It was charming, easy and very much rehearsed.

Stephen didn’t object when Tony ordered for both of them, too busy watching him, trying to figure out how he had missed this. Because once noticed, it was rather obvious.

He had been dazzled by the charisma of Tony Stark.

Tony turned back to him, seeing him staring and he tilted his head, amused. Yet careful. “What?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Stephen said softly.

“What? Ordering chocolate fudge cake? I’m sorry to inform you, but I really had to do that.”

The sorcerer shook his head. “Putting up a front and playing perfect for this date.”

He saw the exact moment Tony became guarded, leaning back. The difference was minimal, the smile was still there – but definitely fake now. His eyes were more sharp and darted over Stephen, analyzing him. As if he was trying to figure out what had given him away. How he should react. How Tony could save the night.

His brain solved a hundred equations, processed all the data he had on hand, calculated probabilities. Everyone who claimed that JARVIS wasn’t a child of Tony, was wrong. Their brains worked in the same way. JARVIS’ was just bigger with more resources at hand.

“Are you complaining I put effort into this date with you,” he finally asked.

Stephen knew every word out of his mouth was carefully crafted together. He wanted to talk to the real Tony, not to this life decoy he put on as a front.

Instead of answering the engineer, he stopped a waitress walking by. “We’ll take the dessert to go. And will you bring the check, please?” And to Tony he simply said, “Let’s take a walk.”

Tony deflated visibly. What could Stephen possibly want to talk about outside that he could not say here? Unless he wanted to raise his voice, or walk out on him as fast as possible afterwards.

Tony had known that agreeing to go on this date had been a bad idea.

A few minutes later they were walking down the street. The lights of the shops and street lamps illuminated their path. The streets were busy with people they had to navigate around; this was still New York after all.

Tony carried the dessert in a plastic bag. He had barely said a word since they left the restaurant, waiting for Stephen to drop the shoe. He wished they would just get over with it.

“Why did you think you had to act a certain way tonight?” Stephen asked after a while.

Tony shrugged. “You wanted a date. People have certain expectations of dates.” There wasn’t anything wrong with that per se. Stephen was important enough to Tony that he had agreed to this in the first place so that the sorcerer could scratch the itch he apparently had. Why else would he have been so persistent?

“I’m not people,” Stephen reminded him.

“Exactly,” Tony agreed. “You deserve someone great. Who treats you well. Someone who isn’t a mess. Who remembers birthdays and anniversaries.”

“You remembered my birthday last year and even got me a watch.”

“Because I wanted to; not because I was expected to,” Tony clarified firmly.

Stephen sighed and stopped walking. They were on a bridge somewhere over the East River. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable with this whole date idea.” Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed for it. “I don’t want to pressure you into being someone you are not. I want you to feel like you can be yourself around me.”

“I felt comfortable around you before you brought this whole dating thing up,” Tony admitted. “I like your company.”

It was the most honest he had been this whole night.

Stephen nodded, not sure where this left them. Probably back at square one. Hopefully. If Tony didn’t retreat fully after this.

The engineer shuffled his feet, not sure either what to do at this point. At least this display of awkwardness was a sign Tony had let his guard down. And that was something.

“Just one question,” Stephen asked finally because he refused to let the night end like this. He wanted at least know if he had misread the signs before. Tony signaled him to go on. “Ignoring all expectations you might think I have; or the consequences for that matter – have you ever thought about kissing me?”

Tony seemed surprised and he eyed the sorcerer as if he was suspecting a trap. Yet he found nothing but curiosity.

“Yes, of course. You’re gorgeous. And I like what we have. Had.”

“We still have that, Tony,” Stephen reassured him before he admitted, “I guess you were right: going out wasn’t the best idea.”

Although Tony liked being right, he felt a pang in his heart hearing it. Apparently, he had had his hopes up after all.

“Yeah,” he muttered, glancing along the bridge. He was ready to leave. Stephen had said nothing would change between them, yet he couldn't help the disappointment he felt.

“Nevertheless, I want you to know that I also thought about it,” Stephen said.

Tony didn’t follow. “About what?”

“About kissing you.”

Tony’s breath hitched; he hadn’t expected that. “Yeah?”

“Repeatedly.”

They looked at each other. Stephen spoke casually like they were discussing the latest spell he had been researching. He was standing close to Tony but wasn’t crowding him.

“At least we are on the same page with something.”

“What are you trying to say?” Tony asked.

“Nothing. Just that we could do what we both apparently want to.

“We just talked about it, Stephen. Kisses come with expectations.”

“Not necessarily. It can be just that: a kiss. No dating, no follow ups, no arguments.”

Tony doubted the two of them could ever do without any argument. It was part of their dynamic. It was fun and all in good manners.

“Sounds too good to be true,” he muttered.

“I will happily prove you wrong.”

And somehow Tony wanted Stephen to be right. Just this once he would love to admit his own defeat willingly.

He liked the sorcerer; was always looking forward to their next meeting. Over time Tony had opened up to him, because it had been easy.

He knew, if he said the word, Stephen wouldn’t push it; they would go back and never speak of this again.

Tony didn’t want that.

Maybe it was really just about scratching the itch. Stephen had said, no expectations. And so far the sorcerer had always kept his word.

“I’m willing to see you try,” Tony finally conceded.

Neither of them was making a move.

“Come here then.” After everything, Stephen still gave him the option for a final back out.

But there was something in his voice that made Tony take a step forward. And that was all that was needed for him to be in Stephen’s personal space. The sorcerer met him halfway, leaning down. Tony’s eyes fell shut when his lips touched Stephen’s.

The kiss lingered and he was reluctant to withdraw. Their breath was warm in the cool night.

“I don’t think I will stop thinking about kissing you anytime soon,” Tony admitted quietly.

“Me neither. We should do this again sometime. No expectations.”

Tony huffed, amused. The weight on his chest felt suddenly ten times lighter. “No expectations.”

[nanamiskentos]

34 + 35 = ?! ✤ jujutsu kaisen

SYN. ➤ just some simple hc's about the jujutsu kaisen men going down on you !

𝐉𝐉𝐊 ➤ Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna, Hiromi, Choso, Kashimo, Naoya [Separate]

cw ─ MDNI. oràl (f), spànking, squírting, overstím, fàce-sitting, reader is called a slút, fíngering, afab!reader

wc. 3k

呪術廻戦 NOTE ( author says ) ariana what are u doing here. lazy post ik...but i had a lot of fun writing it 😭

➤ SATORU GOJO

he is so cocky and smug about it. the strongest will go down with a lazy smile, taking his sweet, sweet time about reaching his destination in the world. a.k.a what lies in between your thighs. kissing n' teasing, licking as thoug he's eating a dessert he made himself.

there's constant jewel-blue eye contact through those impossibly long, snowy lashes, " awh, look at ya'. soo sensitive, pretty girl. " and god, he loves overstimulation, and he's not likely to stop when you (inevitably) cum, and he's such a manwhore, 'cause he'll be moaning into you as though he's the one being pleasured. and in a way he is, because this is nothing strenuous to him, not as long as he's got rct on his side.

gojo's gonna' put your legs over his bare, milky shoulders, and keep you there until you're absolutely shaking splayed out for him. he's absolutely treats going down on you like a game he's determined to win, and he knows he's good. and it shows, with every flick and curl of his pink, kiss-stung tongue.

and you just know how obsessed satoru is with the view, with your flushed cheeks and lidded eyes. trembling thighs, the way your hands grip the fine sheets, or his hair (the key to making him bust a fat load). and the sorcerer just can't shut up when he's eating you out, 'cause he's just talking so damn much! between sucks and licks, he teases you, whispering raspy things like, "already so wet, aren'tcha? and i haven't even gotten serious."

gojo's fingers are going to find your sweet spot and curl so deliciously, working perfectly in sync with his mouth. the more you cum. (because, let's face it, it's multiple times), the more turned on he gets, and he'll keep you on edge, overstimulated and glassy-eyed until he decides to fuck you.

➤SUGURU GETO

oh, he's so worshipping 'bout it. and slow, as though you're sacred, and he's got all the time in the world to pray between your thighs. he uses deep, languid strokes with his tongue, fingers lightly teasing your heat. and geto's definitely moaning softly into you, for he's enjoying this as much as you are.

suguru calls you 'baby' n' 'sweet thing' in the softest voice while his mouth absolutely ruins you. he'll grip your thighs tightly to hold you still when you start squirming, "don't run from it, angel. 'm not done."

and his approach is oh, so intimate. he'll lay you back, kissing the plush flesh of your inner thighs, tracing his fingers over your slick folds while watching every expression that crosses your face. he groans softly when he buries his mouth into you, and it vibrates through you.

geto's not really rushed 'bout it, and he'll luxuriate in the way you arch and sigh, like he's reading poetry in your body. when you tug his raven-silk hair, and roll your needy hips, it's an easy recipe to make him possessive. he holds you down with a rippling, strong arm over your stomach to double down.

and he loves drawing out orgasms, and he makes them so slow and steady, and powerful. "come on, baby. . . let go. let me have it." and if you're a little teary after? he kisses your thighs, admiring the marks that he's left, and rests his head there. probably falls asleep there, like a big cat.

➤ NANAMI KENTO

oh, kento is so thorough and precise. pretty methodical, but what else is expected from the 7:3 sorcerer? he studies you with every lick, learning every reaction, and making it a mission to make you fall apart.

he loves when you tangle your quivering fingers in his amber locks, and pull. probably makes him cum on the spot, but his sheer restraint in trying not to empty his balls turns you on even more, what can you say?

his voice drops several octaves (if that's even possible) when he's between your legs, smooth voice raspy as he coos at your reaction, your glossy cunt winking up at him, "that's it. . . let go for me." and he'll clean you up with his tongue as though it's his last task on earth.

because face it, nanami kento is a gentlemen everywhere else, but between your legs? he's relentless. he starts soft, like a slow kiss, but every motion is calculated. he memories exactly how you react to different forms of stimulation.

nanami grips your thighs firmly, pressing them apart as he dips his head and eats as though he's starved. he doesn't even care how long it takes, and you'll cum at least twice before he even considers stopping.

his deep, calm voice as he talks you through it is absolutely killer, "good girl. keep going, n' don't hold back for me, wife." (yeah he's got a diamond ring in the unfairly tight back pocket of his beige slacks).

➤ TOJI FUSHIGURO

filthy, so filthy. that's all you really need to know. he loves the taste, the mess, the slick. he honestly may have had some trepidation in the early days of his youth, but now he'll fall to his knees for his woman with little questions asked. he'll drag his tongue through you slow at first, primed to devour.

calloused hands spread you wide, holding you down, and it's a sign of little mercy for the night ahead, "you taste so fuckin' good, princess." he'll edge you with his mouth just enough to make you beg, then growl when you finally break, gushin' all over his handsome face.

you'll be yanked to the edge of the shared beg, legs thrown over his broad and rippling shoulders, and his face is buried before you can blink. his dark lashes already flapping in delight over hazy green eyes as he dives right in.

he licks at you fast, deep n' dirty, making noises as though he's addicted to way that you taste. he'll hold you down with one large, warm hand, gripping your hips, and using his other hand to finger you with much vigour, hitting all the right spots.

toji whines into you (but he'll pretend he didn't) and arc his fingers in a three-fingered smack over your sensitive clit, fascinated by the sloppy arc of release and arousal streaking through the air onto his face, "this pussy's all mine, huh? you gon' cum for me again, doll?"

he's always gonna' bite your inner thighs, leaving marks, and it leaves you even more soaked, cunt absolutely drooling over the front of his dark sweatshirt. and you're always going to finish with your legs shaking, locked around his head, and your mind spinning.

➤ RYOMEN SUKUNA

you don't get to cum until the king of curses says you can, let's be real. he will tease and taunt you, while barely brushing your clit with the rough, forked surface of his tongue.

he loves to watch you write, and he thinks (though he'll never admit it), that you're the loveliest sight in the entire world when you squirm, "beg louder, girl. maybe this time i'll actually give ya' what you want."

and when sukuna does go in? it's so brutal, sucking and licking, biting and blowing. he's always growling into you, so loss in the awe of watching your transparent arousal smear over your thighs, drip over his chin. true form sukuna uses two hands to hold you still, and the other two to spread you wide for him to slot in between the gap.

sukuna is cruel, deliberately so, and he'll lap at you softly, teasing your clit with the very tip of his tongue, holding you down while you whimper. if you beg? nah, it's not gonna' move him, and he's going to scoff, "pathetic. is that all it takes to break ya' ?"

there's little warning before he really lets loose, full tongue sucking your clit with insane pressure, alternating between a mind-blowing speed, and then, slow torment that leaves to a flooding torrent of arousal and release.

he'll edge you, deny you, then push you over so hard that your vision goes white. and he can go for hours, from when the sun rises 'till the moment the sun sets and disappears below the horizon. he absolutely kisses you sloppily to make sure you're tasting yourself afterwards.

➤ HIROMI HIGURUMA

the lawyer is surprisingly gentle. . . at first. soft kisses, and shy eye contact, and there's a flush that crawls over his pretty nose, over one temple to the other. but he grows obsessed with the way you sound when you moan and fall apart for him.

hiromi loves makin' you cum on his mouth, over and over. and you just know he loves having you perch your thighs over his face, sitting on it till he crassly jokes that this is his favourite way to go out, being waterboarded.

hiromi is also soft-spoken, but intense. he's a giver, and please you? it's his form of divine salvation. he holds your hips gently, tongue slow and reverent, dark eyes full of restrained hunger.

he starts sweet, but once he hears the right-pitched moan from you? he loses it entirely, and becomes feverish. hungrily lapping at your pussy, and not caring if the slick strands stick to the lapels of his (expensive) suit.

he's got long, elegant fingers, and he's definitely prodding them into your gummy, sticky walls as he eats you out. absolutely enamoured with how your voice cracks and break.

and hiromi is always going to moan into you, getting messy and off-kilter as his perfect composure is thrown out the window, and he's burying his face deeper into you, "you deserve this, let me show ya' just how good this can be.'

➤ HAJIME KASHIMO

for the first week, kashimo pretended as though he was above it all. because, well, he's the strongest sorcerer of his (medieval) era and he'd never be caught doing something so. . . lewd. fortunately for all parties involved, he got one look at your bare thighs and almost fell to his knees, tearing up and pleading for a taste.

so aggressive and chaotic with it, because, of course, kashimo treats everything like a damn race, and a challenge. his tongue is like lightning, literally, fast and precise. overwhelming when you swear you feel a zap! of something sharp over your clit, and he shakes his head vehemently denying the use of his cursed technique, but his cyan eyes gleam with mischief.

kashimo grins when you squirm, grabbing your hips, "is this not what you asked for, little dove?" and he loves to taste you after a fight or a workout, and he'll often quote that there's nothing to get the blood pumping down there like a fight with a beautiful woman.

he's gonna' tease you with barely there touches, and then suddenly leap all in, leaving you gasping and tugging the two bundles of teal hair atop his choppy layers, sorta' like handlebars.

will laugh, low and wild, when you cum too fast, "that easily? huh, it did not take much, hmm?" and he's insatiable about all of it, biting at your clit with gentle pressure to have your thighs tremble and suffocate him in between your legs.

"come on, little dove. one more, you can give me one more." his pink mouth is swollen, smeared with your release, and he's got the most priggish, satisfied grin painted over his face.

fingers never letting up with their pace as he buries them deep within you, that overstimulation mingling pain with pleasure till it ebbs away into quick orgasm after orgasm.

➤ NAOYA ZEN'IN

he has the worst attitude, but the best mouth. you know he's arrogant as hell, and it shows in how he eats you out. and he probably only does it so he has something to laud over you later, but he can't also deny the very faint pink flush dusted over his creamy skin.

"tch', do ya' really think you deserve this?" he's humming, smearing a thumb over your aching clit, "beg properly, and then, maybe i'll give you what you want."

and but when he finally goes down on you, it's intense and messy, fast and precise. unfortunately, he knows what he's doing, and he's so smug about it. he licks at you as though he's proving a point, winning an argument, and if you don't scream his name, he'll take it super personally.

"oh, so now 'm not doing it good enough for ya', is that it?" so, basically, he's going to sulk later if you don't end up gushing over his face. naoya holds your thighs wide open, thumbs digging into your skin so you can't even move, and he wants you trembling.

there's constant eye contact as he eats you out, 'cause he wants you to know that it's him, giving you this much pleasure, and you can see the lidded, dark gaze clouding over his topaz, jewel-tone eyes. pink tongue pressed flat against your throbbing bud, rolling it slow just to watch your face. quickly alternating the pace to flick it rapidly, as arousal leaks out of you, and you're moaning.

"all pretty n' dumb when i'm eating ya' out like this, eh?" and if you try to close your legs from the sheer stimulation, naoya is going to get even meaner, "did i say you could run away?" you cum once, and he doesn't stop nor slow down. tawny, sand-blonde hair plastered to his head as he picks up the pace, "one isn't enough, wifey. not for a slut like you."

and when he does pull away, his mouth is glistening, and he makes a big show of wiping your sticky arousal away, and making faux noises of disgust (you can see the dark, translucent patch over the groin of his fine haori). but he shoves his fingers back into you, "don't pass out, idiot. 'm not done."

➤ CHOSO KAMO

oh, he deserves his own shrine for the way he eats your cunt. he's so quiet about it at first, no teasing nor taunting. just that intense gold-hazel as he drops to his bulky knees, hands gliding up your thighs like you're somethin' precious.

he's so slow and cautious about at first, treating you like a personal alter. kissing at your folds gently, nibbling at the edges of your outer folds. but choso eats you out as though he's starving.

wide tongue flat, licking deep and fast instinctually, then sucking your clit into his mouth with a firm n' sloppy pressure. you make one noise, one mere moan that bubbles past your lips, and choso loses it. groaning into you, fingers digging into his hips as he pushes your legs up to his broad shoulders, atop his soft, white robes.

choso is absolutely the type to cum in his pants just from making you climax, and he needs not even touch himself. he's just that obsessed with the way you taste, the way your thighs squeeze his head, and obscure the rest of the vision until all he can see are the dewy beads of release dripping from your glossy pussy.

he's always panting, messy, with his tongue darting between your folds as though he's desparate and breathless, "you taste so good. . . i can't stop. i don't want to stop." and when you do cum, he's over joyous, and he continues right through your orgasm. hurtling through your first climax to knock down the door to your second.

choso groans into you, face soaked, tongue fucking you through it while you writhe, tugging his stringy, dark hair, "i know, i know, sweet thing. you can give me another one." but afterwards, he's dazed, pupils blown and lips shining, and you know he's proud as hell of himself.

if you sit on his face, he'll moan like a virgin seeing heaven for the first time. hands on the plush of your ass, tongue poking out, and eyes shut, just letting you ride and snag the hood of your clit against the slope of his nose.

[pythonmoth]

cw: post-traumatic stress disorder. paranoia. anxiety. panic. overthinking. reader is traumatized and unreliable. explicit suicidal thoughts. mentioned depersonalization. the voices. jealous simon. kissing the homies pt2. author was angry while writing.

× framed traitor f!reader x lt ghost. poly tf141.

text is heavily styled to show reader's panic. if it's difficult to read, I can share the normal version tomorrow. ♡

Part 8

Slow.

That's the only way you can describe how the progress has been for you.

Ever since you fell asleep with Simon on a call, you've been feeling so calm. It's like all the problems disappeared. Your therapist is confused, but glad to see you all happy and content, like never before. Your appetite has come back, your nails have been growing nicely. You give yourself a chance to try on comfortable shoes, a little hesitant to make your toenails hurt, but you can actually walk with them now. They're still a little sensitive, but you're running your errands on your own now. No need to be dependant anymore.

To feel like yourself again has given you so much comfort that you find yourself texting the team properly. Even Gaz has been taking your calls when he's available, which has been great for your mental health, and your heart. Price has been mostly quiet, but you're not surprised, as he's always busy; he mostly just shares updates on missions, like Simon. Johnny has been incredibly funny on the phone, sharing silly things and your mutual hatred towards a new movie has been helping you bond again.

Simon, however...

"Hey, I'm serious! Don't you dare using that fucking tea bag!" Simon grunts from the phone.

You turn to him, laughing as you see him frowning. Simon's unmasked face covers your phone screen, his distaste for the cheap tea bags completely clear. His eyebrows are furrowed together, his mouth curled in a little disgusted snarl. You can only grin, mocking him, lazily patting your hands dry on your pants.

"I've no energy to prepare anything else!" you sigh, dropping the tea bag on the mug, getting closer to the phone to turn the volume up.

Your phone is fighting for it's life resting against a little cookie jar on the isle, your hands still a little damp from doing the dishes.

"Well, if you didn't try to do everything at once, you would" Simon voice retorts. His forehead is covering nearly half of your screen, making it hard to take him seriously.

"I can perfectly do multiple things at the same time".

"The stove".

You turn around to see the stove still on. With a grimace, you turn it off, ignoring his little chuckle as you reach out for your tea and your phone, walking over to the living room. The couch is cozy and fluffy, making you sink into it as if it were a cloud. You drag a blanket over your legs as you smile at the screen, staring at Simon.

"Whatever. Now, what did you have for dinner?"

Ever since that night, this has been your new normal. He has time off, you have a videocall. Really, it's a win-win situation, and it makes you happy, so that's fine. He tells you all about everyone, he tells you about how much he misses you and how much he wants to see you. It makes you smile, genuinely so.

The therapist isn't convinced you're okay yet. She says you're still jumpy, still flinch around people, and she even said you're hyper vigilant. But there's nothing wrong with being precautious, so you don't understand how that's a bad thing. However, you can admit it's a little hard to do things with your hands. It's not that you can't use your hands, because you can, but it makes you feel as if you were in a simulation, as if you were part of a game and you're the point of view for someone else.

Perhaps you should've kept that to yourself.

That's probably why the therapist refuses to allow you to go back. She probably thinks you're crazy, when it happens to everyone. She just doesn't understand.

It's no matter, because they're coming.

Price told you a few days ago that they're finally free, and will be having a few months off unless they're strictly needed. It's been nine months since you last saw them in person, so it makes you feel excited, content!

Tomorrow. They're coming tomorrow.

The best part is that you don't even need to ask what they feel like eating. You know them well enough to know just how much they love meat, so you just have to go out and buy everything.

The air is a more than chilly now, your birthday month coming right up, so you decide to put on your favorite jacket and take your car keys. The drive to the store is calm, the music absolutely blasting your ears, though, your enthusiasm sky high with how much you've missed them these past few months. It makes you giddy, to welcome them, to see them again.

Your therapist has been helping you to identify your emotions, helping you to understand how you are genuinely feeling. And having them over... it makes you a little anxious. Only because you haven't gotten any visitors outside your family and friends, really. Of course you want them there, it's just gonna be new.

In just a few minutes, your car if parked and locked at least five times just to make sure, canva tote bags in hand and then you're walking in the store. You're always making sure to come at a time when there's less people, and you're glad it's keeping up the same. Headphones over your ears, music gently playing on then, you move with practiced ease.

Meat. Vegetables. Pasta.

Meat. Fruit. Meat.

And meat.

They would die if you gave them anything but meat, truly.

You smile to yourself as you carry your things back to your car, your headphones now curled around your neck so you can pay attention to your surroundings, your eyes slyly looking around, turning smoothly whenever you feel someone is looking at you from your back. Your eyes wide open, you fill your car with the groceries, quickly closing it once you're done.

Just for precaution, you look around again before looking inside your car, and as soon as you open the door, you're inside and lo ck in g the car.

Just precaution.

It's dangerous out the re.

You're home the rest of the day, preparing the meals you'll be giving them tomorrow morning. Price did say they'll be arriving at 2pm, so you make sure everything is perfect before going to bed.

That night, you sleep with Simon's breathing next to your ear again, your heart pounding in your chest. The an xie ty keeps on growing, but you're sure it's just giddiness. Really, you're just too excited you can't wait.

The next morning, you almost don't want to get up. The woodpeckers are going crazy with the tree just outside your window, the sunlight hitting your face perfectly from between the curtains and it feels peaceful. Your bed is empty, except for your pillows —and a big plushie of a dragon Johnny got for you a few years ago—, and it's so, so warm you just don't want to get up.

With a sigh, you stand up and quickly get ready to welcome the day, and your friends. You're thankful you made sure everything was ready the day before, because just as you're done blow drying your hair, there's a firm knock on your door.

Surprised, you turn to look at the clock. You didn't even realize you spent so long just staring at yourself in silence. You lost so many hours, when you could've been doing something else!

"Coming!" you yell from your room, jumping down the stairs to the kitchen and turning the stove on.

When everything is already getting heated up, you stand in front of the door, your body suddenly frozen. You're sweating, your heart slowing and then racing in your chest as if it couldn't choose what to do. Your throat is closing up.

You can't move.

Don't open the door.

Run.

Why?

What is happening?

Run.

Another knock makes you snap out of it, but your hands are still shaky as you finally open the door. Your shoulders relax as your eyes fall on Gaz, strong arms instantly wrapping around your middle as Price, right behind him, presses the door against the wall so they can all get in.

Gaz lifts you just enough to make room for the rest.

"Hey, sweetheart. Looking good" Gaz says, beaming, pressing a soft kiss to your cheekbones before letting go of you.

However, you're instantly shutting off again. You don't understand why your legs feel like jelly, why your healed fingernails are throbbing. You don't understand at all why the sudden urge to run, far, far away.

Leave.

Price grins down at you, patting your head and gently gripping your shoulder before side stepping you. "Thank you for having us, kid".

When you look up at Johnny, he's grinning down at you, but you can see the way he quickly catches on your reaction, the way your forehead is covered in sweat, and the way your lips are pursed.

Danger.

"It's good to see you" Johnny says gently, nodding down at you and moving past you very carefully, trying not to touch you.

It feels odd. It feels incredibly off. And there's something weird in the air.

Your stomach is twisting and churning. It's confusing. It's weird. Sulfur? Acid?

Fully focused on trying to understand what happening to you, you're suddenly aware that the burning smell you can perceive is coming from your deep in your stomach.

Fear? Pain? Panic?

Your throat is so closed up you can barely breathe. The fear is making your sight turn a little blurry, your breathing shaky.

Bile. You want to throw up.

When you look up at Simon, your hands clench on your sides, swallowing thickly. It feels so, so wrong to look at him like this, especially when you two are supposed to be okay again, but for some reason, you can't handle looking at him. It's making you feel... off. Odd.

You give him a tight smile and a nod, the giddiness turning ice cold in your stomach.

You bring your hand to your mouth, nibbling on your fingernails.

As soon as they're all inside, door closed behind them, Simon takes his mask off, his eyes fixed on you, frowning.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm okay. Yeah, come on" you reply, maybe a little too quickly, but you don't give him, or any of them, a moment to think about it as you move to the kitchen.

You check on everything by the stove as Johnny fills glasses with wine. It's too early for wine, but with your teeth destroying the growing fingernail on your thumb... you don't really care right now.

"It smells amazing" Price comments, inhaling deeply. He's sitting at the head of the table, looking ready to sink his teeth in anything. If he's oblivious to the tension in your shoulders, or if he's choosing to ignore it, you can't tell. "This is what having a wife at home feels like. All we're missing is a little one".

That manages to make you smile slightly, your shaky hands relaxing at the friendly tone. You reach out to mix the pots, turning to look at him.

"The only little one any of you will be seeing from me is my knee on your balls. Now, be useful and set the table" you grunt. Price raises his hands in surrender and pats Simon's shoulder so they can do as you asked.

It's not the first time they've come, anyway, so they don't have to ask you where you keep things. Johnny stays by the table, claiming he already poured the wine, but he ends up helping Simon and Price with the plates anyway.

Gaz leaves the table to stand right next to you, suddenly smacking the hand on your mouth firmly.

"Stop that shit" he whispers angrily. He's quiet, even gentle with it, so rest don't hear.

"Sorry. I'm... feeling weird" you mumble, forcing yourself to stop.

"Go sit. I've got this" he hums, nudging you with his shoulder until you let go.

You make sure to sit by the isle, just because that ridiculous anxious feeling isn't getting any smaller. If anything, you can jump and cover yourself with the isle, so this place is fine.

As Gaz serves for everyone and they start sitting down again, you nearly jump off the chair when you realize Simon's sitting next to you, instead of where he was sitting on the opposite side of the table.

"Hey, that's my chair. Go sit over there".

You look up to see Simon glare at Gaz, the two of them staring each other down, a silent conversation between the two of them. In the end, Simon simply let's go of the chair and sits away from you again. It helps you relax, but you keep quiet, reaching out to grab your glass of wine.

"Really, though. If you had a kid running around..." Price starts again, his mouth filled with food.

"Back off" Johnny complains, nudging Price still. Price rolls his eyes, waving a dismissive hand. "What a prick".

Simon, however, can't look away from you, paying attention to all of your movements, the way you lean on Gaz, the way you barely seem to be listening.

"If she's marrying anyone here, that's me" Gaz says, suddenly wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Y'all stand no chance".

It makes you relax, but only a moment, feeling suffocated by their eyes on you, especially with the way Simon's gripping his fork. You hit Gaz on the ribs with your elbow, only to make him let go. He grins, his eyes gentle. You know he doesn't mean it like that, but it's making you uncomfortable again.

"Oi, watch your—" Simon starts, his eye twitching.

"Not playing house by choice, I've been forced to. I'm pretty sure we don't wanna talk about it, so eat up and shut the fuck up" you snap, your tone just shy from screaming at them.

That makes Price's teasing smile die, nodding solemnly, and finally shutting up. You refuse to look at the way Simon and Johnny's faces drop, both of them staring at their plates, suddenly feeling no appetite.

It's an awkward meal, everybody afraid to make a single noise. You can hear the way Simon's munching on the vegetables, you can hear Price's breathing slowing down just the way he does when he's on a mission, and Johnny... he's only mixing his food together, stabbing an innocent carrot.

After a while, when nobody's chewing and nobody even dares breathing, Gaz breaks the silence.

"So..."

The rest turn to him.

Gaz grins.

A movie.

The sun is still high up, but Garrick suggested to watch a movie, and you said yes. In a heartbeat. Really, Simon shouldn't complain if he gets to see you for a little longer. Whatever that means, anyway, because you don't want him near you at all. Fuck, you didn't even let him sit next to you.

All these months, he thought he'd been helping you, he thought therapy was going well, because during the constant videocalls you've been cheerful, your old self. You smiled at him, you laughed. He had made you laugh at his fucked up jokes again.

But this?

Johnny went with Price to buy crisps, soda, more drinks, and sour candies for you. Those two bastards really couldn't handle a single comment and bolted immediately. Pair of cowards. Simon wasn't stupid, he had seen the way Johnny nearly burst into tears, the way Price's jaw clenched, felt his own heart break inside his chest, but he has to sit here and take it. Because he wasn't a coward.

And this?

You're leaning on Garrick. Heavily.

Simon eyes the way Garrick interlocks your hands together, checking on your fingernails. His eye twitches as he hears you talk, both of you fully focused on each other, as if he wasn't there. It's not that that's a new concept for him, he often only talked so much.

But this?

His heart pounds in his chest when Garrick grips your jaw with a hand, kissing your cheek loudly after you pout at him.

It makes you smile.

That's it, he thinks. I'm getting up and I'm beating him up. Who the fuck does he think he is? Stealing my girlfriend right in front of me.

In the end, he only shifts, his face betraying nothing, looking down at his beer, hoping the other cowards arrive soon so he doesn't have to see the way he keeps losing you.

Losing you, all over again. Over a fucked up mistake, for following an order. And the worst part is that he genuinely gets it. Garrick is the only one who didn't hurt you, of course you're okay with his touch and not the rest.

Fucking hell. He wants to stab himself in the gut to end his misery.

But no.

He did that.

There's no changing it.

Simon looks up at the two of you.

His anger dissipates when he hears your soft laugh, Garrick's hand on the back of your neck, keeping you steady as he pokes your side, clearly sharing a silly moment. Simon grimaces and turns away again, sipping his beer.

It takes Price and Johnny half an hour to come back, and Simon couldn't be happier to see them.

With the snacks covering the coffee table and their laps, Simon genuinely tries to ignore the fact that you're still pressed against Garrick's side, happily munching on your sour candy. Johnny's sitting on the floor right between his legs, occasionally feeding him orange gummy bears or crisps. Price, between Garrick and himself, is staring at the movie, seemingly content with sipping on his beer, and stealing some of Simon's gummy bears.

Every time he hears your low laugh, Garrick's hands on you, Simon wants to die. He grips Johnny's shoulder, his nails digging slightly into his skin, trying his best to pay attention to the movie, but he isn't able to understand what it is about. He doesn't know what's happened in front of him for the past hour. He knows how many times Garrick's lips were pressed to your cheek. He knows how many times you laughed with Garrick. He knows how many times you've shifted, closer and closer to Garrick.

He can't do anything but dwell on his own regret, on his anger. His pain.

He doesn't blame you, he doesn't blame Garrick. Hell, he doesn't even blame Price, or Johnny, or anybody else. Just himself.

He could've done this so much better, but there's not much he can do. He needs to be alone with you so he can talk properly, apologize again, but every time he looks at you, even without the mask, you flinch. It doesn't matter how hard you try to hide it, he can see it.

Johnny gets up, snapping him out of his thoughts. He sees him take the empty plate, walking towards the kitchen.

Not even a minute later, Johnny's cursing and there's a shattering sound echoing on the house. Simon stands up, moving to go check on Johnny, but he freezes when you stand up abruptly, your face in complete shock as you walk away, your arm bumping onto the walls as you rush away.

He's torn for a whole second too long, thinking if he should follow you or check on Johnny first, and that's enough for Garrick to beat him to it. Simon can only stare at Garrick follows after you, sprinting.

After a moment of hesitation, he walks over to Johnny. Simon finds him picking up the shattered plate, grimacing when he sees someone walking in.

"Ah, it's you. I tripped" Johnny grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You hurt yourself".

"Just a tiny cut, 's nothing. Where did she go?" Johnny questions, bringing his thumb to his mouth, sucking a little on the blood.

"I don't know. Practically bolted when you dropped the plate".

Johnny stares at him, blinking. "And what are you doing here? I must've scared her" he sighs, standing up. "Where to?"

"Garrick already went after her".

"So?"

"They're getting along. A lot".

Johnny blinks again.

Smack.

"What the fuck? What was that for now?" Simon growls out, rubbing his head. Johnny shakes his head, still expecting an answer. Simon sighs. "Over there. Come on".

Simon guides Johnny, their feet barely making any noise, used to being quiet and, also, because they don't want to spook you any longer. He finally spots you, the door of the guest bedroom ajar.

He freezes.

Johnny's hand grips his arm, his whispered curse falling on deaf ears.

Simon stands there in complete silence, his blood, and stomach, and his heart and his brain falling to his feet as he can only stare.

Your cheeks are wet with tears but it's barely visible because Garrick's hands are covering them, his lips on yours.

It looks peaceful.

And Simon wants to die all over again.

Johnny quietly shuffles away, but Simon can't look away. Not now.

Garrick pulls away and kisses your cheek, then your forehead, then grips your nose, making you huff, a small smile on your lips. He's grinning, rolling his eyes, as if that kiss didn't just happen.

Simon isn't breathing. He's not even sure he's here anymore. Perhaps he did die, and this is his personal hell.

Must be.

chingue a su madre emilia pérez y todos los involucrados. I was pissed writing this and I wanted chaos.

-ˋˏ✄——————————————————

Masterlist | Part 9

Buy me a coffee

anyway, so there's that ♡ thank you so much for reading!!!

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @dorothy-rainbird-deactivated202 @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @kukavittu @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @rayrayyio @diseasedclitoris @alex1011sdzfgh @thebumbqueen

[kxsagi]

blue lock boys with an idol s/o and how would they feel with their girlfriend being shipped with another male idol when they're dating secretly

(back from my hellish exams 🤩)

- 🪻

“𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞”

a/n: welcome back!!! here's a little reward for completing those hellish exams 😍

ft. isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, reo mikage, itoshi sae, itoshi rin, chigiri hyoma, kaiser michael (i’m sorry if i’m missing any characters!)

𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢 𝐲𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐢 - “𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐤𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞”

while you’re showing him a new music video featuring you and your male idol co-star, your boyfriend’s arms are crossed, wearing the most unimpressed expression known to mankind.

➝ “his voice is kinda pitchy,” he randomly comments, despite having no musical knowledge whatsoever.

➝ you squint at him, unimpressed. “babe, that’s literally a pre-recorded track.”

but he’s already moved on, subtly muttering, “his outfit’s kinda mid too,” just to cope. 

𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐢 𝐬𝐞𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨 - “𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦”

you nervously introduce your boyfriend to your co-star at an exclusive event. your boyfriend, calm and composed, offers the briefest nod possible before he proceeds to talk over the guy every time he tries to say something. if the male idol comments on your vocals, your boyfriend suddenly remembers a “crazy goal” he scored last season and loudly retells the story, making sure you’re paying attention.

➝ “huh? what was that? sorry, i didn’t catch what you said,” he says with a fake polite smile, despite hearing the guy perfectly fine.

𝐦𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐨 - “𝐛𝐮𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭”

your boyfriend is scrolling through his feed when he comes across a high-quality, cinematic edit of you and your male idol co-star looking way too good together. the caption reads: “power couple energy 💫” and it has millions of likes.

he doesn’t say a word about it, but two days later, you randomly receive a diamond bracelet with a tiny soccer ball charm. when you confront him, he shrugs nonchalantly.

➝ “what? can’t spoil my girl?”

but you know the ship edit is still living rent-free in his head.

𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐬𝐚𝐞 - “𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨-𝐝𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲”

after your male idol co-star posts a behind-the-scenes photo of you two laughing together, your boyfriend suddenly becomes a lot more… active on social media.

he casually drops a photo dump with you in it. not too obvious, just little things like your hand in the corner of a pic or your reflection in his sunglasses. but his die-hard fans know.

➝ “wait… is that a girl in his pic? 👀”

➝ “the same nail color as [your name]’s recent live…?”

he smirks at the comments, satisfied.

𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐫𝐢𝐧 - “𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭”

your boyfriend doesn’t say anything when he stumbles across a viral ship edit of you and your male idol co-star looking all lovey-dovey. he just calmly puts his phone down and heads straight to his gym.

suddenly, he’s doing way too many reps, shirtless, with his jaw clenched and veins popping like he’s training for the world cup. his music is blasting obnoxiously loud and he’s muttering curses under his breath every time he slams the weights down.

when you come to check on him, he’s drenched in sweat, chest heaving. you raise a brow.

➝ “everything okay?”

he wipes his face with his shirt, exposing his abs. “yeah. just… thinking.”

about what? definitely not the ship edit he saw. 

BONUS: 

after seeing another viral ship edit of you and your male idol co-star, your boyfriend casually posts a gym selfie with his shirt off. his toned abs and veiny arms are on full display, the sweat glistening perfectly under the light. the caption? “feeling good 🤍” with absolutely no context. it immediately gains traction, his comment section flooded with fans thirsting over him. you instantly know why he posted it.

➝ “oh, you’re sooo subtle,” you tease, and he just shrugs with a smug smirk, checking his like count.

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐢 𝐡𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐚 - “𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬”

during a post-match interview, your boyfriend is being his usual composed self until the reporter mentions a popular couple collab between you and your male idol co-star. the reporter grins.

➝ “their chemistry is crazy, huh?”

your boyfriend’s jaw ticks almost imperceptibly. but then, with the most neutral tone ever, he shrugs and says:

➝ “yeah, i guess. it’s called acting.”

the internet goes feral dissecting that clip. 

𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 - “𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞”

you’re casually chatting with your fans on a livestream when your boyfriend, who knows he shouldn’t, suddenly strolls into the room in his sweats, shirtless, with his hair still damp from a shower.

you glare at him off-camera, but he conveniently “forgets” you’re live, walking right into the frame with a lazy yawn and stretching his arms, showing off his toned abs.

the chat goes insane.

➝ “wait… WHO IS THAT?!”

➝ “omg her boyfriend?!!!”

➝ “ISN’T THAT MICHAEL KAISER THE SOCCER PLAYER”

you quickly end the live, shooting him a glare.

➝ “seriously?”

he shrugs with a sly smirk.

➝ “what? i just couldn’t take it anymore. the world needs to know you’re mine.”

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[neil-gaiman]

This isn’t a question, but I want to thank you for your books and how they’ve impacted my life.

Over thirteen years ago, I read Neverwhere for the first time and it changed what kind of writer I wanted to be. I went on to read more of your books—my other two favourites were The Graveyard Book and The Ocean at the End of the Lane.

About 11 or so years ago, I asked you on Twitter if I could read Stardust on a Twitch livestream, and you responded, “Fine by me”. It was one of my best streams, and while life got in the way of me doing more, I still remember it incredibly fondly.

Ten years ago I had a baby, and while he was an infant, I read him, Fortunately, the Milk, in an attempt to read him a book. He didn’t seem interested. I decided I’d try again some other time perhaps. But I did resolve to get him to read The Graveyard Book someday.

Nine years ago, when I was a mother of a one-year-old, I posted a status on Facebook simply saying, “We do not forget.”

Two years ago, I went on holiday, and I downloaded the audio book version of The Graveyard Book from our local library. My eight-year-old son listened to it as he fell asleep, though he ended up missing some parts, and we shelved it.

Last year, he read Coraline and didn’t like it. That isn’t your fault. He read Charlotte’s Web and didn’t like that either. He just didn’t quite have the understanding for them.

This year, he read Coraline and liked it. I told him it was from the same author as The Graveyard Book. He lamented that he never finished The Graveyard Book, and I said he could always download it from the library again.

Then about a month ago, he and I went through a tough time. I was really stressed about life, he wasn’t doing so well either, and our relationship got strained. I was angry with him all the time. I needed a break from him, or I thought I did. But one day when he was at his dad’s I realised that I wouldn’t get this time back. That I needed to fix it. So I asked him if he wanted me to read to him at bedtime. Just like when he was little. And we settled on The Graveyard Book.

On nights when he got to bed on time, I’d read a chapter. It often meant stretching past bedtime, but I could never stop halfway. It had been years since I’d read it too, and I found myself remembering things I’d forgotten. I’d watch his dark eyes widen whenever things got exciting, and I loved when he would interrupt me with an important revelation. “It’s Scarlett! His friend!” he’d say. “The dog! The grey dog!” “I know what Silas is!” He would tell me that I did the voices so well, that it seemed to match each character so perfectly.

We didn’t read every night, but it was a treat when we did. One night we had an argument and he told me he hated me. That he wished I was dead. And that he wanted to be with his dad. I told him to go take a shower, and that I’d ask his dad to come get him. His dad said no, but agreed to talk to him on the phone. After the shower, my son apologised for what he said. I said okay, and told him to call his dad to chat. After their call, he asked if we would still have story time. I asked if he preferred that or to have some space. He said he wanted both, but wanted story time more than space. So I read to him. It was the chapter when Bod and Silas argued, and then apologised to each other. Halfway through that chapter, my son asked for snuggles. I said, what happened to space? And he said, “I want snuggles more than space.”

We were sad when it ended. We finished it last weekend. I cried as I read it. But it was a beautiful sadness. We’ve talked about it a bit since then, to process it. He says he would like to read more about Silas and Bod’s adventures and asked if there was fan fiction about it. I told him to look, and to write some if there wasn’t. Perhaps I’ll write some too, just for him.

Last night he was at his dad’s and I was browsing Facebook and sent him a couple of his old pictures. Then I found an old post. From exactly nine years ago. And so I sent it to him.

It brought tears to my eyes. I did not remember making that post, and I’ve forgotten a great deal over the years, but I hope I do not forget these little moments with my son. But even if I do, I have them written down here to remind me again.

And thank you. For the words you’ve written and the impact you’ve had on our lives and hearts. I hope that your life holds the same amount of joy and love that you’ve given to others with your words.

That made me so happy. Thank you. I hope you and your son keep growing together.

[ink-stainedkiss]

This isn't necessarily a request (unless you like the idea😍) but i am WEAK for saiki kusuo being happy and laughing, as ooc as it sounds IDC HES MY BABY AND HES HUMAN THEREOFRE I CONCLUDE THIS BOY CAN HAVE HIS DAILY DOSE OF GIGGLES.

Like, i read the fic you made on saiki finding readers thoughts funny, and i BAJDJSJAJDBS I SQUEALED.

Just imagining him breaking character, or AUDIBLY laughing, is so so sweet bro im not even joking. He'd only ever be comfortable doing it infront of his mom probably, or his close friends. EVEN SO.

Just needed to get it off my chest. 🙂 if you ever make more fics with happy/giggly saiki i might actually marry you. 🙂🙂🙂

This one goes specifically to you queen😍 and No. I’m going to marry you🫵😼

Missing You

Synopsis: Saiki starts to feel a bit weird when you are out and he realizes he misses you. Now to find a way to get you home faster…

Merry Christmas for those who celebrate! I hope you all had a great time because I sure did. Sorry my activity has been a little slow these past days have been busier than expected, so this one’s going to be a bit short. Also thank you all for the likes on my later posts! It feels so amazing to see you guys enjoying my other works. Anyways, please enjoy this tooth-rotting fluff of our beloved Saiki💕

“You on the phone”

“Saiki on the phone”

*Saiki is wearing his telepathy blocking ring in this, so he's speaking normally*

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.2k

Everyone knew that Saiki was not a dependent person. He was the furthest thing from it. He loved his alone time- actually scratch that. He craved alone time. It was just his luck that he was always surrounded by people that caused him so much mental pain. To Saiki’s surprise, he had found someone he tolerated. Well it was more than that, but you guys were just friends, so he couldn’t say anything. He realized you were the only one that didn’t put Saiki through a problem which he had to solve. There were no long adventures when you talked to him in the halls. No using his powers to fix something you had done. He was able to act perfectly normal around you. Which is why he grew such an affection toward you. He grew so comfortable that he told you about his abilities and like he expected you took it well.

Today was one of his favorite days. Where he was able to hang around your home without a care in the world. Whatever his friends were up to outside of your house was not Saiki’s business, nor did he care about it. He had developed a routine when you text him to come over. He would arrive at your house, wear his germanium ring and let his worries wash away. It was the closest thing he could get to being a normal teenager and he was damn sure going to use his time wisely. Whenever Saiki stayed at your home, you would ask to do something, nothing crazy. Something simple like baking a batch of cookies, watching a movie on the couch, or if you were very bored, you would ask to do Saiki’s hair, which he never denied. Because, well, it was you. How could he say no?

Today was a bit different. You had mentioned you needed to run some errands and you promised you would back around noon. Saiki was fine with this since it meant he would have the house to himself. You trusted him greatly so you didn’t mind if he stuck around while you were out. When you left he gave a small nod and then the house was silent. Today was very different because something felt off. He had been reading a book on your shelf out of interest, but for the past five minutes, he had been rereading the same sentence over and over. Something was tugging in his head, but he wasn’t sure what was wrong.

Today was different because he felt so off without you in the same room as him. He checked the clock, realizing I had only been an hour and a half since you left. You wouldn’t be back until later, so Saiki had to find something to distract himself. Today was different because tried to cure his “boredom” with his powers. He turned on your kitchen sink, watching blankly as he made shapes and animals out of the liquid. When that didn��t stop the tugging, he moved onto your room. He felt slightly better resting on your bed and he played it off as being tired, but no. When he kept checking the clock to see if it was any closer to noon, he came to the horrifying conclusion that he missed you.

It was such a foreign feeling. Saiki? Wanting someone to be around him? Well that’s what happens when you sneak your way into his heart. The psychic couldn’t stand it anymore and grabbed his phone, clicking on your contact and placing the device to his ear. The small buzzing reached his ear and he felt a small fragment of relief when you answered after the second ring.

“Hey Saiki, what’s up?”

He sighed, a bit humiliated he felt this way.

“Nothing.”

“Then did you need something?”

“When are you going to be home?”

He said home like he lived here with you, but if you minded, you didn’t make it obvious.

“I should be there in maybe three hours.”

That did not help.

“Can you get here sooner?”

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“Yes.”

Might as well since there isn’t anything else getting you here faster. Saiki thought.

A small gasp sounded through the speaker, “I thought you said nothing was happening?”

“Just get here fast.”

And with that he hung up the phone.

—

You raced to your house, hoping you wouldn’t find it in ashes or hit by a tornado. Maybe you were being dramatic, but why would Saiki call you and tell you to come home quickly? It was shocking that you didn’t get pulled over at the pace you were driving home. When you pulled onto your street, you were thankful to not see any smoke, but that didn’t make you slow down. You slammed to a stop in your driveway, panic flooding your veins. You unlocked your door at lightning speed and the second it was open, you called out,”I’m here! What happened?!”

You shut the door behind you, scanning for some sort of danger, but you find your house was still intact. You were so confused. You were expecting some sort of freak accident with Saiki’s powers, but everything was in place.

“Nothing wrong.”

You whipped around, finding Saiki had teleported behind you. You blinked in confusion,”What are you talking about? You told me to get here quick and I-“ “I lied.” Your arms dropped at your side in defeat,”Then why am I here right now?” He gave you an emotionless stare,”Because I wanted you to be.”

Still in shock, you looked around, finding a scattered book on your couch. It was odd because Saiki is always the one to be neat. You turned to the boy, noticing how he was hardly making eye contact with you and he clearly wanted to say more. You recalled his words over the phone, then it all clicked.

“Saiki,” your words were barely above a whisper,”Did you miss me?”

The things that happened next were a blur. In the blink of an eye two arms were wrapping around you and you could feel Saiki’s head in the crook of your neck. He didn’t respond to your question, but this was enough to answer it. Honestly, you were a bit nervous. Was this really the same Saiki? The one who barely let people stand close to him, was holding onto you like a lifeline. You felt a long sigh escape his lips and instinctively you reached one hand up to rest in his pink hair and the other embracing him over his shoulder.

“I didn’t know how else to get you here.” He confessed gently, making your heart melt,”You could have just asked, Kusuo.” He tucked himself more into your neck, almost hiding his face from you,”But you were busy.” You rolled your eyes, “It was just getting groceries, I would have dropped everything if I knew you wanted me here.”

Saiki didn’t know how to respond, instead he used his teleportation to take you both to your room. You let out a grunt as you back hit your mattress, but your attention changed to the boy resting on you. He looked so at peace and you couldn’t believe this was still the same person. (It’s not like you were complaining.) As you softly played with his pink hair, a small idea popped into your head. Maybe I should go out more often if this is what I get to come home too…

[hyperfixationhobo]

SPICY! SPICY! SPICY!

NSFW UP AHEAD!!! 18+ ONLY

—————————————————————

Ok so I saw the vote, and yes it was a week long one but I meant to put it as a day and tbh I didn’t want to go back and redo the whole thing cause it’s obvious y’all want the spicy. For those who didn’t want the spicy I put a giant loud warning at the top so you can avoid this post if it brings you any discomfort or if you just don’t want to read it. No shame in knowing your boundaries!!!

Ok before we dive into the spicy, quick disclaimers! You may not like some the headcanons and that’s perfectly fine! These are just how I view the LADS and you aren’t obligated to like them! Second, I am putting how the guys are being tops and also bottoms. I’m a dom myself and there’s not a lot of bottom writing for these guys and I plan on fixing it. Third, MC in this is not specified to have specific genitalia. I want this to include everyone!

Ok let’s get on to the spicy!!!

Xavier

. Someone in my last headcanon post said that I wrote him boy coded and I honestly can’t agree more but for the spicy I see him more along the lines of ‘puppy coded.’

. Needy, so fucking needy.

. You have definitely walked in on him humping something waiting for you, mostly a pillow.

. “I’m sorry, couldn’t help myself.”

. Talkative as shit. Mostly babbled nonsense.

. So many compliments even if you can’t understand half of them.

. Favorite position is definitely the spooning position. You’re close to him and you can hear him moan. It’s a win win.

. I had to search up position name for like 15 minutes only to find out it’s just called spooning.

. I personally think he would be more sensitive than the other guys so he easily gets overstimulated.

. Doesn’t stop him though.

. Can definitely go multiple rounds.

. Also has a thing for overstimulation.

. He’s tired when he’s finished so aftercare is just wiping you both down then cuddles with a long nap.

. Will treat you to your favorite snacks after the nap.

If you top Xavier

. You pinned him down once and something in his DNA changed.

. Somehow got even more needy.

. Will wear outfits he knows that drive you insane just to get you to ravage him.

. Has to be touching you in some way.

. Won’t shut up once if he bottoms, you want him to be quiet you’ll have to shove something into his mouth.

. Take that as you will.

. Begs a lot.

. He will beg you to keep going even after he finishes.

. Put a collar on him I beg.

. We all know those bunny ears were used in more than just the photo shoot.

Zayne

. Temperature play most definitely.

. Loves holding you close cause I think he just loves warmth.

. He’s a doctor, definitely uses that to his advantage.

. I think he’s pretty vanilla out of all the guys.

. He will not cum until you do.

. Likes being ridden and I’m only saying that cause of that rocking chair scene from that one card.

. Definitely does quickies cause he’s mostly on the move.

. You send him a risky video while he’s at work you better be prepared to deal with a pent up Zayne when he comes home.

. “And what did you hope to achieve by sending me that video?”

. Aftercare involves gentle massages, hydration, healthy snacks, a bit of sweets, followed by sleeping cause he probably has work in the morning.

If you top Zayne

. You have one job and one job only; make him not able to think.

. Being a famous cardiac surgeon and looked up to 24/7 is tiring and right now he doesn’t want to think.

. You’re not allowed to call him Dr or anything like that.

. When he bottoms he’s not some super smart doctor that needs to know every answer, he’s just a guy who needs to be held and taken care of.

. He wants you to do all the thinking.

. You gotta be soft with him in this state.

. You know you’ve done it when he hardly makes noise and tears up slightly cause for once his mind is quiet and he can’t remember the last time he could just feel.

. Aftercare with a subby Zayne involves cuddles, sweets, and him being the small spoon.

. He’s floaty in this headspace and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Rafayel

. Bratty top and a bratty bottom.

. Also likes being ridden but that’s cause he’s a pillow princess.

. The bed is covered in rose petals and the fluffiest pillows.

. No candles. He learned his lesson from last time.

. That or he’ll gladly take you in a bubble bath.

. I think he switches to his native language when he’s close.

. Perfume definitely does things to this man.

. I personally think he’s the only one of the guys who would own a “toy”. Zayne’s too busy, Sylus doesn’t even really think about pleasuring himself when he’s running his business, and Xavier just simply isn’t interested.

. After care is a nice bath with fruits and soft praises.

If you top Rafayel

. You thought he was bratty as a top? You haven’t seen anything yet.

. Bratty as all hell.

. He’ll purposely won’t listen to you and test your patience just so he could get a punishment.

. “What are you gonna do? Punish me?”

. Until he actually gets the punishment and now he’s regretting it.

. Edging is the one thing he hates so use that to his advantage.

. I’ll say this once MARK 👏 HIM👏

. Scratch him, bite him, grip his hips so hard they bruise, he wants it all.

. Definitely looks at himself in the mirror the next day to watch all the bruises set in.

. Wears slightly revealing clothes to flaunt them off.

. Has definitely painted full body portraits of himself with the bruises and keeps those paintings stored somewhere.

. He just loves being yours.

. Also loves being pinned down

Sylus

. I know that most people see him as a rough top but honestly I can’t really see it.

. When I think of dragons I think of them being soft and careful with their treasures and the same I apply to Sylus.

. Takes his time, drags it on and on.

. Definitely teases.

. I think he’ll like doing it under the covers for the fact that it feels as if he’s shielding you with his wings like he used to and he honestly misses that feeling.

. Most definitely gets possessive.

. Bites, a lot.

. Also grunts a lot.

. Can definitely be rough but that’s only if it’s like a punishment.

. Won’t collapse on top of you when done cause he’s aware that he will quite literally crush you.

. Aftercare is a long soak with your favorite scented oils and Epson salt with whatever meal you’re craving.

If you top Sylus

. Bratty but not in the way you think.

. He’ll happily bottom if you want him to but he ain’t gonna make it easy. You gotta earn it.

. Tame the dragon basically.

. Chains, so many chains.

. So many collars too.

. Definitely likes being bitten as well.

. Wants you to be as possessive with him as he is to you.

. Call him your treasure and he’ll be a blushing mess.

. You had shoved his face into the pillow once and he froze.

. “….shit I think I might be into that.”

. Teases you just as much as if he was on top.

. I personally think he’ll be the hardest to get to submit only cause he will put up a fight until he thinks you’re worthy of doming him.

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── JUST LET ME LOVE YOU, OKAY? ↳ one shot // also part of the no doubt series !

✎ᝰ .ᐟ aka the one where you come to a certain realization over some peach ice cream and a jacket.

── sim jaeyun x f!reader ౨ৎ wc. 783 ⌗ freaking fluff, literally nothing new it's just simp jaeyun back in action once again .

↳ IMPORTANT NOTE .ᐟ ── this is part of my no doubt series ─ a sequel series of short drabbles that take place after the events of my fic no doubt, and show jake & reader's relationship throughout their first year together (& how jake wins her trust & love back hehe) ── THIS CAN BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT, however, there will be some easter eggs if you've read no doubt before!

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── ok so i lowkey had an existential crisis with this one because i fear i've been too repetitive with how SIMPY our jake has been in these past few ones...but then i realized i love our certified lover boy jake and never want to say goodbye to jakeyn so i'm gonna milk this out as much as i can (jk we have six parts left chat help) in all seriousness though i promise next one we finally let jakey feel just as loved as yn is ;) ALSO !!! im gonna start taking nodoubt!jake & yn requests so i might post the first one after this part soon :D

You’re shivering.

It’s entirely your fault.

Jake told you to bring a jacket. A hoodie, at least.

And you? Being the absolute genius that you are? Had insisted that you’d be fine and that you don’t need a jacket because you run warm and we’re only walking a little bit, anyways.

And Jake had looked at you. Looked at you.

With the face of a boyfriend who knew—deep in his bones—that this moment would come.

The moment in question?

Twenty minutes later, here you are—

Frozen solid, outside of a convenience store while Jake is at the counter paying for your snacks and ice cream.

Because, again, you’re a genius. And insisted on getting ice cream.

Genius.

Your arms wrap around yourself, your paper-thin sleeves doing absolutely nothing to protect you from the nighttime chill.

And, of course, because the universe loves to humble you, a gust of wind decides to cut through the air—and your entire existence—and you let out an actual whimper.

And before you can turn back towards the store—

Thump.

You blink.

You look down.

At the warm, heavy, oversized fabric now covering your shoulders.

Jake’s jacket.

You turn just in time to see him shoving his wallet back into his pocket, completely unfazed, like he’s casually not standing there in just his t-shirt in the cold.

“Jake.”

“Mhm?” He looks at you, all sweet and easy smiles as he takes your hand into his and starts walking next to you.

You hesitate.

Your fingers instinctively squeeze his.

“You’re not cold?”

A shrug. “Nah.”

You squint. “Liar. You definitely are.”

“Wow. So aggressive,” Jake dramatically clutches his chest with his free hand. “Why don’t you just say thank you, my incredibly selfless, devastatingly handsome, perfect boyfriend—”

“Oh my god,” you groan, smacking his arm—though it does absolutely nothing to stop his carefree laugh.

He reaches into the small plastic bag swinging from his forearm, pulls out your favorite peach-flavored ice cream sandwich, unwraps it, and hands it to you before casually draping his arm over your shoulder and pulling you into his side.

Tucking you perfectly into him.

Like he’s done this a thousand times and plans to do it a thousand more.

Like loving you is the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it is.

Maybe it’s always been this easy—how he tucks you into his side without thinking, like you belong there. How he carries the bag with both your favorite snacks like there was never any question of who’d be holding it.

And maybe—

It’s always been this easy to love him.

Your chest tightens.

“Jake—” you swallow, staring down at the ice cream in your hand, “You really don’t have to keep doing all this.”

Jake glances down at you, brows raised, “All what?”

“All…this,” you wave your ice cream vaguely in his direction, like that explains anything (it doesn’t). “The jacket. The snacks. Every tiny little thing you’re always doing for me.”

Jake frowns. His head tilts slightly—confused, like the concept is foreign. Like it genuinely hadn’t occurred to him that this might be something worth pointing out.

And then—

“…But I like doing those things.”

You almost miss a step.

“Yeah, but—”

“Y/N.”

Jake stops walking.

You stop walking.

And when you turn to face him, he just sighs, taking your face in both his hands, shaking his head with a small smile.

One of those barely-there, eyes-too-soft, I-love-you-so-much-I-don’t-know-what-I’m-going-to-do-with-you kind of smiles.

And then, in the gentlest voice—

“Just let me love you, okay?”

Your throat closes.

You might cry.

Because god, he says it so simply.

Like it’s not the overwhelming, tangled, terrifying thing the way you make it.

Like it’s not complicated or conditional.

Like it’s just true.

You stare at him, frozen. Blinking. Trying to breathe around the ache in your ribs.

And Jake?

Jake just laughs under his breath, like he sees right through you. He shakes his head again before leaning down to press the lightest kiss to your temple.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you—but you don’t let him get far.

And for a second, you just stand there, eyes on each other.

No explanations. No grand declarations.

Just that quiet kind of knowing.

That this is it.

That this has always been it.

And as the truth settles into your bones, as the warmth of it finally overpowers the fear, you know—

You love him.

You love Jake so much it hurts. So much it heals.

And as he finally gently tugs you forward, lacing his fingers with yours like it’s second nature—

You think you might let him love you, after all.

<< past || no doubt m. list || next >>

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[chickadeethoughts]

reread this post and maybe this is an unpopular mclennon opinion? but i think they both didn't actually understand each other as well as they thought they did. i think both of them believed the other could read their mind and then filtered their subsequent actions as a conscious slight. like. john should know that paul is someone who keeps his feelings very closely guarded, who will always choose to keep the peace and to put on a good face when he's upset. but throughout the breakup, when paul seemingly stays as productive as ever, staying distantly polite to yoko while urging john to keep writing, keep beatling, everything's fine, time to put on a show, john takes it that paul doesn't care one way or another about their partnership dissolving, he's a perfectly capable one-man band hit machine anyway. this is seemingly confirmed by paul announcing the breakup to "sell a record," effectively ending all hope of quietly reconciling and supporting john's theory that paul was done with the beatles (john) anyway and had been on his way out once he learned he could write a #1 song without anyone's (john's) help. all he cares about is hits and money and his new perfect family and farm.

meanwhile. paul should know that john wasn't handling the pressures of the beatles well. he should know that he needed more support. but paul seems to be someone who gets stuck in his ways of thinking about people (see also: george), and doesn't seem to have ever shaken the image of john as the older, cooler teddy boy on the bus who he'd do anything to impress. he thinks the world of john and spends the 60s thinking they're in a friendly competition, not realizing john has started falling into the paranoia that he's losing. you can see it in get back. paul is waiting for john to write his next great song, to set a new bar for paul to push himself to reach. paul got john by impressing him with his music and when he's losing john he doubles down on it because he thinks that's the only valuable thing he has to offer. he might have offered the support john needed instead if he knew what that was, but he didn't. but mid-60s john, who still thinks paul understands him, thinks paul knows he needs him but chooses to spend his time flitting around swinging london instead, which deeply hurts him. john clings to yoko because she's a breath of fresh air from the constant race he's been running for a decade. a creative partner he doesn't have to chase down. someone who needs him as much as he needs her. a woman he can marry, can have a real commitment to. he can be everything to the person who is everything to him. but paul sees this as john finally outgrowing him and finding someone better.

paul also should know that john often speaks first and decides whether he believes what he said later. but it seems he only ever takes john at his word. when john leaves the beatles that's it, no negotiation, because if paul has lost john to someone more interesting, more artistic, then that's that. when john starts to talk publicly about paul's muzak and granny shit that must be true too, it's why john left after all. and granted john just wont stop shit talking him and it's not like he just fell on a keyboard and how do you sleep came out. but this is how you get a paul who starts to see himself as a villain and questions whether john did love him. he doesn't think too many people was that nasty compared to what john was saying about him in interviews because he doesn't realize that one of john's biggest fears is that he's incapable of being a great songwriter without paul. so to john, the lucky break line is paul admitting he agrees with that assessment and twisting the knife. but paul wouldn't see it that way because he's only ever had john on a pedestal.

so by the 70s, on their worst days, john thinks paul is cold marble statue who knows he's better than him and delights in it and paul thinks john is entirely out of love or use for him, if he ever had it in the first place. and of course, they could never talk about any of this openly because neither of them were willing to face the pain of confirming that their love really was one-sided.

[straylightdream]

𝐣𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐨 masterlist

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contains smut: 💗

ｃｏｎｎｅｃｔｉｎｇ ｓｅｒｉｅｓ

all for you - ⭐️

seasons of time - college au 📝

ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ ｓｅｒｉｅｓ

look what you made me do - series if reputation inspired songs

short n’ sweet (sns)- a series inspired by sabrina carpenter songs from the album of the same name

1989 - a series inspired by taylor swift songs of the same name

love & money - ceo and or sugar daddy stories - 💵

my only one - stories about the boys as husbands and fathers - 🌸

• three simple words - You were his first serious girlfriend and his first for many things, and he was the first boy you had ever actually loved. For some reason saying those three simple words terrified you. 💗

• king of my heart - I'm perfectly fine, I live on my own. I made up my mind, I'm better off being alone. We met a few weeks ago. Now you try on callin' me "baby" like tryin' on clothes. 💗 ⭐️(rep)

• meet me in the hallway (feat: wonwoo x reader x ‘mingyu) - They been best friends their whole life. They’ve shared everything but they have never shared a girl. What happens when no one can keep their emotions out of this? 💗

• body and soul - after a rough day the only thing he wants to do is go on a motorcycle ride with you. (can be read as a connecting story to king of my heart) 💗⭐️

• never leave this bed - once your husband returns from a long trip you want nothing more then to stay in bed together. 💗🌸

• across the room - caught your eye across the room. No one can feel the tension between me and you. There’s no need to mention all the things I wanna do. You wanna do ‘em too. We both know we’d be over if they knew. 💗

• 15 minutes - “Or you could do both. Go suck the life out of him and then tell him you like him. You’re really good with your mouth. Your head game definitely made me emotional more than once.” He pats your back. 💗(sns)

• heaven knows (wonwoo x reader x mingyu) - who knew being roommates could turn into so much more. 💗

• intentions - Butterflies swirl around your stomach at his words. It’s become very obvious that Wonwoo has also wanted this for a while. Turns out your crush wasn’t so one sided. Maybe you were both just too blind to see what was in front of you. 💗

• craving humanity (vampire au) - you are the first person who has truly made him feel normal. 🩸💗

• I like you, maybe - an invited to your estranged father’s wedding leaving you scrambling to find a fake boyfriend. 💗

[outtathisworld-imagines]

Fine line

——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x F!Reader

Warning: As much angst as there is fluff, mentions of needles/ medical environment, depression. Not proofread

A.N: Still very much holding sweet Bob in my heart 🥹🫶🏻 I feel like ‘Fine Line’ -which I recommend listening to while reading- was such a fitting song for this concept of Bob and the reader.

Lyrics are in bold italic!

Please let me know what else you guys would like! I do have a few other fics on the back-burner (for now!) that I'll start to post soon and just let me know if you'd liked to be tagged in further works too ✨

——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——

Put a price on emotion

I'm looking for something to buy

Bob mindlessly wandered the streets, smiling to himself seeing the brightly coloured souvenirs, the bustling streets and the noise that came with it. It’s the first time he can remember smiling in weeks.

Leaving home, trying to find himself and survive through his own bitter struggles, was a challenge to say the least.

That challenge was suddenly accepted by a smartly dressed man who handed him a business card telling him it would change his life. Bob had nothing left to lose, so believed him.

He sat in a cold, harsh, clinical room with others. He looked up, directly across to bouncing knees and a worried expression. He moved and sat beside the person riddled with as many nerves as he was.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

“I don’t really know.” You replied. “I don’t usually get myself into things like this. I don’t really even know what I’ve signed up for!” You let a nervous laugh escape your lips.

“That’s alright, I’m in the same boat as you.” He admitted. “I’m Bob.”

“Hi, I’m Y/N.”

You shook hands and then the group was called into a room full of perfectly symmetrical beds and a vial of neon yellow liquid. You stayed next to Bob, even asking if you could hold his hand because you couldn’t bear the sight of the needle being brought to your arm. He sent you a soft smile, reaching across for your free hand and letting you tightly squeeze it as hard as you needed too.

Then for the two of you, everything went dark.

You've got my devotion

But man, I can hate you sometimes

Bob woke up in a bright room, his head throbbing and his limbs aching. He didn’t know how long he was out for this time and hated himself for it. Every time he was injected he would blackout, unaware of what was happening to him and his world.

He hated that, almost the same as he hated himself most days.

He did have one constant. Someone who made the days bearable. Someone who made the hate towards himself disappear whenever he saw the smile on your face.

A smile solely for him.

He helped you through the torment of being injected with the neon yellow liquid.

You helped him laugh again.

The two of you formed a close bond within the confines of the lab masked as a hospital ward, especially as the number of people dwindled down. You assumed the worst. You were told they withdrew. But you still had Bob.

“It was always my goal in life to have as much confidence as the ‘Florida man’ you see on the articles.” You told him one night, late after dinner when it was just the two of you in the soulless shared space they had made for you all to ‘relax’. You brought his long forgotten State into the conversation.

He laughed so much he cried, you could singlehandedly bring soul to that soulless room. He let out a relaxed sigh and let his hand fall to the void between your leg and his own, he looked down and saw his pinky involuntary stroke your thigh. You felt it before you saw it, subtly moving your own and intertwining your pinky with his.

In that very moment, Bob felt every painful thing he held inside of him disappear.

I don't want to fight you

And I don't wanna sleep in the dirt

As the weeks went on, the less people there were. There became a point where you and Bob just reached out for one another instead of asking or offering when they rolled around with the neon yellow serum. Despite the fact you got it daily, you still weren’t used to the poking and prodding of the needle. “Do you actually know what this is really for.” You asked one of the nurses who took your arm.

They remained silent and you turned your head to Bob “They can’t tell us, Bob.” You said with a mischievous smile. “They must be making us into superhero’s or somethi- AH!” With a wince you gripped onto his hand tighter feeling the sharp pinch in your arm before the world went dark.

“You okay?” A voice in the darkness. It was Bob. You were lying on his lap as you came to. You tried to move but he held you down, insisting you rested. You complied and looked over to the empty room, the soulless space that now only held two hearts.

“Where is everyone?” You asked.

“Gone,” replied Bob. “Just me and you.” He took your hand, squeezing it hard like you had done on the first day. “Please don’t go.” He begged in a pleading tone.

You squeezed his hand back “I’ll always be here for you.”

We'll get the drinks in

So I'll get to thinking of her

Your body became weaker by the day, Bob could tell. However, he felt much the same. It was tedious and exhausting being a human Guinea pig and most days you were the only thing that kept his strength up.

A call in another room, unbeknownst to the both of you, would be a catalyst for something the world was never going to be ready for.

“Two remain.” A stoic, monotonous voice droned to the person at the end of the other line. “Both doing well. Both showing good signs of responding to the serum. Both very close to one another.”

A pause.

“I wonder what would happen if we separated them?”

We'll be a fine line

We'll be a fine line

“Congratulations.” One of the nurses approached you both one late afternoon as you and Bob were chatting. “You have both successfully completed your testing.”

You and Bob shared a brief, puzzled glance. “I don’t know if I feel any different?” You said your thought aloud.

“Me too,” Bob chimed in. “How can you tell?”

The nurse avoided the question “There is a meal being prepared for you both, it will give you all the vitamins and nutrients you’ll need to sustain you. The day after tomorrow is when you’ll be able to leave, after some further testing of course.”

You both looked at each other with a smile and shared a hug, Bob would have done a lot more of the nurse wasn’t standing in front of you.

“You did it!” You squeaked, hugging him again “I knew you would. I’m so proud of you, Bob.” Your lips were by his ear which meant you didn’t see the tear of joy slip down his cheek at your words.

That someone in the world was proud of him.

And that you kept your own- you were still there for him.

We'll be a fine line

We'll be a fine line

“If I didn’t knew any better, this would be a date. But with hospital scrubs…” Bob joked from across the candlelit table as you were served dinner, tugging on the attire.

You raised an eyebrow “Are you suggesting we wear less clothes…?” You playfully retorted, causing him to choke on his water.

Bob nervously laughed “Sadly I think there’s too many cameras for that.” You both shared a giggle.

“Maybe if there was a lot less eyes on us, huh,” you spoke under your breath but he could hear you clearly. Tension suddenly flooded the room, as if the truth was sitting at the invisible chair at the table.

“Maybe, once we get out of here,” Bob nervously toyed with his napkin “Just maybe we could…”

“Take on the world?” You said with a smile, you could tell he was nervously searching for the right words. You reached across and held his hand, just as he had held yours throughout the god knows how long you had both been there. “Just maybe I think we could. And maybe with less hospital scrubs.”

After dinner you both walked back to your rooms, your routine tomorrow would be a different one. Neither of you knowing if it would be good or bad, but knowing you’d still have each other which was enough to face whatever they would throw at you.

“Well…” Bob stopped at your room door. “Goodnight Y/N.” He stayed there for a moment, his lingering made you smile. Then he leaned forward and quickly pecked you on the cheek.

He wondered if he had crossed the fine line that he mentally drew. That you weren’t ready to cross it into something more. Something more with him. Nerves bubbled in his stomach until you spoke up.

“You missed.” Quietly and with conviction. Bob raised a brow in silent question. “I said…” you leaned forward, capturing his lips with your own. “You missed.”

Pulling back, you saw his grin spreading across his whole face.

“Goodnight, Bob. See you in the morning.” You disappeared into your room.

We'll be a fine line

We'll be a fine line

Bob sat on the bed as someone took his blood pressure and someone took notes. “Uh, is Y/N going to be here anytime soon?” He said looking to the tray of medical instruments, one of them being a needle and a vial to draw blood. “Only because she really hates needles and needs me to hold her hand.”

The two in the room shared a glance. The one with the board placing it down and looking at him empathetically, not quite sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, Mr Reynolds.” They began and Bobs stomach dropped, lorn seeping into his veins. “Miss Y/L/N unfortunately don’t make it through this process. She became very unwell and-“

“No…” Bob choked out, barely above a whisper.

“She didn’t-“

“No!” Bob began to break down, his now bright heart- thanks to you shining on it- suddenly became dark.

“We tried-“

“NO!”

With a scream his world collapsed into nothing but darkness. The light of his life was gone and his whole world plunged into nothing but a void.

Test of my patience

There's things that we'll never know

Bob didn’t know how much time had passed.

How much time he lost.

He didn’t know what on Earth was happening in the world, or when it came to him.

He didn’t want to know.

As far as he was concerned, the only thing that was worth living for in this world was gone.

He let them test away, always looking over for a hand to hold.

One that wasn’t there anymore.

One day he was given a clear serum. His eyes closed over and he saw nothing but darkness. That was until he fell from a box into a room full of fighting people. They stood looking at him in hospital scrubs, his foggy memory didn’t help anyone either.

That was until the sun shone on him once again.

“B-Bob…?”

That voice.

He wondered if he had died and that’s why he was hearing it. “Is that really you?”

There you were. Standing in hospital scrubs with glossy eyes.

“Y/N? B-but how?!” He ran over to you, scooping you up in his arms.

“I don’t think we have time for a reunion!” A man with a shield chided the pair of you as he and two others frantically searched for an exit. You saw a body on the floor and knew better than to question it.

“They told me you didn’t make it.” You gripped onto him tightly, still not believing that he was in front of you. Bob pulled back, hazily remembering they had told him the same.

“Let’s just get out of here. We can chit chat later!” A girl with blonde hair ushered you both hurriedly before the room was set alight. All of you narrowly escaping.

Bobs hand remained holding yours.

When you all made it out and to the van, they pushed you and Bob in the back. He gripped your wrists with tears welling in his eyes at the sight of you again. But with the trouble you had all suddenly had found themselves in, he knew he had to keep you safe one more time.

And that meant letting your hand go.

You sunshine, you temptress

My hand's at risk, I fold

Your lungs burned from how loud you screamed, begging him not to go. Not wanting to lose him for a second time, not when you had just gotten him back.

He selflessly risked it all for you and the group of three mysterious people he had just met.

The one you came to know as Ava, held you in her arms as you all drove away.

Your eyes spilling so many tears, you didn’t see Bobs potential. What had happened to him from that neon yellow serum.

You weren’t around to hear Valentina ask what you both could do. What her band of nurses and doctors unlocked within you both.

“Night and day.” She was told. “He is the night and she is the day.”

Crisp trepidation

I'll try to shake this soon

When you reached the Watchtower, seeing Valentina, she sent you a smile that made you ill. Like she knew more about you than you did yourself.

You felt since briefly reuniting and then losing Bob again, being bound by another person called Bucky, which you later realised was the Winter Soldier, and now with a group of newfound allies surrounding the woman responsible for your unknown length of torment- was something almost as emotionally nerving as you being tested on. “You my dear, are just so special.” She said pointing to you. “Just as special as Robert…” she motioned to the stairs and your jaw dropped and your eyes widened at the very different (and suddenly blonde) Bob.

A far cry of who you knew.

“I made you both special.” She proudly admitted. “Meet Sentry. He’s going to ensure the security of this world. All powerful. Just like you.”

You felt the eyes of the team surrounding you suddenly lock on to your figure. “What are you talking about?” You asked.

She chuckled “You don’t remember? You burned brighter than the sun at one point.” You blinked, blithely unaware of her claims.

“Enough of this,” Bucky muttered and in a blink of an eye, Bob protected Valentina. You felt your body float before crashing against the wall, you couldn’t find the strength to pick yourself up again and fell to the floor, dipping in and out of consciousness. Rubble falling in front of you and trapping you there.

It was only when they were in the elevator after being tossed, punched and beaten, did Yelena yelp out.

“Where’s Y/N?!”

Spreading you open

Is the only way of knowing you

“Bob, stop,” you summoned enough strength to quietly beg from your trapped corner as he had Valentina against the wall.

That was until a woman walked in and pressed a button, making him fall to the floor with a sudden thud.

“No,” you sobbed. “Please not again.” The sunlight quickly dried your tears into your cheeks. Your fingertips tingling with an unknown feeling before you blinked and saw a shadow of what was once your hand-holder lying lifeless on the floor.

Your eyes opened and closed frantically, you saw sparks flash with each blink.

That was before you saw Bob again. In what looked like a well-lived in bedroom. “Is this real?” You asked, now able to walk and looking down at your suddenly unscathed body.

“Yes. No? I don’t really know.” He admitted. “But I’d like it of you held my hand.” You sat down next to him and did just that.

“Did you die…?” You asked with a trembling voice and a tear slipping from your eye.

Bob pursed his lips “After I was told you were gone back in the lab, I became a shadow of myself. I became a void.” He told you. “It’s always been there. I got even more alone after you were ripped from me and it took advantage of that.”

“Valentina was right,” you quietly spoke and your head hung in shame. “I remember. When I was told about you, I burst. Like a supernova. I let out so much light it burned everyone and everything that surrounded me.”

Bob let out a dry, humourless grunt under his breath, one that made your features quip.

We'll be a fine line

We'll be a fine line

“We are much the opposite.” He said.

“The star the night sky, I guess you could say.” You solidified his choice of words.

His hand squeezed around yours.

That’s when it clicked for you.

“You have to let go of my hand.” You told him. As much as you didn’t want to. But you knew what you needed to do.

“I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to let you go”. He pleaded with you, holding onto you tighter.

You sent him a smile in order to reassure his worry. For a moment it eased him.

“Okay.” You said and leaned forward, taking you both by surprise when you kissed him. Bob melted against your lips with a smile.

He didn’t feel your hand slip from his.

We'll be a fine line

We'll be a fine line

You opened your eyes, clutching your chest and gasping at the burning feeling brewing inside your body.

Glancing up from your corner, now enveloped in darkness, you saw a figure with glowing eyes hovering above the city.

We'll be a fine line

We'll be a fine line

You felt a newfound strength, your body suddenly glowing and floating above the floor.

It was time to show the world, and the void that had his clutches on Bob, just how bright you could shine.

We'll be a fine line

We'll be a fine line

You floated through the air and firmly remained in your spot seeing the darkness that consumed him.

“You got out.” It sounded confused.

“I just had to hold your hand.” You confessed.

We'll be a fine line

We'll be a fine line

It tried to push you away, mustering as much power as it could to dim your brightness.

But it couldn’t

You reached your hand out and burned brighter than the sun and the stars in the sky.

We'll be a fine line

We'll be a fine line

“You won’t take him from me again.” You yelled, burning brighter and gripped onto its hand tightly before wrapping it up in your arms. “We are going to take on the world.” You said.

“What makes you so sure?” The darkness tried to fight you.

But you outshone it.

“Because I said I’ll always be there for him.”

We'll be alright

Your eyes opened, the blue sky almost blinding you.

You felt a weight in your hand and turned your head.

Bob was lying there. Your Bob. Looking at you with his hand in yours.

“Thanks for holding my hand.”

You let out a broken laugh at his words and rolled over, pressing a kiss to his mouth as the world filled with light and the shadows were casted away.

We'll be alright

Since that day, the two of you were inseparable.

The team helped you both control your powers and embraced you both with open arms.

And most importantly, you always had a hand to hold and Bob always had someone there for him.

We'll be a fine line

We'll be a fine line

It was when he was holding your hand that he finally asked you to be his girlfriend.

The moment you said yes, you could hear the team cheer for you both.

We'll be alright (alright, alright, alright)

He held your hand through your sleepless nights.

He held your hand each time you shone like he had his own personal sun.

He held your hand when he made love to you.

He held your hand when you were scared.

He held your hand when you laughed.

He held your hand when you cried.

We'll be alright

Bob loved having your head resting on his lap, almost as much as he loved holding your hand. He gently caressed your cheek, trying to calm his nerves. It was his idea to have a picnic one summer afternoon. You enjoyed the warmth of the sun on your skin, and the smell of the wildflowers that surrounded you both, and the sound of the birds in the sky.

“Are you okay?” You asked, worry laced in your voice, noticing he wasn’t being himself.

“We’ve been together for a while now, huh?” He softly smiled and you needed in agreement, sitting up and crossing your legs.

“We have, we’ve certainly taken on the world- just like we said we would.”

“And then some.” Bob added, twiddling his fingers.

“Hand in hand,” you took his fidgeting fingers in your own.

That was before he pulled back, reaching into his pocket for something he had kept well hidden for months and propping himself up on one knee.

We'll be alright

“Will you take my hand again, but this time in marriage?”

[writinandcrying]

How does the 2003 turtles react to crushes - part 1

Just a little thing cuz I miss writing, i miss tmnt and I haven’t got the time to do a full one shot or mashup in MONTHS 😔, I’m still on season 1-2 so if anything is a bit too ooc, I apologize! I love reading about crushes, first kisses, first loves, so this is for my puppy love stage lovers out there!! p.s: there's a poll for the next turtle by the end of the headcanon, make sure to vote your favorite! <3

(English is not my first language and I have dyslexia, I try to check everything before posting but sometimes grammar mistakes still happen, I apologize in advance if you find one!)

Leo

That’s some deeply repressed, effortless devotion energy right there, Leo is a pro at pretending that everything is fine, keeping it cool, but on the inside? so freaking nervous it’s not even funny

it's almost creepy how quiet he suddenly gets near you on your first visits, he acts in such a secluded but... odd way that everyone know something is up with him, but no one really knows what.

His younger brothers are all 🤨 over how he’s acting, at first, they noticed tiny shifts in his behaviors, they weren’t big enough to raise a red flag of such change, but when Leo shows how inpatient and careless he has become in training or meditating, then they KNOW something was really off . he has been careless for the silliest things as well, breaking the toaster more than once a week, forgetting to nag them about the open toothpaste, stuff he usually wouldn't miss it, but suddenly he doesn't mind it anymore.

None of them have the guts to ask him (Raph and Mikey might tease here and there, but you know, it’s Raph and Mikey) Don might find himself studying his brother from time to time, interested to why his older brother is being way more introspective than before, he wonders if maybe he’s going through a natural turtle process of some sort April is the only one who truly leaves him be, but as your visits become more frequent, it all clicks when you randomly stop by to deliver some groceries by Master Splinter request.

The pure lovesick look he glances at you when you first enter... you caught him completely off guard as he was leaving the dojo with Master Splinter, his dementor shifted back rapidly to stoic, but April noticed it, her eyes widened slightly as it all made sense, softening right after. Leo helps you with the groceries with agility, as Master Splinter excuses himself after he thanks you, he even dares to make small talk after an extremely long and awkward moment of silence (which he researched his possible lines in his head several times, made up several scenarios in which topic it could lead into, I might add) We have seen how Leo reacts to Usagi in the series (he has a fat crush on each other and I’m right) so you know even if he is indeed nervous, Leo is so dedicated to your well-being, attentive to your needs and inputs to missions or even movie debates, it’s heartwarming to see how inclusive he can be of you. He notices everything – Not in an obvious way, or a loud way, but in a way that means you’ll never have to ask him twice about something important to you. You mention offhand that you like a certain type of tea? He remembers. You’re shivering? He’s already handing you his jacket before you can say a word. The exact moment you get tired even before you admit it.

One day at training after sparring, you absentmindedly rubbed your wrist. You didn’t say anything, didn’t complain at the pain you might have felt, but later that night, you find a perfectly wrapped bandage roll left on top of your bag. No note. No explanation. You glance at Leo, and he’s just calmly cleaning his takana, pretending like he has no idea what you’re looking at. He’s not the type to shower you with words, but his actions speak volumes. He makes sure you always walk on the safe path while coming back from a mission or scorting you back home, he picks whatever condiment out of your food because he remembers you don’t like them. He’ll “coincidentally” be around when you need help, even if he acts like it’s no big deal. He's gentle, kind, and a true gentleman, he makes sure his presence is there. He effortlessly puts so much thought into you, it’s just how his mind works.

He disliked how nervous he first got around you, but after a while, he didn’t even realize how he had grown used to thinking about you. He grabs an extra bottle of water without thinking because you might be thirsty later. His brothers joke that he’s got favorites, and he just denies it, but deep down? Yeah. It’s you. Eventually, he has to talk to someone, and he chooses to confide in April about… well, everything? regarding feelings, about how to be sure, what does it feel like to love someone and how should he react to it? wait, did he say love? How can he stop his hands from getting so sweaty? this is ridiculous, should he feel anxious and at ease around you all at the same time? From time to time, he tells himself he doesn’t like you like that, that he’s just looking out for you because you’re part of the team, part of the family. that's just him being a leader, That’s all it is.

his train of thought is broken as he hears Mikey chuckle “Dude, you’ve got it bad.”

Leo stiffens, cleaning his throat as he turns he page of his book a bit too slow “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you SO do.” Mikey grins. “The ‘eyes-follow-them-every-time-they-leave-the-room’ thing? The ‘silent-knight-hovering’ thing? classic move, real smooth.”

Leo exhales through his nose, forcing himself to focus on back his book. It’s not like that. It can’t be. "Maybe you should tell them, who knows, they might be looking back right at ya" Mikey winks at him, biting on this apple as he sits on the couch, turning on the tv. Maybe he was looking at you too long, maybe he wasn't as subtle as he thought he was, or his brothers just, unfortunately, know him too well and finally caught up. He prided himself and his control, his calm exterior, carefully managed. but maybe you slip through the cracks. He can't help but to continue notice how eyes shine brighter when you smile, remembering every little thing about you, doing things that only you get to see. Deep down, he knows. He just doesn’t know what to do with it yet.

[hysteria-things]

hello again !! i know you just posted my last request but i have another idea !

• SMUTTY PLSZ

• matt/chris x teacher!reader

So basically, chris/matt are in senior year or any year in college and he has a teacher(reader) who's quite young and closer to their age but is still older and knowing men, she's already very popular in their school y'know y'know?

ALSO if you're gonna make the other students be a big part of the story too or add more plot, pls don't make the girls of the school hate her. it just feels unrealistic since in our school, it's mostly the girls that simp for the hot female teacher lmao

This idea was based on their video "truth or eat" i think(i forget everything) where he was asked if he's ever had a crush on a teacher and he answered yes w no hesitation and also the song "Teacher's Pet" by Melanie Martinez but switched genders.

i just think the male being the teacher and the female being the student felt overused/overdone(?)

Only if you're comfortable w this idea tho !!

TEACHER'S PET (part one)

read part two here

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dom!matt x teacher!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: matt asks for extra help after class (even though he knows exactly what he’s doing)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUTTY, swearing, making out, oral (male receiving), throat fucking, p in v, unprotected sex (nuh uh!), degradation, cheating (cheat on tests, not people), hair pulling, spanking, breeding, ROUGH

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,236

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: shoutout any of you in college i dropped out after a month i give you guys so much credit that shit’s hard😔

for @skadltmf :)

matt and his college friends sit at the round table in the food court. they’re at the home stretch of senior year with the spring semester starting tomorrow.

“i got that hot professor for one of my morning classes.” one of his friends brags. “she’s so fine.”

“who?” matt asks, and the two sitting with him stare at him like he should know this.

“professor l/n.” the other one starts. “literally everybody is obsessed with her. she’s only twenty-five; three years older than us.”

“there’s no way she doesn’t let students fuck her to get a good grade.” they both laugh, but matt stays quiet. his friends are in their conversation about you while matt thinks to himself.

he has you for a class too but at 6 PM.

you stand at the front of the class, teaching like a normal teacher should. half of the class never pays attention, anyway, but you still have to do your job.

they may not know, but you listen. you listen to what they say about you, and to be honest it boosts your ego.

one student in particular actually pays attention and takes notes, like what he’s doing right now. you couldn’t help but stare at him from time to time, and he’ll already be staring at you when you do.

you’re grading papers on your desk as your students work independently for the last fifteen minutes of class. you feel a presence, and you look up to see him there, fiddling with his worksheet.

you smile at him. “hello, matt. do you need help with something?”

“kind of. will i be able to stay after class?”

your phone lights up, and he glances at the lock screen. it’s a photo of you, your husband, and your son. “of course you can.”

he nods, going back to his seat.

the last fifteen minutes went by in a breeze, and all of the students left. except for one, of course.

you stand up and go over to the whiteboard, grabbing a marker just in case you need to explain something. “so, matt. what is it that you needed help with?”

“this question,” he says, stepping closer to you and pointing at the paper. you look at it confused because he already answered it. flawlessly.

“matt.” you chuckle. “you’ve got the problem right and showed your work perfectly. are you sure that’s the right one?”

his cheeks flush as he grabs your face, kissing you passionately. you pull away from his hold, weirdly sad that you did.

this is a first. you know the rumors that go around saying that you fuck students for an A+ but it’s not true. hell, you’ll lose your job.

he doesn’t say anything. he just stares at you, and you stare back. what you did next was a completely new person.

you go back in, his tongue inserting your mouth and swirling inside. this is so fucking wrong, but it feels so… right?

whining into the kiss, you move your hands down to his belt to unbuckle it. he chuckles, pulling away and pushing your head so you get on your knees.

he takes off his undergarments, revealing his—

your eyes widen. oh, god.

his red tip slides against your lips before you open, pushing himself into your wet mouth. “fuck.” he whispers.

grabbing onto your hair, he guides your head up and down his cock. he groans, leaning over and rutting his hips further into your mouth. your gagging fills the empty classroom, and spit starts to spill from your mouth.

it clicks in your head what you’re doing. you have a husband and child at home, for christ’s sake. you place your hands on his thighs and try to push your head back, but his grip is far too strong.

he slowly pulls out to watch his dick move past your lips, and slams back in. “take it, sweetheart. just like that.”

you keep gagging around him, your eyes becoming glassy as your mascara starts to smudge.

your lashes flutter each time he thrusts to the back of your throat before he stops. “s-shit.” he whimpers, but he doesn’t want to cum just yet. he closes his eyes to ignore the throbbing, pulling out of your sweet mouth. you cough, your lips swollen.

“bend over for me, yeah?” he smirks when you scramble to your feet. he grabs your waist, pushing your back so your stomach lays flat on your desk.

he lifts your skirt, moving your soaked underwear to the side. he wraps a finger around them and lets go, the elastic snapping against your core. you yelp at the sudden pain.

“such a slut.” he groans, inserting his tip into your folds but staying still. “letting one of your students shove his dick down your throat.”

he moves his tip out, but then puts it back in, thrusting it in and out teasingly. “bet you were thinking about this the whole lecture. i saw the way you were looking at me.”

you pathetically whine and nod. then, he grabs your hair so the upper half of your body is lifted from the wood. your hips dig into the edge of the desk as he starts entering you.

the stretch hurts, but it feels too good. your eyes flutter back, but a hand landing on your ass gets you out of your trance. he chuckles, taking the hand that’s not on your head and covering your mouth with it. “don’t be too loud, baby. don’t want the people outside that door knowing what a whore you are for me.”

he slides in deeper, a moan leaving your lips that’s muffled by his hand. he starts rutting his hips, going faster when you fit around him. “m-matt.” you gasp.

“so fucking tight around my cock.” he breathes out. your pleasurable cries and squelching of your pussy fill the room, along with his thighs slapping against your ass.

he removes his hand from your mouth, honestly forgetting that there are probably people around. all he’s focused on is pounding the daylights out of you. his teacher, mind you.

you grip the desk for support, moaning louder than any other time when his tip starts brushing against your cervix. “holy— shit.” you hoarsely scream, squeezing your eyes shut.

he lets go of your hair, your head immediately falling between your shoulders. “i’m gonna cum!” you warn, whimpering when he moves more mercilessly. both your thoughts and guts are getting scrambled at once.

“i wonder how disappointed your husband will be if he saw you like this.” he grunts and thrusts a few more times before continuing. “clenching around my dick, so badly wanting my cum inside you.”

you moan at his words. he feels so fucking good. you hate to admit it, but this is the best sex you’ve had in years.

“want me to fuck my baby inside you, you filthy whore?”

“y-yes, please,” you whine, repeating yourself over and over again.

you cum around him at the same time he stops deep, spreading your legs wider to finish inside. you moan one last time before becoming a rag doll, the bruises forming on your hips from them banging against the desk.

he moves your underwear back over your freshly bred pussy, kissing your shoulder and neck before whispering into your ear. “i’ll let you know when i need help again, professor l/n.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @hearts4chris @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss @sturnifyed @mayhem-72 @ripmattitude @p1xieswrld @alorsxsturn @txssvx @sttzee @multiluvr @delilahprentiss @matthewsspecial @idkhowtosleep @sturniolho @suga-daddy-69 @tworosesblackthorn @luckistar-posts @gnxosblog

[lurkingshan]

Random QL Superlatives: 2024 Edition

My friends! It is time once again to reflect back on the year and give out some random ass awards to the things that gave me joy in the many QLs I watched.

In no particular order, this year’s winners:

Best Long Term Glow Up: Off Jumpol as Jane in The Trainee

I've been simping for Jumpol since the Puppy Honey days, because I know potential when I see it! This year the rest of y'all finally caught up with me and realized this man is aging like a fine wine. We all won!

Most Valuable Prop: Aoyanagi Hajime Standee, I Became the Main Role of a BL Drama

Will anything ever make me laugh as hard as Akafuji opening the door to Aoyanagi Hajime while holding an Aoyanagi Hajime standee and then running for his life, standee tucked under his arm, to escape the mortification? If so, it's def another joke from this show.

Best Heart Destroying Angst: Every Moment of Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo

Sometimes you just want a show to break your heart into a million tiny pieces and then stitch it back together, and there is no better version of that experience this year than this beautiful show.

Wackiest Premise That Somehow Works: Caged Again

Whomst could have predicted that a BL about a penguin who turns into a human, goes to high school, and falls in love with a panther would be one of the sweetest, most compelling stories of the year.

Most Precious Bean: Taishin, Takara's Treasure

Just look at his cute little face!! My son has never done anything wrong in his life. He's adorable and I won't hear a word against him.

Drama Child of the Year: Young San, Century of Love

My soul fully tried to leave my body every time this child appeared on screen. I must congratulate this child actor--his name is Chayanan Akkharadumrongdet--on perfectly embodying the spirit of an old man trapped in a tiny body. Give this boy an award!

Best Love Theme: Di Inakala by Paul Pablo, Marahuyo Project

Such a gorgeous song, first used while King reads Ino's letter and realizes Ino has feelings for him. Hits me right in the chest every time I hear it.

Best Sex Scene - Almond and Latte's first time, Knock Knock Boys

Everyone else can throw in the towel, this is the best depiction of a loving but awkward first time that will ever be committed to film.

Star of My Vision Board: Yako, She Loves to Cook and She Loves to Eat

Oprah said it best: “She is the mother I never had, she is the sister everybody would want. She is the friend that everybody deserves. I don't know a better person.”

Outstanding Achievement in Old Man Yaoi: Mr. Mitsuya's Planned Feeding

It's not every day that a show manages to sell you on a 20+ year age gap, but this one did it without breaking a sweat and had us all rooting for Ishida to eat that old man up with a spoon.

Best Sight Gag: Rock Lifting Karan Over His Shoulder, Cherry Magic Thailand

Is it the way Rock bends down and grabs him with no warning? The way Karan still does a polite wai over his shoulder? The way Dujdao scurries after them? Idk but it's been 10 months and I am still laughing.

Best Absolute Mindfuck: Love for Love's Sake

Sometimes a scene from this drama will flash through my mind and I'll have to spend a few minutes just staring at the wall, and that's how you know it was damn good.

Most Brainrot Inducing: Unknown

The way this story had a chokehold on my brain for three entire months was no joke.

Swooniest Love Interest: Mahasamut, Love Sea

Just look at this glorious man! And on top of all that visual splendor, he's kind and generous and brave and smart and competent and high key a smart ass. In this house we love Mahasamut!

Best Classic Watch: The Miracle of Teddy Bear

The most delightfully surprising watch of the year for me, and a great reminder to never, ever trust anything MDL commenters say about a show.

Y'all know the drill: feel free to join in and post your own superlatives, and please tag me if you do!

[judesmoonbeauty]

Jude Jazza's "The Past Records:" The Tale of A Ruthless, Arrogant Man & A Woman Like the Moon

This is a fan translation only. Not 100% accurate. Please expect grammatical errors and translation inaccuracies. Cybird owns everything. Re-blogs are appreciated, but please do not post my translation elsewhere. Thank you for your support! ☾.

Warning: This story will be about their relationship after the main story. Caution while reading.

It’s not possible for humans to see the other side of the moon.

The moon has almost the same cycle of rotation and revolution,

It’s said, it’s because the same side is constantly facing the earth.

(But)

“Take me to the moon.”

Declared the moon-like woman named Kate, whom became my girlfriend.

She shows every side of herself so openly.

Yeah, all the time.

Kate: Attacking someone from behind on the street at night is despicable!

Kate: They’re the ones who breached the contract by devious means!

Jude: But ya were so pissed, ya pointed yer gun at ‘em ‘n beat over ‘n over.

Kate: W-well, I….felt like I needed to protect you, Jude.

Jude: Yeah, yeah, that’s great. I’ve gotta terrifyin’ girlfriend.

Kate: Did you just call me your girlfriend?

Jude: Huh, maybe yer hearin’ stuff?

Kate: You definitely said it! Say it again please!

— There are times when you get so angry that I want to laugh.

Kate: Hic…I showed an opening and almost got taken out….how pathetic

Jude: C’mon, ya gonna cry, eat or have a pity party?

Kate: …..I’ll eat.

Kate: [Sniffle]…it’s delicious….the food is delicious, Jude.

Kate: Hi-hic….I’m so glad to be alive….!

Jude: Pfft, whadda ugly lookin’ face.

— There are times when you cry so much that I want to smile.

Kate: Liam’s performance was so amazing! Everyone was glued to him.

Jude: Tell it to him, not me.

Jude: He’ll be jumpin’ with joy, but can’t say for sure.

Kate: Yeah! I’ll tell him as soon as I get back to Crown.

— There are times when you’re so happy I want to laugh.

Jude: Yer such a busy woman.

After finishing up work, I had a smoke in my room as I watched Kate.

Kate: I wonder which Mr. Company President, is keeping me so busy?

(That’s not what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Well, it’s fine.)

Jude: Yer the masochist who wants to be with me even if it means workin’ for Crown ‘n Raven at the same time.

Kate: And once again you’re being blunt. Jude, do you know the phrase “exploitation motivation”?

Kate: Well…it’s true that I want to be with you, so it’s inevitable.

(Ha, ya didn’t even deny bein’ a masochist.)

Just as I stamped out my cigarette in the ashtray, Kate’s gaze met mine.

(What’s with those feverish eyes?)

Kate doesn’t even try to hide her love.

When she wants me, her entire body reveals her craving unconsciously.

Just as I thought, Kate is a woman who shows every side of herself openly.

That’s why —

(Oh, this’s the first I’ve seen this look.)

Her unknown expressions I’ve never seen appear one after the other.

Just as a moon that goes through phases.

Jude: Somethin’ on my face?

Kate frowned at me sharply.

Kate: ….You’re saying that, even though you know perfectly well.

Jude: Ya give me too much credit, how should I know what yer talkin’ ‘bout.

Kate: ……

(Awww, impatient, poor lil thin’)

(But poor lil you’s so cute.)

Kate: If you don’t know what I’m talking about

Kate sat down on the bed next to me,

Kate: Then I’ll tell you

She grabbed me by the collar, and pressed her lips against mine.

(…Yer desperately clingin’ to me, so I’m gonna mercilessly devour ya.)

I whisper as I bite Kate’s neck.

Jude: Hey, let’s play a game….

Kate: …Ngh, ah….a game?

Jude: The one who looks away first loses.

Kate’s eyes flicker and then she smiles.

Kate: That’s sounds interesting, alright. I don’t feel like I’ll lose.

Jude: So ya say. Then, no matter what, don’t look away, got it?

(Ya just hafta keep lookin’ at me.)

(It ain’t funny if there’s an expression of yers I dunno.)

Kate looked away, succumbing to the relentless, pleasurable torture,

And fell asleep most likely from being worn out.

Jude: ….How vulnerable.

As I played with Kate’s messy bangs, I suddenly remembered something.

Each person receives a fixed amount of happiness in their lifetime, it’s equal for everyone.

That’s right, it was written in a book somewhere.

It’s not all good, it’s not all bad, it’s all created equally.

(I won’t say somethin’ stupid like - since I met a woman named Kate, it’s equaled out.)

The past doesn’t disappear.

Grudges, feelings of resentment, this cycle of hatred will continue until I die.

I’m still a person who’s living in the depths of hell.

(But)

Kate squeezes my finger tightly as she sleeps.

Jude: …Pff-ha, whadda ya a baby?

Jude: Just how much does this woman love me?

Maybe now, I’ve finally learned the feeling of happiness.

I savored my first taste of happiness.

Next to a woman like the moon.

[Past Records Master List]

He FINALLY knows happiness!

Dividers: @.natimiles

Tags List: @sh0jun @theimaginativelyreticent @sapphire-323 @velisle @nateko @greatwitchsongsinger@cosmowgyrall. @lunaaka