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gojonanami · 1 year ago

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IS IT OVER NOW? - SUGURU GETO (ft. SATORU GOJO)

summary: suguru thinks the only way you'll leave him is if he lies to you about cheating on him - and it is. but turns out, you're not so easy to leave -- for him and his best friend. contents: 18+ only, smut, mentions of cheating, swearing, spoilers for vol. 0 + star plasma vessel and premature death arc, so much angst, but also too much smut (gotta earn that smut by getting through the angst), multiple orgasms, creampie, unprotected sex, fingering (f receiving), oral (f + m receiving), slight choking, panty play, overstimulation (f receiving) wc: 11,150 (why do i do this) playlist: is it over now - taylor swift, now that we don't talk - taylor swift, you are in love - taylor swift, say don't go - taylor swift

“It’s over,” the words slipped out of his mouth like second nature, the same way “I love yous” left his lips with a smile against your neck, but now those same lips were in a tight line. His eyes once filled with mirth, now stared at you with nothing in them — nothing but empty truth.

You don’t believe your ears — and how could you? The same man who laid with you on sleepless nights, in the silence of the way home after brutal losses, mornings spent in his wrinkled uniform white button up, stupid arguments ended in laughter, and the whispered promises kept like oaths in your hearts.

But now, they were broken — broken like your heart was.

“It’s over, I’m sorry — I can’t do this anymore,” and you’re stepping forward over this ravine with a snapping tightrope, but he’s on the other side with a lighter and a knife — daring you to cross it. Because he wouldn’t catch you — not anymore, “it’s not you—“

“Don’t give me bullshit assurances, Suguru,” you spit, the same name you had woken up this morning on your lips, all the love he had fostered over two and half years eroding away with his few words — slipping into hatred without another word, “give me a reason, I know Amanai and Haibara hurt you — hell, it hurt me too, but—“

“Don’t bring them up—“ he seethes, the same passion he once had for you — for even a scratch you had gotten from a mission that he promised to make a curse pay for again and again by making it serve him — now used for people who weren’t even here anymore, “it has nothing to do with them,”

And you almost laugh. It had everything to do with them. You had watched him fall apart over this summer — scapegoat the summer heat to Satoru’s face, when it wasn’t the heat that was withering him to nothing — a wilting flower simmered under the heat of loss. And with no one who could reach him — because he wouldn’t let them.

“You know that’s not true—”

“I cheated on you,” and the words die on your lips — along with any hope you had, “it was a stupid mistake but it showed me we can’t keep doing this,”

“You’re lying,” you denied it — no, no, no.

“I’m not,” and you can’t make sense of it, sense of anything, images of him tangled with another assaulting your senses — assaulting your heart, your soul, your body — bile rising in your throat that seared you on the way down as you swallow, “I didn’t want to have to tell you, but if it’s the only way for you to accept this, so be it,”

“Fuck off, you didn’t want to ‘have to tell me,’” hot, angry tears burning at your eyes, “fuck you,”

“Sweet—“

“You don’t get to call me that,” you snarl, heart rattling your ribs, as if it was trying to break through its bony cage, as if puncturing itself on the shards of your bones would hurt less, “not unless you’re trying to fix this,” you bargain, bargain for a love that was already lost.

“We can’t do this — I can’t do this to you,” and you give a watery chuckle, unable to meet his gaze; meet the gaze you once thought was your salvation — the thing you fought day in and day out to come home to, “I’m sorr—”

“Don’t bother,” you bottle the sadness in a barely kept shut box, shoved beneath your icy exterior, ice crawling over the recesses of your shattered soul, “don’t apologize for me for something you chose to do,” and you turn to walk away.

“Where are you going?”

And you give a terse chuckle, turning to look back, “you don’t get to care anymore, Geto.”

~~~

It was necessary. It was necessary. It was necessary.

That’s what Suguru keeps telling himself. He was caught in a tailspin, a tailspin that was only leading him one place, and he couldn’t take you with him. He couldn’t let that happen. But you keep haunting his thoughts, along with the other ghosts holed up in his head.

He hasn’t seen you in weeks. Only sporadic updates from Shoko when she humored his questions with a bribe of free cigarettes — and he didn’t know what you had told her but he knew you hadn’t told her that he had cheated (because Shoko would have surely ignored him). Shoko had even snuck a picture of you. You had grown your hair out, eyes no longer full of the joy as it once had been, and a cigarette you had said you had sworn you would never smoke between your lips.

And it only makes him want to pull the cigarette from your lips and kiss you again, swallow the smoke poisoning your lungs, hoping your lips would clear the poison from his system. But he couldn’t — he couldn’t go back now. Not when he couldn’t shake the darkness that crept over his soul — he couldn't go back to that spring, because those old days had died along with everyone else around him. Shot through the head just like Amanai.

He stares at the picture and it only makes him more sure — he can’t be in your life. He can’t be yours, he can’t even be your friend — because he can’t pretend it’s just platonic — can’t pretend it means nothing — not when you can see right through him, see the light fading from inside him, and you’d try to save him. Because that’s what you do. So he pays the cost instead, the cost of losing you — of losing your smiles, your laughs, your tears, and your voice.

And he didn’t even have his dignity — he had left that behind when he had lied to your face. Lied because he knew it was the only way you’d leave, and he couldn’t risk you staying. He couldn’t let your fingers dig into his sides, as he let himself drown, he couldn’t watch you choke on water along with him — no, no, it couldn’t happen.

He had long drowned — on that beach in Okinawa.

He got a phone call — Yaga — likely with another mission, and he only can think about Tsukomo’s words — over and over and over. He was treating the symptoms, eradicating curses day in and day out, he himself was a symptom of a broken system — a broken sorcerer.

And he flips his phone open, staring at the screensaver of you and him, your sleepy smile as you look up at the camera nuzzled against his chest — filled with the same love in your eyes that he watched drain from your eyes when he fed you perfectly prepared lies.

“Hello, yes, I’m available for a mission,” he hears Yaga give him the details of the mission on the other line, but it barely registers.

But at least he wouldn’t break you too.

~~~

You wake to a pounding at the door — the one time you had gotten time off, the one time you had taken the vacation you swore you would, the vacation that you would have your phone off, doors locked, no communication with anyone with Jujutsu Tech.

And yet.

There was someone banging on your door at 11:09 PM at night.

You stare at your ceiling at the spinning fan above you, and you couldn’t imagine how this night could get any worse. You throw off your covers, only in sleep shorts and a t-shirt, grumbling as you meander your way to the door to find Satoru, standing at your doorstep.

Your heart drops.

“What— did—“

“Suguru defected,” and you stare at him, as if he’s speaking a foreign language — two words made no sense in that order, no, no — he wouldn’t do that. Suguru out of anyone wouldn’t do that.

“No, that can’t—“ and Satoru comes inside, brushing past you, “Satoru—“

“It’s not just that,” he says softly, “he slaughtered a village, and his parents,” and you’re shaking your head, “why are you shaking your head—“

“What kind of weird prank is this, Satoru— he wouldn’t—“ and your voice dies in his throat as you see the look on his face, and all other words fade away from your lips except one — “why?”

And he explains — tells you what Suguru had told him, what had happened, why he left — “I couldn’t bring myself to kill him,” he murmurs, shaking his head, “I should have — if I had done what he did, Suguru wouldn’t have hesitated—“

“He wouldn’t have been able to do that to you, Satoru,” you scoff, leaning against your couch, Satoru sat beside you, “you’re the most important person to him, he wouldn’t have been able to even fathom the idea of hurting you. He would have just tried to convince you to change your mind,”

He gives a bitter chuckle, “Well then, he would have been able to change my mind all the same,” he’s holding his face, as if it would keep himself from falling to pieces — but his hands are too late — you can see the broken pieces of what was Satoru Gojo in front of you.

“Satoru, you can’t put Suguru upon yourself to save — he made the choices he made, you can’t change them. You can’t fix a person who doesn’t want to be fixed,” and maybe you were projecting — but you swore you saw the same pain, the same pain the day he broken your heart in Satoru’s eyes, “Suguru is smart enough to know where this road is leading—”

“And why can’t I completely blame him for choosing it?” he murmurs, his cerulean eyes finally meeting yours over the rim of his sunglasses, “I understand how he feels — so do you, you’ve seen the broken system, the deaths that could have been prevented—”

“But is this the way to fix it with innocent peoples’ blood on our hands?” you whisper, almost afraid to hear his answer, “I have friends who aren’t sorcerers — would he have me slaughter them too?”

“Well, he killed his own parents, so I wouldn’t doubt that,” he shakes his head, “Suguru was never the type to do things half-heartedly,” and his gaze falls again to the floor, “do you know after I had retrieved Amanai’s body — I asked Suguru if we should kill all of those people in the Star Religious Group?”

“Satoru—”

“He said there would be no point in it — no reason,” and he’s licking his lips, pulling his glasses off, “but he found his reason now, didn’t he?”

“Satoru, you had just come off Amanai, almost dying, you had barely a moment to process—”

“Why did he tell me to stop? Why did he save me when he couldn’t do himself the same courtesy?” And he’s rising to his feet, pacing the room, unable to sit still, “I thought I’d come here and talk to you because who else could understand him more than me? Shoko maybe, but even she doesn’t know,” his fists are clenched at his sides, as he whirls to face you again, “Why? I don’t understand how a person can change so much — how can you go from protecting the weak to—”

“Satoru, I don’t know why Suguru does the things he does—did you forget? He broke up with me,” the words reopen old wounds you thought had long scarred over, flesh wounds that had ripped you open, but had closed back up, now bleeding like new, “and he cheated on me,” and walked away without another word — twisting the knife with his silence.

Satoru’s brows knit together, his mouth opening as if to dispute it, but closing again — because if Suguru could murder his own parents, why wouldn’t he cheat on his girlfriend?

“I’m sorry—” and you laugh bitterly, meeting his gaze.

“I think we have bigger problems than his unfaithfulness,” and he says nothing, “what are we going to do about him?”

“Nothing—”

You stare at him, lips parted, “Satoru—”

“I can’t kill him,” his voice breaks, and it breaks you too, “I couldn’t bear it. I can’t be the one to—”

“But you’re the only one who can—” and you swallow the lump in your throat — how could you tell him to kill Suguru when you couldn’t imagine doing it either? “then what do we do?”

“Nothing, for now,” he murmurs, running his fingers through his hair, “I’ll monitor his moves as best I can, he’s good at covering his tracks — he knows how I operate more than anyone else does,” he says softly, “but not many can hide from the six eyes,”

“And you know how he does things too, Satoru,” you find your way his side, your fingers finding his, “it will take time for Suguru to make large moves — especially if he has two young children with him right now,” your heart aches at the thought — he promised to marry you one day, promised you a family once you both had settled down enough to consider it, and now he had two kids. But you weren’t with him.

His eyes find yours, “i’m sorry about what happened — I wasn’t there — I haven’t been here, at all—”

“You don’t have to apologize for that, Satoru,” and he’s shaking his head.

“Maybe I could have—”

“You can’t fix the whole world, Satoru,” you whisper gently, “you’re the strongest, yes, but that doesn't mean you can be everywhere and do everything,”

“I should have been here,” and you’re shaking your head, “I could’ve—”

“You couldn’t have, do you know how stubborn Suguru is? We couldn’t even convince him to cut his hair, much less change his mind about committing mass murder,” and he sighs, his eyes falling and rising to yours again, “hey, you’re okay, you know. You do too much, honestly, everything you’ve done — everything you will do—”

“And yet it will never feel like enough,” and you feel as if you could hear the same words leaving Suguru’s mouth too — the two had more in common than they had cared to admit.

“You are enough,” and your fingers find his cheek, “just as Satoru, you are,”

And his arms are pulling you into a hug then, head buried in your shoulder, his body consuming you with its warmth, your fingers running through his snowy locks, his tears wetting your shirt, but you say nothing, only holding him.

He pulls back after a few minutes, but his arms still wrapped around you, as he stares at you, barely any evidence of his tears, except for the redness on the tip of his nose, “You’re enough too,”

“I don’t know about that,” you joke, and he’s cutting you off with sharp words and a sharper look.

“You are, sweetheart,” and the familiar pet name makes your heart ache, “you’re more than enough,” and his palm is resting against his cheek, thumb rubbing the length of your cheek, “you’re so much more than you even know,”

And your breath catches as he draws near, “Satoru—” you shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. It wasn’t right. But why did his hands feel so nice against your cheeks? Why were you melting into his touch? Why didn’t you pull away?

“I just want to feel something else,” his hand is sliding into your hair, fingers pressed against your neck, “don’t you?”

And your lips find his first, lips brushing at first — and he’s so soft, his breath catching when you do, your fingers against his cheeks, and he’s pulling you back in again — it’s gravity. Again and again your lips meet, less hesitant with each kiss and each touch.

This shouldn’t be happening. You needed to stop it — Suguru had always teased that his best friend had a thing for you — hell, Satoru had all but admitted it with teasing words and promises to steal you away if Suguru ever had fumbled your relationship. But you knew he’d never would do it.

Or you thought he never would do it.

His hands slide down your body, pulling your hips closer to his, “tell me stop, if you want me to,” he murmurs, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt, “I want—”

And you’re kissing him again, pulling him along your living room to your bedroom, “I don’t want to stop,” you breathe, you want something else, you want Suguru’s touch cleansed from your body, you want something more — you want to be wanted.

It had been so long since you had been wanted. The last few months with Suguru felt like an exercise in futility. You barely saw him, much less touched him — mission after mission, and excuse after excuse, piled onto the pyre waiting to burn your love for him alive. How long had it been since you had even kissed him? Each time you tried would end in him pulling away, shaking his head and telling you he was tired.

And he was. He was tired — tired of his work, tired of jujutsu society, and tired of you.

But he didn’t have the courtesy to let you know.

But Satoru…

His fingers are quick to get you naked, deftly pulling your t-shirt over your head, as your fingers tug his jacket off with the same eagerness, “Eager, are we?” he murmurs, half hearted teasing, a ghost of a smile on his lips as you pout, “don’t worry, I am too, baby,” as your fingers tug his sunglasses off, and place them on your nightstand.

You roll your eyes, “Satoru—” and he’s swallowing your retort with his lips — and you can’t help but compare them in your mind, he was so much more aggressive than Suguru was. Suguru’s hands slid over your hips and thighs as if he had all the time in the world, while Satoru’s clung to you desperately, as if you’d dissipate under his fingertips, “should we be doing this? Suguru—“

“Cheated. Murdered. Left us,” And his lips slide from his lips to your jaw, before his teeth graze right under your jaw, drawing a gasp from your lips.

And his lips curl, “Such a pretty noise, just f’me,” and he’s biting and sucking, surely leaving a lovely mark against your skin, his tongue tracing over the mark, “did you make noises like that for Suguru?”

“Satoru—” and his fingers are tugging at your bra, teasing your erect nipples as he’s only tugging the garment down, “fuck—” and his lips kiss your tit, while he’s rolling the other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, “please,”

“Did you beg him like that too?” his fingers pull at the waistband of your shorts, teasing the skin underneath, “no wonder Suguru kept you for yourself,” he’s tugging off your shorts down your legs.

“Can we not talk about him if we aren’t gonna talk—” and his lips find yours again, teeth baring down on your bottom lip, “Satoru—” you gasp as he pulls at your lip, thumb sliding over the kiss bitten flesh.

“How can we not?” he murmurs, as his hands slide up your thighs to squeeze your ass, “is this the bed he fucked you on? Is this the way he touched you?” and he’s parting your thighs, large palms holding you apart, as his half lidded eyes linger on the wet patch on your panties, “is this how wet you got for him? Am I special?”

“Oh, fuck off—” and your words fall away as his finger presses against the wet patch, thumb against your puffy clit while his fingers tease your aching cunt.

“What was that, baby?” and he’s grinning, and he spares you, dragging your ruined underwear down, and he’s leaning down to your sopping pussy only to press teasing kisses to your inner thigh, before his lips press against your clit, “so fucking wet,” and he inhales, a languid moan leaving his lips, “if you taste as good as you smell, I’ll be cumming in my pants before I even fuck your pretty cunt,”

And his fingers sink into you — two at once, making your lips part, teasing your pussy open, the lewd sounds fill your ears as your slick squelches against his fingers, “Hear that? Such a greedy cunt, swallowing my fingers up even when I try to pull out,” and he’s pumping faster now, fingers curling against your walls, making you moan far too loudly, “moaning like that, and I’ve barely even started,” he hums, before his breath is warming your slick cunt as a warning as his tongue begins to lap at your clit, again and again.

“Fuck, Toru, need more—” His other hand is only grabbing you, pulling you impossibly closer as a third finger finds its way into you, and your hips move against his touch, begging him to fuck you in earnest. But he’s unrelenting. You can hear him swallow around you, every flutter of your cunt made just for him, as he nearly growls against you, vibrations only making you nearly grind yourself against his fingers and mouth. His tongue circles your clit, toying with it, before his lips close over it and suck, nearly making you scream, “I’m cummin—”

And his fingers finally find the spot they had been looking for, again and again with deft precision, as your walls clench around his fingers, as you gasp, arching your back, as you cum, and he’s licking your essence up eagerly.

Grinning as he pulls his fingers from you, licking your cum from his digits, before lapping at your leaking cunt, making you twitch around nothing, “Fuck, needy pussy practically begging me to fill you, huh? Hehehe,” he’s looking up at you all fucked out, your thighs twitching, eyes blown out — meanwhile his lips, chin, and nose were painted in your essence, the most beautiful work of art you’d ever seen, “didn’t realize how much I wanted this,” and he’s licking up your cum off his face, and wiping the rest on the back of his hand, and he’s climbing back over you, dragging his clothed bulge over your still sensitive cunt, making you both groan, “and I guess neither did you,”

You’re still looking up at him with lust filled eyes, as your fingers find his cheeks, “aren’t you wearing far too many clothes still?” and he’s smiling, “wanna help me out with that, sweetheart?” he asks, as his fingers press your boobs together, thumbs flicking against the abused nipples, cock twitching against your cunt as if he was imaging what it would feel like to blow his load right between them, his warm cum all over your face—

And you’re flipping him in a moment, pinned underneath you, as your fingers undo each button of his now definitely creased white button up, damp with your cum, as your palms drag over the exposed skin of his chest and abs, “Can’t wait to fuck myself on this later,” you murmur, leaning down to drag your tongue up his stomach, making him gasp deliciously, before your fingers busy themselves with undoing his belt, the click of the buckle only making you ache more, as you undo the zipper of his pants, tugging his boxers along with them to bunch at his feet hanging off your too small of a bed, and you can’t stop the gasp that leaves your lips.

He’s so fucking big.

Suguru was big, so fucking big that the first time he fucked you, he couldn’t even fit in your tight cunt. He had to give you multiple orgasms, prep you right, stretching you out with his fingers and tongue, and even a dildo, until you could fit himself with lube. And Satoru definitely wasn’t as thick as Suguru, but he made up for that in length — fuck, how deep would that reach? A pretty curve at the end with lovely veins running up that made your mouth water, white pubes dotting along it that were shaved, but grown out — likely from being away on missions for so long.

“You can take a picture, it’d last longer,” and your eyes snap up to the smirk on his lips, “although I tend to last very long,” he’s shrugging out of his shirt and kicking off his pants, before he’s pinning you under him again, “and if you do, maybe I can take a picture of you, full of my cum, my cock fucking it back in — it’s only fair, right, pretty?” and you shiver, as his finally unclothed cock bumps against your cunt, “oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you? I’ll make it my screensaver, you’d like wouldn’t you, filthy girl?”

And your fingers wrap around his cock, finally making him shut up with a hiss, “Gonna talk all night, or you gonna fuck me, Toru?” and he barks out a laugh, but it's consumed by a moan as you stroke him, leaning up to kiss along his jaw, “you gonna fuck the same hole your best friend did? Gonna cum there too?” and he’s thickly swallowing, your words leaving the great Satoru Gojo speechless, “what? If you brought up Suguru, so can I, right? Only fair,” you echo his words, and you’re squeezing around the base of him, “well, are you—”

And he’s pulling your hand away, teasing your dripping entrance with the tip of his cock, dragging his pre-cum over your cunt, letting your cum mix together, “Fuuuuuck, baby, so fuckin’ gorgeous,” and he’s manhandling you, grabbing your thighs, and hooking your ankles over his shoulders, “gonna fuck you now, sweetheart, any complaints?”

He grins at the way you shake your head eagerly, hips nearly grinding against his cock, and his tip sinks past your walls, “so tight, baby, did Suguru not fuck you right?” You can’t manage a reply, as you grasp at his shoulders, pulling him closer, as he sinks into you inch by inch, his brow furrowed beautifully as he finally bottoms out with a groan, “s’good f’me, so perfect—“ your walls flutter around him, your slick soaking him, and he’s tilting your head by your chin to make you look at where he’s sunk into you.

And he’s pulling out before sinking back in, and you’re gasping and squeezing him — how was he possibly deeper? “Fuck, baby, your cunt is trying snap me half,” and his hips are slapping against you as he fucks you in earnest, the squeaks of your mattress as he thrusts in and out and the lewd squelch of your pussy as it wraps around every inch and vein of his cock, “that’s it, that’s it, take me, take every inch of me,” and his balls are slapping against your ass, “did you take Suguru this well? Did you ever take anyone this well?”

And you’re a mess of just moans as he’s fucking you again and again, as he cups your chin, “I didn’t hear an answer or did the I fuck the words out of you too, baby?” He’s kissing you again, swallowing your noises with lips curled, before he’s pulling away with a groan, “can’t hear myself think with how loud you are — so fucking wet,”

“S’close, Toru, I-“ and he’s grunting, nodding, as he watches you, his cerulean eyes stare at you, right as his tip brushes your cervix—

“Cum for me baby, let me watch you cum around my cock,” and his fingers reach down between the two of you and rub against your clit, making your eyes roll back, as you fall apart around him.

Your walls are fluttering around him as you cum, moaning his name on your lips, as he pistons in and out again and again, thrusts stuttering as your walls squeeze him tight, “baby, I’m gonna cum, where do you want me—“

“Inside—please need to feel you cum—“ and you’re moaning, pulling him impossibly closer, and he’s sinks deep into you, and cums. He’s spurting his thick load into you, fucking it into you deeper and deeper, until you’re so full of him and his cum, you can barely feel anything else.

He’s slipping your legs off his shoulders, before collapsing on top of you, sinking into your arms. He’s pulling out, watching your mixed releases slip out of you with a groan, “how are you so fucking perfect?” He’s finding your lips in a kiss, before his nose nuzzles your neck, as your highs wear down.

Your fingers run through his white strands, “shouldn’t I be asking you that?” And he laughs, settling on your chest. And for a moment you forget — you forget the nights you spent with Suguru in this bed, the nights spent in tangled sheets with whispered nothings, with his arms around you, just like Satoru’s were now.

But only for a moment.

And as Satoru’s soft snores filled your ears, the only thing on your mind was the one person who you wanted in your bed right now.

~~~

“Still asleep?” your fingers run through his hair, “such a lazy-bones on your days off,” and your lips trace over his jaw, making his lips curl despite the draw of sleep, “gonna leave me hanging after last night?”

And your lips find his, sliding over his with practiced ease, the same way you breathed — it was natural, as his fingers find purchase in your hair, sliding back to your neck. Again and again, your lips cannot part his, if you can’t breathe without him — cannot exist without his touch.

And when you do part, he’s smiling, black fringe falling in his eyes, “So needy in the morning,” Suguru’s voice is gravelly with sleep, even as your fingers card through his black locks, “when did you become such an early riser? Usually I’m the one dragging you out of this bed kicking and screaming,”

Usually, but he’s the one who's struggling out of bed these days. He’s struggling to even function — lifting his arms in the shower feels like too much effort — and what’s the point? Would anything change if he left his bed today? Couldn’t he escape into the recesses of his unconscious for the rest of the day?

But you’re here — and you’re leaning over him, your lips curled in that smile that damned him into submission, because what could he do except submit to you — “who said anything about leaving this bed?”

But he needed to leave this bed, he thought, as your lips found his again — and how did you always taste so sweet? — he needed to leave these warm covers and inviting embrace. Because he couldn’t stay here.

He couldn’t stay with you.

But then your lips find his, and he can’t bring himself to stop, not when you’re climbing on top of him, straddling his waist, his growing bulge tenting in his boxers. He can he stop when you’re murmuring his name like that, eager fingers tugging the damp fabric down, letting his dick slap against his stomach — a bead of precum that you lean down, your tongue darting out to taste.

And he hisses, as your fingers wrap around him, teasing the head of his cock, thumb dragging over the slit, “sweetheart—“ he's warning — but you know he’s all bark and no bite — but he would be biting you later surely, with the way you toy with him — both his cock and his feelings.

Your mere presence in his bed has him questioning himself — questioning how necessary is it to end things? Why does he need to? He had this future planned — a certain way things were to go — he was the strongest, him and Satoru, he was going to work and settle down later, marry you, maybe even a kid or two — but now — the plans had changed.

He had changed.

Satoru was the strongest. Not him. And work as a sorcerer was killing him now, as you and Satoru were sent farther and further away, and Shoko had resigned herself to medicine — what did he have? Another year of this hell — he didn’t even know if he could last another day of swallowing curses. It had become second nature to him, but without a purpose, without a reason without any principles to guide him — it became worse than torture.

It was his personal hell.

And yet, as your soft lips closed around his leaking tip, fingers playing with his balls, as you sank your mouth onto him, drawing soft moans from his lips — he didn’t wanna give it up. How could he, when you were here? He could burn his life down to ash, watch what he worked for, what he had thought was his purpose fall to pieces in front of him — let himself fall to pieces — but that would mean burning you along with it.

And could he bear that?

Your tongue flicked against his length, tracing his veins as his tip hit the back of your throat, making you gag around him, as his fingers settled in your hair, “fuck, sweetheart, s’fucking good f’me,” and his hips shallowly thrust into your mouth, “take me so well, practically swallowing my dick,” and you swallow around him, pulling a moan from his mouth, his eyes flitting down to see the telltale press of your thighs together, “such a filthy girl, look at you, probably dripping wet from sucking me off,”

And he’s tugging you off, strings of spit and his precum connecting your lips to his aching dick, “Sugu—“ your lips are red and puffy, parted still, with cum and spit slipping down the corner of your mouth.

And he’s pulling you on top of him, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs, hissing as the damp fabric of your far too thin sleep shorts press against his still sensitive cock, “don’t even have to get you ready baby, already all prepped from just tasting me, aren’t you?”

He shouldn’t be doing this — he told himself today would be the day, he promised himself he’d stop pretending everything was fine. But when you felt so perfect on him — soft skin and soft sighs, your little gasp you gave when his fingers slide his t-shirt — the one full of small holes you had stolen from him when you first spent the night that you refused to throw out — up and over your head, exposing your chest to him — how can he stop?

“Suguru, please,” you whimpered as his mouth took one nipple in his mouth, warm tongue flicking against the pebbled flesh before his teeth graze it, pulling another hallowed moan from your lips, “need you,”

“Do you?” He hums, half teasing, half truthful — did you need him? Would you fall apart when he left? Would he spend nights wondering if you were anxious without him? Spend days wondering how you were filling them without him?

And you pause, strange look on your face, as your eyes scan over his features, palm sliding over his face, “of course I do,” passion falls away for a moment replaced with a different intimacy, “you’re my best friend,” and your lips slide over his as you lean down, “I’ll always need you, even when we’re both dust — I hope we spend it bathed in sunshine together,”

But would you? His eyes can’t meet yours — because he can’t see the sun in his future, only a dark descent into madness — a future spent alone. Because even with your smile at the end of his days, he couldn’t imagine spending another minute doing thankless work for miserable, ignorant, weak monkeys, only to do it all over again the next day. And his silence has you questioning him, but it’s like water fills his lungs, paralyzed by his own thoughts, and even as concern fills your eyes, he still can’t find anything to say.

So you say it instead.

“C’me here,” you murmur, and your hands slide over him, “I love you,” you kiss him all over his face — his nose, his cheeks, his chin, his forehead, before your lips hover before his, “can I—“

And he’s flipping you under him, pressing bruising kisses to your lips, as his fingers snake between your thighs, “you don’t need to ask— you never need to ask me,” he whispers in the dark, but even so, he knows — it can’t stay like this — even as he pulls your shorts down to bunch around your ankles and presses his leaking tip your messy folds — it can’t — because you were meant to live in the sunshine.

And he hilts himself in you fully, inch by inch, until he’s groaning your name in a grunt — and he belonged in the dark silence.

He knows this would be the last time. It would be. Because he had to — he couldn’t wait. It was only a waiting game until he was called to another mission, time until he dragged himself lower — until he couldn’t blame the heat for his dark bags under his eyes and the lost weight.

He had to.

And as he fucks you to your orgasm, instead of your lips moaning his name, your hard eyes meet his, lips parting, “I hate you—“ and his hands curl around your neck, “I hate lying traitors,” you choke out as his fingers squeeze your neck.

SNAP.

And he jolts awake, as whispers fill his ears, as his heartbeat slows, “Master Geto?” His eyes flicker over, spotting Nanako and Mimiko trying to snap a chocolate bar in half, “can you help us?”

A dream. It was a dream.

And he’s helping the girls, as they curl up beside him, “are you okay, Master Geto? You were talking in your sleep,” Nanako asks, ever curious, “you looked like you were having a bad dream,”

“I was,” he admits, eyes fixed downward, trying to force the image of you choking below him from his eyes, “about someone I used to know,”

“Who?” Mimiko pipes up, nibbling on her chocolate, and he sighs, running his hands through their hair, a bittersweet smile on his lips — he could still feel your lips against his, the smell of your sweat, the feel of your body.

“Someone I loved — who I left, but I guess…I guess I miss them,” why was he spilling his guts to these two little girls? Ones who had been through far too much to hear about his petty problems.

“Then why don’t you talk to them?” Nanako asks, “maybe you can tell them to live with us,” and his lips curl sadly.

“I don’t think she would want to talk to me,” and why would you? After what he had said, what he had done, and what he was going to do.

“You can try,” Mimiko says, she bites a chunk out of her share of the chocolate bar, “you tried to save us and you did — maybe you can do the same thing — save her,”

And he considers it — maybe he didn’t have to drag you down. Maybe he wouldn’t be — maybe he’d be saving you. Saving you from a system that would only land you in a pile of bodies — just like Riko, just like Haibara.

Maybe — maybe he could. Maybe he could be enough for you. Enough for you to leave. Enough for you to stay. He could have his family — and have you too.

~~~~

He still had your key.

You hadn’t bothered to ask for it back — maybe you had forgotten, maybe you didn’t care — but a part of him hoped it was for another reason, maybe you wanted him to come back.

Even so, he didn’t know if it would still work — maybe you had the foresight to change the locks — but it does, sliding into the lock with ease, as the tumblers slide into place and he’s turning the knob into a silent apartment. And it plants a stubborn seed of hope in his chest, maybe it wasn’t so crazy — aside from breaking and entering — maybe he would find his way back to you.

You’re likely on your walk this morning still — the same way you started the weekend, a walk and visit to your local coffee shop where you got the same order each time, and then you’d spend an hour browsing the shops for something to read or make. He scans the apartment — he knows you’re on vacation this week, from what Shoko had told him last, before he had spoken to Satoru. You hadn’t heard of his news, but you probably did now — if Shoko hadn’t told you, he knew Satoru would have.

And he wonders how that conversation went. Wondered how angry you were. Wondered how much you must hate him now — maybe you even wanted to kill him. But the logical side of him knew you didn’t have the skill to do so — you were a grade 1 — a cut above the rest, but still, your abilities weren’t enough, but emotionally…he may let you kill him, if only to spare him the agony of having to kill you — but he knew it’d kill you just the same.

He can see his days spent here before — you had finally moved off campus, convincing Yaga to let you have your own place early before graduation. You two had celebrated being free of dorm rooms with far too little space and too thin walls (too many times Satoru had spoiled the moment by either banging on the wall, blasting polka music, or just with smug remarks about yours and Suguru’s lack of sleep). He sees himself sitting at the kitchen counter, your stools pressed close as the two of you read the paper together, or laughed about something Shoko had texted or something stupid Gojo had done to piss off Yaga over burnt toast you had only burned while he’s pressing his lips to you. Or evenings spent on the couch cuddling while a bad movie he had picked played, but he’s more preoccupied with teasing you with brushes of his fingers against your bare skin or burying his face in the crook of your neck. And nights spent in your bed, entangled together, his arms around you listening to you breathe, skin dappled in the moonlight that streamed in from the window, wondering how did you ever exist at the same time as him?

And then the front door swings open, as he steps out from the bedroom, and he hears a bag slip falling to the floor, groceries spilling out, and his gaze finds yours, “What—”

“I came to see you,” he moves closer, and you step back — and he’s stopping, he doesn’t see fear in your eyes, he sees hurt — and he almost thinks maybe fear would pain him less.

“Well, I’m here,” you cross your arms, unable to quite meet his eyes, “anything else?”

“Sweetheart—”

“You don’t get to call me that, Geto,” your words were sharp as a knife, and you were trying to cut — and you did, deep. He bites back the sting, as he stares at you — your hair was longer, your eyes had bags, but your lips were twisted with pain, when normally it’d be quirked in a smile pressed against his cheek, “what do you want? Unless I should just save myself the trouble and call Satoru or Yaga?”

“I came to get you,” he steps forward slowly, and you don’t move away this time, “let’s be together. I—”

“You murdered people, you murdered your parents, you left Jujutsu Tech, you broke my heart, you broke Satoru’s and Shoko’s — and you want me to come with you?” you shake your head, barking out a harsh laugh, “did you lose your grip on reality between all the damage you’ve caused?

“If you let me explain—”

“And why should I let you? Your silence these past months was enough for me, you not fighting for us was enough for me, you spiraling without letting me help you was enough for me,” and your voice breaks, “and you cheating on me was enough for me, enough for me to know it’s over.”

“It’s not over, it’s not. I tried to force it to be over. I lied to you, I lied to myself, and said it was over, but it’s not, it’s not,” and he’s so close in a moment, and he can smell the familiar scent of your perfume mixed with your sweat — lavender, hibiscus, and something all the more sweeter, “not when it’s us,” and his fingers brush against your cheek, “please—”

“Don’t do this,” you’re shaking your head, again and again, “don’t, don’t, don’t, please—”

“How can I not? How can I not when I was foolish enough not to the first time, pretty?” he’s murmuring, “I love you, I do, I never stopped,”

“No, you don’t—”

“I do, I do, I know I said a lot of things, I need you to know, I need to explain, if you just let me—” and his fingers are sliding along your jaw, and finds uneven skin, and his eyes lingers, as his fingers tilt your chin up to find a fresh hickey left underneath.

“I—” and he’s drawing you close, so close, his dark eyes narrowed to slits, a deadly silence that makes your skin prickle under his gaze, until he’s warming your lips with his breath.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” but the telltale sign of your breath catching, your chest heaving against his, your lips parted as your eyes can’t pull away from him, his grip is slack enough for you to pull away — but you don’t.

You can’t.

And his lips hover before yours, warming your own with his heated breath, “Kiss me, baby,” and your cheeks warm, butterflies erupting in your stomach, heat blooming wherever his other hand sneaks, dragging over your sides.

“Why should I?” you’re grumbling, but you’re staying right where he has you — right in his arms, and you don’t know why, “you want to kiss me so bad so you do it,”

And he clicks his tongue, fingers sliding behind your head, weaving into your hair and against the soft skin of the back of your neck, tugging you closer, “you kissed someone else with those lips, tasted them, maybe a day or two — were you this bratty with them?”

“Oh fuck off, Suguru, you’re one to talk—“ and his lips swallow your bitter words, tasting them on your tongue, as he parts your lips with a rough squeeze of your hips. And his lips only quirk when your moan rumbles against him, his calloused palms sliding between your thighs.

“You open your legs this easy for them?” he says when he’s pulling away from your mouth, thumb dragging over your swollen spit soaked lips, “how’s that fair? I’m your first, baby, and I’ll always be your favorite—“

And any retort is lost as his teeth drag over your jaw, lips closing right over the hickey he had hated so much, normally calm eyes filled with dark contempt, and he’s biting down, pinching your already bruised skin between his teeth, sucking and soothing with his tongue, “Mine, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

You nod wordlessly, and his fingers slide forward, wrapping around the front of your neck, thumbing the hollow of your throat, “Use your words,” and there was something darker — something he had let you have glimpses of in moments of missions, of arguments, even in bed — but it wasn’t a glimpse now — it was the whole goddamn picture above you.

“I’m yours, Suguru,” you manage, words strangled by a moan as his lithe fingers tug at the waistband of your panties, making them rub against your drenched cunt, “please—”

“So pliant now, aren’t you?” he hums, as he pulls harder, making the wet fabric rub against your aching clit, “maybe I should make you cum this way, don’t know if you deserve my fingers or my mouth yet,”

You’re a mess — mind swimming in the need for pleasure, why did it always feel so right with him? So perfect. It shouldn’t be. He cheated on you. He slaughtered humans. He left you. He left you without telling you anything of what was plaguing him, until it was too late.

It was too late. He was too late.

So why were you letting his hands tear your panties apart as he fucked you with them?

Because — your fingers reach for his cheeks, leaning up to kiss him, again and again, as your lips parted and met — it was Suguru.

It was always Suguru.

“Please, Suguru, I need you, need more—ngh—” and the fabric of your panties snaps under his fingers, as he’s ripped them off, pocketing them without another word.

“Did you let him touch you?” he’s kissing down your body, wet kisses, his lips lingering at your pebbled nipples, sucking one, while squeezing the other between his thumb and forefinger, before he switches, kissing down your stomach — tongue teasing your belly button — before he’s finally settling between your thighs, his fringe unrulier than ever, strands of his long hair slipping from his bun, “Answer me, sweetheart,” he orders, as he presses mean fingers to part your thighs for him, surely leaving bruises with how hard he’s holding your soft flesh.

“I did,” you can’t manage the words to tell him who — how can you tell him his best friend fucked you? That you let Satoru fuck you the night you found out he left. It was one thing for him to cheat with a random person, it’s another for you to go and sleep with his best friend, “Suguru, please—”

“Mouth or fingers?” and you swear, despite them not speaking, they still share the same dumbass brain cell—

“What the fuck does it matte—” and your words are cut off by Suguru slipping in two fingers at once into your leaking cunt, fucking you meanly as he watched your mouth fall open, head tilted back as your hips jerked against him, desperate for more. His fingers curled as they fucked your hole open with rapid thrusts, the squelch of your cunt going straight to your head and straight to his already hard cock.

“It fucking matters because this is my pussy, isn’t it, baby? I fucked it first, I fucked it best, and I need to know what others did while I was gone, don’t I?” and a third joins the other two, pulling another moan from your lips,“but if you won’t tell me, I’ll just use both, fuck you with all five fingers and tongue if that’s what you want to do,”

“Sugu—” you’re already so fuckin’ close, your walls shuddering around his cock, “I’m—“ and he stops moving, smiling down at your open mouth twisting in a scowl, “fuck—“

“That’s what we’re trying to do, baby, but I’m not gonna let you cum that easy,” he coos, his curled lips leaning down to lap at your cunt, warm tongue dragging up your clit, before sucking lightly, making you squirm, “tell me you want me,”

“Your fucking ego—“ and he’s plunging three fingers into your messy entrance, making you gasp — god, you hated how good he felt — his fingers bullying your insides with practiced ease, “Sugu— please—“ as his tongue teases your clit, flicking it, before his teeth nibble at it. You’re squirming in earnest now, nearly fucking yourself on his fingers and tongue.

He laughs, pulling his mouth from your cunt, lips glossy with your pre-cum,“How quick you’re going from cussing me out to begging me to cum,” you don’t care anymore — you need to cum, “tell me what you want, Princess,”

“Need to cum, please, please, Sugu—ah��“ and he’s sinking one more finger in you, before his lips close around your clit and suck, hard. Your back arches as something in you snaps, as the squelching and slurping of his fingers and sucking send you over the edge. You flood his mouth and fingers with your cum, squirting all over him, as he eats you out and fucks you through your orgasm, groaning as you clench around his tongue and fingers. Your thighs shake and quiver in his grip, fingers holding you still in place, as he keeps overstimulating you, “too much, can’t—“ you cry out, shaking your head, but he’s not relenting until you feel something build in again — more and more, until his fingers find that one spot in you that has you silently screaming as you cum again, even harder than the first. You’re soaked — soaked the sheets through, chest rising and falling as the pleasure ebbs away, tears slipping down your cheeks, folds fluttering as he pulls his fingers out.

His breath warms your dripping cunt, lips glossy and eyes dark, groaning as he watches your cum slip from inside you, as he looks up at you with a dark, half lidded gaze, “So fucking good for me, even hotter when you cry,” he’s licking his lips clean of your cum, before he’s pressing the pads of his fingers into your open mouth, “clean them f’me, baby,” and your tongue swirls around him obediently without question, pretty eyes glassy with tears making his rock hard cock twitch in his pants, “good girl,”

And he’s pulling his fingers from your mouth, before leaning up and pulling off his black sweater, the click of his belt as he kicks off his pants, your eyes glued to his thick cock — he was thicker than Satoru, so pretty too — black pubes groomed, nearly pressed against his stomach.

“Always so desperate for my cock, aren’t you, Princess? I’ll let you clean your cum off of it after, but I have to have you first — got to reclaim what’s mine,” and he’s dragging his cock against your clit.

You gasp, twitching against him, but more than the pleasure, the guilt creeps in — flashes of Satoru from the night before with hands over your hips and thighs, and you had kept quiet about your life from the time you spent away. You had done your best to stay away from Suguru, even though you knew he hadn’t exactly done the same — asking Shoko questions, for pictures, for any scrap of you.

And you couldn’t lie — not about this.

“Suguru,” and he’s pausing, eyes meeting yours with a flash of concern, but the words tumble out with warning, just the way he had done with you, “I slept with Satoru,”

And he’s silent — emotions roll in and out on his face — confusion, hurt, anger, and acceptance — they all fall away as he’s only staring off to the side, unable to even look at you. Words fall away, stopped in your mouth after the bitter truth that’s left it and you wonder — is it over now? Seconds feel like hours — your fingers curl into the sheets, looking for something to hang onto, to ground you. Why did he have to start this? You were fine with the burnt ashes of the love he had scorched over, but now he started a fire, and you didn’t want to put it out. You didn’t want to go out.

You didn’t want him to go.

But he doesn’t. Instead, his eyes finally find yours for a moment, before he’s kissing you again and again and again, bruising kisses that slaughter any sense of logic and words from you — but his message is clear, he doesn’t wanna talk, especially as his hand reaches does to brush his aching tip against you, smearing his pre-cum over the length of you.

And he’s sinking into you, and somehow you’re still so tight around him, “Fuck,” he hisses, the first word that leaves his mouth, “did Satoru not fuck you right last night?” and your lips part as he thrusts harshly and smoothly, bottoming out with one single movement, “still as tight as when I took your virginity, aren’t you, baby?”

“Suguru,” you’re so full, he’s so thick, and these last few weeks without him almost had your cunt forgetting what he felt like filling you — his hands gripping your thighs to press them back against your stomach, as he pulls back only to slam back in, making you head loll back, “s’good, s’full,” it’s all you can feel, all you can think about, was him, just him.

“That’s right, I’m the only one who can fill you like this, the only one that makes you feel this good,” the sounds of his hips slapping against you send more heat flooding downward, as he grunts, watching himself piston in and out of you, “take me s’well, my good girl, mine,” he growls, “squeezing me so tight, never want me to leave this sweet cunt, do you?” your thighs shake as he presses them back, balls slapping against your ass, as he only sinks deeper and deeper, “could fuck you all night, don’t hide that face from me,” he’s forcing you to hold his gaze as he fucks you — your glassy eyes blown out with pleasure, your kiss ruined lips parted for him as you panted and moaned, forehead glossy with sweat, “wanna watch you cum around my cock, wanna see you scream my name, pretty baby,”

His hand slides behind your ass, grabbing a fistful and finding a better angle before slamming back in, and with his filthy words, its enough to have you cumming with his name on your lips, “Sugu—fuck, Suguru!” your voice goes to a pitch you didn’t know it could reach. Toes curling as your gummy walls swallow him in, your pretty mouth forms an ‘o’ and he grunts, imagining those lips around his cock, his thrusts growing sloppy as he fucked you through your orgasm. His dick was soaked, his precum mixing with your cum.

But he wasn’t done yet.

He’s slapping your clit, making you jolt, as he’s still pressed inside you, “Sloppy fucking girl, I know you have one more for me,” and you’re so fucked out, he’s guiding your legs around his lower back and hips, making you gasp, “gonna cum in this perfect princess cunt,”

“Sugu, can’t, It’s too muc—” you nearly sob, but he’s already fucking you, thrusting again and again. And it doesn’t take long for another orgasm to build, already far too sensitive from your last. It’s too much — the feeling of his hips slapping against yours, the feeling of his cock twitching inside your walls, the small moans that your tight cunt pull from his lips, and when his tip brushes against that perfect spot, as his thumb bears down on your clit — it’s too much. You see stars as you cum again, even harder, the loud squelch as he fucks you still pulls a deep groan from his lips.

“Gonna cum, baby, gonna make a mess of you, fill you up,” he’s grunting, and you’re only nodding and moaning “yes,” still fucked out from your orgasms, but it’s enough for him notch himself deep in you and cum, painting your womb white, as he spurts his seed inside you.

And his hips stutter, as he eases your legs down, still shaking and quivering from being fucked, and he rubs them, as you pant, his fingers then reaching to wipe your tears, as he eases himself out, groaning as he watched your mixed cums leak out of your cunt.

“Suguru,” you murmur, and he’s leaning over you, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead, and your hand reaches for him, cupping his cheek, “I love you,” and you do — you always loved him, you always would — there was never anyone else. Only him. But the words can’t find their way out of your mouth, sleep calling for your attendance, as your fingers run through his hair, pulling his hair tie off, and carding their way through his long hair, “I love the long hair,” you hum, eyes fluttering and heavy with sleep.

“Do you?” His voice is gravelly, as he leans down, his lips finding your own for moment, before reaching for a bath towel you had slung over your metal bed frame, as he cleans you up, “how much?”

“Too much, Sugu,” he chuckles softly, as he finishes cleaning you and himself up, pressing soft kisses to your thighs, as he moves to get up and put the towel in the hamper — your hand catches him by the wrist, “Don’t go,”

And his gaze softens, as he shakes his head, “I’m just taking this to the hamper, I’ll come back to bed,” and your lips form an unfairly cute pout, but you relent, letting him walk away to the bathroom to dispose of the towel, and when he comes back, you’re already asleep, curled up.

He stands in the doorway, watching your chest rise and fall — and he’s walking over, pulling your comforter over your body, as he holds it open for himself, pausing, only to let it fall and settle on your side.

He couldn’t ask you to come with him. Couldn’t whisper those words in the night, because you couldn’t save him from the dark — not you, not Satoru, not a single person. Because he wasn’t cut out to live in this world with a smile on his face — and you always deserved to have one on your lips. And Satoru could do that for you. Not him.

It was never him. He was never good enough — his fingers trace over your cheek, pressing another kiss to your forehead — not for the jujutsu world, and not for you.

And he turns to leave, sparing a single glance at you — but he’d make a place for him. And maybe for you — make a world that’s safe for them to live in. Where he didn’t have to watch you join the other bodies piled up around him.

He’s pulling the door shut to your apartment softly, his key left on the table.

It was over.

~~~

“You’re late again, as usual,” Suguru smiles, slumping down against a wall, “Satoru,”

“The ones in Kyoto, they were under your command?”

“Yes, they all were,” he sways, holding his shoulder, he didn’t have much time left — he couldn’t feel anything, even as he held his wound, he felt nothing — no pain, no anger, no hatred, “no matter what anyone says, I hate those monkeys,” and his thumb brushes lightly over his shoulder, “but I never held any hatred for those in Jujutsu High School,”

“Did you not? Could’ve surprised me,” and his head turns slowly behind Satoru, and he sees you — sees you for the first time in a decade. Even at his visit to Jujutsu High, you weren’t around — away on a mission, just as he had intended.

Satoru only sighs, sparing you a glance, “I told you not to come here—”

“And I told you that I needed to see him,” you brush past Satoru, kneeling by Suguru — and he can’t take his eyes off of you — he had seen pictures, ones he had his twins take (not wanting those money grubbing monkeys to have even an image of you), and he saw you had done quite well for yourself after he had left. A teacher, just like Satoru — trying to foster a new generation of sorcerers — he was right, you were just like him, weren’t you? And he watches as your brow furrows, scanning over his injuries, gears grinding, but he has to halt them right then and there.

“There’s no saving me now, sweetheart,” he clicks his tongue, “but you know that already, don’t you?” he takes an unsteady breath, leaning back against the wall, his eyes falling over you again, “still so beautiful — how’s that possible?”

“Not beautiful to stick around for though, am I?” your words aren’t laced with bitterness so much as it’s a question, a question of why he had left you. Why did he never had come back.

“But beautiful enough to always stay faithful to,” his words are soft, “I don’t have many regrets, not any at all truly in retrospect, but I did lie to you about cheating—”

“I know,” your hand uses your sleeve to clean some of the blood on his face, scarlet on your palm, “I realized once I thought about it — and I’ve had plenty of time to think about you, Suguru,” your fingers trace his jawline softly, “because thoughts were all you left me with,”

“Not all I left you with,” his eyes slide back to Satoru and back to you, lips curled in a smile, “you two were always more better suited than I ever was to you, princess,”

“Suguru—” Satoru starts, but Suguru is shaking his head.

“It’s rude to interrupt a person’s last words, Satoru,” he clicks his tongue, and his lips curl as he finds your gaze again, your eyes glassy, “don’t look like that, sweetheart,”

“Suguru, why did you have to leave?” and he’s shaking his head slowly, resting it against the wall behind him.

“Because I didn’t belong there — I couldn’t live in this world with a real smile on my face,” and his hand reaches for you, but stops, falling back to his shoulder, and tears slip down your cheeks, “but with you, I came close,” he murmurs, and he knew it was time, “Satoru,” and that’s all he had to say to have Satoru start to pull you away.

“No, no, please—” you’re shaking your head, trying to push past Satoru, but you slump in his arms, “I love you, Suguru, I always will,”

And he gives a small chuckle, lips curled in that smile that always damned you — “At least curse me at the end,”

But you never could, as you step away, squeezing your eyes shut as you hear the distant splatter of blood. And you knew — you knew you would have stayed forever, stayed with him forever, if he only had told you not to go.

But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

The two of you bury him, somewhere secluded, where no one would find him. The cold ground was hell to dig up, but the two of you managed somehow, each shovelful feeling like a funeral march with no end in sight. Neither of you could bear the thought of his body being poked and probed for its secrets, before being burned, turned to the ash and smoke, the very same he had left your lives in when he had torched it all to the ground. But even so, you couldn’t bear it — and as you look at the mound before you, you want to claw his body up — dig him up as if it would bring him back to life, pull whatever being or force out of the sky and make them give him back.

But you can’t — it’s over.

Satoru’s hand finds your shoulder, pulling you into a hug, burying your face in his chest, as he holds you tight to his chest. And he’s leading you away from Suguru, a single flower left over his grave, as the cold air freezes the tear stains left on your cheeks.

It’s over now. It was over now, right? Right?

And it was.

Until Shibuya.

a/n: this was supposed to be 3K, and ended up being over 10K. story of my life. this fic is thematically sponsored by 1989 (taylor's version), in particular, the vault tracks that helped me write this. you can literally spot lyric references almost throughout the entire thing

tag list: @ghostkonigkeegan141, @lightblueexorcist, @aemondseyesocket, @lemonpoppy-seed, @stran-dedforyou, @tiaraqueen123, @sun-daddy-yoriichi, @grooveandshit, @prettyabc, @kaskasi, @moranguitosz, @haunting-venus, @ninneko19, @psychicai, @d1rtv, @forest-fruits-jam, @katie91239, @dud3vil, @robynnikole151, @ivory-cove, @ohbi-the-way, @numbinyourchest, @dabisdolly, @kal0pssiaa, @glaceliy, @3atinguout, @iovesatoru, @imthebestbye-blog, @michelleeveline, @ichikanu, @ummcumfurtable, @collectionofdolls, @auraeum, @reesesnieces, @goldfishsmemory, @itshobiscussposts

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comfreyhollywings · 4 months ago

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pac reading - need self-love tips? c'mere.

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L O A D I N G . . .

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pile 1.

protect yourself.

i don’t think you quite know how valuable your energy is

like.. guys. i feel like we need to have a lesson solely on the beauty of pouring into your own cup, and to force yall to see how others are inspired by that.

and when you’re in that state where you can just flow; to protect yourself, you naturally shine so bright.

just now— a black wisp of smoke just hovered right in front of my eyes before dissipating. there’s a lot more smoke coming out of my candle purging out this smoke as we speak.

that’s naturally a sign for me that.. if you love yourself; if you want to invest more into yourself, purge the things that are unnecessarily sucking your energy away.

aka energy vampires (doesn’t have to be this figure, could be an energy in your life)

like.. i think… when you properly pour into yourself, you tend to have a lot to give. while this is naturally a good thing to have such a generous heart, you can’t give forever. you can’t give from a place of depletion

especially if others only know how to take, take, take.

there’s something a former mentor said to me in this regard.

“the issue is that giving relentlessly can solicit the very sort of people who have no second thoughts about taking, and never giving. and it's not even always malicious. it's just their dysfunction meets another dysfunction.”

take it from me, someone who’s currently still learning this lesson right now.

i will be so real with y’all

i’m currently going through a period where i’ve distanced myself from my partner of (seven-ish) months after learning that i was the one putting in more effort in emotional labor than my partner.

and it’s not even that my partner had malicious intentions about it

it was just that

he hadn’t developed the emotional maturity let alone apply it to his life. and it’s shit that he had to figure out.

because of this, i felt as if i had to partly take on the burden. not that it was a conscious thing, but it was moreso subconscious where i was driven by kindness to pour into him

as that’s what any decent human being would do, right?

but the taking. it kept taking, taking, and taking. the reciprocity wasn’t really… there much anymore.

codependent tendencies? yes. and it’s shit he individually has to figure out.

the same energy applies to your situation. i’m not sure if these are things you also are sorting out right now, but please know this:

you can act from a place of kindness. absolutely. depending on your situation, you don’t have to cut them off. (if you’re in an abusive dynamic, that’s another story. you CANNOT fix them. you CANNOT change them, period. please get out asap as much as you can. i’ll provide resources. )

you’ll naturally feel like an asshole when you set up boundaries, when you distance yourself, etc etc.

but the thing is that you will need that. to drive yourself to the brink of exhaustion for the sake of others leaves you with little energy for yourself.

like… you fight for others, but who will fight for you? you know? especially when you don’t even recognize the situation you’re in?

prioritize yourself more. examine your needs closely. get out of situations that you know is going to drain you.

maybe it’ll feel like shit initially. like, of course these are bad habits you need to address.

but i promise you, it’s worth it. please keep going.

pile 2.

be gentle with yourself.

two things you must foster: your autonomy and your sense of abundance.

in simple terms: you’re worth being a fucking person standing on your own, you stubborn little fucking gem.

you’re not like. this idealized concept that people make out of you.

you’re not a goddamn concept.

you’re a person. a living, breathing person with needs and wants and dreams

goddammit you deserve to be loved.

please treat yourself with a lot more kindness and autonomy than you have ever done with the people you love.

gods know you deserve it

like christ

this is my pile who probably has self-esteem issues, huh (i say that as if i don’t have weird shit going on with my self-esteem but whatever)

work, work, work. it’s always work with others. it’s always prioritizing their needs before your own.

it’s the tight ball you feel in your chest that gets lodged up inside your throat. it’s the hard swallow as you bite your tongue back. it’s the coughing when you’re in the middle of a sentence before someone takes over without any regard for you.

and it’s not like you’re unable to redirect the spotlight over to you. you absolutely can.

however. like

god forbid you make mistakes right? like, god forbid that you don’t run your mind through a fucking cheese grater if you’re not like a radar.

god forbid you’re not constantly detecting what preconceived faults you have of yourself.

because if you don’t, are you even worthy of love at all?

here’s a secret: you don’t need to work to earn love. your self-worth isn't dictated by how much you pump out to the world.

yes, it requires work to keep love alive, but there’s a vast difference between that and EARNING love.

you are worthy. you are seen. you are accepted for the way that you are.

all of you.

your flaws, your tics, your anger, your hurt, and your sorrow.

and likewise, your love, your passions, your healing, and your joy.

you are worth being gentle to yourself. you are worth the grace you extend out for others. you are worth taking up space.

take off the mask. take off the notion of “perfection”. take off the need to people please. take off the need for constant validation outside of yourself.

sit with yourself. journal. purge. and forgive yourself for the things you’ve been unfair to you about. all of these judgments and old standards that don’t serve you anymore, that you punish yourself for.

you’re enough. stop it.

c’mere pile 2, let me hug you.

you are worthy of it all, my loves.

pile 3.

listen to yourself. give yourself the space to let your voice be heard.

you have such a wonderful, unique, and creative voice that you restrain others from hearing.

it roots back to pile 2’s perceived ‘imperfections’ that they try to adhere to

thus, resulting in them being harsh on themselves.

so let me tell you this: you are lovely.

and your voice deserves to be heard.

additionally, your voice is not just deserving

it’s needed for a time like this. you have a message specifically encoded to you that you’ll have to ground and manifest into the world through your creative works, and it’s time for you to see that.

it’s time for you to honor the creativity bestowed upon you because that is your voice that’ll touch people’s hearts.

that’s the voice that you need to hear from yourself the most.

let things flow, let things come, let them be like water. let your creations permeate and adapt to objects, places, and people.

let it breathe, let it live rather than killing it prematurely.

as i’m writing, i’m hearing this song: frequency by jhene aiko.

a lot of that song talks about blessings and freedom. freeing cities, freeing their seed (the next generation), giving freedom and mercy. it talks about anointing, pouring that oil so that the generations before and after can become kings and queens.

this is a very universal and empathetic song that got channelled out.

so i feel like in many forms no matter the genre, whether it’s through a medium like writing, game dev, videos, podcast, art, and so on

all of your works have these themes in common: freedom, blessings, and generations.

what i want to warn you about though in pursuing your art forms

don’t let ego get the best of you.

now i’m not necessarily talking about arrogance (though that very well might be the case but that normally lies within a much deeper issue of having your self-esteem bloat as a way to overcompensate for your idea of self-worth)

i’m talking about letting your insecurities of looking ‘stupid’ get the best of you because you risk ‘cringing’ at your works.

but the thing with art is that you’re going to have to be stupidly earnest because that is your entire essence.

and if you think about it, a lot of cringe is just

sincere? and earnest?

just get it out there. don’t compare yourself to anybody. your journey is your own, so there’s no need to be anyone or anything

be you

that’s all that matters.

trust me, the you authentically reading this is more powerful than any heroes/idols that you’ve ever grown up putting on a pedestal.

kill your heroes, put down that pedestal.

you’re just as worthy of creating; your heroes are no better than you.

#pac tarot #tarot #tarot card #tarot reading #self-love reading #self-love #pick a card #intuitive readings #intuitive messages #tarot messages #messages from spirit #pick a picture #pick a pile #pick a pile reading #pick a pile tarot

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mitchipedia · 1 year ago

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Reddit is speedrunning enshittification.

Hypothesis: The owners of the company are no longer interested in keeping the business going, and are just trying to maximize financial return by selling off every possible asset.

In Reddit’s case, the upcoming IPO isn’t the beginning of a new chapter in the business. It’s the end of the business.

The most financially valuable part of Reddit is its fat corpus of content, built by volunteers over many years, suddenly made valuable for training AI. Now, Reddit’s corporate owners want to sell access to that corpus. That is Reddit’s new business. It’s not a long-term business, because the corpus will decay in value over time. But it’s enough for the owners to cash out.

I’m inspired in this thinking by yesterday’s edition of Rusty Foster’s “Today in Tabs.”. I don’t think he’s making this exact point, but he’s putting all the dots down, without necessarily connecting them.

John Gruber at Daring Fireball notes that OpenAI already scooped up Reddit’s corpus of data when the APIs were free. The data has no value anymore.

Reddit already gave all its data to large companies for free. Huffman is trying to charge now for horses that were let out of the barn years ago. And he obviously doesn’t care about Apollo or other third-party Reddit clients, or what these moves do to Reddit’s reputation as a platform vendor. He’s just trapped in a fantasy where investors are going to somehow see Reddit as a player in the current moment of AI hype.

Also, on Ryan Broderick’s Garbage Day: “Platforms Don’t Really Make Sense Anymore”:

We tolerated large platforms, that were never all that good to begin with, because they were convenient and useful and part of a larger interconnected network of tools and apps and systems that made the digital world safer and more dynamic. So you’d think, if they were actively deciding to stop being part of that larger system and no longer interested in making the internet, as a whole, function better, they would, at the very least, try and be more convenient! But instead we’ve ended up in a situation where all the local stores are gone, Main Street is deserted, and the large Walmarts on the edge of town are being set on fire and left to rot.

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novamariestark · 2 months ago

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hey! i love your page, also equally in love with hank 😂

here me out: reader just starts at CPD and is super close with erin, maybe they knew each other before the reader gets the job. erin sets up the reader on a blind date because she’s been trying to get over her toxic ex and it’s not working out too great. olinsky sets up hank on a blind date at the same spot the reader is going to. both of their dates don’t show up and so the two think they are there to meet each other. they hit it off and maybe later that night erin has to stop by hank’s place to get some paperwork. he doesn’t answer the door so erin lets herself in and walks in on the reader and hank

Give Your Heart A Break - H.V.

Loved this idea so much. I hope I haven't butchered it 🤣😭

Might make a part 2 for the part where she (aka you) joins CPD

Summary: You were set up on a blind date. So was Hank. But what happens when your best friend catches you having sex with her foster dad. (hey you didn't know)

Warnings: bad smut, age gap, oral (f receiving), piv (protected) proofread but I'm still certain that a ghost edits it after I post it 🤣

Word count: 4463

Fandom: Chicago PD

Pairing: Hank Voight x Reader

“Come on, girl, you have to get back out there,” you friend of 10 year tells you. Yeah, maybe you did, but you sure as hell didn’t feel confident enough to do so.

Not after him.

Your ex wasn’t just toxic, he was the kind of poison that seeped into every part of your life. He made you second-guess everything—what you wore, how you laughed, even how you felt about yourself. It took you too long to realize that his “love” came with a price: your self-worth. And even now, 11 months after leaving him, you still felt the weight of his voice in the back of your mind, telling you no one else would want you.

Maybe they wouldn’t. Sometimes you stare into the mirror and just think that maybe he was right.

You tug at the sleeve of your jacket, fidgeting with the worn fabric like it might somehow make your nerves chill the fuck out. The mirror is still in front of you, the reflection of your own lifeless eyes staring back. You hate what you see. The way your shoulders seem to slump a little lower than they used to, the way your eyes don’t light up the way they used to when you laughed. If you even laugh anymore. It’s like you’ve been trying to fit into a mold he made, and now there’s just this empty version of yourself left behind.

But Erin... Erin wasn’t going to let you disappear into yourself. She refused to let you wallow, even if that meant dragging you back into the dating world so suddenly. You were sure you heard her wrong when she said that she had set you up on a blind date.

“I don’t know, Erin,” you mutter, still fiddling with the sleeve. Your eyes flick to her reflection in the mirror, her expression soft but stubborn to get you out of your little comfort zone and back in the world of the living. The look that says she’s not giving up on you, no matter how hard you try to push her away.

Her hand finds your shoulder, squeezing gently. “What if he’s not like that?” she says, reading the fear in your silence. “What if he’s good for you? What if he makes you smile again?”

The words hit you hard, and not in the comforting way Erin probably meant. What if—you hate those words. Those two words are a double-edged sword. They offer hope but never any certainty. What if he’s just like the last one? What if you’re not ready? What if you’re never ready?

You take a deep breath, “And what if I’m not enough?” The words slip out before you can stop them. You feel exposed, vulnerable.

Erin frowns, stepping in front of you, her hands finding yours. “You are enough. More than enough. And you deserve more than what that asshole put you through. Way more.” She tilts her head, waiting for your eyes to meet hers. “But you’re never going to know until you start living again.”

She’s right, and you know it. But knowing it and believing it are two very different things.

“I guess…” you start, but your voice cracks slightly. “I guess I just don’t want to make the same mistake again.”

“I get that,” Erin replies, her voice softer now. “But staying stuck in the past isn’t going to fix anything. You’ve got to take the leap sometime, right?”

“Fine,” you say, your voice barely louder than a whisper. “I’ll go.”

Erin’s smile is immediate, like she knew you’d say yes all along. “You won’t regret this, I promise.” Like you could ever say no to her. She’s been your rock.

Every minute from that moment felt like an hour. You’re know staring into your closet, feeling like you’ve got nothing to wear. Everything you own seems to either scream “I’m still recovering” or “I’m so not ready for this.” Before you know it, you bed looks like a garage sale. You’ve tried on thirteen outfits already, and each one feels more wrong than the last.

“Are you still in there?” Erin’s voice calls from the other side of your bedroom door. “Do you need some help?”

You sigh, slumping onto the edge of your bed. “I’m not sure what to wear. Nothing feels right.”

The door swings open, and Erin steps in, her eyes scanning the mess of clothes, amusement dancing on her smile. “Let me see what you’ve got.”

You rise and let Erin sift through the chaos on your bed.. She always seems so effortlessly put together. You, on the other hand, feel like you were just stumbling your way through life.

“Okay, let’s start with this,” Erin says, pulling out a sleek, navy dress from the pile. “This is simple but elegant. It’s not too flashy, but it’s definitely date-worthy.”

You eye the dress sceptically. “Is it too much? I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”

Erin gives you a reassuring smile. “Trust me, it’s perfect. It’s all about how you feel in it. Confidence is key, and this dress will definitely help with that.” You take the dress from her and head to the bathroom to change. The moment you slip it on, for the first time today, you don’t feel like a total disaster. The dress skims your figure comfortably, and you can’t help but notice that it makes you look—dare you say it—almost radiant.

When you emerge, Erin’s eyes light up. “See? I told you it would look amazing.”

You spin around slightly with a little giggle slipping from your lips, feeling the soft fabric sway. “It does feel nice. Thanks for helping.”

“You look great. But let’s not forget the finishing touches.” She rummages through your jewellery box and selects a pair of simple, elegant earrings that match your dress.

After you put them on, she leads you to the mirror, “See, a beautiful Goddess and it’s quite rude to keep it to yourself” You laugh at her comment and glance at yourself in the mirror. For the first time in a long time, you actually like what you see. The dress, the earrings, the way your hair falls in perfect waves. You still have a bit of anxiety gnawing at you, but the reflection staring back at you reminded you of who you used to be, and not that hollow robot.

“Alright,” Erin says, giving you a final once-over. “You’re all set. You look amazing. Remember, tonight is just about having a good time. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself.”

You nod, taking a deep breath. “Thanks, Erin. I really appreciate all this.”

Erin gives you a hug, her support tangible. “Anytime. Now go out there and show him what you’re made of.”

When you showed up at the restaurant, a woman asked if you had a reservation and you gave her your name. She seats you at a table for two, and you wait.

And wait.

Your date didn’t show up. Classic. You should have known it would be a disaster. In fact. You did.

You sat there for what felt like an eternity, trying to look like you weren’t bothered. You kept checking your phone, hoping for a text or a call that never came. The couple at the table across from you seemed to mock your attempts to stay optimistic. You had just started mentally preparing yourself for the ride home when a guy approached your table.

“Sorry I’m late, they seemed to have seated me at the wrong table,” he chuckled nervously, “I thought you stood me up,”

You matched his nervous chuckle, “I thought you had done the same,”

It was a bit awkward at first—two strangers just being thrown together. But you quickly fell into conversation, and you began to relax. You talked about everything and the more you talked, the easier it became.

As you talked, you noticed how effortlessly he made you feel at ease. His stories about work and his mild self-deprecating humor were refreshing. It was like a breath of fresh air after being stuck in the toxic, stifling environment of your previous relationship. The way he listened, really listened, made you feel valued. You hadn’t realized how much you missed that.

You laughed more tonight than you had in months. And the more you laughed, the more you felt like yourself again. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

By the end of the night, when you were getting kicked out, you realised that you had literally talked the night away. Hank suggested you continue at his place. The offer was casual, and there was nothing overtly romantic about it—just a simple invitation to continue the conversation. You hesitated at first, but something about him made you feel safe. Maybe it was the way he looked at you, like he genuinely wanted to get to know you better. Or maybe it was the comfort you felt in his presence, something rare and precious.

You found yourself saying yes, almost against your better judgment. You felt a flutter of excitement—something else you haven’t felt in a while.

As you walked to his place, the cold air kissing your cheeks, you couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—this was the start of something. Something that could fill the emptiness that had been carved into your soul. And maybe, just maybe, something that could make you feel alive again.

Hank’s house was cozy and filled with the faint scent of pine, probably from his cologne. You took off your coat and he offered you a drink, which you accepted—a glass of wine to calm your nerves. You sat on the couch, the cushions sinking under your weight, and he sat next to you.

The conversation flowed easily as you sipped your wine. His eyes never left yours, and you found yourself leaning closer without even realizing it.

The TV played in the background, a dull hum of noise that was easy to ignore. You talked about everything from your favorite movies to your deepest fears. Hank spoke about his passion for his job, how it consumed him, but also gave him a sense of purpose. You spoke about your love for art, how it was your escape from the real world.

As the night grew late, the tension between you thickened like the air before a storm. You felt it in the way your leg brushed against his, in the way your fingers hovered just a little too long over his hand when you laughed at his jokes. You were aware of every inch of space that existed between you, and every part of you craved to fill it.

But did he feel the same?

You took a sip of your wine, the liquid warmth spreading through your chest and down to your fingertips. Hank’s hand reached out, brushing a stray hair from your face. His touch was gentle, tender, and it sent a shiver down your spine. You placed your hand over his, looking into his eyes, not really wanting his touch to leave.

“You’re really beautiful, you know that?” he said, his voice a soft rumble.

You let out a breathy laugh "It's been a long time since anyone's said that... well, apart from my best friend" you say referring to Erin. Hank's gaze remained on you, a soft smile playing on his lips. He leaned in closer, his hand still resting gently on yours.

"That's a damn crime," Hank murmured, his eyes searching yours. His thumb began to trace lazy circles on the back of your hand, sending a wave of heat through you. You hadn't felt this way in so long— seen, appreciated, desired. Your cheeks flushed, and you felt your heart begin to race, your palms soaked as though there was group of rivers flowing across them.

Hank leaned in closer, his breath a warm whisper against your skin. "Can I kiss you?" he asked, his eyes searching yours for consent. The question was so raw, so genuine, it melted away the last of your doubt. You nodded, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips met yours. It was a kiss filled with the promise of something more, a gentle reminder that you were still here, still feeling.

You felt his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and you melted into him. The kiss grew more urgent, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. It was like your bodies were trying to remember a dance they hadn't performed in a long time, but the rhythm came back so naturally.

His hands slid down your back, caressing your curves, and you gasped into his mouth as he deepened the kiss. You pull away for a moment, panting, looking into his eyes that are filled with a hunger that matches your own. "I...I need to tell you something," you manage to say between breaths.

"What is it?" Hank asks, his voice thick with need, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

You take a deep breath, feeling a little embarrassed of what you were about to say, "It's been a while for me. And I'm a little... nervous."

Hank's expression softens, and he cups your face in his hands. "It's okay," he whispers, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. "We don't have to if you don't -"

"I want to"

The words came out in a rush, surprising both of you. You hadn’t realized how badly you wanted this—how much you needed it. Hank’s eyes searched yours, looking for any sign that you were unsure.

"You're sure?" he asks, his voice hoarse. You nod, and the next moment his mouth is on yours again, more insistent than before. You feel the couch dip as he shifts closer, his body pressing against yours. His hands move to the zipper of your dress, and you let him, your own trembling hands working on the buttons of his shirt.

As the fabric falls away, you can feel the heat of his skin, and you realize that maybe—just maybe—this is what you’ve been waiting for. This connection, this raw, primal need that is so much more than just lust. It’s like he’s peeling back the layers of doubt and fear that you’ve wrapped around yourself, and you’re letting him in, even if it’s just for tonight.

Hank’s hands are sure, yet gentle, as he helps you out of the dress, his eyes never leaving yours. You stand before him in your underwear, feeling a mix of vulnerability and excitement. His gaze sweeps over you, and you can see the desire in his eyes. You remember what it’s like to be wanted, and it sends confidence soaring through you. Before your mind can talk you out of it, you straddle his lap, your knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of him.

His hands glide up your thighs, sending a tingling sensation through your body. Your breath hitches as his fingers trace the edges of your underwear, and you lean in to kiss him again, deep and needy. His hands move to your back, unhooking your bra that surprises you. It falls away, and his hands cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. A moan escapes your lips, and he swallows it with his own.

The fabric of his pants is rough against the thin material of your panties as you rock your hips into him. His hands slide down to your ass, lifting you slightly so you can feel him pressing against you. The anticipation is unbearable, a sweet agony that makes you whimper. He kisses you harder, his tongue delving into your mouth as he rolls you onto your back on the couch. His body follows, covering yours, his weight pressing you into the cushions.

He kisses down your neck, nipping gently at your collarbone, making you arch your back. His hand slides under your panties, his thumb circling your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through you. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging in as he teases you, bringing you closer to the edge.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, and you can feel his own arousal pressing against you, demanding more. You reach down and unbuckle his belt, pulling his zipper down. He shifts, standing to shed his pants, and you see his erection, full and thick. Your own need spikes, and you can’t help but reach out and touch him, your hand wrapping around his length. He groans, his eyes closing briefly in pleasure.

You kiss him again, your hips grinding against him, desperate for relief. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and pulls it down, leaving you bare to him. His eyes rove over your body, drinking in the sight of you. You feel exposed, but also powerful. He kisses his way down your body, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. When he reaches your core, he looks up, making eye contact as he runs his tongue along your folds. You gasp, your body jolting.

He tastes you, exploring you with a hunger that's both thrilling and terrifying. Your fingers reach down to rest on his head, guiding him closer as he teases your clit. Your fingers definitely didn’t make you feel this good. Your legs quiver, and you’re so close, so close to letting go. But then he stops, leaving you trembling on the edge.

Hank kisses his way back up your body, his eyes never leaving yours. “Ready?” he asks, his voice gruff with desire. You nod, unable to form words. He reaches into his nightstand and grabs a condom, ripping it open with his teeth. The simple action is so erotic that you can’t help but bite your bottom lip.

He rolls it on and then, finally, he’s inside you. You gasp as he fills you, the feeling of fullness and the stretch of his cock making you feel alive again. It’s been so long, and it hurts a bit, but you don’t care. You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper, and he obliges, his strokes slow and steady, as if he’s savoring every moment.

You’re both panting, your breaths mingling in the stillness of his living room. The only sounds are the slap of skin on skin and the occasional groan that escapes your lips. His eyes never leave yours.

Hank’s movements become more urgent, his thrusts deeper. You can feel the tension building, a coil tightening in your stomach. You’re so close, so incredibly close. He must feel it too, because his strokes become more deliberate, his breathing more ragged. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he drives into you.

"What the hell?!" a voice yelled through the silence. The two of you stopped and looked to where the voice come from.

Your eyes widened when you saw your best friend standing there. You barely registered the words spilling out of your mouth as you screamed, "Oh my God, Erin, what are you doing here?" Every muscle in your body tensed, and instinctively, you grabbed the couch cushion, trying to cover yourself, but it was pointless.

You glanced at Hank, hoping for some kind of lifeline, but his expression mirrored yours: wide-eyed, frozen, and utterly shocked. Erin’s voice cut through the fog in your brain, sharp with anger and disbelief.

"I could ask you the same thing, Y/N," she spat. "What the fuck are you doing with him?"

The words felt like a slap, and you scrambled for some words, "You're the one who set the date up... you know, to bring me back to the world of the living?"

Then Erin said something that confused the shit out of you, "He's not the one I set you up with."

Wait, what? Confusion hit you like a truck. You could barely get the words out. "He's not?" Your voice cracked. You were suddenly hyper-aware of Hank hovering over you, both of you too stunned to move. He was staring at you for answers, but you had none. What is happening?

Then, Erin’s words sliced through the air: "She's my best friend, Hank." She glared at you, fury and disbelief simmering just beneath the surface. "And he is my foster dad."

The words hung in the air like a bomb, and your brain couldn’t process them fast enough. Her foster dad? Your stomach lurched, and you gulped, staring at Erin in shock. "Erin, I'm sorry," you stammered, barely able to get the words out. "I-I didn't know, we were both there for blind dates. I thought you'd set us up." You sounded pathetic, you felt pathetic. Your heart pounded in your chest as you silently begged for her to understand.

Erin’s focus shifted to Hank, who was just as lost as you. "You went on a blind date?" she asked him, her tone still simmering with disbelief.

"Alvin's idea," Hank muttered. His voice was soft now, he couldn’t believe the situation any more than you could, "Erin, I'm sorry."

You turned back to Erin, your stomach twisting painfully. "Please don't hate me," you begged. Erin was everything—your best friend, your anchor, the person who’d always been there for you through thick and thin. If you lost her over this... you don’t know what you’d do.

And then, in the most unexpected turn of events, Erin’s face softened. A small laugh bubbled out of her, and before you could understand what was happening, she was full-on laughing, wiping a tear from her eye.

Your jaw dropped as you stared at her, stunned. "What?" you whispered, your voice barely audible as you clung to the cushion for dear life.

Erin shook her head, still chuckling. "Oh my God, Y/N. I could never hate you." Her voice was lighter now, her anger gone. "I just... wasn’t expecting this. I’m going to have nightmares," she said, rubbing her temples.

Relief rushed through you, "You didn’t tell him about you-know-who, did you?" she asked, a hint of concern in her voice. Because she knew full well that Hank would track him down and give him a taste of his own medicine.

You quickly shook your head, "No," you answered quietly, praying Hank wouldn’t press for details.

Hank, still utterly confused, looked between the two of you. "You know who?" His brow furrowed, suspicion creeping into his voice.

You shot Erin a quick glance before turning back to Hank, forcing a tight smile. "No one," you said quickly, your heart hammering in your chest. Please let this be the end of it.

“Well… uh… I’m going to head out. Um, you two enjoy the rest of your night,” she said as she headed towards the door, “Hank, you better be good to her."

Hank straightened up slightly, "Erin, I would never—"

But Erin cut him off with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Yeah, well, just remember," she said, her voice turning playful but with a subtle threat lurking underneath, "I know where you live."

As soon as the door clicked shut, the silence in the room felt heavy, but not uncomfortable. You and Hank were alone again.

"I guess we should talk," Hank said finally, breaking the silence. You nodded, still trying to get your breathing under control. "But not now," he added, giving you a small, sexy smile, "Now, I think we should finish what we started."

Hank leaned down and captured your mouth in another deep kiss. You kissed him back with the same intensity, your arms wrapping around his neck, your legs locking around his waist.

The shock of Erin’s interruption had passed, and the heat between the two of you roared back to life. Hank began to move again, his hips rocking into yours. You moaned into his mouth as he pushed deeper inside you, filling you up so good, that it sent your thoughts spiraling out of control.

Your hands roamed his back, feeling the tension in his muscles as he moved above you, his breath hot against your neck. His mouth found your ear, and he whispered, “You’re mine tonight, baby.” The possessiveness in his voice went straight to your core and you let out a moan. You could feel his smirk on your neck as he nipped and sucked at the soft flesh.

You arched your back, urging him deeper, and he responded with a groan, his pace quickening. The couch creaked under your weight, accompanied by your gasps and his grunts. You could feel your climax building, a pressure that grew more intense with every stroke.

“Harder,” you breathed, and Hank complied, his hands gripping your hips as he pounded into you, the sound of your flesh slapping together filling the room. You were lost in the sensation, the delicious friction of his cock rubbing against your g-spot driving you wild. You threw your head back as Hank's hand found your sensitive bundle of nerves and began to rub it in time with his thrusts, "fuck" you had not felt this good in a while.

And then it hit you. That sweet, powerful release that had been building. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, and you screamed. The pleasure was so intense that you couldn't contain it, and Hank groaned as he felt your walls tighten around him. He thrust into you one last time, his own climax following yours.

You both collapsed into the couch cushions, breathless and spent. Hank kissed the top of your head, before he got up to get a cloth to clean you up and some spare clothes. You both sat down to watch the tv. You snuggled up to him and before you knew it, you fell asleep in his arms.

Hank carries you to his bed and covers you up and as he starts to pull away, you whisper, "Stay," your voice thick with sleepiness.

He pauses, looking down at you with a soft smile. "You sure?" he asks.

You nod, feeling a sudden, desperate need for his warmth beside you. "Yeah," you murmur, your eyes already drifting shut.

Hank pulls back the covers and slides in beside you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his chest. You fit perfectly, as though you were two puzzle pieces finally coming together. His heart beats a steady rhythm against your back, and you feel your own heart rate slow to match it. He kisses the nape of your neck, his breath warm and comforting. You snuggle closer, feeling safe in his arms.

Thought this song went well with this.

#female reader #reader insert #hank voight x reader #hank voight #chicago pd #hank voight x you

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demigod-shenanigans · 3 months ago

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Credit where credit is due because it was @poppitron360 bringing up Jason’s extended family in a fic that made me think about this.

Anyway. I think Leo deserves some closure with his extended family, too. Obviously it’s never going to happen with his shitty aunt. However. He has a cousin.

His name is Raphael. We don’t really know anything about him except that he bullied Leo when they were kids (that’s the only half-sentence mention he gets). Obviously this isn’t a great start, but I think it makes sense in context.

Rosa never liked Leo. Maybe it was a superstition thing. Maybe she took issue with the fact that his dad wasn’t in the picture. Maybe she convinced herself that he’d somehow ruined her sister’s life. Either way, of course her behaving that way and talking badly about him affected her own kid.

Raphael also didn’t really get Leo, who went on about boring machine stuff Raphael didn’t care about for ages and just wouldn’t shut up. Who’d only play in very specific ways and get upset when Raphael tried to change the rules. He was weird, and Raphael didn’t like him, so he was mean to Leo.

When Rosa tells him Leo is going away and he’ll never have to see him again, Raphael isn’t upset. He takes his mom at her word that it was Leo’s fault his aunt died.

But Raphael was nine, then.

(I’m putting most of this under the cut because it got incredibly long. Oops. Fair warning, I did make myself weep writing this.)

Raphael doesn’t think about Leo for years. They were never close. He’s just a weird kid that used to be a family member but that they’re not seeing anymore. Raphael has friends and school to worry about. Leo doesn’t even cross his mind.

But then he’s packing for college, going through boxes in the attic, and there’s two that look weirdly different from the rest. He’s curious and opens them. It’s mementos. Pictures of Esperanza, and of Leo, and a whole bunch of random trinkets taken from their apartment after the workshop burnt down. And suddenly he’s wondering what happened to his baby cousin, ashamed he hasn’t thought of Leo in so long.

So he asks his mom. Rosa shrugs and tells him Leo went into the foster system and they’ll thankfully never have to deal with him again. That if there’s any justice in the world, he’s dead, because it’s his fault that his mom died.

Raphael is horrified to hear her talk like that. Leo was eight. Even if he did make a stupid mistake that somehow led to his mom dying—and he isn’t nine anymore, he won’t just take his mom’s word for it this time—that’s more traumatizing to Leo than anything. And he was just left alone to deal with it all. A child with so much blame on his shoulders, made to feel like his family didn’t love him.

He’s kicking himself for not asking about Leo sooner. For not being nicer to him when they were kids. For not being there for him when his mom died.

He asks which foster home Leo went to, and his mom snaps at him to drop it. But Raphael doesn’t drop it. He asks his dad when he gets home, and his dad tells him.

It’s a dead end. Leo hasn’t been there in years. Ran away after a few days, apparently. It’s a miracle the person he calls even remembers who he’s talking about.

There’s nothing he can do about it now. But he takes the boxes along to college. If Leo can’t have them, the least Raphael can do is keep them far away from his mom. He puts up a picture of Esperanza and little Leo along with the ones of his own friends. Because if all he can do is carry their memory, he will.

The question of what happened to Leo never quite lets Raphael go. He tries a few avenues over the years, but it’s like Leo vanished into thin air. The only solace he has is that he doesn’t find any obituaries that fit.

Eventually, he decides to look into becoming a foster parent with his wife, and that’s how he finally finds Leo. One of the older social workers mentions she knew a Valdez boy that would be around his age now. Got into a whole bunch of trouble. Ran away from several different foster homes. He was sent to Wilderness School in Nevada the last time she saw him. Apparently ran away with a classmate—Piper McLean. Never heard from him again after that.

She only remembers because Piper is the daughter of a film star she really liked at the time. It’s just a weird random anecdote to her.

But Raphael knows Piper McLean. Not well—they’ve never really talked—but he’s seen her at an office party or two because she’s married to one of his coworkers. Reyna works in a different department, but he could talk to her. Ask her if Piper knows what happened to Leo. If maybe they’re still in contact, though that seems like a long shot after so many years.

He’s desperate and terrified to maybe, finally, get some kind of answer.

It takes him two weeks to work up the courage to talk to Reyna. She’s confused at first. They’ve only made smalltalk a few times, most of it work related.

But when he brings up Leo, something in her face changes. Yes, she knows Leo. He’s never mentioned a cousin—Raphael isn’t surprised—but she supposes a cousin could exist. She asks what he wants from Leo, and he’s honest with her about the fact that they didn’t have a great relationship growing up but tells her he’s grown since then and that he still has some stuff that rightfully belongs to Leo that’s been sitting in boxes in his house for years.

She gives him Leo’s number, albeit with some reluctance.

He calls and tells Leo that he gets if he doesn’t want to talk to him but at the very least he wants him to have the boxes with Esperanza’s things—boxes that should have been his in the first place. Leo doesn’t even have to see him if he doesn’t want to. Raphael can just drop the boxes off with Reyna or something. But he wanted to apologize for being a jerk when they were kids, because Leo didn’t deserve that.

———————

Leo is shocked to hear from Raphael, to say the least. When he first hears the name of the person on the other end of the line, he freezes up. He barely manages to keep it together for the call and afterwards, he melts into Jason’s arms and starts weeping because a part of him is terrified that this is some sort of cruel prank. Terrified to let himself hope he actually has a relative on his mom’s side of the family that cares. Terrified of whatever might or might not be in those boxes.

But he agrees to meet Raphael, if reluctantly, and he brings Jason. Maybe there’ll be some closure in it. He’s wary, because his cousin was really mean to him when they were kids, but they were also eight and they’re adults now and he realizes kids sometimes do dumb shit when they’re eight and growing up with terrible adults.

Leo is anxious when they walk into the restaurant where they’re meeting for lunch—Jason promises to lightning bolt Raphael through the nearest wall if he starts shit, which makes Leo laugh and relax a little, and they walk in holding hands.

Raphael spots them and his whole face lights up. He looks so different from how he looked as a kid, but there’s still that same scar on his forehead from the time he ran into a table when they were six. He still has the same eyes twinkling with mischief, but they’re not malicious now. He looks genuinely happy to see Leo.

Raphael is clearly nervous meeting Jason, who’s much taller and much more muscular than him, which Leo takes great joy in. And Leo gets the apology he was promised. He’s shocked to hear how long Raphael has been looking for him—shocked that apparently someone on his mom’s side of the family did care about what happened to him. And Raphael doesn’t even ask about his mom. Doesn’t ask what happened, which Leo was terrified he would. He just tells Leo he won’t believe the bs his mom is spouting about him anymore, and he’d like to be at least a little involved in Leo’s life, if Leo wants that. Even if it’s just the occasional call or Christmas postcard. But if Leo wants nothing to do with him after everything, he understands that. He’s just glad to know that Leo is safe and happy and loved.

Leo tells him he’ll think about it.

Jason sits with him when he finally brings himself to open the boxes. There’s so many pictures—several framed ones that they had up on the walls and a whole photobook with pictures of Leo, from birth until age eight. There’s several pictures of just him, and several of the two of them together. The last few pages are empty—memories they never got to make—and all of it is so incredibly painful but he can’t believe he gets to have all of this. Jason holds him through it, stroking his back and kissing his hair and telling him they can take breaks whenever he wants. Leo spends all night telling his husband so many half-forgotten stories of his mom as they look through the pictures.

There’s more in the boxes. A few of Esperanza’s tools. Her lucky screwdriver. An old folder with project sketches she made all the way back at uni that she’d sometimes show Leo drafts of. Random decorative items they had up around the house, many of them hand-crafted. There’s this tiny toy dragon his mom made him as a consolation when he was small and begging for some cool toy they absolutely couldn’t afford and Leo cannot stop crying when he finds it.

Also up there with the photos and the dragon on the list of things that make Leo weep the most is a thick notebook that’s halfway coming apart. It’s got pages torn from magazines and hastily written notes stuffed into it. Some pages have prints glued on them, others are hand-written, in his mom’s hand and different ones Leo doesn’t recognize. A lot of it is faded, and some of the pages have clearly had water spilled on them by accident, but most of it is still legible.

It’s his mom’s old cookbook.

And it’s so much less of her than he should have. But having all those memories back that he thought he’d lost forever means everything.

But after a full night of weeping in Jason’s arms and a lot of cooking (and making sure the cookbook is no longer at a risk of fading or falling into bits when you breathe on it) and even more processing he shoots his cousin a message that just says “I think I like the idea with the Christmas cards”.

And they’re never going to be best friends or anything. I don’t think Leo ever tells Raphael the truth of who he is or what happened to his mom.

But they talk to each other on the phone sometimes. Leo meets Raphael’s wife, and, eventually, his kids. Raphael meets Sofía a handful of times and sends her birthday gifts and Christmas cards every year.

He’s the reason Sofía gets to grow up with her abuela’s cooking and with pictures of Esperanza scattered around the Waystation, and Leo is always going to be grateful for that.

I’m assuming like three people total will read this all the way to the end at most! Thank you for putting up with today’s specific Leo brain worms. Not sure if this will ever be a proper fic because I have way too many ideas but have this for now

#valgrace #leo valdez #heroes of olympus #hoo #leo x jason #jason x leo #Valdez family #Raphael Valdez #Esperanza Valdez #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo next gen #< more setup for that than anything but still tangentially related to it #leo valdez headcanons #Leo Valdez angst

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cynassa · 6 days ago

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Hi!! would you mind elaborating on the lobotomy and Jason is trans metaphor? 👀 I'm very interested

Hallo! I'm so sorry this is so late and still incoherent but i prommy it is less incoherent than a week ago when I first started writing it in between three microecon assignments SO:

Content warning: talk of abuse, conversion therapy, homelessness, not pleasant about Bruce Wayne

Most of the time I have to say about my headcanons that I don't know where they come from, but with Jason-is-trans, i know EXACTLY where it's from:

"No one's son" – welllllll, there’s a thought. (I know that’s not how Winick intended it, but forget that.)

Now, I'm not sorted on whether he's a man or woman or non-binary or whatever, but I do think this is an important part of who he is. We all focus a lot on what Jason wanted from his father, but it IS important that at some point in this entire mess, he also decided that he's okay with not having parents, and that we basically see him completely reinventing himself.

The rest of it is honestly just vibes. Three specific things stand out to me:

Jason outgrowing the Robin costume/choosing his own identity: this very strongly reads to me as the trans child choosing their own identity while their parent(s) memorialise the child they thought they had. Jason has (both literally) outgrown the costumes his foster father put him in, including the one that Bruce has memorialised forever. He’s about a foot too tall and too big for them, but also he does not want to be Robin anymore. His antipathy to a new Robin would also take on interesting new dimensions if he felt forced to be a certain type of boy in order to be in that costume, and he didn’t want, in fact, to be that type of boy, or a boy at all. Or even if he was okay, at that time, but found after some years that no, actually, this isn’t what he wants to be, and he’s angry then, because people shouldn’t be forced to be a certain type of boy? Anyway, it would be delicious angst-fest but that’s not what I’m writing right now.

All of the bits where Bruce is still mourning Jason when Jason is literally right there: This is so so so on-the-nose for a certain type of parent when their kids tell them they’re trans. Jason is alive, but he’s not Jason, and he’s alive but he’s not the Jason that Bruce imagined he would be, or he’s alive but does he have to be this way, or maybe he isn’t alive really, because how could this be Jason. And all the while Jason is standing there being like ‘I’m alive, my death isn’t the most important thing about me, that isn’t why we see things differently’ while Bruce just keeps insisting that if Jason isn’t exactly the type of man Bruce wants him to be, then Jason doesn’t have the right to exist in Gotham (in comic book terms, this might mean he doesn’t exist at all, as many characters don’t ‘make it’ in solo runs outside of the core stories.) Does that make Jason trans? Not in text! But the metaphor stands.

Forcible medicalisation - In multiple situations, Jason has reacted to his trauma in reasonable (note I do not say pleasant) terms seeing as he’s in a comic book where aliens, demigods, and supervillains are an everyday thing and people keep coming back from the dead. And in response to his trauma he’s been forcibly medicalised for it. Of course there’s the battle for the cowl thing where he was shoved into Arkham. But the most recent being *DRUMROLL* Bruce injecting him (yes I know it wasn’t Bruce-Bruce, but like, he agreed to killing Jason just a few issues later, so I’m not applauding him as father of the year just yet) with something that literally forcibly changes him back to what Bruce thinks he should be. I’m likening it to like conversion therapy.

So I think Jason being trans would be an amazing metaphor for how he’s not the person he used to be, and also he’s not the person that people say he used to be, and how even now that he’s right there, people keep making up a version of him in their minds and never really engaging with who he is. I mean, clearly some of it is just the medium. Jason gets to be competent (sometimes) but never win, because he wouldn’t fit his ‘role’ in the comic books otherwise. But if we’re taking a Watsonian view then it is impossible that Jason is not winning sometimes, because if he were that useless then the Bats wouldn’t engage with him. They do engage with him because he’s dangerous at least some of the time.

Anyway that’s my essay on how I think Jason deserves to be the cool queer cousin who only comes to family events when he thinks there’s going to be a disaster he can laugh at while sipping his cocktails. He can wear his little outfits and keep people guessing on his pronouns (he hands out knives as gifts to anyone who guesses okay).

Thank you so so much @bestangelofall for letting me talk about my favorite Jay headcanon!!

#cyn talks #jason todd #red hood #dc comics

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pinkrifle · 1 year ago

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Hello ml!<3 i was wondering if you could do yandere team stan and craig x reader platonic please! Like they see reader as a little sister!^^

hi lovely! i do not take SP requests anymore buttttf this seems really easy, so i should be able to do this !

saying this rn i’m so sorry if this is short #_# <\3 i’m sorry if i missed a character or two aswell!

only team stan right now as i can’t really think of much to do for team craig, sorry once more! D:

Stan Marsh -

a little careful not to bring you around his friends too much.. especially cartman AND COVERS UR EARS EVERYTIME ONE OF THEM SAYS A DIRTY JOKE LOL (no matter how old you are!1!1!)

would 100% go off on anyone who tries to mess with you (and Kyle would probably join him too) , ya don’t F with family, folks!

trades his lunch or snacks at lunch to give them to you!! loves seeing the look on your face when you get a snack size pack of skittles. Even if it’s super small your face always lightens up and he just laughs and feels very proud of himself after

he makes sure shelly isn’t too mean to you, let’s her rip on him instead if she gets a little aggressive with you (she wouldn’t really go that far dw <3)

Eric Cartman -

GETS YOU IN TROUBLE ALL THE TIMMEEEE

(don’t worry he always does something in return after. begrudgingly and hesitantly.) (he just feels bad)

brings you on all of his little dangerous adventures but makes sure you stay safe all the time,, if you get hurt EVER he’s SOOO dramatic. begging for a hospital!

if any of his friends (aka rest of team stan) dare to say anything to you (they don’t cuz they don’t care) he will 100% be dramatic ALLO OVER AGAIN, threatens to beat up his friends (he can’t rlly) and is nice to you for the rest of the day!!

steals cute stuff from other classmates and brings them to you, steals snacks from people and brings them to you!! probably stole some snacks from stan that he planned to give to his own little sibling

Kenny McCormick -

tones down his dirty jokes when with you, and also does not let you around his friends LMAO

loves hanging out with you, karen, and kevin! at first he was really hesitant on stuart and carol having you (like with karen) but loved you so much after your born!!

protects u FOR LIFE. is basically also your guardian angel when he’s in his mysterion costume! when your in the foster home thing(?) he’s visiting you like crazy and bringing you treats aswell. makes sure you never get beaten up in the basement by the parents

loves whenever you show him something you like. Anime? cartoons? etc? your not cringe to him at all! he likes weird shit too, trust. Watches and plays everything you show him <3

a video game MASTER! having any trouble with a boss fight? he’s got it. Cant find an item? he already has it and is gonna trade it to you!!

Kyle Broflovski -

takes care of you and Ike RELIGIOUSLY. love you two both to death!

plays dolls/action digs with you even if your in middle school or whatever (in the event he’s in HS or whatever) , he doesn’t want his little siblings to ever grow up! brings a tear to his eye.

every Hanukkah he makes sure you get the best presents and NEVER lets your presents break, always has them in pristine condition ! hates seeing you sad , it affects him more than he’d like to admit.. he also gives you his hat to wear when your a little down!

bakes and cooks with you, he’s pretty okay at cooking but if your bad it’s no problem! he’s willing to teach you the 3 dishes he knows how to make LMAO. If your better than him at cooking? EVEN BETTER, teach him! but he’ll be a little embarassed to learn stuff from his little sibling

having trouble with homework? he’s on it! he won’t let you cheat on anything, but he’ll help you and guide you to the right answer.

Never let’s people talk shit about you or make fun of you, he will fr fight his friends if they dare to do that.

heya! thanks for requesting, i haven’t been really willing to write lately but this got me off my booty!!! i really should open my tf2 and scp foundation reqs.

sorry again i couldn’t do team craig! i hope these were good enough, feel free to request this again some time if i’m ever active again! <3

#（✿ ◞◟）🫧 marj writes! ﹒#south park x reader platonic #south park x reader #south park #kyle brovlofski x reader #kyle broflovski #eric cartman x reader #eric cartman #stan marsh x reader #stan marsh #kenny mccormick x reader #kenny mcormick x reader #kenny mccormick

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fosterwhat · 2 months ago

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We were considered for a pre-adoptive placement this week, but the baby’s social worker didn’t pick us. And it’s made me wonder if being a single mom is going to deter them from selecting our family.

We went to an adoption event a few weeks ago, and as I spoke to social workers a few said — it’s just you? And you have two kids?

First, it’s not “just” me. It’s a whole village of people I’ve built around me and the kids. But also, yes, it is just me, and it always has been.

It was just me when I was a daycare teacher with a classroom of 6 toddlers. It’s been just me the last decade as I’ve fostered 8 different children. It was just me when my kids’s baby sibling stayed with us. I’m not going into this blind. I know kids. I know trauma and the system.

My kids are not toddlers anymore. They still need me, of course. Felix is still higher needs. But it’s not like it was when they were babies. They are both elementary age kids who are excited about the babies that visit. They help (not too much, I’m cautious) and they love it.

So of course, don’t select us for a child if there is a better fit in front of you. If there is someone who you think perfectly fits a child’s needs, pick them. But don’t discount our family just because I’m a single mom.

#this is foster care #this is adoption #foster care #adoption #Greta #Felix #baby watch 2024

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didnt-hear-idsb-live-again · 3 months ago

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I agree with everything Chapell said obviously about how she deserves to not be harassed etc, but I’m really intrigued by the “bitch you don’t know me” approach that she has, because that also feels common from artists nowadays - it’s pretty regular to not get personal posts from artists at all anymore; Sabrina Olivia and Taylor are some additional examples who have really closed off from sharing non-promotional related pieces of themselves. I don’t know much about any of them, and that didn’t used to be true - about them pre-pandemic specifically, or about any famous artists at the moment, really.

And I think that’s really interesting considering that the whole beginning of Taylor’s career, her entire thing was like “no, you DO know me!!!! have so much personal stuff, I AM just like you!!!” - which, she’s spoken about some of that being compulsive and how it wound up being destructive, but I feel like, at the time, at her very core, she DID want fans to know her and be connected to her like that. That wasn’t just a brand, that’s what truly filled her cup and, while it wound up having bad components, was what she genuinely wanted. So I’m fascinated by how different things are now.

It’s useless to think about realities that don’t exist I guess, but I do wonder if, if Taylor was exactly who she was but existed in her Fearless era / age in the year 2024, would she still share with us the way she did then? Would she still have posted vlogs, been so open not only in music but on socials, blogs, etc? Would she have fostered the type of parasocial bond and back-and-forth with us that we really did have with her between 2006 and 2019? Or was that all really just a product of there not having been a publicly known alternative option? Or, is it more that the degree of insanity that people have now is greater than it was then, and it almost requires famous artists like these to close themselves off in the way they do now, for their own sanity and safety? I mean, Halsey has always been Taylor-level accessible to fans, if not more so, and just earlier this month had to close herself off from that because they got so bad. If Chapell Roan existed in 2007, would she still feel a want to put these boundaries up? Or would she feel safer, be safer, and not have to? What happened to make things get so out of control that caused people to feel so entitled? There have always been crazy people, but there’s so MANY crazy people now. Is it just lack of socialization in the pandemic? Does it just seem worse because of socials? Can it really be that simple of an explanation? How do we slam the breaks on it?

It’s just very interesting to think about.

#send opinions

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livwritesstuff · 10 months ago

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Angsty question- feel free to ignore if you want.

Historically, dads yelling has always been a very not-good sound. Especially to girls.

What happened the first time Steve or Eddie (or both) yelled? Not even at the girls; it could’ve been a heated argument they were having.

How old were the girls? What did they do? How did Steve and Eddie feel? What did they do?

oooh okay i definitely took my time mulling over this one bc i wanna make sure i’m getting my wording right

(and reading this back i’m realizing i kind of don’t really answer your actual question hope that’s okay lol)

I think a really important facet of this is that (in this ‘verse) Steve is a licensed and practicing trauma counselor. Not only does he know how harmful (and counter-productive) yelling can be, he also knows all sorts of other methods for communication that are just better.

It’s not that the girls don’t ever piss him off or do stupid shit and get in trouble – he just knows way more effective ways to get them to realize oh shit, I fucked up than by yelling at them.

(I think if anything, he could be a stress-yeller, but by the time he and Eddie start fostering kids, he’s been through so much shit that he doesn’t really ever hit that stress threshold anymore).

And then, I think with Eddie, he’s still as dramatic as ever even in middle-aged adulthood, and I think he gets loud about things pretty much regardless of the emotion behind it, so the girls aren’t super phased by it if/when he does get loud from a place of anger or frustration. I also feel like Eddie tends to defer to Steve when it comes to the heavier parts of parenthood, precisely because he knows that Steve is coming at it from a place of clinical expertise in a way that he himself isn’t. Steve isn’t a yeller, so neither is Eddie. Maybe if Steve had been more inclined to yell, Eddie would be too.

Same thing applies with Steve and Eddie’s communication with each other – they don’t really get into screaming matches over shit, but when they do argue or have disagreements or conflict or whatever, they get mean, and I think this is where there could be some problems.

Like, they can throw some serious barbs at each other when they want to (and they’ve known each other for a long time so they’ve got plenty of ammo), and when the girls are little, it’s easy to forget in the heat of the moment that they actually can understand what their dads are saying.

Hence why, a few hours after an argument (about nothing – they were just both in pissy moods at the same time, and with Hazel not even five months old yet they’re not really getting much sleep which doesn’t help things at all), Steve finds three-year-old Robbie crying in her room, and when he asks her what’s wrong, she whimpers, “Moe said you and Daddy are gonna get a divorce.”

And, fuck, Moe is only six, and Steve didn’t know that she even knew what divorce was (though it’s possible he and Eddie had gossiped a little too close to the sun about one of their neighbors’ divorce earlier that same week, so maybe that one's on them), and the notion that her brain had been able to make that connection from the things she'd heard earlier had Steve feeling like the worst guy on the planet.

Then, when they sat down with the older two girls to make sure they knew that everything was fine and no one was getting divorced, it only got worse because Moe started repeating back to them the shitty things they had said to each other, and there’s a special kind of shame in hearing word-for-word the vitriol he’d directed at Eddie – who he loves; no argument could ever change that – coming out of his kindergartener’s mouth.

Yeah, so anyways, I don’t really think yelling would necessarily be an issue with them, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t some real flaws in their communication that stick with the girls.

#eddie: do you think they’d even let us get divorced #eddie: they only just made gay marriage legal – do you think they’d even have the protocol in place for gay divorce #steve: please don’t joke about that right now. read the damn room for once.#liv’s steddie dads verse #liv says stuff

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kurithedweeb · 5 months ago

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For Drop of Sunlight, what's your take on the relationship between the Divine Warriors and Aphmau/her guards (Garroth, Katelyn, Laurance, Dante)

That’s a bit of a tricky one for me. I don’t remember a whole lot about the Divine Warriors from canon since I haven’t finished my rewatch, and I haven’t explored them that much because we’re still real early on and they haven’t become majorly relevant yet, but I think I can scrounge up a few ideas. We’re gonna talk about the Divine Warriors as a whole and not each individual for now.

The Divine Warriors were all friends, but Irene was what connected them. They were all drawn to her, all loyal to her above anyone else, they were . . . the term I want to use for the Divine Warriors is ‘a cult polycule,’ but that doesn’t really explain and also is probably wrong. Let’s rewind a bit.

Irene killed the Divine Warriors as a whole. Before they ever met her, Irene had lived for so, so long as this being more powerful than the rest of her race and everyone put her on a pedestal. Her power left her so isolated, so completely alone, that everything she did had to be perfect because she didn’t have anyone to fall back on when she failed anymore, not since she’d outlived her sister. Everything Irene did became just another duty she had to perform and she stopped feeling alive. Until Shad.

Shad was the first person she’d ever met that was anywhere near as powerful as her. Suddenly she wasn’t so alone anymore, and she clung to Shad for fear that if she let him slip away she’d be alone again for who knows how long. She nudged their relationship from enemies to friends to, eventually, lovers. Shad loved her because she seemed so good and she wasn’t afraid of him and with her he could have what he always wanted: someone to love and a family. I’m a little iffy on whether or not Irene was actually in love with him, but in those times being someone’s lover was seen as the absolute closest you could be to someone and you couldn’t really get a marriage annulled. Once they were together-together Irene thought she could never lose Shad.

For a while, it was Irene and Shad against the world. The rest of the Divine Warriors came after. They were all good people who had some kind of power, a power that Irene could help them foster into something they could use for the greater good. They became friends by virtue of spending a ton of time together and working to become a team because they realized their different dynamics and abilities actually meshed well, but above that they were always Irene’s most devout followers right up until they were shown by Irene herself that she wasn’t as good as everyone thought. I mean, if God-God were your personal friend, wouldn’t you be a believer too?

Everything fell apart after the relics were made. After they return home for the first time in ages, Shad goes looking for their daughter, so excited to see her sweet smile, only to not be able to find her anywhere. And when he goes to ask Irene for help looking for their baby girl, he’s told that she’s been in his relic the entire time, that it was her soul that had been used to form Shad’s weapon. Shad is obviously heartbroken, demanding to know why she would do such a thing, but Irene can’t understand that what she did was wrong. She can’t even fathom it. In her eyes, having their daughter was nowhere near as important as having Shad, because he’s the only equal she’s ever known and nobody else even compares. She’s struck dumb and feels incredibly betrayed when Shad turns against her because she’s been under the impression that, since they’re the same, he felt exactly the way she did. If she can’t have him, though, then at least she still has the rest of the Divine Warriors; they love her, they worship her, they’d never betray her like this.

Except Shad was one of their own. They hesitate for just a second when she says Shad’s turned against them and is an enemy, but it’s Irene so she can’t be wrong, right? But as the days stretch on they start to realize that Shad only wants to hurt Irene and he’s got a damn good reason for it. By the time they recognize that Irene is bad guy here, it’s too late. Instead, the Divine Warriors shatter Shad’s relic so it can’t be given to anyone else, so it can’t help turn this into a cycle and scatter the fragments, then disappear to build their temples. By the time they reconnect, ready to hear Irene out, Irene’s disappeared.

The stuff with the guards is way more specific.

When Anastasia (Aphmau) first appears, Garroth doesn’t pay her much mind. He’s got enough to worry about and she’s not hurting anyone, just kind of dipping in and out of town every once in a while. Then he realizes that she’s been fixing up the village and helping people out. She’s a very kind woman in a time when most people can’t afford to be kind, and fairly protective of Phoenix Drop despite not really living there or being close to its citizens. But she’s also fairly reckless with her own life and, despite knowing just about every trade there is, doesn’t actually know much about the world she lives in. Garroth is her protector first, then they become something maybe like friends, and he only develops feelings for her after she’s already started settling into her position as Lord. He shoves these feelings real deep down though and never makes a solid effort to act on them, it’d be improper considering their positions and cloud his judgement more than it already has. It’s enough that he can be her friend, that he can see that she’s happy, that he can be close to her and help her through whatever she needs him for. He probably gives her lessons about Lord stuff.

I’m debating where I should put Laurance and Anastasia’s first meeting, because I really like the idea of what they had going in Rebirth where Laurance first saw her when she was at her most frantic, but in the OG meeting he first sees her as someone who’ll go out of their way to fix their mistakes. Either way, it’s love at first sight for this sucker because he’s the kind of person who falls in love at the drop of a hat and who loves nearly everybody he comes across. He flirts because that’s the way he learned to talk to people who make him nervous and he’s only serious about it until he gets rejected, after which it’s just fun between friends. They’re amazing friends, partially because they’re on the same wavelength about a lot of things, partially because of trauma bonding. As time goes on, he gradually becomes more protective of and devoted to Anastasia as a Lord and he’s very serious about her personal safety. Laurance is always the one Garroth sends to negotiate with Anastasia about protective measures when she leaves the village since he always manages to convince her to take at least one of them along.

Dante’s conflicted about how he feels about Anastasia because he thinks of her like a sister. He has so many emotions about this, including feeling just a little bit guilty about it. He sees her as kind-hearted, adventurous, and always good for cheering someone up. It’s easy to joke around with her and playfight during training sessions. He trusts her implicitly, feels like he can confide in her about anything. He’s wary about feeling like this after what happened with his real sibling, especially towards his Lord of all people, but those worries mellow out after he gets to know Anastasia better.

Anastasia was already well-established as a Lord when Katelyn came into play, and they met in that time when Phoenix Drop couldn’t afford any political missteps so her first impression was that Anastasia was a regal leader who inspired a daunting level of loyalty in her guards and citizens and knew her way around doublespeak. She only realizes how prone she is to accidentally giving her guards heart attacks after she’s been turned to their side, and finds the startling difference between the real Anastasia and the Lordsona she presents to other villages hilarious. They’re also eventually good friends, she’s probably the first real friend Katelyn’s had in a long time, and Katelyn finds her easier to get along with than most of the other ladies at first because she’s gotten so used to interacting only with people in positions of power or the guards under their command since she was picked for the Jo9. They really bond during quiet moments travelling together. Having to trust your back to someone while you sleep in potentially hostile territory will do that for you.

I think a big difference between the relationships between Irene and the Divine Warriors and Anastasia with her guards is that Irene doesn’t feel anything, while Anastasia sometimes feels too much and that greatly affects the way they connect with people.

Another is that, nine times out of ten, Anastasia's guards would sacrifice their lives for her at the first hint of real danger. No one of the Divine Warriors would ever think to truly sacrifice themselves for Irene. What could possibly kill a goddess?

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onlyplatonicirl · 3 months ago

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boom explosion. guess what its been 2 years since i came into your ask box to bother you about blogverse!!! as usual its the roleplayer behind the first lorelcest kid Oleander, Mercury, and most importantly to me, Bv!Shandyo

genuine apologies if you dont enjoy these! thats pretty fair and i get that it didnt affect everyone else as strongly as it did me, i just feel like its important that you know how much youve affected my life positively.

so, i was a bullied, neglected kid with unsupervised internet acess when blogverse happened (still a kid just less, woo!) and blogverse, especially your blog was probably the only part of the internet that i genuinely believed changed me for the better.

the sense of belonging, escapism, and the opportunity to create a character and show them to others like me was incredibly beneficial for me as a person and an artist in the long run, and to this day making OCs, writing, and especially drawing are passions that i consider deeply important to me- passions that blogverse and its community didnt exactly start, but they played a big role in fostering it. i know you just accidentally one day made an entire community that lasted two months but i cannot stress to you enough that it changed my life and i cant thank you & queenie (unsure if they still go by that, sorry) enough for it.

I also majorly admired you (and many others in a lot of the communities you associated with, but especially you) greatly as a person, artist & writer!!! you were my art goal and while that's changed as ive grown, striving towards this goal nurtured a hobby that i now know was/is a special interest to me.

while probably seeming like minor interactions with some kid who didnt know how to write a consistent character to you, to me your patience, kindness & continual creation of art genuinely helped me retreat from my abusive home life, gain a sense of belonging as a bullied autistic child, get better at art n writing, & grow as a person. i still lurk in communities like blogverse, but bv was my first and forever will be cherished in my memory.

so yeah. the things you do affect people whether you think so or not, and while i dont majorly interact with your content anymore, i hope youre well n you keep being great. :)

I want you to know that I’m at a friend’s house right now and she’s cooking herself dinner. I’m reading this paragraph and I literally start tearing up in front of her and she asks me what’s wrong 😭😭😭

Legitimately I feel like I have somehow won at life, like I won a lottery, because I don’t possibly know what I did to deserve messages like this and it makes me feel so amazing to know that I have positively effected the life of another person. That’s all I can hope for in life, and I can feel how much heart went into this letter so I’m trying to respond in turn

Even though at the time of all of this I had just around turned 18 years old, I was still very much a kid who was also trying to escape from a less-than-ideal home life. I never expected an audience when writing tcoti, it was purely my own self-indulgent passion project with my own hyper-specific headcanons. The fact that other people resonated with it so much and it created so many other inspirations as completely unexpected and absolutely baffling to me. I could have never seen it coming in a million years. It changed MY life for the better to know a my own silly utmv ideas literally inspired like. Countless others

I’m also going to share this post with Queenie, because they NEED to see this. Blogverse was her passionate project and I think to know you were as touched by it as she was and loved the writing is amazing. Also I’m showing Slime. @cosmic-chronologer look at this post with your eyes. I didn’t contribute with the writing as much as I should have because of how busy I was, and the real masterminds behind the project go to Slime Queenie and Achro. I hope they see this message!!!!

Thank you for telling me about the positive impact me and the others have had on you, it genuinely makes me so happy to hear. I’m SO happy you’re still continuing to create!! Most of my utmv friends back from then have left the fandom obv but I’m still in contact with most of them :) it means so much to me that you told me, because otherwise I would have never known how you feel!!!!!

I wish you have been well all these years. I loved all the ship kids you made :))))))

#ask lorel #boyswillbedogz #blogverse

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youcouldmakealife · 1 year ago

Text

LBTE: Jared (158-160)

In which there are meetings.

If you'd like to follow along, the series page is here.

158. Under Advisement

Sit down, it’s actually a good thing I have a chance to talk to you guys without PR breathing down my neck.”

“Um,” Jared says. Private meetings with GMs are not historically his favourite thing, even if Foster’s always been cool before. “Should we — maybe we should wait for everyone?”

“No, no,” Foster says. “Sit.”

Brian Foster: PR’s worst nightmare.

“Ownership’s explicitly told me you’re not currently tradeable assets — I didn’t need to be told that, by the way, I just want you to know that the first thing they said to me. Well, actually not the first thing, the first thing was — never mind, I’m rambling, I do that. It’s an annoying habit.”

“It’s not annoying,” Jared says, which gets him a grateful look from Bryce as well as Foster. “I think PR would have been pretty cool with that speech, honestly.”

“Are you kidding?” Foster says. “It’d be all ‘you can’t identify who asked for advice, Brian!’ ‘you can’t tell them about a private conversation with the owner, Brian!’ Though probably that’s more HR. Who are also going to be at the meeting, by the way. It’s an all hands kind of meeting. We probably should have booked a conference room. Not that we need to book, it’s — never mind.”

PR’s worst nightmare. Also there are three people in this room and maybe one functioning brain to mouth filter between them.

“Of course they do,” Foster says, then frowns at him. “I told you to as well. Anyway don’t tell them I told you that stuff. I shouldn’t have. That’s — I know the rambling is annoying. I’m trying to get better about it.”

I am very fond of this man.

“I couldn’t figure out how to book the conference rooms,” Foster says. “The system kept locking me out.”

“You’re the GM, Brian,” Dwyer says. “You delegate that. Stay here, I’ll find us a conference room.”

Everyone suddenly arrives, then they scatter, off on the hunt for a room big enough to hold everyone, then on the hunt for someone who has keys to the room, then calling Summers and Greg to let them know things will be delayed. Foster was right — everyone calls him Brian, and there are a lot of exasperated ‘Brian’s being said, while Bryce and Jared sit in Foster’s office, forgotten for the moment.

Very, very fond of this disaster GM.

“Babe—“ Jared says, then Foster’s coming in, saying, “Sorry to barge in!”, like they aren’t sitting in his office, then, “They found a conference room. I’m not allowed to organise meetings anymore. Did you guys want coffee? Shelley’s assistant is going on a coffee run.”

Every bit I write of Brian makes me smile. A little treat for me.

“Okay,” Foster says, then, retreats, mumbling something to himself that Jared can hear — he’s reciting Bryce’s drink order under his breath, presumably so he doesn’t forget it.

“Oh,” Foster says, bursting right back in. “You guys should probably come to the conference room, eh?”

He, like Greg, is doing his best.

So — small mercies, he guesses. They have supportive friends and teammates. His parents are giving him some distance because he asked for it, but they’re standing by. Bryce’s mom came with food and hugs. Their GM is behind them, as is their room, and they couldn’t have depended on that in Calgary or Edmonton. This could have happened earlier in their relationship, when Bryce was less comfortable with his sexuality and Jared had less faith in them as a unit. It really could have been so much worse.

Listing all sorts of possibilities that could have, but did not, occur in this narrative.

Do we need Dmitry as an annoying chaperone going forward Jared texts Stephen after Elaine heads out. He wonders after if that’s a confusing question, but then decides that Stephen pretends to be omniscient often enough that he can figure it out or be confused.

Gabe is much less annoying if you require a chaperone Stephen replies, which is comforting, and also true.

Yes but Jared doesn’t scowl the moment Gabe enters a room, so that will do nothing to mitigate Jared’s soppy face.

Also: confirmed, Stephen is omniscient. Or just very on Jared’s wavelength.

“What’s twitter saying about us now?”

“How should I know?” Bryce asks, but his guilty face gives him away and he knows it.

Someone must stop him.

“It’s not as bad as I figured it’d be,” Bryce says. “Like. I don’t know if I made it bigger in my own head all along, or if it’s like — it was that bad, the first few times players came out, and then time passed and it kept happening and people got used to it. I don’t know. There’s shit but it like — honestly people said worse shit about me when I got traded to the Canucks. By like, a lot.”

That’s weirdly unsurprising, and both depressing and encouraging at the same time. Like, sure, you can marry a dude, but playing for a divisional rival? That’s a bridge too far.

The conversation has significantly changed since Marc and Dan were outed (2010). There’s some extremely alarming backsliding happening, but all told, it would be a very different reaction than what Bryce witnessed as a teen.

Also seriously imagine if Leon Draisaitl joined the Flames or something. CHAOS. OUTRAGE!!

“And everyone’s talking about how hot you are,” Bryce says. “Which, like, obviously I agree.”

Jared rolls his eyes. “They are not,” he says.

They are. Incessantly.

And it’s kind of comforting to know that while Jared would get caught obsessing over all the worst tweets, Bryce is focusing on the ones that call Jared hot. Not the ones complimenting him — and if there are tweets about Jared being hot, there are probably twice as many about Bryce — but Jared.

There are not twice as many about Bryce.

“What’s that for?” Bryce asks when Jared kisses his temple, the crest of his cheekbone, his mouth as it curves up. He was clearly expecting that argument about cognitive bias, and he looks confused but pleased that he’s getting kissed instead.

“Nothing,” Jared says, and takes that golden opportunity, Bryce smiling, guard down, to confiscate his phone, because clearly Bryce needs to be saved from himself.

Bryce so touched he forgot about machinations.

159. Rehearsal

Bryce makes a noncommittal sound, and Jared breaks his own ‘don’t touch the driver’ rule, reaching out and squeezing Bryce’s thigh in a way he hopes is comforting and not like, grope-y. Not the time for grope-y. Kind of because of the general situation, but mostly because of the whole driving thing.

No groping in motor vehicles. This is not a lesson Jared needs to learn twice, unlike the shower lesson.

Jared wonders if they opted for a younger employee to make them feel less defensive, more related to. If there’s one department he can assume is always trying to spin something, it’s PR.

Yes.

Grace also does a lot of the social media stuff though, and they knew this wasn’t something they could handle exclusively via traditional media. So ‘relates to the youth’ but also ‘is the youth’. She’s in her late 20s, which they consider close enough. There are youth-ier employees, but nobody’s putting an intern in charge of this, even with supervision.

“Before we start discussing how the press conference is going to go, I want to hear from you guys, in your words, the answers to some of the questions you’re probably going to get,” Grace says. “And we can build on everything from there, okay?”

In other words: how much do I have to edit the words that will be coming out of your mouths?

Jared tries not to wince. He thinks he fails. Bryce glances over at Jared, and then gives a very tame, very redacted version of camp. Jared only sounds moderately dickish in it, which is impressive, really, because now that he’s no longer seventeen, he accepts that he was extremely dickish the entire time, and also extremely lucky that Bryce likes that about him for some reason.

I think this is the first time Jared admits, without caveats, that he was an asshole to Bryce at the camp. No ‘but he was a douche’ quickly following or the like, no defensive ‘he started it’, just ‘I was extremely dickish to Bryce’. Good work, Jared. (He’s still never telling Bryce he was right about that stretch, even though they both know he was)

“That’s how we met!” Bryce says.

“It sounds sketchy,” Jared says.

“It sounds so sketchy,” Grace confirms.

It was supposed to BE sketchy. Fucking Bryce, man.

“Great,” Grace says. It does not sound like she thinks it’s great, honestly.

“Jared was really mature for—“ Bryce starts, then quiets when Jared kicks his ankle before he makes things sound even sketchier.

NO, BRYCE.

“I’m not going to ask you to lie about how you met,” Grace says. “But I am going to ask you to not tell the truth, unless you want people to start talking about power differentials and the age of consent.”

“Not in Canada,” Jared says. “Age of consent is sixteen.”

Of note! Because of course Jared looked it up (there are also ‘Romeo and Juliet’ near in age exceptions that would encompass their relationship, because nobody wants that law getting used to harass a sixteen year old dating a fifteen year old.)

“It wasn’t sketchy,” Bryce tells her very earnestly. “I know it sounds sketchy, but it was like—“

Jared silently wills Bryce not to say ‘true love’.

“—true love,” Bryce says.

BRYCE. NO.

“Like, we’re married,” Bryce says. “We’re spending the rest of our lives together. It was like—“

Jared hopes ‘fate’ or ‘destiny’ isn’t leaving Bryce’s mouth next.

“—meant to be, y’know?” Bryce says. “Stop looking at me like that, J.”

“I’m not even looking at you,” Jared says. He is looking at the table, because he can’t bear to accidentally meet Grace’s eye while Bryce is saying these things.

Bryce is starting to warm up to this media business as he realises he can say things like ‘true love’ and ‘meant to be’ and nobody starts booing and face washing him.

“This is exactly the kind of dynamic we want. People tend to push back against the gross in love stuff when it seems manufactured, but it’s pretty clear it’s genuine. We can definitely run with this.”

This is a very kind way of calling Bryce gross.

“That’s not really Jared’s thing,” Bryce says.

“We could try?” Jared says weakly.

“No,” Bryce says. “That’s — that’s not J. We’re not like — we’re not coming out just to pretend to be people we’re not.”

Oh Bryce.

“Just because you’re stupidly romantic like, naturally, does not mean I can’t be just as gross as you if I want to be,” Jared says.

He doesn’t believe it even as he’s saying it, and neither does Bryce, judging by his face. Which is — fair. It’s fair. Nobody could compete with Bryce’s level of mushy, but Jared isn’t even in the running. Dmitry is mushier with Bryce in public than Jared is. And frankly Jared’s fine with that, but he can be mushy if he has to. He guesses.

“Doing this in public is also totally acceptable,” Grace says.

“Doing what?” Jared asks.

As Jared is feebly arguing he can be romantic, Bryce continues to have visible hearts in his eyes for his lying husband. It’s a great dynamic. Grace is excited about it. (she hasn’t seen them in front of cameras yet.)

They exchange contact information, making sure to CC Summers. Also Greg, though that’s more so he doesn’t feel left out. This is Summers’ show, and Jared thinks Greg knows it, and honestly doesn’t think he minds. Jared certainly doesn’t.

I cannot begin to express how relieved Greg is that this is Dave’s show.

“Absolutely no internet,” Grace tells them. “None. I mean, other than the email I’m going to send you, obviously.”

“Not even funny dog videos?” Bryce asks.

Bryce has to make sure after Dave’s ‘nobody but me and Greg’ somehow allowed him to take calls from his mom.

“Okay, fine, you can have funny animal videos,” Grace says. “But stay off all social media. Also anything to do with hockey.”

“Can I check the box scores, though?” Bryce asks. “It’s important to keep up with the rest of the league.”

Grace sighs. “Okay. You can have box scores and animal videos. And that’s it.”

“But—“ Bryce says.

Jared doesn’t see Bryce much in the context of ‘authority figures’ (loosely, in Grace’s case, but she is calling the shots), so beyond Bryce and Dave having a combative relationship, Jared misses part of the issue with Bryce in these situations is that he sometimes (often) pushes back just to push back. He’s gotten a lot better about it as he’s matured, but sometimes he can’t help himself.

“Everyone likes you best,” Bryce mutters as they’re walking to their car, but only after someone from security made sure no one was lurking in the underground parking lot hoping to ambush them for a picture or a scoop. Which is obviously such a fun thing Jared hopes will continue indefinitely.

“You’ve never checked the weather in your entire life,” Jared says.

“I could,” Bryce says. “Maybe I’m getting old and boring.”

“Knowing what it’s like out is not boring,” Jared says. “It’s preparation. Are you mimicking me right now?”

“No,” Bryce mutters, abruptly ceasing.

Jared elbows Bryce in the side, and Bryce hip checks him right into a pillar. Gently, but still: rude.

They don’t bicker much — it’s more Jared snarking at Bryce, but it’s fun when Bryce bites back. For me and for Jared.

160. Whirlwind

So Jared guesses they got engaged like, practically as soon as they got together. Like, boom, date three or something: engaged. Bryce moves fast in the storyline. Also in real life, but not that fast. Jared thinks Bryce in this storyline moves a little too fast, frankly. And it isn’t realistic that Jared in this storyline said yes that early in their relationship.

Nitpicking Grace’s storyline for OOC behaviour is peak Jared.

“Please,” Grace says, pinching her nose. “It was a whirlwind romance. Based on a friendship that grew out of shared interests and mutual respect and nobody being anybody else’s coach at the time.”

Jared would like to again point out that Bryce was a terrible couch who didn’t do anything but sulk, so it basically doesn’t count.

“You come here, wringing your hands about best business practices,” Foster says. “When a decade ago both Riley and Lapointe went to the Habs as a package deal. Did you forget about that or are you just coming here with a bullshit line of reasoning so you can pretend you’re not being homophobic as you’re asking homophobic questions? You don’t get to have it both ways. You don’t get to say their sexuality has nothing to do with this and then turn right around and ask me if I knew about their sexuality when I signed them. That’s not how this works.”

Brian Foster’s entire press conference was some of the most fun I’ve ever had writing a scene. Pure Id.

Grace finds a tweet with a longer clip, in which Foster manages to insult three media organisations, mock homophobic fans, swear at least half a dozen times, and reiterate the organisation’s support for Bryce and Jared. He also takes a question about the power play.

Love me a man who can multitask.

“I think you should probably give in and start calling him Brian?” Bryce says, looking over at Jared. Bryce caved to his demands the third time Foster explicitly told him to, but Jared wasn’t planning on it: it felt too weird. But he may have to revise that decision.

“He does keep asking me to,” Jared says.

Jared figures angry monologue defending him and Bryce earns first name basis.

He’s sure there’s already going to be ‘wow, Marcus is slumming with a middle sixer’ shit.

“Literally nobody is going to be saying that,” Bryce tells him. “Like. At all.”

Babe you’re the arm candy.

“Bryce!” Jared says.

Bryce very busily looks at literally everything but Jared.

“Stop going online!” Jared says.

He can’t help it!

“I mean, not by Joe from Kamloops who’s decided he can’t support the Canucks anymore, no,” Jared says. “And definitely not Jim from Red Deer who doesn’t give a shit about the Canucks, but has come to say he’s pretty positive your shoulder injury is proof that being gay is morally wrong, actually.”

No offence to Joes and Jims. Full offence to Kamloops and Red Deer.

And Dmitry will probably beat them up, judging by the text he sent Jared assuring him that he will beat them up, along with approximately seventeen emojis Jared didn’t bother trying to parse.

Look: emojis transcend language. A fist is a fist is a fist.

“Okay, then quit reading the opinions of people who are so miserable that the idea of two people in love with each other makes them furious,” Jared says. “It’s pathetic. They’re pathetic.”

Jared was at a very tender, vulnerable age when he saw some of the blowback of the OG coming out controversy. It didn’t make things easier for him as he started to come to terms with his sexuality, and it did not make Jared like people any more than he was originally inclined to.

“They’re planning on like, rainbow flags,” Bryce says. “Canucks fans. They’re coordinating it online. They’re planning on bringing rainbow flags. And supportive signs and stuff. Some have taken pictures. They’re — they’re really nice.”

It isn't all bad though.

“There aren’t any bad ones,” Gabe says, nudging Jared’s shoulder. “If that’s why you’re keeping your head down.”

“I wasn’t doing it on purpose,” Jared says.

This warm up scene is dialogue and action heavy because Jared’s trying really hard not to feel anything right now, starting with keeping his eyes on the ice so he can't see the crowd.

“There’s one behind the net that says LJBTQ,” Gabe says. “The JB is in a heart. I thought it was kind of clever, but you just know someone on the internet is going to say it’s bi erasure. Which, as a bi dude, I completely agree there’s bi erasure in the community, but — oh, that one says PB&J and peanut butter and jelly are holding hands. It’s adorable. I have no idea what the P could be, though. Maybe Pacific? That’d work, I guess, but—

The P stands for ‘we can’t make a PB&J pun without the P’, for the record. Sometimes it’s not that deep.

“Gabe,” Jared says.

“Okay, okay,” Gabe says, putting his hands up, and skates over to where Dmitry’s doing the ridiculous motions he calls stretches.

Jared looks up, but the lights are bright and his eyes are blurry and all he can see is a wash of colour, so he blinks and blinks and goes to find another puck to try to get in the back of the net.

God Gabe can’t you see Jared is trying not to feel emotions?

“If anyone says shit to you,“ Dmitry says. “Tell me. I will fight them.”

“I know,” Jared says.

“Even if they say ‘hello’ or ‘good evening’,” Dmitry says. “I will fight them.”

“Kind of sounds like you just want an excuse to fight someone,” Jared says.

Well. Yes. But also — got your back.

But something breaks through during a TV timeout, has him looking up at the Jumbotron, because the applause and cheers are louder than a kiss cam or dance cam or celebrity lookalike. The camera’s on Bryce in the press box, looking a little stunned. After a moment Leo elbows him, grinning, and Bryce raises a hand to wave at the crowd in acknowledgement, the sound intensifying in response. The Canucks all bang their sticks against the boards, and Jared is late to join them, eyes caught on Bryce’s face.

And Jared knows this is a home game. He knows it isn’t going to be anything like this in other arenas, knows other teams’ fans won’t be this supportive, that opponents are going to use this against them, that there are always going to be people that think less of Bryce, of both of them, simply because they love each other. He knows that.

But Jared also knows Bryce is looking bashful but smiling, a mixture of happiness and bone deep relief on his face, and in this moment, that’s the only thing in the entire world that matters.

The moment that Bryce gets everything he never even dreamed of hoping for. That he gets everything he never thought he could have.

This is the original ending, before one last arc decided to jump onto the back. I also consider it the end of the climax — it’s all denouement from here.

#liveblogging the end

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