#and like one thing is he IS a year and a half or so younger than me which is slightly awkward now but won’t be in even just a year or so

[charyou-tree]

Buckle up, I have a whole rant locked and loaded about this one:

For people born before that demographic, computers weren't around when they were growing up, so its understandable that they're playing catch-up.

People in that demographic grew up with desktop/laptop computers that worked pretty much the same as you would expect from a general office PC or school computer, so the skills they learned playing/modding games or messaging their friends through a web browser directly translated to useful office skills later. Even basic things like using Word, installing programs, navigating folders, using a keyboard, were all taught implicitly by self-motivated kids messing around with the family computer, and often teaching their friends to play together. I remember the assumption being that kids would always be better at tech than their parents because they were "digital natives" who learned how best to use it young. This may have caused a kind of complacency about teaching kids how to use technology, which I'll come back to later.

For people born after that demographic, we enter the era of smart-devices being most people's primary computing appliance, and the era of "the app". It doesn't make sense for many families to buy a multiple-hundred-dollar minimum PC/laptop when they're probably already paying that much for everybody to have a phone that does "nearly as much".

Through a deliberate effort by major software enterprises, consumers were deliberately kept in the dark about how the software they used actually worked. App stores are walled gardens of proprietary software that can't be modified or even verified that it does what it says. Sure, any toddler can semi-use an ipad, but the trade off is that even skilled users are inherently limited in what they're able to accomplish on such a system. And none of the skills of navigating between game/social media apps on a touchscreen really translate to practical skills that will help in any sort of academic or professional environment.

When I was a TA for undergraduate physics courses, getting the adult students to download and install a piece of free software was like pulling teeth, but it was hardly the student's fault. Half of them were using locked-down chromebooks that defaulted to saving everything somewhere in the cloud, so even getting a file downloaded, much less installed and executable, was made deliberately near-impossible.

Meanwhile, in the ~30, arguably 40 years since Personal Computers have revolutionized home life and office tasks, hardly anywhere have those skills been added to school curricula! We're still operating as though the internet is a neat fad that might pass any day now. Although really, its because schools are barely able to offer what they presently do being chronically starved of funding by a society that doesn't value educating their children.

So, the net result of this is there's a narrow window of people who grew up after computers were affordable but before they became enshittified and deliberately less-capable app-based devices became the default that actually learned non-trivial PC skills en masse.

That's not to say nobody outside that demographic knows anything about computers! My maternal grandfather is 85 and he built his own last 3 PCs! And there are still plenty of kids cooking up their own Minecraft mods with their friends, but the younger-millennial older-gen-z demographic had some unique advantages when it came to learning about technology.

Technological literacy only exists in a very slim age demographic of people born from roughly 1980 to roughly 2007

[nana-luvy]

. So I can't help with training now ?

Installment of the Mine series

warnings: fluff, playboy!Luke, fem!reader, daughter of Athena!reader, swearing

Because you're sick of being this thing he plays with, and confront him on a whim even if it's so unlike you.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Just as you usually did, you had chosen to lead the newbies’ training session, for the inexperienced, new campers who needed special attention, care, and most of all patience, and those were qualities you could pride yourself with. Usually, you lead this lesson with the help of a Lila, a Demeter kid who fought like an Ares one, but with a patience none of Clarisse’s siblings could ever muster to teach the youngers. Except, unlike the usual, you had to take care of the lesson by yourself this time, as Lila was apparently lying in a bed in the infirmary after an unsuccessful experiment in the greenhouse.

So there you were, setting up the practice dummies in an empty part of the field before you’d get too busy helping to actually do it, rearranging the wooden swords on the rack so they’d be ready to practice with, and eventually going over the plan you had for the lesson. As you tried a mini version of the moves to remember the small dance to teach later, you heard heavy steps coming closer, looking their way. ‘Luke, fuck no.’

“Hey, bunny.” His tone was giddy, face still harboring that flirty smile he seemed to always show whenever you were in his vicinity, like he was trying to catch a fly with displayed honey.

“Don’t call me bunny, Luke.” In comparison, your tone was dry, devoid of any of the previous sweetness you seemed to always muster whenever he was around, like your brain was reacting to his mere presence.

“Wooh, it’s too early to be harsh like that, you should really consider-”

“What are you doing here? Straight to the point please.”

His smile didn’t falter, or at most his lips slightly pursed in frustration, and he walked just a little closer, a few feet separating you both. “Well, I’m here for the training session, of course.” And his tone was as matter-of-fact as his eyes screamed mischief.

Your lips pursed as your eyes narrowed, taking Luke in for a second before deciding it was not worth it, you'd already given him way too much of your time over the course of the past months, and you were not gonna carry on with this doomed cycle. So you turned away from him, not giving him the satisfaction of a witty answer. And you silently vowed not to spare him any more thought than needed.

But as the session began, your vow quickly broke, mind working overtime to understand what the fuck Luke Castellan was doing there. From what you knew of him, and after years of pinning you knew a lot, he was one to help —of course, the sweet, always-here-to-help golden boy, the perfect counselor— but not this way. No, what he liked best was challenge. So he always lent a hand to practice with the most advanced, the most skilled of swordsmen, proving to whoever that he deserved his title as the number one, and practicing techniques on people who could at least block them, maybe even counter.

Luke liked challenge, he didn't like novice mediocrity and never-used potential. So he had absolutely no reason to be there, in the morning, teaching a bunch 10-year-olds kids who could barely hold straight up their wooden swords and looked more like scared kittens with wobbly legs when they had to fight one-another rather than actual warrior. He had no reason. Unless he did have one.

You tried to push through the whole hour and a half without giving it much attention, your look obviously avoiding him when he expected instructions on how to continue the session; yet you couldn’t help but have to shake out of it when you caught your gaze softening as you looked at Luke, with his back turned, helping a kid adjust his stance and throw a nice blow at a straw figure, high-fiving him in the process… Why did he have to be this perfect image all the time, and yet this total douche in real life ?

Deep in thought, you didn’t realize Luke had moved by now, your eyes still trained to the struggling kids, and only got startled by his presence as two large hands went to rest on your shoulder, casually massaging the tensions off your muscles. “Wow, bunny, you should stop being so anxious, doesn’t do wonders for your posture.” And maybe this was meant as a joke, a playful, mindless little quip. But oh, did it get on your nerves.

You slapped his hands away as you turned to face Luke, immediately taking a step back at the compromising proximity. “I said stop ca- ugh, whatever…” The way you ran your hand down your face exuded frustration, not even giving the courtesy of pretending. “I can’t stress it more, what are you doing here ?”

He had to give it to you, at least you kept the foul language for out of innocents’ ear shots. “What, so I can’t simply want to help with training now ?”

“No,” you immediately cut him off, mimicking the way he crossed his arms over his chest, though yours did look like twigs in comparison. “You don’t want to, you have no business here.”

“Uh, ouch ? Where does that come from ?” he questioned, eyebrows quirked in both amusement and uneasiness, under your blazing gaze. One he’d seen before, but had appreciated way much more that time.

“You don’t help youngers, Luke, you like the challenge and pride you get from training with the strongest around and beating them again and again.”

His smile twisted into an even more annoying one, if that was possible, stretching in a smug crescent as his head tilted to the side. “Wow, how do you know so much ? One would almost think you’re kinda into me.”

“Funny story for you, Castellan,” you started, pinning him in place when your gaze turned ice cold. “It wasn’t just a thought, it was a fact, and you threw your opportunity away, mkay ? Notice the use of past tense. So yes, I might know a few things, and yes, I might be inclined to throw them in your face at every occasion I get, though I hope our meetings will be scarce. That doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

You barely left one more second looking at the poor boy, his smirk long lost and morphed into a slightly slack jaw, clapping your hands together loudly to get the kids’ attention, freeing them from the session as the nymphs were soon to ring the bell for lunch.

“You know, I kinda get why you help them, it’s also pretty rewarding,” Luke chimed in from behind, apparently back from his…moment as he looked at all the young children run in direction of the cabins.

You looked at him behind your shoulder with a small smirk, before training your gaze back to the absolute chaos of a scenery stretching in front of you, straw dummies discarded on the grass, wooden swords scattered on the ground and water bottles lying there to top it off.

“You know the most rewarding thing ? Not being yelled at by the earth nymphs after a session that looks like that. Wouldn’t want to get on their bad side on your first day, would you ?” You reached for a nearby rake, shoving it in his hands. “Thanks for volunteering to clean up, Luke, that’s very nice of you ~”

Many expressions passed through the counselor’s features, contentment wasn’t one of them. But he couldn’t let an opportunity slide when he had you there.

“So when’s the next session ? I feel like I’m getting the hang of this.”

“Don’t feel pressured to come back. Actually, no…” You turned to him from a few feet away, your smile soft but your eyes devoid of any of that. “Feel pressured not to come near me, I say it with all my heart.”

“Oh, bunny…” he simply sighed, watching the small bounce in your steps as you walked away.

Second part up, everybody say yaaaaay

Hope you guys like it so far heheh <3

- Love, Nana

taglist. @cas-planet @spider-ghoul @smileysunshinesworld @mlbmarichat13

[cryptid-doodles-212]

Mirrors | Stanley and Stanford

A short piece I wrote based on headcanon I have that Ford has suffered from "Wax Stan problem" (seeing his brother's face everywhere), as much as Stanley did, during their lives apart

special thanks to @we-stan-the-stans-27 for helping me brainstorm writing Ford properly, as he's one of the hardest to write characters I've encountered

tw minor mention of blood (1 shaving injury and 1 shoulder injury) and a mention of a bar fight that took place offscreen

☆ ☆ ☆

The first time it happens, Stanley Pines is young.

Eyes stinging from the dust sticking to his face from the cargo boxes, he finally took an advice from a senior colleague, along with a pair of his old glasses. They aren't much - rims outdated and far too thick for someone Stan's age, with a piece of tape hanging sadly on one of the handles. But the glass is thin and doesn't distort Stan's vision; not that he would admit that he actually sees better than he had in years.

Younger than the El Diablo he's sitting in, younger than the duffel bag sprawled on the back seat, full of remnants of life he had just a few months ago. Shirts he wasn't particularly attached to, underwear that has seen better days, his brother's toothbrush. A testimony of how little his family knew him.

Not his mother, no. But him.... he was like that since Stan could remember.

The first time it happens, Stan is back to the driver seat of his temporary home, fresh from a 14 hour shift at the docks of Glass Shard Beach. He can't leave that place still; the pay is low but the chances of running into anyone he knows are low as well. Parked in the back of the warehouses after sharing the last valuable thing he had with a night guard (a watch that will take a while for Filbrick to notice is missing from one of the bottom drawers of the old desk in the pawn shop), he glances at the rearview mirror.

After all, if Filbrick believed he passed the test with a 20/20 vision, and Stanford loved the agenda with soft silk bookmark thread, there was no harm in not disclosing where the money went.

He wasn't much of a reader, anyway, he told himself. On a tight schedule with long hours, Stan only had time for the most basic hygiene - this meant that his once neatly slicked back hair had grown slightly, and the curls that graced his brother's head started to break through on him as well. Disheveled, his father would say.

The only thing he had to have time for is shaving, which he was starting to regret.

The bespectacled face, half covered in curls, neatly shaved, stared him back from the rearview mirror. It was like a gut punch. The next morning, while the sun has barely risen on the docks and the fog has not cleared out yet, Stan makes sure to throw his razors as deep into the trash can as possible.

☆ ☆ ☆

The second time it happens, Stanley Pines is on the run.

It was just a job, cheap job, low risk (or so he was told); he's breathless, clutching the box he was told just needs delivering without asking too much.

And now there are four patrol cars in front of that building, and he's shaking. It's middle of June and he's shaking to his bones in an alleyway, listening to the persistent sirens. The sound of his own heartbeat almost muffles the footsteps down the street, getting dangerously close to his hiding spot.

Then, they stop.

The sudden silence makes him look up, up and ahead at the dirty glass of a closed electronics store; full of dark and empty TV screens. On one of them, he sees it. Not even the thick beard can hide it, or the lack of glasses. Hair wet from rain sticking to his temples, now a lot longer than what it used to be the last time he saw that face looking back at him at the beach, smiling.

Eyes gleaming in the sun reflected on the surface of the shallow water, breaths heavy from swimming, knowing that the time to go home is nearing before their father comes looking for them.

Sirens from the police cars coming back to life make the memory burst away. But the footsteps are getting farther and farther; until the street is empty again.

Throwing the box into the pile of garbage bags by the wall, Stan takes a breath and makes a beeline for the only place with a sign still lit at those deaf hours. The store is stuffy, and the static coming from the radio is too loud, but he is in a trance making his way through the single small aisle.

Industrial scissors in hands, and what was supposed to be breakfast money on the counter, Stan exits the place. After a few sharp turns and another alleyway, far from the crime scene (he is not a fool), he leans onto the brick wall. Soft strands in hand, he starts cutting; the hair is falling onto his shoulders, his jacket, his hands, but he doesn't stop.

Lost in a rhythmic sound of the blades working, he lets his heartbeat slow down. Without a mirror, he only stops when he's sure that he looks like no one in particular anymore.

The change left over from the business done was spent on a new frame, as the long ago loaned glasses had fallen apart by now. The new ones help sometimes, as much as he hates to admit, and keep him from making any kind of paperwork mistakes that could cost him his freedom. Again.

☆ ☆ ☆

The third time it happens, Stanley Pines has changed so many faces, he forgot what his own looks like.

The life on the run has not been kind to it - scars covering most of his nose, stray cuts from endless changing of his facial hair, bags under his eyes reminding him of the last time he slept for more than few hours in a row. The last... job he was on, Stan even played with bleach and dyes - resulting in his head now being a curly bush of grey from the humidity. It aged him even more, but it got the job done. They will never find the man responsible for the check fraud, and he, in return, will have a roof over his head for the next 6 months.

Now, the face looking back at him from a dirty motel mirror twists something in his stomach. And he can't put his finger on it.

Fresh out of another disposable persona with a long hair and a beard, he removed the facial hair from the center of his face first; which left him with lenghty sideburns, reaching to the bottom of his earlobe, as dark grey as his hair is. Everywhere but on the sides of his head, where the bleach decided to set in heavier and left him with a lighter halo.

Stan steps back. It doesn't click still.

Mildly annoyed, he turns the volume down on the radio - the muffled tune feeling too loud in his brain to think, accompanied with the downpour outside. He makes his way back (a few steps) into the bathroom, carefully skipping one of many broken tiles, and looks at the reflection again.

Nothing.

Back home, on a shelf full of pawn shop's finance books, there was a heavy album. Stanley remembers skimming through it one day with Stanford, during summer holidays. As much as he tries to call back to every photo in his mind, he cannot find this face in it. Only for a second, the image of his brother flashes and disappears. Stanford would have liked this guy, surely; resembling one of the many heroic figures in his nerdy fantasy books.

The stranger looks almost dangerous in his appearance, decades older than Stanley, his own eyes almost unrecognizable under the bushy dyed eyebrows. Dangerous, but comfortable in ways he can't explain. He would trust this man with his life.

There is another job waiting for him in a week; lot of clean straight cash. He could just stay as he is, saving time on coming up with another ridiculous cover up (he hated the heavy mustache and corporate cut). But, his stomach turns again.

The man in the mirror touches his own face, mesmerized. It takes a minute for Stanley to realize he's doing the same. He fights the urge to grab the cracked polaroid he has in his bag and trap the stranger. Instead, he grabs the razor again, and with one last effort to remember this face, he starts shaving further.

Any other disguise will do. Just not this one.

☆ ☆ ☆

The first time it fails, Stanford Pines is crying.

Alone in the bathroom of his home, cursing under his breath at the face in the mirror that refuses to grow proper facial hair that would leave him with a five-o-clock shadow. At the hair that has now been practically butchered, shorter strands protruding on one side, and almost shaven on the other.

He should have gone to the barber instead of acting like a fool at 2am. His father would let him, he lets him do so much since Stanford came home beaming with another scholarship offer.

Stanford wonders if he would notice the resemblance, as the thick gel falls off his hand onto the tiled floor, before he desperately tries to scoop it. His eyes sting, and his face is now wet and full of stray hairs.

Comforting himself while frantically stripping so that he can run the stain under the cold water, he looks in the mirror. A laugh escapes him, bitter one; despite his best attempts to replicate his brother's face he only half succeeded at it now that he hurt himself.

Would he remember that he had another son?

It doesn't matter, Stanford remembers; he doesn't want to forget, and he is terrified that he will. That's why, when his father grabbed the empty boxes and started filling them up until the bedroom was only Stanford's, he trembled as he pushed as many shirts under his mattress as he could. Sleeping in them every night.

Even now, one of them is on him, covered in hair gel and evidence of a horrible haircut. Still unwashed. Stanford is becoming slowly aware of the smell, but there is no one to notice. Mother is busy with Shermie as it is, meaning that the house has a lingering baby powder scent and dirty diapers at all times, and all his father cares about is that Stanford is leaving the house neat and proper.

He read somewhere that shaving more often will help the hairs grow thicker; reluctantly, as his vision is still blurry under the heavy glasses, he makes the first smooth movement of the razor across his jaw. And another. Far too late, Stanford realizes he's rushing himself, eager to see that face again, and he has to bite his lip to not scream out. He went too high, confirmed by a thin cut on his face right next to his ear. Now, along with the hair and the gel, there is blood dripping onto the shirt.

He only remembers Stanley bruised, hair a mess, bleeding. All of those hits that were meant for Stanford ended up on him. A while ago, now feeling like forever, he remembers an offhanded comment Stanley made after a house party he was dragged to; it was a pleasant night as they ended up grabbing a pizza after Stanley's multiple failures to get any girls' number, and sat on the hood of the El Diablo by the shore.

Stanford spent most of the time in the stuffy living room of some guy who was a friend of a friend of Stanley's, well, next to Stanley. He made sure to point out that dragging your twin brother while trying to flirt someone up may not have been the best first impression. Later at the shore, Stanley scoffed and laughed at this, saying that maybe Stanford should have tried instead; to which Stanford shrugged.

"Well, you're the pretty twin, Sixer. I got that rugged charm that not everyone can appreciate, y'know."

Now, looking at the injured reflection, Stanford knew how wrong his brother was.

☆ ☆ ☆

The second time it fails, Stanford Pines is covered in remnants of what was possibly the worst inter-dimensional bar fight he took part in.

Not even the shards stuck into his now bare shoulder hurt as much as his dignity; his fault for not checking his back and expecting that no cowardly moves will be made on him. He's getting reckless after 20 years.

Slumping into a makeshift chair, in a den turned hideout somewhere in the hills of this unforgiving dimension, he looks up at the broken floor length mirror hung on the wall across from him. What he sees, lifts his spirits if only for a moment.

When it caught his eye on a cluttered caravan wagon, he told himself it's for the experiments. Nothing else. Given the price he paid, the locals apparently valued it just as much, but he paid anyway.

And now it shows him how long his hair had grown; almost past his injured shoulder. He made sure to keep a close eye on the top, so that it doesn't grow too long and meet the bottom strands. The layers seemed almost perfect. Almost, as the rest of his face refused to cooperate. Despite being well into his age, his beard never truly grew gradually; not as thick as he wanted it to. Not shaving for a few days made his facial hair either be non existent or just sprout into a full cover like someone flipped a switch. He even tried testing the water and all other substances he got into contact with, in order to find a reason for this and control it.

The chair creaked as Stanford got up and crossed the room to stand before the mirror. As slowly as he could, being mindful of the injury, he stripped until he was shirtless.

Twenty years of brawling the creatures far beyond his imagination, sculpted his torso and arms - he could not escape the passing time but he grew stronger and it showed. Not that he needed to see it - his survival was a proof of his physical strength enough; but now he had someone to compare to. Covered in scars and ink, his body was a stark contrast to his face; untouched and smooth, lined only with unstoppable wrinkles. His window into another life. He touches the lower strands of his hair fondly, as if they will break any moment now.

No matter the brawl he's in, Stanford always covers his face; especially now that his hair had grown, and his arms got bulkier. He scoffs at the reflection, and the differences he still sees. It will take more work, but what were only glimpses of his brother before, are now coming together into a full image. In a way, they are growing old together.

But he will never let that face get injured, again.

☆ ☆ ☆

The third time it fails, there is blinding light everywhere around Stanford Pines.

His eyes are covered but he swears he feels the light searing through his skull. It burns until there is nothing but the darkness. And out of that darkness, once Stanford can see, comes that face.

The face that never would have occurred to him to try and replicate; and it hurts. It hurts so much that he scowls, seconds stretching into hours as he looks back at the man speaking to him, to the dark room with high ceilings, to the metal shards scattered on the floor from the impact of the portal.

It's not even the wrinkles and the graying hair, or the shabby clothes; it's the slumped shoulders carrying far too much weight in a lifetime. The discoloration from scarring in so many places that should not be visible from this distance. The soft lisp distorting the lips as the man speaks, be it from injury or loss of teeth. Stanford looks up and away. He tried so hard to replicate that face, to see him again in all of his unappreciated rugged charm as Stanley called it; and he never got it right.

Because the life he felt responsible for has shaped his brother with fists.

☆ ☆ ☆

The fourth time never came to be.

There was no more blinding light.

Only the man staring back at Stanley Pines, in flesh and blood, the way he did all those decades ago from the dirty motel mirror.

☆ ☆ ☆

[pleasuresofsohodolls]

⋆.ೃ - Greene!Reader

Greene!Reader who was practically Carl's guardian angel when his group first arrived at the farm - never leaving his room because he was the first person her age she had seen in months since the beginning of the apocalypse and she would've cursed the Lord above if he didn't live. Carl genuinely thought he was in heaven and she was an angel when he woke up.

Greene!Reader who is a complete mix of Beth and Maggie, given that they were the only examples of teenagers when she was younger was a rebellious brunette and a compliant blonde.

Greene!Reader who was jealous of Carl's 'crush' on Beth at the prison and would ignore him just to piss him off - even going so far as to put eggs in his cowboy hat, two things she learnt from Maggie.

Greene!Reader who is attached to the hip with Carl, wherever he is she is, and when they got to Alexandria and they had to spend time apart for more than five seconds she'd get all moody.

Greene!Reader who has Carl wrapped around her finger. She says she misses something? He is finding it. She's hungry? He's giving her half of his plate - even if she. argues. Michonne is endlessly teasing him about it but he can't find it in himself to care because he just loves her so much, she's always been there for him.

Greene!Reader who loves Glenn (in my heart he lives) and he's literally just the brother Shawn never was to her, given thirteen year age gap and all. Even though Glenn was ten years older, they liked all the same things. Video Games, Movies, he got her into skateboarding at the prison after he found one on a run, they're both equally as sarcastic as the other, and the most notable shared interest : Maggie. Although they both love her in different ways, she's their favourite person.

Greene!Reader who absolutely adores Judith. Whenever she can she's babysitting her, playing with her, holding her, anything involving Judith she is usually there. And this only makes Carl more obsessed with her, because she's so loving. She loves everything and anything cute and he feels the same way, except she's the everything and anything cute.

Greene!Reader who is obsessed with animals. When Carl told her he used to have a hamster she almost screamed, she was never allowed tiny pets like that due to living on such a large plot of land. She was always reading books with the horses back at the farm, randomly talking to foxes she finds in the woods, she's practically the apocalypse Snow White.

Greene!Reader who is always stealing Carl's clothes in the winter or to sleep in. It just brings her so much comfort to be able to smell Carl wherever she goes. Her attachment issues would probably get her into therapy in the old world.

Greene!Reader who despite being cautious and scared of every sound, loves sneaking out of Alexandria with Carl. She loves how freeing it is not being constantly watched by Maggie or Daryl. And she especially loves the amount of alone time it gives her with Carl, their first kiss was underneath their tree.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

Someone take the screen away from me I can't stop writing these 😭 I have so many different reader types for Carl in my head it's actually crazy I love this man so much 💔

[ambernotember]

snippet saturday

school concert au

“I swear, it’s even on his collar. I love animals with human names. Imagine making a vet appointment for Steve.”

Buck chuckled. “So if you had a pet you’d name them what, Alfred? Violetta?”

“Did I adopt an old butler?” Tommy took in Buck’s confused expression. “Batman? Alfred, his butler?”

“Oh, I don’t really watch a lot of superhero movies. Or well, movies in general.”

“Seriously?” If Buck was showing his class a photo of Tommy’s expression for a writing activity, he’d definitely file it under ‘baffled’.

“I’ve never been a really big movie person,” Buck shrugged.

“I should write you a list,” Tommy said, half to himself.

“Of movies?” Buck was amused. He’d watched a lot of Disney and Pixar with Chris when he was younger, and now with Jee, but he usually had too many things to catch up on when he was by himself, and would put on a podcast or an audiobook to listen to while he did laundry or cooked or did whatever other chores he’d forgotten about.

“Yeah. Like, top 52 you should know. One a week for a year.”

Buck laughed. “I pretty much only turn on the tv for the news or to play video games with Chris.”

“I’m definitely making you a list,” Tommy decided.

“I can add it to the list of things I definitely say I’ll watch and then never do.”

“I think I’d be disappointed if you ignored my hard work,” Tommy said. “I’ll have it to you by the end of the week. Would you find it easier to watch them if I made you write a report on them? Score out of ten and your reason why?”

The tone was teasing but Buck found himself thinking about it a little too hard.

Albert bounded back to the table, interrupting them. “Maddie and Karen want the wireless mics so they can get started.”

Tommy checked that they were both on and working before handing them over, while Buck pulled out his phone and texted Eddie to come back to the gym. He slid it back into his pocked and rubbed his hands on his jeans, trying to get the sudden excess sweat off of them.

Tommy seemed focused on the audio equipment, and either hadn’t noticed Buck’s odd silence or wasn’t acknowledging it.

tag list @chimneyz @morgangilloryy @swagmaster9k @geekwarrior107 @racerchix21 @fan-of-a-lot @desert--moonchild @bybobbysbeard

[panlight]

Something that's bothered me is how the imprintees are pretty much ordinary people. They're mortal and can just die long before the wolf even does unless they make themselves stop phasing (which apparently is hard to do) and the gene is hereditary, so it's not like they can be turned. In fact, the whole "imprinting = higher chance of more wolves" theory gets rendered useless if the imprintee can easily be turned into a vampire and killed just as well.

In the House of Night series (enjoyed it when I was younger, but re-reading it in recent years, ugh the writing is just Not Good), imprinting is also a thing there, but they make it so the imprintee's blood doesn't really appeal to the vampires (or "vampyres", as they're called) other than the one who imprinted. (At one point, the vampyres try to feed on the imprinted human's blood, but complain that it "smells/tastes wrong".) Also, at least in this imprinting there's no loss of free will....

I would've loved for something similar in Twilight's take on imprinting. At least let them have some edge to maybe get any vampires that might feed on/turn them to back off or avoid them (kinda to parallel how the werewolves' existence is connected with the vampires). Heck, they could even just be poisoned by venom instead of turned just like the wolves! It's weird just how..."helpless" the imprintee is; they're just regular people but with a wolf who's head over heels for them.

I've often wondered what would happen if one of the imprintees were turned into a vampire. Would it break the bond or is it so unbreakable that the wolf wouldn't care? Pre-BD I thought for sure it would ruin it, but now that Jacob imprinted on someone who was BORN half-vampire I'm not so sure.

It genuinely makes me worried that if any of the unimpirinted wolf pack members were to meet Nahuel's sisters they might imprint. I hesitate even to speak this into existence. But all the other imprintees are descended from or related to past shifters except Nessie, but as a hybrid Nessie also has the same number of chromosome pairs as the shapeshifters do, which SM went out of her way to tell us. She seems to imply it makes them genetically compatible and if that's desirable to imprinting magic then there are other female hybrids out there.

(Of course, there's also Leah and Nahuel but as far as we know Leah is infertile and they presumably crossed paths when he was there at the end of BD and she apparently didn't imprint).

On the one hand I do kind of like the other imprints are just normal people; one of the ways imprinting makes the most sense to me if it's to help ground the shapeshifters to the real world. They are functionally immortal and invincible as long as they keep phasing; it would be easy for that knowledge and power to corrupt someone just as it corrupts vampires. They start seeing non-shifting humans as inferior, as less than, they lose focus of their role as protectors and let the power go to their head. But if they've imprinted on a regular human, if that human is the center of their world and their #1 priority, it keeps them from straying too far into supernatural land.

(but again . . . not a factor with Jacob and Nessie!)

But on the other hand, I agree that it's frustrating they are so vulnerable. When someone has that kind of power over someone else (the center of their entire universe with no free will), it makes them a target. The Volturi, for example, know all about this now, since Aro touched Edward and Nessie at the confrontation. So if Aro wanted to try and force the shapeshifters to do pretty much anything, all he has to do is threaten or kidnap or whatever the imprintees. What wouldn't Sam do for Emily? Jared for Kim? Paul for Rachel? Quil for Claire? They wouldn't even have a CHOICE about it! The WHOLE PACK tolerated a dozen vampires visiting Forks the sake of Jacob's imprint, after all. The girls are helpless against vampires. It really puts them in a dangerous spot, so even something like "they smell unappealing to vampires" or "their blood is also poisonous like the shifter's" or "like Bella immune to all vampire powers" would help protect them a little bit.

[deansbeer]

what's left behind ・ THE WINCHESTERS. ៸៸៸ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ! ♡ library

୨୧ synopsis. after dean's death, sam finds old photos and vhs tapes, reliving childhood memories and breaking down as he mourns his big brother.

୨୧ warning(s). major character death (canon) | sam's pov | grief | mourning | HEAVY angst | flashbacks | childhood nostalgia | john winchester | brief mentions shitty parenting | found footage | emotional breakdown | implied depression.

୨୧ word count. 1241

୨୧ kari notes. i don't know what to say except i'm so sorry <3 this is a result of that damn gif pinterest decided to torture me with today. and yes, tears are falling down my face again.

the bunker feels different now.

sam had always known it was a massive place, but without dean’s presence filling it—his music echoing down the halls, the sound of his boots scuffing against the floor, his voice calling out some dumb joke—now it just felt hollow.

he doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last slept. maybe a day, maybe two. time is a blur, stretching and folding in on itself like it doesn’t matter anymore. because maybe it doesn’t.

the only thing that exists now is the ache in his chest. the weight of grief pressing down so hard it feels like it might break his ribs.

dean’s gone.

and sam’s still here.

he doesn’t know what to do with that.

so he does the only thing he can do—he goes through dean’s things.

it’s not like he means to. he’s just walking, aimless, and somehow his feet take him to dean’s room.

it still smells like him. leather, whiskey, gun oil, aftershave. like home.

sam stands in the doorway for a long time, staring at the unmade bed, at the jacket dean had tossed over the chair, at the half-empty beer bottle still sitting on the nightstand.

his throat tightens.

he forces himself to step inside.

the first thing he finds is the box shoved under dean’s desk.

it’s old, the cardboard edges softened with time. when sam pulls it out and lifts the lid, he’s hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong it nearly knocks the breath out of him.

inside, there are photos. stacks of them.

the first one he picks up is of them as kids, sitting on the hood of the impala, dean’s arm slung around his shoulders, grinning like he didn’t have a care in the world.

sam swallows hard, tracing his thumb over the edge of the picture.

he flips through more—some of them polaroids, some bent at the corners from being stuffed into wallets or baby’s glove compartment.

one of them is from a christmas when they were little. the cheap motel decorations hanging crookedly, dean holding up a present wrapped in newspaper, laughing while sam, maybe five or six years old, looks up at him like he hung the damn moon.

sam presses his lips together, his vision blurring. he sets the photos aside, digging deeper into the box. that’s when he finds the tapes.

old vhs tapes, a few of them, stacked neatly together. none of them are labeled.

his stomach twists.

he doesn’t know what’s on them, but if they were tucked away in dean’s things, they meant something.

he finds an old vcr player in the bunker’s storage rooms, hooks it up to the tv, and slides in the first tape with trembling hands.

the screen flickers, static buzzing for a second before the image comes into focus.

the first thing he sees is dean’s face, filling up the whole screen, his green eyes squinting as he adjusts the camera.

“is this thing on?—oh, shit, it is.”

sam lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but it catches in his throat.

on the screen, dean grins, stepping back. he’s younger here, maybe early twenties, standing in some rundown motel room.

“okay, so, sammy’s in the shower right now, which means i got, like, five minutes before he comes out and ruins my fun,” dean says, smirking. “figured i’d document this moment in history—sam winchester actually agreeing to take a night off and not bury his nose in a book.”

sam watches as dean flips the camera around, pointing it at the motel table where a half-eaten burger and a pile of playing cards sit.

“we got burgers, we got poker, and most importantly we got the booze.”

the camera shakes as dean turns it back on himself, winking.

“anyway. just wanted to capture this, ‘cause, y’know… who the hell knows how long we get to do this?”

there’s something in his voice, a weight beneath the teasing. like he already knew, even then.

sam swallows hard.

he watches the rest of the tape in silence. it’s mostly random clips—dean messing around, making faces at the camera, flipping it off. but there are parts of himself too, moments dean had filmed without sam realizing.

one of him, hunched over a book while dean zooms in dramatically, whispering, “nerd alert.”

another of him eating pancakes at some diner, rolling his eyes while dean narrates, “and here we see the elusive sam winchester in his natural habitat—devouring carbs.”

sam doesn’t even realize he’s crying until a tear slips onto his hand.

he wipes at his face roughly, shoving the heels of his palms into his eyes.

but the memories keep coming.

before the hunts, before the bunker, before everything got so damn hard—

they were just kids.

and god, dean had always been there.

he remembers the times when john wasn’t around, when it was just the two of them in some shitty motel, and dean would make up stories to help him sleep.

he does remember the few times john had actually let them be kids, when he’d come back with cheap plastic toys, and they’d play cops and robbers for hours until they passed out on the motel floor.

“gotcha, sammy!” dean would yell, tackling him onto the bed, laughing as he pinned him down.

“not fair, you’re bigger!” sam would whine, squirming.

“sucks to suck, lil’ dude.”

sam lets out a broken breath, gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. he doesn’t know how to do this—how to keep going without dean.

he presses play on another tape.

this one is quieter.

it’s just dean again, sitting on the hood of the impala, the sky dark behind him.

he looks tired.

“so, uh… not really sure why i’m recording this,” dean mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “guess i just… i dunno.”

he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at the camera.

“sammy, if you ever find this… sorry, man. for everything.”

sam’s whole body goes rigid.

“i know i don’t say it enough, but… you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, man.”

dean shifts, looking uncomfortable, like the words are hard to say.

“i know dad was… y’know. but we had each other. and i wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

he pauses, then smirks a little.

“even if you are a nerd.”

the tape cuts out.

sam sits there for a long time, staring at the static-filled screen, his hands trembling.

that’s when he breaks.

it’s not graceful. it’s not quiet.

it’s messy, gasping, gut-wrenching sobs that rip through him, his whole body shaking as he folds forward, pressing his hands to his face.

because this isn’t fair.

they were supposed to have more time.

they were supposed to grow old together.

but now dean is gone.

and sam is alone.

the bunker is silent except for the sound of his own cries, the weight of memories pressing down on him like an avalanche.

he doesn’t know how long he stays like that.

but eventually, he lifts his head, wiping at his tear-streaked face, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

he looks at the tapes. at the photos. at the pieces of his brother scattered around him.

dean might be gone.

but he left pieces of himself behind.

and that’s enough to hold onto.

[autumnaldove]

Hii

Do u have any ideas on scarian age gaps??(like headcanons or au ideas)

Also welcome to the community♡︎

OLDER SCAR YOUNGER GRIAN.

I have this one au in mind for a whole fic with Professor scar and student grian

Starts with Grian having a crush on the new hot professor for this school year, and i definitely think Grian has a bit of stalkerish tendencies with the way he watches his friends and stuff a lot, so I definitely wanna include that, like anytime he notices the teacher’s lounge door a tad bit open and Scar’s the only one in there he sneaks a picture or two for jackoff material later, he finds out scar’s schedule so he can see him outside of school as well once the school year progresses and so does the obsession. He 100% has photos of scar at the pool and stuff with his shirt off and such.

Scar 100% knows about all this, he caught grian the second time he had ever took a photo of him, and sees him all the time when he’s out doing things, the red jumper and messy dirty blonde hair is difficult to miss. He thinks it’s cute and doesn’t bring it up, eventually he realizes Grian is starting to fail in his class so he brings it up to him and Grian asked him if he could get tutoring lessons, scar agrees and they meet at his house, both of them know that Grian understands the material and has zero issue, Grian just wanted an excuse to finally be at Scar’s house, and Scar having grown a fondness for him wasn’t gonna deny that.

Once they’re at Scar’s place Grian starts trying to slyly make moves, scar of course notices immediately and after a bit just laughs “You are painfully obvious, Grian.” Grian’s shocked that Scar somehow caught on to his super unobvious flirting and just tries to play it off. Scar just smiles at him though “It’s cute, I’m not complaining or telling you to stop”, Grian’s face goes as almost red as his jumper at this, “sorry i just- you’re really attractive” he admits half mumbling, Scar stands up and offers Grian his hand, pulling Grian up once he takes it “Why don’t you stay for dinner, I think you need a bit more, private, lessons” he smirks as grian just quietly gasps and nods his head

IM VOING TO STOP BEFORE I WRITE A WHOLE FIC BUT SIAKFH. Im definitely making a genuine fic to this at some point scarian age difference save me ily

[cosmogyros]

My final FAWM song for this year, written and demoed yesterday as an acoustic one-take! I can't believe FAWM is already over :')

Here are my "liner notes" for this song, followed by the lyrics:

Okay, it seems I'm getting a last-minute wave of inspiration. I had this title saved for a long time and randomly picked it up today. Thought it might turn into something silly, but then it got more serious/poignant than I'd expected.

I have been noticing that a lot of queer youth don't know much about our community's history – and also that they often frown upon intergenerational friendships. Both these things can lead to division and infighting, instead of the solidarity we desperately need. I believe that in every marginalized community, it is vitally important to be friends with those much older and much younger than you. There is a lot of important information to be passed on, and we can't count on "mainstream society" to teach it to the young'uns.

So here's the story in my mind for this song: In a small town in the middle of nowhere, a kid grows up with no community, no way to even really understand his own identity, no idea that he's not alone and broken and wrong. But his next-door neighbor, unbeknownst to the town, is a queer elder whose personal passion project involves archiving LGBTQ+ history by preserving documentary film footage that might otherwise be lost in the mists of time forever.

The bored kid is curious about his mysterious neighbor and wanders over there one day, like "What are you always working on back there anyhow?" – and his eyes are opened. He sees footage from throughout queer history, all the bright and vibrant and diverse kinds of people out there fiercely living their authentic lives, all the battles they fought (and are still fighting) for their rights… and he realizes he's not alone. THIS is his community.

The title is obviously a bit tongue-in-cheek, referring to how people often call queer identity a "lifestyle". I split that word in two to put more emphasis on each separate half as a stand-alone thing.

Lyrics below...

Here Comes the Life Style

You know the boy next door Gets into trouble when he’s bored Now he’s finished all his chores And he wants more

So he came over to see you Wondering if the rumor’s true Can I stay and watch? Promise I won’t talk I could even help you to do Whatever it is you do all day in here

Here comes the life style Here comes the life style

He never saw nothing like this As clichéd as love’s first kiss There’s a whole long hidden history Full of mystery Bright and shiny new Things that you could do People just like you In ways you never knew And yes, the rumor’s true It’s all true, oh

He goes home again that night To the land of tears and fights But they can’t snuff out this brand new light And he knows everything is gonna be all right It's gonna be all right someday

(Call it life style Your life will smile Your life will smile Hold on, hold on)

[fantomette22]

Omg i wanna see baby Sephiroth too now! I will loose it too.

WE NEED IT PLS SQUARE MAKE US SUFFER!!!!!

As a Kingdom Hearts fan I SPEAK FROM EXPERIENCE!!! ITS A VERY GOOD THING TO DO! WILL MAKE YOUR FANS COMPLETELY LOOSE IT AND CRY!

I swear the day we saw freaking BABY XEHANORT (the main series antagonist) was freaking crazy. Kingdom Hearts Union X (Cross) finale already made us loose our goddamn mind every 5 mins (and cry for our blurbs too) but like NO ONE except to see Xehanort like that. Especially not as a newborn baby. We were all so confused and loose It even more. It's also the only baby we saw so far in the series!

I MEAN

And then we got this lil guy v

And this mind blowing thing V

AND THEN THIS

(Yeah i dig into old folders for all of this... I didn't wanted to remember 😭)

Just... I can't.

(It changed our perceptions and feel about him and everything forever)

Like, it's implied that Sora (our protagonist), when he was a baby did smt important = aka save Ventus life. Kh fans will understand but I'm not gonna explain more here 😅 but we don't see baby Sora it's implied. And the younger we ever saw was the destiny trio is being like 4y old.

But then the first baby we ever saw is HIM

(Ok there is the baby chirithy homonculus too but they're not human so it half count XD)

---

It allowed to have the full picture of the character. We almost finally saw him through all the stage of his life. it makes him human, and we can empathise even more with him. And the dark road he took is even more tragic...(And then KH Dark Road destroyed us a year later with the complete tragic backstory too njcdjnkcdjnk I didn't got over it yet. It's Nomura fav KH character. It took me a while to understand. Well he just needed to show us)

So yeah seeing more of Sephiroth through all the phases of his life really complete the picture.... and same with what I just said above. That would be very cool and fit with Vincent's & co backstory even more.

OH DID I ALSO TELL YOU HOW XEHANORT GOT MEMORIES/DREAM ABOUT HIS MOTHER AND FRIENDS HE NEVER ACTUALLY HAD AND JUST WANNA SEE THEM AGAIN?! FEEL FAMILIAR?! szbkhsbkusxsskkjls they need to stop doing this

Square, listen to me. LISTEN TO ME. When Vincent says these line in part 3 during the flashback….

I NEED TO HEAR A BABY CRYING AND THEN SEE HIM. I WANT TO SEE THE SMOL CREATURE.

SHOW ME EXTRA MINIROTH.

AND ALSO SHOW LUCRECIA LOSING HIM OKAY THANKS BYE

[ruvviks]

thinking about jesse my son jesse

[mieczyhale]

one of the guys that runs a reaction channel i've been watching for ages just announced that they're ending the channel next year bc he got a job offer and he's getting married and he's thinking about his family and his future and like...

my son in christ you are 21

i literally want to fucking die

[sailforvalinor]

.

[dear-ao3]

so. as you may know it’s christmas eve. as you probably don’t know i am eastern european. and probably the only real tradition anyone holds onto is christmas eve. normally my great aunt does all the food and very begrudgingly sometimes lets everyone help make like. one thing.

well.

this year. the year of our lord two thousand and twenty four. she decided she was done cooking and it was up to everyone else.

so i got a phone call from my mom a few weeks ago being like hey so. you’re making the cake. got it? good.

the cake in question is a walnut cake. i was entrusted with my great aunts recipe about seven years ago. i’ve made it twice. the first time i fucked up the frosting quantity. the second time i fucked up the eggs. both times were passable at best and notably! my great aunt did not taste either of them.

and i have to make this cake. on christmas eve. it is dessert. for everyone. my extended family will all be eating the cake. the walnut cake. on christmas eve. even my great aunt.

so yesterday, december 23 if you are counting, i went on the annual Last Minute Christmas Food Shopping Trip with my father, watched him climb into the case to get his half and half like he does every year, and stressed about my cake as i made sure i had all of the ingredients.

then. we went to my great aunts house. where i was met with Trial Number 1: The Cognac

this cake has cognac in the frosting. not a big deal really. except for the fact that my mom hates that there is cognac in the frosting. (my mom is hell bent on making christmas eve dinner vaguely healthier. no one else agrees.) and i was to be making the cake in my moms house.

also important to note: we (as in my parents) do not own cognac. mostly because none of us drink.

so my great aunt is like oh i have to give you the cognac. cause she knows. i am baking the cake. the walnut cake. (my dad told her. he is a traitor). and i say okay. sure. this won’t be a problem at all.

so she gives me. a shot of cognac. and when i say a shot. i mean an Entirely Full Shot Glass of Three Hundred Dollar Cognac. in a jar. for the cake. the walnut cake. that i have to make.

upon bringing the cognac home my mom says no we’re not putting that in. the cognac sits on the counter in its jar. no one touches it.

then i was met with Trial Number 2: The Frosting.

this recipe requires a pound of chopped walnuts. first. i couldn’t even find the walnuts. my sister and i searched high and low and in every cabinet we could find but no nuts. i called my mom. and said mom where are the walnuts? and she said. “they’re in the nut bag behind the basement door.”

oh of course. how could i have missed the nut bag? a holiday bag full of bags of nuts that was half hidden by wrapping paper and also behind a door?

in any case. could i have used a food processor? absolutely. did i? no. half because i forgot and half because i didn’t want to accidentally grind the walnuts into a paste. so i enlisted the help of my younger sister to chop the walnuts By Hand while i embarked on the real devil: the frosting.

which remember. is supposed to have cognac.

so i cream my butter. i add my sugar. i’m careful not to over sugar. i taste it a million times. i add my coffee and my vanilla extract (instead of cognac. which is still sitting on the counter) and it was all going so well until. the butter rebelled.

now remember. one time when i made this. seven years ago. i made too little frosting. so i made more this time. and i thought i had all my conversions right but evidently i did not because suddenly there was too much liquid in my frosting and it split.

the frosting for the walnut cake that everyone was going to eat. on christmas eve. the very next day.

i felt like a contestant on great british bake-off getting smited by the tent.

so i did the logical thing and shoved the whole mess into the fridge hoping that it would sort itself out overnight.

then it was time to face Trial Number Three: The Cake Itself.

as i have said this cake is a walnut cake. the christmas eve walnut cake that has been at christmas eve longer than i have been alive. and it requires no less than ten egg whites. which i whipped and i added to my walnuts and shoved the whole thing into the oven in my two baking dishes.

only to discover no less than 40 minutes later that the batter in the pans was Not Even (despite my best efforts). so i cooked one longer than the other and hoped that i hadn’t monumentally fucked up the walnut cake. like i had the frosting. which was in the fridge. and i was ignoring.

which leads to Trial Number Four: The Egg Yolk Cake

see i had ten egg yolks. i didn’t know what to do with them. my mom said flush them. my dad said make a custard. i proposed making egg nog. my mom said she didn’t want it in the house cause it was too fattening (a blatantly incorrect statement. please, if you are reading this, go drink a glass of eggnog. or some other fun festive drink. food is for the soul.) so i produced a recipe for an egg yolk pound cake. i made it. i still don’t know if it came out good cause i haven’t tasted it. i hope it did. but that was not the point. the point is the walnut cake. the christmas eve walnut cake.

and the following morning i was met with Trial Number Five: The Frosting Part 2

first i threw my failed frosting back in the mixer and it immediately secreted a brackish combination of vanilla extract and coffee so i did the only thing i could. facetimed my dad and said “father there are problems abound.” and he gave me the fatherly advice of “make it again.”

and so i did.

with more correct measurements. still scared it would split at any second.

though it didn’t.

and i didn’t add the cognac.

maybe no one will be able to tell???

my mom said that if anyone asks the first batch of frosting failed and i had to toss it. this is technically true.

but i had frosting. i had two uneven cakes. and it was time for Trial Number Six: Decorating

decorating cakes is easily in my top ten least favorite activities. decorating the christmas eve walnut cake is easily in my top three least favorite activities. because i am terrible at decorating cakes. and also because it has a filling.

the filling is jam. and i once again made the wrong choice because i put the jam on first before the frosting. which to be fair is what the directions say. but as everyone knows, the directions in recipes you get from your eastern european great aunt are not the real directions. so now i had to smear butter cream. on top of jam. for the filling of the walnut cake. for christmas eve. that we would be eating in a few hours.

and we didn’t have a cake plate. we had a large dish.

i had to use my fingers. i had to use three spatulas. i got jam everywhere. but i did it. and as soon as i set the top cake on top of the filling i realized my monumental mistake: i was supposed to trim down the cakes.

so now they were uneven. and lopsided. and there was nothing i, a mere mortal tasked with the impossible task of making christmas eve walnut cake, could do about it.

so i continued to spread my frosting. which i had enough of. and tried and failed to not get jam everywhere.

in the end it was almost presentable. not great. slightly lopsided. and definitely not as nice as any of my great aunts cakes.

which left me with Trial Number 7: Chilling It

our fridge was being taken up by other important christmas eve things (though not as important as my cake. the walnut cake) so i had to put it in the car. which was fine because there is snow on the ground.

i covered my cake. the walnut cake. in tin foil and hoped i wouldn’t accidentally squish it. and then i went outside. i tried to steal my moms shoes to walk outside. she was not impressed.

“you know, saph,” she said. “some of the time you’re pretty great. the other half of the time you’re really weird.”

i could not agree more.

i put my cake on the trunk. prayed to the cake gods and went inside.

on the one hand if the cake is good, i will be stuck making walnut cake for christmas eve for the rest of my life. on the other hand, if it sucks i will never have to make another one.

Trial Number Eight: The Tasting still waits.

[herawell]

.

[tonycries]

The Way You Kiss Me - G.S.

Synopsis. The four times Satoru tries really hard not to kiss you - his best friend’s pretty younger sister. And the one time he doesn’t.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! Suguru’s sister! reader, childhood enemies to lovers, PINING Satoru, like really really disgustingly down bad, creampíe, oral (fem receiving), pússytalking, needy JEALOUS! Satoru, running away from it, spítting, punching is Suguru’s love language, mentions of aIcohol, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 7.4k (That’s wild)

A/N. BOO! Surprise upload. This was so fun to write omg.

“You sure this is how the grown-ups get married?”

“Duh, I know everything.”

“Nuh uh, Toru.”

“Yuh uh!”

The first time Gojo Satoru kissed you was underneath that dingy playground slide that the two of you always raced to after elementary school. 

Usually, your older brother, Suguru, would walk home alongside you two - but this time, he’d just so happened to have been held back for throwing paper planes at the teacher that day.

A sign from the universe, Satoru internally celebrated, something he’d learned from those sappy romance novels his mother left lying around the house. No matter that he was the one that made those planes.

You were six back then, standing in front of a determined Satoru - reaching up on his tip-toes, face pink, smelling of those cheap strawberry lollipops he’d sneak into class and taunt you with. At the much older and wiser age of seven, he’d insisted on being the first one to lean in.

Just barely even grazing your dramatically puckered lips before-

Satoru learned two things that fateful afternoon:

Even as a seven-year-old, Suguru’s punches really hurt. 

Never mess with you. Anyone but you. 

Life only seemed to go downhill from there - because that last lesson was proving to be hard along the years. Really. Fucking. Hard.

Little did Satoru know that this would be the start of some strange, unpredictable little dance of push and pull. No, you definitely weren’t his wife. Nor were you exactly best friends - not really, that spot was reserved for your brother. But you didn’t think you could ever be just that either.

And the punch that’d knocked his wobbly tooth out onto the playground floor that day was a painful reminder that whatever that was - whatever weird thoughts he had later in middle school about how you’d tasted like candy - didn’t matter. No matter how part some tucked-away little part of him wanted it to.

Hell, eleven years later and Satoru still can’t walk around that familiar block without feeling slightly queasy. Which is why, after that failed first kiss, he knew there wouldn’t be a second. 

Instead, he settles back to teasing your pouty self, pushing all your buttons, tugging on those cute dresses you wore. Face burning so strangely with- humiliation? when you bickered right back, calling his haircut a “tragic attempt at modern art.”

“So you’re saying I look like art?” A gangly, now-seventeen Satoru blocks the bustling high school hallway, ignoring the bell. Grin only growing at your frustrated huff, he half-jokes, “Aww, if you’re that soft on me, sweetheart, maybe we should go to prom tog-”

You slam your locker, effectively shutting both it and Satoru at the same time. “I’d rather go with Yaga.”

“...you would not.”

“Would to.”

“Would not.”

“Would to.”

“Would- Sugu–!”

And all Suguru can do is wrap two hands around his neck, mock-choking himself, wondering if it was really too late to embrace a quiet life as a monk. “You’ll both be MLA cited in my farewell note.”

He was used to it, though, forced to watch all this chaos since quickly mending his friendship with Satoru over ice cream the day after the punch. Convinced that this was some punishment for a past life’s misdeed.

With a squawk of protest, Satoru’s turning back to you, eyes crinkling with a hint of mischief you knew too well, “Would not.”

Your face burns, “Would to, Toru.”

You didn’t go with Yaga. but Satoru didn’t exactly count that as a win in his books, either, because you did show up that night hanging off the arm of some jerk from the football team. 

And there you were, all dolled up - which he very objectively noted - way too prettily for some bastard like him. Stars in your eyes, and everything he couldn’t have in that smile. 

Everything. 

Way too gorgeous, even when he finds you sitting outside the gymnasium later on in the night. Too busy bawling your mascara off to even throw out your usual greeting insult his way. Murmuring out wetly about “that asshole” and how he humiliated you by stranding you in the middle of the dance floor for someone else. 

“Well, he was a jerk anyway. Even Yaga would’ve been better, hell, I-” Satoru stops short to his horror at the way you only cry harder.

Way too irresistible, especially as his body moves before his mind - holding out an open hand before he knows it. “I’m a much better dancer than him and you.” And oh Satoru will forever remember the way his heart lurches as you blink your teary eyes up in confusion, “Well, aren’t ya gonna take up the challenge?”

Weirdly, it wasn’t weird at all. 

If anything, you had to hold back your laughter the entire time at the way the great “campus sweetheart” Gojo Satoru was so on edge.

Just a friend comforting a friend, right?

So why was he avoiding your gaze with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, summer blue eyes pointedly trained right over your head. That pretty pink blush dusting his cheeks reflecting the hands hovering in midair over your waist. So close - and yet, fear in each and every turn and swirl.

Yours were searing into his broad shoulders as you tried to guide him to the muffled music from inside. And shit.

That night ended with a second kiss. 

You don’t know who leaned in first, just that Satoru’s soft lips were just fleeting on your glossy ones - barely even a touch. And that shit shit shit- this was Satoru. This was you. 

Everything. 

But it seems that every time Satoru was about to kiss you dangerously close to the way some tiny, forbidden part of his heart wanted to - the universe throws an obstacle at him. An obstacle that was six feet and named “Suguru”, currently running at break-neck speed out of the gym.

“MOVE YOUR ASSES!” he cackles, “THE FOOTBALL TEAM ISN’T TOO HAPPY ABOUT ME BREAKING THEIR STAR PLAYER’S NOSE.”

And not a word is uttered about the kiss as the three of you speed out of the school parking lot in Suguru’s busted-up black hellcat, the wind mussing up the hairstyle that took Satoru over two hours to perfect. Sneaking in glances at the sight of you singing along at the top of your lungs to some overplayed pop song on the radio. 

He learns another two things that night:

Apparently, Suguru’s right hook still really fucking hurt. And thank god for tonight’s casualties of noses, because it was a wonder that he didn’t look too hard at how close Satoru was with you. 

He didn’t…dislike the feeling of your lips on his. And judging by the way you meet his eyes in the rearview mirror - you didn’t either.

It’s mainly that last one that makes him gulp.

Neither of you remember the third kiss - though, Satoru’s sure that at least 80% of Shoko’s instagram followers did.

According to a very hungover Shoko, and the many, many forms of documentation, it had happened on the New Year’s eve during your third year in university. In which you were much more used to the raging parties that would be hosted at Suguru’s apartment, and only slightly less intimidated by them.

“And you’re a lightweight too, dumbass. You were gone.” Shoko sighs from across the café table, eye bags deeper than the last time he’d seen her. “Like gone gone.”

God, what a way to start the year.

Satoru bites back a remark about how “gone” Shoko herself had been. Sitting up straight in his seat, regret immediately hitting his senses faster than the guilty throbbing at his temples. He winces, managing out a semi-disbelieving groan of, “Gone gone?”

And she’s only nodding wearily, subconsciously tapping out the rest of her cigarette ashes onto his untouched plate of sweet pastries. 

“I’m talking dancing on expensive coffee tables and fighting to stop you from giving everyone there a strip show.” She cracks a smirk through a waft of smoke, “Though, she would’ve loved that I’m sure.”

“Har har har, you’d make even Nanami laugh with that one.”

“Eugh, gross.” Shoko taps through her phone briefly, swirling it around to show Satoru a few pictures that definitely gave him a mini-heart attack at 8:57 in the morning. “You look like you’re about to pen really bad poetry.”

And perhaps this was Shoko’s plan all along - to shock Satoru to the core hard enough that she can note it down as one of her sketchy psychological experiments. 

But he knew. Could feel it in the hazy fragments of memories - or, at the very least, in that entire highlight that Nanamin had oh-so-conveniently put up on Instagram titled, “Blackmail.”

You knew. 

You’d kissed him back. 

“I don’t have a-.” you slur, stumbling ever-so-slightly as you try to meet Satoru’s glassy eyes. Because shit the years have had him shooting up faster than you could look up. “-a New Year’s kiss, y’know.”

You were older - more gorgeous, if that was even possible now. That tight dress hugging your body so unfairly in a way that had him forgetting you were his best friend’s sister. 

The one person in this whole world that he couldn’t have.

But Satoru leans in closer, more because he wants to than anything - he could pick out your voice anywhere let alone over the thumping music currently filling his crowded living room. Lips loose as he tries to play up the cool-guy facade he’s been dubbed with since freshman year, “Hah, loser. Because I do.”

“Where?”

At this, Satoru is stumped - damn, you were good. 

“Not- uh here?” If he was in any clearer state of mind, he’d have been embarrassed at the way his voice cracks so traitorously as your unsteady hands pull him in closer by his overpriced button-up. 

Your body was flush against his now, so addictive. Gaze half-lidded and flickering between the sliver of milky skin exposed on his chest - from that impromptu striptease he’d almost started earlier - and the blue eyes that were currently locked you. You whisper a strained, “Liar.”

Close - too close. So dangerously close.

He breathes out against your lips, the smell of booze and you so heady in his mind. And the heavy words falling from his lips sound like lies, even to him. “Not.”

“Toru?” you hum, a sound that has him gasping. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And there went your New Year’s kisses. At exactly 11:37PM, if the photos were anything to go by. 

And holy shit were there many. All of which showed your arms looped around Satoru’s neck, crashing his lips to yours. His own, resting against your waist, a scandalously red blush - whether from the alcohol or you - adorning his cheeks. Looking more blissed out than he ever remembers feeling. 

“I’m a dead man, Shoko.” 

There’s a lengthy silence, leaving Satoru stewing in thoughts of how Suguru would react once he finds out. And whether or not he’d be able to rise from the dead just to see how pretty you’d look at his funeral.

Morbid thoughts broken only by Shoko’s cough, “Hey, can I keep your eyes for experimentation if he actually catches you?”

Subtly, he sends himself those photos from last night.  

Luckily for Satoru’s eyes, they never ended up being donated towards Shoko’s questionable contributions to the world of medicine. 

And by some grace of the gods above, Suguru never mentioned a word about the kiss that would’ve inevitably made its way to him. Or maybe it was because Satoru stole his phone until he managed to pester Nanami just enough to take down that highlight. But, semantics. 

His heart, however, might as well have been part of some experiment.

Because it’s been working overdrive since that night - mind reliving that moment over and over and over and- shit, he’s fucked. So, so fucked. 

Fucked enough that it took Satoru months just to muster up to even look in your pretty eyes once more, unless he wanted to get lost in them forever. Fucked enough that he dared to wonder again and again when there might be a fourth kiss - if there would be a fourth kiss. 

He just never thought it would happen the way it did - with you, standing outside his front door. 

“I’m sorry, Toru.” you mumble, “It’s just- I think we both need to grow up.”

You’ve freshly graduated now, looking more and more irresistible each time he sees you - even when you’re looking at him like that. 

Rolling his eyes, “Ha, is this another way of saying you want my secret to getting taller? Because the first thing is to-”

“I’m serious, Satoru.”

And oh how he wished you’d say something - anything - else right now. Call him anything but that. Maybe even throw an insult his way, tell him those new sunglasses look ugly, or about how you got that internship he would’ve died for. 

Satoru manages to choke out a heavy, “I don’t understand.” But that uncomfortable coil of something curling at the pit of his stomach said otherwise. And it causes him to finally breathe out a hesitant, “Maybe you’re right.”

As if that was all the answer you needed, you’re stepping out of the front door. Slow, and deliberate like you were giving him another chance - a thousand more. Sighing out a defeated, “It’s been years.” It has. “And we’re just running in circles.” You have. “I’m starting to think this is just some game to you.” It wasn’t.

“Wait!” he grasps your hand - soft. The look in your eyes even softer as you turn around to face his desperate face. “Please, sweetheart.”

Satoru doesn’t even know what words he wants to say - let alone whether they’d come out of his heavy mouth. 

So, instead, he’s crashing them into yours. 

Brief. Fleeting. Like each one before this. Too addictive, too short, that he thinks he’s almost imagining it as you pull away gently, until he sees that look in your eyes. 

“Toru, I have a date.”

The fourth kiss.

Satoru’s letting go of you like it burned - and, truly, it felt like some deep, dark part of him was burning down right now. “Great.” That should be hm that should be him that should be- “I’m…happy for you.”

And the last.

He fucked up.

He really, really fucked up.

That first date turned into a second. The second into a third. And unfortunately for Gojo, eventually, you were nearing your one-year anniversary with that asshat you’d met during the early days of your internship. 

He’d seen the man himself once, briefly at another one of Suguru’s famous parties. Ducking out of sight before he could be introduced, yet long enough to know that he wasn’t as tall, or as handsome, or as absolutely fucking hilarious. 

What did he have that Satoru didn’t? 

The answer to that, Satoru’s reminded of every time he’s causing ruckus over at Suguru’s apartment, and sees you walking out of your room, tittering on the phone to none other than your boyfriend. So gorgeous. So not his. 

You, that loser had you.

“If you sigh again I swear I’m shoving this popcorn up your a-”

“It’s a sad movie, Suguru!” he defends, draped across your couch at another one of those movie nights you loved to organize. As usual, there was the popcorn, the god-awful movie (if Satoru picks it), and the arguments. The only thing missing, however, was you. Ugh, something about an “anniversary” and a “seafood date”. Seriously, it’s not like you even enjoyed that new seafood restaurant in town, and he’s sure that bastard didn’t know-

“Satoru.” his best friend’s deadpan voice cuts through his little reverie. “We’re watching Mean Girls.”

And he’s barely even opening his mouth to snark back before-

SLAM!

Suguru pauses the movie almost immediately, turning to the direction of the front door. “Uh oh.” 

And lo and behold - there was you in all your pissed off, beautiful glory. Throwing your keys on the table, your fiery glare passes over the two men as you stomp to your bedroom. 

“Seafood wasn’t that good, sweetheart?” Satoru calls out behind you, eyes sweeping down your figure. Heart stuttering in his chest when you turn around with your fists clenched, lower lip wobbling in a way that Satoru would both kill whoever made you feel this way and die to be on the other side of those daggers in your eye. 

Sniffing out an icy, “Fuck off, loser and loserette.”

Then in a whirlwind of rage, you’re gone - your bedroom door slamming only slightly more gently than you’d done with the front door. Leaving a deafening silence, and Satoru whining, “Why am I the loserette?”

“Deserved.” Suguru shrugs. Warily eyeing your door, as if it was about to pounce at any given second, “Let her cool down before you give her an aneurysm at least.” Unpausing the television, propping his feet back up, “S’enough having to deal with you on top of a boyfriend like that.”

And that has Satoru perking up in interest - both figuratively, and literally as he snatches the remote and pauses the movie. “Wait wait wait what-” Holding it way out of Suguru’s reach, “What do you mean a ‘boyfriend like that’?”

Scoffing, “Funny. Now give me back the remote.”

A beat of silence passes. One. Two.

Only then does it dawn on Suguru that this might just not be some strange prank to stroke Satoru’s ego, and he was actually  more serious than he’d ever seen him. Damn. 

“Bro, have you really never met the guy or something? He’s a complete tool. I don’t know what happened, but this breakup was a long time coming.”

Satoru blinks, feeling a red hot surge of anger. “What? Seriously? Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“You think I didn’t try?” he sighs, running a hand through his hair at the other’s uncharacteristic silence. “Hah, and just imagine, the man was talking about marriage, too. As if.”

And suddenly, Satoru’s hit with an image of you walking down the aisle. Not something he was a stranger to, but it still takes him aback. The sway of the fabric beneath his fingers, your lips against his. Hell, in that split-second he even dreams up how Nanamin would be crying very reluctant tears of joy. 

Everything. Everything that wasn’t his.

His fist tightens around the remote, until he could hear the cracking of plastic. Mind whirling with the thought of you and him and you. How he wished it was him and you. “I would’ve been better.”

Oh. 

Shit. 

“I- fuck this. Suguru, since elementary school I…”

And, well, Satoru’s so busy putting that extra physics seminar he took in university to work - trying to calculate the odds of surviving a jump out of this seven-storey window - that he almost misses Suguru’s low hum, a distant, almost barely-audible little interruption, “Well duh.”

“Hold on.” he’s snatching away the remote that had somehow slithered its way into the other’s hands once again. Ignoring his best friend’s croak of protests to pause in the middle of Regina George being hit by the bus - which, he felt was strangely enviable right now. “That was- what? YOU KNOW?”

“Huh? Even my parents know, the only one that doesn’t is her.”

“...”

Satoru didn’t know how Suguru seemed so calm, but he felt like he was about to spontaneously combust. Heart stuttering in his chest as he sideglances at your firmly shut door - like he was just waiting for you to jump out and tell him this was some elaborate prank. 

Begging for you to come - it would’ve hurt less.

But you don’t.

Fuck. 

And the only response he gets is a low whistle, before a phone is being shoved in his face - flashlight illuminating that crimson blush. “Damn, the great Gojo Satoru speechless? The groupchat is gonna love this, might even send it to my sister, y’know.” 

He didn’t care - didn’t give a shit if this video made rounds to Gakuganji himself. Only one thought racing through his mind right now. 

“But why aren’t you punching me like in elementary school?” 

And Satoru knows he’s smart - intelligent even. Hell, he was the valedictorian, the youngest employee to claw their way up to being on the board of directors. But he’s never felt more stupid when Suguru breathes out a bewildered, “Dude. That was for blaming me for the paper planes.” 

“Oh.”

Then the movie is unpaused. 

---

The last time you kissed Gojo Satoru was at the doorstep to that overpriced penthouse of his, exactly a year ago today. 

The last time you saw Gojo Satoru was just a few hours ago, lounging around your living room like he owned it. Honestly, he might as well have been part of the furniture at this point - like some expensive, fluffy couch. One that prattled on about your “dumbass boyfriend” and god-knows-what else to rile you up just for the fun of it.

Which is why it was odd to step out of your bedroom - eyes just a bit puffy, throat still tight - to a suspiciously quiet hallway. 

The lights were turned off, nothing but the pouring rain sounding from outside, television paused on some rerun of The Princess Diaries. Damn, you told those idiots not to start that one without you.

“Sugu?” you call, finding his bedroom empty. “Thought tonight was movie night?” Padding across the empty apartment, contemplating whether or not to get your phone and call him when-

Ding!

Ah, there. 

You roll your eyes as you head towards the front door, ready to give Suguru a piece of his mind for going out at this ungodly hour and forgetting his key. Seriously, what if you opened the door and he was hurt, or worse, or…

Satoru. 

Speaking a mile a minute.

Satoru.

“-florist was closed and the store clerk looked at me like I was crazy but I got this for-” he pauses abruptly, as if realizing something with a jolt. “-you.”

“You- what-” you don’t know where to look - at the drenched, disheveled Satoru filling your doorframe - rain in his hair, curtaining his frantic eyes, drenching his snug t-shirt. Or at the obscenely large bouquet of cheap strawberry lollipops being placed gently into your arms. 

What follows was an electric silence - and you have half the mind to tease Satoru for finally shutting the fuck up for once in his life. 

But, no. Instead, you eye the way he stands stubbornly at the doorway, fists clenched, blue eyes locked so intensely on yours that it was like they burned. 

Face flushed a familiar pretty pink that makes you realize that shit, he might be taller, voice deeper, broad shoulders tight against his t-shirt - but this was still the same boy that cried when you stole his favorite Digimon card in middle school. The same one that kissed you underneath a dingy slide, smelling of strawberry lollipops.

It’s the steady tap! tap! tap! of the water droplets from his hair that have you tearing your traitorous eyes from his see-through white t-shirt.

Guess you’ve both done some growing up since then.

“You loser.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

The pink wrapping of the bouquet rustles as your grip tightens. “He proposed to me today, y’know.” and yet, your quiet, even voice was the only thing ringing in Satoru’s ears. He jolts, as if some visceral, primal part of himself had been poked awake. Breathing heavy, fists clenching until he could feel the neat indents of his fingernails on his palm. Of course. He’s late. He’s late he’s late he’s late-

That is, until you’re plowing on, “I said no.”

“Huh?”

You think back to the stuffy restaurant, the man sitting from across from you - how wrong it felt. And all it took were those four words for you to realize that. “I said no.” 

Satoru snaps his head up, stepping close - so close. Voice strained like he wasn’t asking - begging. Praying, “Why?”

“We…” you raise a brow at the way Satoru flinches as you trail off. So desperate. A smirk makes its way onto your face, “...we haven’t divorced yet, right?”

And then you’re kissing him - or maybe he’s kissing you. 

Fuck, you don’t know - nor do you really care right now. Not when Satoru’s got his lips crashing against yours for the fifth time in your life, kissing you like it would be the last. Big arms dipping down to your waist, pulling you so tight against his muscled frame that he had half the mind to wonder whether it hurt. 

“Love this. Love the way you kiss me- fuck-” he’s spitting against your lips, kicking the door shut behind him. “Oh- would ya get mad if I-” he tries to get out through kisses. Only to suck on your pretty lips with a pained grunt. “If I-” Again and again, like it killed him to part. “-hah- celebrated right now?”

“Yes.” You’re letting the bouquet fall to the foor, white-knuckling that useless, drenched excuse of a shirt. “Now kiss me properly, Toru.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Such a sloppy mix of teeth and hands and him. Shoving a knee between your legs, making up for years and years of late nights with nothing but his fist and the pretty thought of you. 

“Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart.” Satoru breathes out, as your urgent fingers that dispose of his shirt, feeling the gorgeous dips and curves of years of hard work to impress you. “Suck on m’tongue pretty- fuck-” His own fisting your shirt, pulling. Ripping.

“Toru!”

“I want you.” He’s letting the poor, tattered pieces drop in a pile on the floor, trailing a hand between your damp thighs before he can stop himself. “Oh how I’ve wanted you. And I don’t care if I have to buy fifty new outfits to make up for it.”

And it’s the feeling of his long index stroking up your sopping slit through your shorts that has you pulling away with a gasp. Delicate little strings of saliva snapping from Satoru’s kiss-bitten lips. “If we continue like this…” your voice wavers as he presses hot kisses along your collarbone. “-my brother’s gonna walk in.”

“...wouldn’t wanna relive that playground kiss, huh?”

It’s all he says before picking you up so easily, hands resting on your ass. Giving a playful spank ass you wrap your legs around his toned waist. 

And it’s sloppy.

Both his lips still hotly on yours and the way he’s stumbling urgently to your room through pure muscle memory. Pulling away only when you’re all splayed out so prettily for him on your mattress.

“Blue?” he breathes, pulling your shorts off. And it comes out strained - like the very sight of your panties - all soaked and flimsy with your slick - has whatever’s remaining of Satoru’s sanity flying out the window. “Blue? Oh, you’ve gotta have planned this, you little minx.” his hot breath hits your cunt as he shifts down the bed, tongue drawing languid, wet little circles on your inner thigh. “Because don’t tell me this was all for him?”

It was coincidence - or maybe fate - but that doesn’t stop you from giving Satoru a slow, teasing nod. Muttering out, “So what if it was?”

The only answer you get is thumb hooked around your shorts, pulling it just enough so that your brother’s best friend can spy your pretty pussy.

“Well then.” he chuckles at the way you jump when his fingertip just barely grazes your clit. “Guess I jus’ hafta prove m’better.”

A low groan is falling from his lips as soon as they meet your puffy ones, giving your pretty clit a chaste peck. Lingering long enough that he’s sure your sweet sweet juices cover his mouth.

And oh Satoru’s sure he’ll never forget the way your jaw falls slack, glassy eyes following his every move as he runs his tongue along his glossy lips. Savoring your candied taste, “Never kissed you like this before, huh?” 

Fuck, you’re sweeter than he’s imagined.

You whine desperately, something that has him smirking smugly, “Hah, what? Cat got your tongue?”

“You’re better when you shut up.” It’s all you can do to buck your hips into Satoru’s pretty face - not that you had to, because one taste of your dripping cunt and he was addicted. Surging forwards until he was nose-deep, locking your ankles around his head with a firm yank.

And you can’t lie - maybe you’ve imagined this exact scene a few times before on those lonely nights. But you just never expected Satoru to be so depraved. Desperate.

“Ngh- fuck, Toru-” you reach a hand down to thread your fingers through his hair, tugging his face up. But Satoru doesn’t stop - not even for a second. Tongue still dipping to spread your swollen folds with his tongue, looking you right in the eyes as he murmurs a strangled, “Mhm?” 

“Thought you were gonna prove you’re better, hm?”

So goading. So like you. 

At this, Satoru pulls back ever-so-slightly to laugh - laugh. His plump, glistening lips curling into a humorless little grin, “Oh I will.” Thumb circling your throbbing clit. Just dragging your twitching body across the silky sheets close to his, one hand pinning your hips down. Hard. “I will.”

Loving his new favorite place between your legs one hand toys with your clit, quick, messy little patterns. Tongue even more so. 

“Not just better.” he grunts, “Gonna make you cum so much harder, too.” Having your thighs shake with each word hissed out into your cunt, each turn of his deft fingers. “Till I’m the only thing on your mind. Me.”

And it’s all you can do to let out choked up groans of his name, back arching off the plush mattress to let him make out with your cunt deeper. Sloppier. So, so starved with the way he’s speeding up, tongue dragging across your walls. In and out in and out in and-

“Fuck! Hngh-” you angle his head - and he lets you. “There- Toru-”

Honestly, you didn’t even have to tell Satoru - he could feel it. Could feel it in the way your plushy walls are squeezing his hot tongue so harsh, until it was almost difficult to fuck your pussy so sloppily. In the way you’re letting out such delicious whines each time he grazes against those sweet spots. 

“There? Hah- I know.” he pulls away to muse, and your cute, disappointed whine goes straight to his already rock-hard cock. “Did he?”

He didn’t. And you’re shaking your head so pathetically - in a way you’d be embarrassed about usually. 

But that’s the last thing you’re thinking bout because you feel it - the cold, sinful feeling of Satoru spitting on your filthy cunt. Once. Twice. Blue eyes widening in delight at the way the mess of spit and slick drip down your slit. 

“Cute.” his tongue smoothes over the slutty pool, and the only thing your delirious brain can make out now is a low moan of, “So? Who’s better?”

It’s all you can do to choke out a broken little, “T-T-” Face burning at the way he was so clearly enjoying your struggle. And, well, no matter painfully hard it made his dick - he had to go just a bit easy on his girl, right?

“Shhhh, s’alright.” you flinch as he shoves two absolutely drenched fingers into your mouth, making so much more of a mess of it than necessary. Drinking in your cute gags, “I was asking her.” He’s making your head spin with the way he’s speeding up. “N’ she’s hah- very talkative.” Words muffled, and slurring together - like he was drunk off of you and your cunt. “Let’s hear what she has to ngh- say, huh?”

And with that, he’s alternating between lapping at your clit and squeezing into your sloppy entrance - like he couldn’t - didn’t - want to make up his mind. Oh, with your teary mewls strangled, the sound of Satoru making out with cunt is so loud. The squelches so obscene. 

“Fuuuuck.” he drawls. “Louder than I thought. I think she says I’m better, don’t you think?” 

You angle your head just right to catch the way his jaw grinds deeper into you, eating you out like his last meal. Your slick drooling down his chin so sinfully. 

“Ngh- fuck fuck fuck- ngh-” your yelps are dreamy, feeling like you were losing your mind with the way he was stretching you out. 

Like you were about to snap. Any second now. 

But Satoru’s only increasing his movements, drawing out your little moans. “And I think she’s saying…”  Getting sloppier. More erratic - and it didn’t matter if his fingers were cramping up now, cock aching with the need to be inside you. “-that she’s about to cum.”

You do - so hard and loud - both you and your cunt. 

You’re shaking, all but gushing all over Satoru’s mouth, tight pussy squeezing his tongue so hard. Barely even realizing the searing grip you’ve got on his hair as you drag your sloppy pussy all over his mouth.

But Satoru doesn’t mind - he gladly welcomes it, in fact. Tonguefucking your snug cunt senselessly, letting you chase your high as roughly as you wanted. Over and over.

Even when you’re vision isn’t as spotty as before, even when nothing’s coming out of your mouth but little whimpers. Your breathing dying down until all that rings in your barely-lucid mind were those obscene noises of Satoru’s lips all on yours. 

“T-Toru-” you whine, big fat tears pricking at your hazy eyes. “M’so sensitive.”

And of course this is Satoru, the same boy who’s been pushing your buttons for years just to giggle at your adorable reactions. Which is why he grins against your twitching cunt, “So?”

It takes everything in you to raise your head off the pillow that just seemed to be swallowing you whole, and even more to shoot Satoru a half-hearted glare. “So m’gonna ngh- assume you’re jus’ a pussy with a s-smaller dick than-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence - he doesn’t let you. Because Satoru’s fumbling with his belt, peeling off those still-drenched pants just enough for you to admire his clothed erection. 

And, shit, admittedly you expected him to have a big dick - having been subjected to way too much locker room talk with your brother - but this was ridiculous. 

“What? Too big?” He flashes you that infuriating grin. Palming his rock-hard cock through his boxers at the way your beautiful eyes trace the outline of his cock, all swollen and big. So intimidatingly big. “Damn, sweetheart, if I knew that this was how I’d get that feisty lil’ mouth of yours to shut up then I’d have done it a lot sooner.” 

And you don’t even know if you’re breathing, the pads of your fingers dancing along his bulge. Tracing those prominent veins. Thumbing that little damp spot at his fat head. “You wouldn’t have.” 

He hisses as your soft hands dip into the hem of his underwear. Voice cracking slightly, “I wouldn’t.”

Then you’re gasping - in sync with Satoru’s low moan - as you finally let him spring free. Thick cock hitting his sculpted abs, red tip smearing precum in a lewd little pool. Weeping and so so angry at the sight of you.

At the heavenly feeling of your thumb teasing under his sensitive slit, “Oh, shit.” 

He’s throwing his head back when you give an experimental pump, all the way from his pretty tip to the tufts fo white at his hilt. Fist gliding all over the thumping veins. Bucking his hips up like such a slut into your touch. 

“O-oh fuck.” he cracks an eye open at the way your hand looked so small compared to his dick, how well you were taking care of him. “Been ngh- dreaming of this since I learned what handjobs were, y’know? Hah- shit- ya gotta stop before I fuckin’ pass out.”

And Satoru thinks he could cum right then and there at the way you’re bringing your soaked index up to your mouth. Batting your lashes as you suck on them with a lewd pop! “From jus’ that?”

“You have no idea.”

That’s all it takes for Satoru to throw your still-quivering thighs over his shoulders, effectively shutting up whatever tease is on the tip of your sharp tongue by kissing your swollen folds with his fat head. Giving it one, long drag. 

Your mouth is sagging open at the slow, torturous teasing. The sheer anticipation that had your mouth running, “S-so much for ah- jus’ being ‘friends’, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” And you’re flinching from Satoru’s deep, dark tone. The way he’s bracing his fingers so bruisingly on your hips, reeling all the way back till his tip was just kissing your hole. “We stopped being friends the day you married me on that playground.” 

And then he’s slamming in - pushing past that first, feeble ring of resistance, gummy walls stretching out so perfectly for him. As if he fit right in - and he tells you that. Pants it into your open mouth a little over fifteen times, in fact. 

“Shiiiit, look at you.” he can’t tear his eyes away from the side of your lips stretching so wide to try and milk him. Sloppy entrance stretching out like magic. “S’like you’re made for me, huh? This pussy is made f’me?”

“Ngh- fuck, Toru! S’too big-” you keen, feet flattening on the mattress. As if to escape. To maybe fucking breathe.  

Not even half-way in yet, but aleady torn between pushing away and sinking yourself down on his swollen cock for more more more-

“Don’t you dare run away.” he warns, looking up at you through his long lashes. “I’ve waited too long for this. N’ you’re not taking this pretty pussy away any time soon.” Inch by fucking inch. Grinding in short, sharps jabs - no rhythm of rhyme, like they were genuinely out of control. “Way too f-fuckin’-” All the way until your puffy folds was meeting his hilt. Finally. All the way in. “-long.”

And once Satoru had you split apart on his dick - had those tears rolling down your cheeks, cunt swallowing him so sluttily - it’s like something snaps. 

Because he doesn’t waste a second - he’s already wasted almost two decades, anyway - filling you up with his mean hips. Not fucking easing you into it because you always did bring out that part of him, the part that him looping two strong arms around your waist. Pulling. 

“Oh- f-fuck c’mere.” Satoru gasps, pressing your body so crushingly against his. Kissing your shaky shoulers, your sweaty forehead, the gentleness so contrasting to his hips.“God I’ve missed out- fuck fuck fuck-” 

You’ve never seen the great Gojo Satoru - campus sex symbol - so uncomposed. Eyes half-lidded, just boring into yours, mouth slack in a soft oh! as he drags his cock all over inside your gummy walls. And the sight is so heavenly that you make the mistake the mistake of cracking a minute smile.

Just barely curling your lips before - “Don’t smile at me like that.” He’s dipping down a hand to roll your ravaged clit between two bullying fingers. “Fuck, she’s gonna be the death of me. Right?”

You keen at the- stimulation? The strech? The sheer embarrassment as you realize that Satou’s still talking to your sloppy pussy? Nodding so mockingly up at you as he plows on, “Mhm, she says you needa be ngh- knocked down a god, you’re tight- peg or two. So- get- ready-” 

He’s using this as an excuse to sit up on his knees, dragging you onto his lap so easily like some ragdoll. 

“That’s more like it.”

You’re sliding deeper down his painfully hard cock - all the way till his heavy balls rest beneath your ass, clit rubbing against his pelvis every time he bounces you like some slut.  

Deep. Ruthless.

“Keep your eyes open, sweetheart.” He chuckles, and you’re screwing open your eyes that you don’t even remember shutting. Trying so hard to stop crying out at the feeling of the curve of his dick massaging your walls. “Ya gotta hngh- see the o-only one who’d fuckin’ you properly, right?”

You squeal when he’s taking your clit captive once more. Finger quick, deft. “Y-yes.”

But that wasn’t enough for Satoru - it might as well never be. Because he’s only ramming his hips up further. Like he’s pushing into your stomach, your lungs, all the way into your cockdrunk brain. Fat head alternating between kissing your poor, abused cervix and all those sweet spots he’d mapped out with his tongue.

“Sounded unsure to me.” he’s pouty against your hardened nipples bouncing enticingly in his face. Fingers quirking faster on your clit, “Maybe I should ngh- stop then?”

“No!” Your hips stutter against Satoru’s. Nails clawing down the sculpted panes of his shoulders, leaving red angry marks for him to take as a sign tomorrow morning that no, it wasn’t just one of his dreams this time. “No no no- m’sure. You’re the only one makin’ me feel this way.”

You can feel the way he’s twitching wildly at your words, dick thumping harder inside your sensitive cunt. 

He punctures each word with a heavy, calculated thrust. Hand stretching and squeezing open your cunt from behind to let him slide impossibly deeper. “Hmmm, I’m not convinced.” 

Your stupid mouth is only capable of letting out broken, choked-up little moans of his name, ankles locking around those dimples at the end of his spine. “S’you–”

“Still not convinced.”

But he’s still speeding up his movements, just dragging you up and down his cock. “Who else made you hah- feel this good?” Sure to claim you from the inside out - to leave marks everywhere. Heavy balls on your ass, weeping tip on your cervix, lips bruised as you whimper at his murmured, “That ex of yours?” Biting down your neck, “That barista that always flirts with you?” Pulling away only to breathe into your lips, “Who?”

“ I- fuck it’s only you, Toru.”

“Sound convincing to you?” Satoru hums down at your cunt, biting his lower lip at the way you were milking him so good. Your slick soaking him all the way down to his balls - so needy in a way he never thought he’d see. “Yeah-” be breathes, nosing at your neck. “She agrees- fuck does this tight lil’ pussy of yours agree.” A few tears, a few gorgeous marks down his back, and he was finally convinced. “You’re mine.”

You don’t even realize it when you’re cumming, and Satoru doesn’t either.

Both of you too caught up in each other to recognize that familiar, white-hot pleasure running down your spine - all the way down to where he was so mercilessly buried in your cunt.  

And you’re well into the blood roaring deafeningly in your ears, the sight of Satoru - all wrecked - blurring as he fucks his hips up. Harsh. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as he paints your quivering walls white. 

Cumming and cumming so hard that you can feel his seed dribbling down your thighs, making such a mess all over Satoru’s lap. Your poor, overfilled cunt soon bloated and unable to keep up with it.

“Toru–” you whine, like a prayer. Milking the fucking soul out of him while he gently paws at your messy hair.

“Shhh, I know I know, sweetheart.” Such a stark contrast to the way he was filling you up like his favorite sex toy. Not even bothering to move anymore, one hand on your hip, moving your limp body up and down his sensitive cock to fuck it deeper. The other still playing with your clit, “S’alright, my girl”

Satoru’s hands never leave you, and he prays that now that he got a taste - well, you better be alright with them not leaving you for as long as he lives.

“As long as you live, huh?” you chuckle groggily, a noise so dreamy that Satoru can’t even be mad that he said it out loud. “And all that riling me up these years. Do you have a degradation kink or something?”

“Well, only one way to find out~”

“Oh shut up you-”

SLAM!

“Yooo, I bought dinner from that- WHAT THE FUCK?”

There were only two more lessons to be learned:

Always lock the door. Always. And in case you don’t, a bouquet of lollipops will do the trick to a Suguru reeling from the newest addition to the family. 

Cheap takeout tastes better with an apologetic Suguru, and an ice pack to his cheek - and you to kiss it better.

A/N. Can you tell I kept listening to that one Artemas song while writing this?

Plagiarism not authorized.