#and that languages develop names for black and white

[serpentface]

Four (relatively) distinct types of livestock guardian dogs in the Imperial Wardi region. (Left to right: hnorai dam, chin-tsimouna, dírgrahdain, and chin na Hittsanaedi)

Dog breeds in the modern sense of the word in which a dog is selected for highly specific physical traits and carefully bred to retain 'purity' is virtually nonexistent in this setting (and where similar practices occur, it's usually as an outlier situation surrounding a single dog rather than as a standard practice). Most working dogs first develop out of landraces via natural selection, and are bred according to their function above all else. Their forms are the results of natural pressures from their environments, the demands of their jobs, genetic isolation (or lack thereof), and often some degree of selectivity or preference for coloration or features.

These are the four types that occur within the region, all derived from a progenitor landrace guard dog (the last common ancestor of all four contemporary types probably existed about 950-1000 years before present). All share commonalities of a large size, rain-resistant hair, notably dense winter coats, a loud and deep bark, thick muzzles, and strongly sloping chests. They must be able to hold their own (usually through intimidation but occasionally in fights) against large predators that often physically outmatch them- lions, king hyena, hyenas, and wild dogs being most threatening to livestock. They also may have additional functions in dissuading theft and poaching of livestock by humans, and they may sometimes double as basic guard dogs of homes or villages.

Dogs here are bred almost entirely according to their function (you breed LGDs with LGDs, it doesn't usually matter if they look different or come from different stock), with the main exceptions being 'breeds' that are aspects of important cultural heritage or that have specific culturally/regionally preferred aesthetic traits. The chin-tsimouna is the most common of the three and is the result of minimally selective breeding (though some populations form unique strains or have a selective local status), while the other three are semi-isolated heritage types (the hnorai dam for some North Wardi groups, the dírgrahdain for most of the Hill Tribes, and the chin na Hittsanaedi among Ephenni Riverlanders).

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Hnorai dam: Very rare in the contemporary, with undiluted animals of this stock surviving in some of the most isolated parts of the region's north. This type is distinct for typically having a somewhat stockier build than the others, solid coats, pointed ears, and a tail held upright and curved when relaxed. Most are solid white, gray, or black, and will often be assigned to horses of matching color. This is also the most 'basal' of the regional LGDs, a dog close to this in form (but probably not with solid coloration) was the common progenitor of all other livestock guardian breeds in the region. Variants on 'hnorai dam' are the common name, simply meaning 'guard dog' in the North Wardi language (as they are often used as village/household guards as well as livestock guardians).

Chin-tsimouna: This is the most ubiquitous type, occurring region-wide (and beyond) and used by a variety of peoples (throughout the core Imperial Wardi sphere and among the Cholemdinae, with some usage among the North Wardi, Hill Tribes, and Wogan). They have the most significant foreign ancestry (largely from Burri and Yuroma dogs) and most frequent 'crossbreedings' with feral populations. Due to these factors, the look of these dogs is highly variable (with the 'chin-tsimouna' name functionally being a catchall for any LGDs not of an otherwise specified type). There ARE some broad commonalities (beyond strictly the underlying features common to all these LGD types). The ears are rarely pointed, and usually are bent or lay flat. Fawn coloration with a melanistic mask is by far the most common, with white, gray, and black dogs coming in second (often semi-selectively bred or chosen to match the coats of their charges). Solid colored chin-tsimouna are very rare. There are numerous regional names for type-variants, but 'chin-tsimouna' is the most common descriptor for the overall type, meaning 'horse-dog' (in reference to their typical charges, who they uniquely live among).

Dírgrahdain: This is the native livestock guardian dog of the Highlands. They are the most physically distinctive from their counterparts, and their traits are among the most consistent (due to rarity of feral dog populations in their native range and their status in shared cultural heritage encouraging maintenance of their distinctive traits and discouraging crossbreeding). The most distinctive features are a dense mane, pointed ears, and tightly curled tail. An extended melanistic mask is highly common, and very pale 'evil eyes' are favored in this population, believed to be the most frightening to predators and evil spirits. The name dírgrahdain means 'liondog', mostly referring to their mane. [Extended dírgrahdain post here]

Chin na Hittsanaedi: This is the 'youngest' of the distinct types, and derives from a period of significant crossing between dírgrahdain and chin-tsimouna within the Ephenni riverlands (region south of the soutwestern Highlands, between and around the convergence of the Erubin and Nedachemi rivers) due to significant interaction and overlap of territory between the Ephenni and the West Rivers Hill Tribes under Imperial Burri occupation. The curled tail and pale eyes of the dírgrahdain is common in this population, though the pointed ears are rare and the 'mane' is less developed or absent. Most other traits are typical of the chin-tsimouna type. Dogs of this stock are mainly used in rural parts of the province of Ephennos, and their significance to aspects of modern era Ephenni cultural identity dissuades intentional breeding with both of their progenitor types. The name chin na Hittsanaedi means 'Riverlands dog' (more literally 'dog of the Riverlands').

[coweye]

The Honda Odyssey

Logan Howlett x Reader | smut | 6k words Summary: The car fight reimagined and it only needed to be like 10% more erotic than the original.

I got carried away. I just love Wolvie so much. I'm so happy Logan is getting the adoration he deserves. Long live the Wolverine renaissance.

Warning: smut, p in v, ass play, foul language.

If you had to pinpoint a moment when your life became the shit show it had steadily developed into, you’d say it was the moment you auditioned for X-Force.

In your tenure as besties with Wade Wilson, it's fair to say things hadn’t gone smoothly. The man was a conduit to all things fucked up, but you adored his loose morals and quick mouth. The idiot in red had weaselled his way into your heart and became something of a brother to you and more recently a roommate.

Now, if you’d have told your younger self you’d be in your late twenty’s sharing an apartment with a burn victim who regularly staples a toupee to his fucking head and a coke-head, blind, old African American woman, you’d have laughed in their fucking face.

So, you’d like to think that as these things go you are pretty damn well adjusted but traversing the multiverse was a bit of a stretch, even for you.

One moment you’re at Wade’s surprise party, the next your ass has been zapped to the TVA and you’ve been given a sacred mission; to accompany Marvel Jesus (Wade) and protect the sacred timeline.

Naturally you’re fucking mind blown, you’re a low-level mutant, fuck, you couldn’t even join the X-Men.  Your particular set of skills were a dime a dozen and your flagrant disregard of rules had made you a ‘poor candidate’.

No, the mutant powers you had been graced with weren’t extraordinary by any means. You were basically an off-brand Captain America, just without the gorgeous cheekbones, patriotism and righteous need to do good.

In layman terms, you are strong as shit and have an accelerated healing factor. Not quite the same level as Wade’s mind you. You have, give or take, an inconvenient five-minute turnaround on the more fatally debilitating wounds.

To say you were unqualified was an understatement and to say you were reluctant was a simple fact. A fact you repeated, loudly to anyone that would listen as you were bathed in rich black leather.

“I think maybe you meant to grab negasonic teenage whatchacallit… she’s great, super powerful!” You continue. “Did you mean to get Domino or Colossus or maybe one of the X-Men? “

“No Miss Y/L/N. We have not got the wrong person for the job.” The man you later find out is called Paradox, calls out as you re-enter the operation headquarters. “Mr Wilson requested your presence; he wanted your assistance on his mission.”

“Y/N/N… ten out of ten, baby girl, I one hundred percent would bang. I’m talking raw dog, Barry White on a rug, let’s go all fuckin’ night.”  Wade hollers in his own brand-new suit and even you must admit, you look fucking amazing. “Sweet angel, we’ve just gotta’ come up with a superhero name for you!”

You are enrobed in rich thick black and teal leather, your first ever hero suit and it’s a fucking good one. It doesn’t cling, but instead pulls you in securing your flesh and extenuating curves, ones you hadn’t entirely realised you had. The bottom half your face is concealed with a mask, carefully crafted to follow the contours of your nose and cheekbones.

You’d barely recognised the mysterious figure in the mirror.

“Right?! Tailor was pretty handsy though!”

“Oh yeah, ha! - that man is indeed a predator.” Wade says with a chuckle and a fond sigh.

It shames to you to say but that’s when you stopped fighting this whole thing. You looked the part of a hero; you thought that maybe the TVA knew what they were doing. That they had seen something in you and knew that you had a good heart under all the darkness that lingered on the surface.

Wrong.

You were just a demand Wade had made. He wanted his number one disciple at his side whilst he carried out his sacred mission. You were part of an attempt at appeasing him whilst they destroyed your timeline.

Little more than a pawn to be used whilst they manipulated him into a false sense of security.

Thus, you were thrown into a series of events far beyond your control when Wade being Wade decided you were hunting down a Wolverine to stabilise the timeline, only to be once again fucking zapped into some place they called the void by that little English shitbird named Paradox. It’s entirely accurate to say that you were a little less sturdy than your compadres.

Unfortunately for you, the fall from such a height into the void was fatal. When you finally awake in the desolate wasteland to the sounds of blades clashing it is disorientating to say the least.

Forcing yourself to your feet you lower your mask and gasp in the sweet strangely stale oxygen as you stretch out your newly healed spine with a groan. It was impossible to tell how long you were out as you take in the scene before you; Wade and the Wolverine are engaged in a heated battle. From the looks of it, Logan is winning this fight despite being the human equivalent of a knife block with Wade’s katanas protruding from his chest.

For a moment you pause, perhaps its head trauma that hasn’t healed (He’s fucking Deadpool, he can look after himself for two minutes) and appreciate his form, the Wolverine the two of you had kidnapped was gorgeous. Tch, as if there was any other kind.

Sure, you were biased you’d always been somewhat of a fangirl, but the Wolverine was objectively breath-taking.

You’d indulged in comics whilst growing up but when you found out he was real and looked the way he did, hell, Wolverine was your sexual awakening. He was the first man to make you feel that tingle in your lower stomach. Yes, you may have been thirteen years old, a ball of puppy fat and social anxiety but you’d been waiting for him ever since. 

You’re snapped out of your reverie when Wade loses baby knife in Logan’s shoulder blade, finally you spring into action. In good time as well as you’re not sure if even Deadpool can survive decapitation.

In the singularly most stupid act of your life you throw yourself in front of your friend’s body. “Wait, Wait! Please!”  

Wade has paused behind you, you can feel him weighing up the situation, pausing for a moment to see what you’re going to pull out of the bag.

“The TVA they can fix it, whatever you did, whatever made you the worst Logan, they can fix it! – They have the power to end universes, but they also have the power to fix yours! Help us get back there and we can fix both of our worlds! I promise, they can fix it.” You plead, it’s not quite a lie exactly, more of an Educated Wish than anything.

Okay it is a lie, but you’re sure that the TVA can most likely, probably, maybe fix his world.

Logan’s eyes lock with yours in that moment you can see that he wants to kill you both and be done with it, but that hope won’t let him. You feel a smidgen of guilt for the deceit, but frankly you’ve done worse for less. Your world was on the line it wasn’t the time to pull your punches.

Fast forward four exhausting hours, two periods of unconsciousness and one flaying to find yourself sat opposite Wade gagging down cold spoonful’s of Spam in some dusty ass diner.

You were no better than a man as you watched the Wolverine.

Those arms, those thighs, the way he had beheaded Sabretooth without even breaking a fucking sweat. You wanted him to wrap those instruments of death he called hands around your throat and fuck you dirty until the sun came up.

It had been a long exhausting day and you had been soaking wet for most of it.

Shit, could he smell that? Does that count as sexual harassment? You’d have to ask Wade.

Logan, however, was utterly dismissive of your advances in the face of what was undoubtedly utterly horrific past trauma. Something you were trying to be understanding about, but self-pity in a man, it just turned you on. I said you had some surface layers of darkness.

Unable to help yourself you gaze at him as he opens a bottle of rubbing alcohol. You are utterly entranced, watching the thick chords in his throat bob as he takes a swig.

That tanned skin where his jaw ends and neck begins, slick with sweat and dirt. You’d love to sink your canines into the strip below his ear. He must feel your stare on him as he looks up and catches your eyes dark with lust already surveying his person.

It should embarrass you, that every time he peers your way, he catches you gaping at him like a lovesick puppy, but there’s something about Logan you can’t quite put your finger on. The man heats your blood like nothing you’ve ever experienced before, maybe it’s that torch you’ve carried for him since girlhood, maybe it’s the thick thighs you’d kill to ride – who can say for sure?

In what you assume is against his better judgement, he comes to perch on the booth beside you. His broad shoulders cast an imposing figure as he gets close enough that if you were to move your hand a couple of inches to the right, you’d finally be able to touch that yellow fabric that plagued your tween dreams.

You’re burning up at the thought of him, unable to stop yourself you part your legs slightly to ease some of the pressure. Logans nose twitches, his head swivels your way and his eyes catch your own.  

Welp - at least you have your answer about him smelling your arousal.

Deciding that you were most likely verging on sexual harassment charges you decided to focus back in on the task at hand, gagging once again at another spoonful of spam.

“Be a good girl and swallow, Y/N/N, you know the rules!” Wade jokes, your chortle was your only response. What could you say? He always hit your funny bone despite the ocean that was raging in your panties.

Logan stares at Wade for a long moment before turning to your way and addressing you for maybe only the fourth time today?

“What are you doing with this fucking clown? You his sidekick? Following him round to laugh at his stupid fucking jokes whilst he gets kids killed?”

“Why I have never.” Wade is faux outraged at his words, clutching his imaginary pearls as the Wolverine throws around accusations that aren’t entirely untrue.

The Wolverine’s expression remains stern as his eyes track your face. They seem to be evaluating your character and from the flare in his nose and crease in his brow you can guess he finds you lacking. You’re embarrassed to admit how much that deflates you, so you do what you do best; you deflect.

 “I could follow you around and laugh at your jokes instead, if you like?” When you speak your voice has a sultry edge to it and there’s no mistaking your intentions.

Logan seems to think on your proposition for a second or two, before he huffs grabs his rubbing alcohol and unopened can of Spam and heads over to sit at the bar.

“Holy hot ham and cheese on rye, Y/N, you fucking slut.” Wade berates you though his voice is as light as it’s always been as he boots your shin under the table. “Trying to your holes filled by Wolvie during a world saving mission, Marvel H Christ, stay on fucking task!”

You swear you hear Logan mutter a Jesus Christ from the bar.

Though as Wade continues irritating the hero hunched against bar, you can’t help the realisation that he didn’t say no.

“You’re uh… well regarded in our world.” Wade complements, being real doesn’t come easy to him. You appreciate the effort.

“Well, I’m not shit in mine.”

“I tried to join the X-Men because of you.” You speak up finally joining their conversation. Wolverine’s back goes rigid, but he doesn’t respond. You’re not sure if he’s waiting for you to continue or hoping you’ll stop. “You made a difference to this world, made me think I could do the same. I just never quite make the cut.”

Logan doesn’t seem to have a response.

It seems your words have an effect as you catch him watching you more often. When Wade makes his jokes, he looks to you for validation of his withering looks.

You’re probably more distracted by this revelation than you should be when the three of you come across a real nasty variant of Colossus seeking out Wade for… you want to say… revenge?

The not-so-gentle-anymore-giant flips the Honda and tosses both Wade and Logan through the treeline as they advance on him as if they were little more than toys his mother had asked him to pick up.

One by one your bullets ricochet from his metal skin as he comes towards you. You aren’t built for this fight; you are completely and utterly outmatched.

All you’re doing at this point is buying yourself some time for your backup to pull themselves from the rubble, however during a particularly spirited cartwheel the metal oaf finally gets his hands on you. Colossus’ metal palm is cold on your throat, and you could swear you hear your neck snapping before you feel it.  

With a gasp you return to life to find a slightly dishevelled Logan standing above you. By the grace of god, his sleeves have been worn away in the fight, his arms, oh sweet lord, his arms are on full display.

“Thought you were a goner.” He offers you a hand when you simply stare mutely his way. Locking your fingers around his wrist he pulls you to your feet. You don’t release your hold on him and neither does he.

“Don’t throw the party just yet, eh?” You joke weakly, for a second you could swear there’s a slight raise of the corner of his mouth, imperceptible, if you didn’t know what you were looking for. In the past few hours you had become an expert on Wolverine’s face.  

Your mouth is dry as you take in his thick sweat laden biceps.

“Where’s Wade?” You query whilst rolling your aching neck as you haven’t heard his voice in a record thirty seconds, Logan suddenly remembers himself and drops your hand.

“’fraid Metal man took your clown, was pissed with him and can’t say I blame the guy.”

“Shit.” You sigh rubbing your temples as you kneel to pick up the dismembered arm of your best friend. “Well – fuck. That’ll take him a few hours at least to grow back – He’ll be so sad about his suit.”

You peel the fabric from the limb and tuck it under the breast plate of your own suit. Wade will want his glove back when it grows back.

“He say where he was taking him?”

“Oh yeah, that along with his plan for world domination...” Logan huffs as if your mere presence annoys him.

“Thought you didn’t like sarcasm.”

“I like sarcasm just fine, Bub. It’s you I don’t like.” You can’t help but smile his way at the comment made at your expense, his brows crease. “You’re a strange one.”

“Can you do your sniffy thing?”  Its impressive, you thought he’d reached the limit with his scathing looks towards Wade, yet he somehow manages to pull a deeper frown out the vault especially for you.

“Sniffy thing?” His words are spoken with such derision, it turns you on a little. You realise that perhaps you are in fact a deeply troubled individual.

“Oh, sorry.” You pretend to clear a frog in your throat. “Please, oh, please, beautiful, handsome Wolverine, please can you locate my bestest pal with your heightened sense of smell?” His face doesn’t break despite your hands clasped in front of your chin.

“You���re just as fucking annoying as that moron.” He huffs “Get in the fucking car, we’ll follow his trail.”

“You can smell him from the car?”

“The blood, Jesus Fucking Christ, there’s a trail of blood.”

“Ah.” Is all you reply as you find your seat in the passenger side and start your own one on one team up with Wolverine. Its not exactly the way you imagined it, but beggars certainly can’t be choosers.

After a few moments of sullen silence, you decide that there’s no time like the present to form a long-lasting bond.

“What’s your world like?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“Okay... What’s the first thing you’re gonna’ do if they can save your world? I bet its something boring as fuck, like team-“

“What did you just say?”

“I bet you’re gonna do something boring like-“

“No before that.”

“What’s the first thing you’re gonna’ do if they save your world?” You question, his sudden interest in your words takes you by surprise as he has been vacant from your conversation.

The breaks suddenly shriek as the car comes to a stop.

“What do you mean if?”

“I…”

“You said they could fix my world. Undo it all, is what you fucking said.”

“I mean I think they can!”

“You fucking liar.” The edge to The Wolverine’s voice is terrifying. The realisation trickles down your spine, Logan has been nice to you all this time, you’re finally meeting The Wolverine.

“I didn’t lie!” For some reason you’re ashamed of your deceit, you’ve murdered countless people and still, you’ve felt less remorse. Logan’s eyes pin you in your seat as disgust clouds his face. It hurts more than you can fathom. “Not exactly, I think they can fix your world! – I needed your help and if you killed Wade there was no hope for my universe!”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about your universe!” He spits your way; his hands are gripping the wheel in what seems like an effort to keep his cool.

“I know, but I do!” You cry back at him. “You know how to save the world, you’re the fucking Wolverine! I know how to kill people, but this hero shit, this isn’t me!”

“Ha! No shit.” There is pure hate in the man’s eyes as he stares back at you.

“Please, you’re Logan. Whether you’re the worst one or not - You’re still better than me.”

“Get out of the fucking car.” The words come from between clenched teeth and are filled with warning.

“No – fuck you.”  Your rage breaks the banks to meet Logan’s. Perhaps it’s the guilt, maybe it’s the fear for Wade but something within you snaps at his constant bad temper. “It was an educated guess and a fucking reasonable one at that, get the fuck over yourself you big bird wannabe geriatric fucker! “

He slams his palms on the steering wheel, his nose flares and his teeth clamp together.  “Fuck me? Fuck you – you sad pathetic excuse for a side-kick. No wonder the X-Men wouldn’t take you, and they’ll take fuckin’ anyone. You are a ridiculous, immature, moron who spends her days following around a fucking clown to avoid facing the reality that you are no one. I have never met a sadder, more attention starved asshole in my entire life. You were right about one thing, you’re no fucking hero.”

Its shameful the way your stomach drops, and your eyes involuntarily begin to tear. To hear your hero say the words you’ve thought about yourself whilst laying awake at night. It’s a knife to the gut.

“Nothing to fucking say, huh, Angel?” The use of Wade’s nickname for you is like sandpaper on your skin, it rubs you the wrong fucking way.

“I am going to hurt you now.” Your voice is barely a broken whisper.

“You’re going to hurt – “His faux chortle is cut short by a swift punch to his face. You’re worried you may have been overzealous with your swing when his nose begins bleeding. The Wolverine is stunned for only a moment before he grabs the back of your neck and proceeds with smashing your face into the dashboard and those concerns are quickly put to bed.

The old fucker is strong, but you don’t think he’ll kill you, yet another educated wish.

“Not so tough now…” He shouts as the radio channels change with your skull. Pulling a knife from your leg strap you embed it in his thigh and pull the lever to recline your seat whilst he’s distracted, luckily, you’re not there when he swings for retribution.

Though one of his fucking steak knives catches your upper arm slicing through the leather. Warm blood trickles down your arm, staining the beige interior of the poor Honda. 

Your legs are your strongest asset, so when he attempts to restrain you with the seatbelt, you are presented with your window of opportunity. You wrap them around his neck as you pivot your hips slamming the Wolverine headfirst into the metal of the door. Once, twice, three times - on the fourth he lands a fist to your gut, luckily, he has retracted his claws.

If he was willing to kill you, you wouldn’t stand a chance.

You’re winded struggling to catch your breath from the gut punch, but you manage pull the knife from his thigh that is nestled between your legs and thrust it into his neck, you aim for the spot you’d fantasied about kissing before he’d torn your character apart piece by piece, now you just want to bathe in his fucking blood.

It was the pain that instantaneously made his claws extend. He’s quick to move them, though he slices through the sides of your suit as he buries them in the chair behind you. Your ribs are a bloodied mess though you don’t care, in a few hours they’ll be good as new.

Logan has seized the opportunity and has your arms pinned to your sides, his blood has cooled a little more than yours, he doesn’t seem to want to murder you over an argument.

Perhaps he’s more well-adjusted than yourself, that thought alone should concern you, except it just enrages you further.

“You stupid fuckin-“The Wolverine starts admonishing you, before you swing your head forward and headbutt him.

Yes.

You really do that.

You headbutt the man with the adamantium fucking skeleton– at full strength. Its sheer dumb luck you don’t crack your own skull in the process– maybe Logan was right, you are fucking dumb.

“Fucking fuck!” You cry grabbing your forehead and writhing. Noone wins with a headbutt, except Logan apparently.

“Fucking stop that.” Your writhing has pushed your core against his crotch, and he is already packing quite the heat at what feels like half-mast. He grabs your hips to stop your movement, but it only seems to push you closer. “Stop fucking moving.”

The constant arousal you’ve felt since meeting him returns in double time, Logan’s nostrils flare and his eyes darken. It’s debased and you’re ashamed that you want him, you haven’t stopped wanting him, despite the awful fucking words that left his mouth minutes ago.

“Like … a little pain Wolvie?”

Its relief you feel, you think, when instead of answering or punching you in the face, he closes the gap.

The Wolverine’s claws retract, and he grabs at your chin. Logan’s mouth utterly devours your own, your front tooth clashes with his own as you push yourself upwards, you pull your knife out of his neck, catching his grunt of pain on your tongue as you begin licking your way down his thick throat.

The vein you’d spotted hours ago is throbbing freshly healed, you sink your canines into the flesh and its as good as you’d fucking imagine. His groan is utterly beast-like as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.

The Wolverine’s throat tastes like salt and iron. Thick, tangy and warm on your tongue as you soothe the bite. It drives Logan wild, thrusting his hardened member against your warmth. One of his gloved hands rises to lock on the back of your neck to pull you into yet another earth-shattering kiss.  His sharp hot tongue slides against your own, exploring the expanses of your mouth like its his to claim.

You bite at him again then, your teeth catching his bottom lip sharply.  Logan groans into your mouth before you use every ounce of your enhanced strength to throw him backwards against the dashboard.

He is taken utterly by surprise as his head slams into the windscreen cracking the glass with a grunt. When he looks your way Logan’s eyes are blackened with desire, he is utterly wild.

Slowly as if afraid to make any sudden moves, you unzip your combat boots, your eyes never leaving his. One boot and then the next.

You thank the TVA’s tailor for making your suit a two piece as you shuffle backwards into the backseat, pushing the thick leather down your legs all whilst maintaining eye contact with the beast leaning against the dashboard.

“You sure you want this Darlin’?”

“Darlin’?” You question mockingly, your voice lowering to imitate his own, as you wantonly spread your legs, your bare leg resting next to the headrest. Only a pair of black cotton panties separate him from your most intimate parts and his eyes are locked on your clothed core. “a second ago it was ‘Pathetic Moron’ to you.”

Your head tilts in question as his eyes lock back on your own, you think perhaps for a moment something akin to regret passes over his face, but you’ve never been entirely comfortable with feelings, so you drop your hand into the waistband of your panties, you’ve barely circled your opening with your pointer finger before he’s on you.

“That’s my job, you fucking Moron.” He plunges two bare thick fingers into your heat. Gasping you throw your head back against the headrest, it’s a tight fit and its been a while but the slight burn eases some of the aching in your core.  “You’re fuckin’ soaking wet, you like it huh, bub? Making me bleed?”

Your grab his jaw, your nails digging into his flesh. “I’d like to bathe in-” He scissors his fingers finding that spot inside you and you let out an embarrassing noise, somewhere between a gasp and a moan. “-Your fucking blood… you mean motherfucker.”

You’re an absolute goner when he starts rubbing your clit, after a day of foreplay your body seizes, and you grab at the nape of his neck trying to find something to anchor you down. But as fast as the build was you come tumbling down just as quickly, when he cruelly withdraws his hands.

“No! - Wha- what the fuck?!” You’re almost crying as your torn from the precipice.

Logan flips you over onto your stomach before you can complain any further, your face down on the filthy upholstery as he pulls your panties from your hips. You can’t see him from this angle, though you can feel his warm hands tracing the globes of your ass.

You force your knees further apart, pushing your bare soaking pussy against the tight bulge of his yellow suit. If you had enough of your facilities about you, you’d be embarrassed that you’re currently rubbing your cunt against The Wolverine like a bitch in heat after he’d chewed you out only minutes ago.

Logan’s hand dip between your thighs, his fingers swirl along your hole, dragging your wetness along to your aching clit.

“You think I’d make it that easy?” He asks as he continues the journey back and forth. On the second pass he dips his finger inside of you for a fraction of a second before resuming its path. “What do you want, darlin’?”

You weren’t going to beg, in fact you bit your tongue to stop the traitorous words from forming, this man had already made you abandon most of your self-respect, he wasn’t having this.

“Logan…” At your breathy words the man leans forward, pressing his fabric covered cock into your ass as he folds his body over yours. One hand comes down next to your shoulder, the other explore your tits as he rocks himself into your throbbing core. It’s the perfect storm as he nuzzles into your exposed throat but somehow you manage your words. “Fuck me or don’t, I’m not begging, bub.”

He exhales through his nose in what you guess is equal parts amusement and annoyance, but you’re far beyond caring. He places a bite on the spot where your throat meets your shoulder as his body pulls back. Momentarily his hands leave your hips to deal with his own pants. You hear the clank of his belt hitting the car floor moments before you feel the head of his cock, running along your folds.

The head of his cock is thick, and it feels hot to the touch as he runs it along your slick. All of a sudden Logan pushes forward and sheathes himself inside of you with a single thrust.

You try your best to hold in your incoherent moans but to little avail as he pulls back before slamming full force back into you. If you were a human woman, your pelvis would’ve shattered from the force of his hips against your ass, instead you gather your strength and push back, allowing him deeper. The both of you moan in unison at the depth he reaches.

You grab onto the foam of the seat, ripping through the fabric with your bare hands desperate for an anchor as Logan unforgivingly pounds into you from behind, once again he folds his body over yours, wrapping a palm around your clawed fingers.

“.” He grunts something incoherent into your ear as he picks up the pace, slamming into you repeatedly, slowly picking up his pace. Your core is positively aching as you throb around him, pulling him deeper within you.  If you were expecting any further explanation, you’re sorely disappointed.

The wolverine pulls back, gripping at your hips keeping you still as he resumes his powerful strokes.  Logan’s hand dips to your clit, rubbing quick circles sending you barrelling back towards your orgasm. As you begin to clench around him, he pulls your body upwards, his head brushing against the top of the car as he holds you against him his fingers never leaving your clit.

“Come on my cock, Angel.” Unable to stop yourself you clench around him, hearing him talk like that does something primal to you.

You fucking loved Logan’s mouth, you bet he ate pussy like a champion if he played the clit this fucking well.

You stopped fighting it and threw yourself from the cliff, shattering in his thick muscle veined arms as he held you up against him, his cock still viciously plundering your depths.

“You’re so fucking tight.” He whispers against your neck whispers peppering it with bites.

Logan gives you a few moments to come down from your high before he resumes his punishing pace, you think perhaps you’ve reached your limit of pleasure, that the threshold can’t possibly be topped until he whispers into your ear in that gruff voice.

“What was it Wilson said? Filling all your holes?” The Wolverine asks, his eyes meet yours over your shoulder meaningfully, asking permission as he offers you his thumb. You merely moan your approval and wantonly draw his finger into your mouth, soaking the pad in saliva.  

Logan yanks your head into a vicious kiss. It’s a messy one, filled to the brim with need. The hand not currently locked on your neck holding your face to his, travels down your back, through the valley of your bodies. The pad of his pinky runs appreciatively over the globe of your ass, before his hand dips into the crease.

Logan’s thumb runs teasingly against the tight ring of muscle, it’s a foreign experience which makes you startle slightly.

“Anyone ever fucked you here?” He asks as he bites down your neck, delicately pushing you forward until your head rests on the backseat. You shake your head as your eyes close, his cock is buried balls deep within you as he plays with your asshole.

When his thumb finally breaches your tight hole just past the nail, he begins his thrusts once more. His cock fills your pussy from behind and suddenly you feel so fucking full, Its far too much for you.

“Fuck… Logan.” You gasp almost on the verge of tears as pounds you into the back seat. It seems the ass play has gotten to him more than expected, as his pace has increases.

“Where?” He asks breathless from the exertion as he pulls his thumbs from your ass and takes a handful of the meat on your hips.

“Inside…. Please … Logan.” You practically beg though you’ll never admit it, his rhythm becomes stunted as his hips slam into the back of your thighs.

“Give me something tight to come in, Darlin’.” Moaning at his words you’re eager to obey as you reach your hand between your own legs and rub mercilessly at your clit. The unforgiving pounding, the grunting and the fingers currently bruising your hips and the burning of your now vacant ass send you sailing over the edge.

You clamp down on him like a vice, groaning unable to hold back your whimpers anymore as he finally bites your neck and pumps his seed deep inside you as far as it can go. Logan grunts like a beast as he pulses deep inside of you.

Logan collapses beside you. Dents in the interior of the van you don’t even remember making have appeared from where a stray elbow or knee has hit the metal in the throes of passion.

The Wolverine tucks his cock back in his suit. Ever the gentleman, he uses your black panties to wipe away the cum dripping from your thighs, you haven’t got the heart to tell him that when you’re commando redressed in your suit that you can still feel him dripping from you, your pussy uncomfortably slick against the leather.

After dressing, the two of you sit in contemplative silence. Neither one of you has the emotional complexity to discuss what happened and neither one of you will accept fault for your argument that led to it, so, silence reigns.

The tension is sliced in two as Logan leans forward and pushes an errant lock of hair behind your ear in an act so goddamn endearing, you melt. You still wouldn’t apologise for lying, because you didn’t lie but you can meet him a quarter of the way.

“I’m sorry for calling you geriatric.” You whisper catching his eyes, a small spark of humour leaps into them, you’ve seen more emotions from your hero in the past half an hour than you knew he was capable of.

“I shouldn’t have-“ Logan’s heartfelt apology is cut off by the lead of this goddamn story.

“Well, well, well.  Would you look at this, My best friends, Ha! I get fucking kidnapped, an arm ripped off and you’re nowhere to be found? I thought don’t worry Wade, they won’t leave you, Y/N/N will come around that corner any second."

Wade has appeared through the passenger side window; he looks a little worse for wear and has a child’s arm growing from his stump, its kind of gross to look at.

"What if Colossus had had his way with me? What then Y/N? I expect this from Wolvie, but not from you! No, no heroic rescue for old Deadpool. I have to save myself because you fuckers are too busy playing hide the adamantium bone!  Thanks for nothing guys. Now the car has old man sex stank to it, as if this hunk of shit Honda could get any worse!”

[eu-nicola]

her memory

summary: After Grace's death, you offer to take care of Charlie, Thomas, who lives tormented by his pain, accepts. As both spend more time together, both begin to develop something but neither you or him don't know how to accept it.

warnings: mention of death, nothing more i think

word counter: 7682

author's note: english is not my first language

The cold wind cut through the morning with a cruel indifference, as if the world kept turning without stopping for anyone's mourning. The tombstones stood as silent reminders of lives past, names etched in stone, stories that had ended. Among them all, one stood out: Grace Shelby. The letters were carved with precision, the name reflecting both love and tragedy.

You, Grace's younger sister, held a bouquet of white lilies with numb fingers. You had chosen those flowers because they were Grace's favorite, although now the detail seemed ironic. You couldn't remember the last time you had brought her flowers when she was alive. Maybe you had never done so. Guilt nibbled at the edges of your conscience as you walked down the gravel path.

In the distance, a familiar figure emerged from the mist: Thomas. He was dressed in strict black, his face impassive as always. His eyes, though, those blue eyes that always seemed to be calculating, now reflected something deeper. Pain. Or maybe just tiredness.

You hadn’t spoken to Thomas since Grace’s funeral, and before that, your interactions had been tense, at best. You’d made it clear from the start that you didn’t trust him. “He’s not a good man for you, Grace,” you’d warned him more than once, but Grace always found a way to justify it. “You don’t know him like I do,” she’d reply with a smile that was now just a painful memory.

Thomas stopped in his tracks when he saw you standing by the grave. There were no words of greeting or gestures of courtesy. Neither did they need them. You were both there for the same reason.

You carefully placed the flowers on the grave and knelt down, closing your eyes for a moment. The silence between you and Thomas was thick, heavy with everything that had never been said and everything that would never be said. Finally, you stood up, feeling Thomas’ gaze on you.

“She always talked about you,” Thomas said, his voice low and rough, like he hadn’t used it in days.

You looked at him, surprised by the comment. There was an honesty in his tone that was disarming, something rare about him.

“And what did she say?” you asked, not because you really wanted to know, but because you needed to fill the void.

Thomas lit a cigarette, letting the smoke mix with the cold air. His eyes never left the tombstone.

“She said you were strong. Stronger than you believed yourself. That you had always been her rock, even when you didn’t know it.” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “And that you were the only one who could tell her the truth, even if it hurt.”

You felt a lump in your throat. Grace had always been the mediator between you and the world, softening your harshest words, interpreting your silences. Now that she was gone, you felt disoriented, like you’d lost your compass.

“I always thought I was protecting her,” you admitted quietly, your gaze fixed on the grave. “But maybe I was just trying to protect myself. I didn’t want to see her suffer for someone who couldn’t give her what she deserved.”

Thomas didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice held a tone you’d never heard before: vulnerability.

“Grace gave me more than I deserved. And I gave her back less than I needed.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the dirt and looked up at you. “But I loved her. In my own way, I loved her.”

His words fell heavily in the air. For a moment, you wanted to respond as harshly as ever, to point out that his love hadn’t been enough, that his world of violence and power had dragged her to the grave. But something stopped you. Maybe it was the pain you saw reflected in his face. Or maybe you were just tired of fighting.

“Grace loved you too,” you said at last, almost in a whisper. “I never doubted that.”

Silence settled between you again. Thomas nodded slightly, as if that statement were enough. You both knew that the relationship between you and him would never be cordial, but at that moment, you shared something that transcended your differences: the loss of the woman who had been the center of your lives.

Finally, Thomas took a step back, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“I’ll always be here if you need me,” he said, not looking directly at you. Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned and began walking toward the exit of the cemetery.

You watched his figure walk away until it disappeared into the fog. The fog slowly dissipated as you walked away, leaving the tombstone and the memories behind.

After that encounter, you knew that you didn’t want to part with what little was left of Grace. The decision didn’t come immediately, but rather as a persistent murmur in the back of your mind. The image of Grace, always smiling with her baby in her arms, was etched ever deeper into your memory. Charlie was the only part of her left in this world, a small piece of light in the midst of all the darkness her death had left. And you wanted, no, needed, to be a part of her life.

Days later, you found yourself in front of the door of the Shelby house. You hesitated for a moment, looking at the imposing facade. You hadn’t set foot in that place since Grace’s funeral. You sighed deeply and knocked on the door. It was Polly who opened it, her sharp gaze examining you immediately.

“What are you doing here?” she asked bluntly, her tone neither hostile nor friendly, just expectant.

“I need to talk to Thomas,” you said, straightening up.

Polly arched an eyebrow, but didn’t ask any more questions. She waved you in and led you to the living room, where Thomas sat behind his desk, papers strewn in front of him, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

He looked up as you entered, his expression unfazed.

“Another telling off, then?” she asked sarcastically, though there was a hint of curiosity in her tone.

You shook your head, gently shaking your head as you sat across from him.

“I’m not here to fight, Thomas. I’m here for Charlie.”

He set the glass down on the table, his gaze fixed on you.

“What about Charlie?”

You took a moment before answering, your hands clenched in your lap.

“I want to help. I want to be in his life. I know this may sound strange, but I would like to be his nanny.” You hesitated for a second, but continued before he could interrupt. “I want to be close to him, to help raise him. I don’t want him to grow up without having a connection to his maternal family.”

Thomas watched you silently for a few moments. His face was a mask of calm, but his eyes betrayed that he was processing each word carefully.

“Why now?” he asked finally. “You don’t trust me, you never have. Why would you want to get more involved?”

You leaned forward a little, trying to convey the sincerity of your intentions.

“Grace loved Charlie more than anything. And if I can’t have her, I at least want to make sure her son grows up surrounded by love, by family. This isn’t about you, Thomas. This is about him.” You paused, letting your words sink in. “And because Grace would want us to be there for him.” Both of you.

Thomas leaned back in his chair, bringing his hands to his face for a moment before running them through his hair. Finally, he nodded slowly.

“Fine. If that’s what you want, you can start tomorrow. Polly will show you Charlie’s routines. But I warn you,” he said, his voice lower and more serious, “this world is dangerous. I don’t want you to go near it if you ever think you can’t handle it.”

You agreed with a slight nod, knowing there was no turning back.

The next morning, Polly greeted you with a mix of surprise and silent approval. She wasn’t a woman of many words, but she seemed to appreciate your willingness.

“Charlie is a calm boy, but he needs stability,” she said as she led you to the little boy’s room. “His mother was his refuge, and now it’s up to you to fill some of that void.”

When you entered Charlie’s room, your heart tightened. The boy, who couldn’t have been more than two years old, was sitting in his crib, playing with a teddy bear. His eyes were the spitting image of Grace: big, curious, and bright. Seeing you, he tilted his head in curiosity.

You slowly approached, smiling.

“Hey, little one,” you said quietly, feeling excitement fill your chest.

Charlie watched you for a moment before extending his arms to you, an immediate sign of trust that nearly brought tears to your eyes. You picked him up carefully, feeling his warmth against you. He rested his small head on your shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The rest of the day passed in unexpected calm. You fed him, played with him, and took him for a walk in the garden. As you walked, you couldn’t help but notice that Charlie seemed more relaxed with you than you had anticipated. It was as if, somehow, he knew you were a part of his mother, a connection he still needed.

The passage of time hadn’t eased the void left by Grace, but caring for Charlie filled your days with a kind of purpose you’d never felt before. The little boy had a laugh that lit up even the gloomiest of rooms, and his small hands reached for yours with a trust that melted you. With each day you spent with him, you felt like you were helping keep a part of Grace alive.

Charlie followed you everywhere, whether it was in the garden, where he clung to your wobbly fingers as he tried to walk, or in the kitchen, where he babbled incomprehensible words as you prepared his food. What touched you most was the way he clung to you at night, his small hands tangled in your shirt as you rocked him to sleep.

You were aware that every smile you elicited from him was a silent defiance of the pain his mother’s death had left behind. Though you tried hard to stay strong, there were times when Grace’s absence was too much. On those nights, when Charlie finally fell asleep, you stayed by his side a little longer, whispering stories about his mother to him, wishing that, somehow, he could remember her.

One of those nights, after putting Charlie to bed, you went down to the kitchen in search of something warm to drink. The house was silent, save for the occasional creak of wood beneath your feet. The air was cold, and the light from the fireplace in the living room barely illuminated the hallway.

That was when you saw him. Thomas was sitting in one of the armchairs in front of the fire, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside him. His eyes, normally sharp and watchful, were darkened by a deep sadness. His face, always controlled, now seemed vulnerable, almost unfamiliar.

For a moment, you hesitated. You had seen Thomas in many facets: calculating, furious, even protective. But never like this, broken.

“Thomas, are you okay?” you asked quietly, though the answer was obvious.

He looked up slowly, his blue eyes piercing through you, filled with a pain that seemed to have no end. He didn’t answer right away, instead taking another long sip from the bottle before setting it down on the table with a thud.

“I didn’t know you were awake,” he finally said, his voice hoarse.

You approached cautiously, sitting down on the armchair in front of him. The distance between you both seemed so short and, at the same time, infinite.

“I was thinking about Grace,” you murmured, trying to connect.

Thomas gave a bitter smile, but his eyes didn’t light up.

“There’s not a single moment when I don’t see her. Every corner of this damn house reminds me of her.”

The silence that followed was thick. You felt like any words you could say would be insufficient, but you couldn't just leave him in that state.

“Grace would never want to see you like this, Thomas,” you said softly. “She always saw the best in you, even when you didn’t.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“Grace was always better than I deserved. I brought her into this world, into danger, and it killed her.” His words came out laden with guilt. “Everything I touch breaks.”

You leaned forward, meeting his eyes.

“Grace chose to be with you. She knew who you were and what your world meant, but she still loved you. You can’t carry all the blame, Thomas.”

For the first time, Thomas seemed to truly hear you. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you both shared a pain only you could understand. He let out a heavy sigh, as if he’d been carrying too great a weight for years.

“Charlie gives me a reason to keep going,” he admitted quietly. “But I can’t help but think of everything he lost. What I took from him.”

The pain in his voice tore at you. Without thinking, you stood up and walked over to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You’re not alone in this, Thomas. Charlie has a lot of people who love him. And so do you.” You paused, measuring your words. “I’m here.”

Thomas lifted his head, surprised by the openness in your voice.

“Thank you,” he finally said, his whisper barely audible.

You stayed by his side as the night wore on, both of you silent, but this time it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was the kind of stillness that comes from sharing a common pain.

The days in the Shelby house followed a steady, almost predictable rhythm. The mornings were Charlie's: from the first light of day, the little boy filled the house with his laughter and babbling, and you were there for each of those moments. But the nights... the nights were different.

Since that first time you found Thomas broken in front of the fireplace, something had changed between the two of you. They didn't always talk, but the presence of each other was enough. So, every night after putting Charlie to bed, your steps inevitably led you to the living room, where Thomas waited for you, his silhouette illuminated by the flames of the fire.

The first few nights were a timid exchange of words. Thomas offered you a glass of whiskey, which you accepted although you barely touched it, and the two of you sat in silence, watching the flames dance. Every now and then, he shared fragments of memories about Grace, little anecdotes that made you smile or sometimes let out a stifled laugh.

“Grace always made fun of my smoking,” he commented one night, with a slight smile. “She said I looked like a cheap actor trying to look sophisticated.”

You laughed softly, imagining your sister with her sharp wit and love of little jokes.

“That sounds like Grace,” you said, your voice heavy with nostalgia.

Over time, conversations became more fluid, less restrained. You shared memories of your childhood with Grace, little secrets that only the two of you knew. Thomas listened intently, his eyes softening with each story, as if through your words he could feel his wife’s presence again.

“You know?” you said, staring into the fire. “I always thought you were Grace’s worst mistake.”

Thomas, who had been staring at his glass of whiskey, looked up slowly, one eyebrow arched.

“And now?” he asked, his tone neutral, but his eyes heavy with curiosity.

You sighed, playing with the rim of your glass.

“Now… I’m not so sure.” You looked at him, your words softer than you’d planned. “Grace was happy with you. And that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

Thomas didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watched you closely.

“I’m not a good man,” he finally said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “I never have been. But with Grace… she made me want to be better.”

You nodded slowly, understanding the weight of his words.

“We all have our shadows, Thomas. But I’ve seen how you are with Charlie, how you talk about Grace. Maybe you’re not as bad as I always thought.”

He let out a dry laugh, but there was a glint of something else in his eyes, something that seemed like a mix of relief and gratitude.

“That’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve heard from you,” he said, his tone mocking, though his smile was genuine.

“Don’t get used to it,” you replied, smiling back.

With each passing night, the relationship between the two of you transformed. The conversations became deeper, more sincere. Thomas showed you a side that few knew about: the man behind the boss, the husband, the father struggling to find balance in a world full of chaos.

One night, after a long silence, Thomas confessed something that surprised you.

“I didn’t think you could forgive me,” he said, his words laden with a weight he seemed to have been carrying for a long time. “Not after everything.”

You stared at him, sensing the sincerity in his voice.

“It’s not easy to forgive, Thomas. But I also know that life is too short to hold on to hate.”

For a moment, you thought you were going to see tears in his eyes, but Thomas just nodded, clenching his jaw as he looked away.

Even if everything was fine between you and Thomas, there was always something off. The next day, the sun was shining softly that afternoon, and a light breeze rustled the leaves, making everything seem almost calm, almost normal.

Charlie was swinging happily in a baby swing that Thomas had had installed months ago. You stood nearby, watching him with a smile as you gently pushed the swing, making sure it wasn’t too high.

Charlie giggled, and when the swing stopped, he raised his arms to you, asking to be pulled out. You picked him up easily, holding him against your hip as he wrapped his arms around your neck. He looked at you with those big, bright eyes that reminded you so much of Grace, and something in your chest tightened.

“I love you, little one,” you murmured, gently kissing his forehead.

The little boy stared at you for a moment, then rested his little head on your shoulder and, in a barely audible voice, whispered,

“Mommy.”

The world seemed to stop. The air became thick, and for an instant, you couldn’t move or breathe. Your heart skipped a beat as the weight of that word fell upon you. You didn’t know what to say. Charlie didn’t fully understand what he had just said, but to you, the meaning was overwhelming.

Before you could react, a deep, sharp voice broke the silence.

“What did you say?”

You turned around suddenly and saw Thomas standing a few feet away. His face was tense, his eyes dark and filled with a mix of surprise and suppressed fury. He had returned earlier than expected and had clearly heard his son’s words.

—Thomas… —you started to say, trying to calm him down.

—Why is he calling you "Mom"? —he interrupted, his voice low but full of intensity.

Charlie, oblivious to the tension, clung to you with an innocent smile, his small hands playing with your hair. The image must have been a shock to Thomas, a painful reminder of what he’d lost.

“He’s just a kid, Thomas,” you said calmly, setting Charlie down so he could play again. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. I would never try to take Grace’s place.”

Thomas took a step forward, his posture rigid.

“But you are,” he said, his voice raspy. “You’re looking out for him, you’re comforting him, and now he thinks you—” He paused, as if the words were too painful to say out loud.

“I’m here because I wanted Charlie to have someone to look out for him, to love him. I’m not trying to replace Grace, Thomas. I never could,” you replied, trying to keep your composure.

“Oh, yeah?” he snapped, his tone bitter. “And what do you think is going to happen if you keep this up?” He’ll see you as his mother.

His words were like blades, and you felt a lump in your throat, but you weren’t going to back down.

“That’s not fair!” you exclaimed, raising your voice. “I’ve done everything you asked of me, Thomas. I’ve been here, taking care of Charlie, helping you keep this home standing. And now you’re blaming me for something I can’t even control?”

Thomas clenched his fists, his eyes burning with frustration.

“You don’t understand. This isn’t your place. You’re not his mother. You never will be.”

The words were like a blow, but you refused to let them affect you any more than necessary.

“You’re right, Thomas,” you said, your voice cold. “I’m not his mother. But at least I’m here for him. And you? Where are you when he needs you? Or do you prefer to hide behind your whiskey and your business, letting others deal with the pain?”

Thomas took a step closer, his face now just inches from yours.

“Be careful what you say.”

“Why?” you replied, challenging him with your gaze. “Because you don’t like hearing the truth?”

The silence that followed was sharp, both of you breathing heavily, the tension between you almost tangible. Finally, Thomas took a step back, his face hardening.

“If you can’t understand your place here, then maybe you shouldn’t be here.”

Those words were a final blow. You nodded slowly, your expression cold but hurt.

“Understood.”

Without saying anything else, you turned and walked into the house, leaving Thomas alone in the garden. You felt a mix of rage and sadness as you climbed the stairs to your room. Everything you had done, all the effort, seemed to have been in vain. You leaned against the closed door, trying to control the tears that threatened to spill out.

The days that followed that tense confrontation with Thomas were tinged with an awkward silence in the house. The air seemed heavier, as if the very walls held back unspoken words and hurt feelings. But the most noticeable change was in Charlie.

The little boy, who used to be an endless source of laughter and energy, now seemed to be caught in a cloud of restlessness. His demeanor changed dramatically; laughter had been replaced by sobs, and his usual enthusiasm for play had given way to an irritable, brooding attitude. Every little inconvenience, from a toy that didn't work the way he wanted it to the lack of his favorite snack, made him burst into tears.

It hurt to see him like this, but the worst thing was that you knew why. Charlie missed the closest thing he'd had to a mother in the last few months. And even though you'd tried to keep your distance after the argument with Thomas, you couldn't help but worry about the boy.

That afternoon, Charlie was sitting on the living room floor, tightly hugging a teddy bear that Grace had given him. Tears ran down his cheeks as he murmured between sobs:

"Mom..."

You knelt beside him, feeling a lump in your throat.

"I know, honey," you said softly, stroking his hair. "I know you miss her."

Charlie turned to you, his little eyes full of desperation.

"Mom," he said.

It was like a dagger straight to the heart. Your instinct was to hug him, but you stopped, remembering Thomas' words.

“Oh, little Charlie,” you said finally, your voice breaking.

The little boy didn’t understand, and you knew it. To him, absence was a void that was impossible to fill. His sobs increased, and in the end, you couldn’t hold back any longer. You lifted him into your arms, holding him tightly as he cried against your chest.

“I’m here now,” you murmured, trying to calm him down. “I’m not leaving, okay?”

At that moment, the door opened, and Thomas entered the room. His gaze hardened as he took in the scene before him: you holding Charlie, trying to comfort him like a mother would.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, his voice cold.

Charlie turned to his father, his little face still wet with tears.

“Dad… Mom.”

Thomas tensed his jaw, his gaze darkening even further. He took a step toward you, his eyes fixed on you.

The boy clung to you, but was eventually led to his room by a maid. Once he was out of the room, Thomas turned to you.

“What part of ‘you can’t be his mother’ didn’t you understand?” he said, his voice low but filled with contained anger.

You stood up, crossing your arms.

“Thomas, don’t you see what’s happening? Charlie is hurting. He misses his mother, and for now, I’m the closest thing he has. Why can’t you just accept it?”

Thomas laughed, but there was no humor in his voice.

“Accept it? You want me to accept my son starting to call you mom while Grace is in her grave? Is that what you want?”

“No, what I want is for you to stop being so selfish,” you replied, raising your voice. “This isn’t about you, Thomas. It’s about Charles. He needs someone, and you can’t be everything to him.”

Thomas took a step closer, his presence imposing.

“You don’t decide what my son needs. I’m his father.”

“And I’m the only person who’s been here for him while you drown in your own pain,” you said, not backing down. “But it’s okay, Thomas. If that’s what you want, I’ll leave. But when Charlie keeps crying at night, when he asks you why I left him, you’ll be the one responsible.”

Thomas didn’t answer right away. His gaze was hard, but there was something else going on, too: an internal struggle, a battle between his pride and the reality that was hitting him harder and harder.

Finally, he took a step back, breaking eye contact.

“Do what you want,” he murmured, before exiting the room and leaving you alone.

The next few days were marked by an awkward silence between you and Thomas. Even though he had made it clear that he didn’t want you anywhere near Charlie, you couldn’t just walk away. Not when the little boy needed you more than ever. So, defying Thomas’ orders, you continued to look after the boy. After all, someone had to do it.

That night, the Shelby house was unusually quiet. Charlie had had a long day and was restless, his small body still shaking from time to time from residual sobs. You held him in your arms, gently rocking him as you walked around the room, whispering soothing words to him. Eventually, his eyes began to close, and his breathing became more rhythmic.

The house was empty. Thomas had gone out, as he often did lately, immersing himself in his business and affairs. Everything seemed calm, but there was an uneasiness in the air that you couldn’t shake.

Suddenly, a noise downstairs broke the silence. At first you thought maybe Thomas had returned, but a quick glance at the clock made you dismiss that idea. You clutched Charlie to your chest, your senses heightening. Another noise, this time clearer: the creaking of a door carefully opening.

Your heart began to pound, but you kept your cool. You couldn’t allow yourself to lose control. Slowly, you made your way to the bedroom door, making sure Charlie was safe in your arms.

The sound of footsteps ascending the stairs grew clearer and clearer. Then, a figure appeared in the doorway, a tall, burly man with a cold, cruel gaze. He held a gun, his face partially hidden by a handkerchief.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” the man said, his voice deep and full of mockery. “I didn’t expect to find a babysitter.”

You said nothing, your mind working quickly. The man pointed the gun at you, a gesture that made it clear he wasn’t there to talk.

“Where’s Shelby?” he asked, taking a step forward. “I know she’s not far away. But in the meantime…” his eyes fell on Charlie, who began to fidget in your arms, sensing danger. “Maybe we can send her a message, huh?”

“You don’t have to do this,” you said in a firm, yet calm voice. “Thomas will be back soon, and when he does, you won’t want to be here.”

The man laughed, a harsh, cruel sound.

“And what are you going to do?” he snapped. “Another empty threat? I’m here to settle a score, and if it means hurting the one you care about most…” He motioned to Charlie with a shake of his head.

Charlie began to cry, his small fists clinging to your shirt. Your instinct was to protect him, positioning him so that his body was out of reach of the gun. Despite the fear you felt, you kept your voice calm.

“You’re not going to touch him. If it’s Thomas you want, then he’s him you’ll face. But not a child.”

The man paused, considering your words, but his expression showed no sign of mercy.

“The world is not so kind, young lady.”

Before he could move, another noise echoed through the house. This time, the unmistakable thud of a door slamming shut. The man turned quickly, raising the gun, but before he could react, Thomas appeared in the doorway.

His gaze was deadly. In a quick, calculated move, he pulled out his pistol and fired without hesitation. The sound was deafening in the small room, and the man fell to the floor with a thud, the gun slipping from his hand.

Thomas moved forward slowly, his eyes fixed on the intruder’s body to make sure he posed no further threat. When he was sure, he turned his attention back to you and Charlie.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low but urgent.

Charlie was still crying, his tears soaking your shirt. You nodded, though your heart was still pounding.

“Yeah, we’re okay,” you murmured, trying to calm Charlie as you cradled him against you.

Thomas moved closer, placing a firm but gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Take him downstairs,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”

You nodded again, walking out of the room with Charlie still in your arms. His sobs began to subside as you descended the stairs, the warmth of your embrace providing him with a modicum of comfort.

When you reached the living room, you sat down on the couch, holding Charlie close. Shortly after, Thomas came down, his steps slower, his expression hardened. He sat down in front of you, his gaze assessing you.

“I shouldn’t have left you alone with him,” he finally said, his voice heavy with a mix of guilt and concern.

“Thomas… it’s not your fault,” you replied, though you knew it wasn’t enough to ease his burden.

For the first time in days, his eyes showed something other than fury. There was fear there, fear of what could have happened if he had arrived a minute later.

As you rocked gently, Charlie’s little face buried in your chest, while you ran your fingers through his hair, murmuring soothing words.

Thomas sat across from you, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped together, staring at the floor as if he was trapped in thought. The dim light from the lamp cast deep shadows on his face, highlighting the hardness of his features. But his eyes… his eyes showed something different that night: vulnerability.

“I shouldn’t have taken you away from Charlie,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence with a low tone, almost a whisper. He wasn’t looking at you, but his voice was heavy with remorse. “It was a mistake.”

You look up, surprised by his words. You had expected many things from Thomas Shelby, but not an apology.

“Thomas…” you began, but he held up a hand, indicating that he wasn’t finished yet.

“Ever since Grace died, I’ve tried to protect him, protect us both. But in doing so, all I’ve done is fail him. I can’t give him what he needs.” He finally looked up, his eyes meeting yours. “But you can.”

The words hit you with a mix of relief and pain. You knew how much it had cost him to admit that, how much it meant to him to acknowledge that he couldn’t do everything alone.

“Charlie needs you, more than I wanted to admit. I’ve seen you with him, how he calms down in your arms, how he trusts you.” Thomas ran a hand over his face, sighing deeply. “And I was an idiot to try to push you away from him.”

You looked down at Charlie, who was breathing easier now, his fingers gently clinging to your shirt. A feeling of warmth and relief settled in your chest. You had been willing to do anything for that little boy, even if it meant facing Thomas Shelby.

“Thank you for saying it, Thomas,” you finally said, your voice soft but firm. “But I need you to trust me, to understand that I would never do anything to hurt him.”

Thomas nodded slowly, his eyes still locked with yours. There was a weight in his gaze, but also a sort of unspoken truce.

“I know,” he admitted. “And I’m grateful. More than I can express.”

He leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees as he watched Charlie with a mix of tenderness and pain.

“I never wanted him to grow up without a mother. And I know you’ll never be able to replace Grace, but what you do for him… that’s the closest thing to a home I can offer him now.”

The lump in your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to keep your composure.

“I’ll do everything I can for him, Thomas. Always.”

For the first time in what seemed like weeks, Thomas smiled, albeit a weak, tired smile.

“I know,” he said simply.

Silence fell between you again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. It was a silence of understanding, of acceptance. Charlie had fallen asleep, his little rhythmic sighs filling the room.

Thomas stood up, walking towards you with slow steps. He leaned down slightly, placing a hand on Charlie’s head and stroking his hair gently. Then, his eyes met yours again.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, but loaded with meaning.

You simply nodded, no need for words.

The next few days were quieter in the house. Thomas allowed you to care for Charlie without interference, and even began to participate more in the moments you shared with the little one. There was a routine that was beginning to feel, if not normal, at least less tense.

You and Thomas also began to talk more. At first, it was practical conversations, about Charlie or about how to reinforce the security of the house. But little by little, those dialogues transformed into something more personal. Moments when, for a brief moment, Thomas Shelby wasn’t the ruthless leader of the Peaky Blinders, but simply a man trying to navigate loss.

One night, after you’d put Charlie to bed, you found Thomas in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The soft light from the table lamp illuminated the room, creating a warm, almost intimate atmosphere. He was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, his gaze lost in the flames.

“Everything okay?” you asked, carefully entering the room.

Thomas looked up, his expression relaxing at the sight of you.

“Yeah,” he replied, though his tone said otherwise. “Just… thinking.”

You walked over and sat on the couch across from him. You didn’t want to push him, but there was something in his gaze that night that worried you.

“About Grace?” you asked softly.

He nodded, taking a sip of his whiskey before setting the glass down on the table beside him.

“Always Grace,” he murmured. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about her. What could have been if…” He paused, his jaw tightening.

You didn’t say anything, allowing him space to speak if he needed to. You knew that, as hard as it was for him, these moments of vulnerability were important.

“Sometimes I think I’m losing her,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper. “Her face, her voice… it’s all fading away, and that scares me more than anything.”

Your heart clenched at his confession. Thomas, the man who always seemed so strong, was pouring his soul out in front of you. Without thinking too hard, you stood up and walked over, standing next to him.

“You won’t lose her, Thomas,” you said softly. “She’ll always be a part of you, of Charlie. Nothing will change that.”

He looked at you, his blue eyes shining in the firelight. There was something in his gaze, a mix of pain, gratitude, and something else you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Without thinking, he raised a hand and gently brushed it against your cheek.

The gesture took you by surprise, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you found yourself leaning slightly into him, until his lips met yours in a soft kiss, laden with repressed emotion. It was a brief moment, but it was intense, as if both of you were allowing yourselves to feel something you’d been denying for far too long.

But as soon as it was over, Thomas pulled away, his expression changing from vulnerability to guilt in an instant.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he said, his voice hard and laden with regret. He stood up quickly, moving away from you as if the contact had burned. “I can’t… I can’t do this to Grace.”

The pain in his voice was palpable, but it didn’t hurt any less that his words were hurting you, too. You stayed on the couch, trying to process what had just happened.

“Thomas…” you tried to speak, but he held up a hand to stop you.

“No. I can’t,” he repeated, his tone harsher. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have…”

You stood up, the lump in your throat getting tighter with each word he said.

“A mistake?” you asked, your voice shaking slightly.

He didn’t answer, but his silence was enough to confirm it. You felt your eyes begin to fill with tears, but you refused to let them fall in front of him.

“I understand,” you finally said, your voice firmer than you expected. “Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed so long.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, you turned and walked out of the room, your heart pounding in your chest. You climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last, until you reached your room. You closed the door behind you, letting the tears finally fall.

The days following the kiss and the rejection were unbearably tense. You and Thomas had gone back to barely speaking beyond what was necessary. Conversations were limited to the basics: directions for Charlie, changes around the house, or simple mechanical greetings. Any vestige of the connection you had begun to build seemed to have faded, leaving an awkward chasm between you.

It hurt, more than you wanted to admit. You had accepted that Thomas still carried Grace in his heart, but you hadn’t expected the kiss you shared, brief but full of meaning, to become a wall between you.

Finally, one night, after you had put Charlie to sleep, you found yourself unable to bear the coldness any longer. You knew you couldn’t continue living in the same house, taking care of Charlie, and pretending everything was okay when it wasn’t.

You found him in the living room, as always, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He barely looked up when you entered, but you didn’t say anything right away. You closed the door behind you and stood there, watching him.

“How long are we going to keep this up, Thomas?” you finally asked, breaking the silence with a voice filled with frustration.

Thomas didn’t even flinch. He took a sip of his whiskey before answering, his tone indifferent.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Your jaw tightened, and you took a step forward.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. This. Us. Pretending like nothing happened, when we both know it did.”

Thomas finally looked up, his blue eyes cold and calculating.

“There is no ‘us,’” he said harshly. “There can’t be.”

His words were like a punch to the gut, but you didn’t back down.

“And that’s it?” you replied, your voice rising slightly. “Are you going to keep hiding behind Grace’s memory, using your guilt as an excuse to keep everyone at a distance?”

Thomas’ expression hardened, and he set his glass down with a thud.

“Be careful what you say,” he warned, his voice low but dangerous.

But you were too furious to stop yourself. The pressure of the past few days, the built-up tension, it all came crashing down.

“Careful?” you repeated, taking a step closer. “I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you, Thomas. What’s wrong with you? Why do you insist on pushing everyone away?”

Thomas stood up suddenly, his imposing presence filling the room.

“Because that’s what I do,” he snapped. Because the people I care about always end up hurt or dead.

“And that’s an excuse to treat me like that?” You took a step closer, your eyes flashing with fury. “I’m not Grace! You can’t keep punishing me for something I can’t change.”

The tension in the room was palpable, each word a sharp dart. Before you could think, you grabbed an empty glass from the table and threw it hard. The glass crashed into the wall behind him, shattering into pieces.

Thomas reacted immediately, crossing the distance between you in a matter of seconds. Before you could move, he roughly grabbed you by the arms, his grip firm but not painful. His eyes burned with an intensity that took your breath away.

“Enough!” he growled, his voice hoarse and heavy with repressed emotion.

You were about to retort, to fight against his hold, when suddenly, without warning, his lips crashed against yours. It was a desperate, hungry kiss, as if both of them were trying to drown all the pain, frustration, and guilt in that moment.

You resisted for a moment, surprised by the abruptness, but quickly gave in, kissing him back with equal intensity. His hands, which had previously held you tightly, slid down to your waist, pulling you closer.

The world around you disappeared. There was no more arguing, no more awkward silences. Just the warmth of his lips, the frantic beat of your heart, and the feeling of being, for the first time in days, completely alive.

His lips left yours for an instant, moving down to your neck, as his hands eagerly explored. Everything about him was urgency, need held back for too long. There were no words between you, just the ragged sound of breaths and the steady throb of a dormant desire that had finally exploded.

“Tommy…” you murmured in whispers, your fingers getting lost in his dark hair as he lifted you slightly, leaning you against the nearby wall.

He responded with a growl, capturing your lips again, as if afraid that moving away for a second might break the connection. It was a forbidden moment, but you were both too far away to stop.

The room seemed to fill with heat as every barrier crumbled. Thomas was all fire, and you consumed yourself with it without remorse.

Finally, when the intensity subsided, you both lay still, breathing hard, still entwined. His eyes searched you, and for an instant, you saw something more than desire. It was a vulnerability he rarely showed, an acknowledgement that he needed you more than he was willing to admit.

He didn’t apologize this time. There was no room for words; the silence between you spoke for itself. And in that moment, you knew nothing would ever be the same again.

[originalartblog]

"Nawy what do you MEAN quick-ish 3D render it's got scratches and everything and I thought this was real for a minute!!"

Well, first, thank you very much that was the intention ❤, and second, you see, all speed is relative, and between finding my references, modeling, texturing and lighting, on top of having to learn how to make convincing gems, it still took me quite a few hours. I, however, cut corners everywhere for speed, and I wouldn't put this piece in a portfolio in its current state.

But! for the curious, I thought I could do a simple breakdown of how the witchcraft happens, without using too much specialized language to make it more accessible. In short,

In this case, I’m talking about a 3D model that was textured (colours and stuff) and then lit (lights on!) to make a pretty final picture. The objective is not to make a tutorial, but to put in simple terms what a 3D artist does to make something go from this, to that:

(people curious and/or trying to see if this interests them welcome)

I'm skipping the 3D modeling part altogether, since it isn't where most of the magic happens here. Just know that to be able to add colour and stuff on a 3D object, you have to go through the process or "unwrapping" it, which is like doing those foldable cubes in reverse

and then we can draw on it!!

Now, the good stuff:

Surfaces (metal, plastic, fabric, wood, skin, etc.) have different looks that make you able to differentiate them on sight. To make something look realistic, you have to try to replicate real life into the 3D world (duh.)

The software developers took care of the hard part (math and coding), so as artists we can play with the parameters available to make something pretty. What those parameters are depend on which "recipe" we're using. One of the most common "recipes" for realistic results is called PBR: Physically Based Rendering, named that way because it's trying to replicate real-life light physics. In this case, the 4 basic parameters are called albedo, roughness, metalness, and normal.

Albedo is the base colour of the surface (easy stuff). Roughness is to determine if a surface is rough or shiny. Metalness is to say if something is made out of metal or not. The normal is there to add all those tiny details you don't want to or can't sculpt on your 3D model (engravings, fabric bumps, etc.)

The roughness and metalness are black and white images because the information you're giving to the software is black = no and white = yes. It's easier to understand in the metalness image, where everything that is NOT a metal is black, and everything that IS a metal is white.

The normal is a bit more complex, but in short, it uses the colours green and red to know what is up/down or left/right, and will help the software fake relief on top of the model. You don't make it by hand; it's computer-generated from other stuff I'm not getting into.

With the technical stuff out of the way, we can actually use these. There are specialized softwares that will let you preview the results of each parameter in real time, so you can see what you're doing easily. This is what I have.

That software comes with some types of surfaces that are already set up, like the fabric in my piece, which was already 85% good for me straight out of the box. Then, it's up to me to use the tools available to decide how shiny a surface is, if there's dust or scratches and where, what colours things are, if there's metal parts, etc. That's where you can see a 3D artist's skills.

And finally, you bring it all together into a specialized software that can render 3D stuff and use those images on the corresponsing parameters, and then light the scene.

Because it all comes down to this: the light! For something realistic, light is vital to get right. You can pour your heart and soul into those tiny scratches, but if you don't light the scene correctly, well...

So we carefully light the scene to get some nice highlights to make the textures look good and highlight our subject (it's basically a photography studio inside a computer)

And then we add some camera effects...

and voilà! pretty picture!!

... and if you somehow did notice something different with the bolo tie from my last post, I did find out while taking all these screenshots that I messed up my initial renders in a way that made everything darker than it was supposed to be and that's why my gold looked so muddy...

I hope this was interesting and that you learned a thing or two!

[spiteless-xo]

╰┈➤ aurora borealis — liking — part 1/5 ⋙ A snapshot over five years of how your relationship with Satoru Gojo develops.

ft. satoru gojo / fem!reader wc. 7k cw. sfw but explicit content in future chapters - minors do not interact, explicit language, friends to lovers, alcohol, slow burn, pining, sexual tension, lewd imagery, miscommunication, don't try this at home, major character death, potential manga spoilers, second person POV

Masterlist ⋆ Next

2013.

Satoru Gojo.

He’s the friend of a friend of a friend. You see him around school sometimes, but you’ve never talked to him before.

He’s popular— really popular. You would have to go out of your way not to know who The Satoru Gojo is. Loud-mouthed, arrogant, and over six feet tall with shocking white hair.

Everyone knows who Satoru Gojo is.

And that’s why you’re caught off guard when he introduces himself to you. His voice is small—meek—and his back curves downward to make him seem less imposing. He can’t quite meet your eyes when he introduces himself, his bright, baby blues bouncing between your face and his shakey, outstretched hand between you.

You laugh incredulously and it almost seems like he flinches.

He presses his palm into his stomach, trailing up the thick fabric of his black hoodie until it reaches his throat before fingering at the hair at the back of his neck. “What’s… what’s so funny?” he asks, eyes on the floor.

“I know who you are,” you say. You gesture to the large printout of Gojo as a child, pinned to a nearby wall, vandalized with a marker mustache and decorated with balloon stickers. “You’re the Birthday Boy.”

He laughs, but it comes out more like a cough. “Oh, yeah… yeah, that’s me.” Gojo’s lips purse, pressing into the corner of his mouth as he shoves both hands into the centre pocket of his hoodie. He seems almost… bashful. “Sorry, I’ll stop bothering you.”

Suddenly, you feel guilty.

He turns to make his way out of the kitchen, but you reach out and grab his elbow, keeping him in place. He glances at you from over his shoulder, eyebrow cocked.

“I’m sorry, I was being rude,” you say, and his shoulders seem to relax. “Can we start over?”

He laughs—genuinely, this time—and his eyes crinkle as deep, long dimples appear on either side of his smile. “Ok, sure,” he says, returning to face you. He pulls his hand from his pocket, holding it out for you to shake. “My name is Satoru Gojo.”

You take his hand in yours, shaking it gently as you introduce yourself. He’s tall, so you’re not surprised when his hand dwarfs yours. His fingers are long and thin and incredibly cold and when you pull away, you find yourself curling your hand into a fist to try to bring warmth back to your fingers.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you say. “It’s your birthday today, right?”

“Something like that,” he says, his smile growing lazy as he melts into the kitchen counter behind him. He rests his elbows on the granite, one leg bent to support his weight while the other stretches out in front. The fabric of his hoodie smooths across his chest but doesn’t quite pull taut.

“How old are you turning?”

“Twenty-four.”

“You’re a little old to still be in school, don’t you think?”

He snorts, shooting you a narrowed look. “Are you always this rude to people you barely know?” You shrink back from his comment but feel immediate relief when he breaks out into another smile. “I’m just kidding.”

“Sorry,” you say for the second time tonight. “I promise I’m usually really friendly and nice.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he hums, shrugging. “And yeah, maybe I am a little old to still be working on my undergrad, but there’s nothing wrong with taking my time. And what about you? Planning on gradding in four years, getting married, and popping out kids before the geriatric age of thirty?”

His mouth hangs open in mock-shock and you roll your eyes.

“Uh, no. I think I’m going to take five years.”

“Heaven forbid!”

“Besides, what’s wrong with planning out my life?”

“Wait, was I actually right?” he laughs when your eyes dart away. “You can’t be serious. You’re one of those girls that goes to university just to find a husband?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say that.” You frown at him in an effort to tame his giggling, but he just laughs harder. “What’s the rush? Don’t want to be a Christmas Cake?”

“Ok, now you’re the one being rude,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest. Gojo raises his hands in mock surrender, but his face is still twisted into a teasing smirk. “I just know what I want from life so I’m taking steps to be where I want to be.”

“So, who’s the lucky guy?” Gojo nods through the doorway of the kitchen into the living room, gesturing to all of the party guests in the other room. “And does he know about your strict timeline?”

You shuffle your weight from one foot to the other, avoiding Gojo’s eyes when you speak next. “Well… I don’t exactly have a boyfriend, yet—”

“You can’t be serious!” He presses an arm to his stomach as he laughs, nearly knocking himself off-balance. “All these plans and no boyfriend? How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-two.”

“Ooo, it’s going to be tight.” Gojo stands up to his full height, grinning down at you as he holds up his hand with a single finger to the ceiling. “That’s one year of dating—” he raises another finger, “—two years before he proposes—” another finger, “—three years at the absolute soonest before you get married.”

“And then I’ll be twenty-five,” you say, like you’ve won. 

“Yeah, because everything always works out exactly how you expect it to.”

“Of course, not. He might propose early.”

Gojo laughs. He runs his hand through his hair and then down the back of his neck until his fingers hook around the black blindfold still tied around him. A discarded accessory from an earlier game of Pin the Tail on the Birthday Boy.

“I like you.”

You’re caught off guard by his comment. Your cheeks burn hot as you blink up at him, but before you can respond, he’s already talking, again.

“So, if not your boyfriend, then who’d you come here with?”

“Uh… my roommate has a class with one of your friends, I think, and she extended us the invitation,” you explain, stumbling over your words—why are you getting so flustered?

“Oh, yeah? Who’s your roommate? Maybe I know her.”

“Kento Nanami.”

“Strange name for a girl,” he quips, and you roll your eyes. “Bet she’s ugly like a dog.”

“What a rude thing to say about my friend,” you say, affronted, but Gojo’s mischievous smile has you laughing around your words.

“Hey, you got a couple jabs in—it’s only fair I get to tease you a lil, too,” he hums, turning his attention back to the mass of party guests in the other room. “I know that name… Nanami. He’s in Uta’s class, right?”

“Um, I’m not sure—”

“Tall, awkward, blonde kid?” Gojo waves his hand vaguely around Nanami’s height. “Yeah, I definitely know him. Uta talks about that guy a lot… are you into him?”

You jerk backwards, disgusted. “No, we’re just friends.”

He shoots you a look of disbelief and then makes an over-exaggerated wink. “Sure ya are.”

“I’m serious,” you insist as Gojo rolls his eyes.

“He’s exactly the type of guy that someone like you—someone with plans and goals—is looking for. Of course, you’re into him.”

“I’m not,” you say again, but Gojo’s not even looking at you anymore. His attention is back at the party guests in the other room. “He’s not my type. I’m looking for someone more…”

“Fun?” Gojo finishes, grinning down at you.

You look away quickly with a scowl on your face. “I—I don’t know. Just… I don’t like him like that, ok?”

“Sure, whatever you say, princess.” Gojo shrugs, lacing his hands behind his head as he stands tall beside you. “I gotta go cut some cake, but I’ll come find you later.”

He shoots you a playful wink before walking off, leaving you stammering in his wake. You almost reach out for him again, wanting to pull him back into you and prolong the conversation, but with a few long strides, he’s already in the other room, welcomed by a series of cheers from the other guests.

“Have no fear, the Birthday Boy is here!” Gojo yells, stretching out his arms as he walks into the crowd.

You roll your eyes— there’s that arrogance he’s known for. 

You look through the cupboards in the kitchen in search of a glass of water (your original reason for wandering into the kitchen, before you were interrupted by Satoru Gojo), and find an assortment of mugs. They’re all mismatched, likely thrifted or gifted, so you grab the first one that catches your eye before bringing it to the sink to get some water.

From the kitchen, the noise in the other room is dampened. You can hear bits and pieces of conversation from some guests standing near the doorway, Gojo yelling for cake, and the music playing from the TV. It’s a bit overwhelming—all that noise—so you enjoy the silence and solitude of the kitchen for as long as you can before returning to the party for cake, leaving your empty mug in the sink.

You push past a few people before finding Nanami. He’s leaned against the far wall by himself, sipping casually from a red solo cup as he observes the other party guests. You laugh to yourself as you approach, he’s the one who wanted to go to this party in the first place, and yet he hasn’t talked to anyone all night long.

He notices you as you walk up and his brows raise in acknowledgement, lowering the cup from his lips as you lean back on the wall beside him. “Where did you go?” he asks.

“I went to the kitchen for some water.”

From where you’re standing, you have a direct line of sight of the couch where Gojo has made himself comfortable. He has a girl on either side of him—both scowling—and a too-small party hat affixed to his head.

His long arms are thrown across the back of the couch, around each of the girls’ bodies. You watch one hand dip down behind one of the girls’ backs and you see her squeal as Gojo pinches her side. She frowns at him, slapping him across the chest in retaliation, but he just laughs and does it again.

You shift your weight, crossing your arms over your chest and moving your attention over to Nanami, instead. He’s watching Gojo, too, and you see the tendon in his jaw tensing.

“Are there a lot of people here that you know?” you ask, and he doesn’t shift away his attention when he responds.

“Just my TA. I haven’t seen any students from class.”

“Oh, the girl that invited us, right? Have you talked to her yet?”

“No,” Nanami sighs. He ducks his head as he takes a sip from his drink, shifting his attention to you when he lowers his cup. “She’s the one over there—Utahime.”

You follow his nod back to the couch and your lips press into a tight, thin line. “The one with Gojo?”

“Unfortunately.”

Gojo’s attention is solely focused on Utahime, now. Both of his hands circle her waist as he tickles her sides. She’s yelling at him, her face scrunched in anger, but you can’t quite make out what she’s saying to him. The girl on Gojo’s opposite side seems grateful that Gojo is leaving her alone and has since lit up a cigarette.

“Are they… together?” you ask.

“She wouldn’t date someone like him,” Nanami scoffs, but you note the lack of conviction in his tone.

“That’s the TA you have a crush on, right?” you ask, looking up at Nanami. You watch his cheeks flush pink as he tries to stammer a response, but you press on. “The masters student teaching your class, right?”

“I do not have a crush on her,” Nanami insists, but his hand comes up to pull the collar of his shirt away from his throat. “I’m not a teenager.”

“You can still have a crush on someone as an adult,” you say, enjoying how visibly embarrassed Nanami is becoming. “I really think you should try to talk to her tonight. She invited you for a reason.”

“She was just being polite.”

“Then why aren’t any of your other classmates here?” you note, and he stays silent. “You’re graduating this year and then she won’t be your TA anymore. Make a move on her.”

Nanami waves his hand in dismissal, clearly finished with this conversation, but you’re not.

“I was talking to Gojo in the kitchen, and he knew who you were.”

Nanami shoots you a sidelong glance. “Ok?”

“He knew your name. And what you look like.”

“Ok?” Nanami repeats, lost.

“Utahime told him about you,” you say, like it’s obvious. “Why would she tell him about you?”

Nanami shakes his head. “I… I don’t know.”

You want to throttle him. How could someone so smart be so dense?

Before you get a chance to really spell it out for him, all of the lights shut off, submerging you all in darkness. The crowd starts a horribly off-key rendition of the Happy Birthday Song as a walking fire hazard parts the sea of people. Two students you don’t recognize carry the cake to the coffee table in front of Gojo, alight with twenty-four candles, before stepping aside to join the other singers.

You watch Gojo stare down at the cake, the flames casting flickering shadows across his face. He grins, running his tongue across his teeth in delight before taking a comically long inhale.

Blue eyes flick up to meet yours just before the candles go out.

Utahime and the other girl on the couch dish out slices of cake to the party guests as Gojo plates them. There’s no rhyme or reason to his cuts, so the slices are all awkward shapes and sizes. Utahime is visibly annoyed every time she picks up a plate that Gojo has slapped a slice on.

You nudge Nanami hard as Utahime serves cake to some of the guests standing near the two of you, before returning to grab more.

“This is your chance,” you hiss, trying to be discrete. “When she gives you a piece of cake, talk to her.”

“She’s busy,” Nanami says, fingers tapping against the side of his cup. “I don’t want to interrupt her.”

You nod across the room to the other girl that’s dishing out cake. “The other girl can hand out cake while you’re talking to Utahime.”

Nanami shakes his head, looking down at his feet and curling his shoulders like he’s trying to disappear. 

“Come on,” you urge, nudging him again as Utahime nears.

She keeps her head low as she approaches, jutting her hands out to give you both a plate of cake. She has her head ducked low, too—her face hidden by her blunt-cut bangs.

You move your hands away from the plate, refusing to accept it. “Oh, are there any smaller pieces?” you ask.

Utahime looks up at you, her eyes darting to Nanami before returning to your face. She groans and rolls her eyes, “I don’t think so. That idiot doesn’t know how to cut cake so they’re all—” She holds up the plates with an apologetic look, gesturing to the mounds of dessert slopped onto the plate, “—like this. You don’t have to eat it all.”

You laugh, taking one of the plates from her while Nanami takes the other. “Ok, well, thank you! What was your name, sorry?”

“Utahime,” she smiles.

The tension between Utahime and Nanami is so thick you could cut it with a knife. They’re both trying to pretend like they don’t notice each other, while still sneaking glances at one another. 

Luckily, with her response, you’re able to get them to finally acknowledge one another.

“Oh! You’re Nanami’s TA, right?” you say, feigning excitement as you nudge Nanami in the side. Utahime and Nanami’s eyes meet, and you watch Utahime quickly look away with a dusting of pink across her cheeks. “Nanami speaks very highly of you, I feel like I already know you.”

You can feel Nanami’s irritation from your comment—your admission that he fawns about her in private—but it melts quickly when Utahime looks up at him with wide, eager eyes. “Really?”

Nanami smiles, laughing softly like it catches him off guard, and he nods. “Yes, you’ve been such a great mentor to me this past year. You’re an excellent teacher.”

Her smile widens and she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m glad you were able to make it tonight. It’s nice to see you outside of class for once.”

Just as you’re about to sneak away and leave the duo alone, you see a dark shape come up from behind Utahime. Long arms stretch over her shoulders before wrapping around her, pulling her tight against Satoru Gojo’s broad chest.

“Uta - hime!”��he sings, settling his chin on the top of her head with a pout. He's still wearing that stupid party hat. “What are you doing? There’s cake that needs to be handed out.”

Her smile disappears instantly, shifting quickly into a sharp scowl as she shoves Gojo’s arms off of her shoulders before whirling around to push at his chest. She’s much smaller than he is, so he feigns a stumble from the strength of her shove.

“Get your hands off of me,” she hisses.

He juts his lower lip out even further and you feel Nanami stiffen at your side. “Why are you being so mean to me on my birthday, Utahime?”

“It’s not your—”

You don’t want to lose this opportunity for Nanami to talk with Utahime, so you bite your tongue and step forward to reach for Gojo’s arm, linking it with yours. “Oh, happy birthday! I’ve been meaning to talk with you!”

“Huh?” Gojo looks down at you quizically, “You have?” He doesn’t resist when you pull him away, dragging him away from the two and their blossoming relationship.

“Yes…” you say, the words trailing off as you focus on weaving through the crowd. You just need to get far enough that Gojo forgets about Utahime—where’s that other girl he was bothering? Maybe you can lead him to her, instead.

“We talked earlier.” Gojo sounds less and less impressed as you tug him to the opposite side of the room. You’re about to pull him into the kitchen when he plants his feet on the ground and levels you with a sly look. “Couldn’t get enough of me, eh? I told you I’d come find you later.”

You crinkle your nose up at him, annoyed, but still feeling heat rushing to your cheeks from the way he wiggles his eyebrows at you. You glance back through the crowd, seeing glimpses of Utahime and Nanami together—thankfully, it seems like they’ve returned to their conversation. Utahime is laughing behind her hand and Nanami is fingering the collar of his shirt.

“Are you and that girl together?”

“Huh? Utahime?” he snorts. “Don’t let her hear you asking that—she’d rather die than have people think we’re dating.”

You exhale a heavy sigh of relief. That’s good news.

“Why?” His tone has you returning your attention to him as he peers down at you, eyebrow cocked. “You gotta thing for bangs?”

“No,” you frown. “My friend is interested in her, so I hoping they can talk and then maybe…” you trail off with a shrug and Gojo nods in understanding.

“I thought that guy looked familiar,” he says. “That’s your roommate, right?”

“Yeah, Nanami.”

“The Dog,” he says, grinning when you scowl at him. He bares his teeth, growling lowly before snapping toward you, biting at the air in front of your face.

You turn away from him with a groan and try to step back, away from his space. But Gojo’s arm is still linked with yours, so he holds you close, capitalizing on your misstep by pulling you even closer.

“You have nothing to worry about me and Uta, ‘kay? She’s not my type.” He grins down at you wolfishly as he speaks.

You feel your body bloom with heat as sweat begins to form along the nape of your neck. Gojo’s face is all sharp edges and angles: the line of his jaw, the cut of his cheekbones, and the point on each of his canines. You gulp, eyes widening as your gaze travels up to his darkened eyes.

“Come to think of it,” he says, speaking slowly and deliberately. You watch the pink of his tongue moving around the hard sounds of each word. “I don’t think you’re my type, either.”

The heat in his gaze compels you to ask, “What’s your type?”

“Girls that want to fuck me.”

You feel your heart lurch into your throat as Gojo leans in closer. His eyes travel across your face to your mouth and his tongue darts out to run across his lower lip in a way that has you mirroring his movements. His gaze dips lower, to your throat, and you feel as if he can see the pounding of your pulse through the artery in your neck.

“Am I right?” he asks, eyes swinging back up to meet yours. “Or do you want to fuck me?”

You waver under the intensity of his gaze—bright, blue eyes that bore through you until you feel the heat of his look on the back of your head. You find yourself at a loss for words, stammering up at him as you make a feeble attempt to step out of his grip. The only thing keeping your bodies apart is your hand at your chest, holding the plate of cake that Utahime gave you, but Gojo’s chest is pressed right against the soft paper plate, bending it upwards.

His hand comes up, index finger pointed as he collects a dollop of whipped cream on the tip. You watch with rapt attention as he brings the digit up to his mouth, wet lips wrapping around his finger as he slowly licks the cream from the tip.

“Yum,” he says, and you feel your mouth go dry.

“Satoru, leave the girl alone.”

Gojo’s face twists into a pout, eyes flicking up to meet something behind you, before releasing you and returning to his full height. You gasp for air—as if you hadn’t taken a breath during the entire exchange—and stumble backwards from the loss of his grip. You feel large, warm hands grab at your upper arms, steadying you, before you hear the voice again. This time, he says your name.

“Are you alright?”

You turn your head to meet the voice and although his tone and touch are soft, the man’s smile is sinister in a way that makes your stomach twist—your skin is still hot from Gojo’s earlier stunt and this matching look isn’t making it any better, so you take a step away.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.” You offer him a grateful smile, but it feels strained.

“Why are you bothering us?” Gojo groans, and he reaches forward to grab the plate of cake from your shakey hands, claiming it as his own. “Don’t you have party guests to entertain, Suguru?”

Suguru Geto—you recognize him immediately after Gojo says his name. He’s another student in your school who’s just as popular as Satoru Gojo. The two of them are always together, and you can almost feel the familiarity between them as Gojo melts against the wall under Geto’s disapproving stare.

“Might I remind you that this is, technically, your party, Satoru?”

Gojo waves his hand in dismissal. “Yeah, but you’re the one hosting.”

“You haven’t finished cutting the cake.”

Another handwave. “Shoko can do it. Or you, Suguru, since you’re so bored you have to interrupt my conversations.”

Geto shakes his head, dropping the subject. Instead, he nods toward Nanami and Utahime, who have now moved to sit together on the couch. You notice that they’re sitting close enough that their thighs are pressed against one another—the sight makes your heart swell with happiness.

“Looks like Uta found the courage to talk to…” Geto trails off, lips pursed in thought.

“Nanami,” you say, and Geto looks down at you curiously.

“Yes. Nanami,” he repeats as the corner of his mouth twitches into a small smile.

“Yeah, turns out: Nanami’s into her, too,” Gojo says. You watch him start to eat the cake with his hands—scooping each bite with his middle and ring fingers, cradling the dessert up to his mouth before sucking it off.

You feel very, very warm.

“How did you discover that?” Geto asks, but he’s looking down at you.

Around a mouthful of his own fingers, Gojo says, “This one, here,” and he nods down at you.

“I’m Nanami’s roommate,” you supply, shrinking under the gaze of the two men beside you. “He’s been wanting to talk to her for a while, but he always has some excuse not to.”

Geto hums in consideration, returning his attention to the two on the couch. “It’s funny how things work out like that,” he says. “You know what they say about sexual tension.”

“What?” Gojo asks with whipped cream on his lips.

“That if you feel it, then it’s mutual.”

Gojo runs his thumb over his lips, cleaning off the mess before sucking the finger into his mouth. You feel your throat go dry as you watch him, eyes focused on the way his lips circle the digit, lips pursing lewdly before he pulls his thumb out with a wet pop! You can see a string of saliva trailing from the end of his finger to his lips. He seems so distracted by what’s left of the cake on his plate that you’re not even sure if he’s listening to what Geto is saying.

Hell, you’re hardly paying attention to what Geto’s saying.

"You know, Satoru, if Utahime gets a boyfriend, I doubt she'll still chauffer you around town the way she does now."

Gojo frowns, deep lines etching between his brows as he looks up from the plate at Geto. "What do you mean? She has to drive me."

"Satoru doesn't know how to drive," Geto explains, looking down at you with a wink.

"Because I get motion sick," Gojo says, frowning deeper. "I need Uta to drive me otherwise I'll get sick everywhere."

"Perhaps it's time for you to get your license, Satoru," Geto says. He's biting back a smile that only seems to make Gojo more upset. "I'm sure you wouldn't get motion sick if you yourself were the driver."

Gojo waves his hand in dismissal. "That doesn't sound right, at all. I need to be driven," he insists.

Geto shakes his head, chuckling softly before looking down at you. “Well, it was nice to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see each other again, sometime.” He nods across the room at Nanami and Utahime before stepping away from you and Gojo and returning to the party.

As you watch him leave, you realize that you never introduced yourself to him. Yet, he knew your name.

“Bye, Suguru,” Gojo sings, waving at Geto’s retreating figure by clapping his fingers against his palm. When he shifts his attention back to you, he’s licking the last of the icing off of his plate. “Now, then… where were we?” He discards the plate onto a nearby table before steeling you with his full attention.

His lips are shiny with saliva and sugar and you look away when his tongue darts out the clean it off.

“Actually,” you start, raising your hands to keep Gojo away when he leans into your space, “I’m getting a little tired—I think I’m going to go home.”

He frowns. “Already? What about your roommate, you’re just going to leave him here?”

You both turn to see the pair laughing and Nanami’s hand resting on Utahime’s knee. “I think he’ll be fine,” you say.

Gojo’s pouting again when you look over at him. You wonder if this look works on everyone—the big, blue, puppy-dog eyes and the soft, pink lip jutted out—he seems to be using it a lot, tonight.

“You really don't want to stay and talk with some girl you barely know when you have a room full of friends, do you?”

He seems hurt and you have to look away when your heart starts to flutter in your chest. “Well, I’m trying to get to know you better, but you’re blowing me off. Do you know how nervous I was to introduce myself to you? And just now, when I thought things were going well, you tell me you want to leave?”

“Why would you be nervous to introduce yourself to me?” you scoff. You feel your cheeks burn and you can feel yourself start to sweat. “I’m not—I’m a nobody.”

Gojo snorts, shooting you a look of disbelief. “Every somebody was once a nobody. So, you’re not going anywhere, now that I have you. Come on, let me show you something.”

Before you have a chance to protest or make up some sort of lame excuse, he’s got your hand in his and he’s leading you back into the kitchen. He walks you to the sink, where he drops your hand, and then leans forward over the counter to work open the screen of the kitchen window.

You feel some of the sugary residue on your fingers from the cake on his hands and you rub your hands together to try to clean them off. “What are you doing?” you ask.

“You’ll see,” he sings, prying the screen off the window and setting it down on the ground. He slides open the pane and then gestures to the now-open window with a smile on his face. “Do you wanna go first?”

He laughs at your confused expression, wrapping his hands around the frame of the window as he steps his foot onto the counter. “Ok, fine—I’ll go first.”

And then he climbs outside.

You rush over to the window, hopping onto the kitchen sink to peer outside, but you don’t see him. The kitchen is on the second floor, so if he fell, he would’ve landed directly on the concrete below—but you don’t see him.

“I’m over here, dummy,” he scoffs, and you turn your head to see him sitting on the portico—the small roof overtop of the front door. “What? You thought I jumped out the window?”

“I really don’t know what to expect, when it comes to you,” you say, feeling your heart rate relax at the sight of Gojo safe.

He grins wider from your comment and extends his hand out to you. “Come on. I’ll help you up.”

You’re not sure why you take his hand, but you do, and the next thing you know, he’s dragging you out of the window and into the open air. Your legs and arms scramble for purchase on anything, your hand grabbing at the sleeve of his hoodie while he holds your opposite hand tight.

“Geez, relax. I’m not going to drop you,” he assures, but you still feel your heart fall into your stomach when—for just a moment—your feet dangle in the air.

Gojo pulls you up onto the roof with him, holding you tight against his chest as your heart rattles against your ribcage and you struggle to catch your breath. “What—the—fuck?” you pant, eyeing him wildly.

“You’re fine.”

He cradles the back of your head in his palm, bringing your face into the crook of his neck as he holds you until your body stops trembling.

Heights freak you out, but you’ve never reacted quite like this before. Heart racing, hands shaking, sweat running down your back—it’s unusual.

But Gojo doesn’t comment on it at all. He just holds you close against him until your breathing returns to normal and you push yourself away from his chest. “You’re good,” he says, but his eyes are looking up at the sky.

You follow his gaze, expecting to see a sky full of stars, but all you see are clouds. You try not to worry about how your legs are draped over Gojo’s thighs on either side of the roof’s peak—you’re practically sitting in his lap!

“Sometimes, you can see the northern lights from here, especially around this time of year,” he says. Both of his hands have moved to your lower back, cradling you close to his body as he cranes his head up. “Doesn’t seem like it’s a good night for it, tonight.”

“That’s too bad,” you say. “I’ve never seen the northern lights.”

“That sucks, they’re really cool.”

You can feel his breath tickle your face when he speaks—it smells sweet.

“Maybe next time,” you say.

Gojo laughs. “This time, next year, Suguru and I are going to be travelling around the world. Next time, we won’t be able to see them together.”

You look down at him to see him already staring at you. Big, blue eyes blinking at you owlishly as your faces sit only inches apart.

You feel his hands fiddling with the fabric of your shirt, wiggling their way underneath the bottom hem until cold, slender fingers press into the bare skin of your lower back. Your back arches away from the touch, forcing your chest against Gojo’s and he grins.

“Hey! Your hands are freezing!”

“Aw, come on, I’m just tryin’ to warm ‘em up,” he wines. He sprawls his hands across your lower back, palms pressed into the muscle while his fingers slot into the grooves of your spine. You try to squirm away from his touch, but there’s nowhere to go.

“I’m going to fall off the roof if you keep doing this.”

“Nah, I’d catch you.”

Your hands curl into fists around the fabric of his hoodie while you squirm in his lap. He buries his face into the crook of your neck and laughs, warm air fanning across your skin.

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” he says.

You hiss a sharp breath when his hands start to inch their way up your back, exposing more skin to the cool December air—such a sharp contrast to the warmth you feel in the rest of your body from Gojo’s laughter into your neck.

You swear you can feel sticky lips mouthing at your skin, but your heart is pounding so loudly in your chest that you’re starting to feel nauseous. It must be the fear of falling, you think, but even though you’re squirming away from his ice-cold fingers, in Gojo's arms you feel oddly… safe.

“Do you think Uta and the Dog are going to get married soon?” he asks, voice muffled.

“I don’t know. They barely know each other.”

“So?” Satoru pulls his head from your shoulder to look at your face. Your skin feels so warm that his cool fingers now feel like a nice reprieve from the heat, rather than an annoyance. “When you know, you know.”

“What, like love at first sight?” you blurt out around a laugh. “You don’t believe in that, do you?”

He frowns. “Of course, I do.”

You level Gojo with an incredulous look but the determination in his face doesn’t waver. Your gaze bounces between each of his eyes and you feel like you could get lost in the depths of their blue. They seem softer now than they did inside, not quite as sharp and bright. It must be because it's so dark outside, you reason. With the clouds covering the moon, there's not much light out here aside from the dull glow from the coloured lights along Geto's roof.

You clear your throat awkwardly, shifting your gaze to the house’s roof behind his shoulder when you realize you’ve been staring at him. “How old is Utahime?”

“Past her prime,” Gojo says quickly, and you laugh despite yourself.

“Then yeah, they’ll get married soon.”

Gojo laughs, pulling you closer with his palms on your back. “Are you gonna be jealous if they get married before you do?”

“No, of course not,” you scoff. “Just as long as I have a date to their wedding, I’ll be happy.”

“I’m sure you will,” he hums, “and if not, you can always be my date.”

“No way,” you dismiss quickly.

You can practically hear him pouting, even with your gaze elsewhere. “Why not? I’d be a really good date.”

“Satoru? Is that you out there?”

Gojo’s hands fall back down to your hips and he cranes his neck to look at the open kitchen window. Leaning out is the girl from earlier—the one that was sitting on the couch with Gojo and Utahime. 

“Oh. Hey, Shoko,” he says while you tug your shirt down to cover your exposed skin. You’re grateful for the interruption so your heart rate can return to normal. “What’s up?”

“Suguru doesn’t like it when you sit out there—you know that. You ruin all the shingles on his roof.”

“What he doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.”

Shoko doesn’t respond. She takes a long drag from her cigarette, the cherry burning red, before exhaling heavily into the open air. “Yeah, sure.”

“Please, don’t tell him,” Gojo begs. “We’re waiting to see the northern lights.”

She shrugs lazily, taking another drag from her cigarette before looking up at the sky with her exhale. “Doesn’t look like a good night for them.”

“Yeah, it’s too bad,” he says, frowning.

“Maybe we’ll see them if we’re patient enough,” you say. Although you don’t want Geto to get mad at you, there’s a part of you that’s having fun out here on the roof with Gojo—you’re not quite ready to go inside, yet.

Your response surprises him. You can tell from the way his hands tighten around your hips and how his gaze snaps to your face. “Yeah, maybe!”

“Suit yourself,” Shoko says, ashing her cigarette out the window. She disappears back into the house and you can hear a muffled yell from inside, “Satoru’s on the roof.”

“Again?” sighs an exasperated voice.

Gojo grumbles and rests his chin on your shoulder, opposite from the window. “Such a buzzkill,” he complains.

“Satoru?” Geto pops his head out of the window, brows furrowed. “Get off the roof.”

“Satoru’s not here,” Gojo says, unconvincingly.

“Satoru.”

Gojo groans and releases his hold on your body to dramatically toss his hands up in the air. “Guys—come on. Do you really need to interrupt me like this? It’s my birthday party!” he huffs, pouting when Shoko’s head pops out from behind Geto in the window.

“There are plenty of places for you two to sit inside. I told you to stop climbing on the roof,” Geto frowns.

“I told you he wouldn’t be happy,” Shoko says unhelpfully.

Feeling like you’re stuck in the middle of some childish spat, (and suddenly anxious to be caught in such close proximity with Gojo), you make moves to untangle yourself from around Gojo’s body. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know the roof was off-limits,” you say. “I shouldn’t have followed the Birthday Boy out here.”

Shoko smiles at your comment, ducking back into the kitchen as Geto reaches his hand out for you to take. Geto’s hand is warm and strong in yours, but Gojo’s cold hands support your waist as you make the treacherous step from the roof onto the windowsill.

Getting back into the house is much easier with Geto’s help than climbing out was, and the warmth of the party inside has blood rushing to your cheeks. You didn’t realize how cold you were out there, but now you can feel the chill in your fingertips and the end of your nose.

Geto helps move you out of the way as Gojo practically swings back into the kitchen, his hands grasping the upper window frame as he enters the kitchen feet-first. He lands on the tile with a huff and another pout, his cheeks and nose are tinged pink from the cold.

“You guys are no fun.”

“You’re welcome to utilize any space in my home, except for the roof,” Geto says, and Gojo rolls his eyes. Geto turns to look at you, “Your friend was looking for you. I think he wants to leave.”

“He’s not talking with Utahime anymore?” you ask, frowning, and Geto shakes his head.

That’s disappointing news, and you’ll have to find out what happened when you see Nanami. Not that you expected him to invite her back home—he’s not that kind of guy—but you expected the two of them to talk until well into the night.

“Well, thank you for hosting!” you say, smiling up at Geto nervously. “I had a really good time, and happy birthday!” you turn to speak with Gojo and he’s already smiling down at you.

“I’ll see you again,” he says, and you don’t doubt it.

You peer out of the kitchen and into the party in search of Nanami and quickly find him wandering amongst what’s left of the crowd with your jacket over his arm. You offer the trio one last wave and they wish you goodbye by name before you step out of the kitchen to meet up with Nanami.

“Ah, there you are,” he says, and he seems relieved. “I have your coat. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

You take your jacket from Nanami’s hold and throw it over your shoulders, excited to talk with him on your walk home. You try not to look back into the kitchen as you walk past, but you can’t help yourself from giving the room one last, fleeting look over your shoulder.

Geto is scolding Gojo with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. Gojo’s giving him another one of his patented puppy-dog pouts, begging for forgiveness with bright pink cheeks from the cold—but Geto isn’t falling for it. You watch with a laugh as Gojo groans in defeat, dramatically rolling his head back with his eyes.

When his face falls forward, his gaze snaps to your retreating form. You disappear around the corner with the memory of Gojo’s grinning face. And he's still wearing that stupid party hat.

You and Nanami walk in silence for half a block before you ask, “So, what happened with Utahime?” your excitement is evident in your tone.

“She’s a very nice girl,” he says, stuffing his hands deep into his coat pockets and tucking his chin against his chest. “I really enjoyed our conversation… thank you for pushing me to speak with her.”

You grin wildly, practically skipping alongside Nanami. “Did you ask for her number?”

“No, I didn’t.”

It feels like all of the excitement is sucked out of your lungs in an instant as you deflate. “What? Kento, you—”

“She asked for mine.”

You look over at Nanami, struggling to process his words. The longer you stare at him, the pinker his cheeks turn—and you don’t think it’s from the cold. It takes a long time for your brain to reconnect to your mouth after you realize he’s blushing.

“Are you going to see her again?” you ask.

"Yes, I hope so.”

You bite back a smile, turning to face forward. The two of you walk in silence for a moment longer and you think back to your conversation on the roof with Satoru Gojo—about soulmates. The concept still feels silly, but as you walk alongside Nanami in the December cold, you can feel the electricity buzzing off of him as he thinks of Utahime.

“I’m really happy for you,” you whisper, and Nanami chuckles.

“Don’t get excited about nothing,” he scolds, but there’s no weight behind his words. “And how was your night? I’m sorry I left you alone for so long.”

“No, it’s ok, I had a good time,” you say. “I ended up talking with Gojo for most of the night.”

Nanami groans. “That man is insufferable. I’m sorry you had to deal with him.”

“He wasn’t that bad.”

Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

[sanzaibian]

“Sir, here are the Beatty files.” The young woman told me, handing a USB key.

I have heard a lot about these files. They were intercepted in the town after which they’re named by the secret services a while ago, but were encrypted in such a puzzling way that only now can we view them. And of course, I am the first one to be able to review its content.

I know a lot of things, as it is my job to be informed of anything and everything happening around the world. I know the plans of China over Taiwan, the successor to the Ayatollah, the contents of the talks between Putin and Kim Jong-un, and all the current US military strategy. In my line of work, everything can happen, yet at no single point could I make sense of the Beatty files. Nor could anyone else for that matter.

I excused the young woman, bidding to her my thanks for the deciphering team, and went to the unused laptop I had prepared. When it comes to matters of national security, I cannot afford to be careless, and let anyone unlicensed to get access to this. So brand new laptop, created by us, which has never been opened, to open these files.

And so I fiddled with the parameters a bit, entering the secret code, and inserted the USB key to view its contents. Inside were a few files, all of which videos. Their names were not informative, since I know for a fact that their original names were not recovered, so I just opened the first file in the list.

The video opened looking down in a white cubic room, meaning it was very likely a security camera recording. In addition, there was the time indicated on the bottom right, yet something felt weird about how it was displayed… 15:58… 15:59… 15:60 ???... 16:01, etc. Why is it not counting time correctly ? Nobody indicates time like this ! It’s wrong, it’s incorrect ! I just opened it and there’s already something I cannot in any way explain !

Taking a deep breath, I look at the center of the screen, in which I have a good view of a man sat in a chair. He has tanned skin, black hair and black stubble, and a very developed musculature. He looks to be a very attractive middle-eastern man, although I cannot say which ethnicity he precisely has.

The chair he’s sitting on is quite massive, and he looks almost as if he is… restrained in it ? Yes, there seems to be little handcuffs tethering him to the armchairs. But most striking are the numerous tubes going out from his arms, legs, torso and even head, linked to some types of medical appliances I cannot recognize, as well as to a sort of glass tank.

Suddenly, I notice the deep voice of a man. I up the volume, and hear… a language I cannot understand.

“Tzai en 19/03, 2:17, en tzoujkbruoi odogattzion program en Scipio Labratory. Ny hse Hk. Adtem, tzai widt nyn hskadiais, Sjd. Fingtrosy ÿ Sd. Vagohs, ÿ naum wom fill no tzoujketvÿsn ekspÿrians widt no #1073 bymarjen.”

At first I get some German vibes from it, but then it seems to be Polish, and then French… Whatever that language might be, it is not one I have ever heard. The man in the chair looks around, seemingly half-dazed, as if he was drugged. I don’t know what will happen to him, yet I get the feeling that it won’t be a desirable fate.

Suddenly, another voice, that of a woman by the looks of things, speaking in that same strange language.

“Hsüzmalhsÿv drël en im.”

Then a buzzer sound. There seems to be some white substance flowing inside the man’s body, through the tubes from the medical appliances. As it flows, I can see his eyes starting to become more droopy, before fluttering, and then closing. At the same time, his body starts floundering in the restraints, as if he was keeping himself from falling asleep. But as time went on and the white liquid ran dry, all of his muscles were relaxing and his stance become limp, like that of a dysfunctional robot. However, looking at his accelerating breathing rhythm, it seems to my trained eye that he is not actually asleep. It’s only his body refusing to function correctly.

“Drël ingkatzt. Etvÿsn harjimÿll.” Says another voice, deeper than the last one, but not as deep as the first one.

I don’t really know what’s happening. If the counter on the bottom-right of the screen wasn’t ticking up, I would have thought that the image was frozen. But then, suddenly, I can hear a low sound in the recording. And that sounds starts creeping higher and higher, as if something was charging up… Yeah, definitively charging up, since I almost saw some lightning sparks going off from the chair…

I don’t know what’s happening, but it seems to be malfunctioning. The sparks make themselves more and more intense, and it almost seems as if the machine is ready to explode...

Just as I say that, the first deep voice makes itself heard once again, but this time more in a frustrated or worried tone than an official one.

“Sel heont havy… Go huop sel hstill pÿrdont...”

But suddenly, the sparks stop, and while the sound doesn’t stop, beige liquid start flowing into the pipes… from the man to the tank ? What is that thing ? I don’t understand ! However, I can hear cries of rejoice in the audience, with all three voices I’ve heard since then saying incomprehensible stuff that I wouldn’t even be able to transcribe. I guess they also didn’t think… whatever this is would work ?

I take a drink from my water bottle as I keep an eye on the video. However, since I need to reach my bag, I cannot actively monitor it. Besides, according to what I hear, nothing of note seems to be happening... But when I have put down the bottle, I stop the video. I rub my eyes, but even then, I still see it.

The man seems smaller.

Somehow.

I go back in the video to the time where the man with the deepest voice sounded worried and… Yeah, looking like that, it’s even more apparent. The man has been losing mass. And the tanks have been filled by this beige skin-color liquid… Heh, if I didn’t know I was in reality, I would have said that this is muscle-juice, but this is ridiculous…

Especially since the body mass hasn’t been the only thing to change.

As I play back the video and continue through the long haul of high-pitch noise and not much else, I notice that the man’s stubble seems to be disappearing… and his head hair growing as well, somehow ? It almost seems as if he’s becoming less masculine by the second, if it even makes any sense, even though nothing about this video actually makesanysense. If I didn’t know who supplied it to me, I would have said this was a fake…

As his pecs were shrinking, his arms were thinning, his waist narrowing and his legs slimming, his stance almost seemed to be relaxing further – if it’s even possible. I mean, I don’t know ! It’s just the impression that I’m getting ! As the last of his stubble vanishes, at least according to what I can see through the pixels, he almost seems to be getting cuter ? Whence more relaxed ? Fuck, this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever…

Oh. I know why I get this impression. It’s not anymore weird or nonsensical, but at least in this context it seems to make sense… I think he also is losing height. Yes, actually. Height. It’s almost as if someone took the textbook definition of a “twink” and decided to impart its characteristic on this poor fellow – don’t ask me why I know what it is.

As I continue watching in horror, the woman’s voice says, gleefully :

“Entzony as hen !”

How can they sound so… happy ? Happy to torture a man like this ? To, quite visibly, drain his muscles into those tanks that look more and more full ? It just goes beyond me ! Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen my fair share of horrible and unethical treatments, and a ton of unethical human experiments. But this by far takes the cake of the most disturbing thing I have ever seen ! They’re taking away what he is, his identity ! Him ! That’s the most cruel violation of human rights I have ever seen ! To gleefully disfigure someone like that…

The tanks have finished filling up, and the sound starts lowering in intensity. The man left looks only like a shadow of who he was. He still looks like himself, except devoid of any… meat, may I say ? When the machine was well and truly turned off, the deep voice rejoiced, seemingly announcing the success of that terrible plot.

“Fÿstyfuroll ! Oll fod havy kotzvong !”

Funnily enough, the first word made me think of “feast for all”, which just feels wrong given the context. On that, they all seem to have left the premises, as a nurse came in and untethered the poor man from all the equipment, and taking with her the tanks filled of muscle juice.

I continued watching, hoping that I would get to see the young man wake up.

And wake up he did, looking around, before standing up… and immediately falling. Presumably due to him not expecting to be this skinny. He then looked at himself, and had an utterly horrified look in his eyes, as if he was processing the fact that he was irremediably different.

He crawled towards the wall, and using that, he climbed back to standing, managing to take a position so that he could be looking at the camera.

And on that, the video suddenly stopped, leaving me on this freeze frame :

I absolutely don’t know what to do with that. Now I not only understand, but also feel how confused the secret services were by intercepting this message. It just seems wrong in so many ways, so much that… it might not even have occurred on Earth for all I know ! The language is unknown, but familiar. The way to count time is disturbing, but otherwise identical to ours. The events depicted are of typical mad experimentation, but in a manner that is unthinkable in my knowledge of the world.

I don’t have the strength to view any of the other videos, since they’re likely all the same amount of disturbing. So I close the laptop, and already starts asking myself the question I need to give an answer for my superiors :

Just what the hell are the Beatty files ?!

[iiotic]

｡‧What letters? ༻༉

Alastor x Fem! Reader

༉‧.tw - an opinion, mentions of toxic parents, racism, toxic relationship, bullying, death, use of Alchocol, Reader is white (sorry to all other races)

༉‧.words - 1.9k

༉‧.a/n - This is pt 1 and pt 2 of "what letters?" combined because I hated how stupid it looked in 2 parts. The is very badly written because it was one of my first works and as always I'd like to apologize for any mistakes English is not my first language.

In 1907 your parents decided to move in Louisiana, New Orleans. You were awfully scared of changing schools thinking that you won't make any friends since it's the middle of school year.

You were assigned school uniforms. Blue-ish shirt with white buttons and a black skirt just below your knees. Black tights and white boots. You quite liked it however you thought it was a little stupid that they gave you bright shirts. Of course you will get them dirty.

You soon found yourself troubled to sit with someone at lunch. Everyone seemed like they were having a good time, laughing with others and you just didn't want to interrupt them.

You also took a notice of how people sit. In what groups. Everyone was sitting with the same race as them. Just like in your old school, nothing was different here.

You usually sat alone. Until..

-"May i sit here?"- A boy your age asked. He had round black glasses and chocolate eyes. - I took notice of you sitting alone at lunch and i was wondering if i could join you?

You quickly recovered from the shook and agreed to his offer. After introducing yourself you found out that the boys name is Alastor. He told you that he had troubled sitting with anyone because he was "mixed" and that no one accepted him the way he is.

Then you realised what your parents told you. They absolutely forbidden you to talking to any other race. Your dad didn't like black people one bit. He thought that they are absolutely useless and shouldn't be accepted in any way. That they shouldn't exist.

However you weren't just going to throw away your first friend in school like that. Deciding to keep it a secret.

You learned that Alastor is actually really smart. He was the top student in his class, getting straight A's. Well except history but you were great with it so you made a deal. You would help Alastor with history and he'd help you with any other subject you had problems with.

You also met Ms. Barbara, Alastors mother. She was a sweet woman, really. She always made the best jambalaya and was really supportive of her son, always wishing the best for him. She grew a liking to you as well.

Thought you did notice the weird looks people would give you at school. You didn't mind.

After a year you developed feelings for Alastor thinking that he's sweet, clever and fun.. And he knows how to cook. But little did you know that he did too.

Then it all crashed. Your parents decided to move out of Louisiana. You questioned them why would they even wanted to move in if we were leaving now.

Absolutely devastated you went to see and say your last goodbye to Alastor. You promised him to somehow keep in touch and write a lot of letters.

It didn't work out.

Your father found out about your little friend and the letters you would write every night to update him how has your day been and that you miss him. He gave the letters to your mother so that she could burn them or hide them in the attic so that you and Alastor wouldn't have any kind of communication.

And here you were, sitting in your new room. Waiting, waiting for letters from the boy who you've developed feelings for.. Or has he already forgotten about you?

On your 29th birthday you had an accident. A car crash. You decided to drive extremely drunk after your own party. 2 people in the car with you; your best friend and your younger sister. That day 2 souls came to rest and 1 to suffer in hell.

After you woke up in not your body you absolutely freaked out. Where were you? Where is my younger sister? What time is it? I'm hungry. Were you.. Dead?

Behind your laying body stood the "Happy Hotel" where souls are suppose to get rehabilated. You had no other choice then to go there.

3 knocks could be heard across the main hall suggesting that someone is waiting behind the door. A pretty blonde woman opened the door and seemed extremely excited to see you.

She introduced herself as Charlie, the owner of the hotel and the Princess of hell. Charlie explained that you ended in hell and how things work here. You were absolutely terrified.. What did you that you ended here?

But then it hit you. Your father robbed the store multiple times and didn't get caught. You were suppose to keep it a secret and you did. You should've report it to the police.

Charlie also said that you could stay here for as long as you wish, on 1 condition; you would have to help in any way you can. A free place to stay and a nice owner? Of course you agreed instantly.

When Charlie was walking you to your new room you felt awfully uncomfortable.. Like you were watched. You're terrified at this point 'couse you just realised where you are.

Everything is happening so fast that you don't know what's even going on. But before you could realise anything a deer-like creature is standing right infront of you.

You looked up at the tall creature before you with fear in your eyes. None of you said anything. His red eyes staring at you, almost like you were his prey and he was your predator. He was smiling. Why the hell was he always smiling like nothing has ever happen?

How could you look at him the same when he had left you heartbroken like that?

How could you forgive him for everything he'd done?

How could you act like everything was fine when it wasn't?

-"Why didn't you respond to any of my letters?" - The fear in your eyes slowly turning into anger and sorrow. - You promised me you'd write back to me. Then tell me why didn't i receive anything?

His eyes narrowed and his smile grew bigger. -"What letters?" - His voice sounding like an old radio. The static was ringing in yours ears, causing you a headache. -"I never received any of your letters, dear."

-"Stop lying to me, Alastor." - You quickly interrupted his sentence. -"I wrote to you everyday, hoping for a response from you. Tell me, why didn't you fulfil our promise?"

-"I would-" - He was interrupted once again. This time by the owner of the hotel. She walked up to you two with an excited face, screaming your name.

She slowed down as she saw who you were talking to. Her excited smile slowly turned into an more nervous one.

-" I see you two already met each other." - Charlie said focusing more on Alastor, hoping that he didn't do anything stupid. - "In case that he didn't introduce himself his name is Alastor. But I'm sure you've already heard of him. I just came her to say that your room is ready."

You thanked Charlie as you were truly grateful for everything she already has done for you. Without her you would probably be homeless, just waiting to get killed in the next extermination. Soon enough Charlie completely ignored Alastor, dragging you along to introduce to you everyone in the hotel.

-" So that was Niffty! We're 80% sure she's harmless. And this is the bar and the bartender" - She said pointing on an avian cat demon, absolutely screaming with excitement. But can you really blame her? You were her second true guest!

The demon behind the bar just looked at you for a second turning back around to whatever he was doing.

-"Oh! Vaggie here!!"- She said waving at a girl with long white hair with a jagged, moth-like shape to the cut, with gray-lavender stripes at the ends. Charlie quickly introduced her too. -" And this is my girlfriend, Vaggie."

Vaggie just gave you a slight smile while telling Charlie that they should talk in private. Apologising Charlie said that she was going to be right back.

So now you were left all alone in the lobby. You decided to sit on the couch to think about everything that has just happened.

"Okay so there's an afterlife and i'm not so surprisingly in hell. Im in a place filled with crazy psychos.." You pinched the bridge of your nose. Looking around at your surroundings, hoping that this is all a dream. "Some surprisingly happy woman allowed me to stay at her hotel for as long as i want to. And in this hotel there's my childhood bestfriend. Amazing."

-"Fucking amazing" - You said out loud as you heard Charlie coming back wanting to continue the tour.

｡‧₊༻

You woke up to the sound of someone knocking on your door. Getting up and throwing a blanket on yourself you yelled that they should come in.

And he did.

-"What are you doing here, Alastor?"- You looked at him with anger in your eyes. "- I don't want to see you."

-" Well, dearest." - He paused thinking how he should put it in words. -" I just wanted to make few things clear beetwen us."

- "We haven't seen each others in years and here you are being mad at me because you didn't keep our little promise."

- "I didn't keep it?" - You got up from your sitting position on your bed and started to slowly walk up to him. -" I always stayed up late at night writing letters to you every-fucking-day. I thought that you would care just a little to write back to maybe I don't fucking one. Atleast one letter?"

-" As i said earlier, i didn't receive any letters."- He looked at you calmly with his signature smile -"However I'd like to know your excuse to not responding to my letters."

-"I didn't receive any letters Alastor!" - God, you were so mad at him. He truly broke your heart. You liked him.. No you lived him for such a long time. He was your first crush and now? He was just a fucking manipulator. - Why the fuck are you lying to me?

-"I'd like to discuss this matter calmly." - He said referring to you cussing him in every sentence and your unstoppable yelling. - How about I'll take you to a cafe, my treat.

After considering his offer you agreed. You really needed to know what happened between you two and if he was really lying. It was quite dumb for you to just assume he was a liar without any proof but I guess it was the adrenaline rushing through your veins.

This morning you borrowed a dress from Charlie becouse you didn't have any other clothes then the ones that you've fallen in. It was a black dress just below your knees with an sweetheart neckline. She also borrowed you her jewelry so now you're also wearing a golden necklace.

The time of day has come and Alastor knocked to your bedroom once again. This time you opened the door closing it behind, ready to go.

Alastor snapping his finger teleported both of you to a nearby cafe. Coming in and gesturing you to chose a table. After you choose one he pulled out the chair for you and took a seat before you.

-"So dear."- He looked up at you -"That dress really compliments your figure."

-"Thank you however it isn't mine. Now I'd like you to explain what happened?"

-"I don't know what you're talking about, darling. "- Oh now he is acting dumb?

-" I'll ask one last time. Why didn't you respond to any of my letters?" - You asked, this time calmly. Crossing your arms.

-"and I'll say one last time. I didn't receive them."- He said looking out of the window, seeing demons suffer. -"I always thought that you didn't write them, that you've forgotten about me."

-"I'd never forget you, Alastor. You meant a lot for me."- You responded looking out of the window as well -"I couldn't imagine life without you. That's why I was truly heartbroken when i didn't ses you write back."

-"I was writing to you, so many times. In fact i always wrote to you on the end of every week." - He confessed - "For over 15 years."

-"But i didn't receive anything?"

-"Neither did i, dear"- Maybe it was the wrong address? Maybe I just didn't know how to send letters? Maybe I didn't actually send them?

-"So.. I'm sorry I'm so embarrassed right now." - You looked at your lap fidgeting with your fingers -"I should have never yelled at you like. It was very immature of me to accuse you of something you didn't do."

-"That's fine, darling"- he said looking back at you lowering his tone a bit -"Everything is fine between us?"

You looked at him with hope in your eyes. Oh how much you wanted to bring things to normal, how it was earlier when you were kids. -"Yeah everything is fine."

-"Smile my dear. You know you're never fully dressed without one!"

[arahdow]

NIGHTY

Pairing. Shadow x reader x Silver

Content. f!reader (nicknamed as nighty). poly!relationship. hurt to comfort. one (1) mention of smoking, description of injuries, harsh language. they're worried sick and shadow channels his worry as anger. silver calms both of you down though! suggestive at the end? jsjs i got carried away.

Word count. 2.5 k

A/N. AAAAAAAAAAAAA thank you anon for requesting this !! I absolutely adored writing this, although at first I found it quite difficult BUT I hope I did a good job! This is my first time writing a poly relationship, but I have faith I portrayed well. Same ol', no beta read, no nothing, I just had fun jsjs.

+ my back hurts HELP SKDJFJ i'll take a well deserved rest after this aH

“What are you doing?” the voice of Shadow startled her, as she hid her own arm behind her. He was leaning on the opened door, arms crossing, eyes boring into her figure. Turning to look at the man, she closed the tap water and cleared her throat uncomfortably. 

 “I didn’t see you there.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

The girl sighed. “Nothing of your business.” she grumbled, trying to walk past the black hedgehog, but it was no use. Shadow snatched her arm making her wince at the action. His eyes widened at the way the skin was ripped open, blood seeping through her arm dripping to the white floor. The rest of her arm was bruised.

“What the fuck is this, Nighty?” He asked, a commanding tone laced in his voice.

The girl pulled her arm and took it to the sink again, opening the cold water and letting it stream onto her wound. “Just a cut, it’s nothing.”

Shadow inhaled deeply. “Does Silver know?”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters if you’re hurt, now don’t be a brat and answer me.”

“He doesn't, okay? And I don’t care if he does, there’s nothing he could do either way.” She said, hissing at the feeling of her wound being cleaned.

Shadow almost felt bad. Almost. But he simply huffed and turned around going into his room. 

The girl sighed and kept on cleaning herself, the silence in the kitchen making her feel lightheaded. Nighty, as Shadow and Silver liked to call her, lived with the two hedgehogs. Not in the same house though. It was such a weird situation: Silver once found Nighty dehydrated and with a grave state of anemia, passed out on the street. He took the girl to Shadow, which was the closest location to where he found her. At first, Shadow was reluctant to help Silver save her, why would he care?

But it became something difficult to ignore when the girl woke up, not remembering anything about her. They thought she had been abused or kidnapped and somehow managed to escape, but it was weird that she couldn’t even remember her own name. So they called her Nighty. 

After that, she took turns to stay in either Silver’s or Shadow’s house, and because of the proximity and chemistry, she started developing feelings for both of them, and so were they. Silver and Shadow didn’t like each other that much to start a relationship themselves, so they shared her, with no hard feelings for each other.

This week was Shadow’s turn, but she somehow managed to stay more time outdoors than with him. And the thing was, she actually started going out with the people she met at a club. This girl called Rouge was the one who introduced her to a group, and since then, everything started going down. Now she prefers going out, smoking with friends and engaging in risky scenarios. And with every day that passed, her partners got more concerned. They looked at her one day and she was so changed.

After she finished cleaning herself, she turned to the bathroom to grab the aid kit, which surprisingly, was in Shadows hand. He was kneeling, cleaning the droplets of blood that dripped from her arm earlier.

“Thank-”

“It’d leave a stain. Don’t go around making a mess here if you’re going to behave like this.” His tone laced with venom. She looked at him, hurt.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means whatever the hell you think it is.” He replied, standing up, aid kit on his hands. “You can’t keep going out, end of story.”

Nighty snickered. Shadow looked at her with anger brewing inside of him. “What’s so funny?”

“You.” She spat. “You thinking you can order me around like you’re my father.”

“I may not be your father but I am your partner, you live under my roof, you do as I say!” He raised his voice slightly.

“Who do you think you are? I didn’t ask to be saved, I didn’t ask for your shelter,” The girl huffed. “I certainly didn’t ask for your pity.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, I never said I pitied you.”

“Well it looks like it, why would you tell me all this, then?” 

“Because you’re changing! You’re not the girl I love!” 

Wrong fucking words, Shadow.

Eyes dull, she looked at him, suddenly the wound in her arm didn’t hurt as much. “Wow, you’re showing your true colors, huh?”

“The hell does that mean.” 

But she didn’t let him speak. Turning around, she started walking at the door. Shadow suddenly blocked her, his back pressing against the door.

“Please, open the door, Shadow, I’m not playing games.”

“Neither am I. Where are you going?”

“Why do you care? You’ve clearly stated you don’t love me anymore.”

Shadow felt a hollow pit in his stomach. “What-”

“Can I leave?” 

And he looked in her eyes. Angry tears running down her eyes. The man seething, pure hot through his veins. But, why did he feel so… Helpless?

“I never said-”

“‘You’re changing, you’re not the girl I love’, does that ring a fucking bell?” She asked, her tone raising.

“You know for a fact that’s not what I meant!”

“Oh, do I?” The girl asked, her voice broken with pain. “Then what did you mean? Mhm?”

Shadow stared at her. Suddenly losing the words, he stood there motionless. His brain racking with ways on how to explain that he was worried. That he was terrified for her, her body, the way it kept getting worse and worse every passing day. The way her skin was becoming a garden full of bruises and cuts. He noticed then she had a busted lip too.

The girl sighed, shaking her head. She took advantage of Shadow being in his headspace, walking close to the door and opening it wide enough for her to go through it. “You can be so cruel when you put your soul into it.” Was the last thing she said before walking out the door.

Hearing knocking on his door, Silver got up yawning in the process. It was the middle of the night, he wasn’t expecting someone. And he definitely wasn’t expecting her.

“Night-?”

“Can I sleep here?” She asked, rushing inside his home. 

Silver hadn’t had the time to ask her a thing. Rubbing his eyes, his brain started growing more conscious by the moment. “Wait, why? What happened to Shadow?” He asked, receiving a scoff from the girl.

“Can we not talk about this?” 

Silver closed the door, walking slowly until he saw the injury on her arm. His mind cleared up as he rushed to the bathroom to get some supplies and meds. “Why are you hurt? What happened, Nighty?”

“Can we not?” She avoided his questioning as well as his eyes.

“Hey-”

“Stop! Can’t you understand a fucking request? Am I the only smart one here? Leave me the fuck alone!”

She exploded. And Silver raised his hands, worried that he had a time bomb in front of him. She needed care, and he couldn’t afford for her to run away. He guessed something happened at Shadow’s, but he chose to stay curious.

“I’m not gonna ask anything else, for the moment, then.” He said decisively, but with a soft voice and a gentle smile trying to not irritate her more.

The next few minutes, he started to patch her up, gently, taking full care and attention at her expressions. A quick glance at her told him everything. She and Shadow had an argument. And he knew that because it was the only moment where she cried. 

Yes, Shadow was someone known to be a dickhead, apprehensive even, when things didn’t go his way; but he somehow always managed to get under everyone’s skin. People used to warm up to him easily because he was also a protector by nature. He cared, in his own way. Silver knew that much.

He cared for the girl when the second Silver arrived at his home, and even when Shadow denied such a thing, Silver saw something in his eyes. A glint of worry. A glint of need to protect such a soul. The way Shadow’s eyes lingered on her, or when he spoke softer to her than anybody else. Silver noticed all of that. But both of them were hard-headed. 

Putting some ointment on her bruised skin, he noticed her busted lip and inhaled sharply. The need to ask was consuming him, but he held himself. 

With one gentle hand, he took the girl’s chin and turned her head his way. Her teary eyes were so pretty, but he wouldn’t comment on that in this scenario. Maybe another day. Nighty looked at him, his golden eyes boring into hers, his naked hand caressed her cheek. She could feel his short claws gaze at her skin, but she felt cared. Safe.

Silver averted his gaze, taking a cotton ball and smearing alcohol in it.

“This might hurt.” He warned, she only nodded.

Followed by a hiss, he started to wipe her lip, the dried blood being cleaned up from her. Her skin red from the pain. The man shushed softly at her, lulling. She felt less pained, somehow. 

Her tears were coming out less and less, Silver made sure they never hit the floor. She lunged forwards, hugging him with the arm that she hadn’t injured. The man yelped, receiving warmth from her body. Then he reciprocated the hug.

“I don’t want you to leave me…” She whispered, barely audible but Silver could hear her perfectly.

He waited for her to calm down a bit, and when she pulled away from the hug, he took her hand in his. Her breathing seemed calmer now.

“Can I ask now, what happened?” He asked, his voice the softest he could manage.

The girl sighed and recalled the events at Shadow’s. Silver nodded every few seconds to let her know he was listening. When she finished telling him about it, he inhaled sharply. 

“I see,” Directing his attention to the aid box, he took the bandages and opened a hand for her to give him her wound, now that the ointment was absorbed in her skin. “now, can I talk about this situation? I have some questions.” Nighty nodded. “How did you got this?” He asked, referring to her arm.

With a sigh, she replied. “I… There were these guys at the bar,” Silver’s breath hitched. “they wanted me and my friend to leave with them, but they seemed sketchy. Rouge tried to wave them off but they were pressing the topic a lot, to the point where they got frustrated and…” She gulped. “One of them had a knife…”

Gauging Silver’s reaction, she stopped speaking for a moment. The man nodded. “Keep talking.”

Nighty inhaled. “He was going to hurt Rouge, but I took the hit.” 

Silver looked up, his eyes were no longer gold but a dirty brown. “And the lip?”

Shrinking in her seat, Silver didn’t need anything else. Sighing deeply, he tried calming his nerves. This was the first time he has encountered about her odd friends and outings, but this? This was too much.

“Nighty,” he started. “you know we care about you, right?”

She sat in silence. 

“Right?” He repeated, looking at her. 

“I’m not sure… I think i’m a nuisance, I don’t want to worry any of you but…” She trailed off. 

“There are no limits when it comes to you, princess.” He said with a gentle smile, continuing on patching her arm. “We’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

Sniffing, she nodded. “Shadow… He…” It was hard to even remember what had happened between them.

Silver clicked his tongue, taking a band-aid and putting it carefully on her lip. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow morning. You can stay here, and we’ll handle this tomorrow, okay?”

Nighty nodded, feeling herself become drowsy. Holding back a yawn, Silver giggled at her state. Kissing her forehead, he took her bridal style and walked towards his room. “Let’s put you to sleep, princess.”

The day after, Nighty found herself nuzzling into the pillow. It smelt nicely of Silver: like cherry shortcake. Quiet voices made her stir in her sleep. Turning to lie staring at the ceiling, she winced at the pain coursing through her injured arm. Ah, she forgot. 

Sitting up, she could tell apart the voices. Silver and Shadow. Her stomach flipped with nervousness, as she got up from the comfortable bed. Walking slowly towards the door, she opened it. The boys didn’t notice, so she slipped to the kitchen.

“You need to apologize.”

“I will! Stop repeating that, I know-”

“If you knew you would’ve kept your mouth shut, jackass.”

Shadow murmured under his breath. Both of them were sitting on opposite sides of the couch. Nighty took some coffee from the counter and got out of the kitchen. Her presence was noticed by both hedgehogs. 

Silver jumped in his seat. “My- When did you go to the kitchen?”

“I just walked by.” She answered, her voice hoarse and weak. Her head hurting. Probably for all the crying last night.

The room filled with silence. She didn’t know if she should go and sit down with them or not. But before she could decide, Shadow decided for her. 

“I…” He said, standing from his seat. He always found it difficult to apologize, but he couldn’t bear her thinking he hated her, or that he loved her less. “I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t erase the pain I put you through last night,” he cleared his throat with anxiety of not sending his point across her. “I shouldn’t have let the worst of me take over.” He added. 

Coming close to her, he took the cup of coffee from her hands, putting it down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Going back at her, he took her hands into his, focusing for a bit on her patched lip, suddenly feeling guilty for not taking care of her properly.

“What I said last night wasn’t real, it wasn’t what I really thought of you.” Deep sigh. “I love you however you are, although that doesn’t mean I won’t worry about you…”

Before he could go further, Silver cleared her throat, Shadow pressed his lips in thought. 

“What I mean is, I love you, and I’ll keep saying it until you forgive me.” He looked at her hands, kissing the back of them.

“I love you too, Shads.” It was hard not to forgive him, she loved him too much. “I’m sorry for calling you cruel, I too was hurting and… Yeah.”

Shadow shook his head. “I felt worried. Terrified even. I’ll work on that and… Explain myself better next time.”

Nighty nodded and kissed his cheek. They stared at each other for a few seconds, the girl walked back to the couch, sitting in between the two hedgehogs.

The men looked at each other and smiled, and she noticed. “Guys, may I remind you I’m still injured.” 

Both of them got close to her, Shadow placed his hand on her thigh as Silver kneeled on the couch, his snout rubbing onto the side of her head, until his lips gazed at her ear.

“Then let us do all the work, princess.”

[rosemariiaa]

~Lines We Drew~

part: 3

pairing- Paige x Azzi

a/n: this is pretty long so take your time! other than that, read away babe

warning: language, just 2 confused babies

Enjoy!!!

Practice today had been grueling, with the team pushing themselves to the limit since it’s almost time for the season to start. It felt like every drill was designed to test their endurance, and by the time they hit their water break, everyone was more than ready for a break. As they all gathered around the cooler, gulping down their water, Nika grinned mischievously, looking around at the sweaty, exhausted faces.

“Y’all trying to hit the bar tonight or what?” Nika said, wiping her face with a towel. “We haven’t been there in forever.” She said exaggerating. Ice chuckled, leaning against the bench. “Hell yeah, I’m down. We need a break from all this. Plus, it’s been too long since we’ve gone out, I need to get off campus for a minute.”

The rest of the team quickly voiced their agreement, tired smiles spreading across their faces. It didn’t take much convincing—everyone needed a night out.

Paige was quiet as she listened, her gaze flickering to Azzi, who was standing a few feet away, stretching. For a second, Paige’s thoughts drifted to how Azzi’s top clung to her back, highlighting the defined muscles she had developed over the years. She quickly shook the thought away, pretending to be focused on her water bottle instead. She wasn’t sure why Azzi still managed to take up so much space in her head after all this time, but it was becoming harder to ignore.

Azzi caught the tail end of Nika’s suggestion and nodded along with the rest of the team. She could use the distraction, too. Maybe a night out would help with the tension that had been building between her and Paige for weeks. And maybe… just maybe, they could start fixing whatever the hell was going on between them.

Later that night, all the girls hurried to their apartments to get ready. Azzi stood in front of Caroline’s mirror, pulling out a few pieces of curls and adjusting her black cropped top, leaving a few buttons undone for a more relaxed look. Her low-waisted cargo pants sat comfortably on her hips, her new heart shaped belly button ring glistening in the air, and she couldn’t help but feel a little more confident tonight.

“You look hot and i mean hot Az, planning on taking someone home tonight?” Caroline teased, leaning back on her bed. Azzi rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “It’s just a night out, nothing special and no, no one is coming here tonight.” Azzi chuckled.

Caroline raised an eyebrow. “Sure, Azzi. Just remember who’s gonna be watching you the most.”Azzi’s stomach flipped at the unspoken name. Paige. It was hard not to think about her, especially with all the tension between them lately. Something about tonight felt different, though. She could feel it in the air, like something was about to shift.

At the bar, the team settled in around a large table, drinks and laughter flowing easily. Azzi tried her best to relax and focus on the drink infront of her, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering to Paige. Paige, dressed in a white crop top and low-rise jeans with a black cover-up, looked more effortlessly beautiful than ever. Azzi had caught Paige staring at her earlier, but now Paige was doing her best to look anywhere but at her.

It wasn’t long before Laila showed up, her usual bubbly energy filling the space. She immediately gravitated toward Azzi, pulling her into a hug and striking up a conversation. Azzi laughed along, though her attention was divided. Paige was unusually quiet, and when Azzi glanced her way, she noticed the cold glare Paige was shooting at Laila. It didn’t make sense, and yet somehow, it did. Paige had been acting weird around her for weeks now , and Azzi couldn’t figure out why.

———-

Paige’s POV

I couldn’t help it. I kept looking at her. The way Azzi was smiling with Laila, her laugh filling the space between them—it drove me crazy. And not in the way it should. I don’t even know why I was mad. Maybe because every time I looked at her, I remembered the past, and all the stupid unresolved stuff that came with it. But mostly, it was just because she got under my skin without even trying.

And that drive to the bar? That didn’t help either. Being squished against her in Nika’s car, accidentally putting my hand on her thigh when Nika hit the brakes hard —it was all too much. My pulse had quickened, and I couldn’t focus on anything else the rest of the night.

Azzi’s eyes had flicked over to me a few times since then, probably wondering why the hell I was being so weird. But I wasn’t ready to deal with that. Not tonight. Not when everything felt so confusing.

After Laila finally left, and the drinks started slowing down, we all headed back to my apartment. I pretended I wasn’t hyper-aware of Azzi falling asleep on the couch, but of course, I noticed. I noticed everything about her. It was driving me insane, and I didn’t know how much longer I could keep pretending it didn’t.

Eventually, everyone else headed out or crashed, leaving just me and Azzi. I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing, filled with thoughts I didn’t want to deal with. So I found myself in the kitchen, snacking, trying to clear my head.

Of course, she showed up not long after. Azzi, looking groggy but still somehow perfect, came in for a glass of water.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked, trying to sound casual, even though my pulse was speeding up again. “Nope,” she said, her voice soft, the tiredness lacing her words. “You?”

“Same.”

Silence settled between us for a moment. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though. More like… a truce.

Azzi broke it first. “Practice was brutal today, huh?” I felt a small smile tug at the corner of my mouth. She was trying. Maybe this was her way of breaking the ice.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “How’s it going for you so far?”

Azzi seemed taken aback by the question, like she hadn’t expected me to care. “It’s good. I mean, you’re kind of a pain in the ass, but I can handle it.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and laughed a little. “Yeah, about that. I guess I haven’t made things easy for you.” Azzi shrugged. “No, you haven’t. But I get it. It’s whatever.”

That stung a bit, but I knew I deserved it.

“Look, Azzi… I’m sorry.” The words felt foreign, heavy on my tongue, but I meant them. I hadn’t planned on apologizing tonight, but there it was—finally out in the open.

Azzi raised her eyebrows, her surprise clear. “Wait, did Paige Bueckers just apologize to me?” I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t help the slight smirk tugging at my lips. “Don’t push it, Fudd.”

Azzi laughed, the sound light and infectious, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt like maybe we were okay. Or at least we could be.

“So… truce?” I offered, holding out my hand.

She looked at my hand, then back at me with a teasing grin. “You sure you’re not gonna take it back tomorrow at practice?” I shrugged, smirking. “No promises, but… I’ll try.” Azzi’s smile softened, and she took my hand, her grip warm and firm. God her hands were so soft. “Truce.”

For a moment, we just stood there, our hands lingering longer than necessary. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from hers. There was something in her gaze, something that made it impossible to look away.

But then she pulled back, breaking the spell. “Alright, goodnight, Paige.” “Goodnight,” I echoed, watching as she made her way back to the couch.

She disappeared into the darkness of the living room, leaving me standing there in the kitchen, alone with my thoughts. I stood there for a moment thinking, thinking about how I could never tell Azzi the real reason why I’ve been acting this way. The real reason I’d been so messed up around her.

———-

Azzi’s POV

As I settled back onto the couch, I couldn’t help but feel a weird sense of relief. That tension between me and Paige—it was finally starting to unravel. For weeks, I’d been trying to figure out what her problem was with me, why she’d been acting so cold and distant. And now, with her apology still ringing in my ears, I felt like maybe we were starting to get somewhere.

The kitchen light was still on, casting a faint glow into the living room. I could see Paige’s silhouette as she stood there, probably thinking about God knows what. For all her bravado on the court, Paige could be pretty hard to read off of it. But tonight had been different. She’d let her guard down, even if just a little.

I smiled to myself, remembering the way she’d tensed up in Nika’s car when our thighs touched. Paige had tried to play it off like nothing, but I’d felt it too—that spark, that heat. It was confusing as hell, but it was there, undeniable.

My mind drifted back to practice earlier that day. The arguments between us had simmered down, sure, but there was still something simmering beneath the surface. Every time we locked eyes, every time she shot some sarcastic comment my way, I couldn’t help but feel like there was more to it. Like maybe this wasn’t just about basketball, or competition, or whatever stupid rivalry we’d built up over the years.

Maybe it was about something else entirely.

I shifted on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if Paige was thinking the same thing.

———-

Paige leaned against the counter in the kitchen, her snack forgotten as her thoughts spiraled back in time. Her mind drifted to a flashback, to the days when everything between her and Azzi was simpler—or at least it seemed that way.

———-

Flashback Time

USA Basketball, 2017

Paige had been ecstatic when her and Azzi both made the team. They had just met a few weeks ago and already became good “friends”. Azzi was quieter back then, more reserved, but her skills on the court were undeniable. There was something about her—maybe the way she moved, or the way she could drain threes like it was nothing—that had drawn Paige to her instantly.

For a while, they were friends. Or at least Paige thought they were. They’d spent hours talking, joking around, building something that felt real. Next few days, one day in particular. It was Paige’s birthday but she still decided to go to practice, just to see Azzi and that dimpled smile of hers. Paige arriving at the gym couldn’t seem to find the brunette, she asked her coach and what she said left Paige heartbroken. Azzi was gone, out of nowhere. No warning. No goodbye. Just….gone.

It had crushed Paige. She remembered how angry she’d been, not just because Azzi left, especially on her birthday, but because she hadn’t said anything. They were supposed to be friends. Weren’t they? But Azzi had packed up and left without a word, and Paige had been left to wonder if their friendship had even meant anything to her.

AAU, 2019

Walking in the gym, getting ready for the competition, Paige starts stretching , eyes wandering around the room and then she stops. Frozen, seeing Azzi for the first time again at an AAU tournament had been like a punch to the gut. She had changed—grown taller, stronger, her dark curls longer and more defined. Paige couldn’t believe it. The girl she had known was gone, replaced by this version of Azzi that felt both familiar and completely foreign.

She stares as Azzi turns her head and they lock eyes across the gym, and for a second, Paige had thought maybe things would be okay. Maybe they could pick up where they left off. But then Azzi smiled—just a small, tentative smile—and waved.

And Paige had walked away.

The anger had flared up again, the old wounds reopening. How could she just expect things to be okay after leaving like that? After not even bothering to say goodbye?

———-

Present Day

Paige shook herself out of her thoughts. She had been standing in the kitchen long enough, and it was getting late. She glanced over at the couch, where Azzi was sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling with each breath.

Something in Paige’s chest tightened. She didn’t want to admit it—not even to herself—but the truth was, she missed what they had. Or what they could’ve had. And maybe, just maybe, she wanted it back.

Paige sighed, running a hand through her hair. She turned off the kitchen light and made her way to her room, but not before taking one last look at Azzi. She stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her sleep, and for a brief second, she let herself imagine what it would be like if Azzi were in her bed with her, curled up under the blankets, close enough to touch.

She shook the thought away. There was no way Azzi felt the same.

Slipping under her covers, Paige closed her eyes and whispered into the quiet room, “You’ll know one day, Az… not today… not tomorrow… maybe not even until college is over.” She let out a soft laugh. “But one day…”

And with that, she drifted off to sleep, her thoughts still lingering on the girl sleeping just outside her door.

[caxde]

still live | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary you and Eddie have been friends for ever, but have chosen to keep your feelings quiet, until a single afternoon changes it all. (2.7k)

warnings fem!reader, fluff (like a lot of it) hurt/comfort, friends in love, mutual pining, yearning etc, slowburn friends to lovers, idiots in love!!!, english is not my first language so I apologise if there’s some mistakes, not proof read! 

-

It had never been a question. 

You had started painting even before you learned how to talk, your house was always messy and stained because of you. As you grew up, stained carpet floors turned into stained old clothes, paint splattered all around your wardrobe, and a burning passion was developed. 

So, of course, when the dreaded question of what are you going to do after high school started going around, your answer had always been the same ‘art school’. 

But anxiety and stress were getting to you, you had been working hard on your portfolio, barely sleeping, painting canvases that were bigger than you, held by reclining it against your bedroom wall, and working in sketches nonstop, not even in the middle of class. 

He would tease you, everytime he heard the pencil scratch against the yellowish paper. He always does the same thing, he starts watching quietly, admiring the way your fingers hold the pencil ever so delicately, the way your eyes follow the grey stain so closely, concentration evident on your expression, and your hair messing your face when you look down.  When he couldn’t hold it any longer, a soft smile curves the end of his lips, as he brings his body closer to yours, and he always whispers, his voice always sweet and soft when he calls your name to get your attention. 

And he chuckles everytime you jump out of concentration as you breathe out his name. 

But today was different. 

Eddie knows you, better than anyone for that matter, and he also knows that you had been a little too stressed about it all. He knew you needed quiet company while you worked, so he asked you to come finish your last one over to his house. 

He had made his room tidier, in his own way. He cleared the floor, no dirty clothes could be seen, and the table was what he would charmingly call an “organized mess”, little piles of things in a neat position, a clean composition. Window open and clean air coming in, with a space under it so the smell of the acrylic paint can leave as fast as it comes. 

“You moved the bed.” You let out as soon as you step inside his room, looking at the open window. 

“You need to paint.” He answers, as he shrugs, trying not to give it that much meaning, even if he feels his pulse quickening as you smile grows deeper. 

“Thank you.” 

“No problem.” He answers quickly, really trying to not hyperfixate in the way your smile is caused by him, or the way it seems to illuminate the room a bit more. 

You laid the canvas against the wall, and started organizing your paint tubes in your particular way. Black, blue, red, yellow and white. The other fancy special colours away from them, the lilac, teal and silver pulled apart. 

He knew you needed your space, just as much as he knew you appreciated the quiet companionship. 

It was nice, being in the same room as him, not feeling alone, and knowing that he’ll be here when you inevitably feel tired or burned out and need a little push. 

And you liked feeling him look closely at you. Though you think he’s looking at the way the thin light blue haze is staining the pristine white of the canvas, he’s actually looking at the way your oversized, full-of-various-faded-splatters-of-paint shirt is hanging from you, the way it wraps on your waist, and the way your hair is falling down your back, your face tilted, only makes him more nervous, and in a way, realize even more that he wouldn’t do this for just anyone, so he might as well admit to himself that he does have some feelings for you. 

He played music on his guitar, quietly, and smiled deeply at the sound of you muttering the worlds of the songs he always chooses absentmindedly. Even if he only plays Bowie when you’re around. 

You're obvious to it all. You only focus on the way your hand won’t stop shaking, and you’re not even sure why, so the frustration is starting again, and with it so does the headache. You need to finish the stupid sketch so you can actually start painting, but your hand won’t stop shaking and you don’t even have a good enough reference. You’ve stopped singing and are instead biting your lip, an anxious tic that Eddie knows a bit too well. 

He doesn’t say anything, instead he stops playing, goes to the kitchen and brings two cups of tea. 

He decides to sit down beside you, and instead of startling you as he normally does, he instead leaves a soft touch on the small of your back, his fingers feeling the beginning of your jeans through your shirt. The familiar warmth left in both of your bodies. 

“Here” He whispers, a bit too close to your ear. 

You turn to him, realizing that he’s never been as close, that now you could if you wanted and had the time to count every single one of his eyelashes, and that his lips look pinker than ever. And in that moment, something seems to click, a warmth awakens in the inside of your chest, and you move a bit far away instinct kicking in. 

“Thanks” You whisper back, blood travelling fast to your cheeks as your fingers touch his for a moment, grabbing your tea. 

“So, what’s wrong?” He chooses his words carefully, his tone softer, his voice quieter. He raises his eyebrow in concern, making you frown for just a second. 

“It’s all wrong.” You whisper, in anxious shame, nervously, avoiding his eyes. 

“What do you mean it's all wrong?” He echoes your voice, not really following your train of thought. 

“It’s all wrong Eddie.” Your voice is stronger now, more impatient. But still barely above a whisper, it felt stupid to speak at a normal volume when he’s so close to you. “ The proportions are awful, the reference is shit, and I can’t start painting until I finish the stupid sketch but I can’t manage to finish it.” You’re trying your hardest to not stumble over your own words, it’s complicated, frustration getting the best of you, making your voice shake as you can feel the small tear threatening to form on the verge of your eyes. 

“Hey…” He whispers once more, the hand he had on your lower back petting you once again, trying to get you to calm down for a second. “Step by step, yeah?” He watches you nod at his question, and he waits for you to take a deep breath. “What can you do to fix it?” 

“I need to restart it all.” You answer in defeat, you were tired, and with a clear idea in mind that didn’t seem to transform as well as you wanted to. 

“Okay, so restart it, what can I do to help?” 

“Nothing really.” You add, looking back at him for once. You're captivated by him for a moment. The way his curls frame his face makes you really want to put the little flyaway away from his complexion, touch his pale face for a second, but instead, you hold the cup harder, your knuckles turning white. 

“What’s wrong with the reference?” He asks, trying to refocus you, snatching the photograph off the floor. A blurry image that’s barely recognizable, a kiss between two people that you don’t know. 

“It’s shit.” You admit, hiding a chuckle. “ I found it on the floor of The Hideout and thought that a kiss scene would be the perfect ending for my project, but… I’m not… I don’t know” You admit, defeated, tired, and anxious about you having to start the whole project again. 

“Why a kiss?” He asks, innocence in his tone. He tries to hide his curiosity with that Eddie grin, that stupid grin that makes you smile in return even if you're not aware of it. 

“I…” You look at him for a moment. Stopping at his lips for a second, and this time it doesn’t escape you that he does the same. “It’s about melancholy. The whole thing. Situations that have happened and you miss, and the ones that haven’t but you wish they did… Love… I wish it happened to me but… Yeah” You stop talking, as you feel his eyes not leave yours, it’s stupid, but talking about this in this space, for some reason is making your heart beat faster, and wherever your body touches his, it tingles, electricity flying between both of you. 

“You haven’t been in love?” The question took you out, it didn’t make sense for Eddie to ask this. It doesn’t fit the way he has always acted around you, but in a weird way, when you look back at him, and see the way his eyes look softer, kinder. 

You always saw Eddie repel the idea of love, avoiding it at all costs, so it was weird seeing him like that, like he was hopeful for an answer, as he wanted to tell you how he started feeling, he also knew he would never dare to tell you such a thing. Much too proud, much too careful. 

“I have. But, they don’t love me back.” You mutter, not ready to voice it fully. Not sure if this is the best time to say, yes, Eddie, I have been in love, I’ve been in love with you for ages. 

Because, even now, you’re slowly realising that what you’ve been feeling for him is love. 

“I understand.” He mutters, his sight leaving you for the first time, looking down at the photo, while he yells to himself, his brain is telling him to not do anything stupid, while his whole heart and body are begging for him to tell you that he could learn how to love you if you let him. 

For fucks sake, he tells himself, he cares so much about you, he wants you to be happy and loved and cared for so much it pains him a bit not knowing what to do to help. He slowly lifts his head up.

Coincidence, destiny or just dumb luck, he makes eye contact with his old, beaten up Polaroid and a stupid idea, oh so stupid crosses his mind, and he narrows his eyes. 

You notice. 

And before you can stop yourself you're asking him a soft and questionable “What?” that leaves him looking back at you. 

“We could take a picture.” He states, blankly looking back at the camera. A nervous smile that makes his eyes shine. 

“What picture?” You’re left even more confused, following his glance. 

“A kissing picture.” He says. Your body frozen, heart skipping a beat. Eddie’s does the same, amazed at himself for actually having said such a stupid thing. “Just so you have an actual reference… I just… Wanna help.” He’s now avoiding your sight, embarrassed about his idea, he begins to get flustered, and the only thing he can get himself to do now is stare at the floor. 

You need a second. 

A moment. 

Silence fills the room, as the only thing you can feel is the beating of your own heart, loud in your eardrums, a rhythmic rhythm that begs kissme kissme kissme. 

So, once again, it wasn’t even a question. 

“Who’s taking it?” You answer, sweet quiet voice. Your eyes also set on the floor, as you can feel your cheeks burning. Anticipation forming in the air. 

“I’ll do it.” He answers, his smile bigger than ever. As he stands up, you leave the cup on the floor, wiping your nervous hands on your jeans. One swipe, two, three. 

You’re left looking at him, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think that he was just as extremely excited and nervous as you are. And then it comes, the realisation of what was about to happen, he’s going to kiss you, and you’re going to kiss him. You’re about to do what you’ve been wanting to do for ages, all for some stupid excuse that you can’t be worried about. 

As he moves, gracefully, it all stops mattering for a brief moment. 

It doesn’t matter if the painting is good enough. 

It doesn’t matter if the admission committee thinks your work is good enough. 

It doesn’t matter if this complicates your friendship or not. 

He sits down beside you, a trembling hand pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his lips slightly parted, his eyes switching between your eyes and your lips. The electricity is tangible now, you almost feel like you could fill up jars with it, a weird anticipation, an excitement. A promise almost. 

“Are you ready?” He asks, his thumb gracing your lower lip, his breath so close to your lips you could actually drink it if you wanted to. He smells of vanilla and sandalwood.

“Yeah.”

Then it happens. 

Eddie kisses you, softly. 

A soft, sweet kiss is left on top of your lips, as you close your eyes and enjoy it, one of your hands travels slowly to the back of his neck, tentatively, you start playing with his hair. You see a flash, a bright light that makes you giggle, only brighter when you feel the way he’s also smiling. 

Eddie can’t stop kissing you. 

He’s delighted that he’s finally doing this. He doesn’t care that he can’t fully give in, somehow worried that the photo won’t turn out good, he takes a couple more. And then he finally gives in. One last touch, a small bite to your lower lip, and he gently pulls away. His forehead against yours. Catching his breath, you can feel the way your lips are left tingling now. How your heartbeat seems happier in a weird way, like something got fixed for a moment.

When Eddie opens his eyes, he can see that yours are still closed. And that your lips look pinker than before, that your cheeks are flushed and you’re breathing faster than usual. He smiles quietly to himself, and looks down, between your bodies, lays the camera and the polaroids spread around, proof that he didn’t imagine it all. Proof that he did just do it. 

He carefully bumps his forehead into yours, playfully almost. 

You open your eyes, looking down. 

He hands you one of the photographs, you can’t help but smile. 

“I don’t think I ever had such a beautiful photo” You whisper, as you’re taken back for an instance. You’re blooming with joy, an uncontrollable smile decorates your face. The shyness gone for this brief moment. 

“Me either.” Eddie adds as he holds another one. 

You’re both idiots. 

Happy idiots, unaware of each other's feelings, not knowing that it was more than a favour. 

“Thank you, Moon.” You tell him, as he blushes even harder. 

And he’s not sure if it was the eye contact, the way you look right now or the fact that you had just given him what might be his new favourite nickname. 

“Now, get back to work.” He teases, while he decides to lay down, resting on his forearms so he can still look at you. 

“Don’t distract me.” You add back, a flirty banter evident in the air now. 

“I won’t kiss you until you ask for it.” And in that moment it's clear, he’s being sincere. 

You can’t help but laugh, softly. And he can’t help himself, echoing your laugh. 

He doesn’t need to say anything, and neither do you. You just know that now he knows something more about you, you know that now that he’s tasted your lips he will be left craving for more, just as much as your craving for a new encounter. 

Eddie is left mesmerized, proud of you, seeing how now you’re determined to finish this painting, with a soft smile and quick brushstrokes. So, you spend the next afternoon painting, and stealing soft glances at him, as he just sits there, amazed by you, as he continues talking with you as if nothing has changed, as if his heart isn’t now all yours, even if you know as well as he does, that it is. 

[zeroxxlhero]

Girlfriend Headcannons • Ymir

Contents & Warnings: everyone is 18+, Hispanic! Ymir, Black!Fem! Reader, top! Ymir, bottom! Reader, public sex, established relationship, cunninlingus, strap-ons, pussy eating, mentions of squirting

Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin (Attack on Titan)

Pairings: (Ymir x Fem! Reader)

╚═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╝ ╚═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╝

SFW:

— Ymir’s known you since 7th grade but didn’t start developing feelings until 11th

—was a generally nice friend before she discovered her feelings for you and became even more nicer afterwards

—you had to ask her out because she was scared but she was happy (threw up one time because she couldn’t ask you but would never admit it)

—super clingy (can’t even sit up in the bed before she asks where you’re going. literally stands by the bathroom door while you pee or poop)

—always has a body part on you, maybe a foot, an arm, a leg; didn’t matter but she NEEDED to be touching you

—can make a mean ass dish like pozole and elote

—a literal natural-born chef and always wants you to taste her food before it’s served

—talks so fast in Spanish when she gets upset

—only wears black and white shirts

—has a closet full of designer brand Jordan’s and Nike shoes

—refuses to eat at any fast food restaurant but buys it for you

—has a tendency to be forgetful but tries to remember important details

—always gets you something when she comes back from going out

—sometimes says mean things without realizing how bad it could hurt your feelings and takes her days to apologize for it

—has a pit bull named Bruno that she treats like a human child (He’s a big spoiled baby)

—hates feet

—loves hugs and making out

—love language is words of affirmation and acts of service

—always smells like cherry and chia milk

—taught herself how to braid

—wants a daughter someday

NSFW:

—loves pussy and will eat it anywhere and everywhere

—loves having you face down and ass up while she breaks in your back with her strap

—can make you squirt

—prefers rough but switches to soft if need be

—will let you eat her out if you want

—has a tendency to fuck you in public if she’s horny enough

—mild sex drive

—depending on what you want, can last 1 to 2 rounds

—doesn’t tolerate the bratty shit, will put you in your place and make you apologize

—grips your skin too hard and leaves it sore

—loves hair-pulling

—would impregnate you if possible

—loves hearing you moan

—talks you through it

—cleans you up after and gets you anything that you want

Loves you very much and just want the best for you.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Man-Sized

3/9 Hope is a Dangerous Thing

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

She googled the name Simon Riley and found close to nothing. He wasn't on Facebook or any other social media platform, and she was pretty sure he had given her a false name until a short news article popped up. It was in some Manchester local paper, and from almost 20 years ago. He had won medals in local school olympics, and even with the black and white raster image and a 20 year younger, estimated 90 pounds skinnier Simon Riley, she could recognize that jaw and those eyes.

Days passed by, and he sent her a message every night. They communicated only through text – he never called. It felt like she was living in the turn of the century, the way he refused to use social media or any messaging app. He asked her how her school was, what classes she was taking at the moment, and if work was good. She sent her a photo every night before going to sleep; it simply became a habit. Some were cuter, some were naughtier, but he always expressed his gratitude with a sly, sexy comeback that made her think she might actually be the only girl Simon was texting with.

He rarely disclosed anything about his work, and never sent another picture even when she tried to request one in a roundabout way. She soon stopped fishing for more details of his work because he always redirected the conversation elsewhere. All she knew was that he was used in some special operations of a private, international company. And from what she could deduce from that one single picture he had sent her, the company he worked for had a lot of money.

The headset, the tactical gear, the weapon she distinguished with another profound googling session to be some sort of an assault rifle… All that shit spoke the language of international investors with certain political interests. Simon was doing something that most likely included hybrid warfare, clandestine operations, dealing with nuclear threats and bio-weapons and whatnot.

She wondered why he had been so trusting; after all, she knew his whole name now and knew it wasn't an alias but his real, actual childhood name. Not that she was any kind of threat. Perhaps that was why…

But what made her a bit depressed was that he also didn't seem to regard her as someone he needed to protect. By staying in contact with him, she supposed she was taking at least some kind of a risk. But Simon didn't seem to care. It was both exciting and infuriating to keep in touch with a man like him.

After six days of excited, heated messaging, he sent a text "Off to work." It wasn't that cryptic; she figured it meant that he wasn't to be disturbed or that he wouldn't be able to talk for a while.

A while… that turned into a week.

She found herself zoning out in dull classes, thinking about what Simon was doing right now. Was he infiltrating some foreign military base, or going on a mission to prevent a hijacking, or storming a terrorist compound, or… whatever the fuck soldiers like himself did.

She began her day with a caffeine overdose and then went to listen to some professor talk about medieval manuscripts or Dante Gabriel Rossetti or curse tablets of ancient Rome, only to realize she was thinking about Simon firing his assault rifle in another continent with a skull mask on. She kept thinking about whether he was in danger, whether he would come back, whether she would ever see him again.

The while turned into another week, and she began to get anxious. Should she text him and ask how he was doing? Ask “You still at work?” or “What about that date?”

The last message she had sent was a reply to his work announcement. Have fun! — from 17 days ago.

17 days.

Was he dead?

His message It's your fault if I get killed now seemed more like a gloomy prediction of a future without Simon Riley.

But at the beginning of the third week of silence, she realized she had just been an idiot. Simon wasn't dead or injured or taken prisoner or anything like that.

He had simply forgotten about her.

He had realized she was not a Bond girl after all, but just another boring chick. He had found someone better. Something like that. A man like him could have pretty much any woman on this planet if he wanted to.

That was just the way the world was built.

She wouldn't say that she was depressed. She wouldn’t admit that she was devastated. She just needed a little time to clear her head.

It was difficult to sleep, and school felt more boring than ever. Work just reminded her of him. One day, she nearly fell from the pole while doing a simple straddle because she saw a man looking like Simon walk in the club.

He had given her an exorcism, only to replace the demons that haunted her with himself. Now she needed an exorcism from Simon, but no one knew how to do that.

She just needed to give it time, sleep it away, study it away… Distractions filled her day, and still, she refreshed their conversation every night before going to sleep, as if it was a fault in her phone that prevented his messages from reaching her. And felt like a stupid bitch, a lovesick fool while doing so.

And then, one Tuesday afternoon, after almost four weeks, he appeared at her uni.

She was arriving from a class that had just ended when she hurried past a man she had been pining for for 25 days.

"You working tonight?"

Hearing that voice in a place she had least expected to hear it made her shoulders shoot up and her breath get caught in her throat as she stopped and turned around.

"Jesus…- You scared me."

He laughed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Boo."

"When did you… What are you doing here?"

She didn't say I'm happy to see you. I missed you. That would've sounded too desperate. Right? Even after 25 days.

He looked her up and down, and her knees felt like pudding.

"I like to stalk school girls."

She tried to suppress her smile. God, she had missed that cheeky humour.

"Pervert. No, I don't have a shift tonight."

"Then I can finally take you out on that date."

It was like her dreams had suddenly come true in one single minute. She went from a bird with a broken wing to Icarus flying toward the sun.

"What do you have in mind?"

"You'll see."

He was even taller than she remembered, broader, even when he was wearing all black. People were staring at them, staring at him, because he certainly didn’t look like someone who studied in the Art and Culture Department.

"How did you even know I was here right now?"

"Doesn't really need a rocket scientist to find that out, luv."

Right. But the fact that he had made the effort to dig up what classes she took, when and where, and then come and surprise her like this, made her heart ache. He gave her another once-over, and she squeezed her bag against her chest like that could shield her from the searing gaze.

"You look hot."

And that definitely made her blush… She was an umptieth year student and didn't bother to take pains anymore when she dragged herself in the class. She had her comfiest ballerinas on, her hair was tied to a simple ponytail, and she had no foundation, no mascara, only a bit of her favourite lipstick on. She was wearing a huge, flowy skirt the color of a Halloween pumpkin and a black, simple turtleneck — while perhaps neat and cute in this environment, to him, she would've thought she looked more like a librarian. Far from a hot Bond girl who danced at a strip club with curled hair and cat eye makeup.

"Um.."

"Such a diligent little student."

It seemed he did have an actual thing for school girls, even if they were almost 30 years old. She would never have guessed that this would send him itching. If Simon preferred the girl next door look to her being half-naked on a stage with a pole, then perhaps she did have a chance after all.

"I knew you were a good girl but I didn't know- "

"Stop it, people can hear you," she hissed while, in truth, feeling quite exalted by that good girl talk. She grabbed him by the arm, and he allowed her to guide him out of the building while looking perfectly content with himself and what he was doing to her.

They began the walk to her place so she could shower and get changed for whatever he had in mind for that date. The complete turnaround in her mood, the shot of hormones and giddy feelings and butterflies in the stomach left her feeling shaky. Even the colors seemed more vivid all of a sudden. It was a bit frightening how one single person could change the whole world in a second, have a remedy for all the shit she had been rolling in for the past week. Or two weeks. Or three.

"Sorry that it took so long. Work was... a bit of a challenge."

"It's okay."

Well, it really was not, but she would rather die than tell him that.

"It's better if you don't know where I am and when. I hope you understand that."

Safety measures for her sake after all. Now she felt almost flattered that he hadn't told her he was coming. Jesus...

"Yeah. Sure," she tried to sound neutral about it, but the sudden shyness that had taken over made it sound like she was being passive-aggressive. "I mean, I didn't expect you to entertain me every night."

Well, that sounded even more sour and pathetic… She snapped her mouth shut and tried to calm her heart that was racing from his presence, his scent which had been only a memory until now.

"So, what will you become when you graduate? A historian?”

"I’ve always wanted to work in a gallery. You know, as an art curator or something like that."

"Hm. Ambitious."

She wasn’t entirely sure if he was mocking her, but she laughed. In the culture business, it was a sought-after position, but of course it wouldn't seem like much to someone who wasn’t familiar with the art world.

"What about you? What do you wanna be when you grow up?"

"Alive."

Simon's humour was dark, but after seeing that picture of him, she knew he meant what he said. And she realized that it wasn't perhaps one of her most brilliant ideas to get attached to a man who could actually be killed.

When they got to her place, she went straight to the shower and left the door open, secretly wishing that he would be the one to sneak in this time. But he never showed up, and when she stepped into her small living room, she found Simon had dozed off on her sofa. He barely fit her neat little couch and was lying on his stomach, with one hand dangling out and brushing the floor. The soft snore made it clear that he was very tired and not just chilling in a very relaxed position.

It was a cute sight, downright adorable.

But it also hurt her heart. What made him so exhausted, time after time, month after month? He wouldn’t tell her, and it was futile to ask. The man was overloaded with stress and things ordinary civilians had no clue about. She had no clue about.

He must think of her as a harmless little mouse who knew nothing of the world's darkness. And she didn't. She had her own demons and traumas, but didn't everybody? Simon, on the other hand, seemed to have the combined lives of a gladiator, spy, and war veteran. He had access to a reality that was out of sight and mind for the rest of the civilized world.

Was Simon a good guy or a bad guy? Was he a hero that saved people, or a soldier who executed orders of rape, torture, and kill?

These were questions she had never thought she would need to find answers to. The guys she had dated had been equally as harmless as her. If not even more harmless. And that was saying something.

When she had dressed, she walked to him and heard how the snoring stopped immediately.

Simon was awake and listening. He had woken just from a few soft steps, from her tiptoeing and kneeling beside the sofa, and she wondered if he had been trained for this; to wake up when someone was sneaking up on him. The thought was both gruesome and spine-tingling.

But she hadn’t meant to steal his precious sleep. And if he was so exhausted, he should sleep and not take her out…

Now that he was supposedly awake, she dared to raise a hand and caress his back, remembering what he had said in the shower when she had stroked him. His upper back was tense, even when he was lying relaxed like this, and she felt pity: someone should give this man a back rub, a whole body massage to get those muscles loose. Get some blood flowing. She caressed him with the back of her palm, then slowly traced every little vertebra of his spinal column with two fingers.

He was using both one of the cushions and her sweater as a pillow. Something in the sight of him pressed against her old, snug woolen shirt made her hand come to a halt somewhere on his lower back.

“Don’t stop,” he muttered, sleepy against the softness of her home and hand. She had to fight back the reflexive flinch: his voice was always so rough, even when he whispered and the words were muffled by the support his head was resting on.

“You have tension in your back,” she told him, not knowing why she was whispering too. It wasn’t like he was about to dart off from a sudden noise.

He merely purred for an answer, still sounding drowsy and half-asleep. How disarmed and defenseless he seemed now… On that little couch, under her gentle touch.

“I need to buy you a massage gift card for Christmas,” she blurted and regretted it immediately.

Buy him a Christmas present? As if they were some kind of a couple already… As if this wasn’t barely the second time they were spending time together.

At first, Simon didn’t show any signs of wanting to escape that hopeful suggestion of them becoming something more than just fuck buddies someday. But then he suddenly turned, and she took her hand away.

“I’d rather have you massage me,” he offered with a soft smile and a dreamy stare.

Good. Good, everything was good..

She hadn’t ruined it, hadn’t lost another poker game to this man. She still had cards to play.

She noticed the obvious signs of his arousal and felt wild in the breeze of the moment. Or perhaps she wanted to brush away what she had just said — and make him forget it too.

She reached for his pants to take them off, and he helped her with them, clearly having no objections to what she was about to do. Which was giving him a blowjob that would erase the traces of him thinking he had an obligation to buy her a present for this Christmas.

When she took him in her mouth, he grabbed the edge of the sofa as if the situation was a little too much for him.

"Didn't see that coming…"

His voice had an edge of trepidation to it. Uneasiness, almost worry. But he must've liked it, for he eased into it shortly after, slumped back onto the couch, and spread his legs in relaxation. She guided her frustration and doubts into the blowjob, tried to turn into someone else — to that girl from the stage. The Bond girl he had met, the woman of his dreams: just anything but a meek little woman who rarely left her house except for class or work.

She was fully present, not sloppy at all, almost felt like a magician as she forced groans out of him and felt his balls pull taut under her touch. He would never fit inside her mouth completely, but she tried her best.

She sure as hell made an effort.

"You must've really missed m- ah… Fuck.."

It was pretty evident that he enjoyed it. After those weeks at work, perhaps this was what he had wanted all along? To come somewhere safe, some place completely different, and throw himself on a soft couch for a quick nap before some homely girl came to give him a few caresses and a blowjob.

She swirled her tongue around the tip, gave him a little suck, then took him in as far as she could and felt him all the way at the back of her throat.

"Bloody hell Sarah..."

It couldn't be that good…

But he was all but melting under her tongue and touch. Was it just that it had been so long, or was this a rarity in his life? She'd thought that women touched him often, but apparently, they didn't. Or then he didn't allow them to.

Perhaps Simon didn't allow himself to be touched by women. He made love to them and fucked them against a wall in the shower, but he didn't get attention and caresses and blowjobs.

Well, this was news.

It didn't take too long before he came with a hoarse grunt that nearly made her shrink from him. It sounded both sublime and painful, and sent ripples of gold in her stomach and a pang of wet heat between her legs. The load was generous, but she didn't pull away, briefly wondering how awkward it would be to choke on his cum the second time they met. It had been a while for him, then, and she felt disappointed. It wasn't anything special after all, merely the cause of him not having had the opportunity, desire, or time to fap.

His chest was heaving, and she had made a mess in her attempt to swallow it all while keeping everything under control. With Simon, she wasn’t in control, and she had no choice but to accept it.

He reached a hand to absentmindedly caress her hair, and she rested her head on his thigh — but they didn't stay that way for long, for he stirred, and she had to draw back.

"Your turn," he suddenly rose from the couch while still looking like someone who was about to pass out. He got out of his pants, pulled his shirt over his head, threw it somewhere on the floor, and hauled her up in a bridal carry. He literally swept her off her feet and carried her to the bedroom, and she must’ve looked like a deer in headlights.

Because Simon was and wasn't safe.

He had strength, charisma, and forearms to die for, but he didn't feel like someone she would choose to tell her every secret, someone who she would call if she needed help. He came into her world and walked out of it like there was a swinging door between the two of them.

He didn't commit. Which meant that she couldn't commit. Which furthermore meant that she had trouble getting wet.

As infuriating as it was, dark and dangerous didn't exactly turn her on. This wasn't dating; this was more like an adventure or a roller coaster ride. She didn't know what phase they were in because the usual dating-related stuff was off the board. There was nothing to hold on to.

He laid her on the bed, crawled next to her, then reached a hand under another skirt she had chosen for going out with him.

"Perhaps later," she whispered as his hand was already traveling up her thigh. She almost took those words right back when she saw the obvious hurt flash in his eyes. She didn't know if she had de a chip to his pride or if it was something else, but he clearly hadn't expected her to say no to him again.

"Why won't you let me touch you?"

"I…"

She didn't know what to tell him.

What could she say? That she felt unsafe with him? That wasn't even entirely true.

She couldn't tell him that she needed trust and commitment while knowing he couldn't give them to her. Her shy silence stretched on, and the frightened state she was in only worsened when he stared at her, tilted his head, and wouldn't remove his hand.

Then he kissed her — unhurriedly, languidly, and the hand just stayed there under the skirt, pressed against her thigh, firm and broad. Only after she answered his kiss with a shy hunger did he move it further up, up — until it came to rest on her sex.

The kissing finally did it: at some point, she could feel the sudden rush of wetness down below. Her lips trembled when he pulled away only an inch and looked into her eyes while their breaths danced in between their lips. His palm moved only a tiny bit; he was soothing her, coaxing her to open for him. Eventually, his fingers met the soaked spot on her panties, and she swallowed. There was a slight twitch at the corner of his lips, just a tiny little hint that he knew he was doing it right.

"Did you like the picture I sent you?"

Oh fuck.

"Um, yeah.."

He pressed a finger against the center of her wetness, covered only by the thin fabric, and she tried to draw breath as inaudibly as she could.

"Did you get wet?"

So fucking cocky…

"Yes, she whispered against his lips, which finally curved into a small smile.

"Come again?"

"Yes."

The smile widened into a smirk as he moved to slip underneath the fabric. Her folds parted without effort as he guided his finger over her, the length and thickness now resting on her entrance and all the wetness that only increased by the second. She was blinking and breathing shallowly against his mouth while he simply continued to drink in every sign of her unease and arousal.

"Is that why you asked for more?"

Oh God… 

"Yes. Would you just-"

"Begging already?"

He was so… infuriating. So cocky, so damn self-confident… It drove her crazy.

"No."

Something flickered in his eyes, a twinkle of endearment.

And not just a twinkle. It was bold, blazing mischief. Shit… She was fucked.

"I'll make you beg."

Oh my God…

He moved even lower, then dipped one finger in, so deep that she was left blinking again. Her mouth opened, then closed, and she realized she must be looking like a fish on dry land. He pulled out, and she wanted to protest, but her pride stood in the way. The moisture was spread all over her folds, especially over the tight, sensitive bud that had been left without attention for so long from the sadness and hopelessness, from her having thought Simon wouldn't come back. She couldn't even touch herself because she had already gotten used to thinking about him when she did that.

A shaky little moan finally hit his lips, and he kissed her again while drawing a circle on the bud, sweeping a few strokes across her folds, then driving two fingers in. Slowly, lovingly. The laced fabric that was stretched to give him space must be sodden by now, but he wouldn't pause to take it away. He just continued to fuck her slowly with his fingers while holding that kiss, holding her steady with his mouth only.

He had taken her hesitation as a challenge, and she wondered if she was some kind of a challenge to him overall. If something in her made him want to break her, get to the bottom of her, get a reaction out of her… And he was succeeding splendidly. She was everything but frigid now. He only needed a finger or two to make her like this. And perhaps that voice of his. That stupid cockiness.

He left her mouth and pulled out, only to finally reach for her poor underwear and take it off. She didn't object this time, but when he moved between her legs and she realized he was about to replace those panties with his face, she jerked away from him.

"Hold on…"

"Nah. You hold on."

He wouldn't relent. He simply pressed his mouth against her pussy which, by now, was wet to the point of leaking, and grabbed hold of her hips as if to remind her that she couldn't get away even if she tried. She could only sink back to the bed and let him have his way: to embark on a mission to make her beg.

And she did beg, eventually, when he pressed his tongue flat against her and plunged it inside, and sucked her clit and did it all with such infuriating patience and laid-back attitude that it made her squirm against him. He caressed her with his tongue, those lips, caressed her with his thumb before guiding it inside as well while kissing her thighs, now wide open for him.

She didn't beg with words, but she did coat the air with sighs and moans that must've stroked his ego like nothing else. Even the stubble did its job: it didn’t sting. It only drove her more mad. She could hear him chuckle against her occasionally, could feel him smile in her pussy as he ruined her with that mouth. Even the intrusive thoughts of whether Simon had done this to dozens of women before her and would do it to dozens after her didn't prevent her from approaching the peak in minutes, mere minutes…

Just as she was about to grasp his hair for support, to brace herself for the incoming, he withdrew. The bastard rose to sit and left her shaking and whimpering.

"Wh-… why did you…"

He was licking his lips, smiling, and stroking himself, fully erect again. The fact that he was hard from pleasing her with his mouth, left her feeling even more weak.

"You want it?"

"Fucking hell, Simon." She knew how she must look: dripping wet, with desperation in her eyes and a shaky curse on her lips.

"Is that a beg?"

He placed the thick tip to her entrance, and she throbbed and writhed against him like she was about to come from the slightest touch of that cock.

"Yeah… Yes, please, Simon, just-"

He granted her plea to the full before she had even finished it. The spread, the feeling of being filled with him, was so exquisitely divine that it only took less than five thrusts before she came.

He looked annoyingly pleased while watching her have one of the most powerful, gratifying, leg-shaking orgasms of her life. Perhaps it was only a proper way to greet a man who had been inside her head for so long: who was finally inside her for the first time in four desolate weeks. She didn't feel wild or raw now; she felt like molasses, like puddle of tears, a boneless, limp heap of muscle from all that love and gentle fucking.

After the tension, tremblings, and shaky sighs had left her, and she was merely panting, he finally stopped. Lodged deep inside her to feel the rest of the waves, he was still watching her. The stare of those warm eyes was too much to bear after another implosion that made her even more attached to this man.

"If you call me a good girl, I swear I'll slap you again," she whispered. The body against him shook from silent laughter. He kissed her again, buried his fingers in her hair, gave her another rock of his hips. And then, suddenly stopped just to whisper in her ear…

"That's my good girl."

Fuck…. 

It was useless. Utterly, completely useless with Simon.

"Ok… Ok." She tried to gather herself while he was still inside her, still filling her and shielding her with his body. "You're asking for it, so I'm not giving it to you."

"Poor me," he answered with that gruff, heart melting voice.

She was laughing again, smiling for the first time in days. Beaming, even…. Probably looking like a brain-dead idiot.

"This was a good date. I had fun."

In her opinion, it was the best date ever, but would she let him know it and stroke that ego further? Hell no.

"This wasn't what I had in mind," he hummed while moving to kiss her neck.

"What if we just stayed here for the rest of the day?"

"Wouldn't mind that."

“You know.. I... really missed you,” she finally confessed with a whisper while he was preoccupied with her neck; safely somewhere else than right there in front of her, staring her in the eyes, gathering evidence of her vulnerability. He huffed a chuckle against her skin in response, sounding close to relieved.

"I missed you too."

[nonsensical-pixels]

Dear Sims 2 Community,

Or really, just about anyone who does the stuff this post mentions...

Forewarning: this is a LONG post.

For the last few years I've just kinda bottled this rant inside of me. But I've just gotten tired of trying to be patient.

Yes, Abhijeet is a real name--and quite a famous one. Yes, there are millions of people out there with Ng or Wong as a last name. Yes, Pong is a real name too.

Abhijeet - 'victorious' or 'conqueror' in Sanskrit

Ng/Huang (黄）- 'yellow', to 'fall through'

Pong - 'noble'

The same goes for almost every first and last name in The Sims 2's name generator. They're not made-up names just because they don't fit your image of a Western suburbia. In fact, they are taken from the developers' names. Just because they're Asian names, or non-white names, or 'spelt weirdly', doesn't mean that they're 'fake' or whatever or 'weird'.

I am tired of going on Reddit or Discord or whatever and seeing people making fun of names like 'Ng' and suggesting that the developers were lazy to put that in the name generator. Uh, no? 'Ng' is a very common surname for Chinese people--not just in Asia, but in the West too. So either you are being grossly ignorant, or you just cannot believe that Asians exist out there.

As a South-East Asian, I am tired of this whole ‘not-white, not real' logic exercised in this community. Not everyone who plays this game is from the West. As a South-East Asian, it's quite infuriating to see people make fun of names like 'Pong' because they can't be bothered to at least Google the name's meaning.

What I love about The Sims 2 is how diverse the names that townies generate with are. The developers could have left in your average American names and left it at that. Instead, they used their own names, and it's just proof of how diverse the developer team was. If you look at the names townies can generate with, it's actually insane. There are so many unique, rare names on there that people are just... making fun of, because they have this belief that The Sims 2 is an 'American' game and as a result everything should match what your perfect American suburb would have in it.

As if there isn't a whole neighborhood inspired by Shakespearean lore in there where a child has the name Bottom--or whatever.

Maybe I am overreacting a bit. But it makes me so infuriated when people make fun of things they don't fully understand. Without even Googling it. Every other post on r/sims2 is 'Is Abhijeet a real name??' Uh, yeah, a single Google search could've told you that.

In short, I am just tired of the Sims community constantly misrepresenting people like me or acting like Asians in the game are unusual.

It's not just names, too. It's also in appearance, languages, etc. So I've compiled a small list of misconceptions you may want to avoid, because why not, too many people never seem to get them.

Not all Asians are Chinese. I've used Indian and Chinese surnames as examples because they're closest to my understanding (being part Indian, part Chinese) but I see an insane amount of people acting like Indians aren't from Asia or all Asians are Chinese. Same goes for the people who act like all Asians are Japanese. Mary-Sue doesn't have to be Chinese, she could be Japanese, Korean, or not even Asian at all. I am really tired of people acting like my HC that she is only part-Asian is weird.

Not all Asians have light skin. It's not even a regional/ethnicity thing, where Indians are also Asian and a lot have brown skin, etc. There seems to be this idea in a lot of communities that all Chinese must have ultra white skin, black hair, and brown eyes. I have never met a Chinese person outside of actual China who looks like they'd blend in with the snow. South-East Asia is not only chock-full of Chinese people whose ancestors left China decades ago, it's also smack-dab on the Equator. If you can go about your daily activities and stay pale, I am in absolute awe of you.

Not all Asians have 'slint-eyes'. I find this grossly racist and very ignorant, because even that term makes my skin crawl. Yes, some of us have our eyes slanted towards the center of our face. That does not mean that all of us do or that the Korean girl you're making must look like her eyes are sideways.

Not all Asians speak Asian. I have no idea who thinks that Asia, a continent that contains most of the world's population, consists of people who all speak the same language. Asian isn't even a language. You may be thinking of Chinese--which, although having one singular writing system (okay, it has a modern one and a traditional one I can't even read) actually consists of dozens of dialects. Most Mainlanders speak Mandarin, but around my area there are so many people who speak Cantonese, Hokkien, Hakka, whatever. This concept that all people from a continent must be able to understand each other is stupid when you look at the European continent.

I apologise if I've misrepresented anyone on this list--if you are a person and you speak the language Asian, do let me know you exist--but for the love of all things holy, please remember that Asians and non-Western people exist. Some of them made this very game that you play every day, and they'd be baffled, I think, to know that you believe Wong is a made-up name.

I don't mind people who use mods to change up the names used to generate townies and make them more suit their gameplay--if you want a themed neighborhood or one that's all-'American', go ahead. But if you're gonna make fun of someone's actual name because you can't fathom that not everyone has first name John last name Smith, please do educate yourself.

Thank you for reading this very long, very on-the-spot rant, have a pleasant day, and please don't be afraid to ask, comment, or give feedback on this post :]

[spiteless-xo]

╰┈➤ aurora borealis — lusting — part 3/5 ⋙ A snapshot over five years of how your relationship with Satoru Gojo develops.

ft. satoru gojo / fem!reader wc. 11k cw. nsfw - minors do not interact, explicit language, explicit sexual content (vaginal fingering, oral, thigh riding, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, overstimulation), friends to lovers, slow burn, pining, sexual tension, sexual jokes, miscommunication, emotional cheating (not on Gojo), unlikeable main character, some details are intentionally ambiguous, ⚠️major character death⚠️, potential manga spoilers, second person POV

Previous ⋆ Masterlist ⋆ Next

2015.

Satoru Gojo.

Seeing his name on the seating chart makes your heart sink into your stomach.

You knew Nanami and Utahime were going to put you near him, but seeing it here in black and white makes it all feel too real.

Nonetheless, you uncap the lid to the marker and write his name on the poster board in your best cursive. Along with the other names that Nanami provided for the table: Shoko Ieiri, Suguru Geto, You, and finally, Gojo Guest—all seated together at Table Six.

From behind you, you hear Nanami groaning in frustration. You turn around in time to see him tugging off his tie for the hundredth time this afternoon. He lays it out on the bed, pressing it firmly to smooth out any wrinkles before throwing it back around his neck to tie again.

“Do you need help?” you call from your seat on the floor.

Nanami’s gaze flicks over to you through the mirror’s reflection and you see his exhaustion in the bags under his eyes. He sighs and pinches at the bridge of his nose.

“It’s crooked,” he says, defeated.

You smile softly, getting up to your feet and walking across the room to meet him. Nanami turns to face you with another dejected sigh, dropping his hands down at his sides as he allows you to reach for his tie.

“You know,” you say, carefully looping the fabric around itself, “Uta’s not going to notice if your tie is a little crooked—which it’s not, by the way.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because she’s going to be too busy getting married to the love of her life.”

Nanami looks away, his cheeks flushing pink, and allows you to tighten the tie around his throat. You smooth it down his chest with the back of your hand before stepping step back and allowing him to turn to face the mirror.

He adjusts the knot before running his hands along the lapels of his coat. He buttons his suit jacket—unbuttons it—then buttons it again, before you scold his anxious fidgeting with a stern look.

“Try to relax,” you advise, and he swallows loudly.

“She could still say no,” he says, raising his hands to smooth down the hair on either side of his head. “She could change her mind.”

Hearing that word still makes your heart sink into your stomach—no. It sounds so harsh, even now, but you shake it off and paint on a comforting smile for Nanami.

“She’s not going to do that,” you assure him. “Have you seen the way that woman looks at you? She’s in love with you.”

He smiles at you through the reflection, but it’s obviously strained. You shake your head in dismissal and return to your previous task of writing out the table seating chart onto a large poster board.

“Have you talked with her at all today, yet?”

“Just this morning over text,” Nanami says. He reaches into the interior pocket of his jacket to pull out his phone and swipes through messages while you work on writing out the names for the next table. “Can you believe that imbecile is making her drive him to her own wedding? I don’t understand why he couldn’t have driven here himself.”

“He gets carsick,” you explain on autopilot, but the reflex makes you cringe. “It’s touch-and-go on whether or not Shoko will be able to make it today with her schedule at the hospital, so she couldn’t drive him.”

“And what about Geto?” Nanami spits, annoyed. “Those two are never apart. Surely, he has his license and a working vehicle.”

You don’t have an answer for him, so you sigh heavily, instead. “Don’t worry, he wouldn't make Uta late. There’s still plenty of time before the ceremony.”

Nanami grumbles down at his phone before tucking it back into his pocket. He smooths his hands over his jacket, unbuttons it—buttons it—unbuttons it again, but this time, you say nothing. You let him anxiously fidget with his clothing while you try to correct a name you misspelled on the poster board.

“I’m sure whoever his date is will keep him in line,” you say flippantly, but you pause your writing and flick your gaze up to Nanami.

“We’ll see,” he scoffs. “We don’t even know who she is. He just called Uta in the middle of the night, demanding that he be allowed to bring a guest to the wedding… I think he was drunk.”

You look down at the marker in your hands and snap the cap back into place. You roll it between your palms as your eyes scan over Table Six’s occupants, lingering on Gojo Guest.

“Thankfully, there was an available spot, so it wasn’t a problem,” Nanami continues, and from the corner of your eye, you see him stiffen. He clears his throat and tugs at the lapels of his coat, shifting the placement of his jacket on his shoulders. “But if he—”

“I’m sorry about that, by the way,” you say, still looking down at the poster board.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.”

For the first time all morning, Nanami’s shoulders soften. His hands drop down to his sides as he turns to face you and he takes long strides across the room before kneeling down on the floor beside you.

You caution a glance up at his face and see deep creases in his brow from worry. You wave your hand in dismissal and look away—you can already tell that he’s getting himself ready to give you another pep talk.

“It can be blindsiding when—”

“I’m fine,” you assure him, but your tone is weak and he doesn’t seem convinced.

Nanami and Utahime started dating almost immediately after Nanami graduated, but the two were inseparable after talking at that party. Anytime you were around the two of them, you could practically feel the chemistry brewing between them—the sexual tension.

Since they’ve been together, it’s almost like Nanami has become a different person. He’s more relaxed and optimistic for the future—all his harsh edges softened. The Nanami you knew from school would have never tried to coax an emotional conversation from you like this.

You’re happy for him—you really are—but you’re also jealous of what they have together.

You see the way Nanami dotes on Utahime. How he always seems to know exactly what she needs before she even needs to vocalize it. How he calms her down when she’s stressed and how he makes her smile.

And you see the love she has for him in return in the way her face completely softens whenever she does so much as think of Nanami. When the two of you are together—out for a girl’s brunch with Shoko—you see the way she pauses when she’s lost in thought, the corners of her lips turning up and her eyes softening, and then she pulls out her phone to send a message to Nanami.

You can only imagine what she’s saying to him: thinking of you.

How Nanami could ever think that she would turn him down at the altar—you’ll never understand. The two of them are so in sync with one another. So in love.

It was never like that with you and Hiromi.

Nanami presses his lips into a tight, thin line and the hand on his knee curls into a fist. He reaches with his opposite hand for your shoulder, but you dodge his touch.

“I just have a few more names to do,” you say, forcing a smile, “but when I’m finished, why don’t we practice your vows?”

You find a seat near the aisle that’s a few rows back from the altar and use the wedding program to fan away the heat from your face. Even though it’s winter, your body is warm as you take a seat by yourself amongst the other guests.

Looking around the room, you see mostly family of the bride and groom. They wanted to keep it relatively small, so they only invited a handful of close friends to attend the wedding. You search the other seated guests for familiar faces with a pool of dread in your stomach, but no one catches your eye, so you sit back and return your attention to the front of the room.

You’re nervous about the questions you’re going to get all night from your friends and it’s making you break out in an anxious sweat. You feel dizzy from the heat and dab at the sweat beading along your neckline with a handkerchief. 

Thankfully, nobody is here yet to pester you with questions while all the guests file into their seats, but the dread of knowing that they might join you in this empty row is making you nauseous. Maybe you should move.

“Hey, you!” comes a soft voice from beside you. Delicate fingers pinch at your side as Shoko slips into view. She grins down at you as she squeezes past your knees to take one of the empty seats in your row.

She leaves the seat directly beside you open.

“Shoko, you made it!” you say, torn between relief and trepidation. You’ve always liked Shoko, but if she’s here, that means the boys aren’t far behind.

She settles her purse into her lap as she tucks away a packet of cigarettes, and only then do you notice the smell of tobacco wafting off her clothes. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she says with a playful wink. “Have you seen the others yet?”

“Are they here?” you ask, shoulders stiffening.

“I thought I saw Suguru flirting with Nanami’s grandmother outside—but I haven’t seen Satoru yet.”

She turns to the entrance, leaning around the other guests in her eyeline until she sees something that catches her attention. She smiles widely, raising a hand to wave someone over and you feel your blood run cold.

Your hands fidget with your dress, smoothing it down over your lap as you feel more sweat forming along the nape of your neck and rolling along the length of your spine. “Is Uta here?”

“Yeah, I saw her pull up while I was out there,” she says, distracted.

When a pair of expensive-looking dress shoes comes into vision, you feel your whole body stiffen. You won’t want to look up, but when you hear the familiar purr of Geto’s voice beside you, you deflate with relief.

“Mind if I step past you?” he asks, leaning down to smile at you with kind eyes.

You grin back up at him, standing to give him room to walk between the rows as he moves to the opposite side of Shoko, leaving the space beside you empty. As you return to your seat, you shift in discomfort and fan yourself with the program to subdue the suffocating heat.

“You look beautiful today,” Geto says, nodding at your dress.

It’s floor-length, just dusting over the shoes you have on your feet with long sleeves and a low neckline. You purchased it months ago because you thought it would be perfect for a winter wedding, but now that you feel like you’re sweating through the material, you wish you had gotten something strapless.

“Thank you, you both look good, too,” you say.

Shoko’s dress has long sleeves like yours, but the bottom hem ends just above her knees while Geto has on a plain, black suit. His hair is down for the occasion—a stark contrast from his usual slicked-back bun—and you marvel at the length of the long, dark hair cascading down his back.

Although it pains you, you have to ask, “Where’s your other half?”

Geto rolls his eyes and lets out a heavy, dismissive sigh. He counters with, “What about you? Where’s the fiancé?”

You’re not sure what sort of expression flashes across your face at Geto’s question, but it must be horrifying because they both jerk back in surprise, eyes wide. Shoko reaches for your hand, her eyes searching your fingers, but you jerk it away.

“Did something happen?”

Thankfully, you don’t get a chance to respond as the pianist switches to a loud rendition of Canon in D as the wedding processional begins. You shift your attention to the entrance, sparing the program a quick glance to read the marching order.

The processional begins with the parents of the bride. Utahime’s mother bears such a striking resemblance to her daughter that you could almost mistake her for the bride, if not for her coloured dress.

As they’re about halfway down the aisle, Nanami’s parents begin their walk. His mother has the same golden hair that Nanami does, but otherwise, he takes after his father. 

The minster walks down next, followed by Nanami himself a beat later. He seems more relaxed as he walks down the aisle, smiling and nodding to the guests as he passes, but you can tell from the twitching of his fingers that he’s still an anxious mess.

Behind him walks one of Nanami’s childhood friends and best man alongside Utahime’s older sister, the maid of honour. The two smile and wave at all the guests as they walk in, causing quite a ruckus as compared to the others in the processional, but it has people laughing and relieves some of the tension in your shoulders. You even see Nanami relax when the best man high-fives Utahime’s younger cousin.

Just when you think you’re in the clear, your jaw drops when—with absolutely no subtlety—Satoru and his guest slip into the venue behind the flower girl. They creep in, hand-in-hand, and slide along the back wall, both wearing dark sunglasses on their face to obscure their eyes. 

Satoru raises his hand to his brow, scanning the crowd before his head snaps in your direction and a grin splits across his face. He drags his guest down the aisle behind the ring bearer and slides into the empty seat in your row.

Satoru walks past your first, tripping over your knees and slamming down hard on the seat beside you. His date giggles loudly as she crawls into his lap, the chair creaking precariously, and you share a look of horror with Shoko and Geto.

He’s not even wearing a full suit—just a wrinkled white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms and a loosened black tie. His date has on a dress that looks like it was made for a toddler—squeezing tightly around her breasts and ass in a way that’s completely obscene—while her pale, blue hair cascades down her back in a singular, thick braid.

“We didn’t miss the vows, did we?” Satoru asks, leaning into you.

You recoil with a groan when you smell the thick stench of alcohol on his breath. “Are you two drunk?”

Satoru grins, peering at you from over the rim of his sunglasses until you see bloodshot eyes and dark purple bags below them. “Why? You want some?”

Geto reaches across Shoko’s shoulders to pinch Satoru’s neck. He yelps in alarm, clamping his palm over the growing bruise and spinning around to face Geto. He immediately falls silent under Geto’s murderous glare.

“Smarten up,” he hisses, nostrils flaring. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Satoru turns back to face the altar with a pout. He rests his cheek on his date’s shoulder while his arms wrap tightly around her waist to hold her in place on his lap. Her perfectly manicured, red nails gently trace along Satoru’s forearm, leaving a trail of raised goosebumps in their wake. 

You roll the program up between your hands and squeeze it tight, feeling kinship with Nanami as you see the noticeable tensing of his jaw from his position at the front of the room as he levels Satoru and his date with a look of vicious disdain.

The pianist transitions into a softer melody as the processional ends, cueing the guests to rise for the bride’s entrance. You keep your back to Satoru and his date as you do, but she bumps into you when she stumbles to her feet, and you can hear the two of them snickering.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, but you ignore her as chills run down your spine from her touch.

The crowd falls silent and the music swells as Utahime enters the room. Her long hair is pulled up into an intricate updo to showcase the elegant length of her neck and the sharpness of her collarbones in her strapless dress. It’s fitted around her breasts and waist before fanning out delicately with a long train flowing behind her.

It’s such a jarring change from the usual oversized sweaters and baggy pants that she wears day-to-day, that you feel your eyes widen in surprise before you immediately whip your head around to see Nanami’s reaction.

He stands tall as Utahime walks into the room, puffing out his chest with pride and a wide grin that dissolves instantly as he takes a shuddered breath. He closes his eyes for just a moment—to compose himself—but the second he opens them again, his lips are pursing together and his brows are pitching up into his forehead as he fights back tears.

You clutch your belongings tight to your chest as you watch Nanami start to cry as the love of his life walks down the aisle toward him. Beside him, the best man reaches out to pat Nanami’s shoulder and whispers something into his ear. The two boys chuckle before Nanami’s attention returns forward and he brings a hand to his face to thumb away the tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

He reaches his hand out to help Utahime up the steps of the altar and you see that she’s crying, too. She passes the bouquet back to her maid of honour before reaching up to cup Nanami’s face with both hands. They share a few, quiet words and you see her shoulder shake with laughter as her thumbs brush away the tears on his cheeks.

The minister directs you all to return to your seats and you sit back down with shaky legs.

You all stand and cheer as Nanami and Utahime walk down the aisle, hand-in-hand, as husband and wife. The wedding party has hardly passed your row before you’re bumped forward by Satoru and his date.

“The bar’s gotta be open now, right?” he grins, looking down at you over the top of his sunglasses as he pushes his date onto the aisle. The two lead the rest of the exiting guests out of the room, immediately after the wedding party.

You turn to the others, who are watching after Satoru with shock, and ask, “Does he usually drink this much?”

“Satoru doesn’t drink,” Shoko says.

Geto stays silent, staring after him with a tight-lipped frown.

For their wedding, Nanami and Utahime rented a large community hall to serve as the location for both the ceremony and the reception. So it’s just a short walk from the ceremony room to the reception hall where the guests can sit and chat amongst themselves while the wedding party takes photos in the snow outside.

There are people gathered near the entrance, searching for their names on the poster board you designed with the table seating, but you direct Geto and Shoko to follow you past the crowd and into the reception hall—you know exactly where Table Six is.

The circular tables are scattered evenly throughout the room seating six people per table with one long table at the front of the room for the wedding party.

Table Six only has five chairs.

At the far end of the room is the bar, where Satoru and his date are taking shots and ordering drinks. You wrinkle your nose as you watch them, settling into one of the open seats at Table Six. Shoko and Geto sit on either side of you, leaving the two seats across you empty for the Gojos. Geto keeps his eyes on the pair, but Shoko leans over to your side, resting her hand on your back.

“Are you ok?” she asks in a quiet voice when you flinch at her touch.

It’s hard to stay strong when everyone’s always asking you if you’re ok all the time, but you manage to keep it together and offer her a strained smile. “I don’t really want to talk about it right now.”

“Fair enough,” she says, lifting her hands in a gesture of surrender as she leans back in her seat. “I’m here whenever you wanna talk, ‘kay?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, eyes shifting to your empty plate.

You can see her frowning in the corner of your eye, but she shakes it off, leaning forward to look past you to Geto on your opposite side. “What’d you think of the ceremony?”

“Sappy,” Geto snorts, but the smile on his face is soft when he looks away from Satoru at the bar. “I didn’t think Nanami had it in him to be so romantic.”

“Uta brings it out of him,” you say with a laugh, but it hurts your heart.

“I’m surprised you weren’t up there with the other bridesmaids,” Geto says, directed at Shoko.

She shrugs. “I’m unreliable. Uta asked, but I had to turn her down. If I had to run out to take a call for work, it would’ve stressed her out.”

“How noble of you,” he teases, leaning forward to level Shoko with a playful smirk.

She sticks her tongue out at him but then jumps when a loud ding! sounds from her purse. “Ugh, speak of the devil,” she says, rolling her eyes. She pulls her phone out from her purse and reads the message with furrowed brows. When she looks back up at the two of you, she seems apologetic, “I have to take this.”

“Go,” you insist, waving her off, “you have lives to save.”

She smiles gratefully before she heads out, just as Satoru and his guest start to make their way to the table.

You clutch at the seat of your chair, shoulders tensing as they approach wrapped around one another. She has her arm around his waist, those perfectly manicured nails sprawled across Satoru’s stomach as his arm rests across her shoulders. He nods at Shoko when she walks past and then stumbles with his date into the empty chairs of Table Six.

“You guys didn’t want any drinks?” Satoru asks, holding up the two wine glasses that he has slotted between the fingers of a single hand. 

“It’s a bit early to be drinking so much,” Geto hisses, “don’t you think?”

“Nah,” Satoru dismisses, and he brings one of the glasses up to his lips. His movements are sloppy and uncoordinated and you watch as the red liquid sloshes precariously against the rim of the glass, threatening to spill onto his white dress shirt.

He takes a big gulp—you can see his throat bob and rivers of red slide down either side of his mouth, along the curve of his chin—and when he sets the glass back down onto the table, his nose crinkles in distaste.

“Satoru, honey,” his date coos, grabbing her napkin at the table to dab at the spilled liquid, “you’re making a mess.”

“Honey?” you spit, brows raising into your hairline.

“Oh, yeah,” Satoru laughs. “You guys haven’t met yet, huh?”

He points at you, then to his date, and back again. She’s too distracted with cleaning the wine off his lips to notice the way you’re glaring daggers into her. 

“This is Mei Mei,” Satoru says, and she finally turns to look over at you and Geto. “Mei Mei, these are my friends.”

"Nice to meet you," you say, gritting your teeth.

“No,” she purrs, sultry and seductive, "the pleasure is all mine"

No. No. No... you hate that word.

You stand up from your seat, “I need a drink.”

Satoru cheers as you step away from the table, raising both hands in the air. “Yahoo! Join the par - tay!”

You grimace as you make your way over to the bar.

You avoid Table Six as much as you can, alternating between standing in line at the bar and standing in line at the bathroom—anything you can think of to keep yourself busy and away from Satoru and Mei Mei.

Nanami and Utahime, along with the rest of the wedding party, make their entrance into the hall to some upbeat music, courtesy of the DJ. Satoru cheers and claps the loudest out of any other guest, standing up on his feet to hoot and holler, and you watch Geto drag him back down to his chair. You try to blend into the wall by the bar and clap alongside the rest of the guests.

The best man takes the microphone from the DJ and walks to the front to gather everyone’s attention. He does the typical—mic tap, “Testing, testing. Is this thing on?”

The crowd chuckles.

“It’s common knowledge that the best man speech should only last as long as the groom can in bed—” he lowers the mic, turning around to waggle his eyebrows at the bride and groom, “—but, I don’t have that kind of stamina, so I’m going to keep this short and sweet.”

The crowd laughs louder this time and Nanami and Utahime hide their faces in embarrassment. It only emboldens the best man—his grin growing wide and boyish.

“Sorry, parents. I promise that’s the only sex joke I’ll have this evening, the rest is going to be PG-13,” he laughs. “My name is Yu Haibara. Kento and I have known each other since we were little kids, so of course, I knew he was going to make me his best man. I’ve had this speech planned since we were sixteen.

“And for those of you who’re wondering—yes, he’s always been this serious. Back in kindergarten, I asked if I could borrow one of his crayons for colour time and he asked me for collateral—good thing, too, because I immediately snapped that sucker in half!”

Haibara works the crowd, cracking jokes about his childhood with Nanami that has the whole room breaking out into laughter. Nanami covers his face with shame when Haibara shares a particularly embarrassing incident, but Uta pushes his hands away and presses a kiss to his cheek, then Nanami doesn’t look too embarrassed anymore—just happy.

Despite prefacing that he’d keep it short and sweet, Haibara’s speech lasts almost ten minutes, ending with a heartfelt message as he turns his body completely to face the bride and groom.

“You two epitomize the meaning of soulmates—it’s an honour to witness your love. From the first day I met you, Uta, I knew you were special. It’s always been my hope that Kento finds someone who loves him the way he deserves to be loved, and it’s always been you—without a question of doubt.”

Haibara’s voice starts to waver but he tries to hide it with laughter as he says, “I love you both and I am so, so happy that you found each other.” He raises his glass as he turns back to the crowd, encouraging all the guests to do the same. “I know tomorrow is a big holiday, but tonight let’s try to enjoy this present and celebrate the love between Kento and Utahime!”

You raise your glass into the air, cheering with one of the guests standing along the bar with you and blink away the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. Seeing the happy couple makes your heart squeeze and your throat feel tight—you try to wash it away with a thick swallow of wine.

“Ok, ok, wipe away those tears everyone,” Haibara says, shaking out his limbs. “Everyone take a seat and we’ll have some of the lovely servers drop off our food, then we’ll hear from the maid of honour.” He returns the microphone to the DJ before walking to his seat next to Nanami. The two share a heartfelt hug and watching them together makes you feel like you’re intruding, so you turn away and get a refill of your drink before returning to your seat.

You equate the walk back to Table Six to that of a dead man walking to the gallows. Each step feels shaky and uncertain as your heart thuds loudly in your chest. You’ve drank enough now that your cheeks are warm and your fingers feel fuzzy, so you hope the liquid courage will help you defend yourself from the incoming onslaught of questions.

You keep your head low as you settle into your seat, but Satoru doesn’t even look your way—he’s too busy chattering to Geto while Mei Mei runs her fingers through his hair. Shoko’s texting furiously on her phone underneath the table and Geto’s keeping his eyes on the drink in Satoru’s hand so it doesn’t spill all over himself. And for a few happy moments, you think you’ll be able to make it through the dinner unscathed.

But when the servers start delivering plates of food to your table, Satoru reaches out to grab the sleeve of his waiter to keep him in place.

“Hey, we’re missing a chair,” he slurs, jabbing his free hand across the table at you. “We’ve got one more person coming.”

“We don’t,” you say quickly, but Satoru doesn’t hear you.

“We need one more chair,” he insists as the server looks between you and him. “And another plate of food.”

Geto’s eyes flash to your face, widening in alarm before steeling back onto Satoru. “Satoru,” he warns, and Geto reaches out to pull his hand away from the server’s sleeve.

Satoru turns to look over at Geto, pouting. “Hey, I’m being good. I’m trying to help.”

“You’re not helping.”

“We need one more chair,” Satoru repeats, twisting around and trying to reach out for the server, but he’s walked out of reach, now.

“He’s not coming,” you say—louder than you intend—and Satoru’s attention finally turns onto you.

“Huh? Why not?”

You shake your head. “We… he’s just not coming, ok?”

Satoru snorts, resting both elbows on the table and leaning forward over his food. “He’s not coming? What an asshole.”

“Satoru,” Geto hisses, but Satoru waves him off in dismissal.

“Hey, I mean it. Higuruma’s an asshole,” he spits, sneering at you from across the table. “Huh… I guess, you’re gonna be a Higuruma soon. Does that make you an asshole, too?”

You stand up so quickly that your chair tips over behind you, clattering onto the floor. “Fuck you,” you hiss. You can feel your eyes burning with tears and even though you try to spit venom into your words, they just come out as a wobbly mess. “You’re such a piece of shit.”

Satoru flinches, all of the snark in his tone and face disappearing in an instant. “Wait, are you ok?”

You storm off, running away from Table Six and away from everyone’s concern and pity. You hear more clattering behind you before you suddenly feel the heat of Satoru at your heels. His hands reach out, catching you around the hips as you stumble on drunken legs, but when you regain your footing, you elbow him away.

“Wait—I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I went too far!”

You don’t acknowledge him, focusing solely on charging out of the reception hall and into the privacy of a bathroom stall so you can cry in peace—but there’s a long line leading to the women’s washroom, so you improvise.

Satoru is begging you to stop and apologizing profusely but you continue your determined march, trying doors until you find one that’s unlocked and storm inside. You try to slam the door shut behind you to lock him out, but he’s fast—and strong—and forces the door open to slip inside with you. He falls back against the door, holding it shut and you groan in frustration.

“Leave me alone!” you yell, throwing your hands in the air and whirling around. You’re in some sort of storage room—another banquet hall like the one where the reception is being held, but this one is smaller and filled with boxes of junk and the stench of dust.

Satoru says your name, reaching out for your arm but you jerk away as if burned. “I’m sorry! Please, don’t cry—I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

You spin around again, shoving at his chest with both hands and stumbling backwards when he doesn’t move. “Then what were you trying to do?”

He lifts up his sunglasses, perching them on the top of his head to see you clearly. He hunches down to meet your eye line, brows pitched up into the centre of his forehead as he reaches out for you with both hands—you smack him away.

“I’m sorry—I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry I called Higuruma an asshole—I’m sorry I called you an asshole.”

You can feel the hot tears streaming down your cheeks, but you try to put on a brave face. Your lower lip wobbles as you speak and you step back until you bump into a sturdy pile of boxes, maintaining distance between you and Satoru.

“Go away.”

You brush the tears away from your cheeks but then curl forward into yourself—now that you’ve started, you can’t stop—you’re openly sobbing into your hands in the dark heat of the storage room. Through the wall, you can hear Haibara’s muffled voice over the microphone and another round of laughter—it only makes you feel more alone.

“I was way out of line,” Satoru says, swallowing loudly. “I was being childish and stupid and petty… I’m really sorry, I—” he takes a shaky breath and through your tears you see him shifting his weight between his feet. “I’m happy for you, ok? I didn’t mean to be a dick about him not being here, I’m sure he has a perfectly good reason—”

“We broke up.”

You keep your eyes on his shoes—they look expensive but they’re covered in dirt and dust—but you can see Satoru tensing from your words.

“You… what? I thought he was going to propose.”

“I thought so, too,” you whimper.

You let Satoru reach for you—cradling the back of your head with one hand as he wraps the other around your waist, pulling you into his chest as you cry. He smells like sweat and alcohol, but you bury your face into him, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as you finally let yourself crumble. He holds you tight, pressing his cheek into your temple as you sob into his arms. Your legs feel weak, but Satoru holds you up.

You’re not sure how long the two of you stand there together as the ebb and flow of the reception hall sounds through the adjoining wall, but when you finally move to step back, Satoru keeps you close.

“Are you alright?” he asks, eyes soft. He looks so tired and worn down—like he hasn’t slept in days—but his gaze is clear and sober, for the first time you’ve seen all night.

You rest your chin on his chest as you look up at him, wrapping your arms around his waist to keep him close, too. “No,” you admit—and it feels good.

“He’s an idiot,” Satoru says determinedly. “He just made the biggest mistake of his life and when he finally realizes it, it’ll be too late.”

You laugh at his conviction but Satoru’s expression doesn’t waver. “He had been acting weird for a few days and I thought—this is it! He’s going to propose,” you say, and you bury your face back into Satoru’s chest. “I told Kento and Uta about it, because I was so certain… and then a week later I had to tell them that I was wrong—he was acting weird because he wanted to end things.”

“He probably just couldn’t handle being with such a strong woman.”

You laugh into Satoru’s chest and press your palms into his lower back to pull him tighter into you. The human contact feels good—it’s been so long since you’ve allowed someone to touch you like this. You had been waving off physical contact from your friends because you were worried it would make you crack, but you don’t mind cracking in front of Satoru.

“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” you whisper.

“You’re gonna be ok without him,” Satoru says. He shifts his hand from its place on the back of your head, sliding along your jaw until he grabs your chin then tilts you up to face him. His hand shifts to brush away the tears on your face. “You’re going to be better without him.”

“I thought we were going to get married,” you say, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “I had it all planned out… everything was supposed to work out… how am I going to find someone who wants me now?”

Satoru’s grin turns wide—boyish. The corners of his eyes wrinkle and deep, long dimples appear along either side of his mouth. “Luckily for you, I love Christmas Cake.”

You roll your eyes and half-heartedly push him away—he lets you, stepping back, and you instantly feel a flood of cold air and longing in his absence. Before you can reach for him, Satoru steps forward again, pressing his palms against the box on either side of your head, caging you between them as his hips shift forward to press flush against yours.

You feel heat blooming in your chest as Satoru’s gaze intensifies, but you look away.

“You’re being weird,” you say.

Satoru’s hand comes up to your chin—cool, long fingers grasping your jaw and steering you back to meet his gaze.

“I mean it,” he says.

You force a laugh in dismissal, but Satoru presses you into the boxes behind you. Keeping hold of your jaw with one hand, the other moves down to your hip, and you feel Satoru’s fingers gathering the material of your dress and exposing your calf to cool air.

“What are you doing?” you ask, suddenly feeling short of breath.

“Something I should’ve done a long time ago.”

Satoru’s voice is thick with arousal. His blue eyes seem to glow in the darkness of the supply room and his gaze dips down to your mouth, lingering there for a moment as he runs his tongue across his lower lip. His hand keeps inching the fabric of your dress higher and higher and soon, your thigh is exposed.

“You’re drunk,” you insist.

His gaze returns to yours and he frowns, deep wrinkles forming between his brows as Satoru steps one foot between your legs. You gasp in surprise when his thigh presses against your core—already hot with arousal despite your hesitation.

“How many times do I have to walk in front of you before you finally see me as a man?”

Your response is cut short when Satoru’s thigh grinds against you. The sensation has you moaning out, hands reaching for his waist for stability as your hips move on their own accord, rolling along the thick muscle of Satoru’s leg and grinding your clit against him.

Satoru’s head dips down until you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face. His hand guides your face up and your noses brush as your heart thunders in your chest.

“The only time I ever want to see you cry again is when you’re begging me for more—got that?”

Satoru moves to close the gap between your mouths, but you jerk back violently, slamming your head into the box behind you with a dull thunk!

“Your girlfriend,” you remind him.

He pauses, looking down at you with furrowed brows and you feel the pressure of his leg against yours pull away. “My… what?”

“Your date—” you nod to the wall separating the supply room from the reception hall, “—Mei Mei.”

Satoru laughs. “I barely know that girl. She means nothing to me.”

His reason satisfies your drunken conscience, so when Satoru’s grip tightens on your jaw, you let him press his lips against yours.

The kiss is frenzied—ravenous—as Satoru devours you completely. He tilts your chin up to lick into your open mouth and you moan around his tongue.

Yourassaultedare assaulted by Satoru Gojo—soft lips against yours that taste like wine and sweets, the smell of sweat and skin, and the firmness of his arousal pressed into your thigh. You feel your body getting hotter and hotter as you ride his leg, breathing hard and filling the room with the sinful sounds of your desire.

Satoru’s hands shift down to your ass, grabbing and pulling you into him before dipping lower and gripping the back of your upper thighs. He lifts you from the ground and you wrap your legs around his waist almost instinctively. Your arms hold him close around the shoulders, not allowing him to break away from the kiss as he manhandles you.

He cradles your ass with one arm as the other comes up to grab at the back of your head—just like before—and suddenly, you’re horizontal as Satoru lowers you down onto your back on the ground. He presses both palms into the floor on either side of your head, pulling away despite your best efforts to keep him close.

“Geez,” he laughs, cheeks pink with arousal, “if you wanted me that bad, you could’ve just said something.”

You roll your eyes but your hands are reaching up for his face to pull him close again. “Shut up and kiss me, Satoru.”

He groans at the sound of his name on your lips, dipping down to give you a chaste kiss before pulling away, again. “I can think of a better way to keep my mouth busy,” he says, his grin turning sinister as he sits up on his knees.

You grab the fabric of your dress and pull it up around your waist, exposing your lower half to Satoru completely. His eyes roam down your body, hands pressing into your thighs to spread you open for him. You can feel the cool stickiness of your arousal against the crotch of your underwear and you squirm under his heated gaze.

“God, you’re a mess,” he chides, but his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs when he lets out a shaky exhale. “You’re gonna cum so fast for me—I know it.”

He dives down—face first—and you squeal at the heat of his mouth against your clothed pussy. Your hands abandon the fabric of your dress and reach down for his hair, instead. His sunglasses clatter to the floor as you weave your fingers into the white strands and tug him into you when you feel the flat of his tongue press against you.

Satoru looks up at you from between your thighs, moaning around a mouthful of your pussy as his eyes roll into the back of his head. He sucks on the fabric of your underwear and you can feel the sensation of cool air against you.

“Satoru!” you cry, hips jerking on their own and smearing your sticky mess across Satoru’s face and chin.

His hands wrap around your legs, pulling your thighs onto his broad shoulders as he noses at your clit. It’s not enough—not nearly enough. You want to feel him split you open on his tongue. You want to feel the warmth of his mouth around your clit. You want, you want, you want.

But you can’t speak—only capable of babbling out the broken syllables of his name as he tongues at your clit through the wet cotton of your underwear. Your hands shake from how tightly you grab his hair—your thighs shake, your body shakes—

He’s right—you’re going to cum so fast for him.

You sob out his name, back bowing off the ground as electricity shoots through your veins. Your body trembles as you gasp for breath, legs squeezing around Satoru’s head as you ride the waves of your orgasm. It’s intense—so intense—especially since he still hasn’t touched you directly yet.

When your back falls against the floor and your breathing steadies, Satoru pulls his mouth from between your thighs. You don’t have to look to know he has a smug grin on his face, but you do anyway.

His eyes are dark and hazy, blinking up at you from below as his tongue swipes at the shiny slick on his lips. He grins—smugly—and creeps his hand across your lower stomach, grabbing at the crotch of your underwear and moving it to the side.

“Yeah?” he coos when your body trembles from the exposure to open air. You can feel strings of spit and arousal snapping against your skin as Satoru moves the material across. “And if you ask real nicely, I’ll make you cum again—” his other hand shifts under your thigh and you twitch when you feel cool fingers ghost across the lips of your pussy “—maybe on my fingers this time.”

“Satoru—”

It’s a desperate plea as you gasp for air. You can hear how wet you are when Satoru touches you, running his finger through your folds and swirling it around your too-sensitive clit.

“This time, I’m gonna need some feedback,” he says, lowering back down into position. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your bare skin when he speaks. “I wanna hear you tell me how good I make you feel—the praise makes my dick so fuckin’ hard.”

You whimper, dropping your head onto the ground and looking up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I can—I can do that.”

Satoru starts slow, gently licking through the folds of your pussy while his finger teases your entrance. You moan loudly, your grip tightening their hold on his hair as your hips twitch beneath him.

“Feedback, princess.”

“I need more—” you gasp, skill boiling with heat. “Satoru, please—stop teasing me.”

He chuckles against your skin and you feel him spreading you open between two fingers. Satoru leans down to press a soft kiss to the opening of your pussy and you squirm.

“More, Satoru.”

“Uh-huh.”

Satoru kisses you slowly, pressing harder and harder into you and teasing at your hole with his tongue. He laps at the dripping arousal as you clench around nothing—teasing you and coaxing more mewls and whimpers from your lips—before finally slipping his tongue inside.

“Fuck,” you hiss, abs tensing as you curl up at the sensation. Looking down between your legs, you see Satoru gazing up at you, eyes heavy-lidded as he tongues your pussy. “Just like that, Satoru—it feels so good.”

His eyes flutter shut as he kisses you, moaning against your skin when your hands tug at his hair. You can feel the mess of spit and arousal as it drips down to your ass. Your pussy clenches and squeezes around Satoru’s tongue—desperate for more.

“Please—please,” you choke, and Satoru’s eyes flash open to look up at your face. “Need you to stretch me out—want to feel you inside of me.”

Satoru’s brows twitch and he pulls away, face glistening lewdly. “Yeah?” he goads.

He shifts his hand under his chin so his fingers can poke and prod at your skin. You’re about to scold him (oh, who are you kidding—you’re about to beg him) but then he plunges a finger into you, up to the last knuckle.

“Like this?”

The cool digit pressing against the warmth of your body has you writhing in pleasure. He pumps the finger in and out of your body, breathing hot air across your swollen clit.

“Yes! Like that—just like that.”

The last you see of Satoru’s face is a wicked grin before your head falls back onto the ground. Your hands tug at his hair as your back arches off the floor when Satoru’s finger curls against you in a way that has you seeing stars.

“God!” you moan.

“Nope, just me.”

You whimper when you feel the stretch of a Satoru pushing another finger inside. You can hear the wet squelch of your arousal with each pump of his fingers. “Please, Satoru—I want your mouth.”

He tsks, “Greedy girl.”

All the muscles in your body tense when Satoru lowers his mouth around your clit. You feel the pull against the sensitive nub as he sucks you into his mouth before the thick, wet muscle of his tongue gently moves along it.

“Ah, fuck!” you hiss, tensing your stomach and bucking your hips along his face. Satoru presses his forearm against your hips, holding you down on the floor as his tongue works your clit.

“Satoru— Satoru—” You can already feel the steady build of heat in your gut from his salacious movements. His fingers pump and curl into the warmth of your pussy as Satoru keeps his mouth suctioned around your clit.

“It feels so good—” you babble, squeezing your eyes shut as you feel a warm, tingling sensation crawling up your spine, “—need you like this all the time—wanna ride your face every fucking day—”

Satoru moans against your skin, sending shockwaves of pleasure jolting through your nerves. 

“So good for me—so fucking pretty for me, Satoru—”

You lift your head up with shaky muscles, looking down your chest at Satoru between your thighs. His blue eyes are fixed on your face as his tongue laves across your clit. His cheeks are flushed pink and his eyes are glassy with arousal. Over his shoulder, you can see the way his hips are rocking against the ground.

The thought of Satoru’s cock aching in his slacks has your jaw falling open with a drawn-out moan. You imagine him thick and dripping with precum, staining the dark fabric of his pants as he buries his face into your pussy.

“Are you hard for me, Satoru?”

He nods, running his tongue languidly over your swollen clit as he does so. 

You bite your lip as warmth spreads across your shoulders. Your legs are trembling around either side of his face—even with his slow, lazy movements, with your body still so sensitive from your first orgasm, you can tell it won’t take much longer until you’re cumming for him again.

You rest your cheek on your shoulder, looking down at Satoru with adoration as he sucks and licks at your clit, pumping his fingers against his chin and curling against that sensitive spot every single time. Every inhale feels like a gasp for air as your heart rattles against your ribs.

“I’m gonna cum—” you warn, voice breathy and weak, “—Satoru, I’m going to cum on your face.”

He hums encouragingly, eyes fluttering shut as he focuses on the same steady movements of his fingers—pump and curl—and the slick back-and-forth of his tongue over your clit.

Your orgasm builds slowly. The warmth that’s been crawling through your body finally makes its way to the tips of your toes as your stomach tightens beneath Satoru’s forearm. Your head falls back onto the floor as you gasp for breath, toes curling and body trembling.

“Satoru, I’m cumming!”

The coil that’s been twisting in your gut finally snaps with a guttural moan. Satoru holds you down as you try to squirm, pulling his face into you at the same time that you’re trying to wiggle away. Your body feels hot—warm from the blanket of your orgasm and the heat of your arousal. 

Satoru pulls away with a wet smack! while your fingers are still trembling in his hair—your legs still shaking on his shoulders.

“You’re so beautiful,” he sighs, lunging forward to cup your face in his hands.

His lips are sticky and sour from the slick of your pussy, but you don’t mind at all when Satoru slips his tongue into your mouth. Your legs fall on either side of his body and your hands trail down the back of his shirt, damp from sweat and clinging to the muscles in his back.

“Satoru—please,” your head feels hazy but you still know exactly what you want. 

Hooking your fingers into the loops of his belt, you pull him against you, pressing the thick, firm length of his cock against your messy pussy. He moans into your mouth, hands moving from your face to plant on either side of your head.

Your shaky hands work to loosen his belt as Satoru grinds against you. He pulls away from your kiss, panting and flushed red, and his gaze bounces between each of your eyes.

“I need you—” you beg, pulling his belt free and feeling the cool metal of the buckle against your bare thigh. You start to work on the button of his pants, but his hand reaches down between your bodies to still your wrists.

“No,” he whispers, chest heaving with every breath. “Not like this—not here. I wanna do things right.”

But all you hear is No.

Your heart sinks into the pit of your stomach from the rejection and all of the heady arousal is replaced with indignation and rage.

“No?” you parrot, voice sharp. Your hands move to his chest and shove his weight off of you. Satoru stumbles on his knees, falling back onto his ass on the floor as you sit up. “So, what? You’re just going to lead me on and then take advantage of me when I’m upset?”

Satoru’s brows furrow and he shakes his head “No, I didn’t say that—”

But there’s that word again—no.

First, it was Hiromi, his head low while you were standing across from him with manicured nails and a new dress. There was guilt and sorrow on his face, but you could only fixate on his words.

“Are you happy?”

“Of course, I’m happy,” you insisted, but he wouldn’t look at you. 

“No… I don’t think you are.”

And now from Satoru, with your dress pulled up around your waist and the taste of you on his tongue—he’s rejecting you?

“I can’t believe you,” you hiss, scrambling to your feet. Satoru looks up at you, lost, and reaches out for your hands but you dodge his touch. “I’m not going to be one of your one-night stands, Satoru.”

“What one-night stands?” he asks, voice turning hysterical. “There’s no one else, it’s only you—it’s always been you.”

You think about Mei Mei in the other room. The way she looked so comfortable sitting on Satoru’s lap, with her fingers in his hair, and her slow, sultry voice. 

You wonder if he fucked her this morning—if he had her spread out on his bed the same way he had you—and you feel tears burning in your eyes.

“You’re disgusting,” you say, stepping around him for the door. Satoru tries to grab for you but you step out of reach, cranking open the door and flooding the room with light.

Satoru raises a hand to his face, shielding his eyes from the bright light outside while you look down at him with disgust. You think about a million things you could say to him—ways to hurt him—but instead, you slam the door shut behind you, attracting the attention of a few guests standing outside the reception hall. You must look like a mess because they look at you strangely, but you don’t care and march past them back into the reception.

The lights are low and the music is loud. You hope you can lose Satoru in the crowd but you can already hear his voice calling after you as you slip between the other party guests. Above the sound of the music, you can hear Shoko’s voice, clear as day. “What the hell happened to you?”

You turn, expecting her to be standing there and levelling you with a concerned look, but instead, she’s standing in front of Satoru as he attempts to chase after you.

His hair is a mess, standing in all different directions, and his shirt is damp with sweat and clinging to his skin. His belt is still undone, his pants held up with one hand, while the other hand comes up to his face to wipe the shiny slick off his mouth and chin.

Shoko’s face twists in disgust and she says something that you can’t make out over the music. Satoru is searching the crowd for you, his eyes moving across the mass of people on the dancefloor before snapping to you.

He raises a hand to chase after you, but you see Shoko holding him in place, so you turn and disappear into the crowd.

Your legs are shaky in the wake of your earlier orgasm and the multiple glasses of wine you had on an empty stomach. You try not to stumble as you walk through the other dancing guests, keeping your head low to hide your face, but when you feel warm hands grab at your arms, you let yourself melt forward into the strong body before you.

“Are you alright?” Geto asks, whispering into your ear as you crumple into him.

No, you’re not—far from it.

Geto holds you close to his chest while you catch your breath. You feel your heart rate slow in the comfort of Geto’s arms, but your mind is still buzzing from the supply room with Satoru. You feel a sinking dread in your stomach and a twisting in your chest.

You overreacted—you made a mistake—but now you’re scared and you don’t know what to do to fix it.

“Satoru is… he took the news of your engagement really hard,” Geto explains and you wish you could block out the sound of his voice. You clench your eyes shut, but you can still hear him. “He’s been out drinking with some of his other friends for the past few days… he wasn’t even going to come tonight.”

“He shouldn’t have,” you say, voice muffled by Geto’s chest.

“I don’t know what he said to you to make you like this, but believe me when I tell you that he’s a good guy at heart,” he continues, hands shifting to wrap around your waist. The two of you move slowly, back and forth to the music as your makeup stains Geto’s crisp, white dress shirt. “I don’t know what happened between you and Higuruma, but if I know Satoru—and I do—I know that he probably took this opportunity to—”

You cackle, cutting Geto’s speech short and pulling your face away from his chest. You look up at him with fury, “That so-called good guy just tried to fuck the heartbroken girl in a supply closet—as if I’m not worth any more than a back-room hookup.”

Deep creases form between Geto’s brows and his lips purse with concern. His eyes flick up, over your shoulder and through the crowd, before landing back on your face. 

“I… I’m sorry. He shouldn’t have done that.”

Your lip trembles as you look up at Geto and you feel every emotion that you’ve tried to keep locked inside, suddenly bubble up out of your mouth as you speak.

“He led me on for two years—two years! He was kind to me and thoughtful and pretended like he really cared about me, but all he ever wanted was for me to be miserable, just like him.”

Geto blinks down at you, staying silent during your tirade.

“He’s so determined to be alone and miserable that he couldn’t stand the thought of me being happy with someone. He sabotaged my relationship and now he’s trying to ruin my life.” You try to pull back from Geto’s hold, but he only tightens his grip around you. “He’s disgusting and you’re disgusting if you keep enabling his behaviour. Stop coddling him like a child—he needs to grow up.”

Geto’s lips pull into a tight, thin line and his gaze narrows down at you. You’ve never once been on the receiving end of one of Geto’s sharp looks, and as his skin seems to tighten across his face, you feel all the fight in your chest fizzle out.

“You know, I was there every time you called. Every evening you snuck away from your partner to whisper secrets to Satoru in the darkness.”

Each word has you shrinking further back, but Geto matches every step, leading you through the crowd like a well-rehearsed dance routine. You try to squirm out of his grip, but he holds you in place.

“I was there when you told him about your goals and hopes for the future—the two of you would plan your lives together, like you expected him to always be there,” Geto continues, “and I was there every time that Satoru floated into the room after your call, high off the sound of your voice and the hope that you felt the same way that he felt for you.”

Geto’s grip around your body tightens and you squeak out in alarm, but his face only grows harder.

“You can blame Satoru all you want for your relationship ending, but don’t act like you’re the victim when you’re the one who made all those calls.”

You jerk backwards, stumbling slightly when Geto suddenly releases you. Teetering on shaky legs, you scramble away from Geto and the murderous look in his eyes, leaving the dance floor and returning to your seat at Table Six. 

You pour yourself a glass of water and almost spill it all over yourself when you raise the trembling glass to your lips. You don’t know where Shoko and Satoru are—maybe she’s still keeping him occupied on the opposite side of the room. 

You’re not sure what makes you feel more sick—the alcohol or your embarrassment. You feel like you’ve been flayed open and dissected under Geto’s careful gaze—your heart held up into the light and examined with a microscope. 

He’s right. Everything he said was true. 

You want to blame the alcohol for your poor behaviour this evening, but you need to take accountability for your actions. 

Hiromi didn’t make you happy—he never did. He was perfect on paper, but there was never any passion—any love—in your relationship. He knew it and you knew it too, but it was easier to pretend like things were fine and to just continue on until you couldn’t anymore.

You crumple forward onto the table, burying your face in your forearms and sobbing into them. You’ve just ruined everything—lashed out at Satoru when he didn’t deserve it and then tried to manipulate Geto to be on your side.

A warm hand presses into your back and you jolt up from the touch—not wanting to be lectured by Geto anymore, but instead, you see Nanami’s soft face and furrowed brows.

He opens his mouth to speak but then takes in your appearance and the wrinkles between his brows deepen.

“You’re upset.”

You laugh at his comment, bringing a hand up to wipe away the streaks of tears on your cheeks. “Yeah, I’m upset.”

“I know I’m not good with these things,” he sighs, scooting his chair closer to you until your knees bump, “but you’re my friend and I can see that you’re hurting.”

Your lower lip trembles and you can feel tears lingering along your lashline. You want to speak, but your throat feels tight and dry.

“I don’t know what to say, but I’m sorry isn’t enough. Healing can hurt. It can be blindsiding to have to let go of something you never thought you would have to, but it’s ok to feel sad. Healing has no timeline.”

You realize that Nanami thinks you’re sad about your breakup with Hiromi and you consider correcting him, but it seems like he’s had this speech prepared for some time. You let him talk.

“You’ll feel those butterflies again for someone new, even though right now, it feels like you never will. One day, your heart won’t hurt when you think of them and those painful memories will just be… memories.”

“Did Uta help you with this?” you ask, choking out a laugh as you brush away the tears in the corners of your eyes.

Nanami’s face turns apologetic. “She’s… much better at this sort of thing.”

“I appreciate it, Kento.”

He offers you a pitying smile and rubs your back. “Just imagine who’s out there waiting for you—someone who won’t leave you, someone who’s a better fit… someone who’s just waiting to fall in love with you.”

You look back at the dancefloor and see Satoru standing there. His hair is smoothed back into place and his belt is done up—but he’s still sweating through his shirt and from across the room, you can see the weight of the bags under his eyes.

Glowing, blue eyes in the darkness that always find yours in a crowded room.

“Your dress is filthy,” Nanami tsks, his comforting back rubs turn to more vigorous brushing to remove the dirt and dust from your clothes. “Did you fall somewhere?”

You look away from Satoru with a shudder and your gaze falls to your lap.

“Yeah,” you say. “I fell.”

Nanami is in the middle of chiding you about being more careful when drinking—his pep talk about your broken not-quite-engagement long forgotten—when you see a pair of expensive-looking dress shoes step into view. Scuffed and covered in dirt and dust, the owner of the shoes clears his throat loudly for your attention.

Even Nanami pauses when you tilt your head up, following the long line of Satoru’s body until you find his face. He looks hurt—broken—and you feel the guilt in your stomach twist into a knot.

“I think I… I made a mistake back there,” Satoru says, nodding towards the exit. “I’m sorry, I was being rude. Please, can we start over?”

His shoulders relax when you smile and Nanami takes that as his cue to leave, standing up and disappearing back into the party as Satoru slots perfectly into the open seat beside you. He reaches forward for your hands in your lap, gathering them in his and holding them against his cool palms.

“I promise I’m usually really friendly and nice,” you say, voice cracking and he laughs.

Satoru tilts his head forward and you meet him halfway—pressing your forehead against his and letting your eyes fall shut. He gives your hands a gentle squeeze and whispers into the quiet space you’ve made together.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

[justimajin]

The Language of Flowers

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Angst

↳ 9.5k / Hanahaki AU

⇨ Hanahaki (pre-existing concept): a fictional disease in which an individual will cough up flowers after experiencing unrequited love.

Warnings: heavy angst, discussions of illness/surgery, implied smut (on the explicit end)

Love is funny. 

It blossoms unexpectedly, spontaneously conjuring up within seconds. A spur of the moment, which draws in budding affection. Love at first sight, that flourishes into sparks of tender electricity. Or simply an unexpected encounter, getting spun into something more meaningful. 

It develops, it grows. It becomes so much more as the handles of time spiral, adoration and devotion thrown into the mix and creating everlasting bliss. 

Until of course, it becomes long term, its longevity and commitment spanning an entire lifetime.

You glance around, pupils revolving around the blooming garden. There are long tables lined into rows, draped with lilac silk material and decorated with bright yellow flowers. Amongst them, an array of individuals are seated, chattering with one another. 

You find her closer to the fencing, where fairy lights are looped and a giant white board stands, the word ‘Engaged’ written in bold cursive purple. 

“Aera.” She turns around, dressed in a short white lace dress with a small tiara resting on her black hair, making her appear like a princess. Her eyes are wide, having been in mid-conversation before she heard your voice call out to her.

Her lips tug into a huge smile upon seeing your tender look, moving forward to envelop you into a hug. “Y/N!” 

You hug her back, “Thank you so much for coming. It wouldn’t have been possible without you.” 

“Don’t say that.” You sheepishly chuckle, but she presses on. 

“Oh, come on, you’re the one that introduced me to him.” 

You dismiss her, “I just introduced you two, you were the one to take it a step further.” 

Taking a step back, you gesture to the entire display of the white board and a bubbly laugh emerges from her. 

“Let me at least give you some credit.” 

“Fine, maybe I helped a little.” You retort and she grins at your acceptance. 

A low voice cuts through your conversation. 

“I moved the balloons like you wanted, the decorator said–”

A young man appearing to be within his twenties emerges, donning a white dress shirt with a black tie and pants. His dark hair is styled and parted back, brows furrowed and doe eyes swirling with focus. 

It doesn’t take you a second later to whisper his name. 

“Jungkook?” 

He halts his steps, frozen by the sound of his name. Head snapping up, recognition flows through his orbs. 

Within a heartbeat, he shutters out. “Y-Y/N?” 

Aera darts her eyes between both of you, taken aback with the familiarity with a frown.

“Do the two of you know each other?” 

“Ah– yes,” You quickly clarify, “We work together.”

“Yeah, we do.” He replies, scratching the back of his neck. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here…” 

“Well, I am friends with the bride.” You chuckle.

Aera pitches in, placing a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “And she introduced me to Sunoo, Kookie!” 

He stiffens. “I see…”

“How do the two of you know each other?” You ponder, surprised by their proximity. If anything, you at least knew that Jungkook was greatly distant at work, never really going out of his way to speak to anyone. 

Aera warmly smiles, looping her arm around Jungkook’s, “Let me reintroduce you to the Jeon Jungkook,” She gazes at him with tender eyes, “My childhood friend and the person dearest to my heart…“ 

Pausing, she adds in, “–after Sunoo, of course.” 

You nod understandably, but Jungkook lets out a low cough. 

“I-I should go,” He brings up, “See if the decorator needs any more help.” 

You watch as he loops out of her arm, swiftly turning around without another word. 

A pout surfaces on Aera’s lips, like she wanted him to stay longer with you. 

But then she turns and catches your intrigued gaze, orbs brightening up in an instant. She dips into conversation once more as if he never left, occupied with showcasing the giant ring that now sits on her third finger. 

Yet if you had been paying enough attention, you would have noticed the flicker of dread in Jungkook’s eyes. 

***

As you attempt to catch up with Aera, it’s not long before she’s being whisked away by her husband-to-be, who you warmly greet with a smile. 

Being left alone, you decide to head over to one of the side tables, setting down the gift you had bought for them before filtering through all the guests to find your seat. 

Locating an empty one on the same table Aera and Sunoo would be at, you sit down and take a napkin, carefully placing it down onto your lap. 

From the corner of your eye, you catch sight of Jungkook. He glances around, doe eyes frantic and lips pursed. He awkwardly lingers for a moment – like he was debating on being there, unsure of where to look or where to go. 

It’s surprising to you, considering only moments ago he was effortlessly navigating himself to the decorator’s instructions.

You hesitate for a moment, knowing the two of you aren’t particularly close. However, as his confusion spins by the minute, you ultimately decide it wouldn’t be so bad and give in. 

“Jungkook!” You call out, watching his train of vision fall onto you. Taking out a chair next to you, your hand waves over with a warm smile. 

Jungkook glances around one more time, before walking over with his head ducked down. 

Instead of taking the one beside you, he takes the one on the opposite side – the one that is furthest away from Aera. 

You raise a brow, wondering why he didn’t want to sit closer to the bride and of course, his childhood friend, but you freeze when your orbs land on his appearance.

His eyes are glossed over, tinged with red. They almost seem hollow, dark circles collecting underneath them and his shoulders are caved in. 

“Are–…” You quickly glance around, words dropping into a whisper before leaning in, “Are you okay?”

Jungkook’s pupils snap back into life and he furiously nods, shifting uncomfortably away from you.

“Y-Yeah, I’m okay.” He sniffles, voice coming out hoarse. His field of vision lands on the decorations upon the table, features straining with dismay, “I’m just allergic to the flowers.” 

Your own eyes follow his line of sight, falling onto the beautiful, bright yellow petals. In fact, they’re littered everywhere – from the long tables lined up, to the blooming garden, to even attached to the white board that sits in the front. 

“Tulips,” You remark, “Aera’s–” 

“Favorite flower.” He mumbles, pupils focused down on his fidgeting hands and not bothering to take a glance at them. 

An involuntary harsh cough escapes his throat.

You lean over, grabbing a jug full of water and a glass, filling it up. Tapping him on the shoulder, he looks up, fatigue radiating deep within his irises before they morph into surprise. 

He takes the glass hesitantly, muttering a small thank you before you turn your attention back to the front, watching all the guests take their places as the food gets served.

Save for the few occasional glances stemming from concern, you and Jungkook don’t say another word to each other for the rest of the duration.

***

The evening spins away – dinner is all served and more guests pool in. You occasionally smile, greeting new people and munching down on the contents placed in front of you. 

Amongst all this, Aera is attached to Sunoo, a tender smile on her features as they deeply gaze into each other’s eyes and beam with so much sweet affection. 

You grin when she calls for you to take a picture with the two to them, instantly leaving your table and trudging over. Looping your arm with Aera and standing opposite to Sunoo, all three of you smile as the photographer’s flash goes off. 

“You two look really good together.” You comment and Aera giggles, eyes crinkling in the direction of her to-be-husband. 

She leans closer to him, brushing his lips against hers for a kiss. Sunoo follows suit, clasping onto her hands. 

They radiate the to-be-wed glow, encased in their own bubble of infectious love and happiness. It’s joyous for anyone to watch, to see two people be so utterly and completely in love with each other.

At least, that’s what you think.

As you turn to greet another one of Aera’s friends, you catch a flash of movement from the corner of your eyes.

You blink, but then there’s a tap against your shoulder. 

“Y/N,” Aera asks, her head surveying around, “Do you know where Jungkook is?” 

You swivel, mimicking her puzzlement. “I-I’m not sure…” 

“That’s too bad, I wanted to take a picture with him.” Aera remarks and a frown lines your lips. You had just seen Jungkook sitting by the table by himself moments ago, but now he’s up and disappeared, just when the photographer had started taking photos.

You sigh, not understanding his train of thought. 

Turning to Aera, you give her a quick reassured smile. “Focus on Sunoo, I’ll go find him for you.” 

She breaks into a huge relieved grin and nods, returning to her husband’s side. 

Spinning around, you walk in the opposite direction. 

Your head darts back and forth. 

You had entered into the side building, the one adjacent to the garden where the engagement party was being held. It’s empty save for the occasional workers or bystanders you pass, either trying to help set up or busy conversing with one another. However, you don’t find the head of dark hair and pair of doe eyes you’re trying to locate, simply left mulling if he had truly decided to leave. 

That is, until there’s a black tie resting near the soles of your feet. 

You pick it up in suspicion, instantly recognizing it as the same one Jungkook had donned when you had met him prior in the evening.

Peering around while gripping the tie, you wonder why it was so clumsily thrown onto the ground, as if he didn’t care about where it ended up–

The sound of retching startles you. 

You glance around, wondering if you had imagined it. But then you hear it – a low choked sob, and your feet are gyrating, ears keenly picking up on the sound.

Your feet falter for a moment, having stopped right in front of the men’s bathroom. 

Biting down your bottom lip, you cautiously push against the door, darting your pupils around. 

It's completely empty, save for one stall in the far corner.

Your heels click against the ground, turning to face it. Noticing it slightly open, you raise your hand, preparing to knock and ask him if he was okay, if he has perhaps consumed too much alcohol than expected, or if he needed anything – infinite questions ready to tumble out of your lips.

But that’s when you feel a slight flutter against your foot. 

Peering down curiously, you breath hitches and you nearly stumble back. 

For there’s a fragrant and beautiful, bright yellow petal there. 

Hand quivering, you lightly push against the door. 

It opens, and your mouth falls agape at the sight. 

Jungkook is on his knees, hunched over the toilet, completely surrounded by yellow flowers. His eyes are squeezed shut, shudders running through his body and tears pooling into his eyes. Despite being very tall, his frame looks small and cramped, sweat clinging to his temples. 

You thought it was all fake, a disease so rare that it could be considered a myth. But the flowers spilling out from his coughing lips is enough to reel you back into reality, cementing that it was all true – all the puzzling pieces of information stemming from the rumors, all the hushed whispers of unrequited love. 

You were wrong, so utterly wrong. 

Your hands cover your mouth, voice only managing to come out in a shakingly whisper. 

“O-Oh my god….” 

Jungkook heaves as the last flower slips out, finally noticing your presence as his eyes snap back. 

Your widened ones make contact with his half-lidded orbs, which expand into complete horror. 

***

You don’t remember how long it took – how long you merely stood there, glancing at his horror stricken irises with a mix of terror and confusion in your own. You had watched as his eyes diverted away, a deep flush coating his skin as he had leaned back, gripping the edge of the wall for dear support. 

“Tulips.” You had murmured, “Aera’s–”

“Favorite flower.” He croaks, a harsh rasp to his voice. His quivering hands reach out, attempting to scoop up the remaining flowers on the ground. 

His pupils widened when your shaking ones reached out as well, gaze concentrated as you discard them into the toilet can. But he continues, ensuring each and every single petal had been collected before rising to his feet, wobbling a bit as he turns to flush the contents away for good. 

You had quietly trailed out of the bathroom, walking behind his light footsteps.

A moment of silence overtakes you as you reach the opposite side of the building, far from where there are guests celebrating the new engagement. The fresh breeze weaves through your hair, nipping at your skin and offering a change of atmosphere. 

Jungkook seems to like it as well, a content sigh leaving him as opposed to the profuse spilling of flowers inside a cramped stall he was experiencing just moments ago. 

A thousand questions are ready to burst out from you, but amongst them is one that already has an answer.

“I-Is it…” You warily gaze at him, “...Aera?”

Jungkook visibly gulps, fear echoing deep in his doe irises. You’re startled when he snatches onto your wrist, grip tightening as his eyes desperately scan your expression. 

“Please…” He inhales, “Please don’t tell her...” 

You slowly nod, gaze still trained on him as his shoulders slump down, relief flooding his body. 

Your voice drops into a whisper, “H-How long has this been going on…?” 

Jungkook’s lip thin out, and his gaze is on the ground. 

Sucking in a breath, he reveals the answer that has a harsh gasp escaping you. 

“A year.” 

“A year?!” You sharply repeat, “Jungkook, how are you still alive?” 

Your coworker had been quietly suffering the effects for a whole entire year, delving within his own misery and attempting to live a normal life as the disease ate away at him. 

He shakes his head, like he didn’t want your thoughts invading his mind, “Why haven’t you just gotten the surgery?”

“I-I can’t…” He whispers, brows furrowing. 

“Why not?” You press forward, concern filling you to the brim, “The rumors say that hanahaki consumes the individual’s lungs within a year, leading their entire system to shut down–”

“Because I can’t, Y/N.” His words are louder and firmer, but there’s guilt swimming in his orbs. “I…I don’t want to forget her.” 

Your lips pursue, knowing what the rumors had to say about the surgery. That along with all the flowers, each and every memory is taken, ripped out of the patient’s mind until they have no more recollection of the feelings, the love they had once felt for their person.

Which means Jungkook’s only other alternative would be for Aera to reciprocate his feelings. 

Your stomach churns, guilt radiating out from you. 

“She can’t love you back…” You whisper and Jungkook’s eyes snap up, brimming with despair. 

“She’s engaged now, and I…I can't take it all away from her,” He hurriedly explains, voice shrinking down into an anguished whisper, “Not when I love her so much...” 

“But…are you just going to let yourself die?” 

He has no other option. The fonder his heart grows, so do the petals, spreading out within his airway until his breathing is completely constricted. Without the removal surgery or reciprocated feelings, he’s caged – left to fight the disease on his own until he ultimately succumbs to it, drawing out his last breath in the name of the same love.

Jungkook is silent, your words lingering within the empty space between you. 

He continues to remain silent, but then his features twist and something snaps. 

His eyes are glossed over, shoulders hunched as he chokes out a sob. 

You’re startled, but you realize it then and there. 

He knows he’s resigned to his fate and at this point, all he can do is receive the illness that’s marred his pathway with flowers.

You’re not very close to Jungkook, but it doesn’t hold you back from outstretching your arms, hands wrapping around his torso as the tears stream down his eyes, form violently trembling.

Aera’s eyes had sparked up when you returned with Jungkook following suit. You watch with dismay as he places a hand on her shoulder, a weak smile on his lips. Jungkook’s condition is obvious, there’s dark circles underneath his eyes, his skin pale and fatigue running deep in his shoulders. But he continues to pose for the photo, not ignoring Aera’s plea to take more with her husband.

Sunoo stands on the other side of them, sharing Aera’s tender smile when she glances at him. Jungkook’s lip twitches, smile slightly faltering. 

As the evening draws to an end, your gaze is attached to Jungkook’s every movement, watching him turn on his heels and begin to take the various decorations down. All as Aera and Sunoo have their arms wrapped around each other, fondly staring down at the rings on their hands.

A bitter taste lingers on your lips.

It stays for a while – even as you’re knocking on Jungkook’s door the next day. 

To be honest, you’re not sure what you're trying to accomplish. Jungkook and you were merely coworkers, bypassing each other occasionally or conversing through cubicles when work called for it. 

But there’s a piece of you deep inside that can't help but feel awful. Awful that in a way you were the one to resign him to the fate of his disease with your own actions, pointing out to Aera that there was a guy you knew back in your college days together that would be her type, even helping out to get his number for her.

Conversely, even though you weren't aware of Jungkook’s existence in her life, the image of him hunched over, trembling as the flowers endlessly poured around and circled his sobbing form, is hauntingly ingrained inside your mind, a deep chill running through your spine anytime the memory plays. 

The door swings open, revealing a started Jungkook. 

Knowing what you know now, makes it hard to look at him. He still looks exhausted, the deep circles underneath his eyes ever most present and his skin drained of life. You suspect he’s even lost weight from the last handful of times you’ve seen him at work, the disease taking its sweet time to slowly break him down, bit by bit, till his lungs are full and bursting with flowers. 

“W-What are you doing here?” 

You take in a deep breath, “You’re off from work, right? To be here for the wedding.” 

Aera’s wedding is closer to the end of the month, set seven days after the engagement. 

Seven days left until hanahaki runs its full course of a year, the victim falling prey to its effects and their lungs being forever constricted. 

He slowly nods, “I thought we could go out, do something aside from wedding preparations.” 

Jungkook goes silent and you gnaw on your bottom lip. You knew that the wedding plans were still going on, that Aera would need assistance from the two of you, but you know he’s spending all this time helping the very person he loves, without ever getting to be with her.

You wonder if he’ll protest, if he’ll remark that she needs him and that he needs her, that there’s no way he can halt the planning process for his own needs.

But Jungkook heavily exhales, and you wonder if he can see the pity in your eyes. 

“Okay.” He simply utters, much to your surprise. He widens the door, letting you in before swiveling, attempting to look for his jacket. 

You stand rather awkwardly by the front of his apartment, pleasantly surprised to find the black and white layout of the place, with everything appearing meticulously organized. It’s almost too clean, not a speck of dirt in sight. 

However, the layout seems too simplistic, the black and white not contrasting well with the sunlight that tries to pour in, appearing more bleak and empty for your own liking. 

It feels lonely. 

You press your lips together, a grimace running through you. How long has he been quietly suffering by himself, keeping distance from others? The Jungkook you know wouldn’t even attend events or go out for drinks with everyone else post-work, but now he’s submerged within guests everyday and next to the person he loves, suppressing flowers from spewing out.

Jungkook emerges soon, throwing on a black jacket. Stepping outside with you, he lets out a sharp cough, rubbing his throat with a wince.

“Where to?” He ponders, looking at you with his big doe eyes.

You shrug, “Coffee?” 

He nods, and you lead him to the local coffee shop you’ve frequented a couple of times after work, one that’s more closed in and has cozy booths. It isn't popular by any means, only a few individuals occupying the seats, but it’s something you notice Jungkook relishes in from the corner of your eyes, form visibly easing from the low amount of prying looks. 

You order your drinks, asking Jungkook what he wanted and he simply murmurs that anything was okay. Within minutes, two lattes are handed to you and you join him by the booth he’s seated at, a deep frown marring your lips.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, and you wince, pushing the drink closer to him. 

“Sorry…I didn’t realize this cafe also did coffee art.” 

Jungkook's eyes are wide as the drink comes in front of him, a foamy little white heart greeting his line of vision.

The corner of his mouth curls up. 

“It’s okay.” He remarks, “I think it’s rather cute.” 

You look at him in surprise, but he’s already bringing the drink up to his lips, cautiously taking a sip from the heated mixture.

The words blurt out before you can stop them.

“I’m really sorry.” 

He halts, placing the drink down. “Y/N, I said it was okay–”

“No, not that.” You harshly swallow, “I-I’m sorry…about Aera…” 

He stares at you perplexed and you explain, “I was the one to bring her and Sunoo together. I knew both of them and thought they would work well as a couple.” 

Your eyes flutter shut, biting down on your lip, “If only I had known about your relationship with her, I could have–”

“Y/N.” He stops your train of thought, hand brushing against yours. You immediately stare down at it, and he notices, sheepishly removing it in an instant as his complexion dusts pink. 

He clears his throat, “Don’t apologize. Me and Aera…we were never meant to be, even if you stepped in.” 

You stare at him, “We were friends for years…and even as I came to realize my feelings recently, Aera never once felt the same for me, no matter what I did.” He chuckles bitterly, “I was always Jungkook, her childhood friend, and nothing more.” 

Anguish spreads over his features and your heart sinks. You can imagine a younger Jungkook, gaze filled with adoration and affection for the girl, desperately seeking for something, anything to be similarly reflected in her own eyes. 

Remorse flickers over you, “But I can imagine Sunoo’s sudden appearance wasn’t all that great for you...” 

Jungkook’s gaze falls down, a soft yet wistful smile on his lips. “It confirmed a lot for me, mainly that this disease was going to turn out to be more permanent than I had initially assumed.” 

You bite back your words, wanting to tell him that it isn’t just permanent, that the disease would reside with him until he finally succumbs to it. 

But you can’t bring yourself to, not when there’s so much hurt swirling in his eyes, the disease already physically manifesting itself against his own wishes.

At his silence, you sit up straighter, desperate to change the topic of conversation you had to spring up.

“What do you do outside of work?” You question, “Do you have any hobbies or anything?” 

Anything you do to cope? – you can only silently wonder. 

Your questions catches him off guard. “Not really…” He deeply ponders, “At the most, I’ve been just working…and of course, helping Aera when I had time off.” 

You nod, features twisting. But then his eyes light up.

“Sometimes I like to game.” 

“Game?” You blink and he slowly nods, sipping down on his latte. “I could have never taken you for a gamer.” 

Something you wouldn’t have expected from the quiet man who would bump shoulders with you at work. 

“It’s fun, I like playing games online.” He states, “It helps not having to worry about…” 

His face sours as he gestures to himself and you quickly nod, not wanting him the chance to fill in the blanks. 

“Maybe you could show me sometime.” You suggest, and he looks at you surprised. To be fair, you don’t know the first thing about online gaming, but watching Jungkook’s expression change, having some spark of joy, is too much for you to miss out on.

A soft smile lines his lips. “Sure.”

You mimic his smile, bringing the remains of the latte to your lips.

Aera is to be married soon, Jungkook knows that. 

As such, he’s aware that moments with her are consistent, that she gazes into his eyes with a wide smile regularly, making his heart skip far too many beats. 

But what he is pleasantly unaware of is just how involved you are, unabashedly seeking him out when you need assistance with picking up favors for the wedding. 

“There should be at least a hundred candles wrapped with thank you notes,” You mumble, brows furrowed together as you read the text off your phone. The sun is bright and shining down, a light breeze lingering in the air that truthfully makes his chest feel lighter. 

You glance up, confused eyes connecting with his wide ones. “I can’t open them to check, right?” 

He shakes his head, “I don’t think so.” 

“But then how do I know they made them properly?” You gesture towards the box resting before his feet in exasperation. 

Letting out a huff, you shake your head. “I swear, this whole wedding business is so much more complicated than it really needs to be.” 

A light chuckle resonates through the air and you stare at Jungkook in astonishment, watching at how the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

“Believe me, I know.” He chides, leaning down to pick up the box. “I’ve been helping to plan this wedding for months.” 

“For months?” You question in puzzlement, reaching out to help him balance it. However, he pushes your hands away, gesturing for you to let him carry it. 

You frown, but oblige when he starts to walk. “That must have been so stressful. I’ve been only helping out for the last couple of weeks and it’s already making me want to rip my hair out.”

The corners of his lips tugs up and you continue, the words escaping you before you can stop. “Why would you go to such lengths?” 

You freeze in an instant, already knowing the reason as to why.

“–Sorry,” You quickly retract, “I-I didn’t mean it like that…”

Jungkook shakes his head, almost feeling something akin to amusement. 

His condition is supposed to be a secret, a taboo of a disease and something he’s never uttered a single word to another soul. He supposes that you’re different, that you weren’t someone he told out of his own volition, but rather someone that stumbled upon it. 

Which gives him no reason to hide from you. That, and the fact that you’re so mindful about his potential reactions. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He simply says, but picks up on the curiosity swirling within your orbs. 

“If I can ask…how difficult has it been? Planning all this and dealing with…” 

You wave your finger into the air, letting the sentence complete itself and it makes him want to smile. 

“It’s kind of hard to explain…” He murmurs, falling deep into thought, “I know Aera doesn’t love me, but I still want to see her happy, you know?” 

A low chuckle leaves him, gaze downcasting. “I guess that makes me sound really stupid.” 

“No, not at all.” You justify, “You’re right, it’s hard to explain and even harder for someone like me to understand, but you’ve known Aera for so long, and I can imagine that you care a lot about her…” 

 – and that your love runs deeper than you probably would have imagined – you silently think. 

He hums, glancing around as you cross the street together, your eyes focusing onto his backside. 

After a moment of contemplation, you speak up.

“You know, I really hope I’m not causing you any trouble.” You explain, “I know talking about it can be–” 

“It’s okay.” He replies, “I don’t mind, you’re…really easy to talk to.

You’re surprised by the soft smile he holds while glancing in your direction, but it’s one that you don’t hesitate to return.

A bright yellow flower lands right in front of your face. 

You and Jungkook both jolt, the elderly woman in front of you holding a wide grin. It’s only then you realize that you’re near a boutique, selling flowers to those passing by.

“These beautiful tulips are fresh,” She states, attempting to play matchmaker as both you and Jungkook flush, “It’s said they represent unconditional love.” 

You blink, the scent of the flowers being shoved right into your faces. Jungkook stills, holding in his breath as his form slightly trembles.

You clear your throat immediately, pushing them away. 

“We’re okay.” You take a step back, “I’m allergic to flowers.” 

She grimaces, realization donning upon her that neither of you meant business. You don’t think twice, grabbing Jungkook's wrist and whisking him away from the deeply fragrant area.

It’s only when you walk a good handful of steps away that Jungkook tugs on you, a sheepish look on his features that has your confused eyes widening.

You let go of him, “Sorry.” 

He softly shakes his head. “It’s okay.” 

His head turns, gaze concentrated on the store from a distance. 

The next question leaving his lips has you taken aback, “What’s your favorite flower, Y/N?” 

You deeply mull over it, drawing a blank. “I-I can’t say I have one….” 

He ponders over it and your eyes flicker over to him, “What about you?” 

“Ah–” He lightly laughs, scratching the back of his neck. Your eyes widen when he places the box down and takes hold of his sleeve, rolling it back a few inches.

An array of images greet you immediately, but among them is a giant orangish-red flower carved into his forearm. 

“It’s my birth flower.” He informs. 

You stare at it in pure awe and wonder, the ink swirling his skin beautifully. 

Your voice comes out in a whisper, “What is it called?” 

“The tiger flower.” 

You hum, still looking at it in fascination. “Wow…it’s amazing.” 

Jungkook silently watches, oddly feeling exposed for suddenly revealing an important piece of himself to you. But as he notices your irises brightening and lips curving up, he can’t help but warmly smile, his chest swelling with pride underneath your observations.

Ending up at Jungkook’s apartment becomes a staple for you. 

You don’t know how or when, but through figuring out the delivery for the cake to ensuring you had enough tables for the RSVP'd guests, your messages to Jungkook would occasionally stray over to pondering over how he was doing. His responses always ended in simple reassurances, much to your own dismay, but then he would stray too, bringing up that if you ever felt like coming over again, you could. 

At first, you didn’t want to be rude by declining, but then it became to the point where Jungkook expects you, swinging open to his door non-chantlently.

“Did you eat yet?” 

Entering inside, you shake your head and he turns, heading into his kitchen. You glance around, ultimately deciding to sit on his couch. 

There’s a table right next to it, a handful of picture frames that have your heart twisting. 

They stand out in the midst of his bleak apartment, having an odd touch of hearth to them. There’s different age ranges – roughly around ages nine, twelve, fifteen – all of Aera and Jungkook together. There’s ones of them as small children, bright eyed with huge smiles, to ones where they’re a bit older, smiles turning warm and eyes tender. You muse at how adorable Jungkook looked when he was younger, a light to his crinkled eyes that you don’t really see much anymore.

His footsteps pad into the room, two bowls of instant ramen in his hands. You swivel around and his eyes catch the movement, but if anything he’s learned, it’s that you’re naturally very curious, surprise not even crossing him.

“We can go to my room,” He gestures to the doorway across the hall, “I already have my computer set up.” 

You frown, rising from your seat and following behind him. The room is dark, all the lights turned off save for some sunlight peeking through his black drapes, and you’re astonished to find his room just as organized as the rest of his apartment. 

Off to the side, there’s a bright lit screen alongside a keyboard that glows different colors. 

“Woah.” You mutter and Jungkook hands you your instant ramen, before sitting on the large gaming chair and pulling a seat up for you.

You slurp on your noodles as the game loads. Once it does, his hand revolves around the settings for a moment before he dives into action, his fingertips tapping at an incredible speed across the keyboard and mouse furiously clicking. He seems completely zoned into the game, almost like he had forgotten where he was for a moment.

Nonetheless, you watch with wide eyes as he effortlessly wins the first round, hands coming around to search for his own ramen. He continues to keep playing, pupils never once leaving the monitor and you’re fascinated with how well he’s able to multitask. 

His eyes connect with yours, a grin surfacing on his lips. “Want to try?” 

Unease fills you, “I don’t know, I’m not the greatest with games–”

“You’ll be fine.” He insists and you nervously nod, giving into his wishes. He gently guides your hand over the mouse, watching you attempting to shoot things with terrible coordination. 

It’s when you accidentally shoot someone that was trying to heal you that Jungkook bursts into laughter, a beautiful melodious tone that echoes off the walls. 

“I told you I’m terrible!” You protest with a pout, and his laughter still bubbles as he moves behind you. 

“Here, let me show you.” His hand laces over yours, effortlessly navigating your character. 

You smile at the assistance, watching him cross all the hurdles and play infinitely better in comparison. 

You turn to remark about it, but the words die in your throat. 

His face is inches away from you, something he notices right away too. Neither of you move, the sounds coming from the game lingering in the background.

Jungkook shifts and you instantly move, your hand hitting your container of noodles. 

It spills onto the ground and you immediately get up, clearing your throat.

“I-I’ll go get something to clean it up.” Jungkook simply nods, watching your backside disappear. 

You head straight into his kitchen, pressing a hand against your racing heart. Deeply inhaling and exhaling, you glance around for a cloth, locating it on the edge of the counter immediately and turning back. 

The doorbell rings. 

You blink, hearing the loud sounds of the game coming from Jungkook’s room and wondering if you had imagined it. But then it rings again and you scramble forward, grasping onto the knob.

The sight before you shock you to your core. 

Aera stands in front of you, arms crossed and her orbs tinged with cracks of red. They widen at the appearance of you, the shock scattering over her features reflecting your own. 

“Y/N?” 

“Aera?” You blurt out, wondering what she was doing here. 

Her grand wedding is supposed to be in three days, and here she was. 

Jungkook’s voice cuts through, “Y/N? Is everything oka–” 

You hear his footsteps pad through the apartment before his breath hitches. Aera steps right in at the sight of him, walking straight past you and throwing her arms around his torso. 

She sobs loudly and Jungkook’s pupils quiver, making direct eye contact with your confused ones, before awkwardly wrapping his arms around her. 

There’s a painful tinge in the center of your chest, but you ignore it. 

“S-Sunoo–” Aera sputters out, clutching onto Jungkook tighter. “S-Sunoo and I….we had a fight!”

Jungkook can barely muster out any words, harshly swallowing. Your eyes widen at the reaction, and it’s not long before a cough leaves his lips. 

You step forward, placing your hand on her back. “Aera, how about we take this outside?” 

Her head tilts, like she had just noticed you’re also in the room. 

At her silence, you slowly peel her hands off of Jungkook, who quickly scurries away into the confines of his room.

Aera’s taken aback with response, but nonetheless follows you like a lost puppy.

The moment you’re outside the apartment, she spills. “We ended up fighting, Y/N! Can you imagine?!”

She sobs more, eyes connecting with the door behind you. 

“Why won’t Jungkook come out?” 

“He’s…not feeling the best.” You wince, unable to come up with a better answer. “You know, you should check in on him every now and then.” 

Images of the splattered flowers echo through your mind. 

“What’s there to check?” She chuckles, sniffling and wiping her tears, “Jungkook’s always fine.”

Your chest tightens, something unfamiliar brewing. 

“No one’s ever always fine.” You grit. 

Even if his symptoms weren’t so painfully obvious, there was no way to simply dismiss it all as something mere like work fatigue. 

Aera eyes you, baffled by your tone, “Since when have the two of you gotten close?” 

You open your mouth a couple of times – unable to muster the exact words for an answer. However, you relent, shaking it away and opting to ask her about Sunoo instead, to which she gladly focuses on. 

***

You spend a considerable amount of time coaxing Aera that Sunoo still loved her and that being stressed about wedding planning was completely normal. 

She cries continuously and you pat her back, sprouting as much reassurance as you can all while bypassing any of her further inquiries about Jungkook. It seems to help, because soon she’s nodding in agreement as the tears within her eyes begin to dry. 

She departs and you manage to head back into the apartment, exhausted beyond belief. 

But Jungkook lingers in your mind. 

You bolt into his room, heading directly into the connecting bathroom. The door whips open, and your heart clenches at the sight before you.

There’s bright yellow tulips. Everywhere. And Jungkook is in the middle of them, form slouched against the wall with his eyes squeezed shut and sweat sticking to his temples. 

You immediately crouch down, placing his weak arm around your neck and helping him to his feet. When he sways, you let him lean his weight against you. 

Sitting him down onto his bed, you withdraw into the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water. Reentering the bedroom, his gaze is downcasted and you silently hand him the drink, watching his fingertips curl around the cup. 

You then walk back into the bathroom, taking every piece of petal that’s been scattered and throwing it into the toilet can. You flush it down the drain as Jungkook sips on the water, quietly watching you from afar. 

You sit down next to him with a deep sigh, silence overtaking the dark room. 

A shuddering breath leaves him. 

“I started to forget…” He croaks, grasping your attention immediately, “I actually managed to forget about everything for once. The engagement, the wedding, her…” 

You remorsefully watch as his eyes flutter shut, noticing the single tear that rolls down his cheek. It propels you to shift forward, wrapping your arms around him comfortingly. 

He leans into your touch, head resting on your shoulder and his arm curling around your waist. 

There’s a thought that lingers in the back of your mind, seemingly growing louder and louder with every passing minute. 

“You know…” He lets out a low hum and you continue, willing all your courage together. “I ended up thinking about a third alternative in curing you.” 

Within a heartbeat, he mumbles – “What was it?” 

Sucking in a sharp inhale, you let it out. 

“For you to fall in love…with someone else.” 

His breath hitches, form stiffening underneath your fingertips. You part from him and he slowly raises his head, staring at you impassively. 

You fidget underneath his gaze, unable to read his thoughts. 

After what feels like an eternity, you slowly pull yourself away from him. It was wrong of you to bring it up and you want to curse yourself for thinking otherwise. 

Shuffling your feet, you stand up. 

Jungkook’s hand clasps onto yours, tugging you towards him in an instant. Your eyes morph with surprise, but then his lips collide with yours. 

It steals your breath away, warmth flooding through you and making you melt at his touch. He tentatively moves against you, lips softly brushing against your own. 

He pulls back for a split second, chest rising and falling. But you lean forward, pressing your lips against his once again. 

And that’s all it takes to drown. 

Jungkook litters kisses all down your jaw and neck, and you find yourself stumbling backwards, back hitting his mattress. It’s only a matter of a few moments before his torso is hovering over you, and you reach up, clutching onto his shoulders. 

Your clothes scatter across the room and Jungkook’s bare chest presses against you. He marks your skin in the shape of his lips, all while his name profusely tumbles out of your own. He pushes into you, gently at first, like he has something to prove. You accept him fully, nails sinking into his back as you both climax, an onslaught of gasps and moans escaping the two of you. 

His arm wraps securely around your waist, and you're lulled into a deep sleep.

You’re woken to the sound of retching.

A gasp parts from your lips, and you immediately scramble up from the bed, dressed in only the shirt Jungkook had been wearing the night before. You stumble into the bathroom, finding Jungkook hunched over and surrounded with the yellow flowers once again. 

However, your breath hitches. 

Because this time there’s more of them, and they're all splattered with drops of scarlet.

“Jungkook!” You exclaim, knees buckling down. Placing your hand on his shaking back, you rub it up and down comfortingly. 

“I-I was starting to feel b-better…” He chokes out in defeat, hands clutching onto the toilet. A cluster of coughs leave him, his voice disappearing as more and more red stained flowers overflow out.

You attempt to coax him, features twisted from watching him be contorted in so much pain. “It’s okay, Jungkook.” Your hold on him is firm, “We’ll figure it out, don’t worry, we’ll–” 

“Y-You don’t understand….” He cries out, "I-I can't, Y/N…."

A deep furrow in your brows form and Jungkook shakes his head, eyes shut as his forehead lulls down, “I-I can’t do this anymore….I-I’m still in love with her."

It feels like someone’s just stabbed you in the heart.

Jungkook doesn’t look at you, entangled in too much shame and agony to dare raise his head and say the same words with your eyes meeting his. The same pair of eyes that discovered him one day and reached out, not letting him stumble on his own anymore.

Orbs glossing over, you rise with shaky legs. The feeling in the pit of your chest twists and knots, spreading through you like a deep ache. 

Jungkook can’t say anything, not even at the sound of you grabbing your clothes, the unevenness of your footsteps against his carpet, or the door shutting on your way out from his apartment, the frequency echoing off the walls. His gaze remains fixated on the flowers, even plucking one completely smeared in red, wondering why fate was always so cruel to him – why, in his mind when he’s smiling and laughing with you, Aera’s warm eyes and big smile show up there instead, forever imprinted into his brain.

***

You stagger on your way home. 

A stream of hot tears roll down your face, with harsh breaths shuddering out of you. Your sobs are thundering and violent, racking through your entire form. 

There’s a thousand emotions running through you, leaving your mind completely numb and your body feeling like it’s breaking, scattering into pieces. You wonder how you could have let it gotten to this point, wonder how you could have been so foolish. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you soon arrive at your apartment complex. You can barely unlock the front door, gasping as you stumble in. 

You fall right at the entrance, clawing your hands around your throat, eyes rapidly darting and flickering everywhere. The pain accelerates, winding tortuously over and over around your windpipe. 

The cord snaps. 

A sharp chain of coughs leaves your lips, vibrating down your throat and through your lungs. It morphs into a retch and the contents come spilling forth before you can even blink. 

Deeply heaving, you can only stare helplessly at the clutter of bright orangish-red tiger flowers before you. 

Love is twisted. 

It threatens to find you unexpectedly, spontaneously making you crumble within seconds. It’s a spur of the moment, welcoming in painful affection. Love at first sight, that withers into petals of grief. Or simply an unexpected encounter, getting spun into something that turns your entire world upside down. 

It develops, it grows. It becomes so much more, rendering you weak and constricting your breathing, just as the mere thought of it makes you feel sick. 

Until of course, it becomes long term, a trail of flowers never leaving your side. 

You don’t see Jungkook for the remaining days until the wedding, avoiding him like the plague. He doesn’t reach out, keeping to himself like he’s always done. 

However, running into him at the wedding now, is a completely different story. 

He’s dressed in a sleek fitted black suit, his hair styled and pushed back. He’s working alongside the caterer, a crease in between his brows as he ensures the food arrives in a timely manner. 

You had just entered the venue, eyes scanning around for any indication of where Aera might be. 

As cruel as fate would be, your eyes suddenly find his. 

You attempt to look away, but it only takes three steps for Jungkook to be right in front of you. 

He looks the same, his skin pale and dark circles still underneath his eyes, tiredness running deep through him. 

He opens and closes his mouth several times, before quietly asking a question that has you nearly coughing. 

“Are…are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” Your voice comes out croaked, immediately taking a step back from him. He catches the movement and you notice it right away – the way his eyes scan all over your face.

You wonder if he can see the fatigue in your shoulders, wonder if he can see the bags starting to form under your eyes, or how pale you seem to have gotten. Wonder if he knows you were throwing up just this morning, mind swirling with thoughts of him and lungs brimming with flowers, unable to loosen the imprint he’s left.

“Are you sure? I–” He reaches out and you flinch, but then a call of your name has you spinning around. 

“Aera has been looking for you two.” A woman you instantly recognize as her mother, informs. You nod, ignoring the pleading look in Jungkook’s eyes that just makes your lungs constrict.

After all, you were here for someone else entirely. 

But when you and Jungkook follow her into a side room to see Aera completely decked out in a lavious white wedding dress, you can only harshly swallow. 

“Y-You look amazing.” You sputter out, and she has a huge, radiant smile. 

“Isn’t it lovely?” She chuckles, “I can’t wait until you get married and wear one too, Y/N!” 

You know she means well, but your lips are pursued together, not a single word slipping out as you numbingly nod. 

She turns to Jungkook, her smile widening, “What do you think, Kookie?” 

It catches Jungkook off guard, his gaze previously on you.

A small smile laces on his lips and he answers her genuinely. 

“It’s lovely on you, Aera. You look very beautiful.” 

She giggles, looping her arm around his. 

But you can see everything. 

Jungkook’s eyes are tender and warm, fondness radiating out from every fiber of his body. He holds her gently, as if treasuring her was his uttermost priority. 

Your breath hitches, a wave of nausea hitting you. There’s nothing you can mutter except a quiet ‘excuse me’ as you’re racing out of the room, hand clamping against your mouth and feet hurriedly filtering through the venue. 

You don’t even find a bathroom, yanking open the door to a staff closet before you stumble down, tiger flowers bursting out of your lips. Water builds up in your eyes, hand clutching onto your chest as the retching continues, a deep burn being left behind. 

It’s when the flowers slow down, decreasing in volume that you manage to swipe some of the sweat trailing down your temples. Your vision finally focuses through all the tears, small coughs still trembling through your windpipe. 

A small gasp behind you has you freezing. 

Your half-lidded eyes snap back, finding Jungkook's paralyzed ones. A hand is covering his mouth, his voice quivering.

“Oh my god….” 

You don’t have the strength to will your voice to work, barely able to breath in and out with your congested airflow. Jungkook falls to his knees, eyes scanning all over the flowers before flickering up to you. 

“You–” He begins, form frantic. “In here…the f-flowers….” 

His hand plucks up on the tiger flower, perfectly matching the ink on his skin. 

He lets go of the flower and it flutters down to you. His lips move, horror transfixed in his eyes as the realization dawns onto him, hitting him all at once.

“I-I broke you….” 

You sniffle, arm coming up to swipe away the tears that have collected in your eyes. But Jungkook is faster, the pads of his thumbs immediately coming up to cup your face, gently brushing them away.

You look up, gaze locked onto his. And you can see everything. 

He understands – his pain reflecting yours. 

“Jungkook!” He sucks in a breath, head swiveling around to a voice echoing out from the closet. “Where have you been? Everyone’s already taken their seats.” 

“I-I’ll be right there.” He turns to you, but you’re already scooping the flowers up, tucking them into a bag that you found nearby. Jungkook silently joins you, helping you until the closet is completely clear of any trace of them. 

You leave before him, not exchanging one word. 

The wedding commences. 

You have taken your seat at the front, having a full display of the event right before you. Jungkook sits a row behind you, and you’re grateful at not having to be so close to him for the long duration. 

Because as much as you can acknowledge the shared pain you hold – you know that the existence for Jungkook's is why you’re gathered here today, and you know that yours is just sitting a row away.

He will never love you like you do him. Aera will never love him like he does her.

The ceremony begins and you look up, gazing at the couple you’ve come to see tie the knot. The marriage officiant speaks up, going through each and every piece of what will bring them together. Your eyes are focused, but ever so and then, they furrow at Aera.

Not because of envy, but rather, it’s like her eyes are wavering, prodding around in the audience instead.

What is she doing? 

You wonder, only seeing her glance at Sunoo a couple of times or breaking out of her daze to repeat the officiant words. 

It’s almost like she’s focused on–

Your eyes trail, following her field of vision until it lands straight on Jungkook. And you’re even more caught off guard when you find out where his gaze is directed. 

He’s looking at you, eyes not wavering even when you catch him.

You flush at the realization, quickly averting your eyes to focus back onto the couple. Thankfully, it soon draws to an end and the officiant wraps up the ceremony.

“You may now kiss the bride.” Sunoo leans in and Aera smiles, as does the officiant. 

He pronounces them as husband and wife and a big cheer erupts from the guests. Everyone claps – including you and the couple descends down, interacting with those that have attended their wedding.

You take up the opportunity to depart, desperately needing some fresh air and Jungkook catches onto the action.

“Jungkook!” Aera exclaims, leaving Sunoo’s side and looping her arm around his, “Come on! I want a pictur–” 

“Not now, Aera.” He winces with an apologetic smile, feet headed after the direction you’ve left in. Aera watches in complete disbelief, not even hearing Sunoo call out her name. 

His steps are quickened, eyes darting back and forth. He bumps into a couple of guests on the way out, simply giving them a quick smile before he resumes trudging against the tiled floor.

His heart is racing, so much to the point where it feels like it might burst.

Within minutes, he finds your backside on a bench outside near the venue, shoulders hunched and making your form appear smaller than ever.

“Y/N?” He breathes out, slowly walking towards you.

“J-Jungkook?” You swivel, startled that he had followed you out here. 

He stands in front of you, kneeling down. The eye contact makes you flinch, an uncomfortable sensation churning in your chest the longer he looks at you. 

But before you can run away, before you can even search for a place to empty out the flowers threatening to spill from your throat, he leans forward. 

He leans forward, and his lips collide with your own. 

You softly gasp, heat brushing on your cheeks. It feels just like the first time you shared a kiss with him, warmth flooding through you. 

Your trembling hands reach out, tugging him closer. 

He places his own on top of yours, holding them as lips moving fervently against yours. 

You feel it all – the delicate flowers blooming within your chest, the hues of orangish-red coloring your windpipe, the itch to push him away spiking more than ever.

But you part from him with a different reason altogether. 

A sharp breath escapes you, airflow flooding into your lungs. It feels easier to inhale and exhale, no longer feeling like there was something constricting and blocking your windpipe.

As your chest rises and falls sporadically, you stare at Jungkook in astonishment. He mimics the expression you hold, a twinkle beginning to spark in his eyes. 

Almost as if he were experiencing the same thing. 

“I-I can–” 

“Breathe?” He completes with a smile and you slowly nod, tears slipping out of your eyes. 

Jungkook wraps his arms around you comfortingly, his own eyes glossing over as you tremble. The pads of his thumbs come up to cup your face, gently brushing your tears away. 

He rises to his feet, reaching his hand out. You take it within a heartbeat, sniffling as he walks back into the venue with you. 

Your tender gazes occasionally meet, with soft smiles being exchanged. 

A sharp scream pierces through the air.

The two of you whirl around in an instant, noticing Aera's mother stepping out of the room in the frenzy.

“What happened?” You immediately ask, watching the woman’s shake her head frantically. 

She doesn’t answer you, too caught up in her own thoughts, “Oh, it’s terrible, so, so terrible–”

You frown, but Jungkook tugs on you, eyes staring straight into the room that she had left.

Stepping next to him, your eyes transfixed into horror.

Aera stands in the middle of the room, with Sunoo by her side – a plethora of tiger flowers and tulips surrounding the two of them. 

[kemetic-dreams]

The term 'Sub-Saharan' Africa is a colonial language that was used to belittle African nations south of the Sahara and to separate the other countries from North Africa– Egypt, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, and Sudan due to them being Arab states.

Colored, Negro, Black, Nigger

Every one of these terms come from the mindset of Europeans not Africans. Indigenous African societies do not use the term black as a racial identity outside of influences brought by Western cultures.

Contemporary anthropologists and other scientists, while recognizing the reality of biological variation between different human populations, regard the concept of a unified, distinguishable "Black race" as socially constructed.

Black is a term developed in the Colonial Assembly of Maryland, after a rebellion called Bacon's Rebellion, fought from 1676 to 1677.

The alliance between European indentured servants and Africans (a mix of indentured, enslaved, and Free Negroes) disturbed the colonial upper class. They responded by hardening the racial caste of slavery in an attempt to divide the two races from subsequent united uprisings with the passage of the Virginia Slave Codes of 1705.

White took on the meaning "British, Christian and having rights. Black meaning not having rights.

These divided the two populations, by giving poor Europeans with no power, unprecedented power over all non-Europeans.

The laws were devised to establish a greater level of control over the rising African slave population of Virginia. It also socially segregated white colonists from black enslaved persons, making them disparate groups and hindering their ability to unite. Unity of the commoners was a perceived fear of the Virginia aristocracy, who wished to prevent repeated events such as Bacon's Rebellion, occurring 29 years prior.

By refusing to call you an African, it belittles you, no such thing as black names, black land or black languages. It is like calling a woman big lips or flat butt and refusing to call the woman by her actual name. "Hey colored girl, or black boy".

In social psychology, a stereotype is a generalized belief about a particular category of people.

African populations have the highest levels of genetic variation among all humans. 

Why You Probably Shouldn't Say 'Eskimo'

People in many parts of the Arctic consider Eskimo a derogatory term because it was widely used by racist, non-native colonizers. Many people also thought it meant eater of raw meat, which connoted barbarism and violence. Although the word's exact etymology is unclear, mid-century anthropologists suggested that the word came from the Latin word excommunicati, meaning the excommunicated ones, because the native people of the Canadian Arctic were not Christian.

According to the Constitution of India, we are “the people of India that is Bharat”

In English language discourse, the word ‘India’ is used and in Hindi expressions, the word ‘Bharat’ is used. The Anglicised call it ‘India’, and the indigenous call it ‘Bharat’. Our ruling class calls it ‘India’, the others, the janata, call it ‘Bharat’. It has become a trend and fashion to prefer the word ‘India’ over ‘Bharat’. We converse with the country in Hindi and other vernaculars while we govern it in English.

Japanese people usually refer to their country as Nihon or Nippon 

The name "Japan" in English is derived from the Portuguese word "Japão," which was used during the 16th century when Portuguese traders and explorers first arrived in Japan. The Portuguese term "Japão" likely evolved from the Malay word "Japang" or "Japang Pulau," which referred to the Japanese archipelago.

The Japanese people themselves refer to their country as "Nihon" (日本) or "Nippon" (日本), and these terms have been used in the Japanese language for centuries.

As European seen themselves as the elites of all races and god's chosen people. They took on the mindset of what I say makes the most sense.

Renaming essentially all populations they came in contact with, using their language as opposed to learning the language of the natives.

And whatever religion or spirituality people had Europeans demonized it and forced converted people to Christianity.