#and the prop spawning was worth it

[spacebarbarianweird]

How about a fic of Astarion not liking his bite mark touched but then Tav does it. 💕

Here we go! Hope you will enjoy it!

The Marks on Our Skin

The bite mark is the only place on Astarion's body Tav doesn't touch. Until now.

Tags: fluff, comfort, f!Tav, established relationship, post-game

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

Astarion finds solace in the late evening hours when the sky still holds a warm glow, but the sun is almost gone down. It's neither day nor night, a perfect in-between that he eagerly anticipates.

Emerging from his tent, he sprawls out on the grass with a book in hand, watching as the sky slowly darkens, revealing the sparkling tapestry of stars above.

Astarion props a bag beneath his head, and the fingers trace the cover of the book, its surface still bearing the faint marks of dried blood. A soft smile tugs at his lips as he recognizes Tav's scent.

Astarion opens the book and makes a mental note to convince Tav to learn how to read. He sets the book aside and chooses another, its pages also marred by blood, though not Tav's this time. The text is written in the archaic elven dialect, a challenging puzzle that demands his full concentration. Yet, as he delves into the words, the text starts sounding familiar. As if he already read it, many years ago, when his eyes weren't red and sun didn't burn.

Unwanted memories and thoughts creep into his mind, stubborn as vermin, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't divert his focus.

"How's my favorite man doing?" a loud voice yanks him away from the abyss he had started to slip into.

Tav.

She walks unsteadily, like someone who's had enough to drink, not to think clearly but can still stand on two feet.

"I thought you went to search for quests, not for a drink," he says without any hint of accusation. Tav collapses beside him, and he catches a whiff of ale.

"Are you drunk?"

"No. Well, maybe a little." She giggles and nuzzles into his collarbone. "What's four mugs of ale for a warrior like me?"

He chuckles. "Considering your body type, it's quite a lot."

Tav focuses, attempting to devise something clever to say, but gives up. She presses her body closer to him, and Astarion can feel her heart beating.

"It's very inconsiderate of you to get drunk without me," he teases, studying her face. A soft smile graces his lips as he cannot tear his gaze away from her.

"You can drink my blood, and then we can get drunk together," she playfully suggests.

"I'm not going to feed on you until you get sober," he plants as tender kiss on her forehead.

"Alright, alright, next time, I won't go alone," she concedes. "What if someone wants to harm me or hit on me? You'll need to show them to who I belong to."

He chuckles, reminiscing about the first few months of their journey when he cringed at her casual remarks about belonging to him.

"No, you're not mine," he would protest. "You're not my possession, not my spawn, not my … anything. You're an independent person. Please don't say things like that."

Over time, he understood that Tav's words aren't meant to diminish her self-worth. It is simply an innocent joke between two genuinely free individuals in love. It is her way of reassuring him that she isn't going anywhere, even when Astarion questions his own value in her eyes.

As Tav tilts her chin upward, a subtle flinch passes through him, a reminder of the bite mark they have agreed not to touch.

"I like your bite mark," she drunkenly admits.

He pulls away, and her head falls onto the grass. "Tav, what in the sweet hells are you talking about?"

"I love your bite mark," she repeats. "It proves how strong you are. Did you notice it's not just fangs? It's also incisors. The bastard was so hungry and desperate for prey that he almost gnawed a part of your neck. It shows how strong you are that despite all the horrors and pain, you never gave up."

Tav yawns, her eyes half-closed. Astarion is sure it wasn't just four mugs of ale. She probably remembers drinking only four. The rest is the mystery.

His fingers tenderly brush against her cheek as he asks, "Do you truly mean all that?"

Tav's eyes meet his, her response unwavering. "I do."

He rises to his feet, carefully lifting Tav into his arms, and carries her into the tent. He lays her gently on the bedroll. It seems like they aren't going anywhere this night. Anyway, he has some books to finish reading,

Astarion lovingly tucks Tav beneath her blanket, ensuring she is shielded from the chill of the night.

"Little Star"

"Hm?"

"Can I touch your bite mark?"

He hesitates. It is the only part of his body Tav hasn't touched yet.

"Yes."

He doesn't understand why he agrees. But it's already too late to take away the permit.

Sitting up, a silly smile plays on her lips as she wraps her hands around his neck. With an unexpected boldness, she presses her lips against the scar on his neck. He can feel the touch of her tongue, the graze of her own incisors against his skin, almost as if she is trying to drink his blood.

As Tav releases him, she nestles on her bedroll and dozes off peacefully.

Astarion remains in the tent, keeping a watchful eye over Tav. When hunger gets too strong to bear, he ventures into the woods to hunt.

When he returns before the sun rise, his hunger satiated, and his strength renewen, Tav is still asleep.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Tav exclaims when she realizes it is already afternoon. "Now we'll have to wait the whole day before hitting the road again."

"That's alright, darling. I hope you had fun yesterday. I don't remember ever seeing you so wasted."

"I remember fighting someone who said she'd kill every vampire she came across."

"Did you win?"

"I'm sorry! I should be offended by the mere suggestion that I could lose in a tavern brawl!" She crawls closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder, her tone turning more serious. "Did I hurt you yesterday?"

"No," he assures.

"Really? I mean, do you say it because you mean it, not just to spare my feelings? It would make me sick if I crossed your boundaries and made you feel… bad."

"Everything is alright. I mean it."

"Can I do this again?"

He nods. Tav kisses his bite mark. Again and again, and he completely melts in her hands.

Astarion marvels at the simple ministration and how it brings him such bliss. He has little faith in gods or divine rewards, knowing nothing could compensate for what happened to him. And yet…

There is Tav. Tav, for whom he wants to be a better version of himself. Tav who caresses his scars and makes the pain fade. Tav, whose blood is, in a way, divine.

Tav eventually pulls away and invites him to lay his head on her lap. "Will you read to me?" she asks.

"The book with bloody fingertips?" he inquires.

"Yep. What's this book about?"

"It's a collection of fairytales for elven children."

Tav's eyes glisten. "Exactly what I need with my hangover."

Astarion opens the book and begins reading. Tav starts massaging his scalp and occasionally lightly touches the bite mark. Sometimes, when he pauses and looks up, he finds Tav's eyes focused on his face.

Those are simple stories. About heroes, magic, dragons, monsters. Naïve. Stupid. Childish. But Tav likes them. In the same way, she likes a good fight, ale, and nights of passion.

Moreover, he can't help but think Tav is similar to these fairytale heroes. She is the hero who protects him, who makes him better. Who gives him all the hope he needs to survive the day.

And he will do anything to make her happy and safe.

"Tav," he whispers.

"Yes, my heart?" she replies.

"I love you."

Tav kisses his forehead "Well, I will never grow tired of hearing that from you."

---

Tag list

@tragedybunny @caitlincat-95 @tallymonster @astarionsbeloved @lumienyx @fayeriess @aoirohi

[crow-aeris]

In honor of mermay, but not related to any prompts:

“I don’t trust that guy,” Jason narrowed his eyes, jabbing a finger at the weird not-human and his half-human son chatting with fully-human Bruce and fully-human Alfred.

“Relax, Jay,” their fully selkie not-human brother drawls with his legs in their giant pool filled with aquarium-grade water, “It’s just Uncle Clark with his son.”

Tim shrugs, “I dunno, they look weird… and smell weird. Cass says theyre- and I quote- really weird, if Cass says they’re weird? Sorry, Dick, they’re weird.”

“So…” Dick puts on a cheshire smile and leans forward, “you can even say they’re Super -weird? Eh? Wha- AUGH!”

Tim yelped, flinging himself out of the pool as Jason lurched forward to yank the selkie into the water. Cass was laughing below the surface, a wide smile on her face as Dick floundered and screeched. Jason had his claws hooked into the selkie’s pants with a bright grin.

“BRUCE!” Dick screeched, the sound of struggle clear within this floor of the manor, and Tim pulls his caudul fin out of the water in disgust, “ALFRED! HELP, I’M- AUAGDHGAGAHDHFPFPSPFGSAGO—”

“What is going on here?” Bruce walked over to examine the scene with an incredulous expression, “Jason, let your brother go!”

The lionfish mer hissed in displeasure, but released the selkie after a stern look from the butler.

“BRUCE!” Dick gasped dramatically, clawing himself onto the floor. His Pelt remained dry, but everything else about Dick was sopping wet. There was even a puddle forming under him.

Tim eyed him warily, flattening his cranial fin as Damian approached with the other half-human, half not-human spawn of the not-human Dick had named “Clark”.

“Grayson, cease you incessant chatter,” Damian huffed before addressing his… “friend”, “Jon, feast your eyes upon our mers.”

The older human walked over while Bruce ranted to Clark about his children’s “dramatics”. Meanwhile, Damian was still talking, “Timothy is a pedigree mer. He is born of a prestigious bloodline, and his scales echo his worth. The previous humans he resided with were not providing him with the proper enrichment a mer of his value should have, and so Father rescued him.”

Tim grimaced at the human’s description before glancing at his red-dappled tail, “Thanks?”

“What do you have to say about me?” Jason swam over and propped himself upon the ledge of the pool with a grin.

Damian sniffed and gave Jason a side-long glare while “Jon” giggled.

“He looks pretty,” the bright boy commented while his… brother(?) hummed.

“I think this guy looks prettier, kinda like a koi.”

Jon examined Tim’s tail before nodding, “Hmm, you’re right!”

Tim frowned, feeling suddenly self conscious at the attention.

Damian sniffed, “Please do not scrutinize Timothy! He is a sensitive mer, and I will not allw you to unsettle him! Jason, on the other hand, is hardier- though I advise you to keep a healthy distance from his spines. His piscine breed is that of a lionfish-”

Jason grins and flashes his fins like the show-off he is.

“-and Father rescued him from an illegal mer trade,” Damian finished.

“What about her down there?” the older half-human asked, peer down at Cass, who popped up to wave and tap Tim’s tail. With a smile, he flicked his tail and artfully drenched the older half-human with the pool water.

“Kon!” the little one exclaimed in shock, and Tim darted away before Bruce coild spot him.

“Jason!” Bruce called again, “We don’t splash guests either!”

“But-!”

“I doesn’t matter if he was annoying, we don’t splash guests!” Bruce sighed in exasperation before returning to his conversation with an amused Clark and an equally entertained Alfred.

Damian continued on with his infodumping, “Cassandra is a mer who escaped from a facility ran by my grandfather, who was trying to create the ultimate weapon for marine warfare.”

“Oh!” Kon blinked in surprise, “That… was not what I was expecting!”

“I kinda feel bad for them,” Jon commented, but Jason waved him off.

“Don’t worry about Cass. If she was in any real danger, she’ll just electrocute you and then rip your throat out!”

“That’s so cool!” Jon chirped eagerly while Kon remained slightly peturbed.

Tim shrugged, “I guess, but it’s kinda… just our lives. Dick has seen so much more of the world than any of us.”

“Maybe, but he’s an asshole,” Jason replied and Cass nodded in agreement. The selkie jerked upright with an affronted gasp and a mock-offended expression.

“Excuse me! I am not an asshole!”

“Mhm, sure not,” Jason countered with a flap of his hand. Before Dick could continue his defense, Bruce approached once more with Clark and Alfred at his side.

The not-human helped Dick to his feet before addressing the two half-human boys, “Alright, boys. It’s getting pretty late, so we should head back to the farm before Ma and Pa worry.”

The boys chorused their agreement before… floating and flying out of the manor? Tim thinks that not-human and his half-human sons were weird.

Bruce took in a breath before kneeling down in front of them, “Okay, kids. I know your thoughts on strangers in the manor-”

Jason interrupted with a flat expression, “If they weren’t kids, then I would’ve stung them.”

Tim huffed as Bruce’s expression tightened, “Okay, I wouldn’t have done something as extreme as Jason, but I really don’t like strangers in the manor… I kinda don’t mind that Kon, though.”

“What?! Tim!” Jason gasped in offense and Tim groans.

“Shut up, Jason! He had shiny things, okay!”

“Timmy has a crush!” Cass teased swimming over to wrap herself around Tim’s torso and drag him underwater. Very wisely, Tim decided it was in his best interest to not fight with the electric eel.

“Ugh, I wish I’d sting him sooner!”

“You will not be stinging anyone,” Bruce admonished, and Tim could hear Jason boo in dissatisfaction before joining Cass and Tim underwater.

“Father, I support Jason’s idea,” Damian chimed in, “we should allow him to sting Timothy’s potential paramore, for Timothy is a regal creature and shall not be paired up with such a thing below his standing!”

Tim groans in exasperation, the sound echoed by Bruce as he thrashed his red-white tail. Suddenly, the water churned and a ringed seal joined them in the pool, his eyes bright with mischief and whimsy.

As Bruce watched his fish (and seal) children tussel together underwater, he pulls Damian close against his side. Alfred rests his hand on Bruce’s shoulder, and the man cannot help but marvel at how far all of them have come since their first introduction into this… messy and patchwork family who now all call the Wayne Manor home…

Bruce could not be happier.

(here’s like, the prequel)

[selunesdreams]

Chapter 34: Starburned and Unkissed

“Cazador took everything. He’s dead, and he still has everything. I can’t see my reflection, can’t stand in the sun, I don’t even remember what it’s like to draw a real breath. All my respiration is a force of habit. Half of my personality is from simply trying to survive. You’ll never hear my heartbeat or see the color of these eyes before they turned red. Before I grew fangs.” His nose wrinkles in disgust. “There is nothing to be lost because he took all of it. You’ll never know the man I was before-” She groans. “Please don’t try to convince me you were ever a man of virtue.” 

Chapter from ongoing fic Forms of Imprisonment. Full chapter/story on AO3.

Pairing: Spawn Astarion (post-tadpole) x OFC

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: 18+. Violence, blood, trauma, mild violence (this chapter), sexual tension, fluff, soaking wet Astarion, hot angry Gale, Shadowheart acting like the only adult in the room, Astarion being an ass. Preexisting relationship, relatively mild chapter but part of a series (that is generally explicit).

--------------------------------------------

“Hello, lover.”

Astarion’s grin widens as Celeste pins him to the ground. Water trickles from his damp hair while his rain-soaked trousers chill through her inner thighs as they bracket him in place, her nightgown bunched around her hips. A puddle forms by the open balcony doors as it thunders outside and the curtains, drenched by the storm, ripple in the wind.

“Celeste, darling, drop the stake.” Astarion says precariously, his smile fading, but she remains frozen in disbelief as she stares at him.

Gale, now awake and disoriented, gapes at the scene before him, his eyes wide as if Astarion were a ghost. Shadowheart sits on her knees, her body tense as she contemplates how to best react.

Astarion’s free hand reaches out, his fingers grazing Celeste’s cheek before sliding his thumb around her wrist to the center of her palm, applying light pressure. Slowly, she eases her hold, and the stake clatters to the floor, rolling under the bed. He gives her a slow nod and releases her.

Shaking, Celeste falls to the side, slumping against the bedframe, her gaze fixed ahead, numbness enveloping her. Astarion props himself up on one arm, wincing from the pain of the impact, as he rises to his knees in front of her.

“Are you alright?” His voice is filled with concern, but he refrains from touching her. Her eyes slide to meet his, rage and relief simmering within. When she doesn’t respond, Astarion stands and brushes himself off, looking between the three of them.

“Well, this is an interesting development.” 

“I assure you,” Gale says as he steps over a puddle and shuts the balcony doors against the howling wind and rain. “There have been no developments.”

“Aside from Astarion poisoning Celeste, stealing from us, and then disappearing, you mean?” Shadowheart leers.

Astarion’s scowl deepens. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

“Why are you here?” Celeste interjects, her voice detached as she gives him a cold, piercing look that makes him wish he’d never come at all. Astarion’s gaze falls to the floor.

“Celeste, I…” He begins with a sigh, crouching before her once again, “I had a plan. To get the Tear safely to Aylin and Isobel, to distract Keresta from you until I could kill her. I never…” his voice falters, “I never anticipated how much I would hurt you. The ways I’d break your trust, what it would do to you…and when I realized what I’d done, I told myself it would be worth it as long as it kept you safe…And now it seems I’ve failed even in that.” He reaches for her hand, but she pulls it back.

“So, why are you here?”

Astarion closes his eyes for a long moment, rain still drips from his soaked curls, cascading down the bridge of his nose. “The Sharrans have…so much power at their disposal. Their cleric incinerated Artor Morlin in shadows right in front of me. Keresta said…” He swallows hard, his throat tight. “She told me she’d do the same to our friends, to you, if I crossed her.”

“So you chose to leave,” Shadowheart interjects, raising an eyebrow in disbelief, “and thought she’d be perfectly okay with that outcome?”

“I had no other choice,” Astarion reaches out and grasps a disoriented Celeste’s arm, “Which is why we need to get out of Waterdeep.” He urges, pulling her to her feet.

“Because that worked out so well the last time,” Shadowheart grumbles. 

Celeste shakes her head. “No. No more running.” 

“Did you hear a word I just said?” Astarion asks incredulously. 

“Give her a moment. This is a lot to take in.” Gale interjects. 

Astarion’s frustration grows. “Fine, I’ll make it simple then. We need to leave now.” He tugs Celeste after him towards the door, but she digs her bare heels into the floorboards, ripping her arm away from him.

In an instant, Astarion catches her wrist, barely an inch from his cheek, just as she attempts to slap him. His eyes grow dark as his fingers curl around it roughly. He slowly backs her into the wall, careful to keep their bodies from touching.

“Let’s not start with that again.” He says through his teeth, “It’s been a very, very long night.”

Suddenly, a pair of rough hands forcefully pull him away from Celeste, throwing him against the doorframe. Gale clutches Astarion’s collar tightly, holding him in place.

“You’re not taking her anywhere against her will,” He snarls, his voice seething with fury. “I said, give her a moment.” A look of surprise washes over Astarion’s face as he recoils from the wizard’s grip.

“Both of you, stop!” Shadowheart swiftly intervenes, pulling Gale off Astarion. He stumbles back, still fuming. The cleric takes a cloak from a nearby chaise and drapes it around Celeste’s shoulders, shooting a disdainful glance at both men.

“Apologies,” Astarion mumbles, clearing his throat with a guilty look, “As I mentioned, a very... long night.” His weariness is clear as he drags a hand across his face. Now, in the light, Celeste notices the hollows beneath his eyes, evidence of how little he’s fed, despite the crimson staining his lips, dried blood on his chin and neck. 

Gale sighs. “Sorry. Blame it on the sudden awakening.” He casts a glance at Celeste, who is silently seething against the wall, then back at Astarion. “Your bed upstairs is still there for you. Perhaps we should all rest and discuss this tomorrow.” 

“We don’t have that kind of time.”

“We have plenty of time. The wards around the tower will hold just fine for now.”

“They didn’t keep me out.” 

“They weren’t meant to. As long as you have good intentions, you are always welcome here, Astarion.” Gale says softly.

Astarion's throat tightens and he nods, somewhat with disbelief, as he reaches towards the door handle, looking at Celeste before he leaves. Her expression has softened some, but remains distant. 

“Thank you,” Astarion says to Gale in a low voice, before slipping into the hall and upstairs to the attic. 

————————————————

Astarion feels her presence lingering in the doorway before he sees her. 

“Care to talk now?” He asks from the bed as he stares at the ceiling. The cobwebs cast intricate patterns of vein-like shadows against the wooden beams, dancing and shifting with each gentle flicker of light from the candle on his desk.

“That depends.” Celeste says. She crosses the threshold of the room, remaining near the wall, her vexation evident. “Will you respect my decisions?”

Astarion rolls his head towards her, releasing an exasperated sigh. “I will. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” 

“Even better.”

With a haughty glare, he sits up and swings his legs off the bed. “Are you here to gloat or did you want something? Perhaps you’ve brought another stake to drive through my heart.”

“You did say you’d prefer to be staked…”

“I know what I said! ” Astarion snaps. He runs a hand through his hair before burying his face in his hands. After a moment, he braces his palms on his knees, and leans forward.

“Can I do anything to fix this?” He asks in a softer tone. 

Celeste lets out a long sigh through her nose. “I don’t know.” Biting her lip, she glances toward the hall. Astarion pushes himself to his feet with a soft grunt. 

“That’s a start, I suppose.” He says with a smirk and crosses the room. Celeste’s eyes follow his every movement as he rests his forearm on the wall, leaning against it, his body inching closer to hers.

She notices his dry hair and fresh clothes, remarking, “You’ve cleaned up. Whose blood was that from before?”

“A… friend’s,” He answers, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty. “She helped me escape. We had to stage an attack to make it believable. No harm was caused.” As he observes a flicker of concern flash across Celeste’s face, he quickly adds, “…and no lines were crossed. A newfound ally. Nothing more."

Celeste nods, her eyes flickering with a sense of relief that is impossible to miss. 

Astarion’s gaze drifts over her, taking in the subtle changes since he last saw her. She’s more toned, presumably from training, and to his surprise, her flushed cheeks and bare shoulders are sun-kissed. Sensing his thoughts, she mutters.

“Wyll has me practicing in the daylight.” 

Astarion can’t help but emit a quiet snort of amusement. “What a waste.” Without thinking, he brushes the back of his fingers down the length of her arm, feeling the warmth radiating from her skin. Celeste watches his movements, flushing in response, but doesn’t recoil.

“How so?” 

“Surely there are other undiscovered powers of yours hiding in the moonlight.” His fingers lift away, curling towards his hand, lingering, as if unsure what to do next. The absence of his touch leaves her skin in a state of constant ache.

“I’ve had some…limited success while you’ve been away.” She confesses.

Astarion raises an eyebrow, tilting his head back slightly and gesturing to the center of the room before crossing his arms. “Well, don't hold back. Show me.” 

“It’s not a party trick.”

“Of course.” He says with an impish grin. 

“Fine. But remember that I said limited success.” She extends her hand before her, furrowing her brow as she recalls Gale’s lesson. As she concentrates, a couple of sparks of light materialize in the air, their transient glow fading almost as quickly as they appeared.

“Well. I’m sure that will have Keresta quaking in her boots.” Astarion jests, his tone laced with sarcasm. “It’s never too late to leave…”

Celeste scowls, her focus intensifying as she attempts to evoke the emotions from before: the anguish, the grief, her family, the connections she had forged over the past several months…

Nothing.

Her gaze shifts to where he watches, his devastating features just barely illuminated in the candlelight. She tries to hold on to her contempt, her anger towards him, but it fades away, replaced by a familiar longing. Her desire to touch him, to be held by him, for all of this pain to…

Astarion raises an eyebrow, questioning her intent as she continues to stare at him. Her stomach flutters in response, and the sparks in the air begin to reform. Yet he remains oblivious, tilting his head to the side, his brow furrowing in curiosity.

“What is it?”

As he speaks, the shimmers intensify, their ethereal glow captivating his attention. A swirling blizzard of blue and silver light encircles them, whispering against their skin, tousling Astarion’s disheveled curls like a winter breeze. The halos of Celeste’s irises seem to flicker as the starlight surrounds them, and Astarion squints, contemplating, before he pins her to the wall, his body melding against hers with a delicate touch.

“What are you doing?” she breathes.

“Testing a theory,” he purrs.

Closing the distance between them, his lips hover just above hers. He drags his fingers across the rough texture of the exposed brick where he had been leaning as he presses himself closer, stifling a moan as her body responds to his. 

The power coursing through Celeste’s veins flares, and suddenly, a night sky bursts above them, dissolving the ceiling into a phantasm of stars. Astarion steals a quick glance upward, one hand still braced against the wall above her, while the other glides down to rest at her waist.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he murmurs into her ear.

Celeste’s breath hitches, and the illusion dissolves. The wooden beams of the attic return as the night sky dissipates, stars falling like snowflakes to the floor and vanishing into nothingness.

Astarion returns his attention to her, cocking his head to the side and frowning as he senses her apprehension. He takes a step back, his face grim, eyelids lowered.

“I’ve lost you, haven’t I?” He asks in a low voice.

She shakes her head. “No,” she whispers, “it’s not that.”

“What do you want, Celeste? Tell me what I can do to fix this.”

“I don’t know….”

“Well, when you finally figure it out, I’m certain they’ll throw a damned ball in your honor.”

“You don’t get to be angry-”

“I get to be whatever the hells I want!” He hisses. 

“If you’d taken one moment to ask me what I’d wanted before, it would have been for you to stay. I would have crawled out of a thousand graves if it spared you from subjecting yourself to servitude again, to Keresta, I thought I’d lost you-”

“There’s no one to lose, Celeste. Cazador took everything. He’s dead, and he still has everything. I can’t see my reflection, can’t stand in the sun, I don’t even remember what it’s like to draw a real breath. All my respiration is a force of habit. Half of my personality is from simply trying to survive. You’ll never hear my heartbeat or see the color of these eyes before they turned red. Before I grew fangs.” His nose wrinkles in disgust. “There is nothing to be lost because he took all of it. You’ll never know the man I was before-”

She groans. “Please don’t try to convince me you were ever a man of virtue.” 

Astarion’s eyes narrow, his lip curling. “Oh, fuck off, I’m serious-”

“And so am I. I love the man you are now, Astarion.” She continues earnestly. “You are not tainted by what he made you do, what was done to you.” She takes a step closer, reaching for his hand, “But he’s finally dead. So leave him to rot,” she pleads, her voice filled with anguish. “and live."

He stares at her, his jaw clenching as he holds her gaze, his expression unreadable.

“Just-” 

“Stop talking.” He growls, and his mouth captures hers in a fierce kiss before she can finish her sentence.

I hope you enjoyed this installment! If you feel so inclined, I'd super appreciate any interaction/kudos on AO3 or Tumblr! If this is where you first found the story, you can go back and find the full fic on AO3 here! Thank you so much! x

[frankendykes-monster]

Countdown to Halloween 2024 ranked

54. The Willies (1990)

53. Hell High (1987)

52. Face of The Screaming Werewolf (1964)

51. Terrifier (2016)

50. The Last Halloween (1991)

49. Cathy's Curse (1977)

48. The Last Shark (1981)

47. Godzilla × Kong: The New Empire (2024)

46. Creepozoids (1987)

45. The Horror of Frankenstein (1970)

44. Frankenstein's Castle of Freaks (1974)

43. Man Beast (1956)

42. Tourist Trap (1979)

41. Daughter of Dr. Jekyll (1957)

40. Fiend (1980)

39. Vampyros Lesbos (1971)

38. Devil Girl From Mars (1954)

37. Halloween Hall o' Fame (1977)

36. Nightmare (1981)

35. The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra (2001)

34. Peeping Tom (1960)

33. Violent Shit (1989)

32. Invaders From Mars (1986)

31. Eggshells (1969)

30. Night of The Ghouls (1959)

29. Scream, Blacula, Scream (1973)

28. The Strange World of Planet X (1958)

27. The Colossus of New York (1958)

26. The Scooby-Doo Project (1999)

25. Night of The Living Doo (2001)

24. Scooby-Doo! and The Reluctant Werewolf (1988)

23. The Great Bear Scare (1983)

22. The Wasp Woman (1995)

21. The Cyclops (1957)

20. Frankenstein and The Monster from Hell (1974)

19. The Tingler (1959)

18. The Boogey Man (1980)

17. The Dragon Lives Again (1977)

16. Quatermass and The Pit (1967)

15. The Brain That Wouldn't Die (1962)

14. Mad Love (1935)

13. The Alien Factor (1978)

12. The Walking Dead (1935)

11. Dr. Caligari (1989)

10. The Deadly Spawn (1983)

9. Invaders From Mars (1953)

8. Alucarda (1977)

7. Uzumaki (2024)

6. Sole Survivor (1984)

5. Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979)

4. Shock Waves (1977)

3. Frankenhooker (1990)

2. Invasion of The Body Snatchers (1978)

1. Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla (1974)

What a productive year. October lasts all of 30 seconds which is why I have to start watching these in July if I want to make any decent headway (31 films is not enough). I desperately tried to make this a year of "have not seens" after last year's top spots being flooded with films I already loved; we mostly did it, mostly. Another top heavy year with relatively few abysmal entries, let's get started.

The Willies is the grand shitshow for this year. It feels like it's an evolutionary precursor to something like Goosebumps or Are You Afraid of The Dark?, but it mostly plays to gross out rather than scares. I don't normally care for anthology horror films to begin so to start off a film with brief segments like a woman eating a deep fried rat or a little white dog being microwave exploded and then doing extended stories on monsters hiding in the school bathroom does not do it for me. The most minimal points possible for some decent lighting and special effects but they are not enough by any means to make this worth watching. Stay away.

Onto the 1980's horror: Hell High is what happens when a film crew asks "what if we put a woman into a situation and didn't stop". I want to call it misogynistic torture porn, but I don't want to devalue that phrase for when I use it for a film later on here, but suffice to say a woman is tortured. Emotionally. For very little reason. Universal was right to block The Last Shark from US theatrical distribution. Not because it's a very blatant Jaws ripoff and they wanted to protect their copyright, but because it's abysmal and nobody should have to pay money to see this. I think the stock footage of sharks juxtaposed with the unmoving props between shots is funny, and some of the soundtrack elevates the experience, like the high shrill drones when the shark attacks a helicopter. Creepozoids is an odd one because 1987 was a bit late for a Mad Max/Escape from New York/Alien knockoff but also too early for some Full Moon tier/softcore porn adjacent 1990's production, so it loses out on both fronts. Fiend I'm struggling to even recall, I feel like Don Dohler had one movie in him (see: his plethora of alien invasion films) and him trying to branch out did him no favors. Nightmare is one I want to enjoy because it's beautifully shot but I feel like I've seen one too many slasher adjacent films at this point that include plot points like the killer having a troubled relationship with his mother or him moonlighting as a regular guy (still better than Pieces mind you). Same with Violent Shit. I feel like my tastes are pretty attuned to films that are just gore effects showcases but this one doesn't have any zany concepts to justify or compliment it, so it just falls flat.

The Boogey Man belongs to that tirade of Halloween knockoffs that flooded theaters up till about 1984 or so, but it puts in some extra effort like having a ghost be the main antagonist and a symbolic interest in mirrors, which is much more than could be asked of films like Terror Train which came out the same year. Dr. Caligari is the obligatory "this is what Tim Burton thinks he's doing" film of this year; its sets and its performances are perfectly otherworldly to a humorous degree. It's something of a quasi-sequel to the 1920 film but its relationship with logic is attuned to such a frequency that it's not a hindrance. Very hard to objectively quantify, you're either in the target audience or you aren't, so of all films here take its tier placement the least seriously. The Deadly Spawn is such a gloriously gross film. The house it's shot in isn't supposed to be disgusting on purpose, it's just one of those century's old buildings where I feel like I'd revulse if I had to touch any surface, and that's before fleshy alien monsters break in and start shredding people to bits. Sole Survivor is one of those magical "missing link" horror films, we've finally found what comes between Carnival of Souls and Final Destination. The actual scares in this film are incredibly minimal as it prioritizes atmosphere that balances between comfort and unease, something incredibly rare for films of virtually any genre. Don't go in expecting ghosts and you'll be pleasantly surprised.

Taking a brief-ish detour to the 1960's, Face of The Screaming Werewolf is one of those films I'm more angry at than anything because it's one of those films that's just the combined stray footage of multiple previous films. Rare for these to be produced in the western market (most of the examples I think of are from (south)east Asia) but it's infuriating nonetheless to see something only to discover it's a worse version of multiple better things you could be seeing. Peeping Tom is our "most overrated" entry winner, I don't know why so many people applaud this one, I feel like barely anything of substance happens to such a degree that any ounce of suspense you could draw from this just disappears, and what a shame with the concept at play here that feels as if it would take another decade for everyone else to catch up. Eggshells is the directorial debut of Tobe Hooper and while cohesive narrative is virtually nonexistent here, the amount of experimental editing keeps this going throughout the entire runtime, you can definitely see where The Texas Chainsaw Massacre came from down the line. I feel like I'm somewhat disappointed with Quatermass and The Pit (not sure what "The Pit" refers to now that I think of it) mostly becasue the first two Quatermass films are among the best 1950's science fiction films. All three are theatrical remakes of television mini-series and that's most felt here with how so much of the film takes place in the single location of an unearthed Martian ship in the heart of London. I do love that we have a science fiction film positing that humans are partly the genetic ancestors of aliens prior to people taking that seriously with books like Chariot of The Gods. The Brain That Wouldn't Die is magical, sometimes those oft hated 1950's/1960's science fiction films have something to give back to the rest of us. Here it's a man so obsessed with his own work that he sees his wife's death as an opportunity to try and kill other women so that he can use their bodies as grounds to bring her back. Which sounds like something else I watched...

...said film being Frankenhooker, which has largely the same plot but now functions as a dark comedy. God. I hate so much that the capitalist enclosure on the production and distribution of film prevented us from getting so much more from Frank Henenlotter. The man is one of the best to ever direct horror, and anyone who thinks this film or any of his other work are "bad movies" just flat out do not know what they're talking about. I think compared to Basket Case and Brain Damage however, Frankenhooker is the one that "keeps giving". You think you've seen everything the film has to offer and then something like a hotel room full of women combusts as they succumb to the effects of exploding crack or Elizabeth (the titular character) has her head punched back and starts spewing smoke and electricity everywhere. Film is a magical medium of art.

Terrifier is what I held onto "misogynistic torture porn" for. No narrative, no character work, just opportunities to show Art the Clown dismember and murder women in revolting ways. It's one of those films that vindicates everyone that doesn't like this genre and makes me wonder what I'm doing sitting side by side with people that like this shit. I think Art cutting off a woman's breasts and scalp and attaching them to his nude body to disguise himself as another prior female victim of his is when my mouth went agape and audibly asked what the fuck am I watching, cannot stress enough how much it takes to get that reaction out of me. There's an upfront showcase that Terrifier knows that it's trash and revels in it, I mean there's an early scene where we see Art has spelled out his name in his own shit, and I'm not sure how to interpret that other than I feel like I might be landing in a Duchamp's Urinal trap. For reasons that allude even me I am still eyeing the prospect of watching both sequels.

I think my overall reaction to Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire is one of "whatever". A passably bad film is a definite improvement from the abomination that was Godzilla vs. Kong but it's admittedly easy to rise up when you start from the bottom. Adam Wingard more or less sucked all the joy I could muster out of the Monsterverse, I truly do not care anymore. If anything can be gleaned from this film it's that this is a film made to reconfirm people's existing biases of "I hate the boring human scenes, I'm only watching this for the monsters." Kong is the best actor in this film because the special effects team have to have him actually emote in response to a given situation, which is more than could be asked of anyone actually on the set, apparently. It's a miracle that this came out in the shadow of Godzilla Minus One than on its own terms.

The glut of 1950's science fiction films are a perennial staple of the Halloween countdown but they don't have a huge showing this year. Man Beast is one I'm going to confuse with all the other yeti movies of the decade though having a main antagonist that's actually a human hybrid gets it some points for originality. Daughter of Dr. Jekyll infuriates me because women who become monsters in film never get to be "hideous" and "scary" like their male counterparts, I'm throwing tomatoes at this one. Devil Girl From Mars is mostly memorable for having a giant clunky robot a la Gort, but the actual titular antagonist doesn't "serve cunt" enough to warrant interest, she should have taken notes from The Astounding She-Monster. The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra is an honorable mention because it's a feature-length pastiche of the z-grade films of this era. I don't think it's particularly funny and I kind of wish they lampooned a "good" film of this type rather than make something that fits in line with the middling genre efforts. Night of The Ghouls is the last horror film directed by Ed Wood and I feel like I enjoy it slightly more than Plan 9 From Outer Space. It's far more competent in producing that lulling insomniac reaction than Wood's prior efforts but I still don't "get" the attention his work consistently gets. The Strange World of Planet X gets a special pass from me just because the finale has a bunch of giant bugs attacking stuff. Moving on.

The Colossus of New York is an oddball modern Frankenstein of sorts with a guy being transformed into a giant robot and struggling to maintain some attachment to his former life. It doesn't always work but once again giant clunky robots are giant clunky robots. I'm something of a Bert I. Gordon apologist so something like The Cyclops is going to hit harder for me than it does for most people. I just like people wandering around Bronson Cave and poor matte shots of giant animals moving in and out of frame, okay? The Tingler was the oddest revisit I've had in a while. I don't think I fully "get" William Castle's approach to film but what stuck out to me is how this one takes place in largely two locations and how Vincent Price's character is kind of the antagonist, experimenting on animals, himself, and other people (resulting in a murder) to get at the Tingler. Much like in House on Haunted Hill I'm not wholly sure how some of the spooky things in this film actually work and I don't think I'm meant to, adding to the bizarre nature of the entire series of affairs here.

Invaders From Mars...oh yes. One of the absolute best 1950's science fiction films is also the most lyrical and dreamlike. It reads at times like a Soviet parody of an American child's story would be like; a boy sees every institution designed to protect him as a child and as an American turn against him on account of some nefarious foreign invader, so his only course of action is to get the US military involved. It plays out so well because it's a POV piece from a young boy, which eases over any leaps in logic both in terms of form and content of this film. Which is more than can be said of the remake, part of the diminishing returns of Tobe Hooper's then contract with Cannon. The film largely follows the same plot structure but decenters the frame through which we see it unfold giving it a "the military is legit" vibe. It also is just a bit more mean-spirited in ways that are designed to taunt the audience versus the original film's more hardened edge to it. I think a great summation of the difference between the two is that the 1953 film had Martian bodyguards that are clearly guys in fuzzy green pajama suits, but they're more threatening than the ones in the 1986 film which are giant quadruped Stan Winston monsters. I digress. Had this come out 20 years later it would be classified as part of the wave of "why are they remaking everything?"

Speaking of remakes, briefly want to mention the 1995 Wasp Woman. It's The Wasp Woman for the 1990's, now with explosions and softcore sex scenes. I can't wholly defend the original 1959 film despite my affinity for it, so let's just say this one is of comparable quality.

The 1930's are a delightful treasure trove for horror but sadly we only have two up for offer. Mad Love makes me curious as to how other adaptations of The Hands of Orlac handle the material; I was convinced a guy got his head surgically reattached and with artificial hands to boot. Always good to see Colin Clive and Peter Lorre. The Walking Dead feels like a dry run for what Boris Karloff would do later that decade in the much better The Man They Could Not Hang, just with him as the victim here and not the mastermind. Truly some of his best work as an actor as he has to float through the world not being allowed to live or die, that shit sticks with you.

We watched a scant few Halloween specials proper, I always feel like I want to watch every Halloween special possible but sometimes the enthusiasm leaves me. The Last Halloween is trash, but that's on me for thinking something made for very small children would appeal to me as an adult. It crams far too much into its brief 22 minute runtime, so the only thing that manages to escape into the zone of interest is that the CGI aliens are actually very well done for a 1991 television production, had this been all about them (voiced by Hanna Barbara stalwarts such as Frank Welker and Don Messick, along with Paul Williams), this would have been far more tolerable. Halloween Hall o' Fame is the first of apparently several Disney television specials that repackaged their theatrical shorts inside a live-action framing device. It's quaint but this format would live and die by the quality of the shorts included; I'm not intimately familiar with Disney's back catalogue solely because they've barely released anything on home media but I absolutely adore the one where Pluto goes to Hell and is put in a kangaroo court with cats on the jury. I feel like the novelty of The Scooby-Doo Project and Night of The Living Doo have carried them along further than their actual quality have, stray artifacts from when Warner Bros was briefly testing to see if Scooby could be an adult property now, doomed to the same fate as Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law. The latter of these two specials made me come to terms with the fact that David Cross was "a big deal" at some point. The Great Bear Scare is the winner here. How could you not like an animated special where bears have to stand up and be brave against an oncoming horde of Halloween monsters? What makes this an oddity (sort of an obligation for me and Halloween specials) is that this is animated 100% without in-betweens, so every character in every scene cross-dissolves in real time between their keyframes. Depending on who you are it could be ridiculously distracting or make you step back and appreciate how hard animation is.

Clearing out our remaining animated showings, I felt like I would really get back into Scooby-Doo and The Reluctant Werewolf. In the mid-late 2000's when Cartoon Network was desperately trying to excise showing anything from their backlogs, this is one of those films that was on repeat constantly as midday viewings especially over summer. It's just so far removed from what Scooby-Doo "proper" is that it's an enigma, I go to bat to defend each of the "red shirt Shaggy" movies but this is brain melting at times, there is no mystery to solve, monsters are real, Fred/Daphne/Velma are completely absent, half the film is dedicated to a drag race, it goes on and on and on that I feel numb after a bit. Uzumaki...it's good. I feel like the fact that this was in production hell for five years following the first trailer release made me stop caring so all the shenanigans regarding the reaction to the animation dropping off (the production team got screwed over, how the fuck do studios not have the money for FOUR EPISODES, David Zlasv strikes again) brushed off of me. Regardless of that I think the actual pacing would have restricted this given how much sequential material from the manga now has to occur concurrently. It gets by solely because it's Uzumaki and as such it channels such a foreboding sense of dread and despair that is unreal. This more than anything is the true epitome of cosmic horror because there is no "source" or "identity" behind the threat that is warping reality around you, there is nothing to oppose and be defiant against, which was true of the manga and it remains true here. Bravo.

The 1970's prove to be another sporadic decade for horror. Cathy's Curse proves that no matter how good technical effects are, do not watch any Carrie knockoffs. Blah. Frankenstein's Castle of Freaks...you took a movie where a Frankenstein monster fights a caveman and made it boring, congratulations. In the interim between 2021's viewing of Curse of Frankenstein and now, I've made the effort to watch the entirety of the Hammer Frankenstein series. They make for a brilliant reinterpretation of the source material with Frankenstein effectively being antagonist: he kills consistently for his experiments, which often time warp and alter people's identities along with their bodies. The "holy triumvirate" of the series as referred to by me would be The Revenge of Frankenstein, Frankenstein Created Woman, and Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed, all for showcasing new stuff that can be done with the character and any prior influences such as the Universal films being absent. Then comes The Horror of Frankenstein, a soft remake of Curse of Frankenstein, with Terence Fischer and Peter Cushing both absent. It's a dry and tedious affair that just rehashes what Curse already did, just now with a black comedic angle and no real consequences for Frankenstein himself. It's easily the worst of the series and why I'm glad Hammer backtracked for Frankenstein and The Monster From Hell. This is probably the first instance in film history where a sequel has consciously ignored a preceding remake, and while it's not wholly original either, it's comfort food for fans of this series, and now employs a darker more claustrophobic setting in an ~insane asylum~. Not the best ending for the series, but Hammer, along with Toho and Ray Harryhausen's efforts with Columbia, sort of represented the "old" styles of horror that were pretty quickly being replaced as the decade went on. This film specifically came out the same year as the likes of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, it was a transitional period where what horror once was was cast away. Still not sure why the monster in this film looks like a Neanderthal man but that's just me.

Tourist Trap desperately tries to be one part Psycho and one part Texas Chainsaw, and it admittedly starts off with a nice hook of animatronic puppets being the main focus of the film, but it falls through the cracks and just becomes another random 1970's horror film. Vampyros Lesbos makes me realize that my infatuation with Zombi 3 last year did not mean I'm suddenly infatuated with Lucio Fulci's overall filmography, exceptions are not the rule. Come to think I don't think I've seen a single lesbian vampire film that I'm smitten with, how do you make this boring and not sexy at all, fuck you. Scream, Blacula, Scream is the obligatory Blacula cash-in sequel, nothing worthwhile to see here and none of the charm and significance of the first film is carried forward here, sigh. "DEDICATED TO THE MILLIONS THAT LOVE BRUCE LEE," The Dragon Lives Again is one of the plethora of films featuring Lee impersonators following his death, showing Lee in Hell as he has to find a way back to Earth while also fighting off The Godfather, Dracula, The Man with No Name, Emanuele, Zatoichi, and James Bond while allying himself with Popeye and Dr. Who. No I am not making any of this up, yes, this film was made with very little money so it sounds far more interesting than it actually ends up being, but it's a cute film, I can't be mad at a film made for me, nor can a movie showing Popeye eat spinach to fight mummies or Bruce Lee knocking out Dracula with his "third leg" be something you don't go out of your way to watch.

The Alien Factor is Don Dohler's first and best film. I love the fact that a dozen people made a small scale alien invasion/slasher film in their backyards with actually solid special effects for something that was probably made on the weekends. You can't hate this film, it's made from pure love for what was already decades old genre material. Had some of the script and acting been tightened up this could have become one of the more widely recognized independent films of the decade. Oh...Alucarda. I hate when they make a lesbian devil worshiper film between girls coming to terms with theirs sexual orientation and then they aren't the heroes of the story. We've come a long way since then.

Given that the Eggers film is still a few months out, I'd say Nosferatu the Vampyre is my preferred interpretation of the story (not my favorite Dracula adaptation overall mind you). Let me say that I think remaking Nosferatu is ridiculous solely because you're just doing Dracula, again, just with some stylistic details brought on from a specific prior Dracula. But this film goes all out. It's one of those times where I'm reminded of why slowly paced films with shots that last minutes at a time are so great. It relies very little on narrative (the extent/nature of Dracula's power of the geographic barriers between Wismar and Transylvania go unexplained) but you get so thoroughly sucked into the setting and the characters that you can't complain. This has undeniably the best portrayal of Mina in any Dracula film, she's effectively the protagonist by the second half and each of her encounters with Dracula are on her terms, he's effectively powerless against her even if she ensures they both die in the end. Also, rats. So many rats. Everywhere. The plague is in town.

Shock Waves is just great 1970's horror. Shoot on location, hold the camera in hand the entire time, do it cheap, have a dreamy distant narrator, and make it grisly. I do find the concept of Nazis engineering platoons of super soldiers and we only seeing just the one in this film is probably the scariest thing about it, it invites you to think about what else is happening out of sight. My favorite first watch of the year.

1978's Invasion of The Body Snatchers is also a phenomenal remake. This one is difficult for me to talk about because it just pushes all my buttons, I felt like I wanted to cry throughout the duration of this viewing, it is an incredibly mean film. Someone you know just one day turns on you, and then everyone else follows suit. You think you know your surroundings and your city but everything is flipped upside down and you can't even describe why. From the very start when you see the premature pods land on Earth it's made immediately clear that no one is making it out of here, it was too late as soon as it started.

But there can only be one #1, and this year it's Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla. Another instance of "nothing is going to beat this" as soon as I rewatched it. I feel like I'm alone in considering this one of the absolute best in the series, I feel like between the espionage and exploration and blood and laser fights that this is just one of the films that reminds you of why we make and why we watch movies, you get to have some semblance of every possible human emotion watching this. There's not much more you can ask for.

[psychospore]

In Another Life

A/N: It has been a horrible week - been getting sick and all but I know I needed to finish this. <3 Hope you will enjoy this

Summary: You were Odin's most loyal Valkyrie, but he ends up plotting to kill you when he was made aware of your plans with Loki

Word count: 1814

Pairing: Asgardian!Loki x Asgardian!Reader

Warnings: Odin being a big d*ck, angst, mentions of violence, blood, and death.

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"Whatever the Allfather asks you to do, it's not worth dying for, darling" you pursed your lips as you contemplate Loki's words. He could have asked the healers to tend to your bruises and wounds but he'd rather do it himself - to make sure nothing serious has befallen you and to have more time before Odin damns you in another god-forsaken conquest.

Loki was ordering Heimdall to transport him to Niflheim to ensure your safe return. It's been 17 days since your last contact and as the commander of the Valkyries, you had your hands full fighting the spawns of Hel in order to liberate the captured Asgardians.

Alas, with liberation comes an unfortunate trade. Despite the mission being a success, you lost a quarter of your army to Hel and you barely survived - albeit non-lethal, you sustained a deep, long gash running from your shoulder down to your palm when a Hel spawn tried to hack you. You were bruised all over, with flat and elevated spots of red and purple bruises decorating your body. You might have broken a few bones in your ribs too as your breathing was labored when all pandemonium had ceased.

"There is no need to transport you, Prince Loki. The ladies are on their way back," Heimdall declares as a flash of light brought you back to Asgard.

You were propping yourself up with a sword as you led your remaining army and the rescued citizens back to Asgard.

You were struggling to keep your consciousness when you saw Loki running straight towards you, people making way for the anxious Prince. He caught you in his arms before you stumbled in great exhaustion.

You did not know how long you were out but you were awakened by a gentle caress. Your eyes were heavy but you managed to prop them open to see a worried Loki carefully tending to your wounds.

"Whatever the Allfather asks you to do, it's not worth dying for, darling" you pursed your lips as you contemplate Loki's stern words. He could have easily asked the healers to tend to your bruises and wounds but the Prince would rather do it himself - to make sure nothing serious has befallen you and to have more time before Odin damns you in another god-forsaken conquest.

With a parched throat, you hoarsely responded, "It is my sworn duty to the people of Asgard to protect them"

"And protect them you did, my heart," he draws closer, propping you to sit upright as he sits beside you on the bed and carefully assisting you to drink a glass of water.

Your fingers touched as the familiar warmth of his hand enveloped your weary heart. How you've yearned to be just a tender and delicate maiden, awaiting her lover as you both promenade in the gardens, exchanging kisses and embraces under a tree. Such an innocent and fragile life.

Your lips curled to a frown when reality sets back in, you are a Valkyrie. You have bigger responsibilities towards the people than your own personal interests. You have taken lives as much as you saved them, and your hands are covered in blood that you cannot wash away because of the guilt - all under the will of Odin.

A stray thought enlightens you, maybe it is high time for you to leave the battlefield, you have done more than enough and you wish to settle soon in marriage with Loki. Maybe start a family soon too. Oh, how you wish to see little Lokis and Y/Ns running through the halls of the castle. It makes your heart lighter and your resolve stronger.

"Thank you, my love, for being faithful to me through all these years. I have decided. I shall speak to Allfather about retirement. I want to spend more time with you in the future," you lovingly gazed at him.

A week passed after your conversation with Loki, and most of your bruises and wounds have healed thanks to Loki's healing seidr. Allfather summoned you after you requested an audience with him.

You walk through the huge door of the throne room to see the Allfather seating on his regal throne. You bend your knees and bow down in reverence, "Allfather, thank you for granting my request," you spoke.

"y/n, dear, my most trusted Valkyrie. Raise your head and tell me what your request is" he responded

"Allfather, I have served as the Valkyries' commander for a significant amount of time and performed numerous conquests in your name but I hope you can grant me my desire - I wish to lay down my sword and retire. I hope to settle down soon and start a family with Loki,"

"How cruel would I be if I am unable to grant your wish. Of course, my dear. You can rest from the battlefield if you wish so... " He chuckled and you beamed in response."... Although, I have one last request from you. You don't have to force yourself to do this but it's an important thing for Loki and I wanted you to have it as a parting gift. "

Your eyebrows furrowed, "what is it Allfather?"

"In Jotunheim, there is an orb that contains Loki's repressed Jotun powers. It is in the keeping of a strong guardian, deep in the permafrosted caverns of Jotunheim. I wish for him to have it now that you've both decided what you wanted to do for your future." You can shake the unnerving feeling that looms over you as Odin says that, but everything for Loki, you assured yourself. You take a deep breath and faced the Allfather, "as you wish, Allfather. I will gather my men --"

"No need - it is something that must not be known by another. People are a fickle breed and they will use it to usurp their ruler. This is the task for you alone, my dear, unfortunately. Even Loki must not know." Your head drops, you just want to get this over with so you made your preparations to depart as soon as possible.

You were mounting your horse to depart in the dead of the night when Loki saw you. He ran as fast as he could but he was too late. No one around could tell him where you went, so he ran towards Odin's room - waking the poor bastard up.

"What in the nine realms is the meaning of this?" His voice raised upon the sudden intrusion of Loki, sitting upright on his lush bed.

"I saw y/n depart - she won't leave like that if not for your orders" he practically screamed saying this.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled trying to lay back in his bed but Loki ran up and grabbed him, staring daggers towards the old god's eye, rage seething in every fiber of his being.

"I ask again, respectfully, father. Where is y/n?"

"Jotunheim. I sent her there to die. The audacity of that lowly valkyrie to talk about marriage with you." every word slipping out of Odin's mouth was like venom to Loki, knowing his own father plotted to kill his love.

"She sacrificed her life to serve you!" eyes bloodshot from holding back all the rage and tears

"And to die she shall - what better way for a Valkyrie to die than in battle, knowing she is doing it for the love of her life"

Loki heard enough, and in a fit of rage, he struck a dagger right into Odin's heart. His last words are garbled as blood pours out of his mouth. From the gaping wound on his chest flowed blood that stained the pristine white sheets of the bed.

In sheer terror, Loki fell back knowing full well he killed Odin but he immediately got back to his senses knowing his love needs him. He rushed out through the open window, not looking back to depart for Jotunheim.

In Jotunheim, you were met by the stinging cold. Your thick coat barely withstands the wild temperature. It was a consolation that it did not take a long time for you to discover the entrance of the cavern. Inside, it was a bit warmer and less torrential. You lit a torch and made your way toward the deeper parts of the cavern.

You can almost see the orb, floating in the middle of an empty dome-like space. You scanned the surroundings for any signs of creatures that might be guarding the orb. You spot a slithering creature writhing underneath. Ebony scales interlocking from each other, you cannot see where it starts or ends so you decide to light another torch and throw it in the direction opposite to you. In a flash, the torch was quickly engulfed by the creature, which barely answered your looming question.

You camped there for half an hour, preparing weapons to fight off the monster when suddenly the whole area shook. Debris started to fall making you unable to go back from where you came in. With no choice, you decided to face the creature head-on.

You jumped from behind the rock where you were hiding and shot the creature making it prop its huge head out to attack you. It was fast, but you were faster - dodging each heavy blow you responded by slashing through its tough hide. It was almost impenetrable. This went on for hours until a bright idea came, throwing an explosive bomb inside the creature's mouth. It was difficult but you managed to do it, the creature writhe in pain before laying immobile on the ground.

You reached out to grab the orb when you felt a searing pain in your chest. You looked down to see blood dripping, and you look back to see that the creature made its final attempt by piercing you when you least expected it - which it succeeded in doing. You kneeled from the loss of strength, eyes starting to get hazy as you felt your life slipping away from you.

You lie on the cold ground of the cavern - bathing in your own blood as you remember everything, your life as a Valkyrie, your promise to Loki... Oh, Loki. You didn't even get to say a proper goodbye. A tear fell from your eye before closing it for the last time.

Loki manages to find you in the cavern. Your lifeless body was already frozen by the cold of Jotunheim. He ran to embrace you in his arms trying to find any way to bring you back. Emotions well up, rage, anger, frustration... Regrets...

Gathering all of his Jotun powers, Loki encased you both in permafrost. Frozen in time - you like your love for each other. If you cannot be in life, maybe in death you both can find solace. Maybe in another life, you both will have a better chance to be together.

[chevvy-yates]

Ryder + Mantis Blades

Is one of my biggest wishes to VP — in a way that it looks good.

I've tried it already several times — only 3x I was looking at the outcome thinking they are… okay-ish. Yet they are not worth posting like I usually do. As some of you might know, the blades do not show up right, they are always bugged in some way.

Up there are my latest tries. I cut off Ry's right hand/arm in these because it always makes a fist and the blade seems to be more bugged than the one on the left arm, so only the left arm can be made of use, though it still doesn't look great.

Below are some of the second try. The best looking ones. I could live with having these bugged blades since in certain angles they look okay-ish. If only it wouldn't be such a stressful pain to take pics!! It's like this: I spawn Ry via AMM, give him a pose and expression I want then freeze him, then set some lights if needed. All good so far, but then: hit the fight button so the blades come out. Then you need to be quick — I switch to photo mode and do a sort of speed run in setting the angle, the FOV, quickly jump into reshade for the DOF, set that fast as well and pressed a lot of times to do screenshots because the blades vanish after 2–3 min. The amount of times I restarted this is way too long and the outcome not really satisfying, tho so I won't do it again.

There is a mod, but it's for female Vs only. There's a prop pack to use but srsly I do not want to spend more time in placing everything together bit by bit, also it would not be Ryder's arm? and there's still Ryder's arm as well. idk how this stuff should even work. Below is my first try ever. The amount of time I cursed on this is not countable.

I will just continue to wait until the day a fix for male V with blades out in photo mode suddenly appears on the nexus page. And this is gonna be one of the happiest days in my life then. xD

Looking at his arms with blades out always has me thinking that Ry replaced his good arms for some entirely mechanical ones. Not that the thought of him walking into a ripper doc's place telling "off with those I want blades", is disturbing enough already — just the thought of never having a real feeling of touch again is disturbing also. His hands aren't real anymore either. It's probably like your hands are numb. you may notice if the surface is hard or soft, idk if he can feel if something is hot or cold, tho. Probably not. 

I experienced some numbness on my left foot not long ago. Somehow I must have damaged one of my bigger nerves there so I always felt a certain numbness (besides some prickling). Maybe feeling sth and receiving touch with and on his hands might feel similar? I’ll think about this for a bit. It is an important detail given the thematic when he’s all cuddly with Thyjs (who’s left hand is entirely cybernetic as well, but his right one is still organic so he can surely tell the difference how things feel).

⚠️ READ: Please do not repost/reupload any of my art here or to any other platform, or I will be forced to do anything to get it annihilated.

[trans-mephisto]

You know, I have been thinking latley and.....

Arthur and Rin would be lile the perfect dream team if it wouldn't be for Arthur's racist and borderline genocidal tendencies with demons.

Just hear me out :

Both Arthur and Rin are known for not being the smartest of the bunch. They tend to get very excited abt stuff they enjoy and are very stuborn too. They basically share the same core personality !

Arthur with his claymore has a fighting style more focused on slow, but powerfull attacks. During a fight he moves in rather large heaps at a time. Rin's fighting style is very agile. While his flames allow him to exercise strikes of enormous strenght too, he usually uses smaller/"weaker" heaps with his sword in relative quick succsession.

If we combine those we have Rin able to confuse and distracting a demon bit his more agile fighting style while Arthur can prepare and deal out stronger slashes.

Not to mention what they could do combined. Imagine a blue flame powered Angel Slash.

Returning to their personalities and going away from their fighting abilities, Arthur would the the rock Rin needs in his life. I mean, it's pretty obvious Rin felt kinda lonley after Shiro's passing and struggeled a fair bit with self worth.

He couldn't really rely on Yukio for mental support and he didn't wanna put stuff on his friends. Arthur could be an ear to listen for Rin. Meanwhile Rin would be the thing loosening Arthur up a bit.

He'd show the older that orders aren't everything and props would teach him some social cues by pure proximity.

Not to forget that I am CONVIDENCED that a good chunk of Arthur's problems in the mental department could be solved if they just gave him an apprentice or student to take care of an teach.

Saint Complex and comming off as too princey ? Having a kid around that would look up to Arthur could easily satisfie atleast some of that complex.

Too sadistic/too little empathy for others ? Well kids need a lot of emotion. If Arthur got attached to it he'd deffo naturally get better in that whole empathy department due to pure neccesity.

Too easily manipulatable ? Having someone to teach and look after would deffinitly decrease the amout on time he spends with the Uzais.

Rin who already has a similar personality with Arthur would deffinitly see the blonde getting genuinly attached if we ignore the Spawn of Satan side of things.

Sadly, Arthur was manipulated into being a borderline demonic genocidal maniac by the Uzais 😭

Sorry it took so long to answer this, I've been busy

But I agree with basically all this. I've actually thought a lot about how similar Rin and Arthur are and how they seem kind of like reflections of each other, like Arthur is just how Rin would probably be if he actually was raised as a weapon and not like a son. I also feel like a lot of Arthur's hate towards demons is definitely hammered in by his family, since he doesn't even have an issue with Caliburn (seeing as he actually will hold conversation with her and actually cares enough to wrap her up when its cold, which is cute lol) and he's best friends with Lightning who is obviously a demon fanatic who enjoys seeing and researching demons

The way he seems to almost seem more like a child when Jeremiah comes into the story (how he gets sensitive around his brother and whined about how he wanted to fight in the battle against Satan because Jeremiah said he could) really shows how deep the manipulation goes honestly. I almost wonder if he's scared to go against whatever Jeremiah says sometimes

But if Arthur was able to have that character development I could really see him having an older brother sort of bond with Rin. They're so similar and I feel like they could relate and work together both battle wise and friendship wise pretty well, if that ever were to happen

It'd be cool seeing em fight together too, hopefully if Arthur DOES live and gets his redemption we could see something like that in the manga. It'd be so cool

Plus, I know Yukio wasn't mentioned here, but he has said he likes Yukio despite being a son of Satan as well, so he definitely isn't 100% clouded by his hatred for demons so it could be a possibility still that he can just. Learn to stop being such a dick to Rin if he gets hit with some common sense

But yeah, I enjoy reading your asks and I think most (if not all) of Arthur's issues stem from being manipulated by Jeremiah and the Uzai family. Hopefully he learns to be his own person sometime. I already like a lot of his character so I'd love to see an arc about him :]

[optiwashere]

I think some of your anons have unfortunately been visiting reddit. That place is awful for takes on the BG3 character's,l if you guys want to stay sane avoid it or all you will see is "Shadowheart is a basic bitch/waifu bait" "Karlach is stupid and badly written" "Lae'zel is an ugly Space Nazi with no growth"

Made the same mistake and checked out a thread on the Artifact fight and Unpopular opinions.

Weeeeeeew lad, there are some nasty haters out there bashing the girls. Some really insecure Bae'zel fans really hate Shady and love to bash her goddamn.

She's a"Writers pet" now it seems

It's just the backlash part of the "hype -> backlash -> backlash to the backlash" cycle that popular media goes through on social media.

I don't really understand the factionalism that's spawning out of this game, it's so... frankly, it's embarrassing lol. I'm not going to get into it because I love all the characters and finding ways to make myself hate them to prop up my favorite is silly.

This is why I try my best to stay away from hanging out in the more general fandom spaces! Not worth the headache. I advise you and everyone else to curate your fandom experiences :)

[theworldvsyoshiko]

YOSHIKO VS THE WORLD RETURNS? My Shows,,,, you really find the funny in these random scenarios. I play all the time and just get Mentall Ill over resource management. What IS your like. Base building strategy?

Chaos, mostly. Here are a few of the late-game bases I've produced on here:

Strategy-wise, though, a bunch of random stuff in no particular order:

My bases almost always evolve from the required number of bedrooms with 1-2 other rooms for storage/production -> bedrooms, a walk-in freezer, a kitchen, a room temperature storeroom, and a workshop -> starting to evolve into an actual planned base. Which rooms are which will often change 2-3 times throughout this.

When it comes to choosing where to build my base on the map, the main considerations are where there's fertile soil for growing crops, and which spots have natural cover from hills/water. Cutting down on the angles of attack that invaders can come from helps a lot.

For those two factors, I usually favor hilly maps. Hills grant lots of natural cover, but with fewer overhead mountain tiles where insectoids can spawn if you tunnel into 'em.

(Mountain tiles can still be worth it, though, since it basically limits most enemies to a single entrance. You've just gotta have chokepoints to hold off the inevitable insectoid spawns.)

Relatively early on, I try to arrange the buildings to block lines of sight from a few angles, so if my people stand in the middle, the invaders only have a few directions to approach from. ... and then put spike traps in those directions.

Really spike traps are amazing early on. Just throw some down wherever there's a chokepoint. Raiders and rabid animals alike will stumble into them eventually.

Around early midgame, I try to get defensive walls + a killbox up, and also make enough stone blocks to make the outermost wall out of stone. This makes things a bit less likely to burn to the ground, and makes breaching raids a little slower.

When it comes to defensive walls, I also like having several doors along them, with defensive positions behind the doors. That way, if a smaller raid comes from one of those directions, I can have somebody prop the door open and lure them in from that angle instead. Those first two bases both have multiple defensive bunkers apart from the killbox.

Having the main storage room be near the center of the base is usually a good idea, because your day is fucking ruined if that's the spot a breaching raid comes in through. Similarly, rooms of expensive equipment like the gene lab are things I usually try to put near the middle.

Geothermal plants out in the middle of the wilderness are actually pretty safe as long as you wall them up with a switchback entrance and a few doors/traps. The third base up here has a good example. Very few enemies are so determined that they'll bust through multiple doors to get to one, and if they do, it usually takes long enough for you to arrange a counterattack.

[tobiasdrake]

Back into the Underworld, the worst place on Mesa Island. Then we have unfinished business with the Demon King.

Hahaha, I know, right!? Prophet's poker face would be amazing if he didn't keep whispering to himself about his cards at a volume that can be heard from space.

Anyways, I should probably get out there. No more putting this off. As much as I desperately want to. You probably don't know this but I had a bad experience down there and....

...actually, you probably do. You're the one who sends Quarble to me every time, after all. We've been in this together from the start, in a way I never really understood before.

I'm sorry I got offended when you wanted to wear a cool hat too.

Anyway... I guess we should get to work. Partner.

So this is what the Underworld of 500 years ago looks like. Mostly the same.

I suppose that makes sense. This place seems the least likely to change out of anywhere. Oh, shit, and Burning Tirade is probably still around.

Huh. Well, that was relatively straightforward. Jump jump get stabbed Musical Note.

That kind of implies that this manifested essence of crystallized physics is the only thing holding back the Underworld from spreading across Mesa Island.

Are we sure it's okay for me to just. Like. Take it? I'm just saying, if the Underworld starts growing out of control, I'm giving all-a y'all an I Told You So.

You guys built a suspension bridge!? I was just expecting, like, a bunch of planks across rope.

This is incredible. Great work!

In any case, onward to the Forlorn Temple. This is, allegedly, where the Demon King lives. I imagine we won't be able to break the curse without--

FUCK YES ROCKET SILO WOOHOO

This is exactly the kind of funhouse shit I'd fill my evil palace with!

--jamming a kunai in the eyes of each of those four grotesque heads of his. Without a question, we're here to kill the fucker responsible for this cycle.

I have a good feeling about this. Demon King summoned Bugle Thyroid to keep an eye on me when it was my turn at bat. But after I killed him, he didn't come back for Soldier's turn. This implies that stabbing a fucker between his goddamn eyes does have a lasting impact on the cycles.

The way I see it, if we cut off the invasion's quadri-heads, it might not even matter anymore that we're trapped in a time loop.

Probably won't be that simple. Time bullshit never is. But there's no downside to decapitating a warmongering bastard so it's worth a go all the same.

...uh....

I think a king died here. Sucks to be him, I guess.

I am hyped and ready to go. Ready as I'll ever be, in fact.

I've always relied on your advice, Shopkeep. You got anything for me with this one?

Helpful. Thanks.

I suppose that makes sense. We all know what he is and it's not like anyone's ever beaten one of him before. So.

I guess we're going to wing it.

Is this all you do? Sit here and wait for the promised day when you get to go out and harass the last vestiges of civilization?

And I do mean harass. The cycle requires you to fail at exterminating us so we can grow a new society and spawn a new Messenger when you hit that one. We even prop it up in the same place every time so it's not like it's hard to find.

Is this all your immortal existence amounts to? Sit sit sit sit fireball sit sit sit sit sit? You look so bored. Do you not have card games or something you can play with your demon minions?

Seeing you here, I... almost feel bad for you. Please understand that I mean this in the meanest way possible - like, full-throated hate here - but you need to get a fucking life. Besides the four brambleboned dipshits that had their skulls hot-glued to a flesh horror, I mean.

Oh, yeah, no. He's not coming. You'd be surprised how easy it is to perforate someone's internal organs when they're eagerly throwing themselves on your sword.

I know you guys were, like, designated besties from the moment of your demonic rebirth in whatever fucked-up lab Aephorul used to transform you. But he's done. Wasted him like bread crust. You want to fight about it?

Buddy, I've got enough Time Shards to buy way more insolence than this. You want to start running a tab?

This can't be all you've got. The Dweller of Strife was the most powerful Dweller ever to exist. It took a legion of Solstice Warriors during the Eclipse to bring it down.

Did you chucklefucks actually make it weaker when you were bonded to it? This poor bloated mass of flesh is so pitiful now, it can't even do anything more than vomit fireballs and hope no one notices how pathetic it is.

I thought it was just Bowling Tapir having that problem. But no. This is a huge downgrade too. Everything Aephorul tries to improve gets fucked up beyond recognition.

It's a good thing you can fly away to safety whenever Messengers show up to the cyclical battle. Otherwise, we would have slaughtered you long ago.

Lining up the shot. I've got eyes on target and I'm coming in hot. Locking on and here... we... GOOOOOOO!

AAAAAAND Straight up the asshole! I can't believe this is all you've got. I spent my whole mission afraid of you.

It's done, Luana. This went in a completely different direction than I was anticipating. It's been a very weird day. But your unfinished business is complete; I have sodomized the Dweller of Strife.

I don't know if you'd be proud of me; You're kind of a shithead. But I'm proud of me. And that's what matter-- Wait, what's it doing? That doesn't look like dying in agony.

Oh cool, new form. Yeah, that looks way more Dweller of Strife-y than the previous. I think I killed the Acolytes so now it's free from their crippling handicap.

...wait. Shit. That's bad for me.

It looks angry. Hey, are you mad? You look mad.

OH FUCK LASERS

I THINK IT'S MAD

NO NO NO NO NO GO AWAY PLEASE I AM TRYING TO WET MYSELF AND RUN FROM YOU

I think it actually got angrier when I jumped on a rocket! Why!? WHY ARE YOU SO MAD ABOUT ROCKETS!? LUANA I THINK I MADE MISTAKE--

Oh, look. The ceiling. ...OH FUCK THE CEILING

ABORT ABORT ABORT ABORT ABORT ABORT ABORT Hi Strifey how was your day ABORT ABORT ABORT ABORT

Oh wow. So that's what the unyielding fury of eclipse magic burning like a thousand moons looks like. I've always wondered. No matter how many times you read about it, you're never prepared to see it in person.

Don't you agree, Strife?

Yeah, you agree. If I had to guess, I'd say your mistake was chasing me.

Guess this W belongs to you guys, Luana and Solen. But I'm proud to have done my part.

In the butt.

Look at it. Can't wait to show this to Shopkeeper. She's been watching me so she's probably already facepalming as we speak. This is a story I'm going to be weirding people out with at parties for the rest of my life.

Holy shit, are you the Fleshmancer? Wow. What a privilege to meet you! Is it true you once got your ass kicked by an irate cook wielding a frying pan?

In any case, I disagree. Gonna be pretty hard for you to keep burning down our village without your glorified matchbook here. Meanwhile, I've got all the time in the world.

See you around.

Assclown.

[bklynmusicnerd]

Do you think there would have been a way for them to TRULY redeem Eseme? Like, if she had a complete personality change and wasn't abrasive and understood why people didn't trust her and worked overtime to gain their trust, I wonder if we as the audience would have a better reception of her.

Hmm okay I'll try to answer this as objectively as possible as a day one Esme hater lol. I've always been of the mind that Esme, in her original conception, was too pathological to really be redeemable. She was pretty much a textbook sociopath like Ryan but lacked his humor. I think the only time she ever showed potential of being interesting or vulnerable was when she was inquiring to Kevin about Ryan's attachment style, whether he had the capacity to love.

Those moments where she actually seemed concerned about her own sociopathy, there was a pathway there. But then the writers shielded her from all challenges with amnesia and a baby. Giving her amnesia robbed her of the moment of reuniting with her bio parents, processing as herself that they were monsters and recognizing that she took Maggie for granted. It allowed her to distance herself from them in a very boring way.

She also should've lost her baby when she jumped. She needed to experience a big loss like losing her baby through the direct result of her own actions. That would have been a rock bottom for her that they could have used to then set up some of the things you laid out.

Recognition that she's the perpetrator, not the eternal victim. Accepting the consequences (prison) and backlash she earned and finding a new way forward with characters on the canvas that she didn't have a history of harming. I don't know if it would have been a successful redemption even then, but more of the audience would have been invested in this idea of whether or not she could change.

As it stands, she's the most unproductive fictional sociopath on the planet who isn't worth the propping that's required to keep her. Her demon spawn is more interesting than her these days.

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch2. you may now kiss the bride!!

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, n have been taking care of your sick mom ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, mild love triangle(s), gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 2/x (probably 10)

ᰔ words. 16.8k (i be yappin)

a/n. AHHH thanks very much for 2k followers!! yippeee :”) i had a lot of fun writing this chapter of ihm i feel like there’s a lot of silly but a lot of angsty too and i got to set up a lot of secondary plot lines in this chapter which was fun. i really hope you enjoy!! see ya at the bottom!!

nav. ch1 :: ch2 :: ch3 :: ch4 :: ch5 (pending)

“Can you chop down that stupid avocado tree of yours already? It keeps dropping its devilish spawn all over my herb garden.”

“Wow. Good afternoon to you too.”

Gojo scratches the back of his head from where he’s opened the front door of his house, standing in his pajamas and you briefly glance down at his bunny slippers before looking back up at him with a ridiculing face before pushing past him into his house.

Gojo’s house is almost the exact mirror of yours, as are most houses in the neighborhood, but it’s been a while since you’ve been inside of it and so you take an indulgent look. A cozy family room to the side, which you see he’s decorated with a coffee table and a loveseat, and the staircase is visible from the entrance. A modest dining table sits where the carpet turns into wood, and you’ve noticed he’s made the effort to place real hardwood on his floors contrary to the laminate in yours. Ok, show off. Your eyes take in the paintings on the wall, and you remember how his house almost looks fake, like in the way he sets up props in open houses he’s showing for clients, as if someone lives here and yet somehow there’s no real living proof of it.

And because it’s pretty much the exact same layout as your house, you know exactly where the pantry room is, and you grab a bunch of Doritos and Pocky from his secret snack drawer.

“Oh yes, go right ahead. Please,” he says sarcastically as he leans against a support pillar near the dining room and watches you stuff your face with his snacks.

“So,” you say, muffled, “did you grab the paperwork?”

“No, I didn’t.” He glances at his watch. “My friend’s a family law lawyer, and he’s gonna be here soon to help us out with the prenup.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh my god, you’re being serious about the prenup? You really think I’m trying to gold dig at the cobwebs of your bank account? How little self respect do you think I have?”

“...do you really want me to answer that questi–”

The doorbell ringing startles you, and you quickly wipe at your face to clear any crumbs before setting the wrappers in your hands onto a bookshelf as you watch Gojo head to the door and open it.

You hear another distinct masculine voice ring in the air as Gojo exchanges pleasantries with him in the form of a handshake and a familiar hug with a few pats on the back, and then the angle Gojo twists his body reveals the man standing outside the door. He’s a bit shorter than Gojo with a lean build, clad in a fiercely formal black suit and tie with polished shoes. His hair is well-kept, short and raven black, and his eyes are sunken with what you can only imagine is fatigue. And it’s kinda hot to you, unfortunately, after years of working the night shift, you’re starting to find dark circles under people’s eyes to be extremely attractive.

“Uh, y/n, this is my friend, Higurama. Hiromi Higurama,” Gojo says, gesturing between the two of you,  “and Hiromi, this is y/n. My obnoxious neighbor. Careful though, if you get too close she’ll bite off your fingers.”

“I’ll bite off a different appendage of yours if you don’t shut the fuck up,” you snarl at him, and Higurama takes a step inside the house to greet you with an outstretched hand. 

“Hi, it’s lovely to meet you,” he says, and you’re a little startled by the politeness, but aptly shake his hand and nod before squawking out a likewise!!

You look past Higurama at Gojo who’s got an eyebrow raised at you, and then your eyes are on Higurama again as you watch him set his briefcase down on the dining table. “Are we ready to discuss?” he asks, brown eyes darting between the two of you. You nod and take a seat across from him, and Gojo first grabs everyone some glasses of water before he takes a seat at the head.

“So,” Higurama starts, “I take it you two are madly in love and would like to enter a marital agreement to declare your affections for one another in the court of law under just circumstances?”

You blink at him. “Y-Yes. Very just circumstances. Nothing shady going on here, we are indeed very madly in love and would like to get married.”

“Why the fuck would you say it like that?” Gojo chirps in but not before sighing. 

“T-The way he asked was really nerve wracking!!” you counter. And then your eyes widen when you look at Higurama again, who has a slightly amused tug to his lips. “...oh, you already know this marriage is a fraud.”

“I was just testing you,” he casually says, “in case they mention any suspicions in court. Seems you should just let Satoru do the talking.”

You pout a little and sink further into your seat, then bring the glass of water up to your lips. 

“Well, in any case,” Higurama says, and then he goes on into the details of what to expect in the courtroom. He pulls out paperwork for the marriage license application and starts to walk the two of you through the prenuptial agreement. 

“It’s my understanding you’re both desiring a prenup for this marriage?” Hugurama asks, brow furrowed slightly as he rustles through the endless papers in front of him that he was drowning in.

You briefly glance at Gojo, who’s also looking through all the papers with a concentrated look on his face, his features tense and he’s slightly worrying his bottom lip through his teeth. He’s thinking way harder about this whole prenup thing than you would, and you realize he’s genuinely taking this very seriously. 

“Um, yes,” you acquiesce, suddenly feeling a little guilty. And you remember who’s the one in need of the favor here. “I’m okay with the prenup.”

Higurama tells you two about the implications of the prenup, what can and cannot be included under state laws, and stresses the importance of full financial disclosure and fairness in the agreement to ensure its enforceability in the event of a divorce. Basically, don’t fucking lie about anything or else you two could sue each other to hell for it should divorce occur. You both agree, and you’re feeling sick to your stomach with anticipation. 

“Alright,” Higurama interjects your thoughts, “I will begin to draft the document then. Let’s start with assets.”

Gojo drones on about his tangibles, intangibles, cash equivalents, stocks, yada yada and you open up with yours too, but you can barely hear anything you’re saying and you can hardly hear what anyone else is saying either because you’re just dreadfully awaiting for Higurama to finally bring up—

“How about debts?” he asks, mindlessly as he types away on his laptop, as if the question doesn’t make you want to throw up. 

Your breathing picks up in speed, and you’re nervously fidgeting your hands over the surface of the table. You glance over at Gojo again, this time startled to find his eyes are on you too. His gaze briefly flickers to the shuffling of your fingers, then it meets yours again as he tilts his head slightly in a silent ask of you good?

“Uh–” you start, when you feel Higurama’s eyes on you too now that the silence has stretched on for too long, “I’m…well, I’m in a bit of…debt. From nursing school, a little bit from undergrad still, actually…”

“Okay,” Higurama says, “how much would you approximate? I’ll need the official loan statements soon, though.”

“Well, I’m paying off slowly…but last month I have around seventy-thousand still to pay off.”

“Alright,” Higurama accepts, “and you, Satoru? Student loans?”

“Oh, I don’t have any,” he says, “I paid them off a while ago.”

You feel like you’re being opened apart at the seams, and suddenly feel ashamed.

“Alright, what about other debts? Credit card debts? Any loans to know about?”

You figured you just needed to rip the bandaid off.

“Um,” you say, “I’m about three hundred thousand dollars in medical debt from my mother’s treatment loans.”

The room goes quiet, there’s no more rustling of papers or the mechanical jumping of keys on a keyboard, hell, even the birds outside stopped chirping to display their disbelief. 

“Wha–” Gojo starts, like he can’t help it, before he catches himself out of politeness, but he’s still looking at you with concern and shock. “y/n…what happened?”

You look over at Higurama too, and he’s completely turned away from the document he was drafting on his laptop, full attention on you, and his brow is creased with the same amount of concern. And you feel like you’re in therapy. You also feel like you’re about to cry.

“Well…it’s just,” you start, throat feeling raw, “my mom couldn’t qualify for medical loans because of years of poor credit, and insufficient income, and her cancer treatments became really costly, and so–” you suck a breath in, because your voice cracks slightly at the end. You were not about to cry in front of them right now. “And so I decided to cosign on her loans so she could receive treatment, and stuff kept coming up, and I had to work reduced hours for a couple of years when she was first diagnosed, and…some payments got away from me, and so then…there was interest, and…it’s…I guess over five years, things just…accumulated.”

They both sit there in stunned silence, shifting uncomfortably in their seats, like they understand your situation is so fucked in its entirety that they can barely even bear to put themselves through the trouble of even imagining themselves in your shoes, let alone fathom that you’re living in them.

Higurama clears his throat and redirects his attention to the computer. “That’s… no problem for the prenup. Thank you for being honest.”

“Hey,” Gojo interjects, and his hand reaches out to lay over your fidgeting hands over the table. His eyes are serious. “Why didn’t you–” he starts, and his face softens slightly when you can’t help the small sheen of tears that reaches your eyes, “...why didn’t you say anything about this? I mean, anytime we’ve talked.”

It’s your turn to look at him with a tense expression, and you slowly withdraw your hands from the hold of his palm to place them in your lap under the table. “Uh, why would I share about my financial woes to my neighbor? Don’t most people just act like shit’s normal with their neighbors?”

“I guess, but I didn’t know it was that ba–”

Higurama’s phone starts to ring, and he glances at the Caller ID before sighing slightly. “Sorry, I have another client I need to see soon. We’ll have to wrap this up, but I’ll continue drafting this document. Please send me your relevant statements for any loans and–” he glances at you, “...associated debts.” He starts to gather his things at the table, then neatly tucks his papers into his briefcase before placing his laptop in there too. He reaches to shake Gojo’s hand first, then shakes yours, and holds onto your hand a second longer to gather your attention. His eyes are almost solemn.

“I truly hope your mother gets better soon,” he says to you, tone contrite. 

You slowly nod and thank him, and then Gojo goes to see him out the door.

The house feels quiet when Gojo closes the front entrance, and he stays facing the door for a few seconds before slowly turning around to face you, back leaning against it as he crosses his arms in front of his chest, and just when he opens his mouth to speak, you cut him off.

“I really–” you say, “...I really don’t want to talk about it.”

His face contorts into confusion, and it looks like he’s about to protest, but you allow yourself to show the slightest amount of the hurt and the worry on your face, and he realizes that means he shouldn’t try to push it.

“Okay,” he says, and quietly. 

Things are awkward in the air for a second, so you waltz over to the window and watch through it as Higurama gets into his car, some type of sleek old black Mercedes Benz but it’s polished to perfection, and you let out a content sigh.

“What?” Gojo asks you, tone a little short. 

“Ohhh, nothing,” you say, bringing your hands up to cup your cheeks to feel their warmth as you take in the image of Higurama’s slender legs in his business attire, “I just…” you sigh again, “I just loooove men in suits. I wish I knew more men that wore them often.”

A beat of silence. “Um. I wear them often?”

You turn on your heel to face him. “Yeah, but you wear them in, like, a slutty way. Higurama,” you say, pointing with your thumb facing the window, “wears them in the actually respectable workplace way. Hence why it’s hotter on him.”

He scoffs. “And yet you’re always staring at my ass from afar when I’m wearing my tailored trousers.” 

“I seriously wonder what it’s like to be so fucking delusional all the time,” you shake your head at him and he looks like he’s got a comeback on his tongue but you sshhhhhhhh him and walk back into the heart of the house. You look over your shoulder briefly, and see Gojo’s standing where you were standing at the window a few seconds ago, looking out onto the street, and he’s grumbling something under his breath you can’t quite hear. And then you hear the sound of Higurama’s car driving away. 

You circle around the dining table, and take a seat to look through the marriage paperwork Higurama left behind for the two of you to fill out.

“Bring the paperwork over to the kitchen island,” you hear Gojo say as he makes his way to the kitchen, “I’ll fix us some coffee.”

The island has a seated side to it with bar stools that raise high and turn in fully 360 degree fashion, so you swirl around in your seat to make yourself dizzy while Gojo brews some coffee with his espresso machine. 

“Mm…smells nice,” you comment, still swirling.

“Milk? Sugar?” he asks you, and you stop swirling to answer him.

It’s not the first time you’ve been to Gojo’s house. When he first moved in next door, you brought him a plate of cookies as a welcome to the neighborhood! gift and he had invited you inside and fixed you a cup of coffee then too. The house was mostly empty back then, he’s made a lot of good work in filling it with furniture in that sort of IKEA catalog fashion, and you can clown on him for it all you want, but it still looks nicer than most homes you’ve been in. Anyways, you only visited him in his house a couple times after that before you realized you hated him. Because he blasts loud music at the most random times, which you’re convinced he’s just trying to show off the sound system he probably spent an unnecessary amount of money on, not to mention an unnecessary amount of time installing. He also always forgets to mow his fucking lawn, and it drives you nuts because then the weeds spread over into your lawn, but it’s not like it matters because you hardly mow yours either, but still. And that fucking boat. That fucking boat he keeps right at the edge of your driveway that taunts you and your ability to pull into garages after every single one of your dreadful night shifts. One of these days, you might just steal it and drive it into the ocean so it drowns. Wait, boats don’t drown. That’s the point of boats. They’re buoyant. It’s okay, you’ll find another way to get rid of it. The boat, you mean. 

“Here you go,” he says, sliding a cup of coffee to you across the island. You peer inside at the brown liquid, and the scent alone awakens your senses.

“So, logistics,” you say.

“Logistics,” he repeats after you as he stirs a spoon in his mug. 

“We need to make this believable,” you say to him, “otherwise the marriage could be invalidated, and we could face criminal charges, and I could lose the insurance benefits for my mom, and potentially get sued by said insurance companies, and get thrown into jail for life, and—”

“And how much sleep have you lost thinking about this?” he asks you with a sigh as he brings his mug up to take a sip. 

“I’m being serious, Satoru,” you say to him, “I…would just rather err on the side of caution. It’s a small town, people talk. And sometimes those people know the law.” You shudder.

“Who the fuck is out there that would be so pissed about us getting married just so you can help out your sick mom?” he asks.

Your eyes flicker downwards slightly in consideration. You can think of one person, at least. And when you look up at him, you’re surprised to see there’s a similar look on his face, as if he could think of a particular one person too. But before you can dwell more on the expression on his face, he grabs the paperwork in front of you and looks through some of it. “You should get started on your paperwork. Higurama filled most of mine out for me already, so you’re the one he’s waiting on.”

You groan and stretch your arm out across the island counter, then lay your head on your upper arm. “Sigh, why couldn’t he have done that for meee tooooo.”

“Probably because he doesn’t know you?” Gojo snorts. He’s silent for a moment as he takes another sip. You can’t see his face. “So,” he starts, “I mean. If we’re going to make this believable, which, to be honest, I don’t think a single person in this neighborhood would find us getting married believable, but still, if we were to try making it believable, wouldn’t it make sense for us to, uh, I don’t know, live together? Like what regular married couples do.”

“I am appalled you would even suggest that.”

“It’s going to look like we’re just faking it if we don’t at least cohabitate together,” he tells you.

“We can’t do that,” you sigh, “I bet you’d try to touch me inappropriately.”

“What???” 

“Yeahhh, I don’t know, you just—...you just seem like a guy with very little self control.”

“...y’know what? This is over. I’m calling off this engagement,” he says, and he walks over to the dining table with his coffee cup in hand and you lift your head up off your arm in a panic.

“Wha–...no!! Wait!!” you say, grabbing all the paperwork off the island and bringing it to the dining table where he’s taken a seat. “Please marry me. I need it so bad.”

“Woah,” he says, looking up at you, and there’s a darker glint to his eyes. “You need it so bad? Can you say that again?”

You curl up the papers in your hands into a makeshift hollow pole and whack him across the head with it. “This is exactly why I think you would touch me inappropriately.”

He grumbles slightly as he nurses the spot you whacked him with two of his fingers rubbing the area, and then he fixes his hair with a comb of his hand through it. The sleeve of his shirt drops a little from the movement, and you can see the muscles of his arm flex, then your eyes are quickly darting away so he doesn’t catch the line of your gaze on him. What the fuck. That was weird. You blame ovulation. 

“Alright, fine,” he says, and he grabs the papers out of your hand, “also don’t bend these. It bothers me.” 

You circle back to the kitchen to grab your abandoned coffee cup, and then bring it to the dining table to sit down with him at it. He places your half of the papers in front of you. You glance down at the first few boxes to fill out, and you already feel like giving up.

You glance up at him for a distraction. “Aren’t you going to ask me how long I want you to be married to me for?” you ask him.

“Uh, how long do you want me to be married to you for?”

“Forever,” you say. To scare him.

“Yeah, right.” He waves his hand in the air dismissively. 

You sulk because it didn’t scare him. “Six months.”

“More plausible.”

“Really,” you say earnestly, “six months.”

He looks up at you now, a curious expression on his face. “Why specifically six months?”

Your eyes find the color of your coffee fascinating once again. “I don’t want to put my mother in hospice for too long. I’ll miss her,” you say, “it’s just…something I’m trying out for now. And to just get a bit of a caretaking break, and also so I can pick up more shifts at the hospital to work on paying off my debt. It’s just…temporary.”

His shoulders roll back once and he sits up a little straighter, holding up one of the pieces of paper to study it better while he clicks his pen. “Alright. Whatever works for you.”

You twiddle with your hands again, blinking a little in consideration as a few moments pass by. “Uh…about living together. That’s fine. I suppose.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Really?”

“Yeah. But no touching,” you point at him with a strict finger.

He tilts his head back up to the ceiling in annoyance. There’s a roll in the muscles of his throat as his jaw goes slack. You squirm in your chair a little. Ovulation, you think. 

“I’m not going to touch you, y/n,” he assures you when his chin tips back down. You just stare at him for a few seconds as he seems to be in thought about something, and then his eyes meet yours. “Whose house are we going to live in?”

“Mine,” you say, “yours looks like a shitty catalog. It’s lame.”

“True,” he says, “yours feels homey. I like that.”

You’re a little taken aback by his words, and then purse your lips together. Your sort of go-to thanks expression reserved for him. “So, are you gonna sell your house then?”

“Huh? No way,” he shakes his head, “I’ll just see if I can rent it out for now.” He shakes his head even more. “I mean, god no, I wouldn’t be caught dead selling a house. Not with these market conditions. You know how much it’s already risen in equity within just the past few months alone? In five years from now—”

While Gojo continues to drone on about the lunacy of not holding onto property in this housing market, your eyes widen slightly at his words, like your body realizes a truth to what he’s saying before your mind does.

And then that’s when it hits you.

How you can help pull yourself out of debt.

You slam your coffee mug down on the table with a little more fierceness than you probably should’ve.

“Hey,” he scolds you, “can you be careful with that?”

“We’re not going to live in my house,” you say, ignoring him, “we’re gonna live in yours.”

“Huh?” he responds, “...but I thought you said mine looks like a catalog.”

“A shitty catalog.”

“Did you need to specify?”

“We’re not going to live in my house,” you tell him, with resolve, “because I’m gonna sell my house.”

He sits up a little straighter at your words. “Like, the house next door?”

“Mhm,” you nod.

He sighs. “Were you even listening to me? It’s so much more worth it to–”

“I don’t care,” you cut him off, “I need the money now. Not five years from now.” Your eyes glance down at your hands, and your tone becomes quiet. “I…I don’t even know if my mom has five years left to live.”

A silence settles in the room, and you see in your periphery that Gojo’s stiff and still, like he’s barely allowing himself to breathe as if you’d find it abrasive, and when you look over at him, his expression is soft.

“I know,” he says. “It sounds like a plan.”

“Will you help me sell it?” you ask him. “I’d…need a realtor.”

“Sure,” he easily agrees.

“Okay…” you say, and take a sip of lukewarm coffee, as if you haven’t just decided on an extremely major life decision. “Um. I’ll go get the paperwork then. From my house.”

“Oh. Right now?” he asks you, and he leans forward in his seat a little to get a closer look at your face. “I mean, don’t you want some time to think about it before putting it on the market? We can wait for a little bit.”

“No. That’s okay,” you say, standing up from your chair, “I’ll…go get the paperwork.”

He nods at you slowly, but his eyes are observant, and you ignore it to keep up the momentum of this decision that was definitely the right decision by all means and one that you should not be hesitating on at all as it is such an epiphany that can help clear your debilitating financial burdens. 

“Drive safe,” he says to you when you grab your purse off the coffee table in the family room.

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

The outside air is breezy, it’s a nice day with the sun shining down and sparkling off of sprinkler dew drops on overgrown grass, and you hop across with a pep in your step as you make it to your house next door. You’re always quiet when opening the door, because you never know when your mom is sleeping or not, and since her bedroom is downstairs, she’s privy to noises. Once you’re inside, you check to make sure she’s sleeping with a small creak open of her door, only to find that she’s sitting on her rocking chair and looking through a box of paintings.

Your heart twists at the sight, and you gently knock the door with your knuckles.

She glances up at you, and you can always tell from just the look in her eyes if she recognizes you or not. Because they’re warm and gentle when she does, but they see right past you to the wall when she doesn’t.

“Hello,” she says, “can I help you?”

You come up to her and kneel down beside her, placing a hand up on the rocking chair arm rest while she looks down at you.

“Hi, mom. It’s me. Your daughter,” you gentle reintroduce yourself. It’s what her neurologist suggested you do anytime she can’t remember you, but it rips away a piece of your soul each time.

Her eyes still see past you, abstract, empty with no feeling as she wraps her head around your words. “I am no one’s mother,” she tells you, tone sounding sharp and like she’s a moment away from terror.

“That’s okay,” you quickly remediate, feeling hollow inside from her words but you always had to be the sane one, so you direct her attention to the box in her lap. “What are you looking at?”

“Oh, I just found these paintings!” she exclaims. “I thought they were wonderful. Do you know who drew them?”

You smile up at her. “You did.”

“Me?” she blinks at you. The wrinkles in her forehead crumple with surprise, “oh, no, dear, I could not paint such things with detail. Look at me!” She holds her hand up. “My hand is trembling!”

She’s getting weaker. You make a mental note to bring it up to her doctor.

“You used to hold a paint brush like it was just an extension of your hand,” you tell her, picking up one of the paintings out of the box, “you were an art teacher, mom.”

“Don’t call me mom,” she says to you, that sharp tone from earlier cutting through to your soul. “I am no one’s mother.” Her eyes shimmer with a light sheen of tears.

You stare at her, brow pinching together with hurt, but you bite back the part of you that wants to beg her to remember you, to take one close look at you, and see you with warmth and not emptiness. But she sees past you all the same.

“Can you do something for me?” you whisper to her.

“Yes?” she asks.

“Could you please lay down? You need some rest.”

“Are you my nurse?” she asks.

You breathe in deep. “Yes.”

“Am I…” she glances briefly at her reflection in the vanity mirror, her eyes flitting up to the head scarf on her head that covers the absence of hair, “am I sick?”

You exhale. “Yes. You need rest.”

“Oh…” she acknowledges, “why, yes. I do feel…a little frail.”

“I know,” you comment, and you put the box down on the floor then help her up onto her feet slowly by holding onto her arm, and you guide her to sit on the bed and take her medications. She then lays down, and you nod at her reassuringly before you head out the door and close it behind you.

Your lip trembles with the threat of a sob as you stare straight forward at the wall in the dimness of the hallway. But a harsh bite to the plush of it ceases the quiver.

You make your way up the stairs to go grab that binder you had with the mortgage and house information, plus some of your recent utility bills. Except the binder is hard to locate, and you’re rummaging through the cabinets in your closet, the drawer of your nightstand, you’re even looking underneath the bed. But when you lift your head up from under it, still kneeling on the carpet, and glance at the wall, you notice something.

48’’ eight yrs. what a big girl! 

46’’ seven yrs. big jump

41’’ six yrs.

37’’ five yrs. my little princess

…

..

–all written in graphite pencil, scribbled up the wall where you would stand tall against as a kid, your mom marking your height at every birthday. And your eyes start to well with tears. 

This was your childhood home. With magical corners tucked away where you used to play hide and seek with your dad, with your old bedroom you used to play in with dolls and have tea parties with all your stuffed animals. There’s still a stain of fruit juice on the carpet underneath the rug that you never told your mom about because you knew she would be mad at you and would scrub it out, but it was in the shape of a heart and when you were a kid, you thought that meant you would find your prince charming some day. This house holds so many memories, like birthday parties and Christmas Eve and the sunflower patch in the backyard where you laid Sniffles to rest.

And it holds the familiarity of you that seems to be slipping through your mother’s fingers with each passing day, all those memories you created with her now solely yours to keep and no longer to share. But you realize at this moment that you’re not alone. This house still holds those memories with you.

Your eyes flicker to the graphite pencil marks on the wall again, and the tears flow freely.

In the moments where she cannot remember that you are her baby, this house remembers for her.

Your sleeve wipes at the dampness on your cheeks.

But it’s never enough, is it? And it’s never that easy, either. Life was never that easy, and you don’t always have the choices you might think you do.

You find the binder, and grab all the utility bills too, and head downstairs. You pass by your mother’s room with softness and sleuth, and guilt in your heart when you realize what you’ve chosen to do. There’s no pep to your step when you make it back to Gojo’s.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

“Sooo,” Gojo says, after about twenty minutes of looking through all the house paperwork in the binder at the dining table, “your mom transferred ownership of the house to you as a gift deed when she was diagnosed?”

“Mhm,” you say.

“She paid off quite a bit of it,” he comments as he looks through banking statements, “but still not enough to pay off your medical debt, unfortunately.”

You sigh. “I know. It was never really a house she could afford anyways. She just received it from the divorce, and I remember we were supposed to downsize, but…she didn’t want to.”

“I see,” Gojo comments, “well, it’s alright, it would still help you a lot for sure. How many years are left for your solar panel lease?” He has a pen in hand and a custom realtor notepad in front of him with his messy handwriting all over it. 

“It’s new,” you say, “still got thirty years left.”

“Jeez, okay. How much per month?”

You scavenge through the bills on your table. “Ummm um um ummm…….”

“You should really…get more organized.”

“You should really mind your fucking business.” You find the bill. “$285 per month.”

“Okay,” he scribbles it down, “does it offset your electricity bill?”

Your shoulders sulk. “A little bit.”

“Yeah, it might scare some buyers away.”

You sigh. “Oh and then the HOA too.”

“HOA?” he looks up at you with a puzzled expression on his face. “We don’t have an HOA in this neighborhood.”

“We don’t?” you blink at him. “Then who have I been sending $195 dollars to every month?”

“…….....you’ve seriously gotta be some special kind of stupid.”

After panicking for five minutes while checking your credit cards for fraudulent activity, Gojo gets done cutting up an apple for you. 

“Here,” he says, sliding the plate to you, “since you look like you’re about to faint. Knowing you, it’s probably just low blood sugar.”

You dramatically sigh and sink in your chair. “I can’t believe I spent the last three years paying an HOA that doesn���t even exist…”

“Hey, on the bright side, there’s some dude out there on an exotic vacation that’s very thrilled by your idiocracy right now.”

You shoot him a look. And then you hang your head low to drink your extremely cold coffee that you were still nursing, before downing it all in one go. Your eyes catch the marriage paperwork that Gojo was reviewing earlier, and you see Higurama’s pre-filled in information that he typed onto the papers before printing them for him. 

“Hm,” you hum, “it says here that you’ve been married before. You might want to get that fixed before we submit these.”

He stands up from the table, two of his fingers hooking onto the handle of his coffee cup, and he glances into yours to make sure it’s empty, briefly flicking his eyes to you and you shake your head for no, no more coffee, thanks before he wraps his other two fingers around the handle of your mug as well. The clink of the two porcelain mugs in his hand startles you a little as he walks past you to the kitchen sink. “There’s nothing to fix about that,” he says, his tone level and easy, “it’s true. I’ve been married before.”

Your eyes widen at his confession, and you quickly twist your torso in your chair to stare at him. Or at least, the back of him as he turns the faucet on and begins to rinse out coffee mugs. 

Married? Before? There are so many questions swimming through your head right now, ones that you desperately want answers to, biggest of all perhaps being now who the fuck would actually want to marry him??? for real??? you’re telling me this self obsessed dork proposed to a real life woman with a pulse and she actually said ‘yes’ to him??? who was this woman, and which psych ward did he find her from??? 

But he’s so quiet from where he stands, broad shoulders less pushed back like they usually are, and something tells you he wouldn’t entertain any of those questions from you right now. A glance at the paperwork, though, tells you the divorce was recent. Less than a year ago. Around the time he moved in next door. 

He still has his back facing you, and you try to sneakily catch a glimpse at more info under the Wife section on the prior marriages form. You can see the paper says maiden name: Inoue and you’re just about to sneak a peak at the first name when—

“You want to stay for dinner?” he asks when he turns around, leaning back against the sink counter. “I’m ordering pizza tonight.”

You’re surprised by the sudden invitation, and shuffle the papers over one another again. “Oh–that’s…that’s okay.” You glance at the clock he has hanging on the wall. “I’ve got work in a couple of hours, so…I should really get going. Have a few errands to run before then.”

“Okay, so, we’ll…talk later?”

“Yeah, later,” you stand up from your chair, and for some reason, the air feels a little heavier to you now. “Uh…” you start, awkwardly scoffing a little, “wow. Bachelor life again, then, huh? Probably just–...probably just beer and pizza every night?”

He purses his lips together, humoring you with a small laugh that comes out as a scoff through his nostrils. “No. Not really. I only order pizza when I close a sale on a house. My way of celebrating.”

“Oh,” you respond, “I see.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he says.

“I live next door,” you remind him.

His eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Right.”

“H-Hope the traffic’s not too bad!” you joke.

His laugh comes more genuine now. “You’re stupid.”

You head towards the door, and when he opens it for you, there’s a chill of air outside and it’s darker now, hues of dark gray, purple and a slight orange still present on the horizon paint the sky and you step outside then turn on your heel to face him.

“Um. Congrats, by the way. On the sale,” you tell him, “enjoy your night. And I’ll see you this weekend?”

“Huh?” He raises an eyebrow. “What’s happening this weekend?”

“We–” you scoff, “we’re getting married this weekend?”

“Oh!” he exclaims, tense, “right, yes, see you this weekend. For marriage. Of us.”

You roll your eyes and make your way down the concrete pavement that leads its way to his house, and leads its way away from it too. And when you walk back to your house, it’s not with a sulk, but it’s not with a pep in your step either. You just feel…neutral.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

“So, tell me about this fake husband of yours,” Hana says, leaning against your work-on-wheels as you attempt to catch up on charting notes with 4 hours and 15 minutes and 53 seconds left on your shift (it’s not like you were counting though).

“Yeah, in a sec,” you mumble as you punch in keys.

6/2/2024 0344: patient placed on 5150 hold on 5/31 at 1745, continually monitored by ED tech. all objects have been removed from pt’s room to prevent any danger to self or others. however patient accessed hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall at roughly 0320 and ingested all the hand sanitizer. notified MD of toxic ingestion, follow up plan is to coordinate care with poison control. no further orders at this time

“Okay, what were you saying?” you look up at Hana again and rub the tired out of your eye with a balled up hand, along with all the mascara. 

“Your fake husband!! Tell me about him!!” she chirps, shaking your work-on-wheels in excitement and the blur of your computer screen makes you feel dizzy.

“Shhhhh,” you hiss at her, “keep your voice down when we discuss illegal activities.”

She rolls her eyes. “Why are you always so paranoid? I’m already sick and tired of you charting incessantly every five seconds to save yourself from medical lawsuits that you haven’t even been accused of.”

“In a medical lawsuit, the chart is the law, Hana,” you say eerily with a shiver, and her words remind you to continue your detailed charting. “Never forget that.”

She sighs. Her gaze travels across to the other end of the emergency department, and you assume she’s staring at the asses of the EMT boys again, so you glance over your shoulder too. 

Except instead, you see the worst person on the planet.

Well, second worst as of right now.

The worst person title was reserved for someone else.

Approaching from down the hall is Yuna, your ex-best friend, a bounce in her step as she walks with a sort of allure as her hips rock side to side, her mile-high ponytail swaying in beat with the rhythm as well, and the ashy blond highlights in her hair hypnotize anyone she waltzes by. 

She was the kind of nurse that all the other nurses are jealous of. Always has cute little accessories and stickers on their badge, is wearing the fancy FIGS scrub sets that hug her sporty curves in all the right places, paired with those little shoes with the ankle socks, and she most definitely gets her water goal in for the day because she’s always sucking on the straw of her periwinkle Stanley cup around the ED all night just like she sucked the cum out of your boyfriend of seven years just twenty-four hours after the two of you had broken up–

“y/n,” she casually calls your name, leaning her elbow up on the cubicle divider of the nursing station. “It’s time for you to take your break. I’ll watch your patients.”

“I’m not taking my break,” you say, trying to relax the grit to your teeth which makes your eye twitch out of frustration instead. “Now get the fuck away from me before I call a Code Black.”

She sighs, rolling her eyes and smacking loudly on her gum. “Yaga said you have to take your thirty tonight. Something about how you haven’t clocked out for a break in more than two months and the hospital could get sued for that.”

“The hospital has way bigger cases they should be biting their nails about getting sued over,” Hana snorts just to butt in on conversation.

“C’mon,” Yuna says, her fingers reaching out to touch the handle of your work-on-wheels, purposefully stretched so that you can eye the perfect sparkly manicure to her nails. You curl your fingers into the skin of your palms to hide your gel polish that’s long started to scrape off. “Go clock out.”

“I’d rather die than listen to a single fucking thing you tell me to do,” you tell her, plain and simple.

“y/n!” a loud masculine voice calls from the other end of the Emergency Department, and all three of you visibly shrink a little in your stances out of fear. Head nurse Yaga. “Take your break, or I’ll be damned to let you set another foot in this hospital!!” he’s yelling at you all the way from the entrance to the CT scanner.

“But–”

“Now!!!!!”

Your eyes flicker to Yuna, who has an amused look on her face and a tilt to her head, and then you’re grumbling before logging out of your computer then stepping away from it. “Draw a CBC & chem on Beds 24 and 28 at 4 AM sharp,” you grumble to her, and she just gives you one of those tight-skinned smiles. 

The break room is empty, with shades of beige on the walls and even more depressing shades of gray on the lockers. There are all sorts of things pasted on the walls, like photos from staff Halloween and Christmas parties, drawings that pediatric patients have made in appreciation of their nurses, and employee information that Yaga’s constantly shoving in everyone’s faces. 

Okay, the backstory with Yuna. Pretty simple. You two had been best friends since high school, like inseparable best friends. Y’know, sneaking out late at night to use fake IDs at the bar, cover for the other when you’re busy losing your virginity to your high school boyfriend in the most dishonorable way possible, rooming together in college, sobbing and crying through all of nursing school together, ride or die type of friendship that you think you’d only find once in a lifetime. Except turns out your best friend, who you’d considered a sister, had eyes for your boyfriend since you started dating him in college, and the second that dickwad dumped you, you catch her sucking him off in the back of his Toyota Camry when you go to pick your stuff up from his place. Yeah, ouch. You lost the two closest people in your life, all in the matter of twenty-four hours, so pardon yourself for being a bit bitter about it. 

But being bitter is the coping mechanism. The real way you feel comes in the form of tears prickling in your eyes and the pain in your throat as you try to swallow away the knot that’s suffocating you from the inside out. A type of loneliness that leaves you stranded even in a room full of people. But at the very least, this room is empty, so no one has to see the crack in your resolve.

There’s no time on a thirty-minute lunch break to have a full mental breakdown, so you sparsely wipe at your tears and head back to your shift.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

If you want to know who actually holds the worst person on the planet title right now, well, you run into him on a Tuesday afternoon while on a grocery run after you just woke up from barely sufficient post night shift sleep. Bitter and drugged by Melatonin was not a state of being you needed to be in right now, but you’re out of orange juice and you’re having Vitamin C withdrawals which warrants a trip to the store. Unfortunately, the town only has one grocery store, which means you were bound to run into pestering ex-boyfriends at least once every full moon. 

“Get the fuck out of my way, Choso,” you snarl at the man who’s walking backwards ahead of your grocery cart, trying to stop you in your tracks so you’d just chill out and listen to him for a second.

“Can you just chill out and listen to me for a second?” he asks you, irritation evident in his voice like you’re being the difficult one here.

“I already told you that I quite literally never want to see your stupid ugly face ever again for as long as I live,” you say, and you ram your grocery cart forward with so much force the metal hits his knees and he doubles over the basket indignantly with a groan.

He seems like he’s had enough of you evading him, so he jams his foot under the wheel to keep you from moving forward, and you’re scowling at him and struggling against his foot-stop but to no avail. 

You briefly consider abandoning your cart all together and just bee-lining for the exit, but he’s a cop, so he’d easily be able to tackle you to the ground if you tried.

“What do you want?” you snarl, impatiently tapping your foot with every miserable passing second spent in his presence. 

“I just–” He sighs, “I just want to talk. And to know how you’re doing. You won’t pick up any of my calls.”

“Huh?” You blink at him. “I’ve had you blocked for the past two weeks. You shouldn’t even be able to call me.”

His eyebrows raise. “Really?...who have I been dialing then?” 

“Fuck if I know,” you shrug, and you use his moment of confusion to swerve your cart off to the side and make your way down the refrigerator aisle. Ohhh, dulce de leche gelato sounds nice, and it’s on sale. You grab a jar. 

Choso’s trailing behind you as you eye price tags and sale signs in the open chill of the yogurt section. “Babe–”

“Don’t–” you immediately cut him off, spinning fast on your heel and he stops himself just in time from crashing right into you. You hold your index finger up in the air between the two of you with a clench to your jaw so tight it feels sore, and through gritted teeth you say, “don’t call me babe.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. It’s habit.”

Indeed, habit. Seven years of him calling you babe, or baby, or boobie (idk don’t ask). Your favorite though? Babydoll. He’d always call you that when he’d make sweet, sweet love to you while you were wearing his favorite flimsy little piece of lingerie–babydolls. Even now, the memories have your cheeks feeling hot. But he doesn’t get to call you babe anymore, and he doesn’t get to fuck you anymore, or talk to you anymore, or breathe in your general direction anymore, because he betrayed you. He wasted your time, and then he betrayed you.

Seven years of your sexual prime, where you could’ve been fucking hunky firefighters and bisexual Europeans, wasted on a man you weren’t even going to marry in the end anyways. Now you’re pushing thirty, and the idea of having to date again makes your skin crawl with anxiety that turns into fury because your doom is all caused by the man in front of you.

Whatever, forget about the sex and the impending loss of a woman’s novelty within society for a second. You loved him. A part of you still loves him. You wanted to marry this man. You thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with this man. Little sheriff deputy’s wife, Mrs. Kamo, the perfect number of letters to get on a bejeweled license plate. You had envisioned all the cute little quotes of adoration that would be imprinted on your wedding reception’s custom-made doily napkins with everyone that’s ever meant anything to you sitting at the table, ready to celebrate the love that you thought was real and true and brave and strong and one that would last forever.

But he abandoned you when you were at your lowest. And he fell into the arms of the one person you thought you could turn to crying when the relationship crashed and burned in the first place. And the problem with living in a small town is that everyone knows everybody’s business, so now you’re just the woman that wasted her youth on a man that played her like a broken fiddle. Utterly heartbroken, and humiliated. 

So, yeah, he doesn’t get to call you babe anymore.

“Listen here, asshole,” you say, stabbing him in the chest with your finger, so he can feel even a fraction of the pain you’ve felt in the past three weeks, “I couldn't care less if you live today, or die tomorrow. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave me alone. Or I’ll file for a restraining order.”

“Really?” he says, brows pulled tight together in disbelief, like he just can’t understand what he’s done to make you act this way, and quite frankly, that only makes it sting even worse, “after everything we’ve been through, you’re just going to throw away the past seven years?”

“What the fuck are you saying?!” you all but snap at him, and an elderly couple that’s passing by flinches a little from the noise and you wince in apology before glaring at Choso again. Your voice is hushed this time. “You’re the one that broke up with me, but I’m the one that’s throwing it all away??”

He purses his lips together, and you notice how dark the circles under his eyes are. He shuts them tightly and leans back away from you, which makes you realize how much he was leaning into your space just a second ago. “I know that we…aren’t dating anymore. But, I mean, c’mon, y/n, it’s me. Just because we’re not together anymore, doesn’t mean that I don’t still…care. I want to know how your mom’s doing, and how treatment has been for her, and–” he glances up at the ceiling briefly, as if to mislead you into thinking that the next thing he says is just as nonchalantly desired as the other things he listed, “and I want to know how you’re doing, too.”

“You don’t deserve to know how I’m doing. Continue to wallow in your pathetic self righteousness, or go run with your tail between your legs to that two-faced rat I used to call a best friend. Either way, I don’t give a damn,” you say, in a way that very much sounds like you give a damn unfortunately, and spin on your heel to continue pushing your cart down to the juice section.

“Yuna and I–” you hear him say behind you, and just the mention of her name on his tongue makes your heart ache in your chest, to the point you need to place a flat palm over it just to alleviate the pain, “I–...I broke things off with her yesterday.”

Fuck. Pretend like you’re not fazed by that info. Pretend like you’re not fazed by that info.

“Okay? Whatever,” you barely manage to say.

He’s silent for a moment behind you. The wheels of your cart squeak as they roll. 

“I mean, we’re not together anymore. I’m not seeing her anymore,” he clarifies, as if he didn’t believe you heard him right the first time.

“Cool,” you comment, tone colder this time, since you had the practice round. 

“You don’t–” Choso starts, a rattle of hurt and confusion in his voice, “you don’t care about that?”

“Nope.” 

He reaches out to grab your wrist, and the contact burns through your skin, like something so familiar yet so foreign. You turn your head to look at him. 

“I…” he starts, and you can see his chest rising and falling with more intensity. Oh god. Please. Please don’t say it. You’re not sure you can handle hearing it. “I really miss you.”

Damn it, he said it.

Your posture relaxes slightly when you take a long look at him. You finally notice his hair has gotten longer in just the three weeks you’ve been apart, layered locks curling at the end of his neck, and it’s the first time you’ve noticed such a small detail because you were so used to spending everyday with him. He spent most of the week at your house, since the two of you could never formally move in with one another after your mother was diagnosed and it was easier for him to come by to yours so you could continue to keep an eye on her. There’s no option to live on your own and start your own life when you’re taking care of someone sick. They become your priority, not yourself, but you’d still make every single sacrifice you’ve made for your mother over and over again in a heartbeat if you had to relive the past five years. 

But that meant that you never had a real and true chance to live the life that you wanted with Choso. A place just for the two of you, lived in intimate solitude and not with the cries of your mother down the hall when she feels too sick to get up out of bed or when she cannot remember her own name. But you had never been this far apart from him to where you notice his hair is an inch longer than it was the last time you saw him. He was never that far away, as he is now. And you’ve just now realized it.  

“I don’t,” you start, swallowing the lump in your throat and your voice quivers ever so slightly when you speak, “I don’t care that you miss me.” You take a deep breath. “I’m getting married this weekend.”

His face entirely relaxes, like a calm before the storm, before it twists with so much confusion and incredulity and shock and–was that horror on his face?

“What?” he practically spats out, “it’s only been three weeks since we broke up!”

“Uhh,” you glance up at the ceiling of the store, just in time for an employee to make an announcement on the overhead for a manager at checkout lane 2 please, and then you glance back down at him, “I was having an affair while we were dating.” An easy lie. 

He scowls. “Yeah fucking right. There’s no way you’d cheat on me.”

His words burn bitter. The fact that he couldn’t even fathom you hurting him the same way he hurt you makes you clench your teeth. Because he knew you were better than he was, and that you were too good for him, and yet he still wasted your honor.

His friends, who used to be yours too, have probably fed him lies since the breakup. Like it’s okay, man. You broke up with her before you got involved with someone else. You didn’t do anything wrong.

But you say bullshit to all of that. Because after seven years of being together, you can’t just cold turkey a relationship like that to sleep with someone else, and then claim it’s not cheating. Technicalities like that were no vindication if the betrayal hurt all the same in the end. Because it still felt like you got cheated on regardless.

“Whatever. I don’t need to explain myself to you,” you tell him, “I’m getting married this weekend, so I really don’t give a damn about anything between us anymore. It’s over.”

“Who are you marrying?” he asks, suddenly breaking a sweat over the news like he’s starting to suspect you’re actually being serious.

“My neighbor.”

His face twists with disgust. “Old man Jenkins? He’s eighty-four years old.”

You roll your eyes. “Not the one on my left, you idiot. My neighbor to my right.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up in a ridiculing smirk, and the sight of it makes your skin crawl. He scoffs. “There’s no way. You hate that guy.”

“It’s true. I’m marrying him.”

“Seriously??” He guffaws at you, leaning in closer to you and you lean away until your back is resting on the handle of your shopping cart. “The obnoxious realtor I once heard you talking in your sleep about how much you want to murder him and then dump him in a lake?”

“What?! I talk in my sleep?!” you gasp.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. You have for years.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that?!”

He looks annoyed. “Because you’re such a hypochondriac. You would’ve thought you had a brain tumor or something, and I’d have to deal with the paranoia that follows suit.”

“Choso,” you say to him with a strict tone, jutting your hip out to the side in preparation to scold, “my mother has Alzheimer’s, which is genetic, and I was having an abnormal neurological symptom for years which has studies to show is an early indication of dementia and you just chose not to tell me because you didn’t want to be annoyed?!”

“See?” he gestures to you, “you’re doing it right now. How did we go from just sleep talking to ‘I might have dementia’?” 

“We,” you point between you and him, “are never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever getting back together. If there’s one thing you can pull through that stupid skull of yours, make it that.”

“Excuse me,” you hear a tiny voice squeak out, and you turn to your right to see a little kid trying to push past the two of you to grab a box of GoGurt in the Yogurt section. You move your cart forward by bumping it with your butt to get out of the kid’s way, and Choso circles around to the front of your cart before you start moving forward again. Like he’s literally stopping you from moving on from him. 

“You’re lying about marrying this guy,” Choso says like it’s a fact. In typical cop gaslighting fashion. “You’re just saying that to make me jealous.”

You roll your eyes. “No. I’m just that hot and gorgeous that I made a man fall in love with me in three weeks.”

“He’s in love with you?” he asks.

“Duh, he wants to marry me. When you dumped me, I found comforting solace in my next-door-neighbor, and we fell into bed with one another, and now he feels the obligation to provide for me for the rest of my life. What’s so hard to believe about that? You didn’t find abrupt matrimony odd when we binged all three seasons of Bridgerton two months ago.”

“That show is set in the fuckin’ regency era,” he hisses at you, “look around. There’s plastic bags of Hot Cheetos with Red 40 in them everywhere. Does this look like the 1800s to you?”

You have to be careful with him. He’s a cop, who could arrest you for medical insurance fraud, and would also have a personal vendetta against your marriage because boo hoo he misses you. But yes, he was right, you did want to make him jealous, and you just can’t help it.

“Well, me and him have a love that no one else can understand, so suck it. I’m marrying him, and he’s super into me, and he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with me, and he desperately wants to put babies in me, and–”

“And where’s the ring he gave you, then?”

Fuck. You briefly flick your gaze down to your left hand and note the daunting absence of a shiny diamond on your ring finger. Note to self, Gojo needs to buy you a ring.

“I left it at home,” you mumble.

“Uh-huh, as all newly engaged women who have been waiting for a ring all their life would do.”

That pisses you off. Because you were waiting your whole life for him to put a ring on your finger, and he never did. 

“Go fuck a fleshlight,” you snarl at him, unfortunately in earshot of the GoGurt kid and his mom shoots you a nasty look, but you’re a jaded woman after everything you’ve been through and you ram your cart into Choso so hard you swear you could’ve cracked his knee caps, and he doubles over in enough pain for you to have the time to leave him stranded there as you push your cart all the way to the end of the store. 

You finally make it to the orange juice section, the one thing you needed, although your cart is filled with things you didn’t need, because that’s always how these grocery runs go. You try to take a few breaths to calm down the fast beating in your heart after that confrontation with Choso. You’re not good with confrontation, even though it might seem like you are, but you’re just putting on a face. Acting strong, when really all you want to do is curl up into a ball and cry. But there are bills to pay, and images to upkeep, and orange juice to replenish. 

Your hand reaches out for the handle on the refrigerator door, but just before you curl your fingers around it, another hand beats you to it. It’s a large and masculine hand, with veins disappearing into the cuffed felted fabric of a suit jacket, and the knuckles turn a shade lighter than the olive skin around them when the fingers flex around the handle. 

You glance up at the person standing next to you, who you register towers over you in height. He has long, sleek black hair that shimmers under fluorescent lighting, some of which is tied up and out of his face, while the rest cascades over his back. But there’s tendrils of hair falling over the left side of his face, barely distracting you through the intensity of purple in his eyes when he glances at you.

“Ah, apologies,” he says, and the way he speaks is so calm and gentle, different from the intimidating aura he holds himself with. He retreats his hand from the handle.

“Oh, that’s–” you find yourself stuttering, “...that’s okay.” You grab the handle and open it, the chill rush of the fridge hitting you as your eyes peruse the selection of orange juice cartons while his eyes remain on you. You awkwardly glance at him again. “Sorry, d-did you also need to get orange juice?”

He nods. “Yes, I did.”

Not a man of many words, you think to yourself. Or maybe just around people he’s just met.

Your eyes catch the familiar labeling of your go-to orange juice, the one with no pulp and has added Vitamins D and E (basically the one for children), but you realize there’s only one left. You grab it anyway and put it in your cart. When you glance up at the handsome stranger beside you, there’s a slight look of amusement on his face.

“Seems we both have the same taste in orange juice,” he comments. 

“Oh no,” you say with a small laugh, “I’m sorry. It’s the last one.” Your eyes widen. “You–…you can have it, if you want–”

“Oh, no, no,” he shakes his head, long hair swaying with the motion as he holds his hands up in front of himself, “please. I will just find a nearby store.”

You tilt your head. “Oh there’s no other stores nearby…unless you get on the highway for at least twenty minutes. It’s a…small town.”

His lax expression finally cracks into one of subtle surprise. “That’s interesting.”

“Are you…new to town?” you ask.

He nods with a small smile on his face. “Indeed. Well, just visiting. I’m from New York.”

“Oh! Wow, that’s a long way from here.” You briefly register that he does look like a city man. Upscale restaurants, skyline views, premium outlets. The subtle fragrance of his cologne smells expensive too. “What are you up to while visiting?” You mentally facepalm yourself for asking personal questions, but he seems mysterious and you like peeling the layers back on people like him.

His expression drops, turning almost solemn and his eye contact that was previously very direct is suddenly averted elsewhere, “Just…visiting some old friends.” There is no elaboration.

“Ahh…I see,” you say, picking up on the hint that he has no more words to give you. “Well…I’ll be taking the orange juice…maybe try one with pulp?” you suggest a little cheekily. 

His lips tug upwards in a lopsided smile, one you’d call a smirk if you weren’t so mesmerized to define it as one, “I’ll think about it.”

You hum slightly in polite acknowledgement of him, then push your cart back towards the heart of the store without a word of goodbye.

Odd stranger, who’s good at giving misleading answers. You wonder what life he’s come here to escape. 

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

It’s a bright, picturesque Sunday morning, with children laughing and squealing out on the streets in front of your house as they ride their scooters up hot pavement while their parents catch up on PTA drama on the lawns. You’re standing in front of your full length mirror, trying on dress #3 for your little meeting with the courthouse today. And by little meeting, you mean your wedding. You’re getting married today.

The dress you have on falls to below your knees and has buttons all the way from the hem right up to the base of your neck, where the collared neckline wraps around you like a noose. Suffocating, way too prim and proper, although it’d make your grandma very happy and adored to see you should you show up to church service in it. 

Your bed is cluttered with clothes you’ve thrown across it as you try to find a good dress. Your hands move with impatience as you skim through the rack of your closet for another dress to try on, since you’re starting to push the time a little too much. You’ve only got ten minutes before you need to leave. 

A dress tucked in the corner of your closet catches your eye and you pull it out. It’s a cream-colored milk maid dress with an underskirt to puff out the A-line silhouette, length down to your shins that would be oh-so-flattering with a cute pair of heels. There are small red flowers adorning the pattern, with tiny green leaf details as well. It was cute and sweet and feminine, something you haven’t worn in a long time unlike your usual monotonous hospital scrubs, stained sweatpants and adult onesies.

It was the dress your friend Sana convinced you to buy when you thought you were going to get engaged. In the first two years of your relationship with Choso, you two talked about marriage non-stop. You both had just graduated college when you first started dating, and it felt like your lives were finally starting. At the end of the second year you two had been together for, after Christmas dinner with your family, he pulled you into his arms and you squealed with glee as he spinned you around in your childhood bedroom upstairs and told you how much he wanted to marry you, and that he was going to propose in the new year.

Your mother was diagnosed with cancer in January, and he never brought up marriage ever again. 

He still stayed with you for five years after that though, and swiftly dodged every single question you ever asked him about his impending proposal. For five years, you were fed every excuse in the book. And in hindsight, you feel like an idiot for staying, and for still holding out hope, when what you were really holding onto was heartbreak. The feeling of not being enough, like someone was just tolerating you, and not loving you. It was easy to ignore at times, given how occupied you were with driving your mother to chemotherapy appointments and reading up on books about which diet works best to slow down the development of Alzheimer’s because your mother started showing signs of dementia just two months after the cancer diagnosis. But in those moments of freedom, where you had a moment to breathe, all you could breathe was a suffocating smoke. Because you stopped feeling wanted or loved in between all of it.

But there was a trip he planned for the two of you to Greece. It was after your mother had first successfully gotten into remission. A gasp of fresh air amongst all the pain and suffering, and you could only assume that he wanted to celebrate by taking you on a trip. Sana was convinced he was going to propose to you on this trip, and you wondered if maybe he was just waiting until your mother felt better before he proposed so that the two of you could enjoy being newly engaged without the pressure or worry. Sana took you shopping, and you bought this dress, one that clings to your form in a way that made you feel beautiful. Made you feel wanted. Made you feel worthy of being loved. Because all other parts of yourself had been overlooked and paid no attention, but you thought a dress could save you. 

He never proposed. You left Greece with an extra suitcase of souvenirs, but without a ring on your finger or even a compliment on how beautiful you should’ve looked to him standing there on that beach with this cream-colored dress on, arm wrapped around his. And it was at that point you became numb, and you existed in limbo for the remaining four years of your relationship. Until he finally did what you silently begged him to do, with every sullen look in your eyes when you glanced at him. Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, what he did to you. Something you willed him into because you didn’t have the strength to leave, and so he had to.

You hold the dress up to your form in the mirror. It’d still fit you, and it’s far too pretty to have only worn once. But you’ve been numb for so long now, you don’t even remember what it’s like to feel pretty in a dress. You unbutton yourself out of dress #3 and step into failed proposal dress #4, and as you slowly zip up the back of the dress, you’re met with resistance. 

Fuck.

The last thing you need right now is a weight-related meltdown.

You tug up on the zipper even more, harshly, to the point you hear a stitch rip and you gasp and try to do it slowly so as not to completely tear the dress apart. But it’s not fitting. It should fit. You just assume the zip is stuck, or it’s too rigid after years of no wear.

You’re about to do another colossal yank upwards that could potentially dislocate your shoulder when you jump at the sound of your phone chiming with a notification. And then multiple.

“What...the hell…do you want…” you sigh to nobody, swiping your hands across the pile of dress fabric on your bed to find your phone, and when you do, you quickly tap on the screen to see the messages.

|| 11:32AM neighbor (avocado tree): Hey, are we still getting married today?

First of all, wild fucking thing to nonchalantly ask.

|| 11:32AM neighbor (avocado tree): Your car’s still parked out front, so I wasn’t sure if you’ve left yet. I was just about to leave, and then the thought occurred to me that we should probably carpool?

|| 11:35AM neighbor (avocado tree): But just wanted to verify, are you sure you want to go through with this? You’re not having cold feet? Won’t be a runaway bride? I’m not gonna be left at the altar, wondering where I went wrong?

You roll your eyes, breathing heavily still from the struggle of zipping up your dress.

|| 11:36AM You: yes, we are still getting married. I just can’t zip up my dress for the life of me 

It takes him a whole minute to respond.

|| 11:38AM neighbor (avocado tree): Do you need help?

You blink at your phone screen. Help? What kind of help? Helping you zip up your dress?

You look over your shoulder to the full length mirror, eyeing your back. The dress was zipped up to just above the small of your back, with the rest of it flayed open to reveal the expanse of your skin. Setting your phone down, you roll your shoulders back once and flex your fingers to try again in securing this dress, but to no avail. You curse yourself for not having the flexibility, and to be honest, you’re not even sure if you can take the dress off anymore to get into something else with the way the zipper won’t budge neither up nor down. Well. You’re just going to have to wear this dress for the rest of your life now. A scary predicament.

You pick your phone up again.

|| 11:41AM You: yes

It only takes about two minutes for him to text you that he’s at your front door, a surprisingly considerate gesture considering your mother is sleeping downstairs so it’s good he didn’t ring the doorbell, and you tiptoe your way down and over the creaky floorboards of the stairs to the front entrance. 

You slowly crack the door open only a couple inches, hiding yourself from him behind it as you peek at him. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, and he glances at his watch. “We’ve got to hurry.”

You nod, and take note of his appearance. He’s wearing a dark fitted navy suit over a white dress shirt, which to your surprise, doesn’t have the top two buttons sluttily undone for once. His suit pants are perfectly tailored to his ankles and you can barely see the exposed fabric of black socks before they disappear into his polished Oxfords. He looks like he’s going to a wedding. Oh wait, he is. 

He raises an eyebrow at you when you refuse to reveal yourself by stepping away from behind the door. Even his hair is particularly kept and proper, swept off to the side slightly in a way that makes him look younger and you feel nervous from the intensity of those eyes, which are usually somewhat hidden by the fringe of his snowy hair, now look at you unwaveringly with no obstruction. You feel like you’re seeing him in a completely new light, and for some reason, it makes you cower behind the door even more. 

“Uh, are you going to let me in?” he asks you, his foot tapping lightly on the welcome! mat. 

“Yes,” you say, but you make no movement to prove your word. 

“y/n,” he says, “we need to get going.”

You sigh, tapping your fingers against the stained glass window of your front door to release some nerves before hesitantly stepping to the side and pulling the door open all the way, then you’re standing in front of him in full view. You catch a glimpse of the black tie hanging from his neck that’s secured all the way up to the collar of his shirt, before you finally look at his face.

Those striking eyes of his round slowly until he’s looking at you wide-eyed, blinking in some sort of dazed surprise as his gaze eventually sweeps down your entire form to take in the sight of you standing barefoot on wooden floor in your cream-colored dress, and you swear you see the muscles in his jaw jump. His brow furrows like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“You–” he starts, that shocked blinking still taking place on his face, and you grasp the fabric of your dress in front of you from the anticipation of what he’ll say, “...you look beautiful.”

A silence settles between the two of you as he continues to roam his eyes all down you like there’s nothing that could stop him from doing it, and you feel heat in your cheeks from his compliment. It’s just a silly little cream-colored dress. One that didn’t look pretty on a beach in Greece, so why would it look beautiful on you  here right now? While you’re standing at the dusty front entrance of a decades old house? He’s bullshitting you.

“You know you don’t have to compliment me, you know that, right?” you squeak out, trying to keep your tone level and easy to fight back the raw feeling in your throat, “this isn’t a first look. There are no photographers around to capture your reaction. We’re not actually getting married.”

“But–” 

“Can you just help me with the dress?” you cut him off so he doesn’t say anything else that makes you feel pretty right now.

“...sure,” he agrees, and he steps inside your house. You start to walk upstairs, and he follows suit, and you suddenly feel his eyes on your back so you turn around and walk up the stairs backwards while facing him.

“I don’t understand the concept of first looks anyway,” he says out of nowhere to cut the silence, “isn’t it a bad omen to see your partner before getting married?”

“That’s such an outdated superstition,” you tell him as your feet finally press firmly flat at the top of the stairs. 

One of his feet is placed next to where you’re standing up straight at the top, while the other is still on the third step down. And it’s like he’s kneeling on one knee in front of you as he looks up at you. After a moment of deep breathing on your part, you finally step away from the top of the stairs so he can finish walking up them too.

“I don’t know what happened,” you say to him as you make it to the front of your full length mirror, “I was just trying to zip it up but it got stuck. And it’s not unzipping either.”

He comes up behind you, and you can see in the mirror that he’s put a decent amount of space between the two of you from the way his arms are reached out in front of him just to access the zipper. He tugs up on it.

“Hm. It…” he struggles with it, “it seems…” he yanks again, “jammed?”

“Fudge,” you mutter under your breath (more ladylike perhaps, as opposed to fuck) and you sulk your shoulders. “But will it close at all, do you think?”

He takes a step closer to you, and his cologne has the fragrance of woody oak with undertones of citrus, like something expensive and sophisticated. His hand sweeps your hair off to the side and over your shoulder to the front so he has a better view, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck from the motion and you try to fight the shiver. A glance to the mirror, and you see his eyes are set on the exposed skin. He tugs to pull your dress together, and is able to cross the fabrics. “Yeah, it should. I think just hold your breath for a second? I’m going to try to see if zipping it down helps unjam it.” 

“Okay,” you say softly, and he eyes you in the mirror at the sudden subservience. 

You try to hold your breath as he tugs down on the zipper, and you hear the metallic click when he succeeds in unjamming it before he zips it down just an inch. You can feel the small of your back exposed to cool air from the motion. 

He’s suddenly frozen entirely behind you, the knuckle of his index finger brushing against your skin as he continues to pinch the zipper between it and his thumb. You feel his slow exhale on the back of your neck. You’re too scared to look at his expression in the mirror.

“Sa–” you stutter through a gasp, “Satoru.”

“Sorry,” he says quietly, and then he’s shifting on his feet once before slowly attempting to zip the dress up. 

He’s met with a slight resistance just underneath your shoulder blades. “Hey. Just hold your breath.”

“I’m trying to,” you tell him, almost whining, because it’s hard to stop breathing when your heart is beating fast and it needs the oxygen supply.

“Do you want to try on a different dress?” he asks you.

“No,” you immediately answer him. You’re not sure why, but the idea of wearing this dress for the rest of your life doesn’t scare you anymore. In fact, you never want to take it off.

Your hands twiddle with the flimsy string at your collarbone that you tied to connect the fabric across your chest, and then you realize. ���Oh…maybe I need to–” you tug at the end of the string, “undo this? That might make it looser?” You finally glance at the mirror to seek his approval of your suggestion.

His eyes meet yours, and when he sees what you’re referring to, his eyes widen. “But that would–”

“Just don’t look,” you say simply.

You two remain looking at one another in the mirror, and you see his chest heaving slightly through the tightening of his dress shirt against the expansion of his breathing. Like you’re asking the impossible of him.

“Or I’ll kill you,” you say.

He sighs, and his eyes flit down to your zipper again. You swear you feel his hand tremble slightly. “Alright.”

You pull on the end of the string, watching him in the mirror to make sure his eyes don’t wander, and the fabric covering your breasts falls open, but you use a hand to still sparsely cover your skin with the cloth where you can. In the reflection, you see his jaw clench but his eyes remain on the zipper, and only briefly flicker to the bed once. Then he’s zipping up your dress with ease. 

You quickly tie the string above your chest once more to cover yourself up, and then spin to face the mirror, petting down the fabric of your dress and throwing your hair back over your shoulder. It was a snug fit, but at least it still fit. 

He’s a step behind you with his hands shoved in his suit pockets, looking at your face with a slight tilt to his head like he’s studying you in the mirror just as much as you’re studying yourself. And then he pulls his hand out of his pocket to glance at his watch again. “It’s almost noon,” he says. 

“What?!” you bark at him. “We’re fucking late!!! Why didn’t you say anything?!?!”

“Huh??” he baffles. “I’ve been trying to tell you we need to rush this entire time.”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you say, pacing your room to find your things in a scurry, picking your purse up and then grabbing your Manila folder of paperwork from your desk, and you try to walk past him to the door when you trip over the five pairs of shoes that you had been trying on earlier, almost twisting your ankle, and you gasp then grab onto his suit jacket for purchase before his arm attempts to reach out to hold you upright but to no avail since you tug on him as you fall straight backwards onto your bed and bring him down with you. 

His hands sink into the soft mattress on both sides of your head, wrists tickled by your hair, as he hovers over you, and your fingers quickly curl into little balls at your chest as you shrink underneath him, looking up at his surprised expression, likely from having to suddenly brace himself from falling right on top of you.

You both look at each other, blinking as you come down from the sudden chaos, and his tie that’s hanging from his neck brushes against your knuckle and falls over your hand to graze the skin above your breasts. His eyes briefly flicker to the sight, and he catches himself only to stare at your lips instead.

Even through thick layers of fabric, you can see the thick curves of the muscles in his arms, pulled taut from how he’s holding himself up over you. And for once, you wish the buttons of his shirt were undone, so you can see what he’s hiding underneath. The hair he had swept up above his eyes now falls freely with gravity, soft tufts that dangle above you and shadow over the blue of his eyes as he looks at you with a furrowed brow that–...that makes him look handsome. 

You must be ovulating.

No, wait, you finished ovulating a couple days ago.

Oh god.

Was your next door neighbor hot this entire time?

There was simply no way. 

You refuse to believe it.

You’re laying still like a deer in highlights, motionless underneath him, before he curls his arm around your waist to bring you up with him as he stands up straight, and you only spend a moment pressed up against him before you get yourself out of his grasp by pushing flat palms against his chest, and then the two of you are in proper distance from one another once again.

“D-Don’t ever do something like that ever again,” you stutter, shimmying your hips slightly to pull the snug fabric down your waist from where it had risen up.

“I didn’t do anything,” he grumbles, and he runs a hand through his hair. Now it looks like it always does, no longer prim in style.

“Whatever, let’s just go.” You slip your feet into one of the pairs of heels sprawled across on the floor, and then you head straight for the door. “You drive.”

You hear him sigh behind you. “Yes ma’am.”

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

The courthouse is bustling with people when you two arrive but Gojo’s pleasantly able to pull into an open curbside parking spot right in front of the entrance. You’re surprised when he comes around to the passenger side to open the door for you, and you swat his hand away when he offers it to you too, but you probably should’ve taken it, since you almost twist your ankle for the second time today as you step out onto the curb and get used to walking in heels again like a newborn fawn.

“Should’ve taken my hand,” he says to you, smile turned upwards into a smirk as he watches you struggle while he’s a few steps ahead of you.

“Give it to me then,” you grit through your teeth as you wobble, giving up your pride to avoid adding yet another medical bill to the list of debts in your name.

“Nah,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, “too late. Lost your chance.” You curse his entire lineage in your head.

You two make it inside the courtroom, and the first person you look for is Hana, whose head you catch at the front row much to your pleasant surprise since she is your sole witness to sign on the marriage certificate today. But in your study of the room to find her, you notice that there are a lot of other people in here as well.

“Don’t tell me…Did you invite people??” you ask Gojo, grabbing onto his sleeve to get his attention and also for balance, but he doesn’t need to know that latter part.

He glances down at you. “No? Why would I invite people to my fake wedding?”

Your eyes peruse the room once again, and you realize that most of them are just old retired people with nothing better to do on a Sunday than visit the courtroom. Some are elderly couples, eyeing you and Gojo as you two make your way down the aisle with sweetness in their eyes like awwwwwww to be a young couple in love once more <3 while they wait for the judge to call on their hundreds of unpaid parking tickets because they don’t know how to access an internet portal.

“D-Do you have the marriage license?” you squeak out to Gojo, who has now adjusted his walking speed to match yours.

“No, I left it at home,” he tells you in a flat tone. “Of course I brought the marriage license.”

“I was just checking, jeez…” you grumble.

Gojo hands the clerk the folder he was holding in his hand, and you hand in yours too.

Oh god. Your peripheral vision already recognizes him before your brain can, but you see an extremely familiar silhouette standing guard off to the side of the Judge’s bench, and your gaze immediately snaps in that direction.

Choso stands there, in his Sheriff Deputy’s uniform, his thumbs tucked into his vest as he puffs his chest out in assertion of his oh so important duty securing the courthouse on a Summer Sunday from any devastating danger, such as an elderly man not wanting to pay a parking ticket and then proceeding to charge towards the judge at 2 MPH, and you can’t help but roll your eyes from his attitude and scowl at him. Of course he pulled some strings and saw when you were getting allegedly married and decided to show up on that exact day. Whatever. You’ll pay him no mind. As long as he doesn’t speak now.

You and Gojo walk back to the lower desk in front of the Judge’s Bench.

“Ah! y/n, hello my dear, how are you?” the judge calls out to you.

“Hi Judge Jin,” you say meekly with a small wave, your voice echoing in the room, “good, and yourself?”

6/4/2024 1232: Judge Jin is a 72 y/o man with a past medical history of hypertension, hypercholesterolemia, hyperglycemia, GERD, liver cirrhosis and COPD, who endorses a social history of frequent tobacco usage and occasional alcohol consumption. Patient presents to the ED with chief complaint of chest pain, onset two hours ago after he drank three bottles of beer, and—

“Much better since you took care of me last week!” he humphs, patting his stomach.

You snap out of your automatic charting that was droning on in your head on reflex from how many times Judge Jin has shown up to the ED for acute chest pain which almost always ends up just being beer-induced GERD.

“At the hospital!” you clarify, “for taking care of you at the hospital!”

The man laughs heartily from where he sits up at the raised platform bench. “Yes! And Mr. Gojo! Nice to see you as well.”

You flit your eyes to Gojo, like you know him too? He only briefly spares you a sidewards glance before looking back at Judge Jin. “Likewise, sir.”

You postulate he scammed the fuck out of the man into signing a forty-year lease on a condo in the shady part of town, and you’ll leave it at that.

“I have to say, I am a little shocked by this matrimonial partnership!” Judge Jin chimes in. “But do you both swear to enter this marriage under just circumstances? I will need verbal affirmation from you both.”

Gojo raises his hand up in the air to swear on it, and you remember that he’s possibly done this before. Y’know how people have a courtroom wedding before a real wedding, something like that. And maybe that’s why he knows to raise his hand, because you didn’t even know you were supposed to raise your hand until now.

A real wedding. Something you’ve pictured a lot in your head, and so much more different than the arrangement you find yourself in right now. And because the pain of imagining yourself tying the knot with someone is too much right now, especially when the man you thought you were going to marry stands in uniform five feet away from you and probably doesn’t even recognize the dress you’re wearing right now, you glance over to Gojo and you try to imagine what a real wedding would’ve been like for him. Since he’s done it before.

He probably had a tacky wedding, like in a barn with barrels of beer used as tables with barely flickering string lights hung across wooden planks high on a triangular ceiling. The reception and the ceremony likely happened under the same roof, because he seems like the minimalist type, more focused on the feelings behind it and all, and not the grandeur.

Or maybe he was into the grandeur. Maybe he had a wedding on a skyline penthouse in the city, wearing expensive cologne like the one he’s wearing now, and a Dior suit he got custom made because it was a once in a lifetime occasion so why not? The image becomes a little too vivid in your head now, where you can picture this woman he’s marrying too. Pretty, tall just like him, wearing a ball gown white dress. He would’ve told her she looked beautiful, too. He would’ve told her he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with her. Vows uttered shakingly into the microphone at an altar while the sun is setting far into the sky, shimmering off of high building windows until the air is golden and it reflects off of his and his soon-to-be wife’s face. And when they’ve professed their love for one another, he grabs her by the waist and dips her in a kiss, for the perfect picture against the perfect backdrop in front of all the perfect little people because there probably was a photographer at that event, wanting to capture the moment.

You snap out of the dazed moment when a loud voice calls out your name, and in a shock, you glance back up at Judge Jin who’s looking at you with slight irritation.

“Huh?” you squeak out, and then turn to look at Gojo, who’s got a look of mild concern on his face as he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Please swear that this marriage is under just circumstances,” Judge Jin states with a cadence that indicates he’s commanded this of you multiple times already.

“Oh!” you stand up straight, “I—…I’m sorry.” You hold your hand up. “Yes, I swear this marriage is under just circumstances.” Just like Higurama had you practice. He’d be proud. Phew, the hard part was over.

The rest of the ceremony goes by in a rather fast blur, and it’s a little awkward when you both have to tell Judge Jin that you don’t have any vows to exchange at the moment when he offers the time for them, but Gojo comes up with some lie about how the real vows will be at our formal ceremony, and Judge Jun seems entirely satisfied and a little too ecstatic by the answer before allowing you two and Hana to sign the marriage certificate.

“And rings?” Judge Jin asks as he peers down through his glasses to the paper he was holding at his desk. “We can now make time for the exchange of rings.”

You’re prepared for Gojo to come up with another lie about how the real rings will be at our formal ceremony, but you see him shuffling with something in his pocket in your periphery. Hm? You glance down at his hip, and you see him pull something shiny out.

He turns to face you, and he holds his hand out to you with an up-facing palm. You blink at him and then glance down at his hand. And then you look up and blink at him, and then glance down his hand. And then you look up and blink at him, and then gl—

“Give me your hand,” he says to you, a little hushed and rushed.

“Why???” you ask, baffled.

“So I can put a ring on your finger?” he says, like it’s the most casual thing. Like getting a ring slipped onto your fourth finger is the most casual Sunday for you, when it’s something you’ve dreamt of your whole entire life.

You finally take a long hard look at the ring he’s holding in his right hand. It shimmers with every glint of light in the courtroom off of every angle, no doubtedly precisely cut diamond from a jeweler who really cares about their craft, and you swear you’ve saved a similar looking ring to one of your Pinterest wedding boards before.

You hesitantly bring your hand up and hover it over his.

“Your left hand, silly,” he tells you.

“Oh, right,” you say, and hand him your left one instead.

He holds it in his hand that is much warmer than yours, and it’s so tender, the way he gently slips the ring onto your finger. It fits with ease, perfection actually, and you can’t help raising your hand up in the air, spreading your fingers weakly as you admire the stone now sitting above your knuckle. It’s pretty.

You feel Gojo’s eyes on you, as he’s halted in frame, and you glance past your hand to look at his face. You dislike him. You do. You should. He’s your annoying as fuck next-door-neighbor. So then why does your heart feel like it could burst right now?

A glimmer of silver catches your eye, and you look down at his hands as he slips a silver ring onto his left hand while facing you before he turns to face the front again, signaling the end of the ring exchange, except you didn’t get to put it on his hand. He didn’t give you the chance.

“Alright! Wonderful!” Judge Jin exclaims, whose eyesight is probably too poor to have seen that it wasn’t even a proper ring exchange. “With the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife!”

There is scattered applause across the courtroom, a few cheers as well, as you two stand in front of the court of law in holy matrimony.

Judge Jin glances at Gojo. “Well, young man, you may now kiss the bride!”

“Oh—…that—” you stutter, “that’s not necessa—”

“Okay,” Gojo says, more to affirm Judge Jin than in acknowledgement of your protest, and in a series of what feels like just one motion, he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you two him and then he—

He kisses you.

He kisses you like it’s real, like there’s history, like it’s a pure thing meant to last and not something you quite literally put a time stamp on. The kiss muffles the small sound that comes from your throat, your hands held up in the air in some slight surrender before they slowly settle on his shoulders as he bends you backwards over his forearm to deepen the kiss and the cheers surrounding you grow with a fervor that has your cheeks burning red but for some reason you don’t want it to end—

And then he pulls away from you, eyes darting across the features of your face in close proximity as he exhales slowly, like a release, and it feels like the two of you are the only ones in this room before he glances at your lips one last time and then he releases his hold on you. You stand shocked, and briefly glance at Choso, who looks like he’s about to burst a fuse off the top of his head.

What.

What.

What?

And just like that, you were married to your insufferable next-door neighbor.

.

.

.

[end of chapter 2]

a/n. thank youuu soooo so much for reading this chapter of ihm!! i’m kinda liking the writing style i’ve adopted for this series, it’s kinda lax n lenient sort of like a stream of consciousness and i hope it doesn’t come of too crass of informal lol i’m just playing around w some writing styles rn. ANYWHO i hope you enjoyed!! btw i picture choso as long-hair choso in any modern au (and not pigtails choso) so if you see me describing his hair in the way that i do, that’s why lol. love you all so much, hope to see you in the next one <3

➸ take me to chapter three!

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[prolix-yuy]

Chapter 2: Anachronism

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader Production Designer

Summary: Anachronism - An element, artifact, prop, or furnishing in a film that belongs to a different time or place than the one being shown.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: M, drug use, mentions of sexual acts (non-descriptive), overuse of filmmaking terms, will be E in later chapters so full series is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: It's Day 2 of Dieter Takeover and shooting is about to begin! Let's see what these two get into...

Cross-posted on AO3

Below the Line Masterlist

INT. DINING ROOM - DAY

“Reset!” Dee calls out, and you weave around the cast and crew to move chairs back to their marked starting positions, inspecting faux crystal wine glasses for sips taken during the shot. The other actors are up-and-comers, and while you remember to call them by their names to their faces, they always jump to mind as their character names when you’re in the zone. 

Clara’s wineglass has a light lip mark on the edge, which you direct Dane to wipe as you hand the prop plates of food to Shelly. Theo, Henry and Catharine, the three other family members in the scene, mill about chatting with Clara as they look over the script. Ronna is giving them notes in low tones, and you glance up at them, anticipating how much time you have before they get back into places.

Scene reset, you step back towards the entrance to the dining room. The hallway outside has a little window at the end of it, and that’s where your team congregates while the shoot continues. You make notes in your binder and leave Dane to observe from the door so it doesn’t get too crowded. Their silhouette is a constant shadow, always dressed in black jeans and dark sweaters or t-shirts contrasting their shock of short blond hair. At least the steel-toed boots are practical for set life. They’re a sharp worker with keen eyes, so you like to have them watch the shot and relay back any significant changes while you look ahead to the next scene.

However, instead of focusing on your notes, your eyes drift outside to the craft services tent. You can see Dieter there, though he’s not supposed to be on set today. Clara, Henry, Theo and Catharine are spending the first few days of shooting getting their dynamic down, so when Dieter (Carwin, you scolded yourself, if you weren’t going to remember the other actors’ names you shouldn’t give him special treatment) arrives, there’s shared history. It’ll make his encroachment on their home all the more jarring.

But instead you see him chatting up the craft services table, looking out at the gorgeous estate, probably scoping. You knew the look, the one that practically screamed “I am looking for a hookup and I am willing to grovel for it.” Maybe that’s why he was on set so much earlier. He didn’t dress to impress, the t-shirt he’s wearing today even rattier-looking, but that hadn’t deterred anyone before.

You’d sort of hoped in the back of your mind that he would take some time to work on himself without leaping into more sexcapades. His MO hadn’t changed much either - he never slept with other actors, or even the crew. It was always third or fourth connections: hotel workers, contractors, AirBnB hosts. He’d become a Hollywood heartthrob when he declared his love for Anika, the hotel front desk worker on Cliff Beasts 6, and their relationship must have spawned thousands of fanfics about being swept off your feet by Dieter Bravo.

Not that you would know. You’d never read any of those. Nope. Definitely not. Just curious, nothing more.

It doesn’t matter, you told yourself as you turned pages and noted which props needed to be taken to the next scene. He was bringing a bigger name to the movie and would garner more attention. He might even bring more of that Oscar-winning talent to the screen. 

What was your opinion worth anyway? He’d had a rough go of things lately, he could do what he wanted. And you would be nice about it, not bring anything awkward up. He obviously didn’t remember working with you on Cliff Beasts 5, but whatever. Who cares? You certainly don’t.

“That’s a wrap on Scene 8. Moving on,” Dee calls, and you stand from your voyeuristic spot and nod to your team.

INT. HALLWAY - DAY

Three days later you’re on your hands and knees, rolling up a carpet that doesn’t belong in this scene. It’s so dusty you feel your ears and nose itching. Eyes watering, Shelly helps with the old heave-ho at the end. For someone as small as she is, she packs a punch when she’s doing manual labor. Her backwards baseball cap keeps her curly brown hair out of her eyes, and when she stands at full height the sheer amount of dust coating her faded jeans and faux-vintage t-shirt makes you laugh. You let her and Dane move the carpet to the other room, them chatting lightly about some show Dane recommended, while you sneeze on your knees on the floor.

“Bless you,” a deep amused voice answers, and you turn around to catch Dieter smiling down at you. You sniff instinctively, and the act pulls more dust into your nose. Making what must be a supremely unattractive face, you sneeze three times more into your elbow.

“Good thing we’re not in a pandemic anymore,” Dieter chuckles, and out of a pocket he produces a cloth handkerchief. It’s definitely part of his wardrobe, but he holds it out to you like a true gentleman. 

He looks like one too, the costume department really outdid themselves on the wardrobe. His ensemble is shades of gray and black to contrast the lighter tones of the family wardrobe, only the fabric around his neck ivory in color. His cutaway coat is velvet brocade, left open over a black silk waistcoat that fits him perfectly. His shoulders go for days, the tailoring both making it look custom and also a smidge too small so it stretches tantalizingly. The breeches seem soft, descending into clocked stockings and shiny buckled boots that you never fancied on men in movies but on him they accentuate the thickness of his thighs and curve of his calves. 

You take the wardrobe-piece-come-snotrag and turn to blow your nose as quietly as possible. Looking down at the wet fabric, you stuff it in your pocket.

“I’ll have Lisa get you a new one, you definitely don’t want that back.” Dieter chuckles, hands behind his back, and he feels so different from the person he’s been playing on both screens, the big and the small. He looks…happy? Happy to be working even? You didn’t think he even enjoyed making films anymore, but the way he’s turning to observe the set, waving to his fellow actors, he looks light even swaddled in darkness.

“You did all of this?” he asks, and you nod while getting back to your feet. 

“The place was already great, just needed some extra character,” you say, and you wince at your self-deflection. Gotta get better at that.

“It’s fantastic, I’ve never worked on something like this. No green screen, nothing,” he says, and you feel your chest puff out with pride. 

“Ronna’s amazing, I’ve loved her last few…” you start to say when Dieter looks at you, a question definitely on his lips.

“I was…wondering if you could help me with something,” he says, and you stop, holding your breath. He puts his hands together in front of his face, as if praying briefly to your presence. It makes your fingers twitch, your mouth dry, your heart pound. His eyes are soft and pleading when he looks at you, and you feel the burn of his rapt attention crawling below your collar.

“Is there…any way…that I could get real wine instead of grape juice in my glass?” he asks, and you try not to let the breath you’re holding out too loudly. You smile and shake your head. Yeah, same old Dieter.

“Can’t do that, unfortunately. My best recommendation is to grab a drink beforehand. I heard Daisy at craft services sometimes has a bottle of something under the desk. You might be able to get a nip from her if you’re nice.” You hate how that sounds, and how Dieter breaks into a relieved smile and pats your shoulder like you’re old friends.

“Thank God, I’m just…feeling a little nervous about the first day. Been a while since I've done something...artsy.” His candid tone warms you a little, hand going to rub his hair sheepishly before he remembers how slicked back and styled it is. He settles for rubbing the back of his neck. 

“You’ll do great,” you say with a smile as you see Dane and Shelly come back, pink-cheeked and sweaty but no worse for wear. Their easy conversation stops when they see you talking with Dieter, eyes as big as saucers. “Better hurry though, next call is in ten.” Dieter gives you some finger guns and exits past the pair, smiling and nodding to them while passing. You smile and shake your head.

“Okay, quit staring, we need to move the tiger statue next.”

INT. SITTING ROOM - DAY

The days pass quickly, filled with busy hands, setups and breakdowns. You leave tired, on autopilot as you drive to your hotel 40 minutes away. You’re also absolutely thrumming with excitement, joining the crew to watch the dailies at the end of the day. Ronna’s DP frames the scenes like a voyeur, every shot intimate and so close it feels like you’re also intruding in on their private little lives. The steadicam walkthroughs of the house are your personal favorites, selfishly so, because you can see all of the detail work you put in to make the experience immersive. Ronna commented on the voids in the dust on a table covered in photographs, complimenting the nod to Clara and Theo’s departed father. You stayed on a high from that for hours after.

Dieter sometimes comes in and watches, sitting far enough away that you suspect he’s more curious about the ritual of it than about notes and plans. He’s out of costume by then, but the makeup wipes don’t always remove all of his eyeliner, making him look roguish in the dim evening light. His hair is always mussed up, the gel still slicking some of his curls into hard shapes but letting the fullness of it regain control. You try not to look at him, try to ignore his presence and make notes for the next day. His outline tingles in the edge of your vision no matter how hard you try.

Despite your initial worries regarding his sexual and recreational drug habits, Dieter genuinely seems to be fully present on set. When he was supposed to sit in a chair a certain way but he could hear the old coils squeak, he requested another one so it wouldn’t affect the sound capture. He was careful to hold on to his props, observant of what hand and how he fiddled with them to remain consistent, before handing them back to you at the end of a scene. He gives tidbits of advice to the other actors and accepts notes of his own. When Catharine tells him he can be more dismissive of her, treating her like the meek housewife he sees her as, he continuously checks in to make sure he’s not making her too uncomfortable.

The change is sharp compared to Cliff Beasts. He was always bored on set there, anxious to be done and complaining about blocking or action scenes or why he can’t do another take to perfect his accent. Here it feels like you’ve actually been transported back to a time when Dieter was passionate about acting. It eases you and makes your interactions, however brief, friendlier than you anticipated.

He’s spoken to you several times since that first day, looming over you like a mountainous Mr. Darcy. The spark of nerves fades with each encounter, and you find yourself enjoying the light conversations when you aren't running from room to room.

“Where did you even find this?” he asked between takes one day, pointing at an elephant foot table topped with marble. 

“Columbia’s prop house, it was used on Jumanji ages ago. Adds a certain period assholery, don’t you think?” you joked. He crouched down to look closer at it, tapping on the parts that were styrofoam and paint while shaking his head. It starts a running joke that when he finds another strange artifact - tiger teeth, an obnoxiously large crystal paperweight, hideously ugly vases - he points and says, completely deadpan, “period assholery?” to elicit a smile from you.

Or there was the time when you bonked your head loud enough that even the gaffer asked if you were okay (damn narrow doorways and large ottomans). Dieter left the set for a minute and came back with an ice pack. Placing it in your hands with a smile and a nod, you’d stared after him like he brought you a lover’s bouquet.

When did he get so sweet?

Then there was the time the evening shoot went extra late and instead of driving home you slept in your car. The next day was met with a stiff back and all of your effort spent paying attention to the scenes. At the lunch break you forewent craft services in favor of catching a quick nap in one of the unoccupied rooms. Laying down in a small bedroom far enough from set you wouldn’t be bothered, you set your phone’s alarm for 30 minutes.

You weren’t sure how long your alarm had been going off when you woke, but the startle of the noise was coupled with a figure in the doorway. Their back was to you, sitting in a chair that blocked the entrance, and you, from onlookers. When you turned off the alarm and sat up, checking for mussed hair or pillow lines, the figure turned.

“Wasn’t trying to be a creep,” Dieter said with his hands up, a vape pen between his fingers. “The door was open and I saw you sleeping, so I wanted to make sure no one stumbled in.” There was a paper plate of food on his knee, a haze of smoke around him that smelled faintly of strawberry as it wafted to your nose.

“Should have closed that, thanks,” you grumbled to yourself as you scoot out of the (surprisingly comfortable) bed. Dieter stood and moved the chair back to the desk inside the room.

“Long night?” he asked, a smile that both conveyed a joke and some concern. 

“Late night,” you said, waving him off as you pocketed your phone and flipped back to the correct pages for the day. You caught movement out of the edge of your peripheral and saw Dieter holding out a box for you. Staring at it blankly, he shook it at you.

“Got you a to-go box from craft services, since you missed lunch.” He shrugged as you took the box from him. You hadn’t even thought about picking up food, so exhausted that sleep was the only thing you could manage. 

“Thank you,” you said, the swirl of emotions at his thoughtfulness making anything more difficult. He folded his paper plate in half and made to head back to set before looking back at you.

“You’re not in the trailer park, right?” You shook your head. “If you ever get stranded, or need a place to crash, I’ve got space. Or, you know, there are probably other people who have space, or there’s an extra trailer, you know…” he stammered through his sentence. You nodded at him and he nodded back, drumming his fingers on the doorframe before heading back to set. You had to stand in the room for a minute more to regain your composure, hands tight around the white box.

However, your favorite moment might have been when Ronna asked you to come and look at a shot. It was a full body composition of Dieter (CARWIN dammit) lounging in a chair as he spoke to Clara. Ronna was puzzling over it, feeling unbalanced in the way it was framed but with the size of the room the DP was limited. She’d asked you what could be done without messing up the continuity of the other shots.

You heard footsteps coming up behind you, the slow swagger you knew to be Dieter, as you were discussing options.

“We could cheat the stool out, add a pop of the lighter color at the bottom right to offset how dark the rest of it is,” you recommended. The dark wallpaper gilded with intricate designs made for a stunning backdrop, but the scene did look flat without something pulling interest in the foreground. Glancing over, Ronna was still biting the inside of her cheek. You felt your stomach sink; the first snag of the film that had anything to do with you and you didn’t have a good solution. Doubt nibbled at the edges of your mind, sorting through a list of possibilities.

“Can I?” Dieter said, close to your head but not in your space. It still made you jump a little. Ronna turned to him and nodded once, curious. Dieter wasn’t known for voicing an opinion on how his films were made.

Reaching one long arm out to tap the monitor screen, he indicated the small table on the other side of the chair, half hidden when he sits in it.

“There’s a pair of binoculars on that table. If I use them as a hand prop, would that work?” he asked. You stilled, and a strange mix of emotion welled up in your throat.

You’d added those binoculars, a pair of the old brass ones that someone might use bird watching, as a set piece to nod at the voyeuristic nature of the film. That while Carwin inserts himself into the lives of Theo, Clara, Henry and Catharine, we as viewers are doing exactly the same. The DP didn’t like how the lights reflected on the brass and felt that they were distracting. You had argued briefly before she agreed to keep them as long as they were pushed to the back of the table and out of the shot. A little miffed by the change, you rolled with it. Compromises were always part of the work.

Dieter had been there, had definitely overheard your justification for why they should be included, and now sounded like he was…maybe you’re looking too deeply into it.

“Carwin is an outsider looking in, right? But he’s also casually flaunting it. So if I play with these, it’s like a taunt. I’m watching you, but you don’t know it,” he says, and his words plunge you into ice and fire all at once. He was listening.

Ronna’s face lights up, and you’re too stunned to be even a little annoyed that he voiced your intention so perfectly.

“I love it, it’s perfect,” she said, eyes bright on you again. “And they’ve been there the whole time. It’s like he’s always been watching, but now…it’s obvious.” You nodded, your smile breaking through. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Dieter smiling at you too, and you chanced a glance at him.

Fuck. He’s looking at you like you won a prize, pride hidden from Ronna and lavished on you. 

Fuck. Fuck. 

“Let’s take this one more time,” Ronna said, and Dee got the cast and crew back on set. You backed up, trying to move for Dieter but he placed a large hand on your shoulder and squeezed. As he passed by he whispered, “Just keeping your artistic vision,” with a wink. You smiled at him, and you know it looked grateful because he gave you a cheeky one back. He settled into the seat, the binoculars looking smaller in his hands than in yours, as he waited for his cue.

He was perfect, delivering the lines with double entendres and sureness, toying with the binoculars just enough to allow your eye to be drawn to them without distracting. He really is a good actor. He deserved that Oscar. Hell, for this he might deserve another one. He was practically glowing with charisma as Clara watched with trepidation. The tension was clear, so thick you could cut it. When Ronna called “Cut!” Dieter (you will force yourself to call him Carwin if it’s the last thing you do) caught you in his sights. He shot you a smile, one that said, “we’re on the same side,” and “we work well together.” You smiled back, with a small nod.

Fuck.

You couldn’t do this again.

PREVIOUS || NEXT

[thot-writes]

reposting since my accounts back! even added a couple more paragraphs. i’m startin a series of one-shots where various twinks get fucked w tentacles (not restricted to BNHA btw), but the first one is dabi! let me know if there’s anyone YOU’D like to tentacle fuck queens 💖

adventures in tentaculum: scene I — Dabi (18+ NSFW);

you were blessed with a quirk that allows you to spawn eight, tentacle-like tendrils from your back. they’re strong, fast, can extend up to 25 metres, and are able to secrete fluids to make them slick or sticky. while they look more ghostly than animal, they have suckers on the undersides much like an octopus.

Love is simply overrated.

You’ve always thought so.

The notion of dedicating your life to someone else, limiting your own freedom for a single person? It’s preposterous. You’ve encountered hundreds of people in your near three decades of life-- most of them strangers, some of them friends, few of them lovers.

None of them more.

It didn’t suit you. Not even the polyamorous route -- you could barely find one person worth your while, how were you supposed to find multiple? Your idle fancies would always pass, and you doubt there’s a man or woman alive that would be able to retain the flames of interest once the spark started.

Dabi, your newest companion, felt similarly. Aside from the obvious factor of his looks, that was what drew you to him in the first place.

Your relationship was limited to clandestine meetings after dark, anywhere you could find a place. Love hotels, seedy clubs, abandoned buildings a couple of times, or the backseat of your car if nothing else was readily available.

Tonight was a little special though. Your friend had won a contest for a couple’s stay at an inn, but work wouldn’t let them have the weekend off so they gave the coupons to you. You weren’t sure why, they knew you’ve never dated anyone before, but you took them anyway. Might as well.

Dabi was surprised when you waved the tickets in front of his face and told him to come. “I didn’t think we were that kind of couple,” he said suspiciously.

“We’re not,” you assured him. “My friend gave these to me, plus I figure a tatami room is better than my shitty car, right?”

He put a finger to his chin in thought. “Your car is shitty. It’s not like we have to stay the whole night either... Alright, give me one. I’ll meet you there.”

You decide to bathe separately, since you knew how dangerous it’d be to go in together. You’d never leave the baths that way, and you wanted to spend at least some time in the cozy tatami-matted suite. It was a heartbreaking decision, not be able to see your lover coax you with his soaking wet body... but you like to believe your sacrifice was a noble one.

You finish before he does and take the time to lounge in the room. Your robe is open and loose, barely covering any part of you as you lazily sip on some sake and gaze upon the world outside.

The shoji screen doors are open, and from your room is the sprawling view of dark emerald trees swaying in the night’s summer wind. You can hear the sound of a shishi odoshi just out of view, the tranquil flowing of the water before the bamboo rocker hits the stone. You can distantly hear a shamisen playing, probably from the dining hall. You’re propping yourself up with your elbows as you lay, half on the tatami flooring and half on the wooden deck outside, and you feel as if you could drift off at any moment. Where is that infernal sack of scars anyway? He’s making you wait too long.

“You look relaxed.”

Speak of the devil. Dabi’s familiar soothing voice brings you out of your thoughts and you glance back at him over your shoulder. “You took your time. I started drinking without you, hope you don’t mind.”

He grins and shuts the door behind him. His own yukata hangs open and is carried further by the gentle breeze wafting through the room. He sits beside you and you hand him an ochoko already filled with sake. He sips on it as your hand finds its way to his exposed thigh. He chuckles when you squeeze him, but says nothing.

“You look good in a yukata, y’know,” you say, your eyes settling on his profile as you rub your fingers in a circular motion over his scars. “Not that you’re wearing it properly. You’d get done in for public indecency if you went out like that.”

“You’re one to talk.” He looks down at your exposed nipples and reaches out to caress one. “You look like a seductress laying there like that, you know I’m a man right?”

You give him a lop-sided smile. “Hm. I wonder.”

“That’s cruel.”

You sit up and a translucent purple tendril flows from your back and snakes through your yukata to stroke his lips. He opens his mouth and lolls his tongue out, licking the appendage before he takes it into his mouth and sucks it. It tastes like water, perhaps with a hint of tartness; no distinct flavour to speak of even if its covered in its secretions.

You watch him watching you as he lewdly suckles on your tendril, the sensation making your body shiver. Using your tentacles during sex isn’t exactly sexually pleasing per se, it’s a completely different feeling altogether - like scratching an itch you couldn’t reach, or that first gulp of water after a hard day’s work in the sun.

The tendril slides out of his mouth and a string of saliva connects it with his tongue. You grab him by the back of the head and kiss him, and he moans into your mouth. Your tongues connect and stroke each other the same way they always do, the same way you both love.

You spawn a second tentacle, covering it in its natural slippery lubricant and coiling it around his fast growing erection. He moans into you again and massages your breasts with his hands. As you part, you bite on his lower lip and he sighs pleasantly.

You start peppering kisses all over his face as your tendril jerks his cock, squeezing it tightly and filling the room with the sounds of lecherous squelching. Dabi moans as he spreads his legs for you in an indecent display.

“Uunh... feels so good...” He hooks his arms around your neck and sticks his tongue out, you respond in kind and he licks along your tongue and your lips. You settle between his legs and spread them further as you tease his pink hole with your first tendril.

He bites his lip and pushes your yukata off your shoulders. “You’re so sexy... you should walk around naked all the time. I might get jealous, though.”

“Want me all to yourself, huh?” you tease, your appendage twirling around his entrance. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t fuck anyone the same way I fuck you.”

“How considerate of you.” He kisses you again as you enter him, and he writhes in pleasure. The pleasant feeling of his tight walls around your tentacle makes you bite your lip and grin. A comfortable heat travels from your lower back to your core, then spreads to your limbs. He just feels so good.

You stop jerking him off and replace the tendril there with your pussy and he can’t help but cry out. “Fuck— your pussy is too good, you’re going to make me cum like that.”

“That’s fine. I drugged your sake,” you smirk.

He starts to laugh, but it’s interrupted by a moan. “Again? You’re insatiable— ah!”

The remaining six tendrils fan out from your back and grope, fuck, and stroke his body. The one in his ass thrusts in with greater ferocity, and Dabi bucks his cock up into your pussy desperately as his orgasm builds up.

He looks to where you connect and whimpers. Your pussy always fucked him the best, and he made sure to tell you so. A deep pink dusts his cheeks as he becomes entranced with the sight of his cock entering you, it looks almost as good as it feels.

“It’s hot...” he pants out. “It’s so h-hot..”

“The sight or the feeling?” you tease.

“Both. It’s hard to hold back— fuck, I want more of you—mmmh...”

You wrap one of the tendrils around his upper torso, using the suckers on and around his nipples, leaving red, puffy circles on his chest. The sensation is staggering, his senses have all but left him a babbling, powerless mess beneath you.

He throws his head back and grabs your hips, fucking up into you as drool trickles out of his mouth and down his chin. “Yes! Fuck me— more! I’m gonna cum inside you— can I? Please let me cum in you— haaahh...”

You bounce on his cock as your tentacles fuck him raw. “Go on, Dabi, cum for me,” you moan.

He wails as he spills his hot seed into your cunt, and you clench your walls around him as he does, milking him for everything he has. His thrusts slow as he rides out his high, but you don’t. You continue fucking him with your tendrils and your pussy, and he falls back to the floor and thrashes helplessly at your merciless assault.

Blood spills from his eyes, the closest thing he can do to cry since he lost his tear ducts, and you stuff a tentacle into his gaping mouth. He sucks it eagerly and desperately grabs at the other tentacles, squeezing their soft jelly-like forms as his body is overcome with stimulation. He convulses as he orgasms from his prostate, but he still somehow manages to feel your own cum dripping down his cock.

The tentacle hits the back of his throat and he gags, his face slick with sweat, spit, and bloody tears. You’re sure he’s saying more filthy words, but they come out muffled against your limb.

The intensely satisfying feeling of using your tendrils to fuck someone coupled with Dabi’s perfectly sized dick hitting your g-spot could almost make you transcend the mortal plane. You won’t, of course— you have to finish making a mess of your lover.

Dabi clearly feels the same. You look down and admire that lewd expression of his, his eyes rolled back and his mouth hung open, tongue flailing around your tentacle like it’s the last thing he’ll ever taste. Were it not for said tentacle quieting his voice, you imagine the whole inn would be able to hear his desperate cries.

Cum weeps from your cunt as he finishes again. You can tell he’s reached his limit, so you show him some mercy. You come off his dick with a wet pop, and his cum flows from you. You slowly bring your tendrils back and let them return to your body.

Dabi’s body has gone almost completely numb, his toes curling and uncurling as he feebly attempts to refocus his gaze. You’re quite worn out yourself and collapse into a heap on top of him, and he instinctively wraps his arms around you.

His breathing is still coming out in pants and gasps when he breaks the silence. “Shit... that was the best sex of my life. That quirk of yours is really convenient huh...”

“Yeah,” you agree. “If the people I beat up with these things knew what I do with them they’d have a heart attack.”

He cackles and runs his hands through your hair. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

You lay there, a mess of sweaty, sticky limbs until you regain your energy. You roll off of him and stand up, and you see him frown from the corner of your eye. “Well that was fun, but I’m gonna head off now. To the baths, that is. Then I’m going home. What’re you gonna do?”

He rolls to his side and casually props his head up on his hand. “Probably the same. I’ll need a minute until I can walk again though.”

You pick up your yukata and drape it over your shoulders. You’re not sure why... it could be the endorphins from multiple orgasms, or maybe the oddly intimate setting, but for once after sex you’re not immediately running out the door.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you didn’t outright hate his company. Ugh. What a weird feeling.

Dabi picks up on this and raises his brows in expectation. “You look like you’re thinking. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Ha-ha,” you laugh sarcastically. “I was just thinking... do you want to take a bath together?”

He ponders this for a moment, then his lips level into a smile. “Sure.”

For the first time in your life, you spend the night with your lover. It’s odd, completely unfamiliar, but not entirely as bad as you thought it’d be.

Perhaps it’s something you could even get used to. As long as it’s with Dabi.

[testingcheats0n]

The three mobs, the advantages and the disadvantages.

Number 1: The Glare

What does it do?

It's a pasive mob that spawns in darkness and growls when in a zone dark enough to spawn mobs.

Pros:

Useful in exploration and some technical plays by (vaguely) detecting light levels.

Cute ig?

Cons:

That's literally it.

Just get a parrot, it detects mobs in a 20³ block (meters) radius, and it's way cuter than a bush.

Weird prop by the anti F3 community. Just don't press the button if you hate it so much- I still need it, piss off. You should be fighting for more F3 in bedrock, not less in Java.

Another shallow addition to the game which already underuses it's items, blocks, mobs and assets.

Others:

We don't know anything about its rarity, its spawn rates or conditions, if it can be tamed or transported safely, etc.

If anything, the technical community that's pushing so hard for it will be sorely dissapointed. Is see this mob as an exploration tool above all. Watch Mojang make it impossible to transport or even find.

Number 2: The Allay

What does it do?

It's a pasive mob that presumably spawns in the Overworld. It's attracted to music blocks and given an item by a player can go out to collect more of the item

Pros:

Brings more of the same item to a music block.

Dances.

A little ghost guy.

Possibly useful with item sorting systems (doubtful).

Can possibly find expensive materials and lost loot.

New, more interactive use for note blocks.

Cons:

It will be ugly as sin, trust me. It's a vex with extra steps, if you think the Mojang can make good-looking ghosts you're wrong.

It's this:

Do you like this?

Are you sure?

Just get a parrot 2.0. For real. A parrot can dance too. They even stole the cookie bit. That or a hopper.

For all we know it only gathers cookies. And for that matter- where does it get them from? Your chests? Is it like cat loot, just randomly generated? It's implied it finds stuff out there, aka you have a chance of getting the items out of thin air.

Possibly slow with little carrying capacity, useful to intense technical players and I live to spite them. A good part of the game is mining and farming and the Allay removes it.

A single purpose. Is one more use for noteblocks worth it?

Others:

How does it spawn, how can it be found, and can it be transported?

Number 3: The Copper Golem

What is it?

A tameable pacific mob, which the player can summon and use for redstone builds.

Pros:

Cute.

Golems are 10/10

Adds new purpose for an already existing block and game mechanics.

Aesthetic, easy to create and transport.

Redstone use, which adds another layer to the redstone system. Versatile and easy to get creative with. Occupies small spaces unlike previous methods.

Lore. Someone build the rusted one in the video.

Cons:

???

I have nothing.

People say the player pressing the button will suffice. I wonder how they got into a sandbox game :|

My ideal scenario?

Mash them up together and give all abilities to the golem. He'll do a funny dance and his eyes will blink in complete darkness, trust me it will be hilarious. Mojang stop blue-balling us, I'm still mad about the piss cow.

[crossxskulled]

Just catching the jewels teeming with luxury and wealth spoke to some more animalistic part of the soul. A promise of comfort, the ripe chance of opportunity, that unconscious angle flares as the prospect of claiming hand upon a hoard of treasure fitfully high to draw away their issues with the hard conversation of yen. As the entryway to multiple paths spawned, the conscious decision would be to ignore the stragglers and handle the mass.

Naturally, his companion by the name of Fox knew the exact deal. Not to mention they conjured a pretty good idea due to the anomalous sight that waits ahead of them, causing his teeth to bare towards it in a tinge of curiosity.

"Your guess might be the best we got in the pot by far.. S'been changing up lately ever since we kicked Kaneshiro to the curb, kinda like..."

"This place is somehow growin' too." Part of him couldn't help but imagine if Oracle would find him crazy for making such an idea. Another, a gut deep feeling, just didn't enjoy a new angle for more atrocious powers to possibly influence the outside. Their pace would pause before this portal, a rusted amalgamation of railways seemingly being sucked in with a spiral's grace, only adding to the uncomfortably heavy atmosphere as he considers the option.

A single hand is raised, cupping his ear as he focuses.

"....Huh. S'like a whole damn TV channel runnin' on late nights." Part of him was tempted to say a bad twist on the paths of online, but bringing up newly made 10 minute ago trauma wasn't exactly friendly.

Not to mention, does he have any room to talk after getting one of his old laptops bricked? He'll never forget that damn 'Peach Bonazai' site as long as he fucking lives.

"Yeah. I think we should dip our toe in at least, get an idea of what we're up against. If we always gotta bring the full artillery, shows we ain't really holdin' our weight good as we think." That primarily goes to the thought of Joker and that Wild card. Something about being dependent on that inherent advantage just rubs not only at his pride, but his self-worth to the team on top of that.

Yusuke needed to get his funds back as quick as they were swiped.

Advancing forward, he'd exchange a glance with Fox, offering a nod before allowing himself to be fully immersed within the newest portal that immediately introduces them to a swath of paltry light.

By the time they'd teleport to through the dimensional bubble, the sight they find themselves looking around is...bright almost painfully so, a falsified sky that looks as if an endless amount of wealth was poured into being a convincing facsimile. While they found themselves in the middle of a town, the structure was particularly focused, every street seemingly weaving and interconnecing like a network that all led to a giant steel fortress that awaits at the center.

Each and every building themselves didn't even show any details of the innards, rather, ads of various enticements would find themselves painted and constantly flickering as the incessant buzzing telephone beeps props up now and then. It already had Skull rubbing irritably at his ear as he snapped out. "Now I really just feel like part of a damn ad, ooooh these scummy bastards would have.. things like.. Yo, Fox, up high!"

"The hell is that!?" He exclaims while elongated shadows rushed above them.

Above them would be the golden grail of this whole operation. Cognitively created credit cards, grown to the literal size of cards flew overhead, drawing over towards the massive castle. Every literal brand in the book could be seen. MisterCard. Bisa. Rush. Many, many more would be taken into the castle, causing its infamous luster to grow further in a tinge of false radiance.

The said thief couldn't begin to believe his eyes as the momentum was stunned to a brief pause. "..This is literally a worst nightmare growin' under our damn feet. C'mon, let's hop high and get a better scope of all of this."

It was known that Ryuji was a man of passion, of endless devotion so deep one might find a path to the earth's core before the end could be reached, of fierce loyalty that the land and sea might fall apart before the end of it all. It had been the same for them all, oppressed beneath the hand and foot of others in better positions for so long that any injustice would strike a chord in their souls. Rules and regulations were meant to protect the populace - yet what was one to do when such became the blocks and gates to preventing so? Prevention was never the aim of certain agencies, but rather a reaction to such. Thus their path was obvious, to prevent others from going down such a road in the first place if it could be helped.

Others such as a Mrs. Sakamoto - to which Yusuke gave a wry chuckle to. Nary a moment more then! A familiar upset to his senses arose next, when reality and cognitive reality began to mix and transition, icy power gathering in the depths of his soul again to manifest.

The pen was mightier than the sword - such a known phrase with known connotations. Yet who was to say that one could not harness a pencil and a sword? Indeed, his fingers brushed instinctively over the handle to his sword, other hand darting up to catch that proper toss from Skull to tuck away his last possession as Yusuke to nod over to the other as Fox.

"Prior to my own perusal of my electronic device, I believe there was some talk of unrest regarding - " The urgency in Skull's voice hastened his own actions, whipping his head over in the direction of the other's pointing immediately to catch sight of nothing short of a gathering of those treasure demons. Sinking blade or skill into such shadows often garnered more than a pretty penny during battle and slaying one alone would net enough funds to buy enough supplies to make traversing through the metaverse more than a piece of cake. Just how much money was contained in that collection of shadows alone? And just how many had suffered for such to be accumulated?

Skull's burst into action was impressively fast, gait smooth and fluid in the cognition of his mind and Fox charged after him, noting that while one or two from the collective did break off in different directions, the vast majority of them seemed to be heading towards a particularly dark corner of Mementos - blurry swirl of crimson darkness easing into view as they closed the distance.

"A palace?" Was that possible within Mementos to begin with? At the very least, it was apparent and present enough for even the layman to be aware of it such. Not quite as distinctive in theme as a palace either it seemed, though the chances of it all being tied to something increased when those aforementioned treasure demons scuttled their way into that inky darkness. Talks of gift card redemption, free trials, and possible risks to personal security peppered the air now - and he came to a halt as urgent conversations and promises of simple questions ebbed and flowed in the background.

"Your instincts are well tuned beyond my comprehension, Skull. I am grateful for you! Those creatures... if my eyes do not deceive me, they entered into this dark abyss, did they not? These conversations... I can distinctly recall the promising text on that advertisement and the words are one and the same. Have such fraudulent actions become so commonplace as to be acknowledged within Mementos?" He gave a shake of his head.

"It appears we must enter this abyss to find the root of such... shall we depart?"