#and this *really* looks like its winding down

[differenteagletragedy]

Part SEVEN of Simon Riley and his single mother god bless <3

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six

A few more months went by -- broken up by a couple of deployments, but easily the best months of Simon's life. He started sleeping over, every once in a while, sleeping with you. Going to bed with you in his arms after a full day, a full life? It was almost too much. Too good.

He should have known it couldn't last.

Charlie turns five in January. The cold outside is bitter and biting, but there's no snow on the ground just yet, so when he asks to go play outside, it's not that difficult for him to convince you that it's a good idea.

"Please, Mum, it's my birthday," Charlie tells you, eyes wide and pleading. "Simon'll take me, you won't even have to go out there. Just want to go to the slides for a little bit, please."

Your eyes shifts to meet Simon's, and he gives you a small grin. You know he'd do anything for Charlie, Charlie knows it too. Even Emma, the little baby who's getting bigger every day it seems, probably knows it.

Half an hour and a short walk later, and Simon has Charlie at the park where all this began. He goes down the slides a few times like he wanted, then moves to the swings for a bit. It's freezing, but he's having a blast, and so is Simon.

These little moments are getting easier with time and practice. It feels like his heart is expanding, widening to bring in you and your children, the flesh pulled taut but still sturdy, capable of holding all of it.

Until it snaps.

It happens so fast. Charlie always has seemingly boundless energy, but it's been kicked up a notch this afternoon with the excitement of his birthday. He runs wild around the deserted park, laughing and playing, hardly stopping to think as he climbs one of the narrow sets of steps that lead up towards the slides. He makes a detour this time, wanting to try the monkey bars. Simon keeps a watchful eye on him, but the boy isn't paying enough attention, and slips as he tries to navigate the high bars.

He falls to the ground, hard, and Simon hears the unmistakable snap of bone breaking. Charlie starts wailing, piercing and immediate, and Simon does a quick assessment, trained enough to keep his head even as his heart races.

There's no blood, no visible injuries besides his left arm, bent in a way it isn't supposed to go.

"You're all right, Charlie," he says quietly, carefully picking him up, making sure to keep his arm stable. "Going to get you taken care of, hear me?"

It's a quick walk back to your house, followed by a quick drive to the hospital with you and Emma in tow. Charlie's crying sets off the baby, and you're quietly weeping too, trying to tend to Charlie, and Simon navigates the streets with a clenched jaw, certain that he's destroyed everything.

Once everyone is inside the hospital, it's another quick blur of doctors and nurses poking and prodding Charlie, followed by an x-ray that confirms the clean break in his upper arm. The boy is sedated so the bone can be set, and then, while you wait for him to wake back up and while Emma finally calms, there's a stretch of silence.

Finally, you look up from the hospital bed to Simon, studying him with a frown, before saying, "You've been very quiet."

When Charlie hit the ground, Simon felt like he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him himself, and he hasn't been able to catch his breath since. It feels like the sadness, the constant weariness he'd felt for as long as he can remember, that emptiness that you'd filled so perfectly, was clawing its way back inside him. Like it never left, and you were just a pretty distraction but not something he could ever really have.

After a moment of strained silence, he mutters, "I ... fuck, I'm so sorry, love. So sorry. I shouldn't have let him on those fucking bars, I should have --"

"Stop," you tell him, your voice low too as Emma dozes in your arms. "Are you blaming yourself for this?"

"My fault," he admits. "I was the one watching him."

"Simon, don't ..."

He wants to apologize again, but he doesn't want to make you feel like you need to comfort him, but there's no way he can put on a neutral face right now ... he tries to take a deep breath, tries to finally catch it but it eludes him again.

"It's not your fault," you tell him firmly. "Accidents happen. He's a tough kid, he's going to be all right."

"He shouldn't have gotten hurt, not on my watch," he insists.

"Do you honestly think there's something you could have done differently? That you willingly let him do something unsafe?"

He racks his brain -- the logical part of him knows that it's not right. He's always careful with the children, and if he'd thought that Charlie could have gotten hurt like this, of course he would have stepped in. But the panic still rises persistently in his chest, flashing him images from a future in which you stop being understanding, where you understand how dangerous he is, how unworthy of everything you've given him. He's seconds away from being alone again, and it would be worse now that he knows what it's like to be loved.

"Simon."

Your voice is firm, solid and strong like it was that very first day when he heard you command Charlie to stop messing around on the playground. Charlie was too young and headstrong to listen then, but Simon wants, more than anything, to listen.

"It's not your fault," you tell him again. "Stop. It's not your fault."

You wrap your free arm around him, your grip firm, and he takes a shaky breath, then another. His eyes find Charlie, still out cold, and he shakes his head, but you give him another squeeze.

"It's not your fault."

That night, Charlie goes home with a sling, drowsy but no longer in pain. He asks Simon to carry him inside, and when he does, he asks him to stay, his good arm slung around his shoulder while Simon carefully cradles the one in the sling.

"Can it still be my birthday tomorrow?"

"It can be your birthday all month long," you tell him, putting Emma down on the floor with some toys.

After you make sure both your children are good for the moment, you pull Simon to the hallway, close enough to keep an eye on the kids but far enough away to speak privately.

"Are you ok?"

"Not the one you need to be asking."'

You give him a pointed look, one he knows by now means that you want him to stop being strong or stoic or whatever else and just be honest.

"I'm ... nervous," he confesses. It feels like a weak word to describe what he's feeling, but it's in the right arena, at least.

"About what?" you ask.

"That I ... that you'll want me to leave."

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head immediately, pulling him down for a hug. Your hands stroke his back and his hair, struggling to pull him even closer, and you start whispering to him. More of what you said earlier -- it was an accident, it wasn't his fault, just an accident.

What cuts through though, like a lightning rod through whatever storm is going on inside him, is when you say, "I don't ever want you to leave."

He pulls back, troubled eyes meeting yours.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Simon. I love you. Don't leave."

It's the first time you've ever said it. You've danced around it before -- "Charlie loves you, the kids love you, we love having you around" -- but never as plain as this. He's done the same, told you in actions every day, in promises to take care of you, but actually saying the words ...

"I love you too," he says. "More than anything."

Charlie's birthday does, for the most part, last the whole month. Simon slowly starts to feel the air come back into his lungs, breathing a little easier every time Charlie acts like himself. When the boy slips, every once in a while, and calls him Daddy, or when Emma grips his hair in her chubby little fist. When you tell him that you love him, with words or kisses or promises ...

It's another lesson. Another piece of evidence that, despite everything he's ever believed about himself, he has value even when he's not perfect.

PART EIGHT

[gojover]

you, again — teaser

summary ⇢ he’s an assassin who won’t stop bleeding. you’re the medic who keeps patching him up—against your better judgement. sylus flirts like it’s a sport; you threaten him with scalpels. when a botched job entangles you in his world, things get messy fast—emotionally, and otherwise. you’d rather die than fall for a man like him. he’s already dying not to fall for you.

pairing ⇢ assassin!sylus qin x medic!fem!reader contains ⇢ romance, angst, smut, slow burn, annoyances to lovers au, assassin au, blood, injuries, violence. full warnings to be included in the fic. teaser word count ⇢ 0.36k (expected: 15k-17k)

“You okay?” he asks suddenly, tilting his head to glance down at you. His voice is quieter now, less performative.

You shrug. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” he says. “Try not to develop too many of those.”

“Too late. I already treat you like a human being.”

He laughs at that. “Touché.”

You fall into silence again, footsteps syncing easily as you cross another intersection. You’re close to home now, and the streets are darker here, the kind of dark that stretches long and holds its breath. You catch the edge of a shadow out of the corner of your eye, but it disappears when you turn to look. Maybe a cat. Maybe nothing. Still, your fingers tense in your coat pocket, brushing against the cheap folding knife you started carrying a few months ago. Just in case.

Sylus doesn’t seem bothered. But he hasn’t stopped scanning the streets. “You should just move in with me.”

“What for?” you ask lightly, though you know why. 

“I can keep you safe,” he answers.

You blink. The wind picks up between the buildings, rattling a loose sign overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks once, sharp, before falling silent.

It’s suddenly way too easy to remember that you know almost nothing about him. That all your time together has been fluorescent-lit and bloodstained. That he always shows up with new bruises and never says where they came from. You slow when your building comes into view.

“This is me,” you say, nodding towards the stoop. 

He stops behind you and doesn’t follow. For a second, you expect him to say something—maybe a joke, maybe a goodbye—but instead, he’s just looking at you. Really looking at you, like he’s memorising something he’s not sure he’ll get to see again. 

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he says finally. “Not these days.”

You frown. “Why? What’s happening?”

Sylus doesn’t answer. Just steps back once and gives you a tired, crooked smile. “Goodnight, doc.”

Then he turns and disappears into the dark like he’s part of it. You climb the stairs, unlock your door, and double-check the locks; then, you watch the street out of your bedroom window long after he’s gone.

a/n: hello! thank you so much for checking out my teaser! if you’d like to be tagged in the full fic, please send an ask/comment & make sure you have an age indicator on your blog. thank you, also, for 2,000+ followers! it’s insane that there are so many of you here with me, supporting my writing, and i am so grateful to every single one of you 💌

[clownprincesshq]

double lives, double dates pt1

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: smut again sorry guys im a fiend, death, hurt no comfort, canon event </3, mark is a supportive boyfriend, mentions of sex

w/c: 6.7k

a/n: canon event time</3 also, thank you for your lovely asks and comments! they truly mean the world!

You rise slowly.

Even slower than normal.

Not because you're tired, though you are, but rather because everything seems... off. You're too warm, too conscious of your sheets, of the individual threads in the cloth rubbing against your skin. Of the air in the room, how thick. How dense. How it doesn't really smell the way it usually does.

With a grunt, you turn onto your back and look up at the ceiling. Steady and low, your fan hums in the corner; for some reason, the sound seems closer. As if hovering just above your head.

You sit up.

That’s when it really hits you.

It’s like a switch turns and the world pours in.

You can hear the home. Not like you used to. Not like hazy floor creaks and the buzz of electricity. You can hear the tiniest things. The refrigerator two rooms away. The sluggish drip of a leaking faucet. The creak of the porch swing outside even though there’s no wind.

You go still.

Not out of fear, not yet, but bewilderment. That type of silent, wide-eyed perplexity that settles in when your brain is still half-asleep and isn’t sure if this is a dream or a stroke.

Then come the odors.

You gag. Immediately.

Because holy hell, you can smell everything.

The old socks beneath your bed that you thought were alright until washing day? They smell like someone bottled remorse and gave it a foot fetish. The pizza box in the trash can downstairs is radiating through the floors like a beacon of rancid oil and melancholy. And the chips on your desk, the ones you neglected to seal last night? They smell as if a locker room married sour cream and had a chemical child.

You put a hand over your nose and stumble out of bed, scarcely realizing that you’re moving with a bizarre kind of... grace. Not in a ballerina manner. More like your body is reacting faster than your brain. You almost slide on your slippers but you don’t. You catch yourself before you even knew you were falling.

You freeze in place. Blink down at your feet. Then slowly…slowly, you gaze up at your bedroom mirror.

Just you. Still.

But not exactly.

Your eyes appear too clear. Too bright. And there’s something about the way your chest is rising and falling, too constant. Like your body is operating too well. Like you’re optimized.

You turn from the mirror and drag open the blinds. And quickly regret it.

The sun smacks you square in the retinas.

It’s like gazing into a spotlight, and it’s not even completely up yet. Everything outdoors is crisp. Your neighbors’ lawn has dew sparkling like glass. You can count every crack on the sidewalk. There’s a spider on the glass and you can see the roughness of its little legs, the glitter of webbing adhering to its back.

You stagger back, heart jackhammering into your ribs. And for the first time this morning, fear starts to bloom, slow and chilly and creeping.

Because this isn’t just bizarre anymore.

It’s wrong.

Your head twitches toward the door before you know why. Someone’s coming up the stairs. You can hear it. The particular pressure of weight on wood. Four steps. Five. Six. And then

“Hey! You awake up there?” your uncle calls, his voice like a cymbal smash across your eardrums.

You flinch. Press your hands to your ears. “Y-Yeah!” you yell back, attempting to sound natural. “Just, getting up!”

Too loud. Way too loud. You wince again.

Okay. Deep breath.

Nope. Don’t do that. The air smells horrible again. Like your nose is calibrated to detect remorse and ancient takeout.

You move toward the door, then halt. Every movement makes the floor feel overly sensitive. Like your feet aren’t walking on it, but with it. The grain of the wood almost vibrates under your heels. You felt that if you remained too still for too long, you’d start phasing into the structure of the home itself.

“Okay,” you mumble to yourself, voice shaking. “Okay. Chill. Maybe I’ve got... super puberty. That’s a thing, right?”

Your mouth is dry. You gaze at the doorknob. You can see the smear where your palm brushed it yesterday. You can see the oil from your fingerprint curled into the metal.

You feel like you’re vibrating out of your own skin.

And then

Something twitches.

Inside you. Beneath your skin. Like a thread just dragged itself taut in your chest, sharp and startling and alert.

You jolt back, breath trapped, spine forced against the wall.

For a second, everything is still.

And suddenly your arm shoots out.

Fast.

So quickly you don’t mean to.

You scarcely even think about it. Your palm shoots forward to catch the edge of your work chair before it can tip, before you even noticed it was tipping.

You gaze at your hand. It’s steady. Strong. Sure.

You weren’t.

You didn’t even try to catch it.

And that’s when it hits you

This isn’t a fever dream.

Something happened to you.

You don’t bother changing out of your pajamas. You don’t even brush your hair.

You merely shuffle across the corridor like a sleep-deprived cryptid and make a beeline for the bathroom, wanting...needing, to splash water on your face. Or maybe stick your head in the sink. Or plunge yourself in a cold tub and hoping this resets you back to Normal Girl Settings.

You flip the light on.

Instant remorse. The lights flash like a little sunburn over your retinas and you hiss, blinking against the glare. You gaze at the mirror, but you can’t look at your reflection long. There’s something too much in your own face right now. Something you’re not ready to deal with. Not until you’ve washed your teeth and maybe sobbed a bit.

You lunge forward and grasp the sink faucet.

Or, try to.

Because your hand doesn’t merely grasp it.

It sticks.

Your fingertips strike the cold metal and stay there. Like someone spread glue on your skin in your sleep. You pout and attempt to draw back softly.

Nothing.

A harder pull.

Still nothing.

You yank.

Your entire body jerks backward with the power, your feet skidding on the bath mat but your hand? Your hand stays. Firm. Locked. Fused to the stupid faucet like it's magnetic to your flesh.

“What the-! What the hell?”

You twist your wrist, attempt to peel your fingers up one by one, but they won’t move. You can feel the strain in your tendons, feel your skin stretching but not budging. It’s like your whole hand gets suctioned to the faucet at the molecular level.

Panic flutters in your chest.

You’re stuck.

You’re practically glued to a bathroom sink.

You let out a shaky chuckle, breath shaking as it tumbles out of you. “Okay. Okay, no big deal. I’ve experienced weirder dreams. Like the one where I was dating Mark and he changed into a goat halfway through a kiss. This is just another fever dream. Just a weird, slightly real-”

Your palm twitches.

And suddenly, you feel it. Not the stickiness. Not the resistance. But something else. A strain in your palm. Like a muscle you never knew you possessed. Like your hand is holding on, and you’re not the one doing the clinging.

You clench your teeth, sink your heels down on the floor, and pull. Hard.

And finally, pop, you break free.

You fly backward with the power of it and smash upon your ass, limbs spread like a knocked-over mannequin. The bath carpet bunches underneath you. You gaze at your hand, wide-eyed, chest heaving.

The impression of the faucet is still on your palm.

Your skin isn’t red. Isn’t bruised. It’s simply... warm. Tingling. Like it wants to stay there. Like it knew how.

You flex your fingers gently, like they’re strange. Like they don’t belong to you anymore.

“What is happening to me?” you murmur, voice hoarse and small.

You scramble to your feet, ignoring the way your knees quiver. You reach out again, carefully this time, fingertips lingering just above the metal. Not touching. Just... observing.

You can feel it.

The surface of the faucet, without touching it. Like there’s a sixth sense in your hand now. A subtle awareness. Like the metal is beckoning to you.

You yank your hand back and turn on the faucet with your elbow instead, since you’re not making that mistake again.

The icy water pours out and you push both hands underneath it, anxious to wash off whatever’s wrong with you. You scrub like a surgeon pre-surgery, washing, rubbing, forcing the terror down.

But the water doesn’t make it stop.

If anything, it makes things worse.

Because now you feel every last drop.

Every atom striking your skin feels like a ping on a sonar. You swear you can feel the vibrations of the water pressure, the grooves of your fingerprint lifting as the ridges pulse and move.

You gaze back up into the mirror.

And this time you hold the stare.

There’s a flash in your expression. A little, scared grin.

You’re not imagining it.

This is genuine.

You are changing.

You towel your hands off and exit the restroom like it just personally wronged you.

The hallway feels odd under your feet. You believe you’re imagining it at first, but the creak of the floorboards is harsher now. Like your brain is running audio in 4K. You can tell which ones are loose. Which ones are distorted. You can see where the foundation of the home dips slightly, something you’ve never noticed before, even though you’ve lived here for years.

You halt at the top of the steps and take a breath.

You’re not panicking. You’re not panicking.

Okay. You’re definitely panicking.

But you’ve watched enough movies to know you can’t freak out yet. That’s not the rule. First comes the denial. Then the foolish attempts at pretending you’re still normal. Then the emotional collapse and the rooftop existential crisis. You’ve got a few hours until that.

Right now, it's breakfast.

You ascend the stairs gently. Trying to step light. Trying to act like your legs aren’t humming with additional energy that has nowhere to go.

Your uncle Ben is already in the kitchen, wearing the same "World’s Okayest Cook" apron you bought him as a joke two Christmases ago. There’s the faint hiss of a frying pan, and the fragrance of eggs hits you like a punch to the face.

Your stomach growls, which is typical. What isn’t typical is the fact that you can smell the black pepper from across the room.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says without turning around. “You sleep okay?”

“Yup,” you lie, your voice breaking a little. “Just... vivid dreams. You know. Typical brain soup.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, well, you’ll grow outta that.”

You definitely doubt it.

You sit down at the kitchen table, trying not to make a grimace at the chair. It’s too tiny. Or maybe you’re too tall now. Your limbs feel longer today. Like your arms are just slightly too long for your sleeves, like your back wants to slouch in on itself. You move about, attempting to find a posture that doesn’t seem like you’re unfolding out of yourself.

Your uncle turns, a spatula in one hand and a dish in the other. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You nod, swallowing hard as he places a plate of eggs and toast in front of you. “Thanks.”

The eggs smell strong. Like if you inhaled too fast, you’d taste them before your fork hit the dish. You can smell every spice, every fleck of oil. It’s overwhelming. But your stomach rumbles again, and you decide maybe eating will make you feel normal again.

You reach for your toast.

You don’t mean to grab it firmly.

You don’t.

But you do.

It snaps in your palm like a cracker. Crumbs erupt across the table.

You freeze.

Your uncle raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”

You nod much too hastily. “Y-Yeah. Just a little nervous this morning. You know. Pre-exam nervousness. Biology test. Or something.”

“You don’t have a biology test.”

“Pop quiz. Surprise one.”

“You’re on break.”

“Extra credit?”

He squints at you for a second. Then shrugs and goes back to frying eggs.

You breath through your nose and gaze down at your plate.

The bread is disintegrating under your fingertips. You attempt to hold it carefully, but it’s like your grasp won’t listen. You have to focus to refrain from smashing it again. You feel like one of those robots that’s programmed to hold a tomato but ends up crushing it anyhow. Your fingers are too powerful. You don’t feel stronger. But something about the way your body’s moving, it’s different.

Too precise. Too tight. Like your muscles are tuned one octave too high.

You take up your fork.

And the metal bends.

Just a bit.

Barely a bend in the handle. But it’s enough to have your heart fly into your throat. You gaze at it in terror, eyes wide. The fork shouldn’t do that. You weren’t even pressing hard. Just holding it like a normal person handles a normal utensil.

You swiftly drop it, letting it clang against the plate. “I…uh, I think I’ll just eat with my hands.”

Your uncle frowns. “You feeling okay?”

“I’m great,” you say way too fast. “Never better. Actually, I’m gonna…go for a walk. Clear my brain. Before I... split another piece of toast in half.”

“Alright,” he says hesitantly. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yup!” you yell over your shoulder, almost halfway to the door. “Just need some air!”

You go outside and close the door behind you.

Then lay your back against it.

The morning light reaches you, and this time it doesn’t feel like a sledgehammer. You’re adapting. Fast. Too quick.

Your body is humming again.

The breeze brushes your cheek, and you believe you can feel individual particles of dust in it.

You gaze down at your hand.

Open it. Close it.

You don’t feel normal.

And you don’t think breakfast is going to change it.

You make it halfway down the street before you change your mind.

The air feels too harsh. The sidewalk feels too detailed under your feet. And worst of all, your brain won’t shut up. It continues replaying the morning like a movie with the sound cranked up, toast breaking like glass, your hand clinging to the faucet, that fork twisting like taffy.

You halt at the end of the street. Turn gently.

And stroll back home.

You cut around the side gate and slip into the backyard. No one’s out this early. The old wooden fence is still sagging a little to the left from that one windstorm three years ago, and there’s a patch of weeds growing behind the rusted-out grill. The place is nothing exceptional.

But it’s silent.

You put your fingers on the cool wood of the fence and take a deep breath.

You need to know.

You peek up at the rear wall of the house just two stories tall, but it feels like Everest when you’re standing there, barefoot in sleep clothes, trying to figure out if you’ve fully lost your mind.

You curl your fingers.

Your palm recalls the faucet.

The pressure.

The hold.

You walk closer to the wall and reach out cautiously. Your hand lingers an inch from the fading paint. You don’t even touch it, just feel it. The way your skin hums when it comes too close. Like your body knows something your brain doesn’t.

You let your fingers brush the siding.

And they stick.

No effort. No glue. No suction cup sound effect. Just… attachment. As easy as breathing.

You blink.

Your other hand follows.

Then one foot.

Then the other.

And just like that, you’re climbing.

You don’t even recognize it until you’re halfway up the damn wall. You’re hunkered there, clinging to the back of your own house like a bug, your heartbeat thumping like a thousand small war drums.

“Oh my god,” you murmur, and the sound ripples through your chest.

You gaze down. A mistake.

The earth is only about 10 feet away, but it may as well be a canyon.

You stay still for a second, your fingers pressing into the wood like it’s soft clay. You’re not falling. You’re not even sliding. You’re sticking like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like gravity suddenly has no issue with you.

You should be terrified.

But you’re not.

Not exactly.

A weird, crazy grin sweeps across your face.

You press your toes more firmly on the wall. You shift your weight. You sense the equilibrium. The control.

Then you leap.

It’s not a big jump. Just a small hop down to the grass, like you’re getting off the sofa.

Except you soar.

You don’t even mean to. You don’t press that hard.

But your body throws you forward, and you fall six feet away in a perfect squat, knees bent, arms out, like some kind of nerdy ninja gymnast.

You wobble. A bit.

Then you straighten up and let out a gasping chuckle. It’s wobbly. It’s crazy. You’re trembling all over, and you don’t know if it’s adrenaline or excitement or simply your nervous system screaming into the vacuum.

“Okay,” you say to yourself. “Okay. Cool. Casual. No big deal. I can climb to walls and jump like a video game character. Totally fine.”

Your knees suggest otherwise.

You plop onto the grass and sit there for a second, simply breathing, heart beating as you gaze at your hands. They look the same. No shimmering veins. No bizarre new scars. Just your hands.

Except they’re not simply your hands anymore.

You lean back onto your elbows and look up at the sky. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls. You can hear the rustling of its wings.

You’re not normal.

You don’t know what you are yet.

But whatever this is, whatever’s happening to you

It’s real.

You’re still pacing the backyard like you’re waiting for a lightning bolt to hit and explain your life. Or maybe smite you. Either works.

Because this morning you didn’t just wake up weary or aching or in that floating post-makeout haze. No. You woke up with your fingers glued on the faucet. You leaped six feet without trying. You climbed a wall like it was a ladder. And the worst part? You didn’t even panic right away. You just know how to move. Like it was already inside you. Like it had always been there, waiting.

So now you’re going in circles behind the home, overthinking to the point of nausea, when you hear the knock.

Three solid knocks.

You don’t need to look. You know.

Your stomach lowers.

You don’t want to lie to him. But you don’t know how to speak the truth yet.

You're still brushing grass off your legs and attempting to arrange your face when you hear the door open.

May’s voice, sweet and clipped. “Well, good morning! Can I help you?”

Then Mark’s voice. Soft. Cautious. “Hi. Sorry for showing up uninvited. I just wanted to check on her. She didn’t respond my texts and I felt a little, uh, worried.”

“She’s here,” Ben adds, and you can nearly hear his eyebrows knit together. “Who’s asking?”

“Mark. Mark Grayson.”

A long pause.

“Oh,” May says. And that “oh” encompasses the whole story. “That Mark Grayson.”

Then she’s smiling. You can tell by the difference in her tone. “So... what brings you by? Just checking in, or...?”

Mark coughs. “I mean, we’re... dating. We have been. Since high school. Senior year.”

Another extended pause.

You sigh silently and smash your forehead on the side of the house.

May’s voice gets sugary-sweet. “Oh, really? That’s funny. Because not once…not once, has she addressed that small detail.”

���I thought she told you,” Mark says hastily. “We weren’t exactly hiding, I mean, okay, maybe we were a little hiding. Strategically.”

Ben’s voice is dry. “Strategically for three years?”

“I didn’t say it was a good strategy.”

You round the corner just as the scenario threatens to blossom into a full-blown comedy.

“Hi,” you say, breathless. “Yes. Hello. Good morning. Did I mention how much I love both of you?”

May only grins, arms folded, blocking the doorway with a pose that says ‘I’m not upset, I just want to know everything.’ “You’ve got something you want to share with the group, sweetheart?”

“Um. Surprise?”

Ben touches the bridge of his nose like he’s praying for patience. “I need coffee.”

Mark extends a hand like he’s attempting to surrender without getting shot. “I’m just gonna say for the record that I voted for the ‘tell them’ plan.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to live in the same house as the potential fallout,” you murmur.

“I like to think of this as more of a... controlled explosion,” he says.

“You outed us in under thirty seconds.”

“Somebody had to.”

“Mark,” Ben cuts in, “would you like to come in for breakfast, or are you going to keep traumatizing my front porch?”

Mark smiles sheepishly. “I’d love breakfast. Big fan of porches though.”

You grasp his sleeve and yank him inside, ignoring the smug sparkle in May’s eyes.

“Open door policy,” Ben yells after you. “And I mean that literally. If the door’s shut, it’s coming off the hinges.”

“If I hear a bed creak, I’m getting the fire hose,” May adds happily.

You don’t even bother to react. You just pull Mark upstairs, cheeks on fire, dignity trailing after you like a kicked can.

When you eventually make it inside your room and close the door, softly, gently, legally ajar, you both slump into your bed, looking at the ceiling.

“Well,” Mark adds after a beat, “I think that went pretty well.”

You groan. “I hate you.”

He grins. “You love me.”

You make a big moan and turn over, covering your face with a pillow.

But he watches you.

Quietly.

Carefully.

And then, after a long moment “Seriously, though. Are you okay?”

You freeze.

He lifts himself up on his elbow, scrutinizing your face.“You didn’t text me back. You dipped without a word. You look like you’ve been running laps around the backyard, which, judging by the grass in your hair, might actually be true.”

You grin, but it’s tight around the edges. “I just panicked. About the whole... everything. You know how I get.”

“You usually panic with snacks and Wikipedia rabbit holes,” he explains. “Not disappearing acts.”

You chuckle uncomfortably. “I leveled up. Panic 2.0.”

Mark doesn’t say anything right away.

You can feel his gaze on you. Searching.

“I’m fine,” you repeat again, quieter this time. “Just... needed space.”

“Space,” he echoes.

“Yeah.”

He’s still watching you with his big blue eyes. Brow drawn, like he’s trying to figure out what’s underlying the sarcasm.

You open your mouth, almost say it. Almost tell him you stuck to the sink, twisted a fork, leaped off a wall like you were born to break gravity. That something is changing. That you’re terrified.

But instead you remark, “I just didn’t want to freak you out.”

And he softens quickly.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s me. You couldn’t freak me out.”

You grin, but it doesn’t feel genuine.

Mark lies back again. “Well, good news, you’ve survived the Parental Gauntlet. We’re officially out of the shadows.”

You slump next him, laying one arm across your eyes. “Yeah. Now all we have to do is survive finals, capitalism, and whatever slow-burn mutation is happening in my blood.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” you blurt. “I said emotionally. Mutation emotionally.”

Mark stares. “You’re weird.”

“Still love me?”

He grins. “Unfortunately, yeah.”

And as he pulls you in, arm slack around your waist, you let your head rest against his shoulder. You let the warmth of him ground you.

But your fingers are still twitching.

And your skin still hums like a live wire.

And you know, sooner or later, you’re going to have to tell him.

Just... not today.

“You’re staring,” you tease, voice quick and playful, like always. Snark was always your love language. “What, got a crush on me or something?”

Mark just laughs, that low, deep kind of laugh that rumbles in his chest. “I’ve had a crush on you since the first time you made fun of my shoes, remember?”

“They were hideous,” you shoot back, but you’re already leaning in, already kissing him, slow at first, like it’s a promise, like it always was with him.

His lips are soft, but the way he kisses you, he kisses you like he wants to make you forget how to breathe. His hands slip around your waist, drawing you close until there isn’t a sliver of air between you.

The slow build of it makes your toes curl. It’s different with Mark, gentle and desperate. You feel wanted, adored, but also like he’s holding back a storm every time he touches you.

You pull back just long enough to catch your breath, grinning against his lips. “You know, if you keep kissing me like that, I’m gonna start thinking you like me.”

Mark smirkes, brushing his nose against yours. “I love you, dumbass.”

Your heart hiccups. You blink, then grin wider like your face couldn’t hold it all in. “Damn, Mark… now I’ve gotta pretend I wasn’t already in love with you.”

His eyes soften, and he kisses you again, this time deeper, hungrier, fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, warm palms splayed across your stomach. You shiver, the gentleness of his touch grounding you even as it set you on fire. You always talked a big game, always cracking jokes, throwing sarcasm like knives, but Mark knew how to shut you up. Knew just where to touch, just how to look at you.

He pushes you gently back until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You let yourself fall, dragging him down with you, both of you laughing into the kiss, tangled up in love and limbs and soft sheets. His body is warm over yours, heavy and solid and safe. You curl your fingers into his black hair, tugging gently, just the way he liked. “C’mere,” you whisper, and he did, like gravity, like instinct. Mark kisses down your neck, murmuring soft things into your skin, hands exploring like he’s memorizing you. And you let him. You always let him. Because this was Mark, your boyfriend, your sweetheart, the guy who flew across states just to sleep next to you. The guy who knew how fast you talked when you were nervous, how you used sarcasm when you were scared, how much you melted when he kisses you like this.

He slips a hand under your waistband, fingers brushing lower, teasing. You gasp, hips jerking. “Mark, fuck,” you breathe, voice cracking, eyes fluttering.

“Shh,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw. “I got you.”

You taste like lip balm and nervous laughter, and Mark can’t stop kissing you. The kind of kissing that has you both smiling into it, teeth knocking, mouths greedy. His hand slides up the back of your shirt again, fingers tracing your spine like it was precious. You tug him closer, your thighs spreading just a little to pull him in, and god, the warmth of him pressed between your legs made your breath catch.

“You’re such a menace,” he whispers against your lips.

“I contain multitudes,” you mutter back, but it comes out breathless, dazed, too distracted by the way his tongue brushes yours, slow and hungry.

The bed creaks under you quietly, old springs protesting softly. From downstairs comes the faint murmur of voices, May’s soft lilt and Ben’s warm baritone, oblivious, thank god. Your bedroom door is still cracked, letting in a sliver of light from the hallway. You know that, you know, but you don’t care. Not when Mark is kissing you like he meant it.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and glassy, cheeks pink with heat. “Door’s open,” he whispers.

“I know,” you say, biting your lip, grinning like the world’s worst influence. “So don’t moan too loud.”

Mark groans, forehead resting against yours, laughing low in his throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You kiss him again before he can say more, hands threading into his hair, lips desperate. The tension thrums like a tightrope beneath your skin. You’re both trying to be quiet, but god, you are not quiet people. Especially not with each other.

He rocks against you, just barely, and your hips buck up without thinking. Heat sparks, sharp and ready, right through the seam of your pants. You gasp again, fingers fisting his shirt. He swallows the sound with another kiss, deeper now, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he sucks it into his mouth like he wanted to keep a piece of you.

“Mark,” you whisper, voice thin, cracking, wrecked in the softest way.

“I’m right here,” he whispers back, and his hand slips lower again, palm warm against your belly, tracing the edge of your waistband. He doesn’t push, doesn't rush, just waits, eyes locked with yours, asking without words.

You give him a little nod, subtle, just between you. The kind of trust that only comes from being seen, really seen, and still being wanted.

Mark kisses down your neck, barely brushing his lips over your skin, and your breath hitches in your throat. Every nerve in your body is lighting up, humming like a power line. He knows what he’s doing, taking his time, driving you insane. And you love it. You love him.

You arch into him, hips rolling just enough to feel the ridge of his hard cock through both your clothes, and he groans low against your collarbone, biting down softly to keep it quiet.

“You’re gonna make me lose it,” he mutters, breath shaky.

“You already have,” you whisper, fingers moving fast, undoing the button on his jeans with practiced ease. “Now shut up and take your pants off.”

He chokes on a laugh, kissing you hard before shifting up, shoving his jeans halfway down. You push your pants down just enough, just enough, for what was about to happen. No time, no space for being fully naked, not when the door is cracked and voices drift up from downstairs.

And god, you’re wet. You can feel it, slick between your thighs, your soaked panties clinging to you. Mark looks down, eyes wild, biting his lip as he dragged his fingers across the fabric, slow, reverent.

“Holy shit,” he breaths. “Baby…”

Your hips jerk, desperate for more, for him. You tug at his boxers, free him, thick and aching in your hand, and his breath hitches loud in his throat.

“Shhh,” you hiss, eyes wide, a grin twitching at the corners of your mouth. “You wanna explain this to May and Ben?”

Mark is trying so fucking hard to be quiet. Trying not to grunt when your pussy clenches around him, not to swear every time he bottoms out and feels you tremble underneath him, writhing in silence, your mouth stuffed behind your palm. But his composure is fraying by the second.

He isn’t good at holding back. He never had been. Mark Grayson doesn’t know how to do things halfway. He fights like a blunt weapon. He fucks the same, rough, messy, honest.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, voice shaking, forehead pressed to yours. His body trembles over you, sweat making his dark hair cling to his brow. “You’re too tight, too wet, I can’t-”

You squirm beneath him, thighs shaking, still struggling not to make a sound. The bed creaks, and you freeze, but Mark doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. His cock is buried deep, your soaked cunt sucking him back in every time he tries to pull out. You’re wrapped around him like your body never wants to let go.

He drags his teeth along your jaw, panting ragged against your skin, voice hot and sharp and needy.

“They’re downstairs,” he mutters, as if reminding himself. “Ben and May, fuck. You’re making this impossible.”

You can barely breathe. His hand stays on your mouth, muffling the tiny, gasping cries you can’t control. Your eyes beg him not to stop. You don’t care. You want to be reckless. You want him to fuck you stupid and deal with the fallout later.

“Do you want them to hear?” he pants, voice right at your ear, and god, that, that sounded like Mark. That raw, emotional snap behind his control. “You wanna get caught with my dick buried in you? You wanna explain why you’re dripping down your thighs in front of your fucking aunt?”

You moan into his hand, body jerking beneath him, thighs clamping around his waist.

“Jesus, fuck don’t do that,” he hisses, voice breaking as your cunt flutters around him again. “I’m gonna come if you keep doing that. And I’m not…fuck, I’m not pulling out if I do.”

He was pounding you now, still quiet, still trying to keep his breathing steady, but there was a desperate rhythm to it. He needs you. Needs to finish. Every muscle in his body is shaking with restraint.

Mark reaches down between you, fumbling, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, messy circles, and he watches, watches his soaked fingers working you while his cock slams into you, slick and loud and wrong, and his jaw clenched like he’s fighting off a scream.

“Shit, shit, that’s hot-”

Your orgasm slammed into you so hard it stole the air from your lungs. Your mouth opened in a silent cry under his hand, eyes rolling back as your cunt spasmed around him, wetness gushing out between you.

He pulls out with a stifled groan, shoving his cock in his fist and stroking himself furiously. His cum spurts out in thick, hot ropes, across your stomach, your shirt, your trembling thighs. His body rocks with it, trying to stay silent, trying not to grunt loud enough for the whole goddamn neighborhood to hear.

You’re still catching your breath, body flushed and aching in the best way, when Mark shifts beside you. His hand slides back over your stomach, slow, possessive, and you feel the weight of his gaze before you even turn your head. He’s looking at you like he’s not done. Like he can’t be done. His lips brush your shoulder, then lower, trailing heat down your skin, and you don’t have to ask what he’s thinking. “One more,” he murmurs, voice low and a little hoarse.

Your soaked panties twist around one thigh, one of his hands brace beside your head, the other stays clamped over your mouth. He’s fucking you again, slow, a quiet, rolling grind of his hips that makes your toes curl but the sound of it is unbearable. Slick, wet, shameless, the sticky noise of his cock dragging through your dripping pussy, again and again, with obscene clarity in the silence.

Downstairs, you can hear May talking. Ben answers with a laugh.

You can’t focus on their voices. You’re trying so fucking hard not to make a sound. Your moans vibrate against Mark’s palm, and your eyes beg him, plead with him, not to stop. Every nerve in your body is strung tight, trembling from the pressure of keeping still, the pressure of him, the way he stretches you so deep you see stars behind your eyelids every time he grinds down just right.

“Fuck,” he breathes, right against your cheek, barely a whisper. His voice is strained, shaking. “You’re gonna get us caught…”

His blue eyes burn down into you, dark, sharp, the same intensity you’ve seen when he’s angry, when he’s turned on, when he’s kissing you like the world’s about to end. But right now, there’s something more in them. Something hungry. Something dangerous.

And you have no idea. No idea who you're lying under. What he's done. What he's capable of. That Mark Grayson isn’t just your sweet, sarcastic boyfriend with the tight shirts and warm hands.

You just know the boy above you is fucking you like he means it. Like he can’t get enough of you. Like his whole body aches for it.

Your hips roll up to meet his next thrust, and he hisses, low and sharp, trying not to lose it. Your pussy grips him tight, your slick soaking his cock, soaking both your thighs, and he can’t keep it together.

“Shit, shit, baby, don’t move like that, you’re gonna make me-”

The bed creaks. Loud. Too loud. You both freeze, breath held, still as death.

Footsteps move below you, slow and rhythmic. The sound of someone getting a glass of water. You clamp your thighs around him and hold.

Mark doesn’t move. Barely breathes. You can feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest. His cock is still buried deep, twitching inside you, throbbing with the urge to move, to fuck you through the mattress.

After a moment, the footsteps recede. The sink runs. The fridge closes. A laugh. Then silence.

Mark looks at you, mouth parted, eyes wide like he’s just survived a car crash. “That was too close.”

You nod, barely able to process language. His hand is still over your mouth. You kiss the center of his palm, slow, soft, trembling.

He lets out a shuddering breath.

Then he pulls out, just a few inches, and thrusts back in, harder, sharper. You gasp into his hand, your eyes flying open, your whole body arching into him, but he pins you down, firm and heavy, grounding you in place.

“Keep quiet,” he growls under his breath, voice low and rough.

You moan, muffled and raw, as he fucks into you again. Then again. He sets a rhythm, fast and deep and quiet, every stroke careful but devastating. Your nails dig into his back, your heels press into the small of his back to drag him in harder, your pussy a soaked, pulsing mess clenching around him like it needs him.

You’re getting close. You know it. He knows it. Your walls flutter again and grip him harder with every thrust, your legs shaking, your breath coming in choppy gasps against his hand.

And his voice, god, his voice, he’s panting through his teeth, whispering the filthiest things against your skin like they’re sacred.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growls. “So fucking tight, sucking me in like your pussy owns me. Fuck. You like this, huh?”

You nod, eyes wide, tears pricking your lashes from the pressure of it, pleasure, fear, need. You can't speak. You can't do anything but take it.

He reaches down, fingers slicking over your clit, and your body jerks, the pleasure too much, too sharp.

“Shhh,” he whispers. “Be good. Just let it happen. You’re gonna come, and you’re gonna stay quiet, or they’ll hear.”

You break.

Your orgasm tears through you and you scream against his hand, but it barely comes out, a stifled, strangled gasp as your whole body convulses under him, pussy gripping his cock so tight he chokes on his own breath.

Mark loses it.

He pulls out fast, barely in time, his hand still muffling your cries as he strokes himself hard, his cock throbbing against your belly, and then he's coming. His body trembles as he groans, voice raw and strangled in his throat.

When it’s over, he collapses beside you, his chest heaving, still fighting to be quiet, his hand sliding away from your mouth.

You lie there, dazed, soaked, still trembling, your cunt twitching with aftershocks.

“…Holy shit,” you whisper.

Eventually, you both know you can’t just lay on your bed forever like ghosts in hiding. You both get dressed hurriedly.

Mostly because May bangs on the wall and sings, “Hope you’re not dead in there! I made eggs and passive-aggression!”

You moan into Mark’s sweater.

He chuckles softly beside you. “God, I missed her.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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See-See Fruit |Masterlist|

Roronoa Zoro x Reader, angst, protectiveness, fluff, uncontrollable feelings, mentions of depression, Reader is an empath, swearing, definitely blood and a teensy bit of torture?? Idk, shit went dark. #alittledisturbing

Summary: In a fight, you take a hit for him that leaves you in your most vulnerable state.

A/N: Sorry for not posting for so long, I apologize. Writer’s block has been tough and I’m struggling with medical issues. Dysautonomia?? Screw that. So I thought I’d write something sweet. Also, I’m still figuring out my writing style so—like, some of my fics are shit and some are not so much, so please bare with me. (I will be re-vamping them, but not right now)

Also thank you for the 84 followers! That means a lot >:)

Atleast 2k; and I’m making one of these for the other Straw Hats, but it’s gonna take me some time and I just needed to get this one out.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Roronoa Zoro:

Walking through the refreshing woods of another island, you were welcomed with warmth. Sun shined through the trees, overcasting a soft glow on your face, as you were luckily accommodated with little wind.

You were walking shoulder to shoulder with Zoro, both noticing the island was overtaken by nature. Vines, much overgrown, wrapped around every corner—while flowers sprouted from every nick and cranny.

Surprisingly, the woods weren’t dense, they were open with mossy patches and thick trees that extended meters high. The wild-life thrived, and you and Zoro spotted many animals, but you’d discouraged him from making any of them a snack.

“Zoro.” You tugged, pulling him behind a fallen trunk. “It’s too cute to die—eat something else!”

He let out a quiet sigh, taking a begrudging sit beside you. “The shitty cook said to grab food, so that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“And? Since when do you listen to him?” you whispered, tightening your grip on his haramaki. You kept him close, un-trusting that he wouldn’t turn that cute, little deer you saw, into a kabob.

You quietly glared, holding his gaze.

He tried, he really did, but it was a lost cause. He couldn’t beat you on this, and his expression finally cracked. He caved, turning away.

“You can’t save everything, it’s life,“ he grumbled.

“Maybe not, but if I can do something about it— I will.”

Curse that stupid look.

Zoro ran a hand down his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose, before looking over his shoulder. He peeked through a disfigured branch, watching the animal tend to some grass.

He hated to admit it, but you were right.

It was kinda cute.

Zoro felt you shift beside him, and he paused looking back. You moved halfway into his lap, resting your knee between his own as you used him as a pillow. He smirked, a little confused by your sudden closeness—but he didn’t complain.

He grabbed your waist, leaning closer.

“What are you—ach-“

You pushed his face away, focusing your attention to the deer and its apparent mother came from a bush. It was at-least three times the size of it’s baby, with a black and bushy white tail.

“Zoro, look!” You smiled, turning his head.

In a soft curse, he muttered your name, grabbing your wrists. He saw the deer, but it was at an awkward angle and he let out a muffled noise of distress. He huffed an annoyed, “woman,” pulling your hands away, but you were far too excited.

“Zoro—“

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” he mumbled, watching you. His eyes followed to your smile, and your fidgety fingers, and he couldn’t help but stare. Zoro took in your sweet features, slowing his hands back to your waist, closing his eyes to relish the moment.

Your swordsman for once relaxed, and you seemed to too, sinking closer. “You still gonna kill it?”

“No, I’ll find something else.” he replied, leaning back.

You hummed in satisfaction, resting your chin on his shoulder as you watched the two deer trail off, enjoying the cozy moment.

It was all perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

A crashed echoed behind you, and Zoro instinctively moved. He pulled you down, using the trunk you’d pestered him for as a shelter, avoiding a narrow blow.

A strange streak of black and blue zapped above you, exploding nearby stone—crippling it to rubble. You went to speak, but Zoro was already reaching for his swords, standing to glare the person down.

“Oi! What the hell was that for!” he snapped, covering you. His sword stretched, flickering to the side to cover your face, glinting just barely in the sun.

You couldn’t believe this was happening.

Soooo—much, for that peaceful moment.

“Yeah—what the fuck gives?” You muttered, grabbing your weapon. “Who are you?” you called, moving to your feet, sidestepping Zoro’s protection.

Silence only emitted, and the masked man remained eerily quiet. He shifted forward, but Zoro’s sword raised and he paused.

“That’s not of your concern.” The man’s voice was smooth, but he seemed transfixed on something—though, you couldn’t tell what.

“The hell it is, you almost hit us!” Zoro pulled his third sword out, placing it in his mouth.

He wasn’t messing around.

“I was aiming for the deer.”

“Bullshit!” You both chimed, and the stranger casually shrugged his shoulder.

He seemed… bland? And you didn’t like that. Neither did Zoro. Because, that meant he was hiding something, and that something could easily give him the upper hand.

Without hesitation, Zoro moved. He wasn’t putting up with this bastard’s bullshit. It was fucking obvious that he aiming for you.

“Ushi Bari,” he spoke, sending a strong attack with his first two swords, then swinging in with his third. The man staggered, defensively blocking Zoro’s weapons with his own.

The dueling blow was close, and he was strong, but he wasn’t stronger.

“Be careful!” You yelled, watching from afar. You watched them exchange blows, feeling useless for not helping—but you knew Zoro could handle it alone.

It was clear he wanted to when he’d just zoomed off, but you couldn’t blame him. He was looking out for you, he always had, and—besides, when he got stubborn like this, he was stubborn.

You sighed, shifting your sword in your hold.

You weren’t fighting, but you could analyze.

This dude obviously had a devil fruit, but of what? He turned trees to mush, and rock to rubble—maybe an acidic specialty? No, that wouldn’t make sense, that’d be a paramecia type, and Zoro had already nicked him.

Searching for an answer, you watched his hands glow with the same blue he’d blasted at you and Zoro from before.

“Zoro get back! He’s gonna use—“ A shockwave of energy followed, but your lover dodged, letting it fly through a row of trees. The unsettled land smudged to the ground, pulsing softly with blues.

“Thanks for the warning.” he huffed, shifting his blade in his mouth.

“Yeah, of course—but watch his hands.” you took a step forward, keeping an eye.

However, the stranger suddenly turned to you, and something uneasy settled in your stomach.

Why were your eyes watering?

Zoro’s eyes narrowed, and he watched you carefully. He looked to the man, following back to you, and questions racked in his mind. Feelings of concern and discomfort twinged, what was he doing?

“I’ll get your bounty first.”

Your eyes widened.

A bounty hunter?

Masses of black charged towards you, and Zoro shouted your name. Your ears rang, and a stillness blinded you. Something settled heavy in your chest, and you just—barely, dodged it.

Debri flew overhead and Zoro called your name again, but you didn’t answer. You were shakily kneeled, struggling to get up.

His attack had clearly affected you—and Zoro was done. He took the initiative to finish this fight before shit went further South.

“Oi, your fights with me!”

•~•~•~•

The forest was ruined now.

Long smoldering sword marks, and devil fruit abilities were etched into the island. Dust rose, and the bounty hunter was still taking Zoro head on. He was using his unkown abilities to his advantage, sending blasts that Zoro had to dodge, because he didn’t know what it’d do if it hit him.

It’d just barely grazed you and you were already fatigued, you looked off—even different. Your eyes were weakly glazed, and your movements were slowed, but you were still you. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but in a way you looked sad, and he hated it. He didn’t know what that bastard did—but he’d put a stop to it. No matter what.

Zoro was filled with determination, but the bounty hunter played dirty. He dangerously sent another attacked towards you before a blistering one to him—and he had to dodge.

“Watch out!”

This was getting ridiculous.

Frustrated and angry—Zoro finally charged.

He found an opening, and he took it.

“Ashura!”

A three headed, six silhouetted figure, appeared behind him. Nine swords lifted, and they came down with a devastating blow, sending your attacker feet in the ground.

He slammed through torn mossy floor, crunching further into the earth—rendering unresponsive. Dust masked your line of vision, but you could faintly make out Zoro who’d been standing somewhat close.

A wobbly smile crossed your face, and you let out a relieved sigh.

He’d won.

“Zoro, you okay?” You rasped, coughing as grime flew into your face. A hand came to your chest, and you shut your eyes to struggle with the burn of the dust. The heaviness that pressured your chest from before, suddenly ached, sending a cold sharp wave throughout your body.

A lightheaded feeling surfaced, and anxiety quickly spread. “Zoro—?”

“I’m here,” he said, gently grabbing your shoulder. “You hurt?”

You shakily shook your head, “No, I’m fine.”

“You?” you muttered, looking him over.

He didn’t seem too bad, but it was clear he had a few spots. Though, you weren’t really any better, you looked exhausted. Your clothes were dirtied, and your cheeks and limbs were scraped from flying scrap.

You were a mess, and you still looked…sad.

Zoro didn’t know how else to describe it, your eyes were soft, as if they were on the verge of tears. It settled an unresolved anger, and he wasn’t sure how to help.

The bastard’s power had affected you one way or another, but he didn’t comment on it. He wouldn’t until you did, because he trusted you to speak up and say something.

“I’ll live.” he replied, stepping closer. His eyes flickered to your torn shirt, and he caught the tremble in your fist as it was placed your heart.

His eyes narrowed.

Was it getting worse?

Zoro rumbled your name, but you didn’t respond.

Your eyes had locked over his shoulder, to the onset black light, flickering in the dust.

He wasn’t down?

A whirring sound hummed across the forest, and on instinct—you acted.

Zoro was a big man, he always had been, but adrenaline made you stronger, even in your weakened state. He sucked in a breath as you pushed him, and in slow mow—it happened.

He was sent back, bracing fallen woodland with you in his arms. Zoro’s mind screamed at him to do something, but he couldn’t. Shock coursed through his veins, and he tightened his grip on you.

He felt wood splinter into his back, but nothing hurt as much as the thought of you sacrificing yourself for him. His consciousness flickered dark, but panic must’ve brought him back, because you were unresponsive in his arms.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out—but it didn’t matter. All the mattered was you.

You’d expect it to happen in a flash, but the trees and leaves were still falling. Everything was going so slow in time. It felt unreal.

Zoro weakly called your name, looking you over—expecting the worst, but you were the same. There wasn’t a blistering mark, or anything? You were just out.

“Fuck, hey, come on,” he shifted you up, kneeling with you close. His voice broke, and it cracked with fear as he cradled your body. Calloused hands found your face and he muttered your name, again, desperately.

Why weren’t you waking up?

A sick laugh echoed from the distance, and he tensed. Realization settled across him, and it was deadly.

Him.

Zoro set you down as if you were glass, brushing any leaves that had fallen on your face.

He was beyond raged.

“Couldn’t dodge that one, could you?”

“Fuck you! What’d you do?” Zoro snapped, standing up. He grabbed his sword, already stalking forward.

And the bastard just smiled.

The fuck did that mean?

Zoro aimed the sword to his throat, but strangely, he didn’t fight back. A whimper sounded close him, and he froze. It wasn’t from the bounty hunter.

Zoro almost dropped his sword.

He quickly breathed your name turning around—though his heart twisted.

You were crying. Hard.

He couldn’t see your face, but your shoulders trembled, and he knew. You were curled on your side, burying yourself in the crook of your arm, sobbing. He fucking forgot where he was, and what he was doing. He felt crushed.

Why were you crying? Were you hurt? You had to be. But you said you were fine?

Zoro was yet again frozen, he’d never felt this fear before. This excruciating guilt, the kind that made your body ache. He’d never hesitated this much in his life—and maybe this was the reason you were hear now.

He couldn’t believe he let this happen. Not to you. Not to anyone. Seconds passed, and he finally brought himself back. Your nails dug into your chest, and another sob broke the silence.

His heart couldn’t take it.

“What, did. You. Do.” Zoro growled, stepping forward.

In milliseconds, the bounty hunter was slammed back. He had no time to react, no time to render anything, just time to experience pure, brute—force, with searing pain.

Though his smile never wavered.

It was weird. It was as if this fucker was feeding of your pain? Of your agony? The first emotion ever showed—was joy, by your suffering?

Un-fucking-forgivable.

Zoro’s hands shook, and his sword swung. The man tilted his head back to avoid the blow, and it shredded the trees behind him.

More leaves fell, and he finally answered.

“Anything I think, she feels. She’s living in whatever illusion I created.”

What?

Zoro’s sword hesitated as it was held high.

What could this bastard, possibly think, that could make you like this? To the point of sobbing? Crying?

Shusui slammed into his leg—eliciting a sharp breath.

“Then, Fix it.”

The bounty hunter laughed, though his pain was obvious, “I’d rather die.”

“Trust me you will.” Zoro sneered, twisting the sword. “I said fucking fix it.”

A strangled noises echoed, and he craned his sword up to his hip. The man gasped, squirming back, but it dug deeper. “You stupid pirate—“

“I’m not repeating myself.”

“Fine!” The sword didn’t let up till it was to his side, but he seemed to finally let you go.

Zoro looked back, and your body had finally stilled, growing quiet. He ripped his sword away, swinging it behind him, not bothering to look back at the scene—and he was next to you in a instant.

His sword was sheathed, and he shook you gently.

“____, come on,” he murmured, wiping your tears.

He felt you stir, and a breath of relief escaped him. Zoro hugged you to his chest, holding the back of your head as he breathed you in.

You weakly croaked his name, and he only held you tighter.

“I’m here, you’re okay.” you were brought up, held protectively in his arms.

“I thought you—“

“I know. Just rest.” he said, “I’m taking you back to the ship.”

“Ship?”

Zoro steps slowed, “yeah, the Sunny.”

“No—the, the Sunny’s gone?” you broke, shakily leaning up. His hand shifted to your back, and he held you tighter.

Your voice seemed so broken.

“____, the Sunny’s here.” He looked you over, and you still seemed so shaken. Your eyes were red, brimming with tears—and he couldn’t care less about the snot.

You were hurt, maybe not as much physically—but mentally, the bounty hunter’s power made you shatter. His heart ached, and he remembered the man’s words.

“Anything I think, she feels.”

Anything. He, thought.

Zoro cursed under his breath, and he set you down onto the mossy floor, making you flinch. His hand steadily came to your back, but you only hugged him tighter. It was clear you didn’t want to let go, scared he might disappear—but he wouldn’t.

He’d stay right beside you, but you needed to come back from whatever hell that bastard created.

He needed you here, and he needed you with him.

Zoro carefully crouched in-front of you, and he shifted back to take your face in his hands.

He looked you in the eyes, and it was clear what he was doing. He was giving you the time to breathe, to realize—it was okay.

You sniffled, letting out a shaky breath, and your grasped his shirt.

“Zoro.”

He didn’t respond, and he didn’t offer you pity—but he did offer you his presence. And that was enough.

“It, it wasn’t real was it?” you voiced, looking up to him, and he only shook his head.

He sighed, brushing away your leftover tears.

“No, everyone’s fine. The Sunny’s docked in the cove, and the crew’s safe.” Zoro grabbed your waist, pulling you closer. “They’re probably waiting for us now.”

He gently brought you in his arms, letting you hug him, waiting for you to be ready. He wasn’t urgent, and he wasn’t rushing. He was careful, and patient.

Your arms encircled around his neck, and you buried your face in his shoulder. A few silent moments passed, and you eventually felt ready. “Then, can we go?”

“Yeah, we can go.” he picked you up, shielding the forest with his shoulder as he brought you through. Zoro wasn’t letting you go for a long time, not even in the safety of the Sunny, or in the infirmary where chopper would treat you.

Today was something he experienced for the first time, and never, I mean never—would he let it happen again.

He would work harder, and he would protect you.

[scribbledswans]

could yuo possibly make.... uuhhh..... shedletsky x healer reader like where the reader bandages up shedletskys wounds they shed on my let till i sky

yea sure

it'll happen again.

Shedletsky finds himself yearning for your touch often, even when your hands are pressing gauze against his chest to stop the bleeding.

Warnings: Percieved one-sided pining / percieved unreciprocated emotions

this work will be uploaded to ao3 at a later date

"It's like you're TRYING to get yourself hurt!" You scold quietly, stitching up a laceration on your companion's side.

Shedletsky monumentally whiffed a stun on Jason earlier that evening, and recieved a punishing gash from said killer's machete. He listens to you lecture him on how he shouldn't be stunning unless its absolutely necessary, how resource intensive caring for wounds is, the likes. He absolutely would not say it to your face, but as much as you scold him and maybe even handle him a little harshly, he finds your worrying cute. One could say he DOES get hurt on purpose, just so you can patch him up.

A sharp poke into his side rips him out of his admiration of you with a yelp, a quickly mumbles apology falling instinctively from your lips as you close the stitch. Then it's on to gauze and the likes, making sure the stitches are stable before wrapping him up.

He honestly hates getting wounded like this. It's seriously humiliating! Even then, the closeness of being cared for... the intimacy of this, even, is enough for him to not really care. You rolling up his shirt, hands on his chest, carefully nursing the wounds that bring him to you– It's intoxicating, and he develops addictions easily.

Hell, you look hot when you're mad, too.

By the time you had finished wrapping him up and making sure the bandages were secure, Shedletsky had come to several jarring realizations about himself, not noticing your silence. You tap lightly on his shoulder, bringing him out of his head.

"You're all done. I keep telling you to be careful." You say, pointedly.

Shedletsky rubs the back of his neck thoughtlessly, "I'm sorry. It'll probably happen again."

You sigh, turning to leave the room when he grabs your wrist. The act startles you so badly that you turn to punch him, barely managing to stop your fist from meeting his jaw. He flinches, giving you an apologetic smile and beckoning you to come sit on the bed with him. You frown.

"Elliot still needs to be patched up,. Later"

"But—"

"I promise we'll talk after, okay? I'll be back. Hang tight." You say, heading out the door quickly with your medkit.

Shedletsky stares as the empty doorframe where you left, a strange coldness calcifying in his chest. He knows it has to be done, but so much of him selfishly wants to have you alone. You're always so busy bouncing between the other survivors, making sure their wounds are properly addressed and treated, it's only natural. That selfish part of him aches for a private moment that isn't just a medical visit, Another part yearning to feel your hands against his body in a way meant only for him.

He swallows down his desperation to feel any part of you at all. It sits heavy in his stomach with the jealousy he feels when he hears you laugh in the other room.

Winded by his own thoughts, he leans back on the bed beneath him, staring at the ceiling as though it were the most interesting thing in the universe.

[yakshxiao]

DON’T GO WHERE I CAN’T GO FOLLOW ; JACK ABBOT

Synopsis; It’s been a long shift, a long night, and you don’t know how much more you can take. Your scrubs smell like vomit, faint traces of something dried under your fingernails, you already know there’s a bruise forming on your forearm and the insults thrown at you still linger. Under the glowing sky, the rise of the dawn and the long shadows below, it feels like it will be your last. You're drowning. Opening up will be difficult. Fortunately, Jack knows you like the back of his hand.

Word count; 3.7k

Contents; Jack Abbot/resident!reader, gn!reader, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, medical inaccuracies, can you tell I’m in love with Jack Abbot? making my contribution to the Jack Abbot community <3

The rooftop feels like the only place left untouched — untouched by the noise, the blood, the pressure. Up here, everything is quieter. Or maybe it just feels that way because you're too tired to notice anything else.

You don’t know how long you’ve been here. It feels like time is going by so very quickly.

You know your shift has ended, at least that much is clear to you. But as you look up at the fading stars, the rise of the dawn and the long shadows below, it feels like it will be your last. It’s a heavy feeling, a tidal wave — suffocating and entirely unavoidable. You’re caught underneath the crash and blur of pager beeps and gurney wheels; of bloody hands and distant cries.

You’re sinking beneath its weight — you’re drowning.

A shaky sigh leaves your lips, uneven and strained. There’s an ache in your chest, your heart, and it hurts to breathe. Some days are better than others. Some are worse. It’s a tight grip around your lungs you cannot escape from — it's been this way for months.

You curl your fingers into the cement beneath you. It’s cool, rough and unmoving, and you envy it for that. For being solid. For not feeling anything at all. Your scrubs smell like vomit, faint traces of something dried under your fingernails, you already know there’s a bruise forming on your forearm and the insults thrown at you still linger. Reminders you can’t shake even up here, even with the wind pressing against your face. You don't even flinch anymore. You don’t move. You just exist, slumped in the cold blue dawn.

There’s a part of you that wonders if anyone’s noticed. That you haven’t gone home. That you haven’t really been home in weeks, maybe months. The apartment is just a stopover now — somewhere to throw your bag, peel off stained clothes, and try not to cry in the shower.

Moments pass. Minutes pass. And even now, as sunlight peeks through the clouds, shining down and caressing you so very tenderly, the sky does little to distract you. It doesn’t bring you the comfort it used to. You used to watch the sunrise over the city with wonder. Now you watch it with numb detachment, as though it’s a movie playing for someone else. A different version of you — younger maybe, less hollowed out. One who believed in the promise of morning light.

Now, it’s just another reminder that it’ll begin again in hours time. Another cycle. Another shift.

The pager is still clipped to your scrubs, so heavy you can feel it in your bones. It stopped buzzing ages ago. Or maybe not. Phantom beeps echo in your ears, loud enough that your breath catches and your heart skips. You check it anyway, just to be sure.

Empty screen.

It almost makes you laugh. Almost.

Instead, you finally let your head fall back, eyes closing against the brightness overhead, and for the first time in what feels like days, maybe weeks, maybe months, you let yourself feel it. Not just the exhaustion — not just the ache — but the weight of everything you’ve been carrying. The quiet grief. The burnout. The breaking point.

Tears slip down your cheeks, soundless and slow, carving warm paths along chilled skin. You don't wipe them away.

No one’s watching.

And for a moment — just one — you let yourself be undone.

You’re so afraid. Afraid of failing your patients. Afraid of failing your coworkers.

But even in this turbulent mess of a job — 

One thing remains the same.

“You’re in my spot.”

The voice is soft but still rough around the edges. Familiar. So very familiar. It cuts through the haze like a scalpel, sharp and precise, sliding into the quiet you've wrapped around yourself like gauze. 

Your eyes blink open slowly, lashes wet and heavy. You don’t move right away — unsure if you want to face the man you’ve known for so many years. But you do. Of course you do. It’s muscle memory, like the way flowers turn towards the sun without ever realizing they’re moving.

Your head turns and there he is.

Same half-smile on Jack’s lips, the one he saves for a select few. Same tired eyes, the way they’ve always been — worn, but holding that strange, steady gentleness. His face is shadowed with stubble, and his shoulders are slumped under the weight of things unsaid, things unshared. But it's still him. The person who knows your silences and your hesitations.

He’s standing a few feet away, a coffee in his hand, steam curling around his fingers, and when he sees your face — the wreck of it — his mouth twitches like it wants to say something, but can’t quite find the words. He’s not sure where the boundaries are. He’s waiting for you to acknowledge him, to say something.

Anything. 

You blink once, twice. The tears don’t stop. You don’t try to hide them. There’s no point. Not from him.

“I thought you went home,” you manage, voice rough and quiet like gravel underfoot. Jack hears it anyway. He always will.

“I didn’t see you leave” he says simply, staring out across the rooftops. He shrugs, casual in that way only someone who knows you too well can be. “Figured I’d find you here.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you say anything. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He doesn’t need to. Not because he doesn't care — he cares too much when it comes to you — but because he knows. It’s in the slouch of their shoulders, the circles under their eyes, the faint crease between their brows that never quite fades anymore. He sees it in the way you’re sitting — curled into yourself, shoulders hunched, eyes dull.

He’s worried. Just a bit, is what he tells himself. But truthfully, it’s so much more than that.

Jack moves, slow and steady, past the safety railing and lowering himself to sit beside you. His knee brushes yours, deliberate and grounding. He passes the coffee wordlessly into your hands. It’s warm. Too warm. It stings against your cold fingers and for some reason, that tiny shock of heat makes your throat tighten all over again. It’s too bitter, probably. He always puts in too little sugar. You’ve never had the heart to tell him.

Jack’s hand rests on the railing, fingers brushing the cool metal like he's grounding himself too, like he’s unsure whether it’s your presence or the sky above that’s keeping him anchored.

You look so small, Jack thinks. Sitting all alone up on the roof of the hospital, the place where you meet after the longest shifts under the fluorescent lights, to breathe together and let the noise of the world below fade into nothing. The spot where things were simpler.

Where you were... whole.

“Talk to me,” he says, his voice carrying the weight of too many long hours. But there’s something else in it too. Something softer, quieter. Maybe it’s the way he says it, the way his eyes search your face like they’re trying to decipher some secret you’ve been holding in for too long.

Your breath catches in your chest. It’s not the words that make you tense. It’s the way he sees you. The way he really sees you. As if you’re something fragile, something on the edge of breaking. As if he already knows the pieces are starting to slip.

Opening up will be difficult. Fortunately, Jack knows you like the back of his hand.

“Do you ever feel like…” You pause, teeth digging into your bottom lip, unsure if you want to let the words out. But then, softly, you do. “Like maybe we’re not made for this?”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s considering it. Like it’s a thought he’s had a hundred times but never said out loud. 

He hums, nodding once, “Every damn day.”

You close your eyes. Let that truth settle into your bones. It shouldn’t help. But it does.

Because if he feels it too — the doubt, the fear, the crushing weight — then maybe you’re not broken. Maybe you’re just human. A human trying to survive a world that asks too much and gives so little back.

The sun is creeping higher now, golden light bleeding across the sky, softening the harsh edges of the city. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” you whisper, and it sounds like a confession. The words are slipping out before you can stop them. They sound alien, raw, like someone else is speaking through your lips. But it’s the truth. The truth you’ve been holding in for far too long.

He nods slowly, understanding in the curve of his mouth. “Yeah. I get that.”

There’s a quiet comfort in that. In knowing that you don’t have to explain everything. You’ve both been running on empty for so long now that words aren’t necessary to communicate the weight of it all.

But the words keep coming. You can't control it —

“I’m tired,” you admit, voice unsteady, cracking under the weight of the words. “I’m not… I’m not sure I’m supposed to be here.”

“I think this might be my last…”

For a long moment, neither of you speak. The world around you continues its relentless march. Jack shifts, his shoes scuffing against the concrete as he closes the distance between you, leaning into you a little, shoulder against yours, so close enough to feel the quiet hum of his presence.

“I can’t lose my best resident.”

I can’t lose you.

You want to say something, anything, to tell him you’re not going anywhere. To reassure him that maybe you’re just tired, just worn down, but the truth clogs up your throat. There’s too much to say and none of it will make any difference. You’ve been holding on for so long, but maybe you’re not sure what’s left to hold onto anymore.

Jack presses his shoulder against yours again, warm and solid, like he’s trying to tether you to this moment, to this rooftop, where for a single second, you’re not a doctor or a resident or anyone at all. Just two people, still breathing.

“I keep thinking it’ll get easier,” you state. “That I’ll toughen up. That the bad nights won’t feel so… loud.”

“But it's been years and it’s only gotten worse” you say, fragile and cracked under the weight of it all. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“I used to think that too.” he says quietly. The understanding in his voice is enough to break something inside of you, to tear down the last of your walls.

Silence stretches again, but this one feels less suffocating. Like shared breath. Shared weight. You take a small sip of the coffee, and it’s terrible — burnt and definitely bitter — and it makes your lips twitch into something that almost resembles a smile.

Jack sees it. The tiny shift. The way you’re trying to mask it with a sigh but can’t quite hide the glimmer in your eyes. His own lips curve upward in response, and you can almost hear the unspoken words between the two of you. You’ve been in this moment a hundred times before — in silence, in exhaustion, in understanding. But today, it feels different. 

“Do you remember how we first met?” Jack asks, his voice soft, like he’s testing the waters. The question holds more than just the curiosity of a colleague; it carries affection, something shared between two people who’ve seen each other at their worst and still stayed. It tugs at your chest, pulling at something deep, something that feels like home — something you haven’t felt in a long time.

You glance at him, noting the way the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, as though he’s anticipating something — a laugh, a tease, maybe even a protest. Instead, you give him a small smile, fragile but real. The kind of smile that doesn’t need to be forced, but still carries the weight of everything you’ve both been through together. And for Jack, that’s enough.

“Of course I do.” you reply quietly, your voice steady but still holding a softness to it. 

How could I not?

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, it’s like the world narrows down to just the two of you. There’s a shared history between you, a story that’s been written over years.

“When I saw you walk through those doors, I thought the ER was going to swallow you whole.” Jack’s voice pulls you back to the moment, to the very first time you’d seen him. His eyes soften, distant for a moment, and you can tell he’s recalling it all with vivid clarity, just as you are.

You can almost see it yourself, the memory flaring up like an old film reel in your mind. The way the fluorescent lights had buzzed and hummed, a steady pulse against the chaotic rhythm of the ER. The scent of antiseptic, the quiet hum of machines that never seemed to stop. And then you — fresh out of medical school, wide-eyed, trying to disguise the trepidation on your face with a mask of confidence. You had walked in with a determination, but that had been quickly overtaken by the overwhelming sense of drowning. The chaos had been relentless that day, a never-ending parade of patients who needed everything now.

It was then that you met him. 

The first time you saw him was right in the thick of it — a Code Blue called on the other side of the ER, and everyone moved with practiced urgency. But there he was, standing near the nurse’s station, not rushing but moving with purpose, with calm. He was focused, sure, but there was a steadiness in his movements that was almost magnetic. You noticed it immediately. He had this presence, something unspoken, as if he had been here so many times before that the madness of the ER didn’t faze him anymore. At least, that’s what it looked like.

You had caught his eye briefly, and without a word, he gave you a slight nod — not dismissive, not patronising, but like he could see the unease in your posture, and somehow, that simple gesture made you feel just a little bit less like you were about to fall apart.

“Then I watched you treat this kid with a skull fracture and realized how wrong I was,” Jack’s voice breaks through your thoughts, the tone a little lighter now.

You blink and glance back at him, the sound of his words bringing a warmth to your chest. His eyes are soft, affectionate in a way that makes your stomach flip. The shift had been long. But still, you kept moving, kept going. The thought of quitting never even crossed your mind. You had a job to do.

It had been thirty minutes before your shift was supposed to end when they brought the boy in. A man rushed in, panicked and breathless, clutching a child to his chest. The boy was pale, his face twisted in pain and fear, his eyes wide and frantic. The sight made your gut drop.

The man barely spoke, just a string of frantic words. Too rushed, too tangled for you to catch. But the child’s head — the boy’s head. The darkening bruise on his skull, the swelling, the blood dripping down his cheek. Your stomach turned.

A head injury. A potential brain bleed. You felt the weight of it immediately, the heavy pressure settling on your chest. This is serious, you thought. This could be life or death.

The ER that night was chaos, as it always was. More patients arriving by the minute, trauma cases piling up, the pressure building and building. But even with all of that, you focused. You focused on the boy in front of you, the way his small trembling hands clutched at his father’s shirt, the way his breath came in short, panicked bursts. It wasn’t just the fracture that needed attention. It was more than that. It was the terror radiating from him, the uncertainty, the fear. The boy needed more than just medical intervention — he needed reassurance. He needed someone to steady him. And in that moment, you knew what you had to do.

You moved quickly, gently, knowing that time was of the essence. Every step, every decision had to be precise. His pupils were reacting sluggishly, the swelling on his skull too pronounced for comfort. But you didn't let the anxiety creep in. You did what you had to do — you kept your focus, your hands steady even as your mind raced. You prepped for CT and labs, trying to calm the boy with soft words. You needed to make him feel safe. You needed to make him believe that he wasn’t going to die, that everything would be okay.

And then, in the midst of all the frenzied activity, there was Jack.

He was just over your shoulder, quiet but present, steady. You hadn’t noticed him at first, too wrapped up in the immediate urgency of the situation, but then, for a brief moment, you looked up and saw him. He was leaning against the nurse's station, arms crossed, watching you with that same quiet assurance he always had. There was no question in his eyes, no doubt. He was simply there, a calming presence in the storm.

It wasn’t that he was actively helping in the moment, or that he was giving orders, but in the way he watched you, it was clear. You’ve got this. That simple, quiet understanding. That steady confidence, unspoken but ever-present. It was comforting. Encouraging. The kind of support that only comes from someone who knows exactly what you’re going through, and still trusts you to get the job done.

You hadn’t expected to feel so steady. But in that moment, you did. The panic that had almost overtaken you when you first saw the boy’s injury had started to subside, replaced by a calm certainty. You could do this. You had to.

The boy's scans came back showing a linear parietal skull fracture, but no signs of active intracranial bleeding — it was a small miracle, but enough to give you hope. He was still critical, still at risk, but you’d made the right calls. You could see the relief flood his father’s face when you gave him the news. We’re going to take care of him. That was all you needed to say.

Jack stayed just a little longer before he slipped quietly out of the room. He had given you the space to do your job, but he had never once let you feel like you were doing it alone. And for that, you were grateful.

He catches your eye now, his gaze soft but firm, as if to say, I saw it all. I know what you did. And I’m proud of you. You don’t need to say anything in return. You’ve never had to.

“You did that better than I ever could have,” Jack adds, snapping you back to the present.

You let out a small laugh, though there’s no humor in it, “We both know that's a lie.”

Jack tilts his head slightly, his gaze thoughtful. There’s something soft in the way he looks at you, like he’s seeing you more clearly than he ever has before. It’s not just admiration. It’s understanding. He’s always known, in a way, that you were meant for this. That you were more than the quiet, unsure person who had first walked into the ER. You’ve grown, and so has he, in ways that you can’t quite explain, but he sees it. He sees you.

“You didn’t just treat him,” Jack murmurs, his voice dropping to a quieter tone. “You gave him something more. For him and his dad. That’s not something you can teach. Not really.”

“I knew you’d survive the ER from that day,” he says softly. “I haven’t been wrong about you since.”

His gaze softens, and you can see the tiredness in his eyes — the same tiredness you both carry, but in that moment, you don’t feel so alone.

“I don’t think I could do this without you,” he says, voice steady but laced with something deeper. Vulnerability, maybe. Something unspoken but understood.

Jack knows, I can’t do this without you.

You look at him, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest. For a long moment, there’s no talking. You’re both sitting on the edge of everything, not quite knowing what comes next but feeling the pull of something new, something softer, something that could be enough to help you keep going.

“Could give you my therapist's number if you ever feel like talking to him,” he offers. His hand reaches out, fingers brushing against yours, lingering for a moment before he pulls back, as if giving you space but also holding on. 

“I can’t promise it’ll get easier,” Jack says next, his voice low, full of honesty. “But I can promise I’ll be here. For whatever’s next.”

You don’t have the energy to respond, not right away. You don’t need to. The quiet between you speaks louder than anything either of you could say. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s all you need to keep going — knowing that even when everything else is falling apart, there’s still someone who sees you. Still someone who understands. Still someone who hasn’t walked away.

For the first time in a long time, the world doesn’t feel as heavy. Maybe the weight of it all hasn’t disappeared, but it’s easier to carry when you’re not alone. And in this shared space, with the sun creeping up higher and the sounds of the city fading into the background, you don’t feel so lost anymore.

You take another sip of the coffee, this time savoring it a little more, even if it’s still bitter. Jack watches you. And for once, the bitterness doesn’t seem so bad.

“Guess we’re both terrible at quitting,” you murmur, a soft smile creeping onto your lips.

Jack chuckles, the sound low and kind. “Guess so.”

You sit together like that for a while, saying nothing. Letting the sun creep across your skin. You feel a little less alone in it all.

Still drowning — maybe. Still tired. Still bruised and aching and full of doubt.

But not alone.

For a moment, you let yourself believe. You let yourself believe that the weight of everything — the exhaustion, the fear, the doubt — doesn’t have to crush you. That maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to carry it all alone.

And for now, that’s enough.

© yakshxiao 2025.

[livvymd]

Everyone Thinks They’re Dating—They’re Not. (Yet)

Chapter Four — It looks better on you. george clarke x reader.

The cafe bell jingled softly as Y/N stepped through the door, the wind trailing her coat behind her. The warmth hit her immediately—smelling like fresh croissants and espresso shots and quiet laughter—and she took a breath to calm the tiny butterflies in her chest.

Her eyes scanned the room.

And there he was.

George Clarke. Sat at a booth near the corner window, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his forearms, one hand wrapped lazily around a coffee cup while the other spun his phone in slow circles across the table. His legs were stretched out beneath him, ankle crossed over the other in that effortlessly relaxed way she was already beginning to recognize.

He didn’t see her at first. Just stared out the window, lips parted like he was thinking about something far away.

And then—he did.

His eyes caught hers, and that look spread across his face. The slow-building kind of smile. The one that looked like it started somewhere in his chest and made its way to his lips, lighting up his whole expression. He stood slightly as she approached, smoothing his hoodie like he hadn’t been caught off guard.

“You’re late,” he said, grinning.

She raised a brow. “I’m five minutes early.”

“Exactly. Late. I’ve been here since six.”

“You’re mentally unwell.”

He pushed a takeaway cup toward her across the table, already sitting back down. “Flat white. Oat milk. No sugar. Still a psychopath.”

She took the cup, suspicious. “You remembered?”

“I listened.”

That look again. That soft but sure kind of look, like he was learning her one piece at a time and loving every second of it.

She sat down, heart thudding, trying not to be too obvious about how happy she was to be here.

They talked for over an hour. He told her about his broken gym headphones. She told him about how she accidentally sprayed dry shampoo into her coffee that morning. They laughed too loud. Shared two croissants. His phone buzzed once and he flipped it over without looking, barely missing a beat.

It felt easy.

And then her eyes drifted down to his hand, the one cradling his cup.

She paused mid-sentence.

The ring.

A thin, scuffed-up silver band on his pinky finger. Nothing expensive, no bold engraving. But there was something about it—something worn and familiar. The way it curved along his knuckle. The way it sat against the slightly calloused skin of his hand. Something about it felt… like him.

“You always wear that?” she asked, lightly.

George looked down, raising an eyebrow. “What, this?”

She nodded, sipping her coffee.

“Yeah, I dunno. It just kinda lives on me now. Had it for years.” He held his hand out a bit so she could see it better. “Bit banged up, innit?”

She reached across the table before she could stop herself, her fingertips brushing along his knuckles as she gently turned his hand in hers.

It was such a small gesture—but it changed the air.

His breath slowed. His fingers twitched just slightly under hers. He didn’t pull away.

Her thumb grazed the edge of the band, warm from his skin. “It suits you,” she murmured. “I don’t know why. It’s very… George.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, George looked at her. Really looked at her.

Like he wasn’t just watching her admire his ring, but memorising the way she held his hand. The way her thumb traced the grooves. The soft crease between her brows when she focused. The barely-there smile on her lips.

The way she held him like she didn’t even realise she was doing it.

And then, with the faintest smirk, he slid the ring off.

“Try it,” he said, offering it.

She blinked. “Wait—what? No, George—”

“You like it. Try it on.”

“I wasn’t hinting at—”

“Course you weren’t. But I am.”

She hesitated, looking at him like he might be joking.

But he was dead serious.

So she slipped it on.

It slid past her knuckle and rested perfectly on her middle finger. A little snug, but comfortable. Like it had always been there.

George leaned back, smug and satisfied. “Better on you.”

She looked down at her hand, heart warm and fluttering and all over the place. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Just generous.”

“You’re gonna want this back, you know.”

“Maybe,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “but I like knowing you’re walking around with something of mine.”

She flushed, laughing into her coffee. “Stop.”

He didn’t push it after that. Just gave her that infuriating little half-smile again, and let it hang in the air between them.

They walked back to hers under a canopy of grey skies and soft wind. He insisted on carrying her tote bag, even though it was basically empty. She called him dramatic. He called her ungrateful. They bumped shoulders and kicked leaves, and when they reached her building, the banter softened.

Her hand hovered on the door handle as she turned to face him.

“I had a really good time,” she said, voice a little quieter now.

George tilted his head, eyes flicking briefly to her mouth before settling on her eyes.

“You wore that pink lip balm I like,” he said.

She blinked, startled. “You noticed?”

“Course I did,” he said, stepping a little closer. “I told you—I pay attention.”

There was something about his voice. That low, lazy confidence. The way he didn’t smile this time, just looked at her like he’d been waiting all day to say it.

She swallowed.

He leaned in slightly. Not enough to cross the line. Just enough to blur it.

“I’ve always wondered,” he said, his voice low and a little raspy, “what that stupid lip balm would feel like… against my lips.”

She barely had time to breathe before he kissed her.

Soft. Slow. Deliberate.

His hand brushed her cheek, the other resting on her waist like he already knew exactly how to hold her. His lips were warm, just slightly sweet from the last sip of coffee. And she kissed him back like it had been a long time coming.

Like she hadn’t wanted to stop touching his hand earlier. Like she wasn’t already wearing his ring.

When they pulled back, her heart was in her throat.

George looked at her, smile finally tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yep,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone. “Just as distracting as I thought.”

Before she could even think of something clever to say back, there was a low rumble—then the first soft drops of rain began to patter against the pavement behind him. It started gentle, like a whisper, and then quickly turned heavier, soaking the world in seconds.

Y/N flinched instinctively and glanced up at the sky.

“Brilliant,” she muttered.

George didn’t move. His hoodie was already speckled with dark, wet patches. His hair dampened at the ends, curling slightly. He just stood there, looking down at her like he didn’t mind getting soaked in the slightest.

She bit her lip. “You… wanna wait it out inside?”

His eyes flicked toward the door behind her, then back to her face. “You sure?”

She shrugged, suddenly shy. “Unless you fancy catching pneumonia in style.”

He grinned, the soft kind again. “I’ll take your couch.”

She stepped aside to let him in.

Inside, the air felt warmer. Quieter. She offered him a towel, which he used to dry his hair while she peeled off her coat and flicked on the kettle.

They didn’t say much, both pretending like it was normal—like it didn’t mean anything, that kiss outside in the rain. But when their eyes met, neither of them could quite hold the gaze for long without smiling.

After tea and a shared packet of biscuits, she handed him a pair of joggers from her drawer of random ex-boyfriend leftovers (he mocked her for that, obviously) and let him get changed while she went to tidy the blankets in the lounge.

He joined her on the sofa twenty minutes later, fresh-faced and in clothes two sizes too small—shirt stretched across his shoulders, sleeves pushed up to his elbows again, that stupid silver ring now warm and snug on her finger instead.

They watched something mindless on TV. Sat too close. Shared the same blanket without thinking.

Eventually, she yawned and curled her legs up, tucking her head against the side of the couch.

George glanced down at her and smiled lazily. “You falling asleep on me, poppet?”

She mumbled something about being tired, and when he nudged her, she didn’t even swat him away.

He didn’t move after that. Just settled beside her and let the rain tick softly against the windows while her breathing slowed.

When she drifted off with her hand resting next to his, George let his pinky finger brush against hers.

Still wearing his ring.

guys im not sure about this one..

TAGLIST: @georgeclarkeyistheloveofmylife @whisperturnedecho @smzyyx @madforgeorge @lunarynn @randomaccountlols @swizzlemynizzle @kneelforloki @sundarksposts @tyna-19 @wherethezoes-at @cheekytv @dopeysunflowers @lottiewills @clarkey4life @liz140569 @artvscvntymullet @formulaal

[senseiofbullshit]

Did someone ask for nasty Jean Kirstein headcannons? No? Okay. Well here you go anyway.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, fem reader, not spell checked because I'm lazy

You’re usually ‘babe’ or ‘queen’ when he’s messing around, but when he wants something or y’all are intimate, you’re ‘baby’.

“Baby.” “Jean, don’t start with me right now.” “Whaaat? I didn’t even say anything!”

Beautiful happy trail that grows in evenly. 

He tries to keep himself pretty well groomed and trimmed.

He likes hair on his partner. He doesn't mind if it's bald, but something about you being in your natural state makes his mouth water. If you're very bushy, he'll pretend to get a weed whacker/hedge trimmer. Or pretend he's using a machete to cut through the jungle. Or put his face right in it and ask how you think he'd look with a beard. He will make Tarzan noises. He will rain dance. “In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps toniiiiight!” It will still get ate though.

When he was younger and immature, he had the 'I don't like hair in my food' phase, but as he became a man, he got into his 'girl, I'm a grown man and I don't care about hair' phase.

Jean is a grower and a shower. His friends call him horse face but that’s not all that’s like a horse (ahaha). He’s very tall and his cock is proportionate to his size. He tucks it down a leg. You see him on soft and you’re like ‘that’s not that bad’ and then he gets hard and you quickly change your tune to ‘where is that going’? In you, duh. What makes him daunting is that he’s long and wide. He’s got girth on his side. He always warms you up. It’s why he isn’t very partial to quickies. He's scared of hurting you and he knows he requires prep to take. He’s a quick learner so pleasing you and learning what you like comes pretty quickly to him. 

He’s also done some “research” on how to please women. Whatever he doesn’t know from experience, he’s “researched”. 

Taps it on your tongue and on your pussy before sliding home

He can be pretty kinky, but he prefers the basics. He doesn’t get tired of missionary or any of its variations. There’s just something so intimate, so right about being tender and passionate with you.

He considers sex quality time so it doesn’t really matter how he has you, as long as he has you. He prefers to see your face and give a lethal dose of eye contact while he’s in it. He wants you to look into his eyes while he makes you cum. 

Loves when you sit on his face while he touches himself. He won’t let himself cum until you do. He still wants to cum together even when he’s not inside you. Kinda romantic ain’t it?

Presses his hand down on your abdomen when you're close. Really pushes that crazy button. 

He will fuck you deep and slow and maintain eye contact the entire time. 

If you’re in a close missionary position, wind your hand through his locks and give it a nice pull. He’ll moannnn for you. 

He's not afraid to moan or whine.

His absolute favorite thing is when you’re in missionary and he’s hovering so close that your noses are swiping against each other with every thrust, he's propped up on one elbow with your fingers intertwined. He knows you’re about to cum so he presses a hand on your abdomen and is chanting and whining for you to cum for him.

“Yeah, baby? You gonna cum for me? Yeah? I want you to cum for me. I want you to cum for me, baby. You look so beautiful when you cum. I love you. Cum for me, baby. S’good when you cum for me.”

“Cum, baby. Cum. I know you want to cum all over me. Mhm. Mhm. That's it.”

Congrats on the baby lol

If it’s been a while, he’ll be a two pump chump. Sorry to break the news. He’ll slide in and then groan and tell you not to move before he’s pulling back out. He’ll go down on you in the meantime. 

“Fuck, baby. You already have me about to cum,” he’ll say with a chuckle as he pulls out and kisses his way down south.

Eats pussy like he’s making love to you with his mouth. Eats pussy like it’s his job. Eats pussy like it's the last time. Y’all remember that one video of the donut eating contest and the dude was passionately eating his donut? That was Jean. He was having flashbacks. Here to see what I'm talking about.

Jean shudders during that first lick and moans the entire time. He does that thing where his eyes roll back and flutter closed before you looks up at you through a half lidded gaze while moaning.

My neck, My Back by Khia was written about him

“Thank you for the meal!” And pretends to have a fork and knife in has hands.

After he’s done, pretends he’s dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “Compliments to the chef.”

“10 out of 10. No notes.”

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. He starts tweaking and crashing out if it's been too long. 

“Baby, I’m losing hearing in my right eye. Queen, please.”

“Let me just get a little taste before you go to work. What? Just a taste. Only a taste, I promise. I promise you won’t be late for work. It’ll be quick.” 

Don’t fall for it because he’s 100% lying and you will be late for work.

“You would deny a starving man? You’re so cruel.”

“Oh, your ear hurts? I think sitting on my face would fix that. What? What do you mean it won’t? Try it and see.”

“I think you riding me right now would solve 95% of the world’s problems.”

"This is it. This is the end. I can see the light. Goodbye cruel world.” As he dramatically falls on the ground pretending he’s dead.

He could be on his deathbed and he'd ask you to put it in his face lol

[mahowaga]

THE TRAGEDY OF SOFT THINGS | G.S.

SUMMARY: some people rot like fruit. suguru was more delicate–he fell apart like silk unraveling, quiet and beautiful. by the time you noticed the first thread had frayed, it was too late.

PAIRING: geto suguru x fem!reader CONTAINS: romantic decay, hurt/comfort (kind of?), there's more hurt than comfort tbh, doomed romance, no curses au, college au, angst, hanging onto something long gone, really, denial, a failed attempt at portraying suguru's break down WC: 22.0k WARNINGS: implied abuse/violence, depictions of grief and loss

I. THE BEFORE – the stillness before the storm Before Geto Suguru, there was silence. Not peace. Just a silence you didn’t know you were drowning in.

You met Geto Suguru on a Tuesday.

You remember because the campus bookstore smelled like old wood and ink that day, and the light slanted through the dusty windows in thick, golden bars–the kind that made you think of slow afternoons and things that didn’t quite hurt yet. The air was warm but shy of oppressive, caught in that strange seasonal limbo where summer hasn’t ended, but autumn has already begun to whisper against your skin. It was the kind of weather that makes people linger in doorways. In aisles. In silences. And you’d lingered–at the back of the line, behind someone tall with ink-dark hair tied back into a smooth, neat tail that gleamed like polished obsidian beneath the sunbeam caught in the skylight.

He stood still with his head slightly tilted, reading the spine of a book like it was a person he didn’t want to interrupt. His body language didn’t shift, didn’t twitch–not a finger tap, not a foot shuffle, not even the absentminded hums so many others carried like background static. He didn’t glance at his phone. He didn’t sigh. He simply existed–calm and quiet, like a still pond untouched by wind.

There was something striking about that. Something unnerving, even. As if he was waiting for a thought to finish forming before the world could resume.

He wasn’t beautiful in the way most people notice–not sharp-jawed or golden-skinned or chiseled. It was quieter than that. The kind of beauty you only notice if you, too, are quiet. The kind that hides in the slope of a nose, the line of a neck, the thoughtful furrow between brows as he’d turned over the philosophy section like a priest inspecting relics.

You’d watched as he picked up a copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed, thumbed through the opening chapter, then tucked it under his arm with something that wasn’t quite reverence, but close.

You bought a refill pack of notecards and a secondhand copy of The Bell Jar. The irony didn’t hit you until later.

There was no conversation. Not then. You didn’t speak, didn’t even look at him properly when he paid, just the flicker of movement as he passed a bill to the cashier, voice low and smooth, syllables wrapped in velvet.

You stepped out a moment after him, the bell above the bookstore door giving its usual tired jingle. A gust of wind blew down the sidewalk–just strong enough to stir the world without truly moving it–and a loose paper leaflet came spinning from somewhere, catching in the air like a reluctant bird.

It collided with his chest–fluttered, folded, stuttered against the fabric of his coat–and stuck.

He looked down at it. Didn’t flinch. Just pinched the paper between two long fingers and examined it the way someone might a fortune from a cookie. His eyes moved slowly across whatever was printed there. Then he turned slightly and offered it to you with a soft-spoken,

“Yours?”

His voice startled you–not because it was loud, but because it wasn’t. It was the kind of voice that didn’t force you to listen but made you want to. Like the last line of a poem murmured before sleep.

You shook your head, surprised by how dry your throat had suddenly become.

“No,” you said. “Not mine.”

He nodded once–not disinterested, just matter-of-fact–then folded the leaflet in half. Once. Twice. Precise as origami. Then stepped aside and slipped it into the metal bin bolted to the sidewalk, careful not to crush it, like it deserved more than just to be discarded.

You stood there for a moment, both of you, as the paper disappeared from view. Neither of you spoke, but something about the silence felt ceremonial–like a moment held its breath between two strangers.

You smiled, small and unsure, caught between amusement and curiosity.

He did not smile back. But he looked at you–really looked–and something passed behind his eyes. Not recognition, not yet. But attention. Like you were worth remembering. Like something about you had registered.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, the black ribbon of his hair tie gleaming faintly under the sun. A single strand threatened to slip loose near his temple, but didn’t.

You watched him until the crowd swallowed him. You didn’t know then that you’d just met the axis around which your world would gently, inevitably tilt.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Suguru was a sociology major, minoring in education–a combination that made perfect sense, once you got to know him. He wasn’t interested in studying things just to name them. He wanted to understand why they broke. Who they broke. And whether or not they could be fixed.

He didn’t talk much in class. Not unless he had something to say. And when he did speak, it wasn’t to fill silence or impress the room–it was because something had troubled him. Because he had turned it over in his head like a river stone and wanted to offer it up to the rest of you. People listened when he spoke, but not in the way they listened to loud voices or charismatic leaders. Suguru had no desire to dominate a room. His voice was low, sure, but steady–and more than that, certain. Each word felt like it had passed through a dozen internal checkpoints before it made it past his lips.

There was something surgical about the way he used language–a kind of quiet discipline that suggested he understood the weight of every syllable. It was never arrogant, never overbearing. It just was. Like he had taught himself how to wield precision where others wielded volume.

He thought with his head, always. He had the posture of someone who had spent years thinking before speaking, watching before reacting. But you noticed–quietly, privately–that he felt with his hands.

His fingers lingered on old book spines, brushing the faded lettering like they were braille. He ran his thumb along the edge of his notebook when he was listening closely. He tapped twice on the corners of desks when he finished reading, like punctuation. You once watched him, absentminded, pick a thread from a stranger’s sleeve in the middle of a group discussion. Not because it bothered him, but because he noticed it. Because he couldn’t not notice. And he smoothed the fabric down after, gentle and unassuming, like kindness lived in his fingertips rather than his words.

Geto Suguru existed like someone who did not want to take up too much space, but had too many thoughts to keep inside. He moved like he was trying to stay out of life’s way, and yet–it bent toward him anyway.

You were quiet, too. Always had been. You lived on the edges of conversations, the margins of group projects, the gaps between loud parties and louder people. The world around you was too fast, too sharp. It moved in jagged motions, demanded too much. You’d learned to survive by staying soft, by going unnoticed. But around him?

Around him, silence wasn’t absence. It was shared space.

With Suguru, quiet wasn’t something to fill–it was something to keep.

You remember sitting across from him in the student lounge once, both of you reading, neither of you talking. His leg brushed yours. He didn’t move it. Neither did you. An entire hour passed like that. And somehow, it felt like a conversation.

It made you brave. He made you brave.

You asked him to walk with you once. Just once. After class, when the sun was slanting low and the sky was the color of soaked lavender. You said it like a joke, like a shrug, so he’d have an out. You were already bracing for a polite refusal when he looked at you–eyes half-lidded with soft surprise–and said,

“Alright.”

Not like it was a favor. Not like it was a decision. Just like… of course. Like walking with you was already part of the plan.

That walk didn’t lead to anything dramatic. There was no kiss, no confession, no moment of cinematic tension. You just walked. Shoulder to shoulder. Your footsteps fell into rhythm without trying.

He asked about your book. You asked about his essay. He spoke more than usual, but still slowly–like he was measuring not the words themselves, but the space they’d take up in the air between you.

He told you he hated talking in groups. That he found it hard to know when it was his turn. That sometimes, he got tired just thinking about how many ways a conversation could go wrong. That it was easier to listen. To study. To wait.

And then–softer–he added, “But I don’t feel that way around you.”

It was said so plainly, so absent of performance, that it took you a moment to process. You didn’t know what to say. You only nodded, smiling and warm, and kept walking.

Later, long after you’d parted ways, you realized: he had just given you something rare. A sliver of himself. And you had tucked it away like a pressed flower between pages.

You didn’t know it yet, but that was how it would always be with Suguru.

He wouldn’t hand you his heart all at once. He would give it to you bit by bit, in wordless gestures and half-lit moments. A thought. A glance. A brush of fingertips against yours when reaching for the same door.

And somehow, you would come to treasure those more than anything loud ever could.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You’d both sit on the stone bench near the library courtyard–the one tucked behind the foreign language department, mostly forgotten except by the squirrels and the occasional smoker. A willow tree loomed there like a sleeping giant, its long green strands brushing the top of your heads like fingers in prayer. Its roots had cracked through the pavement over time, crawling out in thick, tangled webs like veins beneath skin, reminding you that nothing–not even concrete–could truly contain what wanted to grow.

The bench was always cold, no matter the weather. But Suguru never seemed to mind. He’d sit with one leg folded over the other, fingers draped loosely around the paper cup of coffee you’d sometimes bring him. Always black. Always two sugars. Sometimes he’d drink it. Sometimes he’d let it go cold beside him, forgotten while his thoughts wandered.

He spoke more with you. Never all at once. Never casually. It started with small things–a comment on a passage you’d underlined in your copy of Brave New World, a dry observation about a professor’s mismatched socks, a brief murmur about how odd it was that people always talked during movies, even when they claimed to love them.

You didn’t know it at the time, but those small things were Suguru’s way of reaching across a void he didn’t quite know how to cross.

And when he did start to speak–really speak–it was slow. Cautious. Like testing the weight of his own voice. Like he was trying to remember how to be a person who trusted someone else with the shape of his thoughts.

He told you about his childhood.

He didn’t dramatize it. Didn’t say it with bitterness or grief. Just with a kind of observational distance, like he was explaining the growth pattern of a plant he’d once watched through a window.

“My parents weren’t bad. Just… busy. I was a quiet kid, so they let me be.”

He said it like a fact. Not a wound. But you heard the ache in it anyway–the subtle way his mouth tightened on the last syllable, how his eyes didn’t quite meet yours when he said let me be.

He told you about the first time he saw someone die.

“It was on a subway platform. I was fourteen. An old man just collapsed. Right in front of me. No one moved. Not at first. People just kept looking away. Or pretending they hadn’t seen.”

His voice didn’t shake, but his hands curled slightly on his knees.

“Eventually, someone called for help. But it was too late. I kept thinking, how many of them were thinking someone else will do it?”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

He looked down at his shoes for a long moment before saying, softer this time,

“That moment did something to me. Twisted something. I started noticing it everywhere–the ways people look away. The ways they don’t get involved.”

And then he asked you:

“Why don’t people help each other? When it matters?”

You thought for a long time before answering. He liked that about you–that you didn’t rush to fill silences, didn’t treat questions like contests.

“Do you think that’s something that can be taught?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at the willow branches swaying above, their leaves hushing the sky.

“I hope so,” he said. Then, after a pause that felt heavier than the rest, “That’s why I’m studying this.”

That was the first time you saw the shape of his hope. Not loud, not idealistic, not romantic. It was quiet. Worn down around the edges like something he’d been trying to keep alive with sheer will.

He told you about his plans. He wanted to teach. Maybe high school. Maybe middle school. Younger, maybe, depending on where he could make the most difference. He wasn’t interested in private institutions, prestigious names, or cushy salaries. He wanted the kids who slipped through cracks. The ones no one bet on.

“I want to be the kind of adult I didn’t have,” he said. “Someone who actually listens. Who notices. Who doesn’t write them off just because they’re tired or angry or quiet.”

You didn’t realize you were smiling until he gave you the smallest glance–half amusement, half embarrassment.

“That’s idealistic, isn’t it.”

“No,” you said. “It’s rare.”

He looked at you then, like he was trying to decide whether he believed you. Eventually, he gave a short, quiet hum and turned back to the sky.

“People are just… so busy surviving,” he said. “They forget how to be kind.”

You never forgot that line. Even long after, even when kindness was no longer part of the equation–you remembered that. Because it wasn’t cynical. It was weary. It was someone trying to understand why the world didn’t match the softness they still wanted to believe in.

He never said any of these things in class. Not in seminars. Not to the boys who sat with him in the back row. Not to the baristas who flirted when they handed him his change.

But he said them to you. Like you were a clearing in the forest. A place he could stop to breathe.

That mattered more than anything else he’d given the world.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You learned the rhythm of him.

It was never announced. It arrived slowly, like sunlight easing across your bedroom wall in the morning–quiet, certain, irreversible. It wasn’t something he taught you, but something you absorbed through presence, through repetition, through the kind of noticing that love trains you into without asking.

He took his coffee black with two sugars. Not one. Not three. Always two. And not stirred too much–just enough for the sweetness to settle like a secret at the bottom of the cup. He never used bookmarks–he said they were a crutch. Instead, he folded the corners of the pages with the kind of deliberate care one might use folding origami or sacred letters. Precise creases. No rush. Always the top-right corner, never the bottom. You once asked him why. He said it just felt wrong, folding the bottom.

He got headaches when he read in moving cars, but he tried anyway. You saw him once, on a bus ride back from a student conference, eyes pinched against the sun-streaked window, a paperback half-open in his lap. He’d looked like someone trying to win a battle with his own body–stubborn, patient, losing.

He hummed under his breath when he thought no one could hear. Never full songs–just fragments. Themes. Melodies. You recognized Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat Major once, so faint it felt like a memory more than sound. When you asked him if he played, he shrugged and said no. When you pressed, teasing, “Then how do you know Chopin?” he blinked like the question surprised him. Then he said, “I don’t,” and never brought it up again.

And always–always–there was the hair tie.

He wore it like a promise, a ritual looped around his dark hair, black and slightly fraying at the edges. It was thin, overstretched from habit. You never saw him buy a new one. You wondered if he ever had. His hair was always tied back–sleek, disciplined, not a strand out of place. It gave him the air of someone who needed order, who kept parts of himself bound and tucked away, not out of vanity but necessity. His hair was his armor. His control.

You never saw it down. Not in class. Not during study sessions. Not even that time he got caught in the rain without his umbrella. His tie had held.

Until midterms.

You met him at the campus cafe–the one with terrible lighting and off-brand espresso that somehow still tasted like comfort. The place was humming with anxious energy: people murmuring definitions into cups, highlighters uncapped like weapons, professors pacing in and out with stacks of exam sheets. The world had taken on that sharp, caffeine-shimmered sheen of academic survival.

Suguru was already at the table when you arrived, hunched slightly over his notes, one hand curled around a steaming mug, the other pressing his pen hard enough into the page that the indentations were visible from where you stood.

He looked tired–more than usual. Not the kind of tired that came from a bad night’s sleep, but the kind that clung to the bones. His eyes were ringed with the purple shadows of too many nights thinking when he should’ve been resting. His collar was wrinkled. His shirt was one button too high. His fingers had ink smudges.

And there, for the first time, a single strand of hair had come loose.

It fell from the tie, slow and deliberate, curving down the side of his face like a silk ribbon unfurling in protest. It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just undone–the first note of a song that hadn’t yet realized it was a lament.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, and didn’t care.

You didn’t say anything, but your eyes lingered. Just for a moment. Because something about it–the softness of the strand against his cheek, the way it moved when he tilted his head–felt like a secret. Not a scandalous one, but a quiet, sacred one. A crack in the carefully composed surface of him. The kind of detail that only you noticed, and didn’t want to give back.

It was the smallest thing. And yet you remember it more clearly than the words you exchanged that day. You remember the way your fingers itched to tuck it behind his ear, and how that instinct startled you. Not because it was romantic–but because it was tender.

Because that was the moment you realized: he was letting things go. Not just that strand of hair. Not just sleep. Something deeper. Something internal.

You didn’t have a name for it yet. Not then. But later, when you looked back, you marked this moment as the first time Geto Suguru began to unravel.

And you–foolishly, lovingly–told yourself it was just a strand of hair.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You weren’t dating. Not yet.

There were no confessions. No gestures. No lightning strikes in the street. No spilled drinks and rushed apologies. No breathless declarations beneath a night sky heavy with stars.

But there were long walks home that neither of you needed to take.

His dorm was in the opposite direction. You knew that. He did, too. But neither of you ever mentioned it. He walked beside you anyway, hands in his coat pockets, his steps always half a beat slower than yours–as if matching your rhythm required effort, but one he was willing to make.

There were shared umbrellas in sudden rainstorms, the canopy small enough that your arms would brush with every step. You remember the warmth of his sleeve against yours, the damp scent of the world around you–wet pavement, wet leaves, the smell of Suguru’s cologne bleeding faintly into the cotton of your shoulder.

There were shoulder brushes in crowded hallways. Shared glances during lectures. The quiet thrill of finding him already at your favorite table in the library, a second cup of coffee–black with two sugars–waiting beside him like a bookmark made of steam and intention.

There was the warmth of him beside you on library couches, his thigh close enough to yours that the fabric would catch and hold, pulling gently when one of you shifted. He always smelled like cold air and books, like something you didn’t know how to want yet but already missed when it was gone.

There was the way he said your name when no one else was listening. Softly. Not possessive, not dramatic. Just deliberate. Like your name was something he’d thought about before saying. Like it mattered that it was you.

You learned that Suguru didn’t need big moments. He was the quiet kind. He moved in undercurrents. He offered pieces of himself the way some people offered tea–carefully, attentively, waiting to see if you would sip or turn away.

And you–you took everything he gave you and folded it into the hollow beneath your ribs like it had always belonged there.

You didn’t notice how much he’d started to mean until the night he stood outside your dorm building in the rain.

It was late–late enough that even the cars had stopped growling down the roads, and the streetlights hummed like lullabies. The rain had begun as a mist, turned to a drizzle, and now lingered in that strange threshold between rainfall and silence. The world smelled clean and cold, and your coat was too thin for the season, but you hadn’t cared. Not with him there.

He’d walked you all the way again–his coat buttoned all the way up, hands deep in his pockets, hair pulled back neatly despite the damp. You stopped at the front step. Said goodnight. Waited for him to say the same.

But he didn’t. He just stood there. Looking at you the way he always did–like he was trying to memorize something without letting you know he was studying it.

And then, without shifting, without warning, he said:

“You make it easier to breathe.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t even romantic, not in the conventional sense. It was simply honest. Bare. A truth laid out between you, untouched by expectation.

You didn’t know what he meant. Not really. Not then. You didn’t know the weight he carried, or how rare it was for him to say something that vulnerable without retreating into silence right after.

But you nodded. Not because you understood–but because you wanted to. And something fragile took root in the space between you.

Not love. Not just yet. But the soil was there. The rain had come.

And somewhere beneath the surface, the first thread of something soft and unspeakable began to pull taut.

It began, like all tragedies do, in a moment so quiet you almost missed it.

II. THE BLOOM – when love feels like spring Love with Suguru was a soft unfurling–like petals after frost, like warm hands on cold skin.

Falling in love with Suguru isn’t something that happens all at once.

There’s no shift. No sudden acceleration. No dizzying realization that leaves your chest hollow and gasping. Nothing cinematic. Nothing loud.

It’s quieter than that. Slower.

It’s brushing his knuckles by accident in the hallway and not pulling away. It’s noticing the way he opens milk cartons like they’re puzzles–fingers pressed gently at the seam, folding the corners down with practiced precision. It’s waking up in the middle of the night and wondering what his voice sounds like before he’s put the day on like armor.

It’s watching how he reads. Not just the words, but the white space between them.

It’s learning his pauses. The way he inhales before asking a question. The tilt of his head when he’s listening. How he twitches his pen cap between his fingers while thinking, then snaps it back on with a quiet click that always feels too final.

You fall in love slowly, like a house warming to the morning sun–windows catching golden streaks, floors holding footprints. It’s not something you notice in the moment. It’s something you realize retroactively, like a bruise that blooms hours after the impact.

And the strangest part is–it’s mutual.

You don’t expect it. You don’t look for signs. You’re just sitting beside him in a seminar, your desk a half-inch too close, your sleeve brushing his. You’re halfway through pretending to take notes when he reaches into his bag without looking and places something beside your notebook.

A granola bar. Oat and honey.

You glance at him. His eyes stay forward, watching the professor explain something about systemic poverty and generational responsibility.

There’s a folded note under the wrapper. Neat. Slanted handwriting.

You looked tired today. I brought an extra.

You don’t even remember mentioning you liked this kind. You didn’t think he noticed, even if you had. But he did. Suguru notices things like that.

You learn, in that moment, how he gives affection: not in declarations or dares, not in loud laughter or flirtation. He gives it through presence. Through consideration. Through small, deliberate offerings–each one a thread in the quiet tapestry of his regard.

He doesn’t fall in love like most people. He falls in love the way he exists–softly. Silently. But all at once.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

The change in him is small at first.

So small, in fact, that if you weren’t already watching him the way you do–with the kind of attention that feels like prayer–you might miss it.

He’s still reserved. Still purposeful in his speech. Still someone who listens more than he talks, thinks more than he reacts. But something inside him has shifted. A gentle tilt. A redirection of light. And it’s not loud, not dramatic–just new.

You see it in how he lingers after lectures to help the TA collect handouts and erase the board, sleeves rolled up, fingertips smudged faintly with dry-erase marker. You see it in how he straightens stacks of papers with too much care, tapping them against the desk edge twice–that same quiet rhythm he always taps with when he finishes a book. A pattern his hands remember before his mind does.

You see it in how he joins group discussions again. Not with the sharp certainty he once used–that scalpel-precise logic that cut clean through questions like he was afraid of being misunderstood. No, now it’s different. Softer. He still disagrees, still challenges people, still hates them, but there’s less armor in it. Less tension. When someone pushes back, he doesn’t tense–he tilts his head. He listens. He hums in thought, runs his thumb along the edge of his notebook.

He laughs, sometimes. Not often. But more than before. A dry, surprised sound, usually at something you’ve said–and when it happens, it feels like striking gold.

He starts carrying a second pen in his pocket. Not because he needs it, but because you always forget yours.

He begins to fold his sleeves to the elbow, even when it’s cold.

“I think people can change,” he says one afternoon, walking beside you down the path near the south quad. The air smells like rain-soaked concrete and pollen. The trees above are shedding blossoms in soft, aimless waves–pink petals falling like the breath of something sleeping. One catches in his hair and stays there. He doesn’t notice.

“Even if it’s hard,” he continues, brushing his fingers along the wrought-iron railing as you pass, the tips ghosting over it like he’s measuring the chill of the metal. “Maybe especially then.”

You blink. Not at what he says, but how he says it. There’s hope in his voice. Not imagined. Not crafted for you. Not rhetorical. Real. Whole.

He means it.

It catches you off guard. The Suguru you first met–the one who spoke of the world like it was a patient flatlining on a table no one remembered to staff–wouldn’t have said that. Not even hypothetically. But this Suguru? This one beside you?

He sounds like someone who’s found a reason to try again.

The darkness in his eyes–that tired ache, the one that used to pull his gaze inward when the world disappointed him–it hasn’t disappeared. You don’t think it ever could. But it’s dulled. Softened around the edges like a wound that’s no longer raw. Like a scar healing into something he no longer minds looking at.

He isn’t trying to save the world anymore. Not all of it. He’s simply learning how to live in it. Do what he can.

And you–somehow, impossibly–are a part of that lesson.

Sometimes you catch him watching a child in the courtyard across campus. A girl with thick braids trying to drag a stick through the mud. She stumbles. He starts to move–just a twitch–but she steadies herself. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile, but he holds very, very still. Like witnessing that mattered. Like it reminded him of something worth keeping.

His hands are more restless now, but not anxious. Just engaged. Present. He picks grass from the hem of your coat when you sit together. Runs his thumb along the length of your pencil when he borrows it. Lifts a fallen leaf off your shoulder and inspects it like it holds a secret he almost remembers. You don’t think he realizes he’s doing it–but you do.

He’s coming back to his body. Letting it move without fear. Letting it reach.

And for a while–a golden stretch of time that neither of you name aloud–he looks like someone who’s learning how to be held without bracing for pain. Someone who is learning, maybe for the first time, that it’s okay not to carry everything alone.

•───────────────────────────────────────��──•

You start spending most of your time in each other’s dorms.

Not because you talk about it. Not because someone asks–but because it happens the way rain creeps into the seams of windows–quiet, natural inevitable.

His dorm is on the third floor, the one that overlooks the library courtyard. It’s smaller than yours, older, with a radiator that clicks when it’s cold and windows that fog up even when the heat is off. But it smells like him–eucalyptus soap, paper, clean cotton–and you find that you like the sound the floor makes when he walks barefoot across it. Like it remembers him.

Yours is tucked behind the campus gardens. Quieter. South-facing. The kind of space that holds sunlight a little longer in the afternoons, the kind that smells faintly of basil from the planter box you keep on the sill. You both keep your own keys, your own shelves, your own drawers.

But then your books begin to migrate–stacking themselves at the corner of his desk, slipping into his shelves. His hoodie ends up draped over your chair, long sleeves brushing your calves when you sit. Your toothbrush appears beside his one day–not in a cup, not in a drawer. Just resting. Waiting. Like it belongs.

It’s not official. It just is.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

The first time he kisses you, it isn’t under starlight or in the hush of some moment built for significance.

It’s a Sunday. Mid-afternoon. The light outside is grey and diffused, bleeding through thin curtains like spilled milk. It’s warm inside, but only because the radiator has been running nonstop for three days.

You’re sitting cross-legged on his dorm bed–the one with mismatched sheets and a lopsided stack of unread books piled high beside it–hunched over an article he recommended. Something about institutional ethics and generational poverty. You’re highlighting quotes with too much color, writing sarcastic comments in the margins. You’re halfway through circling the phrase post-capitalist hierarchy of dependency when you mutter something dry and vaguely mean about the author’s overuse of theoretical jargon.

You don’t remember what you say, only that it makes him laugh.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a breath through his nose. A laugh. Sudden. Warm. Startled. His hand presses lightly to his stomach as if it caught him off guard.

It’s the sound of something opening.

You glance up, a little surprised, and find him watching you–glasses pushed back into the half-tired crown of his hair, a red ink pen forgotten between his fingers. His hair is loose at the bottom, falling over his shoulders in soft, tangled strands, catching at the edge of his collar. One lock slides over his cheekbone. He doesn’t brush it back.

His eyes hold you like a secret.

Something shifts. Quiet. Immediate.

He leans in.

There’s no question in it, no pause for confirmation–but not because he assumes. Because something in the air between you already knows.

And then he kisses you. Not careful. Not hesitant. Real, like he’s been carrying this want in his chest for weeks without a name, and only just realized what to call it.

His lips are soft, but certain. His free hand–the one not holding the pen–drifts up to your shoulder, then stops. Hovers. As if touching you would make it too real, too fast. But he doesn’t pull back, either.

He just breathes against your mouth for a beat longer than he should. And when he does finally draw away, his gaze flickers, almost sheepish.

“Sorry,” he says, voice low. “That was–”

You don’t let him finish.

You kiss him again, and this time you lean in, and his hand finds your jaw without hesitation, thumb brushing the curve of your cheek like he’s trying to remember how it feels. His fingertips are warm. His touch is careful–not from uncertainty, but reverence.

You feel him relax into it. You feel him choose it.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Later, neither of you talks about what it means. Not because you’re unsure, but because it’s understood.

That’s how it is with Suguru. He doesn’t fall in love with spectacle or proclamations. He falls in love with the moments that don’t get written down. In the spaces between laughter. In the margins of annotated pages.

He leaves a hand on your knee now when you study together, thumb moving absentmindedly in slow circles. He rests his head against your shoulder when he’s tired, lets you play with the strands of hair that slip from his tie when the half-knot loosens. You notice, lately, that he doesn’t tighten it anymore. He lets it fall. Lets it stay.

He starts wearing his hair down more often. Not always. Just sometimes. When it’s just you.

You never mention it, but you find yourself watching the way it moves–how it brushes the line of his throat, how it tangles when he sleeps, how he huffs when it gets in his face while cooking. You don’t reach for it.

Until the day you do.

You’re sitting on his floor, legs stretched out, sun sliding low through the windows. He’s talking–softly, absentmindedly–about a dream he had. Something about walking through a school where no doors opened, only windows. You reach out, without thinking, and tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.

He stills, but he doesn’t pull away. He turns, slowly, and meets your eyes.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.

And he’s smiling. Really smiling.

You don’t say anything. You just smile back and lean your head on his shoulder, and he presses his cheek against your hair like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before.

And maybe–in another life, in some soft version of this one–he has.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Suguru is gentle with his love.

Not fragile. Not shy. Intentional.

He loves like someone handling rare books–with reverence, with patience, with a kind of awed curiosity that makes you feel like something sacred. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t reach too quickly. He touches you like he’s trying to learn you, page by page–not just the beautiful parts, but the worn ones too. Especially those.

His hands map you slowly. Never the same way twice. Fingertips skim your jaw when you’re quiet. Trace circles between your shoulder blades when you can’t sleep. Smooth over your wrists like they’re answering questions he’s still too polite to ask aloud.

He learns what makes you laugh–not just the easy jokes, but the strange things. The patterns. The way you snort when something’s too funny too fast. He starts saying things just to hear that sound. Pretends not to notice how your eyes soften when he does.

He learns what makes your breath catch. A thumb grazing your spine. His mouth on the space beneath your jaw. The low murmur of your name spoken into the hollow of your throat like a benediction. He never uses it for power. Only wonder.

And he learns how your eyes go soft and glassy when you’re overwhelmed with love–too full of it to say so. He watches for it. Waits for it. You don’t know how, but he always catches it before you can look away.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You like to hold him.

You didn’t that that’d be the kind of person you become, but with Suguru it’s different.

You like to press your palms to the sharp blades of his shoulder and feel the slow rise and fall of his breath. You like to tangle your legs with his under the covers, to pull him into your chest while he reads, to kiss the back of his neck while he’s pouring tea. You like to lie beside him with a hand against his ribs just to feel that he’s real–that he’s there, that he’s still choosing this.

You like to touch his hair, too.

You’re not sure when it started. Maybe the day you tucked a loose strand behind his ear and he didn’t flinch. Maybe the day he rested his head in your lap and said, “If I fall asleep like this, don’t wake me.” But now it’s a ritual. A language of its own.

His hair is always half-tied now. Some days more deliberate than others–a low twist at the crown, a simple clip holding it back, a single elastic coiled three times at the base. But always, always with something loose. Something falling. As if he’s decided that a little disorder doesn’t threaten the structure. As if being seen doesn’t make him less whole.

You thread your fingers through it often. Sometimes gently, sometimes absently–while he’s reading, while you’re talking, while music plays in the background and neither of you feels the need to speak. You learn where the strands curl slightly. Where the nape of his neck is sensitive. You learn how he tilts his head into your touch when he’s tired, and how, if you’re quiet long enough, he’ll sigh like the day is finally over.

You kiss him too, of course–often, and with care. But more than anything, you hold him.

You hold him like you’re trying to give him something back. Something the world forgot to offer. Something no one told him he was allowed to have.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You catch him watching you once from across the dining hall. It’s late. You’re laughing with friends about something dumb–a meme, a spilled drink, someone’s typo in the group chat. And when you look up, he’s already watching.

Head tilted just slightly. Elbow on the table. Chin in his palm.

His hair’s half-down again, loose at the ends, catching in the harsh cafeteria lights like black gold.

You mouth, What?

He doesn’t look away.

“I like watching you exist,” he says. Not loudly. Not for anyone else to hear. Just for you.

You throw a napkin at him. He dodges it, smirking.

Your cheeks stay warm for the rest of the evening.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

He starts writing again.

You don’t notice at first, not until you see the back of a receipt left on the floor–half a grocery list, half a quote: People are not lost causes just because they hurt differently. The pen ink is fading. There’s a fingerprint smudge at the corner.

After that, you find fragments everywhere. In the margins of his notebooks–tiny sentences blooming in the white space beside statistics. On the backs of old envelopes. On sticky notes pressed between textbooks. Even once on the bottom of your coffee cup, when he forgot to take the sleeve off before handing it to you.

Little things. Observations. Seeds of thought. The outline of a curriculum. A hypothetical school where grief is a subject, and kindness is a skill, and no one is made to feel like too much. A lesson plan with no due date. A list of values. A dream.

What I want to teach: that kindness is strength. That softness isn’t a weakness. That people are not burdens just because they carry pain.

You don’t bring it up. You don’t want to spook it–don’t want it to vanish if you name it too soon. So you fold the paper gently, carefully, and place it in the drawer beside his desk like it’s a flower you accidentally found blooming.

And maybe, in some way, it is.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

One night, curled up in your dorm room with the lights dim and a film flickering across the wall, Suguru talks about something he read that morning.

You’re wrapped in the blanket that always lives at the foot of your bed–soft and old and slightly frayed at the edges–and his arm is heavy around your shoulders, his legs stretched out long beside yours. The movie isn’t loud, some art-house thing with watercolor animation and not much dialogue. It’s playing more for atmosphere than anything else. You’ve both seen it before.

He shifts beside you, adjusting the way your body fits against his, and says quietly, without preamble,

“There was an article this morning.”

His voice is low, even. Not tense. But there is something in the way his hand stills on your arm.

“A kid. Twelve years old. System failure across the board. Everyone knew. Teachers, case workers, neighbors. They all looked the other way. And now–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just exhales, slow and controlled. You turn your head slightly, resting your cheek against his shoulder. You don’t say anything yet. You know him well enough to let him finish at his own pace.

“Now it’s too late,” he murmurs. “And people are pretending to be shocked. Pretending to mourn.”

He falls quiet again. His thumb resumes its movement over the fabric of your sleeve–long, slow passes, like he’s petting something that might spook. He doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound sad, either. Just tired. Like he’s been carrying that story in his chest all day, weighing it against everything he believes.

You press your hand gently over his chest, where the collar of his shirt has slipped open. You feel his heart beating beneath your palm. Steady. Unhurried.

“Suguru,” you whisper.

He hums, low.

“You’re trying. You make a difference. You–you notice. That matters.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just keeps his gaze fixed on the soft light flickering across the wall. Then he turns slightly, and kisses your temple. Slow. Thoughtful. His lips linger there longer than usual, like he’s trying to say something through that small point of contact.

You melt into him.

The room feels warmer with him like this–half-wrapped around you, hair loose and falling against your neck, chest rising with each even breath. You listen to the movie’s score swelling, a soft piano drifting through a sequence of paper birds taking flight on-screen. It’s lovely. Everything is.

You feel safe.

After a while, when the movie dips into quiet again, you tilt your head and look up at him.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask.

Your voice is hushed, but not hesitant. This is what you do, these nights–drift into gentle conversation like turning pages in a book.

He blinks, eyes flicking down to you. For a second, he doesn’t answer. Then his fingers find your hand beneath the blanket, sliding between yours.

“Thinking I like this,” he murmurs. “You. Me. Like this.”

He brings your joined hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles. One, then another. Then another.

“It’s nice,” he says. “Isn’t it?”

You nod, your smile small, sleepy. “Mm. It is.”

“We should do this more,” he says softly. “Stay in. Watch old movies. Fall asleep on each other. I don’t need much more than this.”

You lean into him again, burying your face into the space between his neck and collarbone. He smells like clean linen and cedar, like the kind of quiet comfort that never asks too much. His hair is tangled slightly against your cheek, the half-tied bun he threw together earlier now loosened by time and gravity. You reach up and run your fingers through it, gentle and slow, untwisting the strands until they fall free down his back.

He lets you.

He tilts his head slightly, giving you more space, and you feel him exhale–not heavy, not burdened. Just there. With you.

“You’re good at that,” he murmurs.

“At what?”

“Touching me like I won’t break.”

You smile, nuzzling into his shoulder. “You won’t.”

“No,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “Not with you.”

You stay like that for a long time. His fingers curled loosely around your wrist. Your hand resting over his chest. The movie ends, but neither of you move. The screen fades to black. The room dims further.

He shifts eventually, gently easing you down onto the bed, sliding under the blanket with you. His hands are warm as they pull you close, arm slipping around your waist.

“I like you here,” he whispers. “Next to me. Just like this.”

Your breath catches, just for a moment. You kiss his throat. Let your fingers drift through his hair. Let his lips find yours again, slow and familiar and full of promise.

And when he pulls you into his arms, tucks your head beneath his chin, and breathes you in like he needs it–you think,

God, I love him.

And you do. More than anything. More than makes sense.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

The bloom is gentle. Golden. Full of warmth tucked into corners.

It’s waking up to the smell of black coffee already poured into your favorite mug–the chipped one with the constellation pattern that he’d bought for you–because Suguru remembers which mornings you have class early. It’s his hands sliding along your waist as he passes behind you in the kitchenette, stealing a kiss just beneath your ear, murmuring, “Morning looks good on you” before the world has even finished yawning open.

It’s breakfast together on weekdays, the kind that’s more ritual than necessity–toast and eggs, or sometimes just shared slices of pear on a plate, drizzled with honey, eaten in companionable silence. It’s the way he always saves you the softest part. The smallest gesture. The one you never have to ask for.

It’s poetry readings on weekends–him slouching in a cafe chair with his legs sprawled, eyes half-lidded, listening to someone read about heartache or hunger while his hand curls around yours beneath the table, hidden from view but always present. Sometimes he murmurs a line he likes into your ear. Sometimes he won’t say anything at all–just squeeze your fingers in rhythm with the words.

It’s the buzz of his electric shaver against your wrist when he lets you trim the back of his neck. His head bent forward. Your hand resting lightly on his spine. His breath catching when you touch the wrong spot–or maybe the right one.

It’s his favorite playlist playing low while you study together, a medley of mellow jazz and slow instrumentals, the occasional spoken word track tucked between songs. He doesn’t need lyrics. He likes songs that let him feel. You like watching him feel. Feet tangled under the table. Shoulders bumping. Notes passed on napkins.

It’s falling asleep with his hair spread across your pillow. Waking up to find he’s pulled the blanket up over your shoulder while you slept. It’s the way his hands always know where you are, even in dreams. The way he reaches for you before opening his eyes.

It’s laughter in the dark–breathless, open, reverent. The kind of laughter that comes from joy, not humor. From knowing someone this well. From being known.

It’s long kisses that don’t ask for anything but closeness. His mouth on yours like a silent poem. Like gratitude. Like the answer to a question neither of you have spoken aloud.

And when he touches you, it’s never hurried. Never thoughtless. He holds you like you are an answer he’s been afraid to ask for. He kisses you like you’re something he can’t believe he gets to keep.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

And if some days he stares too long at nothing–if his gaze lingers past the point of stillness, if his eyes stay fixed on the same patch of ceiling, the same window, the same point in the air–you tell yourself he’s thinking. That it means he’s deep. That it means something good.

If his touch is slower, more distant, you chalk it up to fatigue. If the words come with more silence between them, if his laugh takes a second longer to arrive, if his smile doesn’t always reach his eyes–well.

Everyone gets tired sometimes.

He’s still showing up. Still kissing you in the morning. Still holding your hand under tables. Still breathing the same air.

Besides, he always comes back. Always. Even when he goes quiet. Even when he forgets to answer a question. Even when he blinks at the sound of your voice like he didn’t realize you were there–he always smiles, eventually. Always kisses your wrist. Always brushes your hair behind your ear and says your name like it means something.

You never question it.

Why would you? You’re in love.

And it feels like he is, too.

You called it happiness, because it was warm–even as something colder began to press against the edges of it.

III. THE WILT – where the slow ruin begins Some loves rot from the inside. You only notice the bruises when it’s too late.

He leaves the laundry unfolded.

Just once.

It’s a Wednesday, a little after noon. You’re coming back from a workshop with a headache and a half-scribbled page of notes you’ll never look at again. Your backpack’s too heavy. Your keys are buried in the wrong pocket. You let yourself into his dorm expecting quiet, maybe the faint smell of citrus detergent and old books.

What you find instead is Suguru’s laundry, half-done, piled in a soft heap on his bed. A warm, crumpled slope of shirts and socks, still smelling like lavender-softener–not the typical citrus–and machine heat. His drawers are cracked open. His towel’s draped over the chair. He’s not here.

It’s strange. Not in a worrying way. Just unfamiliar.

He’s usually methodical with this sort of thing. Precise. He folds with the care of someone who once learned to iron his uniforms at twelve and never shook the habit. Socks together, sleeves tucked in, edges lined like he’s preparing an offering.

You run your hand over the laundry. It’s still warm. You sit.

You fold one shirt, then another. Tuck his hoodie into a neat rectangle. Smile at the way he always leaves his undershirts inside-out. You don’t think too much about it–you just hum something under your breath, that playlist he likes playing low through your phone speaker, and let the quiet wrap around you.

You tell yourself he must’ve been called into a meeting. That he left in a rush. That he forgot. That it’s sweet, really–that he’s comfortable enough now to leave things undone. That it means he trusts you to be here, to take care of the space you’ve come to share.

You open his drawer further. Stack the clothes. Close it.

Later that night, he comes back. Late. The sun’s already long gone. The hallway is quiet.

You’re sitting on the floor in his hoodie, reading something for class you won’t remember. When he opens the door, his shoulders are slouched. His hair is half-falling from its knot. His hands are in his pockets.

You look up and smile. “Hey, stranger.”

He smiles back–slow, tired. His eyes are shadowed beneath the soft overhead light.

“Sorry,” he says. “I forgot to fold the laundry.”

You shake your head. “I did it. You’re good.”

He steps in. Drops his bag. Doesn’t say anything else.

You expect him to come kiss your cheek, like he usually does. To slide down beside you, stretch his legs out, let you play with his hair. But instead he just moves around the room, quiet, deliberate. Checks his phone. Rubs his forehead. Stares at the window for a few seconds too long.

Then–like a habit that finally remembers itself–he walks over. Sits down. Lets his thigh press against yours.

You lean into him, head to his shoulder. His arm curls around you, loose. Familiar. But his hand doesn’t move. No absent thumb brushing your wrist. No tracing letters into your skin. Just stillness.

You tilt your head up and kiss his jaw.

“Long day?”

He nods. You wrap your arms around his torso and hold him tighter.

“I missed you,” you murmur.

This time, he kisses the top of your head. Whispers something like me too. You close your eyes and let yourself believe it. You don’t ask why his fingers don’t fidget anymore. You don’t ask why they rest so flatly on your hip–not pushing in, not holding back, just… resting.

You convince yourself this is what closeness looks like when people get used to each other. When comfort replaces urgency.

You nestle against him and say nothing, but in the back of your mind, something taps–a faint echo of a past version of him, of how his hands always did something. How he once pulled a thread from your sleeve without thinking. How he used to run his knuckles across your palm like a secret.

Now they’re still. And you, too in love to question it, press your hand over his and call it peace.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

His hair is getting longer.

Not by design. Not even in the way that people grow it out on purpose–with intention, with shape in mind. Suguru’s hair is just being left alone.

It’s subtle. The ends start to curl. A lock or two always slips loose from his half-tie and stays there, grazing his cheekbone like a question no one’s asked yet. You notice him pushing it behind his ear more often–the same motion, again and again, without thought. You watch his fingers thread through the same pieces absentmindedly during lectures, when he’s pretending to take notes but his eyes are fogged with something far away.

And slowly, it becomes clear. He’s stopped tying it up properly.

Once, his bun was clean. Precise. Every strand tucked in like he was protecting something fragile–an image, an order, a sense of control he never wanted to name. Even the extra tie on his wrist, thin and stretched, felt ritualistic. Sacred. A thread that kept him tethered.

Now, it’s different. Now, he twists it once–maybe twice–and lets it sit crooked at the nape of his neck, loose and sagging before noon. Some days he doesn’t tie it at all. Just leaves it half-down, flowing over his shoulders in soft, dark waves. He shrugs when you mention it. Says it doesn’t matter. That it’s just hair.

But you remember what it used to mean.

Still, you say nothing. You only touch it more.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You find excuses. Casual ones.

In the mornings, you brush the tangles out with your fingers while he drinks his coffee, legs folded under him, the room golden with light. He doesn’t stop you. He closes his eyes and leans into your touch as your fingers comb through the strands at the base of his skull. You find yourself memorizing the texture–the coarseness near the ends, the silk of new growth near his scalp. You find yourself wondering if he knows he sighs when you reach the nape of his neck.

One night, while you’re sitting on the floor and he’s stretched out on the bed reading, you reach over without thinking and start separating the strands–idle, quiet. You begin to braid it, slow and loose. He doesn’t ask what you’re doing. Just keeps reading. You braid it all the way down to the end, tie it off with the tie from your own wrist.

“There,” you say. “Now you look like a warrior monk.”

He lifts his gaze, meets your eyes for a moment, and smiles–but the smile doesn’t quite touch the corners.

“You think so?”

“Mhm. But hotter.”

“Is that a scholarly opinion?”

“A sacred one.”

He chuckles, brief. His fingers move to the braid and tug at it gently, undoing it without looking down. The strands fall loose again–soft, messy, uncontained.

You reach forward and smooth them back once more. He catches your wrist. Presses his lips to the skin just above your pulse.

You let the silence settle like dust.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

On weekends, when he sits on the floor between your legs to work on something, you absentmindedly part his hair and run your nails lightly against his scalp, drawing little lines. You trace constellations. You hum a song he likes. He leans back into you like instinct.

“You always do that now,” he murmurs once.

“Do what?”

“Touch my hair.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “No. Never.”

You kiss the top of his head and braid another small section, only to undo it seconds later.

You don’t know what it is you’re trying to fix, but your hands keep moving.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

There’s a photograph of the two of you on your desk–taken by a friend, one of those accidental, unscripted moments. You’re curled into his side on the bench near the willow tree, head on his shoulder, eyes closed. He’s leaning his head against yours. His hair is loose. Wind-blown. Tangled slightly in the collar of his coat. His expression is unreadable.

You keep it anyway. You tell yourself it’s romantic. You tell yourself it’s him.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

There’s a day–a Thursday, maybe–when you get caught in the rain on the way back from class. You burst into your dorm laughing, soaked, shivering. He’s already there, lying on your bed, flipping through one of your textbooks.

You strip your jacket off, kick off your shoes, and crawl in beside him.

“You’re wet,” he says mildly.

“I know. Hold me anyway.”

He does. You press your cold cheek to his neck. He hums. His hand moves to your back.

His hair is wet too. Not from the rain, but from the shower–you can smell your shampoo in it. The one you know he likes. You reach up and gather it gently, twisting it loosely to get the water out. He closes his eyes. Says nothing.

Your hands find the ends–long now, brushing his ribs.

“You should let me trim it,” you murmur.

“Mm.”

“Just a little. I’ll be careful.”

“Maybe.”

He doesn’t say yes. But he doesn’t say no either.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Some days, you wake before him and find his hair spread across the pillow between you, catching light like black silk. You reach out and smooth it down, gather it into a makeshift bun with your fingers, just to keep it out of his face. You do it gently, reverently. Like you’re tending a wound.

He shifts in his sleep, murmurs your name, then turns his face into the pillow.

And you smile. Because this is love. Because this is still soft. Because he lets you hold him like this.

Even if his hands no longer hold back. Even if he never ties his hair up anymore. Even if you are the only one who does.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

He sleeps facing the wall now.

Not always. Not every night. But often enough that it catches in your throat, sharp and quiet like a splinter. It happens gradually–the same way a window starts letting in cold, not with a crash or a draft, but with a subtle breeze that you tell yourself is nothing.

It’s Thursday. Late. The rain’s tapping against the glass, soft and inconsistent, like a thought struggling to form. You’re both tangled under your blanket, limbs touching, but not curled into each other the way you used to. His spine is to you. His breathing is slow. You know he’s still awake.

His hair is fanned out over the pillow, loose and unbrushed. You reach for it. Gently comb your fingers through the strands.

“Suguru?” you murmur.

A pause. Then: “Mm?”

You press your hand to the space between his shoulder blades. “Tell me about your day?”

At first, you expect him to say later, or tired, or nothing worth saying. That’s what he usually does now. But this time, he exhales–long, quiet–and rolls onto his back. Not toward you. Just away from the wall. You take it as a victory.

He stares at the ceiling for a moment, then says, low:

“There was this boy in the class today. Thirteen. Smart as hell. Sharp. I gave him a worksheet and he looked at me like I was insulting him. ‘Is this really what you think I need right now?’ he asked me. Deadpan. Right to my face.”

You give a small smile, imagining it. “Sounds like someone I know.”

He huffs, and continues. “I said no. I said it was just a warm-up. But I could tell–he was already tuning out. Like he was deciding I was another adult who wasn’t going to see him properly.”

He shifts, one hand coming up to rub his temple. “He told me he doesn’t believe in school. That he’s just waiting to be old enough to drop out and get a job. ‘No one in my family graduated anyway,’ he said. ‘What’s the point?’”

He says it softly, but not without feeling. The cadence changes. Slows. Thickens.

“He’s thirteen,” he repeats, voice quieter now. “He’s already done. Already convinced the world won’t make room for him.”

Your chest tightens. You move closer. Your hand finds his, resting on his chest. You lace your fingers together.

“What did you say?”

He shrugs, gaze still fixed upward. “Told him I get it. That the system’s broken. That people like him slip through the cracks all the time.”

He pauses.

“And then I told him that even so, it’s worth trying. That there are people who will help. That he’s not alone.”

You wait for him to say that the boy smiled. That the boy softened. That something changed. But he doesn’t. Instead, he closes his eyes.

“He laughed at me,” Suguru murmurs. “Said I was naive.”

You try to catch his gaze, but he doesn’t offer it. His eyes stay shut, like he’s watching the conversation happen again behind his lids.

“Maybe he’s right,” he says.

You blink. “Suguru…”

“It’s just–” He shifts, not away from you, but not toward you either. “I go in there thinking I can help. That if I listen enough, try hard enough, I can make some kind of difference. And sometimes I do. I think I do. But other times…”

His voice trails off. His hand clenches once in yours, then relaxes again. “It feels like putting tape over a cracked dam.”

You don’t know what to say. So you say what you always say.

“But you’re trying.”

“Yeah.”

“That counts.”

“Yeah.”

It’s barely audible now.

He turns his face toward the wall again. Not harshly. Just with the finality of someone who’s done talking.

You shift behind him and slide closer. Press yourself into his back. Wrap an arm around his middle and hold him tight–tighter than before. Your palm flattens against his stomach. You press your forehead between his shoulder blades. He’s warm. Solid. Here.

“You matter, Suguru,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer, but his hand finds yours again, and for a moment, it’s enough.

You listen to his breathing. Still slow. Still deep. But you don’t fall asleep. You stay awake long after the rain softens to a drizzle. You stay awake and hold him like he’s going to vanish if you let go.

And in the morning, you don’t mention it. You braid his hair while he scrolls through his phone. You kiss his temple before he leaves. You hold the shape of his silence in your chest and call it a win. Because he talked to you. And you held him. And that’s enough. It has to be.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You see it in your conversations–small hesitations, abandoned sentences, silences growing slowly like vines across an old wall.

You’re sitting together on the bench near the library courtyard one afternoon, a shared coffee between you. The willow branches overhead sway gently, the late afternoon sun filtering through the leaves in scattered, golden patterns across Suguru’s knees.

He speaks casually at first, just a low murmur beside you, his fingertips tracing absent circles on the sleeve of your jacket. You’re talking about your professor–about how you can’t quite understand her lectures, about how the readings never seem to match the class.

“I think she just likes hearing herself talk,” you say lightly, nudging Suguru with your shoulder. “Think she might secretly hate us.”

Suguru chuckles quietly, the sound more automatic than sincere. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe she’s just tired.”

You glance at him, brow knitting faintly. “Of what?”

He shrugs slowly, thoughtful gaze drifting towards the grass. “Trying to explain the same thing again and again. Trying to get people to care when they just–” he pauses abruptly. His fingers go still on your sleeve.

“When they just what?” you prompt softly.

His eyes flicker briefly, as if he’s pulled back from a thought he didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud. “Nothing,” he murmurs. “Forget it.”

You watch him closely, waiting, giving him space to continue. He doesn’t.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, eyes returning to a point somewhere distant. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”

You slip your hand into his, linking your fingers gently. “Want to talk about it?”

Suguru squeezes your hand lightly, almost reflexively. His thumb brushes your knuckles twice, a quiet reassurance that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” he repeats. “Just been thinking lately.”

“About what?”

He stays quiet a moment longer. The breeze rustles gently through the leaves, softening the silence. “About choices, I suppose,” he says finally, voice barely audible, distant. “About how we decide what’s worth doing.”

“That’s deep for a Thursday,” you tease.

His lips curve upward briefly, but the smile doesn’t fully form. “Yeah. Sorry. My head’s in a weird place.”

You nudge closer, rest your chin on his shoulder, and murmur softly, “Tell me anyway.”

He sighs, more breath than sound, and shifts his position slightly. You hold him tighter, subtly coaxing him back.

“I keep thinking,” he starts, “about how everything I do–everything I’ve tried to do–seems so small now. Like trying to change things feels naive. Like that boy was right.”

Your heart dips. You shake your head against his shoulder, voice earnest. “But it’s not. It’s brave. You’re doing good, Suguru. You have no idea how many people look up to you–”

He interrupts gently. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

His thumb stills again, fingers slackening around yours, just a bit, then tightening again as if he realizes he’s pulling away. “I used to think I had some kind of answer. That if I cared enough, listened enough, worked hard enough, it would make a difference.”

“It does,” you insist, voice small but firm.

“But does it really?” he whispers. He isn’t arguing–just wondering. Genuinely uncertain. “There are moments when I believe it. And then… times when I look around and see all the way things stay the same. Like I’m standing in the middle of a river, trying to stop it with my hands.”

Your heart aches. You twist toward him, reaching up to gently turn his face to you. “Hey. You’re making more of a difference than you realize. You’re just one person, Suguru. You can’t expect to fix everything alone.”

His eyes soften, weary and fond. “I know that.”

“Then why does it sound like you don’t?”

He pauses, lips parted slightly, words half-formed on his tongue. But then he closes his mouth, shakes his head faintly. “I don’t know,” he murmurs finally. “Forget it. It’s just a mood. It’ll pass.”

You tilt your forehead against his, eyes slipping shut for a moment. “Let me help,” you whisper. “You don’t have to carry everything on your own.”

His breath hitches almost imperceptibly, and for a brief moment, his shoulders relax. “I know,” he says. “I know you’re here.”

You let silence sit between you a few moments longer, breathing in the scent of his hair, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath your palm. When you open your eyes, he’s staring again into the distance, expression mild but unfocused.

“Suguru,” you whisper softly.

“Mm?”

“Look at me.”

He does, slowly. His gaze settles onto yours with careful intention, his dark eyes quietly intense beneath the tangled fringe of his hair. You brush it back from his cheek, letting your fingers linger.

“You’re allowed to rest sometimes, you know,” you say. “You’re allowed to let things go.”

He searches your eyes for a long moment, as if looking for something he’s afraid he won’t find. Finally, he whispers, barely audible, “Am I?”

Your heart tightens painfully, twisting in your chest. You cup his face with both hands and kiss him softly, almost desperately. He kisses back, tender but quiet, reserved.

When you pull away, he breathes out slowly, eyes half-lidded. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Kiss me when you don’t know what to say.”

“Because I love you,” you murmur gently, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones. “Because sometimes words don’t feel like enough.”

He nods, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours. “Maybe they aren’t.”

You hold him there for another heartbeat, your lips ghosting across his temple. “We’ll be okay,” you whisper.

You don’t let yourself notice how he doesn’t answer. You simply pull him closer, arms wrapping tighter around him, burying your face against his neck. He sighs softly, breathing you in like comfort, and you let yourself believe it’s enough.

It has to be, because loving someone means believing you can carry them through whatever silence they’re caught in.

You kiss his jaw, his throat, holding on as if holding him might keep whatever’s inside him from coming loose. And when his silence stretches quietly into evening, you pretend it doesn’t mean anything at all.

That you’re enough.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You’ve never not spent a Saturday with him.

It’s unspoken–a quiet kind of ritual, Saturday mornings are yours. Whether it’s a cafe with crooked chairs and too-loud music, or a slow walk through the park, or a street fair that makes Suguru complain about overpriced food while still buying you two cones of mango sorbet, it’s always the same rhythm.

You wake up. You text. You meet. You exist together.

But today, there’s nothing. No message. No knock. Not even a half-hearted meme dropped into your chat like a breadcrumb.

You try not to panic. Try not to assume.

You tell yourself maybe he’s sleeping in. That maybe he’s in the library, that maybe his phone died, that maybe he’s just tired. Still, the silence wraps around your shoulders like a too-heavy coat.

By midafternoon, you give up pretending it doesn’t bother you. You pick up your bag, grab him a smoothie–mango, his favorite, a quiet peace offering–and make the familiar walk to his dorm.

The hallways is silent. The air feels stale. When you knock, your knuckles make too much sound. There’s a long pause before he answers.

“Yeah?” His voice is soft. Tired.

You push the door open slowly. “Hey. I brought you something.”

He looks up from his desk, blinking like he’s been pulled from far away. His notebook is open. His hair is loose, falling over his shoulder in tangled waves. He’s still wearing the hoodie he had on yesterday.

“Shit,” he says. “I forgot.”

You step inside. The room smells like paper and him. “It’s okay,” you say quickly, brushing it off like it doesn’t sting. “You were probably busy.”

“No. I just… lost track.” He sounds apologetic. Distant. Like someone returning from a long trip and realizing they left the lights on.

You offer him the smoothie with a crooked smile. “I brought sugar.”

He takes it gently. His fingers brush yours–warm, comforting. Something in him softens when he sees your face. He sets the drink down.

“Come here,” he says, and when you step forward, he pulls you into his lap with both arms around your waist.

You settle easily, legs folded over his, your nose brushing his temple. “I missed you,” you murmur into his hair.

He exhales through his nose, like he’s been holding something in. “You’re so good to me,” he whispers. “Even when I don’t deserve it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

He tucks his head against your shoulder. You run your fingers through his hair, untangling the ends with soft little strokes. It’s a mess today, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“I don’t want to forget you,” he says suddenly.

You freeze. “What?”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes are steady. “I mean–I don’t want to get so wrapped up in everything else that I forget how much you matter to me.”

The words hit you like wind against the back of your throat. You blink slowly, unsure of how to answer, so you reach for his face instead–cradle it between your hands and kiss him, slow and deep.

He kisses back with more hunger than usual–not urgent, but intentional. Like he’s anchoring himself to the shape of your mouth.

When you part, breathless and warm, you rest your forehead against his. “You won’t forget,” you whisper.

“You think?”

“I know.”

He laughs under his breath. “You sound sure.”

“That’s because I am.”

You curl into him, head tucked into the crook of his neck. He smells like faded cologne and your shampoo. His fingers trail down your back slowly, just lightly enough to make you shiver. He kisses your hair. Then your temple. Then your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“You’re it for me,” he whispers.

You close your eyes. “Suguru…”

“No, really. I think about it a lot. All of it. You. Me. The future.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You smile, impossibly full. “Tell me.”

He shifts, holding you closer, so close your heartbeat sounds like it might echo through his ribs.

“We’ll live somewhere quiet,” he murmurs. “With soft lighting. A kitchen that always smells like something sweet. You’ll leave books all over the place. I’ll complain about the mess and read them anyway.”

“Mm. Sounds realistic.”

“We’ll adopt a dog.”

“You hate dogs.”

“I hate loud dogs.”

You laugh, the sound curling through the air like a ribbon. “What else?”

“You’ll keep trying to cut my hair, but I won’t let you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you only want to do it when you’re mad at me.”

“Lies.”

“You braid it like you’re keeping me from unraveling.”

You go quiet. Your hands still in his hair.

“And I like being kept,” he adds softly. “By you.”

You lean in. Kiss him again, slower this time. He hums into your mouth. His hands trail down your spine. You feel him breathe–deep, even, steady–like he’s pulling in the smell of your skin, the warmth of your shirt, the sound of your voice saying his name.

“Don’t disappear on me again,” you whisper.

“I won’t,” he says. “I promise.”

You don’t ask how long he means. You don’t ask what’s been pulling him away, or why it’s been winning, because this–his arms around you, his lips on your cheek, his heartbeat beneath your palm–this feels real. Present. Here.

And that’s what love is, isn’t it? Choosing to believe.

He kisses your wrist, your throat, your shoulder. You laugh again, breathless and full of him.

You fall asleep in his bed that night, tangled in limbs and whispers, your legs across his lap, his fingers threaded through yours, his hair in soft waves over your collarbone. And when you wake in the morning, he’s already up, already dressed, already gone.

There’s a note by the pillow.

You looked too peaceful to wake. I’ll see you tonight.

You smile. Press the paper to your chest.

Love, you think, is this.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Monday. It rains.

Not a soft spring mist, but a steady curtain of grey–the kind of rain that settles into the bones of the campus and makes everything smell like pavement and moss. The windows fog from the inside. The dorms are quieter than usual, muffled by the weather, the air thick with the hush that only comes when people are trying to wait out the world.

You come back to your dorm later than usual–drenched from your walk across campus, shoes squelching softly against the tile. Your umbrella broke halfway. Your fingers are stiff with cold. Your hoodie’s soaked through. You’re expecting Suguru to laugh, to reach for a towel, to murmur “you always forget the forecast” when he comes by later.

He’s there when you open your door. He’s curled up on the edge of your bed–hair damp, pulled into a half-twist that’s already slipping loose, eyes distant. His hoodie hands off one shoulder. A book lies beside him, open but untouched. The room smells like jasmine tea and wet fabric.

“Hey,” you say, closing the door behind you. “You’re early.”

He looks up like he didn’t hear you come in. Then his gaze softens, just barely. “You’re soaked.”

“Caught in the storm.” You smile, shaking off your sleeves. “What else is new?”

He doesn’t answer. You kick off your shoes and pull off your hoodie, shivering slightly. You don’t expect help undressing–he’s not the kind of partner who hovers–but you do expect a joke. A look. A kiss.

Instead, he just watches you in silence, his hand resting on his ankle, fingers twitching against the fabric of his sweats.

“Everything okay?” you ask, softer now.

Suguru exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “One of the kids at the practicum got suspended today.”

You pause in the middle of peeling off your wet socks. “What? Why?”

“He pushed another student,” he says. “And when the principal asked him why, he said ‘Because nobody listens until you hurt them.’”

You straighten slowly. “That’s…”

“True,” he says. Blunt. Immediate. “Pain gets attention. Grief gets sympathy. But kindness?” He scoffs. “Kindness is background noise.”

You walk toward him, cautious, heart cracking quietly. “Suguru.”

“They called his mother,” he continues, voice low, bitter. “She didn’t even sound surprised. She just said, ‘Boys act out’. And the principal nodded like it was gospel. Like of course–why try to understand him?”

He leans back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. Rain drums softly against the window. You sit beside him, wet fabric clinging to your knees. “What did you do?”

“What could I do?” he murmurs. “I’m not a teacher yet. I’m no one. Just another adult taking notes. Watching the system do what it’s always done.”

His hand flexes once on his thigh. You reach out instinctively and lace your fingers through his. His skin is warm. Steady. But his grip doesn’t tighten.

“You care,” you whisper.

“So what?” he snaps–softer than anger, but sharper than he’s ever been. “Caring doesn’t fix anything. It just makes you hurt more.”

The words sting. More than you expect. You pull your hand back slowly. Not because you want to, but because it’s the only thing your body knows how to do.

“I’m sorry,” he says instantly. The moment he sees your face shift, his voice changes. Softer. Regretful. “I didn’t mean that. Not like that.”

You say nothing. You reach for the towel on your desk, dabbing at your wet sleeves, heart thick in your chest. You want to tell him about your day. About the advisor who told you your thesis was ‘lacking structure’. About how you spilled tea on your notes. About how you stood in the rain with your umbrella turned inside out, waiting for someone to offer help–and no one did.

But you don’t. Because he’s already spiraling. Because this isn’t about you. Because you love him.

“You’re just tired,” you murmur instead. “It’s been a long week.”

He nods once, like that gives him permission to fall apart. Then he reaches for you–slow, open-palmed–and gathers you into his arms. You let him.

You fold against his chest, the rain still pattering outside, the warmth of his body already undoing the chill in your skin. He buries his nose into your damp hair. Kisses the crown of your head like an apology.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” you breathe.

“I love you.”

You close your eyes. Press your cheek against his chest. Listen to the slow, steady beat of his heart–the one you swear you’d follow anywhere.

“I love you too,” you say. “We’re okay.”

You say it like it’s a prayer. A spell. A promise you can make true just by saying it enough times. His hands slide up your back. He doesn’t say anything else, but he holds you tighter, and you let that be enough.

You let the sting of his words sink deep and settle. You call it a mistake. A slip. The product of stress and heartbreak and fatigue.

You let it go. Because he’s warm, he’s here, and this still feels like love.

Even when it hurts.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

It’s late, but neither of you are asleep.

The desk lamp is dim. The rain from yesterday has tapered off into mist, and the windowpane is still streaked, still speckled with the memory of water. The whole room smells faintly of jasmine and graphite, your shared blanket still folded at the end of the bed, untouched.

You’re studying. Or trying to. Suguru sits beside you on the floor, back against the bed frame, knees drawn up, one hand curled loosely around a mug gone cold. His textbook is open in his lap. Yours is splayed out beside him, pages weighted by a highlighter that’s long since dried out.

You’ve both been sitting here for hours. Reading, scribbling notes, reaching out occasionally to squeeze each other’s hand or brush a shoulder in passing. It’s quiet. Comfortable.

But also–not. Because you’ve read the same paragraph four times and can’t remember a word of it. Because Suguru hasn’t touched his page in almost twenty minutes. Because his hair, once pulled back in a loose, half-tidy twist, has fallen completely down his back now–thick, unbrushed, strands tucked behind only one ear, the rest spilling in disarray over his hoodie. He doesn’t seem to notice.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, the soft profile of him lit in gold. The gentle slope of his mouth. The hollow curve of his collarbone. The stillness.

It’s not unusual for him to be quiet. Suguru lives in quiet. But this silence feels different. Tired. Heavy.

And still, when you nudge his knee with yours, he turns toward you instantly–like muscle memory. Like you’re still the one he’ll always look for.

“You okay?” you ask, voice soft.

He nods. Smiles, but it’s small. Faint. The sort of smile that doesn’t move the eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just… saturated.”

“Too much reading?”

“Too much thinking.”

You offer him your hand. He sets his mug aside and takes it. His palm is warm. Familiar. You trace your thumb along the base of his fingers–a ritual now, one of many. But tonight, his thumb doesn’t move in return. No circles. No tapping. Just stillness.

You kiss his knuckles anyway. “Want to take a break?”

He shrugs. “Don’t need to,” he says. But he doesn’t reach for the book again.

You tug his hand gently. He lets you pull him toward the bed. You sit against the headboard and open your arms. He settles between them without resistance, his head resting low against your chest, knees bent, hair falling forward like a veil.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders. Pull him in. It feels like holding something fragile. You press a kiss to the crown of his head. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Anything.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he exhales and says, “I used to think being in love would make everything easier.”

You pause. Your hand stills where it had been gently stroking his back. “It hasn’t?”

“No, it has,” he says quickly. “You have. I just–” He shifts, bows his head deeper into your shoulder. “I think I expected it to fix something in me.”

Your arms tighten. “Love doesn’t fix,” you whisper. “It holds. It shares.”

“I know.”

Your hand finds his hair, and you begin to gather it, brushing it back from his face, then letting it fall again. The strands catch in your fingers. They’re silk-warm and familiar. You braid one section loosely, then undo it. Braid again. Undo.

“You haven’t trimmed it in a while.”

“Mm.”

“Let me?” you offer, quiet, teasing. “Just a little. So you can see again.”

He hums in reply. Doesn’t say yes. Doesn’t say no.

His hands drift along your waist. They’re moving now, but barely–more resting than reaching. You want to ask him what he meant. About being fixed. About what still hurts. But the words sit too sharp in your throat, so you don’t. Instead, you kiss his temple.

“I love you,” you say, more than once.

“I know,” he whispers, forehead still against your collarbone.

And when he lifts his head and kisses you–soft, slow, real–you let yourself breathe. His mouth is warm. His hands have found your face. He’s saying your name like it still means something.

“You’re the best part of my day,” he says, voice steady but low. “I know I don’t always say it. But it’s true.”

Your eyes burn. You laugh through the tightness in your chest. “Say it again.”

“You’re the best part of my day.”

You pull him closer. He lets you. His arms fully wrap around your waist, pulling you into his lap. You bury your face in the space between his neck and shoulder, breathing him in like oxygen. And when he sighs–long, quiet, tired–you don’t ask what it means.

You just hold him tighter. You don’t know how else to keep him there.

He falls asleep in your arms that night. His breathing is even. His face is soft. His hair spills over your chest and arms like ribbon. You watch the rise and fall of his back. The gentle twitch of his fingers.

And even as your throat aches with something unnamed–a weight that presses just behind the bone–you let your hand rest over his heart.

You fall asleep that way.

You held him like a promise, even as he stopped reaching back–and told yourself that maybe if you loved him hard enough, it would count as both of you.

IV. THE HOLLOW – the love that is no longer returned There is nothing crueler than loving someone who has already given up.

You start talking more, because he starts speaking less.

It’s a rainy day, but not the romantic kind–not the kind you could write into a love poem and read aloud in the candlelight. This one is grey, low, heavy. The clouds don’t roll in with drama. They just arrive. And they stay. The kind of weather that settles like dust in your lungs. The kind that makes everything feel farther away.

The window is cracked an inch for air. The rain drizzles against the glass with no rhythm. No passion. Just persistence. Like even the sky has grown tired.

You’re in your dorm, and he’s here too. His body in the room. His presence? Not quite.

He’s curled into the armchair near your desk, legs pulled up beneath him, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows. His laptop glows faintly in his lap, a document open but untyped. His eyes are on the screen, but not focused.

You’re sitting on your bed, a half-finished book in your hand. One you’ve been trying to read for days now–rereading the same lines, the same paragraphs, over and over. Each sentence sits in your mouth like paper.

Outside, a car passes. Its tires send water spattering against the curb. The clock ticks. Your coffee is cooling. There’s a soft buzzing from somewhere–maybe your phone, maybe the old radiator. And there’s him. Just sitting. Too quiet, too still. Like a cathedral with no choir.

So you speak, because someone has to.

“Do you remember that curry shop near the train station?”

No response.

“The one with the mint rice and the stupid little bell on the door? The bell that always rang three seconds after the door closed?”

His eyes shift. A beat later, he murmurs, “Yeah.”

You smile. Carefully. “We should go back.”

He nods. That’s all.

You reach for your mug and sip your now-lukewarm coffee, throat closing slightly around it. You stare at him for a second longer than you mean to. He’s not upset. Not withdrawn. Not cold. He’s just not here.

You keep going. Voice low, as if you’re speaking to a skittish animal.

“There’s a bookstore I found online,” you say. “New. It’s a bit of a walk. But the owner leaves handwritten recommendations on index cards and hides them in the jackets.”

Another pause. Another soft reply: “Sounds nice.”

You wait for him to say let’s go. Or show me. Or when? But it doesn’t come.

You smile again, even though it doesn’t reach your eyes. You nod like he’s agreed, then you put the book down and climb off the bed. The room is cold against your skin as you step barefoot across the rug and sink down beside him on the armchair, pressing your shoulder to his.

He shifts. Just slightly. But he doesn’t pull away. You take that as a win.

You lean your head on his shoulder, like always. He tilts his head toward yours, like always–but it’s slow now. Delayed. As if he forgot for a moment that you were there. As if it’s something he has to remember to do.

You don’t mention it. 

You reach for his hand. His fingers are warm, familiar. You stroke your thumb along his knuckles, searching for something–tension, response, anything. He breathes out, slow. Leans further into the chair. And still doesn’t squeeze back.

“You’re quiet today,” you say softly.

“Mm.”

“Thinking?”

“Always.”

You pause. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

You turn your face into his shoulder. His sweatshirt smells like laundry detergent and rain. Like someone who used to come home at the end of a long day with stories to tell.

“I miss your voice,” you whisper.

“I’m still using it.”

“Not on me.”

He stills. You lift your head, look at him. His face is a shadow in the low light. The planes of it more pronounced somehow, like his grief has taken shape and settled into his bone structure.

“I miss you,” you add. Your voice barely carries.

“I’m here.”

“That’s not the same.”

He looks at you then, and for just a moment–a moment–you see it. The pain. The flicker. The echo of the man who once told you he’d never let the world break him.

He opens his mouth like he might say something. He shifts closer instead. Wraps an arm around you. Pulls you to his chest.

You let him. It’s all you’ve got. Touch is the only language he still speaks fluently, and if he holds you like he means it, then maybe the rest of him will come back eventually.

Later, you lie side by side on the floor. The rain hasn’t stopped. His hair is down, draped over the collar of his shirt like a curtain.

You reach for it. You don’t even think. You just gather a few strands and begin to braid them, clumsy, loose.

“You used to keep it neater,” you say.

He hums. “No one to impress.”

“I’m someone.”

“You’ve already seen the worst of me.”

You pause. Then, softly: “I’ve seen all of you. That’s not the same.”

He’s silent. You finish the braid. Undo it immediately. Start again. You could do this forever–touching him, tending him, filling the silence between you with all the softness he no longer gives himself.

You think if you love him hard enough–long enough–he’ll speak again. That one day he’ll look up and say thank you for waiting. I’m back.

But all he says is, “You’re good to me.”

And your voice cracks when you whisper, “So be good to yourself.”

He doesn’t answer. So you hold his hand again, and let the silence stretch.

When he sleeps beside you that night, breathing steady and deep, you lie awake, holding his hand like a lifeline, whispering little nothings into the dark.

“I’ll wait,” you murmur. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

“Come back.”

“Come back.”

“Please.”

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You’re still holding him, but he’s already letting go.

Sunday comes quiet and heavy, like morning fog after a long night. There’s no warmth in the sunrise today–just a pale wash of grey seeping softly through the windows, painting everything in muted shades of silver. It’s a morning that hushes you without reason, silence that’s not peaceful, but cautious–afraid of waking something that’s already restless.

You’re tangled together on Suguru’s dorm bed, backs against the headboard. The covers are pushed down to your ankles, forgotten. He sits stiffly, knees pulled halfway up, his arm loosely around you as you tuck yourself into his side. Your textbook lies open, spine-up, pages spread face-down on the sheets–abandoned again. Your tea is going cold on the desk, untouched.

At first, you think he’s fallen asleep again. His breathing is slow, steady, and you hold perfectly still–watching the rise and fall of his chest beneath the faded cotton of his hoodie, counting the quiet rhythm. You trace your finger over the faint lines of the fabric, half-smiling to yourself at the sleepy softness of it. You wonder if he’s dreaming.

But then he shifts a little, his fingers twitching softly where they’re tangled with yours. His hand tightens briefly, releases again. You glance up at him.

“Suguru?”

His eyes aren’t closed, after all. He’s staring upward–at the ceiling, at nothing, at everything.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, softly, “You changed me.”

The words hang between you like smoke, weightless and heavy at once. You don’t move; you barely breathe.

He sighs gently, a hollow sound that seems too big for his lungs. “Before I met you,” he continues, voice low and achingly calm, “I didn’t think trust was possible–not really. It always came at a cost. A price. A sacrifice. No one was kind unless they wanted something.”

He pauses. The words fall slowly from his lips, like each one hurts a little more than the last. “Kindness,” he murmurs bitterly, “felt like manipulation. Like every good deed had a hidden reason. A catch.”

You move slightly, turning your head against his shoulder to look up against him. He’s still staring at nothing. His gaze is distant, searching through memories he hasn’t let you touch before.

“And then you showed up,” he says, softer now. “You didn’t want anything. You just–cared. You loved me before you knew whether I deserved it.”

“I love you because you deserve it,” you whisper gently. “You always did.”

His eyes flicker, glancing at you for a second before drifting away again. He shakes his head, as though you’re missing the point.

“You made me believe things could be better,” he says quietly. “You made me think that maybe people were good, after all. That maybe it was worth it–to try, to hope, to care.”

“It still is.”

He exhales slowly, the sound heavy in his chest. “I thought so, too.”

You reach up, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw, then move slowly upwards to touch his hair. It’s loose again, falling around his face in long, tangled waves that always soften when you comb them back. It’s become second nature–to brush his hair behind his ear, twist it carefully into a messy knot, braid little strands when he’s distracted. You’ve done it countless times before, always welcomed, always soft.

This time, when your fingers skim his hair, he tenses.

It’s subtle–a small tightening of his shoulders, a quick breath, a gentle shift away from your touch. But you feel it immediately.

Your hand freezes mid-motion. You pause, heart twisting a little. He doesn’t look at you.

You let your hand fall slowly back into your lap. Your fingers curl there, empty. You try not to show the way it aches inside your chest.

After a silence that feels far too long, he speaks again, voice quieter, rougher around the edges.

“There was a student,” he says, softly, like a confession. “He was bright. Curious. The kind of kid who could do anything if someone just let him.”

You stay very still, heart hammering in your chest.

“He started skipping classes,” Suguru continues. “He started coming in with bruises he wouldn’t explain. I tried to report it, tried to do something–but no one listened. They told me to stay out of it. Told me the system would handle it.”

He laughs bitterly, a feeble, shattered sound. “And then one day, he just… stopped coming. Nobody cared. Nobody noticed. The world just–kept going.”

His voice cracks quietly. “It’s always like that. The kids who need the most are the ones nobody fights for. They’re the ones nobody sees.”

You reach for him again, carefully, sliding your hand gently into his. His fingers grasp around yours reflexively, and you breathe out at the reassurance of his touch.

“I wanted to save them,” he says. “All of them. But how can you save someone when the world just wants to forget?”

“You’ve helped more people than you know,” you murmur. “You’ve done so much already.”

“But it’s never enough,” he whispers back, almost to himself. “There’s always someone else. Someone slipping away.”

“Suguru…” you breathe, lifting your hand again–slower this time, wary of rejection–and reach again towards his hair. You pause hesitantly, hand hovering.

He notices. He notices the way you pause, the uncertainty in your gesture. He sees your doubt, your hurt. And it breaks something small inside him.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, catching your wrist, guiding your hand back to him–slowly, carefully. “It’s okay. I–I didn’t mean…”

He trails off, unable to say it. You brush your fingers through his hair once more. This time he lets you, leaning into the touch like someone starved of tenderness.

“You don’t have to do it all alone,” you whisper, letting the strands of his dark hair slip through your fingers like ink. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”

He closes his eyes. “But if I don’t, then who will?”

“We’ll figure it out,” you say quietly. “Together.”

His shoulders tremble slightly beneath your hands. He bows his head, face hidden by the long strands of his hair falling forward. You catch them, tucking them behind his ear. But even as you do, you feel it–an unspoken distance between you. The space he’s already begun to place between himself and the world. Between himself and hope.

“I’m so tired,” he whispers finally, voice barely audible. “Of trying to fix things. Of losing.”

“Then let me help,” you whisper back. “Please.”

He turns into your touch, breathing shakily against your palm. “I don’t know how,” he says, so muted it barely carries. “I don’t know how anymore.”

You hold him close, wrapping yourself around him as if you can shield him from the weight of everything he’s tried to carry. You stroke his hair reverently, whispering soft words you wish could heal.

But somewhere deep down, you already know. He’s started letting go.

You’re not sure your hands alone can hold all of him together anymore, but you hold him tight anyways. You press your face into his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat as if memorizing the rhythm. You whisper softly, “It’s going to be okay. We’ll be okay.”

You know you’re trying to hold back a storm with two open palms, but you stay there with him regardless, wrapped in quiet grief and stubborn love.

Maybe if you stay, he’ll stay too, and right now, keeping him in your arms feels like the only kindness you have left to give. Because, despite everything, you can’t yet admit to yourself that kindness might not be enough.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You keep talking about forever. He has already stopped picturing it.

It’s almost midnight when you bring it up.

The room is dim, draped in that low amber hush that only happens when a lamp is left on too long and no one wants to admit the day is over. The walls are half-bare now–the art prints rolled and tucked away, the photo strips from your first year clipped off the board. A mug sits cold on the windowsill, next to a planter long since emptied of the basil it used to hold. Everything smells faintly of cardboard and lavender dryer sheets, and something else you can’t name–something like the ache of a place you’ve already begun to mourn.

You’re sitting on the floor, legs folded beneath you, wrapped in your favorite blanket. You’ve had it since before Suguru. He used to tease you for it, calling it your ‘emotional support cocoon’. Now it feels like armor. Your laptop is open in front of you, the screen glowing soft and blue, tabs stacked like a half-built life: apartment listings, furniture inspo, a recipe blog, a budget calculator you haven’t had the heart to open.

Suguru is lying above you on the bed, stretched out on his side, facing the wall. His hand rests limply under his cheek, his dark hair spilling over the pillow like ink across paper. The room is quiet, save for the occasional click of your trackpad and the sound of his breathing–slow, even, distant.

You hesitate before speaking, but the words have been sitting on your tongue all week, and they taste heavier the longer you hold them in.

“This one has a backyard,” you say, softly. Like offering something sacred.

He doesn’t answer right away. You can’t tell if he’s heard you or if he’s just thinking, which feels like the same thing these days.

“South-facing,” you continue, scrolling. “So it gets good light. We could put a little table out there. Or a bench. You could drink coffee outside on Sundays.”

Still nothing. Just a small, indistinct sound–something between acknowledgement and apathy. You wait, but nothing more comes. So you try again.

“Remember when you said we’d get a dog?”

That stirs him. His gaze shifts, and he rolls over, faintly, slowly. You catch it out of the corner of your eye.

“You said you didn’t like dogs,” you remind him, with the ghost of a smile. “But you’d make an exception. For me.”

There’s a pause. Then, finally: “A quiet one.”

Your heart lifts. “Low energy,” you echo. “Soft ears.”

“We were going to name her after a flower.”

“Aster,” you say.

“Or Dahlia.”

You smile, and for a moment–just a moment–it feels like you’re still in the dream. You rest your hand on the mattress near his, not quite touching. The space between your fingers and his feels impossibly wide. You don’t press into it. Instead, you look back at the screen.

“We could still do that,” you murmur. “That backyard would be perfect for her. And you could take her on walks when you don’t feel like talking to people.”

His gaze drops again. His face is unreadable in the low light.

“You said you’d build me a bookshelf,” you continue. “Even though you didn’t know how. You said you’d learn.”

He says nothing. You press on.

“You said we’d make the kitchen smell like oranges. That we’d argue about dishes. That we’d grow old being ridiculous and ordinary. Together.”

Still, no reply. You turn your head, look at him fully now. There’s a shadow of something behind his eyes–pain, maybe. Or guilt. Or the echo of something long gone.

“And you promised you wouldn’t disappear on me,” you whisper. “You said you’d stay.”

That’s when he closes his eyes. Slowly. Like it costs him something. Like this is the part he’s dreading.

And then–silence. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just… quiet. An absence so vast it fills the whole room.

You stare at him, your hands folded in your lap now, clenched tight. The moment stretches. Suspends. Breaks.

“You should move in with a friend,” he says. Soft. Measured.

Your breath catches. The words don’t register at first. They’re too at odds with the softness in his voice, the gentleness of his expression. It’s like being handed a blade wrapped in velvet.

“What?”

He looks at you fully now, and you wish he wouldn’t. Because his eyes are tender, too tender. Like he’s already grieving you.

“Just until you figure things out,” he says. “So you’re not alone.”

You close your laptop. The hinge clicks shut like a final sentence.

“I thought we’d move in together.” Your voice doesn’t shake. It floats. Weightless.

His face folds slightly at the edges. Regret. Maybe even love. But no denial. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I already am.”

He’s too calm. Too steady. Like he’s been rehearsing this.

You blink at him. Once. Twice.

“You’re planning a future I can’t give you,” he says, softly. Almost lovingly.

You swallow. The burn in your throat rises fast–too fast. Your hands clutch tighter at the edge of the bedsheet, knuckles white. “I’m not asking for much,” you whisper. “I’m not asking for perfect. I’m asking for you. That’s all I ever wanted.”

“I know.”

“Then why–”

“Because I still want you,” he says. And the way he says it breaks you, because his voice is steady. Honest. “But I can’t want anything else.”

And then the tears come. Not loudly. Not with sobs. But with quiet. The kind of crying that comes from somewhere too deep for sound. You blink and blink and they fall anyway–slow trails of salt down your face, one after another, pooling at the edge of your lips before falling to your lap.

He sits up. Reaches for you. You flinch–just barely. But he notices, and he stops. His hand hovers. Withdraws.

You wipe your face with the back of your sleeve. You don’t understand why he’s saying all of this. He was getting better. Your cheeks are wet. Your eyes are burning. Your chest feels like it’s been cracked open just wide enough to let something holy bleed out.

“It’s okay,” you say, through sniffles. Your voice is too small. Too bright. Too false. “I get it.”

“Please–”

“I get it.”

You rise to your feet slowly, setting your laptop down on the floor. You cross the room with slow, deliberate steps and kneel beside one of the open boxes you’ve started putting your belongings into. You pretend to fold a sweatshirt that was already folded. Pretend to sort your notes. Pretend your hands aren’t shaking.

Your back is to him. You don’t ask him to follow. He doesn’t speak again. He doesn’t move.

In the silence, something delicate between you finally dies–not loudly, not with drama, but like a candle extinguishing after burning too long. Quiet. Inevitable.

By morning, nothing will be different. But everything will.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You love him loud, and it still isn’t enough.

You’re sitting across from him in your room–the air thick, unmoving–and the silence has gone on too long to feel like anything but surrender. The light outside is dusky, purpling into blue, and the lamp on your desk doesn’t reach the corners of the room. Shadows stretch wide beneath your bed, beneath his eyes.

He’s been distant for days now. Weeks. Months, even. His words rationed like water in a drought, his touch feather-light and far between. He leaves early, returns late, stands in your doorway like he’s a guest in his own life.

But tonight, he came in and stayed. Sat down without a word. Draped himself into the armchair with that quiet, heavy stillness that feels like resignation.

You watch him. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at you.

The storm has been waiting in your throat for days. You swallow it one last time and then finally say–

“We need to talk.”

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t blink. Just lets the words hang there. You don’t move closer, nor do you soften. You’re tired.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

A pause.

“Doing what.”

He says it flat. Not curious. Not accusatory. Just empty.

“Shutting down,” you answer, voice sharpening. “Drifting through every day like you’re not in it. Saying nothing and pretending I won’t notice.”

That’s when he looks at you. And something in your chest clenches–because his face is calm. Too calm. Like this is just another conversation. Like you haven’t been aching next to him for weeks. Like he hasn’t already been breaking your heart in increments.

“I’m still here,” he says quietly.

“No, you’re not,” you snap. “You’re around. You exist. You breathe next to me. But you’ve already left, Suguru, and I’m the only one who’s still trying to pretend that’s not what’s happening.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes harden. There’s a shift, perceptible–a flicker of something defensive. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Your best is silence,” you fire back. “Your best is turning your face away when I say I love you. It’s letting me dream out loud while you stare through me.”

That hits something. He sits up slightly, tension gathering in his shoulders like thunder. His voice comes out colder. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” you say, laughing bitterly. “It’s not. None of this is fair. You, loving me and still leaving–that’s not fair. You building a life with me in your words, then walking away from it in your actions–that’s not fair.”

“I didn’t mean to–”

“Didn’t mean to what? Let me fall for a future you never intended to live in?”

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. But you don’t stop. You’ve waited too long.

“Do you remember what you said? That day you told me about the dog, the backyard, the oranges in the kitchen? You made it sound like you could see it. Like you wanted it. With me.”

“I did,” he says, and there’s frustration now. Frustration and pain and something old. Something weary.

“Then why are you walking away from it? And don’t give me the same excuse you gave me last time.”

“Because I can’t give you that anymore.”

The silence that follows is sharp. Like something splintering. You stare at him, heart pounding in your chest, blood roaring in your ears.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have it in me,” he answers. “Because I’m empty. Because every part of me that used to believe in that kind of life is gone.”

You shake your head, standing now, your hands clenched at your sides.

“No,” you whisper. “No, you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to stand here and tell me you can’t give me anything–me, of all people–when I’m the one who’s stayed. When I’ve been here through everything.”

He stands too–slowly, carefully. But he doesn’t reach for you.

“This isn’t about you.”

The words are soft. Matter-of-fact. But they gut you, and you freeze.

It’s not a shout, not an accusation–it’s worse. It’s detachment. It’s resignation. It’s him drawing the line you thought you could erase.

You laugh, but it breaks halfway out of your mouth. “God, do you hear yourself?”

He doesn’t speak. Of course he doesn’t.

“You think that makes it better?” you say, voice trembling now. “That this isn’t about me? That I just happened to be here while you burned out? That I just coincidentally get to be collateral damage while you decide the world isn’t worth hoping for anymore?”

“I didn’t ask for you to carry this.”

“But I wanted to!” you shout. “I wanted to carry it. I wanted to fight for you, for us. But you never gave me a chance. You just started fading. Slowly. Quietly. And I noticed, Suguru. I noticed every time you looked away. Every time you let go first.”

Your voice is cracking. Splintering. Shattering. You feel it reverberating in your chest, in your ribs.

“You didn’t want help. You didn’t want to believe in anything anymore. You just wanted me to stop trying.”

He doesn’t deny it. You feel your heart break.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

The storm is dying.

Not outside–outside, the sky is still quiet. No thunder. No wind. Just clouds sitting low over the city, heavy with the weight of something waiting to fall. But in here, between the walls of your small dorm room, between you and him–the storm is ending. Or maybe, more truthfully, it’s entering its quietest stage. The one where no one yells. Where no one moves. Where only grief remains.

You’re both still standing, raw from what came before. Your voice still echoes in the corners of the room. His hands are clenched at his sides, but his expression is unreadable. There is no rage left in him. Only something muted. Suppressed. Heavy.

You take a shaky breath. Then another. And when you speak, it’s not with anger anymore. It’s with everything you’ve kept folded inside your chest like prayer.

“I still believe in the world.”

The words are small, but they carry. They land in the space between you with the weight of truth.

Suguru flinches. He looks at you like that’s the saddest thing you could’ve ever said. His shoulders lift, slightly. He breathes in like he wants to argue.

You don’t let him.

“I still believe that people are capable of good. That they can grow. Change. I believe that kindness is more powerful than cruelty. That softness is not a weakness.”

He looks away, his eyes moving toward the floor. You don’t follow them.

“And I believe in you.” You say it clearly. Not whispered. Not as a plea. A truth.

He exhales slowly, his chest falling.

You take a step forward. Cautious. As if you’re approaching a wild animal that used to come when you called, but now looks at you like a stranger.

“You told me once that you wanted to teach. That you wanted to be the kind of adult you never had. Someone who listened. Someone who noticed.”

Another step. He says nothing.

“You still are that person,” you say. “Even if the world is heavy. Even if it hurts. You are still good. You are still doing good. You’re still the boy who helped strangers carry their groceries, who stayed after class to ask if someone was okay.”

His lips part, but no sound comes out. He just looks at you like his heart is breaking into pieces and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

“You don’t have to save everyone,” you say. “You don’t have to believe in the entire world. Just believe in one thing. One person. One reason. And if you need that reason–”

You press your hand to your chest. “Let it be me.”

He blinks, eyes focusing on you properly. And god, he looks like he’s already halfway gone.

You pretend not to notice. You keep going.

“I’ll stay,” you whisper. “I’ll stay with you. Even if you’re tired. Even if you’re angry. Even if you stop talking and you forget how to hold me and you don’t want to get out of bed. I’ll still stay.”

He closes his eyes. His hands curl into fists.

“I met you when you were at your lowest,” you continue. “And I loved you. I never asked you to be whole. I never needed perfect. I just needed you.”

You’re crying now, but you don’t feel embarrassed. Not anymore.

“I still do.” You step closer, so close now you can feel the heat of his body. “I can take care of you. If you let me. If you stay.”

The silence between you deepens like a wound. And then–he speaks. Softly.

“The world is broken.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But that’s why we stay. That’s why we love. That’s why we try.”

“You’re idealistic,” he murmurs, almost gently. “You always have been.”

“I’m hopeful,” you correct him. “I have to be. Someone has to be.”

“It’s not enough.”

“It is.”

He shakes his head. “You’re so naive.”

You go still. He says it gently. Kindly. But it cuts like a blade all the same.

“It’s never been about you,” he says. “This–this darkness, this weight. It started long before you. And no matter how much I love you, it’s not something you can fix.”

Your voice cracks when you answer. “But I want to try.”

“And I love you for that.”

Your eyes search his face, and what you see there breaks you. Because he’s not cold. He’s not cruel. He’s not pushing you away because he stopped loving you.

He’s doing it because he still does.

“Then tell me,” you whisper. “Tell me I was enough.”

He steps forward. Cups your face in his hands. “You are.”

“Tell me you loved me.”

“I love you,” he says. “I love you.”

And then he pulls you into his arms. His body folds around yours like something holy. His fingers slide into your hair, trembling. His breath is hot against your temple.

“I want you,” he whispers. “I want you. Only you. Nothing else. No dreams. No future. Just–you.”

Your arms wrap around him like instinct. You bury your face in his shoulder. “Then stay,” you whisper in return. Your voice is shaking. “Please, Suguru. Stay.”

He doesn’t answer. He holds you tighter instead.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

It’s after graduation. A Tuesday.

The cap you didn’t want to wear is hanging by a pushpin near the door, half-crushed from the rain that fell as you walked home that day. You haven’t taken it down. There’s a part of you that thinks maybe it deserves to stay where it is–limp and damp and uncelebrated. Like everything else that was supposed to feel like a beginning.

Your room is almost empty now.

A box sits in the corner filled with folded sweaters and things you don’t want to remember owning. There’s another by the door, filled with books Suguru lent you over the years–some dog-eared, some annotated, one with a sticky note still pressed between the pages where he once wrote, You’ll like this one. It’s gentle.

Your laptop rests on the bed. The apartment listings are still open. You haven’t closed the tabs. You haven’t packed the charger. You haven’t even touched the envelope marked LEASE OPTIONS sitting on your desk–the one you once filled with printed tours and scrawled notes in different colored pens.

Because none of them matter now.

He’s standing in the doorway. He hasn’t said anything yet. He doesn’t have to.

You’re sitting on the bed, knees pulled to your chest, one hand resting on a balled-up hoodie–his. He’s wearing the other one. The black one. The one you said made him look soft around the edges. The sleeves are a little too long. He doesn’t push them up.

You look up at him.

His bag is slung over one shoulder. His hair is tied, but loosely. Too loose. Strands are already slipping.

You spoke the night before–barely. There were no more arguments. No more tears. Just the quiet weight of knowing. You had curled beside him on the bed with your fingers buried in his shirt and your face tucked beneath his jaw. He hadn’t said anything. He had just held you. Tighter than usual, but not tight enough.

And now it’s morning. And he’s leaving.

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again.

“You’re really doing this.”

He nods. Your throat closes.

“I thought maybe,” you whisper, “maybe you’d wake up and change your mind.”

He looks at you then–really looks–like you’re the last soft thing he’s allowed himself to look at. His face is unreadable–not because it’s blank, but because it’s everything at once. Grief. Love. Fear. Guilt. All of it wrapped into silence.

“I thought maybe you’d stay,” you say.

“I want to.”

The way he says it cracks something inside you.

“Then stay.” You sound too quiet to be begging. But you are. You are.

He closes his eyes. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” you ask. “Why not just… try? We don’t need a perfect plan. We can take the smallest apartment. Eat cheap takeout. Sleep on a mattress on the floor. I don’t care, Suguru. I don’t care. I just want–” Your voice breaks. “I just want you.”

He sets his bag down beside the door. Steps toward you. And you think, for a heartbeat, that this is it. He’s changed his mind. He’s choosing you. He’s staying.

He kneels in front of you and takes your hands into his–god, they’re warm–and holds them like something breakable. His thumbs move in small, trembling circles over your knuckles.

“I love you.”

You start crying. Not suddenly. Not loudly. Just a soft, shaking sound that comes out of your chest like the ending of a song.

“I love you,” he repeats, eyes locked to yours. “I love you so much it hurts.”

“Then don’t leave.”

“I have to.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Because if I stay,” he whispers, “I’ll rot in front of you. And you’ll keep calling it love. And one day, you’ll forget what real love is supposed to feel like.”

“Don’t say that.”

He squeezes your hands. “You’d carry me until your legs gave out,” he says. “And I’d let you. But I can’t let you do that.”

“You promised–”

“I know.”

“You said you wouldn’t disappear.”

“I tried.”

You shake your head, tears slipping freely down your cheeks now, your throat threatening to close up. “I waited,” you cry. “I fought for you.”

“I know,” he says, voice wrecked, ragged. “You were the only thing that kept me here as long as I stayed.”

He leans in. Presses his forehead to yours.

His hair falls into your face. You smell the lavender shampoo you made him try last month. The one he pretended to hate. You never told him you knew he kept using it.

“I’ll think about you,” he says. “Every day. Every time I see something soft. Or kind. Or almost beautiful. I’ll see you in all of it.”

“You can still have me.”

“No. You deserve someone who wants more than survival.”

You close your eyes, taking a shaky breath. “You were my more,” you whisper.

He kisses you.

Not quickly. Not like goodbye. Like memory. Like something he wants to seal into the corner of your mouth and carry with him forever.

And then he pulls away. His hands fall away from your face, his fingerprints burned into your skin.

You reach for him–not because you think it will stop him, but because your body doesn’t know how not to.

“Don’t forget me,” you whisper.

His voice breaks when he answers. “I couldn’t. Even if I wanted to.”

He stands. Lifts the bag. Walks to the door.

You don’t watch him go. You stare at the laptop instead. The listings still open. The cursor still hovering over a link. As if the future is waiting for your input.

The door clicks. Softly. And the silence that follows is louder than any scream.

You bury your face in your hands and cry.

He didn’t slam the door. He folded himself out of your life like he never wanted to hurt you.

You lose Geto Suguru on a Tuesday.

You think that that’s the worst thing he could have ever done to you.

When he left, he didn’t take his clothes. He took the light. And you’re still looking for it in every room he isn’t in.

V. THE ECHO – where grief is soft, and memory is louder than silence Some people leave like a storm. Suguru left like silence after music–sudden, unkind, irreversible.

The apartment is quiet.

Not peaceful. Not tranquil. Just quiet in that dull, hollow way that settles around the bones like smoke and never quite clears. The kind of silence that doesn’t soothe but stretches. It clings to the corners of your furniture. It lives in your coffee mugs and inside the jackets hanging by the door. It waits in the seams of things. You don’t remember what anything sounded like before he left–only that it’s been quieter ever since.

You live here now. That truth doesn’t sting like it used to, but it still aches. Not like a wound anymore, but like a healed break that never reset properly. The apartment isn’t much: one window, cracked tiles in the bathroom, a fridge that hums when it thinks no one is listening. The radiator creaks every time it turns on, like an old man sighing in his sleep. You’ve memorized the sound of this place. The way it breathes differently without him in it. It doesn’t carry echoes well. Maybe that’s a blessing. Maybe that’s why you chose it.

Still, sometimes you think you can hear him. Not his voice, exactly. Just the shape of him. The memory of a presence. The phantom weight of a gaze that always saw you like you were more than you believed you were. You sit in the chair by the window and you feel it–the ghost of the way he used to look at you. Like you were the answer to a question he had been trying to ask his whole life.

You have a routine now. Mornings begin with silence and coffee–two sugars. You water the plants. All three are still alive, against all odds. You whisper to them. Not because you believe they understand, but because you’re tired of hearing nothing speak back. You read when you can, though most days you just turn the pages and let the words drift past you like fog. You work. You walk. You buy groceries for one. You learn to sit with loneliness without trying to feed it.

And sometimes you cry. Not with drama, not in torrents. But with the soft, startled grief of realizing you’ve reached for him again. The phantom muscle memory of laying out two mugs instead of one. Picking up a book and wondering if he’s read it. Feeling laughter rise in your chest and turning to share it before remembering that you can’t.

It’s strange, loving someone who left gently. There’s no hatred to cling to. No betrayal to burn your way through. Just the steady knowledge that they loved you, and left anyway. That they were kind. And tired. And breaking. And that you couldn’t save them without losing yourself. That maybe they knew that before you did.

He didn’t take everything. He never would. But the things he left behind are worse. His handwriting on a receipt tucked into the drawer. The coffee you only bought because he liked it. The scent of his shampoo lingering in your towels long after you stopped using them. A playlist that still plays when your phone forgets it’s supposed to forget him. A stray hair tie at the bottom of your drawer.

Some days, you pretend you’re fine. You move through the world with the grace of someone who has practiced the choreography of grief so long it looks like living. You smile. You hold conversations. You even laugh. And no one asks, because you’ve become very good at dressing your ache in language that passes for okay.

But some nights, you sit on the floor, back against the radiator, and remember that loving him was the most honest thing you ever did.

You don’t try to forget him. Some days, that feels like the only promise you can still keep. You let yourself remember. You let yourself mourn. You light a candle on the windowsill, even though he never believed in that kind of ritual. You write down things you wish you’d said aloud. You whisper his name into the steam of your coffee. You open the drawer where his spare toothbrush would’ve been and close it again.

It helps. Sometimes.

Today, you open the box you never meant to touch. The one he left, labeled in his handwriting: “misc”. The letters tilt forward like they were written in a hurry, but still carefully enough to be legible. You sit on the floor, cross-legged, and lift the lid like it might still breathe. Inside: the scarf from your first winter together, itchy and beloved. A dog-eared book with annotations in two colors. A hair tie. A list.

Just one page.

Just one set of words he never read aloud, but you’ve seen before.

things to teach – kindness is strength – silence is not always peace – you are not too much – softness is not fragility – no one is unlovable – the world is hard – love anyway

You trace each line like a prayer. These were the things he wanted to teach. Maybe the things he wanted to believe. Maybe the things he couldn’t carry anymore. Maybe that list was his last act of faith, scribbled into existence before the light in him went out.

You fold the page. Not tightly. You tuck it into the book you still read sometimes, when you need to hear his voice in your head. And you sit there, on the floor, surrounded by things he left behind, and let the ache in your chest widen without resistance.

You think about the way he used to touch you. Gently. Like you were made of smoke and paper and prayer. The way he would hesitate before holding your face in his hands, as if reverence was a language best spoken without words. You think about the way he never spoke of the future like it was owed to him, only borrowed.

This is what it means to love someone like Geto Suguru: it means gentleness. It means holding grief in your hands like water. It means remembering that sometimes people break even when they are loved. That sometimes love isn’t enough to keep someone from walking into silence. That sometimes the kindest thing someone can do is leave before they make you watch them disappear in pieces.

But it also means this:

It means you were seen. Known. It means you were held by someone who understood what it meant to be tired and still soft. That for a time, you got to witness someone who tried to believe in the world and loved you while they could. You were chosen, even while he was unraveling. You were the thing he wanted to keep safe from himself.

You will keep loving. That is what you choose.

You’ll move again someday. To a bigger place. One with more sunlight. Maybe a dog, if you’re brave enough. You’ll meet people who make you laugh. You’ll love again, maybe differently, maybe less fiercely. But you’ll never forget what it felt like to love someone who carried their sorrow so quietly, it took you years to realize they had already let go.

And when you light the last candle that burns down in the bowl you made with him once in a pottery class neither of you liked–you whisper:

“I hope you found somewhere soft to land.”

Some things don’t end. They just change shape. And some people don’t leave. They stay quietly–in the places you don’t look at too often.

A/N: thank you for reading! i've been feeling really down lately and i just automatically started thinking about suguru and here we are. (yes i cried writing the last part) (art by kitsukkit on X)

[kenwio]

Joker's kid! reader: kids of villains: meeting Cass and Stephanie

Route: recovered dove

Warnings: bad writing, bad English, attempt at fluff?

Authors note: I know Im late. Its far past midnight where I am, and only now i found time to post. I am currently not able to post regulary, but I will post when i can. I will answer on all coments I haven`t yet after some sleep

They say, when you see something one time you cannot unseen it. In your case it was, when you heard something, you cannot stop hearing it. Well, since you become a real member of batfamily, free to hang out with everyone and almost everywhere in a manor, you were fee to converse and to hear the conversations of others. And while doing it, you started notice how everyone were bringing up two names. Cassandra and Stephanie.

One time it was when you came down to the batcave to bring Tim yet another cup of coffee. Dodging consequences of Damian's and Dick's training, you carefully completed your task and started watching the two of them

- Hey, Dams, is that a new move? - Dick commented, dodging the blow in his dramatically graceful manner

-  Cassandra have showed it to me

- Cass? Wait, why she has name privileges and I don't?

.... Cass?

Or another day, or rather night, where you were woken up by the sudden thunder, and decided to watch few documentaries in the living room to distract yourself. On your way Chlory, who was on your shoulder pulled you, so you've look in the library and low and behold, Tim was doing something on the laptop sitting near the couch on the floor while Jason was on the couch reading. You walked over, sitting next to Jason, Chlory creaked happily to greet both of them.

- How was patrol? - you asked them

- good - Jay answered calmly, giving you a head pat

- yeah, aside from Jason acting not according to the plan - Tim grumbled

- hey, I couldn't possibly ignore the tip Steph gave me, could I?

.... Steph?

It led you to conclusion: they existed, well obviously, and they were part of batfamily, meaning your family. You had two more siblings, and you didn't know about them. You didn't really know why. Maybe Bruce have told you, because now thinking about that, you remember him mentioning you haven't met all of your family, but he didn't really talk in long about them with you. Maybe that was caused by the fact that he was busy, maybe by the fact that your adjusting to the family took longer than he thought.  You couldn't know the real reason, that's why you were left theorizing. All you could say for sure, is that you wanted to meet them.  You wanted to know Cass and Steph

Maybe, this wish was heard by stars or wind, like in fairytales you read to Chlory in order to practice your read and speech, but really soon after you met them, and, well, it all happened in true batfamily fashion

You Firstly met Steph. It happened one particularly noisy afternoon, when it seemed everyone who was in manor, that left you with Jason and Damian ... and some other voice. You've considering to stay in your room, but your hunger decided for you. So, you made your way to the kitchen.... and saw her, as your latter found out. She was emptying the fridge from every food option possible, with intention to make it her meal. As you stared at her, trying to analyze her opinion on you, she started back, slightly startled and surprised

- wow, this is awkward.... - she said, soon after, her eyes traveled between you and her food collection- wanna sandwich?

You nodded.

Soon you found out, Stephanie was a ... rather talkative person, a yapper as she called herself. And maybe it was overwhelming at times, because she talked even more than your biological father, you liked the way Steph talked. She talked with you as if your past didn't exist, as if she didn't care about your blood relations, and soon you found out she indeed did not

- Pfft, my father was a bad guy too. Am I a villain to ya? - she said one time you brought it up.

In Steph's eyes you were adorable! A little cutie, who looked a bit too lost, sure, but aside from that, you were cute as hell. So, she wanted to hang out with you. She told you funny stories about her school life and her patrols. Sometimes she joined you and Tim in your game nights. And she also helped you to color your hair.

As for Cass, you met her later. It wasn't something awkward, at least on her part. You just noticed that dancing room (yes you were surprised that it was in manor) which was usually empty and that's why closed, was open. You couldn't help but get curious and take a look. What you saw was really beautiful. You saw dancing only on TV, when Jason showed you ballet adaptation of Romeo and Juliette. But the moment was short lived, Cass noticed you right away, turning to look at you, and after few moments she softly smiled at you, giving you a little greeting wave.

Cas knew body language like no one else, she was professional in reading it, and she saw your hesitance, she noticed presence of small fear, but that was to be expected, judging by the what Bruce have talked about you. And she, for sure never noticed anything malicious in you. You were a kid, who was traumatized beyond measure. She could relate. She, just like you, weren’t given a choice, but now in the Wayne manor everything is better. You safe now. You have control of what you do and who you are.

Cass took you after her wing in some sense. She showed you that with her you were safe. She also did not pressure you it any point in expression yourself though words, she could understand you without them. You both formed almost telepathic bound, understanding each other without words. And it was nice. Sometimes you both just hang out with each other, while being busy with your own activities: she could dance and you could draw, and sometimes (oftentimes) during those sessions you draw her. You both also started practicing reading and speaking together. Sure, it surprised her that you already had a deep knowledge about since language (thanks to Tim), but it made her proud of you. She was proud to be your older sister

And sometimes the three of you hang out together. Steph called three of you (and sometimes she forced squad Damian to join in) the villain's kids, and we'll name was suiting. Steph was talking about how three of you are trauma bounding while you and Cass were sitting down, chewing on snacks or choosing movies to watch, because those hang outs usually happened after patrols, and it was more reasonable to relax. That was just good. Yes, Steph and Cass sometimes fall asleep to your favorite documentaries (Though, Damian who usually was around when you chose the film watched it with you) but it was so domestic and comforting.

All in all, you love your family even more

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Thank you for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think about my work! Hope you have a good day

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[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

sky high!au | m.g. x gn!reader

it’s weird going to a high school specifically meant for kids with superpowers, big or small, it makes the four years a little worse for tormenting. some kid got pants by a speedster, and when he tried to run his laces were tied together causing him to trip on the linoleum floor.

high school was hell.

you don’t even know why you go to the school, the ability to rearrange molecules causing them to phase shift wasn’t really great when you can only do small things. pretty sure there’s a rotting apple hiding in the science rooms walls.

at least you had close friends at the school. samantha wilkins, but she prefers her middle name eve more from peers. now that girl is a superhero, with the ability to see atoms and create limitless possibilities-such a badass. rex sloan was another…acquaintance if you could call him that. he causes explosions, big or small just by the touch of his fingers, number one trouble maker (he’s got his own seat in detention).

and then there’s mark grayson, son of omni-man. and he’s gifted with the ability to-to- no one is sure of that yet. for now he’s the only ‘normal’ kid attending the school due to his family status. and he happens to be your childhood best friend along with being neighbors, from séance dog role playing in his backyard to having him help you practice your powers at the age of seven. he was your biggest supporter.

“i feel this would make a killer magic act. maybe we could get into competitions!” mark bounced on his bed from excitement and you just smiled shyly, keeping your knees tucked close to your chest.

“i don’t know…it’s not really good if i can only do a paper clip. kinda lame power i have.” grumbling to yourself. your parents were veteran heros, always saving the world and stopping interglacial wars. you’d never raise to their level.

“hey,” mark poked a finger into your chubby cheek. you sided eyed him gently, no annoyance in your gaze just peering at him. “i think you’re cool.” you scuffed, “you’re just saying that cause your my friend. you’d understand if you had my powers compared to my parents.”

“you’re right, i’m saying that cause i’m your friend. but also i know what it’s like, comparing yourself to others. heck my dad is freaking omni-man! that’s the biggest comparison to date, but i don’t let it stop me. we’re still young, by high school things will be better.”

“hey killer.” blinking your eyes rapidly from a sudden memory, mark was walking into your space. the yellow collar of his shirt popping out to sit at the top of his dark blue striped sweater, one hand tucked into the pocket of his khaki pants. his hair was neatly combed with a bit of gel keeping it in place except for one stray hair that swayed in the wind, it made him look romantic.

“hi marky, ready for today?” talking in the courtyard as you waited for the bell to ring. today was a monthly powers assessment, there were two categories. hero and sidekick. eve and rex have been placed in hero specific classes while you and mark are sidekicks.

a crooked smile brightened mark’s pretty features, “i am actually. got a big surprise for everyone.” jumping his brows conspicuously. you didn’t have time to ask since the bell took its cue signaling the next period. you sighed, “let’s get this over with.”

-

“alright twerps! you know the drill by now. i’m gonna terrorize you and you best keep yourself intact cause i’m not calling the janitor for clean up duty. now first up…amanda johnson.”

everyone was silent, waiting to see the new meat. a young girl stepped through and onto the platform, she couldn’t be more than thirteen at least. coach just stared her down for a moment, “uh…how old are you?”

“seventeen but my powers cause my aging to turn backwards. now are we gonna do this or what?” you liked her. coach stedman just shrugged then blew his whistle loud, it was worse than a screaming cat.

a giant bus suddenly dropped from the ceiling and everyone gasped but then a cloud of smoke appeared and in amanda’s place was a giant green monster around eight feet maybe. murmurs went through the crowd at the mysterious creature, who set the dinged up vehicle to the side and turned back into the junior. she wiped her hands together, “anything else?”

coach stared wide-eyed, speechless for a moment before clearing his throat. “uh hero, but only do that when necessary. and instructed by your teachers.” and he waved her off calling up another girl.

she had short black hair and was wearing a tight purple top with a mini skirt. “katherine cha, how will you amaze us today?”

“actually i prefer kate and i duplicate.” her rhyme followed with a demonstration of five more exact replicas standing behind her, each one doing a different pose. “hero. now mark grayson, get your butt up here.”

you patted his shoulders, “be careful.” he just threw a smile over his shoulder as he walked onto the platform. coach crossed his arms followed with a deep sigh, “any new developments grayson, or are you still weaker than my eighty year old mother? at least she can lift ten pounds.” a small murmur and giggle spread through the crowd of on lookers while you just rolled your eyes at the comments.

all mark said was, “can she do this?” and started to hover off the ground then floated to the top of the gym ceiling before descending down. your jaw dropped, he got his powers, and didn’t tell you. coach stedman clapped slowly, “well well, nice show. anything else? super strength?” a mechanical dummy shot up and without a thought mark swung a fist causing the head to pop off and roll to the other side of the room.

it was silent then, “ladies and gentlemen, mark grayson, your new hero!”

-

“try grabbing a book through your locker. it’s not too thick a metal with a light object, just pretend it’s already open and there’s nothing in your way.” eve suggests while helping you practice your powers.

a deep exhale through your nose as you let the tips of your fingers rest against the cool light blue metal. you tried to make yourself feel weightless, just a simple breeze passing through the trees. you felt the spine of your book in your grasp, then quickly retracted your arm back to your side. a small paper back was your trophy.

“i-i did it. i did it!” thrilled at this achievement, small one, but one none the less for yourself. eve clapped beside you, “see just a little concentration goes a long way, in no time you’ll be joining me in hero classes.”

that got you to quiet down a bit, “apparently mark is getting that first.” a gasped followed, “no way! he finally got his powers?”

a nod, “yep. flying and strength, your typical hero package.” letting your fingers run against the aging paper, a baby frown staining your face.

eve hummed, “he didn’t tell you first did he? just gave everyone a big surprise.” understanding your sour mood.

“it’s not like he has to, but it would’ve been nice. i mean he was there when i accidentally fell through my bedroom floor thus causing me to sprain my ankle. why couldn’t he just hover outside my window?” pouting like a baby.

“why the hell did i just see grayson in my civilian protection class?” rex slides up beside you, casually throwing an arm over your shoulders. “did he finally hit powers puberty?”

eve rolled her eyes, “technically him and y/n are both biologically born with powers, while you and i have a bit of altered dna. it’s like growing plants, takes time and patience.”

“blah blah blah,” rex acting like his usual immature self.

…

a/n: just something i thought of. let me know if this is something yall would be interested in, just a more pg version of their world so more fluff less angst.

[bettelaboure]

⊹Devil's night⊹ Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

⊹ Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x Reader

⊹ Summary: In the neon-lit underbelly of Seoul, a world-famous musician reunites with his underground racer best friend on Devil’s Night, where the thrill of speed collides with years of buried tension. As the night escalates into a fever pitch of desire and vulnerability, their bond is tested in the fire of lust, memory, and unspoken longing

⊹ Warnings: sexual content, rough sex, dirty talk, emotional vulnerability, power dynamics, intense language, public sexual acts (implied)

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

You hear his voice before you see him.

"You're really gonna race tonight?"

That deep, husky sound that still curls around your spine like a velvet rope. Seung-Hyun, in all his post-tour, post-fame glory, leans against your garage wall like he owns the place. He doesn't. But then again, you never stopped him from acting like he did.

You arch a brow without looking up from the wrench in your hand. "It's Devil's Night. Of course I am."

He steps forward, slow, unhurried, like he’s got nowhere else to be. And when he's around you, that’s the truth. He crouches beside you, close enough that you catch the faintest trace of his cologne—something expensive, smoky, warm. Unmistakably him.

"Let me ride shotgun."

You pause. That gives you a beat. He’s never asked before. Never seen you race, not in the flesh. And certainly not from the passenger seat.

Your lips curve. "You sure you can handle it, Superstar?"

His smirk is sharp, almost cruel. It sends heat straight to your stomach. "Sweetheart, I can handle a lot more than your little car."

Before the engines, before the spotlight, before either of you knew how to be reckless with your futures, there was a streetlamp and a cracked sidewalk in a forgotten corner of Seoul.

You were twelve, maybe thirteen, knees scraped from trying to drift a rusted-out bike, furious with the world and even more furious with yourself for crying when you fell. He found you like that—teeth clenched, fists balled, refusing to let the tears win. He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat beside you and offered a Chupa Chups lollipop with the kind of nonchalance only kids like you could master.

You took it. Eventually.

That was the first night you shared silence like a secret.

He was the quiet one in the apartment above yours, always humming to himself, head nodding to beats only he could hear. You were the storm beneath him—loud, fast, fire in your veins. He watched you tear up the alley on anything with wheels, and you listened to the deep, mellow rhythm of his voice when he sang behind closed doors.

You grew up parallel, orbiting the same concrete and broken neon. When his group got signed, you celebrated with stolen soju and a rooftop dance at 2 a.m., him spinning you until you laughed and almost forgot he was leaving.

"Don’t change," you told him, breathless, hair tangled from wind and stars. "Not for them."

"Only if you promise not to slow down," he said. "Not for anyone."

And neither of you did.

Years passed. He rose. You dove.

But every time he came back, no matter how long he’d been gone, he ended up on your doorstep. Like clockwork. Like gravity.

Because you weren’t just the girl from the alley.

You were the reminder. Of who he was before the screaming fans and flashing lights. Of what it felt like to breathe without a camera watching.

And he? He was the only one who ever saw through the speed and fury—to the ache beneath.

The air at the starting line is thick with tension and smoke, as if the entire block is holding its breath. Seoul’s underworld gathers like shadows come alive—faces partially masked, voices low and excited, a hundred stories written in leather, chrome, and adrenaline. Neon lights pulse from shop signs and parked bikes, throwing jagged colors across the street like stained glass in a cathedral of speed.

Engines snarl. Tires growl against concrete. Music pounds from subwoofers in nearby trunks—dark, pulsing beats that thrum in your veins. You roll your neck once, cracking it loose, then slide into your custom-tuned machine—a midnight-black muscle built for sin. The moment you fire the ignition, it growls like a caged beast, vibrating through your bones.

Seung-Hyun slips into the seat beside you. The car is tight, claustrophobic by design, all heat and metal and proximity. His thigh presses into yours. You don’t move. Neither does he.

"This thing is a monster," he murmurs, gaze sweeping over the custom gauges, the carbon fiber, the worn steering wheel. He smirks. "She built like you—dangerous and a mystery."

You glance at him, tongue dragging slowly across your bottom lip. "Buckle up."

He does, eyes still locked on you.

Tires screech ahead as a car burns rubber, the scent of it mixing with gasoline and sweat. You rev your engine in response. It roars. The crowd stirs. Phones lift. A chant rises from the back of the mob—your name, followed by a rumble of wild anticipation.

A girl in leather shorts and fishnets saunters into the middle of the road, arm raised. The racers go still. All sound narrows. Your heart, your machine, the beat in your chest—they sync.

One finger.

Two.

Three—

GO.

Your car leaps forward like it’s possessed. The back tires fishtail for half a heartbeat, smoke coiling behind you like dragon’s breath before you grip and bolt. Seung-Hyun jerks back in his seat, a breathless laugh leaving his lips, but you’re already gone—mind locked, senses sharpened to a needle’s point.

The world blurs into colors and motion. Neon streaks past your windows like a dream unraveling. The wind howls, the engine howls louder. Every shift of the gear is muscle memory, every turn a dance.

You downshift and take a brutal curve, kissing the edge of a stone wall close enough to peel off paint. Sparks fly. Your focus never wavers.

Seung-Hyun curses beside you, not in fear—but awe. "Holy shit. You drive like the world owes you something."

"It does," you growl, glancing at the red car gaining beside you. "And I’m collecting."

The red Nissan roars up on your right, trying to box you in before the roundabout. You play chicken with him, feinting toward the inner lane, then drop a gear and swerve hard into a back alley barely wider than your car. You know this street like you know his voice in a crowd—intimately.

The alley is a blur of graffiti, forgotten trash bins, and narrow clearance. Your mirrors skim walls. You slide through the chaos with inches to spare. Then you’re back out—like a bullet tearing through the night.

You beat him to the final stretch by a heartbeat.

Seung-Hyun's eyes are wild now, hair tousled, breathing like he just finished a concert. "Shit, shit, shit. You’re insane."

You smirk. "You knew that when you climbed in."

The finish line looms ahead, lit by red flares. You shoot across it with a triumphant scream of tires, smoke curling around you like victory’s kiss.

Chaos erupts behind you—cheers, curses, money exchanging hands.

But all you hear is the sound of your pulse still racing—and his.

But tonight, it’s not the race that has your pulse jackhammering in your throat—it’s him. Seung-Hyun sits beside you, skin practically humming with the same charged adrenaline that’s still burning in your bloodstream. The city glows around you, ghost-like and endless, but it’s the weight of his stare that holds you hostage.

His voice is a rasp of dark silk. "Now show me how you drive when no one's watching. When it’s just you, the night, and whatever demons keep you hungry."

You cut him a look, lips parted in a crooked smile. "You ready to meet them?"

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, dragging the word slow and sinful, "I came back just to watch them play."

Your foot slams down. The car launches forward, tires crying against the pavement. Wind tears through your hair as the skyline smears into streaks of silver and neon. You drive like a storm, reckless and raw, veins alight with pure heat.

Seung-Hyun doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans in—voice low, dangerous. "Faster. I want to see how wild you get when you think no one's judging."

"You asking or begging?"

His smirk is feral. "Begging comes later. Right now, I’m commanding."

You laugh—sharp, breathless—just as his hand slides over your thigh, warm and sure. He knows exactly where to touch, and how. You nearly lose control.

"Eyes on the road," he growls. "You’re not allowed to fall apart yet. Not until I say."

His fingers slip beneath the edge of your skirt, dragging slowly, purposefully, up—until they find heat. He exhales a curse.

"Already wet for me. Of course you are."

You grit your teeth, white-knuckling the wheel. "Keep talking like that and I’ll crash us both."

"Not a crash," he murmurs, voice thick. "A climax."

His fingers dip between your thighs, confident and commanding. He strokes slow at first—circles, teasing pressure that makes your hips twitch—before pressing harder, deeper, drawing soft, broken sounds from your lips. You’re gripping the wheel like it's the only thing keeping you tethered to the physical world, trying not to crash straight into neon blur and wicked temptation.

He doesn’t let up. If anything, he doubles down, mouth at your ear, breath hot. "That’s it. Just like that. You feel how soaked you are for me? Can’t even pretend you’re in control anymore."

Your body jerks as he curls his fingers inside you. You swerve hard left—too hard—tires shrieking, the car skidding with delicious violence. He chuckles low in his chest, cocky and dark.

"You like playing with danger, baby? Or is it just me that gets you like this?"

Every nerve in your body is a live wire. You’re gasping now, cheeks flushed, pulse everywhere at once. The city lights blur around you like heat haze, but the only thing you can feel is him—his fingers, his breath, the smirk pressed against your jaw as he works you mercilessly with his hand.

You bite down on your bottom lip to stop yourself from moaning. Fail.

"Don’t hold back. I want to hear you. Scream for me while you’re doing eighty through Seoul. Come for me with the whole world watching and no one knowing how filthy you really are."

Your hips rise, stutter. You're falling apart, melting right into the seat as the pressure bursts, white-hot and consuming. And through it all—you’re still driving, teeth bared like a feral thing, high on speed and ruin.

"You’re driving like a goddamn maniac," he says, lips against your ear now. "And I love it. But I want you to come while you’re flying through these streets—prove you’re still the baddest thing in this city."

You try to focus. Try to breathe. But his fingers don’t stop, and neither does his voice.

"Let go for me, baby. Show me how wild you get when you can't hold back."

You do.

With a guttural sound torn from your chest, your hips jerk, the world tipping sideways. Your body shakes against the seat, and still—you drive, barely holding it together as ecstasy crashes through you like fire through gasoline.

Seung-Hyun watches, eyes blown wide, lips parted like he wants to devour you.

He pulls his fingers back slowly, deliberately, then slides them between his lips, tasting you with a groan.

"Fuck. You taste like danger."

You’re panting, knuckles white on the wheel.

"Told you," he says with that smug, ruined smirk. "I could handle it."

You glance at him, voice hoarse. "And what if I’m not done yet?"

His smile is all hunger. "Then don’t stop, baby. The night’s still ours."

You don’t stop driving till the sky starts bleeding into dawn.

You park on a secluded overlook above the city, where the skyline glows like scattered embers beneath the early light. The engine ticks as it cools, the only sound now the wind whispering past the car and the sharpness of your still-unsteady breathing. You stare straight ahead, hands still gripping the wheel, heart refusing to calm down.

Seung-Hyun watches you in silence, like you’re the aftermath of a wreck he never wants to walk away from.

He finally speaks—low, intimate, dangerous. "You always did like playing with fire. But damn… you just set the city on fire with me inside it."

You slowly release the steering wheel and turn to face him. Your legs are still shaking, body hot and buzzing, and your voice is husky when you reply, "Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy every second."

He leans in, closing the last few inches between you, fingers brushing your jaw. "Oh, I did. I still am. But it’s not enough."

"What more do you want, Seung-Hyun?" you ask, defiant but breathless.

He brushes his lips just barely over yours, not kissing—just tasting your anticipation. "Everything. All of it. The speed. The fury. The way you come undone and try to pretend it didn’t ruin you. I want to see you break again. This time, slow."

Your breath catches, your lips part, and this time, you don’t hesitate. You kiss him like the road’s still racing beneath you—hard, hungry, a crash you both welcome.

And Seoul keeps sleeping beneath you, unaware the city’s most dangerous pair just ignited again—high above, in the heat and shadows of the coming morning.

But the fire between your legs, and the storm he lit inside you? That still burns under your skin.

By the time you reach your apartment, the sun’s just brushing the city’s edges with gold. The streets are quiet, Seoul still half-asleep, but your blood is awake—thrumming with aftershocks.

You unlock the door and let it creak open. Seung-Hyun follows you in without asking, without hesitation, his eyes raking over the space like he’s been here in dreams but forgot how real it feels. The scent of oil, leather, and something sweet clings to the air—burnt coffee, maybe. Old engine grease. You.

He closes the door behind him with a soft click. And just like that, the tension coils again—hotter in this silence than it was under the roar of your engine.

You toss your keys on the counter and kick off your boots. His gaze follows every movement, like he's cataloging them. Memorizing.

"This is where you hide?" he murmurs, voice lower now, raspier.

"This is where I breathe," you reply, peeling off your jacket, revealing skin still flushed from the night. "Where I remember I'm not always a weapon."

He steps closer, deliberate, his hands finding your hips like they belong there. "You’re still a weapon. Just… sheathed."

You smirk. "Not for long, if you keep touching me like that."

His eyes burn into yours. "That’s the idea."

Then he kisses you again. Not like in the car—not rushed, not desperate. This is slower, deeper. All tongue and teeth and tension melting into want. His fingers find your spine, pulling you against him until there’s no space left to breathe. Until you forget what silence even feels like.

Clothes peel away between kisses—wet, heated, hungry kisses that drag over skin like they’ve both been waiting years to happen. His jacket hits the floor with a heavy thud. Yours slides down your arms as his hands roam beneath it, rough palms mapping the curve of your waist. Your back finds the wall, and then the hallway, and then he’s walking you backward toward your bedroom like he's reclaiming territory.

When your shoulder hits the doorframe, he pauses, breath heavy, lips swollen. His eyes rake down your half-naked form with a slow hunger.

"You look at me like I’m the danger," he rasps.

You grin, breathless. "You are. But I’m worse."

His chuckle is dark, primal. "Prove it."

You push him, hard. He stumbles back just enough for you to grab his shirt and drag him over the threshold. The door kicks shut behind him. You press him against it, straddling him the moment his back hits the wood. His hands grip your ass like he's starving.

"You want it rough?" he growls.

"I want it real."

He flips you effortlessly, caging you between his body and the door now, one thigh slipping between yours as his mouth finds your neck—biting, sucking, claiming. You moan shamelessly, grinding against him, your nails digging into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Fuck, I missed this mouth," he mutters, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip before replacing it with his tongue. "Always so smart until I fuck the words out of you."

You tug his belt open, smirking into the kiss. "Then shut up and do it."

The rest of your clothes hit the floor in a trail of want. He lays you back on the bed like he’s worshipping a sin he’s about to commit. His fingers trace your ribs, your hips, before sliding down and finding you again.

"Still dripping," he murmurs. "You stayed wet for me this whole time, didn’t you?"

"Maybe I just wanted to feel you ruin me twice in one night."

His groan is guttural.

And when he finally slides inside—slow, thick, stretching you with unbearable heat—you gasp his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever prayed to. He moves hard, deep, every thrust designed to make you remember just how dangerous he really is.

"You feel that? That’s mine now," he growls against your ear. "You take me like you were made for it."

Your body arches beneath him. "Then fucking claim it."

He does.

His hips slam into yours with relentless rhythm, each thrust angled just right, designed to split you open in the best way possible. His grip on your thighs is bruising, possessive—like he's trying to carve his name into your skin with every movement. The headboard thuds against the wall in time with his pace, sharp and constant, but you barely hear it over the ragged, broken sounds you're both making.

"Look at you," he grits out, sweat dripping from his temple as he leans over you, one hand pressed to the mattress beside your head, the other sliding down your body. "Taking me like you’ve been starving for it. Like you can’t breathe unless I’m inside you."

You gasp, legs locking around his waist, dragging him deeper. "You think you ruined me? Baby, I’ve been wrecked since you walked into that garage."

He growls—low, possessive—and slaps your thigh before gripping it tighter, angling your hips upward. You cry out, the pleasure sharp and devastating. He doesn't let you recover, doesn’t give you a second of mercy. His cock hits a spot inside you that makes you keen, your nails clawing down his back.

"Say it," he hisses. "Say who owns this pussy."

"You," you moan, desperate. "Fuck—it's yours. You own it."

He bites your shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to claim. "Damn right I do. And I’m not done yet."

He pulls out almost all the way, slow and torturous, then slams back in so hard the bed shakes. You scream—pure pleasure—and his hand covers your mouth, muffling you as he thrusts harder, faster, deeper.

"Too loud, baby," he whispers hot against your cheek. "Wouldn’t want the whole building to know how wrecked I’ve got you. Or maybe you’d like that. You want them to hear how dirty you sound when I fuck you like this?"

Your eyes roll back, body arching. He feels you tighten around him, feels your climax building again.

"That’s it. Cum for me. Messy and loud. Let me feel it. Let me hear how good I make you feel."

You shatter. Harder than before. Your entire body convulses under him, back bowing, mouth open in a silent cry that breaks into gasping moans as he fucks you through it.

He curses, low and feral, losing rhythm for a heartbeat as your walls pulse around him. He grabs your hips, holding you in place as he chases his own release, each thrust growing sloppier, needier, more desperate.

Then he spills into you with a growl, head dropping to your neck, body shaking with the force of it.

You lie there, tangled and sweat-slick, your chests heaving together like you’ve run miles. He doesn’t pull out right away—just stays there, buried deep, breathing you in.

"Still think you’re worse than me?" he murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone.

You smirk, voice hoarse. "No. I know I am."

He laughs, soft and low, before rolling to the side and dragging you with him.

Neither of you say anything else. You don’t need to.

The way he holds you afterward says it all.

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s full. Full of everything you never said, every night he was away, every second you spent pretending he didn’t haunt your bones. He brushes your damp hair from your face, gently now, his fingers trembling just slightly as if the calm is harder to survive than the chaos.

You exhale slowly, your cheek resting on his chest. "You leave tomorrow, don’t you?"

There’s a beat. And another.

Then, quietly, "Yeah."

It shouldn’t sting. But it does. You nod, tracing lazy circles over his ribs, grounding yourself in the heat of his skin. "You always come back."

"Because you’re here. And you never make me ask for forgiveness."

You pull back enough to meet his eyes—dark, tired, open in a way few people ever get to see. "Do you want it? Forgiveness?"

He’s quiet again, then presses his forehead to yours. "I want you. In whatever fucked up, impossible way this keeps working. I want the part of me that only shows up in this room. With you."

Your throat tightens. You swallow it down. "It’s not perfect."

"No," he murmurs, kissing your eyelid. "It’s better. It’s real."

Your fingers drift up his chest, curl into the chain around his neck. You hold it. Hold him. "Don’t make me miss you longer than I have to."

His arm wraps tighter around you. "Then don’t let go."

And for that moment—messy, breathless, vulnerable—you don’t.

Taglist: @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277

[celuere]

hii!!!🩷 i must say this, i've been following your blog since your first ever fic and i'm so so in love with all of them!!! can i please please request a soft smut scene of pregnant reader with arle? reader is just shy about her body and your future dad!arle taking care of her wife is just so 😚😚🤤 thank you and please take care of yourself!!🩷 absolutely adoring your fics!!!

pairing: Arlecchino x pregnant!reader

cw: transfem!arlecchino, fluff, pregnant sex, slight lactation kink, just arle being a sucker for her wife in general

I’m so pathetic for Arlecchino taking care of pregnant wifey, giving me heavy baby fever fr

„There, there… take your time, my love…“, a warm hand sneaked around your own, fingers interlacing as the other one gently guided you by the hip over her lap. Specifically, over her throbbing dick. The leaking cockhead dripping with the proof of her obvious arousal and Arlecchino never had to pull herself together so bad as she did now.

But you were pregnant. And it was you who needed some desperate relief. The libido during your pregnancy kept itself always at a pretty low level- only until recently. It started around two weeks ago with innocent things.

Helping you put your shoes on? You were down. Carrying you up the stairs to your bedroom if your feet hurt? You were down. Gently rubbing the tummy oil over your baby belly after a long day while she tells you about her day? You. Were. Down.

And you thought you went insane in the last two days. You couldn’t even look at her merely talking to one of her agents without wanting to mount her, is this what a heat feels like?

Originally you expected her to decline, maybe even scold you for it to even think about intimacy when you were carrying her child underneath your heart.

Yet, she put her paperwork aside onto the nightstand in an instant.

And now you were already slowly lowering yourself on her cock, prior to having her position you correctly because navigating became a little difficult with a pregnancy belly at the end of its second trimester.

Archons if it weren‘t for her dignity, Arlecchino would have busted a good load already by the time you merely passed her tip. You were so welcoming around her, like home. Only noticing how rapidly her chest rose and sunk back, the Knave was gripping onto her self-restraint with all her might.

„O-oh goodness… P-Peru… a-and you truly like what you‘re seeing…? Y-You don’t have to pretend, r-really…“, an insult would’ve been less offensive to her. To her you looked like a prodigy of beauty, as if Celestia had played favorites when you were created.

„What… a nonsense. You only get more beautiful with each passing day for me, ma cherie… especially with that beautiful belly of yours…”, a hot shiver travelled down your spine as her hand from your hip moved over to the obvious tummy, now rubbing soothing circles with her thumb over your skin. It still baffles her to this day that you‘re actually pregnant- that this is her child you are nurturing inside there. And she was eternally grateful for it. For you.

And you looked so incredibly beautiful to her. A certain glow started to surround you ever since you got wind of the news. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it but it made her want to marry you all over again.

Maybe she just will.

„A-Arle… p-please don’t give me heartattack l-like this…“, you squeezed the cursed hand that was still intertwined with your own, trying to maintain a pace that won’t tire you out immediately but was also satisfying enough for you was harder than you originally imagined. Your swollen breasts only idly moving with your gentle pace, but the embarrassment could’ve been straight from the deepest pits of hell itself when you felt them release the warm milk stored inside them. An annoying occurrence you started noticing with the begin of your libido torture two weeks ago.

„G-god I’m sorry- P-Peruere I am so sorry-”, your voice was faltering every two syllables as you tried to compose the humiliation flooding your body. This was another level of torture.

„Shhhh… this is nothing to apologize for, my flower.“, and she had her lips wrapped around your leaking nipple in no time. Her tongue gliding over the sensitive bud as if she were savoring a gourmet meal. At least you tasted like one to her.

Well. This might be just more fuel to your libido-situation.

[mintyys-blog]

Hi, I'm a little embarrassed to ask this because I know it's weird, but I have memory problems, and I wanted to know if I sent or not a request for Mark with Sakura powers from Naruto. I am sorry to bother you, I just struggle with my memory sometimes.

Don't take it as if I'm rushing you, or if I made a mistake when sending the request when the requests were already closed, I'm sorry, I don't mean to offend you!

sending love to you <3

SOFT SPOT | mark grayson x sakura! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS:

The ruins of what used to be downtown Chicago groaned beneath the weight of collapsed steel and crumbling asphalt. Sunlight pierced through gaping cracks in the skyline, painting sharp shadows across the devastation.

You stood at the heart of it all, hair tousled, a few scrapes on your cheek. Your fists were caked in dust—and blood. Not yours.

“Mark!” you called, your voice echoing in the hollow remains of a parking garage.

A blur of blue and yellow streaked through the air, landing beside you with a gust of wind. Mark Grayson, aka Invincible, slightly out of breath and bruised, stared at you. “You already finished the kaiju?”

You cracked your knuckles, flexing your fingers. The rubble at your feet was cratered in a neat circle where you had punched the monster into the ground. “You were late.”

Mark whistled low, giving you a look. “I swear, I blink and you’re already doing my job.”

“Please.” You smiled faintly, teasing. “I could do your job and treat your wounds.”

Mark smirked. “That why you’re always glowing green? Chakra magic? Or whatever it’s called.”

You rolled your eyes. “Chakra. Not magic. Science that looks like magic. Don’t worry, I’ve explained this like ten times.”

“Still sounds like anime to me.”

You stepped forward and placed two fingers against his ribs—where you’d noticed him wincing when he landed. “Hold still.”

A soft green light pulsed from your fingertips, flowing into his torn suit and underneath. His muscles relaxed instantly.

Mark exhaled. “You know, every time you do that, I forget how much pain I’m in until it’s gone.”

“Good thing I’m around.” You winked. “You break too easy.”

He tilted his head. “Says the girl who punched a hole in a kaiju.”

“Punched through its skull,” you corrected. “Don’t disrespect my control.”

Mark stepped closer, the teasing fading from his voice. “You scare me sometimes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Because strong like you?”

“No,” he said, looking you dead in the eye. “Because I’ve never met anyone like you. And when you get angry—like really angry—this look comes over your face. Like you’re going to tear the world apart.”

You paused. Then whispered, “Then it’s a good thing I’m on your side.”

Silence passed between you, heavy with understanding. He reached up, brushed a dusty strand of hair from your face.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I don’t think Earth could survive you as a villain.”

“I could say the same for you. If you were a villain.. well…” you said, half-joking—but your expression didn’t change. Cold. Confident. Dangerous.

Mark swallowed. A thrill shot through him. He loved it. The power in you. The fire barely restrained.

But then you smiled again—soft this time. “Don’t worry. You’re my soft spot.”

He leaned in slowly, and you didn’t stop him. His forehead pressed to yours, his breathing steady.

“Promise you won’t punch me if I screw up?”

You laughed, low and dangerous. “I’ll heal you after.”

After the battle, Mark took your hand—quietly, without a word—and flew the two of you to the edge of the lake just outside the city ruins. He touched down on a grassy cliffside, and you followed, boots crunching against the stone.

The wind off the lake tugged at his cape, rippling it behind him like a banner. You folded your arms, watching the clouds roll in pink and orange across the water.

“Nice view,” you said.

“I was thinking the same thing.” He glanced at you, but didn’t look away fast enough.

You gave him a look. “Mark…”

He stepped a little closer. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

“Not my fault,” he said, his voice dipping into something warm and playful. “You’re like… glowy. Like, chakra-glowy.”

You raised your palm, letting a bit of green healing chakra spark to life in your hand. It shimmered gently in the dimming light, casting soft reflections in your eyes.

“Still freak you out?” you asked.

He shook his head. “No. Actually, I think it’s kinda beautiful.”

You arched a brow. “Beautiful, huh?”

Mark rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I mean—yeah. You’re smart. Crazy strong. You punch buildings in half and then turn around and heal people without blinking. That’s not scary. That’s… impressive.”

You looked down, suddenly shy. All your strength, all that training—it never really prepared you for gentle moments like this.

And he noticed. Always did.

Mark sat down on the grass and patted the spot beside him. “Come here.”

You joined him, knees touching, the silence between you peaceful for once. No screaming. No explosions. Just the wind, the lake, and your heartbeat slowly syncing with his.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Why do you try so hard to hold back?” he asked. “Like during fights—you only go full strength when you have to. Like today. It’s like you’re scared of yourself.”

You hesitated. Then answered honestly, “Because I am.”

Mark blinked, surprised.

You picked at the hem of your gloves, voice soft. “People see strength like mine and they expect me to destroy. To be a weapon. But I want to protect. I want to heal. If I lose control…” You looked up at him. “I’m afraid I’ll lose you.”

Mark took your hand again—gentler this time—and lifted it to his chest, over his heart.

“You won’t,” he whispered. “Even if the world’s falling apart. Even if you go full rage-mode and punch a moon in half—I’ll still be here.”

Your hand trembled just a little, and you leaned into him without meaning to. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side like you belonged there.

Like you fit.

And in the golden hour light, with Mark Grayson holding you under the soft breeze, for once, you didn’t feel like a weapon.

You just felt loved.

[pupsec]

𐔌 、kakashi　ﾉ　you quietly play the role of dutiful wife—until you uncover his secret stash of smut and realize your aloof husband might just be a filthy, pervert 𓈒　◟

cw: arranged marriageノdubcon undertones ノ obsession ノ explicit content ノdark themes ϑϱ

୨ৎ dead dove: do not eat！minors, blank & ageless blogs will be blocked ୨୧

You married him under sakura blossoms and a sky the color of secrets.

Kakashi Hatake never looked at you during the ceremony. His Sharingan was covered, his visible eye lowered, posture slack like this whole thing bored him. A political bond, they called it. A strategic arrangement. You were nothing but a name on a scroll, a signature in ink. You half expected him not to show up. Maybe a crow with a note tied to its leg instead—Sorry, too busy training. Best wishes.

But he came. He said "I do" with a shrug.

You moved into his quiet house tucked into a hill on the edge of the village, where the wind always carried the scent of pine and earth, and the porch creaked with age. He gave you the larger bedroom, disappeared into the smaller one down the hall. Never touched you. Barely spoke.

"Don’t trouble yourself," he murmured the first day, not even glancing up from his book. "I won’t get in your way."

So you didn’t. You dusted. Swept. Folded. You ironed his uniforms and laid them out with care. Cooked meals and left them covered with a little note—If you're hungry. Most went untouched.

You tiptoed around him like you were afraid to wake a sleeping wolf. A wife in name only. You kept your head down, told yourself it was fine. Maybe even peaceful.

Until one day you were cleaning.

It was raining. The sound of it tapping against the window made the silence heavier somehow. Kakashi wasn’t home. An early mission. You hummed as you dusted the shelf in his spare room—a room you weren’t supposed to touch, really, but something about it called to you today. Maybe it was the crooked frame. Maybe it was boredom. Or maybe it was the little pull of curiosity that always got girls like you in trouble.

You tugged the drawer open.

And froze.

Stacked. Neatly. Organized alphabetically, even. Rows of smutty novels. The kind with aggressively suggestive titles and lurid covers—The Icha Icha Chronicles: Lust in the Mist, Kunoichi Heat 3: Forbidden Jutsu. One was dog-eared right in the middle. You flipped it open before your brain could stop your hands, and—

The scene inside made your face go hot.

Someone tied up. Begging. Calling the man sensei. Pages sticky from too much use. You dropped it like it bit you and stumbled back.

Kakashi—stoic, unreadable Kakashi—was reading this filth?

You snapped the drawer shut and ran.

You didn’t bring it up. How could you?

You just scrubbed harder. Smiled tighter. Tried to push it out of your head. But then your panties started to vanish.

Not the plain ones. Not the folded cotton briefs. No—it was the delicate lace, the soft silk, the ones you only wore when you were feeling fragile and feminine. You thought maybe you misplaced them. Laundry mistake. Until it kept happening. Until you knew.

Then it was the scent. On the laundry. Faint, but there—something musky and warm and male. You started doing your laundry in secret.

And then one night, you caught him.

You woke for no reason. A soft creak. A breath. The door cracked open.

You pretended to stay asleep.

You kept your breaths slow, steady, heartbeat hammering in your ears as you felt his presence at the edge of the bed. So close. So quiet. Something shifted on the sheets.

You waited until he was gone to peek.

Your underwear drawer. Still open.

The next morning, Kakashi sipped his tea like nothing happened. Same bored look. Same lazy posture. The man who used your panties as a midnight addiction was smiling politely and asking if you wanted more sugar in your tea.

Your head spun.

How could he look at you like you were glass, when he was sneaking into your room just to press his face into your scent? How could he act so unaffected, when the flush on his throat betrayed something molten just under the skin?

You started watching him. Closer. The twitch of his fingers when you bent over. The way his eye followed the line of your throat when your robe slipped just a little. You tested it—dropped a towel "accidentally," bent slowly. Kakashi didn’t move.

But he stared.

When you turned to look at him, his nose was buried in that damned book again. As if he didn’t just imagine bending you over the table and fucking you till your knees gave out.

He was a ghost in the day and a deviant in the dark.

And you were the good little wife who smiled and served tea.

But you felt it now. The tension curling around both of you like smoke. The sharp awareness. The way his voice dipped low when he said thank you for breakfast, like it had a thousand meanings under it. The way your thighs clenched when he stood too close.

One night, you found a pair of your panties—worn, damp, and warm—folded under your pillow.

Your hands shook. You didn’t throw them out.

You tucked them away.

You weren’t sure who you were becoming.

But it made you wet just to think about it.

[gingerteawrites]

Babysitter - Geto Suguru

EPISODE 1: THE INTERVIEW

A/N: Wow it's been two months since I first posted this little story... I've been playing with ideas in my head for a long time and finally managed to write something coherent. I hope you like it

Content: geto suguru x female reader, dad!Geto, college student reader, non jujutsu au, angst, fluff, reader has some unspecified trauma.

Read previous part here.

Divider by: @k1ssyoursister

The hem of your dress shirt was starting to get all scrunched up between your fingers.

So much for ironing, you sighed under your breath, looking out at the passing scenery.

It was an uncharacteristically warm February afternoon, but the weather did nothing to untangle the increasingly winding ball of nerves in you. You gave yourself another once-over in the bus’ window, thoughts adrift.

Were you dressed too informal? How does one even dress to be interviewed for a babysitting job?

Doubt steadily crept over your choice of a white dress shirt tucked into a pair of jeans and brown cardigan. Memories of your last job interview flashed in your mind.

It had been a cumbersome encounter. All of that just for a secretary position. Long story short, the hiring manager had berated you for not being appropriately-dress (you were wearing sneakers, your only good pair of shoes, instead of heels).

You looked down at the white sneakers you had vigorously scrubbed the night before and sighed again. They’d have to do for today.

Dead and monotone, a female voice over the intercom announced your first stop. It was time for your transfer to the next bus line before you arrived at Geto Suguru’s house. You exited and waited only a few minutes for the latter to arrive. When you stepped into a bus, shocking with its clean and firm-cushoined seats (in staunch opposition to the janky metro buses from your neighborhood), your mind finally caught up to where you were going.

Mr Geto lived in a nice neighborhood. A really nice one. The wealthy edge of town, seemingly impermeable to the dirt and grime that the city seemed to endlessly churn.

Perfectly groomed trees lined the pavement, and big houses in the same fancy mid-century modern style dotted large lots. Your brain almost filled in the sound of driving lawnmowers and full, wealthy laughter.

“No shit he pays well,” you spoke under your breath as you stepped off at your final stop, the bus driver almost scaring you when they wished you a good day in an animated tone.

The navigation app was promptly pulled up to make sure you weren’t going to knock at a random rich person’s door. You confirmed the address and with a nod and set out for the home in question.

Soon, you were faced with a set of large ebony french doors. You took in a deep breath, mentally going over everything you had practiced and pulled at the hem of your shirt in a last-ditch attempt to straighten it before knocking on the door.

toc toc toc

A second passed. Another one.

You were about to knock again when a chime sounded above you, followed by the voice of a man.

“Who is it?” smoky and calm, the sound resounded above you.

“Uhm- my name is Y/N,” your voice was slightly shaky, the bundle of nerves only seeming to grow. “I’m here for the babysitting interview,” with great effort you forced yourself to sound more certain.

Relax.

“Oh, Y/N please come on in,” the voice sounded again before you heard a click of the door unlocking and parting slightly, inviting you into the house.

With small steps your feet carried you in, trying your best to not stare at the modern decor and the snaking canopy of plants that seemed to cover every wall. Even the air felt fresher in there, but that only served to heighten your anxiety. You didn’t belong here.

He’ll smell the poverty on me from a mile away.

A man appeared from behind the staircase, his dark pool of hair tied low in a loose ponytail and a thin frame of glasses perched on his nose. He looked like he belonged right in this place, all smooth and suave. Sleek and undeniably winsome.

He stepped closer, extending a hand.

“Welcome, I am Suguru Geto,” you shook his hand, his skin smooth against yours.

“Y/N L/N, nice to meet you,” he smiled, as if pleased by the mere sound of your name.

His eyes, a dark infite pool gave the impression that he could see through you. You decided right there that you didn’t like it. His polished exterior seemed to be a true reflection of his inner state, unlike you, who merely cosplayed a sense of self-assurance when needed.

“Please follow me,” his voice broke you out of your thoughts. You nodded, finally schooling your thoughts, and followed behind him as he led you further into the house. Deeper into the modern jungle. Eventually he pushed the door to a home office space, holding it open for you to walk in.

Now sitting across from him, you watched the man place his glasses down, and lean against his chair. Relaxed, undoubtedly feeling completely in control of the interaction. His eyes met yours, and you forced yourself to hold the contact.

“So, tell me about yourself,” he spoke softly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why are you interested in this job?”

Your back straightened, ready to give your spiel. This is the part you had prepared for, no need to be nervous. You reminded yourself.

“I am a fourth year university student studying cognitive science,” a weary smile overtook your features, the images of long hours of study flashing in your brain. You really did love your major, if only employers loved it as much as you. “I love spending times with kids,” partial truth, if they were capable of listening. “And I heard about you from a good friend so I thought it would be a good way to offer my help as well as an opportunity for me,” yes, no mention of your desperate need for money.

You looked up at him with a small smile, hoping he liked your little intro. From here, you had anticipated every question he would ask. Your skills with kids, patience and communication, safety and even first-aid. No matter what, you were prepared, having gone over every possibility a million times in your head.

“I already know all of that from your resume and letter of intent, Ms Y/N,” he leaned forward, tilting his head. His non-chalant demeanor feeling scathing against your nerves. He was too calm, like he knew what laid beneath the surface. Your bare self, desperate and hurt. The poor fabric of your shirt found itself between your fingers. At this rate, you would wear the cloth thin in no time. “You see, my girls mean the world to me,” he breathed out with a soft smile, “so tell me about you, honestly.”

Your shoulders sagged, breathing out a sigh. Despite your chronic overthinking, this was the one eventuality you had not anticipated. What kind of hippie had you had the misfortune to fall upon? Eyeing him wearily, your fingers dropped from the fabric of your shirt.

You chuckled under your breath, feeling strangely amused by the turn of events. Did he really expect to lay yourself bare? A stranger?

The audacity, really.

You knew you were due for a mental breakdown, and the urge to have it in a wealthy stranger’s house was starting to seem a little too appealing. Emotions warred in your mind, a split second for your brain to decide how to deal with this.

“Go tell someone if you think it will do anything,” he snickered above you. Your lips trembled, tears flowing down well-worn paths on your cheeks. “No one will believe you. NO ONE. So you better shut up!” The sting of a slap on your cheek almost registered before the words themselves.

Decision made.

A controlled smile slowly took over your features, and you looked back up at the man sitting across from you. You folded your hands in your lap. Calm, collected, perfectly mirroring his demeanor.

“To be honest, working with children has never quite been my dream. But necessity is the mother of invention, right? I might not have much experience, but I understand the mind, and I know that children want to feel safe and respected. I can offer that, beyond being patient and caring. I would be grateful to learn alongside your daughters, but ultimately you are the ones to decide.”

You could have sworn his eyes at you, if only for a split second. But soon it was gone, leaving the man relaxing back against his chair, giving you an easy smile.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he nodded. “Some people try too hard to sound overqualified, it’s all. I did not mean to put you in the spot.”

You shook your head.

“Not at all, it’s understandable. You just want to make sure that your daughters are safe, and I admire that,” he smiled at the remark, and you knew you got him. He pushed away from the table and stood with poise that was beginning to feel characteristic of him.

“Well the last part of the interview will be conducted by my daughters themselves. Is it alright if we transition to that right now?”

“Of course,” you nodded, and he soon directed you out of the office and into a well furnished play room adjecent to it.

The meeting with the Mimiko and Nanako had gone surprisingly well. A highly needed moment of respite from the torment of your own mind. The twins had eyed you wearily at first, but the second you pointed out the my little pony plushie that Nanako held close and started humming the opening tune, they had crowded you with persistent questions about your knowledge of the show.

Half and hour later, you were still sat on the floor, defending your love for Discord when a knock sounded on the door before opening slightly.

“Alright, girls, I think it’s time to let our new friend go,” their father had returned, crouching to pat the heads of his daughters. They protested weakly, but after an admonishing smile, they soon quieted down.

You stood and waved goodbye to the girls, following Geto back out into the living room.

“So, when would you like to start?” his voice held an amused lilt, clearly pleased by your encounter with the girls.

Your heart lunged in your chest and you looked up at him.

Job secured.

“Whenever you would like me to,” you spoke, hopefully not too eager, and his smile widened.

Back in the office space, you discussed pay; $30/hour, way more than you had ever made in any single job. You would be with the girl every weekday, for four hours after they returned from school. And he insisted on paying you time and half if he needed help outside of those times. You made a mental note to buy Nobara that new lipstick she’s been raving about just to say thanks.

After what felt like hours in this strange new world, you stepped out of his house. And it felt like you could take full breaths again. Breaths full of relief. With a mere part-time job, you would be able to pay rent and put food on the table. This was more stability than you had probably ever experienced in your life.

However, you could not shake the quiet sense of dread that crept into this one sunny moment.

Be grateful, you reminded yourself, stepping back into your small room. Back into the world you had worked so hard to built for yourself. You’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.

Unfortunately, I cannot guarantee a regular update schedule. Still, I hope you enjoyed this read.

Reblogs and comments are much appreciated(❁´◡`❁)

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