#best nose rings

[shaadiwish]

Check Out The Most Stunning Nath Designs For Brides This Wedding Season

[khayr]

I don't know how people wear blouses without it looking like a clown shirt, but Ashen went winners bitch, best of winners, AND best of opposite sex today!! Woohoo!!

[ririsasy]

Varadha touching his nose ring while looking at Deva, remembering the time when Deva himself that put it there for him with his own blood in his hand, remembering the fact that it was Deva who protected and kept his "little honor" intact.

[gggoldfinch]

me when I draw fanart of my own fic instead of writing it 🤡

(click for better quality. do not repost or use with ai)

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

In my sophomore year, The Hobbit was on my summer reading list, and I honestly disliked it and found it irritating. One of the essay assignments we got when school started included 'what is the significance of Gollum calling The Ring, my precious?'

Tricksy, that teacher was, I'd say.

[barbmolly]

[benegesseritofficial]

Shout out to the person wandering the oddities fair dressed as a butch minotaur. Like, picture a goth butch going all out with the dapper goth butchness. But also a bull head fully covering their head, and some furry calf warmers. And they were pulling it off??

[knight-intraining]

You all have to see some vacation selfies I took

[soleilapproves]

Boxer!Sukuna annoying you while you pamper him.

Masterlist

If the world knew what Sukuna was up to now, he’d be eaten alive. Emasculated and ridiculed by thousands of his fans that consisted of teenage boys, martial artists and “alpha” podcast bros.

Here he was, sitting in your pink room, wrapped in a fluffy Hello Kitty blanket as you did his skincare. The best sight of all was him (reluctantly) wearing a bunny ear headband to keep his unruly hair out of his face.

“How much more?” the boxer groaned as you poured a hydrating toner in your palm. “This is literally the first product, you giant baby. I’m so glad I noticed your huge pores. I feel I’ve scrubbed off a whole layer of your face with the amount of dead skin that came off after that mask.”

He rolled his eyes. “Beggars can’t be choosers. I gotta fight all the time and most of my sparring mates don’t really wash their hands before punching me in the face, ya know?”

“Well, I wish they did,” you say as you massage a vitamin serum in his face. “It’s cold and slimy. I don’t like it.”

“Shut up and let me do my job.”

“I deserve compensation.”

“Pizza’s on the way.”

“Monetary compensation sounds better.”

“I’m already using my expensive ass skincare on you. You’ve sucked me dry of my money.” He chuckled after you said that. You knew what was coming after this. “Sukuna, don’t you dare-“

“Maybe you could suck me dry instead.” He wiggled his eyebrows. You couldn’t believe that the dumbass you’re dating is one of the most feared men in the ring.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “you’re so lucky we’re past the first three months of our relationship or I would’ve ghosted you after tonight.”

“Hey!”

[nezuscribe]

gojo never imagined an arrange marriage with you, but now you’re all he can think about.

he thinks about you when he’s training, when he’s seated at his round table, when he’s in his bed, everywhere, every time, you’re all he can think about.

and you’re oblivious to it.

you heard the gossip everywhere you walked, about the girl gojo was pleading with his family to marry. how much he loved her, how beautiful she was, how much more elegant she was compared to you. you knew you were never his first choice, not even his fifth, but it hurt even more when everybody acknowledged it.

you stopped wearing your wedding ring, started acting like you were just another person there. luckily gojo didn’t seem to be in any hurry about making heirs, so pretending like you two were working things out didn’t even matter anymore.

you find yourself alone most of the time. your maids were kind and patient, but they had so many things to do throughout the day that you felt awful pestering them to walk around the estate with you.

eating dinners with gojo became normal, but most of your other meals were in silence, always feeling like a speck of dust in the large dining hall.

one day when you’re walking around aimlessly you stumble across the training grounds, the open space below you filled with men swinging wooden swords back and forth at each other.

it wasn’t difficult to find your husband, his white hair hard to miss in a crowd of others. he didn’t notice you watching from above, and so you stayed hidden, not knowing if the men were picky with who watched them.

he was swift and agile. everything he did was precise and with meaning. no wonder he was named the best warrior of the north.

you found this to be more entertaining than walking around the gardens for the tenth time or watching the cooks assemble the next meal, so you didn’t even notice how gojo looked up to see you, somehow slipping away without you knowing.

you were in a state of watching but not really thinking, almost jumping out of your skin when you heard his voice behind you.

“didn’t know i had an audience,”

you yelp, flinching as you look behind you to see your husband all sweaty, panting slightly as he moves his hair away from his face. you eye the stairs that led him up here, wondering how you could’ve missed that.

you laugh sheepishly, giving him an apologetic smile as you pick are your nails.

“i’m sorry,” you scratch behind your ears, feeling heat rise to your cheeks under his intense gaze. it’s unfair how pretty somebody can look, especially after training for an hour straight, “i was just walking around and i saw this.”

he waved it off, shaking his head as he leaned his sword on the wall.

“not a problem,” his eyes shine, “i just would’ve tried harder if i knew my wife was watching.”

my wife.

the words fall so smoothly from his lips you wonder how many times he’s said it before. with malice, hatred, necessity?

you smile a little bit, eyes crinkling around the edges as you look away briefly, not noticing the way gojo chased after your cheerful face.

“how’d you get up here? where are your ladies?” he asks suddenly, looking around at the fact that it was just you up here.

“my what?” you say, looking up at him through furrowed brows.

“you know,” he waves his arm around as if that would help, “you’re ladies in waiting,”

you scrunch up your nose a little bit, something he noticed you did when you were confused.

“oh, well, my maids are working right now,” you tell him, noting that he still didn’t look any less confused.

“no, not your maids, your ladies,” he tilts his head to the side, “the girls your family sent them up to help you around.”

you stare at him, unblinking.

“the girls that are your friends, the ones that help accustom you…” gojo trials off when he realizes he’s not getting anywhere with you.

you feel even more embarrassed than when he caught you watching him, hating the way you were clueless at yet another thing in this life that no one explained to you.

“the girls you hang around with?” he finally lands on, hoping this jogs your memory.

you shake your head, eyes wide as you fidget with the fabric of your dress. his eyes fall onto your finger, lingering on the fact that you’re not wearing your ring.

“who do you spend your time with throughout the day?” gojo seems even more lost than you. he’s seen you with…? well surely that one time…?

“by,” you swallow, embarrassed, “by myself. i walk around a lot.” you admit sheepishly.

“your family didn’t send…?” he answers his own question with his silence.

this entire time you’ve been alone?

he opens his mouth to speak but somebody beats him to it.

“satoru! get down here! we’re still not done!” his friends shouts from below, and you look over your shoulder to see all the men staring at the two of you.

gojo stares at you, unblinking.

“i,” he swallows but can’t find any words.

you can’t either.

he leaves you there, running down those stairs as he shouts at the other guys to resume what they were doing. that entire day he was off his balance because he kept looking up to see you there, but you weren’t.

maybe you were just walking around, like you said.

[snnrinc]

THE WAY I SCREAMED AT THIS UPDATE IS UNREAL!!!

♯ yandere! rockstar x manager! reader ♪

— feroze gives up playing nice and finally gets what he really wants.

cw: possessive themes, blood and violence (kinda detailed, but not to reader) & implied noncon nsfw.

notes: this is so late. blame my depression LOL. was listening to greetings from califournia whilst writing!

everyone who was anyone was scheduled to attend tonight's party.

although, it was quite evident when the red carpet was rolled out and the limousines and sports cars parked, who the paparazzi were really here for.

because despite his undisguised disdain for the flashing cameras and curious reporters that surrounded him — from the moment he stepped out of his sleek black car (la voiture noir, one of the only two in existence) everyone’s eyes were on feroze khan.

and for good reason, you mused, as he turned around to help you out of the low car. tonight, you had made sure the stylist did her best, even offered her a raise. and god, when you looked at him, you realised that every second paid off.

red henna adorned his knuckles, decorating the golden rings he wore against traditional designs of gorgeous flowers and spirals that trailed up the muscles of his arms. his suit was a dark green velvet which contrasted his brown skin perfectly.

his crimson hair was done half up-half down, some stray waves falling across his thick eyebrows and dark eyes, lined with kajal. his silver nose piercing had been replaced by a larger, gold ring, its dainty chain extended from his nose ring to the upper lobes of his left ear.

he looks unfairly good - and every bit the man whose posters are hung up on every teenager’s walls and whose pictures take up half of the storage of your phone.

you're broken out of your reverie by a low chuckle, “it’s rude to stare, meri jaan.” feroze says, as he extends his hand out towards you.

a frown, “i wasn’t staring.” you try not to focus on how sweetly the words fall from his lips, my love — and take his hand as he helps you out the car,

“of course you weren’t.” followed by a knowing smile as his warm fingers are curl around yours, pulling you to his side, like you’ve never belonged more anywhere else.

the paparazzi are on you instantly, and the moment you take a step onto the red carpet that leads to the expensive venue before you, their attention is divided amongst the two of you, instead of being pinned on the rockstar entirely.

you can tell by the way the man besides you reaches his other arm around your shoulders, almost possessively, that he knows this too.

you lean in closer, lower your voice so only he can hear you. “remember to be good tonight, rosy. everyone’s going to be watching you really carefully after that stunt you pulled at the interview.”

“stay next to me, then.” is all the rockstar replies, and you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at him. "it's the least you can do for dragging me to this stupid party."

he leans closer to you, lips against your helix and hand over it, as if he were telling you a secret. "though, you could always repay the favour in other ways."

you swat feroze’s hand away, and hope he can’t feel the warm flush on your skin, but you know it’s wishful thinking with the low laugh he lets out as he leads you through the grand double doors, wide open and inviting, as the two of you step in together, albeit a few hours late.

inside, the party is in full swing. a large chandelier overlooks gossiping guests with fur coats and expensive jewels draped over their polished skin. laughter and music waft through the large hall, and champagne flutes adorn everyone’s hands.

there’s something carefully careless about the air in the hall, but feroze’s presence besides you is a constant comfort as you lead him through the crowd and to the bar.

he raises an eyebrow, but follows you faithfully, fingers interlaced with yours and enjoying every moment of it, “we just arrived, and you want to share a drink with me already?”

“don’t get ahead of yourself, khan.” you roll your eyes but he doesn’t miss the sound of quiet laughter against your knuckles. “besides, we both know you’d be begging for attention and clinging to me in two drinks, anyways.” you tease, “lightweight.”

“i don’t need to beg for your attention.” he says, trying his best not to reach out and just pull you closer. “and don’t forget how most of the time it’s you doing the begging, meri jaan.”

“feroze!” you hiss, turning your back to him so he doesn’t see the smile you’re trying your hardest to keep hidden, lest it only encourage him. “can you not say things like that so carelessly in public?”

“is someone getting all shy?” the man teases, a lazy smile on his lips as he pokes your cheek from behind. “hmm. cute, but i prefer when you’re being all bratty and demanding.”

“first off, i’m not bratty, you’re just annoying.” you untangle your fingers from his with a frown, even though your heart feels undeniably full. “and secondly, has anyone ever told you you talk way too much?”

he hums absently., as if giving actual thought to the matter before responding, “no, actually. for some reason, i only ever hear that from you.”

curious stares follow the two of you, the worlds most prominent musician and his grumpy manager — but it isn’t enough for him, no. it isn’t anywhere near enough. he needs everyone to see that he’s yours, and you’re his.

and maybe they would have, if you hadn’t insisted on covering up the hickeys he’d left all over your neck, for the sake of being presentable and professional.

absently, he watches you speak to the bartender, hates the way the bartender passes you a friendly smile and hates it even more when you smile back. but he's willing to forget that the moment you turn back to him, looking so beautiful, always so fucking gorgeous.

“you look wonderful today, so put together.” he says, words tinged with a teasing tone, accompanied by a lighthearted smile. “i can barely believe you’re the same person i made such a mess of just last night.”

“one more word,” you take two flutes from the bartender, and fix him with the deadliest glare you can muster. “and i’m leaving you here all alone, khan.”

“no more rosy?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. you shake your head and feroze can’t help but think about how beautiful you are, even when you’re annoyed with him. even when he refuses to listen to you, despite your role as his manager.

“only when you behave.” you respond, setting your flute down to beckon him closer. “now stay still, and let me fix your hair.”

he hates your role as his manager most in moments like these, when you gently brush stray strands of his dark red waves from his face, and he watches the way you run your fingers through his hair, wanting to see if the curl will hold, with a certain fondness he reserves for you only.

in moments where he wants nothing more than to kiss you until he can't breathe and and your mellifluous voice can’t say anything except his name. he needs to show you, time and time again, what exactly you mean to him. but, as you never fail to remind him, professionalism.

“one more thing, feroze—” you're about to say something, presumably to remind him again, to be on his best behaviour, or to stop staring at his lips so intently.

either way, he doesn't get to find out, because just as you hand him a champagne flute, you’re cut off by a tap on his shoulder, accompanied by a familiar voice, and a fake smile.

“hello, khan.” a smooth voice greets, “haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you at once of these for a while.”

at the sound of his name, feroze turns, doesn't bother to smile when he greets the man behind him. you notice the musician recognises him instantly, albeit his complete disinterest he outwardly expresses in indulging in any conversation.

"vuong, always such a joy to meet you." the rockstar drawls, in a voice which indicates the exact opposite.

it’s only when the star says his name do you realise who this is, and can’t help but wonder how your troublemaking musician seems to be so well acquainted with the ceo of the most reputable celebrity management company in this country.

"you doing good, khan?” michael asks. he looks the epitome of this party’s high class audience. “heard you topped the charts seventh time in a row, hm?” a charming man donned in an expensive suit and diamond earrings, silky hair slicked back, and a pretty smile that doesn’t entirely reach his dull eyes.

“whilst it’s sweet of you to ask about my career, michael, how about we skip the formalities and you tell me what you’re really here for?” feroze says plainly, and you notice that michael’s eyes wander from the musician and over to you.

“very well,” michael’s rolex glints under the chandelier’s lights as he vaguely gestures to you, “i’ve been meaning to hire a competent, experienced, and resilient assistant for one of my more difficult clients.” he begins, in a polite accent you can’t quite place. “my brother, actually.”

“so your little brother needs a babysitter and you want my manager for the job?”

“when you put it like that, it sounds bad.” michael sighs wearily, no longer pretending to keep up the friendly facade he had donned only a moment prior. “but i assure you that your manager would be in capable hands, and compensated very handsomely for their efforts. i know how much of a headache valentine can be.”

feroze is about to say something, but michael holds up a pale hand to keep him quiet, and you instantly hate him for it. “i saw your disastrous interview, before your manager worked so relentlessly to have it removed from the internet.” you blink, caught off guard by his words. “their skills would be better suited working for someone like me.”

feroze raises an eyebrow. “is that so? well, i’m sorry, really.” his tone is shamelessly unapologetic when he speaks, “but they’re going to have to say no. my manager has no interest working for someone like you; besides, valentine’s a big boy, i’m sure he can take care of himself.”

but feroze’s words are entirely ignored. instead, the ceo turns to you, “surely you don’t let him speak for you?” michael asks, and his lips curl into a strange smile — “i’ll pay you double, and you’ll have half the workload you do now. my brother is much more low maintenance compared to your darling rockstar, over here.”

you cross your arms, meet michael’s narrowed eyes with your own and tilt your head to the side. “i’m sorry, did you not hear rosy?” you ask, “i have absolutely no interest working with somebody like you. besides, i’m perfectly happy with my current job, and with my, what did you call him? oh — darling rockstar.”

it’s this moment where feroze is eternally grateful for his brown skin, which completely hides the furious blush that warms his entire body.

“rosy?” michael echoes, curiously.

you ignore his question and take a sip of sparkling golden champagne, leaning over to feroze, “you take care of this entitled piece of shit, and i’m gonna go find us a place to sit.” you whisper, before turning away without so much as a backwards glance at the ceo.

“well, that’s settled. i think you should leave, vuong.” feroze says, watches the bubbles in his champagne as he gently tips the glass back and forth. “i’d say it’s obvious you’re not going to find your brother’s babysitter here, yes?”

michael watches you leave, before turning back to the rockstar with a knowing look in his dark brown eyes. “how unprofessional.” he remarks, “sleeping with your manager, khan?��

“excuse me?” feroze looks up at the ceo through dark lashes. “i don’t think that has anything to do with you, vuong.” he attempts nonchalance, but michael doesn’t miss the way feroze’s grip on his flute tightens, and instantly he knows he’s right.

“doesn’t it?” michael asks, “isn’t that the only reason they’re still working for you? because you make them feel good?” the ceo lowers his voice, the words that leave his lips a stark contrast from the amiable smile painted on his lips. “you think they’d take me up on my offer if i could make them feel even better? i bet i could fuck your little manager even better than you, khan. come into that big mouth and destroy that attitude of th—fuck!”

unfortunately for him, michael doesn’t get to finish speaking. probably due to the fact that feroze smashes his champagne flute against michael’s head. the sight is sickening, as the glass shatters into hundreds of small fragments, littering michael’s skin with violent cuts that pierce his pale skin.

screams erupt in the fancy venue, echoing off the intricately carved walls as feroze roughly pushes michael down onto the polished floors before he kneels down himself, straddling the ceo with absolute indifference on his face as he curls his hand into a tight fist before slamming it into michael’s face, with all of the force he can muster.

once, twice, thrice. he loses count, can’t think of anything but the ceo’s taunting words, the way that fucking bastard had the nerve to speak about you — if feroze has his way, michael won’t be speaking ever again.

the man’s hair is wet from the champagne, sticky from the blood, not unlike the rest of his body. his sloped nose is crooked, sticking out unnaturally. his teeth are painted red, and his eyes are puffy and bruised, something ugly lurking beneath his skin.

but feroze is not done yet. no, this isn’t anywhere near enough.

michael coughs heavily, and it turns into something more painful which causes blood to spurt from his lips, to paint the rockstar’s knuckles in red, leave them absolutely wet, he pulls his hands away and michael laughs, a strangled sound which is painful to listen to, “well done, khan.” he wheezes, “you j-just ruined your… yourself.”

he has the decency to finally shut up when feroze picks up the largest shard of glass he can find, uncaring that holding it leaves a large gash in his palms, as he lines it up against michael’s adams apple.

feroze smiles, but there is something dangerous behind it as he takes in the mess he’s made. “i’m going to kill you, vuong.”

“y-you can’t kill me! we-were at a… in public! you’ll g-go to jail, you…! y-your manager won’t—” the ceo’s eyes widen as he trips over his words, stuttering profusely when he realises that the man above him is not done yet.

but the musician merely tunes him out, presses the sharp shard down and draws a droplet of crimson blood which he watches, with satisfaction, as it seeps down his pale throat — before someone forcibly pulls his arms behind his back.

it is only then that feroze notices men and women much bigger than him and dressed in all black, tasers by their sides. he closes his eyes as they harshly pull him off the shaking ceo and disarm him, someone’s knees brutally pressing against his back as they shove his head and body down and wait for the police to arrive.

it is only when feroze opens his dark eyes does he see you standing across the hall, unmoving — even as people ruthlessly push past you to the exits, in a desperate attempt to get out, you stay very, very, still.

feroze does not feel remorse.

that much is evident from the splatters of dark blood which stain his brown skin, and the low laugh that spills past his lips and echoes off the walls.

"you assaulted the ceo of one of the most influential companies in this industry, khan."

you ignore the hundreds of demanding emails and texts and phone calls that flood in every few seconds.

you turn your phone off, and it takes everything within you not to hurl it at the man who stands before you, entirely silent in your presence for the first time.

"he deserved it." feroze says nonchalantly, and you try to ignore the fresh scar on his palm.

“i just don’t understand, i was never going to accept his job offer, anyways. and we handled it so well! we got him to back off, and i was so proud you didn’t do anything stupid and excited to spend the rest of the night with you — and then you… you fucked it all up.”

“what i did,” feroze says, “was for your sake.”

"okay," you say. disappointed, but not surprised at his response, and evident apathy towards the ceo, who you heard was in a medically induced coma. if anything, his answer should make this easier, but the words are still every bit as difficult to say as you'd thought they would be.

"then… this is also for my sake: i quit."

for a moment, silence fills your office, and a certain weight shifts the air, renders it much heavier than it was only seconds ago.

“what,” feroze demands, in a voice he's never used with you before. his jaw is tense, arms taut, and you realise, as your heart sinks — coiled with restraint. when feroze speaks, his voice is low, and trepidation looms over you at the tone of his words and the way he narrows his dark eyes. “did you just say?”

"i said, i quit. i don't want to work with you anymore, and i called you here to tell you that your career is done for." you repeat, trying to ignore the wry laugh that slips past his lips, until it becomes disbelieving laughter so loud that it fills the room and suffocates you and he's doubled over.

"i'm not going to be your manager, anymore." you tell him, watch as he looks up at you through curled lashes, wiping a tear from his eye, the kajal smudging his skin. “i feel like i don’t even know you anymore, after what you did to vuong.”

"meri jaan," feroze smiles, and it's all mocking. "surely, you don't think i'm just going to let you leave, after everything we've been through?" it's the type of smile you've seen him use at events he doesn't care to attend, deems insignificant and dismisses.

he doesn't care about his career, you might believe he has nothing going for him anymore, but if there's one thing he loves about this lifestyle — it's that he's untouchable.

that’s how the police allowed to him to leave, off the hook even after almost murdering a man.

sure, he'll be the cause of outrage for a while, and michael will definitely press charges when he comes to — but all feroze has to do is pay off some journalist looking for their next big story to write an article about michael’s affinity for messing around with underaged boys — and then the tables will turn, like they always do.

it's a matter of waiting he thinks, and finally getting what he really wants.

you stand up, storm towards the door which leads out of your office, absolutely done with this conversation and ready to leave — but feroze is leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, and unmoving.

unfortunately, he had overestimated himself, as it seems that even his patience towards you has a limit.

“you said you loved me, but you lied, because if you loved me, you wouldn’t act like this.” you tell him, your momentary confusion giving way to absolute anger, when he refuses to move out of your way. “let me leave, khan. i'm done, and i won't work with someone so violent.”

“let you leave?” he raises an eyebrow. feroze’s stygian eyes grow impossibly darker when he lets his gaze wander, lingering on the places you know he loves most.

“didn’t i tell you, from the beginning, that this was something more than love? i said you were my majbuuri, called it ishq — i've never lied to you, so believe me when i say,” he tilts his head to the side. “you don’t get to leave.”

“like hell i don’t,” you scoff, you glare at him with all the authority you can muster, which is none, considering you’re not actually his manager anymore. “move,” you demand. and when he doesn’t, you use all of your energy to shove him to the side and turn the handle.

it doesn’t open — why won’t it open?

you try again.

and again.

and again.

the door is locked, you realise, and your heart sinks when you hear that laughter again, turn to meet eyes lined in smudged kajal and hands, adorned with golden rings you yourself had picked out only hours prior, now gently holding your face.

you can feel all of his cold rings against your jaw, feel his pulse thundering from beneath his wrists even though his expression is carved with careful consideration and a soft smile, real emotions betrayed by his hungry, black gaze — trained solely on you.

“feroze,” you try one more time, to see past the manic glint in his eyes, his racing heartbeat, and ignore his words. you trusted him, you loved him, despite the headache he could be, you knew it was wrong and hypocritical but you had loved him. and that was the worst part about this. “please don't ruin this more than you already have."

but your words fall on deaf ears, and feroze is indifferent to the tears of hopelessness that well up in your wide eyes. “you don't get to leave, meri jaan. i love you too much for that, i love you entirely and i love you desperately, but most of all,” he says the words softly, and they sound like your favourite song, played too many times by a broken record. "i love you selfishly."

"you don't know how patient i have been when it comes to you, because of your fucking professionalism. you don't know how much i need you, how it only gets worse every time you're all bossy. so fucking gorgeous even when you’re mad at me, telling me off.”

“you thought i was trouble then?" feroze asks in a voice impossibly quiet as he lowers his lips to your jaw, "that was me on my best behaviour."

"i've had enough of biding my time and pretending to give a fuck about anything that isn't you," the star says with such finality to his low words, that you're compelled to believe him. "to hell with being patient and playing nice, because now i've got you all to myself, and fuck, you aren't going anywhere, meri jaan."

who cares if good things come to those who wait?

at that, he laughs, one hand curling around your waist to hold you in place as the other slips under the fabric of your clothes, fingers skimming your bare skin, "it's not like you'd really be able to," feroze hums, pressing kisses over the hickeys which already decorate your neck, "by the time i'm done with you.”

better things come to those willing to take them.

[shaadiwish]

Best Nath Designs For Brides Of 2024

[screampied]

you don’t really realize you’re growing old with satoru until you spot a grey tress inside the roots of your hair as you’re looking in the mirror. the thing about marriage and life itself was that time really doesn’t stop—for no one. as you entrap the lock between your fingers, you murmur out to satoru with a cheeky grin. “satoru baby, c’mere.”and as he’s lying in bed with a wrinkled nose, he reads some book titled ‘three men in a boat.’ as he flips a thick page, his cerulean blue reading glasses crook down the bridge of his nose before he turns his attention toward you.

“yesss, honey?” he rubs his eyes, bringing a palm up to his growing stubble. as he got older, you noticed how he moved a bit slower. satoru was still fit as he aged, but he’d have a bit of a waddle whenever he walked. it was cute—how his limbs were getting more and more fragile, but he was still labeled as the strongest despite his inevitable aging.

he makes his way behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. the two of you make eye contact through the mirror that reflects you both, a happy married couple. “look, we’re finally matching now,” and his face softens once you bring the silvery colored strand up to his view. ‘matching,’ because his hair was naturally a snowy white . . almost similar to the strand of hair you just showed him.

although as the years progressed, satoru was growing ashen grey streaks too.

“i guess we are,” he replied in a gentle tone, his hands remaining on your hips. satoru’s touch was always gentle and ginger. he presses his lips near the back of your nape before letting off a soft sigh. “you’d look pretty with white hair, actually.”

“prettier than you?” you hum, glancing at him through the mirror. satoru towers over you as he holds you, the band of his wedding ring grazing against your hip.

again, you watch as the corners of his lips crease into a smile. a toothy genuine one where his dimples show.

“haha, veeeery funny,” and as he buries his face into your neck, he deeply ponders to himself for a moment.

to think . . how much time has passed, out of all the countless tiresome battles he’s had to face—

all those years at trying to keep the world safe and now, he could finally relax. having his arms around you gave him a peace of mind, and in the end it was all worth it because at the end of the day, satoru gojo—the strongest, came back to you. you were his personal safe haven and he was yours.

“but honeyyy,” he yawns with rosy pouty lips, shifting his chin up to rest against your left shoulder. satoru starts leading you toward your side of the bed. “ ‘s pretty late, let’s getcha back to bed, hm?”

“okay,” you mumble, already feeling your eyes starting to get heavy again. satoru’s still got his burly arms wrapped around your waist as he leisurely guides you back to bed. he was clingy, and that never changed. satoru gojo’s always been clingy ever since the two of you met. as he pulls down the cover for you to enter, you crawl back in and he gets beside you.

satoru slings an arm around you, pulling you close as his hooded eyes starts a staring contest with the swaying wooden ceiling fan.

it’s moving slow. . just like time was.

whenever he was with you, it felt as if time stood still. and as the both of you cuddled against each other with your head resting against his beating heart, he sighs. it’s a content happy sigh, and satoru’s hands find their way near the top of your head. his thin fingers maze it’s way near your soft grey growing strand before he leans in, giving the crown of your head a goodnight kiss. “mwah,” and he watches as your eyes briefly widen before glancing away, growing sheepish. “get some rest, my love. i’ll be here when you wake up. promise.”

you nod, too drowsy to reply and he pulls you closer. satoru’s heartbeat was steady and slow, and each pulse that bested against your ear made you felt more and more protected. as he holds you firm and close, a hand of his softly caresses your forehead—brushing against the soft hairs that cling onto your skin.

as your breathing starts to relax and your eyelids finally close, he realizes you finally drifted off to sleep. satoru exhales lowly, almost forgetting to take off his reading glasses. as he places them near the nightstand, he lies back down, giving your sleeping state once last glance.

“i love you,” he whispers against your ear before reaching for the pearled lamp switch. “so much.”your head nuzzles against his chest and he assumes that was your non-verbal way of saying it back, even in your sleep. cute.

the only sounds that could be heard were the faint tick tocking of the grandfather clock that stood near the hallway and your soft breathing as you deeply slept. satoru feels a smile tugging against his glossed lips yet again, but this time it’s different . .

it’s not the same smile from when you showed him that you were graying, it was a more genuine smile that was satisfied at everything—primarily at life. satoru’s long crystalline lashes gradually flap shut as he smiles to himself, a thumb brushing against your forehead. all those battles was worth it in the end, because right now, he’s at the only place he wanted to be . . with you.

life wasn’t a competition, but satoru finally felt at peace, true peace—and that peace was being in your presence. he wasn’t one for believing in good endings, but maybe this particular one wasn’t so bad.

“i . . won.”

[weisscreamcake]

28 ✨🧁

[l-cereta]

literally will never get over the canon ageplay kink guy in elementary