#buy stoles online | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thechikankaristory · 11 months

Text

Wholesale Designer Dupatta & Stoles In India

Looking to add a touch of elegance and style to your outfits? Wholesale Designer Dupatta & Stoles In India Look no further than wholesale designer dupattas and stoles in India. These exquisite accessories not only enhance the beauty of your attire but also give you a unique and fashionable look. In this article, we will explore the world of wholesale designer dupattas and stoles in India, showcasing their expertise, authority, and trust.

What are wholesale designer dupattas & stoles? Wholesale designer dupattas and stoles are high-quality accessories made with fine fabrics and exquisite embellishments. They are designed by skilled artisans who understand the latest trends and fashion preferences. Why should you choose wholesale designer dupattas & stoles from India? India is renowned for its rich textile heritage and craftsmanship. Buy designer pure silk saree online Wholesale designer dupattas and stoles from India offer a wide range of options in terms of designs, colors, and materials. They are known for their unique patterns, intricate embroideries, and attention to detail. Where can you find wholesale designer dupattas & stoles in India? India is home to numerous wholesale markets that cater to the demands of buyers from all over the world. Some of the popular wholesale markets for designer dupattas and stoles include Chandni Chowk in Delhi, Sarojini Nagar Market in Delhi, and Chickpet Market in Bangalore. What are the benefits of buying wholesale designer dupattas & stoles in India?

By purchasing wholesale designer dupattas and stoles in India, Shop Trousers Online At Best Prices In India you can enjoy several benefits. Firstly, you get access to a wide variety of designs and styles at competitive prices. Secondly, you can be assured of the authenticity and quality of the product as they are sourced directly from manufacturers. Finally, buying wholesale allows you to stock up on these fashionable accessories and expand your collection.

How to Choose the Perfect Wholesale Designer Dupattas & Stoles?

Before making a purchase, consider the occasion for which you are buying the dupatta or stole. Different occasions call for different styles and designs. For formal events, opt for embellished dupattas with intricate work, while for casual outings, choose lightweight and colorful options. Material and Fabric: The choice of fabric plays a crucial role in the overall look and feel of the dupatta or stole. Silk, chiffon, georgette, and cotton are popular choices. Consider the weather conditions and the comfort level you desire while selecting the fabric. Color and Design: The color and design of the dupatta or stole can make or break your outfit. Opt for colors that complement your attire and enhance your overall appearance. Explore different designs such as floral, paisley, or geometric patterns to find the one that best suits your style. Embellishments and Embroideries: Wholesale designer dupattas and stoles often feature exquisite embellishments and embroideries. From zari work to mirror work, choose the one that appeals to your aesthetic preferences. Pay attention to the quality of workmanship to ensure long-lasting beauty.

How to Style Wholesale Designer Dupattas & Stoles?

Pair a vibrant, Buy Tops & Tunics For Ladies Online In India heavily embellished dupatta with a plain saree or lehenga to create a stunning look for weddings or festive occasions. Let the dupatta take center stage by draping it elegantly over one shoulder or using it as a stylish headscarf. For Western Wear: Experiment with contemporary styling by pairing a printed stole with a plain top or dress. Drape it casually around your neck or let it hang loose for a boho-chic look. You can also use a stole as a stylish belt to cinch your waist and add a touch of uniqueness to your outfit. For Fusion Wear: Create a fusion look by pairing a dupatta or stole with indo-western ensembles. Drape a silk dupatta over a jumpsuit or tunic for a touch of traditional glamor. Use a stole as a stylish accessory by tying it around your waist or draping it diagonally across your body.

Conclusion

Wholesale designer dupattas and stoles in India offer a wide range of options to elevate your style quotient. Wholesale Designer Dupatta & Stoles In India With their unique designs, exquisite craftsmanship, and high-quality materials, they are a must-have in every fashion enthusiast's wardrobe. So, why wait? Explore the vibrant world of wholesale designer dupattas and stoles in India and add a touch of elegance to your outfits.

Looking for wholesale designer dupatta & stoles in India? Discover the expertise, authority, and trust of these exquisite accessories that add elegance and style to your outfits. Dive into the world of wholesale designer dupattas and stoles in India today! Visit here:- https://thechikankaristory.com/

#Wholesale Designer Dupatta & Stoles In India #Buy designer pure silk saree online #Buy Tops & Tunics For Ladies Online In India

0 notes

urbanmedley3 · 11 months

Text

Elevate Your Style with Our Handmade Silk Scarf

Discover elegance with our silk scarves for women, available online. Elevate your style effortlessly with our handmade collection. Shop now for timeless sophistication and convenience.

#silk scarf #silk scarf shop #stole scarf #silk scarves online #silk scarves for women #affordable silk scarves #handmade silk scarf #buy silk scarves online

0 notes

manishsinghh1984 · 2 years

Text

#digital print silk scarf online #Buy Digital Print silk stoles

0 notes

kazekagevi · 2 months

Text

Bonds Beyond Words: If Eywa Wills It

PART ONE PART TWO

Pairing: Aged-Up!Neteyam x Fem!Human!Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Tags: dark themes, indirect mention of r*pe, suicide attempt, eventual NSFW, aged-up! Neteyam, reader has PTSD, Neteyam dislikes humans (except for you), eventual jealous/possessive Neteyam, future Olo'eyktan! Neteyam, interspecies slow burn, angst, fluff, probably OOC, POV’s all over the place, forgive the inconsistencies.

Summary: You, a competent researcher and writer, awoke from cryosleep a year ago, only to be imprisoned by the RDA—they intended to force you and many other women into a selective breeding program to kickstart human repopulation. However, you, the other prisoners, and allied wardens formed an escape plan; it was carried out, but you are the lone survivor.

A/N and Disclaimer: This is my first x reader fic! This is also my first fic on Tumblr in years! I've been reading a lot of ATWOW fics and thought I would write my own. I am also challenging myself to write in present tense (I'm a past tense girly), so please forgive any grammatical errors. Hope you enjoy <3

This story contains explicit content and is only appropriate for audiences 18+. MDNI. Please do not repost my work.

The tracking device beneath your skin feels like a ticking time bomb—although you’re certain it doesn’t have the power to detonate, should the RDA find your location before the prison sector’s power unit comes back online, it could still bring mass destruction to this region of the extrasolar moon. As if the RDA hasn't done enough of that already.

As you walk barefoot through the unfamiliar forest of Pandora, you wonder if this is heaven. Surely, you must have died along the way—you survived the initial jailbreak, then the evasion at dawn, and managed to remain mostly unscathed from the chopper accident. On Earth, you’d feel compelled to buy a lottery ticket. The thought alone makes you chuckle, and your mask fogs in response. Your laughs, albeit quiet, turn maniacal. Maybe you hit your head hastily fleeing the first bunker, or got thwacked by metal shrapnel in the crash.

If you live, the escape will count as a partial success. Living would make you a hero; but as darkness falls on this foreign planet, you silently wish you had become a martyr like the others instead.

You’re completely defenseless. You have nothing more than your respirator mask that won’t stop fogging due to your panicked breaths, and the clothes on your back. You adorn an oversized jacket that you stole from the valiantly deceased helo pilot, and your prison uniform—it’s nothing more than a flimsy, green hospital gown.

You should know more about this place. You were chosen among an elite class of writers to research alien life on Pandora. You loved traveling and writing about new cultures—studying language, customs, and history. It was your pride and joy, your life’s work. Yet, the nightmare started the day you woke from cryosleep and you were forced into a tiny cell with three other women. In your year of imprisonment, two of them had already been selected into the breeding program, while you and the other, Claudia, were awaiting that same fate.

You almost slip on a patch of sludge and break your fall by grabbing a tree stump.

You do know, however, that this hostile environment will kill you if you don’t find the tribe you’re searching for. Certainly, your luck will run out soon.

So, you stop laughing, blink away the tears in your eyes, and regain your focus. You’d slap your own cheeks if you could, but your mask renders the act impossible. You have to survive, or else the girls’ and allied wardens’ deaths will be meaningless.

As you continue on your path, the mud starts to dampen, coating the soles of your feet. You presume this is from a recent rainstorm, or perhaps you’re nearing a water source. You swallow hard—inevitably, you’re thirsty. But if breathing Pandora’s air will kill you, the water will likely do the same.

As you carefully wade through the soppy terrain, you repeat the same phrases under your breath like a prayer or mantra. Even if you suffered amnesia and lost all your memories like a slate wiped clean, you could suffice to lose it all, except a few words which you memorized in Na’vi.

Using these phrases would determine if you lived or died, assuming you weren’t slain with an arrow on sight: after introducing yourself in the language, you must tell them you seek asylum with the Omatikaya clan at High Camp and Max knows you’re coming. Lastly, you needed to say there is a tracking device under my skin, please cut it out.

You recite these phrases again, except this time you mess up the grammatical structure on the last part. You winge, correct yourself, and continue on your course.

The planet begins to dim as time passes. As you avoid tripping over tree roots and crushing delicate flowers, you notice Pandora’s subtle glow. The bioluminescent spots that dot the terrain look like freckles on skin. It’s the first time you’re seeing the real thing up close, instead of in a tiny photograph. You’re as enamored as you are terrified.

Your feet hurt and your shins ache when night fully settles. You’ve been traveling by foot for hours. Imprisonment and preparation for forced motherhood meant there was little opportunity for exercise in the compound. Your body isn’t used to lifting heavy things or globetrotting long distances.

As you use the last of your energy reserves to think—to consider stopping in a safe area for a break—a tremendous force stops you first.

This is it, you think. You know you're going to die.

The force is a Na’vi, whom you cannot see. From their position behind you, an arm wraps around your abdomen, lifting your smaller body off the ground like a doll. The Na’vi lodges their elbow into your stomach, knocking the wind out of you, all so they can wrap their large blue hand around your small, human neck. Despite the panic, you notice how controlled the Na’vi’s grip is—just enough to hold you still without choking you. It feels like a strange paralysis. Your oxygen mask fogs as you pant in distress.

“Why I should not kill you?” The Na’vi asks in broken English. The timbre of the voice leads you to believe this one is male.

Say the thing! your mind reels. You resist the urge to flail your limbs. The slightest movements make the Na’vi tighten his grip—at this very moment, you notice his other hand holds a dagger to your throat. The space between your skin and the blade is miniscule, as is your proximity to certain death.

So you do it, you say the thing. Except, it comes out all wrong:

“My… My name is Asylum at High Camp,” you stammer in Pandora’s native language.

The Na’vi makes a sound of confusion. You won’t know until later, but Neteyam thinks your pronunciation is mechanical, unpleasant, and downright horrible.

Your chest heaves wildly and your heart thrums in your chest like a drum. The realization hits like a truck. “Wait… No, that’s not right,” you say in English. Your jagged breaths aren’t allowing oxygen to circulate in the mask properly—the same goes for your brain.

The Na’vi growls against your ear. You’re running out of time. You gather the last of your composure.

You tell him your name, properly this time, then continue with your monologue. “I-I seek asylum at High Camp, Max knows I’m coming,” you sputter like a dying engine.

The Na’vi makes another sound of confusion, yet still seems dissatisfied. He gently presses the tip of the knife to your throat.

“No! Please!” you beg. Your hands instinctively wrap around his glowing-freckled forearm, but you don’t tug.

The Na’vi freezes. You can’t see it, but something is happening.

Neteyam’s hairless brows furrow when a woodsprite lands on the edge of the blade he inherited from his maternal grandfather. The woodsprite lingers there, teetering on the edge. Then, it slots itself into the small space between your skin and his knife. You can’t help but cringe at the slight tickle of its tendrils against your collarbone.

“Eywa,” Neteyam whispers to himself. His voice is so quiet that you cannot hear.

The woodsprite travels over your clavicle and settles against the skin just below it. The woodsprite glows with vibrance. The light winks at Neteyam. He knows it's a sign. The tip of his knife drags gently against your skin, sending shivers up your spine. The woodsprite flutters away once his knife is over the spot where the tracker sits beneath the surface. His lips part—the area feels hard when he knows it shouldn’t be.

Your eyes widen. You remember your lines, like an amateur actor taking the stage for the first time.

“There’s a tracker!” you shout in English. Your shrill voice catches even Neteyam—the future Olo'eyktan—off guard.

“A tracker?” Neteyam retorts, his voice laced with aggression and uncertainty. He doesn’t recognize that word, but your tone implies grave danger.

You nod. “There is a tracking device under my skin,” you say in the Na’vi’s native tongue. “Please, cut it out!”

Fright flashes upon Neteyam’s face. Mentally, he’s reeling—were you sent here as bait from the sky demons? Is he falling into another one of their traps? Images of the tracker the Sky People lodged into the tulkun’s fin on the reefs of Awa'atlu flood his mind. His heart feels heavy when he thinks of Ro'a and her cub.

Physically, however, Neteyam does as he’s told. He would never willingly take orders from Sky People, but he knows in this instance, it’s the only way to protect himself, his family, and his clan. He must abide by these orders for the greater good.

Neteyam moves swiftly as he pins you against the nearest tree. He holds you there by your neck. Your eyes meet for a brief moment, then he zeros in on the neckline of your hospital gown. He uses his thumb to feel for the tracking device, raises his knife, and cuts.

Pupils blown wide, you study his face in the moment of reprieve before he slashes at your skin. His eyes are bright yellow, like tiny suns or egg yolks. His lips are full, and as he grimaces, he reveals a shiny set of white teeth. His ears point backwards: he’s agitated. His tail swishes from side to side. He wears his hair in braids. Around his neck, he adorns an ornamental choker necklace.

You howl through your teeth. Your jaw is clenched. The pain is unbearable, but at the same time, it’s the best kind you’ve ever felt. Even if this Na’vi should kill you right after, at least in your last moments, you’ll feel free.

Blood pools around his knife as he cuts through the first layer of skin. He tries to ignore your cries as he presses his long fingertips into the open wound. He pulls when he feels a small piece of plastic; with a bit of effort, he dislodges it from your body.

You sigh in relief when the Na’vi removes it, but the pain lingers—it worsens when you press your fingertips against the wound to stop the bleeding. Your eyelids are heavy. You feel lightheaded.

The Na’vi removes his grip from your neck, only so he can destroy the tracker. Neteyam notes that trackers he’s encountered in the past tend to beep, light up, or some combination of both—this one has neither of those attributes. The uncomfortable knots in Neteyam’s stomach begin to untie, but he cannot give up his resolve. His work is unfinished.

He presses the tracker against the tree bark, grunts, and he hacks away with his weapon.

Even as you’re bleeding—potentially to death—you continue to study the Na’vi’s physique and stature. This one in particular is muscular and athletic, and presumably taller than average. The way his muscles move under his blue skin is enchanting, and the way his freckles glow, you might as well be looking up at the night sky. You’re certain this will be your last chance to witness life on Pandora, or life at all—might as well bask in it.

The tracker is chopped and diced into small pieces, like how you used to cut vegetables back on Earth. The Na’vi looks pleased with his work. Then, his hairless brows furrow again, he spits into his hand, and throws the pieces as far as he can into the Pandoran wilderness. He hisses. You think it’s some kind of power move, but you’re not quite sure, and you definitely don’t have the gall to ask.

Neteyam stands still for a moment, bloodied hands on his hips. He has yet to face the elephant in the room—or in this circumstance, the tawtute against the tree.

That blood is only yours. Your eyes roll into the back of your head; you see stars upon realizing just how much you’ve lost.

---

You wake to the sounds of beeps and whirrs.

All is quiet. You’re in a small room with white walls. The lights are dimmed. Your breaths are slow and relaxed—but as the cogs start to turn, you begin to question if you’re safe or not.

Pain shoots through your shoulder like a strike of lightning as you sit up in the cot you’ve been sleeping in. You wince loudly, and the noise echoes.

Your mind briefly recalls the events of the last twenty-four hours, leading up to the encounter with the Na’vi. Evidently, it wasn’t a dream or figment of your highly active imagination.

Your clavicle has been wrapped in a thick bandage. When you pull back the thin blanket that covers the rest of you, you realize the dirt and grime that covered your feet and legs has been washed away.

You sigh in relief. You think you’re safe, until you discover that your old hospital gown has been replaced with a brand new albeit identical one—one with the Resource Development Administration’s logo on the tag.

Your heart feels heavy.

The escape was unsuccessful. The mission failed.

It makes sense now, as your vision swims through the confined space. This must be it—this must be where they took Seraphina, and Leah, and Clover. This must be where the girls who get picked go. Where they are prepared. Where they are taken.

You sit there for a few moments, then begin to hyperventilate. The Na’vi male must have left you there to die, and the RDA must have tracked you down anyway. Given that they lost all of their prisoners in the jailbreak, it made sense. They would do anything to get you back.

You shatter like glass.

Tears prick your bloodshot eyes like thorns. You pluck each wire from your arm like guitar strings, separating yourself from any machines. They continue to beep, but at a different pace, like a sounding alarm.

You search the room for an escape. You spot a pitcher and sponge on the counter adjacent to the bed.

In the laboratory across from the infirmary room, Max looks up from his microscope when he hears a loud crash. He jumps up from his swivel chair and dashes across the hall, opening the infirmary door.

Max has no choice but to undertake—you have a large shard of glass in your hand, and you use all the force in your tired body to resist. He grimaces as you continue to aim for a critical slice on your opposite wrist. His words fail to soothe.

“Norm!” the unfamiliar man calls. “We’ve got a cutter!”

Footsteps thump down the hall, then another man enters. “Holy shit,” he says. “What the hell is going on?!”

“I don’t know!” Max shouts back.

Norm, in his human form, hops over the pile of broken glass, and crouches to meet your bleary, downcast eyes. “Hey… Hey! Stop! You’re safe here!”

You can’t stop the tears from coming. You shake your head and continue to thrash in Max’s arms. “To hell with you RDA fucks!” you spit at him.

Norm’s eyes fall shut when a glob of saliva hits his left cheek. He counts to three before responding. “We’re not with them!” He grabs your wrists. “Calm down! You’re at High Camp!”

You freeze. You choke on a loud sob. “What?” you ask weakly.

“I’m Norm,” the one crouching before you says. “That guy, behind you, he’s Max. We’re scientists allied with the Na’vi. This is the stronghold. You’re in our laboratory.”

You sniffle. The room goes silent. “But this gown?” you croak, showing him the logo.

Norm sighs. “We loot supplies from RDA… That’s all.”

“Take a deep breath,” says Max. You do as you're told, and your muscles relax. Max docks the glass shard from your hand and eases his grip. Norm nods in approval. “One more,” Max adds. Inhale. Exhale. “You’re alright now.”

Inevitably, you start crying again. But this time, your tears are joyous. The tension breaks like ice—it’s melting. You’re awash in relief you thought would never come. It’s euphoric. It’s blissful. You’re free.

A year of suffering and imprisonment is released in your loud sobs. Max catches you before you can fall to your knees on the remnants of the broken pitcher. Neither of them know what to say, so they say nothing.

Norm, the one on the floor, wipes his cheek with the collar of his shirt. Then he reaches into one of the infirmary cabinets, procuring a dust pan and small sweeper. He does his best to clean the porcelain shards quickly and quietly. “Get her an Ativan,” he mumbles to Max on his way to the disposal bin. Max swallows his nerves.

---

You’re moved into another room in the facility after your incident in the infirmary. When you come to, you feel slightly embarrassed. You didn’t even check to see if the door of that room was unlocked, which it was.

“I’m sorry about your pitcher,” you tell Max as he returns from the linen closet with the blankets you asked for.

Max chuckles. He wants to say he’s more than sorry about all that’s happened to you. He was aiding and abetting the lead warden—the one who came up with the masterplan. “Don’t worry about it. That pitcher meant nothing to me,” he assures.

You crack a crooked, uneasy smile. The Ativan is starting to take its effect. Max smiles back.

You feel grateful. The scientists here have been nothing but kind and patient.

You can’t help but also feel grateful to the Na’vi male who presumably saved your life. You don’t know where he is, how to find him, or if you’ll see him again, but you feel indebted. You want to ask Max how you can show your gratitude, but that will have to wait.

“Thank you,” you say. “For everything.”

Max nods with a crestfallen smile. “If you need anything else, I’ll be around in the lab all day. Norm will be spending some time as his Avatar, so he won’t be around until later,” he says. “You were out for two entire days, I’m sure you’re hungry. Feel free to have anything in the walk-in or pantry. We don’t always have meals together as a crew, but tonight we’ll have dinner together,” Max explains.

You’re left alone once Max is sure you’re settled and calm, and won’t break the vase on the coffee table that he does care about.

---

A/N: Feel free to leave any and all feedback on this chapter! Reblogs and likes are greatly appreciate. In part two, Norm and Max will discuss your arrival with our king, Jake Sully. <3

NEXT CHAPTER: PART TWO

#avatar the way of water #avatar 2009 #neteyam x reader #neteyam #neteyam x y/n #neteyam x you #neteyam x human reader #self insert #self insert fanfiction #x reader #neteyam sully #neteyam sully x reader #atwow

277 notes · View notes

mellowsadistic · 7 months

Text

"What am I wearing?!" Tracy shrieked, getting up on her knees and goggling at the disposable diaper strapped tightly around her waist. Her head felt funny. Why was she in bed? The last thing she remembered was Sabrina, her stepdaughter-to-be, giving her something to drink, and then...

"Ah, you're awake!" came a young woman's voice. "Did you enjoy your little nap, Tracy?"

Tracy looked up to see Sabrina standing over her, a mocking smile on her face. "Sabrina?" She still felt a little confused and disoriented, but she didn't like the expression on the girl's face at all. "What's going on?" she demanded. "What did you..." She thought back to that moment in the kitchen, when Sabrina had unexpectedly offered to make her morning coffee. "Did you drug me?!" she screeched. "And why did you put me in a fucking diaper?"

Sabrina's smile widened. "If my Dad wants to get remarried, fine," she said matter-of-factly. "But it's not going to be to some vapid bimbo who's only after his wallet."

Tracy flushed. So what if she was only after Sabrina's father for his money? He was in his sixties or something. If he wanted a hot young trophy wife, what was wrong with that? And if she ended up divorcing him after a year or so and taking half of his fortune, it would be his own stupid fault for being so naïve.

"Unfortunately," said Sabrina, "Dad's been totally taken in by your seductive little schemes, so it's up to me to protect him." Her eyes glittered dangerously. "It's up to me to make sure he'll never be attracted to you again."

"What are you..." But Tracy suddenly gasped, a manicured hand flying to her mouth, as she felt a tiny trickle of pee leak into her Pampers. She tried to clamp down on the flow, but nothing happened. The trickle stopped after only a few seconds, but it was enough to make the padding between her legs feel disgustingly warm and wet, and more to the point, it had been completely out of her control. “What did you do to me?!" she squealed, repulsed by the sensation of piss soaking into her pants and pressing against her pussy.

"You really are stupid, aren't you?" Sabrina laughed. "Isn't it obvious, you dumb whore? I made you incontinent. Or is that word too big and complicated for you? Would it be easier to understand if I told you that you'll never use the little girl's room again?"

Tracy stared at her, open-mouthed, too stunned and horrified to speak. She couldn’t be incontinent. She couldn’t be. It wasn't possible to just take someone's control away!

"I added a special ingredient to your latte this morning," Sabrina explained, as if reading her mind. "A little something I found online. A few drops are enough to cause total and permanent incontinence, though I promise you it's quite untraceable, so don't bother running to the police to whine about how your boyfriend's meanie daughter stole your potty training. I made sure not to leave any evidence, and you'll just sound crazy."

Tracy felt as though she'd been doused in icy water. If Sabrina was telling the truth, if she really was incontinent, then she'd never be able to seduce a man again! Her stomach rolled as she imagined trying to persuade Sabrina's father to buy her a new pair of shoes, clutching his arm and rubbing her breasts against his chest, only to feel her diaper drooping between her legs as she pooped in it without warning. She'd be a joke!

Sabrina was smirking. "Are you getting it now, you gold-digging trollop? Your homewrecking days are over. Men aren't going to look twice at you when they find out about your little potty-pants problem. The kind of guys you're after want a hot piece of ass, not a diapered one, and without your sex appeal you're nothing but an overgrown brat. But you should know, there are men out there who are into girls that need diapers. Maybe you could find one of them to look after you? Of course, it wouldn't be the kind of glamorous lifestyle you'd hoped for... It would be a life of spankings, early bedtimes, messy highchair feedings, and begging your Daddy for diapie changes. But hey, at least you wouldn't have to work!"

#mellowsadistic

566 notes · View notes

arminsumi · 1 year

Text

it's the hair.

𝐆. 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 — 五条悟 ⋅ fem reader

NOTE: lol this is just a dum fluff drabble i wrote instead of studying

SUMMARY — your childhood friend and classmate satoru positively kills you with his new haircut. but he misunderstands your reactions and behaviors, thinking he did something wrong.

WARNINGS — lowercase used, not proofread, misunderstandings between u n gojo, angst if you squint ??

WORDCOUNT ≈ 1.3k

🍒 𝐉𝐚𝐲 — サクランボ ⋅ 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬/𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 !

you've been eyeing out gojo all day. he's not sure what to make of your expression — it's something mixed between comical worry and genuine distress.

"what? what is it?" he keeps asking you each time you give him the side eye look-over. "do i have something on my face?"

"no. it's nothing." you reply curtly.

he squints skeptically at you.

from class to class, he ponders alongside suguru. did he say something? were you mad at him? was it because he stole your soda from the vending machine yesterday? but he always does that, so why would you be mad now? maybe you were just not feeling well? did you not sleep well?

and suguru's ears flooded with all these theories.

"did i say something to y/n? she's acting strange today."

his best friend stifles a smirk. "dunno, did you?"

"i think she's mad at me. was it because i stole her soda? but y'know it's not my fault we like the same soda! and i promised to buy one for her next time!"

suguru now lowers his head into his arms, resting on the desk, trying so hard to keep his laughter in.

"maybe it's the weather — probably the flu — yeah, definitely the flu. i'll go get something for y/n at the store, d'you need anything, suguru? what! what are you laughing at!"

"nothing, nothing. i don't need anything from the store, thanks — unless maybe something spicy that catches your eye. 'better run quick, store's gonna close soon."

satoru furrows his brows in confusion, and eventually his entire expression becomes serious, like an old philosopher in deep thought about the universe. but it's not the abyssal void beyond the stratosphere that's in his thoughts, no, it's you — you're pervading his entire mind as he walks across the roads of tokyo, to the station, and boards the train.

holding onto the handles as it shudders and sways, shoulders taught as they always are when he's in thought. were you really sick? what if he did something bad? maybe it was nothing at all, and he was just overthinking it. maybe it didn't even involve him. did it have to do with suguru? or perhaps you were upset about something in the past, something irrational and long-forgotten, like the fact that he didn't attend your 7th birthday party. it's not like he had a choice, his parents barely allowed him to visit your side because they didn't want their prodigy son hanging out with...

he texts you.

satoru — are u home yet

he stares and waits for you to come online, then watches as those three dots move up and down and you start typing.

you — no why

satoru — where are u

you — bridge

satoru — what are u doing

you — lol so many questions

you — the sunset looks rlly good today i'm taking pics

satoru — wtf without me??

you — lol sorry didn't think u wanted to waste ur time watching the sunset

satoru — see u there

he's just boarding off the train, coming through its doors, when he texts you that. thank the benefit of his long legs for speeding to the store in time before it closes. he picks up your favorite.

when you see him come into view, you're waiting with your arms draped around the railing of the bridge.

"trying out for the track team?" you laugh, as he practically runs up to you. "did you run this whole way?"

he's catching his breath, clutching a plastic bag of goodies.

"are you sick?" he asks.

"what? no?"

"i thought you might have the flu." he's asking with genuine concern, it's bizarre. he usually doesn't talk like this unless he knows he's in trouble with you, or if something's really wrong.

"i'm fine." you blink, "i've just been watching the sunset. you missed the best part."

"i didn't know you enjoyed sunsets."

"why didn't you invite me!" he groans, coming over to assume an oddly attractive position by the railing. he slacks against the metal, leaning his weight on it. he lets the plastic bag with yours and suguru's favorites in it thud to the ground.

the cityscape is so pretty, and yet he's still prettier, you think.

"i don't care for them." he admits, "but of course i'll enjoy a sunset if you're watching it with me."

you look at him. he's not even facing the sunset. was something on his mind? you can hardly theorize, because you're giving him that peculiar look again.

he catches you looking at him, "what!"

"what?"

"did i do something wrong?" his breath is stable now, "are you mad at me?"

"no? why d'you think I'm mad at you?" you ask confusedly.

"because you keep lookin' at me like that!"

"like what?" you feel your cheeks warm up.

"like something about me is offensive to your eyes."

you break out laughing. "no! i'm not — it's not — you misunderstand me, like always..."

"what the hell?" he whines, "is it nothing serious? i've been worried. you've been looking at me weird since sunday and — oh... OH MY GOD."

you giggle, chin pressing on the railing. "did you just realize something?"

"is it the haircut!"

"it's the haircut."

"why do you not like it!" he fumes, that familiar satoru playfulness coming back now as he was put at ease knowing he didn't upset you. "you know it cost a lot, 'n i styled it and everything."

"i didn't say i didn't like it! it's the opposite."

"so you like it? then why do you look at me like you're having an internal crisis?"

you groan, "because you're giving me a crisis! you know i'm weak for undercuts!"

he shuts up. his heart races a bit. oh, so he misunderstood you not a little bit but entirely. oops. now why didn't he realize that his haircut would have this effect on you? when he subconsciously went to get an undercut because you mentioned you liked them in passing one school afternoon.

"oh."

"you're so dumb, satoru."

"well sorry!" he rolls his eyes.

now there's silence. he stops leaning his back against the railing and turns to face the final stages of the sunset. the streetlights come on, one is gleaming not too far from you two. it casts a dreamy light on his hair.

it really is a good cut, and it's styled in such a way that... well it gets your daydreams going, let's just say that. and here gojo was worried when he came out of the salon, thinking it was too short now. truthfully, it was a bit short compared to his other haircuts, but he wore it well. of course he did.

"so you like it?"

"i love it."

"well if you love it, then show it love." he teases.

"what on earth d'you mean?" you laugh shortly.

"fluff my hair." he says.

"no way, lice-boy."

"hey!" he pinches your cheek in retaliation, and your reaction endears him as much as it always has since you two were kids. "that was one time, i haven't ever had lice again."

he pouts. you look over. he is pouting. pouting. he's a nineteen year old boy pouting about not getting his hair fluffed by his childhood friend who he maybe sorta kinda has a crush on.

and then he encourages you. he leans his head on your shoulder. his hair tickles your cheek.

"damn. you're like an attention-starved cat." you joke.

he places your hand on his head himself. the brief warmth and glimpse at the size difference between his hand and your hand made him giddy.

you ruffle his hair lightly, and then he wears a satisfied smile. now early night has settled. it's quiet at the bridge except for the distant city sounds and lull of the highway.

"i was really worried that i did something wrong." he admits.

"i'm sorry."

he sighs, snuggling your shoulder. there's a nice silence between you and him.

then he breaks it.

"hey, i didn't say stop fluffing." his deep voice reverbs in your chest. he's playful and lively, but you can tell he's also tired from running all the way here.

"you're a menace." you tell him.

"but you like me, right?" it's more of an insecure question. he wants to hear you say it back, not as a playful joke.

"of course i do."

"good, good."

1K notes · View notes