#deadline-oriented;

[daforged]

i don’t think anyone has to be perfect at their job or whatever but maybe bookkeeping isn’t the career for you if you can’t fucking read or follow basic instructions <3

[bredforloyalty]

handed in assignment 1 minute late. should i be worried

[dykebehaviour]

one tent, two idiots

best friend!ellie x reader

⛺️summary: a college camping trip with your best friends seemed like the perfect getaway. but sleeping in the woods, dealing with jesse’s terrible horror stories, and sharing a tent with ellie williams, your best friend who you’ve definitely had a crush on for months, is a lot harder than expected.

🌲cw: best friends to lovers, fluff, smut, fingering e!receiving, oral r!receiving, mutual pining, found family, tent sex, lesbianism.

☀️a/n: bit of a long one but hope you like it!!

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

you could pinpoint the exact moment you realised agreeing to a camping trip with your best friends was a mistake: right around when jesse screamed “what do you mean that’s poison ivy?” while holding a bundle of it like a bouquet.

ellie nearly choked laughing, doubling over next to you as dina calmly pulled out her phone and snapped a photo.

“it’s fine,” jesse grumbled, tossing the offending plants away and wiping his hands on his jeans. “i don’t think i’m allergic.”

“you don’t think?” cat raised an eyebrow, perched on a rock with an amused smirk.

“please let it be itchy,” ellie whispered to you, grinning.

“ellie,” you warned, nudging her.

but god, it was hard not to laugh when she looked at you like that; green eyes bright, freckled cheeks flushed from the sun, smirk tugging at the corner of her lips like you were her favorite secret. it always made your heart skip. you’d been friends for years, close since freshman orientation, but something about this year - maybe the late nights at her place, the way her hand always lingered on your lower back, the way your name sounded different when she said it - had been slowly undoing you.

you weren’t just in deep. you were drowning.

and now you had to spend a weekend camping with her. sleeping in the same tent. next to her. sharing a single air mattress because she said you’d “be fine.”

yeah. you were so screwed.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

the site was decent: small clearing, river nearby, far enough out of the city that there was no signal but not so remote that jesse couldn’t blast an old spotify camping playlist from a portable speaker.

you knew this camping trip was either going to be the best idea or the dumbest thing you’d ever agreed to the second jesse made you help him set up the tent.

“this is upside down,” you told him flatly, holding a pole that was definitely supposed to be in the ground and not poking you in the leg.

“it’s… avant-garde,” jesse replied, shrugging.

“babe, you are so bad at this,” dina called from her spot next to a half-built firepit, not even looking up as she crushed a bag of doritos for later s’mores topping.

ellie was laughing and she wasn’t helping either. instead, she had her phone out, filming you with a lazy grin.

“oh, this is going on my story. look at my favorite dumbasses struggling with basic survival.”

“ellie,” you groaned, lobbing a balled-up pair of socks at her. she dodged effortlessly and grinned wider.

“do it again,” she teased. “but take your shirt off first.”

you flushed, and jesse wiggled his eyebrows at you. you flipped them both off and pretended not to feel the way your heart leapt every time ellie looked at you like that.

the whole gang had driven two hours out of the city for a long weekend of camping - no wi-fi no deadlines, just nature and beer and each other. jesse and dina had been dating forever, and they’d dragged along cat (ellie’s ex-girlfriend, now friend, weirdly chill about it all) for balance. you were… well, you were just ‘ellie’s best friend.’

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

by sunset, the group was sweaty, tired, slightly buzzed from pre-dinner beers, and still arguing over the fire pit.

“i swear to god, just use a lighter,” dina said, tossing kindling on a smoking pile of wood. “this isn’t boy scouts.”

“no!” jesse insisted. “i watched two youtube tutorials. i’ve got this.”

you sat back, sipping your drink, ellie beside you with her legs stretched out, her hand grazing yours every so often like it didn’t mean anything. but it did. every brush, every casual lean, every shared look - it was all charged. you couldn’t tell if it was in your head or if she felt it too.

then she looked over and caught you staring.

“what?” she asked, eyes teasing.

“nothing.” you sipped your drink.

“you’re looking at me like you wanna make out or fight me. which one is it?”

you nearly choked.

“ellie.”

“i’m just saying.” she leaned closer. “if you do wanna make out, you should probably wait until we’re in the tent.”

your whole body flushed.

she pulled back like it was nothing, returning to watching jesse struggle with a flint rock like she hadn’t just set you on fire.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

dinner was chaos. jesse did eventually light the fire, but somehow managed to burn half the hot dogs and drop the rest into the dirt.

“you’re banned from cooking,” cat declared.

dina made everyone s’mores and insisted on layering them with crushed doritos “for texture.” you weren’t mad about it. ellie got chocolate all over her fingers and wiped it on your knee with a smirk. you retaliated by tossing marshmallow fluff in her hair.

by the time the sun set and the fire crackled low, everyone was loose and glowing and full.

ellie passed you the tequila bottle. “truth or dare.”

you raised an eyebrow. “seriously?”

“don’t be a coward.”

you took a long sip. “fine. truth.”

she leaned in, smile crooked. “have you ever had a crush on someone here?”

you coughed and passed the bottle to dina. “dare.”

ellie was still smirking.

you wanted to kiss her and throttle her at the same time.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

by midnight, jesse and dina were off “looking at the stars” (aka definitely getting it on behind a tree), and cat had disappeared into her hammock muttering something about “these straight people and their hormones.”

you and ellie were alone by the fire, quiet now, warm and slow.

“you tired?” she asked, glancing over.

you nodded. “little bit.”

“we should probably head in.”

the walk to your tent was short, but it felt like miles with her beside you, the back of her hand brushing yours as you walked. neither of you spoke.

inside the tent, you both changed in the dark, backs turned, silent except for the soft rustle of clothes. you slipped into the sleeping bag on the left; she took the right.

it was small. you could feel her breath on your shoulder.

you lay there, staring at the ceiling, your heart racing.

then she spoke. quietly.

“you meant me, didn’t you?”

you turned. “what?”

“earlier. when i asked if you had a crush on someone here.”

your breath hitched.

she looked at you, not smirking now. serious. open.

you swallowed. “yeah. i did.”

she nodded once. “good.”

and then she kissed you.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

it started slow. soft. careful.

like she was waiting for you to pull away.

but you didn’t. you kissed her back, fingers curling into her shirt, chest pressed to hers.

“i’ve wanted this forever,” she whispered into your mouth. “you have no idea.”

“show me,” you said, breathless.

and she did.

her hands were steady as they slipped under your shirt, dragging it up and off, her fingers grazing your skin. she kissed down your jaw, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone, her body moving over yours like it belonged there. when her mouth closed around your nipple, hot and slow, you gasped, arching into her.

“you’re so fucking pretty,” she breathed, sliding your shorts down, her fingers tracing the edge of your underwear. “can i?”

you nodded, almost desperate. “please.”

she peeled them off, tossed them aside, and lowered herself between your thighs. the first press of her tongue had your hips jerking, a moan catching in your throat. she licked you slow, savoring it, hands gripping your thighs like she needed to hold you down to keep herself together.

“you taste so good,” she groaned. “been thinking about this - fuck - for so long.”

you fisted the sleeping bag, head thrown back. “ellie-“

she sucked on your clit, fingers slipping inside you, curling just right. your whole body trembled.

“come for me, baby,” she murmured. “come just like that.”

you did - hard - legs shaking, breath caught, her name broken on your lips.

and when you came down, she kissed you again, messy and breathless, her mouth still wet with you.

you didn’t hesitate. you pushed her back, tugging her shirt off, undoing her jeans. she let you. watched you. eyes dark, lips parted.

you kissed down her stomach, licking every inch of skin you revealed, fingers teasing her wet heat.

she gasped when you slid two fingers inside her, hips grinding against your hand. “fuck - yes..”

you sucked on her neck, her chest, drank in every sound she made as she rocked against you.

she came with a cry, clinging to you, her body tense and trembling, mouth crushed against your shoulder.

afterward, she pulled you into her chest, arm slung around your waist, fingers tracing lazy circles into your skin.

“you’re mine now,” she murmured sleepily.

you smiled into her collarbone. “took you long enough.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

the sun filtered into the tent in soft golden streaks, warming your bare shoulders and making the whole world feel like it was holding its breath.

ellie was still asleep beside you, arm tucked under her head, freckled face peaceful and a little flushed from sleep. she had one hand resting on your hip like she was afraid you’d vanish. her hoodie had somehow become your pillow. you could smell her; campfire smoke and skin and something distinctly hers.

you didn’t want to move. ever.

your body still ached in the best way. your skin hummed where she’d touched you, kissed you, held you like she meant it.

you leaned in and kissed her nose.

she scrunched it, groaned, and blinked one eye open.

“rude,” she rasped. her voice was thick with sleep, sexy in a way that made your stomach flip.

“good morning to you too,” you whispered, smiling.

she hummed, then stretched long and lazy, like a cat, and pulled you into her chest. “can we stay in here forever?”

“i mean, we could, but i think jesse’s starting a fire with your flannel.”

ellie groaned again, louder this time. “fuck. right. the others.”

“yep.”

“we had sex in a tent twenty feet from them.”

you laughed into her collarbone. “In our defense, it’s a very well-insulated tent.”

ellie paused. “is it?”

a loud voice called from outside.

“YOU GUYS OWE ME FIVE DOLLARS,” jesse yelled triumphantly. “I CALLED IT.”

ellie buried her face in your shoulder and let out a muffled scream.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

when you finally emerged from the tent - ellie wearing your hoodie and her sweats, you in bike shorts and a sweatshirt that definitely wasn’t yours - the group was already waiting like a pack of vultures.

jesse pointed a spatula at you. “so. how was your night?”

“peaceful,” ellie said dryly, reaching for a pancake.

dina leaned in. “was it? because i heard someone moaning like a victorian ghost.”

“oh my god,” you muttered, grabbing a plate and hiding behind ellie.

cat sipped her coffee with deadly calm. “for what it’s worth, i don’t hate the enemies-to-lovers arc you two have been pulling for the last six months. very pride & prejudice.”

“we weren’t enemies,” you mumbled.

“you glared at her every time she flirted with cat,” jesse pointed out.

“i didn’t glare,” you protested.

“i’ve never felt so stared at,” cat added helpfully.

ellie turned red but grinned, clearly enjoying this way too much. “well, she’s got me now. so you’re safe.”

“is this, like, a real thing now?” dina asked, tone softening slightly. “because i’m gonna be honest, i shipped it, but i didn’t think you two had the emotional capacity to confess.”

“we didn’t,” ellie said with a shrug. “we just had really good sex instead.”

you elbowed her. “ellie.”

“what? it’s called problem-solving.”

everyone groaned. jesse tossed a pancake at her face.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

after breakfast, you all wandered down to the river, the sun fully up, shoes discarded as you dipped your toes in the water. ellie sat behind you on the rocks, arms draped over your shoulders, chin resting on your head. it wasn’t subtle. and it wasn’t meant to be.

“you’re cuddly now,” cat noted, squinting at ellie. “is this what we should expect? are you gonna start writing poetry on your notes app?”

“i already did,” ellie said proudly. “wanna hear it?”

“absolutely not,” jesse said.

you tilted your head up to look at her. “wait. you wrote a poem?”

“mm-hmm. last night. in my head. while you were sleeping.”

you blushed. “was it awful?”

“oh yeah,” she grinned. “rhymed ‘moonlight’ with ‘all-night.’”

you burst out laughing.

“fucking hell,” dina muttered. “they’re gonna be unbearable.”

“i give them three months before the honeymoon phase implodes and we have to pick sides,” cat declared.

“rude,” you said.

“mine’s gonna be ellie,” jesse said. “she’s funnier.”

ellie threw a pebble at him.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

as the morning stretched on, the teasing gave way to easy chatter and lazy warmth. you ended up sprawled in the grass with ellie’s head in your lap, playing with her hair while the others played cards nearby.

“hey,” she said softly, looking up at you.

“yeah?”

“i meant it. last night. you’re mine now.”

your heart squeezed.

you leaned down and kissed her.

“yours,” you whispered.

[jack-of-all-daws]

I got the braincell today it seems

[aeth-eris]

★ the rising signs & their enemies: 6th house, 8th house, 12th house, 7th house ★

the 6th house enemy (the relentless taskmaster) forces them into exhausting routines, health struggles, and responsibilities they resist.

the 8th house enemy (the shadow) drags them through power struggles, loss, and emotional transformations they fear.

the 12th house enemy (the hidden saboteur) lurks in their subconscious, whispering fears, doubts, and self-destructive urges.

the 7th house enemy (the mirror) appears as challenging relationships, adversaries, and karmic partners who expose their weaknesses.

★ aries rising : the critic, the manipulator, the phantom, the diplomat ★

the critic (6th house, virgo) forces them to pay attention to detail, refine their skills, and practice patience—three things aries finds unbearable.

the manipulator (8th house, scorpio) drags them into power struggles, intense emotional wounds, and betrayals that shake their trust in others.

the phantom (12th house, pisces) is a hidden force whispering fears of failure and clouding their instincts with self-doubt.

the diplomat (7th house, libra) appears in relationships that demand compromise, balance, and emotional maturity—things aries struggles to embrace.

★ the critic (6th house, virgo) ★

how it attacks:

aries rising thrives on spontaneity and speed, but virgo in the 6th house forces them into a world of rules, precision, and detail-oriented work. the critic appears as demanding bosses, relentless deadlines, and never-ending to-do lists. work environments feel suffocatingly structured, full of picky supervisors and coworkers who obsess over minor details. aries wants to charge ahead, but the critic forces them to slow down and follow proper procedures.

how aries self-sabotages:

they rush through work to escape boredom, but end up making careless mistakes that cost them more time. they resist structured routines, leading to chaotic, unproductive cycles of burnout and recovery. their health suffers because they ignore their body’s warning signs, pushing themselves to exhaustion rather than pacing themselves. the more they resist patience and discipline, the more the critic tightens its grip.

how to defeat it:

aries must learn that working smarter is better than working harder. they can use their energy more effectively if they accept the power of structure and preparation. instead of seeing routine as a cage, they must learn to use it as a weapon.

★ the manipulator (8th house, scorpio) ★

how it attacks:

scorpio in the 8th house drags aries rising into power struggles, toxic relationships, and situations that demand emotional endurance. the manipulator appears as controlling lovers, financial traps, or betrayals that leave lasting wounds. aries prefers quick fights with clear winners, but the manipulator plays the long game, slowly pulling them into webs of emotional intensity and secrecy. they may find themselves deeply entangled in affairs, debts, or psychological battles they can’t easily escape from.

how aries self-sabotages:

they jump into commitments too quickly, thinking they can control the situation, only to realize they’ve given away their power. they ignore their own emotional wounds, but the manipulator forces them to face their fears of dependence and vulnerability. when they feel trapped, they lash out aggressively, only for scorpio energy to strike back ten times harder.

how to defeat it:

aries must learn that true strength includes emotional intelligence. instead of fighting against transformation, they must embrace it and become strategic rather than reactive. the manipulator cannot control aries if aries masters their own depth and intensity first.

★ the phantom (12th house, pisces) ★

how it attacks:

pisces in the 12th house makes aries rising doubt their own instincts, leading to uncertainty, procrastination, and emotional exhaustion. the phantom isn’t a direct enemy—it lurks in the background, making aries feel lost and disconnected from their usual confidence. it appears in moments of burnout, whispering, “what if you’re not as strong as you think?” aries thrives on clarity and action, but the phantom clouds their judgment, making them feel like they are fighting an invisible battle.

how aries self-sabotages:

they avoid deep emotions, fearing that slowing down means losing their edge. they distract themselves with reckless behavior, trying to escape feelings they don’t want to acknowledge. their impulsivity leads them to make quick decisions that come back to haunt them.

how to defeat it:

aries must learn that facing their emotions doesn’t make them weak. if they stop running from their subconscious fears, they can conquer self-doubt and make peace with the unknown. stillness isn’t failure—it’s a different kind of power.

★ the diplomat (7th house, libra) ★

how it attacks:

libra in the 7th house makes relationships feel like a battlefield of compromise and indecision. the diplomat appears as partners who challenge aries’ need for control, forcing them to slow down and consider others. aries prefers taking the lead, but libra energy demands fairness, patience, and balance. they may attract passive-aggressive partners, people who make them question their choices, or relationships that feel like constant negotiations.

how aries self-sabotages:

they push people away before they can get hurt, creating a cycle of short, intense relationships that never last. they see compromise as a weakness, leading to conflicts that could be avoided. they mistake calmness for boredom, gravitating toward passionate but toxic relationships.

how to defeat it:

aries must understand that true leadership includes knowing when to listen and adapt. instead of seeing compromise as losing, they need to see it as a skill that makes them stronger in the long run. the diplomat teaches them that not every fight is worth winning—sometimes, peace is the real victory.

★ taurus rising: the indecisive, the wildfire, the instigator, the seducer ★

the indecisive (6th house, libra) disrupts their routine, forcing them into social politics, unclear expectations, and frustrating indecision.

the wildfire (8th house, sagittarius) drags them into chaotic transformations, financial instability, and unpredictable emotional upheavals.

the instigator (12th house, aries) lurks in their subconscious, feeding them impulsive urges and self-sabotaging desires that conflict with their need for peace.

the seducer (7th house, scorpio) appears in intense, consuming relationships that demand vulnerability, trust, and transformation—things taurus resists at all costs.

★ the indecisive (6th house, libra) ★

how it attacks:

taurus rising thrives on consistency, structure, and predictability. but libra in the 6th house makes their daily life feel unbalanced, full of constant adjustments and unspoken expectations. the indecisive appears as fluctuating work environments, bosses who can’t make up their minds, and obligations that require constant social maneuvering. instead of a clear, stable routine, their work life is full of compromise, diplomacy, and trying to keep everyone happy. this drains taurus, who just wants things to be simple and efficient.

how taurus self-sabotages:

they overextend themselves trying to create harmony, taking on more than they should in order to keep the peace. they delay decisions out of fear of disrupting balance, leading to missed opportunities and built-up frustration. they struggle with health routines, often neglecting their needs in favor of pleasing others or maintaining external appearances.

★ the wildfire (8th house, sagittarius) ★

how to defeat it:

taurus must learn that their well-being comes first. if they stop worrying about external harmony and focus on creating stability for themselves, they will gain true control. learning to make firm decisions and set boundaries will weaken the indecisive’s grip.

how it attacks:

sagittarius in the 8th house forces taurus into chaotic, unpredictable life changes that destroy their sense of control. the wildfire appears as sudden financial upheavals, unexpected breakups, or major life shifts that happen with little warning. taurus seeks security and careful planning, but this enemy forces them into situations where nothing is guaranteed. it teaches them that the only constant in life is change, a lesson they desperately resist.

how taurus self-sabotages:

they cling to stability so tightly that when change inevitably comes, it feels like a disaster rather than a transformation. they resist new opportunities out of fear of risk, missing out on growth and expansion. they may stay in stagnant relationships or jobs long past their expiration date, choosing comfort over evolution.

★ the instigator (12th house, aries) ★

how to defeat it:

taurus must learn to see change as a gateway rather than a threat. if they embrace adaptability and allow themselves to take calculated risks, they will harness the wildfire’s power instead of being burned by it.

how it attacks:

aries in the 12th house creates a hidden, internal battle between taurus’ need for stability and a subconscious craving for reckless action. the instigator lurks deep in their mind, whispering, "burn it all down. shake things up. do something wild." they may suppress anger, frustration, and impulsive desires, only for them to explode in destructive ways when least expected. this enemy thrives on pent-up rage and frustration, creating a cycle of bottling things up, only to act out in self-destructive ways.

how taurus self-sabotages:

they suppress their emotions, pretending everything is fine until they snap and make impulsive, out-of-character decisions. they lash out at loved ones unexpectedly, then feel guilty and retreat further into denial. they may sabotage themselves by avoiding conflict until it becomes an unavoidable disaster.

★ the seducer (7th house, scorpio) ★

how to defeat it:

taurus must acknowledge their hidden anger and suppressed desires. if they express frustration in healthy ways rather than letting it fester, they will prevent the instigator from causing sudden, reckless destruction. recognizing that some risks are necessary will also help them avoid self-sabotaging stagnation.

how it attacks:

scorpio in the 7th house brings taurus into intense, consuming relationships that demand emotional depth and transformation. the seducer appears as partners who are magnetic, mysterious, and emotionally overpowering. they attract lovers who force them to let go of control, exposing their deepest fears and insecurities. relationships feel like life-or-death experiences, pulling them into passion, jealousy, and emotional power struggles they don’t know how to handle. taurus wants stability, but scorpio partners make love feel dangerous and uncontrollable.

how taurus self-sabotages:

they fear emotional vulnerability, so they may shut down or distance themselves from relationships that get too intense. they hold onto people they should release, fearing that letting go means losing control. they may attract possessive, obsessive partners, or they themselves become secretly possessive, refusing to trust fully out of fear of betrayal.

how to defeat it:

taurus must learn that true emotional security comes from trust, not control. if they allow themselves to experience deep love without fearing destruction, they will master the seducer’s power rather than being consumed by it. learning to release relationships that no longer serve them will also free them from toxic emotional cycles.

★ gemini rising: the strategist, the tyrant, the prison guard, the preacher ★

the strategist (6th house, scorpio) places them in work environments full of power struggles, secrecy, and intense expectations that drain their energy.

the tyrant (8th house, capricorn) drags them into slow, grueling financial and emotional transformations that test their patience.

the prison guard (12th house, taurus) keeps them trapped in comfort zones, making them fear commitment, security, and stillness.

the preacher (7th house, sagittarius) appears as partners who challenge their beliefs, freedom, and ability to keep relationships light and casual.

★ the strategist (6th house, scorpio) ★

how it attacks:

gemini rising thrives in fast-paced, lighthearted work environments, but scorpio in the 6th house places them in high-pressure jobs, intense coworker dynamics, and workplaces full of secrecy and manipulation. the strategist appears as bosses who micromanage, colleagues who withhold information, and work projects that demand deep focus and long-term dedication. gemini prefers multitasking and variety, but the strategist forces them to dig deep and fully commit to one thing at a time. work becomes mentally and emotionally draining, filled with hidden agendas and power plays they weren’t prepared for.

how gemini self-sabotages:

they avoid dealing with workplace tension, choosing to play along rather than confront problems head-on. they struggle with maintaining focus, leading to unfinished tasks or wasted potential. they burn out because they don’t pace themselves, overloading their mind with too much information, too fast. they may leave jobs abruptly when things get too intense, but this enemy follows them into every workplace until they learn to handle high-stakes situations with strategy rather than avoidance.

★ the tyrant (8th house, capricorn)★

how to defeat it:

gemini must develop emotional intelligence in professional settings. they need to recognize when they’re being manipulated, set boundaries with draining coworkers, and commit to mastering a skill instead of bouncing between interests. if they can channel their adaptability into resilience, the strategist will lose its power.

how it attacks:

capricorn in the 8th house forces gemini rising into slow, painstaking transformations that demand endurance and responsibility. the tyrant appears as financial debt that takes years to pay off, emotional baggage that refuses to be ignored, and long-term commitments they can’t escape from. gemini wants quick solutions, but this enemy ensures that growth comes at a painfully slow pace. they may feel trapped in difficult family obligations, controlling relationships, or legal struggles that demand structure and discipline.

how gemini self-sabotages:

they avoid long-term financial planning, leading to money struggles that haunt them for years. they enter deep emotional connections without preparing for the responsibilities that come with them. when things feel too heavy, they run, only to find themselves stuck in the same cycles later on. the tyrant wins when gemini refuses to commit to their own long-term success.

★ the prison guard (12th house, taurus) ★

how to defeat it:

gemini must learn to take control of their financial and emotional future. if they develop patience, structure, and discipline, they can turn the tyrant into an ally rather than an oppressor.

how it attacks:

taurus in the 12th house makes gemini rising fear being trapped in a life of stillness and predictability. the prison guard appears as comfort zones they can’t break out of, routines that lull them into complacency, and an inability to fully commit to something out of fear of losing their freedom. gemini craves mental stimulation and new experiences, but deep down, they fear stability. this enemy makes them feel restless, unsatisfied, and always searching for something better, even when they already have what they need.

how gemini self-sabotages:

they jump from one thing to the next, thinking the next opportunity, relationship, or project will be the one that finally makes them happy. they avoid long-term commitments, fearing they will lose their sense of self. they stay in situations that are “good enough” rather than taking action to create something truly fulfilling.

★ the preacher (7th house, sagittarius) ★

how to defeat it:

gemini must understand that true freedom comes from within, not from constant external movement. if they embrace a sense of inner security, they will stop running in circles and start creating real stability on their own terms.

how it attacks:

sagittarius in the 7th house brings gemini rising partners who are larger than life, intensely opinionated, and constantly challenging their beliefs. the preacher appears as romantic and business partners who demand that gemini commit to something bigger than themselves, even when they aren’t ready. these relationships push them toward philosophical growth, travel, and long-term visions that require full investment. gemini prefers casual, adaptable partnerships, but the preacher forces them to step up, engage in serious discussions, and face uncomfortable truths about themselves.

how gemini self-sabotages:

they attract partners who force them to commit, but they hesitate, afraid of losing their freedom. they fall into hot-and-cold relationships, bouncing between intense passion and restless boredom. they avoid deep discussions, but the preacher always brings them back, making them face difficult conversations they’d rather escape from.

how to defeat it:

gemini must learn to embrace the idea that deep relationships don’t have to limit them—they can expand their world instead. if they commit without fear, they will gain something much more valuable than surface-level connections.

★ cancer rising: the wanderer, the machine, the chameleon, the fortress ★

the wanderer (6th house, sagittarius) disrupts their sense of routine, forcing them into chaotic work environments, health struggles tied to stress, and unpredictable daily life.

the machine (8th house, aquarius) drags them into cold, impersonal emotional transformations, sudden losses, and crises they cannot emotionally process in real-time.

the chameleon (12th house, gemini) lurks in their subconscious, making them doubt their own emotions and get lost in mental spirals that detach them from their intuition.

the fortress (7th house, capricorn) appears in relationships that feel more like contracts than love, forcing cancer to prove themselves and work for emotional connection rather than receiving it naturally.

★ the wanderer (6th house, sagittarius) ★

how it attacks:

cancer rising finds comfort in stable routines and environments, but sagittarius in the 6th house brings constant change and unpredictability. the wanderer appears as unstable jobs, overwhelming responsibilities, and schedules that never seem to stay the same. cancer wants structure, but this enemy forces them into high-energy, ever-changing work environments that demand constant adaptation. they struggle with balancing personal and professional life, often feeling like their work obligations pull them away from home and emotional security. their health also suffers due to stress, irregular sleep, and emotional eating.

how cancer self-sabotages:

they try to create strict routines to regain control, but life continues to disrupt them, leading to frustration and burnout. they may stay in unfulfilling jobs out of fear of instability, but deep down, they crave freedom from overwhelming responsibilities. they avoid necessary changes because they resent unpredictability, but this only makes them feel trapped in situations they secretly want to escape from.

★ the machine (8th house, aquarius) ★

how to defeat it:

cancer must learn that flexibility does not equal instability. if they embrace change with an open heart, they can create a sense of emotional stability within themselves rather than relying on external factors. the wanderer loses its power when cancer rising accepts movement as part of life instead of resisting it.

how it attacks:

aquarius in the 8th house forces cancer rising into impersonal, unpredictable emotional transformations. the machine appears as sudden losses, betrayals that come out of nowhere, and situations that demand complete emotional detachment. cancer wants depth and connection, but this enemy forces them into cold, distant transformations where emotions are ignored or dismissed. instead of the slow, meaningful healing they need, they are thrown into sudden, shocking changes that feel like they have no control over them.

how cancer self-sabotages:

they cling to past emotional wounds, refusing to accept sudden changes. they become too emotionally attached to situations or people who have already moved on, making it harder for them to heal. they suppress their grief and emotions in an attempt to move forward logically, but this only creates a deep sense of emptiness. the machine wins when cancer rising refuses to embrace emotional change and instead becomes frozen in time, unable to move forward.

★ the chameleon (12th house, gemini) ★

how to defeat it:

cancer must learn that not all changes need to be personal. sometimes, life moves quickly, and not every loss is a betrayal. if they can separate their emotions from external situations and allow themselves to process grief without attachment, the machine loses its power.

how it attacks:

gemini in the 12th house creates a constant inner dialogue that questions cancer’s emotions and instincts. the chameleon appears as racing thoughts, self-doubt, and a subconscious fear of never truly understanding themselves. cancer is deeply intuitive, but this enemy makes them overanalyze everything, causing them to detach from their emotions and question their feelings instead of trusting them. it manifests as sleepless nights, endless mental loops, and a deep fear that they are making the wrong decisions based on emotions rather than logic.

how cancer self-sabotages:

they suppress their intuition, trying to rationalize everything instead of feeling it. they get caught in toxic thought patterns, overanalyzing relationships, decisions, and emotions to the point where they lose sight of what they actually want. they struggle with expressing their deepest fears, often talking about surface-level concerns rather than addressing the real, painful emotions underneath.

★ the fortress (7th house, capricorn) ★

how to defeat it:

cancer must learn to trust their emotions instead of overthinking them. if they allow themselves to feel without explanation, they will reconnect with their inner world. the chameleon loses its power when cancer realizes that not every thought needs to be analyzed—some things are meant to be felt, not explained.

how it attacks:

capricorn in the 7th house makes cancer rising feel like love is a responsibility rather than a source of comfort. the fortress appears as partners who are emotionally unavailable, distant, or overly focused on practical matters instead of intimacy. cancer wants nurturing relationships, but they often attract serious, work-oriented partners who struggle with emotional vulnerability. they feel like they must earn love through effort rather than simply being loved for who they are.

how cancer self-sabotages:

they overcompensate in relationships, trying to prove their worth by giving too much. they stay in emotionally distant relationships for too long, believing that if they just work harder, they’ll finally be loved the way they need. they mistake stability for love, sometimes choosing partners who provide security but lack emotional connection.

how to defeat it:

cancer must learn that love isn’t something they have to earn—it’s something they deserve unconditionally. if they stop seeking validation from emotionally unavailable partners and instead find those who nurture them in return, the fortress crumbles.

★ leo rising: the overseer, the abyss, the phantom king, the outcast ★

the overseer (6th house, capricorn) places them in structured, high-pressure work environments where their freedom and creativity feel suffocated.

the abyss (8th house, pisces) drags them into murky emotional depths, forcing them to deal with loss, betrayal, and subconscious fears they’d rather ignore.

the phantom king (12th house, cancer) lurks in their subconscious, making them fear irrelevance, abandonment, and losing the admiration they thrive on.

the outcast (7th house, aquarius) appears in relationships that challenge their need for attention and admiration, making them feel overlooked or disconnected from their partners.

★ the overseer (6th house, capricorn) ★

how it attacks:

leo rising thrives on passion and creative expression, but capricorn in the 6th house forces them into structured, demanding work environments with little room for individuality. the overseer appears as bosses who expect perfection, high-pressure job expectations, and relentless responsibilities that drain their energy. instead of being recognized for their natural leadership, they are forced to prove themselves over and over again through discipline and hard work. their daily routine becomes rigid and exhausting, making them feel like they are losing their personal freedom in the pursuit of success.

how leo self-sabotages:

they resist structured routines, leading to chaotic schedules that leave them overwhelmed. they rebel against authority, refusing to follow rules that they see as beneath them, which can lead to career instability or professional conflicts. they take on too much responsibility, feeling like they have to do everything themselves to prove their worth. this enemy wins when leo rising tries to fight structure instead of learning how to use it to their advantage.

★ the abyss (8th house, pisces) ★

how to defeat it:

leo must realize that discipline and structure do not limit their creativity—they refine it. if they learn to balance responsibility with self-expression, the overseer loses its control.

how it attacks:

pisces in the 8th house forces leo rising into deep emotional crises where nothing is clear or predictable. the abyss appears as betrayals that come out of nowhere, financial instability, and emotional wounds that refuse to heal in a straight line. leo rising prefers clarity and control, but this enemy clouds their judgment, making them feel lost in emotional confusion. they may struggle with being deceived by those they trust, feeling like the rug has been pulled out from under them without explanation. their relationships and financial security often feel uncertain and unstable, making them fearful of the unknown.

how leo self-sabotages:

they cling to illusions, refusing to see the truth in situations where they have been deceived. they distract themselves with external validation, avoiding processing their emotional pain in a healthy way. they rush into financial or emotional commitments without considering the risks, only to feel trapped when things don’t go as expected. the abyss wins when leo refuses to acknowledge their emotional wounds and instead hides behind their pride.

★ the phantom king (12th house, cancer) ★

how to defeat it:

leo must learn that true strength comes from vulnerability, not avoidance. if they face their emotional pain with honesty and allow themselves to heal, the abyss loses its hold.

how it attacks:

cancer in the 12th house creates a hidden fear of losing relevance and being abandoned by those they love. the phantom king whispers, “what if they stop caring about you? what if no one sees you anymore?” leo rising thrives on recognition and connection, but this enemy makes them fear losing their place in people’s lives. they may struggle with hidden insecurities about being replaceable, leading to subconscious self-sabotage in relationships and career moves. this enemy appears in moments of loneliness, nostalgia for the past, and fears of fading into the background when they aren’t actively in the spotlight.

how leo self-sabotages:

they overcompensate by demanding attention, fearing that if they aren’t constantly visible, they will be forgotten. they hold onto relationships that have run their course, terrified of losing emotional connections that once defined them. they hide their own emotional needs, pretending to be strong and unbothered while secretly fearing rejection. the phantom king wins when leo rising lets their fear of irrelevance control their actions.

★ the outcast (7th house, aquarius) ★

how to defeat it:

leo must realize that their worth is not tied to external validation. if they build a strong inner foundation and embrace self-love without needing constant recognition, the phantom king fades away.

how it attacks:

aquarius in the 7th house attracts partners who are independent, unpredictable, and emotionally distant. the outcast appears as lovers who resist deep emotional connection, friendships that feel distant, and business partners who prioritize logic over feelings. leo rising wants passion and devotion, but this enemy places them in relationships that feel cool, detached, and sometimes outright indifferent. they may feel like they are giving their all to people who never fully reciprocate their energy.

how leo self-sabotages:

they attract partners who challenge their need for admiration, feeling frustrated when their efforts go unnoticed. they mistake freedom for rejection, struggling with trusting that love doesn’t have to be constant validation. they push people away when they feel unappreciated, rather than allowing relationships to breathe and grow organically. the outcast wins when leo rising seeks constant affirmation instead of building secure, balanced relationships.

how to defeat it:

leo must understand that love is not about possession or constant reassurance—it’s about trust and mutual respect. if they allow themselves to experience relationships without needing control, the outcast loses its power.

★ virgo rising: the fool, the destroyer, the ghost, the trickster ★

the fool (6th house, aquarius) disrupts their carefully structured routines, throwing them into unpredictable work environments and health struggles that defy logic.

the destroyer (8th house, aries) drags them into sudden, painful transformations that strip them of control and force them into crisis mode without warning.

the ghost (12th house, leo) lurks in their subconscious, whispering fears of being invisible, unappreciated, and never truly recognized for their efforts.

the trickster (7th house, pisces) appears in relationships that deceive, confuse, and challenge virgo’s desire for certainty and clarity in love.

★ the fool (6th house, aquarius) ★

how it attacks:

virgo rising craves efficiency, order, and structured routines, but aquarius in the 6th house brings constant change, unconventional work settings, and unpredictable health patterns. the fool appears as disruptive coworkers, unstructured job environments, and sudden shifts that force them to adapt when they’d rather plan ahead. workplaces feel disorganized, full of eccentric personalities who don’t follow the rules. instead of a reliable schedule, their daily life is full of interruptions, last-minute changes, and unexpected complications. their health may also be affected by nervous energy, sudden stressors, or erratic habits they can’t control.

how virgo self-sabotages:

they cling too tightly to routine, panicking when things don’t go as planned. they try to fix chaos with logic, but the fool doesn’t play by their rules. they struggle with overthinking and micromanaging, exhausting themselves in an attempt to control what can’t be controlled. the more they resist embracing spontaneity, the more the fool tightens its grip.

★ the destroyer (8th house, aries) ★

how to defeat it:

virgo must learn that not everything needs a strict plan. if they embrace adaptability and trust themselves to handle the unknown, the fool loses its power. finding balance between logic and flexibility will allow them to navigate chaotic situations with confidence.

how it attacks:

aries in the 8th house forces virgo rising into intense, fast-moving crises that demand immediate action and emotional endurance. the destroyer appears as sudden losses, financial upheavals, and deep betrayals that happen without warning. virgo rising prefers carefully planned transformations, but this enemy rips control from their hands, forcing them into high-pressure situations where they must act fast. this enemy thrives on pushing them to their emotional and financial limits, demanding resilience without preparation.

how virgo self-sabotages:

they overanalyze rather than act, trying to delay crisis instead of adapting quickly. they suppress anger and emotional intensity, but the destroyer forces them to confront raw, unfiltered emotions head-on. they struggle with letting go, resisting transformation until it happens by force. the more they try to control the uncontrollable, the harder the destroyer strikes.

how to defeat it:

virgo must learn that not all change can be planned—some must be faced head-on. if they accept that destruction is sometimes necessary for rebirth, they can turn moments of crisis into opportunities for renewal. the destroyer loses its grip when they trust their instincts rather than fear them.

★ the ghost (12th house, leo) ★

how it attacks:

leo in the 12th house creates a hidden fear of invisibility, unrecognized effort, and being overshadowed by others. the ghost appears in moments of self-doubt, whispering that no matter how hard virgo rising works, they will never receive the recognition they deserve. they thrive on being useful and competent, but this enemy makes them feel unseen, unappreciated, or constantly second to someone else. they may struggle with feeling overlooked in their personal and professional life, believing that their worth is only as strong as their ability to serve others.

how virgo self-sabotages:

they work tirelessly to prove themselves, but never feel fully satisfied with external validation. they suppress their own creative desires, prioritizing helping others over their own self-expression. they fear taking up too much space, often downplaying their achievements instead of owning their success. the ghost wins when virgo rising lets self-doubt keep them in the background instead of stepping into their own spotlight.

★ the trickster (7th house, pisces) ★

how to defeat it:

virgo must realize that they are not just valuable because of what they do for others—they are valuable simply for who they are. if they allow themselves to take pride in their talents and step forward with confidence, the ghost fades away.

how it attacks:

pisces in the 7th house makes relationships unclear, unpredictable, and often filled with illusions. the trickster appears as partners who are hard to pin down, emotionally elusive, or dishonest in ways that are hard to detect at first. virgo rising wants practical, straightforward partnerships, but this enemy attracts romantic and business relationships where nothing is as it seems. they may fall for people who manipulate with charm, promise stability but never deliver, or disappear when things get serious. love feels like a constant puzzle, full of missing pieces that virgo rising desperately tries to solve.

how virgo self-sabotages:

they overanalyze relationships, trying to find logic in emotions that can’t be rationalized. they seek perfection in partners, only to feel disillusioned when reality doesn’t match their expectations. they ignore red flags, assuming they can fix or help the people they love, but the trickster thrives on false hope and illusions.

how to defeat it:

virgo must learn that love is not a problem to be solved—it is an experience to be felt. if they stop seeking certainty and instead embrace emotional flow, the trickster loses its ability to deceive. trusting intuition over logic in relationships will allow them to see through illusions and avoid unnecessary heartache.

★ libra rising: the workhorse, the storm, the doppelgänger, the challenger ★

the tide (6th house, pisces) pulls them into waves of emotional and professional overwhelm, blurring the line between responsibility and sacrifice.

the sandstorm (8th house, taurus) buries them in slow-moving but unavoidable emotional and financial transformations that challenge their patience and comfort zones.

the masquerade (12th house, virgo) lurks in their subconscious, whispering self-doubt and perfectionism, making them feel like they must constantly refine themselves to be worthy of love and success.

the warrior (7th house, aries) appears in relationships that demand courage, independence, and confrontation—things libra rising instinctively avoids in order to keep the peace.

★ the tide (6th house, pisces) ★

how it attacks:

libra rising craves clear responsibilities and work-life balance, but pisces in the 6th house brings fluidity, uncertainty, and obligations that drain them emotionally rather than just physically. the tide appears as jobs that expect too much, coworkers who overshare personal struggles, and unclear boundaries between professional and emotional labor. libra rising often finds themselves absorbing the stress of their environment, feeling responsible for fixing problems they didn’t cause. their work feels like an ocean of shifting expectations, where they must constantly adjust without clear guidance. their health also suffers from stress, exhaustion, and difficulty maintaining routines due to external demands.

how libra self-sabotages:

they say yes too often, believing that if they help enough people, everything will fall into place. they struggle with setting boundaries, fearing that asserting their needs will make them appear selfish or unkind. they avoid structure, thinking that rigid schedules restrict their freedom, only to become overwhelmed when they lack direction. the tide wins when libra rising lets themselves be carried away by responsibilities they never truly wanted to take on in the first place.

★ the sandstorm (8th house, taurus) ★

how to defeat it:

libra must learn that helping others does not mean drowning in their problems. if they establish firm boundaries and create routines that prioritize their well-being, the tide loses its grip. learning to say “no” without guilt will allow them to regain their own sense of flow without being swept away.

how it attacks:

taurus in the 8th house forces libra rising into slow, heavy transformations that cannot be rushed or avoided. the sandstorm appears as financial burdens that take years to resolve, emotionally draining relationships that linger, and personal evolutions that feel like walking through endless resistance. unlike the quick, adaptable change libra prefers, this enemy demands endurance and patience, refusing to let them move on until they fully face what needs to be transformed.

how libra self-sabotages:

they cling to comfort even when it no longer serves them, fearing that leaving stability behind means making an irreversible mistake. they avoid difficult emotional conversations, thinking that if they pretend everything is fine, it will eventually resolve itself. they struggle with letting go, often holding onto people, financial obligations, or emotional burdens long past their expiration date. the sandstorm wins when libra rising remains stuck in cycles of avoidance, letting change happen to them instead of actively participating in their own transformation.

★ the masquerade (12th house, virgo) ★

how to defeat it:

libra must accept that not all change can be controlled, and some things require endurance rather than avoidance. if they face their financial and emotional struggles with patience rather than trying to rush to the finish line, the sandstorm loses its grip.

how it attacks:

virgo in the 12th house creates a hidden voice of self-criticism that constantly questions libra rising’s decisions, making them feel like they must be polished and flawless to be truly accepted. the masquerade whispers, "are you sure this is the right choice? are you refined enough, successful enough, desirable enough?" libra thrives on beauty and balance, but this enemy makes them fixate on flaws, second-guess their actions, and fear being exposed as inadequate. they may struggle with an internal pressure to maintain an idealized version of themselves, constantly adjusting to meet others' expectations instead of simply existing as they are.

how libra self-sabotages:

they overanalyze every social interaction, every choice, and every commitment, paralyzing themselves with indecision. they struggle with acknowledging their own needs, often deferring to what they believe will please others rather than what truly fulfills them. they may hold themselves to impossibly high standards, believing that any mistake could damage their reputation or relationships. the masquerade wins when libra rising lets their own self-doubt keep them from embracing their true identity and desires.

★ the warrior (7th house, aries) ★

how to defeat it:

libra must realize that they do not need to be perfect—they need to be authentic. if they trust their instincts rather than constantly refining themselves for others, the masquerade loses its power.

how it attacks:

aries in the 7th house attracts partners who are direct, independent, and sometimes confrontational. the warrior appears as lovers who push libra rising to assert themselves, stand their ground, and make decisions without overthinking. libra prefers harmony and mutual understanding, but this enemy places them in relationships that demand personal strength and self-assertion rather than constant compromise. they may attract partners who challenge their desire for fairness by pushing them to be decisive, competitive, and self-reliant.

how libra self-sabotages:

they avoid conflict at all costs, often sacrificing their own needs just to maintain peace in relationships. they mistake assertiveness for aggression, struggling to stand their ground when it truly matters. they may become overly reliant on a partner’s leadership, believing that someone else should make the hard decisions for them. the warrior wins when libra rising fears confrontation so much that they lose their ability to fight for what they truly want in relationships.

how to defeat it:

libra must realize that standing up for themselves does not mean creating conflict—it means claiming their power. if they embrace self-assertion and make decisions based on their own needs rather than trying to please others, the warrior loses its grip.

★ scorpio rising: the taskmaster, the wildfire, the mirror, the tower ★

the taskmaster (6th house, aries) forces them into grueling work environments, exhausting responsibilities, and non-stop action with no room for rest or strategy.

the whirlwind (8th house, gemini) spreads rapid and unpredictable destruction through miscommunication, betrayal, and emotional upheavals they never see coming.

the mirror (12th house, libra) lurks in their subconscious, forcing them to reconcile their need for control with their hidden desire for harmony and validation.

the tower (7th house, taurus) appears in relationships that challenge their emotional intensity with stability, patience, and resistance to their usual tactics of manipulation or control.

★ the taskmaster (6th house, aries) ★

how it attacks:

scorpio rising prefers to move with strategy, taking control over their own pace, but aries in the 6th house drags them into constant action, high-pressure work environments, and physical exhaustion that leaves no time for careful planning. the taskmaster appears as demanding jobs, overwhelming routines, and responsibilities that never seem to end. scorpio rising craves depth and meaning, but this enemy forces them into mindless, repetitive labor that drains their energy. their health suffers from stress, overworking, and pushing themselves to the absolute limit.

how scorpio self-sabotages:

they refuse to rest, believing that if they stop, they will lose control over their success. they bottle up frustration, only to explode when the pressure becomes unbearable. they reject help, thinking that true strength means doing everything alone. the taskmaster wins when scorpio rising burns out completely, leaving them unable to function effectively.

★ the whirlwind (8th house, gemini) ★

how to defeat it:

scorpio must learn that working smart is more important than working hard. if they embrace efficiency, delegate responsibilities, and prioritize their well-being, the taskmaster loses its power.

how it attacks:

gemini in the 8th house forces scorpio rising into fast-moving emotional crises, unexpected betrayals, and chaotic transformations that they cannot control. the whirlwind appears as partners who spread misinformation, friendships that dissolve without warning, and secrets that surface at the worst possible moments. unlike the slow, deep emotional transformations scorpio prefers, this enemy brings sudden, jarring changes that leave them scrambling for answers.

how scorpio self-sabotages:

they obsess over hidden meanings, desperately trying to piece together fragmented truths. they hold onto grudges, unable to let go of past betrayals even when moving forward would serve them better. they overestimate their ability to control narratives, believing that if they dig deep enough, they can uncover the full truth—but the whirlwind ensures that truth always remains elusive.

★ the mirror (12th house, libra) ★

how to defeat it:

scorpio must accept that not every mystery needs to be solved, and not every battle is worth fighting. if they let go of their need to control information and embrace adaptability, the whirlwind loses its power.

how it attacks:

libra in the 12th house creates a hidden contradiction within scorpio rising—on the surface, they exude power and independence, but deep down, they secretly crave harmony, acceptance, and even love from others in ways they don’t admit to themselves. the mirror whispers, “you are not as in control as you pretend to be. you want to be loved, just like everyone else.” scorpio rising wants to believe they are above the need for external validation, but this enemy forces them to reckon with the parts of themselves that desire approval, affection, and connection.

how scorpio self-sabotages:

they push people away, fearing that letting others in will make them vulnerable. they dismiss their own need for love, pretending that they do not care about being understood. they struggle with internal contradictions, torn between their desire for power and their secret longing for peace. the mirror wins when scorpio rising denies their softer side, refusing to acknowledge their need for balance and connection.

★ the tower (7th house, taurus) ★

how to defeat it:

scorpio must accept that they can be both powerful and vulnerable, both dominant and loving. if they embrace their desire for harmony instead of suppressing it, the mirror loses its hold.

how it attacks:

taurus in the 7th house attracts partners who resist scorpio’s usual tactics of control, manipulation, and emotional intensity. the tower appears as lovers who refuse to engage in power struggles, who demand stability instead of chaos, and who hold their ground rather than bending to scorpio’s will. relationships feel slow, unmovable, and sometimes frustratingly stable, lacking the extreme emotional highs and lows scorpio is used to navigating. unlike the deeply transformative connections scorpio prefers, this enemy forces them to experience love as something steady and unshakable rather than dramatic and consuming.

how scorpio self-sabotages:

they test their partners, pushing limits to see if they will react, but taurus energy remains calm and unmoved, which frustrates them even more. they resist trust, believing that if they let go of control, they will lose their power. they mistake consistency for boredom, often sabotaging stable relationships because they crave something more intense. the tower wins when scorpio rising rejects stability, convincing themselves that love must be painful in order to be meaningful.

how to defeat it:

scorpio must realize that true strength lies in trust and patience, not just in power and intensity. if they embrace the idea that love can be stable and fulfilling without being destructive or obsessive, the tower loses its foundation and crumbles.

★ sagittarius rising: the warden, the undertow, the serpent, the ballast ★

the warden (6th house, taurus) forces them into repetitive, rigid routines that feel suffocating and slow, demanding discipline and patience rather than excitement and variety.

the undertow (8th house, cancer) drags them into overwhelming emotional depths, forcing them to confront attachment, loss, and intimacy in ways they instinctively resist.

the serpent (12th house, scorpio) lurks in their subconscious, clouding their instincts with paranoia, self-doubt, and fears of hidden betrayals that may or may not be real.

the ballast (7th house, gemini) appears in relationships that feel too logical, detached, or mentally exhausting, challenging their need for passion and spiritual depth in love.

★ the warden (6th house, taurus) ★

how it attacks:

sagittarius rising thrives on spontaneity and movement, but taurus in the 6th house drags them into slow, repetitive routines that feel like an inescapable prison. the warden appears as unwavering responsibilities, work that demands patience and endurance, and an environment that offers little stimulation or adventure. sagittarius wants quick results and flexible schedules, but this enemy demands consistency, discipline, and a long-term commitment to progress. it shows up in strict work schedules, demanding health regimens, and daily obligations that seem to drag on forever.

how sagittarius self-sabotages:

they avoid commitment, jumping between jobs and projects before they see results. they procrastinate on long-term goals, believing they will figure things out later, only to feel overwhelmed when responsibilities catch up to them. they resist slowing down, fearing that stillness means stagnation. the warden wins when sagittarius rising refuses to develop discipline, leaving them stuck in cycles of unfinished ideas and fleeting interests that never turn into something stable.

★ the undertow (8th house, cancer) ★

how to defeat it:

sagittarius must learn that structure does not equal confinement—it is the foundation that makes long-term freedom possible. if they embrace patience and steady effort without seeing it as a cage, the warden loses its power.

how it attacks:

cancer in the 8th house forces sagittarius rising into deep emotional waters they are not prepared to navigate. the undertow appears as intense, overwhelming relationships, family burdens they cannot escape, and a need to face their own emotions instead of running from them. unlike the lighthearted connections sagittarius prefers, this enemy drags them into matters of life, death, and legacy, forcing them to feel things they would rather intellectualize or joke about.

how sagittarius self-sabotages:

they avoid deep emotional bonds, keeping relationships surface-level to avoid being tied down. they shut down when people expect emotional vulnerability, preferring to keep things light rather than diving into painful discussions. they distract themselves with travel, work, or new experiences rather than sitting with their feelings and processing them fully. the undertow wins when sagittarius rising denies themselves true emotional connection and healing because they fear the weight of it.

★ the serpent (12th house, scorpio) ★

how to defeat it:

sagittarius must learn that freedom is not just physical—it is emotional too. if they allow themselves to face their feelings rather than escape them, they will find deeper meaning and connection than they ever thought possible.

how it attacks:

scorpio in the 12th house creates a lurking fear of betrayal, failure, and losing control. the serpent coils around sagittarius rising’s subconscious, whispering "what if you're wrong? what if you’ve trusted the wrong people? what if there's something lurking beneath the surface you’re too blind to see?" sagittarius prefers truth, openness, and expansion, but this enemy poisons them with paranoia, self-doubt, and subconscious sabotage that leads them into self-destructive patterns. they may laugh things off on the surface, but underneath, they are haunted by unspoken fears of what’s waiting in the shadows.

how sagittarius self-sabotages:

they become reckless to avoid confronting their inner darkness, throwing themselves into distractions instead of acknowledging their deeper wounds. they doubt their own wisdom, fearing that they will never have all the answers, leading them to overcompensate with arrogance or avoidance. they keep their pain buried, assuming that if they don’t think about it, it won’t affect them—only for it to creep into their decisions unconsciously. the serpent wins when sagittarius rising lets fear of the unknown dictate their actions rather than embracing the power of transformation.

★ the ballast (7th house, gemini) ★

how to defeat it:

sagittarius must realize that fear only has power when ignored. if they confront their hidden wounds, embrace vulnerability, and trust in their ability to overcome, the serpent loses its venom.

how it attacks:

gemini in the 7th house attracts partners who challenge sagittarius rising’s need for passion and adventure with logic, detachment, and intellectual debates that can feel cold or exhausting. the ballast appears as lovers who overanalyze everything, make love feel like a mental chess game rather than a passionate connection, or constantly test their beliefs in frustrating ways. sagittarius seeks a lover who will run wild with them, but this enemy keeps them tethered to reality, forcing them to engage in difficult conversations rather than simply escaping into passion or philosophy.

how sagittarius self-sabotages:

they get restless in relationships, craving constant novelty and excitement. they avoid serious conversations, choosing charm and humor over emotional depth. they struggle with staying present in relationships that require patience and effort, assuming that if things aren’t effortless, they aren’t meant to be. the ballast wins when sagittarius rising rejects commitment, assuming it will slow them down rather than expand their world in new ways.

how to defeat it:

sagittarius must realize that real love is not about constant movement—it is about trust, growth, and exploration together. if they stop fearing commitment and embrace meaningful intellectual and emotional connections, the ballast loses its weight.

★ capricorn rising: the conveyor belt, the pyre, the shadowcaster, the maelstrom ★

the conveyor belt (6th house, gemini) throws them into chaotic routines, constant multitasking, and shallow distractions that drain their efficiency and focus.

the pyre (8th house, leo) forces them into ego-destroying transformations, stripping away their carefully built self-image through loss, betrayal, and power struggles.

the shadowcaster (12th house, sagittarius) lurks in their subconscious, creating an inner conflict between their need for control and their hidden desire for boundless freedom and escape.

the maelstrom (7th house, cancer) appears in relationships that overwhelm them with emotional intensity, unpredictability, and demands for vulnerability they struggle to meet.

★ the conveyor belt (6th house, gemini) ★

how it attacks:

capricorn rising thrives on structure and efficiency, but gemini in the 6th house disrupts their carefully laid plans with constant interruptions, overwhelming responsibilities, and shallow tasks that waste their time. the conveyor belt appears as a fast-paced work environment that prioritizes speed over quality, an endless influx of responsibilities that prevent deep focus, and a lack of consistency that makes it difficult to establish long-term stability. capricorn rising prefers steady progress, but this enemy forces them to juggle too many tasks at once, leading to burnout and dissatisfaction.

how capricorn self-sabotages:

they micromanage everything, believing that if they control every detail, they can prevent chaos—only to exhaust themselves in the process. they overcommit to responsibilities, taking on too much out of a sense of duty, even when it drains them. they ignore their need for rest, believing that working harder will solve everything, even when their lack of efficiency is the real problem. the conveyor belt wins when capricorn rising mistakes busyness for productivity, losing sight of their long-term goals in the process.

★ the pyre (8th house, leo) ★

how to defeat it:

capricorn must learn that quality matters more than quantity. if they prioritize deep work, delegate unnecessary tasks, and allow flexibility in their routines without sacrificing structure, the conveyor belt loses its grip.

how it attacks:

leo in the 8th house forces capricorn rising into sudden and often humiliating transformations that strip away their pride, authority, or sense of control. the pyre appears as public failures, betrayals that damage their reputation, or deep emotional losses that force them to let go of their rigid self-image. unlike the gradual, structured change they prefer, this enemy burns away everything they once relied on, leaving them exposed and vulnerable before they have a chance to rebuild.

how capricorn self-sabotages:

they cling to their authority and status, refusing to admit when they need help or when their old methods are no longer working. they fear showing weakness, leading them to bottle up emotions until they explode in dramatic ways. they struggle with letting go, often trying to salvage control in situations that demand surrender. the pyre wins when capricorn rising fights against necessary transformation, only to have it forced upon them in painful, unavoidable ways.

★ the shadowcaster (12th house, sagittarius) ★

how to defeat it:

capricorn must accept that sometimes destruction is necessary for renewal. if they embrace change rather than resisting it, they can rise from the ashes stronger and wiser. the pyre loses its fire when capricorn learns to let go of outdated versions of themselves before life forces them to.

how it attacks:

sagittarius in the 12th house creates a subconscious conflict between capricorn’s need for stability and their hidden desire for escape, risk, and freedom. the shadowcaster whispers, “what if you’re missing out? what if you built this entire life only to realize you never really lived?” capricorn rising thrives on control and careful planning, but this enemy fuels impulsive desires to abandon everything and run toward the unknown—an urge they struggle to reconcile with their responsibility-driven nature.

how capricorn self-sabotages:

they deny their need for adventure, suppressing any impulse that threatens their structured world—only to find themselves secretly fantasizing about escape. they intellectualize their emotions, avoiding deep spiritual reflection in favor of tangible achievements. they fear uncertainty, preferring to stay on the path they’ve built, even if it no longer excites them. the shadowcaster wins when capricorn rising lets fear of instability keep them from evolving, leaving them feeling trapped in a life they built but no longer connect with.

★ the maelstrom (7th house, cancer) ★

how to defeat it:

capricorn must learn that they don’t have to choose between stability and adventure—they can have both. if they integrate spontaneity and self-discovery into their structured life, the shadowcaster fades away.

how it attacks:

cancer in the 7th house attracts partners who bring deep emotional intensity, unpredictable moods, and demands for vulnerability that capricorn rising struggles to meet. the maelstrom appears as relationships that require them to open up, soften, and connect on an emotional level rather than just a practical one. capricorn rising prefers partnerships built on mutual goals and stability, but this enemy forces them into love that is raw, nurturing, and sometimes overwhelming in its depth and intensity.

how capricorn self-sabotages:

they emotionally detach, keeping relationships strictly transactional or goal-oriented rather than allowing them to be deeply felt experiences. they view emotions as distractions, struggling with being present in moments of deep connection. they fear dependency, believing that needing someone too much will make them weak. the maelstrom wins when capricorn rising pushes away genuine intimacy out of fear that they will lose control in the process.

how to defeat it:

capricorn must learn that true strength lies in allowing themselves to be loved fully, not just respected or admired. if they embrace emotional connection rather than avoiding it, the maelstrom loses its storm.

★ aquarius rising: the tidebreaker, the iron veil, the hollow, the sovereign ★

the tidebreaker (6th house, cancer) disrupts their logical, structured world with unpredictable emotional demands, workplace drama, and physical stress rooted in unresolved emotional baggage.

the iron veil (8th house, virgo) forces them into slow, grueling psychological transformations that demand patience, humility, and meticulous self-analysis—things they resist deeply.

the hollow (12th house, capricorn) lurks in their subconscious, creating an inner war between their rebellious ideals and a hidden, relentless drive for control, status, and power.

the sovereign (7th house, leo) appears in relationships that challenge their detached, intellectual approach to love by demanding passion, adoration, and unwavering presence.

★ the tidebreaker (6th house, cancer) ★

how it attacks:

aquarius rising thrives on rationality and objectivity, but cancer in the 6th house forces them into work environments and daily routines that are dictated by emotion rather than logic. the tidebreaker appears as unpredictable coworkers, emotionally draining work responsibilities, and health struggles that stem from bottled-up stress. unlike the detached and calculated approach they prefer, this enemy turns every task into an emotional ordeal, making it difficult for them to separate work from personal feelings.

how aquarius self-sabotages:

they dismiss emotional needs as irrational, avoiding self-care until stress manifests as physical exhaustion. they detach in workplace drama, refusing to engage but still feeling the weight of unresolved tension around them. they overlook the importance of emotional balance in their daily life, leading to burnout and erratic productivity cycles. the tidebreaker wins when aquarius rising ignores the emotional undercurrents affecting their well-being, mistaking detachment for control.

★ the iron veil (8th house, virgo) ★

how to defeat it:

aquarius must learn that emotional intelligence is just as important as intellectual intelligence. if they acknowledge the emotional weight of their environment instead of dismissing it, they can create boundaries that protect their energy rather than pretending they don’t need them. the tidebreaker loses its force when aquarius rising embraces both logic and emotion in their daily life.

how it attacks:

virgo in the 8th house forces aquarius rising into painfully slow, detail-heavy personal transformations that feel suffocating and never-ending. the iron veil appears as a cycle of self-improvement that is never enough, deep insecurities masked as perfectionism, and crises that require careful, tedious healing instead of quick fixes or intellectual solutions. unlike the sudden breakthroughs aquarius prefers, this enemy demands meticulous self-work that cannot be skipped or avoided.

how aquarius self-sabotages:

they intellectualize their emotions, analyzing their problems instead of actually processing and feeling them. they avoid deep personal work, preferring to distract themselves with new ideas or future plans rather than dealing with old wounds that still influence them. they deny their own vulnerability, refusing to admit that they, too, need healing and emotional care. the iron veil wins when aquarius rising avoids necessary transformation, staying stuck in mental loops rather than making real progress.

★ the hollow (12th house, capricorn) ★

how to defeat it:

aquarius must realize that true transformation is not about intellectual mastery—it’s about emotional integration. if they embrace the discomfort of slow healing instead of trying to "logic" their way out of it, the iron veil loses its power.

how it attacks:

capricorn in the 12th house creates a hidden conflict between aquarius rising’s rebellious, nonconformist ideals and their subconscious desire for control, power, and recognition. the hollow whispers, “you act like you don’t care about success, but what if deep down, you do? what if everything you claim to reject is actually what you crave the most?” aquarius prides themselves on breaking societal norms, but this enemy reveals the part of them that fears being irrelevant, directionless, or incapable of building something lasting.

how aquarius self-sabotages:

they reject traditional success too aggressively, sometimes turning down opportunities just to prove they are different. they act as if they don’t care about legacy or reputation, even when deep down, they want to make a lasting impact but fear being seen as hypocritical. they hide their need for structure, believing that admitting to their ambitions would mean surrendering to the very systems they claim to resist. the hollow wins when aquarius rising lets their fear of conformity keep them from fully embracing their power and influence.

★ the sovereign (7th house, leo) ★

how to defeat it:

aquarius must realize that power is not the enemy—misuse of power is. if they accept that ambition does not have to mean selling out, and that structure does not have to mean restriction, the hollow loses its grip.

how it attacks:

leo in the 7th house attracts partners who demand loyalty, grand gestures, and unwavering presence—things aquarius rising often struggles to provide. the sovereign appears as relationships that feel larger than life, lovers who expect admiration and deep emotional engagement, and partnerships that challenge their need for independence and detachment. aquarius rising prefers companionship that allows for freedom, but this enemy demands total commitment, forcing them to confront their resistance to deep emotional investment.

how aquarius self-sabotages:

they keep relationships at arm’s length, fearing that if they give too much of themselves, they will lose their identity. they downplay their emotions, sometimes acting indifferent or unavailable even when they deeply care. they resist partners who want to be the center of their world, struggling with expressing appreciation in ways that feel genuine to them rather than performative or forced. the sovereign wins when aquarius rising rejects the vulnerability of love in favor of detached intellectualism, losing deep connections in the process.

how to defeat it:

aquarius must learn that true freedom in relationships comes from trust and mutual respect, not distance and avoidance. if they embrace devotion without feeling like it threatens their independence, the sovereign loses its power.

★ pisces rising: the inferno, the marionette, the rift, the sentinel ★

the inferno (6th house, leo) burns through their desire for quiet, intuitive work, forcing them into high-pressure environments where ego and recognition dictate success.

the marionette (8th house, libra) traps them in emotional and financial dependencies, pulling their strings so subtly that they do not realize they are losing control until it is too late.

the rift (12th house, aquarius) lurks in their subconscious, making them feel like an outsider in their own mind, torn between their dreamlike visions and the cold detachment of reality.

the sentinel (7th house, virgo) appears in relationships that demand practicality, structure, and discipline, forcing them to reconcile their ideals with the need for stability and reliability in love.

★ the inferno (6th house, leo) ★

how it attacks:

pisces rising thrives on fluidity, creative expression, and quiet inspiration, but leo in the 6th house throws them into environments where they are expected to be seen, acknowledged, and perform under pressure. the inferno appears as demanding bosses, high-stakes careers that require constant self-promotion, or daily routines that require them to maintain a dominant presence rather than flowing at their own pace. unlike the dreamlike, intuitive work environments they long for, this enemy demands authority, structure, and external validation.

how pisces self-sabotages:

they shrink from leadership roles, fearing that stepping into the spotlight will strip them of their deeper, spiritual purpose. they avoid structured routines, preferring spontaneity even when discipline could help them thrive. they downplay their own success, believing that seeking recognition is egotistical when, in reality, it’s necessary for growth. the inferno wins when pisces rising refuses to embrace their inner strength, instead letting themselves drift aimlessly in jobs or routines that do not fulfill them.

★ the marionette (8th house, libra) ★

how to defeat it:

pisces must realize that being seen does not mean losing their authenticity. if they allow themselves to take up space, lead with compassion, and accept recognition as part of their journey, the inferno loses its flames.

how it attacks:

libra in the 8th house forces pisces rising into deep, complex emotional and financial connections that feel impossible to untangle. the marionette appears as relationships where they lose themselves in others, joint financial burdens they cannot escape, and a never-ending struggle between maintaining peace and asserting their needs. unlike the free-flowing, romantic bonds they seek, this enemy ties them to obligations that grow more complicated over time, draining them of energy and autonomy.

how pisces self-sabotages:

they prioritize harmony over self-protection, staying in situations that are quietly suffocating them just to avoid confrontation. they believe love means sacrifice, sometimes giving up more than they receive in return. they become financially or emotionally dependent, making it difficult to walk away from relationships that have become entangled with their survival or sense of self. the marionette wins when pisces rising mistakes obligation for connection, binding themselves to others at the cost of their own freedom.

★ the rift (12th house, aquarius) ★

how to defeat it:

pisces must learn that true connection does not come from dependence—it comes from mutual respect and balance. if they assert their boundaries and reclaim their independence, the marionette’s strings will snap.

how it attacks:

aquarius in the 12th house creates a deep internal divide between pisces rising’s rich inner world and an underlying fear of emotional detachment or irrelevance. the rift whispers, “your dreams are beautiful, but what if they don’t mean anything? what if you are just another wandering soul, lost in illusion?” pisces rising is deeply connected to spirituality and creativity, but this enemy injects doubt, making them feel isolated even within their own mind. they may experience visions, intuition, and dreams that feel profound, only to question if they are truly connected or if they are merely lost in their own delusions.

how pisces self-sabotages:

they avoid grounding themselves, preferring to stay in the world of ideas and dreams even when reality is calling them back. they doubt their own intuition, fearing that they cannot trust their instincts or that their inner world is somehow “wrong” or meaningless. they disconnect from others, feeling too different or too misunderstood to fully belong anywhere. the rift wins when pisces rising convinces themselves that they are a ghost drifting through life rather than an active creator of their own destiny.

★ the sentinel (7th house, virgo) ★

how to defeat it:

pisces must realize that they do not have to choose between dreams and reality—they can build a bridge between them. if they anchor their creativity and intuition in the physical world through action and expression, the rift loses its power to separate them from themselves.

how it attacks:

virgo in the 7th house attracts partners who demand order, structure, and logic—things that pisces rising often struggles with in their romantic relationships. the sentinel appears as partners who need stability, who expect routines and reliability, who analyze love rather than surrendering to it. pisces rising seeks romantic, intuitive, and spiritual bonds, but this enemy challenges them to be practical, to make love something tangible rather than just a dream or a feeling.

how pisces self-sabotages:

they romanticize instability, sometimes choosing lovers who “save” them rather than ones who help them grow. they resist structure in relationships, fearing that commitments will strip away the magic and mystery they crave. they become passive, allowing partners to dictate the direction of the relationship because they fear confrontation or responsibility. the sentinel wins when pisces rising refuses to engage in the practical side of love, expecting devotion to be purely intuitive rather than a daily act of commitment and care.

how to defeat it:

pisces must learn that love does not lose its magic just because it is stable. if they embrace consistency and effort as part of devotion rather than limitations on passion, the sentinel loses its power.

[jjuniko]

turn it down | ponytail 예쁘지만 흩트리면 난 더 좋아

PAIRING : academic rival!sunghoon x male!reader

SUMMARY : mid-terms are coming up and of course you're caught up cramming the last bit of information that your brain can hold. the only thing is the loud ass music coming from the room next door, park sunghoon's room, causing your mind to reel. a simple confrontation should do the trick. right?

CONTAINS : top sunghoon, bot reader, hate sex, reader is lwk a brat, (light) degradation, rough handling / manhanding (hair pulling), dacryphilia, lots of banter, kinda dubcon?

WORD COUNT : 3.4k

tuesday, november 9th. 3:12 a.m.

your desk looks like a war crime. highlighters everywhere, loose-leaf paper threatening to slide off the edge, half of an energy drink you forgot to finish. your eyes sting every time you blink, and your brain’s working at maybe twenty percent, if you’re being generous.

and then it starts again. that low, rock shit that vibrates through the wall like it owns the place. not even loud, just annoyingly persistent. subtle enough that you can’t exactly justify banging on his door, but annoying enough to ruin your concentration completely.

you sit there for maybe a minute. two. waiting to see if it stops. it doesn’t. you know it won’t.

because sunghoon’s a habitual asshole. you’ve known that since orientation week, when he made some smug comment about your test scores like it was a joke. ever since then it’s been non-stop competing GPAs, half-smiles across classrooms, TA praise you’re both too proud to share.

you’re not friends. you’re not even enemies. you’re just locked in, semester after semester, orbiting each other with a kind of mutual contempt that no one else seems to notice.

he plays this loud ass bullshit every time there’s a deadline coming up. maybe it helps him study. maybe he just likes fucking with you.

either way, you’ve had enough. you shove your chair back hard and head into the hall barefoot, too tired to pretend to be polite.

your knuckles hit his door. once. twice. harder than necessary.

there’s a shuffle. then the door cracks open like it’s been weighted shut.

sunghoon blinks at you.

he’s doesn't appear tired at first. not even disheveled in the way you’d expect from him. just... rumpled. and after just a second you notice his hoodie pulled over his head, sleeves pushed to his elbows, collar a little skewed. his hair looks like he’s been clawing through it all night. eye bags for days. skin a little pale under the dorm lights.

he’s clearly not slept either, but he still manages to look irritatingly composed. like even his collapse is well-curated. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t even bother with a fake smile.

“turn it down,” you say, arms crossed, voice deadpan.

he drags a hand over his face, slow and lazy. doesn’t look surprised. just exhausted.

“it’s not even that loud.”

there’s a long silence after that. the kind where the air goes still and your jaw tenses involuntarily. you hate how good he is at this, at being unbothered. like you’re the one making things difficult, even though he’s the one fucking around at 3 a.m. like he doesn’t have the same exam you do in eight hours.

you could push it. argue. threaten to call the resident assistant. but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

he shifts a little, gaze skimming over you once. then he steps aside.

“if it’s that distracting,” he mutters, tone unreadable, “come figure it out yourself.”

you hesitate. just for a second.

it’s not an invitation. it’s not even a dare. it’s... something else. a weird, tired challenge. like he doesn’t actually care whether you do or don’t.

you step in.

his room is a mess in the specific way only a midterm collapse can cause. open textbooks on the bed, extra hoodie draped over his desk chair, two half-empty coffee cups on the windowsill. the music’s coming from his laptop. some endless loop that sounds like it’s trying to mimic a guitar on steroids.

he closes the door behind you with a soft click. the sound feels louder than it should. you don’t sit. he doesn’t offer. he sinks back into his chair like he’s too tired to hold himself upright.

“you always this inconsiderate?” you ask, arms still folded.

he shrugs, not looking at you. “you always this dramatic?”

you roll your eyes. this is what it’s always like. dry comments, eye contact held a second too long, something mean simmering just under the surface. and yet you never stop. neither of you ever stops.

he reaches over and finally closes the music tab. silence drops over the room like a blanket, too heavy for comfort.

you hate this. being here. standing in his room like you’re in some kind of mutual standoff. like something’s about to happen but neither of you wants to be the one to start it.

he rubs his temple, exhales through his nose.

“you done?” he asks, not quite irritated, just bored. resigned.

“you don’t sleep either, huh.”

he snorts softly. “not since midterms started.”

you glance at the open book beside him. finance. same class you’ve got the exam for in the morning. of course he’s studying late. of course he’s doing exactly what you are, just louder, messier, and with worse time management.

you look at him again. his hood’s fallen back, hair semi-sticking out in wild directions. his sleeves are bunched at the elbows. he looks like the personification of burnout.

and still, still, he’s got that same flat expression. like even now, even like this, he’s unbeatable.

you swallow the comment that rises in your throat. something petty. something about how maybe if he spent less time pretending to be cool and more time working like a real person, he wouldn’t need caffeine and rock music to survive midterms.

but you don’t say it. not yet. you just lean against the edge of his desk and stare at him.

“you look like shit,” you say, finally.

he huffs a laugh. doesn’t look at you. “you always say the nicest things.”

and then there’s silence again, not awkward, not charged, just... thick. heavy with everything you’re not saying.

you should leave. but you don’t. not yet. you definitely didn’t plan to stay.

but you do. because you hate how he gets under your skin and makes it look easy. because he barely even asked you to come in, just stepped aside like he knew you would.

and maybe you hate that he was right.

now you’re standing in the middle of his room while he sits back down like nothing happened. like you didn’t just march over here two seconds from combusting.

he’s not pretending to be calm. he is calm. scrolling on his laptop, half-slouched in his chair, music still playing at that irritatingly low volume. like he’s immune to you.

you say nothing. neither does he.

you sit on the edge of his bed eventually, more out of annoyance than comfort. the frame creaks and he doesn’t look.

“your notes are a mess,” he says, not looking up.

you blink. “what?”

“your handwriting’s dogshit. i saw it in a lecture.”

you scoff. “maybe if you paid more attention to the lecture, you wouldn’t have to read mine.”

he hums, not denying it. “figured you’d take notes and be desperate to prove you’re better than me. two birds.”

you shoot him a glare he doesn’t see. you wish he would. it’d be nice to have him flinch for once.

“you’re such an asshole.”

“and you’re such a try-hard. works out.”

you stare at him. the bitterness in your throat is dry, sharp, familiar.

“you think you’re clever.”

“no,” he says, finally glancing at you. “i think you’re predictable.”

there it is. that look. the one he saves just for you, half bored, half challenging, like he wants you to crack.

and maybe you’re close to cracking.

you breathe through your nose and look away. you’re not going to play his game.

but then—

“you’re shaking.”

you glance down. your knee’s bouncing, unthinking. you stop it.

“midterms. caffeine.”

“sure.”

he spins a little in his chair, back to scrolling, like the conversation’s already over.

it should be. you should go. you don’t.

“what happened to your face?” you mutter.

“what.”

“you look like shit.”

he snorts. “you said that already." he glances at you, now facing you. "no sleep. not that it’s your business.”

you shrug. “was just wondering how you’re somehow uglier when you’re human.”

“funny,” he says. “from someone who only looks tolerable under library lighting.”

your jaw tenses. you meet his eyes.

“fuck you.”

“you wish.”

that stings more than it should. maybe because it hits too close to something you haven’t admitted even to yourself.

you glance around the room again. papers everywhere, water bottle on the floor, a faint smell of citrus and sweat and whatever expensive crap he uses on his skin.

you hate how easily he can exist in chaos. you hate that he’s still better than you in half your classes. and you hate that even now, sitting in his room, watching him blink slow and lean back like he owns the night, you can’t stop looking at him.

your skin feels too tight.

“you gonna stare all night?” he says without glancing up.

“just trying to understand how someone so average is so arrogant.”

he finally turns to you again, lazy but direct. the corner of his mouth lifts, barely.

“maybe because i keep winning.”

you laugh. sharp, mean. “you haven’t ‘won’ anything. you just skate by with minimal effort and let everyone assume you’re too cool to care.”

“and you care so hard it’s embarrassing.”

“you think it’s embarrassing to give a shit?”

“no. i think you are.”

there’s a pause. neither of you blinks.

and that’s when it hits, the understanding. quiet and mutual and completely unspoken.

you both know too much. too much about each other. too much about what words to use when you want them to cut. too much to pretend this is just a rivalry anymore.

he stands up. just one slow step forward. enough to close the distance.

you don’t move back. you don’t break eye contact.

the tension doesn’t spike, it thickens, draws tighter between you like a pulled wire. not sudden. not dramatic. just inevitable.

he stands in front of you now. close enough to smell his shampoo, his skin, the faint edge of cheap cafeteria coffee on his breath.

you could push him. you could leave. but you don’t.

“you’re exhausting,” you say quietly.

“you said that so many times.”

“doesn’t make it less true.”

his hand doesn’t touch you, not yet. but he’s there, standing like he might. like he’s waiting for a sign.

you don’t give him one. you just tilt your chin up and say,

“well? got something to say or just gonna hover like a freak?”

that’s what breaks it.not romance. not longing. not want.

irritation.

his hand comes to the side of your face, not soft. not rough. just firm, and his mouth meets yours in a kiss that’s not born of affection but frustration.

it’s not sudden. it’s slow. intentional.

he kisses you like he wants to shut you up again. like this is the only language he knows how to argue in now. you don’t kiss him back at first. then you do.

not because you like him. you don’t. you just want to win.

and this? this is winnable.

his tongue drags across your lip, your teeth scrape his. he groans low in his throat, more breath than sound, and you yank him down by the strings of his hoodie like he’s yours to drag around.

he stumbles forward and pushes you back into the bed. you don’t resist.

the kiss breaks, but the tension doesn’t. you breathe in sharp and fast, meeting his eyes.

there’s no going back from this. you’re not sure you want to.

his mouth is still on yours, rough and steady like he’s trying to end an argument with tongue and teeth.

you tug his hoodie off. he shrugs it away like it was pissing him off to begin with. his chest appearing more sculpted than you would like to admit. there’s tension in his muscles, irritation in the way he holds his arms like he doesn’t even want you seeing him. and yeah. he looks good. unfairly good.

“quit staring,” he mutters, breath against your cheek.

“get over yourself,” you shoot back. “you’re not that hot.”

he smirks, but it’s bitter. “says the one drooling on my bed.”

“in your dreams.”

“nah,” he breathes, close to your mouth again. “not even in those. too annoying.”

he kisses you before you can respond. just to shut you up again. it works. only for a second.

the kiss breaks when he pushes you back, hands at your shoulders, shoving you flat against the mattress.

“gonna keep talking shit?” he says, voice low.

“probably,” you say. “unless you finally manage to make me shut up.”

that gets a twitch from his lips, halfway between a scoff and something darker.

he climbs over you, knees on either side of your thighs. not with care. with intention. you feel the press of him even through his sweats, and you try not to squirm. fail, maybe. he tugs your shirt off, barely looking as he does.

“no wonder you’ve been a bitch all semester,” he mutters, eyes raking down your chest. “been dying to get fucked.”

“please,” you sneer. “if i wanted to get railed by a know-it-all with a superiority complex, i’d just jack off thinking about your presentation in econ.”

“yeah?” he says, leaning closer. “bet you did.”

his mouth drags down your neck, no softness, just the press of lips and teeth grazing enough to make you twitch. and then his fingers tangle in your hair. yank. hard.

not playful. not cute.

“try shutting up now,” he mutters, breath hot against your jaw.

“fuck you,” you snap, eyes watering from the pull. “you think this proves anything?”

he jerks your head back another inch, eyes on yours now, sharp and mean and way too calm.

“yeah,” he breathes. “proves you’ll take whatever i give you.”

you hate how your whole body reacts to that. his hips grind down against yours once and you can’t help the breath that escapes. it’s humiliating.

“god,” you mutter. “you’re so full of yourself.”

“and you’re so easy when you’re pissed.”

“you haven’t done anything yet.”

“don’t worry,” he growls. “you’ll be crying about it in five minutes.”

he moves down. you don’t expect him to go down on you with lips and all. but he does. and it’s not sweet, or sensual, it’s calculated. tongue curling just right, lips sucking where they should, but without the heat of affection. it’s good. annoyingly good. and that only makes it worse.

you fist the sheets. bite your lip. don’t give him the satisfaction.

a “fuck—” slips out of you anyway, and he pulls off with a smug flick of his mouth.

“thought so,” he says. “mouthy, but easy.”

“suck a dick.”

“just did,” he says. “you’re welcome.”

he stands just long enough to shove his sweats down, he grabs the lube from the drawer and tosses it to you. and just like that, you start work yourself open quick, sharp fingers, no eye contact.

he watches like it bothers him. like he hates how much you know what you’re doing.

“you always this desperate?” he says.

“only when i’ve got something to prove,” you shoot back.

“prove what?”

“that you’re not the only one who can take control.”

he blinks, dark eyes narrowing.

“you won’t last five minutes.”

“then shut up and fuck me.”

and he does.

pushes in slow, even though his jaw’s tight and his hands are trembling from holding back. you’re tight, slick, burning around him, and the way he groans, low and caught in his throat, makes something in your chest twist.

“already whining,” you say, gritting through the stretch. “fuck, and i thought you had stamina.”

“god, you never shut up,” he growls, and thrusts hard, dragging a gasp out of you.

“make me,” you manage.

his hand goes right back to your hair. this time rougher. he fists it and pulls your head back against the bed, forcing you to look at him while he fucks into you.

“look at you,” he hisses. “you talk like you’re better than everyone. but you’re just a brat who needs to get ruined.”

“still better than you,” you gasp, lips curled, even as your whole body jerks from the next thrust.

he changes the angle. your mouth falls open. no sound.

“say that again,” he says.

“fuck you—”

his grip on your hair tightens. your neck arches. he doesn’t let go.

“you are,” he mutters. “right now.”

he ruts into you harder now. controlled. fast, but not sloppy. every thrust makes the bed creak, every sound too loud, too close. your nails dig into his shoulders and he hisses like it stings. but he doesn’t pull back. if anything, he chases it. chases the pain. the fight.

“moan for me,” he mutters. “go on.”

“not giving you that.”

“oh, fuck off. you’re shaking.”

you are. and when he leans down, grabs your jaw with his free hand and forces your mouth open, not to kiss, but just to see, you almost do.

“you’re so fucking desperate,” he says, panting. “pretending you hate this.”

“i do hate it.”

“but you’re loving it.”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

his rhythm’s faltering now. he’s close. and you’re not far either.

“don’t stop,” you whisper, finally, barely audible. “fuck—just like that.”

he groans, loud this time, and leans over you, hips stuttering once, twice, and then he pulls out fast, finishing hot across your stomach.

you finish right after, jerking yourself with a sharp gasp, biting your lip hard enough to sting.

your hair’s a mess. jaw aching. neck stretched. whole body trembling. he watches you for a beat, chest heaving. says nothing. cleans up without fanfare. tosses you your shirt like it’s routine. like it’s nothing.

“you kiss all your enemies?” you say eventually, voice rough.

“only the ones who beg for it with their eyes.”

you scoff, yanking your clothes on. don’t look at him.

“this never happened.”

“sure,” he says, pulling his hoodie back over his head. “never.”

you leave without looking back. but the sting in your scalp and the bruises on your hips?

you’ll feel those for days.

and for some reason, you don’t mind.

days pass. nothing really changes. not in a way you can name. you’re still in the same classes. still pass each other in the halls like you’re both too busy to care. still roll your eyes when the other one talks in discussion.

except... some things are different.

he doesn’t snap at you anymore. not right away. your comments still come sharp, passive, cut with dry humor, but he stops biting back. just raises an eyebrow. or looks at you too long. like he’s hearing something under what you said.

and you notice things now. stuff you shouldn’t care about. the way he fidgets with his pen when he’s thinking. how he mouths parts of the lecture to himself when he’s focused. the way his hoodie sits too neatly across his chest. not oversized. just fitted. unfair.

you catch him looking at you once. when you're mid-sentence. talking to the TA, barely paying attention to him and his eyes are fixed on your mouth. it lasts all of three seconds before he looks away like it didn’t happen.

you don’t mention it. but you don’t stop thinking about it either. it’s not like either of you brought that night up. it happened. full stop. you left. door shut. silence since.

but it’s there. in the way his gaze lingers a fraction too long when you sit near him. in the fact that he hasn’t told a single person. you know, because your mutuals would be assholes about it if they knew.

he doesn’t flirt. not even subtly. doesn’t wink or tease or make innuendos like some post-hookup cliché. if anything, he’s colder. calmer.

you kind of prefer it that way.

when he sees you coming out of the library late, you’re both too exhausted to play whatever game this is.

“still alive?” he says, voice low, hands in his pockets.

“barely.”

“your notes still better than mine?”

“obviously.”

he doesn’t fight it. just smirks, short and dry. you walk in the same direction without commenting on it.

“you owe me,” he says suddenly.

“for what?”

“distracting me before econ. ruined my quiz grade.”

“you were already failing.”

he scoffs.

“you’re insufferable,” he mutters.

“you’re still walking with me.”

“unfortunately.”

but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t speed up. doesn’t cut across campus like he’s trying to get away from you.

you don’t say goodbye when you split paths. just glance. nod. some vague, unspoken truce hanging in the air.

it’s nothing and it doesn’t mean a damn thing.

probably.

jae's note ! sorry i'm so ia. might get into writing more soon :))

[carlislefiles]

someone to come home to | nanami kento ╰►for the first time in a long time, nanami had started to imagine a future. something domestic, something soft. you, in his kitchen. your socks on his floor. it wasn’t a dream he spoke aloud, but he felt it growing roots. it’s not that nanami can’t survive without you—he’s survived many things. it’s that everything is worse. food doesn’t taste right. his bed is cold. the silence is heavier. but when you stir, when you lean into his touch even in sleep, he knows: things can be good again. not easy. not painless. but better. and he will do whatever it takes to keep you here, with him, where life still makes sense. 13.8k words

a/n: about halfway through writing this, it dawned on me that there is genuinely no point to it...but one of the joys of writing is getting to force your selfships to dote on you, so that's exactly what I did hehehe hopefully you like it as much as I did :]

it hadn’t been a grand decision. there were no dramatics, no cinematic declarations, no final straw. just a morning like any other, a quiet sip of coffee in his overpriced penthouse, and a soft ache in his chest that had never quite gone away.

the corporate world was never meant to last. nanami had always known that. he wore the suits because they fit, not because he felt at home in them. the meetings blurred together, the deadlines grew stale, and even the money—once a seductive whisper—grew tired in his hand. he had clung to it for a while, hoping it could buy the life he wanted: breakfasts for two, slippers by the door, children’s laughter trailing through the halls like wind chimes. a wife with flour on her cheek and perfume on her wrists. nothing extravagant. just...quiet. love. stability. but the office lights were cold, and his apartment colder. the money sat untouched, meaningless without someone to spend it on. without someone to come home to. so he left.

he called gojo. begrudgingly. got reinstated. he didn’t tell anyone right away. there was no party, no “welcome back,” just the low hum of cursed energy pulsing through his fingertips again, like remembering a language you never truly forgot.

for a while, it helped. there was purpose in fighting. there was clarity in the blood and the bruises, in the moment a life was saved. sorcery was cruel, but honest. he had missed that. gojo and shoko took him out once a week—drinks, food, a movie if they could convince him. nanami went, mostly to humor them, partly because he was afraid of what he might do if he spent another evening alone. sometimes, he brought someone home. they never stayed. their perfume clung to his sheets longer than their presence ever did. it was transactional, fleeting, and each time he swore it would be the last. eventually, he stopped trying. the dates dried up. the hope did too.

he began teaching again. missions during the week, lectures on the weekends. ino became his apprentice—rough around the edges, eager, the kind of good-hearted idiot nanami begrudgingly admired. he didn’t say much. he wasn’t one for pep talks or hand-holding. but he showed up. he always showed up. when missions went south, when curses hit harder than expected, when ino needed backup—nanami was there. silent. steady.

for the first time in years, he felt useful. not just as a blade, but as a blueprint. gojo, naturally, took credit for this too. and then you arrived.

it was supposed to be ijichi giving you the tour. the man had a laminated itinerary and everything. but gojo, in all his loud, sunglasses-clad glory, intercepted halfway through and declared himself your “unofficial orientation guide.”

nanami had a list of things to do that day. a stack of mission reports to read, a student evaluation to file, a meeting with the kyoto branch. but he stopped. he stopped because he saw you. you weren’t extraordinary in a way that could be easily described. it wasn’t one thing. it was everything. the warm way you tilted your head when gojo spoke, eyes wide and curious. the color in your clothes—soft, rich tones that made the hallway seem less gray. the way you smiled, like it cost you nothing. you glowed, and nanami, long accustomed to shadows, stared longer than he should have.

later, in the teacher’s lounge—a place he rarely entered—you sat alone at the corner table, sipping tea and annotating what looked like lesson plans with pastel pens. he introduced himself. stiff. too formal. awkward, even. you smiled at him like he’d told a joke. he hadn't. “you’re nanami-san, right?” you said. “I've heard about you.” you sip your matcha. 

“have you?” he asked, bracing for whatever disaster gojo had likely shared.

“all good things,” you said with a teasing grin. “though gojo says you wouldn’t know a good time if it bit you.” nanami didn’t respond. but your laugh stayed with him for hours after.

you were…bright. unapologetically so. you decorated your classroom within the first week—posters, cozy lighting, a snack drawer that gojo discovered immediately. you knew all the students’ names before your second monday. you asked megumi about his dogs, even though he never gave you more than a nod in response. you watched horror movies just to talk to yuuji about them, even though they made you cover your eyes half the time. you didn’t just teach. you cared.

nanami didn’t understand you. not at first. you were a capable sorcerer. strong. your cursed technique was subtle but deadly. yet you kept your distance. you only went on missions when asked, and even then, you preferred ones with low risk. gojo told him why, eventually. your entire family—gone. friends, colleagues, all eaten up by the same world you refused to let consume you. you had known loss. you had learned to live beside it. and still, you smiled.

nanami began to linger more. he’d bring you your exact matcha order from the shop down the street, even though he hated the place. pack an extra snack in his bento, just in case yours got eaten. offer to accompany you on missions you didn’t need help with. you didn’t notice. or pretended not to.

gojo teased him endlessly. whispered conspiratorially about “love blooming in the rubble of battle,” earning a tired glare each time. but nanami didn’t mind. because something in him had shifted. something old, buried beneath years of quiet despair, stirred again. he didn’t know it yet—not fully—but something had begun the moment he saw you. something soft. something permanent. it would take time. of course it would. nanami was patient. and you…you were still healing. but that first day, in the fluorescent glow of the teacher’s lounge, with tea in your hand and sunlight catching in your hair—nanami allowed himself the thought. maybe I won’t end up alone.

the life you and nanami built together was something like art. it was beautiful, you were beautiful. for fear of them becoming sorcerers, you may never have a big family, but that isn’t something nanami’s terribly concerned with. you love him and that is truly, genuinely all that matters.

nanami changes. he shifts. he’s never quite the same man he was when you met him—tired and alone, barely clinging to a sense of purpose. there’s a lightness to him now, subtle but perceptible, like steam rising from a fresh cup of tea. he starts accepting invitations to faculty dinners and weekend brunches with gojo and shoko, not because he enjoys the noise, but because it means he gets to walk in beside you, hand on the small of your back, watching people do double takes. is that nanami kento with a soft smile? yes. yes, it is.

he’s still himself—structured, composed, fiercely principled. but the edges of him are rounded now, sweetened with you. he compliments ino’s performance during missions more readily, even high-fived yuuji after a particularly clean exorcism. the memory haunted him for a week. gojo was insufferable about it, miming high-fives every time he walked into a room. but even that—gojo’s endless teasing—bothers him a little less than it used to. you’d kiss his cheek, hide your smile behind your hand, and he’d let it go.

everyone at jujutsu tech knows. they talk. the whole school’s in on it, really—the way nanami hovers in the doorway of your classroom like he’s forgotten how to leave, always showing up with a fresh cup of your favorite drink or a new book you mentioned once in passing. they know how he drives you to work, how you never seem to carry your own lunch, how your coffee somehow always arrives in your hand, still hot, without you ever having to ask. they see the way he brushes your hair from your face like he’s scared to disturb a masterpiece. how his eyes soften—really soften—when he looks at you.

and you, in your bright clothes and warm perfume, your always-full candy jar and open door—you adore him right back. you leave notes in his bento box, each one folded into a little origami shape. “remember today is takuma’s birthday. <3” or “come see me on your break—I miss your face.” he keeps them. every single one. he tucks them into his desk drawer and pretends not to read them during meetings.

he’s not particularly expressive, not publicly. but when he slides your heels off at the end of the day, kissing the slope of your ankle, pressing his forehead against your shin like he’s praying—that’s when you know. when he carries your exhaustion like it’s his to bear. when you come home with a fresh bruise and he can’t stop pacing the kitchen, can’t stop thinking about how close he came to losing you. that’s how you know. he worships you, yes. but he also worries. deeply. constantly. it’s love. big, dangerous, real love.

he hates when you come back from missions hurt. even small things—cuts on your knuckles, a limp in your walk—rattle him. he bandages your wounds himself, always. his fingers are deft, precise. he takes his time with it, methodical as ever. but his mouth is tight, his eyes a little too wide. you try to make jokes, to lighten the mood. he never laughs at first. but later, when you’re curled up on the couch and he’s got you tucked beneath his arm, when he’s kissed your temple and your shoulder and your wrist, he’ll whisper something like, “don’t scare me like that again, sweetheart.” and you’ll kiss him back and promise nothing, because you both know better.

you tell him once—offhandedly, a passing comment—that you’re worried about dying young. that you’ve lost too many people, that sometimes it feels like a curse in and of itself. he doesn’t respond right away. just looks at you with this quiet devastation in his eyes, like he wants to rewrite the world just to make sure it keeps you safe. that night, he holds you tighter than usual, arms wrapped around your middle, chin resting on your shoulder. he murmurs, “you won’t die before me. I won’t allow it.” and he means it.

sometimes, he wakes up in the middle of the night just to watch you sleep. you’re soft in sleep, peaceful in a way that hurts him a little. he touches your cheek with the back of his hand, marvels at how lucky he is to have found you—you, of all people. he kisses your forehead and thinks, this is what I was working for. this is what I was waiting for. this is it.

the other teachers notice the change in him. even ijichi, who’s too polite to comment, lets it slip once: “nanami seems…different. happier.” gojo, of course, never shuts up about it. claims full credit for your relationship, as if he didn’t find out about it from shoko, three months late, after walking in on you both sharing lunch in the faculty lounge like teenagers. he was offended that you hadn’t told him. said something like, “I'm the whole reason you two eve met, dammit, I should’ve officiated the first date!” you threw a paper cup at him. nanami looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and die.

still, gojo’s theatrics don’t matter. not really. not when nanami comes home and sees you curled up on the couch with a blanket around your shoulders. not when you wrap your arms around him like he’s the best part of your day. not when he gets to press his mouth to your pulse point and feel you exhale into his neck, like being with him is a kind of peace. and maybe it is. you made him soft, in all the best ways. and in turn, he gave you strength again. taught you to trust. to hope. to live in the present and not just the past.

some nights, after dinner, he’ll rest his head in your lap while you read aloud from whatever book you’re working through together. he closes his eyes and listens to your voice, calm and certain. your fingers card through his hair. he sighs like he’s found the meaning of life. other nights, he cooks. you sit at the kitchen counter and sip wine, kicking your feet like a kid, and he lectures you about knife safety like you haven’t survived two decades of cursed spirits and exorcisms. you smile at him and say, “yes, chef,” just to make him roll his eyes.

you joke that he’s a househusband in training. he tells you you’re not wrong. because the truth is—if he could, he’d retire tomorrow. trade missions and bloodshed for grocery lists and morning walks. he’d do it for you. only for you.

but for now, this is enough. coming home to you is enough. loving you, being loved by you—it’s more than he ever thought he’d have. he keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the world to remember who he is and what he’s done. but every morning he wakes up and you’re still beside him, warm and real and breathing—and that’s how he knows he’s lucky.

it’s terrifying, how much he loves you. but it’s also the only thing in the world that’s ever made him feel truly, unquestionably awake, alive.

……

nanami had been having a good day. which, retrospectively, should’ve been the first warning. it had been one of those rare mornings when the light didn’t feel like an affront to his senses. the sun had slipped through the slats of the blinds in golden slivers, cutting across your sleeping form like god’s own paintbrush. you’d rolled into his side the moment he stirred, still half-asleep, mumbling something unintelligible before nuzzling under his chin like you always did when you didn’t want to get up. and he—stupid, stupid man—had thought this was the kind of peace that could last.

getting you to move in with him had been like negotiating a treaty with a foreign power. every reason you had not to do it came dressed in layers of self-deprecation: I don't want to be a burden; what if you get sick of me; I'm so messy you’ll hate it; you live too far from the subway—“absolutely not,” you’d muttered when he brought up driving you every day. “no way am I just going to let you chauffeur me around like I'm some high-maintenance—” he'd kissed you to shut you up. not for romance. out of frustration. out of please, for once, just let me love you the way you deserve.

and then finally—finally—one perfect day off had melted your resistance. a date that shouldn’t have been special but was: his favorite bakery, a long walk through the city just because you liked watching the people, making dinner together. you’d ended up sated and soft and nestled into him, legs draped across his lap, head buried into the crook of his neck, your fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt like you always did when you were content. that was when he’d asked again, gentle but firm. offered you pictures of the life he wanted to build with you—coming home together, never sleeping alone, no more duffle bags stuffed with half your life and shoved into school cabinets. and you’d said yes. he had not cried, not jumped for joy, not had some big dramatic reaction, though something deep and vital had cracked open in his chest. happiness, unadulterated, unbridled happiness, the kind he was sure he’d never have, never deserve, never earn, and yet here it was, being offered up on a silver platter to him. 

and now—now that life was slipping through his fingers like water. now you were in a hospital cot in the dim, fluorescent-humming basement of jujutsu tech. and nanami couldn’t breathe.

it started that morning. your name had come up during the debrief. a mission restructuring. your class with the students was reassigned—something about gojo being occupied, yaga pulling favors. you were to take a handful of students out instead. nanami had looked up sharply at that. you? on a mission with students? you barely went on missions.

you were backup. reinforcement. a historian of curses and spirits, not a frontliner. you always said there was nothing you could teach the kids in the field that gojo or nanami couldn’t teach better. but you didn’t argue, and that—that—was what left his stomach twisting. you never argued with authority, even when you should. you followed orders like it was a moral code, even if it put you in harm’s way.

and nanami hadn’t fought back. he hadn’t insisted. he had swallowed his concern like always, told himself you were capable—brilliant, even. smart enough not to make reckless decisions.

except when it came to the kids. you would never let a student get hurt. he knew—knew—without needing to be told, that you’d thrown yourself in front of yuuji when the curse blindsided him. you would have done it without hesitation, with no thought of consequence. when the call came, he was still on campus. sparring with ino. a routine day, going through the motions of a job he barely believed in anymore, until gojo appeared, white-faced and solemn. nanami had never seen gojo look like that. not even when haibara died.

he didn’t remember the sprint across campus. didn’t remember the doors he flung open or the hallways he tore through like a man possessed. just—you. there. unmoving. unhealed. pale in a way that you should never be. a sheet of gauze pressed to your side, already browning with blood. scrapes across your cheeks and temple. breathing—yes—but slow and fragile. all that light he used to complain about, the way it used to suffocate him in the best of way, that light—the sunlight in your laugh, the moonlight in your eyes, the firefly glow that clung to you like warmth—gone.

shoko’s voice was distant and cruel. “she’s been unconscious since she was extricated.” “…can’t seem to heal her…” “she’s stable for now, but—”

he didn’t hear the rest. just a buzzing roar behind his ears as his knees went numb and the world tilted sideways. this can’t happen. not to her. not to her. he didn’t speak. couldn’t. just stared. at your body. at your stillness. afraid to touch, afraid to even breathe wrong.

“she’ll stay here until we know if the curse’s residual effects wear off,” shoko said gently, dragging a metal chair to the side of the cot. “you should stay with her.” as if he had anywhere else to be.

he didn’t sit. not right away. he just stood there. rooted. staring at you like if he blinked you might disappear. and then he did sit. cold metal biting into him, grounding him in a way nothing else could. his eyes never left you. not for a second.

he didn’t know how much time passed before gojo came. he didn’t care.

gojo spoke softly, too softly, offering reassurances he had no right to give. said something about how shoko thought maybe you could go home soon. that your injuries weren’t that bad. nanami had heard enough. the growl came unbidden, low and rumbling from the back of his throat. “you can leave now, gojo.” to gojo’s credit, he didn’t argue. he just nodded, offered his help, and backed away.

once he was gone, nanami’s restraint shattered. he leaned forward, took your limp hand in both of his, and pressed your fingers to his lips like he was praying. and maybe he was.

his thumb brushed your cheek. so gently. just under the row of stitches shoko had placed hours ago. "I should have been there,” he whispered. "I should have told them no. I should have—god, I should have fought.” he was drowning. drowning in the “should haves.”

he should have noticed the debrief was off. should have told yaga he’d take the mission instead. should have followed his gut instead of silencing it. should have screamed when gojo dared to suggest your injuries weren’t bad. should have demanded more. but he hadn’t.

and now you were the one paying the price. he looked at you—your perfect face, marred by bruises and dried blood—and he hated himself. you’d been living with him for two weeks. together for half a year. six months of light and laughter and slow, soft love. and he’d let himself believe it was forever. now he could lose you.

nanami had always been composed. stoic. a man of logic. but there was nothing logical about love. there was nothing rational about watching the only good thing in your life bleed out on a cot. so he let himself fall. fell into the grief, into the guilt, into the ache. you cannot die. you cannot leave. you cannot give him heaven just to rip it away.

the tears came in slow, silent streams. he didn’t sob. he just wept, hands trembling around yours, as the weight of every choice he didn’t make crushed him. and still—still—he whispered to you. promises he couldn’t keep. deals with gods he didn’t believe in. I'll make it up to you. I swear, I'll take every mission. I'll train twice as hard. I'll do anything, just—come back to me. I'll never raise my voice. I'll never ask you for a thing you don’t want to give, I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you never hurt again. and then softer, desperate: “you can’t leave me.”

the hours blurred. shoko came back once to check on you. said the curse’s effects were resisting healing, but that it wasn’t worsening. that was the best she could do for now.

nanami didn’t sleep. he couldn’t. he just sat there. hand in yours. bent over your bedside like a man keeping vigil for a lost god. and when he couldn’t hold the silence anymore, he let himself dream.

dreamed of you in his kitchen, dancing barefoot to some ridiculous song. dreamed of you, pregnant—glowing and annoyed, swatting him with a dish towel. dreamed of you kissing his bruises, muttering about how he “had to stop bleeding on the good towels.” dreamed of quiet, ordinary days. coffee. laughter. your hand in his.

he’d spent so long convincing himself he didn’t need these things. that love was a distraction. a danger. but you had made it easy. you’d made it holy. he was never going back. not if you didn’t wake up.

and still—you didn’t stir. so he sat. a man made of grief and guilt and hope. waiting for the light to come back. waiting for you.

it’s during this particularly horrific bout of self-loathing that you come to.

the room is dark—dimly lit by the blue glow of machines and the faint, flickering overhead light that someone forgot to turn off. it’s sometime in the early morning, hours before the sun even considers rising. you feel…weightless and weighted at once. dizzy. the pain is everywhere, dull and throbbing, blooming like ink in water beneath your skin. your body is heavy with ache, but your mind is cottoned over with fog.

where are you? what happened? why does it hurt so fucking bad? you let out a breath trapped in your lungs, and even that small effort sets your ribs alight.

but then—he’s there.

your eyes, fluttering sluggishly open, land on a figure beside you, a familiar silhouette haloed in sterile light. he’s hunched over you in that horrible hospital chair—spine curved unnaturally, broad back too big for something so poorly made. he’s been there for hours. days, maybe. decades, in his mind.

kento. his name flutters in your chest before it can form on your lips. you try to call out to him, but your throat is raw, dry as paper. all you manage is a whisper of breath.

he’s not even looking at you. his head is bowed, forehead resting against your knuckles, hands wrapped tightly around yours like they’re the last real thing in the world. you’re struck by the way his whole frame seems suspended, like he’s carved from tension and silence and guilt. he’s not a religious man. you know this. but in this moment, you would swear he’s praying. to you. for you. with you.

you can’t speak, so you do the only thing you can: you move. just slightly. just enough. your fingers twitch and slowly, painstakingly, your free hand lifts and brushes into his hair. his whole body shudders. at first, he doesn’t move. then he leans—leans into your touch like it’s the first kindness he’s been allowed to feel in years. his breath catches. you watch, silent and still, as his eyes open and lift to you, disbelieving.

“you…you're awake,” he breathes, like a broken hymn. “you’re alive. you’re here.”

his voice cracks on the last word. he says it again, again, again, like if he doesn’t keep speaking it into the world it might not stay true. a chant. a plea. a sacred truth. you smile at him—slow and crooked, soft with pain—but it’s real. so real. you would tell him you love him if you thought the words could make it past the gravel in your throat.

instead, your thumb moves gently to the edge of his face, brushing the damp corner of his eye. you tut quietly at him, coaxing. he leans into the touch again, trembling, blinking furiously. you’ve never seen him cry. not really. not like this.

“don’t—” he chokes. “please don’t do that. don’t be kind to me right now.” your brow furrows faintly. his hands tighten on yours.

"I should’ve protected you,” he whispers. "I should’ve been there.” you shake your head—barely, but enough—and he moves instantly, almost frantically.

“does it hurt?” he asks. “I'll get shoko, I’ll—” but he doesn’t move. he can’t move. his body is rooted beside you, eyes glued to your face like the world might fall apart if he looked away.

you squeeze his hand. “it’s okay, kento,” you rasp. “I'm okay.” you’re not. not really. the pain laces your every breath. but the way his face shatters—utterly, visibly—at the sound of your voice? you’d say it a hundred more times just to undo the devastation in his eyes.

“don’t talk,” he pleads, fussing instantly, voice low and tight. “you’re not supposed to talk yet. your throat—your ribs—darling, please.” he moves quickly but gently, fixing your blankets with shaking hands, brushing your hair from your forehead, lips brushing against your temple. his tie is loosened, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes red-rimmed. you’ve never seen him like this. he looks utterly undone. fragile, like glasswork.

still, he moves like a man with purpose. a man remade by grief and given a second chance. “I'll be right back,” he says finally, reluctant, like the idea of leaving you is a foreign wound. “I'll get her. and some water.” he forces himself away, fingers trailing off your wrist like it pains him to let go.

out in the hall, megumi sits hunched in a chair, face in his hands. yuuji is curled awkwardly in the corner, asleep and snoring softly. nanami pauses.

he doesn’t blame them. but he doesn’t quite not blame them either. which is ridiculously irrational, and he knows that, he parades on and on about it, how he’s the responsible adult and how it’s his job to keep the students safe. that’s your job, too, but this situation is just so fucked up, the wires are crossed in his mind, and he finds himself absurdly pissed off at anyone that isn’t you. 

he clears his throat. megumi bolts upright, wide-eyed. “i-is she—? what can we do—?”

“go find shoko,” nanami says shortly. the boy obeys without hesitation, dragging a bleary yuuji along with him. nanami finds the water cooler, fills a flimsy plastic cup, and walks slowly back. each step aches. everything aches.

when he returns, you’re trying to sit up. his heart nearly stops. “stop,” he says immediately, rushing forward, placing a steadying hand on your chest. “you’ll tear your sutures. let me—just—lay back down, please. please.”

you obey him with a frown and a sigh, lips chapped, eyelids heavy. he raises the cup to your lips. but you brush your fingers against his instead. as if he isn’t already watching you like a dying star. as if he isn’t holding the weight of you in every breath.

“I'm alright, kento. really. you don’t need to fuss.” that smile again. gentle. kind. completely unearned, as far as he’s concerned. it shatters him like glass on tile. he closes his eyes. breathes once, slow and frayed.

you don’t need to fuss.

if only you knew. if only he could explain that he no longer understands how to exist without orienting his every breath around you. that his hands only know peace when they’re on you—soothing your fevered skin, brushing your hair from your face, holding you still and here and alive. that he would gladly make a life of this. of serving you. worshipping at the altar of your continued survival. but he says none of this. he can’t. it would overwhelm you, and worse—it might frighten you.

so instead, he reaches for simplicity. for gentleness. “let me,” he whispers. just that. “please.” your lashes flutter. the silence stretches. then, a tiny nod. and he presses the water to your lips.

shoko arrives a few minutes later. she’s clinical, calm. assesses your wounds with a precision honed by necessity. your injuries are serious, but not critical. you should be okay to go home sometime this week, pending tests. she offers nanami a cot. he doesn’t hesitate.

“I'm fine here.” she doesn’t argue. but you do.

“kento. you can’t sleep in that chair again.” he opens his mouth to protest, but you beat him to it. “please,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “just…hold me. just for a little while.” and that’s it. that one word. please. it crushes him.

“okay,” he breathes, almost tenderly. “okay.”

he climbs into the cot carefully, awkwardly. it’s too small, but he fits himself around you like you were made to be there. he holds you as delicately as possible, arms tucked around your fragile form. his tie brushes your collarbone. his hands shake.

you fall asleep like that. safe. sheltered. he doesn’t. he watches you for hours, memorizing the way your chest rises and falls. the little tremble in your lashes. the blood in your hair, where he won’t touch. the soft exhale against his collarbone. he wants to scream. to cry. to rage. to protect you in all the ways he failed to. but instead, he runs his fingers through your hair. presses kisses to your crown. whispers your name like a benediction.

this will never be okay. but you’re here. and that’s enough. for now.

……

he’s awake well before you are. the lights are dimmed now, not the piercing fluorescents from the first night, but softer—still institutional, still cruel in how they flatten every warm color into gray, but gentler than before. still, they make your skin look paler than it is. waxy, he thinks. too quiet. too still. he’s already adjusted the blanket three times by the time your fingers twitch faintly in your sleep. it’s your blanket—the pale blue one with worn edges, the one you drag over the two of you on the couch, toss across your lap when grading late into the night. you claim it smells like safety, like lavender and faint detergent, but nanami suspects it just smells like home. like you.

he sent gojo for it—reluctantly, because trusting gojo with tasks that required subtlety was usually a mistake. but miraculously, gojo had returned with the blanket, one of your pillows, and—unprompted—a change of clothes for nanami himself. slacks, a soft sweater. even socks that matched.

nanami hadn’t thanked him. hadn’t said much of anything, really. just took the items with a quiet nod and disappeared into the staff bathroom to change, where the man in the mirror looked like someone else entirely.

he sits now, hunched awkwardly in that cold metal chair, the blanket tucked up to your chin. he checks your iv. again. and again. then your temperature, his hand on your forehead as though his own skin could tell him something the machines couldn’t. then your pulse, two fingers against your wrist, breath catching in his throat each time he feels the gentle thump beneath your skin. still there. still beating. still with him.

you make a soft sound in your sleep—half a whimper, half a sigh—and he’s immediately on his feet. “sweetheart,” he breathes, crouching beside the cot. “is it the pain? are you awake?” you aren’t. or maybe you are, but the drugs make it impossible to tell. your brow furrows. your lips part. but no words come.

he presses the back of his hand to your cheek. warm. too warm? he stands again, checks the drip. still flowing. still steady. he makes a note in the small spiral-bound notebook shoko left by the bed. she told him it wasn’t necessary. told him she’d be tracking your vitals. but he takes notes anyway. writes the time down every time he changes your iv, every time you so much as murmur. every breath you take feels like a gift he might forget to be grateful for.

if you were awake enough to speak, you’d probably tell him he was being ridiculous. dramatic, even. maybe you’d call him your mother hen. and when you were less loopy, less pain-stricken, he’d grumble about that. but secretly, he’d like it. secretly, he’d wear it like a badge of honor. 

you shift again. a wince this time. a full-body tremor. and nanami’s fingers twitch helplessly at his sides. he’s becoming something else in these moments—less man, more machine. more caregiver than combatant. he hasn’t thought about curses since the moment he saw you lying in that cot. hasn’t checked his phone. hasn’t gone outside. he doesn’t remember the last time he slept. or ate. or exhaled fully. his hair is a mess—no longer parted neatly, no longer combed back in that careful, corporate way. he’s raked his hands through it too many times. it clings damply to his temples now, sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. he hasn’t noticed. he doesn’t care.

the rings beneath his eyes are deepening, blooming into something almost bruised. his hands shake when he pours water into your cup, when he tries to spoon soup into your mouth. but he does it anyway. asks if you're alright every fifteen minutes. asks if you need shoko, though he never knows what for.

you tell him you’re fine. over and over. that he doesn’t need to hover, doesn’t need to worry. but the very suggestion makes him laugh—quietly, bitterly. not at you. never at you. just at the absurdity of the thought.

leave you?

you’d nearly died. you'd almost—he doesn’t finish the thought. because he had. he had left. had let you out of his sight. and when he’d found you again, the light was gone from your eyes, your body broken open like a thing discarded. he can’t let that happen again. he won’t. still, you try to reason with him. always so damn calm. even when you’re pale and shaking. even when you can barely lift your head.

“kento,” you rasp, “you need to rest. please. just for a little while.” he only strokes your hair back from your face. presses your knuckles to his lips and says nothing.

when you manage to talk him into sitting for longer than a moment, into actually sitting, into letting the stress coil itself out from his spine for even half an hour—he’s the man you remember. your kento. warm and quiet. attentive, dutiful. he feeds you slowly, spoons broth to your lips like it’s the most sacred ritual of his life. he helps you sip from the straw. he adjusts your pillow, your blankets. always touching you like you’re made of porcelain. like something fragile and irreplaceable. and when he finally sees you close your eyes, when you aren’t grimacing, when your breathing is even—he reads to you.

your book had been in your school bag. he doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t really care. he just opens to the bookmarked page and reads in that soft, even voice of his. and you listen. not to the words, not really. but to him. to the cadence. to the sound of him here. you ask for distractions when the pain is too much. you ask about high school, about gojo, about silly things. what his part-time jobs were like, if he ever failed a class, what music he listened to when he was your age. he always answers. always.

but when shoko walks in, or you make a soft sound of pain, he forgets mid-sentence. snaps upright. abandons the story to check your iv, your pulse, your temperature. always cycling through the same desperate checks, always one step from panic. you try not to show how much it hurts. you try not to wince. but you’re not a good liar. not with him.

……

the first visitors arrive the next morning. yuuji and megumi come in with their shoulders hunched and their eyes wide, like boys walking into a funeral. megumi holds a bouquet of grocery store flowers that looks like it’s been clenched in a death grip the entire way down the hall. yuuji fidgets with the hem of his hoodie, eyes darting from you to the floor and back again. neither of them says a word at first. just stands there, a little awkward, a little guilty, like they’re waiting to be scolded.

nanami stiffens in the chair beside you—protective, alert. he doesn’t say anything either, just watches them with careful eyes as you blink up from the bed, tired but curious.

“stop looking at me like that,” you joke, but they both immediately avert their gaze to another part of the room. you laugh with a wince. "I didn’t say you had to completely look away.” your voice is chastising and painfully kind, all at once. 

yuuji flinches. “we almost let you—”

“don’t,” you cut him off, voice firmer now. “don’t you dare.”

his mouth opens again, some sweet, stupid apology on the tip of his tongue, but you hold up a hand—shaky, weak, but still commanding enough to silence him.

“this wasn’t your fault,” you say. “it was a bad mission. things went sideways. it happens.”

“but we—” megumi tries, probably to apologize.

“stop,” you say again, softer this time. “I'm okay.” you aren’t. not really. your body is aching and heavy and every breath feels like dragging yourself uphill, but you’re alive, and that has to count for something. and you won’t let them carry the guilt for something they couldn’t have stopped. they’re kids. brave and powerful, sure, but still learning. still vulnerable. you love them too much to let them carry this kind of weight.

they settle beside your bed eventually, yuuji on the floor, megumi in the stiff plastic chair in the corner. yuuji babbles about a new manga release, megumi interjects with his usual deadpan corrections, and for a moment, it feels normal. like any other afternoon at school. like you're not half-broken in a cot in the bowels of jujutsu tech.

nanami doesn’t say much, but he watches you. watches the way you soften when yuuji says something funny, the way your hand drifts toward megumi’s arm when he speaks. like you’re trying to remind him you’re still here. still real. they leave reluctantly, but only after you promise—three times—that you’ll be okay. nanami walks them out. thanks them. tells them it’s not their fault, though his voice is tight when he says it. he’s trying.

gojo shows up two hours later. he’s loud, of course. drops his sunglasses on your bedside table like he owns the place, immediately helps himself to the chair megumi had used. he talks nonstop—about the mission he just got back from, about the girl he met last night, about a new limited-edition dessert he insists you have to try when you’re better. nanami scowls at him. visibly. but you laugh. not much, just a huff of air through your nose. but it’s something. you let gojo ramble, let him paint the room in noise and distraction. for a little while, you don’t have to think. don’t have to feel. it helps. more than you want to admit.

ijichi comes by later with a clipboard in hand, looking entirely too official, but his voice is gentle when he asks how you’re doing. you thank him with a small smile, and the blush that covers his face is laughable. 

nobara and maki arrive together just before dinner. maki brings snacks—nothing healthy, all crunchy and salty and deeply frowned upon by any real medical professional. nobara pulls a nail polish kit from her bag and insists you need a color change, saying something about how healing faster is all about aesthetics. nanami sits quietly in the corner while they laugh, while nobara holds your wrist delicately in her hand and paints soft, even strokes of polish onto your nails.

he watches you the whole time. eyes heavy with something like awe. this, he thinks. this is who you are. this is who the world sees, who they love. you, bright and stubborn and brave. you, with paint on your fingers and silly teenage girl gossip in your mouth. even in a hospital bed, even pale and stitched and hurting—your light is blinding, and somehow, that light has chosen him. he doesn’t understand it. never has. never will. but he feels it, deep in his chest. like something precious cupped between trembling hands.

nights are harder. the chatter dies. the hallways go still. the beeping machines fill the silence, and nanami can feel the weight settle again, heavy and thick in the space between heartbeats. you don’t sleep well. too much pain. too much nausea. but you try. and he won’t speak, not at night. not when he thinks your body needs rest. instead, he holds you—gently, reverently. like he’s afraid he’ll break you if he moves too quickly. his arms cradle you, his hand moves slowly up and down your back, or across your brow, soft and methodical.

every time you grimace, he shifts. sits up. checks your forehead, your pulse, your expression. murmurs little comforts into your hair. brushes strands away from your cheeks. you grumble that it’s not so bad. insist you’re okay. but your hands clench the sheets. your body flinches when the pain creeps in, and he sees it. he sees all of it.

you try to talk, one night. try to explain. “I'm really okay,” you whisper. “it was just a mission. they go bad sometimes. it’s not going to happen again, I—”

but he doesn’t let you finish. his hand finds yours, squeezes gently. and then he shushes you—softly, but with a finality that surprises you. that shakes you. he never interrupts. never. you can count on one hand the number of times he’s spoken over you. but he does now, because he can’t bear to hear it. can’t bear to let the words form. because he knows what you’ll say, and he can’t take it. not tonight. not like this.

because yes, maybe it was just a mission. maybe you are going to be okay. but he’s not. he’s still seeing you on that cot every time he blinks. still tasting the copper in the air. still hearing shoko say she couldn’t heal you, like the world was unraveling in real time. and if he lets you talk like it was nothing—if he lets you shrug it off like you always do—he’s going to break.

he wants to march to yaga right now. wants to demand you be benched indefinitely, wants to argue that he can protect you better if you never leave the apartment again. wants to keep you wrapped up in his sheets, feed you with his hands, watch over you until the end of time. but he knows you. he knows that kind of love would undo you.

you’re already skittish with affection. always have been. you flinch when it’s too much, not because you don’t want it, but because you don’t know how to carry it. because you’ve always lived like it could be taken away. so he swallows it down. all of it. every desperate, all-consuming plea to keep you tethered to him. every vow that he’d sacrifice everything just to make sure this never, ever happens again.

he just shakes his head instead. spoons another bite of soup toward your lips. says, “we’ll talk about it later. when you’re better.” and you hate it. hate how gentle he is. how good. you don’t know what to do with that kind of love. you’ve never been allowed to keep it. but he gives it anyway. over and over again. like he doesn’t know how to stop.

you hold his gaze for a long time after that. say nothing. just breathe. and then, because you don’t know what else to do, you go back to picking at the skin around your nails. he notices. of course he does. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t scold. just reaches out, warm and slow, and takes your hands in his. thumbs brushing over each knuckle, each tiny wound. his eyes fixed on your palms like they’re scripture.

and when he lifts your fingertips to his lips, presses a kiss there like a promise—you feel something in your chest give way. 

……

“you need to go home,” you tell him one afternoon, voice hoarse but insistent.

it’s been a few days. three, maybe four—it’s hard to tell in the basement infirmary with its flickering lights and recycled air, the sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to your hair.

he doesn’t say anything, and you know that the silence is his answer, that he’s not going anywhere. a sigh pushes out of you as you sink back into the pillow. you’re exhausted. not just from your injuries, though they still throb with a vengeance, but from the sheer weight of his concern. the way he hovers. how he hasn’t left your side. not once. it’s sweet, it’s grounding, it’s everything you love about him—but it’s also starting to crush you.

“kento,” you murmur. "I need space.”

his shoulders jerk, just slightly, like the words sting more than they should. and they do. god, they do. because he knows what you mean. he does. you’re tired. you need a real bed, a real shower, a moment where someone isn’t watching your every move in fear that you’ll fall apart. and he knows, in the rational part of his brain, that giving you that space is necessary. healthy, even.

but still—it feels like a blade slipped beneath his ribs. he says nothing at first. just stands there, silent, hands flexing at his sides. he looks like he’s preparing for battle, though the only thing he’s fighting is his own instinct to keep you within arm’s reach for the rest of time.

you sigh again. softer this time. "I didn’t start dating you so you could be my personal nurse. you know that, right?” he does. but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to be.

you reach for his hand—his big, calloused hand that has held yours through so many quiet storms—and give it a squeeze. “just a few hours,” you say. “go home. change. breathe.” he doesn’t move. you groan. “please?”

he nods, eventually. relents in that quiet way he does, where he’s clearly still calculating every possible outcome in his head. he checks your iv drip again, frowns at the number even though he knows it's fine. he checks the fluid levels, reads the monitor three times. he asks shoko a half-dozen questions she doesn’t even blink at.

“are you sure she’s okay?”

shoko gives him a look. tired. unimpressed. “if she wasn’t, I'd say so.”

“but her temperature—”

“nanami.”

he shuts up. lets her finish. but not before you have to reassure him again. again. again. until your voice is dry and your throat hurts from repeating I'm fine and I love you and you need to take care of yourself, too.

he finally leaves. you should’ve timed it.

the drive is quiet. unsettlingly so. no radio, no traffic, not even the sound of his own thoughts, really. just a dull, buzzing pressure in his ears and the thudding of his heartbeat against the steering wheel.

he pulls into the parking garage like a ghost. unlocks the door without thinking. steps inside.

and that’s when it hits him. the silence. real silence—not the kind you learn to live with on solo missions, or in hotel rooms between red-eye flights. this is the kind that aches. the kind that used to feel familiar. comfortable, even. but now—now it just feels wrong.

he walks into the kitchen. everything is where you left it. your tea mug beside the sink, your sweater folded over the back of a chair, your shoes tucked haphazardly by the door. you’ve been here. you live here. but the apartment feels hollow without your voice bouncing off the walls, without your laughter slipping down the hallway. how did he ever live like this? how did he ever live without you?

he thinks back—tries to. and he can’t. not really. not in any meaningful way. there were years here, entire years he spent alone in this space, eating bland takeout in front of the television, sleeping in a bed that felt like a coffin. he was alive, sure. working. moving. but he wasn’t living.

you changed that. you came in with your books and your perfume and your endless capacity for love and you woke him up. and now that he’s tasted that life—with you in it—he doesn’t know how to exist any other way.

he showers. doesn’t remember turning the water on. scrubs his skin until it’s raw, trying to rinse off the smell of fear clinging to him like smoke. he eats something. probably. he finds a leftover container in the fridge, heats it up, eats it with a fork he forgot to wash first. it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t taste like anything.

and then, before he can stop himself—he’s grabbing his keys again. maybe an hour has passed. maybe. he doesn’t remember the drive back. doesn’t remember parking, or walking in, or passing ijichi on the way down. he just remembers the moment he sees you again. you’re still there. right where he left you. pale, bandaged, bruised—but smiling. and it guts him.

“there you are,” you whisper.

he crosses the room in three long strides, drops into that metal chair like it’s magnetic. his hands reach for yours on instinct, gathering them in his own, cradling them like something precious. his thumbs press over your pulse points—feel the steady beat.

you’re alive.

you’re alive.

you’re alive.

you smile at him, warm and soft and devastating, like you’ve been waiting for him all day. like it hadn’t only been an hour. like you’d missed him more than you knew what to do with. that smile—so familiar, so disarming—it nearly floors him. again.

shoko is across the room, calm as ever, flipping through the chart at the end of your cot. she’s unreadable, as usual, her brow furrowed in clinical concentration. nanami watches her with held breath. as if every movement of her pen might rewrite your fate.

“good news,” you say, voice light but steady. it carries in the sterile stillness of the room. “tell him, shoko.”

shoko glances up, eyes darting between the two of you. you, bruised but smiling; nanami, rigid and terrified.

“clean bill of health,” she says. “more or less. tomorrow afternoon, you can take her home.” there’s a beat. and then the sound that escapes nanami is closer to a laugh than a breath, except it’s dry and trembling and half-choked in his throat. the weight doesn’t fall off his shoulders—it shifts slightly. just slightly.

your smile widens. you look over at him like you're not covered in bruises and fatigue, like you're not stitched up and held together by borrowed time. and he wants to crumble. because you shouldn’t be the one smiling. he should be. he should be smiling for you, beaming, cheering, crying with joy—but all he can manage is to hold your hand a little tighter, like that’ll be enough to convey everything roaring inside him.

relief. guilt. love. so much love. he still doesn’t feel like enough.

rationally, nanami knows better. he knows he did everything he could. he knows this wasn’t his fault, that you’re a sorcerer just like he is, that danger comes with the job. he knows. but logic doesn’t live in the same place that love does, and right now, they aren’t even speaking.

he follows shoko into the hallway the second she closes the chart.

“is she really okay?” he asks, voice low. urgent. “completely stable?”

shoko exhales slowly, leaning her back against the wall. “she’s banged up. but stable. her vitals are consistent, scans look clean. no internal bleeding, no residual cursed energy.”

“but the side effects from the curse—”

“will pass,” she cuts in gently. “it’ll take time. but she’s on track. nanami, she’s going to be fine.”

he nods, barely. stares at a spot on the tile like it might blink back at him. but his hands are still shaking. and his chest still feels like it’s full of broken glass.

he doesn’t answer. just looks through the window, where you’re sitting upright now, sipping water slowly. when your eyes meet his, you tilt your head, confused by his absence. he nods once and steps back inside.

it’s later now. hours, maybe. the lights are dim, and the hallway is quiet. he’s sitting next to your cot again, more calm than before, watching you pick half-heartedly at your dinner, coaxing you into at least a few more bites. you humor him. he praises you like you’ve moved mountains. you sip water. he adjusts your blanket. he takes the empty cup from your hand and sets it on the side table, brushes your hair from your eyes. all small things. but they keep his hands busy. keep his panic at bay.

when you’re settled again, tucked and warm and vaguely annoyed by how tucked and warm you are, your hand starts to move. you don’t even realize you’re doing it. your fingers are pulling at the skin around your nails. little tugs, soft scratches. it’s old muscle memory. you’ve done it for years—since school, since grief, since the first time someone you loved didn’t come home. it’s a nervous tic. you’re not even in pain right now, not exactly. but your brain is louder than your body.

nanami notices instantly. he always does. he doesn’t say anything at first. just reaches for your hands and gently pulls them into his lap, turning them over, inspecting the little raw spots forming at your cuticles. he rubs his thumb over the worst of it.

“what’s wrong?” he asks quietly.

your throat tightens. because of course he knew. of course he always knows. you swallow. blink down at your hands in his. his grip is so warm. so steady. your hands look small there. like they couldn’t possibly do the damage they’ve done.

“kento,” you start, voice cracking a little. you don’t know where you’re going with it. you just have to say something. he waits. doesn’t rush you. never rushes you. "I don’t want it to be like this,” you say eventually, the words halting. "I know this was scary for you. but...we’re sorcerers. this isn’t new. it’s going to happen again. you can’t—” you don’t get to finish.

“no,” he says sharply. too sharply. his voice cuts through the room, firm and final. you freeze. eyes wide. again, he almost never interrupts you. he thinks it’s rude, always listens, always gives you space. but this—this he cannot let pass.

he leans forward, holding your hands tighter, anchoring you both. "I went so long without you,” he says, his voice low and steady but fraying at the edges. “you have no idea. I was sleepwalking through my life. until you. you woke me up. and I can’t—” he breaks off, jaw locking. "I cannot bear the thought of losing you.” your eyes sting.

he swallows, eyes flicking to your blanket, your bandages, your still-pale face. he knows he’s said too much. been too heavy. he’s trying to back off, to keep from collapsing under the weight of how he feels. but you’ve always made it hard to hide anything. “we can talk more about it,” he says, softer now. “eventually. but for now...please. just focus on healing. and let me take care of you.” you try not to look away. you try not to flinch at the devotion in his voice. it scares you sometimes, how much he cares. how much he’s willing to care. and he knows that. he always has.

he sees you flinch. sees your eyes dart to the side. your fingers twitch like they want to go back to their habit. so he tightens his hold. not too much. not too tight. just enough. his thumbs sweep over your palms, over every callus, every scar. he brings your hand to his lips and kisses your fingers. one by one. don’t you know? don’t you know that you hold his heart in your hands, too?

……

the drive home is quiet. not peaceful, not companionable—quiet in the way cemeteries are. dutiful. heavy. nanami’s hand is a vice on the steering wheel, the other resting gently over yours where it sits limply in your lap. your fingers twitch occasionally, the only thing reassuring him you’re still with him. he glances over every chance he gets. not subtly, either. it’s shameless, obsessive, each flick of his gaze a silent prayer—are you breathing? are you grimacing? are you okay?

you don’t say much. not because you’re mad, or tired—though you are both—but because you can feel the tension radiating off of him like a heatwave. his knuckles are white. his jaw tight. and if you opened your mouth now, you might say something cruel. something like, “kento, stop looking at me like I'm going to die.” so instead, you let the silence stretch. you watch the road. you count how many times he glances your way (eleven, just between the hospital parking lot and the first red light). it’s maddening and it’s sweet, and it makes your chest feel too full and too empty at the same time.

when he pulls into the parking garage and shuts off the engine, he doesn’t move right away. just sits there, staring out the windshield like it might offer him answers. you open your mouth to insist that you can walk. you’ve been walking around the hospital fine for a day now, albeit slowly. but before the words can form, he’s already out of the car, door slamming shut behind him with more force than necessary.

you don’t even get the chance to reach for the handle. your door opens, and there he is—silent, suit wrinkled, sleeves rolled, eyes tired in a way that makes your heart clench.

“don’t argue,” he murmurs, already slipping his arms beneath you, “please.” you sigh, weakly, but don’t protest. it’s not worth it. and if you’re being honest—you don’t mind the way he holds you. like you’re something precious. like the thought of putting you down physically hurts him. he lifts you with ease, cradling you against his chest like a bride in an old painting. his suit jacket falls open and brushes your cheek. you press your nose into the lapel. he still smells like the hospital, antiseptic and stress and coffee—but beneath it, there’s still him. always him.

inside, everything feels foreign and familiar at once. the apartment is exactly as you left it—books on the coffee table, your slippers by the couch, a mug in the sink—but it feels changed. heavier. like it held its breath while you were gone. he takes you straight to the bedroom. the sheets are fresh. your blanket—the one gojo retrieved—is folded neatly at the foot of the bed. your pillow is fluffed. the curtains are drawn to keep the light soft. of course it’s perfect. of course he’s thought of everything. he lays you down with the same gentleness one might use to place flowers at a grave. his hand lingers on your shoulder. he doesn’t say anything.

you shift slightly, trying to get comfortable. he straightens the blanket around you automatically. hovers. steps back. starts to turn toward the door. “kento,” you say softly, reaching out. your fingers curl around his forearm. “stay, please.” he stills. there’s a beat. then he nods. he sits beside you on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap, body tense like he’s holding himself together by sheer will. you slide your fingers from his forearm to his hand, tuck yours between his like it’s the easiest thing in the world. because it is.

you fall asleep like that—his fingers wrapped around yours, his eyes on your chest, watching every single rise and fall like they might stop at any moment. he doesn’t sleep much that night either. he sits there long after your breathing evens out, long after your fingers go slack in his. he watches the way your mouth twitches in your dreams. the furrow in your brow. the half-healed wounds peeking from beneath your collar.

he can’t stop imagining what this room would feel like without you in it. what the sheets would look like untouched, your slippers unmoved. he imagines lying in this bed alone, staring at the ceiling, begging to remember the sound of your voice. and then he gets up—suddenly, quietly—and goes to the kitchen.

he returns a few minutes later with water, your medication, and a bowl of something bland and warm. he sets it all on the nightstand, then brushes your hair back from your forehead, fingers reverent, like he’s afraid to wake you and afraid not to. he stays like that until dawn.

……

the next few days blur together.

he becomes almost a robot. a caregiver. a sentinel. there’s a schedule written on the fridge in his neat, meticulous handwriting—your meds, your meals, your bathroom breaks. he sets alarms. he stocks the nightstand with tissues and hand lotion and that lip balm you always lose. he refuses to let you lift a finger. not for water, not for food, not even to change the channel on the tv. it’s…a little much.

he helps you bathe, too. insists on it, actually, even though you argue that you can do it yourself. and maybe you can—but when his warm hands are on your shoulders, gently helping you out of your clothes, his eyes trained firmly on the tile, you realize you don’t mind. not when he’s this careful. not when his voice is soft and steady, guiding you through it like a dance.

he dresses you in one of his shirts afterward—soft and worn, down to your thighs. it smells like him. he says it’s because it’s easier than your usual pajamas. but the way he looks at you afterward, like he’s trying not to cry or fall to his knees, tells you it’s more than that.

every morning, he wakes you gently for your medication. he tries not to stare at you all the time, though he’s not entirely aware of it. when you grimace at a bite or sigh that you’re not hungry, he doesn’t push. just tuts and says, “try a little more, sweetheart,” and somehow, you always do.

you walk together, eventually. slowly. carefully. once around the apartment, then down the hall, then down the block. you pass a stray cat sunbathing on the curb and you crouch to pet it, smiling as it nuzzles into your palm—only to wince, softly, as pain shoots through your side. nanami is at your side instantly.

“that’s enough,” he says, helping you up. “we’re going back.”

“kento,” you start to protest. he doesn’t answer. just walks you home in silence, one arm around your waist, the other carrying your dignity in both hands.

at night, you curl into his side while he finishes the chapter he’d started in the hospital. you fall asleep to the sound of his voice. peaceful. content.

one evening, nestled against his chest, you murmur, “you’re my favorite version of yourself like this.”

he pauses. “like what?”

“like this. here. home.”

he exhales slowly. presses a kiss to the top of your head. doesn’t say anything. but you feel his arms tighten around you.

you don’t talk about the mission until the fifth night. the light is low. dinner is finished. your stitches itch and your chest aches, and you find yourself staring at the ceiling, heart too full to hold it in anymore. "I went on a mission when I was a teenager,” you begin. “back in school. supposed to be routine. clean. easy. but of course it wasn’t. people died. people I knew. people I…loved.” nanami looks over at you. doesn’t interrupt. “my efforts didn’t matter. not the way I wanted them to. I started taking less missions after that. until I left altogether.”

you swallow, voice soft. "I came back because I wanted to make a difference. for the kids. not for…this.”

you don’t have to say it. he knows what you mean. he’s quiet for a long time. then, "I want to stop you from ever doing anything like that again.” your throat tightens. you’d worried it would come to this. “but I won’t ever hold you back from what you want.” his voice is steady. raw. “it just…seems like maybe this isn’t what you want.” you don’t respond. not right away. not with words. but you know he’s right.

from then on, his care softens. not in quality, but in intensity. he still wakes you gently for your meds. still stocks the fridge with things you like. but the worry that once bled from him like a wound is quieter now. steadier. he’s still yours. but more than that—he’s here. not a sword. not a shield. just a man. tired and healing. loving you in all the ways he knows how. and somehow, that’s enough.

……

after two weeks, you have to come back to the school to get your stitches removed. the smell of rubbing alcohol burns at the back of your nose. nanami is at your side, of course, seated just slightly too close, his knee brushing yours every time he shifts. you can feel the nerves humming off him, like static. it’s almost funny, really. if you weren’t the one getting stitches removed from your stomach and shoulder, you might’ve teased him about it.

“you can sit back, kento,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. “I'm not about to die in shoko’s office.”

he doesn’t look at you. just says, "I know,” like he’s trying to convince himself. his hands are folded in his lap, but you know the tension in them would snap bone if he wasn’t careful.

shoko walks in moments later, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable as always. she gives you a small nod, then glances at nanami. “you look like hell,” she says casually, flipping through her notes. "I thought she was the patient.” you stifle a laugh. nanami doesn’t respond.

“he’s taken to the nurse routine,” you say for him, smiling. “turns out, he’s a natural.”

“not surprised,” shoko replies. “he was the only one in our class who actually read the textbook. alright.”

the process is quick. methodical. shoko’s fingers are deft as she leans in, tweezers catching the first black thread. she doesn’t even warn you before she starts. it doesn’t hurt, not really. the healing has done its work, what little your body could manage. but you feel every motion, every gentle tug. and you feel nanami’s gaze even more—burning into your skin like a second pair of hands. he watches you like he’s memorizing the way you wince. like every flinch carves itself into his chest. you glance at him once, and it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. he’s all sharp edges and furrowed brows, eyes wide and solemn and worshipful. like this is a religious experience. like watching you be sewn and unsewn is some kind of penance.

you shift your focus back to the ceiling. any longer and you might cry—not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming weight of his love.

“this curse really did a number on you,” shoko mutters as she leans in to inspect the last row of stitches. “resistant to healing techniques. scarring’s pretty deep. can’t say I've seen many like it, but you’ll be fine.”

nanami exhales. not relief, not exactly. more like a breath he didn’t realize he was holding finally escaping against his will.

shoko steps back, tugging off her gloves. “you’re free to go. rest. move slow. hydrate. try not to fall down the stairs or anything.”

you shoot her a look. “you always make me feel so special.”

"I try.” you both smile.

as you pull your shirt carefully down over the bandaged scar on your shoulder, the door swings open. of course. it’s gojo, followed by megumi and yuuji—all crammed in the narrow hallway like a fanclub waiting to meet their idol.

“hey, you’re alive!” gojo beams. "I mean, obviously. but still. nice to see it with my own eyes.”

you raise a brow. “weren’t you the one who told nanami I'd be fine the whole time?”

“yeah, well, it was mostly for his sake.” he jerks a thumb toward where nanami stands, still silent, hands now clenched at his sides. “he looked like a ghost for two days straight.”

megumi steps forward, subdued but clearly relieved. “we were worried.”

“so worried,” yuuji adds, eyes wide. “like…actually scared.”

you wave a hand. “I'm fine now. all good.”

“when are you coming back?” yuuji asks, all hope and brightness and completely unaware of the way nanami’s whole body seems to still beside you. you pause. feel his breath catch. feel the world stutter.

you smile, smooth and sweet. charming. practiced. “I'm not sure yet. still resting. maybe soon.” soon. you don’t miss the way nanami’s fingers twitch. how he leans ever so slightly forward, like he might be sick. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t breathe. just…sits with that word festering inside of him.

you finish up the visit without issue, fielding more questions, deflecting gently, laughing when gojo starts a fake countdown for your triumphant return. but nanami doesn’t laugh. not once. not even a smile. he stands behind you like a ghost, one hand on the back of your chair, too quiet for someone who usually speaks volumes just by being present. on the way home, he doesn’t hold your hand. not because he doesn’t want to, but because it’s clenched tight around the steering wheel again.

……

he tries to give you space, now. or he thinks he does. it’s laughable, honestly. he still brings you every meal, still insists on fluffing your pillows and laying out your clothes, still stands just outside the bathroom when you shower in case you slip. but he doesn’t hover. not quite. he lets you wander into the kitchen on your own. lets you reheat your tea without intervening. lets you walk the hallway once without shadowing your every step.

you notice the difference. and you know it’s not because he trusts you to be fine. it’s because he’s afraid if he touches you too much, he’ll never be able to stop.

you try to be gentle about it. you appreciate his care—god, you do. but you don’t know how to sit in that kind of love for too long without it feeling like drowning. it’s too much. too deep. you’ve spent your whole life learning how to survive on scraps, and now this man is feeding you banquets of affection and expecting you to know how to digest it.

but still, you take the walks. short ones, under his strict supervision. your bruises have faded from deep violets and angry blacks to a pale, mottled green-yellow. they no longer hurt when you move. the pain that once seized your ribs with every breath is now a dull whisper, easily ignored. the scars remain, of course. thin and pale and permanent. but they don’t ache. not anymore.

you sit beside nanami on the couch one afternoon, feet tucked beneath you, sipping miso he made from scratch. he pretends not to watch you while you eat. pretends not to study your every expression, your every twitch. “I'm fine,” you tell him, softly. he nods. doesn’t answer. you didn’t expect him to. you wonder if he’ll ever believe you again.

……

things start slow. neither of you have the heart or the energy to rush back into the routine like nothing happened. it’s not avoidance, not really—it’s caution. like life suddenly became something delicate, something to be handled with care.

he goes back to work first. it’s inevitable. responsibility clings to him like a second skin, always has. he’s needed—by students, by colleagues, by the job itself. he can’t say no to duty, even if it leaves you tangled in the sheets he’s still warmed with his body. even if it feels like leaving you behind again.

ino asks about you almost immediately. nanami deflects, of course. the usual clipped answers. she’s recovering. resting. none of your concern. we’re not here to gossip. focus on your form. but after an hour of drills and corrections, he finds himself saying something about the way you tried to pet a stray cat last week, even though you winced the whole time. how you laughed when he scolded you. how you called him insufferable and kissed his nose. he tells ino that you’re tough. that you’re smart. he doesn’t say you’re the love of his life, but he might as well have.

you return to work eventually. gradually. not with any big announcement, no fanfare or dramatic entrance. just one morning, you’re there. in your classroom. a mug of tea in hand. your name on the whiteboard in that same messy script. students blinking at the sight of you like they’re not sure if it’s real. they swarm. megumi hides it better than the rest, but yuuji hugs you too tight. nobara demands to paint your nails again. even gojo claps obnoxiously, offers you a homemade coupon for one free dinner “with the sexiest teacher on campus,” which you promptly rip in half. everything, it seems, is exactly the same. but it’s not. and nanami feels it in his marrow.

you’re here, yes. smiling, teaching, living. but he knows the scar tissue you don’t talk about. he knows what your breath sounds like when it catches in your throat as you pass by the infirmary. he knows what your eyes do when you think no one’s watching. and maybe you’re better now. physically. outwardly. but in nanami’s mind, you never fully came back. or maybe he never did. he doesn’t know.

he drives you to work each morning, without fail. waits for you at the front with a thermos of your favorite drink. drives you home every afternoon, listening with something between fascination and devotion as you recount each tiny, ridiculous detail of your day. you once told him you spent fifteen minutes mediating a fight over who took the last strawberry milk in the vending machine, and he’d nodded like you were delivering a lecture on international politics. he needs to hear it all. it makes him feel close to you. tethered to you.

he files your paperwork. reorganizes your classroom supply closet. eats lunch with you in your office every single day, knees bumping under the table. you share a sandwich and he listens to you talk through lesson plans and theory debates and new teaching methods. you say you’re trying to find joy in the little things. he thinks you are joy, and that the little things are only worth anything because they happen with you.

in some ways, it feels like everything is back to normal. but nothing is meaningless now. not a single thing. not the way your pinkie hooks around his in the hallway. not the way he watches you sleep, even when you’re fine, even when he knows you’re okay. not the way his heart clenches when he hears your voice echo down the halls. this isn’t just a relationship anymore. it’s not a phase or a fling or a soft chapter in an otherwise gray book. he’s rooted here. deeply. permanently. and he knows you are, too.

it happens without announcement.

just a quiet meeting behind a closed door—yaga’s office in the early hours of a thursday. you go alone. come back the same way. say nothing.

you fold laundry. skim your book. eat a quiet lunch. you sit beside nanami on the couch like always, lean your head against his shoulder like always. he doesn’t ask. doesn’t need to. he senses the shift—feels it like a change in barometric pressure. the air around you feels...lighter. like something heavy’s been quietly set down.

he doesn’t push. just presses a kiss to the crown of your head and lets you rest.

it isn’t until three days later that he finds out.

he and gojo are leaving a joint training session—ino’s still wiping sweat off his brow, grumbling something about pushups being a war crime—when gojo hangs back, strides lazily at nanami’s side, mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown.

“so,” he says. “she really pulled herself from active duty?”

nanami stops mid-step. turns. “what?”

gojo blinks. “you didn’t know?” nanami stares. gojo raises his hands like he’s warding off a tantrum. “not gossiping. yaga mentioned it in passing. said she turned down a mission this week. asked to be removed from field ops altogether.”

the world slows. a long breath escapes nanami’s lungs, something tight in his chest unspooling so quickly it nearly hurts. the world rights itself, slightly, softly.

gojo keeps talking. "I mean, I get it—she’s good, but that last mission was...rough. thought maybe it was a temporary thing, but she signed the paperwork. she’s out.” nanami doesn’t respond right away. his heart is a strange, uneven thing in his chest. part disbelief, part awe. gojo watches him a second longer, then squints. “she’s okay? like—actually okay?”

“physically? yes.”

“and otherwise?”

nanami’s voice is steady. “she made a choice to protect herself. she’s okay.”

gojo nods, a little softer now. “then good. that’s good.”

and—for once—gojo doesn’t push further. doesn’t crack a joke. just walks a little quieter beside him the rest of the way back. he never asked you to quit. but he’s so glad you did.

that night, nanami gets home before you. he tidies a little, starts dinner. when you walk through the door—hair tousled, cheeks slightly pink from the cold—he doesn’t even hesitate. doesn’t say a word. he meets you halfway, wraps his arms around your waist, and buries his face against your stomach, kneeling there like he’s come home from battle.

you let out a breath of laughter, your hands sliding into his hair. “what’s this for?”

he doesn’t answer at first. just holds you like he’s still afraid to let go. then: “thank you.”

you hum softly, resting your cheek on top of his head. “for what?”

“for staying.” and it’s everything.

after that, the world moves a little softer. you’re still healing in ways neither of you can name, but at least now there’s no pretending that you’re not. there’s only space—made for you, held for you, by a man who would bend the universe if it meant keeping you safe.

each night, nanami pulls you into his arms and murmurs how much he loves you. how perfect you are. how grateful he is that you came back to him. that you stayed.

you used to flinch a little. shrink beneath it. you’re still not used to the weight of being loved like this—unconditionally, unapologetically, all-consuming. but something’s changed. you don’t squirm as much now. don’t duck your head or wave him off. instead, you touch his cheek. you kiss his temple. you whisper back, I love you, too.

nanami notices. of course he does. he always does. he notices how your shoulders don’t tense when he brushes his fingers down your spine. how your breath stays steady when he worships you with words, not just touch. how you let him love you like it’s a given, not a question.

your relationship is different now. deeper. messier. more real. the bubble popped the moment he saw you bloodied on that cot. the honeymoon phase shattered the moment he thought he might lose you.

and he doesn’t miss it. not really. because what you have now is built from something harder to break. something stronger than fantasy. love forged in fire, carried on broken backs and sleepless nights and whispered devotions in the dark.

he hates that it took something so terrible to get here, but he loves you now more than he ever thought possible. and you finally let him.

[flemingology]

L is for the way you look at me ─ alexia putellas x reader

part 1 of my l-o-v-e miniseries. full masterlist here!

in which: you meet Alexia through your work, but things take an unexpected turn

warnings: nothing i can think of, but there must be something with this being 9k words. so let me know if there's anything worth mentioning lol. fluffy though!

wc: 8.8k

an: put my whole writerussy in this series. it'll come out on a weekly basis, every sunday for the next 4 weeks. will run simultaneously with the rest of my christmas series! i hope you enjoy <3

Your tires kicked up some gravel as your car came to a halt on the parking spot next to the sports complex. You leaned your head back against the headrest and let out a deep sigh, letting the silence overcome you for a second. You bathed in the comfort of your own car and tried to come to your senses, before what would be one of the biggest moments in your professional career as an interior architect so far. Scratch that. Biggest moment, for sure. Nothing had ever been bigger or more important than this.

It was early January when you initially got the call from your boss. You were at home, working on some 3D blueprints for a new apartment complex that was being built in the city centre. Not your most exciting project, but that’s the price you paid for working in a metropolis like Barcelona. Deadlines coming thick and fast, it meant that you were severely overworked, but clients weren’t waiting. Residents weren’t waiting, either. So you worked. You worked early, worked late, worked at home, worked in the office. You’d always been career-oriented, though, so you were never going to complain, not with the opportunities your perseverance had given you already. But you wouldn’t have dared to dream about this next one, even in your wildest dreams.

Your phone shook you up from your thoughts, head deep in a few finishing touches on an elevator blueprint when your ringtone sounded through your apartment. You rolled and stretched your neck in a futile attempt to release some of the tension there, before picking up the device and bringing it to your ear.

“Y/n, I’m gonna get right down to business. I’ve got an opportunity for you that you’re not going to want to turn down.”

A combination of words you’d normally be very excited about, but with the amount of work you already had on your plate, you weren’t quite sure about that. Endless to-do lists were scattered around your apartment and you were already struggling to meet all the deadlines set, so taking something else up would definitely set you back for a good couple months on multiple projects. You pinched the bridge of your nose and took a deep breath before you replied, solely a hum.

“Look, I know you’re busy. You have a whole load on your plate right now, but if you take this, I’ll take care of the rest. We will redistribute the work. But this is once in a lifetime. And I want my best employee on it.”

You were taken aback by his words, your boss never one to willingly move work around from employee to employee once a project had been started. Your interest was piqued, so you decided to bite.

“Alright, you got me. Shoot.”

“We’ve been asked to design a new training complex for the Barcelona Women’s team.”

-

The best part of 8 months later, here you finally were. Sat outside the complex, in your car, taking a couple more moments before throwing yourself in the deep end. You had worked relentlessly on this project. If you thought you were working hard before, you’d found a new gear that left all your previous years in your professional career in the dust. You were the only designer on the project, meaning that a lot of the work fell on your shoulders and yours only in the initial phases of the process.

You were fatigued, from a lack of sleep as much as physically. You couldn’t remember how many all-nighters you pulled in trying to get the design over the line by the deadline. You experienced heightened anxiety and stress over the course of multiple months, only adding to the already overbearingly heavy weight on your shoulders. You got obsessive with it, as you always did, danced on the brink of a burn-out at some points, but you promised yourself it would pay off. Nothing would ever come close to the feeling of professional success. And you hoped, for the love of God, that you could deliver tonight. That everyone was happy with the complex, that your tour would go seamlessly, and that you had another thing to tick off in your long bucket-list of working as an interior architect. You took a couple more composing breaths in the driver seat of your car, checking your appearance a final time and attempted yourself at a pep-talk before you opened the door of your car and stepped out into the heat of the Spanish capital.

You’d seen it before, given the tour to your imaginary guests more often than you could count, but now, in Barcelona’s glistening afternoon sun, it really came into its own. The complex stands tall, but it exudes a sense of openness. It’s large, commanding, but not intimidating. Towering windows scratch across its surface, a feature that you’d grown to love across your visits to the facility. It allows plenty of natural light to pour in, the building strategically positioned so it would catch most of the afternoon sun. The entrance is wide, inviting, but nothing short of impressive. A set of smooth, glass doors that reach high, transparent so they give you a view of the lobby. The first feeling that comes over you is relief. You had seen the structure plenty of times, but with the prospect of having to guide the clients around later, it’s reassuring that you still feel excited and accomplished about your work. You approach the building, deciding to wait for the rest of your clients by the entrance.

You didn’t have to wait long, two black Cupras soon arriving at the facility after you made your way over. You weren’t fully aware how many people of the club were going to be present, but you’d tried to prepare yourself. Nine people though, that was kind of cutting it. Five people exited the first vehicle, another four quickly following short out of the other. Nine. If you weren’t nervous before, you surely were then.

The introductions went by in a flurry, but you tried your absolute best to remember the name and functions of every suited or dressed man or woman that had just shook your hand. Joan, president of the club. Pere, head coach. Marc, financial director. Lucia, facilities manager. There was one amongst them, though, that didn’t need an introduction. Not to you. Not to anyone. And really, it shouldn’t have been a surprise to you that they brought a player. If anyone has to approve of the facilities, it’s the players themselves.

“Alexia. Nice to meet you.” “Y/n. Likewise.”

She gave you a firm handshake, her eyes holding yours just a second too long, and you swear, you could feel it—that spark, that something. But before you could question it, she’d already let go of your hand and joined the rest of her people. You were well aware who she was, well aware of what she meant in the world of football, but you weren’t taken aback. It was nothing more than a crossover between two people doing their jobs, and you weren’t gonna have someone like her intimidate you and throw you off your path for the rest of the afternoon. Not with the importance of this project for the future of your career.

You clapped your hands when everyone seemed to have taken their first looks at the building from the inside. “Okay! Shall we?” You mustered up the brightest smile you had in your locker, silently wishing that the nerves would settle down as soon as you got into your element inside.

“Okay, so, the main entrance. I didn’t want to have too much going on in here, more going for a calm atmosphere. Reception in the middle, and then there’s really only one hall here, leading you towards the rest of the facility.”

The entrance was, as you described, calm. It had some lounge seats here and there but you couldn’t imagine many people spending lots of time here, so you kept the extras limited. A few acknowledging and appreciating hums from your tiny crowd sent you on your way, your nerves slowly but surely ebbing away.

You slowly guided your guests towards the hallway, letting them take in the interior and space for as long as they wanted until they seemed ready to continue the tour. “On the left, first and foremost, the changing room. I thought it was handy for it to be near the entrance, as most of the players probably come straight here after arriving.”

You push open the double doors to the room, stepping aside and allowing the others to step in first. “As you can see, a large and accordingly illuminated space with rows of lockers, personalized for each player. Each locker has a charging station, storage for gear, and adjustable lighting, because who doesn’t hate bad lighting when trying to focus before a game?”

For the first time during the tour, someone spoke up then, and it wasn’t who you’d expect to take the floor first. “I’ll admit, I’m guilty of using mine as a mini closet sometimes. Good call with the extra storage.” Alexia’s admission caused some lighthearted laughs and chatter to rise from the small group of people, and you almost felt grateful for her comment. “I’m glad.” You mustered up a small but sincere smile, before turning back around and continuing your work.

You gestured towards the wall that wasn’t adorned with lockers. “The screens on here are meant for displaying tactics, team news, and whatever else you guys get up to on a day-to-day basis.” You were really coming into yourself and started to forget about the nerves of the moment. You were in your element, you were doing what you liked, what you had been doing for the past 7 years of your life. You weren’t gonna mess this up.

“Of course, showers are tucked around the corner. Communal shower room, as I’m sure you’re all familiar with. Physio beds, and everything else you would need for pre-activation before training are around the other corner. To integrate some options for relaxation, there are also some sofas in that room. I don’t know to which extent they will be used, but they’re there.”

Right as you were about to lead the group back out towards the next room, Pere spoke up. “I like the adjustable lighting. I think it’s something we struggled with at our previous facility. It was quite bright, and sometimes that’s not the vibe you want to create for your players. They need calm, especially after a training session. Good work on that one.” The man offered you a sincere smile and rested his hand on your shoulder for a split second, and you felt all warm inside at the acknowledgement of your work. You took it in your stride and continued the tour.

“Taking a left outside the locker room and moving down the hallway, it’ll take you into the tactical room. Meeting room, briefing room, whatever you want to call it. This room is more dimly lit, with one singular big screen on the wall for video analysis, powerpoint presentations, and so on. I think there’s about 30 seats, but I wasn’t quite sure on how many there would need to be, so if you need any more I can take care of those too.”

Pere and Alexia shared a look, before letting you know that 30 would be enough. “Now, moving on through the room, I designed a second section with more of a discussion place in mind. I opted for a round table, rather than a rectangular shape, because I feel like it invites more participation. A couple whiteboards here and there, but I’m sure you guys will find your own ways to use this room to your own liking.”

“There’s one thing, though, and I’m quite proud of that, if I may say so myself. One of these walls,” you started, tapping your finger on the back wall of the discussion room, “is a writable wall. You can write, pin notes, whatever you might need to brainstorm about your tactics.”

Pere’s voice sounded through the room as you finished your explanation. “So, Ale, no more scribbling on napkins during tactical meetings, huh?” You finally realized why one of your colleagues on the project was adamant about a certain type of soundproof walls for the room, because you were now grateful for the great acoustics as Alexia’s laugh sounded through the place. Suddenly, you noticed that one of the chairs around the table was slightly out of place. Your need for perfectionism rose up and as much as you wanted to leave it, to not fuss about a small detail like that, you couldn’t help yourself.

“Sorry, this chair is bothering me. Details matter, especially in places like these. Athletes notice more than they think they do.” You didn’t direct your statement towards anyone, but weren’t exactly surprised either when you heard Alexia’s voice in response. “We do? I just thought we used these rooms to throw our stuff around,” the Spaniard said with an amused, infuriatingly attractive smirk on her face. It was your turn to laugh now, and you weren’t the only one grateful anymore for the acoustics of the room.

You answered a couple questions and scribbled down a couple more suggestions from the rest of the staff, before making your way out of the discussion room and moving back towards the hallway. “Now, crossing the hallway, this is the treatment room.” There’s a calm atmosphere in the room, the soft hum of the lights the only sound as your clients take in their surroundings. “Plenty of massage tables in the middle of the room, some more space for pre-activation, shelves stretched across the walls with recovery tools. Around the corner, there’s a multifunctional hydrotherapy pool and an ice bath. These adjustable lights mimic natural daylight to help with recovery. I wanted to create a space where your body and mind can unwind together.”

“I imagine you will spend lots of your time here,” you smiled, gesturing towards one of the women that presented herself as one of the club’s physiotherapists.

“Yeah, this will be my safe haven. It’s great, honestly, better than I ever imagined. I was thinking whether there was something missing, but I can’t think of anything. You did great work.” You shot the woman, whose name you’d already forgotten, a bright smile and thanked her for the compliment. The moment was soon lost on you as you heard someone clear their throat.

“Yes, Alexia?” It was the first time you’d called the Barcelona captain by her first name that afternoon, and you were surprised at the ease it rolled off your tongue with. If Alexia was taken aback, she didn’t show it. “I’m gonna be annoying for a second. Wouldn’t it be tough for someone injured to reach that?” She pointed at the top shelves, where some of the recovery tools were stacked. You took a moment to yourself to think about her comment, before giving her a slight smile and nodding. “You’re right, thank you for noticing that.” You took out your notepad and scribbled something down, adding an exclamation mark or 5 to convey the importance of the task. The rest of the group had already moved back to the hallway, leaving you and Alexia to yourself for a little moment. You didn’t know where the flurry of confidence came from, but you grabbed it with both hands before it could slip away, leading to your next comment. “Good catch, captain.” Alexia grinned, a twinkle in her eyes as she met yours.

“You’re the expert, not me.” “Well, you’re the professional footballer amongst the two of us, so I think I could learn a thing or two still about the design of team facilities.” “You’re doing more than a good job so far. I’m positively surprised.”

You got pulled back to reality when you heard a laugh coming through the door from the hallway, reminding you of the fact that you were still working, still having to uphold a professional persona and make sure that the tour went well. This wasn’t the time and place to be making much small talk, let alone flirting. Could you even call it that? “Let’s move on, yeah?”

You lead your clients down the hall, opening the double doors that would lead to the gym. The space was just as you’d imagined it, and hearing the noises of appreciation from the people behind you, you knew you’d done a good job.

“I think this speaks for itself, really. Not entirely my area of expertise, not really one for dumbbells or barbells, but I think I got everything covered here,” you chuckled. “Resistance machines, cardio equipment, dumbbells, barbells and kettlebells. There’s also an area for stretching and functional training near the back of the room. I wanted this to be big, spacious, allowing lots of natural light in, because I know half of the training days are spent here. People tend to forget that.” 

“Dios mio, Pere, if I’m ever missing, just come find me in here. This place is a dream come true,” you heard Alexia say from across the room, letting her eyes rake over the abundance of equipment that was scattered all around the gym. You crossed the room and joined her, following her movements with your eyes as she explored more of the gym. “I think this wall here needs some more Barca colors, no?” You scoffed and shook your head slightly, but pulled out your notepad nonetheless. “Noted, but I think you’re biased. Lucky for you, I like your bias.” Alexia tilted her head at that. “Does that mean I get to say in the rest of the design too?” You knew what she was doing. And it was so wrong for you to be giving into it in this professional context, but the woman across from you was enticing and you couldn’t help but be flattered at the way she seemed to be flirting with you. “Now, don’t push your luck, Putellas.” With that, you turned on your heels and made your way back towards the front of the room, not wanting to give Alexia the satisfaction of seeing the crimson red color your cheeks had turned at the small interaction.

“Well, I think we’ve got one final room, then.” You lead your guests back through the doors of the gym. “Taking a right here, you’ll end up in the team lounge. A cozy space for bonding, relaxing, whatever you guys want to do here. There’s a coffee station, entertainment options like games and a big screen, beanbags scattered around the room, but you can fill it in the way you want, really. There’s lots of flexibility with this space.”

“A coffee station? That’s going to make you a lot of friends around here,” the ever-familiar voice behind you commented. “Honestly, the caffeine might be the most important design element in this building.”

You pointed at the seating arrangement. “I went for modular sofas so you can switch between team bonding sessions and personal space. As I said, I went for flexibility here.” Pere caught up to where you were walking and put his hand on your shoulder, just as he did earlier during the tour. “You thought of all the details, huh? Most people wouldn’t notice things like that.” You shrugged off the compliment. “It’s all in the details, I bet you know that just as well as I do.” The coach let out a warm laugh and you couldn’t help but feel accomplished, it meant the world to you that him and one of the most important players in his team felt right within the facility and were impressed with your designs.

“As for different rooms, that was it for the tour. The pitches are outside, but there’s nothing special about those. Feel free to check them out if you want. I’m gonna let you all wander around a bit now, and if you have any questions or remarks, please come to me. I’m all ears and I’m very open to feedback. I hope you’re all satisfied, though, because this project meant a lot to me and I can’t begin to express how grateful I am to have received this opportunity.”

What happened next, was the last thing you’d expected. The room went silent for a second, until you could hear a couple slow claps sounding through the room. They came from Alexia, who was ushering the other people in the room to give you an applause. Her colleagues followed shortly, and soon the room was filled with the sound of their clapping, all smiling brightly at you and sharing laughs with one another. You felt grateful, overwhelmed by your emotions, but you felt a huge weight fall off your shoulders at the acknowledgement.

It wasn’t until a couple minutes later, that Alexia found herself next to you again. Most of the people had wandered back through the corridors, checking out the rooms at their own pace. “So, how long did it take you to design this?” Alexia fell in step with you as you walked through the gym, mustering up ideas for the remark the Spaniard gave you earlier. “Uh, about 4 months for the main sections, and then a few extra weeks for the final touches. And then, a waiting game while it was being built. It’s a bit of a balancing act, you know?” Alexia smiled faintly at you before responding. “I imagine. It sounds like a lot, but it seems like you’ve got everything under control.” “I try to.”

It was about half an hour later, when you all found yourself back at the entrance. You received another couple compliments from several staff members that had come along, and it felt like every single one bolstered your outside a bit more and more, upping your confidence with each one, taking them all in your stride. You’d been nervous for this, had worked countless hours, days, weeks on this project, but it all felt worth it. It was the biggest project you’d ever worked on, but it turned out perfectly and you couldn’t have wished for a better outcome.

The sun had started to set over Barcelona now, golden hour casting the building in rays of orange. It felt symbolic, a perfect ending to what had been a greatly successful afternoon. Alexia had noticed your passion for your work throughout the tour, and it was safe to say that she admired it. “You care a lot about getting things right, don’t you?” “Of course. It’s important.” “It feels right… you being here. You doing this. I feel like you understand this place.”

Alexia’s words came right from the heart, her voice growing soft as she uttered the final couple words, and you felt a fuzzy feeling coursing through your body at the admission. You raised your eyes at her, curious where the sudden comment had come from. Alexia picked up on this, explaining herself further.

“Your dedication to your work, it just resonates with my dedication to mine. The team’s dedication. It feels good, this.” You weren’t sure what she was talking about anymore, whether that be the building, your commitment, or just this–– the situation you two found yourself in at the moment. You’d tried to keep up your professional demeanor throughout the tour, but the more heartfelt comments Alexia threw your way, the harder you found it to keep up the snarky remarks or shrugging off whatever she said.

“I don’t know the word… it’s like when you do something that makes sense, like…” “Purpose?” “Yeah, purpose.”

Alexia grew bashful quickly, a shy smile covering her face. “Sorry, my English isn’t quite there yet.” You waved away her apology and were grateful for the change of tone in the conversation, not quite sure you would be able to keep up your persona had she gotten much more open with you.

“Look, I have to go now. I can sense Pero is growing impatient in the car. But, look, uhm, I like how you understand this place. Would you maybe,” she clears her throat and looks down to the ground before finishing her sentence, “want to grab a coffee with me sometime?”

You should’ve expected it, really. The way she was throwing not-so-subtle flirty remarks at you throughout the tour, her demeanor growing in confidence the longer time went on, you should’ve known this was coming. Still, it swept you completely off your feet, and quite frankly, speechless. There wasn’t a single cell in your body that thought of denying her request. But somewhere, in the back of your mind, a little rational voice sounded, saying that you had to be professional. This was your work, her work, and mixing work and dates was never a good idea. So you took a deep breath, meeting her eyes again before you gave her the answer she probably wouldn’t have expected.

“Alexia, I’d love to. But, this is a professional work context.” Alexia cocked an eyebrow at you, a small smile hinting on one corner of her mouth, and you couldn’t help the confusion that came across you. “Guapa, you are the one assuming that we are going on a date. I proposed it just to, you know, discuss insights about the building.” Your cheeks burned bright red at her words, and there was no way to escape the situation now. The taller woman in front of you let out a laugh, throwing her head back and if it weren’t for the twinkle of adoration in her eyes when her gaze met yours again, you would’ve thought she was laughing at you. “No, I get you. But look, I’ll make it worth your while. Just give me one chance, okay? You can’t deny the… how do you say, chemistry?” You nodded bashfully at the Spaniard, knowing she was completely right. You had tried your hardest to remain professional, but it grew harder and harder not to open up more of yourself to the footballer. “Look, if you don’t want a coffee, how about you come to the game tomorrow? You’ve done so much for us, you should come see what you’ve worked for these past couple months. My family can’t make it this week, so I’ve got plenty of tickets for you and anyone else you want to bring.”

That sounded like a better suggestion, all in all. If anything, you could now paint it down as just a friendly invitation to thank you for your work, and you didn’t have to think of it as a date. Although, even with what you said, you weren’t opposed to that idea either. “That sounds fair. You owe me a good performance, though” you quipped back, not letting her off the hook that easily. She had made you blush, but you weren’t gonna let her walk over you like that. “Only if you come to dinner after.” And just like that, she’d turned the whole situation around again. Infuriating. Infuriatingly attractive. “We’ll see.”

-

You struggle on deciding what to wear that day. Torn between trying to look put-together and not wanting to look like you’re trying too hard, you eventually settle on something practical but nice– enough to look professional, but not too casual. Because in the end, it’s just a game, right? Just Alexia Putellas casually inviting you to see her in her element, no big deal. And dinner. Maybe.

The journey to the stadium went smoother than expected. You’d left more than early enough, and had just about beat the flurry of afternoon traffic, as you arrived at Estadi Johan Cruyff. This is as far as outsides of comfort zones went. This was not your usual surroundings. You were a homebody, either working or relaxing, you weren’t one for the big events. Let alone sporting events. You weren’t at home in this setting, but you couldn’t help but feel an excitement bubbling up inside you as you noticed the heaps of fans dressed in blaugrana jerseys, waving flags and scarves, all coming to see their idols on a sunbathed afternoon in the Spanish capital. Nerves bubble up the closer you get to the stadium, and you tried to ground yourself by taking a couple deep breaths before taking the plunge.

You’d remembered the instructions Alexia sent you over text on how to get to her friends and family box. She asked for your number at some point that day before, and brushed it off as practicality for today’s game, but you knew somewhere that that wasn’t the last time you’d hear of her. The moment you arrive in her box overwhelms you. There’s a couple other people, and you get a sudden burst of nerves thinking about having to introduce you as… well, as what? The interior architect of her new team facilities? You were well aware of how weird that sounded. But they paid you no mind, so you thanked your lucky stars when you found your seat without all too much fuss and settled down for the next couple hours.

The crowd, the noise, there was a buzzing atmosphere around the stadium and it was such a stark contrast to the environment you’d been in yesterday. The stadium felt alive. As much as you weren’t a football or sports fan in general, you finally understood why people liked going to games. You took in your environment, scanning the crowd. A man singing at the top of his lungs, seemingly the person that needed to get the chants going. A little girl in a jersey three sizes too big, on her father’s shoulders, holding a sign that said: “Alexia, mi heroina”. A group of teenagers finding their seats right underneath the box, faces painted with stripes, yelling things you didn’t quite understand, because God forbid you were consistent with your Spanish classes. A mixed smell of popcorn, churros and questionable hotdogs suddenly hit you like a wall. It was chaos, but it seemed like the people here thrived on it. Suddenly, you couldn’t believe having missed out on this element of the city for so long. Of course, you were well aware that Barcelona had two successful, thriving first teams. You just couldn’t be bothered. Now, though, it felt like your whole world had turned upside down at the revelation of how fun this was.

As much as Alexia insisted on you bringing someone, for your own company, you didn’t. It felt too much like using her, not wanting to overstep boundaries on this first meeting. Second, in theory. But now, as you were sat here in the stadium, crowd so loud their hum vibrated in your chest, maybe you wouldn’t have minded someone else here to share the experience with. Then again, bringing someone would’ve made this feel more like a… thing. And you didn’t know whether you were ready to accept this being a thing, yet. Your thoughts circled back to Alexia, the woman you were here for in the first place. Would she be nervous now? Of course not. She was in the locker room right now, already zoned in and focused. Professional. Unlike you, who was sitting here, overthinking what a stupid invitation to a game might mean. Still, there was something about being here– her stadium, her world, that made you feel closer to her. Like it was a glimpse into the pieces of herself she didn’t give away so easily. They were all here for her, but you were invited by her. It felt different.

What you didn’t expect, at all, was your phone to chime with a message from her.

From: Alexia You here yet?

You quickly typed back a response, figuring she didn’t have much time to be on her phone. They were due for warm-ups anytime soon now.

To: Alexia: Yeah, just found my seat. Thank you :) It’s chaos out here, damn

From: Alexia Good chaos. You’ll see. Enjoy it, I’ll find you after

It’s as if Alexia’s words had a soothing effect on you, because as soon as you tucked your phone back away you relaxed, sitting back against your seat and letting the experience roll over you.

The Barca girls came out for warm-ups, and you couldn’t help but admire them. The players moved across the pitch with this kind of effortless precision that made it all look simple, though you knew it wasn’t. You couldn’t tell who was who at first, not even you lack of football knowledge, but there were so many of them, a blur of navy shorts and bright orange bibs weaving in and out of each other as the ball zipped between them.

You weren’t looking for her. At least, you told yourself you weren’t. But somehow, your eyes kept finding her anyway. You caught a flash of blonde hair and noticed the distinctive way she carried herself on the pitch. She wasn’t doing anything else than the others– passing, moving, stretching. But she stood out. There was something about her, even from a distance, a pull you couldn’t quite explain. It was like your eyes gravitated towards her naturally, without you guiding them. 

The Alexia you’d walked the tour with, who’d thrown you teasing smiles and leaned a little too close when you said goodbye, was gone. Out here, she was something entirely different– serious, focused, untouchable. She hadn’t looked up once, her eyes not searching yours, and you would feel apprehensive about it if you didn’t remember the look she had in her eyes when she invited you. After all, why would she? She had a job to do. This was her thing, as much as yesterday was yours.

You weren’t the only one watching her, obviously. You could hear little bursts of her name from the fans sitting nearby, the occasional shriek of excitement when she touched the ball during a drill. She was theirs and they were hers in a way I couldn’t quite wrap my head around, but it was beautiful. Alexia is Barca and Barca is Alexia, right?

It wasn’t long then until the game started, you got lost in your own thoughts a little bit and you were now mere seconds away from kick-off. The pitch looked impossibly green under the floodlights– that were turned on way too early, but you guessed it was better to be safe than sorry. Players were scattered around it, waiting for the signal from the referee that they could get their game going. The energy of the crowd built like a wave, rolling through the stands. People were on their feet, clapping, yelling. You didn’t know the chants, but you felt a tingle inside of you urging you to clap along, the energy of the crowd too enticing not to.

As the whistle blew to signal kick-off, the energy in the stadium shifted. You didn’t expect it to hit you like that, the way the crowd seemed to breathe, shift, move as one organism. It was overwhelming in the best way. You weren’t here to watch anyone in particular, you told yourself. You were just going to enjoy the experience, the place, to see it all in action. But once again, as soon as the ball was in play, you found yourself watching her. Tracking the way she moved, the way she gracefully handled the ball, the way she always seemed two steps ahead of everyone else.

Out here, she was undeniable. There was a precision to the way she played, a quiet authority that made it impossible to look away. It wasn’t just that she was good– and realistically, that played a huge part, it was the way she made everything look so effortless, like she’d orchestrated the entire game in her head before anyone else knew what was happening.

You were deep into the first half when the play stalled, and for the first time all game, the noise of the crowd dulled in your ears. Alexia was in the middle of the action, barking instructions to her teammates– sharp, no-nonsense commands you couldn’t hear from up there but you could feel all the same. Her gestures were deliberate, decisive, and when she pointed towards the flank, her teammates took off without hesitation.

There was something magnetic about it, about the way she owned the field without ever raising her voice too much, the way her team fell in line like clockwork because she was the one pulling the strings. Captain’s armband snug around her bicep, confidence looked good on her. It wasn’t flashy or loud, but it was undeniable.

Your eyes lingered on her a little longer than they should have, when play resumed. The way her jersey clung to her shoulders and arms wasn’t helping either. You shifted in your seat, tearing your gaze away, but the thought was already there, uninvited and impossible to ignore. You’d listen to whatever she told you to do too.

Heat rushed to your face at the realization so quickly it nearly made you feel dizzy. Nope. Absolutely not. You took a deep breath and focused back on the game, on the fluid football that was being portrayed by the girls in blaugrana. Professional. You are professional. And you are definitely not thinking about what it would be like to hear that voice closer. Louder. DIrected at you.

Saved by the bell. Or the half-time whistle. Saved by something, thank God. That’s what you thought. As the players made their way toward the tunnel, your eyes found her again. She was talking to one of her teammates, gesturing animatedly about something, but just before she disappeared into the tunnel, she glanced towards her box. It was quick, so quick you almost missed it, but your heart skipped a beat anyway. You told yourself she wasn’t looking for you. Why would she?

During half-time, a kid sitting a couple rows in front of you caught your eye. He was shouting all of the players names, his little voice full of excitement. He was waving a jersey, one with the number 4 on the back, and even though they couldn’t hear him right now, tucked away in the building, it struck you how loved they all were. How much they all meant to these people. You caught yourself smiling at the kid’s enthusiasm. At the player’s impact. It was hard not to feel drawn into it.

The second half went by quicker than the first. You’d settled, and you were starting to feel more like yourself the more time went on. Barcelona scored thrice in the second half, effectively beating their opponents 3-0. Alexia hadn’t scored, but she’d assisted the final goal and you felt a weird sense of pride overcome you as her cross was headed in by one of her teammates. The final whistle pierced the air, and with it came an eruption of cheers from the stands. Another win, another three points, and they deserved every ounce of the applause raining down on them.

Alexia didn’t jump into the celebration like some of her teammates did, instead staying composed as she clapped for the fans along with her friends, her captain’s demeanor shining through even in victory. For a second, she looked toward the family box, her gaze skimming across the seats. You thought to yourself that she might be looking for you, but as soon as it arose, you brushed it away, even though your stomach fluttered at the thought.

And then, like she’d heard your internal thoughts, answering the unspoken question, she lifted a hand in a small wave. Subtle, unnoticeable for anyone that wasn’t watching, but it was definitely there. You gave her a small wave back, and you wondered if anyone had noticed the small interaction between the two of you. This wasn’t the time to raise any suspicions, and even though no one’s eyes were on you, you felt like a spotlight had just been shone directly on you. You thought that was gonna be it, but then she stepped away from the group of her teammates for a second, and made a phonecall motion with her hands. You gave her a thumbs up in response, in hindsight probably not the most flattering thing, but it would do the job.

It wasn’t long after the team disappeared back into the tunnel that your phone buzzed in the pocket of your jacket.

From: Alexia I’m gonna get a quick shower, but I want to see you :) Meet me outside by the parking lot in 20 minutes?

A bashful smile grew on your face as you read her text, the casual tone doing little to mask the effect it had on you.

To: Alexia Yes, of course! Just gotta tell me how to get there

Alexia sent you on your way with a couple directions and off you went, not bothering to wait another 20 minutes in your seat, trying to avoid any possibility of you being late in the parking lot. The chill of the evening air hit you as you stepped outside of the stadium, as if inside there was a personal bubble of warmth created for the team. You crossed the main parking lot, that was surprisingly quiet. Most fans still lingering inside or making their way out through the main exits.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you approached the meeting spot, a secluded parking are for the players. It was even quieter there, and every little sound seemed amplified in your ears.

Alexia took 17 minutes after sending you her post-match text. Not that you had been counting, or anything. She stepped out of the building, freshly showered and dressed in a Barca tracksuit. Her confident and vibrant energy from the pitch faltered slightly, but you still warmed up at the sight of her. Her hair still damp from her shower, duffle bag slung over her shoulder, walking over to you with an easy stride, as if she’d done this a thousand times before. She broke out in a wide smile as she approached you.

“Hey,” she started, her voice low and warm, “thanks for waiting.” You chuckled and waved away her comment, a little awkward silence forming between the two of you that you tried not to get in your head about, before making a remark about the game. “You played well. All of you, really. It was… impressive to watch. Thank you for the ticket.”

“Are you saying that because you mean it, or because I’m standing here?” Alexia teased. She hadn’t changed a single thing from her demeanor yesterday, still as flirty and making teasing remarks. “Maybe both.” Alexia let out a soft laugh, and even without soundproof walls and good acoustics, it still wrapped around you like a warm blanket in the chilly evening air.

She grew sincere then, her eyes softening a bit. “Hey, thanks for coming. I wasn’t sure you would.” You were taken aback a little by her words, a little sense of insecurity creeping through her voice. “Honestly, for a long time I wasn’t sure either, but I’m glad I did. It just… didn’t know if I should.” The Barcelona captain frowned at that, tilting her head slightly. “Why not?” You knew the question was coming, so you shrugged and gave her your response with a small smile on your face.

“Maybe because this feels… I don’t know, different? You’re… you.” “I’m me?” “You’re Alexia Putellas. Everyone in that stadium was looking at you tonight. And now here I am, standing in a parking lot with you, wondering why you’d want to see me of all people.” “And yet, here you are. Doesn’t that say something?”

You locked eyes for a moment, a brief pause in the conversation and the air between you both changed with unspoken words. Alexia’s expression softens further, her confident demeanor giving way for something vulnerable, something you hadn’t seen about her yet.

“Maybe I don’t want to be Alexia Putellas all the time, you know? It gets quite tiring.” Alexia said quietly. You were caught off guard, but composed yourself quickly. “That’s not an easy thing to ask with your career, captain.” You chuckled quietly, but grew quiet as you noticed the sincerity in her voice. “Look, I know we barely know each other. But I think you’re the kind of person who could see me for who I am, not just the name, the number or the captain’s armband. I feel drawn to you, and that doesn’t happen often. And I know you feel it too. I can tell by the way you look at me.”

“That’s… a lot, Alexia.” You hesitated, meeting her eyes again. “Thank you for being so open and honest with me. You’re right, I feel it too. But I don’t know if I’m the kind of person you think I am. I mean… you’re you, and…” you trailed off, but you were sure she understood what you were trying to say.

“And you’re you. That’s exactly why I’m standing here right now. Why I invited you today. Why I asked you to come to the parking lot.” Her words helped you ease a little further, but not all the apprehension had worn off and she could tell. “Tell you what, let me prove it to you. Dinner? No pressure. Just food, conversation, and maybe some embarrassing stories about my teammates.” A hopeful smile grew on her face after her words and you couldn’t hold back the chuckle that escaped your lips as you listened to her. “You know how to sell an offer, don’t you?”

“I’ve got plenty. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.” “Hmm, I don’t know. Feels like you’re trying too hard to convince me.” “Trying too hard? I thought I was being charming!” “Debatable.” “Come on, let me in tonight. That’s all I’m asking for.” “Fine. But only because I’m curious about these embarrassing stories.” “Fair enough.”

-

The restaurant is small but elegant, tucked away in a quieter part of the city. Twinkling string lights frame the windows, and a gold sign with cursive lettering displays the name. It was perfect, really, and you could see why Alexia liked coming here, especially after busy days like today.

The warm lighting inside created the perfect cozy atmosphere that would allow you both to unwind from the day. There were candles on every table, casting soft shadows on the walls, and there was a tinge of jazz to be heard in the background. It’s intimate but not overly formal, just right for a dinner that was toeing the line between casual and romantic.

“You’ve got good taste in restaurants,” you said, after hanging your jacket over your chair and sitting down. “Good food is one of the few indulgences I allow myself during the season. Though I have to be careful not to overdo it.” You smirked, deciding that you could tease her a little further. “You mean you don’t carb-load on patatas bravas before every match?” Alexia laughed at that, throwing her head back slightly. “I wish. I’d run for ten minutes and then need a sub.”

You indulge yourself in the menu for a second, eventually settling on and ordering a seafood risotto and a glass of white wine. Alexia ordered grilled chicken with roasted vegetables, paired with a glass of red.

You feel hyper-aware of every small detail about Alexia while you wait for your food. The way she leans forward when she speaks, the gestures she makes with her hands, the warmth in her eyes. You’re overwhelmed, in the best possible way.

“So, Putellas, do you always bring strangers here, or should I feel special?” You challenged, taking a sip from the glass of wine that was just brought to you by one of the waiters. Alexia feigned annoyance, placing a hand over her chest where her heart was. Nonetheless, her face turned into a grin soon.

“Special. But don’t let it get to your head. I needed to bribe you into liking me somehow.” “Oh, so this is a bribe?” “What can I say? I’m better with my feet than my words”

Dinner goes by smoothly, and your conversation flows easily from one topic to the other. You cover your family, Alexia’s way into football, what she’s thinking of doing after football, your hobbies, your youth, but it’s when the topic of your work is being brought up that you grow apprehensive. Alexia noticed the unease that came from you after she brought it up, and tried to reassure you.

“You know, I like hearing about your work. It’s part of who you are,” she tried. If there was one thing that you’d not gotten over yet, it’s that you met Alexia through a work context. Deep down, there were more than rational thoughts telling you that that was completely okay, it happened all the time, but with how focused you are on your image and your professional career, you had a hard time dropping the apprehension. So you paused for a second, and then spoke up softly. “But that’s the thing. I feel like I need to keep it separate. Like if I start talking too much about it, I’ll ruin this… whatever this is.” Alexia leant forward at that, like she had the tendency to do quite often you’d grown to learn. “And what do you think this is?” You met her eyes, trying to feign indifference by shrugging. “I don’t know. Something new, something unexpected.”

“Well, maybe unexpected is good. You don’t have to keep everything separate, you know. I like knowing more about you. All of you.” “Careful, I might start talking about zoning laws and blueprints.” “I’ll risk it. Besides, more fuel for me to tease you with.”

There’s a little more hesitance in your eyes, and Alexia wants to get rid of it. “Tonight, I’m not Alexia Putellas. I’m Alexia, Ale. That’s all I want to be now.” And really, how could you stay professional with someone who looked at you like that, as if they’re seeing something no one else ever had?

“I don’t usually do this either, you know? Going for dinner with someone I barely know.” Alexia speaks up after a while of comfortable silence. “Then why now?” You asked, not sure whether you really wanted to hear the answer, knowing it would only put your further into a pit of unfamiliar feelings that was growing deeper and deeper with each passing minute of sitting across the infatuating Spanish captain. “Because you feel different. I’m not sure how to explain it, but I feel like you see me. Not the player, just me.”

The night went on without too many hiccups from then on. It was only when the time came to pay, that some more teasing was thrown around. “You’ve got that look on your face. You’re going to pay, aren’t you.” You cocked an eyebrow at the women across you who was sporting a bright smile. “You caught me.” You sighed, rolling your eyes briefly. “At least let me cover dessert.”

“How about this; you get dessert next time.” “Next time? You’re confident.” “Maybe. But I’m not doubting anything.”

As you step out the restaurant, Alexia offers you her jacket when she notices you shivering in the chilly air of Barcelona. Your fingers brush as she helps you into it, and for a moment, they linger. “This was nice. I’m glad you said yes.” Her voice barely above a whisper, as if the intimacy of the evening had softened her voice. “Me too. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but… I had a really great time. Sorry for my apprehension.” “Don’t apologise. And good, because I’d like to do this again. Soon.”

For a moment, Alexia looked at you, her eyes lingering on yours like she was memorizing something important. And then she leaned in, so slowly that you could feel your heart pound in anticipation. Her lips brushed your cheek, featherlight and warm, lingering just enough to make your breath hitch. It wasn’t hurried, it was deliberate, full of quiet meaning.

Your skin tingled where she’d kissed you, and a rush of warmth spread from your chest all the way to your fingertips. It was a simple gesture, nothing more than a small brush of her lips against your cheek, but it left you feeling all kinds of ways. Ways that you weren’t prepared for, and your growing adoration for her hit you in the face once more.

When she pulled back, Alexia’s eyes searched yours for a reaction, her own cheeks tinged pink in the glow of the streetlight. Your voice felt caught in your throat, but your heart spoke louder. You knew then, without a doubt, that this was more than just a fleeting connection.

[bulbagarden]

Hiya, Trainers...! Lisia here, but I'm running the 2025 edition of Bulbagarden's annual Spring One-shot writing contest and wanted to tell you all about it! Though the contest is shipping-oriented, (queer)platonic relationships are completely welcomed as well! We have many categories to earn prizes in (including a Best LGBTQ+ Romance prize!), and all entries get a fancy forums badge and reviews on their work, so please consider checking the contest out with the link above!

The entry deadline is on April 10 and the deadline for posting entries is on May 15 -- we hope to see some entrants from our fellow Trainers here on Tumblr (including myself...!), so please mention I sent you if you'd like! LOL

[mariacallous]

The so-called Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) is starting to put together a team to migrate the Social Security Administration’s (SSA) computer systems entirely off one of its oldest programming languages in a matter of months, potentially putting the integrity of the system—and the benefits on which tens of millions of Americans rely—at risk.

The project is being organized by Elon Musk lieutenant Steve Davis, multiple sources who were not given permission to talk to the media tell WIRED, and aims to migrate all SSA systems off COBOL, one of the first common business-oriented programming languages, and onto a more modern replacement like Java within a scheduled tight timeframe of a few months.

Under any circumstances, a migration of this size and scale would be a massive undertaking, experts tell WIRED, but the expedited deadline runs the risk of obstructing payments to the more than 65 million people in the US currently receiving Social Security benefits.

“Of course, one of the big risks is not underpayment or overpayment per se; [it’s also] not paying someone at all and not knowing about it. The invisible errors and omissions,” an SSA technologist tells WIRED.

The Social Security Administration did not immediately reply to WIRED’s request for comment.

SSA has been under increasing scrutiny from president Donald Trump’s administration. In February, Musk took aim at SSA, falsely claiming that the agency was rife with fraud. Specifically, Musk pointed to data he allegedly pulled from the system that showed 150-year-olds in the US were receiving benefits, something that isn’t actually happening. Over the last few weeks, following significant cuts to the agency by DOGE, SSA has suffered frequent website crashes and long wait times over the phone, The Washington Post reported this week.

This proposed migration isn’t the first time SSA has tried to move away from COBOL: In 2017, SSA announced a plan to receive hundreds of millions in funding to replace its core systems. The agency predicted that it would take around five years to modernize these systems. Because of the coronavirus pandemic in 2020, the agency pivoted away from this work to focus on more public-facing projects.

Like many legacy government IT systems, SSA systems contain code written in COBOL, a programming language created in part in the 1950s by computing pioneer Grace Hopper. The Defense Department essentially pressured private industry to use COBOL soon after its creation, spurring widespread adoption and making it one of the most widely used languages for mainframes, or computer systems that process and store large amounts of data quickly, by the 1970s. (At least one DOD-related website praising Hopper's accomplishments is no longer active, likely following the Trump administration’s DEI purge of military acknowledgements.)

As recently as 2016, SSA’s infrastructure contained more than 60 million lines of code written in COBOL, with millions more written in other legacy coding languages, the agency’s Office of the Inspector General found. In fact, SSA’s core programmatic systems and architecture haven’t been “substantially” updated since the 1980s when the agency developed its own database system called MADAM, or the Master Data Access Method, which was written in COBOL and Assembler, according to SSA’s 2017 modernization plan.

SSA’s core “logic” is also written largely in COBOL. This is the code that issues social security numbers, manages payments, and even calculates the total amount beneficiaries should receive for different services, a former senior SSA technologist who worked in the office of the chief information officer says. Even minor changes could result in cascading failures across programs.

“If you weren't worried about a whole bunch of people not getting benefits or getting the wrong benefits, or getting the wrong entitlements, or having to wait ages, then sure go ahead,” says Dan Hon, principal of Very Little Gravitas, a technology strategy consultancy that helps government modernize services, about completing such a migration in a short timeframe.

It’s unclear when exactly the code migration would start. A recent document circulated amongst SSA staff laying out the agency’s priorities through May does not mention it, instead naming other priorities like terminating “non-essential contracts” and adopting artificial intelligence to “augment” administrative and technical writing.

Earlier this month, WIRED reported that at least 10 DOGE operatives were currently working within SSA, including a number of young and inexperienced engineers like Luke Farritor and Ethan Shaotran. At the time, sources told WIRED that the DOGE operatives would focus on how people identify themselves to access their benefits online.

Sources within SSA expect the project to begin in earnest once DOGE identifies and marks remaining beneficiaries as deceased and connecting disparate agency databases. In a Thursday morning court filing, an affidavit from SSA acting administrator Leland Dudek said that at least two DOGE operatives are currently working on a project formally called the “Are You Alive Project,” targeting what these operatives believe to be improper payments and fraud within the agency’s system by calling individual beneficiaries. The agency is currently battling for sweeping access to SSA’s systems in court to finish this work. (Again, 150-year-olds are not collecting social security benefits. That specific age was likely a quirk of COBOL. It doesn’t include a date type, so dates are often coded to a specific reference point—May 20, 1875, the date of an international standards-setting conference held in Paris, known as the Convention du Mètre.)

In order to migrate all COBOL code into a more modern language within a few months, DOGE would likely need to employ some form of generative artificial intelligence to help translate the millions of lines of code, sources tell WIRED. “DOGE thinks if they can say they got rid of all the COBOL in months, then their way is the right way, and we all just suck for not breaking shit,” says the SSA technologist.

DOGE would also need to develop tests to ensure the new system’s outputs match the previous one. It would be difficult to resolve all of the possible edge cases over the course of several years, let alone months, adds the SSA technologist.

“This is an environment that is held together with bail wire and duct tape,” the former senior SSA technologist working in the office of the chief information officer tells WIRED. “The leaders need to understand that they’re dealing with a house of cards or Jenga. If they start pulling pieces out, which they’ve already stated they’re doing, things can break.”

[stealurhart]

why do i feel hollow?

pairing: college!jeongin x reader x bsf!skz

notes: reader is from busan (not significant to the plot), jeongin and reader are studying in seoul. The rest of skz are also wingmen. Oh and skz is a bunch of college students doing what they love by making music. may contain themes like being a floater friend. I believe in yearning jeongin. We also love a chalant man.

all fluff.

I aint counting these words i but theyre 7 long and dramatic scrolls across my mums old iphone 14

dividers by @hyuneskkami

sypnosis: after a week of having Jeongin as your eye candy, a semester-long project draws you and your popular member of a band project partner closer. How close is close, when your busy life as a biology-majoring student-athlete gets in the way of your friendship — and the mutual feelings still remain?

You didn’t particularly connect with your campus mates deeply.

You had friends, many actually. But you preferred to spend your lunches alone while you watched science documentaries. In lectures, you sit alone so that you can better focus on what the professor is saying.

To Jeongin, he found it impressive how you looked like a loner but much happier and at peace than being around talking to the cool seniors. An observant person, he knew you were a new student still settling into university. It’s the classic freshman lanyard that hung the gate card perpetually on your neck, and the styled outfits alongside your coordinated hairpins that no student would bother to put on after the third month.

You spun your apple pencil between your fingers, trying to seem busy even after adding the project’s deadline into your calendar. Watching the girl beside you find someone else to partner up with her for the project, waiting at your seat until nobody else could find a partner was the best option since you didn’t know anyone in the lecture hall anyways.

That was until you felt a tap on your shoulders. When your turned around, your eyes widened. Your poetry and literature class eye candy smiled at you, making your heart beat slightly faster.

“You wanna be partners?” he offered, tidying his bleached hair that contrasted his jet black roots. “name’s Jeongin, by the way.”

His voice surprised you much more than the fact that he asked you to be his project partner. You didn’t expect him to sound so… sweet.

Yet, your face doesn’t move a muscle, which you felt guilty for after seeing him wince at your lack of expression. Silently, you nodded, patting the empty seat next to you as if it was an order for him to sit.

Your professor immediately started to elaborate about the project after Jeongin sat down and scooted his chair closer to you. Instinctively, you covered the lower half of your face with a hand when you realised that you both were the last to settle on being partners. A chuckle came out of Jeongin’s mouth, which you heard over your professor’s voice.

Yet, you didn’t muster the courage to look him in the eye. He was cute, but you never intended to have a reason to talk to him, until the project that required both of you to write a poem about each other. “The more the emotion, the better the mark,” your professor explained, before the rest of it was drowned out by uncertain thoughts about your first ever project partner in college.

Upon the end of the lecture, you heard unzipping and pen clicking. The boy with glasses nudged your elbow and slid a post-it with his number on it.

“You haven’t told me your name yet. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I saw you talking to the seniors at the student orientation. you’re new, right?” Jeongin pointed out, sounding a little softer to come off as more friendly. “If I’m going to write a poem that does you justice… then we should spend time to know each other better, shouldn’t we?”

Finally, you turned your head towards him. Taking a good look at his sharp features up close, your lips curved up slightly. “I’m y/n,” you introduced yourself. “It’s my first semester here… I haven’t found a student club yet, so I don’t really know anyone yet. If that information serves any purpose.”

When Jeongin heard your worries, he almost felt bad for you. What a poor thing, moving to a completely new and unfamiliar campus. It’s no wonder that he always saw you eating in the lunch hall with your notes out, because you haven’t found someone to talk to while eating after student orientation had ended.

“Are you not from here then? No old friends, or family?” he gasped. “I mean… your Busan accent kinda gives it away.”

“Does it?” you replied, cheeks flushing pink from embarrassment. “I grew up there, and my parents told me that Seoul was the best place to pursue higher education, that’s why I’m here.”

“Hey, nothing to be ashamed of… I’m from Busan too,” he said. “What’s your major, then?”

“Biology,” you replied, grabbing the nape of your own neck. “Poetry and literature… it’s just to keep my hobbies alive.”

“Hobbies…” Jeongin repeated. “I’m just here because it’s the closest thing to singing, actually. I’m scared now, I don’t think I’ll be able to be as poetic as your writing.”

The way he joked around even though it was your first time speaking to each other — it made you feel warm and less tense. To be honest, you already missed the turn back to your dorm, but you couldn’t help but talk to him even more. Even though you could feel some sort of awkwardness in the really unsmooth transitions of different questions that he tried hard to make relevant, you saw his persistence in trying to make you feel at home.

When you reached your dorm, you couldn’t stop thinking about that day, to the point where you couldn’t sleep. It was the way he walked you back to make sure nothing bad happened to you, the way he texted you after, checking in on you.

jeongin:

is this yn’s number? jeongin here

you said you wanna take up a sport? didn’t think such a quiet person would play sports lol

anyways, get some rest, since pal class is 8a.m tomorrow. I heard the prof lost a bet so he took the earliest slot.

my group hyungs say he walks in with a cup of coffee haha

He even gave you the contacts of student club leaders, in hopes that their interest groups would match your liking as per what you have told him. He was so caring (and handsome too), it was hard not to lay in your bed and kick your feet while updating and thanking him for his efforts to help you settle into uni life.

you:

thankss

youre cooler than my student ori seniors 😛

ill sleep well

Although a weekday, the campus cafes quickly crowded with students surprisingly. Sighing to himself, Jeongin shook his head and decided to take you to the park and have an impromptu picnic by the river.

The grass was dry, much to his relief. He didn’t want to make you ruin your little outfit that he didn’t expect you to put more effort in than your typical basic tee and pink sweatpants (the pink colours are already your way of trying). The boy himself wouldn’t want to stain his knee-length jorts and his college-branded crewneck anyways. He had some sense of fashion, a little more neat this time since you both are hanging out.

The plan was for the hangout to be casual. After eating, he would take you to the student club fair to help you choose a community. Then, he intended to take you to street stalls and recommend good food. But you were completely unaware of his plans, and it took a while to catch on that he tried to show you around and introduce you to more people. You found it strange how dedicated he was, yet everything still seemed like he took his time with you. Perhaps he showed care through acts of service, which you weren’t quite used to.

Sun rays hitting your back was a relief from how cold it’s been getting lately since summer was coming to an end.

After a few conversations, you found out that Jeongin was really damn good at singing. Apparently, he found himself comfortable in an 8-man musical interest group — and they make pretty damn good music. In fact, he was carrying a guitar around while you guys hung out. Out of curiosity, you made him sing a ballad, but he sung something written by some people called Han, Changbin and Bang Chan. You didn’t know who they were, but internally you thanked them for writing something that let Jeongin’s bright vocals shine.

“I haven’t sung this in a while, sorry if it sounds off,” he uttered after.

“Off?” you questioned. “You sound amazing — heavenly, even. This entire Stray Kids band thing should just get out of here and sign with a record label.”

“Well,” he chuckled. “I must warn you, we don’t really make ballads. It’s more noisy than you think.”

“I’d say you should earn some side cash by busking around Hongdae,” you joked, “There’s no way you guys are just making this a casual thing.”

“Oh, but we aren’t just making this a casual thing,” he said, sitting up proudly and leaned closer as he tilted his head at you. “We do perform during talent shows and earn funding money from it. You should come and watch. At some point it turns into a rave. But if you don’t like that, then you could just sit through and wait until the next act.”

“I feel like I’m going to hurt your feelings when I say I’m not into raves,” you muttered.

Of course you weren’t into big bam boom music. He could tell from the way you owned everything in pastel colours, down to the flowy and fresh clothing you had on. It made your throat burn a little, thinking that there were probably really attractive and hot girls likely being loyal fans of their music. After all, the makeup and fashion game in Seoul was insane, it was hard to compete with such beautiful women who are cool enough express themselves and turn heads.

“That’s sad. I prefer performing and being excited, because it also connects me with the audience.”

In the name of “looking for clarification”, you asked him, “then, that must mean you’re pretty popular, hm?”

Upon hearing your question, Jeongin blushed a little, then hung his head low in humility. “I’m not the most popular member… I guess our dancers and rappers are more famous,” he downplayed himself. “I get girls in my dms sometimes, but I don’t reply if I’ve never met them in real life — if that’s what you’re worried about.”

You scoffed at Jeongin’s teasing, but your face heated up when you realised it was because he completely saw through you. And he did it again — he laughed — gosh, something about the way he laughed was so charming. Your sarcasm paired with denial was cute to him, which intrigued him about you even more.

“What I’m saying is, you probably will be envied if you say “Jeongin’s a good friend of mine”, ” he subtly bragged. “You should try it out.”

The day ended after you managed to make friends with a sports club, and fighting over the dinner bill in a restaurant that he took you to since you both were craving italian food.

jeongin:

sent a recording

don’t tell me you’re asleep already haha, did i wear out your social battery?

sorry 🥲 pls listen to another ballad i sung when u wake up at least?

you:

Doing good, jeongin :)

Naturally, Jeongin became more present in your college life. Endless cafe visits, poetry and literature studies in the library, and crashing at your place whenever he just wanted to taste home-cooked food. You even gave him the keys to your dorm, so that he could just enter while waiting for you to come back from training.

And every single time, he bought you banana milk. It wasn’t something you told him you loved, but you always took no longer than 3 minutes to have it gone with the wind (in this case, your stomach), so he just kept buying more and more. At some point, he even brought clothes and kept them in your drawer for whenever he hangs around, because he just visited that often.

His excuse was that your bed was softer than his, and that the community snack fridge was something his hostel lacked. The boy was always gobbling something up whenever he stayed, so it became a regular occurrence to see him fall asleep on the communal dining table with his student laptop still on. He frequented so often, that the other students at your hostel just cook an extra serving in case he was around. The boy was always eager to entertain everyone with a guitar and his unique voice, so shortly afterwards Stray Kids’ instagram page gained more followers.

Beyond presence, was vulnerability. Late night comforting when you’re homesick, Jeongin just breaking down in front of you whenever you ask “are you okay?”. Sometimes, you both just cry together and fall asleep in each other’s arms. As funny as it sounds, things like these work better when you feel safer with someone.

But as time passed, you grew busier and busier. Your semester exams were coming up, and barging into Jeongin’s dorm was no longer an option. The fact that you were doing sports at the same time was an absolute killer combo to your schedule. You saw him much less outside of poetry and literature lectures, as you both were focusing on your own majors.

jeongin:

your lights are on again.

it’s 2 already

i dont want to bother your studies… but rest is important too

You’re so hardworking, let’s meet up again when you’re free 🙂‍↕️

you:

sorry jeonginnn

one day

And that was the last time you talked to him since a week ago. Your exams were done, but Jeongin had his own things to do too, something about having to juggle between college fair night and physics equations. The guilt for ignoring his texts for days and leaving him on delivered too many times was too much, so you told yourself you’d better come down and see him yourself.

One thing you knew was that he spends most of his time recording lines whenever college fair night was near, so when you rung the doorbell, you were met by a boy with round eyes and and a round face. His hair was long, much like someone who looked like part of a band. Behind him were a bunch of wires and some 5 or 6 men on the couch lazing around, yet all having their heads turned to someone singing into the recording mic.

With a skeptic look on his face, scanned you up and down, perhaps because he doesn’t remember any of the other members bringing a girl who looked like you into their sad-looking studio before. “Delivery girl, looking to audition, or a girlfriend? Well, clearly not the first one, and we aren’t accepting auditions due to our perfect lineup.” he ruled out, leaning against the doorframe as he raised an eyebrow.

“Who’s that, Han?” a taller man said, revealing himself in a grown-out buzzcut. His features looked just as sharp as Jeongin’s, except that Jeongin had a more chiselled look to him. It was enough to know— Hwang Hyunjin.

He noticed the way your eyes searched the apartment. Situated in front of the recording mic, Jeongin was patiently listening to Chan’s feedback, until your gaze lingered for a little too long. You don’t miss the way his breath caught and his posture straightened. “The ayen you’re looking for is being held back by bangchan to record some lines,” Hyunjin explained.

“Frankly, I think Jeongin’s being a menace on purpose today, so that he can stay longer in the recording room,” Han said, matter-of-factly. “You know, he usually just sings maybe once or twice and gets to rest.”

“We should probably let her in then, maybe it will prompt him to do it properly, haha,” Hyunjin messed around, snickering while shaking his head in disbelief. “Seems like you brought some banana milk for him?”

“Oh- this?” you held up the drink. “He always bought me banana milk during our literature study sessions, I just thought he might want some.”

When you told the boys about how Jeongin treated you so often, they let out a unified “ohh” while giving each other a mischievous look. And not in a making-fun-of-you way, but more of a he’s-up-to-something way.

“We’ll let you in, on the condition that you don’t tell anyone what the song sounds like,” Han negotiated. You nodded in acceptance.

“You’re not gonna believe me when I tell you this,” Hyunjin crouched down, keeping his voice low. “Ayen’s keeps going against Chan’s words today, and he’s really focused on the lyrics and the emotion conveyed. I think he’s yearning or something, judging by his sudden attitude towards emotion.” For a minute, hearing it felt unreal. You couldn’t tell whether Hyunjin was truthful, or just being an annoying friend.

The egoistic voice in your head wasn’t the one convincing you. It’s knowing that he grew so close to you, only for you to push him away and act cold whenever an exam comes. It was like a sledgehammer to your heart, the way his face lit up after not having heard from you for a week, or not having seen you for more.

Sighing to yourself, you kicked off your sneakers and were quickly rushed in by Hyunjin and Han, like they were so excited to hear from you what Jeongin looks like in love. His voice slipped into the microphone, rich and textured, as if he were sculpting emotion through vocal cords. You admired him so much, you knew you were screwed by how you’ve been staring intensely as he did his thing.

To your ears, he sounded like an angel. However, the ear of musicians and producers were quick to point out areas for improvement. Making music was surprisingly harder than it looked, especially for producers who needed to communicate with the singers well.

“I’ve been here for too long,” Jeongin complained. “I can’t with singing Japanese.”

As you turned back to the two on the laptop and an emotional support Han who probably gave up on the stubborn Jeongin a long time ago, you saw Chan trying not to laugh before collecting his patience back.

“One last time, ayen,” Chan cued, before playing the instrumental. “Let’s try it.”

“Yongbok- i mean — Ayen,” Changbin’s voice fell low and stern as he spun around in the office chair. “Try stressing it this way…”

“This is not the first time you’ve called me that…” he whispered under his breath.

The instrumental was intense, but what caught your attention was the fact that the lyrics were lowkey really yearning. It was different from the ballads you asked him to sing — it was no longer fluffy and soothing, the boy was putting soul into it.

“One more.”

“Don’t lose your flow again!”

“That was good, one more.”

The other seven crowded around Chan, analysing closely and hoping that 3racha would pass him. According to Minho, it’s been taking quite a few minutes, because Jeongin stumbles on his words so easily when it comes to singing in Japanese.

“Good.” the only word that the rest of Stray Kids needed to hear in order for them to rejoice and jump around for Jeongin.

Among all the chaos of 5 happy men and relieved Changbin and Chan, you saw Jeongin wipe the beads of sweat off his forehead and take off his headphones. The next thing you knew was that he started walking over to the table you were leaning on, grinning sheepishly as he took the bottle of banana milk from your hands, not realizing how much tension he’d been carrying until it melted in that one moment.

“You coming to college fair night or nah?” he asked, the tone in his voice still showing that he was unsure of whether to be casual. He suddenly became aware of how sweaty his palms were. You watched as the room fell silent, all eyes were on you.

“There’s no way I’d miss the chance to see you on stage,” you giggled.

Success. All the guys started elbowing each other in the ribs.

The air reeked of grass and barbeque. The college fair night was one decibel away from getting complaints from nearby residents, due to everyone hollering their lungs out as if the outdoor showcase segment was a rave in a stadium.

It was the first time you dared to step out of the house wearing platform shoes given your fashion taste, but you needed to be taller than the crowd if you wanted to see something. When Stray Kids went on stage, the crowd grew absolutely wild. Your friends were shaking you crazily, knowing your little crush on one of the members. The atmosphere grew hyped — After all, who wouldn’t be excited to see eight handsome men dancing and singing to high-energy music?

Throughout their act, they played 3 songs, last one being none other than ‘Hollow’— which you saw being made in real-time for Jeongin’s part at least. The song started out slow, until the electric guitar was introduced, then had just the perfect buildup to the first verse which Jeongin had to sing. Before all of that though, there was a longer pause before the song started, even after the emcees managed to hype the crowd up when mentioning that ‘Hollow’ was a new song of theirs. The lights dimmed, relieving the sky momentarily from the immense light pollution.

…except for the spotlight that was right on the one who rewrote his poetry project again and again, getting frustrated with himself for not describing you well enough. He wondered what you were up to whenever you took longer than two days to reply. Same man that loved and cared so shamelessly, that he could just declare out into a crowd of hundreds, just how much he related to the song’s lyrics by showing it through the strain in his voice, and the gasps that came after from using a lot of strength to deliver those lines.

The lights faded back in. You could’ve sworn that the crowd was much louder than the backtrack and live vocals on speakers. Mid-way into singing his first few lines, Jeongin found you pressed onto the metal of the front barriers, and you were so glad you pushed everyone away for your spot, because you got to see his dimples that formed when you waved to him. Being up close, it felt so intimate, like Jeongin was speaking every lyric to you.

“One thing that makes the live different from the studio,” he repeated in a flashback. “Is that you can hear how much heart we have for our music

seungmin:

have you left already?

ayen’s a nervous wreck, he had to tell me to get you to come here so that you guys can talk.

we’re in the backstage tents, i think he suffered death by surprising himself.

Your friends grabbed your wrist just as you were about to enter the tents, insisting that they should help retouch your makeup and neaten your hair. After taking a good look in your friend’s pocket mirror, you took a deep breath and slowly drew back the ‘curtain doors’. There they were, the eight handsome men that can sing, dance, and rap; though, only one that mattered talking to that day.

“AYENN~” the group said in unison, pushing him towards the entrance after he fumbled through a paper bag to hand you a boquet of flowers that you didn’t think he’d remember were your favourites.

It surprised you how much he was trembling as he placed it in your hands for you — like he intended for you to give the flowers a specific first impression — considering that your bond started out with him being the one initiating quite literally almost everything. His grip on your wrist grew stronger (but not more forceful) when he realised that you purposely refused to move your remaining arm. Examining your glossy eyes that almost disappeared when you laughed cheekily, he stepped closer in a one-upping manner.

“What’s that you’ve got there, hm? I clearly remember saying that as long as you’re around me, your card balance doesn’t change.” he hummed, contesting you. “You’ve always left me hanging online, don’t tell me you want to do this now, yn. I can smell those flowers even before you entered.”

“You’re making it up,” you lied sarcastically. “It’s just my detergent.”

“Nice try, yn. I know your detergent is mint and not floral,” he rolled his eyes. “Whatever, let’s go home and talk. Those losers have been relying on Changbin for a ride.”

Dry air started to hurt your nose a little, but you’d take it overnbeing in standing pens where everyone around you was sweating like crazy any day. The leaves on the ground looked shrivelled up, and overall, the parade square was left much more peaceful and calm after everyone had gone back to keep up with their college lives. Nightly walks with Jeongin hadn’t been a thing for almost a month when fitness training ate into past dinner time, and Jeongin had places to be. That night, he became content being able to share the sidewalk with you, brushing your fingers ‘on accident’. You both tried to act casual when in reality it sent sparks and almost rewired yall’s brains.

The silence hung heavy. After all, it was your first proper conversation after burying yourself in textbooks to the point of isolation.

“I missed you.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious.

“I missed you,” he continued. “Not like a quick ‘hey, how are you?’ but really missed you. The talks, the walks. Back when I could get responses from you…”

It stopped you dead in your tracks. Initially, you planned to say “me too” but that would just be beating around the bush and avoiding the obvious. You loved him. Everything feels right when you’re with him. There was never a time where he left you to drift around like the floater friend you’ve been. You don’t even know why you constantly check your phone for his texts.

By impulse, words tumbled out smoother than you could control, “Yeah. The distance made me realise I love you.”

The words landed like a dropped glass—sharp, clear, impossible to ignore. You froze — eyes wide, breath caught. You had meant to say those words, but not in that moment. You mentally prepared yourself for the few seconds-long battle that came with waiting for Jeongin’s response.

“I love you too, jagiya.”

When he entwined his fingers from one free hand with yours, the warmth of his hands was comforting like hot milk to an ill person. The word jagiya wasn’t a throwaway. He gifted it to you, endearingly.

Within milliseconds, he cupped your face and leaned forward, closing the distance by kissing you. You felt him smirking against your oh-so kissable lips he had been thinking of the entire conversation, you could tell he had waited an agonising amount of time trying to see you.

I used to hide behind similes,

dress you up in metaphor—

a rhyme here,

power of three there.

But none of it said what I really meant.

You’re not a line I can perfect.

You’re not a passionate fire or a sky or a storm that sounds correct.

You’re you.

And not just a project.

“Wow, jagiya,” Jeongin nodded in approval. “Flirting and submitting it for— okay, okay! I like it. I expected really wild metaphors, but I like this too… you’re amazing, yn.”

Tucked under a tree, you released him from your pinch, you sipped on your banana milk and placed your chin on his shoulder, patting his arm as a cue to share his poem. Shyly, he grabbed the notebook on his lap, long pause before he could bring himself to read it to you.

“darkness is the absence of light.

and cold is the absence of heat.

but in the absence of you,

my world turns dark and cold

because you’re the light and warmth.”

A/n: i have a ten pic limit… i wanted to put one last divider but it can’t happen.

do not reupload, translate or copy my work



[utilitycaster]

Look I do not know the exact circumstances about the Critical Role cast's personal choices but as someone who does clearly remember Campaign 2's ending and the Tumblr fandom's response:

not weird to announce something is the last episode fairly late in the game, we had two weeks warning for C2 as well

not weird to end here given the overall arc of the campaign being entirely about the moon plot. I'll leave it at that.

EXU Prime was filmed concurrently with Campaign 2 and began airing 3 weeks after Campaign 2's finale, it's not weird to air EXU Divergence right away.

We've heard like a thousand times that this was the culmination of a trilogy, it's not weird to have questions about said trilogy included in the wrap-up.

I think the wildfires may have altered the production schedule but I don't think it cut anything short - I think it just cut out some break weeks (and might be why this is one big episode instead of two more reasonable length episodes, and why they aren't doing a dark week in February). For all my criticism of this campaign's story, I do not think the cast would end things before they felt like ending them just to hit a deadline, especially since they set the deadlines.

At least in my experience on Tumblr, the response from the fandom when it was announced that there were two more episodes was pretty anxious, and then after 2x140 there was still trepidation but also a general sense of what would stick the landing and what wouldn't. Most people who were ultimately mad at the ending were invested in a very specific outcome (Molly being back, a canon ship breaking up, or a more explicit declaration of Caleb and Essek's romance) but it was overall pretty well-received at the time.

Not weird to have a BH combat-oriented one shot this soon; VM vs. Mighty Nein aired two weeks after the end of Campaign 2 and was filmed during C2. Obviously, this is specifically a fundraiser.

All this has happened before and (might) happen again/Plus ça change/those who do not study history are doomed to repeat it etc etc

[saywhat-politics]

After axing 28 budget bills she warned Republicans not to waste time with, Gov. Katie Hobbs has vetoed 168 bills this year.

By TJ L'Heureux

June 25, 2025

Yet again, Gov. Katie Hobbs — also known as the Veto Queen — has broken a record with her pen. On Wednesday, Hobbs vetoed 28 budget-oriented bills that were passed earlier in the day by House Republicans, bringing her total to a single-year record of 168. She held the previous record with 143 vetoes in the 2023 session. The recent vetoes come just five days before a deadline to avert a state government shutdown. If a budget is not passed by June 30, many government services will have to stop. Arizona has never experienced a government shutdown before. If it does, both Hobbs and Republicans in the Arizona Senate have said to blame the Arizona House of Representatives. Hobbs and Senate Republicans negotiated a budget of more than $17 billion last week, which the Senate passed in a late-night vote. Hobbs called it “a bipartisan, balanced, and fiscally responsible budget that the majority of Senate Republicans support.” But the governor and several Republican senators said House Republicans declined to participate in negotiations over the budget, instead passing their own partisan budget that they knew Hobbs would not sign.

[dramas-vs-novels]

Love Storm Special Chapter: Payu vs A Busy Architecture Student (Excerpt)

** Rain is occasionally referred to by his real name, Warren/Varain.

8PM

Payu makes a turn to a house where all lights are on. He knows it's not his twin brother, but it's the boy who almost has moved in. He parks his vehicle, grabs everything in one hand, and walks into the house. He stops by the kitchen and finds only an empty bowl of instant noodles in the sink, but the one who ate it is nowhere to be found downstairs.

Payu shakes his head slowly at the sight he's seen. He places his belongings on the dining table, grabs a new plate and fills it with stir-fried rice, and puts it in the microwave.

While he waits for the food to be reheated, he pours water into a glass.

Ding!

Now that the meal is ready to serve, he puts it on a tray along with a spoon and a glass of chilled water, then he walks upstairs. He's going straight to his office which is now... taken over.

It used to be the room where he did his work, until one day, the boy took it over and changed it into his 'nest'.

Why is it called a nest? Well, aside from his books well-placed on shelves and the desktop computer that has been shut down for a month or so, everything else is a complete mess. The giant work desk that used to be his workstation has now served as a stand for a compact laptop and piles of documents. The floor is scattered with wood chips and paper scraps. Not to mention those tools and equipment laid randomly all over the place.

And the one who created this mess is currently focused on the mock-up in his hand. He doesn't seem to notice that his significant other is already back home.

"Rain, I'm home."

"Oh, you're back?"

Warren, the young lad who's now a sophomore, calls back while he's still busy working on the model. He doesn't even take a glance at Payu who is now placing his dinner on the desk for him.

"Did you eat?"

"Mm-hmm." And now Rain doesn't even listen to his question.

"When?" Payu shakes his head and asks.

"Mm-hmm."

"Aren't you hungry."

"Mm-hmm."

Whatever the question is, the answer would be nothing more than 'mm-hmm'. The younger man is still concentrating on his unfinished work. Payu sighs, as he doesn't know what else to do. He looks at his boyfriend; the face that used to be bright now becomes pale. The eyes that used to be lively become dull. The dark circles under his eyes makes him look like was under some voodoo influence. All in all, this is what you look like when the deadline is around the corner but your work is far from being 'done'.

Stepping up to a higher year means that workload is shifting to another level, and choosing a major is completely different to studying fundamental subjects, unlike when freshmen got themselves oriented from a high schooler to a college student. Warren needs to adapt himself, and that has turned him from an adorable, clingy boy to a busy, hard-working man.

The time when Payu goes to sleep is the time when Rain wakes up and works on his project, and the time when Payu goes to work is the time when Rain goes to sleep.

Payu knows really well what the life of an architect student is like, so he has never been mad when his boy is occasionally occupied with something else. Though in the times before, when Rain still had plenty of free time and he was busy with work- both his full-time job and his duties at the garage- Payu could still manage to spare some time to spend it with his beloved Rain. He truly understands; he used to be a student before.

Rain used to be the one who prepared his breakfast and dinner, now it is the time that he does the same in return.

If you're wondering how come Warren has dwelled himself in this place, it's not so complicated. Payu's residence is much closer to the university, and as much as he could cut off the time for travelling between the two places, he's willing to trade anything. Payu chuckles when he looks back on the day when his boyfriend first asked if he could leave his work here.

So, eventually, his house has become a dorm for his little partner.

*Pat*

"Rain, you need to eat," Payu says as he places his hand on the shoulder of the younger one who's ready to doze off any minute.

"Huh? Woah! When did you come back?" The young man who was paying attention only to his work finally looks up and makes eye contact. He acts dumbfoundedly the way he always does and gets teased by the big boyfriend. However, Payu knows better this time, so he locks his playful words away and says something nice instead.

"I have something for you here. Why don't you eat it first and then get back to work?"

Payu nods his head towards the stir-fried rice. Rain's eyes follow his direction, but...

"I'll have it later. Soon," Rain replies with extreme fatigue and returns to his work. Payu shakes his head.

*Chu*

"Anything I can help with?" The tall one bows down to kiss his boy's cheek and asks with care.

"Nah, I'm fine. I'm fine." The little one meets his eyes and forces a smile, but Payu can sense that he doesn't have that much energy left.

"I got this. Aren't you tired? Don't mind me. Go feed yourself and rest." Rain tries to make it sound lively while his eyes are turning red. Payu can't help it but hug his boy for the sake of encouragement.

"Yeah, you got this, good boy," Payu says softly.

*Grab*

Warren hugs back. He throws his arms around Payu's waist, sinks his face in that lean abdomen, takes a deep breath, and eventually lets go.

"I got this." The younger man smiles and gets back to work again. He didn't ask for help, though he knew that this big guy could be a good helper.

Meanwhile, Payu also knows that Rain is pushing himself to the limit, but the little one insists on not getting any help, so he just pats Rain's head and turns around, leaving the room and making no more distractions for the college boy.

The true owner of the house walks downstairs to have his dinner, then he gets back upstairs to take a shower. After that, he turns on his laptop, checks his work a little bit, and returns to the 'nest', just to find out that the little bird is still busy on his computer, typing continuously. It's pretty obvious that he'll stay up until morning again, like he does every day. Payu takes a glance at the meal he brought for Rain earlier...

It remains untouched.

He picks up the dish and gets it reheated one more time, then he places it back in the same spot.

The last thing he sees before he heads to his bedroom is the picture of Warren wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand as if to remove his tears.

---

---

The next day, Payu returns home at the same hour with two boxes of dinner and does what he has been doing these days; he reheats the food and brings it upstairs to the little bird in the nest.

"Rain! Are you all right??"

Rain, who has been working hard day after day, is now bawling his eyes out while trying to complete his task. His hands are shaking as he assembles his mock-up piece by piece. Payu puts down the tray quickly and dashes to check on his boyfriend. He grabs Rain's shoulders and forces him to meet his eyes.

"What happened? What's the matter?"

"Nothing, just let me work," Rain replies in a trembling voice and pushes away Payu's hands.

"You can come back to it later. Now, tell me what happened."

*Slap!*

"Leave me alone!"

Suddenly, the one who can't stop crying slaps the big guy's hand and shouts. His yell stuns Payu; his face becomes pale and his eyes are all red.

"Rain?" Payu calls his little bird's name. His voice doesn't sound reprimanding, but comforting.

"What happened? I got scolded again, that's what happened! Why the fuck did I choose this school? Why the hell does he have to scold me all the fucking time? Why do I have to work on this shit that I'll never get done in time? Now that you heard it, leave! I'm busy working here! I need to work!" The sleepless one screams and breathes heavily. He locks his eyes on Payu as if he's ready to tear him to pieces.

The elder can only sigh.

*Grab*

Payu pulls Rain into the circle of his arms and holds him tightly, ignoring the way Rain tries to push him off in protest. He holds the little one like that for a moment before he lets go.

"All right, all right, I got it. I won't bother you anymore." That's all he says before he quietly leaves the room and lets the boy work on his project like he requested.

---

---

*Whoosh*

"I'm sorry, Payu! *sob* I'm sorry!"

Payu had just had his second bite when the upset boy ran downstairs and hugged him from behind. Rain sinks his face in Payu's shoulder and sobs hard. Payu stops eating, pushes himself a bit further away from the table, making a space big enough to let the sobbing boy sit on his lap.

"Come here."

Rain follows his partner's order without hesitation. He still keeps his face buried in Payu's shoulder as Payu rubs Rain's back.

"I'm sorry Payu. Please don't get mad. *Sob* Please, don't be mad at me!" The temperamental one who has now repented is pleading for forgiveness. His voice trembles and tears keep streaming down his face into Payu's shirt. Rain shivers, holding his arms around Payu's neck as if it's the last life preserver in a raging sea.

"I'm not mad."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be... throwing tantrums at you. I know you're worried about me, but I- *sob*- still went wild at you."

The more he talks, the harder he cries. Payu smiles and hugs the stubborn kid tightly. Knowing how heavy things are for Rain at the moment, Payu can't be mean to him, even just for fun.

"Apology accepted, and I'm not mad at you."

Seeing how cool his partner is, a stream of tears drips down Rain's cheeks. He shivers as if he has lost it all.

Rain has no idea how long it has been. He just keeps crying and crying until he can't anymore. He only knows that he has been tolerating things for weeks, and it's time to spill.

"I was given an earful again. Whatever I've done, it's never good enough for the professor. Whether it's too good or too bad, I've never heard anything good from him. I can't take it anymore. I keep asking myself what the hell I'm doing in this fucking shool. Why do I have to work while the others are enjoying their time with their family and friends? Why do I have to be stuck with this shit that never meant anything to the professor?!" Rain expresses everything in his mind as he still has his arms locked around his partner.

"I just want to be with you, want to spend my time with you, so I'm trying to get it done, but it's never done!" The younger man continues and sinks his face into Payu's shoulder again.

He missed this cozy hug like crazy.

They've been under the same roof for quite a while, but it seems like he hasn't talked to Payu for years.

All he has ever wanted is to have time for a bear hug like this with Payu. However, he unexpectedly got infuriated and lost his temper on someone who's been taking good care of him instead.

Meanwhile, Payu carefully reads between the lines. He looks into the boy's hollow eyes which have now turned red again and pulls Rain to his feet.

*Swoosh*

"Payu!"

Rain shouts, surprised, as Payu lifts him up and takes him back upstairs. The younger one fears that his mate might want something more than a hug. Nonetheless, he has to admit that he wants it just as much. He's also human, and he's not insensible. It's been three weeks, and right now just the touch of a hand makes his body hot from head to toe. He needs more than just a touch too, but he can't do it because tomorrow is the due date for his project. He can't do what he wants right now. Not yet.

And that thought also upsets him, making him mad at the subject he's been studying.

"Shhh. I won't do anything," Payu whispers as he puts Rain on the bed and pulls the blanket up to cover him. "You need some rest."

"But my work-"

"Just rest, at least for an hour. I'll wake you up. From what I saw, it doesn't seem like you have so much left to do."

Payu rests his arm on the pillow and rubs Rain's belly with the other hand as if he's trying to make a three-year-old go to sleep. Rain, who hasn't gotten enough sleep in days, inches closer to his partner.

He's too tired to refuse Payu's care.

Though he realizes that a whole night wouldn't be enough to finish his project, he trusts Payu's words. He believes he can make it in time.

"Get some rest, big boy. You've done your best, and you've got nothing to worry about. I know how you're feeling, and I can wait. But right now, you need to take care of yourself," Payu whispers in his ear, and it somehow sounds like a lullaby. The little owl starts his journey to dreamland bit by bit and finally snores gently.

Payu moves a strand of hair out of Rain's fatigued face. He really loves his little owl.

"How can I be mad at you when you're working so hard?"

Payu kisses his beloved bird's forehead, gets out of bed, and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows.

One thing Rain has forgotten is... Payu graduated with highest honors.

---

---

*Whoosh*

"Holy-!! What time is it?!"

Rain feels like he's having deja vu like when he was a freshman and woke up and couldn't hand in his work in time. This time, he wakes up to a bright sky, meaning he slept all night long, not an hour like Payu promised!

He grabs his phone and checks the time, it's 6am.

Right, there is still time for submission, but that amount of time isn't enough for him to finish his model, no matter how hard he hurries.

The young man gets up instantly and runs into the room where he left his work, feeling dreadful. However...

"Oh, you're up?"

"Payu- is that?"

His big eyes get bigger. Not only does he see Payu in the room, but he also sees... the finished mock-up in Payu's hands.

Rain literally jumps, not to the masterpiece done according to the blueprint, but to the man who's still in his unchanged clothes from yesterday.

"Were you-" Rain stammers, "Did you spend all night on this?"

Rain speaks with a shaking breath. He knows that this hour is the time when Payu gets up and gets ready for work, so it means that the man didn't sleep all night to help him with his mock-up. Rain wells up, feeling guilty for being trouble for the big man.

*Hug*

"Why are you crying? Have you forgotten what I said when I asked you to be my boyfriend?" Payu throws his arms around the little man's waist. He actually wants to wipe the tears, but his hands are too dirty.

"I told you that I can help you with anything. I didn't graduate summa cum laude (with highest honors) for nothing. If you need help, just ask for it. I'm always ready to give you a hand." Payu tries to comfort his boyfriend, but that doesn't stop him from crying.

"But I didn't want to be a bother! You were already tired from work."

"What are you to me?" Payu asks sternly.

"Your boyfriend." Rain's voice trembles. Payu just told him that it's not a bother at all to help his partner. However...

"Wrong."

Payu stands up, looking at a boy who's actually looking better than he did last night, but right now becomes wilted again when Payu tells him he's wrong.

"You're not just my boyfriend. You're my love."

The'yre actually more than that, as we all know.

Rain smiles upon hearing that and throws his arms around Payu, hugging him tightly.

"Can I really ask for your help?"

"Of course. And how can I not help my dear boy? Staying up for a night won't kill me, ya know? Been there, done that, way before you. Remember?" Payu says lightly as he squeezes the tiny young man in his embrace and rocks him gently to comfort him. Rain beams and laughs for the first time all month.

"And don't take it personally when you get scolded. I mean by the professor. But when it is too much to take, just spill. I'm always ready to be a listening ear. Understood?"

Rain shakes his head vigorously and hugs Payu tightly.

"Thank you so much Payu, really."

"I won't ask for anything in return, except..."

"Except what?" Rain looks up to meet the tall man's eyes, and Payu gives him a firm answer.

"You give me thirty minutes a day, having dinner with me. That would be enough."

That's all he would ask for.

Architecture students never have much free time. Therefore, anyone wanting to date them must understand this condition.

After hearing Payu's request, Rain hugs him tightly and accepts it with a shaky voice. Then the young one who used to fail in time management keeps apologizing for his past guilt and promises he will do better.

Payu once said that Rain must not leave out his own responsibilities just to date someone, and he forgot that he could love someone and stay committed to his school duties at the same time.

"I promise. I'll have more time with you, and I'll manage my time better."

"Don't push yourself too much. Just have me in your thoughts when you have free time. That's enough," Payu says with great affection. He kisses the shiny forehead of someone who skipped bathing last night and hugs him loosely. He looks at the younger man who is now shaking his head vigorously, knowing very well that it's almost impossible to have free time if you're studying in the architecture school. So he doesn't need much, just a couple of minutes to be in Rain's mind when Rain is tired will do. He only needs Rain to know he cares about him.

"But that's what I've been doing all of the time."

"Right? And now my baby boy needs to take a shower and get ready to hand in his work. Otherwise, all my effort will just be in vain," Payu says lightly. If he doesn't loosen his embrace, this gecko won't get off him, and they'll be late. Rain shakes his head.

"Uh-uh. I give you my word, I won't fail you this time." Rain says firmly, then lets go of the tall man, running to the bathroom.

After that, Rain gets dressed. When he comes out, he sees Payu is ready to roll. Payu used another bathroom.

"Rain," Payu calls. Rain turns around and sees a brilliant smile.

"You wanna eat something special this evening?"

"Nah," Rain shakes his head and continues with a more delighted voice.

"Everything is special when I'm with you."

Upon hearing that, Payu knows right away that he's willing to wait until the younger one has time for him.

It's okay, Rain. There's only a couple of years ahead until you graduate. I can wait.

Payu thinks as he sees Rain off in his car.

At the same time, Rain looks in the rearview mirror; Payu is standing there, waving goodbye. Then he looks at the mock-up that was completed by his boyfriend and grips the steering wheel tighter.

"I can do this!"

[yuurei20]

Hello! I was wondering if there was any specific date on when club sign-ups began. At first I thought it was after the Spelldrive tournament, since Chapter 3 was the first time in the main story that clubs were brought up, not to mention Deuce and Ace not knowing Jack and Floyd during Chapter 2 despite being clubmates. However, I just read Riddle's Ceremonial Robe SR, where Silver mentions club sign-ups being almost right after orientation, with Sebek signing up for the Equestrian Club in that vignette, so I'm a bit confused.

Hello hello! Thank you for this question!

I am not sure that Ace and Deuce not knowing Jack and Floyd was established in Book 2 👀

Neither Ace nor Deuce are a part of the group that goes to investigate the twins, and while Deuce does speak a little vaguely when they go to Savanaclaw there is not really any dialogue that confirms that he had never met Jack before!

(note: this is all covered in the novels, where Ace complains to the prefect about Floyd and greets Jamil as his clubmate in Book 2, while Deuce says outright that he and Jack are in the same club. The novels and the game tend to diverge in canon so a thing being true to the novels does not mean it is true to the game, but it is possible that the game had to cut down on extraneous details like who knows who from where, how, why, and when, in favor of focusing on the plot.)

We have seen similar vagueness before between Ace and Epel, who meet for the first time during Ace's ceremonial robes vignette.

Ace never says anything about not knowing who Epel is in Books 1 or 5 but he also does not say that they have already met, possibly because the game does not want to exclude people who are reading only the main story by referencing scenes from vignettes!

(It is hinted at, however, when Grim mistakes Epel for a girl and Ace corrects him, having asked Epel that same thing in his vignette.)

As with many time-related things in the game, the deadline for clubs is a little vague!

As you say Silver has a comment of "No sooner does orientation end than we must solicit our clubs," while Riddle says that "it is most prudent to decide on them as soon as possible, and Ruggie also comments that first-years visit clubs and pick one to join as soon as orientation is over.

The students seem to have multiple days to visit clubs and decide where they want to go, and in a vignette Ace still has not chosen his club despite how the deadline is the following day.

In Ruggie's vignette where he shows new students around the sports clubs Ace is already a member of the basketball club, so it is possible that Ruggie's sports-club tour was the final day for first-year students to choose their clubs and Ace had joined either that same day or the day before. (Ace himself says, "I've only been a member of this club for like five minutes!")

Also in Ruggie's tour vignette we have Jack and Epel, who already know each other! But Jack and Epel share a homeroom class (1-B).

If we wanted to make a timeline of club enrollment maybe it would look something similar to this?

Day 1 - Orientation (night of the first day) Day 2 Morning - First day of class (Jack and Epel meet for the first time) Day 2 Afternoon - Riddle and Silver in their ceremonial robes, waiting for new members Time passes - Ace has not submitted his application yet, the deadine is the next day Final Day Afternoon - Ace is a member of the basketball club, visited by Ruggie during his sports club tour for undecided first-year students.

Book 2 and the spelldrive tournament take place in October, which seems like it would be quite a lot of club-time missed out on by new students, but as we have been given no exact timeline we cannot be sure!

A club deadline is also mentioned in the novel, and much like the game there is no specific date, but it is prior to the tournament 🦁

"Yuuya and Grim were told by the headmage that they would both have to choose the same club. As they were only able to enroll at all on the condition that they form two halves of a single student, it seemed like a reasonable request to Yuuya, particularly as he has also been charged with corralling Grim, as his prefect. Yuuya had no objection.

Their issue had been not being able to decide on what club to join until right up until the deadline."

- Twisted Wonderland the Second Novel

[simscici]

Hackers, partygoers, rivals, and allies… the heir is about to become a teenager, and that means it’s time for you to infiltrate their story! I’m opening space for my mutuals’ Sims to be part of the Green Generation! Whether as a loyal friend, fierce enemy, mysterious coworker, or even someone who changes their life...

As the Green Generation requires, the heir must be both a partygoer and a hacker! If you followed the Peach Generation, you already know I love drama and action, and this gen will be no different!

I use the LGBTQIA+ mod, so the heir’s sexuality will be revealed when they become a teen. I also use the Soulmates mod, meaning anyone could become the love of their life! To keep things open and diverse, I’ve divided Sims into categories:

💚 Close Friends – The heir needs at least five close friends, but could have more! These will be their confidants, always by their side at parties, hacking challenges, and all kinds of chaos.

💀 Enemies – At least five rivals who dislike them, whether because they hacked them, exposed them, or they simply can’t stand them. They could be jealous colleagues, hacker rivals, or someone trying to take them down.

💻 Coworkers – Professional allies (or threats) who will cross paths with the heir at work and in the hacker world.

✨ Important Figures – Like the Harringtons, these Sims will shape the story. They might be a romantic interest, mentor, informant, or someone powerful with hidden motives.

This is a general plan for the types of Sims that could be part of the heir’s life and an overall idea to inspire submissions! Feel free to shape your Sims however you like; personality, backstory, anything!

✔️ Ages: Teen to Adult

✔️ CC allowed (Maxis Match & Mix)(I accept some Alpha clothes, but not the ones that scream Alpha lol)

❌ No presets or defaults (I don’t use them),(I can make an exception for body presets)

❌ Regarding packs, I don’t have the ones that include occults (except for Aliens and Mermaids).

📅 Deadline: March 13th to March 27th (2 weeks). If you need a little extra time, feel free to reach out!

🏷️ Hashtag: #GreenCrew

📤 Submission: Via Sim File Share, Dropbox, etc.

📌 Required Information:

Name and pronouns

Sexuality and romantic orientation

(Optional, but interesting!) A brief description of the Sim’s personality or backstory.

📨 If you have any questions, feel free to contact me via DM, the comments on this post, or Ask.