#drafting by hand is so gratifying

[sirenofthegreenbanks]

your honour im a peanut

[neuvistar]

❝ MISSING YOU. ❞ signed. jiyan . wc . 721.

— featuring ┊jiyan x fem!reader

— warnings / content warnings ┊all consensual! vaginal fingering, mild titplay, he’s so soft it hurts, use of nicknames (love, wife, etc), jiyan n his fingers.. no comment. | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

— a/n ┊fell in love w jiyan i lowk think i have a type ✊😇 i got so many writings sitting in the booty cracks of my drafts i’m acc so serious :,) i finished most of them tho! i jus need time 2 figure out when i’ll post them! ++ this is one of the times where i DIDNT post at 1am!! (it’s 8am i’m going back 2 sleep after)

“i missed you, my love.”

jiyan’s heart swells with a fierce protectiveness as he holds you close on his lap after your shared shower with him. you sulked and huffed at him, and he knew why. he hadn’t been home for these past few weeks, busy with his usual activities as a general. he wanted to make it up to you, try and be all sweet.. yet the sight of you, so damp and vulnerable in his arms was enough to drive him absolutely insane.

“i’m sorry i wasn’t able to write back, you sent me quite a few letters.” the general’s fingers trace gentle circles against your cunt, a soothing gesture meant to bring comfort, to remind you that you are safe— providing you with as much ease as possible. “you’re safe now that i’m here.” he murmurs, his voice a warm rumble against your head. jiyan’s thumb flicks gently against your clit, the teasing touches a tender balm to your wounded spirit. “i promise i’ll try to visit you more often, no matter how busy i can get,” he promises, his voice thick with emotion. "but for now, let me take care of you. let me be your safe haven." his fingers slip inside you, a slow, sensual invasion meant to calm your nerves. your husband rubs gently, his eyes locked on your pretty face he loved so dear, gauging your reactions—searching for some sign of solace in his touch. "does that feel good?" he whispers, his fingers moving in a languid rhythm designed to soothe the storm raging within you. “jiyan.. n—need you so bad..”

“i know you do baby, i know you do.” your beloved husband’s heart skips a beat at your voice.. the voice he longed to hear, your involuntary response igniting a fire in his loins. he bit his lip, his free hand trailing up your body to cup your breast, his thumb teasing your nipple. "you’ve missed me, haven’t you?" he murmured, his voice husky and thick with desire.. slowly trailing kisses and nibbles against your neck— teeth grazing your sensitive skin. "tell me what you need, and i’ll give it to you.” he promises, his fingers never faltering in their slow, rhythmic dance.

“m—more.. i want more.” your response to his touch is both gratifying and arousing, a surge of desire flickering through his veins. he feels your cunt clenching around his fingers, your body arching into his touch as a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "then let go for me.” your body shuddered in his hold, the tension in your core building— you were close already.. his hot breath ghosting over your ear, “let me hear you, my love. let me hear how much you’ve been missing me," he commands, his voice a low, gravelly purr. the pace of his fingers quicken, the slickness coating his digits a testament to his own arousal. jiyan could feel it.. he could feel his cock straining against his pants, aching for release, but he won't give in to his own desires until he's brought his pretty wife to the brink.

the fast flicks of his fingers were driving you to the edge, “mm.. more, right?" jiyan’s other hand slid up your body, fingers teasing and tweaking your delicate nipples, adding another layer of desire. "anything for you.” he murmurs, every touch, every flick, a promise of pleasure and protection. jiyan knew what you needed in this moment, and he's more than willing to give it to you. he wants to overwhelm you with the intensity of their connection, to drown your worries in the tidal wave of your shared pleasure with him. “you’re going to come for me, right?" he purrs, his pace escalating. jiyan’s fingers curl inside you, the change in sensation designed to push you closer and closer to the edge. "say my name when you come for me." he demanded shyly, his thumb moving faster, more insistent. "i want to hear my name come out of your mouth..” the dark room is thick with the scent of sex and the sound of your whines and whimpers, with a desperate whine—your body tightened around his fingers, the sensation of his fingers sending a surge of joy through you.

damn. his fingers.. have they always felt this good?

[tj-dragonblade]

Academic Conference au? 👀

Ah, Academic Conference AU my beloved. It's actual title is An Examination of the Benefits of Inter-Departmental Fraternization (by Hob Gadling, PhD) but that's kind of a mouthful so the old label still sticks. I have mentioned this one a lot in various places; it started from the smut prompts 'bed sharing' and '"Then do it already"' and has spawned multiple chapters with a thin semblance of plot by this point. The first chapter is fully drafted but needs a little revision to accommodate details I decided on later. Second chapter is maybe half to two-thirds drafted, and there are outline-y notes and small chunks of chapters three and four. None of it will be posted until the whole thing is done, because I will not finish it otherwise. And also those evolving details I mentioned.

There have been bits and pieces of this scattered in several places over the months I've poked at it and I kind of lose track of what's been shared where BUT. Here is the opening section of the fic, which I don't think has been shared before - at least not in its entirety:

~ "He can share with me."

The grateful look on the poor harried hotel clerk's face is gratifying, but Hob didn't speak up just for her.

Dr. Dream Murphy arches an eyebrow over the chunky black rim of his glasses at Hob, mildly suprised. "Dr. Gadling," he greets, considerably less agitated than just a second before.

"If you're amenable, of course," Hob adds, speaking directly to his colleague now. "It's a single, so we'd still need a rollaway bed—if there's one available?" He glances to the clerk.

"There is," she confirms, fingers flying over her keyboard.

"Perfect. Well?" He turns to Dr. Murphy. "Better than trying to find a room elsewhere? I'll even take the rollaway; you can have the room bed."

Dr. Murphy inclines his head like some kind of old-school royalty. "Very well."

"Brilliant." Hob flashes a smile, directs it back to the clerk. "I'm in 607, Robert Gadling. You can merge his reservation with mine and get him a key, and just send up the extra bed—thanks!"

"Of course." She finishes entering the changes, programs a key card, hands it to Dr. Murphy. "Here you go sir, and again, I'm so sorry for the mix-up—"

"No matter. Thank you," he says, already turning away, and Hob flashes the poor girl one last grateful smile and hurries to follow.

Dr. Murphy says nothing until they are closed in the elevator together, and then he fixes Hob with the crystal blue eyes that have wandered in and out of Hob's daydreams all year. "I. Appreciate your intercession on my behalf, Dr. Gadling."

"Think nothing of it," Hob demurs, shrugging. He catches himself fiddling with his earlobe and drops his hand. "Not like it's her fault they overbooked and gave your room to someone else. Not your fault either. Glad to be passing by with a solution. But." He straightens up, flashes his most winning smile. "If we're going to be rooming together for the whole of this conference, please—call me Hob."

Dr. Murphy does that regal head-incline thing again; his gaze, when it lifts to Hob's, is considering. "Hob," he repeats, like tasting it, and the familiarity stirs a wispy tendril of warmth in Hob’s gut. "Then you must call me Dream."

WIP List

[cosmictapestry]

A48? 👉👈

A48. tentacles

hi sorry it's so lonf and that there are feelings .

morphienne prompt list + fills here

Lucienne, sorting through some new additions to the library, opens to the middle of a newly drafted graphic novel—and promptly shuts it, surveys her surroundings—and then opens it again.

It is always gratifying to see how many mortal desires can only be captured in the imagination, satisfaction only met in dreams. Sexual fantasies are no exception. Still, she would rather not be seen reading pornography on the job.

The woman in the story is a skinny little white thing, drawn with an exaggerated delicacy that accentuates the obscenity of the slimy, muscular tendrils that invade her orifices. Her expression is twisted in bliss, stretched as it is around the tendril plundering her mouth. Lucienne thinks the whole ordeal looks grotesque. Then she thinks it's rather interesting.

She stares for longer than is strictly necessary. The image on the page shifts and resizes, revisions that haven't been made yet, blurry in the way of unfinished things. The following pages are more of the same, the girl suspended in the air, pinned to the ground, braced against a wall, helpless and beholden to the tendrils' whims. It is very interesting.

Interesting enough that when Lucienne feels Lord Morpheus sweep into the library, she does not try to hide her discovery. Instead she holds it up higher, knowing that in a second's time he will be looking over her shoulder to see what's so captured her attention. Indeed, his shadow falls over the page not a moment later.

He says nothing while she flips through, pausing on a particular image of the tendrils retreating and leaving one to flick gently at the woman's clitoris while she trembles and spasms. The tenderness of it is striking. Lord Morpheus gives a thoughtful hum. "Bipedal humanoids rarely take interest in body plans different from their own," he says. "It appears humans are becoming lenient. Moreso than most of their predecessors."

"Surely you've seen as much in their dreams," Lucienne murmurs, tracing the length of one tendril with her thumb.

"Of course. But to imagine and to produce art are very different things," Lord Morpheus steps out from behind her, looking now at the rest of the bookshelf where, presumably, they'd find more of this content.

Lucienne glances at him without turning her head. "Have you known many bipedal humanoids with such interests?"

"Not personally, no," he says, and his eyes wander back to the open graphic novel.

That seems a shame, to have the King of Dreams as a lover and not explore all the possibility he contains. Of course, knowing him, there's every chance that he would find something in that request to hurt his pride or otherwise make him uncomfortable. He clears his throat. "And. Are you. Interested. In such things?"

Lucienne bites her lip to stop herself from grinning and possibly scaring him away. His request that he could not voice. That makes perfect sense, too. "I cannot say I've ever indulged in this act, in particular." The nature of soft spaces in the Dreaming, and indeed in her own quarters, means that raw dreamstuff is at the command of the imagination. And there have been many an attractive shape to fall in and out of style in the universe. "But I am interested."

She makes him sweat, just a little. He stands there and shifts and looks at the shelf, then back at the book, and not at her at all. "With me?" he asks, finally, in a tiny voice.

The grin breaks onto her face despite her best efforts. "Yes, with you, silly man," Lucienne puts her hand to his sleeve, stretches up to kiss his reddened cheek, which he grunts and huffs about. "Only your slimy tentacles will do."

His noise wrinkles; she kisses it, too. "They need not be slimy," he protests. "And those are tendrils, not tentacles, besides."

She laughs and waves him off with a gentle swat on his arm and a tap on his arse, too, for good measure, and when he disappears from view it's with an amused glare.

Their night begins normally, with Lord Morpheus stepping into their room and Lucienne already there, meeting him with slow kisses to coax out the worries he's sure to have let settle in.

The room looks much the same as usual, which she wonders about until he pulls back enough to speak. "I was thinking. Perhaps. They might come from under the bed," he says. His gaze flickers across her face nervously. "If you are comfortable with that. We might change the narrative from there."

Lucienne pauses heavily. She cards her hand through the hair at his nape. "Why would I not be comfortable?" She has seen everything there is to see in all of time and space. Though that matters little in the grand scheme of things. Regardless, she does not scare easily.

"I think I will enjoy this immensely," Lord Morpheus says, and the predictability of it threatens Lucienne's careful neutrality with compassionate-but-agonized exhaustion. He is asking, as he often does, if she is sure. "And the thought that I might not be. Suitably attentive. Is frightening."

Lucienne hums, plays with his hair, aches for him. He is never less than exactly as attentive as she wants him to be. But, oh, who knows what might happen, if he feels too good, if he likes it too much. "Have you experience with similar practices?"

"I do predate bilateral symmetry," he says, faux-offended. He tips his head forward to avoid her eyes and arch his neck into her hand. He enjoys her attention for a long moment before he speaks again. "I remember. How it felt. To be so close."

Her thumb traces his jaw, nail digging soft into the clenched hinge until he relaxes. "I am not afraid of you enjoying yourself," she tells him. Her lord's shoulders lift on a sigh, because he thinks that isn't what he's talking about. "I've known you by every name, and I'd know you by every shape." She brushes under his eye to feel the flutter of his lashes, then lifts his face to hers. "And I would welcome you as close as you can get."

He's moaning before he's kissing her, feverish hunger, like the limitations of finite-limbedness are only frustrating now in anticipation of something more. He wastes little time with her clothing, taking slow, significant care only in sliding down her knickers, gripping her under the thighs and lifting her, bracing her on his hips with his bulge grinding into her. He doesn't stop kissing her while he walks them to the bed, and she pants to keep up, tongue lolling lazily with his, the friction on her clit honey-sweet and rough until it is gone altogether.

Lord Morpheus lays her down in the sheets, bare and hazy and wanting, and when he retreats entirely to sit at the foot of the bed he leaves her skin buzzing. Draped in soft black, one knee drawn up to his chest, gaze unwavering, he is completely still, taking in the image of her, an offering. "I'm right here," he tells her. She knows he is. His hands are clasped in full view and she feels him touch her.

She turns her head to see the expansion of her lord's material aspect. The width of an inkpot, warm and firm, slippery-wet, soft as velvet, a slip of darkness wraps her wrist. From there it coils up, its course seemingly predetermined, to slide smokelike between her fingers and coil in the palm of her hand. Lucienne stares at it, matte black muscular pulse of shadow, and she notes that it is shivering.

Lucienne sits up, the tendril thrumming in her hand. Its tapered head lifts, seeking, reaching for warmth. With her other hand she strokes along its length, down to where it disappears over the edge of the bed. She looks up when she hears her lord's breath catch. "How sensitive is it?"

He swallows and twitches and pulls his robe closer around himself. "It is. Me," he mumbles. That is the encouragement she needs to lean forward, lips softly parted, and kiss the top of the tendril's head. A shiver runs through him. Gently she draws the tip into her mouth.

Lord Morpheus gasps and rocks and whispers her name. The tendril pulses hot in her mouth and squirms deeper like it has no choice. It is silken-soft, sweet-tasting, muscular and firm on her tongue. It is not thick enough to fill her mouth but it makes a valiant effort, folding on itself, trying to stuff its way in. She pushes forward, makes herself gag on it. He sobs out and pulls back. "Lucienne," he gasps.

Lucienne waits, the tip of the tendril resting on her tongue, and she watches him. He is sweating already, and he pulls his robe away, leaving him in soft shirt and trousers that have begun to stick. He pushes one hand back through his hair while he catches his breath. "Can I—more?"

Her heart soaring, her core aching, she takes him back into her mouth. His head tips back, throat bobbing on a broken groan. Lucienne is too busy watching a bead of sweat course down his neck to notice a second tendril appear until she feels it slip, thick and supple, under her breast. It slicks her skin, touches the other breast, tweaks the nipple, wraps it and pulls.

Lucienne arches her chest into the touch, forces the tendril in her mouth deeper. Wet heat grips her left ankle. She suckles on the length in her mouth—it's getting thicker, swelling—and it calms her while a matching shadow takes her right ankle. Her legs are drawn apart, slowly, and she watches her lord's face, watches the way his nostrils flare when she is spread for him.

Her wrists are grabbed next. Sweetly she is guided back in the sheets, laid out and spread open, squeezed in meaty rhythmic pulses, slick pulses and caresses on her breasts and in her mouth and all across her prickling skin. She groans with her mouth stuffed full and shakes when she feels a push at her core.

The tendrils feel so strong, unshakeable, and the one that teases her folds is no exception. Smearing slickness, heat and pressure, maddening soft texture so tender and teasing, playing, thrusting between her lips, flicking her clit. It's thinner than the ones that tie her down, and as it slips inside her, it feels so nerve-shatteringly smooth and good that her eyes roll.

She's choking, drooling, and she feels—a second tendril, twining with the one inside her, entering her, dragging, throbbing, until she is full, strung through on either end, stretched all around him. He is whispering, now, asking her—"can I lift you? Please, can I—" and she can do nothing but moan and scream yes through their dreamscape.

More tendrils, thicker ones, embracing her waist and upper arms and thighs, lifting her up off the bed, sitting her up in the air. More tendrils stroking her all over, a thin one playing with her clit, another sliding in the cleft of her arse, another between her breasts, leaving her skin shining. Her lord watches. Dream-gravity forces her down on the entwined tendrils and she clenches and comes on them until she cannot tell whose pulse she is feeling.

Still reeling, she is maneuvered above the bed, stretched out, wrists lifted above her head. All she can hear are her own stricken sounds and wet slipping and his ragged, desperate breath. A new, thin tendril plucks at her arsehole, rubs at it, worms its way inside. Her legs spread and twitching, she cannot even struggle to get more contact.

He pulls an orgasm from her like that, with sharp insistent thrusts, until she squeezes hard enough to almost force him out. Then she is horizontal, the thick tendrils binding her arms to her sides, her arse spread, and then she is upside-down, one leg dangling helplessly, and then, eventually, at some point, she is back on the bed.

Lucienne gasps and heaves and the tendril in her mouth slips from her. She feels the graze of soft fabric, not so different from living shadow, as her lord climbs atop her and kisses her shocked-open mouth. He pants and quivers and ruts against her inner thigh. "Please," he gasps, shoving his trousers down, heedless of the copious mess inside, smeared as it is over his cock and thighs. "Please, Lucienne, can I—"

He's wetter than his tendrils are, nudging at her clit, mouthing at her jaw. She's possibly never seen him so desperate. She is exhausted. With the last of her strength she reaches down with a newly freed hand and touches him. His hips jump and stutter and he sobs into her neck when she guides him in alongside the tendrils already inside her.

The stretch is immense. It makes her cry. Overwhelmed, stricken, shocked, she arches her back, takes him, barely, speared impossibly. She comes when he bottoms out. He does, too, when she spasms and grinds him into his own tendrils, squeezes him in soaking heat.

The tendrils do not withdraw. They lie together and pant and shiver and are still. The tendrils disappear entirely, and Lucienne is left loose and open, fluttering around him. "Thank you," Lucienne whispers. She takes his face, pulls him up to kiss away his tears and smooth his fear. "Well done, love, thank you."

[mana-jjk]

i have like 3 long posts in the drafts about a college au, hard of hearing toge and partially blind maki, and inuokko dynamic with kids but here i am, once again, not finishing my wip <3

so anyway, first and second years and how much they believed in santa, second years being a lot longer because i am actually insane. ft. inuokko and nobamaki of course

yuuji - his dad probably wanted him to have so much magic in the holidays, but his grandfather was very practical. so he probably got a singular santa christmas before being raised to know he wasn’t real. but yuuji is such a good kid that he kept it to himself and just played along with the other kids. choso still thinks he believes, probably because a small part of him is a little kid at heart.

megumi - tsumiki did her best to keep the magic of the holidays, but they didn’t have a lot of money so she struggled a lot. he’s a very practical kid so it didn’t take him long to figure it out. for a while he didn’t say anything until it slipped out in an argument that he knew and wasn’t a kid. when gojo adopted them, he took a little too much enjoyment in gaslighting them that santa was real but had been delivering their presents somewhere else. not out of being a good guardian, but because he enjoys lying to children, especially pulling off weird feats and watching megumi twitch.

nobara - 100% believed in santa the longest out of the trio and is embarrassed by it. if you ask her, she always knew he was fake and she was just trying to get cool presents. but if you ask her grandmother, she would go on an exasperated rant on how stubborn she was in believing in santa, and threw a fit every time someone tried saying he wasn’t. she still loves christmas, the aesthetic, presents, cafes, specials, etc. and gets excited like a little kid. she begs maki to match outfits and go ice skating and get the special christmas cake with her. at heart she’s still a little girl in a lot of ways, even if she won’t admit it.

panda - he stills believes in santa. it’s a long going pact for no one to tell him that his dad is blackmailing everyone to let him keep believing. Despite being a rational creature who insists human are the silly ones, he abides by traditions strictly to ensure that santa will show up. yaga has basically been enforcing his belief because he finds it cute and it lets him act like a parent for at least a small while.

maki - was never allowed to believe in santa, didn’t even know what he was apart from the glances she and mai would get in store windows and atop strawberry cakes they were never allowed to have. the most joy they stole for themselves around that day was when it would snow. sneaking out of their room, they would draw shapes into the show and making matching snowmen for each other that they hid in bushes. when taken to help with shopping, they’d discreetly awe at the shining lights and everything they weren’t allowed to indulge in. when maki came to jujutsu high, it was simultaneously difficult and gratifying to partake in everything she was denied as a child. she loves junk food, so having kfc chicken and strawberry cake for the first time was life changing. she pretends to complain when nobara drags her out, but never puts up a fight for too long before they’re interlocking hands and looking into store windows that she had only ever been able to steal glances at. despite always vying to spite her family, sometimes she forgets the simplest way to do so is in living her life happily. that’s why, when nobara insists on pulling her into the ice skating ring, gripping her arms with a wide grin and a practiced ease in the way she skates them in circles, fingertips still warm from holding the hot chocolate, and eyes sparkling, maki can feel her walls melting down. when they eventually move into together, after everything, their wounds ache in the cold. nobara no longer has the confidence to go out into the city, not missing an eye and with a scarred face. it’s maki who gently drags her out, who pulls her under the christmas lights and pushes back her hair, presses her lips to her forehead and just holds her. despite everything, despite how much they lost, despite how maki’s heart burns every time she sees the snow, despite how nobara’s heart thunders every time someone looks for too long, they haven’t lost each other.

toge - like maki, he never even knew what santa was. growing up, he was seen as dangerous from the moment he opened his mouth. teaching him how to talk was seen as dangerous because the more words he knew, the more that could be used against them. so there was no outings, no TV, no visitors, nothing beyond the grounds he grew up in. he spent his entire childhood restricted until gojo intervened. but that’s for another time on my headcanon of his backstory ✨ so, coming into jujutsu high he was experiencing these things for the first time. gojo goes all out for christmas, so it was a heck of a first impression. at night, when everyone was asleep, he’d spend hours looking at their mini tree, hands around a cup of tee. the first present gojo gave him was a blue scarf, so he wasn’t always restricted to face masks. he signed it off as santa, but it took one alarmed look from a possible intruder for maki to tell him. he has a weird relationship with the holiday, like a new person coming into an established friendship, like an interloper. he enjoys it passively, but can’t help but feel like he’s intruding within it every time it comes around. though it’s the same for most, if not all, holidays. yuuta sees it despite how toge prides himself on hiding it from his friends, and takes every opportunity to prove him wrong. toge finds himself subject to traditions that still confuse him, but he never could deny the other. so at late hours he finds himself cutting paper snowflakes, listening to japanese christmas songs, watching too many movies about the elusive santa. at early hours, yuuta physically drags him from his bed, sometimes having too carry him, to open presents at too early of an hour. when yuuta leaves, christmas is cold again, and only vaguely feels right when they video call each other from opposite time zones. despite yuuta’s excitement of the holiday, he opens his present from miguel and gojo early so they can do it together.

yuuta - he grew up in a very normal household that did actually let him have a good experience with the holiday. he and his sister would decorate together, wake up as early as possible, and indulge in as many activities as they could. rika would join them later, snowball fights and arts and crafts that ended in sticky hands and laughter. when rika died, all of the joy went with her. his parents never actually told him santa wasn’t real, after rika died it just didn’t matter to him anymore. when his sister tried to initiate a snow ball fight, rika nearly broke her arm. after that, his household lived in a constant state of holding its breath. his sister tried and tried to reach out to him for everything they used to do, but again and again rika would hurt her until his parents physically pulled her away from him. when he was taken to be executed, he thought maybe his family would be able to celebrate christmas again. of course his first christmas eve at jujutsu high ended with him murdering his teachers gay lover, and freeing his childhood friend, but they did end up having a small celebration despite it all. after that, after he came back from abroad, after the war finally finished, he finally allowed himself to enjoy the holiday again. he spent hours decorating the little apartment he and toge were staying in, sheepishly scratching the back of his head when toge looked at the mistletoe with a raised eyebrow. he takes toge to markets and to the illuminations around the plazas and districts, trying to pretend like he didn’t spend hours researching the ideal holidate. despite that it’s toge that always gives him the perfect gift at the perfect time. the one he’d never be able to forget, was a product of those times he’d whisper in tears that he wished he knew how his sister was doing, too scared to reach out himself, wishing he’d get even postcard. he would never be able to forget the way toge squeezed his hand before pointing at a girl. even after a few years, he’d recognized her immediately. she hasn’t noticed them yet, intentionally on toge’s part, he was giving him a chance to decide. breathless, he called out her name, she turned to him and smiled with tears in her eyes, and for the first time in years they were allowed to hold each other other. he loves the holidays, loves his friends, his boyfriend, his sister, and loves that after everything, he was given the chance to live so joyously.

[mechaneo]

Translation by Windii:

Hello. Hayane Tomoko here! We are down to just one last wallpaper for the year 2024. Many of you may be starting to reflect on your goals for the year.

I am one of those people… Even though there were some goals that I did not achieve, I spend each year trying to keep my mind strong that I will do my best next time and next year.

This month, I would like to introduce you to my idol who has taught me such a positive attitude!

Indeed, this wallpaper illustration features…

The evil genius scientist, Dr. Eggman!

With an evil smile on his face, he looks as happy as ever! Is he planning to do something wicked and clenching his fist saying, “It’s perfect”? I can only cheer for him now…

What I personally can’t get enough of is not only the exposed skin of of his thin wrist, but also the undergarment glimpsed at his chest. ♪ This is a gratifying piece that gives me a fill of Dr. Eggman’s details… ♪

…I got kind of excited there. Now, back to the early topic!

Dr. Eggman is undeterred no matter how many times his ambitions for world domination are thwarted by Sonic. He is indefatigable and immediately begins his next devious scheme. This toughness is his greatest appeal and the reason why I like Dr. Eggman.

On the other hand, his comical and somewhat lovable behavior is also a point of interest. ♪ He sometimes surprises people with his seemingly strange and outrageously creative ideas.

Perhaps the confident Dr. Eggman in the illustration is making too mischievous plans…? For example, the opening of an “Eggman Commemorative Shop” as part of his world conquest.

…Gulp.

If so, I have no choice but to help. I must make the sale of “Dr. Eggman’s Exposed Skin Figure” happen at all costs!

And so I am going to run for the position of drafting & supervising! If I appeal that I will work faithfully like a robot, I am sure they will hire me… If it suits them, I don’t even mind being put inside an Eggman mech! For no one can stop my love…!

I got a little excited again… But I am sure there are many like-minded people out there!

[16-pennies]

Silver: Afterword

I vividly remember writing the first chapter of Silver in my high school library when I was 15 years old. I didn't pick it up again until I was 21. Now it's fully published, and it's been more than 10 years since I sat in that library.

Silver was a challenge to myself, to see if I could write the most realistic, canon-friendly redemption and romance arc. It's the longest thing I've ever written and challenged my writing skills in a way that is so gratifying and I hope will make my future stories better.

This story has followed me through so many life changes, too. From brainstorming plot at a warehouse job during lockdown, then office jobs, at cafes and on runs and drives and anywhere I could find to just sit and write for a while.

I left my partner (who never knew about this story) and moved across the country. Then the planet. I started grad school. I left grad school. Moved back across the ocean. Felt lost and found again. And now it seems that through this story I might have discovered my next chapter, so to speak.

I'm so incredibly grateful for all of you who have taken the time to read, comment, rec, etc. And a particular shout-out to the handful of people who were kind enough to look over my draft before it was published and be my cheerleaders.

As always, I'm here to chat about stories or writing or anything else. I do have another dramione in the works (oneshot) which I hope to finish soon, and a few other wips for various ships floating around as usual :)

-bel

[shimmerbeasts]

Nyssala gasped as the cambion yanked her from her spot, effortlessly pulling her close. Moments ago, Mizora had been amused, but now? Now she snapped, and things were getting dangerous. Killed for mouthing off to a devil? She thought. Oh, man... What a dumb way to die. She clenched her eyes shut, already halfway through mentally drafting her apology. She'd beg for mercy, swear up and down it was just a joke, a stupid joke. She'd never ever ever do it again — pinky promise. But then… Mizora's cold hand slid down her back, sending shivers racing up Nyssala's spine. Her eyes fluttered open, and she realized where she was — practically smack between Mizora's breasts. Wait, wait, wait… what the hell was happening? Nyssala's brain short-circuited for a moment. Her heart hammered in her chest, her mind doing backflips. She suddenly felt her eyes go impossibly wide as she tilted her chin up to meet Mizora's gaze. On one hand, she was absolutely terrified. On the other hand? Oddly aroused. Her body had a mind of its own, apparently. Oh, man… What an amazing way to die. Despite herself, she let out a shaky, nervous laugh. “Well, I’ve never really had the best luck with moms," she quipped, her voice a bit more breathy than she wanted. "But I’m not gonna lie, the way you're handling things right now…” She paused, her eyes glinting with mischief as she spread a bold smirk. “I’m kinda leaning towards the ‘much more’ option.”

It would have been a thing of ease to take offence with the nickname, Nyssala had given her. Most devils likely would have been offended and disgusted. A succubus might have salivated at being called an interplanar mummy, but unless the devil in question did not covet you as a toy for his private pleasures, they would have seen nothing but disrespect in those words.

Luckily for Nyssala, Mizora was not someone easily offended. At least not by something, which betrayed such obvious arousal and hunger. Even now with the poor drow pressed against her body and peeking up from between her perky, small breasts, the Cambion could feel her shiver, from fear, arousal and confusion. The same cold hand, which had trailed down Nyssala's spine, now found its way to her hip. Sharp claws tentatively scraped across her hip bone, letting the girl feel the oh, so gratifying sting of pain.

"That's quite alright", Mizora purred, while caressing the drow's cheek with her other hand, "You are in capable hands now." Her wings closed in around her and her latest target, making it so that wherever the drow looked, all she could see, was cool, soothing, corpse-blue flesh and membranes. The mischievous glint, followed by that bold smirk, caused Mizora to quirk an eyebrow, half expecting what the words would be, which soon after left the drow's mouth.

That same hand, which had previously caressed Nyssala's cheeks in a comforting gesture, now traced over her lips with tantalising fingers. The other hand still rested on her hip, however, now the claws clasped upon the protruding bone with a possessiveness to keep her latest catch in line. Mizora's eyes shimmered and shone like a cat's reflecting the light in the dark and her word was like poisoned honey, flowing freely into Nyssala's ears.

"Though I must wonder", Mizora whispered, "Just how far do you want us to push this 'much more'. I could give you pleasures far beyond the mortal realm, something, which makes you forget the constraints of flesh, blood and bone. I could make you feel as powerful as a pack of hellhounds, as fast as a Nightmare and as unchained as a tidal wave. That is if you can prove to me that you can take it. After all, experiencing something like the Nine Hells of Baator is not for everyone. And certainly not for someone, who has not offered me anything in return."

@unhingedbutpretty cont. from here.

[vampirehizzies]

🥊🥊🥵🥵

hooray for horny clato <3 // find part 1 here. keep in mind that this is a rough draft and the ending is a little abrupt because I couldn't find a natural stopping point lol

-------

Apparently finished using his words, Cato lunges forward with a powerful, deliberate force, moving like the trained machine (or, as others probably saw them, monster) he is, and that is when things really get interesting. Clove knows better than to be taken off guard, which is why she greets his attack with one of her own, serene and at ease when she steps slightly to the side and allows her knife to cut into his shoulder.

Not shaken in the slightest and unagitated by the blood that wells up against his shirt, creating a pool of red that Clove had ensured wouldn't be concerning enough to need medical attention, he only laughs in response, with a crazed gleam in his eyes, one that she is proud to be the cause of.

"That's my girl," he remarks, pleased. "I'm so glad you're not an easy fight." His comment of approval is oddly touching, and leaves a furious pink flush in her cheeks. Fortunately, the activity they're engaged in provides a good excuse, the dim yellow lights also making the effect he has on her less obvious. Nervous for the first time in her life, she bites her lip and considers her next move, noting how he looks at her like a meal to be devoured. Clove will be damned if he thinks he can win quickly.

"I'm a better fighter than you. Always have been," she retorts, continuing to berate him with vicious, merciless kicks and punches. He does a rather excellent job of blocking her, but Clove swiftly takes advantage when he leaves his side unprotected and delivers a painful blow, relishing his affronted groan.

In his weakened state, she places a harsh hit to his thigh, forcing him onto his knees, and then kicks him in the stomach so that he bends forward. Before he can grab onto her leg, Clove pushes his shoulders so he lies flat and goes down with him, swings one leg over his now vulnerable body until her knees are settled on either side of his hips, pressing into the hard ground while she straddles him.

Her weight probably means nothing to him, but the knife aimed at his Adam's apple, metal touching skin like a soft caress, probably does. He has nothing to fear from her. They both knew that terribly well. It had been the source of all their problems, with the Capitol, with the other Victors who looked down on them for their refusal to kill each other which was a traitorous act of cowardice in Two, and with each other when there was no one else readily available to blame. Still, she feels gratified by the power now in her hands, how his life is utterly in her control.

"You want to talk about me being an easy fight?" She croons, tilting her head to the side and licking her lips in an echo of the way he had just minutes before. "I literally have you on your back for me, don't I?" Cocky and insufferable was usually his thing, but Clove wears it well. Maybe even better.

[freesidexjunkie]

WIP Wednesday but it's Friday

A small snippet of chapter 7 for Din'an All Elgara 💕 rough draft, WIP, etc etc (the chapter is almost entirely typed up now, just need to edit it into a version i can live with). For context, this takes place in Haven in the very early game.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“No,” he said with a little smirk. “No, I fear I am boring you with my prattle.”

Shit. “No! No, I was…” I was what? Lost in your eyes? Distracted by the warm timbre of your voice, by the shifting glow of the magic as you worked it with ease? “I was just… distracted by the Mark. The way it moves, and all.”

“Ah, of course,” he said, though his tone suggested that my wandering gaze had betrayed me.

I felt my cheeks grow warm as a nervous laugh escaped me. “Oh, shut up,” I said, pulling my hand away as I scooted back. “I was listening, for your information. I don’t get many chances to talk about magic like this back home. It’s just me and the Keeper, and sometimes giving lessons to the Second. Dalish magic is just…”

“Lacking in imagination?” He said.

I swatted him on the arm as I tried to suppress my own grin. He wasn’t far off, but I couldn’t just up and agree with him. “Watch it, you. Dalish magic can get plenty imaginative if you get on our bad side.”

Solas put his hands up in mock surrender. “Of course,” he said, “my apologies. I certainly would not want to be on the wrong end of one of your spells, at least.”

I rolled my eyes again, trying to give the impression that his approval of my spellwork only gave me the normal amount of butterflies. “I was going to say it’s very practical. Healing and day-to-day stuff. A few rituals. There’s less time to explore magical theory when you’re always on the move, trying to keep a clan healthy and safe.”

“Naturally,” he replied, folding his hands behind his back. Even in a war camp, he always managed to look so… regal. Like there was an elegant ease about him. “Well, it is gratifying to know that you aren’t just humoring me, then, by letting me drone on.”

I flashed a coy smirk, the feeling bubbling up in my chest lending me a bit of boldness. “Or maybe I just enjoy listening to you talk,” I said.

“I… ahem.” He looked away to clear his throat, and I almost swore I saw a bit of color rise in his cheeks. “Thank you, lethallan. Though I suspect you may be the first.”

“Besides yourself, you mean?”

That earned a real, honest-to-gods laugh from him as he threw his head back. “I see. You flatter me in one breath and humble me with the next. Like a rose, luring people in with beauty before pricking them with your thorns.”

Beautiful? I tried to calm the flipping in my stomach. He might have just meant beautiful words, after all; but…

“Please,” I responded, “I’m not that prickly.”

His teasing smile softened into something a bit more like fondness. “No, you are not,” he said. “You have a way about you of putting people at ease, I think.”

“Of course,” I replied, affecting a haughty air. “I’m a born diplomat, Solas.”

“Hm. I wonder if Lady Josephine would agree with that?”

Now it was my turn to be affronted as I clutched a hand to my chest. “Ha! Now who’s thorny?”

Before Solas could made any kind of reply, a young human boy ran up to us; one of the Inquisition’s scouts, if I remembered correctly. He bowed a bit awkwardly before addressing us. “Your Worship. Sister Leliana sent me to bring you to the Chantry. There’s been a… situation of sorts with the Chancellor."

Roderick. Of course. According to Cassandra, he was little more than a glorified clerk, but that hadn’t stopped him from calling for my righteous execution near hourly since I woke up. I groaned loudly as I got down from my spot. “Dread Wolf take me… Doesn’t he have anything better to do?”

I heard Solas snicker at my misfortunes from behind. “Would that I could assist, but I am not the ‘natural born diplomat,’ unfortunately.”

“Don’t be so quick to joke,” I warned. “He’s got a stick up his ass about heathen elven mages. I might tell him you’re here just to keep him out of my hair.”

The young scout spoke up again. “Apologies, my Lady, but I do believe it was somewhat urgent.”

“Right, yes. I’m coming,” I said with a sigh. I turned to speak to Solas as I walked back towards the Chantry. “Wish me luck. I’m sure he’s going to argue for wasting all your hard work again.”

“Dareth shiral, lethallan,” he replied with one last smile, picking up his book. “If you need anything further, I’ll be here.”

Feeling a bit emboldened, I threw a little smirk at him over my shoulder as I left. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

Anyways, thank you if you read this far!! Let me know what you think of it, if you have any thoughts? I hope to have the full chapter up by this weekend; if not, fingers crossed for early next week!!

[fieldsofview]

Happy Talk Shop Tuesday!

What's the hardest part about wrapping up a story? And what's the most fun?

You ask me this now??!! You ask me this now while I'm actively drafting the final chapter of SMH??!! How dare-

Ok but seriously, this is a great question <3

For me, the fun comes from the fact that I usually have a particular scene at the end (or close to the end) in mind from the very beginning. My daydreaming of stories usually involves some scene that the story then has to work towards, so it's exciting to finally get to that point after all that time, you know? It's gratifying to see it all come together and have the finished product in hand.

The hardest part is making sure that I tie together all the loose ends without bogging down the pacing/energy of the end with the nitty gritty. It's a balance, and I'm constantly stressing about making sure I haven't forgotten anything while also making sure it's emotionally satisfying. (I'm definitely struggling with that a little bit rn with SMH but I'm pushing through, you know?)

And then I get to live in emotional limbo when it's done hahahaha The high of completing it meets the low of not working on it anymore 😬

[mustang4all]

The Warriors

[I know, I walked alone in the dark blue waves for a long time. The wine red in the wound converged and flowed down the muscle lines, dripping on the surface of the water, together with those white bubbles, turned into a blue phantom...]

This work is based on the "warrior" proposition of a single master. Because I prefer the romantic tragedy, I looked down at both the horse and the human head in the initial final draft.

"My first reaction at that time was that it was like a picture of just experiencing a battle. Both people and horses are very tired. And the high-spirited close-up I described before, you gave up. And such a statement is more true.

Perhaps because of the broader understanding of the word brave now, if the time goes back to the age of thirteen, I may also think that rushing forward with a flag can show the shocking feeling is the full meaning of "brave". But now, when the word brave is mentioned, the brain reacts more than such an exciting picture. In contrast, I think bravery is more of a kind of persistence.

Instead of repeatedly showing the brave and glorious side to the public, I prefer to show the appearance of the warrior behind the glory: he has experienced a lot, and he has failed and succeeded - if the impulse of anger is his "brave" capital when he was young and ignorant, then such blind self-confidence cannot guarantee him in every battle. The victory in the game. The most important thing is that he led the horse, and I treated the fibrous texture of the muscles with the reins of the horse. This physical feeling was clenched in his hand instead of just an inanimate rope. The warrior's feet are surging waves. I want to make the picture look more romantic here, so I made a lot of curved decorative designs (including the front legs raised by the horse).

Finally, the most gratifying point for the creator is that the viewer can feel the sense of steel from the work (whether it is color or structure) - that's great, this is the artistic style I want to express.

[ratcatcher0325]

Alexander if you could time travel

Would you rather travel to the great depression

Or during ww2

They are both rough patches in history

Have fun

♡

Salutations Anon,

Ah, a historical hypothetical, eh? Well, this is far more interesting than many of the questions you internet people have put me through, so I'll oblige your little thought experiment. Why not?

Well, let's see... My answers would vary based on several factors. Are we assuming I still lived, here, in the United States? A country ravished by the Great Depression, but significantly less so by the war?

Also, in this exercise, are we assuming I am still myself? Meaning, that I wouldn't exactly meet the height requirements to be drafted during wartime, if you understand my attempt at a joke? Because, certainly if that were the case, I imagine my life would not alter all that significantly if I were in my current state, living during the 1940's. However, I imagine my life may have looked very different during the Great Depression. Perhaps I would've ended up homeless, myself. At this current juncture, the world is altogether unkind to people of my stature, I can't imagine just how much worse it would be during a time of such universal hardship and desperation. I doubt I'd find that kind of life very pleasant.

If we are, however, pretending that I were human? Well, then... I'll be the first to say, I've never considered myself a particularly patriotic person. After all, what has the United States of America and it's so called nation 'of the people, by the people, for the people' ever done for me? However, on the other hand, having the opportunity to throttle the fascist chokehold on Western Europe would be immensely gratifying and I would gladly jump at the opportunity, as I find myself vehemently opposed to oppression and dehumanization wherever it is found.

(Also, the fact that men wore dashing suits at the time, on a universal scale, certainly doesn't hurt.)

So, yes, it would seem I would prefer the Second World War in both instances. But, for all our sakes, I'd rather stay in the present, thank you. Knowledge acquisition is significantly more feasible with the aid of the internet at my fingertips. I am not exactly a huge proponent for heaving pages around that weigh more than me, just to get a chance to read a chapter or two on the topic I'm interested in. Been there, done that. I don't recommend it.

Well, I hope my response was satisfactory.

Yours Historically,

Alexander

[leavingautumn13]

Hey since ya sent me some asks I've decided to return the favor:) hope you don't mind

10, 3, 15, 18 :)

-LS2H

thank you so much! i appreciate it! <3

[fanfic writer asks]

3. What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written?

oh, this is a tough one. i like all the fic i've written, but i think i'd have to say what becomes of the brokenhearted is my favorite. it's got a lot of heart and effort put into it. updates are kind of slow, but i want it to be good, yknow? so i've been taking my time.

10. Is there a fic that got a different response than you were expecting?

i was surprised by peoples' reaction to nora in what becomes of the brokenhearted. she's an oc, so that people wanted to know more about her was really gratifying to me! hopefully their interest pays off as the fic progresses and we see her character development.

15. How do you come up with titles for your fics/chapters?

what becomes of the brokenhearted is a song fic, so i reference old song titles for that.

i've been tempted to do the same thing for eye of the storm, but with actual lines from the lyrics instead. i may also just wing it. i said this in another ask but eots is still in the preplanning stage, so i'm still ironing out the themes and things for it. we'll see how it goes.

18. What’s one of your favorite lines you’ve written in a fic?

here's one of my favorite scenes from my original 2016 draft of eye of the storm, under the cut for length

The surrounding soundscape is such a familiar one, when she starts to break it down. Harbor bells clanging, seagulls squawking hoarsely overhead, people shouting, laughing, talking, and under all of it, the steady bassline of the tide as it ebbs and flows, so much like a heartbeat.

She closes her eyes, and lets herself drift in the sounds, feeling the heat rising off the concrete below her, the breeze gently brushing against her face, the icy condensation of her glass of lemonade dripping down her hand.

If she focuses hard enough, she starts to see the Olivine skyline take shape in her mind—the lighthouse there, and the distant mountains further back. The colorful pennants hanging across streets, tossed gently in the summer breeze. She imagines, for a moment, if she opens her eyes, she’ll be back there, sitting at an outdoor café table across from Jasmine, five years younger and, for the moment, somewhere safe.

She knows that’s impossible, but it’s a nice thought. What’s even nicer, maybe, is though she can feel the weight of the sunlight on her shoulders even through the flimsy canvas umbrella, she’s not falling back to anywhere she doesn’t want to be. Olivine is a good memory, and things in the present still aren’t good but that they’re not cramming her every waking thought is better, and better is good.

If May opens her eyes, it’ll be Kosuke sitting next to her, folded a little awkwardly into a seat not made to accommodate someone with her bone structure, and past her it’ll be the glittering glass and steel of Lilycove, not Olivine; the waves that crash against the beach are the same ocean, sure, but the opposite side of it. Nearly close enough to touch and still so very, very far.

[bh-writingdump]

zeek's freaks

1st meet - 1st hug

[1st Draft]

Ezekiel is coming into this knowing so much as what the files tell them, Peaches is a piece of work. Grabbing anything from arms, shirts, bra strap, underwear. Ze leaves bruises when people try to get free but other than that no kills. Definite case of don’t go in unless sedated.

Peaches sees Ezekiel as another person who wants to poke and prod at zem. In prison, peaches can’t let anyone know how scared ze is so combats this by being overly flirty to zir own detriment.

1st meeting

Ezekiel conducts these meetings after hours like “experiments so most tune out what Ezekiel is ying. Ezekiel, at first, took all of Peaches stats while unconscious but is trying to change that.

Ezekiel can’t risk other captives informing on them so has to remain incredibly “professional” aka apathetic towards “patients.”

E: Good evening, for the duration of this interview, you may refer to be as Ezekiel Partridge (they/them) or Partridge for short.

Peaches weaves up to the glass.

E: could you state your name and pronouns for the record?

Peaches smiles wide with hooded eyes as watches Ezekiel. “Peaches… ze/zir. Nice to meet you zeek.”

“Ezekiel will do just fine.” Ezekiel flips through several pages, filling them out. “Are you experiencing any physical pain (not including soul pain).

Peaches nods, leaning in so only separated by glass. Ze puts their finger into their mouth and plugs the hole, popping it in and out slowly. Peaches expects it to throw Ezekiel off instead they nod.

E: no pain. Libido present

Ezekiel pretends to write the second part

P: what? don’t want boss knowing I’ve taken an interest in her newest toy?

E: it’s irrelevant to the study, unless it’s causing you discomfort

Ezekiel drops a pen, disregards the yellow line, feels a tug on their hair. Looks up and finds Peaches popping zir finger in and out of air holes again.

P: looking for something?

Peaches pretends to be sexually gratified.

P: maybe we could continue this inside.

E: patient refrains from answering

Ezekiel glances over Peaches body from the speckled tail up to the breaks on zir ribs to the heavy grooves on zir arms.

P: see something ya like doc?

Peaches runs a hand up zir chest, tongue running along zir teeth.

E: do your arms give you trouble? Some of those marks appear recent. Even if its just itchy

P: little pain never hurt anyone. I can take a helluva lot more, wanna see?

E: is that what they told you? was it someone?

Peaches gets thrown off by the hint of anger. “You don’t know [asylum’s name], doc. S’ par for the course.”

E: I’m sorry.

P: why? *genuinely confused* I asked for it.

Ezekiel glares at ground. So pissed teeth grind but pretends to be looing at paper.

E: how does your soul feel?

P: fine. what? you wanna touch it? betchu’d like that

E: how about your mood? Has it been consistent or variable?

P: same old same old. Better now that you’re here~

E: do you find your depressed most days? Frequently?

P: bit of a downer for our first date, isn’t it?

E: so you do?

P: who doesn’t?

E: how about highs? Does it feel as if you’re mood shifts wildly, some days low, other days through the moon?

P: I wish. Say, why don’t we do this inside. I’ve got a warm mat calling your name.

E: I’m new, not braindead.

P: ouch.

Ezekiel notices zir gaze stray to their hair.

P: just wanna know, ya know. not much changes in here. not many stay after hours talking to lil old me.

Ezekiel leans forward, past yellow. There’s some magic swirling in their eye. Just as Ezekiel gets close, feel a tug on their hair which breaks the spell. Blinks and all of a sudden thinking again. steps back, tries to, fails. Hurts a lot. Ezekiel looks up to see Peaches hyperfixated on their hair. Not talking or making sexual overtures, just touching, feeling.

Ezekiel notices tail whips side to side with a rhythm rather than the erratic wild way it started. Upon a second look at the cell, there’s only a blanket, pillow and a sun lamp in the corner.

Ezekiel furiously takes notes on behavior indicates as takes it all in. This should adequately give a barometric on how different stimuli affects zem and perhaps a resting calm state.

E: Peaches, do you find certain stimulation to be calming.

It breaks Peaches spell, lecherous grin.

Ezekiel sighs, “I suppose I walked right into that one.”

P: sure did, sweets

E: what about this do you find calming?

P: who said I’m calm?

Skepticism, yank

Ezekiel holds back an “ow”

P: maybe I find it arousing

Ezekiel yanks their hair back only to find peaches had grabs ahold of another.

There’s a minute long fight of pulling back then getting a new strand pull, the equivalent of slapping each others hands in a fight.

Ezekiel regroups mentally, closing eyes and breathing meditatively while Peaches makes mini braids that look awful.

E: Peaches, you agreed via our contract that you would work with me. That includes not taking actions to hamper the experiment.

P: like what?

E, deadpan: I see how it is… Let go of my hair, Peaches.

P: or what?

E: I’ll be very disappointed and tell everyone you have terrible manners.

Peaches breaks out into laughter.

P: that’s rich, sweets but he already knows that.

Peaches lets go

E: you’d be surprised

P: I know what they write. Sexually aggressive and handsy, right? did they get the one where I pantsed that one guy. Should’ve caught it on tape. He had an amazing ass.

Ezekiel sits down writing. If Ezekiel was right this could be more of a form of disassociation mixed with a lack of impulse control. Plus, depending on what the circumstances are there might’ve been other factors at play. Ezekiel feels a heated gaze above them.

E: would you like to see?

Peaches: what, you offering, sweets? I’m touched but I’m going vegan.

Ezekiel deadpan stares as they hold up the clipboard so Peaches can see what they wrote.

P: you didn’t even ask me any of that stuff

E: is that right?

P: nope. might as well try again

Ezekiel reads it again

Peaches, to their surprise, answers. Granted, it’s hard to tell how truthful they’re being between trying to make grabs for their hair.

P: what kind of test is this?

E: it’s to monitor your mental state, from what I’ve seen, some of the tests you undergo are quiet intense and may have adverse effects on your mental health.

Peaches: you’re quiet the treat.

Ezekiel can’t get the shift in expression. “why are you looking at my chest?

Peaches: clocks ticking zeeky-joy. better run while the doors are open.”

Ezekiel recognizes the time.

E, curses

P: don’t be a stranger~

Ezekiel leaves a candy in the try

P: what? you my glucose guardian or something?

E: I have no clue what you’re talking about. Have a pleasant evening.

Peaches watches them on the way out.

Ocean, knocks: what do they want?

P: don’t know

Meeting

Ezekiel tried to ask the questions again but clearly Peaches couldn’t focus.

Peaches levels with Ezekiel’s face and takes a sniff.

P: is that vanilla?

Ezekiel ignores it

E: here, this might help

Peaches looks over the patch of fur. “you skin it yourself?”

E: caught it out back, actually

Peaches pauses, long enough that E looks up

P: so the doc does have a sense of humor?

E: there’s no way to know. it’s perfectly plausible

P: was that… a pun?

E: what? no. I mispronounced it.

P: sweet’s first pun

E: you’re being ridiculous

P: but you’re smiling

E: an unfortunate genetic condition.

Peaches looks into Ezekiel’s eyes

P: oh yeah?

Ezekiel rolls their eyes when they feel the tug, the trickster had a way with magic it seems. Some sort of hypnotism.

E: give me my hair back

P smells it.

P: definitely not your usual eucalyptus?

E: if I tell you will you stop messing with it. I gave you a perfectly suitable alternative

P: maybe

E: it’s winter green

Thankfully Ezekiel was able to steal that one. The pharmacy really didn’t pay their employees enough. The clerk didn’t even ask for Ezekiel to stop, just sighed.

Another day

Ezekiel sets up a passing game through the glass. These “test” were meant to test reaction times. Miraculously, Peaches didn’t use every time Ezekiel’s hand passing through the holes as a chance to grab them, no matter how easy Ezekiel made them.

On a future test, Ezekiel found similar results opening the glass shield enough to do “memory games.” This also didn’t result in grabbing. Though, when fatigued and Ezekiel leaned too close to the glass, they felt a tug.

E: tired?

Peaches hums.

Ezekiel sometimes pretended not to notice, letting Peaches get away with playing while Ezekiel wrote notes if ze was light enough about it.

* * *

The day had come. Ezekiel straightened their tie in the mirror. Their lab coat was pressed and hair combed.

Today Ezekiel put their theory to the test that Peaches was impulsive but could control zemself given a controlled, stress free environment (or as close as Ezekiel could come up with). Like other times, Ezekiel brought a scent cannister, letting it release while preparing tests. “what’s that, sweets? Smells nearly as divine as you.”  

Peaches was lenaing toward the cannister.

“Cinnamon.”

Peaches nods, half listening, preoccupied with smelling.

Ezekiel leaves it on, signalling a guard to be ready. They clear their throat. “Today, we’ll be testing your reaction time and hand eye coordination.”

P: how?

E: I’ll be opening the door. You will remain where you are without crossing the line or reaching to hand me the ball. You’ll only have the ball cross the line, do you understand?

Peaches: yeah, sure.

E, signals

Peaches laughs in surprise seeing the glass rise.

Edit: maybe this is the first time the glass has raised in a casual context

P: your somethin’ else doc.

E: not a doctor

Ezekiel half expects Peaches to lunge out and grab them but instead Peaches holds open zir hands. Ezekiel sets the timer. “Underhand, please.”

They go on like that for awhile. Passing in silence, occasionally, Ezekiel throws curve balls, finding Peaches easily able to catch them. As the timer clocks out, Peaches ends with the ball.

Ezekiel writes down the results onto to feel a shift in of weight in their lap and Peaches an inch way from Ezekiel with no glass in between suddenly felt a lot closer. With no glass, the pull from those eyes felt even stronger but Peaches blinks.

E: you know the rules

P: how’d I do?

E, glares

Peaches sighs and leans back, raising a brow.

E: all things considered, quite well. you scored in the upper percentile.

P, wiggles hand: told they can be quite a handful

E: I’m sure they—

Ezekiel sighs

E: that was abysmally bad.

P: c’mon, I sold an arm and a leg for that one

Ezekiel pinches their nose

E: you should ask for a refund.

Ezekiel hears a door open. While finishing up the paperwork, they keep an eye on Peaches and an ear on the stranger. the reflection of ___ showed it was Gerviase. Great.

Gervaise: you’re still here, fun size?

Ezekiel struggles to contain their disgust. Since when were they buddy buddy. Peaches, to their surprise, doesn’t seem to enjoy their discomfort. Instead watching Gervaise move behind them.

E: leave the lights on, Doctor Gervaise.

G: no need to get all prickly

Ezekiel’s not paying attention, focused on checking other questions off that wouldn’t raise as many red flags as playing catch.

“FUN Size!”

E: can’t this wait till tomorrow?

Laughter

Ezekiel turns around. only has a second to between hearing “CATCH!” to seeing something hurled toward them. It hits them square in the chest, tumbling back, they gasp and sputter as they hit something hard.

E: what were you thinking!?! I’m clearly working with a patient!

G takes a step back, looking scared and darts out. pounding at the security key.

Intercom: lock subject 9069 in first.

G: don’t leave me in here with that thing! Why did you let me in if that thing’s cage was open!?

Intercom: you said it was an emergency

G: I didn’t mean like—CARL! OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR!

Ezekiel hears a rattle. Ezekiel notices the wall behind them moves. Ezekiel slowly steps forward. Something stops them. Ezekiel gulps trying to push away the arm wrapped around their gut. Peaches doesn’t look at them, staring at Gervaise.

 After enough yelling the guard lets Gervaise out, then closes the door again. Once the steps grow distant, Peaches lets go.

“you okay, sweets?”

Ezekiel hurriedly steps back.

Then registers the question. “yes, I’m… I’m perfectly adequate.”

P: don’t give him your back, kay?

E raises brow.

Ezekiel amazed thought Peaches was ever a threat. Clearly else must’ve been the cause.

* * *

After several tests, it’s clear that there’s a degree of attention issues but usually with things ze finds boring.

Though the impulsivity clearly hadn’t changed, despite saying not to, Ezekiel still found times Peaches hands wandered as if they naturally belonged in their hair, rather than intentionally ignoring directions. A few tugs were one thing but it’s another when Peaches plays for longer.

Ezekiel even cut off a lock. While Peaches did take it, ze still sought out new strands.

E: clearly, it’s not the sensation. I bet if I cut off a lock, you’d still want the ones on my head, what is it? What makes you come back?

Peaches: so forward

E: I mean it.

P: me too, wanna be closer

E: that’d be inappropriate.

P: why?

E, agast: I’m your attending physician, regardless if I’m qualified it’d be a gross misuse of power and not to mention I’d lose my job if anyone found out.

P: right, I get it *wink* then it didn’t happen

E: what is it now?

Peaches sends a knowing smile. “come back tomorrow and you’ll see~”

* * *

Peterson declares “seeing how Peaches has warmed up to you, you’ll be performing exam without sedation.

E: are you sure? Ze is still—

Peterson glares

Ezekiel approaches the cell with trepidation.

Peterson not only scheduled it at the end of the day but also with a guard glued to their cell phone.

E: Jenkins, if you would

Guard still focused on phone game.

E: aren’t you going to… make sure nothing happens?

J: yeah.. yeah.. dammit! Fuck..

Silence

J: you going in or what? I’m not waiting here all day

E: I’d prefer if you weren’t distracted.

J: kay

Then Jenkins just leaves. Ezekiel just stares at the place Jenkin once was.

E: but I’ll need protection. Peaches is respectful enough but has moments of impulsivity

J: Peterson said you’d say that. don’t worry, rest place locked down. I’ll be in the… security.. room… shit that’s a hard level

Ezekiel unlocks the door and goes in.

E: I’ll be performing a standard physical exam on you today. Is there anything you’d like me to be aware of?

Peaches searches you. “What’s the catch?” ze peaks out of the cell.

God, this is a bad idea. Ezekiel steps into the cell, like it’s nothing. “Peterson gave the okay to go forward without sedation. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

Peaches still hasn’t said anything. Staring wide eyed. Ezekiel pulls out a soul scanner. “Peaches? What’s going on?”

Peaches blinks, like ze was somewhere else and moves closer. Ezekiel presses the scanner into zir chest, having to get Peaches to bend down for it to work.

Ezekiel eyes peaches once more. Seeing as Peaches didn’t appear keen on moving, just staring in confusion, curiosity? The longer it happened, the more neutral Peaches’ expression got.

Ezekiel sets the scanner aside and pulls off their gloves. “that’s enough for today. we can do the rest tomorrow.” Ezekiel would need to look into who did this examination last. Perhaps they could poison the bastard’s coffee or something.  

As Ezekiel packs up their notes, feeling all around terrible, Ezekiel feels a tug on their hair.

Ezekiel, huffs: very funny, Peaches, but I need to go.

Ezekiel tugs it out only to feel something brush their leg before curling around it. A few hackles raised but it’s not a full coil so they remove the end tail easily enough. Only for Peaches to round on them, adding on a thicker part of zir tail in the coil. Ezekiel gets one leg  out but the other is stuck.

Ezekiel looks to Peaches, vacant eyed. “Peaches?” Ezekiel snaps, usually that works but today ze still has that curious vacant gaze.

Peaches runs a hand through their hair.

Ezekiel grabs zir wrist. “That’s quite enough. Let go of me or I’ll need to call for help.”

The coil unwinds. Ezekiel sighs in relief. “Thank you. I appreciate your restraint.”

“Hey, Patridge! How long’s it going to be –”

In an instant, Ezekiel feels a weight around their stomach tug them back. They push against the arms hugging them tightly to Peaches.

E: Peaches! What in the blazes—

Peaches other hand pulls them against zem, stealing Ezekiel’s breath away and covering their mouth. Ezekiel’s mind races as they try to think of what to say. In the meantime, Peaches pulls them further back into the cell, partially shielding them with zir body

Jenkins’s footsteps come closer. “where the hell are you? did you seriously leave the door open?”

Peaches bones rattle as the footsteps come up to the cell. Jenkins peaks through. “asshole must’ve left.” Jenkins mutters, stomping out.

Peaches shudders and lets go of Ezekiel’s mouth.

E: Peaches? Peaches?  Can you hear me?

Peaches sways side to side idly, whistling a tune. Ezekiel suspects it’s a form of self-soothing.

E: whatever this is, you’re going to be all right but I need you to listen to me. I can’t be in here, not like this.

It continues on for a few minutes. Peaches doesn’t seem to hear anything. It’s only once they stop and finally look down at them that it seems to click. A deep pink blush crawls across zir cheeks.

P: what- oh. OOHHH. Shit

Peaches laughs awkwardly. Ze sets Ezekiel down, brushes them off as if the two just bumped into each other on the street.

P: no harm done, see?

Ezekiel stare back.

Peaches visibly sweats. “sorry.. didn’t meant to.”

Ezekiel mercifully cuts zem off. “I’m not angry.”

“You’re... you’re not?” Peaches asks skeptically glancing out of the cell.

“I still didn’t appreciate being handled.” Ezekiel glares. There couldn’t be any sign that it wasn’t anything but inappropriate. Ezekiel couldn’t be encouraging this behavior. Then again, it essentially only a hug… but covering Ezekiel’s mouth… that’s more concerning.

E: do you recall what happened?

Peaches picked at zir sweater, glancing out of the cell. “The exam it—”

Ezekiel could see the glossing over. There isn’t that curious edge but still, better not to push it. “Don’t force it. I don’t need you lost in another episode.”

When Peaches keeps staring out of the cell, Ezekiel walks in zir line of sight. “I’ll need to know one thing. Did I overwhelm you? Was there something I could’ve done better not to activate your fight or flight?”

P: that? What? no. No, I .. I would’ve.. less you nah.. would’ve done something different if it was you.

Peaches trails off, still watching but zir hand found Ezekiel’s hoodie as if it was imperative Peaches knew exactly where they were.

Ezekiel pealed the offending hand off.

E: then what was it? If it wasn’t me…

P: wasn’t home.

Ezekiel nods. “All right. all right… how about is there anything I can improve on? Until we find out what triggered it, I’d like to know if there’s anything I can do to help make future exams less uncomfortable.”

P: heh, you couldn’t make it worse if you tried.

E …

P: did I scare you?

E: no, you merely picked me up quite suddenly.

P: sweets? Shit, I didn’t mean

E: my feels on the matter are irrelevant. I’m here to support you. Don’t spare it another thought.

P: bullshit. I scared ya.

E: no, you didn’t. you surprised me. Anyone would be surprised.

P: anyone else would’ve buzz the crud out of me.

Ezekiel eyes go wide.

E, grumpy: I’m not them.

P: I wouldn’t have let go so easily if you weren’t ya.

E: ah, well, it’s over.

Peaches looks frustrated.

E: just tel me if I’m making it worse.

P: it isn’t—it’s always been like this. I can’t help it.

E: what do you mean?

Peaches, rubs arms: it’s been awhile.

E: if this is a sex joke, I’d appreciate you save it for tomorrow.

P: believe me, wish it were

Peaches shoves zir hands under zir arm pits when notices Ezekiel watching them.

P: been awhile since someone wanted to hold

E: for sex?

P: no!.. that’s not it. yer not them. I saw your soul. yer good

Ezekiel rubs their chest self-consciously

P: knew you weren’t the type but didn’t think..

Peaches holds zemself harder

P: please leave *looks sick*

Ezekiel does.

[salaimoi]

i wave goodbye to the end of beginning ˚. ✦.˳· ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem reader sypnosis: he wasn’t what you desired anymore, but he couldn’t let you go. months passed since your bitter breakup, and yet, he didn’t stop loving you for a second. cw: slow burn. angst for the sake of angst. falling out of love for no reason fr. unrequited love. alcohol consumption (gojo only) no happy ending me thinks, or maybe somewhat. who knows word count: 3.1k

author's notes: i’m mourning gojo and so should you! so here’s a piece of an angsty fic that’s been rotting, unfinished, in my drafts since march 29. i was only gonna post a sneak peek of this and suddenly the holy spirit took over me and drove me to finally finish it??? IF U EVER READ ANYTHING OF MINE PLEASE LET IT BE THIS😭😭i’m so in love with the reader crying scene u don’t get it. the metaphors?! i outdid myself. i am so terrified of the deep ocean, and the fact that i find myself writing about it during angsty hours says a lot about me. i can’t emphasize how much i adore this fic. i just love angst sm idkidkidk

also, this is my first time attempting angst for the sake of angst as well as slow burn (?) so idk if i’ll ever come back to this. not beta read.

Time and again, this mahogany dining table was the scene of numerous heartwarming interactions – mementos Satoru wouldn’t be able to replicate a second time, even if he spent a thousand lifetimes trying to do so. Sure, it was more than easy to recreate the scene, but not the genuine warmth the two of you felt in that moment. He could go to great lengths, such as hand-crafting every single piece of furniture in the room that bore witness – carving and polishing wood until his palms became more splinters than skin. But even then, he wouldn’t come close to reliving any of those gratifying sentiments from so long ago.

All the shared laughter at his trivial attempts at comedy had caught up to you; your smiles were forced lately, and he could tell. He possessed that diamond-blue, six-eyed gaze which consistently made you feel as if he could undeniably read your thoughts, but that wasn’t the case. Even a blind person could discern the unforeseen shift in your comportment toward him, and due to this, Satoru questioned himself relentlessly. 

What if he’d said something to offend you? What if he left the toilet seat up one too many times for your liking? What if he began snoring in bed but you were too considerate to say anything about it? What if he forgot a special date? What if he tried to offer you something you were allergic to? 

What if he stopped being the love of your life...? 

It seemed as if, in a fraction of a second, all the enjoyment you once felt had deserted you, and with it, your love for him. Had you forgotten how happy you were by his side all in the spawn of a few hours, or was this the universe’s twisted interpretation of a joke?

Even if it was, you weren’t laughing.

You told yourself it was fine, that it was a mere wave of sadness that would soon pass, but instead the harmless tide you paid no mind to had brutally swept your body into a sea of despair. Before you could process your predicament, the shoreline was well out of sight – blurring with the deep blue expanse of the oceanic abyss that enveloped your mind.

The longer you fought to stay afloat, the clearer the path became for the briny water to replace the oxygen in your lungs, giving you no choice but to drown as everything around you became a pitch-black, bottomless pit – devoid of any sense of worry for you. 

It was rather often that you were accused of abandoning the ship when things got bad, and yet, here you were – submerging along with it.  

How ironic.

Even he couldn’t save you now. The solace his mere presence bestowed upon you when you needed it most wasn’t there anymore. There was no more capability of initiating conversations with him when you were the only other person in the room, causing the once-upbeat and soothing environment to give way to one of silence and uncertainty; it was as thick as syrup.

Syrup. The sugary taste of it from when you consumed it during breakfast was all but replaced by a repugnant, sour one in your mouth. A persistent echo of those homemade fluffy pancakes you had turned down remained, even though he had made them just for you — his precious girl. 

You insisted you would eat later – an obvious white lie to mask your despondency and lack of appetite – but he spoon-fed you, because in his own words, “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I allow my girlfriend to starve? No, that won’t do. I’ll take care of you even after I've exhaled my last breath.”

“And how would you do that if you’re no longer breathing, genius?” you asked, a wilting smile on your face that you had put on display for him. 

“Well, my dear," he retorts with a smug grin. "I've always believed that love has a way of transcending the boundaries of life and death. And as luck would have it, our love transcends the mortal realm. I will always be with you, in spirit if not in flesh.” he smiles, a twinkle of amusement behind his sapphire eyes before continuing.

“Once I've moved on to the afterlife, I'll find a way to send you sweet nothings and a box of chocolates from beyond the grave. Consider it an eternal gift.”

He declares in a complacent tone as he lounges back in his chair, head resting comfortably on the back of his hands. 

"But in all seriousness," he then adds, his tone becoming more genuine, "I'll do everything in my power to ensure you're taken care of – even if it means making sure my eternal resting place has a Wi-Fi connection for you to receive my messages.” 

Your thoughts were entirely silenced in that moment; white noise overtook the black space within your mind. How had he managed to say such heartfelt words as if they were second nature? This early in the morning, nonetheless.

Would he actually…?

You knew he would.

"But let’s not dwell on my demise just yet,” his words bring you back to the present conversation. “Until the day comes, I promise to make the most of our time together. Besides, knowing me, I’d probably haunt you just to ensure you have someone annoying to keep you company."

He finally remarked, going back to stuffing your face with the soggy pancakes that had been sitting in syrup for too long. 

And you were cognizant of the fact that you alone were privy to this side of Satoru Gojo: the mushy, gentle one who tended to his companion as if it were a god-given mandate. 

To the public, he was a stoic, impervious character who had no dread of others. To you, he was far more vulnerable than he would ever confess. 

But that wasn’t nearly enough to deter you from taking the disheartening decision made later that day.

“I can’t stay here anymore.” austere words you didn’t wish to speak, but needed to, in order to provide some semblance of closure for the both of you. “I can’t love you anymore.” 

A hushed supplication could be heard flying across the room at the speed of light once your hand reached out to turn the bitterly cold door knob, hitting against the back of your head – identical to an equally-cold shower.

“Please don’t leave me,” he immediately protested weakly. 

He approached you with cautious strides, every step causing fragmentation in his all-too-frail emotional state. Even if it was ephemeral, the mutual love between the two of you had already left a blazing watermark on his soul. His feelings for you transcended the nagging rationality that bound his mind, defying all sensible objections he had on the matter of permitting you to depart from his life. Having failed to quell the ardor her felt, it persisted apodictically until he was an arm’s length from your frame. 

And that was exactly it – the same frigid sensation your hand clinged onto emulated the one you felt in your wretched heart the moment he approached you. You’d already turned your back on him and expressed every afflicting anguish that tormented your soul, so why plead now? Now – when you already made the conscious decision to leave him behind. 

Tears neither you nor he could hold back began flowing down your features. A familiar hand lifted towards your cheek soon after, wiping the salty residue off your delicate face with his thumb. 

He never ceased to remind you how gorgeous you were when you cried, frankly because the manner in which your wispy eyelashes retained the saltine tears in your eyes resembled the delicate surface of a tranquil pond.

Every tear you shed would become the gentle water that tickled his skin as his body wafted about in your iris – an eternal reservoir he’d swim in without tiring if the heavens so permitted it.

However, this occasion differed from the rest; the once gentle waters he yearned to lay in became calamitous waves, which may lure him to the ocean’s most profound recesses in the blink of an eye – your blink of an eye. He would usually stay afloat among that innocent gaze of yours, but tonight it was ruthlessly drowning him with no lifeline in sight. 

Even after he implored that your crying would come to a halt, more pungent teardrops bled onto his fingers. An eroding desperation flowed through you, aching to hold onto something, anything, in order to cease the mental decay within your subconscious.

Thus, your own hand extended to hold his against your cheek, a glacial embrace overpowering the warmth of his skin; an identical chill tickled his spine when he absorbed the crispness of your graze, but he paid it no mind.

“Not you too…anyone but you,” he pleaded in a low voice, causing more accursed tears of yours to cascade mercilessly as he embraced you in an endeavor to sway your decision. His voice was gentle and soothing, mimicking a caress you’d never experience a second time. 

“I’m sorry.” you muttered.

Being unable to bring yourself to meet the sapphire eyes that imitated a midwinter sky so perfectly, your head lay low; the only thing visible to him was the top of it. 

It was unclear what you were sorry about. Perhaps you were sorry that you had to leave him behind. Or perhaps you were apologizing to yourself that he was no longer what you thought you wanted with every fiber in your body.

You desired more in this life, and on your game board, he wasn’t a playing piece who could frolic alongside you. It wasn’t because you didn’t fancy his company, rather it was the fact that his own strategy of playing was one that did not catch your eye anymore; it had become a monotonous rehearsal. Every move came to be a discernible one to you – even before he picked up his pawn, causing you to lose interest in the entire game itself.

That realization alone shattered his entire world.

Satoru’s head lay low all throughout as he sat on a wooden stool amidst the empty bar. It was 2 a.m. and he needed to go home, but why should he?

You wouldn’t be there to greet him – or even scold him for that matter. 

Colorless, almost lifeless, marbles stared vacantly at the picture of you on his lock screen; he consistently spoke to your picture as if he were having a conversation with it. At this point in time, it had become routine. Maybe one of these days the frozen-in-time frame would speak back to him for once?

Just once.

Where had that tender smile he’d fallen in love with gone?

Where had you gone?

On a nightly basis, the same detestable conversation from that night redounded from one end of Satoru’s mind to the other incessantly – akin to a religiously recited sermon. 

It was impractical to disregard the harsh reality that sooner or later every cherished individual he held dear to his heart willingly departed from his life – Suguru, and now you. 

If it entailed becoming a regular person, he’d give his life as a sorcerer to ensure the permanent presence of at least one individual in his life. Where was the value of possessing such prowess when one’s vulnerability in the realm of love was inescapable? 

What twisted transaction was that?

He'd even willingly forsake his divinely bestowed talents for the purpose of altering the passage of time, thereby reverting to a period where your presence was far from being nothing more than a diminishing recollection. 

Ijichi had been dealing with this side of his boss for months on end. Regardless of his efforts to encourage Gojo to put an end to this melancholic act of his, he never managed to convince him to do so. Ijichi attempted the compassionate approach, but to no avail. His optimism and patience were dwindling, fearing that this would continue on for eternity – and perhaps it would’ve if he hadn’t stepped in.

This had to end sooner or later, and for everyone involved’s sake, it had to be the former. So tonight, he opted for a sterner, and perhaps more unforgiving, path.

Your car was parked out front of the bar Ijichi had sent you the address to – forehead pressed against the steering wheel as an audible, exhausted sigh escaped your mouth. It was late and you knew this was nothing short of inane behavior. You weren’t doing this for you; you had to remind yourself that you were doing it for him, with the hope that he would ultimately find someone who would be there for him in a way that you were unable to. 

Weary, almost weak, legs lead you to enter the desolate bar. A knife prods at your chest when your eyes dart over to where Gojo was. He kept his head lowered; the only part of him you could clearly see from this angle was his back.

An overwhelming sea of emotions plagued your mind when you witnessed him in such a state. You could feel the knives twist the longer you stared at the back of his fluffy white locks. 

Months had passed since your split, and you realized Satoru’s grief and distress were indeed as dire as his assistant conveyed to you during the phone conversation. 

A tap on his shoulder was accompanied by a sweet voice that had vanished into the depths of his consciousness a long time ago. Perhaps because he didn't wish to recall the agonizing memories that came with your voice, or perhaps because he needed to maintain a pristine, untouched image of you in his psyche.

As you occupy a vacant stool one seat away from him, your attention is drawn to the half empty vodka bottle in his grasp. 

“You know, I talked to your therapist. He said you were getting sober.” 

What you said held true, except you didn’t hear it from his therapist directly; Ijichi was the one who was initially informed about that, and being the caring person he was, he relayed the details to you. Mostly because he felt as if, deep down, you still wanted to know about Gojo’s well-being.

"What are you doing here drowning yourself in alcohol?" you added, seemingly concerned for your ex-boyfriend.

He looked up at you, his eyes red and bleary from the drink. His body froze. Blue pupils dilated in a mixture of shock and happiness. It really was you. Had you come back for him after all this time? 

"What does it look like I’m doing?" he muttered, his voice bitter and angry.

Satoru detested alcohol; it always interfered with his abilities, and being the strongest meant being ready whenever – no questions asked.  After your departure, though, he grew fond of the bitter, burning feeling the liquid provided. That sweet poison was the sole substance capable of muffling the eternal pessimism plaguing his mind.

You approached him cautiously, taking the bottle from his hands and setting it aside. "Come on," you said firmly, "we need to get you home."

He wasted no time to speak what was really on his mind. Even if it was for a mere second, he had felt the sensation of your touch once more. That was more than he needed to vocalize the thoughts that tormented his sanity. Either that, or it was the alcohol he had consumed speaking. 

“Why won’t you love me back?” His words slurred, being far too drunk to care, though. 

“…You’re drunk, let’s get you home.”

“What home? The one I bought for us that YOU left me all alone in?” he deadpans, the silence following being as deafening as a scream.

Ouch. 

“My room feels so empty if you’re not there. I see your precious face and I don't know what to do.” His expression dampens with anguish before he continues – somewhat unclearly, ”whatever I do, I cam’t fubking get you out of my head amd it’s ruining me.” 

“I told you to move on a million times every time you drunk dialed me, Satoru.” 

“If that’s what you wanted, why did you continue to pick up the call?” He retaliates, eyes glazed with forbidden tears on the verge of cascading against his pale skin.

You knew perfectly well why. He knew perfectly well why. Everyone Satoru vented to about you knew why, so why continue to deny it? 

Attempting to keep your temper in check, you take a deep breath, eyes darting back and forth between the door and him. It was more than easy to run away from your problems, like you always did. But not this time.

You owed it to him to at least finally stick around long enough when things got tough. You wouldn’t put up an invisible wall between the two of you anymore, not today. 

You sigh, taking the empty seat right next to him. 

“We can’t go back to how things were. We broke up, remember?” 

“I know,” he grumbles, taking a sip of his beverage. He shook his head, his drunken state making it almost impossible to focus his thoughts or his vision. “But maybe drinking will make me forget that we ever did. Maybe tonight I can pretend we’re still together,” his voice and face etched with sorrow.

His voice trailed off, followed by another long sip of his drink. 

“You need to quit drinking yourself into a stupor, Satoru. This isn’t healthy,” you responded, voice softening out of concern. 

His eyes still clouded with alcohol, he looks at you before speaking. “I don’t know how to move on.” He admitted, voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to live without you. I loved you…and I still do.”

He silently weeps once and for all, crumbling before the love of his life. You didn’t know what else to say, so you settled on simply allowing his head to rest on your shoulder; you always were his favorite shoulder to cry on, after all. Wrapping an arm around him, you pet his head as you lull him. Instinctively, he envelops you into a warm embrace, face burying itself deeper into your chest. 

As he continued to sob like a baby, the sorcerer allowed his emotions to flow freely – months of bottling them up into liquor bottles had finally caught up to him. 

He was beyond ecstatic underneath all the melancholy; not only had you allowed him to get closer to you, but even went as far as hugging him too. He couldn't believe it. Just a few moments ago, you were talking about forcing him to move on, but now – you were actually back in his arms, where you belonged.

He felt relieved for a moment, almost to the point where he wasn't thinking properly anymore. You were finally back in his arms, where you needed to be; he refused to let go.

It felt like a fever dream, but this was all he needed. Even if you’re gone, morning come, he’ll live in this moment for the rest of eternity.