#dreadful title but cute little piece | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lilacs-stars · 5 months ago

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a night to remember

this is part 2, recommended you read part 1 first! (to avoid confusion) pairing: james hook x fem!reader (requested) (note: reader is glinda the good witch's daughter) SUMMARY: one day, you find a mysterious note in your locker from a certain pirate. who knows where it'll end up taking you—and your interesting relationship with him. GENRE: very wholesome despite the intro (I swear), fluff, some teasing and banter, reader being oblivious, mutual pining, just relationship cuteness overall CW: not much, mentions getting tipsy (not from alcohol), one little dirty joke if you squint hard enough WC: 7.5k

A/N: the title was inspired by the song of the same name by beabadoobee and laufey (I recommend listening to it while reading, as it sets the mood nicely!) james hook is literally so gentleman coded you can’t convince me otherwise. also I randomly thought of male characters using "m'lady" and now I'm obsessed...this was made to be pure, feet-kicking and giggling inducing fluff, so enjoy! thanks again to the anon who requested this, hope you like it! please leave feedback and suggestions, hearing your thoughts makes me so happy! :))

You stare down at the drink in your hand, the realization of what it is slowly dawning upon you.

Mouth agape in pure disbelief, you glance up at the man sitting in front of you. The devilish glint in his eyes, rivaled only by the shine of his metal hook, sends chills down your spine—making it terribly clear why he brought you.

Oh god, you think. How in the world did I get here?

You make your way through the bustling halls of Merlin Academy, trying your best to not get jostled by the ruckus of the crowd.

Honestly, who puts people’s classes on the sixth floor and their lockers on the first? you mentally grumble, finally reaching the dreaded staircase that you climb up and down dozens of times each day.

After descending the five flights of stairs, you’re completely out of breath by the time you reach your locker. You tap the lock with your pointer finger three times, a magical device inside reading your fingerprint. It clicks open, and your locker door swings out towards you.

Reaching to place your books inside and take out some new ones for the rest of the day's classes, you’re shocked by something that slips out as soon as the door opens. A white piece of paper sways back and forth as it falls to the floor, right next to your feet.

You bend down to pick it up. Upon closer inspection, you learn that it’s not a piece of paper; it’s a small packet, stapled in the corner. At the top, in neat, printed letters, are the words “ENCHANTMENT OF MAGICAL OBJECTS: UNIT 3 WRITTEN TEST.”

Below it, a line is provided for the student's name. Scribbled down in a fancy, yet somehow still messy and barely legible font, is the name “James Hook.”

He left me his test? you question. You don’t even bother wondering how he broke into your locker; after that little incident where he stole your ring, you have resigned yourself to not being surprised at his so-called “bad boy” antics. He is a villain, after all.

This test was one that your class had been preparing for quite some time. It mainly centered the theory of enchantments, with the most difficult one being the Aiming Spell. Thankfully, you had taught Hook most of the material during your study session last week, specifically focusing on helping him improve his Aiming Spell (although maybe he got a little too good, considering how he pulled off that ring trick).

Your confusion regarding the test placed in your locker lasts only a second longer, until you notice that in the top right corner, a big, circled "87%" is written in bright red pen.

The number stays for a brief moment, before the red ink rearranges itself on the page, morphing into a “B+”.

Wait…that’s really good. For him, at least, you think. Is this really all because of your one tutoring session? You have always thought that you’re pretty good at teaching other people, but you never considered yourself a miracle worker. He must think it is because of me, I guess. Otherwise, he wouldn't have left this in here.

Even though you know you’re probably not supposed to, your curiosity gets the better of you, and you flip back the front cover to check what he got wrong.

As soon as you lift the top page, another piece of paper falls out of the test. This time, it’s smaller, a faint beige color tinting the sheet.

You reach down once again to pick it up as you notice that this one is actually an envelope. Glancing at the back, which appears to be empty, you flip it over to the front side. It bears a wax seal embossed with an emblem of two crossed pirate swords.

Carefully peeling back the top of the envelope so as to not rip the delicate paper, you pull out the note inside. There isn’t much writing on the plain paper, but it’s in the same handwriting as before. Very intrigued at this unusual occurrence of events, you read the few lines of text keenly.

“Friday, 6 pm. The Rogers Place.

Make sure to wear your fanciest dress.

Meet me there. I’ll be waiting.”

...What? You’re too stunned to even think. What is this? There’s no way he’s actually asking you out…on a date.

This has to be a joke, right? A study session was one thing, but this, this, meetup, is something entirely different. He even asked to meet you outside of school. You've heard before of the restaurant he mentioned, although you've never actually gone there yourself. Based on what you've gathered, it's a popular, rather formal place run by Eudora Rogers and her young daughter, Tiana, in memory of her beloved husband.

So why in the name of the heavens would James Hook ask you, someone who has no dating experience whatsoever, of all people, to go with him to dinner? “Wear your fanciest dress”? What is this guy thinking?

In utter disbelief, you flip over the note, checking the back to make sure you haven’t missed something. To your surprise, there is some writing scrawled on the back, which reads: “Your payment for helping me pass my test.”

Right…so…he’s asking you out on a—no, it’s not a date, you remind yourself, yet again. He’s simply doing a nice act to return the favor. This was probably the only thing that came to his mind. Silencing the little voice in your head that whispers, “Why would the first thing that came to his mind be asking you out to dinner?”, you stuff the envelope and note in your bookbag, holding on to the test to give back to him sometime.

As you walk down the hallway, rushing to get to your next class, you don’t see the figure lurking behind the corner at the other end of the corridor.

He smirks, knowing he has you right where he wants you.

This one? No, it’s too casual.

How about this one? No, it’s not fancy enough.

This? Too sparkly.

That? Not sparkly enough.

You sigh, flopping onto your bed amidst a pile of dresses. It’s a few hours after school let out, on the day you’ve been anticipating all week long. And, not surprisingly, you can’t decide what in the world to wear. After all, it’s not like you’ve been out on lots of not-dates to know what a typical outfit would be like.

You stare up at the ceiling, sighing again for what must be the hundredth time this night. At times like this, you seriously wish you had a roommate. You've always had your dorm all to yourself, and sure, it is really nice most of the time. You can relax and unwind in solitude, with no one distracting you or pestering you with trivial matters while you study. However, there are the rare few occasions where you long to have someone close, to help you out or give you advice.

After holding up quite a few more dresses in the mirror, you finally decide on the one with the fewest number of cons, from the mental list you made for each dress. Slipping it on—albeit with much difficulty, since who designed dresses to be so frilly to the point where you can't even find where to put your head?—you stare at your reflection, completely enamored by the person you see staring back at you. You’re not really used to wearing fancy things like this, which is probably the reason why you barely recognize yourself.

Twirling around, head over your shoulder as you keep your gaze locked on the mirror, you realize why people have always told you that you have a striking resemblance to your mother. Your outfit consists of a ballgown-style dress, which really is the only type you have in your closet. Even though it’s a bit uncomfortable, the fitted bodice making it rather hard to take a full breath and the off-the-shoulder neckline compelling you to constantly tug it up to prevent it from slipping, it still is absolutely gorgeous. The short sleeves complement the torso, and the full skirt, all puffed up with layers of tulle, swishes elegantly as you move around. The bodice is densely embellished with small rhinestones, mostly at the top, with the gems growing sparser farther down the dress. A few crystals are set into the skirt just below the waistline, creating a scattered, shimmering effect reminiscent of the stars in a night sky.

Even though you aren’t a fan of fancy dresses, you must admit, you absolutely adore this one.

Finishing off the look with some jewelry and accessories, you take one last look at yourself in the mirror. You've never been one to be arrogant, but it's still hard not to think that even though this is certainly not a date, maybe, just maybe, Hook might be a little more interested in you after tonight.

“Um…hi?” you say, timid voice rising into a question from your uncertainty.

After getting dressed, you made your way to the restaurant. Fighting the deep-rooted urge to get there early as possible, you took the long route, not wanting to be the first to arrive. I’ll make him wait for me this time, you decided with an evil little smirk, thinking back to the day of your study session and the long minutes you had agonizingly spent wondering if he was going to show up.

Now, you stand in front of the reception desk, peering up at a waiter ordering papers. Fiddling with the lace gloves covering your hands, you add, “I don’t know if my name is ion the reservation or anything…”

Honestly, you’re not quite sure what to do at this point. All Hook had instructed you was to show up at the restaurant at this time. Part of you had expected him to be waiting by the door, but now that you see he isn't, your nervousness rises.

“Are you Y/N?” the server questions, glancing down at something on the small podium-like stand.

“Uh, yes, I am,” you reply.

“A young man has made a reservation for the two of you. He’s already waiting for you out on the patio. If you’ll follow me,” the waiter informs you, grabbing a menu from his stack and leading you through the bustling restaurant.

You follow him, feeling incredibly bashful as you swerve around tables and people alike. You finally reach a large set of doors in one of the seating areas, which the waiter opens for you.

Stepping through the threshold, you sense the cool rush of the evening air welcome you out. The sky has already begun to dim, a few faint stars gleaming against the dark backdrop. Spread out in front of you is an array of tables, most of them small enough for only two people. The low lighting, coming solely from flickering candles and glowing lanterns strung throughout the area, paired with the singular rose set in a vase at the center each table and a faint, slow jazz song playing somewhere in the background, makes for the most romantic of settings you could have possibly imagined.

Your breath is completely taken away as the server leads you through the arrangements of seats. It’s sparsely crowded, with only a few couples seated here and there, each enjoying an amorous dinner.

The server stops at a circular, two-seated table close to the edge, overlooking a magnificent view of the city down below. A few feet in front ahead and sitting with his back towards you, the only object of your thoughts for these past few hours turns his head in your direction, probably upon hearing the clacking of your high-heeled shoes.

Although you’ve tried your best to convince yourself that this, in fact, is not a date, you simply can’t deny the way his entire expression light up at the mere sight of you. Hook stands up, unabashedly eyeing you up and down slowly, taking all of you in.

A small smile tugs at his lips as he takes your hand in his, once again bowing down to place a kiss on your ring—it appears that this has become a routine, which you can't exactly say you mind.

You don't miss how he pauses for just a moment, noticing the way your ring is still on your ring finger, unchanged from the place he left it. Holding your breath, your heart beats faster as you worry about what he thinks of it. To your relief, he doesn’t say anything, instead kissing the gemstone and straightening back up again, but not before ever so softly—yet still with obvious intentionality—brushing his lips against your finger, deliberately tracing your skin with an agonizingly slow pace as his warm breath sets your every nerve on fire.

“M’lady,” he breathes, standing to meet your gaze. His casual nonchalance is a stark difference from the way you struggle to regain your composure, hating how even the smallest of actions from him can elicit such a reaction from you.

As you study him, you notice that he had a significant wardrobe change too; instead of his usual pirate attire, he dons a dark maroon frock coat, embroidered with intricate swirls and designs. He definitely made an attempt at looking a bit more classy, with his hair neater than usual and the collar of his shirt tidily done. You could even swear that his hook looked more polished than usual, and that he carried the faint, odd trace of expensive cologne.

The server leaves the menu on your table and walks away with a polite nod of his head. Hook steps over to the chair opposite the one he had been sitting in, pulling it out for you in a manner that is far too gentlemanly for what you're used to seeing from him, gesturing at you to sit down with a wave of his shiny metal hook.

Overwhelmingly flattered, you walk over, smoothing your skirt beneath you as you take your seat. Hook pushes your chair in, before going back to the other side of the table to take his own seat.

Not sure what else to do, you pick up your menu and glance over it. “Decide what you’re going to order yet?” Hook asks you.

“No, you?”

“They already took my order, but I told them to wait on preparing my food until you had ordered as well.”

They already took his order? How long has he been here? you wonder. You glance at your wristwatch, seeing that it’s only a few minutes past six o’clock. Deciding to shrug it off, you go back to looking at your menu, despite not being able to fight the voice in your head that whispers about how you should've gotten here earlier, that he had probably been waiting for you, all alone, for quite some time.

“It’s so hard to decide,” you say with a halfhearted laugh, trying to fill up the heavy silence. You peruse the menu more carefully this time, marveling at how many different dishes are listed. Finally, after reading through the entire thing a few more times, you settle on the one that sounds the best.

After only a few moments, the server comes back around and takes your order. “A fine choice, ma’am,” he comments as you tell him your choice of entrée. You notice that all of the waiters here wear fancy black suits and come with a pristine white cloth draped over their arm. Huh, how fancy, you think to yourself. I never knew this place was so formal.

“So, Hook,” you begin, “Why did you bring me here?”

“Didn’t you read my note? It’s a thank-you for helping me pass my test. The teacher was very impressed with my score, you know,” he responds indifferently.

You give him a small sigh, paired with a gentle smile—your attempt at hiding the twinge of disappointment dancing in your eyes. “I did, but you didn’t have to treat me to dinner. A simple note would have sufficed.”

Hook looks at you, dark brown eyes wide and holding your gaze with an intensity you’ve never known. “Sufficed? I don’t want to just suffice. I want to give you a memorable night. An unforgettable experience.” “I don’t think I could ever forget a charming pirate with a hook for a hand,” you laugh, teasing him lightly. Instead of laughing along with you, Hook stares at you for another moment, studying you with slightly scrunched brows and an indecipherable expression on his face. You grow uneasy at his burning look, shifting in your seat as you wonder why he’s watching you so intently.

However, the tense awkwardness in the air lasts for only a minute, before Hook breaks into one of his famous smirks as he replies, “Oh, charming, am I? I know you can’t stop thinking about me, love.”

“Th-that’s not what I meant!” you cry, leaning across the table to give him a small push. He breaks into a laugh, his lips curling up into yet another genuine smile as he leans back just out of your reach. His mirthful expression makes you realize that he had been simply joking, causing your face to burn up as your mind replays your rather dramatic reaction. Honestly, you can never really tell whether he’s being serious or just messing with you.

“Settle down, love. Wouldn’t want you ruining that pretty dress of yours,” he responds, twisting to the side again to prevent getting smacked by you.

You two continue making small talk, still partaking in your teasing, only slightly annoying banter. Before you know it, a waiter is walking towards your table with two platters, one in each hand.

The server sets down the plates on your table, the dishes both looking absolutely delectable. Along with the food, he places two matching beverages in front of you two.

You thank him, and he bows again before leaving. Turning back to Hook, you watch with a slight arch of your eyebrows as he raises his drink in the air.

“A toast,” he says. “To continuing our little dates.”

You roll your eyes, not bothering to correct him this time. Lifting your own glass, you add, “And to you continuing to get good grades.” He smiles at this, before lifting the drink to his lips. Perceptive as always, you notice how his eyes follow your hand as you bring the glass to your mouth.

A sudden, fleeting doubt crosses your mind at his suspicious behavior. Glancing down at the drink skeptically, you notice its unique bright red color. You lower +it slightly and sniff it, then bring it down from your face, fixing a glare at Hook. “You think I don’t know what this is?”

“Oh, I know you do. That’s what I was counting on, at least.”

You persist with your glare. You've spent many hours reading up on different potions and elixirs, so you're no stranger to the drink in your hand. It's a popular one known as the Lovers' Lascivious Lure, a beverage with a fruit punch-like taste, plus a little kick. The real reason for its fame, however, is the touch of love potion that gets mixed in. Not enough to truly make someone fall in love with you or intoxicate them, but rather something that is favored by couples looking to get a little tipsy in love on their night out.

You set the glass down on the table, not breaking your gaze away for a second as you continue to glower at the person sitting across you.

“It’s rude to not drink after a toast, darling,” Hook says, raising his eyebrows at you.

“I don’t care, I’m not drinking that,” you reply irritatedly.

“Fine. Your loss, love.”

You watch in complete shock, eyes blown wide and mouth agape as Hook brings his drink up to his lips again, tipping back his head as he gulps the entire thing down in one go.

“I’d drink yours as well, darling, but I’d hate for you to be forced to walk me home, instead of the other way around,” Hook spouts with a bit too much added expression, slightly swaying as the effects of the potion kick in.

You continue to stare at him, concern etched into your features, knowing full well that this drink is designed to be sipped slowly throughout a leisurely dinner, one with much idle conversation and flirtatious looks. Not to be downed all at once. You honestly don’t know what the side effects are to consuming a large amount very quickly, but you pray that the potion is weak enough so as to not cause actual harm—or any other effects—to him.

“So, love,” Hook drawls in a low tone, leaning in. “Anything you feel like telling me?”

“You’re the one who drank the liquid courage, not me,” you point out, fixing him with another look. “Honestly, I’m not sure how much longer you’re going to last like this.”

At your words, Hook’s dazed expression suddenly disappears, instead replaced by a very serious, stern face. “Oh, I assure you, love, I can last very long.”

You blink, a tad confused at why he said that with such a strong conviction. Brushing it off, you look down at your food again, your mouth already watering. “Come on, our food’s going to get cold, and it looks far too delicious to waste.”

Hook agrees, unrolling his utensils instead of shooting back a one-liner, much to your surprise. You’re even more taken aback at the way he drapes the white cloth, which previously held his cutlery, over his legs as he begins to eat, keeping up with his very proper etiquette. He does everything with utterly perfect decorum, from holding his fork and knife in the correct positions to cutting all his food into little pieces. You honestly don't know why this comes as such a shock to you; he has been employing rather polite manners all evening, after all. It appears, you realize, that you’ve always subconsciously believed the stereotypes that pirates are unruly creatures, which therefore must mean they eat messily.

Apparently, this pirate doesn’t.

You both make small talk as you enjoy your food, which is every bit as delicious and succulent as it looked. All the different components are cooked to a perfect degree; not raw or difficult to chew, but not burnt, either. Rich, deep, aromatic spices have always been the staple of this restaurant, and for good reason. You have no clue what flavorings they used, but whatever they are, they taste unlike anything you've ever eaten in your entire life, like an otherworldly meal sent from the heavens. To top it all off, the food also comes with piquant side dishes, followed by desserts that are absolutely decadent and make you melt with every bite you take.

After you both have had your share, Hook motions to the waiter for the check. You had slipped some extra cash into your handbag before coming, not sure what the expectation would be for who paid. As the waiter returns with the small black book in his hand, you turn to Hook.

“I can pay, if you want,” you offer.

Hook quirks his brow as he gives you a look, before reaching into his coat pocket. “Come now, don’t be ridiculous, love. What kind of a man would I be if I didn’t pay for you? Especially considering that I was the one who asked you out.”

You blink hard, barely aware of your small nod towards him, your mind racing as the waiter gives Hook the check. You blankly watch him scribble a signature before handing it back, trying to process what he just said. “...asked you out…” Does that mean he actually considers this as a date? Especially since he offered to pay for you…Heavens, what is going on?

Your eyes trail the waiter as he leaves, just as Hook turns back to you. “All finished?”

“Yeah,” you confirm. “So…what now?” You aren't quite sure whether or not he's planning on walking you home like he mentioned earlier, but you do know that you're not ready to part quite so soon. Averting his gaze, you instead choose to look down at the candle flickering in the middle of your table. It is now very dark outside, to the point where the flame’s meager light shines with a bright luminosity. Entranced by the fire, you stare intently at its dancing movements, attention fully consumed by how the flame appears to be practically alive.

“Now,” Hook says with a glint in his eyes, causing your head to snap back up, “I have something to show you.”

“Something to show me?” you repeat. “Show me what?”

“I guess you’ll have to wait and see once we get there, love.”

“Once we get there? Hook, where are we going?”

He gives a smug, knowing grin. “You’ll see. Just be patient, darling.” He notices the skeptical look you still have, so he adds, “Trusting me last time turned out good, right? So trust me one more time. I promise you’ll like your surprise.”

You consider his words, hating how he had a point. “Fine,” you huff. “Lead the way, I guess.”

You start to push your chair back to get up, but Hook chides, “Ah ah ah, no you don’t,” standing up himself before walking behind you. He grips the back of your chair and pulls it out for you, before offering his good hand to help you stand too.

Once again, you’re rather shocked at his well-mannered behaviors and courteous gestures. As you accept his outstretched arm, you wonder how in the world this is the same person who was, only a few days ago, leaning back in his chair with his feet up, flinging magical disks across the room.

Getting up, you hesitate for a moment, freezing in place now that you’re level with his eyes. You haven’t been this close to him since that pivotal day during your study session, and your breath gets taken away once again by the proximity.

His angular features and sharp jawline catch your attention, causing your legs to stagger as your gaze wanders down to his soft, plush lips, which definitely stand out amidst the rest of his chiseled face. You had never noticed how his eyeliner also traces his bottom lash line, making his eyes pop whenever he widens them, or how part of his hair swoops to the side and slightly covers his forehead. It dawns on you that you’ve always overlooked the two small silver earrings that dangle from his ears, or the chain around his neck with a cross on it, usually hidden by the collar of his shirt.

Not aware of how you’re just standing there paralyzed, you commit to memory the small details about him you’ve never really seen before. Even though the inside of your head is alive and bustling with a plethora of thoughts, outside, you two stand in terribly awkward silence.

Hook clears his throat, snapping you back to reality. “Come along, darling. We wouldn’t want to be interrupted by curfew again.”

Tightening his grip on your hand, which still holds yours, he leads you through the entrance you had used not so long ago while bidding farewell to the waiter. You continue up the hill to the woods behind the restaurant, Hook refusing to give even a single hint as to what big surprise awaits you.

The trail through the trees starts off easy enough, although still rather difficult for you to traverse in your tight dress and voluminous skirt. If I had known I’d be taking a hike, I’d have worn something more suitable, and much more comfortable, you think, but ultimately decide to keep your mouth shut. After all, Hook had been spoiling you all evening. The least you could do was not nag him about every last thing.

The farther you go, the thicker the branches that block your path and scratch at your arms with their sharp claws get, and the denser the underbrush that tries to trap your feet and swallow you whole grows. After a quarter hour of consistent walking, the trail all but disappears, until only a small path carved by the footsteps of a few brave souls remains. You have to hold up the edge of your full-length skirt the whole way to ensure it doesn’t get all dirty and muddy; by the time you’re nearly done, your arms ache just as much, if not more, than your legs.

You and Hook travel mostly in silence, the sounds of your heavy panting and the crunches of leaves and branches underfoot filling up the empty air. You trail behind him, sometimes struggling to keep up, although he does happen to notice this and slows down his pace after the first few minutes.

Occasionally, Hook gives a short, crisp, “Watch out for the rock there, love,” or “The branches here are really low, I’ll hold them up for you.” You always respond with a clipped “Yeah,” or “Okay, thanks,” trying to mask just how out of breath you've gotten from the difficult climb. Early on in the beginning of the hike, you had to let go of his hand, favoring holding up your skirt instead. Still, in areas where the ground is rough or rocky, or the footing becomes difficult or rather steep, Hook always turns around and offers his hand to you and helps pull you up, or reaches out his hook from overhead for you to grab on to.

The noises of the night accompany you the entire time: the soft chirps of crickets, a few croaks from a frog somewhere out of sight, a creature or other scampering through the bushes, a rare call from an owl, and the whispering of the leaves above as a cool breeze passes through them. After a few more minutes of walking through a maze of nature with trees so thick—their only rival being the velvety blackness of the night—the pace of the trek finally slows down. You've long tired of always having to hold one arm ahead to ensure that you don’t get smacked in the face by an unsuspecting branch, so you're overwhelmingly relieved when Hook finally says, “We’re almost there.” “Finally,” you mumble between breaths. “I think my limbs are just about to fall off.” You can’t really tell in the pitch-black darkness, but you could have sworn that Hook gave a small smile at your words.

Once you reach a thick tangle of branches and vines that completely block your path, you both come to a stop. You watch as he pulls them back and to the side, even slicing through some with his hook. He beckons you forward with a courteous, “Ladies first,” a grin dancing on his features.

You walk through the clearing and onto a wide ledge overlooking the entire city. The view knocks the breath out of your lungs, despite your body already screaming at you for more oxygen. All thoughts of your strenuous hike vanish from your head, except for one that reminds you the arduous journey was absolutely and totally worth it.

From all the way up here, you can see the entire land. The shimmering lights of the large cityscape below you steal your heart, while the small village houses and mountains beyond them, creating the faintest of outlines against the horizon, capture your soul. This vantage point allows you to see everything; every bustling street filled with people rushing to get home after a long week, or frolicking around on a night out. Every house, every drawn-back curtain, but a mere speck in the constellation of human activity, a testament to the splendor of life. Twinkling lights sprawled below you paint a shimmering mosaic, reflecting the celestial canvas of stars hanging above you.

You stare in pure awe, almost forgetting about Hook as he approaches you from behind. “Enjoying the view, love?” he whispers softly, his voice closer to you than you expected.

You startle, turning backwards with a sharp inhale. “Oh…yeah, it’s just…breathtaking.” Unable to think of the right words to describe it, you decide to settle for an almost shameful understatement of the view's beauty.

You’re not quite sure if you imagined it, too caught up in your head, but you hear something that almost sounds like a soft, “Just like you.”

“Huh?” you ask, turning back around to face him.

“I said, I told you you’d like it,” Hook repeats, although you still hold your suspicions. “All you had to do was trust me.”

“And how can I be sure you aren’t planning to push me off the edge?” you question, teasing him.

“Well, you can’t,” he replies, walking over to the ledge. “But if I do, I’ll let you drag me down with you. If we go down, then we go down together.”

You giggle, choosing to take his words at face value only and not read into them too much. After all, your heart can only take so much in one night.

Hook crouches down, using his good hand to support him as he sits down in front of you, keeping one foot hugged to his chest as he dangles the other off the side of the cliff.

He glances over his shoulder at you, patting the space besides him. Cautiously, you walk over to the ledge, joining him on the ground.

You both sit there for a moment in silence, looking over the magnificent scene. You can tell that Hook finds comfort in the lack of conversation, but it feels too heavy for you, and so you decide to finally break it with the question that’s been on your mind this whole night.

“Hook?” you ask gently.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you bring me here?”

He turns his head slightly to glance at you. “I thought you’d like the view,” he replies, looking at you with a confused expression.

You take a quick breath, preparing yourself for the difficult words you’re planning to speak next. “No, I mean, why did you really bring me here tonight?” He opens his mouth to respond, but you cut him off, adding, “And don’t lie to me.”

His mouth closes shut again and he hesitates for a moment, contemplating his next sentence carefully, before responding, “I’ve already told you.”

“What, that you wanted to thank me for helping you get a B-plus on your test? Yeah, that excuse won’t work on me anymore.”

“No, not that.” He turns his head back and runs his good hand through his hair, making his neatly combed style look a bit more windswept than before. “I wanted to ask you out on a date.”

“…What?”

“I already told you that it was a date, love. You just chose not to believe me.”

It’s your turn to whip your head to the side this time, now facing directly towards Hook, who’s still looking straight ahead at the scenery.

“I-I didn’t…truly…I thought you were just joking when you said that.”

He glances at you again, a roguish grin forming on his lips. “Oh, darling, I don’t joke about much. Especially not with you.”

Again, you choose not to read too deeply into his words, trying to break your awful habit of overthinking. Instead, you press on, wanting to gain as much information as you can from him. If nothing else, at least a few answers might help put your mind at a little more ease. “Why’d you want to ask me out? I’m not exactly…”

Your voice fades away as your brain catches up with your far-too-fast mouth, realizing that saying “I’m not exactly the most desirable person to date” may not do you any favors.

Hook turns to look at you with an expectant gaze, and you know that you can’t sweep your little slip-up under the carpet that easily. Gods, he’s observant. “…the most popular person at our school,” you finish.

“Hmm, true,” Hook concurs, tilting his head with a tone as if he’s never considered that point before. You were half-expecting him to disagree, more out of courtesy than honesty, so you’re a bit taken aback when he agrees with you.

“But I don’t care about popularity.” Ah, so there’s that socially obligatory politeness. You don't really believe his words at first, yet the way he says it so sincerely, so genuinely, makes you wonder if he truly is being honest.

“So why’d you want to take me out on a date?”

“Because, love, you’re different from what I’m used to,” he replies. “You’re kind, soft, pure. You intrigued me.”

You recoil at his words, a deep, writhing anger rising out of you. “What, you only went out with me because I’m so pure and innocent? So you could corrupt me?” you spit, having heard this little skit far too many times before.

“No, not like that. Not at all.” Hook twists his body to face you more, and although you’re still mad at him, you can’t deny the hurt and pain that swirls in his voice and eyes at your accusations. “You’re…you’re always trying to help others. You always speak softly, always smile. You’re untainted by the evils I've witnessed. You’re like an angel sent down from the heavens. You’re not like me, love."

Hook continues, “And I don’t want to change that. I don’t want to corrupt or hurt you. I want to preserve that. Every time I’m with you, you make me want to keep you safe from the troubles of the world, the cruel things I’ve seen.

"You make me want to be around you. I can't explain how, or why, but your presence alone compels me to change my ways. To be kinder, gentler, softer. For you. It's as if you're contagious, and well, I think you've infected me, love. Whenever I see you, or even think of you, everything feels just a little bit better. The weight on my shoulders feels a bit lighter, and nothing seems as bad as it used to, as it was when I was on my own.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is...you've made me feel things that I haven't felt in a long, long time. Things that I thought my blackened heart couldn't even experience anymore. You make me feel like there's still goodness in the world...like there's still hope. Like I still have hope." You blink slowly, your mind and heart spinning alike as everything around you, as time itself, seems to slow down. You're unable to process all his words, unable to even begin to consider the implications of what this all means. “So, what you’re saying is…you only like me because I’m good?” you ask, touched by his sentiment, yet a little sad at the underlying meaning. Does this mean that if you want to stay with Hook, to maybe even be something in the future, you can't have any darkness to your soul? That you'll have to continue to be as righteous and morally correct as ever?

He gives a small chuckle. “Of course not, darling. I love when I make you snap, when you get angry at me. I love when the fierce part of you comes out. Just like it did now.” He reaches out his good hand to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, brushing against your cheek as he keeps it there, not pulling back quite yet.

You can see the hesitance swirling in his eyes, the uncertainty in the way his hand lingers by your face. By some sudden stroke of courage, the origins of which are a complete mystery to you—maybe he had the love potion added to your food too?—you shift your whole body towards Hook, keeping your legs tucked together and off to one side.

“Kiss me,” you breathe.

“I'm sorry, love, wh-what?”

It feels strange to take command for once, but it sure is nice. “You heard me. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

His lingering hand cups your cheek as you both lean in, meeting each other in the middle. Hook’s lips are as soft and plump as you imagined, almost like brushing your mouth against the petals of a rose. Placing one of your hands on the ground beside you, you put your weight on it as you move even closer.

You’ve read of intense kisses, filled with passion and fueled by lust. But this isn't like that. It is slow, sweet, intoxicating you with only the purest of adorations. Your lips hover over his as you tilt your head to the side to prolong the embrace, getting swept up in the moment whilst being completely and blissfully unaware of anything and everything besides how his lips feel against yours, how his hook traces your body as he devours you like a starved man given his last meal. How he breathes you in like you're the very air that fills his lungs, like your sheer essence is the only oxygen he needs. You bring your hand up to his shoulder, leaning further into him as he moves his good hand back and tangles it in your hair.

It ends rather quickly, the entire kiss lasting but a moment, yet still filling you with the sweetest pleasure. In that moment, you realize why people spend their whole lives searching for love; it’s one of the most endearing, profound forms of joy that one can feel, and you're certain that you just felt it.

You pull away, noticing how his gaze lingers on your lips, before looking back up at you. He gives you a captivating, yet genuine smile, one that makes your heart to ache at how perfect he is, yet simultaneously yearning for his touch, his lips, him being wrapped up in another embrace with you and never breaking away. The newfound euphoria coursing through your veins and making your mind fuzzy causes you to return his smile with a wide, love-drunk grin of your own, a deep, wholehearted devotion emanating through your gaze as you study his features.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you whisper, staring into his eyes—eyes that reflect your own.

“Always, love.”

“You were my first kiss,” you confess.

Hook brings his hand back up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone. His grin grows, an endless affection swirling in his dark eyes as he replies, “I guess this really is a night to remember.”

You give a small laugh, lowering your forehead to lean it against his shoulder, seeking comfort in his hold. “You did want to give me an unforgettable night, after all.”

“Can I tell you a secret, too?”

You raise your head again to peer up at him with wide eyes, curious as to what he has to admit.

“That day, in class,” he confides, “I was enchanting those disks and sending them across the room so you’d come and talk to me. I saw how you went over to help that other kid who was struggling. So, I figured that if I struggled too, you'd come over and I could get a conversation with you.”

You raise your eyebrows. “So you could cast the spell right?”

“Oh, no, not even close, love. That was all your work. Although I might have put in a bit more effort just to impress you,” he adds with a small smirk.

You move one of your hands closer to him, placing it on top of his and intertwining your fingers together. “Well, I suppose it worked.”

You lean back into him, kissing him blissfully yet again under the watchful smile of the moon glowing high in the sky, the stars glimmering and winking down at your young love. As you embrace, the city below bustles with the joys and despairs of human life unbeknownst to you, each person a thread in the tapestry of the world. Every soul but a speck of stardust in a cosmic dance.

And perhaps that is the greatest folly of human life. All the weight of one’s burdens, all the battles fought, all the hearts and souls that love and cry, together composing of but a fleeting second amidst the vastness of forever. And yet, each person gets lost in the preeminence of their own narrative, joyfully unaware of every grain of sand that disappears into the abyss as we shuffle closer to the edge of this mortal coil. But oftentimes, one’s deepest flaw is their greatest feat, as no imperfection comes without its own merit.

So maybe that very feature is, instead, the greatest feat of humanity. To love like you’ll live forever, and to weep like there’s no tomorrow. Maybe our ignorance gives us strength, the strength to keep going every day, pretending as if we somehow have an authority and power over the galactic strings of thread that weave together the fate of our universe.

The city below you, the world outside of the little bubble the two of you have created, moves on, unknown and unknowing of you both. But in this moment, nothing else matters. Nothing besides the love and affection you and him have grown to share.

end x

<- back to part 1

taglist: @4ng3l-ch1ld @astrynyx @0strawberrysorbet0 @ljaylmaoo @maggiecc @elltheawkward @eretsupremacy89 @dreamerofasgard @mabs04

just leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist!

a/n: I just had to end this with some philosophical musings haha (hey google, how do you write beginnings and endings?) anyways hope you liked this, I love making fluff like this :D I love seeing everyone's comments and reactions, all feedback is highly appreciated! until next time :))

do not plagiarize, translate, remake, or copy my works, including my writing and images, in any way.

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699charcoalp · 4 months ago

Text

All alone with you

Fanwork about Lincoln and my MC Remus. A lot of grammar problems(because English is not my first language) and ooc, my fault.

Title source: All Alone With You by Egoist.

"Lincoln." someone said in the room. "I am here," Lincoln asked, "Want something?" "Nothing," Lincoln's beloved said, "I just want to know you are still with me." "Alright." And then, Lincoln saw his singer smile and wave at him. Good, again, that smile. Lincoln walks to him and sits down. If someone had acted like that before today, Lincoln might have felt a little bit strange but……the people who did this act were Lincoln's singer, star, and boyfriend. So Lincoln thought everything about the man in front of him seemed…… normal and cute. Immediately after leaving the hospital, Remus checked into Lincoln's house, where he refused all contact with anyone connected to his past (except Lincoln) and just stayed in his room all day. Other than the above, everything is normal. Remus lived in Lincoln's house like a cheerful ghost, he'd scorch the pots when he was cooking, and he'd beg Lincoln to buy a game because it was on sale on his steam wishlist (even though Remus had the money to buy it). It's just that he doesn't make any music anymore, and it's like the days of being the lead singer of a band never happened. A lot of people will say "That is abnormal", but Lincoln is not. For Lincoln, that's just one …… piece in the person of Remus, as a seeing every turn of a kaleidoscope, which is endearing no matter what it looks like. Remus laughs very violently but rarely smiles now. Contrary to when he used to be in the band, Remus used to smile a lot at that time because it was unobtrusive. Remus dreaded every stare. In one of the few interviews he was in the band, he once said: “It's a good thing I'm nearsighted, otherwise I can't have any way of fooling myself that ‘nobody's looking at me’". Lincoln replays this interview again and again and then feels proud because Remus is not afraid of him. Even at that time the members of the band, including Remus himself, knew that Lincoln was Remus's fan (of the intimidating variety). "Did you ever think of calling the police when I used to see you every time? " When the first day of Remus moved into Lincoln's house, Lincoln joked. Remus turns around and looks at him like he heard some unbelievable thing. "No, never, "Remus told him, "Why do I have to? I mean……I know you put a huge attention on me but……" Remus throws the thing that he holding away. His hands gestured idly in the air, trying to find the exact answer in these mysterious gestures, but he finally gave up. "I don't know," Remus spoke frustrated, "Even though from the first time I met you the people around me have said that you are a bit strange ……I still feel you will never hurt me." "You trust me?" "I just believe my heart." Remus shrugged, “Even though a lot of the time it shouts so loud inside me because it's triggering some switch that shouldn't be triggered, it's fine to listen and see what it has to say once in a while, at least I can feel safe. ” When Remus finished, he and Lincoln stared at each other silently for a moment. "Any question?" After this moment, Remus tilted his head slightly to the left. "No." Lincoln laughed and helped Remus put his baggage.

Lincoln's thoughts returned to this room in the present. He changed the subject as if nothing had happened, "So what are we eating tonight?" "Sichuan fish soup with pickled mustard greens, Dandan noodles, and Chili oil wontons." Remus began to say the food's name without hesitation. "Can we just eat hotpot?" “No way.” Remus vetoed, “Hot pot and this type of dish are both from Sichuan or Chongqing but they are not essentially the same thing, and I have to correct you on this erroneous idea that ‘all spicy Chinese food is related to hot pot’.” “All right.”Lincoln stood up, "Want some drink?" "Jasmine milk tea 80% sweet no ice large and without boba." There were no pauses, and someone used his lung capacity well. "Maybe someday you'll try some new flavors of milk tea?" "Yeah, maybe when this world is destroyed." Remus roll his eyes. "Wanna come with me?" Lincoln pretended to extend the invitation as if nothing had happened. "No. I don't want to." Remus' handsome face scrunched up so fast. Remus has never been out of the house since moving into the Lincoln home, except to see the psychiatrist. The psychiatrist claims it's a "pathological isolation" and reminds Lincoln that he must help Remus out of this "rut," but Lincoln thinks it's okay that Remus doesn't want to leave the house. At least he'll never leave me, Lincoln thought, and I don't think Remus doesn't realize he's self-isolating himself. The man who can write lyrics that can make people crazy emotion can't be so stupid that he doesn't realize what he's doing; he just needs time, even if the length of that time is a lifetime. Lincoln stands up and leaves the room, Remus silently follows Lincoln out of the room before taking up position by the door to the room, he leans his full weight against the door frame and watches with his arms crossed over his chest as Lincoln begins to put on his shoes after picking up his car keys. "Miss me?" "No, my dear fan," Remus lied without changing his face, "I just wanna turn the drawing room's light off." Lincoln shrugged, he knew what Remus looked like when he tried to lie, but he was happy to pretend he was being lied to. He walks to the door, but Remus doesn't move. Until Lincoln opens the door and wants to close it, through the crack in the door, Lincoln sees Remus quietly walk toward the switch to turn the light off, and immediately afterward he hears Remus say aloud, "Take care on the road. " The door closed.

@pressplay-if I was going to post it anonymously but couldn't find it …… Anyway! (leaving Tumblr nervously, leaving my laptop nervously, leaving this internet nervously)

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hydrangeapartridge · 7 months ago

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Title: Mind Body and Soul

Pairing: Mage!Shinsou x reader

I wrote for Shinsou again! Link to AO3 here

Summary: Once upon a time there was you: a nobody, a refugee from a country devastated by Dabi’s undead army, serving as a maid in king Todoroki’s castle. There, fate decided you would cross path with the mysterious and dreaded court mage Hitoshi Shinsou. Little did you know that particular encounter would change your life forever.

Rating: M

Tagged people <3: @maple-syrup-with-strawbewwies @moonlitmoonpie

Chapter 3: The Mage (under the cut!) - (link to chapter 1 and 2)

“The King will grant us an audience tomorrow” Was the first announcement Shinsou made when you joined him in his tower the next day.

He then eyed you up and down, assessing your accoutrement. Knowing you were supposed to make an outing in the city, you had forgone your housemaid attire for a plain beige dress, simple but comfortable.

“My apprentice should be dressed appropriately for this occasion. You need a special outfit to attend.” Shinsou commented, one slender finger resting on his chin as he thought about it. “It would also be a good opportunity to renew your wardrobe. Mages have a higher status to live up to. You cannot run around the castle looking like a poor stray thing” He added, gesturing to your clothes.

If first you felt offended by his critique of your attire, you didn’t let it get to you too much. You never got the opportunity to own nice clothes, and the prospect was tempting you very much. Compared to your rags, Shinsou’s robes were simply stunning; made of a rich dark velvet; sober but elegant. You were envious of him on that point, so you let his comment about your appearance slide for now.

Shinsou neatly wrote something on a piece of parchment, signing it with a flourish and a wax seal before handing it to you.

“You will find the tailor named Monoma. He will make sure that you are at least presentable for tomorrow’s hearing” You nodded your head and he continued with his instructions. “Once you are done, meet me back here. I will accompany you to town for supplies”

Upon leaving, you noticed that the tray of food the kitchen staff brought earlier for your teacher had gone cold and was still untouched, just like the one brought the previous night.

Finding Monoma was pretty easy. You knew most of the lower staff members, including the seamstresses, so you asked them about him. They made a weird face before pointing you to his workshop.

You later understood their grimace when you found yourself faced with an eccentric blond man wearing a fancy lacy suit with a frilly jabot collar.

“Are you lost little one?” The man asked you when he appeared from behind his desk, immediately taking your hand in his as if to soothe you.

You quickly took your hand back and shoved the parchment Shinsou gave you into the man’s chest before stepping away from him. “I’m not lost Sir. Mage Shinsou sent me” You still politely replied.

Monoma raised a thin blond eyebrow before he proceeded to scan the letter. Its content seemed to amuse him, his eyes holding a mischievous glint when he looked back to you.

“My my... When did Shinsou get himself such a cute apprentice?” He asked, and you felt yourself flush when he started inspecting you from head to toe, prowling around you like a predator.

You squeaked when he touched the fabric of your dress, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“Do not fret little mage. I know exactly what you need! You entered here a dull duckling, you will get out transformed into a pretty swan” He announced with an exaggerated flourish before he clapped his hands twice. “Measurements please!” He called out to the seemingly empty room. However, the next second, two women in pretty blue and pink maid costumes appeared from nowhere and captured you to take your measurements.

Once you had been measured from absolutely all angles, Monoma’s associates urged you to try on a long robe made of warm deep green cotton. The sleeves were large and the fabric was soft. Delicate silver embroidery details made the whole look simple but much more refined than your previous attire. The girls helping you change made you step in front of a large mirror back in Monoma’s workshop, and you almost didn’t recognize your reflection. You looked noble, more respectable than a random housemaid. Delight filled you as you admired yourself. Since you were forced to flee your country, you had resolved yourself to a life of poverty and hard labour. You were grateful to simply have survived the destruction of your country, and you never expected an opportunity to up your social status would have arisen. You almost felt glad you barely escaped being eaten by a demon.

“That’s much better” Monoma commented proudly, inspecting you from head to toe again. “One small detail is missing though”

The blond stepped even closer to you and ran his fingers near your ear. The next second, a large lacy ribbon had appeared in his hand, as if by magic. Impressed, you watched him place a leather belt around your waist, and tie it securely with said ribbon.

“There, much better” He nodded, satisfied with his work.

“Are you a mage too Sir?” You asked, excitedly, and he chuckled while his employees shook their heads in despair.

“I have many tricks up my sleeve little mage, but I am sadly not like you” He replied. “If I was, I wouldn’t be here making clothes. I would live a grandiose life atop the best ranking sorcerers of Yuei’s Academy!”

Monoma seemed to be a very chatty person, and he simply did not stop talking to you, even though he was finished fixing your outfit.

“I have to say I am surprised the Academy is not where you are headed dear. Every single soul that turns out to be gifted with magic is sent there. Shinsou detected many of them, but never kept one as an apprentice before. I’m admittedly curious to know what makes you special?” He made a dramatic pause, catching his breath before asking you “So, tell me little mage; what do you have that the others didn’t?”

Monoma was standing too close to you to your liking, and if you found his antics and tricks funny at first, you didn’t like his questions. You didn’t like them because you simply had no answer to give him. In truth, you didn’t have a clue as to why Shinsou decided to make you his apprentice. It could be because of that strange ritual; but it felt like a secret you should keep, not to divulge to the tailor.

From what you gathered, Shinsou was only mildly satisfied with your learning, and he said himself that you were too old. Maybe they wouldn’t have accepted such an old student at the academy?

“I…” You started, annoyed and suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know” You finally answered truthfully.

Your eyes fell onto the fabric of your beautiful dress. All of this seemed too nice, like a dream. What if the king decided you didn’t deserve it? What if Shinsou realized you weren’t up to his expectations. Could he get bored of you? Could all those nice things get taken from you?

Your gloomy silence had Monoma cease his chatting and go back to business. “The dress for the ceremony will be ready tomorrow morning just before the event. Come back an hour early for adjustments” He only told you, the ghost of his touch on your shoulder driving you away from your worried train of thoughts.

“See you later little mage” The tailor waved at you and his two maids bowed down respectfully.

Only when you were stepping into the cold stone corridors of the castle did you realize you didn’t properly thank them.

When you returned to Shinsou’s tower, despite your knocking on his office’s door before entering, he didn’t immediately turn to look at you.

“Took you long enough” He absent-mindedly commented while rummaging through the mess on one of his tables. “Are you ready to go?” He was looking for something, that turned out to a small satchel that he quickly attached to his belt before turning your away.

“I think I am yes” You answered and then his eyes fell on you, inspecting you again from head to toe.

He was flustered from all his rummaging around and it was a little out of breath that he said. “Well, that’s a much better fitting outfit for a mage apprentice” He nodded his head in approval but quickly looked away, passing you to exit the room. “Now that we’re all set, let’s head out”

You almost felt disappointed that he didn’t have more to say about your new clothes, but you supposed men weren’t too interested in those matters. You quickly followed after Shinsou before he outpaced you. Your young teacher seemed to be in a hurry.

“Are we running there or are you trying to escape someone maybe?” You asked between a few laboured breaths. There was a corseted upper part inside your dress that made it harder to breath than in your usual clothes.

“I do not wish to come across the servants. Or the nobles for that matter. Given it is lunchtime, we will avoid most of the crowd. I’m taking advantage of this” Shinsou answered, his pace not slowly a bit.

You smiled at his asocial nature. “I’m surprised to see you’re more afraid of the servants than they are of you” You teased. “They believe you do horrible experiments on people inside your gloomy tower you know?”

You had long since gone down the stairs and the guards now opened the doors for the both of you to exit into the courtyard.

“I know that” Shinsou sighed. “Every time I detect a gifted person in the castle and have them sent to the academy they come up with new stories of how I did something horrible to them”

So that was where the people who disappeared went? To the academy? You were surprised by this piece of information and you purposefully avoided telling him that you once were tempted to believe the rumours uttered amongst the servants.

“And why didn’t you send me to the Academy?” You asked once you were both alone inside a carriage headed to the town’s market. You were curious about the answer, ever since your conversation with Monoma.

“Do you wish to go study there?” Shinsou asked, his head propped onto his opened palm as he lazily looked away from the landscape to look at you.

“I didn’t say that” You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “And you didn’t answer my question”

Shinsou took a moment to ponder his answer, his amethyst gaze boring into yours until you felt the urge to look away. No one ever looked at you so intensely. It felt like he was truly seeing you; even seeing through you, and it was nerve wracking. Part of you still wondered if he somehow could read thoughts. You’d have to ask him one day if magic could do that.

“The others didn’t need to be saved from the creature from the Otherworld that they unleashed” Shinsou then told you, and you straightened up in your seat, shocked.

“That would never have happened if you didn’t leave dangerous artefacts unsupervised in the mess you call a working desk!” You replied, outraged.

Your anger was all but fuelled by Shinsou’s lack of response. He kept watching you, unfazed, ignoring your comment. A bump in the road made him look outside and you let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding.

“We’re almost there” Shinsou observed.

When you finally cooled down, you wondered if he kept you by his side because he feared you might get into more trouble if left alone? Or again, because of that ritual you knew nothing about? He never fully answered your question, and the events of that first night with the Djinn were a blurry mess in your memories from how scared you were.

You soon were distracted from Shinsou’s nonchalant attitude when the buzzy streets of the market appeared before your eager eyes.

Since your exodus from your home country, you only ever lived in the royal castle. Never did you get to explore the neighbouring town, or any other place in this new country. So it was with excitement and bright eyes that you followed a very blasé Shinsou through the colourful displays of food, jewellery and other bric-à-brac.

“Focus apprentice” Shinsou told you, his tone barely hiding a hint of amusement when he dragged you by your sleeve to help you avoid running into an old woman. “You should watch where you are going before there is an accident”

Shinsou walked close to you, keeping an eye on you so you wouldn’t get lost.

“Over there” He urged you inside a small shop you never would have noticed without him. His fingers on your back gently brushed the fabric of your dress, just under your belt, his careful touch guiding you through the shelves and various displays of magical items. Everything in there was breath-taking. You didn’t even know where to look, your attention getting lost between enchanted music instruments playing beautiful tunes by themselves, flying parchments, tea-pots serving tea by themselves, and colourful displays of various objects of which you couldn’t imagine the purpose.

Shinsou called your name at some point, and you focused back on him, although with difficulty. The corners of his lips were upturned when you met his eyes. If you kept looking around avidly, he seemed to stay focused on you.

“Here, choose the one you prefer” He told you, pointing to a large display of writing quills made from various materials and coming in different sizes and shapes.

You observed the quills, wondering why they could be special enough to be sold in a magic shop. Shinsou sensed your curiosity and gave you the answer without you asking.

“Those are enchanted writing quills. When correctly used they can write your thoughts directly in organized notes and at incredible speed” He offered and your eyes widened. To think such a small object held such power was unbelievable. “I think it’s the type of item that could greatly help you in your studies” Shinsou commented while you browsed the quills, trying their weight, testing how they felt between your fingers. “Sadly no magical item I know of can help you read faster. That would have to come with practice.”

You ended up choosing a quill adorned with the pretty feather of an exotic bird. Shinsou grabbed a few other supplies for you, and then he lost himself in browsing the large collection of books on display while you were more interested in the many enchanted objects the shop had to offer.

Your teacher finally decided it was time to leave when he had picked up no less than five new books to bring home. He looked excited to read them, and it was almost cute.

Upon paying, Shinsou took out a large purse filled with gold from his satchel. Only then did you realize how pricey magical items were, and just how rich the king’s mage must be.

The owner of the shop, a woman with deep wrinkles and almost completely white hair was unfazed by the amount of coin presented to her. However, when she took a closer look at Shinsou’s face, she smiled, obviously recognizing him.

“Ah young man, long-time no see! I think I have another book that could be of interest to you” She drawled.

She then fetched something from the backroom, an item neatly wrapped in an old blanket. Before unwrapping it, she checked left and right that there were no other prying customers. When she deemed the area safe, she took the book out of its makeshift package. Symbols and runes that were unknown to you filled the beautiful dark leather cover. You only were able to spot a few skulls and bones drawn in a very detailed anatomical manner. That book looked absolutely forbidden.

“So what do you say?” The old woman asked, wriggling her eyebrows.

Shinsou’s long fingers gently, almost reverently traced the cover of the book, right before he quickly pulled the blanket back onto it. “Not interested” He stated coldly.

“What?” The woman squawked, visibly surprised. “But last time yo-”

“You’re mistaken. You must have me confused with somebody else” Shinsou interrupted her, his tone definitive and authoritative. Yet, the old lady didn’t get offended. The focus in her eyes shifted, her clear pupils blurring for a second as she realized her mistake.

“Yes. I was mistaken. I must have taken you for someone else” She said mechanically.

You almost felt embarrassed witnessing this exchange; like there was something wrong with it. Something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. It was frustrating.

“Apologies sir. Have a good day” The old woman nodded her head, handing Shinsou some change before she disappeared in the backroom with her book.

You wondered if she was a lunatic, or maybe a little senile. Old age wasn’t kind.

As you exited the shop, you thought back to that book. You couldn’t be certain of it, but you suspected from the symbols on it that it could hold forbidden knowledge. Then why didn’t Shinsou confiscate it? You would have to ask him about it later, when there were no risks of people eavesdropping.

Shinsou dragged you into a few more shops, where every time he bought more books than he did supplies. He was very generous and you didn’t complain that he paid for every piece of parchment and every drop of ink you would be the one using. You could have felt entitled to it, given you were somewhat forced to become his apprentice, but you felt more grateful that he cared about giving you good studying conditions. You still teased him about the books though.

“A mage never stops learning. Books hold much knowledge, and one lifetime isn’t enough to fully understand magic” He replied, flicking his wrist to relieve you of the supplies you were carrying in an effortless spell. Your arms suddenly became empty as your quills, parchments and other artefacts started floating in the air, magically following you and your teacher. Shinsou’s books soon joined your supplies, and people in the streets gave you two funny looks as you passed them; some amused, and some more worried, whispering amongst them.

“Thank you. That was heavy” You breathed and Shinsou only nodded his head in response.

The sun was high in the sky, and with all the excitement of your shopping gone, you suddenly felt very tired. Your pretty dress was warmer than your usual clothes, making you sweat profusely under the afternoon sun, and your throat was dry from thirst. You felt a little dizzy, bordering nauseous and incidentally realized that you hadn’t eaten anything since your breakfast, which consisted of a slice of bread at the crack of dawn.

You hoped that once you would be back in the castle your teacher would set you free for the day. You urgently needed to eat and to clean up, and certainly had no strength left in you for studying today.

Until then, you did your best to follow Shinsou through the crowded market, despite your legs feeling weaker with each passing second. The loud noises around you progressively became more and more muffled, and dark spots blurred your vision. You felt light-headed, and only when your legs gave out under you did it occur to you that you shouldn’t have pushed yourself and should have asked for a break.

A pair of arms caught you before your knees hit the floor and a fresh flowery scent filled your nostrils, as if you were back in Shinsou’s office. If your vision was darkened, your ears still caught a soft worried voice asking if you were alright. You obviously weren’t, but no words came out of your mouth. It was a nice sentiment though, you thought just before you blacked out for a moment.

In a haze you still felt yourself getting carried somewhere, head tilted back, cheek against a soft warm fabric, and an unexpectedly strong touch under your knees.

Your bottom then hit something soft, a hand was placed on your shoulder and then a cold liquid touched your lips. Reflexively, you greedily drank the fresh water offered to you, and as if by magic, your sight progressively returned.

The first thing you saw was Shinsou’s worried gaze. He was kneeling in front of you, his face very close to yours. There was an empty glass in his hand. Were you back at the castle? You couldn’t tell how long you had passed out.

Shinsou’s low voice called your name. “Can you hear me? How are you feeling?”

You blinked, taking notes of your surroundings. An unknown place. Tables, chairs, customers. Loud noises of chatter. Mouth-watering smells of food.

“Where are we?” You asked, voice weak.

The smell of flowers and citrus filled your nostrils again when Shinsou turned his head, his violet curls a little damp from the heat outside.

“The Glen. An inn” He told you. “You had me worried when you fainted. I am very bad at healing magic so I had to resort to basic first aid.”

You nodded your head, processing the information. Then you stomach growled. Loudly.

Shinsou ran a nervous hand through his dishevelled hair, sitting back on his heels. “Foolish girl. You should have said something before collapsing” He reprimanded, more disheartened than angry.

Then it all came crashing down on you. The realisation that you had inconvenienced him. That you had fainted and he had to carry you here. He probably thought you were a burden of an apprentice. You felt impossibly embarrassed. Especially when he was leaning so close to you, inspecting you for any injury.

“Sorry” You muttered, your hands coming in front of your face to hide it as you felt the heat of a full face blush rise under your skin.

“It’s fine” Shinsou said, and you heard the rustle of his robes as he got up. “I’m glad you’re feeling better”

Your peeked through your fingers to watch him walk around a small round table before which you were sat. He took a sit across from you, linking his fingers together on the table. He almost looked like he was nervous. “Since we’re here, let’s take a break. I’ll order something to eat”

Your stomach grumbled once more upon that declaration, and you let out a defeated sigh, letting your arms drop to your sides. “Thank you” You muttered, mortified.

You were still a little light-headed and you zoned out while Shinsou ordered a meal for the both of you. In your state you weren’t be able to read a menu, your brain too mushy and slow to process the options to choose from.

Your glass was refilled with water at some point and you greedily drank from it until a plate of food was placed in front of you by a bubbly young woman.

Without thinking, you dug in. You were famished.

“This place is rather popular I hear. A bit noisy for someone recovering from a malaise perhaps, but I couldn’t find better on such short notice” Shinsou told you while he took a small bite from his plate.

“It’s perfect. And this is delicious” You said between two large mouthfuls of food. Your table manners were far from delicate, and Shinsou put down his fork, his appetite probably put down by the sight of your sloppy eating.

“This stew is supposedly a local speciality and a best seller” Shinsou commented. He was unusually talkative. Maybe he felt uneasy watching in silence while you finished your plate.

“I didn’t know what you liked. I am relieved to see you appreciate this dish” He eventually added, and you almost choked on the food you were chewing.

You hastily grabbed your glass of water to help it all down your throat. Your cheeks felt like they were on fire when you met Shinsou’s eyes. He did his best to order something to your liking and you were touched by the gesture.

The worry in the amethyst gaze gauging you turned into something softer.

“Your face is regaining some colour. That is good”

For the very first time, Shinsou was smiling at you. Not one of those sardonic or mischievous smirks that sometimes graced his lips; no, a heartfelt gentle smile.

You couldn’t look at it, not with how it sent the heat from your cheeks spreading to your whole face.

You went back to your food, finishing your plate; leaving it spotless clean. That’s how good it was, and how hungry you had been.

Meanwhile, Shinsou resumed eating, albeit slowly. Taking small breaks between each bite.

“You don’t eat much” You observed once you were done, needing to break the silence that settled between the two of you now that you weren’t occupied anymore.

Shinsou put his fork down before he spoke. His manners, contrary to yours, were impeccable, and you had to wonder if he was of noble upbringing, or if etiquette was part of a mage apprentice’s training. “I tend to forget” He sheepishly told you, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand. “When I’m too engrossed in studies, time flows by and I happen to skip meals. I also find myself often skipping sleep. I tend to study all night long without noticing”

You were convinced it happened quite often indeed given the permanent dark circles under his eyes. You left Shinsou to his eating, least you wanted to spent the rest of the day in the inn with how he stopped every time you talked to him.

With your recently acquired magic teacher facing you, you had little choice but to look at him. While he ate you observed his well-defined jaw, how white his teeth were, the shape of his lips… He was rather handsome. Not strikingly so, like the prince was for example, but still very above average. Were unrequited affections one of the reason he avoided the other inhabitants of the castle? You never heard any servant praise his looks, but you started to wonder if they ever met him in person.

You looked away from Shinsou’s pale face, feeling you had been staring too long for it to be proper. His cheeks wore more colour too now you noticed. You probably weren’t the only one who had been hungry and tired.

Once he was done with his meal Shinsou paid for everything again. He only nodded his head when you profusely thanked him on the way back to the castle.

Thankfully he didn’t ask you to get back to studying once you finished putting away the supplies you bought, and you hastily excused yourself to go clean up and get ready for a well-deserved rest.

When you went to bed for a nap, tired and spent, just before falling asleep, you strangely felt like you forgot something.

#shinsou hitoshi #shinsou x reader #mha fanfiction #ao3 shinsou #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha shinso hitoshi #hitoshi shinsou #hydrangea writes #shinsou x you

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mask131 · 13 days ago

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Twelve days of Sinsmas (3)

While my introducton to the seven deadly sins was through American TV shows, a lot of people rather first discovered them through Japanese media... It can sound weird, but Japanese storytellers and creators are quite obsessed with the seven deadly sins, using them a LOT.

The most famous case being the Homonculus from the manga "Fullmetal Alchemist", each shaped after and reflecting a specific sin. Plus they come in two variations, with the original set (from the manga, adapted in the second anime) and the alternative set created for the first anime, back when the manga was still ongoing and thus they had to come up with additional Homonculus.

Quite massive to, though very Internet-oriented, there is the "Evillious Chronicles" multimedia franchise, a dozen series of Vocaloid songs creating a larger world which spanned a handful of light novel series, several mangas, many stage shows... And which is heavily centered around the seven deadly sins, with its core series being literaly "The Seven Deadly Sins series".

Today, you also CANNOT escape the series Nanatsu no Taizai, because its translated title is literaly "The Seven Deadly Sins", reinvented as a disbanded group of seven legendary knights evolving in a weird fantasy-land inspired by the Arthuriana. (Loosely inspired, mind you)

Of course, manga being manga, anime being anime, there is a large wave of works where the deadly sins are the basis for a group of young (perhaps underage) sexy (for those who like anime girls) exclusively female characters... This goes from Umineko's Seven Sisters (or Stakes) of Purgatory...

... to "Seven Mortal Sins", about female (of course big-breasted) demons embodying the seven deadly sins (plus additional vices lost to time and the Church's updates)

If you want for a bit of male depiction to balance things in the world of "Let's take a random concept and make it fuckable sexy", you have the seven demon brothers of "Obey Me!", all based on the demon-princes supposedly in charge of the deadly sins.

Back to the good ol' classics of anime and manga, the seven deadly sins also were an entire arc of "Soul Eater". The Book of Eibon's arc, about the titular grimoire, a supernatural somewhat sentient tome which propuls its reader into pocket-dimensions, with each "chapter" of the Book confronting them to one of the seven deadly sins they must overcome...

There is a LOT to unpack with Japanese media, so I will keep the rest for another day, but I will conclude here with a little obscure but cult anime that mixes the weirdness, the bizarre, the humor, the unsettling sexuality and... poop jokes too. I am talking about the famous, or infamous, "You are being summoned, Azazel". A very... strange piece of dark humor/slice of life manga about caricatural humans summoning dreadful demons from Hell, only for them to take the appearance of cute plushies, and then the humans beat the crap out of the plushies while the demons insult everybody and are dirty pervs. It is... a very Japanese piece of media.

And the reason it appears here is because the main and recurring demons of the series correspond to specific deadly sins, with the titular Azazel being a lust demon, and his sidekick Beelzebub a gluttony demon.

#twelve days of sinsmas #seven deadly sins

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weekend-whip · 1 year ago

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Ninjago Fic Rec Week: Day 6

Prompts: Dynamic Duos / Zane Recs! (I uh used up a lot of my dynamic duo recs already THUS here is a Zane-centric list. With perhaps some duos sprinkled in. But Mostly Zane.)

Zane Recs-

My Battery is Low (And It's Getting Dark): THE PEAKEST ZANE THAT EVER PEAKED!!! There's so many little pieces of this I could quote and quote and gnaw on forever (and I wILL) because mmmm. It's just so good. Zane being (mostly) alone with his thoughts prior to Vex interfering in NS11, with the most pointed Zane's perspective I have ever borne witness to *bows in respect*

upon these ashes, hope can grow: Or, five times the group ordered takeout and one time they didn't (or, Zane learns how to love his once-favorite pastime once again). It's snappy, well-placed, and oozes with Zane's character, although I'm so used to fluffy fics about Zane's cooking skills that this one hit me like a brick! But, that would make sense, given that it takes place after NS11 ;w;

Five Times Zane Was a Nurse: And the one time he wasn't! Ninjago is a really good series for 5+1 fics, lemme tell ya. And DietCokeIsLife definitely sits at the top of t hem!

Fractal: Zane reflects upon being a robot Nindroid and it is beautiful ;w;

MAKING ELECTRICITY// YOU CAN FEEL IT IN YOUR MIND: Zane gets struck by lightning and a cacophony of very vivid descriptions and punchy character moments follow after. A little bit bittersweet, but lovely and with a nice ending!

Cut the Act: A movie!verse Zane fic chronicling how this once "just a normal teen" has to explain what he really is to his friends...even if he is pretty sure they already know. ...Maybe. The ending made me grin like an idiot, though.

Backwards Compatibility: Zane and Pixal go on a date for the first time! ...despite being "together" for such a long time beforehand. They're still very sweet, though. Recc'ing this entirely for the snappy title ;P

From Sunrise: Zane, and the view of what the world looks like from his eyes compared to that of his friends (or, Zane likes waking up early and cold environments. Everyone else does not.)

Snow: POST-PILOTS ZANE with his cold snow day logic getting in the way of some realities for Cole and Jay. Extremely fluffy and full of fun and interesting dynamics and just all-around super cute~!!! (and Kai and Nya are there too <3)

doesn't have a title but Zane is curious to a fault: And that's all you need to know! But, I will tell you that the ending has such a glorious bite of bitter irony to it~

Wobble: Zane and Cole discuss some aftermaths of Cole's fault, all while guilt eats Zane alive. The uneasy TENSION in this one??? Delicious??? Also sad ;w;

more title-less goodness: Zane and Cole discuss the former's break up with Pixal, with neither mentioning the underlying implications in between. You know I love me some Zane and Cole interaction, but this one is zested with, like, dread and a really good, if not somewhat devastating, point to be made.

Crushing loneliness is what he leaves this world with: *lies down* How does spinchip always have such a way with words aaaaaaa (prose about Zane's S3 sacrifice that consumes my mind constantly)

Ship of Theseus: AUGH I ALMOST FORGOT THIS ONE, despite the fact I go back to it aaaaaaaaall the time????? Definitely counts as a Zane fic despite the fact he is "Unavailable" for most of it, but in the quest to get Zane back online from an anonymous viral attack, the group reflects on the Nindroid and the impact he's had on all of them, even outside of their own little group ;w; Also shoutout to the antagonist for this one, it's actually quite a fun little twist~

#ninjago #ninjago fanfiction #ninjago fic rec week #zane julien #fic recs #i like reading about zane's thought processes #there's prolly a bunch more i'm forgetting from ffn #but i dun wanna dig too deep into my dark mysterious past lmao

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goodlucktai · 1 year ago

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thank you for pulling me through

one piece pairing: brook & luffy word count: 2k title borrowed from precious love by james morrison smile again au

read on ao3

[The livestream begins without any introduction, the camera stationed to that side so that the baby grand piano and the bench are both in profile. The Soul King himself is sitting in front of the keys, playing scales idly and humming to himself. He seems to be waiting for something.]

skuuuullj0ke Anyone know what this is?

gremlin energy✨✨ @ skuuuullj0ke check his pinned

existential dread but make it cute @ skuuuullj0ke probably an apology

A handful of angry bees @ existential dread but make it cute Apology for what??

A handful of angry bees There was a loss in his family

A handful of angry bees Get some perspective maybe??

existential dread but make it cute @ A handful of angry bees i paid like 200 dollars for my ticket and he canceled a week before the show

👻SOUL PARADE👻 @ existential dread but make it cute Literally his brother died whats wrong with you?

👻SOUL PARADE👻 @ existential dread but make it cute Also his team worked with all the event organizers to get everyone refunded asap so idk why youd choose to cry about money you already got back.

5924874392607 imagine spending 200 usd on soul king tix lmao

gremlin energy✨✨ @ 5924874392607 i think you’re in the wrong place actually

skuuuullj0ke Yikes

[A door somewhere out-of-frame opens with a mighty slam, and someone lets out an ‘oof’ as it presumably bounces back off the wall and knocks the wind out of them. Brook turns around on the bench to face the newcomer, an animated smile on his face. “So glad you could join us!” “Sorry, sorry,” a younger voice replies brightly. “Zoro went the wrong way and we ended up at a Mexican diner somehow. The food smelled amazing so we had to get some. And then Barto was there because I think he’s still tracking my phone? But he paid for lunch so that was cool. And I brought you some steak tacos!” “In that case, all is forgiven!” A teenage boy in a worn straw hat finally scrambles into view. He launches himself at Brook for a full-bodied hug that almost knocks them both onto the floor. Brook catches him easily and hugs him back with equal enthusiasm.]

clankclunk imagine being this extroverted 😭😭

Jen. I dont know who this child is but I’d die for him

⋆｡°✩lullabyparry⋆｡°✩ OH MY GOD ITS LUFFY!!!!!!!!

gremlin energy✨✨ He looks like hes doing a lot better !

A handful of angry bees Aww we haven't seen Luffy on here in ages 👒💛

Water 7 🔛🔝 Is anyone else worried about the dude apparently stalking his phone?????

clankclunk @ Water 7 🔛🔝 no that’s just bart. he’s weird but harmless.

existential dread but make it cute @ Water 7 🔛🔝 lbr wed all stalk brooks contacts if we could 💞

skuuuullj0ke We really really wouldn’t though

stream “1000 sunny days” album now 🔪 @ existential dread but make it cute hey mods come get this weirdo

👻SOUL PARADE👻 @ stream “1000 sunny days” album now 🔪 I wouldnt worry. His sister is the mod today and she wields the block hammer with an iron fist

⋆｡°✩lullabyparry⋆｡°✩ @ 👻SOUL PARADE👻 lmao our queen is in the room 👑🙇

[“Come sit, Luffy,” Brook says cheerfully. “Ah, but first, throw your bag as hard as you can that way so the food smell doesn’t distract me this entire time,” he adds, pointing off to the left. Gamely, the boy gathers his tote bag together in his hands and flings it with what appears to be all the strength he can muster. It clatters noisily against something off-camera and there’s a deafening bang. “Perfect!” Brook declares. “Ah, wait, I forgot that was Sanji’s stuff,” Luffy says. “He’ll get over it,” an unnamed person replies off-camera.]

Jen. RIP whoever sanji is 🙏

skuuuullj0ke So much chaotic energy, so little time

clankclunk Luffy’s been here for 1 minute and already something is broken. New record??

[Moderator] Nami 🌊☀️ @ clankclunk Not even close.

newname92 Woah when he threw the bag and his shirt fell open for a sec

newname92 Did anyone else see that crazy scar????????

A handful of angry bees @ newname92 You know what, I'm not even going to bother explaining why that was an insensitive question, because I’m not actually your kindergarten teacher

[“My manager as well as the rest of my team have been very forthcoming about my recent absence,” Brook says, seeming to address the thousands of people watching the stream for the first time. “I know that the cancellation of my Sunny Days tour was a disappointment to many of you, and I’m very sorry for that. You know by now how important it is to me to be able to share my music with you all. But I do not regret it, because as much as I love the stage, my heart lives at home, and home is where I was needed.” Luffy leans against him, his head barely making it to Brook’s shoulder. He lays his own fingers on the keys and starts up a stumbling rendition of Binks’ Brew. The musician’s more practiced hands guide him along patiently. “While there was plenty of anger to be heard from a number of you,” Brook goes on, “mostly your voices poured out to my family in sympathy and support. Your kindness means more to me than I can explain, so I’ll simply say thank you, thank you, thank you.” “Thank you!” Luffy adds. “I always said Brook’s fans were the best.” “That you did,” Brook confirms cheerfully.]

stream “1000 sunny days” album now 🔪 Not me literally tearing up in the break room rn

👻SOUL PARADE👻 Oh OK cool I’ll just sob horrifically into my pad thai then thanks so much Soul King

clankclunk HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO BE NORMAL WHEN THEY EXIST

⋆｡°✩lullabyparry⋆｡°✩ 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Water 7 🔛🔝 Ive only been a soul king stan for like 2 days but already i would give my life for this family

stream “1000 sunny days” album now 🔪 @ Water 7 🔛🔝 welcome to the crew 🏴☠️

[“So the reason for this livestream is not to apologize,” Brook says. “But rather something more personal. Today marks the very start of a brand new year, and also the birthday of one Ace D. Portgas—the first birthday we find ourselves celebrating without him.” “Ace can’t be here anymore, but he loved a good party,” Luffy pipes up. He’s still smiling, but some of the energy is gone from him now. His hands are in his lap, no longer tripping merrily across the keys. “We’re gonna make sure he hears it from wherever he is. Marco and Thatch and everybody’s gonna be there.” “That’s right! But the party is later. For now, I’d like to play him a song.” “A birthday song?” Luffy asks. “His favorite,” Brook confirms. He begins to play without further ado, accompanying himself as he sings a slow, acoustic version of James Morrison’s “Precious Love.” Luffy watches him with wide, lamplike eyes, expressive face strangely unreadable. Brook’s voice swells and fills the room. [CAPTIONS] 🎶 I was so lost, didn't know what to do with myself. I was my own worst enemy, I was lost and oh, I needed help. Then you came along, and saw what state I was in. You picked me up when I was down, showed me how to live again. 🎶 A young man with hair dyed vivid green comes into frame, but only to sit on Luffy’s free side with his back to the piano. His face can’t be seen, and he doesn’t offer any obvious condolence or comfort; but he sticks his elbow out, and Luffy immediately loops their arms together, and that seems to be more than enough. There is movement from elsewhere in the room. The light shifts as the door opens again, and shadows move across the wall as the three by the piano are joined by an unknown number of other people. Luffy looks up and whoever he sees makes him smile. Brook continues singing, soulful and slow and golden. [CAPTIONS] 🎶 I say thank you, for pulling me through, I'm a lucky man. I didn't know what life was, but now I understand. 🎶]

Jen. Okay i did some googling. I dont really follow artists personal lives beyond what they share on their own social media bcus its not really any of my business

Jen. But goddamn this is sad

skuuuullj0ke @ Jen. Bro I cried so hard when I found out about the accident i had to leave class

stream “1000 sunny days” album now 🔪 @ Jen. No joke. Some of my friends met ace backstage once during brook’s sabaody tour, the second night of the oakland show, but i never got the chance. Still, his entire familys grief was so raw and horrible, i know in my heart he must have been like a really really wonderful guy

gremlin energy✨✨ Ace is in a lot of the older videos on this channel, those are still up

gremlin energy✨✨ I’m not saying go be super weird about it but if you watch like 2 of them you’ll understand immediately

Water 7 🔛🔝 @ gremlin energy✨✨ Ace was brooks brother?

A handful of angry bees @ Water 7 🔛🔝 Not biologically, but yeah.

gremlin energy✨✨ @ Water 7 🔛🔝 They all sort of adopted each other. Even Ace and Luffy aren’t biologically related but that’s so much a non-issue that i cant remember the last time it ever came up

⋆｡°✩lullabyparry⋆｡°✩ @ Water 7 🔛🔝 they’re family

clankclunk I didnt know this was ace’s favorite song. I didnt even know this song existed. Adding it to everything as we speak

👻SOUL PARADE👻 @ clankclunk This cover might be the most beautiful thing Ive ever heard

skuuuullj0ke @ 👻SOUL PARADE👻 FR like i want to be respectful but i also want this version released on spotify asap 😭

Skeletons on parade The way they talk about ace like hes just somewhere else is kind of beautiful

owl be back 🦉 @ Skeletons on parade they’re throwing him a birthday party 😭😭😭

clankclunk @ owl be back 🦉 love isn’t past-tense

[When the last ringing note from the piano fades, Brook looks down at Luffy and says, “What did you think, boss?” Luffy rubs his face with the heel of his hand, which is the only indication he’s been crying. Arms come around him from all sides, half a dozen faces spilling forward to hold him. The green-haired boy beside him gets squashed into the group hug before he sees it coming and no amount of flailing gets him out of it. Brook laughs above it all and flops over to splay his weight on the top of the pile playfully. The piano keys give a jarring clang when someone’s elbow lands against them. A knee slipping from where it’s braced on the bench is all it takes for the entire group to go down in a tangle of limbs. A woman with long black hair is the only one aside from Brook who remains upright, effortlessly graceful. It’s her arm around Luffy’s shoulders that keeps him from falling, too. “I loved it,” Luffy declares, in response to Brook’s unanswered question. “Ace would have loved it, too. Can you play it again?” “Until my arms fall off,” Brook agrees at once, already fanning his hands out over the keys, as if there’s not a bunch of people bickering noisily and wrestling with each other on all sides of him, just out of view of the camera. Luffy grins and says, “Louder this time!” The music that starts up is boisterous and triumphant and raucous—less of a bittersweet remembrance, more of a call for everyone to join in at the top of their lungs. And that’s exactly what everyone does. Clambering upright to hold onto each other, their voices ringing off the walls. The words of the song are clearly familiar to every one of them. The act of screaming out the chorus together is even more so. This was their brother’s favorite song, and they sing it like they mean it. [CAPTIONS] 🎶This is precious love, it’s precious love. No, I can't let it go. This is precious love, and it’s teaching me, everything I need to know. 🎶]

skuuuullj0ke Raise your hand if your singing along 🙋

gremlin energy✨✨ @ skuuuullj0ke ✋✋

stream “1000 sunny days” album now 🔪 @ skuuuullj0ke My coworkers hate me but ✋

👻SOUL PARADE👻 @ skuuuullj0ke ✋😭

⋆｡°✩lullabyparry⋆｡°✩ @ skuuuullj0ke 👐👐👐

Skeletons on parade @ skuuuullj0ke 🙋🙋

clankclunk So now im supposed to go to dinner with my friends and act like im not a fundamentally different person after this????

Water 7 🔛🔝 @ clankclunk 🤝 I SEE YOU BESTIE I KNOW YOUR PAIN 🫂🫂

Jen. They’re laughing and being silly on his birthday. Idk its just rly nice. Its like proof that the good things can outlast the bad

A handful of angry bees RIP Ace, I hope you had even half an idea of how loved you are

clankclunk @ A handful of angry bees He must have known

clankclunk @ A handful of angry bees Look at how goofy his family is. Theres no way they loved him quietly

skuuuullj0ke He knew 🧡

#one piece #opfic #soul king brook #monkey d luffy #my writing #op #smile again #this was my first attempt at a media fic so pls be gentle #@ everyone on ao3 who has read it already thank u so much for ur kindness #i was so nervous to post this ksgsgjhsg

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iamtaran · 9 months ago

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WIP Title Game! oh good lord

rules: in a new post, post the names of all the files in your wip folder regardless of how nondescriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet and tell us about it!

thanks @allyunabridged for the tag! Lmao I stared down the barrel of not one, but two google drives to gather these and all I can say is

😬

IN AN ORDER ONLY THE GODS UNDERSTAND:

The Twilit Gate (BG3, when in want of more fey bullshit in your BG3, do it yourself!!! TavxAstarionxGalexliterally everyone i'm gay alright???)

Island (The Guest/손 AU, horror and survivalism; Hwa Pyung, Choi Yoon, and Gil Young follow Park Hong Joo's and Park Il Do's machinations out to open sea, to an island with long forgotten history where the real struggle for survival begins.)

But For Grace (SW:Preq's, modern-character in GFFA aka "what to do when you accidentally change things and the Chosen One dies?", started as a silly question but now I'm committed; Qui-Gon Jinn lives; what would happen in a galaxy without Anakin Skywalker?)

The Mage's War (DA2 + DA:I, what if Bethany Hawke was the Herald, Modern/Avvar OC, playing Fade chicken with the Dread Wolf nbd, put on my tinfoil hat for this one re: the Fade, the Abyss/Void, Forgotten Ones, etc.)

In God's Eye (Vampyr, human!Jonathan, ekon!McCullum, Mary lives, I'm a hobby WWI & Spanish Flu researcher so hold your britches I have FEELINGS)

For Want Of Two (Vampyr, wanted more mythological beings & nemrod lore so I'll do it myself gdi, put-that-thing-back-where-you-found-it-or-so-help-me-god.gif ; JxMcCxOC)

Lights All Hung On Nothing (Star Wars Preq's to Clone Wars era, modern-character-in-SW with a big twist, Force + time fuckery, Ani + Obi focus, the butterfly effect changes everything)

The 72nd Cycle (SW: Mandalorian, AU - Grogu is not the only Force sensitive prisoner Gideon had captured. Without room in his ship for multiple students, Luke tags along, not expecting the sad Mando's ride Boba Fett (w h a t) to show up and offer the poor guy use of his bacta tank; well, soon-to-be-his. He just has to kill its current owner, Bib Fortuna, first. You know. On Tatooine(WHAT!!). Meanwhile, on Tattooine: Cobb Vanth gets the nagging feeling his life is about to become much more stressful.)

A Heavy Thing (KOTOR, amnesiac Revan works a shitty food service job on Taris and definitely isn't a Jedi/Sith/Soldier, I mean, clearly. Slice of life becomes tragedy becomes adventure becomes mystery becomes ??? RevanxCanderousxCarth DON'T LOOK AT ME)

Life, Happening (The Shining/Doctor Sleep introspective piece on Danny Torrance, life & death, what it means to be gone, and not gone.)

Led To Water (Mandalorian, Din takes off the armor having broken his Creed and, unsure what to do next, returns to Kuiil's homestead to brood and sweat manfully through his existential crisis; his friends help him through it.)

Mando'ad'ika (Mandalorian/Original SW movies, The Mandalorian is taken into custody and now Leia has to deal with a sweet but stressed frog lady, a green gremlin with too much Force power, and this intimidating tin can who won't budge. Since Han laughed at her, she decides to make it his problem, too.)

Time Travel, & Other Ways To Die (Mandalorian/SW:Bounty Hunter video game, Din & Jango centric, whilst trying to get to Grogu on his magical big rock, Din & Grogu end up chucked through time onto an outlaw space station. Jango Fett's no good very bad day begins. Coincidentally, it coincides with Din Djarin's SUPER no good very bad day. They most assuredly do not bond over this.)

I am, or was. (Dragon Age: Inquisition, a spirit takes an interest in Solas after he helps it in the Fallow Mire and begins following him around like a lost puppy. Which would be cute, if it weren't possessing more and more alarming vessels to do so. The Andrastians are starting to get a bit twitchy.)

Rookie, Shiny, Soldier, Spy (Mandalorian/Clone Wars, Din Djarin accidental time travel into the Clone Wars AU. Caught without his 'gam on a battle field and forced once again to wear trooper armor, he is Not Impressed--and why do all these guys look like Boba?)

This Prodigal Son (Hades/Dragon Age: Inq, Zagreus goes through the wrong Chaos portal. Magister Alexius finds a powerful spirit in the Fade and, as is his way, decides fuck it, we ball. Also his way, it doesn't go very well for him.)

Send me a title via ask and I'll post my favorite bit I've currently written!

Lmao this was wild to throw together given how many WIPs of age past are staring me down; these are just all the recents. Go ahead and chuck some WIPs out there if you're interested @singoallala @narwhalninja @mauverawrites @in-a-trans-like-state @terresdebrume and @jackironsides ! And if you don't/aren't currently writing, everyone loves to see the pet tax paid C:

#taran writes #also hi everyone i'm still alive and hope you're doing well c:

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the-little-witches-books · 7 months ago

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Brown Sugar Divine's Bakery & Cafe is a title that is very dear to me as the author is very dear to me. It was an honor to have a friend trust me with beta reading their passion project. That being said, this review is honest and not written with any bias.

This book is a study in being a young queer, who is also constantly online, trying to find out who you are as a person when the world just kind of sucks. It’s filled with tons of pop culture references that you’d only get if you were around for early 2000s and sort of recently today’s anime and music scene. I would say that this is a great book to read for Pride month, but we could be reading queer books year-round and they deserve to be celebrated outside of one month of the year.

This was at times something that hit home in ways that I wasn’t expecting it to; the feeling of dread that someone gets when they don’t know what’s going to happen, but they’re dan sure it’s going to happen, the fear of your family not accepting you for who you really are because they expect something out of you that’s not achievable, not feeling like you belong you’ve never found yourself romantically or sexually attracted to anyone are themes that resonated with me and I’m sure lots of readers will understand as well.

One of the things that I personally related to the most and can see others relation to is Chris and the way that he doesn’t know anything about himself; he’s twenty-four with no friends and close family who only goes from work to home, and then back again and has severe depression and anxiety. I feel like a lot of young twenty-somethings today have that missing piece where they’ve gotten this degree that they didn’t even want and now they’re just in limbo, afraid to be who they are in front of a parent’s love that’s very clearly conditional. His character is absolutely deserving of the growth that he has achieved.

Brown Sugar Divine herself is such a sweet character that if I found myself in the presence of, I’d feel 100% at peace with it. She feels like the type of person who would braid your hair at a sleepover and make sure that you drank water and ate something when you go out drinking. She is totally her own person, separate from Johnny and should have gotten more screen time in my opinion; for it being a book about her and her bakery she wasn’t on screen enough. Her and Johnny working together to make things work is a cute little back and forth that just sort of makes sense. Johnny’s journey to being a homeless teen to a fully functioning business owner and performer is something that I would have liked to see, I love when we get to witness the character grow and become the characters we know at the end. It feels like while they were a good chunk of this story Johhny’s main point was to be the person to introduce Chris to this life that he builds up and I just would have liked to see more of them! Give me a whole other book about that, S.A. McClellon.

This would have been a five-star read for me if not for all the music involved, because while I love a good musical my least favorite thing in a book is when music is a huge focal point, and this has a lot of that. The drag scenes were fun, and I imagine that if I were to ever go to a drag show (a shame that I haven’t honestly) it would be just like this. For a story about a bakery there was not enough baking for me. Other than that; this is a cute, fun read about finding yourself in a community where finding yourself is celebrated and has strong themes of found family.

#booklr #books #lgbtq books #pride month #drag queen #drag artist #drag performer #black authors

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no1frogfan · 2 years ago

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Baby, please don’t be mad - Bokuto Koutarou

A domestic squabble with Bokuto Koutarou

GN reader, Bokuto is a well-meaning dumdum Word count: ~1.1k

Note: The first of of a few pieces I’m working on about domestic squabbles. There's a happy ending because I can't bear to hurt any of the boys, even in my imagination. Alternate title: Kou might be an idiot, but he’s our idiot!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Baby, I’m home!” You announce as you step into the warmth of the apartment. You exhale the exhaustion of the past few weeks as you shed your jacket and shoes. “God, I’m so happy this project is finally done. I swear it feels like it’s been dragging on and on fo-”

“BABE!” Bokuto rushes out from the living room, eyes wide. His socks slide on the hardwood floor as he comes to a stop. “Don’t come in!”

Your eyes narrow as you step out off your shoes. “Why?”

An acrid smell hits your nose.

“I- well, because- um…” Your attention is drawn behind him toward the ceiling where black smoke begins creeping out of the kitchen.

At that moment, the smoke alarm goes off.

Both of you rush to the kitchen. Bokuto darts toward the stove while you sprint past and throw open the kitchen windows before racing to the living room and opening those windows too. A harsh winter chill blows through you as you run to the smoke alarm. You grab the closest thing you can find - a pillow off the couch - and begin fanning the air to dissipate the smoke. Finally, the screeching stops. You fan it some more for good measure. Your ears are ringing as you hesitantly make your way to the kitchen. Dread builds up deep in your abdomen.

You turn the corner and your mouth falls open as you take in the scene. Your boyfriend stands at the sink, desperately running the tap over a smoking skillet - the expensive one you bought yourself for your birthday - the bottom of which is encrusted with blackened clumps of something charred entirely beyond recognition. The brackish water flows off the skillet and waterfalls down over precarious stacks of greasy plates, bowls, and utensils. Your eyes flicker to the stove where a saucepan brimming with thick crimson sludge sputters angrily, threatening to overflow as it belches droplets on everything within a one meter radius. You watch a droplet fly out and hit the floor, landing among a sea of splatters, scraps, and crumbs. Half-empty containers and piles of unknown ingredients litter the counters. A sprinkling of flour coats almost every surface like a light winter snow.

As if on cue, a gust of wind howls through the windows, sending the flour up in flurry before gently depositing some on both of you.

You move to turn off the burner. The anger gradually builds with each piece of food squished into your socks. You round on Bokuto and erupt on him. “BOKUTO KOUTAROU. What the hell happened here?!”

Bokuto shrinks. “Baby, please don’t be mad,” he pleads.

“It’s way too late for that!” You bark, absolutely fuming.

“I’m sorry! I just- I thought…” He takes a deep breath. “You were so stressed these last two weeks andyoualways make dinner andIthought it would be nice for me to make you dinner for once y’know and since today was going to be the last day of your project I thought it’dbe a fun way to celebrate and you’dbereally happy and surprised when you came home and we’d enjoy it together and maybe relax and cuddle and watchamovie but I got caught up watching the game and forgotabout the food and then you camehome and I’M SO SORRY and I love you so much and you’re so good to me and so cute…” He stumbles over his words in his hurry to spit them out. As he finishes describing his little fantasy of tonight, he offers you a remorseful smile, hoping it’s enough to quell your wrath.

It’s not.

“Are you kidding me?! You thought that coming home to a massive explosion of food all over every single surface of the kitchen would be relaxing? WHAT part of that sounds relaxing?!” Bokuto’s lips twitch, unable to come up with an answer. Just as you’re about to open your mouth to yell some more, Akaashi’s head peeks into the kitchen. “Bokuto-san, you wanted my help wit-?” He clamps his mouth shut when he sees the state of the kitchen, and the state of you.

“AKAASHI KEIJI!” You round on him, accustomed to him randomly popping up in your apartment at this point. “DID YOU HAVE A HAND IN THIS?”

He doesn’t falter under your blistering glare. “Bokuto-san suggested it and I thought it was a sweet idea for a surprise.” He looks toward Bokuto and gives him a cool nod of encouragement.

You whirl back to face Bokuto. Akaashi’s reassuring words seem to have little effect on him for once. His lips are wilted in an uncharacteristic frown. His eyebrows push together, driving wrinkles of distress up his temple where silver and black ribbons of hair lay listlessly. His golden eyes, normally gleaming with excitement, look dull and tarnished, anxiously pleading for forgiveness. You slump against the cabinets and take in the kitchen again. You skim over the many pots and pans, the dishes, the giant lopsided blob on the table that you can only assume was an attempt at a cake. You consider the amount of time and effort he must have spent on preparing this surprise and rub your tired eyes.

You don’t have the heart to be angry at Koutarou, not really. You know this, Akaashi knows this, but Koutarou doesn’t know this. “Baby,” you sigh wearily, “this was really really dumb of you. Really dumb.” You pause. Despite everything, affection seeps into your words. “But. I do appreciate the effort and the thought you put into it.”

Bokuto’s eyebrows relax. “Does that mean you forgive me?” He asks with a hopeful quiver in his lip.

“…I guess I do.” You slowly admit. His hair perks up. “Let’s just get takeout for dinner. You joining us Keiji?”

“Sure. I’ll help clean up.” Akaashi walks off to grab the vacuum and cleaning supplies.

You smile at Akaashi gratefully before stepping forward to bury your face in Bokuto’s chest. “It’s freakin’ annoying how hard it is to be mad at you, Kou,” you grumble, voice muffled by his pecs. You feel his elation as his burly arms wrap around you.

You turn your face so he can hear you clearly. “I really love you, but next time you want to cook something, let’s do it together,” you suggest. “That way, we’ll get to hang out the whole time, and this,” you wave one hand around wildly, “won’t happen again.”

“That’s a great idea babe!” As Bokuto squishes you against him, all the anger and stress floods out of you, replaced by his earnest warmth.

#bokuto x reader #bokuto koutarou #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #bokuto kotaro #hq x reader #froggy scribbles

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requiem626k · 2 years ago

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Hi! May I ask 💛, ♒️, 👀 for Miles and Kunikida, please?

Hi Hana! Of course you can, ahh I adore thinking about them <3 .

I'll do them separately because I don't wanna fill the franchises' tags with an irrelevant character hahaha.

ask game

Miles Edgeworth

💛 Do they drop hints that they like someone and what are they?

Yes, he does drop hints, at least he thinks so. The hints he drops are so subtle that you can’t even notice them with a magnifying glass. He’d be like “I literally coughed when the video we were watching started talking about roses. What part of this they don’t understand as a sincere confession of my deep, unnecessary feelings???” Poor man would genuinely be so confused about it like *crying emoji* until Phoenix facepalms and explains how he should be a little bit bolder with his moves. If you’re a particularly oblivious one, I can already tell that it’d take forever for him to get to a visible boldness level. Though when he gets used to it, he nails it. He always leaves you as a blushing mess with stuff like his intense stares and tender touches on your waist (without making you feel uncomfortable, of course) under the cover of “passing to the other side”.

♒️ Do they end up checking to see if their signs are compatible? Or maybe do they do ‘love-tests’ (enter in your name and see if you’re meant for each other kind of thing)

Whenever Phoenix and Maya starts fighting over the accuracy of the sign charts, Miles positions himself as someone skeptical -- if not absolutely antagonistic -- towards astrology. It’s simply not logical to even imagine that the movements of literal pieces of rock could have an effect on his daily life, no. But when he gets into a relationship with you, he just can’t help it... He just can’t help but feel a crippling curiosity, what if Maya has a point? Searching it up wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it? No matter what the result is, no need to say that he deletes his search history after that, this goes for the love-tests too. I don’t think he’d get bummed out or happy about the results though, it’s just the curiosity that makes him do it hahaha.

👀 Are they protective?

Yes, he’s reaaally protective. He’s a prosecutor, and that means he encounters lots of dreadful cases during his career, and he can’t stand the littlest thought of someone causing harm to you. He subconsciously considers everyone to be a possible threat, but not out of jealousy, he genuinely cares about your well-being. He always introduces himself with his title, “Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth”, because he cutely thinks that it’ll intimidate the possible perpetrator candidates. But after you sweetly convince him that you’ll be fine without him, and that you can protect yourself just fine, he trusts you with all his heart and cheers you up with a smirk whenever you stand up for yourself in difficult social situations.

#miles edgeworth #ace attorney #edgeworth x reader #ace attorney x reader #edgeworth #ace attorney fanfiction #Hana🎹#ask game

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pridepages · 2 years ago

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All or Nothing: Loveless

I just finished Loveless by Alice Oseman. I have some thoughts.

Here there be spoilers!

Alice Oseman is a gift to LGBTQIA+ literature. She has mastered the art of Jane Austen: writing a book that apparently has very little plot, but is actually a depiction of some of the most important facets of every day life. Her most famous contribution to the canon, Heartstopper, is light, bright, and sparkling in tone. With Loveless, Oseman adds a more nuanced piece of work to her world.

The novel centers around Georgia Warr, a rising first year student at university who is desperate to star in her own romantic love story. She’s imbibed all the intoxicating tropes of allonormative fiction: she knows every meet cute, every slow burn, every AU under the sun. She’s studied up, and she’s ready to go. The problem is that when she tries to take it from fantasy to reality, she finds that she has zero sexual or romantic chemistry with anyone. Worse still, she’s repelled by everyone she tries with. Over the course of many failed experiments, and through an introduction to a lovely friend, Georgia must come to terms with her reality: she cannot find that fabled romantic love story with one person. She’s aromantic asexual.

Asexuality, let alone aromanticism, is a rare study in contemporary fiction. By placing Georgia’s self-discovery at the heart of the novel, Alice Oseman has provided a novelty to a community that rarely finds itself directly addressed. This is a new kind of coming out, and coming to terms, story: what does life look like when your relationships fit no kind of translatable norm?

The answer provided to us is that Georgia is able to find beautiful, true love stories with her friends. As her new roommate, pansexual Rooney Bach declares to her: “I feel at home around you in a way I have never felt in my fucking life. And maybe most people would look at us and think we're just friends, or whatever, but I know that it's just...so much more than that. You fucking saved me, I swear to God.”

Because whether we are aromantic or alloromantic, love comes in life in so many different forms. Just because society has prioritized one expression does not mean the others are less worthy.

Just as Georgia must come to grips with how she can give and receive love, so must the others in her life. Some people have been disquieted by the fact that the title of the novel is Loveless, fearing that it represents yet another jab at people on the aroace spectrum. I would argue that the title is, quietly, more nuanced than that: the majority of the rest of the characters may be alloromantic, but that doesn’t mean that they rest easy with the knowledge they are lovable.

Georgia’s friend Pip is an out-and-proud lesbian. But multiple times in the novel, Pip declares that she’s destined to be forever alone. Having been treated as a ‘gay experiment’ in the past, Pip believes she isn’t worthy of anything else. Georgia’s second friend Jason, apparently a straight man, has endured bullying in his life. Because that bullying centered around his being undesirable and unlovable, Jason rushed into romance and dating with the wrong people because he believed that it was his only shot and he didn’t deserve to hold out to be treated well. Newly discovered pansexual Rooney has embraced free sexuality and flirtation, but for her they don’t equate to love. She believes she deserves to be punished for having fallen in love with the wrong person, causing her to have made years’ worth of bad choices and sacrificed healthier friendships.

I think what this book is all about is really that we all struggle with what it means to love. Love comes in so many forms, and those forms shouldn’t be discounted just because they don’t fit preconceived notions. Love in all its forms is so rare in this world. When it comes our way, we need to keep eyes, arms, and heart open. Don’t miss it.

To my asexual, aromantic, or even allo family who dread feeling forever alone: I implore you to stop and ask yourself where you find love in this world. I have had days where I didn’t want to live anymore, but I asked myself who would take care of my dog if I wasn’t here? So, I decided it was worth sticking around a little longer. Calmer reflection reminded me of parents who try their best. Of friends who chose me even when I didn’t believe in myself. Of mentors who pushed me forward. Of kids in my classroom who gave me unexpected hugs and told me I was their favorite teacher.

Sometimes, love feels like an all or nothing affair. Either we’re the heroes of some grand romance or we’re the also-rans. But the reality is so much different. Love can be all around us. If we don’t stop and look around once in a while, we might miss it.

#loveless #alice oseman #osemanverse #lgbtq reads #aroace #aromantic #asexual #queer lit #queerplatonic

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that-foul-legacy-lover · 3 years ago

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HEY HI HELLO ANOTHER REQOESY IM SORRY

okay so um how bout the reader and a few others (or maybe not a few others whatever you think is best) decide to be idiots and go to this abandoned mansion or smth and foul legacy’s the ghost/demon???

and then instead of him tracking u down and taking ur life it appears that he’s friendly?????

random anon

me: this is so cute!!! i love it :D my brain: mhm, now what you're gonna do is add angst me: why- my brain: do it, buddy. me: *sigh* ok,,,

aha. i'm sorry not sorry >:)c also??? i really didn't know what to title this i'm sorry </3

~ * ~ Haunted Mansion HCs

Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, little bit of Angst at the end

Warnings for rainstorms, thunder, lightning, fear, mold, decay

~ * ~

-Just your luck -The one day you have business outside of the Harbor, and it starts raining -It’s just dumping buckets on you and unfortunately you’re also in the middle of NOWHERE -Well no, you’re in Liyue, but nowhere near anywhere decent enough to stay -You wander around for a while, quietly dreading the approaching darkness of night, before you spot something in the distance -It’s a house, you see as you approach, tucked away between the trees and mountains -Perhaps once it would’ve been grand, but its large size was offset by the fact that the foundation of it was all but rotting away, the wooden beams soft and crumbling and the tiles on the roof chipped and washed out in color -Unfortunately, it’s the only option you have, and you reluctantly make your way to the door and pull it open, the wood crackling and crunching under your insistent tugs -It smells like mold and wet dust when you finally wrench the door open (the handle yanking off in your hand) and you grimace with disgust -But it’s relatively dry, or at least dryer than outside, and you venture deeper inside to investigate -Every room has the same dilapidated interior as the main hall, framed with tattered cloth and smelling strongly of mothballs -You gently push a door open, giving way to a once-luxurious bed and dresser, now damp and rotting. A bedroom -The mattress on the bed frame is worn but serviceable, and you sit down with a small poof, clouds of dust flurrying about -Lightning flashes outside and you jump with fright, wondering if the Archon of Inazuma had temporarily invaded Liyue just to scare you out of your wits -Rubbing your arms, you raise from the bed and pace around the room to take your mind off the storm outside, eyes falling on the old set of drawers in the room -Usually you’d feel bad for snooping… Actually, that’s a lie. You like snooping, especially when there aren’t any consequences, and you open the mysterious drawers with delight -It’s full of old clothes- what you expected. But atop the threadbare piles of fabric lays a softly gleaming object, all purple and silver, humming with an odd, out-of-place energy -You reach out to touch it and it shines with a flash, sending sparks of painful electricity across your skin as you yelp and yank your hand away, still staring at the object in wonder -Your raptured attention is quickly shattered when a loud creaking noise outside of the room makes itself apparent and you snap your head around, goosebumps dancing on your arms -A low, rumbling growl filters through the thinning walls and wood, a story Zhongli told you coming to mind, about “The House of Eleventh Hour”- a cursed domain inhabited by a “Star-Torn Beast” that had gone mad with loneliness -Heavy footsteps plod down the hallway towards your room, a room with one window a story into the air and solid stone underneath, which would surely kill you if you jumped and landed in a heap, bones snapped into pieces -You press yourself against the wall, hugging your legs in an attempt to seem smaller and disappear into the peeling paint behind you -A light beams into the room, the footsteps drawing nearer and nearer as you squeeze your eyes shut until they stop right in front of you -There’s a clunking sound, almost like armor shifting, then silence -And a rumble. A light, gentle rumble, almost sounding concerned as a claw slowly traces over your cheekbone. The clawed hand reaches under your chin, tilting it carefully upwards, and you crack open your eyes, blinking -A creature looms over you, its singular luminescent eye glowing in the darkness, illuminating the horns that frame its face and head. It’s kneeling on the ground, yet still towers over you as it lightly squishes your cheek -You’re shaking, both from fear and the cold, and the beast whines quietly, moving you take you in its arms and only hesitating when you lean away, petrified -It trills worriedly, looking around the room before pulling something from the drawer- a picture, a photograph of a young man with ginger hair and deep blue eyes -You take it

from the creature’s claws, and it gestures to the photo before tapping itself in the chest with a hum -Me. -Tracing the man’s faded features lightly, you look back up at the beast, eyes wide, and it- he- nods -There’s a moment of stillness as you lose yourself in thought, then he reaches out again, slowly, and gathers you in his arms -He rests his chin on top of your head, letting out a lazy rumble of approval when you tentatively hover your hands over the considerable amount of soft fluff around his neck -You sink your fingers into the fluff, combing the soft fur and snuggling your face into it. The creature hums and drapes himself over you -A light buzz runs through his body- he’s purring!! You can feel the sensation in your bones, gentle and comforting, pulling you away from the storm and blanketing you in soft sound -The rain taps on the window, but it’s the only remnant of the world outside, the remaining space filled by your new friend’s purrs and coos as he nestles closer to you -He’s lulling you to sleep, perhaps unintentionally, kneading at your sore shoulders and back and bumping his forehead to yours. Who knew the so-called “Star-Torn Beast” could be so sweet and affectionate? -As you doze off, the last thing you feel is a clawed hand cradling your cheek like a glass sculpture -But it’s the cold grass that wakes you, dew clinging to your eyelashes and hair as you shiver with chill -You sit up, rubbing your eyes. The mansion is gone, leaving you surrounded by rain and stone, no giant purring moth-creature in sight -Getting to your feet you still shake from the sudden cold, legs prickling from being asleep for so long, and you clap your hands together to warm them -Your brows furrow in confusion, involuntary tears pricking at your eyes (to your disdain) -Was it all imaginary? -You shake your head quickly to clear it- the storm should be easing up soon, and you can’t afford to waste anymore time -To further ward off the biting cold, you shove your hands in your pockets, only to feel and hear something crinkle in one of them -You grasp the oddly flat object by a corner and tug it out- a small slip of paper that you unfold twice and thrice until it lays in your palm -A faded photograph. A young man with ginger hair and deep blue eyes

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inkykeiji · 4 years ago

Text

i have the warmth of the sun within me tonight

characters: takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut n fluff

notes: this piece was written with someone specific in mind, but i wanted to share it here, too!! this is, by far, the healthiest and most wholesome piece i’ve ever posted on my blog ehehe | title cred: the warmth of the sun by the beach boys

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, reader is extremely scared of thunderstorms, v romantic, shower sex, minimal prep, slight size difference/size kink

words: 4.6k

synopsis:

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

It’s dark. It’s so dark it almost looks like night despite the fact that it’s only late afternoon, heavy bloated clouds—charcoal and fluffy and overstuffed with raindrops—obscuring the safety of comforting golden rays from the entire city.

The torrential downpour feels endless, and for a brief second you’re terrified it truly may never stop, streets below having flooded with the rain, cars slowly wading through them, tires spraying out streams of water as they do.

Magnificent strikes of lightning crack through the dreary sky like thick roots snaking through the foggy canopy of smoke and steel, momentarily tainting them in shades of periwinkle and lavender and casting flashes of brilliant silver light across the skyscrapers and condominiums.

Their sudden presence makes you jolt, a rapid shudder working its way through your entire body, skin pebbling with chills in its wake.

But it isn’t the lightning that bothers you—not really, anyway.

It’s what comes after.

Rumbles of thunder so loud, so violent they cause the glass windows of Keigo’s apartment to quiver and the hardwood beneath your feet to tremble, roll through the sky, and you swear you can see the clouds ripple from the force.

Arms squeezing tighter around your body, your fingers curl in the material of your—his—hoodie, desperately attempting to resist the urge to grab your phone, to frantically scroll through social media as worried eyes scan for any mention of his name, for shreds of dreadful news, for things you never want to hear.

You hate it when he has to work in storms such as these. And you know, you know you shouldn’t be watching the sky, shouldn’t be searching the splotches of gunmetal adorning the atmosphere for a glimmer of scarlet and gold, shouldn’t be standing so close to the pristine glass windows that your uneven puffs of nervous breath cloud them, tiny blankets of condensation left by the hot air you exhale fleetingly staining the surface, evaporating into nothing just as quickly as they appear.

But you can’t help it. It’s a compulsion, almost—like some sort of sick obsession, some sort of twisted addiction you can’t control. Because—Because you have to know, unable to stand that feeling of uncertainty that gnaws away at your insides, incapable of handling the ambiguity and vagueness that comes packaged with the not knowing. You have to at least try—try to do everything in your power to stay informed, and if that means facing a vicious thunderstorm head on, with your cheek pressed against the cold glass as your gaze searches the tumultuous sky, then so be it.

You can brave it for him. You swear you can.

“Baby,” he scolds gently, his sudden presence surprising you, causing you to throw a quick glance over your shoulder. Topaz eyes observe you, overflowing with concern, pretty bowed lips turning down, soaked strands of gold hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks and neck. “How many times have I told you not to do this?” And although he’s reprimanding you, his voice is sweet, smooth and syrupy like the finest honey. “You know how much thunder freaks you out,”

You scoff, stiffening almost defensively as you turn your nose up a little, still avoiding his eyes. “It doesn’t freak me out,”

“Oh?” he laughs a little as he kicks off his boots, tension easing from his shoulders with every step towards you, every step further into the warm sanctuary of your shared home, wet sock-clad feet slapping against the hardwood and leaving gleaming footprints.

“Kei,” you whine a little, gesturing his dripping body. “You’re getting water everywhere,”

“Hey now,” a playful smirk spreads across his lips, and a sudden, sharp whoosh slices through the air as his wings spread, spanning nearly half the living room. He gives them one good, thorough shake, crimson feathers trembling and sending tiny droplets of water flying. “I wasn’t done,” he speaks over your squeal of his name, smirk growing into that trademark mischievous grin. “You shouldn’t just stand at the window and stare up at the sky—it only scares you more,”

“I’m not scared,”

Vicious growls of thunder roil through the sky before you’re even finished speaking, almost as if it’s laughing at you, mocking you, your body flinching as the sounds crash over you, curling in on yourself a little, face puckered up in a wince as your words stutter, catching on a gasp in your throat.

Exhaling a soft sigh, Keigo holds his arms open wide, wings still stretched to span them. “Yeah, right. C’mere,” When you don’t begin moving immediately, he sighs again, strong hands gently pulling you towards him.

Your body melts into his touch—an automatic and involuntary reaction, almost instinctual at this point—and you slump against his damp chest, nuzzling your cheek against the firm muscles.

“I’ve got you,” he says softly, arms wrapping around your body as he holds you tightly to his, voice reverberating against your ear. “The Big Bad Scary Thunder can’t get you here,”

Eyes rolling, you scoff at his playful teasing, a tiny smile materializing on your face as you pull away a little to look up at him, greeted with the sight of brilliant eyes—made of sunshine and liquid gold, you’re absolutely sure of it—gazing down at you, lips quirked in a cute little smirk.

His beauty never fails to knock the breath from your chest—it seems you can never be prepared for it; no matter how many times you’ve seen him, how many times you’ve been close enough to count the individual eyelashes lining those orbs, how many times you’ve been close enough to feel the inviting tickle of the short golden hairs decorating his chin—and you’re not sure you’ll never get used to it, either.

A peculiar mix of adoration and concern swirl in his honey irises, though you can see the mirth and amusement dancing just beyond that, thinly veiled by the love and worry.

“Oh, shut up—” another bang of thunder fissures through the sky, so raucous it makes the thick clouds waver and swell, your words morphing into a fearful little squeak, quickly burying your head back against the safety of his chest.

Fingers curl in the wet suede and you hug yourself closer to him, tugging him closer to you, body beginning to shudder.

He’s hushing you now, arms and wings curled around you in a defensive embrace as words of comfort pry past his lips, tender voice sheathing the armor of crimson surrounding you.

“At least they aren’t as bad as the ones back home, yeah?”

“I guess so,” you mumble, unconvinced, eyebrows knitted and mouth sculpted into a deep pout. “I still don’t like them, though,”

“I know, I know,” a warm hand rubs soothing circles into your back, voice only marginally louder than the next bout of thunder as it vibrates against your face, another quiet yelp clawing its way up your throat. “Shh, you’re safe, you’re safe,”

“Kei,”

The nickname escapes in a mangled little whimper, and you can feel it—fright, terror, dread—building in your chest, a strangling type of panic that weaves and winds itself around your windpipe and crushes; because they’re getting worse, they’re getting closer, growls and grumbles following the flashes of lightning almost immediately, roaring loud enough to quake buildings, your heart thudding so violently it’s almost painful. Tears sting your eyes, and you shake your head against him, as if trying to burrow into his chest, to carve out a little space in his ribcage, right next to his steadily beating heart, and live there.

“I-I take it back, they are as bad as the ones back home,”

Or, at least, this one is

Keigo doesn’t argue, all traces of amusement evaporated from his face, replaced by trepidation that mixes with his worry and pinches his features, eyebrows furrowed and lips downturned as he cradles you against him. Ferocious tremors course through your form, chest beginning to hitch with swallowed sobs, and he squeezes you.

“Okay, alright,” he’s saying as he rocks you gently, crimson wings wrapped entirely around you both, shielding you from the storm. The scent of freshly mown grass and sticky vanilla ice cream is nearly overwhelming as it washes over your senses, invading your lungs and smothering you in its embrace. It’s a welcomed feeling, the beautiful suffocation it affords you with, vibrant bursts of heat rushing through your veins, whole body flooded and thrumming with a deep-seated comfort—a special type of solace, of reassurance, of contentment unique to him, unfathomable and mystifying on all accounts, that soothes your frayed nerves and calms your irregular heart—because he smells like home; not your home halfway across the world, your real home, your forever home.

“Come,” he instructs a moment later, stern yet tender, keeping an arm draped firmly around your shoulders, one of his wings curving around the limb as he leads you away from the window, scarlet feathers obstructing your vision.

—

The bathroom—comprised of gleaming marble and shining chrome—is enormous, housing a mammoth glass shower that spans the length of the furthest wall, large enough to more-than-comfortably accommodate his wings, and then some.

Steam fogs the glass, and a soft hiss slips from between your teeth as he cages you between his chiseled body and the freezing marble, cold rock stinging your already heated skin, his wings spreading to mimic his arms, providing another layer of protection and entirely immersing you in him.

It’s your favourite when he does this, when he engulfs you in his grasp and creates a tiny universe where it’s just the two of you, whole world having fallen away outside of the barricade his thick wings offer—and you’ve never felt safer.

And it’s amazing, you’re thinking to yourself—or maybe you’re murmuring it, lips moving in a daze—it’s amazing how even after all of the rainwater pouring from the sky, all of the zipping through those dense clouds, all of the vicious wind that whips against him as he soars; none of it could ever manage to wash away, to ever dull, his intoxicating scent, not even for a second.

You’re completely overcome by him, vanquished by his enamoring eyes and his saccharine smile—drunk and high off of it all, addicted to him in the sweetest way—and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

But you’re leaning into him, closer and closer and closer, lips parted as you inhale deeply, filling your lungs, your chest, your heart and veins and blood with his aura, his essence, him. He conquers you, intoxicates you, poisons you in such a beautiful way, and you’re enchanted by it, yearning for more, a greedy and insatiable craving that will never be fulfilled.

And he knows it. He knows the effect he has on you by merely existing near you—his cocky smirk and dazzling gaze tell you so.

But then his eyes soften, glazing over with something else, lidded as they slowly travel across your body bared to him, and his mouth falls open only for his tongue to suck his bottom lip between his teeth, and his fingers reach to trace your features, the curve of your cheek and line of your jaw, the most gentle caress.

“You…Are breathtaking,”

And he really does sound out of breath, as if he’s in awe from your beauty, as if this is his first time seeing you, as if you’re some sort of goddess, having descended right in front of him, and it forces chills to erupt across your bare skin—damp and splattered with tiny droplets of water that gleam like morning dew clinging to grass—despite how boiling it is between him and the steam from the shower.

It’s a feeling you can’t quite explain, a feeling you’ve never really been able to find the appropriate words for, something that makes you feel simultaneously powerful and weak, a swirling concoction of contradictions that invade your bloodstream and travel straight to your brain, infusing the tissues with the potent mix and sending tiny sparks buzzing through your veins, collecting to flutter together in the pit of your stomach.

He kisses you slowly, tonight. He kisses you like it’s his last day to live, kisses you like it’s his first time, unhurried tongue deliberately exploring the concavities of your mouth—every nook and ridge and crevice—as if committing them to memory, as if attempting to leave his stamp, his mark, his claim, on the real estate there.

He kisses you until neither of you can breathe, lungs shriveling as your chests heave, exhaling into each other’s mouths only to suck breath from each other’s mouths a moment later. He kisses you until you’re dizzy from the lack of air and he’s burning and hard and pressed up against your thigh, leaking head rubbing against the supple skin, leaving the prettiest gleaming trails of cream. He kisses you until you’ve gone stupid from his spit alone, fervent in the way you swallow it greedily, in the way you attempt to suck, slurp, steal more from him as it surges to your brain, tissues and nerves vaporizing into nothing more than a dazed mist, spiked with him.

The kiss breaks with a sharp whoosh of air, his lids lifting to reveal glassy pupils outlined with the thinnest ring of amber. Your tongue darts out from your mouth to lick and lap at the stringy, viscous remnants coating your chin; starved, ravenous, and forever unsated.

The chuckle huffed out from between swollen, saliva-soaked lips is nothing short of sinful, makes your vision blur and your stomach swoop, a murmured tease following it.

“Eager, aren’t you,”

And you want to point out that you weren’t the one practically humping someone’s hip, but the words tangle in your throat, catching on a gasp as nimble fingers slip between the apex of your thighs, an involuntary groan spilling from his throat.

“Fuck,” his head falls forward, face buried in your neck, and sucks an inhale through his teeth. “How are you already this wet?”

He’s nearly whining as he dips two fingers into you, soft little sounds that fall from his lips and sop into your skin, his breath scorching—sizzling more than the steam in the shower—against your neck.

And those fingers, now plunging into you, knuckles curling the moment they’re deep enough to press moans from your chest and cries from your throat, feel so familiar as they stretch you open—the same fingers that pet your hair and brush away your tears and feed you pieces of fried chicken; they feel like home.

Yet as comforting as that is, as much as it has your chest swelling with something so large, so dense you’re terrified your ribs may shatter and splinter under the strain, they aren’t enough. Not right now, not today.

Because even with the water hitting the tiles and the exquisite symphony of his pants and your mewls, you can still hear it, menacing blasts encroaching on you, deep and heavy and threatening to split the little world Keigo has created, the small haven his wings and arms provide.

“Please, please, Kei,” you’re nearly wailing out, forcing bleary eyes to open, belated in the way they find his gaze. “I-I want you, I need you,”

“Sweetheart,” he starts—and you know that tone, stitched together with hesitation and concern and embellished with thin ribbons of patronization. “You know you can’t take me without being opened up at least a lil’ first,”

Another clap of thunder rattles the apartment, sounding as if it’s just outside the bathroom door, ranting and raging to get in, and both of your hands claw at his wrist, trying to pull his hand away as words bubble past your lips, high and terrified and desperate.

“No, Kei, not tonight. Please, baby, please, I need you now, right now, Kei, right now, pl-please,” and you’re nearly choking on the pleads as they barrel up your throat and out your mouth, all garbled together and stuffed with spit. “I can handle it, promise,”

A hoarse whine hitches in his throat, the worried knitting of his eyebrows carving creases into his forehead. With pinched features and a scrunched face, it looks almost as if he’s in pain; like it’s pure agony to deny you. And you can see it, can see the internal struggle reflected in his eyes, stare wrought with the tug and pull between desire and care. But that need is growing, spreading, curling around your organs in a tight embrace, suffocating you with its urgency.

A final please, Keigo, croaked out in a broken whimper and thick with the threat of tears, is what breaks him, shatters his resolve to a fine dust and whisks it away in one breath.

“Alright,” he’s murmuring, though his voice is strained, tense and gruff under the combined paradoxical weight of lust and apprehension. “Alright, hush now, I’ve got you,”

Then he’s hoisting you up, and your legs are wrapping around his waist, one hand clutching the top of the glass door, the other digging bruises into his neck as he buries his cock inside of you in one swift movement, a set of relieved gasps escaping you both.

It stings a little, sharp pinpricks shooting through your gut as his thick cock stretches you open, but they’re chased promptly by thorns of pleasure that dissipate the pain.

Because he feels so good, and you feel so full, and everything feels so perfect like this—everything feels right again.

But a boom of thunder explodes through this moment, blowing it to bits and pieces, and you reflexively jump, whole body flinching in his arms.

“Shh,” he’s whispering to you as he pulls you closer, chest pressed flush against yours. “Don’t worry, songbird, I’m gonna make it better, alright? Just focus on me,”

And so you do, eyes slipping shut as his hips begin to pump—slow at first, almost languid in the way they roll forward, each thrust thorough, cock nearly entirely unsheathed before it plunges back in, the head nudging your cervix, and you revel in the delicious cracks rasps—of your name, of curses, and praises—that fall from his lips with each rut.

“S’deep,” you mumble, words already jumbled from the carnal bliss, from the hedonistic decadence that surrounds you, emanating off him and percolating into you, instantly diffusing the tension and panic knotted like thick vines in your chest—even though he’s barely fucking done anything. “S’deep, Kei,”

“Yeah?” the word fans across your face, sweet and fragrant, hazy eyes opening to be met with glittering gold, strands of honeysuckle hair stuck to his forehead and temples, framing the dark gaze watching you, pupils almost voracious in the way they soak up your expressions, almost greedy in the way they scan your face as his hips move, looking for more. His forehead knocks against yours, penetrating stare boring into your face. “Good? My baby like it?”

“So good,” your head nods in small movements with the whimpered affirmation, bumping against his. It’s already beginning to build, smoldering deep in the pit of your stomach, the spark that had been dulled when you had begged him to stop, begged him to give you more—to stretch and fill and form you like your insides were made for him—reigniting, bright and scalding.

“More, please,”

It just slips from your lips, brain already beginning to melt as you allow yourself to be submerged, swallowed and consumed by him; an innate desire that swamps your mind and floods your senses, and you want it all.

But he complies without complaint this time, void of the usual teasing remarks and requests that you beg for it, because he can see how depleted, how drained you are, utterly exhausted from the terror of the storm, his understanding evident in a gentle confirmation tumbling from his lips.

And his groans and grunts are so beautiful, vibrating deep in the recesses of his chest, louder than any thunder as they rumble in your ears. You find solace in them, gulping them in as he pushes them out, letting them vibrate down the column of your throat and collect deep in your belly, kindling with the flickering embers that burn and glow and multiply with each thrust, furling together in a tense ball of churning heat.

The canting of his hips increases, faster and faster and faster with each rock forward, the escalating force resulting in your body to rubbing against the marble and glass, tightly curled fingers readjusting themselves, slipping a little from the foggy condensation coating the surface.

You don’t even realize that your sensitive skin’s been rubbed raw from the action, too tangled up in his noises, his pleasure, his cock, to notice, too tangled up in him to care at all.

“Here,” Keigo pants out, hips suddenly stilling. A low whine catches in your throat, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to fuck yourself on his cock, a breathless snicker escaping his parted lips. “I know, baby, I know,” he’s telling you as strong arms readjust you, folded wings suddenly spanning, a gentle gust of air bathing your slick body in little goosebumps, before they wrap around him—around you—sheltering you from the glass and marble as they swoop under your ass and thighs, aiding Keigo in supporting your weight. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of you, I promise,”

And it’s so much hotter like this, so much more intimate like this, uneven puffs of breath mingling as his forehead rests against yours, florescent lights reflecting off of his thick feathers and tinting everything—his skin, his eyes, his hair—scarlet.

The sudden snap of his hips startles a moan out of you, and he laughs again, carmine-tinged topaz eyes positively glowing. And he looks so gorgeous like this, looks like a fucking god like this, those fine gold hairs that cover his body catching in the soft light and shimmering.

He’s kissing, licking, nipping anywhere he can reach, stamping your flesh with physical manifestations of his love, pace never faltering as skilled, powerful hips continue to pound into you, cockhead dragging against that spot with every buck.

Your legs flex around his waist, muscles coiling as the sphere roiling in your stomach blazes, curled into a concentrated ball of fire. The heat it exudes is nearly unbearable now, heavy as it sinks into your gut, glowing orb spiraling as it coils, tighter and tighter and tighter until—

“Want you to cum for me, baby,” Keigo nearly keens, almost as if he’s begging you instead of commanding, voice cutting through the dense haze your brain has evaporated into. “Can y’do that for me? Be good and cum all over my cock?”

Yes, yes, yes, your head is nodding, emitting affirmatives in the form of high little mewls with each jerk. And it only takes two more sharp pistons of his hips before the fire-filled ball bursts, half of his name escaping your throat in a fractured cry as your entire body stiffens, cunt clenching so vigorously it’s almost painful.

Words start to spill from his mouth, an endless stream of praises, sandwiched between dark groans and broken whines and hitched curses; Y’so good for me, y’know that? Ah, f-fuck—So gorgeous when you gush all over my—my cock, baby, y’feel so good, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Hot, thick cum fills you suddenly, coinciding with his last choked out declaration of love, cock throbbing as it spurts rope after rope, taut stuttering hips pressed flush against your skin.

—

Everything aches as you unwind your limbs from around him, muscles sore and legs trembling as Keigo forces you to stand, propping you up against the shower wall and returning with the fluffiest towel only a moment later. Large hands pull you towards him, dragging you from under the shower head and into his arms, swaddling your shivering body in Egyptian cotton and strong arms and soft feathers.

He leaves the shower running on purpose, steady flow of water hitting the tiled floor and marbled wall, efficiently drowning out any roars or claps of thunder.

And you’re so tired, so pliant and boneless in his arms, barely able to keep your weighted eyelids from fluttering shut. He keeps you in his lap as he sits on the closed toilet, cradling you to his chest as best he can as he gently rocks you back and forth, whispering out praises—you did so well, you always look so gorgeous taking my cock—and avowals of his love, constant words oozing from his lips, sentiments cascading over your body like a stream of thick syrup.

Unconsciousness has you in its clutches, nearly slipping into the familiar embrace that promises the numbing ecstasy that comes with such an intense orgasm, until your tummy growls, and Keigo laughs.

“No, sweetheart,” he chides softly as you nuzzle into his chest, an indignant noise sounding at the back of your throat. “You have to eat at least a little before you can fall asleep,”

“Don’wanna,”

“I know,” he’s saying sympathetically as he stands, placing your feet on the floor a moment later. You wobble a little, eyes still shut, and he chuckles again, murmuring to himself about how fucking cute you are as he begins to dress you, tugging soft fleece that reeks of him over your head.

—

The rain has slowed to a drizzle by the time you’ve been clothed and fed, constant and leaking from the clouds overhead as you snuggle against Keigo in the plush sanctuary of your shared bed, tummy full and happy with roasted chicken and sauteed veggies. A deep contentment settles itself in your bones, weaving itself around the ivory in a protective glaze and imbuing you with a sense of calm, a sense of relaxation, a sense of relief, and you hum, Keigo’s lithe fingers trailing up your spine absentmindedly.

If you’re being honest, you’re not quite sure how he did it, how he slipped, slithered, seeped through the few cracks in your defence without being violent, without being forceful—how he tore down all of the barricades and shields you had built around yourself, hardened and firm from several years of paranoia and distrust, from the perpetual fear of being hurt again. It should scare you, really, how quickly he did it, how easily and inconspicuously he did it. But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t, because he did it with love; stripping those protective walls with genuity and sincerity, dismantling every brick and stone with gentle touches and soft kisses and tender words. He did it with respect, with patience, with passion and affection and devotion.

So it doesn’t, because there’s nothing to fear—because you’ve never felt more safe in your life, here enveloped by his strong arms and cozy wings, resting on his chest, legs tangled in knots together.

And as you drift off to the gentle pat-pat-pat of the raindrops against the windowpane and the steady thumping of Keigo’s heart echoing in your ears, you realize he’s your very own ray of sunshine, forever present to keep those menacing clouds and malicious thunder away, even in the strongest, the harshest, and the scariest of storms.

#takami keigo x reader #takami keigo smut #bnha smut #hawks smut #hawks x reader #takami keigo #hawks #AAAAAH ITS SO VANILLA LMAO #it's really sweet tho #i hope it brings some of you some comfort and feelings of buzzy happiness <333

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animehouse-moe · 2 years ago

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Touring After The Apocalypse, Or, Weekend Touring. Who Knows

A bit of an explanation to start. Touring After The Apocalypse in Japanese is written as Shuumatsu Touring. "Shuumatsu" here has 2 meanings. The first, and the one used in the title is "end of the world". The Kanji is the reason you can say for certainty, but at the same time Shuumatsu can also mean "Weekend". The only difference being the first Kanji between the two. A fun little nod to the style and approach of the story for sure.

Speaking of that, what's it like? Well, to grossly generalize, it's a warmer Girl's Last Tour that has a stronger plot thread to it so far. But that doesn't really do it justice. It's almost an extension of slice of life in a post apocalyptic world, as Youko and Airi travel together, retracing the steps left by Youko's elder sister on a social media app like Instagram. It's a very sweet and simple concept, and on the surface is definitely comparable to how readers might approach a Slice of Life series in the first place.

Don't let it fool you though, otherwise you might get caught off guard every so often. It doesn't have problems with addressing the nature of a world shattered by war, as they make evident pretty quickly. Interestingly enough however, they don't like to dwell on these moments and instead allow them to pass over you like a wave, making for an odd feeling that's a bit hard to describe. It's not quite apathy, but an emotion that explains the permanence of the past and events that you can no longer change, like a passive sense of experience.

Back to the warmer stuff though, it really is a cute and pretty art style. The designs of the characters and their reactions to various things can really sell the vibe of some of the locations. More than a creative or very refined style, it's sort of a mixture of those two in terms of understanding. Shuumatsu Touring stretches the boundaries in a few areas and Sakae-sensei makes sure to explore them. Ridiculous and weird poses and movements that don't seem probable, and really emotive characters despite their simplicity.

Now the thing I've been dreading writing about, mystery. Oh so hard to explain without spoiling. Sakae-sensei dangles it in front of your face but doesn't make it impossibly hard to piece together. Where it leads to is a difference question entirely though, and what gets you. I wouldn't say it's the selling point to reading the series, but I definitely think it's something that works well in regards to providing an end goal for the story to reach so that it doesn't end itself wastefully. I guess more than mystery, I see it as trivia and a slow unravelling of the world and how it came to be. We learn stuff at a pretty steady pace through it all, but it's never something that commands the chapter or the girl's approach in reaching their next destination.

It's a sort of companion, and provides some really nice synergy. And I think that's what this first volume really stands out on. It's not something that has one incredible piece to it, or something that allows it to stand out completely. It's more a collection of small and fun pieces that are put together really well. It's certainly no masterpiece or critical work or emotionally impactful, etc. etc., and it doesn't really need to be. I sometimes have a hard time giving credit where credit is due when it doesn't fall into line with what's defined as "good" in the public eye, but Shuumatsu Touring is a solid, enjoyable, and worth it first volume.

You sink into it and enjoy the problem solving and interactions, the views and stories that accompany each location, the bit by bit breakdown of the world and its curiosities. It's the warm cup of tea you'll always relax with but never really praise for how good it is. And I definitely think it's always worth it for someone to have something nice and easy to relax with.

#touring after the apocalypse #Shuumatsu Touring #manga #anime and manga #new manga #manga recommendation #manga review

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fishstyx · 4 years ago

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featuring. college au!gojo satoru x fem!reader x geto suguru

wc. 9.2k

genre. dark/taboo, smut, angst

tw. 18+ nsfw, non/dubcon, toxic/abusive relationships, manipulation, victim blaming, dry humping, penetration, masturbation, irresponsible practice of bdsm, hair pulling, mild exhibitionism, size kink (both 6’3”, gojo can lift you), implied corruption kink, degradation, creampie, intoxication/alcohol, incel behavior, misogyny, dacryphilia

synopsis.

“Parading around as my personal fucktoy get you that excited?” he starts with a smirk, wide eyes drinking up your sharp inhale as if it were his own, inspiring pinpricks of heat to rise to your cheeks.

He hooks the hem of your skirt with his thumbs when he’s met with silence, pulls you from the doorframe just far away that he can release the elastic with a snap, silent snigger on his lips when it elicits a small sound of surprise from you. You nod in response, frantic bob of your head drawing a low growl from his chest and a “that’s right, I know what’s best for my pet,” as he lifts you off your feet and carries you to the bedroom.

notes. title inspo: love the way you lie (eminem, rihanna). you’re dating gojo, a charming, manipulative, self-entitled bastard. geto is, of course, his best friend, written as an aloof, self-righteous, bitter incel. please stay safe, read all the warnings, and enjoy. this is the most personal fic i have to offer. it draws from not-so-savory past relationships... i hope it remains the only testament to them. <3

links. broken toys. (sequel)

You were stunned into silence when he first suggested it.

And how couldn’t you be? Any sane person would, or at least should, have recoiled at the proposition. Isn’t that right?

But he makes it seem so harmless, so innocent, somehow. Like it’s no big deal, far from uncharacteristic for either of you—just a walk around campus, nothing new there. He tells you this like you’re overreacting, slow on the uptake, taking far too long to reach a final decision. The rational part of your mind says it’s out of the option. But the irrational part is louder, all-consuming, domineering.

The irrational part says, out of all your options, it’s the only viable one.

“Come on, babygirl. What’s the harm of trying it out once?”

It’s always this way, always has been. He takes your hands in his with a dramatic swell, the sparkle in his eyes big and bright and gleaming, and you bite back the urge to pull away. You would break your gaze if you could, if he didn’t look so determined, if that twinkling blue galaxy wasn’t sweltering with hope and adoration. But you can’t, and he does, and it just about swallows you whole.

The fact of the matter is, Gojo Satoru wants to take you out on a leash today.

Never mind today; he wanted this yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that, never one to shy away from his desires as you deliberated the entire time. By now he’s asked you to do this one, single thing for him far more times than you can count—initially playing it off as a joke, slowly feeling you out, gradually seeing how far he could push and pull until you explicitly told him no.

Except it’s never just one, single thing with him, and you—with the way you dance around the topic, hoping to give him the illusion that you might give in, or perhaps yourself the illusion of control—you never say no.

A simple line of defense, yes. Even you agree with that. But its execution? Around Gojo, it seems anything but.

Geto would beg to differ.

Geto.

The only other person privy to your latest concerns. The only other person you can bear knowing. And he’d be disappointed if only he could see you now.

Who are you kidding? He’s already disappointed.

A vague outline was all you gave him. A vague outline, you knew, not-so-deep down in your heart, was all you dare tell him—or anyone at all, really.

Because, sure, you’ve adopted a rather experimental lifestyle around Gojo, but that was supposed to be private. Reserved for behind closed doors, you thought, until now.

You were right in that the brooding brunette didn’t need every last grueling detail of Gojo’s newest request. He’s his best friend; he’s seen you at every single step of your whirlwind relationship together. The fervid beginnings, when the two of you couldn’t be physically separated, let alone in different rooms from each other. The ups and the downs, each one more intense than the last, each one blowing up in your faces before you ran back into each other’s arms and kissed and made up. You knew that much.

What you didn’t foresee, however, even as you recounted your latest grievance to him, was that nothing you were saying was new. To Geto it was regurgitated rhetoric, distorted and distressed, yesterday’s news—whereas you saw it as a unique conquest, a new hurdle to overcome.

“It almost amazes me how you can come up with so many new ways to say the same old thing,” he said, slanted eyes dull with apathy as they panned away from yours. “Almost.”

You could only choke on your words in response.

What Geto told you next is now a hushed murmur in the back of your head. It reverberates against your skull, pinballing against the walls of all that empty space and showing no signs of slowing down. It tells you to just say the magic word and it’ll be over, every last bit of Gojo’s borderline demands, washing away all of that white noise if only you’d breathe some life into it. That one word, the one that plagues your mind night and day, it begins to materialize upon your lips, poised and ready to spring into action, flexing on the tip of your tongue as if it were a wind-up toy.

Just say it already.

Just say no.

But you’re always holding your tongue around the both of them, together or alone, whether on the bony roof of your mouth or its flexible, fleshy floor, biting your words back for an eternity and more. Perhaps you were only faking yourself out, simply going through—no, barely feinting at the motions so you can come back to this chapter of your life and say that you tried. The moment passes, the pause your boyfriend gave at the sight of your mouth ajar long over, his words beginning to bleed into your reality once more.

And he’s saying, “I bought such a cute collar for you, too,” voice rising and falling with lovelorn disappointment. You can’t help but wince at his gentle timbre, all too painfully aware that such a small investment is far from the root of Gojo’s displeasure. You can hear it in his tone, too, how his carefree singsong runs steely as his thoughts begin to wander, settling on a resigned indifference.

So you wander, too. Tear your eyes from his in search of something, anything that might lend a reason to divert your gaze. Your fingers encircle white leather before you realize it, turning the thin strip over in absentminded idle, silver o-ring jingling in place. The metallic clank doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You should at least try it on before I return it, don’t you think?”

And you can’t find it in your heart to disagree, stiff choker tightening around your neck as he fumbles with the clasp. You trace the sanded edges before latching a finger—two fingers—beneath the leather material.

Perfect.

Perfectly irritating. Irritatingly perfect. It sits in the center of your neck without slipping, just snug enough that you can still breathe easy, comfortable and almost disturbingly so.

“Well?”

White lashes flutter idly as he considers your reflection as if studying it. And with the hint of a smile behind you, large hands on your waist in the mirror’s image, you start to think for the first time that the collar really is a pretty number, and a shame and a waste to throw away.

Because he looks so pleased now, creased cheeks and crinkled eyelids as he smooths his palms over your hips, like maybe you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever held. Because instead of the pouting you’ve come to expect, the declarations that you’re “no fun,” or that you’re “overreacting,” or that you need to “relax” you’ve come to accept, he simply brushes your hair to the side and rests his cheek against yours, warm breath just about tickling your chin.

It begs the question.

“Will you love me more if I do this for you?”

And it sends his eyes into a frenzied state, hungry void for pupils swallowing crystal irises with unabating greed, all frisky lashes and overeager ridges.

Ideally, he’d take your hands in his, tell you that that wasn’t his intention at all and beg for your forgiveness. Ideally, he’d hold you close, say that he loves you no matter what and promise to never push you this far again. You know all of these self-evident truths and more, yet you still can’t stop your heart from skipping a beat when he tells you, voice hushed in awe, triumph washing over you in spite of yourself:

“Of course I will.”

It’s different when you actually go through with it.

You try not to regret your decision immediately when you’re chained to Gojo’s hand in public, dog leash swinging in the wind as you round the campus loop. What a waste of a beautiful day for you to be hanging your head low, tips of your ears burning with shame. You don’t even believe that you’ve agreed to this yourself as you search the faces ahead of you for a trace of anyone you might know, pushing down the urge to cross your fingers behind your back.

But Gojo himself? He loves the lingering stares to tiny little pieces, practically basks in the attention as he pushes his sunglasses back so they rest above his hairline. Airy tufts of white spill over the tinted lenses, billowy strands coming to rest upon his forehead. When you think of it as your gorgeous boyfriend showing you off, it makes it all a little more bearable, has you standing up a little straighter. But your heart nearly stops every time you think you recognize the passerby, and eventually you dread the sight of absolutely anyone in the distance, for fear they will finally be a person who knows and calls you by name.

Gojo takes quick notice, realizes you hardly want to take another step in this undignified manner, and thinks to himself that there must be a better way to go about the arrangement.

His solution is to turn your walk of shame into a crawl of shame.

“On your fours,” he says, delighted when you actually crouch to the pavement, thankful for an excuse to hide your face. He ruffles your hair and slaps your hand away when you try to pull your skirt down, enamored by the way it rides up and reveals the lacy material below. You suppose it’s a trade-off you’ll just have to take, and in a confession that gets caught up your throat, you don’t wholly mind it: the pairs of eyes you can feel burning through you, though real or imagined you can’t be entirely sure. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were Gojo. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were you.

In the corner of your eye, you think you see someone sneaking a picture, but you don’t dare lift your head for a closer look. Instead you track the ground for rubble, hoping you’ll get away without scraping your knees, shaky line for a pair of lips as micro cuts come to crisscross your legs.

The rest of the walk is spent with you crawling the ground, light breeze tickling your backside, every part of you flaunted as if you’re Gojo’s most prized possession. You had better be, you think to yourself as you circle back to his building, and luckily enough, he’s about to make good on that expectation.

Maybe it’s the collar around your neck, or maybe it’s the surge of relief you get from returning, but by the time you meet the first glass door, you’re aching for whatever Gojo’s planned next.

He’s moving on predatory instinct the second you’ve set foot in his apartment, flushed lips curling around your own as soon as he pulls you up from all fours. A hollow knock sounds behind you as your heels strike the door, lower lip traced with a wet warmth until you’re gracious enough to grant him full access. He easily cages you with his entire frame, pressing that cute pink muscle in your mouth flat before writhing his own to the rhythm of his heartbeat, booming and ricocheting and alive.

It’s not nearly enough for either of you, of course, his hands beginning to roam all over your pliable form, all over his property, skirting along your outline and creeping closer still to the innermost curves of your contour cutout. Flitting fingers brush against your navel, dancing lower as you suck your tummy in by reflex, stopping right before the tingling bundle of nerves that just might explode as soon as he touches them.

But he takes pause instead, presses his forehead flush against yours, jewel colored eyes waiting on you with intent. You swear they can see right through you, even sheathed behind a cluster of wild white lashes, gauge everything there is to know about you faster than you can say “blue.” The moment freezes over, two bodies still and unmoving until you suddenly remember your need for air, gasping when you realize you’ve been holding your breath.

Your body bounces back from the force with which he tosses you into the mattress, giggles erupting from your throat when he climbs atop of you, tugging at your leash. A thin stripe of saliva trails up and down the column of your neck, laving intermittently over the leather that encases your flesh. A coppery taste, of earth and salt and smoke, dances on his tongue as his front teeth sink into the stretch of your collarbone, nipping and sucking at the delicate flesh. You sink into the bed as you ease into his touch, but he doesn’t give you much time to get comfortable.

“Touch yourself, then,” he says, “if you like to be watched that much.”

It almost sounds like a suggestion, especially with the way in which he uses the lightest touch to brush the stray hairs from your forehead, but you know better than that. Your fingers fly to the wet patch on your panties, thin material almost see-through with your slick, working the fiber flat against dampened skin. An echo of a chuckle reverberates throughout the room as he watches you, undoubtedly pleased by the way in which the fabric clings to your already dripping folds.

Large hands have your legs spread wide open by the time you’ve traced the outline of your clit, your little show put on full display for him. They stay pressed against your thighs as you venture loose, round motions around your sensitive nub. Too timid. You tighten the circles into a coiled spiral, mustering the courage to go harder, faster, the friction of cotton against delicate skin drawing small mewls and sputters out of your trembling form. The delayed relief is sweet, your arousal crying into the pads of your fingers as you pick up the speed. The image burns itself into his brain, watchful eye unfaltering as you play yourself to your heart’s content.

The very air itself seems to buzz as you hold the other end of his gaze, thick fingers running along your sides as you start to roll your hips into the palm of your hand. He’s bent over you with the twitch of his pants, too worked up to remain a bystander any longer as he blows and sucks up your neck. The open-mouthed kisses only hasten the buildup, sensation shotgunning down your body from the surface of your nape.

But the coil in your core knots itself far too early for your taste, and you reel your hand back right before you can realize your peak. You opt to drag a lone finger down your slit instead, afraid that with too much pressure, you’ll come undone before Gojo has the chance to get his fill.

Too late, too slow; he takes notice of your negligence immediately, eyes darkening at the pitiful way your hand skitters with abashment. He pulls away from the crook of your neck to get a good look at your dwindling handiwork, smirking to himself when you shrink in response.

“Having a little trouble there?”

His voice is deceptively singsong as he takes your sluggish hand in his, guiding your knuckles back to that aching button that has you arching your back and curling your toes. He repeats the motion, half a mind to force an orgasm out of you right then and there when suddenly, a whimper—yours—sends his eyes darting back towards your own.

“No, not like this,” you say with strained breath, and he quirks an eyebrow in response, working your fingers into the fabric despite the interruption. “I want more, I need…” your voice trails off, a sorry attempt at stalling.

“Need what?” he asks as he catches on, shit-eating grin somehow audible without you even looking. You don’t know how he does it, how he locks his desires up as you squirm underneath him, waiting ever so innocently for a proper response.

“Need, need you,” you say under your breath, and he cocks an eyebrow, a clear sign of an underwhelming response.

“Oh? I couldn’t quite catch that, princess.”

As if.

“I need you inside of me. Please, claim this filthy cunt,” you whine, determined to play, determined to win. Your hips buck into your interlaced fingers, searching desperately for the one word that’ll send him over the edge and finding it as the leather accessory rides up your neck—as if to remind you of its existence—“Master.”

And it does, it sends a jolt of heat to his groin, has him kicking his pants off and pinning your wrists into the sheets. It’s got him surging with primal need, tugging the pathetic mess of your soaked panties to the side with limitless hunger.

Because even though he’s drawn many names from your lips before, they’ve always been ones he’s insisted on, ones he’s downright pestered you about. Even the simplest “Satoru” was, admittedly, a struggle to pry out of you the very first time you got tangled in his sheets; you shielded your eyes then, cheeks burning and voice low as you whispered it in his ear. And look at you now, sprawled out beneath him as you edge yourself with a hand steeped in your own concoction, begging for his cock with that delicious nickname of your own admission, and it rings throughout his head like an addictive melody.

Master.

You can hardly recognize the noises he fucks out of you for the remainder of the night. He showers you with an unsavory slew of awful names, phrases you’ve never even heard aloud before, tells you that you’re his “freaky cocksleeve” and a “bitch in heat” as he jerks your leash without warning. And that’s exactly what you are, twitching for him like an animal as he screws you senseless, the most guttural of responses rising from your throat as he asks:

“Who do you belong to?”

And of course you respond, between labored pants, “You, master,” muscles taut as you fight for air, fingernails scrambling for purchase on his back but finding absolutely none.

It’s not until you’re entangled in a breathless mass that he pulls your head into his lap, strokes your cheeks and coos that you’ve been a good fucking girl, a thick mixture of his seed seeping from your gaping hole.

Morning always comes when you least expect it, sneaking up on you and peeking through the blinds before you’re ready to get going.

Gojo’s still passed out cold when you creep out of bed, only the most languid of movements used to pry yourself out of the mattress as your arms and legs ache for need of rest. The dull pain humbles you, delayed post-nut clarity finally hitting as you rub into your bleary eyes.

It feels like you’ve been struck by a train.

Your gait is but a tiptoe as you stalk towards his dresser, trembling hands slowly rummaging for something, anything that can provide you some cover. Your classes are starting soon, and whether his are, too, or whether he’s simply skipping out today, you know better than to rouse him from his toil-induced slumber.

It’s nearly inaudible, the sound of the door closing behind you, clank of metal but a whisper as the soles of your shoes kiss up carpeted floor. You’ve left it unlocked, just the way your boyfriend likes it, a small assembly of what you hope he’ll recognize as breakfast perched upon the kitchen table—the last traces of your visit left behind in a neat and tidy little package.

Your eyes find Geto’s once you turn down the hallway, small black beads peering into yours before taking a lap around the block to assess the damage. He must not like what he sees, this tousled morning-after apparition, faint patches of indigo and violet creeping out from under your—no, Gojo’s—oversized sweatshirt, because it’s a solemn sigh that hits your ears next and not a “good morning” or even a simple “hey” that acknowledges you.

Because he knows your average person wouldn’t notice the marks, too sheltered by all that thick cotton riding up your neck, purposefully pulled up just far enough that you wouldn’t see them unless you were looking. He knows your average person couldn’t have the slightest idea how you really scratched up your knees, pointillistic constellations of reddish purple threatening, however empty that threat is, to inch up your thighs. He scoffs.

“What do you even see in him?”

The words cloud the air before he’s completely aware of them, surprising the both of you as they surface.

You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water: for starters he’s charming, engaging, lively and free-spirited. He’s beautiful and he adores you, you want to say, but even though you have all the correct phrases picked out, all strung together in the same time and place, they don’t seem to roll off your tongue quite right.

You seem so tired, forced laugh falling short where it should flutter out of your mouth, the usual cotton candy you spout crystallizing before it can materialize.

“I could ask the same of you.”

It traipses out of your mouth before you can give it permission, easing itself into the atmosphere before sinking like a stone. Truthfully you don’t care to hear an answer, if only to avoid giving your own. You usher yourself out, pushing yourself past the towering wall of a human and stalking down the nearest stairwell.

Gojo knows just how to toy with your pride. But Geto? Geto knows how to slash it down to shreds.

The silence is deafening.

Geto sighs once you’re out of earshot, turning his heel to continue his trajectory. If anything, he didn’t want to run into you today, either. He cringes at the small collection you’ve no doubt assembled yourself, of iced matcha and a granola bar, staring him in the face as he stalks into the apartment. For some reason it only feeds into his mounting dread, the rising unease of what he might find waiting for him in the bedroom.

So he raps the bedroom door with his knuckles instead of barging in like he normally does, hoping in vain that he can get its sole inhabitant to lumber out himself. But of course Gojo doesn’t make it easy, letting out an obnoxiously loud yawn before stretching his lanky limbs with an equally obnoxious groan.

“You said to swing by this morning,” Geto half-yells, half says to himself, already prepared to turn tail and leave. He’s honestly surprised when he gets a legible response instead of the hungover mumbles he’s grown used to.

“Oh, that? Come in, it’s unlocked,” Gojo calls out, each syllable punctuated with tardiness. So Geto braces himself, puffing his chest out before giving the doorknob a firm handshake, stepping deeper into the belly of the beast.

Geto was prepared to see many things when he walked through that door. Something like lipstick stains and flavored condoms, S&M paddles and ribbed dildos. Instead he’s met with something completely other, the evidence already cleared away. Whatever late-night exploits you enjoyed are long gone, not a trace left behind by now, privy only to a grown man slumped over the edge of his mattress, grabbing around under the bedframe.

“Ahh, got it!”

With sleepy eyes Gojo lifts his head and presents to Geto the chrome colored box he’s fished out. It’s small and compact and ridiculously outdated, a conspicuous red button jutting out of its interface. He holds it up to his friend’s face, and the device finally registers.

A voice recorder.

“What, they still make those things?”

Geto schools his features easily, wiping the shock off his face before it can even materialize. It’s not exactly a lie; he knows he shouldn’t be surprised at all that Gojo has kept such an antiquated device for the occasion.

“You act as if you’ve never seen one before.”

It’s a smirk that’s plastered all over their faces now, one that nearly matches the one across from the other, and knowingly so. The two burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all, Gojo slapping his knee and Geto clutching onto his sides. They’re not sure who starts it, but one of them high fives the other.

Girls like you are oh so naïve.

Your wish is granted for about a week total.

Gojo keeps his promise, of loving you more and loving you better, throughout the remaining weekdays.

He takes you out for brunch, picks you up after class, and best of all, doesn’t ask anything more of you, doesn’t ask for anything better.

He opts to shower you with gifts instead, of stuffed animals and chocolates and bite-sized amenities, insisting that you take them all, no strings attached. Your nightstand overflows with his presents, mismatched tokens that remind you of his affection even when you’re not together. And although neither of you explicitly verbalize it, it seems like his way of apologizing. Silently.

You whole-heartedly accept.

This is the Satoru I fell in love with, you think to yourself as he pets your head one sunlit afternoon, grogginess setting in after a particularly big meal. You nuzzle into his lap and relish in the soft filtered light, sprawled out on your side on the living room sofa. He has you gazing upwards at a tap of the shoulder, all softened eyes and unkempt locks of hair, the smell of sandalwood and fresh dry cleaning enveloping you entirely as he leans in for a faint forehead kiss.

“What’s up?” you half ask, half mumble, eyelids heavy with sleep.

“Just wanted to see my princess’s face,” he says, a fleeting grin on his rosy lips. A hollow thud sounds as you play-punch him in the chest, but you roll over from your side to look up at him anyway.

“You happy now?”

“Overjoyed.”

The two of you lock eyes, slivers of white hair undoing themselves from behind his ear as your breath syncs up slowly, gradually. He stares at you with such longing that you would think you weren’t laying right atop of him, and you struggle to hold your ground.

“Are you—”

“Yup.”

You groan, eyes overcome with on demand prickling. “No thank you,” you proclaim as you squeeze them shut, uninterested in indulging him a staring contest. Moments pass and your eyes stay closed, a tide of tiredness washing over you. You loosen up, head rolling back as you allow yourself to relax.

Big mistake. He takes it as an invitation for his hands to descend upon you, attacking your sides in an attempt to tickle, and you jerk away instantly.

“What the—Sato, cut it out!” You bat his arms away, one eye open as uproarious laughter fills your ears.

“If you’re gonna fall asleep then at least let me lay down too,” he says, drawing out the last word as he props your upper half up. He takes your place on the sofa before pulling you on top, and you huff as you fall into a pile.

“Jerk.”

“Your favorite jerk, though.”

Oh, he definitely feels it when you smile into his chest.

The weekend arrives without issue.

Wednesday night you’re watching the sunset over melon sodas.

Thursday night you’re falling asleep on Facetime.

Friday night you’re in the midst of downtown Tokyo, multicolored lights casting your faces in ethereal glow as you work against the hustle and bustle of regulars and tourists. Karaoke songs eat up the most of your visit, Gojo’s voice slowly going scratchy until the crowd finally works the nerve to drag him offstage. You spend the remaining time hopping restaurants, ordering exactly one dish at each location, slowly working your way through a full course meal. The waitress who serves you nothing more than a plate of gyoza gets an especially generous tip.

Dessert is by far his favorite dish: a deluxe parfait, served in a tall, American-style glass and filled to the brim with sorbet. You can still taste the fruit toppings, fresh and fragrant and honeyed on your tongues as you swap saliva in the back of his car. He cups your face with one hand and holds the small of your back with the other, pressing dangerously close against your body. When you finally have the chance to breathe, a thread of spit trails between your lips, in memory of your union. It glistens in the color of the muted city lights, persevering through the window tint in all of their electric might. A mischievous glint reaches his eyes, and all of a sudden he’s pulling you on top of his lap.

“We can get away with this much, can’t we, princess?”

And you oblige, patch of wetness already creeping through your panties as he starts to move, clothed cockhead grinding against the curve of your ass. He’s louder than usual, quivering groans crumbling as they reach your ears, his hips rolling in stuttering motions. You feel as if you’re aflame, pulsating with need, decadent sweetness enveloping your senses every time he pulls in for a kiss, every time he grazes you with his pubic bone. Your clit sings with praises as he pushes you down by the hips, whispering how good you’re being for him, how gorgeous you look in the dress he bought you, and you make a silent wish in the faint moonlight that the moment will never end.

But it seems that good things always meet their end, and come Saturday night, the monster rears its ugly head again.

Because on Saturday night, Gojo’s got you hanging on his arm, the two of you ascending concrete steps to the usual place. Same group of people, different game every week. The two of you are greeted with sweet sighs and boozy smiles, clink of bottles surrounding you as they prepare this week’s drinking game. Gojo’s a lightweight and Geto sticks to designated-driver duty, so it usually works out just fine.

Just not this week.

If Gojo was the sun, then Geto was the moon.

It always seemed to Geto that his best friend had everything in the world he could possibly need: looks, charisma, and status, all readily available to him without much effort of his own. And honestly? He loathed him for that.

As soon as the clock strikes midnight, Geto knows there’s absolutely no way he’s making it to the party. Instead he opts to spend Saturday night alone in the comfort, or perhaps the prison, of his own room.

Because the sun is a star that births brilliance, instilling vitality and inspiring vigor wherever it goes. Whereas the moon only picks up in the after hours, left to guide the lost and the wandering in the nighttime. He feels like he’s always scraping the bottom of the barrel, the pool of women he can choose from limited to the gaggle of bumbling stragglers who lament, still, the absence of the blinding sun. And for the past twenty or so years of his life, those bumbling stragglers have not so much as glanced back at him, too enchanted by the liveliness of day.

Worst of all is that softheaded people, scatterbrains just like you, they think they can fix Gojo, super-fucking-nova Gojo who burns it all up, destroying everything in his course of direction. Part of Geto thinks it’s absolutely deplorable, the way in which pea-brained whores throw themselves at him, hankering for his attention and jumping through all the hoops necessary to get just that. But part of Geto also wants to have his own stake in the fun, and Gojo—pretty boy, genetic-lottery winner Gojo knows this all too well.

The glint of the moonlight taunts Geto as it reflects off the silver-toned box in his hand, bold “STOP,” “REC,” and “PLAY” lettering practically chanting his name in the dim illumination. He was told that the handheld device was safer with him, well out of your reach in the confines of his single dorm, and he supposes that’s the truth, what with the lack of foot traffic in this cramped room that lacks of fresh air and sunlight.

It’d be doubly safer if he’d just tuck the abomination away, stick it deep in the corner of his sock drawer or perhaps somewhere underneath the bed frame, but he’s kept it well in sight ever since he first laid hands on it. He clutches it tightly as if it just might disappear when he lets go; chances like these are rare for him, to be so close in proximity to the wanton whines of someone he knows and sees almost daily. And if it’s anyone’s fault that you’re still fucking an immature bastard, a privileged manchild who gets pretty much everything he wants, it most certainly isn’t his own.

It’s just so exhilarating, to be able to cradle the cool metal in one hand, throbbing cock in the other, drawstring sweats already halfway down as he thumbs at his flushed, pink head. He’s kicking his pants off as he leans into bed, flat of his slicked-up fingers laving over the sopping tip that cries and weep for release. He’s already imagining it, the kinds of o-shaped faces you make with a leash dangling from your neck, bubbling with excitement and intoxication and jealousy at the mere thought. But he doesn’t start the audio yet, fumbling for his stash of lotion before moving to fist his cock in its entirety, twitching creature red with excitement as he jerks it up and down.

It feels so intimate to him, the fact that you’re so close yet so far away, musical mewls available on demand whenever he so pleases. He quickens the pace, palm of his hand practically flattening the vein on the underside of his cock as he starts to buck his hips into his tightening fingers. He’d just love to ram his dick down your throat one day, but for now he’ll have to make do with his hands.

He hits “PLAY” with bitter determination.

The very first sound of crumpling bedsheets has him curling into a full-body tingle. He’s close, so close he can almost taste it, but he keeps his concentration on the audio speaker, waiting for something, anything to heighten his arousal. He sucks in the cold air between his teeth, curses threatening to pour from his lips at how right, how wrong it all feels. The anticipation is short-lived, however, broken by the sound of Gojo’s voice, just barely recognizable in the speaker’s tinny, superficial quality.

“My, my,” the silver-haired deviant says, corners of his mouth undoubtedly upturned as he leans into the microphone.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Geto?”

The voice recorder hits the floor at the sound of his own name, blood pressure rising as his arms and legs tense up in disbelief. His own orgasm slips away and out of reach in an instant, petering out in wretchedly slow motion as his stiff cock throbs with pitiful languor. He wants to laugh, he wants to cry, wants to curse the world for ever thinking you were actually within his reach, wants to chuck the accursed gadget across the room and watch it scatter across the floor in glittering smithereens. Or maybe he just wants to cradle his head and sink into the ground, face his back to the despicable device for the rest of the night as the cold seeps into his sides, but he’s not even sure where the damn thing skittered off to and his head is spinning and his eyelids clench shut and the world just grinds to a halt.

Gojo doesn’t take the news well.

Gojo doesn’t want to take it at all.

You’re chatting up the party’s host, a premed student in the same year as him, when you first notice him glancing at his phone.

“So how are things? Between you two, I mean,” Shoko asks as she follows your gaze.

“Couldn’t be better” is your absentminded answer, and she stifles a laugh—a perfect relationship with the Gojo Satoru? But you’re only half listening as she expresses her disbelief, eyes never quite leaving Gojo’s back as he shifts away from the mass of people and shuffles towards the windows, cell phone in balled-up hand.

The first call is inconspicuous enough—Geto has a habit of running late, after all. But when you excuse yourself to the bathroom and come back find to Gojo still holding the phone to his ear, half crouched with his lips screwed up in a pout, you know something’s off. Part of you doesn’t want to take your place beside him, but he pulls you down by the wrist, grip strong enough to leave dime-sized bruises.

They’re explaining the game of the night before you can ask him what’s up: a pitcher of beer will round the group of players, all sat in a circle on the carpeted floor, each and every one taking turns trying to steal the last drop. It’s a familiar setting, the music but a hum in the background as the participants buzz with idle chatter, but the person beside you feels alien somehow. The woolen material pills underneath your toes as you curl them into little balls, eyeing him with a sideways glance. You know better than to raise the issue when his foot’s tapping the floor with such force, rapid rhythm almost matching the incessant pace with which he thumbs at his phone. He’s calling Geto three, four, five times before changing tack, demanding an explanation through text.

Shallow breaths are all that fill your lungs as you keep as still as possible, trying your best to get a good read on the screen. If the slump in his shoulders is any indicator, you’re sure he’s seething at the words that light it up. But before you can make out a single phrase, he’s slamming the phone down with one hand, clenching the pitcher of freshly poured beer with the other.

His turn to take the first swig.

He ends up gulping until you’re sure he’s out of breath.

“Whoa there, Satoru,” the person next to him says when he sets the pitcher down, nearly emptied. “What the fuck was that?”

His wrist rises to wipe the corner of his mouth and he exhales sharply, as if his simple reply requires strenuous effort.

“DD bailed on us,” he announces, “fucking flake.”

“Maybe we should have you sober up, then,” someone else, likely Shoko, calls out from across the room.

The change in his demeanor is instant.

“Ah, we’ll make it back in one piece, won’t we?” Gojo’s glance darts sideways, playful lilt betraying the ice he has for eyes.

The room hushes, waiting for an answer, and you sit up straight when you realize who he’s asking. You quirk an eyebrow, amused. With his cheeks already flushed, what seems to be a pointed gaze unfocused and glassy, you can’t help but beg to differ. You know the answer he wants to hear with every bone in your body. But every fiber in your being knows the truth.

“Bullshit.”

The entire room erupts and it’s decided, against his will, that you’ll be spending the night.

Everything falls apart from there.

Shoko shows you to a guest room once the others begin to clear out, dark circles carved out by cool white fluorescents that cast shadows behind her puffy eye bags.

“Sorry it’s so small,” she says, gesturing at the lone mattress, creeping moonlight like a spotlight on its linen-lined surface.

“It’s everything we could ask for,” you say as Gojo falls into bed, sprawling out against the twin sized sheets. “Thanks for letting us crash.” She shoots him a tight lipped smile before placing a deft hand on your shoulder, brown locks cascading as she leans into your ear.

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

The night is long and never-ending.

Teeny tiny bits of skylight taunt you from above as Gojo proceeds to keep you awake well past twilight. He’s tossing and turning in the guest bed, kicking the blanket off the both of you with spiteful purpose, inviting in the cool night breeze. It nips you from your face to your toes, colder still even as he tightens his hold on you, and you decide to finally break the silence.

“You still mad about that one thing I said?”

He scoffs, huff of breath like a shot to your neck.

“You seriously have to ask?”

You tense up immediately, spine straightening flat against his chest as he continues, edge to his voice swelling as it looms behind you. “Honestly, who do you think you think you are? Always acting like you’re better than me.” Razor thin needles lodge themselves into your scalp as he pulls your hair back, your chin meeting chilled air as you offer up a whimper.

“It’s not like that.”

He only tightens his grip on your hair, pulling it back harder still.

“Think I need to remind you of your fucking place,” he mumbles as he presses into you, something stiff rocking against the fat of your thighs.

“Not here,” you breathe, eyes widening as you realize his intent, the alcohol in your system seeming to swirl in your head. He staggers his hips in response.

“Wasn’t a problem in the car.”

“Satoru, they might hear us,” you say, the steel in your voice cracking as his free arm snakes around your side, searching for the hem of your pants. “Mercy,” you try again, the familiar, agreed upon safe word sounding foreign and unfamiliar when it comes out but a croak. It hurtles from the shelter of your lips, forever lost as the strain in his pants only grows, breath going ragged as he ruts into your hips.

“Just let me have this.”

And he revels in the way in which he easily overpowers you, enamored in how his towering frame nearly swallows you whole. When a particularly loud groan—one you’re sure anyone in a neighboring room can overhear—escapes his lips, you blister with shame, burying your face in the pillow, limbs aching for need of sleep.

And then his breath hitches as he chases after fireworks and explosions, captivated by the way that you squirm in vain. His palms claim your hips as his own, cockhead grinding behind you, servicing himself with feverish concentration. He presses your side into the mattress, ass cheeks squeezing together like a homemade fleshlight, and you arch your back in a sorry attempt at evasion.

He groans in response, knees buckling together as he brushes up against the makeshift curve, and you stop struggling altogether. Your body buzzes from the touch, head swelling like a balloon, skin crawling from the jerky movements as you go limp as a ragdoll.

“God, you’re so good to me,” he says, praise anything but endearing when it hits your ears. It’s the same kind of acclaim he gave up just the night before, but it cheapens as he repeats it, banal phrase playing over and over in your head. He’s still humping your butt when he cums, shaky and delirious as he rides out the high, profanities rolling off his tongue until he’s shuddering himself to sleep. All is still once he’s blacked out from the stimulation, pitter patter of salted frustration the only movement left over as it soaks the pillowcase through and through.

You lay awake, caged by his toned muscle, trapped by his carbon curses, praying for sleep until the birds begin to chirp. They sing a song that they borrowed from the night, a harrowing lullaby that has you in a panic, slipping out of his grasp as you crawl out of bed.

By the crack of dawn you’ve tiptoed into a cab, belongings clutched tight to your chest, apartment complex shrinking in the distance, but it never seems to get further away.

Geto hasn’t breathed a word about the voice recorder.

Geto doesn’t want to think about it all.

He’s paying for it now with a barrage of daily phone calls from none other than Gojo himself, who dials him day and night and morning, no regard for moderation. Geto regards the fallout as both of their instant karma, still miffed by the prank he’d just fallen for, but unwilling to reveal his folly. He fills the role of trusty confidant nonetheless, his betrayal as M.I.A driver long forgotten. It’s a spectacle, the frenzy Gojo is bound in, and he might as well watch from a front row seat.

But he hasn’t made a full recovery yet, forever irked at the pretty privilege Gojo takes for granted, the privilege he downright hoards for himself, barking into the speaker when he feels his blood begin to boil.

“Seriously, what did you do this time?” He wants to tear his hair out at Gojo’s stupidity, his utter lack of tact, wants to pull out his front teeth and pulverize the dental tissue into a fine powder when he’s met with momentary silence.

It’s been a few days since you left the guest bedroom alone in the wee hours of morning, and Gojo hasn’t been able to get ahold of you since. You haven’t been answering his texts, his calls, Christ, he even tried your personal email, and now Geto finds himself shouldering the brunt of his correspondence, trying everything in his power to get him to calm the fuck down, albeit fruitlessly.

“Nothing we haven’t done before,” Gojo insists once he’s found his choice of words, spitting them out one by one, raking stiff fingers through colorless locks. “I got a little handsy, but it was seriously nothing.” Geto shakes his head and rubs his temples; nothing isn’t enough to make you walk out on him.

“If you’re telling the truth, then stop worrying already.” A stray section of his bangs fall forward, sweeping over his eye as he slumps over in his chair. “But if you’re lying—” he starts, cut off by the sound of chaste knocks, an unassuming 1-2-3 kissing up at his door before he can finish.

Saved by the mystery visitor.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d sigh relief, eager to break away from the droning and moaning of the spoiled brat on the other line. Instead he gives pause, as if weighing the cost of answering the door against the merit of staying put on the phone, moment’s hesitation only giving way to a guaranteed getaway.

“Hold on, I need to get this,” is all Geto says as he hangs up the phone, equal parts appreciative and skeptical of the person at his door. He isn’t exactly friendly with anyone on his floor, and few would show up here without asking first, so he peers through the peephole, curiosity getting the better of him.

And lo and behold, speak of the devil, it’s Gojo’s missing girlfriend, standing alone with her hands twisted together.

Amazing. You’re quite literally the very last person he wanted to see right now.

“Do you have any idea how worried he is?” Geto snaps when he answers the door. You have no idea what kind of mess he has on his hands. “Go and make up with your boyfriend already.” He moves to close the door but you react quickly, wedging yourself before the doorframe, eyes wide and pleading.

“I’m in trouble, so please...” You scramble for something half believable. “I can’t turn to anyone else.” He laughs in your face, eyebrows quirked with mirth at how genuine it almost sounds.

Almost.

“Don’t give me that.”

“No, I mean it,” you press on, unwilling to admit that anyone else who’d listen to your cries for help, from trusted family to doe-eyed friends, would undoubtedly have you in a beeline for the authorities. “You—you’re the only other person who can put up with Gojo.”

That gets him stopping in his tracks.

“Barely,” he scoffs, but the pressure on the door lets up. He hates that you have a point there. Hates that he can’t look away from Gojo and his silly antics and his daring ploys and especially hates that he has that in common with you. He wants to turn you away but you look so hopeful, ignoring the dulling pain of the door trying to crush your foot flat.

He bites the bullet.

“You know he’ll be pissed if he finds out you came to me first, right?” You screw your lips together when he cracks the door slightly.

“Well, he doesn’t really have the right at the moment,” you sniff, barging in when he lets go of the door completely.

The room is impossibly smaller than you ever imagined, in direct contrast to all the empty space in Gojo’s rental. It’s a wonder how all his necessities fit in the cramped shelves and tiny drawers, and you almost marvel at the scale of it until the sound of wood on vinyl tiling snaps you back to focus. A few stray articles of clothing are plucked from the ground and chucked to the corner before he’s pulling two chairs up, one for you and one for him. Once he’s sitting, you have his full, unadulterated attention.

Not that you know what to do with it.

It takes a while to find your voice, fiddling with your fingers as you try, unsuccessfully, to hold his gaze. There’s no clock but you swear you can hear the second hand ticking. The curtain’s closed but you’re sure you can feel the heat of the sun disappearing. You’re certain that it ebbs below the curve of the horizon as you watch, timidly, the tap of Geto’s wooden sandal. It remind you of the clack of Gojo’s dress boots, impatience slowly exceeding its carefully drawn bounds.

You time out a moment of silence.

And then another.

And then another, until Geto is staring you down expectantly, pinpricks for eyes. You take the hint.

“I said it.” You look down, fidgeting with your shirt. “I said no.”

His eyes soften immediately, struck by the raw edge of your voice, your inability to look him in the eye.

“And he didn’t respect that?”

“He touched me. When I asked him to stop.” The words have to force themselves out your throat, the little bit of courage you have all that keeps the walls from collapsing in completely. You take as deep of a breath as you can manage when the memory flickers through your mind, clear as yesterday. “He—he fucked me through his clothes.” Your head’s buried in your hands as you fold into yourself completely, rocking in place, and something rages inside of Geto.

“Wait, what?” Geto looks at you incredulously, disbelief scrawled all over his face, eyes narrowing when you keep your head down. “Through his clothes?”

You nod slowly, knowingly, and he feels as though the world is spinning all over again. The ground seems to shift beneath him as your face contorts in pain, saltwater already beading up along your lower lashes. That’s it? That’s what this entire circus is on about? He cards his hands through his hair as he tries to process it, shaking his head when you fail to respond. That’s all it takes for your whole body to quake, hard lumps bubbling up your throat at the bite of his words, breath stuttering irregularly as your windpipe starts to clench up.

And then you’re crying, body wracked with hiccups as you try to quell the chills crawling up your skin. Your chest heaves in a sorry attempt to keep up with the lurch of your lungs, sputtering as you try to suppress your voice.

“God, you’re all so fucking annoying.”

He watches you bubble over, feeling his own emotions swell as they hit a critical mass, stomach churning at the sight. You couldn’t manage a comeback if you wanted to, a blubbering mess as you try to wipe your eyes dry. The small bit of composure that’s kept him whole these past few days finally snaps when the tears trail down your hands, no end in sight in the onslaught of waterworks.

“I bet you wanted it,” he continues, unfazed by the fattening tears, fingertips digging into his thighs as he spots the yellowed bruises he jacks off to at night. He leers at the fading brown and imagines them overlaid with fresh, new marks, gleaming blush and fiery crimson. “I bet sluts like you don’t care what happens as long as they get dicked down in the end.” A quiet sob tumbles out of you and your cheeks tingle with hurt, like you’ve been backhanded once, then twice.

“It’s n-not like that,” you finally manage to say, gasping through choked noises as he creeps closer, cloaking you in shadow. He stares vacantly from his vantage point, as if looking at an ant on the tiles.

“Then why don’t you walk away for real?”

And that’s exactly what you should be doing right now, cornered by a large man in his dark, dingy room, but by the time you think to stand up he’s grabbing you by the wrists. He sends you barreling into the desk, spinning you around so your hands clutch the edge, chest pressing up against the surface. He pins an arm behind you with ease, kicking your legs wide open, and you flail the other in no particular direction.

“You secretly enjoy all of it, don’t you? You secretly get off on the idea of being raped by your boyfriend.” He sneers as you buckle underneath him, grazing his growing erection. “All worked up over a little dry humping? Get over yourself already. You females want to be hurt so bad.”

“Fuck you,” you manage between muffled sobs, chest feeling as if it’s about to break in half. “You’re j-just like Gojo.”

“Just like Gojo?” Geto echoes, free hand coming to snake between your thighs, voice catching as he speaks. “You’re sorely mistaken.”

You fall limp as he draws a single finger under your panties, tracing your hipbone as he muses. He imagines their contents, imagines how easy it would be to take you by force, sighing aloud at the prospect of doing it without.

“I can never be him.”

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