#everything wilts eventually

[yuuminni]

god i wish we got to see more of celine

[obsessiveloveistheonlylove]

Yandere bruce wayne with neglected!daughter reader

Seen a bunch of neglected reader fics recently but I haven't seen one of a Reader who slowly starts to take advantage of the situation and uses batfam for their money and connections so here's this! This only focuses on Bruce for now but if anyone is interested I'd be willing to do some for the other batfam members + hcs for when/if they snap and kidnap the reader. 

Was suppoused to headcanons but ended up more as long rambles than anything lol mainly set up for later posts detailing the situation

Pt1 it got too long, word count ; 2461

Unedited

___

Bruce is absolutely the most susceptible to this behavior, he feels the most guilt about the situation (as he should for being a neglectful father) and he is not going to lie to himself to try and save face and make himself feel better and if he does it's only for a short while before reality slaps him in the face and he has to see the truth. The truth is that there is no one to blame but himself.

When he first noticed your disappearance it had happened slowly… entirely too slow when he really took the time to think about it. You had been gone for a full year and he hadn't even noticed? Were you even old enough to be on your own like that? Something he felt ashamed that he even had to ask. When Alfred informs him that you're nineteen just this month he's shocked not only that you're an adult and that he didn't even realize your birthday had passed but that he couldn't even remember your face. He searches his memories for your Visage but all that he can recall is murky; he can't even remember the correct shade of your eyes or your hair and it startles him how long has it been since he took the time to properly look at you? 

It takes some time but eventually he remembers your face with sudden clarity, he hadn't seen it in a while and the only image he could conjure up was when he first saw you, a small helpless looking child left on his doorstep by commissioner Gordon.  your eyes held the same dull glassy look that his did the night his parents died, you had lost your mom in a similar vein he felt he could relate to at the time. he remembered seeing you and feeling sad for you but not in the way a father does for his child the way he felt was the same way he felt as Batman seeing victims in Gotham streets you didn't deserve this life but you weren't anyone close to him. 

His chest aches and he remembers the way you'd clung to him your first week in the manor and then the way you wilted when he shut that down, it wasn't like he was trying to hurt you but he couldn't have you following him around everywhere especially not when gothams crime was getting out of hand even with the other members picking up his slack. So he reprimanded you, way too harshly now that he looks back on it he knows he only meant to keep you from discovering his secret but he could have worded it better instead he made it sound like you were a burden. Maybe you were to him at the time he thinks and is disgusted with himself for even letting the thought cross his head. 

He reads your diary page after page until he reads through the whole thing. The first few pages are hopeful but solemn detailing how much you missed your mother but you're glad that you have a whole new family and you hope that they will like you, it's heartbreaking to read that kind of childish hope turn into sadness and then hate. You detailed how no one would make time for you that you'd tried everything to get their attention but you'd get blown off by each one it turns into rants about you asking what was wrong with you and why no one ever spent any time with you the writing was scribbled on so he knows you did it in a hurry just to vent out your frustration. The part that hurt most were the pages about him, you had nothing good to say about him in fact in one of the pages you had written that you didn't have much to say about him at all that you hardly knew him and barely saw him once a month and couldn't even call him your father. 

Surely that couldn't be true right? He's not the best father figure by far but he always tried to make time for dick, Tim, Jason, Steph, Damian and Cass ... .surely he did for you. 

He tries to find memories of him being a good father or at least trying to be any kind of father figure to you at all but he can't he can only see the times he rejected your pleas to spend time with you for things he deemed more important than you he sees it clearly each time he rejected you how you got sadder and sadder how you seemed to wilt at each and every rejection until you stopped asking. 

he tries to tell himself that he did it for your protection that he just didn't want to get you involved in the crime fighting scene and since gothams streets were never without crime he spent an exorbitant amount of his time as Batman down in the batcave or out fighting crime with his other children and that's why he couldn't spend time with you. And that's why he seemingly had so many memories with them in the recent years; hell even in the recent weeks he has more memories with dick and the others than he ever had made with you. he tries to use it as an excuse to mask the truth; that you didn't matter in the grand scheme of his life, at least not then but he's going to do everything to make this right.

You'll be surprised to suddenly get a ton of texts from an unknown number even more so when you find out it's from bruce. Suddenly he's asking you how you've been, how was the move, are you in college right now, what major did you take? Obviously you're taken aback when the man who acted like you didn't exist suddenly wants to know everything about you. You would think he'd needed something but you know better than that what could he possibly need with you now? You don't have any money and he wouldn't need that anyways. Maybe he's dying and needs a kidney or something…whatever you don't care that man can rot. 

You leave his messages on read of course, because you don't owe him a response and well maybe to be a bit petty and give him a taste of his own medicine. You don't know how bitter the taste is in Bruce's mouth, he knows you've seen them so why won't you respond? Bruce usually isn't a multi texter but he'll send more and more trying to get any kind of response out of you, he's constantly checking his phone hoping to see three little dots appear and he's noticeably slightly more angsty when out patrolling with the others. 

The texts were annoying but you could mute his notifications and after the first few weeks you basically forgot about the texts going about your normal life until he started calling. It seemed like he was always calling Day in day out, you blocked his number because of how annoying it was but he always just gets a new one leaving the same text “ hey your name its dad” and then the calling would resume. 

One day you pick up and Bruce sounds so relieved when he says your name into the receiver you figure he might really need that kidney if he sounds this excited to see you.

When you answer back he knows you aren't excited in fact you sound completely disinterested in him which takes him by surprise, isn't this what you wanted? What you cried for in your diary begging God that your father would notice you. You're older now so maybe you just aren't looking for that kind of attention anymore, the thought haunts him the idea that he could never truly make it up to you still he pushes through his voice sounding nervous as he starts to tentatively ask about your day. You cut him off with a scoff after some terse conversation telling him to just get to the point already and stop wasting your time. 

The silence is deafening and you almost hang up before he croaks out a response “sorry name, I just wanted to know what you were up to I know we uh.. haven't talked in awhile I just wanted to hear from you and know that everything was alright”  could this really be your father? He sounds so pathetic to you at that very moment, nothing like the confident man you saw on television often nor the man you saw taking care of everyone but you. 

And no nothing was alright you were working a job you hated in some shitty little apartment in Gotham that you had to fear if it would get broken into or not because the damn landlord wouldn't change the faulty locks a rage takes you and you just let it all fall out cursing him for your shitty life and the shitty apartment and for being a shitty father letting all that rage out until you're left heaving.  its silent after your outburst you think he might have hung up but after a moment he offers to pay for a new place and offers to pay your current rent until you can break the lease and that he will take care of you and not to worry about anything financial telling you to quit your job and to send him your bank so he can get things sorted out.  

At first you wanted to vehemently deny this, wanting to prove to yourself that you didn't need him or his help but something In the back of your head tells you to accept it, that if he expects anything back for it then that's his fault for assuming. So you tell him and soon there's a large sum of money in your account more than you have ever had in there. For once you can actually afford to treat yourself instead of eating shitty microwaved ramen, and so you dine out in a nice reasonably expensive restaurant with your friends and you enjoy yourself. 

A week passes in silence and then he's sending you pictures of luxury apartments telling you to pick out any one you want and that he'll get everything settled and you almost can't believe this. Would he actually pay for something so outrageously expensive? You almost doubt it but once your lease is up Bruce is at your door helping you move out any furniture you wanted to keep which was almost nothing seeing as everything was already worn out anyways. 

You didn't say much to him and he seemed to realize you were in no talking mood so he allowed you to be quiet and told you about himself instead talking about the boys and what he'd been working on recently, it feels like what he should've been for you years ago an interaction you'd have killed for when you were fourteen and it just pisses you off so you turn on the radio instead to drown out his words. You don't care how he's doing, you don't want to hear about dick or damian, you're only accepting his help because you're tired of living in that shitty apartment. The ride is otherwise silent except for the annoyingly upbeat pop music which would probably make Damian or Jason have an aneurysm if they had to listen to it. 

The goodbye is  awkward. You can tell Bruce wants to come inside and talk more but you thank him for helping you move in the furniture and shut the door. 

He buys you new furniture without you asking and sends it in by the second week you're in the apartment. You don't realize that he stalks your posts and that he saw one of you complaining about the lack of good furniture.

Life has never been better for you, you live in luxury and can go on shopping sprees literally whenever you want and Bruce sends you a random stream of cash whenever you start to get low and you're definitely not going to look a gift horse in the mouth not when you enjoy every luxury you are afforded. 

Life is good until a certain black haired prick starts inserting himself into your life and this time it isn't bruce, nope it just had to be your annoyingly bubbly, touchy, and all too friendly ‘stepbrother’ dick grayson.

___

So yeah all in all Bruce has the capability to recognize your strained relationship is all his fault and that he never should have ignored you and how selfish he was to put his duties as Batman above his duties as a father to you. He realized he didn't even try to balance the two. 

And Despite himself he ended up hurting you and neglecting you so he feels he owes it to you to make things right even if 'making things right' entails him buying you a luxury apartment or purchasing the latest phone or new car. The best part is that Bruce will not demand time from you (yet) because of his guilt.  He simply suggests that maybe you should come out with him saying that he planned a whole day for the two of you but the ball is in your court since whether or not you ever accept his invites he will continue to be your cash cow to absolve himself of his guilt. 

It's fun because now you get to watch him wilt everytime you reject his attempts at reconnecting, you get to have your petty revenge watching as a part of him dies inside each and every time you ignore the conversations he tries to start when pulling money out of the bank,  you get to watch how he seems to lose all of his luster when you leave once the cash is in your hands without so much as a thanks. Bruce isn't stupid he knows this dynamic is unhealthy and recognizes it for what it is but this is the only way he can get you to talk to him or to even look in his direction. He has his limits though eventually you will talk to him whether you want to or not 

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

THE THINGS YOU DO FOR LOVE... ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; satoru begs you to wear the frilly maid dress he bought. against your better judgement, you indulge him.

word count; 7.0k (this was supposed to be short but i miss him terribly)

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, fluff fluff fluff!!, sickeningly sweet, literally just satoru being down horrendous, lots and lots of petnames (he is embarrassing), he’s ur biggest hypeman, entirely sfw!! (i feel like i have to specify that…), reader is a lil grumpy, satoru gojo is the most insufferable man on earth <3

a/n; this is just a silly lil wip i found in my drafts…. i dont remember what possessed me to write this i just think satoru would cry and fall to his knees and throw up blood if he saw u in a frilly dress

”— no.”

the word rolls off your tongue, instantaneous, with a decisive kind of sterness. leaving no room for hesitation, doubt or indecision; not a single gap for his argument to fit through, no loophole he could take advantage of to persuade you into giving in.

but despite all that, satoru just won’t back down.

”come on, baby, please?” he pleads, voice coaxing and sugary sweet. you can almost see those puppy dog eyes of his from behind the black glass of his shades. ”i already bought it and everything!”

”i don’t care,” you spit. a halfhearted attempt at appearing annoyed, in hopes it’ll distract him from the strawberry flush of your cheeks. ”i’m not wearing it. you shouldn’t have bought it, in the first place.”

”but sweetheart,” he drawls, tinged with a sadness he knows tugs at your heartstrings. ”it’s so cute. you’ll look so adorable.”

”not happening.”

”but —”

”— no. i’m seriously not wearing it, satoru.”

it’s harsh, the flow of your words, sharp and firm; but that’s your only option when he gets like this. your only slim chance at survival, being almost painfully direct. that doesn’t stop your resolve from weakening pitifully when satoru’s posture wilts, though, obviously exaggerated but still somehow effective. you debase yourself for being so weak for him. 

but giving in just isn’t an option, this time. 

under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t take too long for him to persuade you. satoru can be annoying, extremely so — but when he’s being so stubborn about something, there’s usually a good reason for it, even if it’s just that whatever he wants you to do will make him happy. to you, it’ll do.

(his happiness is your priority, after all.)

but in this case, there’s just no way. absolutely no way in hell.

he’s still holding that thing up, like he genuinely thinks it’ll support his argument, swaying it lightly side to side. it really, really doesn’t. it does the complete opposite, in fact.

”but angel,” he tries, again. you wonder if he’s eventually going to run out of petnames, or if he’ll just keep cycling through them until he runs out of air to breathe. ”don’t you wanna see how it’ll look on you?”

a sharp scoff flows from your lips. 

he can’t be serious. 

you really, really, really don’t. if anything, you want everything in the world except for that. you’d rather smash a glass bottle into little pieces and eat them one by one. you’d rather sit on satoru’s lap in a room full of other people. you’d rather jump in front of a moving train with explosives tied to your back.

— it’s so frilly. 

you almost couldn’t believe it, yourself. when he barged into the room, cardboard box in hand, fresh from the mail; all while wearing an excited grin, foreboding, but you were too mesmerized by it to even notice. 

it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, so you didn’t think much of it. satoru buying you gifts is not in any way unusual, even and especially if you tell him not to — and usually, it’d be a sweet occasion. the kind of moment you can soak in, drink up, and then recall fondly for the rest of the week. 

every single detail is worth cherishing. how excitedly he always opens it up, eager for your reaction, and how you always thank him, no matter what it is. sincerely, because satoru can be awkward with his affection, but his love bleeds through in moments like these.

from expensive, well-kept bouquets to little flowers on the side of the road; from thought-out gifts to little trinkets; no matter what it is, the sentiment remains the same.

(this made me think of you. i want you to have it. 

i remembered you mentioning this brand. i love you.)

a way for satoru to show his love, without overwhelming himself or you. a way of easing him into it, when everything is still just so new to him. 

buying you whatever catches his eye is the perfect solution, according to satoru. and it exasperates you, sometimes, when you come home to five amazon packages right outside your doorstep — but deep down you know it’s more for him than you. because it makes him happy, to be able to, allowed to show his love for you in ways like this. in normal ways, easy ways, that say more than his words ever could. 

(being granted the luxury of making you happy. of loving you, even if satoru doesn’t think he’s very good at that, just yet. but he is good at impulse buying things he knows you’d like; so that’ll have to do, for now.)

which is why you couldn’t help but let his infectious joy seep into your bloodstream, trickling its way through your veins with a sweet kind of fervour. couldn’t help but smile, a tender curl of your lips, in tandem with his cute little grin. couldn’t help but grow a little bit excited, as he opened the package — 

to reveal a cutesy, frilly, maid outfit.

— and then your mind screeched to a halt. 

the look on your face must have been something special, horrified and flustered in equal measure. almost in disbelief, as he immediately began to gush about the outfit in his hands. look at the bows, isn’t it cute? god, you’re going to look so pretty. i mean, you always do, obviously, but —

you weren’t really listening. all your mind could do was spin in circles, trying to get some read on the situation, but it was just no good. he genuinely, thoroughly, truly and sincerely expected you to put on a goddamn maid outfit. 

if he had bought it for himself, then maybe you would've been at least a little bit excited. you’re sure he'd look good in it; with those big blue eyes of his, that cute, happy grin. so good that your heart would probably combust, a little. melt through the floorboards. 

but no — he wanted you to wear it. 

and despite your instant, firm protests, he just will not give it up. your boyfriend is a stubborn man, so it’s no surprise, but it’s still enough to irk you.

”satoru, for real. no! i’m not wearing it!”

”but you’d look so good,” he whines, loud and grating as he inches closer to you. still holding the dress up like a prize; you back away, instinctively, like it’ll burn if you touch it.

”i don’t care! it’s a maid outfit! why the hell would i ever wear it?” 

sunglasses seated at the bridge of his nose, satoru allows you to catch a glimmer of his eyes — an effective method of persuasion. he definitely knows their power, and he’s definitely flaunting them for the sole purpose of making you falter. that manipulative scumbag.

the fact that it actually works makes you even angrier, though.

a sharp turn of your head, and your gaze falls on the windowpane, lingering there as you grumble under your breath. he’s so annoying. you’re growing more and more flustered by the minute, too. 

”— because you love me?” 

satoru tilts his head, white locks of hair following the movement. soft and silky, nice to run your fingers through, but you chase the thought away as soon as it enters your subconscious. he looks almost hypnotizing under the sunlight, with the golden rays illuminating his features, smoothing over the contours of his face — as if the sun was made solely to shine on his skin.

and ah, you think, there we go. satoru’s classic tactic; using your love for him as a bargaining chip, pouting down at you like a kicked puppy. you like to picture his eyes all watery and glassy, everytime he tries it, as if he’s some rejected cartoon-mascot. so silly. 

valiantly, you fight off the temptation to smile, gracing him with another little scoff instead. shooting him an unimpressed look, a tiny raise of your eyebrow. ”that won’t work on me.”

”aww, come on,” he almost coos, inching closer still. ”don’t you love me? my sweetiepie? my cute lil’ mochi?” 

(he’s getting bolder with the petnames, you note. as if that’d change anything. they’re so cheesy it makes you recoil.)

”obviously.” you deadpan, trying your best not to let affection seep into the words. but you see satoru’s lips curl up, anyway. ”i’m still not wearing it, though. sorry.”

satoru sighs. heavy, exasperated — dare you say defeated? for a second, you delude yourself into thinking he might actually give in, for once, spare you both the trouble — 

until he falls to the floor, knees hitting the soft flooring with a loud thud. awfully dramatic. he clasps his hands together as if to beg and plead, a starved dog at your feet, and gazes up at you with newfound determination.

”please, baby — i’m begging you,” he groans, voice sad and pained, agonized, like you just threatened to break up with him. silly, silly man.

”don’t grovel.” a sigh drops from your lips as the pads of your fingers go to massage your temples. soothing what you’re almost sure is an incoming headache.

and he makes a certain noise, almost a whimper, like you just kicked him in the gut. you glance down at him as if to signal really? with your eyes, lips parting to speak — 

but your breath only hitches in your throat, and no sound comes out.

satoru’s eyes are almost teary. peeking out from behind his shades, big and glassy, eyelashes dewy with what you know are just crocodile tears. he’s far too skilled at it for his own good, though — maybe you should be supporting his acting career, instead of the weird teacher-slash-sorcerer thing he’s got going on.

and you’re weak, you realize, terribly so. because something deep within your chest constricts, at those sad eyes, heart squeezed painfully, and when you speak you note that your voice sounds a lot softer. 

”satoru,” you sigh, again; more resigned this time, a little fatigued. missing the way his eyes glint at the sound, as if sensing an opportunity. ”really. i’m sorry i wasted your money, but it’s just… not happening. okay?” 

attempting to sound delicate, your voice settles on a soothing tilt, like an adult speaking to a tantrum-throwing child. hoping it’ll be enough to make him falter even slightly. 

it isn’t, of course; if anything, his determination only grows. 

”even just for a short while?” he tries, voice sweet and pliant. all daisies and sunbeams, tailormade to tug at your heartstrings. ”just an hour or so! then i’ll be satisfied.”

”an hour? no way!” you scoff.

and this time, you don’t miss it. from behind those shades, a certain glimmer of something flickers through his irises — something keen and observant. a certain dread crawls its way down your spine.

”so it’s fine if it’s less?” he grins, changing tactics, smooth and decisive. ”half an hour. that’s as low as i��ll go.”

”oh my god.” an exhale, drawn out and exhausted, from the very depths of your chest. ”satoru. toru. no. i’m not wearing it at all. this isn’t an auction.”

”but it could be,” he purrs, still on his knees. it makes him look a little bit disturbed. ”c’mon. why are you getting so shy? guess what — i’ll even settle for twenty minutes. just for you.”

oh, he’s just awful. you want so badly to be mad at him, and that teasing, smug, shit-eating little smirk of his — but you can’t. 

not when he looks so effortlessly pretty, bathed in the light of the sun, surrounded by a mellow glow so tender it makes him look something like an angel. not when he’s acting so characteristically himself, so stubborn and infuriating and entirely impossible not to love. 

another sigh. you’re a little surprised you have enough air left in your lungs to breathe it out, and as much as you hate to admit it, you’re beginning to grow just a bit tired of the back and forth. ”i’m not shy,” you huff. ”i just don’t want to. it won’t look good on me, anyway.”

satoru blinks. genuine surprise shines in his eyes, for a second, like you caught him off guard. ”huh? of course it will. why wouldn’t it?”

a pause. gnawing at your bottom lip, you avert your gaze, trying to find the words. ”it’s just… tacky,” you settle on. ”it’ll look weird.”

”it won’t! you’ll look so cute!”

another huff, as your dispassionate, bored gaze meets his. ”and how do you know that?”

satoru's answer is instantaneous. ”you always look cute. just wanna see how you look in this,” he chirps, brandishing the outfit with barely contained excitement. thoroughly giddy. ”when i saw it, i knew it’d look adorable on you. and i’m never wrong!”

a soft pout plays at your lips, in the wake of his eager sincerity. barely noticeable, just a little embarrassed, but it’s there. and satoru’s seen it, finally — the road to victory. he knows he can win this, if he’s smart about it.

”i just wanna see you in it. just for a second. please? pretty please?” he tilts his head, tantalizing, showing off the blue of his eyes and the curl of his lips. ”then i’ll never ask you for anything again. promise!”

”okay, that’s a lie and we both know it.”

the grin that blooms on your lips is a mistake, you quickly realize, because satoru interprets any sign of joy on your face as positive approval. his determination grows.

”yeah, yeah… but i mean it! i won’t bother you if you just wear it once. just once!” he puts a single finger up, to emphasize the point. ”just wanna see my precious baby all frilly and cute. won’t you indulge me, oh my dearest?”

he’s grinning, now, all soft and teasing. it’s more breathtaking than he’ll ever understand. he’ll never even come close to understanding how gorgeous he is, like this — when there’s no one around to perform for, when he can just be himself. when it’s just you, and satoru, and the feeling of having all the time in the world.

(even if you don’t.)

and you know your face must be flushed, a soft cherry red, as your gaze falls to the floor. the heat on your cheeks and neck, the pitter patter of your heartbeat; you feel it all. 

and it’s embarrassing, to find yourself so fervently twisted around someone’s finger — to find that you don’t even really mind. being wrapped around satoru’s finger isn’t so awful, all things considered. it’s a scary thought, for sure, but he’d never abuse the privilege. probably.

— a sigh. 

you still don’t want to wear it. you really don’t. it’s just awful. tacky, and embarrassing, and overall unpleasant. 

… but if it’ll get him to stop nagging you like this… 

and if it’s just for a short while…

silence, only silence, spilling into the sunkissed air. outside your apartment, the sky melts into a buttery orange hue. an intense contemplation is etched into your eyes, and satoru takes note of it; opting to put the final nail in the coffin. his very last bid.

”fifteen minutes. then you’re —”

”ten minutes,” you cut him off. sounding just a tad exhausted — resigned to your fate. 

and satoru doesn’t even bother trying to hide his excitement. suddenly beaming, he shoots up to his feet, and it causes you to jolt. ”perfect,” he grins, holding the dress out toward you. a little too eager for your liking.

”— but seriously. i’m only wearing it once. never again,” you tilt your head. ”got it?” satoru just nods, happily, so excited he’s practically jumping up and down — and despite everything, you still can’t find it in you to be angry. 

he looks so earnestly giddy.

eyes brimming with suspicion and weariness, your hands reach out to take it into your arms; the puffy dress, the frilly headwear, and the black thigh highs. you’re surprised he didn’t invest in a pair of shoes, while he was at it. just to complete the set.

(you decide not to comment on it, knowing he’d have some poor, overworked shoemaker on the phone within seconds.)

”need my help putting it on?” he purrs, face suddenly very close to yours — and the sudden stutter of your heartbeat sparks a hitch of your throat. desperate to cover it up, you shoot him a hefty glare.

”oh, shut up,” you hiss, but satoru only grins wider. soft little giggles flowing from his lips, like a schoolgirl teasing her upperclassman. silly.

a heavy hesitance rests on your features, as you give the outfit another chance. judgemental eyes trailing over the bows and frills, giving it a thorough look, until your lips curl down into a soft frown. it’s not that bad, but…

”it’s kinda ugly,” you lie, decisively.

”really? i think it’s cute, though.” 

”yeah, ’cause you have no taste.” a click of your tongue. ”what’s so great about maid outfits, anyway? i don’t see the appeal.”

satoru smiles. carefree, amused — still very much teasing. ”well, we’re about to find out,” he chirps.

you give him a look, eventually giving way to a soft exhale. ”fine — but only ten minutes. at most.” a pause, as you stop to think. what else? ”oh, and no taking pictures.”

”— i’m taking pictures.”

…

the exasperated look you send his way doesn’t seem to phase satoru even in the slightest. he continues to smile at you, unbothered, soft around the edges, and you know you’re not winning this one either.

”… fine,” you sigh. ”but — not too many, okay? and you aren’t allowed to show anyone, either.”

”of course not,” he scoffs, almost offended. ”as if i’d let anyone else see you like that.”

stuck between feeling relieved and put off, you settle on simply letting it go. and satoru continues to speak, reassuringly, glossy lips shining in the sunlight as they part.

”rest assured, baby,” he hums, a melodic lilt to his sugarsweet voice. ”this stays between us. i swear on my honour.”

you snort. ”like you’ve got any of that.”

”mean. anyway — c’mon. i can’t wait any longer.” before you can think to protest, he’s ushering you away in the direction of the bathroom, big hands heavy on your shoulders as they push you. still hesitant, you make no move to resist.

(what have you gotten yourself into?)

with one final sigh, your fingers curl around the doorknob, outfit hanging off your arm. not before sending one final glance back at satoru, reinstating your conditions. ”just this once. then you’re selling it. or burning it.”

”yes, yes — you have my word,” he promises. before you can narrow your eyes, he pushes you forward, gently; bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet. ”go on, i’m waiting!”

”yeah, yeah…”

the door closes behind you with a soft thud, and the reality of the situation begins to finally dawn on you. the maid outfit weighs heavy on your heart, but light in your arms — you gaze down at it with pure contempt. it’s not like you have a choice, though. satoru won’t let you wriggle away from this one. and maybe, just maybe, a part of you wants to indulge him, after all.

(his smile shone so brightly, in the light of the sun.)

and it’s almost cautious, the way you begin to dress yourself; first the thigh highs, black and silky, then the outfit itself. pulling it over your head, your arms sneaking through the openings. 

it’s a perfect fit. 

a second passes. you stop to think, brows furrowing in suspicion — did the little bastard measure you? just to make sure he got it exactly right? he has been rummaging through your closet more than usual, recently, but you didn’t think much of it. over the years, you’ve conditioned yourself not to question the things that he does. that sneaky, sneaky man.

after putting on the headwear, you finally lift your gaze, tentative and slow — to take a peek at your own reflection. the flush on your face stands out, a contrast to the black and white colour scheme of the outfit. 

and you can’t help but exhale, a little exasperated.

it’s so… frilly. there are frills on the sleeves, on the shoulderpads, on the skirt, on the hems… everywhere. little bows litter the surface of the smooth fabric, a big one attached to the collar, and several smaller ones across the sleeves. 

and as much as you loath to admit it — it is kind of cute. 

still, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re only embarrassing yourself. it’s hard not to think, when a maid outfit is staring into your soul through the mirror — and you just so happen to be wearing it.

(what the hell are you even doing?)

a low groan slips from your lips, and you crouch down, to bury your face in your knees. the flush of your cheeks is beginning to spread towards the tips of your ears, growing hotter by the minute. satoru’s about to see you like this, of all people. how on earth will he react?

(what if he thinks it looks weird, too?) 

”i’m still waiting!” a voice suddenly exclaims, sing-songy and sweet, and closer than you realized. has he just been standing there and waiting in silence, this whole time? of course he has.

”just —” you croak out, words a little strangled. ”just… give me a minute.”

satoru lets out a high-pitched whine, cheek pressed against the cold wood of the door. ”but i’ve been waiting so long already!” he complains, pouting, the urge to see you growing unbearable. impatience tugging at his heart, so excited he can barely pull himself together.

(all he can think of is you, you, you.)

curling up into a little ball, you attempt to swallow the bundle of nerves in the back of your throat — but that jittery, feather-light feeling of your heartbeat just won’t go away. it makes you feel a little paralyzed.

you're actually, genuinely, sincerely about to go show off a goddamn maid outfit. what the hell.

when you finally grasp control over your vocal cords and part your lips to speak, the voice that spills out into the air sounds more than a little meek. but you can’t quite bring yourself to care, overcome by a heart-tingling nervosity and the heat of your skin.

 ”… i don’t want to.”

satoru pauses. 

he can picture you, in his mind’s eye; the way you must look, right now. clad in frills and a cute little skirt, face flushed red and embarrassed, as you shift from foot to foot. and it takes concentrated effort, to bite back the coo that threatens to crawl up his throat — but he knows it’s still not too late for you to change your mind. if he wants to see you, he needs to be careful. so he tactfully opts not to tease you.

”come on, angel,” he soothes, instead. voice smooth like honey, like coffee with cream and too much sweetener. ”don’t be embarrassed.”

you stay silent, still attempting to suffocate the tinge of humiliation in the depths of your chest. so satoru continues. ”just come on out, hm? might as well get it over with. then you won’t have to think of it again.”

a moment passes.

”… do i have to?”

the corners of his lips curl up.

ah, you’re so cute. all embarrassed, almost childish, in the way you’re still trying to be difficult; and satoru just indulges you, all too eager to get you to show yourself to him. ”yes, you do,” he coos. ”be good f' me and come on out, okay?”

a couple moments pass. eerily silent, growing second by second. the only sound that fills the air is that of satoru’s soft breathing, the distant whirring of the ceiling fan.

until finally, he hears the squeak of the bathroom floor. you stand up, turning to glance at your reflection in the mirror one last time, before hesitantly reaching for the doorknob.

it’s slow, the way you open the door, agonizingly so — pushing at it slightly and dragging the movement out. and you can feel satoru’s presence, right behind it, as he takes a step back to give you space. when you finally step over the threshold, you adamantly refuse to meet his gaze.

(satoru’s breath hitches in his throat.)

there you stand, gaze stubbornly averted, expression flustered and mildly annoyed. cheeks dusted a dark cherry-red, that crawls towards the tips of your ears as you fidget with your frilly, oversized sleeves. they’re dressed in little bows, awfully cute, and so is the skirt — short, but not enough to expose the skin of your thighs above the thigh highs. you still squirm a little, thighs pressed together. 

and then, of course, the big bow on your collar to complete the look. pink in colour, a stark contrast to the whites and blacks of the remaining outfit.

after a moment passes with nothing but pure silence, your lips part to speak. doing anything you can to stop yourself from looking over at the man in front of you, afraid of what you’ll see. ”i don’t think it suits me,” is muttered, a tiny huff. ”… and i still don’t see the appeal, by the way.”

— but satoru doesn’t answer. 

he just stares. uncharacteristically silent, in a way you’re wholly unaccustomed to. enough so that you find yourself gnawing at your bottom lip, fidgeting with the hem of the skirt, hoping the smooth texture will soothe your nerves a little. the beating of your heart resounds in your ears, sending blood flowing through your veins with excited pumps.

the silence festers, and all you can do is let it grow, your nervosity thickening with it — until it’s just too much to bear. 

(ahh, you knew it. it really does look weird, doesn’t it? that’s to be expected. 

still, you can’t help but feel just slightly dejected.) 

”… why aren’t you saying anything?” 

the little mumble comes out sounding embarrassed, and maybe just a little defeated, too. but satoru doesn’t hear it. as your gaze falls on the man in question, slowly, you take in his expression with a frown on your face — and realize that he isn’t just keeping quiet. 

he’s completely stunned. 

no matter how hard you stare, you can’t seem to get a good read on his expression. he’s just standing there, face completely blank, eyes entirely obscured by the black of his shades. the light streaming in through the glass of the windows has shifted its course, falling away from the two of you — but you still see the vague, red tinge crawling up his neck. 

and as soon as you spot it, satoru begins his descent.

crouching down to the floor, silently, he brings his hands up to cover his face. feet against the ground with his knees folded, pressed against his chest, stilling as he inhales sharply. shades seated on top of his head, pushed up by his hands when he buried his face in them. a groan drops from his lips, muffled by the skin of his palms — but you can hear it clear as day.

”hold on, just… give me a minute…” he finally croaks out, words somehow tiny. almost shy. 

upon closer inspection, you realize your eyes weren’t deceiving you — there really is a red hue to his neck, one you aren’t used to seeing on him. strawberry-tinged dust, staining his smooth skin, the tips of his burning ears. satoru actually looks flustered, for once. and your heart can’t help but flutter.

— he thinks he might actually, genuinely die.

it’s a wonder, he thinks, that he managed not to fall to his knees the very moment he laid eyes on you. all dolled up; frilly and cute, in his own words, though they don’t come even close to properly describing how adorable you look right now. with your flushed face, shy eyes, and all those little frills and bows adorning your dress. rendering him speechless, clogging up his throat with pure unbridled love. a mouthful of honey, too sweet for even him to swallow.

god. god. he really, really needs to pull himself together.

crouched down like this, face hidden behind his hands, he can physically feel himself grow more and more flustered. senses invaded by the sound of his heartbeat, deep and visceral, until it’s all he can hear — he knew you were going to look cute, obviously, but he was seriously underestimating you. your cuteness is lethal. 

even just the sight makes him weak in the knees. even just the thought of you makes him feel a little like his heart is attempting to break out of his chest. hurling itself at his ribcage with ferocious resolve, like he could keel over and die of heart failure at any given moment. he’s pleasantly surprised that he’s managed to suppress the loud squeal his body keeps trying to let out, honestly.

and while satoru struggles with his deep, internal turmoil, all you can do is watch. looking down at him with wide eyes, as his skin flushes a bright pink, like little chrysanthemums blooming from his neck up to his ears. 

yeah, you think, there’s no doubt about it. satoru is flustered. it’s not a side of him you get to see very often, so you can’t help but be just slightly caught off guard. staring at him silently, until you snap out of it, eyes simmering with something soft and delighted.

he’s so cute.

(and maybe, just maybe — it makes you want to tease him, a little bit.)

so you crouch down, facing him with your knees against your chest, jaw resting on your crossed forearms as you gaze at him. he’s still not looking at you, face hidden behind his palms, shying away from your view.

and then you sigh. the sound catches his attention, soft — and just a little bit dejected.

”… you’re the one who wanted me to wear it,” your lips curl down into a pout, ”and now you won’t even look at me?”

satoru stiffens. 

(you sound sad. you sound disappointed.)

slowly, he parts his fingers, desperate to soothe you — blue eyes peeking out through the gaps, as if the sight of you could blind him. he then proceeds to move his hands, tentative, laboured, like he’s dragging heavy weights off his body. like it’s a struggle. 

with his face finally exposed, all flushed and pretty, bright azure eyes stare at you; brimming with pure adoration. 

satoru exhales, almost shaky. he has to take another moment to simply look at you, as if drinking in every inch of your expression. memorizing every corner of the face he’s grown to love so much.

a moment passes. then two.

then, he practically pounces on you — engulfing you like a tidal wave, trapping you in his big arms as they go to curl around your waist. shades falling off at the impact, hitting the floor with a soft thunk.

”you’re killing me,” he whines, loud and right by your ear. nuzzling into you, squeezing you like he’s a puppy with a chew toy. ”you’re so, so, so cute. d’you want me to have a heart attack?”

a hitch of your breath. that’s all you can manage, utterly failing to keep up with him as he presses you up against his chest. rocking you back and forth in his embrace, smearing open mouthed kisses across your skin; whining and murmuring about how adorable you look. 

a flurry of warmth, of love, of something a little too precious for words. something distinctly satoru, that makes you forget about everything else — as if the world stops spinning somewhere outside of his arms. as if that’s where you belong.

all you can do is indulge him. maybe you’re spoiling him a little too much, but it feels nice; letting him drown you in his overwhelming affection. the thought of creasing the dress doesn’t even seem to cross his mind, as he squeezes the life out of you.

evidently, satoru suffers from an acute case of cuteness aggression. 

”so adorable,” he murmurs, leaving wet kisses on your cheeks. his exaggerated mwahs make you feel just a tad shy. ”my little sweetheart. all dressed up for me.” 

squirming in his hold, he only brings you closer, smothering you in his warm embrace. the slightly erratic beating of his heart is all you can hear, with your cheek squished against his chest. arms keeping you nice and still, lips lingering over that one ticklish spot behind your ear. 

a little giggle slips from your lips, and satoru feels himself smile; wide and giddy, boyish and adoring. nuzzling into the comfort of your chest, soft fabric brushing against his skin, a low whine escapes his throat. ”can't take it. wanna put you in my pocket.”

”your pocket?” a grin blooms on your lips, words dripping with honeyed amusement. satoru grins right back.

”my pocket,” he hums, approvingly. ”you’re just so cute and small. gotta keep you close, so i don’t lose you.”

a huff, lighthearted. 

suddenly, the grip around your midriff tightens — and you’re hoisted up, stumbling a little as satoru lets go of you. still holding onto you by your wrists, softly, delicately, as if you’re made of glass. when you lift your head, all you can see is his satisfied little grin, and the twinkle of his eyes.

your heart flutters. 

satoru gazes at you, silently, still drinking you in. every second spent staring into the brightness of your eyes fills his heart up just a little more; colourful, heart-shaped candies, scooped up and poured into the hole in his chest. patching it right back up, so effortlessly sweet that it makes him want to pluck every star from the sky and offer them at your feet. 

”alright,” he breathes, taking a step back. breaking the delicate silence, a little dance between him and time. fingers still curled around your wrist. ”do a twirl for me.”

a humoured scoff. ”hell no.”

”aw, come on! you gotta pose for the photo, baby.”

before you know it, satoru’s got his phone out — and it’s aimed right at you. by the time you notice it, you’re fairly certain he’s already managed to snap a couple pictures. so all you can do is sigh, in faux exasperation.

”c���mon, c’mon,” he coos. ”give me a smile, pretty.”

a roll of your eyes, as you bite your lip to muffle a soft bout of laughter. it doesn’t really work. ”i’m good.”

satoru seems unaffected by your words, pulling back from your touch reluctantly; just so he can make a show out of playing the cameraman, switching between elaborate positions and taking pictures from angle after angle. somehow, you get the feeling he’s forgotten your request to keep the pictures to a minimum.

(he looks like he’s having fun, though. so you let it slide. just this once.)

”god. you’re way too cute for your own good, you know that?” he murmurs, leaning down to take another picture. and it flusters you, how smoothly the words slip from his lips, how it seems like he barely even has to think about them at all. 

it’s a little embarrassing, in a heart-fluttering kind of way. but you do your best to hide it.

”you’re a sap,” is all you say, soft smile playing at your lips. 

”and you’re adorable,” satoru grins. 

then he slips his phone into his back pocket, satisfied with the collection, and grabs your hand.

his fingers curl around yours, softly — and then he lifts it up. bringing it to his lips. they’re warm, as he kisses across your knuckles, the tips of your fingers. soft as a feather, tickling your skin. 

(as if he’s whispering psalms under his breath. as if he’s worshipping you.)

then he tilts his head, eyes gazing at you sweetly. sweeter than fresh mandarin slices, splotches of marmalade, his favorite caramel fudge. and his eyes crinkle, crow’s feet and dimples peeking out as he smiles, an easygoing kind of joy blooming on that pretty face of his — youthful, boyish. it suits him more than anything.

his voice comes out smooth, awfully coaxing. so very easy to give in to, paired with that breathtaking grin. 

”one tiny twirl?” he asks, politely.

he’s so annoying. 

(but you’re far too in love to say no.)

so with a single roll of your eyes, and a soft little scoff, you relent. indulging him once more, just one more time. just one little twirl.

satoru feels his heart squeeze painfully, deep within his chest, as he watches you spin around. skirt and frills ruffled by the movement. just once, a soft little twirl with your fingers intertwined. far too precious for his heart to take.

when you stop, just a tiny bit dizzy, he leans in, and the kiss he leaves on your forehead is soft. chaste, but it still pulls a blissful sigh from the back of your throat. satoru’s lips curl up against your skin, before he pulls back — eyes almost overflowing with affection.

”cutie.”

you blink. 

averting your gaze, flustering a little under the weight of his love-filled eyes, all you can do is emit a soft little huff. embarrassed, as it flows from your lips. but it only makes satoru’s smile grow further.

”okay, okay. you’ve had your fun.” you clear your throat. ”time’s up.”

suddenly, satoru’s eyes fill with something akin to dread — nose crinkling, just barely, a sign of his displeasure. ”noooo,” he whines, draping his arms around you. tugging you close. ”just a little more? please? pretty please?”

”nope! we said ten minutes. no take backs.”

”can’t i have an extension? since i’m your favorite?” satoru pouts, puppy dog eyes in full force. only this time, they don’t work as well as he’d hoped.

”nope,” you repeat, popping the p. ”sorry.” another whine buzzes right by your ear, and you smile. 

”and then we’re burning it.”

”noooo!” 

”sorry, but it’s gotta go.” you bite back a soft grin. satoru sounds agonized, voice dripping with grief, and it makes your heart dance with barely contained laughter.

”but then you can’t wear it anymore, baby…”

”that’s kinda the point, toru.”

”but you’re so cute in it,” he pouts, bringing you closer still. squeezing at your waist and rubbing his cheek against the top of your head. ”it’d be such a waste if you never wore it again, don’tcha think?”

he’s trying his best, you can tell — attempting to make you falter, coax you into wearing it just a little longer. but for today, you’re done indulging him.

”well, too bad.” nuzzling into his neck, your tone settles on a firm tilt; decisive, as you nip at his skin. just a little teasing. ”i said i’d never wear it again, and i meant it.”

a moment passes. maybe it’s the warmth of your lips on his skin, or maybe he can tell you aren’t budging — whatever the case, satoru finally seems to relent. an exhale tumbles from his tongue, deep and drawn out. ”fineee,” he drawls. ”i’ll just buy you a new one.”

”i won’t wear it. i’ll just get angry.”

”at lil’ old me? really?”

”really really,” you click your tongue. ”if you love maid outfits so much, why don’t you wear one yourself?” a beat. ”it’d look good on you.”

satoru perks up, suddenly. pulling away so his eyes can meet yours, bright and teasing, glazed over with something excited. ”oh?” he purrs. ”you wanna see me in one, huh? so bold, baby.”

a scoff slips from your lips, sharp but tinged with laughter. ”well, it’s only fair, right?” grinning up at him, your hand reaches out to smooth away his bangs. fingertips trailing across the expanse of skin, touch so very tender that his eyes flutter shut. ”i think you’d pull it off better than i ever could, anyway.”

a hum buzzes in his throat, seconds ticking by slowly; a dance with him and time. an attempt to prolong the softness of the moment.

”hmm… well, i’ll consider it.” just barely holding back a smile, he leans into your touch. ”you gotta wear it with me, though. we can buy a matching set!”

”that makes no sense,” you huff, with a raise of your brow. ”i’ve already worn it once, so next time, it’s gotta be all you.”

”sorry, baby, but you need to do it too.” he cradles you close, smoothing a palm down your spine, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. chest rumbling with the smooth timbre of his voice, words rich with teasing fondness. ”i’m too shy to do it by myself.”

and you really, really wish you could be angry with him — but it’s just impossible. 

satoru is just way too lovable, smile far too sunny and warm for you not to melt under. and his caress says more than words ever could, light and doting, careful and loving; like how a believer cups a handful of holy water. as if you could slip from his grasp at any moment, so he has to keep you extra close.

in the end, all protests and complaints die on your tongue. you only laugh, soft and breathy, filling the air with a fondness so palpable you can almost taste it. bordering on something close to a scoff, but never quite getting there. 

eventually, satoru does — begrudgingly — let you change out of the outfit. whining a little, sulking a tad, before brightening right back up again. like clockwork, the sun peeking out after a rain shower, the calm after the storm. always that same happy smile, wrapping you around his little finger.

satoru, in all his glory; your very own pocket of sunshine. annoying, stubborn, thoughtful — 

and yours, wholly and thoroughly.

(while you’re busy gazing at him adoringly, satoru grumbles under his breath. contemplation painted on his features, as his mind spins in circles. frills, bows, lace…

what kind of design would make him look the prettiest for you?)

[ddarker-dreams]

Cherubim.

Gojo Satoru x F Reader x Geto Suguru.

Warnings: Implied trauma, Gojo and Geto are both weird + manipulative. Word count: 6k.

-Index-

March 18th, 2006. 

2:26 p.m.

-

Gojo Satoru has found himself embroiled in his greatest turmoil yet. 

Assassination attempts? That’s nothing, he’s waved those off since he was a kid. Jujutsu politics? The higher-ups can yap until they’re blue in the face; they’re all bark, no bite. Curses? Similarly inconsequential. No matter how much power they hold, they're reduced to speckled splatters the instant they cross his path. 

For most, experiencing one of these dilemmas would prove too overwhelming, much less all three. He isn’t like most, though. He’s strong. Incomprehensibly strong. He can weather any storm, shift the tides of any battle in his favor. Has this gone to his head? Absolutely. He can handle ‘too much.’ It’s ‘not enough’ that’s proving to be an issue. 

This is why he’s detailing his recent woes to an uninterested Ieri Shoko, who made the mistake of reading in the dormitory’s common area. 

The scene is as follows:

Satoru’s along the length of the couch, his long, lanky limbs dangling wherever they can. He lays his head against the armrest, snowy hair succumbing to gravity in an avalanche that frames his face. He uses his ability to keep his sunglasses from meeting the same fate. Behind the dark frames, his eyes narrow into a piercing stare. If the ceiling were sentient, it would’ve fled by now. Such is the potency of his miserable mood. 

Parallel to him sits Shoko, the fat of her cheek squished upward from resting on her fist for so long. Books, candy wrappers, and notes from last year’s curriculum yet to be thrown away litter the table’s surface. Suguru’s could put a calligraphist to shame, even if they were written in a Badtz-Maru pencil you won from a gachapon. Your notes stand out as well. They’re bright shades of your favorite colors, organized according to a system of your own devising. Occasionally, the handwriting shifts, taking on Suguru or Shoko’s likeness for trickier kanji. You doodle hearts of gratitude around the yomigana they include for good measure. 

(You complained that his handwriting was ‘indecipherable’ when he tried doing the same. Out of spite, he gave you the cold shoulder… for three minutes. He withers and wilts without your attention). 

He sighs and concludes his monologue. 

“So, that just about sums everything up. Well? What’s the prognosis, Doc?” 

“You’re in desperate need of more friends,” Shoko replies. Satoru lets out an unsatisfied grunt. “And you miss [First].” 

Satoru perks up at your mention, finally giving that poor ceiling a much-needed reprieve. He shuffles around until he’s facing Shoko. 

“But she just headed out yesterday.” 

“I know.” 

“That’d make me really weird and clingy, right?” 

“Glad you’re catching on.” 

While Satoru contemplates the previously unconsidered possibility of him being ‘really weird and clingy,’ Shoko reopens her manga. She’s of the mistaken belief that the issue has resolved itself. Unfortunately for her, the problem extends beyond Satoru’s insatiable hunger for you. The problem is Satoru himself. Until he’s running amuck elsewhere, there’ll be no solace. 

She commends herself for her patience. 

In typical Satoru fashion, he continues testing it. 

“When was the last time you updated your passport?” 

“I’m not flying to her home country with you,” Shoko shuts down what he thought was a brilliant plan. “It’s just two weeks. Wait it out.” 

“What if we fly first class?” 

“Gojo.” 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s still too soon to meet her parents. It’s gotta happen eventually though, right?” 

Shoko doesn’t dignify this with a response. 

Satoru sinks into the cushions. Could there be anything worse than boredom? He has no missions lined up, you and Suguru are visiting family, and the first-years haven’t arrived yet. Pestering Utahime has lost its charm too. He could return home before the school year starts, but he’d rather have his fingers chopped off one by one than suffer that torture. 

“Hey, Shoko.” 

“Mm.” 

“Why aren’t you back home? I thought you got along with your parents.” 

“They’re both busy. I wouldn’t see them much.” 

Satoru doesn’t press the matter. 

It does intrigue him though — the relationship sorcerers have with their non-sorcerer families. Or, to be more specific, yours and Suguru’s familial dynamics intrigue him. Satoru can’t (and doesn’t bother trying) to care for the going-ons of anyone outside his small circle. This is more the hubris of a teenager who has been told he’s special his entire life than anything malicious. To Satoru, the world’s population might as well be stuck at three. 

Regardless, it’s an improvement.

Before meeting Suguru, those in his life consisted almost exclusively of suckups or stuckups. If he was unlucky, it’d be both, rolled into one terrible package. This was his reality. Jujutsu was his reality. He was the first to possess the Limitless and the Six Eyes in generations. The Gojo clan wouldn’t waste such an extraordinary opportunity. He was their pride and joy, personality aside. 

He was born to be the strongest. 

He can’t imagine any other life for himself. 

Then there’s you. 

He could see you leading a normal life. You wouldn’t be top of the class or a varsity athlete, but you’d be well-liked. Boys would nervously ask you out on dates and buy you roses with money they got from mowing lawns. You’d be the first one your friends would call when they experienced heartache. Maybe you’d go to college or land an entry-level job. Some co-worker with a decent sense of humor would win you over. Then you’d get married, rent a property, have a few kids… 

Satoru’s stomach twists. He grimaces, shifting his thoughts elsewhere. Namely, the question that’s bothered him for a while. 

Why did you become a jujutsu sorcerer? 

It was intentional. You chose to leave behind your home, your family. You knew the risks. How the body can break and ache in ways previously unrecorded. And what do you get in return for this thankless crusade? Sleepless nights where you tremble like a leaf beside Shoko? A nimbleness at dressing wounds that could only have come from years of practice? 

You’re open about everything until you aren’t. Fear, mortality, loss — when confronted by these unsightly truths, you retreat to someplace he can’t follow. 

Satoru can’t make sense of it. Neither can Suguru. Shoko says they shouldn’t press the matter. He wants to, though. He needs to know how you break. How else can he ensure that you never will? 

He thinks back to that humid August day. The binding vow eviscerated your insides, shards from fractured bones dug into your organs. Until that point in his life, Satoru prided himself on his immunity to fear. The pathogen never lasted long in his system. After all, fear is born from a lack of control. From having something to lose. If he couldn’t lose, what was there to be afraid of? 

It’s a question he’s been avoiding. 

(“If she dies,” he told Suguru, in a voice he barely recognized as his own, “They die too.”)

His mouth feels dry, his tongue heavy. He’ll drink that tea you’re fond of later to satiate his thirst. He wonders if you share its taste.

“What’re you reading, anyway?” he asks, hoping to take his mind elsewhere.

“Fruits Basket.” 

He laughs, incredulous. 

“Seriously? Didn’t take you for a shoujo type.” 

“I borrowed it from [First]. We’re doing a book exchange over break.” 

A book exchange… three words Satoru never thought would pique his curiosity. However, anything about you demands his undying attention. Even if it’s shoujo manga. Girls who read that genre do it to project onto the heroine, right? So the love interest must have appealed to you. What tropes do you like? Do you want a shy, sensitive soul who blushes and stutters in your presence? A misunderstood bad boy who’s only soft around you? The responsible student council president? 

Oh, he’ll have so much material to tease you with when you return. He can’t wait. 

“How do I enter this exclusive book club?” Satoru demands. 

“You don’t. I don’t trust your taste,” Shoko replies, much to his chagrin. “You can still read it, though. She has all of the volumes in her room.” 

… Your room? 

He grins from ear to ear.

Should he respect your privacy? Probably. Is he going to? Of course not. He never has, there’s no point in starting now. 

This trip of yours might yet redeem itself. 

-

Along the outskirts of Jujutsu High, Geto Suguru spots an odd woman. 

She’s wearing a baggy graphic tee, low-rise jeans, and gaudy bracelets on both arms. Her black hair is tossed up, thick strands sticking in every direction. Even from this distance, he can discern the silver glint of piercings that dot her ear like constellations. The stranger stands slouched, both her hands shoved into her pockets. For her to have gotten this far, she can’t be a civilian. Those unfamiliar with jujutsu can’t find this place. 

He stays still for a spell — watching and waiting. From this distance, she shouldn’t be able to sense his presence. It’s one of the few areas he excels at over Satoru. Satoru’s cursed energy is bright, blindingly so, a thunderous clap that can be heard for miles. Suguru prefers to keep his muted. It coils around his limbs like a serpent, never straying far. This is why you had no difficulty picking out Satoru’s stupefying presence on your first day, whereas he had to make himself known to you. 

Suguru’s lips quirk up. 

He was fated to meet you. 

“Hey! Kiddo!” A deep, somewhat raspy voice exclaims. He blinks rapidly, temporarily thrown off. “This ain’t an art gallery. What’s with the staring?” 

She noticed him? How? 

When the stranger starts slinking his way, he regains his composure. 

“I apologize. It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable,” Suguru’s cadence flows smoother than a river. 

“Hah! ‘Uncomfortable?’ That’s a way of putting it,” she pokes the space beneath her emerald eyes twice. “Even now, I can feel ya picking me apart. Shit’s creepy.” 

His smile tightens. “I’ll be more mindful of my conduct in the future, then.” 

She waves him off. Her golden bracelets clink together as she does so, the sound grating his ears. 

“That’s a lie if I ever heard one. And I should know. Schemers excel at picking out their brothers in arms,” she juts her head up, giving the impression that she’s the one looking down on him, despite the slight height difference. 

“Anyhow, by the looks of it, you must be Sugu-kun.” 

… Did she just call him Sugu-kun? 

“What? Too soon* to be calling you that? Heh, heh…” 

Suguru’s smile tightens. “You can refer to me however you like, so long as I can return the favor.” 

She guffaws.

“Maaan, Goldie sure was gracious in her description of you,” the woman gives him a lopsided grin. “Name’s Akane. There — is the playing field leveled now?” 

“Ishimoto Akane?”

He doesn’t miss the way she winces as her surname is spoken aloud, rather pointedly at that. 

“Ah. S’pose I had that coming.” 

Suguru decides against prolonging her torment. He’s in a generous mood, it isn’t every day he has a chance to learn more about you. This is an opportunity he’ll take full advantage of. 

“And I presume 'Goldie' is [First]?” 

He makes a mental note to figure out the wordplay for your nickname later. 

“Full marks.”

Suguru hums, a sound indicating that he’s drifting deep into thought. 

You don’t mention your mentor often. When you do, it’s normally in the form of endearing (if not mildly concerning) anecdotes.

“She told me that natto is bits of caramel held together by melted marshmallows, like a Rice Krispy Treat. It… it was not like a Rice Krispy Treat…” 

“... For my twelfth birthday, she got me Pokemon Ruby. I remember crying because Roxeanne’s Nosepass took out my Torchic. My cursed energy spiked and the party had to end early…” 

“... Out of curiosity, I drank her stash of Georgia canned coffee. My heart rate was almost high enough to warrant a trip to the ER…” 

Getting anything else relating to her out of you was like trying to wring water from a rock. Suguru didn’t miss the wistful melancholy underpinning your stories. You recalled them with a far-off expression as if mourning that those days of whimsy were over. Initially, he considered it a consequence of growing up. Childhood idols rarely remain highly esteemed as the years pass and maturity accrues. 

His intuition argued that he should examine the issue closer.

(“I met her, y’know,” Satoru mentioned whilst he spun in a rolling chair ‘commandeered’ from Yaga. “Akane. Our girl’s mentor. Former mentor? Whatever the case is.” 

Suguru sat his pencil aside, any investment in his studies gone.

“When?” 

“Last March.” 

Suguru sighed. “And you didn’t bring this up earlier because…?” 

There’s a twinkle in his companion’s sunglasses-covered eyes.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Satoru shrugged. 

Liar, Suguru thought, unamused by Satoru’s faux nonchalance. He must’ve had his reasons for neglecting to mention it for so long. Suguru figured your impending trip home had something to do with Satoru’s ‘miraculously’ cured amnesia. 

“What? Don’t tell me you aren’t curious.”

The provocation failed to irk him. Instead, Suguru refocused the conversation.“Tell me your impression of her.”

Satoru stilled, threw his feet atop Suguru’s desk, and placed his hands on his neck. “About what you’d expect from a disgraced daughter of an influential clan. Bad-tempered, tattooed, pierced up… hah! Bet her old man would go into cardiac arrest if he saw her.” 

“Satoru,” he implored. 

“Fine, fine. So impatient,” The white-haired sorcerer complained. “I misread her. She got all mopey after she fessed up about Cursed Technique: Null. I wrote it off as envy. The student exceeding the master, or whatever.” 

Satoru remained silent for a moment. “Post Kaizu, though, I assume the feeling actually gnawing at her… ” 

Kaizu. 

Panicked phone calls. Satoru’s agitated exclamations. His horrified silence. Your breathing faded, theirs accelerated. You looked so small. So human. He scarcely believed the limp girl cradled in his arms just executed such a devastating maneuver. Your cursed energy had exceeded any output he’d felt from you before. It was too much, your body wasn’t ready to endure a spike like that. 

Suguru had never felt so distant from the title ‘strongest.’

At some point later on, in a hospital waiting room, Suguru posed a question. 

Satoru heard him yet offered no response.

“Who taught her how to do that?”

“... was guilt.”)

“You didn’t visit her.” 

Akane blinks. 

“Hah?” 

“You didn’t visit her,” Suguru repeats, his tone firmer. “[First]. Your student.” 

She exhales shakily. Suguru thinks she looks tired. 

“If you have something to say, just come out with it already.” 

He was prepared to wear her down for hours — this willing cooperation saves him time. Although, it doesn’t make navigating the volatile minefield that lies ahead any easier. He knows how to rein Satoru in when he’s going too far. He can fluster you without giving too much of himself away. After rescuing someone from a curse, he knows the exact pitch, timbre, and tempo necessary to pierce through their abject horror. He’s a virtuoso at playing people, a conductor hidden amidst the audience. 

Deceit. Misdirection. Coercion. 

His repertoire is expansive and ever-growing. 

From what he can see — what he can feel — the prodigal daughter before him boasts a similar discography. She returns his unflinching eye contact as if issuing a challenge. Daring him to use dubious methods that might work on anyone else. This obstinate resolve reminds him of you. Once you’ve determined your course, even he struggles to change the route.

He abandons all pretense. 

“You didn’t want her here,” he theorizes. Akane’s face reveals nothing. “You knew something like that was bound to happen.” 

Sorcerers aren’t only at war with curses. No, there’s an inner battle that must be fought as well. The recognition that the next assignment could be your last. And if it is, you won’t be commemorated by the masses; to them, you don’t exist. Your sacrifice will be known to a select few who mourn you, or  a few who don’t. Everything could go right. Everything could go wrong. Engaging in that high risk for such a low reward goes against one’s self-preservation instincts.

How each sorcerer handles this fight is unique to them. 

As for your strategy — you refuse to acknowledge this conflict exists. 

Paradoxically enough, that functions as your self-preservation. 

Akane smiles thinly. She’s almost his reflection, in that regard.

“Full marks.” 

-

Suguru idly observes as Satoru paces back and forth, his troubled figure illuminated by a row of vending machines. 

A nearby street lamp flickers. It’s late, but the local convenience stores glow with artificial light, tempting customers to come inside. Some are weary salarymen grabbing ready-made meals, others are middle schoolers clinking their change together, praying they can afford a sugary treat. The latest group cheers, indicating their triumph. 

The duo receives odd looks — thanks to their school uniforms, no doubt — not that they pay the judgment any mind. No one troubles them. Not even a wandering policeman, who, under normal circumstances, would scold minors out by themselves at night. 

Suguru theorizes that Satoru’s ominous aura is what subconsciously repels them. 

Earlier today, Suguru bid farewell to his parents and boarded a train for Tokyo. As nice as it was to spend time with his family, he’d been looking forward to reuniting with you and Satoru. He amassed quite the phone bill thanks to your frequent correspondence. Nonetheless, he carried the minor debt with pride; it’s a sign you often thought about him. He planned for Satoru to assume the debt by dangling the pictures you sent his way as ransom. 

His encounter with Ishimoto Akane grounded his soaring mood. This was made worse when he entered the dormitory, only to find a tight-lipped Shoko and agitated Satoru. 

Shoko remarked that unlike the two of them, she’d be handling things with ‘tact,’ and retired for the evening, not wanting to catch their ‘stupidity contagion.’ 

It’d been hours since then. That time stretch brought them closer to revealing the complete picture, but a few pieces remained missing or incomplete. 

The frenetic sorcerer stills and rummages around in his pocket.

Suguru takes the opportunity to break the silence. “I—” 

He cuts himself off as Satoru whips out a familiar-looking chapstick. The cutesy design befitting your aesthetic stands out like a sore thumb in Satoru’s large, calloused hands. 

“... Where did you get that?” 

“[First]’s room,” is Satoru’s response, spoken nonchalantly whilst applying it to his lips. “Why?” 

Suguru snorts. Sometimes Satoru’s ungodly strength blinds him to the fact that he’s still a teenage boy. 

“Won’t she notice it’s missing?” 

“I replaced it.” 

“Ah.”

“She has plenty more in the drawer beneath her vanity if you want one.” 

Suguru knows the exact spot Satoru’s referring to. They both helped you assemble it (Satoru got bored fifteen minutes in and fell asleep on your bed but still claims credit). 

After noting this suggestion, he asks, “Have you calmed down?” 

Satoru barks out a ‘hah!’ as if he’d just heard a hilarious joke. “Me? Shouldn’t I be askin’ you that?” 

Suguru massages his temples, sensing the looming headache that awaits him. “Satoru…” 

“We could follow her residuals, you know,” Satoru suggests. He tips his sunglasses down, revealing eyes that gleam with predatory intent. “With the Six Eyes, it’d be a walk in the park.” 

“And then what?” 

“Oh, you know, chat about the weather, latest political scandals, that sort of thing.” 

“You can’t strong-arm yourself through everything in life, Satoru,” Suguru chastises. 

Satoru opens and closes his lips. He folds his arms, scrunches his eyebrows together, and rapidly taps his foot. The shift puts Suguru at ease. Satoru adopts this countenance on the rare occurrence he’s faced with a formidable threat. The serious, almost somber visage speaks to his ironclad resolve. Suguru may have told his companion that he can’t strong-arm himself through everything, but that’s a half-truth; the Gojo clan’s pride can do whatever he pleases. 

It’s consideration of the aftermath that Suguru wishes to instill in his companion. Tempering the arrogance of a God is no easy feat. 

“... She isn’t going anywhere,” Satoru declares, as if any other outcome was blasphemous. 

“She isn’t,” Suguru agrees. Then, he lowers his voice, adding, “We can’t disregard what Ishimoto-san is getting at, though.” 

“Simple — all our girl needs is a good ol’ fashioned intervention.” 

“An ‘intervention,’” Suguru deadpans. “Didn’t you already try that?” 

Satoru smiles in a way Suguru can only describe as dopey, reminiscing on the night you got ‘mad at him for wanting you to be mad at him.’ That’s how Suguru interpreted the detailed account Satoru gave the next morning, anyway. 

(“I wish she would’ve cried, just a little bit; it would’ve made her look extra cute,” Satoru cooed, to which Suguru shot him an exasperated look. “Oh, don’t act so high and mighty. You’d make her cry just so you could wipe her tears away.”)

Suguru shakes his head. “Here’s what I think — the self-sacrifice in and of itself isn’t the problem. Well, the main problem. There has to be a reason, something personal… identifying that takes priority.” 

A gust rips through the narrow street, howling as it terrorizes store signs and doors with weak hinges. The two strongest sorcerers remain oblivious to the drift. What occupies their mind is greater than any force of nature, insignificant or otherwise. They have the means to challenge natural phenomena itself. And they would, should they deem it an obstacle to their goals. This single-minded determination is what elevates them beyond the rest. 

“I guess the old man has a soft spot for us after all,” Satoru says, referring to Yaga, Suguru guesses.

Breathlessly, he chuckles. “Maybe.” 

Studying Satoru from his peripherals, he silently mulls over the far likelier reality—  

—that Yaga understands Satoru’s potential for saving this world is matched only by his capacity to condemn it. 

-

From a young age, Ieri Shoko found irony everywhere she looked.

It’s prevalent in the medical field she wishes to pursue. When stabbed, it’s better to leave the knife in than immediately pull it out. For an immune system to better defend itself from a virus, it must first be exposed to it in trace amounts. If an appendage becomes too infected, removing that piece of the body is better than keeping it whole. It was you who pointed out this theme extends into the world of jujutsu. 

“You’d think fighting to survive a curse instead of defeating it would be an okay alternative, right?” You had said. “But really… that just means someone else gets to foot the bill. All ‘cause you cheaped out.” 

She regrets not asking you to elaborate. At the time, the observation felt so personal, so intimately interwoven with who you are, that she thought it best to leave it alone. 

Watching you now, lounging on the swing beside her, she’s determined not to repeat her previous mistake. 

“Tired?” 

“Well, yeah,” you laugh. It sounds off. “I wasn’t meant for long flights. It takes everything out of me, y’know?” 

Shoko unsuccessfully digs around her pocket for a lighter. The search ceases when she recalls its inopportune location — left behind in her dorm room in the rush to be the one who reaches you first. Not sure what else to do with her hands, she folds them onto her lap. Meanwhile, you pick at a stray thread on your jeans. 

“I didn’t mean from traveling,” she clarifies. 

“Hm?” 

“How many curses did you exorcise back home?” 

Your fingers go still.

“I dunno… a few?” You shrug, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “If I happen across them, I’m not gonna just let them run amuck. That’d be irresponsible.” 

Your nonchalance comes across as forced. You may be keeping your words lighthearted, but she can tell you’ve dialed up your senses, monitoring her closely. It reminds her of a cornered mouse. It’s then that any lingering doubt over her choices leading up to this moment dispels. Resolve strengthened, she swears to make as much progress as she possible before those two catch on. She felt a bit bad lying about your flight’s time, but felt the situation justified the call. 

“It feels different when they’re close to home, doesn’t it?” 

Shoko’s eyes scan over the lively park before them. There’s a group of children playing with one another, some scouring the grass for bugs and others playing tag. Their guardians watch from a distance, chatting amongst themselves, likely discussing the upcoming poor weather or latest neighborhood scandals. Young couples walk hand in hand along the pathways, cheeks flushed from the joy of experiencing their first love. 

“Encountering a curse is draining. Fighting them, even more so. But when they’re on a street you walk every day, or a few blocks over from your house, you can’t help but start thinking. ‘What if I hadn’t come this way? Would it have hurt people I know? People I love and care about?’”

Her eyes find yours. “‘What if it killed them?’”

You look like you’re going to be sick. 

She ignores how your expression contorts her stomach and continues. “Sorcerers are in the minority, it’s true. So… fighting to survive isn’t selfish. It’s strategic.”

In the distance, the rough silhouette of two individuals grows clearer. The spotlight she commandeered grows fainter with their every step. In what remains of the fading limelight, she considers you. The CC cream that conceals the worst of your exhaustion, how your pupils dilate from high caffeine intake, then your fingers. The keys that when steepled just so, open the future for others at the cost of permanently locking yours. 

She reaches over and gently squeezes your hand. 

“Remember — we won’t be much help to anyone if we’re six feet under. So let’s aim to stay above ground.” 

-

The evening sun sinks into the horizon, demanding acknowledgment in its final moments by dousing all in a fiery hue. 

Your uniform absorbs the brunt of this last stand. The dark fabric devours the waning sunlight, heating you from head to toe. It didn’t fully occur to you that you were back when you walked through the torii gates lining the mountainous path. Nor when you unpacked in your dorm, stuffing your passport away until your next break, where it’ll serve you faithfully again. 

Instead, it was the simple act of putting your uniform on again that made home seem far, far away. 

You’d gotten used to your clothes smelling like your mother’s preferred detergent. It’s a brand you couldn’t find in Japan, sold exclusively in your home country. You wondered what meal your parents were having when you straightened out your collar. If your neighbor ever fixed that rumble their old sedan huffed out as you slipped into your tights. Whether your grandpa knew you’d landed safely when you brushed lint off your skirt. 

The campus atmosphere is serene. Tengen’s barrier is a bulwark against curses, insulating you from any potential threats. Without this assurance, some part of you was always on the defensive, anticipating anything when you slept in your childhood bedroom. It siphoned away your vitality, just like Shoko pointed out. 

You sniffle and kick a rock aside. 

How does it always end up like this?

First Akane, now Shoko, you hug yourself. I just want to protect others. What’s so wrong with that? If I don’t, then who will?

You pause abruptly. 

When Akane began mentoring you, the world as you knew it changed. Suddenly, you were given knowledge no one else was privy to, for they lacked the tools to comprehend it. You’d seen those ‘creatures’, but it was Akane that explained their malevolent nature. What they could do, the pain they inflicted, how defenseless the population at large was against them. 

The shadow that this monstrous threat cast could never be outshone by light. The best you could do was create safe pockets the size of pins in the darkness. That was the extent of your hope, the most bitter pill you’ve ever swallowed.

The lingering specter of Shoko’s reassuring touch prickles along your hand. 

It’s easy to forget you’re not alone anymore after fighting by yourself for so long. 

-

Eventually, you happen upon a clearing near the school’s main grounds. 

The steep inclines surround a sizable outdoor track. This area is known colloquially as the school’s training grounds. You prefer to train in a more secluded, wooded area, but not everyone shares your enthusiasm for subtlety. Namely, the two prodigies who have turned the field into a colosseum that’d rival the battles of ancient Rome. 

You take a seat on the grassy hill and watch what unfolds. 

Your eyes can scarcely follow the blows Suguru and Satoru exchange. Their sparring sessions are unreal — blurring the very fabric of reality. Somehow, they manage all this without using cursed energy. The spectacle you’re witnessing is simply hand-to-hand combat. It’s like watching a film with skipping frames. In a matter of seconds, they can travel a hundred meters and return to their original position. Your brain struggles to process the stimuli your senses are feeding it. 

They were already strong when you met them. But now? The nomenclature doesn’t exist to properly classify them. 

And in the future… 

There’s no telling what highs they’ll reach or the ceilings they’ll shatter. 

Their light is the most dazzling you’ve ever seen.

Within a few minutes, they conclude their training session. Satoru instantly beelines toward you, whereas Suguru cycles through stretches. There’s not even a single drop of sweat on Satoru’s body as he plops to your right. He’s wearing his signature sunglasses, despite the night's looming shadow. 

“Shouldn’t you be asleep or something?” Satoru asks. “It’s past your bedtime.”

You punch him lightly on the shoulder. He yelps out an exaggerated ‘ouch!’ rubbing the area to soothe the nonexistent wound. 

Suguru approaches at a far more leisurely pace, sending a wave that you return in kind. 

Satoru, not one to be forgotten, yells out, “Be careful, Suguru! She’s violent!” 

“Only against those who deserve it,” Suguru replies.

Fondness blossoms inside your chest as you laugh. You’d forgotten how simple life feels around them. It’s as if when the three of you are together, you’re swallowed by a pocket dimension, isolated from everyone and everything. Permanently inhabiting this utopia is a temptation. 

Satoru places his hands behind his head and lays onto the ground. “Here I am, potentially out of commission forever, without a single ounce of sympathy to show for it.” 

“We could always settle in court,” you offer. 

Suguru stands before you, hands on his hips. “Or he could finally figure out how to use reverse cursed technique.” 

At this, Satoru shoots back up, his sunglasses falling askew. “Hah? Last I recall, you gave yourself a headache giving it a go. At least I’m not that bad.” 

“Hurdles are necessary to improve. Without any, how do you know you’re truly making progress?” 

Satoru gives him a grossed-out look. “All this philosophizing is gonna turn your hair gray before you hit twenty.” 

“That’s rich, coming from the guy whose hair is already white,” You point out. “What’s that say about you?” 

Suguru muffles his laughter behind his hand. 

Satoru’s quick to overcome his incredulity. “It says that I’m going to spoil the next volume of Inuyasha. Sesshomaru—” 

You cover your ears and sprint off. “Can’t hear you, can’t hear you, can’t hear you…!” 

He chases after you, periodically shouting the names of the main characters right when you think he’s finished. You do your best to block out his voice, running like your life depends on it. He’s hot on your heels, cackling at your expense. After a stretch of silence, you uncover your ears, hesitantly turning around to check if he’s finished his torture. 

You meet Satoru’s gaze. His lips are parted, his eyebrows slightly raised. Your reflection in his dark lenses appears equally perplexed. He straightens his sunglasses and regards you with an unreadable expression. 

“... You’ve gotten faster.” 

The comment is so quiet, you’re unsure if you heard him correctly. 

“Hm?” 

“Nothing,” he dismisses, waving you off. “You shoujo-loving types sure take this stuff seriously. It’s almost cultish.” 

“I don’t wanna hear that from the guy who references Digimon like it’s some sorta scripture!” 

“Honda Tohru is a lame heroine.” 

You audibly gasp. “Wh— you take that back!” 

And so it’s your turn to chase Satoru, who, for reasons unknown, is oddly knowledgeable regarding Fruits Basket. 

-

“Could you guys be honest with me about something?” 

“All depends.” 

“Of course.” 

Satoru and Suguru’s responses come out simultaneously, the contents offering little reassurance. You’re not sure what you expected. Nonetheless, you press past the gnawing discomfort, your conversation with Shoko a fresh memory. 

“Did Akane stop by while I was gone?” 

You scrutinize their countenances for involuntary reactions that might betray their inner thoughts. You begin with Satoru, who was in the middle of cleaning his sunglasses when you posed the question. His eyes, which normally brim with mischief, have an eerie calmness about them; like sheets of ice that were once choppy waters. He smiles softly and slips his lenses back into place, undoubtedly aware of the intent behind your stare. 

Then there’s Suguru. He hums, as if finding your inquiry unexpected and not an inevitable point of contention. He’s a more challenging puzzle to decipher than Satoru. With the latter, you can roughly gauge the greater picture, blurry and incomplete as it may be. Suguru, on the other hand, hasn’t given you enough pieces to attempt a solution. 

Satoru continues mulling over your question while Suguru responds, “Is that what’s been worrying you lately?” 

So they picked up on it too, you think. 

Frowning, you shift in your seat. Blades of grass tickle your thighs and you push your skirt down. 

“Er… not that, specifically,” you admit. You feel like you’re surrounded by walls that know just how far to close in to give the impression you might be crushed. “I just… I’ve been thinking. About why I’m here— what I’ll go on to do. And, well…” 

Much to their surprise, you stand, squeeze your eyes shut, and bow ninety degrees. 

“For so long, I’ve carried this burden. The truth is, when I first learned about Null, I was relieved. I’d always have something to rely on in the worst-case scenario. But at the same time… that meant not using it could also be a mistake. You have no idea how much that scared me.” 

You curl your hands up into fists. “I don’t want to think that way anymore. I see it now — have for a while, actually — strength I couldn’t even imagine before. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is… I’m in your care. If it’s alright, I want to rely on others, starting with you two.” 

Your heart pounds wildly in the silence that follows. 

Maybe this is selfish too, you think. But I don’t want to be alone anymore. 

You hear Suguru speak your name. It isn’t until he repeats it, his tone kind yet firm, that you straighten yourself and face him. 

Satoru stands further back, scratching his neck. Much to your confusion, a red flush has risen to his cheeks, extending up to his ears. Suguru corrects your staring by taking your face in his hands and redirecting your attention to him. Warmth envelops you. Your faces are inches apart, but somehow, the distance feels nonexistent, like he’s peering into your mind unhindered. 

“Surely, you can dream bigger than that,” Suguru chastises.

“... Eh?” 

“Do you think so little of us?” Satoru grumbles. It almost sounds like he’s pouting. Was he not listening to anything you just said? The sincerity behind your every word? Why are they both acting like you insulted them? 

“Eh?!” 

“I’m glad you’ve come to this realization, but… you don’t have to rely on anyone else. Just us,” Suguru takes a step back, though he keeps one hand cupping your cheek. You feel lightheaded. “After all…” 

“... We’re the strongest.” 

notes:

*this pun actually works decently in english ?? but akane is making a reference to how suguru sounds phonetically similar to すぐ, or sugu, which means 'soon.'

[itadorey]

𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐖— gojo satoru

pairing: gojo satoru x gn!reader summary: it's hard to hide your relationship when your boyfriend has a staring problem. genre: fluff, humor (?), secret relationship notes: inspired by a real incident (aware). not revised, sorry for any mistakes </3 wc: ~2.4k

he’s staring.

you're sitting on the couch, curled up in the corner and chatting with shoko about your hellish weeks, and he's just staring.

you keep your gaze on shoko, refusing to look at gojo as he stands in the doorway and all but ignores geto's greeting. it's a little embarrassing, really, and you can't help but spare a glance in his direction in order to give him a sharp glare. the corners of his lips tug up at your action, and he reluctantly tears his eyes away from you and greets geto with an enthusiastic hug.

"i brought cookie dough!" gojo announces proudly, puffing his chest out as the rest of you groan. he all but wilts at the sound you all make, and you can see his lips forming a pout as he gives you all an expectant look. "what's the issue?"

"last time you tried to bake cookies, you burnt them," shoko says dryly, letting her head fall back against the couch as she complains. "for someone who claims to be good at everything you sure seem to love proving yourself wrong."

"that's because i didn't read the instructions, shoko," gojo explains patiently, face smug as he smirks. "but it'll be fine this time because you'll be the one making them."

"like hell i will," shoko snaps, eyes narrowing as she turns her head to glare at gojo.

"then i'll just try my luck again, i guess," gojo says breezily, meeting her glare evenly. the two of them stare each other down for a couple of seconds before shoko lets out a loud sigh and stands up, stalking over to gojo and snatching the container out of his hands. a snicker leaves his lips as she starts to walk towards the kitchen, and it only turns into a full blown laugh when she picks up the nearest thing (which happens to be geto's water bottle) and launches it at him.

"suguru!" shoko yells once she's in the kitchen. "get in here! you're going to help me."

"i'll be right back," geto says, smiling amicably before slipping through the doorway. you turn to finally face gojo, smiling as he bends down to pick up the fallen water bottle before placing it on the table beside him. the smile remains on your face as he approaches, and he can't help but smile in return as he casually points to the now empty space next to you.

"this seat taken?"

"yeah, by shoko," you scoff lightly, shaking your head lightly when he ignores your words and plops himself down next to you. he rests his arm on the back of the couch, and his added weight has the cushion sinking in a way that forces you to lean into him.

"oh? is that so?" gojo asks, an innocent smile on his face as he inches forward the slightest bit.

"yeah," you breathe, eyes darting towards the kitchen to make sure that geto and shoko are still occupied.

"but she's not here right now," gojo teases, chuckling when you roll your eyes.

"she'll come back eventually."

"and she can sit on my other side," gojo states confidently, leaning in even further with a cocky little grin on his face. "besides, we both know she likes curling up and resting her head on the arm rest."

"but she always insists on sitting next to me," you argue, giving in and leaning in as well.

"then you can sit in the middle," gojo whispers, his lips brushing against yours the slightest bit. "that way it's a win-win for everyone involved."

"what about suguru? where will he sit?"

"who cares?" gojo murmurs, eyes fluttering shut as he leans in fully to kiss you.

"the cookies will be ready in fifteen minutes!"

the two of you spring apart, almost leaping to opposite ends of the couch as shoko peeks her head into the living room. there's a moment of silence as she glances between the two of you, and it isn't until she turns to look back at who you assume is geto that you share a mildly panicked look with gojo.

"do we wanna wait or should we just start the movie?" shoko asks, drawing your attention back to her.

"let's just start the movie," you say, willing yourself to sound as normal as possible. shoko nods in return, stepping back into the living room with geto trailing behind her. she makes her way to the couch as geto approaches the tv, gingerly plucking the remote from behind it before settling down on the ground. shoko comes to a stop in front of gojo, motioning for him to move from his spot so she can sit.

you shuffle awkwardly across the couch as gojo makes his way to the other end of the couch, sinking into the middle seat as shoko curls up on the edge and rests her head on the arm rest. you turn to look at gojo when he plops down next to you, only to be met with a smug expression that screams 'i told you so'. the tv comes to life as geto nestles himself into the spot between you and shoko, his broad back pressed firmly up against the couch and preventing you from moving to the left in fear of accidentally kicking him.

"so what are we thinking?" geto asks, tilting his head back to look at the three of you. "comedy? action? romance?"

"horror," you reply flatly, choosing to ignore the look geto had sent your way when he had suggested romance. you smirk when you notice his expression fall, and he merely grumbles something under his breath before shifting his attention back to the tv.

"any objections?" geto asks, sparing a glance at shoko and frowning when she shakes her head. "any at all?"

"just choose a movie," shoko sighs, lightly kicking the back of geto's head. it's silent as geto finally settles on a movie that you know you've all seen before, and you decide to let it slide this time because you know that dealing with a scared geto is worse than sitting through a rewatch.

you reach across gojo to turn off the floor lamp, effectively plunging the living room into near-darkness. the glow from the television is bright enough to highlight geto's uncertain expression, and you resist the urge to snicker as you lean forward to tug at his hair. he looks up at you in annoyance, rolling his eyes when you speak. "if you get too scared, you can just sit on gojo's lap, okay?"

a low snort leaves shoko's words at your comment, and geto shushes her as the movie begins to play. you quickly find yourself engrossed in the film, and you let yourself melt into the couch as the first scene plays. you make sure to stay aware of geto's reactions when you realize the first jump scare is coming up, and you're rewarded with a sharp jolt as geto does his best to hold in his gasp.

a swat to the calf is all you receive when he hears your quiet laugh, and you throw a glance at shoko in hopes of sharing an amused glance, only to stop when you notice her already looking at you. or rather, looking past you and directly at gojo.

you feel yourself stiffen as you force yourself to look back at the film, waiting for shoko so turn her attention back to the tv before glancing at gojo through your periphery. a soft sigh leaves your lips when you see him staring at you, and you waste no time before elbowing his side and subtly tilting your head towards the tv. you don't wait to see his reaction, but you do feel him shift in his seat, stretching his arm across the back of the couch before running his fingers over your shoulder lightly.

you shiver lightly at the contact, and you don't even have to spare gojo another glance to know he's back to staring at you. the next few minutes consist of the same few actions: gojo shamelessly stares at you, shoko shoots him suspicious glances, and you do your best to ignore the two of them while you watch the movie. it isn't until a phone goes off that the strange cycle finally gets broken.

"what was that?" geto asks, eyes wide and voice low as he pauses the movie. you shake your head, trying to suppress a smile at his reaction.

"my phone," shoko says, her eyes glinting with amusement. "the cookies are ready. c'mon, suguru."

"no, i'll help!" you say, jumping to your feet. you watch as shoko watches you with narrowed eyes, and can't help but sigh in relief when she merely shrugs and starts making her way into the kitchen. you pointedly ignore gojo's stare and geto's curious look, slipping into the next room just in time to see shoko pull a tray out of the oven.

"i wanna wait for them to cool down, but i also know how impatient those two are," shoko mutters, a hand on her hip as she looks down at the tray. you hold up a finger, skirting around her and rifling through one of geto's drawers before finding a spatula.

"we can just transfer them to a plate and take them back with us. besides, gojo likes them warm," you suggest, earning a nod from shoko. you trade places with her while she pulls out a plate, and you begin scooping the freshly baked cookies onto it as she leans on the counter next to you.

"so, gojo," shoko says offhandedly. "y'know, he's been staring all night."

"oh? has he?" you ask, mentally patting yourself on the back when your voice remains steady.

"yeah," she continues, watching as you place the last of the cookies on the plate before grabbing it. "just pay attention and you'll notice. it's kind of scary, if i'm being honest. if he kept looking at me with those eyes of his, i'd put in a complaint with yaga."

you can't help but giggle at her words, and you quickly wash the spatula and dry it before placing it back into the drawer. "i'll keep your words in mind."

shoko gives you a lazy smile before plucking the tray of cookies off the counter, already making her way back into the living room. "make sure to keep an eye out!"

"yeah, yeah, whatever," you grumble under your breath, following after her and taking your seat once again. you flinch when she plops the plate into your lap, but you're given no time to say anything before geto and gojo are digging into the cookies.

"they're still warm!" gojo exclaims, earning a soft smile from you. shoko watches you closely, making sure to give you a knowing look when you finally glance her way. she remains silent when geto starts playing the movie once again, only reaching for a cookie herself and curling back up on the couch cushion.

five minutes after resuming the movie, you feel gojo's knee bump against yours as he shifts in his spot, sinking lower in his seat and spreading his legs apart before leaning against the armrest on his side. you can feel shoko's prickly stare as you keep your own gaze focused on the tv, and you simply tuck your legs under you and refuse to acknowledge either one of them. it isn't long until you can feel gojo staring at you too, and you feel your face grow warmer due to all the attention.

by the time the movie ends, geto is the only one who can say he actually watched the film, and he wastes no time before leaping to his feet and letting out a groan as he stretches.

"well, i need a drink if we're going to continue with the horror movies," geto announces, turning the floor lamp back on. he leans over to snag the last cookie, breaking it in two before offering half to gojo.

"me too," shoko agrees, suppressing a yawn as she joins geto's side. "i could go for a drink."

"me three," you chime in, making a move to stand up only to be stopped by shoko.

"nah, stay here," she says smugly, placing a hand on your shoulder to keep you in place. "i'll get it for you."

"um, okay?" you respond hesitantly, watching as geto follows shoko into the kitchen. "thank you!"

"well, well, well," gojo says quietly, leaning in and drawing your attention back to him. "it seems like we're all alone."

"you're so stupid," you snort, gently pushing him away from you. he pouts at your action and you find yourself shaking your head fondly at his expression. "shoko's been noticing all the staring you've been doing."

"well can you blame me?" he asks, grabbing your hand and pulling you close. he lets his lips skim against your knuckles, and you roll your eyes when he finally presses a firm kiss to the back of your hand. "how can i not stare when i have the most beautiful art i've ever seen sitting right next to me?"

"you're so cheesy!" you hiss, ignoring the way your stomach lurches when he gently intertwines his fingers with yours.

"yeah but you love it," gojo responds haughtily.

"yeah, i do," you say softly. gojo's eyes soften at your words, and he leans forward slightly before pausing, hesitation clear on his face. you let go of his hand to cup his cheek, pulling him even closer as you run your thumb along his cheekbone. "c'mere."

gojo's lips meet yours eagerly, and you resist the urge to smile when you hear him hum happily. you scoot yourself closer to him, half on his lap as he tilts his head to the side in an attempt to deepen the kiss. you respond eagerly, giggling when his hands settle on your waist and pull you onto his lap entirely.

"i told you they were making out!"

the two of you pull away from each other when you hear shoko's voice, and you turn to give her a mildly annoyed look as she gives you a smug one in return. geto stands right behind her, lips pursed as he does his best to hold back a smile.

"yeah, we were," gojo mutters bitterly, giving shoko a dark look. "before you so rudely interrupted."

shoko only laughs at his words, and you don't have the chance to explain anything before gojo is pulling you into another kiss.

"you owe me five bucks, suguru!"

reblogs are appreciated <3 ty for reading !!

[lemon-slushie]

EPIPHYLLUM IS SO BACK ‼️‼️‼️‼️

My boinky

Her lore if u want it!

She’s the daughter/creation of millennial tree and sugar swan from an epiphyllum flower (the one on the back of her head, it’s a part of her body), but most of her magic comes from millennial tree, such as creating plant life and such(bring back Mary sues)

She created the beast yeast forest before it was used as a prison for the beasts, the forest was originally named the midnight star forest (Epiphyllums bloom at night and wilt at day) The forest was dense and beautiful with large trees that blocked out the sun and glowing spores that lit up the dim floor under the trees. As she continued crafting it cookies began visiting and soon inhabiting it.

- she spent years putting together her forest and caring for the life within it, it was quite the sight to see before the witches forced the beast prisons into it. The magic and chaos that seeped from the beast prisons greatly impacted her forest causing many of her creatures to become hostile, this also dampened her magic immensely

After the beast were added Epiphyllum did the best she could to defend her cookies and return everything to its original state but due to her magic weakening it was of no use, eventually all of the cookies who once lived there quickly evacuated, except for the new faerie kingdom ofc, and began warning all travelers of the evil in the forest

This quickly caused many rumors and tales that twisted the truth of Epiphyllums forest and caused it to become a sort of myth as years passed, the original name being lost to time and becoming known as “beast yeast” to anyone who heard of it

Epiphyllum was absolutely crushed, all of her work and care ripped from her, her forest was her pride and joy

- she specifically dislikes elder faerie because she’s envious of him. After all the destruction from the beasts he still has a lively and glowing kingdom, every time she sees it her heart aches for what she once had.

Years pass and Epiphyllum still roams the forest with her butterfly lantern because she still cannot bare to part with it, clinging to the hope she can fix it. She’s tried to get help from both her parents, and while it works temporarily it never stays. They cannot devote all of their time to a lost cause. But Epiphyllum still holds out hope that she can fix it and all of her cookies will return to her and life will go back to what it once was.

After years of loneliness something happens, White Lily finds beast yeast, and she is excited to be there. Happy to see all of the life in the forest. Epiphyllum is enthralled to see someone find the beauty in her forest once more, even with how much it’s fallen. She quickly befriends white lily, guiding her safely through the forest and chatting with her about everything she’s made. White lily is genuinely interested and happy to speak to her, Epiphyllum is over joyed.

- She has spent that past years alone and working and to finally have someone who notices fills her heart. She’s happy. She takes white lily everywhere she can think of, her old villages, springs, flower fields, all of it. Maybe it was her intense loneliness but she falls quick for white lily, she loves how curious she is and how they talk for hours.

eventually white lily finds silver bell and goes the faerie kingdom, epiphyllum stays behind, still holding a grudge.

- Epiphyllum is sad to see white lily take more interest in the faerie kingdom but doesn’t say anything, she’s happy as long as white lily is. She occasionally enters the kingdom to check in on lily and talk to her and hang out but always returns to her forest, refusing to stay as the faeries are also quite awkward around her as in the past she lurked around their walls and would very rarely speak to elder faerie if he approached her first.

- When visiting white lily she noticed her bond with elder faerie had grown quite a lot, this only deepened her disdain for him, but once again she allowed it to slip by because white lily was happy

One day Epiphyllum entered the kingdom to see white lily but was stopped by elder faerie, telling her white lily had left to go the gathering of witches.

- Epiphyllum quickly becomes enraged, yelling at elder faerie for letting her basically walk into her own death. She doesn’t care what defense he has and quickly storms out and desperately searching her forest in hopes to find her before it’s too late but instead she finds nothing. She now truly resents elder faerie and blames him completely for the loss of white lily.

after dark enchantress is created and white lily is comatose in the faerie kingdom Epiphyllum can be frequently found at her casket. Elder faerie told her about the casket, as he felt it was wrong to not let her know since he knew she cared about her deeply. He’s tried talking to her since and offers to let her stay in the kingdom so she isn’t lonely. These only end in arguments as Epiphyllum cannot bring herself to forgive him and wants nothing to do with him or his ungrateful kingdom.

Then ofc white lily wakes up and the beast yeast story happens. Epiphyllum is ecstatic to see her back but hesitates as she watches her interact with pure vanilla and elder faerie, seeing how happy she is without her and the way she talks about pure vanilla hurts her. All she wants is white lily but she knows white lily needs more than her.

She sinks back into her forest and watches as it crumbles further from the magic of dark enchantresses creations and the beasts waking up and breaking free from their prisons

- Wind archer finds her after being sent to beast yeast and gives her a reality check, her forest is no longer hers and never will be again and staying there is wilting and killing her, she needs to leave or she can die having wasted her life on something that doesn’t exist anymore

- After a bit of denial she gives in and returns to the millennial forest where she goes into a deep rest to regain her power

[astralnymphh]

copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

  May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

  Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

  But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

  Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

  Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

  Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette. 

  And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

  Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

  January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

  February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

  March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet. 

  April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

  You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

  The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

  Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

  Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

  But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

  A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

  Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

  Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde. 

  Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ‘Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

  “Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

  The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

  A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper.  You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

  You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

  One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

  Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

  What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

  Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

  Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

  All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

  “Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..” 

  Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

  Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..” 

  Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right? 

  One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

  You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

  “Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

  Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood. 

  Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence. 

“Say cheese!”

  America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

  A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

  Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

 The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you. 

  Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

  Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

  An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

  A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

  Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’. 

Un–fucking–believable. 

  Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

  Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

  After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed. 

  “C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

  Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

  Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

  Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels. 

  Not so good for the respiratory system though.

  Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—” 

  Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

  “Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

  Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

  Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?” 

  A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

  But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

  Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

  “This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.” 

  Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

  You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

  The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

    Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

  “Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

  Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

  “Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

  “Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama. 

  And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

  “You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

  “Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

  “Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

  “For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

  “Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

  “Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

  “Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

  Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy,  “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

  “That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”  

  Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

  And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting. 

  “Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

  You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

  “If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

  Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

  Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?” 

  “Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

  Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.” 

  “Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

  A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles. 

  “Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

  “I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.” 

  Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

  “Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

  Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

  Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

  A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.” 

 You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant. 

  There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

  A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

  “Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

  “No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

  Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

  Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

  “Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

  That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together. 

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

  Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco. 

Stygian tones.

  “Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

  “Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

  “Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

  In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more. 

  Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting. 

  “Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

  Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

  A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.” 

  They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

  There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.” 

  “My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

  “Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

  “Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

  Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

  “Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

  You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

  “Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

  By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

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[wooataes]

a wilted rose - ljh

pairing: mafia boss!lee jihoon x fem!reader

word count: 3k

warnings: mafia!au, arranged marriage!au, angst, hurt and comfort, mentions of violence and guns, injuries, bruises, crying, swearing, implied murder, slight fluff, jihoon being protective (yes, that’s a warning)

summary: an unfortunate encounter has jihoon realize his true feelings for his wife.

a/n: toyed around with the idea of mafia!boss jihoon and this is what popped out 🙊 happy new year, friends!

- tae 💜🌸✨

Masterlist

Part Two? | Ask to be added to my taglist

Lee Jihoon’s family is known as one of the most feared Mafia families in South Korea, his great grandparents having made a reputation for themselves that has been held up for generations.

Jihoon was born an only child and singular heir to the Lee fortune and the Lee legacy; having known from a young age that he would eventually end up being the leader of the Lee clan. He knew the family business was dangerous, and since being taught the ropes at 13, he knew that his relationships could be used against him from rival clans. This reason alone caused him to be cautious and callous with who he associated with. He only has two important people he would consider his friends.

His closest friend, Kwon Soonyoung also doubles as his right hand man. Both men grew up together due to Soonyoung’s father being close with Jihoon’s. Their frequent meetings caused the young men to be around eachother for long bouts of time, eventually being homeschooled together while their father’s talked business. For Jihoon, Soonyoung is the one and only person he could trust on this earth- time and time again, he has always proved his unchallenged loyalty to Jihoon and his father’s family. If Jihoon was irrational and unfiltered, Soonyoung was his voice of reason and his level-headed decision maker. To him, it was a match made in heaven.

The second person he considered his friend, or used to, was you. You came into both Jihoon and Soonyoung’s life at 8 years old, your family having been hired by Master Lee to work as live-in staff in their mansion. You were the only other child Jihoon and Soonyoung’s age, and despite Master Lee’s cold heart, he grew to treat you like his daughter and let Jihoon frequently spend his younger years playing with his two closest friends when they weren’t being homeschooled together until he was of age to get into the family business.

12 months ago, when Jihoon had just turned 25, Master Lee announced his soon to be retirement to his son. The only condition for Jihoon to step up to be head of the family business was simple but to Jihoon, was absolutely atrocious.

“I don’t understand why you think me marrying would be advantageous to the family, father.” He hisses, adjusting his chain around his neck, glaring at the stupid red rose, the Lee family staple, perfectly pinned to his lapel.

“It is not to a random woman, Jihoon.” Master Lee frowned.

“That makes it worse!” He barked, leaning his head back in frustration.

“Jihoon. You have to know that no one can be trusted in this business. I am not allowing you to marry outside of who we trust. They can slither their way into your heart and when you are at your most vulnerable, they take everything out from under you. If the enemy knows you’re committed to someone already, it keeps them from hurting us from the inside.”

“Yeah, it also makes Y/N the number one target to the enemy and they will try and swipe her away from under our noses!” He’s yelling now.

He would never admit it to anyone, but he cares too much for you. You’re too good to be associated with the dastardly business that is associated with being in the mafia; you’re a good hearted person who happily serves the Lee family alongside your just as good parents. You’re the one good thing that Jihoon has left, and he’d be damned if he couldn’t protect you.

“It’s not like you’re going to be parading her out for missions and stake outs.” Master Lee frowns. “She is only for the parties. So others know that you’re a committed man that will not waver. I guarantee you she will be protected. She will be treated like a queen in here, and she won’t ever have to see the dark side of the business. Son, I promise you.”

For 12 months, Jihoon, in the public eye was the perfect model husband with you. He stayed by your side faithfully at galas and parties, parading you around with a look of what was perceived as adoration by others. Behind closed doors however, Jihoon treated you like a ghost. Long gone was your once closest friend who you stayed up late with to binge watch stupid movies, playing video games and pranks on Soonyoung. The only thing that remained was a quiet man that only greeted you for one meal a day, to his insistence for the sake of ‘normalcy.’ In your opinion, it felt anything but. Your attempts at conversion were shut down with one worded answers or sometimes none at all, and over time, you grew to enjoy your meal with your husband in silence before going about your day around the Lee mansion alone.

Jihoon thought his father’s plan was working. For 12 months, his wife was safe and protected and never got caught up with any of the mafia business. He was in alliance with most rival clans and worked out plans and deals to work for the foreseeable future.

Sadly for Jihoon, Master Lee was full of shit.

Jihoon is frantic. The staff had alerted him while out for a meeting with an ally clan that you had been injured. They were intentionally vague with details, knowing their boss would fly off the handle at the extent to what your injuries were.

“She’s at home.” Jihoon hears Soonyoung’s voice over the phone.

“What the fuck happened, Soonyoung.” He is sure he is making his driver break at least 10 different road laws right now to get back to the mansion. He makes a mental note to contact the local police and send some generous gift baskets.

“The guards don’t know. I’m trying to get it out of them, but no luck yet.”

“She shouldn’t have been out unsupervised.” Jihoon winces, rubbing at his temples. “Tell them if they don’t give you an honest answer by the time I’m back, I will have their tongues.”

“Just go to her right now, Hoon-ah.”

Marching into the living room, Jihoon makes his presence known by the heavy thuds of his boots on the tiled floor. His eyes scan the room until they finally land on you, his childhood friend and arranged wife, sitting anxiously on the couch. He feels his eye twitch at the sight of no guards in sight, you having been left alone since you have returned.

You lift your head up shakily, your eyes widening at the sight of your husband. His long hair, usually sported in a bun atop his head is now strewn about and falling out of the elastic holding it together, suit jacket scrunched and twisted, red rose nowhere to be found. You’re astonished, having grown so used to seeing your husband with his perfect red rose on his lapel at all times. What you didn’t know that after having found out about your capture, he thrown it to the ground in frustration of his worst fears coming true.

“Jihoon?” You blink nervously.

This is the first time you’ve seen him properly (minus your daily lunches) for maybe a month. He stares intently across the room at you, scanning your body. You’re cradling your left wrist in your hand, a bruise in the perfect shape of a hand print forming around your wrist. His eyes lift to your face, his blood boiling at the sight of a small cut across your cheek, your right eye swelling up and starting to turn purple.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stutter, biting down on your lip. “I know I shouldn’t have-“

You flinch at the sight of Jihoon striding forward, only to pause when he walks straight past you and into the kitchen, causing your shoulders to deflate. You were stupid to think your best friend had come back for only a moment. You sink sadly into the couch, curling up slowly.

Your head stays facing down at the floor as you run your fingertip over the hand print on your wrist, wincing and hissing as you press a little too hard. You sigh after a moment, moving to stand up before you pause at the sight of Jihoon’s expensive dress shoes directly in front of you.

You look up nervously at him as he reaches out, delicately taking your wrist, face neutral as he runs his fingers gently over the bruise just like you had done, eyebrows furrowing. You shiver slightly, this being the first physical contact you have felt from your husband in months. Next, he reaches forward and tucks a stray hair behind your cheek before examining the darkening bruise over your eye. At this, you see his eyes darken, heaving a heavy sigh through his nose.

“Who the fuck did this to you.” His voice is soft as he eyes you.

“I-I…”

“I need to know who did this.” He pleads.

“It was Hwang.” You whimper.

His jaw clenches. Hwang has sworn vengeance against the Lee family ever since Master Lee cut ties and alliances with the Hwang’s over his unethical practices. In Hwang’s words, he wanted to poison the perfect garden of roses that Master Lee built.

“H-he said it was a warning..” you can’t look Jihoon in the face. “T-to keep your wife on a leash or else something could happen. Jihoon, I’m so sorry, I really shouldn’t have gone out, I didn’t want to cause any more trouble.” You’re crying softly now, wincing at the pain that your swelling is causing.

You tense up as you feel something cool delicately rest on your cheek, opening your eyes to see your husband holding an ice pack gently to your face. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion as he moves you so you’re sitting down on the couch once more.

“You stay here until Soonyoung gets back to look after you, okay?” He instructs you as you just stare at him, bewildered. “Do you hear me, Y/N?” You nod your head slowly as you cradle the ice pack to your cheek. “Good.”

You watch Jihoon turn around and march back towards the front door of the mansion, pointing to Mr Kim, one of the guards who has been in Jihoon’s family for years. “Make sure no one comes inside this mansion except for me and Soonyoung. You guard her with your life until he gets here.” The man nods his head sternly as he moves to stand in the doorway between the living room and the entryway.

“J-Jihoon? Where are you going?” You ask nervously as your husband adjusts the gun holster around his waist, his voice cold and deadly, sending a shiver down your spine.

“I’m going to kill the fucker who thought he could touch my wife and get away with it.”

And with that, the door slams behind him, leaving you alone with Mr Kim eyeing the door sternly.

You stay anxiously in the living room for what feels like an eternity, waiting to hear anything from Jihoon or his guards. You jolt at the sound of the door after only 15 minutes of sitting in silence, breathing a sigh of relief as you see Soonyoung rush inside and run straight towards you.

“Soon…” you whimper as he meets you halfway, immediately pulling you close and hugging you to his chest.

“Fuck, Y/N, I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” He breathes out, shaky. “The one fucking day I had to go run some errands…”

You hate the fact that Hwang probably waited for Soonyoung to be away from you to strike.

“Soon, it’s fine…” you whisper, wincing as he pulls away to look down at your face, closely examining your swelling eye.

“It’s not fine, look at you!”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” You whisper, and he just sighs with frustration, leading you to the couch and sitting you up against the cushions, laying a fluffy blanket over you.

“You’re going to sit here and we are going to watch some tv until Jihoon-ah gets back, okay?” He settles down beside you.

“Soonyoung, you can go have a shower or eat or something...” Your voice is low as he scrolls through random movies to play on Netflix.

“Nope.” He made a promise to stay with you until Jihoon gets back, and he will stay true to his word. Eating and washing up can wait.

“Y/N-ah.” Soonyoung glances at his phone after a few hours. The ice pack against your cheek is now lukewarm, your legs having shaken non-stop since you’d been forced to sit down.

“Hm..” you hum in response.

“Jihoon-ah will be home in 5 minutes. He asked for me to give you both some privacy and take care of some clean-up. Will you be okay with Mr Kim watching you?”

“Okay.” You respond nervously, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as Soonyoung gently touches your good cheek with his finger.

“I’ll be in the other room making calls if you get scared between now and then. Okay?”

“Thank you, Soonie.” You whisper, looking up at him with a grateful smile.

“You’re welcome.” He smiles back before turning around and walking down the hall, leaving you alone once more as the panic begins to rise in your body.

You’re lucky you don’t have to wait long, as true to Soonyoung’s word, Jihoon steps inside his mansion and into the living room not even 5 minutes later, heaving a sigh. When you spot him, you rush quickly to him, immediately noticing the blood on his shirt and causing you to panic even more.

“Oh god.. you’re bleeding, what have I done? Your father will have me for this.” You quickly try to wipe the blood off his shirt (which you’re relieved to realize isn’t his). Jihoon surprises you both as he reaches forward to take your injured wrist again, pulling you to him and wrapping his arms tight around your waist.

He pulls your head into the crook of his neck, squeezing you to him as his chin rests on top of your head, grip tight on your shirt. You’re shaking before you just melt into his embrace, holding onto his jacket tight as he hums.

“Are you okay.” When you just nod, he pulls back to look into your face. “I need to hear it from you, Y/N. Please… just humor me.”

“Yeah, I’m okay, Hoonie.” You breathe out with wide eyes.

Why does he look so scared?

He sighs with finality before he pulls you back to him, hugging you tight for the first time since he was forced to hold you at your wedding over 12 months ago.

“We will need more security.” He mumbles to you as he holds you tight. “Guards at every post. When we go out, when you’re out in the garden, everywhere. It’s clear they know your schedule so we need to throw them off your scent.” He is talking a mile a minute as he keeps you close to his chest, afraid you’d slip away. “As a precaution, I will have guards sweep the house for any bugs they could have planted. Tonight, we will sleep in the safe house. Is that okay with you, Y/N?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” You whisper, your face buried in his shirt. You don’t want to leave his side as much as he doesn’t too - this being the most affection you’ve gotten from someone in 12 months.

“Fuck.” Jihoon didn’t account for the fact his safe house only had one king size bed. “You can take the bed, okay… I can take the couch.”

“Don’t be silly.” You hum, already dragging him to the bed. “We’re both adults here. I think we can handle sharing a bed. We used to in school, right Hoonie?”

“I mean yeah, but we weren’t married then.”

“We’re only married on paper. Why are you being so iffy?” You laugh, wincing as your smile hurts your bruising cheek. Without thinking, he reaches out to cup your face worriedly, examining the bruise before rushing out to the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a small ice pack to press to your cheek.

“I’d feel more comfortable if you were close, Hoon. Please.” You ask quieter now as he rocks awkwardly on his heels.

“Only until you’re asleep.” He bargains, and you nod quickly.

“Deal.”

After an awkward intermission of you both getting ready to share the bed for the first time since your wedding, you’re finally drifting off, curled up beside your husband as he sits up against the bed head, stiff as a board in sweatpants and a large jumper. Jihoon lays on top of the blankets so he can make an easy get away when you fall into a deep sleep.

He’s about to up and leave as your breathing evens out, thinking you’re asleep when he feels you shift. You scoot closer, hand finding his as your head nestles comfortably against his shoulder. You visibly relax at his warmth, your shaky hands slowing to a stop as you essentially glue yourself to his side. He tenses up, looking down at you with wide eyes as you finally fall asleep. He frowns deeply at the sight of your bruise showing before aggressively sighing to himself and wrapping his free arm around you to hold you against his chest. He is unable to resist your cuteness. That, and he wants to protect you, of course.

Jihoon refuses to sleep a wink in case someone tries to break in, but after hour four of him stroking your arm delicately with his cheek resting on top of your forehead, he feels himself drifting off.

When he wakes up, he sees you’re still cuddled up to him, but almost jumps out of his skin when he sees Soonyoung standing at the foot of the bed with a knowing smirk on his face.

“It took you long enough to treat your wife like she is your wife.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Jihoon hisses out as quietly as possible to not wake you, his cheeks bright red. “If she wakes up, I’ll have your head.”

“I’m sure you will.” He winks.

“Kwon Soonyoung I swear to god if my wife wasn’t sleeping against me right now, you’d be six feet under.”

“Mhm~” he sing songs, stepping out the bedroom door.

“If you tell anyone, you’re dead.”

ljh taglist

@breakfastburritosattiffanys @mar-627 @milopenne @lanatheawesome @sunnynapp @jaeminsbuckethat @opheliaas-stuff @hotricewoozi@lavayeon @seventeenthingsblr @zaggprincess2 @markleehee @kwanniesboo @beardedartgamingbakery @iarayara

permanent taglist

@misshale21 @etaerealboy @kawennote09 @im-gemmy @devinkelsey19 @woozieeeee @loveless-lie @lixiel0ver @keymins @nen-nyy @i-dont-give-a-fok @miriamxsworld @jojowantstocry @roe-sinning @sun-daddy-yoriichi @coveyland @side-angel @rinalouu @flwerrchild @apobangpowrld @ldysmfrst @adeptiixiao @lisaaaaamanobannn @jovialpartyneckoaf @sarahisupset

[lostbookmark]

MDNI 🔞

Main Masterlist here

WHISPERED VOWS MASTERLIST here

Summary: You thought planning your wedding was going to be a magical memory. You didn't realize that it might make you second guess everything.

Pairing: Fiancée Yoongi x Insecure F. Reader

Genre: Romance, Angst, Smut, Hurt-Comfort

Warnings: Explicit Sex, Toxic Family, Arguments, Sex Toys, Self Doubt, Over Thinking, Unprotected Sex, Yoongi Overworking, Reader Needs To Speak Up,

SMUT !

The smell that hit you as soon as you and Lisa walked into the flower shop earlier had hit you like a ton of bricks. It was a mix of sweet floral, citrus, a powdery smell that you couldn't identify, and damp earth that permeated through the main room that caused you to scrunch your nose in distaste. You think that flowers are pretty to look at, of course, but you prefer to do that from far away. You hate the smell of them, and all the different scents coming at you all at once are almost nauseating. You never understood why people always smell them or always give them as a gift. What better way to show someone you love them than buying them something that will eventually die. It just seems sad.

“How much do people usually spend on flowers?” You ask the florist who was walking around with you showing you the large varieties of blooms that she had in the store.

“Well, that's hard to say,” she says, looking at you with kind eyes. “It all depends on how many you want and what exactly you want to use them for. I would say a standard wedding will roughly cost about 3,000 dollars . If you want to add a grounded arch or have flowers that line your aisle. Are you going to have them as centerpieces at the reception? How many bouquets? Boutonnieres? All that will raise the price.”

You swallow thickly at her answer. For a 3,000 plus dollar estimate, they better last until your first anniversary and not be dead within the first week of buying them. The very few times that you have had flowers or plants for that matter, you have always forgotten to water them. They just ended up a brown wilted mess in a vase by a window that you would eventually throw away once you stopped being lazy.

Your stomach twists and turns anxiously as you look at the different bundles of flowers displayed in buckets and vases throughout the room as you contemplate the price that she told you. Walking around, you look at the roses in various colors, white orchids, pink peonies, rare flowers, and flowers flown in from different countries that you have never heard of. Why do they need flowers from different countries? They probably did it so they could charge more, and you also know people are more than willing to pay that price. It seems like such a waste, especially all for one day. All of this for just one day.

The pretty florist is staring at you with a patient smile, and you gently reach out to touch a hyacinth. It makes you tilt your head as you stare at them. Yeah, you don’t know how to pronounce that. You turn your attention back to her and give her an awkward smile. You can't tell her that you hate flowers and you definitely don't want to spend that much money on them. You don't want to offend anyone. She seems really nice.

“Yeah, so, thanks for your time. It was quite educational,” Lisa says cheerfully with a fake smile on her face. She plucks a card from the counter before waving goodbye. “We will be in touch. We have a lot to think about with all these beautiful options. Have a beautiful day!”

Linking your arm into hers, Lisa walks you out of the floral shop. You take a deep breath of the cold, crisp, fresh air that hits your face in hopes of calming the nerves inside of you. You can’t justify spending this much money on flowers. Do they know how many bills you can pay with 3000 dollars? How can people just throw away money like this? You dared not to even tell your mom about this trip. She probably would have wanted the flowers from a different country. She would have wanted them to be in crystal vases sitting at every table at the reception. She would have wanted whatever the ground arch was.

“You know,” Lisa says as she stops walking and stares at you over the hood of her car. “When I get married, I want roses. Hundreds of beautiful, deep red roses on every surface available, including my honeymoon suite, but that's just me…not you. You don't have to have flowers at all if you don't want them. Yoongi doesn't seem like a flower guy anyway.”

“What about the bouquets that we have to hold?” you ask. “Wouldn't it look weird if we weren't holding onto anything?”

“Sweets, we can make them with fake flowers. People probably wouldn't even be able to tell the difference,” Lisa answers. “With Pinterest and a hot glue gun, I can be unstoppable. I won't let you down.”

You start to laugh at her, finally feeling at ease, and she joins in. Thanks to Lisa, you think you can officially cross flowers off your list.

The noodles in the togo container from Yoongi's favorite restaurant are starting to burn your hands as you hurry down the hall to his studio. One of the things that has been worrying you is that Yoongi is not eating when he works like he does. He thinks it's okay to run on two hours of sleep a night, and a cup of coffee is enough fuel to get him through the day. As passive as you are trying to be at the moment, you can not let him do this to himself. You will not let him starve himself for the sake of his work.

Upon entering the familiar studio and kicking off your shoes, you see that he is asleep on his back with his arm thrown over his eyes on the couch as music faintly drifts from the abandoned headphones on his desk. You shut the door as slowly and quietly as you can without waking him up. The room is a bit darker than normal, so you move extra carefully so you don't knock into any equipment that was strewn around the floor. You place the noodles quietly on his small table in front of the couch and wave your burning fingers in the air, trying to soothe the slight burn. Looking around, you quickly find a piece of unused paper on his desk to leave a quick note for him. Your butt barely hits his chair when his voice makes you jump slightly.

“Baby?” his tired voice was deep and raspy.

“Sorry, I tried to be quiet. I brought you some food. It's noodles from your favorite restaurant,” you tell him with a sigh, putting the paper back where you found it. You no longer needed to leave him a note after failing your mission.

Yoongi doesn't answer. Instead, he holds his arms open, an invitation to join him. You climb over his body and onto the couch beside him. He situates himself onto his side, trapping you between his body and the back of the leather couch. Your face is buried in his chest with his arms wrapped around you, holding you close. You can feel the steady rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against your face. You wonder if he fell back to sleep, but you don't want to move to find out. Closing your eyes, you contemplate drifting off with him as you let your body relax.

“Thank you,” he says suddenly, kissing the top of your head. “Any wedding updates? More million dollar venues?” he jokes.

“No. Lisa and I went to a florist on my lunch break. I discovered that I really don't like the way flowers smell, and they are just as expensive as the venues,” you tell him, and you can feel his chest shake with laughter. “It's all just a lot of money to spend on one day.”

“Most people like the way they smell,” he informs you. “I told you not to stress out over the cost.”

“They stink, and I can’t help it,” you complain. “Are you okay if we skip the flowers?”

“That's perfectly fine,” he says as his hand runs through your hair. He opens one eye and looks down at you. “Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I…I don't want a lot of guests there either.”

“Me neither,” he admits. “I don't have to invite industry people. Your mom doesn't know what she is talking about.”

“So, maybe a venue that holds like…50?” You ask him hopefully. “I came across a small winery online. It looked really pretty and they have availability for our date.”

“Perfect,” he whispers, looking at you.

“How do you know it's perfect? You haven't even seen it,” you ask with a small smile.

“If you like it, then it's perfect,” he tells you.

Yoongi reaches under your chin, tilting your face up to him. Leaning down, he presses his mouth firmly to yours. You internally sigh at the feeling of his lips against your own. You miss the kisses like these. Those lingering kisses that you never want to end. The ones that are filled with so much emotion that they make you weak in the knees. The ones that make you feel safe. The ones that make you remember how much you love him. How much you miss….him.

Yoongi changes position on his couch. Laying you back, he lays himself on top of you. His body presses you further into the cushions as he balances himself on his forearm. His free hand wanders down your leg that is clad in black tights that you wore under your skirt.

“Of all days that you had to wear these,” he says, pinching the black material and pulling them away from your leg only for them to snap back in place. “Can I take them off?”

“Yes,” you whisper, but your eyes glance to the door nervously. The embarrassment of last time still lingers in your mind. It would be just your luck. Jimin would walk in on you again or worse….Jungkook.

“No one else knows the code,” he chuckles, placing his face into your neck and licking a wet stripe up to your ear, making your breath hitch before lightly biting at your lobe. “We won't be interrupted.”

Sitting up on his knees between your legs, Yoongi's hands travel up under your skirt, grabbing the top of your tights. Lifting your hips, you help him out as he carefully pulls them over your ass and down your legs. He finishes by slipping them over your feet and tossing them on his table by the forgotten food container that you brought in for him. He turns his head back to look at you laid out before him and just drinks you in.

“Yoongi?” you question quietly.

“I'm just looking at my beautiful fiancée,” he whispers. “My future wife.”

He smiles at you and leans down, pressing his mouth against yours again. Your arms go around his shoulders, holding him close to you as his tongue slips into your mouth as it twists and twirls with your own. Pulling away from your mouth, Yoongi rests his head against your forehead. His eyes stare directly into yours.

“Let me just please you and….we will see what happens,” he says softly and looks away from you quickly. You think that he is embarrassed.

“We don't have to do anything,” you say, trying to comfort him. “I know you're tired. Your sleep is more important than this.”

“No, I miss this so much,” he says quietly and kisses you again desperately as his tongue delves in for another taste of your mouth. “I miss the way you feel,” he pulls away to plant a soft kiss on your cheek. “I miss the way you taste,” a kiss to your jaw. “God, I miss the way you sound,” a kiss to your neck. “Please, baby.”

You nod your head yes, and he finally slithers his way down, your body dropping to his knees on the floor with a light thump. Yoongi flips your skirt up and hooks his fingers into your underwear, pulling them down over your now bare legs, exposing you to his gaze. He stuffs the thin material into his back pocket and smirks at you. You don't even want to know what he will do with them if he doesn't give them back. The thought makes you blush a little bit.

“It will have to be quick,” you inform him with a teasing voice as he kisses the inner side of your knee. “My boss won't like me wasting company time.”

“I think he won’t care….at all,” he smirks at you and moves up to nip at your inner thigh. “In fact, I think that he just might even encourage this. Mandatory once a week now.”

Diving between your legs, Yoongi doesn't waste any time. Using his hand to spread you open, his tongue starts licking at your opening hungrily. His hot breath fans over your exposed core, making you squirm around on his couch. Yoongi places your legs over his shoulders and then slowly moves his hands up your body. He reaches up and gently grabs at your covered chest. Palming at your breasts the best he could over your clothes. You arch your chest up into his touch as you grab the back of your knees, bringing them up and closer to your body. Opening yourself up more for him.

“Oh, shit,” you whimper as his tongue finally pays attention to your bundle of nerves flicking it back and forth. “It feels g..go…good.” You stammer.

He moans around you as he sucks it into his mouth. You let go of your right knee to push his dark hair out of his eyes before pulling his head closer to your core despite the fact that he was already as close as he could get. You bite your bottom lip as he stares up at you. The look of undying love and adoration is still there in those lust blown brown orbs. Even though you want to question it at times, it's still there. Yoongi suddenly pulls away with a surprised and slightly dazed look on his face. You follow his line of sight as he looks down at himself. His sweatpants do nothing to hide the hardness that is there.

“Fuck, yeah,” he says with a pump of his fist.

You would have laughed at him, but you are just as excited as he is. Yoongi doesn't even bother to undress, so you stay exactly how you are as well. Instead, he opts to just pull his pants down to his knees and hike up his white t-shirt before positioning himself back on the couch between your spread legs. Taking himself in his hand he slaps his cock against your pussy that's still coated in his saliva a couple of times before he dips the head of his cock into you shallowly before pulling back out.

“Fuck, I have I neglected you that much?” he hisses at the tightness that he pulled away from. You don't bother answering because you both know the answer.

He licks his fingers before letting them gently enter you. Twisting and opening you up as he prepares you for his intrusion that you haven't had in so long. However, you needed him, and you didn't want to wait any longer. You reach for his hardness and gently pull him back to you. You push at his wrist and line him up as he removes his fingers. You stare up at him in anticipation, desperation in your eyes, chest moving up and down rapidly. He raises an eyebrow at you, and you nod your head at his silent question.

“It's okay,” you whisper and run your hand up and down the front of his body.

“Are you sure?” He asks breathlessly.

You bite your lower lip and nod your head. Yoongi groans, taking himself back in his hand, and pushes back into you slowly. Even in his neediest moments, he is gentle with you. You hear him take a deep breath and exhale slowly when he bottoms out in you. His eyes are closed tight, and his body feels quite tense. You experimentally roll your hips against his, and he gasps out. You think you might enjoy seeing him like this. Like he will come undone any single moment.

“Don't move yet,” he whispers brokenly. “I need a moment. I can't ever wait this long again.”

“Yoongi, it's okay,” you say again. Pulling him down, your lips meet his. Your tongue sneaks its way between his lips, making the kiss deeper, needier. You smile at him as you pull away. “Fuck me.” you whisper.

With a sharp inhale, Yoongi finally starts moving his hips against your own. His thrusts were hard and fast, unforgiving, acting on the wants and needs of his body. You grab a hold of his biceps and hold on firmly, trying to anchor yourself to him. The thrusting of his hips makes you slide a little further up the leather couch with each contact his body makes with you, making him have to pull you back down to meet him repeatedly. It was almost too distracting for you. You tap his arms, and he is immediately off you with a look of worry etched in his features.

“Are you okay?” he asks worriedly, thinking he hurt you. Without a word, you turn over to your knees and look back at him over your shoulder. “Fuck.” he whispers and gently pumps himself in his hand as he stares at you waiting for him. You teasingly sway your backside at him and he bites his lip, still watching you. “Fuck,” he whispers again.

“Yoongi,” you whimper.

“Yeah, shit,” he said, finally snapping out of his trance.

Moving your fallen skirt back up, Yoongi whips his shirt off and over his head to get it out of the way. His hands return to you as he places one hand on your hip to hold you steady and inserts himself back into you with the other. Moaning at the angle, you push your hips back against him until your bottom meets his pelvis. You press your own face and chest further into the cushions, making your back arch more, bringing him deeper into your burning core. Yoongi gasps. He grabs the front of your hips and pulls your ass up to meet his every thrust as he begins to move within you again. The tip of his cock kissing your sweet spot with every push of his hips.

“Yoongi,” you cry out in a broken sob as your body jostles around from his handling of you.

“That's it,” he rasps as the sound his hips smack against your ass fills his studio. Tingles start to spread over your body as your muscles start to tense. You feel your body suddenly drop, and Yoongi moves to hover over you further. His breath hits your cheek as his face drops down to yours. “I love you. So, fucking much.”

Reaching behind you with both hands, you grab a hold of the back of his bare thighs. Your nails dig into his pale flesh as you desperately try to hold onto him. Yoongi's lips press against your cheek as his hand dips under your skirt. HIs fingers press on your clit, drawing quick circles along it.

“YOONGI!” You cry out and cover your mouth with your hand. You are scared to be too loud even though you know his studio is soundproof.

“Let me hear you,” he grunts against the side of your face.

Your walls start to contract around as you begin to brokenly sob out his name, causing his own hips to stutter in response. You hear him groan out a couple of “oh fucks” in your ear as he stills as he emptied himself into you. His breathing is hard, warm breath puffing against your cheek as he tries to catch his breath. He turns his head and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek. Slowly, he pulls out of you after a moment and sits back laying his head against the back of the couch trying to calm down his fast beating heart. You close your legs tightly as you turn onto your back and try to catch his attention.

“Umm,” you say, your face starting to turn red. “It's leaking.”

Yoongi looks at you, then between your legs, and starts to laugh at you. Standing up, he pulls up his pants and grabs some tissues by his desk. Cleaning you up, he hands you your underwear and tights before he puts his own shirt back on. You shyly get dressed in front of him as he sits back and watches you with a half lidded expression of pure satisfaction. Straightening your skirt and smoothing it down, he holds his hand out to you once again. You grab a hold of it, and he gently pulls you onto his lap.

“I miss you so much, baby. I'm trying my hardest to finish this damn album so I can help you,” he says, and you nod and rest your head against his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whisper and hold onto him just a little tighter. You don't ever want to let go.

“Well if that wasn't the longest lunch break in history,” Seungkwan says, giving you a side-eye as soon as you open the door. He knew damn well what you were up to.“

"Very funny,” you say, walking into your office and sitting at your desk across the room.

“Your phone has been going off nonstop,” he tells you.

You groan and throw your head back in exasperation. Picking your phone up, you see that your mom has, in fact, been nonstop calling you and has sent one text. Calling her back, you hold your breath. You have to be prepared for what could end up being a fight.

“Y/N, where have you been? I've been calling you all afternoon,” your mother's voice came from the other end of the phone. “I called the venue with the mountains and gardens. I told them we were interested and I needed a date to tell her.”

“I….I’m going to be booking my own venue. It's at a small winery just out of town on August 1st, a black and white color theme, with no flowers,” you tell her in one breath. You did it. You told her, and there was no going back after this.

“WHAT?” She exclaimed so loudly that you had to pull the phone away from your ear.

“I have to work goodbye,” you say quickly before she can continue and turn your phone immediately off.

“No, flowers?” Seungkwan questioned you with a bewildered look. “You don't want flowers?”

“No, they are way too expensive, and I feel bad for spending that much,” you explain.

“My sister is a florist. Let me talk to her, and I will give her your number,” he said. “I'm sure that she will give you a discount.”

“You don't have to,” you say, shaking your head slightly. “I really don't care if I have flowers or not.”

“I want to, even if it's just your bouquet. That's what friends are for,” he says, giving you a soft smile before turning back to his computer and continuing his work.

You rest your head back against your seat, and your eyes look at the picture of you and Yoongi sitting on your desk by your computer monitor. It was a selfie that you took from the balcony of that beautiful Paris hotel room. You could see the Eiffel Tower lit up in the background as he held you in his arms while you stretched your arm out to take the picture. There’s a small pit in your stomach as you look at it, and you can't figure out what it is as you look at your smiling faces. You just hope that it goes away soon.

A/N: Well, I've finally started chapter 7 of Vows. Updates will still come about every two weeks or so. Also, I wasn't sure about my tagged readers from SECRETS and if I was supposed to tag you in this new story. I guess I don't know the protocol.

Tagged Readers:

@svnbangtansworld, @futuristicenemychaos

[gh0st-in-green-c0nverse]

burned (part two)

Percy Jackson x reader — you wake up in the infirmary after you get stabbed .

Percy’s warm.

He’s warm, but not the good kind; the clammy, humid kind. The fabric of his shirt clings to his skin. Each breath fills his chest with hot, dry air.

Something isn’t right.

Percy looks down.

Sand spills over his battered converse. With a jolt of panic, he realizes that it’s pulling him down, grabbing at his shoes. It snakes up to his shins, swallowing the hems of his jeans. With his feet stuck, Percy falls to the ground. There’s sand in his mouth, his ears, stinging his eyes, his nose. He spits some out, pulse climbing.

He can’t breathe. He can’t die now, he needs to save you from—

A whirl of blonde hair, the glint of fangs. His heart drops when he sees the hilt in your side.

The sand pulls him under. He cranes his neck so his face is above the surface, gasping for air.

“No, please!”

He feels sick. It sounds just like you. You’re afraid; he needs to find you. He needs to save—

“Don’t!”

He’s suffocating. He’s sure it’s real. It’s you. It’s you. Where are you?

His eyes fly open, and his hand immediately flies to his face to brush off the sand. There’s nothing there (obviously) and he drops his hand, feeling a little stupid.

You make a frightened noise; small, but heartbreaking, and Percy stands. He’s been slumped at your bedside, a small drool stain on the white sheets by your knee.

You’re sleeping on your back, but your face is turned into the pillow, brows pinched with fear.

“Hey,” he says, placing a hand on the juncture of your elbow.

“No!” You shoot upwards in a panic, then immediately cry out and curl into your side.

Your eyes are squeezed shut. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Percy blurts out. He’s moved forward with you, tense with worry.

You take a breath: a short, rattled gasp, and your eyelids flutter open. Your lashes are damp with tears.

“Where am I?” You whisper after a moment, voice rough with sleep.

“Infirmary,” Percy answers, hand still on your arm. “Do you remember anything?”

You take another breath, though it sounds more like a hiccup. Your face is flushed, your eyes are glazed over. You’re worrying him.

“y/n,” he says. When you don’t answer, he leans closer, trying to find your eyes. “Hey. You need to breathe.”

“I am breathing.” Your lips tug downwards.

“Mhm. Can you try to breathe a bit better?”

“Don’t sass me.” You frown, blinking hard.

He rubs his thumb back and forth a little. Your skin is cold. “Sorry,” he murmurs. You suck in a shaky breath, and then another, and then another. It’s a few more minutes until you’re breathing normally, but you get there eventually.

“I don’t remember,” you say finally. “I— I can’t.. I don’t…” you trail off, frowning. Your breathing starts to pick up again.

“Woah. Hey, it’s alright. Give yourself some time.”

He’s moved closer to your head, so he pulls the chair back towards him with his foot and sits.

Percy hates the way he can hear the tremble in your soft breaths. He thinks of your breathing tapering out, of your chest going still and the crimson smearing the crease of your lips.

He hangs his head.

He hates that he couldn’t save you.

“Are you okay?” Your voice still has a rough quality to it, but your tone is something else. It’s less frightened. It’s softer.

“Am I okay? y/n, you were the one who was just—”

You fix him with a stare; he stares right back.

You don’t waver.

(He’s say he hates your stubbornness, but he’d be lying.)

“I’m alright,” he says hurriedly.

“Percy.”

A moment passes. Then another.

“I was afraid,” he whispers. eyes trained on the rumpled linen bedsheets. “I was so afraid because you were right there, and you were dying, and I couldn’t fathom what it’d be like losing you.”

Your lips part slightly, and you wilt like a flower petal in the summer sun.

“You’re everything,” he continues. “Really. You are.”

You look at him, eyes shining in the lamplight. You open your mouth to say something, and close it again. He thinks you might be crying.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” you say, voice catching.

Palm up, you bring your hand to his face.

“You know it’s not your fault, right?”

His lashes brush the tip of your thumb as he blinks.

“Yeah,” he says lamely, voice thin. He swallows hard. “Yeah.”

You sag with relief. “Good.”

He smiles at you, a flimsy attempt to prove he’s alright.

You smile back. You look tired.

“Go back to seep,” he says softly.

A protest dies on your lips when he grabs your hand and gently lowers it from his face; warm, but this time in a good way.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” Your eyes are already closing.

“Always,” he says.

And Percy keeps his promises.

a/n: I decided to try my hand at Percy’s perspective!! lmk which you prefer 🫶

also! If you have any prompts or ideas or anything please send in an ask! I’d love to hear from you guys.

happy new year!!

[iskra-xoxo]

“Wilted petals” A dark romance Mafia!Sukuna x fem!reader story

Prologue: Daffodils

SFW masterlist

Synopsis: Your life was normal, before a tragic accident took your mothers life. Your father left you alone with your alcoholic turned brother. That was until one day, a man invaded your home and forcefully takes you away- is that a blood stain on his coat? (1.1K words)

Warnings: mention of d34th, mention of gvns/gvn use, int°xication

— You knew that your brother was a gambler, especially at times when it would be late at night and he’d come back drunk off his ass telling you about his winnings and losing (which were usually greater)

Last night was one of those nights, he came home from a cab, thank god, and stumbled into the house before he started telling you about everything he lost. 

You thought he was speaking nonsense like usual 

“I- hic- shit, I can’t even remember what they- they asked for! Ha— I don’t even know, right? That’s so funny” he would chatter

You sighed and rolled your eyes. He had been doing this ever since your father left and mother died mysteriously. They told you her body was never found, but you were too busy in grieving to remember the incidents that happened a few years ago

You asked your older brother why your father left, but he never had an answer and drowned himself in bottles. It always pissed you off.

“They kept asking about dad! So fucking weird, since he’s deeeefinitely deeeaaaad!” He laughed, you put him onto the couch. “Be quiet, I’m gonna go get you some water” you said, going to the kitchen to get a glass. You picked up the clear cup and filled it with water from your tap. 

You could hear him vaguely about something but leave it be. You didn’t want to get on his bad side while he was intoxicated, you knew that was a bad idea

You walk back with the water, helping him sit up. His drunken body was  heavy as he lazily sat up, his eyes glossy as he looked around and groaned. You practically poured the water in his mouth in the attempt to hydrate him

He fussed of course, but eventually gave ip. He swallowed the water, shivering when the water chilled his throat. He raved about how bland it was, but you just focused on making he sure he wouldn’t hurt himself in some way. He passed out on the couch minutes later, with the quiet hum of the fan above him soothing him.

You finally go to your room, your head swimming with thoughts. You changed into your pajamas, the thin fabric clinging to your figure. 

You found comfort in your bed, lying down on the soft cushions. You didn’t have a fancy mattress, but the cozy aspect of your room relaxed with ease you weren’t sure you’d find anywhere else

The flowers that took place on the desk by your window stood tall with fruitfulness. You attended to them religiously, 

You then let sleep come and whisk you away into dreams

—

The next day you woke up to yelling in the living room. You sighed, wondering if your brother was fighting with someone in his hungover state, but who? You weren’t aware you had any guests coming over today.

You lean against your door with curiosity, pressing your ear to the hard wood. You heard snooze coming from the other side, but your drowsy mind couldn’t quite process what you were hearing, the words were a blur to your ears.

You tried focusing in, before it became louder and you understood what atleast your brother was saying

“She’s not here!” You heard him yell. The other voice sighed “I know she is. Don’t attempt fighting me on this” a quieter voice said. It was calm and cooling, before there was a thud and your brother yelling, there’s was a knock on your door. Do you open it? You sucked in a breath and opened the door, looking up to see a burly man with a few piercings and a line-tattoo over his nose

“You might wanna get ready miss. Pack a bag with your most important belongings.” He said. You shuddered at his baritone voice. “Who are you? Why? What’s-“ “you might want to just do it” “why should I?” “I have a gun” that shut you up. You heard your brother yell “Don’t do it y/n! Stop!” You shut the door to get changed and you heard him lean against it

What the fuck?

Your heart beat in your chest. What was going on? Was this your brothers gambling out of hand? You were scared. So fucking scared. You grabbed a few things and a few things only:

Some clothing

A photo of your family

Your wallet, making sure your ID was in it

Hygienic products like your brush, toothbrush, etc

and some few specific pieces of jewelry. Your mother’s jewelry. You didn’t know when you would be back, and you felt lost when you were away from the pieces for too long

You looked at your gathered things, you wiped the tears. You were scared, the man outside your room with a gun was growing impatient, you could hear his foot tapping. You threw it all in a backpack and grabbed a jacket, putting it over your outfit and walking out.

“Are you ready?” He asked, his head tilting towards you and gesturing for you to come out of your room. You stepped out of your room, your hand gripping the strap of your bag tightly. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be” he mumbled, as he guided you out

He noticed you were shaking, of course you were. You were scared, and he could tell. Regardless, he put a hand on your back to guide you out of your house.

Your brother was being held back by another man, you wouldn’t remember his name or face but you’d always remember your brothers yelling and thrashing around before he was knocked out. You yelled “B/n! B/n!” Your voice cracked into a cry, and you felt the hand on your back move to your cheek and turn your head away from him

Despite how much you tried to get to him and yell his name, the black haired man kept you from looking. “He will be okay, just keep walking” the man would say, as if you were going to listen. You held back your sobs. You were so fucking scared, where was this man taking you? You saw the outline of the gun in his pocket

“I’m not going to use it on you. It was just to make you comply” he admitted, seeing your reaction to the gun in his pocket. You looked away, not fully believing him. “Who are you?” You quietly asked

He sighed, he didn’t plan on telling you his name but the fear in your voice made him feel bad. 

“My name is Choso” he replies

“Why are you taking me” you ask

“Because you’re a mafia boss” he says, calmly

…

“A fucking what.”

— A/N: I hope you enjoyed the prologue to this new series!! I accept requests and I encourage them so don’t be afraid to say hi and gimme ideas for drabbles!! Next part

[telleroftime]

So I have a special little something for Clem because you know what? I want a little bit of angst in my life and what better way to get that than by torturing my friends --

Sevika x Reader where despite the darkness of Zaun - despite the crime and death and agony of its people that struggle like rats at the foot of the Piltovans - you are always so happy. You're always so uncharacteristically warm when pit against the shadows of the undercity. So innocent... A sunflower that refuses to wilt on soil that is not made for it to grow in.

Sevika x Reader where Sevika wants nothing to do with you. Work comes first and she is loyal to Silco and to his cause. One could say to a fault. He comes first. Work had always come first and yet you still insistently try to change that. You smile and you wave at her. You offer kindness to the big, scary Sevika. You don't care that she is Silco's right-hand man. No, to you she is exclusively herself.

Sevika x Reader where you become her light and her purpose. You are that one step better than well-aged whiskey. You give her hope for a better future. You let her love and feel loved, something that she had long forgotten was possible within the limits of Zaun.

Sevika x Reader where Sevika does everything in her power to keep you safe and happy. She keeps you close and disposes of anyone and anything that dares threaten you. Any weapons aimed at you has the owner's hand cut off. Any drug - any shimmer so much as flashed in your direction is crushed and the person choked without a flicker of hesitation.

Sevika x Reader where Sevika loves you dearly.

Sevika x Reader where sometime between the mess that Jinx had caused, the murky waters between the Chem-Barons, and Silcos's death - someone vile finds out about you. Someone gets their grubby hands on you and Sevika is not around to stop it. You are taken; kidnapped to be used as blackmail. It's not the first time, no, but it is the first time there had been a true opening.

Sevika x Reader where Sevika takes the time to try and sort out the mess that has become of Zaun- to try and find Silco like her work-focussed mind demands. Where Silco's men are so focussed on finding him that anything else is deemed insignificant and the slip of paper directed at Sevika is discarded to the side until just a few days later. Only a few measly days.

Sevika x Reader where she comes for you too late; she hears of you too late. She reads the note too late.

Sevika x Reader where she hunts through the streets of the undercity like a branded bull, searching for you and the location on the slip of paper. She finds you, eventually, so low bellow the burrowed city - so close to the edge of the Sump - so dangerously close to the toxic gas and the discarded people below.

Sevika x Reader where for the first time, she chokes on the air around her. When she sees the purple in your eyes - that poison that she so desperately kept away from you - all she can do is choke.

Sevika x Reader where she tries to reach out for you, her mechanical hand clicking in the silence of the caverns but even that falters - chokes and stalls- when she hears you murmur for "more". More shimmer, more more more.

Sevika x Reader where everything in Sevika's world freezes right then and there when you shuffle and stumble towards her, your pleading hands grasping at the fabric of her shirt with such delirious mumbles. You don't recognise her anymore. You don't know the love of your life.

Sevika x Reader where for the first time her hand shakes when she pulls out her pistol, her hand gently brushing against the skin of your face as you look at her so distantly.

Sevika x Reader where Sevika loses two people that day.

No happy ending for big cyborg mommy :)) her boss is dead, her lover is dead, teehee--

[eliasorchard]

i once held the sun — louis j. moriarty x f!reader

: afraid of losing you too, louis decides to push you away first. but things change once his brothers return. he finds himself doing everything in his power to try with you once more. what he doesn't know, is that, after his absence of three years—another presence, a little one had been budding besides you.

: okay i did not expect to stretch this out for so long 😭 i'm sorry for the wait, but here's your fic @crouchingapple :) when i first started this i didn't write it with the intention of writing this long, but i hope you'll like it 🗣️

: 4k+ words. damn....

: louis james moriarty x f!reader, angst, divorce, louis tries to win you back, mentions of death and terrorism, ambiguous ending. i think that's it?

if anybody asked what louis's deepest fear was, you'd—or anyone else really, joke about how it could range from 'finding suspicious marks in the laundry' or 'wilted greens in his cooking'.

but if you delved deeper past the high walls he puts up, looked at the core of the hollow space he could call his heart, it would spell one thing only 'abandonment'. for as long as he knows, he's been bestowed the gift of life, promoted by his brothers' protection. yet, has anybody, in all of the years of his life really asked him if he wanted this? a chance at life and once again?

"good mornin'...." your slurry voice pulled him back from his thoughts, well—most of them. some still lingered in the back of his head. on most mornings, louis simply spends a long time in bed getting ready to exist for the day. his existence is heavy.

the surgery that saved his life, then the protection of his brothers that lasted up until his older brother fell from the bridge and his eldest brother was prosecuted for the crimes that they all committed, that they all were a part of. why is he the only one left behind? why is he the only one that survives?

and yes, perhaps he should be grateful—but what use is a gift he does not want? what use is a life where his family isn't together?

"good morning, (name)." he pulled your body closer to him, embracing the warmth that your body provided. you were so soft early in the mornings, and felt nothing short of heavenly to touch and simply be with. "did you have a good sleep?"

"i did," you smiled at him—lazy and sleepy all at once. it was an endearing sight. louis vowed to protect you in his mind. no matter what it would cost him. after all, you were the only alive presence in the walls of this house. "did you?"

louis nodded. "more or less." and then the telephone rang.

he, quickly alerted, propped himself up on his elbows, picking the telephone that was on the nightstand beside him. both you and him knew who would call so early in the morning.

"yes.... yes, of course... alright then, i will be right there." he would answer back between every few pauses, the caller speaking between them. eventually, he put the telephone down and looked at you, shooting you an apologetic glance.

he'd planned to take the day off and spend the entire day with you, and with that in mind, you'd taken your day off at your job too. but duty calls. perhaps at the worst of times.

"it's okay, louis." you said to him, sending him an encouraging smile. with a hand gesture, you dismissed him. "i'll be fine. at least i'll have the day to spoil myself. you go on."

with furrowed eyebrows, he got off the bed, changing into his outdoor clothes. he pressed a kiss to your forehead. "i'm sorry." he mumbled anyway. "i'll see you later this evening. i love you."

"of course." you answered back, although your voice was slightly tighter. monotonous. rehearsed. you both knew he was lying when he would say he would come home soon or anywhere around the evening/afternoon during job days. "i love you, too."

the door clicked shut.

"absolutely not." louis exclaimed, but you would not listen to him. he was feeling frustrated. infact, why should you? nobody gets to dictate what things you do or how you do them.

"are you even listening to yourself?" you shot back. you gestured towards his body, which was a bandaged, bloody mess. crime rates had risen after the fall of the lord of crime, and crime syndicates and organized crime would often fall into wars—with the M16 trying to eradicate the groups and ease the fear that had been simmering in the minds of the people of britain.

and this was the outcome of it—a terrorist attack.

"you can't go out there again," you were firm. it was one of the things that made louis fall in love with you. "not in this state."

"i have a job to do out there, (name). lives are at stake. it's dangerous out there. people are dying." louis huffed.

"i understand, i do, but you're not in the state to lead M16 right now. i have experience with this, i've done this with you and the others before. i can do this, louis. please. trust me, won't you?"

"it's not about trust, god— it's—" louis snapped his mouth shut. you shot him an inquisitive look, raising an eyebrow, waiting for him to say something. but he didn't. how could he say anything to you at all? you were right. you were capable in every sense, you were smart, had a good relationship with everyone else.. it's almost like you were perfect for the job. he was just afraid.

afraid of something happening to you. to you, of all people. terrified, absolutely terrified you would leave him as well.

"well..?"

louis sighed, resigned and tired. he'd been out there for 24 hours. the wounds and the fatigue was getting to him. "alright..."

"i'm glad!" you squealed, hugging him (perhaps too tightly) and forcing a pained groan to leave his chapped lips.

the fluorescent lights of the emergency shelter burned into your eyes as you sit on the edge of the bed. it's too bright here—too clean. too still. you can still hear the dull hum of the explosion.

that constant ringing in your ears, as if the sound had been carved into your skull. you can't shake it. it won't leave you. it's all you can hear. the doctor is speaking to you, but her lips are moving like she's underwater. the words don’t reach you, just echoes in the distance, hollow and thin. incomprehensible.

"can you hear me? hello? blink if you can hear me."

you look down at your hands, fingers trembling. the blood on your shirt isn’t yours—at least you don’t think it is. everything around you feels strange. the fabric feels sticky and damp, clinging to your skin. you're shaking violently. you can't feel it.

everything that was said was a low hum. the doctor spoke to her nurses in a quiet yet determined manner. "patient’s non-responsive. let’s check for any signs of head trauma or further shock. we may need a sedative or anything to stabilize."

the doctor waved a hand in front of your face. "can you try to hold my hand? anything at all to tell us you're aware?"

she’s checking your vitals, but you're not here. you're back there. in the smoke. in the chaos. among the dead bodies.

"(name)?!" your name was being shouted at the top of somebody's lungs. familiar, you think. there's panic in the voice. great horror and fear. desperation. hope. "(name)— where are you? (name)! please, please tell me where you are!"

you want to call out but your tongue feels heavy.

the new voice finally cuts through the static. you blinked and saw the doctor, her face blurry at the edges. her words slowly filtered in, but you didn't understand them. you see, but you don't register. the doctor turns to face a new face. it's louis. they exchanged a few words, he turns towards you and—

"thank god— thank god you're safe," louis was clutching tightly onto you, as if you would be gone forever if he let go. his face was buried into your neck, shuddering breaths leaving him. tears from his eyes pool down the length of your neck. "(name), i was so worried, i— i thought i would lose you.."

and suddenly it clicks. you're pulled back from the depths of your mind. and the memories come flashing in bursts; screams. crying. wails of injured stray animals. smoke. the rush of people, the press of piles upon piles of bodies trying to get away, the chaos swallowing them whole. you think you saw several people go down, but everything after that is a blur. there was no time to react, no time to process. just running. just trying to survive.

a tear trickles down your cheek. your throat feels tight. then more tears: an incessant waterfall that refuses to stop. the moment his hands touch you, something inside you snaps. the numbness, the disconnection, all of it shatters, and you feel everything all at once. overwhelmingly so. your body collapses into him, shaking uncontrollably. you don’t even realize your fingernails are digging into him, but you can’t let go. you can’t.

"louis— louis i was so scared, i— there were so many bodies. so much blood. so much gore," everything rushes past you like a broken dam. "i should've known! i should've done something! i should've been able to save all those people— i failed! i failed!"

"nonono— please, pretty, it wasn't your fault. none of it was. it never will be." louis says hurriedly, brows furrowed in worry. his breath hitches as he holds you, his own panic simmering beneath the surface — but he tries to stay steady for you. "oh, (name)..." he whispers, voice breaking. "shhh.. you're okay, you’re okay now, (name)… you're safe here. i'm here with you, shh..."

you should feel relief, right? you made it out. you're alive. louis is right here, holding you. but instead there’s this emptiness, this strange void where the emotions should've been. maybe this is what shock feels like. maybe this is just how it is now. you wonder if you'll ever hear anything besides this ringing again.

survivor's guilt is an all consuming thing.

you could have never in a hundred years prepared yourself for the news he dropped on you friday night. you knew he had been acting strange for some time now: tense, heavy and conflicted. but you certainly never would've expected this, of all. he was terrified. terrified of something happening to you, especially after what happened only a few weeks ago.

"mr. louis wishes to file a divorce with you," the lawyer placed the divorce papers on the table in front of you.

"what?" your tome of voice was sharp. unbelieving. the very notion of divorce seemed absurd to you. "divorce? please, i don't like jokes like these— where's louis? i want to meet louis."

"my client does not wish to talk to you, mrs. (name)." his lawyer looked at you, unfeeling and cold, as if you were some sort of unworthy pest. "all we require from you is your signature," he tapped at the lower end of the page. "....right here."

you could feel tears pooling at the corners of your eyes. how could he? rage and anguish were a heavy combination and you, standing, had to grasp onto a chair to ground yourself. he didn't even bother coming here himself? was he ever such a coward?

after a rather lengthy talk with louis's lawyer, you finally relented and picked up the pen he'd passed to you. your tears had dried long ago. now all that remained was numbness. "fine." you said flatly, voice hoarse, and imprinted your signature on the paper.

"should we get more apples?"

"damnit, we've been walking around and buying things all day. this wasn't why i accompanied the two of you, ya know."

fred and louis exchanged glances amongst each other, then shrugged, nodding amongst themselves. louis had sworn to himself that he wouldn't return to this part of the city again, but the venue was already set and he didn't want to inconvenience his reunited brothers. "you're right... perhaps we have been buying a little too much."

"thank god for common sense," moran exclaims, sarcastic yet grateful.

"it's just... my brothers have come home after years. i thought we could have dinner together. like the old days." louis muttered.

moran slung an arm around louis's shoulder, to which the blond flinched, visibly annoyed—but held his tongue. fred smiled. the three chatted amongst themselves until moran pointed something out. "hey, wait.. hold on. ain't that your ex-wife?"

but perhaps he shouldn't have, because he watched the subtle, barely noticeable smile on louis's face drop, eyes widening.

there you were, after three years—strolling around the afternoon market as well. you looked more tired than before. aged. but yet there was still a smile present on your face. softer, but heavy.

"please put these in the bag as well.." "of course, miss."

what hit louis harder in the guts was when a little girl, not older than three years came rushing up to you and wrapped his little fingers around your index. "can we go home please?"

"alright, my dear," you ruffle the girl's hair a bit and smile down at her. "i'm almost done here, okay? and we'll go home."

the world shifted for louis. his pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the bustling sounds of the market. his heart was beating unusually fast. this child, there was something about her that took louis's breath away from a suspicion.

"louis?" moran’s voice broke through the haze, but louis didn’t respond. his gaze stayed fixed on you, on the child. your back was turned as you carefully handed the grocer another item, a calm smile still gracing your face, but your shoulders were tense—always ready, as if you were carrying something heavier than the bag you clutched. and louis couldn’t look away.

"fred—do you see this?" moran murmured, his voice hushed.

"she has a kid." fred frowned, stealing a glance at louis before muttering, "we should go. louis—" but louis stepped forward, barely hearing them. his legs moved on instinct, his heart in his throat. he'd practiced this speech several times, the apologies he'd say to you, the amends he'd make.. but now that you're all of a sudden infront of louis, louis's words fail himself too easily.

"(name)..?"

your name came out hoarse, like a breath dragged from his chest. you froze. slowly, you turned, the smile slipping from your lips as your gaze locked with his.

your eyes widened, then narrowed slightly, guarded. "louis." the girl tugged at your hand, looking up at you with innocent curiosity. "mom? who’s that?"

mom.

the word sliced a blade of guilt through his ribs.

"just... an old friend, darling." your voice was steady, but louis didn’t miss the slight tremor underneath. you smoothed the girl’s hair gently before straightening, pulling her just a little closer.

"is she—?" louis started, but his voice cracked, and he couldn’t finish. the question hung between you, heavy and unspoken.

"don't." you whispered sharply, the softness in your expression replaced with something colder. protective.

louis swallowed hard. "why didn’t you tell me?" you stared at him, and for a moment, he thought you might break—that you’d shout, cry, something. but instead, you took a steady breath.

"i didn’t know," you said quietly, your voice laced with exhaustion. "not until after." the weight of your words hit him like a freight train. he stumbled back a step, his hands trembling at his sides. three years. three years of absence. three years of her growing up without him. without knowing who he was.

"i—" he tried, but you shook your head.

"it doesn’t change anything, louis."

"but it does," he croaked. his gaze fell to the little girl now peeking curiously from behind your leg. his daughter. his daughter. his chest constricted painfully. "what’s her name?"

you hesitated, as though you didn’t want to give him that much, but you sighed softly. "amelia."

amelia. it sounded so sweet and delicate, and the ache in his chest deepened. she glanced up at him again, her big, inquisitive eyes so achingly familiar—his eyes. louis blinked, his throat tightening. "(name,) listen, i..." he said softly, desperately.

"please." you tensed again, fingers curling protectively around amelia’s small hand. "louis..." there was a warning in your tone, but it faltered as you looked at him—really looked at him. and for a fleeting moment, he saw the pain you’d carried, the years that hadn’t been kind to you.

"please, hear me out. i.. i want to know her. and you, again. she’s not just anyone, she's my daughter." he whispered, taking another tentative step closer. "and you—" he took in a sharp breath. "you're the love of my life."

"you mean to say i was." you hissed. "and where were you, louis? how can you be so shameful?" your voice cracked this time, tears threatening to spill as your gaze hardened. "where were you when i needed you most? when i thought i was alone? you left me. you didn't even bother telling me yourself!"

louis couldn’t answer. he could only stare at you with pained eyes, shattered by the truth of it. he knew you were right. he hadn’t been there. he had walked away. like a fool. like a coward. and now, he had to face the cost. you pulled amelia closer and glanced over your shoulder. "we should go."

"wait... please—" he choked out.

"goodbye, louis."

louis didn’t see you again for weeks after that day at the market, but it was as though his entire world had shifted. every second, every thought, every sleepless night brought him back to you and to amelia. he could still see her curious eyes looking up at him, so achingly familiar, and it only made the guilt weigh heavier. he had to see you again. had to try.

it started small. a knock at your door one rainy evening startled you, and when you opened it, there was nothing but a basket of your favourite fruits resting on your doorstep with a note tucked inside. "thought you might need these. - L."

you stared at the familiar scrawl for far too long before shutting the door with a sigh, leaving the basket there.

a week later, he showed up at the market where you often shopped, hands shoved nervously into his pockets as he watched you from afar. you noticed him immediately—how could you not?—but you ignored him, pretending not to care as you handed amelia a light bag to carry.

"mom? that man’s looking at you," she whispered loudly. you shot louis a glare over your shoulder, and he had the decency to look sheepish.

"he’s no one, darling," you muttered under your breath, though your chest tightened painfully when amelia turned to give louis a small wave. "but you said he was your friend." "not anymore."

and so it continued. louis didn’t push, didn’t demand answers or try to force his way into your life. instead, he lingered on the edges, trying to prove himself in the only ways he knew how. he offered to help when he saw you struggling to carry groceries. he left small bouquets of your favorite flowers at your door—nothing extravagant, just thoughtful. he even fixed the broken hinge on your garden gate one morning while you were out, leaving behind no trace but a silent repair.

you wanted to be angry. you tried to be angry. but as the days turned to weeks, that sharp edge you’d held onto for years began to dull. louis didn’t ask for forgiveness. he didn’t demand anything from you. he just showed up, day after day, carrying the weight of his mistakes quietly, trying to make amends.

then one evening, you found him sitting on the stone steps outside your door, soaked to the bone from the sudden downpour. you let out a deep sigh. "what are you doing here, louis?" your voice was tired, but not sharp this time.

he flinched, then looked up at you—hair plastered to his forehead, eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. "i needed to talk to you."

"there's nothing to talk about," you replied, crossing your arms.

"please," he breathed, standing slowly. "i know i don’t deserve this. any of this. any of you, and her. i don't even deserve to be standing in front of you here right now. but i—” he ran a hand through his wet hair, words failing him as his chest heaved. "i need you to know that i’m sorry... for everything."

you stared at him for a long while, your resolve trembling as you caught the raw desperation in his gaze. "sorry doesn’t change what happened, louis. it doesn’t change the years we lost."

"i know, i know" he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. "i know it doesn’t. but i promise— i swear i’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it right, if you’ll let me."

you swallowed hard, unable to look away as he stepped closer. you didn't know what to say, nor what to do. "and amelia?"

louis blinked, his expression softening even more at the sound of her name. "i want to know her. i want to be there for her, for both of you. i don’t want to miss anything else. i can't."

you felt your walls cracking. "it’s not that simple, louis."

"i know." he said, voice steady now but quiet at the same time. "i'm not walking away this time. you don't need to take me back, just... give me a chance to prove myself to you."

silence hung between you, heavy and uncertain. part of you still wanted to push him away, to protect yourself from the pain you"d carried for so long. but the other part—the part that had never stopped loving him, no matter how much you tried—wanted to believe him. "we’ll see," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "that’s all i can give you right now."

louis exhaled shakily, nodding as though you’d just given him the world. and perhaps you really did. he ran a hand through his wet hair. you were the sun in his life, the most bright and beautiful thing in it. and because of what he did, he lost you. and he knows. he knows what he did wrong. "that's more than enough."

your heart was thumping in your chest. you weren’t sure what the future held as louis turned to leave, but for the first time in three entire years, you let yourself feel something close to hope.

louis didn’t take your "we'll see" lightly. in fact, he treated it like a promise. a mission. from that day on, he made it his journey to prove to you—and to amelia—that he wasn’t the man he used to be. afraid and insecure. he wasn’t going to walk away again.

it started with the little things, because louis knew you well enough to understand you wouldn’t be won over with grand, material gestures. so he showed up in the ways that mattered.

one morning, you stepped out onto your porch to find a neatly packed lunch sitting on the steps with a note: "thought you might have a busy day. take care of yourself. - L." you rolled your eyes, but this time—you took it. inside was your favorite food and a thermos of your favourite drink, perfectly made—just how you used to like it. it was louis's cooking, you were sure. it'd been years since you had that, and it made you a little emotional.

another time, you came home from work to find your garden neatly weeded, the flowers you'd neglected blooming brighter than before. when you asked your neighbor if she'd seen anyone around, she only shrugged and said to you, "a blond man came by. seemed determined to get his hands dirty. i thought you knew him. should i stop him if he comes next time?"

you paused, then shook your head. "no... it's okay."

amelia noticed too. "mom, who fixed the swing in the backyard?" she asked one afternoon, gleefully testing the sturdy rope. you didn’t answer, though you had a pretty good idea.

"i'm not so sure, dear." you said as you gave her a push.

then there was the day he showed up again, not watching you from afar this time, but waiting with two bags of apples in his hands. you gave him a wary look. "you’re still at this, huh?"

"what can i say? i’m stubborn," he replied softly, a tiny smile tugging at his lips as he held out one of the bags. "for amelia. i hear she likes apple pie."

"did the neighbours tell you that?"

louis shrugged, keeping quiet.

"and you think you can win her over with apples?" you scoffed, unable to hide your own smile. you took the bag anyway.

"no," he said quietly, holding your gaze. "but i"ll try."

then he'd take you out to lunch, dinner—any meal he could take you too. any time you showed interest in any particular item, next thing you knew, he'd be whipping out his wallet.

what broke you, though, was the day amelia came home from school with stars in her eyes. "mom!" she shouted, dropping her backpack with a thud. "guess who picked me up today?"

your heart dropped. “who?”

"that man who always looks at you at the market. uh—what'd he say his name was..? oh right! louis!” she said excitedly. "he said he used to know you and that he wanted to help you out today since you were busy."

your hands froze as you held onto the dish you were scrubbing, water dripping off your fingertips. "he... what?"

"he bought me ice cream too." amelia added happily, completely unaware of the storm that's begun building inside you at that.

louis showed up at your door that evening before you could call him. "you overstepped." you snapped as soon as you opened it, crossing your arms and blocking the doorway. but he didn’t flinch. he looked earnest, as though he’d prepared for this. "i asked you not to meet her. atleast not yet. why don't you listen? why don't you give a damn about what i think?"

"you're right. and i'm sorry." he said, hands raised in surrender. "but you said you had an important meeting today. i couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. she’s my daughter too."

"she could've stayed at school with the teachers. they stay at least until five pm. i would've been done by then." your chest ached, and you turned your eyes away from him. "you don’t get to act like her father just because it’s convenient now."

"this isn’t about convenience." he shot back, his voice low, but steady. "it's about her. it's about you. i missed three years, (name). three years i can’t get back, no matter how hard i try. but i am trying. and i won’t stop."

louis's words hung heavy in the air. when you finally turned to look at him, his expression was softer, raw with emotion. "i don’t expect you to forgive me overnight." he whispered. "you don't even need to. but i want to be here... in your life. in her's. as much as you'll allow me to. but please, atleast for amelia's sake.. please try to give me a chance. even if just a little."

for a long moment, neither of you spoke. then, quietly, you asked, "why now, louis? why does this matter to you so much?"

he hesitated, searching for the right words. "because i still love you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "i always have. i was just too much of a coward back then. i.. i thought that if i continued to stay by your side, you'd get hurt. that something would happen again. i thought i had lost my brothers, (name). i couldn't lose you—not you too. never you."

you felt the tears sting your eyes, but you blinked them away. "but you did anyway. you lost me when you sent your lawyer to collect my signature on the divorce papers."

louis exhaled, furrowed eyebrows and nodding. "i did.. but i thought it would be much better than find you—" he couldn't even get the words out. so, he whispered. "dead."

"..." you paused. "love can't always fix everything."

"but maybe it's a start."

for the next few months, he took things slow, giving you space when you needed it, but always making sure you knew he was there. he learned amelia’s favorite bedtime stories and showed up to watch her school performances. he memorized your routine, leaving small, thoughtful surprises in his wake—fresh flowers on fridays, your favorite pastry waiting for you at the café. it wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t grand, but it was louis.

slowly, something began to shift. you let him walk you and amelia home from the market one evening. you let him sit with you on the porch while the little girl played. you even let him make dinner one night when you were too tired to argue. amelia beamed the whole time, delighted by the way louis taught her how to fold dumplings properly.

"he's nice, mom," she whispered later that night, curling into your side as you tucked her in. "and he makes you smile more too."

you didn’t have an answer for that.

the first time you invited louis inside on a rainy afternoon, he nearly dropped the umbrella he was holding. "are you coming or not?" you teased, raising an eyebrow.

louis was flustered, he didn't know what to say—the colour pink coated his cheeks. "i... yes— yes. okay. i am. i'm.. i'm coming in."

when you handed him a steaming mug of tea, his fingers brushed yours, and for the first time in years, it didn’t hurt to let him close. amelia came rushing in from her bedroom, excited to show a clumsy drawing she'd made of you, her and him. he took a small sip from his cup, and picked amelia onto his lap.

"we'll see." you'd said months ago. now louis let himself believe that maybe—just maybe, he was earning his second chance.

@ELIASORCHARD — do not steal, retranslate or repost.

[lunajay33]

Change

•🩰🎀🩷•

Summary: Y/n is a loner but loves ballet but her family doesn’t have enough money for her to dance at the studio, Daryl is a redneck who hates people and prefers bikes, until one day these two run into eachother and their lives change drastically, will Daryl toughen her up? Will y/n soften Daryl? Or both? How will things go when people start coming back from the dead

Pairing: Young Daryl Dixon x f!reader

A/n: This is going to be a series, it’s gonna start with how they met eachother and their lives before the apocalypse, eventually it’ll blend with twd story line!!

•Masterlist•

I’ve always wanted to dance, to strap on pretty pink ballet slippers and wear the tights and everything, ever since I was a little girl and first watch Swan Lake, watching how there was a light beautiful side but how also a dark side to a person it hooked me, but that dream was quickly crushed when my parents refused, saying they didn’t have enough money to put me in ballet because my older brothers football was more important and they couldn’t afford both at once

It’s always been like that, whatever my brother wanted he’d get within a reasonable price, but when I asked for the simplest things they would get mad and always turn me down, saying I should get a job if I ever wanted anything. So that’s exactly what I did, I got a waitressing job at the little diner in town, working after school and on weekends just hoping to be able to save enough for ballet classes, but balancing school and work everyday is exhausting and having a terrible home life ontop of that doesn’t help

My older coworker told me to make some friends and that might help things, help distract myself for a while and have a person to relay on for once but it wasn’t so simple, if you weren’t drop dead gorgeous, or had nice clothes and money in my school then the girls treated you like a ghost

So here I am sat at my usual bench under the wilting tree behind the school for lunch, sitting in the cafeteria all alone at a whole table felt pathetic, embarrasing, plus it was more comforting here, no pry judgemental eyes, plus the air out here smelt of fall, fallen crisp leaves, the towns forest right behind the school, it was comforting

I finished my lunch putting the book I was ready away in my bag and made my way back for my next class, biology and today we were getting a new seating arrangement, one I’ve been waiting for the whole month since I was sat next to one of the mean girls, I took my seat right as the bell rang

“Okay class today we are moving around, so find your spots” she said as she projected the new seating up on the board, I found my name at the second table to the back on the left, I made my way noticing I was sat with Daryl Dixon. He was quiet, usually kept to himself kind of like me, people would always talk bad about him but never dared say anything if his older brother was around, I remember the times my brother would complain about how obnoxious Merle Dixon was….as if he wasn’t the exact same

I plopped down next to him taking out my books and pencil case

“Hi”

“Hey” he said keeping his eyes on the table

That’s all we said to each other the whole period until the end of class

“Okay everyone, whoever you’re sitting with is now going to be your new lab partner, you’ll be working on this project together outside of class and it’ll be due at the end of next week, so I advise you figure out a time and place to work on this” she said as she handed out papers seeing it was a project on the cycle of frogs and their habitats

There was 10 minutes left in class for us to figure out how to get this project done, I turned in my seat looking at Daryl, up close I noticed he was actually kinda cute in a mysterious way

“Would you like to come to my house tomorrow so we can work on it?” I asked as tomorrow was Saturday

“Sure” I wrote down my address and gave it to him right when the bell rang

I was getting ready for Daryl to come over, I don’t know why I was so nervous maybe because I’ve never really had many people over and that my parents and brother were psychotic and mean and I didn’t want him to witness that. I looked in the mirror brushing out my hair that I’ve combed through a hundred times already, hoping my outfit was nice enough, a whiteish sweatshirt that had a hint of blush pink to it, paired with black leggings just wanting to be comfortable but hopefully still cute, that’s when I heard a knock at the door

“ILL GET IT!” I screamed not wanting anyone else to answer especially not my brother since he knew Daryl was Merle’s brother

I stood infront of the closed door huffing out a breath to calm my jitters, I opened it and there he stood, hands in pockets with his usual gruff demeanor

“Come in” I said stepping aside for him to come in

“Do you wanna work in my room?”

“Sure” he said as he kicked off his shoes

I lead the way to my room, it wasn’t a big house so it wasn’t like we had to go down hallways to get to my room, I closed the door when we got in as he dropped his notebook on my bed looking around my room which made me anxious, my walls had little framed photos of Swan Lake, little painting of ballet slippers, my room wasn’t much since my parents put so much into Jackson’s room but these photos were all I had to keep me happy

“Nice room” he said with a smirk

“You don’t have to lie” I said smiling as I crawled on my bed sitting up against the head board as he followed to sit at the foot of the bed

“I ain’t, it’s…..different, do ya dance?” He asked looking back to the pictures I adored

“No, I’ve always dreamed of it though”

He looked at me with a strange look I couldn’t read

“Well why don’t ya?”

“My parents won’t let me, said Jackson football is my important and will lead to something” I said shrugging my shoulders, if anyone could understand brother problems it would be him

His usual glaring eyes softened but I didn’t want the pity, I thought about my crushed dream enough I didn’t want to think about it more so I flipped open the text book to the section we needed and we got to work, it was silent for the most part and I welcomed it, until we took a break

“Merle says yer brother is always runnin his mouth, talks bad about ya” my heart thumped in my chest, Jackson could say anything about me and I’d have no way to deny it since no one really liked me and he had his whole football team full of guys who only thought with one thing

“What does he say?” I asked nervously

“Says yer a weirdo, says ya run around sleepin with every guy on his football team” my heart felt like it stopped and shrivelled up

“What……..I would never, I can’t believe he would say that, I don’t know why he hates me so much” I said as my bottom lip quivered try to control myself, not wanting to cry infront of him and make him uncomfortable

“Merle an I, we don’t believe ‘em……..plus it ain’t like everyone else in that damn school ain’t like that” he said looking back down at his note book, fidgeting with his pencil

“It would be better if I had friends that would believe me and be on my side” I said huffing a little sarcastic laugh

“I can be yer friend” he said so quietly I almost didn’t hear him

“You don’t have to pity me, I know you don’t like people” he looked back up at me with he glaring expression but for some reason it didn’t bother me

“I ain’t pitying ya, yer one of the few people that don’t annoy me at school, yer nice and keep to yer self” he said bluntly making my heart flutter

“Okay, I’d like to be friends then!” I said smiling as we both went back to work

After 2 hours of going back and forth working and talking we got the project done, I led him to the door standing there as he laced up his shoes, I opened the door as he stood back up

“So uhh, ya wanna hang out again tomorrow?” He asked gripping his backpack strap

“Sure, I have a shift at the diner in the morning but you can come by and we can eat there after I’m done, I get a discount!” I said excited

“Sounds good” he said about to leave before I stopped him

“Wait, here’s my number, it’s for my room phone so you can call anytime if you want” I said handing him a piece of paper with my number

“I’ll call ya later then, see ya” he said in his gruff voice as he left watching him disappear up the side walk

It was the next day and I was almost done my shift, I’d covered a lot of tables and was now just wiping down the counter waiting to see Daryl walk through the door, the door bell chimed and I looked up excited but instead it was Jackson and some of his football team members, they came in loud and obnoxious as usual

They came to the counter, filling three seats along the counter

“Jackson what are you doing here?” I asked putting down the rag I was using

“Oh come on sis we’re just hungry” he said sarcastically as his friends laughed with him

I sighed taking out my pad “well what do you wanted?”

“I wanna see you bent over my truck” his friend said, I was disgusted but I wasn’t good with this kind of thing

“Cute little thing like you mmmmm, what I wouldn’t do” his other friend said

I was beyond embarrased I just wish someone could help me, and as if my prayers were answered someone came in to intervene

“Leave er alone jackasses” I looked down to a seat further down the counter seeing it was Daryl, he must have just came in

“Oh ya and what’re you gonna do Dixon?”

“Just get outta here” he said sending a glare that could kill, they huffed and got up with a commotion

“Whatever, we’ll see you around bitch” they said to me before they left, I made my way to where Daryl was seated my face felt so hot

“Sorry you had to see that?” I said giving him a glass of water

“Do they do that often?”

“Ya usually when I’m working on the weekend, they think it’s funny”

“I can get Merle, set them straight” he said making me smile

“Nah it’s not your problem but thank you, I’m kinda use to it by now, even though it incredibly embarrassing” I said covering my cheeks

“Anyways, I’m done now so I’ll go clock out and be right back” I said trying to change the subject, I walked to the back taking of my waist apron and got my purse

“You done for the day sweetie?” My older coworker May asked

“Yeah, but me and my friend are going to have some lunch here”

Her eyes lit up “Friend? Did you finally manage to snatch someone up” she said twirling her pen as she smacked on her cherry gum she always had in her mouth

“Yes, he’s just easy to be around”

“HE?”

“Yes May my friend is a boy don’t get all crazy, but he’s waiting so I have to go before he thinks I left” I said blushing as I went back out and sat next to him at the counter

May took our orders and left to attend to the other few customers that were still here

“So why do ya work here?” He asked

“My parents said if I ever wanted anything I needed to get my own money, plus I’m trying to save to be able to afford ballet classes, it may be stupid but it’s my dream”

“It ain’t stupid, yer workin fer what ya want, I get that” his voice was kind but the grumble to it made me tingle

“Thanks, do you work anywhere?” I asked as May gave us our meals, my strawberry milkshake and grilled cheese, and Daryl’s coke with a burger and fries

“Sometimes I work on fixin people’s bikes ‘round town ta make some extra money, Merle said I’d make more if I did what he did but I don’t wanna fall into that crowd” I knew what Merle did, the whole town did

“Maybe one day we can get outta this town where people won’t judge us and we can have actual good jobs”

“Ya maybe”

With that we silently ate our food until we finished and May gave us our checks with my discount then we were leaving heading the door bell chime

We walked down to my house as neither of us had cars, until we stopped infront of the house awkwardly

“Lunch was nice, thanks for coming bye, you can come anytime”

“ ‘course, I’ll……I’ll see ya tomorrow then?”

“Ya I’ll see you tomorrow Daryl” I said smiling as we went separate ways, I closed the door to the house my heart thumping against my chest

I finally had a friend

Part.2

This will be a series so if you like to be added to the taglist and get notified of the next part comment below!!:)

Taglist: @deansapplepie

[fawnnpaws]

need childhood best friend!patrick to originally brush you off, not take what you have seriously and take you for granted. you’ve been friends for basically your entire lives. you spent summers at his mansion by the beach, he spent winters skiing in the alps with your family. somewhere in your young adulthood the lines started to blur. now you’re basically doing everything a girlfriend does but he won’t put a label on it. he’s on tour and you’re starting your career, so you only see him when he shows up unannounced at your door.

it would be easier if he didn’t tell you how much he missed you every time. if he didn’t eat you out like he’s starved for you and you alone. if he didn’t hold you in bed afterwards and wake you up with soft kisses all over your face. if he didn’t treat you like he loved you. a dirty word neither of you dare to ever say out loud.

because after all that, you know he’s seeing other people on tour. you know because the world is small and you’ll get texts from friends in far away places that say “i saw patrick leaving a club with some girl, are you guys not a thing anymore??” and you have no words to explain that you were technically never a thing in the first place.

you think you’re okay with it, that you can live with expecting nothing more than physical satisfaction from one another if it means patrick zweig is still in your orbit, but resentment starts to build. you start to fight more and eventually it all comes crashing down with him shouting “you’re not my fucking girlfriend! stop acting like you’re in love with me or something!” at you and watching in sort of horror as you go cold and just say, “okay.” and leave.

need him to agonize about it for weeks, waiting for you to break and talk to him first like you always do when you two fight. but it never comes. he’s left alone with a gaping hole in his chest that you used to fill. and what’s even worse? he’s left alone with nothing but himself to blame.

he can’t pin this on you. he didn’t realize how good you were to him, how much he’d miss talking with you and making you laugh, how much he relied on calling you and hearing your voice. not to mention, it feels like you’ve ruined pussy for him forever. he tries to fuck other people, but he can only get off if he’s thinking about you.

so, he caves. he has to, he’s fucking losing his mind without you. he practically bangs down your door with flowers in hand, wilted and abused from being shaken around while he ran to your apartment. you crack the door open an inch and he barges in, not letting you get a word in before he’s giving you a speech about how he fucked up and he wants— no needs to be with you. need you to take him back. he’s worked himself up to nearly hyperventilating by the end of it before you stop him and say, “patrick, i forgave you at the flowers, but it was really nice to hear you say all that.”

the thing is, you were seconds away from breaking when he showed up at your door. you’d never iced him out for that long and as much as you wished you had the strength to cut him off, you knew you never could.

you love him. and you tell him so. you let the words you’d been guarding since he kissed you for the first time when you were 18 spill from your lips. it feels different than you expected. every scenario you’d run in your head before this ended in him telling you he doesn’t feel the same way. but when you look at him now, with his rumpled flowers and tearful eyes, you know he does. and to your absolute delight, he tells you so.

[ventique18]

"Perhaps I'll come up with a suitable solution", and not "OK, I'll help you go home". Malleus really, really doesn't want you to go home. He could take a look at the mirror right this instant and get you home in time for breakfast, but he chooses not to and instead started to think of how you could see your family while still being connected to Twisted Wonderland.

Love that's only just started sprouting, brotherhood that's only started budding, even a familial bond that stayed abloom for centuries. Everything, everything around him eventually wilts, with some only a bit faster than others. Lonely even before he was born, lonely until he's the only one left waiting to die in the world. For an entity as powerful as he is, he is still so, so powerless under the curse of time.