#i still owe them an epilogue... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tobiosbbyghorl · 3 months ago

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Hoodie Thief | psh 🔞

pairing: roommate!sunghoon x reader

epilogue

You weren’t sure when it became a habit—stealing Park Sunghoon’s hoodies. Maybe it was the night you came home late from a party, heels in one hand and a headache blooming behind your eyes, and he tossed you his oversized black one without even looking up from his laptop. Or maybe it was because they always smelled faintly of cinnamon and clean laundry, like comfort itself.

Whatever the reason, you were wearing one again. This time it was gray, soft, and swallowed you whole. Sunghoon was seated on the living room floor, laptop open, knees drawn up, glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he squinted at some code on the screen.

“You know,” he said, voice casual but laced with amusement, “at this point, I’m not even sure which hoodies are mine anymore.”

You sank onto the couch beside him, tugging the sleeve over your hand. “Well, technically, they’re community property now. Roommate rules.”

“That so?” he asked, glancing up at you over the rim of his glasses. His eyes lingered on your frame, his gaze unhurried as it dropped to the hoodie you wore. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You tried not to grin, but your cheeks betrayed you. “Flattery, Park?”

“Observation,” he replied smoothly, returning to his screen.

The teasing between you two had always been like this slow, drawn-out, never quite tipping over the edge. He’d brush past you in the kitchen, hand resting on your lower back just a second too long. You’d find excuses to fix his crooked tie when he got ready for class presentations, fingers grazing his collarbone just because. The tension was a thread stretched taut but never snapped.

You leaned in slightly, your knee pressing lightly against his. “You know what would really seal the roommate bond?”

He raised a brow, not looking up. “What’s that?”

“You letting me keep this one,” you said, tugging at the hoodie like it was a prize.

Sunghoon’s lips curved into a smirk, subtle and dangerous. He closed his laptop slowly, setting it aside.

“That depends,” he said, voice low, “on what I get in return.”

Your breath caught, but your smile didn’t falter. “Oh? You charging a fee now?”

He shifted just a little closer, the space between your knees gone. “Just thinking… maybe you owe me dinner. Or..” his eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up “a study session. You, me, one of my hoodies, and absolutely no distractions.”

You huffed a laugh. “Sounds like a trap.”

“Maybe.” He leaned in a fraction. “But I think you’d look good in all of them. Might as well make it official.”

Your fingers played with the drawstring of the hoodie, heartbeat ticking just a little faster.

“We’re still talking about clothes, right?”

He gave you a look. “Sure.”

But neither of you moved. The line was still there drawn faintly in the space between your breaths, in the ghost of his smile. And maybe it would stay there a while longer.

Maybe not.

You had one rule living with Sunghoon: do not thirst after your roommate.

It was a rule you followed diligently. Mostly. Despite the flirty banter and hoodie theft, you’d never crossed that line—because he never gave you the chance to. He was always in those oversized hoodies and loose sweats, glasses low on his nose, hair constantly ruffled like he just rolled out of bed (which, annoyingly, made him even hotter). His appeal was subtle—nerdy, quiet, maddeningly soft.

So nothing could’ve prepared you for what you walked in on that Wednesday afternoon.

You pushed open the apartment door mid-call, rambling into your phone, “I swear if he left his ramen bowls in the sink again, I’m gonna—”

And then you stopped.

Dead in your tracks.

Sunghoon was in the living room. Not in a hoodie. Not in any sort of baggy fabric, actually. Instead, he was standing in front of the open window, sipping water from a bottle, wearing a black tank top that hugged his toned chest and grey sweatpants that did dangerous things to your attention span.

He looked over when he heard you, and the way his biceps flexed slightly as he twisted the cap back on the bottle had you gripping your phone like a lifeline.

“Oh. Hey,” he said casually, like he wasn’t currently breaking the internet. “You’re home early.”

You blinked. Your phone beeped. You’d accidentally hung up.

“I—yeah.” You were proud you even managed words. “I… am.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow as he walked over, towel slung around his neck. He was glistening slightly—post-workout, apparently—and his hair was a little damp.

“I was just finishing a quick workout. Didn’t think you’d be back for another hour,” he said, stepping past you to grab something from the kitchen. “You okay?”

“Yep,” you squeaked, eyes very much not okay as they followed the flex of his back muscles beneath the thin tank top.

He looked like a completely different person. Still nerdy. Still Sunghoon. Just… cursed with forearms now.

You finally tore your gaze away and flopped onto the couch like your soul had left your body. “I’m fine. Totally normal. Regular day. You just—uh—changed your outfit game without warning.”

He smirked as he opened the fridge. “What, the hoodie empire falling apart for you?”

“I just wasn’t expecting…” You gestured vaguely in his direction, cheeks heating. “That.”

Sunghoon leaned against the counter and quirked a brow. “You mean the tank top? Didn’t know it would have such an effect.”

You glared. “It doesn’t.”

He crossed the room slowly, stopping right in front of you. “Your face is red.”

“I’m warm.”

He bent down slightly, his face hovering closer to yours. “You want me to go change back into a hoodie?”

You swallowed. Your hands were very much not behaving, already fisting the hem of his tank like they had a mind of their own. You weren’t even sure when you’d stood up. His scent—clean sweat, citrus, and something entirely him—was clouding your judgment.

“Don’t,” you said quietly, fingers still clutching his shirt.

He looked down at where you were touching him, then back up at you, his voice lower. “You sure?”

That line—the one you two danced around for months—was right there. So close. So fragile.

You looked up at him, heart racing. “No. But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to cross it.”

His eyes flickered to your lips, then your hand. And when he leaned in just slightly, the heat between you burned bright and slow, like something inevitable finally unraveling.

Since the tank top incident, something changed.

No, scratch that—Sunghoon changed.

The very next day, he emerged from his room wearing another fitted black tee. Not a hoodie. Not even a crewneck. It clung to his chest just enough to make you pause mid-bite of your cereal, spoon hovering in the air like gravity forgot to exist.

You thought it might be a one-time thing, but the days kept coming—and so did the outfits. Sunghoon in slim joggers, Sunghoon in soft, clingy tees that rolled up just slightly at the arms, Sunghoon walking around the kitchen post-shower with a towel slung around his shoulders and that same tank top clinging to his skin like it had no shame.

He was weaponizing himself. There was no other explanation.

And worse? He knew.

“Laundry day?” you asked innocently one morning, nodding toward the fitted navy tee he wore as he poured coffee into two mugs.

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, setting a mug in front of you. “Nope. Just thought I’d mix it up. You don’t mind, do you?”

You took the mug and muttered, “Not even a little bit.”

He chuckled, brushing past you to grab something from the fridge, his hand grazing your waist in that way he did sometimes—just long enough to leave sparks behind.

It kept happening. His touches were still subtle—always plausible, never overt—but now they lingered. His hand on your back as you reached for a mug. Fingers brushing yours when you both reached for the remote. His knee pressed against yours on the couch and never moving away.

And you? You were slowly unraveling.

That Sunday night, it nearly broke you.

You came out of your room, sleepy and disoriented, in search of water. The apartment was dim, quiet, save for the soft hum of music from the living room.

And there he was.

Sunghoon, sitting on the floor in front of the couch, wearing a white tank top and black sweatpants, hair slightly damp, fingers tapping lazily on his laptop.

You paused in the doorway like some unprepared victim in a slow-burn romcom.

He looked up and saw you. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Mmhm,” you managed, forcing your legs to move. You grabbed a glass of water, hoping the cold would slap some sense back into you.

“C’mere,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “Why?”

He patted the floor beside him. “Just sit. You look like you’re one hoodie away from losing it.”

You hesitated, then walked over and lowered yourself beside him. Close enough that your thighs touched. Of course.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” you muttered.

He didn’t look away from his screen. “Doing what?”

“This.” You gestured at him with a wave of your hand. “The… arms. The fitted shirts. The lack of hoodies. I’m barely hanging on here, and you’re out here being a thirst trap with glasses.”

Sunghoon let out a soft laugh—quiet, amused. He finally looked at you, and his eyes were dangerous in the low light.

“You’re the one who kept stealing my hoodies,” he murmured, voice low and full of teasing. “I figured I’d give you something else to lose your mind over.”

You stared at him. “So you admit it.”

“Oh, I knew exactly what I was doing.”

Your heart was in your throat now, pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. “And now?”

He tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking to your lips. “Still doing it.”

You should’ve kissed him. Should’ve dragged him down onto the floor and ruined the tension once and for all. But instead, you just exhaled, shaky, and leaned your head against his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Just let you rest there, warm and solid.

And the line between you both?

Still unbroken. But trembling.

You decided it was time for revenge.

If Park Sunghoon was going to spend his days parading around in tank tops and fitted clothes like he didn’t know what he was doing to your sanity, then fine. Two could play this game.

So that’s how you found yourself in the living room on Saturday morning, casually stretching on the yoga mat in the center of the room—wearing nothing but one of his hoodies (slightly cropped from how you’d tucked it up) and tight Calvin Klein bike shorts that hugged you like a second skin.

You didn’t acknowledge his presence at first. Just stretched with exaggerated slowness, arms over your head as the hoodie rose—high enough to show off the sliver of your waist and the underside of your chest with every movement.

You knew he was watching. He was always up by now, usually making his precious pour-over coffee in the kitchen. And sure enough, you heard it—the shift of the kettle, the sudden clatter of a spoon, and then silence.

You smirked to yourself as you leaned forward in a deep stretch, back arching just slightly, your position giving him a full view of your curves.

“Didn’t know you were up,” you said sweetly, still not turning around.

“I—I wasn’t,” came his voice from behind you. Rough. Caught off guard. Like he’d swallowed air wrong. “I mean—I just woke up.”

You slowly straightened, finally glancing over your shoulder.

“Oh?” you blinked innocently, lips curling. “Hope I didn’t distract you.”

Sunghoon was standing by the counter, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, his gaze locked on you like you were an equation he couldn’t solve.

His hoodie on you was driving him insane—you could see it in the way his jaw ticked, in the way his eyes trailed down to your exposed waist and back up with a slow drag.

“New shorts?” he asked, voice notably lower.

You stretched your arms above your head again, feigning a yawn. “Mmhm. Comfortable, right?”

“They look…” He cleared his throat. “Tight.”

You smiled. “Flattering, you mean?”

He stepped closer, slowly, like his body was moving without permission.

“You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?” he murmured.

You turned fully to face him now, still sitting on your knees, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. “I’m just stretching, Sunghoon.”

He stared at you, and something flickered in his eyes—like he was this close to crossing that line you’d both danced around for months.

Then he leaned down, just slightly, meeting your gaze head-on.

“If I lose my mind,” he whispered, “just know it’s your fault.”

You tilted your head, heart thundering in your chest. “Who says you haven’t already?”

The tension was electric, heavy in the space between your lips.

But then, like always, it hovered. Close enough to taste—but not enough to break.

Not yet

Sunghoon exhaled, straightened, and turned back to his coffee like nothing happened.

And you?

You grinned, wicked and satisfied.

Game on.

It was late. Past midnight. The kind of quiet that only happened when the city slept and the apartment dimmed into that safe cocoon of shadows and soft hums.

You hadn’t meant to test fate tonight. You were just thirsty, literally. Woke up parched and wandered into the kitchen half-asleep, wearing one of Sunghoon’s zip-up hoodies. No shorts. No bra. Just that oversized hoodie zipped halfway, loose and dangerously low from tossing and turning in bed.

You were barefoot. Hair messy. Eyes squinting at the fridge light as you grabbed a bottle of water and twisted the cap off.

You didn’t notice him at first.

But he noticed you.

Sunghoon stood frozen by the hallway, bathed in low light, eyes glued to you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. And maybe he couldn’t. Because the zipper of his hoodie had slipped just a little lower—low enough to reveal the swell of your bare chest, the delicate dip of your waist, your skin glowing under the fridge’s light like you were meant to be seen in that moment.

You turned, bottle at your lips, and jumped when you saw him.

“Shit—you scared me,” you laughed softly, not thinking, not realizing what you looked like yet.

But Sunghoon didn’t laugh.

He just stared.

His voice came low. Tense.

“You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”

You blinked. Finally glanced down.

Oh.

Your heart skipped. “I—I wasn’t thinking. I just came out for water, I didn’t think anyone was—”

He stepped closer.

Each step slow. Controlled. Like he was trying to hold something back and losing the battle by the second.

“You’ve been teasing me for months,” he said, voice rough, his eyes never leaving yours. “Wearing my hoodies. Stealing my space. Touching me like you know I want more.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening on the bottle. “Sunghoon—”

“You come out here,” he went on, “dressed like that… at midnight… looking like that—and you still expect me to stay quiet?”

You stepped back instinctively, but you hit the counter.

He kept walking.

Now he was right in front of you, towering, chest rising and falling fast. One hand braced against the counter beside your waist, the other hovering just an inch from the zipper hanging so precariously low on your chest.

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

“I think I do now,” you whispered, breath shallow.

His fingers finally touched the zipper. Tugged it just enough for your breath to hitch. Not fully unzipping—just a threat. Just a taste of the danger you’d both tiptoed around for too long.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice barely more than a growl.

But you didn’t.

You tilted your chin, met his gaze, and whispered, “Don’t you dare.”

That was it.

The line you drew? Gone.

He crashed into you like the tension had been a match waiting for a spark—hands gripping your waist, mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was months in the making. Hot. Desperate. Hungry.

And you kissed him back like you’d been holding your breath for this exact moment.

The hoodie slipped.

The water bottle hit the floor.

And Sunghoon?

Sunghoon finally stopped pretending.

Your back hit the kitchen counter with a soft thud, the cool surface contrasting the fire suddenly burning under your skin.

Sunghoon’s hands were on your waist, sliding under the hoodie like he’d been dying to touch you. His mouth was still on yours, tongue teasing, devouring every gasp and moan that spilled from your lips like he needed them to breathe.

And then—he pulled back just a little.

His eyes dropped to the hoodie, to the way it barely clung to your shoulders, your chest rising and falling rapidly beneath it. His fingers caught the zipper again, this time pulling it all the way down.

The fabric parted.

His breath hitched.

“No bra,” he muttered, almost to himself, voice husky and ragged.

You watched the way his eyes darkened—like something snapped completely inside him.

He dipped his head instantly, lips ghosting down your throat. “You’re so unfair,” he groaned, mouth brushing your collarbone. “You know I have a thing for boobs.”

You gasped out a breathy laugh, hand tangling in his hair. “I didn’t, actually.”

“Well,” he murmured, kissing down the swell of your chest, “you do now.”

And then his mouth was there—hot and open and obsessed, worshipping every inch he could reach. His hands cupped you, thumbs brushing gently, then firmly, then teasing—his lips trailing lazy, wet kisses across your skin like he’d been starved and this was his first meal.

You moaned, soft and high, hips shifting against the counter as he sucked lightly at a sensitive spot. His fingers gripped your thighs, dragging you closer, so your knees spread around his hips and you were fully pinned, fully his.

“God, Sunghoon,” you whispered, breathless.

He looked up at you from your chest, eyes blown wide, lips red and swollen.

“You don’t get it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “I’ve been dying to do this since the first time you walked out of your room in my clothes. You were always just... there, tempting me, touching me, looking at me like that.”

You swallowed hard, your hands now sliding under his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his torso. “Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because I didn’t want to cross the line,” he said, kissing you again—deep, slow, possessive. “But baby… you broke it first.”

His lips were back on your chest before you could respond, sucking and kissing like he was making up for lost time, like he wanted to memorize every curve, every sound you made. The hoodie slipped off your shoulders entirely now, pooling behind you on the counter.

And he made no move to stop.

Not when your head fell back.

Not when your thighs tightened around his waist.

Not when you whimpered his name, and he groaned like it was the only thing he wanted to hear for the rest of his life.

Sunghoon’s mouth was obsessed—hungry, slow, and dangerously focused.

He pressed open-mouthed kisses across your chest, dragging his tongue deliberately over the soft swell of your breast before closing his lips around your nipple. He groaned at the contact, deep and guttural, like he’d finally gotten the one thing he’d been fantasizing about for months.

“Fuck, I knew they’d feel this good,” he muttered between kisses, hand splaying over your waist to keep you close. “I think about them way too much.”

You gasped, arching your back as his tongue flicked and swirled, switching sides with a low, satisfied sound. His hand moved to cup your other breast, thumb brushing over the peak, and when he sucked again—harder this time—you nearly lost it.

“S-Sunghoon—”

“I’m not stopping,” he mumbled against your skin. “Not when you look like this… sound like that.”

He licked back up the valley between your breasts, teeth grazing lightly. “You wore this hoodie knowing I’d see you, didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer—couldn’t, not when his mouth was doing sinful things to you.

He chuckled darkly. “No bra. Just this. Like you wanted me to snap.”

And then, without warning, his hands were under your thighs—lifting you off the counter like you weighed nothing.

You gasped and instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, hoodie falling completely off in the motion. His grip tightened under you, fingers digging into your skin as he walked you down the hall, kissing your neck, your jaw, your collarbone with reckless affection.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered against your ear. “No more teasing. No more pretending.”

He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot, not bothering to turn on the lights, letting the soft glow from the hallway bathe you both in shadow.

The second your back hit the bed, he was over you again—pressing hot kisses down your chest, your ribs, your stomach.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging, anchoring yourself as his lips found your breast again, sucking harder this time. His hips rolled against yours with just enough friction to make you whimper his name.

“I love these,” he murmured like a confession, voice low and rough as he licked across your nipple. “I could spend hoursright here.”

You arched under him, heat pooling deep in your core. “Then do it,” you whispered, eyes wild and breathless.

He looked up at you through his lashes, smirk tugging at the corner of his kiss-swollen lips.

“Say less.”

And he did.

He kissed his way down, took his time, made sure every inch of you knew just how badly he’d wanted this. Every flick of his tongue, every bite, every graze of his teeth was slow and sinful and filled with months of held-back tension that was now unraveling between the sheets.

Your breaths turned to moans.

Moans to gasps.

And gasps into pleas.

By the time he finally stripped you bare and joined you in the sheets, it wasn’t just about want—it was about need. About all the nights you brushed hands in the kitchen, the mornings you wore his hoodies, the way his eyes always lingered just a second too long.

He took his time, but when he moved inside you for the first time, slow and deep, both of you lost all words—just soft curses, broken kisses, and the kind of moans that only came from finally, finally giving in.

And still, even in the heat of it all—his hands found their way back to your chest, mouth pressing against your skin like he was claiming it.

“Mine,” he breathed against your skin. “All fucking mine.”

The sheets were tangled around your legs, your skin warm and slick, heart still racing from the first time. You lay there in the dark, chest rising and falling fast, trying to catch your breath—trying to process what just happened.

But Sunghoon… he didn’t move much.

He hovered just above you, gaze roaming over your flushed face, your swollen lips, your body stretched beneath him like a dream. His hand was on your waist, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin, but his eyes kept dipping back down to your chest—still heaving, glistening faintly with sweat.

“You okay?” he asked softly, a slight rasp in his voice.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Very okay.”

He smiled, just a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes—not because he wasn’t happy, but because the look on his face said something else entirely:

He wasn’t done.

Not even close.

His fingers slid up your waist, brushing between the valley of your breasts before he leaned down again, placing a kiss just above your sternum.

You sighed softly, running your fingers through his hair.

“I told you,” he murmured, mouth trailing down again. “I’m not over these.”

He kissed one breast, then the other—soft, slow, reverent.

“You’ve already had your fun,” you teased, voice low.

He looked up at you, eyes dark. “Yeah. Once. That’s not enough.”

Before you could respond, he wrapped his lips around your nipple again, sucking gently—then deeper, hungrier—until your back arched right off the bed and a soft cry slipped from your mouth.

Your thighs instinctively pressed together.

He smirked against your skin.

“Still sensitive?” he asked, fingers ghosting down your hips.

You barely managed a nod. “Yes. But also… don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

His hand slipped between your legs, fingers teasing, already finding you wet again—still soaked for him. He groaned low in his throat.

“Fuck. You’re unreal.”

You whimpered when his fingers dipped inside you, slow and precise, the pads of them curling just right while his mouth stayed fixed on your chest—licking, sucking, marking you.

You were already unraveling again, body twitching under his touch.

“Sunghoon,” you gasped, hips lifting to meet every movement. “Please—”

He kissed up to your neck, whispering against your ear. “You want me again?”

“God, yes.”

He kissed your jaw. “Then get on top.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I want to see you,” he murmured. “Wanna see those pretty tits bounce while I’m inside you.”

Your breath caught. You scrambled to climb over him, straddling his waist, your hands braced against his chest as he looked up at you like you were a fucking goddess.

His hands slid up your thighs, settling at your hips before he guided you down slowly—inch by inch—until he was fully inside you again.

The both of you gasped.

You rocked your hips once—experimentally—and his head fell back against the pillows, jaw clenched.

“Just like that,” he groaned. “Keep going. Fuck, ride me, baby.”

You did.

You moved with him, chasing that dizzy, desperate high all over again, and he watched everything—his hands never leaving your waist or your breasts, gripping and teasing and obsessing the way he had since the very start.

Every time your hips met his, you felt yourself melt further—into the heat, into the rhythm, into him.

And when you came again, clenched around him with a cry of his name, he followed soon after—hands gripping your ass, thrusting up deep one last time as he spilled into you with a shudder and a curse.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you shaking, breathless, spent.

His arms wrapped around you instantly, holding you tight, still inside you, still warm and pulsing and wrecked.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

But when you finally looked up at him, messy hair in your face, cheeks flushed—

He just smirked and whispered, “Still stealing my hoodies after this?”

You smiled, slow and sweet. “Every single one.”

Your legs still trembled, curled over his hips, when Sunghoon gently kissed your temple.

“You did so good,” he murmured into your hair, voice worn raw and honey-sweet. “But I think you need a bath, baby.”

You groaned something incoherent against his shoulder. “I need new legs.”

He chuckled, low and breathless, then slid his arms under you again. Without warning, he stood—effortlessly lifting you bridal-style, your bare body pressed against his chest, the hoodie still tangled somewhere in the sheets.

“Sunghoon—” you squeaked.

“Shh,” he whispered, kissing your forehead as he padded toward the bathroom. “I’ve got you.”

The bathroom lights were dim—just the warm ambient glow of the under-counter lighting—and the air was already humid by the time he knelt by the tub, one arm still keeping you close while the other twisted the knobs.

Warm water started to fill the space, steam curling up like the start of something sacred.

He set you on the edge of the tub gently and leaned over to pour in something from a bottle—lavender and vanilla, by the smell—and you just sat there watching him, dazed and still pulsing between your legs.

Sunghoon looked up at you from under his lashes, hair messy and lips swollen. “You okay?”

You nodded, still breathless. “You’re… ridiculous.”

He smirked. “You’ve said that twice now.”

“I mean it more this time.”

When the tub was full, he helped you in first, easing your body into the water, then slid in behind you, pulling you back against his chest. His hands roamed lazily—down your arms, around your waist, fingers playing just beneath the surface.

And then his lips pressed to your shoulder.

You tilted your head slightly. “You’re not gonna let me relax, are you?”

He nipped gently at your neck. “I was trying to. You’re the one pressing that pretty ass against me.”

You grinned, hips shifting just enough to hear him hiss.

“Okay,” he growled, arms tightening around your waist. “That’s it.”

He turned you gently in the water until you were facing him, your thighs straddling his lap again beneath the surface. The heat of the water mixed with the slow burn returning in your gut. His chest glistened, wet and warm under your hands.

You dragged your palms up his torso slowly, admiring the cut of his collarbone, the sharp lines of his pecs. Then, without warning, you leaned down and pressed your lips just above his heart.

Sunghoon inhaled sharply.

Your teeth grazed him lightly, followed by your tongue, and then your mouth again—sucking just hard enough to leave a mark.

He groaned, head falling back against the edge of the tub. “Fuck.”

You licked across the red blotch, then moved a few inches over and did it again. His fingers gripped your hips beneath the water now, holding you in place, twitching slightly with every kiss you left on his chest.

“You like when I mark you up, don’t you?” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “You have no idea how hot that is.”

You kissed lower, right over his sternum. “Wanna be covered in them?”

His breath hitched. “Only if I get to return the favor.”

You looked up at him through your lashes, eyes wicked. “Then you better sit still.”

You kept going—slow, open-mouthed kisses that turned into suckling marks across his chest, down the dip of his abs, making sure every moan he gave you echoed off the tiled walls.

And when you finally shifted your hips and sank down onto him again—warm, wet, slick from water and need—he nearly lost it.

“God, you feel even tighter like this,” he groaned, head falling forward, forehead resting against yours.

Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as you rode him again—slow this time, deliberately teasing, your hands braced on his shoulders as you whispered sinful little things into his ear and left even more hickeys along his collarbones.

You were in no rush.

You both dragged it out—bodies tangled under the water, teeth grazing skin, low moans bouncing off the foggy mirrors—until he gripped your ass and came with a deep, guttural sound, burying his face into your shoulder.

You followed with a soft gasp, body trembling for the third time, mouth pressed to his neck as your nails dug into his back.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

You just sat there, still connected, chests rising and falling together, bathwater lukewarm and covered in steam.

Then Sunghoon kissed your cheek and whispered, hoarse and completely blissed out, “You’re never getting this hoodie back.”

The water had cooled enough to make you both shiver a little. Sunghoon noticed first, of course. He always did.

“Okay,” he murmured against your temple. “Up you go, pretty girl.”

You were barely responsive, dazed and boneless in his lap, but you let out a tiny hum as he helped you stand, the water cascading down both your bodies.

He stepped out after you and grabbed one of the oversized towels from the rack. Without a word, he wrapped it around your body from behind, tucking the edges carefully under your arms before pulling you into his chest, your back flush against his warmth.

You felt his lips press to your shoulder, featherlight.

“I should probably dry you off,” he said softly. “But I just wanna hold you for a minute.”

You melted into him instantly, eyes fluttering closed, head resting against his collarbone. “Mmm. You smell good.”

He laughed under his breath. “You smell like me. That’s my body wash.”

“And your hoodie.”

“Exactly. You’re basically mine now.”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Basically?”

His grip on your waist tightened, just enough to make you feel it.

“Unless you’ve got a reason not to be,” he said, voice low, sincere.

You didn’t answer him right away—not with words. You turned around in his arms and wrapped your own around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Not frantic this time. Just soft and warm and unhurried, your lips moving with his like they already belonged there.

When you finally pulled back, you whispered, “No reason.”

That made him smile—wide and genuine. “Good.”

He reached for another towel and gently ran it over your legs, your arms, drying you with care. When he reached your chest, he hesitated—smirked—and kissed the bruised skin reverently before patting it dry.

“Still my favorite part,” he mumbled.

“Such a menace.”

Once you were dry, he carried you—again—to the bed, laying you down gently. He tugged on a soft sleep shirt and boxers for himself, then rummaged around until he found a clean hoodie.

He paused.

“You wanna wear this?” he asked, holding it up.

You sat up on your elbows. “Thought you said I wasn’t getting your hoodies anymore.”

“I lied. You can have all of them.”

He pulled it over your head, helping you into it like you were made of glass, then kissed your forehead before climbing in beside you and tugging you against his chest.

It was quiet for a while, the kind of silence that felt full instead of empty.

His fingers traced slow lines down your spine beneath the hoodie. “You tired?”

You nodded, mumbling into his neck. “A little.”

“Wanna sleep?”

You shrugged. “Kind of.”

He shifted slightly, his thigh slipping between yours, his hand settling low on your waist—dangerously close to temptation again.

You tilted your head and whispered, “Sunghoon?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way…”

He tensed a little, worried. “What?”

You grinned sleepily. “But I’m definitely stealing another hoodie tomorrow.”

He laughed, pulling you in closer until your leg was hooked around his hip and your bodies pressed flush again.

“I’ll just take my revenge in the morning,” he murmured against your skin.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Round four, babe. You better stretch.”

You woke up to the feel of warmth—heavy, solid, draped entirely around you.

Sunghoon’s chest was pressed to your back, one arm tucked under your neck like a pillow, the other curled tightly around your waist. His hoodie was oversized on you, but your bare legs were tangled with his beneath the sheets, and you were acutely aware of something hard nudging against the curve of your ass.

You blinked slowly, a lazy smile tugging at your lips.

“Sunghoon,” you murmured sleepily.

He groaned low in his throat, face buried in your hair. “Mmnn?”

“Are you…?”

Another sleepy shift. The thick press of him grinding instinctively against your backside made your breath hitch. You froze, and he stilled too.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice hoarse with sleep. “Sorry—morning wood. Can’t help it.”

You smirked. “I’m not exactly complaining.”

He laughed quietly, but you felt his hips rock against you again, slower this time, deliberate. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

His lips brushed the back of your neck. “You’re evil. You know that, right?”

You rolled your hips just slightly, teasing, letting the hem of his hoodie ride up your thighs as you pressed back into him.

“Me?” you whispered, feigning innocence. “I’m just trying to get comfortable.”

Sunghoon growled softly and rolled you onto your back, slipping between your legs in one fluid motion. The bulge in his boxers pressed right against your center now, only the thin fabric separating you.

“You’re really gonna keep playing in my hoodie, no panties,” he said, eyes dark with hunger, “and act like you didn’t know what you were doing?”

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, lips parted. “I just like how it smells.”

His jaw clenched, and the way his hips bucked forward told you everything.

“Yeah?” he rasped, leaning in close, lips brushing yours. “You like how I smell?”

You nodded, one hand slipping beneath the hem of the hoodie to palm at his lower abs. “You smell like sex. Like me.”

His breath hitched.

You slid your fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers, wrapping around him slowly. He was hot, hard, twitching against your palm.

“Baby…” he warned.

But you stroked him gently, thumb brushing his tip.

“Come on,” you whispered. “Since you’re already awake…”

He didn’t need any more convincing.

With one hand, he pulled his boxers down just enough. The other hand slid your hoodie up to your waist, revealing the soaked mess between your thighs.

“Look at you,” he muttered, eyes fixated. “Wet already, just from waking up next to me.”

You smirked. “You’re not exactly subtle with that thing pressed against me all night.”

He pressed the head of his cock to your entrance, slowly easing in. You both gasped—your body already welcoming him, warm and wet and soft around him.

His hands slid under your thighs, pushing them up, pressing your knees to your chest so he could sink deeper. The stretch was dizzying.

“Fuck, baby—” he whispered, biting his lip. “You feel unreal like this.”

Your nails scraped at his back, your head falling back against the pillows as he rocked into you with lazy, morning hunger. Deep, slow strokes. No rush. Just the steady rhythm of his body pushing into yours, skin slapping softly, lips finding each other in between gasps.

“You always gonna wake me up like this?” he asked, voice ragged.

You grinned, tugging him closer. “Only if you keep wearing those boxers.”

His laugh turned into a groan as he thrust harder, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your mouth again—his hips relentless now, chasing that high you both knew was coming quick.

You moaned into his neck, legs wrapping around his waist.

And when you came—again—Sunghoon held you through it, kissing you like he couldn’t get enough, like you were still wearing his hoodie and nothing else for the rest of his life.

Because maybe you would.

You sat across from him at the little breakfast table, legs tucked under you, hoodie still slipping off one shoulder. Sunghoon had his fork in his hand, but his eyes were not—absolutely not—on the eggs.

They were on you.

Specifically, the way his hoodie dipped low across your chest every time you leaned forward to take a bite.

You bit into your toast slowly, watching his gaze drop. Again.

And then smirked. “You’re staring.”

He didn’t even try to deny it. “You’re teasing.”

You feigned innocence, licking a crumb off your lower lip. “I’m just eating breakfast.”

He tilted his head, squinting at you. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

You leaned forward on your elbows just a little more—enough that the neckline of the hoodie dipped a few extra inches, revealing the bare curve underneath.

“What, this?” you said, blinking up at him sweetly. “The hoodie rides low. Not my fault.”

Sunghoon visibly swallowed, dropping his fork. “Babe…”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“You’re gonna kill me.”

You pretended to think. “Or maybe I’m just making it fair. You parade around in that tank top for two days and I can’t even exist in a hoodie without you getting handsy.”

He groaned. “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“You’ve got your boobs out.”

You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “I do not—they’re just slightly visible.”

“Slightly? I can see half the damn thing.”

You giggled and reached for your coffee, watching him glare at the mug like it personally offended him by hiding your cleavage.

“You really have a thing for them, huh?” you teased.

He didn’t even blink. “I admitted that last night. Several times.”

You raised a brow. “And during the bath.”

He smirked, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin. “And yet I still haven’t gotten enough.”

You licked your spoon slowly. “Poor baby.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

He pushed his plate aside, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he stood up and walked over to your side of the table.

You blinked up at him, all feigned innocence again. “What are you doing?”

He leaned down, both hands on the arms of your chair, trapping you.

“Letting you know,” he whispered, eyes dropping to the neckline of your hoodie again, “that if you keep teasing me like this, you’re not gonna finish that coffee.”

You raised your chin. “Bold of you to assume I wanted to.”

He huffed out a laugh, biting his lip. “You’re evil.”

You tugged on the front of the hoodie, dipping the zipper just a little lower. “And you’re obsessed.”

“Completely.”

Then he dipped down, and for a second you thought he was going to kiss you again—but instead, he buried his face between your boobs, groaning dramatically like a man who’d gone to heaven and back.

“Unbelievable,” you said, laughing breathlessly.

“Your fault,” he mumbled against your chest.

“You’re literally addicted.”

“I’d cancel all my meetings for this.”

You rolled your eyes, running your fingers through his hair. “One day, you’re gonna have to learn to behave.”

He tilted his head back just enough to smirk up at you, still nestled between your boobs.

“And one day,” he murmured, “you’re gonna have to accept that I never will.”

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee @morganaawriterr @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12

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buckyseternaldoll · 17 days ago

Text

Love Me or Leave Me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: You loved him deeply. But loving him started to hurt. And Bucky? He saw it coming—he just couldn’t stop it.

Disclaimer: emotional angst, breakup, unrequited love (mutual but misaligned), emotional distance, grief, self-isolation, unresolved tension, self-love epilogue, implied trauma (Bucky), no happy ending

Word Count: 2.6k

Author's Note: This was heavily inspired by Love Me or Leave Me by DAY6. Serving you nothing but heart-wrenching angst 💔

You told yourself you could handle it.

The missions. The long silences. The way his name would show up on the news with a flicker of urgency in the anchor’s voice. You thought it’d be fine—as long as Bucky came home to you. As long as you still felt his heartbeat beneath your cheek when he held you at night, you thought you’d be okay.

But you weren’t.

Not when he’d come back with blood on his collar and bruises blooming along his ribs. Not when you had to cut him out of his tactical suit because his shoulder had dislocated again. Not when you saw the way he winced as he sat on the couch, but told you, “It’s nothing, doll. Just a scratch.”

And not when you spent whole nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if the next mission would be the one that took him from you for good.

You wanted a simple life. Not boring—just peaceful. Grocery runs, warm coffee, movie nights, a cat maybe. The kind of life where the scariest thing you’d face together was a burnt dinner or the occasional fight over what to watch.

And he wanted that too. God, did he want it.

But the world kept calling, and Bucky kept answering.

Because that’s who he was. Not just your Bucky—but the one who still carried guilt like a second skin. The one who needed to do good to make up for everything he believed he owed. The one who stayed in the fight not for glory, but because he needed to make sure you would always be safe.

But safety and love had never felt further apart.

You started pulling away without meaning to.

You stopped telling him about your day. Stopped leaving your coffee mug next to his in the mornings. Stopped reaching for his hand when he walked through the door.

Your laughter, once constant and effortless, became something scarce.

And one night, without a word, you stopped sleeping beside him.

He asked if you were okay.

You smiled—a small, quiet thing. “Just tired.”

What you meant was: I’m tired of wondering if I’ll lose you. Tired of pretending this doesn’t scare me. Tired of loving you so much it hurts.

But you never said any of it out loud.

You just kept drifting, building invisible walls between the two of you—high enough to keep him out, fragile enough that you could still watch him from the other side.

And maybe, just maybe…

you were hoping he’d come break them down.

—

It was all up to you now.

And Bucky knew it.

He’d tried. God, he’d tried.

Tried to catch you in the moments between your hurried mornings and long nights. Tried to meet your eyes across the table, to find the warmth that used to be there—that spark that always made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he deserved good things after all.

But every time he reached for you, you slipped through his fingers like water.

One night, he came home early. He thought maybe he could talk to you, just sit down and have a real conversation—like you used to, curled together on the couch, tangled legs and soft voices.

You were in the kitchen. Stirring something on the stove.

He stepped closer. His voice low. “Can we talk?”

You didn’t even look at him. Just said, “The broth’s been simmering for three hours—if I don’t watch it now, it’ll burn.”

So he nodded. Stepped back. Waited.

The next time he asked, you were in bed, lights already off, your back to him.

“Can it wait?” you murmured. “I’m just… really tired tonight.”

And it kept happening.

Little moments. Little excuses.

Like you were running from something.

Like he was the something.

Eventually, he stopped asking.

Because what choice did he have, really? He couldn’t force you to talk. Couldn’t beg you to let him back in.

He’d lived long enough to know what this looked like. What it felt like—the slow, quiet unraveling. The beginning of the end.

So he watched.

Watched you laugh a little less. Watched you eat a little faster. Watched you move through the apartment like a ghost—your ghost.

And he let you.

Because it wasn’t his decision to make anymore.

Whether this ended or not—that was up to you.

—

Sometimes, he told himself he was imagining it.

The coldness. The silence. The ache he couldn’t name.

You used to be the softest thing in his life. Warm hands. Warm breath against his neck at night. Warm notes left on the fridge when you left early.

And now…

Now you barely looked at him. Your smile, when it came, felt like a formality.

Maybe he was overthinking.

Maybe the mission hangover still hadn’t faded—too many nights sleeping on cold concrete, too many hours with blood on his knuckles and nothing but noise in his head.

Maybe you’d just watched a sad movie. Maybe you were tired. Maybe it was hormones. Maybe—

“Don’t be paranoid, Buck,” he muttered to himself in the quiet. “She loves you.”

But the cold kept getting colder.

You were right there… and yet miles away. And he couldn’t find the road back to you.

His chest started to ache in that old, familiar way—like something was slipping away before he could name it.

And for the first time in a long time, Bucky doubted.

Doubted the love in your eyes.

Doubted whether you even saw him the same way anymore.

Do you even love me now?

—

On the nights when you were both home—but in separate rooms—Bucky tried to be patient.

He told himself you’d come around. That you just needed time, that the silence wasn’t personal. That the way your eyes avoided his wasn’t because you didn’t love him anymore… but because maybe you were hurting too.

And Bucky understood hurting. He could sit with pain better than most.

So he waited.

He lingered by doorframes, pretending he was just passing by. He made two cups of tea instead of one, just in case you wanted to sit and talk again. He left your favorite blanket folded neatly on the couch, hoping you’d come curl up beside him like you used to.

But the silence never broke.

You never came.

And the tea always went cold.

Still, he waited—wrapped in the cold quiet you left behind.

Because what else could he do? If it were up to him, he’d pull you into his chest and never let go. He’d ask you a hundred different ways to stay. He’d fix whatever he broke, even if he didn’t understand how he broke it in the first place.

But it wasn’t up to him anymore.

So he held his breath. Every night. Every second you stood just a few feet away from him and yet felt like a lifetime apart.

He waited for your answer in the spaces between words. In the sighs. In the soft thud of your footsteps avoiding the creaky floorboard he used to fix just to make you laugh.

Is it yes or is it no?

He didn’t ask out loud. Couldn’t.

He was too afraid that if he gave the question breath, your answer might shatter him.

So instead, he begged in his sleep.

He curled into the cold side of the bed and whispered your name into the pillow, like a prayer. Like a man desperate for a miracle he knew wasn’t coming.

Some nights he’d dream of you smiling. Of you reaching for him like you used to. He’d wake up and turn to see if you were there.

You weren’t.

And still, he waited.

Waited for you to look at him again the way you once did. Waited for a whisper, a word, a sign that this wasn’t the end.

But deep down, Bucky knew.

He’d lived too many lifetimes not to recognize when something was dying.

And this—you—you were slipping through the cracks of his fingers. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to hold on without hurting you more.

Still, he wanted the truth. He needed it.

Even if it crushed him.

So tell me now… love me or leave me tonight.

—

Time didn’t heal anything. It only made the cracks deeper.

And now, they were splitting wide open.

It became painfully clear to Bucky that you weren’t just pulling away anymore—you were already halfway gone.

The house, once filled with warmth and soft noise and shared routines, felt more like a mausoleum.

Quiet. Lifeless. Cold.

You moved through it like he wasn’t even there—like he was some ghost haunting the corners, lingering in places where your love used to live.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t wait for him to eat.

You didn’t leave the kitchen smelling of spices and garlic and slow-simmered comfort.

You didn’t turn on the TV anymore—no late-night sitcom reruns, no cozy background chatter as you folded laundry together.

Nothing.

The warmth was gone.

And in its place was silence—heavy, choking, endless.

Bucky could see it.

The distance. The dimming light in your eyes. The slow erosion of all the little things that once tethered you to him.

You were still here.

But only physically.

Your heart had packed up weeks ago.

And he knew it.

He told himself it might be a misunderstanding. That maybe you were just burned out. That maybe the weight of the world was getting to you both.

But those were lies.

Lies he whispered to himself when the silence got too loud.

Do you even love me now?

He already knew the answer.

He’d known it in the way you stopped calling him “baby.”

In the way you started wearing headphones around the house.

In the way your hugs disappeared without warning—like you didn’t even notice you’d stopped giving them.

Still, Bucky pretended.

Because he couldn’t give up on you.

Not until you said the words. Not until he heard them.

Even if your silence was already screaming them loud enough to break his bones.

He believed you didn’t want to be the one to leave first.

That you wanted him to walk away—to be the one who gave up—so you could blame the ending on him and still carry your love for him without guilt.

And maybe you did still love him.

But not enough to stay.

Not enough to risk the ache of maybe losing him in a way far worse than heartbreak—like a mission gone wrong.

Like a phone call with no voice on the other end.

You were saving yourself.

He knew that now.

So he let you hurt him. Quietly. Slowly.

Because that pain was still better than letting you go.

Until the night you did it for him.

—

He was sitting in the armchair, staring blankly at a muted TV, when he heard your footsteps. Not the usual ones—not soft, half-dragging. These were… deliberate.

He turned.

And saw you.

You were dressed in that pale yellow dress with tiny floral prints—the one you wore on your first date.

Your hair was done.

You smelled like the perfume he gave you that Christmas—the one he said reminded him of sunshine and late spring.

In your hand: a travel bag. By the door: two more.

Bucky stood up slowly. His body moved before his brain caught up.

His heart dropped somewhere around his knees.

You looked… exhausted.

Thinner. Paler. Hollow.

You hadn’t glowed in weeks, but tonight… you looked like a memory.

Not a person.

Just something soft he used to have and would never touch again.

You didn’t say a word.

You didn’t offer excuses or apologies.

And Bucky…

He didn’t ask for any.

He walked toward you.

Pulled you into one last hug—slow, trembling.

He buried his face in your neck and breathed you in, too deep, too long—like he was trying to memorize you.

Your scent. The shape of you. The way your body still instinctively leaned into his before stiffening like you remembered why you couldn’t anymore.

You’re leaving me tonight.

He didn’t say it. But it screamed through every inch of his body.

And then… you pulled away.

Picked up your bags.

Walked to the door.

You didn’t look back.

Not even once.

—

He stood in the doorway long after you left.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just… stared.

The silence pressed against him like a weight.

Not the usual kind—not the silence of a peaceful home or a quiet night.

No.

This was the kind of silence that screamed. The kind that curled under your skin and whispered you’re alone now over and over until you believed it.

Your scent lingered for a while.

Faint. Sweet. Warm.

Like a ghost clinging to the air just long enough to haunt him.

Bucky walked back into the living room.

He sat on the couch.

Then he stood up.

Then he sat down again.

He didn’t cry. Not at first.

He just stared at the coffee table where your favorite candle used to sit. At the folded blanket you hadn’t touched in weeks. At the imprint your body still left on the far corner of the bed.

And then the first sob broke loose—low, cracked, unsteady.

It sounded like someone else.

He covered his mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking so hard it felt like his ribs would shatter.

Not from the grief.

But from the relief of finally letting it out.

You were really gone.

He wasn’t Bucky Barnes, the soldier, the asset, the Avenger. Not right now.

Right now he was just a man who loved too hard and lost anyway.

—

He left the Thunderbolts a week later. No dramatic speeches. No announcements. Just a message:

I’m done. I need to disappear for a while.

And then he did.

He traveled to nowhere places—towns with no names, forests that didn’t show up on maps. He worked odd jobs under fake names, fixed broken fences, repaired engines, sometimes just helped carry groceries for the old lady down the road who reminded him of you.

He kept moving, like if he stopped, the grief would finally catch him.

But it always did.

Every night.

He stopped wearing cologne.

Stopped shaving.

Stopped sleeping on the left side of the bed—your side—because it hurt too much.

He didn’t talk about you.

But he kept one photo tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket. The one where you were laughing, hand over your eyes, hair caught in the wind. You never liked that photo. Said it made your nose look weird.

He thought it made you look like joy.

—

[EPILOGUE]

You didn’t leave because you stopped loving him.

You left because you started forgetting how to love yourself.

It started slow—the way you stopped laughing, stopped dancing to music while you cooked. The way your shoulders stayed tense even when he was home, safe and whole. The way you’d check your phone every morning, expecting a call that never came… because he always made it back. Until one day, you were just too tired to keep hoping for that.

You told yourself it would be okay. That love would carry you through.

But loving him started to feel like holding your breath every day—and no one can live like that for long.

You needed to remember who you were without the fear.

Without the waiting.

Without the ache.

So you left.

Not to erase him.

But to save what was left of you.

And some nights… when the wind is soft and the moon is high,

you wonder if he ever found peace.

If he ever forgave you.

If he still carries that photo in his jacket.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes angst #bucky angst #જ⁀➴ by elle #mcu!bucky fic #mcu!bucky angst #mcu!bucky #angst with no comfort

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millers-girl · 1 month ago

Text

what comes after

epilogue of willow & whiskey

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: in the heart of summer, you finally settle into a normal life in Jackson... until your past comes knocking at the front gate.

warnings/tags: age gap, adult language, I think that's it for once lol

word count: 1.7k

series masterlist

“You know, I’m pretty sure I had a wet dream about this once.”

Joel nearly choked on the beer he was sipping, stunned by your words.

You grinned up at him, of course speaking of the sight of him standing in front of the grill, flipping patties and hot dogs alike. He was wearing a tight grey tee, a fitted pair of jeans blessed by the gods themselves, and cowboy boots to top it off – a dangerous combination, especially now, when you were ovulating.

His curls had grown out to a length you went absolutely feral for. It allowed you to tug, wrapping them around your fingers as he satiated the heat between your legs.

You slapped a hand on his back as he sputtered out the alcohol.

When his airways were clear, he muttered, “Angel, I don’t know if this family friendly barbecue is the place to be admittin’ that… especially not when you’re wearing that dress.”

His eyes trailed achingly slow down your body, taking in every inch of the flowy white sundress you were wearing.

Summer had settled in Jackson, marking precisely three months since you, Joel, and Ellie had arrived. Maria had graciously kept the house you’d stayed in vacant, waiting for you to return. But what surprised you the most was how much you missed Tommy. The moment Joel was done hugging him, you practically threw yourself at the younger Miller brother, letting him squeeze you comfortingly.

He felt like family long before either of you realized it.

And, like family, he was already prepared for your arrival. He signed Joel up for patrol the moment he got here, enrolled Ellie in the school, and even had a cushy job secured for you at the bakery. You couldn’t believe he’d remembered the one time you talked about it the last time you were here – about wanting a normal life where you could just stay home and bake your heart out, like you remembered your mother doing when you were young.

Now, staying home wasn’t much of an option, but he could make the baking part happen, and he did. And you loved him for it.

Now, three months later, you, Joel, and Ellie were settling into routine in Jackson, with the horrors of everything that had happened in the winter behind you.

For the first few weeks in Jackson, you tried to assimilate to normal life—community movie nights, exchanging food recipes, even getting your haircut—but there was still a layer of unease beneath it all. You were sure Joel and Ellie felt it too, though you tried not to bring it up, tried to make the transition as smooth as possible for them. You, on the other hand, were constantly watching for shadows, checking your six, waiting for something to shatter this peace.

But nothing ever did.

Not even when new faces began to arrive from outside. The town was growing, prospering even, with all the new hands pitching in and brains thinking up novel ways to help. With the newcomers came rumors of settlements on the outside – murmurings of strange attacks, groups disappearing, whispers of people being “taken” or “sold.”

Tommy and Maria reassured everyone, promising them that they were safe; to your surprise, it comforted even you. The couple had been here for years, Maria since the inception of this town, and if they said it was safe, you owed it to them to believe it. To take the word of family and trust it.

That trust slowly built up over the past twelve weeks and now here you were, at the community barbeque in a white sundress, flirting with your man, with a sweet tea in one hand, a tupperware of strawberry shortcake in the other – and not a care in the world.

You balanced both as Joel pulled you in and pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

“Look who decided to finally show up,” came Tommy’s teasing tone from behind you two.

You pulled away from Joel, rolling your eyes and giving the younger Miller brother a hug too. “It took longer than Clara said for the cake to cool. You wanna eat a soggy cake, Miller?” You scrunched up your nose in disgust for added effect, making Tommy laugh.

“Alright, alright. Hand it over so I can put it in the fridge before it practically melts.” He took the tupperware from your hand, and you could finally wrap a free hand around Joel’s waist.

“And can you get someone else to cover the grill? I’m trying to kiss the chef.” Tommy waved it off, letting you two wander off as Mike came to take over.

Joel sat down on one of the lawn chairs with a grunt, and you perched yourself on the wide arm of his chair, feeling the coarse denim of his jeans brush against your bare thighs as he leaned back with another quiet groan of contentment.

His arm found your waist without effort as you listened in on a story Astrid was telling the group. His big hand rested low on your back, pulling you in. You tipped your head, watching the curve of his mouth as he took a long sip from his beer. There was an ease in him that you hadn’t seen in… well, ever, if you were being honest. His shoulders were loose, his eyes soft under the heavy line of his brows.

This is exactly what you pictured Joel might’ve been like before the outbreak – hosting summer barbeques in his Texas backyard, grilling while his brother played the social host part perfectly, with a content smile at his lips.

He caught you staring, lost in thought. “What?” he murmured, voice low and rough in a way that sent a thrill through you.

“Nothing,” you said innocently, leaning down so your lips brushed his ear. “Just enjoying the view.” He huffed out a laugh, and when you leaned back, you saw his eyes glued to the low neckline of your own dress. “You’re shameless, y’know that?”

“Just enjoying the view,” he quoted you, grinning as you shifted slightly to balance your weight on the arm of his chair. One hand smoothed over his shoulder, fingertips idly tracing the line of his collarbone through his shirt.

“Uh-huh,” you grinned. “That’s why you love me.”

Joel’s lips found your temple, warm and fleeting. “Damn right I do.”

As if on queue, Ellie’s laughter rose from somewhere nearby, bright and genuine and utterly childlike, the kind of laugh that made people turn their heads just to smile along with her. You glanced over to see her with a small group of friends – Dina, Jesse, and a few other kids her age, plus a few older teenagers, who were clearly taken with her sarcasm and quick wit.

She was leaning against the picnic table, waving her hands as she mimicked someone’s voice, drawing more laughter from her circle.

For a moment, you let yourself just be in that scene – the easy pulse of the community around you, the sun casting everything in gold, the simple weight of Joel’s hand on your waist, and the sound of Ellie’s laughter ringing clear like a bell.

All of it caused the day to pass in a blur. You chatted happily with your neighbors, slow-danced with Joel as Gustavo brought out his guitar, and settled beside him at the end of the night in front of the bonfire, as the eventful day began to catch up to you.

The peace was so complete, your eyes began to flutter shut, the sound of your community lulling you to sleep on the love of your life’s shoulder.

You almost didn’t notice the commotion starting by the front gates… almost.

A voice called from the wall, sharp enough to pierce the haze of laughter and chatter. “They’re back!”

People turned, a ripple of curiosity and anticipation passing through the crowd. Joel’s grip on you tightened slightly, the reflex of a man used to tension rising from nowhere. You let him help you up, squinting toward the gates as a small group came into view – dusty, tired, but alive.

“Must be Max and them returning from patrol,” Joel murmured. His hand slipped into yours, fingers intertwining – bracing for whatever news they brought.

By the way the crowd seemed to press on, it must’ve been an eventful shift.

But something about the atmosphere suddenly seemed off, like a sharp shift you hadn’t accounted for.

Even Ellie seemed to notice, drifting closer to you, laughter fading into the hush that had fallen over the gathering. You felt her presence at your side, small and solid.

Patrol was waving through two ragged figures – thin, dirty, heads down, one limping heavily. They looked half-dead, clothes torn and stained, like they hadn’t seen food or shelter in weeks. They looked in worse condition than anyone else you’d seen Jackson take in.

People around you murmured, concern flitting through the crowd. They watched the pair whose heads were bowed, grateful smiles on their faces as they murmured thanks.

A few of the Jackson residents moved forward with water and blankets, asking if they needed medical attention.

The taller of the two, limping slightly, glanced up – just for a second. His eyes, light and sharp beneath a mask of dirt and overgrown hair, flickered across the crowd.

And then his gaze locked onto yours, from a few yards away.

Your breath hitched, chest tightening painfully. Time slowed, the world fading around you.

You were convinced you hadn’t seen right. You couldn’t have.

But there he was.

Alive.

Here.

His face was thinner, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper, but the electric blue of his eyes—the way his curly hair drifted in front of his eyes as he blinked at you—was unmistakable. There he was, standing like a ghost, like a past you’d buried in the ruins of Boston.

“Is that…” Ellie’s voice broke through the quiet shock, low and uncertain, her eyes narrowing as she too caught the familiar line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth that tugged in a way she hadn’t seen since Boston.

Joel’s hand squeezed yours, making you look up at him with wide eyes before your gaze shifted back to the familiar figure.

“Nathan?” you whispered.

a/n: that's all for Willow & Whiskey, lovies – its sequel Ember & Evergreen is in the works!! I'll be tagging everyone from this original taglist but if you'd like to be removed (or added if you're not already), just let me know. Until then, happy reading x

taglist: @orcasoul @lizlil @littleshadow17 @joeldjarin @mrsyixingunicorn10 @luvwanda @escaping-reality8 @hoddystark @mmkkzz @victoriaholland @xodilfluvr @ilovetoomanymen @21tao @mystickittytaco @keileighr @buckyandlokirunmylife @deesparticus @underchaos @keepingitlokiii @silas-aeiou @underchaos @tjohn63 @princess76179 @umadirectioner @crlsummer @tanyaherondale @needz1nk

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galedekarios · 2 years ago

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one thing that really tugs at my heartstrings while going through the epilogue files a bit more is how desperately gale wants to stay in touch with the protag (unromanced) and the friends he's made on their journey together.

not only has he talked to his students about the protag and their adventures at length, he invites the protag to be a guest lecturer:

Player: I found the love of my life. I'd say I'm pretty happy. Gale: And I couldn't be happier for you. A fitting reward for the sacrifices you made in getting here. Gale: I've told my students plenty of tales about our escapades. You're something of a hero to them, you know. Gale: I'd be delighted to introduce you to my current cohort - as a guest lecturer, perhaps? I'm sure they'd have plenty of questions for you.

he is also happy to invite the protag to his tower for the duration of their stay:

Player: It would be my pleasure. Gale: Excellent. I knew you wouldn't be able to resist the allure of sharing your expertise. Gale: Of course you'll be most welcome to stay with me in my tower. Tara the Tressym: Ahem. Gale: My apologies, Tara. That would be our tower.

and even if they should refuse his invitation to be a guest lecturer, he hopes they'll at least consider coming to visit him in his tower in waterdeep:

Player: I'll respectfully decline. Sounds too much like hard work to me. Gale: I totally understand. Perhaps our exploits might be a little on the mature side for my students, come to think of it... Gale: Still, at the very least you must come visit me. I've a pantry full of Waterdhavian delicacies and a delightful bottle of Elverquisst with your name on them... devnote: Attempting to persuade the player to visit him, really wants them to come [if the player is illithid] Player: My diet is more... cerebral these days, Gale. You'll need to rethink your menu. Gale: Say no more. There's a wizard in Blackstaff's anatomical department who owes me a favour, no questions asked. All diets will be catered for. I can hardly wait. [if the player rejected to become an illithid] Player: Good food and good company? Now that I can manage. Gale: Excellent, excellent, excellent. I can hardly wait. devnote: Relieved you've accepted his offer

[end of convo for both] Gale: It will give us plenty of time to catch up on your adventures. Gale: I'm very curious to know what you've been up to these past months, but I suspect the telling of that tale would keep you tied to me all evening. Gale: So, in the spirit of selflessness I encourage you to mix and mingle for now. We've time enough to come. devnote: Looking forward to staying in touch with the player

he's crushed if the protag refuses:

Player: Sorry, Gale. I don't think that's going to happen. Gale: Oh. Well, no matter. Dinner alone can be every bit as enjoyable as with company. devnote: Deflated, trying not to show it Tara the Tressym: Alone? And what am I - a stuffed toy? Gale: Please - enjoy the rest of your evening. devnote: Deflated, trying not to show it

this all ties into another little moment after this first conversation.

if the protag has talked with gale already and has hugged him, there's a second, shorter conversation, in which gale gets choked up as he reminisces over how the party is together once more:

Gale: I can't believe this is real. I never thought we'd gather like this again. devnote: Taking in the moment, appreciating it Gale: It's quite... ahem, yes really quite lovely. devnote: Getting a bit choked up, trying to hide it/breeze past it

tl;dr: gale loves his friends so very, very much and hopes they'll allow him to be able to stay in contact with them.

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #ch: gale dekarios #vg: baldur's gate 3 #series: baldur's gate #meta: mybg3

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shaiyasstuff · 3 months ago

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unfold | sylus | epilogue

synopsis : Your husband, once a stranger in your marriage has grown to be a loving man who stays by your side like a quiet anchor. What once felt impossible softens into something steady and deeply personal—a love built not on fireworks, but on the quiet comfort of staying. content : arranged marriage au, non-cannon!au, sylus x non-mc, artist!reader, fluff, just married life i guess?

“It’s been almost four months!” you groan, dropping your head into your arms, voice muffled by frustration—and longing.

A familiar laugh crackles through your phone speaker. “It’ll be over before you know it,” Sylus drawls, his tone as casual as ever.

You lift your head just enough to peer at the screen, where his face fills the frame—messy hair, that signature lazy smirk, and eyes that somehow still manage to look like home.

“I miss you,” you murmur, pouting, your voice cracking ever so slightly as your eyes begin to water.

His smirk softens just a little, the corners of his mouth twitching with something gentler. “Just another three months, sweetie,” he says. “And I’ll be there before you can even blink.”

You sigh, a little dramatically. “Fine. But you owe me. For emotional distress.”

That earns a quiet chuckle. “Whatever you want, kitten.”

You finally crack a smile, blinking back the sting in your eyes. Just hearing his voice has a way of grounding you.

You’re in your music studio, hunched over your editing board, headphones askew and one foot tucked under your chair. You’d been in the middle of fine-tuning a new track when his call came in, and you hadn’t hesitated to answer.

It’s been almost four months since his last visit.

And it had only lasted three days.

He hadn’t warned you. Just showed up.

You still remember the way your breath caught when the doorbell rang. You opened it to find him standing there in his dark coat, suitcase at his feet, eyes tired but warm. Mephisto had padded around your legs, mewling up at him like he recognized him too.

“I only have three days,” he’d said with that crooked smirk. “Make them count.”

You had pulled him into a hug before he could say anything else.

The days passed in a quiet blur.

You stayed in—no grand plans, no flashy outings. Just time.

He’d sprawled across your couch, catching up on work, grumbling about investors while you listened with quiet amusement.

You talked about your upcoming project—a new art museum, something you’d been dreaming of with a group of fellow artists.

He didn’t interrupt.

Just watched you talk, his fingers absently brushing over your sketchbook as you flipped through designs.

One evening, he cooked.

You teased him relentlessly about the over-seasoned pasta and undercooked bread.

He only smirked and told you to be grateful he didn’t burn your kitchen down.

“You’re still going to make me cook when you’re around,” you said.

“Of course,” he replied without missing a beat, “but at least now I can pretend to help.”

You laughed until your stomach hurt.

The night before he left, he surprised you again.

A small, velvet box—held out without a word.

Inside, a delicate diamond necklace, the pendant engraved with your initials in cursive.

You’d stared at it, stunned into silence, until he gently reached around and clasped it behind your neck himself.

“I figured,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your shoulder, “it was about time I bought you something meaningful.”

“Everything you give me is meaningful.” You smiled—eyes glossy, heart full—while he just looked at you, that familiar smirk still on his lips but his gaze soft, unguarded.

And on the day he left, he kissed your temple and whispered something soft—something you barely heard over the sound of your own heart tightening in your chest.

Now, months later, despite the distance, the bond between you has only deepened.

The texts, the nightly calls, the little packages he sends when he knows you’re working too hard—it’s not just routine.

It’s presence.

It’s him, still finding a way to be part of your days even when he’s half a world away.

“Say,” you begin, lifting your phone as you walk out of the studio, “you’re really lounging around today. Not much going on over there?”

The camera shifts, showing Sylus reclining on his couch, one arm behind his head, the other holding his phone lazily. His expression is relaxed, almost smug.

“Well,” he drawls, “my assistant just informed me that all meetings are pushed back due to a storm. So…” He flashes a half-smile. “I’m free to call you for the next two days.”

You hum in response, setting your phone on the kitchen counter and opening the fridge. “That’s great,” you reply lightly, grabbing a bottle of water. “You get to witness me becoming best friends with Mephisto.”

Right on cue, a soft mewl echoes from somewhere nearby. The little black cat pads into view, red eyes gleaming with curiosity as he hops onto a nearby stool.

Sylus chuckles. “That cat is going to be my undoing.”

You glance at the screen over your shoulder, amusement tugging at your lips. “Maybe don’t be so jealous of a kitten.”

He scoffs. “He gets more cuddles than I do.”

You roll your eyes. “You live in Madrid.”

“Still,” he mutters. “The betrayal.”

You laugh as you twist open the water bottle and take a sip.

The quiet domesticity of it all—the banter, the warmth, the soft hum of your home—settles in your chest like a weight you didn’t know you’d been craving.

Then, a moment later, his tone shifts slightly.

“Oh, by the way,” he says. “Mother called.”

You glance at the phone. “Oh?”

“She wants you to visit,” he adds casually, but his eyes flick to yours on the screen. “Says it’s been too long.”

You blink. “Me? Alone?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? I can’t exactly fly back right now. Not with the storm.”

You stare at him for a beat, water bottle paused halfway to your lips. “You know your family’s estate is terrifying, right? It’s like walking into a palace haunted by elegance.”

He grins. “You’ll be fine. Mother likes you.”

“That makes one of us.”

Sylus laughs again, but the look he gives you is gentler than before. “She just wants to see you. Talk. Probably show off your last exhibition photos to her garden club or whatever it is she does.”

You groan. “I swear if your father so much as raises an eyebrow at me—”

“I’ll call you,” Sylus says smoothly. “Every second. Every hour. I’ll be your lifeline.”

You glance at him again.

And despite your complaints, despite the nerves curling in your stomach… a part of you is already considering it.

Because this—whatever this is—feels real now.

Storm or not, Madrid or not… he’s still right there.

And maybe that’s enough.

“Fine,” you sigh, though a small smile betrays you. “I guess I’ll pick up a few gifts before heading there. Wouldn’t want to show up empty-handed and risk offending the queen of elegance.”

Sylus chuckles. “She’ll pretend not to expect it, but she’ll be delighted.”

You roll your eyes, moving around the kitchen as you speak. “It’s not generosity. It’s a tactical bribe. Just in case your father decides to interrogate me again.”

“Oh, he definitely will,” he says casually. “But you’ll charm him. You always do.”

You glance at your phone and find him reclining back on his couch, his expression relaxed, gaze soft.

There’s something steadying about the way he’s looking at you—like despite the distance, you’re still here together.

“I’ll arrange the jet to bring you,” he adds, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You blink, a little taken aback. “Of course you will.”

“Only the best,” he murmurs, “for my favorite person currently being emotionally blackmailed into visiting my family.”

You snort. “How generous of you.”

He grins, but then his voice dips just a little. “I wish I could come with you.”

The softness in his tone is unexpected—quiet, real.

You glance at the screen again, heart giving a small twist. “I know. But… it’s okay. I’ll survive.”

“Take Mephisto,” he says suddenly, like it just occurred to him. “He’ll protect you from ancestral ghost paintings and stares that last too long.”

You glance down at the kitten curled near your feet, fast asleep, clearly not up for the job.

“I think you overestimate his courage,” you murmur with a smile.

“Well then, I’ll just have to call you every night to make sure you’re still alive.”

You shake your head, but your chest feels a little lighter. “You better.”

There’s a pause, gentle and full, before he adds quietly, “Safe travels, sweetie.”

You nod, voice low. “I’ll let you know when I land.”

He gives you one final look—fond, almost reluctant. “I’ll be waiting.”

And even though you’re the one going away this time, somehow, you feel like you’re still being held.

The jet door opened with a soft hiss, revealing a muted sky dusted in silver clouds. The kind of weather that felt like it belonged to old family homes and quiet memories.

You stepped onto the stairs slowly, the chill brushing against your coat as your heels clicked lightly down each step. The estate came into view beyond the tarmac—grand, familiar, and still somehow a little distant.

A small, uncertain mewl came from the carrier in your hand.

You glanced down.

Mephisto’s red eyes peered up at you through the mesh, wide and wary. His tiny body tensed in the unfamiliar space, ears twitching as the wind tousled your coat.

You softened.

“It’s alright, little guy,” you whispered, kneeling slightly to press your fingers gently to the side of the carrier. “New places are hard. But we’ll be okay.”

He let out a quieter sound, still grumpy, but comforted.

By the time you stood again, one of the estate staff had approached—a woman dressed in neat black, posture crisp, face unreadable in that perfectly trained way.

“Good afternoon,” she said with a slight bow. “Mrs. Qin has arranged everything. May I?”

You hesitated, glancing down at Mephisto again. He let out a soft growl that almost sounded like protest.

“I’ll be right behind him,” you said, your voice gentler now. You passed the carrier to her carefully, fingers brushing the handle for a second longer than necessary.

She gave a small nod and turned toward the sleek black car waiting nearby, Mephisto quietly peering out the window of his temporary prison as he was carried away.

You stood for a moment on the tarmac, your hand drifting instinctively to the base of your neck where the necklace rested, cool and solid against your skin. Your initials were etched into the pendant—a weight you hadn’t expected to miss as much as you had.

The wind picked up slightly, brushing through your hair as your gaze drifted toward the winding road ahead.

You sighed.

Then followed.

—•

The car moved smoothly down the winding road, the estate drawing closer with every turn. The trees lining the path stood tall and still, their branches swaying ever so slightly in the breeze, like they were watching you pass.

Mephisto had finally settled in his carrier beside you, his tiny body curled into a wary little ball. His breathing was soft and even now, lulled by the motion of the car.

You stared out the window for a while, one hand resting lightly on the carrier, the other hovering over your phone.

And then—almost without thinking—you tapped his name.

The call rang once. Twice.

Then connected.

“Well,” Sylus said, his voice smooth and a little smug, “you’re alive. That’s promising.”

You exhaled, the tension in your shoulders softening instantly. “Barely,” you murmured. “Your estate still feels like it could swallow a person whole.”

His low chuckle rumbled through the speaker. “It does have that effect.”

You smiled faintly, your fingers absentmindedly stroking the edge of Mephisto’s carrier. “He finally stopped mewling,” you said softly. “But I think he hates your family already.”

“He has good instincts.”

That made you laugh under your breath.

There was a small pause.

“You nervous?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You hesitated. “A little.”

Another beat passed before he spoke again, gentler this time. “You’ll be fine. Mother already adores you. Probably more than she likes me.”

“She stares at me like she’s cataloging my entire soul.”

“She probably is,” he admitted with amusement. “But if it makes you feel any better, she’s done that to everyone since birth.”

You leaned your head against the window, watching the iron gates grow larger in the distance. “I wish you were here.”

A quiet inhale. “I know.”

Your eyes flicked to the iron gates as they swung open before the car. “The last time I was here, we had dinner. Remember?”

There was a pause on the other end. Then, “Of course I do.”

You could still see it—the long dining table, his mother’s knowing smiles, his father’s unreadable glances, the tension of formality stitched into every fork and glass.

But you also remembered Sylus nudging your knee under the table, brushing his thumb across your hand without a word. The unspoken truce forming between you.

It had been the beginning of something. Quiet. Unassuming.

But real.

“I don’t think I realized back then how different you were with them,” you murmured.

“Different?”

You nodded. “You always feel like a storm when you’re near me. But with them, you were… composed. Guarded.”

He was silent for a moment.

“They don’t get to see all of me,” he said finally. “Not like you do.”

Your heart fluttered at that. Subtle, but undeniable.

“I wish you were here,” you whispered.

“I know,” he replied. And for once, there was no smirk in his voice.

Just softness. Honesty.

You pressed the phone a little closer to your ear, as the car rolled to a stop beneath the grand stone archway.

“I’ll call tonight,” he added, quieter now. “When things settle. Just… let me know how she is.”

“I will,” you promised.

You lingered a moment longer, phone still warm in your hand.

Then the driver stepped out, and the door opened.

The wind swept against your coat, and the estate stretched out before you—familiar, imposing, and not nearly as intimidating as it used to be.

Because this time, you weren’t walking into it alone.

Not really.

—•

You’d just finished unpacking when the knock came.

The room they’d given you—Sylus’s old bedroom—still held traces of the boy he must have been. Tall bookshelves lined with outdated science manuals and worn novels.

A collection of antique model ships, perfectly preserved behind glass. A fencing trophy perched proudly on the windowsill.

It was strange, being surrounded by versions of him you’d never known, and yet… oddly comforting.

You paused at his desk, fingers brushing over a faded photograph half-tucked into a frame—he couldn’t have been more than fifteen, all sharp edges and guarded eyes, standing beside his mother in that very garden.

The knock came again, gentle but expectant.

“Mrs. Qin is waiting for you in the garden,” the attendant said politely.

You followed them down the long, polished hallway, passing tall windows that poured golden light onto the marble.

The estate was as grand as ever, but this time, it didn’t feel as cold.

Not with memories trailing behind you and Mephisto snoozing safely in the corner of Sylus’s room.

The garden looked just like the photo—elegant and wild in all the right ways.

Wisteria hung in soft lavender blooms above a marble table nestled beneath a trellis, sunlight filtering through the leaves.

She stood when she saw you.

“Sylus didn’t tell me he married someone who could disappear for months at a time,” she teased gently, though her smile was wide and real as she opened her arms.

You hesitated only a beat before stepping into the hug, your own smile tugging at your lips. “Apologies. I got lost in the studio.”

“Then it must’ve been worth it,” she said warmly, and you could tell she meant it.

She motioned for you to sit, her hands graceful as she poured the tea.

The table was already set with delicate pastries and fresh fruit, the scent of roses heavy in the spring air.

“So,” she said, reclining slightly with her teacup in hand, “tell me everything. I’ve seen some of your recent pieces. That last gallery installation in Paris—it was breathtaking.”

You blinked, surprised. “You saw that?”

She lifted a brow. “Darling, I have eyes. And a very efficient art advisor.”

That made you laugh, a soft and genuine sound.

“Things are going well. I’ve been working with a few friends to start a new collaborative space. It’s more intimate. More emotional. I think I’m finally learning to let people see the work behind the polish.”

She smiled as if pleased with your answer.

“Art and honesty have always gone hand in hand. It just takes most people a lifetime to figure it out.”

There was a comfortable silence as you sipped your tea, the breeze playing through the vines overhead.

Then she leaned in slightly, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“You know, Sylus once tried to sneak out through that hedge over there—swore he could scale the side wall with a rope he’d braided out of his school ties.”

You blinked. “Please tell me he didn’t succeed.”

“Oh, he succeeded,” she said, laughing. “And landed straight in a thorn bush. Took five stitches and refused to admit he cried.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “That… actually tracks.”

“I kept the ties. They’re in one of those drawers in his old room. I thought about turning them into a ridiculous quilt.”

You both laughed, the kind that made your chest feel light.

It was easy, sitting there with her—like sharing something sacred. Not just stories, but pieces of Sylus you wouldn’t have found on your own.

And somehow, that made this place feel a little less intimidating.

A little more like something that might, someday, feel like home.

The laughter faded, but the warmth remained. You leaned back in your chair, the delicate porcelain teacup cradled between your hands, the floral scent of the garden settling gently into your lungs. Somewhere nearby, a fountain burbled softly, blending into the sound of leaves shifting in the breeze.

She smiled over the rim of her cup, her eyes thoughtful now. “It’s good to hear you laugh,” she said. “I was worried, you know.”

You looked up at her. “Worried?”

She nodded slowly. “When you two first married… well, Sylus always had a way of keeping people at arm’s length. Even me. I wasn’t sure if he’d ever let someone in.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the cup.

She noticed.

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she said gently. “I just… I’ve never seen him soften for anyone before. Not until you.”

You looked down at the steam curling up from your tea. “It wasn’t easy at first.”

“No, I don’t imagine it was,” she said with a light, knowing smile. “He was always so composed as a boy—brilliant, distant, a bit too sharp for his own good. But underneath all that… he’s softer than he wants the world to believe.”

You met her gaze again, caught off guard by how much she seemed to know.

“I think,” you said slowly, “he’s starting to let me see that part of him.”

She reached across the table and placed her hand lightly over yours. “And I think he’s glad you do.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. Just breathed in the quiet of the garden. The peace of it.

“Has he ever brought anyone else home?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

She laughed softly, almost fondly. “No, dear. Only you.”

You blinked, heart giving a small, startled flutter.

“He always told me marriage was transactional,” she went on. “A matter of logic. Strategy. But then he married you, and now he sends me photos of your paintings and videos of that little cat as if he doesn’t realize what he’s doing.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“I think he loves you,” she said gently. “Not that he’d ever say it in so many words.”

You swallowed, eyes stinging a little more than you’d like to admit.

“I don’t need him to say it,” you whispered.

“No,” she said softly. “But one day, he will.”

The breeze picked up, stirring the wisteria. You sat there for a long moment, just you and her and the ghosts of the boy he used to be.

And for the first time, this house didn’t feel like something to endure.

It felt like something to return to.

Dinner arrived sooner than you would’ve liked.

The sun had dipped low behind the estate walls, casting long shadows across the stone floors as you were led back inside, through gilded halls and hushed corridors.

The dining room was just as you remembered—long table, flickering candlelight, polished silverware gleaming like a warning.

You inhaled slowly as you stepped in.

And there he was.

Your father-in-law stood as you entered, offering a polite nod, not a smile. He always carried himself like a figure carved from granite—stern, unreadable, with eyes that missed nothing.

The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to make you feel small.

You offered a quiet greeting, took your seat.

Right beside him.

Just as you’d dreaded.

Across the table, Sylus’s mother gave you a warm smile, as if sensing your tension and silently assuring you.

At first, it wasn’t so bad.

The food was beautifully prepared, the conversation polite. You answered questions about your recent projects, about the studio and the museum plans.

His mother asked with genuine interest, while his father listened with that usual air of cold curiosity.

Then, halfway through the main course, came the comment.

“Well,” his father said mildly, eyes not quite meeting yours, “at least Sylus had the sense to marry someone with some practical ambition. Not all artists can claim that.”

The words were smooth. Polished.

But they cut just the same.

You blinked, fork paused halfway to your mouth, unsure if you’d imagined the sharpness under his tone. His expression remained perfectly neutral, as if he’d just complimented the weather.

You swallowed back a thousand replies, each one more defensive than the last.

Instead, you reached for your phone beneath the table and typed quickly.

Your father is charming as always.

Remind me why I agreed to this again?

You hit send and placed the phone on your lap, trying to keep your smile in place.

Across the table, his mother’s brow creased slightly—as if she, too, heard the edge in her husband’s words but had long since learned to smooth over the damage.

A second later, your phone buzzed quietly.

Do I need to FaceTime into dinner and cause a scene?

You nearly laughed.

You bit your lip to keep it in, glancing down at the screen.

Please do. Dramatically, with wine.

And shirtless, if you really want to upset him.

Another buzz.

Tempting. But I’d rather save that for your return.

Hang in there, sweetie. You’ve got this.

Your shoulders relaxed just a fraction, the tension bleeding out as you let out a silent breath.

You typed one more message.

I miss you.

And I’m stealing one of your old books from the shelf before I leave.

The reply came quick, like he’d been waiting for it.

You can steal whatever you want.

You’ve already stolen my heart.

You smiled—before you could stop yourself.

A little too fondly. A little too real.

Your fingers lingered on your phone, the screen dimming with Sylus’s last message still fresh in your mind. The warmth in your chest hadn’t faded. It felt like he was right there.

But the moment didn’t go unnoticed.

A quiet cough came from beside you. Sharp. Intentional.

You glanced up and met your father-in-law’s gaze. His eyes were narrowed, unreadable, but the message was clear.

That smile had crossed some invisible line.

He shifted in his seat, posture straightening with the kind of presence that didn’t need to raise its voice to be felt. You knew that look. It was the same one you’d seen across many long, silent dinners.

A warning in polished restraint.

He opened his mouth—likely to comment, to correct.

But before a single word could land, his wife reached across the table and placed her hand gently over his.

“Not now,” she said. Her voice was calm, unwavering.

She didn’t even look at him.

The silence that followed was heavier than any argument.

His mouth closed, jaw tightening. He picked up his glass instead, taking a slow sip as if nothing had happened.

You looked down again, lips pressed together, unsure whether to feel relieved or guilty. Maybe a little of both.

When you glanced up, she was already looking at you. That quiet, knowing smile on her face again.

She didn’t have to say anything. You understood what it meant.

You throw back a small, grateful smile before looking down at your plate, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the tablecloth.

The food lost its taste somewhere between silence and formality, each course arriving with delicate precision, untouched more than it was eaten.

You nodded politely when spoken to, offered brief replies, but your mind drifted—back to the message still waiting on your phone, to the man who somehow made you feel steadier from miles away.

Dinner went on, as it always did in this house—measured, proper, and just slightly too quiet.

—•

“You should’ve seen your father’s face,” you groaned into your pillow, voice muffled as your phone sat propped up on the nightstand.

From the screen, Sylus offered you an apologetic smile, one corner of his mouth tilted, “I knew it would be bad…but not that bad.”

After dinner, you hadn’t lingered.

The moment dessert had been cleared, you’d stood with a polite excuse and slipped away.

His mother had met you in the hallway, offering a kind smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder—something wordlessly saying, you did well. It’s alright now.

Now, tucked into the oversized guest bed in his old room, you buried your face deeper into the pillow, letting out another muffled groan.

“At least your mother was gracious,” you muttered. “She always is.”

Sylus huffed softly. “She likes you.”

“Too bad your father looks at me like I personally offended his legacy.”

He didn’t argue.

You peeked up from your pillow and caught his expression again.

Still watching you.

Still trying to make this feel easier than it was.

“How am I gonna survive another four days here…” you sighed, flopping onto your back with dramatic flair.

There was a pause.

“Want me to call every night?” he offered.

You turned your head toward the screen, lips pulling into a reluctant smile. “You better.”

His eyes softened.

“I will.”

And somehow, the room didn’t feel quite so cold anymore.

You yawned, the exhaustion settling into your bones as your eyes began to flutter shut.

From the nightstand, Sylus’s voice came through the screen, quiet and warm.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll stay with you for a while.”

You turned your head slightly on the pillow, catching a blurry glimpse of him through the dim glow.

He looked relaxed, but his gaze stayed on you—steadfast, unblinking.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, words slurred with sleep.

“I know,” he replied. “But I want to.”

A small, sleepy smile tugged at your lips as your eyes finally closed. The silence between you was soft and full, the kind that didn’t need filling.

You let go, knowing he was still there.

Watching. Listening.

Staying.

Warmth spread through your chest at the quiet realisation—how far things had come, how much had changed.

You hadn’t expected this.

Not the comfort. Not the safety.

And certainly not the ever-growing affection blooming gently in your heart for the man who once felt like a stranger in your home.

Your once-so-distant husband.

Now the one who stayed on the line just to watch you fall asleep.

The next morning, your phone was dead.

You plugged it in right away, watching the screen flicker back to life with a low hum.

The first thing you saw was his message.

You’re very adorable when you sleep.

A smile pulled at your lips—soft, sleepy, silly.

You typed back,

Aren’t you glad you married me?

Setting the phone down, you headed toward the bathroom.

Not long after you disappeared down the hall,

your screen lit up again.

Ever the luckiest man.

—•

Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, stretching in soft golden stripes across the hallway as you made your way past.

Your pace slowed as you reached the staircase, the quiet of the estate broken only by the faint click of your heels against the marble.

At the bottom, a member of the staff stood waiting, hands folded neatly in front of her.

“This way, please,” she said with a courteous nod. “Mrs. Qin has requested your presence on the terrace.”

You paused mid-step, a flicker of nerves rising in your chest.

“Did she mention why?”

The staff member gave a gentle smile.

“She did not. But I do know Mr. Qin is there as well.”

You swallowed.

Of course he was.

You gave a quiet nod and followed her through the winding halls of the manor, the soft echo of footsteps filling the stillness between you.

After a moment, you glanced her way, attempting to lighten the air.

“Is Mr. Qin always so… brooding?”

The staff—an older woman, kind-eyed and composed—let out a faint, knowing chuckle.

“Well,” she said, “he wasn’t always that way.”

Her smile deepened just a little.

“Otherwise, he wouldn’t have married the Mrs.”

You blinked, surprised by the softness in her tone.

And for a moment, the silence that followed felt less heavy.

You pressed on, curiosity outweighing caution.

Something about the way she said it lingered in your mind.

“So… what was he like before?” you asked gently, keeping pace beside her.

The woman hummed, as if dusting off old memories.

“Quiet, yes. But not cold. He was sharp, impatient at times, but he had warmth. Especially around her.”

You tilted your head. “Mrs. Qin?”

She smiled again, a touch more wistful now.

“He was different with her. Softer. Not many people saw it, but we did. That boy followed her like she hung the moon. Still does, in his own way.”

You looked ahead, heart tugging unexpectedly.

Somehow, that sounded painfully familiar.

You fell silent for a moment, her words settling deeper than you expected.

Softer. Not many people saw it.

There was something about the way she said it—like she was letting you in on a secret no one dared speak aloud.

You glanced at her again. “He doesn’t seem like someone who wears his heart so easily.”

The woman gave a quiet chuckle, fond and laced with something like sympathy.

“No, he never has. But it’s not about how loudly he shows it. It’s in the way he stays. Listens. Remembers.”

You looked down, your hands brushing along the hem of your sleeve as you walked.

That did sound familiar.

As you neared the terrace doors, she slowed beside you, her voice softer now.

“This house has a way of swallowing people,” she said. “But he’s never brought anyone here without reason. If you’re here, you matter more than you think.”

You looked at her, unsure what to say.

Instead, you nodded. “Thank you.”

She returned the nod, then stepped aside and opened the door for you.

Sunlight poured through the glass, bathing the terrace in gold.

And there he was.

Mr. Qin, your father-in-law.

Standing at the edge, his back to you, hands tucked behind him in quiet thought.

Waiting.

Mrs. Qin approached with a bright smile, her arms opening to gently guide you forward onto the terrace.

“I’m glad you’re up,” she said kindly, her voice warm with quiet delight.

Just beyond her, Mr. Qin turned at the sound of your footsteps. He met your gaze with a curt nod—formal, restrained, the same unreadable expression he always wore.

You returned the gesture with a small, polite dip of your head, saying nothing.

Then your eyes drifted past him.

There, near the far edge of the terrace, stood an easel.

A fresh canvas was perched in place, untouched and glowing beneath the soft morning sun.

Beside it, a wooden tray held brushes, neatly arranged, and several familiar tubes of paint you recognized by name.

Your steps slowed.

It was quiet. Simple. But unmistakably intentional.

Your fingers curled slightly at your side, drawn to the invitation it offered without words.

It wasn’t just a setup.

It was a gesture. A space made for you.

Mrs. Qin followed your gaze and let out a soft chuckle, her eyes crinkling with amusement.

“He wanted to see you in action,” she said, voice light, teasing. “Your father-in-law, that is.”

You blinked, turning slightly toward her.

She smiled knowingly. “He’d never admit it, of course. But he’s curious. Wanted to understand what you do—what Sylus admires so much.”

You glanced back at the easel, a flutter of nerves stirring in your chest.

Mr. Qin said nothing, standing a few steps away with his hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the horizon as if he hadn’t heard a word.

But somehow, that made the gesture feel even more deliberate.

Even more sincere.

“Ah…”

The sound slipped out before you could stop it, quiet and uncertain.

You glanced at the canvas again, then back toward Mr. Qin—stoic as ever, his expression unreadable.

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t looked your way, but the meaning lingered in the space between you.

It wasn’t just curiosity.

It was effort.

And coming from him, that meant something.

You turned back to Mrs. Qin, offering a small, sheepish smile.

“I suppose I’d better make it worth his time, then.”

She grinned, clearly pleased. “I think you already have.”

You settled in front of the easel, the wooden chair cool beneath you as you adjusted your posture and took in the view.

It was stunning. The kind of beauty that didn’t ask to be captured—only waited patiently until someone finally tried.

Golden sunlight filtered through the terrace arches, spilling across the stone floor and out toward the gardens below.

Trees swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves catching the light like silk. The horizon stretched in soft pastels, blurring where the sky met distant hills.

Something inside you stirred.

Familiar. Restless. Inspired.

Your fingers moved instinctively, reaching for a brush, then hovering over the palette as color choices began to form without words.

You hadn’t planned to paint today.

But the moment asked for it.

And you answered.

They watched quietly from behind.

Neither said a word.

You could sense them there—Mr. Qin’s calm, unreadable presence, and Mrs. Qin’s quiet, reassuring stillness.

They didn’t interrupt.

They didn’t need to.

There was something unspoken in the way they stood, as if they knew this wasn’t just painting to you.

It was expression. Memory.

A piece of yourself offered without words.

So they simply watched, letting you exist in that quiet space between thought and motion, between the rise of color and the sweep of a brush.

And you painted, unhurried, letting the silence hold you.

You finished not long after, laying the paintbrush and palette gently on the small table beside you.

The breeze had quieted, the morning sun now high enough to warm your shoulders.

Turning slightly in your seat, you glanced back at them—at the stillness in their posture, the quiet attention that hadn’t wavered.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

“You finally got to see me in action,” you said, the words light and playful, directed at Mrs. Qin.

She let out a soft, delighted laugh. “I did. And it was even more mesmerizing than I imagined.”

Beside her, Mr. Qin gave a small nod.

And though his expression remained as composed as ever, you didn’t miss the faint shift in his gaze.

It was approval—unspoken, but there.

You held his gaze for a moment longer, surprised by how much that small nod meant.

He didn’t offer compliments. He didn’t need to.

But in his stillness, in the way he remained there without turning away, something had shifted.

Mrs. Qin stepped closer, eyes drifting to the canvas behind you. “May I?”

You nodded, rising from your seat as she approached the painting. She studied it quietly, fingers folded loosely in front of her.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, voice soft with sincerity. “You captured more than just the view.”

You stood beside her, brushing a faint streak of paint from your wrist. “Sometimes it’s not about what I see. It’s about what I feel when I’m seeing it.”

She looked at you then, something knowing in her eyes. “That’s why he brought you here.”

You blinked. “Sylus?”

She smiled. “No. My husband.”

Behind you, Mr. Qin remained by the terrace rail, his eyes turned toward the horizon—but he was listening.

“I think he wanted to understand,” Mrs. Qin continued. “To see for himself what Sylus saw in you.”

Your breath caught just slightly.

“And now?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Qin gave the faintest smile, folding her arms loosely. “Now, I think he sees it.”

You didn’t speak.

You just stood there, the scent of paint and garden roses drifting around you, the canvas behind you still drying in the sun.

And for once, the silence didn’t feel like a wall.

It felt like a beginning.

Mrs. Qin stepped back, giving the painting one final glance before turning to you with that same gentle warmth. “Would you mind leaving it here? I think the terrace suits it.”

You blinked, surprised by the request, but nodded. “Of course.”

She touched your arm lightly, then turned to join her husband, leaving you by the easel.

Mr. Qin didn’t say a word, but as she reached his side, he leaned in, murmuring something only she could hear.

She smiled faintly, gave the smallest nod, and they began to walk back toward the house together.

You watched them go, the way their steps fell in quiet rhythm, how she glanced up at him as if they’d been having the same silent conversation for years.

You wondered if you and Sylus would look like that someday. If you already did, in some unspoken way.

The breeze moved again, catching your hair, your sleeve, the edge of the drying canvas.

You turned back to the painting, eyes scanning the strokes you’d made. There was something different in it. Lighter. Unfiltered. You’d given it more than just color.

And somehow, you felt like the house had given something back.

Acceptance, maybe. Or something close.

You stepped away from the easel, gaze soft as you looked out over the garden one more time, then turned and followed the path back inside.

The terrace, for the first time, felt like yours too.

—•

“I think… your father might be warming up to me.”

You said it gently, unsure, your eyes flicking toward Sylus on the screen as you tucked your knees closer to your chest.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you.

You couldn’t quite read his expression—it was somewhere between thoughtful and amused.

Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Miracles do happen,” he said, tone light but not unkind.

You let out a soft breath, half a laugh. “He didn’t say much… but he stayed. Watched.”

Sylus tilted his head, watching you a little more closely now. “That’s more than most get.”

You looked down at your fingers, fidgeting slightly. “It felt like… I don’t know. Like he saw me, finally. Not just as someone you married.”

His voice dropped, quieter now. “He did.”

You looked up at him, caught off guard by how certain he sounded.

“He sees it,” Sylus said. “What you’re capable of. Who you are.”

You blinked, heart catching just a little.

“You think so?”

He didn’t smirk this time.

He just nodded. “I know so.”

You raised a brow, a grin tugging at your lips. “Wow. That’s almost a compliment. From both of you.”

Sylus leaned back, his expression lazy as ever. “Don’t get used to it. I have a reputation to uphold.”

You snorted. “Of being emotionally repressed?”

He narrowed his eyes, mock offended. “Of being mysterious and refined, actually. But thanks.”

You laughed, stretching out across the bed. “Sure, let’s go with that. Mysterious. Right. That’s definitely what people say after watching you burn toast twice in one morning.”

“That was experimental cooking,” he shot back. “And the toaster was clearly defective.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Just admit it. You’re lucky I didn’t run for the hills after that breakfast.”

Sylus smirked. “Lucky, yes. But I’m also charming. You stayed for the charm.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “No, I stayed because of Mephisto. You’re just a bonus.”

He pressed a hand to his chest in mock betrayal. “That cat has replaced me in my marriage.”

You shrugged, biting back a grin. “Don’t worry. You’re still in the top three.”

He huffed, but his smile lingered. “You’ll regret that when I steal Mephisto and disappear into the Spanish countryside.”

“Joke’s on you,” you said sweetly. “He’d come right back for the snacks.”

Sylus leaned in a little closer to the camera, his voice dropping just slightly. “And you?”

You blinked, caught off guard for just a second.

Then you smiled, soft and certain. “Always.”

His smirk lingered for a second longer before it softened into something more subtle.

Something only you ever got to see.

“Yeah,” he said, voice lower now. “Me too.”

You could hear the faint hum of the city behind him, but he was still—focused entirely on you.

“I wish you were here,” you said, barely above a whisper.

A pause.

Then that familiar glint flickered in his eyes. “If I were there, you wouldn’t get any sleep.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Sylus.”

His grin eased, eyes never leaving yours. “I mean it. I’d rather be there than anywhere else right now.”

That pulled something warm and heavy in your chest.

“I’m glad you called,” you murmured.

He leaned back slightly, gaze relaxed. “Of course I called. You think I’m letting you survive that house without backup?”

You laughed quietly, sinking deeper into the pillows.

“I’ll call again tomorrow,” he added, casually—like it was a given.

Like he didn’t even need to promise it.

“Good,” you said, letting your eyes slip shut. “You’re kind of the only thing keeping me sane.”

“I know,” he said. “Rest well, sweetie.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to.

You just smiled, closing your eyes.

And as your breathing slowed, you heard him exhale, low and steady.

Still there.

Still yours.

The days passed in a quiet blur—early mornings on the terrace, soft conversations, brushes dipped in color and silence that no longer felt cold.

And now, it was time to leave.

The car waited near the front steps, bags already packed, Mephisto curled up lazily in his carrier, half-asleep and unimpressed by the movement.

Your in-laws stood just outside the entrance, the breeze gently tugging at Mrs. Qin’s coat, Mr. Qin’s hands folded neatly behind his back.

You stepped forward, wrapping your arms around her in a final hug. She held you just as warmly as before, her touch both graceful and grounding.

When you pulled back, you offered her a small, genuine smile.

“Thanks for having me,” you said softly.

Mrs. Qin’s smile deepened. “You’re always welcome here.”

Beside her, Mr. Qin gave a quiet nod. Not a word spoken, but something in his eyes had changed—less sharp, less guarded.

And somehow, that was enough.

You turned to offer one last smile, your hand already on the car door.

“Thank you again,” you said softly. “Truly.”

You were just about to slide into the seat when a quiet voice stopped you.

“Wait.”

You turned, surprised to see Mr. Qin stepping forward, something deliberate in his movements.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just reached into his coat and pulled out a small, timeworn sketchbook. The edges were slightly frayed, the leather cover aged and softened by years of use.

“This belonged to Sylus,” he said, holding it out to you. “He used to draw in it constantly when he was younger. Never let anyone touch it.”

You looked down at the book in his hand, hesitating for just a second before accepting it carefully.

It was heavier than you expected—not in weight, but in meaning.

“I thought you should have it,” he said simply. “He wouldn’t mind.”

Your fingers brushed the edge of the cover, a quiet awe settling into your chest.

“Thank you,” you said, voice low but steady.

He gave a brief nod, almost a bow, then stepped back beside his wife.

No further words, no grand display.

But as you sat down and closed the car door, the sketchbook resting in your lap, you realized this wasn’t just a goodbye.

It was a quiet welcome.

—•

“You never told me you used to draw,” you said, a teasing lilt in your voice as you flipped another page of the sketchbook resting in your lap.

Sylus’s voice came through the speaker, dry as ever. “Because I’ve seen them.”

You let out a small laugh, glancing at the sketch currently staring back at you—a very abstract attempt at what might’ve once been a horse. Or a dragon. Possibly both.

“These are… something,” you said, trying to hold back your grin. “Bold lines. Strong confusion.”

“I was eleven and angry at perspective,” he deadpanned.

You snorted. “This one looks like it personally wronged you.”

“It probably did.”

You turned another page and found a portrait so dramatically shaded, it looked like the subject lived exclusively under a streetlamp. You tried to keep your expression neutral and failed completely.

“This one feels… intense,” you offered diplomatically.

“Ah yes,” he said. “My tortured soul phase.”

You burst into laughter, curling further into your couch. “I can’t believe you kept this.”

“I didn’t. My mother did. Probably as blackmail.”

“Well, it worked. I’m thoroughly humbled.”

There was a beat of silence, his voice softer now. “And yet, you’re still going through it.”

You smiled to yourself. “Because it’s you. Even the bad sketches.”

“Especially the bad ones,” he chuckles.

You closed the book gently, resting your hand over the worn leather cover.

“It’s good to be home,” you murmured.

“Not for long,” he replied. “You’ll be in Madrid before you know it.”

You smiled, the sound of his voice settling something in you.

“Promise?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Always.”

And just like that, the marriage that once felt impossible—fragile, distant, built more on circumstance than choice—had shifted into something quieter.

Steadier.

Real.

Not overnight. Not with grand declarations.

But with late-night calls.

With paint-stained fingers.

With laughter tucked between silence and the way he always stayed on the line just a little longer than necessary.

You glanced down at your phone, still warm in your hand. His voice had gone quiet for a while now, comfortable in the stillness.

“Say,” you asked, softer than before, almost like a memory brushing against your lips, “how long has it been since you arrived on my doorstep?”

There was a pause—then the faintest sound of a smile in his voice.

“Nine months,” Sylus said. “Two days. Around midnight.”

You blinked, breath catching slightly at the certainty in his tone. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything about that night,” he replied, lower now. “The way you looked at me like I didn’t belong. The way I didn’t know what to say to make you trust me. And the way I wanted to stay anyway.”

You didn’t speak right away. The weight of those words settled gently between you.

“…That’s when it started, didn’t it?”

He let out a quiet breath. “That’s when everything started.”

And somehow, all the time you thought you’d lost—had really been building toward this.

Toward him. Toward home.

You closed the sketchbook gently, fingers brushing over the worn leather cover one last time before setting it down on the coffee table.

A fond smile tugged at your lips, but you masked it with a familiar lilt in your voice.

“Okay, lover boy,” you teased, rising from the couch, “don’t get all emotional on me now.”

From the phone speaker, Sylus let out a quiet scoff, equal parts amused and unamused. “Says the one who cried over a cat video yesterday.”

You paused mid-step, turning toward the phone with mock offense. “It was heartfelt.”

“It was a raccoon hugging a kitten.”

“Exactly. A hug, Sylus.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Go to bed, dramatic woman.”

You grinned, already heading down the hall. “Goodnight, emotionally repressed man.”

“Sweet dreams, kitten.”

And even as you slipped beneath the covers, your heart carried the echo of his voice—calm, constant, and undeniably yours.

You wouldn’t have imagined married life to be like this.

This soft. This steady.

Not when it started with distance and silence, with unsure glances and conversations that felt more like negotiations.

But now, with his voice lingering in your ear, with an old sketchbook resting on your coffee table, and the quiet warmth of your home wrapping around you like a familiar coat.

It felt easy.

Not effortless. But easy, in the way breathing becomes when you stop realizing you’re doing it.

He made space for you.

And somewhere along the way, you made space for him too.

And maybe this was what it meant to grow into love, not by falling.

But by staying.

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crappymixtape · 1 year ago

Text

because of you • part one

PART II • PART III • PART IV • PART V • EPILOGUE // REQ -> @sattlersquarry ❝ an enemies to lovers fic with Steve? 💙 maybe they have to put aside their differences to fight upside down stuff and realize they actually have a lot in common 👀 • 18+ | ( 2.1k – little bit of king!steve, mostly angst with a dash of fluff, enemies to idiots in love, steve x reader )

B E C A U S E O F Y O U • P A R T O N E 🎶 good girls ( john carpenter remix ), chvrches

“Why is she even here?”

“Steve!”

A loud smack cut the air in two as Robin slapped a hand against Steve’s shoulder, rendering the rest of group there in Max’s trailer silent.

Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest, cheeks burning under his gaze, lips twisted into a scowl and trying hard to hold back the daggers you wanted so badly to throw at him.

“She doesn’t know what the hell we’re up against! How’s she supposed to–“

“Steve, none of us knew either, cut her a break.”

“Cut her a break and then what? We all get eaten by a fucking melted people monster?”

“That’s not fair–“

“It’s fine! It’s fine, Nancy,” you cut the girl off, standing quickly from your spot on the couch.

They’d been talking like this since you showed up. Like you weren’t right there in the room with them and honestly you kind of wished you weren’t anymore.

“I need some air,” you grumbled before giving Steve a pointed glare and shouldering open the front door.

The air outside was crisp as you sat down on the front stoop. Not a cloud in the sky and sunlight washing everything in soft golden light, but it all still felt so dark. Like it was harboring thick shadows. Long, spindly, and pitch black. Waiting to wrap their twisted fingers around you.

Waiting to dig into you and squeeze tight.

Waiting to lift you twenty feet into the air and snap your bones like twigs.

Waiting to leave you for dead.

And here was Steve fucking Harrington asking what right you had to be there. Asking what purpose were you gonna serve amongst this “holier than thou” joke of an army. Steve, Robin, Nancy and Eddie had already gotten their asses handed to them by what they’d called demobats, Steve arguably needing serious medical attention, and they wanted to go back? It took everything you had to not leave right there on the spot.

Hell, maybe you should, you thought for a minute. You didn’t owe them anything, especially Steve, but you did owe it to your best friend. The one who basically had a hit out on him. The one who wouldn’t hurt a goddamn fly, but all of Hawkins had already decided he was guilty and you weren't about to leave him.

Eddie.

❝ SO SAVE YOUR BREATH, GIVE A LITTLE OF WHAT YOU HAVE LEFT – DO THEY KNOW SOMETHING I DON’T? ❞

You met him two years ago under the bleachers at the Homecoming football game. It seemed like the perfect place to smoke the joint you’d messily rolled in the car right before you’d come into the stadium and apparently you’d been right, but someone else had already laid claim to it...

“Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but this is kind of my spot.”

He’d been all black leather and denim. Dark curls and clove. Silver rings and chains and heavy boots and maybe you should’ve been more intimidated, but the smile lines at the corners of his mouth gave him away.

“Don’t see a sign anywhere,” you’d shot back, no hesitation. Looked over at him all skeptics and attitude and took a long drag from your joint. Blew the smoke off in his direction and it made him grin like an idiot.

“Been sellin’ weed down here for like…the last three years so–actually, yeah. What the fuck, man. Someone owes me a sign.”

...And that was it, you were a goner. Laughing mid-toke and coughing so hard you cried and it made him feel so bad he gave you a baggy for free. Eddie "the freak" Munson and you – best friends.

Skipped all the stupid dances and football games with you. Paraded around the lunch room like an idiot with you. Threw fries back at the jocks for you when they called you a loser and sat on the floor in the bathroom with you when you cried.

So fuck “King Steve” Harrington.

You had every right to be there, probably even more than he did and you were gonna tell him to his face, but—

“Can I sit?”

The sudden sound of someone else made you jump.

“Jesus, Eddie.”

“Sorry,” he chuckled and sat down next to you. Gave you a sidelong glance and a small lopsided smile. “He’s really not so bad–”

“You’re joking. Right? Tell me you’re joking.”

The boy hummed, dropped his gaze down to the rings wrapped around his fingers and twisted the one on his thumb.

“He doesn’t want me here. None of them do,” you grumbled, frustration fed further by his non-answer and it pulled his eyes back up to you.

“Hey now, that’s not true–”

“Yes it is! Even Nancy looks at me like a kicked puppy.”

That pulled a laugh from him. Made him scoot closer to you and bump his shoulder into yours. “Listen, sweetheart,” the nickname made you soften, but you tried to keep your scowl in place, “We’re all in over our fuckin’ heads, hm? And Stevie boy…he’s seen some shit. He’s just trying to–”

“Just trying to what? Be a complete dickhead about it? Mission accomplished.”

Eddie sighed and roughed a hand over his face. Rested his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. He knew what you felt because he’d felt it too. Knew what it was like to get laughed at and mocked in the lunch room. Knew how it was supposed to be between him and the other boy. Hell, he nearly cut Harrington’s face off with a broken bottle a few days ago, but one thing was clear.

Change was possible and Steve Harrington was proof, he just wasn’t great at showing it.

“Alright. He could be less of a dick,” he conceded, propping his chin in his hand and looking at you with his big brown eyes. How could you be mad at that?

You mumbled under your breath about that not being the only thing, but fine, okay, only for you, Eds.

Reaching over he flicked at your fingers and looked at you from under his curls with a stern pinch between his brows. “He’s helping me, sweetheart. They all are. Shit, without them I’d probably be in jail already. Or in Carver’s trunk,” he tried a laugh, but it fell short at the end with the weight of his words and it made you grab at his hand and squeeze it.

“Shut up,” you chided softly, no heat behind it. The anger that had been swelling in your chest all but extinguished.

Silence settled between the two of you then, heavy and tinged at the edges with worry. With everything that was at risk and it started to gnaw at the pit of your stomach. What if you couldn’t fix it? And even if you could, this Vecna asshole was about to end the world anyway so what the hell did it matter?

How were a bunch of kids going to do anything about it?

“Ahem,” the door knocked into your back and jolted you back to earth. Pulled a gasp from you and when you looked up over your shoulder you felt your anger return ten fold. “We’re leaving, geniuses,” Steve announced, pushing at you with the door.

“Least you know you’re an idiot,” you mumbled under your breath, standing up from your spot to glare at him at eye level.

“Real cute,” Steve shouldered past you on the stoop, took the last two steps in one go and turned to face you both as he landed on the grass. “For you, Munson,” he said, throwing a mask at Eddie, “Courtesy of Mayfield.”

“What’s that for?” you couldn’t help asking as Max appeared at your side and pointed so casually – too casually – at the mask.

“Gonna steal a Winnebago. Get that on, dingus. Let’s go.”

“Nice,” Eddie grinned up at the red-headed girl and yanked the mask on over his head, “Thanks, Red.”

“Let’s go,” Steve urged, waving his hands at everyone to get out of the house and you felt your heart racing.

“Steal a Winnebago? Eddie. Fuck that–”

“Honey, I’m already a wanted man–” Eddie cut you off and readjusted the ridiculous looking mask a bit. “–c’mon,” he said, tugging at your belt loop to get with it.

“I–that doesn’t mean you can just steal–”

“We’re way past that,” Dustin chimed in, shoving past you just like everyone else, “Besides, if the world’s gonna end anyway, what’s it matter?”

Shit. The kid had a point. It was probably fine. It was just a trailer. Maybe you could give it back afterward? You needed it more than they did. Right?

“Dammit,” you grumbled under your breath, now the only one still standing around. “Wait for me!”

❝ THEY TELL ME I’M HELL-BENT ON REVENGE, I CUT MY TEETH ON WEAKER MEN, I WON’T APOLOGIZE AGAIN ❞

The first time you ran into Steve Harrington was sophomore year. In the hallway before Click’s class. You were cramming everything into your bag, but struggling with your history book when you heard it coming.

Tommy Hagan’s stupid laugh.

Your stomach sank, eyes glued on your things and trying to ignore it. He was in your science class the year before along with his ditzy girlfriend Carol and they always made sure to get a spot in the back just to make out.

“Need some help?”

When you finally looked up at him he’d stopped right in front of you, the grin on his lips sharklike as Carol smirked out from under his arm. Another boy you didn’t know was standing just behind them wearing a stupid member’s only jacket, half unzipped, and had hair that sat perfectly in place. Too perfect.

“That looks heavy, hm?” Tommy said grabbing your book, voice all saccharine sweet and sharp around the edges. Flipping through the pages he pulled a face, clicked his tongue and weighed it in his hand, then made a show of dumping it on the floor. “Whoops. Sorry!” he half-laughed and your cheeks burned.

“Bite me, Hagan,” you snapped back, bending down to grab your book, and it only made his grin grow wider.

“Ooo. She’s fiesty today, Stevie. I like it.”

And then he chimed in. Stevie. The had-to-be-douchebag that everyone called 'King Steve.'

“Probably on her period,” he said scoffing a laugh, all confidence and bravado and the look on his face was so smug. Thought he was so clever and funny and when you finally turned around it was to take the two steps up to him in one.

“Really? My period? So original.”

It made him swallow hard. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he blinked back the flicker of surprise glinting in his eyes. He took a quick glance at Tommy like he didn’t want to disappoint him and then hardened his expression. Crowded down over you and nodded.

“Explains you being such a bitch.”

And it took the air from your lungs. Stuck in your sides sharp like a knife and you felt your throat tighten as Tommy and Carol snickered, but you wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction. Not here.

“Yeah. Bet you wish you had an excuse for being such an asshole,” you cut at him and it pulled an Oh shit! out of Tommy as he doubled over laughing, Steve’s mouth dropped open in shock.

Your feet couldn’t carry you away fast enough as you shoved your book in your bag and turned to leave, but you refused to run. Refused to let them see weakness, and as Tommy yelled down the hallway after you about tampons you raised a middle finger high in the air to punctuate just how much you hated them all.

Eddie met you in the bathroom after that, the one nobody used on the other side of school, and you told him everything. He let you have the joint he had tucked behind his ear for emergencies, listened to you and told you they weren’t worth it. Especially not Steve. Because even though Tommy started it, Steve was the one who dug in. Could have left it alone but didn’t and that was what really got you.

How obvious it was he knew how shitty they were being, but went along with it anyway because he had to maintain his status. Had to uphold how ‘cool’ he was and keep the line in the sand drawn between him and ‘the freaks’ like you.

So he wouldn’t get a second chance.

And he wasn’t worth your time.

Not then and sure as hell not now.

[ NOTE: THIS IS PART ONE OF A THREE PART SERIES, PART TWO AND THREE TO COME SOON ]

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

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snail-day · 7 months ago

Text

Long Distance - The Epilogue

All good things come to an end, and sometimes you earn that fairy tale wedding.

Blurb, Part One, Part Two, Part Three, End :)

TW: Slight Angst, Rude parents trope, language barriers, switch to Japanese to English. FLUFFY : HAPPY ENDING!!

WC: roughly 10k

Ever since you left—left him at the airport—you hadn’t heard from Satoru.

No texts. No calls. Not even a single notification on Discord.

You stared at the ring sitting on your desk, its once-brilliant diamond now dulled under a thin layer of dust. Beside it was the small snow globe of Tokyo he had given you, its tiny cityscape frozen in time, just like the memories of your time together.

The glow from your PC cast long shadows over the desk, and your gaze drifted to the Minecraft launcher icon on your screen. It had been months since you last logged in. You probably owed an absurd amount of rent in that small, pixelated towny server—the same server where it all began.

You wondered if Satoru still played. If he still logged in late at night, planting those ridiculous, mismatched crops he always insisted were "aesthetic" while teasing you for being too organized.

But you didn’t dare log in to check.

A month passed.

And then another.

The ring stayed where it was, untouched and unboxed. You couldn’t bring yourself to put it away. To hide it meant pretending it never happened, and pretending was something you were terrible at.

Your life went on in fragments. Work, sleep, occasional moments of laughter with friends—but nothing felt whole. It was as if a part of you had been left behind in that airport, still clinging to Satoru’s tear-streaked face as he begged you to stay.

It was late one night when the first notification came.

A faint ping echoed from your phone, breaking the silence of your room. Your heart leapt as you grabbed it, half-hoping, half-dreading.

A single message blinked on the screen:

青眼の白龍:

“Hey… are you there?”

Your breath caught. It was the first message you’d seen from him in months, and the sight of his username alone was enough to send a wave of emotions crashing over you.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure what to say. Every possible reply felt too small, too inadequate to bridge the chasm that had grown between you.

Before you could respond, another message appeared:

“Sorry. This is stupid. I just…”

“I miss you.”

The tears came before you could stop them, spilling onto your cheeks as you clutched the phone tightly.

It took you a few minutes to compose yourself before typing a reply.

“I’m here.”

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly, and his next message came through faster than you expected.

“I needed to work on some things before I could reach out.”

Your chest tightened, and you hesitated before typing again.

“Satoru, I…” You paused, deleting and rewriting the words several times before settling on, “I miss you too.”

A few days later, you finally worked up the courage to open Minecraft.

The familiar loading screen greeted you, and as you entered the server, you braced yourself for the emptiness you expected.

But when the world was rendered around you, you realized it wasn’t empty at all.

The town was still there, its quaint buildings and sprawling fields just as you remembered. And in the distance, near the little house you had built together, was a figure in familiar white leather armor, standing by a new structure you didn’t recognize.

Your heart raced as you approached.

The new building was a small chapel, simple but beautiful, with pixelated flowers lining the path to its door.

Satoru’s character turned to face yours, his usual goofy skin replaced by something more formal—a pixelated suit.

青眼の白龍:

“I made this for us.”

Your hands trembled as you typed back.

“For us?”

青眼の白龍:

“Yeah. In case you wanted to get married… here. Or in Stardew. Or Animal Crossing. Or real life. Wherever you want.”

Tears blurred your vision as you stared at the screen, the ring glinting faintly in the corner of your eye.

For the first time in months, you felt like you could breathe again. Like the distance between you wasn’t so insurmountable after all.

And as Satoru’s character took a clumsy bow before stepping closer, you smiled, finally typing the words you’d been too scared to say out loud.

“I’d like that.”

You stared at the Discord notification, the little pop-up hovering on your screen. An Excel spreadsheet attachment.

青眼の白龍:

“Can you hop on a call?”

In-game, his Minecraft character crouched and uncrouched repeatedly, moving closer to your own as if mirroring his real-life restlessness. You hesitated for only a moment before clicking to join the call, your heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the little jingle of the Discord ringtone.

“Satoru?” you said softly as the call connected.

The sound of his voice on the other end nearly undid you. “Hey,” he said, his voice rough, quieter than you remembered. “Open the sheet.”

His English sounded more stilted, more foreign than usual, the confidence you’d grown so used to stripped away. You wondered if he’d stopped practicing in your absence—no daily calls, no teasing corrections.

Your hands trembled as you opened the attachment. Rows of neatly organized text filled the screen, and as you scrolled, your breath caught.

Four apartment listings. Three job applications. And at the bottom, a house listing.

“Satoru…”

“I… ah…” He paused, searching for the right words. “How do you say… I want you to move here.”

Your chest tightened as his words hit you.

“So I took the initiative,” he continued, his voice faltering slightly. “Teaching job… teaching English. A job at my family’s hotel, assistant role… And a job at an international school.”

You scrolled further, seeing contracts already attached, pay highlighted in bold. The effort, the thought, the sheer amount of planning he’d put into this—it was overwhelming.

“I found apartments for us,” he went on, the hurt in his tone unmistakable. “My place… too big. I like being close.”

Your vision blurred with tears as you tried to focus on the spreadsheet, each carefully linked document pulling at your heart.

“I toured them,” he said softly. “Linked are photos.”

Tears spilled freely now, and you couldn’t hold back the quiet sob that escaped your lips.

“The house though,” he added, his voice quieter, tinged with something raw, “it comes with a shop at the bottom. An apartment above. I will pay for you to do whatever you want with it. Bookstore, cafe, tutoring center… you can even become a yakuza member, and I’d support you.”

You let out a watery laugh, your shoulders shaking as you wiped at your face.

“So please,” he murmured, the vulnerability in his voice breaking something inside you, “just… come to me.”

For a moment, you couldn’t speak, the weight of his words and the love behind them pressing down on your chest. You stared at the screen, at the tiny, crouching character that mirrored the man waiting for your answer on the other end of the call.

“I don’t deserve you,” you finally choked out, your voice trembling.

“No,” he said firmly, his tone cutting through your tears. “I don’t deserve you. But I’m trying. I will keep trying.”

You took a shaky breath, staring at the ring on your desk, the snow globe beside it, and the spreadsheet glowing on your screen. Your heart ached with how much thought and effort Satoru had put into this. It wasn’t just a plea—it was a plan, a future laid out neatly in rows and columns, each detail a reflection of how deeply he wanted you there.

But reality came crashing down as the words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them.

“Satoru, I can’t just… up and leave.”

The silence on the other end of the call was deafening.

“I mean,” you stammered, tears pooling in your eyes again, “my job, my family, my life here… I can’t just drop everything and move across the world like it’s that simple.”

His soft exhale carried through the call, and when he spoke, his voice was low, careful. “I know it’s not simple. I know it’s asking a lot.”

You could almost hear the tension in his shoulders, the way he was likely running a hand through his hair the way he always did when he was trying to stay calm.

“But,” he continued, switching to Japanese, his words trembling slightly, “君がいないと、どこにいても空っぽなんだ。(Without you, no matter where I am, it feels empty.)”

You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying to muffle the sob threatening to escape.

“Satoru,” you whispered, “it’s not that I don’t want to. I just…” You trailed off, the weight of everything crashing over you. “What if I get there, and I can’t adjust? What if it’s too much? What if I make the wrong decision?”

“Then we’ll figure it out together,” he said immediately, his voice firmer now. “If it’s too much, we’ll fix it. If it’s the wrong decision, then I’ll make it right. I’ll make everything right.”

You shook your head, even though he couldn’t see you. “It’s not that easy.”

“It doesn’t have to be easy,” he said, switching back to English, his accent thick but steady. “I just… want to try. I want us to try. That’s all I’m asking.”

The words hung between you, and for a moment, all you could hear was the soft hum of the computer and the faint sound of him breathing on the other end of the call.

Finally, he spoke again, quieter this time. “You don’t have to decide now.”

Your breath hitched, and you gripped the edge of the desk tightly.

“Take time,” he continued. “Think about it. But… don’t throw it away. Don’t throw us away. Please.”

Your tears spilled over as you stared at the spreadsheet, the apartment listings, the job offers. The life he was building for you, brick by painstaking brick.

“I’ll think about it,” you said finally, your voice trembling.

His relief was audible, even through the call. “Okay,” he murmured, his tone softening. “That’s all I ask.”

Neither of you said anything for a long moment, the silence heavy but not unbearable.

“I miss you,” he said finally, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. “So much.”

“I miss you too,” you replied, playing with one of the knick knacks on your desk.

After you ended the call, you sat there for a long time, staring at the ring, the snow globe, and the spreadsheet on your screen. Your heart felt like it was being pulled in two directions, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on your chest.

Would it be a mistake to up and leave?

The question haunted you, whispering doubts in the quiet moments when you let yourself think too much. But chances like this… chances like him don’t just happen.

Love doesn’t just happen, and people don’t love like he does—not the way Satoru does, with his boundless energy and sincerity. He had carved a space for you in his life, in his heart, and in his plans, and no matter how much you tried to reason against it, you kept coming back to the same conclusion: you wanted to try.

You spent the next week discussing it with your family. They asked questions, expressed concerns, but ultimately, they saw the way your face lit up when you talked about him. Your dad grumbled something about “city boys” but added, begrudgingly, that it was your life to live.

Occasionally, you’d talk with Satoru. He was kind enough not to bring it up, giving you the space you needed to process. Instead, your conversations drifted back to the easy familiarity you’d missed so much. You began to sleep on calls again, his soft breathing in the background lulling you into a peace you hadn’t felt in months.

And when the deadline for your teaching contract came, you didn’t sign it.

You packed up your classroom, the memories of each lesson and every student tucked away in boxes marked Fragile. Boxes that will be left at your parents. And then you stared at one last box sitting at your front door, adorned with haphazardly placed Fragile stickers and taped-over Minecraft decals.

To: My Minecraft GF

From: Your Minecraft BF

The words made you laugh despite yourself. He really was a loser when you thought about it—a ridiculously sweet, lovable loser.

You snapped a picture of the box and sent it to him, expecting he’d already be asleep given the time difference.

But your phone rang almost immediately.

“You got it!” Satoru chimed brightly, his voice so full of joy it made your heart ache. “良かったね (Good, right?)! I was kind of worried it wouldn’t get there in time.”

You hummed, lifting the box and carrying it inside your apartment. The sound of it made him pause.

“Satoru, what is this?” you asked, setting the box down carefully on the counter.

“Mmm,” he mused, his voice softening with a teasing edge, “just things you’ll need for when you move here, obviously!”

Your heart stuttered at the ease with which he said it. “You sent me a box of… necessities?”

“Yup!” he said, laughing softly. “I took the liberty of doing all the hard stuff. Moving here is めんどくさい (a hassle), you know? Paperwork, bank accounts, utilities—it’s insane. But don’t worry, I’ve got it all figured out.”

You smiled faintly, running your fingers over the tape on the box. “You’ve really thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“Of course,” he said without hesitation. “You deserve the easiest move ever. I just… want it to be perfect for you.”

The emotion in his voice caught you off guard, and you blinked back the sudden sting of tears. You weren't sure when you started becoming a crybaby around him.

“Satoru,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, “you didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”

“I wanted to,” he said simply, his tone so earnest it made your heart swell and pound in your chest. You almost feared it would burst. “I want you to feel like this is your home too. Not just mine.”

You swallowed hard, leaning against the counter as your fingers traced the edge of the box. “Thank you,” you said softly.

“Open it!” he encouraged, his excitement palpable. “I want to hear what you think!”

You laughed quietly, grabbing a knife to cut through the tape. “Alright, alright, I’m opening it.”

Inside, you found a mix of practical items and Satoru’s signature quirks: a guidebook to navigating Japanese bureaucracy, a prepaid Japanese SIM card, a set of keys on a keychain shaped like a tiny Minecraft diamond sword, and—because it was Satoru—a plush whale shark.

“I saw the whale shark and couldn’t resist,” he said sheepishly. “I thought it could keep you company on the plane.”

You laughed, holding the plush to your chest as your tears finally spilled over. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me for it,” he teased, his voice soft but confident.

You sniffled, nodding even though he couldn’t see you. “Yeah,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I do.”

The line went quiet for a moment before he spoke again, switching to Japanese, his tone lower but filled with raw emotion.

“じゃあ、帰ってきて。(Then come home.)”

And so you did.

The moment you walked out of customs, the chaos of the bustling airport seemed to fade into the background. There he was, standing tall and impossible to miss, with his white hair practically glowing under the fluorescent lights. He held a hand-made sign that read “Welcome Home, My soon-to-be Wife” in messy, oversized English letters. The corners of the sign were adorned with doodles of hearts and what you thought were supposed to be doodles of the two of you, though Satoru’s artistic skills left much to be desired.

You froze, your chest tightening once again. It wasn’t just the sight of him—it was the way his bright blue eyes immediately found yours, as though he’d been scanning the crowd for no one but you. His lips stretched into a grin, so wide and boyish that it tugged at something deep in your chest.

“Y/N!” he called out, waving the sign enthusiastically and nearly hitting an unsuspecting traveler. His voice carried over the noise, his accent still heavy, but the sound of it warmed you in a way that made the past months of waiting melt away.

You wove through the crowd, your carry-on dragging behind you, until you were close enough to see the subtle flush on his cheeks and the slight tremor in his hand holding the sign. “My flight was on time, you lunatic,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Details,” he replied, his grin widening as he tossed the sign aside and pulled you into his arms.

The hug was overwhelming, his warmth engulfing you as he buried his face in your shoulder. You could feel him take a shaky breath, and his voice came out softer now, almost reverent. “会いたかった。(I missed you.)”

Your throat tightened, but you managed to whisper, “I missed you too.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting on your shoulders. His blue eyes scanned your face as if to memorize every detail, and then, with a teasing smirk, he said, “Did you cry on the plane? Thinking about me?”

You rolled your eyes, smacking his chest lightly. “Not even a little.”

“Liar,” he said with a laugh, grabbing your carry-on before slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Come on. I’ve been waiting for hours, and I’m starving. Let’s go home.”

The car ride was quieter, the hum of the engine filling the spaces between soft words and lingering glances. Ijichi, ever the patient (forced to be) assistant, focused on the road while Satoru made himself comfortable in the backseat.

He leaned against you, his head resting on your shoulder as his hand slipped into yours. His fingers toyed with yours absently, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“You tired?” you asked, glancing down at him.

“うん、ちょっとだけ。(Yeah, just a little),” he murmured, though the way he clung to you said otherwise. “Not tired—just… happy. You’re here.”

The simplicity of his words made you smile softly. You squeezed his hand, leaning your head against his. “I’m here.”

As the car wove through the streets of Tokyo and into the quieter outskirts, you felt peace as you ran your fingers through his snowy white hair to which he hummed.

When the car pulled up to the house, you couldn’t stop the small gasp that escaped your lips. It wasn’t at all what you had expected. Nestled at the end of a quiet street, the traditional Japanese home stood with its sloping tiled roof and wooden lattice windows, surrounded by an overgrown garden that seemed to be fighting to reclaim the space. The setting sun cast a golden glow over it, illuminating the imperfections—the peeling paint, the worn steps leading to the entrance—but also the charm that made it feel alive.

“It’s… old,” Satoru said, scratching the back of his neck as he stepped out of the car. He glanced at you, his expression a mix of excitement and hesitation. “Needs some work. A lot of work, actually. But I thought…” He trailed off, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“You thought what?” you asked, stepping out and taking it all in, the scent of fresh earth and the faint buzz of cicadas filling the air.

“I thought it could be ours,” he said softly, his gaze darting away from you. “You know, something we build together. Like a project.”

Your chest tightened as you turned to him, taking in the nervous way he kept glancing at the house and then back at you. You stepped closer, slipping your hand into his. “It’s perfect,” you said, your voice steady.

The tension in his shoulders melted as he squeezed your hand, his grin breaking through. “Yeah?”

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah.”

He exhaled deeply, his free hand brushing through his hair. “Good. Because I might’ve, uh, skipped a step or two when I bought it. Like asking for your opinion first.”

You laughed, giving him a playful shove. “That’s pretty on-brand for you.”

“Hey, what can I say? I’m a man of action,” he teased, his grin widening as he tugged you toward the front steps.

And he was a man of action. That much had been proven in the whirlwind of lawyer meetings, paperwork, and sleepless nights that had led to this moment. Somehow, he’d managed to cut through the red tape and jump through the countless hoops required to make you not just his wife, but also a Japanese citizen. A home-owning Japanese citizen. A future business owner.

The weight of it all pressed on your chest for a moment, the enormity of this new life making your stomach twist. But before you could spiral too deeply into your thoughts, Satoru gave your hand another tug, grounding you with the warmth of his touch.

“Come on,” he said, leading you toward the private entrance tucked beside the storefront. “Wait until you see it. You’re gonna love it.”

The apartment sat atop the shop, its entrance marked by a small, well-worn door that opened to a narrow staircase. He pulled you along with an almost childlike eagerness.

The stairs creaked as you climbed, and when you reached the top, Satoru paused, fishing out a set of keys from his pocket. He fumbled with them for a moment before pushing open the door, stepping aside to let you in first.

“Welcome home,” he said softly, his voice laced with a mix of pride and vulnerability.

As the two of you walked into the apartment, the weight of everything you were stepping into became more real. The wooden floors creaked under your feet, and the air smelled faintly of cedar and something older. The tatami mats in one room were worn but still beautiful, and the kitchen, though outdated, had a charm that made you picture quiet mornings and shared meals.

“This kitchen,” Satoru said, leaning against the doorway, “needs upgrades. Like, a lot. But I already have plans. Fancy ones. Don’t worry—I’ll handle it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ll handle it?”

“Of course,” he said, his grin widening. “I’m a very handy husband, didn’t you know?”

“Sure you are,” you teased, rolling your eyes as you ran your fingers along the wooden countertop. “It really is beautiful, Satoru. It feels like home.”

His teasing demeanor faltered for a moment, replaced by something softer. “That’s the point,” he said quietly.

But before the conversation could deepen, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He sighed, pulling it out and glancing at the screen.

“Family?” you asked gently.

He nodded, his expression shifting. “Yeah. I told them today.”

Your stomach twisted. “Do you want me to…?”

He shook his head quickly. “No. You don’t need to hear this.”

He stepped out onto the porch, his voice low at first as he spoke into the phone. But it didn’t take long for the conversation to escalate.

“お母さん、聞いて。(Mom, listen.)” His voice was firm but calm, though the tension in his shoulders was clear even through the doorway.

“結婚した？(You got married?)”

“Yes,” he said, switching briefly to English before reverting to Japanese. “僕たちはもう夫婦だ。(We’re already married.)”

“私たちに何も相談しないで？(Without consulting us at all?)”

“相談する必要なんてないでしょ。(There was no need to consult you.)”

Your heart sank as you stepped closer to the door, hearing fragments of the conversation.

“伝統を無視していい理由にはならない。(That doesn’t mean you can ignore tradition.)”

“伝統って？僕の人生を誰か他の人に決めさせることが伝統だっていうの？(Tradition? You mean letting someone else decide my life for me is tradition?)”

The silence that followed was deafening before his father’s voice broke through, lower and colder. “彼女は一体何を持っている？お金？地位？名誉？(What does she have? Money? Status? Prestige?)”

Satoru froze for a moment, his hand tightening into a fist. “彼女が持っているのは、僕を愛してくれる心だけだ。(What she has is a heart that loves me.)”

You swallowed hard as you realized how much he was standing up for you—how much this moment might cost him.

When he finally ended the call, he stepped back inside, his face flushed with frustration. He looked at you, his expression softening as he muttered, “怒ってる。(They’re angry.)”

You hesitated, wringing your hands. “私のせいで？(Because of me?)”

“違う。(No.)” He stepped closer, his hands finding yours. “これは僕が選んだことだ。君を守るのは僕の責任。(This was my choice. It’s my responsibility to protect you.)”

“But they’re your family,” you said softly, your voice trembling.

He let out a breath, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “君も僕の家族だ。(You’re my family too.)”

His blue eyes softened, and the tension in his face faded as he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “心配しないで。(Don’t worry.)”

You nodded, about to speak before he interrupted.

“Now,” he said, breaking the moment with his usual grin, “let’s go figure out what’s for dinner. I’ve been married for, like, two minutes, and I already feel like I deserve a good meal.”

You laughed, swatting his arm as he pulled you further into the house. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” he teased, his voice finally light again as he led you toward the kitchen.

After settling into your new home, you and Satoru decided to explore the neighborhood and find a place to eat. The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of blossoming flowers as you walked hand in hand down the quaint streets. Street lights began to flicker to life, casting a warm glow that reflected in Satoru's bright blue eyes.

You stumbled upon a cozy, traditional restaurant tucked away on a quiet corner. The wooden exterior and noren curtains gave it an inviting feel. Inside, you were seated at a low table near a window overlooking a small garden. The soft murmur of conversation and the clink of dishware created an atmosphere of serene intimacy.

At dinner, Satoru was already whining about how much he desperately wanted a big wedding, his voice rising dramatically enough to draw glances from nearby tables.

“I’m just saying,” he began, his lips pouting as he leaned closer, “we deserved better than a courthouse wedding. It’s terrible how many loopholes foreigners have to go through to get here.”

His fingers laced with yours on the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly.

“You deserve the big cake, the beautiful dress, the embarrassing 叔父 (uncle) who drinks too much—all of it!” He hummed softly before lifting your hand to his lips, planting a tender kiss on the back of it.

You couldn’t help the way your cheeks warmed at his words, the sincerity in his tone catching you off guard.

“First,” he continued, his expression brightening, “we’ll get that little shop of yours sorted. I’ve already talked to contractors—”

“Satoru,” you interrupted gently, glancing away from him.

He paused, tilting his head curiously as he studied your face. “Too fast?” he teased lightly, though there was a flicker of concern in his eyes.

You hesitated, your voice quieter when you finally spoke. “We got married on a whim. What if this is just a honeymoon phase?”

Satoru had always been the type to jump head first into things. This wasn’t going to be any different for him.

His grin faltered for a split second, but then it returned, softer this time. “A honeymoon isn’t supposed to be a nightmare,” he replied, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re cruel, my wife.”

Before you could respond, he brought your hand to his lips again, this time pressing a flurry of featherlight kisses along your knuckles.

“Satoru,” you hissed, pulling your hand back slightly, “people are staring.”

“Let them stare,” he said with a wink, his voice dropping to a soft murmur as he leaned closer. “I don’t care who’s watching. You live in my thoughts, in my dreams—you’re everywhere to me.”

Your breath hitched as he sat back, his expression unusually serious. “I’ve never known love to feel like this,” he admitted, switching to Japanese as his words grew more raw. “君がいると、初めて本当に愛を知った。(With you, I’ve truly understood love for the first time.)”

You looked away, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze, but he reached out, gently cupping your cheek and turning your face back toward his.

“I am so sure about this,” he said firmly, his eyes never leaving yours.

For a moment, the noise of the restaurant faded away, leaving only the two of you in your little world. His thumb brushed your cheek as he smiled softly, his voice dipping to a whisper.

“Trust me, Y/N. This isn’t a phase. It’s us.”

You felt your chest tighten, the doubts that had been bubbling at the edges of your mind beginning to dissolve.

“I’m just scared,” you admitted, your voice barely audible.

“I know,” he replied, his tone steady. “But I’ll keep proving it to you. Every day. For as long as it takes.”

And so you both had little life moments that ultimately led to your big day.

Like IKEA.

“We could have gone to a department store,” Satoru whined, stretching his impossibly long legs out as he sat cross-legged on the floor. His white hair was already sticking up from where he’d run his fingers through it in frustration.

“We’re saving money,” you replied, pulling out the infamous IKEA instructions and flattening them on the floor.

“Not saving time,” he shot back with a teasing grin, leaning back on his hands as he watched you. “But if my wife wants IKEA, then my wife gets IKEA!”

You rolled your eyes, nudging him with your foot. “Don’t start. This was your idea too.”

“Was it?” he hummed, pretending to think. “I feel like I was tricked into this.”

Five hours later, the two of you sat in front of a half-built entertainment center. You both looked disheveled—Satoru with his sleeves pushed up, his hair a wild mess, and you with a pencil tucked behind your ear.

“This… should not have taken five hours,” you muttered, glaring at the pile of screws still sitting in the box.

Satoru groaned, resting his forehead against the edge of the unfinished piece of furniture. “We’re paying for the assembly next time.”

“I told you to follow the instructions!”

“I did follow them!” he shot back, switching to Japanese mid-rant. “でも、これめちゃくちゃだ！(But this is ridiculous!)”

He reached for another screw, cursing under his breath as it refused to cooperate. You stifled a laugh at his frustration, which only earned you a dramatic glare.

“You’re laughing now, but you’ll be crying when this thing collapses under the weight of all my consoles,” he huffed, gesturing toward the collection of vintage Nintendo systems and the PS5 sitting nearby.

“Your consoles?” you teased. “Pretty sure half of those are mine.”

He smirked, his irritation melting away as he looked at you. “Fine. Our consoles. But I’m still blaming you if this thing falls apart.”

When the entertainment center finally came together, you both sat back, exhausted but victorious.

“Not bad,” Satoru admitted, inspecting the finished product. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he leaned over and kissed your temple. “Still hate IKEA, though.”

“Me too,” you said with a laugh. “But admit it—it’s kind of nice, isn’t it? Building something together.”

He smiled, his teasing tone softening. “Yeah. It is. But we could have just built something in minecraft too.” To which he earned a slap from you.

Then there was your first argument.

It wasn’t about anything catastrophic, but it felt significant nonetheless—like a crack in the foundation you were building together. And though the language barrier between you was smaller than it had been when you first met, it still had a way of making difficult conversations even harder.

“I just don’t understand why you don’t open up!” you exclaimed, your voice bouncing off the walls of the apartment. “Some days you’re as open as a flower, and then others you shut me out completely!”

Satoru stood by the kitchen counter, his hands braced against the edge as he avoided your gaze. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened as he processed your words.

“I’ve noticed how exhausted you’ve been lately,” you continued, your voice softening slightly. “You’ve taken on the family business and you’re still teaching night classes at the university. You can’t keep going like this, Satoru.”

He muttered something in Japanese under his breath, too quiet for you to catch, before finally straightening up. His voice, when it came, was sharp and fast, the words spilling out in rapid-fire Japanese.

“君に全部を話すのは簡単じゃないんだ！家族の期待、仕事のプレッシャー、全部が僕を押し潰しそうで…(It’s not easy to tell you everything! The expectations of my family, the pressure from work—it feels like it’s crushing me!)”

“Slow down, please,” you interrupted, holding up a hand as your frustration bubbled over. “I can’t keep up when you talk that fast.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering another string of Japanese before slamming the door as he left the room.

You stared at the now-closed door, your heart pounding as anger and confusion swirled inside you. “So we’re acting like children now,” you muttered under your breath, your voice dripping with irritation.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint creak of the floorboards as you paced the living room, occasionally glancing at the shut kitchen sliding door.

It took nearly an hour before the door opened again.

Satoru leaned against the doorframe, his hair disheveled and his expression guarded. He held something in his hands—one of your favorite mugs filled with tea.

“飲む？(Drink?)” he asked softly, holding it out to you. His English wavered slightly as he added, “For… peace?”

You hesitated before taking the mug, the warmth of it grounding you. “Thanks,” you muttered, glancing up at him. “Are you ready to talk now?”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “ごめん。(Sorry.)”

“For what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“For… yelling,” he said, his words slow and deliberate as he switched to English. “I… don’t talk about my feelings well. In Japanese or English. It’s hard.”

You nodded, sipping the tea as you waited for him to continue.

“家族の期待はすごく重い。(The expectations from my family are so heavy.)” He switched back to Japanese, his voice quieter now. “そして、自分の弱さを君に見せるのが怖い。(And I’m scared to show you my weaknesses.)”

You frowned, setting the mug down as you reached for his hand. “I’m not here to judge you, Satoru. I’m here to support you. But I can’t do that if you keep shutting me out.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his lips pressing into a thin line before he nodded slowly. “I know. I’ll… try. Really.”

You smiled faintly, squeezing his hand. “That’s all I need.”

He met your gaze, his usual teasing grin returning faintly, though the hint of uncertainty in his eyes betrayed him. “So… we’re good? You still love me?”

“Depends,” you said, raising an eyebrow, crossing your arms for added effect. “Are you done slamming doors like a child?”

Satoru winced dramatically, running a hand through his messy hair. “Ouch, low blow,” he muttered in Japanese, “でも、たぶんそれは正しい。(But maybe that’s fair.)”

You raised an eyebrow further, watching as he tilted his head like he was weighing his options.

“Okay,” he said finally, his hands raised in mock surrender. “No more slamming doors. Promise.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, pretending to think it over before relenting with a small smile. “Good. Then yeah, we’re good. And I still love you. For some reason.”

He lit up at that, his grin widening into something more familiar, more Satoru. “For some reason?” he repeated, feigning offense as he leaned closer. “Excuse me? I am incredibly lovable, thank you very much.”

“Debatable,” you teased, but the warmth in your voice undercut your words.

He smirked, his teasing tone softening into something more serious as he reached out to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed lightly against your skin as his voice dipped, switching to Japanese.

“君が怒っても、俺はいつも君を愛してるよ。(Even when you’re mad, I always love you.)”

“Then maybe don’t give me a reason to be mad next time,” you whispered, your lips twitching into a smile.

“Deal,” he said with a laugh, pulling you into his arms. “But only if you promise not to glare at me like that. It’s scary, you know.”

“Scary?” you scoffed, but your laughter was muffled as he buried his face into your shoulder, holding you tightly as if to make up for the earlier tension.

“Terrifying,” he murmured against your skin, though the smile you could feel against your shoulder told you he didn’t mind one bit.

Yet, you still had your difficult moments with him. Moments like meeting his parents.

The Gojo family estate was vast—almost intimidatingly so. It was the kind of place you’d only ever seen in dramas or movies, with sprawling gardens, traditional architecture, and the faint, soothing sound of water trickling from a nearby koi pond. The scale of it was breathtaking, but it also made you acutely aware of just how far removed this life was from your own.

“You have your own bathhouse and hot spring?” you asked, staring at the steam rising from the far end of the property.

“What? You don’t?” Satoru teased, his grin smug.

You rolled your eyes, smacking the back of his head lightly. “You’re impossible.”

He chuckled, rubbing the spot where you hit him. “Careful, wife. They might be watching,” he said, glancing around dramatically.

Your stomach tightened at the reminder of why you were here. His parents. The people who had made it clear over the phone that they were less than thrilled about your marriage.

Satoru must have noticed the shift in your expression because he immediately stepped closer, his hand finding yours. “Hey,” he said softly, his teasing tone replaced with something gentler. “It’s going to be fine. They’re… difficult, but they’ll come around. Eventually.”

“And if they don’t?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“それならそれでいい。(Then that’s fine.),” he said firmly, his blue eyes meeting yours. “君は俺の家族なんだから。(You’re my family now.)”

When the two of you finally entered the main house, it felt like stepping into another world. The polished wooden floors gleamed under the soft light filtering in through the shoji screens, and the faint scent of incense lingered in the air.

His mother was the first to greet you, her sharp gaze sweeping over you like a scan. She was poised and elegant, every inch the matriarch of a powerful family. Her lips curved into a polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“これが奥さん？(So, this is the wife?)” she said, her tone clipped but not outright hostile.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Satoru stepped in immediately, his arm slipping around your waist.

“そうです、お母さん。(That’s right, Mom.)” His grin was disarming, but his tone carried a hint of challenge.

His mother’s eyes lingered on you for a moment before she said, “少なくとも見た目は悪くないわね。(At least she doesn’t look bad.)”

Your stomach churned, but you managed to bow politely. “ありがとうございます。(Thank you.)”

She raised an eyebrow at your response but didn’t say anything further, instead turning toward Satoru.

“悟、私たちの期待を知っているはずよ。(Satoru, you should know our expectations.)”

“知ってるよ。(I know),” he replied smoothly. “でも、僕の選びに自信がある。(But I’m confident in my choice.)”

His mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing.

Dinner was tense.

His father sat at the head of the table, his presence quieter but no less imposing. He said little, but the disapproval in his gaze was unmistakable. His mother, on the other hand, seemed determined to test you with pointed questions and subtle remarks.

“あなたは何ができるの？(What can you do?)” she asked at one point, her eyes narrowing slightly. “家族に貢献できる能力はあるの？(Do you have any abilities that can contribute to the family?)”

You opened your mouth, but Satoru cut in before you could speak.

“お母さん、そんな言い方やめて。(Mom, don’t talk like that.)” His tone was light but firm, the edges of his grin sharp.

She turned her attention to him, sighing dramatically. “悟、こんな女性を選ぶなんて、あなたらしくないわ。(Satoru, choosing a woman like this—it’s so unlike you.)”

His grin widened, though his hand tightened slightly around yours under the table. “それが僕の魅力でしょ？(That’s my charm, isn’t it?)”

Later, as you and Satoru strolled through the serene garden, the tension from dinner lingered like a faint fog in the crisp evening air. The koi pond reflected the moonlight, its ripples breaking the stillness, but your mind was far from calm.

“Well, that was… something,” you said, glancing at him as you walked side by side.

“See? Not so bad,” he replied casually, though the slight slump of his shoulders betrayed him.

You raised an eyebrow. “Your mom basically said I wasn’t good enough for you.”

“And she’s wrong,” he replied immediately, his tone firm as he slipped his hand into yours. His fingers interlaced with yours as if to ground you.

You frowned, glancing at the ground. “But what if they never accept me? What if they always look at me like I don’t belong here?”

He stopped walking, gently tugging on your hand to make you stop too. When you looked up at him, his expression was soft but teasing, his blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his lips curving into a grin. “Even if they hate you, I’ll keep you around like a little Pokémon. My little Pokémon.”

Your lips twitched as you tried to suppress a laugh. “Your little Pokémon?”

“Mm-hmm,” he nodded solemnly, leaning closer as his grin widened. “I’ll carry you around in a Pokéball if I have to. Feed you berries. Make you fight other Pokémon for me.”

You finally burst out laughing, swatting at his arm. “You’re ridiculous!”

“But it worked, didn’t it?” he said, his tone smug as he straightened up and began walking again, still holding your hand.

His humor, silly as it was, had a way of making the world feel lighter, more manageable.

“Seriously, though,” he said after a moment, his voice softening. “I don’t care what they think. You’re my wife. My partner. That’s all that matters to me.”

The sincerity in his words made your throat tighten, and you gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Thanks, Satoru. For always making me feel like I belong.”

“You do belong,” he said firmly, his grin returning. “Now, come on. Let’s see if I can find another reason for you to smack me tonight. It’s becoming my favorite sport.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you let him lead you deeper into the garden, the tension from the evening melting away with every step, maybe moving to japan wasn’t so bad.

The shop came together slowly. What started as an empty, tired space transformed into something warm and inviting, with walls freshly painted in a color you both agreed on after hours of debate and laughter. The floors, once scuffed and dull, were polished until they gleamed, and the large windows let in sunlight that danced across the room in golden patches.

Satoru was there every single day. He showed up with coffee in the mornings, his hair messy and his grin wide, and stayed until the late hours, determined to see the shop come to life. He insisted on helping with everything—painting walls, unpacking boxes, even assembling shelves, though you’d banned him from building furniture unsupervised after the IKEA incident.

“Careful with that,” you said one afternoon as he attempted to hammer a nail into the wall for a shelf.

“I am careful,” he replied, pouting slightly as he adjusted his grip. “You don’t trust me?”

“Not when it comes to tools,” you teased, earning a dramatic gasp from him.

He placed a hand over his chest, his blue eyes wide. “You wound me, my love. My dear, sweet wife, doesn't her manly husband help her?”

You threw a pencil at him that he dodged with a boyish giggle. You loved your little idiot.

The grand opening was a whirlwind of emotions. From the moment you flipped the sign to “Open,” the little bell above the door jingled nonstop as customers poured in.

Satoru was your biggest cheerleader, practically buzzing with excitement as he handed out flyers outside.

“My wife’s shop!” he announced proudly to anyone within earshot, switching between Japanese and English as he grinned from ear to ear. “She’s amazing! You have to come see it!”

Every time a customer entered, he followed them in, gesturing around the shop with exaggerated enthusiasm. “見て、全部彼女のアイデアだよ！(Look, everything was her idea!)”

You caught him once talking to a group of teenagers, pointing to a shelf. “That one? I built it. With these hands. For her,” he said, dramatically placing a hand on his chest. “Pretty romantic, huh?”

You rolled your eyes at him from behind the counter, but your smile betrayed you.

That night, after the last customer had left and you’d flipped the sign to “Closed,” the two of you sat behind the counter. The shop was quiet now, the soft glow of the overhead lights casting a warm light over the space.

Satoru leaned back against the counter, watching as you counted the day’s earnings. His expression was relaxed, but his eyes were filled with pride.

“Successful first day,” he said softly, breaking the silence.

You nodded, setting the stack of bills aside. “It went better than I expected.”

He leaned closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You turned to look at him, your heart swelling at the sincerity in his voice. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” you admitted.

He grinned, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You could’ve, but I wouldn’t have let you. Watching you build this…” His voice trailed off for a moment, and he sighed contentedly. “I’ve never been more proud of you.”

You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, leaning into his touch.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For everything. For believing in me. For doing this all for me.”

“Always,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer. “I am the best husband, after all.”

And finally, the big day came.

Two years of building your life together in Japan. Two years of pushing through challenges, laughter, tears, and countless shared moments that made you stronger. And now, the day you’d dreamed of was here—your big wedding.

What you weren’t prepared for, though, was the overwhelming anxiety of it all.

The Gojo family name carried weight. As the heir, Satoru’s life was always under scrutiny, and this wedding was no exception. A small fortune had been spent on the event—no expense spared. The guest list was a who’s who of Japan’s elite, from business tycoons to celebrities, and social media buzzed with headlines like “A Cinderella Story: Gojo Heir Marries Foreigner” and “Love Beyond Borders: The Gojo Wedding”.

The sheer magnitude of it all made your hands tremble as you adjusted the flowers in your bouquet for what felt like the hundredth time. You fidgeted with your dress, smoothing the fabric and taking a deep breath as you stood at the grand doors to the altar.

Your father stood beside you, his arm steady under yours. He grunted softly, giving you a small, reassuring smile, though you could see the glint of unshed tears in his eyes.

“You ready, kid?” he asked gruffly, his voice thick with emotion.

You nodded, though your heart felt like it might leap out of your chest. “I think so.”

The music swelled, and the grand doors slowly creaked open.

This was it.

The sunlight streamed through the ornate stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the polished floor as you stepped forward. The room was a blur of faces—guests turning to watch you with awe and admiration—but none of it mattered.

Your eyes locked on Satoru.

He stood at the altar, impossibly handsome in a tailored suit that fit him perfectly. His broad shoulders were relaxed, but his hands clasped in front of him betrayed the slightest hint of nervousness.

The moment he turned to look at you, everything else melted away.

His pale blue eyes widened, the teasing sparkle you’d grown so used to replaced by something softer, something raw. His boyish grin faltered for a moment as his gaze traveled from your face to the delicate details of your dress and back again.

Then, just as you reached the halfway point, his grin returned—but softer, warmer, and tinged with vulnerability. His lips parted slightly, and you watched as he blinked rapidly, his shoulders stiffening.

Gojo Satoru, the man who could laugh through anything, was holding back tears.

You bit your lip to stop your own emotions from spilling over, focusing on your steps as you walked down the aisle. When you finally reached him, your father placed your hand in Satoru’s, his grip firm as if passing you over was the most important thing he’d ever do.

“Take care of her,” your father said quietly, his voice gruff but thick with emotion.

Satoru nodded, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. “Always,” he replied softly, his voice trembling ever so slightly.

When you turned to face him fully, he squeezed your hand gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soothing motion.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Then, switching to Japanese, he added, “世界で一番きれいだ。(You’re the most beautiful in the world.)”

The ceremony was stunning—flowers perfectly arranged, sunlight filtering through the venue in golden hues, and soft murmurs from the guests creating a gentle hum of anticipation. But everything faded into the background as Satoru stepped forward, your hands in his, the warmth of his touch grounding you in the moment.

He cleared his throat, his usual confident grin replaced by something far more vulnerable. His pale blue eyes met yours, filled with emotion, and as he opened his mouth to speak, you could hear the nervous tremor in his voice.

“If I… uh…” he paused, his tongue darting out to wet his lips before he tried again. “If I had known I was going to meet the love of my life on some… some family-friendly Minecraft server…”

He stopped, a soft chuckle escaping him as he switched to Japanese without realizing it. “本当に信じられなかった。(I really wouldn’t have believed it.)”

The crowd chuckled gently, but his gaze never wavered from yours. He switched back to English, his accent thicker than usual as he struggled through his nerves. “I… I thought life was enough. Being the best at everything. Being by myself. Accepting that there were dreams I… couldn’t reach.”

He swallowed hard, his voice trembling slightly as he slipped back into Japanese. “そう思ってたんだけど…君と出会うまでは。(That’s what I thought… until I met you.)”

His grip on your hands tightened, his thumbs brushing over your skin. “Until I met her. My wife,” he said, his voice breaking slightly on the word. “My wife who left her hometown. My wife who… who came here to build a life with me.” He stopped, blinking rapidly as tears gathered in his eyes. “My wife who…挑戦するたびに強くなる。(Who becomes stronger with every challenge.)”

A soft sniffle escaped him, and he let out a shaky laugh, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand before returning it to yours. “I can’t wait to… uh…” He faltered, switching back to Japanese as his emotions overtook him. “歳を取るのが楽しみだ。(I can’t wait to grow old together.)”

The guests leaned in, captivated, as he tried again in English, his voice raw. “To have… sick days with you. Laying in bed… with runny noses. Soup… soup warming in our kitchen.” His laugh broke through the emotion, and he sniffled again, blinking back tears.

“I can’t wait to… to have little arguments… and big ones. Ones that show how much we… we care.” His lips quirked into a wobbly smile, his eyes glistening. “I can’t wait to… to go to bed with you every night. And wake up to you every morning. With the sun shining through the window.”

He exhaled shakily, his voice softening as he continued in Japanese, the words spilling out like a confession. “君に似た子供が欲しいな。(I hope our children look like you.)”

You heard the crowd gasp softly, their emotion mirroring his as he continued, his voice thick with tears. “I can’t wait to live the rest of my days with you. 君だけだ。(You’re my one and only.)”

You couldn’t stop your own tears now, your heart aching with how much love and vulnerability he poured into every word. Something that was so unlike him.

He hesitated, his voice a trembling whisper as he leaned forward just slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Are you… ready for forever?”

You nodded, your voice breaking as you whispered back, “Ready.”

The officiant’s voice was a blur, the moment surreal as Satoru finally leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss so tender, so full of emotion, it felt like the world itself paused.

The applause, the cheers, the tears of the guests—all of it faded into the background.

And with that. You had landed your fairy tale ending.

A/n: I tried to really showcase domestic bliss but also the challenges of a new relationship and the challenges of moving in after a long distance. I cut out A LOT, this series rots my brain. I could continue it for ages, but I fear that all good things must come to an end to stay good, and I'd like to work on some other characters. Thank you all for taking the time to read the fic and leave such nice comments. Truly had been a wonderful journey.

Some more thoughts nobody asked for, but it's information that I feel like needs to be elaborated.

Who fell first?

Reader...but Satoru fell extremely hard. It was when he ended the call that he had to do math problems just to keep him from texting you. He didn't realize it at first though.

Do they have kids?

Yes! 2-3 actually, Gojo family ends up coming around to the reader after everything. Especially when the kids are born. The mother becomes a bit softer. Though Satoru doesn't trust them with overnight babysitting, he leaves Suguru or Nanami for that. Gojo does end up leaving teaching, but when his kids get older, he does go and do experimental demos in their classes. 100% takes fewer business trips. If they're longer, he tries to make them a family vacation. Unfortunately, he does his best to give his kids a normal childhood, but with the family name, they do have to go to private school.

Why no smut:

Was originally going to be yandere, but I wanted something fluffy to work on. This is why I didn't include smut. However, I imagined the reader having no experience, so when things did come down to it. Satoru was very gentle and reassuring the whole time, so much that she slapped him for it after he said, "Is this okay?" For the hundredth time.

Again, thank you all for reading. 🩷

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #jjk #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo fluff

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ghost-proofbaby · 2 years ago

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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR TWENTY FOUR

in which you and eddie win the bet.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 7k+

→ a/n: oh, holy fuck. holy fucking shit. i have no words, because i know it's not really over yet (we still have an epilogue, friends! don't forget that!) but... i did it. i finished another fic. that's just... insane?

thank you to everyone who has been so very kind and supportive of this fic. i owe you all the world. i'm sure i'll either make a sappy post between now and thursday, or i'll get extra sappy in the a/n on the epilogue, but for now - please know you have all my love. <3

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

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24:00 ─────────────── ㅇ 24:00

DINGUS: hey, i facetimed them for last hour’s proof. had to work out when they wanted me to head over and pick her up.

BIRDIE: both still alive? both still well?

DINGUS: so it seemed.

ARGYLE 😎: what a relief! I knew they had it in them

JOHNNY BOY: They still have to last one more hour.

NANCE: They’ll last the hour. Have a little faith, babe.

JOHNNY BOY: Still don’t like the fact we’ve just started calling them instead of requesting the photo proof. I mean, how do we not know they’re lying? Did you talk to both of them when YOU called, Nance?

NANCE: Yes, I told you guys that.

NANCE: Besides, you guys already know that Eddie hates having his picture taken. We’re lucky we ever got picture proof to begin with.

DINGUS: also i JUST facetimed them??? physically saw them?? your lack of trust in me and nance kind of hurts jon

BIRDIE: @NANCE hey can you call ME babe next?

HOUR TWENTY FOUR – 4:00 PM

“Hey there, love birds. Glad to see you didn’t kill each other.”

Steve.

You wait for Eddie’s arm to leave you, for him to put space between the two of you, but he doesn’t. He keeps you pressed flush to his side as if the sudden arrival of a friend doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference.

“Hey, Harrington,” he even casually greets first.

He’s making no move to get up off the floor.

Just a little bit longer. Let me sit here and live in this moment a little bit longer.

“Munson,” Steve nods to Eddie before setting his sights on you, “Doll. Nice to see you, kind of glad I’m not having to fish you out of the canals.”

You feel it — Eddie’s arm tenses behind you ever so slightly at Steve’s nickname. Clearly, it’s still a sore spot for him to work through.

“I was feeling generous,” Eddie shrugs as if he hadn’t just revealed a flash of jealousy to you. You’re not even sure if he knows that you felt it. But it was there, in the slightest tightening of his grip and the flexing of his bicep behind your shoulder.

“Generous? I think you were feeling friendly,” Steve waves his hand between the two of you, as if he thought he was pointing out the obvious.

If he thought this was close, he’d faint at the imagery of you on the kitchen counter, Eddie’s face between your legs as he begged for you to let him touch you.

Just as you had noticed Eddie’s jealousy, he notices the way you suddenly heat up, shifting in your seat ever so slightly. That pull on the corner of his lips tells you all you need to know. You kind of hate how easily the two of you can finally read each other. You kind of love the way he’s looking at you as if he’s thinking the exact same thing.

“Do I get my free punch now?” you finally speak up, tone flat as you muster a glare in Steve’s direction. You’re forgoing all polite and pretend oblivion.

Every single one of you here knows what happened. The bare bones of it, at least.

Eddie looks at you curiously, “Excuse me?”

Steve only grins, holding out his arms as if welcoming you, “Take your best shot.”

You stand quickly, and Steve even flinches. He clearly had thought it was all a bit, but you were deathly serious. After the night you’d had, you wanted to punch something, anything.

“Hold on,” Eddie fumbles to follow you as you stand in front of Steve, your eyebrow cocked as you pause, “Hold on, why are you punching Harrington?”

“Oh, I don’t know. ‘She’d never go for me, why would she go for you?’” you remind him, and fully expect for hurt to flash across his face. Instead, merriment continues to tug on his lips, “That ring a bell?”

“It might,” Eddie drawls, slowing down his movement to stand more casually, no longer in a rush to break up the fight. His eyes flash with something, with some sort of affection as your hand curls into a fist threateningly and you continue to glare daggers at Steve, “‘S cute to see you defending my honor, sweetheart.”

Your knees almost physically wobble. The nickname that once struck such anger and irritation in you has become your favorite thing, something that can so easily elicit such a physical reaction. Any taunting has dissipated from his tone when he falls from his tongue now. Adoration takes its place.

Steve looks between you two for a second before his face twists up, “God, I think I liked it better when you two hated each other.”

“Never really hated each other,” Eddie corrects Steve, but his eyes never leave yours.

“Right, must have slipped my mind.”

One of the questions that had been torturing you has now been answered — Eddie would, in fact, be acting differently around your friends. It’s almost enough that you feel no need to punch Steve.

Almost.

“Where do you want it?” you tear your gaze from Eddie, looking back to Steve now expectantly, “Cheek? Nose? Chin? Jaw?”

Steve’s eyes widen. “My God, have you just been dreaming of this moment for the last hour?”

“I have.”

Eddie leans back against the wall, still watching and still smirking as he crosses his arms.

“I know Eddie’s your boyfriend now but-“

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you correct him quickly, but something inside of you twists at saying that.

He wasn’t your boyfriend. You two had just agreed you’d need time apart before even thinking of exploring what this new chapter will bring you two. So why does it feel so wrong? Why do you suddenly feel like a pathetic teenager, desperate to bestow some cheesy title upon her crush?

Eddie nods when you suddenly look at him, as if he can read your mind, “I’m not her boyfriend. Just… her scary dog.”

Scary dog privilege. And God, does that moment feel light years in the past now. Years ago rather than hours ago. His promise to protect you suddenly rings truer now. If you ever did find yourself in trouble, you knew he’d answer your call. You knew now why his protection only extended to you. You finally, finally understood.

“Scary dog?” Steve squints at Eddie, and his judgmental demeanor has fully returned, “What the fuck does that even mea-“

He doesn’t get to finish the sardonic sentiment. The slap of your palm interrupts him.

“Ow!” he yelps out, head snapping from the force of the hit and hands already coming up defensively.

Eddie pushes off the wall the moment Steve’s hands are up in the air, “Lay a hand on her in retaliation, Harrington, and I’m breaking your arm.”

All the joking, cocky demeanor has faded. Like he had said — scary dog privilege. It applies to more than just pricks at the bar.

“I’m not,” Steve grumbles, rubbing at the red imprint now singing his cheek, “Jesus Christ, I said a punch.”

You fight a smile, “I don’t know how to throw a punch.”

“I can teach you,” Eddie pipes up, now standing beside you, hovering in your orbit.

“Don’t-“ Steve puts out a warning finger, “-encourage her. I only said you could punch me because I knew you couldn’t throw a punch!” he continues to cradle his face, now pouting at you, “Do you feel better now?”

You only answer with a triumphant smile. Because your palm is stinging, and you know violence isn’t the answer, but yeah. You do feel a little bit better.

“I don’t,” Eddie hums. He only has to take one step forward for Steve to back up, throwing out defensive eyes as he narrows his eyes, “Think I deserve to get a slap in, too, Stevie.”

“Fuck that,” Steve spits, eyes wide with genuine fear that makes you want to giggle, “You do know how to throw a punch. If I’m letting you get a free one in, I deserve twenty four hours notice.”

“Then consider this your notice.”

Is this what I had always been missing out on?

You always knew Eddie was playful with everyone, had witnessed how he joked with friends, but you’d never been included. The thought that this was the new normal makes your heart nearly burst. To be on Eddie’s side finally, to be in his good graces properly, makes you feel as if you belong more than any private movie night with Steve or impromptu dinner date with Robin. More than any night out with Nancy. More than any smoke session with Argyle, and more than any literature debate with Jonathan.

It’s as if Eddie was the missing link. You never felt you belonged, because you’d always ached for your rightful spot at his side, not just amongst the group.

The three of you stand in a makeshift circle and every single one of you smiles. Even Steve, through his slipping pout and swollen cheek, is grinning.

Suddenly, it’s not quite as heavy as it once felt.

Everything has changed. Leaving now is not leaving forever.

“I’d pay to see that,” you comment, taking a daring step to bump shoulders with Eddie. His eyes meet yours, his dimples come to life, and suddenly — you’re home, “Think I can get a front row seat to you beating Steve’s ass?”

Steve starts to protest but Eddie only nods eagerly, “I think that can be arranged.”

“I am once again reminding you two that I liked your screaming matches more than whatever this,” his hand flails, motioning to the way you two are standing closer to one another than you are him, “whole teaming-up-against-me bit is.”

“We’re not dating,” you’re reiterating as Eddie laughs out, “Stop being a crybaby.”

You look at one another again. Another foot in the door of your newfound home, another look into your new place to rest your head. It’s as if you’re just now realizing you’ve spent the entire year missing Eddie, even as he was right there in front of you.

“Well, God save us all when you two are finally dating,” Steve mumbles with a shake of his head.

“If-“ Eddie starts to correct, but you stop him.

It’s not an if when it comes to you two dating, you decide. It’s a when.

“I’ll send a gift basket when the day comes,” you snark. The look that Eddie sends you could heal every wound ever left behind, right then and there.

You’re home. When Eddie throws his arm around your shoulders and Steve rolls his eyes at you two (affectionately, even if he’d deny it), you know you’re home.

—

But then, you actually do have to go home.

You try to put it off. The three of you occupy Eddie’s living room for a while, Steve complaining about the way Robin woke him up endlessly throughout the night and how he never did finish that assignment due in his English Literature class. It reminds you that life will continue on; you have to go back to work and school, deal with daily annoyances that should seem bigger than all that’s happened with Eddie tonight, but they don’t. They all seem minuscule now, really.

“Do we still have to send photo proof?” Eddie asks once Steve’s tirade has waned. You’re sat between the two boys, Steve’s body turned almost completely to face the two of you while you and Eddie slowly sink back into the cushions.

You’re sure if Steve knew the activities that had taken place on this couch, he would not be sitting so comfortably. If at all.

Steve sighs at the mention of the bet, “You probably should. Jonathan’s been antsy about it the entire time. Me and Nance tried to cover for you guys, lying about calling and stuff but-“

“Why would you lie?” you inquire, uncurling a bit from your overly comfortable position to stop from falling asleep and actually participate in the conversation.

“Because, unlike the other idiots,” Steve gives a pointed look at you and then Eddie, “We had a hunch about what was going on here. And it’s about time, by the way.”

You think over his words for a second before you look at Eddie with sudden embarrassment, “Have you- Oh my God, have you been telling Nancy what we’ve been doing?”

“What?” Eddie sits up straighter, looking just as panicked, “No. No, absolutely not, I-“

“What have you guys been doing?”

Both of you ignore Steve as Eddie continues on.

“-just spoke to her on the phone once or twice. But I didn’t give her any details. Have you been telling Steve what we did?”

Steve, still being ignored, repeats himself, “What have you guys been doing?”

“Absolutely not,” you scrunch your nose at the thought of being that honest with Steve. You loved him, truly, but not enough to tell him about those kinds of things, “I’d rather sleep in the canals than tell him.”

“What have you guys been doing?”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up, and he mockingly stabs himself, “Ouch, sweetheart.”

“Not like that,” you backtrack, but more casually as the worry of Steve and Nancy knowing the truth, “I just meant-“

Eddie interrupts with a hand on your knee and a smile on his face, “I know what you meant. I’m just fucking with you. I feel the same way with Nance.”

“Guys?” Steve grows further impatient, “I- What the fuck did you guys do? Oh my God, is it even safe to sit on this fucking couch right now?”

“You don’t wanna know,” you say.

“No, it isn’t,” Eddie says.

It earns him a slap on his stomach as he leans over in laughter at the way Steve launches out of his seat.

“You guys- No. No fucking way,” Steve brushes at the back of his jeans, as if they’re contaminated, “Nope. No way. You’re just fucking with me, Munson.”

“Am I?”

Another slap lands on Eddie’s shoulder as he laughs harder.

“Steve,” you turn to your friend, trying to smile sweetly, “Sit back down.”

“No.”

“You just said you don’t believe-“

“We should get going,” Steve insists through his blush, “You two should take your final picture and we should get going.”

Eddie finally stops chuckling, leaning back up and against the armrest, his ankle cross in front of your shins as he stretches his legs out and sighs, “God, you should see your face right now, Harrington.”

Steve’s scowl deepens, “It’s not funny. Take the fucking photo so we can go.”

You make no move to dig out your phone, because you know. You know once you take this photo, you’ll be leaving, and this will all be over. Once you step foot back into that hallway, time apart begins. Learning how to navigate this new unknown with Eddie begins. It terrifies you, it saddens you, it exhausts you. You hadn’t been prepared for this part of the night.

Even before the confessions, you hadn’t given much thought to the ending of the twenty four hours. You’d assumed it would end in bloodshed and a larger than life fight, probably before the clock even ran out. You’d never assumed it could end in laughing, inside jokes between you and Eddie, in something not only bitter but also sweet.

“Phone, sweetheart,” Eddie whispers as he leans forward and holds out his hand with the palm up, “Before we traumatize the poor guy any further.”

“I will wait in the car, I swear to God-“ Steve starts to protest as you finally dig your phone out of your pocket.

You’re looking down, unable to meet Eddie’s gaze in fear of him picking up on your faint sadness, as you mumble, “Get your panties out of their twist, Steve. Jesus.”

Eddie snorts at that, right as you pass your phone over.

Steve doesn’t comment when you willingly tell Eddie the code to unlock your phone, or the way you let him hold it rather than you. He doesn’t comment on the arm that Eddie seems to constantly keep around you now.

He’s doing it while he can. Cherishing being able to hold you at any capacity before you leave and the distance begins. The time apart you two agreed upon won’t be for forever, but it still kills a buried part of him that had just begun to sprout roots again. A thing made of hope that he planned to tend to this time around.

“So, how do we wanna do this?” he asks in a strained tone, as if asking that question and throttling you two closer to the finish line physically pains him.

You hope it pains him, selfishly, because it pains you. “No idea.”

“We’ve gotta make it a good one.”

“We do.”

Eddie suddenly lights up with an idea as his thumb sweeps across your screen, opening your photos’ app and scrolling up to the first picture you two had taken at the beginning of this night.

“Up for a trip down nostalgia road?” he teases, wiggling his brows as he holds the phone up for you to get a clearer view of the picture.

Eddie, flipping off the camera and scowling. You, hardly smiling with a pathetic thumbs up.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, nodding slowly.

It’s unspoken, what happens next. The camera app is opened and Eddie returns your phone to your grasp. The two of you resituate to mimic the photo as closely as possible while Steve fiddles with some of the items on Eddie’s entertainment center.

You stretch out your arm, put your thumb up into view, blink away any tears burning the back of your eyes. Eddie’s hand has taken position as well.

You snap the photo before you can think too hard on it.

“Think that’ll be the winner?” Eddie curiously asks as you immediately bring the phone close to your face, swiping to view the snapshot just taken. And when you do, with the refreshed memory of that first photo, your heart physically aches.

Almost an identical image. At a quick glance, it’s the same Eddie and the same you from the first one. But the similarities fade the moment you look closer. Eddie isn’t scowling, not genuinely – those damn dimples are even making an appearance as his eyes were squinted up in a valiant effort to fight off the smile he wears now. And your smile, your smile, is no longer half-assed. It’s something real, something full, something even a bit sad. The same face you wear when saying goodbye to an old friend and trying to hold back any tears until their train has long since left the station. You can almost physically see your vines in this photo wrapping around the two of you, clinging so desperately to avoid any separation. Time apart. You’re regretting suggesting that now.

It’s a cute photo. A photo of two friends, if you could call yourself and Eddie that now.

“All done?” Steve interrupts the moment, both of you and Eddie only staring at the photo. You take a peak at him out of your peripherals, and you can see it written plainly on his face – he’s feeling all the same emotions as you. Something sad, something nostalgic, something reluctant. “Not to rush the process but… I may or may not have a hot date tonight to get ready for.”

Eddie tears his gaze from the photo, “A hot date?”

“A hot date,” Steve nods, a boyish grin gracing his lips, “And I’m picking her up in… t-minus…” he pauses, checking his watch, “Three hours.”

“Smart move. Charm her before I rearrange your face and all.”

Steve throws his head back in a groan, “You two won’t be letting that go any time soon, will you?”

“Nope,” you chime in as you swipe to open up the groupchat, not offering Steve a single glance until you’ve sent off the final addition of photo proof to the rest of your friends. You consider adding some sort of sarcastic comment, some well earned bragging and a boisterous told you so, but you don’t.

It doesn’t feel like you’ve won. Leaving this apartment, this battleground, with all the new bruises and healed wounds you’ve acquired over the span of the twenty four hours doesn’t taste like victory. Really, it tastes like… nothing.

There’s no victory, no solid ending for you to cling to. It’s simply ending and there’s still thousands of words you have to say to Eddie. You need more time, another twenty four hours, to fill with every single thing you never told him. More casual confessions of honesty, more hours wasted in his bed, more insignificant bickering to partake in. It’s all on your tongue and desperate for attention, and yet, you know you can’t succumb to it.

You have to go. It’s the last thing you want to do, but you have to.

Steve checks his phone when it buzzes with the notification of your message you sent and opens his mouth, no doubt about to comment on your lack of words with the message, but you’re already standing. It’s like ripping off a bandaid. You need to get it over with, get out of this apartment before you decide you’d rather sink right into these couch cushions and decay just to ensure you never have to really leave.

Eddie’s quick to follow.

“Let’s go,” you say to Steve, grabbing up your bag, not looking at Eddie at the risk of losing all composure.

Neither boy fights you, following you right up to the front door. Steve leads, opening it back up as reality slams you in the chest. As if there’s an invisible barrier here, and you know that in crossing it, you’ll be leaving a piece of yourself behind in apartment 2C.

Leaving now is not leaving forever.

But it sure does feel like it.

Steve awkwardly looks over your shoulder at Eddie, some silent communication you only see his half of as he shrugs and does a timid wave, turning to leave.

One foot hangs midair, your toes beginning to push through that barrier, when Eddie grabs you.

“Hey,” he breathes as he wraps his fingers around your bicep, forcing you to turn to face him. You let him, your body moving to his accord but your eyes still not meeting his, “You good?”

You take a deep breath in through your nose, “Me? Yeah. Yeah, I’m great. I’m… I’m good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive?”

“Will you look at me, then?”

Reluctantly, so very reluctantly, your eyes meet his. Big, brown doe eyes. This close to them, you can see the way they shine to match yours. You both probably look insane to Steve right now, but you don’t care. Between the sleep deprivation and all the emotions you’ve had to experience over the last day, the tears are well earned.

You almost reach out and kiss him. You almost press up onto your toes and put your lips on his, almost pour every emotion you’re feeling in the moment into a far from innocent peck.

But you don’t.

“We did it,” you croak blandly, “We won the bet.”

As if the Universe is screaming in agreement, you can hear a chime in the distance signifying the hour. Probably the church you recall passing in the middle of the night when the two of you had ventured off to the parking garage. It almost feels as if it’s mocking you.

“We did it,” he echoes as his grip on your bicep loosens. You expect him to let it fall back to his side, nearly begging out loud for him to retract his touch from you so you don’t do something stupid like stay.

You swallow down thick emotions, just like molasses, “I guess I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Time. You two needed time apart.

“Yeah,” he sighs, as he does the one thing you had somehow hoped he wouldn’t yet yearned for ardently – the hand that had wrapped around your arm now cups your cheek, thumb stroking your skin so softly, you nearly melt in his doorway, “I’ll see you around, sweetheart.”

It doesn’t taste like victory, yet it doesn’t taste quite like loss. It’s bittersweet.

You still don’t kiss him. And he doesn’t kiss you, even as his touch against your cheek lingers so heavily before he pulls away.

You cross the barrier and find you were right. You feel that piece of you tear off and flutter to the ground, and you begin to wonder when you’ll have the chance to come back and reclaim not just it, but Eddie.

—

Steve didn’t speak much on the drive back to your dorm, and you’re sort of grateful.

If you were a good friend, you’d ask more about his date. You’d get him giddy as he spills the details about this girl and his plans for the night, chastise and tease him all in good fun. You’d be smiling and making plans for coffee tomorrow morning so he could tell you all about how the date went.

But you’re not a good friend.

You sit in your silence the entire drive, and you pick at your nails, and you selfishly stay focused on Eddie. On all of your own qualms and all your own issues, worrying about what comes next and already feeling your chest tighten the moment you start to think about when see you around will come.

The two of you never discussed that, did you? There was no discussion of just how much time was needed apart.

Steve shifts the car into park in the west lot, right outside your building, “Alright, stop making your cuticles bleed for two seconds and tell me what’s wrong.”

Your hands pause exactly as he requests, caught red-handed. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Something’s obviously wrong. I told you to go get him – and yet, he’s still not your boyfriend.”

“It’s complicated,” your voice finally breaks. There’s no tears this time, just confusion and desperation clawing at your throat.

Because, was it complicated? Was it really?

The last year was what had been complicated. All the pretending and the fights and the tension. All the false beliefs and all the lies overlapping with one another. That was complicated. But this? The feelings you harbored and finally acknowledged for the boy you just left behind?

That wasn’t really complicated.

And Steve knows this, you can hear it in his sigh, “I think that’s the issue.”

“What?” you turn your head towards him, scrunch your brows, even your breathing and try to shoo away the image of Eddie’s wet eyes.

You wish you would have kissed him.

“Look, i just think you two keep making things complicated when they should be simple-”

You didn’t want to hear it. Childish as it might be, you do not want to have to hear this speech. Because you know Steve’s right.

“I’ll see you later, Steve.”

“Wait-”

You don’t wait. You slam the door in his face once you’ve got your footing outside of his car, truly earning your title of bad friend.

Awful. You weren’t just a bad friend, you were an awful friend.

And yet you can’t think on it, leaving it be until you had the time to properly dwell on how you’d apologize later. All you care about now is getting inside your dorm, moping and being miserable on your own. Your strides are longer and faster than they were even when you’d backtracked to Eddie’s apartment, determined to get behind closed doors and to properly mourn all that had been gained and all that had been lost in the last twenty four hours.

Twenty four hours ago, you were reluctant to even step foot in Eddie’s apartment. And now, it’s the only place you really want to be.

Luck refuses to be on your side as you slam into your dorm room, sweaty and tired and just fucking emotional, only to find your roommate there. There will be no dramatic crying, no cinematic scene with your back pressed to the door as you fight back sobs, it seems.

“You look rough,” is all she notes, sparing you a second glance before she returns to whatever she was tasking on at her desk. Her makeup, you think.

Good. Maybe she’ll be heading out, leaving you to suffer alone like you wanted.

“Yeah,” is all you can answer her as the door clicks shut behind you.

Rough’s a good way to put it.

“Think you’ll be here tonight?” she asks, still distracted, “Troy and I are hanging out today – he spent the night here last night, by the way – and if you’re gone again, I was thinking about inviting him back over. Only if you’re cool with it, or already have plans, though. Our RA has this final and I didn’t even have to sneak him in last night-”

She continues on her rambles, never looking your way as you drop your bag onto your bed, and quickly lift yourself to lay right next to it.

Normal. You were having to go back to fucking normal. Your worries were no longer revolving around Eddie or making it through the next hour, no longer preoccupied with keeping your friends up to date in order to ensure a payout of five hundred dollars – now, you just had to worry about boys named Troy and possible room checks by your RA. Finals to be taken, essays to be finished, shifts to be covered at the diner so you’d have enough cash to go out with your friends next weekend.

You should be relieved. But it all just feels impossibly heavy.

Your roommate catches on quickly, and when you only reply to let her know you’ll be here tonight, she stops talking. She focuses on finishing her makeup and gathering her things, hardly even offering you a goodbye as you shift to curl up more comfortably in the center of your mattress.

You should also know better than what you decide to do next. You can’t help it, though, as you tug your phone out of your pocket and unlock it. You don’t listen to the voice inside your head that screams stop as you click on your photos’ app. Ignore the animal inside that whines as you scroll, and you click on the very first photo of you and Eddie.

It’s painful, but you have nothing better to do in your solitude. You don’t linger on the first photo too long, still being fresh in your mind, before quickly swiping along.

The set of matching photos you and Eddie took of one another, black and white socks covering touching toes visible in each one. You nearly laugh at the Darth Vader figurine both of you took turns holding. You nearly cry when you realize you were, in fact, smiling in your photo. A small one, a forced one, but there nonetheless.

The selfie from the bar, your amaretto sour and Eddie’s whiskey & coke lifted towards the camera. The way both of you had tried to look annoyed, over exaggerated and furrowed brows paired with pouting lips. Your thumb swipes subconsciously over the photo for a second too long, and you’re startled when you realized it was a live photo. The moment after the photo was taken, Eddie’s eyes had moved to look at you. And in that live photo, you watched every ounce of annoyance evaporate. Leaving behind something you recognized now. Leaving behind eyes sparkling with a brief glimpse of adoration.

There’s something else you better recognize now in the next photo. The picture you’d taken when Eddie had locked himself into his room, only opening up long enough to insist you took the photo, the one that guaranteed you your money. You had been right – there was a flood of regret on his face. You hadn’t imagined it. But you had also been wrong; he was never looking at your own rotted vines and mourning them; he was looking at his own, tethered and shredded, regretting that he had ever taken an axe to them. You don’t press down to see this live photo. You don’t want to witness that door slamming in your face again.

The two photos taken in his bed. The one in which both your faces are scrunched from the flash, in which you can see the physical wall between you two. And the one in the dark, where you both wear tired smiles, unaware of the night to come.

The photo on the bike, a helmet mostly covering your blushing cheeks, but not Eddie’s.

The photo from the parking garage, meant just for you two.

The photos from Betty’s. You don’t linger on the one of you; you do linger on the one of him.

Each swipe only makes your heart ache more viciously, painful and sharp reminders of the night you had had. You don’t have to press down on another single photo to witness the live outplay of it – each memory is running through your mind in real time as you retrace your steps of the night. Twenty four hours, twenty four steps. With each photo, you watch yourself grow more relaxed, watch smiles come easier without your awareness and finally pinpoint all the care Eddie had been looking at you with the entire time.

You notice the lack of photos from the last few hours. You nearly scorn yourself for it, but there had been no time. There was no time for memories frozen in time amongst all that hard honesty and those sacrilegious revelations.

Except there was one more moment in time frozen for you. You’re quick to exit the photo app finally, leaving behind that picture of Eddie with full cheeks only to open up your text messages.

Your text thread with him. Filled to the brim with bad pastry jokes and underlying need. You remember that urgent want to comfort him, to remind him he was enough. To erase all the hurt and all the old scars caused by a life from before your time with him you still hadn’t become fully privy to.

You’re still rereading the last message, bet you wouldn’t say that to my face, when suddenly a new message appears.

EDDIE: Make it home okay?

Space and time. They are the last things you want, that you need from him right now.

YOU: yep. my roommate just left.

EDDIE: Is your dorm bed as comfortable as you remember?

YOU: like sleeping on a cloud.

You wish you were still in his bed. You wish you were back at the beginning, with him rather than all alone.

EDDIE: Oh shit, you’re trying to sleep? Sorry

EDDIE: I’ll stop bothering you and leave you to it. Sweet dreams.

No, you nearly scream at your phone screen, come back and bother me. Bother me for the rest of my days for all I care.

You’d never sleep another wink if it meant having him. You remember what you told him about starting over, starting fresh. And maybe taking a much needed nap would offer that. Maybe sleeping for more than thirty minutes at a time would be the smart choice, letting you awake with a clearer mind and better intentions.

But you don’t want that. The animal inside still clings to all that has happened.

Something about that makes you brave.

YOU: i never said that, and you’re not bothering me.

EDDIE: Didn’t you say you wanted a nap earlier?

YOU: that was earlier. i’m wide awake now.

An internal battle continues to take place. Your mind whispers liar, knowing damn well that if you put down the phone and turned your cheek to bury into your pillow, you’d be out like a light within seconds.

EDDIE: Ah. I see.

You fiddle with your thumbs for a second, stomach churning as you try to come up with a response to keep the conversation going. Technically, when you had said the two of you needed time apart after all that had happened, it should have meant interactions like this as well. Texting each other was not offering each other space.

But he’d started it. That was on him.

YOU: do you remember what i said about space? and starting over?

EDDIE: I do. I’m not very good with giving you space, it seems.

YOU: well, considering you’re on the other side of town, i’d say we’ve got the physical sense of space down.

There’s a pause in his replies that causes you to sit up. A falter. You curse him for not having a smartphone as well, for not having the privilege of being notified whether he was just taking his time typing or if he had put the phone down. You really hoped it was the former, practically wished upon every star that that was what was happening. You hoped he was glued to his phone as you were yours.

Maybe he still had that photo he’d taken a few hours ago, the one you swore you’d heard him take as you dozed off. Maybe he was still staring at it like you had done with all of your photos.

EDDIE: About that…

You stare at the message, the hidden meaning behind it completely lost on you.

YOU: About what?

EDDIE: I’m not home right now.

Your heart clenches.

YOU: You’re not?

EDDIE: I’m not.

YOU: Eddie, where the hell are you right now?

Your mind reels with all the possible choices. He could be at the bar, at the parking garage, at Nancy’s place. He could be anywhere.

But then he only sends a picture in response, and you know where he is.

You nearly topple into three other students from how you sprint down the hallway. You don’t even grab your key to your dorm room, skipping the elevators and nearly throwing yourself down the few flights of stairs in haste. You don’t care how your lungs cry out, you don’t care how your thighs burn, you don’t care how your shoulder aches from how roughly you slam open that front door of the building. You don’t care about the strange looks you get on your way out. You don’t care about the odd angle you twisted your ankle in on that last step.

The only thing you care about is the boy standing there, helmet off and balanced on the seat of his parked motorcycle that he leans on, arms crossed as his eyes light up at the erratic sight of you.

You don’t even check for any traffic in the parking lot as you make your way to him.

“I’m sorry,” he calls out once you’re close enough to hear him, “I know we said give it time and shit, but you left, and I just-”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence.

When you make it to Eddie, you’re in no business to carry anymore regret with you. This time, you don’t just yearn to kiss him, to wrap your arms around him, to pour out all those emotions you were feeling across tongues.

You do it. You kiss him, uncaring for all the stares of fellow students. He nearly falls backwards into his bike from the force of you colliding against him, but he’s quick to catch himself as his hands find your waist.

“You-” you pull back, gasping a bit to start to scold him before his lips follow and interrupt you, “Fucking-” Push and pull. You retreat, and he follows, “Idiot.”

His hands squeeze around you, tugging you a stumbling step closer so that your chests are flushed against one another.

“I am,” he mumbles against your lip, the tip of his nose grazing over your cheek as he refuses to let anymore distance be put between the two of you, “I am a fucking idiot. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

His hands cradle your face and he kisses you this time, reaffirming that he felt everything you had. All those words you hadn’t said, all his own admissions he’d withheld, spill between clashing teeth and eager lips. He takes your breath away, shamelessly, greedily. And you let him. You offer all the air that’s left in your lungs up to him on a silver platter.

When the two of you finally pull apart, eyes opening wide and foreheads pressing tightly to one another, he’s grinning like a fool.

“So, I had a better idea than time apart,” he murmurs, “What if we just… start over?”

“Start over?” you question wearily.

He nods, “Yeah. Just… Just pretend this last year and all our bullshit didn’t happen. Start fresh. Let me not be a massive dick this time.”

His hands drop from your face as he takes a step back, taking you in fully. You want to shy under his gaze, but instead you can only melt. His fondness is a warmth like no other, capturing you by the crown of your head and pouring down over you in waves.

“Okay,” you finally agree, feeling your own cheeks spread and ache in a lovesick smile. Coming home, that’s what this felt like. “Okay, we can start over.”

“Great,” the homecoming warmth only spreads as he straightens up his posture. A very serious look overcomes his face, laced with determination for a brief second until he relaxes it into a friendly smile, doleful eyes meeting yours as every single flower he had ever planted in your chest blooms like a spring morning. He sticks his hand out, nearly making you snort, “Hi, I’m Eddie.”

You can’t help it. His front door is open, a warm glow within welcoming you.

You ignore his hand entirely as you impulsively reach up and interlock your fingers at the nape of his neck, tugging him into you for another kiss.

He pulls back far too soon for your liking, but his hands have also found their spot against the small of your back, “Do you greet all the new strangers you meet like this?”

You roll your eyes, “Shut up.”

He pulls you back in for a chaste peck, and it tastes like home.

“I like you,” you whisper into the limited space between the two of you, “I mean it. I like you so fucking much, Edward Munson.”

He grins, cracking your chest wide open with hope, “The feeling’s mutual.”

taglist: @catherinnn @haylaansmi @gaysludge @paprikaquinn @manda-panda-monium @audhd-dragonaut @blushingquincy @hellkaisersangel @eddieslittlewh0re @ajkamins @prettyboy200 @munsonzzgf @blue-eyed-lion @digwhatudug @madaboutjoe @wickedslashdivine @sweet-villain @somespicystuff @big-ope-vibes @jadequeen88 @sylviin @emma77645 @notbeforelong @lolalanaie @lo-siento-ama @happy-and-alone @micheledawn1975 @aysheashea @moon-huny @munsonswrld @bambipowerblueaddition @averagestudent03 @bakugouswh0r3 @mattefic @mxcheese @bietchz @nativity-in-black @stezzil @vngelis @coley0823 @folklorebau @luvmunson86 @theherothesavior @keene200213 @hargrovesswifee @m-chmcl-rmnc @cherrymedicine13 @iunaelumen777

taglist is now closed.

#my writing #twenty four hours #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #this feels so surreal to post jesus christ #thank you guys genuinely for all the love #i will be making a sappy post before i post the epilogue on thursday #i just #wow #yeah #i did it #again #i finished a fucking fic

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sorceresssundries · 1 year ago

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Rolan's Epilogue Letter

Because we deserve one!

Dear Hero,

I write to you from the balcony of Ramazith’s tower. Below me lies a hopeful, resilient city, bruised but healing, with citizens going about their lives - lives they owe to you. A calm breeze rustles the pages of my book, and I can hear the laughter of Cal and Lia - which grows brighter and clearer each day. We have settled here comfortably, no longer needing to look over our shoulders. There are no torches or pitchforks; and the only shadows that follow us are our own.

I have taken to teaching a few spells to the refugees who have found their way to our doorstep. Some have a rudimentary understanding of spellcasting and glimmers of potential. They even go so far as to call themselves my ‘apprentices’ - though perhaps it is too early to claim such titles. I am teaching them spellcraft, and they are teaching me patience - a difficult lesson, but one I am enjoying for the most part. No matter how slow their learning or how many mistakes they make, I shall not be quick to anger. I may not be the most natural teacher, but I promise they will never know what it is like to have an instructor who relies on cruelty. They will be students, not victims.

Unfortunately, you were correct in your prediction that the tower would come under threat, and I am afraid our defences have not been as effective as hoped. The internal security mechanisms were no match for young Tieflings with sticky fingers and a penchant for mischief. After a few minor breaches, I offered them food and lodging in exchange for their knowledge of our security flaws. As a result, the tower and Sorcerous Sundries have never been safer. I am still missing a couple of amulets, but have been willing to let the matter drop.

I hope your journey has led you to your own peace. Should you ever require a refresher in magic, or simply another opportunity to meddle in our lives, this tower is always open to you.

The Master of Ramazith's tower Your friend,

Rolan

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 rolan #rolan #the rolan empire #the rolan bakery #holy rolan empire

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haine-kleine · 11 months ago

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i thought the ending couldn't be more disappointing and then this japanese tweet proved me wrong

because all of this is true. Ochako and Izuku will never forget Toga and Tenko and half of their epilogue was about this, however messily done. Ochako dedicated herself to creating better conditions for people like Toga, because she saw how badly Toga was suffering and despite failing to save her and give her a brighter future, she committed to building that future on her own, selflessly gifting it to others. Izuku had failed to save Tenko despite wanting to, and this weights on his conscience eight years later, and will continue to haunt him in the form of Shigaraki's ghost watching him, not letting him forget himself in the happy ending of joining his hero classmates and achieving his dream.

it's still messy and unfaithful as fuck, but at least these two endings still show that the consequences were there. the unfair deaths of the villains weren't simply swept under the rug and forgotten after a few sad talks about them.

and the thing these two cases share in common? Ochako and Izuku really didn't owe it to Toga and Shigaraki to save them. they didn't. they were hero kids thrown in the middle of the war these very villains waged on them. they both were younger than their respective villains, they both were hurt by these villains, they had no prior history with them, and having shared a few conversations was enough to make them emphasize with and humanize the villains. nothing that happened to Himiko and Tenko was inflicted on them by Ochako and Izuku, and yet just seeing that, hearing about that was enough to ignite sympathy in their hearts. because, you know, they are heroes. they are there to save people from suffering. and even when those people are the ones actively hurting them and their friends, they are mature enough to set that aside and attempt to save their human lives.

enter the star of the show, the only character in this story who despite having committed truly villainous acts, is allowed to go consequences free without a single care in the world. Enji. the person who had single-handedly fucked Touya up to the point his mental state was too messed up even for AFO to deal with. he had given life to this baby, and he was constantly made aware of how badly his attitude is affecting this child by Rei. and he couldn't be bothered to do anything for him, not even to look at him. the fire on Sekoto was 100% Enji's fault, not only because he couldn't be bothered to come visit his son on his day off when Touya had asked him to, but also because the number two hero on his day off was too slow to come to the forest near his house to save Touya from the fire or from All for One. this makes Touya being kept under AFO's care for the following 3 years Enji's responsibility, as he was the only one who could have saved Touya from AFO. even after Touya wakes up from his coma and immediately runs to his house as fast as he can, it's Enji's behaviour alone that makes him decide against making his presence known to the family for the following 7 years. this excuse of a father can't even mourn the death of a son he explicitly blames himself for in such way that won't make his entire existence feel meaningless to him.

and after Touya reveals himself to Enji personally as Dabi? he proves that he still hasn't changed at all and utterly fails to do anything about the situation while Shouto has to repeatedly remind him of it. not only was he procrastinating, the narrative was coddling him the entire time, with the support of other heroes and sidekicks, who despite being shown the truth about Enji, choose to ignore it. even the family he has been abusing for years, the family who was mourning Touya together, joins their efforts to support Enji.

Touya's only desires were to be seen and to be heard. both went unanswered, as after showing the world the unfiltered truth of the misery his father had caused to him, the world covered their earths and turned away. after showing himself to his family, they keep looking at Enji, not at him.

even at the very end, the end of the family's hell is more about Enji than about any other character. he is the only one allowed to talk about his feelings in depth, while the rest of them are reduced to barebone imitations of their previously established characters used as props for supporting Enji's character resolution (with the exception of Touya, who is physically unable to speak for longer than 5 minutes a day anymore. wow). even Natsuo cutting off Enji is less about the latter being a horrible excuse of a father and more about Enji's great stoicism accepting everything the family throws at him with a heroic face. Rei's character no longer makes sense because exactly a month ago her mental state and the trauma inflicted on her by this very man didn't allow her to face him at all. and now she is suddenly okay with becoming his caretaker? why is she taking her responsibility for Touya and not talking about Enji's responsibility at all? this was a man who had abused her so badly she had a psychotic episode. you don't just shrug off things like this. you don't sit in a psychiatric ward for ten years after that, waiting to be let out and jump on the first chance of making yourself useful for your abuser. you don't set aside the relationships with the children he had hurt and he had made you hurt to devote yourself fully to your damn abuser. someone take this poor woman out of this Stockholm syndrome relationship.

at this point Touya not being allowed to die is the worst offence, because the survival wasn't granted to him to heal. it was given to him for the singular purpose of making Endeavor look slightly less bad. Enji never even talks about failing to save Touya (and neither is Shouto allowed to). if you wanted to save him, then him being stuck immobile and isolated from the world with only months left to live is not 'the time Shouto gave us with him' it's a failure. he's not your damn pet, why is the narrative making him into one?

Touya had wanted to die. Shouto points this out, Touya himself talks about it. Enji was the one who didn't want him to die. he also didn't want to die himself. somehow, his desire is the only one that is fulfilled, while even Shouto's dream of eating soba with his older brother goes ignored.

and afterwards? Enji happily moves on from this with the new family he had found for himself, while Touya's childhood desire of his family looking at him is fulfilled in the most grotesque way possible. and the family's dream of having a home away from Endeavor? not a chance lmao

#man i can't deal with it anymore #NEED a fix-it #where Touya never talks to his family ever again #if this is the reunion Hori decided to give js #bnha #bnha spoilers #todoroki touya #dabi #todoroki tei #todoroki shouto #anti endeavor #bnha critical #salt #you would think enji was based on hori's higher up with the way the narrative is giving him private lap dances

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elodieunderglass · 10 months ago

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I am absolutely wild and feral over HDM (legit like, daemons fit SO well. I'm watching dunmeshi wondering where Laios' dog went) and super curious if you do plan a sequel or other fics following this AU??

(In reference to the His Dark Materials / Dungeon Meshi fusion fic)

thank you so much for this question I love this question god!!!! Thank you thank you thank you

God sorry about HDM being delayed, I’m going through hell over it at the moment. It’s meant to end a little after the dragon, then a timeskip epilogue, with special coding so that you can read it two different ways, depending on whether you want spoilers for the manga/season 2. (My idea is that you’ll click a button to reveal/hide it, and the spoiler-free epilogue will be like found poetry.)

Firstly, if you or anyone else would like to take the concepts/characters in His Delicious Materials forward for themselves, you must do this. You don’t need my permission (but I’d love a link! so I can read, scream, reblog, comment, link to it, etc. there is also the “inspired by” setting on ao3 so we can link works directly to HDM, forming a collection for anyone who reads one and wants more.) I don’t own any of it! We are all just having fun! YOU can be the sequel you want to see in the world! If your heart feels a way forward, then follow your heart!! A daemon AU is really about revealing character and I find them really inspiring, like adding a whole engine to a story idea.

If I were to write something to follow up, I do know what the sequel WOULD be! It would be a sort of Discworld novel about the slow social revolution occurring in the half-foots as a chain reaction to Bee settling as a weasel, all occurring behind Chilchuck’s oblivious and unhelpful back. Pushed into a sort of bottleneck of sparrow- and mouse-souls, and marginalised to the very edges of society, half-foots are precarious and endangered. Chilchuck is mostly eating a ham sandwich unhelpfully in the foreground, and at the end of the story looks back and sees to his bewilderment that his people have found a way forward (they don’t have a Shire or a Chosen One, but they do have a goddamn functional worker’s union and their own collective dignity.) kind of Discworld-commentary-comedy, kind of a loving argument with Tolkien, kind of Sharpe hostile-and-awkward-protagonist-POV-doesn’t-know-and-wouldn’t-believe-that-his-men-genuinely-love-him, kind of about the experience of parenting, and kind of gently warmly political BUT FUNNY so it would be ok. but feel it would be too much of a stretch of people’s patience and the original materials’s intentions to call it fanfic. Too many OCs needed to carry the weight, too little reference to the other Dungeon Meshi characters, almost too little “payoff” for what would be a full 70k word work. So maybe to let the story breathe, it would be better worked up as original fiction?

(Plus, that is actually an actual novel: if people write their own novels and manga about orc coffeeshops and dnd parties, I could just write my own too: wait but how do you know if you should?)

Anyway, that is an entirely separate kettle of weasels and my own cross to bear! If your heart cries out for a sequel the best way to manifest it in the world is to write it!

If you feel that A Weasel Heart In Defiance feels like it would scratch that itch, here is a bit that is mildly relevant to Dungeon Meshi, which is Chilchuck and Bee starting to work away from home while the girls were still small. You’ll probably see what I mean from it.

About seven of the village children, including his own three, had a snake in a wooden bucket. They didn't look up.

The reappearance of a random guy who functioned mostly as a postal service and occasionally shouted at them about bedtime - in a way that could be easily blanked out if something more interesting was happening - simply could not be expected to compete for attention with a snake in a bucket.

Chilchuck could recognise this on some level, but as his own children ignored him, he felt very hot and angry, in a way that he had never wanted to feel about children, especially his.

Bee, also rigidly pissed off, growled, "Easy, boss."

This was where Chilchuck did the only thing so far that he was proud of, in this day. He did not start shouting, even though his temper was going something like What the fuck, kids, but worse. He stopped, took a minute, and remembered he'd had this whole thing where he'd wanted his kids to love him. He rubbed his nose, said, "Remind me," and his daemon reminded him: "What do we want them to actually do?"

And he said, "The bare minimum fucking acknowledgement would be nice."

And Bee said, "Have we explained that to them? Do they know?"

So Chilchuck and Bee, hot and tired and cross and still on the job apparently, sat down on the ground with the kids and looked in the bucket. The snake, poor bastard, looked very limp and tired. Chilchuck could relate.

After a while, Chilchuck said, "Girls?"

Or more accurately, something like, "Girls! Girls. Meifleurpatti-I mean Puck-PUCK. Listen up. Mei! Fleur, I'm talking - thanks Fleur - Puck. (Ryeland, stop the baby.) PUCK. Mei, Fleur, Puck - PUCK, eyes on me - thanks, Ryeland - PUCK. EYES," which condensed in parent-speak to a single roar of "Girls!"

When he had them more or less listening, he remembered to set his voice to the more singsong cadence one used for children, instead off the deeper version of his natural voice that he used for shouting at the top of his abilities at tall people; making the choice to be patient and gentle, or at least pretend to be someone who was; and in this manner he said reasonably, "Now, your dad's been away for a very long time and missed you all very much. What do you say? What do you say when your dad comes home?"

Six children stared at him blankly, and the baby toppled gently into the bucket. He fished it out, stuck it sideways under his arm, allowed the snake to escape in the confusion, acknowledged someone's grievously injured finger, stopped Fleur from pinching, took out his pocket handkerchief and wiped Puck's nose in essentially one continuous motion.

To be completely fair, now that he'd let go of the initial anger, he could see that the kids had absolutely no idea what he'd wanted of them. Kids had practically no social instincts at the best of times. Chilchuck coming home was remarkable, sure, but beyond their influence; how were they supposed to react? What do you say to a comet? What do you say to a hailstorm? What do you say when daddy comes home?

He repeated the question, as the children had universally drawn blanks and devolved into staring vacantly.

"Good morning, Daddy!" A child chirped helpfully, setting off the rest in an automatic drone of "good morning, Daddy," in the strangely universal dreary tone of all children saying that.

"So close, Fernwise! Is it morning? What else do we think?"

Bee, fighting for order among the kit-daemons, was simultaneously washing Fleurtom's daemon, Pantoufle's, face; receiving a long rambling report of a grievance from three incoherent witnesses; and minding the baby's chick-daemon; up to her ears in parenting. She said, around a mouthful of Pan, "Speed it up, boss, you're losing them."

"Where are your spots, Daddy?" Pan asked him. He was in the form of a young ferret and scrabbled against his mother's grip on his scruff.

"My what?"

"Your freckles," Bee said grimly, and seeing he'd been temporarily disarmed - and being a valiant beast in her way - charged in to her human's defense, "Is that nice, Pan? We don't want to make people feel bad about their looks, do we?"

"Yes we do," said Fleur.

"Fleur! We've just - we haven't seen much of the sun, that's all," said Bee, taking charge, the best and most loyal soul a man could have. "They'll come back, and they're not spots."

"Mei has spots."

"Freckles."

"Grimbob has spots."

"Yes, and you shouldn't notice," Bee said. "Think of Grimbob's feelings."

"I do, I think he feels spotty."

"I'm thirsty," Puck said flatly.

"Stick to the point, kids," Chilchuck said, recovering from the fact that his usual face was apparently indistinguishable to children from Grimbob's, who had been taking puberty hard. This was surprisingly difficult to do.

Ryeland, a mildly bright spark who was older than the Chils girls, connected two dots and suddenly roared "WELCOME HOME DADDY," so six children all repeated that automatically, and Fleur added sunnily, "I missed you Daddy!"

And just as a very small piece of Chilchuck's heart was finally allowed to melt, she added, equally sunnily, "Mei didn't."

"I did a little," Meijack said vaguely.

"That's great kids, well done, we got there in the end," Chilchuck said. "Remember it for next time, okay? It makes Daddy feel better about his stupid life. Now, next time, let's remember that it's traditional to do a hug."

He realised his mistake instantly, as six children and their daemons all bore him - and the baby he'd forgotten he was holding - to the ground.

___________

#a weasel heart raised in defiance #his delicious materials #daemon AUs #like you see it right that’s not dungeon meshi but it IS definitely a thing that happens raising kids

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bookworrm1999 · 4 months ago

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How Far Away? Epilogue

Caleb x Mc

Tags: unplanned pregnancy, presumed death, depression, miscommunication

Summary: Mc and Caleb fight right before he goes on a long mission into space. Caleb ends up MIA while Mc finds out she's pregnant. She struggles to deal with the grief while Caleb is fighting for his life to make it back home to her.

Ao3

Epilogue

25 weeks

You were really starting to show now, it had seemed to already be big before but you had no idea what was in store for you. There were still 15 weeks to go! When people said that pregnancy was 9 months, it wasn’t quite accurate, it was actually 10 months when you broke down the 40 weeks.

It was spring now and it was warm enough in Skyhaven to leave the windows open, letting the spring breeze in.

You were laying on the couch on your side, your head sidled up next to Caleb’s thigh.

His hand was smoothing your hair down, a comforting feeling as you dozed. He was reading a pregnancy book to look even more into what was happening in your body.

Things that you weren’t even sure that you wanted to know.

How the baby would most likely have a lot of hair if you had frequent heartburn, how the baby's first poop would be dark and sticky like tar because the baby still peed even in the womb.

The baby breathed even in the womb, practicing breathing and swallowing.

Even now, your baby could hear you and would recognize your voice when they came out of the womb.

What really made you want to cry with all these pregnancy hormones, was that the baby didn’t even consider their mother a separate person from themselves for their first year of life.

Caleb told you all these things as he pet your head gently, the quiet intimacy was something you needed after so many weeks of loneliness and grief.

27 weeks

Laying on your bed together, Caleb’s head resting on your belly

“Hi baby girl, it’s me, your daddy.”

“I love that you talk to her every night like this.”

“Well with me back to work, I gotta make sure that she recognizes my voice too! I wasn’t here for the first few months after all.”

“She couldn’t even hear anything back then, you goose.”

“Semantics. Your mother thinks she’s so smart and knows everything. The only reason she does is because I read the books and told her.”

“I would’ve read them on my own if you hadn’t!”

“When?”

“…. Eventually…”

“Ha! When you were in the hospital and freaking out in the middle of the night, freaking out about what you were supposed to do?”

“Be nice to the lady carrying your baby.”

“I’m always nice. Hear that little girl? I’m the nice one, your mama is the meanie.”

You flick his forehead in retaliation.

“Hey! Ow! What was that for?”

“You’re poisoning our child against me! Before she’s even out of the womb too!”

“Okay, okay I’m sorry!”

“Sing her a lullaby, I’m going to bed, I’m tired.”

“Are you that mad at me?”

“No, just being pregnant is tiring. I may not be out in the field but doing desk work here at home is still mentally exhausting on top of this little one rolling all day.”

Caleb kisses your belly gently and begins to sing quietly.

“Hush little baby don’t say a word, daddy’s gonna buy you a mocking bird. If that mocking bird don’t sing, daddy’s gonna buy you a diamond ring. If that diamond ring turns brass, Daddy’s gonna buy you a looking glass. If that looking glass gets broke, Daddy’s gonna buy you a billy-goat. If that billy-goat don’t pull, Daddy’s gonna buy you a cart and bull. If that cart and bull turn over, Daddy’s gonna buy you a dog named Rover. If that dog named Rover don’t bark, Daddy’s gonna buy you a horse and cart. If that horse and cart fall down, You’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town.”

“Sounds like Daddy is going to be wrapped around her finger.”

“Just go to bed.”

30 weeks

Two weeks into your third trimester, your belly felt so heavy now. Caleb had bought you a maternity belly support belt.

It was a godsend but it wasn’t comfortable to lay down in but when you needed to work at your desk or do things around the house, it was amazing.

Caleb had been grounded until your baby was born and for another 4 months after the birth.

With Ever flailing around like a chicken whose head had been cut off, the Fleet had gone back to what it had used to have been.

Similar to what Zayne had described when you had first reunited with Caleb all those months ago.

A quiet but always present authority.

It let Caleb be a proper pilot, he didn’t have to be scary just commanding now.

Sylus had Ever on the defensive, Viper was instrumental in either eliminating threats within the organization or passing on information.

They were dying a slow death all because of an inside job taking out the heavy hitters.

It let Caleb and you have a proper relationship, you were finally communicating and you had even brought in a couples therapist.

Your personal therapist was great but Caleb hadn’t quite worked up the courage to go to one himself.

It had been hard enough opening up to the love of his life after all.

You were hopeful that you could both move forward with your lives.

The only issue now was that Caleb hadn’t brought up marriage again.

It had been weeks since he had mentioned it that morning you had reunited.

Had you been too harsh in rejecting him and just settling for being his girlfriend?

There was so much in the air at that time, life and not really knowing what was happening with Caleb.

The threat to all of your lives.

But it was different now, would you have to bring it up?

You would but Caleb still had a tendency to be secretive, you would hate to ruin a well thought surprise just because you were impatient.

Speak of the devil, you had been washing dishes when Caleb came up behind you, head resting on your shoulder.

Grabbing your hands gently and intertwining his fingers with yours, the soap sudsing between your palms.

“I thought I said I would wash the dishes?”

“You made dinner, which was delicious, thank you.”

“Oh I try, but really, you should go sit down. It worries me to see you up and doing things.”

“Really Caleb, I’m pregnant, not injured. Pregnancy is not a disability.”

“It can be for some people.”

“Honestly, I know but you’ve seen me, has it really given me much of an issue besides the usual symptoms?”

“I just want to help.”

“Listen, what’s really going on honey?”

“Ah, you caught me. I…. I guess I just feel guilty that I left you alone for those first few months. I know how sick you got and it eats me up. I want to help as much as I can now.”

“Caleb, I appreciate the thought. Really I do. But if I want to help and do things, just let me. It makes me feel like a caged bird again when you don’t let me do anything.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So long as you understand. But since you’re here and you offered, you can take over now! My back is starting to hurt.”

“On it! I’ll massage you after I finish ok?”

“You’re such a puppy.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing dear!”

35 weeks

So close but yet so far from the end of pregnancy. Everything felt heavy and took so much energy to do.

It was hard to take a deep breath, her little head living in your ribs. Maybe it was her feet now, the doctor had said that she had turned to face down now.

Getting ready for birth, you didn’t want her to come early but you were starting to get tired.

You couldn’t lay on your back, it was uncomfortable, not to mention unsafe.

Something about the baby putting pressure on a certain major blood vessel, slowing blood flow between you and the baby.

You groaned aloud, catching Caleb’s attention. It was the evening, you were laying on your side, watching a mindless home renovation show.

He was beside you, reading a report, bringing work home as usual.

“What’s wrong baby?”

“I feel so heavy and uncomfortable!”

“What can I do to help?”

“I dunno, I’m tired but it’s hard to get comfortable and then it’s hard to stay asleep because I have to pee so much.”

“I’ll draw a bath for you. Maybe being in the water will help you feel lighter, take some pressure off your back.”

“That sounds heavenly.”

“Give me a minute.”

Caleb leaves the room, you hear the roar of water from the bathroom after a few seconds.

It takes him five minutes to come out and offer you his hand to help you up.

“Your bath awaits my lady.”

“You’re such a goof.”

“And after all that effort? I’m offended.”

“If you could really be offended by a little thing like that. I’d be disappointed in you.”

Helping you up and leading you to the bathroom. The scene was so nice that it made your eyes tear up, touched by his gesture.

He’d set the mood by lighting some candles, the bath warm and filled with bubbles from your favorite bubble bath soap. A bath bomb on the side in case you wanted it, he’d even grabbed a water bottle and some crackers and cheese to munch on.

“You really are the best boyfriend.”

“I’m flattered! Such high praise!”

“Shut up and help me get in.”

Caleb helps you into the bath after getting undressed, a bath pillow behind your neck. Water buoying your body, giving you some much needed relief from the pressure in your back.

A low groan escaping you, sinking down into the water, your hair is up in a bun safe from getting wet.

“Thank you.”

Caleb trails his fingers in the water, happy to just watch you.

“You’re welcome.”

39 weeks

It’s the middle of the night, you had just gone to bed 2 hours before.

You awoke feeling odd, you stood up and made your way to the bathroom.

Caleb still sleeping in the bed behind you.

You had just made it to the tiled floor when a weird but warm feeling spread down your thighs.

It was wet.

Like you had just peed yourself but it was different.

You checked, sitting down on the toilet. It was not definitely not pee.

It was still leaking, a constant drip.

So you stuck a pad in your underwear, not having gotten use from these for months.

Going back to your room; you shook Caleb awake.

“What…?”

“I think my water broke.”

“What?!”

He sits up straight in bed looking at you with panic.

“Don’t worry, I’m not feeling any contractions but we do need to head to the hospital. Since my water broke, I’m at risk for infection if I don’t go into labor in the next 24 hours. I need to be at the hospital so they can induce me if I don’t naturally start progressing.”

“I’ll grab the bags, you go get in the plane.”

“It’ll be ok hon, from what I’ve learned. It’s nothing like the movies, we have time.”

Reaching Skyhaven hospital, you had let your OB know that your water had broke. It was the middle of the night so it had taken her a bit to reply back, but she’d be there in a few hours.

The nurses brought you and Caleb into the intake room, asking questions about when your water had broken, what color it was, if it was still leaking, etc.

Once they had you alone to get you changed into a gown and move you to your room, they asked you the standard question if you were safe at home.

Boy oh boy if they had asked that question at the beginning of your relationship, it made you ligas but appreciate the progression of your relationship as you answered yes.

They got you into the hospital bed, Caleb coming in behind you now.

Hooking you up to the fetal monitors to check on your contractions.

“Looks like you are having some small contractions, are you feeling those?”

“No i'm not actually.”

“Alright, you let me know when you start feeling them. Would you like to be able to walk and bounce on the ball?”

“Yes please!”

“Ok, when you start feeling the contractions, since you won’t be hooked up, just press this button ok?”

“Sounds good!”

“Will you be wanting any pain medication or an epidural?”

“I think I’ll be fine.”

Famous last words.

“Son of a— agggh!”

Caleb holds your hands anxiously, not able to help and distracting you just made you mad.

“Maybe I can see if they can get the anesthesiologist in here to give you an epidural?”

“Please!”

He presses the call light and explains the situation, the nurse says that the anesthesiologist would probably take about 15 minutes to get there.

“Are you kidding me?”

The contraction passes, now 3 minutes apart. You had been here for 10 hours already, you had thought you could tough it out. But as they got closer together, the stronger the pain became.

“I’m here baby.”

“I know, I don’t know if that’s making me feel better or not yet.”

It does indeed take 15 minutes for the doctor to appear, right around the same time as the OB comes in to check on your progress.

“Hey, I’m feeling some intense pressure like I gotta go bad.”

The anesthesiologist stops preparing your back and looks at the OB knowingly.

She puts in her gloves and has you spread your legs.

Checking your progression, she smiles.

“Your feeling your baby’s head bearing down. You’re at 10 centimeters and it’s time to push!”

“Wait! What about the epidural?”

“I’m sorry dear,” the two doctors look at you sympathetically, “You progressed too fast and it’s too late for that. You’ll have to do without it, we do have some gas you could take though!”

Another contraction starts and the pressure is unbearable. The doctor tells you to bear down with the contractions.

Everytime, it feels like fire down there, the pain so bad that you can’t think straight.

Caleb holds your hand, having gone silent to avoid getting his head bitten off and for nervousness.

“There’s the head! The next contraction should bring it out! Come on, next one and push!”

Bearing down like you were going to the bathroom seemed to be the best way to get the baby out. Your body naturally taking over in this act.

“She’s almost here! You got this baby.” Caleb whispers in your ear, having been wiping your forehead off and being the one to ground you.

“Aaahh!”

“The head! Bear down! The shoulders and everything else will follow if you can get those out!”

“Nnnngh!”

You felt your baby slide out from you and the pain released you. Quickly laying your baby on your chest, stimulating your little girl with a soft blanket and vigorous rubbing of her back.

The sweetest little cry, like a lamb bleating greets your ears.

“Oh! Oh! You’re beautiful!”

She’s the most precious thing, looking up at you with dark hair and a peek of purple eyes.

Tears falling from your eyes, you look up at Caleb, seemingly stunned at first but he raises his hand and lays it on her back. His hand covering almost all of her little body.

Tears fall from his eyes, a beaming smile covering his face.

“Hi little girl, I’m your daddy.”

“And I’m your mama, and we love you so much.”

You both surround your little girl with your bodies, feeling the bliss of the golden hour. The doctors in the room but leaving you to bond with your baby before taking her to check on her.

You smooth her soft hair, a little slimy with vernix but everything seems so novel and perfect about her regardless of the fact that she’s basically covered in cheese.

Placing a kiss on her forehead, you notice that she seems to have fallen asleep on your chest. Lulled by the familiar sound of your heartbeat and your scent.

“So what do you think? Should we keep the name we picked out?” You ask Caleb, not taking your eyes off of her but grasping his hand.

“Yes absolutely. She is our most cherished one now and that’s what Ahava means.”

“Hello little Ahava, welcome to the world.”

Everything else passes with a blur, she weighs 6 pounds and 7 ounces all in perfect health.

You lay her on your breast and it takes some finessing but she manages to latch

You hadn’t slept that long the night before and the pain had kept you up. So you passed her to Caleb and fell asleep, sore, the placenta already passed but you still had so much healing to do.

A few hours later, her little snuffling cries woke you up. Caleb looked a little stressed but he rocked her gently and murmured soothing words. His lips against her forehead and his body surrounding her.

“I can take her.” You held your arms out for her.

Ahava was placed in your arms and you breathed in the smell of your baby. You had often wondered about parents talking about the smell of a newborn but it was true. Babies smelled amazing at least when they were clean.

Breastfeeding her, yawning and still out of it. You swore you saw something twinkle on your hand.

No it was there! A ring!

You turned your head accusingly at Caleb but he just grinned smugly.

Whispering into your ear as not to disturb your daughter, he said

“I measured it all those weeks ago while we were washing dishes. I think you’ve been my girlfriend long enough now. I’d like to say you’re my wife as well as the mother of my children when I introduce you to people.”

“Children? As in plural?”

“Absolutely, I think we need a few more of these little ones. Don’t you?”

“I’m sure you’ll find some way to convince me.” You sigh teasingly.

“Oh you can bet on it.” Caleb leans forward and kisses you gently, the feeling of your daughter sleeping in your arms and all threats gone. Life truly felt complete in that moment.

Thank you so much for reading! I’ve really enjoyed writing this fic. I may write more about these characters in the future, maybe a smutty one or about their lives as parents, we’ll see.

Tags: @moonberry69 @supermyeon22 @tinnyrabbit @gavin3469 @marina27826 @crowleysthings @tabi-callico @midiplier

@his-ocean-emissary @rosalyne08

@xaviers-pookie-bear @tsunamethyst @thejujvtsupost @cherrybeomgyu

@gojosballsack69 @apple-lov3r @dinochocochip @violetpurplez @raiyuxa @nickibunny23 @sh3sa1dwhat @playboygeniusphilanthropist @flwerie @lynnlovesthestars @twilightsmissingfur

@kasuumi @i-messed-up-big-time @mcdepressed290 @mc-cos-charm @needsleep3000

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #caleb x mc #caleb x reader #fanfiction

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stygiansun-totaleclipse · 3 months ago

Note

I was thinking of if we'll get to see everyone's thoughts on the ROs in game (everyone being mostly Nour and Luca, since we know Farah probably won't like anyone out of spite for being the reason her sibling is around less) and was wondering

We've seen Parim's reactions to the ROs if he'd lived, but what about Aurora and the twins?

Sorry it took a while to finish answering this one! But thanks for your patience! ❤️ :) You’ll get Luca’s thoughts on them, but Nour’s and Farah’s wouldn’t be until either very late end game or in the epilogue. 🤔 But as for the other siblings:

Kieran:

Ember: >:/ *Sigh*….Does this mean I’m gonna start having to refer to them as my brother/sister-in-law? Castor: You may ignore Ember; he forgets his manners, as he is apt to do. I…admit I had my reservations at first. Though, seeing the two of you together quickly assuaged me of them—they seem to complement you well; the night to your day. One cannot exist without the other. With the way they look at you, doubtless they’d agree. Aurora: I hope you understand this union will not so immediately soothe tensions between our respective countries—though I see now that Parim and I had little else to be concerned about. Even were I a stranger, it would take little more than a glance to see how much you clearly adore the other. Your peoples may take more convincing, surely, but I trust you two are the perfect pair to do it. My sincerest congratulations, MC.

Nihm:

Ember: I tried grilling them—what? Don’t look so offended; I’m your older brother, I’m supposed to grill them—and they were so nice about everything that I ended up feeling like the one being put on the spot. :( Castor: That word you call them—I admit I’m unfamiliar with it. What does it mean in solaran? A Luna moth? I see. That makes sense then—I heard them calling you their sunbeam, among other such similar nicknames, earlier. Moths are drawn to the light, yes? ….Apologies, was I not supposed to know that? Aurora: I admit I am impressed with how quickly they’ve ingratiated themselves to the nobles here. I suspect they’ll have little more trouble in winning over the public’s opinion as well. They’ve won over mine, and that is not something so readily accomplished.

Lilith/Lucien:

Ember: Where do you even find these people—ow! What? I can’t say they’re weird? They’re weird. Yeah, whatever—‘pot calling the kettle black’—shut-the-fuck-up. You might be grown now but don’t think I can’t still hurl you into the Thiss. Liken the two of us in such a way again and I’m feeding you both to a crocodile. Castor: Strangely enough, the two of you seem to get along like two sides to the same coin. I swear I…hm. No, never mind. I am happy for you. Doubtless you both must be as well. I should think their rather evident devotion to you is largely unparalleled. They’ve little sense of discretion in such matters, it seems. Aurora: You do know this match likely isn’t going to be particularly well-received by the public, yes? As long as you’re aware; I don’t mean to dampen what should be a felicitous union for the two of you, but I only want you to have realistic expectations. Though, I should think it would do the public a great deal of service in turning their long-clouded opinions by seeing how clearly your Starfellan betrothed adores you, and you them. Though perhaps you might convince them to put a shirt on. Honestly.

Samira:

Ember: I’ve heard the court gossips talking about her before. Well, if she’s going to be my sister-in-law, do let me know if anyone gives the two of you any shit. I don’t mind slipping a scorpion down someone’s tunic. What? Don’t look at me like that. Fine—something non-venemous, then. Like a skink. Or a garter snake. Or a handful of beetles. Castor: I should think the court could benefit from a perspective like hers, though I’m sure most of the nobles would disagree. She’s always done well by you, and it’s clear she loves you like you are already family. I look forward to greeting her as a sister-in-law. Aurora: Hm. And you understand how such a match is apt to be received publicly—her being well beneath your station? And you are prepared to defend such a match? (lips curve in the barest hint of a proud smile) Very well. Then you may count on me to defend it as well.

Aurynn:

Ember: (he’s too busy choking on his own laughter to speak) Castor: (though it’s far less obvious than with Ember, you realize with growing dismay he is also struggling to mask his amusement) No one is laughing at you, MC. Ember, knock it off. I must admit, though—I took him for the type to make eyes at any pretty face, no? You must have done quite the number on him—he seems to have eyes for little else but you, now. Aurora: I would offer you my congratulations, though I fear this would be too preemptive on my part—so perhaps it would be more apt to offer you my condolences instead. I take it you’ve yet to tell your mother? Mm. Well. I don’t envy you.

#stygian sun total eclipse #stygian sun: total eclipse #sste asks #anon ask #sste: aurynn #sste: lilith #sste: lucien #sste: kieran #sste: samira #sste: aurora #sste: castor #sste: ember

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wordsarelife · 7 months ago

Text

⛧༺ NO BODY, NO CRIME ༻⛧

EPISODE 06: i wasn’t letting up until the day he died

pairing: theo nott x potter!reader

summary: theo and you try to process past nights events, when you stumble upon a hint that could reveal the real killer

warnings: extremely big trigger warning for the whole series, in this chapter: mentions of murder, illegal activities, mentions of blood, wounds, manipulation, grooming

note: welcome back to the sixth episode of nbnc! i’m so excited to have you all back!! so so sorry this is so late, but i had so much today, i hope you still like it :) (ps: epilogue will be published on thursday probably)

please let me hear what you think in the comments!!

the next morning began like it was the most dreaded thing in the world. which wasn’t so far off, if you remembered the final moments of the night before.

neville was dead. sweet, nice, harmless neville. and he had died because of you. because you did everything, but keep out of things that didn’t concern you.

you had ignored the first warning, that draco malfoy had brought. and neville had been the final one.

the next one to die would be you, if you didn’t finally stop investigating this whole thing.

the common room was dead silent when hermione and you came down the stairs. silent whispers hang in the air as people were crying, just finding out about the news.

a few younger students, who didn’t have much to do with neville, looked concerned and had the decency to whisper or leave the room all together.

harry and ron looked as bad as you and hermione.

they had waited for her, harry clasping his arms around the girl as soon as she came close. ginny was nowhere to be seen and ron informed you that she didn’t wanna get up.

ron and harry both send you frosty glances and quickly left you behind when they walked to breakfast. they acted like you had betrayed them, and they weren’t even far off.

hermione whispered a soft “sorry”, before she followed after them.

maybe you could fetch a piece of bread from the kitchen? you were too ashamed to sit alone at breakfast, with the burning gazes of your friends in your back.

but it didn’t come to that.

“ow!” a voice called when the portrait swung open and hit the person standing in front of it.

“theo?” you asked confused at what he was doing here.

“morning” theo was rubbing the back of his neck where the portrait had hit him.

“serves you right!” the fat lady commented “a slytherin shouldn’t be lurking here”

“lurking?” you repeated, quirking a brow.

“i wasn’t lurking!” theo defended. “i was waiting for you and seemingly underestimated the distance i should’ve held”

you nodded, your smile dying down as you suddenly remembered standing in front of the portrait together with theo the night before. your throat tightened.

“hey” theo cooed, pulling you close to his chest and softly brushing a hand through your hair to calm you down. “i’m so sorry, sparrow”

“it’s my fault theo. i should’ve stopped once we received that warning”

“it’s not your fault” theo argued, shaking his head. “i insisted that we continue to investigate. if anything it’s my fault, you did nothing wrong.”

“i’m scared, theo” you muttered, tears soaking the fabric of his jumper. the material was soft, feeling warm against your cheeks. “we have to stop, before someone else gets hurt. i couldn’t bear being the reason. if something happened to my friends or you—“

“shh” theo whispered, pressing a kiss to your hair. “we’ll stop. no ones gonna get hurt. and nothing’s gonna hurt you, okay?”

you nodded against his chest as he pulled you impossibly closer. you breathed in his smell that gave you so much comfort. a mix between nicotine and fabric softener. a feeling of home, even if he had been so foreign a few days ago. it felt like theo and you were the same. like you had been destined to find each other.

theo loosened the hug, taking your hand as he started walking down the corridor.

“wait” you shook your head, freezing in your step. “where are we going?”

“to breakfast of course” theo smiled softly, but quickly sensed your uneasiness, his smile turning into a frown, “what’s wrong?”

“well, my friends basically shunned me”

“what?” theo laughed, before he realized that you were serious. “shit, really?”

you shrugged, frowning at him. “i don’t think they think i’m at fault or anything, but they’re pretty angry i’ve been hanging out with you all that time.”

“well, slytherins are the bad people, right?” theo smiled softly.

“theo” you muttered, shaking your head. “that’s not what they—“

“but it is, sparrow” he interrupted. “i can’t even blame them, just think about that stupid ball yesterday and how everyone there was part of my house. there’s a killer on the loose and they’re just afraid that you’ll get hurt”

“i don’t think you would hurt me. not like that anyway”

theo laughed. “i wouldn’t dare. and as soon as dumbledore finds who did this, there might be less suspicion around our relationship”

“so, you’re not breaking up with me, because my friends are acting like you’re the killer?”

“what does it look like, sparrow?” theo muttered, pushing his hands from your cheeks into your hair to pull you closer, before he connected your lips in a short kiss. “ready?” he asked, leaning back and looking at you.

“ready” you nodded with a soft smile. it looked that with theo everything didn’t seem as bad.

you could feel your friends’ and your brother’s gaze burn in your back when theo and you walked into the great hall. even though they were too far away for you to understand a word, you felt like you could hear every question and every malicious input the group of gryffindors were discussing about you.

for them, this was the ultimate betrayal, the final proof that something was deeply wrong with harry potter’s corrupted sister.

“it’s alright” theo assured, squeezing your hand that was gripping his like a lifeline. “don’t think about them”

your arrival at the slytherin table was met with various surprised looks from the surrounding slytherins but also theo’s friends.

“y/n!” pansy was the first to speak. she robbed to the side, freeing the space between her and mattheo for you to sit. you exchanged a glance with theo, who gave you an encouraging nod, before you settled between the black haired girl and mattheo.

mattheo and enzo both smiled at you. malfoy shortly looked up from his papers to send you a nod, while blaise was still busy arranging food on his plate.

“hey blaise” you smiled, trying to be friendly.

blaise looked up at the sudden greeting. “uh hi” he muttered, obviously confused. “have we met?”

you blankly stared at him, not even remotely knowing what to answer to that.

“yes” theo finally said, jumping to your rescue. “of course” he shook his head, not able to hide his smile, because he found the situation so ridiculous. “don’t tell me you don’t remember y/n, she was the reason you got through divination!”

“hm” blaise muttered, studying your face. “oh! ace, of course i remember you! why didn’t you say that sooner?”

you shook your head, a relieved smile playing on your features admist the awkwardness resolving itself.

“thanks by the way” blaise smiled, pressing his hands together and doing a little bow, before he pushed a plate with a pancake he had coated in jam in your direction.

“uh thanks” you smiled, taking the plate with a grateful smile. “and you did thank me. only yesterday actually”

“huh, i don’t remember” blaise shrugged. “do any of you guys?” the rest of the slytherins shook their heads and theo and you exchanged a confused glance, before blaise leaned over the table and winked at you. “never happened”

“o—kay” you nodded, raising your fork and knife and cutting the pancake in front of you as you began to eat.

“so did you find out who did it?” pansy wondered, as she filled your glass with orange juice.

“no” theo shook his head. “we decided it was for the better to stop looking for answers. after what happened to longbottom yesterday, i mean—“

“it was gruesome” you added “i know all of you didn’t really like neville, but it’s just terrible”

“it is” mattheo nodded and he had an unusual caring look in his eyes when he glanced at you.

“we loved to poke fun at longbottom” pansy muttered. “but he didn’t deserve that”

draco lowered the papers, looking at his friends and then at you and to your surprise he didn’t say anything to contradict their words, but simply nodded.

“you don’t know us well” enzo said. “but just know you can come to us if you need anything, loyality is the most important thing among slytherins”

“enzo is right” mattheo added, exchanging a look with theo, who glanced at him warningly. “we’re here if you need us”

“thank you” you smiled, looking at all of them individually.

“yeah, like literally” blaise giggled. “it’s not like we can go anywhere while this stupid snow storm is still happening”

“i completely forgot about that” theo muttered surprised. “they still didn’t figure it out?”

“far from it” draco finally threw the newspaper onto the table, seemingly finished with reading. “they won’t say it, but all of them are disturbed, especially after what happened yesterday. they’re scared it’ll happen over and over again until we can either leave or the killer is caught.”

“he seems to be smart, right?” pansy asked theo and you.

“well, i guess” you shrugged. “i’m not sure i’m the right person to ask”

“you two seem to have found out more than the teachers” enzo shrugged. “seems like you are”

“well, we found out a little, yeah” theo nodded, before you exchanged glances, silently discussing if it was smart to share the information you had gathered. maybe a controlled share was the best way to proceed.

“we figured out that probably neither the nocturn society nor the artifact had anything to do with the murder. the motives would be too weak”

“yeah” theo agreed, “we also found the weapon”

“the murder weapon?” draco perked up, throwing the newspaper fully onto the table.

“yes” you muttered and you noticed how all sytherins hung on your lips, just waiting to hear what had killed their teacher. “poison. very complicated potion, but also very deadly”

“shut up” pansy said as she leaned back on the bench, mouth wide open in disbelief. “and you tell us you don’t know if he’s smart”

“pansy’s right” mattheo agreed. “not using their wand and brewing a complicated potion? that takes intelligence and planning”

blaise nodded. “the killer had the intention to kill and he knew how to do it without getting caught”

“well, it can’t be a gryffindor then, can it?” enzo joked and theo shook his head.

“we have to stay focused, enz. we were so close” he looked at you. “too close probably. the killer felt threatened, means we’re just a hint away from catching them”

“but the killer thinks that he’s smarter than you” pansy pointed out. “you might be close, but he’s always two steps ahead of you”

“he watched every step” draco added. “knows every secret”

you looked up at theo, before your eyes flew over every single person sitting at the desk. “that means..”

“…it’s someone we trust” theo added.

your mind froze at the sudden realisation. of course! how could you have been so stupid? it was always someone who had been close. someone who believed in himself enough to pull this off. someone who knew that he had made no mistake.

or had he? your mind wandered back. images flew threw your head.

the chandelier ratteling to the ground at the ball, blaise showing you the artifact and telling you about burbage, enzo warning you about the danger it beholds, pansy offering an unexpected allyship, draco giving away warnings, mattheo’s cryptic information about the society and finally burbage’s office.

no, the killer had clad himself in smoke and mystery, but he had forgotten about one single detail.

one single thing that made him distinctive, something that could only be connected to him, as he was smart enough to not have anyone know about his schemes. no alliences, no accomplice. just him.

and now you knew how to identify him.

“i have to go” you said suddenly, standing up from the bench and collecting your things in a hurry. the slytherins watched you in confusion and even theo seemed to be utterly left in the dark. “the library book” you said to him as if it was a reminder. “you promised to come with me to bring it back, remember?”

“uh, yeah, right” you had almost let a sigh of relief break from your mouth at theo’s quick thinking. “thanks for your help guys” he nodded.

the slytherins still looked suspicious, as you waved at them and left the hall in a quick step, closely followed by theo.

his hand was on your hip, just as you reached the hallway in front of the doors, pulling you to a halt. “what is it?” he asked, still not being able to make sense of your hurried escape.

“we forgot something” you explained. “god, theo, we forgot the most important thing ever”

“what?” theo furrowed his brows, his breath hitching at the new information.

“he was smart, he was so smart” you shook your head in disbelief. “but the murder was personal, oh it was so personal” you laughed and theo watched you almost in horror.

“what are you talking about, sparrow?” he asked helplessly “oh for god’s sake just—“

“—the message on the wine!” you spluttered and you had almost done a triumphant dance, if theo’s hands hadn’t been gripping your shoulders this hard.

all colour vanished from his face as soon as the words registered in his mind. “no” he muttered, shaking his head. but he knew in that moment that you were right, his mind wandered back to the message, —to burbage - for when the pressure gets too much. consider this a parting gift.—, and the image was as crisp as day.

“handwritten” you finally said. “she knew him, right? she trusted him, just like we did. she drank it, because she knew it was from him, he wrote it because he wanted her to know that it was him. that he had been the one to betray her, the one to kill her”

“shit, y/n”

“there’s always something distinctive. in every handwriting. the m’s i write almost look like birds. hermione has the neatest handwriting ever, but she curls her g’s a bit too much. and you, you write the t in such a particular way i would recognize it anywhere”

“that’s amazing, sparrow” he smiled impressed. “but dumbledore has the message, how could we check?”

“we don’t have to” you grinned, “i noticed it when i read it the first time, but i was too stupid to make any sense of it”

“so?” theo urged. “what is it?”

“the e” you simply said. “it’s the e. it’s not the normal one most people write, he writes them like a mirrored three. we have to get back to burbage’s office”

“okay, that’s good, no amazing actually. but the message isn’t there anymore, sparrow”

“theo, we might not know everything about the killer, but we know one thing for sure: he was probably a student in one of her classes. and do you remember how her classes were?”

“an assigned essay each week, of course” theo realized. “the proof’s been inside that stupid office all this time.”

theo and you basically sprinted through the halls. you couldn’t reach the office quick enough. it was as if every moment counted, every second could decide the future. and every minute in which you still didn’t know the killer’s identity was a lost one.

you picked the lock, just like you had done when you had broken in the first time, theo standing in front of the classroom to keep watch, before you called him inside, revealing the opened office door.

the contents of the room were in the same state you had left it in a few days before. the desk was still filled with various stacks of paper, which was to your advantage.

“this is gonna take forever” you groaned, pushing one stack in theo’s direction.

“not if we sort out the papers of people that haven’t been near us this week”

“that would make the circle of suspects very scary” you mumbled.

theo shrugged. “as you said before, we trusted them, it has to be someone we know”

“so who would make the cut?”

theo thought for a second, before he began counting names in a low voice. “mattheo, pansy, draco, enzo, blaise”

you nodded, feeling sorry for him. theo had questioned everything these past few days and he had told you multiple times that he wasn’t sure if he could trust his friends. that couldn’t be easy.

you sighed, before you added: “ron, hermione and.. harry”

theo and you exchanged a worried glance, both absolutely disturbed from the chance that the killer was someone so close. but it was the only possibility and you both knew it, as you silently sorted through the essays.

the never ending stacks only seemed to grow as you worked through the papers, not seeing an end yet.

suddenly, there was a disturbance in front of the door. it sounded like someone was rattling on the door to the office. theo and you exchanged hurried glances. but it was too late, both of you had grown far too comfortable, launching on the ground, papers around and in your laps.

the sigh of relief was silmultaneous as the disturbance revealed itself to be a patronus charm, with a message attached. pansy’s voice rang out in the little office.

“the teachers just took mattheo with them” she muttered in a hurry. “they think he did it, they’re taking us in for questioning. i know that he didn’t do it, theo, but they believe it’s him”

the patronus disappeared and left theo and you speechless.

“shit” theo scrambled to his feet. “shit, shit, shit”

“it’s okay” you assured, standing up and gripping his hands, that had been trying to rip out his hair. “you’ll go and answer any question, yeah? i’ll sort through the papers and come as soon as i find the proof. they can’t arrest him if i have the proof”

“are you sure?” theo looked from the papers to you and back. he was unsure about leaving you alone, but you nodded.

“go!” you encouraged, pushing him in the direction of the door. “go”

theo nodded, walking out of the door, but quickly dashing back inside to give you a quick peck. “thank you” he softly said against your lips, before he left the room fully.

you smiled after him, before you got right back to work. in the span of five minutes, you had a small stack with essays from everyone on your suspect list, including your own brother.

harry’s was the first one you checked. nothing.

pansy’s essay was absolutely chaotic and she tended to draw hearts instead of points onto her i’s, but there was no sign of a mirrored e.

mattheo and blaise were fine too. they had written little to nothing, but you could tell enough from it.

hermione’s was neat as always, her writing not faltering and it would’ve suprised you if she had ever even thought about writing her e’s the way you were searching for right now.

the next paper you threw open, made your breath hitch. not only because the handwriting matched the one on the wine message, but because there was a little post it note plastered onto the page.

‘wonderful work as always, darling, can’t wait to see you after dinner tonight’

you and theo had been wrong. yeah, burbage had trusted her killer, but not because he was a student or someone she knew. the killer wasn’t the relative or a friend of her victim. no, the killer and the victim were the same person.

“i wish you wouldn’t have found this”

his voice was the first thing you heard. then pain. you fell forward, the essay slipping from your hands as your head made contact with the hard floor beneath you. your sight was black as you felt him bend over you, your hand searching for anything you could use to fight him. you gripped something, bringing it close to your chest, before the pain registered once again and you lost consciousness.

by the time you woke up, you couldn’t tell how many minutes had passed. the first thing you felt was the cold breeze of the evenings wind. maybe it had been hours since he had taken you, or maybe you had been in that office longer than you could remember now.

you couldn’t move a muscle, probably a hex that was resting on your body.

your eyes snapped open, scanning the room, or more lack of, around you. you were laying in the middle of the wooden platform of the astronomy tower. the very same platform theo and you had talked on only days before, minutes before you found the body of your teacher.

“hello” he smiled, stepping around you and helping you to sit up against a box behind you.

“i would’ve never even thought” you shook your head, tears brimming at your eyes.

enzo giggled relentlessly. “oh, don’t cry, angel” he caught one of your tears with his finger. “i should be the one who’s sad” his mimic changed dramatically, as he took on a whiny voice, “i tried to talk her out of it, but she was so far gone. she told me that the murders had been necessary to fulfill what the artifact had needed from her. but she regretted it and couldn’t live with the guilt.” he paused, smiling at you, before he fell back into his previous role. “i’m so sorry, theo, i tried to catch her but i was too late”

you closed your eyes, silent tears rolling over your cheeks. “she broke up with you, that’s why you killed her, isn’t it?”

enzo laughed. “our relationship was magical and she broke it off from one day to another, like it had meant nothing, like i had meant nothing”

“it wasn’t your fault” you shook your head, trying hard to keep together, despite the hatred that was ready to flood your features. “you are a victim, enzo, she used you, she manipulated you”

enzo stared at you unimpressed. “she loved me” he corrected. “and i loved her too. i did everything for her, was her good boy. and what did i get? not even a proper conversation. she just decided it was over”

“she hurt you” you nodded. “you didn’t deserve that”

“of course i didn’t” he laughed like a maniac. “that’s why i made sure she knew that too. it was almost too easy to paint myself as innocent. the stupid society, the idiot blaise and his artifact, all these bloody people, they played their part perfectly.” he grinned, “even theo. i have to admit that he was the riskiest part of the plan, but he was susprisingly easy to manage. and that just because he decided to fuck potter’s sister, who would’ve thought?”

you looked away, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“i’ve been in love too, i know how it’s like. you lose sight for everything else. just like at the ball were you two were too occupied making out until that chandelier almost ripped you to shreds. would’ve made a great show, by the way”

he shrugged, before he continued to speak. “the only thing that complicated things was that stupid snow storm”

“complicated?” you repeated in disbelief. “gave you all the time in the world, didn’t it?”

“it wasn’t part of the plan.” he shook his head “charity summoned it. couldn’t have been worse timing. she wanted to give blaise and the other idiots more time to figure out how to work the artifact.”

it was weird to hear the professors first name escape enzo’s lips, without so much as a second thought, like it was his nature to call her by her name. which it was, but it freaked you out nonetheless.

“too bad she gave you time to investigate her own murder, huh?”

“you disgust me” you spit.

“i only had to do what was necessary, angel” he moved a piece of hair behind your ear.

“neville was not necessary” a bit of movement entered your body, making you able to lean back to escape his touch.

enzo frowned. “of course he was” he stood up, looking down onto the ground from the railing. “someone had to find that potion for me. what a shame that longbottom enjoyes to read so much.. pardon enjoyed”

another few tears rolled over your cheeks, your head already hurting from all the crying.

“had to get rid of him just to be sure, god forbid he would’ve made that connection. i was lucky, i guess” he turned around and looked at you, smiling even brighter as he noticed that you were crying even more than before. “and the message it send was just a bonus. how else could i make sure you stay far away from that stupid investigation. but you’re not so good at listening, right angel? we wouldn’t even be here if you had just stayed in line. and i find it awfully impractical that i have to kill such a hot girl, but you’re too young for me anyway” his smile send shivers down your spine.

“i can’t believe she drank that poisoned wine, because i don’t think she loved you, enzo, she used you, that’s all”

“don’t you dare” enzo stepped closer, anger evident on his face. “she was fucking obsessed with me. blinded by love. she drank the whole bottle because she missed me”

“she never loved you”

“she died thinking about me. i was there” he admitted. “that night, i opened the door for her, she said my name before she fell into the snow.”

you huffed. “you were there?”

“well, i had to slip the rune into her hand and make sure someone found her in time. luckily theo and you were right there, like actors in a play.” he paused, a few beats of silence passing by. “is that a game for you guys? stumbling over bodies, investigating murders and then fucking in broom closets? that get you going?”

“shut up”

enzo giggled obnoxiously, shaking his head as his laughter died down. “nah, baby” he grinned. “your turn to shut up.”

he reached for your body, picking you up with ease. “you and me could’ve been a great pair, if you were like twenty years older” he walked you closer and closer to the edge. until only the railing was between you and the ground beneath.

you could feel the wooden beam press into your back. enzo’s breath was hot on your face as he stared down at you. you could tell from his face, that he enjoyed this. almost like it was a game to him, like a sick fantasy that he could get off to.

he caressed your cheek, before softly loosening your ponytail. “makes it look more dramatic” he smiled, as he watched your hair move in the wind.

he pushed you back slowly, like he was trying to let you down easy, almost like you would float to the ground. but the desire in his eyes told another story, he was blood thirsty and he would keep anything you’d give him.

your body gained more and more movement as the hex wore off. enzo furrowed his brows when he felt you pushing against him, body to body.

“trying to keep it interesting, huh?” he laughed, watching attentively as your hand grabbed his underarm. it made you uneasy to see the relaxed reaction he had to you fighting back. like he knew perfectly how easy he could overpower you if he wanted. he was just entertaining you, just enjoying your miserable tries to free yourself from him.

there was no situation where you had a real advantage. both of you knew that. you could only hope for a wonder, but then, you could feel your legs again.

it was like you knew what to do immediately. you moved your arm fast, it was so surprising you really got it free. then your left knee flew up, kicking enzo in the balls, just as you moved his body closer with both hands on his shoulders.

he groaned from the sudden pain, his body collapsing to the ground. it gave you enough time to get away from the railing, but not enough to reach the stairs before he was on his feet again, pressing your back against his chest. “nice try, angel” he whispered into your ear. you wanted to throw up from the tone of his voice.

so cocky, totally unbothered.

he started dragging you back into the direction of the railing again. you tried to make yourself as heavy as possible, trying to make it as hard as possible for him to overpower you.

“don’t be difficult” he groaned, slowly becoming annoyed at your relentless trying. your hand went through the air, grabbing onto a thick beam, that was not fully brought on, but only leaned against the rest of the construction.

you kicked against it. one, two, three times. enzo looked up from the sudden sound of the beam falling forward. on it’s way down, it hit both of you, as your tried to gamble away.

now the head injury was joined by a gush on your arm. enzo was bleeding at the leg and both of you stayed unmoving for a second. the heavy beam, claiming the middle of the railing as it fell against it, hit the ground with a thud.

“well, that makes it easier” enzo grinned, eyes on the empty space were the railing used to be, before stumbling back onto his feet just as you did.

you sprinted towards the stairs, but before you could reach them, enzo had stepped in your way with open arms. “you’re not leaving yet already, are you?”

you stumbled back, well aware that the missing railing was practically a free passage for you to fall to your death.

maybe there was no escape. maybe you would die by falling off this stupid tower, maybe you would die, becoming the killer that enzo would direct you to be as soon as he would tell his story.

a silent movement behind enzo made you look up. blaise had climbed the stairs, stepping onto the plattform.

your reaction had to have been hopeful enough for enzo to suspect something, as he spun around, facing his friend with a look of surprise.

blaise wasted no time as he reached out and hit enzo in the face. the younger boy stumbled back, holding his bloody nose, before he regained confidence, the surprise finally leaving his body, as he leaped over the platform, throwing himself at blaise.

blaise jumped back, but was still taken to the ground, as enzo began hitting him merciless. he reached for a piece of wood beside him, hitting blaise so hard, that blood splattered into the air and a sharp breath left your mouth.

blaise kept lying on the platform unmoving as enzo climbed off him and turned back around to meet your gaze. there were driplets of blood all over his face, his own, mixed with some of blaise’s. he opened his mouth, widely smiling at you, exposing his teeth to be as blood covered as the rest of his face.

“your turn, angel” he dashed over the platform fast, ripping you away from the wall, you had stood against and moving you closer and closer to the edge. “third time’s the charm, right?” he grinned.

you closed your eyes.

his steps were slow, deliberate, clearly enjoying every ounce of control he had over you. killing was like breathing to him. like it was the only thing that brought him joy. and this person, this killer, was totally different to the person he had been before. it was like something had been awakened in him, ready to strike as soon as needed.

a thud made you open your eyes again. a disbelieving laugh left your mouth as you noticed that blaise had sat up. the wound on his head bleeding, but he was alive.

again, your reaction triggered enzo and he turned around searching for the cause of the noise. his susprise was just as present as yours, ultimately being sure that he had killed his friend.

blaise’s survival was like newfound hope for your body, you pushed enzo back, changing sides, as he was now the one closest to the railing, or the nonexistent one to be more precise.

you reached for the piece of wood he had hit blaise with and quickly hit him in the stomach. enzo stumbled back and before he could dash forward, you hit him again.

you noticed the beam of wood on the floor between him and the railing too late. enzo stumbled back from the second hit, trying to find his balance, as the back of his feet hit the beam and gravity did the rest.

it was like he fell back in slow motion. your hands let go of the wood you had used to hit him as your ran forward, trying to hold onto his hand or any part of him. but it was too late.

you were sure you would’ve fallen off the edge too, if blaise hadn’t pulled you back at just the right time.

“no!” you screamed as you realized what had just happened, you stared down onto enzo’s unmoving body on the ground beneath the tower for only a second, before blaise moved you back towards the stairs.

you both fell onto the floor, the shock draining you and making your bodies heavier than usual.

“i killed him, i killed him” you cried against blaise’s chest. blaise stared straight ahead, just as traumatized as you, before you could feel him shake his head.

“no, he fell” he corrected. “he fell, it wasn’t you”

“i’m sorry, i killed him”

“no, ace, you didn’t” he moved you back. “look at me. it’s important that you know you didn’t. he fell”

you nodded, tears falling off your face, because they were running down your cheeks so quickly.

“repeat it” blaise said. “you have to repeat it: he fell”

“he fell” you repeated, your voice only coming out as a whisper.

“again!”

“he fell” you said, less unsure, louder, clearer.

“there you go” blaise nodded, pressing your face against his chest to comfort you. “not your fault”

you continued to cry together for what felt like hours, but was only mere minutes. not one of you dared to move or look over the edge to find enzo’s body on the ground. your very short sight of his body and the blood on the snow had been enough to keep you from it.

heavy footsteps echoed through the tower and the next thing you saw, was theo make his way onto the platform, a worried expression on his face. “what happened?” he asked, while blaise helped you stand and you stumbled into theo’s direction.

blaise nodded as your searched for a confirmation.

you fell into theo’s arms, while blaise’s nod of permission wandered through your mind. you breathed, a sigh of relief and clear air wandering into your lungs for the first time in hours.

“he fell”

epilogue out soon...

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let me know if you want to be added/removed

ps: there will be one more chapter, the epilogue :)

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theonottsbxtch · 3 months ago

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fix it fic please!! Can we get a happy ending of American Jesus with Logan please! Maybe an epilogue situation? I love love love your writing! ✨

hello! i know some of you are going to hate me because i’m going to prioritise my 2k celly so enjoy this fix it fic for american jesus! i wrote this during the race instead of focusing on my silly little article i was meant to write about the race lol

she’d pictured this moment a hundred times. rehearsed it in her head, imagined what she might say when she finally saw him again. but now, sitting on the other side of the glass, she found she had nothing. just silence and the weight of his stare.

logan looked different. thinner. hollower. the blonde in his hair dulled under the fluorescent light, his blue eyes no longer bright but bruised with something heavier than exhaustion.

"you look like hell," he said, voice rough.

she swallowed, fingers curling in her lap. "so do you."

he huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no real humour in it. just something bitter, something sharp. he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, the chain of his cuffs clinking against the metal.

"so, what now?" he asked. "you come to see what you did?"

her stomach twisted, but she kept her expression even. "i didn’t do anything, logan."

his jaw tensed. for a second, he looked like he might say something cruel, something that would rip through her like a blade. but then he just shook his head, exhaling slow.

"you know, i really thought you loved me," he murmured.

her breath caught. "i did. i d-.”

his gaze flicked up to hers, something unreadable passing through it. "no, sweetheart," he said, voice quieter now. "you didn’t."

she opened her mouth, then closed it again. because maybe he was right. maybe love wasn’t supposed to feel like a trap, like a thing she had to claw her way out of. maybe love wasn’t supposed to end like this—one of them free, the other in chains.

logan sat back, looking at her properly, like he was seeing her for the first time. after a moment, he let out a soft breath and shook his head.

"goodbye, sweetheart."

she should’ve said it back. should’ve given him that much. but instead, she just stood, turned, and walked away.

she didn’t look back.

one she left she drove back with the window down, air thick with heat and dust, the radio humming something low and mournful. his trailer looked the same as when she left that morning—same peeling paint, same sagging steps, same wind-chime rattling like bones in the breeze. but something about it felt emptier now, like it had finally realised he wasn’t coming back.

she stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. the smell of cigarette smoke still clung to the walls, to the sheets, to the old denim jacket hanging over the back of the chair. she ran her fingers over the fabric, over the worn-out patches and frayed edges. she should’ve thrown it out. should’ve packed up his things and pretended he’d never been here.

but she hadn’t.

she sat down at the table, pressing her palms against the cool metal surface. stared at the lighter still sitting there, the one he used to flick open and shut when he was thinking.

logan was right. she hadn’t loved him. not the way he wanted. but she owed him something. he’d taken the fall for her, let them drag him away in cuffs while she stood there, silent, hands shaking at her sides.

maybe it was guilt. maybe it was something else. but as she sat there, listening to the distant hum of passing cars, an idea started to form.

she needed to get him out.

she didn’t know how yet, but she would. money, a plan, someone on the inside—she’d figure it out. she had to. because if she didn’t, she’d spend the rest of her life hearing his voice in her head, calling her sweetheart like he still meant it.

and she wasn’t sure she could live with that.

- ✨ -

the first time she did it, she almost backed out.

the club was dark, loud, thick with cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. neon lights flickered pink and blue against the walls, music pulsed through the floor, and men sat back in their seats with drinks in their hands and hunger in their eyes.

she stood in the dressing room staring at herself in the mirror, hair curled, lips painted red, a stranger staring back. the other girls barely spared her a glance. they’d seen a hundred girls like her before—small-town thing with too-wide eyes, looking for fast cash and a way out.

she thought of logan. thought of his cuffs clinking against the table, his voice low and bitter as he said, you come to see what you did?

then she stepped out and did what needed to be done.

it got easier after that.

she drove out to the city five nights a week, worked until the early hours, and came home with cash stuffed at the bottom of her bag. sometimes, the men were easy—ones who liked the chase, the tease, who didn’t need much to hand over their money. other times, they were rougher, meaner, hands grabbing too hard, voices slurred with whiskey.

she learned how to handle them. learned when to smile, when to laugh, when to lean in close and pretend like they were the only man in the room. she learned how to make them want her just enough to make them pay.

and the money was good. better than she’d expected. soon, she had a stash hidden beneath the floorboards, thick wads of cash bound with rubber bands.

but money wasn’t enough.

she needed people. connections. someone who could tell her how to do the impossible—break a man out of prison and get away with it.

so she started asking questions. not outright, never directly. but little things. offhand comments, curiosity slipped between drinks and laughter. and eventually, she got what she needed.

it took months to piece everything together.

she paid a guy who knew a guy—someone who worked inside, who could get things where they needed to be. she found a car that wouldn’t be missed, an old ford with rust on the doors but an engine that still ran smooth. she learned the shift rotations, the blind spots, the way the guards got lazy after dark.

it was almost ready. all of it.

one night, after her shift, she sat in her car outside the club, cigarette burning between her fingers. she should’ve felt nervous. should’ve felt afraid. hell, this whole thing was crazy.

instead, she just felt steady.

logan had saved her once. pulled her from a wreck she’d never have crawled out of alone.

now, it was her turn.

-✨ -

logan knew something was wrong the second the guard stopped outside his cell.

it was past lights out, the block quiet except for the occasional shuffle of footsteps, the distant clang of metal doors. no reason for anyone to be here.

yet the guard—hollow-eyed, looking over his shoulder—unlocked the door and muttered, "let’s go."

logan didn’t move. didn’t speak. just sat there, slow-blinking, waiting for the punchline.

the guard sighed, impatience flickering across his face. "you want out or not?"

logan stood, cautious, waiting for the trap to snap shut around his ankles. but it didn’t. the guard led him down the corridor, past slumped bodies and snoring men, through a side door that should’ve been locked. he kept waiting for someone to stop them, for alarms to start screaming, but no one came.

then the cold night air hit his face, and he was outside.

and there she was.

parked at the edge of the lot, headlights off, cigarette glowing between her fingers as she leaned against the hood. she looked different—thinner, sharper, something restless behind her eyes. but still her.

logan scoffed, shaking his head as he walked right past her.

"logan—"

"no." he didn’t look back. just kept walking, boots crunching against gravel. "i’m not doing this with you."

"we don’t have time," she said, voice tight.

"don’t care."

"jesus, logan," she snapped. "you’d rather go back in there?"

"better than being in your debt," he muttered.

that made her pause. then, softer, "i never wanted you in there to begin with."

he huffed a laugh, bitter. "could’ve fooled me."

she stepped forward, reaching for his arm, but he pulled away.

"i did this for you," she said, and she sounded so earnest it made his teeth ache.

he finally turned to her, jaw tight. "why?"

she hesitated. then, voice barely above a whisper—"please, logan. i love you."

he froze.

she’d never said that before. not once. not in all the time he’d known her.

he stared at her, searching for the lie, but all he saw was the same girl who’d sat beside him in the passenger seat of his chevvy, wind in her hair, springsteen on the radio.

for a moment, neither of them moved.

then, finally, logan exhaled. rubbed a hand over his face.

"you got a plan?" he asked, voice rough.

she nodded.

he sighed. "then let’s go."

they drove in silence for a long time, the town shrinking behind them in the rearview mirror. logan slumped in the passenger seat, arms crossed, gaze flicking between her and the road ahead.

"what now?" he muttered.

she didn’t look at him. just pressed her foot a little harder on the gas. "you’ll see."

he huffed but didn’t push. just leaned his head back against the seat, exhaustion creeping in, the hum of the engine lulling him under. he was so damn tired he hasn’t even questioned where she for the car and how she knew how to drive it.

logan woke up to the faint glow of streetlights flashing across his face, the city rolling by in slow, quiet movements. the radio played something soft, something old.

he glanced at her, hands steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road like she hadn’t even noticed he was awake.

"where are we?" he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"heading west," she said simply.

logan scrubbed a hand over his face. "what happened to my trailer?"

"gone."

he frowned. "what d’you mean, gone?"

"i sold it."

that woke him up properly. he straightened, twisting to look at her fully. "you sold it?"

she nodded, gaze still locked ahead.

"jesus," he muttered, shaking his head. "and my car?"

"waiting for you," she said. "license plate’s changed. shouldn’t draw too much attention."

that made him pause. he studied her for a moment, the way she was just so sure about everything, like she’d been planning this for months.

maybe she had.

"you thought of everything, huh?" he said, half amused, half something else he couldn’t name.

she finally glanced at him then, the smallest smirk playing at her lips. "someone had to."

logan let out a breath, turning back to the window. outside, the city lights started to thin, giving way to stretches of dark highway.

they kept driving, the roads turning quieter, the air growing warmer as they left the place that had swallowed them whole.

- ✨ -

california smelled like salt and sun, the ocean stretching out wide before them as she pulled the car to a stop. logan stepped out, breathing it in, the breeze ruffling his too-long hair.

he turned to her. "so, what now?"

she leaned against the car, lighting a cigarette. "i dunno," she said, exhaling smoke. "thought we could figure it out together."

logan stared at her, something unreadable flickering in his expression.

then, finally, he huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

"yeah," he muttered. "okay."

when they got back in the car, the sun was dipping low over the horizon, casting everything in gold. logan let his hand hang out the window, fingers cutting through the warm air, his mind still trying to catch up with the last twenty-four hours.

she drove like she knew exactly where she was going. no hesitation, no second-guessing. just steady hands on the wheel, the same quiet determination that had always unnerved him just a little.

when she finally pulled up outside a small apartment complex, logan barely had time to take it in before he saw it—his chevy, parked right there in the lot.

his chest tightened. it was still cherry red, still his, but the plates were different. new numbers, clean slate.

she stepped out of the car, keys jingling in her hand. "you coming?"

logan lingered for a second longer, eyes on his car, then followed her inside.

the apartment was small, barely furnished, but it didn’t feel temporary. it felt set. like she’d been waiting for him.

she tossed the keys onto the counter, stretching her arms over her head. "place is ours, mr hunter davidson," she said casually.

logan blinked. "who?"

she turned, smirking, and held out a small booklet. his stomach flipped when he saw what it was. a new id.

his face. a different name.

hunter davidson.

he let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "jesus christ, sweetheart."

she just shrugged, already kicking off her shoes. "i’m exhausted," she muttered, rubbing her eyes. "i’m going to bed."

logan barely had time to process before she was gone, disappearing into the bedroom like this was just any other night, like she hadn’t just rewritten both their lives with one movement of her hands.

he stood there for a long moment, staring at the id, at the closed bedroom door, at the life she’d just handed him.

then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

logan caught sight of himself in the floor length mirror leaning against a mismatched sofa and winced. he did look worse for wear. ignoring the door she had just gone through, he opened another one, finding what he was looking for.

a shower.

he took in the room and noticed it was furnished with a few of her products and walked in.

the shower was hot, steam curling around him as he let the water wash away months of prison grime, of sleepless nights, of everything that had clung to him since the moment she turned him in.

when he finally stepped out, towelling his hair dry, exhaustion hit him all at once.

he rummaged around the bathroom cupboards and found she’d bought some underwear. he put on a pair of boxers and a wide beater then left the bathroom.

when he opened the door to the bedroom he found her asleep as he slipped into bed behind her, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

she was out cold, curled on her side, breathing slow and steady.

logan hesitated, then pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder, fingers trailing lightly down her arm.

"you’re insane," he murmured against her skin. "but jesus, sweetheart, what would i do without you?"

she didn’t stir. just breathed, steady and certain.

logan let his eyes slip shut.

whatever came next, they'd figure it out. together.

the end.

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