#i will be angry about this until the day i die

[songdrop]

I had a similar thing happen to me

I was grounded for whatever reason and didn't have my earbuds

My family was out doing whatever in another town and there was this party from my dad's side of the family and he wanted to go inside and say hi. It was a MASSIVE party with loud music and lights and a lot of people

I wanted to stay in the quieter part of it in an area that had food and other kids but I was forced to sit at a table inside of the loudest part of the building.

The music was so loud I couldn't hear myself think and the bass was so heavy I could feel my own heart beat. The lights flashed in my eyes and I couldn't see musch

I was focusing on staying calm and I sat still frozen to do so, even when someone came by to greet us and told me thank you for being here I know you don't like this. I don't remember if I said anything, but I wasn't acting normal. At one point my mom tried to give me Tylenol or something but that's not the problem. I didn't have a headache, I was being overstimulated, possibly the most overstimulated I have ever been then or since.

I stayed calm tho, we left and I just stayed silent until we went back home and I went to bed

The next day I was as normal and happy as I could have been back then

But, my parents were not happy with me

I remember this and Im already feeling the pain and anger typing when they said to me that I was an embarrassment

That other people were talking about me and I was rude

I broke and yelled and screamed and cried having an actual anxiety attack, one I thought I avoided in that party last night over the fact my parents cared more about how we are perceived than to think that their child was acting strange because something was wrong

I wish they could have just accepted that something was wrong with me and took me to the doctors instead of the school counselor when I was 8 and told me that they wouldn't get me therapy because it'll go on my record and I'll be discriminated against THAT IS BULLSHIT. One it's private and no one knows unless I tell you personally, and two I wanted to fuckin die at 8. You would think that takes more precedence

Sorry I got angry

It took a stranger, the family therapist when I was ~17 (had my first therapist at 16 when I told my doctor I wanted one and she convinced my parents to get me one) and that family therapist ghosted us btw, to tell my parents what an anxiety/panic attack was and how to help me with one. IT TOOK A STRANGER, one with credibility, over their own child to stop them yelling at me when I would cry and scream

I have no credibility because I'm their child and they don't listen to me, but when someone else says the same words that I do, they somehow hear them.

You have no idea how badly I want to have a family therapist again, it was part of the 'contract' that I really should have gotten legalized somehow to have my parents take therapy when I moved back in after I ran away and spent a year in a housing program. Worst part is it's covered by our insurance so it's not like it costs anything. Even my mom said why I didn't get one for them like I am responsible for their mental health.

Makes it worse that my mom is suicidal...

This is long sorry, I needed to vent a bit

I Am A Cat - a short comic

This is a comic based on an actual event from my childhood that's been seared into my memory ever since.

[zara-renata]

And hope to die | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: A continuation of the 'wholesome apple boy' Caleb fics I started before he was released. I'm still getting the hang of his voice. You wake up from your reoccurring nightmare about Caleb dying, only to find that he's alive, but you keep having trouble trusting that this isn't all still a dream. Caleb takes care of you, through your anger and your disbelief. Your boyfriend drops by, and Caleb is on his best behavior in sending him back on his way. Caleb x mc, Caleb x f reader. This story contains: angst, fluff, a traumatized and deeply angry mc, codependent Caleb and mc, nightmares involving serious bodily injury and Caleb's death, nsfw sexual content, cheating [mc may or may not sincerely think it's just a dream, sorry nameless boyfriend, you can't help not being Caleb].

It’s always the same.

No matter the season. 

You are falling.

Not flying.

You are falling. 

The fall is endless.

The terror of hitting the bottom never lessens.

There is never relief, never growing numb to the sensation of plummeting, of the imminent end.

You fall through rain

You fall through snow.

You fall through cherry blossom petals.

You fall through sun drenched, blindingly blue skies.

You fall, and there is nothing, and no one, to catch you.

Until you fall into his body.

As always, it is he who catches you.

You sit up, panting, big chest heaving. You feel the strength in your arms, your powerful thighs. You smell your own sweat.

You turn, and you see yourself. You, not the Caleb you, the body you’re currently in.

You look wrong. Small, fragile, vulnerable. That’s not you. You’re indestructible. You can survive anything.

You hate that this is how he must see you, as you look at yourself through his eyes.

You turn. Look out the window. A bright, sunny day.

You’re at the dinner table, there is news on the TV. Explosions throughout the city.

You’re worried about Gran, you’re worried about Pipsqueak, her new, dangerous job.

You’re carrying secrets that even though you’re inside him, he won’t reveal to you.

The dinner continues. You watch yourself respond to your Hunter’s watch, you follow yourself out the door, concern rising, frustration that your help is being rebuffed. You send yourself into the cornerstore. You buy vinegar, condiments, what you demanded he buy to keep him busy. You return to the bright, sunny day.

You argue with yourself. You snap at him, cut off his complaints. Lie to him. You’re so frustrated with yourself, why won’t you just listen to him? Let him continue to shelter you, as he has done for the only part of his life that matters to him?

You turn, lead the way back to your childhood home. You say something cutting, sarcastic to him, trying to create more distance, keep him at arm’s length, he who is you, whose body you’re in. 

Your heart hurts, beats painfully. You go in first, as you have been ordered to do by your princess. 

It happens so fast, but there is still pain. So much pain. And then—

You fall into your own body. You wake up, slowly, painfully. The fire is raging, consuming the carcass of your childhood home. 

You’ve been here before.

But this time, he’s outside the house. Instead of his necklace, it’s his big body tossed over the walk leading up to the house. He looks intact, whole in way that you know is impossible.  

You crawl to him, hope surging, despite the impossibility. Maybe this time, it’s different.

Maybe this time, there will be a different ending.

You crawl to him—everything hurts. You push yourself up on your arms, lean over him. 

He’s so beautiful. He could be sleeping. His sweet eyes, closed. His long, straight nose. His full lips slightly parted. You just need to wake him up.

Caleb.

You call to him. You call to him, softly, and then loudly, as he doesn’t respond. You reach up, caress his cheek, as you remember him caressing yours so often when you were younger.

Open your eyes, Caleb.

He doesn’t move. 

You’re desperate. You’re yelling now, screaming. Your throat hurts.

Caleb. Caleb. Caleb.

You’re desperate. You let yourself do something you’ve never allowed yourself to do before.

You lean down. You lean down and press your trembling, panting lips to his.

You kiss him. A soft press, first. Then harder. 

Wake up, you say against his lips. Wake up.

Wake up, you beg.

You frame his cheeks with your hands, touch him tenderly, fingertips drifting along his skin as you kiss him, over and over, untethered from gravity. 

Wake up.

You kiss him for a lifetime.

Finally, he opens his eyes.

You make a noise in your throat as he opens his eyes, and he kisses you back. His lips meet yours, press for press. Soft and alive.

You stare into his pretty purple eyes, the pink shimmering in the flames of your childhood home.

You could fly, with the relief, the realization that he’s not dead. That he’s fine—he’s fine, and he’s kissing you back.

You draw your hands from his cheeks, slide your fingers into his soft, soft hair, pull him closer.

He smiles against your lips.

You can pull harder, if you want.

You grin, laughing breathlessly. You’re overcome with relief, with desire. You slide your hands further into his hair, around the sides of his head, toward the back of it, to cradle it in your palms.

Your fingers don’t meet. They meet air instead.

Empty air.

You pull back. Stare into his face. He smiles at you one last time, before closing his eyes again. Before going limp. You tenderly turn his head in your hands, reluctant to pull your gaze from his beautiful profile. But you do. You have to.

You let your eyes drift, over his soft brown hair, the curve of his precious ear. To where his hair, his bone ends.

You stare at the back of his skull, no longer intact—you stare at the gaping wound of where his mind, his brain, the core of him should still be.

But it’s empty.

You start to scream.

It’s always the same.

You wake up screaming.

It’s always the same.

Sweat-soaked. Heart broken, and yet still pounding so hard in your chest it feels like your ribs are breaking, all over again.

Again, and again, and again.

You hate falling asleep. You hate waking up.

It’s why you’ve never spent the night at your boyfriend’s.

You meet him somewhere, out. Surrounded by other people. Have nice, pleasant dinners. Take in a movie. Go back to his place. He makes love to your body with his body that doesn’t remind you of Caleb because he’s shorter, less muscular. He smells wrong. 

Not bad. 

He’s just not Caleb.

But he was there, in the blurry haze of the aftermath of Gran and Caleb’s deaths. A nice, inoffensive presence, across the bar. 

Normally you wouldn’t have accepted his offered drink. He didn’t look enough like Caleb. Sure, he was tall, handsome. But not tall enough, not handsome in the right way. He would have done nothing for you before.

But after Caleb dies, you can’t stand to be reminded of him, when before, you tried to find him in everyone you met. Poor facsimiles, but enough for one night of fantasy in your head.

When you tried not to call the nice guy back, after the first time you went home with him, he persisted. For weeks. Sending cute, self-deprecating texts. Flowers to the reception of the Hunter’s Association. When can I see you again?

He was dogged in his pursuit of you, as you left him on read. As you accepted the flowers, gave them to Tara, to Nero, to Simone.

One day, the pain was simply unbearable. You needed a distraction, from your twisting, racing thoughts. From the same nightmare, every time you went to sleep. 

You called him back.

But you still never slept at his place.

Now, you wake up from the nightmare, as you always do, with your throat raw, your heart wreckage on the ground, knowing that you are simply moving from one nightmare to the next.

The nightmare of reliving what happened to Caleb, and the nightmare of waking up to a world where he’s dead.

It’s always the same.

Except this time it’s not.

There are arms around you. Warm. Big. A scent you’d know anywhere, in any lifetime, fills your nose. You want to cry. You’ve learned not to trust these aftershocks of the nightmares. Where you’re so desperate for the world to still contain him, that you hallucinate he’s here with you, holding you tight. You can’t believe it. You squeeze your eyes shut, tight, tight, tight. 

You try to roll yourself into a ball, a little shrimp, he used to call you, but the strong arms don’t let you. He holds you fast against his own body, where you’re lying… somewhere. It feels too cramped to be the bed.

“Hey, Pipsqueak. Open your eyes,” a boyish voice you’d know anywhere, in any lifetime, murmurs in your ear. Even as he grew huge, worked so hard to gain heavy muscle, his voice stayed so cute.

A cheek, rough with stubble, against your own.

You can’t. You can’t, only to find this is not real, again. This has happened to you, so many times before.

“It’s not a dream,” the voice says. “Open your eyes, let me prove it to you.”

You want to cry. But you do as he says, every time. How can you not?

You open your eyes and see Caleb looking down into your face—his expression soft, warm. Everything you remember of him.

You feel like time has stopped. You’re disoriented, on your couch. Faint, orange-tinted light pours in through the windows of your apartment. As if the sun is setting. It’s always this way, waking up from a nap, the rare times you have time to actually fall asleep during the day. As if you’re coming from another life, from such a great distance. But now it’s even more disorienting, as the dream of Caleb alive and warm underneath you feels so, so real.

“Caleb.”

It’s all you can say.

“That’s right,” he says, full lips curved in a soft smile, eyes crinkling at their edges. “It’s me.”

He’s stretched out on the couch, one arm bent behind his head. His chest is bare, as it was before you fell asleep. You’re lying on top of him, head lifted from where you’ve been resting it against his big pectoral. He runs his metal thumb languidly across your lower lip as you look up into his face, as he looks down into yours.

“You’re dead,” you say, your heart pumping, pumping, painfully in your chest. The nightmare is still with you. You’re afraid to believe him when he says he’s here, that he’s real. That the nightmare is over.

“I felt like I was, for awhile,” he says gently, letting his thumb fall away, moving his new arm across your back, his big, hard hand, clutching your hip tighter. The pressure is a little too hard. You like it. Maybe it will leave a bruise. “But I’m not dead. Check for yourself,” he invites you. His hand releases you.

You sit up, straddling him, his hips. You stare at him. Let your eyes drink him in. The healthy curve of his intact arm, leisurely bent behind his head. The soft dark hair in his exposed underarm.

“You can do more than look. Why don’t you touch me, if that’s what you need? I’m right here, and I’m real.” He sounds amused, teasing. As if the past year is something you could ever joke about.

You can feel the anger, the fury, close under your skin. But you’re not ready to release him yet. You’re not ready to punish him yet. You’re not ready to retreat again, as you have done for years now, ever since he left you stranded on the ground amidst the wreckage of his broken promises. Right now, in this orange-soaked, suspended moment in time, you can’t resist accepting his invitation. You’ll be mad at him, soon. You’ll make him suffer, soon.

You can’t help it. It’s in your nature. He should know. He’s the only one who knows.

You trusted him with everything, with all of you, and he left you, and then he let you think he was dead.

If he’s actually alive. If this all isn’t still just the cruelest nightmare you’ve ever had. You don’t think you’ll be able to survive waking up and finding him in the ground again.

You shake your head, the feelings inside of you so big, your body can hardly contain them. You can’t bring yourself to decline his invitation. You need to touch him again, to feel him. After so many years of your hands being empty, even as you were touching other people.

But you have to carve out an escape route, even as you accept his invitation.

You will never leave yourself exposed, vulnerable, like you spent years being with him, again. Only in this moment, hanging suspended, spinning lazily between the nightmare and the truth, will you let your heart finish what it starts every time you wake—you allow it to jackhammer through your ribs, crack them open and allow him to see inside.

But he needs to know that this moment is a clumsily drawn card, slipped into his pocket. Caleb’s right to a time out in a fight, valid until the end of the day of its use. 

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you say. “You’re a stranger to me still.”

His face falls. He looks so hurt, for such a brief moment. But then he takes a breath. His eyes soften. You recognize their indulgent affection from when you were younger, and trusted him. “Whatever you say, Pipsqueak. I’ll accept it, whatever you need to say to yourself, for however long you need to say it,” he murmurs.

You reach forward, cover his pretty, gentle eyes with your hands. “I mean it. Don’t look at me like that.”

He laughs, and it sounds infinitely sad. “I’m just lookin’ at you like I always do. I can’t help it.”

You run your fingers over his face, trace his thick, dark eyebrows. Let them drift across his forehead. You take your thumb, and smooth the frown there. He closes his eyes. 

You move your hands, sending your fingers into his soft, silky hair. You let your blunt nails drag across his scalp, and you feel him shiver underneath you. 

You swallow, terrified. Pause your hands in their trajectory that you know you must follow in order to reassure yourself that he’s here, that he’s okay. That the nightmare is finally over.

But you’re so, so scared.

You’ve been here before. Your hands in his hair. Moving towards the back of his skull.

“Caleb,” you plead.

He opens his eyes. The colors of a rainbow oil slick, the colors of his evol, the colors of your dreams. 

You clench your teeth. You’re trying so hard not to cry in terror.

His eyes drift from your face to your neck. 

He reaches up with his silver hand, slips his index finger through the silver chain around your neck. His necklace slithers from underneath your shirt as he pulls. He keeps pulling, gathering the excess length of the chain in his palm, the faint clinking of the metal necklace against his metal hand loud in the quiet room. When he has most of it fisted in his hand, he continues pulling, gently.

You don’t try to resist—you let him pull you down to him. You rest your forehead against his, your hands still clutching his hair.

His breath is warm, sweet against your lips. 

You’ve had this dream before. Your heart is racing, in terror, in response to his proximity, after being so far apart for so, so long.

“Caleb, wake up.” You can’t help it. The plea comes out of you without thought, without effort, like it always does.

Your hot tears hit his cheeks, despite your clenched teeth, your effort to keep them in your eyes, where they belong. He has no right to see them. He never had any right to see them, even when you trusted him.

“I’m awake, baby,” he says against your mouth. “I’m right here. I’m right here, and I’m never going anywhere again.”

He’s promised you before. Promises you’re not sure he ever intended to keep. “You’re dead,” you whisper.  “You’ve been dead for so long.”

“I’m not,” he insists, for the first time sounding a little desperate. A little impatient. As if he has any right to feel impatient. As if he has any rights at all, if he’s actually alive. If he’s actually here, under your hands, and this isn’t the same nightmare it always is, with a more bitter flavor. “I’m not dead. Touch me. Keep touching me,” he urges, softly. “Until you’ve convinced. I’m not goin’ anywhere. Take all the time you need. Just touch me.”

You let his words fill you. You let him nudge against your cheek with his nose as he asks this of you, let his breath in through your parted lips.

You clench your teeth again, brace yourself. “I’ll never forgive you, if you’re lying again.”

He laughs, breathless, eager. “But you’ll forgive me, if I’m telling the truth?”

You tighten your fingers in his hair, hear a little gasp pulled from his lips, puffing against yours. “You’re in no position to negotiate. All I said is that I’ll never forgive you if you’re fucking dead,” you bite out. “If I wake up from this, and you’re still dead, I’m going to take a bulldozer to the cemetery. I’m going to reduce your headstone to rubble. I’m going to gather the gravel in a big fucking sack, along with everything of yours I still have, every last scrap of paper, piece of fabric, your stupid little model planes, the tiny, pathetic number of things salvaged from the fire, and I’m going take my friend’s yacht to the deep ocean, and I’m going to weight the lot of what remains of you. I’m going to fucking sink it. I’m going to make sure that the last bit of you is as far as you can get from the sky as possible, forever.” You breathe. You breathe, and you whisper, “And I might have to tie it around my neck, and go down with it, if you’re fucking lying. I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

He stares into your eyes, and you’re too close to tell what the rest of his face is doing. He doesn’t blink. 

You take a deep breath. Let it out. You don’t care if your breath stinks from your nap. He’s probably fucking dead. And you’ve felt dead, for longer than he’s been dead. What does he care? What do you care? “So no, I won’t forgive you if you’re telling the truth. But I won’t bury you as deep as I possibly can if you are. You can fuck back off to your precious, wide open sky. In either case, you don’t get to haunt me anymore.”

In the silence that follows your promise to him, there is only your breath. His breath. Your heartbeat, and his. The city outside your window is just a quiet ocean you’d like to drown your dead brother in, the cars are waves breaking on the shore.

“You have to keep living,” he finally says, as if nothing else matters to him. “You can have everything else. But you don’t get to die.”

“You don’t get to decide what I can, or can’t do anymore, Caleb Xia,” you snarl, and your anger gives you the courage to force yourself to send your fingers further into his hair, curving around his precious head.

You let out a sob when your fingers meet each other at the back of his head, with his hair, his scalp, his skull intact underneath. 

“Caleb,” you keen, and he finally moves. 

He surges up, taking you with him, your hands still buried in his hair, clutching the back of his head. He wraps both of his arms around you, metal and flesh, and squeezes you so, so tightly. You bury your face in his neck, and you wail like an animal.

“This doesn’t change a fucking thing,” you sob. “You’re not dead but you’re dead to me, do you understand? I don’t give a shit where you’ve been, or what you’ve been doing. Fuck you, Caleb. You let me believe you were dead for a year.”  

He holds you even tighter, absorbing all of your fury, all of your hate, all of the feelings inside you that are too big for your skin, like he has always done. “I know,” he whispers. “I know.” He lifts his left hand and holds the back of your head, gently, gently, and rubs the other along your back, up and down, up and down. He listens as you rip yourself open and let all your venom out, soaking him in it, and he holds you, and he soothes you, and he takes it all.

The daylight has drained from the world while you were exploding in his arms. The lights from the city are the only illumination in your otherwise dark apartment, as you finally slump against him, utterly exhausted. 

“Feel better?” he asks, turning his head, nosing along your temple.

You refuse to answer him, even as you try to snuggle closer to him.

He just laughs softly at your mutinous silence, your traitorous body that refuses to let space come between yours and his yet.

“How about a shower? Might make you feel better.”

“Nothing will make me feel better,” you grumble. You sniff his neck, savoring his warmth, the familiar smell of him, and then deliberately rub your snot and your tears into his skin. 

He just laughs, like he’s ticklish, when you know he’s not. Or like he likes your snot and your tears all over him. 

“Idiot,” you say.

“Hey now, be nice.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “C’mon, Pipsqueak. A hot shower, and then a hot meal. I’ll make you whatever you want.”

You sigh. “I don’t have any food, remember?”

“A hot shower, a trip to the grocery store, and then a hot meal,” he amends the evening itinerary.

“Sounds like work,” you complain. “It’s my day off. I don’t do any work on my day off,” you lie. Because you often work on your days off. It’s another thing that bothers your boyfriend.

Shit, your boyfriend.

You remember the events from earlier today. Seeing Caleb through the crowd. Leaving your boyfriend behind. Letting Caleb take you home. Even though you have no idea how he knew where you live, how easily he got here, without looking at his navigation system while he drove. He has never been here before. You never invited him after you moved in.

You stiffen in his arms.

“I’ll do all the work” he interrupts your racing thoughts. “You don’t have to do a thing. I’ll take care of everything.”

You pull back, feeling like your face is twice its normal size, your eyes puffy and raw from all of your crying. “I promised my boyfriend I’d call him later today.”

There’s another flash of emotion on his face, there and gone again before you can decipher it. “It’s not every day you reunite with your closest friend back from the dead,” he says carefully. “He’ll understand, right?”

You stare into his eyes. He looks so earnest. He sounds so reasonable.

You don’t miss how he still refuses to refer to himself as your brother.

Closest friend.

Tara has never taken weeks to respond to your texts. Has never missed an important event for you.

Xavier has never made you think he was dead for a year.

Sylus has never broken a promise to you.

Rafayel responds to your texts immediately.

Zayne disappeared for years, but didn’t make you think he was fucking dead. 

You wonder who your closest friend is, now. 

You wonder who your brother is, now. What he’s been doing, the time he’s been gone. 

What else he had to pay, to attain his resurrection.

You think about retrieving your phone from your coat. Calling you boyfriend. Answering his questions about Caleb that he probably has.

But you don’t want to. 

You’re a liar to the world, but you’ve always had a hard time lying to yourself. You’re not quite ready to face the outside world. You want a little more time to indulge in the focal point of your inner world, so warm and solid beneath you, his arms around you, before you toss him back to the outside world and never speak to him again. He’s still dead to you, like he was before he died. Even though he’s alive.

He’s alive.

“Caleb,” you say, helplessly.

He smiles in response. “Yeah.”

Now that you’ve been emptied, for now, of all of your rage, your grief, your resentment, the relief is so big. It’s filling you, like helium. You could float away, without Caleb’s evol, you’re so full of it.

Caleb’s alive.

You don’t want to stab yourself yet, to pop the helium-bouyant balloon of your heart by tearing yourself from him, insisting that he leave, returning to the life you’ve made without him.

Is it so wrong to fly with him, for just a little longer? 

Caleb’s right to a time out in the middle of a fight.

“I’m tired,” you grouse. “The bathroom’s too far.”

When he realizes you’re conceding, he makes a little helpless noise, in the back of his throat. You feel his big chest expand, contract, as he sighs, closing his eyes. Then he smiles, opens them again.

 “Aaaall right, message received.” His voice takes on a customer friendly tone. “Wait one moment, please. Caleb’s personal delivery service is activating.”

You laugh as he shakes his body, and yours, while making brr brr noises, like an engine revving and shaking the chassis of a car. “You’re so stupid.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you, the motor’s too loud,” he says cheerfully, standing effortlessly with you still in his arms, your legs tucked around his waist. He carries you through your spartan apartment, to the bathroom. He nudges open the door with a foot, surveys the small space.

“You have a bathtub,” he says, lifting an eyebrow.

“And you have eyes,” you snark.

“I do have eyes, thank you for noticing, little puffer fish.” He smiles down into your face.

You scowl at him. “Puffer fish?”

“You cried so hard that you puffed up like one.”

You glare at him. You know your face and eyes are swollen from crying, but he has no right to tease you for it. “And whose fault is that?” you accuse. 

He lifts his left arm from under your ass and runs his hand over your hair, tucks a lock behind your ear. “All mine, Pipsqueak,” he murmurs, and his voice is filled with such familiar, sorrowful affection that you immediately deflate. “How about instead of a shower, you take a bath? That would be more relaxing. I’ll give you a massage, after.”

He’s been gone for so long. He’s not dead. He’s alive. You can’t say no, right now. Not yet. You want everything from him, like when you were younger.

Before he left you in pieces on the ground.

“I want bubbles.”

He laughs, caresses your cheek with his thumb. “Then you’ll have bubbles.”

You lean into his palm before resting your head on his metal shoulder.

He looks down at you in surprise. “Why not choose the soft shoulder?”

“Hard or soft, doesn’t matter,” you mumble. “It’s you.”

Inexplicably, his face flushes. He blinks, and then shakes his head. “One bubble bath, comin’ up.”

He sets you on the closed toilet before turning to the bath, fiddling with the knobs. He paws through your bath products along the edge, and then underneath the sink. He then turns to you, hands on his hips. “You have a bathtub, but no bath bombs? You only have shampoo and shower gel, you don’t even have stuff specifically for bubble baths.”

“Already breaking another promise?” you ask, softly, before you can stop yourself.

His teasing smile fades. “No, baby. You’ll get your bubbles.” He turns, and you watch his broad back, the muscles shifting under his soft skin—he’s right here, healthy, if no longer whole in the same way as before, with his metal shoulder shining under the soft bathroom light. His cargo pants are slung low over his hips. You can see the dimples of his lower back, the meaty curve of his ass before his pants begin. You want to touch him. You want to bury your face against his ass, use him as a pillow.

Your mouth feels empty.

He bends down and grabs your shower gel. He pauses, stares at the label. As if seeing it for the first time.

You feel your cheeks become warm, but he doesn’t say anything.

He shakes his head, squeezes the bottle. The viscous liquid forms a long, slow drip into the rushing water. 

Caleb’s scent fills the small room.

The bubbles build.

He turns around. His eyes are a lovely, dark indigo. His face is still serious.

He looks like the Caleb you remember. Mostly.

He was big then, but he’s even bigger now.

His arm is different, of course. 

He has that same angry, hungry look you remember that he’d sometimes get before he left for the DAA.

But there’s something else now, another layer to the complicated expression on his face. He’s looking at you with intention, in a way that you never remember seeing.

He squats down before you, looks up into your face.

“You’re going to undress now,” he says, voice low.

You swallow. Your heart is racing. “Am I?”

He nods, slowly. “Yeah, you are.” 

You stare into his beautiful eyes.

Part of you, the currently drained angry, abandoned, grief-filled part, wants to tell him no. 

That part of you wants to tell him to fuck off. He has no right to order you around. To tell you what to do.

That part of you wants to tell him that you have a boyfriend, and that when he’d help you like this when you were younger, it was unhealthy. Codependent. Dysfunctional. 

But he’s here, right now. He’s alive. After so, so long. You are filled with helium, looking into his beautiful, serious eyes. If you flicked an unlit match against the metal of his arm, you’d explode.

“Do it for me,” you order him.

He smiles, and it’s a smile you’ve never seen before. You can see his sharp canines, glinting like his arm.

He reaches forward with one big hand, and it envelops your foot. He pulls it into his lap, and he slowly, slowly peels down your sock. He sets it on the floor, and then pulls off your other sock.

He then slides both of his hands, the metal one cool, his other warm, even through the fabric of your tights, up your calves. He parts your knees, runs his hands up the inside of your thighs. 

Your heart is racing, so, so fast.

You gasp, when he lifts his hands right before his thumbs would meet where your thighs do, and instead gently hooks his fingers under your waistband. “Lift,” he tells you.

You lean back, place your hands on either side of the toilet seat, and lift your ass.

He stares into your eyes as he pulls, peeling your tights, your underwear, off of you in one long slide. By necessity, you close your knees again to ease his way.

The tights pool at your feet.

He doesn’t look away from your eyes.

He lifts his left hand, slides it between your knees, parting your legs again.

He still doesn’t look down.

He stands, takes a step forward, to stand between your now open legs.

His hips are at your eye level. Your eyes widen as you see the big outline of his dick, clearly hard, beneath his cargo pants. It looks painful, trapped down his left pant leg.

Your mouth feels so empty.

He looks down at you. “Lift your shirt.”

Your mouth is dry. If you could hear anything over the gushing water of the bath’s faucet, you’d probably be able to hear it clicking as you swallow again.

But there’s only the water, your heartbeat, his command in your ears.

“Do it for me,” you counter.

His skin, beneath the soft brown fur trailing down his stomach, sweeping across his big pecs, is flushed.

He leans down, gathers the fabric of your shirt in his hands, and lifts.

You raise your arms, and he gently pulls the shirt off your torso, letting it join your tights at your feet.

There’s only your bra, now.

He doesn’t look away from your eyes. “Take off your bra,” he murmurs, and you barely hear him over the water.

You lean back on your hands. Widen your legs. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, between your legs.

“Do it for me,” you say, one last time.

His nostrils flare as he exhales. His eyes look so dark. 

He leans down again, but this time, he runs his hands from your hips, up along your sides, until he’s holding you firmly along your ribs. He lifts you to himself, pressing your hips against his, your breasts against his chest.

His cool, silver arm is a steel band across your back, as he fumbles with the clasp of your bra with his other hand. You share his breath as he looks into your eyes as his hand works.

Finally, you feel the relief that only comes when you take your bra off after a long day. He gathers its fabric in his fist and gently tugs. You lean back in his arms, and he lets the straps fall from your shoulders, along your arms. 

He pulls you back to him, pressing your breasts back against his chest, skin on skin. He lifts you, like a princess, turns with you in his arms, and then slowly lowers you into the steaming water of the bath. The bubbles envelop you, come up to your neck.

He turns off the faucet, and the ensuing silence leaves your ears ringing with your ever-present tinnitus. Then he stands next to the tub, looking down at you, as if from a great height.

“Soak,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m going to the store for dinner stuff. When I get back, you better still be in this bath. I’ll help you wash your hair.”

In the warmth of the bath, surrounded by the smell of Caleb’s shower gel, pinned by his intent gaze, you can only nod.

“Oh, before I go,” he says. He flicks his hand in a lovely, graceful gesture, and his necklace lifts from your neck, caught in a shimmering, rainbow haze. Your hair is caught in the same weightlessness, floating around your face, allowing the chain to drift over your head without obstacle. Once the necklace is free, your hair gently falls back down. Caleb catches the necklace in his hand.

He bends down again, offers it to you. “Put it on me,” he says, an echo of a playful order from so many years ago. This time, he sounds authoritative. Like he’s used to giving serious orders.

Time compresses. You are laughing with him on a sunny day, heartbroken that he is leaving, hopeful that you’ll see him again soon.

You are looking up into his dark, stranger’s eyes from the bathtub, heartbroken, missing him, mourning him even as he’s standing right in front of you. You’ve already lost him, all of your worst fears come true.

“Don’t you have hands?” you ask, quietly. 

He snorts, softly. “Yeah, yours.”

He stares at you, waiting.

You suddenly realize you’re scared that if he walks out the door, you won’t see him again.

“If you want it, you have to come back to get it.”

“No,” he says.

You look away. Clutch the tag of the necklace in your wet hand. “Then, no,” you mirror him. As you always have.

“Look at me.” His voice is softer, now.

You refuse.

“Be a good girl, and look at me.”

You swallow again. Feel that familiar warmth in your chest, between your legs, when he calls you that.

When he used to call you that.

You obey him. Look back at his face, filled with that sad affection again. He’s so handsome, it hurts. You missed his face so, so much.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, a reward. 

You want to cry, it feels so good to hear him praise you again.

“Put it on me.”

You reach up, the bubbles sliding over, down the naked skin of your arms. He leans down further, turns his face to run his nose along your cheek as you focus on closing the clasp shut at the back of his strong neck. When you’re done, you rest your palms on the sides of his neck. You feel his thumping, living heartbeat under his skin. He presses his lips softly against your cheek  before standing again.

You look up at him, as he looks down at you.

“I don’t need the necklace as an excuse to come back. I’ve come back, from very, very far away, because you are enough to pull me from the dead.” His soft, silky brown hair falls over his serious, furrowed brow. “I’m going to make you believe that I will keep every promise I make, from now on.” His full lips are set in a determined line. “Starting now. I promise I’ll be back in less than half an hour, to wash your hair. Okay?”

Despite the sincerity in his words, you don’t trust him to come back. You’ve been here before. He was sincere, before. Or so you thought. You don’t want him to go. Not yet.

“Caleb,” you say. 

“Yeah, Pipsqueak.” He smiles down at you, and its warmth reaches his eyes.

You stare at him. You tell yourself that you’re going to toss him back to the world soon, anyway. What does it matter, if he leaves you here again, right now, instead of you kicking him out at the end of the evening?

At least this time, if he breaks his promise and doesn’t come back, you’ll know he’s not dead.

Maybe it will be even easier this time, if he doesn’t come back. You’ll survive, if he never comes back, as long as you know he’s in the world.

“Hurry up,” you say. Instead of, Don’t go. Instead of, Don’t ever leave me again. Instead of, Kiss me before you go.

His eyes drift over your face, and he rubs his left hand thoughtfully over his chin. “I can tell that you don’t believe me.” Before you can scoff at him, argue, lie, he continues. “I’ll just have to prove it to you. I’ll prove it to you, as many times as I have to. Until you trust me again. Be back before you know it.” He turns, and he walks out the door.

You want to scream.

You shove your hand in your mouth instead and bite down, so hard that you can feel your skin breaking.

You don’t make a sound.

You hear your front door shut.

The bathwater is hot. Your bathroom is filled with steam. You draw your knees to your chest, wrap your arms around them.

You think about the dream, and remind yourself that his head is intact. You think about your memory, and remind yourself that he survived the fire, despite everything. That he’s alive, if not entirely whole, anymore.

You want to get out of the bath. You want to crawl into your bed and pass out. You want to wake up, ten years from now. Maybe that’s enough time, to no longer miss him this much.

But he told you to stay in the bath.

So you stay.

You refill the hot water, each time the water begins to cool. 

He’s still not back. You hug your knees.

Your neck feels empty, without his necklace around it.

Your mouth feels empty.

Just as you’re deciding to accept that he’s not coming back, you hear your front door opening again.

You turn so fast in the tub, the water sloshes over the side. “Caleb?”

“Still in the bath?” he calls from your hallway. You can hear him smiling.

You want to throw something at him. How dare he smile, while you sat here, terrified he wouldn’t come back?

You hear rustling in the kitchen. Your fridge door opening, closing.

And then, there he is, in the bathroom doorway, filling it like he always does. He’s so big.

“Ready to wash your hair?” he asks, eyes crinkling at the corners with his smile. He’s wearing a shirt again.

“Caleb,” you repeat.

His eyes soften. “Yeah, it’s me.”

He walks over to you, squats next to the tub.

You can’t help yourself. You throw your arms around him, soapy and wet. He makes a surprised little “Oomph” sound, but he hugs you back.

“You’re gettin’ me all wet, Pipsqueak.”

“You were gone for so long,” you whisper.

He pauses. Seems to hear what you’re really saying. “But I’m back now. And I’ll never leave you alone that long again, okay? Cross my heart, and hope to—”

“Shut up,” you choke out. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

“Okay,” he says, indulgent. “Then I’ll just say, I promise.”

You’re not satisfied.

You’re so pissed.

“Is your arm waterproof?” you ask.

It takes him a second to respond. “Yeah. Why–?”

Before he can finish, you use all of your strength, all of your hunter’s training to brace your legs against the side of the bathtub for leverage, and pull.

He was already a bit off-balance, squatting awkwardly as he leaned over the tub to hug you. You successfully drag his big, stupid body into the tub with you. Water sloshes over the side.

“I want to drown you,” you huff, as you pull him down on top of you, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Well don’t drown me before we get your hair washed, or before I make dinner. That would be a waste of today’s perfectly good Caleb’s personal delivery service, wouldn’t it?” His voice has a sing-song, teasing quality to it. Its familiarity, its playfulness, makes you ache.

You clutch him to you. “That’s the only reason I haven’t done it yet,” you lie.

He laughs softly. “Sure,” he murmurs, pretending to believe you.

Eventually, the water cools again. He sits up, his sopping wet shirt clinging to his defined chest, his soaked pants outlining his big dick, still hard.

It has always been like this. His body, reacting to yours. His complete disinterest in acting on it.

He never said anything about it, so neither did you.

You used to think it was just normal for guys to constantly be hard, until you started fucking them.

He kneels above you and then strips his t-shirt, letting it hit your bathroom floor with a wet splat. He watches your face as he unzips his pants, as he shimmies out of them, water splashing over the sides of the tub again. You’re going to have to use up all your towels to clean up the mess.

Finally, he’s just in his soaking, plain black boxer briefs.

Your mouth feels empty.

He leans over you again. His necklace dangles in the air between you, dripping water. You want him to lean further down. You want to pull the tag of his necklace into your mouth with your tongue and suck.

He makes another little helpless noise, deep in his throat. Breathes through his nose. “Let’s wash your hair, Pipsqueak.”

You let him clamber out of the bath. You melt, as he runs his fingers along your scalp, as he shampoos your hair just the way he always did. You close your eyes, and just savor the feeling of his hands on you.

Instead of moaning, like you want to, you ask, “Where have you been, Caleb?”

His fingers pause. And then resume making you feel so, so good. “Skyhaven.”

It’s like a punch to your chest. He’s been so close, this whole time. 

So close, and so far. 

You want to cry. “This whole time?”

There is only the sound of the water, rippling against the sides of the tub. A droplet from the faucet, splashing. His smell, all around you. From his own body. From his shower gel, the shower gel you’ve been using ever since he left for the DAA.

“Yeah,” he finally answers.

“What have you been doing?” you ask, through clenched teeth. You don’t want to cry again. You want to ask him why.

But you don’t want to know why, yet.

“I got a new job. I’ve been working.”

You have a million questions. You’re too exhausted to ask them.

“Do you still get to fly?” you ask, instead of What happened to you? Why didn’t you come home? Why didn’t you tell me you were alive? Why now? Why not six months ago? A year ago?

He huffs in disbelief. “You’re worried about whether I can still fly?”

“Your only dream was being able to fly. It would make me sad, if you couldn’t anymore.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, before he takes the handheld showerhead and gently rinses the product from your hair. All you hear is the water trailing through your hair, past your ears. He sets the showerhead back in its holder. “Flying wasn’t my only dream.”

You open your eyes. He’s looking down at you, but he’s leaning over you, so his face is upside down in your field of view. “It wasn’t?”

“No, baby.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

You’re too tired to ask.

He finishes caring for your hair, like he used to. When he’s done, he wraps it gently in the type of towel you always use for your hair. He helps you out of the bathtub, but his eyes never leave your face.

He wraps you in a towel. Lifts you in his arms, like a princess, and carries you to your bedroom. He sets you on your feet.

You meet his gaze, as you let the towel fall, plop softly onto your bedroom rug. He refuses to look at your body, but he makes that noise again. Like he’s in a little bit of pain.

You turn, dive under your duvet. He tucks the edge of it under your chin. “You still use my old sweats as pajamas?” 

“Yeah,” you yawn. Your stomach growls.

He laughs, heading into your closet. “I’ll start dinner before we finish your hair. Just rest while I take care of everything.” You can hear him opening drawers, searching for his sweats. After a few minutes, he emerges, wearing only the sweatpants, slung low on his hips. He’s clearly not wearing underwear anymore. You try not to stare at how big he is.

You lift your eyes back to his handsome face, trace his long, straight nose with your gaze. “Caleb,” you say.

“Yeah,” he smiles. “It’s me. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He approaches the bed. Stands over you.

Time compresses. You are a kid again, and he is watching over you, making you feel infinitely safe in a world that taught you that nothing and no one is safe.

You are a teenager, and he’s lifting you from your bed after a nightmare, he’s clutching you to his chest, tucking you into his own bed, singing you lullabies in his breaking, teenage boy voice.

You are an adult, dreaming that he’s still alive, that he’s finally come home to you. But you know that when you wake up, the nightmare will begin, all over again.

“I promise,” he says, as if he can read your mind, just from looking at your face. “Dinner’ll be ready in a jiffy,” he says, turning, walking out of your bedroom.

You lie there, listening to him in the kitchen. Cabinets opening. Burners flaring to life. The fridge opening, closing. You fall asleep to the safest sound you’ve ever known.

It doesn’t take long for Caleb to orient himself in your kitchen. You have the absolute basics. A couple of pots, pans. Mismatched plates that look thrifted. Glasses that are clearly just jam jars repurposed for drinking.

He pauses, stares at a lovely set of crystal wine glasses that is jarringly incongruent with the rest of your things. 

He wonders who gave them to you.

Then his gaze catches on the world’s best hunter mug he had gifted you, after you had graduated. You had taken it with your fake smile. He was convinced at the time that you had gone home and immediately thrown it away.

He holds it in his hand, notes how its rim is chipped. It has faint rings of tea stains that are really hard to get out by just hand scrubbing. 

He looks inside your other mugs. They’re all pristine.

You wash his mug by hand, and you use it a lot.

He smiles.

No matter how angry or betrayed you feel, you still use his shower gel. You were wearing his necklace. His clothes are still in your closet, even though you had never invited him to your place, after you had landed your position with the Hunter’s Association. You clearly use his mug every morning, to—he grimaces at your half-empty jar of instant coffee—to drink your tea and your shitty morning coffee.

He lets his mind drift as he measures out rice, washes it, gets it cooking in your little rice-maker. As he pulls out your one, crappy plastic cutting board and sets it on the counter. As he takes your pristinely sharpened kitchen knives, and begins chopping vegetables. 

He’s secured his place as Colonel in the Far Space Fleet, as he was ordered to do. Things should be stable for him, for a while. Which is why he finally gave in to the desperate need to see you again. To weave himself back into your life, after being ripped from you a year ago. Long before a year ago, really.

Caleb Xia is a liar. 

He’s not going to let you keep him out this time. He was lying when he said he’d accept anything you said you needed, including acting like he’s dead to you, except your death.

He will accept nothing less but your hand in his, and your moans against his mouth. Your genuine smile, directed at him. 

He knows better than anyone how quickly circumstances change. How even on the sunniest, calmest of days, your plane can be knocked out of the sky. Each day is all you, he, anyone has, really. He’s not going to waste any more time. It’s a lesson from the book he used to read you. He had to leave his rose, for awhile. But now he’s back, and he’s going to give her everything she needs, whether she wants it or not. He should have learned this sooner. He wants to look at the world with the eyes of a child, instead of the eyes of a responsible, societally proper adult.

He has always been childishly selfish. He’s just not going to fight it anymore.

He looks around at your empty apartment, remembers the spoiled girl he used to know. But he can’t find her in this stark, deprived existence. He’s going to fix this too.

He’s a selfish child, and he’s a man with a plan.

It’s simple, really.

He’s going to prove to you, day in, and day out, that he’ll keep his promises to you. That he’ll show up, and be there for you, when you need him, and when you think you don’t.

He’s going to start with feeding you, and then a trip to the grocery story and the mall tomorrow. You need a full fridge and shit-ton of bath bombs, now that he’s back in your life.

The doorbell chimes.

He looks up, frowning.

He sets the knife on the counter. With his evol, he doesn’t need it for human threats.

He pads, barefoot, to your hallway entrance, checks the video feed next to your front door.

Ah. 

The minor obstacle in his plan.

He pauses, activates the cloaking function on his arm. He looks like a normal guy again, now. Nothing mechanical about him at all, not him, nope. He opens the door.

Your boyfriend is fidgeting on the other side, focused on his nice monk-strap shoes. Nice shoes, for a nice guy who works in a nice office.

Caleb knows that you need more than nice to be happy. That you need more than nice to be safe. Protected. Satisfied. Filled.

Despite his carefully cultivated mask, Caleb is not a nice guy.

But based on everything Caleb has been able to dig up on this guy, he’s a nice guy.

He’s just not the guy for you.

The guy lifts his gaze, eyes growing wider as he takes in Caleb’s sweatpants, his naked chest. “Oh, I must have the wrong—” he starts, but then he finally meets Caleb’s eyes, and his voice dies in his throat.

Caleb smiles at him. Wide and genuine. With that little slip, this asshole has revealed that he has never even been to your place before. Incredible. Caleb hasn’t even been back a day and he already has one over on this dude. “Hey, man.”

The guy swallows. Looks like he’s been hit by a truck.

Caleb just keeeeps smiling at him, letting him squirm. He’s certainly not going to be the one to break the silence. He’s got all the time in the world, on this side of your apartment doorway. He leans against said doorway, folding his arms. He doesn’t mean to flex his big biceps in the process, really.

Your boyfriend’s eyes flicker to the necklace that Caleb has the feeling you’ve never taken off since the day he died.

It occurs to him that this guy has fucked you while you were wearing his necklace. His augmented hand forms a tight, painful fist, without his permission. Sometimes he loses control of it, when he’s upset. He forces himself to focus on the fact that now the necklace is around his neck, and your boyfriend is staring at it. His fist relaxes. The pain in his arm recedes to its normal, low hum. Like a constant, distant bruise. The pain in his heart, on the other hand, throbs.

Your boyfriend frowns, shakes his head a little. “I’ve been texting. And calling. But she hasn’t picked up. Can I come in?”

“Oh, that’s my fault. I’ve been keeping her really, really busy,” Caleb says, cheerfully. “I wore her out.” He doesn’t mean to make it sound like an innuendo, honest. “She’s in bed, asleep. I’ll tell her you dropped by though.”

Your boyfriend’s frown deepens. “We had plans tonight.”

“Did you?” Caleb asks, eyes wide, innocent. “That sucks. But it’s not every day that you reunite with the closest person in your life after being separated for a year, you know? Can you maybe cut her some slack, take a raincheck?”

Your boyfriend sighs, runs his hand over his mouth. “I just… I just want to make sure she’s okay. She’s been really messed up, since you…” he pauses, looks at Caleb strangely. “Since you allegedly died.”

Oooh, he’s pulling out his fancy legal jargon. Caleb nods. “Well, as you can see, I got better.” He chuckles. He’s just a harmless idiot, after all. A meathead soldier boy. “And she’s fine. Just tired. She’ll call you when she’s ready. I’ll tell her that you dropped by,” he lies.

Your boyfriend stares at him for a moment longer. Caleb can tell how desperately the poor asshole wants to say something about how fucking weird this whole situation is. But he’s too polite. Too nice. He still cares about social conventions, and appearances. Obviously, he cares more about these things than he cares about you.

Because if his and Caleb’s situations were reversed, Caleb would have already torn the door off its hinges and removed this guy, permanently, from his path to get to you.

But right now, Caleb is inside your home, and this idiot is outside of it. And if he just disappears this perfectly nice guy now, you’ll ask questions. You’re a Hunter now. Which means you have to uphold the law and worry about optics. You’d probably be mad at him when he inevitably tells you the truth, because he can’t resist your cute, pouting face. Or your scary, angry face.

He can’t resist you at all, really.

He just needs to show you that this guy isn’t worth keeping.

All Caleb cares about is regaining your trust, and showing you the one fundamental truth of his universe.

You are his. And he is yours.

The world can end tomorrow, for all he cares. As long as you’re in his arms, nothing else matters.

The guy you’ve been using as a distraction for the past six months is nothing, in the trajectory of your life with Caleb, his life with you. A blip on the radar, after a little turbulence.

Now, he looks doubtful about Caleb’s reassurance that he’ll tell you that your boyfriend dropped by, so Caleb smiles even wider. “I promise I’ll let her know. Cross my heart, and hope to die.”

The guy winces at the reminder that you’ve been grieving Caleb for the last year, and seems to accept that he’s the one who’s being callous in this situation, as opposed to you, for not following through on the plans you had with him tonight. Then he nods in resignation, and he leaves.

Caleb smiles with teeth, shutting the door to your place.

He pauses at your coat, fishes your phone out. 

He snorts. Apparently he didn’t like the text Caleb sent saying that you’d be busy with him for the rest of the night. He sent a bunch of texts, sounding increasingly irritated about you flaking out on plans with him, and called five times. But the texts don’t directly reply to Caleb’s terse message blowing him off. The guy just comes across as unreasonably aggressive.

Caleb smiles. Leaves the messages and the calls untouched in your phone. He slips the phone back in your coat pocket, still on silent.

He whistles as he returns to the kitchen. He sautés the vegetables. Sets everything out in covered bowls, on a wooden tray he finds in the back of one of your cabinets.

Time to wake up his princess and feed her.

He grabs the massage oil he picked up at the corner store along with the food and heads back to your bedroom.

You’re out like a light. So, so pretty. He sets the tray on the floor next to your bed. He gently removes the towel from your hair, which is still damp but drying really prettily even without much effort from him.

He pulls down the duvet, and you make a soft noise of protest at the cool air hitting your naked skin. He stares down at you for a few moments, just drinking you in. 

You’re so, so beautiful. He feels his body reacting, like it always does, to your proximity, your lovely skin on display for him.

He gently nudges you onto your stomach, sits down down next to you on the bed. He pours some of the oil into his hand. It smells really good—it has arnica oil in it, for your no doubt sore muscles. He knows how hard your job can be on your body.

He places his left hand on your back, and it looks so big, against your smaller frame. He slowly rubs in the oil, smoothing his hand over your muscles along either side of your spine. Between your shoulder blades. Up the line of your graceful neck.

You whimper softly, shift a little.

He loves you like this. 

He loves you when you’re telling him that you want to drown him. When you’re telling him you want to bulldoze his grave.

And he loves you when you’re liquid under his hands, letting him move you however he wants.

He leans down, presses his nose into your damp hair. He presses his cheek against the back of your neck, not carrying that he’s getting oil on his face.

He keeps rubbing you with his warm, living hand, savoring your skin he can feel under his fingertips.

You wake slowly from a dream. A dream, where Caleb was alive.

You had tested it and everything. For the first time, Caleb was intact under your hands. It wasn’t his necklace on the sidewalk, or his empty skull under your fingers.

He was alive, and breathing, under you on the couch. Over you in the bath.

It was such a lovely dream. You’re so grateful for this reprieve, after an entire year of night terrors.

Your body feels so good. He’s rubbing your back, like he used to do after track practice. His big hand slide leisurely along your sore muscles.

You must still be dreaming your lovely dream.

You roll over, turning to look up at him. He makes a surprised little noise as you open your eyes, smile up at him.

“Caleb,” you sigh.

“Yup. It’s me,” he says, watching you carefully, but speaking with an upbeat note in his voice that rings false to you. “Delivering your massage, as promised.

You’re naked in the bed, the duvet only coming up to your waist. “What a lovely dream,” you say, reaching for him.

He lets you, his big body pliant under your hands as you rest your hands on his shoulders, pull him down to you.

“It’s so nice to dream about something else, for once,” you tell dream Caleb. “I always kiss you, but in the end you’re dead.”

Dream Caleb’s lovely lilac eyes widen, and he makes that cute little whimper in the back of his throat.

“Does it have to be a dream, Pipsqueak?” he asks, his lips hovering above yours, as you’ve pulled his face down to yours.

“You never kissed me in real life. It will always only be in my dreams. At least this time, you’re not fucking dead. Hurry up. Kiss me.” You’re getting impatient. Who knows when you’ll wake up, and he’ll vanish under the harsh morning sun? “My mouth feels so empty.”

He hesitates. “Do you still smoke, baby? When you’re anxious, or drinking?”

You nod. “I know you hate it. That it’s not good for me. But you never offered me anything else that I actually wanted to replace it with. And you’re fucking dead now, so you don’t get a say, anymore.” You sound mulish. Petulant. You don’t care. You’re mad at him, even in this lovely dream. He left you, over and over and over again.

“I’m not dead. I’ll prove it to you.” He leans down, runs his warm, wet tongue along your lips. “And this isn’t a dream.” 

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” you say, laughing softly, because otherwise you’d cry.

He smiles against your lips. “You don’t have to trust me yet. I’ll prove it to you, as many times as I have to. Open your mouth.”

You part your lips obediently. He lifts his necklace with his silver hand, places the tag, the apple charm on your tongue. “Suck.”

You close your mouth, wrap your tongue around the pendants. You suck, as he tells you to.

“You fucked your boyfriend wearing my necklace,” he says, nosing along your cheek. He caresses your cheek with his warm left hand, then lets it glide along your jaw, down your chin, over your throat. Over your clavicle.

He rests his big palm between your breasts.

You nod. 

“Why?” he asks.

It’s just a dream. It doesn’t matter what you say, whether it’s a lie, or the truth, because Caleb isn’t actually here to receive your answer. He hasn’t been, for a long, long time.

He gently tugs the necklace from between your lips. He puts the wet pendants in his own mouth and sucks, as if savoring your saliva.

You tell the truth. “It’s the only way I could stand for him to touch me.”

He opens his mouth, lets the necklace fall from his lips, swing into the space between his body and yours. The pendants hit the back of his hand, where it’s resting on your sternum “Why are you with him, if you can’t stand his touch?” He sounds so, so sad.

“What does it matter? You’re dead. I’ll never have who I want touching me, now. He’s nice. He cares about me. There are very few people left who do, anymore.”

You don’t want to talk about this, in the precious few moments of this lovely dream. “My mouth feels empty,” you complain. You want him to hurry up, do something. You want him to help you.

“Because you were such a good girl and answered my questions honestly, I’ll give you a choice.” He leans down again, kisses you softly. Your first kiss from him on the lips, ever. What a lovely dream. You’re full of helium. You’re surprised you’re not lifting the both of you off your bed. “You can have my thumb.”

He kisses you again. The strands of his dark hair sweep across your forehead.

“My tongue.”

His lips are so soft, as they press against yours yet again.

“Or my cock.”

You want all three. Everything. You want everything. His thumb, fingers, hand, wrist, fist, his tongue, his ear, his cock, his balls. For years, you’ve wanted everything of his. “Don’t make me choose. I don’t want to have to choose. I want you to choose for me.”

He pulls back from your lips, lilac eyes drifting from your eyes to your mouth, and back again. “All right, Pipsqueak,” he says indulgently. “But first, you have to admit this isn’t a dream.”

You scowl at him.

“It is a dream,” you insist. “Because you’re fucking dead.”

He frowns in turn, brows furrowing. “I’m not dead. I know you don’t trust me not to break promises anymore. I’ll spend as long as it takes proving to you that you can trust me not to leave you again, but it’s time for you to admit that I’m not dead.” He sounds stern. Your big brother, lecturing you to stop doing things that aren’t good for you.

“This is just a dream,” you insist. He doesn’t get to tell you what’s real and what’s not, after so long. He never accepted his big brother role, anyway.

“Fine.” He looks angry, hungry. “Then you only get my tongue, until you admit this is real.”

He leans down, licks your lower lip. You glare at him. He reaches up with his left hand, slides his thumb between your lips. You taste the massage oil, bitter. He opens your jaw, gently. “I know you can’t bring yourself to continue denying me,” he says, sweetly. “Let me in,” he coaxes.

You open your mouth wider, and he licks into it. His fingers fall away from your mouth, drift down your body, to one of your breasts. 

He makes that same helpless noise, as he thumbs along your sensitive skin, squeezes. As he rolls fully on top of you, chest to naked chest. He presses you into the mattress as he kisses you deeply, as his tongue fills your mouth. You suck on his tongue, curl your arms around his broad back, put your hands back in his silky hair. You shift your hips underneath his. 

He’s so big and hard—the only thing between your body and his, the gray sweatpants.

He bucks his hips, once, and you moan. He pulls back, tongue leaving your mouth. You make a little noise of protest. “Caleb.”

“Pipsqueak.”

“Why’d you stop?” you demand.

He looks sheepish. “I’m gonna come really fast in my pants if we keep going.”

“Then come, dummy,” you lean up to kiss him again. You want his tongue in your mouth again.

He looks frustrated. “This is our first kiss, and our first time making out. It’s not every day that I get to kiss you for the first time. I don’t want to just come in my pants within two minutes.”

You laugh. “What, Captain Caleb doesn’t have any stamina?” You run your hands down his back.

He hangs his head. “Not when it comes to you, no,” he mumbles.

“I won’t hold it over your head forever and ever,” you tease him, reassure him. “It’s just a dream—”

He leans down, shoves his tongue in your mouth before you can finish. He pumps his hips, and his big dick presses between your legs in a way that makes you feel as empty as your mouth was feeling earlier. You whine. “Caleb,” you plead, around his tongue.

He reaches down, slips his left hand between your legs. “I’m not gonna lie, Pipsqueak, I’ve dreamt about this before, yeah. But this is real. You’re so wet. Fuck.”

He pulls his hand back, stares at it, the wetness glistening along his fingers. He snaps them.

Rainbow shimmer bursts, soaks your body and his. 

You both begin to float. He leans down, kisses you again. Slips his hand back between your legs. Two big fingers slip inside you, and his thumb presses into your most sensitive spot.

“Caleb,” you whisper, moving your hips as he moves his hand. He pulls his hand from your body again, and you whine, but it’s just to flick his wrist. He fills you again.

Time slows.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you, and his forearm flexes, as his fingers, his hands make you feel so good. Your pleasure builds, so slowly. His hand moves languidly inside you, his fingers in your wet, slippery places, but the pleasure doesn’t lessen. It keeps building, and building. He grasps your neck in his silver hand, squeezing just a little. Like he’s afraid of squeezing too tight, and is overcompensating by making his touch as light as a feather.

You float together, caught in a cloud of your pillows, your duvet, his shimmering evol. He slides the hand holding your neck down your back, until he has a handful of your ass, and he presses your body securely against himself, rubs himself against your thigh through the soft sweatpants.

The slow trajectory of his hand moving feels like it takes hours, as he continues to work his hand between your legs.

Hours. Days. A month.

He has slowed time using his evol, in order to make you feel as good as possible from just his hand on you, just his tongue in your mouth. You laugh a little, because you suspect that he's probably also trying to to make up for the fact that he's on a hair trigger right now just from touching you. But he seems to take your laughter as a challenge.

“Caleb,” you gasp, as his thumb presses harder, circles faster against you, as he adds a third finger inside you. You forget everything else except how good you feel, and with a graceful flick of his hand, his thumb, you come with a muffled cry, deep in your throat. The pleasure feels like it lasts a decade.

He does something with his fingers inside you, a subtle gesture that feels really, really good, an aftershock of climax, and then time speeds up again.

He jerks his hips into your thigh a few more times, his hard cock rubbing through his pants against you, and then he groans. 

He pulls his fingers from inside you, lifts them to his own lips. He shoves them in his wide mouth and sucks them clean, while holding you tight.

"No fair," you complain. You grasp his shoulders, push away from him a little. He looks at you like a kicked puppy, but then furrows his brow as you gently pull him up, up, until you’re floating, face level with his big hips. You pull down the band of his sweatpants, down past his still-hard dick, sticky with his come. You lean forward, and lick him with the flat of your tongue. He smells so, so good. Like Caleb, clean sweat and clean laundry, but also bitter, salty, a secret part of him you’ve never smelled, tasted before. You lap at him, and he groans again. You take him in your hand as best as you can despite how big he is and lick him clean, like a lolly pop, as he bows over you, gently palming the back of your head with both of his hands, as you both drift in the air above your bed, caught in the shimmering net of his evol.

You pull away after the silken skin of his firm cock is clean again. He pulls you up to him again, body flush against yours, and kisses you, tongue plunging into your mouth. You taste yourself, and you taste him. He rolls your bodies in the air, until he’s under you, and then he snaps his fingers again.

You both fall back to the bed in a soft thwump of duvet and pillows. His body cushions your fall, and the mattress cushions his.

You rest your chin on his chest. Smile at him. “What a lovely dream,” you say.

He frowns at you, like he’s in pain, eyes a dark indigo. He wraps his arms around you, palms the back of your head as you rest your cheek on his chest. “It’s not a dream, Pipsqueak,” he says, but he sounds resigned.

“Promise?” you sigh, but you’re already yawning. Drifting back to sleep.

You don’t hear him say, “I promise. Cross my heart, and hope to die.”

[youcouldmakealife]

(Still) Always in Tandem

Finish it first.

Then come back.

As I write this, there is a shitshow of such epic proportions unfolding (everyone reading this today knows exactly what I’m talking about, but everyone reading this in the future will likely cynically go ‘which one?’) that it feels a little self-indulgent, earnestly talking about my little world to my readers when shit of this level of seriousness is going down.

But I also know that right now, the last thing anyone wants is to think about any of this, and catharsis is so necessary right now. When everything in the world is heartbreaking, it’s kind of comforting to cry over a quiet little tragedy that’s unfolded over the past seven years.

Except Still Always in Tandem isn’t actually a tragedy. But Always in Tandem was — from the very beginning, we know that that one day Robbie will hate Georgie’s guts, and they’ll both agree Georgie deserves it. Every single moment of sweetness in that story is shadowed by the bitterness to come — every part of Robbie’s narrative is dripping with it, bitterness and the disgust he feels toward his past self for not having that knowledge at the time, for falling for Georgie’s facade (we will be getting back to this, believe me).

BAIT is, indisputably, a tragedy, but the tragedy lives at the centre of it, rather than at the end. Tragedy's both the end of one story and the beginning of the other — the tragic romance replaced by a tragedy of another sort, a revenge story where, as it always must happen, the protagonist has to realize it isn’t worth it, that seeking revenge is just a way of prolonging your own suffering, of poisoning yourself and waiting for someone else to die.

Well. Usually they do die at the end, but this isn’t that kind of story.

Robbie has that realization at the end of BAIT in Saul’s office, but it isn’t until almost a decade later that he’s finally ready to let go of the anger, not only towards Georgie, but to that past Robbie Lombardi, for not being able to put the pieces together, for thinking that Georgie could have possibly valued him, and the past Robbie who took him back despite everything.

And then there’s Georgie, a tragedy in action, doomed to watch himself throw away everything he loves. Doomed to regain them in Washington, but warped now, almost unrecognisable, and so fucking angry at him. Georgie, who is paying penance, and has been this entire time.

Georgie, who isn't quite himself though the majority of his own series. Who isn't quite anyone. Georgie, who is always reflecting who he’s speaking to, showing what he believes they would like to see, a never-ending series of practiced smiles and small performances. Georgie doesn’t let himself display the reality of himself even in the narrative — Georgie floats through it, describing things the same dreamy, distant, matter-of-fact tone, whether he’s describing his wedding or breaking his foot or winning the Stanley Cup.

And then Georgie falls in love again, and it grows hard, over the years, to reconcile how he feels when he’s with Tessa (and Toby, later), and the way the world feels to him the rest of the time.

Because it hurts, that transition, like putting a cold limb in hot water. But Georgie’s kind of used to stoically enduring things at this point, and he’s set to remain on a path that, even as the years change, has a trapped, repetitive feeling to it, every day blurring together, everything feeling the same.

The faces around him change, as do the topics of conversation, the kids get bigger, but at the centre, there’s always Georgie — desperately sad Georgie, putting on one of his dozens of smiles as he spends another day pretending he’s living the happily ever after, but believing gut deep, that he’s living out a tragedy.

But he isn’t, at least not anymore. He just refuses to leave the aftermath.

It took — a long time. This one took me a long time. I think because, for a long stretch of time in the middle, I didn’t have the distance I needed, didn't have the perspective to finish the story, at least not yet. I needed to get further from it to be able to see where I was going again. It took me about as long to write as it took them to stop holding onto past griefs with both hands.

I’ve had to look back at a lot of my life over the past few years, re-framing memories with a new perspective. It’s exhausting, and often heartbreaking, looking at your past mistakes with the knowledge you have now, knowledge that would have helped you then, knowing you can’t change any of it now.

But you can stop judging your past self for not having the perspective you do now, can preemptively forgive yourself for not having the perspective your future self will. And you can change your mind. Holy shit, not to get political again, but I think this has somehow become a radical message in the past few years: you’re allowed to look at a situation differently than you did before, you’re allowed to change your opinion once new facts come out. You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re allowed to change.

Robbie in Hartford isn’t the Robbie in Boston, wide-eyed and living the dream, the Robbie in Washington, a cheerfully sardonic guy popular in the locker room, then bitter and caustic, numb and removed. He’s come so far from his first session with Saul, toward the end of BAIT, during the part that usually comes after the curtain closes on a tragedy, the part where the healing starts.

Georgie in Hartford isn't the Georgie in Boston, wide-eyed and living the dream. But he is the same Georgie he was in Washington, taking what he feels he deserves, even though he knows it’s hurting both of them, and hating himself for it. The same Georgie who doesn’t stop punishing himself even after Robbie does. Who wouldn’t even consider it a punishment, just ‘what he deserves’.

Georgie, who has everything he ever wanted: has the career he wants, two brilliant kids, a loving family, a solid friendship, the talented team that he’s a leader of, and knows just how grateful he should be for all of that. Georgie, who remains frozen in place even as everything changes around him, almost petrified.

Georgie, who is so fucking ashamed that even the good moments in his story hurt, because he’s so quick to remind himself just how little he deserves them.

Georgie, who feels like he got away with something, even as he continues to punish himself.

And then Robbie comes to town and, just like in Boston, in Washington, Georgie wakes up.

So that’s where we are right now. On the cusp. And that's where I’ll leave them for just a little while.

It won’t be too long — I’ve already started writing bits and pieces of it when I’m supposed to be writing literally anything else. Just long enough that I can start the final part of the trilogy with a little perspective about the second.

[putschki1969]

Hello, I’m really glad to read your article and see that you’re speaking up for Kalafina. It wasn't until they disbanded that I realized I actually prefer Kalafina over YUKI.

I was really sad when YUKI kicked KEIKO out of FJS. If it was due to a scheduling conflict with Kalafina, then I can understand. However, when YUKI unfollowed HIKARU and KEIKO on Twitter, it clearly seemed like a personal decision, and I could feel she was angry.

There’s currently a trend online where YUKI is always seen as being right. No matter what she does, it’s considered correct, and anyone who dares to disagree is attacked by her fans. It's almost as if YUKI is treated like a goddess. Her fans tend to blame everything on SC and Kalafina, as if YUKI is the victim in all of this. I don’t think that’s right. Clearly, it’s the three members of Kalafina who have been the most hurt.

Although I don’t know what exactly happened between them, looking back, when WAKANA stayed with SC, she was criticized by fans for many years. HIKARU followed YUKI out of SC and has been largely neglected all these years. I can’t help but wonder, was WAKANA really in the wrong? Maybe SC wasn’t as bad as fans made it seem. WAKANA seems to have been living well these years.

The revival of Kalafina was not only the wish of the three members but also the wish of the fans. KEIKO and HIKARU have asked YUKI multiple times to bring Kalafina back, but it never happened. It’s been seven years, and they’ve waited long enough. Now, there’s a company that can make this wish come true, which also fulfills the fans’ wish, and everyone should be happy about it. Yet, YUKI is upset. Fans are even blaming SC, which I don’t understand. Does YUKI see them as her instruments, and if they don’t obey, she just discards them?

But they aren’t instruments—they are people, and they have the right to make their own choices. YUKI’s fans seem to think YUKI is all-powerful, and that it wouldn’t matter if she replaced all the vocalists; she would still make a lot of money. But I believe the three of them are irreplaceable, and FJS is no longer the same as it once was.

The worst outcome would be if Kalafina can’t reunite, but no matter what, I hope they live good lives. I will always support them, and I believe they will do just fine, even if they leave YUKI.

💯

Honestly couldn't have said it better, I 100% agree with everything in your message.

For me, the members of Kalafina have always come first and I've never made a secret out of that. While I do respect Yuki Kajiura for her craft and contributions to the group, I certainly don't see her as some sort of sacred being completely exempt from any form of criticism.

We are seeing a very typical case of celebrity worship here. Someone as talented and accomplished as Yuki Kajiura is naturally idolised by her fans. There's nothing wrong with looking up to a person and admiring them but once you put them on a pedestal and are convinced that they can do no wrong, it becomes an issue. And before anyone is trying to accuse me that I am doing the same with Kalafina, I am actually not. Do I love them? Of course! Do I feel protective of them? Sure! Do I try my best to see the good in everything they do? Yup! But I will never pretend that they have no bad qualities or that they are incapable of making mistakes.

I honestly don't understand how anyone who has been around for all the drama during the past seven years, can still believe that Yuki Kajiura and her team are completely innocent and are not at fault for anything that has happened. People need to become aware that a feud like this doesn't continue for such a long time if only one involved party is petty and difficult. It is so plain to see that Yuki has always been part of the problem and the current situation with Keiko makes it even more obvious. The higher-ups at Space Craft aren't victims here and neither are Yuki or her Mori guy. They can continue their childish fighting until the day they die for all I care but I wish they'd stop using the Kalafina members as cannon fodder to get one over on the other.

Everyone is always so quick to come to Yuki's defense as if she weren't the most powerful person among everyone involved. She doesn't need anyone's help, she's more successful than ever, she gets to do whatever she wants, she is well-respected in the industry and continues to be hired for prolific jobs, as far as she is concerned, her separation from Space Craft was probably the best thing that could have happened to her. At no point was her reputation ever at risk of being tarnished, it was always Space Craft (and the girls) who got the short end of the stick. So why is she still being framed as the victim (by herself and her fanbase)? I don't know.

In my opinion, those who see the Kalafina members as nothing more than replaceable instruments automatically disqualify themselves as Kalafina fans. You can call yourself a Yuki Kajiura fan all you want but don't even pretend to know anything about Kalafina. My only hope is that those people stay far away from my little fandom corner because I will not stand for this sort of attitude.

We don't know if Kalafina will reunite after this, I'd certainly hope so. Right now, I hope they can focus on their solo activities and do something that makes them happy. As long as we support them, things will be fine.

[itspileofgoodthings]

Taylor returning over and over to the falling through the ice accident in the Bolter—everything to me

[starfleetwitch]

Friends, country men, women and they/thems of the court. It was with great leave of my senses that last week I considered closing this account, destroying all my artwork, deleting my fanfiction and never uttering the name Bernie Wolfe ever again.

(It was a very brief leave of my senses, a split second intrusive thought. Let's be real I've put too many years into this blog and I REALLY cant draw any one else at this point)

It is not a short story but story time is coming whether you asked for it or not because I need to write this shit down somewhere least I somehow someday make peace and forget the absolute BAT SHIT CRAZY bullshit that has been occurring up to this point involving Bernie.

HELL I MAY EVEN WRITE BAD FANFICTION ABOUT IT.

An actual picture of me realising I'd fallen victim to Bernie trolling.

Story is here: I have regrets

[houseofwolvess]

apparently someone in my fucking gsa is a racist cunt who keeps creeping on my little sister. this is the final straw i think

[lamefish]

when fratboy!satoru takes your virginity you kind of expect him to be an ass about it. he's cocky as it is, and has a habit of gassing himself up too much when it comes to his... skills in the bedroom. if you're not listening to him talk about how he's the strongest, you're listening to him talk about how he's the biggest.

being the only virgin of your friend group was starting to grate on you and... a small part of you might've wanted to find out if there's any bite to satoru's bark. it's not like the two of you were dating or anything, but you felt comfortable enough to walk up to him one day during lunch and ask, in front of his best friend:

"will you take my virginity?"

maybe you expected him to blush. or freeze up. or at least trip over his words. but instead, the stupid white-haired prick looked up at you with the most relaxed expression possible and shrugged.

"okay."

and that's how you ended up here, sitting criss-cross applesauce on his messy dorm-room bed with his tongue halfway down your throat. a few empty cans of beer and abandoned cheat sheets lay strewn over his floor, and you hate yourself for letting this be the backdrop of your entry into the sex-having life.

but you can’t hate yourself for long because as he runs a hand up your thigh and under your skirt, you start to feel more excited than you thought you’d feel. he pushes you back, slots his knee between your thighs and bites at your bottom lip before trailing down to your throat.

still, it’s satoru, so when he pushes your panties to the side and feels just how wet you are for him, he laughs. “you get this wet when you touch yourself or is all of this just for me?”

“shut up,” you groan as he nips at the skin of your throat and gently runs his finger through your folds and up to your clit. you’re surprised he knows where your clit is, even.

and he’s not wrong—you’ve never been wet like this before. you can feel just how damp the fabric of your panties are you as satoru pulls them down your thighs and hikes your skirt up to get a clearer look at your soaked cunt.

“pretty,” he licks his lips. “wannna taste her, that okay baby?”

his eyes search yours for consent and you’re stunned for a moment as he waits for ‘enthusiastic consent’. you didn’t expect this sort of check-in from a frat boy. your nod seems enthusiastic enough to him, but just for clarity—“use your words.”

“yes. please, gojo.”

“satoru,” he corrects you. “want to hear that name when you cum on my tongue. cant believe no ones tasted her before.”

the use of referring to your pussy as ‘her’ is odd but quickly overlooked when he delves into your pussy like he’s dehydrated. tongue flat against your heat just to flex and circle around your clit. he sucks and bites a little and pulls you to your first orgasm in nasty speeds.

you cum on his tongue whilst his eyes bore into yours from between your thighs. white hair pulled out of his face by your hand as you tug the strands in hopes that he’ll stop licking at your overstimulated clit. it takes until you’re shaking for him to finally pull back and free his angry cock from his pants.

you think you gasp when you see it. he said he was big but you didn’t think he was a truthful man in the slightest. his cock is so heavy it doesn’t even stand at full mast—it fights gravity. satoru sees the look on your face and instead of sporting a shit-eating grin like you expect, he climbs over you and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“let’s stop here?” he asks. “we could watch a movie. oooh what about die hard?”

you giggle, your nerves melting a little at his words. “i’m okay, i want this. i am not graduating as a virgin.”

satoru snorts and, after rolling a condom on, gently pries your legs apart enough for him to slot his wait in between them. he guides your ankles to link behind his back and slowly runs the tip of his cock through your slick folds. “tell me if you need me to stop,” he says. “just relax. i’ve got you, baby.”

you actually manage to relax a little, focus on the feeling of being stretched as satoru slowly pushes into you until his tip is completely hidden in your cunt. it’s uncomfortable, but not unbearable. “keep going.”

one of his long fingers dips down to rub soft circles over your clit to relax you a little more as he pushes deeper. you’ve never felt so full, so sore yet desperate for more… you wonder if it’s always going to feel like this, or if it’s just because satoru is the one breaking you open to find pleasure in your insides.

he lets out a pretty moan as he bottoms out inside of you, the weight of his heavy balls resting against your ass as he stills and catches your lips in a wet kiss. his tongue slips into your mouth, runs over your teeth and pushes against your tongue as he slowly draws out of you and then, with a grunt that you taste, snaps his hips forwards into you.

that hurts, but there’s an odd stitch of pleasure in the way he’s broken you open. “sorry,” he speaks against your lips. “it’s better that i just got it out of the way, it can start feeling real good soon. gonna make you cum on my cock, baby. you want that?”

you nod, eyes staring into his as your foreheads meet. satoru nods back, licking his lips and smiling. “yeah? you wanna be stuffed full, huh? always knew you were filthy. but i’m the only one that gets to see it.”

his arrogance pulls at your lips. “until i fuck the next guy.”

snap. his cock splits you open at that, and though you wince and screw your face us, you’re letting out moans made for porn too. his finger on your clit starts working a little faster as he draws back again just to drive into you even harder.

“no,” he dips his head down to bite at your neck. “not until you fuck the next guy. i mean you can try, baby, but it’s not happening.”

“ngh, what do you mean?”

another thrust into you sends you further up the bed. you’re sure you look a mess but satoru looks down at you with such wide blown eyes that you could be convinced you’re from the heavens. “not giving you up that easy,” he groans. “you know, i fucked someone last week just because they had your name. got to moan it without being slapped. again.”

your hand flies up to his chest, almost in an attempt to slow his now mean pace. “wait you—ngh god—you like me?”

“i’m far fucking past like,” he moans, hips starting to stutter. any discomfort has faded into glorious pleasure. your stomach starts to tighten again and you know you’re close enough that he’s going to try and time your orgasms. “you’re so perfect. so much better than i imagined.”

your eyes roll back a little at the thought of satoru fucking his fist late at night to the thought of you. how nonchalant he was when you asked him to take your virginity, you wonder if he went home last night and stroked himself to the sheer anticipation of being inside of you.

“satoru i’m gonna—”

he cuts you off with a deep kiss. it’s sex and want and lust, but it’s also soft in a way you can’t describe—maybe even a little anxious after his confession. it might just be his pending orgasm, but you swear his lips tremble between yours.

his cock throbs as he drills it into you, hits your most sensitive spot with every single thrust. it’s like he already has you mapped out, because you’re both cumming in tandem with each other before long.

a part of you aches to feel his cum spill into you instead of the condom he wears, to be claimed and filled by his seed over and over. would he fuck it back into you? clean you off with his talented tongue? would he plug you with his cock until he’s ready to overfill you with a second load?

he moans into your mouth and pulls back a little to revel in your fucked out expression. your legs still wrap around his waist, boxing him in and keeping him close. you worry that in typical frat boy fashion he’ll make an excuse and run off to recount the fuck with his friends. but satoru pecks at your lips, then your chin, then down your neck again.

“what are you doing?” you ask, vision slightly blurred from the intensity of your orgasm.

“gonna make you cum again,” he smiles against your skin. “didn’t you hear?”

“hear what?”

he pulls back to look at you, a soft smile pulling at his pretty lips. “that if you cum at least five times when you lose your virginity, you’ll fall in loooove.”

[voulezloux]

v

[tonycries]

Girl, I Do This Often

Synopsis. How does he cope with a séx ban? He doesn’t.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, established relationship, rough séx, unprotected, stuff with pantíes, gaggíng, bréeding, Nanami is a bit mean, overstím, finger suckíng, really desperate boys, light smackíng (Nanami), bondagé + víbrators (Geto), swearing.

Word count. 5.2k

A/N. Guess what, ya girl just turned 19 yippeeeee.

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 4 days

On the first day, Toji’s more amused than anything.

A sex ban? With him? Ridiculous, he predicted a full 24 hours before you come crawling back, just begging to be split-apart on his cock. And he tells you so, too - a little over five times as he kisses your pouty lips, muttering a smug, “You’ll be eating your words soon enough, doll.”

By the third day, he’s beginning to think that okay, maybe you were serious about the ban after all. How cute - real cute. 

He’s left to do nothing but complain pathetically on the phone to a very reluctant Shiu. Who doesn’t have much to say other than cut off Toji’s ramblings about “not having your pretty pussy all day” to groan, “Shut the fuck up and beg for her forgiveness. I’m hanging up.”

Toji can only scoff at the thought. Beg for forgiveness? Him? Toji Fushiguro never begs, he never-

That was until the fourth day. 

With you - bent over the kitchen counter in his t-shirt - and nothing but his t-shirt.

“Please, pretty.” Toji drags his lips down your neck, just loving the way your traitorous hips are grinding back into his. “Said m’sorry, right? Don’t ya miss this?”

And you can only look behind your shoulder at the big arms around your waist, muscled thighs pressed up against yours. Angling your head just right to catch the way his hands snake down to your squirming hips to help you draw slow little circles against the rock-hard erection straining against his pants.

So close. So big.

Big enough that you’re almost thinking of throwing this sec ban out of the window altogether - almost.

But that little smirk of Toji’s is infuriating enough that you’re gasping out a breathless little, “I-I’m still mad at you, y’know? You never let me-” The words die in your throat as Toji pulls his pants down just enough for his aching cock to spring free. So angry and painfully hard, leaking hot precum all over your thighs. 

“No no no- hah. Keep talking.” he grits out, breath hot against your ear. Hips pushing and pulling. “Please- keep talking.”

And fuck you didn’t know what was harder - trying to find your voice, or ripping your eyes away from Toji’s cock long enough that you could. 

“B-because you-” you choke out, watching the way he takes his massive cock in his hands. Staring to pump so slow - so lazy - no rhythm or reason other than getting off so filthily to the sound of your voice. “You never let me take-” He wraps your smaller hands around his dick, so hot and heavy in your palms. “-charge.”

“F-fuck-” Toji lets out a low hiss, head thrown back as you thumb teasingly under his sensitive slit, trying to fuck something delicious out. “Yer killin’ me doll. Killing me.” Whether from your words or from the way you’re sliding him so lewdly between your puffy folds, you didn’t know. 

And Toji didn’t either. Hell, he doesn’t even seem to be breathing as he shifts his toned hips so familiarly. Head filled with only you and your heavenly cunt and you. 

“Toji-” you mewl. “Need you so bad.”

If he was any lesser man, Toji would’ve just bullied himself into your dripping cunt already, fucked you into the counter until there was nothing about any sex ban in your pretty lil’ mind. Instead, he’s panting out an absolutely wrecked, “Please. Then take all the charge you want, pretty.”  Fat head lining up with your sloppy hole. “Next time.”

And oh has it really been that long?

Because Toji’s just barely pushing into your plushy walls, and he already feels like he could cum right then and there. The stretch too sinful. Your walls too tight. So cute how you’re already mumbling his name so deliriously. 

“Awww,” he coos, watching awe-struck at the way you flatten your hands on the counter, fucking yourself back into him in short, shallow little grinds. “The s-sex ban was for ah- nothing, huh?”

You’re pulling him impossibly closer by the hair, catching his lips in such a searing kiss. Drinking in Toji’s guttural grunt as you bite down on his lower lip, “Are ya gonna sh-shut up n’ fuck me or do I need ngh- another sex ban?”

“No, ma’am.” he grins, kissing back so mockingly soft. And you know he’s making fun of you with the way he’s twitching so wildly inside your pussy. Veins dragging against all the right spots as he reels his hips back, back, back - only to slam his cock fully inside. “Guess you’re the one mm- in charge right now, huh?”

Over and over again. Fucking you exactly the way he’s wanted these past four days - and then some. 

Hitting your cervix - but it feels like your fucking lungs. Heavy balls smacking against your ass, so hard that he’s sure it’ll leave some obscene marks for him to point out next time. One hand around your throat, the other keeping your slutty, trembling hips in place while you’re torn between running away and bucking back for more more more-

“Right here.”

It’s all you can do to whirl your head around, eyes glassy and unfocused, whining a broken, “Wh-what?” 

“Right…” Trailing down, featherlight, right where he knew he was wrecking your insides. “Here. S’where I belong.” Pressing hard. “N’ m’gonna make sure you don’t forget it.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 1 week

A week. One week of being patient with your silly idea to “spice things up”. One week of pretending like he wasn’t excusing himself during important meetings to have his cock in his hands - thinking of nothing but you and that sinful little dress you had on today.

One week was all it took for Nanami to have a bad day at work. And you could tell when he did. 

By the way that front door slammed, unfamiliarly harsh footsteps sounding against the hardwood floors. And all it takes is one look at you laid out so prettily on the couch and Nanami’s mouth drops into a soft oh! 

One hand immediately loosening his tie, the other snaking down to his belt. Ashen, tense, - and you have half the mind to wonder whether he’s even breathing. 

Not even looking at you as he mutters a low, “Panties off. Spread those legs.”

That was a few hours ago. 

Before you knew it, your husband had you splayed out like such a slut for him on the couch - too starved to even think about making it to the bed. Legs on his sculpted shoulders, panties in tatters on the floor because you were taking too fucking long. Cock so angry and sensitive as he bullies into your snug cunt, stuffing you full of his cum.

Again. And again and again like he wanted to fuck any and every thought of that stupid sex ban out of your delirious mind. 

“K-Kento- what-” he pulls you into a bruising kiss. Just a sloppy clash of teeth and spit and hands everywhere. “You’re ngh- different.”

At this, Nanami has the audacity to laugh - laugh. Hips snapping impossibly deeper, “Yeah? N’ who’s fault is hah- that? Who’s fault is it th-that we ended hngh- up like-” Pushing your knees all the way up to your tits, groaning at the mess of cum and slick pooling beneath you. “-this?”

Cock just ramming into you, prominent veins nudging against your gummy walls so agonizingly. The couch creaking in protest as he uses your pretty lil’ cunt exactly the way he’s been fantasizing this past week.

And when all you can do is let out delirious little moans in response, Nanami raises his hand up, up, up. Coming down on your ass, hard. 

Smack!

“Didn’t you know we’d end up here?”

Oh the words hit you harder than that large palm-print stinging your ass. Tight pussy clenching and trying to milk the fucking soul out of him as you sob, “I- I didn’t-” Smack! You’re jolting at the impact, hips bucking wildly as you gasp, “-I did! Wanted this so bad, Kento. I did I did-”

And yeah, Nanami knew that. He knew you’d pulled this little “sex ban” stunt to make him break - to have him fuck you like the slut you are. But hearing the words from your pretty mouth had his balls squeezing so painfully. 

“Knew it.” he manages to grit out. “Knew you were such a slut, my love.” Words strained with each harsh thrust, “N’ as my slut, y-you can ngh- take one more, right?” You keen at how soft his tone was, like he was whispering sweet little nothings to you instead of promises to absolutely break you. Fingers trailing down to draw lewd patterns on your throbbing clit, “Right?”

And as if to prove you could, he’s squeezing his swollen cock harder into your plushy walls. Faster. Unforgiving. Fat, leaking tip hitting all those sweet spots he’s mapped out, in time with his abuse on your clit.

“Didn’t hah- have to lock myself in my office for nothing, right?” Pulling your trembling hips flush against his toned ones, “Have to get by with j-just a pretty picture this week for nothing?” Hips out of control now. Bruising. Almost painful with the stretch and the sheer pressure of being so full. “S’all for this, right?”

Smack! 

“Oh God, Kento- Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

“Yeah? Feels good?” he nips at your lower lip, “Good enough to fuck- take another one?”

You were sure if he came once more then it might just be the death of you.

You’re not even lucid enough to realize what reaction you’re giving him - all you know is that it isn’t good enough for Nanami. 

Because he lets out a tut, hand dancing across your stomach to where he knew he was absolutely making a mess of you inside. 

“Fine.” And something about the way he says it makes your heart stop, already knowing that it didn’t bode well for you or your poor cunt. “Guess I hafta ngh- help you.” Sure enough, Nanami wastes no time before pushing down on your abdomen. 

The both of you watch - awe-struck and speechless - as your overfilled pussy gushes all around him. 

And shit neither of you can even begin to think of what a bitch it’ll be to clean out this couch later on. Too caught up in the way you’re soaking Nanami’s merciless cock in that sinful mix of cum and slick. Thick, and hot, drooling down the side of your puffy folds. 

“See? Enough space, no?”

You raise your eyes, teary and hazy with lust, up to meet Nanami’s darkened ones and oh-

You weren’t going to make it out alive. 

Especially not when he leans down, whispering so raggedly in your ear, “Now I get to give ya another week’s worth more, right?”

♡ GETO SUGURU - 9 days

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzt-

You didn’t know how it ended up this way. How that stupid bet about who’d be the needier one made Geto the one with the sex ban. 

How he had you tied across from him so prettily on the bed, a bullet vibrator stuffed up your dripping cunt, unable to do anything but whine and watch as he spreads his bare, muscled thighs.

Tip flushed your favorite shade of pink, matching those panties wrapped around his throbbing cock. So angry and leaking all over his fist as one hand slides up, up, up. The other, fiddling with that tiny metal remote. 

“You’re drooling, gorgeous. So desperate, huh?”

You know you aren’t - but you can’t help the way your face burns at your boyfriend’s low chuckle. Thighs squeezing together at the heavenly sight before you. “N-no fair, Sugu.” you whine. “I want to-”

Intensity setting 2.

But whatever words get stuck in your throat as Geto draws harsh, quick little circles on the intensity setting, smirking at the way you’re so wrecked already. 

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzt-

“I-I want to-” he mocks your pathetic little whines, acting for all the life of him that they didn’t make his dick twitch so wildly in his hands. “My poor baby. S’not nice, right?” And if you were embarrassed before then it was absolutely nothing in comparison to when Geto knits his brows in mock concern, eyes locked on yours. Hand still moving down his cock, “But isn’t this what you wanted? With the sex ban? Isn’t this-” Hips bucking up to show off how sloppily he’s fucking his fist - and your panties along with it, “-what you were asking for?”

“No.” you’re tugging at the ties at your wrist, “I wanted…”

Intensity setting 3. 

But oh it’s like Geto was well and fully intent on leaving you speechless - and succeeding at it too. 

Because he immediately brings up your panties - flimsy and just so soaked - up to his face, breathing in so filthily. And as if he couldn’t help himself - as if he didn’t want to help himself - the remote falls out of Geto’s hand, “accidentally” locked on the highest setting, first wrapping around his cock to make a mess of himself. 

“F-fuck-” he cracks one eye open, balls squeezing so painfully at the way you were almost in tears trying to get some semblance of friction. “Heh, looks like I’m winning the bet.”

You scoff, but it comes out so pathetically like a whine. “You’re a cheater, I’d have w-won this bet otherwise.”

Ah, how Geto loved your smart mouth - though, he probably loved it even more when you’re fucked dumb. But, right now, bet at the forefront of his mind, the next best thing he could do is shove those sinful panties into your mouth. 

Hand flying up and down his cock faster and faster as you choke like such a slut on it. Greedily eyeing the way your lip wobbles, big fat tears welling up in your eyes, cunt all glistening and quivering as Geto blindly reaches behind to grab ahold of that remote again. 

Intensity setting 4. 

“And you’re too cute.” he drops his head, breath ghosting your lips. “So if you ask me nicely I might just-” Thumb playing around with the intensity, pressing down, hard. As if it would translate to your needy cunt, “-give you my cock, gorgeous.”

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzt-

It’s all you can do to keen as his fingers get faster on the remote, other hand getting so sloppy on his painfully hard cock. Matching that sinful little ah! ah! ah! leaving your swollen lips. Sinful - and stubborn, still refusing to say those words that you knew Geto wanted to hear so badly. 

“Awww, still not giving up?” At your delirious little headshake, “Then how about this?” 

Intensity setting 5. 

And shit it makes you arch off the bed entirely. It makes you let out a strangled yelp of, “Oh- fuck. Fuck fuck fuck Sugu, m’gonna-” It makes you cum.

“Tha’s it.” Geto can’t help but let go of his aching cock to draw rough, messy little circles on your clit. Grinning at the way you’re so pretty when you cum untouched - all for him. Over and over and- He reaches over to catch your lips with his, tongue dancing with yours, around your soaked panties. 

So filthy and dizzying that he almost forgets about that bet - almost. Because you’re murmuring something so incoherent into his lips. 

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzt-

God, doesn’t matter who wins next time - he needs to fucking do this again.

“What’s that?” he leans in tauntingly, pulling the fabric out of your mouth, finger still running circles around the intensity. Absolutely addicted to the way you’re twitching and whining at the aftershocks of your orgasm, “M’sorry, gorgeous, this vibrator is too loud. Speak up f’me, hm?”

“P-please fuck me, Sugu.”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 21 hours

If Choso had it his way, then you’d both still be at home and he’d be balls-deep inside your sloppy pussy - fucking you over and over into the mattress until the neighbours file another noise complaint. 

But, alas, Jin Itadori was sure to hire a hitman - or worse, Sukuna - on him if he missed another family dinner. Which is how it ended up with you, sat so prettily across the table from him, watching through his long lashes at the way that red dress hugged you so sinfully. 

So right, in a way that made Choso almost jealous. So irresistibly, in a way that had Sukuna looking over a few too many times and-

Choso’s chair almost hits the floor with how fast he stands.

Fuck it.

“Sh-shit, Choso I-” 

“Keep ah- that dress up, baby. Unless ya wanna get it d-dirty.” he’s panting into your open mouth,  tongue so hotly toying with yours as he gives you another harsh thrust. “Though, I don’t ngh- mind.”

And he was telling the truth, too. Choso was in no way gentle with the way he had you sat on the bathroom counter, flimsy dress bunched up at your hips. Strong arms spreading your legs so shamefully while he bullied his cock into you with reckless abandon.

Over and over and-

“Cho!” you yelp, as he hits that one spot so expertly. Flashing you a fucked-out grin as how you’re scrambling to cover your mouth. “Th-they’ll hear.”

“So?”

And it’s all you can do to stop your jaw from falling slack once more - both in disbelief and at the way he’s fucking you so mean. So desperately like he hasn’t in months - years, even. Just unfocused, sloppy movements to milk his cock on your snug cunt.

“I don’t mind hah- that either.” Hand dipping underneath your soaked panties - just lazily pulled to the side - to roll your swollen clit between two fingers. “W-what I do mind is my oh- fuck girl holdin’ out on me and wearing that fucking dress on the s-same day.”

Oh you knew you were pushing the limits of your sex ban by wearing his favorite dress, that it would drive him absolutely wild. You just didn’t know it would be this easy.

“But you promised.” you’re letting out such broken little whines, muffled through your fingers, ones that go straight to Choso’s achingly hard cock. “You hngh- promised we wouldn’t at your family’s…”

The only response you get is Choso rolling his hips deeper into yours, so bruising in a way you knew would make you feel so guilty even when all the marks are covered up. Leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck in time with the way he alternates between hitting your poor, abused cervix and that one spot. 

Gasping out a ragged, “I know- I know I know fuck- Hah- I know.” Words strained - like he was losing a bit of his sanity with each thrust. And needed you to be the same. “But shit, baby. Do you know how p-pretty you look right now? Hngh- how fuckable?”

“Y-you’re so fuckin’ dirty.” you mewl, as if you were any better. As if your gummy walls weren’t sucking the fuckin soul out of Choso right now. “Should’ve made the ngh- sex ban even long-”

He bites down at the soft crook of your neck, growling out a little, “Don’t even joke about that.” 

And if Choso expected a response, then he didn’t act that way. 

Hips just erratic against yours, fingers even worse. Not even moving in circles anymore, just messy, sloppy patterns to-

No. 

You gasp at the realization, the deft movements of Choso’s fingers, and it just makes you all the more fucked-out underneath him. Scrambling to grab at the counter - Choso’s hair - his shoulders - just anything and everything to stop yourself from alerting the entire household to what you two were up to. Letting him fuck you like his favorite sextoy, fingers so so messy and spelling out a relentless little C-H-O-S-O-C-H-O-S-

And then you’re cumming and cumming so hard that it almost hurts. Stars behind your eyes, blood roaring in your eyes. Choso’s massive cock fucking any and every thought of the dinner just downstairs out of your mind. 

“F-fuck fuck fuck- ngh- we’re never coming back here for dinner again.”

And it’s all you can do to drag your nails down his broad back, leaving deep red marks that make his balls squeeze so painfully. 

It makes him throw his head back, gasping out your name so loud. It makes him pull your hips so bruisingly against his. 

It makes him cum, spilling thick, hot ropes of cum into your pussy. So messy with the way it’s too much to bear, dribbling down your swollen folds, forming a lewd little pool below you. And Choso doesn’t give a fuck - doesn’t care if he leaves marks that everyone will see. Or if that slutty dress of yours has a suspicious little damp patch as he swiftly pulls out to snap your panties back in place. 

Whispering lowly against your lips, “K-keep it in till we leave, hm?”

“Cho-”

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“The fuck? You brats fall in or something?”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 2 days

The great Ryomen Sukuna has always been terrifying - but never before has he been this ruthless. So utterly savage. Destroying every single curse he comes across in the blink of an eye - friend or foe, big or small. 

Why? All because he hasn’t been able to fuck your pretty lil’ cunt in two days. Which, in his opinion, are two days too long. All because of some stupid little experiment about wanting to see how long it would take to see the king of curses crack.

And when those trembling curses heard about this ah- sex ban through the grapevine, well, they wrote it off as another baseless rumor. Ha, Ryomen Sukuna cracking? Never. 

“Please…brat.” he bites down on your earlobe, further pushing up your expensive robes - ones he’d bought just to get on your good side - to sink his cock deeper inside your heavenly cunt. “There I said it. Now jus’ a bit more-”

And maybe you’re a mastermind - maybe you’re an idiot. Because you’re digging your heels into the mattress, pushing off ever-so-slightly from his aching hard cock. So thick and angry as it slips out of your sloppy hole. 

You bat your lashes so deceivingly innocently up at a pissed off Sukuna, “I didn’t like your tone.” Crossing your legs to cover that view he was so fixated on, “Either you beg n’ start all over again or-”

“Fine.” he grits out the word, like it physically hurt to. Though, nothing for what falls from his lips next, “Please.”

“Louder.”

“Please.”

There you had it. And you can’t help but smirk, “Well, I liked that one-”

Nothing more is said - in Sukuna’s eyes, nothing more has to be said. Because he’s got his favorite lil’ human all needy and spread so shamefully in front of him, what more could he want? Sukuna grabs your ankles, pulling you to him like a ragdoll. Wasting no time before he’s splitting you apart on his rock-hard cock.

“Ya don’t hah- know how many curses I killed these past two days.” he kisses your ankles so softly. “How many I wanted to kill.”

And God, if you didn’t know any better you’d say it’s like he wanted to kill you with the way Sukuna barely even gives you time to adjust. Stuffing you full of his cock, so hot and thumping against your gummy walls in a maddening little bump! bump! bump! 

Letting out a strangled moan of, “There you go.” Brows scrunching together, looking wrecked already as he rocks his hips into yours - fast. Hard. hands coming up underneath your ass to arch you deeper into him, “Squeezin’ me so- tight. Heh, almost ”

“Oh hngh- ‘Kuna!” you moan, eyes snapping down to the way your cunt was taking him up so good. Puffy folds bulging around his massive cock, looking like they were sucking the fucking soul out of Sukuna as his massive cock disappears in and out in and out in and- “S’too- much-”

“Shut up.” he drops his head, one hand so bruising all over your body - groping your ass, your tits, playing with your throbbing clit. “Ya wanted hah- me to talk, right? And I say-” The other, squeezing your cheeks together into a pathetic lil’ pout, “Open up.”

It’s so embarrassing the way you can’t do anything but let your mouth fall open so sluttily, tongue lolling out just in time to catch the stream of saliva as Sukuna spits once. Twice. 

So filthy with the way he lets it splatter against the corner of your mouth - on purpose. 

“Wanted the king to beg, huh?” Each word is punctuated by such a harsh thrust, twitching balls stinging against your ass. “Well you got it. H-how does it feel, huh?”

And you couldn’t speak up even if you wanted to. Sukuna’s hand too tight around your face, cock too merciless. Slamming his hips down faster and faster as he runs his mouth, like he was taking revenge for the last two days. Again. And again. And again and again-

Grinning at your delirious little gurgles, “Heh, what? Can’t talk?” 

And as if to prove his point, Sukuna loops two big arms around your waist, falling back on his knees with you sat like such a slut on his cock. Fingers lacing above your head to sink you impossibly deeper and deeper-

“Oh my god- K-” Your breath hitches as he fucks up into you so easily. Feeling more and more like some plaything with each ripple of his muscles underneath your legs. So hard you were sure it would leave marks - both confirming and condemning those rumors you knew have been flying around. His balls on your ass, thighs underneath yours, nails dragging lightly down your skin. 

Resting on your waist, holding your quivering hips still as he grunts, “Now shut up. M’gonna get my fill of the last two days.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - 4 hours

To the great Gojo Satoru, this droning, 4-hour meeting with the elders was a nightmare. To you, it was exactly where you wanted him

It wasn’t often that the strongest was tense - jittery, even, like he was about to jump out of his seat at any given moment. But, really, it was almost impossible not to, considering that stern talking-to you’d given him about “no sneaking out during meetings.” Especially when you’re sat across from him looking so beautifully unbothered.

Your smile too pretty, your uniform unbuttoned just enough that it gave him such a heavenly view when you bent over just so.  

Oh, how Gojo wishes he could just-

And that was when he felt it. 

That slow, slight touch up his inner thigh - so fleeting and light that he almost thinks he’s imagining it. But, no, Gojo could never mistake any touch from you. 

It sends his entire skin burning to catch your eye ever-so-briefly from across the table. A tiny smirk gracing those pretty lips as your heel inches up, up, up-

“Gojo, do you have anything to comment on the recent increase in curse sightings?”

He stifles a groan underneath one palm, the other snaking under the table just in time to catch your ankle before you can carefully slip away. “I think…” he manages to grit out, heady gaze flitting over to yours, “-that is a question my lovely wife and I must discuss first.”

Oh? 

And then, your back is hitting a plush mattress before you know it - long before the realization hits you that this bastard just fucking teleported the two of you to your bedroom. 

“T-Toru-” you sputter out, whatever reprimand getting stuck in your throat at how desperate Gojo was acting. Your uniform buttons hitting the floor as he rips open your shirt, hands bunching up your skirt, only having enough patience to just pull aside your soaked panties, rolling your pretty clit between two fingers. Needy. “The meeting-”

“The meeting isn’t here now, right?” 

Words so hoarse it takes you a moment to recognize it as your husband’s. You were only beginning to wonder just what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into when Gojo tugs down his pants just enough that his rock-hard cock springs free.

And oh then it makes sense. Because Gojo was so hard that it looked painful - so so red, and angry. Soaked in enough precum that it made a damp little patch on his trousers, heavy balls twitching at the mere sound of your voice.

“D-didn’t I say no sneaking out this time, Toru?” You buck into his touch, despite your words, eyes locked on the way Gojo stops toying with your clit to pool your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips.

“You did.” Raising his long, glossy fingers to those pretty pink lips, “But this is teleporting, not sneaking out, sweetheart.”

Gojo’s like a man possessed as he pops your slick-covered fingers into his mouth, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the sinful taste. 

Gasping out a wet, “Fuck the ban. Can’t go without ya. Can’t-” One hand sliding his fat tip between your swollen folds, up and down up and down - spreading them apart, just barely dipping into your sloppy entrance. “-can’t live without this pretty cunt.”

And then it’s like something snaps - Gojo’s patience, his sanity, the last of his restraint as he sinks his throbbing cock into your plushy walls. 

Pushing past that first, tight ring of muscle, and at the first feeling of your gummy walls milking his cock, he pants out a strained, “Fuck- oh fuck fuck fuck, yer the stuff of dreams, my girl. This cunt- ngh-” Pushing your legs further apart, fingers back on your clit “-would’ve fucked this cunt right in ah- front of those old toads. But, you’re lucky I’m a jealous man.”

“Oh- oh my god, s’too- too- big!”

God, you needed to spread your legs more - as if they weren’t being folded apart so easily by a delirious Gojo - maybe breathe, try to relax because Gojo was so big. And so unforgiving. 

Feeling like he was pushing all the way into your lungs as he thrusts in quick, shallow little thrusts to bully himself inside your snug cunt. Jagged - like he was fighting with some absolutely, depraved, feral part of himself. 

You can feel the way your hips are torn between pushing away and grinding back down for more more more- And Gojo can, too.

“No-” he hisses. Brows scrunching in frustration, hips becoming more and more sloppy - frenzied. “No no no no no- hold on, sweetheart. Need this, need this so bad.”

Going faster. 

Deeper. 

You sob, ankles locking around his slutty waist. “B-but Toru-” You make a feeble last attempt at regaining your sanity. Your entire body jolting as Gojo presses so hard on your clit. “-we should ngh- hurry up. W-we’ll be late to the meeting-”

But does it really matter? Gojo doesn’t think so, not when he finally bottoms out in one, rough thrust. Groaning as his sensitive balls smack your ass.

Your cunt so slutty and tight - sucking him up so good despite your cute lil’ pleas about something stupid like “responsibilities”. 

So he really can’t help the way he wastes no time before reeling his hips back - all the way till his weeping tip is just kissing your sloppy hole. Before fucking into you completely - rough. Unrestrained. The same way he imagined taking you on that meeting room table. Over and over and-

“Not yet.” he grins against your lips, “We’re not done discussing the recent increase in curse sightings.”

A/N. Gojo’s came out toooo long I don’t even like this man fr (loud incorrect buzzer).

Plagiarism not authorized.

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

Gonna complain in the tags

[sensitivegoblin]

Vent

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

A thousand times yes! This gave me so much to think about. Specifically, your point about how his name represents his old self/identity is very interesting to me, given what we see from him with Cosette towards the end of the novel.

I find it striking that Valjean tells Cosette to refer to him as "Monsieur Jean," out of all things. It makes sense that, because of his conversation with Marius and their belief that he must be cut out of Cosette's life, he wouldn't allow her to call him "Father." And, even though he literally has a full, sobbing breakdown in front of Marius when it seems like Cosette will find out about his past (the only time we see him cry in front of someone else, I'm pretty sure?), he doesn't go by Fauchelevent to her. Cosette likely would've found that less unusual, since we see her refer to him as "my father Fauchelevent" quite naturally, and it would make sense that Valjean would want to minimize her suspicions. But his great denied desire, as he expresses to Marius, is to be a part of a family; that's exactly what he felt he couldn't do as Fauchelevent. Keeping that name would mean he would always be worried that "the mask would suddenly be torn away," and he would be driven out as a monster. He wants to be accepted and loved for who he truly is, and while this isn't by any means complete honesty, in confessing to Marius and dropping the alias with Cosette, maybe he feels a little closer to what he's longed for.

There's also the social and metatextual significance of having Cosette call him "Monsieur Jean." First, in dropping his alias (which supplied Cosette's maiden name), he further severs any perceptible social tie between the two of them. "Jean," as you mentioned above, is a homonym of gens, which is fitting, since JVJ views himself as having become "just another person" to Cosette. And yet, calling him by his first name indicates some level of familiarity; social norms at the time meant that formal address used the last name. "Monsieur Jean" is oddly straddling the line between distant and personal (as Valjean himself is attempting to do).

Maybe most interesting of all is that, as many have noticed, Hugo almost exclusively refers to JVJ by his full name, Jean Valjean. This is one of the only instances in which the last name is dropped, which is part of why it stood out so much on my readthrough. It feels noticably more intimate, but also incomplete. And I think it ties into what (as you mentioned above) his last name means: "voilà Jean/gens": "behold the man." He's not ready for Cosette to know the full truth about who he is, so narratively, it's fitting that the withheld last name (which would allow her to learn about his past) is one which itself references a full and raw perception. It was first used of the suffering Christ, naked and humiliated and condemned and innocent; Valjean, in his fear and self-loathing, does not allow that revelation of himself.

Les Mis Hidden Name Meanings: Jean Valjean

Every Les Mis character’s name is either a pun or has some deep symbolic meaning– or both at once! Jean Valjean’s name has a ton of layers so let’s dive in.

When we’re first introduced to him, Hugo tells us that his name is quote “a contraction of voilà Jean, or “here is Jean.”” We’re told that he was named after his father, and that his family name probably began as a nickname.

The word “Jean” in french sounds like the word “gens,” which means “people.” So his last name is a pun meant to make you think “viola les gens”/ “here are people.”

The most obvious layer to his name is that Jean Valjean is basically John Doe. He is the anonymous Everyman. His sister’s name is Jeanne, so she’s basically Jane Doe. They aren’t special or exceptional or unusual; they’re just behold! The regular people.

In fact his name is so common-sounding that it's a plot point. Champmathieu, the man who is mistaken for Jean Valjean, has a name that the police connect with his. Javert theorizes that "Champ" is a version of "Jean" in a specific accent, while Mathieu was actually Jean Valjean's sister's maiden name. ("Champ" is also the French word for "field.") The fact that Jean Valjean is a peasant everyman makes it easy for others in his position to be conflated with him.

But the other layer is that this is all an elaborate pun biblical reference!

When Pontius Pilate presents a bound Jesus Christ to the crowd before his crucifixion, he says the words “ecce homo” or “Here is the man!”/”behold the man!”

“Voila Jean” or “here is Jean!”/”behold Jean!” is meant to be a reference to that.

During his death scene Jean Voila-Jean even references the “Ecce homo” line explicitly, gesturing at a crucifix and saying:

“Voilà le grand martyr.”

Which Isabel Hapgood translates as “behold the great martyr.”

At another point in the same scene Marius says to Cosette:

“He has sacrificed himself. Viola l’Homme. Behold the man.”

But more references to that biblical moment appear throughout the novel; Jean Valjean is associated with it constantly, all the time. It’s one of his defining biblical allusions. He’ll be trying to live anonymously, or under an alias– and then suddenly his true name and criminal past will be revealed, he’ll be revealed to be ‘the man,’ and some great horrible act of martyrdom will follow.

Sometimes Jean Valjean is the one revealing his own identity, but sometimes Inspector Javert is put into the role of Pontius Pilate. Javert himself explicitly makes that comparison– Jean Valjean as Jesus, Javert as Pontius Pilate– when he’s contemplating suicide.

And this ties into one of the largest differences between the book and the stage musical.

In the musical, “prisoner 24601” is the name that represents Jean Valjean’s dehumanization–while “Jean Valjean” is the name he uses while standing up for his own humanity. He will be called 24601, and proudly declare that “my name is Jean Valjean” to assert he’s still a person.

And while this is a great storytelling choice, it’s almost the opposite of how the name “Jean Valjean” is handled in the book.

Because in the book…. Jean Valjean IS the name that dehumanizes him. Jean Valjean is the name that he’s running from. The name that Javert uses when he’s insulting him, the name that bigots use when they’re threatening him, the name that ignorant people use when they’re mocking him – it’s not 24601, it’s Jean Valjean.

And there’s a special kind of agony to that.

The name that is being used to torture, humiliate, and dehumanize him isn’t 24601– it’s his name.

He thinks of it as a “fatal name,” as a punishment. Living under that name is living in hell. When Jean Valjean is living under one of his aliases, concealing his identity, he thinks:

That which he had always feared most of all in his hours of self-communion, during his sleepless nights, was to ever hear that name {jean Valjean] pronounced; he had said to himself, that that would be the end of all things for him; that on the day when that name made its reappearance it would cause his new life to vanish from about him, and—who knows?—perhaps even his new soul from within him.

It’s no wonder that he ends up internalizing the way society views him, and developing so much fear and hatred of himself. He’s grown to see his name as just….well, ecce homo, behold the man. His name is just the two words people say before they violently punish him.

Names and namelessness are a major theme in Les Mis, and he’s the character who has the most complex relationship with his own names. He has a legal name, but it’s used to torture him, and he has a series of false names he uses to escape torture.

If I were to describe Jean Valjean– one of the most complex characters in all of literature, in one word, that word would be “grief.”

The criminal justice system takes everything from him, including things he wasn’t aware he was able to lose. His name, the last connection he had to his family and his old identity, gets warped into this thing needs to view with fear and horror. The thing society despises isn’t 24601, isn’t a number they’ve placed on him – the thing they despise is Jean Valjean, some intrinsic inherent part of himself. He isn’t hated for what he did, he’s hated for what he is, and that is something he can never escape.

{But speaking of complexity we’ve actually barely scratched the surface of how Jean Valjean reacts to names, because he spends most of the novel living under a series of nicknames aliases. And guess what! Each of these names also has some elaborate symbolic meaning! If you’re interested in more posts covering his different aliases, feel free to leave a comment in the replies!}

[thanks for reading! For more in-depth analysis, check out the @lesmisletters readalong or join our discord server!]

[katiekatdragon27]

Hello Dandy's World fans.

I've recently been playing the game on Roblox with my friends and sibling, and it's been a ton of fun! Sure, I'm horrible at it, but it's the thought that counts ig.

And don't worry, I draw normal things too.

Like these things.

But it's mostly angst and unhinged things lol.

Below is a silly goofy Shiny Shrimp (that's the ship name I made up for Glisten x Shrimpo lol) AU that's just angst and tragedy and bullying Shrimpo emotionally lol:

OKAY SO CONTEXT: I thought it would be funny if Shrimpo had to keep Glisten company while exploring the floors but was also the one to witness his change into his full twisted form and almost die lol.

SO, I'd imagine it going down like this.

Basically, during one of the missions below, Glisten doesn't make it to the elevator in time. Shrimpo gets wind of this and gets very pissed. Despite everyone's protests, Shrimpo decides to join on of their runs to gain iquor, but mostly to fine Glisten.

And boy does he find him and all his shattered face glory.

Glisten: "Shrimpo!?" Shrimpo: "G-Glisten?" Glisten: "I knew you'd come back for me!"

Shrimpo attempts to leave the situation, seeing that Glisten is indeed twisted, despite Glisten's insistence that he is not. As Shrimpo tries to leave, Glisten gets more attached, constantly asking Shrimpo to not leave and to stay with him. Another person in the party (haven't decided who yet), tells Shrimpo to stay with Glisten and keep him company until all the machines are done. Shrimpo reluctantly agrees (and says "I HATE YOU" a couple times) and spends the rest of the round with Glisten.

However, the whole time Shrimpo's trying not to get attached because deep down, he knows it's too late for Glisten.

At the end of the round, everyone is called to go to the elevator. Shrimpo goes to leave. Glisten tries to block him off. Shimpo forces his way through. Glisten gets pissed and rips off his ribbons in anger, letting the infection take over his whole body. As Glisten's shifting, Shrimpo grabs one of his discarded ribbon pieces and beelines it to the elevator (as fast as Shrimpo can run). However, it is not fast enough, and Glisten easily catches up. He knocked over Shrimpo and lunges at him, ready take him out.

That's when Goob comes in. While everyone is trying to get the elevator to close faster, Goob grabs Shrimpo from below Glisten and pulls him into the elevator. Glisten hits the floor and breaks his face even more. As he gets up, he shouts at Shrimpo, who is shaking in Goob's arms watch Glisten break down.

Glisten: "YOU PROMISED YOU'D STAY WITH ME-- YOU PROMISED!"

Then, the doors close. Glisten is gone, and Shrimpo is angry and traumatized. How fun.

Shrimpo does not do well after the whole incident. He is much more reserved, but still just as angry. Except to Goob. Goob saving him gave Shrimpo a soft spot for the guy. Also, Goob let's Shrimpo vent to him like the supportive icon he is.

Shrimpo: I think I miss my partner, Goob.

But he's not the only toon Shrimpo talks to.

Vee: "Geez. This crying is ruining your "tough guy" persona."

My sibling gave me the silly idea to have Shrimpo and Vee be "friends" in this bc Shrimp hates Dandy waaaaaaaaaay more after the Glisten incident. And Vee hates Dandy in general, so boom, situation friendship. However, Vee sucks at being a supportive friend.

And some silly stuff my friends requested. Shrimpo chucking Dandy into the stratosphere and Goob being Goob. Healing the world one crappy doodle at a time.

Thank you for looking at the dooles and mindless rant of a grown adult about a Roblox horror game for 9-year-olds. You're a real one. Have a good day broksies.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Losing Dogs

Neither you or Aegon wanted to get married. Neither you or Aegon wanted to marry each other. But at some point, you figured you should make the most of what you had, and so you offer your husband a deal he cannot refuse.

Aegon Targaryen x Reader | 6k+ | cw: fem!reader, wife!reader, arranged marriage/loveless marriage, smut (piv, virginity loss, rough/loveless sex) DD:DNE, alcoholism, violence, suicide/suicidal thoughts & ideation, mentions of domestic/child abuse, death, pregnancy/miscarriage, aegon's mommy issues, insecurities, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: ... i had something to say about this fic but i forgot... maybe ill remember later???? edit: i did not remember. i thought of mitski while entitling this so go play i bet on losing dogs ig?

Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @deniixlovezelda @azperja @sloanexx @risefallrise

You don't know what you have until it's gone.

Aegon only truly understood what this meant the day he was married and he was forbidden to drink a drop of alcohol.

As if it wasn't painful enough that he was going to be married to a complete stranger from some house he's never fucking heard of, he was erratic and uneasy the whole day because of the withdrawal. He loathes the preparation, the ceremony, the fucking pageantry of it all.

He thinks it was worse that you seemed to be so chipper the entire time. You smiled with a halo, skin shining with the light. You also seemingly did no wrong, judging by the praises you received from his mother and grandfather. But, who was he kidding, of course they fucking loved you, they chose you to be his prison keeper.

You did not press him once, not when you were preparing for the ceremony, not when you were at the feast, not even after the Queen encouraged you to dance.

Anyone with eyes could see from how he slumped on his chair during dinner that Aegon would rather die than circle around the room to this grating noise echoing in the chamber.

The band begins to play another song and another round of dancing ensues.

He stares at the food on the table. Oh, to be a suckling pig.

The relief that coursed through him when he could finally leave was enough to knock him out. Except, he really wanted, no, needed a drink.

He crashes on his bed, belly down, and reaches for the cabinet door on his bedside table. He feels for his bottle, hand knocking into the corners of the compartment, but he sits up when he finds nothing.

He growls in frustration upon realizing this was definitely his mother's doing. Thief!

"I managed a cup."

Aegon struggles to look over his shoulder from his position. He rolls on his back as you walk to the side of the bed.

He stares at you. You offer a glass holding burgundy liquid. Your voice is soft and kind as you explain, "your mother would suspect me if I took a whole bottle."

Aegon pushes himself up and sits on the edge of the bed, facing you. He gulps at the wine you were offering.

Sure, he may not be the brightest, but anyone could tell this scene was the epitome of ulterior motives. Aegon leans on his thighs, "why are you doing this?"

You stare a moment. You clutch the cup in both hands and examine it. Again, your voice is gentle, "you are clearly in torment. It hurts my heart."

His eye twitches.

I see. It seems you were a fucking saint.

Aegon rips the glass out of your hands, some of the wine spills over. He downs the contents in one go, then chucks the glass across the room once he finished.

He looks back at you, glaring with watery eyes. He was exhausted, he was angry, and he wanted you to know it. But you don't flinch at the sound of the glass breaking. You didn't flinch at all when he showed aggression. Why didn't you flinch?

You press your lips and sigh. You step towards him and reach out.

He nervously straightens up and tilts his head back as you approach. His breath hitches when your warm hand touches his cheek. He blinks rapidly.

"It's been a long day. Would you like me to help you change?"

Again, his eye twitches.

And then he realizes what you mean.

Ah. So, this is what you wanted?

He releases a breath, eyes lowering. Your face falls into a slight frown.

He thinks about it for a moment. I mean, sex was sex and he was game. It didn't matter how he performed, his completion was all that mattered, really. And you were pretty enough, albeit irritatingly good.

When you stroke his hair, Aegon pulls at your skirts, causing you to squeak and topple, hands flying to his shoulders for support. Your faces are inches apart. He pulls you down until you have no other choice than to sit on his lap.

You can smell the remnants of the wine he just drank on his breath. Aegon brings his face closer to yours, and you let out a soft 'hmp'. You mutter, "I gather you don't want to change, but want to get out of your clothes."

He narrows his eyes as you shift on his lap and undo the buttons by his chest. He mutters dumbly, "this is what you wanted."

With knit brows, you retort, "I've not yet told you what I wanted." You shift on his lap again as you peel his top off. Amidst it, he asks, "what do you want?"

You grunt after ridding him of his top. You fold it in your arms then set it aside on the bed. You turn back to him. Aegon's breath hitches when you fondle with strings of his undershirt. He watches your lips as you mumble, "I want you to give me a ride on your dragon."

He furrows his brows. But that's what he just said.

You stand, only to lift your skirt and take your place back on his lap. This time, you straddle him.

Aegon gulps, hands coming to your hips like a magnet. He feels you grind on him; shaky breaths leave his lips in response. His hands scratch up your back and a moan escapes him when your nails trace his collarbones.

"Allow me one trip on Sunfyre, and in return, I'll be your magic lamp," you whisper, taking one of his hands, bringing it to the side of your ribs, "you may rub me where you like-"

His heart skips when you kiss his cheek.

"-and I will grant you all your wishes."

Aegon ticks.

The next moment, he pushes you down on the bed. He doesn't bother getting either of you naked, nor does he prepare you at all in fact. Thankfully, you were already wet.

You don't have the opportunity to ask him to be gentle, to explain you were a bride after all, and it was your wedding night.

Aegon grips your skirts as he fucks you like he means to prove a point. He snaps his hips roughly into you to assert dominance, to exemplify control. Sure, you offered yourself to him, but he was the one doing the work, and you were the one beneath him.

In truth, the pace he set gave you more pain rather than pleasure. And with how pent up he was, the rough tempo he set burnt him out way too quickly before it could make any of you feel good. And when he begins to lag, you start to feel good.

You notice this change and rub your nose against his. He recoils, unused to affection when fucking. It snaps him back into an aggressive trance.

You yelp. Aegon convinced himself it was a sound of bliss.

You kiss his jaw and work your way to his ear, hoping to calm him down. He tenses at the feel of your tongue on his lobe. It stokes flames in his belly and makes him involuntarily roll his hips slower to focus on the attention you're giving. In return, his pace is just enough for him to hit that spot that makes you throw your head back.

Aegon is startled by the scratchy groan that leaves your throat. He finds himself lifting his head to spectate, but you pull him into you by the nape and groan, "like that. Please- gods - that feels good."

His brows tense and he rolls his hips again, finding the same reaction.

You wrap your arms and legs around him, uncaring of how hot and sweaty you were getting. In the heat of the moment, you reach for his lips, needing them, needing something to wrap your own on.

Aegon kisses you. He kisses you with a strange twinge in his chest. He kisses you until he has to pull away and reposition himself to catch his building climax.

In a second, he's back to his fuck-loving self, only self-serving and lustful. As he gazes upon your writhing body, catching the beads of sweat on your skin, the concentration on your face, and the way you chant his name as you part your legs for him, he's overcome by another spirit. To watch you break, to watch you coil and collapse around him felt just as urgent as his need to come.

And so Aegon rubs your clit and forces you to peak first; you do it so well he curses loudly and comes after.

He lays on top of you for a moment, the overwhelming need to be held ripples through his body. He recalls how his whores shoo him away after he's done fucking them though. Before you can cradle him in your arms, he rolls off you.

You close your legs and and watch him strip himself and sequentially change. You watch him get back in bed and bring himself underneath the covers. He goes to sleep.

He fucking goes to sleep.

You feel hollow after this, but tell yourself it's nothing personal. You repeat this as you, yourself, get up and change, sequentially sleeping too. Or at least you try. You have fight the urge to cry for hours before you do.

The next morning, you bring up dragon riding to Aegon, and disappointed as you are, you are unsurprised to find that he was unwilling to give you such a thing.

It was a plain thing you were asking for, you explain. And it's exactly why he doesn't want to do it. It's clearly some trick, something to trap him, something he's going to regret. It was probably some ploy orchestrated by his mother.

Oh gods, he thinks, it's worse. It's a bonding experience so you can make him into your puppet. Fuck. No.

So, he does what he does best, and makes an excuse, "I don't feel like riding today. I'm still exhausted from the festivities."

You purse your lips and nod, "that's understandable. Would you like for me to get you something?"

Wait. You weren't going to argue about him not keeping his end of the deal?

You seem to catch this, considering your response and the way you take his hand. You place his palm on your chest. He can feel your pulse quicken as you mutter, "I am your magic lamp, husband. I wish to please you. I will prove this until you trust me enough to grant me a ride on dragonback."

He narrows his eyes, "you would grant me wishes, all in return for a ride on Sunfyre?"

You smile softly at him, "in return for respite, yes."

He doesn't trust your smile.

"I want to visit the Grey Cliffs. I have for a years now. I went there once as a child and long to go again."

"Why?" he knits his brows at your explanation, "what's there?"

You lower his hand and rub his skin, "respite, my prince."

Aegon pulls his hand away.

Very well. If that is what you want, then he will wear your wishes dry until you find it no longer worth the trouble.

Aegon wishes on his lamp everyday, and his wife sequentially plays entertainer, jester, servant, and slave.

He makes you bring a bottle of wine with you everywhere, and pour him a cup when he wishes. He loathes how you seem unbothered by it. He loathes how you don't even correct a visiting Lord who mistakes you for a cupbearer and simply serve him some wine. The Lord is mortified when he realizes you are his wife, a fucking princess. Aegon hates how you tell the man you were unbothered because you spent your whole life being a cupbearer to your father anyway.

He makes you do trivial tasks as well, sometimes tasks meant for more than one person at a time, and yet you still manage to do them, annoyingly better than the maids. When he demanded you cook him a full course meal, you did so all by yourself, and had the servants looking at you like you were some goddess.

He ripped a hole in his clothes then made you mend it. You covered the hole so seamlessly that he poked a bigger one right in front of you. And even then you don't give him the satisfaction of getting angry. You tell him you will embroider something on top of the hole and he storms off. He overhears you telling the servants, who applaud your level-headedness, that you were used to angry men, because your father was just the same.

You use each of these moments to somehow tell him you were the perfect wife and he had to oblige your stupid request at some point.

But then he found your flaw.

Aegon asked you to play the harpsichord for him, and you told him you did not know how. The woman who knew all did not know something? He would then proceed to hang this over your head. When he asked you for food, he'd tell you how much better it'd taste if he had entertainment. If he asked you to do something physically taxing for him, he's say that he wouldn't have asked you to do it, had you known how to play his 'favorite' instrument. He would use this as the reason why he could never bring you to Grey Cliffs.

It was all fun and games, but then you had to snitch, hadn't you?

"What are you doing to that poor girl!" Queen Alicent barked, making his ears ring.

Aegon groans from where he lies in bed. His mother rips the blankets off him, making him wake in a sour mood.

"She is your wife!" Alicent yells, "not your slave! Fine, you wish her to do tasks for you, tasks for your betterment. But to insult her standing by treating her like a maid is beneath a prince, Aegon!"

Aegon feels his throat tighten at the sight of his angry mother's face, "she is my wife," he growls, "I do with her as I please."

She strikes his cheek.

Aegon's head whips to the side. He doesn't have the energy to look back at her.

"You will no longer parade her as a cupbearer. I will have it decreed you are not ever served a drop of wine if you don't."

Alicent leaves after this. Aegon's anger explodes when the door closes.

He screams and rips at his hair. He kicks furniture around and eventually drops to the floor, exhausted, furious, and hurt. This was all your fault.

He screams again and claws the tears on his face. He slowly exhales through tight lips. His cheek is hot with saltwater. Who was he joking, this was all him.

This was all Aegon's doing.

His breathing is impeded by snot. He walks over to his window and stares at the ground below. If he jumps head first, not even the best maester in Westeros could fix him.

Before he can lean on the ledge, he is paralyzed in his spot by the sound of the door opening.

"I did not know she would be angry with you," you say.

Aegon looks back.

You see his red eyes and wet skin. He is a mirror to your younger self. You feel sick to your stomach. You try to explain, "I only asked if she could find a harpsichord teacher. I did not realize she would take offense in wanting to learn to play for you."

Aegon's heart aches at your naïve response. You were a stupid, perfect wife, and he, a stupid, petulant husband.

"I'm better off dead," he mumbles, looking back out the window. The call of the fall felt inviting, "want to push me, wife?"

You don't respond.

Aegon looks back at you, and suddenly you're only inches away. He tries to evade you, but you manage to catch his hand.

"We could jump together."

"What?"

Your face is blank. You part your lips, and for a moment, your eyes seem desperate, but then it's gone. You sigh, "dying is quite lonely," looking down, "I could keep you company."

Aegon stares at you. Tears stream down his face. "You're mad," he sniffles, yanking his hand away.

He walks over to his bed and collapses on it. He wraps himself in a blanket and feels sorry for himself, and angry at you for suggesting such a thing. Even now you want to be perfect by dying with him?

"I am," you mutter.

Aegon watches as you walk over to him. You sit on the floor beside his bed and look at your hands as you rub them.

"I cannot play the harpsichord, because my father does not like noise," you explain, "I was not allowed to make a sound or else I would be punished."

Aegon covers his head with a blanket but keeps his face visible, "he beat you, didn't he?"

You look at him, eyes melancholy, but still, he is the only one crying, "he beat everyone."

Aegon does not respond.

"I can sing though."

His brow raises, "how can you sing?"

"I would practice whenever he was gone, and sing for my mother in secret. It made her happy... happy enough."

He knew there was more to this confession, but he was too tired to ask about it, too tired to shed more tears.

"Would you like me to sing for you?"

"No."

"..."

"..."

"Would you like me to hold you?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

You stand from where you sat and get on the edge of the bed. Aegon watches as you slowly lie beside him. You bring an arm over him and pull him close. Aegon closes his eyes as you bring him into your chest.

You hold him until he falls asleep. Later that night, he asks you to hold him again. He also asks you to sing to him.

Aegon nestles his face in the crook of your neck. He wraps his arms around your torso, digging his fingers between your flesh and the bed. Your hushed voice reverberates in the bedroom, the song you sing is haunting and soothing. The vibrations from your chest lull him to sleep. You feel wetness pool by your clavicle but you make no note of it.

Aegon asks you to hold him the next morning after breaking fast. He asks you to stay with him in bed and to sing to him some more. When you have to leave his side, he asks to join you and waits until he can have you in his arms again.

Aegon becomes your shadow, and follows you around, under the promise of getting to share in your embrace. As you read and review letters or ledgers, your seat becomes Aegon's lap. He sleeps against you while you work without a fuss, cheek pressed against your back, arms fastened around your waist.

Sometimes, he notices the line that forms between your brows while you read and at some point, asks about it. You explain what causes it, and he is unmoved, as he is uninterested in politics that stress you. But when you read out to him, he finds comfort in your voice and asks you to read some. He falls asleep to your calm droning of circumstances he could not care less about. He groans and groggily awakens when you stop. He mumbles against your skin that you continue, pleadingly so.

When you had to leave the Keep for business, Aegon insisted that he joined you. When you brushed his cheek and explained to him why he could not go and that you would not be long, Aegon pushed you away and stormed off. You left without him anyway, and the treachery he felt was so great, he realized then how he could no longer go day to day without you. What was there to do, if you were not there?

And so Aegon desperately rubs his magic lamp and wishes upon you.

He wishes that you never leave without him again once you return.

He wishes that you promise to no longer make plans without him.

He traps you beneath him on your shared bed and wishes to be inside you. He kisses you and wishes to see you completely bared to him.

Aegon's mind is dizzy as he gazes upon the glory of your skin. He kisses your thighs, your hips, your breast, your lips.

Aegon wishes to surrender to you. He wishes that you undress him. He wishes to pull you on his body like a blanket. He wishes to see you take control. He wishes to see you cast your eyes upon him and lay your weight on his body.

He wishes to see you use him, to take what you need from him, to pleasure yourself, and to make him yours. He squeezes your thighs desperately when you moan out his name. This was much more maddening that what he imagined it would be.

He wishes to feel you come undone around him. He wishes he could forever feel the pleasure he did when he comes right after you do.

He wishes to hold you after. And when he holds you, when you lay on his chest and kiss him there, he wishes to never leave this moment ever again. He wishes to sing to you like you've sung to him.

"What are your plans tomorrow," Aegon asks as he draws nothings on your back.

You lift your head from his chest. He looks at you. You smile, "whatever you wish them to be."

He rubs your back and smiles, "I wish to take you to the Grey Cliffs."

Your expression drops, "what?"

He raises a brow at your reaction. You shift on your place. You straddle him again.

He looks up at you, noticing the line between your brows. He rubs your thighs, "you've granted me all my wishes. It's time I grant you yours." He shifts on his elbows and sits himself up, "it's time you meet my mount and-"

"We don't have to," you cut him off, placing your hands on his shoulders.

Aegon examines your expression. He listens to you sigh.

"I'd like to keep you-- wish to keep you..." you correct yourself, pushing him back down.

He looks up at you, feeling your hands rake up his body.

"...just like this," you finish, eyes solemn, lips curving into a soft smile, "I've not felt a thing like this in my entire life."

Aegon takes one of your hands and places it on his cheek. He whispers it like a secret, "neither have I."

You lean down to kiss him, "I wish to keep like this."

He kisses you back.

He is blindsided by how his wishes came to bite him in the arse. It's all crashing down on him. Suddenly, he wishes he didn't actually do any of those things with you.

He most of all wishes he heard you wrong. He wishes you didn't repeat yourself when he stupidly said, "what?"

"I'm with child," you speak slower, less excited yet excited still.

Aegon wishes you didn't look so excited. He wishes he fucking pulled out, but gods, you felt so good-- you feel so good around him, he felt so good inside you.

He realized the next moment, it couldn't be helped. You were going to have to bear his spawn at one point or another. He wishes you didn't have to. He wishes his seed wouldn't take completely. He wishes you don't take it to term. He wishes he won't have to be a father. Fuck.

He realizes he's been too quiet and you were waiting for a response from him. Your face began to twist. Your smile fades.

"Congratulations," Aegon musters. He feels like he swallowed a metal ball. His eyes wander to your belly. He mumbles mindlessly, "I suppose."

Your face falls.

Aegon looks back at you. Your face is devoid of any semblance of the glow it normally holds. You look sick. You feel sick.

"I see," you say, unintentionally allowing him to hear your voice break. Aegon's brows furrow at it.

He shakes his head, "you will be a great mother," he chuckles dryly, "you mother me so well."

You offer him a smile, but Aegon can see how disconnected it was from your eyes. You say, "thank you."

When you leave him after this, he wishes he hadn't said a word. He wishes he just left it at congratulations. He wishes he just pretended like the idea of having a child didn't mortify him and make him sick to his stomach. He wishes he wasn't so ill-suited to be a father.

Ageon no longer wishes for anything after this.

He no longer wishes to hold you, though he so badly wanted to. He no longer wishes to hear you sing, nor does he wish to hear you read to him. He no longer wishes to be around you, though his body urged him to follow you around like the lost soul he was.

He wishes he didn't wonder what you were doing at every moment of the day. He so desperately wishes to rid you from his mind completely that he drowns himself in his first and only true love, alcohol.

Fuck. He wishes he hadn't taken this route to his room. He wishes you hadn't taken this route to wherever it was you were going. He wishes he just turned around and fled like the coward he was, because then, you wouldn't have spoken to him.

"Husband," you curtsey.

Aegon stiffens and uncomfortably avoids your eyes.

You catch it, feeling your chest tighten painfully. You clear your throat and take a deep breath to steel yourself, "I thought you should know that I will be travelling."

Aegon looks at you.

"I have a ship ready and I'll be visiting the Grey Cliffs. Do not wait up for me."

His face falls. He opens his mouth, but doesn't have an opportunity to speak.

"I thought you should also know that I am no longer carrying."

His eyes widen.

"It's not an uncommon occurrence the first few months," you say simply, "I suppose the gods do not wish me to be a mother."

Aegon feels like a murderer. He wants to say something, to apologize, to comfort you, but he can't. He's too taken aback to do a single thing.

He turns into stone when you take his hand. You step forward and place his palm on your chest. Your heart is slow as you speak, "you won't have to worry about anything anymore, Aegon. Today is the end of our shared torment."

Aegon's stomach drops when you kiss him.

His eyes are glassy. You pull away before he can kiss you back. He wants to hold you, but the sadness in your eyes reminds him he is undeserving. You kiss his wrist, "goodbye, my love. I love you."

His heart thumps as you walk away.

Aegon is manic. He basks in the mess he's made and feels crushed by it all.

He finally acts after wasting so much time feeling sorry for himself. You were long out of his sight by the time he started running. This is why he headed to the dragonpit and got on Sunfyre.

"WAIT!" he screams, just as your boat leaves the dock.

Aegon watches as you run to the edge of the boat. He lands Sunfyre and runs as far to the edge of the docks as he could.

"Aegon-"

"Take me with you!" he pleads, "let me be the one to take you to where you must go!"

You look back. The ship stops. The crew brings down a boat and on it, you are rowed back to the dock.

He crushes you in his arms once he reaches you.

"Aegon," you mutter.

"Forgive me," he shudders, "I... I wish you let me do this for you."

"Aegon," your voice croaks. You push him away, "go home."

His heart drops. He breaks away to look at you. Your words feel like a stab at his thorax. It was presumptuous of him to assume you'd want him back, but it doesn't kill him inside any less.

"I've come to realize this is a trip I must go on myself," you mutter.

He shakes his head, "no. Please." He motions an arm out to his mount, "one wish. That I grant you one wish before you throw me away forever is... is--"

Your throat constricts at his words. Tears rush down your eyes, "I'm not throwing you away--"

"Please," he squeezes both your hands in his, "please, let me do this for you."

The flight to the Grey Cliffs is quiet, save for the whoosh of winds and the roars of the golden dragon you both rode. You always imagined it would be freeing, but only now did you know how it freeing it truly felt to fly. You knew now you'd forever chase the euphoric crush of air against your skin.

Aegon, who sat behind you, looks at your form as you outstretch your arms and close your eyes. Your body presses against him, and in this moment, he is unable to hold back from wrapping an arm around you and sparing a kiss on your shoulder. You are snapped out of your trance because of this.

The Grey Cliffs are dark and gloomy when you get there. Aegon realizes when you land that it got its name from the weather conditions.

He helps you down and surveys the area, trying to make out which part of this drear land was so special to you that you wished to go here.

You catch his expression and squeeze his hand.

Aegon turns to you.

You give a solemn look, "the view is better on the edge."

Aegon strokes Sunfyre's cheek, commanding him to stay before you lead him by the hand to the edge of the cliff. Once you get there, he feels queasy looking down at the crashing waves far beneath him. In contrast, you seem comforted by the view. His brows furrow at the deep breath you give out.

When you look at him, his stomach feels it, the comfort you felt upon witnessing the violent waves. Whatever it was that compelled you to this place was the same force that compelled him to kiss you.

He reaches out for your cheek, his other hand coming to you back. He pulls you close. His heart twinges when you stop him from kissing you.

"Aegon-"

"Forgive me," he cuts, "I beg."

You gawk at him. He brushes your hair which was wildly flinging with the breeze.

"You must know by now that I am craven. I lack the spine and the wit to be of any use to you."

Your eyes water. Your lips quiver.

"I would be a hopeless father, worse than my own, no doubt."

"Aegon," you babble as sobs overtake you.

Aegon, himself, succumbs to tears. He wipes the ones streaming down your face before taking a breath, "but you made me feel a love I do not deserve."

You swallow a heavy lump in your throat.

"I love you," he confesses.

"No," you pierce his heart. You shake your head in disagreement, "Aegon, this is a mistake. Bringing you here was a mistake."

"No!" he blurts louder than needed, "this was a choice," he looks down, "I choose to rip my insides out for you to devour. I am miserable, much more in the heat of your hate, but most of all without you."

His downturned eyes land on your face when you grab his wrists. You croak, "I do not hate you."

Aegon is not relieved by the admission, but he chooses to believe you mean it. He smiles softly, "good."

"But I do hate this life I live."

He clenches his jaw. Of course you do.

"You saved me," you press a hand on his cheek, taking your turn to wipe his tears, "even if for a moment."

"I made you miserable."

You chuckle. The sound makes his heart skip.

"You filled my life with purpose," you smile softly, "even when you did not mean to."

Aegon knits his brows deeply and takes your hands. He brings them to his lips and kisses them.

"But accidents happen. You must remember that accidents happen all the time."

Aegon shakes his head, "this is not an accident. Believe me when I say I chose to do this, I- ... I choose to love you."

You sob and turn to your feet.

"Please... believe me."

You sniffle and nod, slowly looking up at him, "I believe you."

You lunge into his arms and seal him into a tight hug. He hugs you back like it's his only way of surviving.

A crack of thunder startles Sunfyre. He becomes restless and steals away Aegon's attention, panicked that he might flee and leave them here.

He pulls away and takes a step towards her. He holds your hand, urging you to follow, "we should go before it rains."

You hug him from behind and press your face into his back, "thank you for taking me on Sunfyre."

"It was a long time coming."

"I've always wondered what it would be like to fly. And now that I know how peaceful it is, I'm ready to fly one last time."

He turns to you as you slowly come to his side. You hold his hand. He looks at you as you turn to Sunfyre. He promises, "I will take you on dragonback as many times as you wish."

You smile, but your eyes are fixed on his dragon. You release his hand and wrap your arms around yourself, "he is beautiful. You must never tire looking at him."

Aegon gazes upon Sunfyre. He takes in his golden scales and has newfound appreciation.

You take a step back.

"He is. To be honest, it's been long since I, myself, took him out of the pit. He must enjoy this day as much as you do."

"Aegon, you must understand that what I have to say has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me."

Aegon turns to you. He watches you tighten your arms around yourself. You must be cold. He rubs your shoulders.

You shake your head and turn him back to his dragon, "look at Sunfyre."

He knits his brows, "I'm looking."

"For so long," you release him, "I've wanted to fly free, to find my peace here in the cliffs. This was before I even met you." You point at the golden dragon, "I choose to love you too, but accidents happen, like if Sunfyre were to fly away, and you were to be left here alone."

Aegon stares at his ride for a moment as you lower your hand. He tries to makes sense of your words, but he cannot for the life of him understand.

He sighs, "what accident? Why do you keep-"

Aegon is flooded by confusion when he turns and finds you nowhere behind him. A split second later, he lets a horrified scream and the fear that claws into him makes his knees buckle. He crumbles to the ground and crawls to the edge of the cliff. He screams so loud that Sunfyre roars back and comes towards him.

Aegon watches as the red seafoam bubbles at the foot of the cliff. He watches as the crimson waves slowly slosh back into its original tint.

Rain begins to pour, and his tears taste no longer salty.

Was this the flying you ached for? Was this the relief you sought?

When he returns to King's Landing, dripping wet, he breaks down in front of his mother, weeping as he clutched his skirts.

Queen Alicent is obviously disturbed. She instructs her servants to get his son a change of clothes and some towels. She looks down at him, "what's happened? What's wrong, Aegon?"

"An accident-" he barely manages to say, "there's been an accident."

"An accident?!"

Aegon's mind goes blank. A bitter taste

You don't know what you have until it's gone.

[churipu]

"SHUT UP, MAMA." 𓆝 ⋆｡𖦹°‧

ִ ࣪𖤐 featuring. gojo satoru, toji fushiguro, nanami kento

ִ ࣪𖤐 warnings. fem! reader, husband! au, i made names for your children but feel free to disregard it

note. i remembered this tiktok trend, just figured i should write about how the jjk men would react to their child doing this.

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

gojo had a day off. it's rare for a jujutsu sorcerer like him — being the strongest, he's an asset to the jujutsu world. so him being in a day off is like a miracle to both you and your seven year old son, who might i say, is an exact carbon copy of your husband.

"honey, you need to put your toys away. it's almost dinner time," you said from the kitchen, gojo by your side, ready to help you with anything.

"let me take that," he sings out, grabbing two plates from your grasp — you chuckled, letting him take the white colored ceramic disk, "looks good, baby."

as you and gojo walked out of the kitchen, placing the plates on top of the dining table. gojo pulled out your seat for you. habits die hard, the male has always pulled your seat out for you since the very first date.

your son. marise gojo. a boisterous little boy, absolutely loves to play with his rocket toys, and somehow believes he's a little astronaut. there he sat in front of the TV, playing with his toys, an astronaut helmet covering his small head.

"buddy," gojo calls out to the boy, "it's dinner time, clean up your toys. mama made some good food."

when gojo's call didn't work, you tried doing it next, "marise, your food's going to get cold, honey."

the young boy didn't make any visible movements, but you heard him yell out with his high pitched voice, "shut up, mama!"

gojo looks at you briefly. i mean — as a father, he couldn't believe his own son said that. to his mother. gojo wasn't one to get mad, in fact, marise is a total daddy's boy. but he felt angry, frustrated, annoyed, all at once.

he wasted no time leaping up from his seat, approaching the young boy. his smile no longer visible; gojo was unhappy. the male used one of his hands to take off marise's astronaut helmet, tossing it aside before grabbing the young boy by his small waist.

marise didn't complain, and he still has no idea of what his father is about to do. so he just sat still in gojo's embrace — until gojo puts him down beside you, "say sorry."

marise's bright blue eyes stared up at gojo in confusion, "say sorry to mama, marise."

it wasn't "baby" or "buddy" like gojo used to address him by, and marise wasn't stupid. he knew he did something wrong, but he just didn't get what or why his father is telling him to apologize to you.

"sorry mama . . ." marise's soft voice resounds.

"do you know what you did wrong?" gojo questions sternly.

marise shook his head, his eyes watering at gojo's tone of voice, "no papa . . ."

gojo sighs, he squats down and gazes into his son's eyes, "you should never say 'shut up' to mama or papa, okay? not to anyone, 'ts not polite. don't ever do that again, now say sorry to mama for saying that."

marise nods his head and turns to look at you, his eyes watering — it's not everyday that you get to see papa gojo get angry, "'m sorry mama, i will never do that again," the young boy finally cried, letting his tears fall out of his doe eyes.

you can't help but to smile at the young boy, pulling him onto your lap to cradle him, "don't do that again, baby. 'ts not polite," your fingers grazed his chubby cheeks, wiping his tears away, "and if mama or papa tells you to stop playing and eat, what do you do?"

marise sniffled, "stop playing and eat."

"good boy," you kissed his little forehead, "go give papa a kiss."

and that marise did, gojo immediately picking the boy into his arms with a big smile, "give papa two kisses, buddy."

sure, gojo is a fun parent. but he knows how to teach his children boundaries — what to do and what not to do. he's scary when he's angry.

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

megumi is the child that made you and toji think you both should have another child — fukuo is the child that made you and toji stop wanting more children. not saying that fukuo is a bad kid, but the boy is relentless.

with a pretty large age difference between megumi and fukuo with six years, sometimes megumi had to teach fukuo some manners, telling the younger boy what's right and wrong. when fukuo misbehaves, it's megumi and you to the rescue — while toji would usually chuckle it off since, well, he's a little minus on the manners part as well. but you're working on that.

toji said so himself, he wouldn't mind fukuo misbehaving on some things. but the male did set some boundaries up for both of his boys and how they should act well towards you (and him).

today, megumi is twelve and fukuo is six. both of your boys look alike, "mama, 'm gonna be staying late at school because we have a play coming, 'm gonna help my classmate decorate the stage," megumi tells you as he puts on his shoes.

"alright, baby. have a good day at school, i love you," you pressed a kiss on megumi's head, waving him goodbye.

as megumi disappears behind the front door, you walk back inside the house, "toji, wake fukuo up, please. 'm getting his breakfast ready," toji who had his eyes on the television curtly nodded, sluggishly walking towards the boy's room.

"hey, champ." toji approaches the boy, who was sleeping soundly, "your mother's made some good food f' you. if you're not gonna eat it, i'll steal your portion."

fukuo squirmed a bit, but his eyes were still shut tightly, "fukuo," toji gently shook the boy, poking his cheek.

like anyone, fukuo didn't like his sleep disturbed, "papa, stop . . ." he mumbled out, shifting his small body so his little back was facing toji, "five more minutes."

toji sighs, "five more minutes."

he then went out of the room, "he asked for five more minutes," he informs you — sitting back down on the couch.

"five more minutes," was not an unfamiliar statement to you, especially coming from fukuo who had always managed to, of course, butcher the concept of time right after. it was either an hour, or more.

so you waited five minutes, and when the young boy didn't emerge from his bedroom, you found yourself walking towards it, "fukuo? baby, come on, mama made you breakfast . . ." you turn on the light, which made fukuo subconsciously twitch.

"fukuo, come on, papa will eat your breakfast . . ." you shook the boy gently.

"shut up, mama."

you blinked in surprise, but only managed out an exasperated sigh at the boy's sudden outburst, until all of a sudden toji appears beside you — his hand wet, and he slides his palm across the boy's face with a serious look on his face.

"wake up, fukuo. i won't tell you this again," toji mutters out, "three."

oh, god. the countdown was every kid's nightmare, "two," including fukuo's — shown by how the young boy immediately sat up on his bed, "apologize to your mother."

fukuo furrowed his brows, "why?"

"you don't tell her to shut up. apologize." you were just there silently, a little shocked at how toji had become so serious when he's usually so laid-back with the boys, "say sorry and eat your breakfast."

fukuo swallows his saliva nervously and scoots over to you, "'m sorry for telling you to shut up mama, i promise i won't do that again . . ." he whispers, throwing his short arms around your neck — burying his face into the crook of your neck.

you pulled him close, carrying the young boy in your arms, "'ts okay baby, no more telling people to shut up, okay? 's not nice, it'll hurt people's feelings."

"okay mama . . . 'm sorry for hurting your feelings," fukuo pulls back slightly, pressing a chaste kiss on your cheek before facing toji, "'m sorry for hurting mama's feelings, papa."

toji placed his palm over the boy's face, covering it entirely, a sheepish smirk plastered on his lips, "go brush y'r teeth and eat your breakfast, mama made some pancakes."

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

nanami is such a girl dad. ever since he found out that both of you were going to have a baby girl, he's delighted. just knowing that he'd have a mini version of the both of you made his stomach churn in happiness.

hoshi. nanami hoshi is her name. it was a very peaceful six years of raising her — but they said there will be a devil baby phase, and here she was. whining, throwing tantrums over things she didn't get. it was honestly tiring, but you knew this was a risk of raising a child.

"hoshi, baby, please stand up." you cooed down at the girl who was lying down on the ground. in the middle of a mall, "mama and papa will buy that toy for you next time, i promise."

nanami was by your side, holding onto the baby stroller. his eyes were unreadable, you don't know what he had in mind, but the look he peered at your daughter was plainly and eerily terrifying.

yes, there are moments where he spoils hoshi with what she wants. toys, food, drinks, you name it. but there are times where he declines because he didn't want her to grow up too spoiled, "i wan' that toy, mama!"

you inhaled sharply, trying to slide your hand underneath her armpits to pick her up, but hoshi refused by kicking your hands away. her little kicks barely scratched you — but the people looking at your small family as they passed by definitely got a little kick to you.

"baby, people are looking at you . . ." you whispered.

"i don't care, shut up, mama!"

that was the last straw for nanami who had been silent. he grabbed your arm and tugged you up gently, nodding at you as if telling you to leave this one to him.

you backed away slightly, taking a hold of the stroller nanami had let go a few seconds prior as he squats down. forcefully but gently slipping his hands underneath hoshi's armpits, carrying her into his arms.

"mama said we will buy that toy for you next time, okay?" he sternly said, eyeing his little girl who was now silent as she gazed into his eyes, "and you never. never tell mama to shut up, do you understand?"

hoshi nods her head slowly, lips quivering at her father's sudden lecture, nanami's eyes visibly softened and he rocked her in his arms, "papa's not angry at you, hoshi. but papa wants you to know that telling mama to shut up is not polite, okay?"

again hoshi nods her head.

"go and say that you're sorry to mama," he pecked her chubby cheeks before letting her down onto the ground.

hoshi's little legs ran towards you, hugging your leg, "'m so sorry mama," she muffles into your leg, "i don't want the toy anymore, mama. 'm sorry for being a bad girl."

you squat down, nuzzling your nose to her, "you're not a bad girl, baby . . . mama and papa will buy you that next time, okay? we promise."

"okay, mama. i love you."

© CHURIPU 2024 , DO NOT COPY OR REPOST ANYWHERE