#if you look at the details of anything they say they are so full of shit. genuinely in the running for biggest hypocrite in the cast | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kunareads · 1 day ago

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how you talk so sweet when you're doing bad things

actor!satoru x popstar!reader

you and satoru fulfill the prophecy (he picks you up, pulls them down, turns you around).

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satoru "filthy mouth" gojo!!! i had to stop writing this multiple times because of what he does to me. PART 3 VALENTINE'S DAY (comment for taglist)

content: fluff and SMUT! even more tension, you and satoru are once again the subjects of internet speculation, making out, 69, oral (m! and f! receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v sex, pronebone, cowgirl, he's very much in control here

18+ please i block children <3

+++

the internet does what it does best: fill in the blanks.

neither of you say anything. no statements, no denials, no acknowledgments. but speculation spreads like wildfire.

it started small. the blurry afterparty photos, the red carpet chemistry dissection, the think pieces about hollywood's most unexpected flirtation. the usual.

then you post an instagram story.

nothing special. just a close-up of a wine glass, city lights blurred in the background. no context, no caption. but the fans? they think they know.

twitter erupts.

@/satorumess: not to be crazy but i mapped out their locations based on timestamps and—

@/fulltimeshipper: this is worse than when the CIA redacted half that UFO document

@/ynupdates: y/n posting a cryptic story the same night satoru is spotted downtown… oh we are in the trenches forreal

then, satoru likes a tiktok.

a slow-motion edit of you in your red carpet and afterparty looks, set to some dramatic song, captioned this woman is dangerous, your honor.

he doesn't comment, doesn't follow the account. just leaves one single like. and the internet implodes.

@/fandomedits: nah this isn't pr this is a man down BAD

@/popcultupdates: GOJO SATORU LIKING THIRST EDITS IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT WE HAVE LOST HIM COMPLETELY

@/ynstan: this man saw a slo-mo thirst edit and said "yeah let me cosign that"

but it gets worse.

an old clip resurfaces. a red carpet from last year. you and satoru, near each other but never interacting. a moment that meant nothing—until now.

fans slow it down, zoom in, analyze every tiny detail:

satoru steps onto the carpet, and your eyes flick toward him, barely noticeable.

he glances in your direction.

there's a beat where he exhales, seems to collect himself—something no one caught before.

and suddenly, it's evidence.

@/fathergojo: why do their interactions feel like deleted scenes from a romcom

@/yninvestigator: guys. GUYS. what do you MEAN she looked at him FIRST. what do you MEAN HE TOOK A BREATH AND LOOKED AWAY.

@/stanwars: suddenly i believe in fate. suddenly i understand greek tragedies.

apparently, none of this is new.

you and satoru are just catching up.

+++

+++

satoru isn't good at waiting.

patience isn't exactly his strong suit, but when the reward is this good? he doesn't mind.

you walk in like the last week never happened. like the chaos never even registered.

the rooftop lighting catches the silk of your dress, the shine of your jewelry, the sheen of your lips. it makes you look untouchable.

attention follows you effortlessly. heads turn, backs straighten. someone says something, you smile—polite, charming, distant. you're impossible not to watch.

and satoru watches.

he's become acquainted with the effect you have, but it hits harder tonight than it did a week ago.

because now he knows how you taste.

the glass in his hand is cool, condensation falling between his fingers. he takes a sip, tracking you, cataloging details no one else would catch.

the way your shoulders shift, subtle, as you get closer.

the flick of your gaze toward him before you fully reach him.

you stop beside him, close enough for the scent of your perfume to settle between you.

a pause before you meet his eyes.

"so… how's your week been?" you ask, tone light, a smile gracing your features.

satoru exhales a laugh, tipping his glass like a toast. "surprisingly quiet. you?"

as you talk, your fingers trace the rim of your glass. he watches. you let him.

he leans in when he speaks. you don't move away.

he notices the way the waiter lingers, the way you dismiss it with a polite, distant smile.

you notice the way his expression shifts at that, just slightly. neither of you acknowledge it.

"you're kind of a nightmare," you tease.

satoru grins, unbothered. "funny. some people call me a dream."

you laugh and roll your eyes at him. he takes his time with his next sip, letting the tension settle. you're watching him watch you.

it would be easy to let you play this game, to see how long you can act like you're not as impatient as he is. but he leans in, voice quiet, just for you.

"you gonna make me wait?" low, taunting.

you could, but you don't. instead, you lean in too, meeting him halfway. you set your glass down carefully. he mirrors you.

someone—a bartender, another guest—tries to pull you into conversation, but you don't reply.

you lean into him, your voice calm but sure.

"let's go."

+++

streetlights skim over sleek black paint as the car pulls up, satoru swinging the door open. you barely take a step before his hand finds the small of your back, fingers pressing just enough to guide you.

he grins lazily. "last chance."

you roll your eyes as you step in. "so dramatic."

he closes the door after you and circles the car, the driver pulling off.

the backseat feels too small.

you cross your legs. his knee brushes against yours, and he doesn't move away. his hand rests on his thigh, relaxed, too close to yours. deliberate.

you pretend not to notice, but he knows better.

the silence is louder than words. the city blurs past the tinted windows, neon bleeding into the dark. the hum of the engine, the distant murmur of traffic, the faint pulse of something unsaid.

satoru exhales slowly, gliding his tongue over his teeth, thinking. he pushes a button, the partition rising.

you're both quiet, but it's a silent signal: stop pretending.

the second it clicks into place, he moves. or maybe you do. it doesn't matter. he's closer now, facing you, and you're already leaning in.

a beat. a sharp inhale.

his fingers skim your thigh, higher this time.

"i was trying to be good," you say quietly.

his voice drops, tight with restraint, and your breath catches. "don't."

the second the word leaves his lips, you're on him. a hand finds the back of his neck, drawing him in.

the first kiss is slow, but not reluctant. he drags it out because he can. he tilts his head, deepening it. he hums against your lips when you press closer, pleased.

his fingers tease higher. yours twist into his hair, nails scraping just enough to make him sigh into your mouth.

the car rolls to a stop.

neither of you move. not right away.

satoru's grip tightens, like he's considering pulling you onto his lap. like he could keep you here a little longer, let the city blur beyond the tinted glass while he takes his time.

instead, he drags his lips down your jaw, then lower. he breathes you in before murmuring, "upstairs."

+++

the door clicks shut, sealing you in. no music, no distant hum of the city, just quiet, dense and charged.

neither of you break the silence.

satoru steps in first. the air seems to crackle around him here the same way it does everywhere else.

you hold his stare, challenging. he waits.

a test. a game.

then, finally, you reach for him. his grin is lazy, knowing. like he was waiting for you to break first.

this kiss is purposeful. his lips brush yours—once, then again. a silent question, just the slow press of his mouth, the barely-there slide of his hands down your waist.

your fingers slip under his shirt, nails grazing skin, just enough to pull a slow, amused breath from him.

his hands find your hips, insistent, pulling you in until there's no space left. the shift makes you gasp into his mouth, and he drinks it in, looking smug, like he expected it.

like he's been waiting for this all week.

his grip tenses, like he's about to pull you closer—but then he's gone. his heat vanishes, his lips just a ghost of pressure before they disappear completely.

he barely moves when you chase him a bit, just tilts his chin, smiling. like he knew you wouldn't let him go. like he was counting on it.

you inhale, frustration sparking low in your chest, and you move before you think. your hands find his shirt, tugging him back in—but before you can, his fingers close around your wrists, catching you with ease.

his grin is knowing, his grip firm but teasing. he tilts his head, amusement spreading across his face.

"easy, princess," he murmurs, voice low, eyes flicking to your lips. "what's the rush?"

you arch a brow, fingers flexing in his grasp. "you did haul me out of the car."

his grin widens. "not like you put up a fight."

you push.

you press into him, backing him towards the wall. he lets you. lets you kiss him deeper, hands still wrapped around your wrists but relaxing, giving you room to move.

for a second, you think you've won.

then the world tilts and your back meets the wall with a gentle thud, your head tipping back slightly as he crowds you.

he smiles at you, eyes sparkling, enjoying himself too much. his hands settle at your waist, keeping you where he wants you.

you should be annoyed. instead, you match him and smirk right back.

you like the way he handles you.

+++

his touch is maddening.

his fingertips skate over your ribs, your stomach, but never where you need them. it's intentional and exploratory, like he has all the time in the world.

and he does. his apartment is a sanctuary from the mess of the last week. no prying eyes or a disgruntled kento to interrupt here.

you shift, trying to lead him downward, but he only chuckles, barely making a sound.

"you can be patient for me, can't you?" his voice dips lower, "or are you already too far gone?"

he's mocking you, and reflex kicks in—your thighs squeeze together, and you feel the heat creep up your neck when he notices.

his fingers ghost up your inner thighs, teasing warmth into your skin before retreating. every near-touch is calculated, just enough to remind you of how easily he could give you what you want.

he watches as impatience builds in your expression, as your breath stutters when his hands graze your waist again.

your nails press into his shoulders, a silent dare. before he can smirk, before he can gloat, you roll your hips against him, slow, deliberate. the response is immediate.

his breath falters, a groan through gritted teeth. his jaw tightens like he wasn't expecting you to test him. for a split second, he stills entirely.

you smile at him. message received.

"if you wanna ruin me, do it right, satoru." a taunt disguised as a whisper, just enough to chip at his restraint.

his hold turns bruising, like he wants to leave something behind. the teasing tone vanishes, his smirk dissolving into something darker. your breath catches—not in surprise, but excitement as something kindles in your stomach.

because suddenly, it's not a game anymore.

the realization barely registers before he has you pinned, wrists above your head, mouth at your ear.

"hope you know what you're asking for," he murmurs, hips flush against yours. his voice is different now—rough, heat twisting through every syllable. you shudder at the sound, your body responding. he makes good on his words immediately.

his hands find the backs of your thighs—then, suddenly, you're weightless, gasping, clutching at his shoulders. your legs draw around his hips, heat pooling fast.

a startled breath leaves you, but he's already moving, carrying you across the room like you weigh nothing at all.

+++

he drops you onto his bed, grinning at the glare you send him when you bounce.

you don't even get the chance to scold—his hands are already on you, pulling your panties down.

his teeth graze your inner thigh before he bites down, sharp enough to make you whine, hips squirming. he exhales with a smile. "thought so." his tongue follows—slow, indulgent, a promise to ruin you.

you've barely found your breath when he shifts, broad hands pressing into your thighs, spreading you open. his gaze lifts, dark and teasing.

"comfortable?" he asks, lips skimming the inside of your knee.

you roll your eyes, about to retort—but your fingers curl into the sheets instead when his mouth finds your core, hot and devastating.

your hips shift, back arching, and he hums against you, content.

you move the moment he adjusts—quick, decisive, hands pushing into his shoulders. he lets you shift the balance, rolling onto his back, breath catching when he opens his eyes to find you above him.

your fingers work fast, tugging at his belt, yanking it free with a sharp pull. you work on the button, the zipper, pulling the fabric down just enough to free him.

he was so fucking cocky a second ago. now, he's not even breathing right, body taut under your hands. so you stroke once, then twice, then take him into your mouth.

no warning, no reluctance.

his grip tightens on your thigh, breath punching out like you knocked it loose. his head tilts back, jaw tensing, a soft "fuck—just like that, baby" escaping him.

you hum around him, pleased, tongue teasing, and he swears again under his breath. his hands fist into the sheets, trying to ground himself.

but satoru doesn't like being outmatched.

his fingers skate up your thigh, squeezing. and then his mouth is on you, tongue dragging through your folds, slow and deep.

you gasp against him, body tensing, and he grins.

"that's better," he mutters against you, lips brushing sensitive skin before his tongue circles once, twice.

the sound you make is muffled around him, and he groans in response, the vibration rolling through you both.

you try to keep a rhythm, fingers curling at the base as you sink down, but every time his tongue moves just right, every time he sucks at your clit, you falter.

he notices, and he loves it.

his hands tighten on your hips, keeping you still as he buries his face deeper, determined, fucking into you with his tongue, sending you to the edge without mercy.

you try to keep going, try to keep your lips wrapped around him, but every nerve in your body is on fire, pressure winding as you moan around him.

he grins against you. "that's it, princess. lemme hear it."

his fingers dig into your skin, tightening as he licks into you with purpose, drawing desperate sounds from your throat.

it's too much. you pull your mouth off of him, panting, lips slick and hips twitching against his face as the bliss hits all at once, unraveling you from the inside out.

"satoru, fuck," you gasp, the words nearly unintelligible through your moans. you can't do anything but let it consume you, your body seizing before the release finally drives through you.

you gasp, sharp and unsteady, his name tumbling past your lips again, voice cracking into a whine.

satoru doesn't stop until you're shaking, your legs weak, pleasure rolling over you in dizzying, tormenting waves.

only when your thighs twitch, too sensitive, does he finally pull away. his face is wet, and he's breathless. he presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh before looking up at you, eyes dark and lazy.

"you're fucking perfect," he murmurs, voice hoarse, before flipping you onto your stomach, pressing you into the mattress.

+++

you're still coming down when he lifts your hips, tucking a pillow underneath them.

his breath is warm against your shoulder, steady and grounding. his lips trail down your spine, flirting, savoring the way you squirm. a hand settles on your hip possessively, making sure you don't slip away.

his other hand trails lower, sliding between your legs, fingers pressing in—gradually, unhurried, teasing the mess he left behind.

"fuck, baby—you're dripping for me." his voice is all rough edges and satisfaction, murmured against your ear. you shiver. his fingers slide through your folds, spreading your slick, teasing the spot he knows will make you gasp.

"been thinking about this all week," he mumbles, kissing the curve of your neck. his fingers dip lower, pushing inside, slow and deep. "bet you have, too."

you whimper, and he smirks against your skin.

"should've had you like this that night. should've fucked you right up against that wall."

his fingers move at an unbearable pace, curling, pressing into the spot that makes your knees weak. your hips jerk, but he holds you still.

"needy, huh?" his breath is burning against your ear, teasing, smug. "tell me how bad you want it, baby."

your fingers clutch the sheets, patience fraying. you should fight him— push back, make him work for it—but you're too far gone for games.

"satoru—"

his fingers stall. "mm, not good enough."

"want you," you gasp, growing desperate. "need you inside me."

he groans like you just hit him where it hurts. he pulls his hand away, leaving you empty for barely a second before the thick of him replaces them.

he slips the tip through your folds, slick and teasing, but doesn't push in. "this what you wanted?" he asks, rougher now.

"yes."

"say it again."

your breath stutters, but you give him what he wants. "yes. please," you gasp.

his hands flex against your hips, keeping you still as he pushes forward, stretching you open with an unrelenting drag that knocks the air from your lungs. it's almost too much—almost—but you want all of it. you take all of him.

he moves in slowly, and a shaky gasp escapes as he bottoms out, deep inside you, holding himself there, letting you feel it.

his breath is ragged now, his exhale hot against your skin. "fuck."

his hands slide up your sides, guiding you, holding you where he needs you.

"you feel so fucking good," he breathes, voice dipping into something ruined.

his hips roll, deep and slow, like he wants to feel everything. like he wants to make this last.

you think for a second that you won't survive at this pace.

satoru brings his body lower, pressing his chest flush against your back, all heat and tension, breath ghosting over your shoulder as he sinks in.

his arms slip under yours, palms spreading over your shoulders, drawing you into him. not just pulling you back, but owning the space between you.

hi thrusts are indulgent, stretching, coating himself in you. his breath is uneven, satisfaction humming in your ear.

you push your hips back into him, matching his rhythm.

satoru exhales a sharp breath, fingers digging in. "you trying to make me lose it?"

you don't answer, just push back harder on instinct.

his response is immediate—a sharp, precise thrust that knocks the air from your lungs, ripping a moan from your throat before you can swallow it down.

"thought so," he murmurs, lips grazing your shoulder.

his pace turns deep and steady—controlled, measured. he brings his face close to yours, wanting to watch you react, to feel you tighten around him with every movement.

but you're impatient. you shift, pressing up onto your elbows, angling your hips just enough to take him deeper.

his pace stutters. he swears under his breath, voice raw, and one arm locks around your waist. he holds you in place as he fucks into you now, hard enough to leave you trembling, helpless against the bed.

his name leaves your lips, breathless and desperate.

"fuck—it's so good," he groans, half-choked, messy. his face buries into your neck, hands gripping like he's holding on for dear life. "let me hear you, baby."

you can barely think, barely breathe. his hand slides between your legs, fingers finding that spot, pressing slow, teasing circles.

"satoru—"

he chuckles, low and smug, but there's an edge to it now, a tension in the way his hips stutter, his movements losing their precision.

and then you tighten around him, body seizing, pleasure cresting all at once—

"fuck," he bites out, breathless, grip tightening like he's trying to hold on.

and then—he pulls out.

a sharp inhale, the loss making you gasp, but before you can even form a thought—

he flips you over.

"not done with you yet," he mutters, voice rough, gaze dark as he hovers over you.

+++

and just like that, everything shifts.

his hands find you the second he pulls out—a sharp, dizzying shift as he flips you over, settling beneath you. his hands slide up your ribs, brush over your breasts, then slide back down.

his fingers splay wide on your hips, steadying you, but it's his gaze that pins you in place. "wanna see you like this," he murmurs, voice low, still rough from before.

your lips part, but the way he looks at you makes it hard to tease. instead, your nails drag down his chest, unhurried, feeling his abs tense beneath your touch.

"yeah?" you breathe.

his fingers flex, tightening just slightly. "yeah, baby. show me how bad you want it."

you wrap your fingers around him, stroking once, slow and teasing, just to watch him squirm.

his jaw clenches, but he doesn't push. he lets you take your time, lets you set the pace, struggling to hold back.

you don't make him wait long.

you line him up and sink down, savoring the stretch—the way he exhales, sharp and shaky, fingers digging in.

"fuck," he breathes, watching you, eyes dark, half-lidded, all heat.

one of your hands finds his shoulders, nails scraping lightly as you start to move. the other moves down to where you're connected, feeling just how far he spreads you open.

at first, it's slow—like you're figuring each other out all over again. a careful roll of your hips, tension simmering, teasing at something deeper.

but it doesn't last.

his grip firms, guiding you down, matching your rhythm. he thrusts up to meet you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs.

"you feel me, princess?" he asks, pulling you down harder, deeper.

you answer him with a desperate little whimper that makes him melt.

both of your movements are messy, desperate—like you both know exactly where this is going and you need to get there.

your fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping, tugging just slightly, and he hisses, eyes squeezing shut for a second.

his hands slide up your spine, pulling you closer, his forehead pressing to yours, breathing hard.

"you feel so fucking good," he murmurs, almost a whine. "so wet for me, so fucking perfect."

you can't even speak. your thoughts blur, pleasure winding tight, breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

he shifts beneath you, angling deeper, hitting exactly where you need him. the sudden jolt of pleasure makes your whole body tighten, makes you let out a sound you didn't mean to make—

a loud, broken moan, breathy, helpless.

his head snaps up, eyes wild, something cracking behind them—like he just lost his last thread of control.

"oh," his breath shudders, grip tightening. "oh."

and then he's gone.

he snaps his hips into yours, his hands gripping, guiding, setting a pace that's relentless, that has you gasping, nails biting into his shoulders.

your vision goes hazy, body tightening, winding up unbearably fast. you try to tell him you're close, but all that comes out is a shaky, broken "satoru—"

"oh, fuck—there it is," he breathes, voice dropping, eyes dark and triumphant. "knew you'd sound so fucking sweet falling apart for me."

his hand finds your clit, pressing just right—teeth gritting as he holds on, watching you break first.

and you shatter.

it slams into you, sharp and consuming, a shockwave rolling through your body. your breath stutters, a broken gasp stumbling free as you tighten around him, locking him in.

he feels it—the way you pulse around him, the way you tremble, how your moans dissolve into something helpless. it undoes him. his arm slides your waist, his other hand finding the back of your neck, and he pulls you closer like he needs you.

he curses as you tremble against him, holding you close, burying himself deep in you as he falls apart.

your name leaves his lips like a prayer, breathless, reverent. he groans against your skin as he finally spills into you. pleasure crashes through him, and for a moment, all he can do is feel **the heat of you, the way you throb around him, the way your body takes him like you were made for this.

for a second, you both stay still; the only sound between you is the sharp, uneven puff of breath.

your hands shake against his chest. his fingers are still locked around your waist.

he exhales a wrecked laugh, warm and lazy against your temple.

"so fucking worth the wait," he murmurs, voice low, sated. he kisses all over your face, palm smoothing down your spine. "knew you'd be perfect for me."

+++

the morning light spills through the curtains, golden and soft, warming tangled sheets and bare skin. everything is still. quiet, but not empty. satoru is warm against you, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. at some point in the night, your leg found its way between his, one of his arms draped lazily over your waist.

you shift, stretching slightly, and his fingers flex at your hip, like some part of him refuses to let you go.

he murmurs something unintelligible, voice low and drowsy. then, with a slow, easy smile against your skin, "stay."

you huff a quiet laugh. "clingy."

"mmm," he hums, voice is thick with sleep. "you're warm."

he still hasn't opened his eyes. he just shifts a little, nestling deeper into you. his fingers pressing idly into your hip, like he's memorizing the shape of you beneath them.

you stay like that for a while.

you steal a button-up from his closet when you finally get up, slipping it over your shoulders before following him into the bathroom. he doesn't comment, just flicks his gaze over you, lips twitching, before rummaging through a drawer. a moment later, he presses a spare toothbrush into your palm.

"definitely took you for the clingy type."

he grins, stretching lazily against the counter. "not my fault you're so soft."

you brush your teeth side by side, bleary-eyed in the mirror. he stands just a little too close, bumping into your arm like he can't help himself.

and when you head back to bed, he follows, catching your wrist just before you climb in, guiding you back under the covers with ease.

"wait." his lips brush your shoulder. "just stay there."

"i am staying," you point out, amused.

"good," he hums, pressing one last kiss to your head before disappearing into the kitchen.

satoru returns minutes later, two mugs in hand. he sets yours on the nightstand before wordlessly disappearing back to the kitchen.

you wait until you smell breakfast, then you get up and follow the scent out to his kitchen island.

he doesn't ask if you're hungry. he just plates your food and sets it in front of you without a second thought.

you steal sips from his juice between bites, and he lets you, just watching, amused, eyes flicking toward you over the rim of his glass.

soft touches happen naturally, thoughtlessly.

his palm finds the small of your back when he moves past you, warm and steady.

your fingers brush when you both reach for the same thing.

his knuckles graze your thigh when he leans back against the counter.

none of it feels unfamiliar.

you stay longer than you expected to. he doesn't call you out on it.

the goodbye is unserious, drawn out in a way that makes it obvious neither of you is in a rush.

"try not to miss me too much," you tease, pulling on your shoes with a grin.

he smiles, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. "oh, i will."

his tone is playful, but something about the way he says them makes you hesitate, just for a second.

and as you step out, just before it closes behind you, he calls after you.

"i'll be thinking about you, y'know."

tags (ongoing): @moonchhu @httpstoyosi @lavnder311 @harryzcherry @perkypeony @katecupcakekate @hellicify @oh-my-god-donald @jupiterbinnie @i88b0nten @satxoru @chuuminn @moncher-ire @r0ckst4rjk @flwerie @raendarkfaerie @pinksdump @blkmystery

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cambankromyy · 12 hours ago

Text

THE ISLAND LOOKOUT (pt.10): get a room - (smau & irl au) childhood bsf!rafe cameron x thornton!reader

series masterlist; general masterlist; taglist

warning/an; kinda? implied smut/sexual content. i think real real smut is coming in ch.12... AFTER midsummers

part 9 - part 10 - part 11

you pull into tannyhill, the headlights cutting through the driveway as you park. the drive from the chateau was quiet, the kind of calm you didn’t realize you needed until you finally had it, especially after almost being caught with jj.

sarah’s already out of the car and heading toward the front door, phone in hand. "need to grab a few things before dinner," she says without looking up. you just follow her inside, not even bothering to answer. you can hear her moving around in the kitchen as you take off your shoes and toss your bag onto the couch.

it’s quieter than usual. too quiet. you glance around, the house emptier than you’re used to.

"where’s everyone?" you ask, scanning the room.

sarah doesn’t even glance up. "wheezie day. ward and rose took her out."

you nod, not needing any further details. you’ve learned enough to know the deal with wheezie and her little trips.

you don’t ask about rafe, though. "oh, i think he’s with topper at the club," sarah adds, clearly not caring enough to offer anything else.

you just shrug. it’s whatever. not like you’d want to hear any more about them tonight.

dinner’s laid-back, comfortable. nothing extraordinary, just easy chatter and the usual back-and-forth. it’s simple. you laugh, maybe share some stories. by the time you finish eating, you're full and content, ready to crash.

you drop sarah back off at tannyhill after dinner, settling into your bed as soon as you get home, scrolling through your phone. the house stays quiet, though you can hear the crashing waves outside and the occasional sound of footsteps outside. at some point, you hear the front door open. voices—muffled, indistinct. you figure topper and ruthie are back, a little earlier than usual— 10 pm. maybe drunk and stumbling, but then the voices fade, and you don’t think much of it.

until you hear it.

a sound. a very specific sound.

your brow furrows. you sit up, listening closer.

moaning.

you immediately groan, flopping back onto your bed. ugh. topper. gross.

it wouldn’t be the first time. he and ruthie were shameless, and unfortunately, the walls in this house weren’t soundproof. you sigh and grab your phone, fingers already moving before you can think twice.

you put your phone down, staring at the ceiling.

it’s fine. you don't care. it’s just rafe. and sofia.

it shouldn’t piss you off as much as it does.

you do not care that rafe is here. you do not care that he’s with sofia. you are completely indifferent.

that’s why you go about your normal night. that’s why you act completely normal as you brush your teeth, change into your pj's, and definitely don't press your ear against the wall to see if you can still hear them.

(you can. you hate it.)

when you get into bed, you try to go to sleep, but your brain is racing. you grab your phone.

sarah doesn't text back after that, probably falling asleep.

you should do the same. but you don't.

the next morning, you wake up early, which is unusual for you. but you refuse to let last night make you weird. you go downstairs to get coffee and pretend nothing happened.

and then you see them.

rafe is sitting at the counter, staring into the void, looking like he didn’t sleep at all. sofia is standing in front of him, digging through the fridge like she owns the place, casually sipping from his water bottle.

topper and ruthie are there too, sitting at the kitchen table, lost in their own world as they eat breakfast. topper’s half-asleep, shoveling eggs into his mouth like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, while ruthie scrolls through her phone, nudging him every so often to show him something. they don’t even glance at you when you walk in.

which is fine. you don’t need them to. you just need to get your coffee and go.

you grab something from the fridge, acting casual, pretending that nothing about this morning is off—that nothing about this bothers you. you brace yourself for something nauseating, some gross display that’ll make you want to walk into the ocean. but then you actually watch them.

sofia’s hand trails over rafe’s shoulder. he doesn’t even react.

she leans in, saying something in his ear, probably something flirty, and he just nods absently, barely paying attention.

when she kisses him, he doesn’t even move forward. it’s all her.

you shouldn’t be, but you are. you’re happy. overjoyed that he could care less about sofia—but it feels so wrong to think like that.

you snap out of it, grab your drink, and practically skip out of the kitchen, knowing sofia is just a stand in. for who? you don't know. but some part of you, a feeling buried deep inside, wishes for it to be you.

tags: @italk2god @angelicameron @marleymarleymarleymarley, @queenvane64, @raeven-marie43 @idiotussupremus @sereneera @yesshewrites1 @inlovewithchriss @ethanthequeefqueen @amterasuu @popou61 @drewsstars @yannew @anothertimegirl @flvredcas @yootvi @mrsdrewstarkeyy @niaunofficial @cooper8224 @rafegetinmybed @pogueprincesa @6r4cie @adalia-lovelace @bee-43 @drewrry @masongetinmybed @defnotayonna @lcversvoid @my-name-is-baby @lolasangelz @polli05927 @laniirackssss @rafecameronswifeyy @starsval @hypnotizedstarkey

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haruriin · 3 days ago

Text

VALENTINE EVE'S NIGHTMARE ♡ * ˖ ࣪ CH. O2

★ synopsis: every teenage girl has her own struggles, so naturally, you found a way to escape yours! though you never thought you would bump into a pretty boy who had the same habit as you...oh, he's actually in the same school as you? and you two share the same taste in movies too...? wow, lucky you!

*✧·˚ cw. rin itoshi x f!reader, this is a smau & written fic! reader has family issues, so does rin, reader is 16, reader is a smoker, this is angst for like 2 chapters the rest is pure crack/fluff trust, language.

"ugh..." you groan when the sound of the notifications coming from your phone jolts you awake, who dares to bother me so early...?

you stick out your arm from under the bedsheets, ready to set your phone on dnd mode when you're interrupted by a sudden impact on your bed before you can do anything.

"what the?!" you're getting suffocated by an unknown entity! is your house really haunted, or has your brother finally lost his mind? you'll probably have time to think about it when you aren't being asphyxiated under the sheets...

"why the hell haven't you woken up already?!" says the creature that's currently trapping you. the sound is muffled, but you can definitely recognize that voice...

"get off of me eita!" that's what you used the last air you had left in your lungs for. now you're sure you're about to die, and you never even got to know that cute guy from yesterday's name...damn it!

"alright, no need to yell, princess." wait, you aren't dying, the air's finally entering your lungs again...!

"never do that again! and how did you even get in my house?!" you sit up on your bed. still gasping for air, you grab your phone that was laying next to you to check the time and your eyes widen, how did you manage to oversleep so badly...?

"i was actually waiting by the door like always, but i ran into your brother outside, i think he was going to work or something. anyway, he told me i could wait inside." he shrugged and you noticed he was munching on something. wait, your brother going to work this early? that's certainly odd...

"what are you eating?"

"oh? your cookies."

"what? those were my lunch for school today!" you furrow your brows, seriously, how annoying does otoya get?

"oh well. you can get something from the cafeteria." he shrugs again. the nerve of this guy!

"whatever, just let me get ready so we can go." you sigh and make your way out of your bed, detangling your limbs from the bedsheets to get to the bathroom until you notice otoya is still standing across from you in your room.

"...why are you just standing there?"

he doesn't give you the time to regret asking him before before his lips curl into a smirk "don't you need any help getting dressed?"

the smile is abruptly removed from his face when one of your pillows comes flying to his face at full force, "GET OUT!"

"so that's what it was about...i didn't peg you for the type to fall in love at first sight."

"that's because i'm not..." you say while smothering the wrinkles on the skirt of your uniform "i think."

you made sure to tell otoya every little detail of what happened last night while the two of you walked to school, you had such a short interaction with the mysterious guy yet it took you almost all of the walk to tell him the story.

"you think?" otoya looked at you with a raised eyebrow while walking inside the school building, waiting for you to go in too. "i can't believe you finally like someone, are you going to leave me behind now...?" he sighed dramatically and you chuckled, rolling your eyes at him.

"don't be so dramatic, plus it's not even like i'm crushing on him...i'm just curious." you stopped when you reached the door to your class; this is where you and otoya part ways, since he's a grade above you.

"sure, sure." he ruffled your hair slightly, turning around to make his way to his classroom, giving you a wave and a 'see ya later!'

you let out an annoyed sigh, trying to brush your hair back in place with your hands before opening the door to step into your class, luckily enough, you weren't too late.

"alright guys, class is dismissed now, get ready for whatever subject you have next!"

you're brought back to reality when you notice isagi turning his chair around from his spot in front of you, you lift your head up from your desk to stare at him when bachira makes his way next to you too.

"damn, that sucks, i guess we're gonna be separated for this project" apparently there's a '?' sign written across your face, because bachira immediately notices your confusion at isagi's statement,

"did you not listen to anything of what the teachers said?"

"uhh, not really...what did they say?" it's true that you spent the entire first period of class staring out the window, but damn it, it's not your fault! that guy with the long lashes just won't leave your mind...

isagi crossed his arms on top of your desk before speaking "you know how they give us a different project for each semester this year? well, they decided that for this semester's project half of our class will move to the classroom next to us, and half of the people in that classroom will come to ours." he explained while playing with the charms on your pencil case.

"yeah! they read the list too, me and yoichi are on the group that will stay here, you are on the group that will move to the other class." bachira had a small pout on his face. "oh, the teacher also said we'll have to form groups of three, we could've made one together, but i guess you'll have to work with two students from the other class for this one..."

great. just what you needed. you already barely had any friends in your class (only bachira & isagi, honestly...) and now you were going to have to pair with people from a whole another classroom? you don't think you even know the face of anyone in that class.

you gave a defeated sigh. "ugh...how many periods will this project last, anyway?" you ask, grabbing isagi's hand from your pencil case and absentmindedly playing with it

"like one period per week, i think." isagi says while staring at his hand in yours as you twist and turn it freely, "they also said this one will be shorter than the last one, it'll last 2 weeks."

"everyone go back to your seats and open your english textbooks." isagi and bachira quickly turn back to their own desks, and you straighten yourself up on your chair before bringing your books out of your backpack.

you have a feeling this project is gonna feel awfully long, what will it even be about...?

when your last class before lunch ends, you make your way out of the classroom walking side by side with isagi and bachira. the three of you are greeted by otoya leaning against the wall next to your classroom's door.

"hey you guys." he reaches out to ruffle isagi's and bachira's hair messily, you chuckle at their annoyed expressions and manage to duck away before his hand can reach your hair.

"why are you here? shouldn't you already be in the cafeteria with karasu by now?" you say making your way to his side, to which he slings his arm around your shoulders.

"yeah, but he didn't come to school today." you raise an eyebrow, that's unusual. "he's sick or something, so i'll be having lunch with you today, aren't you guys happy?" he smiles happily and tugs you closer to him

"so we're your side hoes now?" oh, isagi took the words out of your mouth!

"pretty much."

you tune out their discussion when you feel your phone vibrating in your pocket, you don't usually get any texts at this time. curious, you bring your phone out.

you quickly send out a response before turning your phone off again. sigh. so you are gonna be alone again this week? it's not like you interact with your brother or anything when he's at home, but at least you don't feel the crippling loneliness gnawing at you when there's someone else in the house. you probably won't bother to call him even if there actually is something urgent, you know he likely won't pick up anyway.

"hey princess, did you hear me?" you're snapped out of your trance by otoya's finger poking your cheek, quickly looking up to stare at him,

"huh?"

"ohhh, are you still thinking about that guy with the long la-" that's about as far as he can say before you're aggressively slapping your hand to his mouth to shut him up.

'mmphjfgg!' you let go of him with a 'yuck!' when he starts trying to speak under your hand, effectively coating your palm with his spit...

"y/n, we were saying me and yoichi will see you later in class, we're meeting up with seishiro and reo to get some training done before lunch break ends!" bachira says while grabbing isagi by his wrist, they both give you a smile and a wave before turning around and making their way to the field.

those two are always thinking about training, must be nice to have something you're so passionate about...

"anyway, let's go have lunch together, you've gotta buy me something from the cafeteria after eating all of my cookies." you say as you finish wiping the remnants of otoya's spit on his school shirt, interlinking you arm with his before you hear him groaning something about having to get you lunch.

⟡ * ˖ ࣪ m.list ⟡ *˖ ࣪ profiles ⟡ * ˖ ࣪ taglist: @x3nafix @taefanclub @lukapurin @vertejay @levihanmyotp @lovelymeguru @chigiri-luvr @kaz-0e @t3chn0chan @yiiscorner (ask 2 be added!)

a/n: for some reason i thought i had already posted this days ago...i did not 💀 im also not sure if i should let this series marinate some more or start posting the chapters daily😭

#★⋆. haruriin ࿐#blue lock #bllk #blue lock smau #bllk smau #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #rin itoshi x reader #rin x reader #bllk rin #blue lock manga #blue lock x you #rin itoshi #blue lock rin #bllk fic #blue lock smut #blue lock headcanons #bllk headcanons #eita otoya

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30somethingautisticteacher · 2 days ago

Text

Autistic Dad Tommy

I had some sensory overload this morning at an assembly, so I channeled it into this ficlet.

****

"Papa!" Stella yells as she runs through the front door.

He winces at the sound of the door slamming but recovers quickly, focusing on Stella's bright smile, so much like Evan's. She thrusts a letter into his hands.

"Read it, Papa, read it!"

He smiles and unfolds it: 'Stella Lynn Kinard will be awarded the Silver Creek Elementary Sunshine Student Award for the kindness and positivity that she always exudes. Please join us for a celebration and pep assembly where she will receive her award.'

Tommy's heart soars and then immediately sinks. He is so proud of his daughter, his cheerful, friendly little mini-Evan, but the idea of going to an assembly makes his skin crawl.

"I'm so proud of you, princess," Tommy says, wrapping his daughter into a tight hug. But at the same time, he catches Evan's eyes over her head, his own gaze flickering with anxiety.

"Check your schedules right now, Dads! I want to make sure you can come," Stella bounces on her toes. "There will be singing and dancing and a group cheer. The whole school will be there!" she adds, her excitement building with each detail.

Tommy feels his chest tighten at "whole school," but keeps his smile steady for his daughter.

Tommy tries hard not to let his autism negatively affect his family. It's a battle he's constantly fighting, pushing against his own limits. His husband is so understanding - Evan would accept if Tommy skipped the assembly - but he can't do that to his baby girl. He won't be the kind of parent who misses their child's big moments.

"Me, Daddy, and Sasha will be there, baby girl," Tommy says and kisses Stella's forehead.

"Tom?" Evan asks softly. "You sure?"

Tommy nods. He can do this.

But he can't do this. It's all too much the second he steps into the gym. The fluorescent lights are too bright, their constant buzzing drilling into his skull. He tries to take a deep breath, but it catches in his throat.

For Stella, he repeats to himself over and over. He's an adult,he's a father. He needs to push through.

He bites his lip as they step deeper into the chaos. He wants to sit in the corner, eyes closed, hands over his ears - anything to block out the sensory stimulation that's crashing over him in waves.

"Tommy," Evan grabs his arm gently.

Sasha looks at her Papa curiously. "Papa ok?"

"No, sweetie, Papa's not ok," Evan says, noticing Tommy's increasing distress.

"I can...I can...for Stella," Tommy stammers, swaying slightly.

"Babe, I'm not asking. Go back to the car," Evan says firmly but kindly.

"I'll take lots of pictures, and then we can celebrate at home," Evan says, his hand steady on Tommy's arm. "Tommy, please take care of yourself, or you're going to go into full shutdown."

"Yeah...yeah, ok, you're right," Tommy concedes, relief flooding through him even as regret twists in his stomach.

He doesn't know how much time passes as he revels in the silence of the car. Before long, the door opens, and Evan starts loading Sasha into her carseat as Stella buckles her booster.

"Hi Papa," Stella says brightly.

"Hey, sweet girl. Sorry Papa missed your big moment," Tommy says, guilt creeping into his voice.

"That's okay, Papa. Daddy explained it to me. He said your brain makes everything brighter and louder. That must be really hard, Papa," she says with a tenderness beyond her years.

Tommy's eyes flood with tears at his daughter's wisdom. "It's not always easy."

"Well, you always tell me and Sasha to talk about our feelings, so you need to too, Papa. It's only fair," Stella says with all the logic of an eight-year-old.

"I promise," he says.

"Pinky promise?" she asks, extending her small finger.

"Pinky promise," Tommy says, turning to lock pinkies with his daughter.

Evan smiles at him from the driver's seat, and Tommy feels loved and accepted. Relief washes over him as he remembers that even on his hardest days, he has his family to lean on.

#bucktommy #tevan #kinley #bucktommy dads #autistic tommy kinard #30sat writes

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chronicallyonline101 · 2 days ago

Note

PLS I NEED A RIZ FULL DETAILED BACKSTORY 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

To tell the truth, i WAS going to say no ONLY CUZ Risotto's backstory will eventually be in my fic BUTTTT i realised his BG is in chapter 22, and thats... a long while away... SO i'm being nice and i'm gonna give you a sneak peek of chpt 22 :3 - WARNING THIS IS A FIRST DRAFT, so it has a lot of mistakes in it; it'll probably be different once it's put in DK

TW: Graphic depictions of violence, Character death, References to Self-harm, Intrusive Thoughts, Stalking.

Until it Sleeps:

Moonlight splays in through an open window. It brings with it rays of silence. Eyelids, heavy as leather, fall to a close, and envelop with them a warm cloud of comfort. But the soft glow of the night did little to soothe the cry of a child, torn fresh from the womb; swaddled in blankets, with the warming love of a mother and father. Yet that warmth would soon turn sour - the sky had been a dark crimson the night he was born.

Continued under the cut!

When a baby opens their eyes for the first time, they should see smiles and kisses. What he saw; stares of horror and gasps of upset, were the opposite of that. For when he had pried his eyelids apart for the first time, he revealed to his family the eyes of Baphomet; blood red, enveloped in a black cloak. He appeared to them a bad omen, a punishment for whatever sins they'd committed. They held no love for their problem child, and so, begged anyone they knew to rid themselves of him:

Despite being so young, Risotto could remember those first few years well. His name hadn't been Risotto Nero back then.

No amount of tossing or turning could ease the pressure in his head, where fatigued thoughts linger; rocky amongst a mind that crashed and rolled like the ocean during a mid-summer storm. He grew up obedient, polite, yet sleepless; his Aunt and Uncle were kind enough, but he feared their rejection more than anything. If his parents could throw him out without so much of a glance, what was stopping them?

As if he were on probation, he spent all his time offering the world a façade of himself. Eleven years he spent inside this shell, hidden inside himself - nobody knew who he truly was, nobody, aside from ---

"What are you thinking about?"

His cousin. His hair was the same white as that of an angels wings, and his eyes the same holy gold that lined the gates of Heaven. His cousin opposed everything he stood for, and yet younger than him by a year, lacked the awareness that adults held - his cousin wasn't afraid of him.

"My parents," He had mumbled, almost ashamed at having been caught so lost in his own thoughts. His gaze turned to look at the houses lining the streets they walked - Sicily was pretty during this time of the year, he had always appreciated the greenery in which the warm weather brought with, but his mind was elsewhere; his parents lived on this street. Just around the corner from where he was staying with his relatives.

Distracted, he didn't see the confused, disgruntled grimace that settled across his cousins face. "Why?"

He had asked. As far as he was aware, there was no need for the older boy to worry over people who would never bother involve themselves in his life. He didn't understand the pain his cousin felt.

Risotto remained quiet as the two passed the aforementioned abode. He kept his silence as the two rounded the corner, and when his cousin realised that he had nothing to say on the matter, changed the subject:

"I found my dad's record collection yesterday, after school," An evil, childish giggle passed his lips. His cousins words caught his curiosity: "Do you want to look at them with me?"

In the doorway of his relatives house, Risotto came to a halt. His silver brow furrowed, unsure.

"Are we allowed to do that?" He murmured. He didn't want to step out of line - those records belonged to his Uncle, he had no right to snoop around where he didn't belong. He'd never be able to forgive himself if he broke one, even accidentally; it would solidify his status as a bad omen to the family.

His cousin could only laugh at his hesitance, grabbing him by the sleeve so that he could forcibly drag him inside the house. "Of course it's allowed, if he wanted to hide them from us he would have put them somewhere other than his office!"

At the time, Risotto had wanted to argue against his cousins insistence; mentally, he had countered with the fact that the two probably shouldn't have been in his Uncle's office altogether. However, looking back on it, he was glad he had let his cousin take charge - it was that day, the cage he had built around himself slowly began to unlock.

The feel of thin plastic between his soft fingertips; scarlet and black, a name ringing through his head. It was so familiar, and yet, this had been the first time he had ever heard of the band. His eyes traced over the album, decorated as if it had been covered in blood, hardly appropriate for an eleven year old to be looking at - while he and his cousin had been busy moseying about the room, they'd hardly taken note of a third person slipping into the room.

"Kill 'Em All," The voice of his Uncle called out; Risotto near jumped out of his skin at the intrusion, scampering to put the album back in its place on the shelf. A grin graced the lips of his Uncle, eyes crinkling upward in joy. "It's Metallica's first album, you've got a good taste."

Upset that he had been caught where he shouldn't be, Risotto hardly registered his Uncle's amusement. He found his head tipping down to the floor in shame, apologies spewing from his mouth: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, this won't happen again---"

But his apologies were cut off by his Uncle's laughter. He brushed off Risotto's concern, instead, moving to grab at the album from the shelf.

"If you two wanted to listen to music, you could have just told me. No need to sneak around like little criminals!" He moved over to ruffle the white hair of his son; envy tugged at Risotto's heart at the sight, but was quickly settled when his Uncle played the music for them - he treated Risotto with kindness, he always did. But, this time it felt different.

Risotto had been disobedient - a menial crime, sure, but his parents would have taken dire offense to this kind of behaviour. All of a sudden, it was as if the crimson night had cleared; welcoming a warm sky, his turmoil soothed over and he found himself settling amongst the family of his Aunt and Uncle. They regarded him as if he were their own child, and he looked to them like a mother and a father.

No longer fearful for how he was perceived; he took an acute interest in music. Metallica was his favourite, he liked the guitar. On his twelfth birthday, he was gifted a small, acoustic guitar. His Aunt had saved up for him to have a years worth of lessons for it. Though it didn't sound the same as the loud, electric ones they used in all the songs he listened to - and as he learnt how to play, his cousin grew interested. The next year, he asked his parents for a drum set, and their small, two man band had began.

As strange as it was, Risotto truly felt as if that was where he belonged; in his Uncle's garage, delicately strumming the strings of his tattered guitar while his cousin bashed the soft paper of a drumkit. Though, as sweet as it was, it didn't please everyone:

In the kitchen of their shared home, Risotto's Aunt - a delicate woman, who shared the long white hair of his cousin - held a hand to her forehead. "Sweetheart,"

She uttered, tone hushed. Her husband looked to her curiously, and a desperate expression befell her. "Could you please tell them to do something else?" The sound of bashing and strumming and horrid singing echoed in the background, painkillers could no longer subdue her headache. "Anything else?"

Risotto's Uncle remained still, his gaze flickering between his wife and the door that would lead him to the garage. He simpered bashfully: "Oh, but they are having fun! The Summer will be over soon, and they won't have the time to play their little band---"

"---They've been playing for months," She pinched at her temple; her tone was growing sharp, she never usually took this tone. "Why can't they go to the arcade or something like normal kids."

"Hey, hey, let's not start that right now." Her husband grumbled, he didn't like insinuating that the two were anything other than ordinary - just because they were passionate about something didn't make them different. His brows eased to that of pity. He turned toward the garage door. "I'll tell them to do something else."

She didn't thank him as he left the room, only turning away sourly. She, on the other hand, didn't like it when her husband shut her down like that - the two couldn't avoid these problems forever. At this point, Risotto was fourteen, and their son thirteen. She knew they were both being bullied at school, and teenagers could be harsh; they lived in a world of their own creation, it wasn't healthy.

The sound of cymbals clashing grew louder and louder as their Uncle entered the room - he held his hands to his ears, unappreciative that his son had taken to doing what he liked to call a 'metal solo', where he banged his drumsticks against the cymbals repeatedly until he felt satisfied with how 'metal' it sounded.

"Hey you two..." He spoke up, but his words went ignored. The cymbal solo ended, but was quickly replaced by the rhythm of drums and guitar. The Uncle stepped further into the room, presenting himself in front of the two; he caught his sons gaze first, and when the sound of drumming came to a halt, Risotto quickly looked up - confused. "Hey, your mother has a headache, so I was thinking maybe you two could go play outside?"

Though reasonable, his words weren't received well. Pursing his lips, Risotto looked to his Cousin. The two shared a brief, silent glance, before turning to the Uncle once again.

"We need to practice," Was their reasoning, and the two felt just in this reason; how were they supposed to become famous if they stopped practicing every time someone got a headache? James Hetfield didn't stop for anyone, and neither would Risotto.

Huffing in frustration, his Uncle turned around. His gaze flittered about the room, only briefly, before landing on a small football - he quickly plucked it from the ground, bringing it to the two with a soft smile. "Why don't you play with this? It'd be nice to see you both in the sun, for once."

"But we're enjoying ourselves in here," His cousin pouted, his splintered drumsticks hovering over his kit in anticipation. "Can't mama go somewhere else?"

The two really were stubborn; refusing to leave despite how much his Uncle would plead. He knew his wife would tell him off for feeding into their bad habits; but then, he knew she would also be upset if he let them continue playing their instruments. So, rifling his hand through his pocket, he pulled out a few wads of lira - waving them in the direction of the two boys, their heads perked up immediately.

"If you play ball, you can have this."

In a matter of seconds, the instruments were discarded - tossed, delicately, to the side in favour of crowding around the Uncle. He raised his hands high in the air, frowning at the two indefinitely. Their expressions shifted to something akin to confusion, and so, he pointed toward the door to the kitchen: "You have to play outside for at least an hour before you get this."

Risotto and his Cousin shared a sour glance; it was hardly a fair deal, alas, the two wanted that money. Risotto thought that it could help them with their band - maybe they could buy some blank cassettes and record over them with their own music. It would bring them just that little bit closer to their dream. His cousin, on the other hand, thought of sweet shops and tat stores; Sicily was known for its markets, he couldn't wait to browse each stall and buy whatever he wanted!

So, despite their glares and grumbling, Risotto took the red ball from his Uncle. He and his cousin made their way out of the garage, greeting their now smiling Aunt as they crossed the threshold of their kitchen.

That day, despite the horror Risotto held in his heart, had been warm. Sun-dried leaves rattled across the pavement in a swift swoop, carried along by a gentle breeze that did little to dampen the heat radiated by the midday peak. And though most would have appraised it has a perfect day, it certainly didn't feel like that for Risotto.

Flinching, he brought a hand up to shield his delicate eyes from the sun - they were sensitive to light, a fact that had only driven his mother and father deeper in their belief that he was a sinful night-breed. He never liked being out much; Why torment himself with the outside world when he enjoyed sitting indoors with the lights dim?

Nonetheless, determined to pry lira from his Uncle's hands, he tossed the ball to the ground. Kicking it pathetically; it rolled across the lawn for a few short seconds, but was eventually brought to a halt by his Cousin, who planted his foot atop of the ball securely.

"Can we play Palla Priogioniera?" He plead, Risotto's brow could only furrow at the request.

"There's only two of us," He'd been hoping they'd play something simple, like kicking the ball back and forth or maybe tossing it in the air. Palla Priogioniera was a complex game, usually requiring a two small groups of people, rather than just the two that were there. Similar to dodgeball, the two would stand on either side and lob the ball at each other until one team ran out of players.

Despite Risotto's dismisal, his Cousin was certain that they could play; he bent down to pick the ball up, spinning it between his fingers playfully. "We can make it work!"

He threatened to toss it toward Risotto a few times, laughing at the short flinches it wrought from the older boy.

"I don't think we can." He grumbled. He appreciated the eagerness his cousin upheld, but still, there were only two of them - there was no possible way they could play that game.

While mulling over his own thoughts, Risotto hardly heard his Cousin yelp out a playful: "Look!" And he didn't take note of the ball that flew toward his face - had he known it was coming for him, he'd of dove to the ground to evade it's torment. To no avail, it slapped him square in the face.

When he fell backward, he winced, hardly registering the ball, which rolled off elsewhere; something warm trickled down his chin, and in horror, he brought his wrist up to wipe at the underside of his nose - streaks of red coated his sleeve. The action had dazed him, his vision blurred, and he found himself gripping at his skull in pain.

A startled gasp left his cousins throat. Darting toward Risotto, the younger boy trembled in panic:

"Sorry, I'm so sorry! I forgot you bleed," He reached out to try and help the older boy up, but his kind actions were brushed aside by Risotto, who grunted in pain. "Please don't tell mama and---"

"Just go get the ball." It took him a few moments, but eventually, Risotto levelled himself. As if he didn't have enough on his plate, as if his childhood hadn't already been wrenching enough - Risotto suffered from haemophilia - he hadn't enough iron in his body to thicken his blood; it ran thin like water, and it caused him to bleed excessively.

Looking back on it, Risotto had missed that time in his life, where his only concerns where whether his band would make it big or if he'd start bleeding at inconvenient times. It was frustrating, but it was simple, and that is why he had hated how he had treated his Cousin back then:

He knew his Cousin had meant no harm; he was only playing around, but he had hurt Risotto and in turn the older boy had neglected to throw caution in the water.

Get the ball.

He had ordered. His Cousin had obeyed: golden gaze flickering upward to scan the street - the ball had rolled away from their lawn, sitting narrowly on the road, just near where the street coiled around a corner.

Wanting to please Risotto, the younger of the two teetered out to the pavement - he spared both sides of the road a brief glance, before running out to pluck it from the ground. He had intended to quickly make his way back onto the lawn, but upon staring at the dull surface of the ball, he caught a glimpse of little specks of red; an ode to how he had hurt his older Cousin.

Turning to look at Risotto - who had since gotten to his feet and was pinching his nose to stop it from bleeding, he swallowed thickly: "We can play whatever you want to play."

He had hoped it would appease Risotto, and at the time, it had: Risotto wished more than anything that he had just agreed to play Palla Priogioniera with his Cousin. He had been such a ball of energy; even if there had only been two of them, he was sure his Cousin would have made up something fun.

But good things could never flourish, not on this sick planet;

"I want to play my guitar." Is what he had wanted to say. It's what he should have been able to say; but instead, with the sound of a blaring horn and tires screeching against asphalt - a panicked: "Get out of the road!" Left his throat, torn with fear while he lurched forward, hands splayed open as if it would offer him some kind of solace.

There was nothing he could recognise more than the snap of bones; the spray of a crimson ichor across black tarmac. Something inside him squirmed, writhing beneath his skin at the sight - it urged him forward, despite the tears that pricked at his eyes, despite the man who had since rolled down his window to slur out drunken curse words, despite how much his logical mind wanted to freeze and cry, he ran into the road; kneeling down before the large vehicle and clawing at his Cousin.

Twice more, the sound of a car horn shot through the air; the man in the drivers seat was yelling something, but Risotto had hardly registered it - his Cousins wrist was limp in his own grip, mangled in multiple directions and stained a dark red.

The commotion the driver had decided to bring to their small, typically quiet street, alerted Risotto's Aunt that something had gone wrong; her startled shriek clearly scared the driver, for in just a matter of seconds he had reversed his car away from the two boys and swerved from the scene - desperate not to get caught.

Only a year later, his Aunt and Uncle separated; it wasn't a divorce, they had told him, but they needed space from each other - his Uncle moved inland, while Risotto remained with his Aunt in Sicily.

The sight of his Cousin splayed out across concrete, a body contorted against in such a foul, inhuman way, was something Risotto would never be able to shake from his mind. They tried to hide the cadaver from him when the paramedics came to take it away, but he had already seen far too much, and the blood that coated his hands and arms served only to make his skin crawl in discomfort. It itched. Writhed; like something was living beneath it. It was all too much for him to handle, tears flowed from his eyes freely.

Thing's could only spiral down from there. Though she tried to hold him in a kind regard; he wasn't her son. In the soft light of the sun, his silver hair reflected white, and for a few moments she could pretend her child was still with her - but then, Risotto would look to her with eyes a dark maroon and she would be reminded of the thing she invited into her home.

Maybe his mother had been right. Maybe he was a bad omen. His misfortune took her child, the day his Cousin died, he was robbed of his life - he could have been human, he could have been loved; but he was less than that now.

The older he got, the less he tried to deny the title his family had inflicted upon him. His youth was spent in isolation - rumours spread quickly, nobody wanted to spend time with the boy who killed his own Cousin. Nobody wanted to befriend someone as socially inept as himself; not even his Aunt could look him in the eye. He quickly began to resent the people around him - his Aunt, his classmates, every school teacher that ignored his clear suffering, any counsellor who brushed his upset aside - labelling him as shy, meek, socially anxious; he was ill, he needed help, he needed someone to look him in the eye and tell him to get a hold of himself before he spiralled into something he'd resent - but no one ever did that. Nobody came to his rescue.

He could still remember the first time he had ever held a blade; it had been smooth and sharp against his supple skin, leaking blood that pricked and pooled across his arms. And even after all this time, he could never wash away those lacerations; pale scars, there to forever remind him of a time in which he was at his lowest.

He had grown quite a lot since his younger years; stretching taller than most, though at this point his frame had been lithe. He hardly took care of himself, forgetting to eat properly most days. His silver hair descended past his shoulders, but it wasn't pretty; greasy and unbrushed, and dressed in all black, he looked like someone to avoid. The people who had any sense to them did avoid him, only foolish people full of themselves had any incentive to mess with him; and it just so happened, the wrong person did exactly that.

He liked to collect different kinds of blades.

It started small: Craft knives, swiped from his schools art class, and small kitchen utensils, until eventually he was loitering at markets after hours to buy decorative switchblades - he carried them with him everywhere, though, he had never quite been sure why, not until he was seventeen years old.

It was a day like no other, in that the finest details had been lost to time; but if there was one thing he could remember better than anything else, it was the face of that wretched man. The man who had taken the life of his Cousin - loitering near a booze shop, no less. The anger Risotto felt had been visceral; he was sure that man had gone to jail, to see him stood here not even three years later chatting with friends, with no hint of regret or upset for what he had done, it sent pure rage through Risotto's veins - red, hot fury, burning deep in his mind. It stopped him from thinking straight; his knife weighed heavy in his pocket, and before he could even think about what he was doing, he had it's handle clutched tightly in his grip.

Yet, he'd had more restraint that day.

He'd held back. He wasn't a murderer, not like that man.

But he just couldn't let the thought go. The thought that a singular man had brought so much suffering to his life; in one short minute, this man had ruined him. Risotto would never be the same, no matter how hard he tried, the weight of his melancholy would never lift from his shoulders - he knew he would never be happy, not until he had his hands wrapped around that mans throat, squeezing out every last ounce of justice from his body.

He would write things down in a journal, things that he hoped would never grace the light of day; excerpts detailing all the different ways he would kill that man, how sick he felt, how much he wanted to hurt himself and how often he wanted to hurt others.

His thoughts were sudden and intrusive. He knew they were wrong, he knew it was wrong to feel this way, but he couldn't help it.

Every waking moment he spent thinking of how horrible his own life was, when he had never done anything wrong. Why was it that someone so evil could prosper?

Urged by the uncontrollable itching beneath his skin, he'd find himself walking the streets late at night, bathed in shadows where no one could see him. In pursuit of this man, Risotto had discovered that he had a family - a wife, who he'd known since before the incident, and a two year old daughter, who he'd had since getting out of jail. He'd stopped drinking. Had a job, friends, he was a good person - this should have discouraged Risotto, it should have helped him realise that maybe people can change, however, it only fuelled the fire burning in his heart.

It wasn't fair that he could move on. It wasn't fair that after all this time, Risotto still suffered from the loss of his Cousin, and yet this man could be happy, he could have a family, he could pretend nothing had happened.

Risotto had always held pride in his self restraint, but that night, something inside him snapped. His frayed ends of insanity finally burnt up.

On the Eighth of August, Nineteen Ninety-One, Risotto Nero took his first kill; he stabbed that man thirty seven times. Police statements described his body as 'maimed', the mortician report claimed that it was likely he had been tortured before death. Many criticised his work; they called him careless, he'd been caught breaking into his house on video and both the mans wife and neighbours knew something had happened, but Risotto had never tried to be careful.

When his Aunt's house was searched, they found his knives, and they found his journal - Risotto remained silent during his court hearings, he had nothing to say on the matter. He had killed that man, what was the use in lying?

They charged him with first degree murder. Murder with the intent to kill - though, Risotto would disagree. He hadn't intended for anything to happen that night. He had just lost grips with himself. What had happened next, though, Risotto wasn't quite sure whether it was a blessing or a curse:

Passione had found him.

He spent a few months in jail, only to find that a man by the name of Polpo had paid off a large sum of money to have him removed - bribing his judge to offer him freedom, Risotto was let out on the condition that he follow Passione's orders blindly. Polpo displayed himself as someone Saintly, a saviour, who Risotto owed his all to, and at first, Risotto had followed that sentiment willingly; with no purpose, he had allowed Polpo to pull wool over his eyes. Why shouldn't he have?

Polpo had trained Risotto - by the time he was twenty one, he had bulked up from the scrawny, ratty thing he had once been. He was granted a stand; and suddenly, his affection toward all things metal and sharp made sense. Unconventional as most stands went, it lived inside him, and provided a strange explanation for how often he would feel his skin crawling. And after all that, when he was finally ready, he was granted a team:

La Squadra Di Execuzioni was a team built on trust. Risotto owed Polpo his life, but the dedication he held to Passione wasn't nearly as thick as a loyalty he had to his team. They gave him purpose, meaning, authority - he even fell in love, things he had never experienced before suddenly coming to fruition. So when things hit the fan, when his team had finally fought back against the mistreatment they received;

With three dead,

Two bedridden,

Three severely injured,

And one so depressed he'd refused to do anything but sit in bed and stare at his laptop.

It only made sense that Risotto sought revenge. He had been turned to a weapon, and now he would ensure that those who tormented him and his team knew no peace; even if he failed, he would ensure that his name would never be forgotten. Whispered betwixt shadows, people would shudder when they heard of the Risotto Nero, and all the things he was capable of.

"Sardinia,"

It was a name settled at the very tip of his tongue, yet, uttering it aloud brought bile to the back of his mouth. He stood broadly, eyeing one of his teammates from the corner of their new hideout - the rugged little apartment hardly held the entire team, but it was the safest place they could lay low, just until this entire thing blew over.

He teetered closer to his teammate, brow furrowed. "That is where they are?"

Slowly, as if a weight was pressing down on him, Ghiaccio lifted his head to look at his leader. A choked sound left his throat, courtesy of the blood-soaked bandages he had wrapped around his throat. "Y..es,"

He croaked, his voice hoarse. Since sustaining his injury, he had been struggling to talk; it was horrid, but, he was thankful he had left that fight mostly intact. He could have returned to his team looking like Prosciutto, or worse, Illuso. Taking a few moments to cough, Ghiaccio grumbled unsurely:

"Melone c...claims they suddenly shifted their direction once they made it to--" He coughed, "Venezia, but," A short, uneasy grimace settled across his face. "We haven't been on best terms since... well," He paused for a moment, biting his bottom lip. "He think's she's still alive. Apparently, while following their team, Babyface has been picking up on traces of her DNA, but---"

"---That's enough,"

The room was enveloped by a blanket of silence. Risotto's lip quivered, he had wanted to say something on the matter, but found himself at a loss for words. He had been evading that topic like some kind of plague; his grief was still fresh, yet, he had no time to be thinking of anything other than getting what he needed.

Turning away from Ghiaccio, Risotto stormed toward the door to their hiding place. "I'm going to Sardinia. If I do not return, then you leave."

He turned to look over his shoulder, shooting Ghiaccio a stern, authorative glare. "All of you. You will leave Italy; maybe even Europe, if you have to---"

"---You're going alone?" Ghiaccio seemed a little taken aback at the suggestion. Bucciarati's team had decimated every single member of their team, even some of the most agile and powerful members like Prosciutto had been near killed. But, Risotto held no regard for the dangers his self-inflicted mission held.

"Yes," He huffed, turning back around to grab at the door which would take him outside. He heard a sound leave Ghiaccio, an attempt to argue back; but his hoarse voice wouldn't let him. Risotto huffed. "Don't try to dissuade me. This is something I must do - even if I took someone, the rest of you are far too injured to do anything." He glanced over his shoulder once more, the crimson of his eyes near glowing amongst the dark of their hideout. "It will take me a day to get there, and a day to return, at the very least. If I do not return by the end of this week, then it's safe to assume I never will."

Though he was avoiding saying the words, Ghiaccio knew all too well what Risotto was suggesting. He swallowed thickly, nodding his head, and it was with that, Risotto stormed out of the house. With nothing on him but a couple thousand lira and a burning desire for revenge, Risotto would travel to Sardinia.

It's what he should have done in the first place.

---

HIHI SO THERE IT IS i think this is the start to chapter 22 of my fic, BUT ITS STILL A DRAFT - i write scenes as they come to me, and often they change quite a bit when they actually get put into the fic SOOO chapter 22 of DK could very well start differently, and YOU NEVER KNOW this could get pushed or pulled to be either earlier or later... also i figured out how to make text small arent I cool?

i didnt know whether i wanted the title to be 'Enter Sandman' or 'Until It Sleeps' cuz while Enter Sandman is a GREAT song that really suits Risotto, it's Metallica's most popular and i fear there are other songs that are underappreciated SO i decided on Until It Sleeps, it's one of my favs and i think it suits Risotto :3

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navyiera · 7 hours ago

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All the Things I Love about You

pairing: caitlyn kiramman x fem!reader

synopsis: sometimes there are bad days when things don't go your way but luckily there's caitlyn who can turn everything back to the way you like it.

for anyone who's having a bad day :( keep going, im proud of you!!

You don’t mean to say it out loud.

It’s just one of those days—one where your mind feels cluttered and restless, where the smallest things seem to go wrong, and suddenly, everything feels heavier than it should. You don’t know when it started, but now you’re moving around the room, absentmindedly mumbling under your breath, listing every little thing you don’t like about yourself.

“Too indecisive… get flustered too easily… always messing things up…”

Caitlyn looks up from her book across the room, her gaze sharp and steady as she watches you move. At first, she doesn’t say anything, just quietly observing. But when you sigh and mutter something about being “too much of a burden,” she closes her book with a quiet thud.

“Well, I suppose I should chime in,” she says matter-of-factly.

You blink, turning toward her. “What?”

She stands, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in her blouse, and takes a step closer. “Since we’re listing things, I’d like to add a few of my own.”

Your stomach tightens. “Caitlyn, that’s not—”

She doesn’t let you finish. Instead, she reaches for your hand, lacing her fingers through yours. Her grip is firm but gentle, grounding. “I love the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you’re passionate about.”

You freeze. “Caitlyn—”

“I love how thoughtful you are, how you notice the smallest details about people and remember them,” she continues, as if you hadn’t spoken. “Like the way you always make my tea just how I like it. Or how you remember which side of the bed I prefer, even though I wouldn’t mind switching.”

Her voice is calm, unwavering, and she’s looking at you so intently that it’s impossible to brush off her words.

“I love how you get excited over the little things—how you squeeze my hand when you see a cat across the street, or how you gasp at the first snowfall of the year, like you’re seeing it for the first time.”

A lump forms in your throat, but she isn’t finished.

“I love how expressive you are. How I can read your thoughts just by watching your face.” She tilts her head slightly, studying you with fond amusement. “Like right now. You’re trying to figure out how to change the subject.”

You let out a small, shaky laugh, dropping your gaze. “Maybe.”

She squeezes your hand before letting go, only to cup your face instead, tilting it back up so you have no choice but to meet her eyes. “I love how much you care, even when you try to downplay it. How you always notice when I’m tired and bring me tea before I even ask. How you listen—really listen—when I talk, even when I ramble.”

You swallow hard, struggling to hold her gaze. “Caitlyn, I…”

She leans in just slightly, pressing her forehead against yours. “I love your laugh,” she murmurs. “I love the way you hum when you’re focused, and how you tilt your head when you’re curious. I love how you always reach for my hand, even when you’re half-asleep. And I love how you try to hide your smile when I’m being too sappy.”

You let out another breathless laugh, one that turns into something closer to a soft sniffle as you blink rapidly. “This is unfair.”

She smiles, brushing her thumb over your cheek. “It’s the truth.”

A few seconds of silence stretch between you, warm and quiet. Then, she whispers, “And I love you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling slowly before opening them again. “I don’t always feel like I’m worth all that.”

Caitlyn doesn’t hesitate. “You are.”

The certainty in her voice makes something ache deep in your chest.

She tilts your chin up slightly, eyes full of quiet affection. “I don’t care how long it takes for you to believe me. I’ll remind you every time.”

You nod, unable to trust your voice, and she takes it as permission to close the last bit of space between you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

She lingers there for a moment, her lips warm against your skin, before pulling back just enough to press another to your cheek. Then another, slower, against the corner of your mouth, her breath fanning against your lips.

You exhale, tilting toward her instinctively. “You’re really unfair, you know that?”

Caitlyn hums, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Mm. But you’re smiling now.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest refuses to fade. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “I’m trying.”

Caitlyn’s expression softens even further. “That’s enough.”

She pulls you into a gentle hug, and you let yourself sink into it, letting her warmth chase away the last lingering shadows of doubt.

#arcane x female reader #arcane x reader #caitlyn kiramman x female reader #caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn kiramman x fem reader #caitlyn kiramman fluff #caitlyn x fem reader #caitlyn x reader #caitlyn arcane x reader #arcane fluff #arcane caitlyn x reader

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biblical-chronicles · 15 hours ago

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Derby day pt.2

___________________________________

where you actually show up with Gallagher written on your back

Pt.1 | Pt.2

___________________________________

The comment had been gnawing at you for days.

"If I play me cards right, it’s gonna say Gallagher on the back."

Noel had dropped it casually, like it was nothing more than a joke. But you hadn’t missed the way he’d said it—how his voice had softened at the end, just a little. You’d caught the subtle shift, the part of him that might’ve been more serious than he let on.

Did he mean it? Or was it just him being Noel, running his mouth and cracking jokes for the sake of it?

You weren’t going to ask.

He’d bring it up if he wanted to. Until then, you were fine leaving it as a passing moment—until, of course, your own mischievous side kicked in.

That was how you found yourself in the City store days later, grinning as you got handed the new kit with Gallagher neatly written on the back.

Noel didn’t know. You didn’t say a word, just hung it up in your closet.

And when match day came around, you slid it on beneath your jacket, hiding it for the right moment. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself as you zipped it up, glancing over at Noel. You half-expected him to notice, but if he did, he didn’t mention it.

The Etihad was buzzing as you both arrived, fans chanting and the energy palpable. But before you could make your way to the stands, there was the usual stop at hospitality—a chance to grab drinks and settle in.

And just like last time, the CBS Golazo crew was already there.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Noel muttered under his breath as his eyes locked onto them, making no attempt to hide his exasperation.

You laughed, but before you could say anything, Micah Richards spotted you both and waved you over, grinning like he’d been expecting this moment all along. “Oi, oi! There they are! Back again, eh?”

Noel just sighed, shaking his head, but still walked over with you.

Carragher was already chuckling, his eyes narrowing. “See that yer missus has already got herself the new kit you helped design."

Micah slapped his hands together. “Oh yeah, the kit is great, but I''m sure we are all waiting to see some particular detail.”

You tried to keep a straight face as Jamie leaned in, his grin as wide as ever. “So, you’ve gotta tell us—any name on the back this time?”

You didn’t miss a beat. With a quick shrug, you slid off your jacket, letting the kit fall into full view.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath for a moment, eyes going wide as the silence stretched. Then, just as the realization hit, the room exploded.

“No way!” Micah was the first to react, laughing so hard his voice cracked. He slapped Jamie’s arm, pointing at you like he’d just uncovered some great mystery. “Noel, mate, she’s serious!”

Jamie, equally shocked but thoroughly entertained, gave Noel a mock sympathetic look. “You’re fucked now, lad. She’s put the ring on herself.”

Noel stood frozen for a moment, blinking at the sight, his face a mixture of shock and disbelief. His mouth opened, but no words came out for a second—just the faintest blush creeping across his cheeks.

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered under his breath, running a hand over his face.

But then, just as quickly, the shock melted away, and a slow smile crept onto his lips. You could see it—the corner of his mouth twitching, the way he just couldn’t help himself from grinning.

Micah grabbed Noel’s hand, shaking it with exaggerated enthusiasm. “You know, I gotta say—I didn’t think she had it in her, but fair play. She’s clearly got more guts than you, mate!”

Jamie pulled you into a hug, laughing as he ruffled your hair. “Fair play love, congratulations. That’s one way to keep him on his toes!”

You pulled back, still grinning. “Had to keep him guessing.”

Noel shot you a look, raising an eyebrow as he finally managed to find his voice again. “Yeah, well… you’ve got a funny way of keepin’ me on me toes.” He gave you a soft shove, but the fondness in his eyes was unmistakable.

You could tell he was trying to keep up his usual sarcasm, but there was something else there too—a kind of warmth in the way he was looking at you, the way his hand had found its way to the small of your back without him even thinking about it.

“You’re all proper daft, you lot.” Noel grumbled, shaking his head. But the smile still hadn’t left his face, and you could see his shoulders finally relax.

Micah was still laughing, practically wiping tears from his eyes. “Nah, mate, you’re just mad lucky. Look at her. You’re a lucky man.”

He tugged you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders in that familiar, protective way. “I’m the lucky one, yeah?”

You smiled, leaning into him as the laughter and teasing from the group continued around you. Micah had his arm draped over Noel’s shoulders by now. “Don’t worry, Noel. We’re just here to make sure you know it, mate. But, seriously…” He paused, looking between you two. “You two look right together, don’t you think?”

Noel finally let out a short laugh, shaking his head again. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, clearly flustered, but you could see it—the pride in his eyes, the way his gaze lingered on you just a little longer than usual.

You just continued laughing with the group, but before you could properly respond, Noel's hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer. He turned his attention to the rest of the CBS table, who were still laughing and waving after you, and then, as if on some impulsive whim, he pulled you away from the table.

“Come on, you,” he muttered under his breath, a low, almost needy tone threading through his voice. His grip tightened around you, and you found yourself tugged away from the conversation, your arm instinctively looping around his.

“Oi, where are you going?” Micah called after you, though his words were more amused than anything else. “You're leaving already? Happy honeymoon to you lot then!”

Noel just shot him a grin over his shoulder, before guiding you toward a quieter corner of the venue, where the noise from the crowd seemed to fade.

He didn’t waste any time, gently tugging you toward a nearby couch and plopping down with a soft grunt. Before you could even settle beside him, he was pulling you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck.

“Oi, come here.” he mumbled, practically purring as he pulled you closer, his arms tightening around you as though you might slip away. “You’re not going anywhere, yeah?”

You chuckled softly, surprised by his sudden clinginess. It was like he couldn’t get enough of you, and you didn’t mind it one bit. His weight was comforting as he settled in, his breath warm against your skin.

“You’re a right softie when you want to be, you know that?” you teased, feeling his fingers lightly squeeze your waist as he held you even tighter.

“Shut up,” he muttered, but the smile on his face gave him away. “You’ve got me all... emotional.”

He kissed the side of your neck, just a light press of his lips, but it sent a shiver down your spine. You felt his body sink into the couch, and his grip on you never loosened, like he was reluctant to even give you space to breathe.

“Well, you know, I could get used to this clingier Noel” you murmured, relaxing into his embrace, your fingers idly running through his hair.

“Good,” he said, his voice low, like it was a promise. “Because I’m not letting go anytime soon.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but the truth was, there was something oddly comforting about the way he was holding you, so tight and so unyielding.

He pulled away just slightly, enough to look at you with that mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Oi,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “that kit you’re wearing... that’s not exactly... factual, is it?”

You blinked, confused at first. “What?”

“The name on the back. It’s a bit of... misinformation, innit?” he said with a smirk, his fingers still tracing slow circles on your side.

A little smile tugged at your lips. “Oh, I know what you mean. But, y’know...” You paused, looking up at him with a playful gleam in your eye. “I’ve got an idea how you can make it factual.”

Noel’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and for a second, he looked like he was trying to figure out if you were joking or not. He leaned back slightly, his hands still gripping you possessively. “What d’you mean, eh? You can’t be serious.”

You grinned, pressing a kiss to his jaw, your fingers playing with the edge of his shirt.

He was quiet for a second, like he was still processing what you meant. Then, a slow grin spread across his face, and he pulled back slightly to look at you. “Wait... are you... genuinely suggesting what I think you are?”

You only raised an eyebrow in response, watching the shift in his expression. There was something hopeful in the way he was looking at you, something a little more vulnerable than usual.

“Well, yeah,” you started, voice low.

Without a word, Noel pulled you closer, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that cut off anything you were meaning to say. The heat between you both was instant, but it was short-lived as his lips tugged into a smile even as he kissed you, forcing you to pull away, grinning back at him. You two just looked at each other, smiles spreading across your faces, only to start giggling like kids in the next few seconds.

___________________________________

desperately needed fluff after all that angst, hope you like it and per usual thanks to @shes-thunderstormssss for the beautiful request x

also, I actually love the kit Noel designed, have it meself and the colours are great + the soundwave circles + the collar giving it a more retro look (it's 30% off now btw so if anyone is interested it's a good deal now)

#oasis x reader #oasis one shots #oasis band #britpop x f!reader #britpop x reader #britpop fanfiction #noel gallagher x reader #noel gallagher x you #noel gallagher x f!reader #noel gallagher one shots #noel gallagher fanfiction #oasis noel gallagher #noel gallagher x y/n #oasis fanfiction #oasis fic

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dragomfry · 2 days ago

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Artistic Analysis of Saezuru’s Covers (Vol 1-9)

What I’ve always loved about Yoneda Kou’s writing and art style is her subtlety and attention to detail. Compared to other BL styles, her style is not as exaggerated in its emotions. The characters’ emotions are consistently written and drawn very down-to-earth, realistic, and/or nuanced/subtle (besides the exaggerations in comedic moments). Her art style is simple yet detailed just enough to be very pleasing to the eye.

All of her cover illustrations are clever and rife with detail. In this post, I’ll be examining my interpretation on the meaning of each cover’s design up to volume 9.

Volume 1

The first cover is simply iconic. On a surface level, it shows exactly what type of story you expect you’re getting into, so it draws in its audience. But artistic nuances show that there’s a twist to this story.

Yashiro is caught in a compromising position, arms behind his back, resting his head on some man’s bare foot, which indicates his submissiveness. And that man could be any man, not just Doumeki (or the love interest). This emphasizes the impersonal aspect of sex to Yashiro, which shows that this isn’t going to be your typical romantic BL between two partners. We also learn that Yashiro is in control of all these sexual encounters. In traditional BL manga, the partner that takes the bottom or uke position is typically seen as the “weaker/more timid” individual (which, for some reason, are commonly interpreted as being more “feminine” traits), but clearly this isn’t the case with this story. Therefore, the cover is empowering. At this point, Yashiro is confident and has reclaimed a sense of control over his sexuality.

Volume 2

This cover is bold, in a quiet way.

It deviates completely from the first one, making the whole environment the focus and not the main character. This type of cover design is especially rare for manga, which typically grab your attention with the character(s) front and center. The style of characters being enlarged and shown on the cover is commonly used, as, obviously, it’s very marketable. It easily draws the attention of potential readers (weren’t you captivated by Yashiro on that first cover?). However, the 2nd cover is extremely subtle, and it’s truly the mark of an artist who cares about the story she is telling, not just the hot scenes. It’s admirable. I will never stop respecting Yoneda-sensei for being so confident in challenging established tropes and themes.

This cover forces you to look closer at the details. It’s saying, “Hey, this story isn’t just about lust, but something deeper and more mature.” Upon closer inspection, we see Yashiro standing alone, completely out in the open, soaking in a full suit in the rain. It shows just how little he cares for his own well-being, and the pessimistic desire to not do anything about it. He has been deeply affected by tragedy. He feels empty and insignificant, like a drop in the ocean, which the cover reflects by depicting him as just another person in the background.

The full cover reveals even more details. Others have already talked extensively about the beautiful symbolism of the rain and umbrellas (inspired by kyrieren’s Rain and Aiai Gasa posts). Doumeki rushes from the right, carrying an umbrella to shield Yashiro from the rain, or his semi self-imposed misery. Doumeki bringing the umbrella to Yashiro is symbolic of how he cares for Yashiro’s wellbeing, which Yashiro doesn’t “see” or fully notice the depth of at this point. The theme of seeing and not seeing is established from this point forward.

Volume 3

The body language is everything.

Their position, especially Yashiro’s position with his arms up and feet made bare, reflects a sexual one. This indicates how their relationship is becoming more intimate. But Doumeki still being in his shoes implies that they aren’t that far into it yet. It can also signify how Yashiro and/or Doumeki himself will not let him take off his shoes, or display his full vulnerability. Despite the bareness of Yashiro’s soles, which could imply openness, Yashiro pushes back with his legs and does not look Doumeki back in the eyes. Perhaps he’s, in fact, willfully being “blind” to Doumeki’s feelings and closing off his own. So Yashiro’s position, rather than reflect growing trust and openness, actually reflects how he wants to reduce their budding relationship to a purely physical one (like all his other sexual relationships). In contrast, Doumeki is staring intently at Yashiro, with his arms grasping Yashiro’s hands and pulling down the pants on his leg, keeping him in place. His intent is clear: to make Yashiro his. The way they’re both locked in place almost resembles a dance with its rhythm and balance. They’re both stuck in a position of their own makings, yet in a harmonious way. This cover masterfully conveys the psychological conflict and erotic situation between the characters.

Volume 4

Doumeki is staring determinedly, at whom? The audience, Yashiro, or both?

The cover of the extra story “A Flame in the Distance” makes it clear that Yashiro is not looking back at Doumeki, tying back into how Yashiro is willfully ignoring Doumeki’s and his own feelings.

It’s no secret that Yoneda-sensei puts great care into her symbolism. Both characters being placed in a field of wheat is likely very symbolic, but I could only find a few sources so far to explain the potential connections. According to those few sources, wheat symbolizes life, strength, and rebirth. In this case the wheat or the cover in general could symbolize Doumeki (because his name’s 力 means strength, power, force, etc). With this interpretation, volume 4 could act as Doumeki’s mindset in the story, and volume 2 would be Yashiro’s. In comparison to Yashiro’s gloomy, entrenched, and rainy attitude, Doumeki’s attitude is more cautiously optimistic and determined. The rebirth aspect of the wheat can also explain why they are both in the field; it’s because both have caused immense changes in each other. The brighter colors in the cover show how both have been the light in each other’s lives. Overall, the cover has an ominous or auspicious feel to it, but one thing is implied for sure: things are about to change. Doumeki and Yashiro are becoming extremely close.

Volume 5

Volume 5: the turning point of the series.

The cover’s design is simple, but everything is deliberately placed. We are put into the perspective of Doumeki, which makes the cover very intimate. Doumeki is on top and caresses Yashiro, who is undressed. Yashiro now looks directly up at Doumeki. This time, he cannot look away from his feelings. The last thing to mention is how Yashiro is almost positioned upside down, which indicates how everything is about to change. This all signals what we know is going to happen between them. They’re going to push the relationship to the farthest it’s ever been… and the result will be heartbreaking. A consistent theme among sources I found showed that the color white is symbolic of physical and spiritual purity as well as mourning and funerals. In this case, the white clothing symbolizes the tragedy of how Yashiro has been defiled by Doumeki, and how Doumeki is no longer pure in Yashiro’s eyes. The death of Yashiro’s sadomasochistic facade can also be symbolized with the white, because Doumeki has irrevocably changed Yashiro. Doumeki has made Yashiro fully realize things he never knew he so desperately wanted before: gentle touch, and most of all, genuine loving affection. Simultaneously, this volume has them both experience their best and worst moment.

Volume 6

While being less intimate than volume 5, volume 6’s cover still conveys a sense of closeness. Most of all, it conveys a sense of nostalgia and slight sadness.

Both are walking together in the night illuminated by city lights, Doumeki innocently following behind Yashiro, like how their relationship used to be. The cover’s cleverness comes from how it juxtaposes with the actual content of the volume, in which Yashiro is desperately trying and eventually succeeds in pushing Doumeki away from him now that they’ve gone so far. Volume 6’s cover is a swan song that pays homage to the romantic simplicity and gentle affection of their relationship, before everything changes…

Volume 7 and 8

By themselves, the covers seem unremarkable. But put side by side, the meaning and meta commentary become clear.

Doumeki and Yashiro have become physically separated. Both have grown up and matured. Doumeki is no longer the baby bird we remember. He looks more mature, dresses more seriously, has many scars on his face, and is wearing and surrounded by dark colors. This all reflects his mental growth and descent into darkness, or the yakuza. He is also turned away from Yashiro. Volume 7 is the complete opposite to volume 8. Yashiro dresses in and is surrounded by lighter colors. This reflects how he’s become more of a civilian and how he was actually never been as suited for the yakuza lifestyle as Doumeki. Yashiro has a contemplative expression, turning his head and body in a way to look directly at Doumeki. Now, Yashiro is aware of his feelings more than ever before, but Doumeki is not reciprocating so openly this time. *Forgot to mention, Doumeki is shown pulling off his glove with his mouth, his jacket is hanging loosely on him, and he’s taken off his shoe. He is much more comfortable in his sexuality now. On the other hand, Yashiro is shown to be covered more in his jacket and both of his shoes are still on, which could indicate his newfound impotence. Doumeki’s position is also more open than Yashiro’s more closed off one, showing their differences in confidence. In many ways, their roles have been reversed this arc.

Volume 9

Finally, we have the latest cover. Yashiro and Doumeki are working to re-establish a sense of closeness, but that warmth they possessed with their early relationship has not (yet?) resurfaced.

Doumeki once again looks directly at Yashiro. He is now trying to express his feelings for Yashiro, but at a distance because his hand is still gloved (or his mask of indifference is still on). It seems as if Yashiro is not looking directly at Doumeki, but that doesn’t mean he’s avoiding his feelings like in the previous covers. Rather, he is now trying to hide them. Still, Yashiro not looking at Doumeki shows that he tragically cannot “see” Doumeki’s feelings for him now. There is deliberate ambiguity with how Yashiro grasps Doumeki’s gloved hand, as evidenced by how Yoneda-sensei revealed other drafts with variations of Yashiro’s hand placement. Is Yashiro pulling Doumeki towards him, keeping him in place, or pushing him away from him? This ambiguity reflects Yashiro’s inner conflict and contradictions. Their winter clothing and the desaturated color scheme all symbolizes the emotional coldness of their current relationship. Both desperately want to express their feelings for each other, but both can’t yet, due to each other’s unwillingness to drop their masks.

And that’s where we left off.

#saezuru analysis #sorry couldn’t help but make some edits #saezuru tori wa habatakanai #囀る鳥は羽ばたかない #twittering birds never fly #yashiro and doumeki in love #yashiro #doumeki #with the meticulous attention to eyes each cover #i wonder if the last cover will show both Yashiro and Doumeki #looking at each other?

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vintagesimstress · 9 hours ago

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Northern & Southern European Dyes Palette(s)

It's been almost exactly two years since I made my Iron Age Palette. To celebrate that anniversary... No, you know what, actually not, it's a total coincidence 😅 I was working on a new thing and started wondering about this and that; to not bore you with the details, let's just say that one thing let to another and of course I ended up revisiting the very basics. So here it is! Not one, but TWO new colour palettes for our oldtime-y sims. Based on the lives of my Britons at some point in 1st century CE, shortly before the Roman conquest.

An important note: the southern palette is actually rather an add-on than a separate palette. As in, Romans would surely have access to the dyes from the northern palette as well. But as stated above, I made this whole thing from the viewpoint of a British Celt, hence we have two palettes: one with dyes which he could just obtain from native plants and the other with those he'd have to import. The southerners were more blessed in this aspect :]

You can download PDF files for both of those palettes and .txt files to be used in Paint.net (put them in Documents\paint.net User Files\Palettes). If anyone wants to help me out and make them useable in Photoshop too, please go ahead!

DOWNLOAD them on my Patreon! (always free, no early access etc.)

Apart from a bunch of visual changes (maybe the font will actually be readable this time? Gasp!), there's some new stuff in the palettes themselves (duh). Let's take a quick look, shall we?

undyed wool - hard to call it a dye, lol, but ofc it had to be here. The so-called primitive sheep of the Brittonic era looked quite different from what we imagine when we think 'sheep', and they most certainly came not only in white, but also in many shades of brown or even black. Perfect for making a colourful garment even without any dyes;

birch leaves - easy to obtain, easy to dye; almost no changes here, other than one added shade which used to be under 'mixed ingredients' before;

birch bark - OK, I don't remember where I took the old colours from, but I'm afraid I was being too optimistic. Birch bark gives rather pinkish than reddish shades; actually, it needs a looooooong soak and proper pH to turn anything but very bright, subtle pink. But it seems you can get them and they don't wash out that easily, so - there you go;

elderberry - here I was for sure being too optimistic, especially with that one pretty, saturated blue shade which got thrown away. From what I've read (and seen in photos...), elderberry is a very tricky dye, not particularly water- and lightfast. 'Not particularly' is mildly put - it just washes out in no time, leaving you either with a very pale or very greyish shade of the once vibrant colour. Adjusted accordingly (and they're still too pretty tbh!)

apple leaves/twigs - that's a bit of a tricky point, because the Internet claims it was only Romans who brought apples to Britain. But at the same time apple cider was Britain's national drink allegedly already during the Celtic times. Heck, Welsh mythical island of Avalon literally means 'isle of apples', and mythology tends to be... you know... old. Huh? After a bit of research on the topic I'm prone to believe that what Romans really brought with them were big, sweet apples and their organised cultivation; but small, tart, 'untasty' varieties did exist in Britain even before, growing in the wild. Perfect for making cider - or dyes 😉;

nettle - no changes here. Easy, cheap, grows everywhere, just that the colours are probably not something you'd wear to a party;

hedge bedstraw - seems it's growing everywhere in Britain, so it's plausible the ancients would've made use of it;

lichen - aaaaalriiight, now, that is a big discovery! Beautiful shades and absolutely possible to obtain from the varieties growing on the British Isles. One of the most crucial omissions from my old palette, here finally in it's full glory.

That was it for the northern palette. And southern?

weld - previously called 'dyer's rocket', but no one in the whole wide natural dyeing Internet calls it that. Beautiful, vibrant, very steady yellow; won't give away even if you overdye it with indigo or woad. It's native to the Mediterranean and while it was cultivated in Britain in later centuries, I have no reason to believe that was also the case in 1 c. CE. I dub it imported;

madder - I keep reading that it's giving saturated red shades, but I have yet to see anyone dye a skein of yarn deep red with madder only. All that keeps popping up in pictures are gentle, pinkish reds, so that's what I included in my palette too. The orange comes from changed pH of the water;

woad - OK, that's my most epic fail of all. To make a Celtic palette and not include woad?! Putting aside the whole matter of Britons possibly maybe but actually maybe not using it to paint their faces (a very controversial matter, let's not go there 😅), woad was the blue dye in those times. Indigo was far away and while in was imported to Rome, afaik it was used mostly for painting, not cloth dyeing; and besides, as crazy as it may sound, woad seems to do the job better. Seriously. Higher water and light fastness. The question is, was it cultivated in Britain or imported? Just like weld, it's native to the Mediterraean. There is a British find of a bunch of woad seeds, from 1 c. BCE - but then again, it's just one find. So... Mostly imported but slowly being introduced to the Isles? Maybe?

mixed ingredients - the ingredients specified in the PDFs are given in the order they're used - that makes a difference! My biggest discovery of this whole natural dyeing research is that, surprisingly, vibrant green is the absolutely most difficult colour to obtain. That dark green you see at the bottom - so-called Lincoln green - requires super high levels of both weld and woad, and you must put your yellow skein in the blue dye asap - if you're too slow, you get a lighter shade, e.g. like the one above it. The Hightowers knew how to show they're rich, huh...?

and last but not least, the luxury dyes! Some imported from far away (turmeric), some from nearby lands (Tyrian purple), some even grown locally (there were saffron plantations on Sicily. True story), but nevertheless, all super duper expensive. Tyrian purple was actually legally reserved for the emperor only - even if you could, by some miracle, afford it, you'd probably get arrested if you dared to dress in that particular shade of purple. Good that lichens could always come to the rescue!

Guess that's enough of behind-the-scenes trivia, isn't it? Props to you if you managed to get to this point, lol. Have fun with the palettes and happy recolouring!

#resources #palette #colour palette #ts4 iron age #ts4 celtic #ts4 roman

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xoxorealitygalore · 2 days ago

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Nasty Dancer Flashback 1

Summary: Due to her unyielding confidence, Aphrodite earns her spot on the main roster, becoming The Bloodline's manager — or rather, Sefa's Special Counsel. His Wisewoman. But can she maintain her bold, unapologetic style when faced with her greatest challenge yet: working alongside her ex-boyfriend?

Taglist: @xbriexx @christinabae @blackchickinthedesert @bratzzzdoll

Nasty Dancer Masterlist

Previous: Chapter Seven

The atmosphere at Mastro’s Steakhouse was one of sophisticated warmth, with a hint of luxury that could only come from a top-tier dining experience. The low murmur of voices blended with the occasional clink of fine china, the soft jazz playing in the background setting a perfect tone for the evening. Joseph sat next to Aphrodite, her delicate fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass absentmindedly, her eyes occasionally flicking up to meet his with a soft smile. This was their night out together, with Joseph’s older brother Jonathan and his wife Trinity.

The dimmed lighting cast a golden glow on the white tablecloth beneath their plates, the perfect stage for the conversation that was about to unfold. Joseph had ordered for them, taking control of the evening’s choices. It wasn’t anything new. Aphrodite didn’t mind. She’d never been one to demand control over every little detail. She liked to let Joseph take the reins when it came to decisions like these. There was something reassuring about how effortlessly he moved through life, confident in his decisions.

“You let him order for you?” Trinity asked with a raised eyebrow, her gaze flicking from Aphrodite to Joseph, who was already engaged in a quiet conversation with Jonathan. Her voice carried a playful, teasing edge, one that had been honed over years of friendship and familiarity.

Aphrodite shrugged lightly, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “I take pride in letting my man be my man,” she responded, her tone casual, yet there was an underlying softness to it. The way she spoke, the way she carried herself, it was a mix of strength and vulnerability, a delicate balance she’d cultivated in her relationship with Joseph.

Joseph glanced at her from across the table, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t the type to make a big deal of things, but there was a quiet pride in the way he looked at Aphrodite. He didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, least of all to Jonathan and Trinity. They had a way of understanding each other without needing much explanation. There was an ease to their relationship, built on trust and respect.

As Jonathan smiled and watched the couple interact, he couldn’t help but think how much they reminded him of himself and Trinity. Joseph and Aphrodite were a little more reserved than he and Trinity had been at the beginning of their relationship. But there was something undeniable about the way they moved as one, how their shared laughter filled the space between them, how they exchanged knowing glances without a single word. Jonathan’s heart swelled with a certain pride, though it was softened by the understanding that there were still a few things Joseph needed to navigate. He hoped his younger brother was ready for the complexities that lay ahead.

“You two are absolutely made for each other,” Trinity said suddenly, her voice full of sincerity. She didn’t say it lightly, and Aphrodite could feel the weight of the words sink in. Trinity had a way of making her feel seen, of making her feel like she belonged. It wasn’t something that came easily for Aphrodite, who had always prided herself on her independence and strength. But something about Joseph, about this relationship felt different. It felt like home in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

Aphrodite smiled at Trinity, grateful for the compliment but unsure of how to respond. She was still getting used to being part of a couple like this, part of a family dynamic that was still so new to her. Joseph had been open about his son, but there were still parts of his life she didn’t fully understand. She was beginning to realize that perhaps she had more to learn than she thought.

As dinner continued, the conversation shifted. Jonathan and Trinity were discussing their plans for the next vacation they were going on, and Aphrodite was content to listen, occasionally offering her thoughts. But then, out of nowhere, Trinity asked a question that made Aphrodite’s heart skip a beat.

“So, how do you feel about being a stepmom to two boys?” Trinity’s words were innocent enough, but there was an undercurrent of curiosity in her voice.

Aphrodite’s eyes widened slightly. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice tight with confusion.

Trinity’s smile faltered for a moment as she realized the misstep. “I just meant... you know, being a stepmom to Joseph’s two boys. I’m sure that must come with its challenges.”

Aphrodite’s mind reeled. Two boys? She knew about Joseph’s son, the one he spoke of so lovingly, but two? She had no idea that Joseph had a second child, much less that the boy was so young. Her thoughts began to race, her mind catching up with the realization that there were layers to Joseph’s life that she had never fully understood.

Jonathan, noticing the tension in the air, looked from Aphrodite to Joseph, then back to Aphrodite. “Joseph has two sons, actually. The younger one is just ten months old. I’m surprised he hasn’t mentioned it,” he added, his voice tinged with a hint of concern.

Aphrodite felt the weight of the words press down on her chest. The room seemed to blur around her as she tried to process the information. She had been blindsided, completely caught off guard. The one child she knew about was already a lot for her to take in. She hadn’t been prepared to learn that Joseph had another son, and the reality of becoming a stepmom was suddenly more complicated than she had ever imagined.

Joseph’s face darkened, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze to his older brother. The air between them thickened with unspoken tension. He hadn’t expected Jonathan to bring up something so personal, especially not in front of Aphrodite. It wasn’t that he was trying to hide his children from her; it was just that there were pieces of his life he hadn’t yet found the right time to share. But now, it was too late. The damage had been done.

“I... I didn’t know,” Aphrodite finally managed to say, her voice shaking slightly as she stood up from the table. Her mind was reeling, her emotions tangled between disbelief, hurt, and frustration. Without another word, she excused herself and walked toward the entrance of the restaurant.

Trinity felt a pang of guilt as she watched Aphrodite leave the table. She hadn’t meant to upset her, but the question had slipped out without thinking. She looked at Jonathan, her eyes searching for some kind of reassurance.

Jonathan sighed, his hand resting on his forehead as he shook his head. “Joseph shouldn’t have kept this from her. He should’ve told her about the boys a long time ago.” His voice was low, regret hanging in the air between them.

“I didn’t mean to make things worse,” Trinity murmured, her eyes glued to the door where Aphrodite had just disappeared.

“You didn’t,” Jonathan said softly. “But Joseph needs to fix this.”

Trinity nodded, her gaze now focused on Joseph. “You should go talk to her,” she said, her voice firm. “She needs to hear it from you, not from anyone else.”

Joseph hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking between the two of them. He didn’t want to leave his brother and Trinity alone, but he knew this was something he had to do. Standing up from the table, he gave a nod of acknowledgment before heading toward the entrance, his heart pounding with uncertainty.

Outside, Aphrodite paced in front of the restaurant, her thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and hurt. She didn’t know what to think or how to feel. She had never imagined her relationship with Joseph would be complicated by his children, especially when he had never mentioned the second one. How was she supposed to navigate this new reality?

Joseph stepped out into the cool evening air, his eyes searching for her. When he spotted her, his heart sank. She looked lost in thought, her movements agitated. He approached her slowly, his voice quiet but full of sincerity. “Aphrodite,” he began, his tone soft. “I’m so sorry. I should have told you sooner. It wasn’t my intention to keep this from you.”

Aphrodite stopped pacing, her eyes flicking up to meet his. “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Why didn’t you tell me? We’ve been together for a year, Joseph. Why hide something so important?”

Joseph took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you. I didn’t know how to explain it... and I guess I thought I could manage it without it affecting us. But I was wrong. I should have been honest with you from the start.”

Aphrodite’s heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. She had seen so much of the man he was—the confident, loving partner who had stood by her but this was a side of him she hadn’t encountered before. He was afraid, just like her.

She sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “I’m just... I’m not sure how to process all of this. It’s a lot.”

“I know,” Joseph said, stepping closer to her. “And I’m here for you, no matter what. We’ll figure it out together.”

Aphrodite took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She could feel the weight of the situation still pressing on her chest, but something about his words, about the sincerity in his eyes made her want to give him the benefit of the doubt. He wasn’t perfect, and neither was she. But they had something real, and she wasn’t willing to walk away from it so easily.

“I forgive you,” she said quietly, her voice steadying as she stepped into his arms. “But you need to be honest with me. About everything. No more secrets.”

Joseph nodded, his arms wrapping around her as he kissed the top of her head. “No more secrets. I promise.”

With a final, lingering kiss, they stood together for a moment, the weight of the evening finally lifting. They had a long road ahead of them, filled with uncertainties and challenges, but for now, they had each other. And that was enough.

Hand in hand, they walked back into the restaurant, ready to face whatever came next, together.

Next: Chapter Eight

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