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beausling · 1 day ago

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PUSSY STAINS ON MY STAFF

quick little drabble thing cus i’m having these thoughts n feelings and i really just need to get them out there..

warnings: pure smutty filth, porn without plot, sub!dean, puppyboy!dean, dom!fem!reader, mommy kink, bouncing on it, jackin each others shit, rubbing things together n gettin it all sticky, thigh riding, nipple sucking (f & m receiving), pet names (mommy, puppy, pretty boy, etc.), not proof read cus they never are, uhh i think thats all but idk my brain is Soo soupy rn

all work is mine, please do not steal/plagiarize, repost anywhere, or translate without my permission. likes and reblogs are welcome and appreciated!!!

18+ CONTENT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, VIEWER DISCRETION ADVISED!

you desperately held back your own moans, just so that you could hear dean’s pretty whimpers as you rode him into the sun.

his big hands scrambling for purchase, touching you anywhere he could reach; your hips, your ass, your thighs, your breasts.

but you could hold back anymore as he surged forward, sucking one of your hard nipples into his mouth. it always made your brain go fuzzy, turned you into just as much of a mess as he was.

an idea sparked as your fingers threaded through his short locks. where you were normally grip on and shove him harder into your chest, this time you pulled him away, looking down at him with dark, heavy lidded eyes as a smirk pulled at your lips.

“mommy, please, let me-“ dean began begging, but you cut him off. “i wanna try somethin’ new,” you said, slowing down in your movements. “that okay?”

he just nodded in response, like an eager little puppy, so desperate to please.

you fully stilled your hips, slowly rising off his dick with a groan and letting it slip out of your sloppy cunt. his whines of protest filled your ears.

“shhh, s’okay, puppy.” you cooed softly, “‘m gonna make you feel so good. can you lay back f’me?” he immediately obliged, shifting slightly to lay comfortably against the pillows.

you moved once he was in position, one knee going between his legs while the other stayed beside his hip, leaning down and pressing soft, wet kisses up his tummy, to his chest, his neck, before going back down, all the while he was squirming underneath you.

“stay still, pup.” you command gently, warm breath fanning over his slick skin as your lips moved across his chest, stopping at one of his nipples.

you glanced up at him through your lashes, a grinch-like smirk gracing your face before you stuck your tongue out, and began laving at his pink, puffy nipple, watching his reaction; the way his eyebrows furrowed, and his mouth fell open — it told you all you needed to know.

dean was enjoying this.

you licked rougher, more insistently, nipping gently at the sensitive flesh and sucking it onto your mouth, listening to him gasp and whimper.

his pleasure had always been your pleasure, so hearing and seeing how he reacted to what you were doing made your stomach flutter.

you sucked harder, hips dropped down on top of his thigh as you moaned around his skin, grinding against him without even realizing it. this was just too good. you couldn’t get enough.

“mommy,” dean whined, one of his hands finding its way into your hair and grasping at the long locks. you simply moaned back in response, your eyes fluttered shut as you got lost in all the different sensations, rubbing your wet folds all over his plush thigh and making a mess.

soon you moved over, giving the same attention to the other nipple. and dean was absolutely losing his mind — head thrown back, eyes rolled to the back of his head, back arching slightly.

one of your hands drifted down between your bodies, fingers wrapping around his still hard cock and beginning to slowly jerk him off, feeling him twitch in your hand as his body shuddered.

“wanna make you feel good, too.” you heard him murmur, and seconds later his hands were gripping tightly onto your hips, lifting them up off his thigh before slipping two thick fingers between your soaking folds.

your head lolled to the side, mouth coming off his chest as you let out a loud moan, hips twitching into his hand as he pressed down on your swollen clit, making fast circles. that made your hand move quicker on him in return.

“pretty boy,” you crooned, “feels s’good — you always make mommy feel so good. my good boy, perfect little puppy.” you babbled on in praises that you knew were sure to get him to release faster, still making it a point to take care of him, prioritizing his pleasure.

you went on and on that way, kissing, nipping and sucking at every piece of skin you could reach, murmuring soft praises in his ears, and moving your hand swiftly over his cock until you felt it start to twitch and pulse more persistently against your soft palm.

“you gonna cum, pup?”

“yeah,” dean whimpered, his hips canting up, chasing down his orgasm.

“c’mon, cum for mommy — all over my hand like a good boy.” you murmured against his stubbled jaw, pressing kiss after kiss to his skin. “cum for me, puppy.”

that really did him in. hips stuttering and his body tensing up, eyes fluttering and face scrunched up in bliss, back arching as he let out a loud, whiny groan, thick ropes of sticky white shooting out from the tip and dripping onto your hand, getting all over his tummy, and a bit on yours.

and his undoing was your own. shifting your position so that you were straddling him fully again, slotting his sloppy dick through your slick folds and grinding into him, creating the most sinful sounds. your clit bumped against his tip over and over again, breathy moans spilling out of your parted lips, going after your own high.

dean let out another loud whine, “i know. i know, pup.” it was clear he was becoming overstimulated. “jus’ a lil’ bit more. you want mommy’s cum, too, don’t you?” seeing him nod eagerly through your bleary gaze, and whine again.

a huffy groan of frustration left you, lifting your hips and lining him back up with your entrance, quickly skinning down and bouncing at a rough pace. planting one hand behind you and arching back as you moved, your other fingers found your clit and rubbed in tight circles, that familiar heat making itself known, low in your belly.

your own orgasm crashed over you faster than anticipated, body going rigid while that coil snapped, your walls clenching, before you gushed around dean, a loud, gasping moan tearing out of your throat.

it was always pure ecstasy with him.

falling into his chest once you finish, dean wrapped his strong arms around your waist, hugging you tightly to him as he pressed a kiss to your hairline, while you kissed all over his cheek, the corner of his eye, his temple.

“you did so good.” you praised softly against his skin, wrapping your own arms around him, nose nuzzling the side of his head. his hands ran slowly up and down your back, laying there silently in the aftermath for a moment.

“so, we found out two things today…” he mused, voice raspy from all the noise he’d been making.

a confused hum came from you in response.

“you, like sucking nipples…and i, like having my nipples sucked — apparently.” he said in a slightly sardonic, teasing tone, sending you into a fit of giggles.

my first actual fic in A MILLION YEARS.. hEllOOO😧🔥

also my first time myself writing like FULLLLL smut.. SO PLEASEEEEE don’t crucify me if it’s really bad like AT LEASTTT I TRIEDD😭

꩜ tags: @soldiersgirl @jasvtsc @deanswidow @titsout4jackles @jensenacklesballsack @bluemerakis @dirtylittlesinkrat @callsignwidow 🎀 comment to be removed from the taglist, or here to be added !!!

#oct writes📓#dividers by sxmmerberries #dean winchester #dean winchester x fem!reader #sub!dean x dom!reader #puppyboy!dean x reader #sub!dean #puppyboy!dean #dom!reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x y/n #supernatural #spn #jensen ackles #Spotify

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carbonfiction · 17 hours ago

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I AM a frank calling reader mama truther 🫡

need more domestic frankie plsssss (domestic but nasty ofc)

Yes my sweet anon!!! Yes!! I love finding more frank calling reader mama truthers, its SO domestic and SO him!! Its literal perfection!

Im also so pleased to say you've to sent this at the most perfect time bc its alllll I've been thinking about recently.. So here's a few little moments. I'd be completely open and enthusiastic to expanding on any of these moments also if you guys would like that- perhaps make it a lil series? lmk! <33

Warnings?: domestic frank!! Reader obviously refered to as mama, a lil spicy but nothing much this time round, mostly fluffy!

Frank loves calling his girl little terms of endearment- sweetheart, baby, doll, baby doll- i mean shit the list goes on to the end of time, hes old fashioned like that... but mama? Mama is just so special.

Its reserved especially for those domestic moments, always hushed and murmured low no matter where you are. The moment it hits your ears its like its just the two of you left in the world.

"Lookin so pretty today Mama.." rasped as he watches you potter around the bedroom in the morning light. Frank's bare back resting against the headboard, eyes locked on the way you pull different pieces of clothing onto your body to start the day. Always looking to him for his reactions as he sips his steaming coffee.

"Was thinkin.. You got any plans today mama? No? How bout we take a walk, head to that coffee place you like?" hummed with his lips pressed against your temple as you rest against him bleary eyed. Still warm and content from sleep on his chest, legs tangled up beneath the sheets. You nod, that did sound good.

"Nuh uh, pick that back up. Watever you want today Mama, spoilin my girl" when you go shopping and see something you like but refuse to buy for yourself. He's immediately holding onto it, pulling out his wallet from his pocket ready for the checkout. Complain all you like, he really doesnt mind. What id gorgeous girl wants, his gorgeous girl gets.

"Need any help in here mama? Smells fuckin incredible" rumbled from behind you on a stay at home date night. Franks large arms wrapping around your waist, his chin resting heavy on your shoulder- tilted just slightly to plant soft kisses on your skin. His breath brushing your ear tickishly making you giggle. All while the pan sits already sizzling on the stove as you prepare vegetables.

And when things get a little spicy.. Well, thats franks favorite time to use it. The gorgeous press of you against him making it easy for the word to slip free.

"You gotta tell me.. Cmon mama, wanna hear what you want" as your straddling his lap, lips pressing against his in passionate sloppy make outs. Hips grinding slow and methodical against his jean clad buldge, hands roaming needily, not a inch of space between you.

"Yeah.. There you go mama, taking me so good. So gorgeous like this." said between a rough groan as he takes you from behind, your front pressed to he mattress, perfect ass in the air for him. The skirt of your new sundress flipped up your back, his large form draped over it as he steals the air from your lungs.

"Shhh.. I got you mama.. I got you." when you whimper from the onslaught of pleasure as his fingers strum at your clit. Cock bullying a home inside of your tight walls, wet and so fucking warm around him. On the precipice of an orgasm that makes your head feel fuzzy the closer you get.

"Sure it wasn't too much for you mama, aint sore anywhere? No, you sure? Good.. Glad you feel good" as you relish the come down, bodies sweaty and sticky. Still pressed against his chest though this time a little differently as he lies you back against him in the warm bath tub. Fingers softly soothing your favourite soaps and lotions across your skin.

Gahhhh i need domestic frank so bad you guys, i need to cook with him. I need to make out on the couch and oh my fucking goooood i need him to get me off

#forever needing more more more of this!!!#frank castle #frank castle x reader fluff #frank castle x female reader #frank castle comfort #frank castle x reader smut #frank castle fluff #frank castle smut #the punisher #The punisher x reader #carbonrambles #frankiethoughts

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eeksburner · 2 days ago

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Home

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: We see just how much Simon loves being home

(Note: Sorry for being inactive, my Rami Malek obsession has grown, so I've been spending my time rifling through old blogs and fics from 2019 or older to find all the Merriell Shelton/Elliot Alderson fics that I can get my greedy hands on. I am posting this to feed you all, I can't let you guys starve. Finals week is approaching, so please don't hate me for not writing a lot these next couple of weeks. Thanks y'all!)

Not proofread

Sure, Simon gets to shower before he boards the plane to get back home, but it's not the same. The shower is too tight, and the shower head is too low. The water pressure is weak and stays at an uncomfortable lukewarm temperature. The little bar of soap he is given is barely enough for him to hold onto properly, and smells of dusty baby powder.

Once he is finally home, he can really enjoy himself. Not when he is back in the UK, not when he is back in town, not when he is back in his own truck, but when he is home. The place you selected and decorated just for the two of you. Where his favorite color is accented through the house, where you use the candles you know he likes, where his clothes are perfectly folded on the bathroom counter, where he is seen and loved.

It confused you at first. Simon would come home and spend time with you, but once it came time for bed, he would take a 30-minute shower despite being as clean as a whistle. Your curiosity became too much, so you asked why. He explained that showering at home is one of his biggest pleasures he gets after being away from the house.

Simon turns the shower on. He likes the water hot. It makes him feel cleaner, and he likes how it steams up the bathroom. Hot water isn't a luxury he can indulge in out in the field, so he enjoys it when he can. He sits a lavender and eucalyptus shower steamer at the bottom of the shower. His soft sweatpants, old teeshirt, and fuzzy socks sit on the counter along with the fluffiest towel in the house. You wash those with a specific soap and dryer sheets to make them smell like lavender. Once Simon is ready, he steps into the shower, his head hanging down, letting the water envelop him like a warm hug. He lets the smell of the shower steamer help clear his sinuses and relax him.

He sits under the water for a few minutes before starting his routine. Simon grabs his favorite shampoo. It's an expensive brand that can only be bought online. It is very clean and cruelty-free. His hair never feels fully clean unless he uses that shampoo; it just cleans his scalp so good and makes his hair so soft. It smells masculine, but not obnoxiously. His fingers tend to his hairline and his scalp for a couple of minutes, letting the tension in his head decrease with every massage of his calloused fingers. He follows with the conditioner, the matching one to the shampoo. It makes his hair the shiniest and smoothest it could possibly be. He runs his fingers through his tresses and makes sure there aren't any tangles or loose hair that needs to fall out.

Once he finishes his hair, he goes for his washcloth. It has an exfoliating side that does so well at removing dead skin and making his skin soft. The body wash he uses is also expensive, but it has melatonin and lavender in it, which helps him to sleep afterwards, which can be pretty difficult given the things he has to deal with. He scrubs every part of his body at least 3 times, going over every spot to make sure he gets every last bit of physical and mental grossness off of himself. He sits under the water for another few minutes before he decides it's time to come out.

He steps out into the steamy bathroom, his feet sinking into the fluffy shower mat on the floor. He grabs the towel and runs it over his head a few times, mostly drying his face and hair. He then dries off his body, making sure every part of his skin is dry for his next step. Simon has a lotion he uses after he showers. It is unscented, but it works like a charm for rehydrating his skin. Once he is satisfied with how it's sunk into his skin, he gets dressed in his cozy outfit.

Simon steps up to the mirror and brushes his teeth, making sure to floss and use mouthwash. He washes his face with a gentle cleanser and follows with a gentle face lotion. Once he is as calm as he can be, he grabs his old clothes and leaves the bathroom, ready to cuddle in bed (after he sprays his pillows with a sleepytime spray).

(I know there's this idea that Simon doesn't care a lot about things like having a nice, fancy shower routine, but I feel like it's one of the things that helps calm his stormy mind and tense body. He doesn't mind splurging on one of his few pleasures. Sometimes he'll use your products to feel closer to you.)

Sure, Simon gets to eat food before and during his travels back home, but airline food is only good for about the first bite. Fast food usually isn't on his radar, but when he does eat it, all he can think about is how much better you could make it. If he's hungry, he's spending a majority of the time daydreaming about what you've made for his return home. People see his stoic, strong expression and assume he is thinking about very serious, private things. In reality, he's daydreaming about the pot roast you made last month, drooling a little bit at the thought.

Once you have greeted each other and he is settled, you two sit down at the table and eat whatever it is that you made for him. It's always a more complex meal, consisting of various techniques, food groups, and a lot of dishes.

Simon usually takes much longer to eat his first meal at home than at any other time. He relishes in the way your eyes flit to his face to gauge his reaction. Of course, it is always amazing, and he does a good job of telling you so. He savors every bite, asking questions about the ingredients, the process, etc. Simon makes sure to thank you; your meals give him life again after what he has to endure at work.

He also notices any small changes you make in the house. A new framed photo on the wall, a new throw blanket on the couch, different flowers in the front yard, etc. He loves coming home to see what you've changed or added and seeing your face light up when he mentions it.

Simon really does love being home.

#call of duty #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost #cod #simon riley x you #tf 141

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gojover · 20 hours ago

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the front door slams shut behind atsumu. a paper bag crinkles. something thuds against the floor.

you crack your eyes open groggily, shifting slightly on the couch. a heap of mismatched blankets surrounds you. your hair is matted to one side, there’s tissues crumpled in a sad little pile under your pillow, and a half-empty bottle of water is precariously perched near your leg.

atsumu stops in the doorway, takes one long look at you, and says, “babe. you look like a soggy sock.”

you give him a tired glare. “wow. romantic.”

“a cute sock, though. like the fuzzy ones with the little bears on ‘em.”

you groan, dragging a blanket over your head. he disappears into the kitchen. you can hear everything—bags rustling, cabinets opening, the clink of ceramic, a drawer slamming, and then—

a loud, metallic clang followed by a hissed, “shit!”

you wince. “tsumu,” you croak.

“i’m fine,” he shouts back. “just dropped a can on my foot! no big deal!”

“what are you even doing?”

“cookin’!” he says, and then, after a pause, “okay, microwavin’. same thing if ya think about it.”

you close your eyes. a few minutes later, atsumu returns with a steaming bowl of instant soup in both hands. his face is serious in a way that would be funny if your skull didn’t feel like it was about to burst.

“alright,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the couch. “here’s what’s gonna happen. you’re gonna eat, and you’re gonna like it.”

“i can feed myself,” you say, reaching out.

“nope.” he dodges your hand and pulls the bowl back. “you’re sick, and kinda useless right now. let me do this. i’m bein’ nurturing.”

“since when—”

“since you looked like roadkill wrapped in three layers of blankets,” he says, gently blowing on the spoon. “you want the noodles or the broth first?”

you snort, then cough, which wipes the smile off your face fast. “this is so unnecessary.”

“c’mon,” atsumu says, scooting closer. “let me be annoying and overly involved. please.”

you sigh, eyeing the spoon he’s holding up so carefully. you’re too tired to argue. “fine. but if you spill it on me, i swear—”

“i won’t,” he promises, beaming.

the soup is hot. too hot, honestly. but it’s edible, and he’s so stupidly proud of himself that you don’t have the heart to complain. you manage a few more spoonfuls before your body gives out again. with a small, shaky exhale, you lean into him, your forehead bumping his shoulder as you give in to gravity.

“you’re warm,” you mumble, eyes falling shut.

“good,” he murmurs, shifting so you can rest more comfortably against him. his arm comes around your back instinctively, steady and familiar. “you can leech off of my body heat. i’m strong. i can handle it.”

“you’re going to fall sick, too.”

“nah,” he says, so confidently that it makes your heart swell.

you don’t reply. you’re already drifting, nose pressed against the soft cotton of his hoodie. he keeps talking, quiet now—something about a new manga series shouyou recommended, or an argument between osamu and rintarou, you’re not really sure—but his voice is low and steady, a rhythm you don’t mind falling asleep to. eventually, his words fade. his hand rubs slow circles on your back, and his lips brush your hair just once.

“feel better soon, ‘kay?” he whispers.

and even though your sinuses are clogged and your head feels like it’s full of wet cotton, you smile.

a/n: i am currently sick & my final exams are going on. unfortunately i do not have a miya atsumu to look after me. curses.

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu fluff #atsumu x reader #atsumu fluff #hq x reader #hq fluff #atsumu #miya atsumu

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writesvani · 2 days ago

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coming down | 08

collegestudent! gojo x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: You and Gojo Satoru were once everything to each other, but now, the space between you is filled with nothing but silence and resentment. College is just a reminder of how far you’ve drifted apart, and every encounter only adds fuel to the fire.

You avoid him like the plague, but it doesn’t matter. You can still feel him in the shadows, always there, always watching, as if the past was never really gone. So what do you do? You (try to) keep your distance, pretending it’s easy to forget the history that’s weighed you down for so long.

But deep down, neither of you can let go. And as the tension between you grows, you’re forced to confront the truth: some things are never truly buried, no matter how hard you try.

best friends-to-friends with benefits-to-enemies-to- enemies with benefits-to?

TWs (for this chapter): sexual tension, body image issues, self-consciousness, crude language, implied sexual content, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mention of past trauma, substance references, toilet humor, illness, physical discomfort, vomiting, food-related discomfort, anxiety, frustration, teasing, manipulation, objectification, inappropriate comments

comment here for Coming Down taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 5,5k // date: 29th of March 2025

CHAPTER EIGHT — Wicked Games; proceed with caution...

AN: she’s baaaack, yuh yuh yuh. where are my coming down enthusiasts at? y/n, gojo, ren, and the whole chaotic side character crew are back, and i’m pretty sure i’ve missed them more than i’ve missed sleep. this chapter? one of my absolute faves. and oh, just WAIT until next chapter. it’s about to get wild in here, so buckle up.

i'm not doing a note goal for this one, mostly because i have no idea if anyone’s still around, honestly. i’ll just let this chapter set the tone for future note goals. if you liked it, PLEASE comment. i miss the hell out of you guys analyzing coming down. your asks keep me alive. this fic was my debut baby, and when it gets some love, i get all warm and fuzzy inside. help a girl out, please.

Gojo Satoru might be many things—insufferable, unreasonably pretty, allergic to boundaries—but one thing he isn’t is a liar.

And God, how you wish he was.

You wish he’d just been being his usual drama queen self when he dropped the bomb about your parents planning a cozy little family weekend getaway with his. But no. That would’ve been too easy.

Instead, here you are: imprisoned in the backseat of your parents’ car, Ren snoring against your shoulder like it’s his full-time job (drool included, of course), some truly offensive country song groaning through the speakers—not the Taylor Swift kind, the "my truck left me and so did Jesus" kind—and worst of all? No weed. Not even a crumb.

Three full days of pretending to be a model child while your parents pretend they didn’t once threaten to send you to military school.

Ren could’ve driven with his own parents, but with four younger siblings stuffed into their car like a clown show, he chose to suffer in silence beside you instead. His parents are trailing somewhere behind, probably already regretting accepting your parents offer to tag along to this trip.

And behind them? In a white suburban car so pristine it makes you want to commit arson, the Gojo family rides like some kind of godforsaken Hallmark commercial.

And in the backseat of that SUV? You know exactly who's there.

He’s probably reclined like he owns the world, earbuds in, looking like a Pinterest board made of sins and smugness, those glacier blue eyes already locked on the back of your parents’ car like he's psychically manifesting chaos.

You swear you can feel him smirking.

You are not going to think about that.

You have bigger things to worry about—like your dad giving you the side-eye every time you reach for another snack, as if carbs are a federal crime. Like surviving three whole days without a single hit of your precious joint, because your parents finding out about your “ways of life” would absolutely send them into cardiac arrest.

There’s also your mom’s Olympic-level passive aggression when you mention your grades dropped just a little, and of course, maintaining your sanity around Ren’s siblings—because even though you actually like kids, spending an entire weekend mediating tantrums isn’t exactly your idea of peace.

And Gojo Satoru? Yeah. He and his perfectly polite, terrifyingly well-dressed parents—mostly his mom—are just the cherry on top of this absolute disaster cake you're being forced to eat with a plastic spork.

At least you have Ren. Thank God for that.

When the cars finally pull up to the hotel, you're… surprisingly satisfied. It's a solid four-star place—not too fancy, not too run-down. Aesthetic enough to snap a few spicy Instagram pictures when your parents aren’t breathing down your neck. The exterior is minimalist, modern. The kind of place that screams we’re middle class, but we have rich taste.

You mentally give your mom her props—she always had the patience (and obsession) to hunt down places that are both budget-friendly and cute enough to make it seem like life doesn’t suck.

Five minutes later, the Gojo family glides in like they’re the finale of a fashion week runway. His dad steps out first, offering a polite nod and a quick, warm smile to everyone—including you.

You smile back. You've always liked his dad. He’s… real. Grounded. The type who doesn’t look at you like you’re broken glass someone else has to clean up. He never judged you. And that’s rare.

Even your own parents used to judge you. Maybe they still do. Probably.

But whatever. You're here now. You’ll have your room key soon. You have Ren. You can survive this.

Probably.

“I see everyone’s arrived,” Mr. Gojo finally says, voice warm as he leans down to high-five Ren’s little siblings. They giggle and swarm him like he’s Santa in a business-casual jacket. All except Mark, the only teen here, because he's too cool for that. Classic.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Mrs. Gojo chimes in next, her voice sugary sweet and her smile dazzlingly fake. You watch her eyes sweep the group like she’s mentally organizing everyone by usefulness. Then her gaze lands on you. It flutters for a moment—just long enough for you to notice—before it returns to its tight, polished place on her face.

“Mrs. Gojo,” you say, plastering on your own customer service grin, “long time no see.”

“Long time indeed, sweetheart,” she replies, the endearment curling around her teeth like poison in honey.

“Hello everyone,” Gojo says politely, too politely, and your eyes almost roll out of your skull. He even bows slightly. Who is this man? Certainly not the one who once lit a blunt with the candle on your birthday cake years ago.

His mom nods, positively glowing, pleased with her son's pristine little act—an act she doesn’t even realize is an act. You wonder how smug she’d look if she knew her beloved boy wasn’t a perfect Catholic child but a campus menace with a body count longer than the Bible she swears by.

You and the others exchange quick greetings before making your way into the hotel.

“Kids, don’t touch that!” Ren’s mom cries out, nearly tripping over a suitcase as she tries to wrangle her four hyperactive children. The chaos doesn’t let up until you're finally at the front desk, and the receptionist starts handing out keys.

You’re satisfied with your roommate for the weekend—Ren. His parents look way too pleased about that, flashing each other hopeful glances like they still think there’s a shot of you two ending up together. It’s sweet, in an oblivious kind of way. Ren’s not comfortable talking about his sexuality with them yet. He once told you he probably never will be. And that’s okay.

Still, you’re beyond relieved you don’t have to spend three days trapped in a room with your parents. So, Ren it is.

His parents and siblings are piling into one of those family-style suites—like the ones that look suspiciously like apartments, what’s the name for that again? Your brain short-circuits at pulling the right term, as usual.

Your parents are tucked away in their own room, of course. And the Gojos? Also in their own little suite. Naturally.

Gojo Satoru, golden boy deluxe, gets a room all to himself. Because apparently, sharing a room with you and Ren is beneath him. Or maybe that’s just his mom’s rule. Not like she’d ever let her precious son share space—let alone four walls—with the girl who once turned his life into something similar to a PR nightmare.

Not after everything.

You’re thankful for that, though. So, so thankful.

“Jesus, why do I feel like Gojo’s mother shot disapproval down our spines the second she spotted us?” Ren sighs, shutting the hotel room door behind him and dropping his suspiciously large suitcase with a loud thud.

You flop onto the bed, one brow raised. “Because she totally did. She hates us—well, mostly me. You’re just collateral damage.”

“True. I’m only hated by association. Otherwise, I’m just too damn perfect.”

“You are, bestie. Did you see Gojo’s little bow? I almost shit myself from how fake it was.”

“YEAH. But also—Gojo’s always been polite to elders. Not even surprised, honestly.”

“Hey. Don’t defend him.”

“I’m not defending him, I’m literally just stating facts.”

“Yeah, whatever, dude.” You wave him off. “Anyway, when’s dinner? I haven’t eaten since this morning. My mom said the food here is, like, divine or whatever."

“Seven. Sharp. My dad spammed me with messages about it—apparently I’m too likely to forget.”

“So, an hour?”

“Mhm.”

“Bro, I’m going to starve.”

“Suck it up, pretty. Food’s coming soon.”

You nod, dramatically collapsing onto the bed with a groan, arms spread wide like you’ve been through war.

Ren, ever the neat freak in disguise, is already unpacking both your suitcase and his, folding your clothes into perfect little rectangles.

“Why are you unpacking us for a two-day trip?” you mumble, watching him from the bed. “We can just dig through the suitcase like normal people.”

“Because,” he says, holding up a pair of your red lacey thongs, “Wait—why did you bring these to a trip with your parents?”

“You never know. Maybe I’ll meet a cutie and finally get laid.”

“You’re right.”

“As always.”

He sighs, still folding. “Anyway, I’m doing this because it calms me down. I’m nervous about the whole thing.”

“This thing?”

“This trip, bestie. I can already feel how awkward it’s going to be.”

“Yeah, honestly, I don’t know why Gojo’s parents even accepted the invite.”

“You mean his mom?”

“Obviously. She is the devil reincarnated.”

Ren chuckles, holding up one of your shirts. “Well, you didn’t hear this from me…”

“Oh? Spilling tea already?”

“You know how my mom gossips like it’s a full-time job, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, apparently your dad and Gojo’s dad started some kind of business thing together. They’ve been hanging out more.”

“I knew about that. Still doesn’t explain this cursed reunion.”

“Patience, drama queen.” He sighs, folding your thong with way too much care. “Word is, Mrs. Gojo was so against it.”

“Could’ve never guessed,” you deadpan.

“She even made a whole ass scene. Said he was mixing the firm with your ‘deranged’ family—just like her precious son got mixed up with you.”

You blink. Then smirk.

“Me. The deranged daughter. Honestly? Poetic.”

“Yeah, and your dad was pissed,” Ren says, tossing a hoodie into the drawer. “He almost backed out because of it. But Mr. Gojo? He needs your dad for this deal. So he ended up apologizing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Mr. Gojo apologized?”

“Yup. And then your dad went off about how you’ve changed, how you regret what happened, how it physically and mentally hurts him when someone bashes his daughter’s name.”

You blink. “Damn. Didn’t know my dad was dramatic like that.”

Ren smirks. “Yeah, you probably got it from him.”

“Rude.”

“So Mr. Gojo made his wife apologize to your dad.”

“Okay, but Ren—that still doesn’t explain why we’re here.”

“Stop interrupting me, then.” He folds another shirt, clearly enjoying the drama. “Anyway. Turns out this trip was already planned by your parents and mine. Like, a while ago. Some family bonding thing.”

You groan, flopping onto your stomach. “That sounds like something my mom would do.”

“But here’s the kicker,” Ren leans in like he’s about to drop nuclear gossip. “Mrs. Gojo accidentally let the whole fight with your dad slip to my mom during brunch. And you know my mom. She called yours instantly. So your mom spilled the rest of the tea.”

“I literally can’t even keep up anymore.”

“Honey,” Ren says, flopping beside you, “we’re trapped in a high-stakes episode of Real Housewives: Family Feud Edition.”

You snort. “With better outfits.”

“And worse intentions, anyway,” Ren continues, “your mom was still bitter about the whole thing. She told my mom to invite the Gojos and something like, ‘If she’s really sorry, she’ll accept the invite. Let her see for herself how much my daughter has changed.’ So, my mom invited the Gojos—and, well, the rest is history.”

You scoff. “There’s no way that woman is sorry.”

“Obviously not. She’s probably here just to witness your downfall.”

“Right? Like, I still can’t believe she called me and my whole family deranged. Okay, maybe I am—but my parents? Please. They’re all perfect smiles and pristine public image. 10 out of 10.”

“It’s just because they defended you back then. That’s what pissed her off.”

“Yeah, well, what’d she expect them to do? Side with her? Sure, I was fucking Satoru and snorting coke, but I was still their daughter.”

Ren chokes on air, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ—never thought I’d hear ‘daughter,’ ‘fucking,’ and ‘snorting’ in the same sentence.”

You grin. “There’s a first time for everything.”

Ren and you spend the rest of the hour just chilling—him folding clothes like it’s a religion, you sprawled out across the mattress, shoving your phone in his face every two minutes with some cursed TikTok. He complains you’re distracting him, but laughs every time. So, who’s the real clown?

Eventually, you both freshen up for dinner and head downstairs, stomachs rumbling. But the second you step into the hotel restaurant, the situation becomes very clear.

There’s a parents’ table—all polished smiles and subtle judgment—and then there’s your table. Or more accurately, the kids’ table. Gojo, that smug little fucker, is already there, looking completely at home. He’s sitting with Ren’s younger siblings like he belongs there, entertaining them with whatever golden garbage is coming out of his mouth.

Next to them: two empty seats. Perfectly positioned. Reserved for you and Ren, obviously.

You wave toward the grown-ups’ table, and they all wave back. Even Mrs. Gojo gives you one of those creepy royal family waves—wrist twist and all—that makes your skin crawl.

Ren slides into the seat beside Gojo with a resigned sigh. You follow, flopping down next to him.

“Hi, hi, hi!” Ren’s 10-year-old sister Ivy chirps, practically bouncing in her seat.

You immediately grin and squish her cheeks. “Hi, love. What are you eating?”

“Pizza! It’s so good. Wanna try?”

“Absolutely, hand it over.”

“Ivy, sweetheart,” Gojo cuts in, voice dripping with fake concern, “I’m not sure you want her lips on your food.”

You whip your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. Seriously? In front of children?

Ivy looks confused. “Why? I don’t mind sharing my food. What are you saying, Sato?”

Gojo leans back, fake-smiling like the menace he is. “Just saying you should be mindful about who you share with.”

“Well,” Ivy says with the confidence of a child raised by wolves and angels, “I’d rather share with Y/N than you. She’s way cooler. You act like a boomer.”

You nearly choke laughing. Ren full-on wheezes. Gojo’s smile twitches.

God, you love this kid.

“That’s so true,” Ren’s little brother, Mark, finally looks up from his phone, smirking like he’s about to drop some wisdom on everyone. He’s 13, at that age where he’s convinced he’s the smartest person in the room. “You’re literally one of those guys who refuses to download TikTok and just watches Instagram Reels.”

Gojo scoffs like he’s offended. “TikTok is a disease. You’ll see when you get older,” he says, attempting some kind of lecture.

Mark just flips him off, unbothered. You can practically hear Gojo’s ego deflating.

“Markie, Mom said that finger is bad,” Marie, one of the youngest ones pipes up from her seat, twin brother in tow.

Her brother, sensing an opportunity to team up, nods seriously, clearly siding with his sister. You watch with amusement as their little pact forms.

You lean over to Marie and whisper conspiratorially, “Middle finger’s only okay if you show it to Satoru, okay?”

Marie’s eyes light up like she’s just been handed the keys to the kingdom. Without missing a beat, she raises her hand, dramatically exaggerating the gesture like she’s in some kind of spy movie. Her twin brother quickly shields her from the parents’ table, then, with all the confidence in the world, Marie flips Gojo off.

You catch the corner of Gojo’s eye from your side, and he glares daggers in your direction. Oh, he looks pissed. Cute.

Ivy mutters under her breath, panic creeping into her voice, “Put it down, Mom will see you.”

But Marie, completely unfazed, smirks. “Damn, Marie, what the hell did I do to you?” Gojo’s voice is laced with disbelief.

“Nothing,” she says sweetly, eyes wide in mock innocence. “It’s just fun.”

You almost choke on your water, Ren laughing next to you. Honestly, you’re not sure which is more entertaining—the kids or the way Gojo’s about to combust.

“You’re such a bad influence,” Gojo mutters, aggressively shaking salt onto his fries. You lean back in your chair, casually taking a bite of your burger. Honestly, you love how your mom always orders for you when you're on vacation. It's like a mini vacation from decision-making. But, as always, in the back of your mind, old habits creep up—you can’t help but wonder how many calories are in this thing. It’s like a reflex you wish you could shake.

“Right, and your mom seems to agree,” you say, casually leaning back even more. You can practically hear the gears grinding in Gojo’s head. His expression shifts, his jaw tightening, and his grip on his sparkling water turns borderline aggressive.

“I’m not my mother.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ve noticed,” you smirk. “But you’re on track to become her one day.”

Ren, who has been silently shoveling fries into his mouth this whole time, glances back and forth between you two, clearly enjoying the show. Nobody else at the table is really paying attention to you and Gojo. Marie and Chris are too busy discussing the finer points of their 6-year-old drama. Ivy’s lost in a YouTube video, and Mark is texting his girlfriend like he’s in some secret love affair.

“You’re just trying to get under my skin, aren’t you?” Gojo mutters through gritted teeth.

“Am I succeeding?” you ask, arching an eyebrow.

“No, you’re just getting more ridiculous with every word.”

“Ah, classic defense mechanism. Takes one to know one.” You flash him a grin, leaning back even further as if you're lounging on a beach.

Gojo looks like he might explode. Ren's just trying to finish his meal in peace, but you can practically hear him snickering under his breath. At least one of you is enjoying this.

Gojo glares at you, but you can see the twitch in his jaw as he tries to keep his cool. You’ve got him just where you want him—irritated but unable to show it too much. It's almost too easy.

You smirk, taking another bite of your burger, but your thoughts stray for a moment to the old, familiar spiral about calories. You shake it off, chewing slowly, focusing on the conversation instead of your own head. The tension in the air could almost be cut with a knife, but it's a weird kind of comforting. You've known Gojo long enough that this playful banter has become the norm. Still, you can feel how different this interaction is compared to years ago, and not in the good way.

Ren, sensing the growing tension, clears his throat. “Maybe we should just let it go, yeah?” he says casually, but the amusement in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed.

Gojo doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he takes a deep breath, clearly trying to resist whatever retort he wants to shoot your way. "You're just full of shit, aren't you?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Says the guy who can’t stop talking."

“Touché,” Gojo mutters, but there's a half-smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

Ren snorts quietly, clearly trying to keep his composure. “At least it’s entertaining.”

You look over at the kids, who are still blissfully unaware of the subtle war happening between you and Satoru.

You lean back further, making sure Gojo knows you’re not backing down from this. "I’m just speaking the truth. You’ll become your mom whether you like it or not. It’s in your blood."

Gojo’s eyes narrow, but he can’t help the small smirk that creeps onto his face. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

"Means," you pause dramatically, "that you’re a little too much like her already. Pretentious, overly controlling, and maybe—just maybe— a little lonely."

Ren coughs awkwardly, trying to defuse the situation before it escalates. "Alright, alright. Can we just eat in peace, please?"

Gojo turns his glare on Ren, but it’s not as fiery as before. “You’re one to talk,” he says, eyes flicking back to you. “You’re both just as bad as each other.”

You shrug nonchalantly. “You’re welcome for the entertainment.”

At that, Gojo just sighs, letting the conversation fall silent. You, on the other hand, can’t help but feel a little smug. Sometimes you don’t need to win an argument to win, you just need to get under his skin. And it looks like you did just that.

You don’t expect what comes after dinner.

The original plan was simple: after a long day of forced family interaction, you and Ren would crash early. No more chit-chat, no more smiling politely. Just sleep. Blissful, uninterrupted sleep. But then you overheard your parents gushing about the hotel amenities—a jacuzzi, a sauna, a whole pool area “designed for relaxation.” And like the menaces you are, the plan shifted. Operation: Late-Night Spa was born.

Except fate had other plans.

“Ren?” you call out, knocking gently on the bathroom door, where he’s been holed up for the past twenty minutes.

“I’m dying,” his voice comes out muffled and despairing. “I can’t stop shitting. It’s like a crime scene in here.”

You blink. “Okay. First of all—why the hell would you describe it like that?”

“Because you asked how I was doing!” he yells, voice strained. “You don’t get to complain when I answer honestly.”

You sit outside the bathroom like an abandoned child, knees pulled to your chest, dramatically sighing. “This is not how I imagined our spa night.”

“Neither did I!” Ren cries. “Every time I travel and eat hotel food—every goddamn time. My intestines turn against me. They betray me like an ex who suddenly discovers therapy and self-worth.”

“I mean… maybe it’s food poisoning?”

“If it was, you’d be on this toilet, too. This is personal. This is targeted.”

You wince as the sound of a flush echoes through the room, followed by the telltale rustle of clothes. You brace yourself—and you were right to do so. The bathroom door creaks open, and with it, a scent of death wafts into the room.

“Close it!” you yell, scrambling to your feet like your life depends on it.

Ren groans and slams the door shut again. When he finally emerges—for real this time—he looks like a shell of a man. His skin is pale, hair damp with sweat, steps uneven as he stumbles toward the bed like he’s survived a war.

“Babe,” he croaks, collapsing onto the mattress, “why does this happen to me?”

“I don’t know,” you say gently, flopping down beside him. “Maybe it’s psychological. Like... a gut-level rebellion.”

“It’s very much physical too,” he grunts. “I’m literally hollow.”

You snort. “Well, at least you’re emotionally consistent.”

He throws an arm over his eyes. “This vacation sucks.”

“Give it one night. You’ll wake up tomorrow like nothing ever happened, and I’ll be dragging you out of the sauna before you melt into the floor.”

Ren lets out a pitiful whimper. “Tell my future husband I loved him.”

“Sure. Do you want me to deliver that message before or after I pour bleach on that bathroom floor?”

He weakly flips you off, and despite everything, you both laugh.

“Wait,” Ren croaks, voice barely above a whisper. “Why aren’t you getting ready for the spa?”

You glance over at him, sprawled across the bed like a Victorian maiden struck down by consumption. “Because you’re sick. I’m not going if you’re not going.”

Ren jerks up with a sudden burst of energy, eyes wide in disbelief. “Are you insane? You’re skipping a free spa night because I have diarrhea? Do you hear how absurd that sounds?”

You frown, folding your arms. “What am I supposed to do there without you? Soak in lavender-scented loneliness?”

“Exactly! You'll relax. Channel your inner peace. Get into your Zen or whatever it is normal people do when they aren’t shitting their souls out.”

“But I can’t just leave you alone here like this.”

“I’m not sick sick,” he insists, waving his hand dismissively. “Think of it like… a mild allergic reaction to overpriced hotel food.”

“If this is mild, I’d hate to see what severe looks like.”

“You don’t want to know,” he says with a haunted look. “Once, in Spain, I—”

“Don’t. Finish. That. Sentence.”

He chuckles weakly, eyes closing again as his head flops back onto the pillow. “Look. You staying won’t magically cure me. No offense, babe, but your presence isn’t made of Imodium.”

You blink at him. “So you’re just… throwing me out?”

“No,” he groans. “I’m lovingly shoving you toward a steamy, eucalyptus-scented escape while I suffer in peace. There’s a difference.”

“Ugh.”

“Please,” he whines, dramatically. “Don’t make my diarrhea worse by staying here and making me feel guilty.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But if I drown in that jacuzzi from sheer sadness, it’s on you.”

“Deal,” he mutters, already half-asleep. “Just don’t haunt me.”

You hover for a second longer, chewing your lip, guilt gnawing at your insides. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not about the spa at all. Maybe it’s about not wanting to be alone right now. Not after dinner.

But you don’t say that. You just grab your stuff and head for the door.

“Oh, and if you see any hotties,” Ren calls out, “text me. I need to be emotionally prepared for tomorrow.”

You turn, arching a brow. “Ren, babe, you quite literally can’t stop shitting.”

“That just means I’ll be sparkling clean and ready for action if the universe decides to bless me,” he says, eyes glinting mischievously under his blanket cocoon.

“You’re the only person I know who can connect explosive diarrhea to sex.”

“It’s because I’m gifted. A prophet, even.” He fans himself dramatically. “Now go. Shoo. Get your ass in that spa. Stop prolonging your inevitable rebirth in a sauna.”

You hesitate in the doorway, watching him nest deeper into the pillows, color slowly returning to his cheeks. “You sure?”

Ren’s voice softens just a bit. “Yeah. I’m fine. Go live your best life. Just don’t come back with stories unless they involve hot people and bad decisions.”

You smile faintly, stepping out into the hallway. “I’ll bring you gossip. Maybe even a name or two.”

“Godspeed, my love!” he yells after you, already pulling the covers over his head. “And don’t let anyone ugly flirt with you—I refuse to live vicariously through bad taste.”

The spa cabins are stunning, admittedly. Too clean. Too perfect. The kind of place that makes you feel like you’re already failing at relaxation the moment you step in. The walls are pearly white, soft lilac vines curling at the corners like some fairytale you don’t believe in. The hotel name is etched on the door in cursive, trying a little too hard to be elegant.

You peel off your clothes and slip into your most flattering bikini—the one that says I tried without looking like you did. Family friendly, just in case. You toss your clothes into the locker and twist the key into your backpack. The lock clicks, even though you know no one’s desperate enough to steal anything here. No one’s hungry. Everyone’s too full of money, wine, or disappointment to want anything you have.

The pool is the first stop. It’s massive, quiet, glowing faintly under soft lights. Pale blue tiles, water warm enough to trick you into thinking you’re safe. It’s almost romantic. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse.

You dive in.

At first, it’s a release. Your limbs stretch out, your body finally feels like it belongs somewhere. You do a few laps, chest rising and falling, muscles burning with that old, aching nostalgia. You remember what it felt like to be strong. To not think twice before diving. To breathe deep and stay under water just for the thrill of it.

But your lungs don’t agree anymore. Years of not training. Years of cigarettes and weed.

Years of saying I’ll quit soon.

Now you can’t even hold your breath long enough to stay under. Your strokes lose strength halfway through. Your body floats, but not from peace. From weakness.

The tension leaves your muscles—but frustration takes its place.

Heavy, bitter frustration.

You don’t want to feel weak here.

Not in this pretty place.

Not tonight.

You wipe the water from your eyes, jaw clenched. No more swimming. No more pretending.

Jacuzzi it is.

You walk toward it, dripping and quiet. Because what else are you supposed to do—keep swimming in the disappointment?

Maybe not tonight.

Maybe never again.

The jacuzzi is hidden from the pool by a wall, the kind that doesn’t quite touch the floor, leaving a gap where you know someone could easily peer through. Not that you would ever do that. The two spaces are separated enough that the pool’s quiet hum doesn’t invade the jacuzzi’s warm embrace. There’s a barrier, but it’s a shallow one. A suggestion of privacy.

You didn’t expect to see him here. Of all the places, of all the times.

Gojo Satoru is reclining in the jacuzzi, arms draped lazily over the sides, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if he’s a god surveying his kingdom. His eyes, a pale blue that matches the water swirling around him, seem to glow against the soft lighting of the room. You’re not sure if it’s the water illuminating his eyes or the other way around. Either way, it’s mesmerizing. Unsettling.

He’s too perfect. Too effortless. Too him.

Your stomach drops, and you freeze in the doorway. For a moment, you think about retreating, slipping back into the pool. It’d be safer, less there, less him. But the thought of him winning that little battle is enough to make your chest tighten.

So you do what you always do when faced with him: you power through.

You step in and sit at the opposite end of the jacuzzi, a little too loudly, plopping down like you didn’t just have a mini existential crisis about sitting in a hot tub. The water is hot, soothing, and the bubbles feel good against your back. You lean your head back, trying to ignore the fact that he’s right there—smug, annoying, and totally at ease.

“Well, well…” He says, voice dripping with that teasing edge that always gets under your skin. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Same goes for you,” you mutter, keeping your eyes on the water, pretending to focus on the swirl of bubbles around you.

“Admit it,” he continues, his tone light and amused, “You’re here because you knew I’d be here.”

You roll your eyes, but he doesn’t see. “You’re delusional.”

“Let me guess,” he leans back further, eyes gleaming with mischief, “Maybe you were too bored at the sauna. Nah, you wouldn’t go to the sauna alone. The massage finally over? Nah, you’d look more relaxed if you had a massage. Or, or, or… maaaaaybe you realized you can’t swim as well as you used to.”

You snap, the last thread of your patience wearing thin. “Can you shut the fuck up for once? I literally didn’t ask you anything.”

Gojo’s grin widens, that infuriating smirk curling up at the corners of his lips. “So that’s a yes, baby. Knew it.”

“If you knew it, baby, you didn’t have to speak,” you shoot back, your voice dripping with the kind of sass you only reserve for him.

But he’s not fazed. Of course he isn’t.

“You used to like me all mouthy like that,” he says, voice dropping a little lower, teasing but with a hint of something else. A pull you can’t quite place.

“Key word: used to,” you respond quickly, your heart pounding in your chest.

For a moment, there’s silence. The water hums around you, the air heavy with something unsaid. Gojo’s gaze drifts over to you, but you don’t meet his eyes. You can’t. Not now. Not when everything feels like it’s slipping, and you’re both trying so hard to pretend nothing ever happened between you two.

But Gojo’s never been one to let things stay quiet for long. And you’re both too far gone to ever turn back.

“Nice tits,” he says with a smirk, eyes lingering a little longer than necessary. “That bikini suits you.”

“Excuse me?” You narrow your eyes, surprised by his boldness.

“I’m just saying, it looks great on you. You got your tits done or something?” He raises an eyebrow playfully.

“First of all, no. Second of all, maybe you should keep your compliments to yourself,” you respond, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.

He chuckles. “I’m not trying to offend you. Just think you look good.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “You could’ve kept that to yourself.”

He leans back, not missing a beat. “Where’s the fun in that? I think it’s nice to tell people when they or their assets look good.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible.”

He grins like he’s won some silent game between you two. “I bet you’re feeling all flushed now. It’s probably the heat of the water.”

You give him a look, trying to dismiss his words. “Not even close.”

He leans closer, a playful glint in his eyes. “I could think of a few ways to make this moment even more... interesting.”

You raise an eyebrow, resisting the urge to laugh. “Yeah? Well, I’m not sure you could pull that off.”

He smiles, a little too smug. “Wanna bet?”

“Sure,” you say, a challenge in your tone.

He leans back with a devilish grin, clearly enjoying himself. “Game on, then.”

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sandcobangevent · 3 days ago

Text

there's nothing like doing nothing with you

By @ilovegayangels and @colonelmajorkepler

More often than not, John would walk into 221B and find Sherlock in an unusual position. Hanging upside down was the most common one, but sometimes he was found doing the occasional headstand against the wall too.

So all things considered, seeing Sherlock lying on the floor staring blankly up at the ceiling with a fat bulldog curled up on his stomach was fairly normal.

“Whatcha doing there, mate?” John asked anyway, because it was the polite thing to do, walking further into the flat to put down the grocery bags he was carrying.

“Just thinking.”

“With… Archie?” John nodded to the dog, who was looking quite pleased with himself. However that expression looked on a dog. “He’s a bit heavy.”

Sherlock shrugged. “The pressure is nice. What are you making for dinner?”

John paused in unpacking the bags and snorted. “What, you can’t deduce it for yourself?” Even without looking, he could feel Sherlock’s eye roll.

“I could, but I can’t see from my position on the floor, and it’s actually quite comfortable.”

“So comfortable you can’t even move your head?”

“Precisely.”

Now it was John’s turn to fondly roll his eyes. “Well, master detective, I have decided to make your favourite. Pasta with–”

“–Mascarpone sauce?” Sherlock finished, pushing himself up onto his elbows despite his previous protests over moving. Archie whined at being jostled, and Sherlock absentmindedly soothed him with a light pat to the head.

John raised said jar of sauce. “You know it.”

“And the pasta shape is–”

“–Penne,” John finished, raising said bag of pasta with his other hand. “Honestly, Sherlock, give me more credit! You’d think I’d remember how you like your pasta by now.” He chuckled, shaking his head.

Sherlock flushed slightly. “Forgive me. I suppose I’m still not entirely used to being… remembered. Or cared for.”

John huffed. “Well, you should be. Cared for more, that is. You deserve it, Sherls.” Then, because the topic was starting to get a bit too honest, John abruptly cleared his throat. “Well! I’ll get started on that dinner now. Go back to your floor time. I’ll call you up when it’s ready.”

Sherlock eyed John with an expression he couldn’t understand. He really hoped he wouldn’t call him out on his sudden topic change, but thankfully, he eventually shrugged. “Okie dokie,” was all he said before plopping back into his previous position, Archie settling back into his spot with a content huff.

John let his eyes linger over the scene a little longer, feeling a small smile creep onto his face. It really was an adorable sight – he would snap a quick photo, but he knew either Sherlock or Archie would immediately sense it and ruin the moment. He instead chose to commit the scene to his mind (and remind himself to tell Mariana about it later), before finally turning back around to get started on their dinner.

It was moments like these that truly left a warm fuzzy feeling in John’s chest. Seeing his dog be so comfortable around Sherlock, their playful banter, finishing each other’s sentences… It all made him feel fulfilled and satisfied in a way he had never really felt before.

The first time he noticed it was a few weeks into their living together: John had slept in late after a long night of editing, and he had dragged himself into the kitchen to find a fresh cup of tea right next to buttered toast. He had drank the tea, noting how it was exactly the way he liked it, and felt something warm spread across his chest that wasn’t related to the beverage. He didn’t understand it at that moment, but after over a year of experiencing such a feeling, it was time to confront the truth.

John loved Sherlock. That in itself wasn’t a startling new discovery, of course. He already knew he loved Sherlock, just as much as he knew Sherlock loved him back. But he knew, deep down, it was different now. That his love had grown stronger – dangerously stronger, even, given what he tended to do once his love for someone grew too large.

You see, Carrie – and most of his exes for that matter – often told John he did too much. Giant bouquets of flowers on the first date, taking them to expensive restaurants, or bringing them to meet his mother after only a few dates. John, at first, always struggled to understand their criticisms for this: gift-giving was his love language! He wanted to see his loved ones be fed only the highest quality meals! And he wanted the woman he really liked at the time to meet the woman who raised him! Was that so wrong?

John always had so much love to give, and he felt that was the only way he knew to express it to his girlfriends. But as he stirred the penne in with the sauce, he liked to think he understood now. That sometimes love wasn’t always about the grand gestures that swept you off your feet, or the dramatic declarations that made you swoon. Sometimes love just oozed out in all the little things – like the way you knew how he liked his pasta to be cooked, or the way he remembered how much milk you liked to take in your tea. Or how you understood his seemingly random tapping of fingers across his arm to be him mentally composing a new violin piece, or the way he would calculate the chances of your favourite football team winning despite having little to no interest in the sport.

John stopped stirring. Then ultimately resumed, lest Sherlock noticed the slightest difference in taste and badger him for not mixing it properly. He had a fleeting thought that the sauce nearly spilling out of the pot was all too similar to the love he felt for Sherlock: bubbling up inside him, threatening to overflow.

Fuck, he thought. I’m already too far gone for this man.

“Alright, dinner’s ready!” John called out, hoping the slight shake in his voice wasn’t obvious. If Sherlock did notice it, which he probably did, he at least had the tact of not pointing it out.

“I can’t move, Watson,” he said with a pout. “Archie’s sleeping.”

John turned around and resisted letting out an aw. Sherlock, at some point, had moved up into a seated position to lean against the wall, and Archie had adjusted himself accordingly onto his lap, with the soft snores emitting from the bulldog letting them know he was indeed fast asleep. Realistically, of course, they could just gently lift him from Sherlock’s lap to free the man, but everyone knew it was a universal rule not to move a sleeping pet from your person.

Also, Archie really was heavy.

John clicked his tongue. “Well, there’s only one option then.” After serving the pasta into two bowls, he brought them over to where Sherlock was sitting and handed him one of them.

“This is quite unhygienic, doctor,” Sherlock said, even as he started shovelling pasta into his mouth with the slightest upturn of his lips.

John snorted as he slid against the wall to join Sherlock on the floor, holding his own bowl to his chest. “Yeah, I’m gonna pretend the man who regularly takes walks through the sewers isn’t lecturing me on hygiene.” Sherlock elbowed him gently, careful to not wake Archie. John laughed, feeling that warmth erupt in his chest again. “Besides, many people have their meals on the floor.”

“I didn’t mean that – I meant the fact we’re eating with a dog in my lap. He could wake up and start slobbering over my face and bowl at any second,” Sherlock said, holding his bowl up right to his face to not let any pasta spill onto Archie.

“Well, you’ll just have to be extra careful then.” John laughed, before absentmindedly reaching over to wipe away a smidge of sauce left on Sherlock’s cheek. Then his actions suddenly caught up to him and he froze, thumb lingering on Sherlock’s face, who was also now looking at him with wide eyes. John’s heart caught up in his throat, and he swore he heard Sherlock’s breath hitch.

Fuck, John cursed. Why do I never think before doing anything?!

The sound of Archie’s snores interrupted their standstill and John – as well as Sherlock, for some reason – cleared his throat.

“There was, uh – sorry, there was just - a little bit of sauce–”

“Oh, yes, of course–” Sherlock let out a stilted sort of laugh, reaching up to wipe the remaining sauce off. John bit back another apology. What was he sorry for? Cleaning him up? Clearly making him uncomfortable? Was he uncomfortable? But it wasn’t even the first time one of them had cleaned up after the other: John was a naturally messy eater, and more than once Sherlock had clicked his tongue and wiped at his moustache with a napkin while chiding him. John had even brushed the occasional crumbs off Mariana’s face and neither thought anything of it. But he couldn’t deny that this time was a lot more intimate – seated on the floor with their backs against the wall, shoulders touching, knees bumping into each other, his hand practically cupping the other man’s face…

Should he say something else? He should definitely say something. What should he–

“We should watch a movie,” Sherlock cut into his thoughts. John blinked at him, trying to insert himself back into the real world.

“Huh?”

Sherlock nodded to the phone still in John’s pocket. “You had movies you wanted to show me, didn’t you? The… Habit, was it? Let’s watch one while we’re eating.”

John stared at him some more before the words finally registered and he snorted.

“You mean The Hobbit, mate?” He giggled. Sherlock frowned, but John knew Sherlock well enough to know he wasn't truly upset.

“Close enough. Just pull the phone up,” he grumbled, bumping into his shoulder. John bumped his shoulder back.

“Alright, alright,” John conceded, still chuckling. He suspected this was Sherlock’s way of distracting either him or himself from whatever unspoken thing had passed between them, but regardless, it worked – the odd tension was gone, and they were back to their comfortable dynamic. Comfortable, of course, only in how familiar and warm it was – it was an awkward position, with John having to hold the phone in one hand so both could see, while still having the bowl in his lap to eat the pasta, all while trying to avoid waking up Archie. It all, of course, left that warm feeling in John’s chest again.

And when Sherlock fell asleep on his shoulder, something John knew he would regret later with how much his neck had to stretch with their height difference – well. It was worth it.

Something changed after that night. Maybe it was John's acknowledgement of his true feelings or… yeah, definitely that, but from then on, John had been experiencing that warm feeling more frequently. It came mostly in the form of noticing Sherlock and all his little quirks, of which he had plenty.

Because – and maybe this was just John's bias coming into play here – he truly believed love oozed out of Sherlock himself. Everything he did or said, regardless of if it was even related to John, would spark that feeling all over again.

And it made John fall all the more deeper in love.

Like the one time that Mariana had somehow coaxed Sherlock into giving her an impromptu dance lesson after she and John found out he had taken them as a kid. Love had oozed all the way out from Sherlock's fingertips as they twirled Mariana around and around, her laughter accompanying the music in an even greater harmony. Or the truly simple moments where Sherlock was just lounging on the sofa, lightly cradling his violin to his chest as his long fingers plucked random notes in a vaguely familiar melody.

(Also, John might seriously have some sort of thing for Sherlock’s hands. Sue him.)

There were even moments where he thought that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock felt the same way. When he would walk into the Volunteer and immediately lock eyes with John, like he had an innate radar that let him spot the other man in any given place. When John would feel Sherlock’s intense gaze on his back when he was cooking, only to have him instantly snap his eyes away once he turned around to check. And of course, on the few occasions when John’s night terrors would get just a bit too much, and Sherlock would always wordlessly lift his covers to let John shuffle in beside him, his issues with sleeping with another person in the room be damned.

So yes, John had grown impossibly more in love. And with each day that passed, he became increasingly convinced that that love was just as reciprocated by Sherlock.

So then why on earth hadn’t the master detective, expert in observing everything in the blink of an eye and notorious for explaining said deductions out loud, bloody said anything?!

“Was it something I did?” John asked, feeling much like the object of his affections as he paced back and forth on the poor carpet of Mariana’s bedroom.

“Definitely not,” Mariana replied, idly flicking the Rubik's cube Sherlock had gotten her as a birthday present.

“And I’m not going crazy, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Like… something is definitely there? I’m not just convincing myself out of desperation?”

“Something is there, yes.”

“Then why hasn’t he said anything?!”

“Why haven’t you?”

John skidded to a stop, looking up to see his other best friend with an annoyingly knowing gotcha look on her face. “I–we’re…” he swallowed. “It’s different.”

“How?”

“Because he’s my best friend!“ John cried. “Our life is so comfortable – us and you and Archie and the podcast… I understand him so well. Too well. I’ve practically planned a future with him in my head, for fuck’s sake! I haven’t felt this way since Carrie! Or even…” he swallowed, leaving the words unspoken, but Mariana understood him just as well as Sherlock did by now based off the pity in her eyes. "I just... I can't risk it, Mari. I can't."

“You’re worried that actually acknowledging your feelings for one another will mess up the comfortable dynamic you have.” It wasn’t a question.

“Fuckin’ terrified,” John chuckled wetly. “My last longest and serious relationship got sick of me by the end of it. Were we too comfortable with each other, maybe? Is that why Carrie up and left me?”

“And you think Sherlock would… what, get bored of you too?”

“No.” A beat. “…Well, I mean–”

“John,” Mariana cut off, before John could fall into another downward spiral. ”Do you know what I see when I look at you two?”

“…Two blokes who you split the rent with-?”

“Love.” John’s mouth snapped shut. “In the way you care for each other, the way you talk to each other, hell, the way you look at each other. Love, it–it just oozes out the both of you. And actually addressing this love isn’t going to change anything. You’re still going to make his abomination of tea and marshmallows and boring tomato pasta, and he’s still going to listen to your incessant waffling about pop culture and football. Except now you’ll have both acknowledged this… thing between you two.

“Because you know Sherlock loves you already. Just like he knows you love him. And I know you–how did your mum put it? Think the world of your little gang? Well, Sherlock does the same. He wouldn’t still be here if that wasn’t the case. And he’ll never get bored of you, John; of the life we’ve created here. I promise you. Nothing will change.”

…Huh. As usual, Mariana was right.

“Ideally, there’d be more snogging, though.”

Mariana sighed, but her exhausted smile was fond, because from that line alone she knew she had finally gotten through John’s thick head. “Sure.”

And that leads us to now, in a hotel room in Oxford for a murder case, where John knew he loved Sherlock and knew Sherlock loved him too but neither knew exactly how to cross the line from friendship into lovers.

What he did currently know, however, was that Sherlock was frustrated and off his game in a way John hadn’t quite seen him be before. Something was bothering him, and had been over the past few days, considering his increasing agitation at everything and everyone around him, but John hadn't quite found the right timing to bring it up with him. Part of loving someone, as John understood it, was about understanding the other’s habits. Including some of the more… poorer ones. Of which Sherlock had many.

Like right now as he watched Sherlock pad over to the balcony of their hotel room, ear defenders at the ready around his neck, and an unlit cigarette dangling between his fingers. He huffed in fond amusement as Sherlock proceeded to pat his pockets to search for his lighter. John eventually decided to take pity on him before Sherlock’s frustration increased any further than it already had that day.

“You know I pack your bags, right?” John said, stepping out onto the balcony and joining him in leaning against the railing. Sherlock undoubtedly heard his footsteps approaching before even hearing him speak, but didn’t so much much as turn around. “Of course I wasn’t going to chuck in your lighter too. Nevermind that you apparently carry cigarettes on your person anyway.”

“I asked the concierge for one earlier when you weren’t looking,” Sherlock said, still not turning around to face John. “But I admit, the lighter escaping my mind is… troublesome. Especially after I missed the bloody murder weapon,” he bit out. With no lighter for his cigarette, he took to flicking the cigarette with his thumb to release some frustration.

John resisted the urge to sigh – Sherlock didn’t like making mistakes, and this one, according to his rant in the cab from the crime scene to the hotel, had apparently cost them valuable time they could’ve spent looking for the murderer. “People forget things or miss things all the time, mate.”

“Do I, though?” Sherlock asked, bitterly. “It was right there!”

“You’re only human, Sherlock,” John said earnestly. “Nobody expects you to be perfect all the time.”

“You do,” he said, and before John could even retort, he continued, “And Mariana. And the listeners.” He made a pointed look to the mic still attached to John’s collar, which he belatedly realised was still recording. “The only people not expecting that are the random inspectors we work with because, let’s face it, most of them are just waiting for me to mess up,” he hissed.

“It was in a locked drawer, nobody saw it–”

“A locked drawer that had traces of blood all over the handle and the keyhole? One I would’ve easily seen on any other day?!”

John let the silence hang in the air between them, not ready to entertain Sherlock’s thoughts. He chose not to point out that the bloodstains were barely there, knowing it wasn’t what he would want to hear. Because yeah, perhaps on a better day, Sherlock may have spotted it almost instantly. But John didn’t have a problem with that. He had a problem with the way Sherlock was beating himself up over it.

“You’re wrong, you know,” he finally said, circling back before Sherlock could spiral again.

“Oh, am I? Again?” Sherlock spat. John shot him a stern look, silently asking him to let him continue. He sighed but waved his hand in a carry on gesture.

“I don’t expect you to be perfect. And neither does Mariana. Because we both already know you’re not. Sometimes you jump too loudly to the point she can hear you from downstairs. You play the violin at ungodly hours, and half of your science experiments have rendered the kitchen table basically unusable.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration–”

“–My point is,” John spoke over Sherlock, “It’s okay to make mistakes. You’re still a brilliant man who found that key piece of evidence, regardless of how ‘late’ you found it, which is more that can be said for those useless inspectors standing around waiting for you to solve it because they knew they could never do it.” Sherlock remained silent, but judging by the small smile threatening to break his lips, John knew he had gotten through to him.

“I… suppose you’re right. Yes.”

Spurred on by this, John decided to bite the bullet. “Look… I know I just went on about how you don’t need to be perfect, but I do have to acknowledge that you haven’t exactly been yourself lately either. And I don't just mean with this case.” Sherlock’s gaze averted to the side and John knew he got him pinned. “What’s going on, Sherlock?”

Sherlock swallowed. “I suppose I’ve been distracted by… something, lately. Something that I can’t quite block out and has been seriously clouding my judgement.” At this, his eyes flickered back to John’s. And there it was. John didn’t need to be a master of observations to deduce that.

He felt the corner of his lips upturn in a light teasing smile. “I have a name, you know.”

Sherlock let out some sort of sigh. “Finally acknowledging it then, are we?”

“You did first.”

“I suppose I did.” Spurred by John’s evident lack of discomfort to the topic, he let himself have a small smile of his own. Utterly smitten by his handsome smile, John’s hand naturally found its way to cradle Sherlock's face, fingers tangling in his hair. Sherlock leaned into the touch (like a cat, John thought vaguely), his smile widening, and John just about swooned.

“I apologise for being so distracted by it,” Sherlock was saying, which was ironic, because John currently found himself distracted by the way the warm streetlight danced across his face. “I told myself I wouldn’t be.”

“Why are you apologising?” John murmured, rubbing his thumb against his cheek like he did all those months ago on the floor of their flat. “It’s great. You’re great.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a hint of fondness and amusement. “Wow. I fell for a man of many words.”

“Oh, hush, you,” John chided, dropping his hand to lightly bump his shoulder against Sherlock’s, his wide smile overpowering any real feelings of annoyance. Sherlock giggled – and wow, wasn’t that a sound John wanted to keep hearing for the rest of his life – and dropped his forehead onto John’s shoulder. He, again, knew this couldn’t possibly be a comfortable position for the taller man, but he just hoped Sherlock wouldn’t be able to hear just how loud his heart was beating.

“Just to be clear, John,” Sherlock began. “I don’t want anything to change between us. That’s why I was distracted by it, in all honesty. I was… figuring out how best to tell you without disrupting the comfortable routine we had built together.”

John blinked down at him in surprise. “Huh,” he said simply. “We really are more in sync than I thought.”

“What–”

“I’d been thinking the same thing,” John explained. “The, uh… worry about us changing and disturbing our dynamic and all that. Mariana was the one to snap me out of it, though. Gave me a real talking to.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I should thank Mariana, then.”

“Yes, you should.”

Sherlock straightened up to his full height, and John immediately missed the contact. “...You know, you still technically haven’t said it yet.”

John cleared his throat. “Said what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You know what.”

“You say it first, then!”

“I love you.”

John blinked in shock. Then blinked to fight back tears, because he couldn’t recall the last time someone had said that to him so easily. Most of his ex-partners, John felt, had said it out of obligation, because it was expected to be said at one point in a relationship. But the words came out of Sherlock like it was as natural as breathing. A simple, non-negotiable fact: the sky was blue. Sherlock loved John. And John loved him back.

Sherlock must’ve interpreted John’s extended silence and teary eyes as something else, because a frown formed on his face as he rushed to say, “You don’t have to say it back right now. My apologies, I shouldn’t have tried to force you–”

“I love you too,” John breathed. “God– so much, Sherls. Sorry if this is too much, but– if the rest of my life was just spent in that tiny flat doing nothing with you, I’d be the happiest man alive.”

Sherlock smiled, now his turn to cradle John’s face to catch any stray tears. “The sentiment is very much returned. But never apologise for being you. You’re never too much, John.”

John could’ve proposed to him right then and there. In a way, he essentially already had. But Sherlock deserved the best, so he would save that for another day.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered down and John’s breath hitched. And then Sherlock began shifting closer, the hand cupping his cheek dropping to rest on John’s chest. John felt himself leaning in too, eyes slipping shut as he prepared for…

Nothing?

John’s eyes flew open, jaw dropping in disbelief as Sherlock smirked, holding the microphone that was previously attached to John’s collar between his fingers.

“Wh– Sherlock!” John spluttered with a laugh, not finding it in himself to be truly annoyed by the misdirect. And also because Sherlock’s proud smirk was annoyingly attractive.

“What?” Sherlock said innocently. “You didn’t think I’d let the poor listeners get a snippet of that, would you? This is a family friendly podcast, my dear Watson!”

“Oh, shut up–!” John was still laughing even as Sherlock finally closed the gap between them, his long fingers curling around his waist. He faintly heard the microphone drop to the floor, but for once didn’t give a damn about it as he threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck. The kiss was far from perfect, with both of them barely fighting back wide smiles the whole time – but to be fair, neither were they.

#sherlock & co #sherlock and co #john watson #sherlock holmes #fanfiction #mariana ametxazurra #fanart #event #flashbang event #april 2025

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elpida · 19 hours ago

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"am i not picking you now? is this not me picking you?" his eyes softened. "i'm sorry, that i made you feel like you were second choice... i really just needed time to figure my head out darlin'. it wasn't you." he meant that, the way he spoke? soft and warm? that was a voice for her to melt in to, to soothe and it was utterly serious. he couldn't help the bit of laughter that escaped. "because apparently your type is me, i mean, has to be according to that test thing, right? so i'm going to take a chance that tall, dark hair, rough around the edges is your type."

"don't wanna be mean to me, but you're angry at me, so what can i do for you to not be angry at me? then we've half solved that problem right? i can't read means, wish i could, but you might have to give me a clue on what it is i could do." the noise of his door hushing opened and then closed behind them, he was setting her down on his bed as gently as he could. "there we go, easy" he'd go find a bed elsewhere, maybe the sofa so he wasn't too far, but he wanted her to be comfortable. "right, let me get you some water and something for how much your head will hate you in the morning."

eris was staring down at the mug of hot chocolate he'd as good as pushed into her hand, she didn't know what to make of it because.. how the hell did he know that she loved a hot chocolate? it was always her choice when it came to something sweet. it threw her too, the kindness of showing her this first, the normalcy of a cafe and she hadn't half been craving some form of normality the past few days. sure the androids were a little strange but at least a cafe would seem like something they'd have all done in their day to day life before this. it was such a simple pleasure, her fingers curving around the comfortable warmth of the mug.

she followed him again, looking out into such vivid greenery, and this little smile started to tug at her lips. "is that grass?" she could see so much here, so many rooms, it wasn't just boring grey either and seeing the room garden room, such vivid green it made her feel more... more normal. "why are you showing me this?" she moved to the window, clutching that mug close to herself like there was a risk someone was going to snatch it from her, the other hand on the glass pane that looked down to the garden. "can we get in to that room yet?" she was in awe of it.

maybe it was the heat of his chest, or the strong arms that she knew weren't going to stop holding around her until she was ready for it, but something about how he cradled her felt so surrounding and safe. enough that her own hands stopped gripping at herself and instead, gripping into his shirt, her hands balling the material into fists as she held to him, firm and secure and close, she was so close. she was crying, a soft sniffle as she just cried in to his chest for a little bit, because that was fine.. that was fine because he soothed it, he ushered little words of being there, that he was there.

it took a minute for her to calm, for her to breath without the rushing, without the panic in her bone, for her hands to stop their trembling but it did work.. eventually she was nodding her head a little bit because what he'd done had worked a treat. he'd given her something else to think about and focus on, making some space here, a home, how to make it cosy, how to make it feel like a home for him too so he could experience that. "i think so. i can try my best. you should get to have a home, even if it's not one with me for that- the thingy." despite calming, she didn't want to move, she wanted to stay right there. "my head feels all.. all fuzzy." she mumbles into his chest. she could stay right here and be perfectly happy. "it hurts, the fuzzy feeling i don't-" the noise she made was halfway to a hiccup. far too much to drink. "i don't like it."

"see that - that's the problem though!" she points out - voice cracking slightly. "i signed up for it because i - i deserve someone who picks me. someone who loves me as much as i love them." some part of her knows she isn't being fair to him, but aiyla left people she loved behind to get on this ship. she'd hoped to find someone who was hers - and to have learned that not only had he not signed up for the program, but that he'd been married? it broke part of her. "feels like i'm second choice." snorting at his proposal, her head lulled against his shoulder - hoping to scowl up at him only for the world to spin slightly. "dizzy," the word is hissed beneath her breath as eyes squeeze shut. "why would i want you to go around screaming lies?" god he was confusing her. "how would you know what my type is?"

she falls silent as they walk - drunken energy lulled by the steady footfalls, and warmth of his body. "am angry with you," no. not angry, but disappointed? probably. "stupidly handsome face," she grumbled. "don't think i wanna insult you. can we skip that part? i dont wanna be mean to you."

"whatever you want to tell yourself," he remarks with a shrug, silently relieved that she's agreed to follow him. while the path he takes them on does lead them up in the direction of the floors she refers to, they stop several short at a little area that's set up like a cafe. "this floor has the best hot chocolate and has a garden with a huge window. androids don't do bad, but the garden could definitely use a humans touch at some point." stepping around the counter the mix them both a drink, he eventually slides a mug across the counter to her. "caviar never was my speed. neither were oysters. slimy, nasty things. a good dessert though? now that, i would've spent money on. c'mon." snatching up his own mug, the man hardly allows an opportunity for the woman to reject coming along with him before he's moving in the direction of the gardens.

"this was originally meant to be the control deck, which is why there are so many windows. ended up expanding the size of the ship though, so it was repurposed."

it ached to watch her break in such a way, as asher was quick to imagine his sister saying the exact same words when she woke and he was nowhere to be found. would it have been easier, he wonders, if she'd only discovered this information after they'd safely landed at their intended destination, or would she have had the same reaction regardless? "you aren't at fault for any of this," he tries to sooth, brow furrowing as he stays crouched before the woman. "we do... unspeakable things for the people we love. i doubt he wanted to leave you anymore than you wanted to be separated from him."

home was not something he could offer her, not in the literal sense at least. "'m gonna touch you now, alright?" even with the question asked, he hesitates for a moment, waiting for some sort of resistance to the phrase before long arms are reaching forward to scoop her up and hold her against his frame. "'s alright. 'm right here." even after he has a firm grip on her, he doesn't move much - only shifting enough so that he can sit properly on the floor, leaning against one of the shelving units with her cradled on his lap. "never really had a place i would've considered home before," he admits. "was hoping once we got where we were going i could make one. wasn't picky about the destination either really. so this'll work too, you know? 'm not good at making things feel that way though. like home. you look like you'd be good at it though. making it cozy and comfortable or whatever. think you could help me?"

#eden&asher #eris&silas #cade&aiyla #cade interactions #eris interactions #eden interactions #space au

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puppppppppy · 1 year ago

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doodles of my fav sillies

anton belongs to @poicyss

#my brain is a barbie dreamhouse and theyre all just living in it #im especially fond of the second one because my mom used to hold me like that all the time <3 #im drawing them a lot lately because im being crushed by the horrors and have to compensate for it somehow #homemade comfort blorbos......#watch me draw anton inconsistently bc i can never decide if i wanna draw him close to how he actually looks #or yassify him and give him soft fluffy hair and kind eyes and defined features. head in my hands #i dont really have a lot of drawing ideas for them bc they dont have like. a canon storyline or anything methinks #its just stuff me and bow toss around and giggle abt thru messages lol. maybe ill draw infant vincent one of these days #i just come up with stuff and draw them doing it. it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside #cuz like anton works for lobocorp as an abnormality BUT hes super duper chill and cute and does his funny little tasks so its fine #AND hes unkillable. auggie is an oc ive had since like 6th grade and i smushed them together. and vincent was for fun but i got attached #i dont have much of a read on anton either bc i think hes meant to be more of an insert character??? if im using that right #on one hand i dont think too hard abt anything being ooc since im not taking it seriously. on the other hand i just hold them in my hands #and stare into space until i can come up with something to draw since i dont have much to go off of. but its fun to build on small tidbits!#i think bow called it an au so i guess??? its an au????? im not really sure. bow if youre reading this im just willy nilly #the only thing i know for sure is that they boink like rabbits. im talking gomez and morticia levels of boinking #maybe ill go back and look at my old doodles for them and redraw em lol #myart #my art #my oc #oc #friend oc #augusta #anton #vincent #sillies family #doodles

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chaotixx-stims · 9 months ago

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30 days of agere day 16: favorite fashion style/aesthetic

💿/🐠/💿

💾/☆/💾

📀/🐠/📀

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youmakethelight · 6 months ago

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Not me immediately writing a new post after I said I might delete this blog, but

I'm just thinking about the episode Ghosts (10x03) and I'm grieving. Because I just said that David Zabel's gas-induced hallucination in TBOC was gimmicky, but Ghosts revolved around Carol hallucinating due to not sleeping. And yet, Ghosts was a fucking amazing episode. So, I guess that exemplifies the disparity between an idea and its execution... much like Melissa's idea to explore Carol's grief for Sophia and Zabel's weak as shit execution of that idea.

Angela fucking Kang.

I'm not gonna hold back. Season 10 was a fuckin masterpiece. We were truly deprived by losing Angela Kang as the showrunner for Carol and Daryl's spin-off. I literally don't give a fuck what people want to say about things they think she did wrong. She's talented as shit and we would have got some fucking quality entertainment with her as showrunner.

#really dont want to have to say this again but the fact she gets blamed for a certain ship that was actually the fault of two white men #makes me want to throw up every minute i spent feeling warm and fuzzy about this fandom #like please think about that for just 5 seconds please?#“it wasnt in the script” has been said so many times why is she still getting the blame #i dont want to have to talk about that ever again #angela kang #tboc #the book of carol #the walking dead #twd

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chvnnie · 2 years ago

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@therhythmafterthesummer

i’ve been mia for a second so i’m sorry i just now saw your tags! but i loved your in depth views on chapter one and appreciate all you’ve have to say about it. it warms my heart to see it get analyzed hehe, that shows me you truly enjoyed it and that makes me happy.

please go on as many tangents as you want with this series — i can’t wait to read what you think about the upcoming chapters! 🫶🏻

Letter One: Smoke and Tears

Love Letters Series Page

wc: 2.7k

genre: angst

warnings: apocalypse au, creature feature, use of weapons (guns), alcohol - brief, injuries (gunshot wounds, though no details), fire. I believe that's all, but if I missed anything, PLEASE LET ME KNOW

summary: It's been over a week since you've heard from Chan, and the guilt is burning him alive.

this is a work of fiction. this fic in no way represents the stray kids members as people, or as a whole. you are responsible of the media you consume. please read responsibly.

series taglist: @straystayvlive, @fawnpeaks, @strayingawayy, @almighty-obsession, @ershyni, @chai-papa, @moon0fthenight, @djeniryuu — comment to be added

Hey, you.

I know I promised to write sooner. There has been a lot happening and while I sat down with my notebook daily, fully intending to respond to your last letter, something forced my attention away. I’m so fucking sorry it took me this long. I haven’t been very good about keeping my promise, have I?

I promise to change that. Actually. There’s no excuse for missing that week window like I did. And it will never happen again.

We got to the south side of town seven days ago. It was difficult leaving midtown, but staying there wasn’t practical. On top of all the haunting reminders, it started to get overrun. Rather than cling to the past, desperate to keep it despite its death, we chose to leave.

The journey south only took us a day or so, but was relatively easy. Jisung cried the entire first day, walking further behind us than we would have preferred. The change has been the hardest for him — he really hasn’t settled in yet here. I’m scared he never will.

But other than that, there really weren’t many hiccups. I was feeling optimistic; we hadn’t had this good of a journey probably since the start of it all. No injuries, no misplaced anger. Simply doing what we needed to survive.

We even found a bunker within the day of arrival, saving us the risk of camping out in the open. A tall, abandoned building. I think it used to be an office. The cubicles have been nice. You know how limited privacy is now, so we take what we can get. It was easy to barricade all the exits, and our walkies actually work here (that was the one thing about midtown I despised). There’s even a kitchen! God, what a luxury. Truly, it seemed like a long term place.

Until day four.

There’s only two entries to the office; the front and the fire escape. It was Seungmin’s night to guard the front, Hyunjin at the back. I sat in the long conference room with Jisung — the window faces the street. It’s a good lookout. All was quiet, as it had been so far. I pulled out my journal fully intending to write to you.

That’s when Jisung gasped, pulling his binoculars from his face and hitting me to grab my attention. I grabbed my own, and followed where he was pointing. No, it wasn’t what you’re expecting.

“Are those people?” Jisung had asked me.

My vision isn’t bad, but even I had to squint. He was right; though the group wasn’t big, it was obvious by the way they were walking.

By the torches they were holding.

For a while, we just watched. But I don’t think it was from lack of entertainment, rather sheer shock. The torches were touching homes, old buildings, flames blossoming at high speeds and dancing in the night sky. Screaming for attention, begging the Nots to come find them. To find all of us.

The south side isn’t safe. Though the word has spread, I can tell you my love, that I’ve never feared I wouldn’t see you again until we broke into this god forsaken office building.

Jisung had a window cracked, the perfect amount of space for his sniper to slip through. He was up and at the gun before I could fully process what was happening.

“I have a shot.” He says within seconds, the cracked circular glasses fogging up. “At one. I could take at least three out—“

“Don’t.” I said, adjusting the binoculars to get a better view. Twelve people, I counted. All around our age, a mix of men and women. Each of them laughed as they turned the earth to ash. “Wait.”

“Chan, we need to act now.” He’s getting ready. I can tell. Tongue between his teeth, digging until the muscle breaks into a tiny cut, blood slowly filling his mouth. “They’re headed our way.”

He’d give away our location, I explained. The group isn’t close enough to be a danger. We need to wait, to see if there's a motive behind the destruction. Humanity is all united against the dark — there has to be a purpose behind this betrayal.

Jisung wasn’t happy with me. Between forcing him from midtown and now this, I feared that night that if we didn’t lose our lives, I’d lose one of my most trusted friends. Still, he didn’t shoot, following the one we picked as the leader with his gun. Ready in case the okay was given.

It didn’t take long for me to allow it. I don’t want our letters to just be about the horrors we’re facing. The suffering of being apart. So I will spare you the details of what made me allow the shot, and death of these twelve people.

We didn’t see the thirteenth until it was too late. Until the makeshift cross was pitched in the center of the burning homes, the screams of this man were loud enough to wake the dead. In a world where everything has been taken from us, our lives forced apart, something I believe we all deserve is safety.

Except for the twelve. While I mourned the man, I was delighted to watch the fire claim its creators.

The rest of the night was quiet. Jisung and I sat in silence as we watched other refugees extinguish the flames, sharing a can beer we had been shaving. The luxury felt needed after what we had witnessed.

His hair has gotten long. I think you’d really like it; it’s charming, especially when he ties in a little half pony. The cut on his cheek I mentioned in my last letter has healed nicely; Seungmin is getting better at his stitch work. The stars weren’t visible that night, but with the moonlight that pooled in from the windows, his eyes made you think there were.

After he took a sip of the beer, his face twisted in disgust. “This is rancid.”

It made me laugh, the dramatic way he stuck out his tongue as he searched for the water jug. “I think it might be a little expired.”

“Oh? You think?”

“If you want to be a bitch, then I’ll just finish it off.”

God. I wish you could have seen the way he smiled, or could have felt the warmth that filled my chest at the sight of it. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Jisung smile like that. He even laughed, which made me do the same even though my eyes were burning from smoke and tears.

I volunteered to keep watch the next few nights, though it didn’t come without push back. I said I wasn’t tired, though the truth is that I didn’t want to subject the rest of them to the suffering happening outside this building. They’ve had it hard enough, and I don’t want to add to their burden.

Day five, Felix and Changbin went out to find supplies. We made a list — things we needed, things we wanted. If a luxury could be stolen, it should be. Felix had the paper, smiling brightly at me when I gave it to him.

I never expected to hear his sobs mere hours later. Head on Hyunjin’s lap as Seungmin tended to the wound he had gotten while they were at a store. They ran into a group of humans, they said. In the same building, though at the other side. While Changbin kept his gun drawn, they agreed to ignore them. That’s just what you do — let others survive.

Until they saw them. And laughed, laughed, laughed when they shot Felix in the thigh. Changbin’s voice trembled when he described the group of people. Jisung looked at me, face expressionless but eyes wide.

There were more than twelve.

Superficial, Seungmin said. He was able to remove the bullet and tend to the wound. Felix would be okay, other than the limp he’s sure to suffer long term.

“Charming, in a way.” Seungmin joked, but it made Lix laugh. Exactly what we all wanted; if he loses his sunshine, what’s the point?

We were blessed with day six. Nothing happened. Literally — Jeongin even started to nod off at his position. The day was spent playing cards or huddling around the beat up radio. Hyunjin started a mural on one of the walls, the colors bringing us the joy we so desperately needed.

I spent the day in one of the empty conference rooms. Sitting under the window, thumbing through the photo book you gave me. Remember that day we went to the movies to see some cheesy Christmas movie? You hated it, mocking it the entire time just to get teary eyed at the end. In the parking lot, you hit me with a snowball and how was I to let that slide? I love that photo of you, drenched in water and snow, laughing as you build another snowball.

I flipped through it over and over, happily losing myself in the worlds tucked in those glossy photos. Though everything in the world is meeting a fiery end, you are the one constant. The driving force behind my survival, behind the protection of the others. Without you, I would succumb to the flame. Life is not worth living without you, even if all I have is letters and memories.

Fire may take your words, though it will never take my heart.

That day would have been a wonderful one to write. But instead I spent it reading your letters, tracing the characters of your name. How does it look so lovely? How do you make words beautiful? I spent it looking at your pictures, bringing the album to my nose and inhaling deeply. It still has faint hints of the home we shared together. Do you think we might be able to return one day? Even if not, it won’t matter. I just want you.

But closer. We are getting closer, and closer to getting to you. It’s taken more time than I would have liked, but the apocalypse doesn’t really like making time for people. By the time you read this, we’ll have left the south side. Step by step, closer to you.

I miss the way you kiss me. The way your lips feel against my body. I miss your breath tangling with mine like the snow colored sheets we used to lay upon. I miss inhaling you, breathing you. The way your breath would hitch when you’re surprised, when you feel good. The little huffs of air your face before laughing your heart out.

Fuck. I need to hear that sound again. The cassette tape you sent me isn’t enough anymore. I need you.

I fell asleep in that office, your letters pressed to my chest. And when I dreamed, it was only of you. Watching the smoke hand and hand.

The sixth day, yesterday, the Nots arrived.

We watched as they entered the town; boney backs arched, long nails scraping the streets. Their horrible squeals were almost piercing, even with our windows shut. It’s always so chilling to see them; the remains of humanity lingering on their morphed bodies. Slowly, they slink down the street. Sniffing for any signs of life.

Felix was tucked in one of the bathrooms with Seungmin, a walkie turned on loud. If we needed to go, it needed to be fast — which left Hyunjin packing our belongings as Changbin, Jisung, and I stood in the very same conference room where we first saw the twelve.

“They look rough.” Changbin comments, leaning against the window. He had been keeping watch on the front entrance; even though Jeongin and Minho were standing guard. A warning would be valued. “They’re hungry.”

Jisung gagged at the word, cleaning his glasses with the sleeve of his sweater. “Fucking gross, don’t say that—“

“Why do you think they’re so loud? They’re getting desperate.”

At this point, I realized my optimism was playing a part in my downfall. Even as I watched the crowd of Nots scavenge the debris, looking in trash cans and behind fences, I could only think about how lucky we were to be so high up. They couldn’t touch us, tucked away on the fifth floor of the building.

The lookout walkie gave a crackling noise before Minho’s voice cut through; clear, measured, even though his tone was obviously frantic.

“Breach at the fire escape.” He says quickly.

I picked up our walkie. “Do you hear anything?”

It felt like a century before he responded, all of us holding our breath as we waited. The silence was more chilling than the shrill squawks below. It’s one we all know too well; they’ve found prey. I can only hope it isn’t us.

Minho clicks back on, and I realize it was naive of me to be scared of the Nots. “Laughter.”

The room began to spin, my ears void of all sound except the sound of laughter. Louder and louder it, closer and closer to our floor. The most horrible melody, leaving the bitter taste of blood in my mouth as my body feels like it’s melting.

They have flames.

“Seungmin, take Felix out the front.” I clicked in, trying to stay as calm as possible. “Now, hurry—“

“The Nots are out.” Changbin says, eyes bouncing from the direction of the fire escape to the window. “They’re not going to make it.”

“We don’t have a choice.” Jisung mumbles, opening a window to set his gun up. He squints one eye, tracking the creatures with the barrel of his gun. “I’ll take out as many as I can.”

It was a lose/lose. No matter which exit we took, the risk was high. But something in my gut told me that we rather deal with the Nots than whatever is making that bloodcurdling laugh.

“How close are they, Minho?”

The silence is a beat too long. “Too close. We need to fucking go.”

There wasn’t much more than needed to be said. By the time Jisung had shot down a good number of Nots, the laughter was accompanied by banging. Slow, hollow knocks. Their fists were hitting the door.

And then came the heat.

The flames grew slowly from under the metal door, dancing on the worn out carpet. By the time we were rushing down the main staircase, it had already enveloped the room I had slept in. Where I had dreamed of you.

If it weren’t for Jisung, we probably wouldn’t have been able to escape as easily as we did. Hurdling over twitching bodies of Nots, we kept our gaze ahead. Running past the cross, ducking behind remains of buildings. I don’t know how long we ran for until we came across an empty convenience store. Changbin pushed a stand against the door after we cleared it. Boxing ourselves in temporary shelter.

At the window, Jisung stood. Arms crossed, watching the smoke tangle with the clouds. He heard me coming, yet didn’t even look up at me. “I told you we should have never left the mid.”

He didn’t sleep last night. Neither did I.

We are leaving the store pretty soon. Seungmin is checking on Felix’s wound, Changbin and Minho mapping out a new route as I write. We’re heading east this time. I’m not sure when we will stop yet.

But east means we’re closer to you.

I’m mailing the letter today, too. According to the calendar we’ve been keeping, it’s now August 23. The heat has been sweltering here — how is it there, for you? Probably that much different, but you’re further north than us. I can only hope a cool fall breeze will greet us when I meet you again.

I picked a new spot for you to send your letter as our location has changed — I’ll attach a map to this and check it daily. I know we’ll be in that area for a while, so send there for now. Hopefully we won’t have to flee again, but I won’t be too optimistic this time.

The world may be on fire, but so is my love for you (hahahahaha). But truly, if it weren’t for you, the apocalypse wouldn’t seem so bearable.

Stay safe, my love. I’m coming home soon.

Forever yours,

Chan

#love letters chvnnie #no but really this makes me feel so warm and fuzzy #this au is really my baby and i love watching it get showered in love

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