#or something like that I feel like there's some symbolism in that

[idkhowtosocialize]

trying to compare coding to art is very interesting to me, as something who enjoys both and dislikes AI

for some reason people see programming and art as two opposite edges of the spectrum, but I think it undervalues the creative work coding requires and the technical work art requires

I think what seperates coding to other stem fields is that at it's core it's a tool for creation

math, physics, chemistry and such are just sets of rules, which you can use to learn more about themselves and the world, but you can't really create something new that is separate to them

but coding, at it's core, is a set of rules FOR creation, that's why I like coding! it's challenging, it's engaging, it's fun! and it has a lot of potential in creating new interesting things,

whether you are creating the most mundane calculator or an insane video game, you are making something, and that act of creation takes creativity, knowledge and problem solving skills

in that sense, I think there is a bit of art in everything, the keyboard I'm typing on was designed by someone, the little buttons in the UI, the pillow I'm resting on

it's not just everything that is human made, but everything that is, because finding that extra thought and meaning isn't limited just to creator alone, but the observer as well

modern art talks a lot about how you can look at everything the way you can at high art, you can find beauty symbolism and meaning in everything, because that depth doesn't exist within the object itself, but within the mind that interprets it

so circleing back, art exists in two realms: being created and being observed

and that raises the question, can art comfortably exist only within one of those? again, my pillow was designed and created by someone, but it usually doesn't get observed as art, but I will still argue that designing it was an artistic process

so then, can art only be observed? and I will argue again that yes, you can find meaning in everything! even seeing shapes in clouds is a bit of an artistic experience

so then, can AI art be classified as art? the creator less amalgamation that it is? well unfortunately yes - BUT not because of the machine that created it, but because of the HUMAN THAT OBSERVED IT, without the human mind to interrupt the shapes and the colours and the composition and give it that meaning, it reminds nothing but an array of pixels

well I did mention I dislike AI art, so why is that? and well, while art can exist on only one of the realms, that doesn't ignore the fact that it stripes it of a whole entire realm of meaning!!!

the person behind the piece is meaningful to the piece for multiple reasons,

first of all I think it simply adds depth to the piece! if we have established that the meaning of art lays within the depth you can find in it, the person behind it, who they are, the choices they made and why, adds a whole new layer of depth and meaning to the piece!

you can look at the sky and see clouds, you can see a cloud shaped as a cat, and you can see something that reminds you of your late grandmother, these are 3 different experiences that occurs by looking at the same object, and the difference is in the meaning you find in it

which just leaves AI art as less interesting, because there's less meaning to find (unless you count the artists it's based on), it just makes it a bit more flat

but not only that, I feel like it's at risk of robbing people of the artistic process, there's a reason why people still draw even though there are cameras - it's because creating things is fun!

yes art is challenging, and sure you can create the same result in easier means, but that challenge IS what's so fun about it! thinking though problems is a good thing!

I love drawing, and I generally believe it's one of the hardest things you can do (I might be biased) because not only it takes learning anatomy or perspective, but it also extends to fighting with the unwritten rules of the subconscious of making something look or feel "right"

creating things is challenging, drawing, writing, programming, but there isn't a greater use to the human body and mind than creation! yes you can take shortcuts, you can try making things more comfortable and easy for yourself, but you should do that to give yourself more power, not less power! or you'll be robbing yourself from using your mind

I've finally figured out an argument that convinces coding tech-bros that AI art is bad.

Got into a discussion today (actually a discussion, we were both very reasonable and calm even through I felt like committing violence) with a tech-bro-coded lady who claimed that people use AI in coding all the time so she didn't see why it mattered if people used AI in art.

Obviously I repressed the surge of violence because that would accomplish nothing. Plus, this lady is very articulate, the type who makes claims and you sit there thinking no that's wrong it must be but she said it so well you're kind of just waffling going but, no, wait-- so I knew I had to get this right if I was gonna come out of this unscathed.

The usual arguments about it being about the soul of it and creation fell flat, in fact she was adamant that anyone who believed that was in fact looking down at coding as an art form as she insisted it is. Which, sure, you can totally express yourself through coding. There's a lot more nuance as to the differences but clearly I was not going to win this one.

The other people I was with (literally 8 people anti-ai against her, but you can't change the mind of someone who doesn't want to listen and she just kept accusing us of devaluing coding as an art) took over for I kid you not 15 minutes while I tried desperately to come up with a clear and articulate way to explain the difference to her. They tried so many reasonable arguments, coding being for a function ("what, art doesn't serve a function?") coding being many discrete building blocks that you put together differently, and the AI simply provides the blocks and you put it together yourself ("isn't that what prompt building is") that it's bad for the environment ("but not if it's used for capitalism, hm?" "Yeah literally that's how capitalism works it doesn't care about the environment" she didn't like that response)

But I finally got it.

And the answer is: It's not about what you do, it's about what you claim to be.

Imagine that someone asks an AI to write a code and, by some miracle, it works perfectly without them having to tweak it---which is great because they couldn't tell you what a single solitary thing in that code means.

Now imagine this person, with their code that they don't know how it works, goes and applies to be a coder somewhere, presenting this AI code as proof that they're qualified.

Should they be hired?

She was horrified, of course. Of course they shouldn't be. They're not qualified. They can't actually code, and even if by some miracle they did have an AI successfully write a flawless code for every issue they came across that wouldn't be their code, you could hire any shmuck on the street to do that, no reason to pay someone like they're creating something.

When actual engineers use AI what they do is get some kind of base, which they then go though and check for problems and then if they find any they fix them, and add on to the base code with their own knowledge instead of just trying different prompt after prompt until they randomly come across one that works.

People who generate code like this don't usually call themselves engineers. They're people who needed a bit of code and didn't have the knowledge to generate it, and so used a resource.

And there you go. There are people who have none of the skills of artists, they don't practice, they don't create for themselves. When they feed the prompt to the AI they then don't just use the resulting image as a reference point for their own personal masterpiece, and if they don't like it they don't have the skills to change it---they simply try another prompt, and do that until they get something they like.

These people are calling themselves artists.

Not only that, these people are bringing the AI generated thing to interviews, and they are getting hired, leaving people who slave over their craft out of the job.

And that is the difference, for the tech bros who think AI art isn't a big deal.

[rotagnus]

eye contactship (why you're drawn to them) reading.

a little bit of information about your situation and why you like this person...a little bit about how they feel 4 u, if they do.

i feel like i've left u guys waiting on this forever and it's FINALLY HERE. enjoy, babes 💗 happy mother's day to anyone celebrating!! mwah!! 🩷

p1.

i feel like you guys are full of sorrow recently 4 some reason. so to clarify that this is your pile, i would guess that you've been experiencing a sense of loss. like the feeling of going to a mall or a city or a big place all alone for the first time in a while and it strikes you that the world is damn HUGE. maybe a feeling of things changing, but you don't think it's in a positive light. you guys are introspective and probably introverted, with a strong connection to your hobbies, or even mother earth or deities/your religion.

as for the person you're asking about, i'd say that they do notice you. you represent something specific to them; maybe you have a consistent fashion style they associate with you, or a certain hairstyle; you're the model of a specific aspect for them. maybe alternative or you have cute accessories! i don't think that they hate you, but this person bonds based off of friendships and deep connections, so obviously, if this is just an eyecontactship, they haven't formed that with you.

you're being asked to have patience and to get out of this mindset that's chanting they'retheonethey'retheone in the back of your mind. baby, you limit your options the moment you choose that this person is yours. ask yourself why you like them; do they remind you of a toxic pattern, of home (which isn't always a good thing)? or do they make you feel calm? the universe is telling me to tell you to think about WHYYY you're so drawn to them.

p2.

ahahahaha my idealizers hello babies. so the point is, a lot of you guys are painfully self-aware that you want this person for a specific reason, and you're already puttin' on your analyzing glasses and structuring a wall around your heart to prevent any pain from coming. tell me, do you ever let yourself feel joy? many of you probably grew up in a household where this feeling of peace was associated with a specific figure, and it truly ripped you apart. you were young and innocent and naive but became overly strict with who you let into your life. your heart is closed off. however, this person makes you feel...different. they're a sweetheart and they wanna be sweet to you, awww. you symbolize opposites to them; you guys are probably different in specific ways.

for a lot of you, this person seems to symbolize safety, or whatever you perceive as joy, protection, happiness. a lot of you have never felt true peace, even though you convinced yourself you know what it is...but sometimes we think that what we have is something it's not. you're so used to giving things up and this person, in a way, allows you to step into this specific pattern. always reaching out, giving.

i think that there's def potential with this person, but you have a lot of wounds you gotta heal, darling. all that pain inside you? it prevents you from receiving. you're approached and immediately shy away. 'little bit' by lykke li, y'know? listen to that song, it's the whole vibe of this reading. you guys need to open your heart, truly, but also stop caring so much. your mind runs in loops because you're terrified of feeling true things, because it's just so much. baby steps. don't stay in this boundary just because you're scared of reciprocation. this person doesn't hate you, and in fact, i would say they have pretty positive feelings for you. contrasting you in all the best ways.

p3.

you guys are going THROUGH ITTTT. you feel like you're the darkness and everything around you is so dark too, and that everyone else is just a distant star. you guys always paint people brighter than they are. guys...listen, you are the STAR. i know you're like omgomg what does this person think about me? right now, but c'mon. the star AND the sun popped up. you guys are fucking angels and you refuse to see it. your energy is a fucking BLESSING. treat it as such. you're hella strong, because i know life's been throwing shit at you for the past while, but...you have to step up. stop lowering your standards and settling. stop being humble and realize that life is ready to give you gifts and the whole fucking world, as long as you realize that you, my love, ARE the world.

as for what this person feels for you, i know you guys know what they do. whether they like you or dislike you or whatever, you guys are deeply attuned to what other people feel, so i would suggest you trust your gut. make sure that YOU view them with a level-headed lens. one of the oracle cards i pulled out says 'cracked open. it's happening for you, not to you.' so for your whole situation...honey, i know it'll bring good things. i know that a lot of you were like 'wow i'm so happy i haven't been this happy in a while' then BAM you fell down and broke your wings. baby, it'll get better. i know you can't see it now because your heart aches, but girl. let me TELL YOU.

fuel all that energy and anger you have into making a better life for yourself. this isn't a safe energy to keep in your chest and of course life's gonna hold people back from you when they use you and abuse you and fill you with self-hatred and anger. you need to clean out the weeds. honey, you will meet a person who loves you like you're their whole world. their universe. but this? this energy you're in right now? you're not in a safe place to receive. create your world. realize what you want and stop settling for less. this is a new beginning and the choices you make right now are important. darling, you won't be alone forever. i promise you.

[chimerafeathers]

you know what i think Mirabelle deserves to get a little fucked up freaky in how she processes learning about Siffrin’s loops post-canon. for fun. as a treat

thinking about this line in particular and stretching out the implications like taffy

this is a more romanticized, cutesy facet of her interests but she’s still framing Siffrin’s situation through storytelling. so like. What If.

i mean. this woman loves horror and gore and monsters and horrible things happening to innocent people. IN FICTION. in fiction!!! obviously!!!! and it’s beyond terrible that something even remotely close to any of that happened to her real friend in real life!!

BUT.

maybe. maybe sometimes, if the conditions are right, she gets a little too wrapped up in her imagination about the bloody, awful poetry of it all. maybe Siffrin tells a joke that's a little too dark and gory for anyone else, borderline or full-on Concerning, but she latches onto it without thinking about the Implications and plays along with increasing gruesomeness because FINALLYYYYY someone will play with her in the Horror Space (like Isabeau does in the romance space!!) and then. OOPS. the implications!!!! and she has to recalibrate out of Fun With Fiction mode into Oh No, My Friend Underwent A Horrifying Ordeal mode.

but being able to joke about things, even the awful things, is...kind of comforting, to Siffrin. makes them feel less like they're being babied and pitied and more like what happened was something...normal, almost? something that doesn't have to feel like the end of the world all over again every time it's mentioned, at least. so he tries to reassure her, and Odile and Isabeau have to go “actually can you PLEASE not joke about dying horribly it’s freaking us out and also might not be the Best for you? mentally???”

maybe Mirabelle will get a little Too Into trying to weave meaning and symbolism into the scant details that Siffrin gradually reveals, like she’s trying to finish the orange poem all over again, or eagerly meddling with the romantic reunion of the two actual people in the House with undelivered bonding earrings, writing their story for them without their input.

it’s easier to justify the tragedy of it all when it has a purpose, isn’t it? finding the beauty in the darkness, the love powerful enough to end the world. romanticizing the horrors until her friend can talk about them without shutting down.

and she feels guilty about hearing something and immediately thinking “ohhhhhhh this is JUST like Blorbo From My Novels,” because she should treat Siffrin’s situation with the gravity and care he deserves!! they’re a real person, not a character who exists for entertainment, to represent the ~themes~ of some story.

but if she admits as much…maybe Siffrin is safe to admit that he had started seeing the rest of them as actors, endlessly reciting their lines. maybe that’s just how people process things sometimes, grasping for metaphors when unfiltered reality gets to be too much. maybe it’s okay to talk about that part of it all, too.

[djuvlipen]

the problem with things like the hijab or drag culture or "trans rights" (as a catchphrase thrown everywhere by liberals) in the west is that they have been made out by the media and in political discourse to be these hyper-symbolic concepts used to embody the political split. so when a liberal or a conservative say they are pro-hijab or anti-hijab, pro-"trans rights" or anti-"trans rights" they are not really engaging with the history of the hijab or women in islam (as diverse as it may be across time space and class), they are not engaging with the content being put behind "trans rights", they are just using these issues as ways to posit themselves on the political spectrum. both sides agree that if you are pro-"trans rights" or "pro-hijab" you are a progressive liberal and if you are against it you are a conservative. but actually neither side is actually putting "trans rights" in the context of a neoliberal economy that makes people feel depressed and disconnected from their body while also encouraging people to buy more consume more resort to the plastic surgery industry (among others more) and of a political landscape where women's rights are being repelled while at the same time gnc people are still being very marginalized or even persecuted in some places; neither side is actually putting the islamic veil in context either, if they did they would realize there are many other things that signal women are being oppressed in many different ways in islam, many of them have nothing to do with the veil but it's the veil that has been consecrated in political discourse as "the" symbol of women's oppression in islam; they are not putting it in the context of imperialism that's been destroying every progressive movement in muslim countries for decades now while also propelling the growth of the muslim far-right or in the context of the economic/social marginalization of muslim communities in the west that has also been used as a ground for muslim fundamentalists to spread misogyny and homophobia. and i think the strength of feminism is that we recognize that positioning yourself as "pro" or "against" something is pretty much pointless and does nothing in the long term, we have to offer a third way that actually acknowledges and analyzes the root cause of women's oppression (as diverse as oppression can manifest itself) because that is the only way we can actually build a liberation movement for women. and this starts by realizing the conservative / liberal split keeps using women's issues to be performative while also undermining the impact of capitalism imperialism and racism on our present society

[thewebcomicsreview]

I know you've consigned sinfest to the dustbin of irrelevance but the latest arc is so mask off about his feelings regarding porn and woman. It's weird. It's so open and out there about his whole madonna/whore issues but he doesn't attempt to even address it. His whole ass is on display and i don't know if he's even aware.

I suppose I appreciate that he’s taking a break from the racist caricatures, even if the Wojak Popemen are tremendously lazy an-

Is that the Nostalgia Critic?

Anyway, while this story is stupid and offensive it’s at least Tats’ own bizarre hangups again and not warmed over /pol/ memes. I guess he needed his own brand of insanity to fill the gap of 4chan going down, but that makes this storyline useful in that it’s maybe the clearest window into what’s left of Tat’s mind.

So, Snow White is tricked into eating an apple. This makes her “love the stranger” and not be hateful, which is presented as a bad thing.

Specifically because she’s kind to “creepy” animals, which the name of the strip makes clear are a metaphor for nonwhite people. There was a long time where I thought “Tatsuya Ishida” was a pen name and he was a white dude IRL, like marvel contemporary “Akira Yoshida”. Some research revealed that he was using the name Tatsuya Ishida for his college strips so I figured that was his real name because no way was he that committed to the bit. But there are times when I wonder, man.

But anyway, Snow White is a Pure White Wahmen who’s been converted to being liberal/leftist by an evil queen. Who is a trans woman. Which you might go “Obviously” over except remember that Tats hates Jews now and considers them in charge of everyone else he doesn’t like. But here with Snow White trans women are back as the main Thing Tats Hates, which is certainly interesting.

Prince Charming sets out to rescue her and is constantly distracted by various racist things happening by. Also Tats hates Trump this week.

Or, sorry, Drumpf, which is a nickname resist libs gave Trump in 2017 that’s so tired that the guy who came up with it publicly apologized. I’ve seen /pol/ types refer to Trump as “Drumpf” when mocking liberals (as in “This’ll get Drumpf for sure guys” sarcasm) so it’s’ kind of bizarre that Tats is using it unironically as an insulting nickname here.

Charming finds that Snow White is a lib now and calls her a slut for it.

Which makes this Snake imagery very Eyes Emoji, but moving on

Prince Charming saves Snow White from being an eGirl, and a bunch of other women are like “Hey we are also being sexually oppressed help a bitch out?” and he heroically refuses because he can care about exactly his women and zero others. Given how Sinfest’s descent started with him become a Radical Feminist who hated porn (and that was his only feminist belief), this is kind of a wild shift.

But on the way home the Prince suddenly gets horny for a second. Religion shows up so that Tats can be mad about them for a bit.

Then the prince escapes through a vagina-shaped portal (symbolism protip: A man literally entering a vagina is possibly a metaphor for sex!), but when he gets back Snow White is still and eGirl and he’s still horny for her. He tries to stop being horny, but that is also bad apparently.

Not quite aligning the top and bottom text of your meme? Veeeery naughty!

Finally, they collapse into failure, surrounded by snakes which, remember, are penises here.

So, what can we divine from this? First off that Tat’s worldview is incredibly bleak. That’s not news, really, but I’m increasingly worried he’s going to shoot someone for real. This is such a dark place to be in, mentally.

It’s also, perhaps, as close as we’ll get to an origin story for Tat’s weird turns. It’s been speculated for years that Tats had a girlfriend who got him into the radfem stuff, and there’s been all sorts of wild speculation that she left him for a trans woman or something but I think this is the actual story, albeit through Tat’s warped and self-serving retelling. Here’s my theory:

Tatsuya Ishida had a girlfriend. She was very left-wing, and also didn’t like pornography. Tats glommed onto the porn connection since that was a long-standing bugaboo of his own, and made that his personality for a few years. Then Tats started getting really right-wing and the girlfriend didn’t like it and they broke up (this might be before the anti-trans turn in 2019) and he never got over it and then Covid happened and he was a conservative old dude in a bad mental place during Covid and went down the same facebook rabbit hole all our collective dads did. He tried to fill the hole in his heart with right-wing boomer 4chan memes and the spark of joy that gave him is burning out and the comic’s becoming more aimless (to the extent “hate” is an aim). Wouldn’t be shocked if he made another weird-ass political shift soon that seems left-field but in retrospect is obvious. Maybe he’ll be a “wellness” crank next and start tanning his balls.

[mononijikayu]

for the lovers who hesitate — gojo satoru.

Then, when night comes  We will carve our own secret  I place a bookmark on the night that will become memorable, and open it up without anyone knowing  I can’t throw away my growing feelings without looking at it Being in pain from missing you is better than having lingering feelings because the embrace I’m rushing towards is warm 

GENRE: alternate universe - canon convergence;

WARNING/S: r-18, nsfw!, amab! reader, use of he/him pronouns, male! reader, angst, romance, hurt/comfort, forbidden love, childhood friends, young love, friends to lovers, lgbtiqia+ romance, slice of life, family life, found family, raising family, family drama, traditional clans, mutual pining, loyalty, slow burn, intense emotional feelings, canon-typical violence, smut, kissing, explicit sexual content, orgasm, worship kink, semi-public sex, size difference, creampie, marking, aftercare, homophobia, internalized homophobia, trauma, emotional abuse, psychological torture, coercion, emotional manipulation, forced marriage, familial abuse, torture (emotional/mental/physical), depression, claustrophobia, suicidal ideation, guilt, imprisonment, somewhat of a happy ending;

WORD COUNT: 8k words

NOTE: this is my favorite chapter in the whole series, i have to say. because this is probably the happiest part of the series. after this is such a shit show. i hope you enjoy this as much as i did. i love you all <3

TAGLIST: @js-a-silly-little-guy, @areyna, @midnight-138, @sukioyakio, @totallygyomeiswife;

masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

HCWGBTBFWWJSAB

YOU COULDN’T EVEN LOOK EVERYONE IN THE EYE. It was hard to do it right now, knowing what they were demanding of you. Ever since you were a child, you had been sure that it was coming in the years to come. You knew that too well. It was part of your education. But you didn’t expect it to come this early. You were still seventeen, after all.

Since the day you became clan leader, your life had never been wholly your own. Every step you took was a symbol. Every word, a negotiation. You were raised to read between lines, to wield silence like a weapon, to bow only when it benefited those who bowed before you.

They called it tradition. Duty. Legacy. 

And perhaps it was all of those things.

But to you, it had always felt more like a performance. It was something you wore over your skin like armor, never quite letting it sink in far enough to touch the marrow of who you were. Even your grief had been curated; your rage, sculpted into cold efficiency. You learned quickly that wanting something for yourself was a liability, and loving something too openly was a danger.

And yet this, marriage, the very idea of it……All of it felt more personal than any political maneuver you’d ever made. More intimate. More final. And you didn’t like that. You didn’t feel like it should belong to them.

It wasn’t like arranging a treaty or forging an alliance. It wasn’t like signing your name to an oath in ink and forgetting the stain of it later. This was something permanent. This was your body. Your blood. 

Your name, your clan is bound to another in the most ancient of ways. More ancient than some of the clans here, perhaps even the Gojo themselves. And it would live beyond you, it always will, and become part of the story whispered about your house long after you were gone.

You had always known that you would be expected to marry for the clan. That your life, your happiness, your heart were all things you had to offer up at the altar of responsibility. But knowing it and feeling it……those were very different things.

Because deep down, under the layers of diplomacy and expectation, you still had the heart of a boy who once dared to hope for something more. You remembered laughter in the summer grass, fingers brushing fingers, promises whispered in the quiet moments when the world felt far away.

And now, the world has caught up to you. And it was asking you to bury that boy forever. You weren’t sure if you could. You weren’t sure if you ever would. Perhaps that’s why your advisors dressed it up in decorum, on your responsibility to the performance of duty.

"You’ve done so well. Held the clan with grace beyond your years."

"Now is the time to secure our legacy."

"Think of the future, not only your own, but all those who rely on you."

It should have made sense. It should have felt like the next logical move in the long, calculated path of your life. You’d always done what was expected, without complaint, without hesitation. Yet it was hard to understand it all. To accept it.

Now you found yourself recoiling, not outwardly, of course. Never visibly. You kept your expression unreadable, your voice level, but your mind wandered. Always back to him. To Gojo Satoru.

He had called just past midnight, reckless with time as usual. You were already half���asleep in Kyoto, your massive room was all dark except for the soft glow of the screen of your flip phone. But you picked up on the first ring, because of course you did.

His voice had been wind-blown and bright.

"You up?" he’d asked, like he hadn’t just interrupted your rest. “You’re not gonna believe what happened today—"

And he’d told you. About the curse, about the mess. About how Geto Suguru had scolded him again for going off–script, how Ieiri Shoko rolled her eyes at both of them and lit a cigarette just to spite the tension. You listened to all of it, smiling without realizing, letting the sound of his voice pull you into his world.

Then he’d paused.

A beat.

"I miss you."

And everything inside you had stilled. Because Gojo Satoru did not miss people. At least not out loud. He didn’t need people. He existed above the world, not in it. And yet, in the quiet hush of night, he had said it to you like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Like it was a fact.

“I’ll come see you when this is over. Promise.”

And it wasn’t the promise that stuck with you. It was the want. The intent. The quiet, honest tether of it. Like, for all the chaos of his life, for all the noise and the power and the danger……he still made space for you.

So when your advisors presented you with names. You looked at dossiers tied with ribbon, alliances packaged in smiles. You received them all with perfect poise. You offered the expected courtesies, asked the right questions. You let them believe, just for a moment, that you were theirs to direct.

And then, quietly, you lied. You said you’d think about it. That you needed time. That you were open.But how could you ever explain that your heart had never belonged to any of them? How could you tell them that you cannot love a woman?

That it had been spoken for long ago. Claimed not with a grand declaration, but with soft, lingering moments no one else had ever witnessed. It was never about strategy. Never about lineage or legacy. 

It was in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. The way his voice dropped when it was only you and him, like the world didn’t need to be big or loud anymore. The way he always knew when something was wrong, even when you hadn’t said a word.

It was in every silence he filled without asking, and every space he left for you to be exactly who you were. And every time he chose you, over the smallest duty in his clan, over convenience, over the hundreds of people who vied for his attention, it was never an obligation.

It was always something quieter. Rarer. Something real. And though you never named it out loud, though you wrapped it in layers of duty and decorum, you knew the truth of it in your bones. Your heart was already taken. And no paper, no alliance, no perfectly matched name on a list, could change that.

And you knew that. You knew that this was something real. Even if you didn’t know where it was going, you knew it was real. But you didn’t tell them any of that. You didn’t have the courage to do so. Not when you didn’t want them to know the only world they cannot touch.

You just said, again, “Not yet.”

And thought of the way his laugh had turned soft when he said your name. Thought of how he didn’t just come back. He always came back. And you wondered, quietly, when he’d realize the truth. That he wasn’t just your best friend. He was already your future. He was your fate. Even if you didn’t know it all just yet.

They left you alone after that meeting, though not with peace. Only with pressure that now hung thick in the air, like incense burned too long. Their words clung to the walls of your study, echoed in the silence as you stared down at the stack of documents they left behind.

It wasn't even about affection anymore. It wasn't about love. The clan would settle for obedience. And in a way, they always had. But now it was different. Now, the expectations were sharpened by desperation.

You were the only son.

The last true-blooded heir.

You were your father’s only son.

You were the final thread in a centuries–old tapestry that your ancestors had bled themselves to protect. Your name wasn’t just your own, your blood, your flesh, your everything wasn’t yours to begin with, to the world. It was history, power, legacy, woven into a single body. Your body, your soul.Your heart.

And the body was required to reproduce.

It was required to be something normal.

Yet you were not normal, you knew that at least.

They had said it without saying it. Your closeness to Gojo Satoru was not the issue. It never was. Him being close to you had its benefits within the clan politics. They did not mind your devotion, your loyalty, your…… overt closeness with him, even they could be tolerated, so long as the name was passed on.

“You can still see him, my lord.” they had said. “No one is asking you to give that up.”

Another nodded. “But you must do what you can to do your duty. You are the only blood of the main line, my lord. Your blood needs to pass on. Your name needs to pass on. All of it must have a future.”

“Lord Satoru may come on and on with you, my lord.” Some other person said. “But you must always put us first.”

They spoke as if Gojo Satoru was a thing to be visited. A distraction. A childhood friend you’d outgrown but still kept around for comfort. But you knew better. Satoru Gojo was not something you saw. He was something you felt.

He was every summer afternoon since you were children, leaning beside you under the shade of the plum tree that bent just enough to frame his ridiculous white hair in filtered sunlight. He was every New Year’s evening where he’d disappear from the Tokyo compound just to spend a few stolen hours with you before midnight, before duty swept him away again.

He was the voice that cut through your worst nights when the silence of leadership got too loud. He was laughter on your lips when you had forgotten what it was to laugh. He was the only person who ever looked at you. Not as the clan leader, not as a political keystone but as a person. Just you. Always you.

And now, they wanted you to place all of that behind glass. Still visible, but unreachable. Polished, but useless. Because Satoru Gojo could not give you an heir. Because he was a man. Because the person you loved did not fit the world they’d made for you.

So they expected you to look at the names they offered respectable ones, powerful ones and choose a future you could tolerate. Someone you could live with. Someone you could find palatable to live beside.

They want you to marry someone kind, maybe even likable, someone who would nod through official ceremonies, smile in photos, and carry your line like it was a flag. Someone who would fulfill expectations, if not your heart.

And you knew……eventually, they’d win. You could delay, deflect, postpone until it was no longer dignified but in the end, your blood would be used to water the roots of this ancient tree. That was the price of being born who you were.

But your heart… your heart whispered otherwise. Because you remembered what Gojo Satoru had said that night, when his voice cracked just slightly from exhaustion, all the while looking at your grievously worn out face.

"You always look out for everyone else… but who looks out for you?"

No one. Not really. Not until him. And for just a moment, you let yourself wonder. What if he could be your future? Not in the way they wanted. Not by their rules. But in the way that mattered.

What if the legacy you built wasn’t bound by tradition, but by choice? What if continuing the line didn’t have to mean erasing the one person who ever made you feel free?

Your hands hovered over the folders for a long moment. Then you closed them. And, just to spite the heavy silence that always followed these conversations, you picked up your phone. You didn’t even need to scroll. His name was already there.

You typed a message. “Still alive?”

The reply came almost instantly. “Barely. Wanna trade places? You be the strongest, I’ll sit on a throne of expectations.”

You smiled, the kind that didn’t reach your advisors, or your clan, or your duty. But it reached him. “I’d take the trade, silly.” you replied to him. “But then who would I miss?”

And for that moment, just that one. Your bloodline, your duty, your name… all of it went quiet. And the only thing that mattered was him. All you could think about for a moment was the person you loved most.

HE WAS SURE THAT YOU WOULD BE HAPPY WHEN HE CAME BACK. Gojo Satoru returned to Kyoto that winter break with none of his usual light. No cocky remarks. No teasing texts to let you know he was on his way. No arrogant entrance through your gates like he owned the world and had just come home. He didn’t even tell you he was coming.

You heard from a mutual contact, no one was telling you anything.You knew that they wanted you to focus on finishing your paperwork before the winter banquets across Kyoto began. You could only sigh about that.

One of the elders mentioned it in passing, almost offhand—“The Gojo boy is here in Kyoto, I heard from the other clan elders. But it seems he’s refusing visitors. Apparently, he’s not to be disturbed, as he ordered.”

You knew very well why he didn’t want to go out with anyone. Even before the full story filtered through whispers and fragmented reports, you knew. All too well. Geto Suguru had left. But not before he broke something irreparable.

The details were brutal. A massacre. A declaration. A descent from what he used to be, wrapped in ideals that had once seemed so noble. It was all now warped and ugly. He’d turned on civilians. On the system. On all of you.

But that wasn’t what haunted you most. What haunted you was the silence that followed. The way Gojo Satoru shut himself away like grief had chained him to the floor. Because you knew how much Satoru cared for him.

You’d see it in the way his voice changed when he talked about Suguru. How the sharpness in him softened, how his endless sarcasm gave way to something gentler, more reverent. They were each other’s gravity once.

And maybe, just maybe, he had loved Geto Suguru. Maybe in the way you loved Satoru. You didn’t know for sure. He never said. Satoru wasn’t someone who offered his heart up in words. He wasn’t the type to bleed where others could see it. But you’d known him long enough to read between the silences.

And the silence this time was deafening.

You didn’t press. You didn’t ask to see him. Not yet. Not when the loss was still fresh and raw. Not when he was grieving a part of himself that had walked away with Suguru Geto. But you ached with it.

Because if he had loved Suguru… What did that make you? Were you just the soft place he returned to, a sanctuary when the world was too sharp? Were you the quiet friend, the loyal one, the steady presence in his chaotic life?

Was that enough?

Did it matter?

Did it even matter?

It didn’t change the way your chest ached at night, lying awake and imagining him sitting in his old room, curtains drawn, the air heavy with what–ifs and could–have–beens. You wanted to go to him, even just to sit in silence. To offer your presence the way he once did for you, long ago when the pressures of your inheritance threatened to crush you.

But instead, all you could do was leave a message.

“I’m here.”

Simple. Soft. True. He didn’t reply. But he read it. And somehow, that was enough to you. At least for now. Because you know grief like that doesn’t need company. It needs time. It needs patience. It needs understanding.

And when he was ready, when he opened the door again, you would be there. You knew you would be there for him. After all, you were the blue eyed god’s most devoted follower, for the rest of your life.

So, the days continued to pass slowly, the cold winter air pressing in from every direction, as Kyoto’s streets filled with a quiet melancholy. The world seemed to pause in the wake of Geto Suguru’s departure, all the people talked in whispers, but no one had answers. 

The rumors about the purple eyed cursed user’s actions were varied, each more horrifying than the last. It felt like the city was holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, unsure of whether to mourn or to prepare for the storm still brewing.

You didn’t seek him out. You respected the silence Satoru had wrapped himself in. But it was hard to ignore the constant tug in your chest. The way you imagined him, alone in his room, surrounded by the chaos of his thoughts, a storm in his eyes that no one could see but you.

You saw the way he was, the way he pulled away when things became all too real. The way his walls always went up the moment something mattered too much. And now….now, there was nothing he could hide behind.

You didn’t even know what to say. You hadn’t known the full depth of their bond, or what Geto Suguru had been to him. If you had, maybe you would have stayed away, maybe you would have respected the fact that Satoru had lost something important. But the truth was, you didn’t really understand the loss until now.

You hadn’t known that kind of love.

Or maybe you hadn’t allowed yourself to know it.

So, you waited. And waited with patience.

And in those quiet hours, your mind wandered to places you knew you shouldn’t go. You thought about the times when Satoru had looked at you, that glint in his eye, the kind that said he could easily make you the center of his universe if he wanted to. You thought about how his smile made your heart race, how his words would twist with a certain softness when he spoke your name.

But that wasn’t enough, was it? It could never be enough, not when there was still the shadow of Suguru Geto between the two of you.

A part of you wanted to erase that shadow, to push it away and take the place of the person who had always been his closest companion. But you couldn’t. Not yet. Not while Satoru’s grief was still fresh and raw. And so, you waited. And you kept sending the messages.

“I’m still here. Whenever you’re ready.”

Every time, he read them. But he never responded. And somehow, that made your chest ache a little more—because it wasn’t indifference. It was the quiet recognition that he couldn’t come to you yet, not when there were things still unsaid.

But then, one day, just as the frost began to recede and spring's promise began to whisper through the air, you received a message in the early hours of the morning after you had trained in the falling snow.

“Meet me. Kyoto Station. Noon.”

It was simple. It wasn’t much, but it was everything.

You stood at the platform at noon, your breath caught in your throat as the clock ticked closer to the time he said he'd arrive. You knew Gojo Satoru didn’t make promises lightly, and when he asked to meet you now, after all this time of silence, you knew it meant something. 

You didn’t know what exactly, whether it was an apology, an explanation, or simply a quiet moment of understanding. But you knew it was something. You knew that there was something to look forward for.

The train screeched as it came to a stop in front of you, and your eyes scanned the platform, looking for him. The crowd moved in front of you, but you could see over them, past them until your gaze locked on the figure stepping out from the shadow of the train. He was dressed in all black, his usual swagger subdued by something you couldn't quite place.

Gojo Satoru didn’t smile when he saw you. He didn’t make any grand gestures. He simply walked toward you, his eyes tired, but steady. His usual bravado was nowhere to be found. The air between you was thick, heavy with the weight of all the things that had been unsaid.

And then, when he stood in front of you, his gaze softened.

“Sorry, [nickname].” he muttered, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his voice low. “I shouldn’t have pulled away.”

You didn’t speak at first, unsure of what to say. You didn’t need words. You could see it in his eyes, in the way he refused to meet your gaze fully, like he was ashamed to be seen at all, like the layers of everything he had lost were tangled up with everything he had hidden.

“I…….” he began again, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t know how to handle it. Suguru… I don’t think I ever really understood what it was to lose someone like that. Not until now.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you didn’t move. You didn’t rush toward him. You waited for him as he tried to get himself together, giving him space, letting him take the words he hadn’t yet been able to speak.

“I couldn’t keep pretending I was fine, you know?” Satoru continued, his voice soft, almost vulnerable in a way you had never heard before. “And I… I didn't want to drag you into this mess. You didn’t deserve that.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, and then, slowly, you stepped closer. The space between you seemed vast, but at the same time, your connection felt unshakable, even in the silence. It was a heavy silence, but it was theirs to carry.

Without saying a word, you reached out, just barely brushing the tips of your fingers against his arm. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Satoru let himself lean into the touch, the smallest sign of relief.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Satoru let himself lean into the touch. His head tilted slightly, eyes falling closed for a split second. The weight of grief, of everything that had been lost, was still there, heavy in the air between you, but it wasn’t as suffocating now. It wasn’t as impossible to bear.

He didn’t need to be strong for you anymore. And you didn’t need him to be. You only needed him to be here. To be present. To share this space with you, however heavy it was, however raw it felt.

“I don’t know what to do for a while.” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “But I know I don’t want to be alone in this.”

Your heart ached as you stepped closer still, bringing yourself into the moment with him. “You’re not alone, Satoru.” you murmured, your voice steady despite the way your pulse quickened. “You’ve never been. I’m here. Always.”

His eyes softened further. “I know.”

The warmth of his presence, the simple weight of him standing beside you, grounded you in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. You didn’t need words now. You didn’t need grand gestures. All you needed was this quiet, shared silence. And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel heavy. It felt like relief.

Satoru shifted slightly, his shoulders tense, his hands flexing at his sides as if he were trying to find something to grasp. His gaze remained fixed on you, an almost pleading vulnerability in his eyes.

“Can… Can I come to your house?” His voice was quieter now, fragile in a way that startled you. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

The simple request, spoken in that uncharacteristically uncertain tone, struck a chord deep inside you. You knew the weight of those words. The unspoken admission of loneliness, of needing someone, anyone, to help carry the weight for a while. 

It was something Gojo Satoru had never shown, at least not like this, and it made your chest ache for him. You knew that it hurt him more than anything. Very few people understand that about him, you knew. A god wasn’t allowed to do that, after all.

You didn’t hesitate. There was no hesitation, not when it came to him. Not anymore.

“Of course, Satoru.” you said softly, stepping closer. “You don’t have to ask. You know you’re always welcome.”

Satoru let out a breath, relief flooding his expression as he finally let go of the tension that had been wrapping itself around him all evening. He smiled faintly, a shadow of his usual mischievous grin, but there was something different about it tonight. It was gentler, more sincere.

“Thanks, [nickname].” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked down for a moment, as if unsure of how to proceed, then met your eyes again. “I… I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts right now. And you… you’re always better company than them.”

His words hit you with a bittersweet sting, but they also made your heart soften. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had trusted you so completely, not just with their body, but with their heart.

And so, his room was immediately readied for him. You hadn’t expected him to stay long. You thought he would stay no more than a night. But he didn’t leave. Instead, he lingered, retreating into the solitude of your clan’s guest quarters near your own chambers with an air of someone who wanted to be alone but couldn’t stand the weight of his own thoughts for too long.

It was like he couldn’t escape the tension, the heaviness in his chest, as though his mind kept circling back to Geto Suguru. To the person he had lost, and maybe, to the person he thought he had failed.

For the first few nights, you kept your distance. You kept him company when he asked. But other than that, he hadn’t asked for anything, and sometimes, he kept to himself. You respected that. That’s when you left him to his own devices, offering quiet meals and drinks when you saw him, letting him find his way through the quiet of your home.

But one evening, as the massive moon rose high above the estate, you heard the sound you hadn’t been prepared for. A sharp gasp releases. The kind that cut through the stillness of the winter night like a knife.

You froze in your tracks, one hand still holding the door to your study open, listening. And then, there was another one. A shuddering breath. A muffled sound of distress, as though someone were struggling, trapped in a nightmare.

Without thinking, you moved swiftly, pushing the door to his room open. Satoru’s figure was half–visible in the dark, thrashing on his futon, tangled in the sheets like someone running from something only he could see.

His face was twisted in distress, his usually perfect composure shattered. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hands gripped the fabric tightly as his body jerked and trembled in the throes of whatever nightmare he was caught in.

"Satoru, hey." you called quietly, not wanting to startle him too much, but needing him to hear you. "Satoru, wake up."

His body went stiff at the sound of your voice, his bright blue eyes snapping open but they were unfocused, wide with panic, a look that wasn’t typical of the Gojo Satoru everyone knew. He was still lost in the remnants of his dream, the edges of it clinging to him like a shadow.

He didn’t speak immediately, and for a moment, you thought maybe he hadn’t heard you at all. But then, through the fog of confusion, you could hear his voice crack thickly through the air, barely above a whisper. 

“I... can’t breathe.” he gasped, his chest rising and falling rapidly as though he had been running for miles. “....I….I can’t….”

You hesitated. You didn’t know how to navigate this, how to navigate him like this. He was Gojo Satoru. The strongest, the untouchable. And yet here he was, vulnerable in a way you had never seen, a rawness in his eyes that made you ache for him.

Before you could think twice, you moved closer. Slowly, cautiously, you sat down on the edge of his futon, reaching out to gently touch his shoulder. You purse your lips in a small line, looking at him with concern.

“Satoru, you’re awake.” you said softly, grounding him. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re here, with me.”

He flinched at the touch, his breathing still erratic, but as your fingers brushed against his skin, there was a subtle shift. A breath. It was slow, and then it was tentative. It was like he was finally starting to realize where he was, who was beside him.

You didn’t know what possessed you then. Maybe it was the exhaustion in his eyes, or maybe it was something deeper. The need to help him, to hold him, to ease whatever pain he was going through. But as he continued to struggle, his hand trembling beside him, you spoke before you could fully think through your words.

"Do you want me to stay?" The question came out before you could stop it. You had meant it innocently, just as a way to comfort him, but the moment you said it, you could feel the weight of the words settle in the room.

Satoru’s eyes darted to yours, confusion flickering in his gaze for a split second before something like relief softened his features. He didn't respond right away. Instead, he glanced down at the futon, as though weighing his next move carefully.

And then, his voice, barely above a whisper, came. "Please... stay."

Your heart twisted at the fragility of his plea. You didn’t hesitate after that, not when he looked at you like that. Not when his vulnerability was so bare. You shifted beside him on the futon, the air between you thick with an unspoken understanding. Slowly, you laid down next to him, your back to the mattress but facing him, allowing your presence to calm the tension in the air.

He didn’t say anything for a long while, but his body slowly relaxed beside you, the tremors in his muscles gradually fading. The warmth of his body against yours felt like a lifeline. A quiet, steady reassurance that, for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t alone. And you weren’t either.

For hours, the two of you lay there in the dark, the tender sounds of the night outside the window barely reaching your ears, but his breathing eventually slowed, softened. You continued to let the falling snow catch your eyes.

But when sleep still didn’t come, when his nightmares crept back in, you let the silence between you stretch further. You held your ground. You didn’t try to push him, didn’t try to fill the space with words. Instead, you simply stayed.

And when the darkness finally faded and Gojo Satoru fell into a true sleep, peaceful for the first time since his arrival, you closed your eyes too, knowing that, for now, there was no need for anything else.

You were there, and that was enough.

YOU BOTH WERE TOGETHER MORE OFTEN THAN NOT. The days blurred together after that first night, the line between duty and desire growing thinner, stretching to an almost unbearable point. It had started as an unspoken understanding between the two of you now.

You would stay by his side when his nightmares struck, when the weight of everything he'd lost and everything he couldn’t control kept him awake. And in return, he gave you the kind of loyalty that seemed to exist in his own world, beyond all reason and obligation. But as the nights wore on, something more began to emerge.

It wasn’t just about comfort anymore. It wasn’t just about silencing the tremors in his breath or holding his hand until the remnants of nightmares faded from his mind. It became a quiet dependence. He couldn’t sleep without you. He couldn’t rest without hearing your voice.

There were nights you’d wake up, your body still warm beside his, only to find him already watching you, his eyes tired but earnest. When you asked him what was wrong, he’d simply murmur groggily, “I can’t sleep unless you’re here.”

And despite the swirl of responsibility and expectations that hovered around both of you, despite the tension that built from the burden of your futures, you found yourself doing it, just lying beside him, speaking softly into the night to help him drift into sleep.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

You were a clan leader. You had duties that demanded your attention, your presence. Your advisors, your family—they all needed you. There were alliances to be strengthened, decisions to be made, and a future to uphold. You had responsibilities that weighed heavy, and you couldn’t ignore them, no matter how much you longed to.

But Gojo Satoru? 

He knew this, and yet he couldn’t let go.

At least not yet.

And maybe, deep down, you both knew that the intensity between you, the constant pull to stay by his side, wasn’t something that could be ignored forever. But still, he did it all on his whim. He used his power to make them all bend to his will.

He had always been the strongest, the most formidable force in the world of jujutsu sorcery, and now, in his subtle way, he wielded that power not just for missions or battles but for you. He used it to push through the politics and the pressures, to bend people to his will so that no one would dare take you away from him.

At times, the weight of his actions would hit you, and you couldn’t ignore the storm of conflicted thoughts that would rise in your chest. But when you saw the look in his eyes. The same familiar gleam that had always been there, a mixture of arrogance and warmth. You knew that he wasn’t doing it out of a desire for control. He was doing it because he couldn’t bear to lose you.

One evening, after a particularly long day of negotiations with the other clans regarding the exchange of young sorcerer children to train, you arrived at your quarters, exhausted. But before you could even settle into the routine of unwinding, you found him there, waiting.

Gojo Satoru was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, the corners of his lips curled into that signature, easy smirk that had always been both a challenge and an invitation. You blinked, looking at him.

“Late, isn’t it?” he said, the playful tone covering something softer. “You should’ve called. I was starting to wonder if I’d have to come drag you out of your little meetings.”

You didn’t respond immediately. You were too tired, too weighed down by the decisions that still loomed over you. But as you looked at him, as you saw the way his gaze softened when he saw you, something shifted. 

He had that look in his eyes, the one that made your heart tighten in your chest. The way he watched you now, as though you were the only thing that mattered to him in a world full of chaos.

"You can’t keep doing this forever, Satoru." you said, your voice quiet, the words heavier than they felt. You took a deep breath, willing yourself not to fall into the trap of his presence, the way he made everything seem so simple. "Using your power, bending things to keep me close—it’s not sustainable, Satoru."

He didn’t move, his bright eyed gaze still fixed on you. There was no surprise in his eyes, no apology. Instead, there was only a quiet intensity, the familiar streak of determination, of something deeper.

“You’re wrong, you know.” he said softly, his voice steady, yet filled with a kind of certainty that made you feel like he was looking at something beyond the present. Beyond what was even possible. “I want you by my side forever.”

The words struck you in a way you hadn’t expected. He wasn’t asking. He wasn’t making a plea. He was stating a fact, as though the idea of a future without you was something so unthinkable that it couldn’t even be considered.

“I know I can’t keep using my power like this forever.” Satoru continued, pushing off from the doorframe and closing the distance between you. “I like having you close to me, after all.”

He stood in front of you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, his presence enveloping you. His eyes, though still holding that sharpness, had softened in a way you hadn’t seen before.

"That’s why I don’t care." He paused, his voice low, almost reverent. "I want you with me, end of story. And if it means bending the world to make it happen, then I will. Because I can’t—" He shook his head, the weight of his words falling between you. "I can’t go back to how things were before, not without you."

You stared at him, your heart thundering in your chest. It was impossible, what he was asking. A future shared, with all its risks, all its impossibilities. And yet, despite everything, a part of you knew. Knew you wanted it too. 

The warmth of his presence. The way he made you feel like there could be a future beyond all the responsibilities, the weight of your clans, the paths that had been set before you. It was impossible, yes. But so was your love for him.

“I can’t promise you forever, Satoru.” you whispered, your fingers lightly brushing his arm. "I have duties I can’t ignore, responsibilities that tie me down in ways I can’t escape."

He looked at you, eyes sharp, but there was a flicker of something vulnerable there. "I’m not asking for forever, not today, not yet." he said quietly, the edge of his grin softening, turning into something far more genuine. "I’m just asking for you to stay with me, here, now. That’s all I need."

And in that moment, with him so close, his breath mingling with yours, you didn’t know how to refuse. You didn’t know if you even wanted to. The silence that stretched between you and Satoru wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t light either. 

It was a quiet that spoke volumes, a space where everything unsaid floated around you both, unacknowledged but understood. His eyes were searching yours, as if waiting for a response, but it wasn’t just the answer he wanted. It was something deeper. Something you couldn’t quite put into words.

You had spent your life tethered to your clan, to the expectations that came with your bloodline. Every decision had been dictated by duty, by legacy, by the future that was already mapped out for you. And in a way, Satoru had always been part of that map, an impossible thing, a shadow you couldn’t seem to escape. 

You’d been a part of his world for so long, yet this—this togetherness—felt different. His request, his desire to keep you by his side, was something that challenged everything you had ever known. Still, standing there before him, the world felt smaller. Less complicated.

You had never known him to be the type to ask for anything, at least not like this. With the weight of his power, he took what he wanted. He didn’t wait for approval, didn’t seek permission. He demanded things. But now? Now he was here, standing in front of you, vulnerable in a way you had never seen before, offering you his truth, raw and unguarded.

“I want you.” he repeated softly, his voice almost a whisper, like a confession, like a promise. “For all my life.”

You swallowed hard, your heart doing something wild in your chest, threatening to give way to something far too dangerous, far too unmanageable. You wanted him too, didn’t you? More than anything, you wanted to lose yourself in him, to forget the obligations that held you back. But you couldn’t. Not like this. Not without consequence.

You could feel the sincerity in his words, the vulnerability beneath the bravado. And for the first time, you realized, he wasn’t just speaking from a place of want. He was speaking from a place of fear. Fear of losing you. Fear of being alone in a world that had already taken so much from him.

He had always been the strongest, the most unshakeable. But in this moment, you saw the cracks beneath that facade. You saw how deeply his bond with Suguru had affected him, how the loss had left him grasping for something—someone—to hold on to.

You.

Your chest ached as you stared into his eyes, those Six Eyes that saw everything, that never missed a thing. But they were soft now. Vulnerable. And in that moment, you couldn’t deny the pull that had always been there.

“I don’t know how to balance it all, not when I’m consumed by you.” you whispered, the fear of the future settling in your stomach. “I don’t know how to be the leader I’m supposed to be and... be with you. Not like this.”

Satoru’s fingers gently brushed the side of your face, his touch surprisingly tender, soothing the tension that had built between you. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. Not right now.” His voice was low, comforting. “All you have to do is let me stay. Let me help you find that balance sometime.”

“Satoru—”

“But for now…..promise me.”

“Promise you what?”

“Let me consume you for a little bit.” He whispered to you. “Even for a little while.”

You stared at him, the words still hanging in the air between you. It feels warm, desperate, and fragile. His hand lingered at your jaw, thumb just barely grazing the curve of your cheek. It was maddening, the softness of it. The way even now, even after everything, he could ask that of you, could look at you like you were the only thing left in the world that made sense.

“Satoru.” you whispered again, voice trembling. “You can’t just say things like that.”

His lips curved, not quite a smile, more like a shadow of one. “Why not?” he asked, leaning in just a fraction, so close now you could feel the breath of his words against your skin. “You think I haven’t already been consumed by you? That I don’t want to be consumed by you?”

His words lingered in the air between you, a delicate thread woven between your hearts. You wanted to say something more, something that would make sense of everything that was spiraling out of control. But the truth was, there was no perfect answer. Not for this.

Gojo Satoru could feel his breath hitch, just slightly, as though he too had realized the enormity of what he’d just said. Of what he was asking. Of what you both had never stopped asking of each other, in silence, for years.

Your chest tightened. “I’m not something you can have just for a moment.” you whispered. “Satoru….”

“I know…..” he said, almost instantly, and it broke your heart. How fast the words came, how much pain lived in them. “I know. I don’t want to walk away anymore. Not when it comes to you.”

You didn’t realize when your hand had come up, fingertips tracing the curve of his jaw. His glasses were still on, but you didn’t need to see his bright eyes to feel the ache behind them. It was in the tremble of his breath, the way he leaned into your touch like he’d been starving for it.

“I dreamed about this, a lot. More often now than before.” he murmured, voice barely audible. “Every night, when I was going on missions. When I was alone. When I was bleeding back then….. I dreamed about you.”

“Satoru—”

But the rest of your words were lost.

Because his mouth was on yours.

Because he has made his move.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rushed. It was the softest kind of devastation, like something holy, something that could collapse the world with a whisper. His kiss tasted of desperation and memory, of fire held too long in the hands. You felt yourself fall into it, into him, like there had never been before, like this was the only now that had ever mattered.

His hands found your waist, steady, reverent. Your fingers curled in the fabric at his chest. There was no more pretending. Not here, not with the way your lips moved together like a prayer unspoken, like a language only you two understood.

When he pulled away, just barely, his forehead rested against yours. You both stood there, breathing in each other’s breath, suspended in the moment like it would shatter if either of you moved.

“I’ve loved you for a long time, I think. And….I don’t know if it’s going to be returned.” he whispered. “But I hope you know I love you. More than you know.”

Your breath caught. The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, aching in the places you’d kept hidden even from yourself. All this time—years lost to silence, to duty, to pretending. And yet, here he was. Offering up his heart like it wasn’t the most fragile thing either of you had ever held.

“Satoru, I…..” you breathed, and your voice shook, but not from fear. “You—”

He pulled back just enough to see your face, though the still veiled eyes. “You don’t have to say anything, not to me.” he said softly. “I’m not asking for anything in return. I just needed to say it. Out loud. Just once.”

You stared at him, searching for the right words, the right shape to carry all you had buried. And maybe there wasn’t a perfect one. Maybe there never would be. But even so, you knew you had to. You had to say it now, or you’ll miss the opportunity to do it.

“I do love you, Satoru.” you said, barely louder than the wind. “I’ve always loved you. I just… I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

His breath caught, a sharp sound swallowed quickly, like he was afraid to believe it. “What….”

You placed a hand gently over his heart, felt it racing beneath your palm. “You were always more than a friend to me. I just….I needed time to realize it all. You are more than duty, more than desire, more than anything I knew how to name back then.”

And then, a faint smile ghosted across your lips. “You say you don’t know if it’s returned—but Satoru, I think I’ve been returning it every day. In the silence. In the waiting. In every version of me that ever reached for you and stayed quiet.”

His hands trembled where they held you. And then—he laughed, barely a breath, barely sound, but it was real and it was warm and it broke you both just a little more open.

“Say it again, please.” he whispered, like a secret he didn’t dare ask for but needed all the same. “I need to hear it from you again.”

“I love you, I love you.” you said, firmer now, eyes locked with his own. “I love you, Satoru.”

This time, he kissed you like it was the first time. Like it was the last time. Like all the years you lost had been leading to this exact breath. Like, for the first time in a long time, you were finally, finally found. You were finally loved.

[felonytaxevasion]

And terrible thumbnails of lazy quality but my thoughts on how I would set up the Undersiders with Their Cape Self paintings if I wasn't constantly busy

1. Aisha, position Imp with her arms around Aisha shielding/hiding her with a background of shadowy figures looking over her. Literal visualization of her power but you can pull some tension in Imps creepy smile and Aisha not smiling.

2. Alec. You gotta hide Alecs face entirely and only leave Regents blank face expression mask. Alec buried all his feelings away and his behind his cape self but even his cape self can't feel much of anything. Little Alec clings to the big Alec since in this piece he would be meant to represent vulnerability and childlike tendencies which is also why you can barely see little Alec. Almost entirely gone. The background has curtains to reference Alecs love of fancy things but also as a Pay No Attention To The Man Behind The Curtain, the man behind the curtain being both Little Alec and also Alec when controlling the targets of his power

3. And I don't know Lisa like that at all so I kind of phoned it in but I think having Tattletale full eyes out and grinning like her life is so awesome but also clutching Little Lisa and covering her eyes both as a mercy and a way of preventing escape. Maybe there's something there but someone else will have to tell me

4. Likewise Rachel I'm not sure about at all. I drew Bitch picking her up and carrying her because that's vulnerability Rachel doesn't give anyone but herself plus also fun to draw. The dogs move with Bitch in one direction while Rachel looks away. Is this about how for all her acting Rachel secretly wishes she could be among humans instead of dogs? Is it about how Rachel is only able to move forward because of her dogs? Is this me making shit up on the spot because I don't know Rachel very well? Up to you

5. Taylor is so easy because she does her tragic symbolism to herself. Resting her forehead against her cape self, mirroring each other. You keep the body language comforting but you put Taylor and Skitter in a spider web and have Skitter holding onto webbing laced around Taylors neck. Skitter both comforting and her and preparing her for her inevitable tragic doom forever.

6. Brian's is simple but I think it works for him. Grue standing over him like a parent hands on his shoulders to convey expectations. Skeleton mask foreshadowing death. It's easy. The only difficult thing is Brian should be wearing a colored shirt to distinguish him from the greys of the rest of the piece though as we all know Brian only wears beige. Maybe you can do some clever lighting with the helmet reflecting the shirt and the shadows covering it so the fun color side stays with Grue, the more carefree half of Brian's personas. Idk

Ok and that's my vision for the world thank you all for coming

[crunchcrunchteacakes]

Spy x Family Is Hiding a Bigger Plot, and the Animals Are the Key

So I’ve mentioned this before, but the connection between Eden, Garden, and Project Apple can’t just be a coincidence. There’s way too much biblical symbolism going on.

Here’s what I’ve pieced together: We first hear about Project Apple back in Chapter 19. It was a secret research initiative under the previous Ostanian regime (the National Unity Party, which is led by Donovan Desmond, who may be a telepath himself). The project aimed to create highly intelligent animals for military purposes. It’s suggested that some of the experiments did succeed, but the project was shut down, so there was no public confirmation.

We already know Bond (Subject 8) came from this project, and so did Aaron. But what really stood out to me was the glimpse we got of other animals in the lab: one was clearly a dolphin (so sea creatures were not exempted from the experiment), and another looked like a winged creature, probably a bird.

That’s where things get interesting.

Director Wilkins recently mentioned Belle to Shopkeeper (the seal from chapter 103), and then there’s Kee Kee, the falcon used by Matthew. Kee Kee isn’t just a pet, she’s clearly intelligent. She tracks poachers, annoys hemlock, and honestly shows more tactical awareness than should be normal for an average bird. So if Belle and Kee Kee are both enhanced animals... that would mean Garden knows about Project Apple. And not just that, they’re using these animals. Whether Garden inherited the project, absorbed it after the regime change, or has some kind of backdoor access to its results, it’s clear there’s a connection. Which opens up a lot of questions:

Is Garden more intertwined with the National Unity Party than we thought? did they have a fallout? (I have the impression that Garden is loyal to the past empire and see all political parties as temporary).

Are there more Apple subjects out there, working under the radar?

Was Anya herself a part of this program, or something adjacent? Does the Garden know about her and Bond?

The idea that these three institutions, Eden, Garden, and Apple, are thematically and literally connected is starting to feel less like a theory and more like a reveal waiting to happen.

[rahuratna]

Minnie, I was right.

This is, by far, one of my absolute favourite Nanami fics ever written, so much so that it took me two whole days to actually finish it because I was taking breaks to digest how marvelous each section was.

Every part of this fic was a love letter to Nanami (and his forearms, but I digress) and I feel like you single-handedly made me fall in love with his character all over again.

Right here is the deeply sensitive and observant side of him, the vulnerability even with undeniable strength, the underlying mischievous and deeply passionate man who you always manage to capture the essence of.

But before I continue with my general impressions, a more detailed look is called for. If I'm going to quote every line that was breathtakingly written, I'm going to quote half the story, so I'm going to exercise some restraint here, lol.

The opening scene and the return to this point in time in the last section was such a symbolic moment. It felt like the ring on her finger, such a small item, so precious, doubly so because of WHO had given it. It's a commitment that Nanami made, seemingly without even having to think about it at the furniture store, but the decision carries so much more weight with him. This is the culmination of events in a relationship, while simultaneously being the birth of so many new avenues for him and reader.

Yes, this is THE ode to Nanami's forearms that I've always dreamed of reading, but it's so much more than that. Through the appreciation of this aspect of him, you've fixed a lens through which we get to see all the best parts of his character.

We get to see the rule-abiding, stoic side of him at work, the canon-familiar dynamic with Ino and Gojo, but also a slow unfurling of a man. He reveals himself, layer by layer, through the way he does paperwork, the way he takes note of the reader's habits and mannerisms, the way he acknowledges his own burgeoning feelings and takes responsibility for them (as he WOULD), that slow, powerful, sweet pour of his honeyed existence into the vessel of your world. It's poetry. Pure poetry.

There's something so delightfully and earthily erotic about reader's obsession with his arms (I have never identified more strongly with a reader character, btw) but its always artfully offset by the way the complexity of her emotions surrounding it are conveyed.

It's an elaborate dance, a push and pull, dare I say, a form of courtship on its most primal level. As a male bird of paradise displays his feathers to gain the attention of the female, here Nanami, a man not given to ostentatious display at all, finds his own manner of mating call, and explores both their sexualities in a way that only strengthens and cements the bond of love and trust between them. This is truly a masterpiece of writing, and it shows in nuances like this.

The way reader is also portrayed as such a complex and subtle character is also amazing to me. She inhabits a unique sphere in his world without infringing on, or changing it. She fits into his reality, as he does in hers. There's this seamless transition between canon and what occurs in their relationship that must have taken so much craft to convey, but you truly made it look effortless.

The many little chronological incidents that you write chain into each other so well with those brushstrokes of lighter curiosity, building attraction, natural companionship, cut through with the deeper shades of lust, desire, longing and love that binds like sinew to bones.

Also, can I slow clap for the way Nanami uses his knowledge of her specific kink to draw out such an elaborate plan of seduction?? This is so HIM??? It's 100% something he would do, at least, in my head. In an almost scientific manner, he observes, hypothesizes, sets out his aim and objectives, tests them in numerous scenarios, observes her responses, notes them meticulously, and then applies them with all the precision of a Swedish-manufactured timepiece.

FUCK.

Minnie. I am WEAK for this man.

Can I also say that your prose is just stunning (always, but particularly in this piece). There were such subtle masterstrokes of allegory, metaphor and imagery throughout that I completely lost track of which were my favorites, because there were JUST TOO MANY.

I apologise for how disjointed this review is, but ALSO, there is a certain intimacy you always bring with your depiction of Nanami. He feels so real, like I could reach out and touch him, feel the fabric of his trousers under my fingers, map out the veins on his arms, smell the underlying natural scent of him, feel the warmth of his scalp where his undercut runs thinnest. It's your words that bring this almost visceral, tactile version of Nanami to life through writing, and there is something so incredibly powerful about that.

Another reader called you the "Nanami Queen" and I have to throw in my vote, because I've honestly read very, very few fics that bring him to life the way you've managed to. Nanami breathes, fights, struggles, loves, lusts, and lives through your words. He carves a firm place in the mind that can't be unseated by any other version of him, and that's a mark of raw talent, skill and power when it comes to writing.

The sex scene was utterly magnetic and breathless, a warm fog of passion, misted breath and marks in flesh. Your descriptions are so drenched in sensuality without ever resorting to or needing overt phrasing.

Like, honestly, when Nanami spreads fingers covered in her slick, when he licks it off, including the part on his arm, that BLEW the breath out of my lungs. The way you showcase the primacy of their passion while never losing the tempo of unbridled sex, while maintaining Nanami's character with such accuracy, while providing such a detailed, explicit, nuanced view of how he gives her exactly what she needs, is so incredibly depicted. I'm lost for words.

My final take away from this is that yes, this is a story about Nanami's exquisite forearms, but also a story about the slow blossoming of love between two people who express themselves in subtle ways, the building of not just a relationship, but an unshakable foundation of trust, of being another person's safe harbour and home, of the myriad small ways that love infiltrates your life before it's delicate form roots itself and grows into something vast and all-encompassing.

Nanami is a subtle man, a man who asserts his presence quietly, but with a gravitas and sense of purpose that sets him apart. He is a man who chases an elusive happiness, one he has almost resigned himself to never finding. He is a man who could love with such tenderness, humour, passion and intimacy.

You've held up a mirror to that man, literally, in the most erotic manner possible, but in doing so revealed the many facets of his character that make him so utterly devastating.

Thank you, Minnie, for this absolute masterpiece of Nanami fiction, one that will remain with me for as long as I read fanfic. I don't think I have the words to properly convey what I felt when reading this, but your writing makes me feel such raw emotion, such heightened sensations, such immersion in the fictional world, that I once again can only defer to you as someone who has the key that unlocks a specific door in my mind.

This is a Nanami fic for the hall of fame, as I predicted, and it will remain there for as long as people choose to bring him to life through fiction as special as this.

CW: mature themes, smut, MDNI Pairing: Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader Summary: It was such a soft radiance that highlighted the contours of his forearm, well-defined and solid—like someone who didn’t need to prove anything. When he picked up his pen, twirling it once in his fingers before he began tackling the preliminary portion of his report, Nanami did it effortlessly, as if all of this was nothing. Not knowing that to you, it would become everything. OR Five times you manage to stave off the urge to act upon your fascination with Nanami Kento's most alluring physical feature, and the one time you don't. Also on AO3

It really didn’t have to come to this.

It’s the first coherent thought that crosses your mind as you draw your legs up from where they slung off the sides of the low couch. You push against your feet, the cool leather a welcome relief against your heated skin as you scoot further up the smooth surface. The distinctive flick of the light switch reverberates down the hallway, and a faint glow illuminates the ceiling above you, bringing the skip-trowel texture composing it into focus. Your eyes follow where the light catches the amalgamation of ridges and valleys, as your breath finally evens down from its rapid rhythm.

The unique sound of a kitchen cupboard closing shut pulls you from your daze. The slow thud of approaching footsteps on polished hardwood follows it, resonating in the dim, quiet space. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and you fail to stifle the soft chuckle that bubbles up within you, a laugh at your own expense as the absurdity of the situation washes over you.

Because it does dawn upon you now, the silliness of it all. All of this time, all of the mental energy poured into holding onto a secret with a declining half-life, only to have your efforts inevitably undone. 

Only now, in the clarity granted by hindsight, does your mind flit to a memory as clear as day, back to several months prior, when the catalyzing encounter of the saga that eventually led to this moment that brought you to uncover a new facet of Nanami’s desires and to confront the particularities of your own.

“I don’t know, Ino… Maybe you should hold off on the more demanding missions for a bit. Isn’t this your third injury in just as many weeks?” you asked as you offered the younger sorcerer the energy bar you’d just unwrapped for him.

“And risk missing out on some field practice? Hell no!” Ino replied indignantly. “I’m only Grade 2 on paper, you know this. This is a minor setback, no big deal!” He tapped his cast for emphasis and nearly dropped the bar he’d seemingly forgot he was holding in the process, just barely catching it with his mouth before it fell to his lap. You could only shake your head as you watched the goofy scene unfold.

The past few weeks had seen a relentless surge of curse-related activity as the Tokyo metropolitan area entered what was typically its most hectic time of year. This time around, the busy season had resulted in every active sorcerer effectively forced to work on-call as they were assigned to successive missions which, more often than not, stretched the boundaries of their capabilities. You’d witnessed it yourself, as a Grade 2 instructor assigned to quite a few field missions that increasingly erred on the higher side of your experience level.

You’d had your start as an instructor at Jujutsu Tech at the same time Ino joined, first meeting at orientation, and over time, you’d grown to know and appreciate him like a younger brother. While his tenacity was usually admirable, it also worried you at times, particularly recently. He’d been pushing himself, even going as far as volunteering for the type of missions that would result in his current predicament: sitting in one of Shoko’s examination rooms with a broken arm freshly wrapped in a cast, awaiting his next round of RCT treatment.

“Besides,” he continued, “I was assigned with Nanami-san, and when I tell you that you would’ve loved to see him in action today,” he said, his tone tinged with a not-so-subtle playful lilt that did not escape you. “He kicked some serious fucking ass out there and I bet you would’ve—”

A heavy, exasperated sigh emanated from the entrance behind you.

“Ino, your energy would be better spent focusing on recalling facts rather than on the retelling of hyperbolic stories.”

The interjection came as a distinctively calm voice, one carrying a uniquely measured cadence, and did not require you to turn around to identify who it belonged to.

You shot Ino a warning look as you both watched Nanami Kento cross the few strides that took him to the opposing side of the infirmary bed. He dropped a thin stack of papers onto the examination room counter before his eyes met yours, a smile and a wordless greeting passing between you as his head slightly dipped in a respectful bow. You responded with a nod of your own, as you tried to mentally downplay the soothing wave of warmth that washed over you.

You were still slowly being acquainted with Nanami, who had recently made his return to the school, mostly via common interactions with his protégé, much like the one you were having now. Theirs was a bond you’d watched form and grow in real-time, largely thanks to Ino’s incessant updates.

But you’d also made observations of your own, taking notice of some unique and understated traits that only further piqued your curiosity about the man dubbed the 7:3 sorcerer.

As a teacher yourself, you’d been particularly sensitive to his affinity for mentorship with students and established sorcerers alike. They were the kind of observations that made you wonder about the specifics of what had made him leave in the first place, and even more curiously, about what had compelled him to return.

There was also something just so singular about how Nanami conducted himself. His was an even-tempered presence, bearing a quiet confidence that made him such a steady and welcome counterbalance to the otherwise frenetic atmosphere at the school. It simply made him such a pleasant person to be around, and lately, it was more often than not that you’d catch yourself, as you did in this moment, stealing fleeting glances at him as he draped the tan-colored suit jacket he’d been carrying over the examination chair before taking a seat.

“Pfft. What hyperbolics?” Ino’s mouth stretched into a wide grin as he turned away from Nanami and back towards you. “You truly should have seen it! Five hefty curses cornered Nanami-san, and he had to find a way to…”

And that’s when it first happened.

You’d glanced over just in time to catch sight of Nanami using his left hand to skillfully undo the cuff of his right sleeve, folding it neatly over itself until it reached his elbow, gradually revealing the perfectly toned arm underneath. By the time he was repeating the process on his other arm, the quiet precision of his movements and the hypnotic rhythm of controlled and focused intent had you completely spellbound. 

Though innocuous in its practical purpose, the act held such an airy allure, one you thought couldn’t possibly be solely attributed to the overhead halogen lighting. It was such a soft radiance that highlighted the contours of his forearm, well-defined and solid, like someone who didn’t need to prove anything. When he picked up his pen, twirling it once in his fingers before he began tackling the preliminary portion of his report, Nanami did it effortlessly, as if all of this was nothing.

Not knowing that to you, it would become everything.

It hadn’t even registered with you yet at the time; the extent to which one too many furtive glances had been enough for a seed to take root in your heart, its insidious vines coiling around your unsuspecting mind.

“Hey, are you even listening?” Ino’s sudden, rambunctious voice, along with the lamenting intonation it carried, pulled you back to reality.

Only now did you realize that you’d decidedly relegated Ino’s voice to the background, prompting you to return your attention to him, but not before catching the fleeting upward curve of Nanami’s eyebrow along with the hint of curiosity discernible even through his near opaque lenses as he raised his head, his eyes meeting yours for the briefest of moments.

Agitation coursed through you by the time you turned to Ino, as you quickly processed the embarrassing fact that his loud comment might have exposed your moment of indiscreet inattention.

“I am listening, Ino, if only because you are speaking entirely too loudly for me to do otherwise,” you said, your words strained by the anxious tightening of your jaw. 

You thought you’d detected a light scoff emanating from Nanami, so subtle, so nearly imperceptible that you wondered if you’d imagined it. You didn’t dare look his way to confirm it.

“Fine!” huffed Ino. “Then you can read about it in my report, just like everyone else! Oh, speaking of which, Nanami-san graciously offered to fill it in for me, you know, since my good arm is out of commission! Isn’t he the best?”

Nanami cleared his throat before intervening. “Ino, I’m rather keen on leaving on time today, so please, let’s focus on this?”

You took this as your cue to exit what could only become an increasingly compromising situation for you, keen on avoiding any further embarrassing displays of distraction.

“I’ll leave you two to it. I have an assignment of my own for which I should be preparing… Ino, please do the reasonable thing for once in your life and try to get some real rest, will you?”

You trained your eyes on the exit door as you headed towards it, determined to resist the urge to get distracted again, a flimsy plan that failed as soon as you realized where you’d left your phone.

On the counter.

Next to Nanami.

You took a deep breath to steady your nerves before you made your way around the bed and quietly retrieved your device from the counter, hoping that Nanami’s focus would remain on the report he was so diligently filling—a prayer that was only half fulfilled.

“Kawasaki City?” he asked, his voice coming unexpectedly, gently, and you were grateful that his eyes did not immediately leave his report, because you simply could not prevent yours from surreptitiously glancing over to catch one final glimpse at the hand that gripped his pen, at the way the light caught the fine hairs on his forearm.

You didn’t realize how long a silent pause had elapsed until Nanami halted his scribbling and lifted his head, curious eyes peering at you over the rims of his signature goggles. You quickly made a mental migration back to his question, your distracted mind only now registering that he was inquiring about your assignment.

“Ah yes, that’s the one… The zone’s been mostly cleared now, but they’ve assigned a small squad of us to do one final sweep before sending in the cleanup crew.”

“I see,” he said, pausing briefly. “Good luck, and be careful out there.” Sparse words heavy with sincerity.

“Thank you, Nanami.” Your reply came out meeker than you’d liked, something you cringed at internally before you grabbed your phone and finally shuffled towards the exit and out of the room.

“Ino—” Nanami started, eyes still on the door, warning already well-laced within those two syllables.

“Nanami-san. All due respect,” Ino cut in, not even pretending to attempt to conceal his self-satisfied grin, “but you’ve got to let me cook. Can’t you see I’m trying to talk you up? At this point, you’re just getting the way!” His lament was carelessly loud enough to be audible from the corner you’d just turned into the hall.

But hear it you did not, as you were too preoccupied with a conundrum of your own, the one consisting both of taming the small flame that had ignited within you and of fighting off the vivid imagery along with its significantly less tame derivatives that lingered and threatened to slink into your mind. The ones that would mark the first instances of perceiving Grade 1 sorcerer Nanami Kento in a decidedly different light.

Weeks later, the shortage of level-matched sorcerers required to meet the moment of this prolonged crisis remained persistent, resulting in teams and assignments being in a perpetual state of flux. Amidst this chaotic reshuffling, you found yourself paired with Nanami on a mission for the very first time. Some part of you briefly wondered which stars must have aligned to favor these auspicious circumstances before you decided against putting a question mark where fate had placed a period.

Today’s mission found you both on this sunny early afternoon, tasked with ridding a shrine of several cursed spirits who were intent on disrupting the area during its peak season and on terrorizing its poor visitors.

It was an assignment that quickly revealed itself to be a test of endurance rather than strength; numerous hordes of low-level curses had congregated around each of the seven entrances, six of which you’d spent the better part of the morning purging of their unwelcome intruders. In a bid to optimize energy and recovery, you’d suggested that you alternate turns exorcising the swarms, a strategy that now found the two of you hiding behind each of the two opposing pillars of the gate that marked the final entrance left to clear.

It was your turn to take on this next wave of curses, and by now, the searing soreness of strained muscles you’d rarely ever asked so much of had become difficult to ignore. Using the tip of the spear that comprised your cursed tool, you steadied yourself on shaky legs that you could almost hear screaming in protest, as you remained determined to conceal any sign of struggle and to see this final stretch through.

“Are you alright?” You heard Nanami call out from the opposing pillar, his tone edged with genuine concern.

God, this is embarrassing, you thought to yourself and could only nod at him, refusing to speak just yet for fear of betraying the shakiness in your voice, avoiding eye contact lest any evidence of your growing weariness become apparent.

Target focus, target focus, you repeated to yourself, like a mantra, as you steadied your trembling hands, turning your attention towards the horde of curses approaching on the horizon. If you could just manage to reach that first target, land that first blow, and chain it to activate your technique, the rest of the combat sequence would fall into place.

“Stay put, I’ve got this,” Nanami said as he suddenly left his post, crossing the distance between himself and the oncoming swarm in a few long strides before you could process, let alone protest what was happening.

You leaned onto your spear, repositioning yourself to face the sorcerer, just in time to watch him tighten his wrapped tie around his right hand and to witness the surge of cursed energy as it lit up his fist before he landed a decisive blow onto the first curse, staggering it and knocking it into the line of curses who’d blindly followed close behind. You watched as Nanami landed rapid, precise 7:3 blows with swift, successive slashes of his blade, only now realizing that this was your first earnest look at him in the heat of the battle.

And what a sight it was.

One right hook.

Two left slashes.

Repeat.

He set out with a slow rhythm, a cadenced dance of contained destruction and speedy precision. There was a controlled fury in his movements, a certain juxtaposition of sheer strength and disciplined composure, ridges of forearm muscles moving rhythmically as he landed one incisive blow after the other. As the density of the oncoming horde increased, so did Nanami’s tempo, so much so that for a brief moment, your fatigued eyes struggled to track his rapid movements.

The 7:3 sorcerer had decidedly entered a state of flow, seemingly unfazed by the volume of curses that threw themselves at him in a last-ditch effort to hold down the last fort of their invasion, forming the linchpin separating them from their assured demise.

Finally, it came down to the final three curses, far more imposing in stature than the previous, their presence heavy with the weight of their power, the apparent leaders of this enterprise.

All this appeared to be inconsequential to the indefatigable Nanami Kento, who unleashed a single, forceful blow that tore through all three curses at once, chopping them down right at their weak spot, thus putting an end to their onslaught, once and for all.

A tingling warmth flowed through you, easing some of the tension in your aching muscles, and you thought that maybe it was something beyond mere tiredness that accounted for this particular tremor traveling down your legs.

You trudged over to where Nanami stood, finding him still visibly recovering as he brought the back of his hand up to wipe his forehead, displacing the loose strands of his neatly disheveled hair. The sleeves of his cerulean shirt were pulled back, revealing a toned arm dotted with small beads of sweat, and accented by his signature watch, which gleamed as it caught the midday sunlight.

It suddenly occurred to you that you must have been staring when you caught a glint from Nanami's glasses as he shifted, and you watched as he scrutinized you, appearing to conduct a subtle but thorough assessment of his own.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, a light strain accompanying his words, his chest slightly heaving from exertion as he still caught his breath.

I should be the one asking you that, is what you wanted to reply.

“I’m completely fine… What about you?” you asked instead, attempting to ground yourself by counting the patterned spots adorning his tie, now only loosely coiled around his hand.

“Good,” his reply came laced with relief, as though a weight was lifted off his shoulders, and you felt his eyes linger on you for a brief moment before he followed up, “I’m fine as well.”

You found yourself nervously shifting your weight from foot to foot, each fidgety movement pushing the sharpened point of your spear to dig deeper into the cool grass as you hesitated in your next words.

“Thank you for taking on that last wave,” you said, still taking a trivial mental tally of black spots on yellow fabric. “You sure made light work of clearing them.”

A quiet twinge of self-consciousness rippled through you as soon as you uttered the words, and you winced internally as you silently hoped that they didn’t fall as flat with him as they sounded to you. You lifted your gaze, catching his for the brief moment it took him to turn his back to you, and you told yourself that you were imagining the faint flush that appeared to creep up his neck, just above his collar. You convinced yourself that the way he’d pressed his lips into a thin line was not a smile, nor even a suppressed iteration of one.

“It’s not a problem,” Nanami said over his shoulder. You watched curiously as he walked back the few steps that separated him from the spot where the discombobulated remains of the final three curses still lay. He knelt down to pick up what appeared to be an object dropped by one of the large curses, before he began to make his way back to you, his gaze still not quite returning to you. 

“The truth is,” he continued, “I wouldn’t have been able to conserve this much energy had you not handled the previous waves as effectively as you did.”

Surely, these were but the polite words of a Grade 1 sorcerer towards his Grade 2 colleague. 

Surely, it was the nebulous product of a tired and overactive imagination, and not an undercurrent of timidity you were detecting in his voice. 

And surely, you’d tell yourself later, as you’d replay this interaction in your mind, it was the adrenaline propelling you in the moment, driving your unusual urge to keep a conversation going.

“Still, Nanami…” you chirped, feigning a confidence you did not yet feel you had, “At the risk of employing Ino’s terms, you did sort of hard carry me at the end there…”

This earned you a small scoff from the stoic sorcerer, a tiny but remarkable crack in his otherwise guarded demeanor, a pleasant surprise.

“Absolutely not,” he said before finally meeting your gaze from beyond his tinted lenses. “It was a team effort, and we made a good team.”

“Eh, I don’t know…” you replied, averting your gaze with a non-committal hum.

“You don’t know if we make a good team?”

You threw a glance his way, and this time, the tiny amused lift of his lips was unmistakable.

“No, yeah, I think we do,” you replied as nonchalantly as you possibly could.

“Good. I think so too.”

Surely, there was no deeper significance to this.

Regardless, he’d completely disarmed you of the remnants of your unperturbed veneer, and you found yourself mirroring his smile, not that you could even help it if you’d wanted to, not after he punctuated his statement with such a natural utterance of your name.

As you fought the urge to break the connection of his gaze and to hide from the unexpected vulnerability it was drawing from you, you steadied yourself by bringing your second hand to the worn wood of your spear, its familiar texture a slight comfort against the nervous tremor in your grip, further digging and it into the soft dirt surface of the ground. It crossed your mind that at this rate, you just might find the planet’s core before this conversation ended.

Nanami held up the object he’d just picked up, revealing it to be a small wooden placard.

“We should return this where it belongs,” he said, thankfully moving on from the suspended moment. “I believe I recall which gate had its signage missing.”

As you descended the shrine’s sloping grounds, the crunch of the gravel path underfoot sounded a soothing rhythm to an easier, more natural conversation as you recapped the mission’s events thus far. Nanami’s memory proved to be correct, so you both stopped before a small gate by an off-beat path right by the third main entrance, one which notably had a bare signpost.

You watched intently, captured by the quiet precision of his movements as he meticulously reattached the placard to the side of the gate, and you couldn’t help but marvel at the duality demonstrated within the time span of a single mission; the handiwork of hands that were dispensing righteous destruction a few minutes ago, now engaged in an authentic act of restoration.

Nanami backed up after having completed this endeavor, and only then were you able to make out the aged inscription on the wooden placard:

Destiny’s Path

Much like at the moment you were assigned to this mission, with this partner, your mind flitted to the notion of fate’s inescapable decree.

Several months separated you from that first joint mission, and you and Nanami now found yourselves engaged in an exercise that was as experimental and intimate as your blooming relationship.

“Alright, so the cabbage into eight wedges first and then cut each of those in half, the sweet potato and carrots cut into one-inch chunks, and then for the okra, you can just sever the stems.” You instructed, as you carefully placed a kitchen knife into his hand, handle first.

“Yes, chef,” he replied solemnly, a mirthful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

It was his spirited refrain, one he’d now delivered for the third time this evening, earning him yet another snicker from you. Though it was his kitchen you were occupying, he’d gladly adopted the role of sous-chef for the night.

A comfortable silence hung in the air for a moment, and the reality of the situation settled. A Friday evening in Nanami’s apartment, the rich aroma of onions and bell peppers melding with sautéed beef in a pan wafting through the kitchen along with a tomato and cayenne broth simmering in a stockpot. It comprised the beginning of a savory West African peanut stew recipe you’d committed to share with him some weeks ago, a promise Nanami was now holding you to via a rather impromptu dinner night. An array of emotions swirled and commingled within you; a blend of nervousness and elation, of novelty and familiarity. 

There was no label, none that you knew of at least, for the melding of your identities through a cultural dish whose preparation you knew like the back of your hand, and yet felt like you were learning for the first time all over again. You’ve tried to articulate the simplicity with which Nanami welcomed you into his space, to put into words the inexplicable but deeply satisfying sense of belonging that he instilled within you through acts like this one.

Underlying all this was a certain permissiveness to allow yourselves to drop the formalities imposed by the limitations of the workplace, of getting a glimpse into the reserved sorcerer in a rare, relaxed form, into undiscovered shades in his voice, and into an utterly understated playfulness that you were quick find both endlessly surprising and positively delightful. It truly was a nameless sentiment, something of a catalytic blur, a steady whisper in the background of shared breaths and of casual touches.

It was almost dizzying.

But not as dizzying as watching Nanami pull back the sleeves of the black polo shirt he’d changed into in two swift movements, leaving you no time to prepare nor to brace yourself against being unexpectedly faced with his exposed forearms.

Your breath slightly hitched at the sight.

In theory, your simmering broth, along with the meticulous process of sautéing your beef chunks with the bell peppers and onions you’d just added to your pan, should have sufficed to keep your attention.

In practice, the steady and rhythmic sound of Nanami’s knife striking wood only underscored what you could only imagine being an unmatched display of dexterity and an effortless masterclass in precision as he worked right beside you, each audible cut drawing you, enticing you to take a peek.

Just checking on his progress was how you’d shamelessly rationalize it in your mind.

So here you were, inconspicuously shifting your gaze over to his cutting board and, just as expected, your eyes fell upon a riveting sight. You caught the edge of your lower lip, observing Nanami’s slender, nimble fingers as he guided the knife over the firm yet yielding raw sweet potato, which, in turn, offered a slight resistance at each slicing movement, causing the muscles in his forearm to flex and his veins to ripple beneath his skin like tiny, pulsing rivers.

Those glorious veins.

How much time had elapsed as you watched, mesmerized by the way they disappeared and reemerged under the surface of his skin? What stopped you, really, from grabbing his arm right then and there, from tracing the constellation of every single vein that ran down from his fingers to the taut skin above his wrist, right down to where the fabric of his rolled-up sleeve bunched up on his forearm? All you’d know for sure was that after a while, Nanami paused mid-slice and glanced at you.

“I’m not doing this wrong, am I?” he asked, in a tone carrying an undercurrent of genuine concern.

“What? Yes. Ah, no. I mean, you’re doing great, don’t stop.”

It was a stammered reply, delivered almost too quickly, definitely too loudly. You turned back to your task at hand, the stove’s once comforting warmth now only serving to intensify the heat crawling up your neck and rising towards your flustered face.

You felt Nanami’s gaze linger on you for a bit before he resumed, his movements now slightly slower and carrying a renewed diligence. For a moment, you felt small a pang of guilt at the thought of having potentially planted a seed of doubt in his mind as a result of your shameless ogling, a sentiment that quickly faded away after he cut the last of the sweet potato, slightly shifting his angle, granting you an even clearer, more direct view of his effort as he took on slicing the carrots. Those offered less resistance, so when he started once again, it was in a brisker rhythm, each motion, each accompanying sound a note in the sinewy symphony of movement before you, capturing your full attention. There was no denying it now.

This was decidedly a thing.

Nanami finally threw a sidelong glance in your direction, and this time, you were sure that he’d caught you red-handed; you couldn’t even pretend to be subtle anymore, and you fully expected him to finally call you out on your staring when your eyes met and he spoke again.

“So is it wood then?” he said, a statement more than a question, breaking neither his gaze nor his rhythm as he continued to chop the vegetables.

His seemingly random question juxtaposed with his casual demeanor had completely thrown you for a loop. For the few seconds you tried to decipher it, your mind was in a bit of a whirlwind, and you briefly thought that perhaps it had finally happened, that you’d finally lost your mind, that you were far enough gone that you were now hallucinating and hearing nonsense.

“I’m sorry… Wood?” you asked, completely puzzled.

“Your secret ingredient for this dish? I’m assuming that’s what that’s about,” he said as he gestured his head towards the stove, bringing your attention to the wooden spoon you’d distractedly long since let slip out of your fingers and fall into the stockpot, nearly fully submerged in the broth.

“Ha. Very funny,” you said, trying and failing to suppress a snicker at just how ridiculous this situation, and the circumstances that led to it, were. “You should be minding your carrots, sir.”

You reached for the tip of the spoon that was still accessible and carefully tried to pinch it at an angle that would spare your fingers from being burned on the edge of the red-hot pot.

“Yes, chef,” Nanami’s voice broke the tense silence just as you were about to retrieve the spoon, and something about the comedic delayed timing of his response sent you over the edge as you let the chortle you didn’t realize you’d been desperately holding escape your lips, along with a sudden movement that only served to push the distressed spoon to slide deeper into the pot.

“Damn it, look at what you’ve done!” you cried out, your giggles betraying your attempt to mask your amusement.

Nanami chuckled as he reached his arm over, muscles flexing with the extension, coming to the rescue just in time to grab the tip of the spoon’s handle by the last few millimetres that remained safe. Just as he expertly brought the spoon into the adjoining sink for rinsing, a sharp exhale escaped him, transfiguring into an earnest burst of laughter, rich and unrestrained.

“I’m glad my troubles, which you caused, by the way, amuse you so much.” You brought a hand to your face, partly to cover what was now decidedly a shared laughter between you two, partly to conceal the embarrassment you felt about what your indiscretion had brought you.

“Thanks,” you said sheepishly when he handed you the now clean spoon, before adding with caution, “I know you want to, don’t say it again.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied with a smirk and a rising intonation as he resumed cutting the vegetables, an anticipated implication that he would defy your request.

You told yourself that there would be ample time later, for entertaining the colorful thoughts that permeated as a low hum in the background of your mind for the remainder of that evening, as you stole more subtle glances at him throughout the rest of your dinner prep, as you later chatted away over a successfully prepared meal. That you’d admonish yourself later tonight, for engaging in the all too tempting mental exercise of imagining other uses for Nanami’s arms, and for relishing in the creative results this yielded.

Slipping.

The threadbare mask you’d painstakingly managed to keep up thus far was now slipping.

The closing weeks of the first term of the new school year found you firmly ensconced in what was now a deepening romantic relationship with Nanami. By now, you’d long since stowed it neatly at the back of your mind; the notion that each passing day only inched you closer to that future, inevitable moment when you would be pushed to confront whatever consequences would come out of the sweet release of disclosure.

An inflection point would precede all this, however — a pivotal moment you would only pinpoint in retrospect, arriving on a late July afternoon marked by a suffocating heatwave.

The beads of sweat were finally beginning to cool on your forehead as the minutes ticked by. The small fan Nanami had placed on the coffee table before you a few minutes prior served as a scant but much-appreciated last defence against the thick, humid air, which had long since frizzed the edges of your once-sleek, silk-pressed hair.

About half an hour had passed since you’d both languidly stumbled into this unused office, desperately seeking refuge within what was seemingly the sole room in this building benefitting from a window that did not directly face the scorching midday sun, an oasis in a school building whose air conditioning had fallen to the whims of Murphy’s Law and had ceased to function during the city’s warmest week on record.

Nanami sat at the desk toiling away at some mission report while you were slumped on the adjacent couch, tackling a lesson plan, each of you battling on different fronts of the same war against the heavy, humid air.

The usually lively post-lunchtime coworking session you’d both been looking forward to had thus taken a sluggish tenor as you tried to focus on each of your tasks while holding onto the last bit of sanity amidst these terrible conditions that were anything but workable.

You’d swapped the hot tea you’d normally share at this time with a much less optimal cold drink that wound up being more ice than coffee, and instead of the usual buzz of conversation often consisting of Nanami delivering his scathing commentary on the latest episode of the new baking reality show you’d both been watching in tandem, a quiet stillness descended on you, only intermittently interrupted either by a sigh, the clacking sound of his keyboard, or the scribbling sound of your pen gliding across your tablet.

Out the cracked window, the cheerful chatter of some students who had gathered outside around some cold refreshments could be heard, and you wished you could emulate a fraction of their eager energy.

Only once the pen you’d been holding flew out of your hand, bouncing past your feet and rolling down somewhere under the couch, did you realize that you’d been absentmindedly tapping it against your knee in your fidgety distraction, its unceremonious clattering sound pulling you out of your contemplation.

You bent down and lazily padded the area just underneath the couch, first with your foot, then with your fingers, but they came up empty, finding only the ridged hardwood floor.

“Ah, shit,” you muttered under your breath. Now was not the time for this.

A very irrational reevaluation of the merits of completing a lesson plan in time for said lesson began to creep into your thoughts, and just as you began to contemplate abandoning ship for the day, Nanami calmly rose from his seat and made his way towards you, having observed the entire debacle out of the corner of his eye.

“This damn pen…” you bemoaned as you padded the same area over and over again, as though it would magically materialize after the umpteenth pass.

“I’ll get it,” Nanami said coolly as he crouched by you, right in the cramped space separating the coffee table from the couch that seated you.

You lifted your head, and it was in this newfound proximity that you took in just how much his tone contrasted with his demeanor, and how affected he was by these sweltering conditions.

It was evidenced in the way his disheveled hair clung onto his sweaty forehead, his tie off and draped over his shoulders, in the way the first two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing his gleaming collarbone and in the haphazard manner by which his sleeves were pushed back to his elbows, wrinkled and uneven. It had you wondering whether it was just you or if this heat wave somehow managed to melt away a certain poise Nanami usually carried, giving him a rugged, slightly more cavalier allure that even you found to be rather novel.

It crossed your mind that perhaps it was a different kind of heat, one that had little to do with the weather that held dominion over these wandering thoughts.

Nanami brought his knuckles to the floor, extending his legs behind him and holding his body straight and taut as he flexed his arms, lowering himself in a controlled movement before dipping his head to glance underneath the couch. He reached one hand just by your right foot, while expertly hovering his chest just a couple of inches above the floor. The subtle bulging of his muscles beneath his shirt as they tensed certainly did not escape you.

Your eyes flicked first to the pen Nanami was now handing you, then back to his face, where you found a nearly imperceptible air of contentment and the beginnings of an amused smile. A silent testament, you thought, to his successful little expedition.

“Lifesaver,” you said, returning his smile. “My students get to have a class tomorrow, thanks to you.” Your attempt at feigning a relaxed demeanor held, until, that is, your fingers brushed against his as you took the pen, and you tried to suppress the involuntary hitch in your breath at the contact.

Get it together, girl, you thought to yourself, as you watched Nanami bring his hand to the floor, still without a word, expecting him to return to his seat.

Instead, with a measured exhale, Nanami lowered himself back towards the ground.

“I can feel it, you know…” When he finally spoke, it was barely audible over the buzzing fan, addressing the floor more than you.

“Hmm?” you said as you cautiously glanced down towards him.

“The tension.” He concluded his sentence, his voice even, low in tone yet loud in the relative silence. He held the position, his body a straight line from shoulders to toes, arms at a near-perfect right angle. His eyes kept straight ahead, and you could’ve sworn that it was only once your eyes traced over his arms, sparse hairs smoothened by the glistening sweat, that he finally extended them, raising himself in a smooth movement with a light grunt as he exhaled.

You felt your chest tighten.

“What tension?” you asked, unsure why you were murmuring, fairly sure that you should be bracing to hear whatever he had to say next.

“One,” he let out, his voice a low rumble, tilting his head up and peering at you through the blonde strands of hair that now fell over his eyes, holding your gaze just long enough for it to be noticeable, before his arms bent again, exerting muscles that revealed a striking pattern stretched over clearly defined veins. He lowered himself once more and pushed back up, a swift movement this time.

“Two,” he spoke again as he lowered himself into what was now clearly yet another push-up.

Amid this unbearable heat and out of seemingly nowhere, Nanami Kento had broken into some damn push ups.

“The tension. In my neck, through my shoulders, down to my lower back. That chair is stiff, less than ergonomic. And sitting in it all day…” he trailed off, his eyes lingering on you before he counted again.

“Three.”

Despite the now unmistakable smirk stretching Nanami’s lips, his tone was deceptively even, holding a rough rasp devoid of any strain, and it went straight to your core, trickling as a tingle down between your legs as your throat suddenly went tight and dry.

“Sitting in it all day…” he started again, picking up where he left off. “Something about the stretch of this exercise brings me so much relief.”

Nanami returned his focus to the space on the floor, right between his palms, allowing you the opportunity to keenly observe him. By now, he’d slipped into a fluid rhythm, each push upwards, each descent executed with control. His breathing was audibly rhythmic, quick exhales as he pumped his arms taut, muscles shifting as they flexed. He made the whole thing look so effortless, so damn hot.

You mentally clung to the justification that you were truly defenceless with your eyes here, on Nanami, on his flexing arms but your mind decidedly elsewhere, faced with your traitorous mind and the trips your it took down memory lane, back to other occasions during which you’d witnessed Nanami engaged in a similar exercise in a much different context, echoes from moments of shared passion past. You tried to defend yourself; it wasn’t your fault if, suddenly, momentarily, it became the most rational idea in the world to join him on this office floor and to slide yourself just under him. That if you were quiet enough, perhaps you could avoid being heard over the whirring sound of this fan, fluting up in the air and traveling out the ajar door and window, and—

That train of thought sent a jolting awareness of your surroundings, of your location, surging you back to reason.

“Sixteen,” you heard Nanami’s voice reemerging to the forefront of your mind.

You straightened your spine, pushing the capped end of your pen into your thigh in a misplaced attempt to maintain what little grip you had remaining on yourself and to find your footing, refusing to concede defeat to this dangerous game he had instigated.

“Nanami-san,” you started, the formal addition of the honorific to his surname eliciting a light chuckle that settled into further reinvigoration as he rose again, his muscles scrumptiously straining with push-up number God-knows-what as he picked up the pace. “I don’t know if the heat finally got to your head, or if this is your very roundabout way of asking for a massage or what, but you are doing entirely too much and I should—”

“Did someone say massage?”

A familiar, boisterous voice rang in the tense silence, causing you to jump in your seat and prompting Nanami to snap his head up towards the door. “I heard—Woah, you two are living good in here! Why are you gatekeeping the cool room?”

“Gojo, have you ever heard of knocking?” Nanami said, his tone finding a level of acerbity that was even further pronounced than the one he typically addressed him with.

“So mean to your favorite senpai, Nanamin… Besides, door’s wide open, and you don't seem to be busy working, so it’s fair game, right?” He looked to you for a confirmation you were still far too shaken to give, even if you’d wanted to humor him.

Gojo appeared to be the least affected by the heat wave out of everyone. He’d maintained his usual energetic demeanor, which he displayed now by shamelessly waltzing into the office like he personally owned it. “Oh, hey… Where the hell did you find a fan?”

Nanami let out an audible sigh that sounded more like a groan, rising from what would be his final push-up for now into a kneeling position before getting back on his feet. For what felt like the first time in forever, you could finally feel yourself breathe again, Gojo’s interruption having managed to defuse the dangerously charged energy that almost had you willing to risk it all. Only when the heat made a resurgence to the forefront of your mind did you realize just how dangerously dulled your senses had been rendered.

“Nanamiiiin, I’m so good at massages. Relax and let me give you one…” Gojo said as he extended his arms forward and wiggled them towards a defenceless Nanami.

“Absolutely not,” Nanami said firmly, backing up towards where you were still seated on the couch, only cornering himself and you in the process.

You scooted aside on the two-seater, grabbing your tablet in one hand and gently pulling on Nanami’s arm with the other, enacting your spontaneous plan for a quick escape.

“Come on, Nanamin,” you crooned, using the sobriquet Gojo relentlessly employed. “You were just complaining about the tension, right? Gojo barely seems to feel the heat, and he’s far stronger than me. I’m sure he’ll do a better job than I could ever dream.”

A few swift movements and you’d maneuvered up from the sofa, and stood behind the desk, decidedly flipping the positions you and Nanami had taken for the afternoon.

“She is so right!” Gojo explained, only further reinvigorated by your endorsement. “Sit back, Nanami! It will be my honor to take care of my bestie!”

You kept your gaze on Nanami as he fixed you through narrowed eyes that telegraphed the quiet wrath he had for you for this transgression, for the ultimate act of betrayal it was to inflict Gojo Satoru upon him, a man for with virtually no concept of personal space, on an unbearably humid day like today, no less.

Under different circumstances, you would feel a tiny twinge of guilt for pulling a gambit like this; alas, Nanami had chosen his game, and you’d chosen yours in turn, one that just so happened to involve the exploitation of the godsend that was a classic and chaotic Gojo-induced distraction. So instead, you snickered in your corner as you watched the white-haired menace slide himself behind Nanami and unnecessarily wrap his arms around his chest, eliciting a visceral swat of a hand, along with a cautionary “Don’t” from his visibly irritated counterpart.

You caught Kento’s eye and met his challenging look with a smirk not unlike the one plastered on his face not two minutes ago, when he’d subtly yet relentlessly teased you.

Would there be hell to be paid later? Probably. But for now, you could at least slip away while the two former schoolmates bickered. Now you thought that perhaps joining the students in partaking in refreshments wouldn’t be such a bad idea. You could use a chance to cool off.

And to stop yourself from slipping any further.

If your so-called mask had been hanging on by a thread, it was not in a single moment, but gradually, over the months which followed, that it completely chipped away, much like driftwood being nudged away from the shore by the lapping of gentle waves. 

As you and Kento spent more time together, you both grew more comfortable around one another, becoming more honest and comfortable, and gradually uncovering each other’s strengths and flaws, preferences and aversions, virtues and vices with an acceptance that felt natural and easy.

Your bond had strengthened by now, having long since crossed the line delineating work from life partners, and you were now bound by a promise to make the ultimate promise to one another.

In between these deeper, candid moments, smaller revelations emerged: the subtle ticks and habits, the unintentional mannerisms and underlying drives, the little unspoken details that were concomitant with a blossoming courtship. Suffice it to say that you’d inevitably shared your predilection for Kento’s arms in many ways, some less subtle than others.

On one such occasion, it had slipped out a confession concealed in a question, one day as you were having breakfast together. After some light prodding from your part, Nanami finally relented and gave you an answer other than “everything” when you’d playfully asked him what his favorite feature of yours was; “fingerprints of joy” was the exact term he’d used as a simple yet touching description of your dimples whenever you’d smile, an answer that made you seriously consider tempering your response once he’d inevitably flip the question back to you.

Tried as you might, you ended up being significantly less civil than he was, “my favorite necklace” being one of the bolder terms you’d not-so-facetiously employed, contrasting the softer, playful drag of your finger over his bicep.

The comfortable rapport that had settled between you was not one you took for granted; it was one of the few wherein you could simply be yourself and not have it be “too much”; it was the same intimacy that unveiled the tormenting tease beneath Kento’s surface. And there was an inimitable joy derived from appreciating the man that you loved, warm fuzzies associated with making him blush, or smile, or laugh, whenever you flipped the usual script and when it was you who placed him in the crosshairs of your playful provocation, for once.

By now, you were reasonably convinced that the storm had sufficiently passed, and you figured you could breathe easier, relieved that the passage of time, along with a normalized exposure to Nanami Kento, had successfully dulled the more ardent manifestations of your fixation with your favorite physical trait of his.

What you certainly did not expect was for what you would only later understand to be a dormant force to re-surge with a furious vengeance in the early hours of the morning during a quick weekend getaway.

It was a trip you’d secretly planned in a relatively short time, fueled largely by an experience you’d had one evening just a few days prior, when your fiancé had returned home exhausted after a tough mission closing out a gruelling multi-week assignment.

Though you weren’t unused to the physically and emotionally taxing nature of your duties, you’d hated what you’d seen that night, in the culmination of weeks of relentless work with no break. Reserved as he was, Nanami was not infallible. You’d grown to know him very well by now, more than anyone else; you’d immediately detected the telltale signs of exhaustion, made apparent in his tone, devoid of its usual edge, and in the weariness etched on his face, and perhaps more evidently, in the way that he’d completely crashed as soon as he’d dragged himself out of the quick shower he’d barely managed to stay awake to take. He was burning out, long overdue for a break.

That night, you stayed up in the early hours of the morning, concocting your plan.

You’d worked through most of the night to pull as many strings as a Grade 2 sorcerer ostensibly could, drafting messages aimed to cash in on the decent amount of goodwill you’d garnered amongst your colleagues over the past few years. Ultimately, however, what truly helped you bring this endeavor over the finish line was leveraging your connection to one of the owners of a top-of-the-line, nearly always sold-out kikufuku shop, in conjunction with what was now a burgeoning friendship with Gojo. Although, in retrospect, you suspected that the fellow teacher would have settled for having any involvement with a plan of keeping a secret from Nanami as being adequate compensation. 

By the time you’d clocked out on the following day, you’d managed the impressive feat of securing some overlapping time off for Nanami and yourself, and of successfully planning a short couple’s getaway.

A few days later, the fruits of your labor surfaced in the form of a considerably more tranquil version of Nanami.

Today was already the final day of what now felt like too short of a trip, and having opted to sleep in on the two mornings prior, you’d both made it a point to wake up early in order to catch today’s sunrise over the beach. With the consequences of a very late night still weighing heavily on your eyelids, you’d both emerged from a gruelling battle against sleepiness, just barely victorious.

It was just before five in the morning when you were groggily strolling the sandy beach situated just behind the resort you were staying at.

An inconspicuous glance at Nanami disclosed his relaxed posture and his softened facial features, a stark departure from the overstressed man who’d slumped into your shared home a few days ago. Your heart warmed now, as you observed him in this relatively rare form, dressed in a relaxed t-shirt and khaki shorts, arms moving in a loose, subtle swing as he walked carrying his sandals in one hand and a beach blanket in the other, how his hair was ethereally tousled by the whispering late summer ocean breeze.

He was lost in thought, chest rising and falling in deep, intentional breaths, and you hoped that he too, was taking in the salty scent of the ocean, that he too, could anchor himself in the serenity of the moment as the sound of the waves set a gentle rhythm to your sleepy steps, that he could ground himself in the soft feeling of warm sand yielding under his bare feet. And if this moment could serve as a modicum of respite, as a sliver of an escapist refuge both now and in the inevitable future moments when they would be called for, then you would consider your mission as being accomplished.

You halted your march just as the sky began to blush with hues of golden orange, towards which you turned, and Nanami followed suit, setting down the blanket he’d brought for you to sit on. You hadn’t made it too far from the resort, just enough to escape the early morning crowd; only a few other fellow beachgoers were sparsely spread out on the semi-secluded section of the beach. You settled onto the left end of the blanket, expecting him to join beside you, only to feel the unanticipated pressure of his body behind you instead.

Nanami carefully repositioned himself, gently snaking one arm around your waist and the other around your shoulders, pulling you toward him and enclosing you in a tender hug from behind. You mentally traced his movements by the way his warm breath moved from fanning the top of your head, over the back of your neck, and onto the side of your cheek, as he punctuated his journey with a soft kiss just below your jawline before his head settled on the right side of yours.

You closed your eyes, a contented sigh escaping your lips, and you wished nothing more than to ingrain this little haven of tranquility into your mind, for it to become the unforgettable safe place to which you could always revert.

Just as you turned your gaze to witness the sun now making its definitive ascent over the ocean, you thought you felt Nanami’s grip tighten ever so slightly in a shift so nearly imperceptible that you questioned whether it had even happened. It was a concern that quickly became secondary to your sudden awareness of the flimsy nature of the fabrics comprising his cotton t-shirt and your mesh cover-up forming the trivial barrier between his warm, well-defined arms against your cool skin, to the compromising position you now were in.

A sudden tension traveled through your body, seeking a place to nest as you fidgeted with the hem of your top, trying to return your focus to the wonderful scene unfolding ahead.

“What a perfect sunrise,” you ventured, in your best attempt to sound casual.

Nanami only offered a low hum in agreement, resonating and vibrating through your ear. And then, you felt it again: a slight upward shift of his hold, a minute increase in pressure.

This time, it was unmistakable.

Every sensation intensified tenfold in that moment. His muscular chest pressing into your back, his breath tickling your neck, the crook of his arm resting gently just below your chin, close, so dangerously close that you could lick it.

Without much thought, you brought your hands up and closed them over his biceps, at least as much as they could possibly wrap around their circumference, and slid over them, getting a good feel for the flexed muscles underneath his skin, until you landed on his elbows.

And then you pressed inwards.

Your move met no resistance, resulting in his caged arms further tightening across your chest. A sharp exhale escaped your lips as the feeling reverberated through your body, sending a shiver down your spine and straight to your core. You instinctively brought your thighs together, their friction only exacerbating the very sensation you were looking to evade. Your breath hitched, and you felt your mouth go dry.

As you tilted your head, leaning further back into Nanami, something you didn’t think could be possible, you could now distinguish the accelerating thumping sound of your heartbeat against your chest just under where his arms held you. You couldn’t imagine that he wasn’t privy to the escalating effect this all had on you.

He sat up straighter, a shift in movement that pushed his elbow right below your neck. Again, you felt it, gradual pressure—measured, steady, much like its perpetrator.

Just within biting distance, came the intrusive thought, popping into your mind like a sudden gust of wind in still air. It would be the first of many over the next few minutes, and you didn’t exactly know how much time passed as you staved off the ones that erred on the more wanton side of things, the ones that had you making a mental, logistical calculus of how much you could reasonably get away with, on this waterfront sparsely dotted by a few fellow beachgoers.

Nanami’s steady voice suddenly rumbled behind you, almost rattling you. “Quite the breathtaking sight, well worth the early wake up.”

And before you knew it, it was over. The sun was now up in earnest.

Nanami slowly loosened his grip on you, and still, you almost toppled to the side as you returned to reality, to where you were, to your packed itinerary for this final day of this short getaway, the one you’d meticulously planned and shared with Nanami with an excitement he’d reciprocated, a plan you found yourself now willing to completely discard and replace with the other, much simpler one you now had in mind.

You slowly turned to face Kento, attempting to gauge his body language, and found his eyes still fixed on the soaring sun behind you,  engaged in a slow cross-arm stretch, and you could almost see the tension release and exit through his gentle sigh. If he was perturbed at all, he showed no signs of it.

Then, with a sudden shift, he switched arms, locking eyes with you.

“Shall we get breakfast, then?” he asked, casual as ever. “That concierge did a solid job pitching that brioche French toast. I’m itching to try it now.”

And had you not known him better, you would’ve missed the near imperceptible lilt of the tone of his voice, the hints of mirth crinkling at the corner of his eyes, the echoes of a knowing smirk under his deceptively soft smile.

You would have missed these details, had you not known better, following this sunrise that would long stick with you, for all the improper reasons, and you wouldn’t have suspected that, far more likely than not, Nanami Kento knew exactly what the hell he was doing.

The evening on which your suspicions were confirmed came a few months later, on the tail end of a chaotically busy period.

The combined effects of missed dinners and hurried goodbyes, of long work shifts and scheduling conflicts, had compounded, barely affording Nanami so much as a stolen moment with you, much less the quality time he yearned for.

Arduous missions stretched late into nights, and he’d find you home long after you’d lost your battle against somnolence; on your end, you could almost hear the guilt of your failure to stay awake ring loudly in the silence of the early hours of the morning, when you’d find Nanami crashed next to you, with exhaustion spelled on his face.

Canceled lunch dates were communicated in brief text messages you’d punctuate with goofy animated GIFs, a consolation tactic Nanami would’ve otherwise found to be endearing had it not carried the very calculated mandate of allowing you to evade his enquiries about whether you’d found the time to eat your first meal of the day.

Pure intentions and poor luck, right places but wrong times, and the universe appeared to be conspiring against you.

All the while, sitting just beneath the surface, was the simmering unease, steady as a metronome whose pulses were the moments of lucidity that pulled Nanami out of the comfortable shroud of the feigned normalcy he’d allowed himself to slip into. It was the same sentiment that caused his throat to constrict after encountering those occasional close-call encounters that had him face a formidable cursed spirit, the same feeling that transfigured into a pit in his stomach whenever it was you who was out on the field, and he hadn’t heard from you in a while. The ever-present threat now carried the weight of something unprecedentedly precious, and every once in a while, he would be subjected to reminders that were as intangible as they were painful, reminders that this line of work remained incredibly dangerous, and that this could all come to a very sudden end.

The Jujutsu Tech car came to an abrupt halt, jolting Nanami out of his contemplation.

His fingers brushed the cool metal of the door handle just as he peered into the rearview mirror from the backseat, and when his eyes locked with those of the colleague he’d spent the bulk of the week with, he found a weary gaze, reflective of the relentless pace of their recent assignments.

“Thank you for waiting, Ijichi. I should only be a few minutes,” Nanami said, giving the assistant manager an appreciative nod before exiting the car and making his way towards the training field.

On the radial bridge between surrender and acceptance, Nanami often found gratitude to be his only path out of ruinous rumination.

So today, he chose to be grateful.

Grateful for having cleared his mission much earlier than expected, and for the time this afforded him to take a trip to the campus facilities, to shower and to get into a clean change of clothes, in the hopes of catching you just as your lesson ended.

Grateful for Ijichi chauffeuring him from the dorms back to the training field where he could wait for you to wrap up your lesson and for agreeing to drive you both back home, together, finally for the first time in weeks.

Grateful for the current moment that granted him this sight of you, mid-lesson as you supervised a hand-to-hand combat session for a group of students, a view he’d grown both so fond and so familiar with.

The aluminum bleachers squeaked under Nanami’s weight as he took a seat, his eyes never leaving you as you paced behind the three pairs of students engaged in their bouts, occasionally stopping either to correct a stance or to provide some feedback. The visual transported him to a similar moment that found him on this very row of seats a little over a year and a half ago, a memory as sharp and clear as if it had occurred just yesterday.

You were alone when he noticed you.

Only a few weeks removed from the day he’d traded his briefcase for his blunt sword, an inexplicable unease and sense of displacement still loomed over Nanami’s head even as he walked the once-familiar campus grounds. His quest to locate a quiet spot to enjoy a late lunch in peace and away from one particularly aggravating Gojo Satoru led him to these training field bleachers.

He’d resigned himself to a life of relative solitude from the moment he’d crossed the threshold out of his office building for the final time, intent on leaving any semblance of his paltry attempt at a civilian’s life behind. The Jujutsu world had always been less than ideal, and a return to this life had meant making certain self-evident vows to himself, one of which being that he wouldn’t drag anyone into his orbit while he was active.

Never had he imagined that he would be the one dragged into someone’s orbit. Into yours.

You’d emerged from the field house on that early fall day, just as he opened the bento box he’d packed with the previous night’s leftovers. Even from this distance, he recognized you as the Grade 2 instructor he’d been vaguely acquainted with via cursory greetings, the one he’d continuously heard Ino speak so highly of.

Nanami observed as you entered a sequence of practice drills with your cursed weapon, a long spear that you worked so fluidly, as though it were an extension of your body. Each of your moves was a masterclass in balance between power and restraint, each strike precisely measured, each swing calculated. He watched as you thrust your weapon into wide, controlled motions that sent the long drapes of your skirt twirling in the wind, dark curls whipping around your face with your movements, the autumnal afternoon sun warmed your brown skin with a soft honeyed glow. By the time his phone vibrated to signal the end of his break, Nanami glanced down, only to find his bento untouched.

Perhaps he was compelled to take a few more late lunches following that day.

When Ino indirectly called him out on this new habit of his, it was Nanami’s ingrained inability to stray too far from candor that rendered him unable to outright deny the younger sorcerer’s cheeky hypothesis, that the true reason he’d opted to spend so many recent lunch breaks eating at those benches rather than the significantly more comfortable break room was because “the view was better out there”. Nanami understood from the moment he’d uttered his vague non-answer that it would mark the first point of exposure.

This inevitability was confirmed, a few weeks later, the cat decidedly out of the bag when Yuuji made a grand display of throwing his two thumbs up through the window just as Nanami slid into the booth seat across yours at a nearby cafe one day as he’d invited you to have tea after clearing another mission together.

“You do so well with Yuuji,” you’d said, once the teen was out of sight, dragged away by the sleeve by the young Nobara. “That boy is very lucky to have you as his teacher.”

“Well, technically I’m not a teacher,” Nanami replied in a tone that failed to convince even himself.

“You teach him things, Nanami. That’s the textbook definition of a teacher.”

A silent pause settled between you. Nanami stirred his tea absentmindedly as he watched you cut the apple strudel you’d ordered into smaller pieces.

“I’ve been thinking about joining the faculty,” he said, the words barely formed before leaving his lips.

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Nanami! I would be so thrilled!” you exclaimed. Nanami watched you quickly straighten up in an obvious attempt to dial back your expressed excitement, but he’d already witnessed you perk up, your genuine reaction stirring something deep and pleasant within him.

“We all would,” you quickly added. “Especially Gojo. You know he would immediately take credit for it.”

Nanami brought his eyes shut and rubbed his temples at the thought, “Please, I’m not even there yet. I’ve not talked to Gojo about this…” He paused again, opening his eyes to lock onto yours. “Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“Oh… So I’m getting the exclusive?” You replied in playful conspiracy. ”I feel so privileged.”

Nanami nodded quietly with a light, nervous chuckle, picking at the biscuit on his plate but not finding the will to take a bite from it.

“But in all seriousness, you should go for it. You’re a great mentor and a skilled sorcerer. The school could badly use someone like you.”

To this, he said nothing, his eyes wandering out the window in contemplation.

“However,” you ventured after a brief moment. “If you have any reservations, and you ever want to talk about them…” You trailed off, leaving the invitation suspended in the air.

Nanami’s reservations were so many, most of which he couldn’t possibly attempt to articulate even as they jockeyed for position in his mind. When he glanced back at you, he could sense you hanging onto his silence.

“You’ve done this for a while. Tell me your best piece of advice about teaching.”

He watched you gather your thoughts, pressing your lips together and narrowing your eyes like he’d seen you do countless times when a student would ask you a question and you would carefully formulate an answer.

“If you ever forget what it’s like to be a kid, get out. There’s no point in doing any of this if you can’t place yourself in their shoes, or yours, ten, fifteen years ago. As long as you remember the powerlessness and the lack of agency that comes not only with being young but with being condemned to our way of life, to seeing curses…” Nanami watched you pause to take the first bite at a piece of strudel, and as you chewed, he could almost see the rest of your thought forming through your eyes. “It’s such a burden, one no one should bear alone, least of all a child. At least, that’s how I see it.”

Before this moment, Nanami had tried repeatedly so, to qualify this magnetic draw to you, to label it. Was it the juxtaposition of the soft-spoken instructor against the fierceness you appeared to carry? Was it your nuanced condemnation of a system, all the while dedicating yourself to its people?

Perhaps it was at this moment, Nanami would ponder later, that he’d decided that this way of life was one worth living rather than simply surviving.

“Hey, you. You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?” the playful tone of your voice snapped Nanami, who had been too engrossed to notice your approach, back to the current moment.

Gratitude.

He rose from his seat, bringing his hands up to gently cup your face, and leaned in to brush his lips against yours in a tender kiss. You froze momentarily, caught a bit off guard; for as physically affectionate as you now were with one another, neither of you was usually the type to engage in public displays of this, particularly not on campus. Today, Nanami quietly broke this unspoken precedent.

Only the first of the several he would break later.

“We have a ride, if you’re ready to leave now,” he said after he slowly pulled away. The notes of your lip balm were of vanilla, but to him, they carried the familiar taste of a fragile slice of happiness.

“Yeah… I’m beyond ready,” you murmured, still reeling a bit at the surprise, at the intensity of the moment. “Let’s get the hell out of here before I get roped into some last-minute bullshit, like last week.”

If the lapse in Nanami’s usual propriety was displayed in that one kiss, yours would manifest in several ways before you made the short ride back to your shared apartment.

And much as he’d done on so many occasions from the training field bleachers, Nanami simply watched you.

He watched as you leaned into him in the backseat of the car, running your hand against his thigh, innocently at first, then moving dangerously close to his crotch with every caressing stroke. The self-satisfied grin that stretched your lips as you detected a hitch in his breath did not escape him.

He watched as you teased him on the elevator ride up to your apartment as you pressed your back against his front, giving him a subtle, deliberate press and grind and catching his eyes in the reflective panel, just in time to watch his gaze falter ever-so-slightly. This, too, he’d remember.

He watched you, knowing that you enjoyed all of it, that you thrilled at the mischievous pleasure it was to poke the agitated bear, and he let you have your fun, exercising a restraint he didn’t think himself capable to maintain after a long, stressful and restrictive week spent nearly entirely away from you.

But as soon as you crossed the threshold into your shared apartment, as soon as he shut the door behind him and turned around to find your hands gripping onto his tie, pulling, yanking, his face down towards yours, almost too zealously?

Nanami decided he’d watched long enough.

He pushed back into you, his hands working in concert as one brought your fists together and off their hold while the other slipped into your hair, kneading your scalp down to the base of your nape. Assertive yet tender, his touch was a study in contrasts, sending a single, tantalizing shiver down your spine, igniting into a fizzing warmth in your stomach.

Your tongues met right before his searing lips closed onto yours in a kiss that was so urgent, so fervent, dripping with an eagerness you hadn’t felt in a while. He swallowed your whimper as your back lightly hit the vestibule wall, a reaction that wrenched a low, self-satisfied growl from his chest. Nanami could feel it now, more than ever—several days’ worth of unmistakably pent-up energy coalescing into a single, white hot ache.

He was unwilling to relinquish any closeness, not even now, as you peeled off him momentarily with a small, breathless gasp, two of your quick, heaving breaths to each of his. He felt your drumming pulse on his lips as he settled into the side of your neck, his mouth just below your jawline.

His mind replayed the slightly disappointed expression he’d discerned on your face earlier this morning, which now felt like a lifetime ago, after a phone call he’d later admonish himself for taking summoned him, along with his fellow Grade 1 sorcerers, to the school for a meeting that definitely could have been an email, just as you’d brought him a cup of orange juice to pair with his toast. He heard himself groan out in frustration now, at the memory of the first breakfast you were having together in weeks being unceremoniously cut short, and he nipped at your throat, eliciting a moan from you that faded into the background of the hazy, regretful thoughts that were reinvigorating him to make up for lost time.

The late afternoon sun was mostly blocked out by the heavy living area window curtains, which had remained drawn, a testament to the hurried exits you both made earlier. Nanami’s eyes were slowly getting accustomed to the dark, just enough to catch your warm brown eyes searching his as you gently pressed your palm against his chest, blinking up slowly at him with an unreadable gaze. He sensed you shifting your left foot behind your right one and glanced down just in time to watch you slip out of your second shoe, but not before you slid your knee up the inside of his leg, pressing and rubbing against his crotch teasingly, evoking an uncontrolled hiss out of him at the unexpected contact.

“Missed me, Kento?” you crooned.

A light chuckle rumbled up through Nanami’s chest. “Maybe just a little,” he mumbled.

“Just a little? Just maybe? Come on now. We’re well into a few weeks married now. Surely you can be more honest with me,” you replied, in mock offence.

“Oh, you don’t find me honest?” he said with a scoff, something dark in his response.

Instead of pulling away from this newfound, compromising position, Nanami doubled down, firmly pressing his hips to yours, forcing your leg back down, and you found yourself now trapped between the wall and the visibly voracious man before you. 

For the brief second he brought his head down to your shoulder, with his hot breath ghosting over your neck and his lips grazing your ear, you expected him to say something, to call you out, to chastise you, but instead, his response came as a slow, deliberate roll of his hips against yours, ensuring you felt every last inch of the increasingly stiffening problem you’d helped create against your core.

You arched into him with a throaty gasp as his lips found the base of your throat once more, lightly nibbling. His hand closed on your hip, firmly gripping it in place as he leaned against the wall to summarily kick off his shoes, not unlike you just did a mere few seconds ago.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ventured, in between the two languid grinds of his hips that pushed his thigh to settle between your legs. “Are you honest?”

The dark chuckle preceding Nanami’s reply should have served as your first warning.

“Are you?”

His fingers twisted around the hem of your shirt, and you could already tell, in the way he pulled it over your head in one swift movement, lobbing it over his shoulder with a dexterous flick of his wrist, that he would waste no time in dispensing with your clothing, that his desire to ignite this fuse burned just as brightly, perhaps even more fiercely, than your own.

You’d barely heard your top land unceremoniously on the linoleum floor before feeling his fingers reaching to do the same with your camisole, goosebumps erupting where he grazed your skin, spreading like wildfire. You pulled at his tie again, pulling him down and planting another kiss on his lips, something slower, more sensual than the first. Only when its straps slipped down your arms did you realize that he’d used the moment to unhook your bra, and you shook out of it, letting it clatter to the floor as well.

Your second attempt at undoing his tie was thwarted once more, something slightly rougher in the way he grabbed your hands and drove them back down to your sides.

“Turn around,” Nanami said, brusquely. The space was quite dark, but you didn’t need to discern the expression on his face to understand that the strained gentleness of his tone did not make this any less of a command, one you gladly obliged.

Your steadying hands met a texture, cooler and smoother than expected, meeting a bit of resistance as they glided over the surface. You felt a bit heady for the short moment it took you to reorient yourself, to realize your compromising position, to recognize the blurry outline of your own reflection in the flat, full-length mirror mounted against the vestibule wall.

You stilled and patiently waited, agitation melding with eager anticipation as your mind associated a vivid visual with the sound emanating behind you, one of the audible friction of sleeves sliding upward against bare skin, an enticing prelude of what you knew was to come.

Nanami trailed his hand along the waistband of your skirt, the one he loved so much; it looked so good on you, it was so easy to remove. He hooked his deft fingers and slowly slipped them downwards until he met the resistance of the thickest part of your thighs, pushing past before allowing gravity to complete the endeavor. Your senses heightened as he haltingly did the same with your underwear; the slickness of your arousal was untouched but felt, unseen but heard as he peeled off the final barrier covering you, the faint rustling of your underwear dropping onto the flooring marking the definitive end of his task.

Through the reflection, you’d observed Kento’s actions.

Through the reflection, he’d observed you.

Your stomach fluttered with an invigorating sensation, and you thought you could weep in restless anticipation.

“Truth framed in silver,” he said, his tone guileful, his voice growing huskier with each word as he hovered his lips just above your ear, “the mirror never lies.”

The shift in tenor of this encounter was suddenly palpable, and just as you were about to offer your best attempt at a matching response, his arm encircled you at the waist and he pulled you back towards him with a strong press of his fingertips into your hip, sending a jolt that went straight to your core. You caught it all in the reflection, a sight so deliciously distracting that you failed to notice his other hand surreptitiously sliding down between your legs.

Nanami hovered just over you, fingers lightly brushing against where you desired him the most, just long enough for you to suffer the ache of unspent need, just close enough for you to feel the pressure which had built within you and was now left hanging, and he found just enough dampness to gauge how utterly aroused you were. You bucked at the contact, barely stifling an impatient moan, eliciting another low scoff from Nanami, your second warning of the evening.

That Nanami now held the upper hand, and that you would suffer a bit for it.

For a moment, you thought about how quickly the tables had turned in this little back-and-forth. If you were going down, you thought, it wouldn’t be without a fight. Just as you had half a mind to formulate a witty, provocative comment to retain some semblance of a footing in this battle of wits, Nanami slid his middle finger into you, hooking it upward, finding, in record time, the spot he’d long since learned to reduce your body to pure need.

An unbridled, breathy moan cascaded out of your lips, ringing loudly in the charged silence, a sound almost as obscene as the lack of resistance met by his articulate finger, and as the slick sound it made. You didn’t have to look up to feel Nanami’s steady gaze on your face as he took in every last detail of your reaction.

His fingers moved with gentle insistence, picking up a controlled but unrelenting pace. His ring finger joined a short moment later, padded tips rubbing against the most sensitive parts of your walls, moving with intensity, with intent, as if it carried the express purpose of proving a salient point. The slow pleasure building at the base of your spine had you squirming, incrementally bending down, instinctively going as low as Nanami’s grasp would allow you, his arm otherwise holding you firmly in place.

“Kento…” you whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut as you fought to stay tethered to reality.

“Don’t look away.” It’s another command uttered into your ear, traveling straight between your legs, his tone carrying a slight harshness this time and you opened your eyes, meeting what you knew to be a deeply watchful gaze, even as you only barely began to make out his features through eyes that were still getting accustomed to dimly lit surroundings.

Your head dropped slightly, and your eyes returned to the reflection of his hand and of his fingers. He picked up the pace, his movements growing more dauntless, as if he was putting on a show with an air of nonchalant pride. Your eyes glued to the sight of his calloused fingers repeatedly rubbing against that one sensitive area, the one he’d learned to relentlessly exploit in moments like these, when he both wanted and needed to bring you to a quick undoing.

It was too much; the feeling of Kento’s long fingers working you, the sounds they made and how they mingled with your escalating whimpers; the occasional brush of his palm against you, the sensation of the wet line of kisses he traced from your bare shoulder to the side of your neck, his quickening breath on your exposed skin. You felt all of it, each element inching you closer towards the sweet solace of release after over a week of having to go without.

But what ultimately did it was the reflection in the mirror, the one that granted you an angle you were unused to, a visual whose details you were already committing to memory. There was just something about witnessing his fingers and the way they drove into you, twisting, seeking to unlock the deepest parts of you.

Your knack for ascribing meaning to the abstract concepts, a strength you often leaned on as a teacher, was now squarely working against you, etching indelible associations into your mind.

Like the manifestation of sheer strength earned through repetition and grit, the one Kento drew from to defeat those curses on a regular basis with dexterous swings of his arm, the same strength that now held you against him, the same strength powering his movements.

Or the precision he’d used that first time you’d watched him chop those vegetables in his kitchen, what now felt like eons ago, and how it was analogous to the way he was now driving into you with practiced precision.

Or even the rhythmic pull of the muscle against the edge of the fabric of his shirt sleeve and the way it sat snug on the curve of his forearm, adorned by the gleaming band of his watch, its cool metallic band occasionally brushing against you as he moved.

It was like that distant memory of the first time you’d been taken with the way he’d rolled up his sleeve in that infirmary, a quiet assertion of competence, of power, as he’d prepared to bring his task of filing his report to completion.

And how it was now you that Nanami Kento sought to bring to completion.

It was the last coherent thought you formed before the coil within you finally tightened beyond capacity. You were desperately chasing your imminent release, your hips rocking helplessly against his fingers, against his palm, greedily chasing that friction, and suddenly you were there, right over the edge. Words of warning sat on the tip of your tongue, not quite fully formed, but when your eyes focused on his, you saw the exact moment he read you.

“Tell me how you’ve missed this,” he said, and it was a gentler tone that carried words that appeared to be for him as much as they were for you. “Show me.”

“Fuck, I’m—,” you breathed, trying but failing to catch the thought before it escaped you.

The first part of his request would go unfulfilled; you wouldn’t get the words out, except for a light curse as you were hit with the thrilling force of your release. As for the latter part, he wouldn’t have to ask twice.

You clenched around his fingers, hard, quivering through the breathless cries that fluted up into the air as you tipped your head back into his chest, clutching the arm that was still holding on to you. Nanami gave one insistent final press into your upper wall before stilling and letting you ride out your climax, soft praises in his low voice spilling into your ear, words you could only discern once your moans subsided moments later, once you began to come back to yourself.

When you reopened your eyes, you caught, in the reflection, the intense gaze of the architect of your unraveling and found something familiarly ruthless brimming just beneath the surface.

Nanami was far from being done with you.

The realization sent another tingling between your legs, causing you to inadvertently clench around the fingers you only now registered had remained inside you. After a moment, he began to pull them out in a tantalizingly slow, drag, and you certainly didn’t miss the very deliberate brush of his hand back down against you, your slippery release aiding the downwards slide of his palm, past his wrist and just far enough to feel the ridges of his forearm which formed an unfamiliar but welcome sensation for your muscles to naturally clench around.

It crossed your mind that Kento was being premeditated in his movements, a hypothesis that was almost immediately supported once he rubbed his palm down once, twice, and a third time against your sensitive flesh before pulling away, meeting the slightest resistance as your body instinctively bucked up against his hand, and as it tried to keep a hold on it before he lifted his hand to your eye level. And when he extended the fingers of his hand, moving them slowly, presenting the sheen of your slick on them, showcasing with excruciating detail the mess you’d made on him, you understood that this man was dead set on being particularly relentless this evening.

Nanami leaned deeper over your shoulder, his ear pressed to your cheek, and brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them off, one by one, slowly, meticulously, his eyes fixed on yours through this once innocuous mirror, and all you could do was watch, exhale at the sight, and try not to lose the remainder of your mind at his low hums of satisfaction, at the sloppy sounds of his tongue laving over his fingers, and then down his arm over where he’d just dragged it against you.

A fucking menace.

Once he was through, Kento took half a step back, and you instinctively backed up into his steps, into him, knees feeling a bit shaky as your bare ass met his rigid hardness prominent even through the barriers provided by his pants.

The contact jolted some lucidity back into you, returning your capacity to discern further beyond the shapes reflected to you, to spot the nuances, to study the facial expressions you’d spent the last couple of years learning, a subject you could confidently teach an extensive course on from sheer memory. You could see them now, the small tells you’d picked up on throughout your relationship, evidenced in this particular furrowing of his brows, in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his shoulders were drawn taut in an attempt to contain an inordinate amount of tension. They were the ones confirming that Nanami Kento was also only hanging on by a thread, that maybe you still had a chance to recoup some of your lost ground, that perhaps you shouldn’t count yourself out just yet.

It was a notion that revitalized you.

So you bent over, leaning onto your hands on either side of the mirror’s edge, and pushed back against him, something of a long, most deliberate grind, your bare backside brushing against the fabric of his pants to which he let out an audibly sharp exhale and a small jump back from behind you.

“There you are,” you murmured playfully, releasing a self-contented giggle as you felt him twitch within the confines of his boxers.

You leaned further back, trying to reach him again, seeking to recreate that enticing friction, but Kento was more swift this time around. He caught you, pulling you up and firmly holding you flush against his chest.

“Tell me—” he started, his hot breath causing you to inadvertently buck into him, interrupting him. He steadied himself in recovery, snaking his arm around you and across your chest, returning his mouth to your ear and locking eyes with you once more before resuming. “Tell me, was it honesty from your part when you copped out, that one time I held you like this?”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” you replied defiantly, feigning ignorance of the dire direction in which this conversation was headed.

Because you knew damn well what he was referring to. You’d known it, as soon as Nanami’s arms slid around you from this angle, squeezing the top of your chest in this particular way, the memory of that long weekend at the beach resort came rushing back to you, carrying along with it the feel of warm sand between your toes, the sound of crashing waves, the taste of salt on your lips, and the feeling of coming this close to tipping over even as you were held in place, of falling even as you sat firmly on sand, of vocalizing that one thing you’d wanted from Nanami for a while.

He nipped at your earlobe, bringing you back to attention, before continuing, “Was it honest of you to dangle that carrot, only to pull it all away?”

You scoffed at his playful audacity. “Alright, Kento. Let’s not be revisionist here, I’m not the one who pulled away.”

“Ah, so you do know what I’m talking about. Good. Because never did I think that I would be led on by my own wife,” he said in a tone tinged with mock offence.

“Led on b— Please. Don’t even start. You and I both know you weren’t going to do anything.”

He let out a short, amused chuckle at your indignation, followed by a low hum as his eyebrow shot up in a questioning arc. “Elaborate. What do you mean by “anything”?”

You felt his words pierce through your thin veneer of indifference and land deep inside you, where the truth lay.

“At the beach, Kento? In broad daylight in the early hours of the morning, in public? Yeah, that’s not you,” you retorted, feeling your air of defiance slip with every word. Uncharacteristically off your bantering game, you tried not to wince at your rather meager attempt at evading his question.

“What’s. Not. Me?” He said as he held your gaze, a brazen challenge in his tone as he shifted his arms higher, squeezing tighter with each emphasized word, visibly not falling for your prevarication.

You felt like a weary tightrope walker, precariously swaying above a silent, perceptive audience of one, faltering in this fool’s errand that was the maintenance of this delicate self-imposed balance, tired legs wobbling, begging you to put an end to this self-inflicted turmoil, to give in to gravity and to allow yourself to fall.

Through this damn mirror, you locked eyes with Nanami, finding them heavy with intent.

And suddenly, it wasn’t so dark anymore.

“You want something,” he said softly, not a question but a declaration.

Was it the spark you saw in Kento’s eyes in the moment as he’d cornered you towards the edge of the invisible cliff?

Was it that some of the pent-up tension you’d just released had taken some of your inhibitions along with it, replaced with a hazy, slightly more relaxed perception?

Or was it simply easier to peel away from the safety of timidity into the fire of candor when it was through the artificial buffer of a mirror?

Whatever it was, it had certainly emboldened you.

Here goes everything.

“Mirror never lies, right, Kento?” You’d had no intention of reprising his words when they tumbled out of your mouth in a soft whisper. “So why don’t you tell me what it was that stopped you from finishing what you started, back then at the beach?” you heard yourself say in a tone you barely recognized, tremulous with a blatant, reciprocal lust. “From finally putting me into a real headlock and—”

You cut yourself off just as you witnessed a darkening spark cross Nanami’s eyes, brief but perceptible enough to make your stomach flip. He closed on the remaining space that turned his hold into something closer to the one you’ve been seeking for so long, with the crook of his elbow nuzzling into the base of your throat, just off center, the sensation causing you to squeeze your thighs together, and your heart to pound through your chest.

“And… What else?” he whispered, matching your low volume, warm breath brushing your nape. “Complete that thought for me.”

You shook your head, a motion that was not so much to express your negation as it was to dispel the trance threatening to take over your mind. When you opened your mouth again, an uncontrolled, nervous scoff preceded your words.

“Just answer the question, Nanami.”

You reached your arms behind to hold him on either side of his legs, a blind attempt at maintaining some form of tactile control, realizing only now, how fully clothed he was, versus how you decidedly were not, as you ran your hands over the soft fabric of his trousers; it was a striking manifestation of your positions in this balance of power, in this repartee. You felt his next deep chuckle more than you heard it, but this time you could sense an undercurrent of agitation, of your man’s willpower slipping, palpable, like static before a storm.

And so, you added, “Or will you back out of this too?”

Nanami pushed slightly into you, and you brought your hands back on either side of the mirror, steadying yourself once more.

“I see,” he started. “So you don’t think I can wait you out?” he said, rocking into you in slow movements, the sensation of his rigid length all but contradicting his statement. “You know, I was just thinking about how lucky I got with today’s assignments. Two short missions, a couple of hours each, an in-and-out, really.” He paused to gently move a loose strand of hair that had fallen over your eyes aside. “My day was a cakewalk. But yours? Early morning class, back-to-back training sessions… I’d imagine you’re tired, that you just want to lie down, therefore I’ll just wait, until you inevitably—”

He cut himself off with a hiss that extended into the lowest of groans.

You felt it before you realized that you’d decidedly let the intrusive thought win; the sinking of your teeth, more nibble than bite, into that soft compressed roll of flesh, by the elbow’s bend, just on the inside of Nanami’s arm.

It was what set him into eager motion, and everything moved so quickly after that. You spotted the decisive moment in his eyes, carrying their first visible sign of reciprocal lust.

Nanami released his grip for the first time since you’d entered the apartment, a major concession to his overpowering stance, and you nearly fell forward at the sudden shift. You watched him disappear behind you, into the obscurity of the room, as he seemingly leaned down into something of a lunge. You heard the sound of a heavy drag against the floor, followed by that of objects softly tumbling onto the ground.

“What are you—” you started.

Before you knew it, Nanami caught you by the waist once more, and gently but firmly pulled you aside as he made way for what he was sliding towards the mirror, settling it between the wall and your feet. It took you a moment to discern the distinctive shape of the entryway bench that had long graced the entrance of your home, a small navy blue couch, upholstered in supple leather, stylish in appearance, dual in it’s practicality, of serving as a spot to sit while putting on the shoes that it now clearly no longer held.

You lifted your gaze towards the mirror, and found something eagerly desirous having replaced the playful front Nanami had managed to hold thus far; if you were silently telegraphing your keenness, he was responding in kind, his eyes not leaving yours as he gently nudged you forward, your feet lifting to hang over the edge of the small couch as you kneeled onto it.

He held your gaze still, and instead of perceiving his movements, you were left to rely on the sound of a sharp metallic clink resounding loudly in the silence, followed closely by the distinctive whispery rasp of his leather belt gliding against a thick fabric and punctuated with a brisk zipper sound. When he settled behind you, returning to the proximity you’d gotten accustomed to, Kento was armed with a familiar, damp hardness that you felt on the small of your back.

For as uncharted as the territory of this angle was, you both moved wordlessly, as if this was a well-practiced dance. You lowered yourself to bring your palms flat onto the bench, your hands sliding across the smooth leather. You aligned your back, lifting your hips up and spreading your knees apart, just enough to feel an aching breeze on your core.

Nanami climbed in earnest behind you, teasing his tip right against where his fingers had worked you a mere few minutes earlier, a slow, torturous, repeated motion he relished in for some long, excruciating seconds. You whimpered in lament, struggling to deploy the words of defense and mercy dancing on the edge of your tongue. Only when you began to squirm did he place his left palm on your back, holding you in place as he began to steadily press into you, inch by inch, until he filled you, deliciously so. Short, breathy moans escaped your lips with each press, and they were met with a low, restrained hum emanating from your lover, as you adjusted to the thick, welcomed intrusion, and he waited for you as you did.

After a moment, you were practically vibrating with an unabashed need for friction, something he caught on to. He pulled you at the hips, bringing your back flush onto his chest, keeping you both on your knees. You could now admit that you both loved and hated this mirror, for the newfound angle it gave you as you watched Kento’s right hand slide up from your hips, slowly, torturously caressing you along the way, kneading the fleshy skin that sat on the side of your breast, up until his arm found its gratifying destination.

This time around, there was no half-measure when Nanami hooked his arm just below your throat, constricting you with the right amount of pressure that allowed you to ample ability to breathe, but that would deny any movement beyond that, something you realized as your back arched instinctively both at the anticipation and at the actual hold. Despite having barely moved since he entered you, you could feel your pleasure mounting exponentially.

Your eyes met once more, and you realized that he’d been keenly observing you, studying your face as you went through all these motions. While his gaze was electrifying, you saw hints of the Kento you knew surfacing, burning with lust and love, always prioritizing your pleasure, your well-being. And there it was, conveyed through the simplicity of a glance, the truth that wasn’t a safer place on earth to be.

You watched the corners of his mouth twist up into a soft smile, a crinkle in his eyes which spoke equal parts of mischief and affection, forming quite the juxtaposition with the successive prompts he threw at your reflection.

“You enjoy this, don’t you. Whenever I wrap my arms around you? When I hold you like this, while I’m inside you?”

There was a newfound roughness in Nanami’s voice as he emphasized the last word with a tightening of his right arm around you, along with a deep press of his left hand fingers into your hips. You moaned and bucked your hips at the combined sensations, at the implication, the truth, the underlying desire of words said in such an even tone. You were intent on pushing him to give you what you needed, but he held firm, granting you only half of what you craved with this hold, completely denying you the motion portion of this equation you’d grown so desperate to solve.

“Tell me, honestly,” he emphasized employing the word that had become the refrain of the evening, “Let me hear you, my love.” It was quite discernible now, even in this compromising position that had you at his mercy; the thick lust in his voice, reminding you that the effect he was having on you was not so one-sided, and that he needed to hear you, just as much as he wanted to.

“Yes…Yes, I do,” you breathed, words slipping out as a ragged exhale, and you felt a sting of tears at the sudden intensity of a confession you’ve carried too long, one you somehow could only bring yourself to make in this current moment.

“Yes, you do,” Nanami repeated, his voice reduced to a low hum, but you could hear his approving smile even as he tried to conceal it, his eyes fixing you as though to speak to the deepest parts of your soul. “That’s my girl.”

You keened at his praise, your legs reflexively twitching with a forceful movement that sent the weight of your body shifting precariously off to the side. You let out a gasp, expecting to tip over before Nanami strengthened his hold and repositioned you back firmly onto him, pinning you down by keeping one arm around your chest, and the other encircling your waist. The new angle pushed him deeper still into you, eliciting a whimper from you and a whisper from him, words traveling directly into your ear.

“Let’s not fall now,” he said, in a tone that was already softer, palpably affectionate, “not yet.”

Always there to catch you.

It ruined you beautifully, in the moment, the fact that Nanami had not only mastered the art it was to rile you up, but he’d also long since known about this particular little inclination you’ve carried since forever, that he’d sat on this power, his teasing dispensed as an excruciatingly slow, intensifying burn over the last few months.

None of it mattered now, because he began to move and despite the unmistakable eagerness dripping from both of you, Nanami took his time in taking you from stillness to stride, setting off in a carefully slow but powerful pace as he drove himself into you.

And fuck, did it feel so good.

He rocked his hips into you as you rutted back against him, as much as your limited range of motion allowed you, at this foreign angle that did not take away from the familiarity of this dance. 

You squirmed as he drove into you with incredible precision, gradually picking up the tempo with each stroke, his measured gaze never leaving you, and even in the throes of escalating rapture, you discerned a strain in his expression, carrying an undercurrent of something carnal. You were panting, trying to catch your breath as he moved you against his hips effortlessly, making you feel each thick inch as his arm applied a deliciously punctual pressure against your upper chest with every thrust.

It felt both rough and tender. The visual was doing so much for you, too much, but still you fought the urge to shut your eyes for the umpteenth time to ground yourself, and Nanami caught this, attentive as ever.

“Stay with me,” he said, as he squeezed you ever so slightly to get your attention, your muscles immediately clenched around him in response, and he groaned at your reflexive reaction, renewing his intention of keeping up the pressure and on keeping you contained until he’d achieved his singular objective.

Your eyes desperately searched for a focal point, landing on themselves in the mirror’s reflection. You barely recognized the woman it presented, hair wildly disheveled, makeup sensually smeared just like as you barely distinguished your voice, with the wanton moans and the vocalized feedback aimed at the man in the reflection, as you told him how good he was making you feel, as you asked him to go harder, and as you let him know that he’d found it right there, the perfect spot, just like he always did. You’d grown more vocal, loud enough to be heard over the increasingly rhythmic slapping sound of your skin against his, and to match the volume of the words Kento was in turn, directing at you, words that only belonged to you and that bound you to him in ways that transcended what your bodies could ever achieve.

You felt yourself unraveling, your pleasure mounting as you visually took in the intimate spectacle unfolding in front of your eyes. Nanami was attuned to you like a piano string was to its tuning fork. He’d learned to find the things that made you tick and where you needed him the most. He’d practiced how to calibrate himself to the right rhythm, to the perfect angles, using your expressive reactions as his North Star. And in the same way he’d learned all this, he could always tell when you were close to climax, just as you were now.

“Let go for me, my love,” he whispered to your reflection, his voice rough with need.

The thunderstorm of pleasure had long been on the horizon, but that first cold ripping sensation of lightning always caught you by surprise. Your body pulled taut with gratification, and you came, quicker and louder than the first time, convulsing at the rapturous intensity of your orgasm, your pleasure hitting you in waves, trapped, constricted, with nowhere to go but in on itself. You tried to cling to your vague awareness of Nanami’s gentle coaxing, to his encouraging words as he nibbled at the shell of your ear and saw you to completion, his thrusts slightly relenting in tempo but not in intensity.

When you came to, it was to witness your slumped body leaning against your husband, breath still evening, and you could not help the smile gracing your lips, and the joyous delirium it manifested. His grip had loosened by now, and he was stilled, but still inside you, his chin resting on your shoulder as he watched you.

Nanami’s wonderful arms lowered to hold you at the hips again, and you gripped them, leaning on them as you tilted your face backwards and to the side, and you caught his lips in a searing kiss, one that was slower, lazier but also so dizzying, the only reminder of your predicament was the instinctual roll of your hips and the clenching that came along with it as the kiss deepened.

After what felt like long, radiant minutes, he brought you both down onto the small couch and gently broke the kiss to turn you over at the hips, lowering you onto your back in a single, swift movement. You felt his weight carefully sit atop you as he straddled you at the waist.

You peered up at Kento, at your beautiful man, a thin sliver of light slipping through a narrow gap in the window curtain ethereally bisecting his face in a golden diagonal path that illuminated his left eye, over the bridge of his nose, and gliding down the hollow of his right cheek. He was still clothed, except for his unzipped pants; still relatively composed, barring his rumpled shirt, his tousled hair, and the lipstick marks smudged on and around his lips and down the side of his jaw.

You could detect it, as clear as day, that something had switched within him. Gone was the playful, mischievous man who wanted to prove a point, who sought to get the last word, who endeavored to wring an admission out of you in the name of the little teasing game you’d both slipped into. Replacing him was a more heartfelt iteration of himself, the one you knew to be less relentless but no less restrained in his passion, and who would aim to both come and watch you come, face to face, where he could read you, like his favorite book.

Nanami sat back on his knees, looping his finger into the knot of his tie, loosening it just enough, in the way he knew you loved to watch him do. He took your hands into his and brought them to the dangling silk fabric, finally letting you complete this task, finally indulging you in yet another small fixation.

Kento looked down at you, running a finger along your deep-toned cheek, and for the first time in this encounter, he grounded himself in the moment. There had been a time, in a not-so-distant past, when he would feel almost guilty on occasions like this, whenever he’d found himself yielding to the warm, effervescent energy that surged from his chest.

For so long, choosing happiness while being ensconced in this particular field of work felt nothing short of selfish, foolish, and delusional. But somewhere along the lines, Nanami had become an inadvertent student of yours, and what he’d learned was that there was a deeply repressed side of him, silently yearning for a sliver of the joy he’d worked so hard convincing himself he didn’t need.

Teacher to many, even to him in some ways; you’d been the one who’d forced him to confront the fact that the line delineating blind selflessness from being a coping mechanism was as thin as it was blurry. There was a certain pattern of behaviors, one that saw Nanami conceal survival in virtue, that you’d called him out on quite a few occasions. 

A late-night phone call in your early days together that had you both up way past your usual bedtimes. 

A lunch date while picking up the emotional pieces after a tough mission. 

An argument the two of you had, after you’d called him out just as he was about to slip into what he could now retrospectively admit to be this self-preserving cocoon of self-sacrifice, call-outs he knew deep down to be true, to be well-intentioned in their objective of saving him from himself, and for which, after some self-reflection, he loved their messenger all the more.

But sometimes, Nanami’s appetite for what had long eluded him surfaced in a simpler form, like the one of a man and his lover, happy to be reunited after several days of work getting in the damn way.

And now, Nanami chose happiness. 

Now, he’d allow himself to have this one thing.

“Hey, handsome…” you started, pulling him back to the present as you brought a finger up to his cheek and lightly poked at it, “You good?”

The corners of his lips twisted into a tired smile, and his response first came as a gentle, reverent kiss on your forehead. Then your temple. The outer corner of your eye. The top of your cheek. He spoke in between each of these, over a week’s worth of tension, of stress and frustration defused into sincere words.

“So many… fucking... assignments... I… I’m sorry,” he said solemnly, and the vulnerability in his tone was audibly palpable to you. His words suddenly reminded you of the way this had all started, about the yearning and eagerness you had for one another after a dreadful few days of going without.

“I know... Not your fault,” you said quietly.

“I’m here now… Not leaving…” he continued, as his lips moved down to your jaw, to the pulse on your neck.

“You’re here, Kento,” you whispered, words that you hoped could reassure him as much as they did you.

Nanami rose slightly onto his knees, positioning himself between your legs. You felt him pause briefly, right at the edge of entering you once more. With a shuddering sigh, he slipped back into you with silky swiftness. You moaned at this first thrust, as he pushed firmly into you, holding himself in the deepest part of your core for a moment before moving again. This time, Nanami was less verbal, more focused; you were less pent up, more present, more sensitive to the way he poured his feelings into you, pure passion conveyed through his movements.

You knew of this demeanor well, of this determination set in his eyes; the express intention of keeping himself just on the edge, of delaying, of denying himself the solace of release until he could wring one more orgasm out of you, and directly watch you fall apart for him.

Always so considerate. Always so stubborn. Could he not give in for just this once?

“So good, Kento,” you managed to get out, shifting the rest of your energy towards a mission of your own, of coaxing him to finally let go and to finally finish inside you. You writhed up to meet him halfway, desperate to have him bury into you, clamping down around him every time he pulled out of you, feeling your determination and pleasure mounting in tandem.

Your eyes met and Nanami must have detected your intentions because he shut him closed, eyebrows knitting in concentration as he sat back onto his knees and pulled you by the hips, maneuvering you closer to him with one hand and reaching to palm your breast with the other, doubling down on his own objective of bringing you to your release.

You waited until he moved to switch his attention to your other breast before you grabbed his hand, brushing it up against your throat, and you felt Kento’s fingers hover over its column just as your mind did over the idea of settling them there; an intrusive thought you would have allowed yourself to verbalize, had you not embarked on a different mission of your own. Instead, you enlaced your fingers with Kento’s and pulled his arm, brushing it against your lips, nibbling over his wrist, over his forearm, eyes still on him as you watched him barely withhold a hiss at the contact, visibly hanging on to his composure by a thread.

And for the second time that evening, you closed a soft bite over his arm.

Kento’s eyes snapped open and locked onto yours with a searing intensity that made your breath catch, and you found, etched into the depths of his gaze, a silent yet familiar narrative of unraveling, one you could cite chapter and verse.

You watched as his initial shock bled into amusement, a reaction attesting not to a fluke but to an affinity, a path newly discovered, a new door unlocked. You felt yourself teetering dangerously on the edge of your own release, thighs quivering as your mind registered Nanami’s peculiar reaction to his arm under your teeth.

“That’s not fair. You can’t do this,” he said with a breathy chuckle.

“Then stop me,” you whispered back, your tone laced with provocation as your lips nibbled over his arm, your teeth just barely grazing him.

Nanami was still watching you, still resolved to maintain his composure, but you could feel it in the way his pace picked up, his thrusts now slightly more erratic, slightly less precise. You knew he was close, as sure as you knew what it would take to tip him over.

You bit down again, a bit more forcefully this time, and he let out a guttural groan in response, as he watched you through half-lidded eyes, desperately using what remained of his will to keep his eyes on yours, as he always did.

“Please, please fill me, Kento,” you moaned, your play at speaking to his depths, your final attempt at coaxing him to come with you, wiggling your hips as they came up against his, throwing everything at the wall, anything to take him with you as you spasmed with the eagerness of your pleasure and barrelled towards your release.

“Fuck,” Nanami cursed with a hiss, as he yanked his arm away from you and pinned both your hands on either side of your head, his fingers interlacing yours as he leaned his head down to your level, shifting all of his weight to his hips, sinking deeper into you. The dam was finally breaking, his rhythm faltering recklessly, his hips a stuttering pace, finding a tempo that smoothed into the pure, mutual longing you’ve had to keep at bay for over a week. You felt the bench slide and shift under his forceful thrusts. 

And when Nanami choked your name against your lips, it was with a reverence that eclipsed any other form of praise he could muster.

You vaguely heard yourself begging him greedily, praising him deliriously, thanking him sincerely until you cut yourself off with your own long, unabashed moan just as you tipped over the edge. You wrapped your legs around Kento’s waist, bringing the balls of your feet to the small of his back and arching deeply into him, clenching onto him as you quaked through another rippling climax.

And now, you felt it. Now, the paragon of self-control that Nanami Kento was would finally yield to the limits of his restraint.

Nanami held you down in place in a firm hold, and huffed out a short scoff followed by a low grunt. He gave a brisk, fluid double thrust before he spent himself into you, his release coming as hard and long as the groan that ripped through his lips as he pressed and held his hips to yours. A shiver of pleasure shook you, your hips bucking into his instinctively as you felt each pulsing tremor of his release sputtering deep inside you. You opened your eyes to catch a quick glimpse of his face inches from yours, his eyes glazed over, his smile soft, satisfied, spent. You felt a blooming sensation in your heart as you witnessed Kento arrive at the destination he so deserved. This right here, you thought, was your antidote to everything.

It always was a deliciously nebulous feeling, and this time was no exception; you’d tried it countless times before, to temporally orient yourself within the first minutes that followed Kento taking you to orbit and back like this, always finding yourself unable to know how long you’d stayed in place like you did now, with his full weight on your body, still deep inside you. How long did it take for your fingertips to make the full journey spanning the small of his back to the nape of his neck, stroking feather-light touches that glided slick with sweat, until they found his undercut, right where his hair clipped close and where his scalp was the warmest to touch? You both lay there for a moment, as your breaths slowed, basking in the aftermath of a most sincere act of love.

Lost in a hazy fog, you’d nearly forgotten where you were until the metallic clang of your ring hitting the bench leg as your hand hug off to the side jolted you back to reality. You absentmindedly ran your hands along the leathery texture, only for the time it would take for your thoughts to flit back to a blurry memory that clung to the edges of your mind.

Several months prior, one of your nightly strolls together finds you and Kento in a boutique furniture store. You’re seated on the plush leather entryway bench that caught your eye as soon as you entered the shop.

“Look. This thing is comfortable as they come, doubles as a shoe rack, good quality, and it’s on sale? I’d say it’s a solid buy,“ you say.

Nanami hums softly, in contemplation. “This isn’t just you wanting it for yourself, is it?”

“This is for your apartment, Nanami.”

“It is, but with the amount of time you’ve been spending there…”

“Oh, so I’m overstaying my welcome now? Is that what I’m hearing?”

“Don’t do this. You already know you’d be over more often if you’d let me have it my way.”

“Well, any more and I would be living there.”

“Perhaps you should be,” he says, his tone devoid of jest.

You pause at the implication of his words. “Is this your not-so-subtle way of soft launching cohabitation, Kento?”

“And if it is?”

You turn on your half of the small couch, rotating your body towards him, and you find him fixing you, serious as ever. You narrow your eyes at him. “Really? Despite what has to happen first?”

“Specifically because of what has to happen first.”

It’s a commitment he makes so easily, as if it is the most natural thing to say, in the middle of a random furniture shop after an impromptu leisurely weeknight walk and some froyo.

You brought your hand back up in the air, your contemplation bringing you to fix your wedding ring on your finger, as you lay your back on this small cushioned bench, which you now recognize to be quite the symbolizer of a new beginning, even tonight, in a twisted, unusual way.

“Are you alright, darling?” Nanami’s voice reached the foreground in your distant haziness.

Silly, idle thoughts converted into your response before you could stop them.

“We just made another use for it…”

“Hmm?” he mumbled against your ear, where his lips still rested. “Another use for what?”

“This little bench of ours. Doubles as a shoe rack, triples as…” You trailed off, letting the suggestive connotation hang in the air.

“A good investment,” he concluded after a short moment with a light, almost timid chuckle, as if he hadn’t yanked the piece of furniture himself, just minutes ago, as if he hadn’t just boldly taken you on it.

You mirrored his amusement as you reveled in your amazement at the diametrically opposed dualities of this man. Because now it was the more tempered version of your Kento resurfacing, the one who left a gentle trail of kisses that were as wet and hot as the fluid spilling off the sides of your thighs as he slowly slipped out of you, and shifted off of you. Nanami brought his lips to yours in a play to swallow the inevitable whimper he knew you’d emit, your usual protest at this kind of friction and its resulting loss of contact.

“Stay here…” he instructed softly, as he peeled himself off the bench.

And this is how you found yourself lying on your back, staring at the suddenly mesmerizing portion of the vestibule ceiling you’d never had the opportunity to pay particular attention to. Your eyes were here, tracing its unfamiliar pattern, but mentally you were tracing another line, the one which took you from that fateful first encounter at the infirmary, what feels like forever ago now, to the present moment that had you catching your breath and chuckling to yourself in both disbelief and contentment.

In retrospect, this fixation with his arms was so silly. In the grand scheme of things, it was so small. It always was the small things with Nanami. Like the way he tends to keep his footsteps light, like he was doing now, as he crossed the distance to the master bathroom, and flicked the lights on along the way. Or the gentleness of his movements as he reemerged in your field of view for the time it took to help you sit up and handed you a glass of water before disappearing as he crouched down beside you, bringing a warm damp cloth to clean you up, soothingly stroking his fingers along your shoulder as he did so.

You finally turned to meet his gaze, your mind still in a haze, and you watched as he moved swiftly, wordlessly sliding his two arms underneath you to lift you up, carrying you bridal style.

It’s the small things, but also everything else.

Because it wasn’t a small thing, that all of the dangers in the world lay outside this door, outside this room, the fact that right now, wrapped in these wonderful arms of his, is where you felt the safest.

It was no small thing that all of your worries, all of your troubles, all of your insecurities, could be cast aside in his presence, granting you a kind of freedom that was so difficult to hold on to while around others, the one to unapologetically be yourself.

It’s not a small thing, that even now, as you let your hand travel up the firm planes of Nanami’s pecs, up to his defined collarbone, over the beautiful curve of his shoulder and down his sculpted bicep, that not even this warmth and strength came close to accurately representing the full sense of safety you felt with him.

It was a safety that went far beyond the physical; for as cautious as you’d always been around shedding your inhibitions, for as nervous you were about opening yet another layer of yourself, to confidently accept yourself and to allow yourself to be accepted, there wasn’t a single person on this planet that you could trust more.

It made you wonder if you would ever be equipped to justly convey such a precious feeling.

You pressed your cheek against Kento’s chest, listening to his breathing and his heartbeat as he maneuvered across the apartment towards the master bathroom.

“You enjoyed that a little too much,” you said, finally breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between you.

“What part? You’ll have to be more specific,” he playfully replied as he glanced down at you.

“You love tormenting me.”

“Tormenting you? Need I remind you that it was, in fact, you who started this?”

“No, you started it, with that kiss at the school. Never had you do that before.”

“Oh, am I not allowed to miss my wife?”

“Ah, so you did miss me. Finally, he’s honest.”

Nanami gently eased you down on the bathroom floor, right next to the bathtub, which was still filling up, and just in front of the mirror, through which your eyes met.

“It’s not my fault we seem to need a mirror to be candid with one another,” he said with a smirk.

He wrapped his arms around you once more, hugging you from behind. They were relatively small, but in the bright overhead ceiling light, they were prominent; you brought your fingers up them, to the small bite marks on his forearm.

“Tread lightly, Kento,” you started in a reciprocal tone, “This is a two-player game now.”

Nanami knew this well, and for this, too, he would be grateful.

A/N: You made it! Thank you for reading! <3

[aventurineswife]

The Language of Flowers | HSR Men x Reader

“The Language of Flowers” is a short, symbolic series where you, the giver offers flowers to various HSR Men, each bouquet chosen to reflect their personality, story, or emotional state. Through carefully selected blooms, themes of admiration, healing, remembrance, and unspoken emotions unfold. The flowers become a silent form of communication—revealing what words cannot, bridging distances, soothing wounds, and deepening bonds. Each interaction highlights how something as simple as a flower can carry powerful meaning, offering quiet comfort or heartfelt recognition.

Part 1: Yellow Acacia

Symbolism: Secret love, optimism, enlightenment, happiness.

For: Sunday, Aventurine, Ratio

A quiet offering of Yellow Acacia—bright and warm like sunlight held between fingers. It speaks of unspoken affection, of feelings tucked safely behind smiles and passing glances. To each, it carries something different: a hidden heart, a shared spark, or the hope of something more. Whether noticed or not, the meaning lingers in the petals.

Part 2: Amaranth

Symbolism: Unfading love, faith, immortality.

For: Sunday, Dan Heng, Blade

Amaranth, ever-blooming and defiant of time, is left behind like a quiet vow. It is love that endures beyond distance, beyond silence, beyond scars. To some, it is a reminder that no matter the path taken—or the pain endured—what was once true remains untouched. A bloom that never fades, even in the harshest hands.

Part 3: Aster

Symbolism: Patience, daintiness, good luck, admiration, elegance

For: Sunday, Aventurine, Jing Yuan

Aster—soft-spoken yet steady, offered like a wish whispered into the breeze. It carries grace in its petals, a quiet kind of charm that lingers long after it's gone. Given in admiration, it says: 'I see the poise beneath the bravado, the calm behind the smile.' A small bloom, but never insignificant—just like the moments shared.

Part 4: Arbutus

Symbolism: Love, resilience, endurance; the strength and beauty of the human spirit through suffering

For: Dan Heng, Boothill, Blade, Jing Yuan

Arbutus is not a loud declaration—it’s the quiet strength in staying, in trying, in healing. It’s offered when words fall short but presence says enough. In moments of stillness and shared glances, it speaks of hearts learning to trust again, of pain not erased but understood. Beneath the bloom is a promise: we grow, even here. In soft confessions and silent protection, something fragile begins to bloom—resilient, and real.

Part 5: Asphodel

Symbolism: Death, mourning, the underworld; remembrance and the afterlife

For: Blade, Phainon, Mydei

Asphodel is not a flower given lightly. It speaks of things that linger—grief that doesn't vanish, love that refuses to fade. It blooms in shadow, not to glorify sorrow, but to honor what was and what still aches quietly within.

To offer Asphodel is to say: I carry your memory, even when you cannot. It’s laid down in moments of silence, of held hands, of choked-back words. For those who have lost parts of themselves in battle, in time, or in love, it is a fragile balm—reminding them that in mourning, there is still connection. That in darkness, a soft bloom can still rise.

Part 6: Baby’s Breath

Symbolism: Everlasting love, purity, innocence, new beginnings

For: Sunday, Aventurine, Dan Heng

A sprig of Baby’s Breath—delicate, almost weightless, yet carrying so much. It’s the gentleness of feelings unspoken, the quiet wonder of something new. In tender moments and lingering silences, it offers comfort without expectation. There’s no rush here, only the slow unfolding of trust, of hope. It speaks of hearts finding light again, of beginnings wrapped in softness. Not a grand gesture, but a gentle one—pure, and full of promise.

Part 7: Belladonna

Symbolism: Danger, deceit, mystery, and beauty

For: Aventurine, Blade, Moze

Belladonna blooms with a beauty that warns—elegant, but edged with shadow. It’s the flower you don’t pick without consequence, the feeling that lingers long after it’s gone. Given in silence, it reflects truths too sharp to speak, desires tangled with doubt. In them lies conflict: the fear of being seen and the aching need to be understood. Love here is not soft—it is complicated, aching, cautious. But in its weight, there’s growth. In the darkness, the first flickers of clarity.

Part 8: Strelitzia

Symbolism: Joyfulness, paradise, freedom, anticipation, faithfulness, love, thoughtfulness

For: Sunday, Aventurine, Phainon

Strelitzia stands tall—vivid, striking, impossible to ignore. It’s the promise of something just ahead, something worth the wait. Given with a quiet smile, it carries both joy and yearning: the kind of love that grows not from ease, but from choice. In every glance and softened word, there's faith—faith in what could be, in what’s already blooming between the lines. Even in sorrow, the flower does not droop. It looks forward, always, to the moment hearts finally meet without fear.

Part 8.5: Carnation

Symbolism: Love, devotion, distinction (meaning shifts with color)

For: Mydei

They looked away not out of disinterest, but out of self-preservation. In the face of a warrior too striking for their own good, they found safety in petals—carnations soft at her feet, blooming as if to catch their heart before it wandered too far. From then on, their hands tended to flowers, not men. Their devotion became silent, their affection buried in soil and scent.

Years passed. War changed faces, titles shifted, and one day—he remembered theirs. Not the shy glances, but the stillness. The calm. And now, when the weight of his battles becomes too much, it’s their presence he seeks. The herbalist with a quiet heart and a garden full of memories. He doesn't need to ask for flowers. They give them freely—while he’s still here to hold them.

Part 9: Amaryllis

Symbolism: Love, beauty, strength, determination, resilience, hope, achievement

For: Ratio, Boothill, Mydei

Amaryllis stands proud—bold in bloom, yet born from quiet persistence. It doesn't open all at once; it unfolds slowly, purposefully, like feelings long held close to the chest. This flower is given not in the height of certainty, but in the glow of almosts—of long glances, lingering touches, and unsaid things that echo between shared moments.

To love like this is not weakness—it is strength. The strength to wait. The strength to feel. To hope. In every gesture, there's a silent promise: I see you, and I won’t look away. The bloom is not a confession, but a beginning—bright, unshaken, and steady. Just like them.

Part 10: Yarrow

Symbolism: Healing, youthful love, everlasting love, protection

For: Phainon, Aventurine, Dan Heng

Yarrow is a healer’s flower—ancient, enduring, laced with quiet strength. It doesn’t pretend to erase pain, but it stands beside it, offering protection where words cannot. It’s given to those still piecing themselves together, those who carry guilt like a second skin, and to those who’ve forgotten how to receive kindness without flinching.

This bloom is not a cure—it’s a hand outstretched. A reminder that love can be both tender and strong. That hearts can heal in time, even if they remember where they broke. It asks nothing but honesty and offers only this: You are not alone anymore.

Part 11: Asphodel (Revisited)

Symbolism: Death, mourning, the underworld; “remembered beyond the tomb,” “my regrets follow you to the grave”

For: Blade, Mydei

Asphodel does not whisper—it lingers. In soil stained with ash and blood, it rises, pale and unwavering. A flower not for celebration, but remembrance. Given in silence after the storm has passed, it is a tribute to what was lost, and to what still haunts the living. The words never said. The hands not held. The guilt that clings like a second skin.

But even here, among broken ground and weary hearts, there is softness. In sharing grief, in tending wounds both old and new, something fragile takes root. Not absolution—but understanding. And in that quiet, when armor is shed and silence is no longer feared, there is a kind of healing.

A flower placed not just in mourning, but in love. The kind that endures, even when it can no longer be spoken aloud.

Part 12: Borage

Symbolism: Courage, joy, resilience, emotional fortitude, solidarity

For: Dan Heng, Ratio, Phainon

Borage is the bloom that rises when everything else has fallen—bright against the wreckage, stubborn in its will to stand. It’s given not in victory, but in survival. In the aftermath of storms, it speaks of the courage it took just to endure. Of strength found in trembling hands. Of the quiet bravery behind soft words and guarded eyes.

To offer Borage is to say: I see your struggle, and I stand with you. It doesn't ask for heroism. It honors vulnerability, the resilience of those who’ve carried too much and kept going anyway. In the hush after battle, when the armor is heavy and hearts are heavier, this flower is a reminder—you are not alone, and you never were.

Part 13: Burdock

Symbolism: Clarity, courage, protection, purification

For: Sunday, Mydei, Phainon

Burdock clings—not to trap, but to connect. In the soft brushing of shoulders and the burrs caught on fabric, there’s an old truth: sometimes affection sticks before we even know it’s there. It’s a flower of quiet courage—the kind it takes to show up, to speak gently, to stay close even when words falter.

Offered in passing, almost teasingly, it marks a shift: feelings once hidden now brushing the surface. A game in childhood lore becomes something more—Will it stay? Will it fall? And when it stays, they notice. They always do.

In shared laughter and long looks, in steady hands and half-spoken thoughts, Burdock blooms. Not loudly—but persistently. Like feelings that simply won’t let go.

Part 14: Cactus Flower

Symbolism: Endurance, protection, love, resilience (with colors deepening meaning)

— Yellow: Heat, security, endurance

— Red: Love

— White: Endurance

— Pink: Gentle love, spontaneity, thoughtfulness

For: Boothill, Jing Yuan, Phainon

Cactus flowers bloom in defiance—thriving where others wither, unfolding petals in the most unlikely places. They don’t bloom often, but when they do, it’s unforgettable. Each color tells a truth: heat and safety in yellow, tenderness in pink, unshaken love in red, and strength woven into silence in white.

These flowers are not soft because life was easy—but because they survived anyway. Offered to those who’ve lived through storms with laughter still in their throats and warmth still tucked behind guarded hearts, the cactus flower is both armor and affection. A slow burn, a steady root, a love that refuses to give in.

In every careful glance and lingering touch, the message is clear: You are safe with me. You are seen. And you are loved, even in your thorns.

Part 15: Camellia

Symbolism: Love, devotion, admiration; meanings shaped by culture and color

— China: Eternal love, union of two lovers

— Japan: Divinity, grace, beauty, perseverance

— White: Purity, innocence

— Pink: Long-distance love

For: Dan Heng, Ratio, Jing Yuan

Camellias bloom with grace—elegant, deliberate, and full of meaning. In their silence, they speak volumes. Each color whispers a different truth: white for the innocence still clung to after wariness, pink for love stretched thin across space and time, and red for the quiet vow—I choose you, still.

Camellia doesn’t beg for attention. It is simply placed. Gently. Unmistakably. A bloom that falls only when ready—and always with its other half.

Part 16: Cape Jasmine (Gardenia)

Symbolism: Love, purity, trust, spiritual connection; often associated with weddings and sacred bonds

For: Sunday, Dan Heng, Phainon

Gardenias do not shout their meaning—they are felt in the stillness. Given in moments when words tremble or fail, they represent a kind of love that is earned, not rushed. Trust, fragile and precious, weaves itself into the heart of this flower. A silent vow: I see you. I trust you. I respect you.

Cape Jasmine is not about grand declarations. It's about being there when it matters. About love as sanctuary. About trust being sacred.

Part 17: Cardamine (Cuckoo Flower)

Symbolism: Rebirth, hope, thoughtfulness

Folklore: Said to be sacred to fairies, the cuckoo flower was considered too wild, too otherworldly, to bring indoors—lest it bring misfortune. Yet even so, it blooms in spring, where frost once lingered.

Cardamine isn’t loud in its promise. It doesn’t offer perfection or erase pain. Instead, it marks the return—of warmth after cold, of feeling after numbness. It’s given not to forget the past, but to say: you can begin again. In the moments where guilt still whispers and grief still clings, it becomes a symbol of choosing to live anyway.

This flower is found in quiet glances, in shared silence, in held hands that no longer flinch. It’s the first step after sorrow. The slow breath of something new. A love that grows not in spite of pain, but beside it.

Part 18: Cherry Blossom

Symbolism: Life and death, beauty and violence, transience and renewal

Cherry blossoms fall even as they bloom—petals soft as breath, yet heavy with meaning. In their brief, brilliant lives, they remind us of everything fragile and everything worth holding onto. A contradiction in motion: love born in chaos, peace found in battle-hardened hearts, tenderness blooming beside pain.

To give a cherry blossom is to acknowledge that life is short, but meaningful. That beauty can exist where sorrow once lived. That something fleeting can still be profound. It’s for the moments of stillness between storms, when a glance carries a thousand unsaid things. When comfort is given not in words, but in presence.

They do not last. And that is why they matter so much.

Part 19:

Part 20:

Part 21:

[nicolejones412]

Out of Sync

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: You've found yourself with the 107th fighting Hydra, where you meet a handsome Sergeant. But something just isn't right.

A/N: Thunderbolts* really just has me going back to my roots, just now I'm more of a Bucky girl than a Steve one. Enjoy this first semi-fluffy chapter! (No Thunderbolts spoilers for quiiiite a few chapters).

FIC:

You couldn't wait for Agent Carter to join you in Italy.

You had been sent ahead with a small SSR outfit to prep for more of the Strategic Scientific Reserve to join you once you had confirmed the intel you'd received about Hydra's base.

You were pretty sure you were only sent because Colonel Phillips could only deal with having both you and Peggy around so much.

You sighed as you dismissed a soldier you'd been interviewing.

If you heard one more man ask-

"Now what's a beautiful dame doing out here?"

You looked up at the dark haired man that had entered your tent, completing your thought for you.

"My job, Sergeant...?"

"Barnes, ma'am. Sergeant James Buchannan Barnes." He took a seat.

"Nice to meet you Sergeant Barnes, I am Agent Grace with the Strategic Scientific Reserve. I understand you may have noticed something strange on assignment?"

"Well ma'am I am a sniper. It's my job to notice things."

You sighed. If these soldiers would get over the fact that you were wearing a skirt for 2 seconds you might actually get some good information today. Unfortunately it seemed like this was about to be another waste of your time.

"The soldiers we faced last week, they weren't wearing normal uniforms. They had a different symbol. Some kind of octopus."

"That would be the symbol of Hydra. Hitler's rogue science division."

"Well they must have some kind of mad genius working for them. Their weapons aren't normal guns. They weren't firing bullets. More like just blue beams."

"Blue beams?"

"Check with medical. Not nearly enough bullet wounds for what went down."

"I will check on that. Anything else that might be helpful?"

"They retreated west. There weren't very many of them, but they were quick."

You wrote down what he'd told you.

"Thank you for your time Sergeant Barnes."

"Of course." He stood and held out his hand to shake yours.

You looked his hand for a moment before standing to shake his hand. As you looked at his eyes, something felt familiar.

He nodded to you and went to exit the tent, pausing before leaving.

"Sorry if I offended you ma'am, when I first came in. I meant it as a compliment."

You shook your head. "None taken Sergeant. Stay safe out there."

He chuckled. "I will do my best."

The next day the 107th went after Schmidt's men.

Two days later, Peggy and the rest of the SSR that was coming arrived, and you'd reported your findings from the interviews.

"Magic blue weapons? That's what you have for me?" Colonel Phillips asked.

"That's about all the men reported back. Other than confirming that it was Hydra who carried them."

Phillips shook his head. "It's not a lot to go on."

"I think we might be able to triangulate the position of their base, sir."

"We'll see what we here from the 107th. There's got to be a way to-"

A soldier ran into the tent.

"Colonel, the 107th is back. At least, what's left of it."

-

You looked out into the rain, listening to Captain America's show in the distance.

"What's got you so down?" Peggy asked behind her.

You shook your head as you turned to get back to work. "So many soldiers. I just can't believe he-they are gone."

"He?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Forget it. A slip of the tongue."

"I see."

She could see right through you, but wouldn't push the issue as she walked away to speak with Captain Rogers. You were grateful.

You'd had one conversation with the man. Why did the fact that he was most likely dead feel so...wrong? Soldiers die every day in war. He wasn't even that nice to you.

He wasn't dead. You knew it. You felt it. But why did it matter?

A few minutes later, you watched as Captain America ran through the mud to Colonel Phillips tent. You followed as quickly as you could.

"Please tell me if he's alive, sir. B-A-R-"

"I can spell." Colonel Phillips paused before standing. He looked at you, then down at the papers he was holding.

"I've signed more of these condolence letters today than I care to count. But the name does sound familiar." He looked up at the captain.

"I'm sorry."

"What about the others?" Rogers asked. "Are you planning a rescue mission?"

"Yeah it's called winning the war."

"But if you know where they are why not at least-"

"They're 30 miles behind the lines. Through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We'd lose more men than we'd save, but I don't expect you to understand that because you're a chorus girl."

Rogers set his jaw.

"I think I understand just fine."

"Then understand it somewhere else." Colonel Phillips began to walk away. "If I read the posters correctly you've got some place to be in 30 minutes."

You followed the captain's eyes to the map on the wall.

"Yes sir. I do."

You and Peggy locked eyes before following Steve out of the tent.

-

Sending the one successful super soldier you had behind enemy lines probably was not the best idea, but there was no stopping Steve.

And someone had to cause a distraction to cover their exit.

"Are you insane?!" Colonel Phillips lectured.

"Captain Rogers was going with or without-"

He scoffed. "Captain Rogers? He's a barely trained circus monkey and the most expensive asset the United States army has created and you helped him go against my orders."

He slammed his fist on the desk as Agent Carter walked into the tent.

"You're both going straight back to the typing pool after this stunt."

"Colonel-"

"Not another word. Or would you like to explain to the Secretary of Defense why Captain America - the only super soldier we have is gone?"

There was a commotion outside as soldiers ran to the gate. You and Peggy looked at each other before following the Colonel.

You reached the gate just in time to see Captain America lead the 107th back into camp.

"Sir," Steve addressed the colonel. "I turn myself over for disciplinary action."

Phillips looked around at the men who he'd frankly assumed were dead.

"That won't be necessary."

Your gaze wandered from Steve to the man next to him. Who was already looking at you. You nodded to him, and he nodded back before turning to look at Steve.

"Let's hear it for Captain America!"

You joined in as the crowd cheered.

-

"Knock, knock?"

You looked up from your desk. "Sergeant Barnes. I assumed you'd be at the celebration."

"I was, but something just didn't feel right."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." He looked around at the otherwise empty tent.

"You weren't there."

You looked up from your notes and maps for the first time. "I am flattered Sergeant-"

"Bucky," he corrected.

You smiled. "Bucky. I am flattered but I didn't do much, and there is plenty still to be done."

"Yes, yes of course, Agent Grace." He turned to leave but then turned back around.

"Come on, let me buy you a drink."

"Sergeant-"

"Bucky."

"Right, Bucky, that really isn't-"

"Steve wouldn't have made it out of camp without your help. Come on, one drink."

You shook your head. "I just-"

"It can wait. A drink, some food, and some sleep will do you good."

You sighed. "Fine."

Bucky's grin grew from ear to ear. "Perfect."

-

A/N: All will make sense eventually. I hope. 😊 This will not be an entirely 1940s era fic, so if you're here for that, heads up that I'm only planning another chapter or 2 of this vibe.

[ropes3amthoughts]

Not to sound insane but what do you guys think the symbolism of him eating an orange here is?

Ok just like hear me out guys. My personal theory is that this shows Kabru is opening up to his party and sharing something based on his personal feelings. We never see him actually eating in front of his party, only drinking. DunMeshi is all about sharing meals with others as a form of bonding with others and as a way to enjoy life to the fullest, so how I took that is he’s typically not being transparent with them or allowing himself the satisfaction of a proper meal. An orange isn’t a proper meal, just a snack, and we only see him eat a single slice, so he’s not opening up a ton, but him speaking up for Rin like that was a honest moment for him—He stood up for her because he wanted to. I also think him eating the orange before Rin shows up means something as well, like maybe he is hiding that earnesty in front of Rin? And maybe this is meant to draw a contrast between them because Rin suppresses her own emotions by scrunching her brows and frowning whereas Kabru is suppressing his emotions with a smile?

I also think it holds a like double symbolism(?) and also represents Rin herself. Kabru peels away the peel of the orange to reveal an orange slice, like how he is peeling away Rin’s prickly exterior and revealing a softer side to her to Mickbell and Kuro. Additionally, the orange slice looks like a smile.

I think this could be a reach especially at some points lol and I wrote this pretty quickly but I feel like Ryoko Kui is very intentional with her work so I bet she put the orange there for a reason. I looked into symbolic meanings of oranges in general and in Japanese culture and they seem to have a positive connotation, so maybe there could be something with that as well? Feel free to share what y’all think

[heretohavenone]

Anyways, so, Shatterbird being born in Dubai is something that made a Lot of her like. Click. Particularly with how she treats Sand given how Dubai is literally a place of wealth know for ultra-extravagent shows of class disparity in the middle of a fucking desert. With a woman who holds her entire identity on the amount of class she has and her placement/recognition. Like, no shit she isn't good a controlling sand and it feels like static to her, it might as well be a symbol of lower class to her. The wealthy and influential got to stay inside of glass and control it, those without any Didn't. The fact she got that with a Cauldron vial is hilarious too. How the hell do you get that lucky. I'm like 90% sure that the sand thing could be further improved via training and mental exercises she can't do because it would fuck up some subconscious stigma in her head.

Which makes her subscription to the Slaughterhouse 9 and her affection for Jack all the funnier, because they're literally murder hobos. Jack could probably sleep in a dumpster and have his entire life be revealed for the grifting lie it is and he'd go back to slashing like nothing happened. And she fell for him. She fell for the serial killer equivalent of a hipster who plays music in his van and says he's gonna tear down the system. She fell for a guy with like, NEGATIVE class. She's a girl who went to a preppy private school who fell for the first person to probably make her question her ideas about class since Jack Slash is the most unfair person to fight/plan against in worm and is Weirdly effective, despite not having Any class, and made her question some of her stigma while breaking her down in the S9 trials. Thats right, this fucked up murder pair is actually an example of a underclass, unprivleged guy making someone born into a place of wealth and influence question the importance of Class when they can do So much without it. . . Which is such a funny spin on that trope. Since. They're just piece of shit serial killers who are only applying this to the 'art' of mass murder, and nothing else. He probably just helped her think "Woah, actually, I can murder WITHOUT needing to make it a metaphor in relation to a Freudian psychological theory, and that can make it More painful since it's senseless!" And that's it. She thinks she's evolving past pre set ideas of class with Jack but all she's doing is changing very surface level stuff and tolerating things, while trying to find roles/positions of power to put herself into for her identity. Like being the 9's Herald. Anyways. Just some headcanons after reading the missing interlude for research on my last post.

[floridecuts]

There it is, the new short comic I promised you last week! ^^ Couldn't get this finished yesterday because I'm sick and currently not feeling the greatest, but I'm glad I managed it for today! I put a warning this time just in case, because some images might be a bit uncomfortable for some people to look at, so please heed the warning. I don't think it's too bad, though. I just needed this as an excuse for the fluffy scene at the end, haha.

So in this short comic Mashita is, once again, not having a good time, but it's a hurt/comfort scene, so it ends on a positive note! As the title says, he has a very bad, disturbing dream. I imagine he still might not be completely over his mentor's death, which could give him bad dreams once in a while. Those feelings mixed with the constant stress and worry about Yashiki's and his own lifes in all those spirit cases could produce such nightmares. Also, I'm sure loosing Yashiki would be the greater fear for Mashita than loosing his own life. And since he's already lost a person dear to him, he fears it might happen again. I thought Mashita could perhaps also carry a feeling of guilt within himself for not being there when his mentor died. The feeling that he should have done something to help him still lingers and is also thrown into the nightmare cocktail. I meant to symbolize the feeling of guilt with the blood on his hands in that one scene (he wasn't there to help his mentor, it's "his fault" that he died, so Mashita "literally" has his mentor's blood on his hands). The accusations Yashiki's voice is throwing at Mashita while he is swallowed by darkness are what Mashita fears his late mentor could be thinking of him. Since dreams are weird and things or people in them often are symbols for something different, Yashiki takes the place of Mashita's mentor here.

After waking up, Mashita is in need of comfort (he'd never say it out loud, though). Thankfully Yashiki is right next to him (also it's a good way to shake off the fears if he can hold onto the very person he's dreamt about and make sure he is indeed still alive and well, I can imagine). Yashiki quickly catches that something's not right when he is woken and gives his best to be there for him. Since he knows that Mashita is pretty closed off with his feelings, he offers the comfort he can and patiently waits for Mashita to open up on his own about what troubles him, if he chooses to do so. I hope the monologue at the end is not too out of character for Mashita. Maybe I overdid it a little with the fluffy, warm thoughts he has there. I just really like seeing Mashita as the "hard shell, soft center" type of guy. The soft center is just buried very very deeply under the surface, a very hard place to reach. Well, except for Yashiki. The first part of the monologue is also a little bit inspired by my friend @moonflowerwrites work "Restoration of Broken Things". There is a scene where Mashita notices just how "in sync" Yashiki is with other people's feelinga, I really liked that. ^-^

Anyway, I hope you liked this short comic! Thanks for taking a look, I wish you all a nice week! :)

[killervelveteenrabbit]

Reaction to “The Ruler” (S6, E15)

As I mentioned previously, this is the episode that prompted me to start reacting to the .to drops rather than the Disney broadcasts. This episode indirectly calls out some sins of Disney's own, so I strongly expect “The Ruler” to become a “lost” episode, like “The Gatekeeper” ep of “Marvel’s Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur”. This would disappoint me because the Nathmarc/Marcaniel dynamic is exactly what I needed to see when I was younger. Seeing a passionate, uplifting, and wholesome relationship between two boys would have helped me understand that love was not out of reach for someone like me… or at least, it would have made me feel like less of a freak.

We see relatively little of the Anciel household, except that it’s as colorful as Marc himself and it’s a supportive environment. Mostly, we see Nathaniel’s home, which quite frankly gives off Gabriel Agreste vibes: a monochrome palette with one parent holed up to themselves, lost in their design work.

As for the boys’ updated looks, Marc’s eighties-inspired eye make-up slays (and as we later discover, it’s waterproof). As for Nathaniel, people have already commented on the color symbolism of the paint-spattered overalls, but I’m more interested in how his hair still looks good even though Alix isn’t there to touch up the red. And here’s something I noticed not just with Nath, but with Ivan in “El Toro de Piedras”: the new animation engine allows for the rendering of realistic freckles.

Mr. Kurtzberg cluelessly suggests having the knights fight for the affections of Deep Darkness, an obvious villain, claiming it’s “what people want to see.” Rather, it’s what he thinks people want to see. Like many corporate executives and self-appointed cultural arbiters, he doesn’t understand the value of stories told from a minority or niche viewpoint because they think most viewers or readers outside that community won't accept the premise. They don’t understand the transcendent power of a strong narrative to break down barriers and resonate with people, as demonstrated by how much Nathmarc's classmates love their comic, even though not all of them are LGBTQ+.

Some critics of this ep have called the subplot of Marinette’s cold distracting, even gross. But it makes a valuable point about brand-new romance. We try to show our partners our best and most attractive selves at all times, but no one can maintain the illusion forever. Eventually, you will see them (or they will see you) doing something inelegantly, unflatteringly human, and if there's anything to your relationship, it will withstand that shock. (Even so, you’d think Marinette would consider sewing herself a cute surgical mask for hygiene’s sake.)

Frankly, the metaphor associated with Nath and Marc’s comic hits harder than Mjolnir; it’s more than a little on the nose. Perhaps it was the best way the writers could articulate the angst caused by Shirel’s opposition to their relationship within the context of what is supposedly a children’s show.

Speaking of angst, the ending of Nathaniel and Marc’s comic foreshadows harrowing developments for Ladybug and Chat Noir. Rain-Piercer and Sun-Heart risk losing their powers if they reveal their identities, just like LB and CN. Will they also end up in a position where they must choose between their powers and their relationship? And if that happens, will someone be there to rewrite the narrative?

Nathaniel’s bedroom features a huge picture window, filling the space with morning light. But it only emphasizes the muted colors within that room, with only a few hints of color. It’s certainly not as cheerful as Marinette’s room, or Adrien’s, or Alya’s. It symbolizes how Nathaniel is trying to find some light of his own despite his parents’ influence.

Continuing the metaphor, plenty of LGBTQ+ people have accidentally outed themselves by leaving incriminating evidence where the wrong person found it.

Shirel shredding Marc’s manuscript is, of course, a karmic callback to Nathaniel tearing up Marc’s journal back in “Reverser”, the episode that introduced the latter. More upsetting is Nath’s attempt to destroy every trace of his comic, even badgering Marinette to hand over the proofs. Here we see one of the tragedies of homophobia: it forces people to self-censor the best parts of themselves, to destroy the things that bring them joy and make them special, to deprive themselves and the world of all they have to share.

Nathaniel and Marc, aside from Adrien, are the only people who ever figure out that Marinette is the “jet plane”. I can’t tell if this is more foreshadowing or just incidental.

When Shirel drags Nathaniel out of school, she makes at least two references to Nathaniel “going straight,” at least according to the subtitles. No comment.

I guess Shirel never heard about the comics collection the Louvre Collection co-published and showcased in 2009.

Not Nathaniel transforming and bursting out of a closet!

Shirel says she’s making Nathaniel give up comics “for his own good”. It's an argument too many parents have used to justify “tough love” approaches to their queer children, up to and including conversion therapy.

At the end of the episode, Cerise mentions Nathaniel by name, suggesting she’s figured out he’s a Miraculous holder. Honestly, it wouldn’t have been that hard. Ladybug yelled out his whole government name when she told him to scram. And then a Miraculer showed up, fighting the villain du jour with art supplies, going after her like he had a personal stake in the fight. Between all that, I fear Caprikid has tipped his hoof.

The scene on Marinette’s roof gives “Adrien: The Fragrance” a brand new meaning.

Shirel’s tearful reaction to her son’s comic suggests she didn’t even read Marc’s manuscript before destroying it, not unlike moral guardians who try to ban books they haven’t even read. The epilogue continues that theme, with Marc's observations about how their comic had “effects in real life” and how they were “attacked for talking about love.”

In that context, the mutual reveal of Nath and Marc’s superhero identities does more than parallel the events in their comic. It symbolizes the power of queer visibility. Marc helps Nath discover his bisexuality; later, Nath gives Marc the courage to reveal himself as Rooster Bold. Coming out does more than assert our autonomy; it supports other people who aren’t out yet, showing them that they are not alone and giving them the confidence to live their own truth, to follow their own path.

[greypistacchio]

look, i know this is a pipe dream at best and sheer stupidity at worst, but like. there is so much discourse and in-depth analysis of SPN on this site that I feel like it would be so interesting to compile it somewhere. call it a collection of essays, call it an anthology, do a physical formatted version or don't, IDGAF, but the nuanced takes I keep stumbling upon in this little hellhole are genuinely baffling. some are a million times better than most holier-than-thou textbooks about symbolism in audiovisuals, and most convey a passion and enthusiasm that are unparallelled.

so like. is this a thing. does someone wanna gather like a gremlin coven and put together a compilation, slash collection, of our SPN brainrot yapping. i do know that i will be compiling my own rants if only for my own sake, but idk man i feel like there is so much talent in this site that building something collective could lead to a truly beautiful result!

i have no clue about the formalities of organising something like that, so if you've ever run anything remotely similar such as a big bang, feel free to lend a hand!! just want to see if there is anyone who likes the idea of potentially being a part of this, repost with your consent to become a part of the brainrot pesterer army or leave a comment!!