#people REALLY need to get a job and get a life these days

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

because i liked a boy - spencer reid x fem!reader

somehow a reporter finds out about reader's relationship with none other than her coworker, dr spencer reid and shames her for it during a press conference

genre: flangst wc: 1355 warnings: medialiaison!reader established relationship, slut-shaming, feminism talk, upset spencer, morgan mention, mentioned case involving children

"This is a rough composite sketch of the UnSub. If anyone sees him, please call us using the number on the screen. Any questions?" you speak clearly, eyebrows raised and back straight.

It's a tough case this time, not that any are easy. The ones involving children–like this one–are the worst. You know that. It’s yet to hit you this hard, though. You're used to being in front of a camera all fake smiles and airbrushed to look porcelain but you're struggling to hold it together today. It’s never been easy to see grieving parents begging for their kid’s life on national television.

It also doesn't help that you haven't seen Spencer much these past two days. Ever since HR found out about you two, he’s been trying to keep his distance for professionalism’s sake. You appreciate it, of course, but you wish everything could be normal again. You miss working alongside him, sneaking tiny waist pinches every little while. Maybe you’re codependent.

One of the male reporters holding a microphone asks plainly, like it isn’t rude, “how do you expect this case to go to trial with your ongoing relationship within your team? Isn’t that some sort of conflict of interest?”

Now, how did they find out about that?

Luckily, Hotch steps in before you need to form a response. You’re left flushed and out of sorts, needing some water or something. It’s not like you’ve never had a bad press experience but nothing that came after you specifically. Why do they even care in the first place? Are you really that interesting? Is your love life really that interesting? His mustn’t be.

To Hotch, he spits, “it’s a valid question, Agent, you can’t expect no one to comment on one of your unit’s members sleeping her way to the top or… sleeping her way to getting a case dismissed.”

You want to stay, fight, cry, maybe even guilt him into apologizing, but, to your dismay, you’re pulled away by Morgan who looks just as upset as you do. If there weren’t a room full of people stopping him, you’re sure he would’ve hurt the guy. You don’t want to be dragged away by the action figure that is Derek Morgan so you try to pour your feelings into words. “The conference– the case–!”

Morgan stares at you in a way that very clearly says are you done? And, yes, you guess you are. You sigh, nodding reluctantly.

“Hotch will figure it out,” he assures softly but firmly.

You’re escorted to the break room where you watch the television only to see that very same reporter, spewing his nonsense again. Low and behold, he’s still stuck on the topic of you.

“An anonymous source discloses the identities of two FBI agents with the Behavioural Analysis Unit that are in a relationship of hidden rendezvous.”

The pitter-patter of your heart is louder than usual as he reads out your names along with the loving message, “I guess this proves that women really can’t be trained. What a shame, she’s certainly got–”

With that, you shut off the disgusting noises coming from someone claiming to be a man. You’ve never been good at taking insults but this was something else entirely. Your chest burns. You’re being perceived as a person you’re not. Everything you’ve tried so hard to build could all come crashing down at this very moment if you let it.

All because you liked a boy?

It feels ridiculous, like a step in the wrong direction for all womankind. That’s dramatic, you’re sure, but this is so twenty years ago. What happened to feminism, for fuck’s sakes? You wouldn’t give Spencer up for anything less than solving world hunger, but you wish this whole ordeal could’ve never happened. What if you lose your job? What if you lose this case because you’re too sensitive to male attention for your own good? Unfortunate circumstances led here and you wish it could be simple. It’s a tall order, but you wish UnSubs and all the people who enjoy pinning others down would simply cease to exist. You wish Spencer was here.

As if reading you all the way from canvassing the neighborhood, he’s suddenly visible, walking towards the doorway with quick Converse-sounding steps, Morgan’s hand on his shoulder. He looks worried. What worries you, though, is that he looks guilty. That hurts.

Familiar arms wrap around you as he kneels on the floor in front of the couch. “Hey, I heard what happened. Are you okay?” Spencer whispers, lips pressed into the fabric covering your shoulder.

You ponder the question for a moment before nodding. You’re not quite sure how you feel, if you’re being completely truthful. Criticism was never something you’ve taken well. Not ever. Maybe you deserve it, though. After all, you are sleeping with a coworker. You’re an agent, it’s not appropriate of you in the least. You should’ve kept to yourself, been the good girl the world wanted you to be. Female agents in the big bad FBI are already seen a certain way. You just happened to worsen it with wide-eyed affection.

How he always does, he mutters an explanation, “people like that don’t have anything going for them, you know. They report on others because their own life is insignificant.”

It’s wildly the wrong time to laugh but you do, flushed cheeks plumping from a happy smile. He pulls away and your hands find his face like they always seem to do. “I know.”

He nods. He pushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

He’s so unbelievably pretty that it almost makes you want to cry. Those same somber eyes that you’re sure mirror yours stare deep.

“It just sucks… you know?” you say so very quietly.

Nodding, he chews on his lip. “I know.”

“It’s like… I thought slut-shaming was over,” you laugh bitterly.

You can tell he feels bad. It’s not like this is his fault. You know he believes it is, anyways.

“It should be. It’s ridiculous. This isn’t your fault. That useless guy should be spending the night in a cell for harassing an agent not on the ten o’clock news airing out our personal matters.”

It’s really not often you see him like this, upset and wielding pain-filled threats. It never fails to amuse you. You’re not sure why. Something about the juxtaposition of his usual sweet demeanor and this annoyed ranting one, you suppose.

“It’s kind of funny.”

“Funny?”

You smile and nod, your thumb tracing his lower lip. “A little. We’re the most enthralling news in all of small-town-Colorado.”

While Spencer doesn’t find it quite as giggle-inducing, he mimics the pull of your mouth’s corners and shows his reluctant agreement with a bob of his head. “That is… silly, I guess.”

“We’re basically stars,” you shrug.

In honest disbelief and certainly awe for your ability to brush off the event with humour, he shakes his head, curls falling out of place. Your fingers rush to correct it. The golden eyes you love stay stubbornly put on your own. Breaths mix together in the close proximity despite you not recalling how you got so close. It’s proven difficult to care when his plush lips find yours. Carefully and with love, he kisses you. With no intent, no desire other than to make you feel better. It breaks stickily, the shimmer that once was on your lips now ghosting around his mouth. You grin.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Spencer tenderly mutters.

Gently, you answer, “I���m sure. I mean, we didn’t do anything wrong.”

You believe yourself. You’d never doubt your relationship with Spencer. It just sucks that they had to poke holes in your safe place. That safe place being Spencer. Your home. You know because of your profiler-by-association background that he was right about the reporter being not fulfilled enough in his own life that he had to insert himself into yours. That didn’t make it drastically better, anyway. Perhaps your personal life should be kept away from work.

But it’s not your fault that work happens to include Dr. Spencer Reid.

[shy-writer-999]

1-800-LONELYCHEF . ₊ ⊹ .

Summary: The same man calls you every Friday at 11:30PM. It seems like he has nothing better to do. After months of the same routine, you've started to take a liking to him, which is a problem, considering that he's your client... and you work at a phone sex hot line. WC: ~7k. CW: NSFW content! ANGSTY! Afab reader w/gendered language (she/her pronouns). Masturbation, oral sex. MDNI plz!

“Hello?”

You’re very familiar with the caller on the other end of the line. He calls you once a week—every Friday, after his shift at the bougie restaurant he works at, 11:30PM on the dot.

He must be very attractive, or at least that’s what you’ve garnered over talking to him for many months.

At first, he was evidently too shy to make use of your more… explicit services. This is a phone sex hotline, after all.

He honestly sounded like he just needed someone to vent to. So, you listened, as was your job. After the first few months, you both got more accustomed to one another. His shyness melted away. He got friendlier.

It’s been six or seven months since he first called. You’ve become very fond of him, but you have no idea what he looks like. So, one day, you decide to ask.

“Your voice is so sexy,” you start, giving him a line that you gave everyone, except this time you mean it. “I can’t help but wonder what you look like, Sanji.”

With other callers, you’d have to check what their name is before you say it. But you’re far past that point with him, and every time you say his name it makes his heart flutter.

“Well,” he says. “I’m blonde. And my eyebrows have a little… curl to them. I’m a decent height and I have a bit of a goatee.”

“And what color are your eyes?” You ask, trying to get the full picture.

He notes that question. It’s a thoughtful one. You’re thoughtful, in general. He knows that you are just being nice to him because, well, it’s your job, but also… he can’t shake the feeling that you have a soft spot for him. Do you talk to everyone like this?

“My eyes? Hmm. It depends on who you ask. I don’t know, really. Some people say they’re black, other people say grey, I’ve had a few tell me they’re blue. I’m not sure.”

You hum in response. There’s a beat of silence.

“What sort of eyes do you like?” He asks. He’s cheeky like that. You have the feeling that he has a real soft spot for you, too. Why else would he call you every week? There are plenty of others he could call. But he just sticks with you every time.

You respond. “It depends on who you ask. But historically I have liked guys with black, grey, or blue eyes. Do you happen to know anyone who fits the bill?”

He can tell that you’re smiling. He finds himself blushing, getting giddy for a few moments before he realizes that oh, right, you are at work, and oh, right, he is paying you to talk to him, like the loser he is.

His voice falters a bit the next time he speaks, a couple of seconds later. You know the exact thought that just went through his head. It’s something you are well aware of but… it does make you a bit sad with him. You like him far too much for your own good.

You wonder if you would like the look of him in real life, painfully single as you are. You wonder if he would like the look of you.

You might have a teeny tiny crush on this guy you’ve never met. Teeny tiny is a massive understatement. Just because he’s so consistent—you’ve never met a man as consistent as him—and so kind, and such a gentleman, even on the phone.

But tonight, the call ends earlier than usual. It seems that your open flirtation was a bit too genuine for him. Hit a bit too close to home. He finishes the conversation and dodges your attempt to take it farther.

“Thank you as always, beautiful. It’s a pleasure to talk to you. See you next week.” The phone hangs up abruptly. He’s gone now.

He always calls you beautiful, like everyone else does, but… it just means something coming from him. Maybe because he’s the only caller who has ever wanted to truly know something about you. And every time he hangs up, he says ‘see you next week,’ even though you never see each other. It’s cute.

You find yourself wishing he was still on the line. You’re a bit bummed that he hung up this early, not because you’re going to be left wanting for money (he always overpays), but because you always look forward to talking to him.

When you take the next caller, you’re quickly reminded that Sanji is by far the youngest and kindest of anyone who has ever called you.

---

“Hello?”

He’s on the line again. It’s Friday again, 11:30PM sharp.

You respond, tone warmer than it needs to be, given that you’re speaking to a client. “Hi.”

You’re glad to talk to him. Very realistically, this is the only interesting thing you have to look forward to—it’s not like you can afford to go out and party on the weekends. Or any day, for that matter. He’s your Friday night date every week. That doesn’t escape him.

“How was your week?” He asks, like he always does. He’s the only client who has ever asked you that.

You respond as frankly as you can without overstepping. “Hmmm. It was alright. Pretty boring, in general. It could have been better. How was your week?”

He pauses for a moment. “It was pretty good.”

“Tell me about it.” You prompt, and he begins detailing his week for you, as is your routine.

The things you know about this man’s life are random and vast, among them, you know that he lives in the city next to yours, he eats oats every morning for breakfast, and that he chain smokes as often as he can get away with (which is almost 24/7). You’ve been privy to him trying to cut back on his nicotine intake more than a few times, and he has never forgotten that you cheer him on every time he tries.

Among other things, this week he had to go to work on his usual day off (Wednesday) because the sous-chef called out (again). You can hear him roll his eyes when he says that. You roll them too, even though he can’t see.

He vents about that, and you hear him out.

“The sous-chef sounds like a real asshole,” you say. “Always has. Didn’t he call out a couple weeks ago?”

He laughs out loud at your honesty. “I fucking know, right? And yes, he did. It’s ridiculous.” Then his heart skips a beat. You really do pay attention to what he says.

“They don’t appreciate you as much as they should, Sanji. I bet I could talk some sense into them.” You say, and you both chuckle for a moment.

“What else happened this week?” You follow up, genuinely wanting to know. This man fascinates you. With how charming and sweet he is, it’s a wonder to you that he’s single. Also, the life he lives is quaint. He is a man of routine, a hard worker, and he’s driven. He has a strong and warm personality.

When he replies to your question, you can’t quite make out the tone of his voice—is that reluctance? Hesitation? Shyness? Or awkwardness? It’s hard to tell.

He responds to your question. “Well… I went on a date last night.”

Before you can wonder why, your heart starts to sink. Fuck. You really do have a crush on this guy, don’t you?

You regrettably (internally) acknowledge your disappointment. You do have a massive crush on this guy. And he’s your client. So, get a grip.

Your acting skills have to be excellent for this job. You make good use of them now. “Oh, a date?” You emanate the pinnacle of excitement for him. “How was it?”

This has happened maybe half a dozen times before. The dates always go well but the follow through rate is bad. Obviously. Or else he wouldn’t be here. But every time it has happened, your heart always sinks. Not a fun feeling.

“It went really, really well.” Sanji’s voice is happy. “Might have been the best date I’ve ever been on.” You know he’s smiling right now. Positively beaming. Your heart breaks a bit before you reprimand yourself. You have no right to like this man the way that you do.

He probably wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot-pole if he met you in real life (you tell yourself this, and you know it is a lie, but you try to say it to make yourself get a grip… needless to say, this strategy doesn’t work.)

“How was she?” You ask because you know he wants to talk about it.

“She was thoughtful, kind, and considerate. Very sweet. Kind of like you, actually.” He says, not realizing how much those words make your smile fall. “One of the cooks set us up. Like a blind date. I had no idea what to expect but she was gorgeous. Wow. So funny, too.”

His voice trails off. It’s your turn to talk.

“Awh, Sanji, I’m so glad. You deserve some attention.” Your voice is sugar coated like usual and his heart patters.

The conversation wanders into various topics. The woman he went on a date with is a veterinarian. That sours your mood. She must be real swell. Caring for sick animals and all that stuff. Ugh. The whole topic is forcing you to accept the fact that you like this guy wayyyy more than you should. You have no business having this intense of a crush on him, having this intense of a crush on a man who is, ostensibly, and for all intents and purposes, using you as his rent-a-girlfriend.

The pair of you then talk about relationships—has he ever been in one? (Yes, ages ago.) What is his love language? (Physical touch and acts of service.) What’s his type? (Essentially, you.) You ask him questions and he asks you them back. It’s a nice conversation, an intimate one, one that would have you feeling better if not for the fact that he just happened to have an amazing date.

After a while, the conversation dwindles. You know that he’s in the mood to do what this whole thing is really about—phone sex. When Sanji is in a really good mood or a really bad mood, he takes advantage of your expertise in this area. Tonight is the former.

“Is there anything else on your mind, handsome?” You ask, gauging what he’s up to tonight.

“Mmmm, there is. What are you wearing, gorgeous?”

You smile. He’s cute. Usually, you lie when men ask you this question. But with Sanji you tend to be a bit more truthful. Maybe it’s the fact that you feel like he’s going to get taken off the market soon and never call you again one day, or maybe it’s something else, but you’re getting the urge to be more candid and flirtier with him than you’ve ever been before. Real flirty, not work flirty. You’re getting the urge to step out of whatever character you put on when you pick up the phone.

“Do you want the regular client answer, or the Sanji answer?” You say, bold and not giving a fuck. Why not? He can have the real answer, hell, he can have some realness because you’ve talked for so long, and because you like him so much. Like you said, he deserves some attention.

“Oh. How about both?” He’s tickled and intrigued. “I’m flattered that I have my own option.”

“You always do. Well, the regular client answer would be that I’m wearing a babydoll slip dress made of black mesh… with a black lace thong and thigh-high black stockings. Do you like that?” Your voice starts to transform; it starts to drip pure lust, candied in honey and flattery. It’s a well-trained skill. Sanji gets hard almost immediately, tenting his pants and widening his thighs.

“I like it very much.” His voice is getting huskier, thicker. You love it when he sounds like that. His voice really is sexy. He continues. “Now, tell me the Sanji answer.”

“It isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

He nods, but it’s not like you can see him. “Of course.”

“I’m wearing a black tank top and blue plaid sweatpants. No bra, but I actually am wearing a black lace thong.” You laugh. “Very sexy, right?”

His voice comes out raspier this time. “It is, though. I much prefer the Sanji answer.”

“You’re sweet.” You say, and he can tell you mean it. “Now, what are you wearing?”

Sanji blushes and his erection strains against the fabric of his boxers. “Do you want the regular client answer, or the You answer?”

You laugh again. “How about both?”

“Well,” he continues. “The regular client answer is that I’m in black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone and my sleeves are rolled up to my forearms. I’m wearing black loafers and black socks. Now, the You answer isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t have a shirt on and I am coincidentally wearing blue plaid sweatpants as well. Can you believe that?”

“No way. Really?”

“Yep.”

“Anything underneath?” Your voice is coy and his erection pulses.

“Yep. I have boxers on. Boring black ones.”

“And what’s going on underneath of those?”

He dryly chuckles and reaches down to rub his hard on for a second. “A lot.”

“Just what I wanted to hear.” You practically purr and he runs his palm over his bulge in response.

He lets out a soft groan that make you feel some sort of way. “Oh yeah? Y’know, even though I don’t really know what you look like, I just know that you’re looking sexy in your pajama outfit right now.”

Your witty reply is stopped short. He’s the only one who is this real with you. Most of the men on the other line tend to be creepy, old, and just downright weird. This is a dying profession, after all. Sometimes the other clients are rude and dismissive, too. But Sanji… you know he really means what he says.

“You’re adorable, Sanji,” you say. “I’d venture a guess that you look pretty good right now, too.”

“Mmmm.” He hums, heartbeat rising as he continues to palm himself. “I wish I could see you right now.”

You can’t tell if this is part of the fantasy. You really did wish you could see him, though.

“What would you do to me…” your voice is smooth as silk. “If I peeled off my tanktop and shimmied out of my sweatpants?”

Sanji’s breath hitches. Something feels realer than usual about this—knowing what you’re wearing right now, what you’re really wearing, is turning him on beyond belief (assuming that you’re telling the truth, but he always chooses to believe that you are).

“If I was there, I’d kiss you, actually.”

His answer catches you off guard. You’re not sure he’s said something like this before.

There is silence for a second. You don’t know how to respond, really. You decide to just respond honestly, without appearances. Fuck it. He’d probably be off the market soon if his amazing date was anything to tell for it, so might as well.

“Wow, that’s really sweet. I’m not sure anyone has said something that nice to me in years.”

He tuts. “That’s my lowest bar of sweetness. I can go much sweeter than that, my love.”

He’s never called you that before, either. You’re starting to forget that this is a work call. It feels distinctly different than one.

“I’d like to see how sweet you can get, Sanji.”

His cock twitches again. Fuck. You really have a way with words. You get him more riled up than anyone he’s ever met before.

You continue. “After you kiss me, what would you do to me?”

“I would kiss every inch of you.”

Your heart melts. Fuck. Is this guy a saint? Where does he get off being so suave?

“Mmmm. That sounds nice. I’d like to return the favor.” Your tone, to Sanji, is effortlessly erotic. The thought of you kissing every inch of him—yes, even those inches—has him grinding the palm of his hand over his cock.

“Sounds even better. Then, if you let me, I’d go down on you.” The blonde is starting to get worked up. You can tell from his voice—when it gets all husky like this, you know he’s about to start touching himself, if he isn’t already.

Also, the fact that he said ‘if you let me’ really struck you. No one had ever said that before in your line of work. He has the tendency to say things you’ve never heard before, and he always surprises you.

“Of course I’d let you go down on me,” your voice gets softer. “What exactly would you do?” You wonder if he’d be any good. Maybe his answer will be elucidative.

“I’d start by kissing up your thighs, one at a time. Then I’d very slowly, very gently kiss your clit. Hopefully it would feel good. After a while, I think I’d be able to tell if you liked it. I’d run my tongue downwards and taste you. And tease you as much as you’re willing to put up with.”

“Mmmm. I think I could put up with a lot.” You let out a breathy sigh. You’re starting to warm up between the legs. With that voice, and those words, and that mental image… it sounds divine. You’re about to let yourself get carried away. It’s tempting.

“Is that so?” Sanji decides to keep going with the fantasy as long as you’d let him. Frequently, this happens the other way around. You usually describe to him, in great detail, what you would do to him. Apparently tonight it would be the other way around.

“In that case,” Sanji continues, “I’d take my time with you. I’d push my tongue inside of you delicately at first, then harder, and switch between that licking your clit.”

You can feel that you’re getting wet. It has only ever been with Sanji that you’ve actually gotten aroused while talking to a client. Usually, you’re as dry as the Sahara when talking to clients. But this man does things to you. Sinful things.

“What else?” You ask, biting your lip and sneaking your hand lower. You decide that, just this once, it’s okay to get carried away.

He can hear it in your voice. The synthetic, sugary (but still very much erotic) tone is dissipating and he’s hearing, for the first time, your voice bathed in genuine arousal. Your breaths are quicker than usual, your tone is less composed, and he can tell that you’re hanging onto his every word.

At the same time that his hand goes under the waistband of his boxers, yours goes under your underwear. He starts to stroke himself, relishing the first ripples of pleasure from his hand, and you do something similar. Each movement of your fingers is accompanied by his voice, by some filthy image he puts in your head.

“When you’re moaning loud enough, I’d press my middle finger into you slowly, to make sure you’re comfortable. After a moment, I’d move my finger and caress you inside a bit, and if it seemed like you liked it, I would press my ring finger into you.”

You start to mimic what Sanji is describing. It feels dangerously good. A barely audible sort of gasping sound falls out of your lips and Sanji hears it. His fist goes faster. He hasn’t ever heard you make that sort of noise before—he’s heard fake moans, sure, they were still hot (and he always told himself they were real). Anything you did was hot. But this sort of noise was the sort that could only be caused by one thing—pleasure.

Sanji’s fist goes a bit faster when he concludes that you may be touching yourself. The idea makes him feel like he’s on fire.

“I’d curl my fingers inside of you and find your g-spot… draw circles around it and press it while I place some kisses on your clit. Would you like that?”

His question catches you off guard—you’re getting lost in the act of fingering yourself.

“Mmmm. I would like that, Sanji.”

“How would I know that you liked it?”

“I’d, fuck,” another soft moan slips out of your lips and Sanji squeezes his cock tighter. “I’d run my fingers through your hair and pull you closer. Buck my hips into your tongue so you, ah, get deeper.”

“What would you say?” His voice is low now, and you can hear a faint sound in the background. He’s fisting his cock to your conversation, which is nothing new, but it brings you more of a rush than usual right now because you’re touching yourself too. “What would you say if you liked how I ate you out?”

“Don’t stop,” you shudder, and it sounds like it would if he was actually eating you out. The noise makes his heart flip. He can hear wet sounds from your end of the phone, too. He can hardly believe his ears, but sure enough, he can make out the noises of you bringing your fingers in and out of yourself.

“I wouldn’t,” Sanji says and then groans. The obscene noise goes straight to your aching core. You’re going to orgasm soon. “I wouldn’t stop until you came all over my face and I licked you clean.”

“Fuck,” you mewl. “That sounds, ah, sounds like it would feel good, Sanji.”

“Does it feel good?” He counters, twisting his hand over the head of his cock. His fist brings down the precum that has been beading at his tip, and the sensation makes his hips rock up inadvertently.

“Mmmmphhh, I—yes, it feels good, Sanji. Feels so good.”

You curl your fingers inside, searching for the spot that Sanji mentioned before. You press on it as you speak. You know he’s going to love the noise you make.

He grunts and throws his head back. He’s going to cum soon. He’s going to cum if you say his name some more. He wants it. “Say that again.”

“Fucckkk, Sanji. Feels so good.”

“I love hearing you say my name. I’m—hah—‘m gonna cum if you do it again.”

“Sanji. Sanji. Sanji, fuck, Saannnjjjiii.” On repeat, you moan his name through your orgasm, which you finally allow to wash over you. He can hear it in your voice, can hear you trying to force his name out of your mouth between keens.

Your voice has never sounded so good. He’s sure now, sure sure, that you’ve been touching yourself this whole time and that you just came. It’s a first for him. He’s suspected your arousal at other times, but this time, it’s a confirmed fact. In an instant, the fantasy fades and he can see the moment for what it is—you’ve thrown away the pretenses, acting skills, and flattery, and, for a handful of minutes, you’ve been 100% yourself with him, more so than ever before.

That’s what makes him cum. Your unreserved sincerity and desire. It’s the hardest he’s cum in a long time—and that’s a high bar, considering the fact that any time he broaches these activities with you he cums hard.

When you’re both panting in the euphoric aftershocks of your orgasms, Sanji whistles. “Damn.”

You hum in agreement. “Wow.”

He cracks a joke. “So, am I supposed to send you an invoice after this one?”

He’s hilarious in general, and this one makes you laugh. “I might allow it.” Your tone is uncharacteristically bashful. You’re about to say something you’ll later regret. “I think you’re the only person who has ever gotten me off over the phone.”

Sanji is taken aback for a second. “Really? I’m honored. And surprised.”

You almost instantly regret oversharing, chuckling awkwardly before you realize that this is a work call, and you should act accordingly. But it’s hard to pull yourself out of the intimacy of this moment and you don’t want to. So… against your better judgment, you don’t.

“I’m impressed, Sanji. Maybe we should do this more often,” you say, and Sanji’s heart thumps again. “You don’t have to only call me once a week, you know.”

“As long as you won’t get sick of me, I would love to. And we can do this again any time, gorgeous. It’s seriously my pleasure. You don’t know what you do to me, it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

While he’s saying the last part, Sanji realizes that this isn’t a favor, really. He tries to brush off that sad feeling for a moment but finds himself wondering what you really think of him.

It’s time for him to go to sleep, he concludes. He’s exhausted after a long shift and a hard orgasm.

“So, same time next week?” His voice is chipper.

“Mhm. I look forward to it, Sanji. See you later.” When the words leave your mouth, you wonder if he feels butterflies, too.

“See you later, sweetheart.”

Sanji hangs up the phone.

In your respective bedrooms, you’re both wondering what the fuck just happened. This call was full of lots of firsts and, little do you two know, the other feels elated.

But Sanji thinks about it more. He weighs his feelings for you against the practical understanding that he is, presumably, nothing more than a client to you. His heart aches at the thought.

And then he looks at his phone. The person who he went on a date with texted him while he was on the phone with you—she’s asking for another date. She says she looks forward to seeing him.

---

A week passes.

It’s Friday again.

11:30PM comes and goes. No call from Sanji.

In a span of over six months, this is the first time he hasn’t called you.

As you sit and wait for him, passing off other phone calls in case he decides he wants to speak to you tonight, your heart starts to sink.

Was last time a mistake?

Ten minutes go by.

Twenty minutes go by.

Many minutes go by. The time is now 12:30AM.

You’re left to conclude that last time was, indeed, a mistake.

You decide to take the night off. Your tears are making it hard to get any work done. You can’t put on that sultry voice and moan at old men in your current state.

There’s no denying it—his absence hurts you. Bad. Especially after last week. Especially after you admitted to him that you had never orgasmed over the phone before, and that you wanted to talk to him more often.

Why hadn’t he called you?

You wrack your brain for possibilities, but one major thing stands out. That date he went on. Maybe he went on another one and decided he liked them better.

Liked them better? You ask yourself after realizing what you just thought. He’s paying you to talk to him on the phone. Get over it. He isn’t going to keep calling you forever. What did you expect after last week? That he would just confess his love, offer to pay all of your bills, and that would be it?

You frown harder, hurting yourself deeper with your own rhetoric. The tears won’t stop.

It’s excruciating to realize that you like Sanji this much. You really like him. You know almost everything there is to know about him, too. And as much as you generally try to avoid giving out personal information, he knows a large chunk about you. Maybe that’s why it hurts so bad.

No, you tell yourself. Don’t kid yourself. You know it hurts this bad because you were hoping he liked you for real. You were hoping that this man, who you had never truly met before, who you had never seen, would, against all odds, decide that he wants you, even if he hadn’t seen you.

Fat chance, you tell yourself. Never do that with a client again, and this will never be a problem again.

---

Sanji does not call you back the next week.

Or the next week.

Or the week after that.

Or the month after that.

You are over it by the time the second month rolls around.

It’s pretty good timing, on your behalf. You think you’re really over this huge crush on a man you’ve never seen before. By the fifth month, you’re still telling yourself that you’re over this “crush”.

But that’s a delusion—any time you’re in public and there’s a blonde man, you find yourself scanning his face. Does he have a goatee? Could those eyebrows be considered curly? What color are those eyes?

When you see one that you think might be him, you always work up the courage to speak to them. But it never is Sanji. You would recognize that voice anywhere.

You wonder what you will say to him if he ever calls you again. Or if you see him in person. You decide that if he ever calls you again, you’ll either curse him out or break into tears.

In your most down-bad-hour, you contemplate showing up at the restaurant he is the chef at. You contemplate asking if you can see the kitchen. You just want a glance at him. A glance will keep your heart quiet.

But the joke’s on you—his restaurant is too expensive for you. Truly. You couldn’t afford a drink there if you tried. Okay, maybe just one. But you refuse to stoop to that level of desperation.

You’re a call away from him. He just has to dial your number.

You, on the other hand, have no way of calling or texting him. The service you work through scrambles client numbers before they’re patched through to you. The only way you know it’s Sanji is when he calls, at 11:30PM on the dot, on Friday nights. That’s Sanji time.

But it seems like Sanji time has come and gone.

You can’t shake the feeling that he did you dirty—but then you remember that he doesn’t owe you anything. This is your line of work. Phone sex. And that’s what you had. You just stepped over a boundary that you usually stay far away from. Whose fault is that?

No amount of logic can shake that feeling, though. You develop a little grudge against this man who you will never meet.

That’s what you tell yourself—that you’ll never meet him. But there’s a nugget of hope inside that, someday, he’ll call you. Someday he’ll kiss you. You try to obliterate that nugget though, as it is antithetical to the remedy to your lovesickness that you’re seeking.

Which will come first, him calling you, or you quitting this job that you’ve been meaning to quit for months at this point?

You hate to admit this to yourself, but he’s the only thing that was keeping the thoughts of quitting at bay. Maybe you really will quit this time around.

---

It is a Saturday night and you’re working again. It’s an unfortunately slow night, which sucks, because you really could use the money.

You’re scrolling on your phone, waiting for the next call to come in. It has been three hours with no calls. Guess all the creepy old men have plans tonight, which is such a shame because you need to pay rent soon. Sigh.

Time passes. You check the clock. It’s almost 11:30PM. The time doesn’t remind you of him anymore (well, much).

Maybe if you channel some of your good karma, ask the universe to cut a check of it right now, someone will call you for one long, lengthy conversation. You can help get them off as many times as they want. Five times in a row. You’ll break that record and go for six times if they just pay you. No questions asked.

Sure enough, a call comes through. You check the clock again. It’s been moving at a snail’s pace tonight. It’s 11:35PM. Hopefully whoever this is feels like talking.

“Hello?”

Your heart stops.

It sounds like Sanji for a second. But there’s no way. It’s been five fucking months.

“Hi.” You respond in your sugared up, sultry voice.

“It’s been a long time, gorgeous.”

It is Sanji.

Your heart flutters and your stomach flips. You’re speechless.

Don’t forget your game plans: curse him out or cry. But you can’t bring yourself to do either now that he’s waiting on the other line. You’re about to hang up the phone. You owe this man nothing and he owes you nothing—it’s that simple.

As you go to press the end call button, he speaks again.

“I’m sorry.”

The tears start now. The dam inside of you breaks. Hot tears pour out of your eyes and down your cheeks.

You didn’t think that hearing his voice would have this strong of an effect on you. But the heartbreak that you once thought faded away is now back in full force.

He’s waiting for a response before he hears shuddering breaths from you as you cry. Your tears are all the confirmation he needs—he knows that he was right months ago when he worked up the courage to confess to you. He should have done it. He knows that he was wrong to take the coward’s way out. And he knows he was wrong to tell himself that you didn’t care about him and wouldn’t care when he disappeared, because he was just a client to you. He was so terribly wrong. The sound of your sobs shatters him.

“I should have called you before. I’m so sorry. And maybe you hate me for waiting this long to call you again. I understand if you do. I just couldn’t keep it inside anymore, I—”

“Where the fuck were you?” You cut him off. Your anger is starting to seep through the tears. Maybe the first game plan can still happen. “I waited for you, Sanji.”

He doesn’t even try to think of a comeback or excuse. He tells you plainly what happened and, even though it breaks your heart some more, it makes sense.

“Well… I finally found someone. Last time, after I hung up, I had another date with that person I mentioned, and it went really well. So, we just kept going on dates. It didn’t feel right to keep calling you when things with her were progressing so quickly. We got together, and—”

“I understand, Sanji. That’s all I wanted to hear. Thanks.”

You slam your finger down on the hang up button. Your heart is broken enough as it is. He can keep all that yapping to himself. Good for nothing heartbreaker.

So what, he was with whoever that was. So what, they love each other and have been together almost half a year at this point. So what, he was just a client the whole time and you had gotten your hopes up for nothing and—your catastrophizing is stopped in its tracks when your phone starts to buzz again. You feel like it’s Sanji.

You pick up the phone. It is.

“Wait, wait, don’t hang up, please let me finish, please.”

“What, so you can tell me how much you love your girlfriend? I get it, Sanji. You paid me to talk to you for so long that of course you got sick of it and finally got what you had been after the whole time, a loving, very real partner. I understand that I’m just a service to be used and discarded later. That’s fine. Goodbye.”

“No. Listen to me.” Sanji’s voice is stern and harsh, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. “We got together and then she very quickly dumped me. Do you know what she kept saying to me? She said I was too absentminded. She thought I was thinking about someone else. Dumped me after two months because I couldn’t give her what she wanted. Absentminded.”

His words hang in the air for a few moments while you try to process why the fuck he’s explaining any of this to you and why it matters. He continues. His voice is emphatic, hurried, and nervous sounding.

“And if I’m being honest, I was absentminded. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know this sounds fucking ridiculous because we’ve never met, and I understand if you tell me to go fuck off because I’m sure this happens to you all the time, but… I can’t get you out of my head. I’ve tried to for months. Three months. I told myself that I was an idiot for falling for someone out of my league. And the crazy thing is, I don’t even have to see you to know you’re out of my league. The way you act is out of my league. YOU are out of my league. You’re thoughtful, and kind, and considerate, and you pause before you respond whenever you talk because I can tell you’re really thinking over your response. And you’re funny. And witty, and charming, and you never once made me feel weird or less than for calling and finding solace in you. I’ve been lonely for years. I make the first move all the time, but it never works out. And I know I fucked this one up, and I know I didn’t have a chance in hell with you to begin with, but I just, fuck, I had to get this off my chest. I love you. I fell for you the first conversation we had. Now please tell me to fuck off.”

You can tell that every word he is saying is sincere and earnest. You can hear the emotion in his voice. While you wipe your tears dry and mend your heart together, you take deep breaths. He can wait for your response. Like he just said, you’re intentional about your responses to people. Every word matters. Especially with Sanji.

“Do you know how bad it hurt after our last conversation to not hear from you again?” You start.

He winces. He knew that was coming.

“I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. It was disrespectful of me, and callous, and if you hang up and never want to speak to me again, I understand and I deserve it.”

“You do deserve it.” You say, regaining some composure. “You really do, Sanji.”

“I’m sorry.” You can hear his frown. It’s a cute one. Fuck. His cute words are playing back in your ears too. So, he loves you?

Should you tell him how you feel? How you’ve felt for a long time?

One part of you is screaming at you to get a grip. But the other part—all the other parts—are finally, finally hearing what you’ve been wanting to hear for around a year at this point. That he likes you for you. That he sees you as you, and not some dolled up object of affection that’s only there to get people off and talk dirty to them. It has never been like that between you.

“If I accept your apology, Sanji, what then?”

“I—I actually didn’t think I would make it this far. But if you accept my apology, my next step is to ask you out to dinner with me. And to ask for your phone number. Your real phone number.”

You let out a long, deep sigh. “Sanji. My love. You could have told me these things months ago. It would have saved both of us so much heartbreak. I was devastated. Do you know that?”

You know that he already profusely apologized but you feel like driving it home a bit more. He deserves it. But while you talk, his hopes start to rise. You’ve never called him ‘my love’ before. Maybe that bodes well?

“I’m so sorry. I really am.” He sounds like he means it. You trust him enough to know that he does. Well, fuck it.

“Don’t think I’ll just forget about this because I’m head over heels for you, okay?”

“You—what?” He’s caught off guard. “You are?”

“Sanji. Yes. And you could have found out ages ago. Now, when are we going to dinner? You can apologize to me again then, too. And even if you don’t like what you see, you have to pay for everything. I’m getting an appetizer, an entrée, a dessert, at least two drinks, and whatever else I want. Okay?”

He laughs in relief. “Yes, okay. Yes. Holy shit, I didn’t think you would say that. I wish I could kiss you.”

“Wait—one last thing. If you decide you don’t like me after our date, Sanji, you have to tell me there on the spot. You can’t leave me waiting for another five months. You just can’t.”

“I promise, I won’t leave you waiting. I promise.”

When you hang up the phone a few minutes later (after more twisting the knife), you’re so thrilled that you can hardly breathe.

You can’t believe this is real life. You also can’t believe how quickly you just forgot your dignity, but you’ll unpack that later.

Dinner is set for tomorrow night. 7:30PM on the dot. Sanji is calling out of work, and he’s taking you to the (second) nicest restaurant in town (his is the first, obviously, and he wants to save that for a night where he can really plan ahead and spoil you).

---

When you get to the restaurant, Sanji is already there, waiting outside with a large bouquet of flowers.

He’s more handsome than you could have imagined. Of course he is. You do have great intuition, and you knew from the start that he was sexy. But… goddamn, he is sexy.

It makes sense now what he meant by curly eyebrows. He’s dressed well, too. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. He has black loafers and black socks. And he smells good. And he smiles good.

He’s so nervous he could puke. He hopes that when he sees you the nerves will melt. But they get 20x worse because he’s enamored with you. You’re beyond his wildest dreams—no number of fantasies could have led him to guess that you look like this.

He’s so obsessed that he starts to stammer before you tell him to calm down, and that he’s making you nervous.

Over dinner, you catch up on everything you’ve missed in the past few months of silence. You fill him in on details in your life that you previously kept to yourself, and he sees a whole new side of you.

At the end of the date, he tells you that he still loves you, that he loves you even more now, and that he’s so so sorry. He says that he’s mesmerized by you, that you’re more than he could have ever dreamed of, and that you can count on him for anything.

You seal the night with a kiss. A long one. It’s so romantic that you feel a bit disturbed with how happy you are after.

And it turns out that yes, this is your big happy ending. You make a perfect pair.

Epilogue: The day that Sanji finally shows off the techniques he told you about long ago, you’re more than satisfied. In fact, it seems like he was actually underselling himself there. You always knew he was the modest type.

thanks for reading! this was inspired by a whole lot of laufey! i hope you liked it. i love sanji so much it hurts me ;(

here's my masterlist if you're interested!

divider courtesy of @cafekitsune tag list @eggrollforyou

[luveline]

Jade can we get hotch and his daughter again I miss them!!!!!

You’ll confess to liking your father’s new apartment. It’s well-furnished and warm. It’s nothing like the house, though. You can hardly tell anyone lives here when you aren’t putting your laundry bag by the washer-dryer to go in next, the bedroom especially untouched. You suspect your father lives out of his wardrobe and go-bag, as it’s called. 

Different to the house. You’re always welcome. No strange silences pervade when you come knocking —if Aaron’s home, he opens the door already having pulled the chain lock down to let you in, and, despite his apparent stress and budding depression, he asks you what you need. 

How was school? How’s your studying coming along? Did you find a potential grad outfit yet? Did you need a check for that? 

It’s too much, sometimes, but not because you don’t want it. 

You hesitate at the door. From inside, you can hear the barest hum of the TV. Maybe he’s actually relaxing for once. Maybe you should leave poor Aaron alone. 

You’re selfish. “Dad?” you ask, letting some excitement colour your voice, “Hello! Are you napping?” 

It’s gotta be five quick seconds before the doors being pulled open. “Hey, sweetheart,” he croaks, all tired eyes and rumpled pajamas as he stands aside. You dodge his arm, laughing at his disgruntled groan. “You can go home if this is what I have to deal with.” 

You let him close the door and lock it before you turn back to him. “Tell me you weren’t just sleeping on the couch? I thought we had a few more years.” 

“I was asleep in bed.” 

“You got to the door super fast.” 

“I was getting up. We got home late,” —he drags a hand over his face— “and I didn’t sleep on the jet. Let me go get dressed and we’ll go for breakfast.” He checks his watch. “Uh, dinner.” 

“Or we could order in?” 

He sighs in relief. “Or we’ll order in. Good idea.” 

You don’t comment as he steps past you to the couch. You’ve missed your opportunity for a hug. It’s your own fault for dodging the first one. 

You slip out of your shoes and leave them neatly by the door, hanging your jacket on the hook, and your sweater on the back of the couch. He holds up a hand as you sit down on the couch and you take it for what it is, a beckoning to sit near enough for him to hold your shoulder. “Alright?” he asks, touching the side of your face with his knuckles briefly, before leaving you to your personal space. “You look tired. I don’t mean that unkindly. How have you been sleeping?”

“You’re the third person to tell me that today, but I don’t feel tired.” 

“Maybe you just need something to eat,” he says. “Pass me the phone, honey, I’ll call for us.” 

He calls. You listen to him talk. You love how polite he is to everyone and especially people who work jobs like you did. Despite his titles and expertise, he doesn’t condescend. He says thank you twice. And he orders all your favourites, so you have to give him double the credit for being observant. 

You slip a ways down into your seat and look Aaron over. To no one’s surprise, having a father who cares about you is easy work for the heart. Your life is changed. He’s good, and you like being around him, but it’s a funny thing to look at this man you’ve known for a year and to know you love him. He really is everything you ever wanted, as a kid. He isn’t picking you up from sleepovers or rubbing your back when you cry, but you’re sure he’d do both of those things if asked. You like that you can come here without asking. You like that he doesn’t care why.

He doesn’t look young, exactly, but he doesn’t look quite old enough yet to have a daughter your age. He could be a coworker. The thought makes you huff. 

“What?” he asks, already smiling. 

“Just thinking about something.” 

“About what?” 

“You’re not as young as you look.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Right, right, I forget that you come here to insult me. You know, Jack told me I was getting more ‘crinkles’ the other day.” 

“Kids say the darndest things,” you tease lightly. 

“I’m not old.” 

“I said you’re not as young as you look, that means you’re doing well.” 

“I think I look right for my age,” he says contritely, but grinning, tipping his head back against a cushion. “It’s good to look your age. It’s a privilege to be old.” 

“I thought you weren’t.” 

“I’m not. I’m just saying… I’m lucky to be here still,” he says, giving you a nudge, “or I wouldn’t know my girl, would I?” 

“And sappy in your old age.” 

“Mm.” He grabs the remote, turning the TV onto a movie channel and upping the volume. “Unfortunately.” 

You turn into him and let your knees touch. You watch TV waiting for your dinner to arrive in companionable silence, not tired but worn, not bored but somehow restless. You wonder if wanting a hug off your dad when you haven’t had very many is wrong of you. But the thing is —is that he really feels like your dad. Just the way he talks to you cements it. Sometimes when you’re with him, you feel like a kid again.

When he touched the side of your face and told you that you looked tired, it felt like a compliment, somehow, the signals all crossed in your head, ‘cos it was nice to be cared for. 

“Dad?” you ask quietly. 

Aaron turns his gaze to yours, not bothering to square away his joy at being called such a thing. “What, honey?” 

“Do you think… would it be really weird if I asked for a hug?” you ask shyly. Heat floods your cheeks and nose, but he doesn’t laugh. 

“Come here,” he says, sitting up a touch, arm extended for you to fold under. He wraps you in, lets you slouch into his touch just like Jack does in those slices of time after dinner and before bed. “Not weird. I mean, you’re a big girl,” —he laughs— “but I don’t think there’s an age limit.” 

“I know that. Just don’t know if you want to.” 

If he sees you wringing your fingers, he ignores it. “Why wouldn’t I want to?” He settles back on the couch, pulling you a little to make sure you go with him. Not like Jack laying bodily atop him, but still a nice hug. 

“Don’t know.” 

You both sort of know why. You’re old. You’re not supposed to want this stuff. You should find it too awkward and the time for affection has passed. And yet. 

He hums softly. “I love you, honey.” 

You know, but it’s nice to be told. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.” 

He doesn’t begrudge the way you put it, sinking again into the couch, his eyes looking heavy with some contentness, but mostly fatigue. “Don’t let me fall asleep before the food gets here,” he says.

“You got it, boss.” 

He gives your shoulder a rough, dad-like squeeze. You laugh and squirm away. After a few seconds apart, he shuffles you back toward him. 

“Is it hard?” he asks. 

“What?” 

“Finishing the year out. Getting ready for your exams. The bar. Is it stressing you out? You can be all caught up on sleep and still exhausted, I’d know.” 

“Yeah, it is. Yeah, but it’s just a few more months. I can do it.” 

“I know you can do it, baby,” he says, drawing your attention from the TV, “that's not in question.” 

His voice is soft like a strip of velvet. You’ve stopped being surprised at his propensity for gentleness, but you don’t always know what to do in the face of it. 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks. 

“Nothing. Just studying.” 

“Okay, so stay the night, the guest rooms calling your name, and tomorrow morning we’ll just study.” 

“Do you even remember–”

“Don’t insult me.” 

“It’s a lot.” 

“I remember. I used to drive Haley mad.” He goes quiet for a bit. Two or three seconds where you know he’s thinking about their separation. “But I couldn’t have done it without her. It’s hard work, committing it all to memory, we can make more flash cards.” 

“That would be nice.” 

“Not exactly helping you with your math homework.” 

“Are you any good at it?” 

“Math?” He laughs. “Not anymore.” 

“You forget all that stuff, right? I knew we would.” 

“Yeah, you do. I had to get rid of all that stuff to make room for work.” 

“Oh, so it was on purpose?” 

“I’ll ignore what you’re implying. I’m gonna eat all the poppadoms when they get here, but I’ll ignore it.” 

“Sick.” 

He shrugs. 

“I’ll tell Jack.” 

“Oh, don’t. If your brother knows we had butter chicken without him he’ll throw a fit.” 

“We can save him some.” 

Aaron lets his face rest on the back of the couch. “Good idea.” 

“Aaron, don’t sleep.” 

He grins. “I’m not. I’m resting my eyes.” 

Ridiculous. “Is it… Can you have Jack tomorrow?” 

“I don’t know. She doesn’t really like it that I’m only having him on the weekends. She says she gets all the hard parts and I have all the fun.” 

You don’t know what to say. “Well, I guess that’s kinda true.” 

“Yeah. Thing is, I can’t say sure, I’ll have him Sunday through to Wednesday because I never know if they’re gonna send me somewhere with the team. I can’t even confidently take him on the weekend. I can’t promise I’ll be here.” 

“I know.” 

He squints at you. “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” You give him a rueful smile. “What are you sorry to me for?” 

“It’s not just Jack I’m letting down.” 

“You haven’t let me down,” you say, practicing some of his softness. “Maybe you have let Jack down, I don’t know, I’m not Jack, but so long as you’re trying to do well by him, I think that’s probably enough. You… you and Haley, you’re not sure what’s happening.” You don’t like telling him he and Haley have a happy ending, because everything he’s told you so far doesn’t agree, but you don’t wanna kick him while he’s down either. “It’s okay to need time to like, get things straight. You have the apartment, you have the guest room, you’re offering to have him when you can. You do have to make the effort, but you know that already.” 

“I know, but thanks, honey. You’ve listened to too much of my whining.” 

“You listen to me whine all the time.” 

He squeezes you to him. “I love listening to you.” 

“I don’t mind listening to you, either.” 

“The horrors of adulthood, listening to your deadbeat dad complain.” 

“Shut up, you’re not a deadbeat. You’re stressing me out.” 

“Sorry.” He rubs your arm again and lets you loose. “Oh, sweetheart, I got your snacks, if you’re hungry. They’re in the cabinet by the fridge.” 

“I can wait.” 

He sighs very deeply. You’re sure he’s gonna nod off, but he forces himself to stand. “Thank you for coming over. I couldn’t do this without you.” 

“What, the sad bachelor thing?” You giggle to yourself as he stands up. “Where are you going? I’m just kidding.” 

“I’m getting your snacks.” 

You turn on the couch to watch him. He unveils a bunch of your favourite things from the cabinet. You can see Jack’s fruit snacks, his yogurt covered raisins, and it gives you a chest ache thinking about Aaron all alone this weekend. “You know I do love you, right?” you ask carefully. 

He comes back, looking super tired but not so sad. “I know. I’m the luckiest man alive if I have you and your brother, you know that?” 

“Okay.” 

Aaron laughs, dropping your candies in your lap with a thunk. He got the big bag. “Okay. Tuck into those, and I’ll go see about your bother coming over tomorrow. Did you have pajamas in the laundry?”

“Uh…” 

“I’ll look.” 

You did not wanna get up. “Thanks!” you say, cracking open your bag of candy with a smile, missing the fond look he throws your way from behind. 

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 5

Chapters 5 and 6 are done! Yippy! Chapter 7 is going to be a slice-of-life type of thing because I don't want to time skip straight to the bats finding out quite yet. Also, did y'all know that Gothamite also means an inhabitant of NYC? Whenever you see me use that just know I mean an inhabitant of Gotham City.

Enjoy!

Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 5 >>next

NYC was hell on earth and that’s coming from a Gothamite.

Sure- did a rogue attack 3 times a week, maybe more, in Gotham? Yes. But NYC felt lawless and without rhyme or reason. Every day something was happening, every day a building went down if it wasn’t a whole street, every day a hero would almost run you over while you were just trying to chill in the air.

At least on the third Tuesday of every month, there would be no robberies in Gotham, at least if something happened to the city and Batman wasn’t around the rogues would keep the people safe. Here it seemed to be everyone for themselves, and the rent was heinous for the type of bullshit that went down, in Gotham it was pennies compared to NYC. The constant feeling of being watched didn’t help either it irked at the back of your head every time, only stopping in the safety of your home.

The shadows stopped talking to you as well, you could barely hear them anymore, your theory being that NYC was simply too bright compared to G. City. Visiting Midnight City helped keep you connected to them, it felt somewhat like Gotham. But Darkwing felt too much like Batman, making you paranoid, so you never truly lingered for long. You missed them. Missed the rogues, the garden, the kids, the manor. The house really grew on you.

But you liked it. You liked the chaos, the myriads of heroes, the aliens that kept trying to conquer the world, and you enjoyed how the heroes knew that sometimes the best course of action was to kill the threat.

You were still bitter about how Joker took Jason from you, about how Mr. Wayne hid that from you, so seeing Omni-Man, War Woman, Immortal and so many more deal with clearly deadly threats as they should be dealt with felt nice. They would never let Joker live, the clown wouldn’t have millions of kills, and he wouldn’t have gotten Barbara and Jason.

Of course, you’ve heard rumors that while Batman doesn’t go out of his way to kill, he lets others do the dirty work, everyone in Gotham has. You’ve seen Lois Lane cover some of the bigger, worldwide alien attacks that the Justice League helped with. Batman didn’t seem to have a problem with killing or seriously injuring them. He was either a hypocrite or afraid to lose it once he did kill a human, either way, both were bad options.

So, you put up with it, found yourself a studio apartment owned by an old woman, overlooking the fact that the whole building may have been owned by a gang, and kept on doing your online schooling. Kept on making art, donating to charities and shelters, found yourself a nice job pet sitting, and even did some volunteering at local shelters when they needed an extra hand.

You got better at flying, getting so fast you could go around the globe in 5 minutes. It was fun visiting the places you heard Bruce talk about to the others, Algeria, Argentina, Australia, Austria, Bangladesh, Belgium, Brazil, and China. You were planning on visiting every city in every country with this newfound freedom. It was fun, and Bruce didn’t even notice as you used more and more of your allowance.

Sadly, your moments of peace and happiness always seemed to last for a short while. You were happy with just flying, it opened opportunities you didn’t even think were possible, but you’ve never seen a meta whose ability was only flying, not if they didn’t have wings, and maybe paranoia settled in.

Were you just dreaming? Was this just a really long dream? Were you dead? Would you go off the rocket when or if other powers showed up? What will you do when they do show up? You wanted to be an artist, to paint until your heart gave away. But if people needed help you wouldn’t be able to stay on the sidelines knowing you’re more than capable of lending a hand.

You knew you already had some strength power active- you wouldn’t be able to fly that fast without your skin peeling right off. Maybe it just made your skin stronger? Well, that’s how you ended up in a forest, or deep in a park- you weren’t sure, you flew without thinking, your thoughts and theories eating at you until you had to act.

The tree in front of you had an average-sized trunk, maybe on the smaller side compared to the others around you. You’ve been staring at it for a bit, debating if this really was something you wanted to see if you could do. “Ignorance is bliss” flew through your mind, but the full sayings of these quotes always rang at the back of your head. “Where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise”.

Your fist met the trunk with a small thud, you didn’t feel any pain, nothing was happening, so you bit your lip, closed your eyes tight, and punched the trunk harder. You heard the wood splinter before you saw it, your eyes flying wide open at the sound. The trunk had a dent in the shape of your fist, not quite all the way through. You still felt nothing.

Maybe you shouldn’t have tested out your strength this much, Ivy would have been quite mad at you for destroying so many trees, each one thicker than the last, but you were simply curious and made sure to clean up after yourself. It was weird. If you hit fast enough your arm could go right through quite cleanly, but there was no pain, none at all… Is this how Superman felt?

In your excitement, you didn’t even notice the figure above you, watching your every move or the flying orb camera doing the same. And while the figure kept watching you grow in your powers for a year, watched you help around in small ways, mostly clean up and small muggings, the orb stopped after a few months.

It took a while for you to be able to lift as much as you could now, for the first half of your newfound power you had to break stuff like big rubble down before you could lift them, you still found it amusing how Red Flash stayed quiet about you, but how could he not when you shushed him the first time he tried to tell the others. The man wasn’t about to fuck with Cecil’s worker, even though he might have said a word or two to the old man’s face about child labor.

Despite all that you truly felt happy, fulfilled even. You were doing art, helping people, and despite still working on having friends during the day part, you were glad you left. You were on cloud nine, well, literally more than figuratively. You were flying above the clouds, basking in the sun. Nothing could cloud your life anymore.

…Where did the sun go? Your eyes opened, blissful expression turning into a frown as your eyes caught a dark figure flying just a few paces over you, its eyes glowing, a wide grin showing a full set of teeth, cape billowing behind it.

What. The. Fuck.

Tag list: @bat1212 @trashlanternfish360 @shycreatorreview @syrooo @a-lurking-fae @alittletiredcry @kittzu @plsfckmedxddy @blackhood1229 @nxdxworld @leeiasure @dandelion-delusion

hope I didn't forget anyone 😬

[ceasarslegion]

I work in aviation safety. Let's talk statistics, before the fear mongering train leaves the station.

Around 45,000 flights take off and land in the US every day.

3 aircrafts have crashed in the last week.

That means 99.996% of flights took off and landed without incident. None of those 3 aircrafts were commercial passenger planes, ie none of them were the types of planes you will likely fly on throughout your life. Unless you're in the military, wealthy, or part of a special travel group like a sports team, a diplomat, high-risk prisoner transport, or an air ambulance, you will likely never fly on a private charter flight or military aircraft.

That means all public commercial flights in the US on the days of the recent crashes took off and landed safely, as far as I have been able to find.

Is 2 crashes within a week an absolutely unacceptable number? Yes.

Is this likely connected to the recent firings of the American aviation safety and ATC personnel? Yes.

Is this indicative of a wider trend that I should be worried about as an average citizen of the US, or someone traveling to or within the US? As of now, February 1st, 2025, no. Flying is still, statistically, the safest mode of transportation. Even with the recent crashes included in the numbers, even if you're travelling within the US.

Does this have anything to do with DEI? No. The aviation safety industry has some of the most stringent job training regimens in the world. No one who can't cut it in ATC will get anywhere near an ATC tower, regardless of their minority status. I don't work in ATC, but I'm under the wider aviation safety umbrella, and it took 3 months to finish my training. 18 people started out in my training class and 7 of us passed. No one in an airport terminal can get the badges we wear without passing that along with an INTERPOL background check that we have to do all over again every few years.

Why are you telling me that? Does it really matter if he gutted the ATC? It does, actually. My point is that the people they let work in airports are some of the most competent and capable individuals you can find. You don't cut it if you can't think on your feet or juggle unexpected and unprecedented situations and handle emergencies and contingencies. On average, an air traffic controller handles 5-15 planes at the same time, but they're trained on handling many more in the event of emergencies and unprecedented situations. It's not ideal right now, it's really not, but considering all the things I just told you about aviation safety employees, and the fact that ATC is THE hardest career to cut it in within that umbrella, even the worlds worst air traffic controller is as capable and trustworthy to handle your life as a good neurosurgeon.

And please, please support the american ATCs right now. Just because they CAN handle emergency-level workloads doesn't make it easy or sustainable for long periods of time. Do not blame the ATCs who were handling the crashed flights, it wasn't their fault that they were overworked and overstressed and numbers and directions started scrambling in their heads. They already have to live with what happened for the rest of their lives, they don't need other people making value judgements of them too.

[emsdevs]

I’m a sucker for Angst, so a heaviest of heavy Angst will always do it for me, like I need my insides to feel like it’s being stabbed and overwhelmed with all sort of emotions. Bonus point if it’s long. Hope this isn’t too much to ask for maybe I’m getting too carried away loll Could you do it with Justin Herbert please?

No Strings?

a/n: nonnie you sent this at the perfect time! I've had justin on my schedule for a while, but couldn't figure out what to write for him, so this worked out perfectly! this does not have a happy ending but i might be open to a part two if enough people want it. enjoyyyy :)

masterlist | NFL Masterlists | Justin Herbert Masterlist

You swore you could handle casual. When you started whatever you had going on with Justin, you swore you were the kind of person who could have a casual relationship, but now you aren’t so sure. When Justin asked you out four months ago, you never would’ve expected to be where you are now. It had all been going so well. The dates had been everything you could’ve asked for and more, and Justin was the perfect gentleman. It all began to go downhill after your third date. You had invited Justin into your apartment when he dropped you off, your intentions clear, and he had followed you inside. You two had been sitting on the couch when things began to get serious, the kiss you were sharing heating up.

Justin pulled away, looking slightly guilty. “I feel like I need to be honest with you about something before this goes any further.”

“Um, yeah, okay,” you were a little confused, but you let him speak.

“Look, because of the job I have, I really can’t do anything serious right now. I know I’ve probably led you on a little bit, but I swear I’ve never had any intentions to hurt you,” he stared at you, looking nervous.

“That’s okay!” you speak up too quickly for your liking. “We don’t have to stop unless that’s what you want. I can do casual.” Surely, you could. It couldn’t be that different from a normal relationship.

“You sure? I don’t wanna overstep if casual isn’t something you’re comfortable with.”

“Yeah, of course. No strings attached. Just having fun.”

As Justin leaned back in, you were thinking that this could definitely work. Justin was great, and this would keep him in your life without overstepping any boundaries. You could do casual.

~~

Turns out, you can’t do casual. You’ve been trying to stay normal, but you realized two days ago that you were falling for Justin, hard. You’d been keeping it to yourself, not wanting to scare him away, but it’s getting more and more difficult. He’s just so sweet, and the things he tends to do for you simply cannot be casual.

Is it casual when he plays with the ends of your hair before you get out of bed in the morning? Is it casual for him, even though he keeps all your favorite snacks at his place for when you have movie nights? If it’s casual, why does he keep a drawer free so you have space to keep a few clothes at his place? If it’s casual, why does he know you better than you know yourself? Why has he gotten you your favorite flowers every two weeks since you went on that first date with him? Why does he know “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” is the perfect movie to cheer you up after a long day? If it’s casual for him, why is he acting like he’s in love with you?

Eventually, it had gotten to a point where you couldn’t stand lying to him or yourself anymore. After four months of no strings, you had to talk to him. You finally got the chance one night when he invited you over for a movie night. Before the movie got started, you decided it was time to break the news.

“Justin… I actually think we need to talk,” you wiped your hands on your pants, feeling them already starting to sweat from the nerves.

“Oh! Uh, yeah, sure. What’s up?”

“I just really need to say this, and I know you probably won’t like it, but I need you to listen until I finish,” you pause, waiting for him to nod. “Okay, so, I just feel like we’ve definitely crossed some lines in this arrangement, ya know? Like we both have a drawer at each other’s places. We’re spending the night together, and sometimes, we hang out without even having sex. I just… this isn’t what we originally agreed to,” you were avoiding saying what you were truly feeling.

“So we’ll step back some? I don’t know. That doesn’t seem like something to be worried abou-”

“I caught feelings for you, Justin,” he just stares at you, shocked, “I know we said no feelings, but we’ve just gotten a little too close. We don’t have to stop or anything. I’m a big girl. I can handle-”

“No. No, we should stop,” he cuts you off, and it’s your turn to stare.

“Seriously?”

“We said no strings. I told you I can’t do relationships because of my job. If you have feelings for me, this needs to stop now before it can get worse.”

“Right,” you stood robotically, grabbing your things and walking out of Justin’s house with tears in your eyes. The worst part? He didn’t even try to stop you. Somehow, with one sentence, you ruined something that could’ve been so good for you, that had been so good for you.

~~

Now, it had been three months since that night, and you hadn’t spoken to Justin since. You’ve been going through the motions, just doing a fairly normal routine to make it through your day. You wake up, get dressed, go home, shower, cry while you eat your sorrows away, sleep, and then do it all again the next day. Nothing has felt right since your breakup with Justin, if that’s what you would even call. How can you break up with someone you were never really dating. 

You’ve found your confidence to be much lower recently, too. You couldn’t count the amount of time you’ve wondered where you went wrong. Why did you have to tell him? Why would he not even try? Why didn’t he follow you? Today, you found the answer.

You had decided that a day out would do you some good, so since you had the day off, you got dressed and walked around the city. You were about to go into one of your favorite coffee shops, one that you had brought Justin to many times. As you neared the door, you caught a glimpse of something that shattered your heart in a second. There sat Justin across from some girl you’ve never seen, looking too close to just be friends. You watched as she stood, kissing his cheek before she wandered off to the bathroom. A bright smile made its way onto Justin’s face, a smile you had never managed to bring out of him. With your heart broken all over again, you made your way to a close friend’s place. It was closer than yours, and you knew you didn’t want to be alone right now.

He had told you he couldn’t be in a relationship, but what he really meant was that he couldn’t be in a relationship with you. The questions began to set in again. Were you not pretty enough? Not popular enough? Did he need someone in the same tax bracket as him? Did he really just not like you? Did he think you weren’t good enough for him? Was he lying the entire time, every time he told you how special you were to him

Even with all the questions you had, you knew two things for sure. You were done with Justin Herbert, and you definitely could not do casual.

taglist: @heartsforjh @irishmanwhore @heartforherbert @jusaints @one-sweet-gubler

join the taglist

[animentality]

I know x reader fans have always existed, and I don't generally mind them.

however I feel like the way they've overtaken fandom analysis/ shipping culture is an indication of the general decline of fandom communities.

they are normies, guys. I'm sorry.

it's not a slur, it's just a fact.

normies infiltrated fandom spaces because of covid.

they come in and just want to thirst after a particular character... and that's like. fine. of course it's fine it's always happened.

but they don't seem to actually care about the character being in character. nor does it really require any analysis of that character's motivations or story, or their relationship with others.

I know not everything HAS to relate to canon. like duh, we are here to make our own canon.

but come the fuck on. I go into a tag and it has a character tagged being some dommy daddy when that character is nothing like that in canon... and there's this line between making a character act a certain way bc that's your fetish, and completely ignoring who that character is entirely to the point where you could just replace their name with anyone else in any other show, and it wouldn't make a difference?

like that's... normie shit. it's people who do not think deeply or passionately about that media, it's just them having this surface level grasp of the physical attractiveness of the character.

and again. I'm not saying these people are stupid or whatever, just that the overabundance of this watered down ass content is an indicator of how much fandom has changed.

fans are not the socially awkward introverted queer voyeurs anymore, who enjoy fantasies and daydreaming about being someone else because of this disconnect with the self, or this fear of others that leads you to seek human connection in fiction.

they're the people who do just fine with other people ... and I'm not gatekeeping fandom from people who aren't socially awkward or anything.

but they come here, and they do shit like say you can't like this ship bc it's morally wrong .. you're not allowed to thirst after an 18 year old that makes you a pedophile... I'm 15 and I'm allowed to lust for Gojo but you a 25 year old woman, aren't allowed to write itafushi fanfiction.

go back to taxes and your job!!!

like that drives me fucking insane. these people want to insist they're not normies but they then go around insisting that being over 20 means you need to Work and Be a Normal Adult... bitch.

adults make fandoms. not you fucking children. you don't know how to build communities, you barely know how to make friends.

attacking people who like the same thing you do? is that what you think community building is?

oh this poor generation. anyway.

they come here and are disgusted by weird fetishes and obsessions. and by people sharing sexual headcanons or ideas about sexuality that make them uncomfortable because they've never ever been counter culture, they've never felt the need to go against the status quo.

they're cis straight girls/women mostly, whose mothers basically fuel the ya spicy romance booktok industry.

they're just younger and think it's trendier to be "in a fandom" than a fucking book club.

they're modern day bodice ripper fans... which again

would be so fucking fine, if they weren't doing the youth version of karening the fuck out.

and flooding the fandom with both hyper criticism of how you conduct your business AND an aggressive market for just imagining yourself with a character.

like fandom was originally just hyper passionate freaks.

they discussed movies and TV shows like life and death. they were fucking nuts but in the way where they needed to seek one another out, to share in this joyous sensation of being a freak obsessed with something beyond the point of reason.

now?

now it's like ... oh.

Sally from Bio thinks your love of Gaara is super creepy when you're 19. like what, are you a pedophile? why are you imagining him getting married to Naruto? are you a fucking pedophile who gets off to teens making out? they need to check your hard drive!!

like ok Sally.

ok.

I just think x reader is such a strong indicator of what kind of fan you are.

and if a fandom is mostly x reader... then it can't be that popular. it can't be a proper community.

how can it be?

it's as watered down and generic and bland as a marvel movie. it's stripped down of anything unique. it is pruned of controversy and humanity.

you are literally stripping yourself down into a non character.

you're not truly projecting yourself into a character, because the you that you read about is nothing. a placeholder. you are a passive observing robot who exists only in the form of a faceless and personality less entity.

and I don't get it.

what's the point then?

isn't fiction about realizing something about yourself or others

if your only manner of engaging is stripping yourself of personality... is it engagement at all?

or is it just more mindless consumption?

just watch law and order, man.

watch the good doctor or some shit on lifetime.

there's shows with passionate fanbases who theory craft and endlessly obsess with relationships and world building, and then there's shows with x reader only content and you know exactly why now.

[joemama-2]

"are you the fairy?"

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: You meet Gojo Satoru in a place untouched by time, where his laughter rings through empty streets and his hands chase yours like a promise he fully intends to keep. He is younger, reckless with his love, blind to the weight of the years that separate you—years that have taught you that love is not always meant to be kept. You let yourself have him anyway, knowing all the while that his future is stretching toward a horizon you cannot follow. When the time comes, you do what must be done—let him free.

wc: 7.3k

tags/warnings: angst, eventual comfort, suggestive content, older! reader, dividers by @/cafekitsune, HOPEFULLY PROOFREAD ENOUGH :(

Aging. A fear most people have. The fear of growing old, growing weaker, needing others to rely on for simple tasks, no longer being in your ‘prime’, and of course—the grey hairs. While it can be argued that aging is a natural, human process; it can also be argued that no one ever really wants to grow old. No one wants to see everything they knew and loved vanish before their own two deteriorating eyes, no one wants to become just a distant memory. But no one wants to be immortal either. It’s a weird push and pull, leaving humans with only one choice: enjoy it while it lasts, and make the most of your life.

And so, that’s what you have been doing.

Graduating, getting a nice paying job, having a good place, traveling the world, making a name for yourself, being…happy. Sure, you’ve made friends and connections, but none of those amount to being in the peaceful solitude of your lonesome. You’ve faced adversaries in your life, and you’ve overcome them—that’s what making the most out of your life means. But you know what doesn’t fall under that category?

Allowing yourself to fall in love with a man almost two decades younger than you. 

But with life comes spontaneous events, debating the pros and cons and wondering the ‘what ifs’. 

And what if—against all logic, against every carefully laid plan—you let yourself have him? What if you ignore the whispers in your mind that warn of fleeting youth, of inevitable goodbyes, of the cruel march of time that will leave you grasping at something you were never meant to keep? Gojo Satoru is reckless in his affection, undeterred by the years between you, pressing himself into your life with an audacity that makes it impossible to push him away. He tells you that love doesn’t care for numbers, that age is nothing more than an arbitrary construct, and when he looks at you with that unwavering gaze, you almost believe him.

Almost.

You’re forty-five when you meet him, he’s nothing but a young and adventurous thirty-year-old. You remember being thirty. 

“Are you from here?” you asked, resting your palm against your cheek. The coldness of the bar’s countertop sits underneath your elbow—you regard him with a curious gaze. The first thing you noticed was the pretty eyes he had. The next was his smile—that handsome smile that was doing weird things to your heart. You remember your late husband smiling at you like that every day, every chance he got. Your lip quirks up. 

“No, I’m from Japan,” he replies smoothly, jutting his chin in your direction. “And you?”

You tell him. 

“Oh, that’s nice. So, what are you doing all the way here?”

“Vacation.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Pretty well. Italy is beautiful.”

“Almost as beautiful as you.”

A cheesy pick-up line you’re more than accustomed to. You save his awkwardness with a small laugh, eyebrow raising. “Thank you,” you glance down at the dark liquid in your cup, swirling its contents. “Though you aren’t the first to tell me that.”

The words hang in the air between you, thick with the weight of history you’ve long since buried. It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? To be flattered but not fooled, to hear compliments that once would have made your heart race but now only bring a faint ache, like a ghost brushing past your skin. You didn’t expect to be here, sitting in this foreign bar, in this foreign city, drinking away the remnants of a life you thought you’d left behind—no more waiting for a man to come home, no more running on borrowed time. And yet, here he is, his smile still holding the weight of something undeniably fresh, something he hasn’t yet had time to tarnish with the passing years.

He chuckles, and it’s sincere. Like he knows how to handle this situation and like he’s done it a hundred times before—charming the older woman, never realizing the danger he’s flirting with. You can’t help but notice how easily he fits into this moment, how the energy between you feels almost too comfortable for something so unexpected. His youth, his vitality—it’s intoxicating, and yet, you know it’s only a matter of time before you have to draw the line, to remind yourself that he’s playing with something far more fragile than he understands.

You meet his eyes again, and for a second, you let yourself indulge. He’s not just handsome; he’s magnetic. And though you’ve seen his type before—young, reckless, full of life—there’s something different about him. It’s that smile, that easy confidence as if the world is nothing but a playground for him to conquer. Your heart stirs involuntarily, the edges of something you thought was long gone starting to flutter back to life.

"So, do you always travel alone?" you ask, your voice a little softer now, more curious than before.

His grin widens, pleased by the shift in your tone. “Not usually, but this time I decided to take some time for myself. I needed a change of scenery.” He leans in a little, dropping his voice to something almost conspiratorial. "It's nice to get away from it all, you know? To meet people who don't know your story."

The irony of his words doesn’t escape you. Here you are, a stranger in a new city, with a lifetime of stories you no longer tell, and yet, his openness makes you feel like you’re both speaking the same unspoken language. You could tell him everything, share the years of love and loss, of heartache and healing, but you don’t. You keep it hidden, tucked away where only time and memory can touch it.

“That sounds familiar,” you say quietly, glancing down at your glass again. Your fingers trace the rim absently. “Sometimes it's the only way to find peace." You don’t know why you’re telling him this. It’s not as though you’ve shared your soul with a stranger in a bar before. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, something open and unafraid, that makes you think—just for a moment—that maybe this conversation, this meeting, isn’t entirely by chance. Something you haven’t felt in…a long time.

“Do you usually travel alone?”

You hum. “I do now.”

“Why now?”

“Because my husband doesn’t come along with me anymore.”

“Oh, yeah? And why’s that?” He sips from his own cup, but when he puts it back down, its fizziness tells you it’s just coke. 

You take a moment to reply, unsure if you should trauma dump on a stranger. But he did ask. “Because he’s dead,” you simply comment, leaning back in your stool and gauging his reaction. 

But he doesn’t show a face of surprise or a face of regret. He doesn’t offer his unwanted apology. He nods, humming softly in thought. But his eyes change—and you think for a second that it looks like a silent sense of understanding—like he’s lost someone too before. “And what was his name?”

Your cheeks pinch up, smile widening in fondness. Looking down at your left hand that once housed a beautiful, golden ring. “Masamichi.” 

There’s a stillness in the air for a second, the kind that doesn’t feel heavy but rather reverent, as if time itself paused to acknowledge the weight of your words. You look at him through the corner of your eye, seeing how his gaze softens—not with pity, but with something deeper, something far more intimate. It’s the kind of understanding that doesn’t come from words, but from shared experiences, and you’re struck by the thought that perhaps, in some quiet corner of his heart, he knows what it’s like to lose the love of your life.

He doesn’t speak for a while, but there’s something in the way he leans forward that tells you he’s listening in a way that feels different than the usual casual conversations you’ve had with strangers. His eyes are fixed on you, almost as though he’s waiting for you to continue, to say something more, but he doesn’t push. He waits—patiently, and respectfully. "Masamichi," he repeats the name softly, as if he’s testing it on his tongue as if it’s a secret he’s now been entrusted with. “That’s a really cool name, sounds like he was a hardass.”

You chuckle lightly and nod, not trusting yourself to speak again for a moment, swallowing the lump in your throat. “He was, but he had his moments.”

“When were those?”

“When he’d call me pretty names.”

“Like?”

You bite your lip, smile wavering a bit as you recount ever beautiful name he used to call you. One always stuck out. “Well, he used to call me a fairy.”

He chuffs. “Why a fairy?” 

"He told me I was delicate, elusive, like something too beautiful to be real. He used to say I’d flown in from some distant place, where the sky was always clear and the air was always fresh." The words feel like they’ve drifted in from a different lifetime, a time when love was a constant companion, not a faint, distant echo. You tilt your head, the corners of your mouth turning up. "I think he liked that idea, that I wasn’t tied down to anything—just... floating through life, free. He said I made him believe in things he never thought possible."

His gaze softens as he watches you, leaning a little closer now as if drawn into the quiet weight of your story. "That’s beautiful," he says, his voice low, almost reverent. "It sounds like he saw you in a way no one else could."

You nod, the memory of his warm words filling the space between you. "He did. And sometimes... sometimes I felt like I was a fairy, too. Like I didn’t really belong to this world. But when he called me that, it made me feel like I was meant to be somewhere, meant to be his." A quiet moment hangs between you, the air heavy with the soft intimacy of shared vulnerability. You meet his eyes, feeling an unexpected connection—the kind of unspoken understanding that can only exist between people who have known the depths of love and loss.

Then, just as you’re about to pull back, he asks, with a gentle curiosity, “Do you still believe in fairies?”

You blink at him, a little taken aback. The question seems simple enough. You shrug, half in amusement, half in disbelief. "I don't know if I believe in them, but... I like to think that maybe they’re real, in some way. In the things we can’t see, in the moments that take our breath away."

His eyes seem to light up, almost as if he’s surprised by your answer. There’s a long beat of silence before his lips curl into a smile that reaches his eyes. "Maybe you’re still a fairy, then," he says, voice warm with something like wonder.

You shake your head. "Yeah, maybe."

The words hang between you, filled with something gentle, something fleeting but real. You feel the stirrings of a connection, fragile and unexpected, like the wingbeats of a fairy. There’s a hollow space in your chest where his memory used to sit, and it takes everything in you not to let it show, not to let the quiet ache spill over. The ring on your finger is long gone, but the phantom of it lingers—an unspoken promise that can never be fulfilled, a history you no longer share with anyone. “What about you?” You shift the conversation, trying to keep the tears at bay, trying to pull yourself back from the edge of vulnerability you’re teetering on. “Do you have someone, someone you’ve loved the way you were loved?”

His smile falters a tad, a flash of something—pain, perhaps, or nostalgia—passing through his eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the easy grin you’ve already grown accustomed to—the one that doesn’t let anyone get too close. But the silence that follows speaks volumes, and you almost feel like you’ve crossed some invisible line. Fearing that you’ve peeked into a part of him he didn’t mean nor want to reveal. "I did," he says quietly, almost to himself, the words hanging between you both like a secret. “But sometimes, we love people in ways they can’t love us back.”

The weight of his words sits heavily in the space between you. It’s raw, vulnerable in a way that contradicts his earlier bravado, and you find yourself wondering how much more of him there is behind that smile, behind the charming facade. In that moment, you see something that mirrors your own grief, your own loneliness, and it’s unsettling. “Is she still around?”

“He’s not,” he shakes his head.

You take a sip from your glass, the sharp bitterness of the alcohol grounding you, and give him a small, knowing smile. “Well, I suppose we all have our stories.”

His eyes lock onto yours for a long, unspoken moment. You wonder if this is one of those rare moments in life where people truly see each other—not just for the faces they wear, but for what’s buried beneath. What they carry in the silence. “I think you’re right,” he finally says, his voice soft, but there’s an edge to it now, a quiet tenderness that wasn’t there before. "But not everyone’s story is meant to be told in one night."

Your heart flutters for a reason you can’t quite place, and for the first time in a long while, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, fate isn’t as cruel as it’s always seemed. Maybe, in this strange twist of events, you weren’t meant to run away from the past after all—but to face it, alongside someone who understands what it’s like to love and lose.

“I’m too old for you,” you laugh off his subtle suggestion, looking over to the opposite corner of the small, dim-lit bar. There are two girls sitting at the booth with obviously wandering eyes toward your new, unexpected companion. “Maybe them.”

He follows your gaze, his eyes flickering briefly to the two girls in the corner, before turning back to you with that signature, easy grin—unchanged, unaffected. The playfulness in his smile doesn’t reach the depths of his eyes, though. You wonder if he’s seeing something entirely different than the charming stranger you’ve made him out to be. You can feel the shift, subtle but undeniable, as if he’s testing the waters of your words, gauging how much of this is just casual banter and how much of it has an undercurrent you aren’t ready to acknowledge.

"Maybe," he replies, leaning back slightly, but there’s a glint of something else in his expression now, something that makes the air between you feel heavier. "But you know, I’m kind of having some fun with you right now." His voice drops, a playful edge softening into something more serious, and it makes you wonder if he’s teasing or if there’s something deeper in his intentions that hasn’t fully revealed itself yet.

“I don’t think we’re having fun.”

“Then what are we having.”

“A simple conversation, nothing more, nothing less.”

He chuckles, leaning closer and tilting his head towards you. “Just how old do you think I am?”

You meet his gaze, noticing a small twinkle. Your eyes move down, analyzing his features. He lets you do so in an untimely manner and when he sees that you’re looking lower at his arms, he playfully flexes. An amused snort that almost sounds like a scoff leaves your lips. “Young enough to be my son.”

“Do you have children?”

“And if I do?”

“Then that’s even better because I love MILFS.”

You scoff for real this time, eyes narrowing at him. “I don’t, but what you just said further proves my point.”

The air between you both shifts, like a quiet storm brewing, though neither of you is quite ready to acknowledge it. His words hang there, an almost careless suggestion laced with mischief, but they are impossible to ignore. You try to brush it off, laugh it off, but something about the way he leans in—his proximity, the way his gaze never wavers from yours—makes it harder than it should be. There’s something in his demeanor that says he’s not just playing, not just following the familiar rhythm of flirty banter. It feels like he’s pushing against the boundaries you’ve set, testing them in a way that catches you off guard.

He watches your every reaction carefully, his smile just a little too knowing, a little too calculated for someone so young. You can feel the heat of his gaze as it lingers, catching you off guard in a way that leaves your words hanging in your throat. His comment about MILFs—joking or not—makes your skin prickle uncomfortably, and for a second, you wonder if he’s being more sincere than you care to admit. But you can’t show it, not when you’ve already drawn the line, already told yourself this was just a fleeting moment in an unfamiliar place.

You clear your throat, trying to bring the conversation back to familiar ground, but the awkwardness lingers. “I’m sure you have better things to do than sit here with a woman who could be your mother.”

“Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” he says, the playful edge in his voice softened by something deeper. There’s a sudden, subtle weight to his words, as though he’s no longer speaking just to entertain or to flirt, but to convey something more. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and it catches you off guard. His eyes meet yours, steady and unwavering. The playful front cracks, revealing a hint of something you can’t quite name.

You shift uncomfortably, your thoughts creeping in again. "Well, you’ll find plenty of people who can keep you entertained around here." You gesture vaguely to the bar, the people milling about, the noise, the chatter. "I’m not the one you’re looking for."

His expression dampens. “Maybe you’re right. But maybe I’m just looking for someone who sees me, you know?”

The words hit you harder than they should, a soft pressure in your chest that you quickly try to dismiss. What is he saying? He doesn’t know you, yet he’s almost acting like he does. "I see you," you respond, your voice quieter than before, the weight of the statement hanging between you both like a truth neither of you is willing to face.

He doesn’t say anything right away, but his eyes darken, the smile fading into something more thoughtful, more introspective. You begin to think he might say something that cuts through all the barriers you’ve put up, something that challenges the notion that this is just a casual encounter between strangers. But instead, he shifts in his seat, taking another long sip of his drink. “I don’t know if you do,” he finally says, his voice lower now, the playful lilt gone. 

When he puts his drink down, you blame it on the alcohol from the way your skin flushes in a girlish way as he leans in—his breath fanning your ear. You also blame it on the alcohol when you’re reciprocating his advances, meeting his stare with an equally heated one of your own. And finally, you blame it on the alcohol when you tilt your head to whisper something in his ear. 

“Do you want me to look harder?”

That was the first night you went home with him—the first night you indulged in the warmth and pleasure a man—Satoru—can bring you. And even after sharing your ages, that never stopped. It somehow…never stopped you either. You found yourself giving in—almost craving the way his hands grip your hips, the way his slim and long fingers dance along your ribs in a soft manner. 

You didn’t expect yourself to be falling over the edge, finishing on just the tongue of a man younger than you. You always prided yourself on wanting—needing—an older man. And god, you were really missing out, weren’t you?

But it wasn’t just the way he touched you, the way his mouth knew exactly how to undo you piece by piece—it was the way he looked at you. Like you were something untouchable, yet here he was, holding you, ruining you, worshipping you in ways you hadn’t let anyone do in years.

It was intoxicating.

You told yourself it was just a fling, something fleeting, something fun. A vacation romance, a secret indulgence that you’d tuck away once you boarded your plane back home. But Satoru wasn’t the kind of man you could forget easily. His touch lingered, his voice echoed, and before you even realized it, you were answering his calls. Responding to his texts. Finding yourself in his arms again, even when you swore it would be the last time. You found yourself smiling at him when you believed he wasn’t looking, stifling a peal of laughter at his stupid jokes that he only said so he could see the way your eyes crinkle at the edges—you were finding comfort in him. 

A warm, tentative comfort that only one other man had brought you before. 

There were times you felt guilty, believing you were still bound to your late husband even in death, and at times—you almost compared the two. However, you know Masamichi would’ve wanted you to move on and care for yourself in ways he couldn’t do anymore. He would’ve smiled and encouraged you to find pleasure in your life. 

And you did. 

Because somewhere between those nights tangled in silk sheets and the hushed laughter over shared meals, you forgot to remind yourself of the one thing that mattered most: this was never meant to last.

But at the same time, you almost didn’t want it to end. You enjoyed the way he kissed your knuckles, moved strands of hair out your face, and complimented you when you felt at your lowest. He was seeing every part of you—the good and the bad, the pretty and the ugly. You were letting him. 

One night, after a particularly passionate session, he’s running his fingers along the curve of your spine. Naked bodies huddled next to one another, and the sheets offer a nice little coverup. The moonlight peeks through his blinds, the plush mattress sinking further underneath your weights. He kisses the top of your head softly before moving to your temple. Once again, you’re smiling. Tracing mindless circles on his bare chest, your foot rubbing up and down his calf. No words are spoken, there usually aren’t. But the silence doesn’t feel deafening; it feels comfortable. You found yourself snuggling closer to him.  “Satoru?”

“Mhm?” he hummed back, sighing lightly, his smile never wavering. 

“Where do you…see yourself in ten years?”

He hums again, this time in thought, his fingers never ceasing their lazy tracing along your spine. You feel the way his chest rises and falls beneath your palm, steady and unhurried. You wonder if he’s really thinking about your question, or if he’s simply enjoying the feel of you against him. “In ten years?” he finally repeats, voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile moment. “I don’t know…Happy, I guess. Settled down; I’d like to have kids by then.”

Your fingers pause against his chest. You don’t know why, but his answer catches you off guard. Not because it’s shocking—he’s young, full of life, full of potential—but because it’s something you’ve stopped thinking about for yourself. “Kids?” you echo, tilting your head up to look at him. His pale lashes flutter slightly as he meets your gaze, and there’s something soft in his expression, something almost wistful.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, a small chuckle escaping him. “A couple of ‘em, maybe. A little girl who’s just as stubborn as me, a boy who’s just as curious. Someone to pass everything down to, y’know?” His hand moves from your back, up to your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he exhales. “I think I’d be a good dad.”

You don’t doubt that. Satoru is many things—annoying, arrogant, childish at times—but he’s also deeply caring. He loves with his whole heart, even when he pretends he doesn’t. You can see him being the kind of father who carries his child on his shoulders, who spoils them with sweets, who makes bad dad jokes just to hear their laughter.

And yet, you can’t bring yourself to say that out loud. Instead, you settle for a noncommittal hum, lowering your head back onto his chest, letting the weight of his words settle between you. Ten years from now, he’ll have a family. He’ll have everything he wants. And you won’t be part of it.

That’s when reality hit for you. You’re holding him back. You can’t give him what he wants, what he longs for. It’s a bittersweet, brutal reminder that this little world you’ve built was only meant to be temporary. That the laughs, touches, kisses, the sex, it’s fickle. You’ve blinded yourself and let yourself sink too far deep to understand that what Satoru wants…he can’t experience with you. 

And so, it started small. Days spent out with him, your eyes would flicker around, moving from one woman to the next. Pointing them out to him in an encouraging way. 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” “Maybe you should go ask for her number.”

“You’re both tall, you would go well together.”

It honestly hurt to push him away—to open his eyes to the other fish in the sea while a small part of you wished he could only be yours. But you’d never ask him to stop following his dreams of becoming a family man for your own selfish desires. 

At the start, he humors you. Rolls his eyes, scoffs, plays along like it’s just another one of your little jokes. “She’s alright, I guess,” he shrugs when you point out a woman at the café, her long legs crossed elegantly as she sips on a cappuccino. “But I prefer my women a little more…experienced.” He flashes you that cocky grin, the one that always makes your stomach flutter.

You laugh, but it’s forced. You ignore the way your chest tightens, the way your fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him. But then you do it again. And again. And again.

It doesn’t take him long to catch on.

One evening, when you offhandedly comment on the cute waitress who just served your drinks, something shifts in his expression. His smile dims, his fingers drum idly against the table. “Y’know,” he says, tone too casual, too light. “You’ve been doing this a lot lately.” 

You feign ignorance, sipping your wine. “Doing what?”

“Trying to set me up like some kind of matchmaking service.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, gaze sharp. “You got tired of me already?”

You force back a sigh. The way he says it—half-joking, half-serious—makes your stomach twist. “Satoru—”

“No, really,” he cuts in smoothly, tilting his head. “Is that what this is? You pushing me away? Guilt-tripping me into realizing you’re too old for me or whatever bullshit you’ve been telling yourself?”

Your fingers clench around the stem of your glass. He sees right through you. You swallow, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

His laugh is sharp, humorless. “Looking out for me?” He leans back, stretching his arms along the booth. “Or making decisions for me?”

You hate how much that stings. You hate how right he is.

“I just…” You exhale, setting your glass down. “I just don’t want to hold you back, Satoru.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes search yours, and for a moment, you think he’s going to argue. You think he’s going to tell you you’re being ridiculous, that he wants you, that he doesn’t care about the future you keep running from.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re really that convinced this can’t work, huh?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

His lips press into a thin line. He nods once, slow and deliberate. “Alright,” he mutters, reaching for his drink. “Message received.”

And just like that, the air between you shifts.

Colder.

More distant.

Like the beginning of the end.

Your heart drops, looking back down at your wine. For a second, you felt like you ruined things. But it’s better to nip things in the bud than let them bloom, is it not?

Even after that, he was still adamant about seeing you. You let him, deciding to relish in these last few tender moments you may have with him. The sun was shining and beaming down on you two as you ate your brunch. It was a pleasant day. She was beautiful—the kind of beautiful that made you wonder how someone like her could even exist in this world. The type of beautiful that turned heads and left impressions. The type that had Satoru slowly following her with his eyes. You tell yourself this is a good thing. That this is what you wanted. That you should feel relieved that, finally, he’s looking at someone else the way he shouldn’t be looking at you.

But it doesn’t feel like a relief. It feels like a knife twisting in your gut.

You lift your mimosa to your lips, taking a slow sip, pretending you don’t notice the way his gaze lingers on her. She’s stunning—long legs, flawless skin, a radiant smile that could stop anyone in their tracks, and long black hair. She looks like she belongs in a magazine, not in a small café, laughing at something her friend just said.

You force yourself to smile. “She’s exactly your type.”

Satoru’s attention snaps back to you, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. He blinks, then exhales a laugh, shaking his head. “You really don’t quit, do you?”

You tilt your head, feigning confusion. “I’m just saying, you should talk to her.”

He scoffs, pushing his fork around his plate. “Yeah? And then what?”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Satoru sets his silverware down with a quiet clink, resting his arms on the table. “Let’s say I go up to her. Get her number. Take her on a date.” He shrugs, giving you a half-smile. “Then what? I sleep with her? Take her on more dates? Marry her?”

You stare at him, not sure where this is going.

“And then we have kids,” he continues, his tone light, but his eyes—his eyes are sharp, cutting right through you. “That’s what you want, right? For me to find someone younger, someone who can give me the future I want.”

Your throat tightens.

He leans forward, resting his chin on his palm. “So, tell me something.” His voice drops, softer now, almost vulnerable. “If I wanted all of that with someone else, don’t you think I’d already be doing it?”

Your breath catches.

He waits.

But you don’t have an answer.

All you can do is encourage him to go up to her.

And he did.

He was reluctant, of course. Only doing it to shut you up. 

But you saw the way his expression softened, the way his dimples poked out when he’d talk about her. You were there on the side, watching what he once thought would be a simple meeting, to finding a woman he’d started to fall for. 

It was like watching a slow-moving car crash—one you orchestrated with your own hands. You had done this. You had led him to her, pushed him in her direction, knowing full well what it would mean. And yet, knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

The texts started. Little mentions of her here and there. You caught the way his face lit up in a way you hadn’t seen before, the way he spoke about her with that quiet sort of wonder like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he never expected to solve. You were still a part of his life, still, someone he made time for, but something between you had shifted irreversibly. The stolen moments, the lingering touches, the whispered confessions under moonlit sheets—they grew fewer and further between, replaced by something… distant.

She was such a kind and lovely woman, her voice made of butter when she spoke to you about him. And when you caught him smiling at his phone one evening, thumb idly tapping out a message to her, you knew.

He had found what you wanted for him. What he deserved. What you couldn’t give him.

So why did it feel like you were the one being left behind?

“Are you happy?” you had whispered, holding him tight in a hug, eyes beginning to water.

He held you back, arms secure around your waist. His icy hair tickled your skin, and he planted a soft, reverent kiss on your cheek. Pulling back to look at you, he didn’t have that fiery, teasing sparkle in his eyes like usual. No, this time, all that was there was just…him. Just Satoru. 

“I am,” he had said with a genuine finality. 

The trickle of warm tears slid down your cheeks, his thumbs swiping softly at the skin. “Good, I’m…I’m happy too.”

Truthfully, you were. Because if you had to let Satoru go, if you had to let him be the man he should be, you knew he was doing it beside a woman that was worth it. She was worth it. And you were beginning to be okay with the fact of being a memory to him, as long as it meant his wishes came true.

You left him, never once looking back, answering his texts or his calls. 

You don’t know how you had the strength to do it, how you managed to pull yourself away from the man you’d poured so much of yourself into. There was a time when you thought you’d never be able to let go—when you believed you’d somehow convince him that the life he envisioned with someone else wasn’t worth pursuing. But the truth was, you couldn’t keep holding onto him, not when the weight of your love was slowly suffocating him, not when you knew that he needed to step into a future that wasn’t tied to a past that could never fully be his. You didn’t want to be the one who held him back, no matter how much it hurt.

The hardest part was the silence that came after. You told yourself it was for the best, that you were doing him a favor, letting him breathe, letting him live without your shadow hanging over him. But the quiet was unbearable. Slowly, the hole he left inside you grew wider, the void left by his absence swallowing you whole. It felt like a slow, silent death—a death that had to happen for him to thrive, even if you weren’t ready for it.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.

But somehow, that was for the best. He was with her now—his beautiful, young, hopeful future. And you? You were learning to accept the peace that came with being the past. The bittersweet relief of knowing that you had let him go, even when it felt like a piece of you was missing forever. You were learning to find happiness and acceptance with that. But you knew deep down, a part of you would always love him. And that part would remain tucked away, hidden, safe in the quiet recesses of your heart where no one could touch it. Because, no matter how much time passed, no matter how much life moved on, Satoru would always be the one who made you believe in the fleeting beauty of something that could never truly last.

Seven years had passed, and time had etched its marks on both of you. You were different now—wiser, perhaps. Life had moved on, as it always did, carrying you forward in unexpected ways. You found a home in Japan, a little place tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, a perfect reflection of the peace you had slowly cultivated within yourself. It was the kind of home you never thought you'd need after him, but somehow, it filled the emptiness that had lingered for so long.

When you saw him again, it felt like a thousand memories rushed back to you in a single moment. His shock was palpable—eyes wide with disbelief, brows furrowed as if trying to make sense of the woman standing before him. The same Satoru, yet different in small, subtle ways. His features had softened, a few lines around his eyes that spoke of time passing, of laughter shared, of a life fully lived. He was healthy, vibrant, the man you’d once known and the one who had continued his journey without you. "Y/N?" His voice was quiet at first, unsure if this was real or just a figment of his mind. His gaze swept over you as if trying to understand how you could still exist in his life after everything.

And then, he smiled. It wasn’t the same playful grin that had always been there, the one that had once made your heart race. This one was softer, warmer—gentler. It carried the weight of the years apart, but also the familiarity of someone who had once been an integral part of your soul.

And you smiled back again.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, the embrace as natural as it was unexpected. It wasn’t just a hug; it was a reunion, a silent acknowledgment of everything that had passed between you both. For a moment, you let yourself lean into him, feeling the comforting strength of his hold, the warmth of his body that you once thought you'd never feel again. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation, just the undeniable connection that had never truly disappeared. It was as though time had been kind to you both, erasing the pain and replacing it with something softer, something more peaceful.

“Satoru,” you muttered softly, almost in relief. 

"You look good," he said softly, pulling away just enough to look at you, his hands lingering on your arms as if testing the reality of this moment. 

You feel something cold pressed against your arm, looking down…there’s a golden ring on his left ring finger. Your lips parted with mild surprise before looking up at him with a sense of blitheness. You couldn’t help but chuckle, eyes crinkling in the way he loved—loves. “...is it her?”

He nods, glancing down at your own hand. And look at that; he’s not the only one with a gold ring. “And what about you?’ he asked, a softness in his voice.

Your cheeks flushed slightly, bringing your hand up and admiring the band around your finger, the diamond saying hello once more. Memories of your husband’s gruff voice, his frown that he tried so hard to keep etched on his face, the spiky black hair you loved to comb your fingers through, the scar on the corner of his mouth that you loved to kiss. “His name is Toji.”

He nodded with a wave of approval. “How long?”

“Three years. And you?”

“Four.”

You guys laughed simultaneously.  The sound of your shared laughter fills the quiet space between you two, and for a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all. There’s an ease to it, an old familiarity that you never quite lost, even with the years between you. The weight of everything that had happened—your separation, his journey, your own—seems to melt away, leaving only the lightness of the present moment. It feels almost surreal, standing there with him, both of you changed yet still the same in many ways.

You glance down at your left hand again, the ring catching the sunlight that spills through the window. The cool metal seems to hum with its own kind of quiet significance. Toji. 

But now, standing here with Satoru, there’s a strange sense of nostalgia mixed with contentment. You never imagined this—standing side by side with him, sharing your worlds as they are now. When you look up at Satoru, you see the same softness in his eyes that’s always been there, but now it carries with it the weight of time. He has a family, a future that doesn’t include you, and that’s okay. There’s peace in that. He’s found what he was always meant to have, the thing that once felt like an impossibility between you two.

“Four years,” you repeat, your voice soft, taking in the new ring on his finger. “That’s beautiful, Satoru. I’m…I’m so happy for you.”

He grins, that same playful glint in his eyes, but this time it feels like it’s tempered by something deeper, something more sincere. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “She’s incredible. I’m really lucky.”

The warmth that spreads through you isn’t jealousy, or bitterness, or anything like that. It’s something else entirely—pride, maybe. Or relief. You always knew that Satoru was meant for something bigger than what you two could have together, but seeing him happy now, seeing him settled with someone who makes his eyes light up the way they used to with you, it’s the closure you never thought you needed. 

“You?” he asks again, as though sensing the unspoken question between you two. His gaze shifts to your hand again, then back up to your face. 

The words come out easily now. “He’s my rock,” you say simply, the affection in your voice unguarded. “He makes me better, makes me whole.”

Satoru’s expression softens, and you see the flicker of that old tenderness—the way he used to look at you before everything got complicated. But it’s not painful, this time. It’s not heavy. It’s just… understanding. Like he’s happy that you’ve found that kind of peace. The kind of peace he’s found with her. “You both deserve it,” he says with a nod, as though sealing the quiet approval between you two. “You deserve everything good that comes your way.”

It’s a simple statement, but it carries so much weight. The unspoken acknowledgment that the two of you, after all this time, have moved on, and have created lives for yourselves that reflect who you’ve become. And for all that has happened, all the loss and the love that came and went, there’s something beautiful in knowing that this chapter—this shared history—is now something you both cherish without needing to hold on to.

He invited you over that day and you accepted. 

His wife runs up to you, hugging you like you’re an old friend. “Oh my god!” she exclaims in a gasp, her red-tinted lips curved up into a wide smile. You hugged her back, mirroring his reactions. “It’s so great to see you again, Miss. Satoru and I have never forgotten you.”

“Utahime…” he mutters with slight embarrassment. 

You chortled and patted her back. “I haven’t forgotten about you too either.”

She pulls back, removing her arms from you. Satoru places a warm arm around her waist and brings her to his side. The display of affection has you melting on the inside, head tilting in fondness. Satoru looks at you. “So, there’s someone we want you to—”

The sound of little pitter-patter against the hardwood cuts him off, all of your attention being dragged to the little girl with white hair and auburn eyes like her moth bounding up to you in excited familiarity. Her tiny gasp as she looks up at you with wide, innocent, twinkling eyes. She looked up at you as if she had known you her whole life, bubbling with a sense of jitteriness, cheeks glowing with a youthful flush. You couldn’t help but crouch down to her height, head tilting. Your eyes glazed over with tears, holding a hand to your mouth to hold back the broken laugh you almost let out at the question she asked you. 

“Are you the fairy?”

a/n: this story is inspired by "a love not made for me" by aryana rose. please go hear her speak it, she tells it so beautifully :(((. anywho, thank u guys for 2k really. i love u all and I'm incredibly grateful for all the support and love and patience :))

i couldn't do it without yall. <3

[mockiatoh]

Spina bifida is chosen for an example because it is one that the person mentioned specifically and MULTIPLE PEOPLE chimed in that they didn’t know people with spina bifida because American access to healthcare is just so bad that people born with spina bifida do not survive long enough to meet, as designed.

Which is full on whackadoo conspiracy thinking.

I’m going to talk about spina bifida a bit, because it is 1. something more people need to understand 2. a great example of the benefits and shortcomings of good public health policies

Spina bifida specifically isn’t great to discuss indicators of health and access to care among different populations in the US for reasons I’m going to talk about.

First, let’s talk about incidence. Spina bifida is less common in the US among all demographics than the global average. Those most at-risk for spina bifida in the US still face some of the lowest risks for neural tube defects especially spina bifida in the world. We’ll get back to why in a minute. It is statistically more common in the US among white people than black people, and more common among Latinos than white or black people. Asians and Pacific Islanders have the lowest incidence. Native Americans had the highest rates of spina bifida, until a decade (ish) ago, when there was a huge drop.

This is not the trend we would expect if this was a question of access to healthcare.

Now, knowing this, why are Neural tube defects a poor indicator of access to prenatal care? The neural tube closes, or doesn’t, at day 28. First day of a missed people is day 10-14. This means that if you don’t track your periods or aren’t clockwork-regular, you can very easily be out of that window before you know you’re pregnant.

If prenatal care isn’t the determining factor, what is? Folic acid fortification, by a mile. Folic acid is needed to form the neural tube, and if there isn’t enough taken in during this critical period, that’s when we get neural tube defects like spina bifida.

Certain foods are required folic acid fortified. This has caused a huge drop in rates of spina bifida across all demographics, and severity of spina bifida has dropped by 79% since public health initiatives to require certain foods be fortified with folic acid. As far as replicability goes? This trend holds out everywhere that mandatory folic acid fortification policies are adopted.

This is why we see a huge drop in incidence among Native Americans. Community-driven public health measures have increased availability of folic acid fortified foods.

Now, public research looked at why Latinas have higher incidence. The conclusion was that Latinas of childbearing age consume less foods that are required to be fortified. In response to this, the 2022, FDA approved folic acid enrichment for masa, and the CDC is urging voluntary implementation of this. However, voluntary implementation hasn’t shown much of a change as it’s… not really happening….

Community health saves lives, improves quality of life, and needs to be protected. When you hear the nut jobs talk about the evils of fluoride and vaccines and pasteurization and whatever else, keep in mind that these shrinking rates of spina bifida are due to public health initiatives and government regulation. These are at risk now in ways that would have been hard to imagine even just a decade ago.

There’s a video with a woman who has Elephantitis impacting her face, and it’s very obvious that she has a low quality of life. And it’s a combination of living somewhere very poor and very remote. The doctalking about the condition mentioned in passing that conditions like this don’t really have a chance to get that bad in the States—where he practices in—because people with similar conditions are treated much sooner.

And all the comments were people saying things like ‘if you can afford it I guess!’ and things like that. And it’s like, wow, we’ve really gotten to the point where the average American thinks that their quality of life and access to medical care is the same as people living with the lowest possible access to medical care.

I’ve seen the same thing when the topic is conditions that are rare in the States because of public health initiatives. There are so many issues in the States, but being able to benefit from many diseases and conditions being unheard of here is not one of those issues. Like, instead of recognizing ‘I don’t know a single family who’s been impacted by spina bífida or cleft lip’ it’s ’well I want you to know my life sucks.’

It’s so self centered and delusional

[okaysonny]

Pls can you write James Lee dating headcanons and Diego Kanga dating headcanons. Like they are same person but their personality and mannerism are completely different.

Also your write is very good it sticks to character perfectly and feels great to see a fellow Indian❤️

dating headcanons ╏ james lee + diego kang

a/n: yasss india mentioned 🇮🇳 james/dg...very difficult to grasp...he is kind of annoying ❤️ so these are very much HEADcanons. enjoy!

JAMES LEE

✦ highschool romance troupe obviouslyyy

✦ imagine this scenario: james always sees you studying in school...when everyone has left already. at first he doesn't care, but you're just always in there and he eventually asks what you're doing.

✦ as if you'd admit to james lee the prodigy that you're struggling with school 🤣 you have one sided beef with this man.

✦ surprise, surprise...you end up talking and an acquaintanceship forms.

✦ your relationship with james...it's not really a relationship. more of a situationship, tbh. just an unspoken pining that eventually develops.

✦ james is really angsty in terms of romance, imo. the only time you see each other is when you're there after school and he's come back from another rampage.

✦ i think he'd eventually tutor you, much to your annoyance. but the next day, you show james that you did well on the exam!! he'd play the nonchalant gimmick, but there's something warm settling in his chest.

✦ drops lollipops in your bag when you're not looking 😆 awww

✦ like i said...he's angsty as hell. imagine asking james what he wants to do after school, and he has an ANGSTY look because he'll be committing WAR CRIMES

✦ you bring up boring office jobs, but you figure james lee the prodigy would have a more exciting career anyways. but...he finds himself imagining a normal life, having a boring office job...maybe with you.

✦ for obvious reasons, he can't. james doesn't even entertain the thought.

✦ corny "he only feels this way around you" troupe 🤣😭 one day you decide to ruffle his hair and james suddenly feels like a normal high school kid.

✦ ANGSTY RELATIONSHIP -> ANGSTY ENDING. weather it be you not showing up anymore (after finding out he mutilates people!!) , orrr him not showing up, because he has a path laid out for him.

✦ it's tragic, because there was no intimacy at all!! no hand holding, no kissing, nothing! yet the late hours in the classroom all built up to something. for all his perfection, i'm not sure if james would realise what he's feeling.

✦ when he sees corporate employees laughing together after becoming diego kang, he still wonders what a boring office job would be like. with you.

DIEGO KANG

way more fun and light hearted, i promise!

✦ dg would absolutely nottt date a fan. if you know him, but don't really care about him, he'll be a bit more open to the idea. buttt, i think you'd have to somehow not know who he is to really pique dg's interest.

✦ don't get me wrong, it's not a "...i've never met someone who doesn't know diego kang 😳" type of thinking. he just doesn't want power imbalances in a relationship.

✦ with dg, very much opposites attract. i think he's drawn to bubbly and funny people.

✦ two words: 𝒔𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 🫦

✦ makes you aware the relationship has to be secret and all that shebang.

✦ i feel like dg's music only appeals to a...certain demographic (teenage girls) and he KNOWS that too. so if you give his tunes a listen and tell him: wow...this is shit, he'll find it oddly endearing. dg is surrounded by yes men, so he likes the honesty that his shitty songs are shitty.

✦ you already know the gifts + pampering would be out of this world 😮‍💨 it would be rude to not spoil you, considering the secrecy of your relationship + his constant absence.

✦ like i said before, for all his perfection, he doesn't really understand that sometimes you don't need an aplogy necklace for dg being away, you're just happy to see him again.

✦ late night motorcycle rides when he's feeling a little 𝒂𝒅𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒔. alexa, play cool for the summer

✦ you make fun of him when he does cringe things for the fans lmfao...that was the first time diego kang felt humiliated.

✦ another CRACK in his perfect persona: i think dg can't make funny jokes. even when he was james lee he couldn't, but the cocky persona masked it. now that he's more calm + stoic, it's very apparent.

remember when dg acted like he was gonna use the USB as a bargaining chip against eugene, but then said: "i'm kidding 😜"

🤣😭 THIS WEIRDO! idk if it was a silent warning, but it's my headcanon that it wasn't - he just genuinely thought it was funny.

✦ imagine that troupe of you know...it wouldn't kill you to crack a joke every once in a while. and dg is surprised because he thinks he's a hoot. so he says a shit joke and you actually laugh because of how bad it is. but...dg thinks you're laughing because it was funny, and feels a sense of pride.

✦ he's defo the type to laugh at a crude comment from you and then quickly cough to act like it wasn't HILARIOUS.

✦ now that he's retired, i think dg would go public with your relationship. he's trying to break out of that kpop idol image + show that he's serious about you.

✦ anddd i think he'd tell you about james lee and gapryong once he's absolutely sure you won't leave him. (i don't mean that in a creepy way lmao)

✦ despite my disdain for this FREAK i'd feel very safe with him as my bf ☺️ always arranges a body guard to accompany you if he's not there. but the most comforting thing is his hugs. i think dg gives the best hugs...and he doesn't even realise :')

✦ with you, diego feels free, yet bound in the best way possible.

divider: @thecutestgrotto

[always1star]

corporateboyfriend!gojo headcannons

gojo x gn!reader - fluff, no warnings

headcannons this time ;)

more of corporate gojo

-----------------------------------

corporateboyfriend!gojo who always gets home absurdly late, practically dragging his own sleepy body into your shared apartment. he mindlessly puts his things away and plops onto whatever soft surface he sees first (90% of the time it's the couch but he will always get up to sleep in the bed next to you in the middle of the night). he falls asleep the second his head hits the surface, snoring loudly while sleeping on his stomach with half his limbs slipping off of the couch, all while still in his work clothes.

corporateboyfriend!gojo who always yaps you ear off about the tea at work. he tells you all about the beef people have with each other, his annoying manager, his ludicrous projects, and whatever else is happening at work.

corporateboyfriend!gojo who always asks you if his outfit is cute in the morning, sometimes asking you to tie his tie (he likes the way you do it better). he’s stumbling around the house collecting all the things he needs for work before he leaves. he likes holding you a long while and pressing your lips against his for a few seconds as a goodbye before your dreaded separation and he has to go to hell on earth (the office).

corporateboyfriend!gojo who forces himself to drink coffee for the caffeine. he actually really despises it but will drink it regardless in attempt to keep his energy high whilst his sleep is low. trying to mask coffee's bitter aroma, he has a headache inducing iced coffee everyday: three shots of espresso, 4 pumps of vanilla, 1 pump of caramel, 2 pumps of brown sugar, regular steamed milk, and topped with a lot of whipped cream. i know starbucks HATES to see this man coming.

corporateboyfriend!gojo who likes to sneakily send you texts while he works under his desk, even if he isn’t allowed to. usually its something like “i miss youuuu i can’t wait be home :(“ or “look at what i had for lunch!" *image attachment* or “oh my god my manager is actually a bitch.”

corporateboyfriend!gojo who even after a long day, likes to head to the store to bring home something for you. whether it be flowers, candy, or just groceries you mentioned the fridge was lacking, he likes to bring something home for you.

corporateboyfriend!gojo who’s willing to work this terrible and treacherous job so you can do whatever you want with your life without worrying about the money.

[cosyvelvetorchid]

Bucktommy @bucktommyfluffebruary day 1: non-sexual intimacy.

This was actually an old prompt from last year but it fit the theme really well.

*****

Tommy had barely said a word since he walked through the door. He’d had a rough shift. The type of shift all firefighters dreaded—losing a kid.

It was a sad part of the job, and he would be okay in the end, but it usually took a day or two to come to terms with the events surrounding that type of loss.

One of the upsides to dating a fellow firefighter was that they understood how it felt and what you needed. On top of that Buck knew Tommy inside and out. A flicker of a look or the tiniest shift in body language and Buck would know that something was up. That thought used to terrify Tommy in the early days of them dating, back when he was still trying to keep up the confident disposition.

But he’d fallen hard for Evan Buckley and slowly he let himself be seen. Now, not needing to use words for Buck to know what he needed brought him comfort.

“Come with me.” Buck said softly and gently lead him upstairs to their bathroom. He turned on the shower and looked back at Tommy standing motionless and expressionless. His heart hurt seeing his boyfriend in a state of emotional fragility.

He unzipped Tommy’s jacket, pulling it off his shoulders and dropping it to the ground. “Arms up, sweetheart.” He whispered and Tommy did so without protest, allowing Buck to lift and remove his T-shirt.

Next he bent down and untied and removed his shoes and socks, then unbuckled his belt and removed his pants and underwear. He quickly removed his own clothes and stepped into the shower first, reaching out his hand for Tommy to take to join him.

He stepped aside guiding Tommy in position directly under the shower head. Tommy stood, eyes closed, letting the water cascade over him, hoping it would wash away the trauma of the day. Reaching for a loofah and soaping it up, Buck gently caressed Tommy’s body.

He was delicate as he made his way around the scars that dotted Tommy’s body. Tommy hated them—they were nothing but a reminder to him of suffering; being pierced, punctured, broken or bruised. They reminded him of pain, of the sometimes rehab that he’d have to work through to get back to work, and worst of all the time away from his work—which was as much a part of him as his heartbeat.

It was well over a year into their relationship that he admitted to Buck that he was insecure about them. Though he wasn’t particularly vain, he did have a healthy amount of confidence in his looks. And especially in his body—he’d work out for hours every week both to look good and to feel strong.

Buck worshipped Tommy’s body. Both what it looked like and what it could do. He loved Tommy’s heft—especially on top of him—and the feeling of his muscles under his fingertips. He loved his body hair and the raised edges of scar tissue.

For Buck those scars were a reminder that Tommy was a hero. Tommy ran into dangerous situations to save lives—even if Buck did admonish him for doing so on occasion! He was infinitely proud of his Tommy’s bravery and how he would put his life on the line to help others. Those scars were reminders that hundreds of people were still alive because of him.

More importantly they were a reminder that Tommy was still alive. That he’d been through injury and pain and suffering and sometimes hell but came through the other side and back to Buck.

Once he was done washing Tommy down, he washed his hair then quickly washed himself and stepped out first, wrapping a towel around himself then one around Tommy.

He guided Tommy into their bedroom and helped him into sweats and T-shirt and Bucks own hoodie he’d worn that day. It was a little tighter on him but he knew Tommy took comfort in wearing Bucks clothes sometimes, especially when they smelled like him.

To everyone else Tommy was strong and confident. He’d die before anybody saw him break down or being anything other than a stoic and brave. Buck was the only person—with the privilege as far as Buck was concerned—to see Tommy with his walls and defences down. To see him soft or scared or just broken down from a rough shift.

“You need to eat, baby.” Buck said quietly and Tommy silently nodded his head. Buck lifted his hand and gently kissed his knuckles before leading him downstairs to the kitchen

[mochelisgf]

CHAPTER ONE —

ᰔ — pairing: morgan cheli x oc (mar williams)

ᰔ — word count: 1600

ᰔ — warnings: none rlly, little flirting and mentions of drinking, partying that’s about it

ᰔ — links: character list, fanfic masterlist

ᰔ — story masterlist

ᰔ — authors note: hiii we are back :3 juju storyline is starting to appear….jealous mo storyline? Anyways so the first 3 chapters for this fic are already written and have been uploaded to Wattpad, so if ur feeling impatient then u can read ahead on at @m0cheli on Wattpad, hope u enjoyyyy and let me know if there’s anything that you want in future chapters or u have any blurb ideas of mo and mar 🩷

The first thing Maureen hears when she wakes up is the door to her dorm opening and two familiar voices echoing throughout the main area.

You’d think her first instinct would be to cover her ears and groan in tiredness, but no, her first instinct is to jump up. If Georgia and Renee of all people are up and lively……then what time was it?

Immediately jumping up and grabbing her phone she checks her alarm ‘snoozed’. snoozed?….maureen doesn’t even remember the last time she’s snoozed her alarm, oh god she looks a mess right now.

And just as she’s about to turn her phone off, a notification catches her eye. It’s a email, from the office in charge of the dorm unit building – confused she clicks on it, her confusion deepens even more when she reads

‘Sometime within the next 2 weeks, you will receive a roommate in replacement of your last. Please contact us if you have any other information’

…..what the fuck—

The music is blasting. The smell of weed, liquor and sweat floating throughout. And her first sentence is

“Oh my god I can’t believe I let you guys drag me to a frat party – on campus. I thought we were supposed to go to club rio, what the fuck” Maureen whines, dragging the k in the last word

“Dude calm down, being at a frat party is the last thing you need to be worried about. What you need to be worried about is how you haven’t gotten pussy is 3 months– ” ree smirked out

“oh that’s so unnecessary, you know unlike some people, I actually have a life and a job and shit to do–” Maureen responded

Georgia sighed deeply, rubbing her forehead before saying

“Okay no. Y’all need to calm down or seperate, I don’t know but all I know is – mar you need to go and talk to people, and no I’m not referring to the people you share classes with. Talk to a girl or a guy and most importantly have fun okay, I’m gonna go bye” making a salute pose before heading into the crowd.

Maureen stands awkwardly, looking around hoping that she’ll see someone she notices – anyone really, just wanting to get away but needing an excuse; that doesn’t last very long when she hears a squeal come from beside her —

“Kayla!!! Oh my god, where have you been” ree asked as she smiles widely — ree’s friend — kayla responds equally excited “Hiiiii, i've been around, ugh im so glad you were finally able to come —”

She interrupts herself as she look on the other side of ree, her eyes landing on me “And youuuu must be Maureen, ree mentions you all the—”

“Kayla!” her cousin proclaimed, embarrassment flooding her face; and Maureen in response snickers. “Oops….well uh me and the girls haven’t been here long, but you can come chill with us if you want” kayla responds

Ree turns around and looks at the girl standing beside her “Mar?” she says, giving her a look of desperation — and i mean who am I to deny my cousin? “Yeah that’s cool” Maureen says, giving an awkward smile.

Kayla, Maureen and Renee make their way to the other side of the room, stopping along the way to get drink — her cousin, who turns around to meet her eye tells her –

“dude you really need to take more…you days, you need to loosen up, we’re at a party. Act like it.” A smile sitting on her lips as she hands her the cup filled with – honestly she doesn’t even know

“Yea, okay sorry” she says, accepting the cup and taking a sip – her face scrunching up from the taste — Maureen has always had a problem with apologizing, doing it when there's no reason to, but I guess that’s what happens when you're a people pleaser.

Finally pushing through the crowd, the trio makes their way to a more closed off area, sitting there are a big group of girls, everyone engaged in their own conversations whether they were the ones explaining it or listening.

Kayla walks fully in the room, leading us in. The first one to notice us is kk — i’d never met any of the girls on the team but kk – everyone knows kk, if you don't know her on the court you’ll know her from tiktok videos that pop up on your for you page randomly.

“Hey kayla girly pop!” is the first thing the girl says, everyone in result turns – conversations stopping abruptly.

Kayla moves closer towards me and ree, putting one of her hands on our shoulders “Guys this is Renee – my roommate's friend and her cousin Maureen! Mar is a law major – crazy right?” she says, a smile large on her face

And just as abruptly the noise ended; the noise of welcome started.

Some time has passed by; Maureen, ree and georgia – who later rejoined the two are all tired out from dancing and singing, voices raw and broken – the bright blue lights and smoke floating in the room making their heads and eyes hurt.

Maureen gets up from her seat and turns slightly towards the two girls “hey I’m gonna go get another drink, want anything?” both girls shake their heads no and so Maureen smiles slightly before walking off

She makes her way to the built-in bar, a taller man behind the counter – obviously hired, looks up at the girl and smiles signaling a ‘hold on a minute’ before finishing the drink he was making and handing it to the man that sits across from her.

“What can I get for you, pretty lady?” He says with a kind smile

Maureen smiles back “umm what’s like…the weakest drink you have?” Maureen doesn’t drink very often, and when she does she usually sticks to 2-3 drinks max. But after the news of her getting a replacement roommate and the amount of stress she’s just been in recently, lord knows she needed a night of complete freedom.

The man responds back “don’t worry I got you” and starts making her drink – he gets to the second step before she realizes what he’s making – a ‘vodka soda’ – exactly what she needed right now. He finishes the drink quickly and serves it up to her.

And so Maureen sits there, by herself, slowing sipping on her drink and scrolls on her phone – snaps a pic or two of herself and when she near finished she’s about to call the nice bar man over when –

“Hey! You’re Maureen right?” A voice beside her says. The voice sounds like the most…..calming thing she’s ever heard, like silvery and comforting and just a little bit raspy. Maureen immediately turns around, wanting to put a face to the voice and comes face to face with – someone she’s never met?….

Obviously Maureen’s face says what her voice isn’t and the girl chuckles slightly in realization “I’m Morgan, I play on the girls basketball team. I wasn’t there earlier but the girls told me that Renee and her cousin had joined us, just wanted to properly introduce myself, you know without all the drunk idiots surrounding us.” she says, her voice slowly fading in embarrassment and her cheeks turning a light pink when she realizes she’s began over talking

“Oh yeah, they told me a few of you were missing! Nice to meet you, I’m Maureen – which you already know but um….you wanna sit?” I suggested, gently tucking my hair behind my ears. “oh yeah I’d love to, thanks” she accepted

We sat there for who knows how long, just talking – shy and wandering looks but everything about this girl felt genuine – the way she actually seemed interested in what Maureen had to say, how they’d only known each other for an hour and a half and she felt like she could tell her anything.

“So I’m like ‘what are you talking about, the reason the boy became what he was isn’t because he was born like that but because of the horrible living conditions he had to live in and the lack of – ”

“Marrrrrrr i'm tired, let's go home.” The girl hears, as she turns around and sighs deeply, ree laid out on the bar counter. She turns back around facing Morgan – her face displaying obvious annoyance. Morgan in reply smiles slightly, her head tilting down slightly before she gets up out of her chair

“Do you need help?” is the first thing she asks – no, first thing she’s said in almost 20 minutes as she was previously listening to me talk non stop about something she’d known nothing about

“No i should be okay, I gotta go find my other friend and then get them both home, thank you for asking though that was kind” Maureen says also getting up from her seat, having to slightly look up to the 6 foot tall girl and her deep brown hair down that’s laying softly on her shoulders and her big beautiful brown eye –

“Um I don’t have my phone on me right now, but how about I get your insta from Paige tomorrow?” Morgan asks, wanting permission before doing so,

Maureen fiddles with the top of her skirt and responds back “Yeah that’s cool, I’ve gotta go now, so I guess I’ll see you later then?” reaching up to give Morgan a hug, and she feels the girls hands hug her mid back before they separate, both of their cheeks red and hot.

As Morgan is walking away, Maureen sighs deeply before collecting herself and helping her cousin up to her feet

“Hey so, where did you last see Georgia” –

— INSTAGRAM —

liked by morgancheli, juju watkins, georgiaeous and 83 others

mrwilliamsss club classics

view all comments......

jujuwatkins yk u lookin a lil too fine i mighttt have to fly you out idk

— mrwilliams idkkk u might have to

georgiaeous she may be hot but she's secretly a loser!!!

— mrwilliamsss i don’t know how to respond to that ngl

morgancheli So like... Hi 😊

— mrwilliamsss Hey 🤗

r3neewilliams you post too early

— mrwilliams just say your sleep routine sucks! Hope this helps

[forgive00]

EMERGENCY: help two young disabled trans youth escape an actively dangerous and abusive home

(more under the cut about why this is an urgent matter, if you have any more questions send me an ask or dm me please)

we need 5,000 to put down a deposit on an apartment, pay first months rent, utilities and bills, and buy furniture, groceries, and any appliances or random household things we may need like silverware dishes medicine etc. any extra money will be put towards more household expenses and rent. any money beyond that will go towards getting us both into therapy and regular doctors appointments which we both very much need.

0/5,000 $ GOAL, ANYTHING AT ALL HELPS (EVEN IF YOU JUST SHARE!)

please read our story below and share this post to anyone you know who can support us or just reblog. i cannot stress enough this is extremely urgent, we are in a very hostile and unsafe environment and i am very afraid for our futures and safety if we are living here for any longer.

hi, this is embarrassing and humiliating, but i am in an emergency situation and desperately need to escape my abusers and to live somewhere that is safe for me. it has always been dangerous here but the situation has vastly escalated. my best friend and life partner, august, has been living with me and my biological parents since november after becoming homeless. i have lived with my parents my entire life not by choice, since i have turned 18 i have been trying constantly to escape and move out and they have deliberately sabotaged me every single time, even going so far as to say they would physically force me inside the house and barricade the door to stop me if they knew i was trying to leave them. my living situation is really, really fucking bad. my house is and has been incredibly dirty my entire life and i am expected to do every single chore in the house no matter what despite the fact i am very physically disabled and work a full time job, i am not allowed to eat or have access to food or water or the kitchen after around 10 pm, a lot of the time i have to eat in secret because i get mocked and made fun of for eating or "gaining weight" (i have had a lifelong eating disorder my family actively tries to trigger and encourage and they have made it very clear they do not like me recovering or seeking therapy for it). my father in particular is very aggressive and has physically abused me countless times and i live in terror every single day that it will happen again. every single day i am emotionally abused, manipulated, and gaslit by my parents. and this is just whats happening to me, august has had his access to a house and place to sleep threatened repeatedly, my parents have even gone so far as to try and gaslight us both into thinking he stole from them so they could have a reason to kick him out, even though they personally invited him to live with us and are aware he would be homeless if he wasnt here.

ontop of all of this, my family is aggressively and very openly transphobic and homophobic, and i genuinely fear for our lives staying in this house any longer as we are both on hrt and actively transitioning. i cut contact with my abusive grandmother two years ago, and my mother has recently started talking to her and telling her extremely personal information behind my back about my transition, my rape, my disability diagnosis, virtually anything they can both use against me they are using against me.

we cannot keep living here. i need to get away from them as fast as possible. we are moving to another town to cut contact with both my biological family and augusts.

[grayskies2525]

Inevitable (male sneezing, contagion) | Part 3/4

Here we continue to follow Evan through the worst cold of his life. There will be one more part after this!

Part one Part two

Another obvious CW for mess!

Word count: 2,200

*** 

Part 3

Bed.

A single monosyllabic word that currently means everything to Evan. The mere thought of having a bed to come home to after his shift is the only thing keeping him going. 

He stands now with his gaze unfocused off in the distance as he tries to even out his breaths. He’s been at the front registers for an hour and he’d estimate he’s sneezed twenty times at least. He’s had the good sense to keep tissues on his person at all times. There’s one tissue that’s been living out its life in Evan’s left hand for a good while now. Evan has deemed this his “wiping” tissue, using it for a quick swipe, or sometimes to clasp it desperately against his nose in efforts not to send a deluge of fluid onto the items he scans. He refuses to blow into this tissue. No, that’s a job for the fresh tissues — the tissues he allows himself to pluck from the box he keeps next to him. These are the tissues he quickly disposes into the  — now close to overflowing — wastebasket.  

Then there’s the tissues he sneezes into. He keeps these in the pocket on the right side of the jacket he’d slipped on earlier when he’d started feeling chilly. He figures it’d be a waste to throw these tissues away if they’re only coated in a light mist. There’s, of course, been many tissues that haven’t survived some of Evans more… forceful sneezes. The tissues with holes or an abundance of thick stickiness were fated for the wastebasket that has now, effectively, become a tissue cemetery. 

God, he just wants to go to bed. And maybe have a bowl of hot soup — tomato soup with Goldfish crackers, and possibly a grilled cheese sandwich to go along with it. But, then, he’d have to make the soup and sandwich and in his current state, he’d rather die of starvation than put in that effort. Maybe Marcus will take pity on him and make it. It doesn’t even need to be homemade. Surely they have a can of Campbell’s somewhere in the cabinet. 

“EDT’shuuuuHHH!”

Evan feels proud the sneeze, while coming on too quickly for him to cover, is only a fine spray. Sure, it does absolutely drench the store’s phone, but in comparison to what was happening to Evan earlier, this is practically nothing. His constant tissue use has kept away the more viscous type of mucus from shooting out of him. He spares a moment to contemplate how he’s reached the point where he considers sneezing all over a phone to be a success just because it wasn’t accompanied by strings of snot.

Kate, one of the associates working the registers today, sighs as she sees him trying to wipe off the phone with a tissue. “I’d tell you to go home, but I know you can’t. But, listen, you’re going to start a literal outbreak at this rate. Like, I’d be surprised if everyone in town doesn’t come down with this thing in a few days time. So, would you consider wearing a mask? There’s a box in the break room.”

Evan stares at her. Yes, wearing a mask would prevent spreading the virus, but that would only work if he could keep the thing on.

“Uh, I don’t really know if that’s feasible, Kate,” he says, wiping his nose with the tissue he has on hand, as if to illustrate his point.

Kate stares at him, her mouth in a thin line. “Well, you should try. It’ll at least give the impression that you’re attempting not to spread your cold to all our customers.”

Evan sighs heavily before turning and heading off to the break room.

* * *

The problem with masks is that their main purpose is to prevent droplets dispersing when people speak, cough, or — of course — breathe. Evan imagines they could be good at preventing sneeze spray from entering the air, providing the sneezes are the light and misty type. Otherwise, after a few sneezes, a person is going to have to dispose of the mask and get a new one— which would be fine if the person only sneezed here and there.

Evan is not sneezing here and there.

“AHD’tshhhUUUHHHH! ADT’SHHHHH! HEhhh HH HEH EH-TSsSHHHH!”

He notices the warmth first, then the wetness. 

It clings to his face, which forces him into having to smell the strong scent of his own saliva and mucus, both of which are teeming with viruses. He needs the mask off now.

But there’s a customer literally speaking to him. A fact he nearly forgot.

“... And I’m just saying if you don’t want customers to think something is on sale, then you shouldn’t have an ‘on sale’ sign so close to the item.”

Evan snorts thickly and holds up a finger in the universal sign for “wait a minute” as he turns around to pull off his mask. It stubbornly clings to his face, as if glued to it, but he manages to pull it off, though he does have to hold back a gag at the sight he’s met with. He pulls a bunch of tissues out of his pocket — the ones previously reserved for sneezing — and wipes up the mess before turning back around.

He plasters on a smile for the customer. “Yes, I agree that sometimes our signs can create confusion if they’re not properly switched out, or if they are too close to another product. So, refresh my memory — you’re saying you thought this 10 quart air fryer was on sale for… for 15 dollars?” he asks, frowning, trying to actually process the words the woman’s been saying.

“Yes. But that lady over there —” she says pointing to Kate who’s working one of the other POS stations. “Told me the sale was actually for mixing bowls. But if the sale’s for mixing bowls, then the sign should have been closer to the mixing bowls and not the airfryers.”

Evan stares. Something about the woman — perhaps her tone of voice, or her pursed lips and self-righteous looking expression — gives Evan the idea that she knows exactly what she’s doing. There’s no way she thought a three hundred dollar airfryer would be on sale for fifteen dollars. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the one who moved the sign next to the airfryers. People like this annoy more than someone who outright steals.

“Right. I understand what you’re saying, but — EDT’SHHuuuuHHHH!” 

He managed to aim the sneeze downward at the counter. He watches the droplets settle on a notepad in spots — some large, some small —  all over the top page. He frowns, then looks up.

The woman’s face is contorted into a scowl. “If you’re sick, you should stay home.”

“I — ADt’SHhhhhhhhh! AD’TSHHHHHH!”

Evan can’t even feel ashamed this time of sneezing on someone. She shouldn’t have been so close, and more importantly, so damn annoying. Though, as he stares at her face covered in the glistening evidence of his cold, he does begin to feel a miniscule amount of shame.

“Uhmb, liste’d, I amb so sorry.” He snorts, trying to lessen the congestion he hears in his voice. “Hodestly, I’ve got a killer cold righdt dow ad I —”

“You realize this is unacceptable, right?” the woman says, her tone drenched with bitterness. “You have no business being here getting customers sick. I will be complaining. Give me the name of your manager,” she demands.

He blinks. “Uhb, so the madadger today is actually mbe, so ubm… cobplaidt doted I guess?” he says, giving a heavy snort, exhaustion tugging at every inch of his body.

The lady glares. “I can’t even understand what you’re saying. I’ll be filling out a survey later. I’ve been a regular customer here for years and I hate to say it, but I don’t think I can ever come back.”

Alarm bells flash through his mind as he remembers his training videos. But then the tickle from hell takes sudden residence in his sinuses and he snaps forward. 

“AHHgt’shuuuuuhhhh! AHHHHGG’tSHHUUUHHHhhhh!”

This time there are strings. And they hang down in thick, unbreaking strands. Instinctively, he brings up his bare hand to collect the mess. He stares at the woman, helpless to do anything but stand there with a hand covering his face. The woman’s mouth is curled in disgust, and she gives a quick shake of her head before turning to exit the store. 

Well, that’s the third customer he’s scared away today with his sneezing. Although, the second could hardly count as a “customer” he supposes.

* * *

“Trevor, please," Evan begs as he sits at the break room table, feeling thankful to be alone in the room. "I will take your closidg shifts dext week if you just cobe id today. I hodestly dod’t thidk I cad make it through four bore hours of — of this ihh’shhHHOOO! SHOOO! SHOOO! SHOOO! SHOO!” He takes a deep breath before immediately resuming the pattern. “ACK’SHOOOO! SHHOOO! SHOOOOO!”

Eight sneezes. 

Eight.

He’s dying. 

Each sneeze scraped against his throat and made his head throb. They also tore through the one tissue he’d brought up just in time. There’s a large hole in the middle and a slimy mess coating his hand. At this point, all he can do is sigh.

“Please, Trevor. I’ve dever beed this sigck befo — Eck’SHooOOOOO!”

More spray. More strings. More sighs.

“Jesus,” Trevor says, from the other end of the phone. “Fine, I get it. You’re sick. But, it’s just that, you know…I had plans… and, well, can’t you just call Bethany or something?”

“Already did. Bethady’s at the ebergedcy vet with her dog. You’re literally by odly hope. Please. I’b sdeezi’g all over custobers ad everythi’g, Trevor. Like, you have do idea. I just wadt to get sombe rest so I cad shake this thi’g ad — I — HEH!”

Evan sets the phone down on the table and pulls several tissues from the box on his lap, quickly burying his face into them.

“ECK’shhUUUUUuuuhhhhh! ECK’Shhhhhhhhhh! Heh hh hhh HHHH MPfff’tshhhuuuhhh! MPT’SHUUUHHHH!”

“Goddamn,” he hears Trevor say from his phone, but Evan’s too focused on trying to keep himself from literally drowning. He blows and blows his nose, the sound gurgling. He feels slimy dampness run all down the side of his hand. Clearly he needed more tissues than he grabbed.

“Fine,” he hears Trevor say with a groan. “But we’re definitely trading shifts next week so I don’t have to close.”

Evan’s throat feels scratched all to hell from the sneezing. He clears his throat to alleviate the scratchiness only to find himself lost in a coughing fit. Like, the sneezing wasn’t enough.

“Evan? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, thagk you, Trevor. Ad I promidse I’ll take your evedi’g shifts dext week.”

* * *

“Dude, wake up. I drove forty minutes on my day off to come save your ass just so you can go home to sleep off your sniffles. So, go home.”

The voice is one Evan knows. In fact, he thinks he heard it not too long ago. But, going back to sleep sounds immensely more appealing than trying to figure out the owner of the mystery voice.

Someone’s shaking his shoulder. 

“Dude,” the voice says again, sounding irritated.

Evan’s the one who should feel irritated. He’s just trying to get some sleep and now someone’s shaking him and also he has to — 

“Hmmph’SHHHhhhhh! HEH’tshooooo!”

Evan, instinctively, sniffles. It turns out there’s a lot more than he’d realized to sniffle back up, so he finally raises his head a little from the table he'd apparently fallen asleep on.. He sees large globs of mucus across his arm.

Then he remembers. 

He slowly sits up and finds Trevor’s gaze on him. 

“Jesus, Evan. Clean yourself up.”

Evan wipes his nose with his arm, leaving another trail along his skin. 

God, he needs a shower. 

Trevor’s eyebrows go up and his eyes widen before he shakes his head as if in disbelief. Evan watches, mind still half-asleep, as Trevor dampens a paper towel at the sink in the tiny kitchen section of the break room.

Trevor jogs over to Evan and holds out the paper towel. “For your arm. Man, you are a wreck.”

“I dod’t feel very good,” Evan says, sniffling and looking at the paper towel, feeling dazed.

“No shit,” Trevor says before his expression softens. “Listen, clean yourself up and get home and rest. And don’t come back tomorrow. I’ll cover for you. Just take one of my shifts when you’re feeling better.” He looks back down at the paper towel in his hand. “And for the love of christ, please wipe off your nose. It's pouring like a faucet. I don't even know how that's possible with how stuffed up you sound.”

Trevor reaches the paper towel out again to Evan. Evan goes to take the towel, but since he seemingly no longer has any control whatsoever of his respiratory reflexes, he sneezes.

All over Trevor’s outstretched arm and into the air. Because of course he does. 

Evan takes the paper towel and for reasons he doesn’t understand, begins awkwardly wiping Trevor’s arm with it.

It’s hard not to when there’s little globs of mucus on Trevor’s skin. After this cold is over, Evan hopes to never have to see another “glob of mucus” again.

Trevor just stares down as if in horror, until he finally snaps. “Okay, that’s enough, Evan. I’ve got it. Get yourself cleaned up and for the sake of everyone, go home.”

“Sorry,” Evan mutters before going to do just that.

Part three

[irazai]

─▸ ONE LAST TIME ; osamu dazai x fem!reader

masterlist.

03 ❝ MY HEART BEATS AGAIN ❞

"don't say that silly," dazai whispers as he tries to keep his carefree expression on his face, trying not to show how sad he feels. "don't say you won't take my name ever."

he smiles as he looks down to pick on the fabric of his pants, trying to keep himself grounded to reality. to not do something in the high of his emotions which he will regret later.

he has good control over his emotions. he really does.

but once in a while even he can't control how he feels when life drags him by his neck and tells him, look, all the people around you are moving on just fine. why can't you? why are you still so ugly inside?

today this statement came in the form of you and your daughter, he thinks she is no older then four because he left when you were pregnant. actually, on the day you told him you were.

he was doing something with atsushi, probably some small errands regarding documents because lord, there are alot. especially since they caught dostoyvesky.

the younger boy was telling him how fascinating their jobs are — the government unit handling the paperwork — when dazai's eyes averted to a point of the bustling street ahead to see you.

it is you. he didn't need to second guess because your face is engrained in his veins, your features flow through his spinal fluid every night to make sure he doesn't forget you. his support system. he thinks he might love you. or maybe it was the teenage romance which was so thrilling for a while?

you two aren't teenagers anymore. one glance down to see who you were looking at and dazai feels as if someone jerked him roughly. the little baby (she may not be a baby anymore but to dazai who missed her baby years, she is) is definitely his. that shade of brown hair is one he is familiar with after all. it belongs to him.

you were listening to something she was saying, the baby was excited, jumping lightly on her feet as she exclaimed whatever caught her interest. dazai nearly smiled at the sight.

he walked past you two, without you knowing he was there. at all. because people like him don't get to stay in your presence for long, he is afraid he will taint your light.

there was a small 'oh, i left them' kind of feeling at first. mostly he was giddy at seeing you, he wanted to laugh and dance.

then the way you slowly took over his mind happened very slowly, really.

he remembers coming back to the agency and stretching his arms over his head while atsushi told kunikida their task is done. as they talked (and between comments from kunikida who looks annoyed like usual), it suddenly occurred to dazai if you still liked dates on the beach.

oh well, who knows? maybe you moved on.

then as he sat on his chair or laid his head on his desk, he began to wonder more and more. his thoughts drifted to the baby. how would she sound like? is she like him or more like you? what's her favorite colour?

he's in a daze, as if his body is being controlled by someone else when he stands up all too suddenly. startling atsushi who was infront of him.

what excuse did he mutter to kunikida? he doesn't remember as he leaves the building in a hurry. he walks over to the street he saw you and your daughter on but you two aren't there anymore obviously.

this is where it dawns on him that he isn't a part of your or her life. he should not be so happy upon seeing you, you will definitely not be happy to see him.

it is now that he actually realises you aren't chuuya or the mafia or anyone else in his life. you are an average citizen. him leaving isn't something you will treat lightly. you aren't fucked up like them.

like him.

he blinks as a kid runs past him, to think his own might do it someday. unaware that who she passed is her own father.

this is a very uncomfortable realisation. he forgot about the kid and now when he remembers her, he is aware she might forget him.

this cluster of emotions leads him to bar lupin. not because it was close to where he is or anything. but because here is the comforting lingering presence of oda.

he drinks and drinks, orders drinks upon drinks to drown and float under the influence of alcohol.

laying his head on the bar table, dazai drunkly mumbles to himself, "what if she forgot me too? but why can't she? never gave her a reason to remember me."

dazai sighs, "but still. she loves me right? she won't forget me right?" he asks to no one in particular. "what if she does?"

dazai doesn't really have regrets, he is made up of them but he knows how to ignore them well (the smaller ones, he is really attending to the bigger ones) and you weren't a big regret or that's what he used to think.

while he has no desire of meeting you again for your sake (he thinks it's better if you move on from a piece of shit like him, he doesn't want you to hurt more because of him), something in him changed when he saw you and his daughter.

the sudden urge to meet you, the sudden craving to hold his daughter, to tell you how he feels as if he isn't real sometimes, to ask you how you have been till now is strong.

it's so strong, so unbearable. not even alcohol is able to suppress this urge. so he sits straight to think of a plan, an ideal situation which he can play off as coincidence while also pondering if this is actually a good idea or not.

he is selfish. he wishes you to move forwards but he doesn't at the same time.

this man, as a lover, is a walking contradiction.

what if you aren't happy when you two finally meet? if you are angry, he can handle it but what if you pretend to forget him? (pretend because he knows you can't forget him like he can't forget you.)

what if you do anyway?

he doesn't want you to forget him, the way you softly say his name, how your eyes soften when you looked at him, how you smiled when you saw him. he doesn't want you to forget him.

drunk mind weaves his memories of you into a person, a hallucination of you. a you who refuses to call him 'osamu' or even dazai. calling him, 'detective' instead.

"don't say that silly," dazai whispers as he tries to keep his carefree expression on his face, trying not to show how sad he feels. "don't say you won't take my name ever."

he can feel eyes on him from the nearby customers, they should not be judging a drunk guy who is drowning in his misery. alas they are, so he has no choice but hold his sanity and composure in shaky hands.

he smiles as he looks down to pick on the fabric of his pants, trying to keep himself grounded to reality. to not do something in the high of his emotions which he will regret later.

dazai makes a decision.