#roof paint colors images

[nyoomerr]

Fic prompt: SY is the chosen cleric of LBH, the world's most possessive divine emperor, accent on the divine. He did not sign up for this. (Meanwhile, LBH is trying to figure out how he can fit a divine empress into this pantheon)

i actually got very into this AU once i thought about it for 0.5 seconds, so here's a lil drabble that i hope to expand on and put on ao3 in the future ;>

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Shen Yuan wouldn’t consider himself to be particularly religious. He believed in the gods, of course - the proof of their existence is written on every street corner and under every roof. The lights of the city that have no discernible power source outside of the goddess of invention herself, the unemptiable food basket that had been gifted to Shen Yuan’s father by the god of plenty, the buzz of raw energy in the air each weekend when the city gathers to say its prayers. 

Undoubtedly, Shen Yuan had grown up in a city blessed by the gods, so naturally he believes in them. He just doesn’t much care for them.

A city blessed by the gods is also a city kept by them, after all. No inventions that could possibly be construed as a weapon would ever be approved by the ministry of creation. No civil courts existed when the gods could directly send down divine punishment to sinners.

No life in the city would ever survive if the gods found it unworthy.

Shen Yuan knew, objectively, why the rules of the gods were so strict. Divine Emperor Luo wrote them himself, and each one had been crafted specifically to prevent the sort of strife and abuse that he had witnessed when he was a mere mortal. Every schoolchild learns the story of the pitiful Luo Binghe who struggled to reach the heavens, faced every day with proof of humanity’s dishonor and ugliness.

When that pathetic Luo Binghe had awakened his blood as the Divine Emperor, he’d immediately sought to rewrite the rules of the heavens to fix the issues he’d seen as a mortal. It made sense. It even worked, to some objective degree of measurement: starvation and war between human lands was barely heard of, these days.

Shen Yuan casts his eyes up to the ceiling of the chapel. A mural of Divine Emperor Luo is painted in bright splashes of color, his eyes piercing down at the viewer as he holds a drink in one hand and a woman in the other. An image of wealth and wellness; a warning to stay in line if you wish for a similar happy ending. 

Shen Yuan thinks that the Divine Emperor must truly have had a hard life, to rule as such an immature god. A child that never got the chance to grow up freely, now imposing their black-and-white outlook of life on an entire land of people who are mature enough to understand that life isn’t so simple.

Shen Yuan looks back down, peering through barely open eyes at his feet. He isn’t supposed to have his eyes open at all, during prayer. It’s just - despite the issues he has with the gods’ reign, and despite the apathy he feels in place of admiration or piety, he really can’t help but think - 

How pitiful, to have ascended without first understanding the joy of being human. How sad, to have your ‘happy ending’ worshiped by the masses without understanding it yourself, believing it to be good only because it follows your own strict rules. 

Shen Yuan sighs, a quiet release of air in the quiet of the chapel.

His next breath in feels electric. 

The vaulted ceilings of the chapel suddenly feel claustrophobic. The quiet hum of hands rubbing against hands in silent prayer rises to a crescendo of skin and movement and life. What low light the candles lining the pews had provided now burns as brightly as the light of a hundred divine lanterns, but there isn’t anywhere Shen Yuan can cast his eyes towards that is less shocking to look at. 

And there, at the front of the chapel, is a god. 

Shen Yuan’s breath catches. He can’t look away. The god is beautiful; more divine than any blessing that Shen Yuan has ever witnessed. 

He is also looking directly at Shen Yuan, meeting his gaze through half lidded eyes and with the laziness of an apex predator. 

Around Shen Yuan, the other church-goers have begun to break from their prayers, startled and choking on the divine presence around them. Many of them dare to sneak peeks at the descended god, but none of them seem able to look directly at him, their eyes sliding off of him before they quickly duck their heads and take up the pose of prayer once more.

Shen Yuan still can’t look away.

Slowly, the god steps down from the pulpit and begins to approach. He doesn’t bother to look at Shen Yuan as he moves forward, casually glancing around the chapel as if assessing it. His eyes catch on the mural on the ceiling - his own face looking down at him, though paling in comparison to the beauty and power of the real thing. 

And then he pulls his eyes back to Shen Yuan, and Shen Yuan realizes with a start that he’s stopped walking, standing directly in front of the pew Shen Yuan is sitting in.

Shen Yuan wets his lips. His pulse beats jack-rabbit fast in his throat.

“Divine Emperor Luo,” he greets. “How - how can I serve you?”

The weight of the Divine Emperor’s attention is no lighter than if Shen Yuan had held the entire ocean on his shoulders. He looks at Shen Yuan as if he might eat him, and expects Shen Yuan to thank him for the honor of filling a divine stomach.

“Do you think you can?” He asks, and Shen Yuan shudders at the sound of his voice. An infinitely powerful being, and he’s speaking to Shen Yuan as if Shen Yuan were a peculiarity, something fit to either be played with or disposed of once the god has finished assessing him. 

“Can I - um, my apologies, Divine Emperor, can I…?”

“Serve me,” The gods says. “Or did you offer such a thing unthinkingly?”

Shen Yuan stares at him. Divine Emperor Luo stares back, his gaze sharp as he takes Shen Yuan in. 

“Can you,” Divine Emperor Luo says, voice low and dangerous, “serve a god that you see as pitiful?”

Shen Yuan jerks back as if slapped. How useless would it be to say that he hadn’t meant it? If a god can hear any thought about them, not only directed prayers - for certainly, Shen Yuan’s private ruminations about the tragedy of Luo Binghe’s story had been nothing like a prayer, and yet they had clearly been heard - then there is no point in lying. If Shen Yuan were to claim one thing with his mouth and another with his mind, he’d only be branded one of the many sinners to be smited by the Divine Emperor’s just hand. Deceit was hardly looked favorably upon; to lie to a god that could hear the truth from your own mind would be suicide. 

Shen Yuan hesitates. At his back, he knows his family must be terrified, and yet he also knows that they dare not look at the Divine Emperor, and that their heads must be bowed in prayer like everyone else in the chapel. 

A room with a hundred people, and it may as well just be Shen Yuan and his god.

The Divine Emperor’s lips quirk up. It isn’t a friendly expression. 

“Your god, little Shen Yuan?” He asks cruelly. “You can pity me, and you can know in your heart that you are incapable of serving me, and yet you claim to be devout to me in the same breath?”

“Aren’t I yours, Divine Emperor?” Shen Yuan asks. His voice does not waver, but it is a near thing. “If I didn’t belong to you, could I dare to live in this city? Every living thing here must live by your rule; naturally, we must all belong to you.”

“What pretty words,” Divine Emperor Luo says. His eyes glint red from beneath his lashes, and Shen Yuan thinks -

Ah, so red is truly the color of the divine. 

Divine Emperor Luo’s eyes are very suddenly the same deep brown that his murals all portray him with. Shen Yuan lowers his gaze deferentially, and wonders idly if all the other too-sharp pieces of the Divine Emperor would smooth out if Shen Yuan’s thoughts lingered on them. 

“If Divine Emperor Luo finds my words pretty, then I will dare to keep speaking,” Shen Yuan says, keeping his eyes turned down. 

“Go on, then. Speak.”

Shen Yuan takes a shuddering breath in. His family is still cowering behind him. The old lady who lives down the street is shaking in her pew across the aisle. 

And Shen Yuan has never considered himself especially religious, because believing in the gods is very different from placing your faith in them. 

“To spy is the manifestation of distrust,” Shen Yuan recites, the words long since memorized after a lifetime of growing up under the gods’ many rules about morality and punishment. “A lack of trust in others implies something impure within yourself. Spying should be punished with ten lashes.”

Shen Yuan’s mother lets out a quiet sound of alarm, stifled so quickly it sounds like a whimper. Shen Yuan does not bother to send her any sort of mental apology; it would not reach her, and would instead be intercepted by an outsider. 

Besides, Shen Yuan had known well what he was doing, quoting the rules that the Divine Emperor had written right back at him, implying that a god should be punished. It would be foolish to apologize for something he had done so purposefully. 

“Spying,” Divine Emperor Luo says, after the silence in the chapel has stretched long. “What a funny way to describe listening to the prayers of my followers. Is it spying for you to hear a call made to you from within your own house?”

“If all of the prayers that the Divine Emperor receives sound like what he heard from me,” Shen Yuan says, glancing back up to meet the god’s eyes defiantly. “Then I wonder why he hasn’t bothered to descend before today to scold us all.”

“Does little Shen Yuan think I will scold him?” Divine Emperor Luo asks, voice soft. 

“I think,” Shen Yuan says, “that a god normally so busy with punishing us would not bother to descend unless it was to fulfill those duties.”

“The world is good, from the work that I do,” Divine Emperor Luo says sharply. 

“Is it?” Shen Yuan asks, and he finds that his fear has been pushed down, his chest tight with a lifetime of reading about the gods and wondering why, if Luo Binghe’s life was so miserable, would he be unable to recognize misery in his own subjects, living every day in fear of him? 

Luo Binghe had been pitiful, and he’d never been allowed to grow up peacefully, and Shen Yuan truly thinks it sad that a divine being could live in such a tragic way. 

But that doesn’t make him blind to the way that Luo Binghe’s immaturity has scorched the mortal plane, nor does his pity completely dissolve his anger over such a thing. 

Shen Yuan’s fate had been sealed from the moment they the Divine Emperor had descended. If he’s going to be punished regardless, then it will be for having said his piece. 

Dying from bitching this pathetic god out is a far better story than dying from having only thought it. 

And yet, before Shen Yuan can open his mouth again -

The Divine Emperor turns suddenly, facing the cleric at the front of the chapel. The old man is clutching at his prayer book with shaking hands, and he ducks his head instantly when the god looks his way. 

“Take him in as a disciple,” Divine Emperor Luo commands, gesturing lazily in Shen Yuan’s direction. “I want him trained and moved to the main church by the end of the year.”

Shen Yuan looks at the cleric, and then back at the god in front of him. He - what?

The Divine Emperor glances back at Shen Yuan, his lips quirked up and his eyes once more a blazing red. 

“There’s another reason for a god to descend than to administer punishment,” he says. “We must also appoint clerics.”

And then Divine Emperor Luo is gone, the space where he once stood crackling with divine energy. 

In disbelief, Shen Yuan - the first cleric to be personally appointed by the Divine Emperor in nearly a century - falls to his knees. Fuck, he thinks, and he hopes that the god is still listening to hear it. 

[lichenaday]

Myriolecis albescens (syn. Polyozosia albescens, Lecanora albescens)

This crustose lichen has a white, chalky, areolate thallus covered in apothecia. These apothecia are 0.4-1.7 mm in diameter, and have thick margins and chalky discs that vary in color from yellow, pinkish, or tan. M. albescens is nitrophilic and pollution tolerant, and can be found growing on base-rich rock, walls, roof tiles, concrete, and even painted wood. So keep an eye out for this little guy in a neighborhood near you!

images: source | source | source

info: source | source | source

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

TW: attempted baby trapping, detailed writing about burns and scars.

Mother says she was the first witness to your very first steps. 

Surrounded by four newly renovated nursery walls—painted her favorite pink and adorned with decorations Dad hung for a pop of color. Stuffed animals everywhere, even a 43-inch-tall dollhouse waiting to be discovered.

But, of all the toys, that chubby baby girl determinedly balanced herself on her awkward legs. Mother said you smiled widely, showing a toothless grin and extending your tiny hands forward. Eyes wide open when you almost fell, yet the stubborn baby refused to give up until you reached your mother's arms.

Maybe you simply saw something you wanted. Your mother.

How odd. The thought that you ever wanted your mother is an absurd notion. Because as Simon's car sped off, leaving the manor behind you, all you felt was a sense of relief that you had once again escaped her.

Maybe you wanted your mother only when she wanted you too. Lately—for the past few years after you were ten—she acted like she hated you, and children are truly just mirrors of their parents, incapable of hating before being hated first.

Or maybe—so many maybes when it comes to her—Mother didn’t want to hurt you, didn’t intend to instill this distorted image of yourself with every drop of poison she poured on you. Maybe she simply lacked the knowledge and skills to be a mother, lacking a positive role model from the start.

But intentions mean nothing compared to the outcome, the fed-up rational voice asserts. It doesn't matter if she didn't mean it, because in the end she hurt you. The difference between love and hate becomes this fine line that eventually fades and mixes the two together.

It doesn't matter if she didn't mean it this way at first, because the first time turned into the second time, then the third and suddenly now it's the thousandth time. She breeds her pattern and uses it to make you suffocate. And when you try to break free, she looks at you like a disobedient child full of rebellion.

The sickening optimists will tell you to look on the bright side—that it shaped you, made you the woman you are today. But back then, you were a child—you would have grown up inevitably, so going through all that was just an unjust burden.

(All adults do is cause pain, the little girl said.)

Some crackling radio tune played softly as Simon drove in silence through the dark, winding country roads. No questions came—which you were thankful for; you weren’t ready to unpack all that long history just yet. His brown eyes were locked in focus as he steered the car around the turns as if he’d been through this before.

The car slowed and rolled to a stop outside a sprawling two-story building. A pub—from the weathered sign carved on its old stone. Different from the ones in London, of course, this one's cozier and more inviting. Gazing out the rain-spattered window, you squint and see another sign above the door: “The Fox and Hounds Inn.” So they also offer rooms, it seemed.

Simon turned off the engine and twisted in his seat. Reaching behind, he snatched up the suit jacket he had thrown back there earlier. Turning to you, he held it out, signaling you to take it.

“Cover yer ‘ead.” He nods towards the pouring rain outside.

You took it, breathing in Simon’s scent—a hint of his cologne mixed with cigarette smoke—as you draped it over your head as a hood. The sound of the door being opened roughly is heard. Simon has rushed out into the downpour and retrieved your bags from the trunk. Slipping from the car, you hurry to take shelter under the pub’s roof, waiting for Simon before going through the door.

The inside of the pub was surrounded by warm hues. Old wooden shelves stood displaying a variety of bottles of spirits, with low lights casting a dim glow. Worn leather booths were occupied by a few locals who had settled in with their pints, while two others shot pool in the back corner. Behind the bar, the bartender paused from wiping glasses; a questioning look flashed across his face before smoothing it once more.

He set his glass down and asked, "What can I get ya?”

“Bourbon. Kentucky, if y’ve got it.” Simon said.

The bartender cocked his head, checking his stock. “Aye, we’ve a bottle or two left.” Turning back to him, he asked again, “Anyth’ else?”

Simon turned to you. “You want anything?”

“I'm alright, thanks.” You answered in a husky voice.

“Just the bourbon then, and a room for the night.”

At that, the bartender just nodded, reaching beneath the bar to produce an iron key, its number as a keychain. “Room six, up the stairs and to your left. Let me know if you’ll be wantin’ breakfast in the morn.” He explained with efficiency, all business, saving more time from nonsense.

The heavy wooden stairs creaked underfoot as you climbed to the room. Reaching the door carved with the number six, Simon twisted the key and pushed the door open. He set the bags on the old table by the window, leaving your suitcase beside it.

Glancing around, you took in the faded floral wallpaper, lumpy bed, and worn armchair—not fancy, but it would do for a night’s rest. You wandered around the room, stopping when you passed a mirror—your own reflection with mascara tracks smeared across your cheeks, lipstick smudging past your lip line.

“Did I just walk around like this all afternoon?” You wiped away the dark trails, hoping to lighten the heavy atmosphere for exactly the reason why. That or it was just you and your guilt for dragging Simon into this unplanned mess.

The effort fell flat, much like your numb heart. Simon was still wound tight as a spring, with the venomous words of that woman replaying in his mind. However, your own perspective perceived his distant attitude as anger. Mother would often give you two days of silent treatment whenever she was upset, so you presumed it was the same case with Simon.

You nearly jumped from his grunt. Out of the corner of your eye, Simon took out his cigarette and lit it, always paying no attention to where he was smoking. Taking a deep drag, he let the smoke curl slowly as he exhaled towards the ceiling.

The bathroom door creaked open at his touch; Simon gave it a sweep of his eyes to access the condition of it—nothing but the basics; thankfully, the shower worked. He turned then, coming over to where you were sitting on the lumpy mattress.

“Shower,” he rumbled, jerking his head towards the bath. “Get that rainwater off ya.”

(You’re angry, aren’t you?)

The conclusion was drawn after his tone sounded colder than normal—his words were curt, as if he didn't wish to waste breath on you. While a part of you argued this was just the way he spoke all the time, another louder voice suggested there was more going on. His brown eyes held a deeper stirring, a visible frown etched into his features. Simon would likely extend the silence if not for the concern that you would trouble him more if you fell ill.

It hurls you into this desperate need to win him over, despite being uncertain if there's an actual competition to be won. You struggle to contain the age-old, desperate question, but you are known to be a failure at everything.

"Are... are you angry with me?” The question leaves you, hanging awkwardly in the air.

At that, Simon's blonde eyebrows furrowed. "What?" he asked, sharp. Like he's offended.

Your heart thudded against your ribs as you struggled to lift your gaze, meeting his stare. “I just… are you angry with me?”

A scoff, then—

“No.” Simon replied curtly. “Why the bloody ‘ell would I be angry with you?” he added, then chastised himself when the words came out harsher than intended.

But the prejudice had seeped into your pores, causing your shoulders to tense and your head to hang low. You hated this—hated feeling like an over-sensitive child, upset over nothing, easily hurt by everything. Lifting your head, you tried to blink away the pricking tears pooling in your eyes.

Simon lets out a hushed sigh before squeezing out his cigarette and sitting down next to you, the bed creaking under the new weight. Outside, the leaves rustle in the cold night breeze. Within these four walls, you both sit side by side in silence.

“I ain't... that is... I’m not angry. Not with you, at least.” He tries to sort out his words. Something kinder but ends awkwardly—nonetheless, acceptable.

A few tears escaped and rolled hot down your cheeks before the blurry world came back into focus. You raised your eyes to his.

“I'm sorry,” you say, almost a whisper. “I'm such a crybaby, I know.”

“None o’ that now,” Simon soothed you, timbre as soft as talcum powder. “Ain't got nothin' to apologize for.”

As he said that, he used his thumb to catch your tears, wiping them away gently, almost as if he didn't want another to stain your cheeks. And under his touch, you became still, like obedient clay waiting to be molded by him. You existed solely for him, willingly presenting your skin as a canvas in case he wanted to brand his name on you. Make me yours, your cheap little heart begged; make me yours until I forget who I am.

(Grant me an identity that isn't me.)

I will shed the pieces of myself now like outgrown armor. The nights are prone to the past—never quiet—and I don't like that.

(Give birth to a new me. Someone who isn't what remains left of that little girl.)

The universe explodes another big bang, and your new world is created as you settle on his lap. So sudden you don't even remember crawling towards him. But as your lips crash into his, devouring his moist flesh with your own in an effort to mold it into one, it no longer matters how. Your teeth clamp down on his lower lip, drawing out a grunt as you bite down lightly and feel the taste of his iron against your tongue. Blood-eater woman.

Your hands cup his jaw, tracing the strong, defined bones beneath the blanket of skin. Then, you drag them down to his thundering neck, following the faint pillars, the curve of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of scar tissue from over-healed wounds.

Simon gasps into your mouth as your hips grind against his, stoking his lust even higher and swelling his cock. He grips your sides, guiding your movements as you seek balance with your grip on his broad shoulders. You moan, pressing your upper body against his face, and he inhales all your scent like he's been deprived of oxygen for ages.

Your desire drips so easily onto your tongue.

Practiced in the efficiency you learned from him, your fingers unbutton his shirt one by one, watching more and more of his skin exposed to you as you unwrap the white fabric off his body.

Simon trailed his tongue down the satin of your dress, tasting it against his gustatory system like a mindless dog. He closes his lips around your erect nipple. Blindly, his digits reached for the laces on your back, tugging it with one unsuccessful pull and two successful ones. The dress undone, your chest completely exposed to his hungry eyes. Simon wasted no time in latching his mouth onto your breasts.

“Ah-! Simon, Simon… slow down.”

You attempted to accommodate his face in your small hands, urging him to meet your gaze. When did you grow accustomed to searching—to decipher the meaning behind his every look, searching for a reflection of your own feelings in his eyes? Hoping to find evidence that he wanted you just as deeply as you yearned for him.

From the moment we first met, Simon had been a confounding puzzle, a conundrum without any clues or leads. An enigma, the deep forest at dusk. He revealed so little, yet, that very scarcity only piqued your curiosity further—inviting the solver girl within you to unravel each layer, to explore every wrinkle in the intricate tapestry that was him.

“I… I want to lead. If that’s all right.” You whispered, looking for disagreement in his gaze.

None, just a gentle squeeze on your hip. He nodded, then, “Alright, love.”

At that, your eyes sparkled, you gave him a smile in return. Biting your lip, you pondered your next move. “Lay down for me.”

Without hesitation, he did as you asked, settling back against the pillows. The roughness of his form was a stark contrast to the linen, muscles rippling beneath inked skin. Eyes as dark as oak never left yours, silently urging you to continue.

Nerves danced inside you, but you chuckled, “I was gonna take this dress off all sexy-like; maybe spin around slow. But you ruined that plan.”

“Should’ve been more patient then, eh?” He said, wetting his lips then.

You sighed, half-shrugging. “Well, I don’t know what sexy moves I can do now.”

“Don’t matter none. You’re always a sight for sore eyes.”

The boldness of his words causes you to throw your head back in laughter. “Are you saying all this just to get laid quicker?"

Simon lets out a raspy chuckle. “Nah,” he watches his own hand travel up your thigh, giving it a squeeze and rubbing slow circles with his thumb. Looking back up at you, you feel your heart skip a beat. “I’m sayin’ it cause it’s the truth. You are the most fuckin’ gorgeous creature I ever did lay eyes on.”

The plum of your lips is pulled into a shy smile. You replay his words in your mind like a wrinkled tape, your soul made to sparkle and float on clouds. He called me gorgeous, you thought.

Simon called you gorgeous—despite everything your mother led you to believe. Despite her words that left you feeling like an hideous being, a flawed and misshapen creature crafted by the hands of an unforgiving God. But he said I was gorgeous, Mother. Most fucking gorgeous.

"Well, you're rather handsome yourself." In truth, this is all amusing—this sudden exchange of compliments between the two of you, with you still sitting right on top of his groin, in your loose dress and Simon shirtless.

But, like an opportunist, you place your finger on the sloping hill of his chest. You feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing—the stuttering of air in his lungs as you make circular motions on his bare skin. “Too bad that you always hide it under a mask.”

The diaphragm beneath his thick skin contracted faintly as he chuckled. Taking your index finger, Simon then held it between his teeth. He sucked the tip slowly and watched you through hooded eyes.

“The mask’s for another reason, darlin’,” he rumbled once he released it.

There it is again. The invisible veil now made visible, taunting you with the reminder that there's always a part of him that remains unknown, no matter how deep you try to dig or how many layers you think you’ve shed. Lately, you'd pushed the limits further than necessary, testing unseen boundaries—just how far were you willing to go, or how far would he allow before growing weary of it?

“And why is that, your mask?”

He gave your thigh another squeeze, his fingers drumming a random rhythm as he considered his response. “That’s a story for another day.” He replied.

It sounded like a promise, felt like an oath. Apparently, your heart found solace in that—in the future and the exact day that story would arrive. You smiled down at him, nodding in agreement.

“Okay, then I suppose that’s a promise, Mr. Simon…”

“Riley,” he fills in the blank space behind. “Simon Riley.”

The heart in the confines of your rib cage throbs with thrill. You smile brightly, testing the full name on your tongue. “Simon Riley…”

After a pause, your hands returned to their task, drifting down his firm torso until they reached his jeans. You made quick work of the buttons, pulling them down and tossing them carelessly to the floor, leaving him in only his gray boxers. Trying to match, you let your gown pool on the floor, leaving you in your black lacy panties.

Here you are, both bare chested, one cloth away from being completely naked. Two imperfect mirror reflections, similar yet distinct in their differences.

You glance back at him, biting your lip to hold back a giggle. His grin greets you in return, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth as his eyes roam approvingly over your form. You stand still, waiting, observing his growing impatience until he finally lets out a raspy chuckle, beckoning you closer with a casual crook of his finger.

“Come ‘ere.”

At his call, you obey like a good obedient girl dedicating her whole life to him.

Crawling onto the bed, your breasts hanging freely with each step your knees take. You stop right above his face, gazing into his warm chocolate with your cheeks blooming red.

Leaning in, you flicked your tongue out to taste the seam of his lips, drawing a soft groan from deep in his chest. Your back stretched to its maximum, arching like a harp as you became greedier and greedier and claimed his mouth completely. Your fond tongue traced his teeth, stroking the velvety softness of his inner cheeks, the contours of his palate. The pricking sensation of his stubble against your chin intertwined with the sweet wetness of your mingled saliva.

Your breasts pressed against his broad chest, the fat melting like popsicles in the hot sun. Swinging one leg across, you sit on top of him with your thighs straddling his hips, feeling the thick mound beneath his boxers from his hardening cock against your soaked panties.

As you began to grind on top of him, Simon grunted into your mouth. He slid his big hands down to squeeze your ass, kneading the soft cheeks as he thrust up to meet your clothed cunt. You moaned at the sensation, breaking the kiss but not tearing your gaze away as you straightened your spine to rock your hips back and forth.

Look at that pair of dark eyes—so devoted in their witnessing of every sway of your tits, with the gaping mouth of a hungry man. He lies beneath you, broad shoulders and thick arms corded with muscle built from the hard days of the military. Blonde hair around his chest, trailing down to his stomach and hidden beneath the tempting waistband of his boxers.

And those scars, of course. Especially that goddamn mysterious scar near his ribs. Were they created by 'bad men' or did you deserve it for the bad deeds you had committed, Simon?

Taking one of his hands, you place it on one of your breasts. Simon closes his hand around it, his thumb and index finger curling into a twist at your nipple. You let out a moan, biting your lower lip in a poor effort to keep another one from escaping you.

"Simon,” you breathed, his length twitching against your cunt.

Rolling your hips, your clothed clit rubbed against his hardness. You closed your eyes, breathing out slowly through parted lips, feeling the friction. He placed his hands on your sides, guiding your movements into a steady rhythm.

“Fuck, look at ya, darlin’…”

Bathed in the dim lighting of this inn, you were a sight he wanted to capture. Sitting on top of him like a long-gone queen reclaiming her place—the very reason for his convulsing cock, the numbing of his brain, his ears tuning out the noise of his old brain. As you continued to roll your hips, he watched every detail and seared it all in the back of his head.

The way sweat slicks and rests on the dip of your collarbone. Kiss-swollen sweet lips, tempting for him to bite or wrap around his throbbing length. Heavy eyelids and dark traces of your mascara.

Fuck, look at those puffy eyes.

Simon had endured his fair share of cuts and gunshot wounds. But nothing prepared him for the invisible grip on his heart when he realized what your cries left behind—puffy and red-rimmed like bruised berries. Fuckin’ hell…

Wanting more, you slide your lace aside. You restart your pace, gasping in pleasure at the new direct contact, the wetness of your building peak coloring the fabric of his boxer darker. The throbbing inside you begins, growing stronger the more you grind. You almost lose your pace—Simon’s large hands grip your hips to guide your movements toward climax.

The tight coil within you twists tighter. You breathe in short, ragged gasps; eyes squeezed shut as white flashes explode behind your lids. The cresting wave rises to a peak, making your thighs tremble.

When it hits, you throw your head back with a cry, Simon supporting your arched back with a strong palm behind you. The heat in your lower belly flushes as your release drips down to his boxers.

You slumped limp against his chest. He wrapped his strong arms around you, waiting for you to catch your breath while he inhaled his own. Christ, your scent is intoxicating—that sweet soap you were devoted to, the perfume he often saw on your dresser, and something natural about you that made his cock throb, begging to be released from the boxers beneath you. It took every ounce of willpower for him not to flip you over and take his fill.

A gentle giggle bubbled up. Simon furrowed his brows, meeting your eyes as you lifted your chin with a lazy smile.

“That was… weird,” you said, confusion written all over your face.

“What’s weird?”

“Well, for starters…” you glanced down between you, tracing a finger along the damp patch staining his boxers and chuckling again when he hissed. “I ruined these.”

Simon chuckled, shifting his hips. “Don’t matter none though, does it? You’re gonna ‘ave them off me soon enough anyway.”

You laugh – the warm, carefree sound from deep within your chest. Cheeks flushed rosy, and you’re sure your eyes sparkled. “Okay, okay. That’s something I might do.”

Leaning down, you brushed your lips against his in almost a chaste kiss. Simon couldn't resist, prolonging it by deepening it gently. He hooked his fingers around the lace loops on your hips, giving a playful tug as your mouths moved slow and sweet.

Breaking away, he narrows his eyes at your black panties. “You can still do them sexy moves takin’ this off, y’know…”

At his words, your smile stretches from ear to ear. Muttering an “okay,” you slip off him and the bed, standing in front of him. He fixes his dark eyes on you, melting the sudden shyness and encouraging you to continue the show. Slowly, teasingly, you begin to peel down your lace, small laughs escaping your throat.

“Well?” you ask, cheeks now rosy as you pose for his eyes. “How’s this?”

“Fucking perfect, darlin’,”

You toss aside your last garment, showing off your fully naked form like some kind of high fashion model. “Your turn now,” you say, walking toward him.

Reaching for the waist of his boxers, you began easing them down as well, eager to harvest the fruits of your ministry for each other. But, as it slid off his ankle, your eyes landed on his skin, and your smile faded, realizing something you hadn't before.

Knotted, mottled skin stretched from his right hip and down the side of his shin. The scars were old, but the memory of the fire that had once caressed him was immortalized in their rugged, rough texture. You tried to avert your already teary eyes from it, but instead found more scars around his legs—some nearly identical to the ones scattered across his upper body, some others resembled surgical scars long healed.

A lump rises in your throat, but you try to smile and crawl back into his lap, trying to lose yourself in whatever follows. But the façade crumbles, and you find yourself frozen, staring at him while fighting back tears pricking the backs of your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” And yet, Simon opens the door for you to broach the subject. Must’ve been something about your expression.

You briefly considered playing dumb, but your chance evaporated when a treacherous tear slipped freely. Hastily wiping it away, you took a shaky breath, focusing your gaze on the ceiling to prevent another from falling. You stared into his eyes again, and Simon saw the composure you had so carefully maintained on the edge of crumbling again.

“Those scars…” Your voice wavered, and you had to pause to steady it. “Were they from your time in the military?”

Watching those pretty lips tremble, tears marring your beautiful face, he felt a sickening clench in his chest. Part of him hated seeing you so sad, while another swelled with something akin to misplaced pride – that this angel was weeping over scars so old they had long since stopped hurting him.

Scars from battles the old Simon had fought years ago. Scars he had seen as part of his creation, marks he bore without feeling.

“Some from service, yeah. Others… more personal-like.” He said it nonchalantly. In his perspective, as proof that it didn’t hurt anymore, didn't need to numb it with ice like he did in the past—so, sweet thing, stop crying over him.

As if that were possible. He could tell you that it happened years ago, but it doesn't matter; it wouldn't lessen the pain even if your human life spanned a hundred centuries. Your tongue seared, heart sliced—someone touched the one you love with the most brutal violence they could choose in this world.

The image must have been absurd—the two of you completely naked in front of each other, yet instead of continuing, you weep over him. But now that you’ve seen it—those scars etched so cruelly and eternally upon his flesh—how do you look away?

"Why... why would anyone want to hurt you?” Your voice trembled, tracing that scar near his ribs that had caught your attention since you first saw it. It stood out, raised and knotted in a way that spoke of a cruel blade—making you wince at the thought of the pain. “Is… is this from your time in the military too?”

“Yeah,”

“What happened?”

Without any real weight, he said, “Got meself ‘anged by the ribs once,” in a light intonation as if it were some kind of joke.

But it wasn’t. My God, you wished it was, but it wasn’t, judging by the scars.

Despite his effort, it couldn’t mask the horror he’d experienced. Your breath hitches in a sob, your hand trying to cover your mouth. Your airway constricts as you imagine how it must have felt for him then. Hanged by the ribs, feeling your skin tear from holding your weight, flesh on display like they do in a slaughterhouse.

And he still manages to shush you, drawing your head to his chest in a tight hug like you’re the one who’s been through it all.

“Twern’t nothin’ – doesn’t even ‘urt no more.”

Pressed against his skin, you seek the usual solace that his heartbeat brings. But your heart remains unsettled, a lingering question nagging at your mind and tongue, refusing to let you find peace until it's voiced.

Raising your head slightly, chin resting upon his chest, you meet his gaze with red-rimmed eyes. "And... and the burn scars?”

“House fire during a mission.”

You know that’s not the full truth, but you don’t dare to press it, choosing to spare your heart from more details of his agonies.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt.” You said.

Simon gave a small hum in response. Reaching up, he wiped away your tears with his thumb. “Then stop cryin', love. 'Urts more to see yer pretty face all red and puffy.”

The hands around your jaw bring you closer. This time, he's the first to initiate this new kiss, closing his lips around yours with almost hesitant caution. And you want to cry—you want to cry from how gentle his touch is, and yet someone has handled him in the cruelest way possible.

Here you are, bodies pressed together—chest to chest, skin to skin. You let out a gasp as he grips your ass cheeks, spreading them until the chilly air touches your soaked folds. Simon would rather have those pretty eyes rolled back in pleasure than cry; he would rather have those plump lips parted to moan erotic sounds than sob. He bucks his hips and brushes the fat tip of his cock against your entrance.

Breaking the kiss, Simon gives a slow thrust upwards, grunting as he feels your warm labia. You straighten your back to sit on his pelvis, doing your own set of hip rolls as his hands guide you.

“No more tears f’me, ye ‘ear?” He meets your eyes before lowering it to the tantalizing view of your glistening body, causing another twitch of his impatient cock. “I ain’t worth it.”

The tip of his cock brushes against your folds when he thrusts his hips once more. A small mewl escapes your moist lips, vertebrae drawn like a curve of a bow as his length slowly enters your hole.

“No—no, don’t say that. You’re—mmh!” You stumble over your words, voice shaking both from emotion and physical overwhelm. “You’re always worth it, Simon.”

Sweet thing, unaware of the effect her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheek have on a man as corrupt as him. Struggling to find words while he fills her up, trying to convince him that he's worth something.

“That so?”

Biting your lip, you nod. “Yes,”

“Yeah?”

Without waiting for a reply, he grips your hips and slams you against him in one swift thrust. Your eyes fluttered shut on a gasp as he sank home. He groans at the blissful feeling, the remnants of your last orgasm completely coating him. But he has never been a man of gratitude; the gaping hole near his ribs—right where the scar he has shown you and told you about—seems to consume every fulfillment he might have, leaving him perpetually feeling unsatisfied and not enough.

Right now, he felt utterly insufficient. His old soul was always left wanting for more. That stupid, almost pathetic desire for proof that he would never truly believe—

“Prove it then, love.”

And well, he is a selfish man after all.

Slowly, you begin to move, hips rocking sensually against him, stretching your cunt to take his cock. It’s sloppy at first, until you settle into a rhythm and set your pace. He takes in every beautiful detail of you – your kiss-swollen lips beneath the faint bite of your teeth, your skin shimmering with sweat, your bouncing tits as you ride him, and the way your walls tighten their embrace around his cock with each in and out.

“Tha’s it love, ride me.”

Your cunt fluttered at the encouragement. He traced your curves before stopping at your breasts, twisting and pulling your nipples, eliciting a whimper from your throat. Rolling your hips, you grind your clit against his pelvis. He gives a low grunt.

“A-ah, Simon-!”

Listen to that, his name rolling off your tongue like liquid sin, a constant he never gets tired of. The room temperature rises, an invisible fire burning in his groin as you bounce on his cock. Your fingers dig half-moons on his naked thighs.

The room seemed to burn, almost like reminiscent of the flames that once scorched his lower right side. But this time, the sensation that swept through him was one of pure euphoria. The suffering that had gripped him was erased, replaced by a fierce hunger to shed more than just your clothes. The overwhelming need to be swallowed whole, to reside between your viscera and become the first to be embraced there.

Like a fish out of a tank, your lips formed a perfect 'O'—an invitation he accepted as he slipped his rough fingers into your mouth and tucked them beneath the blanket of your tongue. The brush of warm flesh made his cock throb, drawing a muffled sound from you.

Simon put his free hand to continue steering your hips, maintaining their steady rhythm as they started to falter. The angry crown of his cock pulled out before slamming back in and disappearing between your plump labia. He let his ears feast on your cry, watching your eyes squeeze shut as he reached that sweet spot inside. Saliva dripped, running down the curve of your chin and down between your swaying breasts.

The ah-ah! sound becomes the only thing you can produce after he liquifies your brain into a tangled mess, trapping your tongue under the weight of his calloused fingers.

Your inner walls fluttered and clenched around his length, your climax peeking and cresting, forming high waves. Simon growled through clenched teeth. Your back arched, head falling back as you surrendered to your second peak.

His grip on your hips tightened as a warning. “Off, love—fuck, ye gotta get off, now.”

You did not heed him, continuing to bounce on his twitching cock. He groaned, trying to hold back the inevitable tide of his release.

“Love,” he tries again before calling your name, his own hips stuttering.

“No, please- I’m—I’m on the pill,” you gasped—

And the lie slipped through your lips without thinking.

Even as a part of you knew this was wrong—that you were trying to trap him and you were being reckless—you kept going. Simon stopped trying to get you off him, letting you slam your hips one last time before he emptied thick ropes of seed into your womb.

Sex and your indifference to potential consequences permeated the air, screaming for your attention. A voice curses you in the back of your mind, full of snarls that you have gone too far; that you have hated Mother too much to dismiss everything she says—even the true ones—as nonsense. That you will only live to regret this.

But you have to—it's a necessity, driven by the roots that tell you to cement this bond between you. Sure, it may be born out of a desperate fantasy of your own insecurities, but you need this.

“Nothing can make them stay, my dear. Not for love, not for sex, for all your years of devotion to them, not even for their own flesh and blood!” Your mother is screaming in your head.

(Nonsense. Nonsense, all of it.)

You watch his chest rise and fall; somewhere deep within the confines of his strong ribs is a heart that beats in almost the same rhythm as yours. The dim lighting of the room you only acknowledge when it reflects faintly on the slick of his scar-littered skin. Those brown eyes stare at you beneath a canopy of blond lashes, moist lips pulled into a slight smile under his strong nose—and you return it with a wider one.

Would a child make you stay, Simon?

“Fucking ‘ell, love…” he muttered, still trying to catch his breath.

Unable to resist, you grind against his still-sensitive cock, earning a hiss and a hand on your hip to still you, making you chuckle.

“Don’t do that.” He mutters low and rough.

You nod, another giggle. Leaning forward, you press a quick kiss to his lips. “Okay, okay,” you say. “I’ll be good.”

Settling your head on his chest, Simon then pulls the blanket up before draping it over your naked bodies. You sigh in relief as he wraps his arms tightly around your smaller frame. Pulling you close, he buries his nose in your hair, breathing in your scent.

You trace idle patterns on his skin, murmuring: “My big performance is in a month. I got a special pass for you, so you better not even think about missing it.”

“The swan play?”

“Yeah,” you answered, lifting your head to gaze up at him. "Promise you'll be there?"

Promises are risky business, especially for someone like him. He's well-versed in the knowledge that when someone makes a promise, it means they're up for something that always comes along to fuck it up.

Even so, the words came out before he could stop them. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, love.”

Hearing that, your smile threatened to widen, and you plopped your head back flat against his chest before he saw it. Wanting something to focus on, you settled your gaze on the old window at the end of the room. It was still raining outside, but it had softened. The pitter-patter of raindrops sounded more like a gentle, faint tap, reminding you of the squeaking of the bed when you were still making love earlier.

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulls you into a sense of peace. Then, there was a sudden urge to open up to him, created from a feeling of indebtedness to him. After all, he had been the one to step in earlier. There's still a lot Simon doesn't know about you, about Mother.

But just as you were about to part your lips, his arms tightened around you. The warmth of his touch made the courage to speak seep away, replaced by a crippling fear of ruining the moment. In the end, you clamped your mouth shut, squeezing your eyes closed as you forced yourself to let things be how they should be—unsaid.

The ghost of your mother's voice echoes in the back of your mind again. As you adjust your position, feeling the unfamiliar wetness on your thighs, you reassure yourself that this time is different; he is different. He’s going to stay. You feel his fingers gently carding through your hair, magically burning away any lingering doubts in the corners of your soul.

After everything, he has to.

The morning sun streams through the thin leaves as you and Simon get out of the car to stop for breakfast at the quaint little restaurant you came across. The chilly air still lingers, urging you to pull your cardigan tighter around you as you wait for the food to be served.

Taking in your surroundings, you notice the worn wooden floors, the mismatched chairs and tables. An old-fashioned cash register and shelves that hang various kinds of souvenirs typical of this small town and character key chains.

When the waiter—who also seemed to be the owner—placed two plates down, Simon ate without hesitation. You reached for your fork, but your eyes were drawn to the clock on the wall. Time was ticking fast—the sand in the hourglass slipping through your fingers with each second. You could almost feel the ground beneath you shifting, the earth seeming to swallow you alive.

Breakfast is over. Simon paid the bill and slipped out first for a smoke while you waited for the change. The owner disappeared into the back, leaving you standing there alone. The ceiling fan whirred overhead, the only sound filling the silence.

Casting your gaze around, you search for a distraction, something to stare at. Your eyes eventually land on the souvenir rack. And there, among the keychains and trinkets, a skeleton charm catches your eye, black and white reminding you of the one Simon hangs in his car.

The sound of the door opening jolts you back to reality. The owner returns with a handful of bills in his outstretched hand. Instead of taking it, you point to the skeleton charm, waiting for the old man to follow your fingertip before asking, “How much for that one?”

As the other door opens with the soft chimes of a bell overhead, you walk towards Simon with a barely suppressed smile. He smells of tobacco like he always does after a smoke. But, you hardly mind; all you care about is the delicate skeleton charm you hold in front of him.

“Look what I got you!” you exclaim, your smile bursting from your lips.

Simon’s eyebrows furrowed, dark eyes studying the little bone-white friend. You wait and wait for him to say something; your legs feel jittery as the small figure swings dangling between your thumb and forefinger.

“It’s..interestin’,” he says, finally taking it from you, studying it closer. “Where'd you get it?”

“The owner had it on the shelf over there,” you say, nodding towards the display. “I.. well, I saw it and thought of you. I hope you like it.”

You watched as crow's feet formed at the corners of his eyes, his mouth twitching into a smile beneath his mask. Then, Simon let out a sound—a chuckle, a genuine one which then turned into a short laugh that spread sensations in your chest.

“Thanks,” Simon said to the owner, who was standing behind the cashier with his own grin.

Then, he turns to you, his arms reaching out to wrap around your shoulders. “An’ thanks to you, too,” he says, almost a whisper, meant for just the two of you. “It’s… perfect.”

Without another word, he pulls you close, tucking your head under his chin as you make your way out of the restaurant. The birds chirping, celebrating a sunny day in the countryside. But this warmth… it’s not from the sun, not from the kinder wind. He opens his car door as he always does, and you slide inside, still with the gentle rumble of his chuckle ringing in your head.

You hoped this would never end.

You hoped—

The short trip to the English countryside was almost over; you had to go back to practice and rehearsals on Monday, and Simon had his agenda of disappearing to God knows where else. You didn’t question it; you didn’t ask anymore. You were comfortable enough with the many question marks that always seemed to surround him. He always came back in the end—that's what matters.

As you neared London, Simon pulled into a petrol station to refuel. He unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car. The door closed, and you were left alone with your gray thoughts.

You watched Simon standing outside the car, focused on refueling the tank. Fumbling for your phone, you saw the time – well past midnight. After this, he would definitely drive you home, then disappear for weeks, leaving you to wait. He always came back in the end – that’s what matters, you kept telling yourself.

(But a man who always comes back is a man who always leaves.)

Your eyes drifted to your purse at your feet, where the other phone—the newer one, the one you bought on impulse—lay hidden. Biting your lip, you snatched it up, unlocking it and quickly checking the “Find My” app, making sure the two devices were connected.

Taking a deep breath, you brace yourself, internal debate building but you know which side you’re leaning. This is wrong, probably will do more harm than good to Simon, to yourself—but, you have to, you need this. The same old justification ringing like the old ringtone you’ve memorized by heart. You reach down and carefully drop the spare phone onto the car floor, kicking it to hide it under the seat. Out of sight, out of mind – for now, at least.

Simon slid back behind the wheel after he was done, groaning as his neck popped tensely. He turned to you, brows furrowed.

“Alright?”

Giving a faux smile, you said: “Just a little tired.”

He didn’t question further, just nodded before turning the ignition and buckled his seatbelt. “Not far now,” he turned the wheel out of the gas station. “Just a bit further an’ we’ll be ‘ome.”

The car sped back down the long road. In the darkness outside, you barely made out the shadowy landscape rushing by outside the window, just your faint reflection staring back at you. Everything seemed almost lifeless, except for the soft strains of the radio playing a late-night playlist.

Home, he said. Simon said it as if “home” were so close and existent.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull

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[silentscrying]

🎸 out of my mind ! 💿 track five: the battle of the bands

guitarist!ino x drummer!reader

summary: it's the annual battle of the bands at the fix, your college campus's iconic live music bar, and this year you're taking the stage as the drummer for indie rock group cursed technique. you know the competition is strong, but no part of you is ready for lead singer and guitarist takuma ino. you lock eyes at the edge of the stage, and something starts—something that might make you feel alive even more than the beat of the drums.

warnings: language, alcohol, DOGGOS, yuji literally is just a ray of sunshine 24/7, mentions of drunk driving, so much fluff, ridiculous amount of kissing tbh, short time skip at the end, FINAL CHAPTER! || sfw. 8.8k words.

FOR THE FIRST time in a long stretch of busy days, you wake up not to the chirp of your alarm but to soft rays of Saturday morning sunlight seeping through the cracks in the blinds, painting your eyelids orange-gold. You crack an eye open and find Takuma stirring beside you. Right.

“Morning,” you whisper. For a moment, when Takuma opens his eyes, he looks surprised, and then he seems to remember why and how you got here and his expression melts into a soft smile.

“Morning, Skip.” He yawns. “Time’s it?”

You shrug. You’re pretty sure your phone is dead.

“Eh, it’s Saturday,” he mumbles. “S’fine.” You chuckle, daring to reach out and ruffle his hair. You don’t know what this is, the unspoken thing in the thin slice of air between you. You know what you want it to be, though.

For a while you both lie in comfortable silence, letting the sounds of the awakening house float up the stairs toward you. Murmuring, clattering around in the kitchen, the front door opening and closing, cars outside.

“Hey,” you say eventually, making eye contact. His eyes are a very deep shade of brown, dark but warm in a way that reminds you of old bookshelves or tree bark after the rain.

“Hey back.”

He’s relaxed, every part of him unhurried, and you take the image of it and stamp it into your mind over the memory of the night prior. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Takuma smiles. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Maybe it should be more awkward, the fact that you’re here in his bed in his clothes and you haven’t named whatever it is that stretches out in the silence. But it’s not. It’s just… easy.

“Skipper?”

“Hm?”

“I really, really like you,” Takuma whispers. The words wrap themselves around you, warm when you didn’t know you were cold.

“Yeah?” You bring a hand up to his face, trace the line of his jaw. His cheeks are a little colored in the mix of light slipping through the window and the cracked door. “I really, really like you too, Takuma.”

He cups your face in both hands, pulls your lips to his, and your whole body responds, pressing up against him in the too-small twin bed. Your hand goes to hold the back of his neck, deepening the kiss, and this is what people write love songs about, you fucking get it now, all the metaphors and cliché words you thought were exaggerations but no, they’re not, because you’re feeling all of them all at once and you don’t ever want to leave this moment in time.

“Like” doesn’t feel strong enough, not for this. You’ve only known him for a month. Is it really possible he’s already become so integral to the structure of your heart?

You’re kissing in the early morning light and it’s hungrier than you thought your next kiss would be, because even though all the rest of your days are rolling out before you, you don’t know how many there are. He twists so he’s above you on his knees, one of them between your legs, and it’s like a reversal of that night on the roof, like you can feel the night air even in the golden midmorning hours.

“Kuma,” you murmur between kisses, and he grins against your mouth, takes your next breath and makes it his.

At some point you’re interrupted by the startled growl of your stomach, and you break apart, unable to stifle the giggles rising up in your throat. “Well.”

“Well,” Takuma echoes, grinning. He stands and offers you a hand. “Breakfast?”

Downstairs, the house is alive with idle chatter and the clinking of silverware. Kirara is seated atop the counter, legs swinging as she eats a plate of eggs, and Hakari stands beside her leaning against the cabinets. Megumi scrolls absently through his phone at the table, the dogs looking up at him expectantly from either side, and Yuji is digging through a bunch of take-out boxes. When he sees you, his whole face lights up.

“Morning!” he practically sings. “Here, eat food.”

“Where’d this come from?” Takuma asks.

“My friend dropped off breakfast,” Yuji chirps, pushing a Tupperware container of pancakes toward you. If it weren’t for the brace wrapped around his wrist, you’d have no idea anything happened. He’s his usual golden retriever self.

You smile, forking one of the pancakes onto a plate. “That’s sweet.”

Your phone buzzes, and it’s Tsumiki sending you the link to the news brief. You frown at the headline, not out of any disrespect for the writer who stepped up to cover it, but more at the fact that it’s unfortunately true.

JU senior issued DUI after crash on 34th and Olson Blvd Friday night

“What’s up?” Takuma asks, immediately noting your expression. You slide the phone across the counter, watching its screen catch the light from the kitchen window. Kirara leans over it as well and starts reading off Junpei’s story halfway through.

“Zenin, who according to a campus police report was driving under the influence of alcohol, was on the phone with an ex-girlfriend when he swerved into the opposite lane.” Her dark brows knit together in some combination of anger and disbelief. “Jesus.”

“That’s fucked,” you murmur.

Someone’s phone rings, and Megumi glances at his screen and blinks, seems to hesitate. Then he gets up and disappears down the hall. You glance at Takuma, but he just shrugs. It’s probably Gojo.

The rest of you eat and eventually make your way to the living room, scattering yourselves across the couch and carpet and chairs.

“That single last night,” Takuma says, letting Kuro jump up beside him on the couch. “Concept. Make it the title track of an EP.”

You blink for a second, startled. “Wait, for real?”

“Yes!” Takuma says, sitting up straighter. “Think about it. Cover art is one of those name tag stickers, you all sign it, wrinkle it up and crease it and take a grainy film photo. And you put the song on it with Next Fix and a couple of your older singles you and blow up.”

“Or you print one off that says hello, our name is,” Kirara pipes up, seeming excited by the idea. “Ooh, you can have an intro track like that.”

“All caps. Just to match the energy,” you say, picturing the EP cover in your mind. “HELLO MY NAME IS. No punctuation either.”

“I like it,” Kirara nods. Takuma’s got that excited shine to his eyes, and you realize he’s very in his element in this conceptual space—he really will be a good producer. He has the mind for it.

Megumi slips back into the room looking a little haphazard, disgruntled, looking anywhere but into anyone else’s eyes, and Yuji cocks his head in question. Not Gojo, then. “Who was that?”

“No one,” Megumi lies, waving him off and turning back toward the kitchen to avoid everyone’s questioning gaze. Hm.You know better than to ask, and it seems that’s the consensus, because nobody pushes it—Megumi will open up in his own time. You hope he figures it out soon.

For your part, it’s a lazy Saturday, hanging out with Takuma, Yuji, Megumi, Kirara, and Hakari, gaming and talking and generally just existing in each other’s presence. After the chaos of last night, it seems to be exactly what all of you needed.

It’s not until late afternoon that Kirara broaches the topic of the band.

She gestures at Yuji, a flapping motion that misses the mark a little because Kirara is sprawled upside-down in the beanbag in the corner. “Itadori, can you, like… drum with that?”

He shrugs, looking down at his injured wrist. “Yeah, probably!” You frown. So much of drumming is in the wrist, and you kind of figured Kirara’s question was rhetorical. You realize abruptly that Shibuya Incident is still going up against Black Flash in the finals on Friday, and if they don’t have Yuji, they’re fucked.

“Psh, don’t look like that, it’s fine,” Yuji insists, grabbing two Wii remotes and wielding them like drumsticks. He goes to bang them around, mimicking a rock beat, and you watch as his face twists into a grimace and he drops one of them. “Okay, so, update: never mind!” He grins sheepishly.

Kirara is the first one to look at you, and by the time you’ve processed what exactly it is she’s trying to say, everyone else has their eyes locked on you—including Yuji.

Oh, shit.

“Whaddaya say, girl drummer?” Kirara asks, pointing a finger gun at you.

“Oh, guys, I don’t… I don’t know, it’s your band. Yuji—”

But Yuji is the one who seems the most excited about it. He’s abandoned both Wii remotes on the floor and is now looking up at you with bright eyes and his eternal grin. “No, Skipper, please? It would be so fun! I can still do aux and stuff. But we could play together! It would be so awesome!”

“Is that even allowed?” you ask, glancing at Takuma, who’s trying and failing to hide a boyishly excited smile. “I mean, I already got eliminated.”

“Hang on,” Hakari says, pulling out his phone. It takes you a minute to realize who he’s asking. “Yeah, no, Panda says it’s whatever. Better that than not have a battle at all.”

Takuma nudges you with a knee, looking at you with steady eyes. It’s your choice, he seems to say.

“I think,” you say slowly, “I should talk to my band first. But… I’m not opposed.”

Yuji whoops so loudly you flinch a little and Takuma grins, putting his arm around you and squeezing your shoulder.

“I probably should head out,” you say, a little reluctantly. “Kinda left the roommates high and dry last night.”

Kirara salutes you, her face red from the blood rush of still being upside down, and Yuji chirps out a happy see ya!

“I’ll walk you out,” Takuma says, standing when you do. You say bye to the band and the dogs and he follows you to the front door, going as far as to step just outside with you. The door stays open just a crack as you linger, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back. He pulls you in and kisses you right there on the front step, and you smile against his lips.

“Are we, like…?” Takuma murmurs when he pulls away, cheeks flushed from the question or the cold, you can’t tell.

“Are we what?” you tease, shoving lightly at his chest.

“You know.”

“Well, if you don’t say it I’m gonna beat you to asking—”

This seems to zap whatever hesitation Takuma had right out of him, and he cuts in, “Willyoubemygirlfriend?”

“Sorry, what was that?” You know you’ve got a shit-eating grin on your face, but you can’t stop it. “Couldn’t really hear you—”

“Oh my god. Will,” he says slowly, drawing out the word, “You. Be. My. Girlfriend?”

You can see your laugh fanning out before you in a puff of warm air, and you tip your head forward into his chest, grinning. “Yes, Takuma, I would love to be your girlfriend.” You pull back and look up at him, lacing your fingers together. “I was kind of trying to get you alone all week so we could figure out what the fuck was going on. But it worked out, huh?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “It worked out.” He reaches up and ruffles your hair, laughing when you go to swat his hand away. “I was trying to get you alone, too,” he admits. “I like spending time with you, Skip. I’m pretty sure you’re the coolest person I’ve met, like, ever.”

“Ever,” you echo. “Those are some pretty lofty expectations to live up to.”

He shrugs. “You meet them all.”

Despite yourself, heat creeps up to your cheeks again.

“That was less scary than I thought it was gonna be,” Takuma confesses. Your phone rings in your pocket, and you glance at it and see Maki’s name sliding across the screen.

“Think that’s my cue.” You plant one last kiss on Takuma’s lips and turn around, throwing a “bye, boyfriend” over your shoulder. You glance back and catch him mid fist-pump, and he sheepishly shoves his hands into his pockets when he realizes you saw.

You’re still wearing his clothes, you realize as you answer your phone. Guess it doesn’t really matter, since they’re your boyfriend’s.

“Hey,” Maki says in your ear. “You comin’ home anytime soon? No rush, but we’re making lunch so we figured we’d ask.” In the background, you can hear Toge singing what you think is a dramatic rendition of Kristoff’s song from Frozen II, but you aren’t entirely certain because none of the words are right.

“Yeah, I’m literally walking through the door in thirty seconds,” you say, and Nobara’s face appears in the kitchen window. She waves excitedly and you raise a hand in return.

“Oh, sick.” The line goes dead as you open the front door. “Hey!” Maki shouts when she hears it click, and you slam it closed against the rush of cool air trying to sneak inside with you.

“Hi!” you call back.

Yuta pokes his head around the corner and grins at you. “Welcome home, our favorite breaking news reporter.”

“I didn’t actually report on anything,” you admit, kicking your shoes off and padding into the kitchen. Toge is somehow balancing cross-legged on one of the high stools, and Maki is making tacos. “Conflict of interest once I realized who it was.”

“Yeah, I saw the article,” Nobara chimes in, glancing up from her phone. “Yikes. Frickin’ Naoya Zenin. What an asshat.”

You snort. What an understatement.

“Hope he rots in jail,” Maki says in a sing-song voice, not even looking up.

“I love family,” Toge says.

You fill your friends in on the crash and the aftermath and Yuji’s wrist, leaving out some of the details about Takuma, because that feels a little invasive. And then Yuta asks the big question: “What about the band?”

“About that,” you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not exactly sure why this makes you so nervous. Maybe it’s just that these are your people, your band, and you all worked so hard and then went down together. It doesn’t seem fair that you get to go back on stage and try again and the rest of them don’t. “So. They asked me to fill in—“

“Yes!” Nobara shouts, pumping a fist in the air. “Oh, that’s so awesome!”

“Well, I didn’t say yes yet—”

“What? Why?” Toge asks incredulously. You laugh, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders. Of course they’re okay with it. These are your best friends. They’ll always have your back.

“I wanted to check with you guys,” you say, feeling silly about it now. “Just—I don’t know, to make sure. Since it’s not our band, and I didn’t want you guys to feel like I was, I don’t know, like…”

“Musically cheating?” Maki chuckles. “Skipper, this is great. You should say yes.”

Yuta solemnly puts a hand over his heart. “Avenge us.”

“Thanks, guys.” You grin as you hop up on the counter next to Nobara, pressing your shoulder to hers. “I love y’all.”

“Sap,” Maki says, which means love you too.

—

Using a drum set that isn’t yours is always a weird experience. You feel like everything is just ever so slightly off, and Yuji’s kit is an absolute patchwork of different brands of heads and shells and cymbals. You have to lower the stool because he’s taller than you. But it’s just for rehearsal, at least—you can use your own kit at The Fix.

It’s your first time in the shabby basement of Takuma’s house, and it looks distinctly different than your own. They’ve pinned old rugs to the walls as a type of sound deadener, not dissimilar to your own setup, but their lighting is a collection of Facebook marketplace floor lamps and a little disco ball that’s apparently Yuji’s. Your basement has string lights and a bunch of stools and beanbags, and this one has extra blankets all over the floor where Yuji and Kirara have made themselves at home.

Learning Shibuya Incident’s songs isn’t difficult—you’ve heard enough of their music to anticipate what’s coming, and Yuji’s there to give you pointers. Their three-song set for the final performance isn’t actually done, because they don’t feel like they have a good enough finisher, and after you’ve run the first two songs several times you mess around with potential chorus lines.

“What about that?” Kirara says after plucking out a new melody. “It’s hype enough, I think. Or it will be, once we add the rest of you.”

“I like that.” You tap out the rhythm on the snare rim, humming. “You have lyrics?” You look at Takuma, who’s staring at the ceiling like it might have all the answers if he just squints hard enough.

“Somethin’ about, like… losing your head a little bit because you caught feels,” he says. “Like, you’re down so bad you can’t function, to be dramatic about it. That triplet at the beginning of the chorus, Kirara—”

She plucks it out again, down-up-down. “On my own,” Takuma echoes, down-up-down. “Every little move I can’t pin down…”

The words tumble past your lips before you can stop them, because they’ve been circling your head for a week now. “Friends with all the dead in my ghost town.”

He spins around to look at you, a grin spreading across his face. “Yes! It’s like I’m going…”

“Going,” Kirara echoes, and they go back and forth—going, going, “out of my mind!”

“Whoo!” Yuji cheers, pumping a fist in the air. “Holy shit. That was crazy.” Takuma grabs the nearest beat-to-hell spiral notebook and starts scribbling.

Megumi starts laying out a bassline, subtly driving the beat forward a little, and you clamp the hat down on two and four to keep time. Kirara comes in with something that must be the verse, and Takuma reads off, “You left in the morning after eight, I got into work two hours late, I can’t see the sun without your face.” Bass, bass, bass. Megumi nods along and Yuji is practically dancing from his spot on the floor.

“One day and I run fresh out of light…”

Hm. You add, “Twelve hours without your hand in mine.”

“I’m dizzy and overworked and tired,” Kirara sings lowly. All three of you sing the chorus again, and you feel just like you’re at home in your own basement, writing a song in real time with Nobara and Maki and the boys.

“Oh, that slaps,” Takuma practically shouts. “Jesus. We’re gonna win.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Megumi warns, a wry quirk to his lips.

Kirara glances at her phone. “Food’s here. Break time, freaks.” She bounds up the stairs and Megumi follows to help her grab the bags—you DoorDashed Taco Bell, since Yuji never got his beloved crunch wrap on Friday.

You leave your sticks on the snare and move around the drum set, flopping down on the ground beside Takuma. “You’re good at that,” you tell him honestly, pulling the notebook away to read what he’s writing down. I met you across the darkened stage, you shook up my life, you got me made, you’re drivin’ me crazy night and day.

You can’t help thinking of the night you met him, locking eyes while he sang from the edge of the low stage at The Fix, lit up by purple-red stage lights and putting you in a trance. You scribble a few more lines after his and hand the pen back.

“You’re a poet,” he tells you, and you laugh.

“I’m a journalist.”

“Woman of many talents,” he says, echoing Maki’s words from that first night you met.

“Itadori!” Kirara shouts down the stairs.

“Coming!” Yuji leaps up and disappears up the rickety basement staircase, leaving you and Takuma alone.

“Hey,” he says, tapping the pen on the page. You glance up at him, nodding for him to keep going. “Can I take you out? Like, on an actual date?”

Something light and quick kicks around in your chest, a hummingbird loose in your ribcage. “I would not be opposed,” you say, as if the idea doesn’t make you want to kick your feet like a little kid. “When are you thinking?”

“Mm, you’re in night class prison tomorrow,” he says, tapping the pen against his lip now. “Tuesday?”

It shouldn’t make you so irrationally happy that he remembers your schedule, but logic seems to go out the window where Takuma Ino is concerned. “Tuesday’s good. Where do you wanna go?”

He shakes his head adamantly, tapping you on the nose with his pen. “Leave it to me.”

—

The only things Takuma’s told you about your date tonight are dress warm and bring your board. He meets you outside your place at four, his bag definitely bulkier than usual, his own skateboard under one foot.

You’re wearing a denim jacket over a hoodie and your favorite cargo pants with your boots, and you tucked a beanie and gloves into your bag just in case, but it’s surprisingly balmy out for late October. The wind is the worst of it.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Takuma says when you coast down the driveway and come to a stop beside him. The greeting makes you blush as much as his smile does, and he chuckles as he pushes off. “This way.”

“Where are we going?”

“Crazy,” he says. You roll your eyes. Sounds like the kind of dad joke Yuta would make.

“Well, then.” The two of you make your way down the street and around the bend, and you realize he’s taking you to the skate park. But at the entrance he keeps going, around the pit and a few of the ramps and to the largest one, back in the corner—not the one Sukuna deals under, but the one opposite. And you stop in your tracks, your longboard making a protesting schkk under your feet, when you see it.

Battery-powered string lights loop around the posts and down the underside of the ramp, and blankets and pillows are spread out across the ground. The area is sheltered from the worst of the wind, and you know your jaw is hanging open a little as you watch Takuma unload his bag—JBL speaker, two thermoses, and a bunch of food.

“Takuma,” you say, not knowing what other words suffice. “I—oh my god.” You did not peg him as being this romantic.

Then you think about his song lyrics and think maybe you should have.

He grins at you from where he’s sat down on the blankets, holding out one of the thermoses. You leave your board by one of the poles and sit down beside him, taking it and letting the warmth seep into your hands. “What is it?”

“Hot chocolate.”

“Mm.” You scoot closer to him, staring up at the layers and layers of graffiti and marker art covering the underside of the ramp. “This is maybe the sweetest thing ever.”

“I’m glad,” he says. “I had no idea what I was doing.”

“I wouldn’t know.” You take a sip of the hot chocolate—still warm. “It’s romantic. Big fan.”

“Really?” He points to where somebody drew a dick on the far side of the ramp.

“Okay, well, you didn’t have to point it out,” you smirk. “You ever done graffiti?” Looking at his mischievous smile and the beanie tugged over his head, the skateboard abandoned a few feet away, he does look like the type.

“Tagging?” He shrugs. “No. I would, though. Maybe we should.”

You hum, staring up at the arcing bubble letters and jagged black lines all over the ramp. You think you’d be horrible at graffiti, but you’ve always appreciated it, the way it sends a message and doesn’t ask for anything in return.

“This is like… alternative aesthetic stargazing,” you muse, lifting a finger and tracing the sharp lines of one of the illegible words in the air. You could stare at all this art for hours and never find all the intricacies of it.

Takuma digs around in his bag and produces a Sharpie with an “aha!”

“You’re gonna graffiti with a Sharpie?”

He throws it at you and you catch it in one hand, instinctively twirling it like a drumstick. “We’re gonna graffiti with a Sharpie,” he corrects.

And so you do.

The nearest part of the wall is covered in bright pink paint outlined in black, and it takes you a moment of squinting and tilting your head to realize it says LEAVEYOURMARK. Seems as clear of an instruction as any. So you do—scooting forward, you start to draw flowers into the thick bands of pink lettering, and soon they’re shifting to music notes, percussion notation, aimless squiggles. Takuma queues up a laid-back playlist with a few artists you recognize and many more you don’t, and you pass the pen back and forth, adding tiny notes to messages around the ramp, doodling in the empty space.

You’ve been on dates before, but this feels wholly different. With Takuma, you’re not stressing over conversation starters, worrying about commitment, wondering if you picked the right outfit, trying to gauge your shared interests with carefully planned questions. It’s just easy, existing with him like this.

After a while, you’re on your back in the mess of pillows and blankets, staring directly up at the massive painting of a skateboard with a face. Takuma is drawing something on the wall behind you.

Squinting, the green streaks under the skateboard look like that loss meme Toge sends you at least twice a week. You take a photo with the intention of showing it to him later, though maybe you shouldn’t—he gets way too proud of himself for versing you in what he calls Reddit culture.

You crane your neck to see what Takuma’s drawing and find the thick, dark strokes of a city skyline, towers and domes and boxy apartment buildings.

“Artsy,” you tell him, smiling when he appears in your line of vision upside-down. “You sure about this computer science thing? You’re too creative.”

“That’s what my mom said,” he chuckles, capping the Sharpie and sitting down beside you. As you sit up, he leans back on his hands and glances over at you. “I told her about you. She’d love you. I mean, I’m pretty sure she already does.” He hesitates. “Is that weird? Too soon?”

“No,” you grin. “I—that’s really sweet, actually. I would love to meet your mom.” Your gaze softens at the relieved smile that crosses his face. “Gotta thank her for raising a guy like you, anyway.”

You realize you want Takuma to meet your family too—you want to show him all the corners of your too-small town, show him the place you grew up. It made you who you are—it led you here, to him, after all.

“So,” you say, tilting your head. “When you say you wanna be a producer. Where do you mean? Like, LA?”

He shrugs. “Probably. But I’m sure it’s more competitive there than anywhere else. I feel like the major hubs are there and New York, but I wouldn’t mind somewhere quieter, either.” He loops an arm around you, and your head finds its way to his shoulder. “What about you, world-class journalist?”

You grin, thinking of all the places you haven’t been, all the places you want to go. “Anywhere and everywhere. I just wanna see it all. I wanna travel.”

“You should!” He sounds genuinely excited about the concept, and you lift your head, taking in the expression on his face—he looks the way he did when he was talking about making an EP, like the world is full of possibilities and he wants to see them all play out. “You’d be so good at it. Being a travel writer or international correspondent or whatever.” He clears his throat. “I read some of your stuff, y’know.”

“What?” Suddenly you’re racking your brain for every piece you’ve published in the JU Journal, overly critical of your own work in hindsight. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s good. Really good, Skip, seriously.” He reaches out and tugs a wayward strand of hair behind your ear, and you find yourself leaning into the contact.

You aren’t sure what to say, so you settle on a soft, “Thank you.” Somehow, the idea of Takuma going out of his way to read your work feels personal on the same level that writing a song together does. Taking in your words, your ideas, internalizing them. What is intimacy if not that intellectual exchange?

“I think you’re going to be a really good producer.” It’s his turn to blush. “I mean it. Not everyone has the perspective for it, or the ear. But you do.”

“Ah, well, I—”

“Am not good at taking compliments?” you cut him off, raising a brow. “Mm, we’ll fix that.” He laughs, and you’re leaning in to kiss him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is the most natural thing in the world.

It’s late October, and you are not the least bit cold.

—

Your hands need to stop sweating before you lose a drumstick or something.

Shibuya Incident has about twenty minutes before you’re all due on stage for the finals, and The Fix is alive with students and lights and drinks and music and chatter. You’re out on the floor tonight, off to the side for easy access to the stage once Black Flash clears out.

“We’re kicking off with the reigning champions of the Battle of the Bands,” Panda booms, throwing an arm out as the band takes the stage. “You know ‘em, you love ‘em, they’re every genre and no genre, covers and originals, brass and wind. Give it up for Black Flash!”

You whoop just as loud as anyone else here, grinning at Nobara’s animated cheering from closer to the center of the floor. Miwa walks right up to the mic and takes it off the stand, the neck of her white electric in her other hand. “Hey, folks!” She brushes her bright blue hair out of her face and shouts, “Y’all ready to hear some good music?”

She has the sort of infectious enthusiasm that could work on pretty much anyone, and before you know it you and Kirara are spinning each other around to the beat of a synth-heavy pop song that sounds like it came straight out of the 80s. The instrumentals are simple but tight, and Miwa jumps around, engaging the crowd, belting like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

“They’re good,” you catch Megumi saying lowly, probably to Yuji, but Takuma’s the one who answers.

“If I tell you the power of friendship will lead us to victory—”

“No.”

“Well, okay, you’re no fun.”

Kirara turns around and plants a hand on her hip, looking at Megumi. “Fushiguro, we’re fine. We’re going out with a badass new single and not one but two percussionists. We’ve never sounded this good.”

“Just being the token pessimist,” he sighs, cracking a reluctant half-smile. “I know we’re good.”

Yuji elbows him playfully. “Mr. Realist.”

Black Flash segues into a second track, an ABBA cover that has you dancing without thinking, and Takuma catches your eye and grins, moving along with you. And all too soon it’s over, a third song come and gone, and Panda’s back up on stage and the five of you are hopping up over the side to make your way to your places. Hakari and another tech have already swapped out the kits, and you settle yourself in the comfort of your own throne, your own pedals, flipping on the snare and pounding the kick a few times.

Yuji’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning at you. “You got this,” he mouths, shaking his tambourine at you.

You truly have no idea where he got a tambourine.

“What happened in Shibuya? Who the hell knows?” Panda shouts, riling up the crowd. “Give it up for Shibuya Incident!”

That’s your cue. You look at Kirara, who nods with a conspiratorial smile, and then Megumi, who plucks out a few notes in answer. Yuji’s already giving you a grin and a thumbs-up. And Takuma… he’s already stepped into his on-stage confidence, all relaxed, easygoing performer, and the look he gives you has energy coursing through your fingertips like an electric shock.

You hold your sticks above your head, clicking them loud on the lower end of the shaft, and shout, “One, two, three, four!”

You are alive.

The first track is another pulled from their EP, and you’ve listened to it probably an embarrassing number of times—you know Yuji’s part down to the sixteenth note, the roll, the rest, but you don’t hesitate to put your own spin on it, and he’s alight with the same energy beside you, messing around with a tambourine and a few other aux instruments near a mic of his own, since he’s also doing backup vocals tonight.

Your hands are moving fast, your feet pumping the pedals of their own accord, an instinct, and it’s over before you know it, a sheen of sweat already forming under the stage lights. You grin, catching your breath, wiping your hands on your jeans as Takuma introduces the band.

From your place near the back of the stage, you get more of the low feedback than anything else, but you definitely hear when he says Shibuya Incident and the crowd responds raucously in kind.

“That’s Kirara Hoshi on guitar and vocals,” he says, pointing to her as she does her little riff.

“Yeah, Kira!” You have no idea where Hakari’s voice is coming from, but it’s unmistakable.

“We got Fushiguro back there on the bass,” Takuma continues, and Megumi gives the crowd an unbothered nod, showing off his own instrument for a moment. “Itadori’s back here on aux and vocals.” He pauses to let the crowd shout for Yuji and then adds, “And filling in for him on kit, we’ve got the legendary drummer from Cursed Technique. Everyone give it up for Skipper!”

You do a quick roll, laughing as your own band goes crazy—you can’t see them in the glare of the lights, but you (and everyone else) can definitely hear them.

“I’m Ino, we’re Shibuya Incident, and this next one’s gonna slow things down a little.”

This one starts with Megumi, a laid-back track with a similar vibe to the first song you ever heard Shibuya Incident perform, but a little smoother. It’s over before you know it, and then you and Kirara are launching into the new single. Even Yuji looks like he’s having the time of life on backup vocals.

“On my own,” he and Kirara harmonize, Takuma taking the lead, and you nail the next two lines with punchy cymbal-tom hits, “all the shadows look like a death threat, everybody’s waitin’ to get hit, it’s like I’m going (going) going (going) out of my mind!”

All your worries melt away as the beat drives your movements. You’re not thinking about dropping a drumstick, missing a measure, losing the competition. You’re doing what you love with people you love, and that’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.

“Think I’m seein’ double in one eye, startin’ to think this air is spiked, no one told me that’s what love is like.” Takuma lets the guitar hang and grips the mic in one hand and the stand in the other, leaning with it as he engages the crowd, and you definitely hear Nobara screaming. “You got me going (going) going (going) out of my mind, yeah, yeah.”

It’s over so fast you can barely breathe, and you’re laughing before you know what’s happening, Yuji throwing his arm around you and shouting, “You killed it!”

Takuma turns around and locks eyes with you, and you see that same adrenaline high in his gaze that you know is in yours, and when the band stumbles off stage in Panda’s wake, he grabs your hand and pulls you into a hug. “That was crazy!” he practically shouts, which is probably good, because your ears are ringing so much you probably wouldn’t have heard him otherwise.

“Guys,” Megumi says, deadpan as always, but you can see the effects of the performance even on him, his usually stoic expression unable to mask his own excitement. “I think… we might have a shot.”

“Holy shit,” Kirara says. “Skip, write the story. Resident pessimist breaks vow of negativity—”

“Oh, shut up.” Megumi elbows her as she dissolves into laughter. In the wings, you can hear the indistinct sounds of Panda’s instructions as he starts voting, and music kicks up over the speakers. Ten minutes. Ten minutes.

It’s the longest and shortest wait of your life, and then you’re back on stage with Black Flash and Panda, and it’s fucking time.

You wonder if everyone else can hear your blood roaring, too.

“Once again, an insanely tight vote,” Panda says, a hush falling over the crowd as they wait for the verdict. “Phenomenal performances from both of our final bands, but someone’s gotta win. Give it up for the champions of this year’s Battle of the Bands…”

You imagine Maki hissing under her breath for Panda to hurry it up, Nobara’s hands clasped together as she anxiously bounces on the balls of her feet, Yuta biting his lip and trying to get Toge to shut up.

Takuma’s hand is on your shoulder, Yuji on your other side, Megumi and Kirara behind you. You glance at Miwa, and she gives you a knowing look that you can’t interpret.

You almost don’t hear it.

“SHIBUYA INCIDENT!”

You don’t know which screams belong to who—maybe one of them’s yours—but you’re swept into a massive pile of musicians drunk off victory, and you’re laughing, and Miwa’s jumping up and down and saying how that was insane, guys, you were amazing, and even Mai nods at you in congratulations, and Yuji is abruptly on Todo’s shoulders, and as the stage lights turn down a bit you finally catch sight of your own band, losing their minds on the floor.

“That’s our girl!” Maki hollers, and Yuta whoops as Toge pumps a fist in the air. You realize you can’t see Nobara, and two seconds later your questions are answered when she somehow materializes on the stage, launching herself at you with a massive grin on her face.

“You did it!” she shouts. “Holy shit, Skipper!”

Everything around you is chaos and laughter and noise, but something in the center of your being is incredibly still, and you think maybe it’s contentment. In this moment, you would ask for nothing else. It is perfect.

Nobara detaches herself from you after more profuse congratulations, turning to Miwa, and the bands make their way gradually off stage. Takuma’s hand is in yours—you don’t know when that happened—and he pulls you past the band, past the wings, all the way into the drum storage room backstage.

“That was fucking amazing,” he says. “You’re fucking amazing.” His beanie is off, tucked into his pocket, his hair as wild as his eyes as wild as your heart.

You close the door.

It’s a pulse. That’s the only way you can describe it, the rush of living energy that comes with kissing Takuma Ino behind the stage of a shitty campus bar, the heat shooting through your veins in time with the throb of the bass from distant speakers. Breath on your teeth and hands in your hair, the warmth in your gut from skin-on-skin proximity, ears ringing with the sound of your name on his lips and love-blind eyes, you’re alive and addicted to a feeling you know you’ll chase forever.

—

TWO MONTHS LATER. DECEMBER 19.

The house is alive with laughter and chatter and Michael Bublé’s Christmas album spinning from the record player. The semester is over, and tomorrow you’ll scatter for winter break, home for the holidays. Nobara insisted on throwing a party before all the inevitable road trips and flights, and the main floor is strung with multicolored lights and tinsel—Yuta’s plant, Rika, even has a tiny Santa hat on.

In addition to the actual residents of the house, Takuma and the band are here, as well as Hakari, Panda, Tsumiki, Miwa, and a handful of other friends. Megumi’s even brought the dogs, who have both taken a liking to the loveseat by the window and claimed it as their own. You’ve informed Megumi that they’re going to stay here with you forever (he said no, but you don’t take orders from him).

“Okay, I’m dropping you off at ten, right?” Yuta quadruple-checks. You’re huddled in the kitchen with him and Maki—Toge was here a minute ago, but he heard someone in the living room mention Just Dance and ran off to assert his dominance or whatever.

“Oh my god, yes,” Maki answers for you. “Yuta. You wrote it down. It’s in your calendar. You live in the same house as Skip, you’re not gonna forget.” She bumps her shoulder with his and he sighs in admission.

“I know.” He smiles at you. “Just gotta make sure she gets home for the holidays. Can’t have you turning into a sad Christmas cliché on us, Skip.”

You salute him with half a gingerbread cookie. “Appreciate it.” He’s taking you to the airport tomorrow for your flight home and refuses to take your gas money, so you’re already planning on beating him to paying for the first grocery run when you get back.

“Things with Mai are good?” you ask, glancing at Maki. She shrugs noncommittally but doesn’t correct you, which is a good sign. She and her sister met up the week after the Battle of the Bands for coffee, which you genuinely thought was a joke when she told you about it. They’re both going home for Christmas and have apparently decided to try and like each other a little more openly. And she actually showed up tonight, which you have to admit you weren’t entirely expecting.

“Yuta!” Toge hollers from the other room. “You have to come do Rasputin with me!”

Yuta groans, looking pleadingly at Maki like she can get him out of this, but she just grins. “You heard him.”

“You hate me.”

“Yeah,” Maki says fondly. Yuta, defeated, goes to join Toge in the dance of death. Maki whispers to you that she’s going to record it for blackmail and slips out after him.

Tsumiki appears beside you, drink in hand, and leans against the wall. She tilts her phone screen toward you and you see it’s the Journal website analytics.

The top story right now is yours. You grin. “Oh, wow. I didn’t realize.”

“I expected it,” she admits, tucking her phone back in her pocket and gazing out across the room. “Look, I’ve been meaning to tell you. We won’t start the application process until spring sem, but, if you want it,” she glances at you, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, “I really think you should apply for editor-in-chief, Skip.”

Your mouth opens and closes without anything of use coming out, and Tsumiki laughs. “You don’t have to, but—”

“No!” you blurt, grinning. “I—I want to. I would love to. I was planning on it. I just didn’t know you… wanted me to.” Kusakabe’s just the advisor—when it comes to actually hiring the next editor, Tsumiki has the final say. Her endorsement is as good as a job offer. “I… thank you, Tsumiki.” You look down, suddenly overwhelmed by the words. “Big shoes to fill.”

“Aw, none of that,” she says, stealing a cookie from the tray on the counter next to you. “I literally can’t think of anyone better.” With a wink, she disappears through the doorway, where Kirara and Nobara are talking animatedly. Nobara gestures to you when she catches your eye.

“Dude, our listens are shooting up!” she says, shoving her phone into your hands. Your EP dropped mid-November, six tracks recorded in the studio with Takuma and Hakari, and you’ve performed better than you ever expected. The analytics show a sharp uptick that’s probably in large part due to Panda playing your stuff on the radio station.

You whistle, leaning on Nobara’s shoulder. “Awesome.”

Kirara leans against the wall, considering. “You guys thought about what you’re gonna do next year?”

Truthfully, you’ve really tried not to. The idea of Maki and Yuta graduating is so bittersweet. But graduation means Shibuya Incident will have a hole in their band, too. Kirara will be gone.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Nobara muses. “We could join forces. If we lose Maki and Yuta and Kirara, the only thing we’re doubled up on is drums and lead.”

It’s not a bad idea. And if Yuji is track captain next year and you get that editor job, neither of you will have as much time for the band—switching off could actually be very helpful. You hum, considering. You’ll have to talk to the others.

“Oi,” Kirara says, reaching out to poke you with a socked foot. “Your boyfriend’s in lost puppy mode over there.” You glance into the living room to see Takuma scanning the room next to Megumi and the dogs, probably looking for you.

“Dumbass,” you say fondly, and nod goodbye to Nobara and Kirara before making your way over to him. The boys are halfway through Rasputin and Yuta is, much to Toge’s chagrin, kicking ass. Toge looks like he’s just run a half marathon.

Takuma lights up when he sees you, a mischievous smile appearing on his face as he intercepts you by the hall entrance.

“Oh, wow, what is that?” he asks cheekily, and tilts your chin up to see a piece of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. That was definitely Nobara’s doing. “Crazy that we just happened to—”

You cut him off, dragging him in by the shirt and kissing him, and makes a surprised sound that has you smiling against his lips.

“Crazy,” you repeat after you pull back, relishing the flush on his cheeks. Even after dating him for two months (as of today), every reaction you get out of Takuma makes your heart rate bump up a few beats. “Oh!” he says, suddenly remembering something. “Wait, c’mere, I have something for you.”

“Takuma!” You swat at him. “I told you not to—”

“Boo hoo,” he says, sticking his tongue out and dragging you toward your room, where he dumped his stuff earlier. You quietly close the door behind you as Takuma digs around his bag, standing up with his hands behind his back. “It’s Christmas and it’s been two months. You have no defense. Close your eyes.”

You do, giggling a little as he grabs your hand and presses something into it—something soft. “Okay,” he says, and you open your eyes to see a little stuffed penguin perched in the palm of your hand. It’s fucking adorable.

“Oh my god!” you cry. “Oh, he’s so cute! Takuma.” You cradle the penguin to your chest with both hands, grinning.

“It’s you!” he says, laughing. “Not official Madagascar merch, but I thought it was pretty cute. Your own lil’ Skipper.”

“I love it,” you say, making the penguin do a little dance in the air. You grab its tiny wing and poke Takuma on the nose with it. “Thank you.”

“Merry early Christmas.” His nose scrunches up a little in thought. “Early Merry Christmas? What’s the right way to say that?”

“Happy early nondenominational holiday of your choice,” you say teasingly, because the public university won’t actually say Christmas despite the decorations all around campus.

It’s a running joke among the entirety of the student body that the massive tree in the arts lobby is not a Christmas tree but a secular modern art installation. There are variations of insane alternate tree names on the school meme accounts. The knockoff JU Barstool page even got in on it, and the student groups hosting the Hanukkah and Kwanzaa celebrations.

Takuma’s answering laugh is bright and it follows you as you cross the room to your desk, pulling a box out of the second drawer. “Your turn.”

“What?” He has the audacity to look confused. “Skip—”

You hold up the penguin. “Objection denied!” The box is light and square, and you watch excitedly as he opens it.

“Oh my god,” he says when he realizes what’s inside. “No way. These are the exact ones—how did you even—?”

You had to do some investigating to figure out the precise guitar strings he uses, but what's your journalism degree for if not this?

“Who knows?” You shrug playfully. “Maybe it’s the psychic powers, maybe it’s the housemate I begged to sneak into your room and find out.”

Kirara was more than willing. “Good thing you came to me and not Itadori,” she laughed. “That kid can’t be subtle to save his life.” Takuma’s strings have been on the brink for a while, and you’re honestly shocked none of them have given out yet.

“They’re perfect,” Takuma laughs, setting the box back on your desk. “I love them. I love you.”

He says it so easily it takes you a moment to realize what just happened. He freezes, mouth opening and closing like he doesn’t know what words he’s looking for.

“I—uh,” he says eloquently. “It’s—I mean. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I didn’t mean to say it like that but I did mean it, you don’t have to say it back, if it’s too soon or you—”

Instead of cutting him off verbally, you grab him by the shoulders and press your lips to his. His eyes are wide when you pull back, despite the way he relaxed into the kiss on instinct.

“Hey,” you laugh, one hand trailing up to the back of his neck. “I love you, too.”

The excited smile that spreads across his face is slow and hesitant, like he can’t believe you reciprocate. You pull him back in and feel his grin against your lips, his hands coming to rest at your waist, warm.

“Thank god,” he murmurs between breaths. “Because I keep almost accidentally saying it, and it was gonna happen sooner or later.”

“Least it didn’t happen over the phone,” you grin, your hand skating down his arm and coming to rest in his.

Sheepishly, he admits, “Almost did. Yesterday.” Your laugh is bright and so is his answering one, and you perch your little stuffed penguin atop the guitar strings and tug Takuma toward the door.

“Okay, lover boy. Back to the outside world.”

“Lover boy, huh?” he teases. “Kay, pretty girl.”

“Couple of cheesy ass romantics we are.”

“Mm.” He presses a kiss to your temple, the action so casual and unthinking you want to melt. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The second you step back into the living room, Yuta grabs you by the elbow and presses a Wii remote into your hand.

“Oh, no. Yuta—”

The song’s been chosen for you, and Toge has passed the remote to Maki, who looks like she’d rather die than give a rousing performance of TiK ToK by Ke$ha.

“Well, at least it’s you,” she says. Toge tries to discreetly pull his phone out, but Maki gives him a death glare that could send a grown man to his grave. He nearly drops it in his hurry to shove it back into his pocket.

You snort, patting Maki sympathetically on the shoulder. “Let’s kick ass.”

Three hours later, everyone has somewhat settled down, sprawled across furniture and countertops and the carpeted floor. Yuta’s grabbed an acoustic from the basement and it’s being passed around, goofy Christmas songs overlapping with the still-spinning record player.

You enrolled here with the intention of building a new life, finding a new purpose—new faces, new music, a new place to call home. And you feel like you’ve found it. This is the point of college. You’re surrounded by the best people you’ve ever known, and your heart is practically overflowing with how much you fucking love them all.

After all, your heart is not a finite thing. You’ve just got an endless supply of affection, and you’re not scared of it.

Love is the right word, you think, letting your head fall onto Takuma’s shoulders, legs tucked up beneath you on the couch.

“I love you,” you whisper, just to say it. When he whispers your name, your real name, in the shell of your ear, something in your chest sparks a little. He makes it sound like a song.

“I love you, too.”

directory | prev.

jjk taglist open: just send me a message!

@shutuppeter @mikikkoo @reactwithjan @theclassbookworm @lilactaro @bisforbuse @risararelywrites @idkidk32 @gojodickbig @stargazing-with-choso @anonymity-222 @honeyyhuggs

a/n: that’s a wrap on out of my mind! ahh! i loved this one a lot, and it has so much spinoff potential i’m going a little crazy with it—keep an eye out for the megumi spinoff dropping soon. if you want to be alerted when it drops, lmk and i’ll put you on the jjk taglist. also, greta wrote a sukuna spinoff here—go read!

@bitchkay i need you to know your reblog tags give me life and you were fucking RIGHT ON THE MONEY with these developments

i’m not sure if i’ll start writing other fandoms or not—if y’all would want to see attack on titan or blue lock do let me know!

[ghosthouseart]

Mini sunsets

[image descriptions: four small watercolor paintings of vivid sunsets.

the first has pink and orange clouds over silhouetted trees and telephone wires, and a house with orange windows and a pink roof, reflecting the colors of the sky.

the second sunset has a rainbow of colors peeking out from behind darker clouds, reflected over the ocean.

the third sunset is purple and gold clouds over a paved road, crossed by telephone wires.

the fourth sunset is a sky full of bright yellows, oranges, purples, and blues, reflected over a tree-lined pond.

/end i.d.]

[rottiens]

⊹ ˚. MORAX (REX LAPIS) ┊ sfw, set in the archon war, gn reader. divider creds: cafekitsune.

The last drops of the drizzle drip off the roof using it as a slide, until they fall in the garden and wet the green grass and the silk flowers while you walk along the corridor bathed in an eerie silence, the yellowish opaque lights are not enough to chase away the gloom that the sunset brings and the creaking of your bare feet on the wood do not help to relax your spirit.

Your spear was stripped from you as soon as you set foot in the temple. The guards at the entrance demanded that you leave behind any weapon that could be used as a threat against Morax, patted your arms, thighs and back in sign of some undeclared weapon, finally opening the doors for you when they realized they would find nothing relevant.

Without your spear you feel naked, something that detonates your paranoia— you are suspicious of the shadows moving in the garden thanks to the branches being shaken by the wind, you are wary of the noise your ears hear coming from your own heavy footsteps.

You gather your arms and your fingers curl around your forearms slipping smoothly into the sleeves of the hanfu that was offered to you. Apparently your war soiled clothes were not dignified enough to stand before an archon. Instead, you received a beautiful blue hanfu with a qingxin flower embroidery on the bottom of the garment, the fabric is soft and falls perfectly on your body, as if it had been made for you.

In front of you is a perfectly round entrance protected with a bamboo door.

"You wanted to see me, Rex Lapis?" You add his name with a tone of uncertainty, unsure of what was the correct form with which you should address a deity.

On the other side of the door remains a long silence which is interrupted by a hoarse, "Come in."

You do not hesitate. With ease you slide the door aside to step into the room. Your gaze is immediately caught by the various details, eager to devour with your eyes how the room of a god looks from the inside. The first thing you notice is that you are in what appears to be the tea room. The room is sealed by a wooden wall, dark tones and brown splashed all over the place.

In front of you is a curtain that prevents you from seeing him, yet your eyes catch shadows behind it. The noise of glassware exposes that they are moving cups, then you realize that there was someone behind it and your instincts lead you to assume that perhaps it is Him. Morax was in his human form, his height rises above the curtain just barely surpassing it, he moves naturally in the shadows making you drown with his presence which leads you to seal your lips and lower your face until your eyes are looking at the silhouette of your feet hidden behind your attire.

"Come here." It is a direct command that you cannot refuse. His voice is husky yet soft as lilies, at first more than a command it feels like a request.

Your feet rise of their own accord and move to step through the curtain. You find him sitting on the floor with his legs crossed in an opposite way forming a triangle, he had brown loose pants, his hair was down resting loosely along his back while his chest was bare. His arms were a black color which you had mistaken for ink the first time you observed him, you were sure now that they were tiny scales (a trait perhaps due to his dragon form), laced with orange-toned markings that ran from his fingers to his shoulders.

You immediately lower your gaze as you felt unworthy to be gazing at him as if he were a painting image, he hadn't stopped to look at you, he was busy manipulating the porcelain cups.

"Sit down," he said shortly after, proceeding to fill a teacup.

With firm steps you make your way to the tiny table and drop to your knees with a stifled thud, your hands on your thighs and your back so straight it hurts.

You wander in thought about the few people who have had the chance to see him like this, in his human form and your heart flutters. Your fingers push your thighs down, droplets of sweat begin to accumulate in the palms of your hands and on the back of your neck.

Morax lays his gaze upon you for the first time and those glowing amber eyes consume you, not even in his dragon form had you ever had the chance to see him so closely so you find yourself contemplating him in detail, his eyelids dropping halfway down, retaining the authority he holds over you as he now mimics the aura of a feline.

"I received your request to return to the war… I wonder why. Didn't you just come back from it?" Morax inquired, subtly thrusting a cup in your direction.

You bow your face in thanks before taking the cup and bringing it to your mouth without adding words, you didn't know that the requests went directly to the archon. You were sure that the general in charge was the one who sealed them and sent the decree that you could go to war, so the idea that Morax had that in his hands and that he read your letter makes you swallow hard.

The tea is sweet, it runs down the rasp and burn of your throat. You distinguish the taste of honey and perhaps a few drops of lemon in it, it goes down smooth and helps you soften your next words.

"I wish to fight for my nation, there is nothing that would make me prouder than to die for you."

Something trembles in his face, and you're not sure what that expression means. His jaw tenses and the corner of his lips twitches softly, perhaps it was a smile you saw?

"For me?" Morax cooed the words near the cup, his breath creating waves in the infusion. You stir on your legs, your fingers ruffling the fabric of the hanfu. "How could that be possible when I heard your prayers in the field. You asked for a contract in exchange for me protecting your life." Then he drank, closing his eyes for a moment.

A contract… The archon was right, you had forgotten that because of the adrenaline of the moment.

Fear pumped through your system and prevented the processing of any logical thought. You were sure you were going to die in the field that day. An arrow pierced your left side grazing very close to your heart, every breath you took you could feel the splinters moving closer. The rhythm of your heartbeat was like that of a drum luring you to your death.

You were sure you were ready to die, you swore you always had, yet the moment your eyelids succumbed to the darkness your courage trembled and as your eyes closed for the last time, unable to open them again, you pleaded for your life.

"Do you remember now?" Morax's mug was on the table again, lost in the unpleasant memories that had returned you ignored the archon shifting position, now one of his knees was at chest level, his other leg still rested on the floor in a misshapen triangle while one elbow rested on top of the knee, and in turn the fist held his chin.

"I do," you swallowed. Unable to hold his gaze.

"Say it."

"I asked for a contract on my life. I asked for you to save me and in return I promised to give you the most precious thing I had…" your words hang in the air, half completed as you try to think, mentally piecing the puzzle together. "But I'm confused."

"Mm?" Morax inquired. Watching you struggle to put the pieces back in place, yet you get no more help from him. Leaving you to walk alone through that dark valley of memories.

"I have nothing that would be of value to you. I couldn't give you mora since you own every coin in existence, I have no animals to sacrifice, I have no family that survived the plague…"

"So you are unaware of your own worth." His amber eyes move over you, up and down and back and forth. There is no expression you can read on his face, the archon remains just as serene so you are not sure what he is thinking or what he is referring to. "I don't need anything material that you can give me. I already have your devotion so what could be more precious than that?"

"My body?" you added, incredulously, after a moment's thought.

Morax smiled, a grimace with an absence of teeth. "Your soul," he replied calmly. "You will always have my favor, you will always win no matter what battles you fight in. I'm going to make you the best warrior, people are going to tell stories about you." Your gaze lights up as the archon narrates the events he could make you live, or which he assures you will live. Then, he extends the hand with which he held his jaw in your direction, you watch the open palm in silence. "Just hold my hand."

It was the sign that your contract would be officially covenanted, before the celestial order, before the earth, and before the patron of contracts.

The thought makes you hesitate, shivers run through your chest making it hard to breathe. You weren't sure what that implied, what did he mean by giving him your soul?

You spread your fingers out, you can see them trembling on top of the table. Morax curls his hand around yours, his fingers are long and wrap around yours without difficulty. The texture of the scales is lumpy, barely perceptible as he tightens his grip.

The moment your gazes meet something inside you catches fire and burns. There's a bonfire at the top of your stomach and little electric snakes run up and down your arms, move inside your bloodstream.

"Don't be afraid," he assured you in that velvety voice." Your lips part to comment on something but before you can speak he pulls away from you. "I'll have your room ready for tonight."

"My room?" you repeat somewhat confused, returning your hand to your lap.

"I want to keep you close."

Something warm settles on your cheeks. Like the kiss of the first rays of the sun in the morning and the flutter of a tender butterfly makes your insides tingle.

"I want my spear back," you said suddenly.

You didn't feel like you without it, even though in a place like this you didn't need to be armed, it was necessary for you to have it close by for the emotional weight.

"You'll have it again," Morax affirmed, nodding his head.

You licked your lips as you turned your attention back to the mug in front of you, the golden liquid inside the porcelain was steady and serene, quite the opposite of your thoughts. Warm steam was escaping in the direction of the ceiling.

"Come join me for a sunset walk," Morax suggested, pricking the thought bubble that was beginning to fill in your head. "We can discuss the terms of our contract, I can answer your questions," he added. He seemed to have read your mind.

The proposal catches you off guard. Morax waits silently for your response, patient.

notes: just practicing writing again! this time I thought it would be fun to narrate and write a little bit about zhongli's (morax) personality since he is one of my fav genshin characters and i hope to write more about him in the future. thanks for reading! <3.

[weyounbathwater]

Scenery from Star Trek: The Animated Series, Yesteryear

[ID: Four background paintings depicting buildings and scenery.

The first image shows a green and gray barren landscape dotted with ruined architecture. The Guardian of Forever is in the foregound, with silhouettes of people standing in front of it.

The second image shows the desert on the planet Vulcan. Sand dunes dot the landscape, and plant life with branches that grow at perfect right angles sprout around them. The sky is orange, and in it is the outline of another planet, along with wispy clouds that resemble steam.

The third image shows Vulcan architecture within a city. The color is primarily yellow and orange with purple accents. The shapes are both geometric and decorative. One building has many polygonal facets and sits in the middle, and behind it are tall towers with domed roofs. In the foreground is a column of circular patterns.

The fourth image shows a lone Vulcan building at night. It is another geometric shape with both rectangular and hexagonal walls, and it is a deep green color. Surrounding it are various alien plants, and what appears to be a sculpture that resembles a stalagmite. /End]

[astrowarr]

“We should get out of here,” Grian whispers, but he is unmoving as his gaze stays pinned to Scar. Something about Scar’s eyes, so impossibly green, keeps him rooted in the crannies of the cobbled concrete under his feet. The glow of the street light over their heads paints a sharp, clear image of Scar and the toothy grin he flashes. The bustle of the city center ever permeates the air; a loud, boisterous laugh here, an angry, affronted shout there. 

But when Scar smiles at him like that, the noise cottons into nothing but a dull thrum in the back of his skull. Scar is smiling. Despite the fact that every bone in Grian’s body should be screaming in alarm, they do not. Instead, they pulse with something warm, something content. Grian is surrounded by enemies the way he always is, but Scar is four art-adorned walls and a worn shingled roof to match. Nothing can reach Grian here, in the safety of Scar's gaze.

There's little to no space between them, and Grian does nothing to change that. Out of the corner of his eye, he tracks the gentle, methodical movement of Scar's curled hand, so slow as he reaches up. The backs of those crooked fingers brush against his face, so light Grian nearly loses it to the night's warmth.

And then, like a moonflower, his hand unfurls; he doesn't quite cradle Grian's face in it, wracked with some sudden hesitance. Scar's palm stays just a hair's breadth away: the ghost of a touch. It drives Grian crazy, how the two of them keep pushing and pulling at all the wrong moments. 

Still, Scar doesn't stop looking at him, drinking in the sight of him like he's some sort of mirage. Like the night will sweep him away if Scar dares to even blink. Grian doesn't complain— thinks, actually, that maybe the comparison is more apt than he wants it to be. Instead, he loses himself in the miles of blue skies and flower beds that explode to color in the home of their prolonged eye contact. Truthfully, he's scared to look away too.

This is it, Grian knows as his heart roars in his chest. This is it.

“Say what you mean,” Scar breathes. 

They stand in the middle of the busiest section of the city but Scar's smile is private. It is Grian's, and Grian's alone. Say what he means? What is there to say? It’s written in the brief, rare silence of Grian’s mind; the swath of stars swirling overhead, infinite in their post apocalyptic glow; the solar-powered streetlight casting its fiery light over Scar, morphing him into something divine and untouchable. There is no word in his lexicon that truly encapsulates the feeling pressing against his ribs now. It isn't safety, or contentment, or peace. It isn't even love. 

He's sick of words. They don't mean anything. They aren't enough. He locks eyes with Scar and leans in, because if Scar isn't going to touch him, he'll just have to take matters into his own hands. Grian buries his fingers in Scar's button up shirt and shuffles him backward, until his back collides with the solid metal of the lamppost. If it hurts, Scar doesn't notice; he's looking at Grian with wide eyes, dumbstruck, lips parted in wonder and maybe something else. He's never been very good at taking what he dishes.

“What I mean is,” Grian murmurs against the buzz of the streetlight as his gaze flicks down to Scar's lips. His wings shift against his will, tucking around Scar, sheltering them from prying eyes. It’s only him and Scar. “You're an idiot if you don't kiss me in the next three seconds.”

For once, Scar’s tongue of gold is heavy and unmoving; he has no quick-witted words to throw in Grian's face. All he has is awe, and some self-imposed duty that has him deferring to Grian without question; he abandons his hesitance in the shadows of this too-public street. Finally, his clammy palm cradles Grian’s cheek, tattered and pitted like the worn leather of Grian's favorite jacket. 

The kiss, though, is soft and a little uncertain, at least until Grian yanks hard at the collar of Scar's shirt. When their noses clash under the urgent force of it, Scar chokes out a shocked laugh before he's responding in kind. And Grian thinks to himself that this is the first time the two of them have ever truly eclipsed, have ever found themselves in the lines of the same page, and he thinks he wants to live here. Forever, maybe, or for as long as the universe allows.

[ranbitteeth]

hiii i love ur art and ur fics!!🫶🏽

im desperateee for a reader rails mizu w strap fic😭😭 all the smut i see are of reader bottoming and that makes me hella dysphoric sigh

so so like reader stretching mizu out, lots of whimpering, mizu being nervous, mizu feeling full and claimed, just messy subby mizu taking big strap for the first time plssss😭😭😭😭 maybe some pussy eating foreplay idk, whatever u find best and fun to write. i just need mizu to be a subby bottom its plaguing my mind😵‍💫

A/N: Your wish is my command, dearest! Hhmmm I can never really tell if you guys want a modern/cannon compliant setting— but I find my words flowing easier for the latter. If this isn’t to your liking, I can always write another one! More modern and fluffy

Tags: Possessive!Reader, GN!Reader, Reader is besties w Madame Kaji, DomTop! Reader, Jealous! Reader, Straps, Tried to be historically accurate but one can only do so much research on ancient japanese dildos, takes place sometime before Mizu hops in the boat, Goodbye Sex, Misery.

About 3.8k word count, so I’ll highlight the beginning of the actual smut in red and a star! *

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Parting Ways— To London You Go

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You despised him.

The Blue Eyed Beast of Japan. The onryo. The bastard half-breed that killed the Four Fangs and cut through the Shindo Dojo. Now that was a man that deserved a dog’s death. A humiliating, painful, wretched thing— so much so that pity would spread like disease among even the most hardened of men. A white man had no business in your country. Much less some impure dog, chasing ghosts of white men who had long since fled the island paradise. You believed this yourself, once. The village gossip and fantasies of his approaching death entertained you, excited you. You’d hear of his dishonorable death one evening and you’d think —‘good riddance’.

But no one told you just how much of a darling he was.

You remembered that night to picture clear, the image of his slumped body in the snow so clear in your eyes and memory. His face was twisted into a pained grimace, eyes screwed shut beneath the colored lenses of his glasses— he reeked of blood even in the snowstorm.

Unbeknownst to your family, you brought him inside, ordered your guards to gently place his body in your quarters. The servants made no protest when they saw your insistence on saving this stranger. The wound was seeping a crimson poison onto your floor, red and hot and stinking of blood.

The two of you were alone when his eyelids fluttered open, pained grunts and whimpered muffled by his own teeth against his bottom lip. And you saw it. Blue eyes— unnatural, wrong, and positively lovely. You’ve seen oceans and ponds and skies with less of a dazzling hue. It disgusted you, initially, as the realization of who he was suddenly and violently appeared in your mind.

You hadn’t expected someone so…normal looking.

He did not have a pig’s nose or clammy, sun-abused skin. He was not a beast, giant and ugly— but a man. An injured man, you recalled once his blood stained your palm. Stained your floor, your bed and his clothes. You distantly realized your hands were moving on their own as they undid the binds of his old kimono, and there, beneath the worn, filthy fabric were binds. Not of injury, not of a warrior— but of shame.

Alone in your chambers on a cold winter night amidst the worst storm you’ve ever seen— you knew. The blue-eyed, vicious animal that had earned all of Kyoto’s scorn was in fact a woman.

You adored her.

Your home grew to be a sanctuary to her of sorts. For a being so well despised by the nation, the comforts you provided were scarce luxuries. A bed. A roof. Some semblance of protection. You cared after her like one would a feral pet, a feat which did not go unnoticed. With a blade to your neck and blood painting her hands, she demanded your silence— a vow to never break. As if you’d risk losing such a treasure to the hands of bounty hunters of white men.

The two of you danced with hate for months.

She was a silent spirit, a brewing storm on the distant horizon. At times, you’d catch her eyes on you, other times, she’d notice you doing the same. At times, you’d reach your hand forward and caress the scars on her skin. At times, she’d allow you to– going so far as to present herself.

At times, you’d make love to her. Your depravity was no secret to anyone with ears and working eyes— but your status and wealth made you untouchable. No one but your servants would hear her cries echo from your chambers, and no one but you would see her in the throes of pleasure, head tossed back, expression screwed into one of hesitant bliss and ecstasy.

Or so you thought.

She often returns to you like a dog would weeks after leaving. Loyal, endearing and silent. Whether it was out of some misplaced desire of courtesy or a genuine attachment, you did not know. You’d tell yourself you did not care, but Man would never be born without sin. Madame Kaji, the wonderful hag, would bewitch you in letters with tales of her ladies in the delights her brothel would offer. She mentioned a certain blue-eyed beast in her company in her most previous message. Her letter was pointed, concise, and utterly enraging. By its contents, you would piece together your Mizu’s night with a princess– of all wretched things. After months of silence, alone in your palace with no one but the one and off prostitutes you’d hire and the servants you paid deftly for their loyalty, and the samurai goes off to bed and abandone a lady princess of the Tokunobu clan.

Mizu would not show her face to you until spring. By then, your anger had solidified and festered into an untamable typhoon. As your servants led her to your chambers, Mizu would be standing dead-center in the eye of your storm. Something in her was different. Stronger, yet weaker. Kinder, yet crueler.

“You show your face here again?” You ask cooly, and at least she had the decency to look ashamed, removing her hat. Like this, you could see her properly. (You’d never admit to your anger cooling, but it did.) She does not harden her voice in your presence, but it is quiet, timid, shameful. Before she could open her mouth to speak, one of your servant men approach, head bowed deeply.

“[Title and Name]”, he’d say. Your eyes glance over to him, humming as you granted permission to speak.

“There is a white man inside, bound and immobilized.” He says quickly, bowing his head deeper.

“I only wished for you to be aware.”

Your cold, steely eyes turn to fix Mizu with a chilling stare. She only looks at you head on, taking the challenge. Oh…

“Leave us.” You say, but not before giving an order to boil water over a fire. The door is smoothly slid shut, and the two of you are under the illusion of solitude once more.

“I am to depart for London soon.” Mizu says bluntly, abruptly. You couldn’t have expected anything less. You give no reaction save for a short sigh and two fingers against your temple.

“I am closer to my mission than ever before. I have an informant, I have a boat, I have names.” She talks as if to explain herself, stepping closer in light footsteps, hesitant. “I may not survive through this. I only wished to say goodbye before I leave.”

For a moment, you say nothing. Your mouth is rendered useless as your mind rushes with curses. To the world, to the white men, to Japan, to Mizu, to the hellsite that was London itself. The poisonous concoction of rage and envy that had been brewing for months was bubbling and prickling beneath your skin– only now with the addition of grief.

“This would have been much more convenient in scripture,” you say, voice like hot iron. Mizu’s surprise is tangible, eyes flickering around your features, searching for answers to her questions.

“I adore letters. You know this.” You begin to say, moving from your initial position and circling the room, retrieving several items and placing them on the large expanse of your sleeping bed. You open a box, massive with weight. Inside is parchment, pounds of it. “I collect them.”

You suddenly and harshly shove the box onto the floor, a flurry of parchment and ink spilling at your feet. Mizu seems to shrink, but refuses to cower. Gingerly, you retrieve one excerpt sent just a few months ago from Madame Kaji. You hand it to Mizu, surrounding her. You wait until you are certain she understands what she is reading before you begin to speak.

“Never took you as the brothel-dwelling type.” You say, watching as those demonic, off-putting, oh-so-lovely eyes scan the characters on paper. Your eyes stick to her lips before you remind yourself why you are angry. You imagined those lips entangled with another, and your blood goes cold.

“Nothing happened between me and the princess.” Mizu says, turning to face you. The genuine confusion in her expression is almost insulting. “She meant to kill me that night. Our duel meant nothing. Madame Kaji knows nothing that is true.”

“Not every conflict between you and a stranger is a duel and Madame Kaji is a dear friend of mine.” You reply easily. The hurt in your voice was becoming clearer with each passing syllable.

“You truly believe sailing the seas will come so easy? Do you know how many men I’ve lost in my trades on those voyages? Do you even know what awaits you in London?” You begin to demand these answers, losing the control you pride yourself in as you continue to speak. As a man and a woman, Mizu was nothing but a stupid, lost soul, wandering the earth without an object to attach to. You then gently cup her face in both hands, watching in delight as she melts into your touch.

*“Do you even know how much I’ve wanted you these past months?”

Mizu cannot answer. Her hands raise over yours, fingers brushing against your warmer ones.

“I meant no harm in my absence.” She concedes, round eyes rising to meet with yours. Just like that, the room had shifted. Your eyes darken as they raked along her face and figure, recalling what lay beneath the layers upon layers of fabric she’d use to protect herself.

“You can’t imagine…” You whine, gently undoing the bandages around her neck to expose the delectable skin that lay beneath. Untouched, unseen by all but few. You bury your nose into the crook of her neck before your tongue darts out just to taste flesh and the blood that pumped beneath. Mizu sighs, noticeably relaxing into you. Her arms move to wrap around your neck in a gentle embrace, a position you’ve grown to love and grieve for.

“Gods, how I’ve missed you…” you say, assisting Mizu’s hands and hurriedly undoing her kimono before your hands run hungrily along her skin. Scars, so many more than you remember. A different rage boiled inside of you, protective and not directed to Mizu in the slightest. The two of you move in sync of tangled limbs and warm breaths against open lips. You push her onto your cot, the rage you had felt previously spilling out in the form of hunger. You attack her neck with the teeth in your mouth, suckling and biting down on her white-man skin until cherry-red marks bloom across her neck. She whimpers, coyly craning her neck and exposing herself further– presenting herself. Begging for it. Gods.

“You were away so long I’d almost forgotten what a whore you are…” you coo, undressing her wholly, spreading her legs around either side of your hips. As a surprise to no one, you noticed the particular shininess to the downy hairs on her wet cunt, groaning softly at the sight. Her smell, her taste, her color– you’d spend innumerable nights recalling these things in exquisite detail, going so far as to seek her in other women and finding not one suitable substitution. Your hunger had been building up for months, and now here she was, just as enticing as you remember her. Her teeth nibble down on her finger as she groans into the air.

“[Reader], I haven’t..” she starts, but you shush her before she can continue. Her loyalty only endeared you to her further, and you wanted to remain somewhat angry.

“I know, puppy. You already know who you belong to, don’t you?” You murmured, practically salivating at the sight of her glistening pussy. A whine catches in her throat, allowing you to see in real time her strength and tenacity fail her beneath you. The demon man was nowhere to be found here. You tamed that spirit and contained her in your chambers. You reduced it from a spirit to a man to a moaning, wanton little tart.

“Keep your legs spread and I’ll give you what you came here for.” You order swiftly, to which she nods and complies, spreading her legs further apart. You eagerly adjust your position so that you are resting on your stomach, Mizu’s thighs on either side of your head and your mouth just above her wet cunt. With only an aroused groan as a warning, your tongue descends onto her slick folds, eagerly lapping up the wetness that coated her lovely skin. It was positively obscene, the color and taste of her, the slurping sounds across the room and her whimpering cries as months of stress and anger fell away under your tongue. The poor thing couldn’t even keep her thighs from squeezing around your head, effectively trapping you against her pussy— but it was no matter. Your tongue swirled and massaged what it could reach while the tip of your nose rutted against her clit. Slowly, surely, readily— her raspy, hoarse voice bloomed into something far sweeter, and you could feel the ice around your heart melting. This was the Mizu you knew, without the clothes and glasses and false identity. This Mizu was the one you owned.

You feel her getting close, as it was always obvious with her. You felt her thighs squeezing around your head, felt them shake and tense while her hips bucked against you and her breathing grew more desperate. You feel it, she feels it— she wants it so bad she sobs into her palm. You both know better.

You pull away with a wet, obscene sound, ignoring Mizu’s frustrated groan into her fist. Your lips and chin are wet with her taste and both of your bodies are shining with sweat.

“What? Were you close?” You ask huskily, readjusting yourself so that your body hovers over hers, your fingers pushing in and out of her gushing warmth. You start with two, massaging her insides into relaxation, molding her to your desires. She impatiently pushes her hips against you, holding you in a desperate embrace. You do not hurry, you don’t even respond as you take her lips in yours, letting her taste herself coating your tongue. It was a messy, depraved display— one that made her noticeably wetter around your fingers. Her nails claw into the fabric over your body, tugging it off.

“Take yours off too…” she says in between breaths, eyes half lidded and watery with want.

“You think you can take it already?” You ask slowly, dead serious. Mizu nods, a slow and deliberate thing. Who are you to argue now?

“It’s bigger than the other one. You sure?” You ask again, making slow, hard motions against her wet clit.

“[Reader]…” she gasps, carrying a note of exasperation, her hands now trembling against you. “Please…!”

You laugh, breathless, exhilarated. Your lips gently press against her forehead, a soft ‘wait here’ and a quick trip to the corner of your bedroom later, you retrieve it.

You commissioned this piece long before you knew Mizu would return. Your very own harigata, hard as a tortoise shell, ribbed and heavy in size and weight. You expressed your desire to be able to attach it to yourself to please your lovers and so the artist complied. You held it up with one hand, allowing Mizu to gauge at the weight and size before stuffing it with warm cotton dipped in the previously boiled water at your side. Mizu hasn’t even noticed the servant come in, far too immersed in watching you align the phallus to her soaking cunt. She feels the heat through the tortoise shell and whimpers, hips trembling before she spreads her legs further apart. The head was already pushing against her hole, oh so ready to slip inside. Just as you mean to push yourself in, Mizu makes a strangled little noise and you cease in your tracks.

“Yes?” You ask, already breathless.

“It’s big…” she says, repeating the words you said earlier. You laugh, endeared.

“Yes. You want it smaller?” You ask again, but she shakes her head no.

She licks her dried lips before she swallows. “Don’t hold back.”

Unable to control yourself, you laugh, head falling beneath your shoulders and against her collarbone. Fuck.

“Tell me when you’re ready.”

You feel her nervousness in the tension of her body. As aroused as she was, it had been some time since she’s seen you. You begin with slow, shallow thrusts to get her accustomed to the feel, not going halfway until you hear her get noticeably impatient.

“Hold on, puppy. I don’t want to hurt you…” you say, but you push yourself in deeper to quiet her whimpers. The ribbed surface rutting in and out of her wet heat had its obvious effects. Her knees shake where they are around your hips and her head arches back as she moans, voice breaking. The harigata was doing everything it was designed to do and more. Mizu was falling apart so beautifully and you weren’t even fully inside.

Slower thrusts, still quick but less shallow, and she moves her arms to wrap around your neck in a tender embrace, holding your back to keep herself present. With you.

Some time passes, and you push yourself in further. You feel some natural resistance, Mizu’s breath hitching. You pause and pull away somewhat to check for her expression, finding her eyes wet with tears dripping down flushed cheeks. Her chest is rising and falling in ragged breaths as she struggles to compose herself long enough to get a sentence out.

“No! No, don’t stop. [Reader], please don’t stop,” she whines, cradling your face. You obliged and continued, though far slower than the pace you were going before. Mizu openly whimpers at this loss before she intertwines her legs around your hips by her ankles, keeping you close.

“Could that princess give you what I can?” You say suddenly, still feeling that burst of envy possess you as you rut your hips forward with a precision that only hours of fantasies and failed attempts to recreate Mizu’s body could give you. A shuddering, wanton moan later, Mizu’s hand flies over her mouth. You take that hand by her wrist and pin it to the floor, still thrusting your hips against hers with purpose and vigor. Not all the way in, not yet. “Well?” You ask. You demand.

“N-no…no she can’t…” Mizu damn near sobs, and possession coils in your gut as you push the harigata to reach new depths. Her moans are pitched and broken, you feel and see her falling apart. The poor thing felt so full, unsure what to even make of the delicious stretch your phallus provided or the hot arousal that being beneath you gave her. To some degree, she was yours, and you both knew it.

Feeling pleased with her state as she answered, you finally and gently push yourself in entirely, making her back arch and moans echo across your chambers like they did so long ago. The harigata’s other end pushes against you, makes you groan at the pressure. You look down at her whorish expression, her inky black hair spread like a halo around her head. You see her flushed skin shining with sweat, you see the tremble in her body and think about how much longer you’ll have to go without it.

“You don’t even know what you do to me…” You begin to ramble without thinking, words flowing like water from your tongue while Mizu moans beneath you.

You can’t help the way your hips begin to plow against hers, you can’t help the strength and ferocity that possesses you when you think of the distance that will be between the two of you. When you think of who she could meet and compare you to. When you think of yourself in the future, in bed, alone, aching for a body that will not be there. You cannot control the desire in your body when your hips move in a way that can only be described as primal, and she takes it all. Mizu has always taken what you give her so well, and it wasn’t long before you were both panting each other’s name against your skins, the room now hot and stuffy and reeking of sex. Her voice reaches a certain pitch, her nails claw into the silken fabric of your kimono, and you can tell she’s closer than ever.

A warm flower of pride bloomed in your chest as you realized that one day, if all went well, you could keep her for yourself. You’d no longer spend the lonely nights in your palace inviting women of the night to give you company. You’d no longer need to bear the crushing loneliness in your bed — not when Mizu’s mission would fail and she’d realize her rightful place at your side. Safe and warm. Protected. Yours.

You imagine fucking her day and night when she returns until she’s sore and trembling, unable to stand without your assistance. The mental image and the emotions it ignites inside of you make you openly and shakily moan in sync with her, and the two of you cum in each other's embrace. She’s damn near bitten through the silk of your kimono by now, drool coating the luxurious fabric. By now, she’s hardly the image of dignified, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You pull yourself off of her with nothing but a smooth roll of your hips and a near-violent shudder from the body beneath you. By then, it had all blurred together into a hazy memory of warm candlelight, golden skin, and warm, damp towels running along Mizu’s body and freshly fetched water poured into her waiting mouth. You only remember the rest you won for yourself that night, the two of you wrapped in a tangle of limbs and half torn fabric, warm.

But you wake up cold, and you recall why she came by in the first place.

“Would it be too burdensome to stay?” You implore, voice breaking with sleep and heartache. That worn, raggedy kimono is once again wrapped around her figure, her bandages back on. Her very aura is cold and distanced, and the weight of her decision truly settles into your skin.

“We can be happy, you know.” You say, almost pleading but with far too much pride to let it show. “I am in the mountains, far from the city. No white man could find you here,” You can’t being yourself to stand. You watch as her expression morphs from one of sorrow and pity to one of distrust, distaste, and near-resentment. Whether it is directed to you or her father, you cannot be sure.

With her back to you and her voice in the tone of a man’s, she bids you goodbye.

You find that— more than anyone— you want her quest of revenge to fail.

How you despised her.

And oh, how you missed her.

[purplealmonds]

About a month ago to this date, I wrote about my thoughts regarding the relationship dynamics between Shingi and Kun-Kusuriuri, and Tenshi and Fuki...

[Image Source 1]

With these visuals above (paired with another more spoiler-y one below the cut), I think that this theory may have some more credence! Consider the parallels listed below!

[Image Source 2]

The water/paint dripping from their mouths - liquids seems to be thematically important in Karakasa

Similar solemn facial expressions in preparation for their respective "sacred rituals"

Thematically, both duos intermixing their presences in some way, be it through sex or the merging of consciousness

The near-identical camera angle (though Tenshi is looking down at Fuki, while Kusu is looking up presumably at Shingi)

Similar color palettes (the orange blob to the right, green/pink colors throughout the background)

Nonexistent eyebrows replaced with red markings painted in their place

Also, if my theory is correct, the place where Tenshi and Fuki consummate is located in a basement of sorts, presumably in close proximity to the cistern where all of the water in the ooku is collected. In contrast, Kusuriuri stands atop a roof, where he is closest to the skies to confront the mononoke. Heaven and Earth metaphor!!

There's also the diametrically opposite purposes of these respective rituals - Kusuriuri seeks to end life by slaying the mononoke, while Tenshi seeks to create life by conceiving a child.

[thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos]

Mikey BFF HCs

I like to picture what the different Mikey's would be like as best friends bad influences

Fluff :) pining, shenanigans

SFW aged up turts

-03 Mikey would tap on your window at midnight, knowing you were still up, snacks in hand. He'd have the biggest smile on his face as he'd help you out over the frame and up the fire escape, and you'd spend a few blissful hours up on your roof laughing and just taking in the beautiful view of New York in the deep of night. You loved these moments with your best friend, just soaking in each other's company. Eventually you nodded off, head drooping onto his shoulder as sleep tugged at your eyes, and he carefully scooped you up in his arms and laid you back into your bed, tucking you in before he stole back out of your apartment. He whispered softly into the dark room, giving you one last longing look before disappearing into the night, sure you were asleep. "Love you."

-2012 Mikey would call you, voice giddy as he asks your opinion about his latest idea. "No Mikey." A smile was plastered on your face as you giggled at the image in your head. "God no. Leave the elephants alone." You can hear the pout in his voice through the phone speaker. "Ohh, c'mon! Don't you think it'd be awesome to ride an elephant? I just wanna do it once!! The zoo's right there!" You rub your forehead where you had smacked it, chuckling at your friends antics. "Give Leo the phone, Mikey."

-07 Mikey would text you, asking you to join him for a surprise in the neighborhood park next to your apartment. When you arrive, you heard the faint rustle of leaves before he fell from the tree branch above you, landing next to you face first on the sidewalk. "..Sup?" He looked up at you from the pavement, offering a goofy smile and half-hearted thumbs up. Giggling at himself, he got up and brushed some leaves off his plastron, and you followed him to the skate area where he had some tunes and snacks waiting. You turned to him, cocking your head, and raised an eyebrow as a slow smile crept on your lips. "Mikey..?" He pulled a new board from the bushes nearby. "Wanna give it a shot?"

-Bayverse Mikey would bring you down to the lair, asking your help to prank his brothers. They had been making fun of him a lot recently, and he needed his partner in crime for a little revenge. You had brought the supplies he asked for; whip cream and a feather. When you got to the lair, he smiled broadly, whisking you into a hug and carting you off to his room to wait for Raph to fall asleep on the couch for his midday nap. After a few hours of videogames and laughter, you poked your head into the living room and looked cautiously over at the couch. You spotted Raph's bandana immediately, the red mask on his head nestled on the arm of the sofa as soft snores rumbled from his chest. Mikey was watching from the hallway, and you looked back to him and gave him two thumb's up. "Let's gooooo!" He whispered, a devilish look in his eyes and that smile you loved so much plastered on his face.

-Rise Mikey would give you art supplies for your birthday, along with one free coupon for painting lessons from him. He handed them to you with a shy smile on his face, and beamed when you thanked him with a giant hug. The day you invited him over for the art lesson had him glowing with pride, and he was an incredible and patient teacher as he walked you through brush strokes and techniques. He watched you mix colors on your palette, smiling softly. "You're a quick learner." His praise was quiet as he worked, eyes back on his own canvas. You couldn't help but smile, blush spreading across your face like the soft pink paint you were mixing with your brush.

tags: @thelaundrybitch, @sophiacloud28, @zombiesnips-blog

let me know if you want to be added to my tag list!

[laviefantasie]

[ Just Keep Swimming ]

Pairings: CEO! Gojo Satoru x Florist! Reader ; Lawyer! Naoya Zenin x Florist! Reader

Summary: The worst and best thing that could ever happen to you is falling in love. You were living proof of it. (based on “It Ends With Us”)

| Masterlist |

[ WARING TAGS: Modern!AU, no curse magic,, hurt/comfort, angst, domestic violence, violence, assault, sexual content, manipulation, gaslighting, blood, swearing ]

⛊ ☼ ⛉ ☼ ⛊ ☼ ⛉ ☼ ⛊

You were six the first time you saw it happen. You were ten when you first understood what it meant. You were fifteen when you first begged your mom with tears to leave him. You were eighteen when you decided to leave them.

And now here you were at twenty-five staring at your childhood bedroom , trying your best to not look at any of the family portraits that adorned the walls.

This was no happy home. You wouldn’t even call it a home to begin with. Not when the halls had echoed your mother’s terrified screeches as the walls tainted red. Not as your father’s fist painted your mother’s porcelain skin yellow, purple, red and green. How you hated those colors and despised this place.

You couldn’t wait to leave once again.

“It’s nice to have you back, honey”

You sighed. Your mother’s voice was as always soft and sweet; you hated how soft it sounded, as if she expected to get hit if she were to be louder.

Your eyes glanced around before stopping on an old music box, one a certain crystal blue-eyed boy had given you once upon a time. A small smile faintly appears on your face as you gaze at it, before being wiped off by the rest of your memories.

Clearing your throat, you turn towards your mother with a steady gaze. She smiled at you softly.

And you hated it. You hated that you remember how she had chosen him over you, again and again. You hated how you had begged, even gotten on your knees, for her to leave with you.

You hated that no matter how many times she chose him, he never stopped the cracks from deepening.

“Have you decided on what to say?” She asks slowly, “You could just recall a memory… maybe just state three things that he ever did to make you smile or…”

“Mom” you interrupted her, hating how as she spoke images of her being brutally hurt appeared in her mind, “I’ll figure it out”

She doesn’t seem convinced, but she still nods.

Sighing, you turn to look out your window straight at the three-story mansion in front of your own. Memories of joyous laughter and snow white hair.

Closing your eyes, you turn around. You had a funeral to get ready for and an eulogy to lie in.

The flowers on the roof of your building had always been your home away from home. Especially when you didn’t actually have somewhere that felt as home yet. You had lost that a long time ago.

You keep on cutting off the dead limbs, lost in your thoughts, when the door snaps open loudly and a crash startle you.

Turning around you are met with the sight of a blond man in a suit panting over a broken empty flower pot. You would’ve already screamed at him about the mess if it wasn’t for the tears streaming down his face.

He turns, eyes meeting yours. E/C meeting brown. His pants slow down and what appears to be shame shines through his face.

“I-I’ll pay for it”

“Seems like it was asking for it so no worries” you joke trying to make him feel at ease.

Why? You’re not sure. There was just something about seeing someone so powerful looking being vulnerable that made you sympathize.

He lets out a giant laugh full of relief and you find yourself smiling at it.

“You did all this?” He points at the many flowers al over the roof.

You nod, “Yeah, it’s my hobby… although maybe you could consider it my job too?”

“Huh? Really?”

“Hopefully, yeah” you nod, continuing your job, “You?”

“I’m, uh, a layer”

“A lawyer?” You ask ironically. He didn’t seem that confident to be one.

“I don’t look the part?”

“Not really”

He laughs again, louder this time, and you find yourself smiling. Again.

When was the last time you had smiled?

“You don’t look like a florist either”

“Makes sense, I didn’t actually study to become one” you smirk, “I just decided to become it”

“What did you study then?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?”

He smiles, “Actually, I would. Along with your name”

“Sorry, I’m married”

His face pales, “Oh! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean any—”

Your laughter interrupts him. A loud and melodic one. One you hadn’t heard yourself let out in a long time.

It felt… warm.

“You… you’re messing with me”

“I am” your laugh faints, but the smile remains, “Was that too much?”

“When it caused that laugh? Not at all”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Y/N” you say softly, “That’s my name”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N” he smiles, “I’m Naoya”

You nod at him before turning your attention to your flowers once more, trying to ignore the way your heart had started to increase the rhythm of its beat. You weren’t gonna acknowledge it.

“Why flowers?” He clears his throat, “I mean… you said you chose it so, why?”

“Why not? There’s q certain beauty in them, a familiarity, don’t you think so?”

“Familiarity?”

They’re just like us. When loved, they bloom. When hurt, they rot.

I wanted to say that, yet couldn’t. I had only ever said that to one person before and it felt like a betrayal to say it to somebody else, as insignificant as it seemed.

“Think about it, okay?” You settle for, smiling, “Promise you’ll figure it out”

He laughs faintly, “I take it, because it means we’ll meet again, right?”

“I don’t know about that…”

“You live here, am I wrong? I live here too! It’s meant to be”

You frown with a smile, “Is that your best way to flirt?”

“Only if it’s working”

You shake your head, laughing, “With those looks I thought you were a womanizer but now…”

“Hey! With this looks, what else would I need?”

Both of you share a laugh, a happy one, and for a minute you forget he came here banging doors and breaking pots; you forget you had been cutting dead limbs from flowers hoping it’d cut the ones inside you too.

But reality always sets in and your smile disappears.

He had been violent. Whatever his reason might be, even if it was one that could be understood, sirens loudly came to life inside your head making you move around, you were uncomfortable.

“Anyways… I know I said it probably was asking for it but what exactly did the flower pot do?”

You hate how your voice soften at the start, so you toughen it up by the end. The last thing you ever wanted was to be like your mom.

You’d never be like her.

“Honestly… it wasn’t the pot’s fault. Sadly, it was just collateral damage” he sighs, “I… uh… something happened. It’s kinda personal”

“Oh. Sorry. I-uh… too invasive. I apologize”

“No, no, it’s okay. Understandable. I…” he sighs, “I had this case, kinda can’t talk about it you know, but… it was a tough one. My client was a kid… and I lost”

“Oh”

“Yeah, oh” he laughs bitterly, “My client is a kid that I promised I’d help, that I’d save, and I didn’t. I failed them”

“I’m so sorry” you sigh, “That’s… a good enough reason for the pot’s short lifespan”

He smiles faintly.

You sigh, averting your eyes and playing with your fingers nervously.

“My dad died this past weekend” you blurt out, “Seems like it’s been a shitty last few days”

“Seems like it”

“Kind of a pretty deep conversation for two strangers to have on a roof, don’t you agree?”

“You’re not a stranger” his eyes soften, “You are Y/N, flower enthusiast, trickster, owner of the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

You remind yourself to breathe as you let out an embarrassed laugh, averting your gaze from his soft one. Could your heart calm down? This was not the moment for a crush.

“Since we’re already spilling our dirty little secrets… how about a night of naked truths?”

“Naked truths?”

You hum, nodding, “I wouldn’t mind some company as I finish tending to my flowers and you seem like the last thing you need right now is being alone”

“Probably true. How’d you know I’m alone though?”

“Because we all tend to run to the person that makes us feel accompanied when we’re struggling… yet you’re on the roof, alone. Hitting doors and breaking pots”

“You’re also on the roof in a moment of struggle” he reminds you softly, his eyes filling with understanding.

“Again: I wouldn’t mind some company”

He nods, silently sitting down beside you on the floor and watching you as you tend your plants with care.

“Naked truths?” He reminds you softly.

You nod, “The odds of us ever seeing each other again are low, so it doesn’t matter”

“Kind of like a therapy session?”

“Zero judgement, all humor” you give him a small smile, “Wanna go first?”

“Today’s case… I watched a little boy’s life crumbled before his eyes when I failed him, making him go back to the hell he has lived with his father” he sighs, averting his gaze that had darken, “He’ll never be the same again and now he won’t even find a reason in asking for help”

“I’m sorry about that” you let out a deep breath, “Maybe he’ll figure out a way”

“Maybe… he shouldn’t have to though”

He was right. No kid should ever find a way to survive the hell they’ve been given. A kid should only ever be a kid.

“Your turn”

“I…”

He had been honest. He had been vulnerable. He deserved the same treatment.

“I’m a liar” you blurt out, “I’ve had to be since my father was a politician. But I shouldn’t have had to be it to the degree he made me be it. He… my mother and him fought a lot. And he would get so… so angry whenever they did that some-sometimes he would h-hit her. He’d apologize after. Taking us out, buying her expensive gifts. He knew I hated it when they fought so he’d buy me toys, to make up for it I guess. I didn’t really understand what him hitting her actually was, I was a kid. So… so-sometime-”

Your voice fails you, making you clear your throat as you find yourself admitting this out loud for the first time in years. Your saliva tasted like acid inside your mouth as you tried to find your voice once again.

Naoya waits patiently. Not making a sound and letting you collect yourself calmly.

“Sometimes I… I would find myself hoping they’d fight. Because I knew that if he h-hit her, the next two weeks would be… amazing” had I ever actually ever admitted this out loud?, “I wish he had never touched her. When I understood pain, I wished he’d stop but it was too late. It had become part of their marriage, like a silent norm in our house. So I let them be… I now know that letting it happen, never saying anything, makes me as guilty as him. As a daughter I have love for him, but as a person? I hate him. I have spent most of my life despising him for being such a bad person, but… I’m just as bad. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, am I right?”

“No”

The answer is immediate, making you freeze.

His hand stops your fumbling one, warming it on his own as if giving it a home. His gaze is determined, soft.

You couldn’t breathe.

“You’re not a bad person. I don’t think there’s really a thing as bad people” he squeezes my hand, “We’re just… people who sometimes do bad things. We’re humans, it’s inevitable”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Was I gonna agree with him just to stop the conversation? Was I gonna try to convince him that I’m bad? What exactly was I gonna say?

People who sometimes do bad things.

You felt yourself lighter after his words, as if the weight pulling you down and making it hard for you to breathe had slightly lifted.

No one is exclusively bad, he was right. Some people just have it harder to be good.

And that’s okay. You just gotta keep trying.

“Your turn”

He looks ready to disagree, but relents anyway.

“I don’t remember my mom” he confesses, “Dad and her divorced when I was four I think. He never let me see her once he won custody… and she didn’t try to either”

“You wish she had tried?”

“When I was a kid” he shrugs, “Not anymore. She made her choice, and now I choose not to wait for someone who didn’t want me”

“What if she wanted but just… couldn’t?”

He scoffs, “Your turn”

The bitterness in his voice stings, but you know it’s not directed at you.

You squeeze his hand trying to give him at least a little of the comfort he gave you moments ago. He smiles faintly.

“I have only ever fallen in love once” you admit, “His name was Satoru, he lived in the house in front of me. I lost my virginity with him until my dad found us and kick him out. Never saw him again after”

“Satoru?” He frowns, “Not a common name”

“Yeah, it isn’t”

“Kinda jealous right now” you frown, “He must have been a hell of a guy if you haven’t dated since”

You remember the blood and its metallic smell. How your throat hurt as you screamed for him to stop. How tears fell down your cheeks as you try to break them up, only to be pushed back. You feared he’d kill him.

“He was” you state softly, “It just couldn’t… we just had to stop seeing each other”

“Had to?”

“Yeah. Had to”

The confession tastes like the metallic smell imprinted in your mind, making it hard to swallow.

He stays silent for a moment.

“Now I really am jealous” he smiles, making you laugh, “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and you’re telling me you’ve only had one boyfriend? And he’s the one that got away?”

“Are you quoting a Katy Perry song?”

“Unimportant”

You laugh out loud. The screams that had muted the surrounding traffic sound quiet down, and the metallic taste disappears.

The one that got a way, you repeat to yourself. Yeah. Satoru definitely was that.

“What are you doing?”

You had been watching quietly so far but you just couldn’t anymore. Why did the heir of Gojo Enterprises look as if he was running away?

���Mind your own business”

“I actually am. You just stomped on my flowers before falling on your face as you ran without looking ahead” you scoff, “Now spill”

He sighs, looking towards his house before scoffing.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Satoru Gojo…? Only heir of the Gojo family, one of the top ten families in the whole country” you recite without a care, “Why does that even matter?”

“You forgot ‘illegitimate son’, princess” he rolls his eyes, “My mom was a maid who Mr. Gojo fucked because he pleased. So I’m leaving”

“Wh-wait! Leaving? Where?” You stop him, “You can’t leave”

“I can and I will”

“Where will you go? Do you even know what leaving on the streets will be like?” You scoff and cross your arms, “You won’t survive, not after living in that place”

“Until I was six, I lived in that place’s basement and was treated as a rat. I think the streets will be fine”

“But you can’t—”

“We’ve been neighbors all our lives and you’ve never once looked at me” he scoffs, “Don’t look at me now”

He turns around as he rolls his eyes, looking ready to ignore whatever else you tried to convince him to not leave home. But you’d never understand what a hell that house was and had always been, not when you had the picture perfect family.

“STAY HERE” you yelled in panic, freezing him on the spot, “We have a small house in our backyard, originally for the house’s help. It’s unoccupied, so you can stay there. Free of charge”

“Why?”

“Cause you look seem like someone who has had many doors closed in his face” you shrugs, averting your gaze shyly, “I want to show you there are others who’ll open it for you”

“Hey” you snap out of your memory from when you where fifteen, “You good? Lost you for a second”

“I’m fine” your voice is softer now, a hint of melancholy in it.

Why had you remembered that right now? Hadn’t that wound already healed?

“It’s gotten late. I-I should go”

You stand up, your head a mess, but his hand in yours stops you. His gaze is curious and slightly desperate.

“Will I see you again?”

“No”

“That stings”

“I’m just honest” you sigh, “That’s how it works”

“I don’t believe it is” he smiles, “So, see you next time, Y/N”

You had indeed seen him again, as if by destiny. He was apparently family of your new part-time worker, Maki. And apparently he knew your best friend, Utahime, whom had help you open your flower shop, Camellia Carnation.

It had taken you back to see him with Utahime, but you had acted indifferent. Then, he had been your first client ever and had buy the bouquet for you. Maki warned him you were off limits.

So you agreed to be friends.

Yet he was always there, and your heart kept on taking his side. One misstep and you found yourself falling.

You hadn’t meant to fall, not after Satoru. But at some point he smiled and you knew it was game over. Suddenly, he had sunk beneath your bones and nurtured this deep familiarity into a love so fierce that you believed this was it, that he was it. After all the pain, and the healing, and the heartbreak, Naoya was it.

Maki said he didn’t date, that he just played around. Naoya himself admitted it to.

Yet he begged you to try with him.

And holy crap were you glad you said yes. When was the last time you had been this happy? Dancing around the kitchen with only the refrigerator light? Playing board games in your bed? Laughing until the sun rose?

You gave him your all and he reciprocated it.

It only made sense that he met your mother when she came to visit you, even when you were a little hesitant about it. He was excited, you wouldn’t stop it.

You hadn’t expected to be frozen in your seat, barely registering what your mom was saying as you both waited for Naoya to come back from the restroom. How could you focus when you had just met your favorite set of crystal blue eyes?

You thought you had it wrong. You had to.

But nothing could compare to those eyes. White hair? People dyed it all the time. Pale skin? No beaches around. But his eyes? No one could even imagine coming close to their unique blue.

It has been years since you saw him, but you’ll never forget what he looked like. It had to be him. You know it was and you believe he recognized you, too, because the second your eyes met… it looked like he’d seen a ghost.

You felt breathless.

It was as if in this moment your soul was whispering to your heart excitedly about him. It was like a gravitational pull, like as if all the universes and all the galaxies were conspiring in his favor.

Snap out of it, you screamed in your head.

Why were you looking at him like that? You couldn’t. You didn’t know him, not anymore at least.

And yet…

You found yourself in the restroom’s, hoping he had recognized you and maybe decided to follow you.

What were you doing? He had left you behind, months before graduating, without a goodbye. He had probably gone to the marines to escape his father… but he had been so well dressed he probably had ended up doing as he was told.

You needed to compose yourself.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by the door opening behind you. The Baby Breath flower tattoo in your collarbone burning as you meet his gaze, both of you breathless.

He looked healthy. There were so many emotions going through you at the moment but that was what stuck. You were happy he was healthy.

So why did it sting that he never came back for you? That he never looked for you?

“Y/N”

He’s standing at the end of the hallway like a ghost straight out of the past. He’s real, and he’s standing right in front of you.

“Toru”

He smiled and you swore your heart stopped.

“I’m going to make a promise to you. I’ll get out of my father’s cage and make a life of my own. When my life is good enough to deserve you in it, I’ll come find you. But don’t wait for me, okay? It may not happen”

He blows out a quick breath of relief and then takes three huge steps forward. You find yourself doing the same. Meeting in the middle and throwing your arms around each other.

“Holy shit” he breathes, tightening his embrace.

You nod, “Yeah. Holy shit”

He puts his hands on your shoulders and takes a step back to look at you.

“You haven’t change a thing”

Covering your mouth with your hand, still in shock, you give him a once-over. His face looks the same, but he’s no longer the scrawny teenager you remember.

“I can’t say the same for you”

He laughed, “Six years in the military will do that, definitely”

You’re in shock, and so is he, so nothing is said after that. You’re both too busy taking each other in to figure out what to say next. Laughing with disbelief.

Finally, he releases your shoulders and folds his arms over his chest.

“What are you doing here?”

He didn’t remember. You didn’t know if you were disappointed or relieved.

“I live here,” you say, forcing your answer to sound as casual as his question, “I own a flower shop over on Park Plaza”

He smiles knowingly, like it doesn’t at all surprise him.

You glance toward the door, knowing you should get back out there. He notices and then takes another step back. He holds your gaze for a moment, it gets really quiet. Way too quiet.

There’s so much you both have to say but where to start? The smile leaves his eyes for a moment and then he motions toward the door.

“You should probably get back to your company”, he says, “I’ll look you up sometime. You said Park Plaza, right?”

I nod. He nods.

And then you both parted ways.

The rest of your dinner was uneventful. Your gaze sometimes strayed to where Satoru sat surrounded by men in business attire, but came back to Naoya whenever he made your mom laugh.

Naoya is the perfect gentleman. Making your mom laugh, listening to her stories, paying for dinner, insisting on walking her to her car.

So why did you kept glancing at Satoru throughout the night?

“I ordered an Uber so we have approximately…” he checks his phone, “two minutes to make out”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around him. Smiling softly as you feel him kiss your neck lovingly, followed by your cheek.

“Ugh, how I wish I could invite myself over to your apartment, but my client wouldn’t be too happy with me if I did”

You giggle before kissing him back. Relief and disappointment coursing through you at his words.

Why was there relief?

“Grand opening soon, so I need to rest too” you remind him, “When’s your next day off?”

“Never. When’s yours?”

“Never”

You both laugh again, making out a little more before his Uber arrives and he has to leave. You watch until it pulls out of the parking lot.

Why did everything feel so right with him?

You smiled and turned around towards your car, but gasped as soon as your gaze met his covered one.

What the hell was Satoru doing standing at the rear of your car?

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you”

His voice is low, as if tired. You force yourself to not dwell on the motive.

“Well, you did” you lean against the car, three feet away from him.

“Who’s the lucky guy?”

Your eyes widen as you turn to him, but his gaze is set on the road. You clear your throat.

“He’s…” your voice falters. This is weird. Your chest is still constricted and your stomach is flipping, “His name is Naoya. We met about a year ago.”

You force yourself not to wince at the truth once it came out. Maybe you shouldn’t have said you met that long ago. It sounded as if you were in an official long term relationship while you were just… courting each other?

“What about you? Girlfriend? Wife?”

Why were you asking that? Were you genuinely curious or…?

“Girlfriend. Her name is Mei Mei. We’ve been together almost a year now”

Heartburn. You believe you were having a heartburn. You place your hand in your chest.

A year?

“That’s good. You seem happy”

Did he seem happy? You had no clue. You just had to say something. Anything.

“Yeah. Well… I’m really glad I got to see you, Y/N” he turns around to walk away, but then spins and faces you again, his hands shoved in his back pockets, “I will say… I kind of wish this could have happened a year ago”

You wince at his words, trying not to let them get to you. Watching him as he turns and walks back to the restaurant.

Fumbling with your keys, you hit the button to unlock your car and slide in, shutting the door behind you loudly. You grip the steering wheel until your knuckles turn white. You feel a sting on your lower lip as you bite it.

For whatever reason, a tear falls down your cheek. You feel pathetic as you carelessly wipe it before starting your car.

Why were you feeling this much hurt after seeing him?

But it’s good. This happened for a reason. Your heart needed closure so that you could give it to Naoya. Maybe you couldn’t have done that until this happened.

This was good…

Yet you kept on crying.

But it’ll feel better. It’ll be better. This was just human nature, healing an old wound to prepare for a fresh new layer.

Nothing else.

“Knock, knock” you smile, opening the door with a tray in your hands full of food.

Satoru is sleeping on the couch in the help’s house living room and your gaze softens as you see the usual frown you’ve become used to missing.

He is different than you thought.

At school he was all smiles and laughter. But that was just a mask. This was the real him, the human him. One that had a lot of baggage and was slowly trying to get rid of it.

Sighing, you put the tray in the table and move closer to him, kneeling in front of the couch where he is laying.

“Psst… Satoru… wake up”

He frowns and moves slightly, which makes you giggle softly. Was he pouting?

“Come on. Mom and dad left so I brought you breakfast” his eyes open slightly, “I made sure to bring also a piece of strawberry cheesecake”

That makes him sit up quickly. You giggle and shake your head in amusement. You had learned in the last few weeks of him living with you of his sweet tooth, it was adorable.

Except something look out of place.

His usual pale skin was red. And the house had AC so he shouldn’t be sweating that much. Also, why were his eyes bloodshot?

Worried you make your palm touch his forehead, frowning as you feel how hot it feels against your skin. You wanted to call my mother, but how would you explain the situation? What could you do?

He must’ve seen how worried you were, cause he smiled softly at me.

“I’m okay, Y/N”

Your frowned deepened. Without a word you stood up, crossing your backyard to go inside your house and look for some medicine in the cabinet. There was some flu medicine, you weren’t sure if it’d work but you needed to try. Then, you went to the kitchen and made him some ginger tea, which should help if he’s got a sour throat.

When you came back he was curled up in a ball, shivering slightly.

“Seriously, I’m fine”

“Shut up” you scoff, handing him the mug, “Drink the tea, I’ll look for a blanket”

You did as you said and he did as told. After the tea you made him drink the medicine you brought him, and then you help him eat the breakfast you prepared for him.

Throughout it all he watched you with an intense gaze that you didn’t understand, but didn’t mind either.

“Y/N… I think I wanna throw up”

You stop wetting the towels you were preparing for him, jumping to grab the trash can and kneeling down in front of him.

As soon as you set it down, Satoru hunched over it and started throwing up.

You felt your chest tighten. You didn’t want to pity him, but you kinda did. Whatever his home situation had been like, he preferred having no home to call his own and no parents to take care of him than keep on living there. Even when he was this sick.

He only had you now. And you had no clue on how to help him.

After he finished throwing up, you help him drink some water and help him brush his teeth before putting him to bed. He pouted and whined like a child, but you weren’t having any of that.

He was shaking so bad and sweating like crazy from the heat his body expelled, the thought of leaving him alone scared you.

So you didn’t.

You laid down next to him, not minding the possibility of getting sick, and every hour for the next ten hours that he continued to get sick you stayed by his side. You kept on emptying the trash can, wiping his sweat, changing his sheets, wetting his towels, making him soup and helping him eat. You didn’t even think about how gross it was.

He needed you, and you were not fucking failing him.

By the time he regained a little bit of his strength, you were exhausted. You sent him to take a shower and closed your eyes for a little bit.

Why were you so worried about him?

You sighed, too tired to think of an answer. What you did know is that you did care about him, and there was no changing that now.

When he finished showering, you made him seat next to you and covered him up with the blanket, leaning into him slightly as you felt yourself becoming sleepy.

“You should rest” he whispers, “You’ve been taking care of me all day”

“I’m not tired”

“Don’t be stubborn” he coughs, “Just sleep for ten minutes. Please?”

He never said please. You doubted the word was even in his vocabulary, yet he just said it so you would consider resting.

Silently, you close your eyes.

A few minutes later, you felt him lean over a little and press his lips against your collarbone, right between your shoulder and your neck. You stop yourself from shivering as you become breathless. It was a quick kiss. Not even one you could consider as romantic in any way, more like a thank-you kiss.

But it made you feel all kinds of things.

Even when it had already been a few hours since you left him, as you lay awake on your bed, you kept touching that spot with your fingers because you could still feel it.

It was probably one of the worst day of his life. But it had been one of your best.

The next couple of weeks things started changing between you and Satoru. Something had shifted in your dynamic.

Now you held hands. Now you slept some nights in the same bed. Now you both seek the warmth that came from the other. It made you wonder if he still saw you as a naive fifteen year old. He was just two years older, it shouldn’t make that much of a difference right?

You were currently both watching Finding Nemo in the main house’s living room. The part came up where Nemo’s father, Merlin, was looking for Nemo but feeling really defeated and Dory said: ‘When life gets you down do you wanna know what you gotta do? Just keep swimming’.

“Just keep swimming” you whisper to yourself, turning to face him with a soft smile as you grab and squeeze his hand, “Just keep swimming”

You wanted to be the one that helped him swim until he finally got to surface, until he finally could breathe again.

You both were now facing each other and he had a strange look in his eyes.

“When do you turn sixteen?”

“That’s a random question” you softly laughed, “In two more months… when do you turn eighteen?”

“Not until December” he said.

You nodded, wondering if he still saw you as a kid… and if he could ever see you as more.

Maybe when two people are fifteen and seventeen, it might seem a little too far apart. But once you turned sixteen, who would see the difference?

“I need to tell you something”, he said.

You lost your breath. Heart beating fast. Were you maybe too hopeful right now?

“I got in touch with my uncle today. My mom used to live with him in Boston. He told me once he gets back from his work trip I can stay with him”

Oh.

This was good news. This should make you happy. He’d have a home, a family. He’d be okay. So why weren’t you? Why were you feeling sorry for yourself?

“Are you going?” you asked, begging the universe your voice didn’t shake.

He shrugged, “I don’t know. I wanted to talk to you about it first.”

He was so close to you on the couch, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. He smelled like mint.

You started fiddling with your hands, hoping to shake off the negative feelings surfacing.

“I don’t know what to say” you clear your throat, “I’m happy you have a safe place to stay, but what about school?”

A stupid excuse, but it was something.

“I could finish down there”, he said.

Oh.

He had already made up his mind, hadn’t he? You knew because he had this certain light in his eyes, a light you thought had extinguished.

Who were you to try to stop it from shining?

“When are you leaving?”

The words fled like acid in your throat.

You wondered how far away Boston is. It’s probably a few hours, but that’s a whole world away when you don’t own a car.

“I don’t know for sure that I am.”

“What’s stopping you? Your uncle is offering you a place to stay. That’s good, right?”

He tightened his lips together and nodded. Then he stop your fiddling hands, grabbing them on his own and playing with your fingers. He leaned back and then he did something you weren’t expecting. He moved his fingers to your lips and he touched them.

You felt like dying. How was it possible to feel so much at once? You had to be dying.

He kept his fingers there for a few seconds, and he said, “Thank you, Lily. For everything”

He moved his fingers up and through your hair, and then he leaned forward and planted a kiss on your forehead. Were you even breathing at this point? He looked down at me and you watched as his eyes went right to your mouth.

“Have you ever been kissed, Y/N?”

You shook your head no and tilted your face up to his because you needed him to change that right then and there or you weren’t gonna be able to breathe.

Then, too slow for your liking, he lowered his mouth to yours and just rested it there. You didn’t know what to do next, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care if you just stayed like that all night and never even moved your mouths, it was everything.

His lips closed over yours and you could kind of feel his hand shaking. You did what he was doing and started to move your lips like he was, although a little weird at first. You felt the tip of his tongue brush across your lips once and you thought your eyes were about to roll back in your head. He did it again, and then a third time, so you finally did it, too. When your tongues touched for the first time, you kind of smiled a little, because you had thought about your first kiss a lot. Where it would be, who it would be with. Never in a million years did you imagine it would feel like this.

He pushed you on your back and pressed his hand against your cheek and kept kissing you. It just got better and better as you grew more comfortable. Your favorite moment was when he pulled back for a second and looked down at you, then came back even harder.

You don’t know how long you kissed. A long time. So long, your mouth started to hurt and your eyes couldn’t stay open. By the time you both were too tired to open your eyes, you could still feels his lips ghosting over yours.

“You’re my favorite person”, you whisper, sleep overcoming you slowly.

“Out of how many people?”

His voice sounded alive for some reason. You didn’t dwell on it, too tired to try to open your eyes and see the look on his face.

“All of them”

His arms around you tighten, a small kiss being delivered to the side of your lip.

“You’re my favorite person too, Y/N. By a long shot”

You had to stop remembering the past. Especially now that you had a beautiful present paired with a future to look forward to. Naoya was perfect. He was everything you had wanted when you were a child.

Your chapter with Satoru was over. He was happy now.

You were happy now.

Time can definitely heal all wounds. Or at least most of them.

Life kept going and you buried any thought of Satoru that had come to mind. Things with Naoya became official and you felt on cloud nine every second you spent in his presence.

Especially after having sex. It was a hell of a ride.

You excitedly walked around your flower shop, humming a song under your breath and ignoring the weird looks Utahime and Maki are giving you.

Naoya had just called to say he was taking the day off for you. You had every right to feel giddy.

“Please tell me you’re being safe”

Your roll your eyes at Utahime as Maki fakes puking.

“Please, don’t”, Maki groans, “Still underage here”

“Both of you shush it” you laugh, “Utahime make sure to close. Maki get home safe. I got a dinner to make”

By the time you hear the door open you’re almost finished preparing the casserole mixture. You pour it into the glass pan and don’t turn around when you hear him walk into the kitchen.

You squeal when you feel the sting on your right butt cheek.

“Did you just slap my ass?”

“Don’t blame me, who wouldn’t want to smack that ass?”

You laugh. He raised the wine bottles in his hands with a grin, “It’s vintage”

Vintage,” I say with mock impression. “What’s the special occasion?”

He hands you a glass and says, “I have a smoking hot girlfriend and I have one of the most important trials of my life in a few days”

“What kind of trial?”

You both finish your glasses of wine and he pours you more.

“One that’s gonna be televised around the whole country. Career changing” he says, “A doctor that abused most of his female patients while anesthetized. Gotta put the bastard in jail”

Was it wrong to be turned on by your boyfriend putting trash men in jail?

“How long do you think it’ll take?”, you ask.

“Well, he had more than a hundred victims so… make three days trial if we keep it short”

You hated that people like that existed, but it made you like him more how hard he fought to get rid of them.

He chugs his wine then, “I’m gonna take a shower. Be right back”

He kissed your cheek swiftly before getting out of the kitchen.

You drink more of your wine.

He was on top of her.

They were on the couch and he had his hand around her throat, but his other hand was pulling up her dress. She was trying to fight him off and you just stood there, frozen. She kept begging him to get off her and then he hit her right across the face and told her to shut up.

You’ll never forget his words when he said, “You want attention? I’ll give you some fucking attention”

And that’s when she got real still and stopped fighting him. You heard her crying.

“Please be quiet. Y/N is here”, she sobbed, “Please be quiet”

Please be quiet while you rape me.

Was it possible for a person to feel this much hate? You walked straight to the kitchen and opened the drawer. It was like you weren’t in your own body. You grabbed the biggest knife you could find.

You weren’t planning to used it. You just wanted something that could scare him. But before you could make it out of the kitchen, two arms went around your waist and picked you up from behind. You dropped the know, but your father didn’t heart it. Your mother did.

You locked eyes with her as Satoru carried you back to your bedroom.

When you were back inside my room, you just started hitting him in the chest, trying to get back out there to her. You were crying (when had you started crying?) and doing everything you could to get him out of your way, but he wouldn’t move.

He just wrapped his arms around you tightly.

“Y/N, calm down”, he kept saying over and over.

He held you there for a long time until you accepted that he wasn’t gonna let you go back out there. He wasn’t gonna let you have that knife.

He walked over to the bed and grabbed his jacket and started putting on his shoes.

“We’ll go to the help’s house. We’ll call the police”

The police.

Your mother had warned you not to call the police in the past. She said it could jeopardize your father’s career. But in all honesty, you didn’t care at that point. The only thing you cared about was helping your mother, so you pulled on your jacket and went to the closet for a pair of shoes. When you stepped out of your closet, Satoru was staring at your bedroom door.

It was opening.

Your mother stepped inside and quickly shut it, locking it behind her. You’ll never forget what she looked like. She had blood coming down from her lip. Her eye was already starting to swell, and she had a clump of hair just resting on her shoulder. She looked at Satoru and then at you.

You didn’t even take a moment to feel scared that she had caught you in your room with a boy. You didn’t care about that. You were just worried about her.

You walked over to her and grabbed her hands and walked her to your bed. You brushed the hair off her shoulder and then from her forehead.

“He’s gonna go call the police, mom. Okay?”

Her eyes grew real wide and she started shaking her head.

“No” she said, “You can’t. No”

Satoru was already at your window about to leave, but he stopped and looked at you.

“He’s drunk, Y/N” she said, “He heard your door shut, so he went to our bedroom. He stopped. If you call the police, it’ll just make it worse, believe me. Just let him sleep it off, it’ll be better tomorrow”

But it wouldn’t. It hadn’t been in all these years. This had to be the final straw.

You shook your head and could feel the tears stinging your eyes, “Mom, he was trying to rape you!”

She ducked her head and winced when you said that.

“It’s not like that” she shook her head, “We’re married. And sometimes marriages is… you’re too young to understand”

It got really quiet for a minute.

“I hope to hell I never understand”

That’s when she started to cry. She just held her head in her hands and she started to sob and all you could do was wrap your arms around her and cry with her. You had never seen her this upset. Or this hurt. Or this scared. It broke your heart.

It broke you.

You chug the wine in your hand and pour yourself some more. Tonight was a happy day, a good one. Why were you thinking about that?

You’re on your fourth or fifth glass of wine when Naoya comes back.

“We have dinner reservations tomorrow with Utahime and Maki to celebrate your flower shop” he pours himself another glass, “We’re going to the restaurant we went with your mom. Dory was it called?”

Your heart sinks down your chest.

It’d be impossible to meet Satoru there again, right? It had been a coincidence. Boston was too big to find each other again… right?

“I don’t want to go back there. I didn’t like it. Let’s try something new”

“You’ll be fine,” he says, “Maki is excited to eat there, I told her all about it and for once she didn’t roll her eyes at me”

What are the odds of meeting again at that same place? Maybe you should just let it be.

“Speaking of food, I’m starving”

The casserole!

“Oh shit!” You say, laughing. You were definitely tipsy.

Naoya rushes to the kitchen and you stand up and follow him in there. You walk in just as he pulls the oven door open and waves away the smoke. Ruined.

You got dizzy all of a sudden from standing up too fast after having that many glasses of wine. So you grabbed the counter beside him to steady yourself, just as he reached in to pull the burnt casserole out.

“Wait, Naoya! You need a…”

“Shit!” he yells.

“Pot holder”

The casserole falls from his hand and lands on the floor, shattering everywhere. You lift up your feet to avoid broken glass and mushroom chicken splatter. You start laughing as soon as you realize he didn’t even think to use a pot holder.

Must be the wine. It was a seriously strong wine.

He slams the oven shut and moves to the faucet, shoving his hand under the cold water, muttering curse words. You’re trying to suppress your laughter, but the wine and the ridiculousness of the last few seconds are making it hard. You look at the floor, at the mess you’re both about to have to clean up, and the laughter bursts from you. You’re still laughing as you lean over to get a look at Naoya’s hand.

You hope he didn’t hurt it too bad.

Suddenly you’re not laughing anymore. You’re on the floor, your hand pressed against the corner of your eye.

In a matter of one second, Naoya’s arm came out of nowhere and slammed against you, knocking you backwards. There was enough force behind it to know you off balance. When you lost your footing, you hit your face on one of the cabinet door handles as you came down.

Pain shoots through the corner of your eye, right near your temple.

And then you feel the weight.

Heaviness follows and it presses down on every part of you. So much gravity, pushing down on your emotions. Everything shatters.

Your tears, your heart, your laughter, your happiness, your soul. Shattered like broken glass raining down around you.

You wrap your arms over your head and try to wish away the last ten seconds.

Was that all it took for everything to shatter? Only ten seconds?

“Shit, Y/N” you hear him groan, “It’s not funny. It fucking hurts”

You don’t look up.

His voice doesn’t penetrate your body this time. It feels like it’s stabbing you now; that sharpness of his words coming at you like swords.

And then his hands are on your back, rubbing it.

“Y/N. Oh, shit, Y/N” he tries to pull your arms away from your head, but you refuse.

You shake your head. Begging for the last seconds to go away. Ten seconds. That’s all it took for a person to completely change everything about themselves.

Ten seconds that you’ll never get back.

He pulled you against him and started kissing the top of your head.

“I’m so sorry. I just… I burned my hand. I panicked. You were laughing and… I’m so sorry, it all happened so fast. I didn’t mean to push you, Y/N. I’m sorry”

But you couldn’t hear Naoya, you only heard your father.

“I’m sorry, Y/M/N. It was an accident. I’m so sorry”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. It was an accident. I’m so sorry”

You wanted him away from you.

Using every ounce of strength still in you, you pushed him away from you. He falls backward, onto his hands. His eyes are full of genuine sorrow, but then they’re full of something else.

Worry? Panic?

He slowly pulls up his right hand and it’s covered in blood. Blood is trickling out of his palm, down his wrist. You look at the floor, at the shattered pieces of glass from the casserole dish. His hand. You just pushed him onto glass.

He turns around and pulls himself up. He sticks his hand under the stream of water and starts rinsing away the blood. You stand up, shaking, just as he pulls a sliver of glass out of his palm and tosses it on the counter.

You’re full of so much anger, but somehow, concern for his hand still finds its way out. You grab a towel and shove it into his fist. There’s so much blood.

You try to help stop the bleeding, but you’re shaking too bad, “Naoya, your hand.”

He pulls the hand away and, with his good hand, he lifts my chin.

“Fuck the hand, Y/N. I don’t care about my hand. Are you okay?”

He’s looking back and forth between your eyes frantically as he assesses the cut on your face.

Your shoulders begin to shake and huge, hurt-filled tears spill down your cheeks.

“No” you’re sure he can hear your heart breaking with just that one word, because you can feel it in every part of you, “Oh my God. You pushed me, Naoya. You…”

The realization of what has just happened hurts worse than the actual action.

Naoya wraps his arm around your neck and desperately holds you against him, “I’m so sorry, Lily. God, I’m so sorry”, he buries his face against your hair, squeezing you with every emotion inside of him, “Please don’t hate me. Please”

His voice slowly starts to become his own voice again, and you feel it in your stomach, in your toes. He’s not even worried about his hand, which is still bleeding. That means something right?

There’s too much happening. The smoke, the wine, the broken glass, the food splattered everywhere, the blood, the anger, the apologies, it’s too much.

“I’m so sorry” he says again

You pull back and his eyes are red and you’ve never seen him look so sad.

“I panicked. I didn’t mean to push you away, I just panicked. All I could think about was my hand and… I’m so sorry”

He presses his mouth to your and breathes you in.

He’s not like your father. He can’t be. He’s nothing like that uncaring bastard.

You’re both upset and kissing and confused and sad. You’ve never felt anything like this moment, so ugly and painful. But somehow the only thing that eases the hurt just caused by this man is this man. Your tears are soothed by his sorrow, your emotions soothed with his mouth against yours, his hand gripping yours like he never wants to let go.

Naoya isn’t like your father. He’s nothing like him.

He can’t be.

part two [coming soon]

[artemistorm]

Skyward Sword Skyloft Aesthetic

I love the aesthetic of Skyloft so let's analyze it and see what makes it tick. This will be a long post with lots and lots of photos.

First of all, In Skyloft there are two very different styles of architecture:

Ancient architecture, which are the stately grey stone structures like the light tower in the plaza and around the Statue of the Goddess (as well as various locations on the surface)

And the Skyloftian architecture, which is much more round, colorful and whimsical than the ancient architecture. I will be focusing on the Skyloftian architecture.

Skyloftian houses are built underground with one exposed side facing out. The roofs are flat and often have paths or grass growing on them in order to maximize surface area and places to walk. Each house is unique and is personalized to the occupant.

Non-house buildings like the bazaar, knight academy, and the Lumpy Pumpkin are built above-ground and have varying kinds of roofs, from wood to bamboo, to tented rugs.

Interior walls generally follow this pattern: the walls are painted (or possibly frescoed) with a primary color--it's not a solid color, but with a dappled 'paintbrush-stroke' pattern. Decorative stones or tiles of a contrasting color are placed in a horizontal wavy line in the bottom half of the wall and in another line near the ceiling.

At the base, is a layer of stones of a different color. Structurally, this is likely a foundational base on which the walls are constructed to protect them from groundwater damage, like in cob (a certain kind of mud-cement) house construction.

Buildings and rooms tend to be curvy or round and often have whimsical features built in, like the oven in the kitchen and the bird faucet and tiled round bathing pool in the bathroom of the Knight Academy. In houses, sinks and counters are sometimes built into the wall. This is another feature you see frequently in cob house construction.

In fact, the Skyloftian style of architecture seems to have taken heavy inspiration from cob house construction. Cob is a building material that is made of local mud with additives to turn it into cement with hay or grass mixed in. The cob is mounded up into the shape of the walls and sealed with sealant and plaster. It is very quick to construct cob buildings and they are highly customizable. Building made of cob tend to be whimsical--look up images and see for yourself.

Furniture is made with wood and often has decorative tiling, painting, or carvings in them.

In terms of decorations, the most common motifs are geometric designs, floral and plant designs, and bird-themed designs. Bright colors are preferred, and almost everything in the whole game, but especially in Skyloft, has a pink or purple tinge/undertone to it.

One thing Skyloftians love are ornate rugs. Every room and every house has a rug, usually multiple rugs. Each rug is unique, brightly colored, and usually geometric in design.

There is even an entire (unmanned) shop in the bazaar full of rugs and other textiles.

Other decorations you might find in homes and buildings are pots, vases, bottles, and plates with colorful designs

Lace, stuffed animals, decorative pillows

Turkish lamps, wall hangings, table placemats or a table runner

Mobiles and decorative ceiling hangings

Remlit tree

And some rooms/houses are themed, for example, Fledge's room has a tropical island theme.

Outdoors, the village is decorated with multi-colored banners, buntings, pinwheels, flags, and flowers.

Together all these things construct the aesthetic and style of Skyloft: rounded and curvy buildings, cob-style construction, geometric, floral and bird designs, bright colors, ornate rugs, pots, Turkish lamps, stained glass, wood carvings, and lots and lots of whimsy.

[k-hippie]

...

CHAMPIGNAC World ( aka Sims de Nimes ) is coming in few days ;)

If we put the fantastic gameplay apart, ALL Sims 3 Worlds are about AMBIANCE ... and good Sims 3 Worlds are more about ambiance than everything else ;) It's a quest which doesn't end :D

Champignac ( codename : Sims de Nimes ) is a project we began a long ago ( 2018 ) and left rest in a corner of our CAW files. Paused, but never forgotten. Frankly, it was long due and time to finish.

Champignac is a French true suburbia living world based on Champs-les-Sims but cleaned up of its vacation stuff ... So you will get everything of a Maxis standard World ( the ice cream truck, the university guy ) and of course the ability to go to every vacation world ( including Champs-les-Sims )

We redid almost everything : the grass textures, the pavement and road textures, etc ... We added richness to this world with singular and very interesting stuff ...

80 lots are available. Both community and residential. We redid the native lots almost from the ground and used them for something else, except Place des Oliviers which kept its initial function and placement.

We used Votenga @ MTS who converted many things from Sims Medieval such as old castle tower we used a lot or the fantastic St Gall Monastery from efolger997 @ MTS we transformed a bit to get an incredible Winery lot ( yes, there is a Winery ... gosh, this is France after all ) ;)

We used lots from Sims 3 creators and we made many others with great care and as low as possible cheating build options ... We are not bold at Sims houses creation but we tried to make as diverse as possible in our constructions, but always staying in the guide of specific South of France style and design. Anyway, this will be to you to add your own vision and architectural art to Champignac ! ;)

ALL 80 lots are French flavored ( red terracotta roofs, white stone ) to get a unique style for a unique world :)

Nestled in the heart of the charming South of France, Champignac is a town adorned with the alluring flair of Mediterranean culture. As the Sims step into this picturesque town, they are immediately enveloped by the warmth of the sun, and the vibrant colors that paint the streets ...

No false antic stuff here. No false image from the 60's ... It is a fully contemporary world but with its own old stuff. Champignac boasts a unique blend of history and modernity all together :)

The ambiance is one of relaxation and leisure, inspired by the leisurely lifestyle of the South of France. Here, residents take the time to savor the pleasures of life, indulging in delicious cuisine, delightful conversations under the shade of trees. The town's bustling markets offer an array of fresh produce, colorful fabrics, enticing the Sims to immerse themselves in the lively atmosphere.

With its unique blend of history, culture, and natural beauty, Champignac offers the Sims a captivating and enriching experience. From the stunning architecture to the delectable cuisine, every aspect of this town reflects the South of France's intoxicating charm.

Many more details to come with the coming download post ...

So ... Stay tuned ;) ( and always safe )

blackgryffin

[moonesaiky]

Do OW!Ford really loves bill or he's just being manipulated?

Wow, complex question. Let's explain it more carefully, shall we?

OWFord LOVES Bill, that's a fact, and OWBill LOVES Ford. Love isn't the issue, it's how they deal with love.

Ford is Aroace in this universe, he loves Bill platonically, not romantically, although they do get into some more “romantic” situations for their own comfort, such as kissing and getting close to each other. He loves OWBill through manipulation and also outside manipulation: OWFord was made to love (not romantically) OWBill since it became a prophecy, that is, from birth Bill manipulated Ford to admire, feel safe and adore his image.

Here's a text I wrote some time ago explaining this.

“Everything was about him.

Ever since he was a child, Stanford Pines had been fascinated by triangles, it was almost an obsession. His parents didn't care, they thought he was strange enough with those six fingers.

But for Stanford, when his eyes saw it, he felt proud of those deformed hands, it seemed right for a few seconds.

And it had always been like that, ever since he was a baby, everything that reminded him of eyes and triangles made him feel comfortable. Cracks, wood fibers, clouds, asphalt, leaves, everything that could possibly form a triangle made him wiggle. He was obsessed with making triangle origami and drawing eye on them, he liked the feeling, he couldn't understand why…

Stanley always teased him about it, saying that he thought too much about geometry, or as he put it “boring shape stuff”, Stanford thought it was absurd but laughed anyway.

Money notes stirred him every time he saw that triangle, it seemed that something in that shape was calling him, it seemed that that eye was watching him. It was. A little scary.

But he got used to it, he got used to the feeling of being watched.

The color yellow attracted him, not as his favorite color, but the color that brought him calm, he didn't quite understand.

When he got older, he found out about the Illuminatis, and something inside him told him how ridiculous it was, how disrespectful they were! It was a symbol of peace and security, not of cruel mysteries. He was frustrated by this more than he understood.

One detail that his observant mind noticed was that the triangular shape always seemed to be in dangerous situations with him, and that was the reason he was safe. Like the time he was almost hit by a car while playing with Stanley and just then a post with a “stop” triangle fell into the street before the car lethally hit him. Or the time when he was threatened by bullies and a triangular-shaped rock fell from the school roof, hitting the school leader on the head and driving them away.

He thought it was funny, it seemed that his obsession with triangles also came from the triangle, he attracted triangles!

When he got the chance to go to his dream college, unfortunately his triangle luck didn't work out, he lost everything and Stanley was to blame.

When he got to the college he could go to, more triangles followed him, the symbol of his bedroom area, the prints on his shirts, he seemed to have returned to luck.

Another piece of luck for him was Fiddleford, his classmate with a green shirt with triangles! It was a sign that he was safe with that man! And he was right, he was his closest friend until he decided to move for his research to Gravity Falls!

There, not only were weirdos like him attracted, but so were triangles? It was confusing, but it was what he felt he would find the answers to.

And there it was, symbols, signs and stories, it was there, there where he would find the reason why his weirdness matched and attracted him so well to that shape he had seen so much of next to him.

Even that painting, that blessed painting.

It was him. He was what it was all about. He was the answer.

The all-seeing eye, and the words were right there.”

So basically, yes, Ford loves Bill's image because of clear manipulation, but he also started to love him after meeting him, loving traveling with him, taking care of the twins, and well, he saw Bill's way of giving back in a way of his own, being interdimensional and so on, maybe it's just the way he is….

WELL IT WASN'T HAHAHA.