#seldom encountered

[pratchettquotes]

"Fascinatin'," said Ridcully. "Sapient pearwood, eh?" He knelt down in an effort to see underneath.

The Luggage backed away. It was used to terror, horror, fear, and panic. It had seldom encountered interest before.

Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times

[acciojaeyun]

let me hold you close | p.sh.

PAIRING. rich!sunghoon x fem!reader

SUMMARY. you and sunghoon are both off-limits. you're still living with your ex, and he's off to get married to someone that has been arranged for his family business. but that doesn't stop you both from trudging boundaries when it's just you and him in your own world.

CONTENTS. smut, some angst, some fluff. LOTS OF JEALOUSY. smut with plot. not beta-read. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

WARNINGS. lots and lots of jealousy. sunghoon is DOWN-BAD for reader, but the feeling’s mutual. indirect cheating (but not really???). semi-public sex, dom!sunghoon, bratty reader. somewhat mean hoonie. oral (both f and m receiving), p in v, unprotected sexual act (use protection at all times), temperature play, sensory deprivation, slight bondage (just tying up), sir kink (oh yeah baby), spitting kink. use of pet names (wiee). THREE SEX SCENES. (seldom mentions of hyung line: heeseung, jay, and jake) IDK I WROTE THIS BEFORE I COULD FULLY WRITE EVERYTHING.

WORD COUNT. 4.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE. FINALLY IT'S HERE. belated happy birthday, my hoonhoon! this is my hoon birthday gift for y'all. hope you like it! (did i write two sunghoon smuts already? yes, yes i did.) also, wait for further updates, i might be updating anyone from the hyung line soon! wink wink.

MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST, YOU CAN SEND ME A MESSAGE.

There was something about him.

Park Sunghoon was the image of something so mysterious – yet, so captivating. His eyes held something deeper than what he tries to convey. You tried to hard to look away, but his actions, his stance – they command attention.

So much, that they commanded yours.

He has been a constant, a regular at the bar that you're working in every weekend to make ends meet. He was the hot bachelor that belonged in the upper VIPs that usually had a secluded room where they could share small talk over top shelf drinks.

Your first encounter with Park Sunghoon was when Byeol called in sick, and that meant you took over her shift as the personal-hired entertainer at Room 130.

"Please, Y/N," Byeol pleaded through the phone, coughing as her voice scratched against her throat, "if I could, I would. I'll take over your shift for the next week. You'll have my pay for tonight."

Now, additional income is something that is very difficult to shake off, no matter how it takes a night that consists of Neoguri noodles off of your schedule.

You wore your signature red cocktail dress, one that hugs all your right proportions beautifully, but not too tight, with a slit that doesn't go too up high on your thigh. Matched with a wave that's swept to the side, it is a no-brainer that the four men of Room 130 didn't even ask where their usual entertainer, Byeol, is.

"What a pretty face," Jake comments as he takes a sip of his armagnac, his eyes travelled down to your legs, but went back to your face, "nice voice, too." He adds.

Sunghoon was late, muttering an excuse that was along the lines of: his mother made him stay for a supposed meet-up with someone.

"Mommy's still on it?" Heeseung jokes, grabbing some of the snacks on the table, shaking his hand to remove the residue of it before pouring it to his mouth.

Sunghoon sends a look over Heeseung's way, making the oldest boy chuckle, "Well, you have to follow mommy's orders, or else, you're gonna whine about how your daily allowance has been reduced to half."

The rest of the boys chuckled, alongside the girls that were in the room to hold them company. Sunghoon was not the most pleased, he knew that Heeseung is right. He has to find a lady or else he will be arranged to a wedding just to keep up his expenditures and his lifestyle.

"Who's the girl?" Jay asks as he places his hand on the small of the back of the lady that sat on his lap, his eyes on the girl that giggled as she kept on tracing the edge of Jay's jawline.

"I don't know," Sunghoon grunted, eager to down a shot that was already on the table, "all I know is I have to find a partner ASAP, or else, I'll be wed to someone I could care less about."

That was when his eyes landed on you, singing a song softly as you held your vintage microphone. His eyebrows perched up slightly, and he smiled to himself.

Now, it has been approximately the fifth consecutive week that Sunghoon had tried to talk to you, alone, on your supposed shift at the public part of the bar.

Sweeping past through sweaty bodies as well as people that are drunk off their minds, Sunghoon was determined to at least know you better. It only took one song and one damn dress to catch Sunghoon's attention.

Lucky for him, he had caught your attention, too.

The thing was, you had a boyfriend – well, a roommate, if you will. Since love was obviously out the window, and that you were trying to sustain each other's stay in your apartment that has its contract nearing its end by the end of December.

Well, another reason was that your then-boyfriend was still trying to win you back.

And while you're certain that you're over him and is keeping him at bay for benefits, he certainly was not, and it somehow was making you guilty that you're somehow leading him on even when it was Sunghoon's face that you think of whenever you press your bullet vibrator against your clit, leaving out broken, breathy moans that underestimated how much you think you're going to moan for Sunghoon if time permits you.

Which brings you to here, a never-ending cat and mouse game that you have established with Sunghoon, who clearly was so head-over-heels for you.

The ordeal was simple: you, one of the bar's beloved entertainers, would finish a song that you sing and dedicate for Sunghoon, but wander off with a smile as you try and find yourself a suitable man vying for your attention. It was effective for you to make him jealous and demand your attention on him for the next hours.

Sunghoon had never gone past the eating only the third base, and Sunghoon was more than willing to eat your pussy on hours end. And you were willing to let him go past that, if only you haven't seen the ring that adorned his left hand, snug tight around his ring finger.

It was a stark reminder of how he was not for you, just how you are starting to become his.

"You sing here often?"

"I do," You'd giggle to whoever this guy's name is, you really didn't know, nor even tried remembering. You were sure it wasn't his name that you'll be screaming in the bathroom stalls of the bar.

"I should bo-"

"Then I'd want to book you, privately," Sunghoon cut the guy off, his voice reeking of jealousy and authority as he stood behind you, your back flushed against his chest.

"Ya," the boy raised his voice and poked Sunghoon's blue sweater tank top, "do you mind? We're talking here."

"And I'm talking to her, as well," Sunghoon responded, his eyes crinkling into amusement, "do you not want to talk to me, baby?" He pouts at you, nuzzling his chin to your neck as he leaves light kisses on it, making you gasp.

"I.." You trail off, biting your lip as your eyes moved back and forth between the guy and Sunghoon.

"I'm not wasting my time on this," the guy raised his hands in defeat, backing away, leaving you with the guy that you have tried to flirt indirectly through the night.

"Fancy seeing you here against sweaty bodies," You giggle as you turn around and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down teasingly to have his lips over yours, to which Sunghoon growled and pushed his lips on yours, immediately pushing his tongue inside your mouth as his hands dug on the curves of your waist.

"You drive me so fucking crazy," he whispers to your lips, in which you hum as a response. Not a long while after, you're being guided to one of the restrooms, his lips now attacking your neck to leave noticeable bruises that you're trying to cover up before you go to your morning shift at the local library of your town.

He pushes you to an empty restroom, not minding to lock it as he cages you in between his body and the sink. “Are you having fun?” He suddenly asks as he pools your dress up your hips and starts rubbing you through your wet panties, “Playing with me, are you having fun?”

You looked at him through lidded eyes and nod, “I do,” you say as you bite your lip, spreading your legs wide, “I like it when you’re so crazy for me.”

He grunts and kneels down, pulling your panties down as his nose is immediately wafted off by the smell of your arousal spreading throughout your core, “So wet for me, the guy did that to you?” He spoke as his thumb pressed on your bare clit, making you shudder.

“N-no,” you squeaked out, holding on the sink behind you, “it has always been you.”

“Always been me?” Sunghoon chuckles as he blows air to your sensitive cunt, “I don’t know, babe, I’m starting not to believe it given how many times I’ve practically pulled you off against men who are thirsting over you.”

Not leaving you any moment to respond, Sunghoon attaches his lips to your sensitive nub, moaning at your familiar taste that he had been obsessed with.

Moaning his name, you immediately hold on his hair, tightening your grip on his soft, brown-black hair, to which Sunghoon tuts as he pulls away, his thumb replacing his lips as he presses and rubs circles on your clit, “You don’t get to touch me, princess.”

Grasping your wrist, Sunghoon had practically forced your hand off his hair, placing it on the sink behind you to continue his ministrations on your pussy.

“Love this pussy so much,” he breathes out, poking his tongue out to fuck your hole with, “so pretty, could get in this forever.”

You moaned in response, desperate to cum just by Sunghoon’s fingers alone. Instinctively, your hands went to play with your breasts, pulling your dress straps down to pool on your arms, you bit your lip as you pinched and flicked your nipples, mimicking the way Sunghoon does it when he was mouthing your tits instead of your pussy.

Sunghoon looked up at you and smirked, sneaking in a hand between your legs to spread your labia apart, forcing his tongue deeper into you as he shook his head sideways, nose prodding against your clit, mouth leaving out noises, making sure that anyone could walk in the unlocked restroom and catch you both in such sinful act.

With buckled knees, you started to grind on his tongue, your mind dancing on the quick release that you felt was bubbling at the pits of your stomach, “Y-you eat pussy so fucking good.”

“That’s where I’m best at, babe,” Sunghoon winks at you, pushing his middle finger inside you after tracing your hole with it, “and can you blame me? Your pussy tastes like heaven.”

“O-oh!” You squeaked out, feeling your orgasm could come if Sunghoon continued this. And as if Sunghoon knows how to push your buttons, he adds a second finger, then a third, his tongue now dancing on your clit as he panted against your core.

“Fuck - shit, Sunghoon!” You exclaim as you push his face to your core, panting as you whine, eyes screwed shut with your other arm failing to hold on the counter, regardless of how dry the sink it may be, body convulsing as you cum on Sunghoon’s face.

Sunghoon happily licked through your folds, slurping your cum messily and noisily. He stood up with your cum glistening on his lips, his mouth sporting the smuggest grin that made you want to kiss his face silly.

“Damn,” you breathed out, leaning toward his chest to ground yourself.

“We’re not done yet.”

Needless to say, Sunghoon made sure that you could cum thrice from his fingers and mouth alone.

The following week, you were in the same position ��� however, instead of your hand holding on the sink, it was Sunghoon’s, with his other hand fisting your hair as he holds you still while he fucks your mouth to prove a point.

“So f-fucking warm,” Sunghoon grunted, his balls trodding against your chin as he kept on cursing, too lost in the bliss of your mouth taking him tightly, mimicking a virgin pussy.

With blood almost drawn on his lips, Sunghoon lets out a guttural groan as he pushes you against his pelvis, his penis bullying its way on your throat as strings of warm cum painted your throat.

“Should get you jealous more often,” Sunghoon comments as he regains his breathing, “such a desperate slut you become once you start reminding me whose pussy my dick belongs to.”

Before you could respond, the tall boy pushes his lips against yours hungrily, tongue immediately poking inside to start a tongued kiss with you, cupping both of your cheeks, he made sure you aren’t going anywhere.

“Thighs,” you started, too overtaken by lust, but Sunghoon heard it, he held your face with one hand to force you to look at him, “Your thighs, Sunghoon, I want to-“

“Yeah? Wanna grind on it, pretty?”

You nod, anything that could have you feeling him against your throbbing core, “Please,” you pleaded, grabbing his wrist to make you suck on his ring-clad finger, “want it, so much.”

Sunghoon almost lets out an animalistic growl as he pulls you to one of the stalls. He reaches behind you to lock it before turning around and places the seat down, sitting on it before urging you to straddle him.

Pooling your dress over your lap, you did as you were instructed. Hanging both arms around his neck, you stood up to pull your panties down, the slight string of arousal visible from the cloth.

On the other hand, Sunghoon already had his pants and boxers discarded, his angry cock lay erect against his stomach. You licked your lips and straddled him again, your legs on either side of his thighs, thigh-grinding long forgotten.

Both of you hissed as your pussy made contact with his dick, and soon enough, you were both a grinding mess, your grinds interrupted by humps as you groped your tits, your head thrown back as you continue to moan Sunghoon’s name.

“Yeah, moan that n-name, he’s y-yours, isn’t he?” Sunghoon hissed, his hair all over his face before leaning down to suck on your free boob that has been exposed from the tubing of the dress that was pulled down by you prior.

“Mhm, he’s mine!” You squealed as you hit your high just in the same time as the pale boy you’re sat on.

“Fuck,” you chuckled.

“Damn,” Sunghoon said breathlessly before kissing your lips and leaning his forehead against yours.

It was the first time he kissed you on the forehead after hooking up.

Last, last week’s hookup session with Sunghoon has all become you’ve ever thought about as you placed the books on the shelves, pausing every now and then as you daydream of it.

It has been two weeks since Sunghoon had shown up in the bar that you’re working at every weekends.

And while you hoped that he could at least sweep in to wave or send a smile your way. But Friday had gone, so has Saturday, even Sunday - no signs of Sunghoon.

His absence seemed to gnaw on you as you started to search for him during weekdays at your off-duties, but none. No sign of Sunghoon.

And you can’t even text him, since he hadn’t given his number, and you didn’t, too.

You’ve found his Instagram page, but it has never been updated apart from the photo of a golf course which he had posted four days ago. Stories didn’t also help, as he never updates his stories. DMs are off, and the only way to contact him was through e-mail.

E-mailing him had crossed your mind the moment it reached Thursday, you were so close to losing your mind that you didn’t even care whether or not to message him through his work e-mail, regardless of the possibility that anyone within the network could see it.

“That’s too much of a thought,” said a voice that startled you. Turning around, you saw the infamous Sunghoon leant agains the bookshelves, arms crossed, mouth adorning a soft smirk that you’ve grown to love.

“Please, I bet you’re thinking I’m thinking of you,” you snorted as you continued sorting the books, eyes not meeting his as his gaze challenged you.

“Well, I don’t even have to bet. I know you’re thinking of me whether you admit it or not,” Sunghoon countered.

“What an ego,” you muttered as you rolled your eyes, disappointed by his sudden absence for two weeks, even without giving you a notice as to why.

“Where are you off to, tonight?” He asked out of nowhere.

“Home, as usual.”

“My place?”

“No, what do you mean?”

“You said you were going home?”

“Since when had your place been my home?”

“Are you willing for it to be?”

“Sunghoon, what?” You furrowed your eyebrows at him, looking at him as if he had three heads in one body.

“I’m serious, stay with me.”

“Sunghoon—“

“I don’t take no for an answer.”

“Sunghoon!”

“What a noisy librarian do I have here,” Sunghoon smirked, “I like it when you’re noisy though.”

With an exasperated sigh, you pulled Sunghoon at the back of the library, “What are you doing, Park Sunghoon?”

“Full name? Ouch,” he placed a hand on his heart.

“Sunghoon,” you said through gritted teeth.

“Let’s go home,” he said instead of answering your questions, pulling you by your arm to the direction of his car that has been parked in front of the library.

Now, it was supposed to be just a talk. A negotiation between you and Sunghoon to finally end whatever it was between you both, both your heart and mind exasperated by the uncertainty that was brought about by you and him.

But here you are, biting your lip as Sunghoon kissed you on your neck, alternating between kissing, licking, and sucking, as he kept your hips pinned down by the grip of his hands on it.

“Stop moving,” he demanded, looking at you with such fire in his eyes whenever you bucked your hips up onto him.

“Need you,” you whined out, desperate to grind on him again, this time, you were hoping that it would last long and be much more comfortable than the last time that you did in the stalls.

“I know, sweetie,” Sunghoon smirked before sitting up to grab his black necktie which he had on his nightstand, “This okay?” He asked as he raised the necktie before you, insinuating a plan that he had in mind.

With a nod and a verbal agreement, Sunghoon wrapped the blindfold around your head before pulling away to see you in your totality: laid back, eyes covered by the velvet cloth of his necktie, and naked — all just for him.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Sunghoon comments as he grabbed the cloth ropes that dangled on the edge of the headrest, grabbing it with a smirk, he hoists your arms up, making you gasp, as he tied it to the to the headboard.

He tested whether the knot was tight or just right, before peering down at you and cupping your cheeks as he leaned down to kiss on you.

Adjusting his body, Sunghoon left a trail of kisses from four face down to your nipple, before swirling his tongue around your sensitive nub. Pulling back, he grabbed the cold glass of champagne that sat on the trolley by his bed. Grabbing a small ice cube from the bucket of the bottle, he circled the ice around your nipple, earning a gasp from you.

"Cold, isn't it?" He questioned before leaning down again to give your other breast attention, and after a while, he switched places, giving you the same amount of pleasure from the cold and his warm mouth alone.

He trailed the melting ice cube down your body, making you shiver at how the cold trail was instantly replaced by his warm lips as he kissed you along the wet path of the melted ice cube.

"You and your pretty body," he whispers before grabbing another ice cube again, this time, he placed it on his tongue, letting the cold replace the warmth of his tongue.

Peering down between your legs, he crawled down until he was face near your core, making you sigh in anticipation, it was moments like this that you craved for Sunghoon to speed up his actions. It was no lie that Sunghoon ate pussy pretty good, and sometimes, you think, how good could he be when he finally has his dick inside you?

Sunghoon pokes his cold tongue against your hole, making you squeal as your legs thrashed up in surprise. He grinned as he gave kitten licks to your core, his hands pushing your legs far apart before diving into your cunt.

Moans and groans and the occasional noise from Sunghoon's licking on your core were all that could be heard in his bedroom. He kept his eyes on you, basking in your reactions before he inserted his middle and ring finger inside you, contrasting the coldness of his tongue.

"Fuck! I love your m-mouth," you whimpered out, wriggling from the overwhelming feeling that only Sunghoon had managed to get out from you.

"Always f-fucking my pussy with that m-mouth so, g-good - Sunghoon!" you exclaimed as you came on his mouth without warning, Sunghoon humming as he licked through your folds, mimicking the noise of that a happy man.

He straightened up and freed his aching cock from the restraints of his trousers and boxers, hissing as his dick slapped against his stomach before hovering over you again to tip your chin up for a messy kiss.

Sunghoon licked into your mouth before prodding it open so he could spit into it, "Swallow," was all he said before you closed your mouth and opened it in front of him to show him that you did what was told.

The boy groans as he places his dick in between your folds, setting his pace as he starts from something that's agonizingly slow, drawing out a pained whimper from you.

"Hoonie, want your cock."

"Yeah?" he breathed out, picking up his pace, "you already have it been your legs, pretty."

"No," you shook your head, "want it."

"Want it, where?" he starts to slow down without much thought as he dawns realization to what you said.

"Cock, Hoonie, w-want it inside me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, fuck! Please, hurry!" you pleaded, hands pulling against your restraints, "Want it inside me, Hoonie, please!"

"Condoms?"

"No, raw."

"Baby–"

"Please!"

One beg from you and Sunghoon's heartbeat has already picked up. Before you both even started seeing each other to hook up, you have already established that the farthest you could go with each other is oral. Other than that is off the table, as you have said, you both are completely off-limits.

Sunghoon's chest warmed at the thought of you warming up to him, "Okay, baby," he breathed out, "are you sure?"

"I am," you whined.

He leaned over and removed your blindfold and restraints, letting you adjust before pushing his lips on yours, "Thank you, thank you," he muttered in between kisses as he pulls himself away, prodding the tip of his dick on your throbbing hole.

"I gotta say," Sunghoon chuckled as he pushes his tip inside you slowly, earning a delicious moan from you both, "you're so goddamn pretty, more exceptionally so when I'm inside you."

Sunghoon has a way with words, that's one thing that you made yourself known. That was something about him that you think was what sealed the deal – he fed into your need for constant assurance, even though there were limitations between you both.

"Push it all in," you demanded.

Without another word, Sunghoon pushed himself inside, earning a throaty groan between you both.

"Shit, f-feel so g-good for me, oh, my god," Sunghoon breathed as he pushed his face into the crook of your neck, your arms immediately finding home around his torso.

Sunghoon picks up his pace as he continues on bullying his way inside you, relishing on how your pussy throbs around his dick. With every thrust that he lands inside you, your eyes roll at the back of your head, feeling the pulse of the veins of his dick with every drag.

"God, Sunghoon, I–" you cut yourself off with a groan by his ear, cradling his face as he placed light kisses on your shoulder, "Fuck, Sunghoon, so good!"

The boy pulled his face away, prying your mouth open as he spit into your mouth, his cock drilling inside you in the slowest, yet most delicious way. It was as if he was trying his best to memorize how your gummy walls enveloped his dick, in the hopes of making your pussy remember his.

And, to commit this into memory, Sunghoon removes the ring he had clad around his ring finger, reaching for your left hand that hung around your shoulder, and, in a lust-filled haze, he wore the finger around the nearest finger that was accessible to him, he'd fix that later.

Your eyes wandered to the ring that adorned your thumb, before biting your lip and looking at him. Sunghoon already adjusted himself, kneeling straight as he hikes your leg up and places it on his shoulder; and with a roll of his hips, both of you are already a whimpering, moaning mess.

"So f-full, fucking finally," you moaned out and Sunghoon reaches for your other hand to intertwine it with his, "Yeah? Been dreaming of it for so long, huh?"

Tapping your cheek he makes you look at him, "Been dreaming of this, t-too, baby," he says, panting, "been dreaming of d-doing more than just this, too,"

You looked at him with doe eyes, your lips dropping down to his lips, "Kiss me, Sunghoon."

Sunghoon nodded and kissed you, your hips bucking up to meet his thrusts, it was in that moment that only the two of you existed.

"You're squeezing me so f-fucking..." Sunghoon trailed, eyebrows drawn to each other in concentration, "..so fucking good for me, God, I love you."

His hands travelled down to your clit and rubbed circles around it, making you whimper and pull his face to yours, your lips wanting to get a taste of his again.

"Not gonna last l-long, princess," Sunghoon muttered in between grunts, "You close?" He said as he looked at you, searching your eyes for more than just your sign of being as near as he is.

You hum reaching your head up to peck his lips, "M-me too, Hoonie, dick is f-fucking me so g-good," your head attempting to throw back as his tip kept on hitting that sweet spot inside you.

"I love you," Sunghoon whispers as he lets go of your leg on his shoulder, pressing onto your body as he finally lets go of his cum inside you, your release following suit after he kept on thrusting even if he was coming undone inside you.

For a while, you both had stayed in that position, Sunghoon still deep inside you in between your legs, legs weakly wrapped around his body, both of your arms wrapped around his neck as you combed through his hair.

There was a heavy weight in the air, something that demands to be addressed.

Sunghoon lifts his head up, his chin rest against your chest. With a quick kiss on the valley of your breasts, he pulls the hand that had the ring wrapped around your thumb, he kisses your inner wrist, before, with lidded eyes, removing the ring and placing it instead to your ring finger, kissing your palm after a close inspection.

Sunghoon had never been so sure in his life, until now.

"I meant what I said," Sunghoon says quietly, his eyes now trained on your hand, eager to confess that it had always been you all along.

"Sunghoon, we can't.."

"Why?"

"You're going to get married,"

"I called it off."

You looked at him with a gasp, "What?"

"I said I found a partner, I always told you I'll always have you close, right?" he says as he sent you a soft smile, relishing in the hand that played with his hair.

"You're crazy," you chuckled.

"You make me go crazy over you," Sunghoon smiles with his eyes almost close.

"I love you, too, Sunghoon."

And when your eyes both meet, Sunghoon smiled softly, and that was when you both knew – it was where you both are supposed to be.

Sunghoon hums as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, this time, sure.

"Stay with me tonight," Sunghoon whispers.

"I'll stay tomorrow, too," you add.

"And on the days after that?" Sunghoon asks, his cheek pressed against your chest.

"And on the days after eternity."

© acciojaeyun, 2024.

DISCLAIMER. I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED/REPOSTED ON HERE OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR PUT INTO ANY AI PROGRAMS. DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ.

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[ssa-dado]

Annoyingly Yours - SOS

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, angst though it's more like ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫ Summary: At 33, Aaron Hotchner prides himself on discipline and control... until you become his deskmate. With quirks that seem to clash against his precision, you’re nothing short of maddening. Even your breathing seems to provoke a visceral reaction in him... surely out of frustration, right? Not out of... attraction?! Warnings: None, just wanted to clarify the story is set in 1998, before Hotch became Unit Chief (Gideon and Rossi were charge instead). Word Count: 4.4k Dado's Corner: Based on this ask sent by the loml @c-losur3. Made a few tweaks because I can. And because I’m evil. Enter Aaron “convinces himself he hates you while secretly nursing a big fat crush” Hotchner. A timeless classic. Hope you like it.

masterlist

“People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought which they seldom use.” - Søren Kierkegaard

Written in blue gel ink on a neon pink sticky note, it sat smugly atop the pristine case file Hotch had spent hours perfecting the night before.

No signature, no admission of guilt.

Just a bright, audacious square of defiance left to mock him.

In all his years as a profiler, he’d never encountered a case this easy to solve. Hell, he wished his active investigations were even half as simple as this. Because only after approximately half a second of analysis, the profile of the Unsub was crystal clear:

Female. Early 20s. A twisted sense of humor. A fascination with philosophy, particularly the existential, though occasionally dabbling in absurdism. Works in law enforcement - specifically, the BAU. Only writes in blue ink because she needs her words to stand out as much as her personality does. Likely has a compulsive habit of arriving to work early but never early enough to beat him to the office.

And there she was, the Unsub, strolling through the entrance just as the clock struck 6:01.

“Good morning, Hotch,” you said without even glancing in his direction, as if you somehow sensed his irritation wafting across the bullpen.

You were the Unsub.

His polyglot, sarcastic, sticky-note-vandalizing deskmate.

Case closed.

“Why did you leave me this?” he scoffed as his fingers carefully peeled back the neon pink square from the folder.

The glue resisted just enough to be infuriating, threatening to leave a smear on what he privately considered his masterpiece - a report so cleanly written that it might one day serve as the gold standard for FBI rookies.

And now, his file, had been vandalized.

It bore your mark.

“Educational purposes,” you said airily, as you dropped into your chair facing his own, a complete lack of regard for the disruption you caused just by existing in his vicinity.

He despised it.

That your desk had to face his, ensuring that every time he so much as lifted his gaze, he was met with the perpetual source of his unease, was nothing short of torture.

Why couldn’t you be like his last deskmate? That moron at least had the decency to leave him alone unless absolutely necessary.

The most small talk he’d ever inflicted was the occasional, self-congratulatory monologue about whatever barely-legal college girl he’d managed to con into bed last Friday night with the oh-so-irresistible revelation that he was FBI.

At least after spewing his bullshit, the guy would shut up and return to his self-inflicted misery, no doubt haunted by the limitations of his pitifully small brain.

You, instead, were far too smart - too sharp for your own good, really - but still your humor was as broken as his own. You had the same, if not more, level of drive. And for some inexplicable reason, you shared his obsession with arriving early.

It was maddening.

It was his thing - his small act of rebellion against a world that had always expected more from him than he could give.

His hours of solitude before the office filled with noise, before the madness and the demands of others hijacked his peace. Those few precious hours were his escape, his refuge, where he could think, where he could breathe.

But no, you had to show up too. Every damn morning.

“Educational purposes?” He echoed flatly, regretting, for the hundredth time, that he ever encouraged you to speak before his second cup of coffee.

“Yes, Hotch. I’ve never seen you use a sticky note,” you retorted, as if your reasoning were completely rational and not mildly absurd. “So, naturally, I assumed you didn’t know they existed. Thought I’d be kind of me to introduce you to the concept.”

“You’re hilarious,” he deadpanned, the sarcasm sliding off his tongue with a sharpness that matched the ache now forming at his temples. “I know what sticky notes are. I don’t use them because they’re impractical. They always leave glue residue, it’s annoying.”

Since for some reasons he felt the need to emphasize his point, he held up his sacred notebook - a worn, leather-bound treasure he treated like an extension of himself. “That’s why we have these. To take proper notes. Like agents. Not middle schoolers.”

But you didn’t even flinch.

Instead, you leaned back in your chair, the movement slow and casual, yet just enough to make him irrationally nervous that you might tip over. “They don’t leave residue if you close the case fast enough. The glue won’t have time to dry. But I guess if it takes you ages to solve something, that’s not really the sticky note’s fault, is it? Sounds more like a problem with the agent.”

His jaw locked so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack.

The nerve of you.

He hated how his body betrayed him like this, the faintest tingle at the back of his neck, the way his pulse faltered and then stuttered, because his decision to remain silent didn’t let his voice do the stammering instead.

Oh, he wanted to argue.

Desperately.

To lay out an irrefutable case demonstrating, that the fault lay not in the man who would undoubtedly climb the FBI ranks faster than anyone dared imagine but in the cheap adhesive some factory somewhere had slapped onto your stupid pack of hot pink sticky notes.

And all he wanted, absurdly, was to prove you wrong.

Not just wrong. Spectacularly wrong.

But instead of offering a retort worthy of his reputation, he exhaled sharply, forcing his jaw to unclench.

He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes locking onto yours, narrowing into the kind of look that could silence seasoned agents, suspects, and even Gideon when necessary.

Yet somehow, it had no discernible effect on the 21-year-old profiler sitting across from him - the one who’d been in the BAU for barely three weeks and already seemed impervious to his most withering glares.

As if in response to his futile attempt at dominance, your smirk widened, as though you could hear the unspoken debate raging in his head. Worse, it looked like you were enjoying the fact that you’d managed to rattle him.

And God help him, he felt rattled.

“How many of those sticky notes do you have?” he finally asked.

Your response was almost immediate.

“As many as you need,” you said as you pulled open your top-right drawer – the drawer that had come to symbolize everything he couldn’t categorize about you.

It housed your so-called “essentials”: pencils, a collection of elastic bands you had an infuriating habit of launching at him when the mood struck, and the same six markers in various states of decay - probably relics from your high school days. There was a stapler in there too - one he had to admit, with no small amount of shame, he borrowed from time to time.

But then there were the other items. The ones his categorically organized brain couldn’t quite justify sharing space with stationary essentials.

A box of tea - the kind of black tea with a scent so strong it practically sucker-punched him from across the desk every time you brewed it, chocolate bars that mysteriously appeared and vanished like contraband…

…and, as it turned out, the dreaded sticky notes.

They were hidden beneath the tea box, of course - because why not force him to think about the assault on his nostrils that would begin precisely three hours and twenty-seven minutes from now?

You lifted the box, revealing the fluorescent pink squares of doom, a shade so bright it only made the pain going on in his head since the first moment you opened your mouth today even worse.

“I only have hot pink, though,” you announced, holding the sticky notes up.

“…And?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Am I not allowed to use hot pink? Do you have a problem with that?”

“On the contrary,” you said, your lips curling into that infuriating smirk again. “I’m impressed. I thought you’d whine about a color demasculating your sacred reports.”

He felt his pulse thrum in his ears at that.

He almost - almost - wanted to tell you that you were looking at a man currently wearing pink socks under his neatly pressed slacks. A pair that had, unfortunately, turned pink during his first solo attempt at laundry in college and had somehow managed to stay in his rotation all these years, as a reminder that even the best could make mistakes.

But he didn’t.

Not because he was embarrassed - he wasn’t - but because he knew you’d twist it into something else entirely, another jab, another laugh at his expense.

And the last thing he needed right now was more of this.

Whatever this was.

Instead, he picked up the hot pink sticky notes, tapping them against his palm. “I’ll take them, we’ll see if it’s really the agent’s fault."

By mid-morning, to his reluctant surprise, the sticky notes had become one of his favorite tools - not just for their undeniable practicality but because they gave him the perfect weapon to deliver a dose of your own medicine.

And you deserved it. Absolutely, unequivocally deserved it.

After all, it wasn’t him launching elastic bands at his deskmate with sniper-like precision at ungodly hours, the faint thwack cutting through the quiet bullpen as the band landed squarely in his lap, while he was clearly trying to work. This, from the same person who’d managed to fail their firearm certification twice

It wasn’t him leaning subtly - though not subtly enough - to sneak a peek at his case files because your own workload wasn’t challenging enough to hold your attention. Still too new to the team, you’d only been sent into the field once, a prisoner of the bullpen and endless paperwork. Yet, despite the monotony, you remained undeterred, tirelessly determined to prove your worth at every possible turn.

And it certainly wasn’t him disrupting the flow of the day by asking if his coffee needed refilling when he was clearly already immersed in work, only to return moments later with an extra steaming cup - and a piece of chocolate from that drawer - placing it without a word on his desk like it wasn’t an unnecessary intrusion. Because you were just kind like that.

It wasn’t him rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, the fabric bunching unevenly around his elbows - a motion so predictable it had practically become your tell when you were wrestling with a puzzle more stubborn than the agent that solving it.

Nor was it how your forearms inevitably transformed into impressionist paintings of smudged blue ink, the accidental artwork often bleeding onto the cuffs of your shirt, leaving the unfortunate soul seated across from you utterly derailed from whatever he’d been about to jot down, unable to look away.

It wasn’t him who dressed like that.

Had a brain like that.

A voice like that.

A face like that.

No.

It wasn’t him. It was you. And that was the problem.

Because for all his irritation, for all his carefully constructed disdain, he couldn’t stop noticing. Couldn't stop looking. Couldn't stop… what exactly?

…Right.

Couldn’t stop scribbling down his meticulously crafted revenge, which he would plant squarely on your desk the moment you wandered off to refill your coffee.

“We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard to remain stupid.” – Benjamin Franklin

Thought you might enjoy something to ponder while you’re busy ignoring the typo you made on page 7, line 15 of your report.– A.H.

He placed the sticky note precisely in the center of your desk, ensuring it was impossible to miss. Satisfied, he returned to his seat, feigning an air of indifference as he watched you from the corner of his eye.

It didn’t take long.

He didn’t look up when you arrived, but he heard it - the subtle shift in your breathing, the gasp as your eyes widened. The pages of your report rustled as you flipped through them, and the sharp exhale that followed told him you’d found it.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

Never had a sound been so soothing to his ears.

And yet - he should have known better.

He barely had time to blink before the loud thud of your hand slamming onto his desk jolted him upright. He looked up to find you standing over him, your eyes gleaming with a smugness so infuriating it made him want to wipe it off your face.

His gaze darted down to the sticky note you’d slapped in front of him, and -

Oh.

Hotch stared at it. Then stared some more.

There, in all its crude glory, was what could only be described as a "creative interpretation" of a very specific part of the male anatomy, staring back at him from the bright pink square.

“The proportions are all wrong.” He deadpanned.

And then you, with all your infuriating composure, leaned on his desk.

Close. Too close.

"Oh, I’m sorry, Agent Hotchner," you said, raising a brow. "If you want it anatomically correct, maybe next time you should hand me a reference photo."

His brain short-circuited.

For a horrifying moment, he couldn’t think of a single word, but only at the implication of what you said… you couldn’t mean that… right?!

“Not yours!” you blurted out, your hands flailing in a frantic attempt to erase the moment. “I didn’t mean- I wasn’t asking for- I just-”

"And I certainly wouldn’t-" he cut in, his own voice breaking due to the sudden clumsiness of his own tongue.

But the damage was done.

Your cheeks turned the same vivid shade as the neon pink sticky note still plastered defiantly on his desk. He felt his own face burning, and the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably, like his own body was actively rebelling against him.

Both of you were way too stunned to say anything that wouldn’t somehow make it worse.

Hotch’s mind raced for a way to defuse the situation, but every possible response felt like it would either escalate the embarrassment or reveal… something he wasn’t ready to confront.

And then, mercifully - or perhaps not - your survival instincts kicked in.

“I’ll just… uh… get more coffee,” you muttered, backing away from his desk like it might physically combust if you stayed a moment longer. You turned on your heel, clearly aiming to escape the bullpen as fast as humanly possible. “Do you want some?”

He blinked, thrown off by the question. “Yes, thanks. Black,” he replied automatically, his voice still a little stiff.

As soon as you were out of sight, he allowed himself to crumble. His left hand dragged across his face, fingers pressing against his temples as if they could massage the ridiculousness of it all out of his brain.

Stupid. The whole thing was so stupid.

A slip of the tongue, a misstep, blown completely out of proportion.

And yet, here he was, sitting at his desk, undone by a pink sticky note and a fleeting moment of awkwardness.

With a low, frustrated groan, he let his hand drop, hitting his forehead against the heel of his palm in a futile attempt to snap himself out of it.

Focus. He needed to focus.

He stared down at the open case file in front of him, its neatly typed words mocking him with their clarity.

He knew they were legible - he’d written them himself.

But right now, the letters blurred into meaningless smudges on the page, overridden by a far more vivid image - your face.

Flushed. Wide-eyed. Flustered.

This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.

Just a joke, he reminded himself. Just a stupid, ill-timed joke.

And yet his chest still felt tight, his pulse erratic, like he’d run up the stairs two steps at a time.

His gaze flicked to the sticky note still sitting on the edge of his desk, as bright and offensive as the moment it had first been slapped down in front of him. Without thinking, he grabbed it, crumpling it in his fist.

There. Problem solved. Gone. Out of sight, out of mind.

He could move on.

But then his hand stilled, his grip loosening as he stared at the crumpled ball of paper.

His pulse still raced, his mind still spiraled, and all because of… this.

A rational man would throw it away. Rip it into pieces, toss it into the trash, and let it become a fleeting, forgotten memory.

He should throw it away. He would throw it away. Any second now.

But his hand didn’t move.

Instead, and against every shred of common sense he prided himself on, Hotch smoothed the crumpled edges as best he could and opened his desk drawer, tucking it far into the back, behind a few other things he pretended not to care about but couldn’t quite get rid of.

Hidden away, out of sight.

Safe.

From what? From you? From himself? He didn’t have the answer, and he didn’t dare linger on the questions.

Instead, he closed the drawer with more force than necessary, ignoring the faint tremor in his hand - but even as he turned his attention to the files in front of him, the pink still lingered in his periphery, an afterimage burned into his mind.

Of your flustered face.

Adorable.

So adorable that, over time, that sticky note became far from the only item inhabiting that drawer.

Aaron Hotchner - the very man who had once scoffed at your so-called “miscellaneous essentials” drawer - now secretly had one of his own.

A collection of odd, seemingly random things: items you had given him, thrown at him in moments of boredom, or those ridiculous little tokens you’d started exchanging lately that blurred the line between teasing and genuine thoughtfulness.

Because that’s what deskmates did, right?

They shared. They joked. They exchanged these odd little tokens of camaraderie that somehow made the job less crushing.

Except this felt like something more.

Maybe you were more than deskmates. Maybe even… friends?

And he wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Gideon, had been starting to observe the two of you like he was profiling a particularly complex unsub, his sharp, knowing glances making Hotch feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.

Then there was Rossi, who took an almost perverse delight in making his observations less subtle. "Synergy," he'd say with a pointed smirk, the kind that made Hotch’s jaw tighten. "It’s a rare thing, you know, finding compatibility like this. Magic, really."

They saw something. Something neither of you was ready to admit.

And ominously - no, deliberately - they decided to exploit it.

Because that’s what bosses did.

The BAU was chronically understaffed, perpetually fighting against the outdated perception that profiling was glorified guesswork. The pay wasn’t anything to write home about, either. Most cases were worked from behind desks, saving the budget for the bigger field assignments.

But what the BAU lacked in glamour, it tried to make up for in partnerships - teams so seamlessly synchronized they became the backbone of the unit.

Apparently, you and Hotch had become one of those teams.

What had started as two distinct desks - two well-defined territories with clear boundaries - had slowly morphed into one chaotic shared space.

A 5’x5’ no-man’s-land where it was impossible to tell where your workspace ended, and his began.

Like now.

The oversized map of your current case sprawled across the desk, forcing you both into closer proximity than either of you would normally allow.

You were perched on his side of the desk, tracing potential paths and patterns, completely absorbed in piecing together the unsub’s geographical profile.

He told himself he was focused. Jotting down victim locations. Marking points on the map with  little red magnets.

Totally immersed in the task at hand.

Except he wasn’t.

Because the occasional brush of your arm against his felt electrifying in a way it had no right to be.

Because your voice, low and steady as you murmured your observations, felt less like background noise and more like the only sound in the room.

And yet, this closeness, this seamless partnership, felt natural.

Effortless.

Distracting as hell.

So distracting that by the time he placed the last magnet, he realized he’d miscounted. One victim left, and no magnet to place them.

“Hotch,” you said softly, your eyes scanning the map, “It looks like we might’ve missed a pin for Daniel Hardman.”

How diplomatic of you.

How unnecessarily kind, considering it was entirely his fault.

He’d miscounted the magnets - a mistake caused by a momentary lapse in focus when, mid-count, you casually asked him if he wanted to go watch the first Star Wars prequel with you next year.

It wasn’t just the advance planning that sent his mind reeling - though the thought of you penciling him into your future like that was disarming enough - it was the fact that you remembered he liked Star Wars.

A detail you had no business remembering, and yet, somehow, you did.

“Yes, sorry. There are more in my drawer,” he said, standing quickly to fetch them himself. But before he could stop you, you were already at the drawer, pulling it open.

“It’s the second one-” The words barely left his mouth before he heard the gasp.

“…from the top,” he finished weakly, already knowing what you’d seen.

There they were. Your tokens. In his drawer. Staring right at you.

The gun casing from the bullet you’d proudly handed him after finally earning your firearm certification on your third attempt. You’d declared, almost giddy, that you’d never be a burden to him again, and maybe it was his lessons, you’d added shyly, that had helped you finally overcome it. He wasn’t sure what had struck him more: the pride in your voice or the fact that you’d thought of him at all.

A framed solo photograph of the two of you from that year’s Thanksgiving spent stuck in the bullpen, drowning in case files while Rossi and Gideon insisted on a makeshift dinner with takeout. You hadn’t hesitated for a second, throwing an arm around him for the picture and leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. For you, maybe it had been. For him, it had been anything but.

Every single elastic band you’d launched at him -143, though he’d never admit to counting.

A single stray hair tie - the one you’d used to tie his hair into a ridiculous fountain one day when his fringe had gotten so long it kept falling into his face. He’d left it like that the rest of the day, silently cursing himself for how much he didn’t hate it.

An unopened pack of hot pink sticky notes, the only color he now allowed himself to buy, though he’d never admit why.

And, of course, every sticky note you’d ever left him, arranged in chronological order - except for one.

The “caricature,” the crude drawing that had started his ridiculous collection. That particular sticky note hadn’t stayed long in the drawer. Somehow, it had made its way home with him, “inexplicably” framed and placed on his bedside table.

It now sat next to his alarm clock, the two most irritating objects in his life.

Both constant reminders of things he couldn’t seem to escape - one for its relentless insistence on dragging him out of bed every morning, and the other for how it made him feel every time he looked at it.

And now here you were, looking up from the drawer, eyes wide. “Hotch…”

He tensed, his pulse quickening with each step you took toward him… what were you doing?

Without a word, you opened your drawer—the infamous "essentials" drawer he thought he knew like the back of his hand.

Except this time, its contents had changed.

Because right on top, perched like a cherished keepsake, was a photo he hadn’t known existed.

Another one from that Thanksgiving night.

The one photo taken moments later, when you’d decided, in your infinite ability to wreak havoc, to joke about “capturing a moment” and had wrapped your arms around his head, holding him still as you planted a kiss on his cheek.

His expression in the photo was pure indignation, eyebrows furrowed in protest - though it also captured the deep rouge spreading across his cheeks.

“This one is my favorite,” you said, laughing as you held it up for him to see. “You’re so red in it, it’s hilarious.”

He stared at the photo, feeling the telltale warmth creeping up his neck, threatening to betray him all over again. His ears burned as he managed to mutter, “Never been kissed by a woman before.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long.

You blinked, your laughter abruptly halting as your mouth fell open in shock. “Wait, seriously? Are you-?”

He sighed, cutting you off before your pity or disbelief could spiral out of control. “I was joking,” he said, voice flat and utterly deadpan. “I’ve been kissed by women. Multiple.”

You burst into laughter again, this time doubling over. “Oh my God! Why did you say it like that? Multiple! Hotch,” you said, gasping for air between giggles, “you’re killing me.”

“No,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he turned back to the map in front of him. “You’re killing me.”

You didn’t hear him, thank God - or if you did, you gave no sign. He wasn’t sure which would have been worse.

A moment later, you were back at his side of the desk, the missing red magnet in your hand. You held it out to him, your smile still warm, still lingering. “For the record,” you said, your voice softer now, “I think it’s kind of sweet. That you framed it, I mean.”

His hand hesitated as he reached for the magnet, his fingers hovering just over yours. Something so simple suddenly felt unbearably complicated.

Delicate.

He couldn’t seem to figure out how to take the magnet without brushing against your skin - not that he didn’t want to.

He just wasn’t sure if he should.

“It’s a good photo,” he said at last, his voice quieter than usual, his eyes flickering up to meet yours briefly before darting back to the map.

Safe. Neutral.

But you didn’t retreat.

If anything, your smile only grew.

“Yes,” you said, voice just as quiet. “It is.”

---

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[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

the elitism in magic education

HELLO 🤡 I have come to you today with an analysis of Fellow Honest's motives and what they imply about the mages and non-mages in the world of Twisted Wonderland, as well as the state of magic education as it relates to one's social status. It's a doozy, so let's get right into it! ***WARNING: Spoilers for Stage in Playful Land!!***

Fellow's resentment of the elite harkens back to something I've always suspected but also something that Twisted Wonderland has seldom gone out of its way to shine a harsh spotlight on. That "something" is the discrepancy between the "haves" and the "have-nots" in terms of magic. With the main setting of TWST being a private magic school, of course the lens through which we view many events will be from this perspective as well... and that limits what we see and hear. Most of the NPCs we encounter (even the annoying ones, such as the Magicam Monsters from the first Halloween event) endlessly praise the NRC students just for attending a famous magic school. If we look closely though, we’ll start to see cracks in the shiny rose-colored lenses (which, coincidentally, is how Fellow’s UM name is written).

To begin with, we are told that only 10% of the human population (for the sake of argument, let's assume that most other races also have low magic rates) is even capable of magic to begin with. Of this 10%, the majority of people with the aptitude for magic only have enough to barely be able to lift a cup. In order to qualify for a prestigious magic school like Night Raven College or Royal Sword Academy, you'd literally have to be the cream of the crop and get lucky in terms of genetics. Magic cannot be learned by someone that was not born with the innate ability for it, and not everyone who is the child of a mage will be capable of magic themselves. This is already one HUGE barrier for entry. We now have more to consider.

Night Raven College is notably a private boarding school. This potentially means that students may need to pay a tuition fee for classes, room, and board. Perhaps this tuition doesn't exist, since NRC doesn't take applications but rather hand-selects its students. Additionally, NRC is based on a British school, and most European schools cost little to nothing to attend. However, it's hard to believe a school as fancy as NRC is a private institution that runs solely on the charity and goodwill of donors (though we do see Crowley happily accepting donations as well, specifically from the local town and from Kalim’s family). Realistically speaking, Stuff Costs Money, and if you Want Stuff, you also Need Money. NRC is not raising these mages of the future out of the goodness of their hearts, NRC is raising these mages because there is profit and prestige to be gained from the endeavor. What if there are students who are picked to go but end up having to leave because they can’t afford it?? This point is just speculative though; I won’t count it as actual evidence since there is no in-game lore which confirms tuition. We do know, however, that students do at least have to pay for their dorm uniforms, as Ruggie has mentioned he could not afford one—hence why he wears a hand-me-down from Leona. We also know students are on their own when it comes to paying for their food, as both Ruggie and Deuce mention being low on cash in reference to buying meals/snacks. Buuuuut even if we discount that money is a factor that gatekeeps some selected students from attending or having the cash to just get by on a daily basis, what we cannot ignore is that money inherently puts some people ahead of others before magic schools even recruit them.

Because the majority of those in Twisted Wonderland are incapable of using magic, magic is not typically included in general education. This means that if your kid manifests magic and you want them to be "ahead of the curve", you'd need to seek out resources for magic training and education. Now, this could mean reading materials, private tutoring, or reaching out to mages you know of. The problem with all of these things is that they tend to require money and/or connections, which are things not everyone has access to. Idia even says in book 6 that Riddle has an “artificially large” pool of magic due to how young Riddle started his magic training, meaning that the wealthy has the resources to just produce “better” mages. The rich also have more money to throw into items to help with magical training, such as bigger and better magestones (which must sell for substantial amount in the first place since Ruggie tries to save some to pawn off later in Vargas Camp) to keep mages healthier for longer (since magestones help absorb blot). This keeps power concentrated in an already elevated class. (Note: research has shown that money opens up and expands one's connections, which still puts the rich in an advantageous position compared to the less fortunate. There are also studies that show impoverished people who happen to have rich friends have a better chance of raising their own social standing just because of the doors and connections that rich friend can open for them.) Look at who in the main cast remarks on having formal magic training: literal royalty like Leona and the upper middle class like Riddle. Again, one could say that because schools like NRC appear to hand-pick students regardless of how much formal magic training they had prior to enrollment. However, the fact remains that it simply looks better to potential recruiters (using this blanket term because we don't know how magic schools besides NRC gets its students) and better prepares the child for magic school curriculum to get an early start on it.

Looking back at the 22 boys that make up the main cast, close to three-quarters or ~75% of them come from at least upper middle-class backgrounds and quite a few could classify as wealthy:

Riddle's parents are both doctors, with Riddle's mom in particular being well-known and well-regarded in their home community.

Cater's dad is a banker; his position is high enough up that he needs to relocate every so often (presumably to service their largest or most important firms).

Leona is a literal prince. Even if he isn't destined to be king, he still has access to the resources and wealth avaliable to a royal.

Azul's mom owns the most popular restaurant in the entire Coral Sea (have you seen how large the Coral Sea is on the world map???), and his stepdad is a lawyer.

The twins' family is said to be well-off; they are able to afford luxuries like fancy clothes and Mr. Leech stresses the importance of manners and presentation. He is implied to have business associates who are also well-off and would like to get in his good graces. (Popular fan speculation is that the Leeches are a crime family.)

Kalim is the heir to a massive family fortune and trading business. He also has relatives (by marriage, I believe) who are royals.

Jamil, as Kalim's attendant, is also from a reasonably well-off family; they receive benefits unique to being closely tied with the Asims, such as exposure to elite society and lessons to acquire various skills, albeit these benefits comes with being in the lower social position of a servant.

Vil's father is an A-list celebrity, and Vil is also one himself.

We don't know the specifics of what Rook's family does, but it must be well-paying, as we learn in book 5 that the Hunts have villas all over Twisted Wonderland, as well as permissions for international travel via warp pads.

Idia and Ortho's family run a secret organization that researches blot. S.T.Y.X. is so secretive that basically only those in super high positions like Crowley and Leona would know about them. Let's also not forget that the Shrouds have ties to the Jupiter Conglomerate and the Olympus Corp, which is a tech giant in the world of TWST.

Malleus is prince AND the heir to his kingdom’s throne. He is also one of the top 5 most powerful mages in the entire WORLD.

Lilia is a renown war general and a close friend of royalty. He raised a young Malleus as well.

Silver is Lilia's adopted son and is actually a prince himself.

Sebek's parents are dentists. They must make mad money. His grandfather is also a respected knight that served alongside Lilia.

Notice how all the dorm leaders are upper middle class or higher; the vice dorm leaders have ONE normal person (Trey); in Playful Land, Trey confesses to living a comfortable life so we know he must be at least middle class.

We can try to argue all we like that NRC doesn't discriminate based on social status for their selections, but if that's the case then why are so few of the main cast from impoverished or low-income families? Only Ace, Trey, and Jack count as squarely middle class. Ruggie is the only example we have of someone from a very low socioeconomic status rising up to be among "elites". The other example is Deuce, who comes from a single parent household and has implied they don't have a lot of money (for example: how the VDC/SDC earnings will help out his family). (Epel is kind of a ??? case because depending on where in the story you are, his family could be in financial trouble or not; in book 5, they imply his entire village is having difficulties selling product until Vil promotes Harveston apples on his Magicam.) Maybe it's unfair to say that 22 students out of 800ish is representative of the makeup of the entire NRC student population (or represents the composition of all magic schools), but Ruggie confirms in his Birthday Boy vignettes that a majority of the students at NRC are decently well-off. This single digit representation of low-income students is also true of real-life elite schools. They are private schools for a reason; it naturally gatekeeps who is and isn't "allowed" to attend, leading to the majority of its students being members of the elite.

Another thing to consider is legacy students. This term refers to the increased likelihood of people being accepted into a school if they had a relative that also attended that school. We know of two instances of this happening: Ace's brother and Sebek's brother also went to and graduated from Night Raven College. Ace even makes a remark during his sorting ceremony that he ended up in the same dorm as his older brother "as expected". If magic aptitude is genetic, then perhaps it makes sense to recruit from the same families--but again, this is inherently restrictive, as you would continuously be culling from the same pools generation after generation.

Back on the topic of bloodlines and family, what about Kalim, who has an extensive family? There will be no shortage of Asim mages going to NRC just because of legacy (Jamil even alludes to the fact that the previous Scarabia dorm leader was an Asim relative, and his recommendation is what got Kalim the dorm leader seat). And speaking of Kalim, consider instances where rich families are able to bribe faculty (lookin' at YOU, Crowley) or donate a large sum to get their kid ahead or to be given priority over others that may be more qualified than them (RIP Jamil). To continue off that point, NRC itself is structured as a "dog eat dog" world. Those with inherently more magical ability have the right to trump over others. You can duel and lose your dorm seat to a more powerful mage, even if you trump them in terms of merit or leadership qualities. Students feel a sense of duty to obey those who have bested them in battle (ie Epel's servitude to Vil). Everyone fears Malleus. Your magical power is respected above all else.

Attitudes surrounding magic have notably shifted from fear of it several hundreds of years ago (around the human-fae war, back when “witch” and “wizard” were used in a derogatory sense) to recognizing it for its strengths and actively seeking it or granting some favoritism to those who have it. There is, in fact, now class discrimination in based on whether or not you can use magic. We got an early instance of this as early as book 1 of the main story, when Riddle insults Yuu for their "pitiful" education and states that they were clearly "born to parents with no great magical capability". It’s something that clearly rubs Ace, who has a magicless father, the wrong way, and he stands up for Yuu. There are other subtle hints about this divide sprinkled throughout the lore. For example, Ruggie has a voice line which he indicates that the slums where he comes from doesn’t produce many magic users. Again, recall that magic runs in bloodlines. This could potentially allude to a past where those without magic were forced into lower income neighborhoods, which results in pockets like Ruggie’s hometown with a high population of magicless individuals living in poverty. This doesn’t appear to be a large scale issue (perhaps its only an isolated case?), but this is worth paying attention to.

This could all translate into the professional world too. Some jobs are entirely locked behind magic (ie you just cannot do them or pursue them if you don't have the magical ability for it). Some jobs DO require magic (ie medical mages like Riddle's parents, magic police force officers, technomantic inventors, etc) and probably additional training that goes with it. As a result, I'd imagine that these magic-intensive jobs pay quite a bit more. There may also be overall more job opportunities for those capable of magic, since magic is so much more efficient than doing things by hand. The magic police force in particular are described as “elite” and members are REQUIRED to be mages or else you don’t qualify. It means more retention of wealth and/or more upward mobility for the few impoverished that are able to enter magic schools. (This is, of course, not including the few and far between cases of regular people who get rich in select industries, such as Kalim’s father.) Recall too that NRC requires its students to take internships during their 4th years, many placements being with very prestigious groups and organizations such as pro-sports teams, labs, tech giants, etc. Being able to attend a prestigious school with connections grants those elite students even more opportunities than the average person.

Then think about what this means for people who fall short of these standards that these magic schools set. We actually have examples of them in book 5 of the main story: when Deuce and Epel are reconciling on the beach, a bunch of delinquents from another school come along and start checking out Deuce’s borrowed magical wheel. Through the NPCs’ exchange, we learn that one of them has enough magic to power a magical wheel, but not enough to do much else. This NPC also couldn’t keep up in class and dropped out of a magic school. He then becomes insulted when Deuce implies he is “a beginner”, so this is obviously a very sore spot for him. Riddle also has dialogue that implies students dropped out of NRC prior to his reign (and since then, no Heartslabyul students have left). Additionally, consider how magic can be used to oppress and lord power over others. Deuce himself is guilty for summoning cauldrons to crush rival delinquents in fights back in Clock Town—even if those delinquents lacked magic themselves. Similarly, Epel is implied to use magic to gain an upper hand against those that bullied him back home. This all implies a social divide between those with magic and those without, and begs of bigger questions.

What happens to the ones that don’t make it? The ones that get left behind? The ones without the magic to make it “big”? This is the root of Fellow’s anger; he’s mad at a system that cast people like him (someone with very little magic) and Gidel (a non-mage) aside. They don’t get the opportunity to make better futures for themselves. They’re looked down on by high-up institutions that basically tell them they’re not good enough.

Knowing all of this, the deck appears to be stacked against the poor and non-mages. It’s no wonder why Fellow is so mad.

THIS ACTUALLY RELATES BACK TO WHAT ROLLO SAID IN 5-2 OF GLORIOUS MASQUERADE… "When you have too little [magic], you're resentful. And when you have plenty [of magic], you're arrogant. You can never content yourselves." The NRC boys are arrogant (this is the side of the story we’ve always known due to seeing the world mainly from their perspective). They are the “haves”, and we see them constantly misusing their power by fighting each other over very petty things (even if it’s against the rules to do so). But everyone else??? They’re scrounging for the scraps. Fellow falls into that former category; he IS the guy that’s resentful because of his lack of magic and how something he cannot control has already determined where he and Gidel will stand in life no matter how hard they work. They can never hope to rise out of poverty, and there’s nothing they can do about it. That must be soul-crushing.

When Fellow praises the NRC boys in that overly exaggerated way, he’s obviously being shady and facetious—however, there is also a kernel of truth behind this behavior. Most other NPCs we’ve met have spoken about the NRC boys favorably just because of their affiliation with a prestigious school. It’s the same way people might be impressed if you walked around in an Ivy League branded hoodie or something. People automatically associate you with the school’s shiny and exclusive reputation, and thus assume you are also intelligent, talented, etc. Then, in the same way being constantly put on a pedestal like this might result in the students getting swelled heads, this only further feeds into the NRC kids’ egos. They so privileged they don’t even recognize it. And that makes Fellow fucking FUME.

Look back at Fellow's dialogue. He is constantly mentioning the prestige of the school the boys go to, or adding on extra compliments about their status and skills. He's ass-kissing to his boss, who is also wealthy or part of the upper class, then insults the boss once he hangs up. Fellow is always in a position where he HAS to be subservient to the upper class in order to make his money and get by, and he finds that entirely unfair. Imagine having to simper and placate people you absolutely despise and blame for your problems every day, people who are gorging themselves on luxuries, coasting by in life, taking everything they have for granted while you get by on pennies—that has to get frustrating.

I want to briefly mention here that, in addition to praising the NRC students to high heaven, Fellow also talks down his own skills. He cheerfully calls himself a loser and says that no matter how much he trains, he could never reach their caliber of magic. Yes, Fellow is exaggerating to get the kids to think they’ve won, but I also have to wonder if he’s parroting the same phrases he was told long ago, from people who doubted him and never thought he’d make it. If that’s the case, then I get the sense that Fellow is in a way “reclaiming” his autonomy and power by adopting those same cruel words and using them as a strength. He admits to being “weak” but is also proud of the fact that he can utilize his magic along with his natural charisma to get a leg up over others. It further fuels his new belief that going to an elite school doesn’t matter, it’s practical skills that will serve you well.

Okay, back to talking about his shitty work situation! Fellow’s employer clearly doesn’t treat him with decency. They berate him, make unreasonable demands, act impatient, etc. They are a typical depiction of a toxic workplace and boss. This can also be read as shorthand for the relation between the rich and the poor, and how that may have shaped (or worsened) Fellow’s views on others of the privileged class. He makes many assumptions about the NRC students without really getting to know them, calling them entitled brats. Why? Because these descriptors likely apply to the higher-ups Fellow has always slaved away for. This, in combination with his own experiences in being rejected from magic academia, has created a person who feels trodden on by society and by the upper echelons who run it and benefit off the system.

Fellow himself is the perfect example of someone who was failed by said system. He has dialogue stating that he was never given the chance to learn because his magic was not considered strong enough. Still, he tried to make an effort to earn that chance among to elites and to study among them. Fellow was rejected, ridiculed, and told he had “forgotten his place”, what he had been born into. There were expectations he couldn’t meet, and so Fellow was thrown away like a broken toy. He has failed not because he didn’t try, but because he was denied the opportunity to begin with. This is where is rage stems from. Fellow despises the students of those same kinds of institutions who kicked him down, students who don’t realize how fortunate they are for their educations and will likely continue to perpetuate the system.

What, then, does that means for his signature spell, which is closely tied to one’s identity? Let’s take a magnifying glass to it. As previously mentioned, the name for Fellow’s spell is written as “Rose-Tinted Dream”, but it is said out loud as “Life is Fun”. The chant for it is, “Come on to the theater” (notably said in English rather than in Japanese). Both the spell and the incantation are references to the song Honest John sings in Pinocchio, Hi- Diddle-Dee-Dee. And… well, the whole UM in of itself is one big cruel joke given his circumstances now.

I think this spell is representative of a young Fellow still full of hopes and dreams, looking forward to studying at a magic school. But then those dreams are shattered and he has to commit terrible crimes to survive day-to-day, and he seems to have given up on his dreams. He even goes so far as to protect Gidel from having the same hopes he once did, telling Yuu to not put silly ideas in his head when Gidel expressed curiosity about school. At the same time, he delights in crushing the hopes of those he deems his enemies (stating that he wanted to betray Kalim to “teach him a lesson” about how cruel the world is). Fellow knows the truth: that life isn’t fun, that it will disappoint you and will put you down. His actions are very cowardly as well—he uses tricks and deception, he runs away from his problems instead of properly addressing them, the NRC students remark on his lack of pride. Fellow has had to throw away so much to scrape by. Yet his UM symbolizes someone brimming with hope—so perhaps it’s a UM he manifested when Fellow still thought he had a chance?? And then people made fun of him for it being so weak?? Alternatively, maybe he didn’t get his UM until after his dreams were crushed so he’s looking back on those nostalgic days of blissful ignorance with rose-colored lenses (which is, again, maybe why his UM magic name is written as “Rose Tinted Dream”). A UM that is a reflection of one’s true self, yet that same identity is one that has been forced to be discarded. That’s the reason why, despite all the swindling and scamming, I don’t think Fellow’s enthusiasm for fun is a lie. That’s the one “real” part of him, but even that’s been repurposed to help him live on scraps, something innocent twisted 😭 and that’s really sad to think about…

But also??? You could argue that Fellow still has a little bit of that lost inner child and hope left in him. He tries to defend Gidel’s understanding of the world and has goals of starting his own school despite how poorly he originally spoke about these institutions. (So Fellow does appear to care about children and their futures.) He also has a childish streak despite being an adult, demonstrated by his use of cowardly tactics, taunting kids, and abruptly quitting his job to then destroy his workplace. Fellow himself states that he “just tries to live a free and fun life”, thus his pursuit of money and pleasure. This could all play into being what defines Fellow and thus his UM. It embodies a spirit of playfulness even when he has been crushed under the weight of an unglamorous life.

I’ve heard people saying that while Rollo is Idia’s dark mirror and Fellow is Ruggie’s. They have similar backstories but ultimately their fates are different and left the former two down far more sinister paths. Just as Rollo is an Idia that turned his anger outward instead of inward, Fellow is Ruggie had he not been given a chance to receive an education to elevate his social status and job prospects. Fellow and Ruggie both cling to rich, powerful benefactors/bosses and do their dirty work to get on by—a big difference is that Leona, while he does also work Ruggie to the bone, also has some conscience. Something else to consider is that while Ruggie prioritizes making a life for himself by studying and securing a stable, well-paying job, Fellow is focused moreso on the accumulation of wealth itself (as he suggests to Kalim he’ll take a bribe to let him go free and quits when there is no longer money to be gained from his boss). Both don’t really care how they get their money (even if it is by dirty means), but ultimately Ruggie’s way of making cash is more sustainable in the long run. Yet Fellow ultimately realizes the importance of school deep down despite constantly denying it when the NRC students tell him of it. Fellow is in denial because that’s the only way he can cope and justify his lifestyle. He’s confused when finally confronted with students who are his ideal of “happy and free”, even when they’re in an educational system that he views as shackling people into strict roles. The way he laments about not being able to go to school is also very reminiscent of an adult mourning a lost or unfulfilling childhood, which is quite a depressing scenario…

Fellow is the one that got the short end of the stick in life. Ruggie met Leona, and Leona technically uplifted him in his endeavors, tutored him into getting decent grades and giving him hand-me-downs and money in exchange for his services. Fellow never had that kind of support system, he was just insulted and bullied into giving up and had to find an alternative way to keep himself going 😔

Personally, I think Fellow could also be a dark mirror to Kalim, no?? They exist on opposite ends of a social spectrum. Kalim has everything and Fellow had nothing. What’s more, Kalim is still wide-eyed and trusting. He is the only one willing to try words instead of fighting him and instantly labeling him as the enemy. Meanwhile, Fellow has become bitter because of how the world has betrayed him. He wants to take that trust Kalim has and show him how cruel everything truly is. Why is he fixated on that? Why even offer in the first place if he never intended on going through with it? Why does he want to rub it in Kalim’s face in particular? Maybe it’s because Kalim seems rich and dumb, as Fellow claims, but maybe it’s because there is envy there. Sure, Fellow is upset about Kalim being a sheltered brat that faces no challenges in life, but I also feel like he’s jealous that Kalim can still afford to think this way. That he can still afford to be cheerful, that he can still be a dreamer. Fellow was alluded to be like that once—but he can’t be like that anymore, not when he has to look out for himself and Gidel.

Side note, another comparison! Recall that Kalim’s Oasis Maker is also a UM that uses a little bit of magic. However, Kalim does not know of many creative ways to use his spell, as there is no real reason to since his home country has lots of canals and irrigation. He therefore deems his UM as pretty useless. Fellow meanwhile has what most consider a weak UM but he fully utilizes it to his advantage and pairs it well with his natural charm to maximize its effects. He had to develop these skills because he was in pressing circumstances in which they would benefit him. This contributes to the “mirror” theme between the two.

Fellow and Kalim have a notable similarity as well, and this is where I feel they can connect. They are both older brothers to a child or children who are magicless. Fellow only has one, and Kalim has many—but the number here isn’t what is important. What is important is that Fellow and Kalim think the world of their siblings and want to support them. To that end, Fellow is willing to be cruel and step on others, and Kalim is all sunshine to keep their spirits up. Fellow has suffered through great poverty and insults and Kalim has survived so many attempts on his life, yet they’ve developed distinctly different approaches to the worlds that have embraced them. Kalim’s wealth could afford him protection and luxuries, so he’s able to live carefree with others tending to his needs. The same isn’t true for Fellow, and so he came out far more spiteful and resentful.

Thinking about it, it’s ultimately Kalim’s words that convince Fellow to turn on his employer. (The other boys certainly wore Fellow down and planted the seeds of doubt, but it’s Kalim that I believe fully resonates with Fellow.) He can so happily talk about why he loves school, even though he doesn’t do well at it (something I presume is also true of Fellow, since he is lacking in tons of magic). It’s not said in a particularly articulate manner, but it’s so candid in its presentation. Kalim is relating to him based on similar skillset (or lack thereof) and sharing fond memories of his time at school, reviving the hopeful “lost child” in Fellow. Kalim is probably the first wealthy person in a long time that was friendly, kind, and supportive to him. And here he is, reassuring Fellow his dreams are still possible, to not give up. That’s the final nail that allows Fellow to be “honest” with himself and his inner child. It’s what leads to that slew of irresponsible actions at the end of the event (letting people free, blasting the amusement park, driving a sinking ship, etc.).

At the end of Stage in Playful Land, we see that Fellow never really let that childlike side of him fully die. (It seems to have been concealed under a desire for money and appeasing his boss.) He shares his dream of creating his own great school to give educational opportunities to non-mages and mages with low magical reserves like Gidel and himself, a school that teaches practical life lessons. He wants to promote his own ideals and to change the system he hates from the inside out. This was never communicated to us before most likely because Fellow had renounced those ideas in favor of blind hatred and a lack of faith in the world and those that dominate it.

Fellow also acknowledges that life may be even more difficult for him and Gidel going forward, as now they lack the money for even food and no longer have jobs. Furthermore, they need to worry about their ex-employers coming after them for what they’ve done. Even so, Fellow faces it all with a smile and reassures everyone that they can transfer or visit to play… “on this shining stage called life”. He and Gidel are able to walk away with their whimsy preserved, and can still be that which they’ve always wanted to be: dreamers.

All of this is to say that Rollo was right all along about magic, he never misses—

[fiddleyoumust]

Let’s talk about queerness and High School Frenemy. There’s a large portion of BL fandom that refuses to engage with the show, and while that rubs me the wrong way, I do understand it. If you only wish to consume queer media, it’s easy to dismiss HSF since it is not explicitly queer. It’s also a show that on a surface level, looks like classic queerbaiting. And before I get a bunch of HSF fans in the tags or comments, I am a huge fan of this show. It is possibly the best thing I’ve watched all year. But on a surface level, it is doing the literal definition of queerbaiting even if I personally do not think it is. 

As a person who is OLD and came of age in the 90s, I do want to talk about this show from a queer perspective. I grew up in a time when queer characters were not abundant. If they did show up in media, it was newsworthy. These characters were always support characters and seldom had love interests or explored what it was like to be queer. None of them looked like me or made me feel seen or represented. Heteronormativity was the standard, as it is today, but back then, a queer kid seldom encountered anything that made them question that heteronormativity. 

HSF, and Shin and Saint specifically, resonate with me more than most queer media I’ve consumed, and I’ve consumed a lot. The intense, obsessive love that Shin and Saint have for each other under the guise of friendship IS my story. For me, it was a wild girl named Jennifer, who I was attached to the hip with from 6th grade until our early twenties. I loved her. I was obsessed with her. I was probably in love with her, but it never occurred to me until years after we’d stopped speaking that what I felt for her was more than friendship. The heteronormative brainworms are real, and they infected me until my late 20s when I suddenly had a revelation about myself. 

Hindsight is 20/20. Suddenly, my obsession with Charlize Theron in Two Days In The Valley, Helen Hunt in Twister (1996), and Kate Winslet in Titanic made so much sense. My relationship with Jennifer was also at the forefront of my mind. Ah, I thought. That’s what that was.

HSF is a show about friendship, a show about community, a show about the ways adults fail their children, a show about class and poverty. It is also a show about unrealized queerness. The director, Fon, told that story purposefully through music, lighting, and dialogue, she told a story about two boys who can’t live without each other, but don’t have the knowledge, the vocabulary, or the self-awareness to understand what they are to each other.

In every choice Fon made, she dangled queerness without explicitly naming it. I would call it queerbaiting in any other media,  but for me, she made one other choice that I believe is purposeful and elevates this show into the queer category for me. She completely stripped the show of heteronormativity. There are no couples. None. We never see Chatjen’s parents. Any parents we do see are single - Ken’s father, Shin’s mother, Saint’s father, Cable’s mother.

In any other media, the male and female homeroom teachers with clashing teaching styles would  be an enemies-to-lovers side plot. Here, they grow into supportive co-workers and friends who become better versions of themselves to help the children in their class. In any other media, there would be talk of crushes among the teenagers. Here, we see them grapple with the pressures of academia, abusive or absentee parents, bullying, drugs, and the hopelessness of poverty. In fact, the only mention of sexuality or romance at all comes from Eve, a girl who befriends Airy, a girl from their rival school, and confesses that she had a crush on her when she was younger. Nothing comes of this revelation, even though we see Airy become curious and seek out Eve’s company prior to this revelation, and we see how pleased Airy is about Eve’s confession. But this is a show about unrealized queerness and even Eve and Airy, two girls who understand what they are feeling for one another, still can’t bring themselves to name it.

The lack of heterosexuality creates a void that is filled by Shin and Saint’s relationship. It’s purposeful, and Director Fon uses other friendships in the show to highlight the ways Shin and Saint are not the same. Knot, Nate, and Ken are extremely close friends. They, too, have a “no one left behind” friendship pact. They fight for each other and get hurt for each other and very obviously love each other. Chatjen and Shin’s friendship is also very deep. Chatjen considers Shin his best friend. He hero worships him a bit and sees him as his protector and savior. Yet, anyone watching can understand the ways the producers use music, lighting, costuming, and dialogue to elevate Shin and Saint’s relationship above all the other ones. 

High School Frenemy is queer. Shin and Saint are purposefully queer coded in a world devoid of heterosexuality. You are seeing what you are supposed to see, and it's a hill I’ll die on. If you were on the fence about this show, I can not recommend it enough. It’s great and will leave you feeling warm and happy and loved. If you only consume explicitly queer media, I still encourage you to watch it. Sometimes, our queerness eludes us. Sometimes it’s hidden under other words like “friendship” because we haven’t learned the right words for it yet. I enjoyed watching a show that reminded me of my youth and gave me a glimpse of the girl I used to be. She was still queer even if she didn't know it yet.

[lorelune]

(minors dni & ageless blogs dni /// inspired by this post and brainworms with @petrichorium)

"dear?" neuvillette asks. you're sprawled out on his chaise lounge, reading today's issue of the steambird. you're distracted.

"yes?"

"what exactly does it mean if you're 'wet'?"

you smile at him sweetly from across his office, "... come again?"

he looks overwhelmingly serious. though he does, occasionally, toss a joke or two into his daily conversations, it's rare. you know the look he wears when he does so. and in this moment? he looks completely sincere.

"if you are wet, the meaning, please. i believe you should know?"

"i-i mean," you laugh. "neuvillette, love, dearest— are you... being entirely serious?"

"yes."

"ah, alright." your lover is the current incarnation of the hydro draconic primordial, but regardless. "to be damp. moist. covered in liquid, probably water?"

neuvillette brow scrunches. then relaxes after a moment and he shakes his head. the soft, curved horns that curl into his hair tremble with the motion. he smiles and shakes his head, shutting the book he'd be paging through. you catch a glimpse of the cover and— oh.

everything comes together.

"A Seaman's Conquest: The River's Maiden and Jewel" is the latest erotic novel by the quietly-famed 'Épée Honnête'. you recognized the cheesy art on the novel, and the flourishing text. you've read one or two of the author's works, but in the quiet and private of your own home. stashed atop each other in your nightstand, with a seldom-used vial soft oil. their prose is a... bit over the top. but they're also a sensation.

you have to wonder how and why neuvillette, of all people, is reading the book (and by your brief look, seems to be about half-way through it.) it is not the kind of thing he'd pick up himself— you've never seen neuvillette reading anything other than case files and evidence prior. yet apparently he's been ripping into erotica. right under your nose.

which explains his question.

"o-oh!" you swallow. "you mean wet like—"

"yes."

you squeeze your thighs together.

much to your initial surprise, neuvillette had incredibly limited experience when it came to bodily pleasure. intimacy in and of itself is something that he clearly yearns for, but perhaps does not know how to convey. you're not sure if neuvillette, in all his stature, could ever truly be bumbling, but he gets close to it with physicality.

he's careful. an incredibly fast learner but bent on taking his time, being thorough— meaning that most of your physical encounters are kissing under both of your lips are bruised and slick. you know that neuvillette feels aroused in those moments; the hard press of his clothed cock nudged up to you is proof of it. and you're turned on in those moments— horribly. you've soaked through your panties on more than one occasion. he makes you so— wet.

"wet is like... female arousal." you say simply, steeling yourself. you'll jump him otherwise.

"it this makes you... wet? is this like perspiration?"

"no, no. not at all. not really." you shake your head with a laugh. "it's like. slick? f-from my insides. it's lubrication for intercourse, to be entirely clinical about it."

"... but it's indicative of arousal?"

"entirely." you nod, trying to focus on the case file in front of you. your eyes have skimmed the same line three times.

neuvillette pauses and your hear a flutter of pages before his 'A Seaman's Conquest' closes once more, "have i made you wet before?"

you swallow. get ahold of yourself.

"yes. frequently."

"hm." neuvillette hums and his chair creaks as he sits back. he picks up his silver goblet and swirls it. the gem on it's side refracts the warm glow of the office light, dragging your gaze to his.

he's looking at you— hungry. perhaps something else. something insatiable.

"i want to know more." he tells you. rises. walk toward you with the defined click of his heeled boots on the hardwood fo the floor. "i feel as if i was missing something important without this knowledge. and there's more to be understood."

"well, ask away. i'm an open book." you tell him, craning your neck to meet his eyes.

"may i make a request?"

"of course."

"i..." neuvillette swallows around his words. you drag him onto the lounge with you and lean into his shoulder. moral support and all.

"it's fine if you don't know quite what to ask. or what you want." you assure him. you'll eat up anything he gives you, really.

"i know exactly what i want, it's a matter of phrasing."

"oh, yeah?" you wonder if he's nervous about you not understanding his desires. or if he's worried about being too blunt or forward.

you tilt your head back until neuvillette coaxes you down into his lap. his hand, gloved hand, smooths down your jaw. his fingertips trail down your neck, pressing into your curves and divots. bones and flesh alike. it's exploratory.

neuvillette touch slips down your collar, to bare skin. you shudder. "i'm curious."

"y-yeah? seems like you are."

he laughs, gentle and under his breath. his palm cups your cheek, soothing and kind. with a tilt of his head:

"i'd like to make you wet with my touch, and then taste you."

he says it hushed; it's just meant for you and you alone to hear. the intention of it makes you feel crazy, out of your skin. the look he's pinning you with. the ability he wields while being entirely sincere is going to undo you.

you swallow, a little sound sticking in the back of your throat. you squeeze your thighs together and close your eyes, "neuvillette, you're killing me here."

"am i?" there's a hint of a tease in his voice. you want to coax out more of it. you try and bury your face in his hip, but he doesn’t let you. he drag your chin straight and holds his thumb over the swell of your bottom lip.

"yes, y-you are." you mean to sound firm about it. but it comes out as a whine.

"so precious." he says softly, adoring. his thumb presses in into your mouth and runs along your teeth, into your gums. "would you like if i tasted you too?"

"fuck, neuvillette—" your words get muffled as his fingers press into your mouth further. he presses down on your tongue, the scent of clean leather and his gentle personal cologne almost suffocate it. you welcome it.

"is that a yes?"

you try to reply, but your words don't come out— his fault— so you only nod. perhaps too enthusiastically, but neuvillette doesn't seem to mind. his lips curl into a gentle smile, and he strokes over your cheeks. his only hand trails lower, finding home on your inner thigh.

"are you wet now?"

"'pworably—"

"cute." he says again. he still looks hungry. like he's going to eat you alive. there's an appetite in him, even if he doesn't know what it fully is or what to do with it. it seems, it really seems, like he's learning it. "may i find out—?"

"Monsieur Neuvillette!" The sharp crack of knocking on the door interrupts him as he leers over you. It's Laith, on the Seven— "the court time is within a half hour. do you require an escort?"

his grip on your thigh tightens. almost to point of hurting, but in the best way. you know you're wet now.

"no, laith, i will be alright on my own. i will be departing shortly."

"the prosecution's attorney sent over some last minute evidence files and requested i deliver them as well." the knob of the door starts to shift and you almost bolt up and away. neuvillette places his spit-covered hand on your chest to brace you down.

"i do not require the documents at this time. have them prepared for me at the opera epiclese."

the knob slips back into place, "of course, Monsieur. i'll see that they're delivered."

steps echo away from the door and you exhale a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding, "awful timing."

"unfortunate." neuvillette sighs. "truly unfortunate."

his duty is paramount. you know this as he helps you to stand and as he straightens your close. he's being more dutiful about it than he could be, given his next court time is so close. you relish it.

"... are you wet?"

"right now?" you feel sticky in a way that's a bit cold now. you press your forehead to his lips in a quiet beg for a steadying kiss. he relents easily and gives it to you. "yes. you have that effect on me."

neuvillette takes a steadying breath and squeezes around your shoulders, "i apologize for the timing of things, but—"

"i know." you tell him. "it's okay. besides, i have fingers and some toys at home. you've given me new material to work with."

"... you think about me when you're pleasuring yourself?" he blinks at you, eyes wide. you can't help but smirk.

"consistently." you nod and beam at him. "often. basically every time. i haven't even seen your cock but my mind's eye has come up with some creative theories and visual concepts."

that gets him to blush, a high, pearly pink that's almost purple. it fades into his hairline.

"this is going to be a particularly difficult court session."

"i can only imagine. is it my fault?"

"only partially." neuvillette assures you with no bite. "perhaps blame wriothesley for that book he lent me. he insisted i read it and get back to him for a review."

"huh."

you could lose it. really. wriothesley is a bastard. you should punch him. or kiss him— except you've grown from those days and you haven't seen that busted-lip smile of his in years. nice to know he's still doing you favors. you should send him an edible arrangement.

"and myself, too. thoughts to entertain at home, and not at the office."

"perhaps, perhaps." you tell him. you don't mind. you brush your lips to his cheek.

"would you visit me, after court?" who knows when that will be. you don't really care. you have a key, afterall.

"of course." you'll have tea prepared. perhaps sex education flashcards. maybe. or you'll break out the lacey slip that's been seldom-touched since purchase and surprise him. who knows. the world's your oyster.

and as you walk with neuvillette out of the palais mermonia and see him off on one of the aquabuses, you catch it in him again. in the almost-longing gaze he sends you as he departs, you see it. something awakening. old and new all at once in him. directed at you. he's famished. or, perhaps—

thirsty.

[tora-ken]

. 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒

.pairings gojo satoru x gn!reader

.genre nonsorcerer!au, angst, unhealthy relationship

.ongoing | complete

.tw cursing, gojo clearly needs help, mentions of death, alcohol

.wc 4.3k

SUMMARY — In the July heat, Satoru is a glass of ice cold water, there to refresh you. In the December chill, he’s a bittersweet memory that tugs at your heartstrings.

reblogs are appreciated!

It was a warm summer's night meeting Gojo Satoru, yet it felt like the winter blazed upon your heart as he glared at you with his piercing eyes, intimidated by his stare. The heat of July 13th could not melt the ice protecting the shackles of Gojo Satoru’s heart and it was obvious from your first encounter.

On the contrary, you came into Satoru’s life like a breath of fresh air you didn't know you needed. His shoulders seemed to relax from their tensed state, and his teeth would no longer grit as he registered your existence beside him. But it could not satiate the clenching feeling in his heart when he stared down at the headstone in front of him.

–

“I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to-"

It was cliché, your encounter. The classic coffee incident, who knew that the two most unpredictable people to live in Japan would have the most foreseeable romance of all time.

"It’s alright, I wasn't paying attention."

You paid him back for his shirt and the jelly stick in his hands as an apology, to which he seemed to accept gleefully. Cute. You thought.

A month was how long it took for him to kiss you on your seventh date. Rather than the stories telling you the butterflies in your stomach finally fluttering, or the fires set alight in your heart, there was peace, and tranquility within the depths of your stomach, the swirling feeling no longer in movement.

Pulling away from him, heavy breaths, and rosy cheeks you smile, laughing as he cups your face and pulls you into his embrace once again.

"You're so cute, Y/N."

Nine months, and he asks you to move in with him.

"Satoru, aren't we going a bit fast?"

"I'm sorry, it's just, you make me so happy."

That seemed to be enough reason for you to pack all of your bags, and move into his apartment in upstate Tokyo.

–

You grew uncomfortable in his presence the first night you moved in. He felt like a new person. The swirl within your stomach intensifying each second, and you felt nauseous. Who was this man you met all those months back in July?

"Toru, I’m sorry, it's just slippers I didn't know-"

"Well they're not yours. Fuck off and get your own."

Being his partner, you assumed that he bought those for you as some sort of housewarming gift, to get comfortable in the place on your first night, whilst it was actually the down side of your relationship.

He had a partner a few years ago, that he seemed to not be completely over, and you had fit their exact description appearance wise. But you would never be them, hell you didn't even know him back then. And it's not like you were ever going to find this out from him, it was the little things.

It grew from scolding to comparison, "Why can't you be like Yuki?" "Yuki never did this when we were together" "That’s not how Yuki does it." and you grew tired of it.

Your heart burned every second as he left the house more frequently, coming back later than scheduled, with tears stained into his shirt, and red tainted into his sclera. Living with him grew to be a chore, and the couch became more comfortable than the confines of his arms where he would whisper a name that wasn't yours.

You acknowledged that you were hurting yourself in this ill-fated relationship, but enjoyed the validation he had served you so seldom. The peppering of his kisses in the rise of the sun, and the moments where you would lock eyes as you brushed your teeth together at night, and interlocking hands as you went grocery shopping.

Pulling you back by the waist became a habit, and Satoru’s limbs felt empty without a presence that was familiar to Yuki’s, or rather a face. He was unaware of the agony he had afflicted upon you before entering the relationship with his toxic baggage.

As selfish as he was, your presence slowly pieced into his schedule like it was always meant to be there, and a day without it felt like a void that could only be indulged with the stimulating comfort of alcohol and cigarettes. subsequently, it brought out an unattractive aspect of his personality, torturing you emotionally according to his own pleasures or until he was tired and expected you to put him back to bed.

–

Eighteen months was how long it took for you to finally pack your things and leave. You were fed up with waiting for him to realise he had been hurting you, fed up with waiting for his apologies, or the deserved explanations as to why he kept you around like a toy.

Upon meeting his friends, you grew the closest to Nanami, who finally had the guts to explain to you that Satoru's previous partner, Yuki, had died in a car accident on their four year anniversary.

–

"You know, I think you were his next big thing." Taking a sip from his glass, Nanami stares at the light he turned on from the torch on his phone.

"...big thing?"

"You’re the first serious relationship he's had since...I’d rather not."

"Then why would you bring it up?" You couldn't understand his logic, if he never wanted to speak about it in the first place why would he leave you hanging like that?

"It’s just, I think it's best to hear it from Gojo himself."

"He’s barely home, why do you think I'm here right now?" Sighing languidly, you slouch in your seat staring up at the white ceiling.

"Fine. But don't tell him I told you, I’m only saying this because you deserve to know." He exhales deeply, as if to prepare for a big speech. "About four years ago, Gojo’s last partner died in an accident on their anniversary, after that he didn't date or do anything for that matter, for a long time. Until he met you. I think you make him happy, we haven't seen him like this in a while."

A twisting sensation grew its way up your stomach to your chest, as pieces connect, you finally understood why he was so flagrant in his distaste towards you when you committed a sin as grave as wearing a pair of slippers that were never yours.

"I don't think it's me that makes him happy."

"Do you want me to be honest?" He pushes on, staring at the drink before him.

"...Yeah."

"You look an awful lot like them."

And the twisting soon melted into an ache, so familiar and reminiscent of your feelings when you would stare at his eyes with adoration and notice the emptiness in his looking at yours.

You scoffed. You acknowledged that Nanami was trying to sympathise or make you feel better these days, but it took a turn for the worse. Satoru made you feel like a rebound, as if you were just a speck of dust in a dirty room, a second in his time of life to which he was going to waste. One like any other. In the end, he would never love you the way you loved him, because he was still mourning.

His honesty should've stayed a mystery – your curiosity should've never delved past the limit Satoru had set from the day you moved in.

You were a sign screaming for help from the man who held you by his side at night, had waited for someone to swoop in and save him from the clutches you never meant to keep him under.

"I understand." And you left.

–

“I’ll see be home late today, I’m having a couple drinks with Suguru and Shoko.” Satoru presses a chaste kiss on your lips as you make him his morning brew, with extra sugar as he always likes it. He grabs the mug and gives you another kiss. “Thank you, baby.”

He was in an awfully good mood. “Alright, be safe on your way home, just text me when you guys are going home, I can pick you up from the bar.” Your mind races back to the conversation you had with Nanami a few days prior.

Satoru nods, before taking one last gulp of his coffee, washes the dish quickly and grabs whatever else he needed for work that day. “I’ll text you later, love you!”

You smile weakly, and mutter a “You too”. The door slams shut, and you sigh in relief, before your legs give out, recollecting everything that had happened with Nanami, giving yourself time to process everything.

There was a conflict between your mind and your heart, each battling for different paths. Your mind fighting so defensively for a future that doesn’t involve living a life where Satoru doesn't have to leave your heart in shambles every time he looks at you in longing, a sad, grieving, mourning longing. A life without him.

But as torturous your feelings were, your heart kept you within close proximity with Satoru, thinking that one day, some day, you could reach out to him, and finally make him realise he was yours. Not Yuki's, but yours. Your heart fought for a future where that was possible, driving your every move and word for Satoru to lead you to that potential moment.

You were already halfway there, living with him, breathing with him, calling him yours, exchanging "I love you's", albeit they may not be entirely true on his part, but you were halfway there. There was just one more push needed, whether it be from you or him.

And you chose your heart. You chose Satoru. As you always do.

11:44pm

toru <3: bbay come het me pla

you: alright.

Arriving at the bar Satoru laid red, and intoxicated, his head resting on his forearm, muttering mindless words to himself, as Geto waited uninterestedly beside him. "Come on, Y/N's here."

Satoru's ears prick up at the mention of you, and he cheeses, the red deepening on his inebriated cheekbones. "My love, there you hic- are." Arms outstretched towards you, and you take one of them and lay them around your shoulder as you send Suguru an apologetic look.

"Hey, thanks for waiting with him Geto. How much did he drink?" You question, as your boyfriend lolls his head in a circle, and comes to rest beside your neck, his breath fanning against your ear, and the stench of alcohol wafts its way to you.

"A few pints of beer, as you can see. He's never been great at holding his alcohol." Geto rolls his eyes.

"Clearly." You chuckle, "Sorry for taking so long, are you okay? Do you want a ride back to yours?"

"Nah, it's cool, Shoko's waiting in the car for me, thanks though. I'll see you 'round."

"Bye." You wave, and you stare back down at Satoru, whispering little nothings to himself again. "Come on, home time, Toru."

"Heck yeah, Home Time Toru!" He exclaims, before dragging his feet as you struggle to carry his weight to the car.

Driving home, Satoru mumbles the whole car ride, humming along to the music every few minutes or so until you finally pull into the parking spot outside your apartment.

He attaches himself to your waist as you drag him through the entrance of your apartment, and flings himself onto the sofa in your living space.

“You’re so sweet…” His slurs reverberates through a pillow, just loud enough for you to hear. Heartwarming, you feel as his words creep up to your chest and you smile to yourself.

“Have some water, here.” Bringing a cup towards his lips, he puckers up and takes a sip, before sighing deeply.

“Why does it have to be you.” An eerie atmosphere engulfs itself in the four corners of the walls, and he stares at you in anguish, possibly hatred. “I hate that it’s you picking me up when I’m out, making me coffee in the mornings, giving me water when I’m drunk.”

Drunk words are sober thoughts.

And the metaphor drills itself into your brain, pushing past your years of development and all of a sudden, you’re a child again. Dejected by the criticism thrust upon you.

“Why don’t we get you to bed, yeah?”

He nods in accordance, dragging his feet behind him as he struggles to unbutton his shirt and change into his pajamas, with you following suit, your heart crumbling with every step you take.

You help brush his teeth and wash his face, still clearly out of touch with the world of sobriety even after tucking into the sheets and he begins once again.

“I hate your face.” He seethes.

You shift further away from him in the bed, the distance between you two opening as your chest aches into another chasm, and you stare up at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all you can be.” Because you weren’t Yuki.

–

Satoru wakes up the next day, with a pounding in his temple, and he turns around to see your back facing him. How domestic, he stares at the divot in the bed, created by your form, the months that you've so loyally stayed on that side of the bed, your boundary, never truly passing over to his.

He shuffles slightly to learn towards you and lays his head atop your shoulder, feeling the slow rise and fall of your body as you slept and you shift as you feel a weight against your body.

He doesn't remember.

"Good morning, dear." Mumbling into your shoulder, presses a kiss onto your cheek and pulls you towards him, without the recollection of last night in his memory.

Sadly it wasn't mutual – the events fresh, lingering in your consciousness and the sentiments of agony rush over the spot Satoru kissed. As if he had the power to trigger that pain into you.

"You're up early, it's a Saturday." A faint smile displays on your lips, in a groggy state you lay as Satoru crushes you in his hold.

"Can't I enjoy the view?" His eyes wander over your sleepy condition and his heart clenches at the sight.

He knows it's wrong, what he's doing right now, what he's been doing for the past two years with you. But it's the closest thing he's got to keep the memory living. He knows the memory of them will never fully project itself again, especially not through your vessel.

"I guess so," you begin, "what do you want to do today?" You tap on his thigh as he hums in thought, and he gives you a reminiscent expression of when you first met.

"Why don't we have dinner today? That nice Italian place I took you that one time last year?" He sits up straight, plan already forming in his head, "We can dress up all nice and fancy, I can pretend I'm picking you up like it's first date like we did last time?"

The idea of it brings a smile and you nod in agreement as he smiles and kisses you once again, your lips connecting in synchrony, and the smack of his lips as it departs from yours.

"I just have to help Suguru with the birthday party he's planning for the girls tomorrow, I'll be back before 5:30, and I'll be all yours, yeah?"

"Of course, I'll be here waiting. Don't be late or I'll track you down." He throws his head back and laughs, promising you he'll be punctual.

–

He knocks on Suguru's door in a spritely manner, who answers, in a not so amazing mood, with pink hair clips adorning his locks, glitter ornamenting his cheekbones and lipstick smeared against his lips, clearly not aligned with his lipline.

"Need some help with that?" He points at the 'makeover' Nanako and Mimiko did, stating that he clearly needed it.

They begin filling up party bags, in casual conversation as they take the sweets and trinkets and carefully place them in the princess-themed plastic bags that said "Thank you for coming to my birthday!".

"You're in a good mood today." Suguru interrupts, and Satoru pauses as he sends a strange expression. "It's a good thing, I didn't even think you would come help today, I had Shoko on speed dial."

"Why wouldn't I come help for the girls' birthday?" With a quizzical expression, Satoru picks up another toy to place inside the goodie bag and Suguru answers.

"It's the five year anniversary today, last year you even got in a huge fight with Y/N. You seem to be doing a lot better, I'm happy you have them in your life."

He stops what he was doing, and regret rushes in. He was just thinking about Yuki, yet he lets it slips his mind that today was the day he lost them. All because he was too busy thinking about a day with you.

Satoru thinks it's cheating, betrayal on Yuki's behalf, and a crestfallen countenance appears over his face, lips downturned, eyes watering and clear. He blames it all on you, before standing up and apologising to Suguru, who's just realised that his best friend wasn't doing better at all, and leaves his house.

A flower shop, one so familiar and nostalgic. So, he steps in and recklessly buys a bouquet.

"Satoru, buying flowers for Y/N? They told me you were taking them out for dinner. I was beginning to think you were neglecting them." Shoko pops up behind him, and it worsens his day.

You're mentioned again, dampening his mood, but he feigns a smile and nods, "Yeah, thought it'd be nice to go on a date."

"Well, I'm glad. You look a lot better."

It isn't without any extra exchanges before Satoru leaves the establishment with a heavy heart and a location to be. It's cheating, he thinks, to be so focused on someone else, when his true love is waiting in an intangible realm. How could he move on and be so happy without Yuki?

And he isn't.

He appears at their gravestone, flowers in hand.

"Hey." Crouching, he settles into the grass, wiping around their name, and photo so he can clearly see it.

It's obvious their ghost haunts him, that they've laid their territory in his memory and will forever remain. There is no waking day without Yuki, and no dreaming night with them to cease. A permanent embedding of their life exists through Satoru and him alone.

There's a guilt hanging in the air as he longingly stares at their photo, realising that time will never move for them but could only continue for him. Oh, how he wished it would end.

"I'm sorry for not remembering, don't be mad at me." He takes a deep breath and a long pause. "I don't come here as much as I used to. I've been dreading it." He speaks to nothing.

"Coming here just makes me remember you're not around." The air around him responds. "I wish it was me. Maybe you could've moved on, and been in a happy relationship." He thinks of you.

"Just, let me sit here with you before I go."

–

You wait patiently, it's 5:30, and Satoru hasn't returned yet. The outfit he prepared for himself earlier in the day laid neatly and ironed on the bed, yet with no body to wear them. No Satoru.

Tapping your foot, you check your phone to see if he's responded. Only a text message from Shoko, saying she saw him at the flower shop, buying chrysanthemums. You hated chrysanthemums. But you digress, flowers are flowers, and he had you in mind.

It's 6pm, and you've found solace on the sofa, scrolling on your phone, waiting for his arrival. No Satoru.

You refrain from messaging any of his friends, so as not to raise suspicion, and you wait in torment.

Three hours pass, and no sign of Satoru, and you've already changed back into your home clothes and cosy up to the pillow as the TV plays before you. A mindless romance drama, one so corny and unrealistic that you roll your eyes and change the channel.

The door creaks open, and an absentminded, empty shell of a man you call your boyfriend walks through, with no flowers in hand. You stare as he walks straight past you, as if he never made plans in the first place.

All your hopes and dreams dissipate as he changes into his home clothes, hanging up the fancy little outfit he had prepared earlier and placing it back in the wardrobe – and your heart shatters once more. Yet you don't press him about it.

–

Taking all of your belongings and traces of your existence from his apartment, tears blinded your vision and you choked back a sob as everything had finally pieced itself together like a puzzle.

He didn't deserve this suffering, it was an unfortunate accident, one that had brought misery into his life. However, you didn't deserve this suffering either. The pain of sleeping beside a man who saw someone else in your eyes, the person he thought of as he kissed your face.

Being in love with Satoru for a year and a half had taught you many things. It taught you not to wait for someone who was already waiting for another, that you should realise you could not love someone else when you barely loved yourself.

"What are you doing?" Startled, you turn around to see the familiar face.

"Leaving." it was silent for a few moments.

"Why?"

"Because you don't love me." How immature, thought Satoru, you sounded like a child, who craved for someone's attention every time it lacked for a second.

"Who said that?"

"It doesn't need to be said, I can see it. You think I can't hear you cry at night as you call out for someone who is long gone, or how you hold me like I’m some kind of toy, there to relieve your stress? You look at me like you're waiting for a person to come through the door and kick me out. I don't want that, I’d rather leave myself."

How did you know? Was he too obvious? But you couldn't leave, no, who was he going to come home to if not you, let alone Yuki, how was he going to feel loved if there was no one there to love him in the first place?

"But you can't leave me!" He walks closer, reaching out to you for the first time in months, finally showing you an inkling of what he truly felt. Sober.

“Why? So I can continue living in their shoes? Filling the empty space they left behind?” You retort, tears brimming your eyes with a wavering voice. “It’s not fair, Toru.”

“No- it’s not like that-“ he takes a step forward.

“Yeah, then what is it like?” There’s a pregnant pause, and he shuts his mouth. “I thought so.”

“Just hear me out, please?” He begs, eyes glimmering under the yellowed light of his living room. And you nod. “I admit, when I first saw you, it reminded me of them, but the longer we were together, that association disappeared. I don’t even think about them anymore!”

“Oh, that’s just bullshit, Satoru. You don’t think I can hear you every night? Crying for them, wishing they could come back into your arms?” Sobs simply spill at this point, and there’s no control over your emotions anymore. “What does that leave me with, huh? A boyfriend who doesn’t love me, but just the appearance I symbolise? You think you’re so slick, but I know it all, the look you give me, searching for someone else in my eyes, the things you buy me, knowing they’re all for them. I’m not just some vessel for you to dump your feelings on. I’m a fucking person, your partner at that!”

“I’m just, having a hard time, I love them so much.”

He looks down, ashamed to look into your eyes, to acknowledge the pain he’s forced you through. “And I completely understand that Gojo,” calling him by his last name had never felt so nerve wracking, “you never deserved any of this. But I’m not where your grief should be placed, especially when I have no idea that this ever happened. Get some fucking therapy.”

Something inside of him snaps, and he loses control of his emotions, the colour red seeping through his line of vision, a cloud of it embossing around your figure before him.

“Me? Get therapy? You’re the fucking clingy one always wondering where I am, asking when I’m coming home. You always want to fucking talk to me, hug me and spend time with me when you fucking know I value my space.” He almost yells back.

“God, I know you want your space, I give you your fucking space that’s why you’re never around. I try to respect your boundaries so fucking much and you give me nothing back. Why are you even with me if you know so clearly that you haven’t moved on!”

“I don’t know.”

The silence returns. Alongside a gut wrenching realisation that the relationship had been one sided. It’s possible that you were catastrophising it, but your world comes crashing down, and everything you’ve ever known about love, about Satoru, dissipates the longer you stare at him. And his confidence falters.

“Alright. I’ll come back in a few days to collect anything I’ve left behind.” Your voice comes out in a shallow whisper, but loud enough for Satoru to decipher.

And he nods, again. “Okay.”

"You should give yourself time to heal, Satoru. Real time."

Deep down, you both know it's impossible.

Your footsteps recede, and slowly the volume of your shoes fade away the further you get from him, and all Satoru sees before him is the pair of slippers that you bought when you first moved in.

a/n: had this in the drafts for like two years and did nothing ab it so i'm sorry for the half assed ending its been hectic recently

©tora-ken 2024

[literaryvein-reblogs]

"troublesome" words

Lie, Lying, Lay, Lain vs. Lie, Lying, Lied, Lied

"Lie" is an intransitive verb meaning "to rest" or "to be at rest." Its forms are: lie, lying, lay, lain. Examples: Lie down. 2) Lying in the sun dries our skin. 3) The parcels lay on the table. 4) We have lain in the sun for thirty minutes.

"Lie" can also mean make an untrue statement. It is an intransitive verb whose forms are: 'lie' and lying (present), 'lied' (both past and participle.) Examples: 1) Please don't lie to me. 2) He was punished for lying. 3) They lied to their parents. 4) They have lied before.

Unlike "lie," "lay" is a transitive verb, so it always takes an object. Remember that "lie" never takes an object because it is intransitive. The forms of "lay" are lay, laying, laid, laid. Examples: 1) Lay the bricks here. 2) He was laying the bricks in rows. 3) Yesterday he laid the bricks ten high. 4) He has laid all the bricks in the wall.

Note that the present tense of "lay" is the same as the past tense of "lie."

Its vs. It's, 'Tis

"Its" is the possessive of the pronoun "it." Note that there is no apostrophe. Example: Its appearance was misleading.

"It's" is a contraction meaning "it is." Example: It's a long way to Tipperary. "It's" can also be a contraction meaning "it has." Example: It's been a long day.

"'Tis" is also a contraction meaning "it is." Example: 'Tis seldom used in modern English.

Set vs. Sit

"Set" is, in most ordinary uses, a transitive verb needing an object. It means to put or place something in a certain position, or to arrange. Its principal parts are: set, setting, set, set. Examples: 1) She set the table. 2) He set the watch.

"Sit" is, in ordinary usage, an intransitive verb. It means to rest somewhere (like a chair) in an upright position. Its principal parts are: sit, sitting, sat, sat. Examples: He sits down.

"Sit" can also be used to talk about where an object is located. Example: The clock sits on the shelf. In a few instances "sit" is used as a transitive verb, such as in: He sat himself down.

Your vs. You're

You have probably encountered confusion between your and you're in many Internet posts.

Sometimes people write comments like "your so pretty in this picture" when they really mean "you're so pretty in this picture."

So what's the difference? Just remember—you're (with the apostrophe) is a contraction meaning you are, but your (no apostrophe) indicates possession or ownership. 

Their, There, and They're

"Their" is the possessive form for the plural pronoun "they." Example: They used their money on video games.

The word "there" has several meanings. As an adverb it means in, at, or about that place. Example: Place the book there.

When used as a noun, "there" means that place. Example: Are you from there, too?

When used as an interjection, "there" expresses an exclamation of triumph or relief. Example: There! It is finished.

"They're" is a contraction meaning "they are." Example: They're going to the show.

To, Too, and Two

"To" is used as a preposition or part of an infinitive phrase. Examples: 1) We are going to the store. 2) Are you going to sing a song?

"Too" is an adverb meaning also or to an excessive degree. Examples: 1) I am going too. 2) You are just too much.

"Two" is the number 2. Example: I have two dollars.

You and I vs. You and Me

"You and I" are pronouns used as either the subject or the predicate in a sentence. Examples: 1) You and I are going. 2) The winners are you and I.

"You and Me" are pronouns used as direct objects, indirect objects, or objects of prepositions. Examples: 1) They have chosen you and me. 2) The reward is for you and me.

Who vs. Whom

Some people think the main difference between who and whom is the way they sound, with whom being the more formal way to say who. In reality, the distinction between them is grammatical.

Even though who and whom are both pronouns, they do completely different jobs in a sentence—who acts as the subject while whom acts as the object.

Just remember to use who to refer to the person who is propelling the action in a sentence; use whom when the person is having the action done to them.

You also use whom, never who, as the object of a preposition.

Who: Subject pronoun; never use as the object of a preposition Whom: Direct or indirect object pronoun; Must use with prepositions

Some examples:

Students who study hard usually earn excellent grades. The pronoun, who, is referring back to the subject, students. (Who earns excellent grades? The students do.) Because the pronoun is referring to a subject, it would be incorrect to use the object pronoun whom.

Earning excellent grades also depends on whom you study with. This sentence has two clauses, but for the purposes of this lesson we'll focus only on the second one, whom you study with. In this clause, whom is the object of the preposition with, so it would be incorrect to use the subject pronoun who.

Hint: You can replace who with other subject pronouns (he, she, I, we, they, etc.) and whom with other object pronouns (him, her, me, us, them, etc.).

The comedian who is on TV right now is the funniest guy I've ever seen. ⇒ He is on TV. Who is the subject of the verb is, so you can replace who with he.

My cousins are the family members whom I see most often. ⇒ I see them. Whom is the direct object of the verb see, so you can replace whom with them. You'll notice that the placement of whom is different from that of other object pronouns—whom generally comes before the subject and verb while other object pronouns like them come after the subject and verb. For that reason, it might not be obvious at first glance that you can replace whom with another object pronoun (you would never say them I see).

A Couple of Sticky Situations: Who vs. Whom

There are certain sentence types that make it difficult to decide whether to use who or whom.

Object of One Clause, Subject of Another This situation involves two verbs with a pronoun between them:It was pitch dark, and I couldn't see who was coming down the hall.Notice how who seems to "stick" to both verbs—it looks like the object of the first verb and the subject of the second. So which pronoun do you choose, who or whom? There's a simple answer—subjects speak louder than objects because they propel the action in a sentence, so always "stick" with the subject pronoun who.

Preposition Separated from its Object Take a look at this example of traditional formal English: For whom are those flowers? Chances are you've never heard anyone ask a question that way. When we talk, the preposition "unsticks" from the pronoun and moves all the way down to the end of the sentence: Whom are those flowers for? Still sound strange? That's because most people would say Who are those flowers for?  but it's really better to use whom because it's the object of the preposition for. It's easy to tell when you're dealing with an object-preposition separation because you can replace whom with him, her, me, us, them, etc. Question: Whom are those flowers for? Whom is the object of the preposition for. Answer: The flowers are for her. Now, in the answer, her has become the object of the preposition for.

Note: Traditionally, it is incorrect to end a sentence with a preposition, but when we talk it happens naturally. Many teachers still prefer their students not to end sentences with prepositions, but this rule has become more relaxed in recent years.

All Ready vs. Already

"All ready" refers to a state of readiness. Example: They were all ready to go. In the case of a singular person, the "all" in "all ready" can be dropped to just say, "Are you ready?"

"Already" means prior to some specified time. Example: They were already packed and ready to go when he arrived.

All Together vs. Altogether

"All Together" means in concert or in unison. Example: They sang all together.

"Altogether" means wholly, completely, or absolutely. Example: This is altogether strange.

All Ways vs. Always

"All ways" or "all the ways" means every manner possible. Example: She was in all ways very humble.

"Always" means at all times. Example: She was always humble.

Everyone vs. Every One

The terms everyone and every one may look the same, but they are used in different contexts. 

Everyone, as one word, is a singular pronoun that refers to a group of people. It's synonymous with its sister pronoun, everybody.

Remember, even though a group is made up of several members, everyone is always singular because you refer to those members as a single group. 

Everyone is used only for people, never animals or objects.

Everyone I know is coming to the pool party on Saturday. Multiple people are coming to the party, but they are being treated as a single group.

These cookies are for everyone. The cookies are for a group.

Every one, as two words, is a phrase that refers to the individuals that make up a group, not to the group as a whole. It is synonymous with the phrases every single one and each one.

You can also use it for emphasis to give your sentence a little more "oomph." Just like everyone, every one is always singular.

However, unlike everyone, every one can refer to anything, including people, animals, and objects.

I think every one of these cakes is delicious. This sentence emphasizes that each individual cake in the group is delicious. You could simply say "These cakes are delicious," but it wouldn't have the same effect.

Every one of them is coming to the party. This sentence also uses every one for emphasis. It's not just everyone who's coming to the party—it's every single person in the group.

Hint: Here's a little trick to help you remember the difference between everyone and every one:

When every and one join together (everyone), you are focusing on the group as a whole—the two words work together as a single unit.

Everyone laughed. (The group laughed.)

When every and one stand alone (every one), you are emphasizing individuals—the two words work separately.

Every one of them laughed. (Each person laughed.)

Award vs. Reward

"Award" means to bestow an honor or object by a considered decision. Example: The principal gave academic awards to the top students.

"Reward" is something given in return for something done, either good or evil. Example: He was rewarded with cookies.

Anger, Angry vs. Mad

"Anger" (Angry) means a strong displeasure and antagonism directed toward the cause of a possible wrong or injustice; wrath; ire. Example: I am angry.

Madness (Mad) means a suffering from or manifesting severe mental disorder; insane; lunatic; psychotic; crazy. Example: Madness is a severe mental disorder.

Note: It is common in informal everyday expressions for the word "mad" to be used for "angry." This covers the explicit and formal meaning of the words.

Can vs. May

In formal speech writing, "can" implies the ability to do something. Example: I can throw a ball.

"May" implies a need for permission. Example: May I throw a ball?

In informal speech and writing, "can" is now acceptable in the sense of "may." Example: Can I leave now?

At the formal level the distinction between "can" and "may" is still observed.

Fewer vs. Less

If you've been to the grocery store lately, you've probably noticed a sign at checkout that says "15 items or less." You'll learn in this lesson that the sign should say "15 items or fewer."

The reason is straightforward—when talking about a quantity you can count with numbers, use fewer, but for an amount you can't count, use less. Below are some examples:

There are fewer students here today than there were yesterday. Use fewer because you can count the number of students. Maybe there were 30 students in class yesterday and only 25 today.

The teacher assigned less homework today than he did yesterday. Use less because the word homework is not countable. It's not possible to make homework plural—homeworks is not a word. You wouldn't say I have three homeworks tonight ... and that actually leads us into this lesson's hint:

Hint: Usually, if you can add s to the end of the noun to make it plural, use fewer, not less.

Just be mindful of exactly what you're trying to communicate; sometimes you can use either less or fewer, but the word you choose will change the meaning of the sentence:

You gave him less pie than you gave me. Yes, it's true that you can add s to the word pie to make it plural. However, this sentence is talking about the amount of pie, not how many pies, so use less.

Last year's pie-eating contest champion ate fewer pies this year than last. This sentence tells us that there is more than one pie. Maybe last year he ate 10 pies, but this year he could only choke down 8. Because you can count the number of pies, use fewer.

Be careful when discussing time, measurements, or money. These often seem countable, but in reality they refer to an amount, so use less, not fewer.

Our business pulled in less than $100,000 last year. You'll be able to finish the race in less than 10 minutes.

Lose vs. Loose

The word lose, with one o, is a verb that means you have lost something that belongs to you. It can also mean to reduce or lessen.

My little sister always loses her toys. Vitamins lose their potency when they are left out on the table.

Spelling Hint 1: When you say the word lose aloud, you pronounce the s like a z.

Spelling Hint 2: Think about the words lose and lost. Both words have the same meaning (when you lose something, it's lost), and both are spelled with only one o.

The word loose, with two o's, means that something is not tight, or that it's coming apart.

He loosened the reins on his horse. My shoelaces always come loose during gym class.

Spelling Hint 1: Unlike lose, the word loose is pronounced the way it looks, with the s making a regular s sound.

Spelling Hint 2: Remember the phrase loose as a goose. Both loose and goose are spelled with two o's.

More Helpful Hints: Lose vs. Loose

Note that these two words can fulfill different grammatical roles.

The verb lose can be turned into a noun by adding a different ending.

The word loose can be used as a verb, an adjective, or even an adverb, depending on the ending you choose.

The words lose and loose are used in many idiomatic expressions (that's a fancy term for slang). This basically means that their conventional definitions can be stretched a bit.

Accept vs. Except

"Accept" means to receive. Example: I accept your invitation.

"Except" means to omit or to exempt. Example: Everyone except Bill will attend.

Affect vs. Effect

"Affect" may be a verb or a noun, but for the purposes of this lesson, treat each instance of "affect" as a verb meaning "to influence or to change." Examples: 1) Illness affects his patience. 2) She attempted to affect a caring attitude.

"Effect" may be a verb or a noun. As a verb it means to bring about. Example: We will effect the changes we want.

As a noun it means result of a cause. Example: What effect will this bring?

Advice vs. Advise

"Advice" is a noun meaning a suggestion or recommendation. Example: What is your advice?

"Advise" is a verb meaning to recommend. Example: I have been advised to attend.

Between vs. Among, Amongst

"Between" shows connection with two persons or things and may refer to space or time. Example: There was an alley between the buildings.

"Among" and "amongst" show connection with more than two persons or things. Sometimes people use "between" when they want to show a connection with more than two things, but this is not correct. Example: They stood among the trees.

Bad vs. Badly

"Bad" is an adjective meaning sick, in pain, unpleasant, or immoral. It is always used with nouns and linking verbs, and it can never be used with action verbs. Example: I feel bad.

"Badly" is an adverb that is used with all other verbs. You use it when you want to say that someone is not good at something or that someone did a bad job. It should not be used as an adjective and is never used with linking verbs. Example: He drives badly.

Breath vs. Breathe

"Breath" is the noun pronounced to rhyme with death. Example: I lost my breath.

"Breathe" is the verb pronounced as to rhyme with sheathe. Example: Breathe deeply.

Bring, Take, Fetch, and Carry

"Bring" implies moving or conveying something from a distant place or person to a nearer place or person. Example: Bring me a drink.

"Take" implies motion away from speaker to a person or place. Example: Please take me to your leader.

Some easy ways to remember the differences between "bring" and "take" are: You bring something here, and you take something there. You bring something toward a person, and you take something away from a person.

"Carry" implies the conveying of something from one place to another. Example: Please carry this to the car.

"Fetch" implies a two-way trip that is to go for something and bring it back. Example: Rover, fetch the ball.

Capital vs. Capitol

"Capital" as a noun can mean either the seat of government or wealth and resources.

As an adjective it means first or excellent.

Sometimes it is used to mean punishable by death (a capital offense). Example: Cheyenne is the capital of Wyoming.

"Capitol" is a noun meaning the building in which a state legislature convenes; a statehouse. Example: The Wyoming capitol building is in Cheyenne. Also is referring to the official building of the U.S. Congress in Washington D.C., the word is capitalized as part of the proper noun: Capitol Building.

Complement vs. Compliment

"Complement" means that which completes. It can also be a complete number or set of people or things. Example: Those shoes complement that outfit.

"Compliment" means an expression of admiration or approval given freely as a courtesy. Example: Her compliment on the outfit was appreciated.

Sometimes the adjective "complimentary" also means free. Example: The hotel provided a complimentary breakfast.

Emigrate vs. Immigrate

To "emigrate" is to leave one's country for residence in another. Example: I emigrated from my home country.

To "immigrate" is to come into a country of which one is not a native. Example: The person arrived in the new country as an immigrant.

Farther vs. Further

"Farther" usually implies the idea of physical distance. Example: San Francisco is farther away than San Diego.

"Further" usually implies the idea of greater abstract degrees. In other words, it is used to talk about concepts such as time and progress, among others. Example: His dreams were further in the future.

Council vs. Counsel

A "Council" is an assembly or group that meets for deliberation. It can only be used as a noun. Example: A council of teachers considered his case.

"Counsel" is a noun that means advice or deliberating together. Example: He accepted the counsel of his mother. Note that "counsel" can also be used as a verb, as in "I am counseling my friend," while "council" can only be used as a noun.

Principal vs. Principle

"Principal" as an adjective means main, chief, leading. As a noun, "principal" means a leader, a head, or a sum placed at interest. Examples: 1) The bus was his principal means of transportation. 2) The principal of the school was new.

"Principle" means a rule of action, a moral standard, or a fundamental truth. Example: The principle of the statement was understood by all.

Whether vs. Weather

"Whether" is a conjunction meaning in either case. Example: Tell me whether you are considering our plan.

"Weather" is a noun meaning a prevailing condition or atmosphere: mental or moral climate. Example: Stormy weather is coming.

Allay vs. Alley vs. Ally

"Allay" is a verb meaning to reduce the intensity, lay to rest, or pacify and calm. Example: His mother attempted to allay his fears.

"Alley" is a noun meaning a narrow passageway. Example: There is an alley behind the buildings.

"Ally" is a verb or noun meaning to connect by some relationship usually showing helpfulness or kinship. Example: The United States is a close ally of England.

Allude vs. Elude

"Allude" is a verb meaning to make an indirect or passing reference. Example: The speaker alluded to his fame.

"Elude" is a verb meaning to evade or escape from something. Example: The soldier attempted to elude the enemy.

Allusion vs. Illusion

"Allusion" is the noun derived from the verb "allude," which is to make an indirect or passing reference to something. Example: She made allusions about her wealth.

"Illusion" is the action of deceiving the eye or mind by what is unreal or false. Example: The magician created the illusion of flowing water.

All-round vs. All Around

"All-round" is an adjective meaning versatile or general. Example: He is an all-round mechanic.

"All around" has the meaning of being all over a given area. Example: Fir trees were all around the cabin.

Alternate vs. Alternative

"Alternate" (as a verb) means to follow one another by turns. Example: Please alternate the colored pages.

"Alternate" (as a noun) means a substitute or second for another person. Example: I am the alternate committee member.

"Alternative" means a choice between two things. Example: We have only two alternatives.

Apprehend vs. Comprehend

"Apprehend" means to take into custody or grasp mentally. While "apprehend" sometimes means "understand," it is best to use "comprehend" because it's easier for most people to understand. For the purposes of this exercise, always use "comprehend" for "understand." The noun form, "apprehension," means a foreboding or dread of something. Example: Please apprehend the criminal.

"Comprehend" means to grasp mentally or understand fully. Example: Do you comprehend this material? The adjective "comprehensive" means all-inclusive or having a wide range. Example: Final exams are usually comprehensive because they include questions on all the material covered in a semester.

Born vs. Borne

"Born" is an adjective that means brought forth as by birth. It can also describe someone who has a natural talent for something. Example: She is a born musician. Common patterns use "born" as a past participle verb form, as in: She was born on the Fourth of July.

"Borne" is the past participle of the verb "bear" (bear, bore, borne) meaning to support, to carry, to hold in mind, to suffer. Example: The fluffy seeds were borne by the wind.

Censor vs. Censure

"Censor" as a noun means any official examiner of books, plays, etc., empowered to suppress them if they are found to be politically or morally objectionable. Example: Is there a censor for our library?

"Censor" can also be used as a verb meaning examine or suppress. Example: Many movies have to be censored before they are put on TV.

"Censure" means the expression of disapproval or blame, strong criticism, reprimand. Example: Will we be censured for our article?

Notable vs. Notorious, Notoriety

"Notable" and "noted" are used chiefly of persons or things that are remarkable or distinguished for favorable reasons. Examples: 1) The notable remark will be remembered for a long time. 2) The noted author spoke at a local club.

"Notorious" is now almost always used to mean of ill repute. In other words, if someone is known for doing something bad, he or she is "notorious." Example: The notorious outlaw was hunted by the law.

"Notoriety," likewise, means unfavorable publicity or distinction. Example: She did not want any more notoriety.

Persecute vs. Prosecute

"Persecute" means to subject a person or group to persistent ill treatment. Example: People tend to persecute teenagers for their different styles.

"Prosecute" means to pursue, carry out, or bring a lawsuit against a person or group. Example: The court will prosecute anyone who breaks the law.

Continual, Continuous, and Consecutive

"Continual" means happening again and again at short intervals as "continual reminders." Example: The loud trucks were a continual problem.

"Continuous" means uninterrupted, whether of time or space, as in "continuous misery," "continuous rain," or "continuous range of mountains." Example: The stormy weather was continuous.

"Consecutive" means occurring one after the other, as in "consecutive days of the week." Example: Are we to attend on consecutive days?

Sight vs. Site, Cite

"Sight" used as noun means vision or the act of seeing. Example: Sight is one of our senses.

"Sight" used as a verb means to take aim or to spot something that is difficult or unusual to see, or make an observation. Example: Sight along the barrel of the gun.

"Cite" is a verb meaning to quote as authority, to mention in a report, or to summon to appear in court. Example: Please cite the applicable law.

"Site" is a noun meaning a place where an event has occurred, or a place where something is located, a place set apart for some specific use. Example: It was a large school site.

Stationary vs. Stationery

"Stationary" means fixed in one place. Example: The cabinet in the kitchen was stationary.

"Stationery" means writing supplies. Example: The stationery had a flower motif.

[ghcstao3]

(cw mcd but not in like? a sad way? bittersweet/ambiguous ending at worst but it’s overall hopeful and happy i swear)

(also cw for descriptions of death/dying. not very graphic)

-

Simon Riley dies alone, buried six feet deep in a Mexican desert. He had scrabbled at his coffin lid until his fingers were raw and bloody and stuck with splinters, then there had been a growing tightness in his chest, and then there had been nothing.

A month ago, Manuel Roba had made the mistake of leaving another soldier buried with the rotted corpse of their former CO, and they had escaped, just barely, with the help of a broken jawbone—until, of course, they were shot point blank once the soil loosened, because Manuel Roba would never be far.

So Simon does not get the same opportunity. Simon does not get to succeed in getting out.

And, ever the restless soul, his ghost wanders. Wanders until he comes upon a town whose name he can’t quite discern in the strange, phantasmal distortion that clouds his senses. But he can hear the buzz of chatter and music, feel the emotion of bodies alive, and so he decides to stay in this unnamed town, wandering, at least until his undetermined eternity runs out.

-

John MacTavish dies alone, in a Mexican town by the name of Las Almas. He had fought tooth and nail to survive, until blood loss had made him too sluggish, then there had been a second bullet, and then there had been nothing.

No one had predicted Graves and Shepherd’s betrayal, and it had stung. Then with Rodolfo nowhere to be found, Alejandro captured, and no one to help with his escape, John had been left on his own, with nothing. He had nothing to staunch the bleeding of the bullet wound in his bicep, had no weapons to protect himself from the droves of Shadows roaming Alejandro and Rodolfo’s home town, had no way of knowing the church would not serve as sufficient refuge.

He killed the Shadow sitting in wait, but not before they managed to lodge a bullet in his abdomen, and he had realized, then, that it was hopeless to think he could still get out. So, with what little was left of his strength and adrenaline, John deposited the Shadow outside, barricaded himself in, and slumped into a rickety pew until the world faded from around him.

And, ever the restless soul, his ghost wanders. Las Almas becomes John’s home, though it always remains unfamiliar through the otherworldly haze that dilutes his senses. They’re a strong people here, and they rebuild after the Shadows’ brief but cruel rampage, and it’s enough for John, feeling infected by their resilience, to be satisfied with spending the rest of his unknown eternity floating through the town.

-

At first, neither Simon nor John understand how or why they meet.

It isn't as if they are the only two spirits roaming Las Almas—really, the town is chock full of ghosts, as are most towns and cities and even individual buildings, but paths seldom cross. The afterlife is lonesome, and though it really isn't so terrible, that isolation is only inherent to the nature of death, and so it truly shouldn't be possible that they should ever encounter one another.

And yet, one night—a date they are both unsure of, as time becomes mostly indecipherable once departed from the land of the living—it’s like that fog disappears, that veil lifts, and suddenly the world has become clear once more, clear like both John and Simon had forgotten.

Las Almas seems to be brimming with more life than usual, music and dancing, food and gatherings. John is in awe—despite the festivities, however, he’s also filled with a profound sense of melancholy, mourning everything he’s missed since his passing; since his perception had been reduced to something murky, like he was underwater, looking up and hearing sounds but never quite able to make any of it out. He doesn’t know how long this might last, so he takes advantage of every second—that’s how he eventually stumbles upon Simon Riley.

Simon—he’s heard of Día de los Muertos before, but never quite understood the tradition. His experiences in Mexico were limited, culturally and otherwise, and so it comes as a surprise when he finally feels like he’s living again—but walking through Las Almas, as he finally learns its name, it only takes seeing some ofrendas and listening into conversations to understand what this is, and that it’s only temporary. He is not really a physical being anymore, but he can at least pretend like he is, and that’s how he eventually comes across John MacTavish.

John feels lost, though he’s been haunting these streets for some time now. He spots Simon hanging back in the shadows, notices for the first time that’s it’s someone actually looking at him, not through or past him, and he all but runs up to the man, afraid that if he were to take too long, John might lose his only chance at company.

“You can see me,” John says, breathless.

“I can see you,” the man agrees, the weight of his gaze solid and unwavering.

John wishes to melt alongside the honey-gold flecks in the man’s warm, brown irises, and endeavours to memorize their colour in case he should never get this opportunity again.

“Are you also…?”

A curt nod. “I am.”

John shifts awkwardly. “Do you know what—“

“Day of the Dead,” says the man, not unkindly, though he isn’t necessarily being friendly, either. Obviously, he’s not one for talking—that, or he’s gotten too used to being alone. John doesn’t really care either way. “That’s why there’s so many… people.”

Spirits, the man means, just like the two of them. John feels stupid for not having noticed sooner, and feels his face tingle with a blush. It’s odd, realizing that that’s something he missed about being alive.

“So…” John drums his fingers on either of his thighs, the only thing he’s been able to touch all evening. “You come here often?”

When the man barks out a laugh, John thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever heard, dead and alive. He hopes, somehow, some way, to carry it with him throughout the remainder of his non-existence, however long that may be.

“Are you really hitting on me?” The man asks with incredulity, smiling, and John feels a grin growing on his own face, involuntary and so very welcome.

John shrugs. “Why not?” He surely looks like an idiot right now. He honestly thought he’d forgotten how to smile. “Didn’t think I had any loved ones here, but guess I was wrong.”

It’s dumb and cheesy but John guesses that it works, because suddenly he’s learning the other spirit’s name is Simon, and suddenly Simon is asking if Johnny would like to take a walk with him, and suddenly John finds himself saying yes.

So they wander aimlessly, chat about everything and nothing, and it’s nice, so nice, to get to feel like they’re real again. Even bittersweet as it is, once the sun starts to rise and crowds seem to thin, and John realizes he can’t quite recall the colour of Simon’s eyes anymore.

It’s in a church, the church, where they finally decide to settle and accept the inevitable. Simon still doesn’t understand why they also got to reunite with the living while being strangers to Las Almas, but he doesn’t voice this concern, instead choosing to focus on imagining the warmth of John’s presence beside him as the world starts to fade again, piece by piece.

“I think I’ve been ready for a while now. To move on,” Simon murmurs, staring ahead at the altar, the swathes of glowing candles. “If that’s even how this works. I think I’m just… afraid of what else there might be.”

“I’m not sure,” John admits. He wishes he were able to lean his head on Simon’s shoulder, or intertwine their fingers. “I’ve never thought about it. Don’t think it’d be so bad.”

They’ve only known one another for a few hours, certainly, but John can still sense Simon’s inner turmoil as he nods and hums and stares off into the distance. John wonders if, maybe in another life, they might’ve had a proper chance to have a thousand more conversations before this one. A proper chance to actually build something between them before they find themselves clinging to the dregs of almost-corporeality, just wishing for more time, or maybe something better entirely.

“I’ll go with you,” John adds unthinkingly, feeling his phantom heartbeat jumping in pace. “I don’t really have anything to stay for. That way we’d at least have something familiar.”

“I don’t know if I’d call you familiar,” Simon teases, a faint smile on his lips. “But I think I’d like that.”

“Good,” John says. “Because I wasn’t really giving you a choice.”

Simon laughs quietly, and John grasps desperately onto the sound as he closes his eyes and allows himself to be submerged again. When he opens his eyes, as he expected, the world is as it was before, blurry and distant and incomprehensible.

But this time, it isn’t nearly as lonely.

[doctorsilverhead]

please do something of Bay Optimus with the reader, but don't make them a couple, more like Optimus loves the reader but the feeling is so alien to him and he can't quite put a finger on it, specially because he think it'll be completely illogical (Shockwave moment), but despite all, still wants to be with you, like all the time, cuz you're full of kindness and compassion, and he just wants to surround himself with it. PLZ DO IT 😭

Heartstrings of Steel (Optimus Prime X Human Reader)

In the vast expanse of the cosmos, where stars twinkled like beacons of hope, a being of immense power and wisdom found himself drawn to the warmth of a human soul. Optimus Prime, the noble leader of the Autobots, had encountered countless battles and faced innumerable challenges, but nothing could have prepared him for the profound connection he felt towards you.

As he gazed upon your radiant presence, a strange sensation stirred within his spark – a yearning unlike any he had experienced before. It was a feeling so foreign, yet so captivating, that it left him in a state of bewilderment. The logical circuits of his mind struggled to comprehend the depth of this newfound emotion, for it defied the very laws of rationality that had governed his existence for eons.

Optimus Prime, a being forged from the finest alloys and imbued with the wisdom of the Primes, found himself drawn to the kindness and compassion that emanated from your very being. Your gentle spirit, untainted by the harshness of war and conflict, resonated with his own unwavering belief in the sanctity of life and the pursuit of peace.

As he observed you, he marveled at the way you carried yourself with grace and empathy, extending a hand of friendship to all who crossed your path. Your actions were a testament to the inherent goodness that resided within the human race, a quality that had often eluded his understanding in the midst of the endless battles he had fought.

Despite his vast knowledge and experience, Optimus Prime found himself at a loss to explain the profound connection he felt towards you. It was as if your very presence had ignited a spark within him, a spark that burned brighter than the stars themselves, filling him with a warmth he had never known before.

In those moments of quiet contemplation, he would ponder the depths of this newfound emotion, his processors whirring as he attempted to decipher the intricate web of feelings that had ensnared his spark. Yet, no matter how he tried to rationalize it, the truth remained elusive, a tantalizing mystery that beckoned him to explore the uncharted territories of his own existence.

To Optimus, the concept of love is as foreign as the distant stars from which he hails. His life, dedicated to the protection of all sentient beings, seldom affords him the luxury of exploring such deeply personal sentiments. Yet, in your company, he encounters an array of emotions that are as perplexing as they are profound. It is an experience akin to discovering a new spectrum of color in a world previously seen only in shades of duty and war.

Your interactions, though simple and unassuming, leave an indelible mark on Optimus's spark. He finds himself inexplicably drawn to you, wanting to be near you, to learn from you. The kindness and compassion you exude effortlessly are like beacons of light in his tumultuous existence. It's not just the battles won or the crises averted that begin to define his days, but the moments shared with you—moments that offer glimpses into what it means to be truly alive.

And so, Optimus Prime found himself drawn to your side, seeking solace in your company and basking in the radiance of your compassion. He yearned to surround himself with the very essence that made you who you were, for in your presence, he found a peace that transcended the boundaries of logic and reason.

Though the path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, one thing remained clear – Optimus Prime's desire to remain by your side, to bask in the warmth of your kindness, and to learn the secrets of the human heart that had so profoundly touched his own. For in that moment, he understood that true strength lay not only in the might of his form but in the depth of his connection to those who embodied the virtues he held most dear.

[pinkrelish]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲 | 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶A deleted scene from chapter twelve where receptionist!reader acts like a bimbo in front of Eddie just to rile him up. Written very tongue-in-cheek at the beginning.✶

NSFW — sexual themes, handjob, unresolved sexual tension, 18+

↳ start the story here to catch up!

[wc: 2.1k]

Heeding your checklist of chores, you idled at the workbench against the far corner of the wall. There were a few of the usual things you organized: placing nuts and bolts in drawers, facing products with their labels out, tidying small boxes, folding the end of the paper towel roll so it didn’t unfurl itself in the turbulent path of the oscillating fan. You bent over to toss cellophane wrappers into the waste paper bin, and took your time musing if the liner should be changed despite the little amount of balled up paper weighing down the bottom. Standing, you swept off the unsanded tabletop with your hands, and worked a crusty rag over an oil streak, making a mental note to call the laundry service to swing by a day early.

As you stepped away, you knocked a pencil to the floor. Its bright yellow body was impossible to miss, along with its excruciatingly long hexagonal roll carried by your elbow to the very edge, but you managed. You knelt to your hands and knees to retrieve the writing utensil, inspecting its broken tip. The graphite was missing completely, leaving behind an empty hole where it once was. An unfortunate accident. You rotated it a few times looking for other flaws—an honorable way to spend your time.

“You doin’ this on purpose?” gruffed out an annoyed voice behind you.

No need to check, you heard the amused twist at the corner of his lips. His left canine was probably on show, too. Not in a hurry to confirm, you gripped the pencil in your fist, and leaned forward, stretching in search of the missing lead before it was stomped into dust and potentially transferred from someone’s boot sole into a wealthy client’s car. You were thinking of them, really.

The floor was a rewarding oasis in the noonday sun baking through the warehouse windows. Your flat splayed hands and knuckles worked over the grit of dirt to inch your pursuit closer to the wall, drinking in the chill of the epoxy coated concrete cooling you down better than a 50 cent clear plastic cup of Kool Aid at a kid’s misspelled lemonaide stand. Though, the unforgiving flooring bit into your joints, and indented your knees with the netting of your pantyhose. But Eddie’s study did not sway to your shoe slipping off your heel. No, he was a gentleman. And as a gentleman, he praised the wealth of curves you put on display.

He used the heels of his heavy boots to drag himself from under a Mustang, thumping up beside you, wheels on the creeper rolling along the slick floor.

The lower you dipped your chest, the higher your skirt hem tickled the back of your thighs. In total innocence—truly giving your best effort to find the missing pencil tip—you tilted your hips to unimaginable degrees, presenting your ass to the point even your lower back side-eyed your act.

Smooth backs of fingers lifted the hem more. Eddie curled his index under your skirt, and assisted it to the crease of your cheek, following the change in nylon with his rough thumbprint as it wove denser around your thighs to hold you in. Tummy Control, it was advertised as. To a man who had seldom encounters with women, this meant very little to him, as did the change in texture. Though, curiously, he rubbed at it with interest.

“You’re something else, you know that?” But his voice was too playful to shame you, hardly traipsing through his throat to chastise. “I’m out here working my ass off, and you’re struttin’ around the garage in this lil’ piece.” The little piece in question was your corporate approved pencil skirt from a long forgotten temp job when your apartment lost two roommates in a breakup, and rent was past due.

Pandering to your audience of one, you shuffled two of the tiniest inches backwards, and steadied your hand on his outstretched leg. You bent at the hips, filling his large palm with a handful of your ass, and he admired you in a brush of fingertips near the innermost valley of your thigh, licking a divine chill up your spine. Playing along, you pretended to just notice him, assuming a sinless gasp, and following it with many airheaded inflections, “Oh! Didn’t see you there, handsome. Am I distracting you?”

The standing fan swung its head in your direction, sweeping Eddie’s bangs off his forehead in a brief burst.

You’d been on hundreds of dates, and not once had you been so deeply complimented by someone’s gaze.

Eddie dwelled in the distraction. He stroked his thumb over the fat, and traced his pinky along the hypersensitive crease before the swell which had your muscles tightening in a squirm. He was so close to the middle seam of the pantyhose. Perhaps he knew this as well, but didn’t care—he was just happy to be touching you. Laid out in the neon orange creeper, sun glancing off the packed garage, casting a glow across his puffy face. Sleepy eyes, messy hair, unbearably adorable grin—the type of candid expression showing how honored he was to look at you, so forthcoming and open. A trap, if there ever was one, luring you into picturing him twisted amongst your bedding on a late morning.

As he tracked his gaze over your backside, an aching reminder moseyed its way into his consciousness. Setting into a glare, he forced his way through any pleasantness lingering in his chest to tell you plainly, “Sweetheart, you’re fucking torturing me here.” You giggled, and he broke, falling victim to the squinch at his crow’s feet.

“You think I’m not torturing myself, too?”

“Dunno.” He craned his head back to check underneath the car for where each pair of boots were moving, and you peeped through the driver’s side window to keep tabs on the seated customers in the lobby. Once you both ensured there was no danger of being caught, he turned his attention to you fully. “You’re not wearing my favorite pair, so I couldn’t tell.” In case you weren’t sure, he wrung his hand around your leg, and drummed his fingers where there should be an easily accessible hole in your tights, where he could drag his fingers through your slick truth. His sorry features were tainted with remorse when your plush thighs weren't spilling out from the nylon; however, he drew his eyebrows in mock sympathy, and traced the area. “Could make these my new favorite pair, though.”

You about melted into a puddle of dumbstruck glee at his first foray into initiating dirty talk. “Yeah?” you stressed the word like he would—big smile and all. You raised the placement of your grip on his leg up, further, still going until the inside of your thumb threatened to assist what laid fat and heavy towards his hip. Car exhaust, pungent motor oil, and fumes swam in your head. Mind dizzy, you skimmed your nails over his heavy sack pressed tight against the seam of his coveralls. An implied line was drawn along your heat by his featherlight touch. You leaned over him, real close, chest over chest, knees spread because his hand encouraged you to do so. Mouth to mouth, considering kissing the dirt from his lips. “Wanna rip ‘em, and have me on top while you’re on this thing?”

Eddie moaned, and it wasn’t shy in the loud garage. “Want it so fucking bad, baby.”

A single ding from the bell atop your desk drew your attention.

Bodies paused, you both existed in the indecision of what to do. Eddie’s forehead wrinkled from his high brows driving his attention backwards, peering under the car again. The other employees of David’s Auto Repair shuffled around a Studebaker. There was no one inside to help the customer. What a shame.

Eddie lowered his chin in long clockticks, seeking you behind his heavy lashes and heavier gaze. His nose met the side of yours in an unrefined graze, dragging his chapped lips wherever he felt your smile. He kissed you hungry. Needy, desperate to fit the magnitude of his palm at the back of your head, and dirty your mouth with noses mashed together. He wanted you messy, he wanted you catching your balance on the creeper for the same reason his held sigh became your next breath, taking a pinch of your pantyhose over your pussy and twisting it around his fist to demonstrate his annoyance, as if the dull ache of your bottom lip against his teeth wasn’t illustrative enough. The peak of your whine and his approving hum tethered the snap of your tights and the squeeze he left on your thigh. Filthy warmth blanketed the top of your hand. Stifling hot, calluses running rough over your knuckles as he cupped your palm over his hard length, and curled your fingers around himself, kicking his hips up to really stretch the limits of your grip. Together, he guided you in a few teasing pumps along the base, ego growing at the pretty sound hitched in your throat.

“Hey, Ed!” Mr. Moore’s yell burst the bubble you two surrounded yourselves in. “C’mere, ‘nd look at this.”

It wasn’t an emergency. It could wait. There were enough mechanics on duty, they could figure out what they were gawking at, or admiring, or whatever it was they were doing. That was the justification behind your shared look with Eddie, and the tension holding you two apart faded within seconds. If anything it spurred you on. You raked your fingers through his hair, mussing the roots at the crown of his head, covering the side of his body with yours, stroking his cock. The consequences didn’t matter. He increased the pressure and showed you how he liked it when you looped your thumb and index around the edge of his fat tip and pumped him faster—

Ding, ding, ding.

The kiss slowed from the distraction, but you tried to keep going, staying in the moment with Eddie’s praise burning your cheeks. He was eager, he was close. He was whispering, “Feels fucking good when you—yeah—like that,” when you added the twist of your wrist to the end of motion.

“Ed!” Mr. Moore’s voice ruined the moment. “Where’d he… And wasn’t she at her desk a second ago?”

Ding, ding ding!

Your foreheads crashed together in a defeated groan.

Eddie sagged completely limp on the creeper. “Why do you do this to me?” He dropped his arms in a big shrug, kicking his legs out flat, throbbing hard in your palm. You curbed the urge to keep going and dragged your fingers away.

“Hey, you’re the one who started this,” you sniffed, sitting back to fan your face in effort to make yourself presentable while he considered rolling under the car for the next eternity to hide his blazing red cheeks.

“I was a good worker before you came along,” he argued, pointing at you with a nail outlined in grime. He did it with such vigor his shoulders curled off the creeper, sitting up to give you a real good talkin’ to. “I never did this sorta shit with anyone before you showed up. You’re bad for me. You drive me crazy.” Not an ounce of anger dared enter his tone, not even having strength to control his smile from going lopsided, dimpling, nose scrunching in a badly contained laugh. Never would he want you to think he was mad at you, even as a joke. He was soft like that.

Eddie broke first, and that’s all you needed to kiss him against the black Mustang door, thud on the metal deadened by his nervous hand coming up to brush his curls flat.

“You drive me crazy too,” you promised against his lips. “Now, try not to cum your pants when I bend over to get this trash, and have fun explaining to the guys why you can’t stand up for the next few minutes.” You cocked your head, and smacked your tongue in a hard, “‘Kay?”

He glared at your smugness. Glared at your backside, too. Scowled at his grip formed around the swollen length rising so obvious no matter how he fixed his legs, and surrendered to the humiliation of laying back on the creeper, summoning enough dignity to roll himself to the other side where a gaggle of boots scuffed the ground in search for him, and give some excuse that he was very busy fixing something and wouldn’t be available for the foreseeable future.

originally thursday's section in chapter twelve was split into three separate scenes. i was almost finished writing the first two when i took the section in a different direction and mashed all the important elements into the scene in the breakroom which did make the cut. truthfully i had only written to eddie's line of "wanting it so badly" and they would've gotten interrupted at that point (before any touching), but since this isn't exactly canon, i went ahead and had fun and made it a little spicier.

you might also recognize some imagery, lines of prose, or descriptions i salvaged from this piece and put into the final one!

[my-religion-greek-myth]

Freedom far away - B

Yap, until my kink is satisfied, I'll keep writing these lol Who knows, once I'm satisfied, I'll stop writing suddenly. I'll prolly writing whole night tho..

Thanks all for liking this. Some of you probably noticed, that this story isn't set in America cuz this is all inspired by my own fanart (Korean Joseon Era), but I try to be subtle about any indications, so you can just imagine as some whre in western or other american town other than westview or salem.

Freeom far away - A

Fem Reader X Agatha X Rio

The first time you met Agatha and Rio, their presence lingered in your mind long after you exchanged names and hurried home. As you retreated, Rio's voice had called out, "See you later," her tone playful and lilting with a hint of laughter. You did not dare look back, but their gazes had felt almost tangible—slithering and coiling around you as if urging you to turn. It took every ounce of willpower to keep walking, to not succumb to the strange pull that seemed to emanate from them.

Days had passed since that encounter at the well, but their image haunted you. Whether you were studying, eating, or even engaging in conversation with your family, part of your mind was consumed by thoughts of the duo. You found yourself unconsciously touching your right hand, where Agatha's fingers had briefly brushed against yours. No other touch had ever left you feeling so electric, so unsettled. Their memory persisted like a faint melody you could not shake, and you found yourself debating—should you return to the well? Could you face them again? Would they even still be there?

With a deep sigh, you made up your mind. Opening the door to the courtyard, you noticed three servants diligently cleaning. One of them glanced up and immediately bowed when he saw you.

"Is there something you need, milady?" he asked nervously, his voice trembling as if he feared some unspoken reprimand.

You blinked, realising you had been unconsciously glaring in his direction, your mind preoccupied with Agatha and Rio. You opened your mouth to respond but thought better of it, shaking your head instead. You slipped on your shoes and made for the main entrance without another word.

"Where are you going?" came the familiar voice of your younger sister behind you.

You turned sharply, raising an eyebrow at her. Standing beside her was your younger brother, both looking at you with curious expressions.

"Did grandfather send you to keep an eye on me?" you asked, your tone sharper than you intended.

Your siblings and even the nearby servants visibly recoiled at the authoritative edge in your voice. It was a tone you seldom used, but it had a way of surfacing when you were particularly annoyed—or, in this case, deeply conflicted. And today, your irritation was palpable. The pull towards Agatha and Rio, the confusion they stirred in you, made you want to brush off any interaction with your family and rush to them.

Your sister quickly composed herself, though a frown etched on her face. "I was just asking. No need to snap," she muttered.

"We’re going to Jun’s house for archery practice. Want to come with us?" your younger brother interjected, clearly trying to ease the tension before it could escalate. He knew all too well how quickly tempers could flare between you and your sister.

"No, thank you," you replied curtly. "I have other matters to attend to."

"As if," your sister scoffed. You could almost picture her shaking her head in exasperation, arms crossed in that typical defiant stance of hers. But you did not care. Ignoring her remark, you stepped outside, your pace quickening as you made your way back to the well, determined to see if Agatha and Rio were still there.

---RAR---

The looming shadow of the mountain cast a dark veil over the well, making the place feel unusually eerie despite the daylight. You glanced around nervously, unsure why the familiar space suddenly made your body shiver. Your eyes caught the fluttering ribbons tied to the shaman's tree, their vibrant colours contrasting with the oppressive silence.

"Well, well, we have the pretty lady back here," came a lively voice.

Startled, you jumped and turned to see Rio, her warm brown eyes glinting with amusement as she chuckled softly. In her left hand, however, was a small dagger that gleamed faintly in the dim light. Beside her, Agatha stood poised, her fingers grazing her lips, a faint smile playing on her face as if she were appraising you.

"I told you we'd meet again, didn’t I?" Rio said, her steps deliberate and confident as she walked toward you.

Instinctively, you stepped back, but in your haste, your heel caught the edge of the well. Your breath hitched as you felt yourself teetering backward, the dark depths of the well below you. Before you could fall, a firm hand grabbed your arm. Rio, her grip strong yet gentle, pulled you back to safety.

The touch sent a jolt through you—an unfamiliar sensation that made time to slow. You had read about such moments in the romantic novels you had secretly consumed with your noble friends, moments you had laughed at for their absurdity. Yet here it was, and it was undeniably real. A sudden warmth spread across your face as you realised what had happened. Rio smirked, her gaze sharp yet teasing.

"Oh, don’t tell me you’re blushing, doll," Agatha said, her melodic laughter carrying a mischievous edge. She stepped closer, her ocean-blue eyes darkening briefly, like the sky before a storm. For a moment, you could not decide whether her eyes were a deep navy or an ethereal blue, but you knew they were the most captivating thing you had ever seen.

Before you could reply, Rio suddenly pulled you closer. Your face pressed against her chest—a distinctly feminine curve beneath the garments that suggested otherwise. Her warmth and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat enveloped you in a strange comfort. Without thinking, your arms circled her in an unconscious embrace.

Agatha pouted dramatically, crossing her arms as she watched. "Seems someone’s getting all the attention," she remarked, her tone playfully aggrieved.

"Don’t worry," Rio murmured above you, her voice teasingly soft as her breath tickled your hair. "I think the pretty lady has enough love for both of us."

The comment made you stiffen. You pushed against Rio’s chest, but she let you go with an easy laugh, nudging you backward—right into Agatha’s arms.

You gasped as you felt Agatha’s hands steady you, her grip firm yet gentle around your middle. Her scent—subtle and intoxicating—filled your senses as she leaned down, resting her chin lightly on your head.

"You smell nice, doll," Agatha murmured, her voice low and velvety, sending shivers down your spine.

Your heart raced your mind a whirl of confusion and resistance. You had come to the well seeking answers to the strange pull you felt toward them, but now they were toying with you, unravelling your composure as if it were child’s play.

"Why are you here, pretty lady?" Rio asked, stepping closer. Her long fingers lifted your chin effortlessly, forcing your gaze to meet hers.

You froze, unable to look away. Her darkened eyes were filled with a predatory intensity that made her presence feel overwhelming. Behind you, Agatha’s hands brushed through your hair, loosening it from its neat styling. The gentle motion was so intimate that it made your breath hitch again.

"Answer her, doll," Agatha’s voice purred in your ear, her warm breath caressing your skin.

You could not speak. The sensations overwhelmed you; Rio’s fingers tracing your face, Agatha’s hand trailing through your hair, the suffocating awareness of their proximity.

"How are we supposed to get to know you if you won’t answer?" Rio whispered, her face now so close to yours that her nose almost brushed against yours.

Agatha’s fingers tangled gently in your hair, her touch sending a new wave of shivers through your body. You were caught between them, their presence intoxicating and inescapable, as if the world had narrowed to just the three of you. You did not know whether to flee or surrender to the strange pull that bound you to them.

"I'm…" Your voice trembled. "I'm not scared of you two."

"That's not an answer," Agatha's voice carried a hint of a frown, but it softened quickly. "But I'm glad you're not scared of us." Her lips brushed lightly against your ear, sending a burning sensation through it.

"I can't stop thinking about you two," you finally admitted, gulping hard.

Rio pulled her face back, and, to your surprise, you felt a pang of disappointment.

"Why?" Rio asked, tilting her head, her eyes gleaming with mischief as they roamed over you. "We only told you our names."

"That's why I'm here," you said, frustration bubbling up. "I've never felt like this in my life!"

Agatha chuckled, her laugh light but somehow weighted with something you could not identify. She finally released you, and seizing the moment, you stepped back. Both of them watched you with amusement, their darkened eyes betraying some unreadable intent you could not comprehend.

"You’ve never been in love before?" Agatha asked, smiling that same captivating smile she had worn when you first met. It was hypnotic, alluring—utterly impossible to look away from.

Your eyes widened. Love? The very idea made your stomach twist. Love? With them? You had only just met them, and to feel this way for two people at the same time? It defied all logic and everything you had ever been taught.

You took another step back, and still, they did not stop you. Their smiles only grew wider.

Panic surged within you, and you turned, fleeing towards the safety of your home.

As you ran, Agatha’s melodic voice rang out behind you, the sound trailing you like a spell.

"See you later, doll!"

---RAR---

Your footsteps thundered against the path as you bolted away from the well. Your mind was a cacophony of emotions—confusion, embarrassment, and a simmering warmth you could not quite place. Love? How absurd, you thought, shaking your head. You had only just met them. And two people? At once? The very idea seemed preposterous, something out of fanciful tales told to wide-eyed children.

The cool air brushed your face, but it did little to cool the heat rising in your cheeks. You could not forget the way Agatha’s lips brushed your ear or Rio’s gaze seemed to peel back every layer of your being, leaving you bare and exposed.

As you reached the entrance of your household, you slowed to a halt, clutching your chest as you tried to steady your racing heart. What was it about them? Their presence was unlike anything you had ever encountered—intoxicating, overwhelming, and magnetic.

"Milady?" a servant called, stepping cautiously into the courtyard from the backyard. "Is everything alright?"

You startled slightly, realising how dishevelled you must have looked from running. Straightening your posture, you smoothed your dress and forced a neutral expression onto your face.

"Yes," you replied curtly, brushing past her and heading toward your chambers.

Once inside, you closed the door firmly and leaned against it. The silence of the room felt suffocating, yet your thoughts continued to churn. Despite your attempts to banish them from your mind, their faces—Agatha’s piercing, ocean-like eyes and Rio’s mischievous grin—kept invading your thoughts.

You slid down against the door, your knees drawing up to your chest. What are they doing to me? You could not shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

Part A | Part B | Part C&D | Part E | Part F | Part G | Part H | Part I&J | Part K | Part L | Part M | Part N | Part O&P | Part Q | Part ? | Epilogue

[havoc-7]

I wasn’t a die-hard Tech Lives believer (more of a “I HOPE Tech Lives” believer) but the end of the show has me grieving hard all over again, so here’s my little ode to Tech based on things I’ve noticed about him from rewatching the show:

Tech LOVES his brothers, and he genuinely misses Crosshair. When he has his heart to heart with Omega in the ipsium cavern, the way that he mentions Crosshair—even though that wasn’t even really what they were discussing—shows how often Crosshair is on his mind, so much so that he can’t really talk about people leaving and changing without bringing him up. When they get the Plan 88 from Crosshair, Tech is vocal and insistent about doing whatever they can to bring Crosshair back—because “he is still our brother.”

Tech is incredibly moral. Not that he’s any more moral than I think generally TBB is, but he’s not afraid to speak up when he sees something that he disagrees with fundamentally. “The systematic termination of the Jedi is a big one for me.” “There’s a fundamental different between taking fire in battle and being used for target practice.” Even in just the first episode, we see how firm his opinions are, based on what he believes: that people are people, that HIS BROTHERS are people, that they deserve better, that there is such a thing as right and wrong.

Tech may be practical, but that doesn’t make him any less crazy than his brothers—in fact, I would argue he is one of the more unhinged members of the bad batch. His plans and ideas see everything factually, factoring in risk not as an emotional factor but as a numerical one. He knows their skills, and what they are capable of, and he pushes them to those capabilities, even if the resulting strategy is absolutely insane. The best part is, as insane as he may be, his brothers trust him, because, as Tech himself said, he is seldom wrong.

Tech has a beautiful sense of wonder and awe for the world around him. How many times do we see him go wide-eyed as he encounters something that absolutely fascinates him—even if that thing is a Zillo beast that just ate an entire Imperial crew.

Tech is INSANE. Not unhinged, like I said earlier, but skill-wise, ability-wise, he is an absolute powerhouse. I will forever be grateful to the writers of TBB who gave us a techy, intelligent character who is not your average scrawny computer guy that we get in action movies. You have to have a lot of guts to be the guy in your squad who turns your back on the fight to bend over a computer and hack into a file or break an encryption or alter the programming—already a delicate operation, but with the added risk of getting shot with your back turned. He frickin wields double blasters so that he can shoot more clankers more efficiently (if that’s not practical Tech, I don’t know what is). He DOESN’T WEAR LEG ARMOR SO THAT HE CAN CARRY HIS TOOLS WITH HIM INTO THE FIELD. In “Faster,” we see his hand inching towards his blaster, ready to defend and protect the second it’s necessary—and you know he would’ve beaten anyone to the draw. He fought a group of Imperial troopers!!! With a broken leg!!!!!

Tech was amazing, and I hate that he’s dead, that we never got to see him grow old, that he never saw Crosshair again. But WHAT A LIFE HE LIVED.

[closer-to-jungkook]

Esati | Ch 1

Pairing: Mercenary!Jungkook x ?? Female!Reader

Summary: When past comes knocking on your door wearing the face of unknown dangers, you can either refuse acknowledging it and be a sitting duck or find out what it was that turned your world upside down all those years ago—that has come back yet again to hunt you—with a stranger promising to keep you safe, by your side. One thing is sure: secrets will unfold. And it would not be anything you could've imagined.

Word Count: 8.4k

Genre: Fantasy au; adventure; action. Fluff; angst; future smut(??)

Rating: 18+ (violence and mature themes)

Warnings: Fighting ig. Not much for this chapter

Published: 18th December 2024

A/n: well look who's here. I finally completed the first chapter!! It was actually longer than this but I cut some parts since it seemed better that way. I guess that means the next chapter will come out earlier, I have more than half of it already written.

I really have a good feeling about this story, I have it all mapped out so if anyone is wondering if I will complete this or not then rest assured that no matter what I will for sure finish this! A special thank you to my friend Jae for cheering me on (you're the real one Jan I love you)

I'm really looking forward to y'alls response to this, I hope you enjoy reading it🤍

A/n 2: I thought I'd post it tomorrow but I don't want to wait so here it goes. I'm posting it at the 2 in the morning. Hope you enjoy. Hope I didn't make any mistakes.

Moodboard

Map and Glossary

Esati Masterlist

They say winter is cruel. Harsh and unforgiving. Anyone unfortunate enough to encounter it at its worst seldom survives it. It only knows how to take, how to steal—the warmth from your blood, the hope in your eyes, the life from your soul. The white snow spread like a blanket over the lands and waters alike: beautiful yet a warning of destruction for all.

All but one. Alastair has found no comfort other than these sharp winds and freezing soils in a long time. He took in a deep breath of peace, something he hadn't had the pleasure of for days—or had it been weeks?

It's been so long since he started his travels. Traveller. He liked calling himself that, much better than introducing himself as someone who's being hunted. 

It's been so long; being on the run didn't grant him a minute of peace, but now he could feel a stillness in his mind. A quiet, which only came from knowing no eyes were following him anymore.

He walked higher up the mountains; the path was rocky and difficult to climb, but he managed even in his current state. It also ensured that had anyone been on his trail, he'd have easily known.

But as much as these snowy mountains were liberating to his mind, his body was not in the same condition. After being chased, hunted, and hurt, his body was battered and starting to feel more numb with each passing hour.

A final feeling washed over his mind. Like he knew it was coming. He was dying.

And it seemed fitting. Appropriate. Considering there wasn't anything left for him to do. He fulfilled his duty and played his part in the play of universe, for which he was chosen by Cianbhàta himself. After all, he hadn't escaped for his own safety. It was something greater than his existence that needed to be protected. 

But now, he could sense it. His time was up.

No. No, he couldn't die like this. Not yet.

It felt selfish of him to still be holding on to this useless life. He tried hard, convinced himself it was over, but still, he couldn't figure out why he felt this strong need to keep moving.

His foot sunk in the soft snow, and he stumbled; leaning against a leafless tree he looked past the branches, up at the gray sky. Looking and searching, hoping to catch a glimpse of the almighty so he could get his answers himself.

He closed his eyes and sat down completely with his head against the rough, cold bark. "Oh almighty," he called out in a croak.

"Forgive your subject for being greedy, asking for more than you've graciously offered to us already. My body is giving up, but my heart is tearing apart," cough, "screaming, screaming at me that I'm leaving something unfinished," His eyes opened, filled with tears of anguished helplessness, "give me a sign. A reason, to-"

He coughed sharply, gasping and wheezing as the numbing winter air pushed its way past his lips, burning a path down his throat. Black spots started blinking across his vision, sorely standing out against the blurry white of the snow. This is it. This is how he will meet his end; he was sure of it.

Accepting his fate, he let his eyes close shut. His bones ached, and his skin was frozen cold. Just as he thought this was it, his ears picked up a faint sound. He didn't pay it any mind; if someone was here to capture him, it would be useless. He would be dead before anyone reached him.

But the more he heard, the clearer the voice became. A cry. He must be losing his mind. He blamed his growing incapability to differentiate in sounds and scenes the more he breathed in the bitter cold air. 

But the cries started again.

His eyes snapped open, he was sure now that the cries were real.

Gaining a burst of strength he didn't know he was capable of anymore, he dragged himself up with the help of the tree and listened for more sounds—trying to locate the direction where it was coming from.

His feet started moving in a direction with thicker vegetation on their own, like they already knew where to go before his ears could actually locate the source. 

He rushed past more bare trees, shrubs, and boulders and came face to face with a series of rocks protruding from the mountain, covered in a thin layer of snow, and then looked around trying to figure out the source where the sound could be coming from—which he now realised couldn't be heard anymore.

To his right, there were more trees packed together tightly, and he considered going in that direction when he heard the tiniest whimper, which he would've missed if he hadn't strained his ears to catch any noise. 

The sound was coming from the rocky surface; confused, as there was no way something could get stuck between them, he looked around some more trying to figure it out when he noticed a hole in the far left side of one of the rocks near a tree growing close to the black rocks. 

The hole was—he found out upon a closer look—no bigger than the size to fit a small dog, it seemed that the snow couldn't reach here because of the thick roots protruding from above, and the shrubbery that was still green and flourishing in the winter, but that's not what surprised him—it was the woven bamboo basket and a thick green blanket covering it and the whimpers that were coming from that basket.

He pulled it out, pulled the covers back, and revealed—

A child.

A very cold child with blue lips and the faintest of breaths puffing past its mouth.

Urgency immediately seized his limbs as he brought the infant out of the basket and close to his chest. It is going to die; this was the only thought echoing in his mind.

He took off running in search of someone. Anyone. He couldn't let the child die.

He ran and ran, holding the baby close to his chest, tucked in his coat.

"Is someone out there!? Help!" There was no response. He knew the tribals lived in this place, but he couldn't be sure of the exact location. And he hadn't been in his right mind to try and get a sense of the direction to figure out where he was at that moment.

"Please," he begged, "it will not survive, please," he cried up towards the sky. The black dots were back in his vision, stronger than before, but before he could succumb to the darkness, he took one more careful look at the child in his arms and assessed its soft breaths.

What a beautiful child. Shame I couldn't save you. 

With that final thought, he tucked the tiny being close and let darkness take him under. 

Warm. Everything felt so warm. Alastair hadn't felt warm in months. He shifted in his position, drifting in and out of consciousness.

The sound of fire crackling was what brought him out of his slumber at last. He blinked his eyes open, still a little dazed, and found himself lying on a cot in front of a blazing fire. He closed his eyes back immediately; his head hurt, and so would have his legs if they didn't feel numb already.

He tried to move his head, his neck protesting after being in that position for too long, and at first he couldn't, but his stubbornness won over his fatigue, and finally he managed to lift his head just a couple of inches. He tried to take in as much as his eyes allowed in that position and discovered that he was placed in a dark room. It seemed the walls were made of mud and the floor was wood.

Before he could think about how he got here, he heard the door behind him creak open. A chilly gust of wind entered the place along with the visitor. He tried turning his head again and just barely managed to lift it when the person came hurrying in front of him.

"Oh! You're awake," the person, who now he could see was an old woman, asked him happily, "must be confusing to wake up here, but not ya worry, ya were saved by our  gatherers." The woman continued, oddly cheerful, in her accented voice as she came around to sit on the mat beside his cot, her arms carrying something he couldn't focus on as she kept talking.

"Found ya freezing on the ground, oh, and ya girl is fine too! Strong child, Cianbhàta himself preserve the child."

Only now did he realise that the thing she put down on the floor wasn't a bundle of clothes but a child. The child—the girl—he found in the snow. She was staring at him, her dark eyes looking innocently up at him, and she definitely looked better too.

He was relieved. A little surprised how she survived long enough to make it here, wherever it is they were at, but he felt safe, and so he let the relief consume him.

He summarised what he remembered and what he was told just now and reached the conclusion that he was saved by these people—likely a mountain tribe—and was in their home right now; he saved the child, and now they think it's his child. That she's his daughter.

He opened his mouth to correct her, tell her that she wasn't his. That they might need to find her real parents. But somehow all that managed to escape was, "thank you for saving us."

"Not a problem! It brings honour to help our brothers in our  community." The woman said kindly and got up off the floor, "I'll go fetch more firewood and something for ya to eat, ya must be hungry too. I fed the child while ya were sleeping, so not worry about her." And with that she left the room.

He got up on his elbows and pulled himself into a sitting position; groaning, he looked at the infant now playing with her blanket.

She looked magical in the glow of the fire, and he felt an inexplicable affection for her.

He stared at her, with a mind full of hundreds of things, thoughts flowing faster than the warm water springs, but then she looked back up at him with those same dark eyes, and his brain stopped in its frenzy. She reached out, a hand making motions as if to grab the smoke rising from the fire. That was the moment everything became clear to him.

He'd decided. He will spend the rest of his life living and protecting this child; after all, she gave him a second chance at life. A will—a reason to live.

He will take this child as his own. He will do all he can to become a father for her.

And for the next decade and a half, he did just that.

huff huff

Hurried footsteps echoed in the silence of the forest. With nothing but the sound of tired pants that carried their way through the saplings emerging from the frozen cold soil, raising their heads to greet the summer only to be trampled by the heavy steps running from everything it had ever known.

"Aghh," a yelp was heard as a lock of dark brown hair got stuck in a branch hanging too low.

What am I doing?

A sharp turn towards a safer path with fewer branches on the way down.

I'm running. He told me to run.

The moss on the uneven ground slipped from under your foot, making you stumble.

Am I dreaming?

You quickly got up, instincts telling you that you had to keep moving. There was no time to collect the few things that spilled from your bag at your fall; you only grabbed the leather journal and kept running. A few coins spilling out from your pouch tucked in your waist. The sound of them hitting the rocks painfully loud.

The forest became a blur; you couldn't focus on anything other than the pounding in your heart and the pain that your brain didn't have the time to register—both physical and emotional.

The way downhill was not too steep, but there were places where soil had shifted away, making it harder to navigate where there was solid ground and where you'll encounter a gaping hole ready to swallow your feet. You'd never been to these parts of the mountains. You never needed to; you lived on the other side. But you have no other option; this was the path your father said was safe and asked you to run to.

Your father. The man who made you leave. The one you were getting farther away from with every passing second. The man who you might never see again.

"Pa."

You let out a sob. Leaning a hand against a leafless tree to brace yourself. This place was a lot warmer than the snow-covered hill you called home; you were sweating—your tears getting mixed with the salt. The evening sun, halfway hidden down in the horizon, warmed your skin, but your insides were freezing cold. 

You left home. left him. How did it ever come to this?

Before today you had been living in a bliss, unaware of the possibilities that such a storm could stir up in your life, one that you never would see coming and snatch everything you held dear. 

You sniffled, thinking back to how everything was so normal and okay just this morning. And now it's not. 

You stumbled, taking one step forward then the next. The sun had long disappeared, the moon hidden behind the clouds. The misty wind carried you forward, whispering a soft melody. You walked and walked, feet aching and heart heavy; your tears had dried off, but all you could do was move. 

There was a light shining in the distance. You didn't know how long you had already walked, but just a little more. A few steps. Another few. 

You reached the door, banging hard on it. The door opened, a middle-aged woman peeking out. 

She said something. She was talking to you. You were so tired. She was shouting now. 

But you couldn't hear her. Solid ground met the side of your head as you fell. Unconscious and numb. 

An owl let out a hoot, breaking the quiet of the dawn. A gust of cool breeze made its way across the empty spaces among the trees, yet to be warmed by the rays of sun. The same breeze rushed into your home, tickling the hair on your neck, announcing their arrival through the jingles of the bells on your window. You forgot to shut them. Again.

You looked out the window at the fog weaving a blanket of white in the evergreen canopy it claimed as home till the sun rose and chased it away. For a moment, just one heartbeat, you thought of home. Remembered the cold of snow, the steam rising from potatoes straight out of the coals and in your gloved hands.

You let out a shaky exhale, willing the memories away.

You picked up the woven basket and strapped the hunting knife to your waist. On your way out you grabbed the hooded cloak off of the hook. Dressed in the dark green of the forest, you ventured away from the deeper parts of the wood where you lived on your way to collect the 'dawn lilies.' They could only be found near riverbanks and must be plucked before the sun came out. You ran out of those after making the previous supply of burn ointments.

The grass was soft under your boots, the morning dew getting soaked in the bottom of your pants. The air was crisp and tinged with a chill; one wouldn't be able to live in the dewy and wet cold of a place such as this without proper gear, but you had always been a little more resistant to the cold. Still, you made a mental note to grab some gloves when you would go to meet Kenzie the week after.

Winter was just around the corner, and you ought to be prepared for the changing season.

On your way to the river, you made a detour and took the longer path. Dense shrubbery with no definitive footmarks, a less walked path. Crouching down in a few spots, you checked on the snares you had set up yesterday. The wires and ropes twisted in the way you had learnt when you were seven. Three out of five and no luck. It looked like one of them was triggered, but whatever it was, it got away.

But the fourth one did not disappoint, as you found a marmot trapped and wriggling. Carefully moving it, you untangled the rope from around its body.

You took the knife out from your belt and nodded your head once, "Thank you for giving your life to sustain mine," and swiftly pushed the knife deep in its neck. Swift kill.

You checked the fifth one too. Empty. And continue on your way to the river.

Emerging from the forest line, you ran your gaze along the length of the riverbank, making sure no wild animal was there that would feel threatened by you or threaten your life. It would be unusual, though—for any predator to be here. You have never seen any wild animal that could put your life in danger in all the time you lived here. You concluded that these parts of the woods must not be suitable for them, hence making it safer for you to live.

As you look around, there are only the occasional critters roaming the forest floor. Small animals, those you saw plenty of. You made your way towards the small flowers growing close to the water and began collecting them.

You got up soon, flowers and some wild berries collected in your basket. It also held the meat from the marmot that you had just cleaned in the river, wrapped up in large leaves. Scanning the area once more, you got ready to make the trek back to your home.

I'd have to make another trip to collect some water later in the day.

On the way back, you took the shorter path. The one you used regularly. Munching on the berries as you walked.

"Thank you, Mayah."

The tall girl gave you a smile in response as she heaved up the crates you had brought with you and started walking back towards the open door of the shop. 'Rennie's' written on a wooden board in bold letters. You pulled a wooden case from the wagon and handed it over to the other man, Kane, who stood there with arms stretched out.

"Is that the last one?" He asked, taking the heavy box.

"Yes, that is it." You grabbed your satchel and hopped off the wooden platform. "Take these ones straight to the storage,or else the potions may go bad." And he followed the girl into the shop.

Turning back to the carter, you handed him a silver coin; he examined it and then immediately said, "This would not be enough, miss."

You looked at him, confused. "Why not? It always takes this much. I would know; I travel to Fulroch every month."

You made ointments and health potions—a skill you had learned since childhood. That was what your father did, and you decided to continue on the same path as him.

Once a month, you would travel from your home, half a day's journey away from Fulroch, and sell them at the market here. You were not keen on making contact with many people—the lesser knew of you, the better—so it was comfortable for you to have secured a vendor who bought your products to then sell them himself, and on a fair rate too. This is how you've been doing business for the last few years.

"Ah, miss, you know nothing of the raids that happened down South?" You pushed your lips, eyebrows pulled down, raids? 

Before you could question him about it, he continued, "razed the whole town in days," he shook his head, "coins and cattle all gone. Those Aberrants," he sighed and tried coaxing the bulls attached to his wagon, who had started moving restlessly, "even the Lord turns his eyes another way when it comes to those Diels."

He continued to grumble some more before saying that he had to get going. You pulled a few copper pieces out of your pocket and handed them to him. As you watched him leave, you realised that someone was standing behind you.

"Kenzie," you said, turning back to the elder man.

"You look tired, miss." Kenzie replied, his wrinkle-covered face was kind as ever, and his voice warm. Meeting him always reminded you of a family you didn't have.

"The journey was long, and I left late today too. I'm fine, though. But that doesn't matter; what was that Carter talking about? Aberrants?"

"We shall talk inside, miss," his deep eyes swept the surroundings, and he started walking towards the back door. "Mayah? Bring a cup of water and also brew some tea, dear."

His daughter gave a short nod and went further inside the store, entering another set of doors.

You took a seat on the cot, and Kenzie did the same. "This far out, people are calling them raids," he started talking.

"And... they aren't?" You asked. You were never one to poke and prod about anything that had nothing to do with you. But this time you were curious; after all, this was not the first time you were hearing the name:

"Aberrants," he continued after taking a sip from the cup Mayah handed him. You thanked her when she did the same for you and mirrored him, "the second army of the Lord, I believe you know that much."

You nodded, also aware of how Lord Cras doesn't really have much control over them and lets them run wild. "They are bad news." Was what Pa once said. But that's all; word of their presence never came close to where you lived, and you never encountered them.

You stayed away from things that did not concern you. That's how you've lived.

"They came to a village south of Glenross first. Out of the blue, like they always did. No one knows where they come from or go to. But when they left," a grimace pulled itself on his face, "the village had become lifeless."

"Did they...?" You asked, your brows meeting in the middle as lines appeared between them. You feared they were killed.

"No. They just took everything. Valuables, grains, horses—"

"I suppose that's what a raid sounds like." You interrupted him in the middle, giving your empty water cup to Mayah, who came with a cup of tea in exchange—which you took with a grateful smile. His lips pursed as his eyes darted to his wall, on a painting of the forest on his right, before moving it back up the next second.

"Not quite. It was more than just that. Those deils brought a curse on the lands," Curse? This is not the first time you're hearing of something like this, but something about the tone in the old man's voice made you think of the stories from your childhood. The ones you had shut the doors to a long while ago, yet on the days the wind is stronger, you can hear their whispers rising with dust from between the cracks in the wood.

"By word of mouth, they drained the fertility from the soil and spat poison in the waters. The people became ill, so deathly ill." He coughed, chugging the rest of the water from his cup. "Nothing has come out of that town in the past half of the year. No yield, no supplies, no tax money that the incompetent Lord demands," Kenzie finished, his breath slightly laboured.

You made a note to make extra potions for him to use throughout the cold months. It did look like an extra harsh winter was casting its shadowy wings over the country. It is possible that your next trip down here might be the last one for this year.

You took his words in, trying to make sense of them. "And that's what caused an upsurge in prices?" You asked.

"No, that was not it. It has been months since the incident in there. They chose a small village at that time, but recently," he tried to continue but stopped as his daughter came back in the room, a hot water bag in hand.

"Don't speak so much at once, Pa," She scolded him gently in her soft voice. You looked at them, talking; your eyes that were tired just now had a glassy film to them, and your body stilled for just a second as she placed the bag on one of his shoulders. You turned your head away, focusing on the conversation.

"Then what caused it? All of a sudden?" You prodded, clearing your throat.

This time Mayah was the one who spoke, "It was after last month, when the same happened in Cunkeld." You've never been there, but you knew it took some time to reach there from Fulroch. 

Her face took on a grave expression, "this time though the country is suffering. Taxes are higher and commodities got expensive, we expect it to only get worse during winter."

You listened intently, forgetting about the tea in your hand.

"I fear what they are doing is more than just raids or spreading poison for just the wealth," sighed Kenzie, his eyes shut; you wanted to ask why he thought that and what more he believed was there. But you didn't. The less you got involved, the better, and you believed that you had already questioned about things more than you should have. 

Kenzie didn't look like he would be answering more of your questions either; he needed to rest. And so, you bid goodbye to Mayah, who handed you a small bag of coins. "I know it's not the whole amount—"

"Don't stress. Pay me the rest when you've sold all the stock," you smiled at her. Waving Kane off when he tried to walk you back.

Leaving out from the front this time, you slung your satchel across your body and decided to find a tavern for the night. It was late afternoon; the sound of bells ringing came from the center of the town having. The journey back would take hours, and it would be past midnight by the time you reach home. Not that you had any problem with traveling at night. But the wagon carters might not be too keen on that.

It didn't matter; you had errands to run either way, so you won't mind spending just one night here. And you were tired. You left later than expected in the morning; something had felt off, and you had checked around the perimeter. Although nothing was out of place, you still decided to be cautious, and it took some of your time.

So you started walking in the opposite direction of bells, on your way to the smaller market stalls.

"How much for the lotus seeds?" You asked around about different items, things that you needed for your workshop as well as other necessities. Soaps. New wires for snares. Some red clay.

You bought a few things and left behind a few others. There was not enough money for everything. You had to prioritize carefully.

A cat purred loudly as you neared a stall with fabrics of all colours arranged orderly. You scratched the cat on the head, and she went back to hissing at the stall on the left, one with shiny green apples. It was when you were inspecting a brown shawl that the vendor noticed you.

"What you lookin' for, girl?" an old-aged woman asked.

You looked up, hands pausing, "gloves for winter, leather."

The woman began rummaging around and produced a pair in a minute, "shoulda fit you, six silver pieces."

Your hands, previously reaching for said gloves, stopped in their tracks. "A bit too much, don't you think, madam?" Finally getting some movement back, you plucked the gloves, inspecting them, almost hoping to find some defect so that you can bargain for less.

"Leather comes precious these days, no bargain," She sniffed, then with a furrow in her brows, said, "No supply, so we're low on material; some rumored monster in the forest. No bigger monster than the cold and hunger, I  say." She scoffed.

You looked at the leather gloves, clutching your coin bag with one hand, deep in your satchel, "Can't do more than 3 coins, I'm afraid."

The woman's face took on a look of annoyance before she sighed, a look of understanding passing over her face. "Tell you what, here," She produced a pair of woolen gloves, "sellin' them for three silver and two copper, but they are the last ones, on a discount, take it."

You picked up the ones she tossed your way. You really would've liked the leather ones, preferable when working near water. You put your hands through, noticing how it swallowed your hand and still had space to sneak half a dozen grapes.

"Do you have a size smaller? They seem a bit big." You asked, biting your lips, hands tugging the wool between your fingers.

"Told you they are the last ones. They'll work just fine; the weaving is higher too, will stop the cold and water."

You left, walking further away from the crowd, with black wool adorning your hands.

The tavern you chose for the night was brimming with patrons. Tables full of people eating and drinking. Located on the outer part of the town, it was not your first time at this place, but yet it managed to look new to you every time.

You got yourself a room on the second story. The rooms here were cheaper due to the dripping roof when it rained and poor insulation caused by paper-thin walls. But for you it was more than enough.

You would have preferred to go straight to bed, but having forgotten to eat at the market earlier, you were currently on your way up the stairs after getting some food.

Gathering your skirt with one hand, you lifted your foot up to take the first step, only to stumble back as a body slammed straight into you. Hard.

"Ah! Whoa, be careful, mister!" You exclaimed as you righted yourself with the help of the wall.

As you looked up, wondering how you didn't hear his footsteps, especially on creaky stairs, your eyes made contact with a hand—outstretched, as if trying to reach you in case you needed assistance. You looked up, eyes now fixed on the dark face wrap covering half of his face, and a hood was pulled low, casting a shadow on the other half.

He looked scary at a glance, but when you looked a little below, you caught his eyes. Dark and wide. And beautiful.

You stood there breathless, tracing the kohl lining his eyes with your own.

He pulled his hands back and jerked his body, sitting down on the floor. Reaching for something near your skirt.

You jumped back, startled.

But he was only grabbing for the apple that had rolled away on the floor, which he must've been holding when he bumped into you.

He looked up at you, apple in hand, "Hope I didn't startle you."

You looked down, shook your head once, and opened your mouth to say something, but he straightened and was up in a flash.

He stepped closer, and you noticed how he was towering over you, the black of his flowy tunic—untucked from his leather pants—brushing against your arm crossed in front of your belly.

"Don't go bumping into things," he leaned down now whispering beside your ear, "you might get hurt."

You were barely breathing and didn't even notice that he had unfurled your fist and tucked something in there.

By the time you regained your senses, he was already walking in the direction of the bar.

You looked down when you finally felt the weight of something in your hand and saw that it was none other than the fruit he was carrying. A bright green apple.

You looked after him for another second before deciding not to think much of him and walked up the stairs. Off to get some sleep and start the journey early tomorrow.

Knock knock knock!

You woke up to frantic knocking on your door. Heart thundering, matching the raps of wood on the other side, you got up.

The knocking stopped.

In the silence of the darkness spread over the room, you stood still. One look out of the window and you confirmed it was early, the sun yet to rise.

For a moment you convinced yourself it was your imagination—a nightmare, maybe. It wouldn't be the first time. You decided to just go back to slee-

Knock knock knock!

The knocking resumed.

You walked up to the door and in a hesitant but loud voice questioned, "Who is it?"

The knocking stopped. You held your breath. Waiting for an answer.

Knock knock knock.

You felt through the slit in your skirt for the small blade on your thigh. Feeling nothing, you recalled having placed it on the side table. You grabbed it. Just in case.

"Who is it?" You placed a hand on the handle, another holding the blade.

A moment of silence. Just as you were about to question again, a voice called out,

"Open the door," a deep voice answered.

Body frozen, you took a big gulp of air. Where have you heard it? Warning bells were ringing in your head, telling you how this situation felt familiar.

You backed away, hand leaving the handle. I need to get out of here. In blind panic you started considering your options. You certainly couldn't fight whoever was outside. Maybe you could climb down the window?

But you stood still. You focused on the voice; it was familiar. Something in you was telling you that you should open the door.

Another knock, and you were opening the door before you could stop yourself.

The door cracked open just a sliver, but the stranger didn't make any attempt to make the gap wider or push his way in right away, unlike what you would have expected. It gave you a moment of clarity, and you came back to your senses. Raising your eyes, you were met with a half-covered face and dark eyes, lined with kohl. You knew where you had seen them.

"You are—"

"You need to come with me."

There was an urgency to his voice. His eyes were locked on yours, urging you to take a dive into the essence of midnight they held. A lock of hair fell in front of his eye; he pushed it back.

"Who are you?" The words were a whisper, but in the quiet of dawn they rang loud and clear.

One of his hands reached up, pulling the dark piece of cloth, hiding half his features, down. He gazed at you while you stole glimpses of the rest of him. Full cheeks but a sharp jaw. Soft lips but a tense tilt to them. If it were any other situation, you would have been captivated by his contrasting features. But now was not the time.

Breaking you out of your thoughts, the man in front of you glanced back at your room, then back at you, lips pursed for a moment, before he parted his lips and answered, voice clearer now without any obstruction. He answered your question.

"Someone who is going to make sure you don't bump into anything and get hurt."

You stepped back on instinct as he made his way in.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," He was crazy, and you had finally shaken yourself out of his spell. You needed to get him out of here and then get yourself out. Probably leave this town for good.

"You don't have a choice. Either you come with me or we die."

Your brows shot up in disbelief at the situation. This can't be happening. Was he messing with you? Trying to trick you? Make you think he's here to save you—from what?—and then thrust the blade deep in your ribs when you let your guard down.

You opened your mouth. To question him or cry out for help—you weren't sure. But you didn't get a chance.

Not when you heard a dull thud.

You looked behind his back, but your door was already open halfway, and no one stood there. The sound had been distant; it must have come from the room on the other end of the corridor.

While you didn't think much of it—too preoccupied with thinking how to get away—the man in front of you turned and walked back to the doorway. He only peeked outside for a single moment before sucking in a breath through his teeth and shutting the door close, rushing back towards you.

"Stay quiet!"

You jerked away, back against the wall. "What do you think—" you pulled the knife out, brandishing it in front of you, "—you are doing?"

"Shut up." He gritted through clenched teeth, eyes on the door.

"What—"

In the time it took you to release half a breath, his left hand rose, wrapping around yours, twisting your wrist, and bending your arms back. He tugged you towards him, forcing your right hand behind your back, making you loose your grip on the knife.

You stood there, chest to chest, as he peered down at you with hooded eyes, while yours squinted as you wriggled trying to get free.

"Shhh," he shushed you, putting the palm of his other hand up above your mouth and walking you a step back towards the wall. Your eyes widened as he trapped you there, with just enough force to keep you that way and not hurt you.

Heart thundering in your chest, your head pounded, matching its beats. You tried to come up with all the possible ways to get yourself out, but the warm exhales leaving his parted lips left your brain a scrambled mess.

It was stupid. To let this stranger in. You just might have invited your own death over, dressed in rugged leather, with gleaming orbs of darkness for eyes.

You shut your eyes tight as you felt him lift his hand up, releasing your mouth. You could scream, but what use would that be? Those blades you saw strapped to his back, they could slit your throat before the scream could fully form.

Expecting the press of the blade on your skin, you tried to prepare yourself. But soon were extremely surprised when a gentle finger tapped on one side of your jaw, just below your ear.

"Listen."

Blinking back at him, you squinted your eyes at his command. With no understanding of the situation, you had no other choice but to oblige. That's when you heard it.

Bang

That definitely came from the same direction as the sound before.

"What was that?" You whispered. Creases appearing on your forehead as you tried to listen more carefully.

"We should go." He stated calmly and stepped back. Putting his head against the door, he started listening for something.

"No. I don't understand anything, and unless I do, I'm not going—"

"You're not listening!" He hissed, and for the first time, his carefully managed emotions cracked, giving way to compelling urgency. He moved back to stand in front of you. "If we don't leave now and they find us, it will all be over."

They? Who is he talking about?

You eye him, your gaze full of skepticism, and it is then that you hear a muffled sound, neck snapped towards the wall as if you could see past the wood; you deduce it sounded like a scream. Your blood ran cold.

"That was a scream. We c-can't leave; we need  to—" Your breath hitched when you faced him again and came face to face with a knife.

"You're in no position to worry about that." It took you a moment to realise he was holding the knife by the blade, urging you to take it. It was yours; he must have picked it up from when you dropped it.

"But—"

"They are after you."

He you dead in the eyes and tilted his head, hair falling in his eyes, silently asking you to cooperate.

It was just like five years ago. The weight of your feet doubled, sinking you deeper in a darkness you knew too well. Your head spinning, a whirlwind of different shades of green flew past you. And you were fifteen again. Your father was asking you to leave, to run away. And you wanted to cry. "They are coming for you."

"Hey." He touched your shoulder softly, "It's okay; we'll get out of here. You can trust me."

"I don't." You replied shakily.

His eyes gleamed, "Good." You thought you heard a smile in his voice, but when you looked back at him, his face was as stoic as ever.

He motioned for you to follow as he cracked open your door just barely enough for his thumb to fit. He peeked out—assessing the corridor. Finding it bare, he pushed the door halfway open and stepped out, then motioned for you to follow.

You eyed the distance separating you and him, the doorway right in the middle. You could lock him out right now, when he was distracted. There was no proof he was telling the truth—that he was actually helping you. But deep inside you had an inexplicable inkling that doing that would not work in your favour.

You gathered the few things you had and were out the door, following close at his heels. You meant it—you didn't trust him, but at this moment he seemed like your best bet at figuring out what was going on.

And maybe, just maybe, even shine some light on a past you couldn't quite let go.

Giving your head a shake internally focused on the current situation at hand and started walking in the opposite direction from where the sounds had been coming from.

Behind you, the stranger shut the door behind you and urged you to move in front of him. He stood there for just a second longer before matching you step by step.

You walked faster, turning the corner before he did and missing the guy emerging from the other end. He locked eyes with the man walking behind you but didn't pay any mind, his attention focused somewhere else.

The other man—about to enter your room—stopped there for a second, hands on the doorknob. They were warm. The metal of the knob shouldn't be warm in this chilly tavern. Unless someone had made contact with it not too long ago.

The moment you both rounded the corner, safely out of sight, your partner wasted no time in taking huge steps forward, leaving you no option but to increase your speed as well. Not even two breaths passed before you heard thundering footsteps hot on your heels. You turn around, and your eyes meet with that of a man.

The man is dressed in peasant clothing, but it doesn't hide the sword at his waist. Hair a reddish brown, you only caught a brief glance of his enraged expression because the next thing you knew, a hand was grabbing your wrist tight and breaking off in a sprint.

The man gave chase. You change direction, disappearing from view, but you could hear him coming. The stairs were only a few steps away; you quickly tried to make your way there, eager to descend the stairs but felt yourself get tugged in the opposite direction.

"Not there," he said, moving up the stairs, you following behind.

"We will be trapped up there! We need to get out of this building if we want to loose that man."

"We are not trying to loose him," he calmly stated even as you both ran up the stairs. You reached the top floor and saw a large iron plate suspended in the middle, ropes dangling in front of it where there should have been a log hanging. You realised this place was once used as a bell tower.

"What now?" You asked him as he kept walking forward and did not stop until you reached the other side of the spacious place. The large open windows on all sides letting the cool wind in, spreading goosebumps all over your arm.

"Did you think these were just accessories?" He motioned back at the handles peeking out from behind his back, a pair of twin short swords. 

Your lips parted open and eyebrows raised up, "Are you—"

With a bang, the man slammed open the door where you both had just come from.

"Stay back."

Before you even registered what he said to you, you saw him pull one of the swords out and sidestep the other man who had already started lunging at him with his own sword out. Their blades clashed, a ring echoing in the empty space. Similar sounds followed the one before with the grunts of the two men adding to the cacophony of noises.

"Mako," the stranger let out a laugh, the sound light as the air, after deflecting his opponent's last blow, "I thought they would send their best?"

The man, Mako, raised his sword, aiming for the chest, but the black-haired stranger blocked him and raised his leg, kicking him in the gut. The man stumbled, almost doubling over before he took a swing at his feet. Hurriedly he stepped back as the Mako stood straight, slashing the air in front of his face.

This Mako was clearly trained in fighting, and you would be worried if your savior didn't seem just as good at it, if not better.

"You seem to know me," he heaved a breath, and they both circled each other, "but you don't seem to know who you're messing with." The man swung repetitively at him, but he couldn't land a single scratch on the stranger. After another swing, he shoved him back with a powerful push. "I get the girl, and you go free," he heaved.

You felt your heart drop but stayed silent. This was no time to panic.

Coming to a standstill, not a single drop of sweat visible, he replied, "I know what I am doing. The girl is going nowhere."

Mako, now furious, let out a yell and charged at him with more vigor. He met his swings with his own slashes and started walking backwards. Nearing one of the windows, he changed to offense and pushed back hard. Sending the man a couple steps back. He prepared for another attack and picked up speed, running at him.

Just where he wanted his opponent.

At that precise moment, the stranger stepped to the side in a swift movement. The man missed him, but before he could turn and deliver another attack, he was onto him, thrusting the sword at his neck.

Mako's upper body dangled out of the window, and his hands became useless as he tried to grip the railing to keep himself from falling over. He could easily have pulled himself inside had it not been for the blade keeping him there. He grunted, letting out curses directed at the owner of said blade.

"As I said, I know who I'm dealing with, but maybe you don't." He whispered lowly—doe eyes gleaming—so only the man in front of him could hear.

Breathing calmly and getting the beating of your heart back to normal, you stepped out from the corner; eyeing the door, you wondered if you could make a run before either of their companions came looking. But you were curious too.

Walking behind him, you chanced a glance at the man hanging out of the window. His gaze trained on you, and he did something unexpected. He had a wide grin that made you uncomfortable. You stepped back, away from his sight, and eyed the other man.

The fighting couldn't have lasted more than five minutes, and even though you weren't the one brandishing a sword, you felt winded.

"What are we going to do with him?" You voiced your question at the same time he shifted the sword to his other hand.

Mako screamed just as the stranger swept both his feet off the floor in a single sweep of his foot and sent a punch directly at his chest.

You watched in horror as the man fell out of the window and ran, leaning against the railing as you saw him groaning on the pile of hay. Alive. You released a shuddering breath and twisted your body to face your savior.

The first rays of sunlight began shining from the east, making their way through the scattered clouds. Their glow was soft and warm, and as he stood there looking back at you, his eyes glowed iridescently.

But that was not what caught you off guard. It was the upturn of pink lips, white peeking out between them.

"Haven't done that in a while," He groaned, stretching his arms back and sheathing his sword.

He was smiling; it was the first one you witnessed. He was smiling after he threw a man out the window. Something was wrong with him.

You couldn't will your eyes to look away. Perplexed. A little scared. Amused.

A question ringing out in your head: where do you go from here? But another quickly emerged, pushing past it—

"Who are you?"

Dark-lined eyes locked with your wide ones. His grin faded, and instead his mouth attained a genuine, friendly quirk.

"Intelligence gathered and former mercenary," he offered his hand in greeting, "Jeon Jungkook."

As you stared at his extended hand and up at his face, you came to a conclusion. One your subconscious had already realised the moment he appeared at your door. 

Wherever you go after this, it won't be back home.

ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ғᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ!!

I hope you liked it. Feedback is always welcome. And the taglist is open so please let me know if you want to be tagged!

taglist: @kookiewithluv @runariya

[3verythingiknowaboutlove]

unsaid

how gn!reader and spencer handle deeper feelings with each other- or how they don't handle them.

fluff? some hard feelings? idk WHAT this is word count: 1258 warnings & tags & stuff: I was picturing mid seasons spence for this, brief mention of a spider?, insecure reader, ugh they're SO in love but also so quiet about it, ignoring problems, happyish ending author's note: first piece of writing on here! this is actually so bad but my brain is ROTTED from spencer fluff and honestly him in general, he's all i can think about so obviously i have to contribute to the epidemic

“HELP!”

You hear footsteps bounding towards you and the door to the kitchen slam open. Spencer’s head swivels as he assesses the situation: you, backed into a corner, clutching a glass, looking directly at a point across the room with a terrified look in your eyes. Spencer’s face immediately relaxes and he moves over to take the glass from you.

“Where is it?” He asks calmly. You point, and the spider is quickly dealt with and brought outside. Spencer walks back into your apartment and you look at him, blushing a little, heart still pounding.

“Thanks,” you say, self-effacingly, taking the glass back from him and setting it in the sink. “I'm sorry for bothering you, I know you were in the middle of doing some work, and I know that my reaction was completely irrational, it’s just-”

“Hey,” he interrupts, reaching out to trace your arm lightly. “It's alright. It’s actually completely justifiable. Our brain is wired to be afraid of spiders because they were a larger threat to our ancestors. Today, although we seldom encounter spiders and they are not a constant threat to us, we still have this fear because it’s ingrained in our DNA,” he explains, trying to calm your anxiety. “I’m also around 80 percent done with my report. So I can finish it later in the week. I'm all yours.” He peers down at you, a small smile playing on his face. You admire his smile for a second or two before his words actually register and you squint disbelievingly.

“I don't know how I feel about that. I shouldn't be taking you from your…duties,” you say, tilting your head.

“My duties?” he asks, matching the angle of your head, laughing a little. You shrug, giving him a slight giggle too.

“Okay, duties are the wrong word. But you do do important work that I should recognise has to take priority sometimes. I bet Hotch would rather you finish your report tonight.” He nods quietly, and you know he agrees. He beckons his head, a signal you’ve come to know means ‘come closer and hug me’. You do so, hugging him tightly and letting his arms wrap around you. You back away after a bit and give him a signal of your own- standing on your tiptoes and looking at him expectantly. He bends down and kisses you firmly, arms still wrapped around you.

Your entire relationship is built off of signals like these. You two just seem to know when the other wants something, whether it be a hug or a kiss, or something more. It made things easy.

So you were also sure that Spencer knew that this kiss was making your heart literally melt. It’s like he can reach in through your sternum and hold your heart until it dissolves in his hands. You can feel it dripping through the cracks into your bloodstream until your legs are jelly and your head is spinning.

You pull away for air and rest your head on his chest.

“How about we compromise and I do it tomorrow?” He asks softly.

Your mouth creates an uncomfortable line. “I know I’m obviously not the boss of you, so feel free to do whatever it is you want…” You pause, trying to find the words. “I just feel like it’s important for me to not take you away from your work at all.”

It wasn’t the complete truth, but it wasn’t completely askew from what you meant to say.

The real, slightly more selfish truth was that you felt like it was easier to send Spencer off to do his work than to try and understand why he wouldn't always want to. You constantly felt so raw and open around him. Like he could always see you and your melting heart. It was insanely scary and new, and not easy at all.

That was not something you were willing to admit today, not right now.

“No, you're not the boss of me, but I do think you have opinions worth listening to and considering.” He kisses the top of your head. He pushes your hair back and looks you directly in the eye. “But I also really don’t want you to feel like you can’t ask me for things. Being in the BAU requires a sort of responsibility. Not to just do my work by the time it’s needed, but to also take breaks and spend time with the people I want to be around. Whether it’s to catch spiders or to give her kisses. Okay?” He checks.

“Okay,” you say quietly. He looks at you patiently, knowing that you had more feelings in your heart but also knowing that it was hard to come out and say it. It was a topic for another night, a braver night. He dips his head down to you, and smiles, almost excitedly.

“Ice cream?” You smile too at the change of topic, and nod.

“Can we get changed first?”

In your bedroom, you throw on a massive white T-shirt that you may or may not have stolen from Spencer many weeks ago, along with a pair of shorts. You turn your head over your shoulder to where Spencer was digging around in his bag. “Did you pack comfy clothes? I know we didn’t discuss sleeping over or anything,” you ask.

“Uh, yeah, do you have a shirt I could borrow?” he responds, not looking up. You dig through your drawers and toss him one of his own shirts, this one Dr. Who themed and navy blue. It lands on his face and he swats it away. “Hey, I was wondering where this went!” He exclaims, looking up at you, offended. He takes notice of your shirt, and stands up straight and moves toward you, feeling your shirt between his fingers. “This too. Theft is in fact a crime.” You blush bashfully in response.

“I like your shirts. They’re cuter than mine,” you argue. He shakes his head, smiling. Soon enough, you're on the couch, working on a pint of Tonight Dough.

Your legs are intertwined and you’re laying on his chest, trying to get to the ice cream he was teasing you with, moving away as you chase it with the spoon. “Stop it,” you giggle. He wrestles the spoon from your grip and digs it in the ice cream.

“Open,” he says quietly. You do so, savoring the taste.

You stay like that for a good while longer, just holding each other, until you break the silence.

“Thanks for making time for me tonight,” you whisper, giving him a soft kiss on his chin. He looks at you and gives you a kiss on your forehead. A meaningful one. One that said a few things that were too scary to say.

It was nice, knowing that you had time to figure out your emotions, that there was no hurry. Your problems and insecurities would still be there tomorrow. You could choose to ignore them for a bit. You could look away from the fact that you weren’t exactly sure why Spencer picked you out of all the other girls. Spencer could ignore the fact that going to work was the most terrifying thing because he finally had something to lose. You could just stay like that, intertwined, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

You let the rest of the ice cream melt on the couch side table, not unlike your heart, neither of you strong enough to get up and put it back in the freezer.