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seiwas · 1 year ago

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₊˚⊹。these traces of love, they outline you | gojo satoru

wc: 12.9k

summary: the 5 times gojo’s sure you’ve changed his life + the 1 time he hopes to change yours.

contains: f!reader, pronoun she, 18+ nsfw (not super explicit but the act is there), symptoms similar to synesthesia, reader’s cursed technique, sparring, drunk call, pet names (cutie, silly, pretty, baby, loml), nervous feelings, tummy ache, food descriptions, surprise appearance of one character, emotional tears!!, internal thoughts and insecurities.

a/n: primarily in gojo's pov! & best read if you’ve gone through the other parts in the series! (lots of callbacks and references + better context!), lots of songs as inspo (would gladly share if you’re curious!), will add descriptions for the food in the a/n at the bottom!, from conceptualisation to actual writing this piece is my baby!!

collection masterlist: conversations on love +04b (extra). if you're ready (let me) <- you are here

MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT.

Gojo thinks he might pass out.

There’s a feeling of unease sitting deep in his gut, nervous and gurgling. His hands have always been restless and fidgety but never this sweaty, and his head feels like it’s floating—even more than that first time he attempted a 24-hour stint on keeping up Infinity.

It’s eerily quiet in his office as he waits for your meeting to end, the white colon on his digital clock taunting him as it flicks on and off—16:27. 3 more minutes until you finish.

He paces around the room.

Attempts at any distraction are thwarted when everywhere he looks, he’s reminded of you. There’s a photo hanging by the door, the mix-and-match of couch cushions in varying hues—all souvenirs you’ve given him from places you’ve been to. The coffee table books hold your touch too, and as he runs his hand over his face. he’s hit with that signature scent, clean and subtle from the hand cream you use.

Waiting in his office today has been absolute torture, but what’s made it more excruciating is the fact that he knows you’re aware of absolutely nothing.

To you, this is just like every other Friday.

You’d done your usual morning routine, kissed him on the nose with the promise to meet him in his office after work, as you always do. And it feels like a big joke when he thinks about it now, because while he’s been on edge this entire day about it, you really have no clue what’s coming.

To him, this could change everything with you.

He’s been feeling it for a while now, the ripple effect of loving and being loved by you—how he can recall every time a single drop of you has shifted something deep within him, marked and colored you.

There’s not a lot that Gojo wants now that he feels like he truly has it all, but when he thinks about all the times he’s sure you’ve changed his life, he hopes that with this one thing, he can change yours.

1 — UNDER YOUR TOUCH, WHEN IT GETS TOO MUCH

The weather today is good—sunlight peeking behind cloud pillows and the occasional gust of wind passing through the space you’ve put between you and Gojo. It’s neither too humid nor too dry and though Gojo does get the occasional sniffle from his pollen allergies around this time, he'd woken up earlier completely fine.

So, the weather today is good, perfect even, for a brush-up on sparring practice.

You’ve kept a sizable distance away from him since it started, and every attempt he’s made to draw nearer, you’ve only moved away farther—a push-and-pull, an old dynamic that shows itself in the ways you engage in battle.

Gojo’s hands stay tucked in his pockets, his stance one you know perfectly well as relaxed but still guarded. He’s gotten a lot bulkier than the days you used to spar often, the past few years having filled in all the areas of what used to be slim, lean muscle. He doesn’t move because he knows the style you fight with, how you stay on defense until your opponent charges, utilizing their own strength against them.

It’s the only way you’ve managed to win against someone as deadly as Gojo, equal-parts lethal in speed and strength.

So when a cluster of clouds passes by and the sun glares directly into your eyes, Gojo smirks, then bends his knees as he lunges for an attack.

Your senses are sharp and reflexes quick; in the split second that a white-and-black blur appears before you, you attempt a high kick, only for it to be blocked with his forearm. He uses his other hand to twist around your ankle, trying to flip you over, but you see right through his motives. You huff, furrowing your brows as you narrowly escape, slipping your ankle out before he can fully grab a hold of it.

Most of this practice has felt like a stalemate, with the both of you waiting on the other for the most part of the hour. Gojo can see how it’s wearing you down, this entire thing being dragged out, and if he’s being honest—this is exactly what he wants.

Sparring out here with you today, while still meant for actual training, is also just an excuse to do this for old time’s sake—the way you huff and frown, jaw clenched as your fists ball up tightly like you’re doing right now.

He kind of misses seeing you like this, impatient and frustrated, so unlike the tenderness you always regard him with.

A smile threatens to form on his lips, and he bites it back down.

You only ever get like this sparring against him.

The tension breaks when you decidedly throw a punch; it’s a desperate attempt to get the fight moving but he ducks, arm securing itself around your waist as he locks your hip with his. Before you can even comprehend, your body is lifted across his back and lowered down to the grass below—the only thing in sight being two blue skies, beaming at you.

Somewhere during the commotion, he managed to remove his blindfold, hair let loose, fluffy and white almost like the clouds above you. Gojo isn’t taking this seriously at all; he’s way too soft, having cushioned your fall by carrying most of your weight instead of throwing you down like anyone seriously sparring is supposed to.

He doesn’t care though. All he really wanted this afternoon was to reminisce with you.

You’re kept underneath him, one of his arms remains wrapped around your waist while the other cradles the back of your head—and it’s there, that frown on your face, that pout he’s witnessed for years evolve into what it is now. Beads of sweat collect at the crease between your brows, your temples tensing as you breathe out.

Gojo at 17 would have teased you relentlessly for this, but he feels different now, warmth settling in his chest as he stares; he can’t help it, the words coming out of his mouth—

“You’re so—”

But he doesn’t even get to finish.

Everything around him blurs, green and blue blending in motion before he finds himself on his back, completely flipped over. He’s met with the sight of you, smug smile pulled wide with your hands resting on his chest. And his heart—

Can you feel it under your fingertips? How it’s beating a mile a minute?

A shiver runs down his spine, the pinpricks of grass tickling the nape of his neck. The shock is tingling, his eyes fully open as he processes what just occurred.

In the lapse of time he’d been a little too preoccupied staring at you, you managed to inch your leg to wrap around his, locking it at the last minute to flip him over—it lands you where you are now, on his lap, straddling his hips.

“Sneaky,” he gazes fondly, grin teasing.

You catch your breath, “Do I win?”

“Only because I let you get too close this time.”

Which is a lie, he knows, because having you near him like this, with some form of touching—you could never be close enough.

You roll your eyes, his fingers grabbing hold of your thighs. The grass pricks at your knees through the fabric of your leggings, and Gojo knows that if you stay like this any longer, it’s going to start to itch.

“Did I hurt you anywhere?” you ask, already assessing him for any point of injury. Your eyes go over his face before trailing down his arms, rarely exposed today in his black compression shirt.

“Yeah,” he pouts, pointing to his lips, all pink and puckered out, “kiss it better?”

Asking for this is against his better judgment, he’s aware; with the way you’re situated on his lap, this could escalate into something else entirely. You shake your head, swatting at his chest. His grip on your thighs loosens as you get off him, but the curl of your lips is extremely telling.

As you stand up to dust your knees, Gojo gazes at you fondly. The sun hides behind you from where you tower over him, but the halo effect around your head is just as blinding.

“Lie down with me,” he pats the space beside him. You quirk your brow but follow anyway.

He requests, not asks, because the weather today is good, and it’s making him a little bit sentimental, remembering earlier days with you.

You lie down, positioning your head to align with his. And for a few moments, Gojo doesn’t speak, just looks at you once and smiles before turning to face the sky, hand placed behind his head as he sighs.

You do the same for a while, this shared silence warm and just right.

“So rude,” he jokingly tuts, “interrupting me while I was talking earlier…”

“You shouldn’t have been so distracted then,” you tease back, sneaking a glance only to lock eyes with two skies.

He wonders if you can tell—how he’s always looking at you in the stolen seconds before you notice him.

“Well, you shouldn't have been so distracting then,” he holds your gaze.

It’s incredibly cheesy but a part of you still feels like melting—he sounds so sincere; no lilt, no tease, no Gojo-typical flirting laced into it.

You scrunch your nose, shifting on your side to face him, the arm used to support your head now resting against your cheek. He follows, taking one last look around him before turning to you. His other hand rests on your hip, fingers splayed out while his thumb draws hearts on fabric.

You reach for him.

The gesture is small, just your finger running across his cheek, but it nudges something in him—a memory of you and how you’ve always touched him like this: softly, kindly.

“Remember when you used to do this?” he takes your hand, long and lithe fingers wrapping around yours as he guides them over his ear.

Your eyes widen in recognition and he blinks, taking you in as he stares, “Wanna do it now?”

Concern reveals itself in the furrow of your brows, “Is it hurt—”

“No,” he chuckles, already knowing what you’re about to say.

The last time you did this for him, he didn’t even have to ask. One look and you knew—it’d been the night of his final conversation with Suguru. His skull-splitting migraine ensued after bickering with Shoko on what to do with the body. You were there; you heard everything, and when she gave up arguing and left, there was only one thing you could do.

With his head on your lap by his office couch, you tuned out the sounds.

He doesn’t prefer you using your cursed technique this way; it takes a considerable amount of your cursed energy to focus its effects solely on another body—and frankly, it’s a waste of time for you to spend all of that on him, at least in his opinion, personally.

You’d struggled a lot with your technique back in high school, having to learn how to fully manipulate different sonic hues: white noise, brown noise, any and all of it in the entire spectrum. Being able to amplify, distort, reduce, and isolate them into their respective hues covers only the bare minimum when it comes to understanding your technique.

It’s tedious work, and when one of your senses holds so much more power over the others, the information that flows through it can be overwhelming, overloaded even. Sorting through all that noise—he gets it, gets you, and how it must hurt too.

And yet you, at 17, still figuring out how to grasp it all, came knocking on his door when you noticed he hadn’t come for dinner. Quietly, you placed your hands over his ears and selflessly offered your discomfort for his relief.

The first time you did this for him, you’d only heard of his migraines from Shoko. You witnessed it yourself when he opened his door and looked so unlike himself: blindfold secured tightly but haphazardly, strands of hair sticking out oddly; his room seemed to be blacked out completely.

Gojo Satoru is no stranger to sensations beyond what any human should be subjected to, but when you laid your hands on him that day, cursed energy tickling his ears as it flowed through your fingertips—he’d never felt more normal, more human to be able to hear things without conjuring a visual of it.

It’s almost like you silenced his mind—enough to hear himself, and you, and the buzz of the white noise you’d amplified to flow through him in his blacked out room.

You’ve gotten a lot better at controlling it now, the task in itself barely causing you any ache or struggle at all.

“Just like old times,” he nudges you.

So you keep your hand where he’s left it, covering his ear with your palm as your fingers rest on his temples. Cursed energy flows from your touch, all sounds drowning out.

He keeps his eyes on yours, watching as your expression shifts with every sonic hue you focus on—an upgrade to your abilities the more you’d gotten the hang of it.

You concentrate hard for white noise, creating your own mix to emulate radio static, transitioning out to green noise the moment you highlight the sound of birds chirping. Then, you ease it to brown noise, intensifying the soft whistles of the wind to mimic it.

It’s weird how sentimental he’s been feeling lately—without any trigger or anything, but the more he leans into your palm, the more it gets him thinking.

Touch had begun as extremely foreign to him—a god revered and valued but never really truly loved, untouchable with infinity, and the pedestal he’s always stood on.

It was never supposed to be important to him.

Until you.

From your kindness that first day, and the many more that followed: of fingers brushing and hand-holding to breaths mingling and bodies moulding, moving—you’ve always touched him in ways no one else has, in places no one’s been able to reach.

And if it wasn’t important then, completely foreign, it’s important now, so much that he looks for it everywhere, all the time, even. The way you scratch the short bristles of his undercut, fingers dragging down to the nape of his neck; the way you tap his collarbone thrice, run your fingers across his lip, and intertwine your fingers with his at random.

When Gojo thinks about your touch, he thinks about how gentle it is, with intent and purpose. How it’s always been careful for him but never of him, and that’s made the biggest difference.

He blinks, and you follow two times, focusing on him.

All he hears is a heartbeat now, a little too fast to be at rest, but still steady and grounding—

The way he feels when he’s with you.

Whether it’s his or yours, from your cursed technique or just the blood rushing in his ears, he knows this is pink noise, the one you’d so excitedly shown him when you first mastered it.

The pink noise that resounded all throughout his twenty-somethings, when he first realized that you meant more to him than what you were.

2 — WHEN YOU CALL MY NAME

The bed feels cold tonight.

Gojo’s been staring at the lights on his ceiling for the past 30 minutes, and though his pillow is cool and blanket soft, he’s wide awake—nowhere near falling asleep any time soon.

He shifts to the side, the space beside him taunting, empty.

He misses you.

For the past week, you’ve been off to a much-needed girls trip with Shoko and Utahime. He’d even offered to pay for the entire accommodation—to which you and Utahime declined, while Shoko shrugged, crossing her arms as she snorted, “If he really wants. At least he’s being useful.”

You’d compromised and agreed that he could pay for an evening out in some nightclub.

Now, he regrets it. A little bit. Maybe.

Gojo’s bed is big, a king-size that fits the height of him and all his long limbs, and while it’s comfortable and spacious–supposed good things–he feels anything but comfortable in how spacious and vacant it now feels.

He turns to the other side, facing his sidetable instead.

The digital clock reads 01:17 and he sighs; you still have a few days left.

The next time you bring up being away for this long, he’s going with you. Even if he has to spend the entire day on his own, he’ll do it—as long as he gets to end it next to you.

If he’s really thinking about it, nothing’s stopping him from teleporting there right now. He could hop in quick, give you a hug, hopefully a kiss, and maybe even get lucky if you allow him to steal you for the night. He’ll teleport you right back in the morning and it’ll be like you never left, even.

He could do it. You can never resist him when he gives you his googly eyes.

If you’re already back from—

Bzz bzz. His phone vibrates.

He reaches for it over his night stand, instantly sitting up once he reads that it’s from you—the nickname he just recently changed your contact to.

(It was always just your name, simple and straightforward, easy to find; when you return, he’s probably going to change it back because you prefer it that way—for safety purposes and everything.

But while he still can, he’s going to keep it like this: a petname with an obnoxious string of emojis that he associates with you.)

1:20 a.m.

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> satoourur are u awaeke??

The corner of his lips curl up, endeared at the image of you hunched over your phone, fingers slipping as you clumsily press the wrong letters. So cute.

1:21 a.m.

< yes cutie? ( ˘ ³˘) 💕

1:21 a.m.

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> casll?

He stares at it for a good minute or two, trying to decipher this rare, drunken code from you. But before he gets the chance to respond, your face appears on his screen, a photo of you he’d taken months ago, mid-chew special Daifuku.

You’re calling.

He grins, biting his lower lip. His feet slip inside the house slippers by the side of his bed as he gets up, swiping his phone to answer before holding it against his ear.

“Miss me already?” he teases, padding out of his bedroom.

“Satoruuu,” you drawl. Definitely drunk, if not tipsy.

Even like this though, Gojo aches when he hears you speak; there’s a twinge that pokes at his ribcage, making him wish he was right next to you.

The music around you sounds muffled, almost as if you’d stepped out just to make this call—another thought that makes him ache.

He walks down the hall towards his kitchen and stops, realizing: if you stepped out of the club, does this mean you’re alone? He trusts you can take care of yourself, but if you’re this inebriated…

“Are you with Shoko and Utahime?” he asks casually, attempting to mask his worry. His hand digs deeper into his pocket, shifting his weight to his other foot.

“‘Nside,” you slur.

You don’t actually sound that drunk, more sleepy if anything, really, but his heart still picks up pace. Maybe he should just go to you already.

“You should go to them,” he urges, continuing his walk to the kitchen.

“M’be later,” you sigh, and he hears a bit of rustling on your end—a soft curse and a small thud, “w’na talk t’you.”

Another ache.

He can picture it: you, in some sidestreet, phone clutched to your ear as you tuck your hair back before sighing, legs buckling as you clumsily drop down to sit.

“Oh?” he lilts, eyebrow lifting. A smirk forms on his lips, head tilting as he wedges his phone between his neck and shoulder. He reaches for his refrigerator, “Got something to tell me, pretty?”

He doesn’t really know what he’s expecting you to say, maybe a recount of your day, or something funny that he’s bound to laugh at, whatever it is.

“Just miss you.”

He wasn’t expecting you to say this—

—in an exhale, with a slight tremble, like it’s been waiting to be let out. Vulnerable.

There’s another ache, and he nearly drops the water bottle.

He should really just go to you.

His phone nearly slips from his neck, the thump of his heartbeat on rampage as he readjusts it.

He swallows, “I miss you too.”

And it’s odd, how it sounds when he says it, a bit shaky too. A stillness settles in the room and it echoes off every kitchen equipment and countertop. He can’t even get himself to tease you for this one.

“I can go there now, if you want,” he offers, almost a whisper, before attempting a chuckle. It comes out flat, tinted a little sad, “Blink twice and I’ll be there when you open your eyes.”

You giggle on the other end, and it fills him in this moment.

When he looks around his apartment now, steel finish and walls accented black, the backsplash of his kitchen a grayish hue of iron—it reminds him of luxury fit for a bachelor, sleek in its utility.

He’s lived here since his mid-twenties, and he likes how it’s designed, the colors and feel of it right up his alley. The furniture remains simple, modern and minimalist, filling the spaces of his open floor plan down to the two bedrooms and office space.

But right now, it feels so empty.

“Silly,” you chuckle, he can hear your grin forming, affection dripping, “my silly baby.”

Now his heart really aches.

The subtle static makes you sound unreal, strung together by radio waves; it’s rare enough for you to call him ‘baby’, and for you to say it when he can’t even see or hold you while you do it—it’s cruel; a test of his restraint.

He rests his back against the kitchen counter, arm coming across his chest to rest under his elbow, supporting the one holding his phone–you–by his ear. His teasing is softer tonight, tinged by yearning, so he hums, “Your silly baby, huh? Any chance it could be your silly ‘Toru instead?”

The way he says ‘‘Toru’ is a pitch lower, slower, and exaggeratingly more seductive in his banter; it’s what you call him in bed, or by accident, and in the moments you find yourself needing him in ways he can only satisfy by being your lover.

If you say it, he’s definitely going to teleport himself over.

You giggle again.

“S’that your fav’rite one?” you mumble, words blending together. He can imagine your cheek smushed against your knee, arms curled around your legs as you sit on concrete, “‘‘Toru?’”

When he thinks about it, you aren’t too big on his nicknames—at least, not as much as he is with you. You only call him three things: baby (which truthfully, he had to convince you to), ‘Toru (first whispered in the moment, heat fueling it), and Satoru (since you were 16, weighted and grounding throughout all the years you’ve known him).

Is ‘‘Toru’ his favorite?

For obvious reasons, maybe.

But—

“I like everything you call me,” he smirks, shifting his weight.

“Sweet-talker.”

He closes his eyes, head tilting back as he leans further—and he swears, he can see you, the image of you rolling your eyes and scrunching your nose seared into his eyelids.

God damn, he really misses you.

“You love it,” he murmurs.

A beat. He hears the faint honk of a car before you drown it out, sighing.

“I do,” you whisper, admission ringing in his ears, “I love you, Satoru.”

He hears this all the time, but tonight it just aches; the way you say things so sincerely, so honestly even in an inebriated state—how you call him Satoru and it’s still weighted, still grounding, like who he is resides right there, in the softness of your lips.

Gojo’s always been relevant but when you call him Satoru, he feels more than just the name.

If you’re asking about his favorite, he thinks this might be it—in every handwritten note you leave, his name scrawled in your hybrid of semi-print-semi-cursive letters; in every call you pick up, opening always with a ‘Satoru?’, end pitched higher, sweet and curious.

“C’n I tell you somethin’?” you ask (even when you don’t need to, even when he’s already listening).

“Let me guess, Utahime has a travel ick and Shoko—”

“Satoru,” you scold, rolling your eyes, but there’s no bite. The next bit you say under your breath, a little fragile, “‘M serious.”

The nervousness sits in his stomach; this conversation feels significant.

He takes a seat on his barstool.

“Listening.”

For a while, it’s only your breathing; knowing you, you’re probably thinking, crafting what to say carefully.

You sigh again, and—

“I worry sometimes,” you admit.

He furrows his brows, “About?”

“That maybe bein’ with me’s a lil’ boring?”

And this… this aches in a different way.

How can you even think that?

You chuckle anxiously; he can bet you’re biting your lips, a habit you’ve picked up from him.

He rests an elbow on his kitchen island, leaning onto it as he tilts his phone closer to his ear.

“Apologize right now,” he commands, sternness making him feel a little guilty, “that’s the person I love you’re slandering.”

But you only laugh, real and more relaxed, nervousness dissipating.

“My bad, my bad,” you play along before mumbling, “‘m just sayin’, there’re lotsa others who are more everythin’ y’know?”

He wonders what’s got you thinking like this, if it’s triggered by seeing people at the club, perhaps younger and far livelier—how you spent those years of your life exorcizing curses and making a home for two kids.

“So what? They’re still not you.”

And he means it, genuinely.

Your breath hitches and he grins, swinging around on the bar stool.

Those years of youth were still fun, he thinks, and it’s precisely because of you—how you’d made the apartment the four of you stayed in as fun and homely as a teen barely pushing twenty could.

You had your fair share of mishaps and adventures—rushed breakfasts and Megumi’s 'my dog ate my homework's. Tsumiki had to miss a day of school once because you accidentally booked her a birthday trip to Disneyland on a weekday.

(And he got scolded a lot, ‘Satoru’ exhaled with a look. But it would only last a few moments; you can never stay mad at him, no matter how hard you try).

There was no way you and Gojo had the maturity and responsibility of actual parents (maybe more like inexperienced guardians, really), but you tried your hardest to give Megumi and Tsumiki a home.

Home, what he’s beginning to realize reminds him of you.

He looks around him now, at the details of his interior, and begins to think of yours—your apartment, a little more wooden and lived-in; there’s a lot more wear but also a lot more love, never empty like his feels right now.

“If being with you was so boring, I wouldn’t be itching to go to you right now,” he confesses, fiddling with the string of his sweatpants.

You laugh again before it falls into comfortable silence.

Muffled conversations and the occasional beep sound in your background. There’s a couple giggling around you and he thinks that could be the two of you—if only he were with you.

“Satoru,” you call him softly.

He hums, letting it sink in—the way you say his name, distinct in how you stress his consonants despite the softness around his vowels.

When you say ‘Satoru’, it always feels targeted, speaking straight to who he is.

“‘M so happy it’s you,” you whisper shyly, but it’s bright—unmistakably smiling, the visual of your eyes crinkling.

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, drunken affection and vulnerable confessions, but there’s that ache again, and all he wants to do is go to you, hold you. Be with you.

For a while, Gojo’s been resigned to the fact that there are some things he can’t give you: how you’ll never know true peace because he’ll always be linked to jujutsu society; how choosing him means choosing the tumultuous, the unpredictable.

And while you’ve already told him that you prefer this life with him better, for you to say you’re happy, that it’s him—

He’s thankful it’s you, too.

Tears collect at his lash line, pools of gratitude, “I love you.”

“Hmm? you’re coverin’ the mic w’your double-chin,” you joke, just to hear him say it again, he knows.

(There’s no way he has a double-chin from how you complain about his jawline being too sharp all the time).

“I love you,” he repeats, louder, steadier, pressing it into his phone’s microphone.

He’ll repeat it again as many times as you want him to.

You giggle and he echoes it—like that couple from earlier, your own version.

The clock reads 02:47, and he normally doesn’t like being up this late, barely getting enough sleep as is. But if you’re the reason why, he doesn’t mind staying awake.

3 — TUCKED IN BED, WHEN I LIE CORRECTED

“Satoru, you can’t keep eating sweets on an empty stomach.”

He turns beside you, the dull rumbling of the Shinkansen hardly masking how loudly he asks, “Why not?”

An old man seated across the aisle looks your way, grumpy by the folds between his brows—as if he’d been woken up by Gojo’s whining. You bow your head slightly in apology.

It’s been an early day so far, with you and Gojo catching the first train out from Kyoto to Tokyo. Departing at 06:14 doesn’t exactly leave room for food stops, so all you have are the two water bottles handed out from yesterday’s meeting and a pack of (now) half-eaten Hi-Chew that Gojo picked up from the convenience store last night.

“You’ll get a stomach ache,” you whisper, with emphasis.

He fiddles with the stick of Hi-Chew, tossing it between his fingers before popping one piece out.

The seats in the Shinkansen are spacious enough for Gojo to stretch his long, gangly legs, but despite all the free room in your row, he’s chosen to encroach on your space, sticking to you shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Nonsense,” he tilts his face, sunglasses sliding a few centimeters down the bridge of his nose, “I do this all the time.”

And his eye, clear and bright blue amidst the morning haze zipping past the windows of the train, winks at you.

Heat warms your cheeks; it’s too early for this.

The moment you look away, hiding your smile, he knows he’s got you.

Or not.

Because you seem to have gotten him—

—tucked in bed, nursing this stomach ache that could have been avoided if he just listened.

To be fair, he does do it all the time: a few candies, sometimes gummies first thing in the morning, last thing at night. So he’s right, it’s nonsense; he probably got this from something else.

(Even when you’d both eaten the same meals—how you always order to share because you like tasting a little bit of everything).

Which is why, you insist it’s from the sweets, his beloved Hi-Chew to be specific. And though he wants to, he can’t argue much when he’s curled into a fetal position, clutching his stomach while writhing in bed.

“I made you tea,” you stand by your bedside, holding out your mug—small cereals patterned all over it.

He opens an eye, hair mussed up from all his squirming. The pain in his stomach is radiating, a knot that tightens in waves; this is different from the twist-y pop-y sparks of jealousy, and is nothing compared to the sting of multiple slashes.

Still, it’s a pain he doesn’t understand: a mixture of feeling gassy and bloated, like he needs to run to the toilet only for it to turn out futile. What makes it worse is that when he catches a glimpse of you, a lock of hair perfectly out of place, the sensation in his stomach intensifies—like butterflies flapping (or maybe just another wave of radiating pain).

“S’hot,” he grumbles, half of his face mushed into the pillow.

The mug in your hand is piping hot, steam lifting from it, and Gojo doesn’t like drinking hot things; he’s burnt his tongue enough times on hot chocolate that he swears any hot liquid is out to get him.

But you don’t know that about him—he’s never told you, he thinks.

You take a seat on the edge of the bed.

“That’s kind of the point, baby,” you chuckle, tone doting with a hint of pity, “It has to be.”

Your hand rests on his thigh, attempting to soothe him. He catches your eye and whines.

“If I blow on it, will you drink?” you plead, “Please?”

At this point, he doesn’t know what hurts more: this stupid stomach ache or how nice you’re being.

You could have said ‘I told you so’ the moment his stomach started gurgling when you both arrived in Tokyo—but you didn’t. Instead, you asked him what exactly he was feeling and had him change into his pajamas as you nursed him to bed. Then, you cooked him real food, a bowl of Okayu for his stomach to digest something plain and non-irritable.

You haven’t stopped moving since you both got back from Kyoto, unpacking both your things while simultaneously darting in and out of your bedroom, checking in.

How you speak to him is so gentle, caring, doting—even when you have every right to hold it against him.

He pushes himself up, leaning back on the headrest. You smile, lovely, and beautiful, and every bit healing that it eases the pain a little, somehow. Your mouth forms an ‘o’ as you blow on his tea, scooting closer.

A gurgling sound comes from his stomach again, but it’s manageable, and he bears it as he takes you in—how you’ve barely had the time to change out of your clothes since this morning. You’re tired, he’s sure, but you don’t mention it as you take care of him.

The bed dips as you draw nearer, bringing the mug to his lips—he’s a grown man and he can definitely do this on his own, but you always take such good care of him.

Who is he to say no?

Sips of peppermint coat his tongue, warm as it eases down his throat. He wraps his fingers around yours, drinking a third of the mug before urging you to set it down.

“I’ll heat up a hot compress,” you motion to get up, placing the mug by your bedside.

He stops you, grip loose on your wrist.

“Have you eaten?”

You stare at him, a little surprised, but you nod.

“Just stay with me, then. Don’t need that thing.”

Your brows furrow, pouting, “But it’ll help,”

“Hug me instead,” his fingers play with yours, intertwining, “or I’ll hug you. Either.”

You shoot him a look, disbelieving, but he musters up a wink, for you, despite the new wave of pain arising.

“Okay,” you sigh, knowing you can’t exactly argue. As you get up, you land a kiss on top of his head, rubbing his knuckles as you get ready for bed.

When you come back, dressed in your pajamas, he’s turned to his side, lifting the comforter to welcome you in. You lie face-to-face with him, his arm reaching out to rest on your lower back, pushing you closer.

“You sure this is enough?” you whisper, breath tickling his chin.

“Mm, yeah,” he hums, hugging you tighter as he grins, “you’re hot.”

You hit his arm lightly, and he chuckles.

It turns quiet, then he shifts, resting his forehead against yours. White strands, as pale as your pillowcases, tickle your eyes.

He nuzzles your nose, hiking your leg up to rest on his hip while slotting his leg between your thighs—like a pretzel, twisted into each other tight.

“You’re too good to me.”

He’s said this before, and no matter how much you say it isn’t true—he’ll always think it, believe it.

You frown, gripping his waist, “I don’t like seeing you in pain, you know.”

And he thinks you’ve always been like this: hands outstretched farther than his, offering yourself to help carry whatever pain, struggle, or burden you can. You cry for the sadness others feel, share the hurt of anyone who needs it. You’re the pillar, the support for everyone around you—from Yuuji, Megumi, and Tsumiki all the way back to Utahime, Suguru, and Nanami.

You’ve always been this way, ever since he met you.

“Does it still hurt?” you mutter, concerned, fingers grazing his stomach.

It does and it doesn’t—the pain is unfamiliar but he can take it, having gone through far worse. If he’s being really honest, a part of him just likes being babied by you.

“Better,” he inches back a little, lips curling into mischief, “would definitely go away with some Hi-Chew.”

You shoot him a look, then pout.

“Satoru.”

He figures there are still a few things you don’t know about him: how he really dislikes hot drinks, how discomfort turns him into a whiney, needy baby, and how he remains incredibly stubborn, maintaining what he stands for (but maybe you know this already).

“Hey, you should be thanking my Hi-Chew’s. It helps with energy when we fu—”

You swat at his chest in hopes of shutting him up.

He clears his throat, correcting himself instead, “—make love.”

This is hardly the time or situation to be talking about the other things you do on your bed, given that he’s been out of commission, curled in on himself the entire day on it. But you sigh, resting your palm on his cheek.

He turns to peck your wrist, hand coming up to cover yours.

“Just because you were fine doing it before, doesn’t mean you always will be,” you whisper, rubbing your thumb across his cheekbone.

And Gojo thinks he’s right most of the time, if not all the time, but—

“We’re not old, but we aren’t as young as we used to be, you know? Have to take better care of ourselves now…” you continue.

—when you talk to him like this, you humble him. Immensely.

He’s always known that if he were to give in to anyone, it’d be to you.

Things are different now, he knows; his considerations have changed too—like how to lay the foundations of a new, ideal jujutsu society, with all the political and diplomatic gymnastics he knows is necessary; what to do with all this downtime, with all this life and no more death looming overhead; there’s also you, where this relationship is headed, what he plans to do.

“What will I tell everyone when the love of my life, Gojo Satoru, the strongest, gets knocked out by sweets?”

Then you joke around like this so casually, kissing his nose and calling him the love of your life like it doesn’t bear commitment that spans your–his–entire lifetime—it shakes him a little.

He holds his breath, eyes staring at yours. You seem completely unfazed—a slip of the tongue maybe, so he lets it go.

“Okay, okay,” he pinches your nose as you scrunch it, “I’ll try, but no promises.”

You kiss his wrist in return—the softness of your lips always turning him a little delirious when he feels it. He pulls you closer to his chest, palm pressed to the back of your head as his other arm wraps around you, squeezing you tighter.

“But don’t complain if I only last one rou—”

He gets kicked in the thigh.

4 — WHEN IT'S YOUR WAY OR DOWN THE DRAIN

There’s the right way, then there’s the Gojo way.

Sometimes there’s an overlap, but most times he’s just unorthodox. Gojo’s always had his own way of doing things, but now, he’s throwing all that down the drain in lieu of doing things your way (which in this case, he’s decided is the right way).

Between the two of you, you’re definitely better at cooking.

He isn’t inept at it per se; all these years, he’s managed to get by. It’s just that, he’s only ever made quick, simple things—barely having the time or need to make things on his own when you seem to have an extra plate on standby.

Long cooks like this, for real, big meals aren’t his forte at all.

This is the fullest his kitchen has ever been, a trip to the grocery store producing bags overflowing with the ingredients he needs. He tightens his apron (yours, actually) by his waist, pale pink a stark contrast to his black shirt and gray lounge pants. It’s tiny on him, barely fitting, but it covers enough to (hopefully) save him from any mishaps.

With all the ingredients lined up on his kitchen counter, he stares, hands on hips as he contemplates where to begin.

You’ve mentioned before how his kitchen is every cook’s dream: complete equipment, all high-grade with steel surfaces for easy wipe downs and more than enough real estate to move around. It’s a shame he’s barely used it over the years, either too busy out on missions or lately, too often staying at yours.

The unease makes him fidgety.

There’s an air of confidence that normally surrounds Gojo in everything he does, but it wavers just a bit with this one.

He has to get this right.

It’s your anniversary—the third (officially), but the number doesn’t matter as much when the years have always blurred the lines of what you are to each other.

The past two celebrations were cute and fun, adventurous in how you’d spent the first one on a trail date up north, and the second one fruit picking in a farm, just west of Tokyo—things you’d both done for the first time, together. Now, there’s added pressure because this is your thing; everything on the menu for tonight’s home cooked dinner is based on your recipes.

You know all of this by heart. And though he’s aware he doesn’t have to impress you, he wants to.

He glances at the clock: 15:05 in white, 4 hours until you arrive. The table hasn’t been set up yet and he’s barely dressed, an array of ingredients on the table waiting to be transformed into four of your recipes he plans to attempt.

Gojo is no quitter, but it’d be stupid of him to underestimate how fast time flies.

He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contact list—then he shoots a text, pocketing the device as soon as he hits send.

In the amount of time between asking for help and said help standing outside his door, ringing the doorbell, Gojo’s managed to do most of the prepwork: slice all the vegetables, set the rice cooker, and mix together all the sauces and glazes so he can set them aside for later.

“Just type it!” he shouts from the kitchen.

Four beeps sound from the door, a soft woosh following as it opens. Help enters in the form of spiky hair and a deadpan gaze, putting on house slippers by the genkan as he drags his feet to the kitchen counter.

“Megumi!”

The younger boy sighs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his joggers, long sleeves wrinkling higher. “Why did you call me?”

“Oh!” Gojo claps his hands together, “I need your help.”

Megumi looks him over, eyes zeroing in on the pink apron, then the bowls of sauces and chopped vegetables in front of him. The rice cooker is steaming beside the sink while empty pots and pans line the burners of the stove.

“With cooking?” Megumi shifts his attention back to Gojo as the older male nods. He mumbles, “You made it sound like an emergency.”

(“Come here now.” in proper punctuation, lacking any of his usual emoticons—only ever being used in the most dire situations).

Gojo furrows his brows, “It is!”

Megumi stares.

“Anniversaries are emergencies,” Gojo stares back, holding the silence for a few seconds before he continues, demeanor turned serious, “Think of it as doing this for your Sensei, not me.”

There’s a crack in Megumi’s resolve that Gojo knows only appears when it comes to you; a soft spot that exists because you’ve always been closer, warmer—an accumulation of all the times you were adamant on being present because the kids deserved someone there, especially when he couldn’t be.

Megumi sighs, resigned, as he pushes up his sleeves, trudging over to the sink. He turns on the tap, soaping his hands until it suds, “You should have asked Itadori.”

“Yuuji wouldn’t know how it’s supposed to taste though.”

“Sensei’s recipes?”

Gojo nods, fanning out pieces of paper from the recipe folder you keep in your kitchen drawer, “Your favorites.”

Megumi scrunches his nose, embarrassed as pink tints the tips of his ears.

His relationship with Megumi has always been a bit weird, a not-quite-parent-maybe-kind-of-distant-guardian-and-good-but-annoying-mentor-slash-benefactor kind of weird. And he’s sure that the boy isn’t too fond of the idea that he knows small, seemingly trivial things about him like his favorite food, but if there’s anything they can settle on, it’s definitely love for you.

“Do you have another one?” Megumi turns to Gojo, pointing to the hair band pushing back his hair.

There’s a different kind of care in cooking that he’s now realizing, coming face-to-face with the pot of dashi he’s just started boiling—a patience that comes with waiting and an efficiency meant for multi-tasking.

During the 30 minutes of soaking the kombu, they split tasks: Gojo takes duty rolling the Temaki on his own, while Megumi seasons the Wagyu and prepares the Sunomono. It’s not long before Megumi is directed to setting up the table as Gojo focuses on the Miso Soup.

There’s a reference photo, some picture he pulled online. The gray plates and silverware on his dining table match the iron-hued backsplash and steel surfaces of his kitchen, sleek but softened by the vase of red and white camellias from the florist you frequent.

Megumi doesn’t say anything, frankly because he’s gotten used to walking in on Gojo searching up these things: a youtube video of trail dates and articles of ‘the top 10 best farms for fruit picking’. There was also that time he found Gojo’s browser open on a catalog of lingerie.

(Megumi’s been trying really hard to forget that).

These aren’t things Gojo’s done before, much less thought of—romance and all.

But he admits, it’s hard work, wiping off the sweat on his brow caused by the heat from the stove.

“Why,” Megumi sighs, “Why are you cooking anyway?” He mumbles, adjusting the silverware on the table, “Couldn’t you just reserve some place?”

Most of the cook has been silent, with Gojo too focused and Megumi barely saying a word. So while adding the katsuobushi after the kombu boils, the older male answers.

“I would have, but she said she wanted to stay home,” he turns away from the pot, leaving the katsuobushi to soak as he shrugs.

Megumi snorts, straightening out the black tablecloth, “Don’t you have anywhere you want to go?”

It’s a simple question. Innocent.

But it hits him then, how what you say follows; how ‘anywhere he wants to go’ is wherever you are, how he’s choosing to cook this meal for you instead of just ordering in—how he’s now considering you, in everything.

This isn’t his strong suit, far from it, really, but because he’s thinking of what you want—suddenly he’s domesticated, cooking for you in hopes of romancing you (even though he already has you).

You come first now, and he finds that he doesn’t mind.

He turns back to the stove, straining the soup through a fine-mesh sieve before adding miso paste, dissolving it into the dashi.

“I guess not.”

The thought stays with him, even as he drops in the tofu, dried wakame seaweed, and green onion. Even as he waits for it to finish cooking, moving the pot atop a different burner while grabbing a spoon to dip in it.

“Megumi, come taste,” he calls behind him.

And when the boy sidles up next to him, he feels nervous, fingers trembling as he hands over the spoonful of Miso Soup. He stares at Megumi, eyes wide open, anticipating.

The boy arches an eyebrow as he takes the spoon, blowing on it gently. He takes a small sip.

“I added less salt because—” Gojo speaks up, a bit panicked, fingers scratching at his nail beds.

“She’ll like anything you make, even if it tastes bad.”

Gojo’s brows furrow, “Are you saying it’s bad?”

“Or bland,” Megumi adds, smacking his lips.

“So it’s bland?”

The horror on Gojo’s face is laughable, but Megumi continues, deadpan.

“No, it’s okay.”

Gojo sighs in relief, then pouts, “Don’t mess with me like that.”

“I don’t,” Megumi sets the spoon down, walking back to the dining table to finish setting up.

The 18:03 on his digital clock flickers, and the rest of the cook continues: he heats up the skillet for the Wagyu—Matsusaka Beef, grade A-5, heavily marbled, meant to be tender and sweet. Some oil is drizzled onto the pan before cloves of chopped garlic are thrown in, followed by the beef, cut into bite-sized pieces. He adds a bit of soy sauce and red wine, to draw out the sweetness (or so he’s read), then finishes it up by plating it.

And, there really is a different kind of care in cooking, he’s now realizing; how, when he stares at what he’s cooked in the past hour, he’s thought of you through it all—your preferences, the way you make things. How big meals aren’t his forte, but for you, he tries anyway.

“Do you need me to do anything else?” Megumi asks, adjusting the camellias in the vase one last time. He takes off his hair band and ruffles his hair, hands tucking inside his pockets immediately after.

Gojo looks up from the spread of food on the kitchen counter, motioning for the boy to come closer, “Taste test everything with me.”

Lined up are a plate of Temaki, a wooden board of Wagyu, a plate of Sunomono, and a bowl of Miso Soup. For every bite he takes, Megumi follows. And honestly? He thinks everything tastes… okay.

The Temaki bursts with the sweet umaminess of buttery salmon dotted with ikura, the yellow daikon pickles adding a tart balance that complements the salmon well by simultaneously being sweet and salty. The avocado adds extra creaminess, while the cucumber and corn provide a freshness that lifts everything else. For some added decoration, he uses radish sprouts to mimic leaves on the filler plants of bouquets—the main reason he chose to make this: it looks like the bundles of flower arrangements you keep on your desk. What ties everything together though, is the crunchy, crispy texture of the nori, giving contrast to the creaminess it holds inside.

There’s a reason why Wagyu is so expensive, and it’s being told in the way it melts into his mouth right now, sweet and tender. He paid a pretty penny for this, but it’s worth it because he can’t wait for your reaction.

The Sunomono is meant to be a palate cleanser—with sesame seeds sprinkled on it, mild and sweet, while wakame seaweed and cucumbers serve as the base ingredients. The sauce is meant to be light, just a mixture of rice vinegar and soy sauce, seasoned to taste—and maybe his is a little lackluster compared to yours, but he swears you have some form of magic when it comes to cooking.

After each bite, Gojo looks at Megumi for his reaction—but the boy gives nothing away, face blank and devoid of any emotion. None of them are as good as yours, definitely, but for his first shot at this, they aren’t too bad. He’d pat himself on the back for it.

“They don’t go together,” Megumi regards the entire spread with his chopsticks.

All his hard work? Shattered.

Gojo is dumbfounded.

It’s too late to change everything now.

Should he just scrap everything and order takeout?

“But they’re not bad,” Megumi continues, washing his chopsticks by the sink before heading for the bathroom to change out of the house clothes he’d borrowed in lieu of an apron.

When he emerges, long sleeves and joggers, he asks one last time if that’s all he needs to do, taking Gojo’s nods as a sign to take his leave. The older male remains rooted behind his kitchen counter, frozen from the crisis he’s facing.

You arrive a little later (thankfully), giving Gojo enough time to figure out this whole debacle. He’s ultimately decided to feel around for how the night goes, then he’ll act accordingly—if you show any sign that you aren’t happy, he has the delivery app ready.

He dresses in simple slacks and a white button down, fiddling with how he’s rolled it up; the thought of you finally seeing everything he’s prepared for tonight makes him nervous—the table set-up, the ambiance, the food.

(He’s even cleaned up his bedroom).

Then he senses it, faint traces of your cursed energy by the door, and he holds his breath. The beeps on his lock count down the seconds to your entrance; and when he sees you come in, surprised and so amazed at the entire thing, the tightness in his chest eases up immensely.

All he told you was to wear something nice.

And, by god you did.

You walk up to him, pretty and smiling in the simple dress you’d opted for tonight—a midi slip-on with a cardigan thrown on top. Black has always looked good on you, uniform or not, ever since up to now.

But in white, you’re radiant. Glowing.

He reaches for you.

The grin on his face is lovesick as he grabs a hold of your waist. You instantly tiptoe up to kiss him, hands on his shoulders as you land a soft peck that transfers a light sheen of lip gloss onto his lips. The view behind him shows the table set-up, a pop of white and red amidst all the food he’s prepared for tonight.

Your eyes widen, gasping, “Did you make all of that?”

He nods, pulling away from you as he grins cockingly, “Call me chef.”

But he immediately bites his lips, restless as he shifts his weight. He hopes you don’t notice how nervous he is—if you weren’t able to tell from his heartbeat, pressed against his chest.

“You didn’t have to,” you pout at him, eyes watery as you swipe your thumb across his lips, wiping off the residue of your lipgloss.

“Guess I’ll just undo everything then,” he chuckles, hands sliding to rest on your lower back, fingers tapping against silk.

You roll your eyes, and before his hands get the chance to grab you lower, you’re whisking him away, holding his hand as you lead him to the dining table.

He pulls out your chair and you sit, the rare gesture making you giggle. As he settles in the seat across you, there’s a disconnect between the expression on his face and his body language—eyebrows wiggling and lips smirking, meant to be lighthearted and teasing, but he won’t stop fidgeting, shifting as he readjusts his seating.

As you reach for the Temaki, he sucks in a breath, entirely hyper aware of every move you’re making. When you bite into it, he’s waiting. Anticipating.

Your eyes fall shut as you chew, humming, then you grin. But when you open them and they catch his, it’s like you can tell—what he’s feeling. The furrow on your brows deepens as you look at him, concerned, “Hey, what’re you thinking?”

How he hopes he hasn’t fucked this up, this dinner. What if the Miso Soup is too bland? Isn’t at all to your liking? What if the Wagyu’s dried out? Isn’t cooked properly?

If he can’t get this right, this seemingly simple thing, how can he do everything else? Consider you the same way you’ve always considered him?

He’s so sure of you his heart could burst at it, but what if he can’t ever come to terms with himself? With what he’s able to—

Then he feels it, your hand on his as you reach for him across the table, rubbing the back of it, soothing.

He doesn’t even realize how much he’s worrying.

“Megumi said it doesn’t go together,” he stares into your eyes, breathing slowly, grounding. It’s been a while since he’s given you a non-answer, but you accept it, patiently.

“Megumi was here?” you ask gently, brow arched curiously.

He nods, “Asked him to help a bit.”

You hum, looking back at the food on the table before taking his other hand, soothing, “Well, that’s Megumi’s preference. Mine will be different.”

The smile you give him is warm, like the Miso Soup you’re reaching for right now. He watches you take a sip.

“S’good, better than mine,” You hum and he knows you’re lying but it’s still comforting, the fact that you’d do this for him.

So if this is your effort for him, he isn’t going to waste it.

The rest of the dinner has you making the most exaggerated sounds, your ‘mmm’s and ‘ooo’s emphasizing how good the food is if he still doesn’t believe it. Your reactions are over-the-top and definitely overplayed, but it makes him laugh—has him grinning in his seat the more he relaxes.

You help clean up, even though he insists that you shouldn’t.

“It’s our anniversary, Satoru,” you bump his hip, shooing him away from the table as you stack up the dirty plates.

When he finishes washing the dishes and turns to find you, sitting atop his kitchen counter, nibbling on a piece of strawberry from the special Daifuku he put out for dessert, he approaches you.

“Don’t be greedy now,” he rests his hand on your knee, coming to stand in between your legs. You hike your dress up a little bit, just to give him some space.

You chuckle, cupping your hand under his chin as you feed him; he eats the entire thing, half-bitten by you already. And as the tips of your fingers touch his lips, sticky and syrupy from the strawberry coating, he takes them in his mouth, sucking lightly.

He holds your gaze.

“Thanks for doing all this,” you blink twice as he releases your fingers, interlacing them with his, “s’not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life.”

You say it again—how you call him that so casually.

What do you mean it’s not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life?

You do it for him all the time.

He hums, moving closer. His other hand rises higher, kneading the flesh of your thighs through the smooth silk of your midi dress.

“Thought you were going to spit it out for a second there,” he swallows his nerves.

“Stop,” you frown, grabbing him by his belt loops before pressing your lips against his forehead, landing a loud ‘smack’, “go away silly thoughts.”

He chuckles when you blow a raspberry on it, laughter easing up as you drag your lips down to the center of his brows, tense from all the worrying earlier.

You always seem to get it right, he thinks, this whole relationship thing—always knowing what to say.

He tilts his head up, leaning closer to kiss you on the lips, fully. The breath he lets out mingles with yours, sweet with hints of strawberry, and when he catches your bottom lip you lean back, hands coming to rest on his cheeks.

You nip on his upper lip, playful but light, and he groans, hand reaching up to slot itself by your neck.

It’s there, underneath his fingertips, the pounding of your heartbeat.

As you squirm on the kitchen counter, you pull away for a moment, restless from the growing heat. The action is subtle but dangerous as your cardigan slips off your shoulder, revealing the strap and lace of your lingerie.

Blue eyes land on familiar pink, one he’s certain he’s caught you in before, but seeing it now, under white, it does something to his brain—blood rushing, ears ringing.

He leans closer, grabbing you by the waist as he runs his lips against along your neck, nipping on sensitive skin.

“‘Toru,” you gasp, breathy as you grip his shirt.

“Tell me what else you want,” he murmurs against your skin, muffled. He sneaks one glance at you, pupils blown, before hovering over your temple, lips barely touching, tickling as he whispers, “anything.”

Your fingers trail lower, pinching at his shirt before you tug, untucking it from his slacks. You turn to him, finding his lips, sliding them over his as you match his rhythm. It’s careful and slow, the way you unbutton his shirt, but it’s like he said—

This is your way; he’ll follow anything you say.

5 — WHEN ALL I SEE IS ME AND YOU

Gojo never thought he’d make this decision all because of your joint streaming subscription.

It’s a normal weekend, regular in every way possible—just a night in for the both of you. He usually stays over at the end of the week, but it’s been bleeding into the weekdays too, lately.

The sound of splashing water against tile echoes along the hallway; you normally play songs when you shower, but he guesses today isn’t that kind of day.

He plops on the couch, pointing the remote to the TV as he selects the streaming app. Normal weekends consist of movie nights, half actually paying attention to the screen, and half paying attention to other things—either way, it ends in falling asleep.

When the homepage lights up on the screen, he spots two accounts: yours and his. And it’s joint, under one household—your home.

And he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been thinking about this more lately: how the past months have been a slow realization coming to terms with himself, and where he sees this relationship going, but the visual in front of him sparks an influx of things he’s been noticing.

The pajama pants he’s wearing now exist as a pair to a matching set he has with you, but tonight, he’s opted for a white t-shirt because his pajama top is tucked somewhere in the drawers of your bedroom.

(You keep it with you because you like how it fits more, you say, but he thinks it’s because it smells like him, and you sleep with it when he’s away).

There’s another pair of chopsticks you always wash now, too, plain bamboo with a ring around the handle, light blue. You’d bought it from a market down the street a year ago, and told him it reminded you of him—how it’s his from now on, in the container of utensils by your kitchen sink.

He’s always known how intertwined your lives are, a decade and more of learning one another is bound to entangle you somehow. But the past few years have caused knots, impossible to unravel—a thought that doesn’t scare him as much as it used to; a thought he now thinks doesn’t sound so bad as long as it’s with you.

As long as it’s with you.

The creaking of the bathroom door snaps him back, the soft pads of your footsteps growing louder as it reaches the living room.

“Oh, you haven’t picked a movie yet?” you ask, ruffling your hair with your towel.

He puts on a smile, facing you as he hands over the remote, “You pick tonight.”

You barely pay attention to the movie, snuggled up against his chest, constantly looking up to kiss his neck. He’s the same, distracted, but not for the same reasons you are.

It’s a lot to resist, the way your hands creep under his shirt, warm against his stomach, but the sinking feeling in his gut makes it impossible to focus anywhere else.

“Not the time?” you tap his cheek, and he tilts his chin down, acknowledging you. The look on your face is anything but disappointed, and it tugs at him, makes him feel guilty that he’s making you worry. That he can’t give you what you’re looking for right now.

“Maybe later,” he takes your hand, lips grazing your fingertips, “I’ll get ready for bed.”

You nod, sitting up as he taps your hip. He knows you can tell something’s bothering him—it’s impossible to hide anything from you at this point, but this realization feels like a long time coming, like it’s been brewing, now spilling.

He gets up, kissing the top of your head before walking to the bathroom.

When he steps in, it still smells like you—the shampoo and bodywash you use. (Technically, it smells like him too—he’s started using yours because it feels like keeping you with him, everywhere he goes).

As he finishes brushing his teeth, reaching for his towel hooked beside yours, he remembers how none of this existed when it was just you. You only ever had one hook for one towel, how he used to share it with you only to realize that it would never dry in time for the next use.

Then he found it, some time last year, when he walked in to take a shower and saw a hook installed right beside yours, presumably his.

The lights are adjusted for him too; fluorescent white too bright, a pain for his Six Eyes. You noticed when you caught him washing his face in the dark, so you changed the bulbs to soft white, tinged a bit yellow, warm.

And the thing is, he never asked you to do any of this.

You just… did.

Because that’s you.

And it’s making him realize even more how he wants to keep it this way, how he wouldn’t mind if this was the rest of his life, everyday.

The mood shifts when you both get in bed, and if you notice it, you don’t tell him. Whatever was bothering him before has settled, his head clear, more focused to reciprocate your earlier advances.

He’s gentle when he touches you, taking the time to love you. Your clothes come off one by one with no haste at all, slowly, almost painfully.

But he kisses you all over, leaves marks on places only he can see—by your hip, at the center of your chest, and another one, visible, on your neck below your ear. This is more than what he usually does, but he feels determined tonight.

“Off,” you whisper, as you tug at his shirt, pulling it off before throwing it to the side of your bed.

He holds his breath when your fingers land on his chest, dragging across his collarbones before you tap thrice. This is a spot you’ve loved so intently, he’s become sensitive to it every time you come close. You leave kisses along it, some wet, others dry pecks, but it makes him shudder all the same, every time.

As he hovers above you, arm bent by your head, his fingers trace your lower lip, tugging only to let it bounce back; he kisses you, noses bumping, softly at first before it turns hungry—lips overlapping, biting. His tongue runs over your lips, smooth and warm.

There are more touches, more gazes; lips brushing and breaths mixing. The heat between you is shared, intermingling, and when he’s in you—

—it’s too much, how he feels looking at you right now, like you’re everything, the only thing seared into his memory.

There’s a life he wants to give you, and though he knows there are others who might be more able to—he can’t let go of you, refuses to. He can’t bear the thought of anyone else being this close, doesn’t even want to think about someone else waking up next to you—the bed hair he always looks forward to, the lazy smile against squished cheeks, the hands that always reach for him, first thing.

These traces of you have made him want the whole of you, and if this is him being selfish, then so be it.

His arms wrap around your back, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around him, and you’re both moving, timing in sync, and he’s crying.

He tucks his face into your neck, and he’s sure you feel everything—wet tears, shuddery breaths, but you don’t say anything. You hold him tighter, fingers scratching his undercut as he gets closer and closer.

Gojo Satoru is a man of impossibilities.

And this life he thinks you deserve—he wants to be the one to give that to you.

+1 — WITH MY KNEES ON THE FLOOR, WHEN I ASK FOR MORE

He shouldn’t even be feeling this way, because what’s the worst thing you can say?

It’s just you.

It’s just you—

And… maybe it’s because it’s you, that the .01% possibility of you even saying no—

—it makes him feel sick.

He looks back at the clock: 16:30. The walk from the conference room to his office will take an extra 3? 5? minutes.

The room feels tighter, smaller, floorboards practically worn down from how much he’s paced around it.

He’s rehearsed what he wants to say, how he’ll grab your hand and look you straight in the eyes as he does it. Fear and excitement churn in his belly, how he’s imagining the look on your face.

If you were here, you’d tell him to breathe—to follow you with every inhale and exhale.

If you were here, you’d smile at him, lips curled up softly, gently, the one he loves.

If you were here—

—the door opens, and you step into the room.

Now that you’re here, he doesn’t know what to say.

You stand before him in your uniform, smiling, just as he imagined you’d be. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, sparkling, the way he’s noticed they have since you were 17.

He must be doing a terrible job hiding how he feels because your demeanor instantly shifts, face contorting into worry, brows furrowed and frown forming. You drop your bag as you walk to him, hands reaching to cup his face.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice hushed and delicate, “Did something happen?”

Your fingers are warm on his cheeks (or is he too cold?), tilting his head lower so you can look him in the eyes. He can’t breathe, can’t hear you properly; you’re drowned out by the thumping of his heartbeat.

“Need to tell you something,” he manages to mutter.

Your eyes widen before you nod, lowering your hands as you speak slowly, “Okay, do you want to sit first? I have water—”

He shakes his head, hand reaching for your wrist, “I think… you should sit.”

The pause alarms you, your body turning rigid. He has no idea what’s going through your mind, and you give nothing away as you mumble an ‘okay’ while walking to the couch.

He stays beside you, not too far but still placing a bigger distance than he normally would—for the 0.01% probability that this isn’t what you want, that he isn’t too close, forcing you into an answer you might not want to say.

The words float in his mind, but none of them string together to form the sentences he wants to tell you. Does he take it from the start? How this whole thing has always terrified him? How he never thought this was meant for him, but here he is, still learning but loving every second of it?

There are things he’s never had to consider before that he cares so much more about now—all because of you, how it’s for you, how he wants to do better by you.

You call him the love of your life and he hasn’t told you, but you’re that and more for him, too.

He practiced this, damn it.

Why can’t he remember a single thing?

The silence between you is tense, tainted by overthinking on both ends. You look like you’re waiting for bad news, and Gojo’s too stuck in his head, turning over the right words to say instead of reassuring you.

“I’ve been thinking lately,” he starts, fiddling with his fingers. His feet won’t stop bouncing, knee fidgeting. He’s biting his lips, a tell-tale sign that there’s a lot he isn’t saying.

You place your hand on his knee to calm him down, and he stops bouncing it, looking at you as you muster up a small smile—far from being genuine, but it’s the fact that you’ve mustered it, as if to say: ‘it’s okay, you can tell me; i’ll always want to hear all of it.’

He swallows, “This arrangement isn’t working.”

Your face drops, brows furrowing, “What arrangement?”

His heart is pounding.

“I stay over at yours too much.”

Too much, that mine doesn’t feel like I belong there anymore, he fails to add.

“I think we need more space.”

Your hand slides off his knee as you tuck it between your thighs. There’s a frown on your face he can’t seem to figure out, and the fact that you’re giving nothing away, whatever you’re thinking—he’s turning even more nervous right now.

“Okay,” you finally say, tone flat, “when do you want me to return all your things?”

He tilts his head at you, confused, “What—”

“Actually, can I…” you shift around, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ears before clearing your throat, “can I ask if it’s something I did?”

And his heart drops, straight into his stomach.

It’s not like that at all.

He’s hit with déjà vu; this conversation feels so familiar, so similar to one he’s had with you before—on the sofa chair across this couch, laying himself bare the same way he is now.

The couch dips as he scoots closer to you, reaching for your hands.

“It’s not—”

You scoff sadly, “Please don’t give me the ‘it’s not you it’s me’ thing,” then your tone drops, blinking away your tears, “if you’re going to break up with me, Satoru, just tell me why. Honestly.”

He blinks.

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he once told himself he’ll never tell you.

But now seems like it’s fitting—the right time to say it.

“You remember when I was unsealed?” he moves to the floor, getting down on his knees in front of you. You nod as he rubs circles over your knuckles, “When I first saw you, it was pretty scary.”

He brings one hand to your cheek, catching a tear with his thumb. You pout, the crease between your brows growing deeper.

“You ran yourself dry because of me.”

When he thinks about it now, he still feels guilty.

He believes that people are accountable for their own actions, and he still believes that with you, definitely—but he knows your reasons, why you acted that way, desperate for hope everyday. And for that, he takes responsibility.

“I didn’t want that for you, still don’t.”

Your frown deepens, tears welling up even more.

Do you still think he wants to do this without you?

He can’t take this, seeing you cry; he promised himself he wouldn’t be the reason behind this anymore.

“I’m not breaking up with you,” he tells you firmly, surely.

You blink.

Then your shoulders drop as you breathe out—what he hopes is relief. When your eyes meet, a little less sad, he sees the stars in them, glinting like they do when you look at him.

This should be his answer already, how much you brighten at the thought of staying with him. But—

“I still think you deserve more,” he brings your hands to his lips, brushing them against it, and as you’re about to interject, he chuckles, “but I’m also too selfish to leave that up to someone else, you know?”

“Soooo,” his hand reaches for his pocket, fishing around until he feels for what he’s looking for. He takes out his phone, swiping and scrolling until he finally stops, placing it on your lap for the both of you to see, “I’ve been thinking lately…”

He looks up at you, the two skies you’ve always been drawn to, waiting. The unease in his stomach returns, churning.

It’s a compilation of properties: houses, apartments, plots of land—all scattered around Tokyo, some central and some further on the outskirts.

Your eyes widen, tilting your head to the side as you attempt to read what’s on his screen. You turn to him immediately, eyes still watery; the expression on your face is unreadable, a mixture of surprise and confusion, like you don’t exactly know what he means.

“We don’t have to choose from these, it’s just a few brokers I talked to recently. We can look for others if you want, in quieter areas too—”

Then you smile, beaming, tears falling from your eyes, “Satoru,” and you breathe out his name but it sounds like I love you.

There’s a quiet life he can’t give you, but he likes this one with you much better too. He takes your hands, placing one on his chest, over his heart, and the other on his cheek. Then, he leans into it, kissing the insides of your wrist before staring back at you sincerely.

His heart is beating wildly, he’s sure, but if he can continue to make you this happy—

“Make a home with me?”

a/n: food descriptions—temaki is easy hand-rolled sushi, sunomono is japanese cucumber salad.

thank you notes: @stellamancer the actual birthday gift for u :') + @em1e for listening to me talk abt the entire plot and even reading the first few scenes!! + @mididoodles @kissxcore @itadorey @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat for always being so supportive when am sharing my progress posts ilu + @crysugu @soumies @augustinewrites no reason other than i just love u �� i reply so slow when am writing smth...

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #jjk x reader #gojo fluff #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk #satoru #gojo x you #gojo x yn #gojo x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x yn #jjk x y/n #rated #shotorus.writes #col

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lowpolynpixelated · 7 months ago

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Bloodborne PSX One of the best fanworks on the web

Though the PS4 boasted and still boasts an impressive library of releases, for many (myself included) the system served to be bought for initially one purpose, to be the Bloodborne Machine. Most of the people in my life who had a PS4 during its generation either bought one exclusively to play Fromsoftware’s Nightmare Hunting Adventure or had initially got one solely to play the game and ended up getting more games afterward. It’s a phenomenon the game industry sees time and time again, with previous generations having swathes of fans buying entire consoles for one or two games. As far as games go though, Bloodborne is at the very least worth the price of entry. At the time, it was heralded as Fromsoftware’s most cutting-edge and impressive game to date. A gorgeous gothic world filled with creatures ripped straight out of H.P Lovecraft’s nightmares, a haunting soundtrack showcasing beautifully composed choral scores and a combat system that incentivized aggression and speed to achieve brutal and bloody efficiency. It’s no wonder then why Bloodborne still has such a large following behind it. Fans of Fromsoftware have hoped for a sequel or PC port year after year to largely disappointing results. But where the community shines is in its fanworks.

From fanart, comics, music, animations, and even fan-made video game spinoffs, the game has been shown a monumental amount of love since its debut in 2015. One of these fanworks was released back in 2022 and has since become one of the most famous pieces of fan-made content surrounding the game, this of course, being BloodbornePSX by LWMedia. An incredibly impressive feat of coding and art direction, the game serves as a “Demake” of Bloodborne’s first Yharnam segment, made to look like and play as if it were made on the very first PlayStation console. With some custom-made areas and an entirely unique boss to boot the perfectly paced experience is both a treat to fans who have been orbiting the game since its earliest days and new fans looking for the best and brightest fanworks to interact with.

The game has since gone on to be covered by a variety of news outlets all over the web, along with its creator receiving much-deserved attention for her efforts. One Lilith Walther (AKA b0tster on social media) holds the title of developer for the project. A long-time video game enthusiast and FromSoftware fan herself, she’s had quite an impact on the community I’m sure she’s very proud to be a part of. Later in the article, we’ve got an interview with Lilith herself about both Bloodborne PSX and her current project, “Bloodborne Kart”, but first, let’s talk a bit more in-depth about BBPSX.

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(Official launch trailer for Bloodborne PSX, uploaded January 31, 2022 by LWMedia on Youtube)

Bloodborne PSX:

So, what exactly is Bloodborne PSX? To start, let’s answer what precisely a “Demake” is first. Demakes often have the goal of remaking the likeness of a game either stylistically, mechanically, or both, as if it was developed on retro/outdated hardware. Famous examples of Demakes include “The Mummy Demastered” developed by Wayforward as a sort of tie-in to the 2017 film “The Mummy” in the stylings of a 16-bit run and gun adventure against armies of the undead, and “Pixel Force Halo” by Eric Ruth games which take the prolific XBOX franchise and shrinks it down to a Mega Man-esque platformer reminiscent of the NES’ 8-bit days. Demakes are intensely attractive looking, not only into the past of video games and their developments but just how creative developers can be with games that they love and appreciate. Bloodborne PSX hits as hard as a Demake can in my opinion, blending masterfully recreated graphics with perfectly clunky early PSX gameplay quirks that go above and beyond to make the game not only LOOK like it belongs on the nearly 30-year-old console but feel right at home on it as well.

(A screenshot depicting the player character “The Hunter” facing off against two fearsome Werewolf enemies. Screenshot sourced from the Bloodborne PSX Official itch.io page)

Gameplay:

Starting off with the masterfully recreated clunk in the gameplay, Bloodborne PSX “shows its age” by hearkening back to a time when being seamless just wasn’t an option. Much like adventure action games of the past (and much UNLIKE its modern inspiration), you’ll be cycling through your inventory delightfully more than you’d expect. Equipping keys, checking items, and even the trademark weapon transformations are all done through the wonderfully nostalgic menu and inventory screens. Taking one of the foundational parts of Bloodborne’s combat system and making it such a more encumbering mechanic is nothing short of sheer genius when it comes to ways to really make you feel like it’s 1994 again. On top of this, the Hunter’s movement itself has been made reminiscent of classic action titles. Somehow, both stiff enough to feel dated and fluid enough to make combat that same rush of bestial fun found in the original, it goes a long way towards the total immersion into that retro vibe the game sets out to give the player. Anyone who grew up with Fromsoftware’s earlier titles like Armored Core and the King’s Field series will be very familiar with this unique brand of “well-tuned clunk”.

(A delightfully dated looking diagram showing off the controller layout for Bloodborne PSX’s controls. Image sourced from the Bloodborne PSX Official itch.io page)

Graphics:

Speaking of old Fromsoftware games, though, let’s talk about the absolutely bit-crushingly beautiful graphical work on display. As I’m sure you’ve seen from the videos and screenshots included in the article, BBPSX’s art style and direction are nothing short of perfect for what it aims to be. While playing, I couldn’t help but notice every little detail (or lack thereof) in the environments meant to emulate the experience of a game made on 30-year-old hardware. Low render distances, chunky textures, blocky polygonal models, just the right amount of texture warp, it all blends together to create an atmosphere that I can 100% picture being shown off on the back of a jewel CD case with a T for Teen rating slapped into the lower corner. While playing, something rather specific that called out to me was the new way enemy names and health bars were displayed in the bottom right corner of the screen while fighting. As a big fan of the King’s Field games, this small detail went (probably too much of) a long way toward my love of how everything’s meant to feel older. Other games trying to match the more specific feel of King’s Field, like “Lunacid” created by KIRA LLC, also include this delightful little detail, a personal favorite for sure.

(A screenshot depicting the second phase of Father Gascoigne’s boss fight, showing off the game’s perfectly retro art style. Image sourced from the Bloodborne PSX Official itch.io page)

Sound design/Soundtrack:

But where would a game be without its sound and score? No need to fear, however, because Bloodborne PSX comes complete with a chunky soundscape that will make you want to check and see if your TV is set to channel 3. A haunting set of tracks played by fittingly digital-sounding MIDIs ran through filters to sound just as crackly as you remember backs up crunchy sounds of spilling blood with low-poly weaponry. Original sounds from Bloodborne have been used for an authentic sounding experience, but have also been given the CRT speaker treatment and sound like something you remember playing on Halloween 20 years ago. If you watched the launch trailer featured above then you know exactly what I’m talking about. The Cleric Beast’s trademark screech and Gascoine’s signature howl after his beastly transformation have never sounded so beautifully dated, and I’m here for every bit of it. Even the horrific boss themes we know and love from the original Bloodborne have been brought through this portal to the past. One of my favourite tracks, the Cleric Beast boss theme, might just sound even better when played on a 16-bit sound chip. It really cannot be understated just how much weight the sound design of the game is pulling. In my opinion, the only thing missing is that sweet sweet PSX startup sound before the game starts crackling through the speakers of a TV in the computer room.

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(The Bloodborne PSX rendition of the Cleric Beast’s boss theme. Created by and uploaded to Youtube by The Noble Demon on March 20, 2021)

Interview with the developer:

Before writing this article, I had the absolute pleasure and privilege of talking with Lilith Walther about some developmental notes and personal feelings about inspirations and challenges that can come with the daunting task of being a developer. Below are the nine (initially ten, but unfortunately, a bit of the interview was lost due to my recording software bugging out) questions I posed to Miss Lilith, along with her answers transcribed directly from the interview.

I’d like to start this section of the article by saying Lilith was an absolute joy to talk to. During the interview, I really felt like she and I shared some common ground on some topics regarding how media can have an impact on you and what sorts of things come with video games as an art form. After some minor technical difficulties (and by that, I mean my video drivers crashed), I started off with something simple. The first question posited was: “What got you into video games initially?” Lilith’s response was as follows: “When I was a kid, the family member of a friend had a SNES lying around. I turned it on and didn’t really understand. I was a guy on top of a pyramid, I walked down the pyramid, and some big ogre killed me. Later I learned that was A Link to the past.” and after a brief laugh continued, “A couple years later my parents got a Nintendo 64 with Mario64 and Ocarina of Time and that was it. Never put the controller down since then.”

She then went on to describe what precisely about Nintendo’s first foray into 3D Zelda had hooked her. “I’ve heard this story so many times. It’s like you’re not even playing the game. You’re just in the world hanging out in Kokiri forest collecting rupees to get the Deku shield, and the game expects you to! It was just, ‘run around this world and explore,’ and that really hooked me.” I couldn’t agree more with her statement about her experience. Not just with a game as prolific as Ocarina of Time but many experiences from older console generations that could be considered “the first of their kind”, or at the very least some of the earliest. Lilith also described her first experience with a PlayStation console, stating: “Later on I got a PS2 which played PS1 games. I didn’t end up getting a PS1 until around the PS3 era, so I guess I’m a poser. I remember my sister bringing home Final Fantasy 9 when it was a relatively new game. If it wasn’t my first PS1 game it was definitely my first Final Fantasy game. Of course I went back and played 8 and 7 afterwards.” A solid answer to a simple question.

The second question I asked was one starting to move toward the topic of Bloodborne PSX and its namesake/inspiration. Or at least the family of systems it was released on: “What PlayStation console was your favorite and why?” Lilith’s answer surprised me a bit. Not because I disagreed, quite the opposite, actually. But with such a big inspiration for her work being games from the PSX-PS2 generations, what followed was a pleasant bit of insight into one of her favourite eras of gaming, to quote: “I can give you two answers here.” To which I assured her she was more than welcome to, but she was set on having something definitive. “No no I’m only going to give you one answer. I can give you the correct answer that I don’t want to admit, but it was the PlayStation 3. It’s so embarrassing but I genuinely was hooked into the marketing of the whole ‘The cell processor is the smartest thing in the world’ and all that. It really seemed like the future of gaming and I was all about it. I think I owned an XBOX360 before but I did eventually get it and really enjoyed it. It took a couple years for some of the best games to come out but I really did.” A few examples she cited as being some of her most memorable experiences on the console were Uncharted 2, Journey, Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare, and Warhawk. All games I’ve seen on several top 5 and top 10 lists throughout my life within the gaming space. A delightful show of affection for a generation personally very dear to me as well, in which she ended the segment by declaring “Hell yeag”, a bit of a catchphrase she’s coined online.

Getting into the topic proper, my third question was one about her personal relationship with Bloodborne: “How did Bloodborne impact/appeal to your interests?” A question that received perhaps my favourite answer of the whole interview. From her response: ”Oh that’s a big one. Going to the opposite end of the poser spectrum, I was a Fromsoftware fan before it was cool. One of the games I played religiously on my PS2 was Armored Core.” A statement which made more sense than perhaps anything else said during my time with her. “Then later in the PS3 era everyone was talking about Dark Souls, this was when I was in college. I finally caved and got it and saw the Fromsoftware logo and thought ‘Oh it’s the Armored Core people!’ I played and beat it, really enjoyed my time with it. I skipped Dark Souls 2 because everyone told me to hate it, I still need to go back to that one.”

It’s something I would recommend anyone who hasn’t played Dark Souls 2 to go and do. “Then Bloodborne came out and I thought ‘Alright this is the new one, gotta play this one’ and I was a huge fan of all the gothic stuff in the aesthetic. And how do I explain this, I do really like Bloodborne. I like the design, and the mechanical suite of gameplay, as a video-gamey video game it’s very good.” The tone shifted here to something a bit more personal. “But as well, I was playing it at a specific time in my life. I came out in 2019, I know Bloodborne came out in 2015 but I was obviously just playing it non-stop. It was just one of my ‘coming out games’, you know?” For those who maybe don’t understand the statement there, “coming out” is a very common term used within the Queer community to describe the experience of revealing your identity to those around you. Whether it be to family, friends, or co-workers, almost every queer person has some sort of coming out story to tell. Lilith is speaking in reference to her coming out as a trans woman. She elaborated: “Obviously I can only speak for myself, but I just feel like when you make a decision like that, that part of my life just ended up seared into my brain, you know? Bloodborne was there, so now it’s just a part of me. And it definitely influenced some things about me. It was there because I was working on Bloodborne PSX at the time, but it had an impact on something I’ve heard a lot of other Trans people describe.” She went on to describe the concept of “Coming out a second time” as sort of “finding yourself more within your identity” and becoming more affirmed in it. She described both Bloodborne and her development on Bloodborne PSX influencing large parts of her life, a good example being how she dresses and presents. As a trans woman myself, this answer delighted me to no end. I, for one, can absolutely 100% relate to the notion of media you experience during such a radical turning point in your life sticking with you. There are plenty of games, shows, music, and books that I still hold very near and dear to me because, as Lilith stated, they were there. All the right things at the right time.

Halfway through our questions, we’ve finally arrived at one pertaining specifically to the development of Bloodborne PSX: “What are some unique challenges you’ve faced developing a game meant to look/play like something made on retro hardware?”

Lilith answers: “So there’s two things, two big things. One is rolling back all of the quality of life improvements we’ve gotten over the years in gaming. Not automatically using keys is always my go-to example.” Something as well I mentioned in my short talk about the game’s gloriously dated feeling gameplay above. “That was definitely very very intentional. Because it’s not just the graphics, right? It was the design sensibilities of the 90s. Bringing that to the surface was very challenging but very fun. Another big part was, since it was one of the first 3D consoles, I wanted to recreate the hype around the fact that ‘ITS IN 3D NOW!’ So if you go into your inventory you’ll see all the objects rendered in beautiful 3D while they slowly spin as you scroll through them.” This is a feature I very much miss seeing in modern video games.

She continued, “I think the biggest one was the weapon changes. Bloodborne’s whole thing was the weapon transformations. Like, you could seamlessly change your weapons and work them into your combo and do a bunch of crazy stuff, and I kind of said ‘that needs to go immediately.’ So now you have to pause and go to your weapon and press L1 to transform it, that was extremely intentional. So once I had those three big things down it all just sort of fell into place. Like the clunky UI and the janky controls. You need jank and clunk, and I think that’s why Fromsoft games scale down so nicely, because they are jank and clunk.”

A point I couldn’t agree with more. Despite all the modern streamlining and improvements to gameplay, Fromsoft’s ever-growing catalog of impressive experiences still contains some of that old-school video game stiffness we’ve (hopefully) come to appreciate. She went on to make a point I was very excited to share here in the article, “It was just a lot of trying to nail the feel of the games and not just the look, right? Like I’m not trying to recreate a screenshot; I’m trying to recreate the feeling of playing this weird game that’s barely holding together because the devs didn’t know what they were doing.” In my humble opinion, something she did an excellent job with.

Fifth on the list was a question relating to her current project, Bloodborne Kart, a concept initially drawn from a popular meme shared around social media sites like Tumblr when the buzz of a Bloodborne sequel was keeping the talking spaces around Fromsoft alight: “Anything to say about the development of Bloodborne Kart or its inspiration?”

Lilith answers: “So first off Bloodborne Kart is less trying to be a simulation of a PS1 game and more just an indie game. It’s not trying to be a PS1 game, I just want it to be a fun kart racer first. Starting off of course is Mario Kart 64, that’s the one I played back in the day. But I looked at other games like Crash Team Racing and Diddy Kong Racing, but also stuff like Twisted Metal of course. I always used those as a template to sort of look at for design stuff like ‘how did they handle what happens to racers after player 1 crosses the finish line.” The next portion of her answer was initially a bit confusing but comes across better when you consider certain elements present in BBK’s battle mode. “And also Halo, like for the battle mode. I had to do a battle mode and it kind of just bubbled to the surface. Split Screen with my sister was such a big part of my childhood. Thinking about Halo multiplayer while I was making the battle mode stuff.”

Her answer to the previous question began to dip into the topic of our sixth question: “Are there any unique challenges or enjoyable creative points that go into making something like Bloodborne Kart?”

As she continued from her previous answer: “One of the biggest quirks of the battle mode I had to figure out was how to tell what team you were on at a glance, and that came back to Halo again. I started thinking about how you could tell in that game and it hit me that the arms of your suit change to the color of whatever team you’re on. It was just something I never even thought of because it’s so seamless. So that gave me the idea to change the kart colours, and that’s the most recent example of me pulling directly from Halo. It’s wild how a small change like that can turn your game from something unplayable to something fun.” I would agree. Tons of small details and things you don’t think about go into making seamless multiplayer experiences. Some of which we take for granted nowadays. She then made a point about one of the most challenging aspects of BBK’s development, “The most challenging thing was definitely the Kart AI. AI is just my worst skill when it comes to game development among the massive array of skills you need to make a game. It’s really hard to find examples of people coding kart driving AI, You know? You need to make a biped walk around you can find a million tutorials online but if you need to make something drive a kart, not really. I was really on my own there. A lot of the examples out there are very simulation oriented. Like cars using suspension and whatnot, but I’m making a kart racer. So I started simple, I put a navpoint down and if it needs to turn left, turn left, if it needs to turn right, turn right. And I just kept adding features from there.”

Moving onto our last three questions, we started to get a little more personal. Question seven being: “What’s your favorite part of Bloodborne Kart so far?”

Her answer was concise in what she was excited about most, quote: “The boss fights.” Short and sweet but she did elaborate. “Translating a big part of Bloodborne is the boss fights. So I made a short linear campaign which is basically AI battles and races strung together. Some of those stages are just boss fights which are unique to the rest of the game. When you make a video game you sit down and you make all your different modes of interactions, and then you make a multi-hour experience mixing and matching all those different modes in more complicated ways. I think the most interesting part is when that style tends to fall away and it ends up building something entirely unique to that experience.” An example she gave was the infamous “Eventide Island” in Breath of the wild, it being a unique experience where the game’s usual modes of interaction are stripped or limited, forcing you into a more structured experience that ends up being a majorly positive one. “That’s what the boss fights are in Bloodborne Kart. They do multiple game mechanics like a chase that ends in a battle mode. Like Father Gascoine’s fight where he chases you, and after you blow up his kart he turns into a beast and picks up a minigun.” That sounds absolutely incredible. It’s very easy to see why she’d pick the boss fights as her favorite element when they’re clearly intended to be such unique and memorable experiences.

Our last two questions veer away from the topics of development proper and focus more on our dear dev’s personal thoughts on the matter. Question eight posits: “What’s your personal favorite part of being a game developer?”

After some thought, she gave a very impassioned talk about something she considers to be the best part of the experience: “When people who aren’t game developers think about game development they think of things like ‘oh well you just get to play video games all day and have fun’ but it’s not! Except for the 2% that is, and it’s near the end of development. When all the pieces fall into place and you start actually ‘making the game.’ Game development, especially solo, you’re so zoomed in on specific parts. Because you’re not making a game you’re programming software that’s what making a game is. You spend months working on different systems and then you actually sit down and make a level, and you hit play and it you go ‘Oh my god, I just made a game’. That part is what sustains me. It’s magical. That’s the best part when it comes to true appreciation of the craft aside from the reception.” An answer that I don’t think I could’ve put better if I tried.

My last question is one that I consider to be the question when it comes to interviewing anyone who works on video games. Perhaps a bit basic, but heartfelt nonetheless: “Anything to say to anyone aspiring to be a game developer?”

Lilith’s answer: “Yes. Just do it. For real. This is what I did and it always felt wrong until I looked at more established devs echoing the sentiment. You cannot plan a game before you’ve started making one. The example I always bring up is the team behind Deus Ex wrote a 500 page design document for the game and almost immediately threw it out when they started development. Just start! You’re going to have unanswered questions and I think that trips people up. Don’t start with your magnum opus idea, start with something simple and achievable. I feel like a lot of people set out with the goal of making a triple-A game, and that’s good! But it can’t be your first game. Game development is creating art, just like any other form of art, and it’s like saying ‘my first drawing is going to be the Mona Lisa’ and it just doesn’t work like that. You need practice and development, and it’s difficult to see that because games take so long and so much, so it’s definitely seen as a bigger undertaking. But it’s still art. You’re still making mistakes and learning from them for your first project. Your next game will be better. View your career as a game developer as a series of games you want to make, and not just one big game.” A perfect response to an otherwise unassuming question.

Lilith’s passion and love for video games were reflected very clearly in every response she gave during my time with her. Her dedication and appreciation for the art form can be seen in every pixel of Bloodborne PSX, as well as the development logs and test builds of Bloodborne Kart. I really do think that the way she answered my final question speaks volumes to the type of attitude someone should take up when endeavoring to make art as intensive as a video game. Whether it’s fanwork of a game that’s important to you or an entirely new concept, do it.

(developer of Bloodborne PSX Lilith Walther, image provided by Lilith Walther via Twitter)

Closing:

If you’d like to check out the positively phenomenal experience that is Bloodborne PSX I’ve included a link to the official itch.io page below the article, as well as a link to the official LWMedia Youtube page where you can check out Lilith’s dev logs, test videos, and animations about her work and other art. Thank you so much for reading, and another very special thank you to Lilith for setting aside some of her time to talk to me about this article. Now get out there and cleanse those foul streets!

Links:

Bloodborne PSX official itch.io page: https://b0tster.itch.io/bbpsx

LWMedia Official Youtube page: https://www.youtube.com/@b0tster

Lilith Walther Twitter page: https://twitter.com/b0tster

#my writing #my stuff #writing #video games #bloodborne #bloodborne psx #demake #article #b0tster #bbpsx #Youtube

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gavisfanta · 11 months ago

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Heyyy bestie, can you make one from fermin?

Something where the reader and he haven't seen each other for months, if you want you can smut (if you feel comfortable, of course)

Reunited - Fermin

summary: Fermin comes home after a long time and you two are happy to see eachother again.

warnings: smut 18+

Life in Barcelona was hard when basically the heart of Barcelona was away.

Atleast for you, Fc Barcelona has always been an important part of your life.

The club has won over your heart when Messi played his first game. Your dad always went with you to watch the games when you were only 6 years old, ever since then you went to most of the games. Your father sometimes went with you but not as often as he did before.

The one night when you were out clubbing with some of your friends you met Barcelona's La Masia players.

Gavi and Fermin who hadn't made it to the first team yet. That between you and Fermin was predicted by Gavi.

Gavi saw the way Fermin looked at you dancing. Gavi still remembers exactly how it went.

"Talk to her." gavi mumbled towards his friend as he was staring at the girl in the tight black dress for over an hour now. Fermin turned his head ti look at the 16 year old Gavi who was annoyed with him.

"What?" Fermin asked a bit taken aback about Gavi's words.

"Oh come on, you're a creep, staring at her for over an hour without making a move. She'll love you, she looks fun. Ask her about her number of something, I don't know." gavi rolled his eyes while he suggested his Bestfriend to do something.

"What if she won't like me?" Fermin asked worried that he'll get rejected by the yet nameless girl who was talking to one of her friends.

"Ugh" gavi groaned while rolling his eyes. He gave Fermin a look before standing up.

"No Gavi- what are you doing-" Fermin stood up running behind his friend. Gavi walked over to you and tapped your shoulder.

"Yeah?" You asked while turning around after feeling the tap on your shoulder. You came face to face with a brown haired boy with fluffy hair.

"Hey, my friend here doesn't know where the backstage is, I heard you know and could show him?" Fermins eyes lit up with fear as he watched Gavi talk to you.

a small smile made its way to your face and you nodded your head. Gavi stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Of course." You stood up from the booth you were sitting at with your friends and looked at the shy blonde haired boy.

"Thank you so much." gavi gave you a wide smile and then you started walking while Fermin followed you.

"My name is Y/n, what's yours?" You asked while walking through the crowd of people with him by your side.

"Fermin, I'm sorry about my friend. It's just-" Fermin tried to say but you shook your head.

"No worries." You flashed him a smile again and Fermins breath paused. Suddenly everything around him was going in slowmotion as he lookrd at your sweet smile, your perfect black dress and your hair sitting perfectly. The blue and purple lights on your skin and reflecting in your eyes.

Thats when he knew that he fell in love with you.

Now barely one year of talking and two years of dating later here you were, sitting on your bed.

You were excited, sitting on the bed wearing your red lingerie, which was sitting just perfectly around your curves.

You felt your core getting hotter as you were imagining what kind of things Fermin will do to you.

He wasn't home for way too long because of the summer USA tour.

After like 4 weeks of sending nudes and texting and calling all night you finally could see him again, or even feel him again.

You put down your phone as you heard the door unlock, you sat up and leaned back a bit as the door swung open.

"Mi amor..." Fermins eyes immediately scanned your body and then he looked up to your eyes.

"Come here, let me hug you." he opened his arms and you couldn't help but smile too. You stood up and walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his body and finally inhaling his scent again.

"God I missed you." Fermin kissed the top of your head before pulling you into a long and passionate kiss.

His hand slowly roaming down to your ass and he spanked it which made you moan into his mouth.

"Now let's get to my favorite part." He whispered into your ear after pulling away.

He immediately pushed you back onto the bed and crawled over you, looking down at your breasts.

"I missed you, so so much." He mumbled while diving into your neck, sucking at your sweet spot while you threw your head back.

"So, so, so bad." He mumbled and took off his shirt in a second. You traced your fingers down his abs and squeezed them slightly. He whimpered softly against your mouth and then you wrapped your legs around his torso.

Fermin then put down his full body weight on you and you used that to turn things around.

A shocked expression was seen on Fermins face as you were now sitting on top of him. Your face covered by a huge smile as you were looking down at him.

You then got off of him and sat down next to his body, he was stretched out on the bed so you took things into your own hand.

Bending forward, you pulled down his trousers with his boxershorts.

You leaned down and kissed the tip of his hard dick. Pre cum leaking and running down his whole lenght.

As you kept placing sweet kisses along his tip Fermin was being a bit inpatient.

He groaned as he took his dick into his hand.

"Suck me off princesa." Fermin smiled as he buckled his hips even more forward. Burying his cock inside of your throat.

The sudden contact of his tip with the back of your throat made you gag but ypu took him deeper inside of your mouth.

"Yeah, just like that." Fermin moaned as you began to swirl your tongue around his tip.

Then you took him out of your mouth and you swirled your hands around the part that wasn't in your mouth. Your tongue still licking around his tip.

"Yeah, just like that." He groaned again. He grabbed your hair and made it into a make shift ponytail.

After repeating the same process you felt his dick twitching inside of your mouth. Fermin who was barely able to keep his eyes open moaned loudly.

Just a few seconds later you felt his dick shoot 4 or five times inside of your mouth.

Fermin laid down on his elbows, looking as you swallowed his cum. However, after you swallowed you didn't stop. You kept massaging his dick with your hand while looking up at him.

That sent him into over sensitivity.

You smiled as you let go of his dick after he moaned again.

"Why did you stop." Fermin asked you, drops of sweat sitting on his forehead and his hair messed up.

"I want you inside of me." You climbed over him and pulled down your lingerie. You slid it down your body which left you fully exposed to Fermin now.

"I missed you." fermin mumbled as he kissed you, you gave him a small smile and then alined yourself with his dick.

"Fuck." you whimpered as you slid down fully on his dick.

Fermin threw his head back as he felt you again, your walls clenching around him, you holding him tight. He kept gripping your hips tighter until he was sure that hes gonna leave marks.

You started moving your body up and down, riding his dick in a slower pace than you usually did.

"Yeah, fuck." Fermin groaned and then you started to ride him faster, putting your hands flat on his chest for support.

He then started to buckle his hips up as he felt the warm knot form in his lower abdominal.

"Fermin-" You moaned as you felt yourself get slowly to your high.

"I know love." He mumbled and then lifted you up, he started to push himself up and kept thrusting into you from below.

You moan loudly at a point where you couldn't hold yourself up anymore.

"Come for me, come around my dick. You're doing so good." Fermin praised you to push you over the edge as he felt that you were close.

"Joder Fermin." You moaned and just a few seconds later you collapsed on top of him as you were riding out your high.

"Wait a second princesa." He whispered against your skin and as soon as you felt like your orgasm had calmed down a bit you sat up again.

Then you started circling your hips while he was still inside of you, Fermin gripped you with his fingers.

"I'm close, just one second." Fermin said and buckled his hips forward again.

You then changed your pace and you started going uo and down while gripping him, it made it more difficult to move up and down but you managed it.

Fermin groaned as he grabbed your breasts and pushed them together.

The next thing you felt was Fermins dick shooting strands of cum inside of you. You leaned forward and rested your forehead against his chest.

Fermin moaned at you leaning forward and that made you even tighter.

"Gosh you never disappoint." Fermin smile as he kissdd your forehead as you looked uo at him.

"I missed you amor." You kissed Fermin. softly, still affected by your orgasm.

"I missed you more."

#barca #fanfic #fc barcelona #football #futbol #gavi #mustread #espana #pablo gavi #fermin lopez #fermin x reader #fermin x you #fermin x y/n #fermin smut #Fermin barca

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sunfeyre · 3 months ago

Text

corlys being a shit father isn't talked about enough

like even Daemon and Viserys who are both beloved characters get flack(rightfully so) for not treating their children well, but all of Corlys' actions are swept under the rug like???

first of all he tried to marry off his 12 year old daughter to a man she probably cant count up to his age, I understand it was a good opportunity to secure power to house Valeryon but that's a fucking baby??? they knew she was too young and told her that Viserys would have to wait for her to turn 14 before he beds her.

then he marries his gay son to a girl for the same reason knowing that his son will either "grow out of it" or just cheat on Rhaenyra and that with both scenarios he'd be unhappy. I'd run away too, bro was TIRED

then he just left his daughter to be groomed by a man known for being impulsive and violent who is also mind you around double her age which is an upgrade from Viserys but is it tho? like that dude legit took her to Essos with their children and refused to let her comeback to Westeros to visit her family, to be back in her homeland, and Corlys knew about this because Rhaenys mentioned it after Laena's death, so Laena must've expressed this to her parents through letters or something. (also I've seen someone legit argue that Laena A 15-16 YEAR OLD GIRL was not groomed by Daemon A 30-SOMETHING YEAR OLD because she initiated their first interaction and flirted with him first? how mental do you have to be bro...)

not only that but he also tried to pass off Rhaenyra's obvious bastards as Laenor's despite the fact that it was obvious disrespect to not only house Valeryon but to the Valyrian linage as a whole when he has two perfectly looking Valeryons (Baela and Rhaena) for bastards that look neither Valeryon or Targaryen. if he was as smart as the show runners are trying to tell us he is, he would know that Rhaenyra's bastards would cause another civil war in the future, that people would want a Targaryen looking heir to the throne (Aegon III, Viserys II or Jaehaera ) and a Valeryon looking heir to DriftMark (Baela, Rhaena or even Alyn)

he mentions that he is not suspicious but that he KNOWS Rhaenyra had a major hand in Laenor's "death" yet he jumps to her every beck and call like a lapdog ??? do you actually give a shit about your kids bro??? your son, your first born child, your heir to DriftMark, your legacy that you cant seem to shut the FUCK up about, the son that was used to legitimize Rhaenys' case as an heir to the iron throne in the first episode? your legacy was publicly disrespected by this woman and you're still on her side with little to no hesitation?

also I'm sick and tired of this "Corlys is an iconic male feminist icon, he wanted to be Rhaenys' king consort" bullshit, we all know damn well Corlys only wanted Rhaenys to take the iron throne so that he can have more power and boost up his legacy, if he was a feminist icon he could've named Baela heir to DriftMark instead of taking that bastard shit to his face, he wanted Lucerys to be DriftMark's heir because Luke is a male heir to Corlys' male heir. "but naming baela heir would mean that he'd publicly admit to the strong boys' illegitimacy" so? it would've been better than letting a bastard be your heir when he looks nothing like you. but Corlys doesn't care about his blood being his heir.

don't even get me started on Alyn and Adam

#fuck corlys all my homies hate corlys #and the shitty dad of the year award goes to #laenor saved himself by running away ong #hotd #house of the dragon #corlys velaryon #team green

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darkcrowprincess · 9 months ago

Note

In TLO, we are told that the Oracle cannot date. So what if Percy and Rachel were dating beforehand, and then right before she becomes the Oracle, they have a quick wedding ceremony so they’re married, not dating?

*most of my knowledge of how consent of marriage in New York between two 16 to 17 year olds comes from google. So if I get anything legally wrong I apologize*

"Are you sure about this Rachel?"

"I'm sure Percy." Rachel says from inside the single family bathroom at the court house.

"Besides if it doesn't work out we can always get divorce."

"Gee thanks." Percy says sarcastically.

Rachel giggles softly, "You know what I mean Percy. Besides I've got a good feeling about this. It feels right."

"Like I'm about to have a weird vision of the future feeling, or just a regular good feeling?" Percy questions.

Before Rachel can answer Percy's Mom and Paul comes up behind him. Sally smiling with a piece of paper in her hands. Mr Dares written consent. He smiles and waves back. Nervousness fully hitting him

"How did you get your dad to agree to this?"

"Blackmail". Rachel says, finally opening the bathroom door and stepping out.

"Oh". Percy says, stunned at the sight he sees before him. Ocean eyes wide, cheeks turning red.

Rachel Elizabeth Dare is a vision in ivory white. The dress she wears hangs around her all drape like but beautiful. Reminding Percy of greek women in movies. Two pieces of fabric attached to the skirt are also clip around her wrists so the skirt flows and swishes with her. As she move the dress moves with her, as if shes floating in water. The part of the bodice thats attached to the flowing skirt is aligned with white sea pearls. One perfectly lined up in a row, one after another. Circling her waistline. More pears are sewed at the top of the bodice near her chest. Showing a modest but greek style neckline. The look is completely with her red curls still wild but beautiful. A greek style flower laurel on her head, with a bit of white veil going down her back. Her face plain but no less beautiful natural. Big green wide eyes pop amongst the white, freckles all over her body standing out even more, but still beautiful. The most beautiful thing of all is her happy carefree smile.

Percy has said nothing, completely amazed by how beautiful she looks. He feels (embarrassing to think let alone admit) like Prince Eric from that Disney movie when Ariel the mermaid steps out of the shadows for the prince to see her in her pretty pink dress.

Flustred and still amazed Percy comments, "Yo-you look beautiful "

Rachel gives a happy flirty smile back. Eyes Percy up and down in satisfaction.

"No so bad yourself Percy. You clean up nice."

He laughs nervously, and tries not to mess up his styled black hair by running his fingers through it. After the yelling(first time ever really his mom has ever yelled like that and questioned what he was thinking) Percy's mom quickly came around once he fully explained about Rachel becoming the orcale. She again asked him if they were both sure(mainly eyeing her son for his reactions). But quickly became fully supportive with Paul's help. Paul more so getting Mr Dare's written consent, and finding a court house that would marry two teenagers in New York. Sally Jackson not only helped Percy with his hair, she got Percy a suit. A dark ocean blue suit. Plain white dress shirt. Matching ocean blue vest and tie. Percy felt like a ridiculous little boy playing dress up. However seeing Rachel, and her over all reaction. For once Percy felt maybe he did look good too. That they could actually maybe do this.

Percy reaches to hold both of Rachels hands. Linking their fingers together.

"Ready?" Questions Percy(he doesn't really need to.)

A determined look flashes in Rachel Elizabeth Dare's eyes. "Ready."

Percy nods then turns to his mom. She smiles at him.

******

Everything after that is a blur, what Percy remembers most is standing in front of the judge with Rachel. Holding her hands. He would be afraid that he's squeezing the circulation from her fingers, however shes squeezing just as hard back. So good to know he's not the only one freaking out. But soon the judge is having them sign their names on the paperwork. Afterwards he has them recite the typical lines you always hear at weddings.

"Do you Perseus Jackson, being of sound mind and body take Rachel Elizabeth Dare as you lawful wedded wife?" The old judge says, looking like stereotypical old man judge with glasses and gray hair. He has a disapproving look on his face('probably at their ages, but the old geezer can stuff it' thinks Percy).

Percy genuinely grins at Rachel. A soft fragile thing. He is fully putting his heart in her hands. "I do."

The judge continues, "And do you Rachel Elizabeth Dare, being of sound mind and body take Perseus Jackson as your lawful wedded husband?"

Rachel eyes shine. She has a serious look on her face. Not letting her eyes leave Percy she says, "I do."

"Than by the state of New York I pronounce you husband and wife. Young man you may now kiss your bride."

Percy sees a flash of blonde in the corner of his eye in the back of the court house but he ignores it(he's not letting her ruin this. Especially for Rachel). He takes a quick look a his mom and Paul (his parents) both smiling and crying. He finally looks at Rachel who smiles at him in reassurance. Rachel mouths the words 'I have a good feeling about this.' It gives him the courage to finally close the gap. Rachel leans up on her tip toes as he leans down and their lips touch. Warmth and comfort flashes through the both of them. It feels like home to Percy(it feels like he's breaking the cycle. Making his own destiny. They are no longer pawns of the gods)

Percy pulls Rachel closer and runs his fingers through her red curls. Kissing her a little harder. She hums in pleasure.

Too quickly they end the kiss and both pull back. Meadow green eyes meet ocean. Both unbelievably happy.

Hand in hand they walk to Percy's parents. Rachels sees the blonde sitting in the back and ignores it too. Through congratulations from both hugging parents Percy and Rachel dont let go of each others hands.

********

Rachel and his parents are both waiting outside the courthouse when Percy finally goes up to Annabeth. She meets him half way. Walking quickly to meet him. He expects it, but still flinches at the hard punch she gives him to his face( Annabeth is also wearing a silver ring with owl craved into the band. The owl cuts against Percy's eyebrow).

Casually the blonde shakes her fist out, her knuckles brused. Annabeth's eyes are cold, yet her face doesn't show much emotion. "How could you! Especially with her! She's a mortal Percy!"

Percy (ignoring the pain) tries to stay calm, hopefully he can get through this quickly. The quicker he gets through this the quicker he can get back to his parents and his girl- no his wife. His wife now he happily thinks.

"Since when is that your concern Annabeth? I can date and marry who I want. Your my friend. I would think you'd be happy for me."

Annabeth face goes a little red in angrer. Finally some emotion is showing.

" I kissed you, I thought even a seaweed brain like you can even figure out what that means!"

"Yeah you kissed me. Meaning you like me. But that doesn't mean I return those feelings Annabeth!" Percy says through clenched teeth.

Annabeth has worry in her eyes now. "This wasn't how this was suppose to go!" She grips his jacket collar hard and desperate. "You think this will be ok with the gods Percy?! Not only is she mortal, she's the psychic of Delphi too. They will not be pleased with this! They wont like being out smarted like this!"

Percy removes her hands from his person. "Its my life Annabeth! And I get to choose how I want to live it. We both get to. So I'm choosing her." Percy finally gives her and apologetic look. "I'm sorry, but I care for her enough to risk it." It's too early to say love Percy thinks. But he's definitely starting to feel it could go that way with time. "I don't feel that way for you Annabeth. I'm sorry."

Full blown emotion finally shows on her face. Her lip wobbles, and tears gather in her eyes. But than her face goes angry again. Tears finally spill. "I gave up Luke for you. Fine than, if that's how you want to play it. Have fun with your mortal. When the gods get pissed off enough to think of some horrible pay back. Don't come crying to me." She turns swiftly and not looking back. Percy makes a motion to follow her, but Annabeth puts on her baseball cap and goes invisible.

He feels horrible for Annabeth. But he wont let her ruin today. He looks at his hand with his ring on it and smiles. He wont let anyone one ruin it.

********

"What happened to your forehead?" Rachel questions with worry, she gently touches the mark on his eyebrow.

Percy just smiles at her, clasping her hand with hers.

"It's nothing don't worry about it Mrs Jackson."

Rachel laughs at that. The look on her face is so beautiful he can't help but kiss her.

(Don't like don't read. Post hate and I'll block you)

#percy x rachel #anti percabeth #anti annabeth chase #my writing #my thoughts #perachel #percy jackson #rachel elizabeth dare

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underthenightskydreamsneverdie · 5 months ago

Text

Carnal

Summary: Mattheo Riddle meets an unforgettable, mysterious Hufflepuff and spends the school year fighting his feelings.

Warnings: None, just so much sweetness and typical Mattheo behavior.

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle X f!OC

Word count: 1, 817

A/N: I'm so excited to post this story that I've been imagining for months. I really hope you guys like my OC, whose name shall not be revealed until the end. Oh, also for this series let’s pretend they start Hogwarts at 12 years old, making them both 15-16 in this chapter.

Divider Credit to @enchanthings

Check out my Mattheo and f!OC mood boards here!

From the day she stopped Mattheo and his Slytherin friends from picking on a first year, he should have hated her. He wanted to. He needed to. But he couldn’t. The way she had protected the young girl, stepped in front of their jinxes, shaken off the pain like it was nothing, and still not said a cruel word in return as she expertly blocked their spells, had sparked a curiosity about her that he had been fighting ever since.

Maybe that’s just what Hufflepuffs do, he thought to himself as he snuck a peek at her across the great hall a few days later. No, his gut told him a different story, that’s just what she does.

Life went on, as it always does, but for Mattheo it was different. His eyes searched every room for her, even as he scolded himself for hoping to find her. Why the hell do you care about this girl, she’s just a stupid muggleborn. Nothing special. His stomach clenched and he broke out in a cold sweat, body physically rejecting the thought. Alright, alright, I get it.

He didn’t even know her name, had never bothered to remember it, but desperation to know her grew in him like an infection with only one cure. Before long he was ditching his friends to snag a seat near her in classes, waiting around in hallways to walk behind her, listening intently to every conversation for her name. His efforts were rewarded, at least partially, when professor McGonagall directed a question to a “Miss Waters”. His breath caught as her head whipped up and she hesitantly, but correctly, answered.

Waters. Mattheo sighed softly as her back straightened with pride for a few seconds and she pushed her long ponytail over her shoulder. The pale blonde strands were like moonbeams against her black robe and it took everything in him to resist the urge to reach out to touch them. Oh for fucks sake. Get yourself together, Mattheo. You’ve got her last name, now let it go.

He tried. He truly did. He spent the next few months forcing himself to ignore her, rolling his eyes every time her sweet voice filled the room, chastising himself whenever his thoughts drifted to her. And it worked. Well enough. Well enough that he could pretend he wasn’t dying to be near her. Well enough that he convinced himself dreaming about a classmate, a very pretty classmate, was a perfectly normal thing for a teenage boy. Well enough that he was no longer scouring his mind to come up with her first name. But the end of the school year was rapidly approaching and he knew if he didn’t discover her name, get to know even that tiny detail about her, she would haunt him all summer long.

The last morning of the year Mattheo woke before dawn. Laying in the dark he contemplated his options, knowing it was now or never. I’ve only got a few hours left, he thought with a yawn, how am I going to get her alone today of all days? It’s always so chaotic, students running about saying goodbyes, the slow shuffle to the train - the train! That’s it, I’ll find her on the train. He clapped his hands together before he realized what he was doing, fighting back his chuckles as startled groans sounded around the room, the other boys unhappy they were so rudely awakened. He got out of bed, heading for the bathroom before one of the other boys could get there first, a small smile on his face.

Having decided he should get to the train platform early so he wouldn’t miss her, Mattheo skipped breakfast, hanging around the Slytherin table saying goodbyes to the few other students he knew, bag over his shoulder, ready to leave this place behind. He searched the Hufflepuff table but didn’t see her. She must still be packing like all the other girls. Almost an hour before everyone else he left the castle.

He ran, as fast as he could, to the train, collapsing as he reached the top step to the platform. His heart pounded in his ears, he was sure he was having a heart attack. Suddenly the very voice he was longing to hear rang through the air, a sweet “are you alright?”. Oh gods, I’m dying. He attempted to stand, leaning against the stone wall, groaning. I’m actually dying and to make it worse I’m hallucinating her voice.

“I said, are you alright, Mattheo?” Her voice again, I really am losing it. A hand gripped his chin, gently lifting it upwards. His eyes followed slowly, his vision blurred with tears as he squinted into the sunlight. “Mattheo?” His eyes opened wide as he looked into clear blue eyes staring back at him. Oh gods, it really is her. He forced his head back down, his lips grazing her palm before she slipped her hand away. He needed a moment. His heart was pounding again, but for a different reason now. It was the first time he had ever seen her out of uniform and he was certain his mind was playing tricks on him. Was she really wearing- did I really just see that?

He lifted his head slowly this time, eyes drinking in every inch of her. Her black vans stood almost toe to toe with his dirty old converse. There were little white flowers on her shoes, what are those called again? I really should know this- The thought vanished in his mind as his eyes moved further up. Are those snakes on her tights?! Holy shit, they are! He groaned again, hoping she would assume the pained sound was related to his run. He tried not to shift around too much as his pants grew tight, body reacting to the sight of her. His eyes widened as they reached the hem of her pleated, red plaid mini skirt, the little chains hanging over her hips almost making him lose control. He had to bite back a growl as his eyes traveled over her torso, the little flashes of pale skin visible through her ripped shirt making his knees weak. He was hopeless to control the low, desire choked laugh that escaped him as he read the words printed on her chest. Witchy Woman. He would gladly drop to his knees and let her perform all kinds of magic over him, half convinced she already had. She wore more makeup than usual, her eyes seductively lined, gods those eyes, as she looked down at him. But her pale pink lips remained bare, begging to be kissed until they were raw and red, a wish his own body was demanding he make come true. Who knew this quiet Hufflepuff would turn out to be my punk princess. What a day.

Rising to full height, ignoring the obvious bulge in his pants, he nodded, knowing full well nothing but rude remarks about her looks and ways to satisfy his desire would come from his mouth right now. He watched her turn back to the wall, only now noticing she didn’t have any bags with her. He was so confused by this he didn’t even try to get a peek under her skirt as she hoisted herself up.

“How come you’re here so early?” He leaned against the wall next to her, looking up at her. “Why haven’t you got any bags?”

“Haven’t got very far to go.” She shrugged, blonde hair falling around her shoulders as she looked down at him.

He was unsatisfied with her answer, but let it go, turning his head to look down at Hogsmead. Nothing about this was going the way he had imagined, but he was determined to at least get one straight answer. “What’s your name?”

She didn’t answer, instead looking up as though sensing something he hadn’t. Smiling, she turned and jumped off the backside of the wall.

“Hey!” Mattheo called after her, moving to the railing of the stairs he had just climbed to look for her. A soft “oh” left him as he came face to face with her. She smiled, spinning the stem of a small white flower between her fingers, a second one tucked behind her ear. Her hair threatened to overtake the delicate flower and without thinking he reached out, brushing the shell of her ear, tucking her soft hair back into place. Gods she’s beautiful. She reached for his hand, placing the flower on his palm.

“Daisy.”

He smiled down at the tiny flower, in awe of its delicate beauty. “Daisy.” How fitting. When he looked up she was gone, winding her way down the staircase, heading for the village. Mattheo ripped his eyes away from her as the brakes of the train squeaked to life just feet away from him, his hand instinctively closing around the fragile flower. He smiled as the red and black steam engine slowed. How had she known it was coming before I did?

Dropping the small flower into the pocket of his shirt to keep safe, he turned back to catch a final glimpse of her. He spotted her climbing over the large boulders near the embankment of the river on the east side of the village, surprised when she threw her hand into the air and waved at him with excellent accuracy. Did she just guess I was watching her? Can she even see me from down there? Chuckling as she moved out of view, he boarded the train, leaning his head against the open window of a compartment.

He pulled the flower out of his pocket, bringing it to his face. There’s something special about you, Daisy Waters. Gently, he dragged the flower across his lips, closing his eyes. Something very special indeed.

His eyes still closed he sat back in his seat, one hand rifling through his bag for his journal, pausing suddenly. Over the noise of the train and the carriages beginning their journey towards the school, The wind carried a sound Mattheo never expected to hear. Is that a wolf? The heartbreaking sound of the howl pierced his heart, he knew a lonely creature when he heard one. Before he knew what he was doing he cupped his hands around his lips and howled back, one lone wolf to another. The wolf answered him, and for the second time that day, during the few brief moments as they howled together, Mattheo felt as though he belonged.

He sat still for a long time, listening closely for the wolf to call again, but even when it didn’t, he smiled. The wolf was free and wild, something he longed to have in common, something he was determined to make true for himself one day. He pulled his journal out, tucked the little daisy between its pages, smiling as he thought about his Daisy.

#mattheo riddle #mattheo x oc #mattheo riddle series #mattheo riddle x oc #mattheo riddle fic #mattheo riddle fanfic #mattheo fic #mattheo fanfic #mattheo series #carnal #carnal series #carnal fic series #RDNI

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sourrcandy · 1 month ago

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WTW FEAST OF FRIGHT - DAY #16: JACK O' LANTERN : write a 250-500 word character study for your protagonist

KNIGHTS ; files from the holy grail ↳ #04. gareth — violet laurent clemonte

Violet Laurent thinks her mother married well. The Clemontes are welcoming, and it helps that her mother’s reputation as a supermodel proceeds her. Everyone knew of Fleur Laurent’s share of lovers with no strings attached, so the news of the french fashion model’s marriage comes as a surprise. Her birth father had wrestled for rights to claim her, but Reginald Clemonte’s influence precedes all, and Violet had gratefully accepted the name change, after all, the Clemonte name comes with many, many benefits. Plus, the name ‘Violet Clemonte’ rolls off the tongue so perfectly it is hard to refuse. She discovers the drawbacks of the Clemonte name when she is sixteen. It is the fourteenth anniversary of her mother’s death, and also her younger sister Colette’s fourteenth birthday. Violet knows she shouldn’t, but she still harbours a slight grudge towards Colette, because her birth took away their mother.

She can’t recognise any aspect of Colette as her mother, the only thing tying them together is the signature Laurent blonde hair and the slightest twinge of a flowery accent on their tongues. The entrance hall of the Jacobean estate is filled with birthday decorations, streamers and ribbons hang from the ceiling and birthday presents fill the halls. Violet sees names she can't recognise and automatically assumes it's from all around high society, each family trying to out do each other. Archie, the family butler, ushers her out of the way as a group of delivery men make their way down the corridor to bring boxes after boxes into one of the lounge rooms in the East Wing. “Ms Violet, it’s best to stay out of the way when deliveries come through the manor,” he reminds her, eyes smiling kindly as he redirects her attention away from the gifts her younger sibling is showered with. Selena, the fresh twelve-year-old Father adopted recently, runs up to take her hand. “Do I get presents too?” She asks, eyes wide with wonder as she takes in the festivities. “Not today, Lena,” Violet replies, patting her affectionately on the head. At her words, the younger girl grips her tiger plush toy tighter and juts her lower lip out in a pout. “You girls look disappointed. It's your sister's birthday, at least pretend to care,” a deep honeyed voice comes from behind them. Violet turns around on her heels in surprise, nearly stumbling into Selena. When all she sees is a crisp ironed suit, she turns her gaze upwards and swallows nervously. Broker smiles, the polite expression getting under her skin and making her squirm in her spot. “Ah, more children, does he know when to stop?” He says to himself. Violet wonders if his tone is louder intentionally for her to hear. Then, he voices, “You’re Laurent’s daughter, aren’t you?” “It’s Clemonte, sir,” she replies firmly. Broker nods as if agreeing, saying, “Of course you are, like mother like daughter.” Then, Violet’s gaze drops to the wrapped gift in Broker’s arms labelled C. Clemonte. There are only specific times Broker visits the estate: to attend stuffy meetings with Father, or, she realises now, to celebrate the birthdays of biological Clemontes. Violet has never felt more like an outsider. She swallows bitterly, and grips Selena’s hand tighter. “I take after Father more,” she interjects, straightening her posture. “You surely are stubborn enough to be like him,” he comments. Broker tilts his head to the side as if to study her, and his smile widens. “Enjoy your sister’s birthday, Laurent.” Then, he sidesteps sharply and continues down the hall. Violet watches as a squealing Colette bounds up to Broker in her blue princess dress, gasping in delight as she accepts the gift and gives the man a tight hug. “Uncle, you're the best! Thank you!” She exclaims. Rare affection dawns on Broker’s face, and his voice is clear as day as he replies, “Anything for a Clemonte.”

#writeblr #wtwcommunity #wtwevent #writing community #wip: knights #my writing #harls.jpg #ch: violet #kedit #this is clearly longer than 250-500 words but who cares im finally writing knights #love when broker is being a bitch like what kind of adult talks to a 16yo and a 12yo like this

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wholesome-cryptid · 3 months ago

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I would absolutely love to read that if you posted it ^^

OKAY BIG GRIMSLEY HEADCANON POST

IM NORMAL ABOUT GRIMSLEY I SWEAR I SWEAR

-Okay so a lot of this directly ties to my boyfriend @plushegutzz's oc Blaine and their lore so be prepared to see their name a lot. Also I'm not gonna include Bug in this because as much as I love her she's mostly just a silly little fankid i have for fun domestic fluff stuff so she doesn't really have a concrete timeline. Anyway i'll try my best to go through this chronologically.-

TWs for: gambling and gambling addiction, trauma, vague references to childhood abuse, Grimsley just generally being severely mentally ill

Grimsley Gore (birth name Gabriel Gore) was born into a wealthy Unovian family alongside his twin brother Garry. Being born into a rich family the two brothers had a lot of really strong expectations placed onto them from a very young age, with the two basically expected to be perfect all the time. Because of this stress growing up the two brothers developed a very strong bond as they really only felt like they had each other.

The mother of the Gore household was a very controlling and manipulative figure putting a lot of pressure onto the twins to be perfectly behaved golden children. Their father meanwhile was very emotionally distant towards his family and the rare times he did interact with his two sons he was generally pretty abusive. Growing up Grimsley/Gabriel tries his best to keep the uglier side of his home life away from public eyes, instead bragging to his friends about how cool and spoiled he is instead.

Grimsley's first pokémon was his Liepard (nicknamed Violet) who he met at around 8 years old, he spotted a wild Purrlion with an injured foot wandering his family's estate and immediately dropped everything to go check on the kitty. He got in a lot of trouble with his mother for doing so as his outfit ended up covered in dirt during his rescue of the pokémon but he was mostly just excited over having a pokemon of his own. He ended up nursing Violet back to help and it caused the two to develop a very close bond. Even as an adult Grimsley is super attached to his Liepard and basically treats her like his baby.

It's shortly after catching Violet that Grimsley meets Blaine A. Platinum the child of another wealthy Unova family with the twos parents pairing the two together in hopes of them getting married in adulthood. Both children absolutely hate this idea and don't initially get along with each other, but after a while of being forced to spend time together they start to realize that they're stuck in similar situations of shitty home lives and form a friendship over their shared struggle.

During his teen years Grimsley views his life as “going pretty good” in his eyes, he's still dealing with an actively abusive home life but he's kind of repressing all of his emotions about that. Instead he's clinging onto the bonds he formed with Blaine and his brother Garry. His dynamic with his brother is very “we've only got eachother” meanwhile he and Blaine are in this mess of “kinda dating but also kinda not dating we're 16 years old and it's complicated.” and both relationships are kinda overly dependent on Grimsley's end. Overall during this point of his life Grimsley just kinda acts like a spoiled brat rich kid who's better than everybody else because it's easier for him to accept than look inwards and try and process the trauma he very clearly is struggling with. (Grimsley spends a large chunk of his life running away from his trauma.)

Grimsley putting all his emotional stability on two people unsurprisingly ends up shooting him in the foot as his life kinda ends up falling apart at 19 years old. It starts with Blaine, They've personally had enough of the stress of their home life and now that they're an adult they're planning to run away and had been hoping that Grimsley would join them. Unfortunately Grimsley can't bring himself to abandon the only life he's ever known, a part of him knows deep down that he's not happy in his current situation but he can't bring himself to admit that. His life with his rich family being the only sense of stability he knows and he turns Blaine down. This turns into a huge fight between the two with Blaine basically accusing him of choosing his spoiled rich kid life over them and storms off.

Unsurprisingly, Grimsley takes Blaine leaving very badly with his emotions about the situation eventually starting to turn bitter with him viewing it as though Blaine abandoned him.

Things only get worse for poor Grims as not too long after he loses his brother too. Unlike Grimsley, Garry has been processing his emotions about their home life and also has decided he doesn't want to put up with it anymore. He informs Grimsley that he's intending to move away to Paldea to be with his fiancé, and much like Blaine offers his brother resources to get out himself but Grimsley isn't in the headspace to hear it and denies all of it feeling like his brother is abandoning him too.

Needless to say, Grimsley is in a pretty bad headspace at this point due to losing the two people he put all of his emotional stability into. (Even if it was a large part his own fault and refusal to process his emotional issues that caused him to lose them.) And things only get worse when his family falls into debt.

Grimsley's father was a gambler, it was a well known fact even if everyone in the family pretended it wasn't, and the kinds of casinos he was associating himself with weren't exactly the most legal ones. His father found himself owing quite a lot of money to Team Rocket causing the family to go bankrupt.

This all just sent Grimsley into a mental spiral with him basically having a full on episode. Not being able to let go of the spoiled rich life he was living because it was his only sense of stability was the reason he had lost his connections with Blaine and Garry in the first place and now he didn't even have that. Gambling was the reason he had lost everything, and in his state of mental instability he rationalized that gambling would be the thing to get his life back. It was during this episode that he decided to abandon his birth name is Gabriel and start going by Grimsley feeling as though he needed to abandon the “pathetic” person he used to be and reinvent himself.

Thrusting himself into casinos run by Team Rocket didn't exactly go well for Grimsley, with him getting roughed up for lacking proper funds on more than one occasion. But it was enough to get Grimsley addicted to the thrill of gambling. The rush of adrenaline it gave him distracted him from all the bad things going around in his he was already trying so hard to repress, it was something to make him feel ALIVE in his depressive state.

Still though hanging around these shady casinos and just getting pushed deeper into debt wasn't doing much good for him, and the only reason he was able to escape falling deeper into the organization was him meeting Nanu. Nanu was still working for the international police at this point and had been working undercover on a job related to Team Rocket and pretty quickly noticed that Grimsley was out of place. He gave him an out noticing that he actually had some really impressive pokémon battling skills and put him down the route of becoming a professional dark type pokémon trainer.

It didn't take Grimsley too long to rise up as an up and coming pokémon trainer and he definitely loved the attention and success that came with being a big name trainer. Eventually he ended up grabbing the attention of the champion of the region Alder, who saw potential in him to be successful as an Elite Four trainer and wanted to train him for the job.

His dynamic with Alder was, complicated, with Alder being a very mentorly almost father-like figure which made Grimsley and his repressed daddy issues panic. This only being furthered by Grimsley being close in age to Alder’s actual children and Alder being very aware of the fact that Grimsley was a very troubled young man who needed guidance. Grimsley did still accept the offer of the Elite Four job from Alder and did let him help out when it came to improving his pokémon battling, he did end up telling Alder to “watch it old timer” more than a couple times when it came to his personal life.

Despite his current success Grimsley still kept his gambling habits from before though and the thrill seeking that came from it although he was spending his time at more legal casinos this time. It was spending his time going out gambling that he found himself bumping into Blaine of all people again.

The two reuniting was fully by chance, Blaine finding a very hungover Grimsley passed out next to a casino with his Liepard Violet protectively coiled around him. Blaine was still fairly upset about their fight from a couple years ago at this point but could also tell that Grimsley wasn't exactly in a great state at the moment and decided to make sure he got home safe because a part of them still cared a lot for him. The two ended up catching up and while things were still very awkward between the two they decided to try and be friends to some degree again.

It was through Blaine that Grimsley ended up befriending Burgh as well, with Blaine having befriended the man through their shared passion for art. Grimsley being deathly afraid of bugs from a very young age wasn't the biggest fan of Burgh’s choice in type speciality he thought the man was fun to hang around with and so he had no choice but to put up with it, especially since Burgh was determined to help Grimsley get over his fears.

Burgh found Grimsley rather endearing in general, in fact he found himself kind of crushing on the man. Blaine, rather heavily protested this crush, pointing out that Grimsley was rather obviously very emotionally unavailable. But Burgh couldn't really help it, he could tell that underneath all the facade he put on all the time he had a softer side underneath it all and he just needed help getting it all out.

For once in his life Grimsley found himself genuinely doing pretty good, he was successful in his job in the Elite Four, he had friends in his life that genuinely cared about him, he was even starting to reconnect with his brother and get to know his nephew Giacomo (the young Giacomo really looking up to his uncle.) Unfortunately for Grimsley having people that genuinely loved and cared about him in his adulthood meant that he couldn't keep getting away with an unchecked gambling addiction and repressing all his negative emotions and pretending they didn't exist anymore. He had people that wanted him to get better and he basically got dragged kicking and screaming into therapy and working through his issues by Blaine, Garry, Alder and Burgh.

Grimsley hated working through his big pile of traumas and mental issues at first, it made him feel vulnerable and exposed and he didn't like that. But slowly over time he started to make progress and allow himself to be emotionally open with other people and starts dating Burgh during this time with the man encouraging him to be more open to being his genuine self. He also is a bit more willing to accept Alder as a father figure at this point. (Also diversity win! Grimsley realizes he's nonbinary at this point! yay! This is why you'll occasionally see me talk about headcanoning Grimsley as Bigender and using He/She/Any pronouns.) He even starts allowing people to call him Gabriel again on rare occasions, although this permission is really only given to Burgh, Blaine and Garry it's a huge sign of progress for him.

He eventually fully talks his emotions out with Blaine as hard as that is for him to do, and the two of them finally get over the fight they had all those years ago and start dating as well because I think Grimsley deserves two partners actually.

Aloan Grimsley is him taking a much needed mental health vacation after everything he's been through and allowing himself some rest and relaxation. Besides what's better than surfing on a Sharpedo in order to cope with your repressed emotional issues? He chose to hang out in Alola due to his previous connection with Nanu.

My version of Grimsley is just generally very special to me and is something that is very very dear to me so hopefully y'all enjoyed this big wall of text as well haha! i do have some vague additional headcanons but those aren't as heavily fleshed out and i wanted to just include the fully concrete stuff!!!

#i'm so severely neurodivergent about this fictional man it isn't even funny #max rambles #grimsley

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waterfire1848 · 2 months ago

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Au. 10YearsOld azula ten times stronger that ozai iroh azulon. Fights ozai in agni Kai. (Plot twist: 16YearsOld azula timetravel to past to her 5YearsOld body. Remaster master remastered everything she knows, saw, learned to this body. Fire and lightning bending, Earth-Water-Air bending styles moves techniques, combats, swordman, fighting styles, hth combats. Mixed all and create new one, inventing new one)... All FN people are watching (and Mai ty lee & their families) maizula tyzula, friendship & developing feelings.

(Let's pretend all family members are there and alive, watching this happen)

Hello, anon!

Following the war, Azula is put in prison but continues to wish that she could do it all over again. She constantly hits herself for not seeing some of the obvious things she should have before and thinks that if she hadn't been so stupid then she would have been the one on the throne instead of Zuko. One night, while she's sleeping, the spirits decide to grant her request and throw her back in time into her five year old body. Now, Azula at five is not a good bender (because she's five) but Azula now has her 16 year old mind and knows that she needs to get a start on training. (Ursa: Azula, baby, what are you doing? Azula, with a long sword in her hands that she can hardly hold: Training. Ursa: I see. Do you maybe want to start with a wooden sword or.... Azula: No. This will do. Ursa: I see.) Azula decides to get some of her combat and weapons lessons done before her bending comes in (because she can't force herself to start bending so she does have to wait for that). In the meantime, she is the most dangerous five year old in the Fire Nation.

Now, Azula, even in prison, knows that Zuko got some kind of special training because she was able to see the difference in his fighting. When she starts bending the next year, she launches into the most advanced sets because she has all the moves down perfectly already (again most dangerous little kid that still has their baby teeth in the Fire Nation). She mastered her advanced set within months but wants to see what Zuko learned so she sneaks around the palace---a much easier feat when you're less than four feet tall---and discovered the Dragon Catacombs and reads all the scrolls she can get her hands on. From there, she learns about the dragons and gains her blue fire before she's seven years old. She isn't able to fully master dragon fire though because she's still very angry at her family and the world for betraying her, so, no matter how much training she does, blue is the only color she can get (which....I mean....she's still the ONLY person in her family with a different color flame so....make of that what you will). In addition, Azula also has memories of fighting the Gaang and incorporates those moves into her fighting style. By the time she's ten, Azula is a master bender who's had lightning mastered for the past year. (Lightning is very hard to control with her being so young but she found a way).

While all this is going on, Azula still regards Zuko, Mai and Ty Lee as traitors and wants nothing to do with them, but she's also 5-10 years old and, despite her words, does want friends. Whenever they come over, Azula finds herself walking outside to play with them and laugh. The four play and laugh together and she and Zuko run around the palace a lot. (Azula: I forgot how much fun this is. Zuko: What do you mean? Azula: When you don't throw me in...in... Zuko: Throw you in what? Azula: Zu...Zuko...would you ever put me in prison? Zuko: WHAT!? No! Azula:....Liar. Zuko, who didn't hear her: What? Azula: Promise? Zuko: I promise! You're my best friend, Lala! Azula: *Smile*) Azula also takes the opportunity to connect more with Ty Lee and Mai. It starts out as her just wanting to try and use them for her end goal but she starts to see that she wasn't a great friend to them the first time around and can't help but wonder if that's one of the reasons they betrayed her. Getting a second time to be friends with them all really just shows Azula how much she missed them. Over the five years, Azula goes from wanting her entire family to pay to only wanting the adults (minus her mom) to pay for turning her into a weapon.

That all comes to a head when she's ten year old and challenges Azulon to an Agni Kai. Iroh thinks she's kidding and laughs, Ozai looks angry that Azula would say something like that and Zuko is just scared for his sister and tries to say that Azula didn't mean it but the ten year old just doubles down on her proclamation so Azulon agrees to a duel. Azulon is old, but he didn't stay the Fire Lord for decades for nothing. It's not an easy fight by any means, but it is one Azula wins. She's smaller, lighter, faster and a better fighter than him because Azulon only every focused on firebending whereas Azula has focused on everything. When she defeats Azulon, much to everyone's shock---because the entire court and Royal Family were there to watch the fight between the Fire Lord and princess---Azula turns to Iroh and challenges him. No one knows what's gotten into Azula or how she suddenly got this good but she destroys her uncle (the only reason she feels a tiny bit bad is because Lu Ten is alive and seeing this and doesn't like it but she had no choice). Of course, Ozai is next and he is also defeated by the ten year old princess. Lu Ten becomes the Fire Lord when all is said and done (Lu Ten: You're not going to challenge me to an Agni Kai, are you? Azula: Nope! Lu Ten:....You're a very scary child. Azula: Thanks!)

Over the next few years, Azula grows closer and closer to Ty Lee and Mai, realizing her mistakes the first time around with how she treated them like minions and not friends. Their friendship grows and grows until the point when it becomes more than just a friendship. Azula announces to her cousin the next day that she wants an end to Sozin's anti gay laws and (because everyone on the council is terrified of her and Lu Ten loves her. He agrees). Zuko is trained to be the next Fire Lord and Azula constantly helps out whenever she can, training him to be the best prince. Their relationship is much better than it previously was since they're no longer in competition with one another. Azula has no want to be Fire Lord anymore, so she leaves the role of next in line all for Zuko so she can go off with her girlfriends. When Azula is sixteen again, she visits the prison Zuko put her in before to truly see just how much better her life is and how much everything has changed. With a final thank you to the spirits, Azula runs back outside to her girlfriends and they return home.

#ask #anon #azula #ty lee #mai #azulon #iroh #zuko #ursa #lu ten #ozai #send me an au and i'll write five headcanons for it #atla

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hyperfixatedoncrimminalminds · 2 years ago

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Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss x Daughter reader

Another request thank you fir commenting!

Summary: Would you do one where Hotch and Prentiss get a call from the police station because their 16 year old daughter or son (Reader) and got into a car accident because of drunk driving (Reader didn't get hurt)

Third person pov...

It was 9.30 pm, the team had finally caught the serial killer they had been chasing after for 5 days, he had killed 10 men and woman and 3 children, the case was draining for all the team.

As soon as they got on the plane they had fallen asleep apart from two people Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss.

They were up talking about the case and their 16 year old daughter who was home alone, they hoped she wouldnt get into any trouble.

Of course they were wrong 5 minutes later Hotches phone goes off and he answers the call. "Hotchner" he says it was a police officer calling.

"hello am i speaking to Mr Aaron Hotchner?" he asks, Hotch looks at Emily and puts the phone on speaker so she could hear as well.

"yes that is me" speaks Hotch. A empty pit forms in his stomache did something happen to his daughter.

"i am officer Bing calling from Virginia Police station, i have your Daughter Y/N Hotchner here for underaged drinking and drunk driving, when will you be able to collect her and sign the necessary papers?" he asks, this made Emily snd Aarons eyes widened as they hear what happend.

Emily then chooses to speak, " Is our daughter okay?" she yelled into the phone, Hotch grabs her hand calming her down.

"yes she is okay, only a concussion and a couple of bruises the other driver was perfectly okay and is not planning to charge her" says the officer.

"okay thank you for telling us, we will be there to collect her in a couple of hours, we are currently come back from a case" explains Hotch before the call ends, Then two Parents sit in silcence.

"That's our daughter alright" Says Emily jokingly, but sees Hotches face and wipes her smile on her face, she could tell he wasn't happy.

"I can't believe her, we leave her for 5 days and this ends up happening" Hotches mutters angry as Emily quickly messages her daugter.

Emily: Your Dad is very pissed

Off with you Princess.

I kind if guessed that from his :Y/N

Voice on the phone, i dont need to

Be a profiler to know that Mum.

Emily: Dont get sassy with me

Not trying to sorry Mum :Y/N

Just hurry please, i dont want to

spend anymore time here in this cell.

Emily: We will be there in a couple

Of hours Honey.

Emily then put her phone away and laid down her head in Hotches lap and legs on the seat next to her, Hotch smiled at her he knew she had messaged Y/N.

Hotch watched as the plane flew in the sky, they still had an hour left until he could see his daughter and make sure she was okay.

Time skip...

When the plane landed the two quickly got everyone into the different SUVs ans began driving to the police station. "Where are we going Hotch?" Asks Reid from the back seat as his Boss speeds through town.

"Y/N is at the police station" he says simply, eyes on the road, knowone said anything for the rest of thw drive, when they both got tocthe station they ran in and up to the desk.

"Emily Prentiss and Aaron Hotchner for Y/N Hotchner our daughter" Yells Emily scaring the guy at the desk, he then lets them through and the parents run to Officer Nings desk where Y/N was sat.

Their 16 year old daughter had a bandage wrapped around her head, a couple of bruises on her face and arms bit other than that she was okay.

Emily breathes a sigh of relief as she pulls Her daughter in for a long hug the girl quickly hugs her mum back just as tightly.

Office Bing then takes Hotch aside and begins signing the papers for his daughter to be released, when he was done Emily had finally let go of Y/N.

It was now his turn to hug their daughter, the man does he brings her close to his chest and hugs her tightly. "You worried us so much when we heard you were in a car accident Princess" he said pulling away from her.

Y/N looked down, she could bear to see the disappointed look hisnher dad's eyes. "I'm Sorry Dad" she mumbled, the Agent then lifted her chin.

"I know you are, we were just worried, don't you ever do that again" he told her, this made tears fall down her face.

For the first time that night after the accident she cried in her Dads arms, only now realising how she could of died and how dangerous what she did.

Y/N cried and cried for hours in her Dads arms, Her Mum soon joining them in their hug fest. The family off three soon let go and the two bought their daughter outside to where the Team were waiting still confused.

It's wasn't until they saw Y/N that they realised she did something, JJ and Morgan were soon running over. "What happened arw you okay Honey?" Asked JJ

"Did you do something awesome kid?" Aksed Derek at the same time.

Both looked at each other before glaring. "Derek, she could of died" Exclaimed JJ

"Like you can talk JJ, you wanted to know as well but of course you have to be the mama bear" Exclaimed Derek the two continued to argue making Y/N laugh.

The 16 year old was happy to have her family surrounding her making her laugh like always. Their argument soon git everyone laughing even Grumpy Aaron Hotchner.

The end!

Hope you liked this oneshot, I had lots of fun writing it. As usual sorry for the grammar and Spelling mistakes.

Request are open!

Word count: 1023

#criminal minds #father daughter fluff #mother Daughter fluff #aaron hotchner x daughter!reader #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss x daughter reader #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss daughter #fanfic #light angst

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sehtoast · 1 year ago

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A Very Benlander Christmas (Homelander x OC)

18+ | mistletoe shenanigans, holiday smooches, mild Ashley bullying| Fic Directory

original request

They'd been running around all fucking day like headless chickens, and for what? A Christmas special?

Ben had knocked him out of his ‘say Merry Christmas, not happy holidays’ schtick a while back, but, even more than that, he made Homelander realize how fucking stupid this all was.

Now that he had someone worth spending the holiday with, the robbery of their time together was infuriating. They should be curled up on the couch, at least seven orgasms deep, letting some stupid Christmas special run in the background while they indulged in each other.

He about took Ashley's head off over all the delays, but Ben was quick to remind him:

“She doesn't wanna be here anymore than we do, pumpkin. Blame the corporate cogs, not her.”

In 16 hours, they'd be flying over to see Ben's family for dinner. At least a handful of that time would be spent sleeping, which meant there was so little left for them.

He storms off for a time, but only to ensure his concocted plan is still a go. He's all devious smirks and giggles when he and Ben finally make it back to the latter's apartment.

“You're up to something,” Ben accuses playfully. “But you haven't pounced me yet. What gives?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” He says smugly, treading into the living room to kick off his boots. He gets the last one off as Ben hugs him from behind, and his smirk gets all the more devious when he turns around. “Gotcha!”

He takes Ben in a kiss, hot and eager.

God, he'd wanted to do that all fucking day.

When they part, he's smiling again, finger pointing straight up to the ceiling.

“Mistletoe.”

His Benjamin is all giggles, shaking his head.

“That's where you went!”

“Duh,” he replies with a quirked brow.

He trails his little spider to the kitchen. He watches, waiting patiently for Benjamin to stride under the next one positioned methodically right above the microwave.

As soon as he's there, Homelander is upon him again. More tongue, he decides this time. He tastes his love, dances with him in an act wholly their own, pushes him back against the countertop, devours him.

“Another one?” Ben gasps a laugh, yanking it down with a web.

It had been held in place by a shoddy tape job. How perfectly in character…

He sticks it to Homelander's forehead before leaning back in.

“Easier this way,” Ben whispers against his lips. He's goofy, he's wonderful, and Ben's pretty sure he's going to find him barely covered by his cape underneath the Christmas tree in the morning, but that was all he really wanted for Christmas anyway.

“Wanna go unwrap a present, Mister Benjamin?” Homelander asks, a sly twinkle in his eye.

“As long as it's the big one wrapped in blue… I've had my eyes on it all night.”

Homelander breaks into a beaming grin, tossing Benjamin over his shoulder.

“It's a big one alright! Santa said you were a very good boy this year.”

Recently depowered:

More domestic

Ben ensures a perfect pre-film of vought’s christmas special so that he has all the time in the world to spend with homelander

They spend the night before watching old christmas specials, but particularly the old grinch movie and a christmas carol.

They decorate a small tree a week ahead of time

Ben litters the house with mistletoe, just like homelander always did before everything changed

They snuggle up on the couch all night. Ben carries homelander to bed when he falls asleep

They wake, exchange gifts (of course, ben already knew what John got for him– he can see the amazon history), and all that jazz

Dinner is small. They stay home because homelander isn’t ready to see ben’s family after all that happened.

They bake cookies afterward. Store bought because neither wants to put forth that much effort, but they’re good and it gives homelander an excuse to down a glass of milk

Ben makes homelander watch the folgers christmas incest commercial for laughs

Ben swings them to central park and they walk around for a while. It’s not overly cold, but there’s a blanket of snow still lingering and the occasional breeze knocks flakes free from the trees, giving the illusion of fresh snow falling.

They head back home eventually, snuggling up to one another in bed, content and peaceful.

#homelander #homelander x oc #homelander fanfiction #homelander smut #tag bc its alluded to #antony starr #the boys #the benlander agenda #the hat photoshop job is not the best but I desperately needed him in a santa hat

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modern-day-bard · 4 months ago

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Other Duties As Assigned: A Joel Miller AU Fanfiction

Content warning: 18+ This story includes mature themes such as drinking, stalking, violence, and explicit smut. Minors, do not interact.

Chapter 16: Unknown

Word count: 3k

ao3 | wattpad

Joel

I knew the townhome had a rooftop terrace, decorated and decked out with privacy bushes and comfy chairs. Still, Gwen looks at me like I’m insane when I lead us up the staircase towards it.

She doesn’t say a word though, which only adds to the worry building in my chest. At the wedding, there had been fear in her eyes, but it hadn’t reached a level of panic. One conversation with William and that fight of hers turned into flight by any means necessary. And if I couldn’t have her running off before, I certainly can’t have her running off now that a stalker has attempted to make contact.

Gwen takes a seat on one of the lounge chairs, curling her legs up to wrap her arms around them. When I take off my jacket to drape over her, she shakes her head.

“There’s blankets in the ottoman. Well, there were last time I was here.”

“When was that?”

“A little over…five years ago? I think. The night before I moved into my own place.”

“Sounds like a milestone moment.”

I tinker with the firepit next to her, and it only takes a moment to figure it out. The thing blazes up in a perfect square formation, and I almost roll my eyes. Even up here, a place that seems to be completely unused, is perfectly stocked with blankets and propane.

Taking the seat on the other side of the pit, I watch her carefully, gauging if I should push for answers on her and William’s conversation, or just talk to her until she calms down.

“A milestone moment? How old are you?” She lets out a soft laugh, and the choice is made for me.

“I’m thirty-nine.”

“I was making a joke,” she gives me a sideways glance, “But, good to know.”

I hold my palms out toward the flames, noting how her breathing is finally a little deeper.

“I’m assuming you know how old I am,” she says with her face turned toward the street below.

“I do.”

“And you probably know my blood type, my second grade teacher’s name, and exactly how I take my coffee.”

I chuckle. “You drink tea, not coffee. I know that much.”

“Observant once again, Mr. Miller. What about the other stuff?”

“I assumed it was rhetorical. But no, I don’t have information on your teachers.”

“Okay…and the blood type?”

I’m quiet long enough for her to turn to me, her plump lips agape.

“You know my blood type?”

“We shouldn’t stress you out any further, Miss Russell. It’s just in case of emergencies.”

Her face falls, and for once, I wish I had just lied.

“Just in case I’m in the hospital and I can’t speak for myself,” she says softly, factually. Understanding the need even though she might not like it.

“I can’t imagine a day when you don’t speak for yourself.” Pushing the boundary once more. But if it brings her any levity…

She smiles, and my chest doesn’t just feel lighter, it damn near cracks open.

“That may be true.” Gwen picks her feet up off the ground, tucking them to her side so she can lean back in the chair. “I know it might seem ridiculous. I’m incredibly lucky to have a cage this big. This pretty,” she gestures to the city skyline out in front of us. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t feel trapped. That place was my escape.”

“And it will be again. I’ll make sure of it.”

Her gaze lingers on my lips before she meets my gaze again. It’s as if she's weighing the sounds I’m omitting with whatever truth or deceit she might find in my eyes.

“I know you will,” she says with certainty, “I just don’t know when it will feel like mine again.”

Gwen watches the stars for a few minutes, her nose wrinkling several times from the cold. She never reached for a blanket, and I didn’t want to hand one to her. I think she may need the chilly October air to wrap around her instead, to fill her lungs and cool any amber of fear that has yet to be extinguished. She seemed to think so too, as she doesn’t so much as lean toward the fire.

“I can post more guards. Round the clock. We can put a personalized lock on your door—”Gwen shakes her head.

“Mine, Mr. Miller. I want it to feel like my own home. Not some fortress.” After a beat she adds, “But thank you.”

I nod. “In that case, allow me until Wednesday to get everything I can from the team. We can return after dinner. So you’re only caged in temporarily.”

“Two more nights in the kennel?” Gwen inhales sharply. “Deal. I can do that.”

She then eyes me almost suspiciously. “You have a bit of wit to you, you know.”

I run a hand across my jaw, hoping it will distract me from the pride blooming in my chest. “Likewise.”

- - -

No fingerprints found. No footprints, no sign of entry, forced or otherwise, not so much as a speck of dust on the windowsill. Fortunately, no bugs or cameras either. I had them sweep it three times. I’ve always been thorough, at least two sweeps. But when they’d completed the second, I had unwelcome thoughts of Gwen being filmed without her knowledge: asleep in her bed, making breakfast, showering…

Three sweeps felt like the bare minimum after that.

Gwen was disappointed they didn’t find anything, though she tried to stay as emotionless as she has been since that conversation with her father. I really tried not to eavesdrop, but I wasn’t comfortable being so far away that I couldn’t hear anything at all. I heard him say that he was involved in my hiring. Not a surprise, really. But I was surprised he said it to her the way he did, like she would never guess he would care about such a thing as her safety. Honestly though, why would she? If he keeps people in the company that have made her uncomfortable. Selfishly, I still want to get to the bottom of those stories. And then there was him calling her naive. I find it hard to believe that William actually thinks that. No one with a tongue as sharp as Gwen’s could be anything close naive.

Not that I’ve heard much of it lately.

The apartment has been quiet since we’ve returned. I brought up adding extra guards only one more time, and I was met with a stare so lethal she could contract it to the military.

I know work has been busy. She’s been staying behind to meet with Julian almost every night. Last weekend, I could hear her on the phone, laughing a little too much for it to be a work call. That alleviated some of my worry, but I still hear her pace at night. And the following morning, I can always tell she hasn’t slept well. Better than at her father’s house, but not well.

That’s why, when she calls me into her office with an apprehensive expression, I tense up, afraid there’s been another threat to her safety. She plays with the large emerald ring on her finger a little too long for my liking, adding to the suspense.

“Firstly, I know you’re going to say no. So, I want to let you know I’ve already made up my mind.” She waits for me to interject, but I just fold my hands in front of me. This should be good.

“There’s this opportunity that’s come up. Harper’s parents own L’ensemble, it’s a cosmetic company. I mean it's been the cosmetic company for several decades. You might have heard of it?”

I shake my head. “Only when I gathered info on your friends.”

“Right. Gross. Anyway, they’re good friends with this hair care brand, Brissel, and they’re throwing a joint Halloween party to launch their new products, respectively. Harper said that they’ve heard of me, and I checked my messages and they’ve tried to put together a brand deal for some time. They want to sponsor my attendance to the party, and that could lead to some other deals.”

“So… you want to go to this party?”

“Yes. I mean, I’d probably be going anyway just for Harper and her parents but if it weren’t for the brand opportunity, I might have reconsidered in light of recent events. Thanks to my secret admirer, of course.” She flutters her lashes, making light of what I know keeps her awake at three a.m.

“Are your other friends going?”

Gwen furrows her brow. “I think so.”

“Well, that sounds good. When is it?”

Her features remain the same, apart from her eyes going slightly wide with surprise.

“Saturday night.”

“Alright. Send me the details. The location, time, and guestlist if you can get it from Ms. Bryne.”

Of course it made me nervous. But mentally…I think she needs to do what she would normally do. She needed to see her friends, let loose, and forget about everything else for a bit. Plus, that was the most information she’s ever given me about an event, and she was willing to give me even more.

“That’s it? No foreboding comment?” Her tone carries enough humor for me to keep my defenses down.

“Would you like a foreboding comment?”

Her lips press into a hard line, attempting to conceal a smirk. “Touché. I’ll send you the details later.”

“Great.”

The good thing about an invite-only event is that if anything shady happens, the list of suspects is practically drawn up for us. Though I would like to find more information on the eerie floral delivery, I still hope this goes off without a hitch. She deserves that after the wedding, the delivery, and her father’s harsh words. I probably shouldn’t have thought of how deserving Gwen was of a break, because it seems that the thought of that alone stirred up something foul and mocking in the universe.

It’s almost the end of the day when it arrives.

As if on cue, knowing that our peace was limited.

The front desk must have phoned our floor, because one of the receptionists, Kiera, I believe, is walking toward me with a gift basket. My heart sinks, and shockingly, I actually hope it’s from Theo.

“Hi, Joel.” Kiera smiles, her blond bob swaying back to back as she approaches. “I just have a package here for Miss Russell.”

She takes a step toward her door, but I reach for the handle first, blocking her.

“She’s in a meeting. But I’ll be sure to give it to her afterwards.” It’s only a marginal lie. I have no idea what Gwen is doing in her office right now.

“Don’t steal any of the candy,” She winks as I take the black box from her.

“Uh, Kiera?” She swivels back around quickly. “Did you see who dropped this off by any chance?” I mentally cross my fingers that the question doesn’t raise her suspicion too much. Luckily, she seems unfazed.

“No. The mail guy just brings up whatever he has for us from the front desk. Do you want me to call them? I could ask.”

Looking down at the box, it could be from anyone. I haven’t read the card yet, and even if it isn’t from the stalker, and I make a scene now, I don’t know who that information could get out to. Depending on what the other employees gossip about, they could start rumors about an overprotective security team, frightened that someone got past their defenses. This could give the freak more confidence in trying something new. Or, if the rumor is spread that the security team is sniffing out everything coming in contact with Gwen, he might take further precautions to remain as anonymous as possible. If I have any hopes of catching this guy, the last thing I want to do is spook him further into the shadows.

I shake my head. “No, thanks. Just curious.”Kiera smiles once more before turning back down the hallway.Gwen and I hadn’t discussed if I should be screening her packages. I never actually asked for permission, and it technically wasn’t outlined in my contract. The loophole being that I was obligated to do whatever I needed to in order to ensure her safety, and this certainly fell into that category.

At first glance, the box, tied with a white satin ribbon and magnetic closure, looks expensive. I’m not a profiler, or a luxury expert for that matter, but anyone who sent this either has money to spare or they shelled out their entire paycheck for it. With a quick look on either side of the hallway, confirming I’m still alone, I untie the ribbon, opening the front carefully, away from my face. Nothing springs out, nothing even smells dangerous. There’s an assortment of chocolate covered fruit, nuts, and the outer perimeter of the box is lined with clipped white roses.

It could be a coincidence.

The note that lays on top had some logo on it that offered a bit of relief. The flowers left in her apartment had no indication that someone ordered them from a company. I flip the card over and unlike the last note, this one is typed. However, a chill runs down my spine just the same.

I’m glad to see you’ve returned. I look forward to the day when you’re on the top floor. Then I’ll always know where to find you.

Fucking prick.

Of course this would arrive as soon as Gwen showed signs of feeling comfortable again. As soon as she wanted to go back out into the world that she loves instead of staying in every night, barely making it to the living room, much less upstairs to the gym. I look at the mahogany door in front of me as if I’m looking at her worried blue eyes, and I know right there and then I’m not telling her. Not yet. There’s only a couple more days until that party. I don’t see the point in scaring her further, though she continues to try and hide it. I might have, several weeks ago, to keep her from running off. But that doesn’t feel like a possibility now. The way she’s been acting…I want her to have one night of freedom.

When I order Gwen her dinner, I place the gift box inside of the paper bag it comes in so she won’t see it as we walk out. As usual, she’s just surprised that I got her anything, even though this is almost a regular occurrence now. She’s often one of the last one’s here, and I’m convinced she would forget to eat if I didn’t remind her.

Back home, she goes to the bathroom to shower, and I text Amari to have one of his team members pick up the box tomorrow for fingerprints. I’m skeptical that there will be any results besides mine, Kiera’s, and whoever put the box together at the gift company. In that respect, the stalker was smart to skip out on the DIY project. Hopefully there will be a credit card to trace it back to at the very least.

I take a picture of the note, filing it away in a private folder when my phone rings. I sigh before answering. Not the best mood he could’ve caught me in.

“Hey, Tommy.”

“Joel! How the hell are ya?” Three, if not four beers deep. I’m sure of it.

“I’m alright.”

“Yeah? Is that why I haven’t heard a peep from you? I thought workin’ in the states meant you’d be able to keep in touch.”

“There’s been a lot to catch up on. This job has been more…complicated than I thought. How’s business?”

“Oh, it’s good. Same old. I just wanted to call and see what your flight plan was.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your two months! I expected to hear from you like two weeks ago.”

Shit. I was focused on Gwen’s bout of apathy that I completely forgot about the deal I had made with him.

“About that, Tommy, I’m going to stay a little bit longer than expected.”

He starts laughing, and for a moment, I’m on his porch back in Texas.

“I thought so,” he continues to chuckle.

My face heats, images of Gwen’s smile flashing in my mind. “Why’d you think that?”

“I was right! About the money. You took a look at your account, at that chunk of change, and you’re thinking, hm, maybe a little bit longer.”

The relief I feel is immediate, as if Tommy could have ever guessed my true concerns. Any other reasons that I might not be ready to leave. I wouldn’t consider them now, but her safety, on one account, isn’t something I’m ready to hang in the balance. As for the balance of my bank account…I haven’t looked at it in over a month.

“Right. Yeah, the money’s good.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and some additional chatter makes me think he’s outside of a bar or something. “You’re alright though?” Tommy lowers his voice, “They’re treating you well? You’re not uh…You’re okay?”

I knew what he meant. But I could hear the shower turn off next door to my room, and even if it hadn’t, I didn’t want to talk about that night. Not ever.

“I’m fine. Just been busy is all. It’s twenty-four-seven, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. I figured. Wanted to check in… I still want to hear that I was right though.”

I let out a chuckle. “About what?”

“That two months wasn’t enough!”

I can hear Gwen lightly humming as she exits the bathroom, and that same strange tug is pulling at my chest again, mixed with relief. I didn’t like keeping the box from her, but I know I wouldn’t have heard that sound tonight if I had shown her. And however selfish it may be, that sound eased something inside me. Knowing that maybe she felt a little better today. Hoping that I made a contribution, however small, to aiding in her peace of mind.

“You’re right,” I sigh, “Two months wasn’t nearly enough.”

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Masterlist

#joel miller #joel tlou #tlou au #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x original character #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x oc #joel miller fic #joel miller au #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #hbo the last of us #other duties as assigned

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