#technically? never sure what and what not to tag | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

magicalmutants · 2 days ago

Text

III.

Warnings: swearing, drinking, smoking tobacco. Check series masterlist for general series warnings!

A/N: sooo basically I wrote and rewrote this chapter like ten times and still hated it and then I broke it into two and I like it much better now sorry it took so long I won’t lie and say the next one will come out quicker but anyway :p

Prev.

By June, you stop checking every day.

You no longer let yourself fall into the rabbit hole of scrolling through tagged photos, watching his Instagram stories on a burner account and then pretending it doesn’t feel like a punch to the ribs when you see him laughing in places you’ve never been, with people you don’t know.

But you still look. Just enough to know.

Enough to see the trips, the lake house weekends, the bonfires on nameless beaches. Enough to know he isn’t coming home.

it doesn’t matter. You expected this. This was always how it was going to go. And maybe it was.

You made sure of it, didn’t you?

Still, sometimes you lie awake, enveloped in the sticky summer heat that gets pushed round and round by the same fan that has been there for as long as there have been summers and heat. Sometimes you can’t help but stare at the glow of your phone in your warm palms, as a part of you waits. Not for an apology—you don’t deserve one. Not for an explanation either—you already know what he’d say.

Just for something.

But the nights drag on, and the silence stays.

₊˚⊹ ࿔

Graduation is unremarkable, filled with promises to stay in touch with people you couldn’t care less about and photos you’ll look at in twenty years and try to remember the names of the girls posing next to you.

You stand in a cluster of classmates outside the gym, the late June sun too bright, your gown too hot, the air thick with the scent of flowers and fading adolescence. A girl from your chemistry class—Rin? Rika?—calls you over, waving excitedly.

“Come get in the picture with us!”

You hesitate, then smile, crossing the grass with careful steps. The girls link arms with you as if they’ve always done it, as if you haven’t spent four years standing just slightly outside the frame. You’d never cared, because you were never standing alone.

They smile like they mean it. Like they belong to each other in some soft, permanent way.

You smiles along with them.

The camera clicks. One of them turns to you and says, “You’re so pretty, you know? I’ve always thought so.”

You force a laugh, the compliment sliding off you like droplets of sweat in the summer heat. You weren’t used to hearing things like that from anyone who wasn’t him.

Someone else, taller and louder, turns to you as he adjusts his cap. “Hey, where’s Geto, anyway? Thought you two were, like, attached at the hip or something.”

You blink as something settles beneath your ribs, hot and cold at the same time.

“He has an internship,” you say, keeping your voice causal. Measured. “Couldn’t get out of it.”

It’s not a lie, not technically. He was interning at Gojo’s dad’s company, but your classmate didn’t need to know the real reason.

They all nod and share little laments, accepting it easily, before shifting the conversation to college roommates and summer plans.

You linger behind as the crowd thins in front of the gym as students make their way to the outdoor bleachers for the ceremony.

You watch them, these girls who are sweet and warm and glittery around the edges. You never hated them. You just never really knew them, had never wanted to. You’d always had him.

And maybe that was the mistake.

Because now you’re here, diploma in hand, mascara drying under your eyes, arms wrapped around each one of your parents as you smile into yet another camera, surrounded by people who were always kind, always open, and you’re just some ghost girl in their photos.

When you check your phone that evening after getting home from a celebratory dinner, there’s no text. No missed call.

He doesn’t text to say congratulations, and you don’t text to say you miss him. You just scroll past his name like it means nothing, like it doesn’t still burn every time.

You post some grad photos on instagram.

He likes them.

₊˚⊹ ࿔

The car is packed to the brim. Suitcases, storage bins, things you don’t really need but couldn’t leave behind. Your mom triple-checks her checklist while your dad leans against the driver’s side door, watching you both with his usual quiet presence.

The drive is long. It feels like an echo. You remember staring out the window at the buildings getting smaller, chin resting on folded arms, face hot with unspoken grief. The car isn’t the same, but the scent of your mother’s hand lotion and your father’s cologne linger like they did all those years ago. Your mom hums along to the radio, some old Fleetwood Mac song she likes to pretend she still remembers all the words to. Your dad grips the steering wheel a little too tight, muttering at other drivers under his breath like they’ve wronged him personally. The little pond blurs past, along with the hills that go by in shades of rolling green that gradually give way to gray concrete and neon signs. It doesn’t feel like a return, not really. It feels like getting reacquainted with a city that doesn’t remember your name.

When you finally pull into the campus parking lot, your mother fusses—straightening your hair, brushing her hands over your arms and dusting invisible dust from your clothes like you’re six years old again. You let her, who are you to protest when your mother hasn’t said goodbye to you in 18 years the way she has to now?

You unpack quickly, your mother chattering about remembering to eat real food and making sure you go to office hours. Your dad chimes in sometimes, but mostly holds boxes. You exist somewhere in between, half present. And then, before you know it, it’s time.

You’re standing there in the dorm lobby, under harsh fluorescent lights, surrounded by kids who already look like they belong.

Your mom hugs you tight, too tight, like she’s trying to press you into memory. Her voice is watery when she reminds you to call and to be safe. You promise her you will.

Then it’s just you and your dad.

You stand there for a half a moment, awkward and uncertain. The last time you had a proper conversation that went beyond ‘how’s school?’ was… when? You can’t remember.

He opens his arms in that awkward, unsure way of his, like he doesn’t know whether you’re still a kid who likes hugs, but you step into it anyway. He smells like he always has. Something that used to be warm. Something familiar. For a second, his hand rests on the back of your head like it used to when you were little.

when you pull away, something shifts in his face.

For the first time in years, he looks at you like he really sees you. Like he’s remembering something. Maybe your small hand gripping his finger, or the way you used to crawl into his lap with a book too big for your hands. His little girl who thought the world of him.

He opens his mouth.

You wait. You know that look. There’s something he wants to say. Something real. Maybe even something important.

But then he puts his hands in his pockets and you know the moment is gone.

“Have fun,” he says instead, like it’s a command. Like joy is something you can summon on cue. “We’ll see you over Christmas break, sweetie.”

You nod.

You don’t care that he didn’t say more. It doesn’t matter. You’re used to it. That’s what you tell yourself.

But maybe that’s the problem.

You’re left standing there with a room key in one hand and a knot in your throat that you don’t want to name.

You don’t cry. You just watch as the city swallow them whole.

₊˚⊹ ࿔

By the time you’re done fervently cleaning every surface in the dorm room like your mother told you to, the artificial citrus smell of Lysol hangs in the air. One of your duffel bags is half-unzipped on the bed closest to the window, a hoodie already slipping onto the floor like it’s trying to escape.

You’re mindlessly wiping down the contact points on both wardrobes and don’t hear the door open and click shut.

“Well at least we don’t have to worry about fresher’s flu,” comes a voice from behind you, making you jump.

You spin around to find a girl dragging a suitcase that looks like it’s survived several wars. Her brown hair is cut short, the ends tickling just past her jaw. Her bangs are swept messily to one side, but somehow still look effortlessly chic. Her lips are tinged red from the lollipop she’s sucking on, the end of which is dangling from her mouth. She’s wearing a black tank top and baggy jeans like she didn’t think twice about the outfit and yet somehow still looks like she could be on her way home from a modeling gig. She eyes you for a second, then sets her suitcase down with a thunk.

“You my roommate?”

You blink a couple of times before nodding and introducing yourself.

“Cool. I’m Shoko Ieri. You’re not OCD or anything, are you?” She quirks a brow as she moves the lollipop to the other side of her mouth with her tongue.

You shake your head, slightly taken aback.

“Cool,” she seizes you up. “You seem kinda jumpy but overall, I think I like your vibe,” she says casually.

“Um… thanks? You too,” you say back, caught off guard by the way she just says things like she’s stating a well known fact.

“You from around here?” She asks as she moves to the vacant bed and inspects it.

“No. Well I mean, I was but then we moved away when I was six.”

“Countryside?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Figured. Wanna go to the activities fair?” She straightens up to look at you.

“You don’t want to unpack first?”

“Nah, it can wait. Don’t want them to run out of the free stuff they’ll be handing out to bribe us to join clubs.”

She says it like it’s obvious, like of course that’s the priority. You don’t argue. There’s something easy about her already.

“Cool,” you can’t really hide the smile that finds its way onto your face. “Yeah, let me grab my shoes.”

₊˚⊹ ࿔

The warm afternoon hums with the chatter and laughter of thousands of students and the kind of manufactured enthusiasm that comes with clipboards and student volunteers in matching shirts. You sip an iced coffee as you and Shoko weave through booths, all promising something—free pizza, networking, trips abroad, a reason not to cry alone in your dorm.

“God, I forgot how insane pre-med people are,” Shoko says, side-eyeing a table with a fake skeleton posed next to a sign that says FUTURE DOCTORS OF THE WORLD. “I’m one of them, technically. But still.”

You snort, “you don’t seem like the type to cry over flashcards about anatomy.”

“Not in public,” Shoko smirks, cheek bulging with a new lollipop, blue this time. “What’s yours?”

You shrug, “my parents wanted me to do computer science but I got in for political science and economics.”

“Good. Better than pretending to care about something you don’t,” Shoko nods.

The crowd thickens and then thins in waves, like tides. You find yourself scanning faces without meaning to.

The pair of you stop in front of a booth giving away succulents in tiny pots. You reach for one, then freeze. A familiar figure by the student center. Tall, dark hair, a posture that makes your breath catch.

Your heart kicks.

But then he turns and it’s not him.

It happens again near the library. A laugh, a flash of a profile, something that almost sounds like his voice. You realize it’s not him when the guy stretches and a hint of a tattoo on his back catches your eye. You turn away before trying to see his face.

Every so often, someone tall with dark hair catches your eye and your stomach flips and then crashes. Not him. Again. You can’t decide if you’re disappointed or relieved you haven’t seen him yet. Maybe both.

Shoko glances sideways, “you keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking like you’re seeing ghosts.”

You’re slightly startled by her perceptiveness, “it’s nothing.”

“Uh huh. You gonna tell me, or just keep pretending it’s nothing until you implode?”

You swirl the melting ice around your coffee cup, “I think I’d rather implode, actually.”

Shoko smirks and hands you a lollipop, “cool. I’ll be here when that happens.”

You get back to your dorm, arms heavy with free tote bags filled to the brim with pamphlets and fliers and coupons and pens and travel mugs. Shoko unceremoniously dumps her haul onto the floor. You step around her and put your things down on your desk. You glance around.

The dorm room is already beginning to look like it belongs to two real people. The whiteboard on the door has Shoko’s loopy handwriting spelling out both your names with a cartoon skull and a little heart you had drawn on beside it.

“Well,” Shoko says, plucking her succulent from its paper bag, “at least we’re officially indoctrinated.”

You grin and place a stress ball shaped like a brain on one of your shelves. Before you can answer, there’s a sharp knock at the door. Then another, faster one, like whoever’s out there doesn’t believe in patience.

Shoko opens it to find two girls standing in the hall, both of them older, clearly sophomores or juniors. The one in front has a curtain of shiny black hair and a sweet smile that displays a neat set of shiny, white teeth. She leans in just far enough to glance between you and Shoko.

“See?” she says, turning back toward the other girl, “told you they were both pretty.”

The second one, taller, with red lipstick that contrasts with the light blue hair in her ponytail grins, “yup. Good eye.”

You raise an eyebrow as you go to stand next to Shoko, “uh, thanks?”

“I’m Utahime, this is Mei Mei,” the first girl says breezily, slipping fully into the room now like they’ve been invited. “We live a few doors down. There’s a party tonight. You guys wanna come?”

Shoko, still leaning against the doorframe, eyes them carefully. “What party?”

“Beta Kappa Tau,” Mei Mei says with a little smile as she examines her nails.

Shoko’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”

Utahime smiles brightly, “Yup! We’ve been invited.”

“That frat never lets freshmen in,” Shoko mutters to you.

You glance at the girls. They’re both standing there with a smug, easy overconfidence. Something about it feels too easy.

You fold your arms. “So what’s in it for you?”

Utahime’s smile slips for a second. “What?”

“Upperclassmen don’t just show up to freshman dorm rooms and invite them to exclusive parties out of the goodness of their hearts. What’re you getting out of this?” Your eyes drift from Utahime to Mei Mei, who’s taken her eyes off her nails to look at you with some interest.

For a second neither of them say anything, and then Mei Mei lets out a musical laugh, if not a little sharp. “Damn. You’re good, little freshie,” she says.

Utahime doesn’t say anything, but smiles like she’s impressed.

“I said I’d get this guy into the party tonight… for a price,” Mei Mei says casually. He’s cute, but not cute enough to get into BKT alone. Sooo, he pays me, we bring extra pretty girls, and everyone’s happy.”

Shoko snorts, “well, at least you’re honest.”

“Hey, you still get to go,” Utahime says, shrugging. “It’s gonna be insane. Big back-to-school thing. Everyone’ll be there.”

Everyone?” You ask before you can stop yourself.

Utahime doesn’t miss a beat. “If they’re even remotely hot or connected, yeah.”

Mei Mei raises an eyebrow. “You got someone in mind?”

“No,” you say too fast.

“Cool,” Utahime says, already backing up toward the door. “We’ll swing by around nine? We can pregame together, we’ll bring the booze, call it a welcome to college present,” She winks.

“Although, maybe a little fee for the inconvenience,” Mei Mei throws a smile over her shoulder as they leave, making it hard to tell if she’s joking or not as the door clicks shut behind them.

₊˚⊹ ࿔

“Sexy? Or slutty sexy?” Shoko asks as she holds two almost identical black dresses up to her body.

“Is there a difference?” You laugh from your spot on your bed, cross-legged in denim shorts and a crop top, knees bare and cold under the blast of the AC. Your phone is face-down on the comforter. The room smells faintly like hot hair tools and the mango-scented body mist Shoko sprayed fifteen minutes ago.

Absolutely,” Shoko says solemnly. “Sexy is hot. Slutty sexy is hot but also fun.”

You point at the shorter, pleather option. “Slutty sexy.”

Shoko grins, “knew I liked you.” She goes into the bathroom to change. When she comes back out she does a little twirl and you clap. She turns to the mirror and gently swipes at a bit of eyeshadow that managed to find its way onto her cheek and then lines her eyes with black.

You watch her, fascinated. You’ve put on exactly one coat of mascara and lip gloss. Your hair’s still damp from the shower, but you’ll most likely braid it once it’s dry.

Shoko turns from the mirror to look at you, expression unreadable. “There’s no way in hell you’re going to the biggest party of the semester looking like that,” she says finally.

You frown, “like what?”

“This isn’t the sticks, babe. No roommate of mine is going to show up to a party dressed like an Episode character who ran out of diamonds.” She tosses her eyeliner onto the desk and crosses the room. “Sit.”

“I am sitting,” you cross your arms, suddenly self conscious.

“Sit somewhere better. Like a chair. Or the floor. Or anywhere with proper lighting.” There’s no judgement in her smirk.

You laugh but let yourself be herded toward the desk chair. Shoko takes your chin between two fingers with the ease of someone who’s done this a dozen times for younger cousins and reluctant friends.

“Close your eyes,” Shoko commands.

You obey. There’s a gentle scratch of a spoolie brush against your brows, the sticky slide of a primer along your cheeks. Something about the moment feels oddly soft and ceremonial. Not a makeover, exactly, something more tender. Like you were being indoctrinated into girlhood.

You find yourself wondering if this is what it’s like to have female friends.

Not the kind who only text to ask about homework or post you on their Instagram story once a semester. But someone who sees you with bare lashes and still decides you’re worth polishing. Someone who just decides they like you and means it. Not in the same way Suguru did, he saw you as you were, and that was always enough. Shoko saw you as you could be, too. When another woman decides you’re worth the effort, worth the time and detail, it settles somewhere deeper, quieter, like being seen without having to ask.

“You’ve got good cheekbones,” Shoko murmurs, half-focused as she blends something into your temples. “And your eyes are perfect for shadow. If you ever actually tried, you’d be dangerous.”

“Thanks, I think.”

While Shoko does your makeup, you can’t help but wonder if this is his frat.

You wouldn’t know. You’d never even asked. Never cared to.

The realization makes something clench inside your chest.

Well, Suguru was the one who drifted first, slipping into his new life while you stayed stuck in place.

Right?

But how many times did he call, only for you to let it ring? How many times did he reach for you, only for you to pull away? Even when you were talking, did you ever ask about what he was doing? About his classes, his friends, his weekends?

No, but who could blame you? You didn’t want to hear about the other people making him laugh or the nights he spent under the stars, smoking with people who weren’t you.

But despite all that, under Shoko’s diligent hands and the soft glow of this new friendship, the guilt rose up into your throat like bile. He tried. Maybe not in all the right ways. Maybe not consistently. But he tried. And you? What had you done? You had tucked yourself away and called it self-preservation.

He spent the past year giving you everything he could, in his own way, and all you did was take and take and take.

“There,” Shoko announces, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Still you. Just slightly enhanced.”

You open your eyes and blink. The mirror shows someone familiar, but slightly tilted— sharper, with warm cheeks and brighter eyes and shiny lips.

You kind of like her.

“Now go and put on something sexy,” Shoko says, your eyes meeting in the mirror as she admires her handiwork.

“Sexy? Or slutty sexy?” You tease.

“The sluttier the better,” she grins as she throws a miniskirt and corset top at you.

₊˚⊹ ࿔

The frat house is already pulsing when you get there. Lights blaring out the windows like it’s trying to outshine the moon, music spilling down the porch steps in waves that vibrate in your chest. You’re a little buzzed from the cheap tequila you all took shots of, courtesy of Utahime and Mei Mei, and it makes everything feel slightly off-kilter. Everything feels a little looser, slightly softer around the edges.

Inside, it’s chaos. Bodies packed in too tight, the air hot and syrupy with body heat and the smell of beer and perfume. Red cups bob like buoys in a sea of outstretched arms, liquid sloshing as heavy bass reverberates through the air. The floor is slightly sticky under your feet and you’re suddenly glad Utahime told you and Shoko to wear sneakers you don’t care about ruining. Shoko gestures for you to follow her as she weaves her way through the crowd towards the kitchen for a drink. Utahime is already dancing with a group of girls. Mei Mei is nowhere to be found.

You turn to follow Shoko towards the kitchen when you nearly collidewith someone.

A hand at your waist steadies you, the other holds a red cup. “Oh shit, babe, my bad,”

Tall. Piercing blue eyes hidden behind round sunglasses that do little to hide their intensity. A mop of white hair that always looks like it was styled by sleep. Familiar.

The name is out of your mouth before you can stop it. “Gojo?”

He pauses mid-sip, looking down at you. He blinks a couple of times, as if he’s taking a real look at you.

You realize your mistake immediately.

Gojo doesn’t recognize you. Why would he? You’d never actually met him outside your social media stalking of his page.

But instead of confusion, his mouth quirks into an easy, lopsided grin. “Well, shit. How do you know me? Have we met?”

You open your mouth, willing something to come out, then close it. Shit.

He smirks, shifting closer. “We hook up or something? ‘Cause I gotta be honest, I don’t remember your name. But I promise I won’t make that mistake twice.”

Oh, God.

“No,” you blurt out, shaking your head quickly. “I— um— we didn’t—”

He narrows his eyes, mock-accusing. “So we didn’t hook up?” He looks like he’s enjoying your flustered reaction.

“No!”

“Well, now I feel like I missed out,” he says with a smirk.

“I’m Suguru’s… uh— I know Suguru,” you let out lamely.

Gojo stares at you for a second, then lets out a dramatic groan, tipping his head back. “Jesus Christ, man.”

“What?” The look on your face right now must be priceless.

“I swear, I’m done being the damn middleman for Suguru and all the sorority girls he’s scorned.”

Your stomach twists. “What?” You say again, but this time, it’s different. Hearing his name come out of such a foreign mouth solidifies him as a real person, not just a ghost that lingers in the gold tinged memories of your past.

Gojo exhales, giving you a long, assessing look. “You don’t wanna go down that road, sweetheart. Trust me.” He draped an arm across your shoulders like he’s known you all his life as he steers you towards the kitchen. “Let’s get you a drink, huh?” He hums.

You shake your head and force out a laugh. “You’ve got it it wrong,” you tell him your name, half expecting realization to dawn on his face at the sound of it. It doesn’t.

“Pretty name, honey, but still. My point stands. Don’t go down that road.”

You laugh again, but it’s thin. “What road?” You let him guide you through the throng of people. Has Suguru really never mentioned you to him? Were you just a shadow of his past with no place in his new life?

He smirks like it’s obvious. “Look, Suguru’s a good dude, but he’s got that reputation for a reason, you know? He’s not really the settling down type. Whatever you think you have with him, however different you think it is, trust me you don’t and it’s not. You’re pretty! My advice? Don’t get involved there. Just avoid him tonight.”

Your pulse stutters.

But that means

That means he’s here.

You swallow as he hands you a drink. The air suddenly feels too thick, the crowd too close.

Gojo nudges you playfully. “You good?”

You force a smile. “Yeah! All good. Sorry, I see my friend over there, thanks for the drink, it was nice meeting you!” You duck under his arm and make your way to the back door.

You squeeze past two guys who are arguing about who’s on aux next when a hand grabs you.

“There you are!” Shoko calls over the sound of the music. It’s louder in here than it was in the kitchen and at the front of the house. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You laugh hollowly, “Something like that,” you call back.

She raises a brow but doesn’t press. “Come outside with me. I need a smoke.”

The back porch is quieter, or maybe just less suffocating. The night’s chilled and fragrant, tangled with cigarette smoke and cheap beer. Shoko lights a cigarette and offers it to you.

“Those aren’t menthols by any chance, are they?” You question.

Shoko scoffs, “what’re you? 16?” Her lipstick’s smudged at the corners, and she doesn’t seem to care. Somehow it looks like it’s meant to look like that.

You wrinkle your nose, but accept it anyway.

The two of you lean against the railing. Somewhere down the block, someone screams with laughter. Music pulses through the porch floor. You watch a moth fling itself against the porch light again and again.

“So. You gonna tell me what’s got you looking over your shoulder every two minutes?” Shoko exhales a stream of smoke as she glances at you.

You hesitate. “Just…. Just someone from my past, I guess. He goes here. I keep thinking I’m going to see him.” You offer, still staring at the moth.

Shoko doesn’t react. “Do you want to see him?” She asks. She says it uninterestedly, which for some reason makes you want to tell her more.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly.

She nods, as if that settles it and crushes her cigarette under her heel. “Ready to go back in?”

You nod, putting out your own barely smoked one and finishing off whatever was in the cup Gojo handed you. “I need another drink.”

Shoko laughs, “that’s the spirit. Come on.”

The lights in the house aren’t as bright now, or maybe the alcohol’s settling into your bloodstream. Shoko heads back towards the kitchen, and you follow her.

The moment you turn the corner, everything shifts.

It’s instant—like gravity snapping you back into place, like the universe rearranging itself just to put you in his orbit again.

Suguru is across the room, leaning into a girl perched on the kitchen counter.

His arms are braced on either side of her, caging her in, close enough that their bodies nearly touch. She’s laughing, head tilted back, hair spilling over her shoulders. Flushed. Flattered. And Suguru is…

He’s smiling. Mouth curled into that half-smile that’s always meant trouble.

It’s like looking directly at the sun.

A flash of something too bright, too sharp, burning into your vision, searing something ugly into your chest.

And then

His eyes lift.

They find yours, as if on instinct.

Time slows. The music dulls. The lights smudge.

He holds your gaze. Steady, unblinking.

A collision, but no impact. A knife pressed to the skin, but never cutting.

Suguru doesn’t move. Neither do you.

But something inside you does. The careful stone box you had been piecing around your heart for the last several months moves. It cracks. Shifts. Unearths itself in the hollow of your ribs. And suddenly, you’re suffocating.

Until.

Suguru’s lips curl into a smirk.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his hands, shapes them into a gun, and aims straight at you.

Bang.

The world tilts. Not much, just a fraction of a degree. Just enough to remind you that gravity has always been a little different where he’s is concerned.

You exhales through your nose, a quiet, incredulous laugh, shaking your head.

He straightens, murmurs something to the girl on the counter—something easy, effortless—before pushing off the counter and making his way toward you.

You don’t move. You’re not sure you could if you wanted to.

When he reaches you, he dips his head slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear over the noise. “Didn’t know you were here.”

“Didn’t know you’d care.”

He snorts, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Still got your claws out, huh?”

You shrug.

For a second, you just look at each other. The distance between you is barely a breath, but it feels wider than it should be.

Suguru jerks his head toward the door. “Walk with me?”

You don’t say yes. You don’t have to.

You follows him back outside, stepping once again into the heady night air. The bass of the party is a dull thud beneath your feet, as if you’ve stepped into a different version of reality. One that doesn’t belong to the present or the past, but somewhere in between.

Suguru flicks open a lighter, the flame licking at the tip of his cigarette as it illuminates the shadows and contours of his face. He takes a drag, exhales slowly, then tilts the pack toward you. He does this easily. Like you haven’t been ghosts to each other for months. Like this is any other party, any other night, any other version of you.

Before you can reach for one, he tells you to hang on a second and pulls a different pack from his pocket and offers those to you instead.

“You still prefer menthols, right?” It’s not really a question. More of a test.

You nod as you take one. “You just carry these around with you even though you don’t smoke them?” You quirk an eyebrow as he lights it for you, his hands steady, familiar.

He shrugs easily. “Force of habit, I guess.”

He always used to carry them for you. Your heart twists at the idea that he never stopped.

He leans against the railing beside you, just far enough to not touch, just close enough that you feel his heat.

For a while, you just smoke. Letting the silence stretch between you, letting the smoke curl into the space where words should be. You take this time to really look at him.

He looks just like you remember and nothing like you remember. Like someone you once drew from the memory of a dream and are now seeing brought to life. Same warm, brown eyes. Same tall frame. Same smooth voice. But he’s grown into the sharpness of his jaw, the slow calm of his movements. His frame has filled out, his biceps bulging whenever he brings the cigarette back up to his lips. Silver rings adorn his fingers. He’s still wearing the bracelet you braided for him when you were 14, although it’s a little discolored now. He still walks like he owns the moment. Like he always has. His hair is up in a loose bun, the usual bangs framing his face. Diamond studs are now slightly bigger and black. You can’t tell if they’re gauges or not in this lighting. He’s always been handsome, you know this. But under the warm glow of the porch light with smoke curling around him, he looks devastating enough to make you cry. Gojo’s words from a few hours ago begin to make a lot more sense.

“Good taste in parties,” he says finally, small smirk playing on his lips as he takes another drag. If he noticed you looking, he doesn’t say it.

You scoff, “you think I knew it was yours?”

He grins. Quiet. Crooked. Private. “Guess we could call it fate, then.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Not comfortable either. Something else entirely. Like both of you are hovering at the edge of something neither has the nerve to touch.

Then, finally.

“You never told me you applied.”

You try to keep your voice even as you bring your own cigarette to your lips. “You never asked.”

He laughs, not unkindly, but not kindly either. “Right.” He flicks ash onto the pavement. “So that’s how it’s gonna be?”

“How what’s gonna be?” You challenge.

“This.” He gestures vaguely between you. “Us.”

You press your lips together, tilting your head back toward the sky. The stars are dim, swallowed by city glow, but you can still see a few blinking faintly.

No. That’s the last thing I want. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t think I could. I didn’t want to need you the way I always do. Did you miss me like I missed you? Are you mad? Are you mad at me? Did you ever think about me in the spaces between?

“I don’t know,” you say finally, tongue staying bitter in your mouth. “You tell me.”

Suguru watches your face, eyes scanning your features, cigarettes dangling between his fingers.

(He recognizes your expression because he’d also seen it mirrored in your father’s face all those years, too. He knows who taught you this trick)

“I missed you,” he says finally, and it’s both an offering and a dare.

Your heart pounds and the words are out again before you can stop them. “You didn’t call.”

He flinches. Just slightly. Just enough.

“You didn’t either,” he says.

He’s right. You’re the one who ran cold, who let silence bloom between the two of you like mold. But he was supposed to break it. You wanted him to come back even when you made it hard to. And maybe that’s not fair, but it’s the truth. You wanted him to know better. But he’s right. So you stay silent.

“You wanna fight?”

You blink, and then exhale, slow and even. “Not really.”

“Good.” He leans back against the railing, watching the streetlights flicker in the distance. “Me neither.”

“You settling in okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. My roommate’s cool. Campus is… big.”

A beat.

“I met Gojo. He didn’t recognize me,” you murmur.

Suguru laughs once, sharp. “He wouldn’t.”

“You didn’t tell him about me?”

“I did in theory. Didn’t know if I was allowed to go beyond that.”

Something twists in your chest. You wanted to ask what that means.

Do you still think of me as yours?

“You looked happy in the kitchen,” you say instead.

He raises an eyebrow as his lips tick upwards. “Yeah? You looked like you were going to throw up.”

You scoff and half heartedly swat at his arm.

Another long silence, full of everything you’re not saying.

“You gonna run again?” He glances at you sideways.

No. I don’t want to.

“Are you?”

You both know that’s not an answer.

Still, he shifts closer. Just slightly. Just enough.

And for a moment, it’s like nothing ever changed. Like there was no silence, no distance, no damage. Just you. Two planets orbiting each other on a porch that smells like stale beer and sounds like someone else’s music.

You lean your shoulder into his. Subtle. Easy.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight,” you say, voice softer than before.

He studies you for a moment before he smirks and nudges you with his shoulder. “Somehow, you always end up exactly where I am.”

And maybe it’s a joke. Maybe it’s the truth. Maybe it’s both.

Taglist: @not-aya

46 notes · View notes

avocado-writing · 2 days ago

Note

Hi! In honor of Father's Day (which I happily don't have, but it doesn't matter), let's imagine that the Copy and the Reader take care of their child (any gender), who is very hyperactive and loving

sorry this is so late 💀 used this as an excuse to chat about the au @grumsens and I have where reader and copia have just, an obscene amount of kids. 1.2k words of fluff.

You hadn’t been trying to get pregnant… not the first time, anyway. It was just something which happened when two people who were obsessed with each other’s bodies fucked pretty much all the time, and agreed that they were no longer fussed about birth control. Yeah, the first time had been a fluke, but when Copia had seen how round your body had become, so swollen with life that he had put in you, he simply hadn’t been able to keep his hands to himself.

Or any other appendage, for that matter.

So it came to be that, by mutual agreement, you had remained permanently pregnant for pretty much the next four years because the two of you just couldn’t get enough of making babies. Now you’re faced with the consequences: a horde of little girls, as apparently your husband was incapable of siring sons.

They’re… a lot.

Lucia. Marcelina. Cassia. Donata. Annachiara and Fiorre, the twins to round it off (“they run in the family,” Sister Imperator had said cryptically). The Emeritus girls move in a pack and, though they are prone to bickering amongst themselves as sisters are wont to do, woe betide anyone who upsets one of them, for it brings down the wrath of the other five.

And, as a parent, trying to wrangle them is less successful than trying to wrangle cats.

You’d never deny your husband his career, you’re exceptionally proud of him and the work he’s doing, but all of you miss him when he’s off on tour. Harmony descends whenever he is home, something which can only be grown from a father who is totally wrapped around the little finger of every single one of his daughters, leading them all to a united cause: get dad to give us absolutely anything we want.

Today has been a lot. You’d been woken by the twins jumping on your bed - because what else was six in the morning for? - and you’d managed to get them to crawl in between you for another forty minutes of rest before they were insistent it was breakfast time. Unable to deny two five-year olds who measure their tugging in horse-power, you and Copia got up, both complaining about your bad backs and errant tiny feet in the kidneys, but accepting there was to be no more resting now the girls were Up.

Copia cooked, because he’s far better at it than you are. There’s always enough milk and eggs in the fridge to make a batch of pancakes big enough for every tiny hungry mouth around the table and your husband had slung them out as if it was his satan-given duty. The others had gotten out of bed to join at the smell, Cassia with her nose in a book, Donata skittering under the table to chase a spider. She had come out of the womb more ghoul than human, that one, but to be fair that’s because technically Copia had been her birth-giver rather than you, so more Satanic magic had been involved.

It was a long story.

Lucia - stepping into her role as the leader of the pack as the eldest, not something you asked for but something she gravitated to anyway as it let her boss the younger ones around a bit - had dragged Marcelina and the table had been full: full of girls vying for their parents’ attention, of you running around to make sure everyone had their preferred pancake topping, of Copia dashing to the stove every thirty seconds to make sure nothing burned.

And that was just breakfast.

The weather was nice so the group of you headed outside into the Ministry gardens, allowing the girls to run around and blow off some steam while the two of you sat in the grass (Copia affectionately leaning his head in your lap). Eventually you were both dragged into playing tag as well, though you were getting too old for running around the two of you were powerless against six sets of pleading eyes. Pack tactics at work again.

The day was not without its struggles (“PAPA, DO YOU WANT TO SEE HOW HARD I CAN KICK?!” Marcelina had screamed, and then not waited for Copia to give a response before driving her answer into his shin with her foot) but nobody was at each other’s throat too badly that day, the twins had only pulled each other’s hair once, and Donata’s bites were not skin-breaking.

Now afternoon is dripping into evening, the sun going down and the girls getting sleepy. You can hear Copia’s soft singsong voice float out from the living room as he reads them a story. You poke your head around the door and melt at what you see: he sits in the middle of the sofa in a tangle of limbs as they all attempt to find a bit of him to lean against, sleepy eyes all drawn to the page as his cadence lolls them to sleep. A tired yawn, a nuzzle into his shirt as they try and fight drifting off.

“‘No, except that Brett and I are a little worried about the dog.’ ‘Your Saint Bernard?’” Copia changes the affectations in his voice to show each new character and the girls are entranced.

“I like when you do the voices, papa,” Cassia mumbles, her eyes tearing off the page to look up at him. Copia smiles down at her.

“Well, I like doing the voices for you, principessina,” he says, and she giggles.

“What are we reading tonight?” you ask. Copia flashes you the book cover - Cujo by Stephen King.

“It’s our favourite!” Lucia implores when you purse your lips.

“Can we get a dog?” Marcelina asks hopefully. You kiss your teeth.

“Sorry, you’re reading Cujo and the takeaway you got from that book was that you want to get a dog?”

“Or a bat! We all got our rabies shots when Donata was born!” Lucia reasons, and voices pipe up in agreement. “Papa, we can get a dog, right?”

You have to interject. You can see Copia is about to give in and say, yes, let’s go adopt one tomorrow! Such is the power of your daughters.

“We can talk about it another day. Right now it’s time for bed.”

A chorus of groans as you and Copia scoop them off of the sofa and wrangle them into first their pyjamas and then their beds; a dozen kisses goodnight and then a dozen more after all of them decide they need to go to the bathroom just once more. Taking them outside earlier was a good idea, they all fall asleep pretty fast.

“You’re so good with them,” you sigh, leaning on Copia’s shoulder as you look in at the twins, making sure they’re fast asleep before you leave them for the night.

“Me? No, amore, you are the star. We’d fall apart without you.”

He kisses you when the two of you sit down on the sofa, a moment alone to be clutched tightly in the chaos of the house. His hand slips down to your ass and squeezes. You hum into his mouth.

“Papa Emeritus, you’re being very handsy this evening…”

“You think I can resist my beautiful wife after a day of her being perfect? Let me have you, amore mio.” He runs his lips to the shell of your ear. “Let’s make another.”

You moan and drag him down onto the sofa.

#Cardinal Copia x reader #Papa emeritus iv x reader #The band ghost fanfic #frater imperator x reader #Also don’t read Cujo to your kids.

17 notes · View notes

bacchuschucklefuck · 1 year ago

Text

soon it'll be dawn again

transcript under the cut ⏬

page 01

Fig: no way? - you're still up?

Riz: Wh– yes?

Riz: Why'd I not be.

page 02

Fig: I me~~ean - that took.

Fig: whole day.

Riz: Yeah?

Fig: 'm beat.

Riz: you should sleep.

page 03

Fig: nah. my guy's still up

Fig: I wanna hang out.

page 04

Riz: That's really nice.

Fig: Hah! - Nobody ever expects an Archdevil rockstar to be nice.

Riz: … yeah. - 's just budget work tho. (the stuff I'm working on) - I've heard it's boring.

page 05

Fig: yeah, but you do it…

Riz: It keeps things going, right? - Nothing happens if nobody sits down and - does the thing.

Fig: That's right… - though. Yeah.

page 06

Fig: sometimes it's someone else who - doesn't want the same thing to happen.

Riz: … - mm.

page 07

Riz (off screen): …It took me a long time to get that not everyone likes doing what I do. - 's probably because you guys are so nice– - or. - kind.

Riz (off screen): to anyone too, not just. - the people you /love/.

page 08

Riz: that's not how it is elsewhere. - The world's– not. hostile. - but 's not like it's kind.

Riz: So I'm doing as much as I can now…

page 09

Fig: Hey.

Riz: ?

Fig: Go dig some dirt with me.

page 10

Riz: [blank speech bubble] - oh you meant like - actual dirt. (not incriminating information)

Fig: o yea.

Fig: there's clay in the backyard soil. - sometimes when I'm sun deficient or something I go touch dirt for a bit.

page 11

Fig: here u go

page 12

Riz: uh

Fig: now we make a thing! - 'm pretty good at freehanding a bowl.

Fig: I'll show u

page 13

Fig: just– yep, flatten that out as evenly as u can, then–! - actually ur nails'd be so good at cutting out the strip. [larger than usual space] wait. - wait. wait u can carve patterns with them! we HAVE to try

Riz: uh - What. do I carve?

Fig: anything!!!

page 14

Fig: and– yep just seal the inside uh. seam?

Fig: yep that works - okay time's up! all contestant hands up

Riz: [blank speech bubble] - okay - wh. what's next?

Fig: haha - watch this.

(sound effect text): FWOO—MP

page 15

Riz: WH– DON'T JUST DO THAT???

Fig: Now it's fired!

Riz: THAT WAS NOT SAFE

Fig: (actually it's just dry. if u add water rn it'll dissolve)

Fig: ok catch!

Riz: [blank speech bubble] - careful!!

Fig: dw no need haha

page 16

Riz (thought bubble): oh - it's warm…

Fig: now I want you to throw this.

page 17

Fig: u gotta do it - c'mon

page 18

Riz: wh– - It's like 3AM right now

Fig: oh it's not /fired/ fired it's not gonna make a loud noise

Riz: And then just? leave a pile out here?

Fig: pour water over it & it'll be gone I told u

Riz: but

page 19

Fig (off screen): RIz.

page 20

Fig: I've done all this before.

Fig: Can you trust that at least?

page 21

Riz: no, I– - I do. - I trust you.

page 23

Riz: okay what happens now

(sound effect text): glob

page 24

Fig: we do it again!

page 25

Riz: wh. [larger than usual space] What do you mean. (this clay's too wet also)

Fig: see! you're already learning

Fig: [blank speech bubble] - there are flows that are futile to fight. - The world changes.

Fig: Things change.

page 26

Fig: I've learned my lessons with "forevers". - But - as an artist

Fig: I can give you one thing: - You can always do it again.

page 27

Fig: most of everything depends on the rest of the world, - but this. - making new. - that's yours as long as you want it.

page 28

Fig: So?

page 29

Riz: Yeah. - Yeah! - let's make another one.

#dimension 20 #fantasy high junior year #fhjy #riz gukgak #figueroth faeth #technically no spoilers in this comic but listen. I Will be gloating in tags. I will Never Shut Up #for the record!! this was fully conceptualized and sketched Before the finales. I started sketching this after the boat fight #and when murph closed riz's arc this season with ''maybe it's okay to change and welcome new things'' I pogged irl #I am simply the best at reading comprehension what can I say! (<- grown ass man with roughly the same perspective on teenhood as the player #fucked up that this became so long (almost 30 squares lol) that it took me this long to finish #lmao I say all that but. genuinely I am delirious and my feelings abt riz's arc this season are so big... I was getting psychic backlash #for a While lol. it was scary!!#had to sit down and do therapy on my own ass for a bit. the teenage apocalyticisation is real. that word isnt tho Im pretty sure #truly anything you do at that age feels like that's it that's all you've got going on forever. and its not true! its simply not true #you'll be okay my guy. you love your friends so so much but also there will be more to love out there #this one goes out to fellow aroaces and also folks leaving somewhere theyve called home for a long time #nothing lasts forever but that means new things come by too! ur ability to make new is infinite!!#there's no magnum opus people leave but new people come by too etc. I am too sleepy to remember what I wanted to say uhhh #well. thank u for looking at my art. I think thats the one pack it n ship it boys

2K notes · View notes

palossssssand · 10 months ago

Text

grief paralysis

#I'm not sure what to tag this as #technically none of the squad is dead but in this moment he believes they are #or at least. that he'll never see 'em again #ive had this image in my head for the past few days. had to get it out #my art #splatoon #trito #maguro #kinoga #agara #denchu #kanu #jilon #splatoon ocs #my ocs #he knows he can't handle looking at the image of them all and yet he keeps doing it. jsut to feel something #I've just been thinking a lot about him grieving lately. the way pushing it aside just makes it worse and harder to ignore #one day I will make a nice render of that pic of the squad #whenever you see trito and kinoga together keep this image in your thoughts. he’s grieved them your hoor

134 notes · View notes

waterfallofspace · 4 months ago

Note

Will you PLEASEEEE make a caretaking audio? I just think it would be so sweet to listen to your take on a sick listener.

I was not entirely sure how to do this, and I don't really love my voice so it was a bit hard to imagine what this should be, but I tried to use the actual voice I use with people irl when they need comfort, mixed with a few of the phrases/pet names I'd normally use, all in all I hope this came off alright?~ is a little less 'listener' though a little more 'partner', scenario type deal, but I hope that's still comforting/good?~

#technically not a wav? since there's no snz? i think?#waterfallwav #for simplicity/ease of finding it i'll put it as that still tho but it does not have snz in it #anyways i hope this is okay/slightly what you wanted!!!#never done something like this before so i'm not sure how it turned out/if it's okay #but i have had people irl tell me they find this tone of voice comforting so..... hopefully it's good?#it might... also slightly be my 'talking to animals' voice.... but shhhhhh #its just my 'comfort' voice okay T-T #anyways uhhhhh not sure what else to put here or tag this as so!!! im just gonna throw this out there #and hope that at least one person can enjoy it~

59 notes · View notes

spotaus · 1 year ago

Text

Okay! This one is less rendered than the other two, but here's some doodles of Tulpa figuring out how to co-exist! (Aka Fresh not taking training seriously while Dream is trying desperately to get his friends to think he's normal.)

When Dream first returns to the Star Sans', he finds himself in a pickle, because he needs Fresh to move his body. Sure, they made a tentative agreement that Dream trusted Fresh not to break, but Dream hadn't been specific enough with the guidelines.

Fresh pilots Dream's body based on the commands from his soul, but more often than not Fresh simply decides not to listen. Sometimes when they're training, Fresh will suddenly make Dream fumble his bow or send an arrow flying way off-target. Dream is always frustrated by this, unaware that Fresh it doing it for his own good and is forcing the guardian to take a break.

Blue was also made aware of Fresh very early on. One day he was passing the kitchen where Dream was cooking and spotted how Fresh's little form was wiggling out of the hole on Dream's skull. Blue made Eye-contact with Fresh, but said nothing since it seemed like Dream was aware and didn't mind. He waited until Dream told him to acknowledge the parasite directly, but suddenly a bunch of Dream's weird actions made sense to him. Blue regularly makes sure to check in on Dream, before abd after he's aware of Fresh, because he knows Dream works himself into the ground.

Dream (eventually) figures out that Fresh was being clumsy for his sake and nearly cries about it (even his mother and the villagers never did that for him, and Blue was the only other person to ever pull him away from training for his own good) so he gets a bit emotional. He feels bad for how angry he used to get at Fresh for doing that, but Fresh never gave him a proper explanation either, so it was a two-way street.

And while Fresh was lienent around Blue and Ink, he never slipped up around Nightmare's gang. Though, he did fight seriously, which to him might look like goofing off, which is completely separate from Dream's fighting style. (For now Dream uses Arrows and his Bow, but I'm thinking Tulpa has a T-Shirt Canon or a Nerf Gun by the time they make-up.)

Ideally Fresh cannot be seen during combat because he actually pilots from around Dream's soul, but sometimes his parasite form expands to support Dream's weak joints and act like a shock-absorber.

#utmv #utmv sans #oc #utmv art #utmv oc #my art #spot!drawn #Dreameater au #tulpa #Dream x fresh #fresh x dream #sanscest #<- again technically??? here they're just Strangers dubiously sharing a body tho soooo #anyways #Blue my beloved. he's subtly making sure Dream's alright #but besides being exhausted he's actually better off than he was *befire* fresh so Blue takes that as a good sign #and I love a Dream who is stubborn and has a set routine and expectation who panics and gets a lil #mean when things don't go his way. Golden Child and Prodigey vibes #i'd never project but like... what I wouldn't give to have someone physically stop me from working myself into a fit over #things I can't control 👀#Fresh doesn't care a ton about Dream at this point and his carefulness is more him wanting to keep Dream's soul/vessel in good shape #but that quickly morphs into a protectiveness and care once he realizes just how much strain Dream tries to put on hinself to be perfect #the 'I can fix him' trope but with the character you don't expect (Fresh teaching Dream to value himself as more than a tool)#(even though to Fresh at the start he is *literally* just an asset to Fresh. their dynamic is unhealthy to start but improves later)#dream sans #fresh sans #<- I know neither of them are Sans 😔 itXs just easier to tag like this

90 notes · View notes

miharuhebinata · 11 months ago

Text

you guys really weren't kidding about how fucking good lake mungo is

#i think it just came out above ex machina on my list of favorite movies what the fuckkkkkkkk #technically i need to rewatch ex machina before deciding for sure but either way SUCHHHH A GOOD MOVIE AAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #wait just remembered- i actually read the plot summary on wikipedia a loooooong time ago (but i hardly remembered any of it)#and having reread it just now after finishing the movie oh my GOD it does such a shitty job of conveying just how great this movie is.#what a dull clinical description what the fuck! please if you've ever read it and decided not to watch based on that #PLEASE give it an actual chance it is SO much better than wikipedia makes it seem.#it just doesn't (and CAN'T!) accurately portray just how truly haunting the movie is. a masterclass in how to tell a great ghost story #without relying too much on jumpscares or obviously horrific imagery (imo). just....wow.#and now for some screaming [🚨🚨🚨 brief spoilers incoming 🚨🚨🚨]:#SHE WAS THEREEEEEEE SHE WAS THERE THE WHOLE TIME IN EACH OF THE 'FAKE' PHOTOS/RECORDINGS OH MY GOD #AND EVEN THOUGH I TRIED *SO* HARD TO BE VIGILANT I NEVER SAW HER!!!! AND NEITHER DID THEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!#GOD I DON'T THINK ANY OTHER PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR MOVIE HAS EVER MADE ME FEEL THIS INSANE HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!#ok i'm done. anyway cool movie haha #lake mungo #📺 tag #send tweet

31 notes · View notes

sharffffff · 5 months ago

Text

A betrayal done out of love. It is the worst kind of betrayal one can ever commit, to hurt someone in such a way, to stab them in the back and twist a knife - and not out of hatred, not out of malice, but out of attempt to save them from themselves. Betrayal can be understood when the traitor hates the person they are betraying - whether they hated them the whole time, or have grown resentful of their ways doesn’t matter, for it has become justified in their own eyes through the fact that they can’t stand behind those actions no longer. But betrayal done out of love? One done out of attempt to not let your loved one hurt themself, thus hurting them more than their actions ever could? Such betrayal cannot be forgiven, it cannot be explained, it cannot be justified. And it never works, either, for the spite driving the one who has been betrayed will only make them hurt themself more, rendering the whole thing pointless. Rendering the traitor both devastated through the loss of their friend, and unsuccessful in their plans. Making the rift that is so large, it would take far too long to even begin to repair, requiring time and effort from both parties - and while the traitor might try to fix things, would the betrayed ever be able to trust them again? Would they ever be able to forgive them?

Deep down, Sty knew that this plan would fail. He knew it was a bad idea, he knew it would never work, he knew 4C would hate him for doing it, but he had to try. He just had to try, he had to take the chance to save his fellow pirate from himself, and if he could’ve saved his life even if it cost them their friendship, he would’ve taken that chance. And he did. And he failed. And he failed oh so miserably.

When Gravel suggested trapping 4C, doing everything to keep him safe, protecting him from himself, Sty was hesitant. He felt weird working with his enemy, and he felt weird about this whole plan - he didn’t want 4C dead, but he didn’t want him trapped in a box either. Yes, a nicely decorated box, but an obsidian box nonetheless. But as more time went by, as 4C’s scheduled death began rapidly approaching, Sty’s mind got set on this idea fully. He hated it, he hated the fact that he had to trap his friend in this place, but he felt like he had to do it. There was no other way to protect him. No other way to make sure he would stay alive. And god, Sty just couldn’t lose him. He didn’t know if he could live if 4C was dead. The world just wouldn’t be the same. And so he went through with the plan, despite all the outs 4C tried giving him, despite the fact he knew that 4C knew that he was lying, despite the devastation in 4C’s voice when they approached the trap. Sty knew that his plan was found out long before the slime ended up locked in the room, but he refused to believe it, refused to think that 4C would let him betray his trust like that, refused to accept that his attempt to save him - his betrayal - would be not just found out, but followed through.

So when 4C got locked away, when he got trapped, when he realized that Sty wasn’t going to admit to the betrayal - Sty heard his voice change, he could’ve sworn he saw a glint of anger in his eyes even through the wall, and gods, he never heard 4C that angry before. Even when their ship was burned, even when they lost everything, the slime was rather calm. Yes, calm in his anger, but calm nonetheless. Now, however? Now Sty could feel the anger, the rage, the hatred in waves even through the obsidian walls, he could feel the tension and disappointment and distrust seeping through the cracks, and, worst of all, he could hear the acid in his voice and know that it was directed at him, at the one who betrayed his trust. The one who promised he would never betray him, the one who 4C trusted and who abused his trust. And the one who couldn’t even go in and see him, because of Gravel blocking the way, because of Gravel telling it was for the best. Sty couldn’t even tell him why he did this, he couldn’t even explain how much he cared about him, he couldn’t explain what his death would do to him. But leaving 4C to be alone instead was almost more of the betrayal than this whole box.

And when Sty returned, having gathered all his thoughts, all his explanations in a single book, he could feel that it was already too late. When he broke through despite Gravel’s protests, when he gave the book to 4C, when he tried to get him out - he knew 4C’s plans have already changed. He knew 4C was going to die here, not giving Sty a chance to get him out first, not giving him a chance to apologize, not giving him a chance to react - only watch on, in horror, as it was about to happen. Not knowing how, not knowing when, but knowing that the death would happen soon, and leaving Sty to wonder and to dread. And when 4C didn’t even read the book, when 4C refused to even look Sty in the eyes except to let Sty know just how badly he messed up, when Sty saw 4C’s eyes be even deeper, darker black when they usually are, Sty couldn’t help but feel like the worst person in this world. And maybe at the moment, he was. Because he betrayed his closest friend out of love, out of selfishness, out of wish to protect him but in fact to protect himself from being hurt, and it was all for nothing. Because he knew it was always going to end this way.

And when Apokuna came, the harbinger of death, the slayer of those who wish for it, Sty didn’t even try to get in their way. He knew that it would only make things worse, he knew that he already betrayed 4C once - he couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t save him from death if he wanted it so much, and stopping Apo would’ve felt like yet another betrayal. And so he watched. He felt that if he turned away, when 4C wanted him to see it, that if he broke the eye contact the slime was still keeping with him, he would be even more of a traitor.

It took three strikes. Two slashes and a sword straight through the heart, giving 4C barely any chance to even react. Sty could’ve sworn he saw a shock in 4C’s eyes from how quickly it went - but that couldn’t be it, not with the slime’s confidence in his death. And then Apo left, as quickly as they appeared, leaving Sty all alone in this room before 4C’s body even hit the ground.

And a second later Sty felt his limbs go into motion, barely able to catch him, while almost falling to the ground himself. The slime was gone. Apo knew what he was doing - death being swift and final, no chance for final words, no chance to say goodbye. Sty felt like he didn’t even deserve to be here, he didn’t even deserve to hold 4C’s body after what he has done, didn’t deserve the chance to cry over his loss. Didn’t deserve a chance to say sorry, even if 4C couldn’t hear him. He betrayed him, and he knew he did, and it hurt, it hurt so much. How could he have done it? What overcame him to do such a thing?

Sty could try to justify his actions for as long as needed, but he knew there was no justification for it. And now, 4C would never even have a chance to hear him say it.

“Our time together on this server has meant everything to me, 4C. I just couldn’t let it end. But it ended anyway, didn’t it? It was always going to end this way, and I messed up. We could’ve spent your final moments doing what you wanted to do, and instead you had to spend them in a box. And for that, I’m sorry, though I don’t expect you to forgive me. Goodbye, my friend.”

Sty’s mouth was so dry he could barely speak, and by the time he finished, his tears had run dry as well. This was all his fault. This day went so horribly wrong, and it was all because of him. And knowing this had felt just oh so horrible.

Sty carried 4C’s body out by himself - he couldn’t trust anyone else to bury him, but at this point, he didn’t know if he should even trust himself. Dark blue blood had stained his hands and his clothes, but that was the least of his worries, not after the book he found on 4C’s body while preparing to go out of the box. Not after the book that was clearly written days ago, and now stained with blood - but still having readable text. Not after the book that was dedicated to him, not after the book that spoke of how 4C’s biggest fear was Sty’s betrayal. Not after the book that Sty accidentally had proven right. Not after having fulfilled 4C’s biggest fear on this server, not after the betrayal that was so devastating, nobody involved had been left standing. And now Sty had to bury 4C, alone, while not knowing if he even deserved to do it. And god, it hurt.

It hurt so much, knowing that the future was always set in stone. It hurt so much, knowing that it was always going to happen. It hurt so, so fucking much.

#the line smp #thelinesmp #stystatic #4cvit #<- technically he's only here to die but im nice so ill tag him #oh stystatic you pathetic wet cat #i wonder just what you will do in the following week oh so alone #left to think about your actions; left to think about your betrayal #left to consider just what can you do to make this right while knowing you can never be truly forgiven #i wonder just what you might do out of desperation that follows #i hope things get only worse ^-^#i'm so nice aren't i #i hope yall had a good valentine's day because I sure had a fantastic one!

10 notes · View notes