#the latter is kind of ironic

[queen-ofsunflowers]

Akikoto for bliss 1,4,16,22,23,30,34,39

OTP Asks - Domestic Bliss Edition!

I'm assuming that this is Akihiko and Kotone. Please let me know if I'm wrong, because if so, I'll redo the answers. Either way, here we go!

1. Who’s more likely to put the milk back in the fridge empty?

I can see both of them doing this, but out of the two of them, it's more so Akihiko who leaves it in the fridge more often than Kotone does. When she finds it, she just sighs in disappointment and disposes of the empty container.

4. Do they wash their clothes in the same load or separately?

They find it easier to wash their clothes in separate loads. Akihiko just throws in everything all at once, while Kotone actually takes the time to separate things and wash them according to the instructions like she was taught.

16. Who’s more likely to go over-the-top with decorating for holidays?

It is absolutely Kotone. She goes crazy decorating for the holidays. I'm talking like... she takes an entire day off just to do it. She's having fun with it, and it makes her happy, so Akihiko usually just lets her do her thing.

22. Which partner is the one that forgets to hang up their towel?

Akihiko. He'll leave it on the bathroom floor or on the bedroom floor. Kotone usually just throws it in with the laundry when she finds it and forgets to tell him.

23. Which partner writes love notes in the steam on the mirror?

Kotone! It's usually just little messages for Akihiko from the shower she took last night or if she has to take off for work before him. She's just sweet like that.

30. Who forgets there’s wet laundry in the washing machine and leaves it till it smells funky?

Again, Kotone. It's not her fault that she gets distracted by something else that she forgets that it's in there. It's usually a good idea to remind her that she has wet laundry that needs to be dried before it starts getting to the funky state.

34. How do they divide the chores up? Does each person stick to their agreed job?

When they moved in together, the pair of them sat down and split up the chores based on what they knew they could do and what they were good at doing. They usually tend to stick to their agreed chores, but there are instances where they'll receive a text or call from the other asking if they could do one of their chores for them. Usually, it's because they're sick or busy with work and won't be home until late. The asker usually picks up dinner as compensation.

39. Who’s more likely to lock themselves out?

Akihiko. He broke down the door once because he couldn't get back in, and after both getting his ear pulled by his girlfriend and going through the hassle of replacing the door, he has confined himself to waiting outside until Kotone gets home, or he remembers that there's a spare key in under the mat. Usually it's the former.

[maxwell-grant]

Was kinda interesting watching Aquaman 2 do that thing Hollywood movies do where a villain barks orders in an non-English language to signal to the American audience that they're foreign and scary, except this time the actress doing it was speaking portuguese so I actually understood everything she was saying and it was just weird and abrupt. I guess they just told her to translate and say the lines in her own language but didn't direct her how to adapt the dialogue accordingly, so she ends up just telling the henchmen to pick up a guy in a very stilted formal factual manner while everything's exploding around them, that was kinda funny.

[yeonban]

Tobias (a guy whose n.1 enemy is perpetual boredom and apathy and who has a troubling void in his chest) favoring feisty people who are passionate, expressive and determined in everything they do... Elijah (a guy with no real sense of self) favoring people who go out of their way to highlight themselves as unique... okay guys we get it, you're charmed by those who are what you aren't but would (subconsciously) like to be!

[aroacettorney]

perhaps the reason why aup ended like *that* is because it was not supposed to have a happy ending in the first place, but sayren didnt have the guts to deal with readers' backlash for when they finally kill off the main character so a half baked happy ending is what we get 😔

[plumdale]

I think I’ll be ending my lovewell legacy soon aaah

[moved-to-void-kissed]

Calanthe: "KOS-MOS, look! I got it working!! It's not crashing anymore!!"

Here is my piece for today, which is the twenty-second day of the month! It's, again, just a simple little concept - namely of Calanthe getting excited about a piece of code finally working as it should do, not really expecting too much of a response from KOS-MOS because she isn't particularly loud like that, but.. if Calanthe were just to turn around, she would see how proud KOS-MOS is of her through her expression ^-^

Tag list: @catake | @masterofmasters | @wazzuppy | @cherry-bomb-ships | @call–me–home | @xenobabble | @beeon | @coralward | @crosshairswife | @pandapup | @altamont498 | @mercuryships | @lemonloven (to be tagged in what I make, please see this post!)

Comments on and reblogs of my work are always okay, and appreciated, but are by no means required!~

[d3arapril]

ᡣ𐭩 about time | p.b

part of the invisible string series but can be read as a standalone fic; get up to date here.

paige bueckers x reader word count: 3.9k warnings/tags: 18+ content ahead, one bed trope, friends to lurrverrs, swearing, paige the eater, confessions, paige is down BAD, fingering (r!receiving), tribbing requests welcome and reblogs & feedback appreciated! :*

Paige was a lot of things to you.

A best friend, a teammate, a person to laugh with, a shoulder to cry on. She was probably also the love of your life.

You’d known for the past five years that it was more than friendship for you—how you’d look for her in every room, and how she’d always look for you. That invisible string between you two always seemed to pull you together.

Paige had texted you to ask if you were still planning on coming to camp, to which you swiftly replied with a yes. She mentioned that the two of you would be sharing a bed, a detail that didn't bother you in the slightest. The thought of it filled you with a sense of eager anticipation. Sharing a bed with Paige wasn't a new experience whatsoever, but lately, something had shifted between you.

Every time your eyes met, there was a lingering connection that felt stronger than ever before. Whenever you were around each other, it was as though you were both gradually becoming aware of each other's unspoken feelings bubbling up to the surface.

Now it’s 9 p.m. and you’re in Azzi’s spare room, bag slung over your shoulder as you stare at the single bed you and Paige are supposed to share. The room is small, the kind of room you'd treat more like a storage cupboard than an actual bedroom. The white walls are littered with blue tack stains and faint outlines of long-removed posters, likely from a younger Azzi. A singular desk sits against the wall to the right of you, matching wooden chair tucked neatly underneath it.

The single bed is question is pushed against the left wall, foot of the bed a couple of inches from the small window, cream curtains framing it nicely. The mattress is covered in crisp white sheets that you don't doubt Azzi washed and ironed before you both arrived. Always the good host.

“It’s...” Paige starts from beside you, glancing from you to the bed. “Cozy, I guess?”

“No kidding,” you scoff, pulling out the chair by the desk and dropping your bag onto it. You bend down to undo your laces, “We’re not going to sleep, and we’ll suffer the consequences at Azzi’s camp tomorrow.”

Paige laughs, her smooth legs brushing past you as she sits on the edge of the bed, the white sheets soft against her thighs. “If it bothers you that much, I can sleep on the c—”

“No!” The word bursts out of you, more keen than you intended. Focused on kicking off your shoes, you miss the small, knowing smile tugging at Paige’s lips. She knows you’d never let her do that.

“It’ll be fine. We’ll make it work.”

If making it work meant draping your entire left side over Paige while she was squished against the wall, then sure, it worked out fine. The warmth of her body against yours was almost too much to handle. She didn’t seem to mind, not that she ever would.

“Can I ask you something?” Paige’s voice cuts through the silence, the only light in the room coming from the small desk lamp on the desk across the room, orange light filling the room just enough for you to make out the features on Paige's face you've grown so fond of.

“You just did,” you reply, fingers tapping a random rhythm on your stomach to distract yourself from the feeling of her heartbeat against your bicep.

You can almost hear her roll her eyes as she ungracefully manoeuvres onto her side, propping her head up with an arm. “You’re not funny.”

Part of you wants to turn and tell her that your love for her is all-consuming, but the other part of you knows you need to sleep. You opt for the latter.

“What are we doing?” Paige opts for the former.

You frown, still lying flat on your back, breath hitching in your throat. “What?”

“C’mon, you know what.”

You turn to face her, mirroring her position. She casts a glance at your form covered by the white duvet. Both her gaze and proximity put you on edge, your knees knocking together underneath the covers as you get comfortable on your left side.

You’ve been this close before, several times, but it’s never felt like this—like there’s an electric current flowing between you, ready to spark if you get any closer.

She studies your lips, then meets your eyes. “We’ve known each other for how long?”

“Seven years, maybe?” Your voice is barely a whisper.

“And you think I can’t read you like a book?” She’s smiling now, that stupid look on her face you’ve seen one too many times.

You roll your eyes, avoiding her gaze and looking down at the now wrinkled sheets. Warm fingertips press against your chin, tipping your head up so Paige can look you in the eyes.

“When can we stop faking this?” Your eyes widen at her question, bottom lip pulled between your teeth. “How much longer do we have to pretend we don’t feel”—she gestures between you, hand slicing through the small space separating you—“this?”

A smile cracks across your face, a breathy laugh escaping you. Her fingertips slide across your face until your cheek rests in her palm. Her thumb brushes gently across the apple of your cheek, bringing heat to your face despite the cool air in the room.

“Paige,” you breathe out, eyes fluttering closed as you lean into her touch. “We shouldn’t do this now.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?” Her head tilts as if to say, Really?

“Yeah, but ideally not in Azzi’s spare room?” You laugh, trying to lighten the mood. She pulls her hand away and flops onto her back, but before you can react, she tugs you with her and you land across her chest with your chin resting awkwardly in her armpit. The swell of her breasts against yours is all you can feel and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to calm your nerves.

“I think you do want to talk about it,” she says, looking down at you now, chin tucked into her neck as she stares at your unmoving form on her chest. “You’re just chicken.”

That gets a reaction from you. You turn your head to her, scowling. “You know I’m not chicken.”

“Prove it.”

Before you can overthink it, your body reacts instinctively. You shift on top of her until you’re straddling her hips, your face inches from hers, noses practically touching. The heat radiating from her skin envelops you, your breaths mingling.

“Oh, hello,” she teases, nose scrunching.

“Just kiss me,” you breathe out, tone desperate. “Please.”

Paige pauses, heart skipping in her chest. "I've been tryna hear you say that for so long."

You swallow hard, hand that was holding you up lifting from beside her head to push back the blonde strands across her face. It all feels too intimate too quickly, yet you crave more.

"Wish I said it sooner," your voice trembles as you speak.

Without wasting any more time, Paige leans up and presses her lips against yours. She kisses you with a purpose, head tilting and bottom lip dragging against yours like she'd been practicing for this exact moment. When her tongue prods at your bottom lip, you welcome it, deepening the kiss. You bring a hand up to rest on the crown of her head, fingernails lightly scratching at her scalp.

Paige’s hands find home on your hips, squeezing gently. When you experimentally pull at her roots, she whines in the back of her throat, fingers pressing deeper into your skin.

You both stay like that for a while, lost in each other as you messily kiss, tongues and teeth clashing. Paige pulls back first to catch her breath, a delicate string of saliva connecting you. She darts her tongue out to lick it away, panting into the cool air of the room. The sight sends a shiver down your spine.

“Knew you’d be good,” she says to herself more than anything, cheeks flushed. “Will you let me do something?”

You’re struggling to catch your breath, chest heaving as your hands flatten across her own to push yourself upright.

“Whatever you want, please.”

Her hands slide down your hips to the waistband of your pajama shorts, toying with the blue frills. “Cute,” she teases as she tugs them down, impatient as always.

You place a hand on the cool wall to help keep your balance as you ungracefully shuffle your shorts down and off your legs until they’re hanging around your right ankle. You hurriedly bring a trembling hand to the waistband of your underwear, eager to finally see her put that tongue she can’t ever seem to keep in her mouth to use, but she stops you with a click of it.

“You’re shaking,” she observes, eyebrow raised as she studies your digits. “Relax, it’s me.”

A frown graces your features as you realize how much you’re shaking. You nod, forcing yourself to let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Yeah, sorry.”

“You want this?” She’s looking up at you again, blonde locks splayed around her head on the white sheets. She looks like an angel, fitting because you think she might actually send you to heaven in the next ten minutes.

“Please,” the word comes out as a pathetic whimper, and it’s all Paige needs to hear before she shuffles up the bed and gestures for you to lay down. You do exactly as she asks, head half-hanging off the end of the bed, watching as she positions herself flat on her stomach between your legs.

“Been wanting this for so long, you know that, right?” Her breath is hot against your clit, making your thighs jump. “Can’t tell you how bad I need this.”

A slim finger sneaks its way between your legs, the tip tracing the outline of your pussy clinging to the damp cotton.

“Know you need it too, huh?”

Without giving you a second to respond, Paige dips her head down and places a chaste kiss on your clit through the sodden fabric of your underwear. You swear you hear her moan in the back of her throat as her eyes flutter closed, long lashes flickering across the tops of her cheeks.

She does it two, three more times until you’re whimpering, hand reaching down to pet at her head until she gets the idea and holds your panties to the side. She wastes no time, licking your clit into her mouth and sucking with fervor. It knocks you for a loop, legs drawing up to curl in on yourself, but Paige is quick to catch them, keeping you flat to the bed.

She switches between long, drawn-out sucks and skittering her tongue across your clit, the combination making you see stars, eyes fighting to stay open and arms threatening to give way as you hold yourself up to watch her take you apart.

“Please,” you whimper, not sure what you’re asking for, but Paige seems to know exactly what it is.

“Want my fingers?” Her voice is muffled against your pussy, hooded eyes glancing up at you as she takes you all in—nipples hard underneath your tank, a sweating, panting mess. All because of her. “You need 'em, yeah?”

You practically sob out a yes, and Paige is back to it, the hand not holding your panties to the side coming up to rub through the messiness of your pussy.

“Damn, pussy really needed this, huh?” She teases, and normally you'd hit back at her with a smart ass response but the feeling of her tongue peeking out to lick at your clit again keeps you quiet, head tipping to rest on your shoulder as you get lost in the feeling. You feel yourself gush at that, and she does too, the sensation on her fingers making her blush.

She strokes her fingers through your folds before sliding two straight in to the last knuckle, giving you no time to adjust before curving them inward once, twice until you’ve got both hands fisted in her hair and your head falls down to your chest, unable to keep yourself up. The heel of her hand presses into your clit as she finally starts fucking you properly, alternating between curving her fingers and full on fucking them in and out of you, wet noises from your pussy growing louder and sloppier with each thrust of her fingers.

Your panties are still on, pushed to the side and completely soaked from the mess of her and you. They're no issue for Paige though as she leans back in to suck at your clit again, the pleasure building up inside of you until you're gasping, arms giving way as your head tips back over the end of the bed, hips grinding up into her face.

"Fuck," your voice is hoarse, pitch higher than normal as the girl below you devours you. "Paige, fuck- please, you're gonna make me cum."

Paige nods against you, fingers somehow speeding up. She doesn't let up, head shaking against you as she laps against your clit and it all happens at once - you're cumming before you can even warn her.

You're still somewhat aware of your surroundings so you slap a hand over your mouth as you moan and whine into it, unintelligible words and cries of her name. Uncontrollable tears fall from your eyes dripping into your hair from the angle you're currently in because you don't think you've cum that hard- ever.

Paige rides it out with you, slowing her fingers and tongue until you're a writhing mess. She pulls away and sucks your juices off her fingers, and although you don't see it, the sound alone is enough to make you whimper.

"Fuck me," she's panting as she crawls up your body, wet fingers cupping behind your neck to bring you back to reality. She gets a good look at you; eyes red and teary, lips swollen. "That good?"

"That good." you echo, eyes heavy as you try to ignore the dizziness behind your eyes.

She licks into your mouth and you moan into her, tongue tasting of you. "Pussy's good," she murmurs against your lips, eyes heavy as she pulls back from you slightly. "You hiding that from me for this long?"

"It was always yours, Paige."

That's enough to make her moan; it's deep, vibrating in her chest. She moves down to grab your hips and tugs you down the bed, hands slipping under your tank.

"Wanna see."

It's not a question.

You don't think twice as you lift up and tug the thin cotton over your head, tossing it to the floor. When you're busy fighting the fabric off your body, you feel her slide your soaked panties down your legs and chuck them haphazardly onto the floor. You make mental note to ensure you watch her do it next time.

Like it's a reflex, her hands glide up your stomach and squeeze at your tits, rolling your nipples between her fingertips. The sensation makes you whine, hands gripping at her black t-shirt. The feeling of the cotton against your palms makes you frown, "Why are you still wearing this?"

"Take it off me then," she challenges and you pull the material up her torso and she does the rest, shirt joining your tank in a pile on the floor. She's clad in a grey sports bra, Nike boxers riding up her waist.

"These too, P." You tug at the elastic, snapping it back against her skin.

"You tryna get me naked?" she teases, sitting up and tucking her thumbs into the material and pulling them down and off her legs. You'd be surprised if you didn't have actual hearts for pupils from the way you're looking at her. She's a sight for sore eyes, v line on her stomach prominent, leading down to her smooth pussy. Her legs are strong, toned muscles peeking out beneath her skin from where they hold her up above you.

Paige amusedly watches you watching her, hands on her hips as she waits for you to finish whatever inner monologue you had going on.

"You good?" she's laughing, and you can't help but laugh too.

"I just-" you start, covering your eyes in attempt to contain yourself. "You're just so fucking hot."

Paige rolls her eyes and pushes you flat to the bed, settling between your thighs.

"You're so corny."

You shrug, unashamed. Paige smiles down at you, moving so she's slotted between your legs and one of them is hiked up against her, your calf resting against her shoulder.

"This okay?" she asks, hand stroking against your thigh.

"Yeah," you breathe out, eyes trained on her.

She moves forward and the feeling of your pussy against hers makes her suck in a sharp breath between her teeth, eyebrows furrowing as she lowers down and feels how wet you still are against her own pussy.

"Shit," she mumbles, head tilting down so she can watch where your pussies meet, hips shifting. "Feels so good."

She starts a slow roll of her hips, clit bumping against yours. Her mouth hangs open, heavily breathing as she stares down at where you both meet. You're still sensitive from earlier; choked, high pitched whines leave your throat as your toes curl, legs threatening to shut as your thighs shake.

"So wet."

She's dripping too, the both of you sliding against each other, noises echoing throughout the room as she picks up speed.

Paige is a mess above you, blonde hair stuck to her forehead, eyes squeezed shut as she focuses on the feeling. "I think I'm gonna cum," she moans, blunt nails digging into your leg.

"Please," you encourage her, finger nails scratching down her abs as she rocks into you faster.

It's almost embarrassing how quickly she falls apart, her body shaking and jerking as she cums, release leaking out onto your pussy as she ruts into you. "Fuck," she's moaning into your calf, nose squished and forehead pressed against it as she rides it out. "I love you, oh-fuck."

You're not sure if she realises what she's said but it's enough to make you cum shortly after her, clit grinding against yours just enough to take you there again, softly moaning her name as you fight to keep your eyes open to watch her get lost in her own pleasure.

It takes a couple of minutes for her to gather herself, hips slowing and chest heaving as she opens an eye to peek down at you. "Did you-"

"I did," you laugh breathily, shaking hands stroking up and down her tense stomach. "D'you mean it?"

"What?"

"That you love me."

"Oh," she purses her lips as she gently moves your leg from her shoulder, tiredly flopping down onto your chest. "Yeah."

She speaks into your chest, eyes threatening to close. "Think we both knew that though."

You chuckle, shoulders shaking as you stroke a hand across the backs of her shoulders, other hand stroking at the now wild mess of hair on her head. "I think I might love you too, for the record."

You feel her smile against your chest, lifting up slightly to press a kiss to the swell of your breast.

"Think I knew that too."

You both lay in silence for a while, room filled with the sounds of both of your breathing and the odd noise from outside. The house is quiet, thankfully, and you pray you were both quiet enough to not disturb anybody inside. You cast a glance up to the small clock above the bedroom door, eyes widening when you notice the time.

"Paige," you nudge her shoulder and she groans in response, half asleep. "Fucking wake up."

She lifts her head off your chest, one eye open lazily. "What?"

"We've got to be up for camp in four hours."

You're both groggy in the morning, dark circles and slumped shoulders sat at the dining table. Azzi, on the other hand, is a striking opposite to the both of you, well rested and full of energy.

"Sleep well?" she teases, back facing the both of you as she dispenses ice from the freezer.

"Bed's too small," Paige huffs, head slumped against your shoulder. "Couldn't get comfortable."

"Yeah I bet," Azzi spins around and leans her back against the counter, taking a sip from her water. "Did my childhood bedroom bring you guys together then, or...?"

You almost spray your own mouthful of water across the table, Paige laughing as she pats your back whilst you cough and splutter.

"Yeah-" you heave, rubbing at your chest. "You could say that."

Paige shrugs, sliding out of the chair and walking around to stand behind you, chin pressed to the crown of your head. It's something she's done a thousand times, but now it feels more intimate, especially as she places a kiss to the top of your head. A small smile finds its way onto your lips.

"Damn," Azzi raises her eyebrows, bottom lip pulling between her teeth to hide her growing smile. "About time is all I can say."

She slides past the two of you and goes to leave the room, turning back just before she heads towards the stairs. "Be ready in fifteen, guys!"

You crane your neck up to look at Paige who, if you hadn't known better, you would assume she hadn't had a wink of sleep from the state of her.

"What?" she catches you smirking at her, hand coming up to pinch at the apple of your cheek.

"You look like shit." you deadpan, laughing as her hands come up beside her, feigning innocence.

"Not my fault," she leans into your ear, whispering. "Pussy so good it kept me up all night."

You playfully shove her away from you, heat rising up to your cheeks as you watch her bite her tongue between her teeth, teasing.

"None of that today," you laugh, rising from your seat. Your hands run down your shorts, flattening out the creases. "We have to be good role models, plus, we can't let Azzi down."

"Oh I know," she responds, arm looping over your shoulder. "Can't let 'em know my girlfriend has me like this, huh?"

The G word startles you and you turn to look at her. "Girlfriend?"

"Yeah," she shrugs, hand on your shoulder squeezing slightly. "Think it suits you, no?"

You pause, the word reverberating in your mind. "Girlfriend," you repeat, testing it out like you'd just learnt the word. "I like the sound of that."

Paige's eyes soften, turning so she's facing you and she drops her hands to your waist, finding their way underneath your shirt. Her thumbs rubs gentle circles against the bare skin there.

"I meant it, by the way." she's sincere, voice lowering slightly to get away from any possible prying ears around the house. "I do love you. Feels crazy to say but," she pauses, "Yeah. I do."

You feel your heat swell. "I think I love you too, funnily enough."

That gets you a pinch on your side, Paige scoffing at your response. She presses a soft kiss to your forehead, pulling back from you and heading towards the stairs.

"Come on," she calls, skip in her step. "We've got some kids to teach."

You follow after her, tiredness quickly forgotten.

Azzi was right. It was about time.

[koenigami]

➵ WRIOTHESLEY

synopsis : sometimes all it takes is a little push from a little melusine wc : 1,3k tags : fem!reader, fluff, comfort, reader and wrio had an argument

“He’s in a bad mood.” “Did something happen?” “Was it an inmate?” “She left the fortress in a haste.” “Someone heard them arguing. She looked hysterical.” “Oh-oh. A fight?” “Shit, not again.”

The respect that Wriothesley earns himself stems from different kinds of people and different kinds of emotions. Some of them look up to him and his generosity while others are easily intimidated solely by his presence. Usually, the latter ones simply have not had the chance yet to get to know the Duke better. Otherwise they would realise that behind that cool and brutish exterior lies just a guy who likes order and tea. 

However, there is one specific circumstance that will have even Sigewinne lower her head when passing by his Grace’s office. 

“Do you know what they were arguing about?” The little Melusine has been asking around for a while now, looking for eyewitnesses, and writing down every piece of information as if she was solving a scandalous case. She knows very well that as rough as he may seem, Wriothesley is only human. A human madly, truly in love with none other than Fontaine’s top attorney with whom the Fortress of Meropide is in constant correspondence due to work related matters. 

Sigewinne nervously bites the top of her pen as she returns to her infirmary. The taste of plastic makes her grimace in disgust and look at the writing utensil with annoyance as if it had insulted her. She sighs.

It’s been a week since you hurried out of Wriothesley’s office, furiously stomping towards the elevator and staring down everyone and anyone who dared to cross your path. One week worth of missing documents that have not been sent in by you. One week worth of paperwork that has yet to be completed by Wriothesley. (Which is oddly ironic since that man has not left his office ever since your argument.)

Love will make the sanest person go mad, whether it’s in a good or a bad way. And so all Sigewinne can do right now is think about a way to make the both of you come back to your senses. But how? It’s not like either you or Wriothesley are at her beck and call, and will simply meet up just because she asked you so. Despite the emotional agony that you’re going through right now, you’re both way too stubborn for that.

Agony.

Unless…

~

“Where is he?!” Your voice echoes through the hall as you rush into Sigewinne’s infirmary. That was fast, she thinks. 

She almost feels a little bad when she notices the glimmer in your eyes and your laboured breathing. It’s for everyone’s sake, she reminds herself. 

“He should get here soon.” 

“B-But Neuvilette told me-” A poisoned tea. Those were the news that the Iudex had apparently received from one of the Melusines, and forwarded them to you. You don’t know all the details. You left your office as soon as you got to know that Wriothesley was currently unconscious due to a prisoner who had spiked his afternoon tea. 

Now you’re here, but he’s not and it’s making you even more agitated. “Sigewinne, where is he? Is he alright? Are you hiding something from me?”

“Y/n?” At first you feel his hands all over you before you even get to see him. Wriothesley delicately holds your head, turning it left and right before his hands move to your arms and then lower to your own hands. They’re shaking the slightest bit as he holds them up to his lips, pressing sweet kisses along your fingertips. His blood boils and he clenches his jaw at the simple thought of some low lives being the cause of your current state. 

It’s your turn to inspect him from head to toe now. His hair is a mess, all dishevelled while his pale skin makes you fear that he might just topple over any second. Your body moves before you know it, as you push him towards one of the few beds in the infirmary. “Wriothesley, shouldn’t you be in bed? When did you even wake up?” 

Wake… up? 

“Do you know if the potion will have any long term effects on you?” Despite having him right in front of you, obviously well and not on his deathbed, your heart still feels like it is about to burst from your ribcage. As soon as the news had reached you, you dropped everything. Any documents that you had to write and read through, any meetings with clients and other employees of the Palais Mermonia- 

None of them mattered anymore. All of a sudden, everything seemed so insignificant when there was the uncertainty if you’d ever be able to hear Wriothesley’s voice. Hear him sigh in tiredness before humming with the delight at the taste of his freshly brewed tea.

The simple thought of the possibility of him never waking up again, depriving you from the chance to get another glimpse of his breathtaking eyes. It was enough to get your tear ducts working and your eyes pricking as you hurried to see him as soon as possible.

“Archons, you should really lie down. You don’t look-”

Your mouth falls silent, because you can almost hear the screeching sound of the turning clockworks inside Wriothesley’s brain. It ends up worrying you even more. 

He scrutinises you, lets his gaze travel around the room only to notice that you’re alone now. Only you two. No Sigewinne. 

Sigewinne…

“You have not been attacked today, have you?” Deep blue eyes inspect your body again. Just to make sure, even though he more or less knows that all of this has to be a scheme. 

“No one robbed you? No treasure hoarders, right?” 

He watches your eyes widen, brows furrow before you shake your head. Of course. 

Why else would you believe that he’s comatose? Why else would he believe that you’ve been beaten to a pulp, and robbed off your most precious belongings? Why if not because of Sigewinne? 

“What’s wrong?” You ask cautiously, and you notice now too that one person is missing. 

And it’s only when Wriothesley explains to you that, in fact, there has never been tea nor poison, or at least not any kind of combination of those two. He has never been unconscious, and neither have you been hurt. But what did happen was that the both of you have been led on. Deceived.

And that by none other than the head nurse herself. 

“I can’t believe she pulled off something like that. You looked so awful, I actually thought you were sick.”

“Love, that’s because I was worried sick!” Wriothesley exclaims and exhales a huge breath when you bury your face in the crook of his neck. His arms open and instinctively wrap around you, fingers digging into your hips. And it feels good. So, so good because it’s been way too many days since you’ve held each other like this. 

And, god damn, did he miss it. 

A thought crosses his mind. How your last interaction had been a silly argument. Petty remarks and poisonous words spewed at each other, induced by nothing else but your egos. 

All of it is so insignificant now that you both are in each other’s embrace, and that you’re both fine and unharmed. 

So Wriothesley promises himself to apologise to you later, inhale your scent, brush his fingers through your hair all while showing you how much the few days that you have been apart affected him. Because none of those things should be taken for granted. Because another day with you is not promised but his love for you is.

But first. You both have a bone to pick with a certain Melusine. 

[sukirichi]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐁𝐘𝐄 | 𝐆. 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

In a world filled with too much cash and flashing lights, will a solemn and ironically private relationship of a celebrity chef and wealthy socialite branded as star crossed lovers remain full of adoration and sincerity?

cw. fem! reader. celebrity chef! reader. gojo is insanely rich. angst. unedited. suggestive (they make out and is implied to sleep together, but no explicit scenes are shown.) hurt with a little bit of comfort.

notes. i can’t explain it but there’s just something about this fic i’m not completely satisfied with... i feel like i could’ve written it better LOL but also i just wanted to write something casual

wc. 17k

divider from saradika-graphics <3

Contrary to what people may say, Satoru knows he’s worked hard to get where he is.

The silent yet sharp-tongued man whose mere sound of his shoes stepping in the hallway sent his employees rushing inside their cubicles with fear. Belonging to the top tier of society as a result of being born wealthy and powerful, his name was enough to have people’s knees quivering of what the young heir was capable of.

He had the world at the mercy of his hands.

His icy blue eyes were empty, cold, and relentless – a stark contrast to his angelic features that fooled people. With his face pasted on almost every magazine, and companies vying for his attention left and right, journalists begging for a five minute interview, it was no brainer the importance of Gojo Satoru. And with his looks that had every man and woman stumbling before his very feet, the line between angel and devil blurred thinner.

You see, being born a God in front of everyone’s eyes was not as easy as it seemed. Tabloids always spread fake rumors claiming the young heir did not deserve to handle his family’s group of companies due to the fact he didn’t even graduate college. Or that was too scandalous for his own good to keep up a good reputation. As someone who holds major stockholders in the mercy of his will, everyone expected better.

Satoru scoffed at it all. To him, those were nothing but measly words.

He was the Gojo Satoru. He could do whatever he wanted, however he pleased, and all the world could do about it was complain. Such rumors (albeit ringing with truth) did not affect his life whatsoever.

Still, it doesn’t come as a surprise to him how uncultured people preferred other companies to be on top of the food chain – like Zen’in Corp, or Kamo Inc. They had far better reputations (ha, Satoru thought sarcastically), and were more well-liked by Japan. Satoru knows better though. No one is truly kind when they had enough wealth to claim the world as their own. Naoya Zen’in’s smile was as natural as his blonde streaks, and Noritoshi Kamo wasn’t even the company’s real heir. The latter was a bastard, and the former an attention seeker.

At least Satoru was honest and did not put on any facades of being a good man. He knew he was not.

The other men were greedy, always ready to pounce at every opportunity to have another digit added to their bank account, their expensive colognes successfully hiding the stench of their evil nature and their perfectly chiseled features resembling those of a seductive demon’s. Satoru was not surprised that he was born in a castle that resembled hell. Though it does not bother him anymore, he used to be saddened by the fact that he had been close with them in his youth. They spent their days spent chasing each other in the garden and pulling the trigger of water guns mercilessly, but all that was forgotten when each of them were groomed into perfection, just waiting to see who would take over the throne and who would end up as subordinates.

A battle which Satoru won without breaking a sweat.

And just like that, friendships dissolved. Men who he once called his comrades became his rivals in the industry.

Being the eldest of the three, their blood boiled when the official announcement came: Gojo Satoru had officially been stated as the new president of the Gojo Group of Companies.

It was not an easy competition. The bond between friends were soon replaced with greed and hatred for each other. Both Naoya and Noritoshi were ready to rip him apart at every mistake he made, but they did not know how fortunate they were. While they spent weekends overseas in cruise ships with flutes of champagne delicately nestled between their fingers, fucking every pair of tits with walking legs, Satoru locked himself in an office at the young age of eighteen. Whilst everyone savored the flavor of youth, he was forced to make the wisest decisions when it came to business. And little by little piece, his humanity had shattered until it was destroyed completely.

Gone was the cheerful boy who always spent too much time playing with his dogs and not minding that his latest Gucci pyjamas had been stained with grass. In fact, he did not even remember that side of him existed at all.

That at one point in his life, he’d been a normal boy with a normal childhood – before the weight of the world wore him down.

Glancing sideways at his security team, the head guard, Toji, nodded and commanded something through his radio. All the guards dispersed and made way for him. In a matter of a minute, the employees who were walking aimlessly in his hallway had scrambled in their offices. Sighing tiredly, Satoru rolled his eyes. Toji opened the doors for him as he stepped out, the dull, gray exterior of the spacious room feeling like home more than anything else.

His secretary, Mei-Mei, bowed politely at him and handed him his caffė macchiato. His fingers reached for the cup before facing the glass walls. Beneath him, the entirety of Tokyo lay pulsing at his feet. With one scoop of his hands and a simple word uttered through his lips, he knew he could take everything. And he could if he wanted to, but such was the dilemma of having everything.

Satoru Gojo desired for nothing at all.

“This,” his father once said at the twelve year old him, his hand sweeping from the exact same place he stood in. “will all be yours soon, my son. You have the world in the mercy of your hands.”

The hot beverage burned his tongue. He reeled back, biting at his tongue in the process of soothing it as he listened to Mei-Mei list his agenda for today. He had just gotten home from Beijing less than an hour ago, and he couldn’t even sleep on the flight because he was swarmed with paperwork and a hundred more proposals to accept. Yet the exhaustion does not show on his face. In fact, there was a not a trace of it. His face remained blemish free and healthy thanks to the dermatologists who always gave him free treatments in exchange of endorsing them – which he never did.

Raising his chin high, he peeked past his shoulder to look at Mei-Mei, who had her tablet tucked in her armpit, silently awaiting his response. “Alert the Board of an emergency meeting within ten minutes, and I want Mr. Ijichi to bring me the real sales report regarding the Wangguo Resort for the past five months.”

Mei-Mei’s gasp is barely audible. Satoru knew his request was absurd, but it was her job to do everything he told her to. If she didn’t, well, the answer was clear as day. She could say goodbye to her lovely job.

Turning his back to her, Satoru scanned his nails lazily. He needn’t worry about anything. He knew Mei-Mei would always do what was needed at the price. But – his eyes narrowed – he was in desperate need of another manicure. Hours spent typing and calculating sales had chipped them, and he had to keep his appearance of a perfect man who had his life together. After all, he was Satoru Gojo – the flawless one. The god walking amongst humans. He could never quite tell when there were cameras ready to catch him off-guard, but he’d never risk that chance.

He had to be without fault.

“An emergency meeting?” Mei-Mei stumbled over her words, chuckling nervously as she swiped at her tablet, looking for a reason as to why he would ask her to do such a thing. Satoru nodded, fully aware that most of the members on the Board were in different provinces out to do their job, but he was the most powerful person in that building.

Nothing was impossible for him. His wishes were the law.

“What for, Sir?”

He slapped a red envelope with a golden seal down his desk, eyes forming into slits. Mei-Mei cowered under his gaze. “When I went to Beijing to check the status of our hotel, I found out that there had been issues regarding maintenance and plumbing reported for five months now, and no one told me about it? I run a five star hotel that exceeds the expectations of even royals, and I won’t forgive this treachery. According to the hotel staff, their supervisor had told them to keep the complaints confidential because they didn’t want me to know there’d been issues in the first place.”

Though he spoke smoothly and did not even stutter or waver the least bit, Mei-Mei had known him long enough to know that even the slightest twitch from his eyes meant he was furious.

This wasn’t the first time your brothers had tried to take whatever was yours in their possession, but the sales report of that hotel had been forged and the Board was aware, yet they did not inform you in fear of what your brother could have done to them.

This wasn’t the first time his staff had kept secrets from him. They all piled up until it became too big to ignore, and then Satoru had to step in. Seriously. Was he a joke to them?

“No, I take it back,” he said suddenly, plastering on a fake smile at his oblivious assistant who tried her best to conceal her relief. After all, Mei-Mei too had been tired with the amount of workload he gave her, but if she wanted remain as a woman with deep pockets, she just had to turn his wishes into reality. “Fire all members of the Board, and blacklist them. Make sure no local or foreign company will ever hire them, but because I am a man of mercy, they can still be hired as waiters or janitors.”

Mei-Mei’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, and it looked so comical Satoru would’ve laughed if he knew how to.

Instead, he smoothened out invisible creases from his three piece suit before sitting down, the harsh yet familiar blue light of his Mac desktop greeting him. His fingers skirted along the keyboard in the speed of light, and from his calm state, you would have guessed nothing happened, but this could be his downfall.

He’d always been warned to keep his temper in check, to think things through before coming to a final decision, but why would he?

If his own people would not respect him, then he wasn’t required to return the gesture. After all, he didn’t need them as much as they needed him. He could easily replace the figures making up the Board. But he was the president, the man who made those lazy, fat fucks rich. They had gotten too comfortable with their positions, and he needed to show them that he still held their lives on the line.

That ought to teach them a lesson.

“Sir, please reconsider this and don’t make decisions compulsively. The Board plays a big role in our company–”

“Tell me, Mei-Mei, is a King only considered a king when he has people to serve him?”

She falters for a bit, her eyes watching him cautiously. Satoru leant forward the slightest bit, the black glasses framing his face in a way he looked almost innocent. But the coldness of his eyes were enough of a telltale that he was not someone to be messed with. Aggravation and mirth danced in them almost mockingly. He could read her perfectly – this secretary of his. He’s not stupid; he knows she hates him. And why wouldn’t she? No one liked Gojo Satoru. He was mean, ruthless, and invalidated everyone who he deemed ‘lower’ than him. And yet, he hadn’t met a single person to prove him wrong.

The truth is that no one was as capable of doing things the way Satoru did.

He was the smartest person she’d ever met to the point it was frightening. Satoru always had a solution to whatever situation, with countless of secrets and tricks hidden under his sleeve. And he wasn’t as awful as everyone said he was. Yes, he was ruthless, that much Mei-Mei could admit, but only to everyone who deserved it.

Anyone who didn’t do their job right, or abused their power wouldn’t escape Gojo Satoru’s wrath. Call him a demon, or the devil’s son, but Mei-Mei saw him more of a judge who brought justice and punishment to those who did wrong.

Satoru leant back against his chair, satisfied with her answer before dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “A king remains powerful when his kingdom is omnipotent. I’m glad you understand that now,” he said, head snapping up as he remembered something. “Oh, and don’t forget to schedule a dinner with the others tonight at that new restaurant everyone has been crazing about.”

Mei-Mei nods, pressing ‘cancel’ to the rest of his agenda for the night. She made a mental note to call the restaurant ahead of time to tell them to reserve the place all for Mr. Gojo. Taking one last look at him, Mei-Mei realizes that if she wants to keep working with the devil, she had to stay on their good side.

“I’m not doing it.”

“Boss,” Yuuji whines, pouting as he holds your hands and shakes them in an attempt to make you reconsider. You merely scoff, freeing yourself from the younger one’s grip with a glare. “They said they’ll pay us handsomely if we reserve the whole restaurant for just the night, and I’m afraid we’ll close down if we don’t do what they tell us to. It’s not just anyone, you know. It’s the Gojo Satoru.”

You looked at him disapprovingly before resuming your task of cutting vegetables. “Our shop won’t close,” you reply confidently, “We only take reservations per table, not for the whole restaurant. They should eat somewhere else, I don’t care about the money.”

Of course you knew who Gojo Satoru was – everyone did. It was kind of hard not to know the guy when the entirety of Japan had been in love with him from the moment he was born. That wasn’t an exaggeration, either, because people actually had photos of the heir from when he was still a baby. ‘Such a beautiful boy,’ they cooed upon the sight of his stark-white hair. And when he finally opened his eyes, it was done for – the young Gojo Satoru had everyone wrapped around his finger before he even babbled his first words. So yes, you knew perfectly well who he was, and that was exactly why you didn’t like him.

For such a popular man, his reputation was anything but good.

You didn’t want him anywhere near you, or the restaurant you shed blood, sweat, and tears to build.

You were the newest celebrity chef the world crazed over. Not only were your dishes to die for, but your looks caught the crowd’s attention, too. Pair your introverted, awkward personality with your endless charm shown in your dishes, you quickly rose to fame. Tabloids and magazines alike starved to get a taste of your dishes – a glimpse of you, even. With the latest opening of your new restaurant in the city, people have been coming in endlessly, wanting to see the infamous chef for themselves behind the kitchen.

Yeah, you wouldn’t let that happen.

Unfortunately for the media, you would rather hide behind the kitchen doors than have to go through another dreadful interview. Apart from a few pictures taken by the paparazzi and endless praises from your customers in your skills in cooking, you remained a mystery – something you’d prefer to keep.

Having Gojo Satoru and his ‘peers’ over would completely ruin that.

As much as you loved your career, knowing you made money doing what you loved, you detested the attention it came with being associated with the rich. One day, you were elbow-deep in your dishes, and then you were suddenly being invited to the most pretentious social events. Wealthy people roamed around, content with making the price tags of their clothes their personalities. You didn’t mind at first. It was exhilarating, even, to be thrown into a world so different from the one you were born into. But after one gathering where three wealthy men offered to hire you as their personal chef, and promised extra pay for ‘special services’, you left that world behind.

You swore not to be involved with the socialites anymore, even if it meant more success for your future. You cared less about the money anyway – you were confident in your skills enough to know you could pave your way with your own hands. You would never accept money from their deep, dirty pockets.

 “Boss, you need to see this!” Yuuji whispered harshly, tugging you by the apron. You grumbled upon being separated from your chopping board, but his words fell on deaf ears as you both watched the customers clamor in excitement, phones being pulled out of their pockets. Soon enough, your restaurant drowned with flashing lights, and an equally blinding smile from the tall man who entered, his cheeks flushed from all the attention. “Holy shit. He looks even hotter in person.”

Thankful that you had your contacts on, you could see the scene before you clearly.

The people rose from their seats, eager to have a picture taken with Japan’s most beloved. His security team immediately formed a protective circle around him when the people clamored, the Gojo heir apologizing because he didn’t allow pictures. He claimed tonight was a special night, and he merely wanted to have a private dinner with his childhood friends.

Oh, fucking great. He’s bringing others here, too?

As if the situation couldn’t get any worse, two, black and sleek cars pulled up into the driveway. Naoya Zen’in stepped out of the car, shades propped on his tall nose as he smirked at the cameras already being flashed his way. From the other car appeared Noritoshi Kamo, his lips pressed into thin lines while blatantly ignoring the chaos ensued from their mere presence.

Your eye twitched. You could feel a migraine coming already.

To say you feel enraged would be an understatement. You pushed past your crew with a stormy expression, prepared to tell these stuck-up elites to go visit another restaurant. Was it really that hard to give you peace? You never accepted their reservation to begin with. However, you didn’t make it very far when you felt a strong hand grasp your arm.

“Boss, please hold yourself back, it’s just a dinner they’re asking for. If you intervene now, this could cause a public commotion,” Yuuji glances at the three men from the corner of his eye before warning you, “They’re not people you can mess with.”

Soon enough, his former customers had dispersed out peacefully with the assistance of the family’s security team, and he grits his teeth in an attempt to contain his anger for pretentious people like them, watching as they occupied an empty table. One of the waiters approached them nervously, three menus in her hands and she’s about to hand them out when the eldest looking one spoke irritatingly.

You huffed. You hated how he was right. Successful, you may be, but you could never come close to their level of power and wealth.

With an apologetic smile from Satoru – who made four women faint from the sight – your previous customers dispersed with the assistance of Satoru’s security team. You gritted your teeth in an attempt to contain your anger. They were so pretentious! Naoya, especially, flicking two of his fingers at your waiter as a signal to clean up the table he wanted. Scurrying on his heels, your staff nervously approached them while the others cleaned up in the speed of light, and handing them the menu’s with shaky hands.

Noritoshi nodded once at the waiter who approached him, while Satoru paid them no mind as he flicked through the pages. Meanwhile, Naoya clutched the wrist of the waitress who’d handed him his menu, brushing his lips against her knuckles.

You watched as your waitress froze. You were about to push his hand away from her when Satoru beat you to it, his voice icy and his words cutting like a knife. “Can never keep your hands to yourself, huh, Zen’in? With the amount of women visiting your estate, I’d have figured you would know enough to never touch a woman without her permission.”

Naoya scowled, immediately dropping your waitress’ hands before plastering another smirk. “No need to be a killjoy, Satoru. But anyways, what’s the reason for calling us out of the blue? You know well enough I had matters to take care of in Kobe.”

Satoru doesn’t lift his gaze from the menu. “Actually, I don’t know that. I could care less about your schedule. But I figured I haven’t seen my dear old friends in a while and thought a meal would be nice.”

Noritoshi spoke up, and Yuuji whispers to your ear on how he was one of the most popular models in the industry, and third to to them in the top bachelors of the decade. “Cut to the chase, we don’t have enough time.”

“Calm down, why are you in such a hurry? Let’s order first shall we?” You plaster on a disgustingly forced smile, taking the tablet Yuuji hands you as you gravitated towards Satoru. Stupid bastard – he doesn’t even look your way. “We’ll take the Spicy Uni-Lardo Sushi in Lettuce Cups and Foei Gras-Steamed Clams.”

He listed a few more – the most expensive meals on the menu, too – and you jotted them all down with steady hands. Although the restaurant was eerily silent, you could feel the crew’s eyes watching over you from the kitchen like a hawk.

“Will that be all, Sir?”

Satoru hums, waving his hand in the air. “You’re dismissed. Now leave us.”

Your jaw dropped. This little – Yuuji snatched you back into the kitchen, but you’ll be damned if you didn’t defend your honor. Handing their orders to the other chefs so they could get started, you leant against the kitchen doors and peered out from the cracks to eavesdrop.

“Because I treasure my dear friends so much, I won’t waste your time any longer and get to the matters at hand. Naoya, let’s talk about the chain resort in the Wannguo branch, and Noritoshi, here is your lawsuit for fabricating my sales report that’ll land you a free six year vacation in jail.” A white haired woman appeared out of nowhere, pulling out a black envelope with bold letters reading ‘LAWSUIT.’ Satoru swiftly picked it and slid it towards the raven haired man’s way.

Noritoshi gaped at Satoru, “What’s the meaning of this, Satoru?”

“I should be asking you that. Isn’t it not enough for you I collaborated on this project with you? Are you that intent on kicking me out of my own company you’re sabotaging your responsibilities and lounging around in London?”

Deep down, you knew you shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But this was the type of drama you saw only in dramas, and you couldn’t tear your gaze away from them even if you tried.

Upon looking behind you, you saw your crew had paused in their work, too, intent on watching the drama unfold before your eyes. The Gojo Clan were practically royals in the country, always portrayed as indomitable and powerful beyond belief. It seemed hard to believe there were things that got under Gojo Satoru’s nerve, with his friends, no less. Sure, you’d heard Naoya scamming people here and there, along with rumors of Noritoshi abandoning his work in pursuit of pleasure.

And, regrettably, you assumed Satoru wouldn’t be any different than them. Now, you were getting a front seat view of what truly transpired beyond the surface.

Gesturing for your crew to go back to work, they all grumbled but obediently followed anyway. You took your attention off them and glanced back at Satoru, taken aback at the sight of pure irritation for his company – and if you looked a little closer, hurt pooled around those captivating eyes of his.

Perhaps he was human like you after all, and while he didn’t exactly give you a good first impression, you were decent enough to respect this was not something you could keep on wathcing. Resuming your work, you began to heat up the pans, their voices distant yet clear.

“Jail? Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t belong in a place like that!” Noritoshi, the younger one, shouted with an appalled expression, his hands slamming against the table as he sent an almost pleading look at Satoru.

“Then you shouldn’t have fabricated my documents to begin with.”

“Be careful, Satoru,” Naoya warned with a harsh whisper, “We were born with the eyes of the world around us, one wrong move and I’ll have the media ruin your tarnished reputation even more. You may be the richest amongst us three, but don’t think you’re invincible.”

“You asshole,” Noritoshi retorted, thin lips forming into a sneer. “If you were going to file a lawsuit against me, you couldn’t have done it privately? Don’t belittle us, one bad review of this restaurant and this place will burn down to pieces, and I’ll make sure you go along with it.”

Satoru’s melodious laughter made you all pause. “A death threat, how funny! You both truly are so sweet, but let me warn you that I have the press eagerly waiting for my signal, so act on your best behavior and pretend we’re having a hearty meal together,” In a matter of minutes, you interrupted by showing up with their food. Satoru’s eyes lit up as he clapped his hands in faux enthusiasm. “Oh, the food’s here, eat up! My treat tonight since you’ll all be losing your money anyway.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see Noritoshi glaring at his plate. Satoru had ordered you to serve him the seafood, and judging by Noritishi paling at the sight of it, he must’ve been allergic. Jesus. If he faints, or worse, dies at your restaurant tonight, it’d be completely pinned on you. You didn’t even do anything to be involved, and yet it seemed as if Satoru was dragging you down with him. Nevertheless, Noritoshi picked up his utensils. The scratching of silver knives against the plate filled the room, accompanied by the soft, jazz music that gave off a false, comfortable atmosphere.

Oh, but it was anything but that.

The tension was so thick in the air you found it hard to breathe. Satoru was like a ticking time bomb, Noritoshi was a few mouthfuls away from turning completely red in the face, and Naoya hadn’t stopped ordering refills of his wine.

Satoru dabbed at his mouth carefully with a napkin. What a shame, he thought. You had such a lovely restaurant, and your food was to die for. He would’ve enjoyed it if it hadn’t been for his so-called friends sabotaging his career.

“Here’s the deal – no, I do not need to make deals with my subordinates – here is what’s going to happen and listen carefully because I won’t repeat it again. Naoya, as from this hour, you are relieved of your duties as supervisor of our resort, but you’re free to have my vacation home there as compensation. As for you, Noritoshi, I’ll burn this lawsuit and forget your crime if you promise not to let even your name be spoken for the whole year. In other words: get out of my sight. Am I making myself clear?”

“How dare you do this to me?!”

“Sit down, Naoya, you wouldn’t want your pretty face to be ruined with that frown. Are we done here, boys?” Satoru enjoyed it, he really did.

To see two powerful crumble before him made him feel things he couldn’t quite put into his words. Entertaining, he called it, to know he was capable of cracking their tough personas. It made him wonder how many more buttons of theirs he could push before he destroyed them completely.

“Yes.” Noritoshi nodded with an almost pained choke, and Satoru leant back triumphantly. Because he was a model and sometimes an actor if he wished, he was more exposed to the media and cared more about his image more than Naoya did, thus making the former easier to manipulate and kneel down to his whim.

Satoru smiled, pleased. “Then you may go. Noritoshi, I’m keeping your car keys under my possession for the meantime, but my chauffeur will gladly chaperone you everywhere as long as I deem it necessary. And Naoya, I already sent my apologies to your escort, she’s as good as a stranger so you don’t have to worry about the press exposing your disgusting behavior.”

The latter looks up from his empty plate with wide, questioning eyes as if to ask how he knew about that, but he had never been a good liar. Satoru knew him well enough that he never took care of business matters and instead spent his days wasting the precious money his family had worked for just to pay the most ‘prestigious’ of escorts. He had a disgusting personality to ever make a woman land willingly in his bed, which is why he resorted to throwing his money just to have someone beautiful in his arms to flaunt off in social events, or warm his bed.

Though not in his line of sight, Satoru knew his bodyguard was watching. He stood up with grace, slapping a wad of cash down the table as a signal of his business finally dealt with. You expected him to leave the restaurant when he surprised you by heading your way. Eyes wide, your hands reached out to feel the doors when Yuuji subtly pushed you towards Satoru.

Oh, dear heavens. Yuuji was right.

The magazines and pictures of him didn’t do him any justice. He was absolutely breathtaking now that he was before you, his cold eyes now holding the tiniest bit of warmth as he regarded you. Back facing the other men, Satoru lowered his head. You stood there with baited breath, your heart pounding in your chest as his lips brushed over your ear. He was close enough that his expensive perfume wafted over you, and you could touch the ripples of his muscles bunching up against his baby blue shirt if you were brave enough to reach out.

“Thank you for the wonderful meal. I haven’t had a proper one since I was a teenager, and please don’t worry about what happened today, you won’t be involved in our personal matters. In exchange for your service, I will pay you generously.”

Satoru took a step back, and you stood there, muted and dumbfounded. You hadn’t expected he’d speak so softly to you when his words were harsh towards his ‘friends.’ And as if realizing the effect he had on you, a smirk ghosted at the edges of his lips. “Mei-Mei.”

Flashing you the best smile he could muster, he extended his hand to the side as his assistant pulled out a cheque. Satoru signed it without taking his eyes off you. He slid it your way, your eyes bulging out when you saw the ridiculous amount of zeroes he’d written on it. Instead of feeling pleased, irritation sparked in your veins.

You pushed his cheque back to his chest. And yes – your theory was proven correct – his muscles were hard and firm underneath that silk shirt. “I don’t need your money.”

You liked to think you had the upper hand when Satoru’s eyes widened by a mere fraction. It must’ve felt like a slap to his face, having someone refuse his money for the first time. But just as it came, the surprise vanished from his handsome face, slowly replaced by a teasing smile. Satoru leaned forward once more, bullying his way into your personal space until you were left with no choice but to share the same breaths of air.

He smelled like leather, wine, and something intoxicating that dared you to have a taste. Just one small taste, even if it meant possibly becoming addicted.

“Uptight and feisty, just how I like it,” chuckling to himself, Satoru draped his discarded suit jacket over his shoulders and sauntered out the door. “Expect me again, Chef. This won’t be the last time we’ll see each other.”

You prided yourself for being someone in control of their emotions.

Yet, you’re overwhelmed by the sight of hundreds of customers waiting in line as they all snap pictures and chatter excitedly among themselves. You frown when Yuuji barges into your office without knocking (a habit that you’ve told him to change, but he never seems to listen) and almost shoves a tablet in your face as he struggled to keep himself on his own toes.

“Boss, you should read this, it’s insane!”

“Gojo approved restaurant of celebrity chef, now a five star restaurant in Tokyo!” You read the headline monotonously, Satoru’s handsome face from that night pasted on the article and waving at the camera. You could almost hear his light, breathy voice telling him that one way or another, he would find a way to pay you. You can’t help but scowl, because out of all things, he decides to pay you with publicity and unnecessary attention.

“‘Members of royal families and prominent leaders from all around the world have been rumored to pay a visit to either one of the five branches of the new rising celebrity chef’s restaurant. Another hit for the Chef!’”

“Isn’t it great, boss?” the overly jovial noy giggled, and you try not to wallow in embarrassment. “That’s not all, watch this video, it was released last week.”

Yuuji clicked on a video clip, and you lean forward, ears intently focused on the footage. You’re not surprised to see Satoru walking down a familiar road inside one of the most well-protected villages. Adorned in a white fur coat with black slacks that hugged his legs perfectly, he approaches the horde of reporters waiting outside the gates with a polite smile. He waves at the flashing lights, careful to show off his Patek Philippe 5004T wristwatch.

Tch. Showy bastard.

“We saw you at The Green Garden last month enjoying a dinner with Naoya Zen’in and Noritoshi Kamo. Tell us, how was the food there?” A report asked, about to shove her microphone in his face that was blocked by his ridiculously muscled bodyguard.

Jeez, you thought, did that guy take steroids for breakfast or something?

“Oh, I don’t have enough words for it,” he purred, and you hold your breath for his next words. You’re a little surprised at how his breathy voice managed to sound commanding and husky at the same time. “When I walked in, the aroma was just mouthwatering, and don’t get me started on the meal itself. It was absolutely delectable, all the flavors practically melt in my mouth, and I don’t think I’ve ever spoiled my taste buds this much.”

Your brows shoot up. Did he mean what he said? People like him rarely spoke the truth – everything was a show for them. He would say whatever appeased the public, and you weren’t sure if he even had the time to enjoy your food considering he was stuck in… quite the predicament. Still, you don’t pause the video, barely hanging at the edge of your seat as you listen.

“I did hear the food there was good, especially since the Chef is quite gaining some popularity over the last few months,” another reporter stated, and soon they were all nodding their heads approvingly. “Still, you’re someone who has probably tasted something better. Would you recommend the Chef’s dishes?”

Satoru smiles, letting his bangs frame his handsome face as he stares right at the camera. You feel your breath get caught in your throat, solely because it felt like he was looking at you. Once again, you’re more captivated by the shine in his eyes, rather than the blinding light of his mischievous smile.

“Of course,” he smirked, “It would be a sin not to have a taste of her.”

Yuuji chokes on his own laughter beside you. He starts shaking you by the shoulders, completely unaware that you’re a goner by now. Everything the younger man says falls on deaf ears. You find yourself too immersed in the video clip, that teasing smirk on his face disappearing as th crowd pushed further and further. His guard steps forward just as Satoru flicks his hair to the side – an action that would’ve been condescending on most, but somehow looked elegant on him – and retreats back to his Audi. Not just any Audi either, but an e-Tron 2010 Spyder Concept.

Meanwhile, you can’t pick what could be hotter – that a man like him had the ability to make your usual indifferent self flustered, or that he drove a classic car instead of a brand-new one.

You shoot up from your seat, eyes narrowed and chest puffed with determination. “I need to go grocery shopping!”

It’s not rare that you went shopping by yourself. Yuuji usually accompanies you to complete the task faster, but you preferred to be alone today to take your time picking only the best ingredients. Not because you wanted to impress a certain millionaire, of course. Or was he a billionaire? You forgot, but he was definitely Japan’s darling, and one word of praise from him now had several bookings sent your way. He’d placed a standard, one you had to live up to.

You had three branches in the entirety of Tokyo, one more in Paris, and another in the Netherlands – the last branch you opened after you fell in love there during your last visit. The country enthralled you with its mesmerizing simplicity and beauty. It felt like a dreamland there, with everything from farm to table, and everyone adored the dishes you came up with. Once you’ve saved up enough to live comfortably for the rest of your life, you planned to live there – to spend the rest of your life in serendipity and contentment – hopefully next to your future husband.

Ever since you received the news (albeit without, the amount of people lining up at your restaurant was a clear tell-tale your sales had been skyrocketing), you admitted you felt pressured. You needed a variety of  ingredients to experiment with, and hopefully add to your menu – something that both common folk and socialites could enjoy. After all, your main goal was to provide a wondrous magic in the form of a plate that was both simple yet luxurious enough to enjoyed as a treat to oneself.

Crossing off the carrot from your grocery list, you keeps pushing your cart through the spacious area. Your attention is divided between reading your to-buy list to surfing through each aisle. There was always a hidden gem if you looked hard enough, and that’s what you needed. A wild card of sorts, a completely never-seen before ingredient used in a new dish.

You’re so immersed with the task at hand you fail to hear the sound of footsteps nearing. Reaching for a bottle of wine (you cringed at the price), another arm shoots forward to reach for it at the same time. You pull back, the skin contact almost scalding to you. You open your mouth to apologize, only to have the words die in your throat when you come face-to-face with him.

Satoru was no less than tall and mighty, his cerulean eyes hidden behind black-tinted glasses. You can’t help but run your gaze over his figure – he’s now dressed in a white button-up shirt tucked in his dark blue jeans. Simple enough, yet you knew the price tags of his clothes would be enough to have you faint.

“Hello.”

“Hello to you too,” he grinned, firmly clasping the wine in his hands. He twists it around, analyzing its content before he hums to himself, pleased. “Great choice of liquor. I highly recommend this.”

The words stumble out of your mouth before you could stop yourself.

“I had no idea you went grocery shopping– I mean, why would you? You probably have others doing it for you and this is just another pointless, boring task–”

Satoru’s laughter is enough to make you shut up. Yep, okay, you totally screwed it up now. You scold yourself for a split second for being so awkward and not greeting him properly. But then irritation creeps in because you know Satoru isn’t different from the others. You should feel thankful for the publicity, yes, because Satoru’s singlehandedly made you skyrocket into popularity, but your pride told you that you don’t owe him anything. However, all rational thoughts fly out the window when you find yourself joining in his laughter – actually smiling – that you have to physically stop yourself from doing so again.

What the fuck?

You don’t smile. You don’t laugh. Everyone’s called you unpleasant and you take that with your chin held high. Yet somehow… you can’t help it when you’re in his presence.

Satoru tips his head to the side, and you forcibly look away with a clear of your throat. “I’m not shopping,” he says, “I was going to ask you what you’re doing here, but then again, no one goes to the grocery but to shop, right? And you’re a chef, so it’d be a rhetorical question.”

You nod slowly, unsure of what he’s getting at. He still keeps a firm grip on the bottle before he hands it over, making sure to brush his skin over yours in the process. You fight back the urge to shiver. “1949 Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand Cru, a vintage wine whose price was boosted for a post-world war appeal. Only a few hundred bottles are produced annually, and while not exactly scarce, it’s a rare piece.”

You scans the bottle in astonishment, your mouth forming an ‘o’ shape as you debate whether to buy it or not. A second glance at the price tag and you place it back without hesitation, not caring even if you could afford it, because there was no way on earth you were buying a five thousand dollar drink no matter how good it tasted.

“I take it that it’s not to your liking?”

“I don’t. I’m not much of a drinker anyway,” you reply honestly, mustering all your courage to face him. “If not to shop, then may I ask what you’re doing here?” You look behind him to see if his secretary or guard was around, but he seemed to be alone. As observant as ever, Satoru answers your unspoken questions without missing a beat.

“I’m here for business. This place is mine, and I came here to assess its monthly status.”

You look down at your cart, suddenly feeling small and shy as you mutter, “Of course you own this place.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks innocently, and you stumble over your words, your thumb circling your pointer finger nervously.

“I mean,” you start, pointing to the entirety of the brightly lit store that was almost the size of a concert arena. “This is a private membership grocery shop, and only people who are willing to pay a lot can go here. You’ve got many products here that aren’t available anywhere else, and it only makes sense it would be owned by the Gojo Family.”

“Owned by me, actually. This place was built when I took over, the idea entirely mine,” he corrects you and moves past, looking back with a confused expression when you don’t follow. “Well, aren’t you going shopping? Let me help you with it.”

You don’t know why you agree at his offer to help, but you don’t regret a single moment of talking to him. Satoru is stiff and rigid to his core, unlike his ‘friends’, but he was surprisingly a great conversationalist, and silences with him weren’t painfully awkward. He was also a lot smarter than he made himself out to be, but then again, you supposed one had to be intelligent to take over a group of companies at such a young age. And when he tells you deeply regrets not being able to fully appreciate your meals because he had ‘matters to deal with’, you can’t help the light fluttering of your chest that comes with it.

It starts out as slow burn, with a warmth barely felt if you didn’t focus enough. You can’t pinpoint exactly when you started to see him in a different light. In that moment, Satoru suddenly seemed small and almost vulnerable in your sight. Almost human. You can’t help but notice that he has his eyes glued to his feet – not because he’s uncomfortable with eye contact – making sure to not step over the dark lines from the white tiles. He was like a child going through an obstacle race, skipping at one point to another as he talks, and you stood there, wondering – just how much did this young man lose when he had to gain the world?

Through the eyes of the world, he was someone who had it all.

Born in a wealthy family with ancestors who never knew what the word ‘rent’ meant, and simultaneously blessed with good looks, you even remember a few articles written about him. How everyone was in awe and praising him for being a genius, but you believed everything came with a price – even the grandest of blessings.

You could only imagine what he must’ve been through. To be deprived of a normal childhood in exchange of a life of luxury, instead of being able to play under the rain. You could see him locked inside his father’s office, going through financial statements and attending board meetings at the age of sixteen. Meanwhile, you played at the cornfields with kids your age during that time, enjoying your youth and chasing after your passion.

But Satoru? He was constantly judged by the public for a single mistake, thus turning him into a make believe version of perfection.

Due to his lack of knowledge with cooking, he wasn’t of much help when it came to shopping. He was splendid company, however, and you felt soothed by his presence and his expensive perfume. It’s a scent you welcomed wholeheartedly, and so you find yourself asking him if he’d like to have dinner with you – at your restaurant – on a Friday night. When he doesn’t respond right away, you make up a lame excuse that you’re only giving him opportunities to look at the place much better than last time.

It makes Satoru stop in his tracks. You start to take back your invitation at his lack of a response when Satoru suddenly takes your hand in his, his eyes widening at how perfectly they seemed to fit (no matter how cliché that sounded.) He takes in the way your hands were rough and calloused from your labor, how it was a sign of all your hard work. Growing shy, you begin to pull back, but he keeps you in place – unconsciously squeezing your hand tighter.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes,” he smiles – and this time, it isn’t meant for the cameras. He’s not flamboyantly flashing his pearly whites, or trying to look perfect. It’s just him, with a small, shy smile meant only for your eyes to see. “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

“Okay,” you repeat, smiling shyly before finally – finally – squeezing his hand back.

You tug at your champagne dress uncomfortably. It might’ve been a little too tight for your liking, but Yuuji insisted it was the dress, and no dress would be better for tonight’s dinner. The strapless dress hugged your figure elegantly, the material flowing smoothly as it extends past your knees. Pairing it with some kitten hells, you were confident you cleaned up well – aside from the problem at hand that you couldn’t breathe. You weren’t sure if the dress was too tight, or you were simply too nervous.

You’d closed up the restaurant early in hopes of having some privacy, even going as far to close the velvety black curtains to hide yourselves from prying eyes. But with every minute that passed by, the special dish you’d prepared with your mother’s secret recipe grew cold. Not a single notification beeped from your phone. Not a text, or a call – not even from his secretary. Nothing but pure silence on his side.

Standing up with a grim expression, you pinch the candle to kill the flame.

What were you even thinking? Did you really think someone as untouchable like Gojo Satoru actually wanted to go on a date with you?

You looked around the restaurant that held a special spot in your heart. It might not be up to his standards, but it meant the world you. It was a product of your hard work and passion. This career enabled you to design it yourself, to build it from the ground up. You’ve decorated it solely to impress Satoru for tonight – with golden chandeliers hanging in a waterfall and teardrop patterns, the tables equipped with satin napkins and silverware polished to perfection. All that effort just went down the drain.

Your eyes fall to your wristwatch. Your father leant it to you before you moved to the city to follow his dreams, saying “Keep this, my sweet daughter. Time passes by so fast in the city and I don’t want you to lose a single second of your life. People will always pass by in a hurried blur, or not come at all.”

Isn’t that what you were doing right now, waiting for someone that might never come at all? He was right. You didn’t need to wait around. Satoru had his own life, he belonged to the city and its fast-paced rambunctiousness. You weren’t like him, you reminded yourself. You and him lived in completely opposite worlds.

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you sigh and start to pick up the untouched dishes.

Gojo Satoru was a man who lived and breathed along with the city, the erratic pulse of the city lights resembling the skip in his steps whenever the paparazzi caught up to him. Even if you were somehow on par with him with your own successful career, tonight was still a harsh reminder of the fact that there would always be a massive difference between the both of you.

Your purpose was to serve people and give them memories of a hearty meal. Satoru bent people with his own hands, and obviously wouldn’t even give you the time of day. Perhaps you’d read the signs wrong – if there were even signs at all. One praise from him didn’t mean he liked you, after all, and why would he? He’d admitted out loud he couldn’t even remember what your food tasted like. Hours and years perfecting your craft, and he’d forgotten it all because ‘he had matters to deal with.’ God. Did he see you like that, too? Just another issue to be dealt with, another box in his list to be ticked off?

You’re about to throw away the wasted food when the glass doors of your restaurant opened. You stood back, Satoru all but running and heaving so heavily with beads of sweat running down his face.

“Wait,” he gasped out, raising a finger to give him a moment. “Don’t – don’t close yet. Just let me breathe.”

Did he run here?

Frowning, you scan his outfit. He’s dressed up more than usual today, yet his coat jacket is wrinkled and his hair is all messed up, possibly from running all the way here. His baby blue shirt is also damp with sweat. You immediately reach for some towels and make your way to him – reaching up to pat his face dry when the two of you freeze. Your eyes are blown wide, and so are his. His chest staggers with each breath he takes, and delicately, he holds your hand. His brows furrow and he exhales, his breath minty and his scent intoxicating. You’re captivated with every inch of him – from his white lashes, to the slope of his nose, the fullness of his glossy lips.

You never realized how much you’d missed him until you thought he would never come.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice willowy soft. Closing his eyes, he reaches for your hands, burying his cheek into it and pressing a kiss to the insides of your wrist. The action is unbelievably tender, surprisingly intimate, but could anything feel more right? “My latest shipbuilding company just launched, and we had the opening ceremony at my newest cruise. I would have gotten here on time, but the formalities took longer than expected when a Duke came to send his congratulations.”

You open your mouth to say it’s okay, but you know it’s not. He knows it’s not. It’s already midnight and he made you wait for six hours – no calls, no texts, nothing to inform you he’d run a bit late. It makes you feel stupid for taking the time and effort to dress up, enduring the pain of having Yuuji force you to try on different dresses that would suit you best. It’s embarrassing enough that you don’t have friends to share this moment with. The poor boy had been so excited, too, texting you every hour to ask how it’s going. You just didn’t have the heart to tell him Satoru wasn’t coming.

A pregnant pause settles between you. You see Satoru swallow and fidget with his hands, almost as if he knows you’re disappointed in him. You’re really not, though. At least it wouldn’t be disappointment that you’re feeling. You’re just… hurt.

You look at him one last time. You’re about to call it a night, because you’re a person of punctuality, and you don’t take rejection very well – all of which Satoru has made you feel sensitive over. Right now, you feel humiliated and belittled. Like your time wasn’t worth as much as is. But then you see Satoru, the way he folds in on himself, looking down at his feet and gnawing at his feet that you can’t help that maybe he, too, mustn’t have wanted to miss this.

Sometimes it is so easy to forget Satoru was human too. That he struggled as well, that with his power came with the undeniable fact that this friendship – or whatever this budding relationship is – would not be easy.

You sigh, flicking his nose to call his attention in hopes of lightening the mood.

“I understand your work is more important than a dinner with a friend,” you declare slowly, gauging for his reaction. “But out of courtesy, I would have appreciated an early notice if you couldn’t make it on time.”

Satoru’s face lights up. Pleased with your answer, and undeniably taken aback – he was a master in his craft of sales; he knew the right things to say to get whatever he wanted, but social interactions were not his forte. He realizes though, right in that moment, that it’s something he’d like to work on more. He doesn’t want to see that look on your face again when he ran inside – your crestfallen face, a momentary lapse of relief and worry, and now with hurtful eyes.

“I’ll take note of that,” he promises, already moving to pull out your chair for you. “Shall we have dinner, then?”

“Actually,” you start, with a glint forming in your eye. “I think I’d want to have dinner on this cruise of yours, and maybe I’ll forgive you.”

Smirking at your answer, Satoru tilts his head sideways. “It’s not an everyday occurrence that I have to ask for someone’s forgiveness, so I don’t see why not.”

You liked to think you’re a simple person.

You love nature, and hold the firm belief that whatever is done upon you would always return back to the person. You remember crying in your mother’s arms when you were a little girl, frustrated that humans had tortured their own planet and how you wanted to reverse climate change. Growing up in the countryside surrounded by endless fields of crops and an abundance of greenery, the city and its chaos shook you to your core.

The flashing lights felt blinding and overwhelming. You hated the smell of smoke and pollution, feeling suffocated by the change in atmosphere. You found yourself often glaring at the tall buildings that always stood dominatingly over everyone, as if to say that its towering height could only be reached by those select few.

Its owners stood over you like gods watching from the sky, and they had the power to create their own temples that soared all the way to the sky – a galaxy and universe entirely of their own.

Now, you’re not so sure you still hold that same predicament as you take in the blueness of the sea, the salty breeze nipping at your skin. You welcome it with a shrug of Satoru’s coat around your shoulders, so enamored with the sound of waves lapping against each other. You don’t notice the man standing next to you, or the way he studies your reactions with an amused smile. He realizes you look so innocent like this – your mouth curling into small smiles as you point to the dolphins. The realization comes to him like a sudden splash to his face – that he’s never felt this light before, and it’s always only with you.

After taking you to his cruise, you practically pushed him out of the kitchen as you prepared another meal of two. The meal was nothing short of ravishing, making Satoru momentarily forget about table manners as he inhaled it. The expensive champagne and hors d’oeuvres sloshes around his stomach with each sway of the cruise. Dinner had been pleasant; you were a great listener who gave him his undivided attention – the type that made him squeamish because he felt exposed from the core within. He’d grown up used to people eager to please him, but this was the first time someone had listened to him intently with the intention of knowing him. And when you asked what made him sincerely happy, Satoru realizes that he does not have the answer to everything.

“I’m not sure,” he admits, twirling the fork aimlessly as he tries to avoid your prying gaze. “Happiness is fleeting in my world and… I’ve just never found it. My whole life, all I’ve ever done is work and make my business grow, and I guess I’m happy enough with that.”

You hum in response. He looks up to see you gazing at him, deep in thought. You almost looked sad in that moment – sad for him. It isn’t any later that he realizes you sympathize with him, an emotion he’d been alien to. It goes without saying that you felt the emptiness, the hollowness carved out from Satoru’s heart, and how lonely he’d been all this time. And you found it funny, how someone could have so much, and so very little at the same time.

“Come with me.”

He stares at your outstretched hand. It’s difficult to silence all the voices in his head before he places his hands in yours, trying not to melt when you smile up at him. Gently, you lead him to the balcony – the freshness of the air waking him up from his sense. Due to the fact that Satoru was a perfectionist and had zero tolerance, he designed the cruise himself to its glorious beauty. Yet he remained oblivious to the wonders of it all, the beauty of the moment from where he stood. The sea is calm and soothing, the whole expanse of Tokyo – his empire – visible from he stood. He tells himself the night isn’t beautiful because of the romantic lights, or the jazz music playing from the speakers, but rather it’s the celebrity chef who was starting to grow on him.

From the corner of his eye, he watches your smile grow bigger, your cheeks puffing out from the cold. It’s undeniably adorable. Ever since that night he met you, he’d read a few articles about you, and even had Mei-Mei call publishing companies to give him new copies of whoever featured you. You only had a few pictures taken – his shy, sweet chef – always wearing an apron and never a smile.

To see you with your guard down, looking so happy and free, he might’ve gotten his answer that night.

You were his happiness.

“Doesn’t it look beautiful?” you ask him, smile still so wide, and it is evident you adore nature. He makes a mental note to open an orchidarium soon, or perhaps a tea shop with only the rarest of leaves for brewing, silently hoping he’d get to see more of that smile.

“Yes, it does.”

Indeed, you looked beautiful like this. The bright lights of the city painted your skin in a warm glow. You looked like an ethereal combination between sunset and sunrise, and he swore in that moment you embodied the sea itself. You were calm, quiet, reserved – much like him – but you held this aura from your presence alone that made him feel safe; there was something about you that assured him he could just be… him.

You were like a breath of fresh air, and it would be a waste not to breathe you in.

Satoru calls out your name. When you look up at him, the breeze whips your hair to the side, exposing a set of hesitant eyes that makes him take a tentative step forward. It isn’t the wine, or the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He thinks it’s just you that makes him feel this way – undoubtedly whole and alive. He is not a man fond of making mistakes, and he is not about to make one now and not kiss you.

“Can I kiss you?”

He waits for it – waits for you to tease him, that he doesn’t have to ask. But there’s none of that. There is only the sharp intake of your breath, the minute way you grasp your pearl necklace to yourself. “I-I don’t know how to.”

Satoru steps closer until he’s only a hair’s breadth away. You turn rigid despite yourself, feeling his hand cup the back of your neck. You tilt your head sideways to let him have more access, his warm breath that smelled faintly of wine fanning over your skin.

“May I teach you then?”

You whimper in response, and he holds back a groan at the sound, silently wishing to hear more of it from the future. When his pillowy lips press against yours in the first contact, your eyes remain blown wide as you stare back at his closed ones. Fear settles in you that this is your first kiss, and you have absolutely no idea how to do it. But then he pushes back with a little more force this time, and you close your eyes and moan, your lips moving in rhythm with his. Your hand reaches up to fist the silky fabric of his suit that hugged his muscular figure sinfully. He’s firm and solid under your touch, like an anchor holding you down. And his taste – he tastes like everything you’ve ever wished for, everything you’ve ever wanted. He is the wine you get drunk on, the sugar you lick off your lips, and the taste of heaven on this earth.

Satoru swallows the moans you make, his large hands engulfing your face. With each sound you make, his tongue playfully pokes at your lips, begging for entrance. And you let him, melting at his touch and held up only by his firm grip sliding down to your waist.

The first contact of his tongue coaxing out yours to play has you almost quivering under him. Those large hands come up to the bare skin of your back, his cold skin sending a harsh bite to your warm, flustered one as he holds you steadily. Your other hand reaches out to tug at his hair and he groans, a sound so masculine yet so wanton that a flame burns within you. You find yourself battling your tongue with his – a sensual dance where there are no winners. A minute passes before you two break apart, foreheads pressed against each other as you both try to catch your breath.

“Can I keep going?” He asks, his deep voice faltering due to the lack of breath. You feel triumphant knowing you did that to him. Nodding, he places his hands under your ass and squeezes it in a silent command to jump, and you do so with your hands interlocked at the back of his head. Satoru dips down to kiss you again and turns you into a moaning mess. He rocks his body against you, grinds his muscles to the softness of your body, groaning when his erection presses up to your heat. How he managed to pull away in between kisses is beyond you. “Are you sure about this?” He mumbles against your lips.

“Yes,” you plead, crashing your lips back down to his. And somehow, Satoru stumbles to a room where he finally gets a taste of you.

Satoru is woken up by the harsh lights glaring at him.

Groaning, he places an arm above his eyes before deciding to sit up and start his day. The freshly washed linen of the blanket pools at his waist, and he squints his eyes to take in his surroundings. For a moment, the bedroom is unrecognizable, and when last night’s events become clear to him, he chuckles drily to himself.

Had he gone so far that he no longer recognized his own bedroom? But then again, he rarely went home. His properties all looked differently that he wasn’t surprised anymore.

Your neatly folded dress sits at the bedside table. His shirt – nowhere to be seen. He finds his pants at the pile of clothes left on the floor, though, and he quickly puts them on before the amazing aroma of waffles welcomes his senses. Walking out the room, Satoru is pleased by the sight before him – you in his shirt, bottomless, humming to yourself as you expertly maneuver around his kitchen.

Smiling, Satoru walks to the marbled countertops and wraps an arm around your waist. You stiffen under his hold before you realize it’s him.

“Good morning,” he greets, deep voice still a little croaky and you greet him back, resting your chin on his shoulder as he watches you crack some eggs. “Did you get a good sleep?”

You shrug teasingly and brush your lip against his ear, “Kind of hard not to, after last night’s events.” As you expected, his cheeks soon become dusted in light pink and you chuckle, leaning back to his solid chest with warmth blanketing you.

“Sit down, let’s have breakfast.”

Satoru is more than happy to obey. Munching gratefully, the comfortable silence is almost too good to be true.

It’s been months since you and Satoru started going out. You’ve both done a good job at keeping it from the media so far – a mutual decision because you liked your privacy, and Satoru didn’t want anyone tainting what he held close. He’s grown so accustomed to your presence that half of his closet is filled with your things. You basically lived at his house in Tokyo now, and your body just naturally angles itself in a way that allows him to always have him touching you.

Although you still scrunch your nose in distaste at the thousand dollar monotonous paintings that decorate his walls, you like being with him. You soon learn of his weird habit of not closing doors simply because he’s always surrounded by automatic ones, successfully eradicating his attempts at being a gentleman and having him open doors for you, but you don’t mind. Not really.

The past few months have been nothing but eye-opening for him, as he learns to love for the first time, and he could only hope this feeling in his chest isn’t something fleeting.

You were affectionate, never lacking or selfish when it comes to showing him how much like him, and he’ll admit he likes your kisses more than he’d like to accept, and that’s how he knows this relationship isn’t one sided. Still, the small fear that settles at the back of his head remains, that maybe you don’t love him, or at least, you’re not there yet. Watching you prepare his breakfast every morning, however, Satoru’s worries are silenced. He’ll worry about that another time.

He finishes first and moves to do the dishes, the loud running of water muting your hurried footsteps behind his. He can’t help but smile when you eagerly take the sponge from his gloved hands and look at him determinedly.

“What are you doing?” He asks teasingly, and you stick your tongue at him.

“Move, Gojo. We both know you don’t know how to wash dishes.”

Even after months of being with you, he’s still not used to the fact that he – a man everyone admired and – could experience a love like this someday.

You scrunch your nose up cutely that it takes all of his willpower not to bend down and kiss it. “I said move! Scoot your cute butt out of here.”

“Baby, it’s okay, I know you don’t know how to do it and I don’t mind. Besides, I have to learn to do this. What if we get married and have children, I obviously can’t let you do everything by yourself.”

You freeze at his words, your thick-rimmed glasses sliding off your nose awkwardly. Your whole life, you’ve dreamt of love, and imagined settling down and having your own family. Despite your rising fame and success, turning you into one of the wealthiest women in your country, you never planned to live as a celebrity chef for the rest of your life. You wanted to live simply, much like your parents, and to spend the rest of your days in a farm.

You’ve thought it about before, of course, the possibly of marrying Satoru.

But the thought had been too ridiculous at the moment. Satoru was always somewhere far away, rising from his seat with practiced elegance as he received yet another presitigious award for his endless accomplishments. The cameras would be pointed his way, and he basked under the spotlight. He thrived in it.

Your silence doesn’t go unnoticed by him. He watches as you revert back to your expressionless face, eyes looking directly forward at the white tiled backsplash of his sink that you know cost thousands. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.”

And it is true, you aren’t bothered by the least bit. Surprised, definitely, but you’re beyond elation at this point. You realize it doesn’t matter that you probably won’t get to live the life you want if you marry him – because he’s all you want. If giving it all up meant being with him, you would do so in a heartbeat.

Which is why you grit your teeth silently as you attend your first ball overseas, latched onto Satoru’s arm. You don’t miss the way everyone scrutinizes the seemingly average looking woman next to Japan’s darling.

Satoru doesn’t notice that you’re a bundle of nerves. He smiles brightly at the multitude of cameras pointed your way, making sure to show off the Gojo heirloom he decorated you with. It’s a gold ring with a hundred mini diamonds encrusted in it, the characters ‘Gojo’ engraved underneath. A horde of reports soon come into view, and instinctively, you duck your head when the lights become overwhelming. They all spew out questions asking since when the two of you have been dating – and this is the part you hated the most.

The part where your life becomes a piece for the people to feast on, instead of something you made for yourself.

You opt to stay silent and let Satoru answer everything. He isn’t fazed by the least bit, answering them confidently, although not giving away too much personal information. He tells them you’ve been dating for a year now, and it’s evident in his eyes that he feels strongly for you. Not a moment later, the cameras pan your way, the people eager to hear your side of the story.

“Chef, how have you managed to steal his heart?”

“As the old saying goes, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” you tell them, your heart beating a mile a minute from the discomfort of too much attention. You turn to your fiancé in hopes of consolation. He smiles at you encouragingly, the warmth and adoration pooling behind it immediately dissipates your nervousness. “As long as it’s for him, I don’t mind going to the moon and back.”

They seem satisfied with that answer, and you find yourselves in the front cover of both local and foreign magazines, the world crazed about the latest couple.

Satoru is lying on his tiger fur rug with crossed legs, leafing through every page of your photo album. His free hand absentmindedly rubs circles where it’s settled at your hip, the sound of his breathing steady and almost lulling. Yet, you’re bothered by everything lately – how you’re being reminded of everything you don’t like about this world – his world.

They don’t even know the real you. How could the world go from praising you for your skills in cooking, to being both shamed and admired for being engaged to Satoru? Your heart clenched at the multiple headlines that called you a gold-digger.

As if you didn’t have your own money.

“Hey,” Satoru mumbles, twisting a little from his position. You’re looking at everywhere but him, your heart heavy and mind a mess. It’s too late when Satoru notices the dark circles rimmed under your eyes, and he cups your face worriedly, tilting your chin to make you look into his eyes. Your own face has fallen, your eyes sad. He immediately feels guilt, unaware of what he made you endure at his expense.

Perhaps he wasn’t as observant as he claimed to be. Ever since he’s announced your relationship, you’ve received countless criticism from the public. Satoru never said a word about it, thinking these strangers’ words wouldn’t affect you, or that it didn’t matter because who were they, anyway? And you never spoke about it either, not wanting to put a heavier weight on his already burdened shoulders.

“I’ll take care of it, alright? I promise.”

You know what he means.

It means he’ll end up spending a lot of money – although to him it’s probably just a penny – as he has Mei-Mei get rid of those negative articles. You know he has enough power to shut down even an entire publishing company who attempted to say anything bad about you. You don’t want him doing any of that, abusing his power and throwing around his money just because he can.

Shaking your head, you reach forward and press your face against his chest. “You don’t have to do that. I just have to prove to everyone I am worthy of you.”

It is way past four in the morning, and you wake up with a stir, only to find the light of Satoru’s laptop illuminating his worn-out face. In front of him are a plethora of reports, glasses perched on top of his face. You sit up with a stretch, and he jumps a little at the movement.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“No,” you answer, rubbing your eyes tiredly and looking at his work. You don’t understand half of it, but you knows it’s something about a new hotel he’s planning on developing somewhere in the country. “It’s late. Why are you still working?”

“Business is business,” he shrugs, focusing his attention back to his work. The development plan has just finished, and the cost of construction is nothing but another penny less to his account.

The silence in the room stills. You strain your ears to listen to the sound of a faint clock ticking, Satoru’s steady breathing calming your nerves. His eyes are droopy and tired, and he lets out an exhausted sigh. Reaching over to pull the laptop away from him, you gently place your head above his beating heart. His shirt smells faintly of floral detergent, and you fist the fabric underneath your fingers.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t need to.

He places a soft kiss at the crown of your head, once, then twice, and a small smile fights through your face. The rhythmic thumping of his heart is just underneath your open palm, and you realize that Satoru is like the man-made river outside your house. He is calm, steady, always lulling you into a state of relaxation, and the music that is his love hums softly through your nerves until he places himself inside your heart.

The darkness of your room is a huge contrast to the flashing lights always directed his way, but it fits perfectly. Satoru is silent, even if he always brought attention to himself, and his muscles are firm underneath your touch.

His bicep curls around you to wrap you in a one arm embrace while his other hand rubs your back soothingly, and your bare thigh brushes against his groin. An innocent and accidental gesture, but it has your nerves firing up, and it just occurred to you how small you seem inside his arms. You found it funny, since Satoru could threaten to take away everything from you, yet you don’t feel like that around him. Here, you feel safe, warm, accepted.

You nuzzle closer to him with a frown.

“Take me somewhere.”

His chest vibrates with a hum, “Where do you want to go?”

“Take me to where your heart desires. Show me where you want to spend the rest of your life.”

Satoru can’t contain the smile that graces his face, and he holds your hand as you stare at Leiden in awe. He’s decided to take a one week break, and soon the two of you were nestled against each other in his private jet, and he’s not sure if he’s ever felt this happy before.

He learns that you love art and fancy medieval paintings the most, and you bounce happily when he takes you to one of the art museums.

Leiden is rich in history and culture, that much is evident with how the people still keep their traditions alive, and while it is still quite a popular city, the toned down bustling of people will always be a much preferred scene for him than Tokyo. The two of you have rented a bike to Noordwijk Beach, and you make him promise to swim with you there the next day. Wordlessly, he nods, basking in the way the warm light emitted from lampposts turns you into an ethereal being.

After returning the bikes into the rental shop, you swing your intertwined hands back and forth, pointing excitedly and exclaiming your delight at the lakes that surrounded the city.

A windmill sits in the middle of the city, and Satoru falls in love with the place even more. A smile is permanently etched into your face, and his heart manages to stutter even after being with you for so long, but he can’t help it. Lifting your interlocked hands to his lips, he kisses your palm, a fine pink dusting his cheeks as you stare at him incredulously. A moment passes before you giggle, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek.

Satoru didn’t know it was possible to blush even harder.

His stomach growls in hunger and you chuckle, leading him to one of your restaurants. Your waiters and chefs greet you excitedly, surprised that the owner dropped by unannounced. You lift a hand to tell them not to worry – you’re not here to evaluate anything. You’re simply on vacation, and you had full trust in your people. The pleased look decorating the customer’s face said enough that you didn’t have much to worry about.

Shrugging off your coat and placing it on the back of your chair, Satoru watches as you place your head in your palms, eyes directed outside the window. Outside lay the lake and a bunch of canoes housing the body of water, old couples walking around with wines hidden in paper bags, and the soft chatter and melodious laughter ringing from every corner of the place has him believing that perhaps this is paradise.

“Have you ever been before?”

“Once,” he replies with a small smile. “I came here for business. That hotel is mine.”

He points to a building that resembles a medieval castle, and you adjust the glasses perched on your nose to see it better. “Why am I not surprised?”

Letting out an amused laugh at your question, the both of you soon dig into the dish, bellies rumbling in satisfaction. You are half drunk on the way back to the small villa you rented, and he doesn’t question why you didn’t choose to stay at his hotel instead. There’s a little tumble to your steps as you stagger forward, mumbling incoherent words. Satoru presses you closer to his warm body to prevent you from falling forwards, his eyes crinkling when you tell him how much you love him. His heart whines at your words, because you’ve never told him that, and even though you’re drunk, he thinks he will be as equally euphoric if you tell him sober. He actually feels a little ashamed you said it before him because he’s planning to tell you sooner than later, and he clears his throat before pulling away from you.

You frown at his action.

Licking his lips nervously, Satoru pulled out a velvet box and went down on one knee.

“I know you’re drunk and this ring is a little too expensive than you’d like, but I don’t think there’s a better time for this, and we’ve been dating for so long that I just wanted to let you know–”

Grumbling in annoyance under your breath as an attempt to conceal your shaking knees, you lean down and pull him harshly by his collar to press your lips against his.

Satoru stiffens underneath your touch. He stops breathing, eyes wide from surprise. You only pull away when he doesn’t respond, your glasses sliding off your nose and bumping into yours. He lifts a hand to his wet lips, looking at you like you’ve just assaulted him, and judging by how plump lips looked red and swollen, you probably did. Not that he’d complain, of course.

“Of course I’ll marry you.”

Satoru lets out a nervous laugh that is laced with elation, his breath coming out in cold fogs due to the cold weather. His hands are shaking as he struggles to wear the ring around your hand, to which you roll your eyes and wear it yourself. He looks sheepish for a moment, scratching the back of his head, but you can’t find yourself to care.

This is where you belong, with him, in Leiden, and little did you know that you were fulfilling his dreams one by one.

The both of you walk back home with bashful grins coated in glee.

Satoru feels stupid that he suddenly feels shy. It would be a lie to say he’s dreamt of this ever since he was a child because he grew up knowing very little of it. He’s never dated nor felt any attraction for someone, always focusing on his work and further expanding the business to the best of his abilities. He never dreamt marrying for love could be a possibility. That this was now his reality. And when you steal a peck to his cheek that makes his face heat up further, he realizes nothing has ever felt more right.

You’re the only one he would ever need.

To say that you’re ecstatic to plan the wedding would be an understatement. Ever since you came back to Tokyo with hearts overflowing with joy, you could no longer contain the love you had for your fiance. You’d been looking at endless articles of what makes a wedding perfect, and you already had your wedding dress in mind.

The food tasting appointment you had this weekend was on hold since Satoru still had a tight schedule, something about the launch of a new resort in Bali, but he comes back to you with tired eyes and a satisfied smile.

“Hey,” you greet, rising from the couch to help him with his bags. Not that you needed to, Mei-Mei and Toji were already taking care of them, but you still wanted to be of help. Shrugging off his coat, Satoru plops down the couch with a groan. “Long day?”

He pops one eye open to offer a languid smile, “Long week, babe. I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you mumble, going behind him and massaging his stiff shoulders. Satoru lets out a moan at the sensation. And you? You can’t help but smile when you see that your engagement ring is still wound around his finger, and you wonder if the press had already noticed and started making a fuss about what you knew would be the wedding of the century.

Truth be told, you preferred the wedding to be small – with just your family and close friends. Satoru didn’t have any, but you respected his decision of hiring a wedding planner whose service cost a million. You protested at first, thinking it was unnecessary, but Satoru had already given you the check. The wedding planner seemed genuinely pleased to be working with you as well, leaving you with no other choice but to press your mouth into a thin line.

Ah, now that you think about it… “Are you free this Thursday? I wanted to introduce you to my parents.”

He stands up from the couch and walks to your shared bedroom, gently dragging you along with him. “Introduce me? Shouldn’t your parents already know me?”

You force a small smile as you bury yourself underneath the covers. “I meant formally, they’re going to be your parents soon, too.”

“Okay… talk to Mei-Mei to schedule that.”

You fight the urge to raise a brow. You couldn’t see the need to talk to his secretary to have time with your fiancé, but like you have been doing for the past few months, you only nod. Satoru wraps his arms around your waist after that, and it doesn’t take long before sleep blankets you both.

Somehow, you’d always known.

A relationship with Satoru wouldn’t be easy. There was too much unwanted attention and too little time to be with him. But he was worth the wait.

+

The food tasting went well. He ended up being more than pleased at your food choices, and you even bump your hips against his. Satoru wanted a cake that was two feet tall, with golden drapes hanging from the rods, silently demanding for caviar to be included. You shrugged it off, not minding his preferences as you continued speaking to the chef. The poor man had been trembling ever since Satoru walked in the kitchen, his phone pulled out and constantly interrupting the tasting as he speaks to his clients.

You felt bad for the old man, you really did. He was far more skilled than you, and you shook his hand politely before walking back to Satoru’s limousine.

It was finally time to meet your parents.

Reaching out for your fiancé, Satoru flicks your hand away. He shoots you an irritated look as he gestures to his phone, as if to say not to interrupt him during an important phone call. Reluctantly you retract your hand, biting the inside of your cheek as you let him go back to his business. Hurt and undeniably upset, you distract yourself with the small iPad on the seat in front of you, watching a lame show about fashion runways and whatnot.

“Yes, I know,” Satoru says through the phone, exasperated as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “What do you mean he can’t make it on time? He needs to be there to check the labels – you know what? Whatever, fire him, I’ll go there myself.”

Sensing his distress, you turn to him. He’s huffing and crossing his arms against his chest, a livid expression on his face. You don’t ask what happened because you know you won’t understand. You’re only happy Satoru finally lets you hold his hand. Pressing his head against the seat, Satoru squeezes your palm, watching as the familiar buildings of the city soon blur into a scenery of corn fields and flowery land.

To be truthful, you think he’s a little too overdressed for this occasion. He’s wearing the latest Burberry collection, the shades he’d pulled to shield his sensitive eyes from the sunset a little too… flashy. But, you thought to yourself, Satoru could do whatever he wanted.

Finally, after a long and grueling car ride that seemed to last forever, you reached your destination.

You immediately run to the farmhouse, leaving behind Satoru in your excitement. You’d been away from your parents too long that you missed them dearly. Behind you, Satoru tries to keep up his face – gladly welcoming the fresh air. From afar, the door to your house opens as you tackle a small, older woman into your arms.

Satoru’s gait is slow, precise, and elegant. He walked with purpose, standing behind you silently as he witnessed the sweet exchange between you and your mother. It’s then he notices, when your mother looks up from your shoulders, that her eyes twinkled the same you did whenever you saw him. She’s sweet, and a little too bubbly, as she welcomes him to your humble home.

And as if you’ve sensed his uneasiness, you look back to Satoru and offer an encouraging smile.

The entirety of your house is as large as his bathroom. And your couch squeaks uncomfortably when he sits on it. The leather is tattered and foam springs out from the little cracks and you almost look embarrassed, but he kisses your cheek to reassure you he doesn’t mind. Your father soon emerges from the kitchen holding a fresh pot of tea that he offers, and Satoru takes a hesitant sip – your family anxiously gauging his reaction.

The tea… It was actually sweet and better than anything he’s ever had, and when his cheeks start to warm from the attention, you all start laughing for no reason.

Satoru joins in the laughter. He doesn’t know why he did when he found nothing funny, but felt that it was the most appropriate reaction.

It was no wonder then that you were such an amazing chef. You must’ve inherited it from your father’s impeccable cooking skills. The stew he prepared was amazing, and Satoru had to control himself from slurping the beef stew – it tasted that good. Dinner was absolutely amazing, and you kept laughing and smiling from your seat as you conversed with your parents. Satoru doesn’t think he’s ever seen you this happy.

The baby pink turtleneck sweater you wore highlighted the softness of your heart, and even a blind man could see you really missed your parents. He felt like a stranger then; someone who watched from the outside as your mother reaches over the table to wipe a rice grain from the corner of your mouth. You whine at her gesture, obviously not wanting to be treated like a little kid.

“Mum, that’s embarrassing. I’m with the love of my life, you know,”

He almost chokes at his spoon when you say that, and your mother grins at him. “I wouldn’t worry about that, my dear, it looks like he really loves you no matter what.”

“Yes, Mother,” he agrees, squeezing your thighs from under the table, “I really do.”

There was a warmth in your home that he’d never known, and laughter was always present. Much like you, your father was a man of few words and passed out on the couch after three bottles of soju, leaving you and your mom to clean up after dinner.

Satoru offered to help, only to receive amused glances as if you knew he couldn’t do it. Embarrassed, he excused himself as you cleaned up, and sat on the curb outside your house.

From his peripheral vision, he could see Toji beside the car, standing tall and straight. The cold breeze from the countryside made his dark hair blow across the wind. As if feeling there were eyes on him, Toji peered at Satoru, nodding politely before looking straight ahead. His suit was Giorgo Armani, the one he’d gifted him on his birthday last year. He’s well-aware that Toji ended up making more money driving for him than you ever could with your restaurant.

And this was his reality. This was his world.

Someone like Satoru shouldn’t be sitting on the molded curb of a farmhouse with nothing but mountain and hills surrounding him. The moon and the stars were the only things that gave light to the field, and it was too humble for his liking. He didn’t belong here – that much was clear – and even the scarecrow standing a few feet away from him seemed to agree with its mocking glare.

Much too soon for his liking, Satoru feels a wool sweater being wrapped around his shoulders. He turns to you, a smile already on your face as you plopped down beside him. Playing with your fingers, you keep your gaze down at your feet, hesitant and nervous.

“Satoru… I know you won’t like it, but I’d like to wear my Mom’s wedding dress. It’s fine if you say no, I know you had Vera Wang make an entire collection for me already, but I thought I had to let you know…”

Satoru starts to play with the straw in front of him. He sighs, fiddling his smooth fingers around it before he clutches your hand in his lap. He’d held you a thousand times before, and yet he couldn’t remember if your skin was rough or smooth – only that it felt warm and he liked holding it. And as if he couldn’t help himself, his gaze studied you – how your boots are a little too big on your feet, and you smelled faintly of hay unlike the Maison Francis Kurkdjian perfume he’d gotten you. It was limited edition, too, and he’d had to pull strings just to get you one.

And you couldn’t even wear it for tonight.

An almost choked sob leaves his throat, his heart clenching uncomfortably. He did want you to wear your mother’s wedding dress. Being here, away from the press and businessmen who always tried to mess up his deals when he worked honestly, made him feel like for once – he was a normal human being. That he wasn’t some god whose footsteps were worshipped.

Your mother had welcomed him warmly, and she didn’t even gush about the expensive fabrics of his clothes. She saw him as if he was her own son, and he supposed soon enough he would be, but would he be good enough? She’d raised her daughter as a warm, loving, and humble person. You were down to earth and loved to stay solid and grounded – Satoru was a man who always reached for the stars.

What did that make you then? His fall from the heavens?

Satoru wonders how much of his thoughts were written on his face. You watched him, brows dipped downwards with a clenched jaw. He knows you’re fighting back something to say.  He was too familiar with that look – since Mei-Mei always looked like that. The type of expression etched into his employees’ faces when he shouted at them for their incompetence, and they felt the need to defend themselves. They never did, out of fear Satoru would fire them.

Although you never said it, your face said it all.

He remembers the longing gazes you had to the farmhouses in Leiden with its windmill barns, or how your smile got bigger when a cute kid walked by and waved at you both. You don’t need to say anything because he knows what you’re thinking – that you’re blinded by your love for him.

He still remembers that damned event when your grip on his cat got a little tighter, how your hairline beaded with sweat as you kept fidgeting. You’d been uncomfortable that night, as you always did when you were in his world. You weren’t like this – placid, unreserved, happy.

And now he’s in your world. The words bubble up in your throat, wanting to wipe that disappointed look in his handsome face. You knew even if you say it now, Satoru wouldn’t listen or understand. And it’s funny – how he asked you to marry him, and how willing you were to give up on your dreams if it meant being with him. Even if it meant throwing yourself into unwanted attention, only to be criticized mercilessly – because that’s what it took to be with him.

He was a man with an empire, but with it came the price of being someone who destroyed others.

Somehow, it never crossed your mind it might include you, too.

“You’re right,” he says after a moment, “I would rather you wear Vera Wang’s gown. I hope you don’t find any offense in it, but our wedding will be the wedding of the century. I can’t have you wearing a nameless gown when the whole world will be looking.”

Your grip on his hand tightens for a second before it loosens. Satoru watches, with a heavy heart and an aching soul, as you nod slowly. Forcing a smile on your face, you stood up and walked away from him. You bid your farewells soon after that, with Satoru cringing the moment your parents began to refer to him as their ‘son.’

The whole ride back home is silent.

You’re passed out on his side, your soft snores filling the silence. Satoru reaches over to caress your cheek before leaning back in his seat, clenching his teeth hard to stop the tears from falling. He couldn’t put it into words – the air of finality settling over you once you reach his penthouse.

You’re exhausted from the day, stripping your clothes off before burying yourself under the covers. Your arm seeks out the familiar feeling of having him close next to you, and he indulges you, burying his face against the crook of your neck one more time – one last time. When you mumble his name in your sleep, Satoru swallows the lump forming on his throat, biting down on his lip before gazing at you – knowing you’d been his, knowing he’d miss this. Miss you.

And perhaps that’s what hurts the most – that he’s already missing you when you’re pressed up next to him, that he’s already mourning the presence of someone who he hasn’t lost yet.

But he knew, the end was inevitably near.

So he kisses you, long and hard enough that it hopes it leaves an imprint. You’re unaware of it all, still deep in your slumber even when his eyes betray him and a tear falls. The teardrop lands on your cheek before it slides down your jaw.

Above you, Satoru’s shoulders are shaking and he wants to laugh – because he’s never cried before. He’s never cried when his own friends tried to sabotage him. He’s never cried when the whole world called him a heartless demon walking in the body a wannabe man. He never cried when the world misunderstood him, yet here he was, perfectly content being in your arms, even if he doesn’t deserve it.

For once in his life, Satoru wanted to do what was right. If he couldn’t stop himself from ruining things and hurting those around him, then perhaps this time around he could prevent the only good thing to ever happen to him from shattering.

No amount of money would be able to give you what you truly wanted, and that’s all he had. Satoru had nothing but money, had nothing but it to offer aside from giving you back your freedom. He may be the one that you loved, and for that he would always be grateful, but he was also old enough to know that sometimes, love simply wasn’t enough. You had your own world, and Satoru had the entire universe.

The only world where the two of you could live happily was the one you spent apart from each other.

Unwrapping his arm around yours, Satoru silently trudges to the bedside table to wear his coat and shoes. Giving you one last glance, he takes off his engagement ring, and places it beside the framed photo of you and him in Leiden – this time with no flashing lights.

[poisonlove]

The Tour | w.a

Wednesday Addams X Fem reader

"People are like plants: it’s not the amount of light they receive, but the kind that determines if they bloom." - Anonymous

“I don’t want to do it, Enid,” Wednesday hisses through gritted teeth, casting a cold look at the blonde in front of her.

“It was my turn last year! Can’t you do me this favor just this once?” Enid responds, her tone a mix of sweetness and desperation, her eyes pleading with her roommate.

I decide to look away, letting my attention wander around the room’s decor. I had just arrived at Nevermore Academy, and the headmistress had assured me that someone would show me around. But it seems she had asked the wrong people.

I was born with two powers: super hearing and the ability to read minds. The latter I try to avoid as much as possible; it feels like invading people’s privacy. But with super hearing, there’s no way to turn it off. All I can do is try to distract myself by focusing on something that captures my attention.

One of the main reasons I avoid using my powers is the discomfort of hearing what people think and say about you. Discovering what others are hiding can be devastating, and...

Oh, look. There’s a hand walking by itself.

I raise an eyebrow in confusion, but a slight smile escapes me at the unusual sight.

“Is something amusing you?” Wednesday Addams asks with a hint of venom in her voice. I look up, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment as her dark eyes lock onto mine with a chilling intensity.

Her body is rigid, her posture upright, and her head held high with an unshakable pride.

As soon as I meet her gaze, a strange sensation crosses my mind. Then, a phrase materializes in my thoughts: I don’t like this girl. The feeling of discomfort replaces my initial embarrassment.

Enough, Y/N, I think to myself. Stop reading thoughts.

“Sorry, she’s just like that...” Enid interjects with a nervous smile, shooting a sidelong glance at her friend.

“No, it’s fine,” I quickly reply, trying to mask my discomfort as I set my suitcase on the floor.

Wednesday huffs with a hint of annoyance and gracefully walks over to her desk. She grabs the bag that was on the chair and, before leaving the room, gives me one last look that makes me wish I could disappear. Then, without a word, she steps out of Ophelia Hall.

“I think you should follow her,” Enid suggests with a small smile.

I give her a small wave, almost as a thank you, and hurry to exit, trying to keep up with the small but surprisingly fast Wednesday Addams.

Wednesday walks ahead of me, her steps light but purposeful, as I try to match her pace. She doesn’t look back or check if I’m following, but her silence is a clear signal that she expects me to keep up.

Wednesday stops in front of a large wrought-iron gate that leads to a circular outdoor space. In the center stands an old and somewhat eerie fountain, with five paths branching off in different directions, forming a sort of pentagon.

“Welcome to the Pentagram,” she says in her usual flat, unenthusiastic tone. “This is the heart of Nevermore Academy. From here, you can access all the main areas of the school... and encounter the different ‘categories’ of students.”

I stop beside her, observing the area. There’s a strange energy in the air, as if something darker lurks beneath the seemingly tranquil surroundings.

Wednesday turns slowly to face me, her dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes it hard to look away. “Here at Nevermore, we’re not all the same,” she explains, gesturing vaguely towards the paths around the fountain. “There are vampires, of course. They’re not as charming as in the movies, but they consider themselves quite superior.”

She indicates one of the paths with a slight nod of her head. “Then there are werewolves... Enid is an example. Unlike vampires, at least werewolves have a sense of loyalty, though their pack mentality can be... irritating.”

Continuing, she shifts her gaze to another path. “Mermaids,” she says, with a note of slight disdain in her voice. “They’re natural manipulators. They can control minds with their voices, but they’re very appearance-conscious. Never trust a mermaid. They have a talent for deception.”

She takes a brief pause and then gestures towards another corner of the courtyard. “And then there are the Gorgons. Not exactly Medusas, but if they look you in the eye without their special glasses, you turn to stone. Literally.”

I watch her closely, trying to discern if there’s a hint of irony in her tone, but her face remains impassive.

“Finally, there are those who don’t fit into any specific category,” she concludes, looking up at the dark sky above us. “The anomalies. People like me.”

“What do you mean by ‘anomalies’?” I ask, intrigued.

Wednesday stops and turns to face me, her black eyes shining with an intensity that makes it difficult to look away. “Anomalies,” she begins, “are people who don’t fit into the predefined groups of Nevermore. They don’t fall into common categories like vampires, werewolves, or mermaids. They are... different in ways that our classification can’t always explain.”

She looks at me with an expression that suggests how little she understands my curiosity. “They are individuals who possess unusual abilities or characteristics that defy the usual labels. Some may have strange powers, while others simply don’t conform to expectations.”

Her words leave me with a sense of wonder and a touch of unease. “So, students who don’t belong to any of the main groups are considered anomalies?”

“Exactly,” Wednesday confirms.

I remain silent for a moment, reflecting on what she has said. “Then I suppose I belong to this group.”

Wednesday gazes at me with attentive eyes. There’s a subtle shift in her expression, as if my question has finally piqued her interest. “What powers do you have?” she asks, her voice softer, almost interrogative.

My heart beats a little faster. I’ve never liked talking about my powers, but I can’t avoid this conversation. “I can... hear thoughts. And I have super hearing. Though I try to avoid using telepathy, out of respect for others’ privacy.”

As soon as I say this, I notice a slight stiffening in Wednesday’s shoulders. Instinctively and somewhat awkwardly, she raises her hands, bringing them near her head as if to build an invisible barrier around her mind for protection. The gesture is oddly endearing, a contrast to her usual unflappable demeanor.

“Are you reading my thoughts right now?” she asks, with a calm exterior, but her guard is clearly up.

“No!” I reply quickly, also raising my hands as if to demonstrate my innocence. “I never do it intentionally... unless it’s an emergency. I really do respect other people’s boundaries.”

Wednesday watches me for a long moment, scrutinizing every detail of my face as if trying to decide whether to trust my answer. Then, slowly, she lowers her hands, although she still seems cautious.

“It’s... an annoying power,” she comments finally. “It’s not very common here. Nevermore students tend to be very protective of their secrets.”

I lower my gaze, feeling embarrassed. “I know. That’s why I try not to use it.”

Wednesday gives a small nod of approval and, without adding anything else, turns and begins walking towards one of the paths in the Pentagram. After a few steps, she stops and looks back at me.

“Are you going to stand there staring all day, or do you plan on following me?” she asks in her flat tone. “The tour isn’t over.”

I take a deep breath and hurry to follow her. It seems that Nevermore still has many secrets to reveal... and Wednesday has no intention of slowing down for anyone.

Wednesday continues to lead me through the corridors of Nevermore, passing by groups of students chatting or hurrying to their destinations. She doesn’t seem to notice anyone around her, walking with a decisive and assured stride, expecting me to follow without question.

After navigating various narrow passages and dark staircases, we finally arrive at a pair of imposing dark wooden doors. Wednesday opens them without hesitation, revealing a vast hall filled with towering shelves brimming with books that seem as ancient as the school itself. The soft light adds an almost mystical touch to the environment.

“This is Nevermore's library,” Wednesday says in her usual flat tone. “A place many students use as an excuse for making out in hidden corridors or, worse, for reading poorly-written romance novels.”

I can’t help but smile slightly. “That’s not really my genre,” I reply, admiring the massive collection of books. “I prefer something more... stimulating. Like mystery or horror.”

Wednesday stops abruptly and turns toward me, with a slightly curious expression. Her dark eyes scrutinize me as if trying to determine whether I’m serious or just trying to impress her.

“Interesting,” she murmurs with a faint smile.

She gestures for me to follow as she makes her way through the library and heads toward the exit.

“So,” she begins in a measured tone, “if you prefer mystery and horror, who are your favorite authors? I hope you don’t just name the usual clichés.”

I sense that she’s testing me, seeing if I truly have an authentic knowledge of those genres. I think for a moment and then answer confidently. “Shirley Jackson, for example. Few manage to capture the hidden horror in everyday banality like she does.”

For a moment, I see something change in Wednesday’s expression. It’s uncommon to see her surprised, but it seems that the name I just mentioned has struck a chord with her. Her lips curl slightly into a barely perceptible smile.

“Shirley Jackson,” she repeats, as if savoring the name. “Finally, someone with good taste. We Have Always Lived in the Castle is a masterpiece of unease and despair.”

I can’t help but feel a bit satisfied for having passed her test. Wednesday continues to observe me for a few more seconds, then turns and resumes walking. Although she doesn’t say anything, there’s a new dynamic between us, a sort of mutual respect that wasn’t there before.

“Follow me,” she says finally. “There’s still much more to see.”

Wednesday continues to lead me through the school with her determined stride, guiding me down a long corridor that leads outside. We cross the courtyard and head toward a separate building, surrounded by climbing plants and well-tended shrubs.

“This is the greenhouse,” Wednesday says as we open the glass door. Inside, the greenhouse is a tangle of exotic plants, some with an unsettling appearance, with flowers in unnatural colors and leaves that seem to move on their own. “Here, the rarest and most poisonous plants are cultivated. Mortality biology, as I prefer to call it.”

As we observe a plant with leaves that shift slightly as we pass, Wednesday turns to me. “The greenhouse is managed by Professor Thornhill. Many people like to spend time here, but only a few truly understand the lethal potential of what grows here.”

I nod, a little intrigued and a little unsettled. The air is thick with intense scents, some sweet, others sharp, but all decidedly... strange.

Wednesday doesn’t linger longer than necessary. “Let’s go,” she says, quickly exiting as if the greenhouse is just one of many stops of the day.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, we arrive at the Nevermore gymnasium. We enter, and the atmosphere changes dramatically. The room is vast and well-lit, with walls adorned with ancient swords and shields, and fencing equipment neatly arranged. Some students are engaged in intense fencing sessions, maneuvering their swords with extraordinary skill, while others are working out with exercises that combine agility and strength in almost supernatural ways.

“The gym,” Wednesday says with a tone that reveals her disinterest. “Here many seek to refine their combat and fencing skills. It’s a place of competition and discipline. Personally, I prefer to exercise the mind rather than the body. However, if you like the idea of facing others in duels and tests of strength, this is the place.”

I watch the students training fervently, their swords glinting under the fluorescent lights, and the fluid and precise movements of their techniques. It seems like a dynamic and competitive environment, very different from the other areas of the school.

Wednesday continues to walk, passing by the ongoing training. “It’s not my ideal environment, but every corner of Nevermore has its purpose,” she adds, casting a distracted glance at the room. “Don’t worry if it doesn’t seem like your kind of place. Many students feel at home here, but there are others who prefer different spaces to express their abilities.”

Although this part of the school is vibrant and full of energy, it’s not the kind of place where I would feel comfortable. But, as Wednesday says, every place has its role, and Nevermore seems to have a spot for every type of person.

Wednesday gestures for me to follow her again, and we head toward another room. As we enter, the smell of food immediately hits us. The large space is crowded with students talking among themselves as they line up to get food or sit at long tables.

“The cafeteria,” Wednesday comments, observing the environment with an almost disgusted air. “Where the common people eat and socialize. If you’re lucky, you might find a quiet corner. But don’t expect much in terms of culinary quality.”

I can’t help but chuckle at her comment. The chaotic atmosphere of the cafeteria makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, but at least it’s warmer compared to the greenhouse and gym.

“We won’t stay here,” Wednesday says quickly, leading me out again. We move toward a quieter, more serene part of the school.

Wednesday guides me down the corridors of Nevermore, her pace steady and unyielding. “So, you’ve seen almost everything,” she says, breaking a silence that had only been interrupted by our footsteps. “If you have any other questions, now’s the time.”

Taking advantage of her openness, I ask, “I’ve noticed that everyone wears the purple uniform except for you. Why?”

Wednesday raises an eyebrow and gives me a scrutinizing look. “The purple uniforms are standard for all students at Nevermore. They represent a sense of belonging and uniformity. However, my black attire is a personal choice.”

Her answer seems a bit cryptic, so I continue probing. “But is there a specific reason you wear black? It’s not a rule, is it?”

Wednesday smiles slightly, an expression that could be interpreted as a kind of personal satisfaction. “Black is a manifestation of my style and preferences. It’s not so much a rebellion against norms as it is a statement of individuality.”

“I see,” I say, reflecting on her comment. “So it’s a conscious choice that reflects your personality.”

“Exactly,” Wednesday replies with a tone suggesting that the conversation might be closing there.

“Do you know where your room is?” Wednesday asks, raising her gaze with an impatient question.

I raise an eyebrow and reply with a subtle smile, “It’s practically yours.”

Wednesday looks at me with intensity, as if evaluating my answer. “I know, but I have to go somewhere else, and I’m not sure if you know how to get there.”

“I can find it,” I say calmly. “Thanks for the tour.”

As I look at her, I notice her eyes fixate on me with a penetrating intensity. I take a moment to observe her closely. Her figure is petite and slender, but she exudes a presence that fills the space around her. Her black hair is neatly styled in two braids that fall down her back. Her pale face is dotted with subtle freckles that seem to peek timidly above her nose and on her cheeks. These small details add an unexpected dimension to her austere beauty.

Her dark eyes are like two deep wells reflecting an eerie light, and her thin, well-groomed eyebrows accentuate her detached expression. She wears the black school uniform, which fits perfectly with her elegant figure and stern demeanor. Her movements are fluid and measured, imparting an aura of control and authority.

In her mind, I catch the thought: I don’t know if she’s reading, but this girl is really interesting. My cheeks involuntarily flush.

Wednesday, noticing my embarrassment, tilts her head slightly to the side and adds with a faint smile, She’s cute when she blushes

I try to look away and calm the redness on my face, feeling a mix of embarrassment and curiosity. “Again, thanks for the tour,” I say, trying to keep my composure.

Wednesday gives a nod of approval and resumes walking, leaving me with thoughts about her words and the impression of how Nevermore can be both fascinating and enigmatic.

[radiance1]

The ghost king has not been summoned for millennia. No body but the beings of the Infinite Realms knew the exact reason why, but one day he just stopped answering all at once.

It was a sudden thing, a sudden thing that interrupted the plans of many cults who wished for the end of the world.

On that note, it was a recent thing, but the summoning worked, and no one knew why the ghost king left. The Justice League were quick to a stop to that information from being spread to the best of their ability.

But it was too late.

So instead, they stopped any summoning they could. But the JL, while large, is not omnipresent, a summoning happened in Gotham and, while most heroes aren't allowed in.

This was the exception, they needed fire power in case the Ghost King decided to burn the world down, instead of leaving like he did before.

They expected a few things.

Meeting Robin's younger half-brother and his father were not one of them.

Pariah Dark, the Ghost King that was said to have ruled the Infinite Realms with an iron fist and was a known tyrant, was the adopted father to Danny, Robin's younger brother that he hasn't contacted in a long time.

Robin, of course, had questions about this. Where were the two scientists that Danny was supposed to be keeping an eye on because of their meddling with ectoplasm (ectoplasm and Lazarus Water aren't the same thing here)? Why has he been adopted by a ghost powerful enough to be called upon to burn the world? Is Danny now Pariah Dark's heir?

The answers?

The scientists along with their daughter- Danny's sister, died (Nasty Burger explosion, didn't leave behind ghosts). He was adopted because he interested and impressed Pariah Dark enough that he claimed him to be his child, and yes, Danny can be called Pariah Dark's heir and the prince to the Infinite Realms.

Though he will never be king.

Robin is.... pleased, to say the least by the latter information. Though he won't show it, he's glad that his younger brother won't be killed off because now he has importance in the eyes of the League, though the scientists dying (as well as his sister and friends) wasn't something he found himself too pleased with.

He also was not pleased with the state his brother was in. Far too dark circles under his eyes, barely able to stand on his feet when he wasn't levitating, constantly rubbing his eyes. Robin didn't even ask as he grabbed his brother's arm and it felt... hm.

Yes, he didn't like the state his brother was in.

So he said so. More like he insulted his brother for letting himself, the younger of the demon twins and what would've been the heir had Damian not beaten him (again, Danny never held back and Damian was just better), fall to such a state.

Meanwhile, the heroes are both confused, concerned and still tense at this situation because of the Ghost King standing silently in the circle at the opposite end of the room. Watching them, assessing them, before intently watching the interaction between his son and Robin.

Meanwhile, Pariah is thinking is he should yoink this one too. He was not aware that his son had any other relatives of any kind, much less a half-brother, and he could tell that the boy was a fine warrior.

Both by human standards, and his own.

The way he carried himself, his expression, the look in his eyes, the weapons he could tell that were hidden around the boy's body and his armor- while unique, he could find himself being amused that this own at least had proper armor rather than some contraption of metal that-while very powerful, seemed more of a hindrance than a help in a drawn-out battle.

Well, Pariah Dark found himself wanting and, by the looks of things. His child seems very comfortable around his brother, so would he be opposed to having said comfort around all the time?

[imaybe5tupid]

On the hidden repressed suburban white emo boy darkness in Laios’ heart

LET ME BE CLEAR: i like Laios, this is not a hate post, his flaws and darker parts of who he is round out his character and make him the character I love. Also this isn’t proper meta or analysis just my literal sleepy off the cuff rambling

I think Laios can be very comfortably summed up as someone who feels he was never indulged and the person he is in the series grew over those scars. I really enjoy how much Laios genuinely has a lot of darkness in his heart his emo-boy ness is really underrated. He canonically thought of (and is implied to sometimes still think of) his bullies (and sometimes people in general) like this

Aside being autistic, well into his 20s Laios really inhabits this very imo teenage mindset/outlook thats a combination of outsider and contrarian (the latter secretly). And the Winged Lion sees this immediately for what it is, this idea of being an alienated outsider due to your unique understanding of the world (I don’t mean Laios thinks hes like a nobel prize winner but more that he has a lot of resentment for how the things he’s interested in are not valued in the way he values them) and the percieved dull conformism of others (eg. his father), and how these feelings of his come from a deliberate (as in i feel hes actively trying to make himself think this as a coping mechanism) lack of intellectual and emotional curiosity about people or things that he’s unable to box into this Different category i.e the grass is always greener (of course in addition to his Traumas). For example monsters obviously, but also his fascination with Toshiro’s foreignness, like the island was probably full of strong cool warrior types but they weren’t so distinctly “exotic” (unfortunate but true 😔, many such cases see Japanism and also ironically cause thats how i hc the toudens, the way scandinavia is weirdly idolised by a great deal of the world, or even the way people will see an indie movie set in like small town absolutely anywhere else in the world from where they are and be like waow so cool and different unlike my LAME hometown imagine that meme of the ships thats like their barbaric practices etc.) and an emblem of this cool different world that he could idealise and escape into.  Shuro represents a kind of escapist fantasy for Laios, like in addition to just being (to Laios) This Super Nice Guy Who Always Saves Me And Says Yes To Me And Never Gets Mad, he’s also Nothing Like Those Boors from the village/school/ the military. And he probably dgaf about Rin or like Eastern diaspora in Melini and would say offensive things to them running along the lines of what he said to Lycion (“so you only look different on the outside, nothing is different internally , how disappointing”). Like you can compare Kabru’s curiosity towards people which is driven by a genuine passion for humanity, to Laios’ at times objectifying curiosity toward Shuro which is shaped by the pain of the past and immediately see the sickness in the head Laios has lol. Unconsciously, Laios I think can also be a deeply self-centred guy at his core (evidenced by the nature of his curse at the end of the story too haha).

[monicaeidolith]

it's been 8 years and she's still down bad for her neighbor (who wouldn't)

and so there she is: Step 3 Athena! 🌙✨

Step 1 & Step 2 here

(Infos about Athena in every steps except 4 below if you're interested)

(watch out it's long.)

Step 1 -

At 10, Athena is a very curious girl, somewhat nosey and a bit clumsy (main reason why she often has bandages). She likes puzzles, creepy stuff and drawing (but nothing that serious about that hobby yet). While she isn't very shy, she's still uneasy around people she doesn't know and moving to a new town isn't helping. She has trouble accepting changes, and this whole situation is a way too big change.

Athena is very close to her mom during step 1. Unfortunately for her, she doesn't really look like her that much and she's kind of bothered by that, especially because the person she obviously looks like, her "dad", isn't there. Not having a dad isn't really a huge problem for her, but Athena fears a little bit people's opinion on that subject: "Is it weird that I don't have a dad...?".

She's feeling sad and scared about moving out, as she has to get used to a completely different world (in her eyes). "At least I have my mom", she thinks. But if moving in Golden Grove was scary at first, meeting Qiu and Tamarack was a huge help for Athena to feel included.

She thinks Qiu, aka "Autumn", is funny but also a huge show-off, haha. She LOVES to tease Qiu. But Athena's also genuinely worried about Qiu sometimes, because that kid is a huge people-pleaser.

When it comes to Tamarack, man... Athena totally puts this girl on a pedestal. She thinks Tamarack is amazing and pretty. And should Tamarack say anything positive about Athena, you can be certain the latter will go crazy internally. At 10, Athena doesn't realize she actually has a huge crush on Tamarack yet, though.

Step 2 -

At 14, Athena became a sort of troublemaker, she barely cares about rules. She's not mean but she grew to be more blunt and direct than she was as a 10-year-old, this and her current appearance make her seem unapproachable. However she kept her soft side, a side that she ironically doesn't even keep that much hidden but that you still have to deserve. If at 10 she would often have bandages because of her clumsiness, at 14, it's mostly because she's reckless. Some things that remained are her love for puzzles, creepy stuff and drawing, in fact, she started to get interested in visual arts.

In fact, the tough side of her personality grew when her first group friends with Qiu and Tamarack slowly fell apart. She couldn't do anything to prevent that from happening, so she felt like she had to toughen up. But to be honest, she's becoming tired of being the sole link between them, she's barely trying to now. Maybe Qiu and Tamarack won't become friends again. She has to accept it... but maybe Athena still has troubles accepting changes, no matter how old she is, after all.

Despite all that, Athena still treats both of them nicely. She still teases Qiu whenever she can (watch out Athena, the teasing could backfire on you). Her worries about them are still present too, but for different reasons than in step 1. Even 4 years later, Athena still retrieve Qiu's lost papers because they would NOT do it themselves. No matter what, Autumn remains her dear friend and the feeling is mutual.

Tamarack, aka "Tam", is her best friend! ... and the girl she has a crush on, Athena realized it now. Athena doesn't know if Tam feels the same way or not, though. Athena still thinks Tamarack is the most amazing and most talented person out there, she wishes Tam could see it too. She's highly worried about Tamarack potentially leaving Golden Grove at any moment but she tries to hide it from Tamarack. "Tam probably has enough of people walking on eggshells with her", she thinks. Athena dislikes Tamarack's parents for not only never being there for their daughter but also for making her situation so uncertain, only for their own interests (in her eyes).

Another feeling started to grow: jealousy. Athena will feel jealous of anyone who seems a bit too close to Tamarack. Does she think she's no match for Tamarack? Yes. Does that stop her from being jealous? No. She knows she has no right to be, Tamarack is a wonderful girl, it's impossible not to like her, but she can't help it.

Athena grew to be even more bothered by her lack of resemblance with her mother. Some times before turning 14, she started to dye her hair cranberry, just like her mom's hair color (let's say Opal didn't really like to see that her daughter started dyeing her hair at her young age, reaction Athena didn't appreciate, all she wanted was to look like her mom, what's the problem?). Ironically, while Athena wishes so hard to look like her mom, her relationship with her became somewhat strained. As if resembling a completely unknown guy wasn't enough. Living his best life nowhere to be found, uh? Resentment is the word here. Never towards her mom, even if their relationship is not that good at this point, but towards this guy who gave her his physical traits she never wanted and started to despise.

At least she became used to live in Golden Grove.

Step 3 -

At 18, Athena is not the rough troublemaker that she was at 14 anymore. Now she's more like a silly prankster, seemingly always up to something more stupid than before, although she remains reckless and blunt (but less on purpose and more out of habit). Of course, her interest in visual arts remained intact. Her liking for creepy stuff turned into a huge love for horror and its aesthetic.

Her relationship with her mom is getting better than it was 4 years ago. Athena grew out of the resentment she had for her "dad" during step 2 and learned to accept she may not look that much like her mom, but that it doesn't cancel the fact she's Opal's daughter no matter how she looks. Plus "some bits of [Opal] did end up in [her]" after all, right?

Athena's relationship with Autumn is what you could describe as "siblings by hearts", Athena does consider them as the sibling she never had.

Athena and Tamarack are still officially "besties for life", but little do they know that they both ended up falling in love with each other, plain and simple.

Her jealousy and resentment did tone down, but when she thinks back to her 14-year-old self, she feels bad, so bad. For being jealous of Tamarack's friends, for being resentful of a random donor and basically making many things about herself. "Man, I was such a prick. And for what?".

If when she was 14, Athena felt like she was no match for Tamarack because she put Tam on a pedestal, at 18, she now thinks she's simply not good enough as a person for Tamarack. She kind of "accepted" that if Tamarack only wants to be friends, then it's fine, she cannot force Tam to love her back. It's silly to think someone like her could be extra-special in Tam's heart anyway (girl if you knew.), it's nice enough to be her best friend.

Between step 2 and 3, Athena managed to put a label on herself: she's lesbian.

[starwarsbundle]

The Clone Wars Headcannons they probably deserve; pt. 1/6

And we are back, baby!

With what, I hear you ask? Why, THE CHAOTIC SHENANIGANS OF COURSE. Since ya’ll loved my Bad Batch Headcannons so much, now it’s finally time for the Clone Wars!

And who better to start out with than our sad-sassy-b1tch(tm), Obi Wan Kenobi?

(Also if you haven’t simped for this man at SOME point, you’re lying to yourself.)

Obi Wan is the kind of guy who is secretly ripped but no one realizes it - and that’s primarily because he always wears so many layers that he just comes across as soft. It was discovered at some point when he for some reason decided to spar shirtless, and every single Jedi who’d thought he was basically just a soft dad has gone 0_0 - until someone basically has to throw a robe over him like the Birth of Venus to keep everyone from melting in awe.

Drinks caf to live. Even in the low moments of the war, this man is a walking talking stress-bag, who DOESN’T get enough sleep - to the point where Cody has to basically file a restraining order on his General to force him to nap.

Fight flirts and Serious flirts. We all know Kenobi is the biggest sassiest flirt on the face of the earth, but here’s the thing - there’s two different types of flirt he uses, playful-I’m-not-actually-interested-in-you-romantically and seriously-can-you-take-me-on-a-date-or-marry-me-PLS. Cody and Satine mostly get the latter, but it is SO hard to tell the difference to the point where nobody knows whether to take it seriously or not. (Poor Cody takes it seriously)

FUN FACT: Rex is the only one who can tell the difference, and has been trying to help Cody figure it out for a while - with no success.

Is not the serious and sensible one of the Disaster Trio. Oh boy NO. He only looks sensible compared to Anakin - but away from him is basically the biggest disaster and danger magnet EVER SEEN. (Where do you think Anakin-dramatic-ass-Skywalker got it from, hm??)

Has great personal hygiene. Always smells like soft, sweet soap.

Is physically incapable of giving hugs (is touch starved(tm)) but would melt like butter in a hot pan into a hug. Might even cry a little too - he’s only held together by sass, stress, and caf, okay?

Is pedantic about having his robes ironed. He tried to drum this habit into Anakin - with many sighs and no success.

Absolutely has used his Disappointed(tm) Voice on everyone at some point. Cody has picked up on this voice and uses it on Anakin frequently.

Reads romance novels. Take this as you will.

Gimme Gimme Gimme A Man (After Midnight) by ABBA is absolutely his JAM. (Also if you haven’t listened to this song and thought of Kenobi, where’ve you been?)

Has a sweet tooth - and unfortunately no time to indulge it.

Obi Wan Kenobi… I swear everyone new to the SW fandom is like “no I will not simp for this man”, and then has the biggest Obi Wan simp phase ever.

[blueiscoool]

2,500-Year-Old Greek-Illyrian Helmet Discovered in Croatia

Archaeologists discovered a Greek-Illyrian helmet dating 2,500 years in very good condition on Croatia’s Pelješac peninsula.

The same team that found the Greek-Ilyrian helmet in 2020, in the same place, has found the next helmet, which according to the first analysis is older than the one found earlier.

The previous example most likely belonged to a member of the warrior elite who was interred there because it was discovered in a grave with pieces of iron weapons.

Archaeologists think the recently discovered helmet may have been a votive deposit because it was discovered in a dry stone-walled addition to a grave.

Greco-Illyrian type helmets originated in Peloponnese, Ancient Greece, where it likely evolved from the Kegelhelm (or Kegel type) of the Archaic Period.

The Greek-Illyrian helmet is extremely rare

Both of the helmets found are of different types and dates: The helmet discovered in 2020 was of a type commonly used in Greece and Illyria in the 4th century BC. It was an open-faced helmet with a rectangular cross-section for the face and decorative edges.

The newly found helmet is thought to date from the 6th century BC and is extremely rare. Finding two different Greek-Illyrian helmets at one site is unprecedented.

This find, along with a wealth of clothing, jewelry, and burial artifacts unearthed since the excavations began, greatly expands our knowledge of the funeral practices of Illyrian communities in the latter half of the first millennium BC.

The Illyrians were a group of Indo-European-speaking people who inhabited the western Balkan Peninsula in ancient times. They constituted one of the three main Paleo-Balkan populations, along with the Thracians and Greeks.

“What is very interesting is that two different types appear here in the same place, which speaks of a continuity of power of the respective community. These helmets have always been a symbol of some kind of status and power,” said Professor Hrvoje Potrebica, from the Department of Archeology of the Faculty of Philosophy in Zagreb.

Speaking on the discovery, a representative from the Dubrovnik Museum said: “Along with numerous finds of jewelry, costumes and grave goods, this find of a helmet contributes in many ways to the knowledge of funeral rituals of Illyrian communities in the second half of the last millennium BC, and it ranks the area of Pelješac as one of the most important archaeological zones of the eastern Adriatic coast.”

Recently, archaeologists in Southern Italy have unearthed several significant artifacts, including two helmets, fragments of weapons and armor, and pottery shards, at an archaeological site in the ancient Greek city of Velia.

By Tasos Kokkinidis.

[ssa-dado]

0 - Symposium, definitely not Platonic love.

Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader (I hope I tagged it correctly woops)

No use of Y/N!

Summary: Hotch, after seeing you reading a book on the jet, picks it up out of curiosity. Late-night texts with you evolve from work to teasing philosophical banter about love, deepening your connection. Through this dialogue, Hotch reflects on both philosophy and his feelings for you, as the conversation subtly flirts with deeper emotions.

Genre: fluff, sapiosexual fluff.

Warnings: Implied alcohol consumption ; Reader and Hotch being completely blind yet marvellously insightful ; Philosophical discussions, I tried my best to make them as user friendly as possible ; Sir kink if you squint, although it's not intended in that way at all ; The story is set around season 3/4 before the team found out about Strauss' drinking problem, I feel so bad anyways.

Word Count: 2.9k

Dado's Corner: be kind this is my first ever Hotch fic and overall first fic I've written in English (yes, I indeed am a real Italian stallion) so there might be some mistakes, bear with me.

next part - set when they first ever met.

Hotch sits on the couch, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows across his living room, the house is so quiet, he briefly interrupts his late night reading session as he swears he can almost hear Jack’s light breathing from across the house. Those sweet thoughts, mixed up with the muffled night traffic almost lullabies him to sleep while the weight of another long week at the BAU settles into his bones.

His eyes immediately gaze down to his hands, firming holding opened the slim book: Symposium by Plato—a book he wouldn’t normally pick up on his own. The corners of his mouth quickly turn up as he recalls how he’d seen you reading it on the jet a few cases ago, sitting cozily and crossing your legs alone in a seat in front of him, strategically shielded from the table seats occupied by playing the rest of the team, including himself, busingly playing cards.

Every now and then his gaze automatically lingered on your stillness, the only movements coming from the swift air you moved while turning the page or adjusting your pose to be more comfortable, this sight intoxicated him. Your focus was so intense you didn’t even flinch at Derek standing up from his seat and leaning forward, while his hands gravitated towards the doctor’s bare neck after the latter just killed him off the game because oblivious of yet another variation they all added so it would make it easier to beat Reid. An attempt that ended tragically.

In that abrupt mess - from JJ laughing at the ironic hilarity to Reid using the highest-pitched voice his vocal chords could ever produce to defend himself from Derek's accusation of cheating - Hotch only remembers how your statuesque figure slowly had revived itself again as you glanced up to make sure no harm was done to the doctor. You made eye contact with Hotch and and you immersed yourself back to the slim book as soon the Unit Chief signed you not to worry and that he would tackle the situation himself. In a matter of fractions of seconds all your surroundings had disappeared again.

As soon as the Unit Chief was back into his office, curiously reminiscing about your hypnotic serenity, he’d ordered a copy.

Now, as in the comfort of his living room slowly turns the pages, his phone vibrates with a message from you awakening him from his trance, immediately wonders why you would message him so late at night.

“Hotch, quick question: about the profile for the Winger case—should we revise the victimology section?"

…Of course, he almost started to hate how his role as Unit Chief always seemed to ruin his brief-lasting delusions.

He robotically types a response, a straightforward answer to your work-related question but as he presses send, his gaze lingers on the book in his hands. There’s somehow a temptation on his side to share the weird coincidence, to see how you might react.

"Good catch. I’ll review it tomorrow.” He writes.

“Wow that was quick, I didn’t expect you to still be up, did I interrupt your late night reading session?”

He quicky blushes, how could you know him so well?!

“You did. Don’t worry about it. By the way, I’m reading Symposium tonight." He blurts out

There’s a pause, and he can visualize your surprised reaction, how the sight of your smile would always warm his heart; almost immediately, his phone buzzes again.

"Wait, really, Symposium?!”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He wouldn’t smile so much if you were standing in front of him, thankfully, the shield of communicating through texts allowed him to put down his.

You continue. “Not to raise your expectations too much, but that’s my all-time favorite book, just so you know!"

He swears he can hear the intonation of your voice reading that text, visualizing how you would face your palms towards him and raise your shoulders, trying to keep that non-chalant expression of yours and not perk a soft smile to him.

Entitled by that fateful coincidence, Hotch feels brave enough to decide to tease you - just a little - hoping the text doesn't sound that much so out of character for him as much as it does in his head, although he shrugs, sending it before he starts overthinking it.

“Your all-time favorite? A book about love? I should’ve known."

He pauses, imagining you raising an eyebrow, maybe with that knowing smile you wear when he’s teasing you. And even though he’s playing it off as a joke, part of him can completely see how you, could actually have a natural flare for romance - even if you never openly admit it and always tried the best you could to suppress that side of yours.

He decides to blame it on the years spent at the BAU when it was just the two of you along with Rossi and Gideon; At how you were recruited as soon as you turned 21, while the youngest person you worked with on the team and could relate to the most was Hotch himself, even if he was late in his Jesus year.

He quickly remembers how you would always overwork yourself - you both still do nowadays, that's why you're having a conversation at past 2 AM - He could see how you were always trying to prove your worth more to yourself rather than to your co-workers or even to the sketchy police officers and detectives somehow still stuck in the 1400s.

He had always admired you for your intelligence and acute instincts, and so does your nowadays team, immediately entrusting you with the nickname of "Prehistoric Reid" only because because you had started working at the BAU back when they still didn't provide the jet so you all had to move using the trains. Even if you already have 9 years of experience in the field, yet you were the 2nd youngest - still no eidetic memory though - this desire to always prove yourself never fully went away. One day you were the youngest, the other they assume someone way more genius than you were so you can't stand out anymore for merely for your intelligence.

You finally respond: "Well, it’s more than just a book about love. It’s actually quite of a concrete example of Plato’s take on philosophy - the whole thing told through dialogues, like a discussion among friends. But I won’t bore you with all the technicalities"

Hotch chuckles softly, picturing you downplaying your passion, trying not to sound too academic. What you don’t know is that he could listen to you talk about philosophy for hours - especially tonight, about philosophy’s take on love, no less. He doesn’t dares to say that, though.

"I wouldn’t say you’re boring me. In fact, I’m starting to see the appeal. But really, all-time favorite?"

He leans back into the couch, waiting for your reply.

You told him back when you first met that your first ever degree was in philosophy, and now recalling that specific information he's been wondering why exactly a barely-reaching-100-pages-long book holds such a special place for you, out of all the others he’s seen you passionately read during the years. A part of him is genuinely curious, the other part is trying to stretch as much as possible this conversation with you.

"Absolutely. I mean, think about it: a bunch of people crashing at their friend's house, sitting around, getting drunk, each giving their take on love while they feast at a banquet." You continued. "It’s almost like when we’re at Rossi’s, except instead of love, we’re all talking about criminology and cases while stuffing ourselves with his Italo-American dishes".

An image of Rossi pouring wine wearing an ancient greek costume - fake long white beard included - while everyone at the table delves into some intricate discussion about a case flashes through his mind, Hotch immediately chuckles at the comparison. He's sure you've imagined the exact thing too and he can almost hear you suggest hosting a real Symposium next time, his profiling skills never fail him as soon his phone buzzes again.

"Imagine if we recreated the Symposium at Rossi’s. Each of us giving our take on love. I can almost hear Reid's speech delving into the psychology of affection and its variations throughout the various cultures"

Quick on his chubby fingers, after laughing at the scenario, he types the continuation "In stark opposite, Garcia would follow him and pull out her tarot cards and read each of our birth charts, telling us who we're most compatible with based on our stars alignements"

While waiting for you, he stands up and makes his way towards his home bar, reaching for the scotch bottle, swiftly filling up his glass, silently blessing Plato for making this the longest light-hearted conversation you haven’t had in years. You were both either too focused on your work or actively suppressing your romantic feelings and ignoring each other. After all this time he would almost forget how the two of you were first and foremost very good friends. As the liquid burns the back of his throat, his phone buzzes again.

"That's actually really fascinating yet so intimidating, what about Rossi though? Of course he's hosting all of us but I feel he would totally blurt out some old-scool stuff he only understands. I know I'm not the only one who doesn't get his references, but I really feel bad whenever I don't."

He almost chokes himself after your other reply

"So, big boss, have I convinced you with giving us the free week-end or should I extend the invite our lovely friend Strauss? I fear that after a few glasses of Rossi’s wine all that angst towards you might turn into some ol' sweet love. I would watch out if I were you, Unit Chief"

You loved poking fun at him using his rank; It all started a few years ago to jokingly shrug away the awkwardness caused from how the co-worker you always used to joke around, spend the nights together in the same room, sharing your theories about the unsub and building up the profile with suddenly turned into your superior. As much as you both didn't want to admit it, something in your relationship had shifted since this happened, not to mention to the fact that it's much more awkward to admit to your boss you've been having a crush on your him for almost 9 years rather than to your co-worker.

Now Hotch, encouraged by the slight booze, further teases you "And what do you think my take on love would be?"

This was the closest he could ever come to flirting with you, walking on that fine line and never pushing himself further. For Hotch, the gesture of basically asking you to profile him in a moment in which he was so vulnerable, breaking his golden rule of "never profile your coworkers" was the most romantic declaration of love he could ever think that of.

Your text brings him back down to Earth:

"Hmm, I imagine you’d give a thoughtful, analytical speech something with a lot of depth but surprisingly subtly humorous. You would wait for everyone to finish their own speech so you would be last, acknowledging all of us completely busted, only because you have self-control."

You feel the need to add something else, even if you know already he would read into it, at the way how you reserved a mere sentence to describe that scenario involving your teammates. On the contrary, you could write a whole book about him and all his hypothetical remarks, meticulously poiting out every small gesture or expression - or the lack of - of him. Since truth lies in the middle, you decide to dedicate him only another lengthy paragraph.

"You would start with something along the lines of ‘Love is a complex system of emotional responses influenced by myriad factors…’ as if you were delivering a profile, definitely using that same tone as well. You’d probably have us all analyzing every possible nuance and you enjoy watching us slobber, trying to quickly sober up to keep up with your impeccable remarks. Of course we would miserably fail at being analytical whatsoever, but you love whenever we make a fool out of ourselves."

He chuckles "You do know me too well"

He probably hints at the possibilty of having a weekend off with his next text "And since now you're making me think I might have to start prepare my speech about love, it wouldn't hurt to also include a few practical applications for the BAU team’s dynamics."

Ha. You wish he showed you what those practical applications consisted of. Hotch although interrupts even the possibility of recycling this genius quick witted remark with him, making sure to replace yourself with his archenemy section chief Erin Strauss, to not weird him out.

"Jokes apart, your take on love would be fascinating, I'm looking forward to hear it", he says.

"Only if you’re ready for philosophical debates after a few glasses of wine. Though, I’ll warn you - I take my Plato very seriously."

Hotch smiles at that, apparently he took his Plato quite seriously as well. What you're not aware at all is that the late-night session of Symposium you had interrupted wasn't his first.

"I’ll keep that in mind. But honestly, I’ve been finding parts of it… enlightening."

He had actually finished it for the first time less than a hour before you texted. What you actually interrupted was Hotch helplessly going back through certain passages that reminded him of you. He hypothesises your take on the subject of love, trying to gauge how you view it without revealing feelings he’s kept carefully hidden for a long time.

"Enlightening, huh? So you’ve gotten to the part where Socrates explains how love makes us better people?"

Hotch remembers that part well enough, but he hasn’t revealed just how deeply he’s been thinking about it - how, in his own quiet way, he’s been trying to connect those ideas to his life, and to you, so he chooses his next words carefully.

“Not yet." He lies, knowing that the part you appointed to would only come much later in the book "But I’m guessing you’ve got some thoughts on that?"

He imagines you smiling on the other end, maybe a little amused at how he’s obviously deflecting, although you don’t press him, but your next reply doesn't lack a subtle challenge.

"I do. But I think you'd find it pretty relevant, Hotch. Phaedrus talks about how lovers fight better together - how love gives them courage."

He quickly smirks and reminds himself how much he loves when you put him in the corner with the choice of your words, there was no way he could deflect that, since Phaedrus’s speech comes first, he couldn't say he hadn't read that yet.

Hotch's eyes flicker toward the book again, remembering Phaedrus’s discourse: the idea that love could make people fight harder, be stronger… it strikes a chord, reminding him of the strength he’s seen in you, in the unique way you both handle the intense challenges of your work when paired up together. He types, his words more deliberate now.

"Phaedrus might be onto something. Love as a motivator, as a way to push people to be better. What about you? Do you see it that way?"

There’s a slight pause before your next message, and he can almost sense your careful consideration, you’ve never been one to answer these kinds of questions lightly.

"Yeah, I think so. I mean, love isn’t just about being close to someone, it’s about making each other better, pushing each other forward. But that is not easy at all. It takes patience, discipline… and maybe a bit of faith."

Hotch’s expression softens as he reads your words. He admires your thoughtfulness, your ability to cut straight to the heart of something that most people shy away from. He finds himself thinking about how true those words are, how they seem to apply not only to love, but to the way both of you approach life and work. He types slowly, his words carefully chosen.

"Patience, discipline, and faith. Sounds a lot like what we do every day, maybe we’re already living it."

As he sends the message, he sets the phone down beside him and glances at the book again. He’s aware of the irony - that for all the deflecting, all the jokes, he’s learning more about you through this conversation than he would have if he had simply asked.

The words of Plato, the discussions on love, seem to take on a new meaning - one that feels personal, one that makes him wonder if he’s been missing something between the lines all along.

"You know, this conversation feels a bit like Socratic dialogue. Just without the wine. Maybe I’m learning about love through you and Plato’s dialogues in a way Socrates might’ve appreciated."

He sends the message, a small smirk on his face. He knows how much you would appreciate the unexpected extra philosophical remark about Socrates even if he knows little to nothing about him apart from that his idea of love in Plato's book. To impress you he totally forgets how only just a few moments before he stated he hasn’t read his discourse yet. A few moments later, your reply comes through.

“No way! Aaron Hotchner now delves into the Socratic dialectics?!"

Now you smell the lie so to make sure you trick him with the next text "Well, maybe you should read something by Socrates next, he was quite the conversationalist, you would rely a lot to him, especially after all of this philosophical banter"

"Any recommendations?" He naively takes the bait

"That’s the thing, Unit Chief - Socrates didn’t write anything. He relied on his students to record his thoughts. It’s all oral and dialectical. The dialogues are his legacy, not written works, maybe that’s why it’s such a rich experience—like having an ongoing conversation with someone through the ages."

Hotch leans back, wishing these moments would linger forever, hoping the words you exchanged could be eternal just like those exchanged by the men he was reading about, now printed with black ink on the paper resting in his hands. He's surprised he doesn’t feel the tiredness of the week anymore or neither the need to sleep. Damn, he has so much energy he's sure he could run a whole marathon, but only if you’re out there watching him.

"Well, if our conversations end up like Plato’s dialogues, I think I’m in for a rewarding challenge. Just don’t make me drink too much wine before our next discussion."

"Unit Chief I thought you had self-control and didn't need to be babied like us mortals"

His phone buzzes with another message from you.

“Sorry if I ask, I’m curious - what got you interested in Symposium all of a sudden? I didn’t think philosophy was your usual reading material."

Hotch takes a moment to think, considering how to respond without revealing too much.

"You know, it’s funny. I saw you reading it a while back and it piqued my interest. I guess I wanted to see what you found so engaging about it. And honestly, I’m finding it pretty compelling - there’s a lot more depth to it than I expected."

His cheeks turn into a light shade of pink at your last response. "Unit Chief, do you believe you might need some professional insights on that speech you needed so urgently to write?"

"I definitely might need a hand - if I'm not wrong you do have a philosophy degree, don't you?"

Symposium might just become Aaron Hotchner's all-time-favourite book as well, after all.