#the physics paper was HORRIFIC

[turtle-tries-to-study]

naurr cause tsr thinks they've got jokes 😭

[1-800-kami]

R U MINE? feat. gojo satoru

gojo satoru has got to be the picture definition of a stereotypical college frat boy. he’s cocky, loaded with his daddy’s money, and dangerously handsome. it seems like common sense to stay away from him since you’ll never get more than a one-night stand out of it. 

that’s why you choose to turn a blind eye once you’ve come to the horrific realization: you’re in love with him. and you’re just itching to ask…

“are you mine tomorrow? or just mine tonight?”

IMPORTANT: part two is out! read here :)

content: 8k words, afab!reader, angst! fluff! heartbreak! n everything in between! implied smut, rich college frat boy gojo and hellcat driver geto 🤑, emotional rollercoaster, reader has a toxic ex, trust issues (?) gojo is absolutely insufferable, misunderstandings, use of words hoe, slut, etc., mutual pining, some jjk character cameos (wink wink) me writing very unfunny dialogue, no bc wtf is this, cheating implications, emo gojo (the worst warning of them all)

author's note: hello hello! my name is kami, i've been reblogging fics on tumblr for a while now but i've recently figured out how to work this hellsite, so i'm going to start posting fics that i write! thank you to those who enjoyed my nanami drabble <3 kisses 4 u all.

this fic IS split into two parts and there is smut in the second part. so just. prepare yourselves for that ig.

reblog and interact for a kiss ;)

“so… let me get this straight.”

“go ahead.”

shoko takes a deep breath, and you just somehow know that she’s pinching her nose in exasperation right now. “utahime dragged you out to a party in hopes that you would hit it off with somebody. you wander off on your own and later, she sees you and gojo–THE gojo satoru–giving you his number?!”

“uh, yeah. that’s exactly what happened.”

“do you even understand what you’re getting yourself into?! that man bags hoes like they’re pokemon!” you readjust the phone against your ear and sigh at shoko’s comment. 

“okay, first of all, never say that again. second, i rejected all of his advances. i didn’t even save his number.” you stare at the crinkled-up note in your hands, which proudly displays his number and a slick call me if you change your mind ;). you wonder if you could sell this paper to his fangirls–you’d surely make a little bit of cash out of it. “i’ve seen gojo around. i know that i shouldn’t mess with him. plus, he was drunk as hell at the party; i doubt he even remembers my name. to him, i’m just some chick that he’s frustrated at because she didn’t want to fuck him the second she saw him.”

“do you… do you share any classes with him?”

“i don’t think i do.. just, don’t worry about it, okay? i’ll throw away his number and we can put all of this behind us. here, i’ll do it right now.” you rip up the paper into a few pieces before tossing it in the garbage can. hopefully, you did it loud enough that shoko heard it through the phone. “i get that you’re worried for me. and i appreciate that, but i can handle myself.”

“just… no more mention of gojo anymore, okay? you’re right, y/n. let’s just put this all behind us.” shoko sighs, and you smile at that. problem solved. you threw away his number, and he’s most likely moved on to the next girl by now, so that was that. now, you just have to forget about satoru gojo.

all to never let yourself get hurt ever again.

it’s hard to forget about gojo.

not because of those dangerous blue eyes of his–getting anyone lost in them if they stare for too long. not because of his stupid silvery white hair, which makes him look like a mop, and sometimes like a paintbrush. not that stupid cocky grin of his, either…

...but because you’ve recently found out that he sits next to you for physics.

the revelation was truly disheartening. you thought you could avoid him for the rest of the year because as far as you knew, you shared no classes with him. however, you completely forgot about the fact that gojo never attends class in the first place, and you don’t even know what classes he’s in… because he’s never there. so finding out that the seat next to you in physics wasn’t just an empty seat, and it was gojo’s assigned one, was truly an experience.

“gojo.” the name alone makes your heart stop, and you drop your pen to look at the man your teacher was addressing. “finally choosing to attend class for once?”

speak of the devil.

there he was, in all his glory–the man you’d never thought you had to deal with ever again. the man who tried to butter you up with his corny sweet talk so that you would go home with him for the night. the man who persisted with talking to you, even though you were barely interested. the man, who, at the end of the night, insisted on writing down his number for you in case you changed your mind about him and gave him a chance.

you wanted to shrink into your seat and never resurface. 

“good morning, yaga!” he says rather loudly, with no regard to honorifics at all. a few giggles could be heard across the classroom–though geto suguru’s voice was prominent–satoru’s equally as infamous bestfriend. “and yeah! it’s surprising, isn’t it?”

what’s also surprising is how gojo took a seat next to you. you thought that there was a mistake, that your teacher would scold him for sitting somewhere he isn’t supposed to sit and relocate him elsewhere. however, yaga just grumbles and begins the lesson, leaving you helpless and unable to look at the man next to you.

you swear he’s burning holes at the back of your head.

pleasdon’tremembermeisweartogodpleasedon’trememberme-

“you’re that girl from the party, right?” he whispers, and you’ve never wanted to disappear so badly in your life. you slowly nod your head, turning to look at him, and he pouts. “y/n l/n. you never saved my number. hmph, i was looking forward to a text from you, too.”

“i’m surprised you even remember me, 'cause you were fucking wasted that night.” you twiddle your pencil, averting your gaze from the man. “and i never saved your number cause i threw the paper in the trash. it’s probably at a landfill somewhere, y’know.”

your words catch him off guard, and you laugh at how surprised satoru looks. it seems that’s definitely not an emotion he shows often. despite his initial reaction, satoru swears he could feel butterflies with the way your laugh sounds.

“not a common problem for a womanizer, huh?”

“what did you just call me?!-”

“y/n and gojo, do either of you have something to share with the class?” a dark blush of embarrassment covers your face, and somewhere in the back, you could hear geto snickering. gojo just smirks at yaga, seeming completely uanffected. “then i’d suggest you stay quiet the rest of this lesson. don’t make me separate you two.”

“i’d prefer that, actually…” gojo huffs at your comment, thinking of this as a lost opportunity if the two of you get separated. he does a once over at your appearance. you’re cute, but definitely not the party kind. you’re playing hard to get, and gojo finds it adorable–not a lot of girls go that way with him. however, gojo thinks you’re not just like any girl. there’s something different about you that intrigues him.

“did no one ever tell you that it’s rude to stare?”

“how could i not? you’re so cute.” 

“i thought you already learned from the party, gojo. i’m not interested in you.” 

the light blush coating your cheeks says otherwise. he smiles cheekily at the way you tried to hide your reaction to his words. you’re an enigma to gojo… and he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame. he thinks he’s made his decision.

he’s gonna do whatever’s possible to get your number.

when the bell rings 30 minutes later, you shove your notebook into your bag, eager to finally leave the class that you had with that stupid paintbrush. that is, until he stops you with a question. “what class do you have next?”

he’s relentless. “why do you care?”

“i want to walk you to your next class,” he says, and smirks before saying his next words. “it doesn’t really matter if you tell me or not. i’ll just follow you anyways.”

you sigh, absolutely exasperated with him. he’s like a fly who keeps invading your personal space—always coming back no matter how many times you swat it away. he’s right, though. damn him for being stubborn. “i actually have this period free.”

“oh, sweet!” he chirps, walking with you out the door, making sure to greet geto before he leaves the classroom. “let’s go to the courtyard. i’ll buy you a drink from the vending machine-“

“i was gonna do that regardless if you were here or not.” you give him a look, and you can’t help but tug on your sleeves when you see people whisper to each other as you walk the halls with gojo. of course you’ve heard the rumors. the man next to you is the most popular guy on campus. girls glare daggers at you and the guys call his name, although he barely even acknowledges them. 

some common things that you’ve heard about gojo around the school are: “i heard he only talks to girls for sex,” “apparently his best friend geto is just as much of a player!” “i mean, who wouldn’t fuck a guy like gojo, though? he’s hot and loaded.” “that’s how he reels you in, though. he gets his hand in your pants and never calls you back again.” you know you should stay away from him, it’s common sense, but it’s hard to stay away from him when he’s the one who glues himself to your side. 

“well, now you’ll get a free drink and we’ll get to know each other! isn’t that great?” he smiles and you just grimace at his words. 

“i don’t need your money…”

“don’t care! can’t hear you!” he says, and you’ve seriously considered just making a run for it. at least you’ll lose him, and you’d finally be able to find peace for a bit. although, it would cause a scene, and gojo would probably end up finding you again somehow. 

“what can i do to get you to leave me alone?”

that piques his interest, even though he looks slightly hurt by your question. he thinks for a bit, and smirks. “i really do want to buy you something from the vending machine.. and i want you to spend your free period with me. i’ll leave you alone for the rest of the day if you do.”

“do you promise? like, actually?”

“mhm! pinky promise!” you feel like you’re talking to a prepubescent boy.

“then sure-“ you’re about to agree, but he cuts you off with one more condition.

“i also want your number.”

you feel like you’ve been cursed by a god, because having the most popular guy on campus be interested in you has got to be the most chaotic thing to ever happen in your life.

“what do you have me saved as?” 

the question comes from out of the blue, and you look up from the book you were completely absorbed in. you and satoru were at the school library, on a “study date” as he calls it, although it was more so just gojo inviting himself to wherever place you go, as per usual. this time, you have an exam to study for, and you explicitly told him not to bother you unless absolutely necessary.

you do have to say, though, he’s not annoying as you thought he was. he just nagged you way more the first day he sat next to you in physics so he could get your number. it’s been a few days since then, but still, you’d definitely be more efficient in your studies if you didn’t have him attached to your hip all the time.

“satoru, i told you not to bother me-“

“unless absolutely necessary. yeah, i heard you, and this question needs an absolutely necessary answer! contact names really say a lot about our relationship, y’know.”

“relationship? nobody ever said we were even friends-“

“don’t break my heart like that, babe. plus, you don’t call me gojo anymore! it’s satoru to you now,” his heart warms at that realization, and you scoff, especially at the pet name. “we are friends, unless you’d like to be something more...”

“if you say anything else i’m calling you by your government name. gojo satoru.” he looks especially wounded by that.

“ah! don’t do that, please. it feels like we’re a married couple and you’re really mad at me.” he cries and you can’t help but giggle at his words. you decide to entertain him a little bit, fishing through your pocket to find your phone. 

he almost passes out at what he sees on your screen.

“it’s just my number? you didn’t even save my contact?!-“

the shushes from your fellow students and the librarians aren’t even enough to calm gojo’s agony and despair. it also does nothing to stop your laughter, either.

from that day on, gojo’s contact was forcefully changed from his number to “satoru” (he initially added a heart, but you deleted it, much to his disappointment) and one of his many selfies from his stupid instagram account. how the hell can a college student even have thousands of followers?! you think. 

gojo just says that nobody can resist his shirtless post-workout selfies. you’re surprised that you didn’t slap him at his words.

you push him away.

everytime gojo buys your favorite drink, (it’s always on him, despite your genuine insistence in saying that you could pay for your drink just fine.) everytime he walks you to all of your classes each day, (he memorized your schedule just so he could do this) everytime he buys you your favorite foods on the rare instances that you let him take you out for lunch, (usually, this requires a lot of begging, and you mostly relent during class when you’re just exasperated and wanted to get some notes down.), and everytime he calls you by those stupid pet names of his, you think back to what the entire student body says about him, and you think back to your phone call with shoko, where she warns you to not associate with him so you don’t get hurt by anyone ever again, and you push him away.

you push him away even when you realize that if he just wanted you for sex, he would’ve stopped chasing after you when you didn’t text him after that night at the party.

and that thought alone scares you.

still, you’re not heartless. satoru’s been asking to take you out for a while, and you finally agreed to go today. he’s especially chipper about your agreement right now, walking with a slight pep in his step as he bit around his ice cream cone. 

the park boasts some beautiful scenery today, and little children are out and about. still, you underestimated the weather, and the cold uncomfortably nipped your arms as you internally cursed yourself out for wearing just a shirt. you crossed your arms as a subtle way to shield yourself from the cold.

“don’t play coy with me, y/n. are you cold?” satoru says with a cocky grin, and you huff at his question. surprisingly, he drops the teasing act and unzips his sweater, handing it to you. “here, take it.”

“satoru-“

“i’m not doing this to flirt or whatever you’re thinking right now. you’re shivering, and i’m just concerned for you, so please wear it.” he deadpans, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him be so… upfront? you kind of like it. it’s not him teasing you or him being flirty. it’s just him showing that he genuinely cares for you as a friend. you take the sweater with a nod and put it on, ignoring how your heart is thumping as you take in his signature smell. cedarwood with a little bit of musk. it’s not an overpowering scent, but it still envelopes your senses.

“nevermind. you look so cute with my hoodie on. i feel like we’re in a j-drama right now, y/n!”

you take back everything you just said.

a few minutes later, you two are near the kids playground when you decide to take a break from walking, sitting on a nearby bench with gojo. the chirping of the birds and the wind passing through the trees is quickly overpowered by loud crying. crying from the child right in front of you, in fact.

you’re about to ask him what’s wrong, but satoru beats you to it. he kneels in front of the kid, and coos, “hey, buddy. what’s your name, hm?”

he stops crying for a moment to look at gojo and shakily responds, “gumi-um, megumi fushiguro..” 

“megumi, huh.” he clicks his tongue for a moment. “why are you crying, megumi?”

“i-i don’t know where my dad is!” he cries, and satoru looks to you for help. you just shrug, unsure of what to do with the lost kid, until gojo’s face lights up, assumingly with a great idea.

“he’s most likely just around here somewhere. you can wait with us, and we’ll help you find him! say, do you want an ice cream to help you feel better, megumi?” the boy hesitantly nods, and satoru gives him a thumbs up as he takes him to the nearby ice cream stand. you’re watching this entire scene unfold, absolutely enamored with gojo for the first time. you didn’t think he had a natural talent with kids—but the way he’s making megumi laugh while he happily snacks on his ice cream says otherwise. an outsider could look at you three and assume that you’re just a happy family. 

you try to ignore how that makes you feel.

and as you wave goodbye to megumi once he eventually is reunited with his father again, (an intimidating man who gave you two an appreciative nod as he walked away with his son.) you realize something as you tug on the sleeves of your-satoru’s sweater. 

you’re in love with gojo satoru.

and fuck, that revelation scares you more than anything. the last time you had given your heart to a man, he had crushed it repeatedly until you decided that you would never let yourself be vulnerable like that ever again. 

and now, you're in love with your school’s notorious playboy—and it feels like you’re setting yourself up to be heartbroken again. you want disregard those rumors and shoko’s words so badly, but they still eat at the back of your mind even though the real gojo satoru is right in front of you, and he doesn’t match the characteristics of the gojo satoru in those rumors at all.

you also remember that he has one real best friend, geto suguru. you like to think that this is also what geto sees in gojo. the reason why he’s stuck around.

the reason why you want to stick around too.

you’re so busy in your head that you’ve just noticed gojo frantically waving his hand in your face. “earth to y/n? oh, good! i thought you had, like, a shock reaction from seeing megumi’s father. he looked a little scary, no?” 

“he looks like if a muscle came to life and started talking.” you whisper, and he laughs in agreement. burying your hands into the pockets of his hoodie, you smile. you don’t want to think about your current revelation with gojo right now. instead, you’ll stick with the present. and right now, you like the present.

you just don’t want to think about what this means for your future.

it’s the weekend, and you’re doing some work at the local cafe, gojo-free for once. only god knows what the man is doing at three pm in the afternoon on a saturday. not like you should be thinking about him right now, though. his presence alone has caused you to be behind on your studies, and you need to make sure you catch up.

you have to admit, you were a little unused to the silence. usually, the silence would be filled with gojo’s endless banter with you, as well as his terrible, corny jokes that are so stupid you can’t help but laugh. his seemingly never-ending presence was annoying at first, but now, you’re starting to yearn for his company.

it further fuels the pit of uncertainty in your stomach, and you hate it.

shaking your head with a sigh, you take another bite of your pastry and continue typing up the report on your laptop. the looming thought of this report’s impact on your grade and the need to pass this class helps you forget about satoru for a while. once again, you get lost in your academics.

the ring of the cafe bell breaks you from your trance. it was a natural impulse of yours to glance at everyone who entered the cafe, but once you did this time, you felt your heart drop down to your knees.

it was your ex. 

your ex boyfriend who destroyed the notion of love for you, because he made you feel it for a short time, only to throw it all into a pit of fire and leave you scrambling to find nothing but ashes. 

if you had to find the true roots as to why you’re so afraid to pursue a new relationship–you always find your ex in the center of it. and now, he’s right in front of you. you have to face him again when you refuse to shamefully admit that you’ve barely even healed from the emotional scars that he’d left behind. 

you feel as if an invisible hand has wrapped itself around your throat, blocking your airways and your ability to speak.

out of all the days satoru wasn’t here with you, it had to be this one.

“y/n? is that you, sweetheart?” you wanted to vomit at the way he said your name. he had no right to say it so sweetly, when all he’s ever left behind is venom. 

“i don’t want to talk to you.” you cringe at the way your voice cracks, and you avert your gaze from him.

“please, just hear me out for a minute, baby..” he coos, and you hate the way he talks to you as if you were a child. “i know i fucked up, and i can’t change our past… but i can change our future together. if you take me back, i’ll show you how much i’ve changed-”

you don’t know how many times you’ve heard that stupid line before.

“god, you sound like a broken record with how many times you’ve pulled that bullshit on me.” you spat, loud enough to draw commotion in the cafe. your ex has surprise written all over his face–most likely due to your non-compliance to his words. “what, do you say that shit to all your hoes?”

your ex looks around, shrinking a little when he sees all eyes are on him. “now, now, y/n, no need to be like that-”

“be like that… be like that?! you’re telling me to be civil when you’re the one coming in here wanting me back, spouting some bullshit saying that you’ve changed, when i told you to leave me alone already!” you scream, and you could feel the tears bubble up in your eyes. you look down, so you aren’t able to see how everyone’s staring at you with pity. god, you hate pity. it makes you feel weak and vulnerable. the two emotions you absolutely loathe. “i just want you to leave me alone, god. i hate you, why won’t you just-”

“you fucking bitch-” he makes a move to lunge at you, and you instinctively take a step back, pure fear enveloping your senses.

you never feel the impact, though, as you see your ex being restrained by the cafe worker.

you remember him. the man who took your order earlier. he was an older man with a warm smile on his face, although you noticed how his cheekbones were slightly sunken, and he looked a little overworked. you jokingly quipped earlier that he should get some sleep before thanking him for making your order. he just replied, i get that quite a lot.

the size difference between your ex and the man is enough to discourage him from fighting back. he makes quick work your ex, dragging him out the door while he hysterically screams profanities to you on the way out. you assumed the worker threatened to call the police, because your ex scrambled up from the ground and ran away. you hoped this was the last time you would ever see him again.

“are you okay, ma’am? he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

you didn’t even realize that the worker was back inside the cafe. everyone was gradually returning to their own businesses, with the eerie silence being replaced by casual chatter once more. you also didn’t realize how much your hands were shaking, and you huff out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “y-yeah, i’m alright, and he didn’t hit me. i just… need a minute,”

you decide that you aren’t gonna get anymore work done like this, so you pack your laptop into your bag and slump onto the seat with a sigh. you bury your face into your hands. “is it a long story?”

“oh, don’t even get me started.”

he laughs at that, and you ease up a little. “i told him i’d call the police if i ever see him around here again.”

“that’s good to hear. though i’d prefer if i never see him in my life ever again.”

he hums at your words, and he turns to look out the window. “it’s getting dark out. do you want me to call you a cab?”

“no need, i’ll call my boyf–my friend. i’ll call my friend. he’ll uh, pick me up.” you’re still so shaken up you barely even register what you said to him. your eyes are frantic as you turn your phone on and look for gojo’s name in your contacts. you don’t know why you want him to pick you up out of everybody. you could ask utahime or shoko right now, but you just wanted nothing more but to see gojo.

the bell rings again, and you flinch at the sound. thankfully, it was just another customer. the worker sighs. “well, these orders aren’t going to be done themselves. just wave me over if there are any other problems, okay?” 

you nod absentmindedly, and he turns to leave, but you stop him. “wait, sir, what’s your name?”

“kento nanami.”

“thank you so much, nanami. i appreciate it.” 

“i’m just doing my job.”

“your job is restraining crazy exes of college girls and kicking them out?”

“‘it comes with the job description.” he teases, and you laugh lightheartedly. “and your name is?”

“y/n l/n.”

“anytime, miss l/n. again, just please… call me over if anything happens.”

“will do…” you say, pressing the “call” button on gojo’s contact. the anxiety is hitting you again, and you take a shaky inhale. you’re surprised at how he picks up almost instantly. “hey… satoru? yeah, can you come pick me up, please? i know i don’t normally ask you to do something like this but-”

“did something happen?”

“a lot happened, actually… i’ll text you the address. please, just come soon.”

“of course, y/n.” you could already hear him running out the door, hearing the roar of his car engine coming to life. “i’ll be there as soon as possible.”

he gets to the cafe in five.

you wave goodbye to nanami, thanking him once more as you get in the passenger seat of gojo’s car. 

it’s not your first time inside here, but you still can’t help but admire how… expensive everything looks. or maybe you’re just looking around because you’re stalling, and you have no idea where to begin with satoru. 

however, you notice that he’s not asking you what happened, and he’s not forcing you to explain anything to him. instead, he switches the gear shift out of parking and says, “do you want me to take you home?”

your eyes widen at his words, and you shake your head no profusely. the last thing you want to be is home alone right now, mainly because your ex knows where you live. you know he most likely won’t go that far with you, especially since nanami knocked some sense into him… but the possibilities still scare you. you take a deep breath before saying your next words.

“...can you take me to your house? i-i’m sorry for asking, i just don’t want to be alone right now cause i’m terrified and-” 

“y-yeah. i’ll take you to my house.” he says, and you’ve never seen him so nervous in your life. it almost makes you laugh.

“i’ll explain everything later. i just… wanna be somewhere safe first.” somewhere safe. you find his house as a safe place. gojo doesn’t know how to react. his heart is thumping wildly out of his chest, but he makes sure to put your own comfort before his feelings.

“you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.” he says, maintaining his cool by keeping his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift.

“but i want to, satoru…” you say. you can’t believe you’re doing this again. you’re crossing so many territories that you were so afraid to cross because of your ex. now, you think you aren’t that afraid anymore. not if you have satoru by your side. 

you place one of your cold hands on the gear stick, interlocking it with his. is he… shaking? “thank you for this.”

still. there are so many things you can’t say to him yet. you don’t know when you’ll be able to… or if you’ll ever be able to.

i love you. i love you but i’m too afraid to say it. i just hope that you’ll be able to wait for me.

“god, you’re killin’ me here, y/n.” 

that pit of uncertainty in your stomach has grown so large you feel it's about to consume you whole. you don’t think you mind much, though.

the two of you are lounging at his couch after satoru insisted on telling you to make yourself at home. there’s a movie playing, with neither of you paying attention at all, takeout on the coffee table, two glasses and a bottle of wine after gojo didn’t know what drinks to serve, and freaked out by pulling the first expensive drink out from his parents’ alcohol closet. has he never properly invited someone to his home before?

“so in short, you had a crazy ex who saw you at the coffee shop… and he was begging for you to take him back, and when you went off on him he called you a bitch and tried to hit you…” he recalls, a huge grimace on his face. “tch. the cafe worker shouldn’t have let him go like that.”

“i’m sure he learned not to mess with me after getting humiliated in public.. and nanami did more than enough for me.” you retorted, and he gave you a sour look. 

“oh, so you know the worker’s name now?” he says, and you could feel the tension build up in the air. oh. so he wants to do this with you? “what, is he your knight in shining armor?”

“he looks like he’s in his late thirties, satoru. i’m not into older guys,” you roll your eyes at his absurd questions and add, “what’s it to you anyway?”

“what’s it to me, y/n?” he repeats your words, and you could feel an argument coming, like you already didn’t have an exhaustive one with your ex. “you know how i feel about you-“

“what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” your voice is getting louder, all to hide your fear behind the implication of his words. you distance yourself from him on the couch.. much like how you distance yourself from letting satoru get too close to how you truly feel. “we’re not even together, satoru. you don’t get to control the guys that i talk to- hell, have you even seen yourself?”

you’re rambling, and all you want to do is shut up, but you can’t bring yourself to. “i’ve heard what our school says about you. y-you’re a playboy, right? and you only ever talk to girls because you wanna fuck them. i’m not stupid, satoru. i’m not different from any of them, right? you only chase after me because i’m playing hard to get and that pisses you off-“

“what… what are you even saying, y/n?” he asks, and it stops your rambling for a moment. you don’t know what you’re saying. you’re pouring out all the reasons why you’ve tried to push him away, the reasons why you were so afraid to give your heart to him. but now that you say them out loud, they sound outright stupid. 

“i started coming to class just to talk to you, i memorized your schedule just so i can walk you to class every morning. i buy you all your favorite food and drinks… i had to memorize your favorites too, by the way. and i have shit memory.” he’s screaming at this point, and you’ve never had satoru scream at you. there are unshed tears in his eyes, and it’s all overwhelming to watch this unfold. “and when you called me, i drove as fast as i could to you because you never call like that and i was fuckin’ worried!”

“so let me ask you a question, y/n… would i do all these things for you just because i want you in my bed?! i’d do anything for you, and you know that!” he’s crying. the gojo satoru is crying, and it’s all for a girl. if you told this to someone in your school, they’d call you a shit-faced liar. gojo satoru doesn’t cry for a girl. he makes them cry.

“i’m sorry for being skeptical, satoru! i just can’t help it when there’s so many rumors about you wanting to fuck girls just for the shit of it – and i’m conflicted on whether or not i should believe them because i want you so bad and i’m scared you’ll end up just breaking my heart and i don’t want that to happen again-”

he cuts you off. “you… what?”

you’re confused at why he looks so surprised, but then you backtrack on your words and you gasp. fuck. why did i say that? you cover your mouth and look away from him, refusing to meet his eyes.

those stupid blue eyes that you know you can’t get enough of.

“y/n… can you please say that again? i don’t want to do anything if i didn’t hear you right.” his voice is soft now, and you swear that you’re dreaming. this isn’t real. right? i’m gonna wake up soon. you dig your nails into the palms of your hands, leaving half-moon marks in their wake. it doesn’t work, and you don’t wake up, and you know you have to accept the fact that this is very real and it’s happening.

this is the worst leap of faith you think you’ve ever had to take in your life.

“i want you so fucking bad, satoru. and i’m realizing that you’re not just the stereotypical rich playboy that everyone talks about on campus—you’re a really great guy, and i guess i’m just scared to face that-” you don’t even realize that satoru’s got you cornered on the couch, and you can’t finish your words as he slots his lips against yours. hard. it’s the most passionate kiss you think you’ve ever had in your life, and it’s got your breath taken away in seconds. holy shit.

you quietly moan against his lips as you kiss back, cupping his face with your hands and wiping his tears away. you wish this moment would last forever, but you pull away so you can breathe. you meet gojo’s eyes, and they’re clouded with lust and desire, but you could tell he’s still a little uncertain. “we’ll talk later… just take me to the bedroom already,”

gojo doesn’t need another confirmation from you, and he lifts you up to carry you to his bedroom, practically tripping on his feet the way there.

a few hours later and a noise complaint from the neighbors, it’s safe to say that gojo satoru was the best one you’ve ever had.

“god, i’m never letting you go, baby.”

he’s tracing hearts onto your bare back. it’s littered with bruises and red scratch marks just from a few minutes ago, but you’ve never felt better in your life. you stare at the man who invited himself into your life just from an encounter at a party, and you thank your lucky stars that you agreed to go with utahime that night. “is something wrong? you’re starin’ again.”

“i’m sorry it took me so long to trust you. i’ve just been scared to open up my heart again, especially after him.” you don’t have to name “him” for satoru to understand. 

“i’m sorry too. i just got angry about the rumors and i also disregarded the fact that you’re scared to love again after your ex did all of that shit and-” he pauses, and sighs. “sorry. i’m rambling again.” 

he pulls you into another kiss, and this time, it’s sweeter, lighter, and full of love. “i’m going to show you what it looks like to really be loved, because it’s definitely not the shitty picture that your ex painted in your head. there’s way more to it than that.”

“i love you, y/n.”

“thank you, toru.” you whisper. maybe, one day, you’ll be able to find the courage to say it back. and it’s okay, because gojo is willing to wait an eternity for you. 

he’ll wait an eternity for you to teach you how to love again.

“look at how beautiful you are…” gojo says, appearing out of nowhere as he wraps an arm around your waist. you yelp, staring at your boyfriend through the mirror. he’s wearing a classic black tuxedo, with no doubt it being very expensive. it compliments the glimmering rolex on his wrist, and the thoughts running through your head about him and his outfit sets fire to your stomach.

“look at yourself first, toru… god, we should just stay home,” you tease, turning around to pull him into a deep kiss. it’s a friday, and gojo’s taking you out to attend geto’s party tonight. the two of you are going for several reasons. he wants to introduce you to his bestfriend, since you realized that you’ve never actually formally met geto before. it’ll also be your first formal “couple appearance”, as if gojo being attached to your side all the time doesn’t say enough about the two of you already. 

gojo pulls away, which surprises you. you pout at the expression on his face. “as much as i want to, suguru’s been bugging about you all week. i really do think it’s time for you to meet him,”

“hmph. alright.” 

“i’m tearing that dress off of you the second we get home, though.”

“satoru!”

“what?! not my fault my girl looks so damn hot all the time!”

this night is going amazing.

when satoru walks with you through the front doors, arm wrapped around your waist and the dress you picked out for tonight glimmering, you feel a little shy. the guys all whistle at the two of you, and the girls whisper amongst each other, but you and gojo don’t care. in his eyes, you’re the only girl he sees. the only girl worth being with here. 

“wanna go get drinks?” he asks you, cerulean eyes showing underneath his sunglasses. you nod, walking to the kitchen with him. you’re getting severe deja vu… you can’t believe you met gojo at the last party you were at. and now you’re at another party, with gojo as your date. you scan the crowd for utahime or shoko, wondering what you would say to them if they saw you with the man they specifically told you not to mess with.

it’s alright, though. shoko was wrong about those rumors, and gojo’s proving it to you.

“satoru!” the playful voice greets your boyfriend, and you turn to see geto suguru. you’ve seen him around campus, and he sits somewhere in the back of your chem class. you haven’t really had the opportunity to talk to him, though… and he looks a little intimidating.

“you must be y/n,” he says, offering you a freshly opened smirnoff from the drinks on the countertop. you thank him and grab the drink, taking a swig.

“yup! my lovely girlfriend,” gojo lets go of his arm around your waist to grab a drink. 

“you probably don’t know this, but i’ve been his wingman.” he smiles at gojo, who’s pouting, like he’s preparing himself for what suguru is about to say. “he’s batshit crazy for you, its insane.”

“oh? do tell.”

“when the two of you got together, he left me a voicemail at like… four in the morning? anyway, he was screaming about how he was the happiest guy in the world… or something.”

“that’s because i was!” you’re laughing at how unashamed satoru is about this.

“yeah, yeah, whatever.” geto clicks his tongue, pulling out his phone. “and he’s reposted you on insta to like, every drake song-”

“alright, me and y/n are gonna go dance.” he interrupts suguru, and drags you away from his best friend with a yelp. “nice talkin’ to you, suguru!”

“hey, i wanted to know more!-”

“shh, you don’t need to know about all of that.” the two of you are in the living room, in the midst of all the bodies dancing and grinding against each other. he pulls you close to him, and you feel his hot breath against your neck. “you look so beautiful tonight, y/n.”

“same for you, handsome. let’s dance, shall we?” you wrap your arms around him and just sway to the beat. you’ve never been much of a dancer, but everything feels natural as long as gojo’s with you. 

suddenly, the music changes, and one dance starts playing. you two look at each other, and you both burst out laughing at the same time. “have you reposted me to this song?”

“duh. it’s a classic.”

“can’t disagree with that.” you say, finding yourself grinding against satoru while wizkid’s part plays in the background. it feels like such a perfect night–you’re pulling satoru into a deep kiss, and he shoves his tongue down your throat while he’s leading you to a nearby couch. you’re seated on his lap, mimicking practically every couple in this party tonight. 

suddenly, you pull away, and you whisper, “i need to use the bathroom.” 

satoru smirks at your words, thinking that it’s a hint for something else, and you give him a sour face. “want me to join you-”

you hit his chest playfully. “that’s not code for anything, you perv. i actually need to piss.” 

he’s pouting at your words, but he lets you off his lap anyway, and holds your drink for the time being. “it’s at the second door in the hall to your right. be quick, please.”

“no duh. i’ve got a cute date to come back to,” you say, walking away and traversing all of the bodies that smell like sweat and alcohol. you’re a little unused to this environment, but it’s alright. you fix up your makeup in the bathroom and freshen up a little, walking back to the living room to find satoru again. 

you wish you never did.

you were gone for four minutes. five minutes max. you come back to satoru, and your breath hitches at the sight.

on his lap was a random chick that looked like every other girl at this party. she was practically naked, since her outfit didn’t do much to cover her skin at all.

fuck.

you remember the first time you saw gojo at the last party you went to. the sight wasn’t that different compared to the one now. there were girls all over him, all fighting for his attention. and yet, it seemed that night, his attention was focused solely on you.

what bullshit that was.

your eyes are blurry, and the music is muffled in your ears. white noise fills your senses, and all you want to do right now is run.

so you do.

you run, not caring if gojo saw you at all or not. you run out of the party, eternally grateful that you didn’t pick out heels for tonight and settled for much simpler shoes. you run, despite the fact that you drew geto’s attention. you were already out the door before he could ask what was wrong. you run, just wanting to get away from everyone and everything. you run with no particular destination in mind. you stop running when you almost get run over on a red light, the car honking at you–screaming profanities as it drives by. it breaks you from your trance, and you sit on the curb of the sidewalk, letting all of your tears out on what was supposed to be a perfect night.

of course gojo didn’t think that you were different. you were just like every other girl to him.

stupid. stupid. stupid. you’ve never felt so stupid in your life.

when geto sees you running out the door with unshed tears in your eyes, he immediately panics. what the hell happened?

he goes through every room of the house, trying to find gojo, when he hears a bunch of commotion in the living room. he runs there, pushing past everyone, only to find a total disaster inside.

he sees gojo screaming at a girl dressed like a stripper, who was on the ground with tears in her eyes. satoru looks like he’s about to pop a blood vessel with how pissed he looks. there’s a crowd forming at this point, and geto knows he needs to intervene, so he drags his bestfriend away, who looks so distraught that geto could just wonder what the fuck happened.

they’re outside now, and its significantly a lot more quiet out here compared to all of the chaos inside. all the noise is coming from gojo—who won’t stop crying, and geto has no idea what to do or where to even begin. “fuck!”

“dude, what the fuck happened!?” satoru looks like he’s feeling every emotion at once. he looks pissed, pissed enough to punch a wall, and geto’s a little afraid that gojo might actually do that–or worst-case scenario, punch him. he’s crying, and geto hasn’t seen gojo cry ever since he fell off a swing in pre-k, so what happened must be really fucking serious.

“i don’t KNOW what happened, goddamnit! y/n went to use the bathroom and some slu- some girl came up to me and threw herself on my fucking lap! i was gonna tell her to fuck off but y/n saw before i was able to and now she’s gone and she probably thinks that i’m just some cheater when i’ve worked so hard to get her to trust me and-FUCK!”

he stops, trying to calm down a little, and gojo takes the shakiest breath he thinks he’s ever taken in his life. the red in his vision starts to fade, but he still feels helpless. “i just don’t know what to fucking do, suguru.” 

“i just saw y/n run out of my house a few minutes ago.” he says with a grimace, and he’s trying to figure out what to tell his bestfriend. “i’ve never seen you like this over a girl before. holy shit, you really love her, do you?”

geto thinks that gojo’s bloodshot eyes, the brutal names that he called that girl at the party, and the tears he’s shed for you are already an answer.

“this is your last chance to prove it to her, satoru.” geto fumbles through his pockets and hands him the keys to his challenger. gojo snatches them, hearing the car engine rumbling itself to life. the white-haired man thanks his best friend as he steps into the drivers’ side, with geto reassuring him, ‘ill deal with the chaos inside, you go ahead and explain yourself to your girlfriend’.

gojo swears that he’s never driven so fast in his whole life.

part 2 :)

[hayatheauthor]

How To Accurately Describe Pain In Writing 

Pain can be an interesting emotion to write about. It gives authors the liberty to merge their character’s emotions and surroundings to create beautiful metaphors and graphic descriptions that draw their readers in and convey their character’s struggles. However, if done wrongly reading your descriptions of pain can feel like a chore to your readers. Unsure how to accurately describe pain in your writing? Here are some tips to help you get started. 

Use The Five Senses 

As humans, we possess five senses that dictate our reactions to the world around us. When writing, it is important to use these five senses rather than just relying on what your character can see. Talk about the sound, the smell, the taste, and even the feeling. 

If your character just got burnt, talk about the sound of sizzling flesh and the slight numbness they feel. Mention the terrible smell of burnt flesh, and make your character feel dizzy with fear as their eyes finally land on the horrific wound. 

Internal bleeding makes people spit blood and taste iron and partially healed wounds feel itchy and irritant. 

There is so much more to pain than what you see, and simply talking about your character’s wounds isn’t nearly enough to make your readers wince in second-hand pain. In fact, they are more likely to skim your passages in boredom. 

Show your readers what your character is experiencing, and then go on to describe their reaction to this situation. 

Build It Up, Then Break It Down 

Pain doesn’t just suddenly come from nowhere. It starts with something small, blossoms, and then spreads. Your character won’t just suddenly get a third-degree burn the size of a baseball by leaning against a hot steel wall for the briefest of seconds. It starts with a light reddish-brown mark, then darkens, maybe even blisters. 

You can’t go from 0 to 100 in one sentence. You need to build it up and show your readers how your character’s pain was found. Then, break it down. 

Pain doesn’t come from nowhere, but it doesn’t suddenly disappear either. Show us how your character’s wound heals. Does the wound mark from where they hurt their knee turn into an ugly brown shade for a couple of weeks? Do their burns gradually fade from red to pink, or turn darker? 

It’s important to show your readers the aftermath of your character’s pain. A character who just had a bullet pulled out of their shoulder with a hot knife can’t suddenly just jump up and start firing at the enemy with perfect aim. 

You don’t need to overdo it and constantly mention their wounds during the healing stage, but something as simple as ‘her bandages uncomfortably scratched at her back every time she lifted her hand to eat’ or ‘his fingers subconsciously shifted to run over the remains of his burn mark even as his eyes remained trained on the blackboard’ will suffice. 

How Does This Affect Your Character? 

Physical pain aside, wounds can also have an effect on your character’s dynamics with others as well as your plot. 

It’s important to take into account how they got this wound, how the other characters might react to it, and internalised conflict caused by it. Maybe your character injured their fingers during a game of volleyball and now they’re staring at their final exam paper with tears of frustration brimming their waterline because it hurts too much to write.

Maybe your protagonist suffered a small burn while sneaking out to go to their friend’s house and their parent or mentor saw it. Or maybe your protagonist won against the antagonist but suffered a grave injury to their legs and now cannot fight during the next confrontation, resulting in a chaotic outbreak at their headquarters. 

Think about the internal as well as the external damage your character’s wounds can cause, and then use that as a plot device to further your book. 

Do Your Research 

It’s very important to accurately portray your character’s level of pain and consider whether or not they would realistically incur such injuries from such a wound. When writing about a character’s wound or pain consider doing some research about that type of wound. 

Here are some things you need to check when researching the wound type: 

How much blood would they loose with this type of wound? 

What are the side effects? 

Could this be fatal? 

How long will it take to heal? 

How long does it take for a wound to get to that extent? (for example, if you’re writing about a third-degree burn, research what it takes for a burn to be considered third-degree). 

What are the major veins, arteries, and other important body parts in that part of the character’s body? For example, if your character is supposed to be injured on their arm but it’s not supposed to be serious, you need to consider whether the wound could realistically have ruptured their radial artery, resulting in death. 

Will there be any scarring? What about any long-lasting wound marks? 

You could also take a look at historical events similar to the one you’re writing. For example, if you’re writing about an assassination attempt consider researching the most historically renowned assassination techniques. 

It’s also a good idea to ask your families and friends about their experiences with the type of wound you’re writing about (so long as it’s not a sensitive topic). Maybe you have a cousin who suffered a third-degree burn once or a classmate who has a scar from a graphic wound across their arm. 

I hope this blog on how to accurately describe pain in writing will help you in your writing journey. Be sure to comment any tips of your own to help your fellow authors prosper, and follow my blog for new blog updates every Monday and Thursday.  

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Are you an author looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Or do you want to learn about how to get a literary agent, get published and properly market your book? Consider checking out the rest of Haya’s book blog where I post writing and marketing tools for authors every Monday and Thursday. 

Want to learn more about me and my writing journey? Visit my social media pages under the handle @hayatheauthor where I post content about my WIP The Traitor’s Throne and life as a teenage author. 

Copyright © 2022 Haya, you are not allowed to repost, translate, recreate or redistribute my blog posts or content without prior permission

[coff33andb00ks]

İdk i just got hit with this shitty idea 😭😭 drabble list thingy 5 40 60 64 and 70. BUT WITH ACADEMIC RIVAL OSCAR? IDK ITS KINDA STUPİD BUT STİLL 😭😭

driver + number = drabble <3

warning: author knows nothing about academia 😳

"Idiots, they're all idiots."

You glanced up at the sound of his voice, perplexed. Then, realizing he couldn't possibly be talking to you, you turned back to your work. You'd come here in the hopes that you'd be able to finish your paper without the distractions in your dorm, and so far–

Thud.

The heavy backpack landed on the tabletop with much more force than necessary and you glared at its owner, who - horrifically - was pulling out the chair across from you. As usual he was wearing his stupid burgundy shirt under his stupid black hoodie, and his hair was falling into his eyes with that stupid little swoop.

The only thing stupid about Oscar Piastri was his lack of style.

"You don't mind do you?" he asked, already settling into the chair with his coffee.

"I'm annoyed, to put it mildly," you muttered, staring at the backpack crushing the corner of your pencil pouch.

"Ah well, the feeling's mutual." He pulled his backpack towards him and threw down a copy of the local newspaper. Odd, that he actually read a physical newspaper instead of getting his news online like everyone else born after 1985.

You carefully maneuvered your pencil pouch closer to yourself and tried to focus on your paper. Intent to ignore him, you managed to type out two whole sentences before he snapped open the newspaper. Darting your eyes towards him, you watched the morning sunlight dance over the angle of his jaw.

Too bad he was such an insufferable know it all. Half the students that you knew from the classes you shared with him called him Hermes Granger behind his back, he was that bad. Always had the correct answers in lecture. Always top marks. Always, always, always, while you were just behind him.

Except the one time, but he'd been in hospital due to his roommate Lando accidentally tripping him and fracturing his rib, so that didn't really count.

"Did you hear about this?" he asked suddenly, thrusting the newspaper in your direction.

You looked from the paper to him, half expecting him to pull it away before you could take it. He didn't though, and you turned it so you could read the small headline.

No Evidence of Foul Play in Missing Money

Frowning, you read the small blurb about thousands of dollars that had seemingly vanished from a local charity. "How can there be no foul play?" you asked after reading it through twice. "It was there one day and gone the next."

Oscar nodded. "Exactly. And you know who's on the board, right?"

"Dude, I barely know my roommate's name most days..."

"Yeah I reckon you've got too many classes–"

You narrowed your eyes at that, missing half of the rest of what he said.

"–the mayor."

You snorted on a laugh. "Are you insinuating the mayor stole the money?"

He wasn't laughing. Or smiling. In fact, you were pretty sure you'd never seen Oscar smile. Well, that pained half smile when Lando dragged him to a party, but otherwise...

"You can't be serious," you said. "He's the mayor. He's got plenty of money."

"Does he?"

Rolling your eyes, you slid your laptop close and tried to focus on your work again. "Didn't have you down as a conspiracy theorist."

"It's not a conspiracy theory though?"

"The mayor, who lives in a mansion and drives a Ferrari, stealing ten thousand dollars from a charity?"

"People in power have stolen less. He's very good at hiding secrets. Like his brother's company being behind the factory buyout last year? The government doesn't want you to know this, but every one of them are crooked."

"What do they put in your coffee?" you asked with a roll of your eyes. "Do you get a tinfoil hat to go with it?"

He scoffed. "I thought you were smart."

That surprised you. You didn't think Oscar thought about you at all. "So what do you suggest, Oscar? We storm city hall and demand the mayor give the money back?"

He pursed his lips and dipped his head to one side as though to indicate the idea had merit. "Or we could sneak in after hours and poke around."

"Break into the mayor's office," you clarified.

He nodded. "Tonight after dinner?"

"Set off alarms, get arrested, and go to jail."

He winced. "Yeah, maybe not our brightest idea."

"Excuse me, did you–"

"But we can still do dinner, yeah?"

"Idiots. They are all idiots." / "I'm annoyed, to say it mildly." / "The feeling is mutual." / "The government doesn't want you to know about this." / "Not our brightest idea."

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: a drink with deceit (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, physical violence, heavy angst, wound description, threats, catcalling, cults and religion mentioned, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, drinking, smoking, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: hello guess who is back!! this is very angsty, promise there will be more bucky in the next chapter just gotta set up the drama! much love <33 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love

main masterlist | series masterlist

Three days after Becca Barnes's visit, the bodies of thirty-six Penance Boys were found in the streets. 

You hadn’t seen the bodies yourself, but the whispers that slithered through The Warrens painted a picture too horrific to ignore. The rumours spoke of a scene ripped straight from a penny dreadful. Maybe even worse than the stories that circulated, but in your heart, you knew the violence to be true. The bodies, each one marred by countless lashes, were barely recognisable. Their flesh was shredded, every inch of skin scarred beyond recognition. They were scattered across the Warrens like grotesque trophies. Some were dumped in the filthy, stagnant waters of the port, their bodies bloated and twisted. Others swung lifelessly from lamp-posts in the streets, their necks bent at unnatural angles. Several were displayed in the Smokestack District, mangled offerings laid out before the factories, and then there were the bodies hidden in the winding alleys, tucked into the shadows like forgotten, discarded trash, left to rot under the ever-thickening smog. It was all rather theatrical, a meticulously planned out act. One of the bodies, clutched tightly in a bloodstained fist, held a crumpled note. Smeared with copper, the words read: "Do you confess?"

You couldn’t help but remember Bucky’s words from that dreaded night.

Massacre.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that you had stitched up thirty-six lashes, even though the flesh had been so ravaged, the wounds mashed together until they bled into one, an indistinguishable mess. The thought lingered in your mind, haunting you no matter how much you tried to push it away. Each memory of those nights felt like a needle driven deeper, not just into his skin but into yours as well. You had done what you thought was best, what you had to do to survive, but the consequences and marks were there for both of you to wear.

The letter you found on your doorstep that same day was no surprise. Becca’s warning had loomed over you, leaving little room for doubt. You hadn’t even bothered to open the envelope; instead, you had tossed it into the fireplace without a second thought, the flames licking at the paper until it was reduced to ash. It seemed Becca was fierce when protecting her brother, and you didn’t intend to test that determination. She had been clear—stay away from him, leave him alone. She had outright said it; the bitterness in her voice made the message unmistakable: I know a threat when I see one.

You spent the next three days simmering on her words, turning them over in your mind, weighing them against the memory of your hands working on Bucky’s back. Healing him—an act you never should’ve performed. Magic meant for destruction wasn’t meant to mend wounds, and you had known that. But you had done it anyway, given into his demands. He couldn’t have been entirely in his right mind… not with the wounds, the loss of blood. Is that why he had left? Did clarity finally strike him as he lay beside you in your rickety bed? Your magic wasn’t meant for healing. Those scars would remind him of what you had done, of what you were. It had been a mistake, yet it had also been a choice.

You were bitter in a sick and twisted way. You were furious. Part of you wanted to hold him accountable for his absence—no thank you, no goodbye, just an empty space where his presence had been. You had spent the better part of a week tending to him, feeling something unspoken between the two of you, a quiet understanding that hinted at more. But once the job was done, once he had healed, it was as if he had disappeared into the shadows of the Warrens, leaving you to deal with the mess of your emotions.

Maybe it had just left you to confront your own loneliness. 

In those long, quiet moments in your home, you wondered if that was what he did best—leave. He had walked away without a word, without even a flicker of care. What about Bucky Barnes made you long for something you couldn’t quite name? Something that had you clinging to the fragments of him despite the warning signs you knew to be true?

You were fed up with yourself, with his pull on you, even after all that had happened. You were unsure if it was your heart or your cunt that was the culprit, but either way, your head knew one or both were the traitors keeping you eating from of his hand like the good little witch he had primed you to be. You had let him hurt you, and yet, part of you wanted to run toward him again, to go against Becca’s threats. The way he had looked at you and leaned into your touch—there was something there. Something more than just business. You could feel it. But the other part of you? The brighter part—the one that had always kept you alive in a city like Blackstone—wanted to just wash your hands of it all, to disappear.

And maybe that was the answer: You could leave.

The countryside called to you, with its quiet spaces and the promise of a life that didn’t involve constant vigilance and constant fear. Witches were always in high demand in such isolated places. You could have been a travelling act, banishing curses and hauntings, keeping your head down and movements quick. The law wouldn’t bother someone who was as transient as the wind. The Smog Boys wouldn’t have had the time or resources to track you. You could disappear. It was possible.

But it wasn’t just about Bucky. It was about your mother. Michael. The countless, nameless others. You had stayed because you had a game of your own to play, a plan for revenge that had been set in motion long before the Smog Boys ever darkened your doorstep. If anything, they had complicated the situation. That display in the Pony Club… that raw power within you…you were sure it hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

—

Just beyond the Smokestack District, across the filthy, winding expanse of the Sootline River, lay the Grimrow District. Its streets resembled the Warrens: cramped rows of lower-class housing, grimy industrial factories, decrepit shops, and weathered churches that seemed to sag under the weight of sin and soot. Yet, for all their similarities, the two districts held a defining difference. While the Warrens belonged to the Smog Boys, Grimrow was claimed by the Iron Rats.

Like most rival factions in Blackstone, the Iron Rats and the Smog Boys maintained an uneasy truce—a brittle thread of peace stretched taut between their territories. The fragile truce held as long as each stayed within their respective borders. But to call it harmony would be a misstep. It was more of a begrudging tolerance, simmering hostility kept in check by necessity, not respect.

You would never typically risk crossing the Sootline. But tonight, your frustration had driven you to the brink of recklessness. The boundary, marked by the Sootline River’s churning filth and the crumbling bridge spanning its breadth, seemed less a warning and more an invitation to tempt fate. Maybe it was exhaustion from yourself, the relentless weight of the Warrens, and the invisible chains tethering you to its grime-soaked alleys.

You needed a drink. One poured by someone else’s hand in a place that didn’t reek of your desperation and solitude. The sight of your miserable flat had become unbearable, its four walls closing in tighter with each passing hour. And then there were the Smog Boys, whose ever-watchful eyes you had grown weary of evading. Maybe slipping away into Iron Rats territory would give you some reprieve. Maybe they’d let their guard down if they thought you had vanished entirely—an act of rebellion against the summons you had so pointedly ignored.

But the summons wasn’t something you could forget. Bucky’s call to a family meeting had been the last thing you’d expected, even if Becca had warned you in the days prior. It gnawed at you, questioning why he suddenly considered you significant enough to include. Family. What a strange, hollow word coming from him.

You didn’t trust it. The invitation felt like bait in a carefully laid trap. Why invite you into the fold now, after leaving without a word of thanks or farewell? Why disappear, only to pull you closer the very next day? It reeked of manipulation, and you couldn’t help but think it was somehow connected to the Penance Boys and the gruesome spectacle their deaths had created. The pit in your stomach told you it wasn’t a coincidence. You couldn’t deny your own hand in the sequence of events, no matter how indirect. If you hadn’t healed him, hadn’t used your forbidden magic to save him, would he have bled out on the floor of your home? Would his story have ended there, spilling his blood into the cracks of your rotting floorboards? And, in some twisted, alternate reality, would you now be living in a Bucky Barnes-free world?

The thought clawed at you, leaving a strange ache in its wake. As much as you despised the tangled mess of emotions that tethered you to him, the idea of his absence hollowed something out of you. That pit of dread opened wide, devouring any attempt to convince yourself that you’d be better off without him.

Bucky was a wound you couldn’t help but pick at—a scar you couldn’t stop tracing with trembling fingers.

The air of Grimrow reeked of industry—smoke, oil, and sweat mingling into a nauseating miasma. You passed groups of factory workers slumped on steps, nursing bottles of something too potent to be legal, and street vendors hawking stale bread or pilfered wares.

A bar came into view just as you sensed them: footsteps too close and laughter too loud, their presence evident in the silence they carried with them through the narrow streets. Three men trailed behind you, their voices brash and oily as they jeered.

“Oi, sweetheart! Where’ya off to in such a hurry?”

“Yeah, don’t be shy. Give us a smile, eh?”

You kept walking, your stride steady, your face unreadable. Reacting would only embolden them.

“She’s got an attitude, that one,” another mocked. “Maybe we should teach ‘er some manners.”

You turned a corner, hoping they’d lose interest, but their footsteps quickened. One of them closed the distance, and you felt his fingers graze your sleeve.

“You’ve got a death wish, ‘aven’t ya?” a new voice rang out, sharp and unwavering.

The three men halted as a woman stepped out of the shadows. She was tall and composed, her auburn hair curling at her shoulders, and her eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Her tone wasn’t loud, but it carried weight, each word like a warning.

The man closest to you sneered. “What’s it to you, love?”

“You’re botherin’ my friend.” she said, stepping forward.

Her words made you pause, but you didn’t correct her.

“You’ve got no business ‘ere,” the man growled, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him. 

“And you do?,” she replied coolly. “Say, do’ya ‘ave friends in high places? ‘Cause I do. One word from me, and they’ll hunt you down. They ain’t the type you go lookin’ to make enemies with, that’s for sure, love.”

One of the men muttered something under his breath, probably the same question you had on your mind. Who were these friends in high places? Certainly wasn’t the Smog Boys. You had never heard or seen such a woman slinking around. She had a fierceness to rival Natasha, a sharp-tongue like Becca. The men hesitated, exchanged glances, then slunk away with grumbled curses, their bravado evaporating like steam.

She was with the Iron Rats, perhaps. 

Or something worse.

The woman turned to you, the sharpness in her expression softening into something sly and amused. “You’re welcome.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

A tense pause washed over the two of you, the auburn assessing you with one swoop of her sharp eyes. You wondered if she was searching for a concealed weapon, assessing if you had the strength to take down a grown man with your hands alone. It was a fruitless pursuit, as the chaos inside of you was invisible. 

But you had a sneaking suspicion the woman before you were also more than she let on, maybe something more like yourself, hiding in plain sight.

“You’re far from home.” She commented. There was a drawl to her words, a subtle accent foreign to Sootstone and Grimrow—one higher class, or perhaps from beyond the city walls in the countryside. “Dangerous for a woman of the Smog to be over the river.”

“And how would you know where I keep my home?” You test.

“You reek of it. The Warrens.” Her lips pulled into a honed smile. “I don’t blame ya, lookin’ for a change of scenery.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Let me buy you a drink.” You offer.

The woman grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”

—

The bar was exactly as you’d expected—a dark, smoky hole-in-the-wall with warped wooden tables, a cracked mirror behind the bar, and the faint smell of spilt beer and sweat clinging to the air. It was neither welcoming nor hostile, merely indifferent to the chaos of the outside world. You stepped inside, the noise of murmured conversations and clinking glasses briefly pausing as heads turned to size you up. They saw the woman with you, her confident stride and sharp gaze, and immediately lost interest.

The two of you weaved between tables, stepping over uneven floorboards and discarded peanuts. Wanda—as the auburn-haired woman had introduced herself—walked as though she belonged there, her boots clicking against the wood in a steady rhythm. You tried to match her nonchalance but felt out of place, the weight of the room’s gaze lingering even after it had turned away.

You slid into a corner table, its surface scarred with knife marks and initials dug deep into the wood. Wanda eased into the chair opposite you, draping one arm over the backrest and stretching her legs out beneath the table, completely at ease. She watched the room with a faint, amused smile, as though everything she saw confirmed something she already knew.

The bartender approached, a burly man with greying stubble and a perpetual scowl. Without asking, he set down two glasses of amber liquid and muttered something about payment later. You nodded, and he disappeared as quickly as he’d come.

You eyed the drink warily before lifting it, catching a faint whiff of cheap whiskey. Wanda, meanwhile, raised hers without hesitation, swirling the liquid in her glass with an air of appreciation. “Grimrow’s charm ‘asn’t changed much,” she remarked, her tone light, almost teasing.

“You’ve been here before?” you asked, leaning back against your chair.

“Once or twice,” she admitted, taking a slow sip. “Though it was a little... less grim the last time.” She chuckled, her eyes flicking back to yours. “Still, it has its appeal. Don’t ya think?”

“Depends on what you call appealin’,” you said, glancing around at the dimly lit room. “I guess it’s got character if nothin’ else.”

“Character,” she echoed, raising her glass as though in a toast. “A generous way to put it.”

You couldn’t help but smirk, though your guard stayed firmly in place. Wanda’s ease felt calculated, her words chosen with care. 

“So,” she said, tilting her head slightly as she studied you. “Do ya always bring strangers to such charmin’ establishments, or am I special?”

“Strangers?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t seem like much of a stranger, not with the way you act like you own the place.”

She laughed, a low, melodic sound that drew a few fleeting glances from nearby tables. “I’ve been accused of worse.”

You took a sip of your drink, the burn of the whiskey grounding you. “What’s worse than that?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Wanda said, her smile playful. “But enough about me. You’re the real mystery here. Someone like you, runnin’ around Grimrow? You’ve got to ‘ave a story.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, unsure if the comment was meant as a compliment or a probe. You got the sense the woman was lying, or atleast hiding something. “Maybe I’m just passin’ through,” you said evenly.

“Maybe,” she allowed, though the look in her eyes suggested she didn’t believe you. “Or maybe there’s more to it.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment before she shifted in her seat, leaning forward slightly. “What about you, though?” you asked, deflecting. “What’s a woman like you doin’ in Grimrow?”

The question landed with a faint ripple of tension, but Wanda didn’t flinch. Instead, her smile widened, and she reclined back into her seat, looking at you as though she’d been waiting for you to ask. “A woman like me? Now, what does that mean?”

“You don’t exactly blend in,” you replied, motioning to the sharp lines of her coat, the expensive leather of her boots. “You’re not Iron Rat, and you’re definitely not factory folk. So, what are you?”

Wanda smirked, swirling her drink. “Observant, aren’t ya? Let’s just say I don’t stay in one place too long. Too many people eager to stick their noses where they don’t belong.”

“People like me?” you challenged, leaning forward slightly.

“Maybe,” she said, her tone light but her gaze sharp. “Though you’re not like the others I’ve met. Most witches these days—” She caught herself.

You forced your expression to remain neutral. “Most witches? That’s a strange thing to say.” You continued, feigning nonchalance. “And what about you? You don’t seem entirely ordinary yourself.”

Wanda chuckled, taking a slow sip of her drink. “You could say I have a... talent for recognisin’ my own kind.”

Your suspicion hardened into certainty, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of camaraderie. But something about her tone, her carefully chosen words, kept you wary.

“Let’s just say I’ve been around,” Wanda said, her voice smooth. “Blackstone is full of people. Some are content to lay low, keep their heads down. Others... well, others are harder to ignore.”

You narrowed your eyes at her words, your grip tightening around your glass. “And which category do I fall into, exactly?”

Wanda tilted her head, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Oh, definitely the latter. You’re not exactly the lay-low type, are you? Not with the kind of power you carry.”

The statement caught you off guard, though you did your best not to show it. Power. She said it like it was obvious, like she could see it written across your skin. You leaned back slightly, studying her. “Is that your skill? Recognisin’ power in others?”

“Somewhat,” Wanda replied, her tone light as if this were a game. She swirled her glass idly, her eyes flicking to yours with a spark of something unreadable. “It’s all about readin’ the chaos, innit? The aura of a person, an object. Every thread leads back to somethin’.”

Your brow furrowed. “So you see power in the chaos? You read it like... energy?”

“Exactly,” she said, flashing a quick smile. “I imagine it’s much like spottin’ a spirit tethered to an anchor—recognisin’ the energy surroundin’ it.”

There it was—a slip. A thread tugged loose. Your breath caught for a split second, your instincts sharpening like a blade. “I never said I was a spirit-raiser,” you pointed out, your voice colder now, every word deliberate.

Her smile faltered, just a fraction, but it was enough to confirm what you already suspected. “I believe ya did,” she countered lightly, though there was a tightness in her tone, a tension she couldn’t quite hide. Her fingers tightened around her glass, the faintest tremor betraying her rising panic.

“No,” you said, leaning forward now, your gaze boring into hers. “I didn’t.”

Her laughter was forced, brittle. “It must’ve been ‘n assumption—”

“Who’re you?” you cut her off, your voice sharp and unyielding, like a blade striking metal. Already, you were shifting back in your seat, the air between you charged with suspicion.

Wanda sighed sharply through her nose, placing her glass on the table more forcefully than necessary. “I’ve already told you,” she said, her voice cool but her expression uneasy. “My name’s Wanda. I read auras. That’s all.”

“This meetin’, it isn’t a coincidence, is it?” Your words came quickly, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “How long ‘ave you been followin’ me?”

The question hit like a hammer, and for the first time, Wanda hesitated. Her gaze dropped to the amber liquid in her glass, the faint clink of ice filling the silence. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost hesitant. “I know more than ya think,” she admitted, swirling her drink in a futile attempt at distraction. “I know you’re... different. Special.”

The room seemed to narrow around you, her words settling over your chest like a weight. Your heart was pounding, though you weren’t sure if it was from anger or fear. “Special,” you repeated flatly, your voice thick with disbelief. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wanda didn’t answer immediately, her eyes still fixed on her glass. When she finally looked up, there was something raw in her gaze, something that made your stomach twist. “You’re not wrong. It isn’t just a coincidence that we ‘ave crossed paths,” she said, her tone almost gentle. 

You stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, but Wanda reached out, her hand wrapping around your wrist. “Wait,” she said, her voice urgent. “Just listen to me.”

“Why should I?” you snapped, yanking your arm free. 

“The Church of Light is your home.”

The name struck you like a thunderclap, the world tilting briefly, nauseatingly. You stared at her, uncomprehending, the name echoing in your mind. “The Church,” you said, your voice hollow. “You’re with them.”

“Father Leofric—he sees your potential. He won’t harm you. He wants to guide you.” Wanda urged, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Guide me,” you repeated, your voice cutting through the haze of the bar like a blade. Disbelief curled each syllable into a sneer. “Like they guided my mother? Like they tried to use her?”

Wanda’s face tightened, her carefully composed mask slipping. Rage flickered behind her eyes, barely restrained. “Your mother, the traitor. Are ya gonna follow in her footsteps? Run from ya destiny, Light-bringer?”

The name hit you like a blow to the chest. Your breath faltered, and you stumbled back a step, gripping the table's edge for balance. The entity's voice in the Pony Club whispered fresh in your memory, unshakable.

I know what you are.

Spirit-raiser… diviner… light-bringer.

It had felt abstract then, something distant and strange. But now, spoken aloud by Wanda in this grimy bar, it solidified into a terrifying reality.

“Don’t call me that,” you managed to hiss, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

Wanda stood now, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. Her composure cracked, and her anger bubbled over like a storm breaking. 

“You don’t understand what you’re carryin’,” she snapped, her voice rising with an edge of desperation. “You don’t know how to control or use it! Do you know how ungrateful you are? Holdin’ onto such power? It’s wasted potential, wasted on you. Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

The mention of Bucky’s name stung, the scorn in Wanda’s voice twisting the knife already lodged in your gut. It wasn’t just how she said it, dripping with mockery—it was the storm it unleashed within you. Bucky Barnes was a thorn lodged deep in your side, one you couldn’t seem to dislodge, no matter how hard you tried. You opened your mouth to snap back, but a sudden hush stopped you short.

The bar had gone eerily silent. Every pair of eyes in the room was on you, the tension thick as smoke. Even the bartender had paused mid-motion, his expression slack-jawed. Wanda’s words hung heavy in the air, especially one name: Smog Boys.

Your heart dropped. Of course, this was Iron Rat territory. Of course, the wrong ears would be listening.

Fear clawed at your chest, and you didn’t wait for them to act. You shoved past Wanda, her protests drowned out by your pulse pounding and stormed out into the smog-filled streets. 

Your thoughts spiralled as you made your way down the winding streets. This night was a mistake. This entire saga was a mistake.

You should have disappeared into the countryside when you had the chance. But you had stayed. And why? Because of Bucky Barnes? Because you had let yourself believe, for one stupid, vulnerable moment, that the man behind the brutality might see you as something more than a pawn?

Wanda’s mocking voice echoed in your ears. “Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe you were pathetic for clinging to the small moments of connection you thought you had shared with him. That flicker of warmth you thought you saw in his eyes? It had been a lie, or worse, a cruel trick to keep you in line.

Your thoughts raced, fear and anger warring within you. The Church of Light, your mother, the Smog Boys—your mother's burdens follow you more closely than you first realised. You were tired of running and being a pawn in everyone else’s game. It was a noose tightening around your neck. All this time, you’d thought you were free of it, that her choices wouldn’t define you. But now, it was clear.

They already had.

—

From the moment you’d left the bar, you knew they were following you. You felt it in the weight of their stares, in the scuff of boots behind you, in the way the streets seemed to close in tighter.

The Iron Rats weren’t subtle. They wanted you to know they were there.

You quickened your pace, ducking into side streets and weaving through narrow alleys, but the sound of their pursuit only grew louder. Panic clawed at your throat as you turned corner after corner, the labyrinth of Grimrow offering no sanctuary.

Ahead, the bridge over the Sootline loomed, its iron framework a skeletal silhouette against the hazy glow of gas lamps. Crossing it would bring you into Smog Boys territory, and though the idea of safety under Bucky’s rule left a bitter taste in your mouth, it was better than what awaited you here.

As you bolted across, the bridge groaned under your weight, its boards slick with soot and damp. The stench of the river below was overwhelming, a mix of rotting debris and chemicals that clung to the air. But you didn’t stop. When you reached the other side, you noticed the boundary. It wasn't marked by signs but by a change in the atmosphere—an unspoken rule. Here, the Iron Rats shouldn’t follow. Here, you were supposed to be safe.

But tonight, the rules didn’t seem to matter.

A shout rang out behind you, followed by the thunder of boots on the bridge. They were coming.

You didn’t have time to think, only to run, your breath ragged and your chest aching. The smog was thicker here, wrapping around you like a suffocatingly familiar embrace, but you pushed through, darting into an alley.

You didn’t see the fist until it collided with your jaw.

The impact sent you sprawling, your back slamming into the filthy cobblestones. Stars danced in your vision; before you could recover, they were on you.

Rough hands yanked you upright, shoving you against the alley wall. The cold stone bit into your back, but the pain was nothing compared to the fear twisting in your gut.

“What’d we‘ave ‘ere?” One of them sneered, “Little Smog Whore, all alone.”

“Thought crossin’ the bridge would save’ya?” another mocked, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol. “Not tonight.”

The first punch landed in your stomach, forcing the air from your lungs into a choking gasp. You doubled over, but they didn’t give you a chance to recover. Another blow, this time to your ribs, sent you crumpled to the ground.

The cobblestones were cold and slick beneath you as you curled in on yourself, arms instinctively wrapping around your head. It didn’t matter. They kicked and stomped, their boots a relentless assault. Pain exploded in your side as something cracked—your ribs, maybe more.

You tried to scream, but the sound caught in your throat lost in the chaos of their laughter. One jeered, his voice distant and distorted, like you were underwater. You pressed your face to the filthy ground, the grit cutting into your skin as you tried to will yourself away from this moment. But the pain kept you rooted.

And through it all, your thoughts betrayed you.

Bucky Barnes. The Church of Light. Your mother.

Wanda’s words rang in your ears repeatedly: “Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe you were pathetic for staying, believing you could survive here, and thinking someone like Bucky might care. You should have fled the moment your mother passed. Staying in The Warrens had pushed fate to its limits and now you were suffering the consequences. 

The laughter stopped abruptly, replaced by the sound of shouting—new voices, deep and commanding.

“Fuckin’ Smog Boys,” one of the Iron Rats hissed.

Boots scrambled on cobblestones as your attackers scattered, the echoes of their retreating footsteps fading into the smog. You didn’t move. Not when the Smog Boys’ shadows passed over you, chasing the clatter of shoes further down the alley, the Iron Rats racing at break-neck speeds back to the Sootline.

You forced yourself to sit up, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony through your body. You dragged yourself upright with much effort, leaning heavily against the wall for support. The smog swallowed you as you stumbled away.

By the time you reached your home, the world was spinning, a disorienting blur of pain and exhaustion. Every step was a struggle, every breath shallow and sharp. Your ribs screamed with every movement, the fractured bones grinding against each other, each step sending a jagged edge of agony slicing through your chest. The dull throb in your face from the Iron Rat’s punch had blossomed into a searing ache, and the taste of blood lingered on your tongue. 

Your trembling hands fumbled with the door latch, and for a moment, you thought you wouldn’t even manage that. When the door finally creaked open, you didn’t feel relief. Just the weight of the smog following you in, curling around your battered body like an unwanted embrace.

The room was dark and cold, the air thick with the musty scent of soot and old wood. You didn’t bother lighting a lamp. Your knees buckled before you made it to the bed. Instead, you collapsed onto the floor in front of the fireplace, your body folding in on itself like a broken marionette. The sharp jolt of the impact stole what little breath you had left, and you stayed there, gasping, too weak to even cry.

A thin blanket was within arm’s reach, and you dragged it over yourself, your fingers clumsy and stiff. It wasn’t warm—barely large enough to cover you—but it was enough to cocoon yourself in, enough to pretend for a fleeting moment that you were safe. The fireplace was nothing but a blackened shell, its faint embers flickering. You stared at them anyway, your vision blurred.

The smog clung to your clothes and skin, thick and choking, settling in your lungs with every laboured breath. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. There was something strangely comforting in its suffocating presence as if it was all left of you now—a swirling, toxic reminder that you belonged to this broken city, and it to you.

Pain radiated through your body in waves. You were too broken to think about the wounds that needed tending, too shattered to consider the risk of infection or what damage had been done to your ribs. 

What a fool you’d been.

The tears finally came then, hot and bitter, spilling silently down your cheeks. You buried your face in the blanket, biting down on the fabric to stifle the sobs that threatened to shake your fragile body apart.

You wanted to move, feed the fire, and bring warmth and light back into the room. But you couldn’t.

Instead, you curled tighter into yourself, surrendering to the darkness. If you closed your eyes, you could almost pretend the smog wasn’t filling your lungs, almost pretend the world hadn’t left you broken and bleeding on the floor.

But no amount of pretending could quiet the truth. You were alone, and the city had won.

—

The morning light filtered through the grimy window, faint and cold. The air still smelled of smoke and smog, clinging to every surface of your home. You hadn't moved from your spot by the dying fire. Your body felt foreign—too heavy, too broken. The ache in your ribs was constant. You hadn't had the strength to tend to yourself, let alone address the mess of bruises and blood that painted your skin.

The floorboards creaked underfoot, and then the door to your tiny flat was pushed open with a sharp squeal. It didn’t take long for the familiar sound of shoes against the creaky set of stairs to echo up the hall.

“Spirit-raiser.” A voice sliced through the stillness, a low growl of irritation. Natasha. “You missed your summons; Barnes has got me playin’ messenger again. Better be a good reason.”

You remained silent, unable to summon the energy to respond. Of course, Bucky would send Natasha to do his dirty work, too proud to face you himself. The blanket was wrapped around you tightly, your face hidden from her view. You could feel her eyes on you, the judgment heavy in the air. Her boots scraped against the floor as she moved further into the room.

“Spirit-raiser.” Natasha's call was sharp, accusatory, “Your wards were down; what were you expectin’? Barnes to turn up and just forgive you for missin’ the meetin’?”

She gave a scornful snort. “That’s not how any of this works, I thought you’d know that by now, witch.”

The silence stretched long, the weight of her disdain unbearable. Finally, after a moment that felt like an eternity, you slowly turned your head. Just enough for her to see the state you were in—your bruised face and the bloodied split in your swollen bottom lip.

Natasha’s gaze flickered over your form, and the contempt was gone for a moment, replaced by something colder, harder. Her jaw tightened as she took in the sight. She didn’t rush to help you, but you could tell by how her eyebrow twitched that she was taken aback.

"Who did this?" she asked, her voice flat but cold.

You looked away, avoiding her gaze. "Why would you care?"

Her lips twisted into a thin line. She took a step closer, her posture rigid. "You know why."

The world felt heavy around you, each breath a struggle. You didn't want to acknowledge that she only cared because of who you were to Bucky, not due to any worry for your well-being. Bucky’s pet fucking witch, injured. How would they banish the skeletons from their closet without their witch, chains, leash and all?

"It doesn't matter," you muttered, a forced shrug, which was then followed by a wince. The words tasted bitter, but they were all you had left to cling to.

"Of course, it matters," Natasha pressed, her voice growing sharper. "Who did it? Who the fuck did this to you? If it’s those Penance Boys again I swear to the gods—"

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You didn’t want to. You couldn’t stand the thought of going back, of being dragged back into the suffocating web of the Smog Boys.

"I don't want anything to do with that family," you finally whispered, your voice hoarse. You clutched the blanket tighter as if that would shield you from her questions, from everything else.

Natasha's lips curled in a sneer, a harsh laugh escaping her throat. She knew exactly what family you were referring to—the Barnes. "It's a little too late for that now, isn't it?" Her eyes were cold, assessing. “You think you can just walk away from this?”

The words stung, cutting deeper than you thought they could. 

"You know I didn’t have a choice." Your voice cracked, and you barely recognised it as your own.

Natasha’s expression softened for a brief moment, a flicker of understanding crossing her face before it hardened again. “I know,” she said flatly, her eyes narrowing as she studied you.

You wanted to scream. In a vulnerable, fucked up way, you wanted to tell her everything—the truth, the pain, the defeat, about Wanda and the Church, about your confliction and entanglement with the Barnes siblings—but all that came out was a shaky breath.

She stood over you for a moment longer. Then, without another word, Natasha turned on her heel and walked toward the door. She didn’t offer help, didn’t offer comfort. She didn’t need to. 

She had said all that she wanted to say.

PART SIX

[stylesloveclub]

Pleasing (grumpy h blurb)

In which Harry's acting kinda grumpy, and y/n helps him... destress. :)

+++

Harry’s hand slams onto his phone, muting the blaring chimes of his 6 AM alarm. His head hurts and his eyes are heavy, and the thought of having to get out of bed, get dressed, and go to a business meeting when it’s still dark outside makes his feel physically ill. 

He’s tired… beyond tired. Last night had been another one of his annual “In-Chef nights.” He’d been up on his feet, cooking meal after meal from 6 PM all the way until midnight, and had then spent an additional two hours with his staff cleaning up. He’d driven home in the cold rain, and didn’t even have enough energy to change into his pajamas when he got home. He just stripped down to his briefs, and collapsed into his bed.

 Running on barely four hours of sleep, he’s feeling cranky and miserable and irritable. The sound of his alarm has been nagging at him through three snooze cycles, and he knows if he stays in bed any longer, he’s going to be running late. 

He forces himself to blink his eyes open. He feels gross and sluggish, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, and letting out a loud groan. The early morning meeting he has today isn’t even one that he’s excited for… he hates the constructors that are helping him open a new Pleasing location in New York. They’re bad communicators, and always make mistakes in the plans that they’ve made. Harry’s a very particular man, he’s picky about the way his food is cooked, a neat freak in his home, and has an organized schedule that he never strays from. So working with these incompetent people, who somehow always manage to royally fuck something up… god it really gets Harry frustrated. 

He yanks the blanket off of himself and swings his legs over the side of the bed. His feet meet the floor, and it’s ice cold. Great. 

This is just fucking great. 

+++

“Jesus fucking christ.” 

Harry takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes to calm himself. It doesn’t work. His nostrils are flaring and his eyes have turned a dark, angry shade of green. “I fuckin’ said last week that I wanted gas stoves. So why is there an order for six electric stove tops?”

Ian, the contractor, fumbles in front of Mr. Styles, cheeks turning red. “Uh-um, t-the installation of the electric stoves was cheaper.”

“What did I explicitly ask for,” Harry seethes.

“Err– t-the gas–”

“So what in your right mind made you think that I’d be okay with this?”

“I– well, sir, we just wanted to go with the option that was more affordable–”

“Do you think I give a fuck which one is cheaper?” Harry yells. “For fuck’s sake, I’m running a multi-million business!” He slams the papers he’d been holding onto the desk in front of him and stands up angrily, his chair scratching loudly against the hardwood floors. “Get this fixed, today,” he says before storming out of the conference room and slamming the door behind him. 

He locks himself into his office, and sits in his chair, rubbing his red-veined eyes. He’s too tired to have to deal with all this shit today. How hard is it for people to follow instructions? His life would be so much easier if everyone else didn’t fuck up so much. 

He sits there for a few minutes with his head in his hands, fingers still rubbing at his eyes to try and soothe away the burning feeling he feels every time he opens them. His head is starting to hurt, a pounding migraine so intense that he can feel his heartbeat in his ears, and his stomach hurts. All he had to eat today was a black coffee before he went into that horrific meeting five hours ago. 

Yes, the one hour meeting they had planned had ended up taking five hours instead. He literally had to clear his schedule to fix all the fucking mistakes that they were making. They’d chosen the wrong tiles for the floor, ordered the wrong stove tops for the kitchen, and had designed all of the countertops to be one inch too low… it literally pained him to be working with such incompetent designers. 

And now he was behind on his work. 

He lets out a tired sigh and turns on his desktop, opening his emails. The bright screen makes his eyes sting, and he has to squint to read the tiny word on the screen. He scrambles around in his drawers and finds his reading glasses, but still, the words blur together and make his head hurt. He bares with the pain, and spends an hour or so responding to emails and filling out paperwork, until there’s a knock at his door. 

“What is it?” he calls out a bit snappily, not looking up from his paperwork. 

He hears the door jiggle, trying to open but struggling against the lock. “It’s me, Mr. Styles!” 

Immediately, he puts his pen down and unlocks the door for his sweet y/n to come in. She’s holding a plate of food for him, and looks up at him with her pretty smile, cheeks warm and dimpled with kindness. 

“Hey puppy,” he murmurs, surprised. She hadn’t come in for the majority of this week because she had finals. In fact, she just had her physics final just this morning. 

“Hi!” she says enthusiastically, entering his office. “Teddy told me that you’ve been here since 8, n’that you haven’t eaten anything all day.” She looks up at him with her adorable bambi eyes, “How come you’re allowed to scold me for not eating enough at work when you’re skipping meals too?” 

He smiles lightly, “you’re right puppy, that’s hypocritical of me.” 

“Very hypocritical,” she nods resolutely. “So, I brought you some food! I had Teddy make it, ‘cos I know he’s your favorite.”

His stomach growls at the sight of the fettuccini alfredo in front of him. He’s starving but he’d been way too caught up in his work to think about getting up to get himself any food. “Thank you,” he says, taking the plate from her and picking up her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. 

“It smells yummy, so I want some too,” she says, sitting down on the chair behind his desk. “But we gotta eat it quick, ‘cos I’m supposed to get back out there in five minutes.” 

“Thought you weren’t meant to come in today?” he says, sitting down next to her. 

“I wasn’t scheduled,” she says, shoving a forkful of the pasta into her mouth, “but then Grace texted me asking if I could cover for her. She got the flu.” 

Harry hums, grabbing a tissue from his desk, and wipes off the little bit of white sauce clinging onto y/n’s lips, her mouth full of deliciously creamy and garlicky pasta. “How were your exams?”

She rolls her eyes. “Ugh. Don’t talk about it. So hard, but everyone else said it was super hard too, so hopefully there’s a fat curve.” She claps her hands excitedly, “But at least I’m done! No more school for the rest of the month!!!” 

Despite his initial grumpy mood, he can’t help the smile that graces his face. His girlfriend is literally the cutest thing in the world, especially when she gets all giddy and excited like this. She’d been really stressed out and MIA all week because of her exams, so it’s refreshing to see his lively and happy y/n again. 

“So proud of you puppy,” he says, cupping her cheek and giving her a kiss. 

She twirls a forkful of pasta for Harry and feeds it to him. “Are we gonna hang out tonight?” she asks. 

“Of course. Need t’cuddle tonight, you’ve been so busy I feel neglected.” Just sitting with y/n for a few minutes has already calmed Harry down, the stress in his body fizzling away. 

She giggles cutely. “Okay baby. We can spend alllll night together.” 

+++

The ache in his stomach fades away after finishing the pasta that y/n brought for him, and after popping an advil, he feels his headache start to slowly go away as well. He’d gotten an email that the electric stove tops had been returned and that an order for the gas ones had been put in, so he’s feeling more relaxed about that as well.

He lounges around in his office until y/n is done with her shift, and they sneak out the back exit to head home together. He’s got a one hand feel on the steering wheel, the other on her thigh, and he’s feeling much better than he was this morning when he’d been all grumpy and stressed out. 

When they get to a stop light, his phone rings. He thinks nothing of it when he picks up, not even looking at the caller id. “Hello?” he answers casually.

“Er– Hi, Mr. Styles.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. It’s Ian on the phone. “What’s going on?” he says tersely.

“Um… so we figured out the stove issue, which is great…” 

The light turns green. “Okay…?” Harry says, slightly annoyed.

“So… well– the stove company said that the shipment is gonna take a few weeks, which is gonna put the construction schedule behind since we can’t install the countertops until we put the stoves in, which means…” Harry sighs in disappointment, already knowing what’s coming. “Well, it means that the restaurant might not be ready for the opening date that we’d set.” 

“Ian,” Harry’s knuckles are turning white around the steering wheel, and he’s using every cell in his body to keep his voice steady so that he doesn’t start yelling in front of y/n. “When I signed that contract with you, didn’t we agree it would be done in three months?”

“I– yes, it’s really unfortunate–” Ian stammers, but Harry cuts him off.

“I don’t want to hear fuckin’ excuses,” Harry bites. “We signed a contract.”

“Sir, I don’t know what to tell you,” Ian says casually.

“How about we start with the fact that this issue could’ve been completely avoided had you simply followed the plan that we had agreed upon?” Harry’s voice is steadily rising, an angry fire to his tone. “Or how much money you’ve already cost me from all the mistakes you’ve made? I signed a contract and I expect the deadline to be met. It’s far too late to push back the opening of the restaurant.” 

“It’s out of my control–” Ian tries to explain, but Harry won’t hear it.

“Jesus christ, do I need to do everything for you?” Harry bursts. “Call the company and tell them the delivery is for Harry Styles! Figure it out with the investors, pay them extra! We will not be pushing the date back, not when we’ve already invested so much into it.” Harry hangs up the phone angrily and throws it into his lap. “Fucking hell,” he breathes angrily. 

Y/n sits next to him quietly, her eyes wide. “Everything okay?” she asks timidly.

“S’fine,” he bristles tersely, pulling into his parking spot. He puts the car in park and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him with such aggression that y/n winces for the car. 

Scrambling behind him like a little puppy, she follows him into his penthouse. There’s an angry furrow in his brow as they ride up the elevator, and his lips are pressed together in a frustrated line as he types out a message on his phone. He storms into the kitchen without even glancing at y/n, and pours himself a glass of ice cold water to maybe help himself calm down. 

Y/n stands shyly behind the kitchen counter, not saying anything but watching him quietly.

“Just a second, puppy,” he says, his tone impatient and clipped, pushing past her to head into his home office. He dials the number of one of his restaurant’s business partners on the phone, and spends nearly half an hour figuring out what they were going to do. 

“I want a new fuckin’ contractor,” Harry rants.

His partner. Niall, gives out a hearty laugh, “I know mate, but don’t worry. I’ll figure it out for ya. I know the guys over there, I’ll give ‘em a ring and see if they can get your appliances sent over any quicker.”

“Thank you,” he mutters gratefully. Finally, there was someone who knew how to get shit done. He hangs up the phone and runs his fingers through his hair frustratedly. His headache is back and his neck and shoulders hurt from being so tense.

Y/n knocks on his office door, and he sighs heavily. “Not now, puppy, v’got to send some emails.”

She steps in, despite the fact that he’s dismissed her, with sad eyes and a pout on her lips. “If this is how it’s gonna be all night then… I’m just gonna go home.” 

His eyes snap up. “What?” 

“You’re working and being all… grumpy,” she says quietly. “So I’m gonna get an uber.”

“Y/n, don’t be like that.” He looks at her with an exasperated look. “Something important came up, v’got to deal with it.” 

“I’m not trying to be like anything,” she shrugs. “You’re stressed out and you don’t wanna talk, so I feel like I’m just annoying you by being here.”

“Baby…” he sighs, rolling away from his desk and getting up to go stand in front of her. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest in a shy, almost protective manner, and she has her bag hanging off of her shoulder, fully prepared to leave. Standing in front of her, he can see the sadness in her eyes. “Don’t go, m’sorry.” 

“I know you’re upset…” she whispers, looking down at the floor, “but that doesn’t give you the right to be snappy with me. It hurts my feelings.” 

Oh, his precious girl, so sweet and sensitive. His heart breaks a little bit, knowing that he’d made her sad… he’d been so caught up in his own stress that he’d neglected her feelings. He knows that she was probably so excited to come over after having finished all her exams… and he knows that she’s sensitive. She gets teary eyed whenever someone uses a stern voice with her, cries for days if she ever gets yelled at. Of course it would hurt her when he pushes her aside and snaps at her to leave him alone.

He pulls her into his chest, “Sweetheart, you’re right, m’sorry. I shouldn’t be takin’ it out on you, you’ve done nothing but been sweet t’me all day.” She’d brought food for him when he was hungry, was cheerful and lovely on the car ride home, and had tried to talk to him when he was upset… only to get pushed away at the end of the night.

“I wanna stay, but not if you’re gonna be mean,” she says into his chest.

He presses a kiss to her hair, “no, m’done puppy. Not gonna be mean, promise. Please, stay?” 

She looks up at him and smiles softly. “Okay,” she puckers her lips and leans up for a quick kiss. “Thank you.” 

He smooths his hand over her hair, and rests his head atop her cheek, still hugging her close. She’s warm and smells sweet… holding her in his arms is all he wants to do for the rest of his life.

“How about I go take a shower while you send your emails, and then we can go to bed?” she suggests, pulling away.

He shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. No more emails tonight, I can send them in the morning.” It’s late at night anyways, it wouldn’t make a difference if he sent them now or tomorrow. 

“M’getting in that shower with you.”

+++

In the shower, y/n washes away all of Harry’s stress and worries. She lathers up the loofah with the rose scented body wash that she keeps in his shower, and rubbed it all over his chest and back and biceps. She even went so far as to lift his arms above his head and scrub his armpits for him, making Harry cackle at how silly she was.

Then, she took his yummy smelling shampoo and had him bend down so that she could wash his hair for him. She threaded her fingers through his hair and scratched at his scalp deliciously, scrubbing his hair as though he were getting spoiled at the salon. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly as the foamy shampoo dripped down his forehead, but she always made sure to rinse the bubbles away before they got into his eyes. 

They got out and dried themselves together, standing in front of Harry’s heater in their towels for a few minutes while y/n brushed her hair. He changed himself into only a pair of boxers, while y/n opted to skip on undergarments (it’s very important to let ur pussy breathe!!!), putting on only a pair of thin sleep shorts and one of Harry’s huge t-shirts. 

“M’gonna give you a massage,” she tells Harry once they’re both changed, shoving him onto the bed. He chuckles to himself at her weak attempt to manhandle him, but complies easily, settling onto his stomach so that she could straddle his back. She squirts some lotion onto her hands and warms it up between her palms, then rubs it smoothly onto Harry’s broad and muscular back.

“Mm, thank you baby,” he groans. “So good t’me.” 

It’s all innocent at first – y/n knows that Harry was stressed out and probably super tense, so she thought giving him a nice massage to work out the knots in his shoulders would be nice. But, of course, with Harry shirtless underneath her, it’s hard for her thoughts to stay completely pure. 

Harry’s so strong and muscled… it’s so hot. He feels firm underneath her hands, her palms smoothing over the ridges and curves of the muscles in his toned back. His shoulders are broad and his biceps look huge, even without being flexed or anything. The skin of his back is warm and smooth… so soft and tan. Her mouth waters as she rubs her hands up and down his back.

Her fingers find his shoulders and she kneads them deeply, which makes Harry let out a loud groan. His shoulders are particularly tense, and her little fingers are rubbing the tight knots in them so nicely. “Harder baby,” he grunts, and she obliges. Her thumbs dig deep into the meat of his shoulders and rub in slow, painful circles.

She uses all her strength to massage him. He’s so built, every inch of his back covered with hard muscles, that it takes a lot of energy to really get in there. She has to put her entire weight into her hands and press deep onto his back. Luckily, the lotion made it easy for her to glide over his skin and knead his sore muscles. The groans that he lets out tell her which spots to focus on. 

His eyes are shut, eyebrows furrowed with pleasure. It hurts so good. His cock has started to plump up a bit, twitching every time her delicate fingers knead a particularly painful knot in his back. She keeps rubbing him, digging her fingers into his muscles, and the pressure in his cock grows unbearable. 

He flips himself around, unable to deal with it any longer. Y/n gasps at his sudden movement, then finds herself short of breath when she settles herself back down on his lap and feels how hard he is underneath her. Straddling his hips in nothing but her little, thin pair of sleep shorts, she can feel him… feels the curve of his cock, restrained in his boxers, and feels the ridge of his tip nudging against her clit. She’s sure that he can probably feel her pussy too, feel every fold and the tiny bud of her clit.

He smirks up at her when her little pussy flutters around nothing, twitching so delicately against his clothed cock. Her center feels hot, keeping him warm while she sits prettily atop him. “Keep going baby…” he says, voice low and dangerous. “M’arms hurt so much, can you rub ‘em for me?” 

He pouts up at her, but it’s a mocking pout. He knows exactly what she’s thinking about, and it’s much more filthy than his innocent request for an arm massage. 

Nonetheless, she squirts some more lotion on her hands and brings them down to his strong biceps. He’d been to the gym yesterday for arms, so he wasn’t lying when he said they were sore. But also, that means they’re particularly pumped today, firm and delicious… y/n just wants to bite them. 

His hands rest on her hips while she rubs her palms up and down his arms, his thumbs tracing soft circles onto the skin of thigh where her shorts have ridden up. She looks like she’s intently focused on rubbing his arms, but really, she can’t stop thinking about the way his cock feels underneath her. He subtly grips her hips and presses her down harder onto the hard bulge in his pants, and lets out a strained breath through his nose. Y/n similarly feels her breath catch in her throat, her hands pausing momentarily as she flutters her eyes shut.

“Feels so good baby,” he murmurs when her hands migrate up to massage his chest, rubbing circles over his swallows and tracing over his butterfly delicately. It’s a not-so subtle innuendo to fuel the fire of the sexual tension burning between the two of them right now. 

The hands on her hips start to slide upwards, under her shirt to rest on her warm tummy. He can see the soft peaks of her nipples poking through the shirt she’s wearing. “Baby… show me y’pretty tits, please?” he begs. He slides his hands even higher until his fingers graze the undersides of her breasts. “Had such a long day, I deserve a treat don’ I?”

“Y-yeah,” she agrees softly, taking her shirt off and throwing it onto the floor. She’s left topless, her perky nipple peaking in the cold air of Harry’s bedroom, and her wet pussy pressed firmly to his hard cock.

She continues rubbing his chest with her tits out, and Harry takes it upon himself to do the same to her. He plays with her tits, holds them in his palms and rubs his thumbs over her hard nipples. Still, it’s not enough. 

“Come closer, baby,” he murmurs lowly, guiding her forward. She inches forward slowly, back arching while holding herself up with her arms, until her boobs are hanging in front of Harry’s face. 

He sticks his tongue out and leans up, attaching himself to her nipple and sucking it into his mouth gently. His tongue licks the soft bud gently, and he hums happily. “Mmm, baby, so nice to me,” he mutters, switching to her other nipple, “Lettin’ daddy play with your pretty tits ‘cos I had a long day.” Hand engulfs the breast that he’d just hand in his mouth, palming it gently while his tongue plays with the other. His teeth skim her soft skin gently, and he starts sucking. Each purse of his lip and pass of his tongue sends a shock straight down to y/n’s center, and she’s absolutely, totally drenched. Her heart is beating erratically in her chest, and she can’t help herself before grinding herself down. 

Since she’s lifted herself up to align her tits with Harry’s face, she’s no longer sitting on his bulge, but instead now sitting on the butterfly painted on his abdomen. She presses herself onto his abs, soothing the dull ache that comes each time he hums around her breast.

Her boobs are so plump and plushy, dangling in front of his mouth and covered in his spit. His hands grope her chest sensually, pushing her breasts into his face and letting himself indulge like a teenage boy. He lets them bounce on his face, skimming his lips against them then pulling himself back, teasing himself. He nudges his nose against them, and they jiggle prettily right in front of his face. God, he’s making himself so hard, playing with her tits like this, having them all up in his face. All he can see is her skin, the roundness of her breasts, the soft bud of her nipples. No matter which way he turns his head, he makes contact with her, her nipples skimming his cheeks or his lips dancing against her sideboob. 

“Jus-” she gasps when he takes her boob back between his lips and sucks, tongue curling around her nipple, “Jus’ wanna make you happy daddy.” 

“Doing so good baby, taking caring of me so well,” he murmurs, barely moving his lips from her skin before reattaching to her areola. “You know what would make daddy so happy?” 

“W-what?” she whimpers, pushing her clit down against his hard abs.

“If you got on my cock and got yourself off. Could you do that for me, puppy?” 

She nods eagerly and shuffles herself down, shoving Harry’s briefs down. His cock bounces up and slaps against his stomach, the tip completely slick with his own precum and arousal. She doesn’t even bother warming herself or Harry up – the massage and his little play session had gotten both of them 100% ready.

She doesn’t take her sleep shorts off, genuinely too excited to stuff herself full of his cock. Grabbing him by the shaft, she hovers right over his hips and slowly guides him into her dripping cunt. The slide in is easy, absolutely no resistance from how wet she is, and she’s able to bottom out on the first go. 

Her hands rest on his chest to support herself, and she starts to lift her hips, up and down, skin meeting skin with every drop down. Her nails dig into his flesh, and it hurts just as good as her massage had. She’s riding him like she never has before – usually she’s a bit of a princess, mostly grinding her clit down and rubbing herself on his cock slowly until her thighs start to burn and she whines for Harry to take over. 

Now though, with the way he’d teased her all nice, she’s bouncing on his cock properly, using all her strength to pull herself all the way up, then drop back down. She sets a messy pace for herself, but it doesn’t matter. He’s hitting all the right spots in her, and that’s all she care about. 

Harry lies on his back in bliss, her pussy absolute heaven around his cock. Her messy pace and high bounces have her tits jiggling, and Harry pushes himself up onto his elbows to get a better view. “Fuck, puppy, you’re an angel.” 

He brings a hand down to rub her at her clit, fingers rubbing tight circles as she grinds herself on him. “Gonna cum baby,” he groans, “Are you close?”

She whines out, and nods messily, eyes shut as she keeps herself going. 

Harry throws his head back, and shuts his eyes, rubbing her clit faster and faster until she’s cumming, clenching around his cock and squeezing him so tightly. His vision goes white his ears start to ring, and he’s in absolute heaven.

Y/n collapses onto his chest, and he spurts out long streaks of cum into her warm pussy, balls clenching with every release and his hips twitching upwards, trying to get as deep into her as he possibly can. She lays on top of him heavily, breathing hard with rosy cheeks and a glistening forehead from how hard she’d worked to get them both to their end. 

He pulls her up for a kiss. What had he even been stressed about, again? 

+++

HOPE U GUYS ENJOYED!!! SUB TO MY PATREON FOR MORE EXCLUSIVE PLEASINGRRY CONCEPTS AND EARLY ACCESS TO ANY AND ALL FICS!!!!

[velvetvexations]

I'll probably make my own post about it eventually,,,, but re: re: transradfems not seeing transmascs as trans.

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary (link), penis envy is "the supposed coveting of the penis by a young human female which is held in Freudian psychoanalytic theory to lead to feelings of inferiority and defensive or compensatory behavior"

It's part of the transmasc version of AGP basically (autoandrophilia)

I think a lot of the resentment towards transmascs can start to make sense once it is understood under the concept that they see them as something worse than men- they're jealous girls who want to be men (thinking back to the "t slur wannabe" post). Sometimes, I worry that believing they see transmascs as GNC women is a stretch too kind for them, they just see us as consumed with jealousy (c what I did there) but I try not to speculate

It's interesting, because they insist trans men are seen as men, but trans women are seen as "women you can treat like men" even though - while it doesn't mean trans men suffer worse than transfems, all trans people are equal in the hierarchy - that particular framework fits trans men far better. Cis women suffer physical abuse all the time, but not nearly as much as trans men, who get tagged with the "so I can hit you now" attitude from cis men and even cis women. Every day trans men are subjected to horrific misogyny with the paper-thin excuse that they're a man or "want to be" one. In the case of TRFs, too, it really does feel like internalized misogyny directed at people they can claim are an oppressor class, dunnit?

[transmutationisms]

okay so i’ve never really grasped this, might as well ask now — how exactly does the cyberspace & nft stuff mine resources? i’ve heard the basics (i.e. crypto mining uses energy and what not) but i’ve never been able to understand how internet connects to real resources. could you sort of explain that (along the lines with the spam email post) in a simpler way?

ok, put very simply: it's easy for people who only interact with the internet as users to treat 'cyberspace' or 'the virtual world' as immaterial. i type something out on my phone, it lives in the screen. intuitively, it feels less real and physical than writing the same words down on a piece of paper with a pencil. this is an illusion. the internet is real and physical; digital technology is not an escape from the use of natural resources to create products. my phone, its charger, the data storage facility, a laptop: all of these things are physical objects. the internet does not exist without computers; it is a network of networks that requires real, physical devices and cables in order to store, transmit, and access all of the data we use every time we load a webpage or save a text document.

this is one of google's data centres—part of the physical network of servers and cables that google operates. these are real objects made of real materials that need to be obtained through labour and then manufactured into these products through labour. the more data we use, the more capacity the physical network must have. google operates dozens of these data centres and potentially millions of servers (there is no official number). running these facilities takes electricity, cooling technologies (servers get hot), and more human labour. now think about how many other companies exist that store or transmit data. this entire network exists physically.

when you look at a server, or a phone, or a laptop, you might be glossing over a very simple truth that many of us train ourselves not to see: these objects themselves are made of materials that have supply chains! for example, cobalt, used in (among other things) lithium-ion batteries, has a notoriously brutal supply chain relying on horrific mining practices (including child labour), particularly in the congo. lithium mining, too, is known to have a massive environmental toll; the list goes on. dangerous and exploitative working conditions, as well as the environmental costs of resource extraction, are primarily and immediately borne by those who are already most brutally oppressed under capitalism: poor workers in the global south, indigenous people, &c. this is imperialism in action. digital technologies cannot exist without resources, and tech companies (like all capitalist firms!) are profitable because they exploit labour.

all commodities require resources and labour to make and distribute. digital technology is no different. these are material objects with material histories and contexts. nothing about the internet is immaterial, from the electromagnetic waves of wi-fi communication to the devices we use to scroll tumblr. it is, in fact, only by a fantastical sleight-of-hand that we can look at and interact with these objects and still consider the internet to be anything but real resources.

[warrior-cats-rewritten]

If I had to rewrite Changing Skies:

Tawnypelt

The Clans are going to fight the humans.

Tigerstar is too busy leading and keeping everyone calm, so he sends Tawnypelt and whatever friends she wants to go on a mission to find out how they can stop the Twolegs.

Tawnypelt doesn't really WANT to, but does it because she wants her son to know she trusts his judgment.

She brings along Crowfeather (let me cook) and Brambleclaw. (LET ME COOK)

First major event is Crowfeather dying. He gets a terrible wound on his back leg from doing something Tawnypelt TOLD HIM NOT TO, and the infection kills him.

Tawny and Bramble are on their own now, and tensions are high. Not only that, but they have NO CLUE what to do, and the Twolegs are getting closer every day...

The only clue they have is with a strange kittypet named Rufus, wearing a strange bulky collar.

Tawnypelt is getting angry, and tired with Brambleclaw. He isn't the brother she thought he was, and their relationship has been fractured since the reveal that he trained in The Dark Forest. Sure, she supported him during TBC, but that ended up not being HIM and it was a terrible mistake to make...

It's his insistence that she listen to him, that he "prove himself", that he is the choice-maker and... Tawny's had enough.

"Brambleclaw, you're older than most cats around the lake, for Starclan's sake, GROW UP ALREADY!"

He leaves, insisting that he knows what is best, and she'll feel so sorry once he's right! No one ever believes in him, just because of his father!

She finds his body the next day. Rufus helps her bury him, but there isn't time to dwell, she needs to keep going. Rufus keeps walking up to humans wearing sleek white pelts that hild little flashing boxes up to Tawnypelt, he keeps saying it's fine but the way he lets them PICK him UP is going to give her a heart attack!

Kids these days. (Affectionate. Bewildered. 3 seconds from signing adoption papers.)

Leafstar

Leafstar is suffering from depression, and notices that her sight is starting to dim.

Fidgetflake tells her that she is developing cataracts, and Leafstar just takes it as "one more thing to happen to me". Her mate has died, her daughter Stormheart was killed in the horrific war against Splashstar and Berrystar that she herself barely made it out of with her last life... Her children have grown and have kits of their own, they don't need her anymore, cats don't want to talk with her...

She's completely lost her spark, and finds no joy in anything. She's not only losing her vision in a physical sense, but she's lost her 'vision' for Skyclan.

She also needs to hold the election for a new deputy, as Skyclan does things differently, and Hawkwing has been killed by a polluted stream.

The candidates are: Violetshine (who now has trained Beetlepaw instead of Reedclaw), Macgyver, and Rileypool (death swapped with Sagenose and mentored Kitescratch).

Violetshine is selected, and immediately some cats are calling for her to be made leader instead. A vote goes through, but not enough cats vote in the theoretical Violetstar's favour. (She doesn't mind!)

Leafstar is distraught when the construction comes Skyclan's way, poisoning their main stream and leading MANY cats to sickness, including her sweet granddaughter Wrenflight, born of Harrybrook and Bellaleaf.

The others Clans have less sympathy. Skyclan is using kittyp-er Daylight Warriors, they'll be fine if they just go back inside their homes. Maybe Starclan's angry that they're taking resources.

She slams her paw down onto the Moonpool's thin frozen surface, it cracks beneath her paw, the cold water spreading its horrible chill, ignored as Leafstar snarls at Starclan.

"Answer my pleas, stop punishing me, or my Clan, or I am taking us back to The Gorge, Other Clans be damned. Help us, or you will prove to me that you truly are a bunch of useless dead cats parading around with sparkling fur and empty promises!"

A ghostly figure appears, just for a moment, whispering to her.

"You may not have sight any longer, and I know all hope seems lost, Leafstar, but brighter times are coming. Do Not Let The Moon Fall."

Moonpaw

Since the writers wanna be awful about Sunbeam, I'm going to one-up them and do this pre-emptively.

Nightheart brought Sunbeam to Riverclan. He wasn't made Leader or Deputy, no, that was given to Icewing and Minnowtail.

Sunbeam, tragically, passed in childbirth soon after she got pregnant by accident... She left Nightheart with a single kitten, a tiny tortoiseshell tabby molly with a white chest, and wide blue and yellow eyes.

Nightheart, still stubborn about names and meaning and holding a grudge against his mother for not providing him with the Orange Gene, names his daughter Moonkit, determined to constantly remind her how she Doesn't Have To Be Like Sunbeam. She has quite a few friends, some in different Clans!

Moonpaw is apprenticed to Flame. An ex-Kin member that joined Riverclan during WCR!AVOS who Nightheart hates with a passion. Guess why.

Moonpaw is a good kid, but her relationship with her father is strained beyond belief. She wishes he would stop... Acting like this. Like he's the only cat to have ever suffered, stop arguing with her sweet mentor over the pettiest thing, stop comparing her to her mother in the most backwards way he can by trying to push her to somehow be the opposite of a cat she's never met...

She is good friends with Frostfeather and Whistlemoon, especially Whistlemoon, for obvious reasons. Moon buddies!

Moonpaw is dared by an older apprentice, Rapidpaw, to "go spend a night at the Moonpool when it's a new moon with all the ghosts!"

She's scared, not of the dark but if her dad finds out. "Sunbeam LOVED breaking rules!" He would always say, "But you can be good and do what YOU want. Just because your mother liked to stand out, doesn't mean you always have to! You can be special in your way!" She always saw Frostfeather glaring when he said that...

"Rule breaker." Frostfeather would scoff. "Didn't know her at all..."

Anyways, aside from a fright from a possum, she makes her way to the Moonpool with ease.

Too much ease.

She walks around, stepping into the pawprints on the ground, and batting a little plant that's growing at the entrance.

Not scary!

She walks into the main chamber, eyes sparkling and growing bigger as she lays eyes on the Moonpool for the first time.

It's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

In awe, Moonpaw slowly steps up to it, looking at her own reflection in the sparkling, crystal water, she pokes a paw in.

The gentle ripples lap at the edges, and Moonpaw swears she can hear a soft whispering.

Immediately though, she is bombarded with noise, giggling kittens, cats chatting with one another, and a soft warning.

"Careful, don't fall in!"

Moonpaw looks around for that voice, softer than any others, yet more clear. She stares into the crystal clear, sparkling water of the Moonpool, deeper, deeper, and deeper, drawing her in and making her more calm than she's ever felt...

She falls into the Moonpool.

[brucewaynehater101]

In my evil era. I've come to spread the misery

So I read a wingfic a while ago and I recall there being a titans tower scene where Tim tried to fly away but Jason grabbed him by the wing and his wing got fucked but don't quote me on that

So here's my idea

=======

Author decision on if anybody other than Tim has wings or other bird features and instincts, but Tim has bird traits like wings, talons, bird noises and maybe a tail if you pick

And for whatever reason, Tim hides his bird features

Who cares if binding his wings and other means of hiding it has proven time and time again to have horrific effects on one's health in studies older than him?

It's annoying how during the night—typically when he's Robin—he needs to take off the bindings and whatnot to keep himself from deteriorating too fast but it is what it is

Besides, his cape covers it up and he's trained in passing for human

It isn't until his wings are used against him in battle—like say a goon or a rogue (maybe even Jason at Titans Tower) being lucky enough to grab them and beat him black and blue due to it—does he reconsider how he views his wings

Tim Drake became Robin with a mission. A mission to restore Batman to the symbol of Justice he was withering from, one that expanded to putting everything into supporting all heroes

But more importantly his generation of Teen Titans and the Bats

His wings were just used against him, and in such a serious way that he's lucky he could nurse himself back to health

It was one time too many

He has a mission

The deadline is Death

=======

The next morning, Luthor Corp down hundreds of millions and they'll never notice until months later. Too late to recover the assets

=======

"Mind letting me in on what it is I'm guarding or even assisting you for?"

"We covered this in the contract Deathstroke; You guard this safehouse and in the future me while I take care of a very time-sensitive case. Benifits are just as negotiated.

"I will be locking myself in the room I will do my work. You are under no circumstances to enter unless told to. Rest assure, it can fufill my physical needs.

"If I open the door and I say 'Asylum,' it means I will be out of the safehouse for a time where you are to protect my room in addition to the rest of the safehouse until I return.

"If I open the door and say 'visitors' or shout it through the walls, it means we're being invaded through my room, and you have all the permission you need to kick down the door to come and assist me.

"If I open the door and say 'mission half-finished,' do so through the walls, or by passing a paper with that text, it means I've finished my mission with no loose ends, but am injured and require your assistance in my recovery.

"And if anybody ever asks; you had to take care of personal matters during your haitus, the Bats will never even come to mind when inquired on this period you're off the grid"

=======

Weeks or Months later (authors pick)

A paper slowly shifts under the door, he picks it up

Mission Half-Finished

he forced the door open to his client shivering on the floor

=======

the timeline is as goes;

Tim tells the bats he's going to be off the grid for a few months for a mission

Tim hacks LexCorp for Lex's future paychecks and assets to-be used for villanous plots

Tim contacts Deathstroke to be a glorified bodyguard + maybe physical therapist/doctor for an indefinite time

gg

25% upfront pay. Deathstroke will only recieve the remaining pay if he fufills his duties as followed and doesn't bail or rat Tim out

Half the reason Deathstroke is being paid six figures is to stay hush

Tim isolates himself in a room that can fufill his needs for a time

Tim isn't working on a case at all. He is preforming surgery on himself to get rid of his wings, tail, and maybe other bird traits, everything short of instincts (or not, your pick lol)

After Tim is finished, he does end up needing Deathstroke's help recovering from the aftermath, but he does everything to make the mercenery believe that it was a mission that fucked him up

Tim recovers and gives Deathstroke the rest of the 75% pay

Deathstroke leaves the safehouse while Tim stays a bit longer to tie up loose ends

Loose ends tied

LexCorp learns of the stolen money and assets, tries, and fails to find where they went

extra notes

That 'Asylum' code word was meant to throw Deathstroke a false trail to follow if he ever gets curious about what Tim was getting up to during their contract

The 'visitors' was in case the safehouse did get broken into, and 'Mission Half-Finished' in the likely case Tim legit needed treating the aftermath or physical therapy after what he did

SO yeah. This could go a lot of ways

(assume when I say wings, I use it as an umbella term for all his removed bird traits)

In Tim's ideal world, he's either bury his wings where they would rapidly rot into nothing, or keep them in his house or safest, secure, and isolated place where he preserves them and looks at them to remind himself to never let anything, anything bring him down again

But he doesn't live there

Maybe the Bats find out that Tim lost his wings, and later on, that Tim did it to himself, and are promptly horrified but Tim is all like "they were pulling me back, I had to for the mission!"

Cue more horror

Esp if Jason was the one to yank Tim by the wings

Maybe whoever yanked Tim by the wings assumes it's common knowledge that Tim is birdy^2 and is confused when everyone says the Robin is human or at least has no wings

Imagine if it's not even a rogue but a goon who even has photo evidence of the Robin's wings but recent photos, he doesn't have them at all?

And word spreads a Robin literally had his wings torn from him literally and it reaches rogues and even the Bats?

All hell breaks loose

Deathstroke thinks he's safe because he was 'busy with his personal life' until he realizes the Robin they're talking about is the one that hired him and needed his help recovering from something

He is screaming, he didn't wanna be caught up in this!

Or perhaps Deathstroke gets suspicious about the possibility he's been lied to on the contract despite how squeaky clean everything seems, and gives up that 75% to confront Tim

Only to find the kid just starting or in the middle of surgically removing his wings

Or maybe Deathstroke sniffs around after Tim needs his help recovering from his mission and find's the stash of wings he's planning to dispose of or preserve

either way he's going "What the Capital F Fuck is this?"

=======

I think any conversation between people and Tim could be dumbed down to this

"Why did you remove your'e wings??!"

"They were a burden, besides, it's not like I'm becoming disabled am I? I'm just becoming more passing for human then ever"

"That's not how it works!!"

Ooh. Okay. I think, in this AU, most of the Bats don't have wings. The exception would be Duke and Babs (Cass used to as well, but they were taken from her). For Barbara, the bullet that injured her spine also went through one of her wings.

I think Cass, who would bond with Tim using their bird instincts and who's wings were forcibly taken, would be especially devastated.

You're absolutely correct that Tim would do such a fucked up thing, but gods does it hurt.

[estavionpira]

Prodecktorate: An Honest Critique

So the Prodecktorate: Slaughterhouse card pack has been out for a couple weeks now, and I wanted to share my thoughts on the current state of the game.

Gameplay:

The gameplay has always been top-of-the-line in its genre. The rock-paper-scissors dynamic between brutes, blasters and breakers is executed really well, and having most thinkers and shakers act as buffing and debuffers was pulled off, which I didn't expect them to pull off when they announced the game. Masters can be really useful and fun to play as when you use them right; stealing enemy cards or getting to draw from the deck for free is great fun, but pretty unbalanced to play against. Tinkers are conceptually great as a jack-of-all-trades class, but their execution is horribly unbalanced. I'll get to that in Meta though. Strangers having massive evasion and giving intel buffs to their team is useful in concept, but they underperform horrifically in gameplay. I feel like an across-the-board stat buff to most stranger cards could help alleviate this, but there'd need to be a proper look-over for the category to properly solve it.

Meta:

By far the biggest issue with the meta is the absolute dominance of Tinkers. It's been a major problem since the game release, but with the release of Prodecktorate: Slaughterhouse adding the ridiculously overpowered Bonesaw and Defiant cards, it's worse now than it's ever been. Tinkers are meant to be jack-of-all-trades cards, but they're far too powerful in far too many categories that there's really no reason to play anyone but tinkers in most of your deck slots. Bonesaw can summon one of either Murder Rat, Pagoda or Hack Job from the reserve pile per turn without costing a deck slot, which is a ridiculously strong major power to start off with, usually master powers either get hero units that cost deck slots or grunt units that don't; getting hero units that don't cost deck slots would make her an S-tier master by herself, but she also comes with pseudo-brute physicals, pseudo-blaster ranged abilities, and a blanket immunity to master powers, which is absolutely bullshit. You're never going to play against a deck without Bonesaw on it. Defiant is almost as bullshit as she is. The nano-thorn ability would make him an S-tier striker by himself, but he also has pseudo-brute physicals, and the combat prediction algorithms passive he has gives him B or A-tier combat thinker abilities. That's not even to mention the ridiculous boost he gets when deployed alongside Dragon (who's broken in her own way, but she's always been broken, so I won't get into it.)

Overall:

The game's really not in a good state right now. It has good fundamentals, but enough categories are broken or unfun to play against that it really draws down the overall experience, not to mention the utter dominance of tinkers severely limiting what can be played outside the most casual of matches. They'll need to take a serious look at the effect of the recent cards when balancing for the upcoming Prodecktorate: Irregulars if they want to get the game out of the slump it's in.

[aqours]

i've shared my thoughts on this in dms with like 3 people so i wanted to put it on paper so i can always get it

so i think one of the biggest questions that goes around tcoaatl is regarding it's incest, asked in both good faith and by annoying antis: "so is the incest... actually like portrayed as bad? or is it just hot and fetishized and romanticized?" and y'know, i think the most genuinely HONEST answer regarding that is this: "it's both." (the later mostly romanticized)

the Graves siblings have a horrifically co-dependent relationship which even the steam page is very happy to make you remember, multiple characters acknowledge it, it's a fucking awful terrible thing and you can make decisions that acknowledge it and its obvious to anyone with two eyes and a brain capable of basic critical thought that realistically while you can do w/e you want in a fanfic in a canon sense there's no way gravecest cannot result in what will ultimately be a lifetime of suffering even if both parties don't want to admit it. you're condemning them both to a chance of ever finding real genuine happiness that can exist without the other

that being said? they're both conventionally attractive and the game doesn't really shy from making its physical intimacy look hot and it's clear that nemlei doesn't want that physical intimacy to be disgusting or something that will make you feel ashamed if you intentionally pursued

i feel like this is the aspect of tcoaal that is debated the most on all sides of the fandom and i just wanted to post my own two cents in that i think the answer is "its both." the extent of how co-dependent these two are is very clear that it's not good and that most likely in the final release the best outcome for these two will probably involve acknowledging it

but also if you were to approach nemlei and just told her "listen i just think it's hot i don't give a shit about any of that other stuff i just wanna ship them." i think nemlei herself would nod and respect your decision completely. probably feed you even more if anything

you're free to disagree with me, i just wanna state my own thoughts somewhere, so i think the answer is a very solid "it's both" when it comes to this. tcoaal portrays the incest as horribly psychologically damaging for these two but also at the same time it's obviously not gonna judge you for liking it and if you find it hot nemlei would never judge you for it i think

but i just cannot in any capacity really take the argument it's a hard one or another seriously. i think if tcoaal wanted gravecest to only be seen as bad and horrifying that nemlei would've made different decisions in writing it bc it's obvious she COULD have if she wanted to, but also it's not fair to say it just makes incest look hot and sexy when it does show how fucked up it's characters are because of it

so... just wanted to say yeah- i think it's both

[brisquad-unit-4402]

crimzon ruze dating an artist

i’m gonna be real the hate mail stream changed me as a person

yhis one is about ruze and a reader that likes to make visual art, but if this gets some reception might be interested in writing more headcanons for writers, musicians, programmers, dancers…

tags: gender neutral reader, established relationship, fluff, headcanons

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

let’s get it out of the way: ruze isn’t just a viciously violent mercenary menace, he’s also a viciously violent mercenary menace that ✨ loves creativity ✨

he respects people that can use their imagination, like inventing new horrific ways to kill a corruption beast, or making someone’s day worse in a way that can’t be replicated

so naturally he gravitates to people who put their imagination to use through their own art medium. he has a type for creators

one of the best feelings ever is being able to watch an artist in their element, focused on their vision

there’s always so much to admire. their hands wrapped around the pencil, the way they squint and stare at the lines… he could go on

if he’s really lucky maybe the artist will move around while drawing a character, just so they can use their own body as reference. it’s so cute seeing them lift a hand and compare it to the one they were drawing, even the pout they do when they erase the last few strokes, all frustrated but ready to try again. especially the pout

he doesn’t do the whole “talking about your feelings” thing so when he sees a well-done drawing, well, that just makes admitting it all the more redundant. who needs words when a picture is worth a thousand of them?

ruze himself isn’t exactly an artist, but he’s tried before. it’s tough work. anyone that can control their pen that well deserves respect

if you’re an artist and your love language is quality time then dating ruze is a dream. he’ll do work in the same room as you while you’re preoccupied with your latest piece

it’s just the right amount of togetherness, but you’re able to do your own thing, and so is he. this feeling gets even better with banter, music, anything

he doesn’t mention it often but ruze also likes to work with his hands too. his favorite is papercrafting

you’re the only one in the world that knows he has a diy scrapbook full of photos and embellishments and, yes, some of your doodles and scrapped art you let him keep

always wants to display your art in some way. it’s personal and makes him feel like his house is a little livelier

if you need more space or expensive supplies for your art like a firing kiln, large canvases, pressure pots, or other equipment, then he’ll drop off the face of the earth for, like, a week, then come back with a bounty collected and a cut of it for your art fund

ruze likes the challenge of hunting down and fighting a fearsome monster, and how you brighten up as you plan a visit to a local craft store

he likes to ask questions about what you’re working on. this can be anything from art history to oc lore to symbolism to techniques

it makes especially good conversation at night when he’s about to go to bed with you

…there have definitely been times ruze was the first to sleep because you got hit with inspiration at 1 am though

it would be hypocritical if he were to make you rest, but just don’t overdo it and wake up cranky past your alarm, alright?

and do some stretches, including your hands, and your back. you’re literally dating someone who uses his muscle to make money. you better be treating your body nicely while you’re making art

you should be getting accidental paper cuts, not carpal tunnel because SOMEONE didn’t stick their arms straight out and bend their wrists back while keeping their fingers straight for 10 seconds, then bend their wrists down to the floor for another 10 seconds. not naming names

the type of mf that will sneak up and make some form of sudden physical contact (a kiss? bite? lick? annoying poke to your side?) so your back straightens and then tells you to keep it straight instead of giving you more affection

would NEVER respond to someone talking about their art with “can you draw me?”

that’s probably his greenest flag actually

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

✧. ┊ masterpost ✧. ┊ kofi

[snorlaxlovesme]

How to Describe House of Leaves, an attempt by Me

it seems to make the most sense to treat it like an onion, and describe it from the innermost layer and branch outwards

it's about Will Navidson's film The Navidson Record. The Navidson Record is a kind of found footage autobiographical narrative about a filmmaker named Navidson and his family moving into a house that is much bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, a haunting physical impossibility

but it's not about that, it's about Zampano, the man who wrote this dissertation on The Navidson Record. Zampano is a blind, old man who died in his apartment in an unremarkable way but leaves behind an eerie legacy, a collection of papers inside an old chest that looks like an APA-style dissertation on a horror film/documentary. this dissertation is filled with hundreds of quotes and citations from different sources, all included in great detail in the footnotes

oh, and it's all made up. the film. the citations. Will Navidson. it's all fake.

but it's not about that, it's about Johnny Truant, the man who found the chest full of papers in the old man's apartment, read them, and now is going insane because of it. or maybe not? Johnny feels like he's being stalked by some unknown horrific entity and is powerless to defend himself from it. he's got a fucked up past from two dead parents and a hell of a lot of stories that may or may not be true, and now he's got Zampano's work driving him to nightmares, and the nightmares following him throughout the day. he says as much in long, rambling footnotes of his own that exist beside Zampano's citations

but it's not even about that, it's about the fact that this is the fourth printed edition of this story, complete with colored text, 3 different appendixes, an index, and addition footnotes made by other Editors. this implies that either 1. previous editions existed that didn't have bonus content like that or 2. the author of this book, Mark Z. Danielewski wants you to think other versions of this book exist when they really don't

it's fiction that's like 10 levels deep and i got a headache just typing up that description. just wait til you see letter i just spent 45 minutes decoding

[flowerslut]

Instructions Unclear

Summary: It was just a simple twelve hours, and if they were lucky, Renesmee would be asleep for at least eight of them. (Wishful thinking.) All they had to do was get her to bed. (Easier said than done.) At least nothing too bad could happen inside the house. (Famous last words.)

Jasper and Alice babysit Renesmee.

Post-Breaking Dawn. Canon-compliant.

Title: Instructions Unclear Words: 9,901 Rating: T for language and mild sexual themes Read on: Ao3 // or read a snippet under the cut

A/N: Hey hi hello @burdenedwithpointlesspurpose! I was your secret gifter for this year's @twilight-secret-gift-exchange! Hope you enjoy this goofy little attempt at writing a slice-of-life one-shot; it's pretty fluff-adjacent, I think. Anyways, I just love to put these two loser in Situations. Happy New Year! ♡

It started and ended with a bath.

That had been their first instruction. Number one on the physical list that Rosalie had left for Alice and Jasper. A list that was pointless, since she’d already gone over everything verbally with the two of them. A list that Bella had laughed over, Edward had glared at, and Alice had hand-waved away. Jasper had eyed it hesitantly from where Rosalie had propped it up on the table, her elegant script comically large against the notepad, as if the bigger she wrote the harder it would be for Jasper or Alice to fuck this up.

“Maybe she should have written it bigger,” Alice replied to a comment he hadn’t yet verbalized, and when she inhaled to speak more, Jasper could feel her full body shudder from where she sat behind him. The sound of her gag was muffled, but now that the faucet was off, it was as loud as a scream in the noiseless bathroom. Jasper opened his mouth to speak, but the air was still home to the wretched stench and he quickly closed it, cutting off his sense of taste and smell simultaneously. The discomfort at ceasing his breathing was far easier to deal with than the horrific sensory nightmare that was offered alongside the alternative.

“You know,” Alice began in a tone that implied he was going to hate what she had to say, but she continued nevertheless, “Nessie did warn you.”

Jasper could see her in the reflection of the window and watched as she flipped through the ring of measuring spoons. The clacking of plastic punctuated her point, and the noise was suddenly intolerable to him.

“I’m not convinced she didn’t set me up,” he complained under his breath, fighting the urge to reach behind him and still Alice’s fidgeting. He wanted to say ‘you could have also warned me’ but knew that it was a moot point.

The clattering against tile from across the bathroom clued him into the fact that Alice had given up on proper measuring, and soon enough she was pouring the entire box of baking soda straight into the tub.

The water fizzed at his side, and he finally turned his head to look at her. Alice was dressed head-to-toe in clothes that didn’t quite fit which he knew she’d either trash or burn after this. And she was currently studying the side of a second box of baking soda. He had half a mind to reach out and pull her into the bath himself, but—

“If you so much as even try—” her words were suddenly scathing, and her annoyance stifled his passing amusement instead of encouraging it “—I will let you do this alone next time,” she snapped, glancing up long enough for him to see just how much she meant that threat.

Jasper scoffed and turned back around, and the stench of the room made his own annoyance more palpable in the atmosphere. He knew she wasn’t referring to this specific predicament, but instead to the situation as a whole. “Who says there’s going to be a ‘next time’?” A small voice called from down the stairs. “I do!”

Renesmee sounded remarkably pleased with herself, only expressing a mere glimpse of the delight Jasper could feel radiating from her, where she was seated in front of the television in the den. He could hear the paper rip as she tore into another handful of sugar packets and just knew he and Alice would have to get the vacuum out. Again. Instructions two, three, and four, ignored all at once. But, Jasper thought, as Alice finally popped the lid off of the dish soap and started depositing it onto his head with a heavy hand, at least they didn’t fail step one. Well. Not entirely.

—

Jasper had not wanted to babysit. Jasper had been content to leave the child-rearing to every other member of his family. Jasper had been confident that he would always be permanently placed dead-last in the unspoken ‘people who should be in charge of nurturing another life’ contest amongst them. Unfortunately, multiple colliding forces had crashed together—feeling very much like the set up for a disaster movie set mid-apocalypse—and quickly he’d found himself staring down the barrel of a gun that, he was loath to admit, unnerved him in a way that actual war never had.

But they had been two weeks into January, and two weeks from the traumatic events of the Volturi’s visit, when Emmett made a comment in passing that spiraled into the catastrophe that now awaited him.

“You really gotta spend more time with Nessie,” Emmett had remarked on the walk back from a hunt. “She’s growing like a weed and you and Alice were gone for most of December.” He’d vaulted himself over a few downed trees as he spoke, never once breaking stride. “If you want to bond with her, you gotta do it now, while she’s still little.”

It was meant to be friendly advice offered as a passing comment as part of a larger conversation. It had been kind, really, even if Jasper did think it was a bit silly. He could bond with Renesmee once everyone else got their fill—her ‘baby’ days would be over before the family knew it, and Jasper was well aware of the way most of his family had always craved the opportunity to…parent, in a way that Jasper never had.

It hadn’t been what Emmett had said, but who he’d said it in front of, that had triggered this entire mess.

Rosalie and Esme, who had been trailing behind the two of them, had unfortunately been within earshot when Emmett had started talking. And of course, at the mention of Renesmee, their attention had locked onto their conversation.

Jasper, who prayed that Alice would catch up soon, Carlisle in tow, had suddenly felt her absence very, very keenly.

He’d picked his response carefully. “I think we’ll be fine,” Jasper replied, being sure to vaguely include Alice in his response, since it hadn’t just been him who was gone for those few weeks.

Then Emmett had shot him a look—a mere precursor before divulging the worst information he could have delivered with their specific, attentive audience, a quarter-mile away—and frowned. “Dude, on Thursday she asked me if you hated kids.”

“She what?!” Rosalie’s echoed exclamation reached them the same time she did. “Why didn’t you tell me!” She’d demanded of Emmett, looking every bit as frazzled as Jasper could feel from her.

Emmett had the decency to look a little ashamed of himself as he witnessed Rosalie’s acute distress, but shrugged, as if that were an explanation in and of itself.

Before they’d made it home, but after Alice and Carlisle had caught up, a plan had been put forth into motion to correct this horrendous oversight; this terrible circumstance that bordered on emotional neglect. Esme and Carlisle had already been planning a weekend up to Denali—it seemed Garrett was still hanging around Kate, and there were apparently conversations they wanted to have with Tanya concerning Irina’s execution—so Rosalie declared that she and Emmett would also make themselves scarce for a handful of days. It helped that Edward and Bella had been so wrapped up in their ‘newlywed bliss’ that Renesmee was spending most of her time at the house anyways. Now, all they needed to do—or, all Alice needed to do—was force Edward and Bella out of town for a little while, so that Alice and Jasper could get some “proper bonding in,” as Rosalie called it, Esme nodding enthusiastically to this terrible idea while Carlisle had smiled approvingly.

—

One week later, Jasper gifted Emmett a kidney punch as a parting gift on his way out the door.

—

finish the story here, on Ao3!

[noona-clock]

Fourever 🍀 Get the Hell Out

Genre: Friends to Lovers!AU, Slice of Life, Angsty with a happy ending

Pairing: Wonpil x You

Warnings: Mentions of abuse and trauma

Words: 4,153

Welcome to the Show 🍀 Happy 🍀 The Power of Love 🍀 Get the Hell Out 🍀 Sad Ending 🍀 Let Me Love You 🍀 Didn't Know

Thinking of you Is a stabbing pain What I can't forget is Something like a curse to me One day, one second If I can erase it My world would be more beautiful

Objectively, you knew this was probably (hopefully) the lowest point of your entire life. You'd very recently left a relationship with an emotionally and physically abusive partner; your body and spirit were, to put it bluntly, battered and bruised. You'd been fired from your job for missing yet another shift, something else for which you could thank your now ex-boyfriend since he'd been too busy gaslighting you and kept you from going to work. And since you'd (stupidly) moved into your ex's apartment a few months ago, you also now had nowhere to live.

But your survival instinct had taken over, and it wasn't allowing you to feel hopeless. It had held your head up and walked you right down to the Community Center.

How many times had you walked by this place and seen the advertisements for free counseling? You'd never thought the ads were meant for you, but that's how life is sometimes, right?

You couldn't deny that you needed it right now. After what you'd been through? You might need counseling for the rest of your life, honestly. But, right now, you just wanted to calm down the thoughts racing through your mind. You wanted to get back to who you were before you'd met him. You wanted to forget everything; erase him completely from your past.

Before you could chicken out or let your pride take over, you reached out to grab the door handle and opened the door, stepping into what you hoped would be a better future for yourself.

Being with you Is a bittersweet pleasure What I keep remembering is A state of lingering attachment One day, one second If the afterimage fades away Might finally be able to see clearly How nice This world could be for me My brain excludes you How much would it be worth Get the hell out Get the hell out

After a couple of hours, you were more emotionally drained than you'd ever been (which was saying something), but you had a job interview and a place to stay lined up. So, that was something! You had also set up another appointment with the counselor tomorrow to start working through your trauma; you weren't particularly looking forward to it, but you also couldn't wait to just get this horrific person the hell out of your mind.

You gathered up all of the paperwork and pamphlets the counselor had provided, saying the name of the apartment building in your head over and over so you wouldn't forget. Apparently, it was fairly close to the Community Center since they had a partnership with the building owner to allow people in situations like yours a place to get back on their feet, so even if you did forget the name, it should be easy to find.

But still. You didn't want to forget. Today felt like your first day as a real adult, totally on your own. Independent. You didn't want to screw it up! So, you murmured the name to yourself, clutching all of your documents to your chest as you left your counselor's office and headed back to the front doors.

You had barely stepped into the hallway before you collided with someone passing by.

Oof!

"Oh, I'm so sorry," you heard a voice say, though it barely registered because all the papers in your hands had slipped out and fallen to the floor.

You immediately crouched down to try and pick them up, frantically saying the name of the apartment building so you wouldn't forget it amidst all of this hubbub.

Another pair of hands came into view, helping you pick up the papers, and you glanced up to place a face to them -- and the voice you'd heard, presumably.

Your head jerked back slightly in surprise.

"Wonpil?" you asked.

Wonpil jumped a little, his gaze immediately darting to meet yours. As soon as he saw you, that signature wide smile appeared on his lips.

"Y/N," he greeted, his voice soft and warm.

It had been... how many years since you'd seen him? You'd lost track of how long it had been since graduating high school. And it's not like you and Wonpil had been close friends, but his smile and his voice and his kindhearted aura hadn't changed a bit.

"What a small world," you chuckled. "What are you doing here?"

Wonpil continued to gather up all of your papers as he answered. "I work here. What about you? Did you just get hired?"

Ah, so he obviously assumed all this paperwork was New Employee Paperwork. Well, at least you knew he wasn't being nosy and looking at it!

"No..." you replied slowly.

Wonpil didn't reply at first, and when the two of you had picked up everything, you both stood, and he handed you a stack of papers.

"I'm sorry," he said, his forehead wrinkled. "Do you need anything?"

Like almost any other person would, you almost said 'No, thank you.' It was one thing to share your innermost thoughts and feelings to a total stranger, but it was another thing altogether to share them with someone you actually knew.

But, for some reason you couldn't explain, you answered him with a nod. Your throat began to tighten with emotion, and tears welled up in your eyes when you said, "Actually, yeah. I need a lot."

Something about Wonpil just exuded safety, and even though you weren't even sure you could classify him as an acquaintance after all these years, a quiet voice in your head urged you to be honest with him.

"Okay," Wonpil replied, his voice still soft but more strong and sure. "Do you want to go get a coffee or something?"

"I -- I need to go to this apartment building," you stammered.

"I know the one, I can take you there if you'd like," he offered.

You answered with a strained "Sure" before following him out of the Community Center and onto the street.

The next half hour was a bit of a blur, and you ended up being extremely thankful that you'd run into Wonpil. He obviously had a lot of experience with this, because he greeted the employee behind the front desk of the apartment's leasing office by name. And when you weren't sure which of the many papers in your hands you needed to hand over, Wonpil delicately took the stack from you and rifled through it to find the right one.

You also noticed something that seemed insignificant on the surface but, in reality, was extremely important: Wonpil was extremely aware of you without being overbearing. He didn't touch you or even reach out toward you. He stood just close enough to signal he was with you but not too close to make you nervous. And when the employee offered to lead you to your apartment, Wonpil wordlessly raised his eyebrows at you to ask if you wanted him to come with you.

(You nodded, of course. Wonpil was probably the only person you felt safe around at the moment.)

You weren't exactly sure what Wonpil's role was at the Community Center, but whatever it was, you could tell he was perfect for the job.

After you received the key, Wonpil (who was still out in the hallway even after you opened the door and stepped inside) said, "I'm actually on the floor above, so if you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Wait," you said as you dumped your papers on the kitchen counter. "You live here?"

Wonpil's cheeks turned a bit pink. "I moved here after I started working at the Center. I'm... actually the one who started the partnership with the building owner."

That almost made you want to cry.

Obviously, you had put up a huge wall and didn't know if you would be able to trust anyone ever again. But if anyone could do it, you had a feeling deep down it would be Wonpil.

Time, hurry up and run fast Until you become a speckle far away You're still so clear in my mind Ruining my day every day How nice This world could be for me My brain excludes you How much would it be worth Will you get out of Inside my mind I don't want to live Like something's holding me back

6 Months Later

A wave of sadness and frustration washed over you as you stared at the ceiling, just barely stopping yourself from checking the time on your phone.

The last time you'd looked, it had been just after 2am; honestly, you weren't sure you even wanted to know what time it was now.

Unfortunately, this wasn't the first night you hadn't been able to sleep this week.

While your counselor at the Community Center had helped you get a job and an apartment incredibly quickly, they hadn't yet been able to get rid of your negative thoughts. Your abusive ex was still floating around in your brain, throwing the usual emotionally manipulative and critical words at you.

Tears pricked your eyes as those words got louder and louder inside your head. They were mostly tears of anger because it had been six months! How long was it going to take to erase him from your life?!

As soon as the sun came up a few hours later, you changed into the first clean pair of sweats you could find and headed to the coffee shop across the street. After getting maybe one hour of sleep all night, you needed to consume some caffeine before you could do anything else.

By now, the morning shift employees at the coffee shop knew you, and the incredibly kind person behind the counter began making your order as soon as you walked in.

"Iced vanilla latte with oat milk," they said after you paid at the register, handing you the cup. "And an Americano."

"Thank you, Alex," you grinned as you took both drinks.

As you walked back to your apartment building, you started listing out everything good and beautiful about your life, a tactic your counselor had suggested a few months ago when you'd been feeling particularly anxious.

"I have a job," you began, muttering to yourself. "I have a place to live. I have food in my fridge. I have an iced vanilla latte in my hand."

You took a sip of said latte, feeling a grin curving your lips.

"The sky is a beautiful shade of blue and orange. If there were trees around, I would hear birds chirping. I guess I could pretend the honking traffic and sirens are birds."

You continued your list as you arrived back home and headed for the staircase, reminding yourself that you were physically healthy enough to walk up three flights of stairs, financially stable enough to afford daily visits to the coffee shop, and maybe most importantly, you had the day off today.

Honestly, why hadn't you thought of that earlier? Knowing that you didn't have to go to work today instantly calmed your nerves about barely getting any sleep -- it didn't matter because you had nothing to do today! So, by the time you arrived on the third floor, you were grinning from ear to ear and feeling light and fluffy inside.

Speaking of light and fluffy, there was one more thing you were grateful for that you needed to add to your list.

Before you could, though, the apartment door you were heading toward opened.

You held out the Americano, your smile brightening as Wonpil looked up and realized you were there.

"Good morning," you greeted cheerfully.

"Morning," Wonpil replied, his voice a bit shy, as he took the drink from you. "Thanks for the coffee, and I really mean that, but what's up?"

"What do you mean what's up?" you chuckled. The two of you started walking back to the staircase; you knew Wonpil was on his way to work, and since it was just around the corner and you had nothing else to do, you figured you would walk with him.

"Isn't it your day off?" he asked in between sips of his Americano. "Why are you up so early, and why did you bring me coffee?"

You'd been friends with Wonpil for 6 months now and had known him much longer than that -- you knew he wasn't asking in a suspicious way. He just wasn't that kind of person. He was, without a doubt, the kindest, sweetest soul you'd ever known.

"It is, indeed, my day off," you answered. "But I couldn't sleep."

Wonpil simply hummed and nodded. He knew exactly what that meant by now.

"Are you... okay?" he asked quietly.

It took you a few seconds to swallow down the lump of emotion in your throat, and then you answered, "No."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

During the first month or two of your friendship with Wonpil, it had been a bit difficult to navigate the difference between Counselor Wonpil and Friend Wonpil. Honestly, you'd felt awkward talking to him about your past because you hadn't wanted him to think you were taking of advantage of him and just trying to get a free therapy session.

Thankfully, Wonpil had caught on to your hesitancy pretty quickly. He'd invited you out for coffee one morning and had assured you all he wanted was to be your friend and to help you, not in a professional sense. He'd become a counselor in the first place because he loved helping people, and that extended to people in his personal life, too. He had also told you it was absolutely fine if you still didn't feel comfortable confiding in him, and that had been the deciding factor for you. The minute he gave you the power to decide was when you knew you could trust him -- at least with this. (You weren't sure you would ever be able to fully, completely, implicitly trust anyone ever again...).

"I just feel like I'm making no progress," you admitted as you fiddled with your straw and watched your shoes. "It's been half a year since I left, but I still think about him all the time. Some of the things he said to me, I can still hear them in my head, clear as day. All I want is to forget about him, and I thought that would've happened by now."

Wonpil walked just a little bit closer to you. He didn't touch you because he never touched you unless you initiated it. He'd also never said anything out loud about why he did that, but you figured he simply understood how your previous relationship had affected you. And you appreciated it more than you could ever put into words.

"Six months is not that long when you really think about it," he assured you. "It's okay that you still think about him. It's completely normal, honestly, and you also have to be prepared that you'll always think about him in some capacity. I know you want to erase him from your memory, but.... I don't know if that's possible."

You let out a whiny groan, feeling tears stinging the backs of your eyes. "But I don't want to always think about him!" you lamented. "I want to live my own life and just be... be free!"

You could see the Community Center up ahead, and Wonpil began to slow his steps, eventually stopping at the corner of the building.

"You already are free," he told you as he turned to face you. "And I'm pretty sure that if you saw him again, you wouldn't go back to him."

"Of course not," you replied immediately.

"See? He doesn't have that kind of hold on you, at least. And that's something! You have made progress, you just can't see it because it's happening so gradually. But I promise you that you have."

Thankfully, a loud ambulance passed by then, giving you time to gather your thoughts and rein in your tears. (You had certainly cried in front of Wonpil before, but you still weren't fully comfortable being that vulnerable around someone yet.)

As soon as the quiet settled over you, you lifted your head to meet his gaze. "Thank you," you said simply, your voice just barely above a whisper.

You still weren't sure if you believed him, but you knew him pretty well at this point; he wouldn't lie to you about something like this.

Wonpil replied with a wide, sunny grin, one that made your heart ache in a good way. And because you knew he wouldn't, you stepped up and wrapped your arms around him.

He wasted no time in hugging you back, his arms firm and comforting, the sweet and fresh scent of his cologne invading your senses and instantly calming you down.

"Call me if you need me, okay?" he murmured into your ear.

You nodded, and he squeezed you before letting go and stepping away.

"Have a good day," you told him with a watery grin.

As he turned to walk into the Community Center, you felt a very strong urge to reach out and take his hand, to stop him from leaving.

And it was then you realized... you didn't ever want him to leave.

How nice This world could be for me My brain excludes you How much would it be worth Get the hell out Get the hell out

You'd been sitting on your feelings for almost a whole month now, and the only explanation you had for that was because you were scared.

In your head, you knew that Wonpil was different. He was not your ex by any stretch of the imagination. They were probably as different as two people could be. Wonpil would never, ever, ever in a million years say and do the things that your ex had said and done to you. He was a perfect and amazing friend, so if he miraculously returned your feelings, you knew he would be a perfect and amazing boyfriend.

But your heart was still at war with your head, and it wouldn't let you believe anything it said.

You'd lost track of how many times you'd decided to tell him and then changed your mind just minutes later.

But then one day he showed up at your door, holding up a blue shirt.

"I need your help," he frowned as soon as you swung the door open.

"Okay, I'm all ears," you replied, actually feeling your heart swell. For once, he needed your help!

"Which shirt looks better?" He gestured to the light pink button-down he was currently wearing before moving his other arm and displaying the blue crewneck sweater.

"Definitely the pink," you answered without hesitation. "Why? What's the occasion?"

Wonpil's cheeks flushed, and he didn't quite meet your eye when he said, "I'm going on a date."

You couldn't stop your eyebrows quickly darting up or your eyes widening with surprise.

"...A date?"

"Yeah," Wonpil replied, pressing his lips together nervously. "Dowoon set me up with his neighbor, so we're going over to the food trucks for dinner."

Oh.

A date.

Wonpil was going on a date.

With someone who was not you.

Of course, you couldn't blame him. He had no idea how you felt, and even if he did, he may not feel the same way. Or he may not want to date someone with as much trauma as you.

"Ah... cool," you managed to get out, hoping there was a smile on your lips. "Sounds fun."

Wonpil tilted his head, his brow wrinkling. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah!" you chirped, but even you could hear that your voice was too high and too squeaky, and you had absolutely answered too quickly.

"...Are you sure?"

You didn't want to risk replying with a blatantly false answer, so you simply nodded.

"If there's something on your mind, you know you can tell me," Wonpil assured you gently. "Are you... scared you'll never go on a date again? I promise you will, if that's what you want. It may take some time -- longer than you think, but I know --"

The words which had been festering in your mind for a month suddenly came to life, hurling themselves out of your mouth before you could stop them. "I like you."

Wonpil immediately froze.

"I'm sorry, this is terrible timing," you admitted, barely able to meet his gaze. "But I like you, and I'm just... I don't want you to go on a date with someone else, but I also fully understand if you don't feel the same way."

"I do."

Your eyes darted to his face, and you wondered if maybe you'd just imagined him saying that.

"You what?" you asked dumbly.

"I do," he repeated. "I do feel the same way. But I know how difficult things have been for you, and I had no idea if you would be ready for something. I was going to wait for you, but Dowoon said..."

He trailed off, and the sound of your pounding heart filled the silence for a few seconds.

"I should have learned by now to stop listening to Dowoon," Wonpil finally said with a soft chuckle.

You wanted to laugh with him, but you knew this wasn't just going to be a 'And they lived happily ever after' moment.

"But the thing is, I don't know if I'm ready. I realized, like, a month ago that I liked you as more than a friend, but I haven't said anything because... I'm too scared."

Wonpil took a tiny step closer, and it was then you realized you were still standing in your open doorway.

You ushered him inside, closing the door behind him and taking his blue sweater, folding it delicately over a chair at your kitchen table.

When you turned around, Wonpil was standing as he always was -- close but not too close.

"It's okay to be scared," he assured you. "And I understand why you feel that way. You don't have to, but... could you tell me what exactly you're scared of?"

You took a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly through your mouth the way you'd learned in your therapy sessions. This was going to be difficult, but you wanted to do it. Wonpil was worth it.

"I'm scared of being vulnerable like that again. I'm scared of trusting someone so fully only to get that trust handed back to me in shreds. I'm scared that I'll never fully heal from what happened to me. I'm scared that he will always take up a part of my mind and that you'll eventually come to resent me for it. I'm scared that if I do ever let myself be with you... I'll just lose you."

Of course, tears began streaming down your cheeks as you said all of that, and you saw Wonpil's fingers twitching, as if he wanted nothing more than to reach out and cradle your face, wipe your tears away.

One part of you didn't want to be touched right now, but another part needed to feel his warmth so badly, you thought you might collapse if you didn't.

So, you reached out and took his wrist, bringing his hand up to your face and placing his palm on your cheek.

He instantly curved his hand, his fingers gently grasping your jaw and neck while his thumb swiped just underneath your eye.

"We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," he whispered. "I know how long it can take to heal. We can take things slowly."

"But what if it takes --"

"I'll wait."

Your vision blurred as you gazed at him, your cheek hot where he cradled it.

"I'll wait," he repeated. "However long you need. I'll wait for you. I promise."

"What if I never heal?" you croaked, your voice so tiny that you were surprised he even heard you.

"I like you just as you are. I know that you can heal -- that you will get through this -- but even if you don't, then all that means is you'll stay the person you are right now. And that's the person I fell for."

"What if --"

"My feelings won't change," he interrupted, obviously guessing that you'd been about to ask 'What if I get better and change too much and you don't like the person I become?' "I know it's hard for you to trust, but if you can let yourself trust just one thing, let it be that. My feelings for you won't change."

You took another few deep breaths before stepping up to him and winding your arms around his neck.

After he circled your waist, his hands gripping you tightly, he said, "We'll take it one day at a time, okay?"

At first, you simply nodded. But then, you remembered something kind of important.

So, you pulled away from him just enough to be able to see his face, and you asked, "Starting today?"

Wonpil's brow furrowed at your question. "Starting today? What do you mean?"

"You said we'll take it one day at a time. Is that starting today? Or do we have to start tomorrow so you can go on your date?"

It was taking every ounce of strength not to laugh, but then Wonpil's expression very swiftly turned to one of slight horror and major embarrassment. He looked so cute that you couldn't hold back any longer. You pulled him back into a hug and chuckled, feeling your heart starting to glow inside your chest.

One day at a time. That was the best you could do right now, and you would tell yourself over and over until you believed it: That was enough.