#there is just something about him and bow(s) in his hair that seems really right for him

[sugardollcurse]

beatles x reader christmas hcs OR.

RINGO X READER CHRISTMAS FIC.. U CHOOSE....

ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 | ringo starr x reader

𐙚 summary ; you and ringo spend christmas the slow way.

𐙚 note ; bit early... JKJK!! this could’ve been a hallmark movie if hallmark knew what real love was

Christmas morning begins with your face pressed to Ringo’s chest, your nose half-frozen and buried against the worn cotton of his sleep shirt, which smells like too many wash cycles and his skin. Outside the window, snow’s been falling slow since about 2 a.m., dusting the parked cars and naked trees, making the air a hushed thing. You’ve been awake for ten minutes but haven’t moved because his arm is looped tightly around you and the blanket is perfect and you know, just know, that the flat is a refrigerator beyond the edge of the bed.

“’S today Christmas?” he mumbles into your hair. Voice low. Scratchy.

You make a noncommittal sound.

“Suppose we oughta get up, then,” he says, making no movement to do so.

“No,” you whisper.

“Mmh. Right,” he agrees, and shifts only enough to wedge his socked foot between your ankles. You yelp.

“Your feet are ice.”

He grins against your forehead. “They’re festive.”

“Festering.”

“Rude.”

You both settle deeper under the covers. The tiny heater by the wall ticks faintly. Somewhere in the flat, the kettle clicks on, because Ringo’s plugged it into a timer for exactly this reason.

You doze again, curled like spoons, your back snug against the warmth of him, legs tangled beneath the weight of the duvet, one of his hands tucked absently beneath your shirt, palm pressed to your stomach. It’s the kind of soft morning that doesn’t really start, not properly, just tilts lazily from dream to haze and back again, each blink slower than the last. The heater hums gently. Somewhere in the flat, something shifts. You hear it even through the fog, quiet kitchen movement, the subtle clatter of ceramic on countertop, the rhythmic creak of the floorboards under familiar weight.

Then, Ringo’s unmistakable voice, not shouted but projected like he’s aiming to make you smile before you’ve even sat up: “I made you a cup! It’s… well, it’s still in the cup. That’s as far as I got.”

You don't answer right away, just bury your face into the pillow, laughing silently, eyes closed. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect. He’s been up maybe fifteen minutes and already the flat smells like marmite toast, and something deeper and richer that’s unmistakably cocoa, thick and real, not powdered mix, with milk and sugar and probably way too much effort for a man who once served you cornflakes in a teacup and called it brunch.

Eventually, you surface, limbs heavy but warm, still pulled from the heat of bed and from him. You emerge into the main room wrapped in one of his old jumpers, the sleeves too long, the neckline worn loose from years of love and laundry. It smells like his cologne faintly, cedar and spice, and your hair is a mess, and you know he loves you more like this than in anything dressed up. Thick socks muffle your steps. The carpet is patchy and the fairy lights on the tree flicker like they’re fighting for life, and the faux fir is very much leaning to the left, propped by a stack of books and a stuffed dog in a Santa hat.

Still, it's beautiful. There’s a crooked red bow tied near the top, the kind that looks like it was attached after three failed attempts and one small tantrum. Underneath are the presents, maybe ten of them. A few look nearly store-wrapped, crisp corners and patterned tape. Others... clearly not. One’s in newspaper, one’s in a Tesco bag, and several seem to be triple-layered like he lost confidence halfway and just kept going. A few have corners ripped, Scotch tape peeled back and re-stuck, one with what might be spaghetti sauce on the ribbon.

Ringo hands you the mug when you enter the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything immediately, just watches. He’s in plaid pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt that says “I’m only talking to my dog today,” despite the fact that he doesn’t have a dog. His hair’s flattened on one side. He’s leaning on the counter with the stance of a man deeply invested in your reaction, like he's just handed you a rare wine or an experimental cocktail instead of a cup of cocoa.

You take a sip. It’s hot, just right, rich, and thick with cream. Something subtle lingers underneath the chocolate, clove? Cardamom?

“Perfect,” you murmur against the rim, and watch as his eyes crinkle with relief.

“I knew it,” he says, self-satisfied but not smug. “Did you taste the nutmeg?”

You pause, then raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t...”

“I thought about adding nutmeg,” he amends, grinning. “And that’s just as festive, innit?”

You roll your eyes and laugh, stepping past him to pull yourself onto the counter stool, cradling the warm mug between your hands like a sleepy squirrel hoarding treasure. He doesn’t suck at making tea, not at all. That was never the issue. In fact, his tea game is solid, old school, leaf and pot, steeped just right. But cocoa is different. Cocoa is deliberate. Cocoa is care. Cocoa is him deciding to make something sweet for you on a morning when your bones were still too heavy for breakfast.

He moves around behind you, brushes his hand over your shoulder as he goes to refill his own cup. There’s toast on a plate nearby, corners slightly burned, buttered to the edges, and spread with marmite like a dare and a love letter all in one.

You take another sip and hum softly, voice low and slow with contentment. “Thoughtful,” you murmur.

Ringo leans on the fridge, watching you again. “You look good in that jumper.”

“You always say that.”

“Yeah, but right now I really mean it.”

“You always really mean it.”

He shrugs, then smiles crookedly. “S’pose I do.”

You glance toward the tree, the blinking lights, the mess of ribbons and wrapping. It’s early still, barely even eight, and yet the room feels full, of smell, of light, of him. You know the presents under that tree are going to be hilarious. Maybe one’s a toothbrush. Maybe one’s a rubber duck. But one of them, you’re sure, will be unexpectedly perfect.

“You really considered nutmeg?” you ask, arching a brow again.

“I opened the jar and everything,” he says solemnly, lifting his mug in a toast. “Then I thought, no. Better not. Don’t want to peak too soon.”

You spend the morning like that, barefoot, bleary-eyed, wrapped in each other and the lingering scent of toast. The living room becomes a nest of crumpled ribbons and half-rolled tape, your legs tangled with his on the rug as you both work through the last of the presents, each reveal punctuated by laughter or disbelief or Ringo shouting “No peeking!” even as he angles his head to peek at yours.

When you get to his gift, he can’t hold it in. He’s already gripping the couch cushion like it’s the edge of a cliff, knuckles pale, leaning in as if he’s watching a penalty shootout.

“It’s the weird ashtray you liked in Camden,” he blurts, right before the wrapping’s halfway off. “Don’t act surprised. I know you.”

You do try not to smile. Bite the inside of your cheek like that’ll keep it in. But it’s impossible. The thing is absurd, vile, really. A fat ceramic frog, green-glazed and bug-eyed, looking like it died mid-smoke break. But your heart swells at the sight of it. It’s exactly what you’d wanted and absolutely nothing you would’ve bought yourself.

Ringo doesn’t say I knew you’d like it. Doesn’t puff up or make a joke to deflect. He just watches your face break into that ridiculous grin, and his own blooms in return, quiet and wide and boyish, like you’ve cracked something ancient open in him.

Your gift to him is less obvious. Just a scarf. But not just a scarf. It’s thick and soft and a shade of purple that’s almost offensive in daylight, the kind of color only ever seen in old ecclesiastical robes or cartoon grapes. But he had mentioned that jumper once, the one he lost years ago, the one he used to call his “church-wine disaster.” You remembered how he’d stroked the frayed cuffs like they were holy. So you hunted down the color, knit for hours while pretending it wasn’t important, dropped stitches and unpicked rows just to get it right.

He pulls it on like it’s sacred, wrapping it twice around his neck with theatrical flair. “Christ. Gonna wear this everywhere. Even in summer. Y’may regret this, y’know.”

“I won’t.”

He squints at you, lips pursed like he’s trying to see through you. “Not even when I’m sweating through it on Brighton pier in August?”

“No.”

“You’re a sick person,” he mutters, tugging the ends dramatically. “I love it.”

After that, the day settles into a different rhythm. Quieter. Softer. You end up on the sofa, the quilt you both love draped over your laps. It smells like cedar and dust and old winters. The TV’s on but low, an ancient black-and-white holiday film with actors speaking in transatlantic accents and too much eyebrow. Ringo doesn’t watch it so much as let it play in the corner of his attention. His real focus is you, arm tucked behind your back, fingers brushing against your hip in gentle rhythm.

He leans in after a while, his nose against your temple, not kissing, just resting there. Breathing you in. He doesn’t make a show of it. He’s not always loud about love. He just is, present, steady, a hand that always finds yours without needing to ask.

“Didn’t really get Christmas as a kid,” he murmurs, words spoken into the collar of your jumper.

You don’t respond. Not yet. You shift a little so he can feel you listening. He goes on, voice smaller now.

“I like it now,” he says, tentative, like if he says it too clearly it’ll vanish. “With you. S’like it makes sense.”

The back of your throat tightens, that quiet ache you only feel when someone is being unguarded, utterly unvarnished, and somehow trusting you with it.

You kiss him. No reason. No cue. Just the simple overflow of affection. His lips are warm, and he still tastes faintly of cocoa and marmite and everything this morning meant. He kisses back lazily, contentedly, his hand cupping your jaw.

Later, you make some attempt at cooking together. Ringo insists on mashing potatoes with a wooden spoon that should be arrested for war crimes against starch. He ignores every logical utensil you hand him.

“Masher’s broken,” he says, stubborn.

“It’s not.”

“I’m just saying. Spoons are timeless.”

You catch him sneaking a brussels sprout into his mouth like a guilty raccoon. You flick water at him from the sink and he clutches his chest, staggering like he’s been struck.

“Don’t hit me, I’m tender!”

“Good,” you smirk, “that means the sprouts are done.”

He wails theatrically, lamenting his injuries. You throw a towel at his face.

Dinner happens somehow. Maybe not everything’s hot at the same time, maybe the stuffing’s a bit dry, but it doesn’t matter. You eat by candlelight, not out of romance, but because the overhead bulb died two days ago and neither of you remembered to fix it. The candles flicker. The plates clink. The cider pops open and Ringo tries to pour yours with a flourish that ends in the tablecloth soaking.

After dinner, coats go on over pyjamas. Gloves on, scarf wound twice. The snow’s deeper now, blanketing the street in hush. Everything is muffled and luminous under streetlamp glow. You walk hand-in-hand to the corner shop, even though you know it’s probably shut. It is. You don’t care.

The cold bites your cheeks. Your noses pink. Ringo kisses yours over and over like it’s some kind of spell to keep it warm.

“Better now?” he whispers, breath fogging between you.

“Almost.”

He kisses it again, then your forehead, then your chin for good measure. “Now?”

You nod, grinning, breath fogging up between you both in the cold, but it’s not just the kiss or the snow or the way his gloved fingers are squeezing yours in these little excited pulses, it’s the fact that you’re out here at all. Just you two, walking slow, no purpose, no plans.

“Looks like someone dusted the world with icing sugar,” Ringo mutters, squinting up at the sky like he’s trying to catch a flake on his lashes.

You tip your head back too, the flakes landing on your cheeks, your nose, melting slow as you walk. Everything glows. Everything softens. It’s like the city’s a snow globe you’re both trapped in, except it’s not a trap. It’s a choice. A moment you stepped into deliberately.

You pass a car half-buried on the corner, someone’s snowman already slumping sideways on the verge, scarf trailing off like it’s making a break for it. Ringo pauses, kicks at the snowbank beside it.

“Race you,” he says, and you don’t have time to ask what the hell he means before he’s already taken off down the pavement, boots skidding, arms flailing, nearly wiping out on the first patch of ice.

You shout after him, laughing, chasing his footprints. He’s not fast, he’s running like he’s never done it in his life, knees too high and scarf trailing like a kite, but he’s gleeful. He disappears around the corner and you catch up to find him doubled over, hands on his knees, wheezing with laughter.

“I won,” he pants.

“You tripped over your own feet.”

“I still won.”

You press your forehead to his chest and he wraps his arms around you, your laughter turning breathless in the cold.

When you get back, the quiet wraps around you again, as warm as any blanket. The coats come off. The socks peel off slowly. You make tea this time. He doesn’t argue. You bring it to the sofa where he’s already sunk into the cushions like a man returning to his natural habitat.

“You’re my favorite,” he mumbles as you settle in beside him, sleep thick in his voice, eyes blinking slow. “Of all the things I’ve got.”

You don’t answer. You just press your forehead to his again and pull the quilt up over your shoulders. The tree lights blink against the wall in uneven rhythm. The room smells like cider and sugar and faint pine plastic. You can hear the snow still falling outside, a soft shush against the windowpanes.

It’s Christmas. You’re home.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels, @wisepainterprince, @emz2092

[enniewritesathing]

it's not the actual accessory for this hair but this bow is very appropriate

John? he's a bow kinda guy

[starmaidengarden]

Can i request a s/o say "see you tomorrow" but when he turns away they immediately grab his sleeves (maybe they don't want to leave him yet)😭 thank you so much!!❤️❤️

— Housewardens : x gn!reader. no cw/tw. established relationship. dividers: uzmacchiato.

note: I seen your ask about wanting the housewardens! I had a fun time writing this so hope you enjoy!!

Riddle Rosehearts ༉⋆｡˚

"Tomorrow, then," he says with a neat nod, prepared to walk off with hands neatly behind his back—when he feels it. A gentle tug at his sleeve. He stops mid-step, almost startled by the contact. He turns, a flush already climbing his neck. “Is… is something wrong?” he asks, confused. You shake your head and smile, still holding his sleeve like a lifeline. He stares for a moment, and the realization dawns on him slowly. His cheeks darken more. “You… just wanted me to stay?” he murmurs. His posture relaxes, a rare vulnerability flashing across his features. “I-I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to stay… just a little longer. For you.”

Leona Kingscholar ༉⋆｡˚

Leona leans against the archway as you say goodbye, eyes half-lidded, voice low and gruff. “Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow.” He gives a lazy wave with one hand, already turning to go. His tail flicks idly behind him. Then—tug. He halts, shoulders tensing. You’ve taken hold of his sleeve, just barely. You’re looking down—quiet, hesitant. Like you're trying not to seem clingy. Like you're afraid of asking for more. He glances over his shoulder, one brow arched. You nod, sheepishly. “I just… wanted a bit more time with you.” Leona sighs. Long. Drawn out. But he doesn’t pull away. “…Tch. You’re real annoying sometimes, you know that?” he mutters, though there’s no heat in it. “…Guess I didn’t really feel like leaving yet either,” he mumbles. “You just beat me to it.”

Azul Ashengrotto ༉⋆｡˚

Azul bows slightly, ever the gentleman. “Until tomorrow, my pearl.” He turns on his heel, coat flaring. And then—tug. Your fingers hold his sleeve delicately like you’re afraid to break a spell. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder with wide, uncertain eyes. "...Oh?" he says, voice barely above the night breeze. You don’t respond. You just give him that soft look—the one that makes his composure waver every time. His breath catches. “I see… you don’t want the evening to end yet.” A small, real smile touches his lips, He gently takes your hand, intertwining your fingers. “Neither do I.”

Kalim Al-Asim ༉⋆｡˚

“See ya tomorrow!” Kalim beams, arms wide as if he’s trying to hug the entire evening sky. “Can’t wait to see you again!” He’s already halfway into a joyful spin when—tug. He stumbles slightly, blinking down at your fingers curled around his sleeve. His brows rise in curiosity. “Whoa—hey! What’s up?” he asks brightly. “Did I forget something? You okay?”You shake your head, For a second, he blinks. Then that smile returns—softer now. Deeper. He gently places his hand over yours on his sleeve. “Huh? You wanna hang out a little more?” he asks, voice almost breathless with wonder. “Aww, I was hoping you'd say that! I wasn’t ready to say goodbye either!”

Vil Schoenheit ༉⋆｡˚

The golden twilight frames his silhouette perfectly—of course it does. Vil always seems touched by sunlight, regal even in the quietest moments. He brushes a strand of his immaculate hair behind his ear, already half-turned. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” You smile, nodding. Already poised to walk off when he feels a gentle tug on his sleeve. He pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “…Darling?” His voice is soft, but there’s a thread of concern woven in. “Something wrong?” You don’t speak. You just look up at him with that quiet, aching expression—the one that says I’m not ready for this moment to end. Vil inhales, then exhales like he’s shedding a layer of performance. His eyes soften, expression shifting from polished to painfully real. “Ah,” he murmurs. “Well… who am I to deny you a little more of my company?” he says, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Let’s take the long way back then."

Idia Shroud ༉⋆｡˚

Your goodbye is brief—almost too brief. “See you tomorrow,” he mumbles, trying to scuttle away before his social battery dies. Hoodie up, eyes avoiding yours. He turns, taking one step, then another tug. He freezes. You’re holding onto his sleeve, just enough that it stops him mid-stride. He turns his head slightly, hair glowing faintly with the smallest hint of pink, his voice even smaller. “y-yeah?” he asks, barely above a whisper. You don’t say anything, just look at him. And that look says everything. “Okay… just five more minutes. Or twenty. Or... however long you want.”

Malleus Draconia ༉⋆｡˚

“Until we meet again,” Malleus says solemnly, gazing down at you with timeless grace. He turns, the weight of the night settling around him—when he feels a light tug at his sleeve. He pauses. Slowly, he turns his head, puzzled. “…You wish for me to stay?” There’s something almost childlike in the wonder behind his question. Like he’s still not used to someone wanting his company. You nod gently, fingers still curled into his sleeve. He looks at your hand, then back to you. Slowly, he smiles—something soft and ancient blooming in his expression. “Then I shall stay. Even until all the stars die out.”

[aewon]

ccc (chocolate chip cookies)

jungwon x fem reader genre: smut MDNI!! warnings: oral (m and f receiving), riding, jungwon messes with the cookies (not in the way you think), very small amount of fluff at the end lol, not proofread, wc: 2003, if there’s any more lmk

note: i’ve never written anything like this so…we’ll see how yall like it also the smut is kinda boring but whatever

Jungwon was someone you met a few months ago in one of your lectures.

You hate to say you fell for him almost instantly. He’s kind, charming, handsome beyond words, and so, so passionate.

You had been struggling with the lecture and he didn’t hesitate to help you. You were so grateful, wanting nothing more than to repay his kindness in some way, but he dismissed it. He said he didn’t need repayment for something he wanted to do.

That’s what started it all. Since then, you’ve been hanging out almost every week, studying together, going to get coffee together, doing almost anything you two can think of.

So yeah, you fell for him quickly, but you don’t regret it.

It wasn’t long before your thoughts about him changed directions.

Of course you still cooed at how cute he was, especially when he made a mistake or was naturally clumsy.

But you couldn’t help how your mind drifted sometimes. You thought about his body. His arms and hands, how veiny they were, especially when he unknowingly flexed them. His biceps, how strong he must be.

You won’t lie and say you haven’t thought about his hands around your neck, or his arms keeping you in a headlock.

You can’t help it! He’s just so sexy, and he doesn’t even realize it!

You’ve spent countless nights already thinking about him, with your hand pleasuring yourself.

You’ll tease your clit, imaging it’s his tongue.

When you finger yourself, you imagine they’re his. Thick and long.

You imagine what his cock would feel like inside you.

Is he quiet or loud?

Is he gentle and soft, or rough and hard?

God, you want nothing more than a chance at that, but you don’t want to risk it. So, you keep your mouth shut.

Though, that doesn’t mean you don’t drop subtle hints. Dressing a certain way around him, brushing up against him when you can. You don’t know if he’s taken the hint, as he seems the same around you all the time.

You can only hope he’ll use that big brain of his to connect the dots.

It’s Friday night and Jungwon eagerly invited you to his apartment to watch movies.

Of course you said yes. You wouldn’t miss spending time with him for anything.

You put on the cutest set of pajamas you have that still leave a little to be desired, hoping that today might be the change in atmosphere.

You let Jungwon know you’ve arrived and the door is already open, with him standing there with his signature smile.

“My favorite guest has arrived,” he says, doing a cute little bow.

“I’m your only guest,” you respond, ruffling his hair.

“Even so, I must greet my guests kindly.”

Jungwon has already gathered blankets, pillows and popcorn for max comfort.

You settle beside each other, your thighs brushing while his arm settles around your shoulders.

You cuddle into his side, with no sign of discomfort from him.

You’re about two movies in when he perks up beside you, “I almost forgot! I made cookies for you!”

He gets up excitedly, moving to his small kitchen where he left the cookies to rest.

“You baked? You can barely cook?” You can’t help but snort at your own insult.

“Maybe so, but I worked really hard on these!”

He brings them out, still semi warm.

You smile sweetly at him, thankful for the kind gesture.

“You didn’t have to, you know?”

He shrugs, “I know, but I wanted to do something sweet for you.”

“You’re always sweet,” you say, nudging his shoulder.

“Just try one, please?”

You don’t argue taking a cookie and bringing it to your mouth.

The flavor bursts in your mouth immediately. You taste the sweetest from the cookie, slight bitterness from the chocolate and a bit of a saltiness you weren’t expecting.

“What kind of salt did you use? It works really well with the other components?” You ask, taking another bite, savoring it.

“My cum,” he says, without hesitation.

Pause. You look up at him, mid bite.

“Excuse me?” You question, removing the cookie from your mouth.

“You heard me,” Jungwon says.

You don’t know how, but his tone suddenly changed along with his face.

He looks at you, eyes lidded. There’s a small smirk on his face, one of smugness that he doesn’t show often.

You look down at the cookie, then back up at him, “You’re serious?”

He nods, “You think I haven’t noticed how much you want me? How you’ll do anything to get my attention, whether it’s the clothes you wear or the slight brushes of skin against skin? You always say I’m so smart and yet you didn’t think I was smart enough to realize how you feel.”

He sits next to you on the couch, his eyes not leaving yours.

“I notice everything. The way you look at me when you think I’m not looking. The way you practically gape at my hands and arms. The way you rub your thighs together cause you’re so wet just at the sight of me.”

You know you should be mortified, but you can feel arousal building up in your stomach, wetness seeping into your underwear.

“You’re probably wet right now,” Jungwon says, taking his hand and cupping you through your shorts.

You whimper at the contact, using all your power to not grind into his palm.

He hums, “Of course I’m right. Tell me, Y/N, did you think I didn’t want you?”

You don’t say anything. You’re afraid if you open your mouth, you’ll moan.

He presses his palm against you harder, “Answer me.”

Your hand comes to grip his wrist, trying to lessen the pressure, “I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

Jungwon chuckles, “You wouldn’t ruin anything, baby. You realize that now right?”

You nod, closing your eyes as his finger makes circles on your clit through your shorts.

You practically beg as you speak, “Please, Jungwon. Want you.”

“Hm, you want me? How do you want me?” He’s teasing you and you hate how much wetter it makes you.

“Want you in my mouth.”

“Ah, you want my cum straight from the source?”

You nod heavily as Jungwon coos at your enthusiasm.

“Take what you want then.”

He leans back into the couch, taking his hand away from your pussy.

You breathe a sigh of relief before slinking to the floor, on your knees.

Jungwon watches you intently, biting his lip as your hands run up his thighs.

You undo the string of his sweats, tugging on the waistband of the pants and his underwear, and pulling them all the way down.

His cock is so pretty. The tip is bright red, beads of pre-cum spilling out rapidly.

You take his cock in hand, kissing the tip and tasting the same saltiness you tasted in the cookies.

You hum at the taste, licking it up like it’s nectar.

Jungwon lets out quiet groans and grunts above you.

You gather a large glob of spit in your mouth before depositing it directly on his tip.

It slides down the sides before you begin to slick up his cock with it.

You jerk him off slowly, not wanting to rush any of this.

His breathing gets heavier, the warmth and softness of your hand making it hard to relax.

Without warning, you take him into your mouth.

He moans, loudly, bucking into your mouth, making you gag but you take it eagerly.

You begin bobbing your head, using your hand to jerk his cock at the same time.

Jungwon throws his head back against the couch, hand finding your hair to grip it tightly.

“Fuck. Feels so good, baby,” he moans, looking down at you, finding your eyes.

You preen at the praise, picking up the pace slightly.

Jungwon continues to release moan after moan, talking to you about how well you’re doing.

You love praise and you love when people talk to you when you’re making them feel good.

Within minutes, Jungwon tugs at your hair gently, “I’m gonna cum, sweet girl. You want it in your mouth?”

You pull off of him, nodding as you continue to jerk him.

You open your mouth, sticking your tongue out as the tip rests on it.

Seconds later, he’s cumming directly onto your tongue. You catch all of it, making sure to not miss a drop.

When he’s finished, you swallow it all, moaning at the taste before showing him your clean tongue.

“Stand up,” he says.

You do so and he wastes no time in pulling your shorts and underwear down, revealing your wet pussy.

“Sit on my face, sweet girl,” he says, laying on his back on the couch.

You don’t hesitate to straddle his head, his hands coming up to grip your ass as he practically forces you down.

His tongue meets your pussy immediately, sliding up and down your folds, gathering all your wetness on his tongue before swallowing.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he curses, using his sharp nose to nudge the clit repeatedly.

You grip his hair, grinding down against his face as he devours you completely.

His tongue makes its way inside, circling as his pillowy lips press against you.

“Fuck, Jungwon,” you whine.

The slurping of him sucking on every part of you fills your ears, making you blush.

His palms smack your ass repeatedly, making you giggle.

His tongue begins to flick your clit, gliding his tongue back and forth along it, in circles.

“Jungwon, I’m gonna cum,” you say, voice shaking.

“Cum on my face,” he says.

Your back arches, your grip on his hair tightening as you release all over him.

He takes what he can into his mouth, slurping and licking steadily.

When you come down from your orgasm, you lift yourself off his face to see the bottom half of it covered in you.

You go to wipe it off but he pushes your hand away.

“Leave it,” he says, wearing a proud smile.

“Will you fuck me now?” You practically beg as Jungwon smiles.

He pulls his shirt over his head, you doing the same.

“You gonna ride me?” He asks, as you maneuver yourself down towards his cock.

You hum, positioning yourself over him before slowly sliding down.

You moan at the stretch. It feels so good.

Jungwon also lets out a long groan, “Your cunt feels so good, baby.”

You grind down once you reach the end, getting used to him.

Once you’ve adjusted, you lift yourself up before slamming back down.

Both you and Jungwon curse, curating a rhythm that has you both moaning loudly.

He matches your pace, thrusting up into you at the same time while you slam down.

His hands hold your waist while yours find their way around his neck.

Jungwon’s lips find your neck before trailing kisses down to your breasts.

He takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking and rolling it between his teeth.

The stimulation adds to your pleasure and you have to bite your lip to hold in your moans.

He gives his attention to the other nipple, doing the same.

“Jungwon, I’m gonna cum again,” you say, panting heavily.

“Me too, baby. Where do you want it? You want it inside your pretty little cunt?” He teases you with the idea, making you whine and nod incessantly.

“Please cum inside, want it so bad.”

Within seconds you’re releasing all over him while he cums inside you. You feel it fill you, mixing with your own cum as you both calm down.

You’re both panting, resting your foreheads against one another as you relax.

Jungwon looks into your eyes, smiling as he leans in to kiss you.

You kiss him back eagerly, tugging lightly on his hair.

“I’m never letting you go after this,” he says, resting his cheek against your shoulder.

“Neither am I, my little freak” you respond, patting his head.

“Says you!”

AEWON 2025

[mononijikayu]

supersonic — gojo satoru.

Finally, Gojo breaks the silence, his tone surprisingly serious. “Was it really that bad?” You blink, confused. “What… what do you mean?” He leans back slightly, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that catches you off guard. “That I like you. Was it really that bad to hear?” “......I’m sorry, what?”

Genre: Alternate Universe — Canon Convergence;

Warning/s: General Rating, SFW, Romance, Fluff, Humour, Comfort/No Hurt, Strangers to Friends, Friends to Lovers, Sorcerer! Reader, Tsundere! Reader, Feelings, Romantic Confession, Getting Together, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, Happy Ending, Gojo Satoru Loves Reader But Reader Doesn't Know How to React;

Words: 8k words.

Note: the bubble words is gojo saying you shouldn't fall hard for him!!! i didn't think this would be longer than 5k but I just??? i swear someone has to tell me not to make stuff longer because i feel bad that its way too long and people just suffer my yapping </3 anyway, i love you all!!! thank you so much for reading once again <3

masterlist

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YOU LIKE TO THINK THAT YOU HAVE GOOD MEMORY. You often boasted to Atsuya about your memory, especially during exam season or when the two of you had to write detailed reports after every mission. It was a point of pride—being able to recall every detail with sharp accuracy, a skill that set you apart.

But lately, that once-reliable memory has been betraying you, twisting itself into something both frustrating and bittersweet. Because now, instead of recalling battle strategies or obscure curses, you find yourself remembering everything about him. Gojo Satoru.

No matter how much you try to push the memories away, they persist, etched into your mind like an indelible mark. It’s infuriating because he’s the last person you want to think about. Yet, there he is, popping into your thoughts when you least expect it, with that smug grin and irritatingly carefree attitude.

You can’t forget that day during the Sister School Goodwill Event in your first year. It’s impossible. That was the first time you met Gojo Satoru, and even now, the memory of it lingers like a stubborn shadow. He was everything you couldn’t stand—arrogant, always grinning like he knew something you didn’t, and constantly cracking jokes that got under your skin. The moment he opened his mouth, you knew he was in trouble.

He’d waltzed into the event with an air of confidence that bordered on cocky, his white hair catching the sunlight as if to announce his presence to the world. You remember the way his sunglasses glinted as he surveyed the arena, looking completely at ease, like he owned the place.

And maybe, in a way, he did—after all, his reputation had preceded him. The strongest sorcerer of his generation, a prodigy unlike any other. Everyone was talking about him, and you had been curious, but when you finally met him, that curiosity quickly morphed into annoyance.

It wasn’t just his arrogance; it was the way he seemed to have an almost supernatural ability to push your buttons, like he had a map of your every weakness. From the moment he opened his mouth, you knew he was trouble.

He didn’t even bother with formalities, didn’t extend his hand or offer a respectful bow like any normal person might when meeting someone new. No, Gojo Satoru made his grand entrance with all the subtlety of a peacock in full display.

“Hey there, I’m Gojo Satoru. Don't fall in love with me too much, okay?” he said, his tone so light and casual it was as if he was talking about the weather. 

And then came that wink—oh, that infuriating wink. It was the kind of wink that dripped with self-assurance, as if he’d already decided that the world, including you, was his playground. The kind that made your blood pressure spike and your temper flare in an instant.

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you glared at him, eyes narrowing into a scowl that you hoped would convey just how unimpressed you were. But if you expected him to back down, to maybe realize that he’d crossed a line, you were sorely mistaken. Gojo didn’t just take your scowl in stride—he laughed, a sound that was as easy and carefree as everything else about him. 

The laughter caught you off guard. It wasn’t mocking, but it wasn’t exactly kind either. It was the kind of laugh that made it clear he was enjoying this, enjoying you. It was like he’d found a new toy to play with, and your irritation only made it more fun for him.

“Aw, come on, don’t look at me like that.” he’d said, still chuckling. “I’m just trying to lighten the mood. We’re supposed to be having fun with this, right? No need to be so serious.”

But you were serious—deadly so. This wasn’t some lighthearted game to you; it was a competition, a test of skills and strength, something you’d been training for relentlessly. The Sister School Goodwill Event was your chance to prove yourself, to show that you weren’t just some novice from Kyoto who could be easily brushed aside. And here was Gojo Satoru, with his casual grin and infuriatingly relaxed demeanor, treating the whole thing like a joke.

Yet no matter how much you glared, or how much you tried to put him in his place with your icy demeanor, it seemed to only amuse him more. He had this way of tilting his head just so, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, as if he were daring you to say something, to try and put him in his place. But what could you say? Anything that came to mind seemed to bounce off him like water off a duck’s back. He was untouchable, not just in skill but in personality.

And that’s what really got to you. The way he seemed to glide through life without a care, untouched by the things that would have sent anyone else into a spiral of self-doubt. He was arrogant, yes, but it was the kind of arrogance that was infuriatingly earned. He knew he was good—no, he knew he was the best—and he wasn’t afraid to show it.

As the day went on, you found yourself trying not to react to his constant quips and jabs, but it was like trying to ignore a particularly persistent mosquito. The more you tried to brush him off, the more determined he seemed to get a rise out of you. And the worst part was, he was succeeding. Every time you shot him a glare or bit back a retort, he’d just laugh that infuriating laugh, as if to say, “See? I knew I’d get to you.”

It was like he could see right through you, past the carefully constructed walls you’d built to keep people at a distance. He saw how much you cared, how much you wanted to succeed, and he poked at that vulnerability with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Not because he was cruel, but because he found it entertaining.

And that’s what made him so insufferable. He wasn’t just some cocky sorcerer throwing his weight around—he was someone who enjoyed getting under your skin, who relished in the challenge of breaking down your defenses. To him, it was all a game, and you were the unwitting participant. 

Looking back now, you can almost see the moment he decided you were worth his attention. It wasn’t when you scowled at him or tried to brush off his comments; it was when he realized that no matter how hard you tried to ignore him, you couldn’t hide the way he got to you. And from that moment on, it was as if he’d made it his personal mission to see just how far he could push you.

He was everything you couldn’t stand in a person—arrogant, overconfident, and far too comfortable with himself. But even then, there was a part of you that knew there was more to him than just that. A part of you that recognized that behind the jokes and the winks, there was someone who saw the world in a way you didn’t quite understand, someone who, for better or worse, was going to be a part of your life whether you liked it or not.

That was the beginning of your tumultuous relationship with Gojo. Every interaction since then had been a battle of wits, with him always managing to get the upper hand, no matter how hard you tried to stay one step ahead. He was insufferable, and yet… you can’t stop thinking about him.

You remember how Gojo had effortlessly dodged your attacks during that time. He was skilled and perceptive. It wasn’t just that he was fast—he moved with a fluidity that made it seem as though he was dancing rather than fighting.

Each time you lunged at him, he sidestepped or spun away with an ease that was almost maddening. His grin never faltered, never wavered. It was as if he were enjoying the entire spectacle, completely unfazed by your every attempt to land a hit.

“Come on, is that the best you’ve got?” he’d taunted, his voice carrying a casual amusement that only fueled your frustration.

The way he said it, so nonchalant and dismissive, made it clear he wasn’t just teasing—you were genuinely failing to impress him. It wasn’t just a challenge to him; it was a game. And for someone like Gojo, who seemed to have everything handed to him on a silver platter, the stakes felt almost trivial.

What made it even more infuriating was the way he seemed to almost predict your every move. No matter how you changed your strategy, how you tried to outthink him, he was always one step ahead. It was as if he had a sixth sense for reading your intentions, a talent that made him appear almost supernatural. Every dodge, every counter, was executed with a precision that left no room for error.

In that moment, it felt as though the fight wasn’t just about physical skill—it was a battle of wills. You were pouring everything you had into trying to best him, to prove that you were more than just a novice from Kyoto. But Gojo’s demeanor, his seemingly effortless ability to avoid and counter your attacks, made it feel as though you were trying to fight against an immovable force.

It wasn’t just that he was good; it was the way he made it look so easy. It was like watching someone play a video game on the easiest difficulty setting while you were struggling on the hardest. His ease in the face of your best efforts was both impressive and infuriating. It was clear he was toying with you, not out of malice but because he genuinely enjoyed the challenge, however mild it might have been for him.

Every time you threw a punch or unleashed a spell, his reaction was a mix of amusement and mild surprise. It wasn’t as if he underestimated you—he knew exactly what you were capable of, and he relished the chance to outmaneuver you. His grin was a constant reminder that he was having fun, that he wasn’t taking this seriously because he didn’t have to. For him, it was all just another day, another opportunity to show off his skills.

“You’re strong!” He tells you with a grin on his face. “Let’s be friends! Give me your phone number, quick!”

"Huh?"

"Hurry, bring out your flip phone already!"

"We're in the middle of a one on one, you idiot!"

"So? I wanna be your friend!"

And that was what made him so exasperating. The whole event felt like it was being played out on his terms, with him in control of every aspect. To him, it was less about proving himself and more about showing just how superior he was in a way that made it almost seem effortless. The arrogance wasn’t just in his words; it was in every action, every movement that demonstrated his dominance.

For you, the fight was a matter of pride, a chance to show that you were more than capable, that you could stand toe-to-toe with someone of his caliber. But every time you saw that grin, every time you heard that taunting voice, it drove home the fact that no matter what you did, you were always going to be playing catch-up. And the more you tried, the more it seemed like you were just feeding into his amusement.

The whole experience left you feeling both frustrated and oddly impressed. Frustrated because you couldn’t seem to catch him, no matter how hard you tried. Impressed because, despite your annoyance, you couldn’t help but admire his skill and confidence. It was a bittersweet combination of emotions, one that made you both present and respect him in equal measure. And as much as you wanted to forget that day, Gojo’s presence in your mind remained an ever-present reminder of the challenge he represented—and the way he seemed to effortlessly stay one step ahead.

But what bothers you the most is how, despite all of his flaws, there’s something about him that draws you in. No matter how hard you try to deny it, those memories of him, those moments where he’d flash you that grin or make a ridiculous joke, are seared into your mind.

You find yourself remembering the smallest details—the way his voice sounded when he teased you, the warmth of his hand when he’d casually patted your shoulder after a mission, the way his eyes, hidden behind those sunglasses, seemed to see right through you.

It’s maddening because you’ve spent so much time trying to forget, trying to focus on anything but him. But no matter what you do, the memories remain, vivid and persistent. And it leaves you wondering, despite everything, why you can’t just let go. Why, after all this time, you’re still thinking about Gojo Satoru.

Back then, when you first met Gojo Satoru during the Sister School Goodwill Event, you had quickly dismissed him as just another arrogant brat who seemed to have the world handed to him on a silver platter. His cocky attitude, the way he flaunted his abilities, and his effortless charm made it all too easy to write him off.

To you, he was nothing more than a figure of annoyance—a sorcerer who, with his overconfidence and privileged position, would never be someone you’d get along with. It seemed clear from the start that your paths would never truly align.

Fast forward to the summer break of that year, and you find yourself face-to-face with him again. The sun blazes overhead, turning every outdoor spot into a sweltering inferno.

You're trying to navigate the heat while staying cool, but Gojo Satoru appears as if the oppressive temperature doesn’t affect him at all. His white hair seems to shimmer in the sunlight, and he’s wearing his trademark sunglasses, the kind that makes him look perpetually unbothered.

You’re waiting in line at a smoothie stand, desperately trying to cool down with a cone in hand. You were fanning yourself, trying to evade the intensity of the strong Kyoto sun. That’s when he shows up, casually strolling towards you with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face.

“Hey there, struggling to beat the heat?” Gojo calls out, his tone light and teasing. 

You roll your eyes, not in the mood for his games. “It’s scorching out here, Gojo. Not exactly the time for you to be playing your little tricks.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, leaning against the counter with an exaggerated sigh. “I’m just here to offer some company. Can’t have you melting away all alone, can I?”

You try to ignore him, focusing on your drink as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “I’m fine. Really.”

But Gojo isn’t deterred. He follows you as you leave the stand, his presence like an unwelcome shadow. “So, where are you headed next? I hear there’s a nice little café down the street. We could cool off there.”

“I’m not interested, Gojo.” you snap, quickening your pace.

“Are you sure?” he persists, easily matching your stride. “It’s not every day you get to hang out with the strongest sorcerer in town. I promise I won’t bite.”

You shoot him a skeptical glance. “You’re really not going to give up, are you?”

“Not a chance,” he grins. “You look like you could use a break, and I could use some company. Besides, I’m a great conversationalist. You might even enjoy it.”

Despite yourself, you find his persistence a bit endearing. You sigh, finally relenting. “Fine. One quick stop at the café, and then you leave me alone.”

“Deal!” Gojo exclaims, his grin widening. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

At the café, as you sit across from him, the air conditioning feels like a blessing. Gojo Satoru is still as relaxed as ever, leaning back in his chair with that same self-assured smirk. “See? Much better, right?”

You can’t help but smile a little. “Yeah, this is definitely better. But don’t think this means I’m going to start liking you or anything.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, captain!” Gojo says, his tone playful. “I’m just here to make sure you’re not melting away into a puddle of frustration.”

As the conversation flows, his teasing starts to feel less like an annoyance and more like genuine fun. He talks about his latest adventures, exaggerates stories in his usual dramatic fashion, and even shares some surprisingly insightful observations about the work you both do. Somehow, he manages to not get on your nerves today.

“You know,” he says between bites of his own ice cream, “for someone who hates me so much, you sure seem to enjoy spending time with me right now.”

You snicker, shaking your head. “I don’t know about that. I think I’m just making the best of a bad situation.”

“Well, I’d like to think it’s more than that.” Gojo says with a wink. “Maybe you’re starting to see that I’m not just a cocky brat. Maybe I’m actually kind of fun.���

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Gojo.” you warn, though you’re smiling. “This doesn’t change anything. I still think you’re incredibly annoying.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” Gojo chuckles. “But I’ll take that as a win for now. Maybe one day, I’ll get you to admit that I’m not so bad after all.”

As you finish up your meal, you reflect on how different this encounter is from your first meeting. The arrogance is still there, but it’s mixed with a kind of charm that’s hard to ignore. Despite yourself, you find that you’re enjoying his company, and maybe, just maybe, there’s more to him than the cocky façade he puts on.

By the end of the day, as you part ways, you can’t shake the feeling that this summer break—this unexpected reunion—might just be the start of something different. Gojo’s persistence has managed to chip away at your defenses, and you’re left wondering if there’s more to this irritating sorcerer than meets the eye.

You tell yourself he’s still as annoying as ever, but your heart betrays you, pounding in your chest whenever he’s near. You don’t understand why, but you can't help but feel drawn to him. Every time you think of how he made you laugh when you least expected it, or how his confidence seemed to shield you from the world, your feelings get more confusing.

Is it possible that the guy who irritates you so much is the same one who’s now making your heart race? You can’t figure it out, but one thing’s for sure—something has changed, and you can’t ignore it anymore. You try to shake it off, convincing yourself it’s just the heat messing with your mind. After all, why would you like someone like Gojo Satoru? 

He’s arrogant, overconfident, and never takes anything seriously. But then, you remember how, during that first encounter, he didn’t just laugh at you—he noticed things. Little things. Like how you tried to stay strong even when you were clearly out of your comfort zone, or how you struggled to keep up with the fast pace of the event but never gave up.

You tell yourself it’s nothing, that he’s just good at reading people. Yet, the memory of his voice, the way he looked at you with those sharp eyes hidden behind his glasses, keeps replaying in your mind. The more you think about it, the harder it becomes to deny what you’re feeling.

It’s frustrating. You’re not supposed to like someone who drives you crazy, who makes you question everything about yourself. But here you are, your heart beating faster every time you think of him, and that infuriating smirk of his. Why did he have to be so… so irritatingly charming?

You find yourself wondering what it would be like to see him again, to have him tease you just so you can feel that strange flutter in your chest. But then, you immediately scold yourself for even thinking that way. There’s no way you could actually like him… right?

But deep down, you know the truth. No matter how much you try to deny it, the thought of Gojo Satoru won’t leave your mind. And with each passing day, the line between irritation and affection blurs just a little bit more. Yet you can’t do much about it. One way or another, somehow—you were just stuck with him being around. In Kyoto or Tokyo, or everywhere else. He’s just somehow always round. 

Months passed by, and it was summer again.

You’re sitting with Shoko Ieiri under the shade of a tree, fanning yourself with a hand to combat the relentless summer heat. It’s one of those rare, blissful afternoons where you’ve managed to carve out some free time. With Utahime-senpai occupied with a mission from Gakuganji and no assignments on your plate, you decided to take advantage of the break to catch up with Shoko. The two of you have become quite good friends over time, and her presence is a welcome relief from the sweltering heat. And you think that even under this hot summer this year, you’ll end up becoming better friends.

Shoko leans back against the tree, her posture relaxed as she takes a sip from her drink. She listens with a wry smile as you continue your tirade. You’ve been going on about Gojo Satoru for what feels like hours now, pouring out your frustrations about how annoying and insufferable he is.

“You wouldn’t believe it, Shoko. He just—ugh! He keeps showing up everywhere I go! It’s like he has a personal vendetta to make my life miserable.”

Shoko raises an eyebrow, her smile barely containing the amusement she’s clearly feeling. “And yet, you don’t seem to be able to stop talking about him.”

“That’s because he’s impossible to ignore!” you exclaim, waving your fan more vigorously. “He’s always so… so smug! Always grinning like he’s got some big secret. I can’t stand it!”

Shoko chuckles, taking another sip of her drink. “You know, the way you’re describing him, it almost sounds like you’ve got a bit of a crush.”

You nearly choke on your own breath. “A crush? Are you kidding me? I can’t stand him! He’s arrogant and insufferable. There’s no way I’d ever—”

Shoko cuts you off with a knowing look. “Oh, come on. It’s perfectly normal to be irritated by someone you’re secretly interested in. You’re practically obsessed with him.”

“I am not!” you insist, your face turning a shade redder as you realize how ridiculous you must sound. “I’m just... venting! He’s always there, poking at my patience, and it drives me insane!”

“Uh-huh.” Shoko says, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “And yet, you’ve been ranting about him for an hour now. You don’t do that with just anyone.”

You huff, crossing your arms defensively. “That’s because he’s a special kind of irritating. There’s nothing romantic about it, Shoko. It’s purely aggravation!”

Shoko leans in, her expression teasing. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say. But if you don’t want to talk about Gojo, maybe we should switch topics.”

Before you can respond, a familiar voice calls out from behind you. “Hey, I didn’t realize I’d find you here.”

You turn to see Gojo Satoru standing a few feet away, his sunglasses reflecting the sunlight in a way that makes him look even more infuriatingly cool. Beside him was Geto Suguru, who had a face that reflected yours. He was, you supposed, as done as you were with the man with bright cerulean eyes. You purse your lips. He’s grinning, that same smirk plastered across his face as he casually approaches.

“What are you doing here?” you demand, trying to keep your irritation in check. “This is a private conversation, Gojo. Leave us alone.”

“Yeah, Satoru.” Geto parrotted back, his hands in his pockets. “Leave them alone!”

Gojo just laughs, seemingly unfazed. “How cold! I was just passing by and thought I’d say hello. But it seems like I’m interrupting something. Were you talking about me?”

Shoko suppresses a grin behind her drink as you try to regain your composure. “No, we were just—”

As Gojo stands there, still grinning, Shoko decides to have a little fun. She leans in, looking as though she’s about to share a juicy secret. “Actually, I was just telling her how annoying you are,” she interjects with a playful nudge. “In detail too. Nothing was held back.”

Gojo’s smirk only widens, clearly amused by Shoko’s teasing. Before he can respond, Geto Suguru—who has been hovering just out of sight—steps into view. He’s carrying a large bag of sweets and looks somewhat frazzled, his usual cool demeanor slightly ruffled. He looked so worn out, you think. Much too much heat and Gojo, you feel for the guy.

“Honestly, you should have called me. Geto says with a grin, eyeing both you and Shoko. “I have a lot more to share about this freak.”

You turn to Geto, eyes wide in surprise. “What did you just call him?”

“HUH!? Suguboo, how dare you call me a freak?” Gojo’s voice rises in mock outrage, his face turning into an exaggerated scowl.

Geto rolls his eyes, clearly unbothered by Gojo’s antics. “You dragged me around Tokyo to buy sweets all day. I can’t feel my body anymore.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his expression one of mild exasperation. “You’re currently not on my good side.”

Gojo throws a hand up in dramatic defense. “Hey, I had to make sure you didn’t miss out on the best sweets Tokyo has to offer! It’s not my fault if you overindulge.”

Geto shakes his head, still grumbling. “I’m pretty sure it was more than just overindulgence. I was about ready to collapse by the end of it.”

Shoko laughs, thoroughly enjoying the banter. “See, you’re not the only one who has complaints about Gojo. Even Geto here has his grievances.”

You look from Shoko to Gojo and then to Geto, feeling a mix of amusement and relief. The dynamic between the three of them is light and playful, and it’s clear that there’s a strong sense of camaraderie, despite the occasional grumbling.

“Well, it’s nice to know I’m not alone in my irritation,” you say, letting out a small chuckle.

Gojo’s grin turns into a more genuine smile as he turns to you. “Hey, don’t be too hard on me. If I’m really that annoying, at least I’m entertaining.”

Geto snorts, clearly unimpressed. “Entertaining or not, you owe me for today. We’re going to need a serious dessert break after all that.”

You nod in agreement, feeling more at ease with the situation. “Agreed. And Gojo, don’t think you’re off the hook just because you showed up here. I’m still not happy about you popping up everywhere I go. You’re so annoying!”

Gojo raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Annoying, huh? Well, I guess that’s one way to describe me. But if I’m annoying, why do you keep bringing me up?”

You groan, feeling the heat on your face increase, whether from the sun or from embarrassment you can’t tell. You didn’t want to know.  “Oh, just go away. We were having a perfectly nice conversation before you showed up.”

Gojo chuckles and leans casually against the tree. “Well, I was hoping you might invite me to join you. But if I’m that annoying, I guess I’ll just have to prove I’m not.”

Shoko looks between you and Gojo, clearly enjoying the scene. “You know, it’s kind of nice to see you two together. It’s like watching a rom–com soap opera, but with crazy strong superpowers.”

You shoot Shoko a mock glare, though it's clear you’re not truly upset. The corners of your mouth twitch into a smile despite your best efforts to look annoyed. “Thanks for your support, Shoko.”

Suguru Geto, still holding the bag of sweets, grins broadly. “Shoko, you and your talent for fueling fires. I swear, you live for this kind of chaos.”

Shoko, not missing a beat, gives an exaggerated bow. “Anytime, folks. I’m here for your entertainment. It’s my specialty, after all.”

Geto chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m starting to think you enjoy stirring up trouble more than actually helping out.”

“Maybe,” Shoko admits with a playful glint in her eye. “But where’s the fun in being boring?”

You can’t help but laugh at the exchange. It’s moments like these, filled with light-hearted teasing and genuine friendship, that make summer breaks so enjoyable. The heat of the day, the annoyances of the past, and even the unexpected encounters with Gojo seem to fade into the background as you relax with friends who make even the most mundane moments entertaining.

“Well…..” you say, still smiling, “if I have to deal with more of Gojo’s antics, I’m glad I have you two around. It definitely makes the experience more bearable.”

Shoko grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “We aim to please. Just remember, if Gojo starts getting on your nerves again, you know where to find us.”

“Absolutely.” Geto adds, lifting the bag of sweets in a mock salute. “And if you need more sweets to get through it, I’ll be your guy. Though, I can’t promise I won’t complain about it.”

“Oh, Suguru! There’s a Digimon-themed café nearby!” Gojo exclaims, excitement clear in his voice as he checks his flip phone. His eyes are practically sparkling with enthusiasm as he waves the phone in front of Suguru and you.

Suguru Geto, clearly exhausted from the earlier sweet spree and the relentless summer heat, groans. “Hehhhh, I don’t wanna go anymore, Satoru. I’m tired.”

Gojo, however, is undeterred by Suguru’s reluctance. He leans in, practically vibrating with eagerness. “Suguru, please! You can sit down throughout while I do my thing. They have card trades going on there right now! You know how rare those are.”

Suguru looks at Gojo with a mix of amusement and frustration. “Card trades? Really? Is that what’s got you so worked up?”

“Yes!” Gojo says, his voice rising with a mixture of pleading and excitement. “I’ve been looking for a specific card for ages. This is my chance!”

You watch the interaction with a smirk, enjoying the dynamic between the two. Suguru’s exhaustion is palpable, but Gojo’s enthusiasm is infectious. It’s clear that Gojo is determined to drag Suguru along, no matter how tired he is.

“Come on, Suguru!” Gojo continues, his tone softening as he tries to appeal to Suguru’s better nature. “Just a little while. You can rest while I geek out over the Digimon stuff. And there’s bound to be something good for you too, right? Maybe a nice, cool drink or something.”

Suguru sighs, clearly defeated but not entirely unmoved. “Alright, alright. But if this turns into another full day of Gojo dragging me around, I swear I’m going to collapse.”

“Deal!” Gojo says, beaming with satisfaction. “I promise we’ll keep it short. Just a quick visit, then we can head back. I owe you one, for real.”

Shoko could only sigh as though this is the hundredth time today. “Looks like we’re going to a cafe.”

“How do you deal with this everyday, Shoko?”

She shakes her head. “Believe me, you do not wanna know.”

As the four of you make your way to the café, you can’t help but chuckle at the contrast between Gojo’s boundless energy and Suguru’s weary resignation. It’s moments like these that highlight the unique blend of personalities and friendships that make summer days so memorable.

When you finally arrive at the Digimon-themed café, the atmosphere is lively, with colorful decorations and enthusiastic fans trading cards and chatting about their favorite characters. Gojo is immediately in his element, diving into the card trades with a fervor that makes you smile. 

Suguru, though still looking a bit tired, finds a comfortable spot to sit and relax, occasionally glancing over at Gojo with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. Shojo sat beside you, sipping her cold peach iced tea. For a moment, the three of you look at Gojo and think he seems almost like a child.

“You’re a trooper, you know that?” you say, handing him a cool drink you picked up from the café. “I don’t know what I would do if Kusakabe dragged me half across town for a Digimon card.”

Suguru takes a sip and smirks. “Yeah, well, it’s not every day you get to see Gojo this excited. I guess it’s worth it. Plus, more excitement for him means he’ll be less active at the dorms tonight and not bother me.”

“That….” You paused. “So he runs out of energy too, huh?”

Suguru nodded. “Well, Satoru is a human being too. He gets tired too.”

“I think I like this version of him better.”

Shoko snickers. “You sure you don’t like him?”

“Now, now. Don’t scare them away, Sho.” Suguru smiles back at his friend. “If anything, they might be the last shot for Satoru to be a human being. After all, love makes one completely human.”

“B–but that’s not….. I don’t like him like that! He’s annoying and I just….”

“Denial that sounds like absolute lies is wasting Mother Earth’s air, you know?”

You shoot Shoko a playful glare, but your frustration is tempered by an internal chaos that’s increasingly difficult to ignore. Gojo, completely absorbed in his Digimon card quest, is a whirlwind of excitement and enthusiasm. His eyes are locked on the card he’s been wanting, and the moment he finally acquires it, his face lights up with an infectious joy that makes it hard for you to look away.

As Gojo gushes over the card and exchanges high-fives with fellow fans, you’re left sitting at the table with Shoko, trying to make sense of your own turbulent emotions. Your mind feels like a jumbled mess, caught between irritation and a confusing, unwelcome admiration. The way Gojo’s energy radiates around him, how his excitement seems to draw everyone in, including you—it’s all so bewildering.

Every time Gojo moves closer, whether he’s showing off his latest acquisition or simply passing by with that characteristic, carefree swagger, your heart races a little faster. It’s a reaction you can’t quite explain, and no matter how much you want to deny it, it’s becoming increasingly clear that you’re affected by him more than you’d like to admit.

You glance over at Shoko, who’s watching the scene with an amused expression. “How does he do it?” you ask, more to yourself than to her. “How does he make everything seem so... effortless?”

Shoko’s eyes sparkle with mischief as she leans back in her chair. “Oh, come on. You know exactly how he does it. It’s the same way he manages to get under your skin so easily.”

You try to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks, feeling a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the way he gets so wrapped up in things. It’s like nothing else matters to him.”

Shoko chuckles softly. “It’s his passion. It’s what makes him who he is. And it’s probably why you can’t seem to get him out of your mind, even when you try.”

You groan, running a hand through your hair in exasperation. “I don’t know what’s going on with me. I thought I had him all figured out, but every time he’s near, it’s like everything I thought I knew just... unravels.”

Shoko’s grin widens as she takes a sip from her drink. “Sounds like you’re having a hard time sticking to your own rules. Maybe you’re just more affected by him than you want to admit.”

You shoot her another glare, but this time it’s softer, tinged with resignation. “Yeah, well, thanks for pointing that out. I really needed the reminder.”

As Gojo returns to your table, holding up his prized card with a triumphant grin, your heart skips a beat. His enthusiasm is undeniable, and despite your internal struggle, you can’t help but be drawn to his infectious energy. He flashes a quick, radiant smile in your direction before turning his attention to Suguru, who’s still looking somewhat worn out but is clearly amused by Gojo’s excitement.

“Look what I got!” Gojo announces, waving the card in front of Suguru and you. “It’s the one I’ve been searching for!”

You try to muster up a response, but the sight of Gojo’s unabashed joy and the warmth of his smile make it difficult to focus on anything else. Your heart continues to beat faster, and despite your best efforts to keep your feelings in check, it’s becoming increasingly clear that Gojo’s presence has a profound effect on you.

Shoko leans in closer, her voice a soft tease. “Looks like you’re in for an interesting summer. Who knows? Maybe there’s more to this adventure than just the heat.”

You let out a soft sigh, feeling a mix of frustration and acceptance. As Gojo continues to share his excitement with Suguru and the other café patrons, you find yourself caught up in the moment, realizing that no matter how much you try to resist it, Gojo Satoru is undeniably a part of your world now—one you can’t seem to escape, no matter how hard you try.

“I’m craving some ice cream, it’s still too hot.” You muttered under your breath towards Shoko. “I’m going to go and buy some.”

“You want me to go with you?” Shoko asked, looking up towards you. 

You shake your head. “I’ll need some time to think for a bit. Besides, it's just around the corner.”

She nodded back at you. “Okay, then call us when you come back. Gojo might be here a while, the nerd he is.”

“Sure.” You managed to mutter as you walked off.

It didn’t take you long to get to the ice cream store. You settle into a corner booth, hoping the relative solitude will give you a chance to cool down both physically and mentally. The air conditioning provides a much-needed respite from the relentless summer heat, and the cold, creamy sweetness of your ice cream is a soothing balm for your frayed nerves.

Despite the comfort of the cool air and the calming effect of the ice cream, your mind refuses to be at peace. It keeps drifting back to Gojo Satoru—his teasing words, that infuriating grin, and the effortless way he seemed to handle everything while you were left feeling like a tangled mess of frustration and confusion. You replay the scene in your head over and over, each replay adding another layer to your mounting exasperation.

You stab your spoon into the ice cream with a little more force than necessary, your frustration spilling over into the simple act of eating. The satisfying crunch of the spoon hitting the ice cream echoes your internal struggle. You're so lost in your thoughts that you don't notice the door of the shop opening until a familiar voice breaks the silence.

“There you are.”

You freeze, spoon halfway to your mouth. Slowly, you look up to see Gojo Satoru standing in the doorway, his tall frame casting a shadow over your table. He’s got that same easygoing smile on his face, but there’s something different about his expression—something softer, almost hesitant.

“Where’s Suguru and Shoko?”

“They wanted to stay behind to rest up.”

“....Makes sense. You drained them up from energy.”

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, not waiting for an answer as he steps inside and takes a seat next to you at the small table.

You can’t help but feel a surge of panic mixed with irritation as you watch Gojo settle into the seat next to you. Of all the places in the city, why did he have to find you here, in this tiny ice cream store where you’d sought refuge from the chaos of the day? The familiar flutter in your chest is back, and despite your efforts to remain calm, your heart races as he sits down across from you.

Gojo’s presence feels overwhelming, and the proximity only amplifies your confusion. You can’t seem to reconcile the image of him as the carefree, teasing troublemaker with the more subdued, almost earnest expression he wore earlier. The combination of his unexpected arrival and the emotional turmoil from the day makes it hard to focus on anything else.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The only sounds filling the space are the steady hum of the air conditioner and the occasional clink of your spoon against the bowl of melting ice cream. It’s a stark contrast to the earlier energy of the café and the animated conversations you’d been a part of. Now, the silence feels almost oppressive, adding weight to the tension hanging between you.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, trying to focus on the ice cream, but the act of eating feels mechanical, a mere distraction from the growing unease. Each clink of your spoon against the bowl seems louder than it should be, amplifying the silence and making it harder to ignore the pounding of your heart.

Gojo, seemingly unfazed by the silence, takes a casual sip from his own ice cream. His relaxed demeanor is in sharp contrast to your internal turmoil, and it only serves to heighten your frustration. You want to break the silence, to say something that will diffuse the tension and make sense of the situation, but the words elude you.

Finally, Gojo breaks the silence, his tone surprisingly serious. “Was it really that bad?”

You blink, confused. “What… what do you mean?”

He leans back slightly, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that catches you off guard. “That I like you. Was it really that bad to hear?”

“......I’m sorry, what?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you suddenly feel the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. But the words won’t come out. Instead, you’re left staring at him, wide-eyed and completely at a loss for what to say.

Gojo’s expression softens, and he gives you a small, almost shy smile. “I’m not the best at being subtle, I know. But I meant it. I like you.”

Your heart skips a beat, and in your shock, you try to respond—but instead of words, all that comes out is a choked gasp as you accidentally inhale a spoonful of ice cream.You start coughing, the cold dessert lodged in your throat as you struggle to catch your breath. Gojo’s eyes widen in alarm, and he quickly reaches over to pat your back, trying to help you out. 

“Hey, hey, easy! Are you okay?”

You manage to swallow the ice cream, though your throat still feels cold and tight. Your face is burning with embarrassment, and you can barely bring yourself to look at him. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine… I just… you just…”

Gojo lets out a relieved laugh, though there’s a hint of concern in his eyes. “Sorry, didn’t mean to shock you that much. I guess I should’ve picked a better time to say it, huh?”

You don’t know how to respond. Your mind is a whirlwind of emotions—confusion, disbelief, and something else you can’t quite identify. The fact that he just confessed, out of nowhere, is overwhelming, to say the least. He waits for you to say something, his usual playful demeanor tempered with genuine concern. 

“I’m serious, though. I know I tease you a lot, but that’s just because I like being around you. You’re fun, and… well, I like you.”

You feel your heart pounding again, and you’re not sure if it’s because of his words or the way he’s looking at you. It’s different from his usual teasing gaze—there’s a sincerity in his eyes that you’ve never seen before.

“I…” You struggle to find the right words, but nothing comes out the way you want it to. “I don’t know what to say.”

He smiles, that playful edge returning just a bit. “You don’t have to say anything right now. I just wanted you to know how I feel. But… if it’s too much, I’ll back off.”

You shake your head, feeling a mix of emotions too tangled to sort out. “No, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting this. At all.”

Gojo’s smile softens, and he reaches out, gently taking your hand in his. “It’s okay. We don’t have to figure it all out right now, okay?”

You nod slowly, your mind still reeling from everything that’s happened. As he sits there beside you, holding your hand in his, you realize that despite all the teasing and frustration, there’s something undeniably real about the way he’s looking at you now. Maybe, just maybe, this summer heat isn’t the only thing making your heart race.

Gojo’s hand is warm against yours, and the feeling sends a flurry of butterflies through your stomach. He’s still looking at you with that playful grin, but there’s a tenderness in his gaze that makes your heart flutter.

“Sorry for springing this on you out of nowhere.” he says, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles. “But I couldn’t help it. Seeing you all flustered and cute earlier… I just had to tell you how I feel.”

You glance down at your hands, trying to process everything, but all you can focus on is the way his fingers are interlaced with yours. It’s surprisingly comforting, and you find yourself feeling a little less overwhelmed by the situation.

Gojo leans in a bit closer, his voice dropping to a soft, teasing tone. “You know, you’re even cuter when you’re flustered. I might have to make it my mission to see that expression on your face more often.”

You feel your cheeks heat up again, and you instinctively try to pull your hand away, but Gojo holds on gently, his smile widening. “No escaping this time. You’ve caught my attention, okay?  I’m not letting go so easily.”

You huff, trying to sound annoyed, but it comes out more flustered than anything. “You’re such a pain, Gojo.”

“Ah, but I’m your pain, right?” he quips back, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “I never said that.”

“Well, I’m saying it." he replies, leaning in even closer until you can feel his breath against your cheek. “And I think you secretly like having me around, even if you won’t admit it.”

You’re about to protest, but the words catch in your throat when you see how close he is. His face is only inches from yours, and the playful grin has softened into something more sincere.

“I like being around you, you know?” he murmurs, his voice gentle. “Even if I drive you crazy sometimes.”

You swallow hard, your heart thudding in your chest. There’s something incredibly endearing about seeing Gojo like this—still teasing, but with a softness that makes your heart melt.He pulls back just enough to give you a bit of space, his expression turning thoughtful.

 “You know, I’ve had a lot of people in my life, but no one’s ever made me feel the way you do. It’s different with you… in a good way.”

You blink, taken aback by the honesty in his words. “Really?”

“Really.” he says, his smile warm and genuine. “You’re special to me. And I don’t want to let go of something that feels this right.”

Your heart swells at his words, and for a moment, you forget all the teasing and frustration. All you can think about is how sincere he’s being, how much he actually cares.

Gojo must notice your softened expression because he chuckles lightly, his eyes twinkling. “Now, I know this is a lot to take in, but… would you mind if I tried something?”

You tilt your head, curious. “What?”

Instead of answering right away, he reaches out with his free hand, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is featherlight, almost hesitant, as if he’s waiting for your reaction. When you don’t pull away, he smiles softly and leans in closer.

“Just wanted to see if you’d let me do this.” he whispers, and before you can respond, he presses a quick, gentle kiss to your forehead.

The contact is brief, but it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine. You stare at him, wide-eyed and speechless, while he pulls back, looking pleased with himself “There,” he says with a grin. “Now you can’t say I don’t have feelings for you.”

You finally find your voice, though it comes out more like a squeak. “Y-You… Gojo!”

He laughs, not at all fazed by your reaction. “What? Too much? I thought it was pretty sweet.”

You bury your face in your hands, trying to hide the furious blush spreading across your cheeks. “You’re impossible!”

Gojo just chuckles and gently pries your hands away from your face, forcing you to look at him again. “I might be impossible, but you’re stuck with me now. So… what do you say? Think you could handle having someone like me around a little more?”

You glance at him, and despite your embarrassment, you can’t help but smile. “You’re not going to give me much of a choice, are you?”

“Not really.” he admits, his grin turning playful again. “But I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

You sigh, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. Instead, there’s a warmth spreading through your chest that you can’t ignore. “Fine,” you say, pretending to be reluctant. “But if you keep teasing me like this, I’m going to get back at you.”

Gojo’s eyes light up, and he leans in with a smirk. “Oh, I’m looking forward to that. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

And just like that, the tension melts away, leaving you with a strange sense of contentment. You don’t have everything figured out yet, but with Gojo sitting beside you, still holding your hand, you think maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t mind figuring it out together.

[makeitmingi]

When Flowers Bloom In The Dark [Chapter 17]

Genre: Romance, Mafia!AU, Violence, Angst, Slow burn

Pairing: Hongjoong x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Florist!Reader, Mafioso!Hongjoong, Mafioso!Seonghwa, Mafioso!Yunho, Mafioso!Yeosang, Mafioso!San, Mafioso!Mingi, Mafioso!Wooyoung, Mafioso!Jongho

Summary: When you appeared and wept at his mother's funeral, Hongjoong found himself wanting to find out more about you. A regular girl, who owns a flower shop in his territory and has a relationship with the mother that he hasn't spoken to in years, why hasn't he ever noticed you before?

[Warning(s): 18+ for violence, use of weapons, smoking, alcohol consumption, slight gore, gang affiliation, tattoos and character deaths. Minors DNI. This is a work of fiction and does not represent the Ateez members in real life.]

Word count: 3.2K

Hongjoong was pacing in his office, trying his best to focus on the conference call that was happening. He chewed on his thumbnail until he couldn't take it anymore.

"Okay, everyone shut up." He slammed his palms on the table and the other sides went quiet.

"Go fix your issues before you come to me again. You're all a mess and wasting my time!" He growled.

"Yes, boss nim!"

With that, the conference call ended. Hongjoong didn't know why he was so ticked off. But seeing everyone congregate around you to make sure you were okay while he stood at the side, it irritated him. Why couldn't he ask you if you were okay?

And the thought of you using Seonghwa's bathroom and his soaps, smelling like Seonghwa, made him dig for clothes and shove them into Seonghwa's arms to put on his bed for you.

"What's wrong with you, Kim Hongjoong?" He asked himself, massaging his temples.

"(y/n)!" Hongjoong heard Mingi's booming voice down the hall, followed by the onslaught of apologies from the tall male.

"Ah..." He threw his head back and left his office. He saw Seonghwa guiding you down the stairs. With his best friend there, how was he going to approach you?

"Excuse me." Seonghwa stepped aside to answer a phone call, leaving you there with a cup of tea to drink.

"(y/n). Are you alright?" He went downstairs and approached you. You seemed flustered as you put the tea cup down and stood up.

"Thanks for lending me your clothes, I'll wash them and return them as soon as my clothes are dry." You bowed to thank him. You were so awkward and formal with him, it was like you two were strangers again. Hongjoong was running around in circles in his head, he didn't know what to do or say.

"It's fine, (y/n). There's no rush for the clothes. Don't worry about it." He assured you. If he had to be honest, Hongjoong thought you looked cute in his clothes.

"If that's all, maybe I shouldn't take up more of your time." You forced a smile, evident that you wanted to get away.

"No, wait. You're not... Can we talk? ...Please." Hongjoong asked, that sounded a lot more like begging.

"Umm..." You fiddled with your fingers.

"Please, just for a bit. I won't take up too much of your time." Hongjoong promised. He didn't really know where to take you, going to his office was for work people but it was private.

"Do you mind coming to my office...?" He asked with a slight wince, not sure what to ask.

"Sure." Thankfully, you nodded and followed him up the stairs to where his office was. Hongjoong opened the door for you to enter.

"Feel free to sit anywhere." He gestured, observing the way your head was slightly lowered, kind of like a shamed student that was entering a principal's office to be punished.

"(y/n), I'm sorry. It seems like it's always the same thing, I do something that screws up our friendship and have to apologise for it. I just... I don't know how to act with people outside my 7 brothers, I'm not the best person..." He sighed, running his fingers through his hair.

"I don't mean to hurt you, (y/n). You know that, right? I'm trying to be a good friend but it seems like it's not really working, right?" He tried to crack a joke.

"Yeah..." You couldn't help but agree, forcing a smile.

"I- Ah..." Hongjoong threw his head back against the couch, unsure of how to phrase his words. You blinked at him, confused by his words.

"It's not an excuse but trust me when I say, I'm trying to protect you. That's why I said what I said that night. It's not about my image, I care about your image." He confessed.

"Protect me? What do you need to protect me from, Hongjoong?" You frowned slightly.

"I can't tell you." He winced.

"It's about your business or businesses, right? I can put two and two together, Hongjoong. That's what you're protecting me from." You guessed. Hongjoong sat up at your words and nodded.

"You're right. I can't tell you now but I will in due time. It's already dangerous for you, knowing my mother so I shouldn't add to that." He informed.

"But once again, I know it's not fair of me to ask but please be patient with me." He pleaded. Hongjoong didn't want to lose you, as a friend or as a person in his life. And you wouldn't admit to him that you felt the same way. Just like Mrs Kim, you felt like Hongjoong brought some sort of importance in your life.

"You were hurt when I saw you at the tournament. Is that why you were avoiding me even before that?" You asked.

"I'll answer that, only if you don't proceed to ask me how I got injured." Hongjoong stared at you, a playful glint in his eye. You rolled your eyes and nodded in agreement.

"Yes. I was injured and I didn't want you to see me limping around with a cane like a grandpa." He chuckled.

"A grandpa?" You snickered.

"I have already got enough teasing from the other kids about it. Although, I believe you wouldn't be like them and tease me, you would worry." He groaned.

"You're right, I wouldn't tease you... But are you better now? Recovered?" You asked.

"Mhmm, I'm all recovered. Seonghwa can't even poke my bruises to threaten me anymore." He leaned back with a proud smile.

"I'm happy for you?" You tilted your head, unsure of what response to give. Hongjoong laughed and stood up, gesturing for you to follow him. The two of you walked out.

"Show me the progress on the garden. I don't want to continue talking in my office, it's quite stuffy, isn't it?" He smiled as you walked side by side, going down the stairs. He didn't miss the way your eyes lit up with excitement, nodding your head.

As the two of you strolled around the garden, Hongjoong intently listened to you update him on the garden, telling him what you have been doing and changes you've made.

"I'm excited to tell the staff about the herb garden. And I planted a few vegetables as well." You informed.

"I didn't think our garden was capable of doing that." Hongjoong raised his eyebrows.

"Well, of course the weather makes it hard to grow ALL vegetables. But there are a handful you can grow, you just have to eat what grows in season." You explained.

"Can't wait." Hongjoong chuckled.

"Why is (y/n) showing hyung the vegetable garden? He doesn't even eat vegetables." Wooyoung scoffed.

"He probably told her that he loves it." Seonghwa chuckled with a shake of his head. The group of them were in the lounge area on the second floor, watching the two of you stroll in the garden.

"You should get back to work or the others might think you're slacking." You said to him with your hands on your hips.

"I'm kind of the boss around here so no one would say I'm slacking." Hongjoong scoffed.

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself? Because it seems like Seonghwa's the real boss around here." You threw your head back in laughter while Hongjoong's jaw dropped slightly. You smirked to yourself as Hongjoong held his hands up in defeat and headed back into the house, letting you get back to finishing your work.

"So, you like vegetables now, hyung?" Hongjoong came in and looked up to see all 7 brothers staring down at him from the banister of the second floor lounge with knowing smiles.

"Shut up. Go back to work!" Hongjoong barked at everyone. The boys all scurried, except Seonghwa.

"I hate that you're not intimidated by me." Hongjoong rolled his eyes as he walked up the stairs while Seonghwa had a smirk on his face.

"There's nothing for me to be scared of. The number of times I've seen your clumsy self fall flat on your face outweighs how scary you can be." He chuckled.

"You know wayyy too much." Hongjoong glared.

"Mmm, the ammunition comes in handy sometimes." Seonghwa punched Hongjoong's arm and headed back to his office.

"Hyung, free for me to run numbers with you and Jongho?" Yeosang asked. Hongjoong checked his watch and nodded, walking to his office with the two.

"Yeosang hyung gave me a run down of the contracts that were offered with the equities and shares. I managed to work the numbers out to see if we should sign it or not." Jongho explained, taking a seat in one of the chairs.

"Okay, hang on. I think I should call Hwa in to look at the numbers too." Hongjoong said, sending a message to his best friend. Seonghwa walked in a few minutes later.

"Sorry, you'll have to share the copy with Hongjoong hyung." Jongho said. Seonghwa nodded and sat beside Hongjoong.

"So I've circled the main points of focus. I'll go through each one." He started the discussion.

As you continued your work, you were a little more careful about getting any mud or dirt on Hongjoong's clothes, even if he told you he was not bothered.

"pH levels are good." You smiled in satisfaction, looking at the test strip. Then you wrote it down in your notes.

"Miss (y/n), would you like some refreshments?" One of the maids came out and bowed to you.

"I'm good, thank you. Could I get a broom to clear the pavements of the dirt and debris, please? Oh! And trash bags too." You requested with a sheepish smile.

"Ah, you can just leave it and we'll clean it up later. Don't worry about it." She smiled.

"Nonsense, I made the mess, I should clean it up. It won't take too long. Besides, I don't want to risk anyone tripping or slipping. Some of the guys can be a little clumsy." You chuckled. The maid had to stifle a laugh but nodded in agreement, bowing before she left to get you what you needed.

"Thank you." She opened the trash bag for you to gather the dirt, roots and leaves that you've pruned to toss in. She followed you to each plot with the trash bag.

"You can just leave it. I wouldn't want to take you away from your other tasks." You smiled.

"It's okay. There's nothing urgent that needs me." She assured you.

"That should be all for now though. I'll just do some other stuff to finish up for today." You told her as she tied up the bags and put them to the side.

"Alright, if you need anymore help. Please do not hesitate to ask any of us." She bowed deeply and headed back in.

"(y/n)! Stop working and come! The chefs made pie and it's still hot!" San yelled from the doors. You straightened up from where you were packing dirt around the plant's roots.

"Alright!" You replied and packed your things before jogging back to the house. You went to wash your hands first.

"Oh! Hongjoong, I didn't see you there. Are you alright?" You nearly bumped into the male, noticing the ghastly tired look on his face. He let out a long sigh, rubbing his face with his hands, showing that he was not ok.

"Just technical work stuff, I don't like working with numbers. Got distracted when I heard the others yelling about pie or something." He chuckled.

"It's good to take breaks, especially pie breaks." You giggled.

"There you are!" Mingi cheered when he saw you and Hongjoong enter the dining room.

"Would you like custard or ice cream with your pie?" Wooyoung asked, pulling you in and sat you down in one of the seats.

"Ice cream, please." You requested. Soon, the butler placed a dish with the slice of warm pie and one scoop of vanilla ice cream on top with some sort of crumble topping.

"Hey, (y/n) should sit here." Yunho said, pointing to the seat next to him.

"I sit there." Mingi shot his best friend a betrayed look.

"It's okay, I'll just stay here." You chuckled. You didn't want to get involved in their best friend squabble.

"Good choice, (y/n)." Wooyoung smiled triumphantly, holding his plate of pie in his hand and taking the seat next to you. The others jeered at him while he just stuck his tongue out at them. You giggled, they could be so childish for grown men. Hongjoong shook his head and let out a sigh of despair.

"How's the pie?" Yeosang asked you with a kind smile, not bothered by his brothers' childishness. You covered your mouth as you chewed, giving him a thumbs up.

"Okay, kids. Enough. Eat your food." Seonghwa said, getting between the others like a mother.

"I swear I have no idea how they're functioning adults. They're actually 5 years old." Hongjoong clicked his tongue.

You sat quietly, noticing how they interacted with each other. They were just like a regular family, with Seonghwa and Hongjoong as the parents of 6 kids, all with different personalities.

"(y/n), would you like to stay for dinner?" San invited.

"Oh, I shouldn't..." You rubbed the back of your neck, already feeling like you overstayed.

"Nonsense. We already established that you're not just a regular employee here. You should stay! The chefs are making a nice seafood dinner." Wooyoung said.

"Yeah, you should stay. I'll take you home after." Hongjoong offered with a kind smile. After apologising and making up with you, Hongjoong wasn't ready for you to go home yet. He wanted you to stick around longer.

"But of course, if you have other engagements, we understand." Seonghwa interjected, not wanting you to feel pressured to stay for dinner. You sent him a grateful smile.

"Ah... alright..." You nodded.

"But no more going back to work! You should join us for games, do you know Mario Kart?" Yunho asked.

"Yes but I haven't played it in a long time. I think the last time I played it was after school at an arcade? I don't have a game console." You tried to remember.

"Don't worry, we'll go easy on you the first round." Mingi smirked.

"I don't know..." You felt like you shouldn't be playing around during your working hours, it felt wrong especially since you were paid.

"Well we pay you and we say it's fine! We'd much rather you come and game with us." San winked, resting his head on his hand as he finished his dessert.

"But-" You shot Hongjoong a conflicted look, wanting him to somehow rescue you.

"Go on and have fun." He chuckled, leaning back in his seat. You sighed as you let the others lead you away to the theatre room to game. Of course, they wouldn't have brought you to Yunho and Jongho's computer room to game. It was too risky and there might be important information scattered around.

"Don't be late for dinner!" Seonghwa yelled as you all went upstairs. Hongjoong shook his head with a laugh and wiped his mouth with the napkin before standing.

"Where are you headed?" His best friend asked him.

"A nap. All I see are Jongho's numbers in my head and it's hurting my brain." Hongjoong yawned.

"Aren't you going to join them to game? (y/n) might appreciated your support as she competes against the rest." Seonghwa stated with an amused smile.

"I know what you're trying to do and I'm telling you to stop that. It'll embarrass her and make things awkward." Hongjoong glared.

"I'm not doing anything~" Seonghwa sang innocently and the two went upstairs to their rooms.

"You're becoming more human, Joong. And that's not necessarily a bad thing." The taller said before entering his bedroom. Hongjoong opened his mouth to clear his confusion but decided against it and entered his bedroom. He leaned against his closed door.

"More... human..." He repeated Seonghwa's words, heading to his bathroom to wash his face and change out of his business suit so he could nap comfortably.

"Oh my gosh! I won!" You jumped up and cheered, hi-fiving Yunho.

"Beginner's luck!" The other 3 competing against you excused, making you roll your eyes.

"You guys are such sore losers." You pointed at them. Mingi boo'ed, Wooyoung jeered at you with a thumbs down and Jongho demanded a rematch.

"You were great, (y/n)." San and Yeosang shot you encouraging smiles with thumbs up.

"Thank you, peanut gallery." You curtsied.

"No, no, no. Rematch! And we won't go easy anymore. Get ready to lose!" Jongho growled, showing just how competitive he is.

"Sorry, I don't race with losers I've already beat." You said with a confident shrug, making San, Yunho and Yeosang wince at your words. Of course, you were just joking.

"Okay, ONE rematch. You win again, you'll take the title of 'champion' and you have gloating rights!" Mingi stated, trying to negotiate with you. You rolled your eyes dramatically and sat back down, taking your controller back. Wooyoung cracked his fingers and neck while Jongho chugged his energy drink.

"You guys are so dramatic! She's just gonna beat you again!" San hollered at them. Luckily this room was sound proof because Hongjoong and Seonghwa would have definitely heard the shouting.

"Are you ready to lose?" Wooyoung nudged you.

"Ready to watch the back of my car the entire time?" You asked back. Yeosang shook his head while Yunho cheered.

"Go, (y/n)! Hurry up so we can have a turn!" Yunho yelled. Jongho loaded a new race. As the race counted down, the room grew silent. Only the game sounds were heard.

"It's 3 vs 1! That's unfair!" You screamed as you narrowly dodged the shell Mingi threw.

"Hey, play fair!" Yeosang said.

"All's fair in love and war." Jongho growled. Glancing at the other screens, you saw Wooyoung ready to launch a blue shell at you so you breaked and let Jongho go in front, only for the shell to hit him.

"Hyung!" Jongho roared as you laughed victoriously and raced forward as Jongho's character took 2 seconds to recover.

"Winner!" You shouted. San, Yeosang and Yunho ran to you to join your celebration, the group of you hugging each other and jumping in a circle like you won the Nobel Prize or something. Although, you were unaware you were being watched the entire time.

"What's all the ruckus?" Hongjoong raised an eyebrow as he walked in with Seonghwa beside him.

"I won!" You giggled.

"She beat all of them, twice." Yunho informed the oldest two. They had amused looks on their faces. With how competitive everyone is, they were surprised your beat them twice.

"Now, a celebration dinner awaits. And I'm pretty sure you were granted gloating rights?" Seonghwa asked.

"Of course." You grinned.

"Aww, we didn't get to play yet!" Yunho, Yeosang and San complained but Seonghwa was not going to have his dinner delayed. He turned the game off and ushered the boys out of the theatre.

"I think you'll fit in just fine, (y/n). If you can handle them, you can handle anything." Hongjoong chuckled.

~

Series masterlist

[tightjeansjavi]

Double-Edged Sword - “Bite Me”

A/N: sorry it's taken me a minute to post the next part of this ;-; my writing lately is just not where I would like it to be, but try I must! I do really enjoy writing the dynamic between Geta and his Empress :3 she's his ultimate match and I personally think they are perfect for each other! Thank you again to my wife @johnnyst0rm for feeding my brain rot for these two & @songbirdmunson and @magicalmysterytour13 for listening to me yap! Thank you for reading <3 wc: 5.2k Summary: Geta learns about a vital artery in his neck...the carotid artery! Warnings: no smut, but heavy on the sexual tension and pining, belittling, teasing, degradation, no mention of age but reader and Geta are in their 20's, reader has no physical descriptions but is Egyptian and a direct descendant of Cleopatra, Caracalla gets his own warning (again) mentions of death, blood, wounds, (don't read if that stuff makes you queasy) Macrinus gets his own warning (who the fuck invited him to the senate meeting?) +18 minors dni! if I missed anything PLEASE let me know. Remember this is fiction

Pairing | Emperor Geta x empress!reader translations: anaticula - duckling vita mea - my life amica mea - my beloved amasiuncula - darling/sweetheart

Geta was unaware how many hours had passed, but he was unfortunately aware of how many times Senator Thraex had repeated himself in the past five minutes. The older man stumbled over his words and he swallowed thickly, combing his fingers through his hair (lack thereof). Visible sweat pooled along the back of his neck and his eyes darted around the room with visible nervousness. The eldest emperor leaned over towards his brother who wore a bored expression upon his face until Geta whispered something for only his ears and he immediately broke out into a grin, lips curving upwards. They exchanged a hidden glance, brown and blue eyes sparkling like a pair of perfectly carved marbles. 

“Senator Thraex,” Geta said in a smooth drawl, tapping his ringed fingers against the table methodically. He slumped back against the chair for a moment before he leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “Shall we call for a healer? You look…unwell.” 

Silence washed over the senators…and Macrinus? Why was he present? Geta could not remember. He was neither a senator or politician; he was just a wealthy man with a stable of gladiators at his disposal, and yet he somehow charmed his way into the twins' entourage it seemed. 

Caracalla snickered alongside his twin, eyes narrowed on the older man with scrutiny. His head cocked to the side, and he parted his lips as if he were about to speak, but Macrinus cut him off from the opposite end of the table. 

“Forgive the senator, your majesties,” Macrinus bowed his head slightly, dark eyes cast downwards to his clasped hands resting in his lap. “He had a rather late night I’m afraid.” 

“Haven’t we all?” Geta chuckled and his brows raised in amusement. He pushed himself up from his chair a silent signal that this meeting was adjourned, finally. “The hour is late, and as much as the conversation regarding trade routes is the most riveting, I cannot bear to listen to Senator Thraex repeat himself, again.” He was looking directly at Macrinus now, studying him briefly as if he was searching for something…for what he did not know. But something about the man caused him unease. 

Senator Thraex’s face paled and his lips opened and closed rapidly like a gaping fish. He sputtered out an apology, one that was silently brushed off like a pesky gnat on fruit. 

The twins were the first to leave the room, their bodies moving like siamese cats and their Praetorians trailed behind them as they entered the vacant hallway to return to their own quarters. Dondus had made a real nest of Caracalla's hair and chittered softly.

“Brother,” Geta said alongside him, his hands clasped behind his back, brows furrowed, a sign that he was deeply in thought. “Do you know why Macrinus was present this evening?” 

The younger twin shrugged and reached up to fiddle with one of his earrings, rolling the heavy gold between his ringed fingers before releasing it. “I haven’t a clue. Was he…not supposed to be in the meeting?” 

Geta huffed and dropped his hands from behind his back and twisted his rings on his fingers instead. He glanced over his shoulder and past their Praetorians as if he was paranoid someone could be following them. “He had no business being involved. He is not a senator, nor an advisor.” 

“Yes, but he is rich. Rich men always have their way of getting a seat at a table they are not invited to,” Caracalla said with a giggle, nudging his hip against his brothers. “You are so tense, Geta.” 

“I am not tense,” Geta hissed under his breath. “I am exhausted, and I did not expect the discussion of fucking trade routes to last that many hours.” 

“Ah, you are tense!” Caracalla teased and poked him on the shoulder. “Hopefully your empress is in a fair mood when you return to her. Surely she can help you unwind.” 

“Doubtful,” the older twin grumbled. “The most affection I’ll receive from her is practically nonexistent. She always makes me work for it,” he droned. “I should not have to grovel for sex from my wife like I am some common beggar.” 

“Well, had you not foolishly sent your concubines away…” Caracalla trailed off, blue eyes glinting under the torchlights they passed. “You would not have to grovel for your needs to be met. It’s almost as if you like it!”  He gasped, pupils expanding. “She has turned you into a masochist!” 

Geta’s cheeks felt hot and he tucked his chin into his shoulder to hide the blooming redness that spread like a rash from his brother. He could feel the prickling sense of shame creep up the exposed skin along the back of his neck as if his empress were there, alongside him now, whispering against his ear, hot breath fanning his skin and causing goosebumps to appear. 

My whiny, pathetic, little anaticula. 

His breath hitched in his throat at the sound of her enticing voice invading his subconscious. He could even feel the scrape of her nails against his scalp, drawing blood from how hard she would tug on his golden roots. His knees threatened to buckle. The sensation was so strong, so visceral that he blindly reached for his brother's elbow, clamping down harshly. 

“Perhaps you are the one in need of a healer, brother,” Caracalla snickered. “It is like she has bewitched you and casted a spell upon you.” 

“Shut up,” Geta whispered and removed his hand and straightened his posture. “I told you I was exhausted. Don’t read deeper into it. I am well.” His tone said otherwise, but Caracalla made no further comments regarding his brother's crumbling demeanor. 

“Well, rest easy. I, on the other hand, will be having the most delightful evening with my concubines. Tell the empress I wish her a fair evening,” Caracalla said with a wink and parted from his side to return to his own chambers, his Praetorians peeling off from Geta’s. 

The eldest emperor muttered something under his breath, shaking his head and marched forward down the hall. Outside of his and the empress’s chamber he paused behind the door. What version of her would greet him tonight? He wondered. She was always hot and cold; unpredictable. He loved it. He loved her. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

He pushed open the door and addressed his Praetorians with a curt nod before he slipped inside and let the ornate carved wood swing shut behind him. He expected that she would be asleep by now, but their bed was still perfectly made up and untouched. Candles flickered from the bedside tables and he was greeted with the scent of incense burning; frankincense. 

“Empress?” He called for her as he strode further into the room. He was greeted with…nothing. If he wasn’t tense and wound up before now he truly was. If the meeting hadn’t stretched for as long as it had, maybe he would have been calm and thinking sensibly, but that was not the case. 

“I am not in the mood for games tonight,” he muttered to himself and made quick, almost frantic steps around the general area. First going to the attached balcony because he knew she liked to sit and stargaze on clear nights, but she was not there either. He loudly cursed, causing a grouping of birds to scatter at the sound of his booming voice. 

He called for her again as he whipped around on his heel, his footsteps heavy along the marble flooring. Had he taken a moment to breathe and collect himself, he would have noticed that his wife was directly to his left when he first walked into their room…but the emperor did not know the art of collecting oneself from crashing out. 

The empress had been practicing her calligraphy at her little vanity area, and when the emperor strode in, calling for her in that desperate tone of his, she couldn’t help but sit back and watch silently. 

The fool. She mused to herself. 

Had she not revealed herself with the faintest giggle, he would have torn up the entire room to find her. 

“HAVE YOU BEEN THERE THE ENTIRE TIME?!” He screeched from where he stood, bewildered at the sound of her ringing giggle coming from the opposite end of their massive living quarters. His skin was flushed, and his hair appeared disheveled from where he had raked his fingers through it frantically. 

The empress folded her hands to rest against her chin, staring at him unnervingly. “The entire time, yes,” she echoed his words with a curved grin appearing on her lips. Her wedding band winked at him under candlelight almost condescendingly—mockingly. 

“And you thought…to say nothing?” he crossed his arms over his chest, feeling his heartbeat still racing out of his rib cage. “Instead you just sat there and watched me make a fool of myself?” He huffed and dropped his arms and flopped down against the edge of the duvet dramatically. 

She rolled her eyes at his theatrics and set her pen down alongside the parchment and stood up. “I enjoyed watching you lose your mind, husband. It was rather entertaining to watch you turn to a state of panic.” 

He sat up almost immediately from the duvet, umber eyes narrowing at her unnervingly calm appearance. “When I call for you, I expect you to answer,” he said firmly. There he was. All bark and no bite, right on schedule. 

She laughed at this because he was just too predictable when he got into one of these mood swings where he experienced a delusion of grandeur where he actually believed he had a semblance of control over her. 

“What am I, your dog?” She scoffed and walked over to where he was sitting, his thighs falling open naturally at her approach as if on command. 

“You heard me, amica mea. I call for you and you answer. Do we have an understanding?” he said with an arched brow, his stern gaze beginning to falter and weaken when she had come to stand between his spread thighs and leaned down over him, her hands coming to rest against his shoulders. Her touch immediately sent a spark of flames igniting under his finely crafted dress robe. 

“No,” she said coolly, and then she slowly lowered herself into his lap much to his surprise. “Anaticula,” she hummed and moved one of her hands from his shoulders and brought it towards his head. At first he thought the gesture was to comfort him, and he imagined her raking her fingers through his golden tresses, but instead she did the unthinkable; she wretched his laurels from their place upon his head and tossed them to the floor, far from his reach. The crown clattered against the marble, bouncing once before it rolled to the opposite side of the room. “What was that you were saying just now?” 

His mouth ran dry as he watched the symbol of his power discarded in such a deliberate and careless fashion. He should have struck her then and put her in her rightful place, but before he could even raise his hand, she was grabbing his wrists and throwing them above his head, pinning them to the mattress. He could easily overpower her, but he was too stunned to move and it felt as if he was locked under her gaze, frozen and trapped. “I answer when I choose to, husband,” she said just above a whisper. 

“I should reprimand you, wife, for your bold actions,” he snarled through clenched teeth. “How dare you remove my crown. How dare you disrespect me. How dare you not answer when I call for you. How dare you—”

His words were lodged in his throat like an obstruction in his airway when she slipped her freehand down between their bodies where his thighs were still slightly spread beneath her and pushed open the fabric there with no resistance. She was surprised to find him bare beneath her touch—that was more Caracalla’s style. As soon as her nimble fingers were wrapped around him, he whimpered and melted like hot candle wax. She squeezed hard, and in tandem his eyes rolled back into his skull. 

“P-peace, vita mea,” he breathlessly pleaded. Tears began to well when she squeezed harder as if her hand was like a coiling snake constricting around its defenseless prey. Visions of her ripping his precious cock from his body danced behind trembling lids. The scariest part? He knew she was capable of such horrors. 

“Have you no respect for yourself, husband? Did you really sit in a room full of crotchety old senators and your brother with nothing beneath your clothing?” she sneered and leaned over him, the bridge of her nose brushed against his cheek before she pulled back slightly so she could look directly in his eyes. “Oh,” she sighed and sank further into his lap. “You thought tonight would go smoothly, and in your favor, yes?” 

“I-I-” he stumbled over his words, unable to think properly, not with her gripping him like a vice, and her words lashing at him like a whip. 

“You left that meeting thinking that tonight would be the night that you put me in my so-called place, hm? That I will finally submit to you. Am I on the right track?”

“Please—I’m sorry, empress. Forgive me. Please. Please. Please,” he begged, hoping she would be merciful. He would be nothing without his manhood—nothing. Yet, despite his very tangible fear, his body reacted differently. The fear only seemed to electrify him further as blood flowed southwards and he grew thick and heavy in her hand. 

“Oh, my whiny, pathetic, little anaticula,” she cooed, “you’re shaking like a leaf,” she giggled and gradually loosened her grip before she released him from her clutches entirely. “Did you really think that I was about to rip your precious cock from your body? Oh, you poor thing.” 

All he could do was blankly stare up at her and listen to the blood rushing in his ears and his heart pounding in his rib cage. His breathing was unsteady even after she had assured him that she wasn’t about to castrate him. His wrists went limp in her hold and he was positively speechless until she lifted herself from her lap completely. He was released from her possessive grip and he struggled to sit up along his elbows as she started to walk away like nothing had transpired. 

“Where—where are you going?” he found his voice again but barely. “Come here,” he beckoned her as he pulled himself up into an upright position. “Please.” 

“Are you going to be nice?” she answered back and turned around to face him. She was not expecting to be met with what looked like a wounded puppy. She expected he would have found his own fire again and stoked it. No, instead his dark chocolate eyes were glistening as if he were about to cry.  “I swear it, amasiuncula,” he said in the quietest tone he could muster. His eyes flickered down to his lap briefly before returning his focus to her. He didn’t want to jinx his luck (not that he had much to begin with) . He watched her with a hooded gaze as she crossed the short distance between them and situated herself in his lap once more. This time, however, she placed one hand flat against his chest as if she were about to push him down against the duvet again, and the other crept around the crown of his head.

“You’re such a cocktease,” he whispered through clenched teeth when her fingers gripped the root of his hair tight enough to make him wince from the sudden sharp pain blooming in his skull. He hesitantly draped his arms around her waist, yanking her forwards so their bodies were flushed together. “What were you doing that prevented you from answering when I called for you, wife?”

“Calligraphy,” she said with a low hum and gradually loosened her grip around his hair, opting to cradle his jaw instead. Her hand that was pressed flat against his chest slipped under the opening of his robes, feeling his heart skip a beat under her sudden gentle caress. Her fingers splayed against his sternum, nails gently scraping pale skin.

“Calligraphy?...” he echoed and cocked his head to the side in confusion. “Where is that?”

“...What?”

“Calligraphy,” he clarified.

“I don’t understand.”

He huffed in annoyance. “It is a country…is it not?”

“Calligraphy isn’t a country, anaticula,” she laughed. “It’s fancy penmanship,” she explained. Normally his lack of basic education was an embarrassment and nuisance, but she found it oddly endearing for once.

“Oh,” he whispered, nodding. His cheeks were flushed red, like one of the ruby stones on his rings. I should know what calligraphy is. He thought to himself. “Can you…show me?”

“That would require me getting up, husband. Are you positive you want that?” She tapped the side of his jaw with her pointer finger and pressed the tip of her thumbnail against his plush lower lip, watching his pupils dilate from the motion.

“Another time.” he tightened his grip around her waist, letting his freehand sneak upwards against the curve of her spine. He was always needing to be touching her in some way. He craved that skin-to-skin contact. “Will you kiss me…please?”

“That's all you want?” she teased, almost as if she was testing him.

“That’s all I desire from you, Empress. A simple kiss. I have been craving one all day, and the meeting with the senate lasted longer than I expected. All I could think about was you,” he admitted.

“Oh, anaticula,” she murmured with fake sympathy, but he couldn’t tell the difference if it had slapped him across the face. “Why didn’t you say that from the very beginning?” She didn’t wait for him to respond as she slowly closed the gap between them, moving her thumb to his chin so she could properly kiss him. Before their lips could even touch his long lashes were fluttering shut in anticipation. The moment would have been tender had she not sunk her teeth into his lower lip as if she were tearing into a chunk of meat. She bit down on the flesh so hard, she drew blood and he let out a surprise grunt, swiping his tongue across the wound to collect the fresh bead of blood that pooled to the surface. 

“Did you just–did you fucking bite me?!” he asked in bewilderment and pulled his face back slightly, but she was holding his head in place now and he couldn’t escape. “I said I wanted a kiss.” “That was a kiss. Don’t complain or act greedy, husband,” she warned. “Give me another one then,” he challenged and she surged forward, smashing her lips against his in a bruising kiss that had him seeing stars behind his eyes and left him struggling to remember to breathe. When she clamped down on his lip again, the same spot she previously wounded, he did not pull away. Fight fire with fire. He moaned unashamedly into the kiss, silently praying to the gods to let this passion last and not fizzle. He did not want to go to bed with pent up frustrations–god forbid. He pawed at her thin, almost see-through nightdress and went to slip the finely woven straps down her shoulders so more of her skin was exposed, but she grabbed his wrists and pinned them behind his head once more. A frustrated growl clawed its way up from the back of his throat when she asserted herself as the one in control again. “Please,” he begged. “Let me touch you, vita mea. Gods–let me worship you,” he mumbled against their locked lips.

She ignored the desperation behind his words and parted from the kiss much to his dismay. A thin thread of saliva kept them tethered together before it dissipated into the balmy air that surrounded them. She nipped at his chin and jaw, biting down hard enough to leave indents of her teeth in his skin. He squirmed like a worm pierced on a hook. 

His breathless pleas echoed through their chambers, ricocheting off the high marble walls. He never was one to beg—for anything, but she emasculated him as if it was her duty; her purpose. To crush him as if he were some helpless bug. A deity and her devoted worshipper. 

Her lips began their descent down his neck, nipping at the vulnerable skin there. If only he knew how easy it would be for her to tear his throat out with her canines. If only he knew—

“You’ll take what I give you, anaticula, and you will be grateful.” 

“Yes, of course,” he gasped. “I will be grateful—I swear it!”  My desperate, needy, pathetic, little anaticula 

Her lips hovered at his throat, hot breath fanned his skin and sent shivers and a tingling sensation all throughout his body. “You don’t even know what it is that you will be grateful for, husband,” she said, chuckling. It was moments like these where he was truly….pathetic. 

“I—I don’t understand,” he said, confusion laced in his tone. 

“What if what it is that I desire to give you is…death? Will you still be grateful then?” 

Her emotionally charged words and casual delivery of them hung heavy in the air. Suddenly he was silent, forgetting to breathe and a sense of dizziness embedded with fear washed over him. The color seemed to drain from his face and he swallowed hard. His empress watched with great intrigue at the way he grew tense. She could even hear his saliva travel down his throat. 

“Cat got your tongue?” she said in amusement and nuzzled her nose against the thick vein protruding from his neck. “My love, are you the slightest bit aware of  how vulnerable you are for me right now?” 

He shook his head dumbly, feeling his heart begin to race. In tandem, all the blood seemed to rush southwards despite his brain activating into its frantic state of flight. That unfamiliar sense of fear was thrilling in itself. He felt entirely out of control—and he loved it. 

“If I bite you, right here…” she trailed off as she pressed her lips to the same vein she was nuzzling against. “You’ll bleed out. All I have to do is bite hard enough through your flesh to reach this very vital vein, and you will die.” 

His eyes rolled back into his skull and he groaned through clenched teeth. “Fuck,” he said with a choked, nervous laugh, “my brother was right about you. He claimed that you would be the cause of my demise, and you’ll no sooner kill me if I am not cautious, and he was right.” 

“Yet, you seem unafraid, husband,” she said against his skin, biting softly, enough to cause his hardened cock to jump under the thin layers he wore. 

“I am terrified,” he clarified, clearing his throat. “Terrified…and intrigued. How do you know of such things? Tell me what the vital vein in my neck is called. Educate me, I implore you.” 

“It is called the carotid artery. It is vital because it supply’s your brain with oxygenated blood from your heart. Should it be torn, you would inevitably bleed out.”

“Fascinating,” he breathed out, imagining what that must feel like to have one’s throat ripped open by the teeth of another. 

“Are you…well?” she questioned him with caution. 

“Of course I am. I may be frightened by your knowledge on how to kill me, but if you were to, would you not have done it by now? If you loathe me so greatly, then make me bleed. I am at your mercy, empress. Rip my throat open if you so desire,” he said challengingly. 

“You willingly…wish to die?” she pulled her face back from his neck to look him in the eyes. 

“At your hand, yes. I have always pondered what death feels like. I have witnessed so much of it in my short time. Tell me,” he said, humming, his pupils beginning to darken as he licked his lips. “Would the blood spurt, or flow thickly? How long would it take before I would die? Would you swallow the chunk of flesh you’d rip from me?” he said in an excitable tone, his expression manic. 

“Have you been possessed?!”she exclaimed in pure disbelief, laughing and he couldn’t help but laugh with her. 

“By you, always! Heart, body, mind, soul, you have possessed me, amica mea. You have turned me into a mere flesh sack. How enthralling!” he giggled. “Tell me, where else upon my body could you bite me that would be fatal?”

And here I was led to believe that Calla was the more unhinged freak. 

“There are veins in your wrist. Have you ever noticed them?” she reached for his arm and gently turned it over in her palm to expose the thin, intricate veins that were embedded under his skin. She brushed her thumb across them in a slow sweep. 

He watched her with hooded eyes and utter intrigue. “Yes, I have traced them with my own fingers many times before,” he said softly, his eyes flickering upwards to her face before focusing on the movement of her thumb against his wrist. 

“Well, if these veins, right here, were to be cut, you’d also bleed out. Perhaps more slowly than the artery in your neck, but death would come regardless.” she brought that same wrist to her lips and pressed a featherlight kiss in the juncture between the base of his palm and beginning of his wrist. 

“How…do you know all of this? Anatomy was never a lesson my brother and I were taught. Nor have I ever heard of a Roman woman speak of such topics. It makes me wonder…have you ever killed a man with your bare teeth alone, amica mea?” 

She smiled against his skin, pressing another kiss to the inside of his wrist before gently releasing it from her grasp. “That entirely has to do with the fact that Romans prepare their dead entirely differently than we Egyptians do. You know of what the basic human body parts are and their functions, but what lies beneath? You have only ever bared to witness it in the Colosseum.” 

He mulled her words over thoroughly and thoughtfully. “I suppose that is…correct. Will you educate me further, please? I want to know more about your culture. Indulge me,” he said in earnest and grabbed her hands, interlocking their fingers together. 

The empress took her lower lip between her teeth, chewing on the soft skin in contemplation. She did  not expect him to be so interested to learn the rich history and workings of her culture, but the sentiment caused her heart to swell. “Well, when an Egyptian dies, their internal organs are harvested, except the heart as it is considered vital for the afterlife. Then, the body is covered in a natural salt to absorb any remaining moisture. The final step is wrapping the body in linen before it is placed inside of a coffin.” 

He hung onto every word she spoke, his attention was focused solely on her. The city could be on fire and he would not care. 

“Why is the heart considered to be vital for the afterlife?” 

She slowly dropped one of their interlaced hands so she could slip her fingers through the small opening in his robes and place her hand against his heart. “Because, anaticula, in my culture the heart is viewed as the seat of intelligence, memory, and emotions. The weight of a person's heart is judged after death to determine their fate in the afterlife.” 

“Judged?…as in…if the person is deemed to be good or evil?” he cocked his head to the side, his lips parting slightly before closing again.

“Precisely. The heart is weighed against the feather of Ma’at, the goddess of truth and justice. If the heart weighs less than the feather, the deceased is then allowed to enter the afterlife.” 

“And if the heart weighs more than the feather? What lies in the fate of the deceased then?” 

“The heart is devoured by the monster Ammit, and the soul of the deceased is damned for eternity.” 

“Wicked,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Well, when I am to die, I wish to be buried the Egyptian way.” 

“Geta…” she trailed off and slowly dragged her hand to rest against his neck, curving her fingers around his jaw. “Do not speak of such things. What if someone were to—”

“To hear me?” He laughed, shaking his head. “No one is present but you and I. Who is to hear of the words I speak? Besides, I am an emperor. If I wish to be buried a certain way, no one has the authority to speak against it.” 

She pressed a surprise kiss to his lips, feeling his body melt against her as if he was wax from a burning candle. “You need to stop being a romantic,” she mumbled against his lips and slowly lowered his back to rest against the duvet. “You are not supposed to be a romantic.” 

“Are you requesting I stop, or demanding?” He said in a low murmur that sent a warmth flowing straight down to her core. He kissed her back deeply and brought his hand to rest at the small of her back, right where her spine would curve beneath his touch.

“Neither.” 

———-

The following morning started off as any other; the twins in the garden and the sun warming their faces as their many servants attended to them. Breakfast was swiftly prepared for the emperors, and while Caracalla was busy feeding ripened fruit to Dondus, Geta was writing. 

Dear diary, 

Last night I learned many things. First, I learned that my wife can murder me with her teeth alone. I also learned that there is a vital vein in my neck called the carotid artery! If she were to tear my throat open, I would surely bleed out and die. 

I also learned that calligraphy is not a country, and I am a masochist when it comes to her. 

The thought of her being capable of murdering me is enthralling! I imagine my poor father is rolling in his grave at what I have turned into, but damn him! I have never felt more alive in my life and it is all because of her.

Vita Mea. 

She likes it when I kiss and suck here—

“What are you giggling about over there, hm?” Caracalla said from the opposite end of the table, breaking his brother's intense focus. 

“Nothing that would concern you,” the eldest emperor snapped back. 

The parchment was suddenly ripped from where it lay in front of him and now was in the possession of his twin. Caracalla’s wild, manic cackle echoed through the gardens as his eyes skimmed the inked words that had not yet fully dried. “Calligraphy is not…a country,” he snickered. “Gods, did you really think it was, brother?” 

“Give that back, Caracalla!” Geta rose from his seat with a narrowed look at his kin. 

“Where does the empress like to be kissed and sucked, Geta?” Caracalla asked with a wolfish grin. “Pray tell!” 

“NONE OF YOUR CONCERN!” 

“Are you all there in the head?! You find it enthralling that she’s capable of murdering you?!” 

“STOP READING IT OUTLOUD!” Geta yelled, his voice cracking. 

And from the balcony above, unbeknownst to the emperors, the empress watched the two brothers bicker like the spoiled brats they were. 

“Calla, keep reading!” she yelled from above, a pleasant grin playing on her lips. “I’m deeply intrigued to hear more!” 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Geta screeched, flapping his arms like he was a wild bird. “DO NOT ENCOURAGE HIM!”

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[coquettepascal]

felicitas and her general

summary: general acacius has caught your attention after being the first mortal to worship you in decades. you only face one challenge: don't get too attached.

warnings: rated g, contains spoilers for gladiator ii, follows the timeline of the movie somewhat, reader is the goddess felicitas (who is the goddess of good luck,) this fic is basically just an add on to the movie.

tags: goddess!reader x general acacius, emotional infidelity, lots of roman mythology stuff, writer is basing all her knowledge out of what she remembers from PJO and HoO, worship, complicated feelings, marcus does not cheat on lucilla physically, yearning, pining, grieving, guilt, major character death(s), stalking (kind of), a lot of obsession/dedication, angst, hurt no comfort but also hurt with comfort.

a/n: i watched gladiator ii and then was too emotionally devastated to finish this fic the way i planned. i really hope you all like this!! also, this fic is also dedicated to my dear friend @pascalssbabyy because she is my biggest cheerleader and i love her <33

wc: 7.2k (not beta read)

It was he who woke you.

A quiet sacrifice in the evening that felt like the freshest breath of air you could have, more intense than what you could have atop any mountain, near any spring. The scent of burning meat and smokey vegetables grasped at your lungs, and you almost choked on it. How long had it been since someone had offered you something so kind? Real food, not just scraps of something they didn’t wish for. 

You’d never complain about how difficult it is to be a minor Goddess, you know that you could be a mortal, but most don’t think of how Gods can fade. It’s a physical process, one where you’d notice how your fingertips passed through things like chalices and bowls, how a spoon slid through your hand once. The clatter of gold on the table was embarrassing, even though you were alone. Nothing about being forgotten, or fading, physically hurt. It was only mentally taxing, knowing that you weren’t as important as you once were, that mortals found you insignificant.

Generals used to come and offer things frequently sometime ago, but you couldn’t even begin to understand how long ago that was. When you’re immortal, or supposed to be, mortal lives seem fleeting. You had taken them for granted, and regret it now, for all you have now are the empty clouds above your temple. 

The last offering you can gather was from a young boy, who wanted to win a board game against his sister the next day. He had given you half a bun with strips of meat. Sure, it was thoughtful, but this was something rich. 

You finish inhaling the offering, and then hear the offerer's voice. But it’s muffled, and you want to see who it is anyways, so you swipe through the clouds and create a window to see. Then you can hear him clearly.

Someone who is clearly a general kneels at your altar, which is chipped and dirty. The ashes of the food are in front of him, smoking still, and you can taste the wealth in his meal. It can’t distract you from him though, he is striking.

Broad shoulders support a heavy, curly, grey, head of hair, which is bowed in honor of you. His body is widely built, sturdy for battle, and his voice is just as powerful. You’re so focused on hearing his voice you only catch the tail end of his request.

“... Allow me to come home safely, if not for Rome, then for my wife.”

Your heart squeezes, and you swear you can feel the ichor gushing through your veins. Scarcely when a General came to give you an offering all those years ago would he mention a wife, only ever wishing for luck in the upcoming battle or war. But here, now, you’ve been given a respectful request and offering. It isn’t a thought in your mind to not favor him now, your eyes closing and your mouth murmuring a blessing to him. It feels intoxicating to use some of your power again, especially on someone who asked for it. It also feels intoxicating to watch this General leave.

He looks around before he goes, seeming to note how degraded your small temple has become. The statue of you that lies ahead of your altar is yellowing, and ironically, multiple fingers have broken off. The General seems displeased by this, sighing as he exits the temple.

His gait is heavy, sandaled steps weighted as he walks down them and into the torch-lit night. You find yourself looking for him even after he’s disappeared from your sight, the warmth of gratefulness hugging around you. Part of you knows better than to play around with the thought, but still you wish to know more about him.

—

It worsens when he comes back. A few times a week he returns, offering rich foods. It’s been a month now, and you are coming back to life.

Fading didn’t feel like anything, but coming back feels like so much more. The first few offerings had your body feeling alight again, like the ichor in you was flowing again, but within the last two weeks you’ve gotten your fingertips back. They were tingling for a day and then the next you were able to properly grasp things again, nothing was slipping through you.

In that time you had also learned his name. A guard had come looking for him one night, and stood behind him whilst he prayed. You had found yourself smiling when he didn’t interrupt himself, instead acting aggravated once he had finished. The guard had apologized for interrupting and let him know that “Your wife wishes to speak to you, General Acacius.”

Acacius. 

You still don’t know his first name, but it is enough. You can think of it when you feel lonely, when you are bored. Something to associate with the offerings, with the blessings. The fact he has been so consistent hints at a desperation, which would usually repel you from blessing him, but he is the only one who seems to recognize you. His efforts are not going to go unseen by you, not when you have so little to do.

You can feel yourself conceding to your need to know him more, but just as you begin to fight yourself again, he shows up.

Tonight he’s dressed a little nicer. Usually he arrives in a plain tunic but this one has golden trim on it, and his hair is a little more tousled. He stumbles into your altar holding something in a cloth, but he’s walking like he’s… drunk? 

Acacius meanders to your altar, grabbing a torch along the way, and then empties the contents of the cloth. It produces a small dessert bun, a Libum, or honey cheesecake, and your mouth waters. So much of the food that is given to you is savory meats, masculine foods that are heavy on the senses, but this is sweet and delicate. You can, of course, eat whatever you’d like. You’re a Goddess, and though you aren’t major, you are still very fortunate.

But this feels thoughtful.

The General drops to his knees after lighting the bun ablaze, swaying slightly, and now you know he must be drunk.

“Goddess Felicitas,” he begins as normal, “I am sorry I am later than usual. Though I don’t know if Goddesses sleep. I was… caught up in other affairs, but I made it in time.”

He is less eloquent than usual and seems particularly focused on how it is nearly past midnight.

“I brought you this though,” he gestures to the half burnt bun. “I wanted to bring you something different than meat and… things. I thought a dessert would be fitting for that task.”

Acacius pauses now. His thoughts are probably muddled from whatever he drank, and you find yourself smiling. Foolery has never been so endearing to you.

“You have been listening to me, I suppose. My requests for luck in battle have been answered, as well as my safety being ensured. Your blessings have brought my wife peace of mind, something I could not previously afford to her.”

He looks so small in your temple tonight. Normally he is not so vulnerable, but his shoulders sag as he mentions his wife. Some sort of shame runs over him at the idea that he could not ease his wife’s worries, but it makes you feel better that you could help. 

“Goddess Felicitas, I come here tonight bearing no requests, just gratitude. Your blessings have soothed wounds I could not see, and I feel like a young soldier again. You invigor me.” 

Then, he leaves. 

You watch helplessly as he stumbles back down the steps and away from your temple, and more than ever you wish to chase him. The love he has for his wife is clear, and you hold no jealousy of that, but you wish it were you. Something in you is deeply attached to this General now. He has awoken you so much more than rekindling your power as a goddess, more than releasing you from the grief that comes with fading. Yes, Acacius has made your heart beat again, your mind curious again, and you feel seen. Being worshipped is not the same as being loved, if that were true you’d have had many children by now, 

But after so long being forgotten, this feels like what you remember being loved as.

—

You try not to interact with the other Gods for the most part. They tend to meddle in things they don’t need to, and are sensitive. You are not exempt from this stereotype, but that’s only more reason for the distance. 

But today, you venture to meet another deity.

Morpheus is not hard to find. He is pretty stationery where he is, usually lounging on a rock or bench near his temple, or above it in the clouds. He is a bit…dramatic, from what you remember, but wise. 

Today he is stretched out on a cloud above his temple, eyes shut. His pale skin stretches taut on his bones as his lean frame breathes deeply. But, he is not asleep. 

“Morpheus,” you speak. 

His body rolls toward your direction, eyes still shut, but a small smile on his face.

“O young goddess Felicitas, what brings you to me?” He questions.

It’s hard not to feel embarrassed. You’ve spoken to Morpheus on very rare occasions, but he’s always been somewhat helpful, though nosy. Dreams tell a lot about people, and when he’s the one giving them to people, it’s hard to hide anything at all.

You don’t want him to know of your true affection for General Acacius, just that he is… worthy of a visit. 

And so you begin to describe it to Morpheus, your need to visit Acacius. He doesn’t open his eyes at all, but he raises his eyebrows a lot and seems bemused at your situation. You’re only halfway through your rambling before he raises a gangly limb and waves at your words.

“Felicitas, you think you are the only Goddess wishing to visit her admirer? You need no explanation,” he says jovially. 

Morpheus reaches into the air and pulls 6 black berries into existence, then drops them into your open palm.

“When you know he is asleep, bite down on one of these and think of him,” he describes to you.

The berries smell like nothing, but a powdery residue is left on your skin as you roll them in your palm. It doesn’t repel you at all.

Tonight, you will visit him and express the same gratitude he did to you. 

—

Marcus lays next to his wife, Lucilla, with her hand in his. She fell asleep sometime ago, leaving him to lie awake by himself.

He didn’t make it to her temple tonight and the guilt is festering in his body. Marcus knows that she is a Goddess, that he probably isn’t a thought in her mind. He knows that he is just another whiney mortal, giving her food that isn’t nearly as good as whatever Gods eat. His insignificance grows as he feeds into his guilt. 

Stress has permeated his life for much of it, from his time as a young soldier up until now, as a General. Battles, politics, and his family, have created a breeding ground for him to be wracked with anxieties, but he stays strong. Thanks to his time in Felicitas temple, it’s been better.

Which is why failing to make it to her temple tonight is making him feel so bad.

He grabs at the linen sheets of his bed, stressing and trying to reassure himself until he falls asleep finally.

—

Being in a dream is weird. It feels much the same as it does when you disguise yourself as a mortal, the out of body experience is semi-familiar, but it’s weird because someone else is there.

You’ve been watching the General enjoy the lake in front of him for a few minutes now. He hasn’t slipped into it, but just walks along the waterline. It seems like he is looking for something. Surely his dreams usually contain more action, or perhaps are memories, so you assume it may be strangely understimulating for him.

The appearance you’ve chosen is one of modesty, but elegance. A seafoam green peplos hangs off your frame delicately, with golden clasps at the wrists and waist. You did your hair so it would be tucked out of your face. There is no guarantee that Acacius will recognize you like this, but you look much like your statue that’s within your temple.

Swallowing your nerves, you shimmer yourself into visibility. The grassy field is odd beneath your feet, and you walk toward him with uncertainty in each step. You’ve never met with a mortal before, and you haven’t stepped on anything earthy in a long while. His broad stature only becomes more daunting as you get closer, especially since he seems so focused.

You will have to speak first. You’re much too quiet in this environment, and you must act fast lest he wake before you get his attention.

“General Acacius,” you speak firmly, though your hands shake. 

This is so unfamiliar to you. You’ve barely even seen his face, as he’s usually bowed at your altar. It is the first time you’ll see him at an equal level, the first time you’ll have brought yourself to him rather than him to you. 

He turns quickly, an instinctual aggressiveness toward the unknown. You stand about 10 feet from him, eyes widening.

Acacius is striking. His nose is what you focus on first, strong in shape and line, but behind it are his eyes which look to you with wide acknowledgement. His hair curls around his head in greying ringlets, like a permanent laurel crowning him. The wide expanse of his back was once impressive, but now you can see the solid wall which he becomes when facing you. Nothing could push him over it seems, a man built to stand.

Your heart squeezes the way it did the first time he gave you a request, a tender rush tingling your whole body. No words come out of either of your mouths, and the General drops to one knee instantly. 

He recognizes you.

“Goddess Felicitas,” he rushes out in a breath. His chest is heaving as he bows his head and no, no this isn’t how you want this.

Your feet are moving before you can focus on your anxiety, bringing you so close to him that you can kneel too. Maybe a goddess should not kneel before a mortal general, but you are just on your knees rather than putting yourself below him. Your peplos billows a little as air rushes through it when you hit the grass.

He is above you like this, and you tilt your head to see his face again. His strong brow is furrowed, eyes squeezed shut like he is afraid of you. 

“Acacius,” you say softly, “I am not here for… for ill reason. Please relax yourself.”

You lean back as he relaxes, head tipping upwards as he kneels in front of you as well. Now you can meet his eyes, see the crinkles that are beside them, and really take him in.

An energy of anxiety is shared wordlessly, with him stiff from the sight of a literal goddess, and you with the fear of… something. 

The identity of your anxieties isn’t something that you can figure out. Maybe it’s too much to see such a handsome mortal, or maybe it’s that you’re going to thank him for his offerings so personally. Maybe it’s humiliation from this act. What would other Gods think of this? Is it not degrading to become so attached to a mortal? Are you no better than Zeus or Hermes, the gods who interact too intimately with mortals? 

The sound of his labored breathing alerts you, calls your attention back to the present moment. 

“I wanted to thank you,” you admit meekly, “for your offerings. You have been very generous and… devoted.”

His eyes are shifty, and you can see the terror in him still. You don’t want him to fear you, but you can understand why. Visits from Gods or other deities can mean trouble, but you aren’t significant like that.

“General Acacius you are the first mortal who has acknowledged me in a long time,” you offer a vulnerability, perhaps trying to soothe him.

It feels so backwards for you to be kneeling in front of him, speaking. He has done so in front of your altar for many weeks now, but now the spots are switched, yet you are still in power. You avert your gaze as you speak up, wanting to request something of him.

“You’ve been so generous to me, General, I was hoping to know more about you.”

And now, rather than scared, he seems suspicious. 

“To know me?” He clarifies. 

You nod.

“I only know your last name. I think I could offer more luck and splendor if we were more… personal.” 

Gods that felt awful to say. You’re no better than the whorish brutes on their thrones, offering petty glories for intimacy. Everything feels flirtatious but that’s not what you’re looking for. Acacius has a wife he clearly loves, you would never want to interrupt that. 

He seems to hesitate, but he knows he cannot refuse you. So far your blessings have brought ease to his life, he wouldn’t want to lose that.

“Then… yes, I suppose I can offer myself if it would please you.” He responds stoically. 

And it does please you, to know his name. Marcus Acacius, the one who woke you, the one who has saved you from being a fragmented memory within the temples. 

Marcus Acacius, who you are too fond of.

—

You visit him 3 more times. In an attempt to space out the usage of the berries Morpheus gave you, you only visit him once a week. The bleak tasting berries are sour on your tongue, a rotten sour which lingers once you wake up, but it’s worth it.

The two of you have grown closer, with Marcus opening up more. He tells you about the stresses in his life, how much anxiety is buried in him. But, he’s confident for the sake of his wife. You’ve learned that her name is Lucilla, and much more about her. Marcus talks about her a lot, in passing or retelling something she told him. In the small amount of time you’ve gotten to know him, you’ve gotten to know her as well.

It burns you with a strange warmth, a desire and envy which makes your stomach growl. You are hungry for him to admire you in the same way, to speak of you, but doesn���t he already? Shame grips your throat when you think of it. You are a Goddess who he sacrifices to, who he wishes to have blessings from. What more do you need? A mortal couldn't offer you what another deity could. 

After the fourth meeting, you found yourself lonely. Lazing back in the clouds above your temple, you woke with a deep hunger. Marcus is beautiful, an admirable man, and he loves passionately. You are already being such a glutton for even speaking with him, meeting with him repeatedly, so why must you yearn for him too? 

Worship isn’t enough, you want what you will never let yourself to have.

Nothing hints that he might feel similarly. His starry gaze which lands on you is not due to your beauty, your personality, or anything more. You have blessed him, and that is why his eyes glitter. Goddess status has never made you feel so low and isolated. Still, you are happy to help him achieve what he wishes, even as it cripples your heart.

Tonight you plan on visiting him. That fourth visit was a week and a half ago, he may be wondering where you are. He still comes to your altar each night, but the prayers are less personal. Marcus saves his stories and ramblings for when the two of you are in the field, or near the lake, when the two of you are really alone.

—

You bite into the berry at around midnight. Its tangy yet death-tasting juice floods your mouth, clinging to the crevices between your teeth and staining your gums. Closing your eyes, you think of Marcus, and his curls, and his eyes, and his nose, and his strong hands.

And then you are there, and he is waiting. 

It seems like his subconsciousness has picked to be at the lake today, and he’s sat in the sand at the edge of the water. You walk over to him, but notice how… down he appears to be.

“She is not happy with me,” Marcus confesses before you even sit down.

You stand a few feet back from him, looking at how his curls fall around his bowed head.

“Lucilla?” You ask softly.

He nods.

A wicked feeling begins to steep in your heart. She is upset with him, he is in need of you for something more than a blessing. 

And so you listen. 

It’s one of the longer meetings the two of you have had. Marcus doesn’t cry, but he seems truly upset. He’s been called to go off somewhere far again, to fight and kill. Reassurances that you will protect him as best you can only soothe him so much. 

He doesn't care if he dies, he cares that his beloved is distraught over this. 

The more the two of you talk, the closer you get. There are marks on the sand from where you originally sat, but now you kneel in front of him, with creased brows and worried eyes. This isn’t something you can fix, you aren’t familiar with love and its intricacies. 

His knees were tucked closer to his chest before, but they’ve loosened now and his fists rest atop them, clenching. Frustration sits on his face like a mask, one you wish to take off him.

Touching is not… something either of you partake in. Sometimes your shoulders will brush when you sit together, but nothing more has ever been initiated. 

That is why it doesn’t surprise you when he flinches as your hand reaches out to rest on top of his right clenched fist. 

“Marcus,” you say softly, wanting to offer comfort, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t,” he replies swiftly.

At first it hurts, watching as he waves off your hand from his own, but then you look at his face rather than where your hands were joined. The frustrated look on his face is gone, replaced with something worse, something guilty. His eyes aren’t glittering at you like usual, nor are they hardened with anger.

They’re soft pools of conflict that mirror your own.

It doesn’t soothe your burn, satiate your envy. You can see in his eyes that maybe you aren’t alone in these feelings of admiration, of want, but maybe this is not what you want.

Maybe you want a different universe, one where he doesn’t have to be a mortal and you, a Goddess. So you wouldn’t have to worry about him dying, and have this friendship survive off death flavored berries. Maybe you want a universe where he isn’t married, where he could be yours and you wouldn’t feel like a spectator to his heart.

Maybe you want that, but you won’t get it.

Instead the flames of jealousy die in your chest and are replaced with tumors of guilt. Your whole body feels bloated, embarrassed, and ugly. 

The pair of you stare at each other, a stupid realization between the both of you as you realize that your secrets have been spilled, even though it’s the same one.

His eyes don’t move from yours, so you move from his.

The sandy edge of the lake does not look so bright now, even though there are no clouds in Marcus’s dream. 

“When do you leave?” You ask softly. 

You will not follow him into whatever battle he’ll win. Don’t embarrass yourself, Goddess.

He tells you two weeks. You say you’ll see him before then.

Then you wake on a cloud again, with a cavity of guilt in your chest.

—

Marcus wakes alone. 

Lucilla had not wanted to sleep with him that night, choosing to stay elsewhere. She didn’t tell him where, she left in a quiet flurry of tears and anguish.

It’s easier for him to feel guilt over his Goddess than it is to hurt his beloved, even if it is the same.

In a moment of frustration he grasps at the sheets, turning over and biting at his pillow. The bed is so cold, and the room smells like stale air even though the window is open, the night breezy. 

He knows she is beautiful because she is a Goddess. All Goddesses are beautiful, ethereal beings that mortals cannot even comprehend at times. Marcus knows he is lucky to even perceive her, for her to have chosen to visit him.

Yet through all her blessings, he feels cursed.

A plague of emotional infidelity is crawling through his body, sticking to his bones and making him stiff. Everything he does has felt flat for so long, from pretending he is grateful to the Emperors, to now pretending nothing is wrong in his marriage. He’s scared, and exhausted.

Marcus rubs a hand over his face after rolling over and sitting up in bed, groaning into his palm. 

At first he tried to blame her for it. What would a Goddess want from a successful General other than a demigod hero son? What could truly be so special about him? He assumed she was manipulating him, using some sort of power to morph his heart, but now he knows it is not true.

If she had wanted to, she would have had him by now, and he knows this. If she had wanted to, her hand would have stayed where it was tonight, and pushed him further. It isn’t unlike the Gods to force themselves on a mortal, but she didn’t.

Instead, his hand feels hot where hers rested, and his mind is spinning. 

Marcus doesn’t fall asleep again, afraid that he’ll see her. 

—

You wait for a full two weeks before you visit him again. He had been coming to your temple less, and you had assumed he was busy with preparations for the coming battle. 

The stubbornness you felt that night has not left you. At first you did not leave your temple in fear that you would grow attached, now you remain there because you have grown attached. 

“Enough is enough,” you had thought to yourself. 

But it is hard not to miss him, and his soothing prayers. The way his offerings tasted of smoke and sweet, and how he’d always burn such a large portion. Marcus never gave you scraps, he seemed to refuse to. 

However, you can only distance yourself so far. 

It is quiet when you approach him. He is sitting in the field this time, the lake a distant glitter in your eyes. He does not face you, but his head isn’t bowed like before.

“Marcus,” you greet, your voice muted.

He raises his head, turning over his shoulder and nodding, as if to direct you to come closer, and so you do.

Tonight’s visit isn’t vulnerable, or even pleasant. Marcus seems so distant as he dryly tells you about how he’s preparing, and his wishes to return safely. His eyes barely meet your own as he talks, and he continuously twists the ring on his finger.

It grows tiring, watching him ramble about politics you could care less about, listening to him say things that have nothing to do with him. He’s so far from the friend you thought you had made. When the air between you goes quiet, you don’t fill it for a while. You listen to the sound of the wind in the grass as his eyes still will not meet yours. It’s breaking you apart.

This is the last night you’re able to visit him, unless you visit Morpheus again. You will not waste it like this.

“What is ailing you, General?” You ask, deciding to prod more than you usually do.

To your surprise, he scoffs in light laughter.

“You,” he responds quietly.

His words don’t hurt, at least not yet. You have the option to walk away now, wake yourself and leave him with his final blessings, but of course you don’t.

“Me?” You ask, “what have I done?”

Marcus rolls his shoulders back, lifting his head to look into the everblue sky above the both of you.

“You have made my life difficult, Goddess.”

Difficult? You have made his life difficult?

You have half a mind to tear him to pieces, curse him with something awful like snakes for toes, or spoons for teeth. After all that you’ve done for him, all the safety you’ve provided, he is telling you that you make things difficult? How dare he? Be outraged, Goddess, for he disrespects the holy luck which you bestowed to him.

That’s what you should think, that’s how most of you should feel.

But instead you feel small, and hurt. Yes, he is disrespecting all that you’ve given, but also you feel like a failure. Your physical existence is because of him, because he did not let you fade. All you wanted to do was make his life easier, help him to have an eased mind and a safer life.

But instead, he’s telling you you’re difficult.

It feels like your body is shrinking in the white peplos you’ve worn, the sheer fabrics swallowing you. Shame is flooding in the form of tears behind your eyes, wetting your orbs with an unexpected outburst of emotion.

“I am sorry,” you manage weakly.

Marcus does not look at you while you cry, and you want to believe it is because he cares too much to watch, but you cannot verify that.

The wind picks up again, but it does nothing to hide the soft cries you can’t hold back. Once you were a fading Goddess, now you are just a failing one.

There is no luck involved with love.

Eventually he speaks again, with his head turned away from you.

“I am sorry too,” he says. There’s a finality in his tone that makes you ache.

So much is said in such little words. He is sorry to you, for you, and with you. A sorrow is shared between the two of you, knowing that your hearts ache for one another as they are worlds apart yet on earth together. 

This last berry was only supposed to mark the end of your visits, not the end of everything. It feels like this is all there is for the two of you, since it’s too complicated to continue on like this.

That’s why he doesn’t move away when you move closer and rest your head on his shoulder as tears leak down your cheeks, or at least that’s what you’ll believe. 

—

Time moves weirdly when you’re immortal, but it all happens so quickly.

Marcus stopped coming to offer things for you, and so you were blessing him less. Admittedly you had kept an eye on him, but not a keen one. It didn’t feel right, not when you and him weren’t… friends anymore.

But this feels too soon, too fast, too unfamiliar. Has your sadness caused you to be blind?

You watch as a man kneels in front of Marcus, panting and bloody with a sword beside him on the ground.

The only reason you are here was because you had felt the roar of a crowd all the way at your own temple, a wide distance away. It had drawn you in, and instead you had found this.

That roaring which you had heard crescendos to a new height around you as you shimmer into existence, cloaking yourself to the mortal eyes in the stands of the coliseum, but existing enough to touch him.

Arrows stick out of his front, more crushed beneath his back, as he is slumped on the white, gravel, ground. His hair is curled with tacky blood streaking through it, and he is so, so, still.

You drag your hand across his forehead, feeling the remaining heat, and in the echo of the crowd you begin to sob. 

Everything around you is moving, changing, fighting, and screaming, but you sit invisible in the center of the coliseum, running your hands over the now dead General Acacius. There is nothing you can do to bring him back, to ease Lucilla, to save him and apologize. He is dead beneath your fingers, with arrows lodged deep in his irreparable, mortal, flesh. 

You were supposed to keep him safe.

Hot tears run down your cheeks as you keep grasping at his armor, unable to move him or yourself. The last visit felt official, but this feels final. There is nothing more for you here, no friendship in a corpse.

Thoughts are running through your mind at the rate that your breath is puffing from your chest. The question of where he will end up in the afterlife is overwhelming you, and the chance for him to go to Elysium feels reasonable. It’s where he should be, where he deserves to go, especially after all he had done for Rome. You don’t even care why he’s here, or why he seems to have been brutally killed, but after the time you spent with him, Elysium seems right for him.

—

It’s where he should be. Elysium is where he should be.

And it’s where you find him.

His place there is somewhat similar to his and Lucilla’s home back in the mortal world, with lush greenery and airy drapes that flutter in various colours. It seems like he has left space for Lucilla here too, with space left in the chests for her things, and a permanently made half of the bed.

Elysium offers a true celebration of life for heroes, demigodly or not, and you’re sure Marcus has been enjoying that. Anything that he had been shackled to in his mortal life was gone now, and it seems that all he would have to miss is his wife. 

Most of your time is spent there, in his afterlife home. You peer from behind curtains when he comes back, hidden in drapes and keeping yourself small. 

He is already dead, but after the last time you abandoned him, you cannot bear to leave him alone again.

The vision of him, bloodied and murdered on the coliseum floor, flickers into your mind every time you see him lying in his bed. It’s an obsession to be near him, to be looking after him. Pluto might not even know you’re down here anymore, but what does it matter?

Marcus Acacius was the last living mortal to worship you. In the underworld, you are beginning to fade. Your fingers are slipping from you again, which is making it easier to lurk near him, but it is a painful process.

You want to speak to him. No longer do you yearn for his love, not after being in his home and seeing how dedicated his heart truly is to Lucilla, but you yearn to speak to him again. A panicked emotion runs through you at the thought of fading alone, of being entirely forgotten. 

It didn’t matter before he died, fading was just something bound to happen, but now it’s more. Is he forgetting you?

—

You’ve lost most of your arms by the time you work up the courage to speak up. Lucilla arrived sometime ago, joining Marcus in the afterlife. Watching them together brought some warmth to you, some kind of happiness that you couldn’t have for yourself, but seeing it for him was enough.

You sit on the terrace of their home, invisible to their eyes, and somewhat to your own. From the tips of your fingers to just below your elbows, you are a specter. Grey shadow fills where your limbs used to be, and they pass through all objects. You couldn’t tap his shoulder if you tried.

Oftentimes you sit, hidden, and ponder by yourself about more than Marcus. There were so many things you were adamant about when he was alive, and you regret it all now. Your determination to avoid your feelings, or at least not show them, and your need to not become attached… it bites at you now, a stinging, grieving, venom, that won’t leave. Your status as a Goddess blinded you to how tender that friendship could have been, and now you sit as a ghost spectator to his afterlife, obsessed with a mortal as a fading immortal. 

The tips of your fingers pass through the glass you try to grab as you think of this on the terrace. You’re glad that you’re such a minor deity, so at least you do not have to feel so humiliated about fading. A smile has just graced your face as you feel blessed for being so unimportant you can essentially stalk this mortal, when suddenly his voice cuts through the humid air of the space.

“Felicitas?” Marcus’ voice asks.

It’s so hesitant that you think you’re imagining it. You thought you had their home to yourself right now, thinking they had gone to do… whatever souls do in Elysium, but when you turn your face, he is there.

Marcus has not worn fancy clothing in a long while now, and right now is no different. He stands before you in a plain looking tunic, which just graces his knees. To see him at ease has been so nice, but he looks distressed at your sudden appearance.

You cannot find your voice as you awkwardly stand up, trying to think quickly. There is no good way to explain what you’re doing here, hidden away in him and his wife’s home. You could just vanish into thin air, but that feels wrong. He has seen you already, any attempts at pretending you aren’t here would be ridiculous.

His eyes scroll from your face down to your arms, and the smoking shadows that used to be there. Concern pinches onto his face with knitted brows and pressed together lips.

Something in you wants him to turn away, so you don’t have to think about why he is worried for you, even after all the trouble you caused, but he doesn’t.

His sandaled steps are heavy as he comes to you, reaching for your hands but finding the gesture fruitless as his own slip right through yours.

“Dulcissima,” he speaks weakly, shock woven in his words.

You had told him about fading a little while ago, when the two of you were in that field. Now it seems the severity of it has hit him.

What is hitting you is the name. Dulcissima, or sweetest. How long had it been since you had been referred to so fondly? All at once you are being remembered, recognized, and shown some affection. It feels like too much and tears are falling out of your control.

“I’m sorry,” you manage, “I was supposed to– to keep you safe.”

Marcus is shaking his head already, refusing your apology.

“No, no. You did keep me safe, you did. I pushed you away, I couldn’t control myself and I caused this,” he argues. 

It does not comfort you that you both blame yourselves. You wish to reach out to him and touch his face like you should have when he was warm and alive. You want to know if he is cold now, and it’s as if he hears you.

Marcus places a hand on your cheek, a softness in his eyes and hold that says that he missed you.

“I saw you,” he claims, “when I was on the ground. You were the last thing I saw.”

Somewhere between life and death for mortals, there are moments of godly clarity. Some see the light, others see their families and memories, but in that tiny glimpse of time, some see Gods. 

He was able to see you as you knelt over him, sobbing as you were cloaked to any mortal's naked eye.  You were the last thing he saw, and the last thing he truly regretted. 

All you can do is stiltedly nod at him, feeling like you were in trouble even though it seems he’s not upset.

For a moment, his eyes flick away, contemplative, but then he meets your gaze again.

“I told Lucilla of you, before I died. Not– not of my feelings which I struggled with, but that you were a close friend, a blessing in many ways.”

A blessing in many ways.

Another choked sob is wracked from your chest, your bottom lip curling out embarrassingly as your face contorts. He almost coos at you, the thumb on your cheek rubbing away your tears.

“Goddess, I have missed you,” he admits. 

Stupid nods are all you can offer, your voice imprisoned in your ever tightening throat which cries. When he was alive he was never this tender, too confused and insecure to ever touch you, but it seems he has been regretting things too.

“Felicitas,” he says quietly, “do you come here for ill reason?”

You shake your head this time, rather than nodding. You have no reason to be here, other than the fact that guilt has taken over your mind and heart since he died.

“Then relax, dulcissima. I have an offering for you.”

Marcus relaxes his stature, eyes still gazing over you. He looks at your fading palms and you watch him swallow nervously.

“I will worship you again, lending you offerings here, and all I ask in return is for our friendship again.”

It’s the opposite of how you met, almost completely, but it’s everything you need. You will not fade, he will not struggle in marriage, and you will have one another again. 

Again, you are nodding stupidly, but soon you’re embraced by him and nodding into his chest. His hands grasp at your back as he tells you how much he missed you in his final weeks, how he regrets losing you entirely, how he requires you as a friend. 

You are satiated in his arms as he comforts you, awakening you again there on the terrace. Unbeknownst to you, Marcus has let tears slip down too as he holds you close. 

“You will keep me safe here?” he asks jokingly.

It makes you smile, the idea of offering luck to a man who already died.

“Yes, General. I will keep you safe here, from all the horrifying glory and splendor,” you assure.

The two of you laugh, breaking the embrace but staying close. A passionate connection is still between the two of you, but in a different way now. Maybe when he was alive it was romantic because it is all you could think of, but through his death the two of you have come to understand it more. 

You require one another in a unique way, and leaning on one another does not have to be intimate the way he is with his wife. Marcus does need you, just as you need him, and now that you are both immortal in a way, you will never be separated again.

please leave a comment, like, reblog, askbox, or ANYTHING. i'd love to hear thoughts on this <33

tags (people who seemed excited for this) (sorry if these dont work)

@pascalssbabyy , @moonshapedflan , @gossipgirl-03 , @kyloispunk , @frannyzooey , @coocoolahh , @bug-boy32 , @honeymarvel , @magicalmorg , @1deakybass , @tuquoquebrute , @harryshousewhore , @teeagain, @chewie-bars , @vampyyweek , @queenslandlover-93 , @amijenn , @aquanatalie

[colonelarr0w]

Can I request a fic where someone else confesses to reader infront of Megumi? How would he react thank you!

Sypnosis - A student from Kyoto is a little too bold ... but who is Megumi to say anything without accidentally revealing that he likes you?

Warning(s) - None.

! PIECE BEGINS UNDERNEATH THE CUT !

God … he hated Valentine's Day.  

But not for the cynical reasons that everyone else seemed to despise Valentine's Day for – no, his loathing for the holiday stemmed mostly from his frustration with himself.  

His frustration over not being able to say something … anything … to you. Every time that he thought about it, about confessing to you or saying anything to you about his feelings, it felt like someone had lodged something in his throat. It felt like someone had stolen his ability to speak, locking it away in a tiny metal cage and swallowing the key for its lock. 

And it wasn't like Yuuji or Nobara made the situation any better. If anything, they only added fuel to the flame – constantly teasing the poor boy any time that you were in his vicinity. Megumi would have to bite back his growing scowl whenever you approached; knowing that Yuuji and Nobara would smirk at one another and embarrass him in one way or another.  

Thank God that you never really noticed … unless you did. Maybe you were just being nice in order to not add to an already bad enough situation (you genuinely had no idea what was going on, Megumi would later find out).  

"C'mon Fushiguro, get her something nice and tell her!" Yuuji had told him first thing that morning, leaning against the open doorframe of his dormitory and smiling widely. Megumi bit back his urge to roll his eyes.  

"Here, I'll give you everything. All you need to do is speak, yeah?" Nobara had said when he and Yuuji joined her in the school's courtyard. Again, Megumi had bitten back the urge to roll his eyes towards his skull.  

It wasn't that he didn't want to tell you, it was just that he had absolutely no idea of how he would be able to stomach your rejection when it inevitably hit him.  

"Fushiguro! There you are!"  

His head turns at the sound of your voice, the scowl on his face fading almost immediately upon seeing you make your way over to him. You lift your hand in a friendly wave, one that he doesn't hesitate to return.  

Yuuji and Nobara exchange knowing looks as you wave to them as well, eyebrows momentarily furrowing together at the snicker that Yuuji hides behind his hand. Even Nobara's smile seems forced, but once again, you don't draw any attention to it.  

"Hey (Y/N)," Megumi says with a polite bow of his head, feeling his chest swell at the smile that you flash in his direction. "Gojo didn't send you on a mission today?" 

"Nope! I think he was more heartbroken at the fact that Nanami didn't get him any flowers for Valentine's Day," you reply with a dismissive wave of your hand. Yuuji laughs heartily at that, but his laughter is quieted immediately by Nobara smacking her palm against his mouth.  

Your eyes flicker to watch as Nobara smiles at you, her eyes closing as she slowly begins to drag the pink-haired boy back into the school. 

That leaves you and Megumi alone.  

"Oh, I wanted to ask you--" 

"(Y/N)!"  

You lift your head at someone calling out your name, smiling as a visiting second-year from the Kyoto school walks over, his hands closed around a comically large bouquet of vibrant red roses. He smiles at you once he's standing in front of you, not noticing the confused look on your face … or the deepened scowl that had settled over Megumi's features.  

"Oh … hello," you say, mustering the politest smile that you could without looking as though you wanted to shove the Kyoto student away. He returns your smile, then shifting the bouquet of flowers forward, silently urging you to take them.  

Megumi can feel his heart sink to the depths of his stomach as you take the roses, holding them against your chest to ensure that none of them would fall. You nod your head at the Kyoto student, already feeling an uncomfortable sensation beginning to bubble in your stomach.  

"Here, this is for you as well!" Suddenly, a white envelope with a bright red heart scrawled into it is shoved into your free hand. The Kyoto student only smiles wider, watching you through glistening eyes as you chuckle – a chuckle that Megumi immediately pegs as you being uncomfortable.  

"Thank you, you're too kind," you reply, still chuckling even as you shift to stow the unopened letter into the pocket of your uniform. The Kyoto student opens his mouth to speak, but his words die on the tip of his tongue at the glare that Megumi shoots in his direction.  

"N-no problem," the Kyoto student mumbles out, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck as his gaze flickers between an uncomfortable you and an irate Megumi – whose glare looks as though it could light blazing fires.  

And without uttering another word to you, the Kyoto student scurries away. 

You turn to Megumi, finally noticing the frown that had settled on his face. "Fushiguro? Everything okay?" 

He shakes his head, bringing himself back to reality as he turns his head to catch your awaiting gaze. His eyes dart between you and the flowers that you hold, though he doesn't dare to say anything regarding the roses that are borderline falling from your arms.  

"Fine," he answers coldly, lifting his arms to cross them over his chest. You furrow your eyebrows for a moment, then a knowing smile curls the corners of your mouth upward.  

"You know, I was hoping to get flowers from someone else today," you say with a little shrug of your shoulders, already bending to place down the bouquet of roses. Megumi's eyebrow perks, eyes following you as you fold your hands behind your back and cheekily smile at him.  

Megumi's frown only seems to deepen at your words, the letter he had written for you suddenly feeling as heavy as stones where it sat in his jacket pocket. 

"Yeah? Who?" Megumi dares to ask, feeling his anger double at the sight of your smile widening.  

You giggle, already reaching into your pocket for something – removing a small black box with the letter 'M' engraved into its thick fabric. He stills, staring down at it, puzzled.  

Hesitantly, Megumi reaches out, taking the box from you and opening it. Inside is a silver ring, and turning it over reveals a little message engraved into the silver.  

Megumi <3 

His cheeks immediately flush a bright shade of red, the tips of his ears burning as his gaze returns to you. Your lips are turned upward in a smile, this one soft and gentle – the one that crinkles the corners of your eyes and makes your smile lines stand out.  

"Do you like it?" Megumi flushes again at the sound of your breathy chuckle. It was cute to you, how he was admiring the ring while simultaneously trying to catch your gaze.  

His fingers snap the box shut, arms lifting to wrap themselves around you. You let out a shocked yelp as you're tugged against Megumi's chest, his face hiding itself into your hair as he squeezes at you with a strength you had no idea he possessed.  

You chuckle after a moment, finally lifting your arms to return his embrace. He relaxes upon feeling you around him, closing his eyes and simply savoring the feeling of you.  

"I like you too, by the way," you whisper into his ear, smiling as he pulls back just enough to glance at you. His face reddens impossibly further, but he finds himself smiling nonetheless.  

Maybe Valentine's Day wasn't that bad after all.  

[sharffffff]

raises my hand. what if pangi struggling with her gender and lukey doesnt quite realize that that's whats going on bc pangis being really vague about it. "i dont feel right in my body" "ok well yeah pangi youre corrupted it's ok. we'll fix that soon enough :)". just completely clueless

Ever since waking up in this realm Pangi felt weird. People acting like they knew him while he had never even seen them before, everyone telling him stories of his exploits when this was the first time he ever even laid eyes on this world, people telling him how he went to the ball - that apparently happened here on two separate occasions - in a dress and a bow… And that surely couldn’t be right. He couldn’t be caught wearing a dress, he couldn’t be caught liking flowers, that’s just not something he would do. Even on Lifesteal as a bit he had never worn a dress, so why would he do it here, and not once, but twice? It just seemed like a lie. A very nice lie, a lie that he wished could be true- but it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been true. He’s a guy, he doesn’t like all those girly things. He’d never wear a dress, especially not to a public event, nuh uh. 

And yet when searching through his enderchest, which was surprisingly full for this being his first ever day on the server, he found something strange. A pink bow. The same that Aimsey told him he was wearing during the first ball. Just a coincidence, surely, it was just there by accident. Why would it ever be in his enderchest? It just didn’t make much sense. He took it out to look over it, and it sure was the girliest thing he could imagine - a pink bow with some flower petals attached to it, made to fit perfectly on one of his head scales- a prank, surely. But it wouldn’t hurt to try it on…

Nope, no, no. He stopped himself centimeters away from putting the bow on his head and quickly put it back in the shulker, and shoved the shulker itself deep into the enderchest. He couldn’t be thinking about this right now. He couldn’t be spending time getting distracted with these silly things - he had the entire server to explore, and he heard something about Nirvana that lets you fly? Surely that is more interesting than some bow. Or a dress. Or a pretty blue cornflower that he gave away - despite desperately wanting to keep it. He shook his head, he was getting distracted again. Too much free time on this realm, back on lifesteal he always had to fear for his life and didn’t have time to think about these things, so why did he have to be stuck here with his thoughts? It just felt miserable.

When a couple of days later Pangi met up with Zam, he was stunned to see him- her. He couldn’t really bring himself to call Zam “he” anymore, it was getting difficult even back on lifesteal, but here? She was wearing a long dress, had long hair and spoke much softer, and it made Pangi rethink some things. He had been noticing Zam dress differently, more girly, on lifesteal more frequently than before, but it was a running gag ever since Kings- but maybe it wasn’t a gag at all? It almost felt weird. No, not Zam - with the amount of times she joked about wanting to be a girl, Pangi has long suspected it wasn’t a joke. But… For some reason it made him feel weird about himself. Zam was so comfortable wearing a dress here… Maybe Pangi did wear a dress back at the ball, too? He didn’t write it in the book, but it just… It just felt right. He wasn’t exactly sure why it felt right, but it did. It was confusing. He didn’t want to think about it right now. It was fine, everything was fine. He was still a guy, just curious about what he had looked like in a dress. It probably didn’t even look that good, and people laughed at him, and it didn’t matter, so why would he even try to look for those answers?

The thought lingered at the back of his mind, however, as annoying as a mosquito you just barely can’t get, and as Pangi was spending the entirety of today just building with Lukey, he couldn’t help but wonder if he might have some answers.

“Hey, Lukey? You went to the ball with me, right?”

“Yeah, I did! Pili asked me to go with, and even though I said no, you still killed me for that - and then had the audacity to ask me, then tell me I couldn’t go to not upset Ros, then get asked out by another guy and then go to the ball with the both of us. Why?” Lukey turned to Pangi with that same playfully mocking expression on his face that he had during at least half of their conversations, and Pangi almost regretted asking him anything in the first place, but he believed that Lukey wouldn’t lie about the dress - he lies about plenty of unimportant things, but usually tells the truth when asked outright. Usually.

“Is it true that I wore a dress? Someone told it to me on the first- well, my first day here, and I just want to compare the accounts.”

“Oh, yes, you certainly did! Beautiful red dress with gold accents, which was a nice touch - red is a very good color to hide wine stains, or blood stains.” Lukey nodded thoughtfully, closing his eyes as if to recall the details of that evening, stupid smile spreading across his face. Pangi hated that he could imagine that dress, he hated that he could see himself wearing it. Why would he ever wear it? Why did he want to imagine himself wearing it?

“Did… Did I look good in it?” Lukey paused after hearing this question, smile getting subtler, and tilted his head slightly trying to understand just what Pangi was asking. Then, he nodded knowingly, which looked even more annoying for Pangi than his stupid smirk, and replied:

“You looked happy. Well, for the couple of minutes before Pili and Zam arrived, that is.”

“That doesn’t answer my question and you know it!” Pangi was getting annoyed, his tail tip slightly vibrating as he tried to pry some answers from this guy who kept getting more annoying with every passing second.

“Everyone looks better when they’re happy, Pangi. That includes you. And yes, you looked great in that dress. And when you started swinging that axe, too? Oh, that was magnificent! What I wouldn’t do to see you like that again.” He was doing the voice. Pangi hated that voice. Well, he loved that voice, and he hated the fact that he loved it. 

But… The thought that he looked good in the dress… Ugh, it was so annoying. He couldn’t think about that. It just felt so right and so wrong at the same time. He hated it. He hated it so badly. Why does he have to deal with all this nonsense instead of being hunted down every waking moment of his life, like back of lifesteal? That was easier than being here.

“I just… I just don’t feel right, Lukey.” Lukey’s smile softened, and Pangi hated him for that. How dare he be compassionate. It all felt wrong. He hated everyone. He really should’ve killed everyone on this server, like he wrote in the book. He’s so stupid.

“Is it about the corruption, or… about something else?” Lukey’s voice was soft, and the hand he put on Pangi’s shoulder made Pangi want to throw up. He hated everything. Why was everyone so nice here? Why did he have to deal with these thoughts here? He despised every moment of this.

“You know, Pangi, I think I might have your dress somewhere in this lab if you want to try it out again, just to see how it looks? I think it might be stained in a little bit of blood and slightly torn by Sneeg’s spear, but blood is barely visible on red fabric anyway, and the tears can count as style points. Do you want to try it out?” Lukey’s voice was still so soft, even as he started looking through chests, trying to find the piece of fabric that Pangi kind of wanted to try on again. It was stupid. Everything was stupid. 

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Pangi’s voice was suddenly weak, he could barely even hear himself, but Lukey must have heard it anyway - he lit up, and started searching even faster, and Pangi wanted nothing more than to kill him for that, for making him feel this way, for making him consider wearing the dress. What was wrong with him?.. 

[kyeomyun]

2:01 AM

pairings: dad!jeonghan x gn!reader

genre: FLUFFY FLUFF FLUFF :((

warnings: none... you might lowkey go through baby fever :)

word count: 0.8k

synopsis: jeonghan would do literally anything to stop his baby from crying, even if it included being dolled up.

::note: WELL- yes ik now those jewels on jeonghan hair are indeed stickers and not hairclips but YK WHERE I WAS GOING WITH THIS. also hello strangers :). it's been a fat minute since I have actually written something down so if this seems a little dry... just know I haven't written anything since august 🧍🏾‍♀️but i do hope you enjoy this absolute brain rot I wrote last night at 2 in the morning 😍

network(s): @kflixnet

If there was one thing Jeonghan absolutely despised, with his whole entire being, it would be seeing someone who he holds, oh so dearly to his heart, cry.

He knows crying is a trigger for intense emotion, don't get him wrong, he knows very well it was common with toddlers. Including his. But that does not eliminate the huge tear he feels in his chest when the salty crystalline drops roll down his wife or his daughter's cheeks.

And he would do about everything (except cook the pot roast dinner that you LOVE that takes almost 5 hours to make and Jeonghan could not, for the life of him, stand on his two increasingly aging feet for more than 2), to make his loved ones stop crying. Even if that included doing something he thought he would not fit..

"Almost done, darling?" Jeonghan asked softly, careful not to make the tire of his voice get the best of his tone.

It was 2 AM, and his daughter, Yoon, had a rude awakening with cold sweat and vivid memories of a nightmare that she did not want have the guts to relive with her father. Which the father could understand, reliving a nightmare is not fun at all and he did not want to force that scenario onto his precious girl.

"Nu-uh," She clipped another hair clip onto Jeonghan long hair, humming in approval watching her masterpiece come to life in front of her eyes. "You said I can put a lot, daddy!" She pouted, hands flowing through the overload of bows: baby pinks, baby blues, even ones with sparkles and stars dazzled upon the long strands of freshly washed hair. Messy? Yes. Did Jeonghan care? Just a little tiny bit. "I have to make you really, really, really, pretty!"

"I did say that, did I?" Jeonghan said that more to himself, his words playing back on him tremendously. His eyes were drooping, fighting back the wondrous dreamland he was in before he was awoken by a frightened 4 year old. As much as his body wanted to shut down, his mind was stuck on one thing and one thing only.

Well maybe 2.

How long will it take to take these hairclips out and how is his miniature him doing?

"Mhm!" She clipped glittery pink hairclip on a randomly selected portion of her father's hair. "But at least daddy will look extra, extra pretty!"

Jeonghan butt was staring to numb, sitting on the carpeted floor of his daughter's room criss-crossed and Yoon standing up behind him with the next 2 hairclips awaiting their home on his head. But his heart filled rapidly, an intense feeling he has always had at moments like these. Ever since Yoon was born, this feeling was almost... unexplainable. Too immense to be just happiness and too extreme to be just love. It could be a mix of both but those 2 words are just not enough. No words could ever be.

Oh, he is down bad...

The smile that stretched upon his poorly chapped lips was one worth describing though; a smile that held so much value, love, adoration, did he think love?

"One more, daddy!" Yoon announced enthusiastically, a pretty baby blue butterfly, clipped on a strand near the front of Jeonghan head. A small giggle was heard as the little girl admired her work, grabbing ahold of the mirror and giving it to her pretty caregiver. "Is it pretty?"

Jeonghan took the mirror, its weight light but enough to slightly tilt his hand a bit. This motion was able to show the awaiting face of his daughter, who too stared into the mirror and tried to read her father's face. But he obviously had his answer.

But he still pretended to contemplate, his pointer finger tapping his chin in wonder. "It's not pretty,"

That cute pout adorned her lips again, her fragile heart clenching painfully. "You... don't like it? I thought–"

"It's beautiful, baby," Jeonghan looked behind him, and nothing, absolutely nothing, could match the cuteness of seeing his other half, his small angel, puffy cheeks bunch with joy. A smile that could kill many, Jeonghan being one of millions. Billions.

"Yay!" The excitement was barely contained in her small body, slightly bouncing in her place she stood in for almost 30 minutes before her stubby arms wrapped around the neck of her father. "Do you think uncles will be jealous?"

"Very," Jeonghan stared back in the mirror, his smiling bundle of joy warming his heart to the greatest. "Very, very jealous."

A kiss was planted on his cheek, and now he was conflicted about what his members will actually be jealous about.

His marvelous creation on his head, hairclips and bows that were placed in no particular pattern, or the creator, that shined her crooked teeth and eyes shining just as bright as she went back to slightly messing with the butterfly hairclip that hung just barely in his peripheral.

Ok, definitely the creator.

did you enjoy your order?

if you did, please reblog, like, (pls) comment, all of that jazz :>

have a good day, sweets ^^

tagging: @wheeboo @etherealyoungk @rubywonu @trblsvt @icyminghao @idubiluv @odxrilove @stormyjisung @slytherinshua @fairyhaos @gyu-effect @hannieheartuu @jaehunnyy @luvhyun3 @lvlystars @mesanthropi

[runraerun]

darling, dearest, dead

written for the @steddiemicrofic challenge for November | prompt: guard | wc: 532 | rated: G | cw: major character death (but not really?) | tags: angst with a hopeful ending, Ghost!Steve Harrington, GhostHunter!Eddie Munson

There’s a legend that the first person who gets buried in a cemetery becomes the guardian of all the other souls buried there after. They become a reaper of sorts, ferrying the newly dead from this world to the next—a place they can never go.

This is what happens to Steve Harrington, aged just eighteen when he tragically dies in the Starcourt tragedy in ‘85.

Steve, who dies but doesn’t move on. Doesn’t go peacefully into that good night, or however the hell the saying goes. He can’t.

Steve, who attends his own burial, but despite how loud he screams into the faces of his loved ones, goes entirely unheard.

He eventually gets it, of course. Despite what everyone thinks (thought? Do they still think of him?) Steve isn’t stupid. He catches on quickly when the first few souls come wandering up to him, lost and alone. Steve can see the path they’re supposed to follow, even when they can’t. So, Steve takes the time to explain to them what he knows, tries to comfort them, before guiding them towards the afterlife.

It’s a curse, really. Eternal isolation. Decades pass but Steve remains. The few souls he speaks to are always so eager to leave him. In the end, Steve’s left alone.

And then one day, Eddie Munson comes stomping through his cemetery.

—🛡️—

“What’s with the get up?” A dark haired stranger asks, startling Steve, “there an anime convention going on or something?”

Steve’s eyes trail up and down the newcomer. He wants to make a comment about the strange attire he died in, but upsetting the newly departed usually isn’t a good idea.

“It’s my work uniform. I didn’t have time to change.” Steve explains, a well-rehearsed response. The Scoops uniform that he can never shed was always a point of interest for people. “Sorry, I didn’t see you come in.”

This is the first time Steve’s missed a burial. Strange.

The guy snorts, “don’t apologize. I’m the one intruding. You visiting someone? I can wait to do my shit.”

Steve frowns, brows creasing where they come together. “No. I’m just… waiting.” He answers.

“For the ghost?” The stranger asks, his interest clearly piqued.

Steve blinks. “The ghost?”

“Yeah, y’know. The ghost that supposedly haunts this graveyard. Legend has it it’s some guy who died way back in the 80’s—there've been sightings for like, thirty years, but no one’s been able to actually record anything decent. All the pictures are super blurry. But I intend to change that. I’m Eddie, by the way. Ghost hunter and semi-professional psychic.” Eddie grins, giving a strange little bow in his introduction.

Wait…

“1985?” Steve asks.

“Yep,” Eddie pop’s the ‘p’, “The year Starcourt burned down and old Steven Harrington bit the dust. You know the story?”

Steve didn’t need to breathe—not anymore. And yet, he still felt short of breath. Lightheaded.

“It’s just Steve.” He clarifies.

“Yeah?” Eddie snorts, “how would you—”

A light seems to go off in Eddie’s head. He pales, eyes widening.

“You can really see me?” Steve can’t help but laugh, tears stinging his eyes.

“Yeah, I can see you, Steve.” Eddie mumbles, stunned, looking like he’d seen a ghost.

—

tagging: @sleepy-steve because they let me rant about reaper Steve to them<3 check out her reaper!eddie fic: here!💘

[never-mind-09]

Who wouldn't want to win a meet & greet with actor Sebastian? Next time we’re relocating straight to a hotel bed—just kidding. (Or am I?)

You had never won anything.

Not raffles, not contests, not even the free coffee punch cards at your local café.

So when the email landed in your inbox—polite, official, and astonishing, you’d stared at it for a full minute, convinced it was spam.

Congratulations! You've won an exclusive Meet & Greet with Sebastian Michaelis himself!

You must have read it ten times. Even now, sitting nervously at a corner table of the quaint café they’d chosen for the meeting, you could hardly believe it.

The place was serene, rich wood tones, soft music, and the faint clatter of cups being polished behind the counter. It wasn’t a bustling event hall or a sterile studio. It felt... intimate. Secretive.

Your heart thrummed against your ribs as you checked the time again. Five minutes past the hour.

Maybe he’s not coming, you thought, twisting your hands together under the table.

But then the door chimed.

And there he was.

Tall, graceful, dressed impeccably in a sharp charcoal suit that somehow looked like it had been tailored just for him (it probably had). His dark hair was styled the way you always remembered it—neatly parted but slightly tousled, soft strands falling naturally to frame his sharp features.

If anything, he looked even better in person than on screen, like the world itself sharpened around him without ever quite catching up. His crimson eyes—contacts, you reminded yourself—caught the light in a way that made your breath hitch.

Sebastian Michaelis. In the flesh.

He found you instantly, like he’d known where you would be all along, and walked over with the kind of fluid ease that made the rest of the café blur and dim around him.

"You must be Y/N," he said, voice smooth as silk, the faintest smile curving his mouth.

You nodded, scrambling to your feet, nearly knocking your chair over in the process. "Y-Yeah! That's me."

He chuckled under his breath warm, amused, not unkind and extended a gloved hand.

You shook it, trying not to die on the spot.

His hand was warm, firm, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary before he released you.

"I trust you haven’t been waiting long?" he asked, sliding elegantly into the seat opposite yours.

"No, not at all!" you blurted. "I mean—it’s fine! I would’ve waited however long."

Smooth. So smooth.

That amused flicker returned to his eyes. "I'm honored by your patience."

The conversation that followed felt almost unreal. He asked you about yourself nothing invasive, just easy questions, his voice low and hypnotic. You talked about your favorite episodes, your two mischievous cats and he told a few behind-the-scenes stories, each laced with that dry, understated humor that left you smiling helplessly.

But there was something else, too. Something beneath the polished charm.

You caught it when he tilted his head, studying you with an intensity that seemed to go deeper than polite curiosity. You caught it in the way he moved so perfectly controlled, yet somehow... other.

And sometimes, just sometimes, you swore the air around him seemed heavier. Like the space he occupied bent slightly toward him.

You laughed it off. Just nerves. Overactive imagination.

Still, when your drink arrived and you reached for the sugar, you fumbled the packet sending it fluttering to the floor. You cursed softly under your breath.

Before you could move, Sebastian bent and retrieved it in one smooth, catlike motion, placing it back on the table with a tiny, almost imperceptible bow.

"No need to trouble yourself," he murmured.

You smiled shyly. "You're... really something else, you know that?"

For a heartbeat, he said nothing.

Then that smile, slow, knowing, curved his mouth.

"So I've been told."

There was a beat of comfortable silence, broken only by the gentle clink of dishes around you. You sipped your drink to hide your stupidly red face.

"I have to ask," you said, voice smaller than you'd intended, "how do you do it? Stay so perfectly in character all the time?"

Sebastian tilted his head, a glint of mischief sparking in his gaze.

"Who’s to say this is a character?"

Your heart skipped a beat. Was he joking?

He leaned forward just slightly, voice dropping into something velvety-soft.

"Perhaps... some things require no act at all."

You blinked at him, unsure whether you should laugh or shiver.

But before you could untangle your thoughts, he stood gracefully, offering his hand once more.

"Our time, regrettably, is limited," he said, and there was genuine regret in his voice. "May I escort you to the door?"

You nodded, your hand finding his again.

As he led you through the little café, you couldn’t help the feeling that, somehow, this meeting had been more than luck. That the red in his eyes wasn't just lenses.

Outside, the late afternoon sun warmed your skin as you reached the sidewalk together.

Sebastian slowed to a graceful stop, releasing your hand gently.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Y/N," he said, inclining his head with a faint, courtly bow. "I trust the experience lived up to your expectations."

You laughed, breathless and a little dazed. "More than that."

His smile deepened subtle, almost private and for a second it felt like the world around you blurred into insignificance. Just you and him.

"If fate allows," he murmured, "perhaps we shall cross paths again."

With one last lingering glance, he turned and walked away, his figure sharp against the soft gold of the afternoon light. Not rushing. Simply going.

You stood there for a moment, heart still tripping over itself, watching until he disappeared around the next corner.

With a soft sigh, you finally looked down at your bag, adjusting it on your shoulder.

And froze.

There: tucked neatly just inside the top, almost as if it had always been there was a folded piece of heavy cream paper. Smooth. Impeccable.

Your fingers trembling slightly, you unfolded it.

In elegant, deliberate handwriting, you read:

> Meet me again?

Same time, next Sunday.

Café Lune.

No signature. None needed.

You pressed the note to your chest, heart hammering wildly.

Maybe it had been luck.

Maybe it had been fate.

Maybe... it had been something else entirely.

But one thing was certain:

This story was far from over.

[angelofsmalldeaath]

first light — a.h.b.

cw: mentions of bad mental health

“there you are,” i lean against the doorframe, watching him manoeuvre in the darkness. it’s barely past four, barely even light out, and yet there he is, fumbling around the kitchen. 

“shit, did i wake you?” he whispers even though he doesn’t need to, and goes back to what he was doing. 

when i squint my eyes a little i realise he’s gathering supplies for coffee. 

“it’s four…”

he nods, his back to me. 

“in the morning…”

another nod. i push myself off the doorframe and walk up to him. 

his hair is sleep-mussed, his t-shirt more wrinkled than usual, like he's been tossing and turning. i wrap my arms around him and kiss his back. 

“why won’t you look at me?”

he shrugs, i feel the muscles of his back move against my cheek. “‘s dark, love, won’t be able to see you anyway.”

i poke him in the ribs, finally eliciting a response. “we have electricity, you know?”

he sighs, deflates more like it, and finally turns, still in my arms, except now my chin rests on his chest as opposed to his back. i look up, trying to make out his features in the twilight. 

“there,” he pauses, makes it a point to stare right into my eyes, “i’m looking at you now.”

i can make out the vague shape of his face. even as my eyes adjust, and i see the one small curl dropping on his forehead, it’s hard to see the rest of him, hard to see the precise green of his eyes or the russet of his beard. 

“can i turn on the lights, please?”

“no, dont!” he wraps his hand around my wrist, gentle but firm. “this feels better.”

i’m about to say something when the kettle comes to a boil. he turns again and i try not to let him go from my arms but he moves anyway. ultimately, i drop them, letting them hang awkwardly at my sides. 

“coffee?”

“do you not plan on going back to bed?”

“not really, no.”

like always he puts two teaspoons of coffee in the french press, pours the hot water on top. i watch him, still turned away from me, silent, thinking. not entirely there. 

“did you ever go to bed?”

“of course i did, darling,” he laughs airily, “i was right next to you all night.”

“that’s not how i mean it and you know it.” the sternness in my voice surprises us both. still, he doesn’t turn. his shoulders sag, his head bows low, and in the dim light, i see a slight shudder pass through him. 

“i couldn’t…”

“bad dreams?”

“bad dreams?!” he laughs bitterly, “what am i, five?”

worry gnaws at my insides, and i hesitate, wondering how much to push. it’s he who first breaks the silence. “just…thoughts. not bad but not…not very nice ones.”

he clears his throat and goes through all the practiced motions—presses the french press down gently, takes out two mugs, his a plain black, mine littered with hand-painted daisies from one of our date nights. somehow in the darkness he manages not to spill a single drop. instead he lingers, takes a second to himself before he turns and offers my mug to me.

“thanks,” i wrap my hand around it and savour the warmth for just the fraction of a second. “can we sit?”

“i really don’t want to move.”

“right…” i walk up to him, standing side by side until our arms touch, and sit, right there on the kitchen floor with my back against the dishwasher. i have to crane my neck a lot to finally look at him wordlessly, he sits too, moves closer to me until our thighs touch and our arms press against each other. 

he still seems so far away. 

gently i intertwine my fingers with his, tracing the pads of his fingers and the light dusting of hair on his knuckles. “should we talk or would you rather sit in silence?”

“a bit heavy to have this chat at the crack of dawn, don’t you think?”

“i don’t mind it if you don’t,” i take a sip of my coffee and cringe at the lack of sugar. right. it’s black. 

my reaction doesn’t go unnoticed though. for the first time that day, he laughs. no that’s not it, he snorts, like he’s teasing me. “i forgot to put in your million sugars.”

“it’s two!” i protest, “and a splash of milk, it’s nothing outrageous!” but the smile on his face lingers just another moment and a smidge of weight lifts off my chest. 

“things must be…abysmal,” i nudge his knee with mine, “if you forgot how i take my coffee.”

for a while he’s silent, watching as the sky lightens—from dark blue to purple to a smidge of pink and orange. it’s not fully light out yet, but i suspect it won’t be long now. 

“a little,” he admits quietly, like it’s a secret he’s only just revealing. “i’ve been trying to hide it from you. a bit shitty of me, really, i’d be upset if you hid something like this from me. if you were struggling,” he swallows, “mentally. and i didn’t know about it. wasn’t there to help you…”

i bring his hand to my mouth, kiss his palm. “it is…upsetting,” i admit, “but i’d like to know now. or–or whenever you’re ready, whenever you want to talk.”

he sighs deeply, rests his head on top of mine. “maybe when it’s not five in the morning.”

i smile when i hear the laugh in his voice, stare at our intertwined hands and how well they fit together.

“how d’you know it’s five?”

“the sun’s up,” he points towards the window with his mug, and i see it there—the sky, no longer purple with a hint of pink. within a few seconds it seems to have erupted with colours; yellow and orange and red and pink and gold. 

a small ray of sunshine even wanders into our kitchen. 

i look at him, finally visible to me in the first light of the morning. then i kiss his temple and he smiles. it’s a small, tentative thing, but it’s there and it’s real and it stays. 

“there you are,” i whisper, failing to contain a smile of my own. 

“there i am,” he whispers, finally turns to look at me. for a moment his gaze lingers on my lips and i take that as my cue to press my lips against his—mine chapped and dry, his tasting like coffee.

“i think it will be a…decent day,” he declares and sets his empty mug aside. “can we go to bed now?”

“you’d like that?”

“yeah…” he gently touches my cheek with his knuckle and i lean into his touch, closing my eyes briefly. when i open them, he’s staring at me, letting his eyes roam all over my face. “i think i’d love that.”

[daryltwdixon]

After your first lunch with Joel and Tess, radio communications continued, though they became more structured. The chatter dwindled in favor of a system—one Frank was quick to call “charming” and your dad simply called “smart.”

1960’s hits meant nothing new; everything was fine.  1970’s? It was a signal of new inventory and a willingness to trade. Tess always followed up with another 70’s song if the answer was yes—or a 60’s tune if it was no.

But the 80’s… You thanked God you hadn’t heard any of those. 80’s meant trouble, the kind that made your stomach twist just thinking about it. You didn’t know what you’d do if one day Whitney Houston or Michael Jackson blasted over the airwaves.

As time went on, it was mostly Tess who handled the trade runs. She was sharp, efficient, and easy to talk to. Sometimes she’d bring something she’d “found”—a novel with creased pages, a scarf that wasn’t moth-eaten. But Joel? Joel rarely showed.

At first, you thought maybe he didn’t like your little town. Or maybe he didn’t like you. But Frank, always perceptive, had shrugged off your worries. “Joel’s not exactly the social type,” he’d said, ruffling your hair. “Really gives your dad a run for his money, ya know?”

It was late afternoon when you heard the truck pull up. You glanced out the kitchen window, spotting Tess climbing out of the driver’s side. You smiled, already moving to the porch to meet her, but then the passenger door opened.

Joel stepped out.

Your heart jumped into your throat. He looked exactly the same—and yet, somehow, not. His beard was a little thicker, his hair a little more unruly. The lines on his face seemed deeper, his expression as unreadable as ever. But what caught your attention most was the way he carried himself—confident, sure, like the world couldn’t touch him.

“Frank!” you called, your voice a little too high-pitched. “They’re here!”

Frank stepped onto the porch beside you, his arms crossed as he surveyed the scene. His eyes flicked to you briefly, and you swore you caught the ghost of a smile before he called out, “You bring the wire?”

Joel held up a spool of wire in response. “Told you I would,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Your dad came around the corner, squinting toward the truck. “Took you long enough,” he grumbled.

“Had to make sure it’d last you,” Joel replied, hauling the wire toward the fence with ease.

You watched him, unable to stop your gaze from following the way his broad shoulders shifted under his jacket or how his hands gripped the wire like it weighed nothing. Your stomach flipped, and you quickly turned back toward the house, pretending to busy yourself with nothing in particular.

“Hey,” Frank said softly, nudging your arm.

“What?” you asked, not meeting his gaze.

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” he teased, his voice warm.

“I do not,” you said, your cheeks burning.

Frank chuckled, leaning in closer. “It’s okay, kid. Even though the world’s gone to shit, you deserve to find someone, too.”

You whipped your head toward him, wide-eyed. “Frank! He’s—”

“Older, yeah,” Frank interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “But you’re grown now. And who says you can’t have a crush?”

“It’s not—” you started, but Frank just grinned knowingly, turning back to greet Tess as she climbed the steps.

You steadied your breath, the cool air of the forest filling your lungs as you nocked an arrow. The tension of the bowstring felt familiar against your fingers, like an old friend. You lined up the shot, letting your focus narrow to the distant target—a small knot in the bark of an oak tree about thirty yards away.

The arrow flew silently, sinking into the wood with a satisfying thunk. You grinned, lowering the bow and moving to retrieve it.

You stepped back into your makeshift hideout, a small perch all of you had built outside the walls. The trees surrounded it like a natural fortress, offering a view of the neighborhood below. From here, you could see the houses lining the streets, their faded paint and overgrown lawns softened by the golden afternoon light.

Movement caught your eye, and you turned to see your dad and Frank rounding the far corner of one of the houses. Your dad was slightly hunched, one hand pressed to his side like he had a cramp. Frank, of course, was practically bouncing beside him, his smile as bright as ever.

You leaned against the perch railing, watching them. Even from a distance, it was hard not to smile at the sight of Frank’s boundless energy contrasting with your dad’s slower, more deliberate pace. He had never been much of a runner. They were so different in so many ways, but somehow, they just worked.

They stopped near the edge of the garden—the one you and Frank had spent months cultivating. From your vantage point, you couldn’t hear their conversation, but Frank stepped behind your dad, covering his eyes playfully with his hands.

Your dad flinched slightly, stiff and reluctant as always, but he didn’t pull away. Frank guided him forward a few steps before removing his hands with a flourish, his excitement practically radiating from where you stood.

You couldn’t make out your dad’s reaction, but Frank’s laugh carried faintly through the trees, warm and infectious. Your dad chuckled too—a rare sound that made your chest swell.

Then Frank leaned in, his hands cradling your dad’s face as he kissed him.

You looked away quickly, your cheeks flushing despite being alone. From the corner of your eye, you could still see them, their movements soft and intimate. You didn’t need to watch to know what was happening.

Instead, you focused on the distant horizon, where the tops of the trees swayed gently in the breeze. Their laughter floated up again, mingling with the rustling leaves, and your heart tightened—not with sadness, but with something bittersweet.

When it was only the two of you, your dad carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Survival had been his only focus—taking each day as it came, working hard, and never bothering with anything but living to see the next sunrise. There had been no laughter then, no softness. Just walls, both physical and emotional, keeping everything and everyone out.

But now, he had Frank.

Frank, who could make him laugh so easily, even when he was grumbling about the effort it took. Frank, who chipped away at his defenses, little by little, until there was something softer underneath. Watching them now, you realized Frank didn’t just lighten the burden your dad carried—he shared it.

You picked up your bow, brushing your fingers over its worn surface as you took a deep breath. You didn’t need to watch them to know your dad had found something good. And as their laughter floated through the air, tangled with the rustling leaves and golden sunlight, you couldn’t help but feel it too: joy. Quiet, simple, and fleeting, but joy all the same.

[shadow4-1]

(Part 2 of this post.)

After letting Soap set everything up, on his next leave of absence, Ghost finally gets to meet the plus size escort he's been having fantasies about.

However, she's only interested in laying down some ground rules.

-

To show he was serious, for their first meeting she made Ghost rent out the smoking section of a privately owned Café. It's a quaint little joint; part bookstore, part coffee shop. Cost him less than two hundred quid for the whole hour. Ghost likes the privacy and the better service - his coffee cup hasn't gone unfilled. He wonders why he's never thought of doing it before. Plus, he can have a fag without someone bothering him about the smell. The booth is in the back of the store, so leaving his face completely uncovered doesn't feel nearly as uncomfortable either.

For anyone else the mask stays on. Well, at least some form of mask. Nowadays, when deep in public territory, he sticks to a surgical mask. Still attracts some curious gazes, but after the new-age plague passed he's been left well enough alone.

Besides, the bird's a civilian through and through. She's probably used to white collar Johns with soft hands and faces. He's decidedly the opposite and doesn't want to scare her off. At a time like this he knows hiding his face would make him seem less trustworthy. She should at least be allowed to see what she's working with. He knows he's not wholly unattractive, but if compared to Soap, well he wouldn't blame her for sticking up her nose. Hell, it'd be no skin off his back.

He's early as per usual. Doesn't want to keep her waiting on him. Time is money and all that. The coffee shop staff seemed relieved at the lack of customers. Behind him, he can hear one of the servers taking an order from a customer. That's when he hears a sound that makes his ears prick up.

The sound of heels against the tile.

Subconsciously, he straightens himself. Consciously, he makes no move to attempt to preen or better his appearance in any way. What she sees is what she gets and vice versa. That's what this meeting is for anyway. It's a time to lay it all on the table.

"Hello."

Her voice is soft and sweet. He releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. When he looks up he's taken off guard by the quality of her facial features. In Johnny's pictures she looked average. But now, he realizes that perhaps the flash really dulled down her beautiful features - mainly her delicious looking lips. He swallows hard at the thought of his cock maybe getting inside that blowjob perfect mouth.

"You must be Simon."

She places down a mid-size purse on the booth seat across from him. She's dressed in business casual - a white button up and some form fitting slacks. Her makeup is subdued, her hair lightly styled. She looks completely natural. Ghost finds she's checking off all the boxes he didn't even realize he had.

She offers her hand and he shakes it. Her nails aren't painted but have a natural sheen and length. And while her palms are soft, her grip is sturdy. It's obvious that she knows how to uphold herself professionally. He already starts to feel good about this impending arrangement.

She introduces herself as a "Miss Care". It's a fake name designed to give her a simple, yet recognizable trait. He supposes her self-chosen moniker isn't far off from a callsign. Not that she'd have any idea what that even is.

"S' a pleasure." He bows his head at her in respect.

He doesn't miss the way she blushes for a second before taking the seat across from him. She opens her mouth to say something, but is rudely interrupted by a server placing a menu down in front of her. At least, he finds it quite rude. She just beams at the server and politely declines the menu. She orders a hot Chai latte with a slice of banana bread. She's obviously a regular at this place. It makes sense she'd chose it as a meeting spot.

The server scurries off, and for a second both he and her take each other in. He admires the softness of her upper body, the curvature of her breasts that are cradled lovingly by her brassiere. She seems to be reading his face, for what he can't say. Whatever she finds she seems to like based on her more confident smile.

"Johnny wasn't lying when he said you're built like a brick shithouse." She giggles.

Despite himself, Ghost can't help the flood of heat to his face. He could throttle that boy. He likes her laugh more than enough to quell that urge though. He finds himself already admiring her confidence to even speak to him like that. He knows he's intimidating.

"If you don't mind me asking," She offers before pausing. He looks at her expectanly, silently urging her to go on. "What are you looking for exactly? Not to be rude but, I'm a little shocked someone as handsome as you would be interested in my services."

A long beat of silence fills the air. It's a bit awkward but Ghost needs a second to think of his response. Not only is he caught off guard by her admonition, but how could he tell this girl he can't find it within himself to build relationship anymore, much less with a woman? Another beat of silence passes and she offers him a sheepish smile.

"Sorry. I-"

"Don't have time for a bird. Jus' looking fer a distraction." He admits, cutting her off. "Johnny talked a big game 'bout ya. Figured I'd give you a shot."

She stutters out a chuckle. His words have caught her off guard. He knows he sounds full of himself. He is full of himself. Her admitting she thinks he's attractive helps alot with his ego.

"Well, has he told you anything about my services other than I'm good at what I do?"

"No."

She goes into her purse and pulls out a semi-thick docket of paper. The headline on top let's him know exactly what it is.

"A rental agreement?" He muses.

"Mhm. I'm sure you're aware my services aren't exactly...legal on their own. So, just to stay on the right side of the law, I make sure my contract states you're renting my villa for the weekends you decide to visit." She says, flipping through the papers. "Besides, you are renting out my villa. It'll be just me and you."

He admires her business plan. A contract like that keeps her from getting scammed, and it has the added benefit of running off losers. Normally, if a John decided not to pay her for her "services" she'd be shit out of luck. This way, she'd be legally able to receive his funds under the guise of being just a landlord.

"Smart."

"Thank you."

She pulls out a pen, uncaps it, then marks on certain lines throughout the packet. She then offers him the pen.

"Wait, sorry."

He places the pen down.

"What experience are you interested in having?"

Ghost just stares at her. He doesn't really understand her question.

"Are you looking for the full girlfriend experience? Or something else?" She asks.

The server comes back with her tea and snack. She thanks them with a bright, beautiful smile Ghost wishes was directed his way. She tries to go for a sip of her hot drink but it's too hot. She licks the foam off her lips with a crinkled nose. Ghost can't help the way his lips quirk up in the corners at the sight.

"Thought that's all you offered." He admits.

"Oh, no, not at all. I offer quite a few services. All vanilla of course." She says as she goes for a piece of banana bread. "The girlfriend experience is the most popular but I can also play the part of a wife, step-sister, or mommy. Most of my clients like to start off our first session with the best friend experience. Just so we can to get used to each other without any weird tension."

Ghost is a bit taken by her straightforwardness. He knew she'd be open and honest, but hearing her talk about what role she'd be willing to play in his sex life makes him swallow hard. He doesn't know what character he wants her to play either. Every fantasy but "mommy" sounds terribly appealing. The "bestfriend" approach does sound like a good place to start. He wants sex, needs sex, but he also knows he himself might not feel the most comfortable to start with it right away.

"Friends first."

She finally gives him that stunning smile. It falters after a moment and she gives him a bit of an apologetic look.

"One last thing before we sign. We've got to go over our boundaries." She says. This time she's finally able to drink her tea. She swallows down the liquid and places it on the table. "What are some of the things you aren't comfortable with me doing."

There's another long beat of silence as Ghost thinks. He really can't think of a damn thing he wouldn't want this fuckable, pretty girl to do for him. He keeps thinking before realizing maybe he's wrong.

"Nothin' anal. N' no kissin'."

She seems confused.

"No kissing? On the mouth or all over?"

He was only thinking about the mouth. Not that he doesn't want to tongue fuck her mouth, but he thinks a degree of separation would be good to start with. The idea that she'd be willing to kiss him other places, well...the it excites him more than it should.

"Just the mouth."

"Okay." She nods. "No anal play and no kissing on the mouth."

She snacks for another moment.

"And you, Love?" He asks.

"Ooh, I like it when you call me that." She blushes again, wiping crumbs off her bottom lip with a napkin.

Ghosts lips quirk up again. He's starting to really like her attitude and sense of humor. And but of course he would. Johnny recommended her.

"Well, my boundaries are as follows:" She begins, her voice even and measured as if she's given this spiel more than enough times. "No choking, no leaving bruises - that includes hickies, no anal without lube or having told me beforehand, and no slurs or degrading names."

Ghost finds her list a little long but he understands it. He feels a bit of righteous fire in his belly at the thought of her Johns pushing her to the point of even having to make those discretions.

"Understood." He nods.

She smiles up at him and then opens the packet again. She points to the already marked lines and has him sign. As he goes along she tells him about each page of the docket. Once everything is signed she hands him a small business card.

"That's the amount for our first session. Please wire the funds to the account listed on the bottom before Friday night at the latest." She says. "If you don't, I won't be able to get everything ready for Saturday."

He nods, taking in the information on the card. Her prices would be exorbitant for a normal man, but Ghost is no normal man. He makes more than enough money to see her every weekend if he wanted to.

"Please don't be late." She taps the section of the card with the time listed. "And make sure you bring a copy of your up to date physical."

Ghost reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out two sheets of paper stapled together. She mulls over the document before grinning at him.

"Well, well, look at you. Already prepared. I think you and I are going to get along just fine." She flirts. She bats her lashes at him and it takes every fiber of his being not to reach over the table and shove his tongue down her throat.

With that she continues to snack on her drink and bread. She offers no more conversation until she's done. Ghost is more than okay with that. He's content to watch her body. He finds he really likes the way her breasts shift with her every breath.

"I'm sure you don't like surprises, so I'll give you an idea on how I schedule my visits. If you want to change anything up let me know." She says. "I'm flexible."

The flirt is not lost on Ghost. He shifts in his seat, feeling heat trickle into his cock. This girl wants to play with him, test his resolve. He hates that it's already cracking.

"When you arrive I'll greet you at the door and bring you inside. I always like to have a meal waiting for you. Afterwards, we can watch TV on the couch together or play some video games? Or I can read to you, if you'd like." She offers. "If you want, I can give you a massage. Or we can always call it a night if you get sleepy. I'll show you my room."

Her excitement is palpable, almost conspiratorial. She sounds like a girl going over her plans for her first sleepover. He supposes she's not far off. It would be their first sleepover. It would also be his first sleepover. He's never had one.

Her excitement is replaced with a nervous smile. It takes Ghost a second to realize why. He didn't realize his facial expression had changed into something a bit more pointed. He curses himself internally, tries to soften his gaze, but the damage has been done.

"If you want to have sex at any time, just say so. The first time around, I usually like for us to get a shower together." She hums. "It'll give me a chance to give you a little onceover before we start. Also, it's just really great foreplay."

While he adores the idea of a sudsy fuck in the shower he also feels like a fool. He's so used to his face being covered he's unused to controlling his facial features. He's used to letting his emotions show because no one can see. He realizes that he needs to be more careful from now on.

"We'll play it by ear." He mutters, his own mood soured. For her credit she doesn't seem to take it to heart.

"Well, no matter what we get into on Saturday I just want to let you know I'm excited." She smiles. "It's been so nice to meet you, Simon."

She tucks the paper docket and the pen back into her purse. She then cleans up her plates and napkins. Just before she readies herself to stand she looks up at him with her pretty little eyes.

"Can I kiss you goodbye on the cheek?"

Her request takes him off guard. He hasn't paid for anything yet. His heart thumps.

"Yeah."

She then stands and leans over the table. Her blouse isn't lowcut but she has enough tits to fill it out. When she leans over he has to stop himself from trying to grope them.

She kisses him sweetly. It's barely a brush of her lips against the rough skin of his cheek. His cock twitches to its full length in his trousers. If he was any farther gone he'd fuck her right there over the dishes.

She smiles down at him, lashes fluttering, purse in hand. She gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

"See you Saturday."