#wants to save others from the thoughts in my head

[melminli]

Dirty Cash (Money Talks)

summary - you had nothing against your colleague, but you weren't stupid enough to be fooled by his innocent smile and appearance since you knew exactly what kind of corrupt person was hiding behind that costume. after all, you were wearing the same one.

pairing: (gong yoo/ji-cheol) the salesman x fem. recruiter reader

word count: 1.4k

contains: talk about gambling + death and murder, sexual tension?, crack and just evil morals tbh

a/n: i watched maybe the first fifteen minutes or so of bullet train, but i thought of the two funny dudes from it while writing this bcuz their dynamic was funny af. also, i will use the actor's name in this fic since the character itself doesn't really have an official one that was mentioned in the series!

You straightened your tie with your free hand while watching your train approach from the side. The station was always pretty empty at this hour, which saved you the jostling and squeezing as you entered. After that, you sat down comfortably with a light sigh - next to the free seat beside your devilishly handsome colleague. “Are you alright? Don't tell me that you had a exhausting day?” he asked you worriedly with his typical innocent smile on his face but you've known the guy for a while now and you knew exactly how dishonest he sounded right now.

You returned his gaze for a second, uninterested, before turning it back in front of you to observe your surroundings from the window. “Exhausting day? Don't make fun of me or I'll punch you in the face,” you replied monotone and Gong Yoo didn't doubt your statement for a second - or Ji-choel as you preferred to call him since you weren't a big fan of nicknames. “I had a great time punching those bastards in the face one by one. It feels kinda therapeutic, so I'm actually feeling pretty good right now,” you told him, talking about the subject as if you were talking about the weather.

Your colleague grunted with delight at your good news. “And I would never disagree with you on that.” he said and then just watched your figure silently for a while before speaking up again. “Since you're in such a good mood, would you be willing to play a more private game between the two of us?” he suggested, making you look at him in utter disbelief.

“A private game? With you?” you repeated, amused and laughed in his face. “Hell, no. But don't worry, I'll let you know next time I want to get totally screwed by a freaky pervert,” you added, your voice dripping with sarcasm. Which will be, never.

“Come on, don't be like that,” he asked you sweetly. As sweet as the wolf who pretended to be the mother of the seven little goats before he ate them all one by one. “It's just a tiny, harmless game. It's been so long since we've played anything together.” he complained to you earnestly as if you actually cared, and you didn't.

Yeah, you remembered the last time very clearly, even if you would much rather prefer that you didn't. You hummed. “Is that so? Huh. I mean, it could be because you almost killed me in a fucking game of tic-tac-toe the last time, but that's just a theory.” You said with a shrug, clearly still resenting him for that. However, he just rolled his eyes unaffected by your grudge. “But you didn't, right? It was the other guy who got the bullet in his head.” He replied, not even remembering his name. Not that he had to.

You just glared at him while you rubbed your forehead. “Yeah, maybe. But I'm tired of risking my life just because it makes you horny and you can jerk off to it.” You made your feelings on the matter clear. “You know that the whole living on the edge of death thing isn't really my cup of tea. At least try to understand me a bit here, too.”

I suppose she's not entirely wrong, I could give it a try. I never thought about it like that before, did I? He thought to himself in his head as he ran his tongue over the back of his teeth while he pondered. How selfish of me. “So what exactly do I have to do, to convince you?” He asked you while he already had a few ideas in mind.

You grinned. “You know that very well, don't play dumb.” You demanded as you leaned closer to him so that he could hear what you were singing softly. “Money talks, money talks - dirty cash, I want you, and dirty cash, I need you, oh ~”

He raised an eyebrow, not particularly surprised. “So you want to play for money?” He repeated it, not outright rejecting your request. “Don't you have enough of that already? You're really insatiable when it comes to cash and now you want mine, too?” he joked just to get you worked up.

Though, you didn't get the slightest bit offended by what he said. “Can you ever have enough money? Besides, I'm not forcing you to give it to me, am I?” you said with a smile, already knowing that he would agree to your terms. “But if you want me to play with you, I want eight million won for every round I win.”

She's so greedy for someone who is already more than wealthy. “Aren't you exaggerating a bit? Most people don't earn that much in a month,” he continued his act of - whatever this was - because he just loved arguing with you.

“So? We both have the same salary, I know you can afford it,” you said, holding a hand in the air as soon as you felt that he wanted to stretch this unnecessary conversation even more. “You have to decide now what you want to do or I withdraw my proposal again.”

Gong Yoo closed his mouth and started grinning even wider. “You don't even want to know what kind of game I want to play?” he asked curiously, nodding and accepting whatever you wanted as soon as he saw that you actually weren't interested. You couldn't even imagine how gladly he gave in to you at this moment. “All right, I agree with your request.”

You stood up with your briefcase in hand after your station was announced. “Good. Text me when you have something in mind, I'll be there as long as it fits timewise.”

Your colleague continued to watch you with a look on his face that used to make you more than just uncomfortable back in the day - though it didn't even bother you in the slightest now. “You don't want to accompany me to the...office?”

You smiled while the train started to slow down. “Au revoir, Ji-cheol.” you just said your goodbye to him and stepped out of the doors. You didn't even spare the poor guy a second glance when he waved his hand at you from the window. She can be so heartless sometimes, he thought to himself, even if you were like this pretty much all the time. I'll have to think of something good to ask for in return should I win. I'm definitely not going to hold back when there's this much money at stake.

You didn't give a second thought to anything as you made your way home after a day's work like any normal citizen would do. However, your steps slowed considerably when you noticed a beggar in your field of vision and even though the rest of the crowd ignored the man and his entire existence, you couldn't help but focus your full attention on him. You looked at your watch, I've been off work for a while now. But even then, you couldn't help but notice that he was one of the people on your list to recruit for the game. He'll still be here tomorrow, but I don't mind another round of Ddakji. I love money more than anything - but I'm not doing this job for only that since I don't even have anything against working a bit of overtime when it comes to this.

“Excuse me,” you spoke to the man with a polite smile on your face, and he only submissively avoided your gaze as he listened to you. After all, one rarely approached people like him and why would they? He held his cup of loose change out in front of him, probably expecting you to give him a small donation, but you wanted to give him so much more than that. Even if the guy didn't know it right now - you wanted to give him another chance in life, so that he wouldn't continue to be just a miserable failure.

You ignored his donation cup. “I was wondering if you might have a moment because I'd like to make you an offer,” you continued politely and the man met your gaze at that. Yeah, you were really looking forward to what was about to happen - after all, you were known for letting your opponent only win if you allowed them to.

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch6. the in-laws

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 6/x

ᰔ words. 12.6k

a/n. hiii my ihm lovelies!! hope you all had a great holiday season. i wanted to get this chapter out as a christmas gift but i failed and then i wanted to get it out as a new years post but failed and then i got food poisoning yesterday and while i was rotting in bed i ended up finishing the chapter LOL. it seems i can only write when i'm under duress? but anywho. hope you enjoy haha and see you at the bottom!

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“Alright, let’s head out,” you hear Gojo say from the bottom of the staircase, followed by the sound of dress shoes on the hardwood floor, and you glance over to see him clad in a navy suit with a white button up shirt that had one singular button undone. He’s messing with the cuffs of his suit jacket as he makes his way over to you. You catch the scent of his cologne, and it’s alarming how familiar it’s become to you.

Days go by shorter lately, mainly because it’s winter, and so the sun has almost fully set by 6pm. The sky outside is a dark hue of purple, seen past the windows of Gojo’s house, and the warm, dim lighting inside makes you feel strangely nostalgic. Like in a way that feels like home.

You tirelessly tousle with your hair at the mirror hanging above the foyer table that was snug up against the wall at the front entrance. Your hair wasn’t cooperating. You attempted to curl it, for the first time in forever given you can’t remember the last time you had enough time to do your hair, so you were out of practice. It was obvious, given the way some strands were curled outwards from your face, some inwards, some straighter than others, some curlier than others, and you were about to have a full blown mental breakdown before you remember your grounding exercises– 1, 2, 3, 4.

You turn to face Gojo, who you saw in the mirror was standing behind you and watching you with amusement, and you breathe in deep. “How do I look?” you ask, petting down the fabric of your dress as you face him. The thought occurs to you–why do you give so much of a fuck how you look right now? It’s just Gojo’s family. It’s not like they’re actually your in-laws. And from what Gojo’s mother had told you, it was just an intimate little get-together with Sana’s family. It’s really not a big deal. Yet the necessity to impress still consumes you.

Gojo threads his hands into the pockets of his pants and tilts his head to assess your appearance, and you watch his gaze trace the frame of you. “Nice,” he says, “you look nice.”

“That’s it? Just nice?”

“Well, I tried to call you hot earlier, but it got me yelled at.”

You roll your eyes and grab your purse off the foyer table, “okay, whatever, I’ll take it.” And then you head towards the front door. You hear the jingle of car keys from behind you as they’re shoved into a pocket.

The outside air is chilly in a way that’s almost sobering. Gojo opens the door for you to get inside his car and the warmth of your peach cobbler in your lap comforts some of the nerves you felt. By the time Gojo clicks his seatbelt into place in the driver seat, you realize you’ve never been in his car before, or driven anywhere by him before.

The interior smells of pine and something more familiar too, with sleek leather seats that are so comfortable they make you feel like you’re floating. You know it’s a Benz, you’re just not sure what year or model, and you’d usually ask most people out of a friendly curiosity, but for some reason your pride always got the best of you when it came to him.

“I seriously can’t wait to eat that thing you made,” Gojo comments after he’s backed out of the driveway, “it looks really nice.”

“Do you have a sweet tooth?” you ask him, glancing over at him, and you try not to stare at the strong one-handed grip he has on the steering wheel as he corrects it. 

“Oh yeah,” he answers, “big time.”

“You don’t seem like it,” you mindlessly say, turning your head to glance out into the dim street, passing by houses that idly sit in this neighborhood.

“Why’s that?” he asks.

“You seem to maintain a steady weight,” you politely comment.

You can hear the smile in his voice. “Is that the closest I’ll ever get to a compliment from you?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s just science. Hard to maintain a build if you eat a lot of sugar.”

He turns onto the mainroad, and you keep your gaze plastered to the outside. “I seem to manage.”

“It’s because you're tall. Tall people get to eat whatever they want.”

You see him nod his head once in your periphery, and you take it as some form of dismissal. “Sure.”

It doesn’t take terribly long to get to Gojo’s parents’ house, just a thirty-five minute drive without traffic. He kept surprisingly silent throughout most of it, and the few moments you did glance at his face, you could even say he looked like he was deep in thought. With a creased brow, a grip on the steering wheel that sometimes faltered, sometimes strengthened, but rarely fully eased. It was all so different from his usual impulse to talk. You know that you often wish for Gojo to shut the fuck up sometimes, but the silence seemed unsettling today.

His parents’ house is large, maybe twice the size of the homes in your neighborhood, but it’s tucked away in a slightly remote area, where the next closest house is about a quarter of a mile down the road. The driveway is long and runs downhill, so you stumble a little on the high heel of your shoe when you step down onto the pebbled pavement, but Gojo holds your elbow so you don’t fall onto your face. And also so you don’t drop the peach cobbler he so desperately wants to try. You’re not sure which of the two was the bigger priority for him.

As you two walk up the driveway towards the front entrance, you hear him sigh behind you. “Just so you know, my mom doesn’t really have any sense of boundaries.”

“Ah,” you comment, “nice to know where you get it from.”

He gives you an irritated look, seen in the corner of your eye, and it’s hard to fight the small amused smile that makes its way onto your face.

He sighs again as you two make it to the top of the steps. “Seriously, though. Chances of you wanting to leave me after this dinner are high.”

“Why? You’ve got a hot older brother I don’t know about or something?”

“I am the hot older brother,” he tells you.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, and then face him fully. “You’re not the first guy that’s warned me about his parents, okay? I’ll handle my own. What good is life if your in-laws–er, fake in-laws–aren’t at least a little strange?”

He lifts his finger to the doorbell, and just before pressing it, he says, “alright, then.”

It only takes twelve seconds for the door to swing open, the aroma of fresh herbs and something more sultry like vetiver arouse your senses, along with a warmth beckoning you from the inside of the home. 

Gojo’s mother stands at the doorway, surrounded by a halo of warm lighting, and her face instantly morphs into one of delightful glee.

“Oh! My dear, you’ve made it!” she exclaims happily, and just when you think she’s about to pull Gojo in for a hug, she pulls you in for one first instead, which startles you. “How lovely!”

“Oh—” you stutter, stumbling slightly as your nose becomes buried in the fluff of her silk pressed hair, but the delicate fragrance of lilac is somehow comforting.

She pulls you away to hold you by your shoulders. “You poor thing, you’re shivering! Come inside.” She hastily ushers you inside and you can feel the heat from Gojo’s body as he follows closely on your tail.

When his mother closes the door behind you, you find yourself surrounded by the kind of warmth only a house could provide. 

You take a small look around the foyer, noticing that it’s large with tones of deep wood and a bright white and golden chandelier that hangs daintily above in the cavity of the high ceilings. Leather, wood, velvet, silk, these are the textures that you see as you look around. It’s an old-fashioned taste, with a polished grand piano off to the right in the hall and display cases of vintage dolls and porcelain plates. So very different from modern, but it’s comforting. Like a wave of nostalgia, but from something you’ve never experienced before.

“What’s this?” Mrs. Gojo asks with curiosity lilting her voice as she walks up to you and points at the casserole dish you were holding.

“Oh, it’s peach cobbler,” you say, holding it up slightly with a small smile adorning your face, “for dessert.”

“How sweet! You’re an angel,” she coos, then twists her torso towards the kitchen, “honey! Come here, will you?”

Shuffling down the hallway from the heart of the house is, who you presume to be, Mr. Gojo. He’s tall, with his shoulders slightly curved forward as he approaches you all, and you note that he looks more aged than his missus.

“Ah, this must be my new daughter-in-law,” he says, his voice gruff and crackly from years of use. You smell the faintest hint of smoke from his clothing.

You glance at Gojo, who is watching you interact with his parents, an unreadable expression on his face as his hands remain shoved into the pocket of his suit pants.

Mr. Gojo takes the peach cobbler from you and gives you a curt smile before taking it back towards the kitchen.

“Darling, I must say, you have a lovely figure—” Gojo’s mother begins to say, reaching her hand out to hover it over the curve of your waist, but just at that moment, Gojo comes up to stand in between the two of you.

“Alright, what time’s dinner?” he asks.

Mrs. Gojo glances up at him, her face immediately twisting into a frown. “Nevermind that. I want to take y/n with me back to the kitchen to help braise the chicken,” she says, grabbing a hold of your wrist and tugging you towards her.

“Oh—” you stumble slightly.

“Nope,” you hear Gojo say from beside you, and suddenly there’s a strong arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you back to his side, “she stays with me for the night.” You’d remember to blush at the feeling of being pressed flush up against him, but the shock overshadowed.

“Satoru!” Mrs. Gojo exclaims, rather loudly, and she lets out a hmph noise before placing her hands on her hips. “You’re no fun!”

“I’m not gonna let you indoctrinate her into whatever multi-level marketing scheme you’ve fallen victim to this month,” he says, his hold on your waist tightening.

“How petulant!” she says, trying to manage a stern look but Gojo doesn’t seem fazed by it, “quit acting like I’m going to corrupt her! I’m not some witch.”

“Your track record would prove otherwise,” he comments.

“Oh please, the only other time was when you brought—”

She suddenly stops speaking, her eyes going wide, and she glances at you. You cluelessly tilt your head at her.

Ah. The other woman. This mysterious ex-wife. Would you be the other woman in this case? Seeing as to how his entire family seems to walk on eggshells about the subject around you. And they all seem to think that any mention of her would devastate you, when really, you and Gojo aren’t even actually lovers.

But there’s a small part of you,

A teeny tiny part,

Revealed from the way your heart sank at the realization of who his mother was referring to,

That actually does feel some type of way about it.

You want to know who this woman was to him. Does he still think of her? Does he still love her? What happened between them? Was she the one that got away? And how does he feel about the fact that he’s now here with you?

You shake your head vigorously to get those thoughts out of your head.

It was like method acting. You stepped into the role of wife this evening, and now you feel the way that they expect you to feel at the mention of your husband’s ex-lover.

That must be the reason, right?

You slowly push yourself out of Gojo’s hold, and you try not to become hyper aware of his eyes on you as you smooth out the fabric of your dress, then you glance at his mother.

“I’d love to help you braise the chicken,” you say.

There’s a brief silence as you find your voice in this house, and then Mrs. Gojo flashes you a grin.

“Come with me, honey,” she says before wrapping a delicate hand around your wrist and pulling you towards the heart of the house.

There are pictures hung up on the walls as you brush past every hallway, along with peeling wallpaper that is peppered with florals and striped prints, sanded off from years of shoulders brushing against their surfaces in a way that creates an old, dated charm. You learn quickly that Gojo has always been pretty tall, judging from the photo of him standing with, whom you assume are his middle school friends, out on a boat, holding a bass the size of a small child. 

There’s photos of the four of them together, like one professionally taken photo where Gojo and Sana are knelt in front of their parents, and your gaze fixates on the strong grip Mr. Gojo has on his son’s shoulder, digging deep in the bone, creasing the fabric, almost desperately. Gojo looks young in the photo, maybe a recent high school graduate, and his smile is bright but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And, God, the trophies. The trophies that adorned the surfaces of aged cedar wood dressers, seemingly random in the order they are sprawled across the display yet you know there was intention behind it too. Ballet, soccer, tennis, spelling bee, FRC, even dragon boat racing. 

“Feel free to take any of those home,” Mrs. Gojo says with a teasing tone, “you eventually get tired of staring at them.”

You wouldn’t know. Your mother never had much extra cash hanging around to take you to tennis lessons, or ballet lessons, or SAT prep, or whatever. You were lucky enough that you got into college with the cards you were dealt, but you sometimes wonder what your potential could’ve been if you had parents like Gojo did. Maybe the house you live in would be your own, and not something that your mother has spent the past forty years of her life trying to pay off. Maybe you’d have a freshly renovated kitchen and a pretty boat out on the street. But throwing a pity party for yourself right now wasn’t exactly going to get you through the evening.

Mrs. Gojo finally leads you into the kitchen, and the aroma of fresh herbs overwhelms your senses. 

“Smells wonderful,” you comment.

“I know,” she cheekily comments, “will you turn the meat please?”

You grab a pair of tongs and attempt to sear the cuts that were sizzling on the stove.

“Sooooo,” she coos, wasting no time to playfully bump her hip to yours, “how is married life?”

“Nice,” you respond, your cheeks warming slightly, “it’s nice.”

“It won’t always be that way, you know,” she muses with some underlying sense of sincerity that isn’t lost on you.

When you remain quiet, concentrating on the searing sizzling noises coming from the pan, she decides to keep speaking.

“Eventually, you two will settle in a little too much…start to care less about your bodies…and then, oh gosh, when kids come into the picture, forget about having any time for yourselves,” she continues, “some days you’ll resent him, others you’ll feel like it’s the first time all over again.” She sighs. “Marriage is a funny thing—”

“Mrs. Gojo,” you interrupt her, turning to face her, “I—…I really appreciate you, I do, but, um, I’ve already learned a lot already about marriage from my own parents. Things are fine between Satoru and me.” You look into her widened eyes. “And…if something does happen down the line, and we choose not to be together anymore, then that’s okay too.”

After all, you had to prepare her.

“But that’s the thing!” she chirps, “your generation is too—…too impatient. Unwilling to work anything out! A marriage is supposed to be hard, but also it’s something you aren’t supposed to give up on so easily.”

It’s your turn to meet her with widened eyes in response to her preaching, and her posture immediately deflates before she holds you gently by your arm.

“I’m sorry, honey…I know it’s too early to be saying all these things to you,” she says, managing a small smile, “I always forget that I’m too old to be doting on my children like this anymore.”

Your expression softens and you wrap your palm over her bony knuckles, feeling the thinness of the skin that stretches over them. In a brief glimpse, you see your own mother in Mrs. Gojo’s eyes, something familiar, a universal expression of the love a parent has for their child.

“Well…” you say after clearing your throat, “for what it’s worth, you have nothing to worry about, Mrs. Gojo.” You try to manage a small smile. “I’m—…I’m really happy with your son.”

It was hard to lie to someone like this, especially from the way there’s relief that floods her irises, a genuine feeling that is so hard to come by in these days of false niceties. You often wonder how far a single white lie can stretch before it shatters against its own resistance.

“That’s a relief,” she says, managing her own prim smile, “I’m so glad.”

The two of you finish up in the kitchen, and when you circle around back into the hall, you see Sana standing in the warmly lit family room with Gojo and their dad.

Sana catches your eye, and you purse your lips together hesitantly before walking up to her.

“Hey,” you say softly and she returns the small smile you give her.

“Hi,” she says back to you.

“Um, where’s Juno?” you ask, looking around.

“Oh, she has a sleepover at her friend’s house tonight,” Sana says, “Jun’s dropping her off, and then he’ll come by here later.”

“Ah, I see,” you comment, itching at your elbow from the awkwardness.

“Well,” Mr. Gojo says, gesturing towards the dining room, “let’s eat, shall we?”

The three of you nod at him.

It’s fascinating to watch how the family falls naturally into their chairs, an assigned seating pattern that stays consistent among all dining halls and rooms and tables in the world, one that every family has. Mr. Gojo sits at the head of the table, his wife to his left, his son to his right. Sana sits quaintly to her mother’s left, and you sit across from her to Gojo’s left. The one empty seat is left for the presence of Jun.

“Food looks wonderful, darling,” Mr. Gojo says before leaning over to place a kiss on her bashful cheek.

Your heart does something weird at the sight. A simultaneous twinge paired with a warmer feeling that follows. You hardly witnessed any affection within your household growing up, not between your parents at least, probably because you were young when they got divorced and so the turmoils and tribulations started long before you had any higher order of cognitive discernment beyond the childish interest in Disney princesses and The Backyardigans. For you, the only memories that last of your parents’ marriage are those that feel like nothing more than the frigidity of a business arrangement. Ironically similar to the one you were currently in with Gojo. Except at least yours hadn’t been initially built on a foundation of love and a promise to be there for one another until death did you two apart.

Death was knocking on your mother’s doorstep now. But your father was nowhere to be found. So much for a vow.

Mr. Gojo pours his son a glass of whiskey, single malt as read on the label. Mrs. Gojo pours you and Sana a glass of red wine, and you try to hide the grimace, because you would’ve much rather had the whiskey.

“To y/n,” Mr. Gojo says, raising his glass up into the air, “for being our newest addition to the family.”

You all clink your glasses together, then in a variety of pairings, the last one being the tap of Gojo’s glass against yours, before you all take a drink.

“So…” Mrs. Gojo speaks up, “exactly how long have the two of you been married?”

You glance at Gojo for help, which isn’t exactly an unsuspecting thing to do.

“Four weeks,” he says.

You watch Mrs. Gojo’s eyes twitch. You can understand. Her own son gets married and doesn’t tell her anything about it for four weeks after the wedding. Well, in your case, a courthouse arrangement.

“Where did you two go for your honeymoon?” she asks, and Mr. Gojo clears his throat.

You look at Gojo for help again, and mentally pinch yourself for not being more discreet about how fake this whole thing is.

But Gojo surprisingly looks at ease. “Greece,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Mrs. Gojo’s body language turns to you, clearly irritated by her son’s short and curt answers. “Did you have a fun time, dear?”

“Oh! Yes, it was a very fun time. Definitely did all the newly wed stuff. Just as normal newlyweds do, you know. Because we are newlyweds,” you say through an awkward cough.

“Like…?” Mrs. Gojo pushes, and you can tell that she’s asking out of a genuine curiosity over the itinerary you two had allegedly carried out, but you crack under the pressure.

“W—…We made love,” you say, “we made lots and lots of love.”

The sound of silverware clanking onto ceramic plates startles you out of the blissful ignorance you had to the words that you had just said. Like you were so caught up in your mind about wanting to seem like an actual real life couple to his parents that you almost forgot about the number one social rule when meeting your (fake) significant other’s parents: no references to copulation. 

You glance up to find Mrs. Gojo’s eyes are wide, a slight tinge of pink to her cheeks. The width of Mr. Gojo’s eyes match his wife’s except his expression is also duly accompanied by a furrowed, perplexed brow. Sana looks visibly uncomfortable, shifting in her seat and trying hard to put on a poker face as she pretends like she didn’t just hear what you said.

You finally glance at Gojo, who’s looking at you with the most what the fuck? face you’ve ever seen someone make, and there’s concern on there somewhere too, like he’s not even fully convinced that you’re mentally sane at the moment because why on God’s green Earth would you say something like that at a family dinner table.

Trying your best to laugh it off, you say, “ah…ahaha, d-did I say make love? I meant–I meant that we–”

“Just–” Gojo interrupts you. “Just stop.”

Everyone are still stunned silent and the flush to your cheeks grows warmer. While clearing your throat, you set your lap napkin up on the table and clumsily scootch yourself out of your chair.

“Ex…cuse…me...” you mumble under your breath, knocking the table with your knee on accident, your wine glass almost toppling all over the pretty linen tablecloth but your reflexes catch the stem to steady it. “I need to…use the restroom.” And then you head straight down the hallway without sparing them another glance.

“Use the upstairs one!” Mrs. Gojo calls out to you, “the guest bathroom is under renovation.”

“Of fucking course it is,” you mutter under your breath, but flash them a polite smile before rounding the staircase pillar and then briskly walking up the stairs.

You quickly realize there’s more personality to the house upstairs, with some clutter in the theater loft and mismatching decorations that don’t reveal the careful deliberation of an indoor designer. The master bedroom is directly to the right of the top of the staircase and you glance across the loft at a narrow hallway that leads into the three bedrooms tucked away into the heart of the house.

One foot after the other, you float in that direction as if some force were compelling you towards it. Some trance of curiosity that no human being could ever resist. It’s fine. You didn’t actually need to piss anyways.

The first bedroom you walk past is rather boring, with beige tones all around. Beige bed sheets, beige wall paint, beige lamp shade, beige curtains. But the air smells crisp, and you notice there’s a shelf that has about half a dozen plants lined up in a variety of artistic pots. Similar to the set-up Gojo has in his house at home. You walk inside and brush your fingers across the dresser surface, rubbing fine dust over the pads of your fingers, and with your next inhale, you sneeze.

A guest bedroom, you think to yourself.

The next bedroom you walk past is sweeter, kinder, warmer. There’s pink hues scattered across, the most obvious one being the pillow covers, and there are some shades of a baby blue as well. But the furniture looks modern, sleek, and new. There were two identities at war in the room, like that of a little girl and a grown woman. Neither able to find its voice among the chaos of friendship bracelets sprawled across the desk and the Louis Vuitton purse resting at the foot of the bed. 

Sana’s room, you think to yourself. 

Childhood bedrooms are like time capsules if left untouched for very long. You’ve lived in your room at home for as long as you can remember, only recently having shifted to the master bedroom. The room grew up with you. It had no chance to become some entity of its own. 

The next bedroom you walk by feels familiar, even before you walk inside. There’s a comforting feeling that envelopes just from the lighting alone. You push the door open with a gentle palm.

The culprit of any young man’s room–navy blue sheets. Stretched taut against a made-up bed that has some sort of feminine flair to it, like it wasn’t set by Gojo, but rather his mother passing by his room one day to sit in his absence, only to needlessly mess with the sheets because it gave her a sense of purpose. You go eighteen years pouring blood, sweat, and tears into raising a child, protecting them, nurturing them, being the one they lean on for all of life’s woes, only for them to pack up and leave one day. You suppose that if you were a parent, you would find melancholy in that loss of responsibility too. 

His desk is a large expanse of cedar wood with a desktop monitor and some bookshelf speakers set up on it. The PC itself has collected dust over the years but there’s a small mechanical whirring noise you hear somewhere within. The rest of the desk is mostly empty except for some unopened mail tucked away with some books, the spines creased at the last few hundred pages, but never to the end. 

You pick one of the books up, flipping the pages open, and see sticky notes on some of them. Like English literature notes one would take in class, with studious words that over exaggerate the significance of the prose just to make a teacher happy. Who cares if the curtains were blue? Maybe the author just wanted them to be blue. Why does everything in life have to have meaning?

Setting the book back down with a sigh, you walk over to the bookshelf. There are some more trophies, some sets of comic books, some strange robotic-looking figurines. Small picture frames of foreign scenery are set up in different corners wherever there is empty space, like an afterthought. 

“Hmm…” you hum to yourself, tilting your head to the side to read the vertical spine of a thick black book that was tucked flush up against the shelf's side. 

West Valley High School. Class of 2007.

With your index finger hooking the spine, you slowly pull the book out from its comfy corner. It’s heavy in your hands and you notice that there are ink smudges across the tips of your fingers.

When you open the cover, you’re met with a page filled with a variety of colors and handwriting, and you realize they’re signatures. And to no one’s surprise, most of them are feminine. With hearts, some merely outlines, some shaded in with ink, scattered across the page. Bubbly handwriting, neat handwriting, cursive handwriting, a lot of it in pinks and purples and reds. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was like those Valentine’s Day cards all the girls would sign in grade school to pass onto their crush, except imagine if all of them were intended for just one guy.

You roll your eyes as you flip the pages, seeing no end in sight to the signed ink. I mean, come on, how many signature pages does a yearbook even need? This was excessive. And, no, you aren’t bitter simply because your high school yearbook has maybe a max of fifteen signatures (four of which were from your teachers). It’s just frustrating. And confusing. Why does everyone on this planet adore Gojo except you? Is there something wrong with you? Are you the problem?

There are some signatures from boys too, most likely his friends. Otherwise, you’re not sure what random fleeting classmate you’ve only spoken to a couple times would be brazen enough to draw pictures of penises squirting in whatever empty space they could find in your yearbook, if not for his high school friends. These boys are probably in their mid thirties now, just as Gojo is, maybe with wives and kids they’re now responsible for. You wonder if they’d still find the drawings funny all the same today.

You flip the pages more, taking in image after image after image of smiling portraits. ABC…DE…F…ah, G. Hmm, there. There it was. 

Gojo Satoru.

Seems like his high school didn’t allow yearbook quotes, but you try to imagine what his would be. Probably something corny and lame, like See kids? I told you I was sexy in high school.

He looks cute though. With his hair fluffy, boyishly ruffled to pair with a charming smile that’s at ease. He just looks a little younger, that’s all. Not that much different. Perhaps a bit more scrawny, a bit more mischievous-looking. As opposed to his adult self, who appears sturdy. More serious. But you realize that cheeky part of him that comes out every now and then when he’s teasing you or pissing you off is that boy within him that looks exactly like the portrait in this yearbook that you trace with the pad of your finger. 

You close the book, suddenly a little out of breath, and then slip it back into place. Your eyes catch the shimmer of the trophy at the top of the shelf. It was shaped like a baseball glove mitt, and in the palm cup, there is an actual baseball in there with a black ink signature. You gently pick it up and turn it in your palm to try and read the ink.

Ichiro.

Your dad used to watch baseball. You’re familiar. Seattle Mariners, Ichiro Suzuki. The first Japanese player to ever make it to the Major Leagues. Ten time all-star, and tenth member of the Mariners hall of fame. He retired when you were just a little girl, but you still remember the look of awe in your father’s eyes as he stared at the box TV in the living room of your house when Ichiro took his last stand at the plate.

Gojo was also a boy at that time. Living in this house. Maybe his old man was watching that game at the same time. And maybe Gojo was watching the look on his father’s face, too. It’s the romance of life–you look up at the moon in the sky, and you know that there is someone else out there, someone that you’ll meet some day, maybe even someone that will mean the world to you someday, who’s looking at it too. But you just don’t know it yet.

Lost in endless, rather fruitless thought, you continue to turn the baseball in your hand to pointlessly assess the seams, but it slips out of your hand and onto the carpeted floor with a loud hollow thud that startles you, and when you attempt to bend down and pick it up, you accidentally push it with your toe and it rolls underneath the bed.

“Shit,” you mumble, getting down onto your hands and knees to look underneath the bed.

You see the ball rolled a few feet away, and when you reach for it, it becomes clear that you don’t have the arm span to grab it. You struggle and you struggle, the tips of your fingers barely tickling its seam, and the frustration makes you sweat a little.

“Come…here…you…stupid…thing,” you mutter. You’re sure your hair is a static mess now, too. 

You finally manage to roll it towards you a couple inches and then your palm wraps around it before pulling it to your shoulder, but not without something collateral that’s dragged along with it.

A photograph. Printed out, vintage. You pinch the corner between your two fingers and stand back up onto your two feet in order to better assess the image under the light of the floor lamp.

The first person you notice in the photo is Gojo. He looks younger than in the yearbook, but he’s wearing a suit and a tie. It’s a little big on him, ill-fitting as most teenage boys should look in a suit, like a rite of passage. His smile is less warm than the one in the yearbook too, more prim and stretched into a thin line that’s only slightly curved upwards. It’s only then when you notice the slender fingers sprawled across his chest near the collar of his undershirt, black nail polish blending in with the fabric of the suit. Your eyes trail the dainty hand, and your heart skips a beat when you see a girl standing next to him, pressed up against him, her smile much brighter than his. Pink braces line her teeth and her hair is that classic mid-2000s side-swept bang mess, but she’s pretty. Dressed in a pink-ish purple gown that almost looks like a bridesmaids dress, and you finally see the banner stretched across behind the both of them in the picture that reads Homecoming 2005. 

It’s hard to explain it, but you can just feel it somehow. That this person is important to him. Not just some last-minute date to Homecoming, or an old high school girlfriend he’s long since lost touch with. It seems larger than that, somehow. Unlike penises drawn on yearbook paper, this feels like something a person never outgrows.

Of course, people have lived fully-fledged lives before you’ve met them. Just as you have as well. But you’re overtaken by the insane curiosity to want to learn every single detail about this past life that Gojo has lived. Where did he and his friends hang out after school? When did he learn how to drive? When was the first time he got shit-faced drunk? When was the first time he snuck out of the house? And who was this girl in the picture? 

“Find what you’re lookin’ for yet?” a voice calls out, entirely startling you to where you almost jolt out of your skin, and you swiftly turn on your heel towards the entrance of the room. 

You see Gojo standing in the door frame, leaning against it with his arms crossed as he levels his gaze at you. He has a blank expression on his face, although you would say it’s more serious than playful. 

“What–...I–” you stutter, shuffling the picture you were holding behind your back so he doesn’t see. 

His eyes don’t flit to the movement. “You don’t have to tear the room apart to find my illicit drugs. You could’ve just asked.”

 You roll your eyes. “As if you would do drugs.”

“You say that like it’s an insult.”

“It is.”

“So, then, if you’re not looking for drugs, what are you looking for?”

Your cheeks are warm. “I don’t know. Petty cash? Human body parts? Playboy?”

He snorts. “Playboy? Who still has a subscription to Playboy?”

“Maybe your teenage self did.”

“I’m not that old,” he says, “I was watching porn like the rest of my peers.”

“Ew, you freak,” you say, and you grab one of his pillows and throw it at him.

He lets out a laugh before catching the pillow with ease, and then walks up to you, placing the pillow on top of your head. You half-glare, half-pout at him.

“C’mon,” he probes, “tell me why you’re hiding away up here.”

“I embarrassed myself,” you confide in him with a sulk of your shoulders. “I mean. Seriously. What the fuck was that? What a humiliating thing to say in front of your parents. I just feel so weird pretending like this.”

His expression softens. “Sorry,” he says, “for dragging you into this dinner.”

“No,” you sigh, “I’m the one that did. I forgot you can’t necessarily fake a marriage without…doing the typical couple things.”

“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” he hums as his gaze flits towards the bed, “doing the typical couple things, you say?”

You roll your eyes. “In your dreams.”

“Oh, in my dreams alright,” he says with a grin.

“And if I strangled you? What then?”

“I like that. It’s kinky.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you don’t have magazines lying around?”

“Brown box underneath the bed. You didn’t look hard enough.”

You give him a disgusted look. He laughs.

“I’m joking,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“I’m not convinced,” you say, turning your body away from him slightly to keep the photo hidden behind your back.

He tilts his head at you, gaze flickering down to your other hand. Your heart skips a beat. “I could’ve guessed that.” 

His hand reaches out and you flinch ever so slightly, something he thankfully doesn’t notice, and then he’s grabbing the baseball out of your palm.

“I always thought I could sell this thing for major money,” he muses, throwing the ball up into the air to catch it. And then doing so again a couple times.

“It’s authentic?” you ask with genuine curiosity.

“Oh yeah. I caught it. First ball game my old man ever took me to, and it happened to be Ichiro’s last.”

Your eyes widen. Gojo was at that game. He wasn’t just watching it from home on some TV like you did with your dad. He was living in it.

“Wow,” you say, “must’ve been quite the game.”

“Don’t really remember too much about it to be honest, other than how stoked I was to just be there with my dad.”

“Mm,” you hum, “I’ll have to ask Mr. Gojo more about it when we get downstairs.”

His expression falters slightly, his smile dropping in the most subtle way that you wouldn’t have even noticed if you hadn’t been intently staring at his face. 

“Yeah,” he says, “maybe.”

Gojo continues to stare at the ball in his palm as he rotates it in inspection. There’s an awkward silence that settles between the two of you, and you feel the burden of conversation has suddenly fallen on you. 

“My, um. My dad was a fan too,” you say.

His eyes glance up to meet yours. “How come I’ve never met him?”

The question catches you off guard. “Wh–...I’m sorry, what?”

“Your dad,” he says, as if it was something so casual. 

“That–...well, he’s–...I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in years,” you admit, “not since…not since my mother was diagnosed with cancer.”

He stares at you earnestly, studying your expression, before he decides on saying nothing else except, “I’m sorry about that.”

You sigh. “Satoru, I–” you start, keen on the way his body stiffens slightly when you say his name, “I really don’t have the capacity for much else tonight. I mean, the questions. And the lies. And walking on eggshells around your mom.” 

“Well. I was sent up here to get you,” he says, “and I can’t exactly go downstairs empty handed.”

“Fine. Let’s just get this dinner over with as fast as possible.”

“Sure,” he easily agrees, “I’m with you on that one.”

You take a step forward to head towards the door, but then suck in a sharp gasp when you remember what was being held behind your back.

“Wait,” you say, “look away.”

“...huh?” he huffs, a puzzled look on his face.

“Just look away for a second.”

His eyebrows furrow before he lifts one in a questioning manner. But he acquiesces and turns on his heel to face away from you. “Have I ever told you how strange you are?”

“No,” you say while discretely crouching down, playing along in an attempt to distract him, “you haven’t.” You flinch a little from the sound of your hip popping, but he doesn’t seem to notice and so you bend your wrist in preparation of flinging the photo back to the abyss underneath his bed.

But you stop.

And you take one more glance at the photo.

And your stomach flips the same way it did the first time you saw it.

If you asked, would he tell you?

But the more pressing question is,

Why are you so scared to find out?

You shake your head vigorously to get rid of all your pestering intrusive thoughts. It was the stress, you played it off. A hyperactive mind leads to hyperactive ruminations. And besides, it’s just silly. Sure, there’s your gut feeling that suggests otherwise. But this girl in the photo could really just be an old friend or girlfriend that had no significant impact on the trajectory of his life. Why be the crazy one and lose sleep over this? You’ve lost sleep over plenty of other things in your life, but not stuff like this. It’s just not like you.

You fling the photo across underneath the bed and then stand up just in time for when Gojo turns around to look at you out of curiosity.

“Alright,” you say, dusting your hands off, “let’s go.”

You walk over to where he stands by the doorframe, a slight warmth to your cheeks when he doesn’t move out of your way like he usually does, but instead he leans towards you slightly as you brush past him, and your heart jumps a beat in your chest when you feel his hand gently fall to the small of your back, softly urging you forward ahead of him. A feather of a touch, yet intentional, almost naturally so, like a curious test of the boundary between you two that he’s been dying to understand a bit better. And the fact you don’t turn on your heel to face him with that same undeserved and petty rage that you always do, and instead slightly shudder at the feel of his touch, means that somewhere along the way, you’ve moved the line a little closer.

He’s hot on your trail as you walk down the stairs slowly and when you turn around the post at the bottom then make your way back to the dining room, you see his family staring at you with wide eyes.

His mother stands up. “y/n! Come sit back down, dear.”

You nod meekly, and Gojo pulls your chair out for you to take a seat before he resumes his seat next to you.

The food is slightly cold by the time you finally get to pick at it. It’s not very seasoned, either. Not enough salt for your taste. But somehow Mrs. Gojo having a phobia of sodium is a study of character that makes perfect sense in your head.

Eventually, the awkward silence is too much for you to bear, and you set your fork and knife down on your napkin with a slight bit more force than you probably should’ve.

Everyone looks at you.

You sigh. “I’m sorry for earlier,” you say, “I’m…uh, I’m just not really used to these sorts of dinners…I don’t have much family here in this town, and it’s always just sort of been my mom and me. And I—…I guess I’m just a little nervous.”

Wide eyes blink at you. Mr. Gojo shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat while Mrs. Gojo blinks her long lashes at you. Sana tilts her head, and you have no interest in seeing what Gojo’s expression looks like. You fear it’s the one you’d remember the most.

You were just being honest with how you felt. And it doesn’t take you long to realize something you probably should’ve realized earlier walking into a home like this where everything was perfect and on display with no evidence of the way a true family can crumble on the inside—a house like this does not value honesty. Your mother couldn’t afford you many luxuries in life, but you never felt like you couldn’t be honest in front of her. 

You glimpse up at Sana, and there is some knowing expression on her face. It’s almost sympathetic. As if you two were on the same page about something right now. When you glance at Gojo, you see him staring down at his plate with his brow slightly furrowed.

“It…it’s quite alright, dear,” his mother says through a prim voice, and in an attempt to change the subject, she says, “I do hope you are enjoying the chicken.”

“Ah,” you exhale, “yes. I am.”

“So!” Mrs. Gojo chimes in again as she dabs her mouth to a linen napkin. “Tell me about what you do for fun.”

You blink at her. “Oh, umm…binge watch TV? Occasionally I’ll go for a walk.”

“Ahh interesting! What about reading? Do you enjoy reading?”

“Well, the last book I purchased was a picture book about North Korean missiles…so.”

She lets out a laugh. “And where do you see yourself in five years?”

You hear Gojo sigh beside you before he reluctantly sets down his silverware and then he turns to Mrs. Gojo. “Mom. C’mon. This isn’t a job interview. Just let her eat.”

There’s a slight tinge of pink to the tips of her ears from the interrogation interruption as she glances between the two of you. She looks over at Sana for help but finds nothing other than a gaze tipped down towards a plate full of picked-at food. Mr. Gojo folds a hand over her frail knuckles as if to silently communicate, but Mrs. Gojo retreats her hands to fold in her lap underneath the table.

Feeling somewhat bad for the two of them, you turn the face Gojo’s dad. “Um…Mr. Gojo, Satoru was telling me about how you were a big baseball fan and a big Ichiro fan…do you still keep up with the Mariners?”

The man’s eyes grow wide with a visible confusion and you swear you hear Gojo clear his throat beside you.

“Ah…that’s–” he starts before the sound of the doorbell ringing startles you.

Sana immediately stands up without a word of excusal or a glance in anyone’s direction and she heads straight for the door.

You all look around at one another before Mrs. Gojo says, “must be Jun.”

You were at least glad to find you would not be the only “in-law” at the table full of a tension-laced family dinner, especially given the fact that in most of the cases where you’ve met Jun, his penchant to talk overshadows any other energy.

“What’s up, y/n!” Jun shouts when he waltzes into the dining hall, a few steps ahead of Sana. He throws his jacket over the first surface he finds, body language matching that of someone twenty years younger than he actually is. You can’t tell if it’s overcompensation for something, or if he just genuinely believes he’s still in his twenties. 

To your surprise, he opens his arms out for you to greet him with a hug, and you hesitate before standing up slightly to give him a well-meaning wrap of your arms around him, but it lacks any warmth of familiarity.

“Welcome to the fam!” he jovially exclaims before patting your arm. He then hugs Mr. Gojo, then Mrs. Gojo (paired with those cheek kisses that the French do in greeting), then daps up Gojo (to which you notice Gojo is less than enthusiastic about) before he finally kisses Sana on the cheek and then takes his seat at the other end of the table. Your eyes are keen on Sana now, watching her intently, but she remains staring at the food on her plate. You had a feeling there was someone in this room that didn’t want to be at this dinner even more than you did.

“How was traffic, Jun?” Mr. Gojo asks.

“Oh it was nothing. Took a shortcut. Backroute off of Lake City Way. Full of pot holes though.”

Sana turns to him and scowls. “While you were taking Juno to her sleepover?!”

He lifts an eyebrow at her. “Yeah? We were running late.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to take that route to get into the city! Those pot holes are so dangerous.”

“Honey. Chill. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Just last week I saw news of three plot holes on the Mercer Street intersection opened up. Three people were injured, including a young boy.”

“Okay well if I also believed everything I saw on the news was going to personally happen to me too then we’d have never gotten this far in life.”

“Jun,” Sana deadpans.

“W-Why don’t I fix you a plate, Jun? You must be tired.” Mrs. Gojo chimes in. 

Sana breathes in deep and exhales slowly before slumping down into her chair. 

“Thanks,” Jun says, easing his brow as he sits back in his chair nonchalantly, before he turns to Gojo and starts to talk about mundane things like the stock market, the recent election, something about a new bowling record, and this one Thai restaurant he really wants to try on the other end of town, all within the span of time it takes Mrs. Gojo to set a plate down in front of him.

Mr. Gojo jumps in on conversation from time to time. Mrs. Gojo listens idly, sometimes placing a laugh where she feels appropriate. Jun gets particularly animated about this incident he ran into earlier last week when he was dropping Juno off at school, a story that you notice everyone at the table is for some reason entirely intrigued by, but you suppose it’s the most interesting topic of conversation you’ve all had tonight thus far. At certain critical points of the story, Sana jumps in with a that’s not what happened, Jun and you find yourself finally settling in somewhat to the evening.

Just as Jun’s story is ending, you glance up to Mrs. Gojo and find that she’s staring at you with a smile on her face. It makes you jump in your seat a little, luckily unnoticed by the rest of the table because of Jun’s engaging theatrical hand gestures as he attempts to keep his wife, his brother-in-law and his father-in-law engaged. You would’ve expected Mrs. Gojo to avert her gaze the second yours locked with hers, but she doesn’t. She just continues to look at you with a soft smile on her face and a slight tilt to her head, like she’s getting used to the sight of seeing you at this table.

Her gaze flits downwards slightly and you follow her line of gaze, tracing it to the ring that was adorning your left hand. 

Your eyes widen slightly.

“Oh–” you stutter, the words already getting caught in your throat, “I–...I forgot to say, it’s an honor to wear your ring, Mrs. Gojo.” The table suddenly goes quiet, and you can’t tell if it’s because of you, or if it’s because there was no more story left to tell. “It’s beautiful.”

It truly felt like for every two steps you took forward, it was ten steps backwards. Because you watch the way that soft smile of hers entirely drops, her expression replaced with one of confusion, brows knitted together as she looks at you like you’ve just spoken in a language no one on Earth can speak. 

She glances at Gojo, and you don’t have to look at him  to tell that he’s stiff in his seat. You could’ve felt the tension from a mile away. 

Mrs. Gojo looks at you again. “Oh honey, that–” She glances between you and Gojo. “That’s not my ring…”

Your eyes widen, cheeks already flush from whatever’s to come.

But suddenly, and to your surprise, Sana speaks up. “It was our mother’s ring.”

You look at her with confusion. And then you glance at Gojo. And then you glance back at Sana. And then at Mr. & Mrs. Gojo.

“But…” you trail off.

“Sumiko and Daichi are our aunt and uncle,” Sana says with a strained voice, “our real parents died in a house fire when we were younger.”

You blink at her in shock.

“He didn’t tell you?” Mr. Gojo asks.

“I–” You glance at Gojo and see that he’s poking his tongue to the inside of his cheek as he stares down at the glass of scotch he was twirling around in his hand.

“Of course he didn’t,” Sana interrupts, the bitterness in her voice matching the attitude she’s since displayed this entire evening. Her gaze is locked onto her brother’s face, and when his gaze flickers up to meet her eye contact, his expression is set with a tense jaw. “He never wants to mention them. He never wants to acknowledge their life. He never wants to honor them. He just wants to pretend like they never existed.”

“Sana,” he cuts her off, and a chill gets sent down your spine from the seriousness and rigidity in his voice. “Now’s not the time for this.”

“When is the fucking time?!” she spats at him, the simmering tension brewing over. Ah. Yes. The moment you had been expecting. After all, what family does not have its baggage? Sana abruptly stands up from the table, startling everyone with the clanking of silverware and ceramic from the motion. “When is the fucking time for you to admit that you never gave a shit about mom and dad dying? When is the fucking time for you to admit that we moved on to live with these people so fast? When is the fucking time for you to admit how wrong it was for you to force me to call the people here my mom and dad my whole life when they aren’t?” Her voice cracks near the end.

You glance at Mr. & Mrs. Gojo, who both look shocked, hurt, even embarrassed as they gaze down at their food. Your heart stalls in your chest for them.

When you glance back at Gojo, you see that his gaze is hardened even further now. “You’re being rude,” he says, in as steady of a voice as he can manage from the way his brow is creased with disappointment. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Sana says as she wipes at the tears with her sleeves, and you notice that she looks young like this. Younger than the usual prim and proper self that she portrays. Too young to be a mom, too young to be a wife, too young to be an adult. Like someone propelled into a life that she never wanted. “That’s always what you say, isn’t it? No answers, you just claim that I’m being childish and rude.” Jun tries to reach out to hold her hand but she snatches it away from him. Under her breath she says, “I didn’t want to come here. I should’ve just stayed home.” And with a rough swipe of her sleeve across both of her cheeks, she suddenly storms off somewhere deep into the house. Jun immediately stands up to follow her, leaving the four of you here with stale, cold food.

The timer in the oven goes off, the sound heard in the distance like a lifeline, and Mrs. Gojo immediately stands up. “Ah, must be…the roasted potatoes. I’ll be right back,” she fusses, and you avert your gaze from her face so she doesn’t feel embarrassed over the streak of a tear you saw streaming down her face.

“Let me help you,” Mr. Gojo says in a small sheepish mumble before following his wife into the kitchen.

And then there were two.

You only have a moment to process the dramatic outburst and subsequent fall-through before you turn in your chair to face Gojo, your face narrowing in contempt. You see him running a hand through his hair, entirely ruffling out any sort of neatness he had combed it into earlier, and he undoes the top button of his shirt with an impatient thumb like he was letting go of whatever image he had been trying to keep up for tonight, because after what just happened, there was no use. 

“So when were you going to tell me that they aren’t actually your real parents???” you hiss at him.

He sighs and runs a hand down his face. “They’ve raised us since Sana was just three years old. I didn’t think it mattered.” 

“Okay well if I had known then I wouldn’t have mentioned the ring??? Now everyone’s left the table because of me.”

“It’s not because of you,” he quickly corrects you, “it’s because of years of unnecessary drama of which I’ve still got no fucking clue why it still gets brough up at every. family. dinner. If you didn’t bring it up, then they would’ve figured out a way to bring it up somehow anyways.”

You blink at him, a little taken aback by how dejected he was by this entire conversation.

“Are you going to go check on Sana?” you ask him.

“No,” he says without hesitation, “she’ll calm down soon enough.”

You press your lips into a thin line, contemplating his dismissal, before you let out a huff of disappointment and disapproval. You pull your napkin off of your lap, setting it up on the table, and slip out of your chair to head into the house in the direction you saw Sana storm off into, leaving Gojo to himself at the table.

As you walk down the hallway, all those pictures you saw hung up on the walls, those photos of illusion that painted this pretty picture of a nuclear family fall apart in the narrow space, those firm smiles and hesitant postures making much more sense to you now. They aren’t even his real parents. Baseball and wedding rings. Those details belonged to a life he never intended on sharing with you. 

You walk past the kitchen, stopping briefly just beyond the entrance before backtracking and you find Sana standing near the sink with her arm across her chest as her other hand wipes at her cheeks. The soft sound of a sniffle echoes in the room and you’re surprised to see that Jun left her alone.

Tentatively, you shuffle your feet across the wooden floor. She seems to make note of you in her periphery but refuses to glance up. 

“Hey…” you start when you finally make it to the space in front of her, your hip leaning against the edge of the sink counter in parallel with hers as you face her.

“I—” she starts, shuffling her palms across her cheeks again. “I am so severely embarrassed.”

Your eyes widen slightly at the honesty. “Don’t be. It’s just family.”

“No but that’s the point,” she says through a crack in her voice, “I’m thirty-one, I’m married, I’m a mom, but they’ll always just see me as some immature little brat because I always behave like this.”

You don’t know what to say. You suppose if you were a therapist, or a priest, or a mentor, or a mom yourself, or any other person with an emotional IQ higher than yourself, you would know the right thing to say to her right now. But you don’t. So silence is all that you can offer her, and you hope that it’s enough.

It seems to work in it’s own magical way, as she slowly opens herself up to you within the next passing sixty seconds. A fleeting glance up to your face. The halt of pointless fidgeting with the fabric of her sleeve. The way she stands up straighter, her hip no longer leaning against the kitchen counter, and you find that you mirror the same movement.

She clears her throat, rubbing her nose with the knuckle of her index finger, her eyes no longer glistening with tears but the corners of them look puffy.

You glance down at your feet for a moment before inhaling deep and making eye contact with her. “Hey, listen…” you say, “I’m—…I’m really sorry…about earlier today. For overstepping about the bullying. Juno’s your daughter, and I really shouldn’t have given her advice before at least running it by you beforehand. Especially for something so sensitive.”

The delicate muscles of her brow lift in surprise at your words, lids fluttering slowly as she processes your words, and the wave of melancholy is contagious as it washes through you as well.

“I’m sorry too,” she says, “for how angry I got with you. It’s just—” she hesitates, and you see that semblance of her that you’re more familiar with. Strict, stern, rough around the edges but for a noble reason. “Y’know, with kids…we tend to get overprotective over them.” Her gaze drops to somewhere beneath yourselves as if she suddenly lost confidence in her train of thought. “I’m just trying to do the right thing for her.”

A silence settles between the two of you before you realize you ought to respond to her.

“I get it,” you finally say. “I mean—…I don’t. Because I’m not a mom. But…I’m sure that when I am one some day, I’d understand.”

She finally offers you a smile in return to your words, polite but genuine nonetheless. And a soft remnant sniffle makes her ruffle her nose.

Her expression softens, and she stares straight ahead to your collarbone rather than your eyes. “She really likes you, you know?” Sana glances up at you now. “Hasn’t stopped talking about your ‘blubbery’ pancakes since last week.”

“Aww.”

There’s a sad glint in her eyes when she turns her torso away from you slightly in resignation before some hint of optimism flashes by in her face and she turns to you again.

“Do you…think you could give me the recipe?”

You want to ask her if everything is okay. But instead, you say, “sure.”

The sound of footsteps approaching is heard near the kitchen entrance and the two of you glance in that direction to see Jun walking in. He offers you a fleeting glance before taking his place beside Sana, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling him towards her before placing a kiss on her temple and saying, “hey honey.” 

You watch as she averts her gaze down to the tips of her toes.

“Feeling better?” he asks her but there’s this lack of warmth you cannot quite discern.

“Yes,” she responds, scratching at her cheek as a discreet way of getting rid of the last remaining wetness that had streamed down her face earlier.

He rubs her arm soothingly and then looks at you with a smile pressed into a firm line. “Doing alright?”

You blink at him. “Wh—…yes.”

“Say, y/n, how’s your mom doing by the way?” he asks.

“She’s…better. She’s in hospice now.”

“Palliative?”

“Well—” you say, “I guess. It’s just temporary.”

He shuffles inside the pocket of his coat and takes out something. A small card with finely printed black ink on it. He hands it to you.

“I can’t imagine how expensive that all must be,” he says, and you glance down at the card.

Carevest Capital est. 2016

Invest in a healthier you!

You glance up at Jun. Sana’s gaze has now shifted to the inside of the sink.

“I started this business,” he says, “where we’re revolutionizing the way healthcare costs are managed. In our platform, we basically invest our clients’ money into the stock market, leveraging our high-reward algorithm to maximize returns. But here’s the unique part: we partner with leading healthcare CEOs who match a portion of the profits as an incentive for stock purchases. Together, these funds go directly toward paying off hospital bills and easing related financial burdens.”

Your eyes widen at his words. The speech was practiced, one you can only assume he has pitched to many potential clientele. But there’s a hint of personable grace to it as well.

“I’m telling you, y/n, we’ve had clients who have overcome six figures of medical debt in just six months,” he says, “and you’ll only need a couple thousand dollars to start yourself up.”

You purse your lips together, your finger pinching the corner of the card. “That’s amazing, Jun.”

He smiles at you, releasing Sana’s waist. “Sorry if this kinda came out of nowhere, but I heard through the grapevine that things have been rough.”

Oh, like how your card has declined publicly at the grocery store multiple times, or how you haven’t been able to afford your insurance deductible to get that chipped off part of your bumper fixed, or the fact you haven’t paid your landscapers in over three months so your lawn now looks like a swamp? It was a small town. And people’s finances were always a topic of interest for most.

“I just wanted to offer any help I can,” Jun says.

“Thanks,” you say, returning his smile, “I’ll, um, I’ll look into it.” You push the card into your pocket.

He offers you that same firm smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before he pulls Sana to him again, placing another kiss along her hairline and the PDA seems like overcompensation on some front from the way Sana is entirely frigid to his touch. 

Maybe it was a woman’s intuition,

But you felt like something was wrong.

“Kids,” you hear Mr. Gojo’s crackly voice say as he stands leaning against the doorframe near the kitchen entrance, “let’s finish dinner?”

The three of you exchange glances before nodding and heading back towards the hall.

Your peach cobbler was apparently very good, the only thing that seemed to cut through the tension of the night. But that was the thing with family, right? You can yell and scream and cry and lecture and mope and roll your eyes at each other all you want but at the end of the day, they’re still family. Sana still seems slightly dejected though, and you can see Gojo in the corner of your eye at the table glancing up at her every other minute or so. His own way of making sure she’s doing okay, you think to yourself. Sana refuses to meet anyone’s line of sight except yours, however, which makes you feel some slight burdensome responsibility of sisterhood you had never signed up for. Nonetheless, you try to offer her a soothing smile whenever she looks up at you, and it seems to put her at ease.

The news of Sana and Jun moving seemed slightly anticlimactic, as Mrs. Gojo mentioned that they had already had an inkling that Jun and Sana would be moving closer to the city. You briefly wonder if Mrs. Gojo knew all along, but decided to make the announcement into some big affair just so that she could see her niece and nephew over a meal.

You make no more embarrassing comments. Conversation dulls into anything and everything unpersonal to you all, such as the news and weather and gossip of other people. And somewhere along the night, you relax your knee, the ball of it pressing into Gojo’s thigh underneath the table. It was wordless, innocent contact that occurs when two people become more comfortable with one another. Only excusable due to the slight buzz you felt in your veins from the wine. He’s kissed you before, yet somehow the press of his thigh against yours feels even more searing. There’s a point along the night where you tip your head to the right slightly, daringly close to resting your head on his shoulder due to the tipsy dizziness weighing in your head, and it would certainly put on a convincing show of newlywed affection for his aunt and uncle, but you manage to catch yourself. And subsequently refuse any more glasses of wine.

“Thanks for having me,” you say to Mrs. Gojo at the front entrance before she pulls you in for a hug.

“Oh, anytime dear,” she says as she gently pats your back, “please.”

When she pulls away from the hug, she holds you by your shoulders before her eyes glance down towards your left hand and the shimmering diamond that sat on the ring finger. She holds your hand in hers and lifts it to examine the twinkle underneath the lights of the chandelier.

“It really is a pretty ring,” she says, her eyes glossing over. “It looked beautiful on my sister, and it looks beautiful on you too.”

Your breath hitches slightly in your throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Gojo.”

“Please,” she says in response to the title, “Sumiko is fine.” But in less of a way in which she’s relaxing formalities, but rather in a way that acknowledges she never had the sovereignty to be called that in the first place.

You hear masculine voices approaching down the hallway as the three men make their way towards the front entrance as well. Gojo glances at you in the midst of their conversation, and he leaves the two of them to make his way over to you.

“Alright,” Gojo says, turning to face the rest of them as he stands beside you. “We’ll head out now.”

Sumiko pulls him in for a hug, then his uncle, and then obnoxiously by Jun as well. Sana fidgets with her fingers as she remains at the end of the line, and you catch a glimpse of surprise on her face when Gojo pulls her in for a hug too. You see him whisper something to her, and it’s only after she hears what he said that she returns the hug and wraps her arms around him as well.

You’re jolted out of your people-watching trance when Gojo walks up to you and takes your hand in his, shoving his other in his pocket. You glance down at the sight, the way his large hand engulfs your own. It’s warm in a firm hold, delicately squeezing your hand once right before you feel the cold air behind you when his uncle opens the door.

Well, you survived. That’s what you think to yourself as you sit in the passenger seat of Gojo’s car, watching the city lights twinkle as you two drive by. You don’t know what you were expecting. Drama? Ease? Tension? For a piece of the sky to fall and land on the roof? There was a part of you that wanted to impress. You want to be one of those daughter-in-laws that the in-laws just adore. You know, where they’re like, god am I so happy that she’s a part of the family now! The one that the mother-in-law is just so ecstatic to know that her son managed to hold down such a catch.

But any expectations and pressure dissolve with the reminder that this is all fake. Fake, fake, fake. And you’d do really well to remind yourself of that reality whenever you spent time with Gojo. Whenever you find yourself acclimating into his life for even a moment, just remember that it’s fake. Can you have a little fun here and there? Sure. Will you probably find yourself in even stranger situations going forward? Yes, because, well, that’s how life is. But it’s just fake. No obligations, no responsibility, nothing. Nada. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

But as you walk through the front door, staring straight ahead into the dark house at Gojo’s back as he sets down the keys by the foyer table, and even as you follow him further into the house towards the kitchen, that feeling inside you surges. 

A woman's intuition.

That something between Jun and Sana was wrong.

Not just routine marital issues,

Or the occasional argument,

Something worse. Something dangerous.

And it’s not something you would ever expect a man to pick up on, even Gojo.

Because it was from the way Sana’s eyes silently communicated with you from across the table,

Something so subtle, a silent plea across a shared dimension,

That she needed help.

“Hey…” you speak up softly, standing in front of the fridge. 

Gojo glances over his shoulder at you from the other side of the kitchen island, barely illuminated by the moonlight through the windows. He turns to face you. “What’s up?”

You blink at him. 

“Um, I really don’t want to overstep again, but—”

There’s a sobering thought that flashes through your mind when you recall that you have never seen yourself as the hero in anyone’s story.

Simply because you could never, ever, ever trust yourself.

You could never trust your feelings or your decisions.

Because you cosigned on hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical loans. Because you stuck around for five years with a man that didn’t love you anymore. Because you still feel naive enough to believe that your best friend who betrayed you still misses you somehow. Because you still foolishly believe your mother will be around to hold her grandchildren someday.

Because you thought that your best bet in order to pull yourself out of hell was to fake marry a man,

And then act as if it’s all real when his aunt looks you in the eye with bittersweet tears as you now wear her bereaved sister’s ring in honor, entirely unaware it was actually being worn in vain.

How could you ever trust your judgement when you behave this way? 

Never the hero. If anything, the villain.

“What is it?” Gojo repeats when he sees that you’ve been silent for too long. He tilts his head at you, his hair falling over his forehead haphazardly and he runs a hand through it to try to get it out of his face. Even in the dim light, his eyes shine a breathtaking blue.

You swallow hard.

“Um,” you say, and then glance down at the wetness you find at your heel. “The, um, the fridge is leaking again.”

He blinks at you for a solid ten seconds, and then the tension in his shoulders drops when he sulks and closes his eyes with exhaustion and defeat.

“Fuck. Okay.”

.

.

.

[end of chapter 5]

a/n. looool i really keep thinking i can post shorter chapters and them bam they be 10k+ words. but i swearrr it's just cuz i be yapping :(( anywho hope you enjoyed this chapter!! a lot of characters were kinda introduced and mm given a bit more depth in this chapter. sorry there wasn't as much romance or anything in this one though haha there will be more in the next one :0 big big thank you to my lovely ihm beta readers ayelin, jules, leni & mirl for helping me out w this chapter!! i believe i may have mentioned this before but i STRUGGLLEEEE with multi-character scenes (i'm much more comfy writing scenes that just have back n forth between two characters) so this chapter was challenginggg esp the whole dinner sequences and there were also a lot of complicated feelings at play, descriptions, stuff i wasn't sure if it was coming off the right way (and tbh am still not sure haha) but they really helped me work my thoughts out n gave wonderful suggestions too so tysm :'') much loveee!! hope to see you all in the next one <3 - ellie

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[scoupsakakitty]

More than Words | idol!Mingyu x idol!Reader | fluff

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a golden glow through the expansive windows of the villa where the two groups were staying. It was the kind of light that softened everything it touched—much like the way Mingyu’s gaze always softened when it landed on Y/N.

They had been friends for what felt like forever. From the moment her group joined HYBE, Mingyu had gravitated toward her like the earth toward the moon. It wasn’t something he could explain; it just felt natural, like breathing.

And maybe that’s why it hurt so much to keep pretending that’s all they were just friends.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the couch beside him, her laughter ringing out as one of the members from her group told an embarrassing story about their early training days. Mingyu didn’t even register the punchline. All he could focus on was the way her smile lit up the entire room, the way her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when she laughed too hard.

“You’re staring again,” Seungkwan whispered, nudging Mingyu’s side with a knowing smirk.

Mingyu shot him a look that could kill, but it only made Seungkwan grin wider. “I’m not.”

“Right.” Seungkwan leaned back, arms crossed. “And she doesn’t look at you like you hung the stars in the sky.”

Mingyu’s ears burned, and he turned his attention back to the group just in time to see Y/N glance his way. Her gaze lingered for a second too long before she looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Everyone saw it. Everyone knew it.

But neither of them had the courage to say it out loud.

———————————————————————————-

Later that night, after dinner and endless games that left everyone exhausted, someone suggested watching a horror movie.

“No thanks,” Y/N said quickly, shaking her head. “You all can watch, but I’ll pass.”

“Scared?” Mingyu teased, his lips twitching upward.

“No,” she lied, narrowing her eyes at him.

Mingyu tilted his head, clearly not believing her. “Then stay.”

“You just want me to stay so you won’t get scared,” she shot back.

Her words made the others laugh, but Mingyu only grinned wider. “Stay,” he repeated, softer this time.

And because it was him and because she could never really say no to him she did.

The movie was worse than she expected. Every jump scare had her clutching Mingyu’s arm until, at some point, he just wrapped it around her and pulled her closer. She didn’t even resist.

By the time the credits rolled, Y/N was thoroughly spooked, but she didn’t let it show. Or at least she thought she didn’t until Mingyu leaned down and whispered, “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, but the slight tremble in her voice betrayed her.

Mingyu only smiled. “You can sleep in my room if you get too scared,” he said casually, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

————————————————————————————-

She was not fine.

The villa was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of the wooden floors. The movie had ended hours ago, but the images still played in Y/N’s mind, making every shadow on the wall feel alive.

She had tried everything burying herself under the covers, listening to music, even counting sheep—but nothing worked. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the way Mingyu had held her during the movie, his arm warm and steady around her shoulders. It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that, but tonight, it felt different.

Maybe it was the way his hand lingered against her skin, or the way his voice softened whenever he spoke to her. Or maybe it was just her, overthinking everything the way she always did when it came to him.

With a sigh, Y/N pushed back the covers and slipped out of bed. Her feet carried her down the dimly lit hallway before her brain could catch up. By the time she reached Mingyu’s door, her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure he’d hear it the moment he opened up.

She knocked lightly, half-hoping he wouldn’t answer.

But then the door creaked open, and there he was Mingyu, shirtless and half-asleep, with his hair sticking up in every direction.

“Y/N?” His voice was low, husky, and it sent a shiver down her spine. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t sleep,” she admitted, suddenly feeling ridiculous. “The movie…”

Understanding flickered in his eyes. “Come in.”

She hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Y/N.” His voice was softer this time. “Come here.”

That was all it took. She stepped inside, and he closed the door behind her before leading her to the bed. It was warm, and the scent of him clean soap and something distinctly Mingyu wrapped around her as she settled under the covers.

When he lay down beside her, he didn’t hesitate to pull her close. Her head rested against his chest, and the steady thump of his heartbeat calmed her almost immediately.

“Better?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

“Yeah,” she whispered, her fingers brushing lightly against his bare skin.

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in the quiet, until Y/N started tracing small patterns on his chest circles, hearts, meaningless shapes that only made her more aware of how close they were.

Mingyu’s hand drifted to her hair, his fingers threading through the strands slowly, almost absentmindedly. It was soothing, but it also made her hyper-aware of every single point where their bodies touched.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured.

“So are you,” she shot back, her voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled, and the vibration of it against her cheek made her stomach flip.

“Y/N…” He trailed off, but she heard the hesitation in his voice.

She tilted her head, looking up at him, and that’s when it happened. His gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there for a moment before he looked back into her eyes.

Her breath caught.

Neither of them moved at first. It was like time had stopped, and all she could feel was the heat radiating off him and the weight of his arm around her.

And then he leaned in.

It was slow, almost tentative, giving her every chance to pull away but she didn’t. Instead, she closed the distance, her lips meeting his in a kiss that sent sparks shooting through her entire body.

Mingyu’s hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb brushing gently against her cheek as he deepened the kiss. It was warm and soft and everything she had ever imagined it would be.

Her fingers curled against his chest, clutching at him like she was afraid he might disappear.

And he didn’t stop.

The kiss grew more urgent, more desperate, as though they were both trying to make up for all the time they had spent pretending this wasn’t what they wanted.

When they finally pulled apart, their breaths mingling in the small space between them, Mingyu’s eyes searched hers.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice a little unsteady. “I can’t pretend anymore.”

Her heart skipped. “Pretend what?”

His hand stayed on her cheek, grounding her. “That I don’t want you. That I haven’t wanted you since the moment we met.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

“I’ve been falling for you this whole time,” he went on, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I know we’re both scared of what this means, but I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she didn’t look away.

“Say something,” he murmured, his thumb brushing away the tear that slipped down her cheek.

“I feel the same,” she whispered. “I’ve felt this way for so long, but I was scared. Scared of what it might mean for us for our groups for everything.”

Mingyu let out a shaky breath, his forehead resting against hers. “You don’t have to be scared. We’ll figure it out together. Okay?”

“Okay.”

And when he kissed her again, it was slower this time sweeter. Like a promise.

————————————————————————————-

The morning after felt different.

There was no awkward silence, no avoiding each other’s eyes. Instead, there were lingering touches and soft smiles exchanged across the room, even as their friends gave them questioning looks.

“Did something happen last night?” Seungkwan asked, narrowing his eyes at them.

“No,” Mingyu said too quickly, making Y/N laugh.

“Definitely not,” she added, but the way she looked at Mingyu betrayed her.

Seungkwan raised an eyebrow. “Right. Sure.”

But neither of them cared.

For the first time, it didn’t matter what anyone else thought.

Because they had each other and that was enough.

———————————————————————————-

[liveyun]

no escape | k.th

title. no escape

pairing. kim taehyung x fem reader/oc

genre. squid game au, thriller, pwp, smut

warnings. 😵‍💫. guard!taehyung, player!oc, consensual sexual acts in forms of power play, bandage, orgasm denial, face fucking, spanking, taehyung is. . . arrogant and cocky (pun intended) , his hands, taeconda wbk lmao, edging, finger sucking, some softness

wc. ~3k

a/n : i haven’t watched the drama yet, so please forgive me if there are any factual mistakes (shouldn’t be lol, there’s barely any plot) and this is my second time writing smut/first time writing fellatio so please let it slide if it sounds bad because i was way too impatient to wait and the rumors and or the theories (unlikely) of him appearing in the third season are making me delusional fr 😈

The corridor is suffocatingly quiet, save for the faint whir of crusty old machinery.

Dim overhead lights flicker intermittently, casting dark shadows that stretch and contract like phantom limbs.

You shouldn’t be here. The thought screams louder with every step you take, but it’s drowned out by the pounding of your heart. A part of you relishes because of your rebellion; full of zeal, while the other part is shrinking with fear. Yet, you don’t know which one is responsible for your heart to go hayware.

Either way, you keep on walking.

You grip the edge of the wall tighter, your fingertips brushing against the cold metal, as if the steel could tether you to sanity.

The restricted zone feels different — emptier, darker. As if even the quiet of this lobby is asking you, no, demanding you to leave — but rebellion is so sweet to taste, that perhaps even death cannot make you step back. The air smells off, tinged with the faint metallic tang of something you don’t want to name. The kind of place where secrets go to die.

You force your breath to slow, ears straining for any sign of movement, any hint that someone else might be lurking. But there’s nothing. Just the silence pressing in on you from all sides.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

You flinch.

The voice is low. Dulcet — so smooth it feels like liquid heat is being poured into your ears. You’ve never heard this voice before, and yet it crashes into you with the force of a thunderclap. That calm, quiet power, threaded with something dangerous, coils down your spine and settles deep in your stomach.

The serenity of the voice scares you.

Your entire body goes rigid, blood freezing. Slowly, so painfully slowly, you turn your head. He’s standing at the other end of the corridor, blocking the entrance, and perhaps, the only escape.

Red jumpsuit, square mask. The highest rank among the guards. The ones who don’t ask questions.

For a moment, neither of you move. The fluorescent light above him buzzes faintly, casting an uneven glow over his figure. The mask stares back at you, empty and unyielding, a void you can’t read.

But you feel his eyes. You feel them trailing over you, assessing, dissecting, pinning you where you stand. You feel naked under his gaze despite being fully dressed, and you feel an odd feeling in your insides..

“Lost?” he asks, and the way his voice dips at the end makes your breath hitch. Fuck, oh god.

It’s not just the sound of it—it’s the way it slides under your skin, makes your insides tingle. And he knows. This bastard knows. You can’t see his face, but the slight tilt of his head, the way he lingers just long enough to watch your reaction—it’s deliberate, calculated.

You swallow hard, but your throat feels like sandpaper. “I… I—”

He takes a step forward. You take one back. The air shifts, heavier now, charged with something you can’t quite name.

Your pulse races, each beat like a drum in your ears.

You don’t know if you’re exicted or scared.

“You know what happens to rule breakers, don’t you?” His gloved hand flexes at his side, the movement deliberate, almost lazy. A predator sizing up its prey.

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Save it.” Another step, and he’s close enough for you to catch the faintest trace of his cologne beneath the sterile scent of the suit. It’s woodsy, faintly spiced, and it lingers in the back of your throat like a memory you didn’t know you had. “You don’t belong here. And yet…” He tilts his head slightly, the square on his mask glinting in the dim light.

“Here you are.”

You hate the way your knees threaten to buckle, the way your breathing hitches despite your best efforts to keep it steady. You feel absolutely mortified to feel heat pooling in your lower abdomen like slow fire. There’s no telling what he’ll do. Report you? Drag you back? Or worse — handle the punishment himself.

And God help you, but a part of you is equally as thrilled as terrified to find out.

He’s close now — so close that the full, metallic scent of the corridor is drowned out by something else entirely. Something warm, woodsy, and faintly spiced, like cedarwood and smoke. It lingers in the air between you, curling around your senses, filling your brain up with fog.

The mask tilts, as though he’s watching you with a predator’s curiosity, drinking in every nervous shift of your weight, every shallow breath. You feel overwhelmed and squirmish, hyper aware of him observing your each move.

“What’s the matter?” he murmurs, voice low and unhurried. “Cat got your tongue?”

Your throat feels dry, words caught somewhere between your lungs and lips. You shift back, but the wall at your spine reminds you there’s nowhere left to go.

It’s just you and him.

He leans in just enough to make the hairs on your neck rise, his gloved hand brushing the wall beside your head — close, too close. It’s then you notice his hands: large, impossibly large, even beneath the thin sheen of the gloves. His fingers are long and deft, curling lazily into a fist before releasing, a movement so absentminded it shouldn’t make your stomach flip.

Shouldn’t fill your head with images which practically threatens to take away the little sanity left in you.

“You’re scared,” he muses, more to himself than to you. “But not of what you should be.”

His head tilts again, the mask’s material catching the overhead light. Slowly, his hand rises, not toward you—but toward his own face. His gloved hand rises to the edge of his mask, fingers brushing the seam. He hooks a single finger beneath the edge of his mask.

You barely notice that you’ve stopped breathing.

“You want to see who’s really watching you?”

You can’t stop your eyes from widening. “You want to see who you’re really dealing with?” The words are laced with danger, meant to come about as a taunt. But they dont, they instead spread a fire inside you, like how the veins of a leaf spreads across its surface area.

Slowly, almost languidly, he pulls the mask away, revealing the face beneath.

Oh.

Oh.

Dark, sweat-dampened hair clings to his temples, framing a face that seems carved from shadow and starlight. His eyes are sharp, but, but they hold a soft glimmer — hooded, which gleam with cruel amusement framed underneath thick, strong brows. His lips are slightly parted, as if he knows you’re looking and wants you to keep doing just that.

He is breathtaking. He is gorgeous. And he knows that.

It’s the small things that undo you. The faint sheen of sweat along his sharp jawline. The curve of his smirk, too soft to be mocking but too dangerous to be kind. And that scent —closer now, filling your lungs and making you lightheaded.

“Well?” he asks, voice silkier than before. “Do I live up to the mystery?”

Your mouth moves, but no sound comes out. Your gaze drops despite yourself—past his throat, past the open collar of his jumpsuit, to the slender column of his neck and the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

Fuck this man.

But it’s his hands that do you in. Bare now, he tugs the gloves free, one finger at a time. His skin is warm-toned, his fingers long and lean, the kind of hands that could either cradle or crush without hesitation. He flexes them casually, like he knows you’re watching.

They are clean. Beautiful. Neatly manicured. . .

“Lost for words?” His voice is teasing, but his eyes are sharp, drinking in every flush of heat that creeps up your neck.

You can’t look at him, but you can’t look away, either.

An image flashes up in your mind. His fingers, the same fingers, rubbing your clit with smooth, slow circles as his other hand restricts the airflow from your throat.

Oh fuck.

You grit your teeth, not trusting yourself enough to conceal any noises that may spill out. However, you fail to supress yourself from squirming, your thighs rubbing themselves together unconsciously as the erotic image flares up your brain.

And he notices that too.

His eyes narrow, and a dry laugh escapes his lips — something similar to a mock, but closer to amusement. You feel your throat dry on the realisation as you try looking away, but the next thing you feel are his hands on your chin.

“You dirty little thing,” his hands are warm — but the tips of his digits cold as they squeeze your cheeks, puckering your lips out, his face inching closer till you can see your own reflection in his pupils.

You feel like closing your eyes, but you can’t.

His breath is warm. Minty. Sweet on your cheeks as he draws each word out like rich honey. “You could be killed here for breaking the rules, but you are thinking of something else. Isn’t that right, doll?”

You feel your clit throb at the nickname.

You shake your head, or atleast you try to. Could there be anything more humiliating than fantasizing about someone as him? Probably. But right now, you feel like not giving him the satisfaction of submission.

His tongue darts out to lick his lips, the plush muscle coating his lips in a sheen layer of saliva.

He shakes his head, and a dry, unamused laugh leaves his throat.

“Filthy little liar,” he coaxes. “Do you know what do liars deserve?”

Your eyes widen, but somehow you feel that it’s not going to be the end of you.

Your eyes burn with tears.

And so do your wrists — they are tied behind you with a rag, and your knees actually feel like they’ve been scraped. But oh, sweet heavens, you feel like you could die after this. His cock rams into your mouth — not even half-way through, and hits the back of your throat. Your instincts have your throat constricting, eyes watering, and body squirming.

It’s nearly been 20 minutes, or so you think, since you’ve been kneeling down, getting fucked in your mouth by none other than the arrogant, handsome guard whose cock is so impossibly thick, you feel your jaws hurt. Suit hunched down to thick thighs and cock fished out of black boxers, you feel like this man actually is going to be the death of you.

Your pussy convulses, gushing out another stream of viscous fluid as his hips snap towards your face once more. He moans, a sweet, honeyed sound which makes your insides churn, a smooth beat which has your ego inflating. Your arms feel numb and your wrists hurt at the loss of circulation, but you remember how cruelly he’d tied your arms after your own fingers had reached down to releive the ache of your weeping pussy after the first thrusts of his cock into the wet cavern of your mouth.

He sneers, and grabs your hair — but his touch is surprisingly gentle, unlike his thrusts. Twists your hair into a makeshift ponytail, and forces your head on his length.

“Your mouth feels so good, ahh~”

He likes edging himself — or you. He’s been impossibly close thrice, throbbing and pulsing in your mouth, hissing at your tongue licking a particular angry vein on his cock, but he pulled away each time with a harsh grunt.

His eyes are sharp — glimmering under the dull lights of the lobby. He holds the back of my head and pushes himself down your throat, and you feel yourself gag, your mouth dripping with drool, his cock impossibly closer to your throat, still not down the base. “Y-yeah, you dirty liar, choke.”

It wasn’t definitely your first time with a man — but this man? You had no words. You felt your cheeks warm up, your cunt clench and gush out. You moan, the sound muffled by his cock, and looked up into his dark eyes, wordlessly begging for more. . .

What had gotten into you?

Your senses were overwhelmed ; the taste of his cock, its hardness prying your throat open, the smell of his sweat, the glimpses of his golden skin under his suit and impossibly silky hair sticking to his forehead — and each thrust sending you to a gateway of primal lust.

His hands leave your hair.

And what he does catches you off guard. You were busy eyeing his form, and he takes the advantage of that. His hips buck back to your mouth, freely thrusting as if you were a toy — nudging your throat open as he moaned in victory, his hands on his hips, teeth tugging his lower lips as he presses his cock closer.

“Look at you,” he lets out a small laugh. “Such a good girl. Taking cock so well.”

Your insides feel mushy with the praise. He fucks you through as you willed your throat to relax, knowing that each spasm tightened your throat around his cock, turned him on even more — you could already feel his cock throb back again.

He grits his teeth, and then your mouth is empty.

He’s pulled back — his wrapping around his length, and good heavens, even his enormous hands dont make up to the size of his cock as he lazily strokes his shaft. Red, so red it’s nearly a shade of purple — enlarged and throbbing. Your tongue flicks out as you whine at the loss of cock and he smirks ; as his thumb swipes the pearling pre come over his sapping tip, twisting his strokes as they get frantic, rushed, and more desparate.

“So eager for cum, are you?”

He tries sounding tough, but his voice wavers, ending off in an airy note. Fuck, he is close. His lips part and his head is tossed back as he fucks his fist, jerking off you resist the urge to squirm. The sight is so unbelievably hot — the arrogant guard is about to come.

He looks down at you as the first rope of his seed hits your agape mouth.

Warm, salty, and slightly bitter.

He fills up most of your mouth with his come as he keeps on jerking, and you must say that his aim is pretty accurate. Although some of it dribbles to your cheeks and chin as he groans, a sound so primal you feel your cunt clench and throb, knowing that you made him come so hard that you can see his eyes rolled to the back of his head as the last splurt of come hits your tongue.

You eagerly gulp down his release, surprised at how pleasant he tastes, and how easily you agreed to shallow down.

He, however, doesnt stop.

He leans down to you, close, impossibly close till you can feel the warmth of his face radiating to you. His hand cradles your face as one of his fingers swipe at the come on your cheeks and brings it to your lips.

“You don’t wanna waste it, do you?”

You happily oblige.

But you don’t stop either — you swirl your tongue around the digit, long and slender, similiar to how you’d done to his cock. You see his nostrils flare, and another arrogant smirk tugging up his lips as he narrows his eyes at you, pulling his finger away with a pop.

His hands reaches down to straighten up your shoulders — as your tits perk up, still clothed, but the outline of your pebbled nipples are prominent.

Your cheeks burn at the intensity of his gaze on your chest.

He squats down to your height — and before you realise, your arms are bound free. They feel numb and cold, and you flex them around a bit as blood rushes back to your wrists. You feel slightly awkward and blue balled, still feeling your wetness cling to your folds and your abdomen swirl with heat, but —

His arms slide underneath your thighs as he throws you over his shoulders.

“Wha. . . !! ” your throat feels sore, but you hope he gets the surprise you feel being over his shoulders, limbs held down by him, ass in the air and arms holding onto their dear life on his suit as he carries you both forward. Anyone could see you like this — your bare cunt and ass on display, but you don’t think it bothers him.

Or you. If anything, you feel your heart pick its rate at the idea of being caught.

One of his hands lands a slap on your cheeks and your body jolts forward as you yelp, feeling the sting on the muscle as his huge arm caresses the area, your body carried away by him with long, huge and hurried strides. To somewhere you possibly don’t know. . . .

But you aren’t scared, as ironic as that sounds.

“Did you think we were done already, doll?”

a/n : how did we like it? 😈 your feedback is always appreciated! thanks for reading 💜

[darlingdreadwrites]

Scary? My God, You're Divine

pairing: Ticci Toby x GN!Reader

summary: Toby's been feeling insecure all day, and you snap him out of it.

contains: toby being insecure, fluff

word count: 1.1k

masterlist

a.n: this is the first thing ive gotten myself to write in weeks oml.... and yes im still alive LOL just been depressed and coping horrendously

The forest is quiet, save for the occasional chirp of birds in the distance and your conversation. The evening air is cool, carrying the scent of earth and pine. The fading sunlight paints the horizon in hues of amber and rose. You sit cross-legged on the slightly damp ground, absently brushing aside a twig as you chatted away. Your voice carries an easy, lighthearted cadence as you recount a ridiculous moment from earlier today. The punchline slips from your lips with a chuckle, and you glance at Toby. Not even the faintest sign of amusement. Just what was going through that head of his today?

Toby sits a few feet away, legs tented with his arms draped loosely over his knees. His hoodie is pulled up, the shadows of the fabric obscuring a full view of his face. His head rests against his left shoulder – angling just enough to keep you out of his peripheral vision.

He’s not even listening, you sigh to yourself.

You had noticed that he was uncharacteristically quiet for hours. And yet – whenever you would ask if he was okay – he would brush you off with joke. It seems that now he doesn’t even have the energy to fake not being upset. Unbeknownst to you, Masky’s voice is still echoing in his head – cruel and biting.

“I don’t know what they see in you, ugly as you are.”

The words had clung to him like burrs – twisting into his thoughts sharply. He hates how easily it got under his skin. He never gave a fuck about his appearance before, why was he so worried about what you’d think of him now?

Toby barely registers your voice anymore – or the fact that you had even stopped talking. It was a soft and familiar hum that would have soothed him on any other day. But right now, he feels undeserving of even that—your presence, your attention. What could you possibly see in him?

He shifts, a quiet tic jerking his arm upward before he forcefully presses it back down. The clicking of his tongue follows, barely audible because of his painful restraint. He lets out a sharp exhale, his jaw tight under the hood’s shadow.

He’s so distant. The way his head is hung – as if the weight of his thoughts is too much to bear – makes your chest ache. Fuck this, I can’t take it anymore.

Scooting closer, you lower your voice to a concerned tone. “Toby… are you okay?”

He stiffens, his fingers tightening around the sleeves of his hoodie.

“I’m f-fine,” he mutters, but the crack in his voice betrays him. He keeps his gaze fixed on the ground; the corners of his mouth tight.

You sigh, leaning in. “No, you’re not. Talk to me. Please.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His silence stretches long enough to almost make you ask again. He lets out a sharp exhale, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread.

“Wuh-why do you ev-even… care?” he mumbles.

“What?” You blink. “Why wouldn’t I care?”

He looks up – just for a moment – before averting his eyes again. His jaw works like he is chewing over words he doesn’t want to say, but something inside him cracks.

“Look at me-me.” His words are bitter. His hands gesture to the scars lining his face, at the deep gash cutting into his left cheek that exposes his molars. You swear you catch him flinch when you follow the movement. “I cuh-can’t even—how can, can you st-stand to look… at me?”

His voice wavers when he forced out the last words as if it pained him to even voice his thoughts. His hands drop to his lap, clenching into tight fists. His head is bowed like he expects you to agree and run away screaming.

You reach out instead, your hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

“Toby,” you say softly, waiting for him to look at you. When he doesn’t, you squeeze. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, his eyes meet yours. A storm of doubt and shame swirls in them.

“I adore you,” you begin, your voice steady. “Every single part of you. Your scars, your tics, even the things you think make you unlovable—they don’t. They’re part of you. And I think you’re beautiful.”

Toby simply stares at you, his breath catching audibly. His throat works as if he is trying to swallow the lump rising there.

“You… you d-don’t mean that,” he whispers.

“I do,” you insist, your hand sliding from his shoulder to gently cup his cheek. Your thumb brushes over the rough texture of his scarred skin.

His lips part, but no words come out. He just stares up at you – eyes wide with a blend of disbelief and yearning. He almost doesn’t know how to process the sweet words you’ve offered to him. You hold his gaze, and let your affection speak louder than any of the words you’ve spoken.

Toby is quick, pulling you into his lap in one fluid motion despite the way his hands tremble. His arms wrap tightly around you, and you’re surrounded by his warmth.

His face buries itself into the crook of your neck, his warm breath uneven against your skin. He clings to you to keep himself grounded. His shoulders shake, and you feel the slight tremor of his tics. There’s a small jerk in his arm, a subtle twitch in his fingers. But Toby refuses to let go.

“Y-you don’t—” His words catch in his throat. He presses his lips to your neck instead. The kiss is soft but almost desperate.

“I-I need y-you,” he murmurs against your skin. His breath hitches as he moves up to your jawline – leaving a trail of featherlight kisses. “Don’t… don’t leave m-me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” You run your fingers through his messy hair. Your other hand traces gentle patterns on his back. You let him hold you as tightly as he needs – offering him every ounce of reassurance he craves.

It feels like he can’t decide where he wants to kiss more – your neck or your face. Each one lingers, a quiet hum escaping his throat. He tilts his head to brush his lips on the corner of your mouth before turning his attention to gently suck on your neck briefly.

His hands roam – not with any intention beyond connection. One squeezes your hip, while the other slides along your arm and back. He needs the physical reminder that you are here – with him, loving him. And he loves you. Oh, he fucking loves you.

The hand on your back pulls you closer into his lap. His body twitches again – accidentally causing him to squeeze you hard enough to make you yelp. He lets out a frustrated – and apologetic – huff, but you hold him tighter.

“’S okay,” you whisper, your lips planting a kiss on his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[zepskies]

@lamentationsofalonelypotato

Why hello my lovely friend!! 😍 I'm so ready to dive into your thoughts on this chapter. 💜💜

Right off the bat, the sexual tension with the gambling 👌🏻. I don't know what it is, but I always love in movies or shows or books when they have a poker game/card game between two people who are obviously into each other. I don't think it's a trope, but- the sexy smiles over the cards, the bluffing, the flirting, the teasing, just OH GOODNESS 😮‍💨

Yesss I love those kinds of scenes too! (Clearly lol) I'm so glad you agree. 😏

I'm not going to lie, I would have thought this to myself if I was in her situation. At the same time I feel bad for her because she has all this bottled inside and it's probably even worse that she's in close counters with him, just second guessing everything. BUT I also love that you've given us these wonderful domestic moments between the two of them. ❤️

The close quarters are a blessing and a curse here, isn't it? 😅 Thank you for that compliment!! I wanted the buildup here to be about the small moments of connection. 💗

DANG IT DEAN STOP HIDING FROM YOUR FEELINGS! Man really out there chopping wood trying to forget all his problems and relieve some tension 👀, while the reader is inside trying to educate herself🤣

Ughhhhh you just wanna throttle him!! loll Meanwhile, she's wasting absolutely no time to learn all the can about this man, because with him it's like trying to pry open an old clam. 🤣🤣

The way you integrated John's journal into this chapter was so good! It adds on to the lore of the story. I'd never read through the official "John's Journal" merch so it was nice to see those little details and honestly made me feel more connected to the reader, because it was the first time that I was reading the entries too!

Aww thank you!! It honestly made me emotional (and sympathize so much more with Jhhn) just reading the journal, so I just tried to infuse as much of my own reading experience in the reader character. I'm so glad it made you feel more connected to her. 💞

Girl it's okay we can cry together- DEAN WAS IN THE CRIB WITH SAM. Nothing is okay. I am made of tears. INCONSOLABLE 😭

Girl when I read that part of the journal, the way I was like:

(And YES, spray that man like a bad dog!!)

AND he knows that she is supposed to be HIS. For the love of rice krispy treats! SHE HAS A BROKEN ANKLE DEAN. Don't let her leave!!! Sweetie he's a grumpy old onion, you gotta peel him back one gorgeous layer at a time. 🤣

Girl you took me OUTttt. 🤣🤣🤣

This bit is also so heartbreaking, because it's literally her meeting her mate and her believing that he doesn't want her, when it's probably all he does. There's something so raw about that. The idea of finding someone who was literally made for you and believing that they want no part of you. Oh goodness my fragile heart😭

Yeeeeep, honestly reminds me of If The Stars Wish It So, when the reader has that moment of "is it me? Why doesn't he want me?" But in reality, Dean's fighting his instincts to be with her tooth and nail. 🥲🥲

I'm not going to lie, I wasn't expecting it to be a Bear. I literally thought this was going to turn into Dean saving her from a Wendigo- because of the allusions to her dad being killed by one, but this was such a (un)pleasant surprise LOL

LOLL you know what, initially I was going to go the Wendigo route for this climactic moment, but it felt more surprising to me to have it be a non-supernatural threat, just a typical bear wandering through his territory. 😂

I LOVE this insight into his head, just a little piece but enough for the readers to see that Dean does in fact care and that he does feel something for her! Not to mention again... HE PICKS HER UP. I've read Dean in so many fics doing that but each time it just makes me *swoon*.

Thank you!!! I thought this window into his head was needed, but also, Alpha Dean is just so....ALPHA. 🫠🫠🫠

And oh my word, him finally sitting down with her on the couch and allowing himself to let down some of his walls and let the reader in is just so good!! Not to mention now the reader is going to tell him the truth over how she lost her dad! I'm very excited to read the next chapter, but this one was amazing Alex! 🤗

He finally broke down a bit, seeing how much he was affecting her! 😭 I'm so glad you enjoyed that. I tried my best to make it feel like a natural progression. I so hope you enjoy the next chapter, my friend! 🥰💕

Against the Wind - Part 2

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader 

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: Thank you guys so much for all the amazing feedback on Part 1! Now, most of your theories and questions will be answered...

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates @jacklesversebingo

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 3.8K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, and peril, the other kind of "hunting."

Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 2: Seems Like Yesterday

“I’ll raise you 25,” you say, tossing five chocolate covered pretzels into the middle pile. It’s a risky bet, considering how much you lost in the last hand. Dean regards you with an amused, if critical eye while he holds his cards.

“Ooh, you’re bluffing,” he says. You pop your brows at him, a subtle smile tugging at your lips.

“You want to test that theory? Put your money where your mouth is,” you challenge.

He tilts his head at you with a raise of his own brows.

“Cheeky omega,” he mutters. His attention returns to his cards as he deliberates on his next move.

You attempt to be nonchalant as you glance down at your cards again. It’s a shitty hand, but he doesn’t need to know that. The alpha’s won the last two hands of Texas Hold ‘Em, but you did win the first one. Though you suspect he let you win.

You want to at least even the score before he resumes his work out in the shed. He spends most of his time there during the day, or making sure the firewood is stocked. It seems like he takes any excuse not to spend too much time in your presence.

More than anything, you want to ask him if he feels what you feel—the same tug in the pit of your stomach every time he’s nearby. You just haven’t found a way to broach that with him.

Hey, I know we just met like two minutes ago, but I think we’re supposed to be together. Do you feel it too?

You nearly roll your eyes at yourself. Yeah, that’ll go over well.

So you have to be content with mornings like this and in the evenings, where he lets you put on one of his records, and you two share dinner together, maybe another round of cards. Or you’ll read a book while lounging on the chaise, and he lays out on the couch, listening to his music with his eyes closed. You like watching him like that, with a relaxed, damn near peaceful set to his face.

Too often he holds that harder, stoic expression, or that divot between his brows that makes you want to soothe two of your fingers there; or better yet, lean in and press your lips—

“It’s your move,” Dean reminds you. He’s finally played his hand, but you were too distracted to hear what he said.

“What’d you do?” you ask, surveying the piles of cards.

“Call,” he repeats, popping a few pretzels into his mouth. He washes it down with beer and more barbeque chips. Those are worth $10 in this little fantasy betting. He points a finger towards you with the same hand that holds his beer, teasing, “You got all the lights on in there? Or am I boring you?”

You glance up at him, fighting a smile. “All right, keep your pants on. Let me see…”

As the dealer, he’s already turned over the River: the last card in the hand. It’s a 10 of Clubs, which means your One Pair is actually a Two Pair. It’s still not a great hand, but it’s decent enough to maybe let you get the best of your opponent.

After you go “all in,” Dean’s lips twitch at a smile, and he humors you, going all in as well. You’re on tenterhooks when he finally reveals his hand.

“Ooh, it ain’t a cheesy ‘90s sitcom, but it’s still…a Full House,” he brags as he lays out each card in a smooth line of overlapping cards, the mix of glossy red diamonds and black spades showing the truth. He won again.

You huff in defeat, your shoulders sinking in your seat at the kitchen table. You turn over your measly hand. Sweeping the winnings toward himself (a mound of chocolate covered pretzels, a stack of barbecue chips, and a handful of Oreos), Dean chuckles and tosses you a wink.

“Ah, don’t beat yourself up, sweetheart. I’ve been hustlin’ poker for a long time. Hell, I’ve been playing this game before I even knew my times tables,” he says as he collects the cards.

“That young?” you reply. “Who taught you?”

“My dad,” he says. “Oh, believe me, I used to get my ass kicked many a’ time, but by the time I turned sixteen, I was hustlin’ grown ass men in skeevy bars out of their daily paycheck.”

“You were hanging out in bars at sixteen?” you ask incredulously. There, Dean seems to realize he’s said too much. He becomes more guarded as he puts away the deck and cleans the crumbs off the table.

“My dad was always working. You could say I didn’t really have a curfew,” he says.

“A latchkey kid, huh?” you reply, hiding the way you’re trying so hard to glean any more hints of truth between his words.

“Heh, yeah.” He gets up from the table and tosses the breakfast dishes in the sink, then travels to the front door to don his jacket and boots.

“All right, I’ll be out back,” he says.

Out back, code for out in the shed. You nod, and in a flash, he’s shutting the door behind him.

You’ve learned another small tidbit about him, one that feels more important than it seems on the surface. And yet, it only elicits more questions you doubt he’ll be willing to answer so easily. He’s more than tight-lipped about his past, only giving vague outlines and general pictures.

Even his stories—like being raised up in a family of traveling mechanics, putting Nair in Sam’s shampoo when he was a kid, or the guy’s serious fear of clowns—feel like they’re missing some key details.

You decide to take up your crutches and head for your room. There you unearth the journal from its hiding place under your pillow. This time, you turn to the very beginning. Before all the jargon about mythology (and an odd footnote about a “Turducken Slammer”), there are actual journal entries. The first one dates back to November 6, 1983. The first line already captures your attention.

I buried my wife today. Even as I write that down, I don’t believe it. Last week we were a normal family…eating dinner, going to Dean’s T-ball game, buying toys for baby Sammy. But in an instant, it all changed… When I try to think back, get it all straight in my head…I feel like I’m going crazy. Like someone ripped both my arms off, plucked my eyes out. I’m wandering around, alone and lost and I can’t do anything.

This is Dean’s father, you realize. The more that you read, with no small amount of dismay, you also realize that this man is writing about his wife, Mary.

Dean’s mom…

He writes about their house burning with all their memories inside, along with Mary. Somehow, he saw her pinned bloody to the ceiling.

Along with these pages is a clipping from a news story:

House Fire Kills Mother of Two

Lawrence, Kansas.

You’re spellbound by it all. You keep reading.

November 13, 1983

…Most of our clothes and photos are ruined, even our safe—the safe with Mary’s old diaries, the boys’ savings bonds, what little jewelry we had…all gone. How could my house, my whole life, go up like that, so fast, so hot? How could my wife just burn up and disappear?

The police don’t believe his story, about how she died before the fire, about what he saw. So he tries to convince himself that what he saw wasn’t real. Still, he can’t find rest, and he worries about his sons’ safety.

December 4, 1983

I haven’t let them out of my sight since the fire. Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side—or from his brother.

Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he’s trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night.

Sammy cries a lot, wanting his mom. I don’t know how to stop it, and part of me doesn’t want to. It breaks my heart to think that soon he won’t remember her at all.

You don’t realize you’re crying until a droplet lands on the page. You quickly wipe it away before it becomes a stain, and you dry it all the way with your breath before you move on to the next page, sniffling. Your heart hurts, even as your guilt grows. You know now that you’re really, truly invading Dean’s privacy by reading his father’s words. You just can’t stop yourself from turning the next page.

John becomes convinced that someone, or something, started the fire that destroyed his life and took his wife away from him and his sons. He leaves his job and the remnants of that world behind, to venture deeper into the darker one. But in that darkness, he finds truth.

He visits a psychic, Missouri, who leads him back to his house and senses the echoes of an evil presence—something that shakes her to the core, and John too: the creature that killed his wife.

December 20

…She told me that it was the most powerful, awful thing she’s ever come across.

On January 1, 1984, John makes a New Year’s resolution. He determines to find the answers himself.

A shiver runs down your spine. In John’s words, your heart breaks for Dean, but you also see yourself. You try not to think about why.

You keep flipping through the rest of the journal past January. There are translations of a Latin exorcism, and like you read before, strange drawing of evil looking creatures—as well as what they are, scraps of their history, and how to kill them.

Silver bullet to the heart, can’t withstand iron, salt and burn.

You pause on a certain page, more filled with lore than the rest, and a primitive drawing in the center.

WENDIGO

Cree: Evil that devours.

Wood spirit. Eats live flesh. Lives in forests.

Perfect hunter.

Your breath stills in your lungs as a cold sweat forms across your skin. The more you read, the faster your heart beats.

The crunch of dead leaves. Your father shouting at you to run, and keep running.

The coarse shout of a bear morphs into something other. It’s a sharper, whirring sound like wind howling amidst animalistic clicking, and then bones breaking—your father’s scream cut short. You turn around with your rifle in hand, poised to shoot blindly.

Your stomach churns as bile rises into your throat. You feel sick, and wrong, and you suddenly have the urge to throw the journal against the wall.

“Omega?” calls Dean’s sharp voice. “You okay?”

You jolt badly at the sudden noise. You didn’t hear him reenter the house. He likely caught the scent of your distress. He pushes the door of your room open to find you, but he stops short in the doorway. His surprise quickly morphs into a frown when he notices what you’re holding in your lap.

You gasp, freezing where you sit, but there’s no point in trying to cover up what you’ve done. With an angry purse of his lips, he reaches over and takes the journal from your hands.

“What the hell are you doing with this?” he demands.

“I’m…I’m sorry. I just—” You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I was just curious. I wanted to know more about you. I thought it was…a normal journal.”

“So this is how you go about it, huh? Got everything you wanted, Columbo?” he says, his sarcasm cutting into you. He flips through the journal to make sure all the pages are intact before he tucks the journal under his arm. “Seriously, going into somebody’s stuff? Who the hell raised you?”

At that, you begin to bristle.

“My dad,” you snap back. Though remembering the passages you’ve lived with for the past few hours, you soften with a painful twinge of sympathy in your heart. 

“And it looks like yours raised you to be some kind of…well, what are you, a ghostbuster or something?” you ask.

His jaw locks. “Or something.” 

With an exasperated sigh at his hedging, you swing your legs around the edge of the bed and haul yourself up with your crutches so you can at least match his stance (more or less).

“Dean, please, just talk to me,” you implore, gesturing at the journal tucked under his arm. “The things I read—”

“Are none of your goddamn business!” he growls, making the omega inside you cringe. The alpha’s voice is deep and sharp, and even though he isn’t crowding you, his height and broadness are still intimidating.

“The sooner you heal up, the sooner I can ship you back to where you belong,” he says. “Back to your life, so you can stop sticking your nose into mine.” 

Your mouth actually falls open in shock. His vehement words feel almost as powerful as a physical blow, if to your soul. They make your arms tremble while holding yourself upright on your crutches. Hot tears well up in your eyes, though you try to blink them away. After a moment, you’re able to collect yourself enough to speak.

“I’m sorry for going through your stuff,” you say, in a quiet voice.

You hobble awkwardly past him out of the room. You don’t stop until you reach the front door, where your snow boots are. You manage to get them on by yourself so you can go outside and get some fresh air, not to mention some much needed distance from the alpha’s burning presence. You can still feel him trailing behind you. You hear his heavy boots.

“Where the hell are you going?” he grits out.

You hobble faster.

Dean watches you go out the door without a word in irritation, even though it triggers an alarm deep in his gut every time you leave the safety of the cabin. 

The snow depth has lightened somewhat since the storm, but it’s still not easy to navigate on your crutches. You get some distance from the cabin, mindful not to go too far. You know you’re limited, and you didn’t even take a gun with you.

Finding a solid tree to lean on, you rest there and try in vain to stifle your tears. You know you were wrong for snooping, and he had a right to be mad, but did he really have to be such a freakin’ bear? 

Fucking alphas. I swear.

You thought you were starting to connect with him, but clearly, Dean wants nothing to do with you. He wants you out of his life. 

Does he not feel the same pull you feel to him? Does he really not realize…that he’s meant to be your mate?

You take in a shaky breath through your nose. If he does, apparently he doesn’t care.

Just then, you hear the crunch of snow nearby. Twigs snapping.

Your body stiffens with a terrible memory—of that day in the woods. Your breath comes out in short puffs on the cold air, your eyes wide as you listen closely.

Hearing nothing, you allow yourself to breathe a little easier. You venture a few paces forward and to the right, but you stop shy of how it slopes downward. Some unnamed feeling tells you to look over the edge.

You lean over and cast your gaze down the slope, but all you see is snow and trees down below. With a shaky breath, you lean back and look out to the north again. Plodding along the trail, heading towards you, is a bear.

Oh shit…

You remember Dean mentioning something about a bear passing by his cabin a couple of days before the storm. Looks like he’s back to make his rounds.

His fur is dark; from this distance, you can’t tell if it’s a black bear or a grizzly. It doesn’t make much difference when all you have on your person is a can of bear spray. His gait is massive, unhurried, but he lets out a braying sound when your gaze meets his, as if acknowledging you. He stops there for a moment, assessing. Your body locks up with fear.

The bear groans again, this time sharper. You finally snap out of your reverie and force your body to move slowly backward with your crutches spearing into the snow. The cabin isn’t that far, maybe thirty or forty yards at most. Still, the bear can probably beat you.

Instead of trying to run, you stand your ground and shout at the bear, hoping he’ll back off. Your voice dies in your throat when he rears up on his hind legs, with a loud roar. Trembling, you miss a step and get knocked back into the snow on your ass, your crunches falling out at your sides. You scramble inside your jacket for anything that might help you. 

Bear spray!

You hurry to get the cap off with shaking hands, but before you can even aim, the creature’s heave paws thudding into the ground in front of you—a gunshot rings out and hits the animal in the chest. 

The bear falters, then roars in pain and anger.

Two more shots finally bring it down to an even heavier thud, not far from your feet.

In this moment, these are the things you don’t know about Dean Winchester:

For one, the scent of an omega in distress always calls to an alpha’s protective instincts. But the scent of your abject fear feels like someone tried to rip his lungs out through his stomach.

Second, when he sees you there, your wide, shiny eyes filled with the remnants of panic, yet relief at the sight of him, it takes everything within him not to drop to his knees, grab you by the hair, sink his teeth into your neck and claim you, right there in the snow. Maybe then you’d start listening to him and stop taking your life into your hands.

Instead, his lips purse as he wracks his rifle and slings the strap of it over his shoulder. He stalks toward you and scoops you up, crutches and all. He brings you back to the cabin without a word.

His jaw is once again locked with silence and strain; he doesn’t trust himself to speak until he’s brought you inside and carried you over to the chaise. He sits beside you there and takes an inventory of you with his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks at last.

You manage to meet his gaze and give a little nod.

“Okay. Don’t move,” he says shortly. He gets up and goes to the kitchen, where he grabs a foldable set of knives and a cooler from under the sink.

You watch him in silence, and you realize he’s going back to gut the bear. You didn’t know that he actually hunted out here…well, hunted to eat. He continues to gather items in silence. It gets to a point where you can’t stand it, or his curtness, any longer.

“Thank you,” you say, halting his steps. Dean glances at you over his shoulder, then continues strapping up his supplies. He huffs in response.

“We’re gonna be eatin’ good for a while,” he says without looking at you. 

His attitude both hurts you and aggravates you, so much that you refuse to take it anymore. 

“Look, Dean. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have butted into your life,” you say. Frustrated tears well up in your eyes. Expelling a sharp sigh, you amend yourself. “I’m sorry for invading your privacy. I’m sorry about what you went through, and I’m…I’m sorry about your mom. I’m sorry for today. I’ll just…stay out of your way, and I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

Dean finally turns your way, but your lips tremble as you turn your face away from him and shut your eyes tightly against the salty burn of tears. Deep inside, his heart withers in his chest. He sighs and drops his supplies on the couch. He walks over with those heavy boots, and he sits on the edge of the chaise beside you. He hesitates for a moment, but eventually, he rests a warm, calloused hand on your arm and earns your tearful gaze. 

“I’m sorry. I, uh…shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he says. 

You sniff, quickly wiping away your embarrassing tears as they come. Your cheeks are hot with it.

“What is it you wanna know? About me,” he asks, surprising you that much more.

 Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. It takes you some time to think, but the first thing that comes to your mind is…

“Everything in that journal,” you say, licking your dry lips. “Is it real?”

Dean holds your gaze steadily. You know the truth without him having to say it, but he does.

“I was a hunter,” he says. “Those things you read about, I found ‘em. Killed ‘em. It was my job.”

“And now?” you ask, once that large bit of information has time to set into your brain.

His lips tug at a half smile. “Consider me…mostly retired.”

You exhale softly, and you nod. It earns a furrowed look from Dean.

“You don’t seem all that freaked out by this,” he says, with a more scrutinizing gaze on you.

“Should I be?” you say, with an unsteady laugh.

He raises his brows. “In my experience, yeah.”

You chew on the inside of your lip. You don’t know if you should even put into words what you’ve been holding onto for months. Like John, no one believed you. Even your own mother had started to look at you like you needed a shrink.

“Omega?” Dean presses. His green eyes are perceptive as they take in the conflicted look on your face. “There something you wanna tell me?”

You deliberate for a moment longer. Then, you release a sigh and glance down at your hands clenching in your lap.

“A few months ago, I lost my dad,” you begin.

Dean nods. “Yeah, you said—”

“I lost him in these woods,” you say.

That quiets the alpha.

You shake your head, and you find your words as the memories that have been haunting your nights return to you.

“Like I said, we used to go hiking here every year…”

AN: Just so you know, all of the journal entries appear in the official "John's Journal" SPN merch. 😉

Next Time:

Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.

“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.

A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name louder, taking off in a run to find him.

You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.

Not for himself, but for you.

▶️ Keep Reading: Part 3

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[freezebobs]

DBFZ Yamcha and Ten cookies...done!!!

Soo I've been on a mission to recreate the Yamcha and Ten cookies from dragon ball fighterz because they're adorable...and they're finally real!! :'D process and info below! (kind of long lol)

I saw someone share these screencaps from the game a while ago and as someone who never played DBFZ I was so charmed at how cute these things are. I wondered if anyone had ever made cookie cutters for them, did a quick search and didn't really find anything, so just kind of moved on.

A few months later I remembered them again and was like, man, I really would love to see these brought to life lol. And I searched again and actually found someone who made them!!... But they weren't selling them anymore. 😭💔

^Reddit post from user ShadowLord898.

So in the next few days I went into the DBFZ game files, figured out how to navigate them and locate/open the proprietary file types (took...a lot of googling), and eventually found the cookie textures!!! Which I then painstakingly traced over to create vectors.

I thought once I had the vectors, it would be easy to drop them into a 3D program and extrude them to make the cookie cutters. BOY WAS I WRONG!!! It's probably just my inexperience working with vectors in 3D programs, but I tried Blender, Fusion 360, and Tinkercad and had problems in each one before finally figuring out the right approach. (I really almost gave up 🤧 but I hadn't realized that your geometry/topology don't need to be perfect when 3D modeling for print as opposed to, like, something you plan to create a texture for.)

Tinkercad and its extremely user friendly interface, plus SVG import functionality, saved me.

Oh then I realized I forgot to reverse the design, which you have to do for a cookie cutter because of how they work. I thought I would need to flip all the vectors and re-import them, recreate the models... but thankfully there's a "flip" button in Tinkercad. Fixed.

I sent the files over to my friend @.theprocrastinatingengineer on Instagram, who has a 3D printing service, and he was able to print them out for me!

While I was waiting for them to ship I downloaded Cura ("slicer" program for preparing 3D files for print) just for fun. (I was really eager...)

And here's when I finally got them!!!

Despite choosing all the dimensions carefully, I was still surprised how dainty they were when I actually held them in my hand. I wasn't sure if they would work...

So I made the dough and everything, used some 5mm thick chopsticks as guides to roll out the dough to the thickness I wanted. I put plastic wrap over the dough to prevent the cutters from directly touching the dough due to food safety concerns. Here is my first attempt to use them:

After this my mindset quickly shifted from caring about food safety to "what's a little more plastic in my system?" / "I'm here for a good time, not a long time!!" / "welll the dough gets baked anyway so that kills the germs it should be fiiine" **I Do Not recommend others to be so careless... also important note: I was the only one eating these so I didn't have to worry about others' safety 🥴

^The difference between using the cutters with and without the plastic wrap.

This first rolling out of the dough was actually a little too thick; in my design I hadn't accounted for the way the dough squishes up when you press the cutter into it. There wasn't enough vertical space at all, and the dough kept getting stuck in the cutter. It was a bad time!!! (didn't get a lot of photos of the failures here because my hands were covered in flour)

After lots of broken cookie cutouts, re-flouring the surface/cutters/rolling pin, and re-rolling the dough to be a bit thinner, I managed to get these out. I had to support Ten's head like a newborn when moving the dough onto the cookie sheet because the connection to the body was so delicate 😢

AND HERE THEY ARE...fully baked and ready 🥹

For the most part I was going to leave them undecorated like how they are in the game. But @.lamichicuenta made this really cute drawing of the cookies where Yamcha had chocolate decorations and Ten was a salty cracker, and I really wanted to try decorating some to resemble those!! Here are the photos of both versions of the cookies the next day once I was able to get some natural light for nicer pics.

(I meant to poke some holes in Ten's cookie to look more like a cracker but I forgot about it until they were already baking.)

They tasted fine...yamcha was better thanks to the chocolate. 🤭

If you read all this, thank you for following my cookie cutter journey... 😌🙏💖

Oh yeah and I made the vectors, 3D print files, and specs/info all available in a google drive folder here for anyone to use if they want! https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1hQ7uq3leYPK64pGgt3LhFw-70IZnkYzh?usp=drive_link

OH and one last thing, i ended up revising the 3D models to hopefully fix the issue of not enough vertical space. ...turns out I hit the maximum for photos and videos in this post, but you can see it on my twitter here! https://twitter.com/freezebobs/status/1875720926840680678

I didn't get to try these revised models, but they are the ones I put in the drive folder. 😊👍

[f-imaginings]

I took a break from writing billford to colour in my billford comic that was just sitting in my drafts lmao. The grind never stops.

This is based on the gender swapped college au that has been rotating in my head for years. Here's the last comic I did for it, so folks can see the vibe I was going for.

Basically if we did a gender swap to achieve peak toxic yuri, I can't see older woman Stanford falling for Bill's tricks but if she were younger and more insecure, say at college, it could be an excellent setting for manipulation, since Ford might still crave social acceptance while acting like she doesn't need it. Major 'I'm not like other girls' vibes from young girl Ford.

Then if you throw in cultish sorority nonsense it would shape up to be a pretty interesting AU. Think Mona Awad's Bunny meets Gravity Falls.

Other fun facts about this au (that I may have a few pages of a fanfic already started in my drafts for haha) are as follows:

Bill is a second year transfer student who somehow within the span of days rose to power as Tri-Delta's sorority leader!

They introduce themselves to everyone as Bill Cipher, but because its the 70s and they're a girl all the other pledges call her Billie to feminize it a bit.

Bill offers to be Ford's first friend, but Ford rejects her on principle as she finds sororities to be vapid popularity contests and assumes Billie is no better. Ford's actual first friend is Viola McGucket who was named after the fancy word for her Pa's fiddle.

Occult phenomena has begun increasing ever since Billie usurped Tri-Delta's old leader and pledging rituals have involved dark magic, summonings and mysteries galore (a bit like the campus in Carmilla) which Stanford is keen to investigate.

Stanford has to prove to her father that she can be successful as a woman in STEM and is looking for something that will put her on the map as a scientist and change the world. Her idol switches from Tesla to Marie Curie.

She seeks comfort in the occult and thinks that her weird features and her intellect make her better than other girls (residual internal misogyny from Filbrick) but she learns solidarity when she has to save the sorority pledges and the rest of the world from Bill's machinations when she realises what the portal is for.

She is very gay, but acts like all women in STEM have to embody more masculine qualities, which is how she denies how gay her thoughts are all the time lmao.

She only starts stalking/obsessing over Billie after peeking at her essays to see that Billie is scoring higher than she is and is a certified genius.

She falls in love with Billie though once she realises that she's not human, and desperately seeks the acceptance in the occult she always envisioned. Bill makes her feel special too, often confirming Ford's biases against the pledges bc Bill thinks the sorority girls are braindead pawns.

Stanley didn't get kicked out, however she left home to make it big on her own while Stanford went to college. Right now she is dabbling in multi-level marketing schemes like Avon and tupperware parties, wanting to prove to her dad on the other side of the spectrum that a woman can make it big in business.

bonus Billie for the folks who read this long haha.

[httpuckdrop]

ashes – day 5

it really was a coincidence that you already had his number saved in your phone when he texted you.

jack: hey

one of your best friends, jenny, had another friend who came along with you all that night. she was a loud woman with blonde curls called anna and she was, you had now learned, engaged to a hockey player in the local nhl team. you'd never cared much for sports in general, and especially not hockey. anna was quick to catch up on that fact the morning after you met jack, when you were supposed to go out for brunch with jenny and anna happened to tag along.

the boy you were chatting to last night, jack, she had started, sipping her orange juice before continuing. you did get his name, right? he's a good friend of my fiancé, a great player too.

you had thought and hoped that she would be able to read from your uninterested expression that you wished for the conversation to end as soon as it started. however, she had not been the quickest to pick up on your hints.

i've never seen jack look at someone like that before, you should totally hit him up! he's single, you know.

you'd sure hope so, considering the things you were up to in his apartment.

you had told anna that you didn't want anything to do with him, but she had insisted; at least save his number, you never know!

jenny had agreed, going off for a moment about your (empty) love life and how you haven't really looked happy since you broke up with that boyfriend over a year ago. the whole conversation had made you nauseous, and you had eventually agreed to add his number to your contacts just to shut them up.

since then, you'd forgotten about it, until the moment he texted you. you spent about fifteen minutes trying to figure out some kind of response – what even do you say to "hey"?

you: how did you get my number? lol

you felt a little guilty right after sending it, the tone maybe a little harsh; you usually greeted people back when they texted you. but maybe it was for the best. you didn't want him to get any false hopes.

your phone pinged again just a minute later.

jack: from anna! she said you two talked abt me, that i should hit you up

jack: well, i WANTED to hit you up also. :)

it kind of scared you how quick your heart was to flutter in your chest. this was not supposed to happen. before you could even answer, yet another message appeared in the chat.

jack: you free for dinner tonight?

a man not afraid of a triple text should've excited you. instead you shook your head and typed a quick response.

you: dinner?...

jack: i want to take you out for dinner, is that okay?

you shouldn't even have considered it. you never before even considered meeting a one-night-stand again, especially not for dinner. maybe it was because the other part was never interested in it, maybe it was because you thought it was against all and any code of conduct. either way, it was just easier like that.

so why did your fingers suddenly live a life of their own? why was there a message from you saying yes to his request when you looked back down at your phone again?

he surprised you that night. you knew from the first time you met that he was a good listener – though, you had assumed it was just because he was trying to woo you enough to go home with him – but he was a great talker, too. not in the sense that he talked a lot, but in the sense that whenever he did talk, you found yourself realizing he was more complicated than you initially thought. he wasn't just trying to win you over; he was trying to let you see him, piece by piece, each one carefully chosen.

you didn't know what the procedures or rules were when it came to this kind of meeting. was it a date? was it just a pre-hookup meal? was it something more? nonetheless, you weren't surprised that the dinner ended with you following him home to his apartment.

he wasn't just good at listening and talking, but at making you feel good, too. you knew you were already walking on the fine line between a regular hookup and something else – not that you were sure what the other thing would be. friends with benefits (could you even be friends with benefits if you weren't friends to start with?), fuck buddies (is there even such a thing these days?), or something completely different?

curled up into his side with a duvet lazily thrown across your stomach, you distracted yourself from your many thoughts by drawing shapes into his chest. little stars, quirky stick figures, ugly cats. "something on your mind?" he asked, a chuckle rumbling beneath his chest at the sight of you cuddling closer to him.

"this... hockey thing," you started, gazing up at him for the first time in a long while. "you're pretty good, aren't you?"

there was a shrug of his shoulder, though his expression stayed plain. "i guess so."

"you have your own wikipedia page. and you were some kind of first pick, whatever that means." this, however, forced his lips into a grin. "that's not just pretty good. that's amazing."

"i guess so."

he yelped at the feeling of your hand slapping his chest, a groan slipping past his lips. "why didn't you tell me? when we first met?"

"you didn't seem like you cared," he said honestly, and you pushed yourself up a little on the bed to look at him better. "so i didn't think it was necessary. besides, it's a job like any other."

"i told you all about my studies, and you just said that you work with hockey!" you exclaimed, fingers forming quotation marks in the air. "that's hardly fair, and it's not a common job!"

"i was wearing a team cap! i assumed that if you knew, you'd say something!"

you merely shook your head, pausing for a few moments to just stare at him. "i'll forgive you for now," you say, puckering your lips. "for the low price of five kisses."

"taken."

the thing that surprised you the most was how much you enjoyed spending time with him, how easy it felt. he was handsome and had a sweet smile and he was a great lover, sure, but you still hadn't expected to have this good of a time with him. it was almost enough to make you spend the night.

almost.

[alba1221141]

Mary Janes

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

5

Y/N

The morning sunlight feels too bright as it spills across my room, illuminating everything in a way that feels almost accusatory. My head feels strange, like it’s stuffed with fog, and my throat is dry, scratchy. For a moment, I just sit there, trying to piece together what feels like fragments of a half-remembered dream.

Then, like the tide rushing in, it all comes back.

The lake. The joint. Jinx.

I let out a breath and rub my temples. I’ve never felt like this before—untethered, like my mind isn’t quite my own. I think of the way the smoke had burned going down, the way my chest had tightened, and the strange, floating clarity that had followed.

And then there was her.

Her laugh, sharp and biting, but somehow not cruel. The way her knee had bounced, restless, and her voice had softened, just for a moment. The way she had looked at me when I said I was sorry—like she didn’t quite believe it, but also like she wanted to.

I drag myself out of bed and stand in front of my mirror. My reflection stares back at me, hair messy, dark circles under my eyes. I don’t look like the version of myself I’m used to seeing: polished, composed, prepared.

I think of what I said to her.

“I’m sorry for abandoning you.”

It feels heavier now, in the harsh light of day. Not because I regret it—I don’t—but because it feels like the start of something I don’t know how to finish. She’d told me I’d drown if I tried to save her. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I would have.

But I didn’t even try.

The thought twists in my chest.

Last night feels like some strange, otherworldly moment, the kind that doesn’t belong in the real world. And yet, I can’t shake the memory of it: the lake, the stars, the soft ripple of water, and the way, for just a heartbeat, it felt like we were connected again.

The thought lingers as I go about my morning routine, though routine feels like the wrong word. Everything feels slightly off-kilter, like I’m moving through a world that isn’t quite real. I brush my teeth, but the minty taste feels muted. I splash cold water on my face, but it doesn’t chase away the warmth still clinging to me from last night.

Her words echo in my mind, over and over.

"You’re here now, aren’t you?"

It wasn’t forgiveness, not entirely. But it wasn’t rejection, either. It was something in between, a place I’m not sure how to navigate.

As I stare at the mirror, toothbrush abandoned in the sink, the weight of her words settles deeper into my chest. "You're here now, aren't you?" They linger, stubborn and unyielding, like a riddle I can't solve.

The person staring back at me looks like me but doesn’t feel like me. My hair’s still a mess, my skin pale in the unforgiving light of the bathroom. The faint redness from the weed still lingers in my eyes.

I trace my finger along the edge of the sink, the smooth porcelain grounding me in a way my thoughts can’t. It’s strange—how last night feels both impossibly distant and uncomfortably close, like I could reach out and still touch the ripple of the lake’s surface.

And her.

Her outfit from last night comes to me in sharp flashes, each piece a quiet reminder of her refusal to be anything other than herself. A cropped black top, with her bright blue bra peeking out, so unbothered by convention, leaving her arms bare to show off the wispy blue of her tattoos. The short, plaid skirt swung with every step, the bold pinks and purples clashing in a way that almost made me frown, but it somehow fit her perfectly. Like she was daring you to see her, truly see her, and not look away.

The torn fishnet stockings ran up her legs, disappearing beneath worn, slouchy leg warmers, and those boots, scuffed and heavy, told a story of a thousand steps taken in places I would've never dared to follow until last night. They weren’t made for dancing, but for standing firm, for walking through chaos. Her tiny, ridiculous purse, a cartoon animal with an angry face, hanging low on her hip truly a bizarre touch, but it made sense on her. She didn’t need it to make sense, and that’s what made it hers.

Those long, impossibly messy braids—swinging behind her like streaks of wild blue, tied off with bows that looked like they’d been thrown together in a rush. And her makeup… dark, smudged lipstick and eyeliner like she’d put it on in a haze of laughter and frustration. It was a little all over the place, but she looked beautiful.

I catch myself mid-thought, the word beautiful lingering too long in my mind. I clench my jaw and press my lips together, willing it away. No. That’s not what this is about.

I'm not attracted to her, I'm simply observant. There's just something compelling about her, she gathers attention, I'd be a fool not to notice.

And I'm not a fool.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿

Jinx

I’m sprawled out on Silco’s desk, knocking papers everywhere.

He’s too busy with whatever shady crap he’s dealing with, so he doesn’t even flinch. He’s used to this shit by now.

Not that I care. I’m busy with my own thing anyway.

“So like—Y/N, right? Last night? You remember her, right?” I swing my legs up, now dangling upside down off the desk.

“Or, you probably don’t, you’re busy and all that... but whatever.” I wave it off with a lazy shrug, but I can’t stop grinning.

"But she, like... totally caved.”

I catch his good eye for a split second before he looks back at his paperwork.

Like he’s trying to ignore me, but he knows he can’t, he's actually the biggest softie

“She totally, totally, smoked that joint with me,” I announce, watching him carefully.

Silco stops.

There’s a pause.

Like he’s trying to process my words. His eyes narrow as he stares at me.

“Jinx, I give you those drugs for your business entrepreneurs, not for yourself. You know you’re not supposed to be smoking,” he practically reprimands me.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, sure,” I interrupt, waving my hand like I’m shooing off a fly.

“Let me stop you right there, Dad. It wasn’t technically a joint. It was a—uh—lollipop.” I smirk, daring him to call me out. “Yeah, a lollipop. Cherry-flavored. Totally innocent.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something about patience. “Jinx.”

“What?” I sit upright, hands spread wide. “I’m being honest! Honest Jinx, that’s me.”

His sigh is so long and drawn out I think he’s going to pass out.

But nope.

He’s still there, looking at me like he’s trying to figure out why he puts up with this.

“Anyway!” I barrel on, kicking my legs against the desk.

“She took it. Like, I held it out, and she just... grabbed it. Like, no hesitation. Well, okay, a little hesitation. But then bam! She’s holding it. And then she freaking smoked it—well, tried to. Looked like she was about to fucking puke Hilarious.”

“Language,” Silco mutters, shuffling his papers like he’s pretending to work.

He’s not fooling anyone.

“Right, right. My bad. She looked like she was about to violently combust,” I say, snickering.

“And then, guess what? She laughed. Laughed, Silco. Like, this cute little giggle thing. It was... weird. But, like, in a good way? Made her seem, I dunno, human.”

I flip onto my stomach now, chin resting in my hands.

“And then, for, like, a split second, I thought she was gonna kiss me. Like, what the hell, right? Y/N? Kissing me? Insane. But it was there. The vibe. The moment.”

Dad- Silco looks up from his paperwork. “And did she?”

I throw my hands up, nearly knocking over a paperweight.

“No!"

I scoff.

Silco leans back in his chair, giving me that annoying, knowing look. “You have feelings for the girl.”

I scoff, loud and dramatic. “Like her? Please. She’s just... interesting, that’s all.”

“Mmhmm.” His smirk grows, and I know I’m losing this battle.

“Okay, fine, maybe I like her. A little. But don’t get all weird about it, okay? She’s... complicated. And I don’t do complicated.”

“Jinx,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “You are complicated.”

I blink at him, thrown off for a second.

Then I roll my eyes, flopping back onto the desk like a starfish.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just don’t tell her I said any of this, okay?”

His chuckle is quiet, almost fond. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿

Y/N

After the oddity of the party last night, I found myself sitting at a booth in Piltover’s diner, the kind of place that pretended to be casual but was just polished enough to remind you it wasn’t cheap. Across from me, Caitlyn was sipping tea, her posture as straight and proper as always, while Mel flipped lazily through a menu.

I was quiet. Too quiet, probably, because Mel eventually glanced over and raised an eyebrow. “What’s with you? You look like you’ve been exiled from your own kingdom.”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, forcing a small smile. I stirred the remnants of sugar into my coffee, avoiding eye contact. My thoughts kept drifting back to the lake, to Jinx, and to… everything about last night that I couldn’t quite make sense of. But I wasn’t about to bring it up. Caitlyn’s feelings about Jinx were less of a mystery—they weren’t feelings; they were pure, unfiltered disdain.

I sipped my coffee, letting the warmth ground me as the memory of last night tried to creep back in: Jinx’s laugh—sharp and unpredictable—the way her eyes sparkled with something I couldn’t quite name. Her voice, teasing and cutting but... not unkind.

I shoved the thought aside.

“So,” Caitlyn began, setting her teacup down with a small clink, “I kissed Vi.”

My head snapped up at the same time Mel practically shrieked. “You what?”

“It wasn’t that dramatic,” Caitlyn said, though the faint pink in her cheeks betrayed her attempt at nonchalance.

“Okay, hold on.” Mel leaned forward, practically vibrating with excitement. “I need every detail. Where? How? Was it good? No, wait—start from the beginning.”

Cait sighed, but the smile on her face told me she wasn’t bothered by Mel’s theatrics. “After you two left, we were standing by my car. She made some comment about how I should loosen up more often, and before I could reply, she kissed me.”

“Shut up,” Mel said, grinning ear to ear. “That’s amazing. Was it good? Don’t lie.”

“It was... unexpected,” Caitlyn admitted, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. “But yes, it was good. Very good.”

I tried to focus on my coffee, letting their conversation fill the space between us. Cait deserved this. She deserved something uncomplicated, something sweet and warm and full of possibility.

Unlike whatever was clawing at the edges of my mind—something messy and confusing and entirely unwelcome.

“Are you two a thing now?” Mel asked, leaning in like a gossip columnist.

“I don’t know,” Cait said, her tone thoughtful. “Vi doesn’t seem like the type to want to label things. And, honestly, I’m fine with that. For now.”

Mel looked impressed. “Wow. Look at you, Miss Go-With-The-Flow. Who are you, and what have you done with Caitlyn Kiramman?”

Cait rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t falter.

As their laughter filled the space between us, I tried to hold onto it, to let it distract me. But my thoughts were already wandering, back to the lake and the way Jinx had looked at me when I’d apologized.

There was something unsettling about the memory, not because of what she’d said, but because of how it had made me feel. Like I was standing on the edge of something I didn’t understand.

As they resumed their chatter, I let their voices fade into the background, my mind returning—despite my best efforts—to Jinx. To the way she’d leaned back on her elbows, her grin sharp and teasing. To the strange softness in her eyes, fleeting but undeniable. To the way my stomach had flipped, unbidden and entirely unwelcome, when her hand had brushed mine as she passed me the joint.

I stared into my coffee, its surface rippling slightly as I shifted in my seat. This was nothing, I told myself. Just residual adrenaline from an unexpected night. That’s all.

But the quiet flutter in my chest told a different story.

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

authors note: hope you enjoyed it, the complicated feelings are only just starting ;)

please like and reblog!

[the-lazyyy-artist]

i saw you in a dream a two-part Karasu Tabito x Filipina!reader story part one

Synopsis: The Japanese Occupation was far kinder than you expected, especially in his eyes.

Word Count: 19.1k

Content Warning: historical au (based in the Philippines), talks about the Japanese Occupation in the Philippines, glimpses of the events during World War 2, love despite the war, angst

Author's Notes: I tried to be as mild as I could with the information of the war, as well as the reader's situation. Based on my research, some families were exempted from the horrors. I tried to be as clear as possible with the story too, so if you have any notes after reading, please let me know thru the comments, reblogs, asks, or DMs! I would love to discuss things with you guys!

@fishii28 ✨

"We have to do this," your father iterated once more as he paced across the living room in anxiety, "It's for the safety of our family, Y/n, the safety of your sisters and your mother... most especially you. You're our eldest daughter, you have to understand."

"Compliance? For safety? How is that even a good thing, Papa? These Japanese are... massacring the country, our city! The best we can do is fight back!" You reasoned out, your voice raising in frustration. Of all people in the world, you would never expect your father to bend the knee to the colonizers. Sure, his allegiance is to the Americans, who also colonized your country after the Spanish did the same, but he held hope that they would be saved by them. For now, he has to think of the best way for his family to be safe, especially with the news going around about the abuses against women. He couldn't bear to live the rest of his life thinking that the women in his family would be facing the same fate as everyone, so compliance with the Japanese was the best option.

"My dearest, please. I don't want you to be..." he sniffled and lowered his head, then he cried in anguish. "I don't want to endanger all of you. The situation is hard, I understand that, but the best way for us to be safe is to side with them. Despite the crimes they're committing to our country and the people, we need to be safe. Think of yourself, Y/n. Think of your mother and your sisters. They're still so young." He walked towards you and pulled you into a hug, the tightest he had given you. "I love our country. You know that out of everyone. But right now, my love for my family overcomes that."

Two weeks later, a Japanese General, accompanied by his Lieutenant General, entered your home and had a written agreement with them, officially making your family untouchable from the atrocities of the war. You listened to their conversation from your room, peeking through the crack of your door. It was a surprise that the General had some English skills, which you then figured that maybe they had to learn for the invasion. From what you have gathered in their conversation, they have laid out some privileges for the family: you'll sustain your way of life and be exempted from the abuses, forced labor, and serve as entertainment for the soldiers.

That was good enough, you thought.

You then heard a cry from the other room. Your youngest sister's voice can be heard through the walls, and unfortunately, throughout the house. You saw the General and Lieutenant General perk up as soon as her cries spilled out. Your parents' bedroom door flew open, and out went your sister, crying for your father. "Maria!" You exclaimed, bursting out of your room to grab her before she could even reach the living room. You carried her in your arms despite her protests, but your eyes landed on the guests, specifically the Lieutenant General. He was about your age, a little stern at first glance. His blue eyes met yours, full of curiosity and a tinge of annoyance from the disturbance. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you said as you walked away, carrying your crying sister back to your parents' room, closing the door behind you.

A few moments have passed, and you heard the bedroom door open, revealing your father, looking more distraught than he should be. He looked at you with apologetic eyes, and your stomach flipped at the sight. "What did you do, Papa?" you asked, your voice anxious and breaking.

"I'm sorry, my dearest. It had to be done."

Lieutenant General Karasu Tabito became a frequent visitor to your home. The reason? He became interested in you despite your short presence that day, thanks to your good-for-nothing sister. You're forced to face him every day with soft fake smiles that never reached your eyes. You try your best to be kind, at least just for the facade, so your family would be safer. You try your best to entertain his stories, all interesting and questionable. You try to respond accordingly, just as how your mother trained you all these years when the time comes for suitors to arrive at your doorstep.

Karasu was nothing but patient and kind, though sometimes, his eyes gave it away. He would sometimes look like he was analyzing you, the way you move, the way you speak, the way you laugh. Then one day, he said, "You're faking." That caught you a little off-guard. You cleared your throat and shifted in your seat, pulling your skirt down your knees. "I beg your pardon?" you replied.

"I don't like the way you're faking your interactions with me."

Like any other person in this time of war, hearing that would feel like a death sentence, especially with the situation your family was in. You, acting like their sacrificial lamb to this Japanese soldier, and him, a wolf. You smiled at him and shook your head. "I don't think I understand."

"Y/n, I know you feel forced to talk to me almost every day. But I want to let you know that I'm not like anyone out there. I don't agree with what they're doing, and I would..."

"You would?"

"If there wasn't a war, things like taking an interest in knowing you better wouldn't be that hard. Because I want to know you more and take you as my wife," he continued, his eyes full of honesty.

It took a year before you agreed to marry him, which your father was more than enthusiastic about. For him, it meant that your alliance and complacency with the Japanese colonizers were now set in stone and that your family would be forever safe from the horrors you read from underground newspapers that often arrive on your doorstep. You made sure Karasu never found any of it every time he visited your home before the marriage.

Life with him was peaceful, or it seemed to be. You were away from all the noise, and Karasu ensured you would live as a married couple peacefully. Every morning, there was a routine of you two drinking coffee at the dining table, him reading the newspaper, Japanese issued ones, and you humming a tune. It was lovely. Sometimes, he'd hold your hand as he drinks his coffee, and you'd smile at him.

Mornings also included helping him into his uniform every time he's being called to the office, ironing it to perfection. You'd help him button up his shirt, then hand him his hat, sometimes dusting it off before you do. "I'll be back soon," Karasu would say with a smile, and you'd respond, "Take care."

Your afternoons are spent tending the garden and listening to the vinyl records your father gave you as a wedding gift. They were pretty old, and you played them anyway. You'd sway alone in the living room until you grew tired. Then it was time to prepare dinner for you and your husband.

He'd consistently arrive home at 6:00 PM, leaving his boots by the doorway before he walked to you as you worked in the kitchen. He'd give you a chaste kiss on your temple, whispering, "I'm home." You're always glad whenever he comes home because it means things haven't gotten worse yet.

One night after dinner, while you were washing the dishes, humming a tune you heard from one of your records, you heard Karasu rummage through the same shelf of records in your living room. You weren't concerned, no. It's just he never once had an interest in your collection, yet here he was. Then you heard him put on one of the records to the record player you had in your home.

"Y/n," he called out, his feet padded on the wooded floor of your shared home, "dance with me." You looked at him over your shoulder, giving him a kind smile. "Just after this, Karasu."

He sighed as walked nearer to the sink where you were and turned off the faucet. You faced him with a slight disappointment on your features and he just smiled at you. He took a towel hanging from the drawer handles, and then wrapped your hands with it, drying them for you. "The dishes can wait. Please, dance with me." You could only nod and walk back with him to the living room as the scratchy music filled the living room. Karasu placed his hands on your hips as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, beginning to sway with him. "We never danced before," he stated in which you hummed in reply. "I think the war hasn't let us, Karasu."

He shushed you softly as he shook his head. "No mentions of war in this home, Y/n. I told you that before, remember?"

"Sorry."

"It's okay. No need to. I want us to live away from it, even if we have to pretend. Keep your mind away from it."

Karasu sighed shakily as he pulled you closer to him, embracing you. You can feel the tension radiating from him, so you rest your hand over his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "Karasu, what's wrong?"

"You've been calling me Karasu for the longest time. Maybe it's time for you to call me Tabito," he said, his voice low, ignoring your question. You nodded and spoke his name. It felt new on your tongue, but it sounds much better now that you won't be calling his, and your, last name. Tabito rested his forehead against yours as you two were engulfed by the silence of the night and the hum of your record player.

It wasn't long until that peace slowly faded as Tabito would spend more time away from your home.

He came home with news of a possible battle, one that was inevitable. He told you in great detail what Japan would do to defend the Philippines from the Americans, and it would be bloody. You listened to him intently, holding his shaking hands. Tabito warned you of two outcomes: either they will lose and leave the country, or Japan will continue their reign over the islands. If you were asked right now, you don't know what to feel. If you were still 2 years younger, you'd feel overjoyed about the liberation of your country. However, now that you've come to know Tabito, and eventually, loved him more than you imagined, Japan losing would mean him leaving you behind.

The news of Japan's surrender broke you.

The sight of Tabito running to you and apologizing broke you.

"I know I never told you this in our whole marriage but remember that I love you. I loved every moment with you, and I would trade everything to be with you," he cried as he cupped your wet cheeks. "I love you, I love you, Y/n."

He left the next day along with the other Japanese troops, leaving you in your once-shared home.

It's such a shame, others would say, that your Japanese husband left you without a child. That you were left alone with hopes of him returning to get you. That after 3 years, you ended up lying on your deathbed.

That your last words before you closed your eyes were his name.

A second part of this story will be posted soon, so keep an eye!

[jaggedamethyst]

circuit breaker 🔬🌌 (part two)

tutor!jayce talis x reader college au

content: reader recently decided to get a physics tutor...it's time for the first session with jayce talis

notes: walk with me and suspend ur disbelief in the actual physics talk...i have to make it somewhat believable that they're actually having tutoring sessions so i dug into the crevices of my brain for old physics topics that aren't too hard if you know them...if you don't..hopefully jayce makes sense LMAOOOO. but i will try not to do too much physics that it takes you out of it, i just want to build the tension and relationship. just trust me.

again mentions of neurodivergence/adhd references but that’s it really

word count: 1.9k

series masterlist

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

Ekko was your longest friend—the closest one you had. He understood your brain even more than Viktor did, which was saying something. Since the day the two of you met in middle school, you became accustomed to one another. You knew each other like the back of your hands—which is why you knew he’d be so upset right now.

Immediately after leaving the student center, you scrambled to the dining hall. You and Ekko had a standing lunch date every day unless one of you said otherwise. There wasn’t always anything to say, but the idea of each other’s company comforted you—comforted him. He had been adamant that even if you two sat in silence, worked on classwork, or simply watched something on your phones, that the time was well spent.

Ekko valued these meetings in particular after his last girlfriend. You didn’t talk about Powder much…but he was devastated when she left town. The three of you had been friends for a long time…she’d abandoned you too. Acknowledging how much harder it may have been for Ekko was hard. You were forced to pick up the pieces and it started with daily check-ins over lunch. They stuck. 

You spotted him sitting alone, sipping on his drink through the glass. You tapped on it softly, getting his attention, waving.

He lit up when you approached the table, “Funny seeing you here.” Ekko looked at his watch dramatically, “Almost thought you couldn’t tell time for a second there.” 

“I am so sorry.” You moved to sit, pulling out the chair across from him. “I got caught up at the student center, needed a tutor for physics.” 

Ekko watched you reach and grab his bag on the table. He rolled his eyes knowingly—you were going for the fries of course. 

You continued, “Viktor recommended this guy, his lab partner.” 

Ekko nodded, “Thats great…but I’m also good at physics ya know?” 

“Oh yes, I totally forgot to ask my best friend to be my tutor. My best friend who knows I cannot stay on topic to save my life…wants me to ask him to be my tutor…so we can definitely not work on physics for the entire session.” You paused, a fry just on your lip, “Besides, I didn’t really have a choice.” 

“Okay first, I would be a great tutor! And second, what do you mean, didn’t have a choice?” 

“Viktor kinda just…led me there?” 

“So you didn’t have a chance to get yourself worked up and find a way to not go…great tactic on Viktor’s part.” 

There was a silence, but never uncomfortable when you were with Ekko. You smiled to yourself at that, and then about how surprisingly well the first meeting went. 

“He seemed nice…Jayce…my tutor.” 

Ekko reached into his bag, grabbing his sandwich. “Am I sensing a but?” 

“No, actually. He just seemed genuinely invested in me not feeling bad when it comes to sucking at school.” You paused, rubbing your hands in a napkin. “He said we could work on making it all seem more interesting…which I liked.” Ekko still hadn’t unraveled his sandwich, listening intently. You watched him observe you, but not speak up. “What?” 

He shook his head, “Nothing…that’s great.” 

The rest of your lunch was spent quietly recounting your days, not much of note happening otherwise. Eventually, you parted ways with an unspoken yet understood promise that you would see each other tomorrow. 

Your first session with Jayce was also tomorrow. That was on top of everything else you had to do. So much to be done…such little time, you thought. 

The following day came just as quickly as the previous had ended. You woke in a frenzy, almost always rushing to and from one class and toward the next. Then, to tutoring. 

You stumbled in, looking for any familiar face. You were met with only one, Jayce’s. He stood quickly, grabbing a folder and his bag before approaching you. 

“Right on time.” He turned, walking you toward a room off to the side. “This will be the office we use, I requested one with a white board.” He glanced back at you for affirmation before speaking again. “If you ever come for our meetings and don’t see me in the lobby, you can just come in here.” 

“Sounds good.” Your lip curled at your voice coming out more weak than you expected. You had to admire your own consistent ability to embarrass yourself, truly. 

He stepped back, allowing you to walk in first, again. “So…I printed these forms out for you.” He opened the folder, taking out some of the pages and spreading them on the table. “This is the basis for everything you’ll need to know about physics. There’s legends here, conversion charts, some of the greek symbols you’ll need to know, circuit diagrams, acronyms…everything.” You slowly sat in your chair, observing the filled pages. Jayce noticed you looking between the table and him with wide eyes. 

“This is a lot of information…” 

He finally sat down. “It is…but we have time to get you up to speed.” 

“But there’s these quizzes.” You looked down at the table, tapping a finger lightly against the wood. “Every week we have to prove we understood the concept and I am already weeks behind so it just keeps building on things I didn’t even understand to begin with. I don’t have time, I have to pass the quizzes so I can pass the class and keep my scholarship. If I lose my scholarship, I can’t pay for school and I’ll have to drop out. And all of this over stupid fucking physics and a professor who seems to want to ruin my life specifically.” You finally took a breath, “I can’t do this.” 

“I think you can.” 

Your eyes snapped up, meeting his. The look on his face seemed sincere—as if he truly believed in the statement. Hardly knowing you at all, he had enough faith that you could, in fact, do this.

“So,” he clasped his hands together. “What’s this next quiz on? What’s the topic for the week?” He got up, grabbing a marker from the white board’s small shelf. He looked at you expectantly, a brow arching as if to ask you again. 

“Vectors.” 

He nodded, “Okay, and what confuses you about vectors?” 

“Well, I feel like I’m pretty good at understanding angles. But as soon as we add in speed or velocity I am just…confused.” 

“Let’s start there.” He wrote the words speed and velocity on the white board in broad strokes, leaving space beneath each. “What is speed? Don’t think about it too hard.” 

“How fast something is going?” 

“Exactly, like a car.” He drew a makeshift car, and an indicator of both miles and kilometers. “Velocity is different.” He sketched a quick graph, a simple y and x axis and an arrow. “Velocity indicates the direction of an object.” His hand followed the trail of the arrow he drew, emphasizing that it was in motion. “So, velocity is the only one that actually would be considered when you look at vectors. Speed is just a number…velocity represents a change in position…which is what vectors do.” 

You grimaced at his attempt to make it make sense for you. The effort was appreciated, truly, but it didn’t stick. You feigned understanding, nodding your head in an attempt to get him to move on and explain more. This was common for you. Something wouldn’t make sense, but you wouldn’t want to hold everyone up, to be a burden. So you would sit in class, half listening, half in another world. After class, you’d be forced to scour videos about the very subject the teacher had spent class time explaining. Unfortunately that was a rabbit hole, too, as you would always end up on videos that had nothing to do with school. 

His eyes narrowed, not believing that your nod was enough of an indicator that you understood. “Come with me.” He moved to grab the papers for you, stuffing them in the folder and sliding them to you. You followed without a thought, trying to match his steady pace. He lead you to a nearby park down the street and sat his bag underneath a tree. You copied, placing your bag down beside his. It was impossible to not feel awkward, and yet, he persisted. 

“Okay stand here,” he pointed a finger to a random spot on the ground. Your feet stood perfect on the space where the asphalt and grass met, one foot on each side. “So just imagine that standing here, you are the bottom of a line graph along the x-axis. He moved his hand side-to-side, palm down, reminding you that this would be the horizontal line. Hotdogs and hamburgers. You remembered the silly phrase from elementary school. 

“Okay, standing here…x-axis.” 

He walked over to the grass side, “Okay, over here…in the nice green grass…this is positive.” He walked over to the asphalt, “I’m on your left now, on the asphalt…this is negative.” 

“…Okay.” 

He walked to mirror your position, one foot on each terrain. Then, he slowly stepped on the grass. “Without thinking about numbers, how would you describe what I just did.” 

“You…” Your brows furrowed, “You walked to the grass?” 

“Right, and that is-“ 

“Positive?” 

“Exactly.” 

In a split second, he darted over to the asphalt. “How bout now?” 

“You ran to the…to the negative?” 

He nodded, meeting you back at center again. He smirked at how quickly he’d even come up with this demonstration. “This is an example of how vectors work. When you think of me running somewhere, picking up my speed, but moving to the quote unquote ‘negative,’ this could also mean that from my original position-“ 

Your eyes lit up, “You moved backwards?” 

“Yup, or even down. On a graph, I mean.” He smiled with each word, amused by how you caught on to his unorthodox teachings. “But if I move slowly and to the ‘positive’ side?” He waited for you to answer.

“You…moved up or to the right.” 

“Just like a point on a graph.” He stood, hands on his hips. 

You were on the edge of every word he spoke, analyzing his every movement. You knew it was inopportune, but it was rather characteristic for you to lose focus right then. Jayce’s eyes were…interesting. Your first instinct was to say that they were yellow. When you looked closer you noticed the border of dark brown, the flecks of hazel and copper. It was unlike anything you’d ever seen. You got so caught up, you missed his hand coming up—leaving it lingering in the air. 

“What,” he questioned, “Do you not like high-fives as encouragement?” 

You chuckled, finally meeting his hand with yours. “I actually prefer snacks as encouragement, but this works.” 

It was his turn to laugh, then. It was short-lived. You followed his line of sight to see the same woman from the resource center, the one he’d been so enraptured by. Rightfully so; she was even more beautiful than you thought. The sunlight hit her skin just right, almost glistening. You gulped, somewhat intimidated by her presence alone. 

She reached you both, immediately giving Jayce a hug before turning to greet you. 

“Hey, how’s the tutoring going?” She nudged the man beside her, looking to you for an answer. 

“It’s going well,” you glanced at your phone screen, shit. “I actually should get going, but today was really helpful, thank you Jayce, bye.” 

You shuffled to grab your things as quickly as possible, avoiding the look of surprise on Jayce’s face. It didn’t really matter, though. 

Ekko was going to be pissed, again. 

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

my favorite scully and mulder moments from s5

in episode 1, mulder sneakily enters scully's apartment. he sits in the dark in silence; as she gets undressed for bed, he says “keep going, FBI woman”, which only slightly surprises her (her face is shocked, but she doesn't yell; just asks "mulder? what are you doing? why are you sitting in my bedroom in the dark?" which is an incredibly reasonable question! he tells her that he killed a man, and she thinks he is joking, so he clarifies that he isn't)

scully waking up in the hospital bed in episode 2 to mulder by her side- she’s worried someone will see him as they just spent a good amount of time faking his death, but he smiles, grabs her hand, sits on the bed, and kisses her cheek, saying “i’m officially among the undead” (WAHHHH)

(and when she is so worried about how he will have to confess everything, including killing that guy, he does his best to prevent her from dwelling on it- “hey scully, how about those yankees?”)

how she very seriously warns him that skinner is the guy on the inside, and he’s touching her face, saying no, he’s not; mulder knows that skinner made the deal with CSM, but she doesn't know he risked his career and life to save her

and then she offers to take the fall for shooting that guy, saying “mulder, if i can’t save you, let me at least give some meaning to what’s happened to me” (tears. TEARS)

(and when her family arrives to visit her in the hospital, he says he was just leaving, giving her one last kiss on the hand before heading out)

mulder coming by her bedside again after considering taking CSM’s deal to join the dark side, but ultimately refusing: “then why’d you come here if you’d already made up your mind?” she asks, and he laughs: “because i knew you’d talk me out of it if i was making a mistake” (the total trust they have in each other......)

when mulder leaves for his big hearing, she tells him that he’ll be in her prayers (and he kisses her cheek once more, telling her to ask the “father to say a few hail mulders for me, okay?”)

(she is literally laying in bed dying, and despite him never understanding her beliefs and her having, you know, imminent death on her own doorstep, she talks to god about him. intervening with the creator on his behalf. and he, instead of being dismissive of religion like he usually is, accepts the help with a joke and a kiss on the cheek... i feel like i could write a poem on the subject and my emotions still wouldn't be fully expressed)

they’re in the car on the way to a team building seminar in episode 4, and mulder leans over to scully, asking her to please kill him now

however, she immediately realizes he's come up with a new plan to get out of the whole thing by investigating a case: “you want me to tell them that you’re not going to make it to this year’s teamwork seminar?” (he grabs her shoulders, bending over a little to meet her eye level) “yeah. you see that? we don’t need that conference. we have communication like that, unspoken. you know what i’m thinking”

scully trying to start a fire to keep him warm after his body goes into shock- she asks if he has ever thought about dying, saying she was angry while she was sick, and talking about the struggle to give suffering meaning. and then after he makes some joke to get her laughing, she picks up him, placing his head in her lap (“i don’t wanna wrestle”, he mumbles, to which she replies “get over here. i’m trying to keep you warm”)

he asks her to sing as they cuddle, so he can know that she is awake and keeping watch. and then when she indulges him, his whiny ass requests the chorus, too <3

when he wakes up he is so scared to see that she isn’t there, but she was just getting some berries LMAO

mutual roasting in episode 5; she says she thinks the townspeople are so bored and obsessed with what they see on TV that they’re imagining a monster, to which he responds “i am alarmed that you would reduce these people to a cultural stereotype”; when he is spouting frankenstein comparisons to the case, she hits him with the “mulder, i’m alarmed you would reduce this man to a literary stereotype” <- they were having a nerd off!!!

“given the power, who could resist to create life in his own image?” “we already have that ability, mulder; it’s called procreation”

and the famous black and white dancing scene to cher music <3

in episode 7, mulder offers to stay with her while emily is dying, rubbing her back as he says so. but she says she wants to do this alone, so he walks away, and she climbs into emily’s bed

and at the funeral, when scully’s mother asks her if she is ready to go, she says she will stay a little while longer and get a ride back with mulder. soon after, she asks “who are the men who would create a life whose only hope is to die?”, and he answers “i don’t know. but that you found her… and you had a chance to love her… maybe she was meant for that, too” (doing his best to find the meaning in the suffering like they talked about in episode 4, because he knows she finds it incredibly difficult... yeah. and her choosing to spend more time with him than to go home and be with her family... whew)

scully refusing to let mulder fall for pusher’s tricks in episode 8, telling him to hang up the phone before he gets sucked into his games

linda bowman uses the same ability to push her will onto others to convince mulder that scully shot herself. he sees scully, begging him to make her stop, before she shoots herself and collapses. he screams, and imagines himself cradling her head. and when the real scully is in front of him, the mind tricks make mulder think that she is linda, so scully has to try and prove it is really her (“you killed her!” “your mother is tina. your sister is samantha. modell warned you- don’t play her game”). scully has enough time to save the day by shooting linda, and by the time he realizes it really is scully standing in front of him, she gently grabs his arm, calling for an ambulance. the terror of it all. and the loyalty that can inspire such terror...

in episode 9, she tries to explain how it would be physically possible for someone to swallow pounds of dirt, and he just smiles at her; “well… you asked me for answers. those are the best ones i’ve got” <-and listen, after his endless ghost and ghoul explanations, i think your lungs to dirt ratio sounds perfectly reasonable, scully

mulder also decides to dig up a grave in that episode, while scully warns him anything he finds will not be admissible in court. isn’t that just so Them? she’s not gonna stop him, but she will make sure he knows what they can and cannot use as evidence.

“i don’t think this was an act of grave robbing, scully” “no, that’s what we were doing” <- LMAO COME ON….

(there’s also a scene at the very end where mulder is stuck in endless mud and you can see scully helping him up, which greatly warmed my heart)

episode 10’s whole dynamic while scully is on vacation and he is back at the office, but especially this exchange over the phone:

“no, i don’t think it's witchcraft, mulder, or sorcery”

“yeah, well, maybe you don’t know what you’re looking for”

“like evidence of conjury or the black arts, or shamanism, divination, wicca, or any kind of pagan or neo-pagan practice? charms, cards, familiars, bloodstones or hex sins, or any of the ritual tableaux associated with the occult, santeria, vodoun, macumba, or any high or low magic?”

“scully?” “yes?” “marry me” “i was hoping for something a little more helpful” (i watched this scene 3 times because there was SO much to adore, including how serious his face was)

she finds him trapped inside an AI torture chamber in episode 11, and pulls him out, mumbling “you’re going to be okay, i’m going to get you out of here”, dragging his limp body to safety

scully walks into their office, where mulder is sitting, at the start of episode 12: “mulder…” “DON’T. don’t even start with me”

scully describing him as “characteristically exuberant” (“hope you brought your cowboy boots! yeehaw!") as she recounts what happened, and him describing her as “less than exuberant” (“well, obviously it’s not a vampire” “why not?” “because they don’t exist?”)

when scully tells mulder not to rule out what cassandra spender has to say in episode 13, she says the words slowly and carefully, and they lock eyes as he nods, recognizing the significance of the moment in terms of her own beliefs

when scully is in the hospital after the explosion in episode 14, mulder wakes her up by running his fingers through her hair, then giving her the gentlest smile; she asks what time it is, and he laughs- but this makes her self-conscious, so he explains “i’m not laughing at you. i’m just very happy to be standing here talking to you, that’s all” (screaming. btw)

(he then raises her bed a little so they can look at each other while he explains what happened, but a nurse shoos him away, saying she needs rest; he leaves with a thumbs up despite her yelling after him)

“the truth i’ve been searching for? the truth is in you” <- man hold on. hold on, man. MAN-

scully undergoing regression hypnotherapy to remember what happened to her during the explosion. mulder is sitting on the couch next to her, looking terrified as she screams. and despite not being fully present as she recalls the horrors, she taps at his hand next to hers on the couch, wordlessly asking him to hold it. when she comes to, she’s panting, and asks if he was there the whole time. he nods

and later they hold hands in the back of a cop car as they get taken to jail <3

scully breaking into mulder’s motel room while he is undercover in episode 18; he screams at her to get out, and denies being undercover, even though skinner told her everything. she stops his yelling with a breathy “oh, mulder, what did they do to you?”, and sets his poor broken fingers as he winces

(and then she is able to recognize him on the tape of the bank heist despite being masked because of his fingers <3)

then they jointly scream in the CIA guy’s face because they realize he was testing bioweapons and killing civilians… synchronized rage looks good on them

mulder decides to go by himself to investigate the mysterious manifesto in episode 19. not even a minute after he walks out of the door from where he was questioning a witness, he calls her to ask her to look through all of the x files, searching for a specific phrase, which she finds. and then we get to hear him say “scully, at the risk of you telling me i told you so, i think it’s time for you to get down here and help me” “i told you so”, she says with a smile

later, he’s rambling about his bug conspiracy, still wearing the clothes that got all bloody from being taken hostage, and she asks if he has gotten any sleep

scully visiting mulder in the hospital after he goes off the deep end, seeing bug people everywhere, breaking into someone’s house, and attacking skinner; she slips her hand into his as he is restrained, telling him she hopes he can see through this delusion: “you have to be willing to see” “i wish it were that simple” “scully, you have to believe me. nobody else on this whole damn planet does or ever will. you’re my… one in five billion”

the hug at the end of episode 20 as they find the x files in ashes </3

[out-there-tmblr]

Young zaundads wip (20)

***

At the end of the month, Silco forgoes a day's pay to line up with Vander and withdraw money. It's the same as always: a long snaking queue across the courtyard, two Piltie bookkeepers sitting with their piles of folders and the cash box between them; six bored looking enforcers standing behind them, with their masks and goggles, hands loose on their guns.

It's the same as always, but Silco keeps his arms crossed and his scowl grows meaner with every shuffling step forward. He looks like he's about to start ranting about the unfairness of having to beg for wages they've already earned.

"Stop looking at me like that," Silco hisses at him, which feels unfair given that Vander hasn't said anything. "I'm not stupid enough to say something in front of enforcers."

"I'm well aware you're not stupid," Vander says gently, but it doesn't work. Silco only glares at him. "I mean it. Sharp as a fish hook, my Ma would say."

"She really was a riversider," Silco mutters back and Vander will happily take the edge of mocking rather than that tightly-held anger.

"Got something against riverside? Going to tell me we all smell like chum?"

Silco raises an eyebrow in challenge. "That you can't walk straight on land unless you're drunk?"

"That a freshly washed riversider only has silt between their toes?"

Silco snorts in amusement as they shuffle forward another step. "And the only way to get their attention is to dress in canvas and bring rope?"

Vander laughs at that one. It's such a stupid fisherman joke, but it's not the sort of joke anyone makes around a guy Vander's size. "Yeah, that's us. If it doesn't float or have fins, we're not interested."

Silco tilts his head, his expression becoming thoughtful. "Why didn't you join a boat? Better than being here."

"I get seasick," Vander says, like stepping onto a boat doesn't make him think of his father every damn time. Wonder if he should be mourning or fuming.

"You grew up by the river. How can you get seasick?"

"It's a skill."

"Not a very good one," Silco replies and they shuffle forward another step.

It takes another hour of standing in the electric lights of the courtyard, but eventually they get to the bookkeepers. There's no true privacy in the mine – too many people and not enough space. From his spot in line, Vander hears Silco requesting a balance, and pulling out his notebook. A large folder is opened on the table, the bookkeeping looking up Silco's name.

He reads out the figure and Silco copies it down, while Vander looks on, stunned. It's over twenty thousand bronze. Vander has to cunt on his fingers to translate that debt to gold, but two thousand four hundred gold sounds even worse. Three hundred gold is an impossible figure. Ten times that…

But Silco doesn't even blink at that figure. He just nods and then says, "I want to withdraw coin. How much am I allowed to withdraw on credit?" He withdraws the maximum amount and then asks for half of it in silver.

Vander gets waved over to the other bookkeeper as the coins are counted out.

Vander has nearly eight hundred bronze owed to him. He withdraws most of it, even takes some out in gold just to hold the sparkle in his hand.

He finds Silco waiting for him with a pouch of coins. "Sixty. We didn't agree on interest, but five seems fair."

"For the wood?" Vander stares at the pouch, at the seven bronze lect in Silco's palm. "You don't have to pay me. I don't need–"

"There's nothing free down here," Silco talks over him. "You pay now or you pay later. I don't like building up debts."

"You owe them over twenty thousand!"

Silco looks up at Vander, not backing down an inch. "To be precise, twenty-one thousand, five hundred and eighty. I won't owe you as well."

"Look," Vander says, wrapping a hand around Silco's arm and tugging him away from the others. "I'm sleeping there too. Every night, I'm saving money because I don't have to pay for a bunk. If we're both gaining from it, we should go halves in the costs."

Through narrowed blue eyes, Silco considers it.

"And no interest," Vander adds. "Not between us. We're better than the damn company."

Silco gives one sharp nod to that. "Fine. Halves. That's twenty-seven bronze."

Vander hands him back the pouch. "And the bed too. We should go halves in that."

Silco glances down at his coins, and quickly realises he'll have just enough. "I could have waited until next month, Vander. I don't need charity."

"The isn't charity. This is us working together and improving life for both of us." Vander leans down, low enough that he can whisper right into Silco's ear. Boice pitched carefullylow, he adds, "And this way I don't have to wait to fuck you in a real bed."

***

[sircarebearalot]

hehe my take on gelphie, specifically for the wicked movie /(2024) hehe is that Elphaba had a healthy little crush on Galinda in the beginning of their friendship— which was why she was so shocked when Galinda shared that she planned on marrying Fiyero one day— but then as they got more involved in each others lives, Elphaba let her crush go and decided to focus her energy on appreciating Galinda’s friendship. so that will also add a layer of distress when she sort of falls head over heels for Fiyero, bc she literally overcame feelings already to preserve her friendship with Galinda,. The things is, Fiyero is so out of nowhere, where they have mutual interest but not that solid groundwork of friendship, that Elphaba doesn’t really have anything to translate it to, so she’s sort of drowned by these feelings. (So like, giving strong lacy by Olivia Rodrigo, when she sings I’m not that girl bc she does find those aspects of Galinda appealing, but it’s no longer her resisting that and it’s fully her regretting that she has no actual shot again— her interpretation— and wishing she were the sort of person who could be loved and chosen back.)

also, other thoughts I had, was that when Elphaba zapped everyone to sleep except for Fiyero to save the cub, I think it was more like a subconscious, magic-driven thing. She chose the person who would break societal expectations to help her, and she did it without even knowing ot. bc remember she was a bit caught off guard by what her magic did and she was even more so when Fiyero dashed to save the creature. at the end of the day she knows Galinda, knows that she likes being popular and beloved, knows that she sort of needs it to go on being happy and fulfilled. She knows this in some deep level and that’s why she doesn’t turn to her in crisis, despite her undoubtedly being much closer to her than anyone else in the room (except was nessarose there? even then, nessa was always troubled and was outwardly burdened by her sister’s peculiarities) . and I think the reason she chose Fiyero, or her magic did, or he subconscious did, was bc at some level she knew he matched her freak (hehe excuse me) and that he did have a bleeding heart. She sensed that he had more to offer and trusted that possibility rather than the more real chance that Galinda would panic and hinder the cubs rescue, something she wanted to do and hadn’t even planned or thought of yet. but, see, Fiyero did. The second he caught on to what happened, he dashed.

The point is, Elphaba loved Galinda bc Galinda chose her and tried to give her what she always wanted. Popularity, credibility, a community where she was supported and loved and respected. Even more, accepted. And ofc she fell for the other Galinda quirks.

But when Elphaba came to the conclusion that she shouldn’t dream too far, she found true comfort and joy in Galinda friendship.

And when Elphaba made to run away from all of Oz, to live as an outlaw, obviously Galinda wasn’t going to go with her. It’s entirely in her character to want to be on the ‘good side’ of the people, even if it’s the wicked one. She didnt have Fiyeros conviction, athat not the poiny of her character, even if she had run off with Elphaba,, there’s a very real chance she would have resented Elphaba almost immediately or tried to return back to Oz. And that’s understandable bc forsaking an entire hirtosy and land for someone is an insane thing to do.

Something only Fiyero would do.

Anyways, this is a gelphie post so I’m gonna talk about Galinda in all of this. Even tho in my fic I wrote her to be self aware, I genuinely see Galinda as sort of not absorbing all her feelings for Elphaba. They are there and she knows they are importancy and valuable but she doesn’t pick at ot and try and make sense of it. Bc, in her head, if everything stays the same, she could have it all, the prince she always dreamed of, and the person she cherished above all else right within reach. In her mind, everything was going to work itself out so nothing was a problem. So, when Fiyero starts to pull away, when Elphaba seems drawn to him, and when Elphaba eventually tries to run away and take Galinda with her— Galinda freezes. She sort of tries to work with what’s left, her status, her relationship with Fiyero, and she’s trying to reassemble the perfect life she should have had, and she’s absolutely miserable, and every time she gets an opportunity to near Elphaba she takes it. She’d take it in any capacity likely.

Bc she might blame Elphaba for being difficult and not staying or choosing her, but ultimately Galinda has pushed her boundaries and challenged her own worldview for Elphaba without Elphaba asking. Like at the dance scene, where her guilt and sudden understanding of her rival/roommate moved her to risk it all— tho maybe she consoled herself later and dismissed it, claiming her popularity was never at risk— to try and comfort Elphaba and bridge the gap properly, finally. And later, when she changed her name to Glinda, it’s was bc she felt left out, like she needed to prove herself, like the people she had chosen for herself were moving on without her, amd so she made a flashy bid to catch up. And, also, think, briefly, about how absolutely devastating it must be to be so goddamn ambitious and be constantly besides the most powerful witch around. Galinda may have assured herself that her popularity would carry her through, but truly, you don’t see her ego or pride flare up much if at all around Elphaba, fully embracing that they had different strengths, and well Glinda did say that the greatest ppl weren’t necessarily competent but rather popular (wicked foreshadowing and cruelest of ironies) so that likely helped her a bunch. Ok, so, also, think about how instead of retreating or hiding or running off, when everything went to whit with the guards and flying monkeys chasing Elphaba, she followed Elphaba. Like there never really was a choice.

That just sort of shows, there was so many missed calls, so many almosts.

Glinda was tempted to go with Elphaba. She almost did— hence their duet.

Galinda could have won Elphaba’s heart, she had it, but she fell in love too late and recognized was too late. They could have been in love, it almost overlapped.

Galinda is the type of person who Elphaba could love, but not in those circumstances. It was almost perfect. Like actually, roommates, rivals, best friends, crazy codependent, opposites, they literally could have had it all. And they almost did.

But at the end of the day, Glinda wasn’t ready and Fiyero was fucking ready to go, and Elphaba had already dismissed the possibility of romance between the two of them (gelphie I mean) bc it had seemed impossible. And as much as it almost was, they never could be. Not in those circumstances, not the way it unraveled.

anywhas, this was a very long little rant to tell you I have two fics in the work for them, one that is Elphaba centric (w/ her being oblivious and trying to hold onto Galinda’s friendship) and one where they have doomed hanahaki, but Elphaba has it first and is encouraged by Madam Morrible to kill it (bc she can’t risk the star student, ofc, no nefarious reasons…lol) wnd after she removes that and all her romantic feelings, Galinda gets it shortly after when Elphaba leaves Oz and she’s just choking on all the love, waiting for the opportunity to get Elphaba alone so she can confess, make her stay and such, but then she finds out that Fiyeor and Elphaba are in love and she is forced to rid herself of the love, and so when she tells aelphabas story’, there is a cavity where all the romantic love was and she’s mourning that AND Elphaba and it’s so sad

anyways, they’re Lana Del Rey coded. look at:

‘If you dance, I’ll dance’

‘No remedy for memory’

‘Say yes to heaven, say yes to me’

‘And as all the years go by, the other woman will always spend her life alone’

‘But if you hold me without hurting me

You'll be the first who ever did’

(Hehe anyways I only used this website for one lyric but it’s so funny how they read my mind— shh don’t correct me)

[wardingshout]

Since I didn't draw anything for like half of 2024 I did an updated colour wheel instead! featuring only the newest of stuff I could find that fit.

I have also compiled a dump of many thoughts I want out of my head, like a little text post dump I guess. the tldr I guess I will just make "thank you".

Putting the most important thing first here which is. Every single time I catch myself thinking "no I need to draw smth other than alttp" a couple of very specific tags and messages pop into my head and I get so fired up to draw more alttp !!! the power I feel from that!!!!!

IIIIII feel like there used to be a way to do linebreaks but I can't remember how so my new text bit divider is random crap I can find lying around in my files

Ok here goes me being dramatic about something that only matters to me but feels so very important to get out for the sake of others too. I guess the gist of it is that tumblr is a rly important place to me and I'm so endlessly grateful for people always being so nice. at the end of the day I don't think I really care about much else in life than drawing and getting to share it with others makes it a much less lonely experience for me. I mostly just for myself, but I'm so grateful for the extra joy associated with posting it online too.

I feel a bit bad I can never seem to give back the kind of nice energy you guys give me. despite how much joy this place brings me, I'm just a naturally anxious person and I often chicken out of doing things myself. I'm so endlessly happy that people still bear with me or at least stick around to look at my art.

thanks to people's kindness I often find myself breaking out of the anxiety and getting a lot closer to initiating stuff myself, but I always get run over by some kind of irl issue instead, usually mental, but recently also physical health. I had so much fun on here this summer especially and I was so certain that this was the time I would make it last only for irl stuff to yet again show up and knock me out completely. every time that happens I feel like I have to rebuild whatever social bravery I had aquired from the beginning again and at this rate I won't ever get anywhere.

after weeks of very few work days, I feel like I'm finally rebuilding the courage to post and the concentration to manage drawing at all. it's not a lot of progress but I can feel it growing. from tomorrow it's back to full time work with no other breaks in sight and I'm scared my groove will be cut short already... I like my job but I've acknowledged I just can't thrive with full time work. I can bear it fine though, but it doesn't leave energy for much else in life.

I think the point here is. I know it's just social media but I've had so many good experiences on here and they're really precious to me. I hope one day I can be well enough to be that kind of influence for others too. my activity with art and presence online has become surprisingly reflective of how well or bad I'm doing irl, so I never I never want to give up on become a more present person.

the most important thing is art though, so finding the courage to get back to posting even if it's all I do, makes me happy too. thank you so much to everyone else who posts are too. I'm endlessly excited about all the cool things I get to experience and see online, thank you!

it is absolutely absurd how many drafts I have of just very frustrated moments where literally all I type is "if I have to be sick one more time I will lose my absolute mind holy shit" and having just been sick again? really feeling that !!!! it's also like. frustrating to feel you're making progress mentally and then you constantly get knocked into bed by phsyical health instead like come on I'm finally learning how to get Out of that place... and then every time you get sick, routunes have to be rebuild all over after, it suuuuucks....

I finally got a PC which has been absolutely life saving, However. I am still drawing on tegaki only... I'm so excited I can get back to bigger works on csp but I've gotten so used to seeing only my tegaki stuff, I'm scared of how much I'll suddenly hate my art when I see it differently again... hating your own art is probably a feeling that will never disappear but even so. I think I'm at a pretty content place right now and I'm worried about shaking it up. I can't let something like that knock me down when I'm only finally getting back to drawing regularly again... I already copied over the palette for some comfort so hopefully I can find a brush that feels similar too! at least I'm super excited about getting to pick some more colours !

and a very belated tag game thing !! I completely lost the original post by now but it was from @lele5429 and I've had it in my drafts this whole time, so better late than never to fill it out!

Last song: Alt Hvad Jeg Vil by Von Quar

Fav colours: warm yellows or light oranges!

Last book: switching between Assassin's Quest and Our Wives Under The Sea!

Last movie: The Princess Bride I think?? it was long ago so I feel like I'm forgetting something else though...

Last tv show: my roomie and I binged Twin Peaks season 3 as well as most of True Detective over christmas break we went Ham

Sweet/spicy/savoury: sweet !!

Relationship status: not interested

Last thing I googled: "nosferatu rats"... I see.....

Current obsession: alttp auish shenanigans... this one has not changed since I first drafted my response to this... on one hand I feel like I'm just filling out the gaps between games, but on the other it's getting very close to full au stuff... I always wanted to draw comics but had no ideas and for the first time in my life I'm drowning in ideas and fully held back by fear and skills haha

Looking forward to: actually surprisingly nothing at all? I'm looking forward to whatever good times I can create for myself I guess. the last few things I was looking forward to didn't go so well, so maybe it's nice to have nothing but the most normal and boring daily life ahead haha