#windows 11 beta
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I knew Win11 shipped a little undercooked, but I just installed Win10 on my Surface, and I severely underestimated how many things it would fix. I appreciate the visual polish and improved touch gestures in Win11, but occasionally I don't want my workspace to feel like a construction zone.
#Windows#Windows 10#Windows 11#Microsoft#Me#A lot of what they are working on is good#It is just very clearly not done and missing features#Like Vista all over againâvisually nice and a step forward on various fronts but basically a big public beta#Not that Win10 was perfect when it launched but I don't recall it being this unstable/laggy/buggy(?)#But ugh I do miss the touch gestures
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gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]
kickoff ch.12 how you get the girl
á° pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader
á° summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.
á° warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot, marijuana use, sexism, sexual harassment (verbal only)
á° chapter. 12/x (probably 18)
á° words. 11.3k
a/n. man the color scheme for this chapter is kinda giving BRAT lolol...i mean gojo IS brat. anywho, i don't have much to say at the beginning of this chapter but i do have a LOT to say at the end of it sooo see y'all at the bottom!! hope u enjoy. also BIG THANK YOU to @whereflowerswenttodie who beta read parts of this chapter for me n convinced me not to scrap it lol
nav. masterlist
âŸÂ·Ì©Íêł moodboard no.1 :: âŹ.*ïŸplaylist
11:03am you: hi! 11:03am you: good luck today 11:03am you: incase i donât see you
11:05am Gojo Satoru: Why wouldnât you? Arenât you gonna be on the field for your newsletter shots?
11:07am you: i mean yes but idk where iâm gonna be stationed so 11:07am you: it might not be on UTokyoâs side of the field
11:08am Gojo Satoru: Okay then Iâll look for you before the game starts
11:10am you: no pls donât. coach yaga thinks i distract you. i donât want to get yelled at again. he scares me :(
11:12am Gojo Satoru: Haha youâre silly 11:13am Gojo Satoru: East side entrance at 2 11:13am Gojo Satoru: Be there
11:14am you: or be square?
11:15am Gojo Satoru: Yea whatever shape you wanna be in is fine cutie
Itâs a bright sunny day outside, perfectly blue sky with a scattering of fluffy clouds seen outside the window of your shared room in your apartment, and you realize spring is fully here from the way birds chirp past the glass. Youâre stuffing your camera case full of chilled Kodak film rolls, your last stash left, and itâs the last piece of equipment you pack before slinging the strap over your shoulder and heading out the door.
Mina had offered to give you a ride to the stadium since your carâs still at the shop, but youâre happy you opted for the bumpy bus ride and although you come close to low-grade concussions from the bang of your head to the window at every other speed bump, the music in your ears while someone else is operating a public transport vehicle helps you think creatively before shooting shots.
It was surprise enough that Mina of all people was going to this game, and when you questioned her about it in the morning, she looked at you like you were absurd to assume anyone from UTokyo wouldnât be at this game, and sure enough, itâs all anyone on Instagram has been repping on their stories or talking about in the bustling minutes before lectures. Even Utahime was going to this game, and she hates all intercollegiate sports. You knew the game was a big deal, given the way Coach Yaga was yelled at via email by the Dean of UTokyo to make sure the team wins today because a multimillion dollar Nike sponsorship would be greenlit by the prospect (for some reason you were ccâd in an email chain among divisional higher-ups, but you werenât opposed to snooping in on conversations that were entirely outside of your tax bracket).
Itâs because itâs the second to last home game before the season ends, and apparently this has been statistically the best season the UTokyo D1 Menâs Soccer team has played since the new millenia. No pressure to the players on that fact, but failure wasnât much of an option for them anymore.Â
And you can feel the stakes the second you step inside the stadium. Packed would be an understatement, there were people flooding the aisles, overbooked for the sake of the university pocketing an extra buck no doubt, but spectators could care less since they were able to at least get in on the basis of that irresponsibility in the first place, despite the stadiumâs capacity having long been reached before the pregame festivities even start. Banners and signs drape over railings with the schoolâs striking blue and golden colors, every single replay screen is lit up and brightly pixelated at every north, south, east, and west entrance for inclusive viewing. As you pass VIP security and make it into the lower field-level entry, the scattered chants from the crowd amplify in volume and you almost wince a little to yourself from the noise. The stadium felt like a living, breathing entity, pulsing with the collective heartbeat of everyone inside.Â
Youâve never been more overstimulated in your life, except instead of finding it frightening, it was electrifying. And for once, you think you can understand what an athlete must feel when playing on their own home turf surrounded by those that are wholeheartedly rooting for them.
Hana is quick to spot you, panic clear across her face as she regards you with a couple pages with your assigned vantage points, a rushed briefing session, and then sheâs darting down the sidelines to make sure equipment is set up appropriately where needed. Sheâs understaffed, given you told Utahime about Kaiâs little intervention last week and she made a nasty point to the university (and possibly a handful of legal threats) and they relented in firing him. So now the three of you were down a photographer, and the extra work shows in the instructions she gave you as you skim the sheets.Â
A glance at your phone tells you itâs close to 2pm, and your eyes take in the expanse of green on the field. UTokyoâs players practice kicking shots off to the right goal post, while YCUâs players practice shots off to the left. You canât spot where Gojo is, but you faithfully head down to the East Side entrance like he asked you to.Â
When you round the corner, you almost crash right into an Ichiko mascot, but swiftly dodge, and then you stop in your tracks when you see Gojo standing right at the concrete entrance. Heâs leaning back against the adjacent wall, arms crossed at his chest, and heâs stretching his neck side to side with a creased brow, an intense look in his eyes, lost in serious thought, scanning the wall across from him like heâs mapping out plays in his head.Â
When you approach him and catch the corner of his eyesight, he leans off the wall and flashes you one of his so extremely charmed to see you grins on reflex, and suddenly thereâs nothing your senses seem to pick up on except him. Like everything else around you just disappears.
âHey, you,â he says when he comes up to you, and you walk him like a dog back to a corner thatâs tucked further away from noises and sights. You lean your back against the wall now, the coolness of concrete seeping through the fabric of your shirt, and he stands a step in front of you. Your hands toy with the strap of your camera.
âAre you ready to win today?â you ask him, and look off to the right into the flourishing seats that are still being filled to the brim, âclearly thereâs no pressure.â
He breathes in deep, and releases it slowly, like there really was tension to relieve. âWeâve got no choice but to win.â
âIs that something Coach Yaga says to you guys often?â you ask him, because the man recited the same thing about five times in that email chain. âAlso, apparently you take years off of his life.â Another thing he recited about five times in that email chain.
Gojo only addresses what he wants to address, as per usual. âYeah, itâs something he says to us often.âÂ
âSo,â you say, âwhat did you want to talk about?â
He looks at you puzzled, tilting his head to the side. âNothing. I just wanted to see you.â
Itâs hard to assume that he didnât have something to talk about with the intention of telling you to meet him here, because this is the same place you confessed to him a few weeks ago, and so is also the place he so painfully rejected you. But maybe he doesnât think about these kinds of things as much as you do. âI see.â
His tongue pokes to his cheek as he studies your anticipating expression, and then he sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. âWhat are we doing? I mean, I like you, and you like me too, at least I hope you still do. Why donât weââŠwhy donât we just give it a go already? I donât see how we can move forward if you wonât at least let me take you out on a date.â
Your hands stop fidgeting with your camera strap from his words, and you lick your lips, suddenly unable to keep eye contact with him so your gaze drifts down to his chest in front of you. His uniform is clean, no smudges of dirt or grass, just pure white fabric underneath heat-pressed blue and golden accents, and of course, that signature number 10. Youâre sure heâs all youâll ever think of when you see that number now for the rest of your life.Â
You know when you want something so bad you donât know what to do once you have it? Because it almost seems too good to be true?Â
âI just wanted to let stuff between us breathe for a little bit,â you confess, âitâs just, it was a lot to deal with. Being around you when I thought you didnât want me the way I wanted you. I donât know if this is odd to say, and maybe Iâm overthinking it, but I just feel like somewhere along the way, I kind ofâŠforgot who you were for a little bit.â This kind of vulnerability would have you running away with your tail between your legs with anyone else, but not with him. Not after everything.Â
His expression softens, melting away that confrontational energy he had earlier, and he nods slowly. He opens his mouth to speak, but he canât seem to find words. The presence of them is there, though, you can feel them. But what good are his thoughts if not voiced?Â
âI just wanted to spend a little bit of time getting to know you again, I guess.â You squeeze your arm in reassurance of yourself because he wasnât giving it to you. You let out an awkward laugh. âI donât really know what Iâm saying right now, to be honest.â
You can tell heâs at a crossroads, and you think back to this week and his efforts to get you to open up to him again. You know how he feels right now, because itâs exactly how you felt when he rejected you. Like when someone is so close, yet so far, you can feel that theyâre within arms reach but never truly. And theyâre slipping away for some reason that you may never know, but all you can do is assume that itâs a fault of your own. Youâre not really sure what he can do to make you feel secure about this whole thing anymore, and you can see the slight panic in his eyes when he realizes that too.
âI donât mind waiting,â he tells you, rushed with a desperation entirely contrary to his words, âwhatâs a week or two when I want to spend a lot more of those with you anyways.â But he takes a deep breath, like heâs already mentally preparing himself for an agonizing wait in his head.
Thereâs a sound over the stadium speakers, something technical and sporty and goes entirely over your head in dismissal, but to Gojo it seems to have a different effect, as heâs suddenly attentive and stands up straighter, that focused expression on his face from earlier resurfacing. You realize he needs to get back to the field.Â
âCan we continue this conversation after the game?â he asks you hastily, already turning towards the center of the stadium. And he adds an obligatory, âsorry.â
âYeah, sure,â you quickly agree, suddenly feeling like youâre taking up his time.Â
He gives you a small smile, unsure in its presentation but pure in its intention. But he can only take one step towards the field before you reach out and pinch the fabric of his jersey to keep him still. He feels the tug of it and fully faces you once again.Â
âUm. Just a sec,â you say, âI have something to give you before your game.â
âOh?â he looks at you with interest, âI fucking love things.âÂ
âYou have to close your eyes though.â
ââŠwhat is the thingâŠâ He squints at you with a what are you up to expression.
âJust close your eyes!â you snap at him.
âOkay, okay, jeez,â he holds his hands up in front of him in surrender, shaking his head to get his hair out of his face and then he closes his eyes. âYouâre scary as hell sometimes. Excuse me for being cautious.â
You roll your eyes, useless because he doesnât see it, and then take a step towards him. You cup his jaw with the palm of your hand, his cheek twitching slightly from the unexpected contact, and then you raise on your tiptoes to press your lips to his cheek. Itâs short and sweet with the sound of a peck.
âFor good luck,â you whisper, then you quickly lower yourself back onto your heels, take a step back and tuck some strands of hair behind your ear. The ground suddenly interests you.
He opens his eyes, blinking a few times with shock and his hand comes up to brush the tips of his fingers against the spot you kissed him, and then his gaze goes comically dazed when he reaches out to hold you. âAlright, câmere you,â he says, closing his eyes and puckering his lips as he leans down to kiss you but you laugh and push his face away.
âNo no no, only on the cheek for now,â you say with a small laugh.
He does nothing to restrain his frustrated groan. âYou canât do something that cute and then expect me to be chill about it.â
âIf you win, then, maybe Iâll let you kiss me for real.â
âMaybe?â
âYes. Maybe.â
Heâs close, towering over you near this bustling east side entrance that he seems to like so much, and his eyes drop to your lips. âAlright. I like those odds.âÂ
You give him a smile and slip away from him to get back towards the field, and you feel his eyes on you as you walk away.
The pregame events are a blur, with blaring music accompanied by the sounds of the sports announcers clipping across the speakers, finally quieted down in time for the players to line up on the field for the national anthem which was then followed by UTokyoâs alma mater.Â
Youâre stationed on the same side of the field as Minato, UTokyoâs side, while Hana is covering the sidelines of the opposite end with the opponents goal post. Minatoâs filling up a cup of Gatorade for himself at the athleteâs station and then he comes back around to find you.
âAre you ready to take your shots? I see Hana wanted you to shoot on film today,â he says to you as he sloshes around Glacier Freeze in a flimsy plastic cup.
You twist your aperture dial with your thumb. âYesss, all set. Iâll try to keep up.âÂ
He nods at you in approval.
The atmosphere feels nerve wracking. Something felt different about this game, the stakes feeling high. Well, of course theyâre high, because if they lose today then theyâre out of the tournament. But the stakes feel high for other reasons too, an energy you can pick up on but canât quite discern.Â
Your eyes drift across the field where you can see a referee placing a ball at the center of the field. Off to the right, you can see Gojo standing with a few of his other teammates, including Geto, Nanami, and Choso, and theyâre all gesticulating to various corners of the field as they discuss what you can only imagine have to do with their plays for today. And you realizeâ itâs their last college soccer season. Their second-to-last official home match before the championship, and for those of them that havenât qualified for the national league, it may be their second-to-last match of this caliber for the rest of their lives. One of the final chances that they have to prove something of themselves. The determination was palpable.Â
The chief refereeâs whistle cuts through the air with three short chirps, and that gathers the attention of all the players on the field. UTokyo wins the coin toss, choosing to kickoff, and YCUâs players choose to attack the left side goal.
Your stomach churns with anticipation, the crowd hushing too as all the players take their places on the field. If you feel nervous, you can only imagine how the athletes feel. Thereâs a rhythm that youâve learned over the past couple of months getting to know the sport, where players stretch out their necks and kick out their feet and take subtle deep breaths as they survey the stands. Idle moments before the start of the match where they have no choice but to look forward and only forward, so they take a moment to stay in the present for as long as they can gather. Youâve never been much of a sports spectator, and perhaps youâve only recently had some personal interest in the team, but you realize you feel pride in your school as you stand behind chalk sideline and see UTokyoâs colors scattered across the field in uniform. And fuck, you wanted them to win. You wanted them to win with fierceness and wrath, and itâs a desire you share with the crowd.Â
Gojo spends a minute talking to the referee before the black and white striped man pats him high on the back in the good sport and urges him towards the center of the field. He lifts his foot up onto the ball, rolling it back and forth underneath the spikes of his cleat, and you can see it in his eyes, even from all the way over here, that he seems to have different ideas in mind for this game too. High stakes. Pre-determined, set with will, evident in the clench of his jaw and the concentrated furrow of his brow as he surveys the field with his eyes, and youâre lost in the sight for what feels like forever because you can hardly register the chirp of the refâs whistle.Â
And then the kickoff starts.Â
The ball is tapped to Geto to start the play, and the first few minutes were intense as the ball was passed back and forth between UTokyoâs players, placing pressure on YCUâs defense as they inched closer and closer towards the goal. A pass between UTokyoâs #4 was intercepted by YCU and the ball was rushed down towards the left side, the crowdâs horror evident in the uproar as they raise to their feet in fearful anticipation, and with ruthless offense, YCUâs forward takes a clear sink shot towards the goal, and the crowd holds their breath before they watch Choso lunge for it in air, gloved hands firmly grabbing the ball and then pulling it to his chest with a possessiveness you can only expect to see from a skilled goalie, before he crashes down into the ground and the crowd releases relief in the form of rowdy roars.
Ten minutes in, with everyone on their toes, each team tested each otherâs defenses. UTokyo were known for stellar offense, especially within the past few years with players like Gojo Satoru and Takuma Ino joining the league as powerful forwards, but UTokyoâs overall offense was still statistically second to none other than YCU. And the pressure YCU was putting on UTokyoâs defense was wearisome to say the least. You glance to see Nanami, who is UTokyoâs best defensive player, huffing and puffing as he stands between two light-footed YCU players in an attempt to guard, and fails an attempt to steal the ball before it gets to the feet of YCUâs striker #6, passed in a split second off to his teammate, with a fake so seamless that it has Choso just a couple inches away from touching the ball before itâs sent flying into the net.Â
The noises from the crowd are still loud, but dampened in spirit.Â
With the referees hand signal up in the air, the current score is confirmed. 0-1, YCU.Â
Coach Yaga calls for a sub, in which he switches Nanami out for who you believe is a 2nd-year defensive player name Yuta youâve seen around practice with a promising statistical record for interceptions, and you watch as Nanami takes the bench before he swipes the sweat off his face in exhaustion. God. Just fifteen minutes into the match, and YCU already has UTokyoâs defense winded from play.Â
You bring your camera up to your face, forgetting for a moment that there was still a job to do here, and you position the direction of the lens towards the center of the field, where Gojo takes his place at the ball once more. Yuta briefly passes by him, signaling some play to him by holding up a number three, likely something Coach Yaga asked him to pass on to Gojo, and you see him briefly nod, his mouth slightly agape as he breathes slowly and pulls his jersey up to wipe at the sweat at his forehead.Â
The referee chirps the whistle, Gojo taps the ball to Yuta, and the play starts.Â
YCU immediately puts pressure on UTokyoâs offensive play once more, with eager movements to steal the ball, but itâs passed between UTokyoâs players with ease, more practiced and more sure. The kind of play that you and the rest of the school was used to seeing from them. However, Geto loses the ball on a left-back pass, but right when YCU makes attempts to cover field in a long-shot kick towards the left, Yuta intercepts the ball and swiftly passes it to Gojo.
The crowd immediately rises to their feet in anticipation, watching as Gojo shuffles the ball down the field, dangerously close to off-field boundaries, a signature tactic he uses because he knows thereâs not a single player in the league that can match him in precision and control to keep the ball in-field on a steal, and he swiftly passes it towards Geto with a side-swept kick, beelining down towards the goal post, in perfect time for Geto pass-back to meet his feet and when Gojo was this close to a net, there was no stopping him.Â
He draws his right foot back, and explosively kicks the ball forward, chipping the grass under it in the motion, and itâs sent flying towards the goal, and then threaded past the goalie right to the back of the net. The cheers that erupt across the stadium rumble the ground beneath you.Â
1-1, even match.
UTokyo spends no time celebrating, other than a few pats to Gojoâs back as he nods in acknowledgement, no emotion on his face other than pure concentration and greed. The greed to win, like a righteous sin. He stretches his neck out, panting slightly as he takes his place towards the right side of the field and the referee chirps his whistle to signal YCU to start the kickoff.
They quickly make attempts in moving the ball towards their scoring-end of the field, but face push-back from UTokyoâs defense, unable to make it much further past the midfield line, and you bring your camera up to take a snap of Gojo, who you see is still standing off to the right side of the field. But when you position it and peer through the viewfinder, that space he once stood at was empty. You pull your camera down, and blink at the sight, and then the crowd is picking up in volume once more.
Gojo sprints down the flank, cutting past every defender, and moves towards YCUâs attacking goal, which was a shocking place to be for a center forward, but you could feel his desire and determination to steal this back-and-forth ball, and succeeds when YCU makes an open pass, thinking they were in the clear, only to have Gojo sneak in at the last moment and get the ball at his feet.Â
The play moves by in a flash, a blur that you or anyone else in the stadium could hardly keep up with it, movements so fast you were shocked a human being was capable of even running that far in such a short amount of time, and in an almost embarrassingly easy play, Gojo makes a fool out of YCUâs defenders as he slips the ball through the legs of his last obstacle before he struck it with sharp precision, sending it soaring to the corner of the goal, past the outstretched arms of the goalie, and into the net.Â
2-1, UTokyo.
It was electrifying, the feeling that strikes through the stadium, one that reaches you in your own blood. Youâre shocked, standing here, after witnessing Gojo score two goals within the matter of minutes, against one of the top three teams in the league. Itâs a shock that reaches everyone, including Coach Yaga whoâs standing about ten feet down the line from you, his arms crossed, and you see his eyes for the first time as he takes his sunglasses off to get a better look at what heâs seeing.
You trail his sight, dragging your gaze across the field until it lands at Gojo, who is barely acknowledging the encouraging pats and shakes and goodhearted shoves that his teammates were giving him, because he was focused. It might sound crazy to say, but you swear his eyes looked like a fiercer shade of blue, like they were lit up, and youâre insanely glad youâre not one of YCUâs defensive players at the moment because you feel fearful of him even just standing on the sidelines.Â
Your gaze trails back to Coach Yaga, who slowly puts his sunglasses back on but his brows are narrowed tightly as he crosses his arms over his chest tightly.
The âathletic zoneâ... Youâve heard of it before. A state of pure focus, of peak performance, where an athlete experiences optimal concentration and a sense of effortless control over their actions. In which they perform at their highest level, where time slows down, any and all distractions fade away, and theyâre completely immersed in their sport at hand. At the task at hand.
Coach Yaga seems to pick up on the fact that Gojo was on the edge of tapping into that state.Â
YCU makes a substitution, and you watch in anticipation as they begin the kickoff.Â
Thereâs fire in their veins with desperation to even out the score once more, rushing the ball down the off-field line, one of their center forwards mimicking Gojoâs signature attack pattern, and Yuta struggles to keep up with the expert dribbling of a fourth-year player with more experience on him, so much so to where he completely leaves the ball unguarded and thereâs an open shot, but Geto places pressure at the last moment, in a fierce battle for the ball, before YCUâs center forward loses the ball over the goal line.Â
Choso picks the ball up, tapping on it harshly a few times as he surveys his eyes down the field, and all offensive players begin to shuffle towards their attacking goal in anticipation for the goal kick. He signals his hand down and then holds up two fingers in the air before placing the ball down on the six-yard box. He tightens the strap of one of his gloves, eyes squinting, and you follow his gaze down to a part of the field where you note UTokyoâs best aerial players are located and being guarded by YCUâs defense. And with complete trust in his team, thatâs exactly where he kicks the ball.Â
Geto makes first contact with the ball, his chest colliding with two other YCU players as his head comes out on top and he headbutts the ball closer towards the inner field, and Gojo immediately gains access to it with a bounce of his knee. The crowd holds their breath, fear that theyâll lose the ball to a steal in the split second it spends floating in the air, but Gojo urges it forward with a bounce off of his chest and then rushes it straight down towards the goal post.Â
You wonder what sight he sees right now. Where youâre dead center, at no angle, lunging towards the sight of an open goal with a sole goalie standing in the center, anticipating to block your shot, and three defenders on your tail. Thereâs no room for error, no time to think, only instincts that you cultivate in the last leading milliseconds. They say that, in sports, athletes channel one hundred hours of practice in just a brief second on the field. A split second success that was years in the making. You canât even imagine possessing that level of perfection in your body, or possessing that level of confidence that you can follow through with it in a moment as dire as this.
It was unreal, the way Gojo fades away from all the defenders, and faces no fear when confronted with the sight of the goalie in front of him while drawing his foot back to kick the ball. You lift your camera up at the last second, no time to think about aperture or ISO, just like he had no time to second-doubt a single twitch in his muscles, and his foot makes contact with the ball so harshly that you can hear the explosive sound even among the delirious cheers from the crowd, before he hook, line, and sinks it straight past the goalieâs head, rushing by like a scarcely deflected bullet, and into the net behind him.Â
3-1, UTokyo.
The whole stadium is momentarily speechless, all players and referees and recruiters and reporters and coaches and employees alike, before the most deafening cheers youâve ever heard in your life scatter across the stands.
Thereâs a moment of brief reprieve, where the players can catch their breath while YCU makes yet another substitution, as if theyâre just trial-and-erroring it at this point, and the cheers in the stadiums remain idle as you canât tear your gaze away from Gojo.
Itâs one of those moments where you realize that someone who you thought was so familiar to you was actually someone you hardly knew at all. You knew he was a talented soccer player, everyone on campus knows it, potentially one of the best to ever grace the league, and the amount of times you passively watched his plays on a lecture hall projector screen as your professor enthusiastically broke them down during class, even before you met him, was good enough for you to realize that he was insane, a one-in-a-million, a talent you cannot replicate, one you have by divinity. One you were born with.Â
And yet, somehow, getting to know him these past couple of months, he just felt so human. For someone so seemingly beyond you, he felt soâŠclose? In those moments where it was just the two of you, it was hard to imagine that he was capable of such greatness, and that so many people were rooting for him with wholehearted tears in their eyes and cheers from their hearts, because most of the time, when he was with you, he was just a dorky idiot. You find that your heart is beating fast in your chest, that feeling of being unsure of what to do with what youâve been wanting resurfacing powerfully.Â
âThis is insane,â you hear Minato say from beside you and you jump a little from your thoughts being interrupted.
You twiddle with your camera straps. âI knowâŠalmost done with the first half and weâre up 3-1âŠI thought YCU are number one in offense for the league?â
âOh, yeah, I mean, yes, that is insane too. But whatâs even more insane is that three of the goals so far have been scored by one player.â He tips his chin towards the right sight of the field and you trail his line of sight. âBy Gojo Satoru.â
Your brow furrows as you watch Gojo, his hands on his hips and his mouth slightly open as he indulges in a few shallow breaths to gain energy while YCU prepares for kickoff. Three goals, by just one player. Your eyes widen when you realize that is insane, especially for a D1 semi-final qualifying match.
âYou know what the divisional record is for most goals scored by a single player during a championship match, y/n?â Minato asks you as he lifts his camera up to take a picture of the area Gojo was standing in.Â
You shake your head and wait for his response.
He drops his camera down and glances at the photo on his screen. âFour. During Keio Uni vs. Osaka Uni, near the beginning of the tournament back in 1997 by Osakaâs center forward number 24, Yuji Nakazawa. Meaning no oneâs managed to beat that record since the new millenia, for a couple decades. Although a few players came close.â
You blink at him, and Minato is jerking his chin over in the direction of Gojo again.
âI think heâs trying to beat the record.â
You can only widen your eyes at Minato in realization, and then the chirp of the refereeâs whistle draws everyoneâs attention back to the field.Â
The sports announcers go wild on the speakers, the crowd raving all the same, standing to their feet like the team just won the championship match.
âLADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! We are watching HISTORY in the making!! Gojo Satoru, UTokyoâs very own 3-year consecutive MVP, has scored his 34th goal of the season, highest of any player in this yearâs season so far, and is now on the road to beat the leagueâs long-standing record for most goals scored by a single player in a championship match since 1997!!â And the crowd roars even louder as you stare out at the field in awe.
YCU starts the kickoff following the prompt short chirp of the refereeâs whistle, and with two minutes remaining on the clock for the first half, make desperate attempts to book it down the field towards their attacking goal, one of their midfielders making a clumsy attempt to strike the ball to the net in the final minutes of the half, and Choso easily catches it in his arms, right before the buzzer of the timer sounds, and the match moves into halftime.Â
All of UTokyoâs players immediately flock towards Gojo in sportful glee, finally having a chance to surround him and harass him with harsh pats on his back and ruffles of his hair for his play in the first half. Choso even puts him in a headlock because they all donât know what else to do with their excitement and adrenaline rushing through their bodies. Their win for today was basically confirmed with the way he was playing.Â
You catch a glimpse of him through the crowd of people, and he has a boyish grin on his face, reveling in the embarrassing amount of attention from his teammates, that focused look from before dissolving into his normal self again. But you can see through him, as well enough as youâve learned to at least, and you can tell heâs not satisfied. Heâs thinking itâs not enough. Thereâs still more to be done, and itâs not time to celebrate yet.Â
His eyes scan down the sideline until they find you.Â
Your heart jumps a second in your chest. He stands up straighter, despite his teammates still clinging to him, and thereâs a twinkle in his eyes when your eyes meet.Â
Cheerleaders take their place out onto the field, performing their numbers with loud music blaring, and the recruiters seated at their white tables get up to roam across the sidelines in discussion with referees and with Coach Yaga and with whatever players they can sink their greedy teeth into, as well as sneak at refreshments while theyâre at it. You can see off to the right that Hana has reunited with Minato and sheâs showing him some of the shots she took over at the opponent's side.Â
UTokyoâs players start to make their way to the benches to grab for towels and drinks of water and to sprawl across in rest, and you hear loud familiar laughter approaching as you watch the players sprawl across the benches, so you avert your eyes towards the source of the sound.Â
You see Gojo approaching the benches, two of his teammates slung with their arms around him in some type of adrenaline-drunken glee as they talk dramatically and theatrically which Gojo entertains with his own drunk-off-of-adrenaline glee. And you raise an eyebrow at his demeanor when he makes eye contact with you.
âThereâs my freaky little photographer,â he says, and heâs standing up straight andâwait, is he puffing his chest out as he makes his way towards you? Oh for fucks sake.
Gojo has always been confident around you, for as long as you can remember, but in the fair few moments heâs been cocky, heâs been a menace. And you can only assume the testosterone-induced high of being on the verge of breaking a league record in front of the entire school then subsequently getting homiesexually praised by his teammates for the better part of the past five minutes, not to mention with the crowd and the reporters feeding his ego with a spoon across the speakers, heâs been transformed into the final boss of cocky.
His teammates surround you too, their hands on their hips as they assess you and Gojo when he meanders right up to you, arms held out to hug you, a sleazy sight youâve seen probably six times this week, and you feel a rush of warmth in your cheeks as you place a hand on his chest to keep him away.
âYouâre sweaty and gross, please stay away from me,â you reprimand him, âthis is an expensive lens that is not humidity-proof.âÂ
âHey, youâre the girl that Kentaro socked in the face with a ball the other day at practice, right?â one of his teammates asks, leaning in towards you to take a closer look at your face.
âOh yeahhh, âcause Satoru wasnât paying attention,â another one of his teammates chimes in teasingly, hardly heard over the loud remix playing in the background as the cheerleaders continue to perform on the field.Â
You shrink a little from where you stand. Gojoâs got an irritated look on his face and heâs shrugging his teammateâs elbow off of his shoulder.
âI really hope youâre getting my good angles,â his teammate to the left comments before winking at you, and you purse your lips together.Â
The one on the right leans in too, looking at your cheek with an assessing look in his eye. âAt least it didnât leave a scar on your cute faceââ
Gojo shoves the both of them back and away from you by elbowing them in the chest, and they make deep eugh noises before stepping away and rubbing at their sternums with pouts on their faces.
âGet the fuck away from her,â he grumbles, âsheâs mine.â
Your cheeks flush slightly with warmth at the attention, and you watch as his teammates scurry away to adhere to some social hierarchy Gojo seems to possess over them.
You raise an eyebrow at him. âYours?â
âYes. Eventually. Whatever, did you see me out there?â he turns his torso towards the field and points behind himself with his thumb, âwhen Iââ
âOh god, you know whatâs soooooooooo super sexy to me?â you interrupt him. âWhen guys are humble.â
âOh câmonnn,â he curls his arm around your waist and pulls you to him, to where you stumble a little on grass and he holds you when you fall into him with more clumsiness than grace. âTell me you arenât at least impressed by me.â
You pout, because you are, and youâd really like to give him some reassurance and validation, but for some reason his cocky attitude is setting you off. âSatoru,â you sigh, wiggling a little in his hug, but he holds you tighter, âIâm working right now. Cut it out.â
He lets go of you at that, sober enough from the adrenaline to realize youâre being serious, but he steps into your space so only you can hear him. âWhat? Are you embarrassed?â
âOf what?â Your face twists with confusion.
âOf me. Are you embarrassed of me?â he asks.
âNo. Why would I be embarrassed of you?â you ask with sharpness.
âI donât know, just, sometimes I feel like youâre always annoyed by me,â he says with a sigh. âItâs like, youâre really sweet sometimes, and then kinda rude out of nowhere, and itâs sort of messing with my head.â
You pout. âYou were messing with my head for weeks.â
âAnd Iâm sorry about that,â he quickly interjects, like he already knew you were brewing up that counterargument, âbut you donât have to act like youâre all disinterested and indifferent just to get back at me for it.â He places his hands on his hips and wipes his temple on the round part of his shoulder when he feels a drop of sweat trickle down from his hairline. âYou donât have to act embarrassed around me either.â
âIâm not embarrassed,â you deny, and your cheeks feel hot, and for some reason you feel angry. âIn fact, Iâm the one that should be asking you that question. Because I still very clearly remember that time you said I was just someone you know in front of your friends.â
He groans and tilts his head back with frustration. âCan you just let that go? Things have changed between us since then. Move on.âÂ
âYou kissed me and then pretended I was just a stranger to you in front of your friends,â you grit as you cross your arms. âThatâs the level of sincerity that I know from you, Satoru.â
âOh, okay, so thereâs nothing else Iâve done that shows you that Iâm serious about you?â he asks rhetorically with incredulity, throwing his hands up in the air in disbelief.
No. Thatâs not true, not true at all. But heâs pissed you off now and so all logic was to the wind. âDoesnât matter. If youâre not embarassed of me, and if youâre really serious about me this time, then fucking prove it.â Youâre speaking out of spite, and you fear youâve just set him off too.
âFine,â he says, and he grabs the microphone straight out from a passing reporterâs hand, replacing it with a gatorade bottle. The reporter stares at the bottle heâs now holding with confusion. âI will.â
âW-Waitââ you squeak out, feeling the hair at the back of your neck bristle in anticipation and a shiver gets sent down your spine. The cheerleaders are making their way off the field at the end of their routine, and you can hear the thumps across the loud boisterous speakers when Gojo whacks his palm to the microphone to make sure the thing was on before he jogs to the center of the field.
The crowd is already cheering, ecstatic to see the afternoon's star player and pride & joy of their school, and Gojo takes a moment to soak in all the glory in comical appreciation with bowing towards all 360 degree angles of the stadium.
âUhhh,â you hear Choso from beside you, whoâs strapping his thick goalie gloves tightly to his wrists, âWhy the fuck does Satoru have a microphone while standing in the middle of the field.â
âIt canât be for any publicly decent reason,â Geto muses.
All you can do is watch.
âHi, uh,â Gojo starts, static blaring slightly across the speakers and the crowd winces with him, âsorry. Iâm Satoru, Gojo Satoru, you might know me fromâuh, the game youâve been watching?â
Cheers all around, because as if a single person wouldnât know who he is. The stands were rowdy and most definitely drunk off of sidestep beers the stadium has been serving all afternoon long.Â
Gojo is about to continue speaking, when he catches sight of the table of recruiters in the corner of his eye and he turns to face them out of respect. âOh, yeah, uh, number 10,â he tugs his jersey up at the shoulder to stretch out the fabric, the 1 and the 0 flattened in view, âdivision player ID 233-997. Coach Yaga keeps my business cards in his purse if you want one.â
âSAAAAATTOOORRUUUU!!!!!â you hear Coach Yaga yell from somewhere in the distance.
âAnywho,â Gojo continues, and the music dims slightly, so he glances at the stop clock on the screen, which shows him heâs got roughly five minutes left to pull off whatever idiocracy he had in mind before the second half of the game starts. âJust here to say that thereâs this girl I really like.â
The crowd gets louder, almost deafening, and sonically mostly feminine in (delusional) hope heâs gonna name call one of them.
Gojoâs voice is crisp and clear through the speakers as he clarifies. âSheâs standing over there,â he says as he nonchalantly points to your exact latitude and longitudinal direction, âwith the big camera slung around her neck that looks like it could pull her down to the center of the earth. Yeah. Sheâs super cute and I really like talking to her.â
âUh-oh,â Geto murmurs from beside you, and you glance at him to try to get a read on the situation but you canât.
Gojo starts to pace across the center of the field now, like heâs working the crowd. âBut get thisâshe thinks Iâm not fuckinâ serious about her!!!â
The crowd groans with him in unison. Yep, most certainly drunk. Or high off of glee. Either way, heâs playing them like a violin.
âHuh?â Gojoâs voice sounds distant now, away from the mic, and you can see on the large pixelated screen that heâs being interrupted by someone that looks like one of the videographers, âoh, whatâs that? This is being broadcasted? Uh-huh. Oh. Iâm not allowed to cuss? Oh fuck, okay. Erâ shit, okay. Waitâshoot, okay.â
Chosoâs smirk is heard from beside you, and you catch Geto and Nanami shaking their heads in your periphery.
âLIKE I SAID,â Gojo continues into the mic, âthe girl I like thinks Iâm just messing around, so. Uh. To show her that Iâm serious about her, Iâm gonnaâŠâ He looks up at the sky to ponder, and you can hear people shouting all sorts of suggestions of nonsense from the crowd. And instead of saying proclaim my undying affection for her through a romantic soliloquy straight from my heart in the presence of the entire school, he saysââIâm gonna strip. Yes. Down to my tighty whities, Imma strip.â
Hâ
Huh?!?!?
You donât even have time to be horrified or scared, youâre just bewildered beyond belief that thatâs what he came up with.
What the fuck kind of reassurance did you ask for. And what the fuck kind of reassurance were you about to get?
The crowd goes wild, itâs no surprise to say everyone and their mothers wants to see him naked, even the straight dudes would dig it for the gym inspo. And he points straight to you, sleazy look on his face and youâre going to ignore the fact that he just winked at you too as he crosses his arms to hold the hem of his jersey and pulls it up over his head in the most raunchy and slutty way a man can take his shirt off.
The music manager is quick with the bit, and is most definitely a fellow Gen Z college student, because Justin Timberlakeâs SexyBack (ft. Timbaland) starts playing across the speakers and the crowd goes ballistic.
âAyo whyâs Satoru Magic Mikeâing the field right now?â one of his other teammates calls out through a mouthful of protein bar, âWhat the fuck did I miss?â
The cameraman does Godâs work in a hella zoom-in of Gojoâs sweat glistened abs, then pans up the naked expanse of the perfect taut skin across his chest, and you canât help but stare even among all your horror. Itâs like when a male bird embarrasses the fuck outta himself to attract a female bird sitting on a perch, except instead of within the context of a NatGeo documentary, this was your real life. Everyone wants him, but heâs making a fool out of himself for you.Â
He pretends to stretch his arms up into the air, a cover-up to flex his biceps, and then he kicks his cleats off, and the socks come off too. Entirely unnecessary, as showing one's ankles is simply too slutty, but alas heâs a whore. And when his thumbs dip into the waistband of his shorts, and thereâs anticipating screeching from the crowd, he finally gets chased by security.Â
Except heâs an intercollegiate D1 athlete, why the fuck wouldnât he be able to outrun a bunch of dudes in black?
The camerawork on him is phenomenal as he runs across the sidelines of the field, eliciting a wave down the bleachers. So good in fact that youâre pretty sure the camera man could shoot for the Olympic track and field, with the way the stadiumâs got a clear sight of Gojo mouthing the lyrics Them other fuckers donât know how to act from the song still blaring with satirical rage on his face as he makes a fool of the men chasing him around the perimeter of the field.
And then he does it, drops his shorts, discards them with a kick, and heâs down to his tighty whities as promised. Cameraman has got to be displaying some previously undiscovered level of talent as he zeroes in on a shot of said tighty whities, with Gojoâsâforgive me, I need to be crassâhuge bulge prominent in Big Dick Energy fashion except his tighty whities have little red hearts in rows across the fabric so do with that duality what you will.
Heâs outrun security with a steady grin on his face as he eats up the drunken crowdâs cheers and riots and roars and you feel like youâre the only sane person in this stadium, or maybe youâre just not used to the fanatics of a college sports crowd. You peep the men in black trailed all the way on the left side of the field where they abandoned their pursuit of Gojo.
He taps imaginary pockets at his thighs, very muscular thighs you take indulgence in noticing, as if he expected to find something there, and he looks around when he doesnât. He shrugs and grabs the microphone of the next passing sports commentator he spots, and then he makes his way back to you.
His breathing is a little shallow, and he inhales deep to catch his breath. âBaby.â The crowd SCREAMS at the way he purrs the word into the mic. âWill you do me the honor,â heâs huffing and puffing, heard across blaring speakers, âof being my lawfully wedded girlfriend?â And then he holds the mic to your lips.
âW-Whaââ you stutter, and thereâs chanting across the crowd with words that barely make sense until you finally realize theyâve started to yell say yes! say yes! say yes! âOh my gosh, okay, yes, fine, now please, for the love of god, put some freaking clothes on!â
The crowd goes wild with cheerful glees, and Gojo shoots fists up in the air in celebration as he runs all the way towards the center of the field with high knees, and youâre gawking at the sight, before he falls backward onto the grass and makes delirious snow angels on the ground. You see Coach Yagaâs vein popping in his neck from pure agitation as he storms off towards the center of the field to knock some sense into Gojo, but you know that Coach Yaga canât kick him out, because they still have a game to win. The perks of being the most valued player in the league is getting to act like an absolutely insane idiot because you know they still need you in the end to bring it home.
You glance to the right, seeing his teammates nodding slowly then getting back to wrapping athletic tape around ankles and stretching out shoulders, with immediate acceptance of his actions like it wasnât even out of character for him to do. And you realize again that you donât know Gojo as well as you think you do.
And then the halftime timer is up.
You see Gojo approach the benches in a quick jog, squeezing some water into his mouth with his green gatorade squirt bottle, and when your eyes flit up to the screens on all four entrances, you see that the cameramen are still all focused on him accompanied by the continued buzz of conversation among the crowd following his public spectacle. But he seems to already be past any semblance of embarrassment as he takes the attention with ease, before he glances up to make eye contact with you and then lightly jogs right up to you.
âDid that prove to you that Iâm not embarrassed of you?â he asks you, cocking a brow with a smug look on his face as he gets all up in your personal space.Â
âI donât know, but Iâm certainly thoroughly and expeditiously embarrassed of you now,â you say, cheeks feeling flush when he leans forward so he can make eye contact with you at eye level. âIâll have to move to a different country.â
His grin is relaxed. âYeah well you asked for it.â
âMaybe. But I underestimated what a lunatic you are.â
âYouâre my girlfriend now, youâve gotta get used to it.â
Your heart skips a beat in your chest. âSatoruââ
âTomorrow,â he cuts you off, âHinode pier. Iâll pick you up at six. Itâs a date, so wear something cute. And preferably easy to take off.â And then heâs attentive to the chirp of the refereeâs whistle in the air before jogging backwards towards the feel and eventually turns on his heel towards the field while youâre left with warm cheeks and a heart that felt like it was moving at a mile a minute.
The timer for the second half refreshes on the screen while you loosely hold your camera in your shaking hands. It occurs to you that you havenât taken a single photo of him before the start of the kickoff, and so you bring the piece of consolidated metal up to your eyes, peering through the viewfinder and focusing it on the center of the field. And there he was. Your muse.
Gojo lets out a breath, which you can see even from here that itâs shaky and staggered with resistance, and he lifts his jersey up to swipe at the sweat trickling down his face as he eyes the ball underneath YCUâs playerâs foot just prior to the start of the second half. There it wasâthat look again of pure focus.Â
3-1, forty-five minutes on the clock. And the referee chirps the whistle to start the second half.
Itâs immediately evident that YCU has returned to the field following halftime with renewed energy, pressing high down the flank relentlessly past UTokyoâs defense, so fast it was hard for anybody to even keep a steady eye on the ball with the fluidity of their passes. The persistence pays off in the fake double-pass that slips past Getoâs feet, a moment of hesitation in the broken flow of UTokyoâs defense, and one of YCUâs strikers has the perfect line of shot towards the goal before digging his foot under the ball and sending it flying towards the corner of the goal post, scoring themselves a goal within just the first five minutes of play.
3-2.
The pressure mounts at the next kickoff, and with about seven minutes of solid play, with back-and-forth passes, multiple attempts at both goal posts to no avail on either side, it was clear that exhaustion was bustling in the veins of all the players.
One of YCUâs offensive players seems to capitalize on this, jumping on a defensive lapse of a pass Nanami attempted to make towards Yuta, and the ball is swiftly stolen then raced back towards the goal post. Choso prepared himself at the line, light on his feet paired with a solid stance, but in a millisecond of a moment, YCUâs offense unexpectedly passes the ball to a player racing up the midfield, and the player chips the ball neatly into the exposed corner of the goal despite Chosoâs attempt to lunge for it in mid air.
Equalized, 3-3 game, momentary shock across the playersâ faces, and the crowd bustles with something that sounds less like glee and more life fear. YCU was prepared to live up to and hold onto their title as the leagueâs number one offense, and as Minato explained to you during your time working in this job, an offensive team isnât good at scoring goals, but rather exceptional at breaking down the other teamâs defense.
Your eyes zero in on Geto, who stands in the center of the field for kickoff, and heâs huffing and puffing. He's the lead of defense for the team, and you can only imagine the level of pressure he feels right now. He glances around to his players, over to Nanami who seemed to share the same level of exhaustion, and then he glances towards Gojo who stood in front of him off to the right. Except you notice that Gojo looks relaxed, albeit still exhausted, but thereâs a composed expression on his face even in the moment of heightened stakes. With locked eyes, Geto nods at Gojo and raises two fingers up into the air to signal a play, of which Gojo seems to respond to by closing more distance between him and the goal post prior to the kickoff, positioning himself almost directly in front of it, to which YCUâs defense immediately begin to guard him in a tight radius.Â
The kickoff begins, with Geto making a few passbacks with Nanami as they close distance towards the field before passing it off to UTokyoâs string of offense and then receding back to their defending goal. UTokyo continues to close distance, raising stakes for YCU as their defense begins to falter under pressure, and the ball gets passed to Gojo, who only keeps it in possession for less than three seconds before he passes it back to Yuuji, a risky decision to make in the second half of a semifinal match, but the first-year swiftly unleashes a powerful shot that rockets past YCUâs goalkeeper, up towards the corner, exceptâ
It bounces off the metal of the goal post, shot off with projectile speed back towards the center of the field, but with razor-sharp reflexes, Gojo headbutts the ball in air, twists his torso and strikes the ball with his foot past a dumbfounded goalie who canât even move an inch to guard the ball that he already knew was going to sink right into the goal, and thatâs exactly what it does.Â
The stadium erupts with the momentum.
4-3, UTokyo.Â
It was a sweet moment, one you manage to capture on camera of Gojo running up to Yuuji and ruffling his hair in reassurance, despite the missed goal. Your heart feels warm in your chest, feeling your own sense of melancholy that this was one of the last times theyâll ever get to play together on a team.Â
Your eyes widen when you glance at the scoreboard, realizing that heâs tied. Gojo is tied for the most goals scored during a championship match. There were less than three minutes left on the clock. UTokyo either preserves their lead, or they risk moving into overtime, which, judging by the exhaustion on the UTokyo playersâ faces in the wake of YCUâs relentless offense this entire game, moving into overtime would be a hefty, hefty risk.Â
YCUâs center forward takes his place in the center of the field, fire evident in his eyes as he glances across the field. YCU are light on their feet, channeling everything in their bodies into these last moments of the game as they prepare to start the kickoff. You glance across UTokyoâs players, and although they look spent, there was a resolute look to all of them. It wasnât the time to give up or feel at ease even near the end of this grueling battle. Now was the time to play.Â
The referee chirped his whistle, and the kickoff began.
YCU immediately presses hard, as all their other plays have been all game, in their desperation to score. You can already see UTokyoâs midfielders move sluggishly in comparison to YCUâs offense, a drag to their feet as YCU pushes past the first layer of defense towards their attacking goal. Geto takes an aggressive approach, making moves to steal the ball while Nanami and Yuta guarded both flanks, and there was a relentless pass-off happening that ate up more than a minute of the remaining time.
Nanami succeeds in stealing the ball, but immediately loses it under his feet by a YCU midfielder, who makes a broad pass down the sidelines to YCUâs star forward who then powerfully kicks the ball towards the unguarded area of their goal, a dangerous shot that was clear towards the crossbar and Choso makes a leap for it, high into the air, his glove brushing against the ball, the entire crowd holding their breath in anticipationâ
And the ball lands in the net.Â
4-4, tied game. With one minute and seventeen seconds left on the clock.Â
There was no time wasted in getting back to center field. No time spent dwelling in the horrific roars of the crowd as they watch with anxiety and fear. No time spent to process or consider or signal any plays. Not even a single second used to catch breath. When there is this much at stake, an athlete thrives on momentum.Â
To your surprise, Gojo isnât the one that takes place at the center of the field to start the kickoff. Yuta stands there instead, and you notice his eyes are erratic as he surveys all corners of the field.Â
The referee chirps his whistle.Â
Yuta immediately passes it off to the side to UTokyoâs midfielder, who curls it towards their attacking goal with a swift pass to Ino, who closes distance towards the goal, but one of YCUâs defender slips in, undoing any progress they had made in their offense by stealing the ball and sending it back towards mid-field. Forty-three seconds. The crowdâs roars heightened as YCU continued to push forward, thirty yards now from scoring, and UTokyoâs defense was desperate to stop them but their momentum was cracking in the wake of their exhaustion.Â
It was a moment you donât think you could ever fully or truly recall, one that you wish you had focused all your energy and attention to so that you could commit it to memory for the rest of your life. The image of Gojo pushing all the way to ten yards before their defending goal, a place where no center forward should really be at in a game like this, but it was exactly what their defense needed. It was exactly what the team needed. It was exactly what the school needed. For the ball to be in his possession.
With twenty-two seconds left on the clock, he steals the ball from right under YCUâs offensive feet, and then charges towards the opposite side of the field. The crowd rises to their feet, thunderous roaring that overtook any and all senses, as Gojo weaves through forwards, center forwards, midfielders, and defenders, covering the entire span of the field in lightning time. Fifty yards, forty yards, thirty yards, twenty hards, ten yardsâ
In a moment you couldnât believe, he digs his foot underneath the ball, and sends it flying out towards the goal. There was not even a margin of an inch in which it slipped past the goalieâs hands, past his head, and swiftly flew right into the net.
With three-two-one seconds, the match was over.Â
5-4, UTokyoâs win.
The final whistle blew, and for a moment, there was silence. As if the world paused to catch its breath. Then, all at once, the crowd erupted with glee that shook the entire stadium at its core. Flags waving, scarves held high, toasts of beer held up to the sky, it was deafening, and it almost makes you want to cry. Thousands of voices shouting in unison, celebrating the hard-fought victory of their schoolâs team. A type of pride that was fostered, and well-deserved, and long-lived.
You quickly glance towards the field again, and see Gojo standing right at the same spot where he had kicked the last and final goal, staring towards the net. You canât see the expression on his face, but it surprises you how still he is. Like a statue, staring at the goal with the ball tucked into its corner. The very epitome of what it means to succeed in this sport was right in front of him, and it seemed like he wanted to soak the visual in for as long as he could.
His trance is abruptly interrupted when his teammates swarm in, rushing over like a wave of pure adrenaline. They slap him on the back, ruffle his hair, shout his name, the sounds of gleeful disbelief mixed with exhausted sighs of relief swarming into the air. And Gojo finally melts away from the tension of the match and into the celebration as he weakly returns the embraces of his teammates while he catches his breath.Â
âITâS OFFICIAL!! ITâS OFFICIAL!! UTOKYOâS VERY OWN GOJO SATORU HAS OBLITERATED OSAKA UNIVERSITYâS RECORD FOR MOST GOALS SCORED BY A SINGLE PLAYER IN A CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH!!âÂ
The speakers are blaring the voices of the sports announcers, along with ambient music to match the intensity of the match that everyone had just witnessed.Â
You should probably be doing your job. You know, take a picture of the huddle of players on the field as they bask in the glory of a close victory, but instead your feet start moving on their own. Like a magnet drawn to him, you make your way towards Gojo, only a slight hesitation in your step as you stop about ten feet away, suddenly unsure. But when he makes eye contact with you, all that fear melts away.
He hastily pats the backs of some of his teammates, acknowledging their praise at the center of the huddle before tightly squeezing past them to make his way over to you. Your heart is beating fast in your chest, feeling an almost overwhelming sense of pride in your schoolâs team, but more importantly, in him. What was the acceptable thing to do? Run to him, into his arms, and hug him while he twirls you around? Tackle him to the grassy ground? Kiss him like your life depended on it? You have no clue what the acceptable or sane or normal thing to do is. But heâs made his decision for you when he walks right up to you, his hands holding your waist as he pulls you towards him. He smells earthy, of grass and salt and sweat and of all the hard work he poured into today, the wear and tear of the game evident in the wear and tear of his jersey. He only manages to huff out an exhale at the sight of you, like some relief washing over him just by looking into your eyes. Forget the fact that the crowd was all watching and that all of the screens you could see past his head were focused on the two of you, because all you could hear or see or think was him.
âI believe you owe me a kiss,â he says, huffing as he catches his breath but that doesnât stop the smile that makes its way onto his face.
You nod your head, giving him your own version of a sweet smile as your arms slide up past his shoulders, crossing behind his neck, and he leans down to kiss you.
You hear a swell from the crowd, some teasing comments off in the distance from some of his teammates, youâre pretty sure you hear Coach Yaga yelling at him to get back to the benches, but it all melts away with the feeling of him smiling against your lips as he kisses you at the center of this stadium.
It was a moment so pure, so sweet, so picture perfect, and for once, youâre not the one behind the camera taking the photo. Youâre the one thatâs in it.
.
.
.
.
.
[end of kickoff ch12]
a/n. aaa thanks a lot for reading!! pls the fucking public stripping scene was so stupid i apologize on behalf of kickoff gojo for his behavior đđ iâll put him in his cage dw this chapter had some of what i consider to be the most challenging aspects of writing for me (internal conflict, grand public gesture, sports jargon) and so writing it felt like an uphill battle the ENTIRE time i wrote it and edited it. i considered scrapping it sooo many times cuz i just wasn't happy w it...but whatever i can't expect to be 100% happy w every chapter i put out there haha. i think kickoff has become a lil sacred for me since i've been working on it for a while now but likeee...sometimes u just gotta say fuck it we ball (tbh kickoff gojo probably says that to himself before a match) anywho, i am veryy thoroughly excited for what i've got planned for the chapters to follow, especially moving into the last angsty arc before the end of the series!! so i look forward to picking up momentum w this series again :0 honestly chapters 10 through 12 were the most difficult things i've written so far for a lot of reasons, but i have a feeling things will go more smoothly for me creatively going forward since what i've got planned falls well within my writing comfort range oh also there seems to be a little confusion about the number of chapters left, as i know i had originally said 12, but i anticipate that there will be about 18 chapters of kickoff total!! so still around six chapters left before the end :)) much lovee thanks for reading!!
OH WAIT ONE LAST NOTE I'M SORRY i didnât really have a way of organically incorporating this into the story n iâm not sure if iâll get a chance to in the upcoming chapters, so i just wanted to share this part of ch7 (gojoâs pov chapter) that is relevant to this chapter:
During the thrilling semifinal match between Keio Uni, Gojoâs fatherâs team, and Yokohama Uni during the end of his senior year, spectators witnessed a game that most college soccer enthusiasts would deem was a once-in-a-lifetime watch. Both teams engaged in relentless offense, and Gojoâs father was on his way to shatter the record of the most goals scored in a single championship match within the history of the league, but when he received a call from his wife during a timeout with the most life-altering news he could have ever heard, he abandoned everything on the field that day to go home and be with her. Grainy footage from the televised broadcast still exists online todayâthe moment he sprinted across the field, confused players glancing in his direction, amidst the uproar of the crowd. She called to let him know she was pregnant.Â
the record that gojo broke in this chapter is the same record that his father almost broke before he got the call that he was going to be a dad :0Â
âž you're all caught up!
additional notes. please do not pressure me for updates or ask when i will next update (read rules); taglist is currently closed (consider subscribing to the story on my ao3 for email updates if you'd like! :0)
taglist:
@megumisdivinedogs @witchbybirth @avatarl0v3r @mwtsxri @asherheed
@wynney @delulux3 @higurumapet @zombriesworld @xenop0p
@phoenix-eclipses @who-can-touch-my-boob @mo0nforme @reagan707 @lost-resonance
@foulprincesscycle @luniunia @alekssashka7 @beabadobeee @thexmistress
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#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen fanfiction#gojo satoru#gojo x reader#gojo x reader smut#gojo x reader fluff#gojo x reader angst#gojo satoru smut#gojo satoru fluff#gojo satoru angst#jjk gojo#jjk fanfiction#smut#angst#fluff#geto suguru#nanami kento#choso kamo#college au#sports au#series#alternative universe#jjk series#long fic#jjk smut#romance#slow burn#kickoff#fanfiction#anime
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Cherry Red, Crimson Blood
Chapter 11: It's Coming
Summary: Things have begun to shift in your developing relationship with your pack. Unfortunately, nature has the worst timing in the world.Â
Pairing: Poly 141 x reader
Warnings: Suggestive content, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, military inaccuracies, language, medical stuff, plenty of fluff.
A/N: I wrote like 90% of this chapter on my phone so please forgive any weird typos. I'm super excited for this one and this whole part really. Lots of good stuff coming up!!
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At first youâre not quite sure what pulled you from sleep. Youâre warm and more comfortable than you have been in a long time, despite the dull throbbing between your thighs. The pillow against your back shifts, a chill settling in as some of the warmth disappears.Â
You blink your eyes open, squinting against the harsh blue light of a phone screen. Price lets out a quiet groan, swiping at something before settling his phone back on the nightstand in front of you. His arms wrap back around your middle, his face pressing into the back of your neck as he settles against you again.Â
It was his phone vibrating that had woken you, pulling you from the gentle arms of sleep. Itâs still dark out, far too early to be up and getting phone calls, especially on a Sunday morning. You wonder how often John actually gets to sleep, between his job and everything he does when heâs not away. Youâre understanding the couch in his office more and more now.Â
âGo back to sleep.â He murmurs, a quiet rumbling vibrating against your back as he purrs.
You donât need to be told twice, snuggling down under the covers again, letting your eyes close.Â
You wake a while later alone. Itâs daylight finally, the sunlight coming through the window lighting the room. You press your face into the pillow, inhaling Priceâs scent. It still smells a bit like arousal and sex in the room, both of your scents heavy in the air. They blend together surprisingly well, Priceâs musky woody scent mixing with the sweetness of your own scent. It makes an intoxicating aroma of alpha and omega.Â
Price comes out of the bathroom, slipping back under the covers. You curl up against his side, laying your head on his chest as he wraps an arm around you.Â
âMorning.â He murmurs, voice heavy with sleep still.Â
You hum in response, resting your head over his heart.Â
âHow do you feel?â He asks, his fingers trailing your bare back.Â
âA bit sore.â You say, acknowledging the throbbing between your legs. âNot as bad as I thought I might.âÂ
Price huffs out a laugh. âIt shouldnât hurt, not if you know what youâre doing.âÂ
You hum again, the knowledge that heâs very experienced coming to the forefront of your mind. Even if it has been two years, you can imagine him when he was younger, the kind of experiences he must have had. Omegas and barrack bunnies and all sorts of women probably fawned over him.Â
âYouâre thinking too much.â He says quietly, eyes closed as he lays there with you.Â
Youâre starting to think he might be able to read your mind.Â
âCan I ask you something? Something...personal?â You ask, tilting your head up to look at him.Â
He cracks an eye open to stare down at you. âDonât think you can get much more personal than we already are.â His lips twitch up in a smile. ââCourse, you can ask me anything.âÂ
âWhen was the last time you helped an omega through a heat?â You ask, listening to the steady thump of his heart under your ear.Â
âYears ago. Well over a decade ago.â He says, voice still thick and raspy with sleep. He clears his throat, a hand settling on your waist. âBack when I was still a Sergeant. I had the idea back then of settling down, finding an omega and having my own pack. Had a few on and off relationships. Then I started getting sent off on more and more dangerous missions. I realized my skill set and my purpose, and gave up the idea of having an omega. I couldnât stand the thought of putting them through that, if something happened to me. Iâve seen what losing an alpha does to an omega firsthand too many times.âÂ
A frown tugs at your brows as you lay there against his chest. You know the risk of them dying is high. The CIA had spent ample time warning you of that risk, telling you about how dangerous their lives are and how every assignment, every deployment, could be their last. They could be gone for weeks at a time, months at a time, and they could go and not come back. They know that every time they leave for an assignment it could be their last, and now youâll be stuck behind knowing they might not be coming back.Â
Youâve heard about omegas that have lost their alphas, how damaging it can be. Itâs not something youâre taught at the institute. Thatâs not something youâre supposed to think about, something you shouldnât have to think about.Â
âWhatâs eating you?â Price asks softly, his finger stroking the pinched skin between your brows.Â
You shift against his side, leaning more on his chest as you look up at him. âWhat if you donât come back?âÂ
His smile is a bit grim as he stares up at you, his fingers trailing across your face. âI wonât lie and say thatâs not a risk. Thereâs always a chance.â His fingers trail down your arm to rest on your hand where itâs pressed flat against his chest. âWeâre here for a reason. We are the best at what we do.âÂ
He pauses as your hand moves, your gaze lowering from his as you trace one of the scars on his clavicle. You can only imagine what caused it. A knife? Shrapnel? Where was he and what was he doing when he got it? You might never be able to know all the details. So many secrets, so much you canât know.Â
John wraps his arms around you, easing you off his chest as he rolls you onto your back. You stare up at him as he hovers over you, his hand brushing stray hairs from your face. âDonât worry too much.â He says, his finger trailing the line of your nose. âWe always try our best to make it home. Now we just have an even greater reason to.âÂ
Your hand cups his cheek as he leans down, pressing his lips to yours. You hum against his mouth, pressing your body closer against his. You canât help but smile against his lips as his cock hardens against your thigh.Â
âAgain?â You murmur against his lips, making him chuckle.
âCanât blame me when thereâs a beautiful omega naked in my bed.âÂ
Your face burns as he leans back down to kiss you, his hips moving against your thigh. Warmth spreads through your whole body from his scent thickening in the air, his arousal prevalent as he twitches against your leg.Â
âJohn.â You moan softly, hands grasping at his back.Â
You both pause as a door shuts in the hallway, the reminder that the others are just a thin wall away coming back to you. The moment is over as your stomach growls, also reminding you that youâll need to eat eventually.Â
John chuckles quietly, leaning up to press a kiss against your forehead. âCome on, letâs get the day started and get some food into you.âÂ
You frown a bit as he pulls away, cock still hard and angry looking as he stands from the bed. âJohn?â You call out, scrambling off the bed after him. âYouâre just gonna...âÂ
âGive it a minute and Iâll be fine.â He says, moving to his closet. âWouldnât be the first time.âÂ
Your frown only deepens and you step closer to him, catching him as he turns around. You stare up at him through your lashes, wrapping your hand around his cock. He pauses, letting out a little groan as you squeeze him gently.Â
âLet me help you.â You say, dragging your hand along his length.Â
His eyes darken as he stares down at you, the pants in his hand dropping to the floor.Â
Your face is still a bit flushed as you make your way to the mess. Youâre hand in hand with John, dressed comfortably in one of his shirts and a pair of leggings. You canât help but feel a bit bashful, as if theyâre all going to know what you did, as if every soldier in the mess knows you and Price slept together last night.Â
Theyâve probably been thinking that since you arrived.Â
Price leads you through the line, making your tray for you. You nearly beam with pride at him taking care of you, your omega preening with happiness as he carries your tray and his to the table. You take the spot next to Gaz as usual, still practically beaming.Â
âHave a good night, love?â Gaz asks, smirking a bit at your pleased state.Â
âYeah.â You say, your face getting warm again at their stares.Â
âPractically glowing, kitten.â Johnny says, winking at you from across the table.Â
Your face flushes hotter and you quickly bury yourself in your porridge to avoid exploding at the breakfast table.Â
âSounded like ye had a great time.â Johnny continues.Â
Christ, they probably heard the whole thing. You halfway want to sink down beneath the table to hide from their knowing stares. You donât have anything to be embarrassed about, not really. Theyâre your pack, and eventually youâll be in the same position with them too.Â
âDidnae know ye had it in ye, kitten.â Johnny continues. âWe certainly enjoyed the show.â
You do start to sink down in your seat a bit, surprised steam isnât rising off your skin from how warm you feel. Gazâs hand on your leg stops you, his fingers squeezing your thigh gently.Â
âDonât pay too much attention to him, love.â Gaz gives you a reassuring smile. âHeâs just jealous he didnât get to go first.âÂ
âAm not.â Johnny whines, practically pouting.Â
You canât help but smile a bit at his antics. You know from how much he bragged about getting to be your first kiss that he probably was rather put out that John got to be your first. It would have been that way regardless, but you know you asking John before your heat changed things a bit. It would have always been John, though.Â
It would have always been your alpha first.Â
Gazâs hand doesn't move from your thigh, holding its place there as you all eat, Johnny still pouting a bit. You know theyâll want to pursue that sort of relationship with you after your heat, but now that Johnâs removed the barrier of the first time as well, you can only expect them to up the teasing tenfold. A shiver runs up your spine at the thought of Gaz sliding his hand slightly higher, fingers slipping between your legs.Â
Youâre certain there has to be steam coming off of you now.Â
Your thighs squeeze together, trapping Gaz's fingers between them as you continue to try and act normally. Gaz turns his head just slightly, side eyeing you as you continue to try and eat your breakfast as normally as possible. Gaz's grip on your thigh tightens, fingers digging into your skin. You fight the noise threatening to come up as he holds his hand there, continuing to eat his breakfast as if nothing is happening.Â
You hold Gaz's hand as he walks you back towards the barracks, leaning against his side. His grip around your fingers is tight, not even the rain dampening the heaviness of his scent. It's deeper than usual, the musk of arousal tinging the edges.Â
Your back meets your door as soon as you're back in the barracks, Gaz pinning you against the wood. Your own breathing is heavy as you stare up at him, his eyes dark as he meets your gaze.Â
âFuckinâ gorgeous, you know that?â He groans, leaning down to kiss you. It's far more passionate than you've ever kissed him before, his hands sliding down your sides to grip your waist. âMaking all those sweet noises last night.â He breathes against your lips. âHaven't seen Price that relaxed in a long time.âÂ
Your face warms at his words, your hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt. He presses harder against you, pinning you against the door as his tongue prods at your lips. He tastes like the tea he drank with breakfast, herby and earthy.Â
âHas us all worked up last night.â He groans against your lips. âHearing you, knowing our alpha was treating you nice.â
He presses his forehead against yours, staring down at you. You meet his gaze, shivering under the intensity in his deep brown eyes.Â
âJohnny bout cried he was so worked up.â Gaz's lips twitch in a smile. âSimon left for the gym bout halfway through, had to work out his tension.â
Your brows raise at the news about what Ghost had been up to last night. You figured he might join Johnny in his room, or perhaps head somewhere so he didn't have to hear you. Not that he would leave because he was being affected by you.Â
âJohnny was being such a whiny little bastard. Had no choice but to take pity on him.â Gaz nips at your jawline playfully. âI fear he's going to be unbearable until he gets his chance.âÂ
âWell, he'll just have to wait his turn.â You say.Â
Gaz laughs, kissing you again before he takes half a step back, leaning his arm on the door above you. âAny plans today?â
You shrug, still leaning against your door. âMight read, or nap. Maybe both.â You sink your teeth into your lip, reaching back to put your hand on the door handle. âYou wanna come in?âÂ
Gaz's grin widens into a smile, his eyes practically sparkling. âSure.â
You open the door, stepping into your room. It's a bit of a mess from you preparing for your date last night. You toss the clothes from your bed onto the floor haphazardly before pushing Gaz onto the mattress. He kicks off his shoes before making himself comfortable. You toe off your slippers, grabbing your book before joining him on the bed. He pulls you against his side, pulling his phone out of his pocket as you settle against his chest. A quiet content purr begins rumbling in his chest, easing the tension in your body as you relax against him.Â
You stay like that, reading while cuddling Gaz, for quite a while. Your door is wide open still, the others coming and going as they do on the weekends. Gaz keeps your back to his chest, arm wrapped around his middle as he scrolls on his phone while you read.Â
Slowly his head starts to droop until it's resting against the top of yours. You can feel the content sleepiness settling into your bones as well, the words on the pages starting to swim a bit. You mark your place, moving just enough to set your book on your nightstand before you curl up against him, letting his even breaths lull you to sleep.Â
You jolt awake suddenly as Gaz's arms tighten around you, keeping you from flying off the bed. You blink open your bleary eyes, squinting at Johnny's grinning face inches from yours. His body is draped over both yours and Gaz's, a solid weight against you both.Â
âC'mon ye lazies. Gotta eat lunch eventually.â He says, sounding far too chipper for a Sunday afternoon.Â
âFuck off mate.â Gaz says, shoving at Johnny's shoulder. âWas comfy.â
âYer hogging the omega!â Johnny says, poking Gaz's side. He pushes himself up, scooping you into his arms and lifting you. âSome of us would like tae spend time with âer too.âÂ
You yelp at being lifted suddenly, wrapping your arms around Johnny's neck to hold on for dear life.Â
âWell, maybe you just need to be a little bit faster.â Gaz says, standing from the bed.Â
âI'm plenty fast.â Johnny almost whines. âClose to beating your time on the course.â
Gaz smirks. âI'll believe it when I see it.âÂ
You look back and forth between them as Gaz steps closer to Johnny, caging you between them.Â
âAnd ye will see it.â Johnny says.
âCheeky.â Gaz murmurs, closing the distance between them.Â
You stare wide eyed as they kiss just inches in front of your face. It's all tongues and teeth, Soap's chest rumbling against your side as he purrs. A quiet whimper leaves your lips as you watch them, your body starting to get warm again.Â
They break apart, both turning to look at you. Gaz's lips turn up in a smirk, Johnny's eyes sparkling.Â
âLook at you, kitten.â Johnny smirks. âYe like watching us?âÂ
You make another quiet noise, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. Johnny slowly lowers you until you're standing between them, Gaz not moving an inch as they trap you in a beta sandwich. Their bodies are warm and solid as you stand there, back to Johnny's chest. You can feel the bulge in his jeans pushing against your ass, Gaz's body a solid weight against your front.Â
You can imagine it, naked between them, skin against skin with hands everywhere. A quiet purr begins in your chest, eyes dilating as you stare up at Gaz. He smirks down at you, leaning down towards you. He skirts to the side at the last minute though, kissing Johnny behind you.Â
You can't see them this time but lord can you hear it. Johnny is still purring, the sound vibrating against your back. Gaz let's out a quiet sound, his hand dropping to squeeze your waist.Â
Johnny pats your side before pulling away. âShould get ye some lunch.â
Your head is still spinning as Gaz hums his approval, stepping away as well. You stand there blinking for a moment at the sudden loss of contact, the sudden shift in energy.Â
âC'mon, get yer shoes on, sunshine.â Johnny says.Â
You move half in a daze still towards your bed, your body tingling a bit still from the many thoughts that had been racing through your mind.Â
Something in the back of your mind begins to itch as you stare down at your bed. Your brows pinch in a frown as you stare down at the mess of blankets and pillows.Â
It's not right.Â
Your fingertips twitch as you stare at the mess in your nest, your mind taking over as you begin to rearrange the blankets and pillows. You forget you're not alone in the room as you fuss with the blankets until the itching begins to lessen a bit. You fiddle with the pillows, moving them around over and over again until you're happy with how they're organized, the quiet humming in the back of your mind fading away to nothing.Â
You sink down on the edge of the bed, letting out a long breath. You feel tired and almost winded after your effort to make sure your nest is just right.Â
Nest.Â
You're nesting.Â
You blink up at Johnny and Gaz, suddenly aware of their presence in your space again. Johnny is staring at you wide eyed, mouth slightly parted in wonder. Gaz has a sparkle in his eye as he grins at you.Â
You've just built a nest.Â
âFeel better, love?â Gaz asks, still almost beaming from witnessing you make your nest.Â
You nod, a sudden weight lifting from your shoulders. You've nested. You're nesting. Everything is going to be okay.Â
âC'mon.â Johnny says, slipping your slippers back onto your feet. âLet's get lunch in ye.â
You let him help you up, holding both their hands as you make your way from the barracks, a small, relieved smile on your face.
You wake up nauseous.Â
Thereâs a clawing feeling in your stomach and youâre not sure why.Â
Itâs early, too early to be up. The sky outside is still dark, and the barracks are quiet. You get up, heading for the bathroom, the gnawing feeling still plaguing your stomach. Cold water on your face doesn't help the light-headedness or the dizziness youâre beginning to feel.Â
You canât possibly be sick. You havenât been around anyone thatâs sick. You know heat sickness isnât a threat right now. Thereâs no warnings out about possible exposures. It couldnât be food poisoning. You eat the same things they do.Â
The gnawing intensifies, your stomach rumbling a bit.Â
Realization dawns on you suddenly.Â
Youâre hungry.Â
Youâre very hungry.Â
You check the time on your phone. Three a.m. Still too early for any of the boys to be up, and still a couple hours from when the mess would start serving breakfast. You head for the rec room, hoping thereâs at least something in there to tide you over until breakfast.Â
You dig through the cabinets, plenty of tea and a couple packets of instant coffee you know belong to Johnny. You dig out a couple protein bars, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge before taking a seat on the couch.Â
The protein bars arenât great. They donât taste good, but youâre so hungry you donât care. You down them quickly and the entire bottle of water. For a moment you feel relief, the gnawing in your stomach easing. You head back to bed, slipping back into your room quietly.Â
You toss and turn, unable to go back to sleep as the gnawing begins in your stomach once more. You let out a quiet sound, muffled by your pillow as you lay there, knowing you still have a long time until theyâll come and get you for breakfast.Â
The thought makes you almost want to cry.Â
Youâre waiting as soon as they knock, narrowly avoiding Johnnyâs hand as you open the door mid-knock. The bright look in his eyes fades as he stares at you. You know you look miserable, maybe a little sick, even. You feel worse, your stomach twisting and gnawing. Those protein bars four hours ago hadnât been nearly enough.Â
âYe alright, kitten?â He asks, a frown marring his face.Â
âHungry.â You all but whine, slipping out the door, closing it behind you.Â
âYe hungry, kitten? Ye could have said somethinâ sooner. Coulda brought ye somethinâ.â Johnny says, following you down the hall.Â
Youâre determined to get real food and youâre not about to let anything get in your way. You feel ravenous, despite the fact youâd had a good dinner the night before.Â
Maybe it hadnât been enough.Â
You make your own tray this time, loading on more than you usually do. You take your normal spot between Price and Gaz, all four of them eyeing your tray as you happily dig in.Â
âHungry, love?â Price asks, watching you spoon huge mouthfuls of porridge into your mouth.Â
You nod, chewing quickly before spooning more in. It tastes delicious, something you never thought you would say about British food.Â
They all watch in awe as you clear your tray, eating every last crumb, having to refrain from licking it clean. Finally, for the first time since you went to bed last night, you feel full and satisfied.Â
âDamn. Putting us to shame.â Gaz says, staring at your empty, nearly clean tray.Â
You grow bashful under their stares, realizing you not only out ate them, you also finished first. âI was hungry.â You say, fiddling with your fork.Â
âNo kidding.â Ghost huffs out, all of them finishing up their trays.Â
Youâre in a far better mood leaving the mess than you were entering it, the sweet relief of being full after hours of gnawing hunger making you feel almost giddy. Ghost walks you back to the barracks, walking slow enough you can easily keep up with him. So slow, your arm brushes his as you walk next to him.Â
âSorry.â You say, moving a step away from him. Youâre so used to standing directly next to the others, youâve forgotten Ghost prefers his personal space.Â
He stares down at you for a moment but doesnât say anything, holding the door to the barracks open for you. He stands just inside the door, watching you make your way down the hallway to your room. He waits for the click of the lock before he turns, leaving you alone in the barracks again.Â
You settle into your usual routine of laying in your nest and reading, the giddiness starting to wear off as the time passes. You make it until ten a.m. when the gnawing hunger begins to return. You let out an annoyed whine, dropping your book to the floor as you roll onto your stomach.Â
You want to cry and scream at the same time, watching the clock tick by on your phone. Youâre tired of being so hungry, and whatâs worse, you donât even know why. Youâre just ravenous and you canât think of a reason.Â
Lunch canât come soon enough, and you find yourself struggling through the afternoon just as much. Itâs almost like your body is on a timer and every two hours youâre suddenly starving, as if you havenât eaten all day. You eat just as much as you did at breakfast, scarfing down food like youâre a starving animal.Â
You certainly feel like one.Â
You head to the rec room after dinner, Ghost and Johnny joining you. Johnny takes the seat next to you on the couch, draping his arm behind you as Ghost takes his usual spot in the chair.Â
You curl up against Johnnyâs side, watching whatever he decides to put on TV half-heartedly. Youâre waiting for the inevitable, the gnawing hunger to creep up on you again.Â
It does, roughly two hours into your time in the rec room.Â
You shift against Johnny, pressing against his side more as you try to ignore the hunger burning through you. His arm wraps around your shoulders, holding you against him. You breathe in his scent, letting the citrusy scent of him wash over you.Â
It only serves to make you more hungry.Â
You let out a quiet whine, trying to get closer to him. Tears prick at your eyes as you know thereâs no relief coming. Thereâs no more meals until tomorrow. Youâll have to go all night before you can eat again, before you can relieve the hunger. Youâre not sure youâll make it that long. You might perish in the middle of the night, or become violently ill. Perhaps both.Â
You let out another quiet whine, standing from the couch. You canât take it anymore, both Johnny and Ghost watching you as you head for the cabinets, kneeling on the floor and rummaging through everything, desperate to find another protein bar or anything.Â
âWhat are you doing?â Ghost asks, staring at you as youâre halfway in the cabinet, checking every last corner.Â
âHungry!â You snap, half considering eating one of the tea bags just for something.Â
Youâve just closed the cabinet door in irritation when an arm wraps around your waist, lifting you from the floor. You let out a yelp, Ghost carrying you easily back to the couch.Â
âStay.â He says after dropping you back next to Johnny. âIâll be back.âÂ
Johnny wraps his arms around you as you pout, nearly in tears from how frustrated you are. Youâre just so hungry.Â
âEasy, kitten.â Johnny says, pulling you back against his chest.Â
You nuzzle into him, curling up into a ball against his side. He starts purring quietly, trying to soothe you while you wait for Ghost to return. You canât pay attention to the TV, Johnny trying to change the channel every time a food related commercial comes on.Â
Youâre nearly shaking when Ghost returns, arms full of snacks. Your eyes widen as he dumps them on the coffee table, pushing yourself up from Johnnyâs chest.Â
âWhere did you get these?â You ask, dropping to your knees on the floor in front of the coffee table.Â
âVending machine in the mess.â Ghost answers, sitting back down in his chair.Â
You stare at him teary eyed, sniffling a little. âThank you.âÂ
He grunts in response, turning his gaze back to the TV as you reach for a bag of chips.
You can barely even taste it as you kneel there on the floor, basking in the first taste of sweet relief from a bag of salt and vinegar chips. You grab them by the handful, burning through the small, snack sized bag quickly.Â
Youâve barely finished chewing when youâre reaching for a candybar, a sudden realization striking you as your brain begins to regain the ability to think now that it knows relief is coming. You stare at the purple Cadbury on the front of the packaging, your fingers trembling as you hold the candybar.Â
You take a deep breath, quickly opening the wrapper before taking a bit, sitting back on your heels as you chew. âWell, shit.âÂ
âI know, I hate the exam rooms too.â Dr. Keller says, flipping through her clipboard. âToo clinical and sterile looking.â She lifts your hand, removing the pulse monitor from your finger. âA little higher than normal.â She says, writing something down on the clipboard.Â
She takes your blood pressure and temperature, writing both down on the clipboard.Â
âTemperature is still normal.â She says. âHow have you been feeling?âÂ
âHungry.â You say, picking at the thin fabric of the hospital gown youâve been forced into. âRavenously hungry and clingy.â You continue. âA bit more emotional than normal too.âÂ
Dr. Keller nods, writing all of it down. âNormal things for your pre-heat, according to your file. Anything out of the ordinary? Aches and pains? Any nausea or vomiting, not related to hunger?âÂ
You shake your head. âNo. Kinda sleepy all the time too, but the hunger makes it hard to sleep.âÂ
Dr. Keller nods. âThatâs normal. Your body is preparing for a few days of very little caloric intake and little rest. Iâd say youâre exhibiting all the signs of pre-heat. Youâre right on time, as expected.â She gives you a little smile. âJudging by your vitals you still have a few days before the full heat symptoms begin. Any questions?âÂ
âWhat do institutes do for heats?â John asks where heâs sitting to the side of the exam table.Â
âIt depends on the institute.â Dr. Keller says, looking at you.Â
âFIOT rotated between sedation and isolation.â You say, not really wanting to think back on the heats you had gone through at the institute. âSedation for the full heat, or shutting us in private rooms for a week to ride out the symptoms alone to avoid triggering heats in the other omegas.âÂ
âNeither are great, but in that sort of environment thereâs not a lot that can be done. Sedation is the better of the two, though it can still be disorienting. Isolation is painful and risky, especially if proper care isnât given.â Dr. Keller says.Â
âIs sedation an option for the future?â Price asks.Â
You turn to look at him, before looking back at Dr. Keller.Â
âItâs something we can explore. I know it canât be expected of you to be here for every heat. We can start exploring some alternatives after this heat is over and I have a better idea of what theyâre going to look like.â Dr. Keller gives you a soft smile. âNow, Iâd like to do a little exam just to give me a baseline for after your heat when I check for any abnormalities or injuries.âÂ
She directs you to lay down on the exam table and put your feet in the stirrups. You suddenly feel nervous, her words doing little to calm you. John appears in your peripheral, slipping his hand into yours.Â
âIs that a risk?â You ask as Dr. Keller pulls a clean pair of gloves on.Â
âOnly a small one.â She says, standing at the end of the table. âI know youâve probably heard all the horror stories, but those are only really concerns with inexperienced alphas who have never helped an omega through a heat before, especially those who had limited exposure to omegas in general.â She smiles at you. âYouâre in good hands, my dear.âÂ
She does her exam, letting you sit up once sheâs finished. John helps you up, still holding your hand. Dr. Kellerâs words do ease your concerns just a bit, but you canât help the images flashing through your mind, the horror stories of mutilations and even deaths. You trust Price to take care of you, but at the same time, you wonât know until itâs over.Â
âEverything looks good.â She says. âThe best thing you can do right now is try to satiate the pre-heat symptoms and take this time to make sure everything is ready and in place for when the full heat begins. Donât worry too much.â She looks pointedly at you. âIâll be on call and ready should something happen.â Her gaze turns to John. âYour beta knows what to look out for, right?âÂ
John nods. âKyle has been doing a lot of research. He knows what to do.âÂ
âGood.â Dr. Keller says, looking back at you. âWhy donât you get dressed, then we can go back to my office where itâs more comfortable and talk some more.âÂ
Dr. Keller leaves you alone in the room, Price helping you change back into your normal clothes, leaving the room with you. You turn to look up at him, Dr. Keller waiting for you near her office door.Â
âIâll see you later, yeah?â Price says, leaning down towards you.Â
âYeah.â You say, standing up on your toes to kiss him.Â
You try to ignore the look on Dr. Kellerâs face as you walk past her and into her office, your face warming a bit in response. You take your normal seat, trying to get comfortable despite your bashfulness.Â
âYou and Captain Price seem a lot closer.â Dr. Keller says as she sits across from you on the couch.Â
You nod. âYeah. We, uh, we have gotten closer.â You chew on your lip. âWe slept together...on Saturday night. Had a date, he cooked dinner. Then we...did it.âÂ
Dr. Kellerâs brows raise at your words, her face surprised. âOh? Is that so? Is that something you wanted?âÂ
You nod. âI asked him if heâd do it. I wanted my first time to be when I could remember it...before I would feel like it was something that had to be done.âÂ
Dr. Keller hums, writing something down. âDid you have fun?âÂ
Your face warms at her words, and you halfway wish the chair would swallow you whole. You nod, hiding your fingers beneath your sleeves again. âYeah. I uh, started nesting too.âÂ
Dr. Kellerâs face breaks out into a huge smile. âThatâs great! Thatâs fantastic news! Perfect timing too.âÂ
You nod. âYeah. Started on Sunday. Been feeling it since.âÂ
âGood. That gives us one less thing to worry about.â She sets her notebook aside, crossing her legs as she stares at you. âHow do you feel about your heat coming so soon?âÂ
âNervous.â You answer honestly.Â
âIt can be a bit daunting, Iâd imagine, your first heat with an alpha. Captain Price knows what heâs doing, though. He and Sergeant Garrick will take good care of you.âÂ
âI know.â You say, fiddling with your sleeves. âItâs still scary. A lot of things can happen and...what if one of them does?âÂ
âItâs not very likely.â Dr. Keller reassures you. âCaptain Price knows what heâs doing. Heâs experienced with omegas and heats and the likelihood of him losing control is small, even after so long without any contact with an omega. It sounds like Sergeant Garrick has educated himself on things to look for, and what to do to help. Iâll be ready and on call the entire time as well. Iâll make regular check-ins with Sergeant Garrick too, to make sure everything is going smoothly. Youâre not alone in this. Weâll all make sure youâre well taken care of. I know itâs a lot to ask you to trust people that are still somewhat strangers, but we all have your best interests in mind here.âÂ
âI know.â You say quietly. âItâs hard, not knowing much of anything. They tell you everything you should expect at the institute over and over again, then you get in it and everything is different. Nothing is like it should be. Nothing like they said. I donât know what Iâm doing.âÂ
âI know. You were prepared for one life and got an entirely different one. Lucky for you, though, youâre surrounded by very understanding people who are more than happy to help you. I know this is so far from ideal for you, but I think youâre doing a fantastic job with what you were handed.âÂ
You stare at your hands, thinking over her words. Johnâs called you a good omega before. Heâs called you that a few times. He thinks youâre doing a good job, despite the fact you feel like none of your skills are useful here. Despite the fact you feel like you havenât been trying.Â
You think over everything theyâve done for you, how hard theyâve tried to help make you as comfortable as possible. Sheâs right. Theyâre all so understanding and you know they like you. You can see it in their reactions to you, you can smell it on them. You know Gaz wonât let anything happen to you, even if something goes wrong.Â
They have yet to prove themselves untrustworthy, for the most part.Â
Maybe you really donât have anything to worry about.Â
âCome on.â Ghost says, standing in your doorway. You almost don't recognize him in a beanie and surgical mask instead of his usual balaclava. âGet shoes on, and letâs go.âÂ
âGo where?â You ask, sitting up on your bed.Â
âShopping.â He says, before turning on his heel.Â
You frown, but do as he says, slipping on comfortable shoes and grabbing your phone. You head down the hall towards the door, a familiar car parked outside. Price and Ghost are waiting next to the car, both dressed in civilian clothes. You approach them hesitantly, suddenly feeling intimidated in the presence of the two alphas. You know you have nothing to worry about, but this is the first time you'll be alone with both of them.Â
Ghost steps up to you, a bottle in his hand. You barely have time to hold your breath before he sprays you down with scent blocker, the harsh chemicals burning your nose as they settle on your skin and cut off your scent. It's necessary, even with two alphas around you.Â
âReady?â John asks, letting his eyes scan over your form for a second. He could probably pick up on your tension and uneasy energy from a mile away.Â
âCan...Can I ask why?â You ask as John opens the back door for you.Â
âWell, we can't have you starving to death on us, can we?â John smiles. âAnd we need to get a few things for your heat.â
âOh.â You say, blinking up at him.Â
âHop in. Hopefully we can get the shopping done before dinner.â John says.Â
Before you get hungry again.Â
You climb in the backseat, John closing the door before getting in the driver's side. Ghost is already in the passenger seat, buckled in and ready.Â
You sit and watch the landscape pass by, the car quiet except for the radio. The contrast between the two betas and the two alphas is almost as distinct as night and day. Johnny and Gaz had talked almost nonstop the entire drive to and back from town. Ghost and Price seem content in their silence, Ghost watching the landscape pass just like you.Â
It speaks volumes of their trust and ease with each other.Â
The farmlands turn to city and you find yourself back at Asda again. You hold John's hand as you walk, Ghost taking your other side, sandwiching you between them. People stare as you pass, their eyes on Ghost, but he doesn't even seem to notice.Â
You stick close to John as you walk through the store, picking up items you'll need for your heat, as well as some other things. Ghost follows like a shadow, people giving you a wide berth when they spot him. You're almost grateful for it. You swear some of them can tell you're about to start your heat, their eyes burning into you as they pass.Â
You can feel the beginnings of hunger starting to creep in as you walk down the bed liner aisle. You know if you weren't starting to get hungry, you would have been close to combusting from the knowledge of why this aisle was necessary.Â
You let out a sigh, leaning your head against John's arm as he crosses the bed liner off the list.Â
âWhat?â He asks, amusement in his voice.Â
âYou know what I miss?â You say, wrapping your arms around one of his. âGood authentic Mexican food.âÂ
The corner of John's lips lift in a smile. âYeah? You getting hungry again?âÂ
You nod, a subtle whine to your tone. âYeah.â
John turns to look at Ghost, the two alphas having a seconds long silent conversation before Ghost heads off, disappearing from the aisle.Â
âWhere's he going?â You ask.Â
âGetting a head start on the other supplies for your heat.â John says. âJust a couple more things, then your snacks and we'll be done and we'll get some dinner.âÂ
You stop as you turn the corner around the end of the aisle, your eyes spotting a giant teddy bear. It looks soft and squishy, your pre-heat addled brain already picturing the perfect spot for it in your nest.Â
âYou want it?â John asks, looking between you and the bear.Â
You snap back into reality for a moment, glancing up at the price. You nearly die on the spot, shaking your head. âI-I don't...â
John turns you to face him, speaking firmly. âDo you want it?â
You stare up into his eyes, nodding slowly.Â
His gaze softens just a bit, a smile tugging at his lips. âThen grab it.âÂ
You're moving before you can even have a second thought, wrapping your arms around it and lifting it off the shelf. It's just as soft as you thought it would be, nearly as big as you are too. You can imagine cuddling it in your nest, napping contently, surrounded in soft plushness.Â
âC'mon pup.â John says, patting your back gently. You're purring, you realize suddenly, the sound leaving you entirely unconsciously. âLet's get you some snacks then we'll get dinner.â
You carry the bear, following John to the grocery section of the store. He takes you to the snack aisle and you pass the bear off to him, grabbing anything and everything that looks good, loading up the cart. You grab a few things from the American section as well, snacks you didn't think you'd miss, but right now they sound like manna straight from heaven.Â
âSimon's done with his part.â John says, glancing at his phone. âWe'll meet back at the car.âÂ
You take the bear back once you're done filling the cart with snacks, heading towards the checkout. You're hesitant to let the bear go long enough to be scanned before you're holding it again, purring quietly and contently.Â
John keeps his arm around you as you walk through the parking lot towards the car. There's already bags in the trunk from Ghost, the alpha already in the passenger seat. They must have both been carrying keys to the car. Safety precautions. Things most people wouldn't even think about.Â
âThank you.â You say as John fills the trunk with the rest of the bags. âYou didn't have to do this.â
âYes we did.â John says, looking down at you. âNot going let you starve like that if we can help it.â
âIt's still strange to me, getting taken care of.â You say, squeezing the bear. âStill makes me feel a bit like a sugar baby.â
John chuckles. âDon't worry, I won't make you call me daddy.â He leans in close to your ear. âUnless you want to.âÂ
Your face burns hot, your entire body igniting with heat at his words. He gives you a gentle pat on the ass, directing you to the door of the car before taking the cart back to the store.Â
Your face is still burning as you attempt to climb into the car with your bear, giving up and stuffing it in first.Â
âWhat the hell is that?â Ghosts asks, turning to look at you.
âMy new bear.â You respond, arranging the bear so its sitting in the seat beside you.Â
âChrist.â He breathes, and you can practically hear the eye roll as you buckle the bear in.Â
You buckle yourself in as John climbs in the driver's seat.
âAll set?â He asks, turning to look at you.Â
You nod, smiling happily despite the hunger eating away at you.Â
âLet's get some dinner, then we'll head back to base.â John says, turning on the car. âCan't have our omega starving on us, can we?âÂ
Ghost snorts. âBest feed her before she decides we look appetizing.âÂ
You wrinkle your nose. âYou'd be too gamey, Ghost.â You say, eyeing him before turning your gaze to the seat in front of you. âJohn, though...â You lick your lips. âI already know you taste good.â
John lets out a deep chuckle that rumbles with the edge of a pleased growl. âEasy, kitten.â
Ghost lets out a heavy sigh, running a hand over his face. âSpare me. Now there's two of âem.âÂ
John chuckles again, squeezing Ghost's shoulder. âLittle did you know, Simon.âÂ
Ghost turns to look at John. âIs it too late to get a refund?âÂ
You stifle a giggle as John smiles. âYou'll have to ask Laswell.â Â
Ghost sighs, turning to look out the window. âNo hope for it, then.âÂ
âHey, at least I'm cute!â You grin. âDon't tell Johnny I said that.âÂ
You practically beam with pride as you see Ghost's shoulders shake with his laughter. Maybe you can get through to him more than you think you can.Â
Maybe, just maybe, you can get him to like you.Â
The knock comes at your door unexpectedly. It's late, and you had just begun to feel the pangs of hunger once more. You hate it, but you know it's necessary considering you'll have to go roughly a week getting in nothing but what nutrient bars can offer while exerting insane amounts of energy. Your body needs to store the calories now so that you don't die during your heat.Â
You're surprised to see Ghost on the other side of the door, back in his balaclava. His shoulders are squared, but you can't scent any anger or hostility on him.Â
He almost seems...nervous.Â
âHungry?â He asks, staring down at you.Â
âAlways.â You answer almost instinctively, staring up into his deep brown eyes.Â
He motions for you to follow with his head. âC'mon.âÂ
You frown a little, but you step out of your room, closing the door behind you. You follow him towards the rec room, staring at his broad back. His shoulders are still squared, hands in his pockets.Â
The rec room is set up again not unlike it was for your date with John. The card table is out and there's foil covered dishes on it, along with a couple plates. Your brows raise in surprise as you take it all in.Â
âI made you something.â Ghost says, moving over to the table, removing the foil from one of the dishes.Â
You move closer, blinking in surprise. âYou made...enchiladas?âÂ
He nods. âAs close as I could get with what I could find on short notice. There's rice and beans, too. And salsa.âÂ
Tears blur your vision as you stare down at the food on the table. It smells delicious and that's not just your ravenous pre-heat hunger talking. âYou...did this for me?â
âWell, I had help,â He says, looking past you.Â
You turn, Soap and Gaz standing at the windows that frame the door to the rec room. They smile and wave at you as you turn to look at them. A quiet laugh leaves your mouth as you smile at them.Â
âHelp yourself.â Ghost says as you turn back to the table. âThere's plenty.â
You serve yourself a plate, nearly melting off the chair as you take the first bite. It takes you all the way back home, the good years when your father was stationed in Texas.Â
âTaste okay?â Ghost asks, watching you. âI know it's not authentic, but I did a lot of research.â
âIt's amazing, Ghost. Really.â You say. âTastes just like the ones my mom would make.â You wipe at the tears in your eyes. âThank you for doing this.â
He shrugs, looking almost bashful. âIt's the least I could do. I know how big of a deal heats are to omegas and how nervous you've been. Thought you could use a little comfort.âÂ
You smile softly. âThat means a lot.â You can't help but giggle softly. âI knew you liked me deep down.â
He gives you a look, making you giggle even more. âDon't push it.âÂ
NEXT ->
Taglist:
@bobaprint @ashy-kit, @anunintentionalwriter @mockerycrow @hayleybarnesx @protokosmonaut @fruitymoonbeams-blog @blue-blue0 @hindi-si-ikay @thatonepupkai @redwites @kattiieee @141trash@lothiriel9 @dillybuggg @beebeechaos @konigsmissedbeltloop @kaoyamamegami, @idkkkkkkk8363 @wallwriterstuff @smile-child-13 @anomiatartle, @dangerkittenclaws @bless-my-demons, @mystic60 @evolutionarry @red-hydra @lunaetiicsaystuff, @linaangel @codsunshine @thriving-n-jiving @slayerx147 @ferns-fics @spicyspicyliving @cityoffallencrows @ttsbaby01 @heeheehoohoohahahihi @sleepyoriana @ihatethinkingofnames10, @cassiecasluciluce @darling006@sheep-from-rad @ohgodthebogisback @willow-sages@scythemood @daniblogs164, @mirzamsaiph
#call of duty#call of duty fanfic#tf 141 x reader#task force 141 x reader#141 x reader#john price x reader#captain john price x reader#kyle gaz garrick x reader#gaz x reader#soap x reader#john soap mactavish x reader#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#x reader#alpha/beta/omega dynamics#a/b/o#omegaverse
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Microsoft disponibiliza Windows 11 Insider Preview Build 22621.1755 e 22624.1755
A Microsoft anunciou hoje, via Windows Blog, a disponibilização do Windows 11 Build 22621.1755 e 22624.1755 no ùmbito do Windows Insider Program, para um conjunto de utilizadores cujos PCs se encontram registados no Beta Channel. Continue reading Untitled
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Windows 11 Insider Preview Build 22000.588 disponĂvel no Canal Beta e Release
Hoje, a Microsoft estĂĄ lançando o Windows 11 Insider Preview Build 22000.588 (KB5011563) para o Windows Insiders no canal Beta e Release Preview. Esta compilação nĂŁo serĂĄ oferecida aos Windows Insiders com dispositivos Arm64.LEMBRETE: Como as compilaçÔes lançadas no Canary Channel estĂŁo âquentes de impressĂŁoâ, ofereceremos documentação limitada para compilaçÔes enviadas para o Canary Channel (semâŠ
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Windows 11: Update brings Microsoft ads to the Start menu
Credits: Pixabay / HolgersFotografie program users Windows Insider noticed new features that probably wonât please many people in an update to the windows 11: in it Start Menuproduct announcements Microsoft will be disclosed. The direction of the multinational had been observed since November 2022, when the tests began, in versions Beta, similar tools. The feature was confirmed in BuildâŠ
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#advertisements#advertising#begin#beta#build#build 22621.1483#onedrive#Start Menu#windows#windows 11#Windows Insider
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About Sims 4 Mod Manager
It came to my attention a few days ago that a popular program used for sorting custom content, Sims 4 Mod Manager, is based on Overwolf software. The issue with this is that ad placements on Overwolf programs give a 20-30% cut to Overwolf directly. As stated on their website. I know it is an Overwolf program because you can find Overwolf files within it:
Personally, I do not mind un-obstructive ads on free programs as long as they are vetted by the developer, but I do not want to give Overwolf any money. So I will be kindly contacting the developer via the contacts on his website and ask he divest and use a different avenue with the ads. Maybe moving to github instead. He is also recently released a curseforge integrated app.
If you are to request the divestment, please please do so with respect as to invite people INTO the conversation and not put them in a defensive position. No one likes to listen when they are being threatened or harassed. đ€·ââïž
I know many will be disappointed with this news as it is a great, one of a kind program, so I wanted to offer some alternative methods besides manually sorting custom content:
Sims 4 Mod Assistant: A small app used to find duplicates and mod conflicts. Also supports filtering and moving files to other folders. Available on Mod the Sims and Github.
S4Pavir: It's not that pretty, but it can be used to view, remove, and sort cc. Available on Github.
You can also use sims tray importer to sort through cc. Dress your sims in all the cc you want to remove or place build/buy items on a lot. Save the sim/lot to your library and use Sims 4 tray importer to view the list of cc used, and open its file location to delete. Available on Luniversims (.fr)
Sims 4 Studio can also be used to view, edit, and delete cc. Available here.
Let me know of any other methods you know or notify me if there are any issues with these two programs.
Hopefully there is a positive outcome with reaching out to the creator. Please be respectful and you can use my pinned post as a reference for why curseforge is a problem. đ
Edit:
Update on Sims 4 Mod Manager
After going through the older versions of Sims 4 mod manager I have found out that Version 1.0.9 Beta (Windows 10, 11 for me) does not have Curseforge ads. I think this is suitable option to use the mod manager without giving direct ad revenue to Overwolf/Curseforge.
When you go to the Sims 4 Mod Manager site, click other versions and scroll until you find this version. It does not have all the current features, but it works. You can uninstall your current version by searching the app in your start menu (Windows), right click and select 'uninstall', and click 'uninstall' again once you find it in the list that comes up.
(I do not have Mac, so I do not know if the later version 1.1.3 Beta, will also not have ads. If you download it please let me know.) I will update my original S4MM post with this info and also put it in a reblog so hopefully everyone can see this.)
It doesn't have the sort to subfolders option, but my way around that is to sort cc into a "moving folder" and then open your regular file explorer and cut and paste those items to your sub-folder manually. Easy peasy!
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Set Me Free || myg
min yoongi x female reader
Summary:Â Tired of being told how to live his life and unsure of where he stands in the world, Yoongi--your soulmate--yearns to be free. When you give him what he wants, it causes a rift in your relationship that seems irreparable. 12 years later, you find him back in your life. Can you mend your relationship? Do you even want to? Word Count:Â 14,377 Genre:Â friends to enemies to lovers, supernatural au, witch & familiar au, soulmate au, angst, fluff Warnings:Â death of a parent (brief mention), alcohol, soulmate breakup, smooching
Notes: banner by @itaeewon. thank you to @daechwitatamic and @oddinary4bts for beta-ing and listening to me struggle my way through this. as always. and extra thanks to ella for helping me write Yoongi's letters and to my friend tanya for giving me a super helpful base for the ending.
Itâs cold. The late autumn wind rustles through amber-brown-orange-yellow leaves, swirling the fallen ones into little tornadoes that scuttle across the pavement. The cold doesnât bother Yoongi, necessarily. Itâs been a while since heâs been here, in this town, on this street, but even after so much time, his body remembers the chill of November in the same way his feet remember the way to his destination. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and pauses at the street corner.
Itâs strange being back here. Heâd once known this neighborhood so intimately, he could map it in his sleep. Not much has changed in the almost 13 years heâs been gone. The park on the corner is the same. The playground, massive to an eight-year-old with a near-infinite imagination, stands resolute, its plastic and paint sun-faded and weathered. Further up the block is the head of the trail that snakes its way through the forest, where heâd spent countless hours playing pirates as a kid and exploring as a teen. And there, at the end of the street, is his destination.
The closer he gets, the more his stomach roils with nerves. Thirteen years since heâd walked down this sidewalk. Thirteen years since heâd walked onto that front porch. Or rather, 12 years, 5 months, and 11 days.Â
But whoâs counting?
Thereâs a light on in the front room of the house, he can see it through the big window despite the shades being pulled closed. He hesitates. Heâs spent daysâno, weeksâplaying out in his head how this was going to go. In a moment, heâll know if any of those scenarios were correct. And frankly, right now, heâs terrified.Â
What if you start to cry? What if you slam the door in his face? What if you hug him? What if you yell at him? What if you donât answer? What if you want to talk? What if you never want to see him again? What if you invite him in? What if you have someone over?
He takes a deep breath and knocks.
It takes a second. He can hear shuffling around on the other side of the door, so he knows his knock was heard. But the longer it takes, the sweatier his hands get, and the more he considers turning and running away. The door opens before he can make a move.
You stand in the doorway, bathed in the warm light of the living room lamp behind you. And shit, Yoongi doesnât know what to say. In many ways, you havenât changed since the last time he saw you, but at the same time, you look so different. He can see in your eyes the moment the realization hits, and your expression changes drastically. You looked tiredâand Yoongi can sense that it goes deeper than just physical exhaustionâand you were slouching, but now, youâre standing ramrod straight, and thereâs a hard look in your eyes. One he knows all too well.
âHey.â He raises a hand, offers a wave that, in hindsight, is rather pathetic. You stare at him, unblinking, and slowly, he lowers his hand. âI uh⊠I heard about your parents,â he says softly, scuffing his shoe against the wood of the porch. âIâm sorry you have to go through it.â
âBrave of you to show up.â You sound almost bored, but Yoongi knowsâhe senses, in that kind of primal, gut feeling he gets when it comes to youâthat itâs an act. âYou know I could turn you into a bug and squash you if I wanted to.â
âI know.â
Thereâs a tense moment where you stare at each other, the scowl you wear pulling your lips downward and creasing your brow. But then you heave an exhausted sigh.
âWhy are you here, Yoongi?â
âIâŠâÂ
I want to apologize.Â
Iâm so sorry.
I miss you.
It all catches in his throat. He coughs in a meager attempt to entice somethingâanythingâto come out of his mouth. âI wanted you to have this.â
He holds out his hands, and in an instant, heâs holding a box. Itâs full but not heavy, and he thrusts it out in front of him in your direction.
âA 10-year-old shoebox?â You do nothing to mask your surprise.Â
âLetters,â he corrects. âYou donât have to read them but⊠I wanted you to have them.â He pushes the box into your arms, leaving you no choice but to take it. Then, he steps away and nods his head. âThank you for not turning me into a bug. I am sorry about your parents. I⊠guess Iâll go.â
Without another word, he trots down the porch steps. And then, in a blink, heâs gone. Disappeared into the night.
You sigh and shut the door, the box heâd given you cradled in the crook of your arm. You donât have the energy for this right now. Honestly, you arenât sure that youâll ever have the energy for it, but certainly not the day before your parentsâ funeral.
Whoever had decided that witches and their familiars die together clearly never thought of the ones left behind.
You collapse onto the couch, placing the box beside you. This would be easier if you werenât alone. It would be easier with Yoongi, your brain supplies less than helpfully. You curse yourself. You curse him. After all these years, you thought you were over it, over the abandonment, over the betrayal. But all it takes is for him to show his stupid face, and you can feel it all bubbling up anew. Angrily, you push the box off the couch. It explodes when it hits the floor, what seems like thousands of pieces of paper tumble out and scatter from the force.
The forest was almost silent as you stalked the trail. Not even the birds were happy that day. Twigs snapped under your feet. You werenât even paying attention to where you were going, your feet carrying you along the path that youâd hiked countless times before. You needed to get away, to escape, to calm down. But you couldnât, because what you were running away from was hot on your heels.
âWould you slow down?â You could hear the frustration in Yoongiâs voice as he followed you. You ignored him. âGoddamnit,â he breathed, picking up his pace. âWill you at least listen to me?â
Quite frankly, you didnât care what he had to say in that moment.
âIt wouldnât be a permanent thing,â he continued. âI just⊠I donât know. I need to do this.â
You stopped, sliding a little on the damp new growth below your feet. âWhat the fuck are you talking about? Youâre not being oppressed, Yoongi. No oneâs stopping you from going out and exploring the world.â
âMaybe this way of life isnât for everyone. Maybe not everyone wants their whole existence to be predetermined at birth. Maybe not everyone wants the universe to choose who theyâre supposed to be with and how theyâre supposed to live.â
His words stung, and until then, you werenât quite sure why. Rejection. Not just of how you lived, and who he was, and how things had always been. But of you. Yoongi was your familiar, you were destined to be together in some way since you were six years old and the bond gem first appeared. Not all witches and familiars were in romantic relationshipsâyour parents were, sure, and Yoongiâs parentsâbut plenty of them had other partners, lives separate from each other. Platonic soulmates navigating the world together.
Until a few months before, youâd been content with that. There was no doubt youâd been best friends from the jump. Youâd been practically inseparable through school. Then, months before, heâd kissed you at the winter market. Right there in the park, under the aurora. Before that, you hadnât thought of him as any more than your best friend. But the kiss had unlocked something inside you. And nowâŠ
Now he wanted you gone.Â
âYou want to be free that badly?â By some miracle, your voice sounded positively venomous, even though you felt like you could crumble at any moment. âFine.â
âWh-â
Thereâs a saying your mother told you once, back when you were a child. You and Yoongi had found a turtle in the woods, stuck in the mud. His little turtle leg had been hurt, and youâd rushed it to your mother immediately. Familiars were excellent with animals, and she was no exception, healing the turtle in days when it should have taken weeks. You and Yoongi had both cried when you had to release it back into the wildâyouâd both so wanted it to be your friend. âIf you love something, set it free,â your mother had said, âSometimes itâs the kindest option.â
Kinder for whom?
The chain around your wrist snapped easily when you wrapped your fingers around it. The incantation meant to keep the bond gem safe became meaningless as soon as you wanted it gone. You couldnât remember the last time youâd been without it around your wrist. You loved it, with its gem of swirling, inky black and navy blue. It reminded you so much of Yoongi, deep and calm and unwavering.Â
Without a word, you tossed the bracelet to the ground. Yoongiâs eyes widened as it hit and the gem cracked. For good measure, you stepped on it, crushed it into dust. There was a pitiful swirl of blue magic that puffed up from the dirt. When you moved your foot, there was nothing left of the bond gem or its chain.
âWhat the fuck?â Yoongiâs eyes were glassy when you finally looked at him. He looked almost as crushed as you felt. âWhat the fuck?â
âYouâre free.â And this time, you couldnât hide your sadness behind your anger.Â
He didnât follow you as you walked away, and honestly, it was for the best. It was faint, but you could still feel his emotions, and you werenât sure you could handle that kind of heartache in person.
There is paper everywhere. Hundreds of pieces, folded neatly in thirds. You have no idea how Yoongi had fit them all into the shoebox. He mustâve enchanted it. Groaning, you start to pick them up.Â
Letters, heâd said. You flip through some as you gather them up. Now that theyâre on the floor, they arenât in any particular order, but it quickly becomes clear that these letters span years. There are some from 12 years ago, written shortly after heâd left. Some are more recent. You stare at one, from December of the year he left. Glancing through it, you expect it to unearth your anger, your rage. But it doesnât. Just like seeing him again, all Yoongiâs letter brings is sadness. Grief.
Youâd spent the past 12 years grieving. Sure, he hadnât died, but when he left, youâd lost the closest relationship you would ever have. In 17 years, youâd grown so accustomed to having him there, that when he was gone, there was a Yoongi-sized hole left in your life that you had to learn to fill. And you did your best, sewing yourself back together and moving on. But it wasnât the same.
Glancing through his letter, it seems you werenât the only one struggling. You arenât sure if thatâs a comfort or not.
Itâs been almost a year since the night marketâone year since everything started crumbling around us. I still remember it like it was yesterday. It felt right in the moment, didnât it? I really thought you would understand.
Iâve tried to figure out where things went wrong. But shit, I canât wrap my head around it. Why did you react like that when I told you I just wanted to be free?
At the end of the day, I guess we didnât understand each other as much as I thought we did. As much as this bond brings us together, I guess it doesnât reveal everything. But⊠that night I just wanted to kiss you, and so I did. Maybe it was selfish. Sometimes I wish the bond didnât exist, that we could just be free to choose things for ourselves. That we weren't forced into what the universe wants from us⊠Maybe thatâs selfish, too.
Why couldnât you understand? I just wish I could turn back time and make you understand. Maybe then you wouldnât hate me, and maybe then Iâd stop hating myself too.
Because watching you destroy the gem nearly killed me, but it wasnât half as bad as watching you walk away. Should I have run after you?Â
Would you still be there if I had?
You sigh and lean back against your couch. That damn night market. You hadnât been back to it since the year heâd kissed you. Itâs silly, but a part of you blames it for everything that happened. Because Yoongiâs letter is right. It had marked the beginning of everything going wrong. It wouldnât change anything, but thereâs a part of you that wonât listen to logic, that refuses to believe that maybe, if he hadnât kissed youâif you hadnât kissed him backâhe wouldnât have left.Â
The night market was beautiful. It always was, but that year was particularly beautiful. The park had been decorated in all of its sparkling, winter glory. Candles twinkled in the trees, suspended by sheer force of will. Through some magic you werenât familiar with, theyâd enchanted the sky, and an aurora shimmered far above, slowly swirling in greens and blues and purples. Snow fell gently, and you werenât sure if it was natural, or if it was also magic.Â
You browsed the various tents and tables, going from one to the other to see the different things people were selling. Some had crafts, others baked goods, and some were even selling things like potion ingredients and spellbooks. There were a few tables dedicated to familiarsâbooks on shifting and specialty items and insets and jewelry for bond gems.
Yoongi followed you closely, clutching a hot chocolate. You knew he wasnât cold, the temperature was nowhere near low enough for either of you to be uncomfortable, but the way his fingers tapped against the paper cup, you knew something was up. You could sense his anxiety, could feel it in the pit of your own stomach.
âWant to go sit?â you asked softly, gesturing over to the picnic tables theyâd set up under one of the sparkling trees.Â
His eyes widened. âNo, thatâs okay. Youâre looking.â
âIâm done. Letâs go sit.â
âI-â He deflated a little and didnât argue further, allowing you to lead him over to one of the tables.Â
You sat side by side on the bench, backs against the table, and watched the snow fall around you. The night was peaceful, quiet for the most part except for the occasional laughter that bubbled up. Most of the older crowd had left, leaving only the teens and young adults to explore the market. You watched the other festival goers in silence, Yoongiâs arm pressed against your own.
âYou okay?â you asked softly, bumping your shoulder into his own.
Yoongi being quiet was nothing new. He was an observer, a listener, he took in information like a sponge. Which wasnât to say that he was never loud and boisterous, that he didnât talk incessantly to the people he cared about. But he was absolutely the calmest presence youâd ever been around, even compared to the adults in your life.
But you could sense what he was feeling, could feel his nerves and unease and conflict. And you knew that heâd rather explode than burden anyone with his feelings. So you prodded. Ever so gently. Because he was your best friend, and when he was suffering, you were too.Â
He stayed quiet, and when you turned to look at him, he was much closer than you were expecting. A moment passed. You shared a look. Youâd always thought that Yoongiâs eyes were pretty, but in the twinkling light of the candles above, they were deep pools of warm, dark cedar and flecks of honey. Slowly, subtly, he leaned inâor maybe you did, you werenât sureâ as though some mysterious force was drawing you together. An emotion flashed in his eyes, but you couldnât quite take the time to consider what it may have been because he was kissing you. Lips chapped from the bitter wind moulded against your own for the shortest of moments. It was tentative and delicate and brief, but as he pulled away, your mind reeled.Â
That day had affected you in ways you never would have expected. Before, youâd never considered Yoongi as anything more than your best friend, the platonic other half of yourself. And then the kiss, and suddenly, it was like youâd been awakened. For as long as you could remember, your thoughts had been filled with Yoongi. Of the things he liked, the things he didnât, of spending time with him, of the academy (with him). Suddenly, you were suspecting that maybe there was more to that, more than just the bond of a witch and their familiar.
You sigh. The letters are all finally back in the box, though nowhere near as nicely as theyâd been before youâd kicked it and it had exploded. You should get up. You should go to bed. You have to be up fairly early for the funeral. But you stay seated, the box of letters in your lap.
Seeing him again was hard. Youâre willing to admit that. Youâd spent 12 years convincing yourself that you were fine, harboring anger and resentment and frustration, all for it to melt away the second you saw him. The bond makes it tough to stay mad at him, but it doesnât let you forget the betrayal.
You stand out of the way, looking out over the funeral attendees in the park. Your parents didnât have a lot of friends, but there are enough people here that youâd officially call it a crowd. Theyâre all minglingâyouâd bought beer and wine, and if you didnât know any better, it could maybe be a party and not a wake. You tighten your fist around the bond gem in your hand. For as long as you could remember, your dad had worn it around his neck, tucked under his shirt. The gem is like your motherâbright pink, fiery orange, deep yellowâand when you were a child, youâd loved to look at it, mesmerized by the swirling, glittering colors.Â
The gems have always been a gift from a familiar to their witch, given to symbolize the soulmate-like bonds between them. Most witchesâespecially those who were romantically involved with their familiarsâwear them as jewelry. They donât really do anything, though some people claim it made their magic stronger (you arenât really sure about that, seeing as most gems appear in childhood).
As a child, you hadnât been particularly close with your parents. Especially as a teen, you would have much rather hung out with Yoongi than them. But they were kind, and supportive, and for the most part, they left you to do your own thing. Theyâd been almost as devastated as you when youâd crushed your bond gem.
Days after your fight with Yoongi, the doorbell rang. Your mother had opened the door. You were upstairs. Youâd stayed home from school that dayâsick, but not in the way the administrators would have accepted. For a few brief moments, youâd ignored whatever visitor was downstairs. But then-
âSheâs not here.â Your motherâs voice drifted up to you. She sounded disappointed.
âPlease.â It was Yoongi, youâd recognize his baritone from miles away.
Quietly, youâd slipped out of your room and crept down the hall, sitting at the top of the stairs. You could hear your mother sigh, could see her shift her weight from one foot to the other. Your father appeared from the kitchen and joined your mother at the door.
âI donât think thatâs a good idea right now,â he said, shaking his head. He leaned against the doorknob, pulling it a little more shut in the process so it blocked you completely from the doorâs sight.
A long moment of silence passed before your mother called, âYoongi?â You couldnât hear his responseâhe must have already gone down the porch steps. Your mother continued, âIt can be scary, and youâre both still young. Give it time.â
The door shut quietly, and both of your parents looked to where you were sitting. You could see it in both of their eyes. Sadness, but something else. Something that looked a little close to pity.
A laugh draws your attention, and you smile sadly as you watch your motherâs coworkers laugh at some memory. But then you notice, just behind them, a shadow close to the ground and suddenly, youâre distracted all over again. Because there, half-hidden by a bush, sits a black cat. Cedar and honey eyes watch you intently, its dark fur swirling and shining like a thousand galaxies. Your hand tightens around your parentsâ bond gem, the chain pressing sharply into the flesh of your hand.
He doesnât move, just sits there patiently. Watching. Heâs there as people approach you, offering condolences and hugs that you donât particularly want; heâs there when people start trickling out. And heâs there when youâre the last one left, all alone under the large oak tree in the center of the park.Â
Itâs quiet as you stand there, staring down at the bond gem in your hands. This is the part youâve been dreading. Because you donât want to keep the damn thingâyou could if you wanted to, but thereâs also tradition to think about. But itâs also weird to give up the one thing that is so emblematic of your parents. You wonder if theyâd felt like this when your grandparents had died.Â
At least theyâd had each other during it.
You can sense him approach, even though his steps are completely silent. And though he comes closer, he keeps his distance. On one hand, you appreciate it. On the otherâŠ
âIf youâre going to be here, the least you could do is be here,â you say quietly, looking down at the gem in your hand. It sparkles a little in the light.
Thankfully, he doesnât ask you to explain. He takes a few slow steps forward until heâs standing beside you. Itâs weird, having him this close again. Youâd been too overwhelmed last night to actually observe, but now, youâre exhausted, yet alert.Â
His hair is longerâas a teen, heâd kept it short, but the ends curl and sit just above his shoulders now. Heâs filled out and put on some muscle, and though heâs still a little on the lankier side, his shoulders have broadened. He wears cologne now, the scent light, like lavender, citrus, and sage. So much has changed, and yet itâs the same eyes that watch you with a soft curiosity.
You look up to the tree, watch its branches wave in the wind. You used to think that the centenarian boughs touched the sky, and even still, it towers above everything else in the park. The leaves sparkle, their iridescence catching the light to make the tree look like something out of a fairy tale. You sigh and tighten your fist around your parentsâ bond gem one more time before opening your hand.
At first, nothing happens, but then the gem glistens and rises out of your grasp. It joins the other leaves close to the top of the tree, becoming just another sparkle in the prism.Â
For a while, not even the birds make a noise. You just stand there, looking up at the tree that has stood sentinel over most of your life. The wind rustles the leaves, and they shimmer as they move. You have no idea how many leaves are up there, how many bond gems have been placed over time. Thousandsâmaybe hundreds of thousandsâof witches and their familiars, most forgotten to the annals of time.
Itâs strange, knowing that you would never be memorialized by the tree.
âLet me buy you a coffee,â Yoongi whispers from beside you, husky baritone cutting through the silence.
Yoongi isnât sure why you say yes, but soon enough, youâre walking into the Green Bean just behind him. Heâs uncomfortable, people have been watching you since the park, and their stares are starting to burn holes in his back. He says nothing about it until youâre in line at the cafe.
âWhat are they staring at?â he whispers, leaning close so that only you can hear in the semi-busy cafe. He chooses to ignore how you tense up ever so slightly.
âYouâve been gone for 12 years, what did you expect?â
Right. He supposes he should have expected their animosity. But itâs not just him theyâre watching. He doesnât miss the way people stare at you, watch you warily as you simply exist. His mind races. Was that his fault? Did his absence cause so many unintended consequences?
You order a coffee and choose a table in the far corner of the cafe, away from everyone but still near the window. He sits in the chair across from you, the hard metal shockingly comfortable despite its harsh lines. An awkward silence settles over you both, but Yoongiâs not sure what to say, so he lets it linger. He watches you stare out the window. Which is a little weird, right? But he canât bring himself to drag his gaze away. Itâs like after 12 years of being away, he just wants to look at you.
The barista calls out your orders and Yoongi stands to grab both of them from the counter. He places one oversized ceramic mug down in front of you, and the other, he wraps his hands around. Itâs warm, almost hot, and he dares not take a drink yet. You stare down at the foam on top of your drink, one finger hooked around the handle of the cup.
âWhat happened to them?â he asks softly. When you look up, surprised, he clarifies. âYour parents, I mean. I⊠didnât hear how theyâŠâ
You sigh, tap your mug. He can sense the deep sadness you struggle with and is just about to tell you to forget he asked when you speak. âI always kind of thought it would be dad whoâd go first.â Your voice is barely above a whisper. âHe was always so frail when we were kids. But mom got sick last year andâŠâ You shrug. âOne of the neighbors found them.â
âIâm so sorry.â You wave him off. âNo. Honestly. They were nice.â
âThanks.â
He nods, and silence settles again. But then something you said pops into his mind, striking him as strange. âYou arenât living here anymore?â Mentally, he slaps himself. Why did it come out like heâs surprised? He supposes that heâs always just kind of pictured you still⊠here, in town.
âIâm over in Ashland,â you say, generally gesturing west, toward the city. âI work at the library at the university.â
âYeah?â He raises his eyebrows. âHowâs that?â
You shrug. âMostly good. Itâs a job. The libraryâs usually pretty quiet, soâŠâ
âThatâs really cool.â
Ashland is big, much bigger than here in square feet and at least 10 times the people. Itâs a real city, with skyscrapers and functioning public transportation and one of the countryâs top medical universities. Heâs proud of you, he realizes. Youâd always planned to leave for the city, too constrained by life in such a small town. For the longest time, heâd planned on going with you. And then, of course, heâd ruined it. It stings a little to know that youâd gone without him like that, that your life had continued as planned, that maybe he hadnât meant that much in the grand scheme of things.
But then your eyes meet, and heâs confronted by the anxiety and sadness youâre feeling, and he knows heâs just being stupid. Again.
âSo, uhâŠâ He feels a wave of nerves wash over himâthey arenât his own. You tap your half-empty mug. âWhat have you been up to?â
If heâs honest, Yoongi wasnât expecting you to ask about him. Heâs shocked enough that youâd even agreed to be here, let alone that you were interested in his life. âI was traveling,â he starts cautiously, gauging your reaction. You blink slowly, watching his every move. If you can sense his apprehension, you donât react. âBut now Iâm up north in Ulmae. Iâve got a pretty good thing going at this restaurant on the North Shore.â
âYeah?â
âYeah, uhâŠâ He chuckles, a little nervous. âTheyâve got me bartending on the weekends and let me do music during the week.â
Your eyes widen a little, and you lean forward. âThey let you play?â
âItâs only like an hour a night-â
âNo, shut up. Thatâs amazing!â You grin, big and genuine, but Yoongi can sense a tinge of sadness in it.Â
Heâs disappointed when you both finish your coffees and you stand up to put your cup in the little tub by the counter. Itâs starting to get late, the sun is starting to set and the streetlights have turned on. It was nice, catching up with you, short though it may have been. Itâs not lost on him how strange it is, having to catch up with someone that was once practically a part of him.Â
Together, you stand outside in the chilly early evening air, looking down the street toward the park. Over the roofs of the shops and houses, Yoongi can just barely see the centinel tree with its sparkling leaves. People walk pastâpeople he recognizes but couldnât possibly nameâsome are more subtle about it, but others practically break their necks to stare at the two of you. Suddenly, Yoongi feels exposed outside the cafe, like there are eyes everywhere. He hates this, hates feeling like heâs doing something wrong just for wanting to talk to you more.
You sigh, scuff your shoe against the concrete of the sidewalk, shove your hands deep into the pockets of your dark jeans. âI⊠probably shouldnât even ask,â you start warily. âBut do you want to come back for a drink?â
The house is the same, yet somehow also different, like one of those spot the difference puzzles come to life. The layout of the living room is the same, but the couch is a different style and color. Thereâs a blanket folded the same way under the coffee table, but itâs clearly a different pattern than he remembers. Most of the photos are the same, but there are 12 yearsâ worth of more of them.Â
Apparently, the stash of alcohol your father kept in the built in cabinet beside the television hasnât changed.
You pull out a bottle of whisky and two glasses, setting them on the coffee table with a gentle âclink.â The shoebox heâd given you sits on the floor. The lid is off, the letters contained within are a mess. Have you read them, or did they spill out? Thereâs no way for him to really know.Â
Silently, you hand him a glass and sit on the other side of the couch, grabbing one of the throw pillows to hug in your lap. You sip at the double in your glass stoically, and for a moment, you stare at him. He has to resist the urge to squirm under your gaze. Thereâs something different about how youâre sitting, something in your aura that he didnât notice in the cafe. Maybe youâd been saving it for private, but he can sense that youâre reining your emotions in.Â
But then finally, after what feels like an eternity, you turn over your hand. Two pieces of paper sit in your palm. âIâm going to need you to explain these.â The two letters float over to him and open themselves in front of him.
The first is dated only a few years after heâd left.
Iâve been struck by a thought. I had tacos earlier, and I just know you would have loved them. Which made me realize that thereâs still part of me that thinks about you at every turn. Your friendship was such an integral part of my life, and not having it anymore feels like thereâs a piece missing. Last week it was a song on the radio. Before that, a stray cat I saw that I know for certain you would have loved. Everything reminds me of you, everything leads back to you. Youâre everywhere and nowhere, andâŠ
I would like to see you again. Someday.Â
How have you been doing? Where has your life taken you? I can only hope itâs treated you kindly. Itâs what you deserve.
The other is from the day he turned 25.
A quarter of a century, and for some reason I feel incredibly old. With it comes some realizations, things I didnât understand before. Maybe I was too young, too blinded by my own need to feel free⊠but it never was about being free from you. I canât even begin to imagine how hurtful it must have been for youâŠ
I never wanted to make you feel like I was giving up on you, like I didnât want you. I never wanted to make you feel rejected, because it wasnât you I was trying to be free from.
I was so scared of having my whole life laid out in front of me. I never took the time to think what my life could be with the bondâI only ever thought about what the bond meant for my life. All of the expectations, what comes with being a familiar, our roles in society and the universeâŠ
I realize now that I could haveâshould haveâcommunicated it all better. If only so that I wouldnât have lost you. So that it wouldnât have led to me making you feel like I was rejecting you. Maybe it wouldnât have mattered; at the end of the day I was still walking away from you. But at least maybe I could have made it more clear that it was never you that I wanted to be free from.
Iâm sorry. I feel like itâs useless to say, but I am so sorry for not realizing any of this before.
Wherever you are, I hope youâll understand. Take care until I see you again.
I hope I see you again.
Yoongi sighs. The lettersâall of them, not just these twoâtended to be rambling diatribes, a snapshot of his thoughts as he worked through his feelings about his own life and everything and you. Heâd been an idiot when he leftâhe was 17 and full of himself and terrified of the world but too proud to admit itâand it had taken him far too long to realize a lot of important things.
For a moment, itâs quiet as he thinks of what to say. How should he even begin? But apparently, heâs quiet for too long, because you wave your hand and the letters fold themselves back up and float back down to the shoebox. When you speak, you sound exhausted. âWhy are you here, Yoongi?â
âI-â
âBecause if the roles were reversed, I donât know that Iâd have the balls to come back. On one hand, Iâm impressed. On the otherâŠâ You trail off and shrug.
Heâs quiet, not sure how to respond. Heâs got lots of thoughts, lots of feelingsâof course he doesâbut right now, youâre a wall, and heâs not sure how to read the situation. Heâs not sure what you need to hear right now. So he says nothing.
You laugh, but thereâs no humor in it, and you look down at the glass in your hand, stare into the dregs of the amber whisky youâve nearly finished. âIâm running on like two hoursâ sleep,â you admit. âBut fuck, Yoongi, I⊠I was so convinced that Iâd never see you again. I wasnât sure I wanted to.â Then, softer. âIâm still not sure.â
âWhy?â Itâs out of his mouth before he can even think and god, he just wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.
It takes a second for you to process his absolute trash heap of an asinine question. But when you do, your face contorts into somewhere between anger, disappointment, and heartbreak. âWhat do you mean, âwhyâ?â You practically spit the question at him. âYou⊠you⊠Do you know what itâs like to have the most important person in your life tell you that he wants rid of you?â
âI never said-â
âYou wanted to be free. From all of it. From me.â You pick at the corner of the pillow in your lap. âAnd then you just come back out of the blue like nothing happened and drop this damn shoebox at my feet-â from where it sits on the floor, the shoebox explodes, letters flying everywhere, â-and you just⊠What did you expect, Yoongi? What do you want?â
âI donât know!â He sounds a little desperate when he says it, and he hates that, hates how pathetic it makes him sound. So he shrugs, takes a deep breath, leans back a little. âI donât know,â he repeats. âI just⊠I missed you. And then mom told me about your parents, andâŠâ He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and out of his eyes. âAnd then I was on a train.â
You stare at him for a moment, a little gobsmacked. You have no idea how to respond. What do you say to that? Where do you even start? There are a hundred things you could say. Youâve played this scenario out a thousand times in your head over the yearsâwhat would you do if he came back?âbut somehow, it never played out like this. In your mind, heâd never told you that he missed you.
Youâd never considered that he would miss you.
But you should say something, right? Itâs weird that youâre sitting there, just staring at him in complete silence. Has your jaw been clenched the whole time? Does he think youâre angry with him? Quickly, you school your face into something a little more neutral and say the first thing that comes to mind.
âHow long are you here for?â
Truthfully, you probably should have asked sooner. Youâve been wondering since he showed up on your doorstep last night, but it never seemed like a great time to ask.
He sighs. ââTill tomorrow.â
You nod, probably longer than it makes sense to, but it takes you a bit to process. Tomorrow. Heâs back in your life for two days, and then heâs gone again. Thatâs not even enough time to catch up, let alone actually talk with him. And thatâs⊠you arenât sure how to feel.Â
Yoongi watches you quietly and takes a sip of his drink. Heâs barely touched it. âMaybeâŠâ he says after a moment, leaning forward to put his glass on the coffee table. âMaybe I should go?â
Part of you wants to tell him no, to ask him to stay, to tell you more about his gig working at the bar. Anything to keep him here and talking to you. But thereâs a more logical part of you thatâs overwhelmed, that needs some time to think. Heâs offering to go, which means that heâs either uncomfortable or his train leaves early in the morning. Or both. He stands, thanks you for the drink, and you follow him to the door. He hesitates just outside, opens his mouth as if to say something and closes it almost as quickly.
You say nothing. And for the second time in as many days, you watch him leave without another word.
The playground was almost empty. Mama said it was supposed to rain, but sheâd also said that you would go anyway, for a little bit. You were trying to learn how to swing on your own, and plus Yoongi and his mom were going to be there, and heâd said heâd bring his trucks to play in the sand.Â
But he wasnât there yet, so you were on the swing. Mama pushed you, her hand firm on your back, and you closed your eyes. You were flying, wind in your face as you launched forward into the air. And then, just as suddenly, you were falling, swinging backward.
âRemember what I said,â mama said softly. âKick your legs.â
You werenât quite sure what she meant by that. Your legs were little, and when you kicked out, you felt more like you were going to slide out of the swing seat than anything. You heard her laugh a little, but her hand was on your back once again, propelling you forward.Â
A few minutes passed in a blur of forwards and backwards. You still didnât quite understand the whole swinging on your own thing, but mamaâs rhythmic pushes kept you going. But then, a small voice at the edge of the playground yelled your name, and you heard excited footsteps in the wood chips. Mama helped you slow to a stop, and you jumped off the swing.
A little boy, his dark hair cut short by his own mom, ran toward you. He was carrying an armful of small cars and larger trucks. He skidded to a stop in front of you, a wide, gummy grin engulfing his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes.
âI brought all my trucks!â he announced, looking down at the toys in his arms. âYou can be the green one. Here.â He tried to hand it to you, and another fell in the process.
You picked it up and took the green truck from him. It was bright greenâthe same shade as the lime popsicles Yoongiâs mom usually boughtâand it had big wheels. You followed him to the sandbox and you both plopped down. It didnât take long to have a whole city constructed. Granted, it was all made from rocks and wood chips and other small things you found around the sandbox. But it was a city and it was beautiful.
Yoongi drove his truck over a bump, making engine noises as he pushed it toward you. As he drove the truck down another sand hill, bumping and bouncing it over sticks and rocks, something fell out of the sleeve of his jacket. It was perfectly round, and it rolled to a stop in front of you. You picked it up and inspected it. It was some kind of rock, hard and shiny, but it was also colorful, and you were pretty sure rocks couldnât be blue.Â
One look at the rock and he frowned, calling for his mom. She came over immediately and crouched down to see what he was so concerned about. Your mama followed her, and she was the one that saw the rock in your hand first.
âOh,â she said, her hand gently smoothing down your hair. âYou two have found your gem.â
âWhaâs that mean?â Yoongi asked, looking up at his mom.Â
She smiled and sat in the sand beside him, pulling him into her lap. She held out her arm, twisted her bracelet around so that he could see it. âYou know how I have this from your dad? Itâs like that.â
âBut-â
âYour friendship is special,â she continued, pinching his cheek. Yoongi laughed. âIt means youâve gotta look out for each other now.â
For a moment, he was quiet. But then he nodded, just once. âOkay!â He held out his hand to you, tiny palm face up. âCan I have it?â
âItâs not yours anymore,â his mom said softly, brushing his short hair back. âItâs a gift.â
You looked to your mama and she nodded. âTake care of it,â she told you. âYou only get one.â
Middle school was the worst. Everything was difficult. Social situations, interactions with your parents, school. At the time, it all seemed like it was unfairly hard. Making it worse, of course, was getting sick. As a kid, you were never sick that often. Yoongi was a different story. For whatever reason, familiars were just more susceptible to illness, and when he got sick, he got sick.Â
It was the middle of the semester, and Yoongi hadnât been to school in days. Your teachers hadnât even asked, theyâd just started giving you packetsâhomework and printouts of their lessons and extra materialsâso he wouldnât fall behind. So you stopped by his house after school. His mom let you in, offering you some of the snacks she was making for Yoongi before you headed up the stairs to his room.Â
You knocked gently before entering. The knock was a politenessâyou were close enough with him and familiar enough with his room at this point in your life that you could just barge in without warning and you knew he wouldnât mind. He looked like hell, stuck in his bed buried in blankets. It was clear heâd had a fever at some point, because his hair looked damp and sweaty.Â
But he sat up when you walked in, coughing deeply before speaking. âYouâre going to get sick, too,â he protested weakly.Â
You waved him off. âEveryoneâs sick.â You pulled over his desk chair to the side of his bed and started to go through your bag. âMs. Miller gave me your math homework, but if you understand it, youâll have to explain it to me because I have no idea what sheâs talking about.â He giggled at that, gummy smile soon hidden by his hand as he coughed. âHereâs the novel for Brownâs class. She said sheâd talk to you about making up the paper when youâre back.â
It took a surprisingly long time to go through eight classesâ worth of homework and assignments, but youâd put sticky notes at the front of each packet explaining things, too, so the fact that he was half-asleep for most of your explanation didnât really matter.Â
âWill you stay?â he asked when you were done. âHelp me with some of this?â
âWhat happened to not wanting me to get sick?â you teased.
âI mean, you donât have to. If you want to go home, thatâs fine, too. I just-â He coughed, burying his face in his blankets.Â
âYou staying for dinner, hon?â Yoongiâs mom called from the bottom of the stairs.
âYes please!â you responded, shuffling through the stack of packets youâd brought for Yoongi. âWanna take a stab at math?â
Halfway through the fall of your senior year, Yoongi started to get⊠weird. Cagey. Like he was trying to hide something and figure out particle physics at the same time. Youâd tried asking him about it a few times, only for him to wave you off with a quiet âjust thinking about some things.â After that, heâd be back to normal for a few days. But every time, like clockwork, he would fall back into it.
Finally, on the third day of the new year, he pulled you aside. Tucked back into the dormant foliage of the park, away from prying eyes, he stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was nervous, you could feel it deep inside you, but to be honest, you didnât really need your bond to tell you what was plain to see.Â
âIâŠâ He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. His brows furrowed in thought, and after a moment, he motioned for you to sit. âI need to tell you something.â
âOkay?â You sat on the edge of a big rock, confused.
âIâŠâ he started again, sitting beside you. You could feel a spike of nerves, and he took a breath to steady himself. âIâve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think⊠fuck, this is harder than I thought it would be.â
âYou can just say it,â you told him. âItâs just me.â
He nodded and mumbled something that sounded a lot like âthatâs the problem,â but after a moment, he continued. âI need to be free of all of this.â
âWhat?â
âHavenât you ever thought that maybe the universe doesnât know what itâs talking about? That maybe youâd be happier if you chose things for yourself?â He frowned. âThereâs rules for gifts. Weâre only good at certain types of magic because of how we were born. We have to celebrate holidays certain ways, we have to do specific things on our birthdays-â
â-and we get told who weâre to bond to.â
He recoiled at your words. âThatâs not-â
âBut itâs true, right?â Your gaze fell from him to your hands. âItâs just one more thing you donât get to control.â
Yoongi sighed. âI just⊠want to be able to choose for myself.â
Suddenly, you were sick to your stomach. This was the last thing youâd expected. You didnât particularly like all of the traditions, either, but you were 17. What the hell were you going to do about it? But this felt like he was saying he didnât want you. You hadnât yet talked about the kiss at the night market a few weeks prior, but youâd never guessed that heâd do such a sudden about-face.Â
âRight,â you said softly.
âJust⊠think about it?â he asked, dark eyes pleading.Â
You didnât like where this was going, didnât like how it made you feel. But you nodded anyway. Maybe he would change his mind.
Days gave way to weeks and months, and before you knew it, spring had come. Yoongi hadnât changed his mind. If anything, heâd gotten more insistent.Â
âI want to find myself,â heâd told you once. âI need to make sure this is how I want to live my life.â
âI just need to get away,â heâd said one day while you were doing homework together. âStart fresh somewhere new.â
And then, on the way home from school one day, heâd said, âI need to be free of it all.âÂ
And youâd snapped. Three months of hearing him talk about it, three months of him basically saying that your entire way of life was wrong and that he was chafing to get away. You couldnât help it.
âFuck off,â youâd told him, taking the trail behind the houses at a faster pace. Despite being so attuned with nature thanks to his familiar genes, heâd had trouble keeping up with you.
âWould you slow down?â You could hear the frustration in Yoongiâs voice as he followed you. You ignored him. âGoddamnit,â he breathed, picking up his pace. âWill you at least listen to me?â
Heâd pushed. And eventually, youâd given in. Because despite everything, youâd loved him, and if he was unhappy, you wanted to fix that. And nowâŠ
Now youâre sitting alone at the train station at ass oâclock in the morning. The train station has just barely opened, and already youâre inside, clutching a cup of coffee. There are a few other people here, milling around, waiting for their early trains to god knows where. You can feel them watching you, can feel them trying to make it subtle that theyâre staring. At this point, youâre used to it. Word travels fast in small towns, especially when that word is as earth-shattering as a broken bond gem and a falling out between a witch and their familiar.Â
You try to ignore them, focus on your coffee and the posters across the waiting area from you.Â
Report any unattended or suspicious luggage to National Rail personnel.
Bags larger than this poster must be checked into the trainâs luggage car.
Please remain seated until your train is announced and National Rail personnel give authorization to enter the platform.
You scroll through the news on your phone. Read the posters again. Stare out the window at the coffee shop across the street. And wait. A train arrives, and the couple that had been staring at you leaves. You sigh and stand to throw out your now empty cup.
Just as you do, the door to the train station opens. You turn to look, and there stands Yoongi. Heâs wearing a black shirt, a bag slung across his body. His hair is pushed back off his face and heâs wearing his glasses. Heâs clutching an absolutely massive travel mug and his phone in one hand, the other rolls a small suitcase behind him. He looks sleepy, but the second his dark eyes land on you, he jolts a little, as if electrocuted into being awake and alert.
âHey,â he says cautiously, approaching you.
âHey.â You wave slightlyâawkwardly.
âWhat are you doing here?â His voice is soft, still a little gruff from sleep. You get the sense that maybe he hasnât said much of anything to anyone this morning.
You sigh and gesture for him to follow you to a bench. The next trainâhis, you presumeâisnât due for another 20 minutes. You have time, but not much.
âI didnât like how we left things,â you admit. âI⊠I wasn't sure if you were serious.â
âSerious?â His head falls to the side slightly, confused. But then, it seems, he understands, and he nods. âI did miss youâI do. I spent the entire ride here thinking about how seeing you again was going to go.â
âWere you right?â
He chuckles. âNot exactly.â
You hum and nod, and for the briefest of moments, silence settles over you. The stationmaster types away at his computer, the clacking of the keyboard the only sound in the entire station. But then you force yourself to say something thatâs been on your mind since he showed up on your doorstep two days ago.
âItâs been good seeing you again,â you say, and even though you mean it, you canât bring yourself to look at him. âI⊠think in a way, after so long, I made you the villain in my head. Itâs good to see that youâre⊠not that.â
âI am sorry,â he whispers. âThat was the worst thing I have ever done, and I justâŠâ
âI get it.â
âWhat?â
âI think I kind of always did, but⊠it just hurt too much to think that you were including me in everything that you wanted to get away from, and I just-â
âYou were the last thing I wanted to get away from.â Maybe itâs the waver in his voice, maybe itâs the way he ducks his head to make sure he makes eye contact, but you believe him. He sits his mug down on the bench beside him and gathers your hands in his. âI was so fucking dumb. I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat, but god I was too stupid and selfish to take ten minutes to think.â
âI thought maybe Iâd done something,â you admit quietly. âI thought that maybe after the night market-â
âNo! Oh my god, no,â he exclaims, his hands tightening around your own. âYouâre my best friend! I lo-â
âTrain 49âthe Northern Limitedâwill be arriving on the platform in five minutes,â the stationmaster announces, not even bothering to use the buildingâs intercom. âIâll take you over to the platform when youâre ready.â
Yoongi groans.
âHere.â You pull your hands away from him and immediately miss the warmth of him. But you reach into your pocket, unlocking your phone and shoving it into his hands in one motion. âPut your number in.â
For a moment, he stares at you, dumbfounded. But then the stationmaster opens the door to his office, and the noise jolts Yoongi into action. He types quickly and hands you your phone. You donât even look at it, just lock it and shove it into your pocket. He hands you his phone and you enter your own contact information before giving it back.
You stand at the same time, and for one brief, quiet moment, you worry that maybe heâs just going to leave it at that. But then he rubs the back of his neck and glances toward the stationmaster.
âIâll text you,â he promises.
You nod, almost mechanically. You werenât expecting it to hurt this much to see him leave again. As he turns to gather his things, something comes over you.
âI- Can we-â You sigh, take a deep breath. âCan I have a hug?â
He makes a noise somewhere between a hum and a squeak, and it takes almost no time for the pink to start blossoming on his cheeks. He sputters for a second, and you can feel his shock. But then he opens his arms, and you find yourself taking a small step forward.
Itâs shockingly easy to fall back into him, to step into his arms. Heâs warm, and solid, but still also somehow soft. His cologne lingers on his clothes, all lavender-y and citrus-y and sage-y. Your arms fit around his waist, and for a moment, you let yourself pretend that this is normal, that nothing ever happened and that he isnât leaving. But you hear the train horn in the distance and you pull away. You kiss his cheek as you part, and his eyes go wide in shock.
âText me,â you tell him firmly, reaching down to grab his coffee mug and hand it to him.
âI will. I promise.â
And with one last, fleeting look, he steps onto the elevator with the stationmaster to go over to the platform.Â
You stand outside the station long after the train departs, feeling very much like you did when heâd left the first time. You should be feeling optimisticâfor the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe thereâs hope. For you, for your friendship, for⊠whatever comes next. But itâs hard to feel any sort of positive when heâs on a train back to a city seven hours away, and you have to go home in the exact opposite direction in a few short days.
As youâre walking back to your car in the lot down the street, your phone dings. When you unlock it, you get the sudden feeling that youâre flying, like a horde of butterflies have erupted within you. Itâs nerves and itâs excitement and maybe, itâs also a little bit of hope.
Yoongi đ: thanks again for not turning me into a bug
âIâve been thinking,â Yoongi says one late night, his deep, sleep-deprived voice distorted ever so slightly by the distance and the speakers of your phone. You can barely see himâthereâs a dim light that just slightly illuminates his face, but the rest of the room is dark.
âDangerous,â you joke.
âRude.â He nuzzles down further into his pillow. âIâd like to come visit,â he admits softly.
For a moment, your mind goes blank. Thereâs a fluttering in your stomach, hundreds of butterflies trying to escape at once. Heâd kept his word after the train station, texting and calling you frequently over the past couple weeks. Youâd text throughout the weekâlittle messages about bad days and delicious lunches and cute dogsâand then on the weekends, one of you would inevitably end up calling each other. Youâd spend hours on the phone, sometimes talking, sometimes just existing in the silence between you.Â
The video calls were a recent development. Since they began, youâd watched him cook dinner, heâd played piano while you worked on a spreadsheet for work, and one early morning, heâd called you on his way home after bartending so he wouldnât fall asleep on the train.
âWhat do you mean?â You laugh a little. Maybe it was a little obvious what he meant, but you wanted to hear him say it.
He groans a little, stretches one arm up before covering his eyes with it. He peeks out at you through the cook in his elbow, one singular, dark eye sparkling, even in the poor quality of the video. âI miss you,â he mumbles, and you almost donât catch it, itâs so muffled by his arm and your phoneâs speaker.
You hum. The butterflies in your stomach make themselves known again. âI guess you could come.â
âI donât have to if you donât want me to.â
âHey now. Itâs against the rules to take something like that back.â
He laughs. âWhat rules?â
âYou know. The rules.â You gesture vaguely before pulling your blanket up a little further on your body. âDonât tell me youâve forgotten the rules?â He grunts. âBeing away for so long has rotted your brain, Iâm afraid.â
âSo rude.â His arm is still obscuring his face slightly, but you can see his big, gummy smile as he laughs. âNo, but seriously. Are you busy next weekend?â
You frown. Youâd been trying to forget about next weekend. âNormally Iâd go home for the new year,â you say softly.
âWhy donât,â he begins, stifling a yawn. Youâre a little surprised heâs made it this long without seeming tired. Itâs almost 3am. âWhy donât I come hang out? We can do new yearâs stuff together.â
âYouâre sure?â
âOf course.â
âWhat about work?â
He shifts, the arm that was over his face now supporting his head under his pillow. âI make the schedule. Theyâll deal with it.â
âYoongi.â
He continues on, ignoring you. âI can work the day shift and get a train right after work on Friday, but I wouldnât get there until late, is that okay?â
You sigh. It would be nice to not spend the holiday alone. And it would be nice to see him again. Sure, youâve been talking to him in one way or another, but itâs different than having him in person. You finally agree, and he shoots you a smug, sleepy smile.
The week passes at a glacial pace. Work is slow because of the break in classes for the upcoming holiday, and spending time in an empty library is infinitely less entertaining than youâd expect it to be. Most of your coworkers have taken off, so youâre mostly alone with your thoughts. You fill the time with paperwork, completing literature loan requests for the Universityâs faculty and doing intake for the newly released journals the library has subscriptions for.Â
In the small handful of weeks since youâd seen him last, youâd replayed things in your mind. But mostly, youâve been stuck on how nice it is to have him in your life again. You arenât fooling yourself. You havenât forgotten. But thereâs a part of youâa large part, if youâre honest with yourselfâthat hopes that this is a step forward, that you can be close again. Maybe not how you were, but something that resembles a friendship.
After an eternity, itâs Friday. You sit outside of the train station in your car, parked in one of the pick up spots just outside of the main door. The trickle of people into and out of the station has slowed significantly now that itâs dark outâyouâve never seen it this dead. Itâs late, the station is getting ready to close, but thereâs one last train that has yet to come in. Thereâs another car parked a few spaces to your left, and you wonder briefly about who theyâre waiting to pick up, but itâs fleeting.Â
The door to the station opens automatically, and out steps Yoongi. He rolls a suitcase beside him, a messenger bag slung across his body, his other hand shoved deep into his hoodie pocket. He looks around, confused, his gaze going back and forth between your car and the one to your left. You turn on the dome light and wave and he nods.
He gives you a quick greeting as he opens the back door, shoving his bags in the back seat. When he finally climbs into the passenger seat, he sighs deeply, resting his head against the headrest for a moment before turning to you.
âHey,â he says softly.
âHey. How was the train?â
He groans. âLong.â
You hum. Heâd worked a short, early shift so he could catch the last train from Ulmae to Ashland. He looks and sounds exhausted. But heâs here. Heâs not a face on a screen, heâs in your car. You resist the urge to reach out and touch him. Itâs strange. Youâd been without him for nearly 13 years. Itâs only been a few short weeks since youâd seen him last, but youâre giddy, practically bursting with excitement at the fact that, for the next two and a half days, heâs here. With you.
You drive in relative silence, willing the lights to be green more for Yoongiâs sake than your own. The radio plays a soft hip-hop song, and you vaguely recognize it as one of the bands heâd been obsessed with in high school, but you donât turn it up. Youâre fairly certain that heâs fallen asleep, his head lolled slightly to the side so that heâs facing the window.
Itâs a damn miracle that thereâs an open spot in front of your building, but you gladly take it. There are people in your building who donât know how to parallel parkâwho refuse to do itâbut youâd taught yourself just for instances like this. For a moment, you think youâre going to have to wake Yoongi up, but just as you cut the engine, he unbuckles his seat belt and stretches.
Your apartment isnât large, but itâs bigger than most for what you pay for it. Youâre on the seventh floor, the top floor of the building, and your bedroom has a lovely view of the building beside you. But if you lean a little to one side and press your face up against the glass, you can see out into the city beyond, and the university campus in the far distance.
He sits his bags down in your living room and plops down on the couch. Youâve already set out some blankets and a couple pillows for him. The clock on your microwave says 11:05.
âYouâre probably exhausted,â you say. âIâll let you get settled.â
Immediately, he picks his head up from the back cushion of the couch. ââm not tired.â Ever defiant. But you can tell heâs lying. You can see it in his eyes how groggy he is. Normally, heâs up much later than thisâyou know, because sometimes, he calls youâbut between working an early shift and the six-hour train ride, you donât blame him for being a little sleepy.
âI put some towels out in the bathroom,â you tell him, gesturing down the hall. âItâs the door on the left. Let me know if you need anything else.â
âThanks.â
And with that, you leave him there in your living room. You can hear him unzipping his bag as you retreat into your room.
An hour later, you find that you canât sleep. Not that youâve even tried. You arenât even sure why youâre so wired. But youâre sitting in your bed, legs covered by a sheet, in the dim light of your bedside lamp. Youâve had friends stay over before. But this⊠you feel like you did as a kid, having your first sleepover. Except back then you were wired on soda and sugary snacks and it was a treat to stay up late. Now, youâre justâŠ
You hear the bathroom door open and shut, and after a moment, Yoongi stands in the doorway to your room.
âYou have the softest towels in the world,â he says, hair hanging in damp strands in front of his eyes. He pats and scrunches it dry with one of the fluffy grey towels youâd set out for him.Â
âWould you believe I got them on clearance?â
âIâll just have to stuff one in my bag, then.â
âI charge a 5% fee for any towels that leave the premises.â
At that, he laughs, a groggy, squeaky sound that shakes his shoulders and crinkles his eyes and leaves a wide, gummy smile in its wake.
âSo⊠whatâs the plan for tomorrow?â
âI havenât really thought about it.â He shoots you a look that says he doesnât believe you, and you relent. âWell,â you pat the bed beside you, inviting him to sit, âThereâs this thing every year in the park to watch the meteors,â you say as Yoongi eases himself onto the mattress. âBut it doesnât start until late.â He hums. âWas there something you wanted to do?âÂ
âNo, just-â He stifles a yawn. âCurious.â He leans back against the headboard, settling in.
Just like that, you fall easily into conversation. Itâs comfortable, calm. Just two old friends chatting. He likes your apartment, thinks the tile in your bathroom is really nice. He asks about your job, nods along as you tell him about working in the library and your coworkers.Â
And slowly, his reactions become slower, delayed, until he finally doesnât respond at all. You look over, and his chin is tucked against his chest, his breathing gentle. Asleep.
For a moment, you consider going out to the couch. It would be weird, right, to stay here with him? But as youâre about to kick the blanket off, you pause.Â
Weâre adults. Adults can share a bed. It doesnât have to mean anything. Youâre mature enough to let this just be two people sleeping in the same space.Â
At least, you think you are.Â
But as you settle in yourself, snuggling down into your blankets and turning off the light, youâre suddenly faced with the quiet peacefulness of his face. Heâd always been handsome, and now that youâre both older, you can appreciate just how beautiful he really is. He sighs and slides down a little, his hand brushing against your arm as he gets more comfortable.Â
Oh no.Â
You sit on the floor of your living room, a box of pizza on the coffee table that youâve shoved out of the way. Yoongiâs beside you, your backs against the couch as you watch some anime heâd been trying to convince you to watch back in high school. Youâre three episodes in, and you donât have the heart to tell him that you donât really care for the basketball-themed show. Part of you is still afraid that if you say something wrong, heâll be gone again.Â
His arm rests casually behind you on the cushions, far enough away that itâs more a comfortable way to sit than any sort of advance, but that doesnât stop the smallest of butterflies from making itself known in your stomach. This Yoongi is so different from the Yoongi you knewâthe one who, as a kid, got excited by construction equipment and the concept of ice cream, and as a teen spent his free time hiding from his parents, playing the piano and hanging out with you (though neither were mutually exclusive). Heâs quiet, comfortable in the silence, comfortable with letting things linger.Â
Youâre a little jealous of it, to be honest.Â
Yoongi leans forward slightly, and a piece of pizza meets him halfway, floating gently into his grasp. âDo you remember,â he begins, settling back in against the couch, âwhen we were 16 and we went camping?â You hum an affirmative. âWe spent most of the week playing old board games with my parents.â
You smile at the memory. If anyone had asked back then, you would have told them it was lame that youâd had to spend the whole time with Yoongiâs parents. But now? That was one of the more fun summers youâd ever had. âWhat made you think of that?â
He shrugs, mouth full of pizza. âI dunno. But Iâve been thinking about it a lot recently. Things were so much simpler thenâŠâÂ
You nod and hum softly, but ultimately, you say nothing. Much simpler indeed.Â
âYou know,â Yoongi begins, zipping his coat up to his chin, âwhen you said âparkâ, I was kind of expecting it to be in the city.â
âI think technically it is.â You lock your car and meet him at the front of it.
âWe drove for an hour!â
You shrug. âBig city.â
He laughs and shakes his head, incredulous. He canât tell if youâre being serious or not, but there was a sign on the way in with the university logo on it, so he supposes that whether itâs part of the city or not, it doesnât really matter. Thereâs a well-lit trail that runs from the shale parking lot up a hill slightly to a clearing that overlooks the city and the rest of the park. Itâs busyâpeople mill about around the parking lot, and he can see a steady stream of visitors on the trail up to the clearing.Â
He adjusts his coatâitâs cold, and both his shoulder and his senses ache with the impending snowâand when heâs ready, the two of you start walking toward the trail. Itâs astonishingly busy, and as you weave your way through the crowd, leading him up the hill, he grabs your hand.Â
So we donât get separated, he tells himself. For a moment, he expects you to pull away. Not maliciously, heâs not expecting you to scoff and throw his hand away. But what he isnât expecting is for you to tighten your grip on him and tug him this way and that as you get closer to the clearing. His hand is warm where your skin touches his, like heâs holding a candle a little too close to the flame.
The clearing is massive, mostly flat but not entirely, with gentle rolling slopes that provide some extra elevation here and there. On one of the little hills, a few food trucks are set up, though how they got there, Yoongi isnât really sure. Someone must have magicked them through the path or up the hill or something. There are picnic tables scattered around, mostly near the food trucks, but throughout the clearing, as well. Towards the edge of the clearing, thereâs a cliff with an overlook that has a spectacular view of the city vista below. People are everywhere. Of course, there are a lot of college-aged kids hanging out in big and small groups. But thereâs also a shocking amount of people that are Yoongiâs age and olderâprofessors, he assumes, and university staff here to enjoy the evening. Almost all of them are holding drinks, and just about every one of them seems to be paired with someone.
Itâs subtle sometimes, seeing bonded witches and familiars. Of course, the ones who are romantically involved tend to be more obvious, but the ones that are just friends are just as easy to spot once you know what to look for. Itâs the people who stand so close together theyâre almost touching, the ones who lean in a little extra close to whisper something. And the clearing is full of pairs standing in each otherâs personal spaces.
You tug on his hand to direct him off to the left and he blindly follows, squeezing your fingers ever so gently as a response.Â
Thereâs a pair of people at one of the tables by the food trucks. They spot you almost immediately, and one of them stands to greet you. Heâs a little taller than you are, made even more obvious when he gives you an awkward, one-armed hug over the picnic tableâs bench. The other oneâa womanâremains seated, eyeing Yoongi.
For a hot minute, itâs weird, as he stands there in silence while you chat with the man and woman. Itâs not even the side-eye that the womanâs shooting him. The man is handsomeâYoongiâs not blindâand you are friendly with him. But thereâs a moment, the briefest of moments, where you gesture somewhere off to your left. And when your body moves, Yoongiâs arm moves, too, and a little part of him, a silly, childish, hopeful part, soars.
Youâre still holding his hand.
Eventually, you introduce him to the two. Alice works the reference desk in your library while sheâs doing a doctorate program in linguistics. Her partner is gone in the winter, fighting fires in the far south. Despite her harsh side-eye, she greets Yoongi with a smile and a polite handshake. Jihwan, on the other hand, is the head baseball coach at the university. How the two of you met, Yoongi can only guess, but you make no mention of Jihwanâs partner, and Yoongi doesnât see a gem anywhere. He almostâalmostâstarts to feel bad for the guy, but then he opens his mouth.
You ask a simple question, gesturing with your head to the food trucks. âWhat do they have good?â
âThe pierogi guy from last year is back-â
Jihwan interrupts Alice. âToo much butter.â
Itâs not even what he says. Itâs how he says it. Like you and Alice are toddlers, like you canât be trusted not to drown yourselves in carbs. But you roll your eyes and Alice scoffs playfully, and Yoongi realizes that this is not the first time Jihwan has done something like this. And suddenly, Yoongi hates this guy.Â
âApparently, heâs got a new flavor this year,â Alice says, continuing like Jihwan never interrupted. âBut the taco guy is also back-â
âIs the popcorn guy back?â you ask. laughing. âBecause I kind of want a front-row seat to that.â Yoongi must look confused, because you explain. âPierogi guyâs daughter was engaged to taco guyâs daughter. But last year, pierogi guy and taco guy just started yelling at each other-â
â-It was amazing,â Alice adds.
âIt was ridiculous,â Jihwan mumbles.
You push him. âIt was a little like having our own little telenovela here.â
Cautiously, Yoongi asks, âWhy were they fighting?â
âNo one knows.â You shrug. âBut it launched a campus-wide food war. Everyone was choosing sides. It was like the year the Moondance tried to change its logo.â
Jihwan and Alice look at you, a little confused. But Yoongi knows exactly what youâre talking about. Somewhere around when you were preteens, the owners of the Moondance diner decided that its logo was outdated and wanted to update it. The whole town had been in an uproar, whole neighborhoods entering into a Cold War-esque stand-off over their preferences. People who had been friends for 50 years were suddenly in an unsolvable, unending argument. All over a color palette swap and a slightly newer font. Yoongi hadnât cared much one way or the otherâall businesses change their logos at some point, right?âand he always suspected that you didnât either, but youâd both gotten swept up in the chaos of it all. It was stupid, ridiculous fun, and heâs pretty sure that his parents still have the buttons youâd made somewhere in their house.
You finally let go of Yoongiâs hand when youâre standing in line at the taco truck, and heâs painfully aware of how empty it feels now. You donât go far, though, standing close enough that your elbow brushes against his every once in a while. Youâre scrolling through your phone, reading some news article to pass the time. Itâs gotten darker since youâve been there, and looking up, he can just barely make out a couple pinpricks of stars in the sky. The clearing is fairly bright, with little flickering balls of light criss-crossing the space like bistro lighting, and the lights from the city below donât help to make the night sky visible.Â
You pay for his tacosââI get an employee discount,â you say, brandishing your university id like itâs a black cardâand Yoongi doesnât think that you were in line that long, but when you return to the table, Alice and Jihwan are gone.Â
âWhereâd-â Heâs not even asked the question, but youâre already shrugging.
âAliceâs probably off calling her fiance,â you say it like youâre back in high school, all singsong-y and mockingly, âand who knows where Jihwan got to. Probably trying to take someone home tonight.â
âHe seemsâŠâ
You sigh. âYeah.â
âHowâd you meet him?â
A pang of⊠something hits him. Your expression falls, ever so slightly, and he regrets asking. But after a brief moment, you clear your throat. âHe and I are the only two on campus without gems.â
Oh.Â
Well.
That makes sense.
âSo theyâŠâ
You pick a piece of red cabbage off your taco and eat it. âYeah, they know.â
Which explains Aliceâs side-eye earlier. The weird emotion heâd gotten from you is gone now, and you seem to have just brushed right past the awkward feelings.Â
He hums, not really sure what to say. Whatâs there to say? So instead of saying anything dumb, he does the safe thing. He changes the subject.
âNo wonder they didnât kick the taco guy out of the festival this year.â He takes another bite of his taco. âThis is the best al pastor Iâve ever had.â
âHis chimichangas are amazing, but he only makes them on special days.â
âMore special thanâŠ?â He gestures vaguely. Around you, the lights have started to dim. Yoongi isnât really sure when that started, but things are definitely less bright.
You laugh, and something inside of him warms.
He hasnât even finished his tacos yet, but the vibe in the clearing starts to dramatically change. The crowd gathers tighter, a palpable buzz in the air. Alice has returned and stands alone near the head of the table. Sheâs looking up at the sky, and when Yoongi looks up, he sees why. Thereâs an aurora in the sky, gentle waves of effervescent greens and blues swirling through the heavens, just like the night market all those years ago. It has to be magic of some sortâthe city isnât far enough north for it to be naturalâbut he canât tell whoâs doing it.
A hand on his shoulder pulls his focus back to the ground. Youâre there behind him, bathed in the dim glow of the floating lights around you. By now, itâs almost dark, but even in the low light and deep shadows, youâre beautiful.Â
âCome on,â you say softly. âLetâs get a good spot closer to the lookout.â
He follows you through the crowd, weaving around the bodies to get closer to the edge of the clearing. Itâs tight, and you grab his hand so you donât get separated. Normally, Yoongi isnât a huge fan of crowds like this. Youâre a small island in a sea of people, and he barely has room to turn in a circle without bumping into someone. You stand closeâclose enough that he can feel your warmth through the chill of the night.
The city spans the valley below, a forest of metal and windows and concrete. A bright spot in the middle of an otherwise dark night. But then, individually at first and then more, the buildingsâ lights begin to flicker out.
âTheyâve been doing this festival since before the city got public electricity,â you explain, answering his question before he could even ask. âItâs kind of a big deal.â
With the lights of the city mostly out, the stars above are much brighter. He can almost see them twinkling and winking as they burn, millions of billions of lightyears away. The night sky is beautiful, and his eyes drift around to locate the constellations heâd learned as a child. Almost immediately, he finds Perseus, right beside his wife Andromeda. Youâd loved the myth of Perseus slaying Medusa when you were kids, and even though he hadnât looked for the constellation in over a decade, finding it is still ingrained in him.Â
He nudges you slightly, pointing up to the constellation. But just as he does, a pinprick of light streaks across the sky. You squeeze his hand as more streaks start to appear and the gathered crowd buzzes with âoohâs and âaahâs. The meteors are all sizes. Big and bright. Small and thin. They arenât constant, only a few show up every minute, but itâs beautiful to watch.Â
Thereâs a strange sensation growing in his chest, something warm and fluttering and all-encompassing. You lean a little closer and the feeling grows. You must sense somethingâheâs never really been sure what his emotions feel like for youâbecause you look up at him. For a moment, you look confused.
Yoongi isnât really sure how it happens, but what he does know is that suddenly, your face is centimeters from his own. He thinks that maybe someone bumped you and you took a step closer, but maybe thatâs just his brain trying to fill in the gaps. He also knows that heâs the one that closes the space between you, leans in and brushes his lips against yours. Itâs quick, a little impulsive, and truthfully, it feels a little forbidden.Â
He pulls away, not far enough to make it seem like heâs made a mistake, but enough that it gives you an out, if you want it. His brain starts making all these calculationsâwhat he should do if you back away, what he should do if you slap him, what if you donât react.
But then you whisper, âWhyâd you stop?â and your hand slides up his chest to grip the lapel of his coat. You tug with a surprising amount of force, and when your lips connect, he feels himself soaring.Â
His entire world narrows to the points where your bodies connect. The firm touch of your knuckles against his shirt, the way your leg presses against his, but mostly the heat from your lips as he deepens the kiss. You fit against him perfectly, as if you were made for each other. Heâd only kissed you that one time, but somehow, heâd missed it, missed you.Â
When you finally pull away, you stay close, pressed against his chestâthough whether thatâs fully your choice or because of the crowd tightening around you is anyoneâs guess. He can feel your heart pounding, and when you shoot him a small smirk, heâs pretty sure that you can feel the pace of his own pulse. Your grip loosens on the collar of his coat and you smooth it down coolly before your arm wraps around his back. Without a word, you cozy in, pressed close as your gaze returns to the sky and to the stars.
For a moment, he stands there, unmoving, mind empty. But then itâs like he snaps out of a trance, and he snakes an arm around your waist, holding you tightly. His focus shifts to the shooting stars above, catching one just as it streaks across the sky. As he stands there, staring at the heavens and feeling your steady breathing, his mind begins to wander.
12 years, 7 months, and 3 days. Heâd spent most of that time wondering what would have happened if he hadnât left. If, after heâd kissed you at the night market, heâd been satisfied with whatever life had come after that. Heâd been so scared back then, of losing control, of his life not being his own. But now, none of that matters.
Now, heâd give up almost anything to stay here, in this moment, in your arms.Â
okay so like... what do we think? how are we feeling? I was originally planning on having this be much longer, but I was so stressed out from grad school, I just wanted to get it out now. I'm so excited to hear your thoughts! and let me know if you want to see a part 2 (and if so, what you might want to see in it!!)
#yoongi x reader#min yoongi x reader#bts x reader#yoongi fanfic#yoongi fic#suga fic#suga fanfic#bts fanfic#bts fic#min yoongi fic#min yoongi fanfic#myg x reader#bts soulmate au#bts supernatural au#set me free
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KINKTOBER 2024
@natimiles | @valkyyriia
Itâs that time of the year! Come out of your shell and letâs go!
â± We thought of this list with Ikemen Series in mind, but it works with any fandom you enjoy (probably). â± If you donât like any of the prompts for the day, feel free to use another one you havenât used yet. â± Minors: donât interact with this post or anything related to this.
Kinkipedia and prompts transcription under the cut
KINKIPEDIA:
â± Intercrural: between the thighs. â± Dacryphilia: attraction to tears/crying. â± A/B/O (Omegaverse): dominance hierarchy divided into dominant alphas, neutral betas, and submissive omegas. â± Spitroasting: two people penetrate a single sexual partner at the same time, one orally and the other vaginally/anally. â± Non-Genital Orgasm: cumming without touching.
PROMPTS:
1. Bondage | Role Reversal 2. Pussy/Cock Worship | Roleplay 3. Face Sitting | Intercrural Sex 4. Food Play | Biting / Marking 5. Pussy/Cockdrunk | Double Penetration 6. Voice Kink | Discipline/Punishment 7. Size Kink | Blood Play 8. Temperature Play | Rough Sex 9. Impact Play | Guided Masturbation 10. Cockwarming | Face Fucking 11. Mirror Sex | Oral 12. Voyeurism/Exhibitionism | Edging 13. Dirty Talk | Dacryphilia 14. Overstimulation | Toys 15. Predator/Prey | Degradation 16. Pegging/Anal | First Time 17. Breeding | Orgasm Denial 18. Praise Kink | A/B/O 19. Petplay | Blindfold 20. Body Worship | Daddy/Mommy Kink 21. Begging | Sensation Play 22. Mutual Masturbation | Hate/Angry Sex 23. Polyamory | Spitroasting 24. Somnophilia | Against the Wall 25. Non-Genital Orgasm | Multiple Orgasms 26. Outdoors / Public | Breath Play 27. Lingerie | Teasing 28. Wax Play | Foreplay 29. Shower/Bath | Gagging 30. Jealous Sex | Window/Balcony 31. Free Day!
#mdni#kinktober 2024#ikemen series#ikevamp#ikesen#ikepri#ikevil#ikemen vampire#ikemen sengoku#ikemen prince#ikemen villains#kinktober#otome kinktober
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TC's Practical Writing Tips
Like I said before, I'm not gonna sit here and pretend that I can teach anyone how to write â that's a level of hubris even I'm not capable of âbut in honor of my rapidly approaching ~quarter century of writing original fiction anniversary~, I did figure I would share the tips that I live by when it comes to the act of writing.
So without further ado:
Write it now, fix it later
2. It is always permissible â and usually enjoyable â to write the stupidest possible version
3. "Inspiration" is great for poets, but poison for people who write prose
3.1: if you want to write often, you need to write often, and then you will find that you don't need to be "inspired" because you will have made a habit of it and it will come naturally 3.2: even one sentence a day is still one sentence a day. And even one sentence a week is still one sentence a week. It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop 3.3: believing in the concept that you need to be inspired to write will trap you into believing in the concept of writer's block 3.4: if you are having difficulty getting out words that satisfy you, lower your standards and keep writing (see point one)
4. A few months down the line you will not remember which words came easily and which words did not
5. It is always permissible to set a project aside for now, or forever, if you need a break
6. Read widely and often, both in your favorite genres and outside of them
6.1: pay special attention to both things that you love and things that you hate - study them, engage with them, learn what makes yourself tick and your writing can only get stronger
7. Never write for the lowest common denominator, via wise words I once heard: "if you open the window and make love to the world, your story will get pneumonia", have an audience in mind and the people who like what you write will find it
8. Never write for the bad faith critic, those people will always exist and you will need to deal with them at some point if you put your writing in the world, but they don't matter and you cannot live in fear of them
9. It's fine and normal to want engagement and praise, however you must find a way to make the act of writing joyful in and of itself â make the praise the cherry on top, not the entire sunday
9.1: writing is hard work, and it's a lot of work, if you lose the ability to enjoy the journey and are proceeding only for external rewards from others, you will gradually write less and less if the ratio of work to rewards is unsatisfying
10. For anything other than final copy editing, always write a new draft into a new document, or else the words you have already written will trap you from being able to make large, sweeping changes
10.1: any change you make will invariably snowball, and you must give space for that snowball to roll
11. If someone tells you that something doesn't work for them, believe them, because people know what they like. But if people try to tell you what to do to fix it, take that with an entire serving of salt because you are the author, not them
12. It is always morally correct to look at a critique that you received, even if you asked for opinions via beta reading, and decide that it's bullshit and doesn't apply to you
13. "write what you know" means "write what you're interested in"
14. "Show don't tell" applies to screenwriting, not novels. This is the thing that drives me the most insane every time I see it. Novels are words on a page, not images on a screen. They require a lot of telling. Not all telling, but a lot of telling. Become comfortable with that.
15. It is always, ALWAYS acceptable to use "said", do not listen to the lies of others
16. Have fun, do it out of love and you will never go astray
17. Become comfortable with who you are. Your work is always going to be yours and it is always going to sound like you wrote it, and this is a good thing! No one else is ever going to write exactly like you, and you should be proud of that
17.1: the concept of "originality" is vastly overrated, every culture has some version of Cinderella and we still love it. Your writing is yours because you wrote it, and it will always be unique because of that
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Rigor Mortis (part 10)
College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader
(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,
Part 9, Part 11
summary: In the morning, Miguel reminisces.
warnings: smut! grinding, humping, alcohol, PIV, switch-y behaviour (what's new), aftercare, mentions of depression. 18+ Minors DNI
a/n: soft melty mig >>>
Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3
Join my taglists here
wc: 4.5k
Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
between your bodies;
You wake up with a headache and a lump in your throat.
Bleary eyes; and you rub away sleep, rosy and warm around the edges. Everything smells like him, is your very first thought. It's the kind of thing that has you reeling, tossing and turning in unfamiliar sheets before looking up at a mottled ceiling. Light creeps in from curtains cracked open, rays spreading like wildfire on everything it touches. Miguel's bed is by the window, and you can't help but curl up what little light spills in with your hands; palm upwards, slowly balled into fists. It's warm, and your hand feels a little different.
Oh.
Like a bolt of lightning, memories of the night before run up your spine; dancing up and down between the sheets. Miguel's hand in yours, his skin pressed up against you, a room spinning in the kind of way that seems romantic. Seems romantic; you note. It could've been the alcohol, but you had felt something between you two, yesterday. Something⊠different . Your cheeks grow warm at the thought of last night; drunken revelations and so much light, it burns.
I like the way your eyes scrunch up when you smile. I like the way you look in the morning, squinting at labels and cereal packets. You've got the prettiest lips I've ever seen, Miguel.
You burrow under the covers as you recall it; the memory of Miguel between your thighs, his head in the crook of your shoulder. The way he had half-laughed, heady and heavy and thick with want, low groans pooling by the shell of your ear. You're not too sure if you meant it; really, really meant it; and you're scared of what that means. Casual sex was the agreement, and you didn't think you had the capacity for much else.
Sighing, you stretch your leg out from under the covers, dipping a tentative toe on the rug. Bare, except for a T-shirt whose hem kisses your thighs. Mig's t-shirt, of course, and you tug it down as you slip out of his bed. The aftermath, things tossed off shelves and awards that had clattered to the ground, lies in last night's wake. Guiltily, you root around to pick up his things.
They're more personal than the things around the house. You notice a plaque or two from undergrad, his diploma - biomechanics and chemical engineering with honours - and even a certificate from a middle school science fair. The image makes you smile: little Mig with braces and a distinct frown, handed a plastic trophy in front of a spotty crowd. 'First Place' it says, and knowing him his entry was less baking soda volcano and more miniature Hadron Collider . If he's anything like he is now; he was probably a mouthy little pain-in-the-ass, too.
You take a watch off of the floor, half hidden under his bed. A knee brushes past a clear box; that jostles and rattles around like nails in a metal can. From vague outlines, you can see a box of junk , in every sense of the word: scrap metal, wires, plastic tubing. A whole scrapyard under his bed, and you reach for it, curious. Something knicks at your hand in the process. Glass, from a broken pane of a frame slipped under the bed. Softly, you hiss, sucking at the cut that draws blood.
More careful, now, you push the frame towards you, sweeping up the glass as best you can. In the lowlight, you can't make out much. Carefully, you hold it by a corner - an intricate thing, all twisted metal and brushed bronze. From out under the bed, you see it, or rather, him: Miguel, a little younger, surrounded by a couple of unfamiliar faces. A taller man, a much older woman - and they both smile in the way he does, crows feet and with the kind of warmth that reaches their eyes. In his arms (Miguel's, but not your Miguel) is a little girl. She is small; wide-eyed, gap-toothed; looking up at him, as if the camera wasn't there. The adoration in her face makes you smile. His sister, maybe? His brother, Gabi, and his dear mama ?Â
Gently, you place it on the side table. You sweep up the glass into your hand, ignoring the sting that spreads to your palms. It's not a deep cut, but you head to the kitchen anyway, in search of warm soapy water and something to mop it up.Â
Slipping past the doorway, it is deathly quiet. Morning spills in through a window, illuminating a lone figure - broad shoulders, tan and bare save for pyjama pants, hunched over the dining table.Â
Miguel doesn't seem to notice as you get closer, finally able to hear slight noise and chatter from a tinny phone. Cup of coffee in hand, you watch as he scrolls, replaying the same video over and over. From over his shoulder, you can just about make it out: music that had deafened you at the time, loops with a pathetic whine. A video from last night, it seems, and you recognise the icon of Lyla's story. Bright lights, your dress sparkling and a pretty little laugh drowned out by Lyla's - he seems to replay the same couple of seconds over, and over, andâ
âMig?â He jumps, leaping almost 3 feet into the air, it seems. His phone shuts off with a clatter, slammed onto the table. Turning, he seems guilty, before flattening his face into something more socially acceptable.
âH-Hi. Morning.â He clears his throat, giving you an awkward nod.
âMorning,â Softening, you slink down to take a seat. He knows, of course: he knows that you know, that you saw exactly what he's been doing. But you're both going to ignore it, let it settle in the gaps between you - a gap that quickly shrinks, he notes.Â
The chair drags across the floor, almost catching at a rug on the wooden slats. When you seat yourself by him; closer, closer, oh-so close; you can't help but brush your legs to his, addicted to the way it makes him shiver. Payback, you think, grabbing at his mug and stealing a sip before he can say anything. For all the times he's fucked with your head.
Miguel knows better than to protest, crossing his arms resolutely. He sighs - not maliciously, but with a tinge of defeat. You're too pretty, and too close for him to think properly; to even muster up the energy to argue. And so he doesn't, opting to chew at the inside of his cheek.Â
â Hey .â You say, hand coming up to cheekbone, stroking at it with your thumb. Miguel tries not to lean into it, to melt into the touch. â Careful. Where'd you go?â
It makes him laugh, bitterly, ruefully - whatever you want to call it. Where'd you go? And you say it like you've got an inkling of all the shit that goes on in his head. He goes to the same place he always seems to be, these days. Somewhere that reminds him of you , of your nights together, of your nights apartâ
âDid you sleep well?â You're asking, and it takes him a second to process it.
âSure.â Shrugging, he lies, and you pretend to believe him. âLong night, I suppose.â
When he picks that moment to look at you, to bore into your soul, you take your hand away; feeling naked , feeling bare .Â
âWhat about you? Did you sleep well?âÂ
And you hum, non-committal, in response.
âCanât remember much.â Itâs a bold-faced lie, and he knows it.
He chews at his lips, eyes dragged down to your figure. Heâs shameless, lashes fluttering before he sighs - with the kind of tiredness that rattles at his chest - scratching at a 5 oâclock shadow.
Heâs pinching at the bridge of his nose like heâs battling a headache - and losing miserably. Miguel; your Miguel, this time; looks so pathetic, with the countenance of a wet mop. Itâs not a grimace, nor a frown, like always. It looks like melancholy - thinly veiled, bone-deep - and it makes your heart splinter.
You just⊠you just want to comfort him. To hold him in your arms and stroke his hair, to press kisses into the crinkles at the side of his mouth, his forehead: to be warm and soft and somewhere safe , for him.
Itâs a compulsion you canât fight, clambering over him to sit on his lap. His gaze flickers, pointedly trying to ignore you, but his hand rests comfortably on plush thigh. It sends a shiver down your spine; how tender his touch is, even when like this.Â
âIâŠâ You start, tracing a hand to his scratchy jaw and gently tilting him towards you. âI remember enough.â
 He canât help it, hand travelling a little further up and eyes flitting to your lips.Â
â... Yeah ?â And it comes with an unceremonious squeeze at your ass, wetting his lips with pink tongue.
That gap between you shrinks even more as you press your chest to his, with a hand at his shoulder. God, his skin is hot to the touch; lean muscle that tenses under your palm. He gets closer.
âWhat are you doing today?â Heâs trying so hard, forcing himself to look you in the eye - betrayed only by a pounding heart and a lingering look to your lips.Â
Coupled with the way he looks at you; kneading at your thighs, leaning into your gentle palm; it makes your throat close up.Â
â...U-Umm, I thinkââ
âItâs Friday, right?â He hums, head cocked as if deep in thought. âYouâve got⊠stats and lab prep, today.â
You frown. âYeah, actually. How did youââ
âYouâre always complaining about Fridays.â
âI didnât yesterday.â
âIâve barely seen you all week, sweetheart.âÂ
â And whoâs fault is that? â Muttering, you roll your eyes, trying not to show him the way it makes you melt.
âI listen.â He says, soft.Â
â...sometimes.â You finish, but itâs half-hearted. You know, he knows; he listens . He always has.Â
âI thinkâŠâ You clear your throat. âT-Think mâgonna take the day off. Iâm prettyââ
Tired. Exhausted. Ready to kiss your roommate if it meant he would look at you like that for a little longer.
â â hungover .â He whispers, thumb stroking your hip as you snort; ready to bat him away.Â
Wriggling, his grip tightens, slotting you closer as if in a trance. Youâre laughing, a sharp retort at the tip of your tongue, but his wry smile seems tinged with something else. Itâs a something that makes your heart skip a beat â but itâs his next words that have you reeling.
âIâve got the day off, too.â
Youâre taken aback. âDonât youâŠ? I-I mean I thought youâre taking extra hours at AlchemaxâŠâ
âNope.â Resolute, he shakes his head. âWeâve got appraisals or something, today. Upper management only. I thought I told you.â
Brows kneaded, you give him a look heâs well accustomed to. And Miguel; because heâs Miguel, of course; counters it almost immediately.
âDon't give me that ⊠You didnât even know I wore glasses until yesterday.â
âThatâs not fair , Mig.â
âYou donât want to spend the day with me? Dios mio, hermosa.â
âMigââ
Dramatic, he tips his head back, clutching at his chest. âAm I that bad? You canât spend a couple hours with meââ
âMig ââ
âJust a couple, sweetheart, and then Iâm out of your hair, and you can complain about me toââ
â Mig! â You exclaim, giggling whilst you nudge his head forward to meet your gaze.
âYou called?â He flutters his eyelashes playfully, with a hint of a smile.Â
It looks good on him, you think; glad that he feels comfortable enough to finally let go.
Thereâs a gentle lull and he places hot palms at your thighs to hike you up even closer. You adjust yourself on his lap, watching the way he groans with his head in your hands. It makes you bold: the way he moves to clutch at your hand and dart under the lip of your shirt to press you closer.Â
A roll of your hips makes him purr , eyes fluttering as he rocks up in thin pants. Quickly hardening, heâs wearing a dopey smile - one you return as you press your forehead to his. He angles his hips just right, causing little moans to spill out from pretty lips. The hand at his jaw travels to the nape of his neck, tugging in that way you know that he likes. You know him, and that makes your chest warm: the way he purrs and rumbles as you touch him in a way only you can.
Roughly, he swallows, head tilted up to catch at your cheek.Â
âDo you remember what you said last night?â Itâs whispered into skin, soft and barely-there. âWhat you asked me to do?â
Kiss me. Why wonât you kiss me?
Like something sharp and intense through your veins, the memory makes you shiver, leaning into Miguel so his clothed cock catches at your clit. Like this , you donât want to look at him - you canât.Â
Ask me tomorrow.
And so you shake your head, nuzzling into his side with a weak whimper.
Thereâs a pause so imperceptible you might have imagined it. If Miguel is disappointed - or relieved, or frustrated - you canât quite tell. Unceremoniously, he latches on, taking large handfuls of your ass and sucking ugly hickies into pretty skin.
âYou asked meââ He says it between wet kisses, sloppy and hungry and quickly deepening. âYou asked me to fuck you .â
You gulp, hips rolling as you close your eyes.Â
â Just the tip, you said.â He lifts you up slightly, rolling back plaid pants. He nips at your neck, all tongue and teeth and claws. âDo you remember now?â
Heâs not even inside, teasing your bare folds with the wide head of his cock. Your head tilts to give him more access to that juncture of your jaw. A dry chuckle leaves your lips at his tone and countenance; asking if you remember as he does his best to make you forget even the simplest of things. And thatâs the thing about Miguel OâHara, saccharine-sweet, gorgeous -in-the-low-light OâHara: he makes you feel so good, everything else falls away.
â Fuck.â He heaves. ââJ-Just theââ
Impatient, you shift your hips, slipping him inside with one delicious movement. You can taste it: pleasure , white-hot and building up just below your gut. Miguel separates with a wet pop, hands trailing up to rid you of your shirt â his shirt, you realise with a moan. Exposed, he eyes your pretty stomach and then the peak of your breast. He keeps you flush to his hips, right at the sharp cut of his v-line, tufts of hair leading to where you both meet. With the way his eyes flutter, you can tell: he wants to kiss you, slathering up your chest to collarbone, and then from collarbone to jaw. He gets close, pressing shaky kisses to the corner of your lips â threatening to break the promise you made to each other long ago. And God , with the way he pistons up into your cunt, you⊠you just might let him.
Then his hips shift, pubic bone at your clit in a way that brings pleasure to the burn. Youâre stretched out, filled to the brim and then leaning back to press your forearms onto the grain of the dining table. Like this, his hands stay squeezing the flesh at the tops of your thighs; only able to watch as you take over. You use a bit of leverage to tilt your hips this way and that - eyes low, not leaving his.
âFeels good , Mig.â Youâre whining, eyes locked onto his because you want to watch him fall apart - to watch as all his troubles melt away. âSo good. Uhh âAlways does. I remember⊠shit ⊠remember this. âÂ
And you take his hand, wrapping your lips around his index and middle finger - thick and large - with the memories of how they felt inside you only making you wetter. Gushing praise as best you can, you slobber and slather over his fingers, studying every twitch and gorgeous groan that he gives. He pulls his hand away from you; gentle, but cursing nevertheless; alternating from slapping your ass to tugging at the stiff peak of your nipple. Itâs your turn to stutter, hips jumping as you cum - an orgasm so hard he bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from spilling into you. Thereâs blood in his mouth, he notes as he studies the way you look: beautiful, always beautiful; framed in the gentle pink and purple from a rising sun.
Miguel slips out of you, painfully hard. Still heaving from your orgasm, you lean forward to press his cock between your bodies: bare and gorgeously framed in morning sun. Writhing, you kiss his neck, trailing up to the shell of his ear, whispering sweet nothings.
âWant you to cum, Mig.â And you do⊠oh God , you do. âYou close?â
All he does is groan, nodding fervently into the crook of your neck. Diligently, you wrap him up in your arms, crooning and sweet, carefully rocking into him so his cock slides up and down your soft skin. For once, he doesnât complain, holding you just as tight.Â
âMâgonna⊠oâohh ffuck âŠâ
âCum, Mig. For me.â
Youâre firm but gentle, pressing your tits up against him and making sure his cock gets that well needed friction. As such, you can feel it almost immediately; hot cum slathered over your tits and body - leaving so much glistening on your skin.Â
With a rough gulp, he heaves, eyes screwed tightly shut. You canât help it, brushing away stray hairs from his face, leaving soft kisses in your wake. And maybe, just maybe, you hear him sob - muffled whimpering and whining with every slight shift of your body against his. And oh . It makes your heart melt when you realise, still carding your fingers through the nape of his neck.
Heâs overstimulated. Itâs too much.
Limp, he stays wrapped around you for a while, muttering nonsense into your skin.
â Sorry. â Shakily, he says â like he even has anything to be sorry about. âMâreallyâ fuck. I just need a moment.â
You hum. It makes your heart heavy that he thinks he needs to be ready now , that he thinks he doesnât deserve more than a moment to process his pleasure. You want Miguel to feel good, you always have. But with the realisation that you want him to be happy ; to feel safe, to feel loved; wellâŠ
âŠit scares you more than anything.
~~~
Aftercare .
Miguel admits, heâs not too familiar with the term.
Itâs not something heâs proud of. With many a one night stand under his belt - even, occasionally seeing a girl more than once - heâs never been too good at it. Heâs tried, definitely. Tried so very hard to stick around a little longer, to stay curled up in bed and guide his partner through their comedown. Unfortunately, it doesnât quite come naturally to him - oft susceptible to a glass of water by the bedside and a gentle nudge to an Uber. That physicality: the cuddling , and kissing, the sappy, wholesome, relationship-adjacent thing? Heâs never had that desire after sex, much too stuck in his own head for that.
So why does this feel⊠so good?
Youâre taking care of him. Heâs not stupid; knowing that your bedside manner is much better than his. Youâre merely doing the right thing and helping him past such an intense orgasm: and that seems to come in the form of his head on your chest, limbs tangled up together on your beat up old couch. This doesnât count , heâs convinced himself: all those rules and boundaries youâve both come so close to breaking - a little cuddling doesn't even scratch that surface. And if it feels so good to have your hand playing with his hair, to ground himself with the steady thump-thump of your heart, then who is he to complain?
Heâs just a man, he decides. A mere mortal, unable to resist that taste of heaven heâs been given - unable to say no . Absentmindedly, youâre humming some stupid song youâve had stuck in your head for at least a week, now, eyes trained towards a cheesy soap on the TV. Thereâs a mug of coffee on the table - it tastes like shit, but Miguel is more than happy to gulp it down if it makes you feel better - hot and steaming as you tug the blanket so it covers him a little better.Â
Unknowingly, youâre lulling him to sleep - the very same sleep heâs been chasing for the past couple of hours. Tossing and turning at night, but barely 10 minutes in your arms and his body only seems to listen to you , for some reason. Traitorous bastard, he thinks, fighting to keep his eyes open.Â
Youâve cleaned the both of you up - even though he had insisted otherwise. Let me take care of you , he had slurred, and you just laughed ; that pretty, infuriating laugh, with that pretty, infuriating smile â the very same one heâs wanted to kiss off of you since the beginning. Weakly, he protested, following you into the kitchen only to make a nuisance of himself.Â
Itâs like you're drunk, Mig. Â
In some ways, maybe he is. You had steered him away, and onto couch cushions. Which must have been quite the feat, he notes, able to control all 6â5 of his sleep-deprived, hefty limbs. But he supposes, yet again, his body doesnât quite listen to him anymore. Only you.
Was it that good? Did I fuck the fine motor skills out of you?
He remembers groaning. He remembers trying not to be drawn in by that lilting giggle, covering his ears with a rough blanket. Most of all, though, he remembers the feeling of your body on his, slipping on top of him to dig him out of that heap.
Miguel? Baby, itâs a joke! Iâm kidding, I promise.
He had poked his head out. Baby. He likes that, likes the way his name sounds out of your mouth. It anchors him to this mortal plane like a sharp hook, cutting through the brain fog and burying itself into his chest. You had clasped your hands around his face, steadfast despite his wriggling.
âŠOh God, even worse. I think I fucked the common sense out of you instead.
He remembers wanting to kiss you. Your lips curled up into that stupid smile, clearly so pleased at a shitty joke. It makes him warm, thinking about it now. Or maybe, itâs just the blanket youâve tried to suffocate him in.Â
âWhen did you sleep?â You ask, and he has to blink up at you to collect his thoughts.
âLate.â He says it simply.Â
That answer doesnât satisfy you, and youâre poking and prodding at his face, gently pulling at slowly deepening eyebags.
â No fucking wonder .â You mutter. âYouâre turning into me. No more late nights, Mig.â
When he frowns, you stick your tongue out, gleefully watching as his grimace deepens.Â
âOr what?âÂ
âOr we stop having sex.â
That makes him rocket u pwards, indignant. â You canât justâ â
âI can do what I want.â Slowly, your face morphs into what must be worry. At least, he thinks it does, not too familiar with someone worrying about him like this. âNo more late nights, pleaseâ
You say it so softly his heart might break. He clears his throat of its cobwebs.
âThat's not really up to me, sweetheart.â Thesis deadlines. Tutoring. Taking on more hours at Alchemax in preparation for a big event. Slowly, his plate mounts, and it takes everything in him to keep going.
âI know,â You settle his head onto your lap, now. Absent-mindedly, you wrap one of his curls around your finger, hand in his hair in a way that feels more intimate than the past hour, days, weeks spent together. âI just wish you'd take care of yourself better.â
It's not said to chastise him, and you don't sound disappointed ; not tinged with the same flavour of guilt that his mama has over the phone, or that Gabi has when he hits him with that deep sigh. It's pure, selfless, plain-and-simple worry. He doesn't deserve it, he thinks.
He looks up at you. Beautifully oblivious, your gaze is still pinned to the TV. Itâs domestic, comfortable in the afterglow of sex. Thatâs what it must be: contentment and bliss settling over him like a warm blanket. The aftermath of being in your arms, of your body on his; purely physical , that follows the kind of euphoria that he imagines can only be found in a needle. Honestly, heâs still expecting a sharp decline, a rough comedown that tastes like regret, or despair, or deep, deep empty. It doesnât come.
Always the pessimist, but Miguel canât help it, really; heâs been chasing something just out of reach for too long.Â
âYouâre gone again.â You say it so quietly he almost misses it. You give him a weary smile, hand clutching at the fabric that pools around him. He watches as you rearrange it by his shoulders, pinching the folds with a kneaded brow. Finally satisfied, you look him in the eye. âLike Ophelia. â
He doesnât sigh. He doesnât scoff, or roll his eyes, or any of the half dozen ways heâs learnt to repress difficult emotions. Slipping under the water - the makeshift waves made of a ratty blanket - passive to his own suffering. You donât say it, and he hasnât even told you the half of it; but somehow, you see it . You see him.
He remembers the first time he met you. Thundering and clattering through his space; bulldozing every carefully placed wall heâs spent years putting up. And then he remembers the first time he actually met you; behind the sharp tongue and quick retorts, finding you watery and forlorn on the floor of your shared apartment. Beautiful, of course â always, always beautiful. But that time, the kind of beauty only found in a painting: tragedy captured in oils, careful brushstrokes muddied by time, by loss, by hurt. Youâve been hurting for a while, he thinks, well before any mention of shitty ex-boyfriends and missed lectures.
Miguel recalls late nights spent trying to still his heart, fixated on a sudden, betraying question that rattles around in his head. Are you like him? Do you understand ? Born with something missing, a tick-tick-tick of the count, radioactive and broken andâ
Your hand drapes lazily across his chest, tapping and pointing at something on the screen. He hums, non-committal, the words out of your mouth barely registering. It feels familiar. It feels warm. It feels like nights spent on the couch trying not to laugh at your frustratingly witty remarks. He remembers holding his breath when your leg brushed against his; stealing careful glances to his side; trying not to stare at the way the gloom of the TV looks ethereal against you, snug to the slope of your features, cut this way and that. Â
But more than anything, he remembers wanting to kiss you. God. Maybe he always has.Â
_
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How to remember.(Chapter 1)
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Relationship: BatFam x reader (platonic)
Summary: At the age of 11, you woke up in an other world without any guidance and all the money you once lacked. You were left with only your memeories and your other memories.
You tired to remember, their life, but it seemed like they didn't want you too. So when trying to navigate the intricate sides of an elite schoo, but you always got in trouble when it came to faces and names.ïżŒ
Cw: brief description of gore
No use of Y/n
Wc: 5k+
A/n- Woo first post! Exciting but so nerve racking, honestly have never posted my fanfic before. So, sorry if its kinda rough, had no one to beta, bare with me please. The characters are probably OOC, since I only recently got back into DC after seeing the "do the butts match post?" from the ai voice reddit post on tik tok. But you what that's more fun anyways, right? anyway please enjoy a really really random idea
Tick tick tick tick
The room was quiet, with only a few scribbles of pens or pencils to fill the void. You resided at your desk, hunched over, while resting your face on your hand. Your eyes lazily review the assignment in front of you for the 7th time. You had finished the assignments for the day, with each answer being correct that left you with only your thoughts. Your eye twitched, turning your head slowly toward the window, while slowly moving your head from your hand to the desk. You went through your day just to try and remember, waking up, first 2 classes, all fine. Until, on your way to your current period, you ran into a younger student, probably a sophomore, maybe a junior.Â
You cringed silently, you were just in your mind, really your memories from both this world and your original world. When you ran into a younger student, you both fell and could only manage a quick sorry before moving on. He was barely getting to his feet when you turned away, you were so stuck in your mind that you couldnât even offer a proper apology, let alone your hand. You can't help but think back to the faint whisper you heard as you walked away. You made a mental note to find and properly apologize to him during lunch, if you could remember what he looked like, seeing as you only really saw his keychains on his backpack as they jingled when he got up.
Your head started throbbing as you thought too much, you shut your eyes tightly, wiping your mind clean, then opening them again .You stared out the window, trying not to think much, just trying to learn to just exist. Why is existing one of the hardest things to learn? You watch the clouds clash into each other slowly creating an ocean of a scale of whites and grays. You slowly let your mind blank, even just for a moment, it was nice.Â
You could slowly feel your drifting off, almost like you were disconnecting from your physical body. Until the sound of mindless chatter started up in the back of the room, pencils still wrote, notably faster than before. This means the period was almost up, so that means lunch and trying to find that one guy. You sat up, collected the assignments from your desk, then got up and turned them in. You got back to your seat right as the bell rang.Â
You picked up your stuff and got out of there as quickly as you could, just to round the corner to be surprised by an underclassman. He had green eyes that made very uncomfortable eye contact with yours. You almost immediately looked away from his very intense glare. You side eye him and see his bag. The keychains.Â
âShitâ you let out under your breath as you released your present problem. Your eye drifted back to his face, he didn't look all that happy to see you. âdefinitely himâ. âHey man, listenâŠâ you started. You felt genuinely bad about earlier, you could only imagine how big of an asshole it made you seem like.
âWho are you?â his tone was blunt, with a twinge of annoyance.Â
Your mind stalled, that's not what you expected him to say. You thought he would threaten you or maybe pull the âdo you know who i am card?â or âI am going to ruin your lifeâ. You felt the hostility he emulated, you felt uneasy. You furrowed your eyebrows, opening and closing your mouth a couple of times. The almost seemingly endless stream of words in your mind were stuck in your throat. â ___ ___â you choked out with your last bit of brain cells.
â Where are you from?â His voice shot straight through you. He gave you no time to collect your thoughts from the initial question. Your mind was scattered from how fast questions came at you. The unease in your stomach grew.Â
âUh, gotham, like everyone here.â Confusion clouded your already foggy mind , âwhat did this have to do with me running into him earlier?â â I am sorry about earlier by the way.â you added quickly with a sorrowful expression, the cloudiness didnât consume your intention to apologize.
âGotha, hm, how come I have never seen any event?â he ignored your apology. âOkay, that's rude.â You tried to grasp at whatever you could to respond.
âWhat events?â was all you could get. You felt like you were going to faint from the speed of his questions. Why did he care so much about what you did, you were just a stranger to him.Â
âGalas, business meetingsâŠâ he listed off different types of high end events, but you didnât really listen after the first two. Your head was spinning, you had to try and collect the scattered pieces of your mind.Â
You rushed your recovery, you went from being up in your head for the last 20 minutes to being pulled down, through the earthâs crust, into a cave being interrogated by someone you have never talked to before this. âWho the hell is this guy?â
âI am sorry, but who are you?â You interrupted him midway through his next question, âthat was a great ideaâ. âAm I meant to know you or something?â Ah yes, your most infamous line. You put your hand on your forehead, trying to rationalize this interaction. His mouth was open, he looked almost offended by your question.
âyouâre joking?â he exclaimed agitated, he creased his eyebrows. You had to get out of there.
âNo.â You turn your head to the side, throwing your hands up in the air while turning your upper body away.
â Well okay then, have you ever heard of the Waynes?â You do remember hearing about Wayne enterprise last time you went to the doctors, like when you first woke up in this world, which was like, 6 years ago, maybe. That doesnât really matter. You had heard of it.
 âThe company?â you questioned. He groaned, if in relief or annoyance, that was beyond you.Â
âYes, but what have you heard about the Wayne family?â he looked you square in the eyes, you turned away slowly not really saying anything. You looked guilty. âNothing?â you nodded assuring his previous statement. Still not meeting his eye, not wanting to deal with that memory for the rest of the day. âHow?â
âI donât read the gossip columns?â You suggested with an awkward shrug and chuckle. You only now realized that there was a wall of students formed around you and him. You definitely had to get out there now.
âWhat? What do you meanâ he was really pissed now, but you didn't even hear half of what he was saying you were just trying to find the quickest way out of here. You looked around looking for an opening within the students. You noticed one right behind him so you had to be quick about it.
âListen, I am so sorry about being early, I didn't mean to make you fall, really.â you seemed less sincere than before, you were trying to make sure that you didn't seem rushed. âI really didnât and if it had been any other time I would have made sure that I had offered my hand but I just wasnât entirely aware. I am sorry, again.â You had made your way around him away around him as you talked, you maintained eye contact with him until you were able to slip in between the students. âPlease forgive me, and I am sorry I couldn't answer your question adequately.â
 âWait-â you heard him shout as you speed walked away, trying to blend in with a group of students that were walking down the hallway. He, of course, saw you slip into the group and approached you. You had to think quickly, thankfully there was another group of students that was going the opposite way. You quickly slipped into another group, successfully avoiding him. You could only finally breathe when you made it to the dining hall without running into him again.Â
You went into the lunch line, trying to just forget whatever the hell that was. You moved through the line slowly, grabbing whatever looked appetizing today. One of the many good things about going to a rich school was that the food was edible. You were grabbing the last bit of your lunch before you felt a cold air run up your spine, you said a silent prayer in hope that it wasnât who you thought it was. You tried not to look, Maybe if you didnât look he would leave. You remained calm and walked with your food to the table where you sat with your friends, making sure to make yourself as unnoticeable as possible. You were able to sit down and eat most of your lunch before you felt him approach your table, you could feel a cold sweat develop on your shoulders as you took your last couple of bites.
He gradually approached, carefully looking over everyone trying to figure where you were. Your friends were having a typical conversation, what they were doing that night or where they are going to college and what they are going to study. Until one of them saw him approach. âIs that Damian Wayne approaching us, right now?â that when you realized why he was having a hard time with you early, you couldnât recognize him or his family, but your friends, who never cared for status and the tabloidâs talk recognized him, or Damian now that you had a name to the face. You straightened up when you heard this.Â
Your friends looked at you strangely until they realized you were the one he was looking for, and you did not want to be found. They acted quickly. They, as naturally as possible, started to clean up. Throwing away trash, and putting away their food. They even helped you pack up, and as a group you slipped out of the dining hall into a hallway, then out into the courtyard. You would have to thank them later with some homemade baked goods. They really came to your rescue today.
You looked at your phone, 12:45. Lunch was almost over, never would have you thought that you would be grateful for that. âOnly 5 more minutesâ. Your relief was somewhat short lived as you had to now answer their question. âSo, what happened?â one of them, Leah, asked flatly.
âWell you seeâŠâ You started not really wanting to talk. You looked around trying to procrastinate this conversation.
âStop putting this offâ Another one, Warren, jabbed you in your side with a pencil causing you to flinch.
âFineâŠâ you sighed feeling defeated, â So, today I may have, made him fall, but I also fell.â you signed as you talked. you looked down and then back up at Wynn hoping for their pity only to be met with a vaguely threatening look to continue. âAnd after 3rd period he was waiting for me in the hallway and he asked who I was. I told him my name and then asked who he was because he was asking me a lot of questions.âYou smiled with fear behind your eyes. They looked at you mouth agape, no one could be as out of tune with the news as you are.
âWhat the hell? Did you even apologize??â Wynn signed, they were not happy with you.
â The fuck you mean you didnât know him?â Leah exclaimed, grabbing onto your shoulders and shaking you very violently, making you feel sick. You knew you fucked up bad when Warren did have anything to say.Â
âWynn, I did apologize!! Like 3 times too, and I am sorry I am too busy thinking of other things!â You continued to sign as you talked, trying to defend yourself. Warren and Leah were lecturing you about how stupid your actions were and Wynn was just shaking their head. You started to tune them out when you saw the door open and of course Damian came outside. You quickly got up and picked up your stuff.
âWe need to finish our-â he started before being interrupted by the bell ring. Much to your luck.
âHey, well see you guys later, I need to get to classâ you waved goodbye to your friend and signed âplease don't kill meâ to Wynn, before you ran past Damian to your 4th class, They all exchanged looks with each other before you friends quickly walked away to their own classes. You made it to your 4th period without much trouble, besides a few stares the class went perfectly, boring but fine. The next 2 classes were a mix and repeat of your 4th period, only with increasing whispers every time you walked in a class.
 It was finally your 8th class, study hall, you were able to get to your normal spot without much trouble. You were even able to put in your headphones and start working on a rough draft to a machine that you were designing. You sat most of the day up until this point, so your arms always felt stiff. So you stretched your arms, only to hit something. Quickly retracting your arms back to your side, you turned around. âFUUUUUU-â It was Damian. âHeyyyy.â you slowly turned back to your computer in front of you, taking off your headphones.
âAre you gonna avoid me again?â He was looming over you, you could feel the burning on top of your head from the way he glared at you. You shut your laptop and braced yourself for all the questions he was going to ask.Â
âNo.â You shook your head, he sat down across from you. You looked anywhere but at him.
âThe events, why have I never seen you?â He went straight to it.
âI don't think I am famous enough to go.â You shrugged, he raised an eyebrow at you suggesting that you were lying. You were ticked off by this. â Listen, If I have gotten an invite, I have never seen it.â You folded your arms.Â
â How did you get into this school?â You didn't really have a clear answer to this one, âI have heard about how you could never recognize people who are from well known families in Gotham, and some that were even famous by themselves.â
âA trust fund.â That was your typical go to answer, but in all honesty you didn't know. While you had some memories, a very limited amount, of this body's life, they were almost all blurry. None of them were really clear, but you could feel what they, the other you, were feeling. You could make really rough assumptions. Like you knew you had a mother (or a female figure) that you loved, and somewhere along the way she got remarried and you had step-parent up until she died. You could feel the way the memories would cause a physical reaction so you tried not to think about it too much. âAnd I just have never really had the mental space to pay attention to that, plus faces and names arenât my thing.â
He wasnât satisfied with your answers âSo what? You just don't know anything about the world?â
âNo, of course I pay attention to the crimes in Gotham, and the people that handle them.â This wasnât a lie, you did pay attention to that, you even knew their names, a big honor to have, in your mind at least. You were a huge fan of them, even before- you know.Â
âHm.â He slouched as he contemplated your answers, while resting his hands intertwined together maintaining eye contact with you. There was silence between you two, it was too long. You restlessly tapped your fingers on the table while resting your head on the other hand, watching him. Waiting for whatever comes next of his seeming never ended questions, but he seemed to be stumped.
âIs that it?â You broke the silence âYou have everything you need to know. Right?â You straighten your back, now sitting up right. He only continued to stare. Internally you rolled your eyes before you put one of your headphones on.Â
You opened your laptop, quickly glancing over the blueprint for the machine. You were getting bored of this. you looked blankly at your computer screen. âI wonder what I can find about Damian's family.â What a dangerous thought to have. You, with a renewed vigor, quickly opened a new search window and started simple. âWayne familyâ you were overwhelmed with the number of results. 2 billion. 2 billion. You understood why Damian was so shocked now. That was just for the family too; you count the profiles, 9.Â
First, you clicked on âThomas Wayneâ, you were somewhat familiar with the name. You read about the tragedy of how he died, you knew this story, you watched a true crime video on it a couple of years back. You felt it was only appropriate to make your way down the family tree so you clicked on âBruce Wayneâ. Of course you could assume he was Damian's father. There were links to articles about some scandal of his or how his business was doing. You read a bit further only to find out that the man adopted a lot. Like, you had wondered how he had 6 children but guess that was your answer. You were about to click on Damian's profile only to stop.
âWhat exactly are you doing?â So he didnât lose his vocal cords. You snapped out of your trance by his voice.you realized how funky what you just did was.You felt a bit like a creep now, searching up his family in front of him was not the best idea.
You coughed clearing your throat âWhy do you care?â You tried to keep an even voice.Â
âYou were staring so intently at your computer that it almost looked like you were planning something.â He leaned back with his arms folded.Â
âWell,â You closed your search tab later, planning on continuing to research (basically stalk) them later. âI am working on a machine.â You ignored the underlying implication that you were possibly evil. You pulled up the blue prints and math for the machine and turned it around to show him.Â
âWhat does it do?â His glare intensified.
âItâs meant to be a multi-dimensional portal, of sorts.â This was the truth. âIt's more of a concept than anything.â This was a lie. âI have to make this for my engineering class, we have an assignment where we make up a theoretical invention and try to come up with a way to make them realâ Another truth.
âInteresting,â he became more vigilant, yet interested because of your words. âAnd have you figured it out?âÂ
âNo, and if I did it probably wouldnât work,â much to your dismay. âThis assignment is more about how well we can explain our logic than the actual realism of it.â
âOh,â You couldnât tell if he was more relieved or disappointed. âWell you must enjoy the class if you are putting this much work into it.â
âYep ,â you said through slightly gritted teeth. You didnât mind the class, in fact you wouldâve loved it, if you were still in your original word. âI guess.â You smiled tightly, turning your laptop back around. âSo what about you? Do you have a favorite class?â Your smile shifted from tight and sharp to curved and soft, this was classic. You did this when you were trying to shift the attention away from something you didnât want to discuss. You could almost see him relax, ever so slightly, but still heâs coming around. Maybe.
âArtâ his arms were still folded, but his eyes didnât seem so analytical or hostile. While it wasnât a lot it was better than what you had gotten out of him from most of the conversation.Â
âReally, would you be willing to show me some of your pieces?â you asked ever so politely.Â
âWhy would I show you?â And there is the defensiveness.
âBecause I showed you my blueprints.â your smile faltered for a moment only to return within a second, you looked back to your laptop.
âRight,â his arms were more loosely folded. âStill I don't have too.â his arms tighten back up again.
âThat is true,â you nodded in agreement, âbut I wouldnât mind seeing them, but that's your choice.â You werenât going to force him to do anything, it wasnât your job. He was quiet. You peered over your laptop to see what was going on. He looked at you, eyes wide, arms barely folded. He looked like a cat after finding something interesting. âWhat?â
âNothing.â He returned to his vigilante mood. You shrugged it off and continued to work on your draft. He continued to observe you, you continued to work. You both stayed this way for a whileâ it was like you were in a mental battle with him, a really one-sided one. You didnât really have any intention of resuming the conversation.Â
The silence was very welcomed. It allowed you to get your work done, you wouldâve been done in 30 minutes if he didnât show up. The silence was interrupted but the sound of a zipper opening. You didnât look up from your laptop; slowly a sketch book came into your peripheral. You glanced at it, with a bit of hesitation you reached for it. Closing and sliding your laptop to the side, replacing it with the sketch book. you opened the cover and started going through the sketch book carefully. While had only shifted the conversation to get the heat off of you, you were nicely surprised with his talent.
The sketches in the beginning were good, in quality. They were all of different gorey situations, from a man having his head torn apart, to a woman with her skin falling off, it said something about his childhood, but that was his therapist's job to decide what this said. The theme changed after a few more pages of graphics images, which had become much less violent. There were first a few of just some plants, they were nice but not as nice as the first bug you saw, you could deduct that he had real references to base them off of. You flipped through the page, seeing pages full of multiple individual sketches, to pages of only one, fully detailed, landscapes. WIth some gore but it was far fewer than before .Â
You could see his improvement. They were good to begin with but they were too focused on the bigger image, they were missing something. You felt like he figured whatever he was missing, this was shown in the recurring dog, Titus, or that's what he labeled the drawing. You flipped through a few more pages, mostly animals and plants, until you saw the first human sketch that wasnât a subject of a horrific act. You had seen the face only 20 minutes prior, it was Bruce Wayne, but he wasnât wearing his playboy smile, he wasnât even smiling. It was only a headshot but you could tell he wasnât present in his mind. He was wearing a thoughtful look, a distant look.Â
You looked over the page more carefully now, there was still an overall theme of live studies of plants and animals, with some small landscapes, but there was new addition with people now, they were all labeled with their names, you roughly could recalled some of them from early search on his family, they were greatly detail, they all seem to show some sort of part of their personality, their real personalities. Not the public image they upheld but who they really were. You felt like you shouldnât be looking at this, but you think he wouldâve stopped you if he didnt want you seeing this. You turned more pages, he had improved a lot, he had not only found what he was missing, but more. Every drawing and sketch, you left no drawing unseen.
You stopped at one page, it was a full page dedicated to a family portrait, or a sketch of one. The portrait was the formal ones you were used to. They were casual clothes, no one was looking straight forward. No poses, no one sitting, nor was their hair combed neatly. It looked like just a family out and about. They all seemed so close, it seemed to be more of a wish than a reality but you were not close to him so maybe it was his reality. You looked over the page a final time before turning to the page. The rest of the sketchbook was architecture and landscapes with sprinkles of animals that you assumed were his pets. The talent he had was special, you would honestly tell him that he should pursue art, even if just on the side.
You slid it to Damian. âYou have some real talent.â You expressed with a calm tone.
âI know.â He stated as if it was a known fact. You choked on the air in your throat trying to hold back your laughter. He held a blank expression, he wasnât cocky, if he was he would be smiling.Â
âI am glad that you see it,â You look at your phone, 5 minutes before school ends, âI always get annoyed when people try to deflect praise.â You closed your laptop and put it into your bag. âI think it's a waste of time, it's just an attempt to seem humbleâ you secured your bag to your back, âbut thatâs kinda hypocritical of me to say, don't you think?â The bell rings.
âYes it is.â he agrees, nodding his head.
âBy the way, what class did you skip to talk to me?â There was no way he had study hall this period.
âWell,â he paused. He just stood there not really wanting to answer you, you chuckled. He wasnât happy that you laughed at him.
âAlright, good to know. Anyways, have a good day.â You walk away, still chuckling. before leaving through the door, you turned back, looking at him âFeel free to show me more art if you ever choose to.â You gave him a wide grin as you span around on your heel and continued to walk away with the typical bounce in your step. You didn't see his reaction, but it didnât matter. You were able to get away from him without him asking you anymore questions you wouldnât have been able to answer.Â
The hallway was crowded, a sea of students were either trying to head home or back to their dorms. You got through it quickly as you had taken to the window method, where if you see an opening in between students, you take it. Something seemed off today, well more off than normal. You didnât pay attention to that. You made it to the front of the school and found your driver waiting for you, you waved and smiled before getting in and heading home.
Damian wasnât sure how to feel about this, or he couldnât pinpoint how he felt. You were so nice but he was suspicious of you. I mean, wouldnât you be too? You were rich enough to go to Gotham academy. Which was known for being a school for the elite, yet he couldnât connect you to any of the elite families. You also didnât know any other elite family, especially the Wayne's. A founding family of Gotham, and always had something going around on the news. It's like you just dropped on to the face of the earth randomly when you were 11.Â
He had already pulled your file from both cityhall and the school. Your school record was almost squeaky clean, only one instant of a fight that was deemed not your fault and bullying targeted towards you. Your city record only showed that you were an orphan with no listed legal guardian and that you have lived in the same penthouse for almost 7 years, near old Gotham. âNo named father and mother is deadâ he read his notes out loud. âWhat the fu-â
âMaster Damian.â Alfred was standing in the doorway with a steamed suit for this weekend's gala. âExcuse the intrusion, I just came to put your formal suit away and say that Master Bruce is ready for patrol.â
âThank you Alfred,â Damian gathered the pages, straightened them, and put everything into a file. He placed it to the side for later.
âAlso,â Alfred continued to speak as he hung Damians suit in his closet. âI got a call from the schoolâ Damian stopped and looked at him. Damianâs eyes followed Alfred as he walked towards the door. âMaster bruce doesnât know, yet, but I wouldn't recommend doing that againâ Alfred warned him as he shut the door. Damian was glad Alfred would keep his secret, even if just for this once.
Damian heads down to the Batcave. He was still annoyed, he hated how easily he could let his guard falter so easily around you. You were too nice to a practical stranger. He thought, no, he knew that there was something up with you. There is no one still this decent in Gotham, not in the city where they needed a rich family to handle their criminal problem, or where there seems to be a S-level threat every couple of months. You simply could not exist in a city like this.
He passed many large frames with paintings, he never really paid attention to them, like he would be now. There were points where there were smaller frames with photos and he looked over at just the right time to see a very familiar face. He stared for a moment before continuing to walk but much faster now. After he was suited up, he met his father as he was sitting at the computer.
âDamian.â Bruce greeted him, still reading over files pulled up on the screen. Damian to a quick read over the files, it was a missing boyâs case. Probably kidnapped and being held for ransom or maybe because her parents did know something they shouldnât.
âFather.â Damian replied. He eyed his father, he wanted to ask straight up but he knew his father would easily hide his reaction if he did so directly. So he waited for the question he typically hated disliked answering.
âHow was school today?â Bruce was never the most attentive father but he tried, this was one of his few ways of trying to stay in tune with his children's lives. Damian would always say mostly the same thing âunchallengingâ or something along those lines. But tonight was different.
âFine, but I met this person today,â Damian said.
âOh reallyâ Bruce raised an eyebrow and turned his chair around to face him, Damian has never mentioned meeting someone before. âWho are they?â
â___ ___, they are a senior.â Bruce tensed for a second at the mention of your name. That was all Damian needed to see from him. Bruce, of course, regained his composure within milliseconds.
âHm, good to hearâ Bruce almost mumbled. âI hope they are nice.â He turned back to the computer. Damian was a bit smug about getting that reaction from his father, what a long night it was going to be for Bruce.
#batfam x reader#batfamily x reader#batman#bruce wayne#damian wayne#Dothebuttsmatch?#first post#well sort of#dc comics#dcu#batfam#batman and robin#alfred pennyworth#dc robin#x reader#x you#platonic x reader#the wayne family#I promise there will be more characters I just remember the most about Damian's character.#I am going to edit this chapter like a thousand times.
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Hey !
I was wondering, how your Painted Smile series would turned out in a Omegaverse? I'm so curious, Alastor is already obssesed with the reader, so imagine if he as an Alpha and the redar an Omega. And When they were children, nesting together ! Growing up with the tension between their two dyanmics >///< Please, please ?
Oh, how nostalgic !I donât remember the last time I wrote something about Alpha & Omega content. But do you wish for death? Asking for an Alpha!Alastor..? Do tell, if you want a part2, it would be interesting to do.
Well, well, I can see Alastorâs father being an Alpha and his mother an Omega. He could see how his mother hurted from the bond his father forced upon her. He hated it. Being controlled by his instincts seems horrible. He couldnât lie to himself, he always loved his mother purring to smooth his nerves but hearing his father's growl would always make him tense.
He wished to be a beta. From what he read, they werenât really affected by pheromones and could live their life like they wanted. He wanted that, he envied that.
And thatâs when he first met you. You were such a happy annoying girl, being the perfect girl. He would scoff at you but as you know how the story goes, he will start to care for you as his special person.Â
He would frown when he heard both of your mothers talk about how amazing it would be if you and Alastor turned out to be an Omega and an Alpha. He didnât wish this upon you, you were his special person, he didn't want you to be weak to pheromones.Â
You always made a nest on his bed, you wanted him to be able to sleep peacefully, so you always did your best to make it fluffy and cozy. You would take a nap together, feeling at peace.
When you first gave him Eamon, his mother teased him, saying it was maybe a courting gift but Alastor just laughed. You werenât like this, and so was he.Â
He turned into an Alpha around 11 years old. He couldnât go out because of all the smell and noise he could feel. And furthermore, when you came to him because you were worried, he almost salivated because of how sweet you smell. He hated it, he was being controlled by something stronger than himself.
But you helped him, through all those new experiences, making him feel safe with you which almost made him forget he was an Alpha.
But when you turned to be an Omega, when you were maybe around 14, it was something much more unbearable for him.
First of all, you went into heat.
If you went into heat one day, in a public place, Alastor would snarl at any Alpha round and carry you, running to your house. He knew you would be safe there.
 He would come see you, wanting to be the one caring for you, like you did for him. But when he entered your house, all he could smell was your divine scent that seemed to invite him into your bedroom. Thank God, your mother calmed him down and asked Alastor not to come until you were feeling okay again.
He would sneak to see you, staying in front of your window, never opening it. He was so scared of what he could do if he smelled you once more.Â
You would whine, asking for him to hug you but Alastor would never break, staring at you through the windows.
When you felt better, there was a whole new tension between the two of you. Both of you would get very protective of the other. Someone touched Alastor, you could put your scent on you, saying he was smelling bad and he should be grateful you were here.
Alastor would let you scent him whenever you wanted, doing the same for you. In the beginning, the two of you wouldnât know the meaning behind the scenting. Itâs when Alice told you it was something a courting pair would do to show everyone you were courting someone.Â
You almost exploded when you heard that news. DId everyone think you and Alastor were courting ? How embarrassing ! .. And yet, you liked that thought..
#alastor headcanons#human alastor#human alastor x reader#x reader#painted smile headcanons#painted smile#human alastor headcanons#scenarios#alastor scenarios#hazbin hotel imagine#alastor x reader#alastor imagine#alastor hazbin x reader#hazbin alastor#hazbin hotel alastor x reader#hazbin hotel alastor#alastor x you#hazbin alastor x reader#painted smile imagine#painted smile series#alpha!alastor#omega!reader#omegaverse#alpha beta omega
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Microsoft disponibiliza Windows 11 Insider Preview Build 22621.1690 e 22624.1690
A Microsoft anunciou hoje, via Windows Blog, a disponibilização do Windows 11 Build 22621.1690 e 22624.1690 no ùmbito do Windows Insider Program, para um conjunto de utilizadores cujos PCs se encontram registados no Beta Channel. Continue reading Untitled
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#22621.1690#22624.1690#Accounts#Beta Channel#Facebook Widget#Insider Preview#KB5026447#Start menu#Windows 11
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Flufftober 21
Alt: Rainy Day
Pairing: Loki x gn!Reader
Tags/Warnings: FLUFF, cuddling, pet names (my love), not beta read
Summary: When your plans for a walk get ruined, you and your boyfriend decide to have a lazy afternoon instead.
A/N: You don't need to have read day 11 for this (it's just a drabble!). I chose this alt because today is Stormy night and i think they follow on nicely. - Love, Grem x
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Rain pitter-pattered against the window of your apartment, rivulets of water streaming down the glass in hurried patterns.
You huff against the pane. Your breath catches on the surface of the glass making it go cloudy with condensation. The sound of the rain was soothing but the cold made you shiver. Not for long, however, as a blanket was soon draped over your shoulders. You glanced up from your seat, smiling as you met the emerald eyes of your boyfriend.
"Hey you," You chuckle as Lokiâs arms wrap around you. You peck his cheek softly and he hums, squeezing you tighter. "Think we may have to raincheck our walk."
"Oh dear, what a shame." Loki smirks into your neck and you know he's not even remotely sorry. Your boyfriend prefers the indoors to the outdoors. He only went on the short walks around your apartment with you because you liked doing it. And it wasn't exactly a difficult task to go on a walk.
But Loki much preferred the rainy days with you. He never used to enjoy the rain but now he knew it meant keeping you close and keeping warm and he wished the rain would never stopped.
"My love, come to the living room." Loki pleaded softly, tugging you away from the window.
"Why? What's there?" You tease, stepping backwards and following him, his arms still wrapped around you.
"More blankets," Loki murmurs. "And fresh tea."
You enter the living room and see the display for yourself, giggling slightly with excitement and you're heart warming. Loki could be so effortlessly romantic when he wanted to be. There was a comforter piled high on the sofa with another two blankets and pillows like a poor attempt at a blanket fort. Steam billowed from a teapot on the coffee table, two mugs, a small jug of milk and a pot of sugar nestled beside it. It looked like heaven.
"All this for me?" You said sweetly, pecking his cheek again.
"All for you." Loki confirms before snapping his fingers loudly. The large unused candle on the coffee table springs to life, the flame flickering wildly and then settling to a soft crackle.
Your heart skips with delight. It looks so utterly cosy and it doesn't take you long to start dragging Loki to the sofa, burying under the blankets and settling next to him with a dreamy sigh. Loki chuckles at your soft expression and pours two mugs of tea, settling back into the sofa with a pleased smile.
"Do you like all of these pillows and blankets, my love?" He asks, peering at your face hidden in the blankets over his mug.
"They're comfy." You cosy up next to him, looking up at him from his shoulder with big, round eyes.
Loki bites back a smile. "But?" He presses.
"But," you continue with a cheeky smile. "I'd love for you to read to me too. That'd make it perfect."
Lokiâs cheeks grow pink and his green eyes glimmer with joy. He waves a hand and his book apparates into his palm. Loki all but throws his mug back onto the table, freeing up his other arm to wrap around you again, bringing you closer to his chest. You chuckle as you settle onto his shoulder, curling against him under the blankets.
Loki hurriedly updates you on his book so that you know some of the characters and context, despite the fact you only care about resting on him and listening to his voice. Shortly after Loki begins to read to you, he begins to feel a little self conscious. It's only when he stops and you look at him begging him to continue that he concedes.
"You have a beautiful voice." You murmur, rubbing your face into his shirt. There was something about the cosy warmth that made you feel slightly sleepy.
"You think so?" Loki presses a tender kiss to your head, grateful you can't see how bright his cheeks are burning.
"Mmhmm," you hum, breathing in that gentle pine smell you've come to love. "I like hearing it. I thought you did too."
Loki grins down at you with a scoff. "Thank you, my love."
Your body shudders when you giggle. "I couldn't help but get one little dig. Besides, I think your voice is soothing."
"Is that a hint to continue?"
You look up at him with a beaming, albeit sleepy, smile. "Please."
Loki continues to read aloud to you, eventually stroking your head soothingly once he'd settled into a rythymn. That didnât make you stay awake much longer; your eyes fluttered against his shirt and you short, soft breaths breathed in his scent. You fell asleep with a soft smile on your features that Loki didn't see for over an hour. He was too wrapped up in the story, focusing on reading to you unaware that you'd dozed off in his arms.
When he finally did notice, he couldn't tell if he should be offended or feel incredibly loved (leaning towards the latter). He kissed your head again and continued to read in silence next to you, letting you nap on him. His heart fluttered anytime you'd stir or huff particularly loudly in your sleep. Days like this were his favourite.
He'd have to ask Thor for favours more often.
#fluff#flufftober 2024#no beta we die like men#flufftober#gremlin girly#gremlin girly writes#marvel mcu#gn!reader#flufftober2024#loki fanfic#loki odinson#loki#loki x reader#loki x y/n#loki x you#loki fluff#loki laufeyson
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Update on Sims 4 Mod Manager
After going through the older versions of Sims 4 mod manager I have found out that Version 1.0.9 Beta (Windows 10, 11 for me) does not have Curseforge ads. I think this is suitable option to use the mod manager without giving direct ad revenue to Overwolf/Curseforge.
When you go to the Sims 4 Mod Manager site, click other versions and scroll until you find this version. It does not have all the current features, but it works. You can uninstall your current version by searching the app in your start menu (Windows), right click and select 'uninstall', and click 'uninstall' again once you find it in the list that comes up.
(I do not have Mac, so I do not know if the later version 1.1.3 Beta, will also not have ads. If you download it please let me know.) I will update my original S4MM post with this info and also put it in a reblog so hopefully everyone can see this.)
It doesn't have the sort to subfolders option, but my way around that is to sort cc into a "moving folder" and then open your regular file explorer and cut and paste those items to your sub-folder manually. Easy peasy!
#the sims 4#simmers against curseforge#divest from curseforge#ts4#sims 4#simblr#You can still use the other options on the og post if you want to#also the filtering feature is still there in a drop down in the corner#ts4cc#s4mm
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