iantheloser

[iantheloser]

HEAD OVER BOOTS

citygirl!reader x cowboy!Sukuna // Masterlist

Pt 1. Long Haul // AO3 // Pt. 2>>

Explicit - 18+ // wc 5.7k

Your roommate grew up on a ranch before moving to the City and now she INSISTS that you come along with her to one of the biggest rodeos around. Having moved in not too long ago, you reluctantly agree even though dusty, wide open spaces are a foreign concept to your polished City girl demeanor. By chance, you meet one of the biggest names in pro-rodeo complete with a belt buckle as big as his ego. A cowboy through and through, he hates the City and the people that reside it. Little does he know that lasting eight seconds on a bull is easy compared to fighting feelings for a girl he’s supposed to hate.

Content Tags/Warnings Throughout Work: slight enemies to lovers, eventual smut, Sukuna is a rodeo cowboy, reader is a city girl, slight mentions of blood/injury from rodeo activities, happy ending, more to be added

AN: Extra credit if you know what real life rodeo this is based on lol. This was inspired by @indiewritesxoxo's He's (Not) My Man. Dividers by @saradika-graphics.

🎵 Long Haul by Ian Munsick "girl don't worry this boy ain't gonna run"🎵

You were born a city girl. Bustling streets and sirens from various types of emergency vehicles were a background noise you were used to and bike paths along a river were about as outdoorsy as it got. 

So when you’d moved to a city wedged between the foot of the mountains and the wide open ranchlands, you began to learn more about this more adventurous outdoor life you’d only heard about online. 

While the city part was still very much your typical, urban environment with a vibrant downtown surrounded by sprawling suburbia, the people you met seemed to be drawn to a place with all the city comforts within close proximity to the great outdoors. 

It was hard to make friends in a place like this. People seemed to come and go, an almost transient environment where people would spend a year or two, and either go back to where they came from or become assimilated into the weird dueling cultures: working 5 days a week and then galavanting off to the mountains to hike, fish, ski, camp, or partake in any other of the endless adventure activities that was the norm here.

It seemed people would move to and from here in waves, finding roommates among each other to lower the cost of living in a place like there where salaries weren’t quite up to par compared to other cities in your country. 

After all, a place like this was a place people went out of their way to move and companies knew it, undercutting new hires knowing there’d be another wave of transplants to take their place who would work anywhere to live within proximity to such a world renowned outdoor paradise where leagues of travelers made their summer vacations. 

And while the mountains were their own bustling oasis with their natural beauty, the city was also in the heart of cowboy country. Ranches sprawled across thousands to millions acres of ruggedness where cattle and sheep roamed across the land amongst which tiny towns were sprinkled between vast expanses of nothing but prairie grasses blowing in the constant breeze.

It was quite a mashup of lifestyles, everybody seeming to loathe the others for preconceived reasons and reputations that preceded them. Thanks to the internet, lumping large groups of people into categories without any regard for their individuality had never been easier, an almost mob-like mentality driven by rumors of “things you heard” from friends who mingled in the same worlds. 

Truth be told, these subsets of people barely ever crossed paths, never having an opportunity to truly witness and experience the lives of those in these other groups. 

This is exactly where you found yourself however as you are seated in your roommate's truck with your other friends, driving north towards what she referred to as the “Daddy of em’ All”.

Aka, a fucking rodeo three hours north in the next state over in the middle of the summer.

“Not too much farther now!” Shoko exclaims as you cross the state line, noticing a mile marker sign whiz by the window as your group barrels both along the highway. You could tell the closer she got to her hometown, the more talkative and animated she was getting.

The complete opposite of you…the landscape became more and more barren, nothing but mountains to your left and dry, desolate prairie on your right, broken up by barbed wire fencing delineating various plots of land. 

“Are those cows?” you ask, pointing to some black specs out in the distance.

“Mhmm, mainly beef cattle out here,” Shoko responds, adjusting the air conditioning in the car.

“That is such a city person thing to ask,” Nanami laughs at you from the back seat.

Your roommates. They’d had a room open up in their three bedroom apartment in the heart of downtown, exactly the location you had wanted to be when looking for a place to live. They’d seemed like kind, down to earth people and the rent was much cheaper than the bigger city you had moved from, so it had been a no brainer in your eyes.

Shoko was from a ranching family in the town you were driving towards. She’d stayed in the City after going to college there, opting to not move back to the rural area. 

Nanami was in finance at an investment banking firm in the City, having met Shoko in college as well. Their old roommate, Geto, had moved back to his and Shoko’s hometown when his dad started getting older and needed more help tending the ranch. 

Your suspicion about them had been right, thinking you couldn’t have gotten luckier with the friends you’d ended up with. They teased you about your standoffish city girl demeanor, but had welcomed you with open arms, including you in their daily lives and helping you get used to the new City. 

“Are you excited to be going home?” you ask Shoko.

“I guess. It’s so boring, there’s a reason I didn’t want to move back after school. It’s nice to visit I suppose,” she laughs, taking the exit on your right towards town.

“Yeah, there sure isn’t much to see that’s for sure. Does it get more interesting?” Nanami pipes up as the car slows to a stop at a traffic signal.

“I mean, define interesting. There’s a Main Street we have to drive through to get to my parents’ place,” Shoko giggles.

You try to pull up your Maps app, but realize you have exactly zero service, opting to look around instead as the car starts moving again.

Clearly this rodeo was the biggest thing to talk about because there were signs and banners everywhere welcoming visitors. Almost every building you passed seemed run down with dilapidated parking lots that barely had any striping. Even the people you saw every now and then seemed like they were from a foreign country, relaxed jeans and t-shirts with rusted out trucks; a wild difference from the more image conscious city people you were used to. 

Even Shoko, who calls this place home, still has a trendy bobbed hairstyle and high end sunglasses. You’d never even suspect her being from here. 

Nanami just looks like your typical, cliche Patagonia ad, the poster child of a stereotypical outdoorsy man that lives in your City. Normally on any given weekend he’d be in the mountains chasing trout in his fly fishing attire and camping along an unnamed stream. 

The town is obviously crowded and becoming inundated with visitors as the small Main Street starts to become more like your commute with the stop and go traffic. 

“Ugh! Damn traffic is crazy!” Shoko whines, smacking the steering wheel as you sit through another cycle of a traffic light, watching people bustle around on the sidewalks going to one of the little diners and dive bars scattered around. 

“Is this normal for this weekend?” Nanami asks calmly, smirking at Shoko’s outburst.

“Unfortunately. The city folk all converge on town while the various people from the rural areas also make the trek over, and of course there’s only so much parking and places for them to stay,” she explains, finally getting through the stoplight and getting out of the main area of town, the crowd beginning to thin out again. 

“Normally they have everyone park at huge fields and parking lots outside the city and then they bus them over to the festival area. But right now when everyone is arriving, there’s not much you can do about it.” 

You both hum in response, the town quickly morphing back into wide open grasslands and barbed wire fences as you presumably get closer to Shoko’s family’s land.

“This is us!” she exclaims, turning down a dirt road with a fancy wooden archway beckoning you all towards her driveway. You stare wide eyed out the window, dust obscuring your view as the car shakes and rocks on the unpaved surface. 

Pulling up to a modest farmhouse, you realize a rolling suitcase wasn’t the best thing to bring as you take note of the hard packed dirt when you get out of the car. The house is set up on a hill overlooking what seems like infinite prairie extending in all directions, the tall grasses rippling like waves as the wind cuts across the land.

“Wow this is beautiful,” you say to Shoko as she comes to stand next to you. 

It’s beautiful in a mysterious and empty way, feeling like you’re staring at everything and nothing all at once, eyes searching for something that you can’t put your finger on. 

Perhaps it’s the way you feel wildly out of place that is contributing to your current worldview, seeing for miles isn’t something you’re used to, it’s almost too freeing.  You almost appreciate having boundaries and walls to guide you along through life, keeping you from straying into unfamiliar and uncomfortable situations. 

Like right now as Shoko’s parents are greeting you all and being so friendly it’s almost alarming. They guide you all to a guesthouse in the back yard where you all will have your own space for the weekend. 

Farm dogs abound and the smell of manure starts to hit you like a truck as the breeze blows just right.

“Welcome to the country,” Shoko laughs at you, clearly unable to hide the disgust on your face. 

“This can’t be something you miss,” Nanami chimes in.

“Fuck no, when you live here you don’t even notice but now? Very apparent,” Shoko shuts the door behind the three of you. The house is quaint, plenty of space for everyone with a nice living room and kitchen area. 

“So what’s the plan for the weekend?” Nanami asks as he sits down after unpacking. Everyone had put their belongings away and were now reconvening in the living room.

“Tonight we are gonna go to one of the bars in town. It’s kind of the place to go during Rodeo weekend for both locals and the pros. Thankfully I know the owner so we’ll be able to get right in!” Shoko says excitedly, texting while talking. 

“Will Geto be there?” Nanami asks.

“Yeah he’s coming too! That’s who I’m texting now.”

“Yes!” Nanami shares a rare moment of excitement. 

“When you say the pros, do you mean like the rodeo participants?” you ask, a little wary of not fitting in with the rest of the crowd.

“Mhmm, like the pro cowboys and cowgirls as well as the folks vying for the amateur events. Mainly locals.”

You swallow hard, suddenly not feeling very excited. Going to the festival and rodeo events was fine, but being forced to mingle with these country folk was not appealing. They just seem…so…

Uneducated? Closed minded? Old fashioned? 

All of the above? 

They’re the type of people your friends would make fun of when you were younger with their thick accents and uncivilized ways of life. 

“Don’t worry, they’re usually pretty down to earth people, you’re friends with me right and that’s the world I came from,” Shoko interrupts your thoughts. She was different though, you both could flame the other for their lifestyles and not get offended, but you knew everyone wasn’t as easy going as her. 

“You’re you though,” you laugh, making her roll her eyes.

“Yeah and? I’m sure when you first met me you were judging hard, but once you got to know me your opinion changed. Get out of your prissy, stuck up city mindset and try to relax a little,” she chuckles. 

“Bitch,” you giggle.

“You can hang out with me, I’m not exactly a country boy myself,” Nanami butts in, making you feel a little better. 

Two hours later, you’re all back in Shoko’s car and heading back into town. 

Nanami is in a checkered, collared shirt and jeans giving just a hint of cowboy attire while still maintaining his clean cut appearance.

Shoko went full cowgirl with a jean mini skirt and cowgirl boots, embracing her roots. She wears it well though.

You on the other hand refused to do cowgirl cosplay because there was literally not a bone in your body that leaned that way, so you wore a chic going out outfit that was typical for you on a night out. 

Would you stand out? 

Probably. 

But at least you felt confident in one way or another and quite frankly, would look better than everyone else. 

After a short ten minute drive back into town, you’re parked and walking towards a bar and even from down the street you can hear the most god awful country music. 

Great, just what you needed, loud ass twangs as background noise for the in person accent you’re sure are going to give you a damn headache by the end of the night.

The sidewalk is dotted with people already drunk and smoking cigarettes, clearly well on their way to getting fucked up.

The three of you walk in the door and are met by a packed establishment. The lighting is dim, the floor is sticky, and there are animals mounted all over the wall like a damn museum. 

The music is loud but the crowd is louder, groups of girls in cowgirl boots are scattered about, laughing loudly with men in cowboy hats interspersed, trying to shoot their shot. Some kind of dance floor is around the corner where the live band sits off to the side. People seem to be enjoying dancing to some disgusting song that must be popular because drunk screeches can be heard trying to sing along. 

Shoko leads the way towards a table where you recognize their old roommate, Suguru Geto, sitting with an extremely attractive white haired man that looks way too pretty. He’s wearing jeans with a huge belt buckle and a gingham shirt that looks to be some silky material with the buttons undone to show off his toned chest.

Well hello, maybe tonight won’t be too bad after all. 

“You made it!!” Geto calls out to your group, Shoko jumping into his arms before smiling at the white haired man who also hugs her. 

“You remember her right?” Shoko says your name to Geto while gesturing at you. 

“I do, thanks for subletting for me, I was scared I was gonna be stuck with two rents when I went to move,” he says loudly, clearly buzzing a little bit. 

“No problem, it worked out really well!” you answer, noticing he’s dressed similarly to Nanami. 

The old roommates seem to be focused on catching up, leaving you to sit next to the white haired man.

“You’re definitely not from around here huh?” he laughs, looking up at you with the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, damn near taking your breath away. 

“Is it that obvious?” you smirk, grabbing a cup and pouring yourself a beer from the pitcher on the table. 

“Uhhh, yeah, very,” he chuckles. 

“Satoru Gojo,” he holds his hand out, shirt sleeves unbuttoned and cuffed, showing off his forearms. 

You introduce yourself, noticing his firm handshake and rough palms. 

“So are you an actual farm guy or what?” you ask him.

“Farm guy?” he bursts out laughing. “No, I didn’t grow up on a fucking farm.”

“Oh, well I didn’t know, I just assume if you’re dressed for the part on a rodeo weekend, the odds are good that you're not from the city,” you retort, sipping your beer. 

He flutters his lashes, looking down at you with an amused smirk.

“You have no idea who I am, do you? Or really anyone here?”

You look back at him, cocking your head in confusion. 

“Umm, no. Should I?” 

“No, you shouldn’t,” a deep, rough voice sounds from behind you, making you almost inhale your beer in surprise.

“Excuse me?” you retort, turning around to find the source of those fighting words was a tall, broad man dressed like everyone else in this stupid place. 

His eyes narrow, brow furrowing as he meets your gaze, a slight smirk on his face.

“You heard me. No, you shouldn’t know anyone because that’s what city bitches like you do. Just show up without a care in the world, not knowin’ a lick about any of this. Getting your pictures for social media, pretending to be a cowgirl for a few days, and then disappear until next year,” the man drawls, speaking annoyingly slow with a hint of a twang. 

“Wow, you’re a real gem,” you roll your eyes, crossing your arms in annoyance. 

“Easy Sukuna, you’re supposed to ride the bulls, not be ornery like one,” Gojo laughs, shaking his head. 

Ride the bulls?

“Wait, are you all…”

“Rodeo cowboys? Yes sweetheart, that’s what I was getting at before he lashed out for no reason,” Gojo says smoothly, making the pink haired man…Sukuna…grit his teeth in annoyance. 

“Tch, more like pay to play rodeo cowboy,” Sukuna growls, sitting down next to you and glaring at Gojo. 

“Well, this cowboy has gotten the best of you quite a few times this season on the circuit,” Gojo teases back, making you laugh at how obvious it is that he’s trying to get under Sukuna’s skin. 

“I’m gonna go take a piss, you’ll be safe with Sukuna even though he might continue to verbally assault you,” Gojo stands up, sauntering away. 

No! Please, don’t leave me with this oaf, you think to yourself. You pour yourself another beer, then glance back up at Sukuna. 

“Are those face tattoos?” you blurt out, realizing your brain didn’t send the command to keep it in your thoughts only. 

Sukuna smirks, the black markings moving with his jaw.

“Sure are. They’re kinda my brand,” he responds, tracing one jaw tattoo with his finger. 

“Brand?” 

“Yeah. Gotta stand out somehow to garner fans your way. Sponsorships and shit don’t just go to anybody,” he leans back in the chair, spreading his legs, accidentally nudging your knee.

“Don’t you think you take up enough room as it is?” you snap, jerking your leg away and crossing it over the other. 

“No. You’re in my way, so move if it bothers you so much.” His grin is starting to get annoying, tempted to slap the smug look right off his face. 

“I was here first!” 

“No, I was. You just happened to show up while I was up doing something,” Sukuna says in an irritated tone. 

That’s what is pissing you off even more. His words are harsh and brazen while his body language is hinting at something more playful and teasing. 

You notice your friends all on the dance floor, a place you didn’t dare want to end up in but now given this annoying man was gracing you with his presence, you were trying to decide which was worse. 

“Whatcha wanna drink? It’s on me,” his deep voice jars you as he flags down a waitress.

“No thanks, I’ll get my own,” you respond coolly, ordering a strong cocktail to help loosen you up. 

He pulls the waitress around to him, making her giggle and blush, clearly smitten with him touching her. Poor lady. 

“Put hers on mine, and I’ll also get us each a shot of patron,” you hear him murmur, slipping some bills into her apron. 

Whatever. If he’s this desperate to spend his money on some girl he just blatantly insulted, that’s on him. You’ll just reap the benefits. 

“So what’s your name and why are you here?” Sukuna pulls your attention back to him after the waitress leaves.

You introduce yourself again, noticing he is in fact, very focused on your words, red eyes glinting as the dance floor lights flash. 

“I’m here because my roommate is from here and invited us to come along. Would I ever take the initiative to come on my own? Probably not. But hey, trying new things and all I guess,” you finish speaking, eyes trailing to those sharp jaw lines and cheekbones of his. 

Noooo, why does he have to be hot? Why are these country boys suddenly attractive to you? 

“Hmm, I see,” he says. The waitress comes back with a tray, two cocktails and two shots.

“I’m not taking that with you,” you bark at him as he moves one of the shots right in front of you. 

“And why not? Here’s to worlds colliding, see it as a peace offering,” he drawls.

“A peace offering? More like trying to get a girl drunk,” you retort, picking up the shot and inspecting it.

He gives you an aggravated look.

“Well, unlike your type of guys, I’m not into that, so you better check yourself brat.”

Brat? The fuck did he just call you? 

You roll your eyes, secretly relieved though. Maybe you can let your guard down a little compared to going out in a packed club in the city. 

“Fine. Cheers,” you hold up the shot glass, clanking it with his before downing it, the burning liquid making you cough. 

“Pretty good, now that wasn’t so bad was it?” Sukuna smiles, now picking up his other drink. 

“For now, no,” you crack a small smile, pulling your cocktail over. “So what, you ride cows for a living?” 

Sukuna chokes mid sip, just as a group of girls comes over, boots clacking on the ground. 

“Ryomen Sukuna??” they shriek, making your ears ring. It’s even more irritating that they’ve essentially caged you in as they ogle the tattooed man next to you. 

“Mhmm, that’s me,” he drawls, leaning back, not realizing he was resting his arm on the back of your seat.

The girls’ eyes narrow and give you a look. Fuck, they must think you’re ‘with’ him.

“Oh we aren’t together, I’m just waiting for my friends,” you wave your arms around in front of you, trying to drive home the point.

You try to tune them out as they flirt and banter with the man, noticing Sukuna doesn’t seem all that interested. Some of the vulgar shit coming out of their mouths is pretty audacious and a part of you feels bad for him being so objectified, but he’s rich and famous in this space, he can handle himself. 

Deciding to sneak away, you quietly rise and go the opposite direction, not even sure what your destination is, just that it isn’t in ‘all that’. 

An open barstool calls to you, so you perch atop it, able to have a pretty good view of the entire bar for prime people watching.

You’d talked to not one, but two pro rodeo participants! It’s a shame you couldn’t give less of a fuck, surely a cowgirl would have died to take your place. Sipping your drink, you watch groups of downright wasted guys  shooting their shots and girls chasing down what you can only assume are other pros. 

It’s not much different from a bumping club if you’re being honest, just with less brain cells, more gingham, and an obsession with horses. 

Swirling your drink around in its glass, you watch how a little whirlpool forms, sucking the mixing straws into it. Maybe it’s about time to go find your friends, the drink is starting to make you a little tipsy after ripping that shot with Sukuna, so the dance floor doesn’t sound that unappealing right now. 

Leaving your empty drink on the bar, you stand back up, using the stool to help steady yourself. Shoko and crew are taking part in some line dance, waving at you dramatically and dragging you out with her!

“Just watch me and follow my lead!” she slurs her words, clearly feeling the alcohol. You both giggle and laugh as you clumsily try to imitate her, causing Geto and Nanami to join in.

“Girl you are awful, but I respect the commitment,” Geto bursts out laughing as he catches you making a wrong movement and almost crashing into him. 

“I’m learning! At least I’m out here,” you snicker, trying to fall back into step with Shoko. The music is kind of catchy, some upbeat song about whiskey or some shit like that. You aren’t the only drunk girl trying to dance, so no one even bats an eye. 

The song changes again and you notice people are pairing off to start some fast paced partnered dance. You try to get away, surely not knowing at all how to do this, but Geto pulls you back.

“Nope, you’re not running away that easily,” he grins, “just follow me.”

His hands hold yours and slowly, he starts to move his feet in a pattern. After watching a few times, you start to move with him, catching on quickly. 

“Hey, I think I’m getting it!” you grin up at him, squealing when he twists you around. You have a blast, laughing and giggling with your clumsy movements, Geto not seeming to mind in the slightest.

“City girl has moves after all,” he sticks his tongue out as he laughs, slowing down as the song changes.

“Mind if I cut in?”

A familiar deep voice says, Geto looking up over your shoulder. 

“Sure thing, if the lady’s alright with it.”

You turn around and it’s Sukuna again! Did he just seek you out after you bailed on him?

“You owe me, leaving me to fend for myself like that,” he teases, holding his hand out for you. 

“You again?” you groan, nodding at Geto and taking Sukuna’s hand. It’s rough and calloused, pulling you against him, his other hand snaking around to rest on your lower back, pressing you flush against him.

“Me again,” his husky voice muses, making your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as the metal of his belt buckle digs into the thin material covering your stomach. 

“I’d have figured so many girls worship you for your cow riding skills that you had that covered,” you look up at him.

“I don’t fucking ride cows you brat. Bulls and horses,” he twirls you once, almost aggressively, his strength pulling you back against him. 

“Same thing,” you mutter, grabbing his bicep after his sharp movement. 

Oh god, he’s fucking shredded, you think to yourself as you feel his flexed muscle under your hand, barely even able to grip it. Is it normal for these rodeo boys to be ripped like this?

You start to pay more attention to the way your body is pressed against his, noticing how there’s nothing squishy about him. Sukuna’s chest and abs are hard as a rock, his pecs flexing against his shirt as he moves. Hints of his cologne mixed with whiskey linger in the shared space between you.

“Definitely not the same thing at all, I don’t expect you to be an expert but I’d have assumed you’ve seen a picture of a horse or cow at some point in your life,” his fingers tighten their hold on your back.

“Of course I have. If you’re just going to talk down to me about farm animals then I don’t wanna dance with you,” you try to pull away, but of course you’re no match for him as he doubles down.

“Alright alright I’ll stop,” he chuckles, staring down at you with his crimson gaze, eyes roaming over your chest. 

This man is a piece of work. 

You glance over to see Shoko dancing with Gojo, both of them having a great time. 

Meanwhile you’re here with a man you’d swear was your biggest hater just moments ago. 

“So have you played in this rodeo before?” 

He bursts out laughing, his dimples are kinda cute.

“Play for the rodeo? Darling you need to learn the language,” he gives you one last twirl before the song ends. 

“Come,” he holds out his hand to lead you away, not really giving you much of a choice. 

He’s strangely alluring for being kind of a dick earlier. You can’t tell however if he’s being sincere now or if it’s all just a front to torment you again. 

For now, you’ll assume the former. It’s not like you have anything else to do.

Sukuna brings you back to your table, leaning back in his chair again, that shiny belt buckle displayed prominently on his waist.

“You here all weekend?” he asks as he takes a sip of his drink. 

“Yeah, leave Sunday night to head back home,” you answer, staring at the table below you. 

“Kay. Well, what do you know about rodeos?”

“Honestly? Not much. I know a bunch of men ride horses and bulls but other than that? Nothing,” you sigh, shyly looking up at him, expecting another roast.

“God I wanna just flame you, but I’ll play nice,” he teases, leaning towards the table, shoulder brushing yours. 

You just slap his bicep with the back of your hand, rolling your eyes while you stare expectantly at him.

“Out with it cowboy.”

“Okay, well to keep it simple, most rodeos have people buy in to compete and winners get prize money. Usually there’s a day of qualifying to see if you move onto the next rounds and if you do, you compete the next day. There’s different events, I do bronc and bull riding, sometimes steer wrestling but that’s more for fun. So my life is basically jumping to different events to try and win,” he says, brimming with genuine excitement. He clearly loves this…sport and cares about doing it well.

“So you’ll be competing tomorrow then?”

“Mhmm,” he hums. “Both broncs and bulls you wanna stay on for 8 seconds.”

“Eight seconds? That’s like nothing,” you scoff.

“Alright miss priss, you wouldn’t last a second on a bull, better yet, no way you’d get near one. That shit’s the hardest 8 seconds of your life, and then you have to get away from the thing when you’re done.”

You’d never really looked into this stuff at all, eight seconds seems like such a short time, but then again, on the back of a bull that’s taller than you, it probably feels like an eternity. 

“Tell you what. I’ll give you one of my VIP passes, come over after the events tomorrow afternoon and I’ll show you around,” he smirks, fishing out his phone and wallet. 

“Oh no that’s not necessary-“

“I insist. You will come meet me afterwards, it’s not really a question, sweets,” he says in a low, smooth tone, tossing a VIP ticket on the table at you.

“Is this your thing?” you answer as you fold it up and put it in your purse. “You come trolling for clueless girls the night before and lure them into some secluded bull haven?”

“Hah, you’re funny you know that? And the answer is no, I’m Ryomen Sukuna, more often the women come to me. Sometimes someone peaks my interest though, and for some reason you have.” 

Oh? You’re not sure if he’s being romantic or just speaking generally, so you let it go and just sip your drink to fill the awkward silence. 

“Welp, I’m gonna roll out. Early morning tomorrow and all,” Sukuna throws back his drink, standing up and stretching towards the ceiling. 

“I’m tired too,” you yawn, suddenly the long day of working and traveling has caught up to you. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, better be there when I’m done,” he gives you a sly grin, tipping his hat to you and proceeding to walk back towards the front, disappearing into the crowd.  

What the hell…you mutter to yourself, shoving your purse back over your shoulder. You can’t deny he’s hot, that's a given. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a man who’s nice to look at. 

Later that night, you and Shoko are giggling on your bed in the guesthouse.

“Wait, he gave you this?” she squeals, inspecting the VIP ticket Sukuna gave you.

“Yes! Said he’d ’show me around’ whatever that means. Probably some code for either humiliate me or try to sleep with me,” you say harshly.

Shoko folds the ticket back up and tosses it on the bed next to you.

“Well, he sure did spend an awful lot of time with you. I don’t know him really at all, only through Gojo and Geto, but I’ve never really heard bad things about him. It’s no secret that women throw themselves at him, but he doesn’t really have the reputation of sleeping around and being a fuck boy,” she explains, pulling out her phone.

You pull your phone out too, searching his name to see what comes up.

Lots of articles about rodeos, bulls, horses, and everything in between. You keep scrolling, coming across what looks like some magazine covers with partially unbuttoned shirts and cowboy hats, looking way too fine. 

Your thighs almost clench when you see how his lidded, crimson eyes look into the camera. He’s holding some kind of lasso and has on leather chaps overtop of his jeans. 

God help you.

Another article catches your eye…a tabloid about a breakup. You click on it, noticing the woman who looks like a model in a separate photo from Sukuna. It’s from years ago, but it definitely seems like it was very public, noticing comments on the stories insulting both of them.

Part of you feels bad, like you’re invading his privacy. Then again, if it’s public on the web…

“He has a breakup article online,” you say to Shoko. 

“Oh? Scoping him out?” she laughs, taking your phone so she can see. 

“Oh yeah I remember this. Really ugly back when it happened,” she murmurs, scrolling through. “The well put together city girls never really jive with the rodeo boys. Tale as old as time really. I’ve been following pro rodeo my whole life and have seen so many relationships like this burst into flames.”

“Hmm, interesting,” you sigh, closing out of the app and lying down in your bed.

“Should I use that VIP pass tomorrow?”

Shoko whips her head to look at you.

“Definitely! Those are hard to come by!”

“Well maybe I can just give it to you. This just isn’t really my thing, I feel like there’s someone who would enjoy this a lot more than me,” you mutter, feeling nervous. 

“Girl, he gave it to you. Also, as a rodeo virgin, I think it’ll be really cool for you to see all that. If you don’t like it, you can just leave and call me and I’ll come meet you,” Shoko encourages you gently. 

“I’ll think about it,” you respond, feeling your stomach turning at the thought. It could be cool though…you’d always felt like you played it too safe, afraid to try new things and interact with people different from your world. 

Shoko just gives you a knowing smirk.

“Yeah, you do that.” 

Comments/likes/reblogs appreciated ☺️

Pt. 2 >>

taglist: @sukubusss @timetoletmyimaginationfly @syubseokie @being-blue-is-better @surgikull @madamechrissy @grimm3r @vitoshi @sadbutbadxxsblog

lmk if you want to be added!

[iantheloser]

𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐋𝐘’𝐒 𝖥𝖳: 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𑄻𑄾

𑄻𑄾—“Sit pretty, again,”

You feel it before you even settle—his stomach mouth opens again beneath you, wide and wet and starving, tongue snaking up between your legs like it remembers the shape of your cunt. It flicks up, impatient, like it missed you.

You arch your back instinctively, but his lower hands are already on you—one shoving your hips down, the other spreading your ass to give that greedy tongue everything it wants. Your face is flushed against his chest, sticky with his earlier cum, but you moan loud when the tongue starts lapping at you again, deeper, messier, wetter than before.

And he’s still jacking off.

You can feel the sharp tug of his movements above you—his two top hands, each wrapped around a thick dick, stroking furiously as he watches your body twitch over his mouth. His groans echo through his stomach, vibrating your pussy like a toy.

“You’re fuckin’ sick, y’know that?” he pants, grinning down at you, veins in his neck popping from effort. “Bent over my tongue while I beat my dick like a slut.”

You sob into his skin, but your hips won’t stop rocking. You’re grinding back against that monstrous tongue now, messy and reckless, while it slathers you in hot spit, thrusting in and out of you with obscene sounds.

“Ohhh, that’s it—ride it like a good little toy,” he snarls. “You feel that? My stomach’s fuckin’ moaning for you. Dripping. Bet you’d let me fuck you with it if I had a dick there too.”

Your whole body spasms. That should sound horrifying, disgusting—but your mind’s gone fuzzy with overstimulation and the only thing that comes out is a wrecked little whimper.

“Goddamn,” he groans, both his cocks twitching, leaking as he fists them faster. “You’re squeezin’ my tongue like you wanna make it cum. You want me to shoot all over your back again, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, cunt fluttering.

He laughs—low and dark. Then he leans over you, one hand still jerking himself, the other gripping your ass as the stomach tongue fucks into you harder.

“You’re not gettin’ off this thing ‘til I see you shake. Squirt on it.”

Your moans turn into screams. Your body trembles. Your slick gushes out in waves down his waiting tongue—

And then Sukuna explodes above you, twin streams of hot cum shooting across your back and thighs, while he growls your name through gritted teeth like he’s branding it into your soul!

[iantheloser]

Calm before the storm - imagining Varang before the disaster destroying her home, curious and carefree.

[iantheloser]

Make me feel alive

Yandere!mafia oc x mortuary worker reader

Sumamry: Silas stumbles into the mortuary in the middle of the night to retrieve what's his...and finds you.

Warnings: mention of dead bodies (no actual description), yandere, guns, blood, someone being shot, kidnapping, held at gun point, foul language, threats, Silas kind of loses it in the end, and more along those lines

Word count: 5.4k

“Are you sure you don't have it?”

Silas shoots SIC a cold look. “Why the fuck would i otherwise say that I dont have it?”

“Calm your tits, I was just asking. Do you think he's got it then?”

“Yes. Where is that fucker? I'll slit his throat and kill him again if he stole it.”

“I think Jack said his wife put him in the mortuary yesterday.”

“Okay, I'm going.”

“To the morgue?”

“Where else? I need my fucking wallet! I think the police would love to get their hands on my personal information.”

“Should I drive you?”

“No, I'm going alone. Less risk to pull attention. Besides, who would be there to hurt me? Dead bodies? Ooh, scary.”

SIC rolls his eyes and Silas chuckles, grabbing his car keys and walks out to his black sports car.

 Let's grab the loudest car in the country to sneak up to a morgue in the middle of the night. Great planning.

The parking lot outside the mortuary is empty, except for one, probably a staff member who had parked their car here for easy access tomorrow. He reaches into the glove box and pulls out a lockpicking kit—something he got as a birthday present a few years ago as a joke … but which he actually ended up learning. Silas steps over to the front doors and starts to twist and turn the small lockpicks until the lock makes that delicious sound meaning that he's in. He puts the kit in the pocket of his black coat and opens the door. What hits him first is that the lights in the reception are turned on. Could be ones left on twenty-four-seven. It's something else entirely that makes him stop. A voice. A very, gentle one—like honey—talking as if reading something out loud. Silas frowns and reaches for the gun in the inner pocket of his coat, slowly making his way towards the actual operation room. The lights are on. Someone's moving. The voice is clearer. Coming from a loudspeaker, on a phone or similar. It is reading. Silas is caught between horror and morbid curiosity. Why would anyone play an audio book for the dead?

He stops by the open door. A body is lying on the table, and someone is standing before it, back turned to him. His breath seems to catch their—your—attention, because before he knows it, there's a gun directed against him. He feels for his pocket. His is still there.

“Who are you?”

Oh, you're terrified. He knows how scared people look, and he's almost made you become one of your patients.

“H-How did you get in? Im calling the cops if you don't leave—”

“That won't be necessary. I'm not staying. I just need to get something.”

“You can’t take anything from here …”

“What if it belongs to me and this fucker stole it from me before dying?”

“What is it?”

“My wallet. Seen one?”

You seem to think for a moment, but you’re shaking, making it hard to think of anything but your fear. 

“I-I have, actually”, you say after a while. “What’s your name? If it matches the one on the ID in the wallet I can give it to you.”

“Silas.”

“... Silas …?”

“Achilleos.”

You seem to freeze for a second, but don’t say anything. He watches how you walk to a box in the other corner of the operating room. He glances at the man on the table. Not his man. You pick up a familiar wallet out of the box and hold it towards him. He notices your eyes. Why are you looking at him like that?

“What?” he asks, putting his wallet into his pocket. 

“Why are you here?” 

“What do you mean?”

“I … I searched you up … before you came here. Because I didn’t understand why that man had someone else's ID … and …” You shake your head. “Listen, I don’t want any trouble, I just—”

“You think I’m going to kill you now? Because you’ve interacted with me?”

“I … well …”

He smirks slightly, tilting his head. “Did the internet scare you? With what it said about me? You haven’t done anything to me … on the contrary. You helped me get my wallet back. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“That’s all I wanted. I don’t gain anything from hurting you. You can put down the gun.”

“I’m okay.”

Silas chuckles slightly. “You’re smart. Well … thank you, I’ll get going now.”

He turns and walks, smile on his face. 

He wears the smile all the way back home. 

“What are you smiling for?” SIC questions. 

“I got my wallet.”

“And that’s worth smiling like a dummy?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t tell him about you. SIC is Silas’s best friend, his second in command, right hand man, the first one to know about Silas’s thoughts and actions … but something about tonight was so different. He wans to keep it to himself. His own little secret, something the crime world didn’t need to take part in. 

He’s bleeding. Badly. Shot in the leg. With a filthy curse, he limps back to the car, trembling hands fiddling with his phone. It’ll take an hour to drive home.  He can’t drive an hour while bleeding out. He’s already lightheaded. His fingers fumble over the small map, scrolling for the nearest … something. He can’t go to the hospital nearby. There’s none of his workers. He’ll be arrested on the spot—patched together, then arrested. 

Oh, but the mortuary is only twenty minutes away. Without a second thought, he pulls on the seatbelt and drives. His leg hurts every time he presses down on the break. He secretly hopes it’ll be you working tonight. How many nightworkers can a small mortuary have? He doubts it’s overflowing with enthusiasm.

He limps out of the car and knocks on the door. First too harsh, then calmer. He doesn’t mean to scare you. 

“It’s me”, he groans. “Silas. I … I kind of really need your help.”

He can hear you footsteps on the other side of the door, stopping. 

“Why?” you ask. 

“I’m bleeding. Heavily. I’m shot. Could you—fuck—could you help me?”

“Go to the hospital.”

Silas laughs, painful and shocked. “I can’t! I won’t make it that far. Just … please just patch me up so I don’t die on the way.”

“Are you armed?”

“Uh, yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Leave the weapon outside.”

Silas manages to pull out his gun and throw it to the side. It jumps against the asphalt. 

“There”, he groans. “All gone. I’m friendly as a kitten now.”

He waits for a second. No sound. He almost wonders if you’ve left, but then the door opens. Your eyes land on him and he thinks he’s melting. 

“Okay, come then”, you say and hold out your arm for him to lean on. 

You help him to the operation room and sit him down on a chair before helping him out of his coat. He’s wearing a black shirt, black jeans soiled in blood. You crouch down in front of him to remove his boots and get access to the hole in his calf. Despite the pain, he smiles.

“How did you get hurt?” you ask and start to clean his wound. 

“Do you want to know?”

“Oh … right. Speaking of that, does helping you make me a criminal or something?”

“No. I think you have to do a crime to be considered a criminal.”

“Doesn't helping a national wanted mob boss and not telling the police about it make me into some kind of accomplice?”

“Oh, I thought you'd call them. Said so last time.”

“If I did, you'd come after me, wouldn't you? You know where I work.”

“You talk as if you know me.”

You stand to get the right tools. Silas follows you with his eyes.

“The internet said a lot”, you mumble, opening a drawer and pulling out some sort of pliers.

“Where is your media literacy?”

You frown as you turn back to him.

“What?” he asks, chuckling. “Did I hit a nerve?”

“No, you're just losing color in your face.”

He leans his head back against the wall. “Well at least I'll die in an appropriate place.”

“You're not going to die.”

You kneel in front of him again. He hisses in pain as you start to search around the wound with the workers, looking for the bullet. He grips the chair's armrests.

“Fucking hell”, he grits out.

“Sorry, we don't exactly have anesthesia here … usually the patients don't feel … or squirm. Try to sit still.”

Silas holds a fist to his lips, not quite biting it. Not yet.

“Fucking damnit—”

“The bullet is out.”

“My fucking God.”

“Is this your first time getting a bullet removed?”

“No, but normally I don't rawdog it.”

His comment brings out a small chuckle from you. Suddenly, half of his pain is gone. He can't help but smile.

“But I'm fine”, he adds. “Thank you.”

“Ill just wrap it up and you'll have to go to an actual doctor when you can. I just know how to remove stuff, not care for them. Normally I don't need to. Just … sit here for a bit … until you get some color back in your face.”

You walk over to your bag and pick up a water bottle filled with an ember liquid.

“Drink this”, you say, giving it to him.

“What's that?”

“Apple juice. You need some sugar.”

“Why do you bring apple juice to a mortuary shift?”

“To have some sugar through the night, so that I stay somewhat awake.”

You wrap his leg in bandage. Your fingers against his skin makes him shiver.

“Too tight?” you ask, looking up at him.

Don't sit like that and look up at me with those eyes. Do not. 

“No, it's fine”, he answers, clearing his throat.

“Okay. Just sit there and sip until you're feeling better. I'll continue working. Mind if I put on an audio book?”

“No, go ahead.”

“Feels better to have someone read while I work. Otherwise I'll start thinking too much and spiral, or focus on all the small sounds the house does. It's an old mortuary.”

“Why do you work here? Why night?”

“I work here because I feel that people and their families should have to have a dignified goodbye. Death is already hard enough for everyone involved. No need to make it harder.”

Silas takes a sip of the juice.

“That's new”, he says. 

“What?”

“To know what happens after I, you know …” he shrugs, suddenly embarrassed to talk about it in front of you.

“I must have gotten yours a few times then … since I got the one with your wallet.”

“Oh … yeah, probably. Sorry about that.”

He's only sorry because its you who has to clean up his messes. You seem so kind. 

“What's your name?” he asks suddenly.

“My name?” you ask back.

“You know my name and at this point it feels weird not to be able to call you something. You’ve saved me twice. Can I get to know my saviors name?”

You hesitate.

“Are you scared of me?” he asks.

“Why shouldn't I?” you ask back and turn your eyes down to the cadaver on the table, focusing on him instead. “You are dangerous.”

Normally, those words fill Silas with such pride, but now he's ice cold. He doesnt understand it, but he doesnt want you to be him as dangerous. Doesnt wsnt you scared of him.

“I’m not dangerous to people like you”, he promises. 

“People like me?”

“Innocent. Normal.” He leans back in the chair and takes another sip. “Besides, Im in your debt. You’ve patched me up, given me my wallet and … fed me applejuice.”

“That’s okay. Can't let you die, now can I?”

“You could. It'd make people happy. There's a lot of people that wants me dead.”

“Doesn't that scare you? That wherever you walk someone could wait for you and kill you?”

“No. I’m always armed. Well, besides now. You made me leave my only form of protection out on the parking lot.” He chuckles. “I'm hurt, weak and unarmed … your chances of killing me just tripled.”

“Are you always like this? Never serious.”

“No, but you put me in a good mood.”

You work on the cadaver on the table for an hour while listening to your audio book. Silas sits with his applejuice. He's barely drinking it, scared that he'll be forced away when he's done.

“When do you get off?” he asks.

“Five am”, you reply.

“Mind driving me home?”

He could call SIC, would normally do it … but he’d rather stay with you a while longer.

“Let's do this”, Silas says. “You drive me home and then you tell me your name. You feel that its a risk giving me your name … and it is a definite risk for me to show where I live. Whatever I can do with your name is less than what you can do with my address. Deal?”

“Okay.”

“I'll just sit here and rest until you're done, then.”

He leans his head back against the wall, watching you closely.

His phone suddenly buzzes. SIC.

“Hey”, Silas answers, giving you a quick glance before turning towards the wall.

“Where are you?” SIC asks.

“Something came up.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I got shot but I've been patched up all nice and tight. I even got applejuice, such good service here. I’ll be back later.”

“Where the fuck are you? At the hospital? Johnson didn't give me a notice that he had retrieved you.”

“I’m not at the hospital. I'm fine, I'll l be back later.”

“Boss—”

Silas clicks away the call. 

“He’s all up in my ass sometimes”, he chuckles, looking at you. “Sometimes I believe that he's my dad or something.”

“Who was that?”

“My friend. Yes, I have friends. Did the internet say I didn't?”

You can help but to smile. Silas smiles wider.

When it's time yo go home, Silas gets to lean on you out to the parking lot. You pick up his gun, telling him that you'll keep it until you reach his house.

“Let's take my car”, you say. “I don't trust to drive yours.”

“It's fine, you can drive it. If you damage it ill just get a new one. It's just a car.”

You help him into you car and close the door behind you. His eyes follow you around the front of the car to the driver’s seat. You drive as careful as you can through the empty streets. He keeps quiet, glancing at you from time to time. You’re so beautiful, he thinks. Something about you draws him in. 

He gives you directions until you’re parked right outside his house. 

“You look shocked”, he says.

“Your house …”, you mumble. “It looks so …”

“...yes?”

“Normal. I mean … I don’t know what I was expecting, but it looks like a house and less like a …”

He grins slightly. “Secret evil lair?”

“Caught me there.”

“If it was a ‘secret evil lair’, I wouldn’t be able to hide away so easily, would I? For something secret to be secret, you don’t make it obvious.” He unbuckled himself. “Well, now we’re here. I’ve shown you my home … now I want to know your name.”

You stay quiet for half a second, contemplating whether it’s honestly a good idea or not. A part of you reasoned that if he wanted to find your name, he wouldn’t have to look far. He already knew where you worked and what car you have, your license plate. It would only take a few minutes for him to find your name. You want to have the power to tell it, to choose to tell it.

“Y/N.”

Silas smiles halfly. “Should have known the name was as delicious as the face. Well, thank you, Y/N, for the ride, for patching me up and for the applejuice. You made sure I didn't die tonight. I will not forget that.”

With that said, he limps out of the car and towards the front door. You wait for a second before driving off, unknowing that a shadow’s standing in the window, looking right at you. 

You stand bent over the body on the table, hands careful as you care for her. Yesterday’s events are still fresh in your mind. You had helped the Silas Achilleos. Unbelievable. 

The audiobook fills the silence, but you’re barely paying attention to it. You’ve missed two chapters by now and will have to rewind when your head’s back in order. 

You put down your instruments and walk over to the chair—the same chair he sat on yesterday—and pick up your bag, you lunchbox. Your growling stomach disrupts your work and you need steady hands. For a few second you simply sit there, enjoying the dry sandwich you forgot to put butter on, and stare out into the darkness. 

You hear the door open. You look towards the front entrance, expecting to see him again. Maybe he’s here to retrieve his car and just want to tell you thank you again, but … someone else walks in. Same black clothes, black hair … but different. His face is harder, less inviting. Nothing about him is friendly. He holds a gun in his hand. You fly up from the chair. 

“Don’t move”, the man says coldly. 

“Who are you?” you breathe out, hands held out. 

“None of your fucking business. You drove the boss home yesterday, didn’t you?”

Oh, he’s one of Silas men. Fuck.

“Y-Yes, I—”

“He was hurt. Shot.”

His eyes wander around until they settle on the gun on the windowsill, the same one you had directed against Silas that first night. The man’s eyes darkened. 

“You shot him”, he says coldly. 

“No, no, no, no!” you stutter. “I didn’t, I swear! He was shot and came here for help. I-I helped him. I swear, I didn’t hurt him!”

The man scoffs out a smile. “And I should believe that pitiful excuse? Fitting place to die, by the way.”

“Please don’t kill me. I can show you the surveillance cameras.”

The man seems to think for a second before he nods. “Okay, show, but if you try any bullshit I’m putting a bullet through your skull and throwing you into the morgue with the other worthless creatures.”

You swallow and nod. A few days go ago, you had a gun pointed against SIlas’s back … and now you have one of his men hold one against the back of your neck. You take him to the computer and rewind the material from last night, showing how he came limping in, leaning on you, and how you removed the bullet, wrapped him in bandage and gave him applejuice. 

“See?” you ask, swallowing. “I didn’t hurt him. I tried to be gentle when I removed the bullet … but … but I couldn’t have removed that pain …”

The man doesn’t say anything. He clenches his jaw, puts down the gun and leaves, without a second word, no explanation. As soon as the door closes, you sink down on the floor, hand over your hammering heart. How close were you to actually dying? If you hadn’t shown him the footage, would he already have shot you? Would have already have been dead? Would you not have lived for ten minutes already? 

I knew it was a bad idea. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten involved with that man. I knew something like this would happen! I knew I’d get dragged in!

You’re not sure how long you sit crying and shaking but the door opens again. You crawl desperately on the floor, closer to the wall, trying to hide. 

“Y/N?” 

You’re not sure if you’re relieved or enraged hearing his voice. He sees you hiding behind the desk and comes running over, as fast as he can on his injured leg, face dropping. He drops down in front of you, trying to hold you still. 

“What happened?” he asks worriedly. “Y/N?”

“No … no, don’t touch me”, you breathe out shakily. 

“What? What happened? Y/N, tell me.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have helped you! Look where it got me! I just want to live my life in peace and now you’ve brought something—”

“Y/N, what happened?!”

Your eyes glare at him, red and swollen. 

“One of your men came in here and threatened me with a fucking gun because he thought I hurt you”, you spit. 

Silas’s heart stops. 

“Who?”

“How should I know?! It’s not like he came in and introduced me before he pulled a gun!”

Silas scrambles through his brain, searching names and faces before he fishes up his phone and shows a picture of SIC. 

“Did … did he look like him?” he asks. 

You nod, noticeably shivering when seeing him again. Silas flexes his jaw and stands up, feeling his heart beat twice as fast with pure anger. He calls SIC immediately. 

“Yeah—?”

“Get the fuck to the mortuary before I rip your eyes out and make you eat them.”

“W-Wh—?”

Silas hangs up, throwing his phone to the side. He grabs your arms and help you stand up. 

“Come here, little thing”, he breathes and holds you to his chest. “Shh, it’s okay, you’re okay. Let’s sit down.”

He sits you down on the chair and crouches down in front of you. Your entire body is shaking. So innocent. It’s clear you’ve never been in a situation close to this before. He holds his hands on your knees. 

“Y/N, look at me”, he says gently. “The man you met was my second in command. I’ll talk to him, let him know that if he ever scares you again I’ll cut off his fingers.”

He stands and looks around, finding your bag. His hands search through it, finding your water bottle. Quickly, he unscrew the lid and holds it to your lips. 

“Small sips”, he says softly. “You’re good. You’re okay.”

You manage to drink a few sips. Silas’s other hands holds the back of your neck, massaging slightly. 

“I’m sorry”, he says. “I didn't want that to happen. After what you’ev done to me I’d never let anything hut you, do you get that? You are under my protection. Personally. If anyone ever tries to mess with you, you tell them that you are under my protection. The smart ones will leave you be.”

“And the dumb ones?”

“They’re already in their graves. Drink some more.”

His hands never leave you. 

When SIC finally arrives, Silas’s entire body language turns dark. You can see the switch in his face. As clear as night and day. SIC walks towards him, confusion written all over his harsh face. His eyes flicker between your distressed face and Silas hand on your shoulder. 

“Are you fucking insane?” Silas asks him, spitting out the words clear as venom. 

“Silas, I swear I didn’t know you knew them”, SIC says. “I thought they shot you.”

“In what part of the call we had yesterday did you get that? Didn’t I fucking say I liked it here?”

“Well, what do you expect me to do? You’ve disappeared and then you’re shot and you’re driven home in a car that isn’t yours by someone you refuse to talk about and your car is parked outside the mortuary. You don’t think I get fucking worried?”

“You don’t think I can care for myself? That’s what you’re saying?”

“No.”

“Y/N here saved my life yesterday and helped me get my wallet back before the cops could get it. I owe my fucking life to them … and you were going to shoot them. I think you can imagine what I’d to do you if you had done that.”

He sighs heavily. “Yes, fuck, okay, I get it. I fucked up, I thought something happened. I’m sorry, Y/N. Thank you for helping him.”

“You will help protect them from now on. Got that?”

“Yes, fuck.”

Silas turns towards you again, switching back to the one you have been conversating with. 

“You don’t have to be scared now”, he says. “No one will hurt you.”

“This time, yes”, you croak and stand up on noodle-like legs. “What if it wasn’t him? What if it was someone totally different? Maybe next time it’s someone that’ll kill me for real. Wasn’t this what I told you? That if I helped you I’d become some kind of accomplice? I don’t want any part in this!”

“Then you shouldn’t have helped him”, SIC says. 

“Silence!” Silas spits at him before turning soft towards you. “Y/N, listen to me, you are a kind human, that’s not bad—”

“You’ve dragged me into this! If he found me, who says no one else will? I want you to leave. Take your monster car and leave me alone.”

Silas and SIC exchange a look before Silas nods and they leave in silence. As soon as the doors close behind him and the night air hits him, he’s decided. 

“I’m taking them.”

“What?” SIC asks, shocked.

“I’m going to have them. I need them. Before this fucking thing, they looked at me like a goddamn person! Treated me like someone worthy of gentleness. When have that ever happened?”

“They seem angry, though.”

“I don’t care. They can be mad if they want to. As long as they’re mad by my side. Because they’re right, aren’t they? If you’ve interacted with me, you’re automatically pulled into this shit of a mess. That means that they’re not safe here anymore. Someone could find out and take them from me. I should consider myself lucky it was you tonight, because as they said, if it was someone that didn’t have my best interest in mind, they’d already be dead.”

“What are you going to do then?”

“I’ll come back tomorrow—alone—and try to talk to them. Best case scenario, we walk out of here together but if they’re still mad and refuse to listen … I’ll have to take them.”

“Messy plan.”

“My entire head is a fucking mess. All I can think of is that I fucking need them. Let’s go back home.”

He returns the following day with only one thought in mind: he’s not leaving without you. You look up from the table when he walks in, and he hates that you immediately seem to cower. 

“Y/N”, he says, almost out of breath. “I’m sorry for yesterday. I truly am. I never wanted that to happen. I never wanted you to feel scared of me. I wanted to continue come here and escape my fucked up life and be with you. This had become my little safe place, even if I was only here for a short time. I genuinely felt free here. There was nothing that had to do with my work or who I am. I never wanted to pull you into anything, but you are right … I have already done that. You being kind to me has already made you a target and if the wrong people see how happy I am here … they’ll ruin that … and the only way people in this world knows how to ruin things for others is to kill. I refuse to let you die. You’ve saved my life, so now I have to save yours and—fuck—I want you. I know I want you by my side. I need you.”

“We’ve only met a few times”, you say carefully. “You don’t actually know me.”

“But I want to! I want to get to know every part of you. The parts I already know I adore. Fuck, Y/N, I can’t explain it, don’t make me. All I know is that I’ve felt so calm here, with you. I don’t want you gone. Come with me. Please.”

You shake your head.

“Y/N, I’m fucking begging you”, Silas chokes out, feeling how panic settles in. “I’m pathetic right now. I fucking need you, ‘kay? You don’t know what kind of hell I work in and how people look at me. You looked at me like a human, which is so damn humorous because you work with dead people, but you are exactly what I need. What I’ve needed for a long time.”

“I don’t want anything to do with your world, Silas”, you tell him. “When you turned to your friend, I saw what you must be like when you work. That was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. You switched so … quick.”

“You won’t see that part. Ever. I promise. It’ll be just like we’ve had it here. Soft. Sweet.”

“I can’t believe that. Sorry, Silas.”

“Y/N, you’re not safe here! You were right. You’re already pulled in. If you’re not by my side from now on, you’re in danger. My enemies will find out that I enjoy being here in your presence, and they’ll ruin it. They’ll kill you, just because I like you. I need to protect you.”

“I don’t want to be pulled in deeper. While I’m still on the surface I might be able to start over. The deeper into the mess I go, the harder it’ll be.”

Silas breathes out heavily through his nose. You’re not coming voluntarily. 

“I hope your leg recovers”, you say. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come back.”

That’s it. He takes two quick, long steps towards you before he hauls you over his shoulder. Too quick for you to have time to grab your gun. You hit and thrash, but he carries you with ease. 

“Stop!” you scream. “Let me down!”

He doesn’t answer. Your scream echoes in the night when he steps out on the parking lot. He throws you into the passenger seat of the ‘monster car’ as you had called it and gets into the driver’s seat before you can escape. 

“Put on your seatbelt”, he says. 

“Let me out!” 

“No. I will not let you slip away when I finally found someone. Put on your seatbelt.”

You refuse to talk to him the entire ride to his house. He hates it.

He carries you inside. 

“Put me down!” you shout, grabbing the attention of multiple of his workers. 

They simply laugh. 

“I’ll put you down soon”, Silas mumbles and walks up the stairs, into his bedroom, locking the door behind him.

You almost fall when he puts you down on the floor. You push him away and stumble backwards, body trembling. 

“You’re staying here now”, Silas says. “You’ll be safe here. You’ll be mine.”

“You forgot the part where I don’t fucking want to!” you scream. 

He doesn’t seem the slightest bit moved. 

“We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down”, he says and sits down on the bed. “I’m here when you’re ready to talk … but we will talk, you’re not skipping that.”

“What do you want?” you sigh, sounding defeated. 

“I want you to be mine. Unapologetically. I want you to be here when I come back from my work and give me the space where I can get a break from it all, like in the mortuary. I want you to talk to me like a person, like you did, to remind me that there are people outside o this fucking hole. I want you to be exactly as you were with me before. Like nothing changed. I need that.”

Your lungs deflates like a balloon. Never in your entire life did you think you’d be the stress relief for a mob boss. 

“Before you get any ideas”, Silas adds on slowly. “If you try to lave I will find you. I don’t think you want to find out how large my contact net is.”

You don’t answer him. If he’s going to get you to treat him like a human being, he shouldn’t threaten you … but at this point, you’re going to give him the silent treatment, let him figure it out on his own. 

Silence falls over the bed room. You already miss the audiobook you listened to back at the mortuary. Tomorrow morning when your colleague comes to take over … he’ll find the place empty, your audio book still playing and the gun lying right beside i. You’ll be nowhere to be seen … the only trace of you will be on the security cameras, kicking and screaming as you’re carried out by a man dressed in black. 

No one will find you again. 

[iantheloser]

a hopelessly devoted satoru loses his mind (and sleep) trying to convince you to use the fancy pregnancy pillow he researched for weeks, instead finding himself on 24/7 “pregnancy patrol” duty while you sleep like a beautiful, defiant starfish who could not care less about his pillow-related anxiety.

satoru gojo had faced many challenges in his twenty-eight years of existence, but none quite as formidable as convincing you to use the pregnancy pillow he’d researched for three weeks straight.

the thing sits there like an accusatory beige whale in the corner of your bedroom, mocking him with its unused perfection. seventy-nine dollars and forty-three cents of premium memory foam and ergonomic design, and you’ve declared it “too bulky” after exactly one night of usage. now you’re back to your default setting: flat on your back like a determined starfish, arms splayed wide, taking up approximately seventy percent of your king-sized bed.

satoru checks the pregnancy app on his phone for the fourteenth time tonight. sleeping on back after 20 weeks: potential risks include decreased blood flow, dizziness, back pain. he glances at you, peaceful in your back-sleeping glory, and feels his eye twitch.

it’s 2:47 am when he executes operation pillow migration, phase one. with the stealth of a cat burglar and the grace of someone who definitely doesn’t deserve his limbs to be this long and gangly, he attempts to wedge the pregnancy pillow behind your back. you immediately swat at him like he’s an oversized mosquito.

“satoru,” you mumble, eyes still closed, “i will divorce you.”

“you can’t divorce me, we share a netflix password,” he whispers back, continuing his pillow mission with the determination of a man possessed.

“watch me.”

by 3:15 am, you’ve somehow migrated into what he can only describe as the world’s most uncomfortable-looking yoga pose, one leg draped over the pregnancy pillow, the other hanging off the bed entirely, your head tilted at an angle that would make chiropractors weep. satoru stares at you with the same bewilderment usually reserved for abstract art installations.

he tries the gentle approach first, carefully lifting your leg back onto the mattress. you make a sound like a disgruntled badger and immediately flip onto your stomach, face-first into your regular pillow, the pregnancy pillow now serving as an expensive leg rest.

“baby,” he whispers, because surely this can’t be comfortable, “you’re gonna suffocate yourself.”

you lift your head just enough to fix him with one baleful eye. “good.”

satoru has developed what he’s privately calling his pregnancy patrol schedule. every hour, on the hour, he checks your position. you’ve somehow managed to sleep through three positional adjustments, two pillow relocations, and one incident where he tried to physically rotate you like a rotisserie chicken (a mistake he won’t be making again, judging by the elbow to his ribs).

the bags under his eyes have bags. he looks like a raccoon who’s given up on life, but a raccoon deeply, stupidly in love with his stubborn, back-sleeping wife.

“you know,” he says to the darkness at 4:23 am, after you’ve once again abandoned the pregnancy pillow in favor of hugging your regular pillow like it owes you money, “when i married you, i thought the biggest challenge would be your obsession with true crime podcasts.”

you crack one eye open. “excuse me?”

“nothing, my beautiful, perfect, completely reasonably-positioned wife.”

you prop yourself up on one elbow, and satoru’s heart does that stupid fluttery thing it’s been doing since you were twenty and he was a goner. even with bedhead that defies several laws of physics and a frown that could curdle milk, you’re the most gorgeous creature he’s ever laid eyes on.

“are you being sarcastic?”

“would i be sarcastic to the mother of my unborn child? the light of my life? the reason i—”

“satoru.”

“yes?”

“shut up and let me sleep.”

you flop back down, immediately resuming your starfish position. satoru sighs and checks his phone. the pregnancy forum he’s been lurking on has seventeen new posts about sleep positions, three of which are from usernames he suspects might be other sleep-deprived husbands in similar predicaments.

by 5 am, he’s developed a new strategy: the decoy pillow system. if he can’t get you to use the pregnancy pillow, maybe he can trick your unconscious mind into better positioning by strategically placing regular pillows around you like some kind of sleep-safety fort.

this works for approximately twelve minutes before you somehow launch all pillows onto the floor in your sleep, including the pregnancy pillow, which lands with an accusatory thump.

satoru lies in the narrow strip of bed you’ve graciously left him, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is what natural selection feels like in real time. his back aches from sleeping at the very edge of the mattress, his neck has a permanent crick from the weird angle he’s been forced into, and he’s pretty sure he can feel his sanity slowly leaking out of his ears.

but then you make this soft, contented sound in your sleep, and your hand somehow finds his across the bed, fingers intertwining even in unconsciousness. your wedding ring catches the early morning light filtering through their blackout curtains, and satoru’s chest does that warm, expanding thing that makes him feel like he might burst from sheer happiness.

he’s created a whole human being with you, this impossible woman. a tiny person who’s going to be half him and half you, which means they’ll probably be beautiful and brilliant and completely, utterly stubborn.

“i love you,” he whispers to your sleeping form, “but we’re buying a second pregnancy pillow. for me. so i can build a barrier between us before you accidentally push me off the bed entirely.”

you snore softly in response, and satoru grins despite himself.

at 6:30 am, just as he’s finally drifting off, you jolt awake with the urgency of someone who’s just remembered you left the stove on.

“satoru,” you hiss, “i can’t find the pregnancy pillow.”

he points weakly at the floor, where it sits among the casualties of your nighttime pillow warfare. you stare at it like it’s personally offended you.

“why is it on the floor?”

“because you—” he starts, then catches sight of your expression. danger, danger, his sleep-deprived brain supplies helpfully. abort mission.

“because it probably fell,” he finishes diplomatically.

you narrow your eyes at him, and satoru has the distinct impression he’s being evaluated for signs of sarcasm. apparently he passes, because you nod and attempt to retrieve the pillow, which requires a complex maneuvering process involving him helping you sit up, then stand, then bend over carefully while he hovers behind you like an anxious mother hen.

“got it,” you announce triumphantly, clutching the pillow like you’ve conquered everest.

you arrange yourself carefully on your side, the pregnancy pillow positioned exactly as the pregnancy books recommend, and satoru feels hope bloom in his chest like the first flower of spring.

“comfortable?” he asks hopefully.

“mmm,” you hum contentedly, eyes already drifting closed.

satoru allows himself exactly three minutes of relief before you’re flat on your back again, the pregnancy pillow somehow migrated to support your knees instead of your belly, which he’s pretty sure defeats the entire purpose.

he lies there in defeat, watching the ceiling fan make its lazy rotations, wondering if this is what true love actually is: not grand gestures or passionate declarations, but lying awake at ungodly hours making sure you don’t accidentally compromise your circulation while you sleep like a beautiful, stubborn starfish.

his phone buzzes with a notification from the pregnancy app: week 24: your baby is now the size of a cantaloupe!

satoru looks at you, spreadeagled across three-quarters of your bed, pregnancy pillow serving as a very expensive footrest, and thinks that he’d do this every night for the rest of his life if it means keeping both his cantaloupes safe.

even if one of them is clearly determined to drive him to an early grave through sleep deprivation and pillow-related anxiety.

“satoru,” you mumble suddenly, eyes still closed, and he freezes like he’s been caught red-handed.

“yeah?”

“come here.”

he scoots closer cautiously, expecting another swat or grumpy demand, but instead you grab his arm and pull him toward you with surprising strength for someone half-asleep. before he can protest, you’re arranging him like he’s a piece of furniture, maneuvering his arm under your head, pressing your back against his chest.

“there,” you sigh contentedly, and satoru realizes with dawning amazement that you’re using him as your pregnancy pillow. his arm cradles your head, his other hand finds its way to rest protectively over your bump, and suddenly you’re both positioned exactly how all those pregnancy websites recommend.

“baby,” he whispers, afraid to move and break whatever spell has made you finally comfortable, “what about the actual pregnancy pillow?”

you make a dismissive sound. “too firm. you’re better.”

satoru’s heart does approximately seventeen backflips. you prefer him. you want him as your pillow. he’s better than seventy-nine dollars and forty-three cents of ergonomic design because he’s warm and he’s yours and he—

“stop thinking so loud,” you murmur, already drifting back to sleep. “you’re making your chest vibrate.”

he forces his racing thoughts to quiet, focusing instead on the way you’ve molded yourself against him, completely relaxed for the first time in weeks. your breathing evens out within minutes, and for once you don’t flip or flop or attempt to relocate to some impossible position.

you just sleep, peaceful and perfect, using your husband as the world’s most devoted pregnancy pillow.

and satoru? well, his arm might go numb and he definitely can’t move for the next eight hours, but he’s never been more honored to be someone’s personal cushion. he presses a soft kiss to your hair and settles in for the best night’s sleep he’s had in months.

the expensive beige whale in the corner can stay right where it is.

[iantheloser]

The Quotev Situation

Hello everyone, it's Rin here. I'm sure that everyone is aware of the situation regarding Quotev. Kikyo's accounts have been deleted from the platform. I assure you that this is not of her own will and they were deleted wrongfully by Quotev.

Kikyo has been on the platform for a long time and has suffered many forms of targeted harassment and hatred from the quotev administration.

We ask that during this time you send an assertive (not aggressive) report to Quotev telling them about the issue and to please help Kikyo get her accounts back.

Her other platforms such as Wattpad and A03 are also active and you can find them here. Until the quotev situation is resolved, updates will be posted here as well as A03.

fanfiction wattpad original yandere stories wattpad a03

This situation has completely devasted her as well as her fans. Please support her in this time and follow her as well as bring this injustice to light. We also ask that you spread awareness and react/reblog his post so that everyone who has read her work can be notified. Please follow her wattpad and a03 accounts to get notified of story updates and join the discord server for updates regarding this issue.

Thank you so much for all the support. We appreciate every single one of you.

[iantheloser]

your highness has no idea

pairing — childhood bsf satoru x fem reader

synopsis : gojo satoru has always been a little ridiculous when it comes to you. that’s what happens when you grow up with someone who once wrote “i wanna be a princess when i grow up” in the second grade yearbook and never quite stopped deserving the crown. twenty years later, he’s still finding new ways to treat you like royalty—carrying your bags, buying you candy, pretending it’s all just friendly devotion. but the truth is, satoru’s been yours longer than he’s willing to admit… and it’s starting to get a little too hard to hide.

tags -> slice of life-ish, mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, misunderstanding but it’s soft and stupid, first kiss, white rose symbolism, fluff, YEARNER SATORU, oblivious idiots in love, princess treatment, satoru-centric, lighthearted with feelings, emotional constipation, love confessions, happy ending, art not mine—will credit as soon as i find source!

wc — 10.3k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

a/n: this was supposed to be a short, silly fic about satoru being down bad and giving you princess treatment because of something you wrote in a second grade yearbook. but then i blacked out and woke up 10.3k words later, emotionally compromised and surrounded by strawberry candy wrappers. so yeah. i hope you enjoy this soft, dumb, painfully slow-burning love story between two idiots who’ve clearly been married since they were seven. as always, reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated and returned with a consensual kiss on the forehead 😽🌹

satoru's brain operates on a frequency that should probably concern medical professionals. right now, that frequency is completely hijacked by the sight of you sprawled across his couch, ankles crossed, unwrapping a piece of strawberry candy with the kind of focused concentration most people reserve for defusing bombs. you hum something tuneless under your breath, fingers working the wrapper with methodical precision, and he thinks this might be how people spontaneously combust.

the thing is, he's been in love with you since the second grade, which makes him both devoted and completely unhinged. it started with a yearbook—those flimsy little books where seven-year-olds write their life plans in crayon. you'd written “i wanna be a princess when i grow up” in that careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration like it always does when you're thinking hard. when you asked what he wanted to be, he'd scribbled “astronaut” because it was the only job he could think of that might get him to the moon fast enough to bring you back a rock that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.

twenty years later, he's still trying to make good on that promise, just in different ways.

“satoru, you're staring,” you say without looking up from your candy wrapper, voice carrying that familiar note of fond exasperation. your lips curve into the smallest smile as you speak, and his pulse does something acrobatic against his ribs.

“i'm appreciating,” he corrects, settling into the opposite end of the couch with deliberately casual movements. his hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the window—those impossible pale strands that seem to drink in sunlight and reflect it back like spun moonbeams, never quite behaving despite his half-hearted attempts to tame them each morning. the light makes them appear almost translucent at the edges, ethereal in a way that's always made strangers do double-takes on the street. “there's a difference.”

you finally look at him properly, lifting your gaze from the candy wrapper, and he gets to see the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you're trying not to smile. it's the same expression you've had since childhood—that particular combination of amusement and affection that you've never quite learned to hide. the sight of it makes his chest feel too small for his heart, like someone's trying to stuff an ocean into a teacup. “appreciating what, exactly?”

“your dedication to proper candy unwrapping technique.” he gestures toward your hands with exaggerated seriousness, watching the way you smooth out each wrinkle with your fingertips. “very thorough. very princess-like.”

there it is—that little snort-laugh that means he's being ridiculous but you're charmed anyway. your head tilts back slightly with the sound, exposing the graceful line of your throat, and you ball up the wrapper with unnecessary force before throwing it at his face. he catches it with reflexes that are definitely overkill for crumpled plastic, his hand moving faster than thought, fingers closing around the small projectile before it can make contact. “you're so weird.”

weird doesn't begin to cover it. he's the kind of weird that keeps mental notes about how you like your coffee (too much sugar, splash of vanilla creamer, stirred exactly twelve times counterclockwise), the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking hard about something, how you always steal his hoodies but pretend it's accidental even though you've been doing it for fifteen years. the kind of weird that's been carrying a torch so long he's surprised it hasn't burned his hands off.

“weird in a charming way though, right?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. his eyes—those unsettling ice-chip irises that seem to shift between arctic blue and pale silver depending on his mood—fix on your face with an intensity that would probably make anyone else uncomfortable. but you've been looking into those eyes for two decades, watching them go from bright and mischievous in childhood to something deeper, more complex now. something that holds secrets he's never quite brave enough to voice.

“weird in a… uniquely satoru way,” you concede, and the fondness in your voice makes his stomach flip. you've moved on to the next candy, and he watches the precise way you smooth out the wrapper again, fold it into a tiny perfect square like you're performing surgery. these are the moments that undo him completely—not the big gestures or dramatic declarations, just you existing in his space like you belong there. like maybe you always have.

his phone buzzes against the coffee table, vibrating insistently, but he ignores it. nothing's more important than this: you humming off-key under your breath, the late afternoon sun painting everything golden and soft, the way you've unconsciously tucked your feet under his thigh for warmth. your toes wiggle slightly against his leg, and he has to concentrate on not shivering at the casual contact. domestic bliss wrapped up in strawberry candy and the scent of your shampoo—something floral and sweet that he's never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere.

“remember when we used to do this in elementary school?” you ask suddenly, holding up the neatly folded wrapper between your thumb and forefinger. the paper catches the light, creating tiny rainbows at the creases. “you'd always try to make yours into origami cranes.”

“key word being ‘try,’” he says, but he's smiling at the memory, the corners of his mouth lifting despite himself. his hair falls across his forehead as he tilts his head, those pale strands shifting like seafoam. you sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, patient as anything while he struggled with paper folds, your small hands guiding his through the steps over and over again. telling him it was okay that his cranes looked more like abstract art, that they were beautiful in their own way. you'd been doing that his whole life—making his failures feel like victories just by witnessing them with that soft, encouraging smile.

“i still have some of them,” you admit, ducking your head slightly as if embarrassed by the confession. your fingers twist the new wrapper, creating small accordion folds. “in my apartment.”

his heart does something complicated against his ribs, a stuttering rhythm that makes him wonder if cardiac episodes can be triggered by pure affection. “the terrible cranes?”

“the terrible cranes.” you pop the candy into your mouth, and he tracks the movement without meaning to, watches the way your lips close around the sweet treat, the slight movement of your throat as you swallow. when you catch him staring, a faint blush creeps up your neck. “they're in my memory box with all the other important stuff.”

important stuff. he files that away with all the other small revelations you drop without realizing their weight, adds it to the mental catalog he's been building for years. you keep his terrible origami. you think their childhood memories are important enough to preserve in a special box. you're sitting in his living room like it's yours too, feet tucked against his leg like the contact is natural, necessary even.

“what else is in there?” he asks, genuinely curious but also desperate to keep you talking, to hear more about the pieces of your shared history you've deemed worth saving.

you consider this, working the candy around in your mouth thoughtfully. “lots of things. movie ticket stubs from our first pg-13 movie—remember how we snuck into that theater in eighth grade? your mom's chocolate chip cookie recipe that you wrote out for me in high school because i wanted to learn how to bake. that polaroid from senior prom where you're making bunny ears behind my head.”

each item hits him like a small revelation. he remembers all of it—remembers the way you'd grabbed his hand in the dark theater during the scary parts, how you'd insisted on writing out the recipe even though you'd never shown any interest in baking before, the way you'd laughed so hard at his bunny ears that you'd snorted and immediately turned red with embarrassment.

“you kept the recipe?” his voice comes out softer than intended, almost wondering.

“of course i kept the recipe. your handwriting was so bad i could barely read it, but i kept it anyway.” you grin at him, that bright, uninhibited smile that makes his chest feel too tight. “still can't make cookies worth a damn, but i have the recipe.”

“i could teach you,” he offers without thinking, then immediately wants to take it back because it sounds too much like a date, too much like something more than friends would do together.

but you just nod enthusiastically, bouncing slightly on the couch. “yes! we should definitely do that. i've been wanting to learn forever, but every time i try on my own they come out like hockey pucks.”

the casual way you accept his offer, like spending an afternoon in the kitchen together is the most natural thing in the world, makes his pulse skip. he can already picture it—you in his kitchen, flour in your hair, probably getting more ingredients on yourself than in the bowl. him standing behind you, hands covering yours as he shows you how to fold in the chocolate chips, trying not to think about how perfectly you'd fit against his chest.

“satoru?” you're looking at him with that slightly concerned expression that means he's been quiet too long, lost in his own head again. your brow furrows in that particular way it does when you're trying to read his mood. “you okay?”

“yeah,” he says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended, scratchy around the edges. he clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair in a gesture that's become automatic over the years. “just thinking.”

“dangerous,” you tease, but there's something softer in your eyes now, something that makes him wonder if you can see right through him. if maybe you've always been able to see through him, and he's been the only one pretending otherwise.

the afternoon stretches out, lazy and warm, filled with the comfortable silence of two people who've known each other long enough that conversation isn't always necessary. you've finished your candy and are now absently braiding the hem of your shirt, fingers working the fabric with the same methodical precision you'd used on the wrapper. he thinks about how easy it would be to just say it. to tell you that he's been yours since before he knew what that meant, that every day feels like borrowed time because surely someone this good, this bright, this perfectly imperfect can't actually want to spend her free time with someone like him.

instead, he reaches for the tv remote and pretends his hands aren't shaking. pretends he doesn't notice the way you watch him move, doesn't see the little frown that crosses your face when he turns away from you to focus on the screen.

the opening credits of some mindless sitcom fill the silence, but he's not really watching. he's thinking about memory boxes and terrible origami cranes and the way you said “important stuff” like it meant something. like maybe he means something.

like maybe twenty years of almosts might finally be leading somewhere.

the farmer's market on saturday morning is your idea, which means satoru trails behind you like a devoted shadow, carrying your reusable bags and pretending he's not cataloguing every smile you give to the vendors. you're wearing that sundress he likes—the one with tiny cherries printed on cream-colored fabric that makes your skin look like it's been kissed by sunlight—and he's having what can only be described as a religious experience watching you examine peaches with scientific precision.

the dress hits just above your knees, swaying gently as you move from stall to stall, and he has to actively work to keep his eyes from following the movement. the morning sun catches in your hair, highlighting strands he's never noticed before, and when you lean over to smell a particularly promising piece of fruit, he has to look away before he does something stupid like stare at the graceful curve of your neck.

“these are perfect,” you announce, holding up a peach that's blushed pink and gold, soft to the touch but not too yielding. your fingers cradle it carefully, thumb brushing over the fuzzy skin with reverence. “smell.”

you thrust the peach toward his face with the enthusiasm of someone who's discovered buried treasure, and he dutifully inhales, though mostly what he's registering is your proximity and the way your hair smells like vanilla and something uniquely you. something he's never been able to identify but would recognize in a crowded room. “smells good,” he manages, and you beam like he's just solved world hunger.

your whole face lights up with the compliment, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he thinks distantly that he'd probably agree with anything you said if it meant seeing that expression again. you could tell him the peach smelled like old socks and he'd nod along just to keep you smiling.

“right? we're definitely making cobbler this week.” you're already moving toward the vendor, pulling crumpled bills from the small purse slung across your body, but the words stop him cold.

we. the casual assumption that he'll be there, that his kitchen is your kitchen, that making cobbler together is just what you do. his chest goes tight with affection so intense it borders on medical emergency. you don't even question whether he'll want to spend his sunday afternoon elbow-deep in flour and fruit—you just assume, with the easy confidence of someone who's never had to doubt their welcome in his space.

“whatever you want, your highness,” he says, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. it's been happening more frequently lately, that old childhood nickname finding its way into casual conversation. you've been ‘your highness’ in his head for so long that sometimes it escapes into real conversation, and every time it does, you get this look—half amused, half something else he can't quite read but desperately wants to understand.

“you and that nickname,” you mutter, but you're smiling as you hand the vendor your money, counting out bills with careful precision. your cheeks are slightly pink, though whether from the compliment or the morning sun, he can't tell. “i swear you're never gonna let me grow up.”

if only you knew. he's acutely aware of how grown up you are, how you've traded pigtails for soft waves that catch the light and crayon drawings for the kind of smile that could probably power a small city. he's noticed every single change, catalogued every new freckle and laugh line, the way your voice has gotten slightly deeper, more melodious. somehow he's fallen deeper with each transformation, like he's been in love with every version of you that's ever existed.

“excuse me,” the peach vendor says as she hands you your change, coins clinking softly in your palm, “you two are just the cutest couple. how long have you been together?”

satoru's brain short-circuits so completely he's surprised smoke doesn't start pouring from his ears. his mouth opens and closes without sound, and he can feel heat creeping up his neck, probably turning his face an unflattering shade of red. you laugh—that bright, surprised sound that makes his stomach flip—and shake your head quickly, hands fluttering in denial.

“oh, we're not—we're just friends,” you say, but there's something in your voice, a slight hesitation before the word ‘friends’ that makes his pulse stutter.

just friends. the words hit him somewhere behind his sternum, not quite pain but not quite relief either. the vendor looks embarrassed, starts apologizing profusely, but you wave her off with easy grace while satoru stands there wondering if his internal combustion is visible from the outside. his hands tighten on the straps of your bags, knuckles probably white with the effort of appearing normal.

“happens all the time,” you tell him as you walk away, weaving between other shoppers with practiced ease, and there's something in your voice he can't identify. something almost… wistful? “people always think we're dating.”

“yeah,” he says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of strained. his throat feels tight, words coming out rougher than intended. “weird, right?”

you glance at him sideways, and for a second he thinks you might say something else. your lips part slightly, like you're considering it, but then you just shrug and move toward the flower stand, leaving him to follow and contemplate the particular torture of being mistaken for your boyfriend by strangers when he'd give anything for it to be true.

the flower stand is a riot of color and fragrance, buckets of blooms arranged in careful rows. the vendor is a tiny elderly woman with silver hair pinned back in a neat bun, and she takes one look at them approaching and immediately starts gushing about her roses, hands gesturing enthusiastically toward a display of pink blooms that smell like summer and promises.

“for your girlfriend?” she asks satoru with a conspiratorial wink, gesturing to the roses with the confidence of someone who's been in the matchmaking business for decades.

“just friends,” you say again, quicker this time, the words tumbling out before satoru can even process the question. he tries not to read too much into the way your smile falters slightly, the way your shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.

but the woman is persistent, pressing a single white rose into his palm with another wink that suggests she knows something they don't. the flower is perfect—petals like silk, stem thornless and smooth. “sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, young man. trust me, i've been selling flowers for forty years. i know these things.”

satoru stares down at the rose, its petals soft as silk between his fingers and impossibly white, like fresh snow or clean linen or every perfect thing he's ever tried to find words for. when he looks up, you're already walking toward the next stall, shoulders tense in a way that makes him want to chase after you and demand to know what you're thinking. what you're feeling. whether the flower vendor's words affected you the same way they affected him.

instead, he pays for the rose without arguing about the price, tucking it carefully into one of the bags where it won't get crushed, and follows because that's what he's always done. followed you, waited for you, hoped that someday you'd turn around and see him the way he sees you.

the way he's always seen you.

“satoru, come on,” you call over your shoulder, already three stalls ahead, and he realizes he's been standing there longer than he thought, lost in his own head again. you're holding up a small jar of honey, sunlight catching the golden liquid inside. “they have lavender honey. remember how much you liked it at that restaurant last month?”

you remember. of course you remember. you remember every small preference, every casual comment, every little thing that most people would forget within minutes. it's one of the things he loves most about you—the way you pay attention, the way you care enough to file away the smallest details about the people you love.

he jogs to catch up, bags bouncing against his side, and finds you already chatting with the honey vendor about different varieties and flavor profiles. you're animated when you talk about food, hands gesturing as you describe the restaurant where he'd first tried lavender honey, and he finds himself falling in love with you all over again just watching you exist in the world.

“we'll take two jars,” you're saying, already reaching for your wallet, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.

“i've got it,” he says, pulling out his own money before you can protest. your skin is warm under his fingers, and he has to resist the urge to let his thumb trace across your pulse point.

“you don't have to—”

“i want to.” and he does. wants to buy you honey and flowers and anything else that makes you smile like that. wants to be the reason for that soft, pleased expression that's currently gracing your features.

you let him pay, but not without rolling your eyes in fond exasperation. “you spoil me.”

“good,” he says simply, accepting the jars from the vendor and tucking them carefully into the bag with the rose. “you deserve to be spoiled.”

the words slip out before he can stop them, too honest, too revealing, and he watches your expression shift into something he can't quite read. you duck your head, hair falling forward to hide your face, but not before he catches the faint blush creeping across your cheeks.

“come on, your royal highness,” you say, bumping his shoulder with yours, and the casual contact makes his heart stutter. “let's go home and make that cobbler.”

home. you said home, not his place or his apartment, but home. like it's yours too. like maybe it always has been.

maybe it always has been.

back at his apartment, you're quiet in a way that sets his nerves on edge. you've been friends long enough that he can read your moods like weather patterns—the slight tension in your shoulders that means you're thinking too hard about something, the way you're biting the inside of your cheek that suggests internal debate. right now there's definitely a storm brewing behind your eyes, thoughts churning in a way that makes him want to reach out and smooth the furrow between your brows.

you're sitting on his kitchen counter, legs swinging in a restless rhythm, heels occasionally bumping against the cabinet below. he's putting away the morning's purchases with probably unnecessary focus, arranging the peaches in a bowl like they're precious artifacts, trying to ignore the way your silence is making his skin feel too tight.

“satoru,” you say finally, and something in your tone makes him turn around immediately, abandoning his careful arrangement of fruit.

“yeah?”

you're fidgeting with the stem of the white rose he bought, twirling it between your fingers like you're trying to solve a particularly complex equation. the petals have opened slightly since this morning, revealing deeper layers of ivory and cream, and in the afternoon light streaming through his kitchen window, it looks almost ethereal in your hands.

“can i ask you something?” your voice is smaller than usual, uncertain in a way that makes his chest tighten with immediate concern.

his heart starts doing that thing where it forgets how to beat properly, rhythm stuttering against his ribs. “always.”

“do you ever think…” you pause, take a breath that seems to require effort, start again. “sometimes i wonder if i'm reading too much into things. like maybe i think someone likes me and it's all just in my head.”

the bottom drops out of his world.

someone. you think someone likes you, which means there's someone you're paying attention to, someone who's maybe been giving you signs that you're trying to interpret. his brain immediately starts cycling through every male friend you have, every coworker you've mentioned in passing, that guy from your yoga class who definitely stares at you too much and makes comments about your form that seem less than professional.

the rose trembles slightly in your hands, and he realizes you're nervous. actually nervous about asking him this, which means whoever it is matters to you. matters enough that you're seeking advice, validation, reassurance that you're not imagining things.

“like who?” he asks, and his voice comes out strangled, like he's being slowly crushed by invisible hands. like all the air has been sucked out of the room and replaced with something thinner, harder to breathe.

you look up at him, and there's something vulnerable in your expression that makes his chest ache. something raw and uncertain that he wants to protect, even as it's currently destroying him from the inside out. “never mind. it's stupid.”

“it's not stupid,” he says quickly, moving closer without really meaning to, drawn by the magnetic pull that's existed between you since childhood. “whoever it is would be crazy not to like you.”

wrong thing to say. he knows it immediately because your face does something complicated, cycling through disappointment and resignation before settling on a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. that careful, practiced smile you use when you're trying to hide how you really feel.

“you have to say that. you're my best friend.”

best friend. there it is again, that careful designation that feels more like a cage every time you say it. he wants to grab you by the shoulders and tell you that he's been crazy about you since before he knew what crazy about someone meant, that every day he doesn't tell you feels like a small betrayal of everything you've ever meant to each other.

instead, he says, “i don't have to say anything. i say it because it's true.”

and it is true. brutally, completely true. whoever this mystery person is, they'd have to be blind and stupid not to see how incredible you are. not to notice the way you light up a room just by entering it, the way you remember everyone's favorite coffee order and check in on people when they're having bad days and laugh so hard at terrible jokes that you snort a little, which only makes you more endearing.

you're quiet for a long moment, still twirling the rose, and he can practically see the thoughts churning behind your eyes like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. when you finally speak, your voice is small in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and protect you from whatever's making you doubt yourself.

“sometimes i think i make up feelings where they don't exist,” you say, barely above a whisper. “like maybe i want something to be there so badly that i convince myself it is.”

and oh. oh, you're talking about him, aren't you? you're sitting here in his kitchen, talking about reading too much into things, about wanting feelings that might not exist, and he's too much of a coward to realize you're talking about him. the signs are all there—the way you've been looking at him lately, softer and more lingering than usual. the casual touches that seem to happen more frequently. the way you said “home” earlier like you meant it.

except what if you're not? what if there really is someone else, someone who's been giving you mixed signals while satoru's been pining from the sidelines like an idiot? what if he's the one reading too much into things, projecting his own desperate hopes onto innocent moments of friendship?

“you're not stupid,” he says finally, because it's the only safe thing he can think of, the only response that won't reveal everything. “if you think someone likes you, there's probably a good reason.”

you slide down from the counter, rose still in hand, and for a second you're standing close enough that he can count your eyelashes, see the tiny flecks of gold in your eyes that he's memorized over years of study. close enough that if he just leaned down a little, if he was brave enough to close the distance...

“maybe,” you say, but you sound doubtful. disappointed in a way that makes him want to take back everything he just said. “or maybe i'm just really good at lying to myself.”

you're moving toward the living room, and he follows because he always follows, brain spinning through every conversation you've had recently, every look, every moment that might have been a sign he was too scared to read properly. you settle onto the couch like you're planning to stay for a while, curling up in the corner with your legs tucked beneath you, and he takes his usual spot on the opposite end, careful to maintain the precise distance that says ‘best friend’ instead of ‘hopelessly in love with you.’

the white rose ends up in a glass of water on his coffee table, petals catching the light from his windows, and you're staring at it with an expression he can't quite read. contemplative, maybe. wistful.

“this person,” he starts carefully, hating himself for asking but needing to know, “how long have you been thinking about them?”

you give him a look that's equal parts amused and exasperated, head tilting in that way it does when you think he's being particularly dense. “are we really doing this?”

“doing what?”

“the thing where you help me analyze my pathetic love life like we're in high school.” you're picking at the throw pillow in your lap, fingers worrying at a loose thread. “sitting around dissecting every interaction and trying to figure out what it all means.”

pathetic love life. as if you could ever have anything pathetic about you. as if whoever this mysterious person is doesn't realize they're the luckiest person alive just to be on your radar. just to have you thinking about them, analyzing their behavior, wondering if they feel the same way.

“i'm being a good friend,” he protests, though the words taste bitter in his mouth. bitter like the coffee you drink when you're stressed, bitter like the medicine you have to swallow when something's wrong.

“you're being nosy.”

“can't i be both?”

you laugh despite yourself, and the sound goes straight to his chest like it always does, warming him from the inside out. “fine. but you can't make fun of me.”

“when have i ever made fun of you?”

“constantly. it's like your primary form of communication.” but you're smiling now, some of the tension leaving your shoulders, and he counts it as a victory.

you’re not wrong. teasing you has always been safer than the alternative, easier than letting you see how seriously, completely, utterly gone he is for you. easier than admitting that every joke is just a way of buying more time in your presence, every playful insult a cover for the compliments he really wants to give.

“i promise to be nice,” he says, crossing his heart with exaggerated solemnity, and you snort at the theatrical gesture.

“i'll believe it when i see it.”

you're quiet for a moment, picking at the throw pillow, and he can see you working up the courage to say whatever it is you're thinking. your teeth worry at your bottom lip in a gesture he recognizes from childhood—you used to do the same thing before spelling tests and soccer tryouts and the first day of school each year.

when you finally speak, your voice is so soft he has to strain to hear it, has to lean forward slightly to catch every word.

“it's been a long time,” you admit, not looking at him. “like, a really long time. since we were kids, maybe.”

since we were kids.

since. we. were. kids.

his heart stops beating entirely, just quits on him right there in his living room, because unless you had some secret elementary school boyfriend he doesn't know about, unless there's some childhood friend he's completely forgotten about...

you're talking about him.

you've been thinking about him.

since you were kids.

“oh,” he says, because his vocabulary has apparently shrunk to single syllables, because every word in the english language has suddenly abandoned him when he needs them most.

“see?” you say quickly, finally looking up at him with eyes that are bright with what might be tears. “i told you it was stupid. forget i said anything.”

“no,” he says, too loud, and you startle slightly at the volume. “no, it's not stupid. it's...”

it's everything. it's his every prayer answered, every birthday wish granted, every star he's ever wished on coming true all at once. it's twenty years of hoping and waiting and pretending to be content with friendship finally, finally meaning something.

“it's what?” you ask, and there's something hopeful in your voice that makes his chest feel like it might crack open, like his heart might actually burst from the sheer force of what he's feeling.

he opens his mouth to tell you, to finally, finally say what he's been carrying around for twenty years, and then he panics. because what if he's wrong? what if you're talking about someone else after all? what if he says everything and ruins the most important friendship of his life? what if you look at him with disgust or pity or worse, that careful politeness you use with people who make you uncomfortable?

“it's brave,” he says instead, taking the coward's way out, watching the light in your eyes dim slightly. “whoever it is would be lucky to have you thinking about them.”

your face falls so subtly he almost misses it, just a slight dimming of the light in your eyes, a barely perceptible tightening around the corners of your mouth. but he's been studying your expressions for twenty years, cataloguing every micro-expression, and he knows he's fucked up. knows he's missed something crucial, said the wrong thing, let fear win when courage was what the moment required.

“right,” you say, and your voice is carefully neutral, scrubbed clean of the hope that had been there moments before. “lucky them.”

you're pulling away from him, not physically but emotionally, retreating behind the walls that friendship has never required before. building barriers in real time, and he's sitting there like an idiot, watching it happen, knowing he caused it but not knowing how to fix it without potentially making everything worse.

the rose on the coffee table seems to mock him with its perfect white petals, a symbol of something he was too scared to claim when he had the chance. when you were sitting right there, telling him everything he's ever wanted to hear, and he was too much of a coward to hear it properly.

too much of a coward to take the leap that might have changed everything.

you leave not long after that, claiming an early morning tomorrow and some excuse about laundry that you both know is bullshit. the way you gather your things—phone sliding into your palm with deliberate precision, keys jingling once before being muffled in your grip, that little cross-body bag with its worn leather strap that you always adjust twice before leaving—feels like watching his entire future pack itself away in slow motion.

satoru's throat constricts as he tracks each movement, his vision tunneling on the careful way you avoid his gaze. there's something devastating about the ordinary nature of your departure, the way catastrophe can masquerade as routine. you're folding in on yourself, shoulders curved inward like you're protecting something fragile in your chest, and he knows with sickening clarity that he put that defensive hunch there.

“text me when you get home safe,” he says, one hand automatically reaching up to rake through his hair—those moonspun strands that never learned proper behavior, always catching and scattering light like captured starfall. the words scrape against his vocal cords like sandpaper. it's what he always says, has been saying since you got your first car at sixteen and his anxiety about your well-being became a living thing with teeth and claws.

“always do,” you reply, your fingers worrying at the delicate chain of your necklace—that thin silver thing that catches at your throat when you swallow nervously. your voice carries the hollow ring of obligation rather than affection. you still won't look at him directly, your gaze fixed somewhere around his left shoulder where his sweater pulls slightly across his collarbone, and the absence of eye contact feels like a physical ache behind his sternum.

the click of his door closing echoes through the apartment with the finality of a coffin lid. satoru stands there for a full minute, staring at the wood grain, before the magnitude of his cowardice hits him like a freight train carrying twenty years' worth of missed opportunities.

the apartment transforms in your absence, walls stretching impossibly wide, ceilings vaulting into cathedral heights that make him feel ant-small and infinitely alone. the couch still holds the impression of your body, cushions dented where you'd curled your legs beneath you, and he finds himself gravitating toward that spot like a moth to flame. when he sits down, the lingering warmth of your presence soaks through his jeans, and he has to press his palms against his eyes to keep from doing something pathetic like burying his face in the throw pillow you'd been hugging.

the white rose sits on his coffee table like an accusation, its petals pristine and mocking. sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and satoru had been too much of a fool to recognize the universe handing him a script.

his phone buzzes against the glass surface: home safe. thanks for today.

the message glows on his screen, twelve words that somehow contain multitudes of disappointment. he can picture you typing it, thumb hesitating over each letter, probably tucked into your favorite corner of your couch with that oversized cardigan pulled tight around your shoulders, rewriting it three times before settling on something safely neutral. you used to add heart emojis to these check-ins, little digital affirmations that he'd treasured more than he had any right to. their absence now feels like a door slamming shut.

he types: anytime. sleep well. his thumb hovers over the send button for thirty seconds, jaw working silently as he wars with himself.

then deletes it. tries: we should talk about what happened. his teeth catch his lower lip, worrying at the skin until it stings.

deletes that too. his fingers hover over the keyboard, shoulders hunched forward in defeat, cycling through seventeen different responses that range from desperate to devastated. i love you gets typed and erased four times, each deletion making his chest cavity feel emptier. please come back so i can fix this makes it halfway before he chickens out, his hand scrubbing down his face hard enough to leave red marks. i've been yours since we were seven and i'm sorry i'm too scared to be brave never even makes it past his mental rough draft.

finally, he settles on: anytime. sleep well.

the delivered notification appears, and then... nothing. no immediate response, no typing indicator, no late-night follow-up like you sometimes send when you can't sleep. just radio silence that stretches into the night like a chasm.

satoru spends the next six hours staring at his ceiling, replaying every microsecond of your conversation with the obsessive precision of a crime scene investigator. his hair fans across the pillow in ethereal wisps, those pale strands seeming to glow with their own inner light against the dark fabric, like captured lightning or the first frost of winter given form. the way your voice had gone soft and vulnerable when you said since we were kids. the hope that had flickered in your eyes—those beautiful eyes he'd never been brave enough to hold contact with for more than stolen moments—before he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, your shoulders drawing inward and your hands clasping tightly in your lap until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.*. the hope that had flickered in your eyes before he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.

since we were kids. the phrase loops in his mind like a broken record, each repetition driving the knife of realization deeper into his chest. unless you'd harbored some secret elementary school crush he'd never known about—which, given that you'd been attached at the hip since kindergarten, seemed unlikely—there was only one person you could have been referring to.

him.

you'd been talking about him.

and he'd been so paralyzed by the possibility of being wrong that he'd missed the moment entirely, let it slip through his fingers like water through a broken dam.

by the time dawn creeps through his blinds, painting everything in shades of regret and determination, he's made a decision that will either save his life or end it completely. the resolution sits in his chest like a live wire, sparking against his ribs every time he breathes. he's going to tell you everything. twenty years of accumulated feelings, every birthday wish spent on your happiness, every star he's wished on while thinking of your smile. all of it.

the thought terrifies him so completely that he has to grip the edge of his mattress to keep from floating away on a tide of panic.

sunday afternoon arrives with the punctuality of a church bell, and with it comes the familiar sound of your key in his lock. you'd exchanged spare keys sophomore year of college, a practical decision born of too many instances of locked-out roommates and forgotten textbooks. what had started as convenience had evolved into something more significant—the quiet intimacy of belonging in each other's spaces, of being trusted with unrestricted access to the small, private corners of each other's lives.

now, listening to that key turn, satoru's heart hammers against his ribs like it's trying to break free and run away before his mouth can ruin everything permanently.

“hey,” you say as you appear in his doorway, and the single syllable carries the weight of exhaustion that makes his chest constrict with guilt. there are shadows under your eyes that weren't there yesterday, and your smile—when it finally appears—lacks its usual wattage.

“hey yourself,” he manages, his voice cracking slightly on the second word.

you move through his space with less than your usual confidence, the easy familiarity replaced by something more cautious. instead of immediately claiming your usual spot on the far end of the couch—the corner you'd long ago designated as yours, complete with the throw pillow you'd brought from your own apartment and the way you always tucked your feet up under you—you hover near the armchair, fingers worrying at the strap of your bag.

the careful distance you're maintaining might as well be measured in miles rather than feet. it's like watching you interact with a stranger's apartment, all politeness and uncertainty where there used to be ownership and ease. the sight of it breaks something fundamental in satoru's chest, some load-bearing beam of his emotional architecture crumbling under the weight of what his cowardice has cost them.

“about yesterday,” he starts, the words tumbling out before he can lose his nerve entirely.

“we don't have to talk about it,” you interrupt quickly, finally settling into the armchair but perched on its edge like you're ready to flee at the first sign of discomfort. your hands clasp in your lap, knuckles white with tension. “i was being weird, and awkward, and i made things uncomfortable. we can just pretend it never happened and go back to normal.”

but normal is what got them here in the first place—twenty years of careful boundaries and unspoken feelings and the kind of willful blindness that masquerades as friendship when it's really just elaborate emotional self-harm.

“you weren't being weird,” he says firmly, rising from the couch to face you properly. the movement is too quick, driven by urgency rather than grace, and you startle slightly at the sudden change in his position. “i was being an idiot.”

something flickers across your expression—surprise, maybe, or the faintest spark of hope quickly tampered down. “satoru—”

“just let me say this, okay?” the words come out rougher than intended, scraped raw by a sleepless night and the weight of everything he's been carrying. “before i lose my nerve completely and spend another twenty years being a coward.”

you go very still, and he can see the exact moment you decide to let him speak. your shoulders settle back against the chair, hands unclasping to grip the armrests instead, and you give him a small nod that somehow contains multitudes of permission and trepidation.

the silence that follows feels crystalline, fragile enough that the wrong word might shatter everything beyond repair. satoru runs his hand through his hair—those pale strands that never quite cooperate, that catch light like spun moonbeams even in the dim afternoon glow filtering through his blinds. the gesture is pure nervous energy, fingers combing through the silky mess as if he might find courage tangled somewhere in the roots.

“when you were talking yesterday,” he begins, then stops, takes a breath that tastes like terror and determination in equal measure. “about thinking someone liked you since you were kids...”

he watches your face carefully, cataloguing every micro-expression. the way your lips part slightly, the flutter of your eyelashes as you blink too fast, the barely perceptible forward lean of your body like you're drawn toward his words despite yourself.

“you were talking about me, weren't you?”

the question hangs in the air between them, loaded with twenty years of almosts and maybes and the kind of hope that feels dangerous to voice. your breath catches—a sharp, barely audible intake that he might have missed if he weren't paying attention with the focused intensity of a man whose entire future hangs in the balance.

“satoru—” you start, but he's already moving, dropping to his knees in front of your chair with the graceless desperation of someone who's finally found the courage to stop running from the thing that matters most.

his hands hover just above your knees, not quite touching but close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating through the soft cotton of your sundress—a different one today, this one scattered with tiny daisies that make him think of childhood summers and innocence and all the ways you've been beautiful to him across the years.

“because if you were,” he continues, words spilling out in a rush now that the dam has finally burst, “then i need you to know that you weren't reading too much into anything. you weren't making up feelings that don't exist or convincing yourself of something that wasn't there.”

your eyes are wide, pupils dilated in a way that makes the familiar color seem deeper, more infinite. he can see his own reflection in them, distorted and desperate and more honest than he's ever been in his life.

“i've been crazy about you since the second grade,” he confesses, the words scraping against his throat like they're made of glass. “since you wrote that you wanted to be a princess in our yearbook and i decided right then and there that i was going to spend the rest of my life making sure you felt like one.”

the admission settles between them like a living thing, breathing and vital and impossible to take back. your hands tighten on the armrests, knuckles going white again, but this time it looks less like tension and more like anchoring—like you're holding on to keep from floating away on the enormity of what he's just revealed.

“every door i've ever opened for you,” he continues, momentum carrying him forward now that he's started, “every time i've carried your bags or bought you flowers or called you ‘your highness’—it wasn't just being a good friend. it was never just friendship.”

his voice cracks on the last word, twenty years of careful pretense finally crumbling under the weight of truth. “it's all been because you're my princess. you've always been my princess, and i've been too much of a coward to tell you.”

silence stretches between them, heavy and loaded with possibility. satoru can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, can feel the subtle tremor in his hands where they still hover near your knees. you're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, cycling through what looks like shock and disbelief and something that might be the beginning of joy before it gets tampered down by uncertainty.

he's never felt more exposed in his life, kneeling here in his own living room with his heart splayed open like a roadmap to twenty years of devotion. the vulnerability is excruciating, every nerve ending raw and oversensitive, waiting for you to either pull him back from the brink or push him over the edge entirely.

“you,” you say finally, and your voice comes out barely above a whisper, thick with something that might be tears or laughter or both. “you complete and utter idiot.”

the words hit him like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs in a sharp exhale. his heart, which had been hammering with nervous hope, stutters and nearly stops entirely. this is it, then. the moment where twenty years of friendship dies on the altar of his feelings, where he learns what it costs to love someone who can't love you back.

“look, if you don't feel the same way—” he starts, already beginning the retreat, already starting to build the walls that will let him survive the aftermath of this spectacular emotional implosion.

“of course i feel the same way!” you explode, suddenly on your feet, the force of your movement sending him rocking back on his heels. your hands are gesturing wildly now, cutting through the air with the sharp precision of someone who's been holding back way too much for way too long. “i've been in love with you since we were kids, you absolute disaster of a human being!”

the words slam into him with the force of a freight train, reorganizing his entire understanding of reality in the space between one heartbeat and the next. of course i feel the same way. the phrase echoes in his skull, bouncing off the walls of his mind like a pinball machine gone haywire.

“you have?” he asks, and his voice comes out small and wondering, like he's afraid that speaking too loudly might break whatever spell has made this moment possible.

“yes!” you're pacing now, three quick steps to the window and back, your sundress swirling around your legs with each sharp turn. “why do you think i've been hanging around your apartment every weekend for the past fifteen years? why do you think i never date anyone seriously? because i've been waiting for you to figure it out!”

he's scrambling to his feet now, desperate to close the distance between you but afraid to move too fast, like you're some wild thing that might bolt if he makes the wrong move. “you've been waiting for me?”

“forever,” you say, and now you're definitely crying, tears streaming down your cheeks while you laugh with what sounds like relief and frustration and twenty years of pent-up emotion finally finding release. “i've been waiting forever, and you just—yesterday when i was trying to tell you, you just—”

“i panicked,” he admits, finally closing the space between you in two quick strides. his hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing away the tears with a gentleness that belies the tremor in his fingers. “i thought maybe you were talking about someone else, and i couldn't handle it if you were.”

your skin is soft under his palms, warm and real and perfect, and he can't quite believe he's allowed to touch you like this. that you're letting him catch your tears, that you're leaning into his touch instead of pulling away.

“someone else,” you repeat, shaking your head with enough force to send your hair flying. “as if there could ever be someone else. as if anyone else could even compare to you.”

the words hit him like salvation, like every prayer he's ever whispered to the dark finally being answered. “really?”

“really,” you confirm, and then you're rising up on your toes, hands fisting in the front of his shirt to pull him down toward you. “now stop being an idiot and kiss me before i lose my mind completely.”

he doesn't need to be told twice.

their lips meet in the middle of something that's been building for twenty years, soft and desperate and perfect in a way that makes his brain go completely offline. you taste like the strawberry lip balm you've been using since high school, sweet and familiar and right in a way that makes him wonder how he's survived this long without kissing you.

your mouth is warm and yielding under his, and when you sigh against his lips—this tiny, breathy sound of contentment—he thinks he might actually die from the sheer overwhelming rightness of it all. his hands slide from your face into your hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he deepens the kiss, pouring twenty years of accumulated longing into the connection between your mouths.

when you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together like you can't bear to be more than an inch away from each other. your hands are still fisted in his shirt, holding him close, and he can feel the rapid flutter of your pulse where his thumbs rest against your throat.

“holy shit,” you breathe, and the profanity sounds like a prayer falling from your kiss-swollen lips.

“yeah,” he agrees, voice rough with emotion and the lingering effects of the best kiss of his entire life. “holy shit.”

you laugh, the sound bright and bubbling and infectious, and he finds himself grinning back at you with an expression that probably makes him look completely unhinged. he doesn't care. he's just kissed his best friend, his princess, the love of his entire life, and she kissed him back, and if that's not worth looking a little crazy over, then nothing is.

“so,” you say, and he can hear the smile in your voice even with his eyes closed, can feel it in the way your lips curve against his when you speak. “what now, your highness?”

the nickname—his own endearment turned back on him with teasing affection—makes him groan and drop his head to your shoulder in mock defeat. “you're never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“absolutely not,” you confirm cheerfully, arms winding around his neck to hold him close. “i've got twenty years of princess jokes stored up, and now that i know you meant them...”

“i meant every single one,” he says, pulling back to look at you properly. your hair is messed up from his hands, lipstick smudged in a way that probably matches his own mouth, and you're looking at him like he hung the moon and stars just for you. like he's something precious and beloved and yours. “i meant all of it.”

“good,” you say, going up on your toes to kiss him again, soft and sweet and lingering. “because i've got twenty years of being your princess to catch up on.”

this time when you kiss, it's slower, more exploratory. a conversation conducted in the language of lips and tongues and shared breath, twenty years of friendship providing the foundation for something deeper and more complex. he maps the shape of your mouth with the dedication of a cartographer, memorizing every curve and hollow, the way you taste like strawberries and forever and every dream he's ever had.

your hands slide up into his hair, fingers combing through the pale strands that have been catching light and hearts since childhood, and he thinks distantly that he's never going to get tired of this. of touching you, of being allowed to touch you, of the way you melt against him like you were made to fit in his arms.

when you break apart this time, it's with the reluctant awareness that you still have things to talk about, logistics to work out, twenty years of carefully maintained boundaries to navigate in this brave new world where you're allowed to love each other out loud.

“we should probably talk about what this means,” you say, though you make no move to step out of his arms. if anything, you settle more firmly against him, like you're claiming your space in his embrace.

“it means i'm yours,” he says without hesitation, the words coming as easily as breathing now that he's allowed to say them. “if you'll have me. it means i've been yours since we were seven years old and you asked me to be your friend, and i'm never letting you go again.”

your eyes go soft and liquid at his declaration, and he watches you blink back fresh tears with the tender fascination of someone who's finally been given permission to witness your every emotion.

“i've been yours too,” you whisper, voice thick with feeling. “for so long that i can't remember what it felt like before.”

“then it's simple,” he says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo and the new, intoxicating knowledge that he's allowed to do this now. “we stop pretending otherwise.”

you laugh, the sound muffled against his chest where you've pressed your face. “you make it sound so easy.”

“isn't it?” he asks, genuine curiosity coloring his voice. “we already do everything else together. we already know each other's worst habits and biggest fears and what makes each other laugh until we can't breathe. now we just get to add kissing to the list.”

“and other things,” you add, pulling back to look at him with an expression that's equal parts innocent and suggestive, and he feels heat pool low in his stomach at the implication.

“other things,” he agrees, voice dropping to something rougher, more intimate. “lots of other things. twenty years' worth of other things.”

you shiver slightly at the promise in his voice, and he files that reaction away for future reference, cataloguing it alongside every other response he plans to learn by heart.

“so what's first?” you ask, settling more comfortably in his arms like you're planning to stay there for the foreseeable future.

“first,” he says, pressing another kiss to your hair because he can, because you're his now and he's allowed, “we order way too much chinese food and eat it on the couch while we figure out how to tell people that we're finally together.”

“people are going to say they saw it coming,” you predict, tilting your head back to look at him. “we're going to get so many ‘about time’ comments.”

“let them,” he says, grinning down at you with unrepentant joy. “they can say whatever they want. i'm just happy i don't have to pretend anymore that i'm not completely gone for you.”

“completely gone,” you repeat, testing the phrase like you're tasting wine. “i like that. makes it sound properly dramatic and ridiculous.”

“it is dramatic and ridiculous,” he confirms. “twenty years of pining? that's shakespearean levels of absurd.”

“but worth it,” you say, and it's not a question.

“absolutely worth it,” he agrees, sealing the promise with another kiss that tastes like strawberries and new beginnings and happily ever after.

later, when you're curled up together on his couch—your couch now, he supposes, since everything that's his has always been yours anyway—sharing lo mein and sweet and sour chicken while some forgettable movie plays in the background, he thinks about that second-grade yearbook tucked away in his bedroom closet.

about seven-year-old you writing about being a princess in careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration. about seven-year-old him deciding that if you wanted to be a princess, then he'd find a way to make it happen, even if it meant becoming an astronaut just to bring you back moon rocks that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.

mission accomplished, he thinks, pressing a kiss to the top of your head where it rests against his shoulder. though the seven-year-old version of himself probably never imagined it would involve quite this much kissing.

not that he's complaining.

“satoru?” your voice is sleepy, muffled against his shirt where you've pressed your face into the curve of his neck.

“mm?”

“next time just tell me you love me from the start, okay? save us both some time.”

he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and making you smile against his skin. “deal, princess. though for the record, i do love you. have always loved you. will always love you.”

“i love you too,” you mumble, words slurring slightly with approaching sleep. “my ridiculous, dramatic, completely wonderful disaster of a man.”

“your disaster,” he corrects softly, fingers combing through your hair with reverent gentleness. “always yours.”

you hum contentedly, settling more firmly against him, and he thinks this might be what happily ever after feels like. strawberry lip balm and sunday afternoons and the girl of his dreams finally, finally in his arms where she belongs, where she's always belonged, where she'll stay for as long as he has breath in his body to keep her there.

yeah, he could definitely get used to this.

the white rose from yesterday's market sits on the coffee table beside their empty takeout containers, petals still pristine and perfect in their small glass of water. a symbol of new beginnings and answered prayers and the kind of love story that starts with friendship and ends with forever.

sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and as satoru drifts off to sleep with you warm and safe and his in his arms, he thinks she might have been the smartest person he's ever met.

taglist: @raendarkfaerie @thisuserisnotfunctioningproperly

[iantheloser]

(do not ask, I've been watching Jacksepticeye play mortuary assistant)

AU where mortuary-worker darling working nightshift, hearing the door open and grabbing the gun they bring with them on nightshifts ... just in case a body decides theyre not dead yet (hasn't happened but who knows?)

Silas walks in, stopping immidealtly and holds out his hands. "Oh, I didn't know someone was here."

"What the fuck are you doing? Who are you?"

"One of your newcomers have something that belongs to me. I want to take it back before you give the artifacts to the scum's family."

"You can't take things from the dead-"

"He's not dead until I get my hands on him and decide he is. Put down the gun. I'm not planning to stay here long. I just want to take my thing."

And darling follows him into the morgue with their gun to his back and he just simply grabs a wallet out of a dead man's jacket.

"See? that's me on the ID. You gonna let me take it or what?"

"Fine, take it."

"So...you always working night shifts?"

(now i kind of want to try this too???)

[iantheloser]

“𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗲’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗹𝗲𝗴𝘀 𝗮𝘁 𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁… 𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗲?”

pt 4

➤ yandere!eren x single mom!reader x yandere! levi

read pt 1 here ; pt 2 ; pt 3

The morning sun peeked through the blinds like a nosy neighbor.

Y/N stood in the cramped kitchen, the weak overhead light buzzing above her. She pulled open the top of a worn cereal box—then another—until she reached the right one. Her fingers moved quickly, quietly, pulling out the bundle of cash wrapped in plastic. Tucked between two sleeves of stale Frosted Flakes.

She peeled off just enough to cover rent. The rest? Reburied beneath artificial sugar and cardboard.

Safe. For now.

Ren sat at the table, drawing stick figures with wild spiky hair, humming to himself.

“C’mon, baby,” Y/N said gently. “Let’s go find you some new daycare clothes.”

The mall was a mess of neon sales signs and impatient parents, but Ren didn’t seem to mind. He twirled around in circles every time they passed a mannequin, pointed at hats too big for him, and giggled at the shoe store that had wheels built into the displays.

Y/N kept a sharp eye on the price tags. Clearance rack. Discount bin. She wasn’t ashamed of being frugal—not anymore.

They were in line at the food court when Ren tugged on her sleeve.

“Mommy,” he whispered loudly, pointing. “Look!”

Her heart stopped.

Eren.

Sitting at a table near the glass rail, one arm slung casually over the chair, coffee in hand, hood up like he was trying not to be noticed. He was watching. Of course he was.

She clenched her jaw, holding Ren’s hand tighter as they walked over.

“Are you serious?” she hissed under her breath the moment she was close enough. “You’re following me now?”

“I’m protecting you,” Eren said smoothly, not looking at her. “There’s a difference.”

“You promised—”

“I didn’t promise shit.” He took a sip of his coffee, eyes dragging over to Ren. “I just said it was only that day.”

“Hi again,” Ren chirped brightly, waving.

Eren grinned—lazy and dangerous. “Hey, kid.”

Ren turned to you with puppy eyes. “Can he eat with us? Please?”

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek. Smile, she told herself. Pretend.

“Would you like to eat with us, Eren?” she asked tightly.

His gaze flicked up to hers. That damn smirk never left.

“Sure,” he said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The food court bustled around them — trays clattering, kids screaming over the buzz of blenders. But at that small corner table tucked beneath the skylight, time seemed to slow.

Ren sat between them, happily swinging his legs as he munched on chicken nuggets and fries.

Eren had ordered everything.

Y/N hadn’t even noticed him disappear until he returned, sliding a plastic tray onto the table without a word. Extra ketchup. Juice box. A side of curly fries she never asked for.

“I didn’t need—”

“You’re welcome,” he said flatly, unwrapping his sandwich like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Ren was already diving in, giggling between bites, wiping sauce on his shirt.

“So,” Eren said casually, glancing over the rim of his soda cup. “How’s daycare?”

“Fun!” Ren grinned. “We colored today. I made a robot dog.”

“Nice.” Eren leaned back. “Bet he’s got laser eyes.”

“Two!”

Y/N watched the exchange in silence, heart tight in her chest. She hated how natural it looked. Eren laughing low under his breath. Ren talking a mile a minute. The ease. The warmth.

It felt… wrong.

Safe wasn’t supposed to look like this.

“So,” Eren murmured, voice low enough only she could hear. “You still think I don’t belong here?”

She glared at him, lips tight around her straw.

He smiled.

“Just asking,” he shrugged.

“I think you like playing pretend,” she said quietly. “But it won’t last. It never does.”

Eren didn’t reply. He just looked at her for a long moment, the air between them stretching thin.

Then—

“Hey, bud,” he said suddenly, turning back to Ren. “You know what I used to eat when I was your age?”

Ren shook his head, crumbs on his cheeks.

“Spaghetti sandwiches.”

Ren made a face. “That’s weird.”

“It’s genius,” Eren said, mock-offended. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

They both laughed.

Y/N didn't.

But something inside her softened. Just a little.

And that terrified her more than anything.

The car purred as it pulled up to the curb — a sleek, foreign beast with blacked-out windows and leather seats that still smelled new.

Eren parked with one hand lazily draped over the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift like he had nowhere better to be. Not a single sound but the faint thrum of the engine and Ren humming to himself in the backseat, swinging his legs.

Y/N glanced out the window.

The street was quiet.

Her apartment complex stood in the amber glow of a flickering streetlamp — run-down but familiar. The cracked pavement. The ivy choking the fence. A place where nothing was perfect, but everything was hers.

Ren unbuckled and slid out of the backseat, already skipping toward the building with his dinosaur backpack bouncing.

Eren didn’t say anything at first. Just stared ahead, the city’s reflection ghosting across his windshield.

Then, his voice — calm. Inevitable.

“Be ready by noon tomorrow.”

She inhaled, eyes heavy with dread.

“That soon?”

He finally looked at her, his gaze dark but unreadable.

“I was nice today.”

Her jaw tensed, but she nodded. Quietly.

And for a single, flickering second… she didn’t feel like prey.

She stepped out of the car, slamming the door a little harder than she meant to. His engine rumbled once before peeling off into the night, leaving the air colder than before.

She hadn’t even made it to her door before she heard—

“You’re out late,” Historia called softly from across the walkway, clutching a hoodie around herself, keys dangling from her hand. “Didn’t you say bedtime was eight sharp?”

Y/N gave a breathless laugh, defeated.

“Tonight was… different.”

Historia paused, reading her face like a book she had already re-read a dozen times.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Y/N looked at her front door. Looked at the dim light behind the curtains.

Then nodded.

“Yeah. Come in.”

The apartment was quiet when they entered, Ren already passed out on the couch, one sock halfway off, a juice box still clutched in his small hand.

Y/N pulled a blanket over him before collapsing onto the kitchen chair. Historia grabbed two glasses and poured whatever wine was left from the dusty bottle on the counter.

She slid one over.

“So,” Historia said gently, “who’s the guy in the Batmobile?”

Y/N gave her a look. “Please don’t joke.”

“Sorry.”

A silence.

Historia stared at her.

Y/N stared into her wine.

Then finally, in a whisper:

“I think I’m in deep.”

Historia’s smile faded.

“Like… Levi-deep?”

Y/N shook her head. “No. Not like that. Eren’s not… him. But it’s getting close. The jobs are piling up. He’s watching me. And I can’t breathe sometimes.”

Historia set down her glass.

“Then leave.”

“I can’t. He has photos. Info. He knows everything.”

Historia went quiet.

“And worse,” Y/N added, choking back something unspoken, “Ren likes him.”

Historia looked up sharply.

“That’s not your fault.”

“But it’s dangerous. It’s confusing. And today, just for a minute, it felt normal. Like I wasn’t running. Like we were a—” she cut herself off, voice cracking.

“A family?” Historia said quietly.

Y/N nodded. Shame washing through her like acid.

Historia stood slowly, walking over and kneeling next to her.

“You’re allowed to want peace,” she whispered. “You’re allowed to want someone who stays. But this—” she squeezed her hand, “—this isn't the way to get it.”

Y/N’s eyes burned, heart torn between the safety she craved and the storm she was in.

Tomorrow would bring more chaos.

But tonight…

She let herself rest.

Just for a second.

—

The rain was merciless.

It crashed down like punishment — soaking the city in cold sheets, painting the pavement in streaks of silver. Y/N’s hood was pulled up, but it did nothing. Water clung to her lashes, slid down her cheeks like tears she refused to cry. Her boots splashed through puddles as she moved fast, heart hammering.

She had the package.

Wrapped in a plastic lining, tucked under her coat like a second skin — heavy, warm, and dense.

She didn’t ask what was in it. She never did.

Eren told her to take it to the old loading dock behind the abandoned textile mill — the one near the edge of the river, where no security cameras watched and the concrete crumbled like old bones.

And now here she was.

She ducked under a broken chain-link fence, the razor wire curling like thorns above her head. Mud soaked into her jeans. Her fingers were trembling, but she didn’t stop.

The drop spot was an old rusted drum — exactly as Eren said. No one else was around. No voices. No shadows.

Just the rain. And the river. And the sound of her pulse pounding in her ears.

She knelt and shoved the package inside, sealing it with a strip of black tape. Her hands were raw and slick with rainwater, her throat dry.

It was done.

She stood up, slowly, wiping her palms against her thighs. Her breathing was shallow. Not from fear—but adrenaline. The kind that made her feel alive. Or sick. She wasn’t sure anymore.

She turned toward the river, its current roaring in the distance. She slumped against the crumbling brick wall of the building, head tilted back as the rain hit her full in the face.

Just one minute, she thought.

One minute to feel something other than panic.

One minute to exist.

And then—

His voice.

Low. Calm. Unmistakable.

“You’re getting good at this.”

She flinched, eyes shooting open.

Eren stood a few feet away under the cover of a cracked awning — dry, smug, cigarette lit between his lips. His hair was damp at the ends, curls darkened by the weather, but he looked untouched by it all. As if the storm didn’t dare to touch him.

“Jesus,” she breathed, hand over her chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”

He walked closer. Slow. Deliberate.

“Then maybe hell’s got a familiar face.”

She scoffed. “You always show up like this?”

He shrugged, flicking ash onto the wet ground.

“Only when I’m impressed.”

She rolled her eyes and looked back toward the river.

“I didn’t sign up for this.”

“No,” he said, pausing. “You just never walked away.”

She turned her head sharply, eyes locking onto his.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

Eren stepped forward again, close enough for the scent of smoke and spice to wrap around her in the cold.

“Everyone has a choice,” he said. “But you keep choosing me.”

Her breath caught.

“I’m choosing my son,” she bit out. “This is survival.”

He leaned in, voice a whisper at her ear.

“Then why do you look so alive right now?”

She froze.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

The rain. The fear. The thrill. It was changing her — slowly, irrevocably. She was starting to crave the control. The power of being needed.

And Eren saw it. All of it.

He pulled something from his coat — another wad of cash. Clean. Crisp. Rubber band still wrapped tight.

“Payment,” he said, pressing it into her hand. “You earned it.”

She looked down at it. Then back up at him.

“What was in the package?”

He cocked his head.

“Don’t ask questions. Stay in your place.”

Her jaw tensed.

“I’m not your puppet.”

He stepped back, smirking.

“Want a ride?” he called out casually behind her.

She didn’t even look back. “You had a fucking car this whole time?” she snapped, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m out here playing drug mule in a goddamn hurricane—”

Eren chuckled. “And you’re still beautiful when you’re pissed.”

“Bite me, Jaeger,” she muttered, storming toward the cracked sidewalk.

A low whistle followed her.

“You really wanna walk home like that? In the dark? Soaked. Alone. With someone following you?”

She froze for half a second.

But she didn’t turn around.

She kept walking.

That’s when his voice dropped—low, sharp, and edged with something that made her spine stiffen.

“Get in the car, Y/N.”

She hesitated.

That voice… it wasn’t playful anymore. It wasn’t teasing.

It was commanding.

Possessive.

Dangerous.

She glanced over her shoulder, meeting his eyes.

He leaned against the sleek black car, drenched only at the edges, arms crossed over his chest. Raindrops glistened on his jawline as he raised an eyebrow at her.

“I’d hate for you to slip,” he said coolly. “Or for someone else to pick you up first.”

Her pulse jumped.

She rolled her eyes hard, biting down on her frustration. “You’re such an ass.”

But she turned.

And walked straight to the passenger side.

He popped the door open before she touched the handle.

“Smart girl,” he murmured.

She slid into the seat, arms crossed, dripping onto the leather as he started the engine. Warm air blasted through the vents, and she hated—hated—how good it felt.

Eren glanced over, smirking. “See? Not so bad having me around, is it?”

Y/N glared at the windshield. “Shut up and drive.”

He did.

But the grin on his face said he already won.

—

The ride was quiet at first.

The only sounds were the soft hum of tires on wet pavement and the windshield wipers beating in rhythm to the storm. Eren drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes flicking between the road and her.

She stayed quiet, arms crossed, her gaze locked out the passenger window.

But he spoke anyway.

“So…”

His voice was smooth. Too casual.

“…you talk to Levi lately?”

Y/N’s jaw flexed.

There it was.

The real reason he came.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.

Eren grinned.

“Right,” he said under his breath, licking his bottom lip. “That’s a no. Or maybe that’s a 'none of your business.'”

His fingers tapped once more, then stopped.

“You know, the silence kind of says more than anything you could say out loud.”

Her eyes flicked to him just once. “Maybe you should focus on your side of the street instead of sniffing around mine.”

He laughed. It was low. Dangerous. Like a wolf humored by a rabbit trying to bite back.

“I’m not jealous, sweetheart,” he said, voice dipped in amusement. “I just like to know who’s sniffing around what’s mine.”

Y/N scoffed. “I’m not yours.”

The red light ahead glowed through the rain.

The car slowed.

And stopped.

Without a word, Eren leaned toward her—hand sliding from the gearshift to her thigh, fingers spreading possessively over the soaked denim. His grip was firm. His body radiated heat.

She inhaled sharply, heart kicking in her chest.

He turned his head.

Their faces were close now. Too close.

And his voice—when he spoke—was a quiet, intimate threat.

“You keep acting like Levi’s the one you should be afraid of,” he murmured, his thumb brushing slow circles against her inner thigh. “But he’s not the one with his hand between your legs at a red light… is he?”

Y/N’s lips parted—but no words came out.

Eren leaned in a little closer. His breath was warm against her ear.

“You should be a lot more scared of me, baby.”

The light turned green.

He pulled back like nothing happened, shifting gears, hand leaving her thigh.

The car surged forward.

But Y/N didn’t breathe again until they were halfway down the block.

And even then… she couldn’t stop shaking.

The tires crunched to a slow stop in front of her apartment complex.

Rain slicked down the windshield, painting the outside world in streaks of gray and neon haze. The low hum of the engine buzzed in her bones. Y/N moved to unbuckle her seatbelt, reaching for the door—

But Eren shifted in his seat.

Turned toward her.

His elbow rested lazily against the steering wheel, one hand on the gearshift. That same smirk danced at the corners of his lips—lazy, smug, and laced with something darker.

He glanced down at her thighs, then up again, gaze dragging slow and unashamed.

“Tell me somethin’,” he said low, voice smooth like a sin.

Her fingers froze on the door handle.

He leaned just a little closer, eyes half-lidded, lip catching between his teeth before he spoke again.

“You ever get off on the danger?” he asked. “Or is it just me that gets you that fuckin' breathless?”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

The silence between them cracked open like thunder, but she didn’t reply. Couldn’t.

He grinned, satisfied with her quiet.

“Thought so,” he muttered.

And just like that, he leaned back, shifted gears, and slammed his foot on the gas.

The car peeled away from the curb before she even made it up the stairs—leaving her standing in the rain, jaw clenched, pulse still hammering like it wanted out of her chest.

He didn’t need to touch her again.

He already knew—

She was unraveling.

And he was the one pulling the thread.

The rain had slowed to a fine mist by the time Y/N reached the corner near Ren’s daycare. Her coat clung to her skin, the weight of everything—from the job, the ride, the words Eren left her with—settling in her bones like the cold.

She turned the block with a quickened pace, already checking the time on her burner. If she was even five minutes late, they'd tack on a fine—money she couldn’t afford to lose, not when she was stashing it between cereal boxes and paying rent in half cash.

And that’s when she collided with someone.

Hard.

“Oof—!”

She stumbled back, blinking up—

Straight into the chest of a man.

A very tall, broad-shouldered man. He gasped softly, his large hands instinctively reaching out to steady her by the arms.

“Shit—I’m so sorry,” he said immediately, his voice deep, but calm. Warm. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Y/N shook her head, brushing wet strands from her face, her breath catching from the jolt. “No, I—I wasn’t either. Sorry.”

The man gave a sheepish smile, then laughed under his breath, stepping back. He smelled like money—rich, clean cologne clinging to a tailored trench coat. Blonde hair damp from the rain curled slightly at his ears. His shoes were too expensive for this neighborhood, and the watch on his wrist definitely wasn't fake.

“I should’ve been more careful,” he said again, tone sincere. Then his eyes flicked to the bag at her hip and the tension in her shoulders. “You in a rush?”

She nodded, hugging her coat tighter around herself. “Picking up my son. Daycare charges a late fee if you’re even a minute past six.”

He smiled again—soft this time, something flickering behind his eyes. “Been there. My niece used to give me hell if I was late.”

Y/N gave a small smile in return. She didn’t usually stop to chat, but something about his presence wasn’t threatening—at least not on the surface. He held himself like someone used to command. But not in the way Eren did.

“I’m Reiner, by the way,” he said, offering a hand.

She hesitated for only half a second before shaking it. His grip was firm. Warm.

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he said, eyes kind—but they lingered a little too long. “You live around here?”

She nodded once, keeping it vague.

“Safe neighborhood?”

“Safe enough.”

He hummed, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. “Glad to hear it. We’ve had a few… incidents reported nearby. Just wanted to be sure.”

Her heart skipped.

That wasn’t casual.

But before she could ask what he meant, he smiled again. “Well, don’t let me keep you. Wouldn’t want your kid to think he’s been abandoned.”

Y/N forced a polite laugh. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want that.”

As she walked off, she felt his eyes linger for a moment longer than necessary.

Reiner didn’t turn around until she was at the daycare door.

Only then did he reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.

[SUBJECT IDENTIFIED.]

Name: Y/N [REDACTED]. Confirmed visual. Proceeds with caution. Surveillance continues.

--

taglist ; comment 2 b tagged. @hadtobeconfronted ; jaegsnicotine ; @tojiswifeforlife ; @ree5ep3ace @lostfirefly ; @nooshie11037 ; @thebestwnostress ; @alebrasil0101 ; @talia-scar123 ; @msjaeger ; @feral-childs-word ; @fatcouchpotato ; @angeldevotee

mwah,

[iantheloser]

⸻ The Lost Queen - IX ⸻

— summary: You woke up near a military camp without remembering how and why you got there, you didn’t understand why they were dressed like ancient Greeks, all you knew was that you weren’t safe and you needed to get out of that place as soon as possible. Too bad for you that you found yourself attracting unwanted attention from the Macedonian King and he won’t let you go so easily.

— genre: yandere, dark!au.

— warnings: time travel, obsessive and possessive behavior, murder, mention of torture, kidnapping, angst, fluffy (very rarely), dub-con, eventual smut, pregnancy.

— pairing: yandere!alexander the great x female!reader, yandere!generals x female!reader.

— word count: 1,600.

— tag list: @devils-blackrose, @faerykingdom, @hadesnewpersephone, @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 , @kadu-5607, @zoleea-exultant, @borntoexplore11-blog, @silmawensgarden, @elvinapandra, @jennifer0305 , @his0kaswife, @animetye-23.

— the lost queen series masterlist.

Chapter 9

A few days passed and everything remained the same except for a few changes. The atmosphere in the camp was slowly improving and Alexander seemed to have recovered after your decision.

You still regretted your choice, but you knew it was the right thing to do.

Cleitus finally woke up, to everyone's surprise, and he was recovering slowly, but that was to be expected. It was almost a miracle that he had woken up and that was both a good and a bad thing.

You had prevented his death and changed history.

You sighed and looked around you. There was a lot to be done for the imminent wedding. Alexander wanted to get married fast because they would soon go to Sogdiana Rock and everything had to be done as quickly as possible. Knowing that he would soon meet Roxanna filled you with hope and fear. You hoped he would still marry her, as he was supposed to, but you were worried.

You knew Roxanna's story and you knew what she had done to Alexander's other wives. Honestly, you were more nervous about meeting her than marrying Alexander. And if there were children...

You shook your head, it was better not to think about it for now. There was no guarantee that you would get pregnant with him so quickly and you didn't even want to think about it, the idea of getting pregnant filled you with dread, not because having children was a bad thing, but rather the circumstances and who you would be getting pregnant by. It was all very stressful and you felt like you were going to throw up if you kept thinking about it, so it was better not to think about it, no matter how hard it was.

Nor was there a guarantee that he would marry her because history has already been changed and could change again.

Your head throbbed as you thought of the countless possibilities and chaos that your presence here could have caused in the future. But there was no point in thinking about it now, you would leave soon, you were sure, and you would find out for yourself. You just hoped it wasn't too serious.

''Ugh...'' You grumbled and massaged your temples, trying to ease your headache.

There was still a lot of work to be done. Alexander left you in charge of organizing the wedding, along with some servants and slaves, because according to him, it was something women would do better at. You were tempted to throw your shoe at his head, but you didn't.

Too bad.

Honestly, you never thought your marriage would be like this, that is, if you ever got married. You definitely never thought you would marry Alexander the Great.

And you always imagined that you would have your family and friends present at the occasion, that your mother and friends would help you organize everything, it would be with someone you really loved and it would be a happy occasion.

Instead, you were being forced to marry a man who was supposed to be dead a long time ago, in a place in the middle of nowhere? You weren't sure and it was a very sad atmosphere.

The reality was harsh and painful.

You looked at some colorful fabrics left on your cot and regarded them with apprehension and perhaps disgust. Your wedding dress wasn't what you wanted either, it wasn't white lace or those beautiful dresses you only saw in movies or magazines.

You should get married in black at once, to symbolize your mourning.

You took one that was deep red in your hand and stared at it, taking in its details. It wasn't that bad, but it wasn't what you had in mind. It had some gold features, which you knew was real gold, and a very discreet neckline. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

Sighing, you prepared to try it out.

Two days passed and everything was ready. It would be a simple but beautiful ceremony, everyone was eager and excited. The atmosphere in the camp changed radically and it was as if everyone had forgotten what had happened to Cleitus and were focused on the wedding and the fact that they would have a Queen and, if the gods permitted, an heir soon.

Alexander was being prepared for the wedding. He had already showered and was putting on the final adjustments, the red tunic he would wear and some jewelry that would complete his appearance. His hair was drying naturally, he wore some kohl on his eye, highlighting his beautiful eyes of different colors, and perfumed. A sweet, soft scent radiated from his clothing.

In general, he was attractive and well dressed. There were no longer any traces of the defeated and drunken man he had been a few days ago, but of a King and a conqueror. And his men were grateful for that.

Hephaestion entered Alexander's tent and smiled to see his friend looking happier and healthier. The image he had of Alexander would still haunt him for the rest of his days.

''You look good, Alexander.'' Hephaestion commented and sat down on a chair and took a jug of water and poured it into a cup, sipping it.

Alexander looked at Hephaestion and his gaze softened and he smiled, ''You look good as well.''

And indeed, Hephaestion was well groomed, as were all the guests. He was dressed in a dark blue tunic with a few ornaments, but enough to make him look more handsome than he already was. His long hair was braided and he also wore kohl, highlighting his blue eyes.

Hephaestion smiled but there was a sadness lurking in his eyes. Alexander noticed and went to his closest friend and placed his hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. He knew that today was a painful day for him.

Hephaestion touched Alexander's hand with his own and shook his head, ''I'm fine. I just... I still don't know how to deal with this properly, but I'm fine, I promise.''

''I know it can't be easy, but it's something I have to do. As a King and as a man.'' Alexander whispered the last parts, feeling sorry for his friend. It wasn't easy, neither for him nor for Hephaestion.

''You are the King. You must marry and have an heir, I know that.'' Hephaestion smiled and faced Alexander, ''I always knew that. From our days in Mieza to when you became King of Macedonia. I always knew that.''

''Hephaestion...'' Alexander sighed, suddenly feeling melancholy.

''Do not worry about me. I am fine. The wedding will start soon, don't be late for your own wedding.'' Hephaestion stood up and placed the cup on the table and walked towards the exit, ''I'll be fine.''

Alexander smiled sadly, ''I know you will, after all, you are also Alexander.''

Hephaestion's face lit up and his face looked a little red, but he smiled and waved at his friend and turned away. Alexander watched him with regret, feeling guilty for causing his friend pain, but he couldn't shirk his duties.

And his desires. He wanted to marry you, it was a necessity and he couldn't ignore it.

The sun was setting over the war camp, painting the sky with shades of orange and pink, while the gentle breeze blew through the olive trees and poplars that surrounded the camp.

There was music and dancing involved. Some musicians played instruments, such as the harp and lyre, and dancers danced and enchanted the audience who watched them.

The bride, (Y/N), looked beautiful. Her clothes highlighted her beauty even more, a heavy red and gold tunic draped over her body, with jewelry adorning her and a red veil hid her hair, her face was clean and her natural beauty was highlighted. Her soft, wistful eye was alluring, with the kohl highlighting her color.

The ceremony began with a colorful procession, led by flutists and dancers. (Y/N), draped in a magnificent red robe, gracefully paraded through the camp, crowned with jewels. Her radiant face and eyes sparkled with joy or sadness. Alexander, dressed in a deep red robe, waited anxiously on the table, surrounded by his generals and soldiers watching from a distance.

The priest, a man of great wisdom and a white beard, led the ceremony. With the blessing of the gods, they exchanged vows of eternal fidelity and deep love. As the flame of the eternal candle burned before them, symbolizing the eternity of their commitment, the couple exchanged gold rings, a promise of love that would never lose its luster.

The wedding celebration took place under a starry sky, with long tables filled with Greek delicacies - olives, feta cheese, bread and red wine. Everyone danced to traditional music, celebrating the union of (Y/N) and Alexander. It was a night of joy and communion, where generals, friends and soldiers shared stories, laughter and wishes for eternal happiness.

This was a time of great joy and promise. The promise of an heir and the joy of a marriage that would be talked about for centuries to come.

As the night came to an end, the most awaited hour would arrive. Finally, the consummation would be made and if the gods bless the newlyweds, a child would come from their union.

Only the gods, the children born and the bride would know how cursed this union would be.

— lady l: and that was it! The wedding night is coming and I promise drama in the next chapter, this one was calmer and based on the wedding. I'm not good at describing weddings, but I did my best! I hope you enjoyed it and wait for the next chapter because it, my readers, promises to be CHAOTIC!! 😈 Hope you have liked and feedbacks are always welcome! ❤️

[iantheloser]

Yandere concept with Hunter x Hunter.

Gon’s older brother is like future tom(from eddsworld). Like Reader has something over his eyes that changes shapes and symbols to represent his eyes(Idk what it’s called),he dresses formal,but he drinks not enough to be an alcoholic though. Reader’s Nen is basically him being like Katara from Avater with being a water bender and he can blood bend. If he loses constriction it will the the target free if he’s using blood bending or will cause the water he was using to dissolve. As long as he is thinking of one thing he’s safe.

Anyways back onto the stuff. Reader’s glasses(I’m calling them glasses idc) can malfunction and show videos of random people,places,or objects that will be needed in the future but it hurts Reader. When everyone saw how calm and chil reader was when fighting it impresses people,maybe Reader was an assassin but stopped for Gon’s sake. Reader is the same age of Leorie or Illumi but he’s an adult. Reader hates talking and will use a tape recorder but has talked on accident.

Maybe during the hunter exam is when people started to get attracted to Reader as how fast he got stuff done. Killua sees him as a dad because of how fatherly and worried he acts with him whenever he’s hurt causing Killua to get attached first,Leorie is second because of how helpful and how Reader let’s him use the same flask he just used but also how protective Reader is of him,Kurapika is next as Reader is the most sympathetic and listing person he’s met. Reader always comforts him when he can and protects him. Gon was already obsessed with his older brother because he looks up to him a bit to much.

Reader has history with all the Zoldycks because he use to interfere with their assassinations out of spite. So when Killua’s family hears that their son is buddy buddy with an Assassin that messes up their assassinations their pissed rightfully! (Expect Alluka,y’all are bff’s) Silva hates Reader for how he’s replacing him as a dad and how he fucks up their missions. Yet the whole Zoldyck family wants Reader as their own and in the family just like others want Reader for themselves

[iantheloser]

“I’ll wear your scars with pride”

.

The slash on Quaritch’s vest mimics Spider’s chest scar.

[iantheloser]

Anew beginning.

[iantheloser]

Mending

Artfight revenge for @signfromeywa of their oc Ava on the left, and my oc Teresa on the right!

[iantheloser]

Yes or No ---The Freak Circus Fanfic By Destinysquared

Pairing: Pierrot/Gender Neutral MC ~~~~~WITH QUICK SKETCHES BY ME THROUGHOUT THE FANFIC ITSELF :D~~~~~~~

Summary: You've been sharing your lunch breaks with Pierrot for a few days now only to realize, you know nothing about him. Since the clown cannot speak in public, it's up to you to try and find out what he's truly thinking about. (Author notes at the end, also this fic is on my A03 linked here (leave a comment or kudos if you are able!)

---BTW I'm sorry this is so MC focused, but I promise it gets good at the end.

You didn’t remember when it all started to become a regular thing, having The Pierrot join you during your lunch breaks, but it was a welcome change of pace. His daily visits weren’t too strange, were they? That the other circus members would regularly visit the café where you worked just made sense. This was after all the closest place for them to get coffee, aside from a small kiosk with odd hours. Though the pleasant company in front of you more than made up for the small warning in the back of your mind, signaling that something was off about the clowns’ frequent visits.

Pierrot with his usual wide smile stared at you cradling a cup of soup on your shared table. Beaming at his piercing gaze, you immediately began to recount every last boring detail of your day to him. Knowing that any conversation in such a public place would be limited to mostly you, Pierrot’s rapt attention never failed to ignite the old “Class Clown” tendencies you had back in high school. Inspiring you to want to perform for the silent performer.

You exaggerated your exhaustive schedule to him, the sticky counters you’ve bussed, the orders you almost (but didn’t) get wrong, the best customers, and the worst customers. Naturally, during the latter bit of your story, his face changed to one that you’ve only seen whenever Harlequin was around.

“Don’t worry,” you chuckled at his angry, toothy expression; twirling a spoon playfully in your now tepid cup of soup. “If it helps, I gave those jerks wayyyy less whipped cream than they asked for. That’ll show em’!”

And just like that, his smile returned.

It was touching really, that Pierrot cared so much about the little things in your life.

Though your guarded heart wouldn’t allow you to think too deeply on why.

            Sadly, lunch breaks had to be shorter these days due to the lack of help in the café. Luckily, your boss did manage to find someone to come in temporarily every now and again. The extra hands helped give you both some breathing room while fishing for a full-time replacement. It was during one such day that you found yourself at one of the café’s small two-person tables; comfortably sitting across from Pierrot just as a crowd of patrons swarmed inside.

            Wincing at the scene, you empathized with both your boss and the new temp as they dealt with the onslaught. Said boss noticed you were pushing back your chair, ready to help (much to the silent clown’s dismay), but the tattooed man waved for you to keep still and enjoy the rest of your break. To which you smiled gratefully, eagerly turning back to your crimson companion.

Then, your smile faltered.

Pierrot had grabbed a few of your unused napkins and began tearing them slightly into little shapes. Sometimes during your breaks, The Pierrot would lean forward to whisper things to you. Whether they be answers to your questions or sweet compliments that made your heart flutter more than you’d care to admit. Frankly and perhaps to some, pathetically, it was a highlight of your day. Now though? The place was far too crowded for the usual small, whispered talk you both often shared. Naturally, for the sake of his act, he wouldn’t risk being heard, and that made your smile start to dip.

Now what?

The thought of not being able to communicate with him as easily as normal was disappointing. As much as you loved an engaging audience, it felt unfair to be the ringleader in a two-person act. The sweet clown who never failed to entertain, gave candy alongside a tip for every shake he ordered, listening to you with such reverence that you found yourself speaking more and more to him each day, was now heavily concentrated on a piece of flimsy paper. There was nothing either of you could do.  

You ate with The Pierrot in silence for most of the lunch break today, staring occasionally at his clawed hands tearing the poor napkins he held to shreds. Memories of past (failed) relationships made your brain drastically interpret this small obstacle as him being bored of you. Though to be fair, what did you even know about Pierrot? Are you….friends? Does he like his job? What’s going through his head right now? You couldn’t tell and suddenly, you had the urge to ask.

It was frustrating to be in the now crowded the café, yet it was far too cold to eat somewhere secluded outside. Plus, the end of your break was drawing near. No time to look for an empty diner to sit in or something. This is frustrating, you thought to yourself while sipping another bit of your soup harshly. For some reason, the urge to talk to him today was burning inside. You really wanted to communicate with him. More than that, you wanted his attention.  

Suddenly, an idea popped in your head and a slow, mischievous smirk began to form.

“Hey, want to play a game?”

Pierrot’s head bolted up so suddenly at the sound of your voice that you almost thought he pulled something by the action. His jingling head tilting with a confused expression urged you to continue. However, your throat convulsed a bit as you held back a laugh at his eagerness. Yet still, you raised your spoon as a mock microphone for the now captive audience.  

“AHEM!”, you started again with your best announcer voice. “Let’s see folks, if I can guess what The Pierrot is thinking.”

His expression was blank, the torn napkin in his fingers started to droop.

You explained regardless, “It’s simple. I know you can’t talk, but that doesn’t mean you can’t communicate.”

A dramatic pause ensued as Pierrot blinked at your amateurish showmanship.

Leaning forward with a grin wide enough to rival your companion’s, you continued in a softer, yet still loud enough to be heard over the customers’ cacophony, voice.

“The rules are thus: I get to ask as many questions as I’d like BEFORE my break ends. All to figure out what’s going on in that head of yours. Yes or no questions only of course. If I get it wrong before time runs out, I’ll personally make you a milkshake on the house. What do you say?”

For a moment it seemed you lost him. Though you did notice a small blush form on his surprised face when you leaned closer to the reddish clown. Suddenly, your hammy efforts were rewarded as a large smile formed on his masked face, followed by an eager nod. The jingling bells of his hat were barely heard amongst the crowd that seemed to never end. Even a woman who bumped into your chair as you leaned back into your seat couldn’t damped your mood now.

This was going to be fun.

“So….what is The Pierrot thinking? What is he thinking?” You tap your spoon on the edge of the soup cup contemplatively.

Pierrot was admittedly very hard to read, you knew there was a good chance he’d get that milkshake. Not that you’d admit defeat just yet. Still, his burning gaze filled you with something inexplicable, it was almost addictive to have this sort of attention on your person. No one, not even the bored students of your former school days ever looked at you this way as you pretended to perform. And though Pierrot’s hands were once again twisting and cutting up the napkin he coveted, his focus was finally back on you. Fully.

“Are you thinking about anything from the circus?”

He shook his head.

“Ah won’t Harlequin be disappointed,” you tease, chuckling at The Pierrot’s darkened expression. “Ok ok! Sorry. How about, milkshakes?”

He shook again. You were getting desperate and began to stare at his working hands.

“Are you thinking about….paper?”

Pierrot raised a palm over his mouth in a laughing gesture while shaking his head with an amused grin.

“Ok funny guy, you asked for it,” you warned with a laugh. “Are you thinking about something in this room?”

Suddenly his eyes brightened as he nodded vigorously at your guess. You smiled. Now we were getting somewhere.

“Ok….is it about the coffee?” you got your answer swiftly. “No? Well, we ruled out milkshakes….Cakes? Our danishes? The smell of Clorox on the table?”

And once more, you were batting zeroes. With a slight sweat beading on the back of your neck, your eyes darted to the clock behind Pierrot and the crowd. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much time left before you had to join your co-workers in the battlefield that is known as customer service, and sadly admit defeat.  

“What about…….the people in here?” you asked with a nervous shrug.

Pierrot’s grin grew wider but he only gave a small nod as he raised one pointer finger up by his face.

“What?” you squinted. “One? Ohhh wait? You’re thinking about just one person, then?”

He nodded, this time more enthusiastically, enough so for his many bells to ring once more.

“Huh…so you’re thinking about someONE, not someTHING?” you blinked realizing.

It’s not like Pierrot knew anyone else in the room, as far as you could tell. No one from the circus seemed to be on the endless line formed at the counter. Plus, your boss had always tried to stay away from the performers, preferring to count inventory whenever they were around. So it likely wasn’t him.

 It took you less time than usual, but more than most to FULLY realize.

Was it…?

“Me?”

Pierrot then gently cupped his hands together, the torn-up napkin still resting but now hidden between his palms. He nods happily, eagerly with a growing blush on his face as you finally guessed right. Your mouth parted slightly at this revelation. Heart skipping a beat for only just a moment before your anxiety quickly stilled the effect.

 You’ve seen each other nearly every day.

Of course he’s thought about you.

Of course it made sense.

It didn’t mean anything else. He’s just being nice. That’s what friends do…..if we even were friends.

Or maybe, it’s a joke?

You quickly scoffed into a short laugh, giving your best Shakespearian pose. Hands both on your chest, head tilted back. You decided to go along with what you perceived as a friendly jest from The Pierrot.

He’s from the circus after all, isn’t this how they do things?

“Aww you’re thinking about me?” you gushed with flamboyance. “I’m flattered, but what could you be thinking about specifically? Hm? Oh. I think I know.”

You then stretched one arm towards the clown, the other still on your chest. Eyes now closed with a cat-like grin on your face.

“You’re thinking about how utterly gorgeous I am and how meeting me was the greatest thing to ever happen to you in your life.”

It’s a shame your eyes were closed. You would have noticed the shine in Pierrot’s. How they simultaneously shimmered and shook like dishware in an earthquake. The way his body stiffened, holding back an unfamiliar hunger. For a moment, the silent clown panicked. Wondering if you truly could read minds. How much easier and harder it would be then, wouldn’t it? His heart stilled, gripping the arteries that held it in place like stretched violin strings. His hands, clasping together, fingers tight but palms apart so as not to crush the torn paper napkin between them. Your eyes were closed, and for the first time since he’s known you, Pierrot showed his true feelings while you were awake. Only after your eyes opened, confused by his frozen, and slightly crooked smile, did his heart begin to beat once more.

Just as you were about to ask if he was ok, reassure him that you were in on the joke he clearly must have been making, claws suddenly clamped down on your tender flesh.

Pierrot gently but quickly grabbed your outstretched hand.

He jutted forward like a tiger on a mouse, yet he cradled your fingers like porcelain. One clawed appendage below, touching the back of your hand, the other on your palm.  It didn’t hurt or anything, but it startled you. You gave out a small gasp at the terrifying yet soft gesture. The sheer juxtaposition of his bold actions with tenderness was overwhelming. Confusing. Dizzying.

Eventually, you met his eyes again as he slowly nodded towards you with a gaze so piercing it rivaled the sharpness of his hidden blades.

Soon, Pierrot finally let you go.

Your arm lowered a bit without his hands to keep it in the air, but you were too entranced by his actions to notice the gift he left in your palm. Gulping, you felt your face began to heat up as you had trouble looking away from his eyes. Eyes that almost seemed like a cat’s slitted stare in this light, ready to pounce, but you shook your head quickly at the impossible thought.

Then, you noticed.

In your hands was the torn-up napkin Pierrot had been playing with this whole time, or at least you thought it was. Instead of just scraps of paper one would assume he was just slicing and twisting out of boredom, was instead shaped like a rose.

A rose just for you.

Like the tinnitus you occasionally got from having dealt with screeching Karens all day, the sound of the crowded room you both sat in faded for a while. Even the call of your boss telling you that your break was over, barely made it past your ears. This whole time Pierrot continued to study at you with a smaller, more serious smile than he usually had. Golden apertures capturing your every move. It caused a shiver down your spine. One could swear they heard the clown breathe harder as your mouth parted and cheeks flushed a deeper red.

Your hand curled slightly around the napkin flower that he gave you, caging it gently.

This was your prize. You won the game.

-------------------------------------------

Author Notes: So like....I'M SORRY I'm so wordy guys. Like soooo wordy. But still, I hope you like and I hope it makes sense? Sorry though for those who may find some terms I've used difficult to understand. Sadly, english is my only language so I've used phrases/colloquialisms that are familiar to me in here. Still....had this idea in mind for days.....wrote it out in two hours....edited in three hours throughout this week. And made these sketches real quick to help. Cause I also felt bad that this fic MAINLY focuses on the MC more than our beloved Pierrot. Still, I hope you like. Haven't written a fanfic in over 15 years so like....thank you @nekoboydreams for inspiring me artistically as both a painter and a writer---- though funnily enough, I'm also a video editor and I 'might' have plans for something using video with pierrot there but i haven't even THOUGHT about that so don't hold your breath guys. Enjoyyyy either way. Got this fic again on A03 linked here.

[iantheloser]

“is he bothering you, ma’am?” the kind stranger asks as he approaches your table, a concerned look on his face as he eyes Satoru up and down, who so casually leans against the table with a smirk.

for the past hour, while you were busy typing in your laptop, Satoru happened to simply drop on the chair in front of you, rambling your ears out even though he knew you were not listening, “you’re gorgeous, do you have a boyfriend?” he asks, no response.

“oh, hard public, hm? that’s okay, you are still gorgeous, can I give you my number?” no response. yet his stupid little smirk stays present.

“your boyfriend is not worth your time, baby, you should date me instead”

“what are you drinking? want a refill?”

“did it hurt when you fell from—”

until the kind stranger interrupts, his eyes are cautious as he keeps them on the blue eyed, this time you speak with a sigh and little polite smile, “i’m fine, thank you, he’s my husband”

[iantheloser]

Neytiri is GOING THROUGH IT MY POOR GIRL. She's still very clearly grieving, and trying to process the death of her son and the ongoing danger her family is in. The second to last photo appears to be her after she's been shot with an arrow, which is why I'm guessing she's in the hospital.