#Depression…. and it is a hole in the ground

[junedenim]

2020

beneath the boardwalk, part 18 (series masterlist)

perfect sense

warnings: i ain't spoiling this shit

word count: 14k

Winter was an open-stretched yawn, mouth hanging open, jaw locked in place. No bite to the bark. Alex and I had been at my father’s since Christmas Eve Eve, and it was now Alex’s 34th birthday, which he was spending running errands at the behest of my father. Every time he returned, my father seemed to have a new task for him. “Oh, Alex, did you not get (fill in the blank)?” 

Then, he had been charged with setting up a handle for the shower, which I suggested should be done by a professional, but my father said, “But I want to take a shower tonight, Janie.” Sickness is the reversion of an adult back into a whining child. 

Alex, who had never held a drill before, and I, who had the impatience and temper that made me scream at IKEA furniture, set up the shower handle. “The guy isn’t bedridden and has a stool in here. Can’t Pat just shower with him or something?” I complained to Alex as we struggled to figure out how to use a stud finder.

His laughter echoed off the shower walls. “I think he just wants to feel he can still do things on his own.”

I sighed, “I know. What if you miss the spot and this whole house comes tumbling to the ground?”

“I’m not gonna miss the spot,” he insisted as he lined the drill up.

“Mhmm, sure.”

He stared up at me. “Do I usually miss the spot?”

“Didn’t you hammer your thumb once?”

“Says the girl that once had to get stitches from stabbing scissors through a sheet of paper.”

“I was 8.” I was trying to cut a hole in the center. It ended unsuccessfully, clearly.

“I’m the one holding the drill.” He held it up in the air, pressing down on the trigger, allowing it to emit a loud noise through the air. He was a complete dork. “I’ll be doing the drilling.”

I crossed my arms. “Alright. I’ll be in the other room doing some drilling of my own.”

He playfully furrowed his brows. “With your dad?”

“Shut up.”

Harper made Alex a cake because she’s the homemaker type who can make a house a home. She and her family, as well as Greg and his family, were staying at a nearby hotel, while Alex, Stacey, Paul, and I were staying in the extra rooms here. There were some privileges to not having kids; however, my father had become a child of his own.

My father was in hospice, although he could still care for himself relatively well, and had Pat, the new girlfriend, to assist. It was clear in the coming weeks that more assistance would be required. We were trying to get ahead of the needed tools, hence the shower handle.

Harper’s cake, a vanilla cake with chocolate frosting, and Alex’s birthday put a little excitement into an otherwise depressing winter. Alex deserved all the love in the world for putting up with my family for the entirety of this time and electing to celebrate his birthday here, in this depressing little world, rather than London or Sheffield. He said it’s because he needed a taste of Harper’s cake, but I knew it was all for me, for me. 

My father used to eat the biggest slice of cake, but he now struggled to swallow more than a few bites of the sugar-ridden thing. A picture was taken that would be the only photo of the whole family together, partners and children included.

Everyone was talking about how nice the day had been. Greg said something about the sun being positioned perfectly, an odd statement from a generally unpoetic guy. 

As Alex moved to go to the bathroom, my father took his arm, whispering words to him that were unheard by the rest of the table. They shook hands like two civil, loving men. Alex left for the bathroom, and my father waved me off for staring and said, “Don’t be rude, Jane.”

I held my hands up before moving to take the dirty dishes into the kitchen. Later, I was joined by Alex carrying in empty glasses as I waited for the faucet water to run warm. “What did he tell you?”

“Mhmm?” He hummed a curious sound, not looking at me, making headway for the dishwasher.

“My dad, when he pulled you aside, what was he saying?”

He took a deep inhale, loading the dishwasher before formulating a thought, only able to do one at a time. He then came over to me, leaning his back against the counter before me, like we were casually talking while washing up dinner. But I couldn’t move because Alex was being intentional with his words, which meant whatever my father had said had affected him in a deep sort of way.

“He thanked me. For everything.” He was emotional. I didn’t have the right to know what they said. It had been an unusually deep conversation for my father, for which I did not have the right to be privy to. “You know, the shower. Very nice. Very nice.”

He averted his eyes, and I smiled over at him, simply pleased by the sight of him. “He doesn’t do that often.” I sighed and turned the water off, giving up on the work. “I hate this. I want to go home. I feel like I’m suffocating in here.”

He came closer to me and soothed my tension with a hand on my back. “We can leave right now if you want to. Drive right back and be home before midnight.”

I shook my head. “We can’t do that. I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you want to do?”

Want, what a relief to hear that word. “Nothing. I want…I want to be someone else. I want it to be a fun birthday for you and this is all just depressing.”

“Hey, I don’t give a fuck about my birthday. I loved this.”

“Don’t humour me. I want you to be mean to me. Say something rude. I want to fight. Something to get my mind off this nonsense. Tell me I’m ugly or something.”

He laughed because how could he not, I was basically forcing a gun to his head. “I’m not telling you you’re ugly, Janie.”

“Then, finger me in the bathroom. Let’s do something wild.”

His mouth dived into the curve of my neck and he rumbled a laugh while flicking his tongue over the sliver of skin. “Nice try.” He squeezed my side and I felt so aroused so quickly I could’ve spontaneously combusted. “You get all the head on my birthday.”

I tugged on his belt. “I’ll give you head. I’ll give it right here if you want.” I might have entered a psychotic state. I hadn’t been sleeping much.

He snorted, tipping his head back. When he returned, levelled to me, he was warm in his eyes, holding a sticky sweetness in them. I could’ve dipped a finger in his iris for a taste of honey. His touch slipped down to the tips of my hands, lancing our fingers. “You want to get married?”

“What?” I doubled. “Now?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I guess we can’t get a license and all that, but we could act it out. Like a playground wedding.” I shrugged. “Everyone’s already here.”

I bumped my chest into his. “But it’ll be so embarrassing.” I was coloured a beet red down to the soles of my feet. 

His laughter would indicate this was all a big joke, which it was to us, but we would still do it. Alex and I have still never gotten a marriage license, so technically we aren’t married, but we are. Whatever that means to you, but it means this to us.

“Yeah, but your discountenance for it makes me want to do it even more.” He gathered me in his arms, practically scooping me up. “I know I can be a pain, but come on, bite the bullet.”

“You know it’s not the You part of it that makes me not want to do it,” I told him. “You’re already my husband in every sense except the ceremonial sense.”

“Do it for me then. In the backyard with those stupid lights Harper made me put up. Or here in the kitchen. I like the lightning here.”

He was an entire mountain and I was the snow that lay upon him, melting and hardening into him. He was a firefly I had caught in the backyard of Will’s mother’s garden. Or the moon, simply the moon. 

His face was the incandescent whole of my past, present, and future. He was the center of me, the only thing holding this mess together. I didn’t want to cry because that would be cheesy, and how could I, effectively getting married in the middle of my father’s kitchen, cry?

Alex held his palm to one of my cheeks and kissed the other. “Yeah,” he said, clearly aware that I couldn’t speak. I was frozen, hoping the moment would freeze alongside me. “I’m good with here if you’re good with it.”

I hugged him, wanting to hold him, and wanting him to hold me. We swayed back and forth for a minute. I detached myself from him. “Say something real cheesy now.”

“Like what? Do you want me to do the chicken dance?” We cracked in a lachrymose laughter. “I do, Janie. And all that.”

“Okay.” I pursed my lips to hold my sobs inward.

He nudged me. “And you?”

I nearly gave way to turning away from the tenderness of the situation, bubbling enough to erupt, and destroy the whole of the United Kingdom, the debris spreading to take out the whole of Europe. Ireland wouldn’t make it either. I was close to shouting something like ‘I don’t!’ or ‘That’s terrible!’ but I thought if this was my wedding, if we were getting married right now in the eyes of God or Buddha or just ourselves, then what a terrible way to declare my love for a man, a boy, a person, Alex by shouting these things at him, especially when he looked softer than I’d ever seen him.

But what could I say to measure up to him, looking like that, saying, I do to me, to Janie. And all that, encompassing a world we had shared together. I didn’t have words to give him. I wanted him to feel weak in the knees like I did at just the quiver of his lip. “Does he know what that does to me?” I thought.

I thought the same thing when I was 17, begging him to kiss me. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. I don’t think I was even a person before him. I couldn’t imagine myself full-formed without him. It was an unimaginable fever dream. I began and ended with him.

At the moment, I couldn’t think of anything, at a loss for words completely, other than “Love you.”

At that, he split in two. I saw it. His shoulders dropped, and I realized how nervous he had been that I was going to turn him down, spout some hate about how ridiculous this was. I knew I had been hard to handle, always, but especially during the last few months. He cupped my face on both sides. He didn’t want me to move away from him. I gave myself over in an act that any other situation, I would say was a transformation into a Stepford wife, except this. I could never make fun of this.

His lips touched mine. A second, a minute, or could’ve been an hour, unsure, unlikely, but possible. He broke away a millimeter, whispering into me, “Love you too.” It was mouth-to-mouth. He was breathing for both of us.

He moved further, not away from me, but enough to see the look in my eyes, deducing, and finally accepting with a smile. “So…is that it?”

I huffed laughter. “Don’t act so disappointed.”

He gave a quick stroke to my cheek, a wipe to a stray tear. “Never,” he promised. It was the seal on the back of an envelope. “Should I go around calling you my wife now, or would that make you vomit?”

I wrapped my arms around his neck. A holding hug was more affectionate to me than any longing makeout session. “Depends. Like when you get hit on by someone and you say, ‘I’m not sure my wife would take very kindly to this.’ That’s hot. But talking to me like ‘Get dinner ready, wife.” That’s reason enough for divorce.”

He pulled back to bump his nose against mine, a full grin covering his face. “I’d never trust you with dinner.”

Footsteps neared the kitchen, making us pull away from one another like we would be caught having an affair with one another, two sparks flying away. I returned to the sink, making friends with the dishes. “What a way to say ‘Just married.’” Alex noted.

I violently shushed him. He just chuckled and leaned on the counter beside me, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He was the cutest husband ever. Greg walked in, and he’s about as unperceptive a person can get.

The news of our kitchen wedding slowly spilled out. To most people, we said we had a quick courthouse wedding, something that was only becoming trendy and less alarming, although Greg did ask if I was pregnant. 

To my father, I told him that evening. Every night, I was increasingly terrified he wouldn’t make it through the night. I slipped into his bedroom before he turned the lights out, asking if he needed anything before we went to bed.

He grunted a no and sank into bed, shutting his eyes.

I knelt at his bedside and grabbed his hand. “Dad, Alex and I are married.”

He lifted one eyelid. “Since when?”

“After dinner, in the kitchen.”

“Is this some reference I’m supposed to know?”

“No,” I laughed, “just something we’re doing.”

“Pft, a new way. I don’t get it.”

“That’s fine.”

“Better way to do it. I should’ve never gotten married.” I was prepared to let the comment slip. I felt no need to tell a man on his deathbed, ‘No regrets!’ But he corrected himself, “No, that’s not true. I liked being married. It’s the second-best thing a man can do. No, third. Children are second. First is…”

“What?”

“Know how to use a drill.”

We chuckled together. He beamed with pride at this joke. “Did the shower handle fall off?”

“No, no,” he said. “He did an alright job. It’s uneven, but I’ll give the guy a few practice swings.”

*

Before we left my father’s home, I placed a sealed envelope in Alex’s bag, containing the following handwritten letter:

It is late, and you’re not awake, so I’ll write all I’m thinking here. It’ll come out better than what I say aloud. I found I’ve been reduced to my unfortunate speaking habits when I talk to you. It’s too hard to formulate everything I want to say when you look at me the way you do. I want you to experience all the joys I get from looking at you and it breaks my heart that you’ll never get to experience feeling you the way I feel you, but I feel I might be the luckiest soul alive that I’m the only one who gets to feel this way. I have likely reused “feel” an overwhelming amount, but this, after all, is a letter about how I feel. 

During this period of my life, I’m stuck thinking about death more than I ever want to. I’m thinking of waking up one morning without my father, and I know it’ll come soon. Tonight I lie awake thinking of waking up one morning without you. I don’t mean to bog you down with thoughts of your own death, but I know you know I can’t help but see things this way lately. Sometimes, I have survived aimlessly in this world in the sole thought that you are out there breathing. I don’t think I will survive the day that ends.

I don’t wish to discuss this topic anymore, so I will be awkwardly switching it here, as is my fashion. 

Do you ever wish I wrote about you the way you have written about me? I tried once, back in the early years, I’m not sure which one, but I hoped to write something that would make people shout for it the way they did for “Mardy Bum.” It’s the adult experience that I have only now found appreciation for those songs. I spent years wishing to feel for them the way other people did. My proximity to them was too close at the time. Every time I heard it, I thought about that fight. Now, I still think of that fight, but with a longing to be fighting again. I went to relive all we have done again.

I’ll spend a lifetime living in the past, but I’d like to have you join me there, too. I hope this note can be somewhat of a building block to reach your tower of love notes, songs, and words. I have tried to think of declarations of love that could measure up to yours. During those times, I found myself simply comparing my words to yours, and until now, I didn’t realize it’s not about measuring up against you. I suffer from the competitive comparison game, but there’s nothing to compare. We share this feeling so I don’t have to tell you about every way I feel inside and out because I know you feel exactly the same.

But in case you ever need reminding because I can be awful sometimes, the worst maybe, I want you to have this, just as I have your songs, heart, e-mails, notes, and a load of other nonsense that I kept for years, despite the ephemera having no value to anyone, except me, and maybe you too.

I’ve never been good at poetry. I feel I suffer through most things and simply say how that makes me feel rather than waxing poetically about the moon. (Not meant to be a dig, obviously, the moon is for you and Earth is for me. You know, Mars for men, Venus for women, but moon for Al and Earth for me.)

If I’m speaking of space, and the little I know of it, I’ll speak of the gravitational force we share, keeping you locked to me. I have never felt you to be far, even when you are. Only a room away from one another, I miss you terribly, but I can feel you through the walls. Do you feel that buzzing when I’m near? I have a radar, a chemical reaction, that alerts me that you are near too. An internal compass, pointing you to my true north, Polaris. (I think that’s right).

I talk to you all the time in my head, so it’s unimaginable that you’d ever stray too far because you’re simply always on my mind. Even writing here, I am convinced you are the paper and I’m etching my words into you. 

The first thing you left with me was your ear. I can hear myself talking to you now, at 17, asking you to kiss me, I thought that in the kitchen. I didn’t think until years later that I could marry you because I felt unworthy of you for so long. I hope you no longer feel the need to assure me otherwise because I believe it now. I’ve seen the notes and the things you tried so hard to stuff in the drawers out of my reach, but I’m thankful they never faded, and I have the proof that it wasn’t all in my head. Sometimes I think I made you up, that’s how good you are.

Do you know how good you are? I see you shrink sometimes, doubting it. I understand it to be the human condition to feel we are never good enough, but I do believe you are good to, for, and with me. Just as I feel with you. Whenever I think about how awful I am, I think of how good you are, and know I can’t be that bad if I have earned your love.

Allow me to be a bit sentimental here, as if I haven’t suffered through that this whole letter, and my whole life. I often think of that tomato I had in the garden during one of our first conversations and how it was this perfect, juicy, red tomato. The first time we spoke, when you called me “Jeanie” and spoke in repetition to me “Jane, Jane, Jane,” I wore a red skirt. I flushed red every time I saw you after that night in my room when I embarrassed myself so deeply, it still haunts me to this day, and if you ever have anything to make up for, it is making me suffer through that because why couldn’t you just kiss me? Did you already know how good it would be and couldn’t control yourself? (You don’t really have to make up for it, I’ve already forgiven you a thousand times over ((but I won’t forget))). 

Maybe I’m reading into the colour red too much, so I’ll pass over that and skip to you and those stupid jeans that had the writing on them, and when you passed your notebook over the hood of my car. Did you know how much of a badass you looked in that moment? You were the ultimate dork and I loved you. Love you. I love every version of you, but maybe that little boy most of all. Forgive me for this, but I think he needs that love most of all. I still see him when you’re hunched over a notebook at our dining room table.

You were a dickhead for fooling me that you were writing instead of drawing little stick figure versions of me, but you changed my life by doing that. I can’t help but feel like you knew how the future would go and you were some agent sent to guide me on my path. You knew me down to my core and I could tell just by the way you looked at me.

I thought what a terrible thing it was to be known by you and I felt sorry for every girl who had ever crossed your path. Now, I think otherwise in long tangents about how unlucky they were to pass you up. 

I hope you see the little details of my love in this and in the acts I commit. If you feel I ever stray from this, simply throw this letter at me and say I wrote it here. I quite like it when you try to act all chauvinistic. It’s either internalized misogyny or knowing how laughable it is for you to be all macho. The only pride you seem to have is for me. I don’t know how I got it. Some past life karma, I suppose. But thank whoever it was for me, but thank yourself first and most of all.

Love,

Janie

p.s. There are many other things I didn’t write here that I’ll wish to add later. I reserve the right to do so, but I will not amend any of these words. There’s no need. There will never be. Any love I don’t know how to write, I shall show you. Unless you want a dirty letter, I can bring out my best James Joyce for you, my dirty little fuckbird.

*

We got His and Hers towels as a gag gift from Opal. It was waiting for us when we returned to London. A week later, my father was admitted to the hospital. We drove to him with only silence between us, but music on the radio. The only adjustment came when “Honey” by Roger Miller came on. Alex reached over, turned up the song’s volume, and placed his hand on my thigh.

*

My father was released back home into his quasi-hospice care. There were no nurses, only children, an amusing occurrence that a man who had servants who took care of him his whole life, only in near-death would he decide against a caregiver, instead placing the weight onto his children.

I was not the caregiver. The other children took care of that, primarily Stacey. Harper cooked, and Greg talked about mundane things with him, mainly sports. Alex would occasionally join in these conversations as if only to prove his presence was there sometimes. My siblings’ spouses were far more vocal than Alex was. I will claim and declare love for these in-laws, but I find them to be garrulous in their conversational skills, and this is in comparison to me.

Alex and I mainly took up the front of errand runners. Other than Stacey, I was the only one who didn’t have children to also care for during this time, and since Stacey seemed suctioned to my father’s side, Alex and I navigated the outside world for the family.

My father sat in a recliner in the living room for the majority of the day, only transferring to and from the toilet and his bed. We ate our meals scattered about the living room. I had never visioned the immensity of my family with four children, each with the spouse, a total of six grandchildren, Oswald, my mother joining later toward the end, Pat, and the fifth child, who I had never felt to be near before, but now in that room it’s like we were reanimating Tom with the noise of words we made. 

The older folks claimed sitting on the floor would be too rough on their bones, but Stacey refused to move from our father’s side, and Paul didn’t leave Stacey’s side. So, Alex and I sat on the floor with the children.

These were parting regards, and soon people started disappearing. The grandchildren went back, along with the in-laws, except Paul and Alex; one benefit of no children is getting your spouse all to yourself.

Stacey had gone out for the day at the demand of my father and the arm-pulling from Paul. Alex went into the kitchen, making lunch, and keeping his position as a worker. I know I have withheld much of the truth of my father’s last days here. It is an effort that, after his death, I may preserve his greater moments rather than the ones where he placed himself in poor lighting. My father didn’t want Alex there. I never found out why, but I suspect he was a little embarrassed. He said he wasn’t family and had no right to be there. So, Alex kept to the kitchen and was the errand boy. He didn’t care, perhaps relieved to avoid the sputtering man for the majority of our stay there.

“Jane,” my father said. He laid his hand on top of mine. He was cold and blue and had been all winter. His fingers were stuck in a constant half-curled position, too swollen to close into a fist or stretch open. I laid his hand upward and rested mine in his hand bowl. “I have something for you.”

“Yes?” My father’s gift-giving was rare, even on birthdays and Christmas, which had passed less than a month ago. 

He cleared his throat. His voice had grown raspier in the last few months. He now struggled to speak for long stretches of time. It was thought he would lose the ability to talk, but he didn’t. He talked until the end. “I’m giving you Oswald.”

I glowered at him. “The dog?” 

“No, the lucky rabbit, you fucking idiot, yes the dog.”

“Okay,” I hesitantly said. “Why?”

“Someone has to take care of him.”

I didn’t tell him how idiotic it was for him to get a dog with the knowledge he would be dead in a year, because someone might consider that to be rude to say to a man dying of cancer. “Why not Greg or something? He already has Tipper.” His Cocker Spaniel of six years and very annoying dog.

“And three kids. It’ll be good practice for your future children.”

“Don’t talk about that.” Introducing any children I had to their grandfather through pictures dejected me, even though introducing any children I had to their grandfather through meeting him dejected me as well, getting his whiskey and cigar breath all over them. “Stacey doesn’t have any children.”

“Stacey doesn’t want him. I already asked.”

“So, I’m the second choice. Or third. Did Harper turn you down, too?”

“No, Harper will barely go near him. You’ve already got that turtle anyway. You have a mothering instinct that I don’t know where you got from. God knows not your mother.” I rolled my eyes and he held up his hand to prevent me from saying anything against him. “I have a trade-off for you. If you take Oswald.”

“What? A big fat cheque?”

“This.”

“What?”

He motioned to his surroundings. I looked at him blankly, completely lost by his gestures. I leaned closer with bemusement. “The house, Jane.”

“This house?”

“My inheritance to you.”

The house sat in a wide, unmaintained field. The next closest house was a quarter mile down the road. A herbaceous border around the Cotswold house with moss climbing up the walls. There’s a little cottage in the back. An unowned pond just out of reach, but close enough to say it was yours. “Fine,” I said as if I were the one suffering. I shook his hand and said I would go get his lunch now.

I went into the kitchen, jumping. Alex stood puzzled. Perhaps, jumping for joy that my father’s death would leave you with a nice, beautiful house was poor behaviour, but it really is a nice house. 

My father died the following week. I haven’t wrapped my head around it enough to write it here. I might have grieved him long ago, letting go of the idea of a relationship a father and child should have. Death is strange and a topic too personal for me to expand on. Tommy and my father are still constant figures to me, not solely in pictures and memory, but I don’t believe they’re dead. I don’t find myself to be eloquent enough to try and write about death here. I don’t think I ever will be. I feel I have misplaced them somewhere, and I will be looking for where they ended up for the rest of my life.

*

What to do with that damn dog? He had always been a well-behaved dog, but said dog had to travel in a small car to a new home with two people, who weren’t particularly enthused to have him. Alex tried to seem enthusiastic, but he was never good at faking emotion with me, especially one of EXCITEMENT! He was more excited. I couldn’t blame him because I was about as thrilled at the thought of picking up poop as anyone when told they have to start picking up shit.

But, you know, he was pretty cute. All black fur with a wet nose poking at my knees whenever he wanted to go for a walk. Alex mainly handled that because I was grieving, and all, a convenient excuse for anything. I didn’t do dishes for a whole month.

We began cleaning out my father’s house, which was relatively bare considering the man was about as sentimental as you’d expect. Most of it, like the furniture, was kept or taken by someone. On the first night with only Alex and me in the home (and Oswald and Louie, of course), we went through the music my father owned. CDs, records, and cassettes that added up to two shelves in the living room. They were mostly jazz and yacht rock. My father was very weirdly into Kenny Loggins. Nobody was sure why.

Wedged between Mose Allison and Louis Armstrong, sat Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not. I held it up to Alex. “Do you think he ever actually listened to this?” I asked Alex, but then answered the question myself. “Maybe once. I gave this to him. Or rather, left it on the shelf for him to listen to, with no mention that I left it. I was very embarrassed about you for a long time.”

“Embarrassed by me?” Alex unseriously gaffed. His hand held to his chest in a doubtful expression of offense.

I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean. I never wanted the two words to collide. I didn’t want you knowing them and them knowing you. I was embarrassed by the whole ‘This is my boyfriend, Alex.’” My voice dropped hoarsely deep during the quotation. 

“You were far more self-conscious than I ever perceived you to be.”

My eyebrows raised. “Really?” In my mind—the previously established self-conscious one—I figured everyone was laughing behind my back about how much of a show I put on for people. In retrospect, I still cringed at the way I made myself the center of attention, a constant need to overshadow people, even if the attention was detrimental. 

“Yeah,” he said with no second thought. Even if no one noticed my insecurities, I figured it was an impossibility that Alex didn’t. He gave me far more than a once-over, in a constant exchange of a viva voce with one another, deeply involved, every utterance counted against you. “I found you to be unassailable.”

“What?”

He stopped what he was packing up, standing straight to stare me down with that same searing look. “Come on, you were very prepossessing, Janie. You were lionized by everyone at Barnsley, and you were a tad…” he looked down, nodding his head at the floor, pushing to word out, “Intimidating,” following it with a chuckle.

“I know all that.” Prompting him to chuckle further. “But I was pretty insecure, I know that for sure.”

“Yeah, well.” He moved a small stack of CDs back and forth in his hand like his brain tossing the thought around. “I felt it was one thing we had in common. When we first talked.” He placed the CDs in the cardboard box, finally ridding himself of them.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “I found you to be pretty puny.”

He tilted his head with a grin of acknowledgement. “You were fucking rigid. I thought you had a metal pole instead of a spine.”

I laughed, confused. “What? Like a scoliosis patient?”

“No,” he said with amusement, “like you had a giant stick up your ass. Or maybe lack of. You’re a little chicken. I wondered what kind of person could put up with Will.”

I rolled my eyes and went back to the shelf of CDs. “I was a tolerant individual.”

He hummed. I was unsure if he agreed, but I never asked further. We continued in silence, besides the droning of the Frank Sinatra record we put on for the clean-up. The room had slowly been getting colder as night swept in, so I went to get a sweater, the billowing, overgrown kind.

“Holy shit,” I uttered as I happened upon one of the last CDs. Placed completely out of order, shoved on the shelf, was one of Arctic Monkeys’ demo CDs, post hoc known as Beneath the Boardwalk. “How does he even have one of these?” I still hadn’t adjusted my language to the past tense. I still tend to refer to him in the present, and I don’t feel much of a need to adjust this language structure because he still feels like a constant in my life.

Alex took the CD in his hand, pressing his fingerprints all over the jewel case. “Fucking hell, I can’t even remember the last time I saw one of these. What a knobhead I look like.”

He handed me the CD back and I popped it open. “Oh my god, it’s Stacey’s. I can’t believe my dad kept this, but Stacey didn’t.”

“You lost the CD I personally gave you,” he reasoned. “Should we keep it? Or is that weird?” 

We looked down at it as if it were a child we were deciding to give up for adoption. “It’s your decision.”

“It’s your sister’s CD.”

I slipped it back onto the shelf. “I’ll ask Stacey if she wants it.” I never did ask Stacey, and it stayed on the shelf, stuck after the alphabet like it was its own miscellaneous shelf, too personal to categorize. 

*

Things never settled, they just kind of stopped, forced to halt. We never made it back to London, staying put in our billet. It was ideal to be in what felt like the middle of nowhere, preventing cabin fever, slightly, at least.

When things were fresh—the lockdown, the home, the “marriage”—Alex and I took up playing various games, Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, Cluedo, chess, and gin rummy. It was easy to place on a record and play to last the whole day.

During a terrible game of Scrabble, in which Alex played “zein” for 81 points and we fought over whether it was a word for twenty minutes, with neither of us simply thinking that we could look it up if it was a qualified word. (In case you’re wondering, it is. Zein: [/ˈzēən/] n. the principal protein of corn. From modern Latin Zea (genus name of maize) + -in from the English suffix -ine, meaning forming names of organic compounds, pharmaceutical products, proteins, etc. Bastard). The days stretched long, if you couldn’t tell, or simply know.

Alex began to vomit about a week in. So…that was fun. He had caught the flu, of course. I was quarantined with the one person who got the flu during the worldwide pandemic. I subjected myself to the fate of getting the flu by taking care of him, but I also got my flu shot that year, so, yeah, it worked, and I never got sick. I ha-ha-ed in Alex’s face like Nelson Muntz for a good week after he was sick, of course, because I’m a professional caregiver.

I made a terrible chicken soup, but he didn’t seem to mind. He ate it as little as he ate the rest of his food, slurping down a few sips before saying it was too much. He confined himself to the bedroom for the majority of the sickness. I slept in the guest room because he was up every other hour. 

Oswald and I grew very close during this time. We sat on the couch and watched TV. His head would sit in my lap the same way Alex’s did. Everyone slept a lot, a painful amount. We were all bored, even Louie, whose life hadn’t changed much other than the location of his terrarium. Life felt tiring that April.

On Alex’s last night of sickness, he declared he would feel better in the morning, kissed my cheek goodnight, then wiped it with his hand to “prevent the germs,” and then he went to bed. I was nursing a cup of tea with Oswald’s nose poking my stomach, and watching Chernobyl, the first of my pandemic shows.

About ten minutes into the first episode, I began to uncontrollably sob over the idea of the impending nuclear disaster, which had in fact already occurred 34 years ago. I was a month old when Chernobyl happened, and it had no effect on me because I was a month old, but weepy and curious, I called my mother, who stayed up later than anyone I knew.

“Mummy,” I whimpered, a word that hadn’t been uttered since a time period about as far back as Chernobyl. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Other than the sobbing, but that felt like a release. I hadn’t cried since the funeral. I had been in business mode since then. I figured this to be the levee breaking. “What was Chernobyl like?”

“Are you high?”

“No.”

“Okay. I’m a little high,” she giggled.

“Alright.” I was stoic for a moment before breaking into a giggle too. “I’m watching that mini-series and I was wondering what it was like.”

She bubbled around before managing to say, “A little like this. Not as severe, but a panic. Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, you know, for the most part.”

“I understand. I feel that way too.”

“Enjoy your high.”

“Thank you.”

*

The following morning, Alex was still asleep when I woke up. I made a cup of tea, had mildly burnt toast, and caught the last half of The Thin Man. Alex arose after I finished my toast. He looked well-rested, his eyes slightly swollen from sleep, and like a little boy with his stuffed teddy bear. “Hey,” he greeted, “what time didja go to bed?”

I warmed my hands with the mug. It was drizzling outside. A perfect rainy day to stay inside all day, except for the fact that we had been doing that for a month now. “A little after midnight. You sleep through the night?”

“Yeah.” He stood in the archway of the living room, peering at the television screen. “I feel almost back to normal.”

“Good.” I placed my mug down. “Do you want some toast?”

“Sure,” he said as we switched places, him sitting down and me walking to the kitchen.

As I walked out, I said, “By the way, last night, I found out I was pregnant.” I wasn’t sure how else to deliver the news. I didn’t get any “special stork coming to my door” moment. In fact, I didn’t even get the peeing over the stick moment. I found out because I cried about Chernobyl and called my mother. I either had a mental breakdown or was pregnant. Plus, my boobs were sore and had grown out of an A cup.

I leaned against the archway and waited for his head to turn back to me. It did slowly. “How?” My mouth opened slightly. “Don’t play dumb with me, Janie.” His face cracked with a smile and remedied a slight fever inside me.

“It seems likely,” I said. “Them woman changes.”

I turned around and went toward the kitchen. I heard his feet hit the floor. “Wait a minute there, Road Runner.” He followed behind me. “So, you’re pregnant,” he said when we arrived.

“Established.”

“Okay. So, what’s up with that?”

“With the pregnancy or how that happens?”

He sighed exhaustively. He was like a dad already. “Shut up, come on, this is serious, I’m being serious.”

“Yeah. I went through that all last night about having to carry the thing, so I have no pity for you.”

“Empathize with me for a moment, Janie. What the fuck is the plan?”

“For the thing? 9 months, birth in hospital, presumably if the whole world hasn’t collapsed yet, if not, home birth in the pool. I’ll do a couple of laps and the thing will just pop out.”

He let out a worn-out chuckle and sat on one of the barstools. His head collapsed in his hands and he scruffed up his hair. He had calmed enough not to pace, so I took to toasting bread. “God, Janie,” he shook his head with a notch of laughter each time he turned his neck. 

“Yeah,” I agreed as I pushed the toaster’s lever down. “I think Oswald knew first. He kept poking my stomach.”

He gave me a tender smile. “Do you have any clue on…when?” 

“I don’t keep a sex journal.”

He huffed out a laugh. “No, Janie, when will the thing arrive?”

“Oh.” We broke into laughter and suddenly it was real in that terrifying, cloyed, perpetual moment kind of way. “Not quite. I’m not that all-knowing.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

*

By the time of my first OB/GYN appointment, I was 10 weeks pregnant. I was still emotional. It’s weird to see a photo of your insides, and allegedly, there is a growing thing in there that will become a baby, but Alex had to wait in the car so I was by myself and everything was even more sterile than a regular gyno visit. It was just strange.

They gave me a photo and some instructions for the following weeks. When I showed it to Alex in the car, he held it at the corner and said, “Wow.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, though he was far more amazed than I felt. I felt like I was Jimmy Stewart in Vertigo.

“That says your name.” He pointed to “Cavendish, Jane” printed on the bottom of the ultrasound. 

I looked at him, befuddled. “Yeah, and what about the fetus in there?”

He held his hand up. “I’m getting there. I’m getting there.” He examined the image for a minute before saying, “Its head is big.”

I giggled and leaned on my side to face him completely. “Yeah. It only got legs a couple of weeks ago.”

“Weird.”

“Yep. Really weird.” 

He handed it back to me. “I don’t want it to distract me while driving.”

I slipped it into my bag. “It won’t start crying yet. December 11th.”

“That’s the due date?” I nodded. “We’re gonna have a baby by the end of the year?!”

“Crazy, right?”

He shook his head to knock the insanity out of his head. “Holy shit.”

“I know. I’m not showing or having any morning sickness. At most, it looks like I got a boob job.”

He smugly nodded like he was the one who did the procedure. “That’s about right.” 

I hit his shoulder. “Shut up and drive us home.”

“Baby on board,” he declared.

My face could have broken in half at the thought. I was truly glowing. I leaned over the console and kissed his cheek. He turned his head toward me, his eyes soft, and his face beaming, kissing me holily.

Everything was still being processed for both of us. Physically, I looked the same, but apparently, I was due to be a mother at the end of the year. It didn’t make any sense to me that in December, I was to push out a baby and have it handed to me, and they would say, “Here’s your baby. You can go home now.” I felt like a child wondering how babies were made, wondering when I was going to go to the store, and pick the child. Where was the stork? 

*

I called my mother to tell her first. I felt bad about her being the last to know about the engagement (and I kind of never told her about the wedding because I was convinced she would ridicule the idea of it being a binding marriage).

Her first words were “Oh, lord, Jane.”

It was as if instead of telling her I was pregnant, I had said, “Mum, I have had sex! In seven months, there will be living proof that I’ve had sex a bunch! Enough to make something out of it.” I felt like vomiting.

I never got morning sickness, which was the only blessing of the pregnancy. Well, other than the baby, I supposedly popped out, of course. Alex joked that he never had the flu, but instead had morning sickness. It was a funny joke that I rudely and under the excuse of hormones (the other blessing of pregnancy: everything can be blamed on the fact that you are pregnant) told him, “Then you carry the thing!”

Later in the call, my mother asked how things were going, and I said well. Then, she said, “Enjoy it. Motherhood is a prison.”

“That’s everything a child wants to hear.”

She shushed me. “I’m not talking about that nonsense. I loved being your mother. I hope you know that. I was horrible at it, but you were the best part.”

“Thanks, mum.” I grew rather weepy, but didn’t want her to hear me cry again.

“I loved being pregnant,” she proclaimed. “Postpartum was awful. I was miserable with every single one of you. Of course, back then it was just the ‘baby blues’ but now I think they would’ve said I had depression. Harper had it too, you know?”

“Yeah. I remember. So, you think I’ll have it?”

“Certainly,” she definitively said like she was my psychologist. “I don’t say this to frighten you. I just want to make sure you’re informed. They’re better equipped to handle these things. Harper only had it for a few months.”

I thanked her, but the whole time I thought about how unhappy I would be. Despite my best efforts, darkness would be straight ahead on the itinerary, and nothing I did would prevent it. That itself made me despondent, and in my head, I completely decided that Alex would have to handle the first month of the baby’s life because I would likely be in a psych ward. Perhaps, I was a bit out of it, but I kept all this inside, which hindsight, was a terrible idea, but I was hormonal and pregnant.

*

A month later, after a gloomy week of rain, the air grew warmer, birds were singing, and, at least for one moment, the world felt idyllic. It was late June, 16 weeks pregnant. The first sign of visible pregnancy sprouted the week before, although to the untrained eye, it simply looked like bloating. The baby size tracking app I used told me it was the size of a can of Coke, so Alex and I took two cans of Coke outside, some towels, and Oswald.

The sun felt bright, but never blinded us, or at least me, because Alex, of course, wore sunglasses. I wanted it to be a day at the beach. We were forced to take to roleplaying to live out these fantasies. I dressed in a bikini and Alex in swim trunks. It was much better than the beach anyway, no sand in our crotches.

I sat cross-legged on one end of the towel with Alex on the other end, with his legs out, lying back on his hands. We were listening to the fauna around us, silently sipping our cokes. Alex would throw a stick out for Oswald to catch, and he’d return with it panting, dropping it back in his lap.

He tossed it back out and adjusted the baseball cap on his head. I sighed in the sun, burped, and laughed with him, instead of excusing myself. “We’ll be able to find out the gender at the next appointment.” It was two weeks away, and I would be by myself as I would for all my appointments. Alex had fun waiting in the car. “If you want to.”

He shrugged. “Up to you.”

“No, it’s not. Come on, nature’s last surprise.” When California nearly burned down from a pyrotechnic gender reveal party later that year, we knew we had made the proper choice.

He chuckled. Oswald had given up running and laid his head in Alex’s lap. “Then, it’ll be a surprise. Then, we’ll have to worry about naming Godzilla.”

I gasped. “You mean we’re not going to name the baby Godzilla?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Maybe the middle name, but then we’d have to nickname the baby God, and that’s a lot to live up to. God and all.”

“What if it’s a boy? Would we name him Alex?” I teased.

“Shut up,” he quickly said, lying on his side, propping his head up to keep eye contact with me. “Would you want to name him after your dad or…?”

“While the thought is lovely, I’m not really up for naming my kid Dick.”

“Richard is a dignified name,” he tried to reason. 

His hand ran over Oswald’s head. I wish I could’ve felt the pleasure Oswald seemed to receive from this. Though Godzilla was only the size of an avocado, I was already experiencing back pain. It was from “womb expansion,” as my doctor called it. I joked with Alex, “It’s doing renovations.” Alex said it was appropriate that we nicknamed it Godzilla because it was destroying Tokyo, also known as my body.

“I don’t want to name the baby after anyone,” I told him. Then I thought for a moment and said, “Maybe the middle name. Besides, I think Stacey has dibs on Richard. She’s more sophisticated than us. Her child could handle that name. Can you bring me two of those coconut popsicles?”

I had claimed that I had no cravings, but in retrospect, I was addicted to coconut popsicles and sour cream & onion crisps, but only the crinkled kind. It was one of the few things I loved about pregnancy. I had an internal list of pros and cons of pregnancy. At this point, just the start of my second trimester, it was:

Pros: Excuse to eat anything. Excuse for irrational behaviour. Excuse to make Alex wait on me hand & foot. Growing human life???

Cons: Constipation. Irrational behaviour. Nosebleeds. Might be a secret life-sucking parasite. Bleeding gums. Expanding womb. Vertigo. Back pain. Headaches. Sore boobs. Impending doom.

“What about naming the baby after me?” I jokingly asked him.

He shrugged. “Two Janes? Might get confusing.”

“We’d be like Thing One and Thing Two. Do you want a boy or a girl?”

“I’d be fine with either,” he annoyingly said.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be that person. ‘As long as it’s healthy.’”

“Would you rather I be the dad who is mad it’s a girl?”

“I wouldn’t have a kid with someone who would be pissed over something so inconsequential. I want a girl.” Girls seemed easier to me, possibly because I’m a girl who was annoyed by boys for the first decade of her life. Or girls simply have better names than boys.

“I’m fine with that.”

I scoffed, “Don’t sound so blasé.”

He sat up, throwing the stick for Oswald to run off again. “I don’t have a preference. What’s wrong with that?”

“Fine. What do you think it’ll be? And be definitive, don’t be like ‘Whatever’ or ‘Probably a girl, I don’t know.’” My poor imitation of him prompted a laugh from him. Oswald laid his head in my lap this time. 

“Alright, alright. I think it’s a boy.”

“Contrarian.”

He shook his head with amusement. “Can’t do nothing right for you, Janie.”

In truth, I would’ve succumbed to myself during the pregnancy without him. I don’t know how millions of women have done a pregnancy solo. I barely know how a single human being is supposed to have a baby. In my almost daily nighttime panic, I shouted around the house to Alex, sometimes Oswald, rarely Louie (never a good listener), about the unnatural physics of a watermelon through a belt hole, the leather was bound to tear.

One night, when Alex had gone to bed before me, I read every Reddit thread in existence about vaginal tearing, which occurred in degrees as if it was murder. A fourth degree essentially tearing your whole asshole open with a recovery time of months. I cried as any naturally extra-hormonal person would hear the likelihood that in six months their body would be torn to pieces.

During this slightly embarrassing breakdown I told Alex, “Enjoy having sex with me now because I won’t have a vagina after this.”

He kindly didn’t laugh at this, though I knew he wanted to. He rubbed my back and comforted me by reading the positive messages on the Reddit threads of people saying they made a full recovery, and to think of it as an athletic injury.

“I’ll be running a marathon for fuck’s sake,” I blubbered.

He rubbed my back in the one spot that already hurt from the thought of an epidural. “You’ll be doing more than that. Like going to war or something.”

“At least it’s not Rosemary’s baby.” We laughed, and he pressed his forehead against mine, counting small blessings.

*

At week 20, the fetus was the size of a banana or a pint of root beer. I now looked like how I felt: pregnant, pregnant. I was halfway through now, and that was worthy of celebration, which meant Alex made horrible-looking cupcakes and I devoured them before the hour was up. I considered entering myself in eating competitions if the thought of hot dogs didn’t actively make my blood boil.

Other than not sleeping well, sore boobs, bleeding body parts, muscle pains, headaches, heartburn, and swollen feet, I was in the golden period of pregnancy. This was an alleged claim my doctor made at the start of my second trimester, to which I repeatedly called her and asked, “When does this golden period start?”

Godzilla started to roam Tokyo some more as it began to flutter around my stomach. We decided not to learn the sex because the reveal would consist of the doctor telling me, and then me going out into the car and telling Alex. I figured it would make the birth more interesting and might distract from the doom of tearing, shitting on the table, nerve damage, and the certainty of postpartum depression. It was fun enough to see the baby sucking their thumb at the last ultrasound.

I was pretty clinical about the fact that the baby started kicking. It scared the shit out of me rather than making jump for joy. It’s like if your intestines started kicking your uterus one day. Alex kept comparing it to the Chestbuster from Alien, which weirdly comforted me.

Alex, rather than place his hand on my belly to feel the baby kick, would knock on my stomach, reasoning that it was payback for the baby. I told him it just made the kicking occur on the inside and outside of my stomach now. He said he had to make things even for me. That made me smile.

Alex elected to use more unconventional ways of connecting with the fetus. I found sentimental speeches to my stomach to be disgusting because it made me feel like I was holding our child hostage in my stomach, and Alex was the father, desperate for me to let his baby out, willing to pay the ransom fee. So, Alex played rock, paper, scissors with it, acting out winning and losing in various scenarios. It made me laugh too much to ever make fun of him for it. I realized after that the act was more to entertain me than the walled-in baby.

I suppose if there was ever a period to be titled “The Golden Period,” it would be the third week of July, after a week of rain had levelled out to simply an overcast sky, I began a ravenous period of writing. I had begun a pregnancy journal, which Alex decorated with Godzilla stickers he bought off Redbubble. The Godzilla Journal quickly became a regular journal where I occasionally wrote symptoms and questions to ask at my next appointment.

I continued my loose investigation on Robert out of curiosity. It morphed into an autofiction journalism piece that pleased my agent enough for her to tell me to continue doing this path, something I had already started doing. I never found out where Robert ended up, meaning he has probably dropped off the face of the earth, but I made up my own ending for where he could be. It would be more interesting than actually finding him.

Alex was hit with a greater rush of creativity after dancing around possible paths all year; he had finally landed on a direction. We always worked in a synced fashion that even pregnancy hormones couldn’t throw off. The knowledge that one person was working would make the other person feel that they had to be driving toward something too.

How the pregnancy was announced to everyone whom we didn’t know enough to inform was through a personal history piece titled “Hostage Case” published in the New Yorker. I received several congratulatory messages from people I had met once in the New York City writers’ circles. It was nice, but I was thankful that I would never have to run into a human being and have them put their hands all over my stomach without my permission.

When a heatwave hit in August, I became a miserable bitch. Well, more than usual. 24 weeks, fetus the size of a package of Oreos or corn on the cob. They seemed wildly different in size to me, but that’s what the NHS website said. Either way, I ate both, and then some.

I felt I was the perfect size pregnant, telling Alex, “I don’t plan to grow the baby anymore, this is good enough for me.”

He laughed, placing his hand atop my naked stomach. “I think you might want to incubate it for a little more.”

“It can survive outside now. I don’t think I’ll survive any longer with it inside. Don’t touch me. I’m too hot.”

He took his hand off me. “Yeah, you are.”

“Ugh. Stop. I’m too hot to have sex, and I feel like I might break a rib if I laugh too hard. Tell it to quit the kicking.”

The biggest development had been that the fetus could supposedly hear outside the womb now. I didn’t believe this to be truthful and just something doctors told parents so they would have an excuse to be in so much pain. The latest development for me had been the forming of piles, or haemorrhoids, which I don’t want to even get into because I can still feel the sensation of them now, bleh!

Alex laid his head on my thighs, avoiding my crotch, which, of course, had swelled from the increased blood flow and pressure of the uterus enough that we had invested in perineal ice packs and witch hazel, which had become my saving grace for both the pregnancy and the heat. 

“Knock it off.” He barely managed to get the phrase out before cracking a laugh. “I’m gonna suck at this discipline stuff.” He came back up to my head, lying on the pillow beside me.

I sighed. “It’s fine. I’m used to being the bad cop anyway. I like yelling at people.” I groaned and shifted my body from the heat.

“Do you want to run through the sprinklers?”

“Like the dog?!”

I ran through the sprinklers like the dog. The relief: 10/10, highly recommend. Alex and I both liked the fact that for the rest of the summer, I chose to relax in a drenched bikini. Oswald also enjoyed a partner for sprinkler running.

One day, a week or so later, where we lounged on blanket-covered grass, I asked Alex, “Did you think three years ago that we’d end up with a baby?”

Alex chuckled, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth (week 25, size of a popped bag of microwave popcorn or a courgette). “I didn’t even think we’d have a baby at the end of this year.”

I giggled. “Fair enough. Nothing feels normal right now. I don’t feel like myself anymore.”

He grabbed my feet and placed them on his lap, beginning to rub the left one. He was comforting me with the distraction, something I never picked up on during the pregnancy. “You still are. If anything, I feel like I’ve seen more of you than I ever had before.”

“You’ve had to put haemorrhoid cream on me, of course you have.”

He softened. His movements stopped, and he looked up at me slowly, meeting my eyes fervently. “I never knew if we’d get back together, you know, it felt like something I had missed out on, fucked up, and all that, but I always knew we’d be in each other’s lives. The fact that I am here, putting cream on your bits.” We were both cracking too hard for him to finish the sentence in one try. “That’s love, baby. I’d do that for you even if the kid wasn’t mine, although that might be a bit more awkward for this other husband of yours.”

I covered my face for him not to witness my simultaneous crying and laughing, though he already knew what was occurring behind the curtain, rubbing up and down my legs in a soothing motion. I peeked out from behind them with wet lashes and a protruding smile. “I think putting cream on my bits is how we got in this situation.”

“Ew,” he yelped. “I hate that word. Don’t call it that.”

“What? Cream? You once told me I was a Twinkie you creamed in.”

He gasped. “No, I did not.”

“Yes, you did, I swear.”

He shook his head and returned to rubbing my feet. We listened to Oswald pant for several minutes before I returned to questioning Alex. “Remember when you thought I was pregnant back in 2010?”

He cringed like I was twisting his insides. “Yeah. Why didn’t you sock me for that?”

“You were so freaked out over it that I had begun to think I really was pregnant.”

“Well, if this pregnancy has shown anything, I don’t know shit about the female body.”

“It’s a learning process,” I reassured him. “By the end of this, you could probably start delivering babies yourself.”

He snorted a laugh. “I’ll pass, but thanks for your faith in me.”

*

When the third trimester arrived (28 weeks, the size of an original Nintendo—something Alex got a major kick of nostalgia out of—or an aubergine), the apocalypse had slowly become regular life. I couldn’t recall a time before I was locked away with Alex and some leech locked inside me. It felt like I had been pregnant for about a decade. 

However, the overwhelming reality that this would be over in a month, at least the leech part, terrified me more than another decade with something living in me. Logically, the best thing to do when facing this terror is to ignore it and build a crib.

I felt the baby’s room was more of a passion project than the baby itself. First, there was ordering furniture that I didn’t have to put together. Then, there was ordering several unnecessary, wasteful knick-knacks. Lastly, there was watching Alex do all the work.

I had yet to acknowledge the final destination of pregnancy: motherhood. I had not yet developed the idea that I would be someone’s mother. On the couch, finishing a yoghurt while reading The Scarlet Letter as part of my homemade series of books with mothers, I thought of myself as Hester Prynne, not in the adultery way, but in regard to the paternity of her daughter, Pearl. Arthur Dimmesdale, the Puritan minister, her true father, denies his parentage.

It was awfully abstract to compare it to a child produced from a plain old relationship, but it made me think for the first time about Alex having someone call him their father. I had been self-centered the majority of the pregnancy, which I have few regrets over, other than this particular circumstance of wild, unalterable change.

He dropped down on the couch to take a break from sweating in the nursery. His eyes were closed and his head flopped back. I reached over, petting his fluffed-up hair back. He opened his eyes, smiling slowly. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.” I wiped the sweat from his brow, stroking the temple. “How are you? With everything?”

“What’d you mean?” He sat up a little straighter.

“Just there’s a big change coming and if you’re freaking out a little that would be understandable. In fact, I would be a little weirded out if you weren’t panicking completely.”

He interlocked his fingers and rested them on his stomach. “Oh, you know,” he humorously said.

I cracked a grin at him, sitting on my knees, I moved closer to him. “Sure. But you could tell me too.”

He was shielded by his smile. I could tell we were both moved by the same thing, but neither of us discussed it, merely passing facial notes to one another; the tossing of the head, the raising of an eyebrow, the overfamiliar grin. He offered me a few words after our visual debate. “I’m convinced I’ll wake up tomorrow in Brazil.”

I giggled skyward. My laugh had become gruffer due to the fetus compressing my lungs. “Is that a premonition or just something on your bucket list?”

He restlessly chuckled, sinking back into the cushions. “Everything feels rather paracosmic.”

“Uh-huh.” I slowly nodded at him, a little lost by his thoughts, so I played along. Poorly, of course. He knew I wasn’t picking up what he was putting down.

He rested, then made a short confession. “I’m terrified, but I think I’ll live.”

“Good.” I effectively nodded. It was a good enough answer for me when all I could think about were leaky breasts and torn assholes.

“And you?”

I hummed in thought. “I think birth might kill me, but I can already feel the ​​Demerol coursing through my veins.”

He affectionately pinched my arm. “I’ll make you the best margarita of your life when this is over.”

“Perfect push present, other than the fact that I then have to breastfeed this monster after all this sobriety.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “If only I were a seahorse.” 

He’s my favourite human being. Those wheels in his mind clicked a certain way, lining up with the gears in my mind. It felt like I was fiddling while Rome burned, but I like the way his elbow digs into the side of me, and how he laughs when I yelp because every pain becomes some cause for celebration. I suppose when that happened, I felt a little less scared.

*

My anxiety didn’t evaporate, but as it had been bubbling before, it was now reduced to a simmer for the time being. I figure everyone during pregnancy has some form of anxiety, and everyone during 2020 had complete mental breakdowns, so this seemed fairly regulated. 

When the weather turned cold, I tended to slip below the sheets and never come out, but pregnancy made the cold weather heaven-sent when I finally made it through a day without having to change my shirt from sweating so much. 

Several to-do lists had been formed with every night concluding with the top item on the list: what the fuck are we naming this thing? I had assigned us each to make a list of ten names for each sex, but gave up when Alex suggested the name “Cassius.”

“Are we giving birth to Muhammad Ali?” I questioned, propped up in bed (34 weeks, baseball glove or cantaloupe).

“It’s a cool name,” he reasoned. “It’s a Roman name, strong, powerful—”

“Help nail Jesus on the cross.”

“Oh, since when do you care about Jesus?!”

He redeemed himself on girl names by suggesting the name Winnie, which made me cry. “I don’t even like the name that much, but I could see a Winnie.” (35 weeks, a carton of eggs or honeydew melon). I sobered up, laughing about how funny it was that I cried over Winnie, wiping my eyes with toilet paper because we had run out of tissues.

“I consider Winnie to be a win,” he boasted proudly.

I rolled my eyes aggressively. “Oh, that is so cheesy. I hate it.”

“Come on! Cute little Winnie.”

“Hate it.”

There was also a determination to have a baby name that wouldn’t make the kid suffer through ten other people in his class having that name. Alex argued that we both had common first names but hadn’t suffered through that crisis, but I refused to name my child “Oliver” like every other person in England seemed to be doing.

“What about Claudius?”

“Quit it with those Roman names. I’m gonna burn that book I got you.”

“Oh, come on, Theodosius is a killer name.”

“But Otis isn’t?!”

He relaxed and turned toward me, resting his elbow on the bed. “What about Theodore?”

“Ted Turner.”

He sighed. “Right. Think again.”

“What’s wrong with Otis?” I argued.

“I only think of Otis the Aardvark.” Alex seemed to know every puppet in television history because it seemed all the names I suggested belonged to them. He reasoned against the name Sidney because Cookie Monster’s real name is Sid. I grew rather annoyed that night, and we ended baby naming time early and did not pick it back up for the rest of the pregnancy.

*

I vehemently denied anyone visiting for the birth. At first, my mother was perfectly happy with this. She said birth was brutal, and she didn’t even want to witness it, which was just about the comfort I figured my mother could provide. 

When I told her I didn’t want anyone coming to meet the baby until things calmed down, she flipped. On the phone call, she said, “You’ll need help! You’re denying me the opportunity to meet my grandchild. That’s evil.”

I got so tired of her ranting with no interruption for about five minutes straight that I handed Alex the phone and told him to handle it. She was more shameful with him, instead taking a calm voice designed to make us feel guilty, but I left the room and decided not to engage with it anymore. I figured if she showed up outside our house, there was no stopping her, so we left the topic with an ambiguous “no.”

After getting home from my final antenatal appointment, a week before my due date, it felt as if I was watching a cut scene from Alien playing out in my stomach. Feet kicked up against my stomach, pushing the skin out. Alex enthusiastically watched this. I watched reruns of Project Runway.

Contractions started to become a pain about an hour later, though I insisted otherwise. An hour after that, my water broke. When we got to the hospital, the nurse popped her head out from my cervix and exclaimed, “You’re 9 cm dilated!”

To which, Alex and I both sat with our jaws dropped open. When she left to get the ​​anaesthetist for the epidural, I turned to Alex, sharing a bug-eyed look with him. I shook my head, having no clue how things had moved that quickly. 

“At least it will be over soon.” I tried to comfort myself, but I hyperventilated at the thought that a thing would pop out of me by the end of the day. It seemed like the preferable option compared to sitting around for 24 hours in the worst pain of your life, but I also wasn’t prepared to have a kid in an hour.

Alex rubbed me soothingly and said, “Hey. All our birthdays will be 4, 5, 6,” he said, pointing to my stomach, then me, then him in succession. “That’s pretty cool.” 

I half-heartedly smiled. “Yeah.”

“You don’t have to do anything after you push this…thing out, I will do all the work,” he tried to assure me.

“So, I don’t even get to enjoy the rewards of my labour.”

His laughter eased me more than the epidural did. “All I want you to do is enjoy. You don’t have to deal with a single nappy, I’ll take all the shit.”

I giggled. “That’s a pretty good deal.”

Two hours later, Godzilla left Tokyo. I have always found it cliche when people say they don’t remember anything before their baby was laid on their chest, but I have truly forgotten the majority of labour, through the power of the brain’s response to the traumatic event and a whole lot of painkillers. I was high as fuck when I gave birth. You don’t need to hear about me pooping during birth anyway.

*

Godzilla, which had become a living, breathing human baby girl, lay on my chest in all her premortal goo. She had been doing that—living—for about four hours. She was still simply Baby Girl Turner. More and more, I thought Baby Girl Turner sounded like a pretty decent name.

“Hey,” Alex said softly from a chair directly beside me. I turned to him carefully. “Congrats on not tearing your arsehole.”

I chuckled as quietly as I could not to shake my chest too hard. “Thanks. I tried really hard.”

He gave me a congratulatory kiss and returned his eyes to the baby. “Now, what’s this thing’s name?”

I sighed. “I don’t know.” I pucker my lips at her. She wasn’t an ugly baby, but infants are rather gross to me. She was the least gross, though. I’m sure everyone was jealous of her in the nursery. “Cookie Monster Turner?”

He hummed. “Might be trademarked. Any other ideas?”

I smiled over at him. He was tired, I could see it in his eyes, but he never exaggerated a yawn, instead pushing my hair back, looking paternal. “What about Hester? Like Hester Prynne?”

His face held a resisted wince. “Might be a little taboo to name a child after a two-timer.”

“Okay. What about Esther? I like Esther.” I smiled down at her in all her pinkish glory. Baby girls must be pinker than boys, and that’s why pink is associated with girls. 

He gritted his teeth. “It’s a little old-fashioned, don’t you think?”

I rolled my eyes and huffed, “Fine. What do you want to name her? Turner Turner?”

“Do you want the last name to be Cavendish?” He offered.

I scoffed, “Ew, no.”

Alex moved closer to the baby as if he were scanning her to detect what her first name should be. “What about Eden?”

“We can’t name the baby Eden because you’re reading East of Eden, otherwise I’m naming the baby Hester.”

He sighed. “We should’ve found out the gender. We could’ve had something picked out by now.”

“Well, I could always shove her back up there for nine months.”

He sent an acknowledging smile up at me before passing his gaze back to the baby. “What do you want to be named?” He asked her. “Eden or Hester?” She kept her eyes closed, so Alex leaned back in his chair. “I suppose that’s a no to both.

“I’m too tired for this,” I complained.

“Anne, Jill, Stephanie, Jean, Polly, Maureen,” he chanted out to the baby, erupting me into giggles.

“Let’s just give her a dumb name, and then she can name herself. Sparkle Telephone Turner. Go write it on the birth certificate. Now, take her before I pass out.”

Alex laughed and followed the command, taking her into his arms. He looked like he was cuddling a little bouquet of flowers to his chest. He looked so normal with her, but the image was out of place to me, like it was Photoshopped.

“I like Polly,” I said.

He raised his head slowly with a regretful frown on his face.

I groaned exhaustively. “Why did you say it if you hate it?”

“I was riffing.”

*

“Elaine?”

“No. Imogen?”

“Mhm…no.”

“Winnie?”

“No.”

“Come on! Winnie is so cute.”

“Too cute. She’s a sophisticated child.”

*

The next morning, I awoke looking sideways. Alex was sitting in a chair with his legs up on the edge of my bed. The bundle sat in his arms with his half-shut eyes on her, moving her with a slow bounce. “You look like a dad,” I told him.

He pulled his eyes open and looked toward me with a soft smile. “Did you sleep well?”

“As well as you can imagine. Was having panic dreams about naming her.” I can still recall them. It ranged from a game of Scrabble to punching letters to the sky. “Did you sleep?” I leaned down into my cold pillow.

He shrugged. “A little. Not the most comfortable bed.” He was left with a choice between a chair or a makeshift cot. They were low on sleeping supplies. Well, they were low on any supplies, to be honest. “Been thinking for a while. I think I thought of a name.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I’m for anything at this point. What about Spinner Turner?”

“Maybe for the next kid.”

“With whose vagina?”

He nudged my leg with his foot. “Shush. Let me tell you the name.” I kept my silence and remained all ears. “She’s been Baby Girl Turner for almost a day now, and I was thinking, you know, Baby, Bebe, B. You liked Beatrice, right?”

I nodded. “It’s nice.”

He looked down at her. It was like the human form of photosynthesis. I’d never seen love shine out of him, of anyone, like this. “What about Beatrice Esther Turner? I could do Esther Beatrice, too. I’m not that picky.”

I smiled, half hiding it in my pillow. He knew by my bashfulness, each holding a half-grin, making one full one between us. “Beatrice Esther Turner works. It’s better than Winnie.”

He rolled his eyes, but then said, “It’s way better than Winnie.”

*

B fit quicker than Beatrice. “B is crying.” “B is hungry.” “B is our baby, our bebe, or B.B.,” Alex called her B.B. like B.B. King. There was also Godzilla. That nickname stuck. The first month was the most unremarkable exceptional month of my life.

The first night home, I cried in the shower. I hadn’t done that since a bad hangover in 2015. My body felt like a half-empty vessel, and it had for months been shared with another human being, and now that the parasite was removed, I no longer felt like myself. Everything was the same as we had left it, except everything was different. It was a similar feeling to losing my dad. Something in my life had irrevocably changed, yet my whole world looked the same. I imagined things would glow differently when you had a child, but the world looked just as monotonous.

I stepped out of the bathroom, squeezing the ends of my damp hair, readying for bed, and there on the bed sat Alex with Beatrice. His eyes turned up at me, and a smile flicked across his cheeks. “She makes this little grunting noise in her sleep like you do.”

I eased onto the bed where I would spend the next month. My bedroom would become my whole world. All I did was provide my udders for my calf. She was precious against my breast. Alex made a few dirty jokes about it that he said would make him seem unbecoming if I wrote them here. “She looks like you,” I said, “at least that’s what I’m supposed to say. I think all newborns look the same.”

He twitched a grin. “She’s got your eyes, though.” They were big, light blue eyes. Most babies are born with blue eyes, but hers did look just like mine. Later, when the grandparents met her, they all shouted about how much she looked like Alex—which she did because daughters tend to look like their fathers—but then they’d get all choked up over her eyes. They couldn’t believe her blue eyes, and I sat proudly that they came from me, but they didn’t originate from me.

“They’re my dad’s eyes.” I could tell Alex was looking over at me, but I stared down at sleeping Beatrice. He leaned over and thoughtfully kissed my cheek. “Meanwhile, she has your hair from 2006.”

He snorted a laugh and ran his hand lightly over the little moptop she was born with. She felt like my science project. She provided a darling conclusion to the experiment. She felt like a prototype baby. She acted in the same way I had seen and heard every other baby act. She cried, slept, ate, pooped. She was a good sleeper, gaining Alex’s napping skills. Our house went into hibernation.

Most evenings that first month ended the same. We sat on the bed, one of us holding Beatrice, usually Alex, since I liked leaning my head on his shoulder and looking at her chubby cheeks. I had long feared all the pain she could cause me by tearing me in half or hormones spinning me into a postpartum depression, but now I feared any pain that could be inflicted on her. From that point on, I felt like a mum—her mum.

*

a/n: the baby was originally supposed to be a girl, but then i've written alex as a girl dad so much i wanted to make it a boy but then the only name i could think of was teddy, but ted turner, and then i switched it back to a girl. then, it also took me forever to think of a name. still not sure how i feel about it, but, oh well, you name the kid whatever you want. also, if you hate the picture. so do i. blame alex and the pandemic, not me. thanks.

[weepingtalecowboy]

Rabbits and hares are differentiated by whatever or not they have black tipped ears (if yes then it is a hare … doesn’t apply to domestic rabbits though)

By how awkwardly long their legs are (if NOT potato shaped then most likely hare)

By how social they are (rabbits are very social… hares act like angsty teens when they leave their homes to go build one themselves in an open field depression… it is a very low effort hole in the ground not a full on cave system if you wonder about what depression means)

And finally by how utterly traumatized their eyes are(they SAW something haunting)

Now guess which one legend is more likely to be lol

It's a personification of him

[thiefbird]

we are being so brave today and barely teared up at aaaaaaall to butchered tongue by hozier

really wish I was rotting in my bed tho

[dangerous-disposition]

I think deliberately ignoring and spurning any attempts friends make to speak to you and then claiming no one cares about you when they move on isn't depression babe, thats you being a cunt. hope this helps

[and-fishing-equipment]

i've started reading tvl and no amount of posts telling me there's a "huge tonal shift" could have prepared me for this HUGE TONAL SHIFT this is the funniest fucking thing i've ever read it genuinely goes like:

louis, narrator of iwtv: as i wandered the streets of paris, i wished most of all for death. i had called to god, to satan, anyone, to find meaning in it all. but for an evil creature such as myself there is no place in this world. there can be no love where this evil lies. it was as though a veil separated me from all that could be good and righteous. i did not deserve to love and be loved in return, not by claudia, lestat, armand. to attempt it would be a sisyphean task, a fools tale. and yet...... the need for hole from armand was so great. greater was only the need for........ living human blood.

lestat, narrator of tvl: hey guys, my name is lestat, you may know me because i'm really hot and sexy. english isn't my first language so sorry if i make any mistakes!! okay here's my story: after rotting beneath the earth for decades, my hot and sexy body has finally risen from the ground. i used to be depressed, but now i'm slutting it up again in the 20th century! first thing i did was get some (hot and sexy) new clothes and then wore them while riding my (hot and sexy) motorcycle and listening to bach on my sony walkman. while i was watching this super niche indie film (you've probably not heard of it) "apocalypse now" i realized that i'm so evil that i shouldn't exist. but then i realized what could make me deserve to live on this planet: rock n roll music.

[unholyhelbig]

Hi!

Can I request a yelena x fem!reader fic where they are in a relationship but they’re in a rough patch and aren’t talking about what they are doing that much. They both work for Valentina and end up in the vault together and have different targets. But basically they start trying to defend each other (because they obviously still love each other) and the reader gets hurt. After all that they end up slowly mending their relationship and start communicating more and basically I want some angst with fluff because I’m a total sucker for that.

Ok thank you soooo much!!! 🖤

Title: In the Darkness Together

Ship: Female!Reader x Yelena Belova

SLIGHT THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS

Warnings: Stabbing, mentions of blood, mentions of depression, angst, hurt/comfort, injuries, John being a dick, horrible grammar, I don't proofread

[A/n: Alright, I'll admit that this isn't my best work. I've actually never written Yelena x reader before, I was kind of feeling it out! Feel free to send me some more Thunderbolts* prompts and I'll do my best!]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

The knife, the kind that people typically use to debone things, had edged past the Kevlar of your tactical suit and sliced into the meat of your side. It had started as a searing, uncomfortable pinch of pain, and had now faded to a dull ache that thudded along with your heartbeat as you trudged through the desert, nose and fingers frigid.

You applied pressure to it, of course. Had done a hack-job of patching it up and breathing through it. You’d need stitches once you got on solid ground, far away from the annoyances around you. The heat that radiated from the deep wound warmed you up, at least, made it easier to round out the back of the group.

It was easy to tune out John Walker from back here. He insisted on leading and you had conceded out of exhaustion. The wind blocked out his gravelly voice as he listed off his successes in tracking and trapping in the military. You could taste sand, grind it between your teeth loudly to block out the rest of his droning.

There was a body next to you, warm and solid and speaking. Your ears were ringing from the gunfire, and you were paying too close attention to the soft pink of Yelena Belova’s lips. How easy they would be to claim if you weren’t vibrating with a certain breed of anger that made you want to prove your point.

What point was that again?

It had been independence before you’d entered that god forsaken vault. Your target had been easy enough to locate and kill, something you’d done so efficiently that they didn’t even get a chance to step foot into the building. But, you were curious too, wondering what had been so damn important that Valentina agreed to this being your last job.

The whole night had been a culmination of punches thrown and blades twisted in the sinew of your stomach and guns fired. You’d watched Antonia Dreykov drop to the floor in a puddle of armor and a faceless mask that you were thankful stayed on, even with a bullet hole through the center.  

“What?” You meant to sound angry, sharper than you were. But it came out sad and broken, even to your own ears.

“You should have let me take a look at that.” Yelena spoke slowly, softly. “It’s not too late, we can stop for a few moments. I can patch you up properly.”

“I don’t need you to coddle me, Yelena.”

You winced, blamed it quickly on the pain. You were turning away her attempt at tenderness. It was the first she had shown in weeks. The two of you danced around one another in the small city apartment you shared. Expertly choreographed moves that involved one toothbrush missing from the cup by the sink at all times.

Neither of you bothered to tell the other when you had a job. You just went. On nights where the two of you happened to be home at the same time, you slept facing away from each other, a decent amount of space between you. Something having shattered along the way, though neither were quite sure what.

Yelena opened her mouth, closed it again. Swallowed hard. She had a crease between her brows that gave way to her worry and you had the sudden urge to kiss it away. It was heavy in your chest, nearly oppressive until you tore your eyes away from hers, stumbled over the heaviness of your boot.

And she was there, of course, she was there. Her hand was on your elbow, holding you up. The concern had ripped through her features in a way that you almost found endearing. This was the most attention the two of you had given each other in weeks. Months.

“Let me take care of you.” Yelena whispered. “pozhaluysta.”

It was desperate, a plea. The word broke like salt rock over her tongue and prickled at the corners of her eyes. Ash clouded her features, marred her skin. Dried blood was against her hairline, head more than likely pounding listlessly. Still, she waited for your signal. One that you gave with a slight nod.

“We stop!” Yelena called out to Walker and Ava, bringing everything to a halt. “We rest for the night. Keep going at daybreak.”

Walker whined at an uncomfortable pitch “Oh, come on. Women need to learn resilience.”

“It astounds me that one agreed to marry you.” Ava replied, shaking her head. She seemed exhausted herself, voice tight, eyes rimmed in darkness. If you stared long enough, her shadow flickered. Perhaps it was a trick of the light. “I could sleep.”

She plopped down onto the hard-packed sand, something that couldn’t be comfortable, but it was finite, deepening the frown lines on Walkers face. He exasperatedly threw his hands up and turned to make himself comfortable on some dusty rocks, shining bright under the moon.

Yelena edged you further away from the two of them, lowering you onto the sand. It still held warmth from the relentless sun, the tips of your fingers digging into the soft barrier. Your back was against a boulder, sprouts of rough buffalograss itched at your forearms.

“Polegche, polegche, detka”

Her hands against you was familiar, something you’d longed for. The tension in your shoulders relaxed, even as she lifted up the soaked fabric of your shirt. It’d dried uncomfortably to your skin, filled your mouth with too much saliva. You swallowed it diligently, letting your head fall back against the rock.

“I would have gotten stabbed in front of you a lot sooner if I knew it would get you to touch me.”

Yelena’s fingers stilled, ghosting over your wound, seemingly satisfied enough with your own patch job. Her eyes flicked up to yours. There was hurt there, vulnerability. There was an insurmountable level of longing that reflected in pools of green. Her cheeks were dusted in red, a trembling breath escaping her before she plopped back on her haunches, arms resting on her bent knees. The two of you stared at each other, beaten and broken.

“I guess we have been kind of stupid, haven’t we?” Yelena let a giggle froth past her lips, sweet and sticky. “Haunting our own house. Each other.”

You shook your head, offering her the small upturn of the lip. “How did we get here?”

There was a blueprint under your skin mapping out exactly how the two of you had ended up like this. Strangers working for the same woman who thought it pertinent enough to pit you against one another in an effort to clean her own hands.

“Lena, when I saw you for the first time, I knew you were the woman I wanted to be with for the rest of my life, and I’m ashamed to say it’s because I recognized a sadness in you that I’d only ever seen when I looked in the mirror.”

Yelena plucked a long, coarse piece of grass from the sand and folded it between her fingers in a nervous habit, she worked the heels of her combat boots further into the ground as if to stabilize herself.

“It was selfish of me to think that I could shove away that dark feeling and the two of us could survive by clinging to one another’s remaining light.” You used the heel of your hand, wiped away tracks of moisture that cut through ash and dirt. “Didn’t take into account what would happen when both of us were surrounded by darkness. There’s nothing to grab onto.”

She sniffed, a heavy and solid sound. “Day in and day out it is all the same. We wake, we go to work, we fall asleep and we try to find something worth living for. You say it is selfish to find solace in someone who feels the same as you. I think it is selfish that we’ve turned away.”

Yelena carefully moved next to you, letting out a groan, her muscles sore and aching from even the slightest bit of statis. Her shoulder was flushed against your own, the sharp scent of gunpowder and sweat filling your lungs, but a citrus that was distinctly your Yelena soothed you.

“Do you ever think there’s going to be a time when we won’t be sad?”

“I do not know.” Her voice broke, “but we can get better at being sad together.”

You swallowed the dryness in your throat, nodded. Wished that the two of you had come to this small realization before you’d been stuck in a vault with other misfits who were hell-bent on ending your lives at the behest of a crooked politician.

Yelena slotted her arm through yours, squeezed it close to her chest. Leaned her head on your shoulder. Your heart clenched fondly at the closeness, not realizing how much you’d missed the simple contact. The softness of her.

You leaned your cheek on her head, breathed in the sweetness of her shampoo. “We should really get a calendar for the fridge.”

“Mm, we can color code.” Yelena nuzzled closer, nosed against your jaw. “Next time we’ll know if we get scheduled to kill one another.”

[joemama-2]

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation wc: 13.8k spotify playlist series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

The sounds of heavy pants fill the room, one more ragged than the other. The bedframe hits against the wall in a repetitive thump, the bedsheets a mess. The sunlight is peeking through the curtains with an occasional moan and urge for him to move faster. Himari’s arms are wrapped around the neck of the man, her legs tight around his waist. Face scrunching up in pleasure as she indulges in the fact that she’s having sex with another man in her boyfriend’s bed. Work is the excuse he gave her after she asked to come over. Of course, she didn’t believe him—she’s finding it harder to do that nowadays. 

Either way, she decided to come in, knowing he kept a spare key under his doormat. Walking through the empty penthouse, her fingers running across the white walls as she stalked to Satoru’s room. A bad mistake on her end because as soon as she did, that bitter coil of jealousy sprung free. A stupid fucking picture frame of the people who are actively ruining her life and her relationship. She gripped it with tight hands, almost throwing it to the ground in a fit of fury. 

Well, she did do that, actually.

But even after seeing the glass shards spread out across the floor, stomping on the picture of you and that fucking kid—leaving an obvious footprint on it—it didn’t quell her growing emotions. It didn’t make her feel better, if anything—it made her feel even worse. And she was suddenly struck with the idea of making Satoru feel every inch of pain he’d been causing her the past month or so. He’s not even here, but maybe she can leave him a nice cum stain on his sheets. How furious he’ll be when he discovers that she’s being intimate with someone else, that another man’s semen is stained on his bed. The thought alone makes her hornier, nails digging into the back of the man hovering above her as he plunges in and out of her tight hole. A nasty smile forms on her lips. 

“You know,” Sukuna’s gruff voice speaks into her ear. “I’ve had better. I’m only doing this to make your boyfriend pissed off.” 

Himari’s eyes snap open, his words putting a small halt to her daydreaming. She’s met with an equally vicious smile—one that lacks warmth completely. “Fuck you,” she snaps, jaw clenching. 

“Yeah, you are.” He presses his large hand down on her mouth. “Now be quiet, your voice is one of the worst things I’ve ever heard.”

If only she picked a better candidate. If possible, he’s beginning to piss her off more than Satoru himself. Though she should’ve expected that, considering her boyfriend hates him and vice versa. But if Satoru found out she had sex with his business rival behind his back, he’d realize just how much he’d let her slip from his hands. And of course, he’ll fuck her to make up for it. Yes. Yes. Yes. 

That’s it. 

She moves her gaze away from Sukuna, staring up at the ceiling in utter bliss at the possible future. She feels her climax rising up within her gut, clenching around his thick cock. Smiling against his palm as his thrusts quicken, a shuddering grunt escaping his lips. He must be close too. She can practically taste it on her tongue. Her eyes move down from the ceiling, over to the broken glass and photograph still on the floor, then over to her boyfriend’s hamper of dirty clothes, his cologne on his dresser, his collection of glasses, and then…

The calendar that’s right above his dresser. 

The days are crossed off with an ‘x’ in black marker. But one thing catches her attention—and subsequently stops her climax, but not Sukuna’s.

January 5th.

Two days from now. 

Dad appreciation day!! ♡ 2pm

Her anger from before swivels back up, raging inside her petite body with an unforeseen strength. She snatches her phone from the bedside table without a second thought, not minding the way Sukuna carelessly pulls out and dumps his warm load on her stomach. Her thumb moves fast, tapping down a few times before lifting it to her ear. It rings just once before the respondent answers. 

“Daddy, I need your help.”

“Soooo……”

Shoko sips from her coffee, auburn eyes constantly going from one face to the other—one visibly more clenched than the other. She taps her foot against the floor, the cozy feel of the cafe doing nothing to diminish the awkwardly tense situation between her and her two best friends. Well, just her friends, actually. Satoru—in all his glory—is shameless. Glaring daggers at Suguru, who sits beside Shoko. It’s a wonder that the coffee cup in his hand hasn’t popped. Silently tensing his jaw, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. And Suguru…seems to be taking it well? Focusing on his own cup of tea, sparing a glance back up at the man across from him before looking away.

It’s never quiet between the two. And if it is, that means something happened. From the look on their faces—their demeanor—it must’ve been something serious. After a few more suffocating minutes, she sets her cup down and clears her throat. “Did…something happen?”

“No.” is Suguru’s immediate response. 

That earns a loud scoff from the other side of the table. “Yeah, keep lying.” The sarcasm in his voice is loud.

Shoko raises a brow, leaning back in her chair as she folds her arms. “Okay, well, clearly something happened. Want to clue me in, or should I just keep sipping my coffee while you two have a silent pissing contest?”

Suguru sighs, running a hand through his hair, looking as though he’s already regretting being here. “It’s nothing important, Shoko.”

Satoru clicks his tongue, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table, his blue eyes gleaming with irritation. “Nothing important? That’s what we’re calling it now? Really, Suguru?”

Suguru finally meets Satoru’s gaze, his calm demeanor slipping just a fraction. “Yeah. Nothing important. Unless you want to blow this completely out of proportion, as usual.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Satoru snaps, his voice dripping with contempt. “Forgive me for being a little pissed when my best friend crosses a line.”

Shoko’s eyes widen slightly, her gaze darting between them. “Crosses a line? Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. What line are we talking about here?”

Neither man answers immediately, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, Suguru sets his cup down, exhaling slowly. “Shoko, it’s not worth discussing.”

“Not worth discussing?” Satoru’s voice rises slightly, his tone incredulous. “Oh, it’s worth discussing. You want to talk about loyalty, about respect—”

“Enough, Satoru.” Suguru’s voice is firm, but there’s an undercurrent of guilt that Shoko doesn’t miss.

“Shut the hell up.” Satoru snaps, leaning forward, his sunglasses slipping just slightly down his nose. He looks every bit like he’s ready to leap across the table. “Why don’t you tell her, Suguru? Or should I?”

“Tell me what?” Shoko interjects, her voice rising slightly in pitch. She’s starting to look more amused than concerned, though there’s still an edge of apprehension in her tone. “Seriously, you two are acting like kids.”

Suguru exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face, his usual composure beginning to crack. “Nothing happened. It’s not a big deal. Satoru’s just—”

“Pissed,” Satoru finishes for him, voice icy. “And you know damn well why.”

Shoko leans forward, resting her chin in her hand, her sharp eyes narrowing in thought. “Alright. Spill. Someone better tell me what the hell is going on before I throw this coffee at both of you.”

Suguru looks at her, then glances at Satoru, who’s still radiating pure anger. He finally lets out a resigned sigh. “It’s nothing, Shoko. Just a…misunderstanding.”

Satoru barks out a humorless laugh. “A misunderstanding? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Shoko blinks, her lips twitching as though she’s fighting off a grin. “Satoru, I’m begging you—use your words. What misunderstanding?”

Satoru turns his gaze back to Suguru, his voice dropping low. “Ask him why he thought it was okay to cross a fucking line.”

​​Shoko’s eyebrows shoot up, and for the first time, she looks genuinely intrigued. “Okay. What kind of line did you cross, Suguru?”

Suguru doesn’t answer, his gaze firmly fixed on his tea. Satoru, however, doesn’t hesitate. “The kind where you go after someone you know isn’t yours to have.”

“She’s not yours either, Satoru.” Suguru mumbles under his breath with exasperation. 

Shoko’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh,” she breathes, the weight of the situation sinking in. “I see.” She looks at Suguru, her expression unreadable. “Care to defend yourself?”

Suguru’s jaw tightens, but he finally speaks, his tone even, though there’s an undercurrent of frustration. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Bullshit!” Satoru snaps, his voice raising enough to earn a few glances from other patrons in the café. “Don’t act like you don’t know what you were doing.”

Suguru doesn’t reply. 

“Oh, no way.” Shoko leans forward, pointing a finger between them. “Did you—? And you—? Oh, you guys are so messed up.”

Satoru gestures dramatically toward Suguru. “See? Even Shoko gets it. You don’t mess with someone’s—”

“I didn’t mess with anyone,” Suguru interrupts, his tone sharp but not defensive. “And you’re blowing this out of proportion. Again.”

“I’ll fucking show you—”

“Satoru,” Shoko says sharply, placing a hand on his arm. “Relax. Let him talk.”

Suguru looks at her briefly, gratitude flickering in his eyes before he returns his focus to Satoru. “I wasn’t trying to take anything away from you. I’m not. It just…I know I’m not innocent, Satoru.” He meets his best friend’s eyes, lips thinned with sympathy.

That doesn’t deter Satoru. “Then why are you acting like you are? Lying to my face still, too.”

“Satoru, I’m sorry. I apologized a thousand times already. What more can I do?”

For a moment, Satoru looks like he’s going to lose it, but Shoko’s firm grip on his arm keeps him grounded. She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Okay, clearly this isn’t going to be solved here. So how about you two go outside, punch it out or whatever, and then come back when you’re ready to act like adults?” Neither of them responds immediately, tension crackling in the air between them. Shoko groans and shakes her head, her gaze shifting between them once more. “So, what I’m hearing is that one of you fucked up, and now I’m stuck playing therapist again. Great. Just great.”

Her tone turns serious, arms crossing over her chest. “Just…tell me what happened. No cryptic bullshit. I want the full story, or I’m walking out of here and leaving you two to sulk in your man-pain alone.”

Satoru breaks the silence first, his voice cutting through the tension. “Fine. You want the full story?” He glares at Suguru, who remains stoic, then turns his gaze to Shoko. “He decided it’d be a great idea to get too close to Y/N. Closer than he should’ve.”

Suguru’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond immediately.

Shoko blinks, her hand pausing mid-air as she sets her coffee cup down. “Define ‘too close.’ Because I swear, if this is some petty jealousy thing, I’m not wasting my time refereeing it.”

Satoru leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “How about almost kissing her? Does that sound like jealousy, Shoko?”

Her eyes widen, and she slowly turns to Suguru, whose calm façade is starting to crack. “Seriously?” she asks, her tone a mix of disbelief and disappointment. “Suguru, seriously?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Suguru says quietly but firmly. He rubs his temple, looking uncharacteristically worn down. “Things got complicated. She was upset, I was trying to comfort her—it wasn’t planned. It just happened. I messed up”

“Yeah, I’m sure it just happened,” Satoru retorts, his voice laced with venom. “Because comforting someone obviously involves leaning in like you’re about to—”

“Satoru, enough.” Suguru’s voice rises, his calm exterior shattering for a moment. “It didn’t happen, okay? Nothing happened. And it wasn’t about betraying you. It was about her. About what she’s going through. But of course, you only see it as some kind of attack on you.”

Shoko raises a hand, her eyes narrowing. “Okay, okay, time out. This is spiraling. Suguru, I get that you were trying to help, but you have to see how this would look to Satoru. And Satoru, you need to stop acting like this is just about you and your ego. Y/N’s a person, not a prize to be fought over.”

Suguru closes his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he’s dealing with a headache. “It just wasn’t like that. She was upset, and things got…misinterpreted. It wasn’t intentional.”

“Misinterpreted?” Satoru’s voice is cold, his usually playful tone replaced with something venomous. “You don’t ‘accidentally’ lean in for a kiss, Suguru. Don’t act like you’re blameless.”

Satoru’s fists clench on the table, his knuckles white as he continues. “And she won’t let me be there for her! She shuts me out, Shoko, every single time. And then she turns to him—” He gestures angrily toward Suguru. “Like I’m some kind of goddamn afterthought.”

Suguru’s voice is quiet, but there’s a weight to it that makes both Shoko and Satoru pause. “She turned to me because she needed someone who wasn’t going to make it about themselves. Maybe you should think about that.”

Satoru slams his hand on the table, making the cups rattle. “Don’t you dare turn this around on me! You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You’ve been waiting for a chance like this—”

“Enough!” Shoko’s voice cuts through the argument like a blade, her usual calm demeanor replaced with rare frustration. “Both of you need to shut up for two seconds and think about what you’re doing. Fighting over Y/N like she’s some kind of prize? Do you have any idea how shitty that is? To her, and to yourselves?”

The men fall silent again, though Satoru’s glare doesn’t soften, and Suguru looks away, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. Shoko sighs, rubbing her temples. “You’re both being idiots. Y/N’s going through her own stuff right now, and you’re sitting here making it about your egos. Maybe try putting her first for once instead of playing this stupid tug-of-war.” 

Suguru nods slightly, his expression unreadable. Satoru stays silent, his jaw clenched, the storm in his eyes still brewing.

Shoko rubs her eyes and looks at Suguru. “First off, why was she upset?”

He picks at his nail, brows knitting together. “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me. I’m assuming it’s whatever happened when she went out.”

“She went out with a Zenin.”

The revelation shocks both Shoko and Suguru. They look back at their friend, his expression tight, focusing on his own clenched fists. “I saw the car that picked her up.”

“Which Zenin?” Suguru asks, leaning forward. 

“Only one prick drives a flashy Maybach like that.” Shoko sighs, and Suguru shakes his head—running his hands through his hair. Satoru continues. “I didn’t even know she knew him. How the hell does she even—” he cuts himself off with a heavy groan, rubbing his face up and down. The weight of everything that’s happening, the fact that you went out with Naoya and supposedly another friend, then you come back about to kiss Suguru, and he makes you cry by yelling in your face and saying shit he probably shouldn’t have. “Jesus…I can’t get a fucking break.”

Shoko exhales sharply, crossing her arms as her gaze flickers between Satoru and Suguru. "Naoya Zenin? That guy? Are you serious?"

Suguru leans back in his chair, his lips pressing into a thin line. "What the hell would she even want with someone like him?"

"That’s what I’d like to know," Satoru snaps, his voice sharper than intended. His hands tug through his hair in frustration, his mind spiraling. "I mean, she’s not…stupid. She wouldn’t just—"

"She wouldn’t," Shoko interrupts, her tone calm but firm. "But you of all people should know she doesn’t make these kinds of decisions lightly. If she was with Naoya, there’s probably a reason. Maybe she needed something, or maybe—"

"Or maybe I pushed her into it," Satoru mutters, his voice dropping. His hands drop to his lap, and for the first time since sitting down, he looks genuinely deflated. "I’ve been so caught up in my own bullshit…I haven’t been there for her. Not the way I should be. And now she’s turning to guys like him."

Suguru narrows his eyes, his jaw tightening. "You don’t know that for sure. Just because she was in his car doesn’t mean she’s 'turning to' him. Don’t assume the worst."

"But what else am I supposed to think?" Satoru bites back, his tone rising again. "She won’t talk to me, Suguru. She shuts me out. And when she finally does open up to someone, it’s you, or—or some Zenin asshole—"

"Stop," Shoko cuts in, her voice hard. "Seriously, stop spiraling. You’re not helping anyone by sitting here making this about your insecurities. If you care about her—and I mean really care—you’re going to have to do better than this."

Satoru opens his mouth to retort but stops short, his gaze falling to the table.

"Look," Shoko continues, her voice softening, "I get that you’re upset. And yeah, the Naoya thing is…weird. But the only way you’re going to fix this is by talking to her. Not Suguru, not me—her. Get your shit together and figure it out."

Satoru finds it hard to speak, a weird lump forming in his throat. Nails digging into his palms and feeling his heart rate begin to pick up. Figure it out? That’s easier said than done. Not to mention the fact that he’s probably the last person you want to see right now. Nothing seems right right now. He’s not sure what he could even begin to say to you to discuss the things you both desperately need to discuss. And when he looks back over at Suguru, the surge of jealousy—anger springs up again. How can he talk to you? Is it worth even trying to? What will change? He doesn’t…have you.

Suguru gives Satoru a face of regret. “Satoru, I…I’m sorry. Really, I am. I was stupid, I know. She was drunk, vulnerable and I—I let her…..” Suguru’s words trail off, his voice cracking with uncharacteristic hesitation. He looks down at his tea, gripping the cup so tightly it seems like it might shatter. “I let her…cross a line. I should’ve stopped her. I didn’t mean to make things worse.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing as his fists clench harder. “Damn right, you should’ve stopped her,” he snaps, venom lacing his tone. “You’re supposed to have my back, not—” He stops, inhaling sharply as he tries to get a grip on his rising anger. “Forget it. It doesn’t even matter now.”

“It does matter,” Suguru insists, leaning forward slightly. “You think I don’t know how bad I screwed up? I hate that I hurt you, but Satoru, this isn’t just about me or you. It’s about her. She was falling apart the other night, and I should’ve done more to help instead of making things worse.”

Satoru glares at him, his icy blue eyes blazing with barely restrained fury. “You think saying sorry fixes this? That it fixes anything?” His voice drops, quieter but more cutting. “She was falling apart, and instead of helping, you let her…what? Kiss you?”

Suguru’s silence speaks volumes, and the tension between them becomes almost suffocating.

Shoko sighs heavily, dragging a hand down her face. “Alright, enough,” she says firmly, her voice cutting through the thick tension like a knife. “This isn’t helping anyone. Satoru, you’re pissed—fine. You have every right to be. Suguru, you’re guilty—good, you should be. But sitting here throwing blame back and forth isn’t going to solve anything. What matters is what happens next.”

“What happens next?” Satoru echoes bitterly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What’s next, Shoko? I just walk up to her, pour my heart out, and hope she doesn’t slam the door in my face?”

“Maybe,” Shoko says simply, shrugging as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Or maybe you start with an apology. A real one. Not one of your half-assed, sarcastic ones. And maybe you listen to her for once instead of jumping to conclusions or trying to control the narrative.”

Satoru looks away, his jaw clenching again as he processes her words. Deep down, he knows she’s right. He’s been so caught up in his own emotions, his own insecurities, that he hasn’t stopped to think about how you feel or what you need. But fuck is it going to be hard. Truth is, he doesn’t want you turning to other men for comfort, he just….

Suguru clears his throat, drawing Satoru’s attention back to him. “For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I think she still cares about you. She wouldn’t be this upset if she didn’t.”

The words hit Satoru like a gut punch, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at his best friend. The anger, the jealousy, the guilt—it all swirls inside him, threatening to overwhelm him. But somewhere beneath it all, there’s a flicker of hope. “I’ll…talk to her,” he says finally, his voice low but resolute. “I don’t know how, or what I’m even going to say, but I’ll figure it out.”

Shoko smiles faintly, picking up her coffee again. “Good. Because if you don’t, I will. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

For the first time that morning, Satoru lets out a small, humorless chuckle. It’s not much, but it’s a start. Satoru peeks over at Suguru, the two sharing a silent look of understanding. One that says he’s not off the hook yet, but that there’s other fish to fry.

You’re biting your nail nervously. Darting back to check the time before at your excited five-year-old who is jumping around happily in the living room watching his show. You let him pick out his own outfit for today, a red shirt with white letters that spell ‘MOMMA’S BOY’ and simple black jeans with his vans. His hair is styled in a way that he said resembles his Papa. you grinned in melancholy at that, giving your son the hairstyle he wanted. You, yourself, are dressed simply. Dark jeans with a turtleneck—a savior in the coldness it is today. Your coat and shoes are already on, your purse slung over your shoulder, and yet you haven’t left yet. You feel bad to—waiting on a certain someone. Koji has been asking about his father since he woke up, boasting about how he can’t wait to show him off to his friends today and when he is coming. 

Leaning against the kitchen counter, your thoughts are drowning you. When you hear your phone ring, you’re on it in an instant. Though you’re met with another man’s name. Letting out a deep breath and pressing accept. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Suguru’s voice replies. “Sorry, you busy right now?”

“Uh—” you glance at the clock. “I can spare a few minutes.”

He sighs and adjusts himself. “Good, this will be quick. I don’t want to hold you up too much.”

“Is something wrong?” you reply, biting your lip.

He takes a moment to respond, heaving and exhaling through the receiver. “Look, Y/N. I…I just want to apologize for the other night. Really, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that and I should’ve…stopped you. I’m sorry.”

Your mouth parts, startled by the fact that he felt the need to apologize. Classic Suguru. You clear your throat. “I–no. It’s okay. It’s…that was on me. I’m sorry.”

“You were drunk and emotional, I should’ve been the person to put a halt to things.”

You can’t help but almost grimace at the way he sounds so….regretful—maybe appalled? Was the thought of kissing you…really that bad for him to stomach? With a hum back to him, you notice the time cutting closer—scratching your head.

“And…and I think it’s best if I—if we—put a little more…distance between each other. It wouldn’t be right for that situation to happen again, or for us to get close like that. It’s disrespectful to Satoru and I don’t want to tarnish my friendship with him like that. I’m sorry.”

You feel your heart drop into your stomach as his words hang heavily in the air. The way Suguru's voice cracks with such sincerity—it makes the reality of the situation feel even worse. He’s being careful, trying to fix something that feels irreparably broken, but you can’t stop the rush of emotions that flood you. A strange lump forms in your throat as you exhale softly, gripping the edge of the counter harder. Your mind races, trying to catch up to his apology, the weight of his words sinking in deeper.

You almost feel like laughing—bitterly, of course—but you hold back. “Suguru, I… I understand,” you finally manage, though the words feel inadequate in this moment. “I never wanted to put you in that position, either. It was a mistake, and I—I don’t know what I was thinking. But you’re right. I shouldn’t have let things go that far.”

The silence that stretches between you two now feels uncomfortable. There’s no easy way to navigate this, no graceful way out of this mess that you’ve all somehow ended up in. It’s like standing in the middle of a battlefield, and the war is only just beginning. You still can’t deny the pang of hurt that strikes through you, feeling a small sense of irritation at the sole fact he’s doing this all for Satoru—for his friend. Sure, they’re best friends and whatnot, but why can’t someone do something for you for once? Why is it that the one person who’s been showing you nothing but patience, hospitality, and understanding is pulling himself back for him? Is it selfish to feel hurt by the fact that you almost feel forced to put up with everything alone?

“I should've been stronger,” you continue quietly, your voice trembling just slightly. “I’m sorry, Suguru. For all of it.”

He sighs again, as if the apology means something to him, but also knowing it doesn't fix anything. “I don’t blame you, Y/N. I really don’t. I just—this situation is complicated, and I’m trying to be the right kind of person here. For Satoru, for you, for all of us.”

You can feel the distance he's trying to place between you both, even if it's an unspoken agreement. A part of you wants to argue, to tell him that things are never as clear-cut as he’s trying to make them, that Satoru doesn’t deserve anything. But your head spins, and you're not sure if you can find the right words anymore. You just feel... drained. There’s a brief, awkward pause as you try to find something else to say, something to make this feel less painful.

"I'll let you go," Suguru says after a beat, sensing that you're running out of words. "I just wanted to clear the air before you see him again. Please don’t take this the wrong way, Y/N, but I think it’s better if we step back from this... from everything, for a while."

You nod slowly, eyes feeling glossy, even though he can’t see it. "Okay."

"Take care of yourself," he says quietly before hanging up.

The phone feels heavier in your hand as you lower it. You glance over to Koji, who's still happily hopping around, completely oblivious to the storm that just hit. Well, there goes that. A scoff sounds out, hovering above the kitchen sink—hands gripping the edge of the counter. You just keep fucking things up, don’t you? Driving others away because you don’t know when to stop. Your breath catches in your throat, and you blink away the sting in your eyes. Koji’s laughter fills the space around you, innocent and unaware of the weight on your shoulders. You glance down at the phone in your hand, feeling a mix of anger, confusion, and an overwhelming sense of loss. Suguru’s words replay in your head like a broken record, his apology, the distance he’s imposing, the way he’s doing all of this for Satoru. For his friendship. 

You almost want to scream, to tell him that this isn’t about his damn loyalty to Satoru, but about what you’ve been through and the mess that’s been made of your life. But all you can do is swallow it down as if your voice has been stolen from you. You run a hand through your hair, peering up at Koji again. He’s still bouncing around, full of excitement for the day ahead. He doesn’t deserve this. You promised him a better life, a life free from the kinds of complicated messes you’ve been tangled in for too long. But all of it—Satoru, Suguru, and you—feels like a web you can’t escape. The knots grow tighter the more you try to get out. “Momma?” Koji’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you meet his bright eyes. “Is Papa coming now?”

You freeze, your breath caught in your chest. The question makes everything hit you all at once. That aching emptiness. The truth you’ve been avoiding. Satoru probably isn’t even coming today. He’s too busy, too wrapped up in his own world. You know it. Koji doesn’t. You take a slow, deep breath, and then force a smile onto your lips, trying to ignore the heaviness that settles in your chest. “Not yet, sweetie,” you say softly, walking over to him and kneeling down to his level. “Papa’s just finishing up some work, okay? We’ll get to see him soon, I promise.”

Koji looks at you with wide eyes, tilting his head. “But you said… you said we were going together.”

You swallow, forcing the tightness in your throat to subside. “I know, honey. But sometimes grown-ups get really busy. I’m sure he’ll be ready when we get there. Let’s go grab a snack, yeah?”

He nods, his usual energy coming back, though you can see the hint of confusion still lingering in his eyes. As he grabs your hand and pulls you toward the kitchen, you let the smile on your face fade just enough to let the tears you’ve been holding back fall, your back turned to him so he can’t see. The phone call with Suguru still stings, leaving an empty feeling in your chest that refuses to go away. You wanted more than this. You wanted things to be different. But life never really seems to work out that way. As much as you want to deny it, the reality of it all is starting to sink in: you’re alone in this.

Koji’s classroom is buzzing with energy when you arrive, filled with laughter, excited chatter, and the occasional squeak of sneakers against the polished wooden floors. Decorations hang from the ceiling—paper streamers in bright colors, hand-drawn posters that read Happy Dad Appreciation Day! in crayon-scrawled letters, and a long banner strung up at the front of the room welcoming all the fathers. Koji practically bounces beside you, his tiny hand gripping yours as his eyes sweep over the room in search of one person. The excitement radiates off him in waves, and your stomach knots. You already know what’s coming.

“Where’s Papa?” he asks, his voice filled with anticipation as he looks up at you with those big, innocent eyes.

You force a smile, tightening your hold on his hand. “He’s coming, baby,” you say softly. “Let’s go find your seat, okay?”

Koji nods, trusting you without question, and it makes your chest ache. You lead him toward the small tables arranged in clusters, where children are already showing off handmade cards and crafts to their fathers. The sight is enough to make your throat tighten—dads kneeling beside their kids, laughing, ruffling their hair, lifting them up in tight hugs, mothers off to the side, and mingling with each other. Koji plops down at his designated spot, a small desk with his name written on a blue name tag. In front of him sits a paper he decorated himself, a drawing of you, him, and Satoru, all holding hands beneath a bright sun. The word FAMILY is scribbled across the top in uneven letters. Your eyes linger on the drawing for a moment too long.

“Koji!” One of his classmates, a boy with a missing front tooth, runs up to him. “Is your dad here yet?”

Koji perks up immediately, glancing around again before shaking his head. “Not yet, but he’s coming!” His smile is unwavering, full of pure belief, and it only makes your heart squeeze tighter.

“Oh, really? My Daddy is here already.” The young boy comments, head tilting in curiosity. His eyes graze over to you. “Only your Mommy is here?”

Koji nods. “Mhm! But my Papa is coming soon.”

“Stop lying,” another boy walks up to the mix, arms crossed with a smile. 

Koji’s brows furrow, his small hands balling into fists at his sides. “I’m not lying!” he insists, his voice firm but laced with a hint of uncertainty. He glances up at you for reassurance, and you give him a small, encouraging smile.

The boy shrugs, clearly unfazed. “Then where is he?”

Koji puffs out his chest. “He’s coming! He’s just busy.”

Another child, a girl with pigtails, leans in curiously. “Busy with what?”

Koji hesitates, his fingers twitching as he struggles to come up with an answer. Before he can respond, the classroom door swings open, and more fathers step in, greeted by excited squeals and hugs from their kids. Koji watches, his eager eyes flitting toward the door each time it opens, only for his shoulders to drop when it’s never the person he’s hoping for. The children look back at Koji, expecting an answer. You clear your throat and regard them. “Koji’s dad is coming. Where are your parents, hm? You shouldn’t run off without them.”

The kids grumble childishly before scurrying off.  You tilt your head down, placing a gentle hand on your son’s back. “Hey,” you murmur. “Papa will be here soon, okay?”

He nods, but the brightness in his expression dims just a little. “Okay,” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

Mr. Ito claps his hands, gathering the children’s attention. “Alright, everyone! Let’s all take a seat with our dads—or moms!” he adds with a kind smile toward you. “We’re going to start our special activities now.”

Koji swallows hard, gripping the hem of his shirt as he walks to his spot on the colorful carpet. He sits beside you, his small hand reaching for yours, holding on tightly. You squeeze it reassuringly, silently hoping—praying—that Satoru keeps his promise. You sit beside him, trying to steady yourself, to keep the nagging worry at bay. You check your phone—no messages. No calls. Nothing. 

“Alright, everyone! We’re going to start with our very special ‘Why We Love Our Dads’ presentation we practiced in class!”

A murmur of excitement spreads through the kids as they grab their drawings and cards, eager to share. One by one, they begin taking turns standing in front of the room, reading out loud the reasons they love their fathers. Laughter fills the space, along with the occasional aww from the parents. Koji grips the edge of his paper tightly, his little fingers curling around it. He turns to you, eyes shining. “It’s almost my turn!” he whispers, practically vibrating in his seat. “Papa’s gonna hear everything I wrote about him!”

You don’t know what to say. You can only nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat.

Minute after minute passes. More fathers beam at their children, patting their heads, giving them hugs. The list of kids waiting to present grows smaller. And still—no Satoru.

You check your phone again.

Nothing.

Damn it, Satoru!

Koji’s excitement starts to wane, his fingers fidgeting with the paper in his hands. He keeps sneaking glances toward the entrance, and with each passing second, the light in his eyes dims just a little more. Biting his tiny lip in contemplation, his brows knitting in an uncomfortable way. You can only offer encouraging words and touches, though you know that’s not enough for what should be a special moment like this one. By the time his name is called, he hesitates. His little hands clutch the drawing so tight that the edges begin to wrinkle. “Koji?” his teacher prompts gently.

You place a reassuring hand on his back, leaning in close. “You got this, sweetheart,” you whisper, kissing his cheek.

He nods slowly and stands, walking to the front of the room with his paper in his hands. His voice is quieter than usual when he speaks. You stand up, moving over to the side but close enough so you can record him better—giving him a big smile and thumbs up behind the camera.

Koji looks at you and when he sees your further encouragement, a small smile breaks out onto his face before he’s looking down at his colored paper. “I…I love my papa because he’s…he’s really s-strong and cool,” Koji starts, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “And he makes the best pancakes. And he always makes me laugh. We always go on undercover missions. He buys me toys and builds forts with me. A-And…” His voice falters just slightly, his eyes flickering once more toward the door. His fingers tighten around the paper.

You can see it—the moment realization starts creeping in. The moment the truth settles in his tiny frame. The way his eyes blink too rapidly in a way that lets you know he’s on the verge of shutting down and crying. Your smile wavers, forcing yourself to show nothing but support for your son at a time like this. 

“And…” He tries again, but there’s something softer in his tone now, something uncertain. He looks down at his drawing, then at the room full of fathers who showed up.

And then, finally, he turns his gaze toward you.

His smile is smaller now, but still there. He holds up his drawing, his voice clearer this time. “…And my mom is really strong too. She does everything Papa does.”

There’s a warmth in the room, a few murmurs of appreciation, but all you can focus on is Koji’s face, the way he’s looking at you now. And for a brief second, just a second, you think maybe—just maybe—he understands. Your eyes are beginning to water, a shaky exhale leaving your lips in a quiet way because you are not crying right now. Maybe later. 

“She helps me with my homework, even when I don’t get it right away. And she makes my lunch just how I like it, even when she’s really busy.” His lips press together for a moment, as if he’s thinking carefully about his next words. “And she tucks me in every night and stays with me until I fall asleep when Papa lets me stay up late.” He giggles to himself at the memory.

There’s a shift in the room now. A few of the fathers exchange glances, some of the mothers in the crowd offering soft smiles. You can feel the warmth of their eyes on you, but you don’t dare look away from Koji. “She tells me stories about superheroes,” he continues, his voice gaining just a little more confidence. “And even though she says she’s not one, I think she is. Papa says she is, he says she’s a better superhero than he is!”

Something in your chest clenches so tight it’s almost hard to breathe. Your vision blurs slightly, and you blink rapidly, taking a slow, shaky inhale. The grip on your phone falters a little.  

“But Papa is taller than Mama. He has blue eyes and he does these really funny voices when he reads me stories,” Koji continues, looking at the small crowd of families. “I love my Papa because…because I want to be like him when I grow up, but I also want to be like my Mama. I want to be smart, strong, and tall!” A small chorus of laughter runs out, with you following. “When I’m my Papa’s age, I hope I can love someone like how loves Mama! But they don’t sleep in the same bed…and Papa doesn’t live with us,” he mutters with a downturned pout. 

It’s like he pauses for a dramatic effect.

The comment causes the atmosphere to only grow a tad bit awkward, the parents sending you weird, subtle glances. Your lips thin in into a purse, though you can’t find it in yourself to be angry. 

Koji shifts his weight again, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a small, almost hesitant smile. “I love my Papa a lot,” he says. “And I know he loves me too.” Another pause. “Even if he’s not here.”

Your heart sinks.

Koji swallows, glancing down at his paper, his fingers curling around it for a long moment. And then, finally, he lifts his head, looking right at you again. “But my mom is here.” The weight of those words settles into your bones, heavy and warm all at once. Koji smiles at you—small, but real.

“And I think that’s enough.”

The silence that follows is almost deafening. Then, the room fills with quiet murmurs, a few soft claps, and a warmth that you can’t quite describe. You laugh out a shaky chuckle, ending the recording. Your son is beaming at you, finished with his presentation. You’re about to clap your hands together and urge him over when suddenly—

“Good job, Koji!”

A shout—one too loud for a classroom—makes everyone break their neck to see where it came from. You jolt, barely having time to look over your shoulder before Koji averts his eyes from you. And if possible, his smile grows wider, eyes twinkling. “Papa!!” he shouts, running over to his father. Gojo is laughing, picking his son up and lifting him into my arms. Koji—ever bright—looks back over at his classmates. “See! I told you! This is my Papa! He’s here! He came!”

Gasps ripple through the room, followed by whispers and excited chatter from the children. Some fathers look over with raised brows, while the teachers exchange glances of both relief and surprise. Gojo, the spectacle he is, stands tall with Koji in his arms, grinning like he just won the lottery. “Of course I came! How could I miss Dad Appreciation Day?” he exclaims, ruffling Koji’s hair before pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I had to see my little guy shine.”

Koji giggles, his small hands clutching at the collar of Gojo’s jacket as if he never wants to let go. His excitement is contagious, his joy so pure that, for a brief moment, you forget the emotional wreck you were about to become. “Did you see me, Papa?!”

“I did, baby. I’m sorry I came late, but I didn’t want to make you nervous. I heard everything.”

“I don’t get nervous, Papa,” he mumbles. Satoru simply laughs, adorning his son with small kisses to his face and neck. Koji giggles, squirming around. 

You, on the other hand, are frozen in place, gripping your phone so tightly your knuckles ache. The air in your lungs feels too thick, like it’s pressing against your ribs. He actually came. You swallow hard, blinking rapidly as Gojo finally looks at you. His gaze lingers on you for just a moment too long. He’s unreadable, but there’s something there—something deeper, something unspoken. “I’m here, I’m here.” He mutters soothingly to Koji, moving to stand beside you as the next kid presents. 

Koji peeks from Satoru’s shoulder, giving you a smile that makes you instantly mirror it. You remind yourself to give his dad a piece of your mind when you have the chance. 

Over time, the group has congregated downstairs to the gymnasium where there’s even more crafts set up, decorations, games, and food.

The gymnasium is bustling with energy, filled with the smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and cotton candy. Banners hang from the rafters, all colorful and festive with slogans like “Dad’s Day Fun!” and “We love our Dads!” The sound of laughter and chatter fills the air, mixed with the occasional clink of a game prize being handed out. Koji tugs at your hand and Satoru’s, practically dragging you guys over to the bounce house, his excitement bubbling over. “Mama! Papa! Look! I wanna jump!” His little feet bounce in place, and his eyes sparkle with anticipation.

You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. The light in his eyes as he points to the inflatable structure is enough to make any stress melt away for a moment. As you guide him toward the bounce house, you notice Gojo trailing behind with his usual confidence, though there’s something softer about the way he watches his son.

“Think you can handle it, champ?” Gojo teases, rolling up his sleeves. His voice is playful, but his eyes are warm, focused on Koji as if the world around them doesn’t exist.

Koji, already bouncing inside the inflatable, doesn’t hesitate to answer. “I’m gonna jump higher than you, Papa!” he exclaims, bouncing with all his might. Gojo chuckles, his shoulders relaxing as he watches the joy in his son’s movements.

You linger at the edge of the bounce house, watching them interact. It’s almost surreal seeing Gojo in this light—happy, relaxed, laughing with his son, and the moment feels so... normal. He’s about to go in when you stop him. “I don’t think it’s meant for the adults.”

He looks back at you, a small pout on his face like he was just denied his favorite candy. “What? So? I don’t mind.”

“Well not you, but the other kids might—”

“You better run, Koji. I’m gonna get you!” he shouts, going right inside the bouncy house. You hear Koji’s excited squeals as he plays with his father inside. From the outside, your eyes stay on the pair and you even see a small part of Gojo that only comes out in certain times. Times where he’s allowed to be a kid again. He has a different kind of glow to him and you’re feeling your isnides begin to stir with warmness, biting back a smile when his boisterous laugh outsounds his son’s. Leave it up to him take over. You sigh and with this time to yourself, you decide to give your feet a rest and let Satoru have his fun with koji. It is technically his day, after all. 

Inside, Koji and Gojo are jumping around, playing a little game of tag and who can jump the highest. Gojo shows off by even doing a front flip for his son, and when Koji tries to imitate it, he promptly stops him. The minutes pass and their skin is beginning to show visible beads of sweat, fashes flushed with excitement. They sit down at one of the corner of the bounce house, Koji rested on top of his father’s lap. Gojo moves some hair out of his face. It’s nice and serene. Koji looks up at Gojo—his father looking down at him with a smile full of love and appreciation. 

Koji bites his lower lip, putting a hand to Gojo’s chest when he turns to face him better. “Papa?”

“Yes, Koji?”

“I have a question.”

“Oh?” Gojo’s eyebrow raises. “Well, please tell me what this question is.”

Koji’s head tilts with a smile. “How did you and Mama meet?” 

Gojo’s face softens, and for a moment, his usual teasing grin disappears. He blinks at the question, caught off guard, but his eyes warm almost immediately as he looks at Koji, who is still sitting in his lap, his little hand still pressed against Gojo’s chest. It’s such an innocent question—so full of curiosity, like Koji is trying to piece together the little story of his parents' lives before he came into the picture.

Gojo leans back slightly, shifting so that he’s more comfortable, one hand still resting on Koji’s back, the other absentmindedly playing with his son’s hair. “How did we meet?” he repeats, the question dancing on his lips as though he’s thinking about it. "Well… that's a bit of a long story, buddy."

Koji looks up at him with big, wide eyes, clearly intrigued. “I wanna hear it,” he says, his voice filled with that earnest excitement that only kids can have.

Gojo looks up in thought. “Well, Mama didn’t really like me at first, but, you know, after a while, we started talking more. And you know what? That’s when things got interesting.” He pauses, looking down at Koji with a fondness that makes the words feel like something deeper. “She went from not liking me at all to us becoming a team.”

Koji seems to contemplate this for a moment, his little brows furrowing as he tries to piece it all together. “So... she didn’t like each other but then she did?” he asks, his voice innocent but inquisitive.

“Exactly,” Gojo says with a smile, gently ruffling Koji’s hair. “Sometimes, it takes time for people to figure each other out. And sometimes, even when you don’t like someone at first, they end up becoming the most important person in your life.”

Koji blinks, his eyes big and wide, as if he’s processing this new information. “Is that how you and Mama became friends first?”

Gojo pauses for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. He glances over at you, and though his expression is playful, there’s a depth to it that can’t be ignored. “You could say that,” he replies, his voice softer now. “We became... something more than friends, though. We became family.”

Koji giggles with elation, leaning in close as if he’s whispering something in his ear. “Did you like Mama at first.”

Gojo matches his son’s laugh, also leaning in. “Oh, buddy. You promise not to tell? It’s a secret.”

“I promise!”

Gojo leans closer to his son, looking around before meeting his eyes. “When I first met Mama…..it was love at first sight.”

Gojo’s walking down the street, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants as he’s been forced with flower duty. He grumbled and huffed to his parents about having one of the maids do it, but to no avail. Now he’s stuck trying to find some stupid flower shop that he wouldn’t think twice about coming to if he wasn’t forced. Although he should probably be more sympathetic since he’s literally buying flowers for his grandmother’s gravestone—the grandmother he barely knew. 

As Gojo walks down the street, the late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pavement, and the faint hum of city life surrounds him. He glances up at the sky, his usual playful demeanor replaced by a slight irritation. He hadn’t wanted to do this. He could already feel the weight of his family's expectations pressing down on him, and buying flowers for a woman he barely remembered felt more like a chore than an act of reverence. But, of course, his parents had insisted. His thoughts drift from the task at hand as he walks past cafes and small shops. He knows he's wasting time, dragging his feet, but there's no denying that he feels disconnected from the task. His family had always been about the big picture—the legacy, the power, the status—but moments like these, like honoring someone from his family who passed away when he was too young to remember her, don’t hold much weight for him. Not yet, anyway.

He finally turns the corner and spots the little flower shop at the end of the block. It’s nothing fancy, just a small corner store with an overgrown plant spilling out the door. He adjusts his sunglasses before continuing. The scent of fresh flowers hits him immediately, sharp and sweet, and he exhales slowly, already regretting having to pick out something “appropriate.” He’s not even sure what’s considered appropriate for a grandmother’s gravestone.

As he enters, the soft chime of the doorbell rings above him, and the bell-like sound almost pulls him out of his thoughts.

He’s looking around, senses already overwhelmed. Then, he sees her.

You’re standing behind the counter, a clipboard in your hand, taking inventory of the flowers in front of you. The moment he sees you, everything else fades. You look so absorbed in what you’re doing, the edges of your hair catching the sunlight filtering through the window, and something about the way you stand there, grounded and calm, strikes him deeply. The first thought that crosses his mind is that he’s never seen anyone like you before—someone who seems completely unbothered by the chaos of the world around them. It’s a strange thing—not only because he barely knows you but because he never actually…looks that deeply into people, especially ones he doesn’t know. 

It’s funny, because he's no stranger to beauty—he’s been surrounded by it all his life—but something about you... it's not just physical. There's something about your presence, something about the way you seem perfectly at ease even in a small flower shop, that makes him stop dead in his tracks. His heart skips, and he suddenly feels out of place, like maybe he's not worthy of this peaceful little corner of the world.

“Can I help you?” Your voice is soft, a little melodic, and it makes him blink, pulling him back to the moment.

Gojo runs a hand through his hair, trying to shake the dazed feeling away. Pushing up his glasses and puffing his chest out, his voice lowering in a “manly” way.  “Uh… yeah,” he clears his throat—his tone cracking that makes him want to punch himself.  “I need flowers for a gravestone. My grandmother’s.” He says, his voice a little gruffer than he meant. He’s still trying to make sense of the sudden pull he feels toward you.

You look at him with a small tilt of your head, studying him for a moment, before gesturing to the far side of the store. “We have a few arrangements that are good for that,” you say, walking toward the display.

Gojo follows you, trying to keep his thoughts from wandering. He’s been in a couple of flower shops before, but he feels something different now. He can’t quite pinpoint it, but the longer he’s around you, the more he starts to feel the weight of the moment. It’s almost as if, for once, he’s doing something not for status, not for the family, but just because... well, just because.

“Do you know your grandmother’s favorite flowers?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder.

Gojo blinks, momentarily caught off guard by the question. He hadn’t even considered that. He feels a small pang of guilt. “I don’t know. I didn’t really know her. I was too young when she passed.”

You stop walking and turn to face him, a gentle look in your eyes. “Oh…well…that’s okay. It’s hard to remember people when they leave so early,” you say, your tone warm and understanding.

The kindness in your voice surprises him. Most people don’t look at him like that. He’s used to the mask people put on when they talk to him—the act of politeness, the careful distance. But you? You don’t seem to care that he’s the Gojo heir or that his family’s expectations come with a heavy burden. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, standing in a little flower shop, and it feels... real.

“Maybe something simple, then,” Gojo says, shrugging. “Just something that shows I care or whatever.”

You nod, the softest smile tugging at your lips. “I think we can manage that.”

For the rest of the time, Gojo barely notices the flowers he’s choosing. His eyes keep wandering to you, following the way your hands move as you arrange things, and for the first time in a long time, he finds himself wondering about someone else—not his family, not his future, but you. There’s something intriguing about the way you carry yourself, something that makes him feel like he’s finally met someone who isn’t afraid to see him as more than just the Gojo name.

“You’re really cute,” he randomly blurts out as he’s paying for the lillies. You falter, looking up at him with widened eyes and parted mouth. His eyebrow twitches, internally cursing himself and his fat mouth. “I…I mean….you know. You’re just…your hair and your smile, it’s like…well you’re like…”

You’re still staring at him in silence and the more he’s foolishly stumbling over his words, the more he feels himself grow red. He hurriedly tosses down the change and grabs the bouquet. “Yeah, um…t-thanks.”

You have no time to react before he turns around and practically runs out the door. As he leaves the shop, flowers in hand, he finds himself thinking of you more than he should. It’s a strange feeling, and it makes him question things in a way he never has before. But one thought remains louder than the others: I fumbled!

Koji gasps in awe, completely engrossed in the love story of his parents. “Wow! That sounds like the movies!”

Gojo laughs, ruffling his son’s hair. “Yeah, just like the movies, huh?”

Koji’s smile spreads, satisfied with the answer, and leans back against Gojo’s chest, curling up a little in his father’s lap. “That’s a good story, Papa.”

Gojo chuckles again, pulling Koji closer and resting his chin on top of his son’s head. “Glad you liked it, kiddo.” He pauses for a moment, gazing down at Koji with so much love in his eyes that it’s almost overwhelming. “I’m glad I met your mama, too.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the soft sounds of laughter and the gentle hum of the gymnasium around you. The connection between them is so clear, so perfect in its simplicity. He wonders, for a fleeting second, what it would be like to just let go of everything and let this be enough—this little world where everything feels okay, where the past and its mistakes don’t have to weigh you guys down. He can only dream.

You’ve just stepped out of the bathroom, running a hand through your hair when you bump into Mr. Ito.  You let out a small gasp, startled by the unexpected encounter. Mr. Ito stands in front of you, a warm smile on his face as he adjusts his glasses. "Oh! I didn’t mean to startle you."

"No, it's fine," you say quickly, offering a polite smile. "I was just heading back to the event." You’re still catching your breath from the light rush of running into him so unexpectedly, but the tension begins to ease as he nods in understanding.

“I see you’re enjoying the day,” Mr. Ito says, his smile turning a little more knowing as he glances past you toward the gymnasium. “It’s nice to see the students’ families involved. Especially Koji—he’s such a bright little guy.”

You feel a warmth stir in your chest at the mention of Koji. He’s your world, and hearing others say such kind things about him makes your heart swell. “He is,” you reply softly, your smile genuine.

Mr. Ito follows your line of sight before focusing on you again. “And, how are you today, Ms. Y/N?”

You blink up, putting on a casual smile. “Oh, I’m fine, thank you. And you?”

“Fine now that I’m talking to you.” His attempt at a pickup line falls flat, even with the way he laughs and tries to play it off. You awkwardly chortle back, eyes flickering to the side. “I’m sorry. That was weird of me.”

You wave it off with a light smile, not wanting to make things more awkward than they already are. “It’s okay, Mr. Ito. You didn’t mean anything by it.”

He nods, his grin still a little strained. “I didn’t, no. Just... getting too comfortable, I suppose.”

The silence stretches between you both, and you try to think of something to break it. Your eyes glance back to the gymnasium where Gojo and Koji are still playing, laughing in the distance. For some reason, the sight of them makes you feel a sense of calm amidst the strange encounter with Mr. Ito. He plays with his fingers, visibly debating something before just going for it. “I just…I would…like to get to know you better, Y/N. You know, outside of all this.”

You quietly clear your throat, rubbing the back of your neck. “Mr. Ito, I appreciate that but, you…already know that I don’t reciprocate the same feelings and that…I’d like to keep a boundary between us.”

You notice the way his jaw ticks, eyebrows knitting just the slightest before briefly nodding. 

“And well…” you decide now’s a good time to bring things up. “Koji and I, we’ll be moving. I’m going to start the process of disenrolling him and entering him into the school near our new place. I’ve already talked to him about it and he’s excited.”

Mr. Ito blinks, his expression faltering slightly at your words. It’s clear that the news has caught him off guard, though he quickly masks it with a tight smile. “I see. Well, I suppose that’s... good for you two. A fresh start, huh?”

You nod, trying to keep the conversation as neutral as possible. “Yeah. It’s been a long time coming. I think it’ll be a better environment for Koji, too. New opportunities, new surroundings.”

The air between you both feels heavier now, the tension thickening with the revelation. You can tell Mr. Ito’s thoughts are churning, and though he’s trying to keep it composed, it’s clear he didn’t expect to hear this today. He takes a breath, and when he speaks again, his tone is much quieter. “I understand, Y/N. I really do.” He pauses, seeming to weigh his next words carefully. “But... if you ever change your mind, or if you need anything—someone to talk to—please don’t hesitate to reach out. I’d like to help if I can. I’ll miss you both.”

You feel a knot form in your stomach, but you force a polite smile, trying to smooth over the uncomfortable edge of the conversation. “Thank you, Mr. Ito. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He turns for a second before facing you again, his smile looking a little more forced.  “But if you’d like to join me for some Italian food. I know this place downtown and they—”

“I love Italian food.”

You gasp lightly, jolting when Satoru’s voice seemingly appears out of nowhere, but so does the hand on your hip, almost hovering but still close enough to keep you tethered to his side. “What time?” He smiles, looking at the other man with faux sweetness. 

Mr. Ito shifts uneasily, clearly taken aback by Satoru’s sudden appearance and the casual intimacy of his hand on your hip. His gaze flickers between the two of you, his smile faltering as he clears his throat. “Well, I was actually inviting her,” he points out, his tone polite but edged with tension.

“I could tell, but I’m inviting myself.” Satoru smoothly replies, eyebrow tilting up. 

Mr. Ito looks at you now, holding back a frown. Your mouth opens and closes, the words caught in your throat as you try to process the whirlwind that is Satoru Gojo. “I—”

“We have plans tonight,” he continues, not giving you a chance to object. “In fact, we always have plans, don’t we? Because I love Italian food too.” He pats your hip lightly, the gesture both possessive and reassuring, chuckling. 

Mr. Ito clears his throat, straightening up a bit as if that will make him on par with Gojo. “I’m sorry, but I’m speaking to Ms. Y/N and Ms. Y/N only.”

“And I’m speaking to you, Mr….oh sorry, I forgot your name. What was it again?”

The dynamic between you three feels tense with awkwardness and unsaid feelings. You notice the tick of Satoru’s jaw along with the furrow of Mr. Ito’s eyebrows. Jesus Christ. 

Satoru told his head in a condescending way. “But hey, don’t let me stop you from recommending your favorite Italian spot. We’re always open to new places.”

“Well, look at that,” Mr. Ito replies, his smile slowly dropping. “You are stopping me, in fact.” 

“Maybe that’s the point.”

“I don’t see why you would.”

“The same goes for you.”

“You’re quite a rude man, you know that?”

“And you’re a pushy one. So what do you plan on doing about it?”

The air is charged, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. You feel like a bystander caught in the middle of a brewing storm, watching as Gojo and Mr. Ito exchange sharp words like blows in an unseen battle for dominance. Mr. Ito lets out a breath, forcing a tight smile again. “I don’t see why this concerns you, Mr. Gojo.”

Satoru chuckles, the sound light but laced with something darker. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. It concerns me a whole lot when it involves my family.” His hand, still resting at your hip, presses slightly—not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to remind you he’s there, standing firm.

Mr. Ito’s jaw tightens. “I was just extending an invitation. Didn’t realize she needed a chaperone.”

Gojo tilts his head, feigning curiosity. “Chaperone? Nah. I just don’t like guys who don’t know how to take no for an answer.” His smile widens, all teeth, as he leans in just slightly. “Kinda pathetic, don’t you think?”

You barely hold in your sigh.

Mr. Ito straightens, his jaw tensing. “It’s not pathetic to be persistent.”

“It is when it’s unwanted.”

His words are casual, but the weight behind them is anything but. You can feel it—the shift in the air, the growing hostility masked beneath their polite tones. Mr. Ito glances at you, searching for something, but you’re too drained to entertain whatever game he thinks he’s playing. So, you decide to end it. “Mr. Ito,” you interject, your voice firm but measured. “I appreciate the offer, but my answer is the same. I’d really like to keep things professional.”

There’s a beat of silence before Mr. Ito exhales through his nose, forcing a nod. “Understood.” His eyes flicker to Gojo once more before he nods. “Take care, Y/N.”

With that, he turns and walks off, tension still lingering in his wake.

Gojo clicks his tongue, watching him go. “Man, some people really don’t know when to quit.”

You shake your head, exhaling. “Was that necessary?”

“Absolutely,” Gojo grins, turning to you. “Did you see the way his eye twitched? Best part of my day.”

Your voice lowers and sharpens. “You can’t just be rude like that. What even was that?”

“That,” he replies, stepping back just enough to put a safe distance between you but keeping that infuriating grin, “was me saving you from an awkward dinner with Mr. Boring over there.”

“Saving me?” you repeat, incredulous. “I didn’t need saving. I could’ve handled it. And besides,” you walk back over to where Koji is playing with his friends in the bouncy house. “Maybe I would’ve said yes.”

“Don’t even say that,” he quickly follows.

“Why not?”

You look at him, his lips purse like he’s about to say anything. Giving you a quick scan up and down before deciding against it—sighing and running a hand through his hair. You peer away, down at your feet. A small pause stretches between you two before he’s speaking. “Listen,” he starts, voice tentative. “I…I think we should talk…about you know.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Suguru already talked to me.”

“Not just about that, Y/N.”

“Then what else, Satoru?” you turn your head to him. “What else could we possibly have to talk about? We have nothing to talk about unless it involves Koji, and right now—it’s supposed to be a good day. I’d rather not air out everything today—especially right here.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, his jaw tightening as he watches you. His usual playful expression is nowhere to be found, replaced by something quieter—something raw. “You always do this,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“Do what?” You cross your arms, suddenly feeling defensive.

“Shut me out.” His voice isn’t accusatory, but there’s something heavy in it, something that makes your throat tighten.

You shake your head, willing yourself to keep your emotions in check. “I’m not shutting you out, Satoru. I just—” You pause, exhaling sharply before glancing back at Koji. He’s still playing, oblivious to the weight of the conversation happening just a few feet away. “I just don’t want to ruin today for him.”

Gojo studies you for a moment, then sighs. He steps closer—not enough to be overwhelming, but enough that you can see the sincerity in his expression. “I get it,” he says softly. “I do. But this…this thing between us? It’s not going away just because we pretend it doesn’t exist.”

Your fingers curl into your sleeves, nails pressing against the fabric. “And what do you want me to do about that?”

He lets out a quiet chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “I don’t know. Maybe just…let me in. For once.”

Your heart clenches at his words, but before you can respond, Koji calls out to you both, waving excitedly from the bouncy house. The moment shatters like glass, and you turn away, forcing a smile as you wave back. “Not today, Satoru,” you whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear. “I’ve already made that mistake, I’m not doing it again.”

He watches you for a beat longer before stepping back, his expression unreadable. “Alright,” he finally says, his voice light but laced with something else—something aching. “I won’t push you.”

You say nothing in response, rubbing your forearms slowly as if to comfort yourself from a dreaded conversation with your ex—one that is most likely long overdue. But you’d like to prolong it even more, if that’s even saying anything. His arm is brushing against yours as you watch your son socialize freely with his peers. 

“I…” you inhale deeply. “Koji and I are taking the place. The one you…got us for Christmas. I’ll be switching schools for him.”

Gojo is quiet for a moment, his head tilting slightly as he processes your words. Then, his lips quirk up in a small, almost bittersweet smile. “So you finally decided to accept my gift.”

You nod, exhaling softly. “It’s what’s best for Koji.”

His smile falters just a little, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he glances over at your son, who’s laughing, tumbling around in the bouncy house without a care in the world. “It’s a good place,” he says after a pause. “Safe. Quiet. He’ll like it.”

You hug your arms around yourself. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

Another pause stretches between you both, filled only by the distant chatter of parents and the delighted screams of children. Then Gojo shifts, turning his body slightly toward you. “I meant what I said earlier,” he murmurs. “I won’t push you. But you don’t have to do everything alone, Y/N. I hope you know that.”

You swallow, not trusting yourself to look at him. Because if you do, you might see everything you’ve been trying so hard to ignore—the sincerity, the regret, the quiet longing that lingers beneath his usual nonchalance.  Instead, you nod stiffly. “I know.”

Gojo watches you for a beat longer before finally sighing, stepping back and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Alright,” he says, his tone shifting to something lighter, though you can tell it’s forced. “Then let’s just enjoy today, yeah?”

You nod again, not trusting yourself to say anything else. Because the truth is—you don’t know if you believe him.

“Mama! Papa!” Koji shouts from inside. “Daniel wants to know why you don’t sleep in the same bed!”

Gojo and you simultaneously stiffen. Damn kids and their questions. 

The rest of the day is filled with laughter, Gojo trying to show off his muscles—that you would never agree he actually has—for Koji’s friends because his son loves to brag more than his old man. They even did face painting, you opted to get just a small flower on your cheek instead of the extravagant intricacies your husband—ex—adorn. Even for the parts where Koji is meant to discuss how awesome his father is, he always makes sure to mention you too. Even dragging you up to the front with Gojo and him as he had prepared a small song to sing. Gojo is helping his son belt out while you awkwardly clapped along. But just as there’s activities, food shared, and more of Koji bragging about his dad, so is there the…uncomfortable moments.

“Mama and Papa don’t hold hands.”

“Mama and Papa don’t kiss.”

“Papa always stares at Mama’s butt when she’s not looking!”

“My Mama and Papa don’t have pretty rings that match.”

Unfortmnately for you, your son loves to air out your dirty business not just to his friends, but practically everyone in attendance.

Your entire body tenses at Koji’s latest declaration, your face heating instantly. A few parents nearby stifle their laughter behind their hands, while others exchange amused glances. You slowly turn to look at Gojo, who—of course—is completely unfazed, grinning like the little menace he’s always been.

“Koji,” you start, voice strained, “why don’t you, uh…go get another balloon animal?”

“But I already have three,” Koji says, tilting his head in confusion.

“Get a fourth,” you deadpan.

Gojo, ever the opportunist, crouches beside your son and stage-whispers, “It’s okay, buddy. Mama’s just shy.”

You jab an elbow into his side—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to wipe the smug look off his face. He lets out an exaggerated oof, clutching his ribs dramatically.

“See?!” Koji gasps, pointing. “Mama hits Papa, too!”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your face with your hands as laughter erupts around you.

Gojo, the shameless man that he is, only laughs in delight, ruffling Koji’s hair as if his son had just won a medal instead of exposing him in front of half the playground. “But what can I say?” he grins, utterly unbothered. “Your mama’s got a nice—”

“Satoru,” you hiss, slapping a hand over his mouth before he can finish that sentence in front of a group of impressionable children. His laughter muffles against your palm, but his eyes are twinkling with mischief, completely unfazed by the judgmental glances of nearby parents.

Koji, however, looks incredibly pleased with himself, puffing out his chest. “See? I told you guys!” he exclaims to his friends, who are giggling amongst themselves. “Papa’s always looking at Mama when she’s not paying attention.”

You groan, feeling your face heat up as some parents whisper behind their hands, clearly entertained. You shoot a glare at Gojo, who simply winks at you. “Maybe because she’s so pretty,” he muses, finally prying your hand off his mouth.

“Maybe because you’re a perv,” you grumble under your breath, folding your arms.

Gojo gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like you just stabbed him. “Such cruel accusations! In front of our child, no less!”

Koji tugs at your sleeve, looking up at you with the pure innocence only a child can possess. “Mama, if you and Papa love each other, why don’t you kiss like Riku’s parents do?”

The question makes your stomach flip, and you freeze. You don’t dare look at Gojo, but you can feel the way his playful demeanor stills beside you. It’s the question neither of you have the heart to answer. And suddenly, despite the afternoon sun and the laughter all around, a chill settles over your spine.

Yeah, maybe you should’ve better prepared yourself for today.

It’s around three in the afternoon now, Koji absolutely spent but still happily holds onto his parents’ hands, skipping between them.  You walk with Gojo, the weight of the day’s events starting to settle in your bones, but the soft thump of Koji’s little feet on the ground as he hops along distracts you from your thoughts. You glance at Gojo, who’s keeping his stride slow enough to match Koji’s, his usual playful grin replaced with a quieter, more pensive expression. There’s something about this moment—the three of you together—that feels different, almost like a perfect, fleeting snapshot of a family that could have been.

Koji pulls ahead slightly, his excitement bubbling over. He twirls in a circle, hands stretched out as if trying to catch the wind, before looking back at you both with a grin that could light up the whole park. “Come on, slowpokes!” he teases, clearly proud of his energy and his ability to keep going while his parents trail behind.

You exchange a brief glance with Gojo, the weight of unsaid words passing between you in the shared quiet of that look. There’s a softness in his gaze as he watches Koji, everything feels... almost okay. Almost like it’s parallel universe. But then the tug of reality creeps in again, the reminder of everything you’ve been through together—everything that’s still left unsaid.

“Koji, slow down!” you call, but there’s no real urgency in your voice. It’s more out of habit than concern. You’re just trying to hold onto this small moment a little longer, even if you know it can’t last forever.

The smile that spreads across Gojo’s face as he watches his son is genuine, warm—almost too warm, as if he’s trying to convince himself that this is enough, that the weight of what’s been lost won’t ever overshadow what’s still here. “I can’t believe how much energy you have left in you, buddy,” Gojo says, catching up with Koji as he spins around again, arms flailing with childish abandon.

“I’m just getting started!” Koji says, laughing as if he’s truly invincible in this moment, in this place. You can’t help but smile at the sight of him—happy, carefree, completely unaware of the tension that’s simmering just beneath the surface of this picture-perfect scene.

Gojo looks at you again, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. “You know, I didn’t think I’d ever get to do this. Be here with you. With him.” His voice is quiet, almost too quiet for you to hear over the distant chatter of other families still enjoying the day. But you hear it. You feel it.

You offer him a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah, well, we’ve got him now.”

And for a fleeting moment, it feels like that’s all that matters.

You’re all walking back to Gojo’s car, the other parents and children doing the same. Engrossed in Koji’s raving about how fun today was—Gojo and you nodding along and smiling at his pure happiness with a parental love. 

“Where is she?!”

A sudden shout pulls all of your attention, your grip tightening around Koji’s hand as Satoru pulls him closer to you both. The sudden shout cuts through the air like a knife, sharp and frantic, snapping you out of the bubble you’d been enveloped in. Your footsteps slow down as in the distance, there’s a small huddle of people formed—it looks like there’s something or someone in the middle of it. 

Your feet stop, the world around you slowing. The shout wasn’t one of joy or excitement—it was filled with desperation, and that alone sends a shiver down your spine. Your eyes shift to the distance where the sound originated. There’s a huddle of people formed, clustered around in a small circle formation, it almost seems like... a commotion. You can’t make out the details yet, but something feels off, something heavy about the way the crowd is gathered, their heads bobbing in quick movements as if trying to see over something or someone.

Koji tilts his head. “What’s happening?”

But neither Gojo or you have a response for that. How could you when the crowd parts ever so slightly and you see a head of jet black hair. Your eyes widen, body freezing as every single hair on your body jolts up. You feel stuck, hand trembling around your son’s hand—a breath feeling like it’s too much work. The world around you shifts into a blur as the air seems to thicken, each step feeling like it’s dragging you deeper into the unknown. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, unable to move, unable to process. The sound of Koji’s voice, his soft tug on your hand, feels distant now, muffled by the pounding of your heart in your ears. Your eyes remain locked on the figure in the crowd, the jet-black hair unmistakable. Your breath hitches in your throat, a tightness constricting your chest. It’s impossible. You blink, trying to make sense of the situation, but every time you do, she’s still there.

It’s like you’ve somehow reverted back to your child self, staring in complete shock and utter fear at what your mother’s reaction would be to a vase you accidentally broke. You see it happening—it’s all moving too slowly for you and you’re suddenly praying for a hole to swallow. Except when her head turns and you’re greeted with a face you haven’t seen in years—aged but undeniably recognizable—she doesn’t greet you with a deadly sneer. No. 

Her eyes light up, face controting into a wide smile that you don’t think—no, you know—she has never given you. And as soon as she sees you, she’s pushing her way through people without a second thought—even the children.

You have no time to react.

“My daughter! My sweet, sweet daughter!” she exclaims with a happiness that doesn’t feel real, it never does. The minute her arms wrap around you in a tight hug, you think you’re suffocating. 

“I’ve missed you! Did you miss your mother too, Y/N?”

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[eternallyhauntingthehouseoflove]

Hey, i read the “Bat-boys finding out your pregnant” and may i ask for more? It was sooo cute that i need more of it 😭💕

The Batboys fathers HCs

A/N: this request is long overdue that I’m sure the requester doesn’t even remember it, but I’ve arrived at last. I hope this is what they wanted. The Absolute Power run has restored my love for Nightwing and comics. ❣️

Dick Grayson is a fun dad. At first, Dick suffocated beneath the weight of fatherly duties. He wanted to be better than Bruce. Dick loved him, but he could admit that his boyhood wasn’t a salubrious environment for the young mind. No child should have to carry the weight of Bruce’s mission. Thus, Dick’s mission became ensuring yours and the baby’s lives were secure, safe, and joyous.

Pale beams of sunlight kissed your cheeks good morning. The aroma of maple syrup wafted throughout the house, tickling your nostrils as you carried yourself down the stair steps, footfall by footfall. There Dick stood at the stove, scooting the black spatula beneath a golden pancake and flipping it into the air, causing your baby to burst out into a fit of giggles before the pancake hit the skillet with a sizzle. He was proud of himself for making his baby laugh.

“Well, well, look at mama.” A grin crept across his lips as he spotted you creeping closer, supernovas bursting in his electric blue irises.” You were snoring in a pool of drool when I awoke, so I grabbed the baby and started breakfast.” Vibrant seas of pacifiers, rattles, and toy pianos adorned the house.

Dick attempted to rush the developmental process. Not out of callousness, but sheer excitement to have a child. He had already stocked the baby in dolls, trucks, pacifiers, fruit snacks, apple juice (watered down, of course). He even installed a nightlight that short circuited the house at first, but Bruce helped him fix it. Reading is good for the baby right? Dick is on it. He’s already ordered the best and most classic tales; Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, Alice in Wonderland, Dr. Seuss, Little Red Riding Hood.

Dick Grayson has read multiple novels on fatherhood, motherhood, child development, postpartum depression. He hates surprises, and babies are the breeding ground of surprises. He will pack the go-bag full of onesies, pacifiers, diapers, wipes, toys because he doesn’t want you to be in public and not have the materials.

“Give me a few days to install the new changing table. You’ll love it.” Crimson blush adorned his tanned cheeks, a proud grin dawning on his lips, showcasing his pearlescent teeth.” It broke when I weight checked it, thank god. Damian, albeit reluctantly, is coming out here tomorrow to translate the instructions.”

Jason Todd is the protective, paranoid father because he’d placed a bullet in the worst humanity had to offer, witnessed otherworldly horrors done to the little guys, the folks who lack billions of dollars to hole up on secluded islands and cabins. He can’t eradicate all the scum, can’t caulk the fractures villains seem to keep slipping through—and that terrifies him.

Jason never imagined a life worth living to be possible. He’d thought himself a sentient zombie, an unlucky boy yanked from the eternal peace of a cold, soundless grave and forced to enact vengeance on behalf of the common folk who lack the means to undertake the mission themselves. He never considered Red Hood to be a hero; merely a restless phantom with nothing else to bide his time until the sweet release of the afterlife deigned to shatter his manacles to the mortal world. That was until he’d fallen over the sun, offering endless devotion to his goddess, and you’d rewarded his offering with a daughter, a lovely girl. He’d abduct the moon and wrap it in a silken bow if only you’d give him permission.

“Catch, papa,” your daughter had called out, retrieving the little football and sprinting toward him, tiny feet carrying her over the damp and verdant grass of y’all’s backyard. Jason never brought the both of you to parks—an excess of people to watch, different personalities and behaviors; a myriad of possibilities for tragedy. Too much room for error in a vast, leafy expanse.

“You’ve gotta bring it to me first,” Jason called back, outstretching his muscular arms, awaiting her arrival. He was paranoid and distrustful of the world, not a killjoy. Y’all’s daughter’s bedroom was littered with vivid nail polishes, fluffy scarves, glittering tiaras, and Monster High dolls. Your daughter had always adored Frankie Stein and Frankenstein because they reminded her of Jason and herself, the dolls and humans both sharing pale white streaks of hair. He hadn’t known whether to laugh or weep upon hearing those words from her lips, innocent and completely unaware of the accuracies spanning far past hair color.

“Jason, I love you, but we are not cooping ourselves up in the house this summer.” The words were firm and unyielding—but lacking any true bite.

“ I’ve given you grace. I let a lot slide because I understand your background. But we’re just not doing it this summer. Its too hot to not go to waterparks and enjoy ourselves because of possibilities.” A damn good point rested upon your tongue, and he knew it.

“Fine.” He relented with a jocosely petulant huff.” But we take a gun with us.”

Tim Drake is an ambitious father. It’s been said before, but I don’t believe he’s as active as the fandom would believe. Though, his absence isn’t born of malice or indifference, but ambition, a thirst for a legacy. He wants to be a man his significant other and child can be proud of, a father worth bragging about. There’s also a large chamber seated within his mind that knows not how to be a father, for his parents were cold, choosing to throw dollars at his gripes and needs rather than be present.

One of his greatest fears is disappointing the both of you, like he was disappointed by his own parents, so disappointed he couldn’t even despise them. Tragically, the mission to avoid history’s repetition had placed him before a mirror, his parents gazing back at him, a smug smirk curled on their lips because they know that he’ll be on their end of the glass within a few decades.

Can he be blamed? Tim wants the absolute best for his family. The best grades, the best schools, the best scores, the best scholarships. He’s not naïve enough like Dick to believe hard work and persevere can lift a nobody anywhere. There are no bootstraps to be pulled taut. It’s an illusion, a sauce wealthy people spoon over their meals to disguise the taste of nepotism and privilege. Manipulations the rich regurgitate to excuse themselves from having to acknowledge the unfair, biased system they’ve upheld.

The door to his limousine slammed closed, his child seated beside but, but farther than ever. What could be said? Jerking forward, the limousine rolled into drive, coasting beneath autumn streaked clouds, as though her father had gifted her the sky from a florist. Bruce hadn’t prepared Tim for the teenaged terror years. He couldn’t help but wonder if he himself had been this capricious and fickle as a teen, or if he were merely that bad of a father.

“Do. . . do you want a Milkshake? From that one place by the house, like we used to when you were young.” Tim couldn’t help but raise a hopeful raven shaded brow. He could smell the stench of sweat, an anxious perspiration, cleaving to your school uniform. It must’ve been a test day.” I’ll clear the rest of my schedule for us. . . if you want, of course.” He extended an olive branch, granting her the choice to engage and accept, or set the course for the rest her teenage years.

Damian Wayne does not want children. He doesn’t know how far his taint would bleed, and all he can envision are the ways he could disgrace the mind of a child. His village was rotten and evil. Bad fruits bear worse seeds.

Damian’s devotion was love, the purest kind he knew, a primal desire to protect and cherish that of which he adored. You forged suns in his heart, set the butterflies in his belly aflutter. Beneath a weeping of sheet of violet sky, the both of you had sworn to love the other until Earth imploded—and when it did, he would find you in another universe.

He doesn’t hate children. In fact, he would be a decent babysitter for Dick and Jason, and whenever Tim deigned to grace the BatCave with his presence. But, Damian is staunch in his childfree attitude, and you respect it. Truthfully, you weren’t even sure you wanted kids. No, you and Damian battled crime, traveled the world and experienced culture, learned histories outside of the filth pumped into his mind by the Al Ghuls. Bruce was saddened by Damian’s decision against children, but he ultimately respected it—and him.

Damian knew he was poisoned and rotten and always would be, no matter what emblem was sewn over his breast. He was content with the life the both of you had, and knowing Dick, many more children are to come, so he’d never get lonely.” Beloved, what do you make of Italy? Not the tourist parts where the history is washed, but the ripe lands.”

Bruce Wayne is a weary father. He knew the birth of his youngest child was redemption, his last chance at preserving the Wayne name since Damian had sworn off children. But Bruce was aged, hardened, jaded, weary. He had scars to last a lifetime, some worn on his heart, though majority were worn on his skin.

The Wayne brownstone was eerily silent since Alfred’s death. Bruce’s son sat around the oaken table, coloring a picture of Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman, and Alfred. Bruce’s heavy lids fell over exhausted, dim blue irises, his brain flitting back to the memories of Alfred, gathered at the stove and learning a recipe. I am. . . old, Master Bruce. My time on this earth is not infinite. You must learn more than the ways of fists, the words echoed in his mind. Reminding him that old age wasn’t even the murderer of Alfred Pennyworth.

He fetched an inhale before pulling himself off of the couch, and padding over toward his son at the dinner table.” What’s that? Oh, a pretty picture. A real artistic talent, like Damian.” Bruce was unsure of his fathering more often than not. He knew how it appeared to his son’s school counselors and the principal—old, washed up playboy Bruce Wayne saddled with another young son. That was far from the case, but the masses will believe anything when they’re given nothing.

Bruce fetched a pot and skillet from the creaking cabinets of the brownstone, far from the elegance and cleanliness of the manor. Alfred would’ve been mortified to see the mess, he almost chuckled, but withheld it. Lest his son raise a question, for the explanation would be too complicated and long-winded for his young mind.” So, what do you see for dinner tonight? What makes that belly growl like a lion? Mac and Cheese? Lasagna? Hamburger Helper?”

Bruce knew exactly what his son would choose. Asking was merely a courtesy. Bruce knew him, raised the boy from the minute he was weaned. He knew what his son would do before his son knew what he himself would do. The Batman wasn’t a slacker, wasn’t lazy.

[humanspinelbrainrot]

watching the new TLOU season made me re-read The World Without Us (the book that guided the overgrown, decaying world design in the games) and I'm still not over it. it isn't a super depressing read - especially the 2022 edition with the new afterword - and it makes you appreciate how resilient the earth truly is. there's so many aspects of human society that would disappear very quickly after an apocalypse, and yet so many other things would last for ages.

like the average American home would completely crumble within 50-100 years, but traces of heavy chromium metal in our farmlands would last 70,000. your seventh grade pottery project from art class is going to last longer than your house. ancient stone structures from the Bronze Age will still be intact well after our modern skyscrapers have toppled over. barring flooding, the only thing that will gradually destroy subways will be tectonic movements. New York City would be torn apart within 20 years from the reemergence of long-buried rivers and marshes, but Mount Rushmore won't completely degrade until 7.2 million. 7.2 million. much of the Panama Canal would be emptied from dam failure after only a few years, yet the holes in the ground from open-pit mining will last millions of years. glass bottles and cast iron fire hydrants and ceramic bathroom tiles will be some of the only signs that humans had ever lived in Boston or Seattle, and these too will someday fully degrade. unless something evolves to be able to digest them, plastic bags and toys and bottles will form a layer of compressed plastic that will be visible within the geologic record.

our long-term impact on Earth is simultaneously finite and insurmountable. life is beautiful and will go on. everything is Ozymandias. and that's both terrifying and oddly reassuring.

[hxxsxxng]

Do You Believe in Fate? s.jy

「pairing」 : childhoodbestfriend!jake x afab!reader

「synopsis」 : read the preview here

「word count」 : 15.3k

「genre」 : A lot of angst, smut, somewhat fluff, college au

「warnings」 : MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!! cursing, lot of nicknames, mentions of alcohol, consumption of alcohol, hangover, poor mental state, kissing, cuddling, alcoholism, toxic friends (not jake), teasing, crying, begging, distress, groping (consentual), unprotected sex, pulling out, loss of virginity, lowkey size kink, oral (m and f recieving), titty sucking, sharing a bath tub, mentions of hospitalizations, implications of potential death, depression. this is a repost

「authors note」 : i want to thank everyone for motivating me to finish this story and writing this was truly an experience that will effect me as a writer moving forward. i am tagging all of my mutuals so hopefully i could get some feed back! i love every last one of you

「taglist」 : @jakeflvrz - @simhinata - @eternality - @goldenretrieverjakezgirlbaby - @jakesangel - @yjwsgf - @diorsyun-deactivated20241118 - @en-ner-jay - @yeonzzzn - @hoonieesm - @hoonheepretty - @jaysupremacy - @cherry-park - @heeslomll - @alvojake - @taeghi - @dollyyuen - @sumzysworld - @wonsbaer - @simpjay - @sjylouvre - @starboimoon - @blurryriki - @yzzyhee - @sincerelyrki - @hoonven - @heeseungsbm

It was the summer before me and Jake’s junior year of university. We have been working all summer and it’s another other day at the office. Putting in check information for the bank was a lot more boring than I expected . Wake up, go to work, come home, sleep, repeat. There was no time to do anything else. We were always told that if we went to college, we would have a good job. That proved to be wrong. 

Both Jake and I are going through college together, though he landed a way better paying job than I did. When it comes to bills, he ends up having to pay more than me, but he swears up and down that it is not a big deal.

I set down my mug. I hear my phone ring. It’s Jake. “Hello?” he should be at work. “Hey Pumpkin, I got out early today, were there any groceries that we needed?”

“Oh, no I can’t think of anything.”  “Okay, Stay safe, I will see you later.”

Jake never really got time off of work but when he did, I usually tried to stay out of his hair and let him relax. I just continued to run reports, pretty much twiddling my thumbs until the clock struck 5 and I would make my way out of this hell hole.

Traffic was terrible as usual. A usually 7 minute drive turned into an hour. Days like this I just want to get home and throw all my stuff on the ground and lock myself away in my room. Maybe watch some TV. Or listen to some music while my computer is hooked up to it. Anything that distracts from knowing I have to go back to the job I hate the next day. My thoughts are interrupted by a honk coming from behind me. The light turns green. Thank God. But as soon as I pull away from the curb, a car pulls out in front of me. Damn those stupid drivers. I don’t even know how many times this month I’ve had to pull over so they could let someone pass. It isn’t worth getting into a fight with them about. I try to ignore them.

I made it back to our house just in time for the sun to still be out. I made way into the house and Jake was in the kitchen. It was an unusual sight. His after work routine typically consists of cracking open a cold one and playing his computer. “Hey princess” he greeted me.

I stand at the front door, taking off my shoes and hanging my keys on the rack. “What has you in a good mood all of a sudden” I ask suspiciously.

“Well since I got off work early, I figured i’d come home and suprise you with dinner since you just been eating so much take out recently” he replied nonchalantly. The thought makes me sick. “You didn’t need to do that Jake.” “Oh yes, I did. You haven’t been cooking for yourself for a couple months now. I wanted to show you how much your best friend cares about you” he says.

Reguardless of what I say, the food is made and there is no taking it back. I guess I can’t really argue with him over it.

“And besides, I know you have missed your mom cooking pasta for us when we would go to her house in Australia, I figured I should make some do you instead” he adds.

I slowly approach the table. He is still finishing up plating everything. He looks up at me and smiles. “It smells good” I say flatly. He takes off the oven mitts and wipes his hands on it. He sets my plate down in front of me and he pulls out the chair to my right and takes a seat.

“So how was your day Jake?” I asked awkwardly. He starts digging in and responds, “Not too bad. What about yours?”

“Same shit different day. Boss is always yelling at me and the company keeps treating me like garbage even though I am the only one who actually gives a fuck.” I complained, eating a piece of garlic toast. It tasted good, surprisingly good, considering the amount of spices he used.

“Well I am glad it’s Friday so you can take some time to unwind over the weekend” he attempts to comfort me but at this point i’m too tired.

“I guess.” I poke at my food a little bit. Why does Jake’s job seem so perfect? he easily makes twice as what I make and I rarely hear him complain about working either.

“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to, I am not going to force you.” I guess Jake noticed me being hesitant about eating the rest of my meal.

“It’s not that I don’t want to eat it’s just that I’m really stressed and I don’t want to keep you here listening to me complain about the same things over and over again”

“Look at me” he said. I slowly lift my head for my eyes to meet with his. “I promise I will never get tired of listening to you” he reassured.

There he goes again, sending those butterflies flapping in my stomach. I don’t understand why he is so gentle and compassionate. It gives me goosebumps. I decide I might as well stop procrastinating and start enjoying the evening. “Thank you” I say, giving him a small smile. His face immediately lit up. It’s kind of cute. The rest of dinner went rather smoothly. Jake kept the conversation going, mostly talking about my day and what his was about, and then we would drift off into silence. He looked so relaxed and calm that I felt completely at ease. Even if I knew I should feel bad for keeping him up with my whining, I couldn’t bring myself to.

I stand up from the table and wash my plate. “I don’t know if anyone told you today, but you look gorgeous as always” he sneaks up behind me. “You don’t look too bad your self Jakey” I returned. My face was already a dark hue of red.

I decided maybe tonight I won’t rot away in my room. It’s a Friday night, I’ll have a little bit of fun. Still inside the house though. It is probably too cold outside anyway. I realize I am still in my work clothes. I return to my room to take them off and throw on my most comfortable pair of shorts and a talk top and take my Nintendo Switch to the living room.

Jake was already waiting there for me. He had a bottle of wine and 2 empty glasses. He looked up when I entered and smiled. I gave a shy smile and sat down next to him. He pulled me closer to him, pressing himself against me. Our legs intertwined under the couch. For a moment I forgot about the work situation and the world. In that moment it just felt nice to sit close to someone who cared for me unconditionally.

“What were you wanting to play?” he breaks the silence. “I was thinking we could play some Mario Kart” I suggested.

“Yeah we can, but you already know I’m gonna kick your ass”. He loves teasing me. I punched his shoulder and chuckled.

~~~~~~~~~~

He is in my bed. I just woke up and he is in my bed. I don’t know how to react. Maybe I drank a little too much? I really don’t remember anything after playing a few rounds of Mario Kart. He looks so peaceful. His dark brown hair all tangled up on the pillow. The way his biceps look in his black tank top. He doesn’t snore, but the way he breathes when he sleeps is very cute. There is a slight hint of stubble on his chin, almost like he hasn’t shaved in awhile. His lips are slightly parted. His face shows such contentment and relaxation. He looks so damn beautiful. I have to admit he is pretty attractive and I think he knows it. And I can’t help but wonder about what would happen if I leaned forward and kissed him. His soft lips pressed up against mine. I think it would be okay. Probably wouldn’t hurt. Scratch that, it would probably hurt a lot.

I woke up surprisingly early for a Saturday morning. Usually I am in bed until noon, but it’s only 9:30. Opposite of me, Jake likes to start his weekends bright and early, so it is a bit strange that he isn’t awake by now. I won’t bother him. It’s probably better this way. I roll over onto my side facing away from him. I close my eyes trying to fall back asleep. But it seems to be impossible. My mind is too preoccupied and Jake’s body is far too close to mine for my liking. I groan quietly. It doesn’t help at all.

I crawl out of bed, doing my best not to wake Jake up. As soon as I step out of the room, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. It’s my mom. I guess I hadn’t returned and of her texts last night. She asks if I have slept okay and if I’ve eaten breakfast. When she sees I haven’t. She sends me a picture of the last time I was at her house eating spaghetti. “Just eat something sweetheart and take care of yourself” she reminds me gently. I sigh deeply before replying. “Mhmm thanks mom” I set my phone down on the kitchen counter and rummage through the fridge, hoping to find something appetizing for breakfast. As I search, I can't stop thinking about waking up next to Jake this morning. We've been best friends for so long, but recently I've started seeing him in a new light. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, how considerate he is, it stirs up the feelings I've been trying to suppress. I shake my head slightly and settle on making some eggs and toast.

As I cook, memories of last night come flooding back. The wine, the laughter, the gentle way he pulled me close on the couch as we played games. My heart flutters just thinking about how natural and right it felt being cuddled up next to him. But I can't read too much into it. Jake is my oldest friend, he probably sees the intimacy as purely platonic. The sizzle of the eggs brings me back to reality. I quickly plate the food and grab a mug of coffee before heading to the living room. I'll just relax and enjoy this lazy Saturday morning.

I'm about halfway through my breakfast when I hear Jake's footsteps shuffling down the hallway. He emerges, hair sticking up adorably, letting out a big yawn. "Mornin' sunshine," he says with a sleepy grin. I feel my cheeks warm at the nickname. "Morning. I made some extra if you want it," I reply, nodding toward the kitchen. "You're the best." Jake passes over to dish up a plate, giving me a perfect view of his lean back muscles stretching against his thin t-shirt. I quickly avert my eyes as he returns to the couch. As he sits next to me, our arms brush and I feel that spark of electricity again.

Jake doesn't seem to notice, just digs into his eggs happily. We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before he speaks up again.

"That was a fun night last night, wasn't it?" His eyes meet mine with a warm smile. "We'll have to do it again soon." I return the smile, hoping he can't see the longing behind it. "Yeah, it was really nice." Nice to just relax and be ourselves without any expectations or pressures. Nice to feel...that close to him.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

~~~~~~~~~~

Jake has a friend named Jay. When Jake isn’t at work or at the house, he is most likely hanging out with Jay. Jay is a go with the flow kind of guy and was kind of a womanizer. There’s nothing wrong with it, but I try not to hang out with Jake when Jay is there for that reason.

Jake and Jay always go out for drinks on Saturday nights. I can’t remember the last time he was home on a Saturday night and I didn’t have to take care of him the next morning. He routinely stays at Jay’s house that night then gets an Uber back here the next morning.

Jake and Jay's Saturday night routine carried on like clockwork most weekends. Around 9 PM, Jay would pick Jake up and they'd head to their usual bar downtown. The two friends would drink heavily, telling outrageous stories and shamelessly checking out any attractive women who passed by.

For Jake, it was just a guys' night out away from work stress. But for Jay, it was a chance to flirt and see if he could add another notch to his bedpost. Jake didn't partake in that behavior himself, but he also didn't reproach Jay for it. He figured it was just Jay's way.

Come last call, the two would be pretty sloshed. Instead of dealing with an Uber that late, Jake would just crash at Jay's place. He'd wake up hungover the next morning and request a ride from a car service back home.

When he arrived home disheveled, I'd already have water and painkillers ready for him. I hated having to nurse him after these nights, but it was better than having Jay's leering presence around me. His constant objectification of women made me deeply uncomfortable. So I put up with Jake's hangovers to avoid that part of their friendship dynamic.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Jake opens the front door. I can hear him complaining about his headache already. He sets his keys down and immediately lays down in the couch.

"Hey babygirl, where is the aspirin? Do we have any aspirin left?" he asks groggily. A small chuckle escapes my lips before I turn around to look at him, smiling slightly. “I already got it out for you, and here is a glass of water”. His eyes are closed as I place the pills in his hand and he smiles once they make contact. “Thank you so much for taking care of me princess.” he praises as he shot the tablets into his mouth.

I giggle. This man is ridiculous. A loud yawn escapes his lips and I smile. As much as I hate seeing him like this, I am content with letting him have his fun every once in a while. His shirt is buttoned incorrectly, showing off his muscular chest. I look back at his face. His eyes were opened and he noticed me staring.

“What’s wrong Princess?” he slurs. “Do I look stupid or something?” “No Jake, you look great” I reply truthfully. “You just looked a little tired is all.”

Jake rolls over on the couch and turns onto his side. “I know you’re going to tell me I should rest more, but it’s so hard to sleep when you’re not in the same room.”

“Really? You usually fall asleep within seconds. Why is that?” He shrugs. “Don’t know babe. Just don’t like being alone.” I frown. That’s true enough. Jake never really liked being by himself. Ever since we were in diapers, he had always been surrounded by people. His parents, coworkers…me.

I decide to ask something rather personal instead. Maybe that will distract us for a while. “How’s your mom doing lately? Do you miss her?” Jake doesn’t respond right away. He starts fidgeting under my gaze. His hands begin picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion.

“Yeah, yeah. I miss her. I wish she wouldn’t be working so much now. She used to work less back when we were high school, you know? I still get worried sometimes” he answers with a slight edge in his voice. “It’s okay Jake. You know she likes working for your dad. It helps pay for everything” I remind him softly. He nods slowly. After a few moments, he finally breaks the silence.

“Why do you ask?” I guess he was caught off guard by the question. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve seen them, Australia isn’t in walking distance, ya know.” I try to cheer him up.

He sighs and looks down at the couch. “I guess I just wish I was able to spend more time with her like I did when I was younger. It doesn’t matter though.” He shakes his head dismissively. “She’ll come visit whenever she can. I’m just glad we both decided to live somewhere else for college. I would definitely have missed our family trips.”

“Oh…” I bite my lip unsure what to say to comfort him. He’s always taken his mother very seriously. Even when he was young he often complained that she worked too hard and stressed herself out, which only made him madder. In all fairness, she did work extremely hard—even harder than he ever could. And now that she has found some semblance of stability, he worries that he won’t be able to provide for her the lifestyle he wanted for her.

I reach out and pat Jake's arm reassuringly. "I know how much you miss your mom. But she's doing what she needs to in order to help take care of the bills and your dad. You know she'd be here if she could."

Jake nods slowly. "Yeah, you're right. I just wish there was more I could do from here, instead of feeling so helpless being so far away. I know my dad would want me there as well" He runs a hand through his tousled hair. "At least I have you around. Don't know what I'd do. You kinda of bring a feeling of home to me. I hope that made sense.”

I feel my cheeks flush a little at his words. "Well, you know I'll always be here for you," I reply, trying to keep my tone light.

“Thank you sweet heart.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Our parents went to University together. That’s how they met. My mom met Jake’s mom in a sociology class, and they have been best friends ever since. Being college bestfriend basically guarantees that your kid will have someone to grow up with, and they took advantage of that. He has litterally been there for every life event my mom felt was important enough to let him in on.

Though we didn’t become friends by choice, we were latched onto eachother ever since we were introduced. I remember I would ball my eyes out when even Jake got sick because it meant I couldn’t hang out with him after school or have play dates on the weekends. As we grew up, the situations weren’t as innocent. I would confide in him when I was upset, and he would hold me in his arms after my nightmares. I even found comfort in him after my numerous hearts breaks in highschool. Though none of my relationships were ever that serious, I was still unmistakably heartbroken.

Jake was never really a ladies man in highschool, or in general. He studied more on acedemics, which I guess was a good idea considering where he is now. Although I’d never said anything about it, his dating career was pretty dead for several years. In my opinion, it seemed unfair to Jake to not go on dates after highschool. While I understood why he wasn’t interested, it seemed a waste not to try. After all, I’m sure he could get any chick he wanted if he tried, I mean look at him. He had grown from a cute kid playing video games to one who had a perfect body and gorgeous features to match. So yeah, I loved that he was a boy and my friend. But there was no way I could give myself completely to such a man, especially with our history.

Jake is a lot different when I’m around, a lot more caring and loving. I’m reminded of all those times when I would find Jake crying when we came back from vacation during our sophomore year, or how he would suddenly appear at my room door at 5am looking for reassurance or help. At the time, I thought it was because he needed someone to talk to about the things troubling his mind, but now that I think about it , it’s kind of obvious he’s lonely. His dad has been in and out of the hospital recently. I don’t really want to push Jake into going into detail about his condition because it might make him emotional, but I just know that it is another thing that is weighing on him.

When I first started seeing him more and more recently, I thought maybe he wanted us to become closer friends. I mean, he was always talking about how much he adores spending time with me, and how grateful he is to me for saving him and bringing him back to life. I think the situation with his parents are weighing down on him more than I realize.

~~~~~~~~~~

The rhythmic tapping of rain against the window pane fills the hushed stillness of my bedroom. I lie awake, Jake's sleeping form curled up beside me, his head pillowed on my chest. His eyebrows are furrowed even in slumber, mouth turned down in a soft frown - the worry lines etched across his features never seem to fully fade these days. Gently, I brush some stray locks of hair off his forehead, my thumb tracing over the crease between his brows. Jake's been carrying the entire weight of his family's struggle on those broad shoulders.

A quiet sigh escapes his lips and he burrows deeper into my side, one arm slinging possessively over my waist. We've been a tangle of limbs like this more nights than not recently. After the latest bout of bad news about his dad, Jake sought me out like a man wandering through the desert in desperate need of water. I remember the rawness in his voice as he begged to stay in his room, to be held and comforted, the same way I always have. Whatever Jake needs from me, he'll never be turned away.

Trailing my fingers through Jake's hair, I allow myself to drink in every detail of him in this rare moment of peace. The slight upturn of his perfectly sloped nose. The way his plump lips are parted just enough to allow shallow puffs of breath to ghost across my skin. He really is beautiful in the most masculine, rugged way. Not that I'd ever say that out loud - it would be mortifying if Jake caught me ogling him like some lovesick fool. Then again, I've been a lovesick fool for the better part of a decade when it comes to him.

Lost in the flow of my thoughts, I don't even register the soft snuffling noises at first. It's only when Jake's eyelashes start fluttering that I glance down to find him blinking up at me groggily. Without a word, he shifts until his head is cradled in the crook of my neck, placing a slow, scorching kiss to the exposed skin of the side of my neck.

The world seems to screech to a halt. That...was definitely intentional. Purposefully intimate. There's no way it was an accident or a brief moment of sleep-hazy confusion. Not with the way Jake's pupils are blown wide, his lips parting to reveal the tip of his tongue darting out to wet them instinctively.

Just as quickly as the spark ignited, Jake seems to deflate, burying his face into the juncture of my neck and shoulder with a muffled whimper. His hands are fisting in the fabric of my sleep shirt, clutching me with a white-knuckled grip like I'm his lifeline back to the surface. Like if he doesn't hold on, he might drown. "Hey hey hey…" I gently stroke the length of his spine calming him. "You're okay now, everything is alright, relax..." Jake's breathing gradually slows. Gradually, he begins to relax, his fingers slackening their death grip in my shirt.

A few moments pass in silence before he lifts his head and looks directly at me. His eyes are slightly bloodshot, probably from all the crying. They’re red and glassy, a stark contrast to his usually flawless complexion. "Sorry," he murmurs. I shrug slightly. "Don't apologize." After a few sniffles, I feel his breathing become more consistent and his face is dry. He starts to do that cute breathing that I talked about. After I realized that he has met some sort of peace and fell asleep, I fell asleep soon after.

~~~~~~~~~~

The morning light filters in through the cracks of my blinds, shining over Jake's sleeping body in a soft glow. My eyes trace the line of his jawbone, the gentle rise and fall of his bare chest as he breathes. He looks so tranquil like this.

Jake smells so fucking good. If I could lay on his chest and take it his scent all day, I really would. Not to mention his face is extremely handsome. He has the face that other guys wish they had. It’s very obvious he takes care of himself.

I can't stop replaying that moment from last night over and over in my mind. The heat of Jake's lips pressing against the skin of my neck. Part of me was desperate to surge forward then and seal my mouth over Jake's, to finally give in to the magnetic pull that's been drawing me to him.

But I didn't. I couldn't. Because I'm also terrified of what exploring these feelings could mean for our relationship.

Losing him isn't an option I can fathom. And he seemed to make the same choice in that moment by turning away, burying his face against my neck with a whimper that could have been either anguished or relieved.

We're cowards, the two of us. Content to dance around the fire instead of being set ablaze

Part of me wonders if Jake was hoping for something in return. Maybe a kiss? Maybe he did it to show it trust and comfort for me. He knows what he is doing. The moment his lips touched my neck, my whole body shivered. I wanted more but I contained myself.

My body still hums with the memory of his kiss, nerves tingling with equal parts of dread. I want to reach out and trail my fingertips over the golden skin of his forearm, to breathe him in and see if he tastes how I've imagined on my tongue.

How many more moments like last night can I survive before the truth comes out? I don't have the answers. All I know is that I'm still undeniably his - body, mind and heart.

It has been too many nights where I imagine his lips against mine. The way he chills my spine when whispers in my ear makes me crave hearing his voice. I wonder what he would be like in a relationship with me, he treats me like a princess already, I don’t know how much better it could get.

My mind drifts to memories of him holding me tight when I was upset, his muscular arms engulfing me in a warm embrace. The feeling of safety and contentment that would wash over me in those moments. If I could experience that every night by his side, it might just be pure bliss.

I fantasize about waking up intertwined with Jake, our legs tangled together as we trade kisses and touches unhurried by the outside world. Combing my fingers through his bed hair while he peppers light kisses along my jawline.

Maybe there could be slowmake-out sessions on the couch, all heated caresses and desperate roaming hands before things inevitably progress further. I would lavish every sculpted line of Jake's body with devoted attention. I imagine he would be an attentive, generous lover, just as giving in the bedroom as he is in every other aspect of his life.

I also can’t get over the mental hurdle that maybe it is kind of gross that I see my bestfriend this way. I could easily mistake all of the kind things he does and how he treats me as something more than what he intends it to be, and that would make me uneasy. I have never done anything sexual with him and anything that would imply sexual attraction, yet I am still here wondering what it is like to have sex with him.

~~~~~~~~~~

I really need to get my feelings sorted out soon because they are just going to keep building up until they eventually burst, and I really don’t want Jake to witness that.The week went the same again. and again. and again. Wake up, go to work, do nothing after. But recently, Jake got a promotion at his job, which was grounds for celebration.

The local diner is busy with the lunch crowd, the air thick with aromas of burgers sizzling on the griddle and fresh baked pie. Jake and I slip into our usual corner booth, the cracked vinyl cushions molding to our forms like old friends. This place has been our go to spot since we started university here. We've shared so many moments in this very booth over the years. Happy celebrations or acing a big exam.

Which is why the thick tension clouding the air between us right now feels so alien. Instead of our usual easy camaraderie, I can barely look at Jake without my pulse kicking up. The memory of his firm chest brushing mine, those plush lips just a table length away, has my skin flushing hot. I squeeze my thighs together secretly, desperate for any kind of friction to alleviate the slow burn of arousal low in my belly.

Just being this close to Jake is enough to have that want unfolding all over again. Filling my head with flashes of how it could feel to finally give in - his weight blanketing me, our bodies moving together in a sinuous rhythm as his mouth trails searing kisses along my neck. "Hey." Jake's low rumble jolts me out of the vivid fantasy.

"You're zoning out, sweetheart. Everything okay?" My cheeks flame darker, that suddenly seems too intimate. I duck my head, but not before catching the unmistakable smirk curling at the corners of Jake's lips. That insufferable, cocky smirk he knows drives me crazy. I want to kiss it off his stupidly perfect face. Or maybe bite at the sharp line of his jaw, put that arrogant look to better use while I'm straddling his lap and--

"Fine," I mumble, hooking a loose strand of hair behind my ear to avoid meeting Jake's eyes. The small movement causes our elbows to brush together on the tabletop. His skin is so soft. Jake's brow furrows, like he doesn't miss the way I've gone tense and flustered all over again. Before I can blink, his hand is covering mine. Those long fingers tenderly stroking along my knuckles, smoothing over my suddenly clammy skin.

Slowly, purposefully, Jake tugs my hand closer until my palm is cupping his scruffy jaw. I suck in a sharp, shaky breath at the contact, at being able to feel the rasp of his five o'clock shadow against my sensitive skin. Jake holds me there for a moment, those meltingly warm eyes boring into mine like he's trying to read my mind.

Then, in the most tempting act of torture imaginable, Jake presses his lips to my wrist in the barest brush of mouth against pulse point. I swear I could die right then and there. He slowly pulls away, looking up to meet my eyes once again. Our gaze meets, intense and lustful, filled with a hunger that only he knows how to create. This feels so wrong, so dangerous. The fact he's staring down at my lips, licking his subconsciously causes a slight hitch in my breathing. A tiny part of me wants to lean forward and press my lips to his. But I stop the impulse with the thought of what we did last night, and the consequences of getting caught again.

Instead, I let out a sigh and break eye contact before pulling my hand away and placing my elbow on the table. I rub my thumb across my wrist absentmindedly while avoiding Jake's gaze, the words I want to say stuck somewhere inside my throat like rocks. There isn't anything I can do. What I have with Jake is different now. I'm scared shitless to tell him how I truly feel.

"What's wrong? Are you alright?" Jake asks, worry laced into his tone. He places a hand on my thigh, making me jump slightly. “It’s nothing, really” I lied. The server comes over to the table to take our order. “What could I get started for you to drink” he says.

-

Our meal goes by normally, Jake pretending that he had done nothing earlier. Afterward, we head home, the silence thickening the further into town we get. There’s nothing for me to say, no reason to prolong this conversation I’m dreading anymore. He must sense my sudden change of mood. He drops his arm from around my shoulders and lets his hand fall limply back onto his knee.

We walk silently in the direction of our house. Neither of us speaking. It’s almost as if we’re both waiting for the other to make the first move. I have an overwhelming urge to turn to him and kiss him.

~~~~~~~~~~

I can’t stop thinking about Jake. He is the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about when I go to bed. Over the past few weeks, I feel like he has become a lot more touchy, which don’t really mind. He smiles for a little longer when we eat together. We have slept in each others room a lot more often than before. I may just be over analyzing it.

Jake is going out with Jay again. As usual, I don’t plan on him coming home tonight, and I will wake up to a hungover Jake. Jay isn’t really the friend to take care of you when you feel ill, so that responsibility is left on me.

I hate to admit, but when Jake isn’t home for a night, I fight the urge to sleep in his bed. I have been sleeping in his bed with him so often that it leaves me in withdrawal when we aren’t in the same bed.

Just being in his room, his scent diffused in the air, it makes me miss him so much more. Even without thinking about the fact that it is his room, the bed is so much more comfortable than mine, which is all the better reason to sleep there.

I walk in, already in my shorts and t-shirt, and wonder around. He has the picture of us that his mom took when we were first leaving for Korea framed on his nightstand.

I pick it up and examine it closely. It is the one photo where we didn’t appear stiff. I remember the day clearly; I was standing with him, grinning broadly. I never expected to smile so much when I was young, but my memories of our trip leave a bright happy feeling inside my stomach.

I set the photo back down and I lift the blanket from the corner of the bed. I slide into the bed, laying on his side like I usually do when he isn’t here. I instantly melt into the sheets. I scroll on my phone whilst fighting my eyelids to stay awake, but eventually I fall asleep prematurely.

Jake usually keeps his room pretty cool, which calls for cuddling closely under the blankets. In the middle of my sleep, I am shot awake when my cold limbs are instantly warmed by an unexpected sensation. Why was Jake home?

Jake continues to get comfortable under the blanket, not even batting an eye at the fact that I was just sleeping in his bed. I pull him closer by his waist to fulfill the rest of the warmth that my body craves.

“Why are you shivering sweetheart, you could have turned on the heater.” he worries.

“I wanted the temperature to be tolerable when you got back in the morning” such a stupid explanation. “Speaking of, why are you here right now? what happened to Jay’s?” I questioned, completely forgetting how we got into this situation in the first place.

“Jay was feeling ill so we called it a night pretty early, I only got three shots down.”

Jake runs a lazy finger over my hip bone and leans in to nuzzle the crook of my neck. Shit. He’ll notice the way I react to his touches and I won’t be able to explain myself. Fuck.

“I thought I would come to my room and catch up on sleep but look what we have here instead” he says with that stupid smirk on his face.

“Oh- oh I’m sorry.” I slowly pull away from him to make way back to my room. “No babe, please don’t go, I want you to stay” he begs while keeping our fingers latched to keep our extended arms together. He then latched his hand around my wrist to slowly pull me back down to his level on the bed. It’s all happening too fast. He uses the same hand to comb his fingers through the strands at the bottom of my hair on the back of my head, and keeps his hand there entangled. He uses his hand to guide my head into a sensual kiss. He gently pressed his lips against mine. So plump, so dreamy. I reciprocated the kiss instantly, matching his pace and moving our lips in sync so perfectly. The way our lips intertwined so naturally gave me actual chills.

After giving me what I have dreamt about for years, he pulls away, leaving a string of saliva to connect our lips. He looks into my eyes, his pupils as voids. “Please stay” he whispers again. I nod dumbly, my brain still short circuiting as Jake bites is bottom lip. He’s so fucking beautiful, my eyes are practically burning holes into his lips.

His fingers gently run over my cheekbone, lingering on my jawline, tracing along my nose. “How did I ever deserve someone as beautiful as you?” he murmurs. His voice is full of admiration and love and affection. He trails his fingers along my jaw, pausing to lightly graze my collar bone, making goosebumps erupt across my skin. The heat radiating off Jake’s body is practically burning me alive.

Without thinking about it for a second longer, I close the gap between our lips again. We moved in sync, in harmony. It feels like my lips were only made to kiss his. He rests his free hand on the side of my face and uses it as grip to deepen the kiss. Kissing him I had a sense of saftey. The longer our lips were together, the more open I was to his attempts at adding tongue into the mixture. It was a sloppy wet mess, but is all I have ever wanted.

I slide my hand between out warm bodies and feel across his obvious bulge in his boxers. He instantly let out a groan when I took his imprint into my palm. I stroked it gently as we continued with intertwined tongues. His grunts and breathlessness was insanely arousing.

It was clear that we were both extremely sleepy. After a few more minutes of kissing, we eventually pulled away, with no words spoken.

I try my best to hold in my moans as the warmness travels up my body like lava. He stops tracing my collarbone to trail his hands up the side of my body, stopping to stroke a line of soft kisses along the side of my neck.

My hands grasp tightly at the material covering Jake’s shoulder blades and I use that leverage to get back under the blankets with him. We both face eachother, with our legs crossing randomly over one another. He once again rests his head in the crook of my neck, leaving a kiss like he did once before. Only this time, I know his true intention.

~~~~~~~~~

The fall semester is starting back up again. Junior year, both is our schedules are jammed packed with upper division classes. Having to balance so many classes and still having to work to keep up with the bills for the house, Jake and I hardly see each other. Even though I love spending every single day with him, I feel like I’m living with a ghost whenever I see his empty seat. When I wake up every morning to find him gone, my heart starts to ache. It hurts knowing that we might not spend as much time together. I know that the sooner that this semester ends, the easier everything will be.

The end of the semester wasn’t going to be soon though, it’s barely September. I’ve decided to try and set a study date with Jake and make sure nothing was overlapping the times. We eventually agreed apon Thursday night after he got off of his afternoon job. Maybe around 8 o’clock. I was getting a head start on my Statistics work before he showed up because I knew it would take me a while. He eventually showed up close to 8:30.

I had my headphone covering my ears, shoulders slumped over my desk, and he comes up behind me and take my shoulders in his hands and sensually massages. “Ah thank youuuu~~~ my muscles are tight” I jumped at the unexpected pressure. He drives his thumbs a little bit deeper into my blades and slides his straight arms down my stomach for a hug. “I missed you” he griped with puppy dog eyes, resting his head on my shoulder. I take off my headphone and hold both of his forearms and pull him deeper into this awkwardly positioned hug.

After a few seconds he pulls away and grabs out his bag with his laptop, and runs to his room to grab his chair to pull up next to mine. I was still seated, watching, unable to take my eyes off him. He settles himself and puts the laptop on his knees in front of him. He opens his notebook, and turns the page to the worksheet for this month. My fingers naturally find their way to his back and scratch gently while he looks over his work. They made their way up his clothed back and into his hair and I ran them through this tangled hair. He let out a sigh of fufillment and he allows himself self to close his eyes to fully take in the relaxing feeling. He breaths in deeply and slowly, taking in my coconut scent.

“Fuck it” he says under his breath.

He turns in my directed and crashed his lips into mine with no hesitation. He wraps his arms around my neck, deepening the kiss. I was startled at the quick change in plans but my lips soon melted into his and I was under his control. My tongue dances along his bottom lip, asking for entrance as he obliges and gives access. He lifts me from my chair and pulls me over to straddle his thighs.

He guides his lips to mine again, running his hands down my back as he pushes me lower into his lap. I wrap my legs slightly around his waist for some sense of support. The sensual make out and lap straddling goes on and on, until he breaks away slightly to speak, “You can move if you want sweetheart”.

He reconnects our lips and I find myself needing any sort of friction to ease the pressure building between my legs. Subconsciously grinding my core over his thigh slowly. I bite down on his lower lip causing him to suck on my tongue immediately as a response. God, he tastes so good, like the cocoa butter lip balm I got him for his birthday.

I continue grinding over his thighs picking up the aggressiveness, as he continues to run his hands through my hair. “Feeling desperate, darling?” he teases, smirking as he tries to pull me back into a kiss. “Shut up” I harden my fist and hit the front of his shoulder. He always finds a way to tease me. He chuckles as we connect our lips once again.

He slides both of his hands under my thighs stands up from his chair, and I wrap my legs around his body as he carries me to the bed. He slowly lays me down on my back with my legs still wrapped around his waist. He doesn’t break the kiss but as soon as he sets me down, I can feel his erection bulging through his pants rubbing against me sweet spot. We stop kissing momentarily as he looks at me, with lust filled eyes. He lets one of his hands rest on my chest, while the other traces along the side of my neck to my chin, tilting my head upward and pressing his forehead against mine. “Look at how gorgeous you are right now,” he says with pure adoration. “I can’t help myself when I’m with you.” A sudden surge of desire hits me and my hands grip his hips tighter as he starts to trail kisses on my jawline. I can feel an undeniable wetness spreading in my panties. I am becoming desperate.

I placed my hands at the bottom of his shirt and began lifting it up, but he finished the job and lifted it over his head and threw it to the side. I have seen Jake shirtless a million times over but this time is different. It feels more intimate than the last ones I have seen. I felt my throat tighten as my eyes were drawn to his chest which looked absolutely flawless. “So beautiful” I whisper and I trace my fingers over his abs and chest. His body looks perfectly carved and sculpted by a god. “It’s all for you, baby” he cooed.

I reach my arms around his back and gently dig my nails into his skin as he continues to kiss me. He grabs the bottom of my shirt and pulls it over my head, revealing my breasts. I wasn’t wearing a bra since I had been home all afternoon, and I definitely wasn’t expecting this. As soon as he sees them, he takes one of them in his hand. He holds my right breast in his palm and gently rubs it between his thumb and index finger.

His gaze remains focused on my chest as his mouth begins to travel down, taking his time to enjoy each and every piece of my body. He stops to give me another kiss before placing his lips on my nipple. He sucks on my nipple whilst his teeth nipped at my flesh, causing me to moan lowly. I grabbed his hair pulling him closer to me. I grind my pelvis onto his dick, eliciting a groan and he removes his mouth, making a ‘pop’ sound, to look at his next target intensely. He took my other breast into his mouth, swirling his tongue around my nipple and softly sucking, making me arch my back and having a moan escape my lips. Jake trails his hands down my waist while keeping his mouth latched to me.

His fingers went into the top of my sweatpants and I stopped him. “I have never done this before” I admitted. “Do you want me to stop?” he questions. How could I ever want him to stop? He is the only person I have ever imagined losing my virginity to. That aside I simply answer “No, Jakey, I trust you”

He continues to pull me pants down and off my legs and throws it to the side like he did with the other articles of clothing. He licks up my neck and comes to my ear. “I have never done this either, we can learn together” he whispered. Hearing this made my noticibly more wet, the way he whispers into my ear raises every single hair on my body. The thought of us having our first times with each other made this whole so much more meaningful and made me a lot less hesitant.

The only thing I have left on are my black panties and Jake looks like he is a man with a mission. I grab his bulge through his jeans and gently massage. He becomes a groaning mess as I palm his desperate tip. He is barely even able to keep his lips a decent distance apart for me to kiss him. “Fuuuck your hand feels so good” I take my other hand to start unbuckling his jeans, which he seems to have no problem with.

I pulled the belt off and unbuttoned his jeans and pulls them down, to where he took them all the way off. All he has left is his boxers. I can clearly see the imprint of he large cock through the thin fabric. I furrowed my eyebrows. “Does it look too big?, we can stop now if we need to” he questioned, seeing the fear on my face. I gulped and said “No, I can take it.”

I continued stroking through his boxers and he moved my panties to the side and rubbed gently on my folds. I gasped at the feeling. The better it started to feel, the less and less I was able to focus on Jake and more on myself. He had me wrapped around his finger. No amount of masturbating could compare to the way he is making me feel within these few minutes.

He slid his fingers down my clit and inserted one. He pumped it in and out until I felt that I was ready for more. Then 2. It hurt a little more but I slowly got used to it. He leaned his head down while his fingers still stuffed me and started leaving kisses on my clit. For having so little experience, he worked his finger and tongue like a professional. The way his tongue danced across my sensitive bud made my body shutter, and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

“I love the sounds of your whimpers” he moaned against my clit teasing me. I couldn’t even respond. My breathing quickened, and the more his fingers fucked me, the more I could tell how wet I was getting. I whimpered again and I gripped his hair signaling how good he was making me feel. “It tastes just as sweet as I imagined” he praised. He has imagined this before? What else has he imagined?

His fingers slowed down and he slipped two inside of me simultaneously. My hips bucked up and I let out a small gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. He continued working his fingers inside of me. He was eating like a man who hadn’t seen a meal in a week.

“I want to taste you now.” I protest, pulling his face up for a kiss. His eyes look like he is drunk as his tongue swirled with mine and he gave me a slow deep kiss. He sucked on my bottom lip, then bit me, and finally opened his mouth and licked my tongue with his. He pulls away and allows me to pull his boxers past his hips and onto the ground. His dick sprung out. God, it was a lot thicker than I imagined.

I take the base of it and put my lips against the tip, swirling my tongue around. His muscular hand combs through the top of my hair and gently grips it as I begin to take more of his length in my mouth. I could feel it sliding smoothly in and out of my throat. His grip on my hair tightens and he guides me to take more in moderation. “God yes baby, that’s it” he encouraged. I looked up at him, the room filled with breathy moans and he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. I felt the waves of his voice vibrating through my lips as he spoke, causing goosebumps to erupt across my entire body. I could feel my juices flowing through my pussy and down my belly.

I continue sucking him until he is almost completely buried inside my mouth. He leans down placing his lips beside my ear. “I don’t think I can hold out much longer” he whispers, making me smile.

He slowly pulls himself out of my mouth and lifts me back onto the bed. I use my arms to cover my chest, I am a little nervous. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. “Don’t hide yourself, you look perfect darling” he said proceeding to take my tongue in his mouth. God this man loves using his tongue. I have never felt this type of intimacy before, and to think I am covering that ground with my bestfriend, was not how I thought it was going to go to say the least.

He brushes his tip in between my folds, spreading my wetness around. “Are you sure you want to keep going? We can stop here, just say the words and I will stop” “Please keep going” I am practically begging. He seems to enjoy my obvious desperation. He guide the tip in slowly, trying not to overwhelm me. He goes in a little deeper. I wince in pain. “Ah baby go a little slower” I pleaded. I didn’t want him to stop but it was definitely starting to hurt. He held the same spot for a few more seconds, then slowly pushed more in. I have gotten used to the stinging, as it slowly turns to pleasure.

“Shit princess, you’re so fucking tight” Jake praises. He was getting lost in his own world since he has never felt a warm pussy wrapped aroung his dick before, especially not one like mine. I felt his tip hit the enterance of my cervix. He bottomed out. He didn’t move. He didn’t even want to move, he was just enjoying the moment of his cock being buried deep inside his bestfriend. “You ok babe?” he asked, concerned by the lack of movement from me. “Yeah, just give me a second” I replied, attempting to get myself under control.

I began to relax, letting the warmth envelop my entire body. I signal that his is able to move. He slowly pulls his cock out of my cunt, and immediately pushes it back in. He rests both of his arms next to my face and comes down to kiss me. I can see the faint beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “You do not know how long I have been wanting to do this” He whispered into my ear. Once again, Jakes words send a tingle down my spine. He instantly latched himself onto my neck, sucking harshly while still keeping a slow pace down below. I grip his brown head of hair as he leaves purple marks on my skin, bruising my neck. He pulls out and goes back in, this time at a consistent rate.

Our torsos are in complete contact and he sets both of his hands under my back. I wrap my legs around his waist to allow him deeper access, which he so desperately needed. His lips were locked with mine. Our tongues were dancing along with each other as well as our chests. Every time he would suck on my lower lip, I moan against his lips.

“This is what I have been dreaming about” He says breaking away and kissing my nose. He finds me comfortable with his picking up the pace, and he did with no hesitation. He nuzzles into my neck with his hair partially resting on my face. There was no pain left to feel and my whole body was washed over with pleasure. His length fit so perfectly into my warm cunt, like we were make to only fuck eachother.

Jake head still right next to mine, I turn my head and whisper “Jakey, it feels so gooood~~~~” with inconsistency in my breathing. Jake’s ears were pleasured as if he were listening to his favorite song. He slowed down the pace, only to drive his dick deeper into my swollen cunt with each thrust. “Oh my god it’s feels so fucking good, you taking my cock like this.” he whines in my ear. He pulls away from my neck and just watching himself fuck into my pussy.

There was so much sweat on his face it was so fucking hot. It was dripping off his chin and onto my shoulder and neck. His hair was starting to get wet. He took both of my legs over his shoulders, making sure to maintain eye contact. Each stroke was deeper and deeper. Faster and faster. He was getting desperate. I don’t know how much more my inexperienced pussy can handle. He takes his thumb and gently rubs my clit. Ugh, I have never felt this sort of sensation before, being fucked at the same time.

My moans became more uncontrollable and my legs started to close in. “Fuckkkkk Jakey I am about to cum” I am on the verge of tears, overstimulated with pleasure. The pressure on my clit mixed with the repeated abuse of my cervix was enough to drive me over the edge. “Mmmmm yes doll, cum on my cock” he says lowly. My walls tighten around him and my hips are shaking. My heart is beating at 1000bpm, not a coherent thought left in my fucked-dumb mind. He practically has to pry my legs apart to maintain access to my slit. He holds my hips in place as he gives me a few more strokes. His became less and less powerful.

Once he felt his orgasm coming, he quickly pulled out of me, letting out a loud groan, and shot his strings of white cum all over my tummy and chest. The room was filled with loud pants and the scent of sex. “You are all I have ever wanted” I reach up to tuck his hair behind his ear, not minding the fact that his face was soaked. We rest our foreheads together and rub our noses across each other as we both try to catch our breath.

After a second of recovery, He runs to the bathroom and grabs a rag to clean me up. I could barely move my body, my entire entity was more than sore. It hurt to move, all I could do is lay there. Jake returns with a cold washcloth, and starts wiping off my stomach. “Do you need help getting cleaned up babe?” he asks, sitting down beside me, his arm around my naked torso. “Could we take a bath together?” I suggested.

A bath together after the fact is far more intimate, and could give us some time to talk things over. “Of course” and smiles. “I can go get it set up right now, darling, you just rest for a few minutes” He gives me a kiss on the nose and forehead before heading to run the faucet.

~~~~~~~~~~

I don’t know how I could let this happen. I lay on my bed rerunning all of the events writhing the last hour in my head. I really don’t know why we both allowed it to go that far. I admit, I loved every second of it, but now that it’s over, we have to deal with the effects.

Jake comes back from running the faucet. He looks tired. Maybe a bath is something we both need. “Come here sweetheart” he brings a towel and sets it on the counter.

The bathroom mirror was completely fogged over. “Are you trying to make soup out of us?” I said jokingly. “I know you like taking your showers hot, so I thought maybe it would be the same for baths” he chuckled.

I dip my toes into the half full tub. Jake was right, the temperature was just how I liked it. I held onto his shoulder as I submerge my other foot. The water lapped over the rim of the bath tub.

I keep hold onto his hand so he can guide himself into the tub, taking a lot more balance and tolerance for him to try to get used to the boiling water. “God damn, you like it hot hot” he teases though I can see him furrowing his eyebrows at the heat.

“Oh don’t be such a baby” I tease him right back. He pouts playfully. I love seeing that kind of reaction from him. “I don’t mind” he mumbles in embarrassment, trying to hide the smile on his face.

Once his feet were able to get used to the water, we both slowly sat the rest of our bodies into the tub. Jakes hair is a mess, it’s going in all different directions. I reach out to tuck some of it behind his ears for him, and then cup his face in my palm. I stroke his cheek with my thumb. He tilts his head, there he goes with those irresistible puppy dog eyes again.

“What’s wrong baby?” he asks. I remain in eye contact with him. “Were you being serious? When you said you have dreamt about… that…?”

He’s silent. So much blood rushing to his face his cheeks are like strawberries. He scratched the back of his head. “I mean yeah… why wouldn’t I” he hesitated.

“I mean look at you, you are insanely attractive and we live together and have known each other forever. Of course my mind is going to wonder. It has wondered many more times than I would like to admit.” he explained himself.

Unintentionally, our bodies kept inching towards each other in that bath. I am some how a mere 6 inches away from his face. “Why haven’t you ever told me how you felt?”

“Because I was scared on how it would change our friendship”…. he had the exact same fear as I did. He was also afraid of losing one of his best friends. “If I tell you how I feel, you might think it’s weird or something” he whispers into my ear. “No I will understand, we have known each other our whole lives. How would it be weird?” I say softly.

He hesitates once again, and I can hear his heart start to pound. He closes the gap between us and rests his forehead on mine. “There is so much you don’t know” He breathes, still looking deep into my eyes. His words caused a flicker of anxiety inside of me. “There is so much I want to know about you, darling” I reassure.

“Well for starters I never thought this thing between us would become anything more than just friends” he confesses. It is hard for him to admit such things, but he has to show me that I matter more than he thinks. “It scares me, and I’m sorry that I let it go too far. I guess it’s because I’ve been waiting so long, and everything has changed so fast” he explained, he still had this worried look on his face like I were going to shut everything down. Everything had changed so fast.

“You have to stop worrying so much about me. You can trust me, okay? I’ll never judge or hate you or think any differently of you. All I want is for us to enjoy our first time together and enjoy each other. I have never seen anyone as beautiful as you are to me”. I caress his face with my hands.

A small smile graces his features while he gazes back into my eyes. I lean forward and capture him in a long passionate kiss. Our lips moving in sync, tasting each others taste as if it was our first time doing it. We pull away and stare at each other. He places both of his palms on either side of my face, leaning in even closer. I place my lips in line with his.

My fingers run through his soaked hair, though I don’t know if it use from sweat or from water. “Jakey, if I am going to be honest, I have been feeling the same way. On nights where we don’t sleep in the same bed, I find myself getting less sleep and craving your warmth. I don’t regret anything that’s happened between us tonight. Admittedly, I have been wanting to do that with you for so long” I started ranting.

“When you were making love to me I felt like I was floating away and it felt so good I just wanted to stay here forever, like nothing else mattered. There wasn’t anything I wanted more than to stay in this moment forever with you, but we both know that isn’t possible.” he continues, his voice cracking.

“Making love?” I chuckle. Such an interesting word choice. “Be quiet” he pushes back. “I’m just joking, but I agree”

He was clearly getting tired, letting out a yawn and fighting the force of his eyelids trying to close. “We should get to bed” I suggest. We soak the last few moments of the now comfortably hot water and get out of the tub. “You better not get water all over the floor, Jake” HE ALWAYS DOES THAT.

He grabs a towel for me and and one for himself and he wraps mine around my whole body width and pulls me for a hug. “I am glad we took a bath together sweetheart, try to get some rest” he whispers, and leaves an innocent kiss on my forehead.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next few weeks consisted of school, work, and sleeping in the same bed with Jake pretty much every single night. We would exchange passionate kisses and I would bathe him when he was too tired from work or hanging out with Jay. And he would do the same for me. We never went as far to have sex again. We weren’t scared but we felt like we should wait.

We are on our way back to Australia for fall break. Jake will finally get to see his parents and I will get to see mine. We get to have a whole week without having to worry about responsibilities. Which I know both of us desperately need. We touch down in Australia around maybe 3pm on the first Saturday of the break. We only brought carry on luggage for convenience and time.

“Have everything?” He questioned me as we were getting out of our seats. “I think so” I smile, so excited to see my parents. We arranged for Jake’s mom to pick us up from the airport. She had a large SUV able to fit all of our stuff comfortably. Once we passed through all of the security and customs, Jake calls her to see where she is parked. On speaker I hear her say “9 rows down from the south enterance” she explains. “Thanks mom, see you in a sec” Jake says about to hang up the phone. “Thank you Mrs Sim” I make sure she hears before he presses the red button.

We hurry to get out of the packed airport so meet up with his mom. The weather was cold and misty and it was hard to see. When we finally arrived outside the south enterance, we could hardly believe what we saw. Layla comes up running at full sprint in me and Jake’s direction. She jumped up onto bother of us, layering our faces and arms with slobbery licks and he tail wagging so hard it may as well had fallen off.

Once Layla was all calmed down we put our luggage into the trunk. We swing up the door and the vehicle seems oddly empty. “Where is dad?” Jake questioned his mom. “He is getting worse…. he wasn’t able to make it today, I had to take him back to the hospital last night” she explained. I could already see the heart break in his eyes. “Oh” We packed everything up and his mom offered for me to sit in the front seat. Honestly, I wanted to sit in the back seat and comfort Jake, so I made up the excuse that Layla should sit in the front.

The mood in the car ride home was off. I don’t know if it was from the weather or his fathers health but Jake was not as energetic as he was before. I know he doesn’t deserve everything happening to his dad so I will just try to support him through it.

~~~~~~~~~~

I never really gave it much thought, but the more I put the pieces together, I think maybe the reason Jake is so insistent on getting black out drunk with Jay on the weekends may have to do with his father.

Jake has never in his life had a healthy coping mechanism. I remember a lot through out grade school, he would feel guilty or take blame for things that were not his fault, just to mediate the situation. When he did this, he did not react to the discipline very well, but it seems like he would much rather face conveniences than to start an argument over the original problem.

Jake let a lot of people take advantage of him, and it is still something that we have to work on, but knowing the situation with his dad, I know he has a lot more things to worry about now that usual.

Many of the people excluding his parents are alcoholics, any family event we went to together, the main thing being passed around was a bottle. When we were younger, things made him build resentment towards them but the older we got, the more willing he was to try alcohol, only adding more and more each time until he is where he is at now.

Jay isn’t the type of friend to stop this behavior either. I will never understand why Jake is such good friends with him cause he never seems to have the best intentions or good interest in mind. I can’t be the one to tell him that they should stop being friends cause at the end of the day, Jake’s relationship with alcohol won’t be healed in a split second.

~~~~~~~~~~

Nothing really eventful happened over the span of the after noon, the rain put everything to a halt. I slept in the guest bed in Jake’s house for the first night but was unable to fall asleep for the majority of the night. Jake’s mom rushed into the room around 1:30 am.

“Hey are you awake? We have to go the hospital, it’s my husband. Please wake up Jake while I grab the keys” She said with an extremely shaken voice full of urgency. I shoot out of the bed and put my shorts back on and practically run down the hallway to Jake’s room. It is locked. I bang on the door frantically. “Jake! Jake get up now we have to go” I echo through the door. Quickly after he swings open his door with his shirt in his hand, in the middle of putting it on.

The SUV was already started when we got out the front door and we ran to get into the car and soon as we sat down she reversed and tried to explain. “He slipped into a coma. They said they are trying everything to get him to wake up but they have no idea why it happened because he was in decent shape before” she says with tears forming in her eyes.

I reach up to the front seat to scratch her shoulder to try and calm her. I don’t think there is anything someone can do in this situation to calm someone in this much distress down but I tried. She is going dangerously fast down the highway. I know that she has been working hard to keep them afloat and thing we’re starting to get better. After that I couldn’t stand to listen anymore and closed my eyes hoping that by some miracle she wouldn’t end up killing us.

After what seemed like hours we reached the hospital and were quickly taken to another private room where we could talk with him alone. Of course his dad wasn’t going to be able to say anything. But Jake still wanted him to listen. He took his fathers hand a caressed his palm with his fingers while he said what he needed to say. Once he was done, I gave Jake a hug as his red face were completely covered in tears.

“He will be okay, I promise” I reassured him. We walked out of the room to discover his mom sitting next to the window, face completely void of emotion. He hasn’t spoken a word since we have gotten here.

“You know…. he was really excited for you both to come back. He was practically counting down the days” she admitted, wiping a tear from here eye. “I was so excited with him” she added. Her words shatter my heart. How is she not screaming in anger right now. Angry at the world for doing this to her innocent husband. That was something I admired about her. She was always able to contain her emotions well, almost too well.

Seeing both her and Jake in this state was absolutely terrible. I knew it would only take a miracle to fix this given his dads condition. “It’ll all be okay, Jake, don’t cry” I assure him. “It won’t, how am I supposed to deal with this? How am I supposed to go back to school without seeing him, talking to him… it hurts” “There is still a chance that he will make it Jake, don’t give up on it. I know he wants you to wait for him”

He couldn’t say anything, all he could do was bury his face into my shoulder and sob. He tried to form words, but they were only choked noises which caused him to cry even harder. “Shh its okay, I am here” I assure him. Me, Jake and his mom spent the night in the hospital. His mom slept in the room with his dad and me and Jake slept in a guest waiting room. Well, I was the only one who was able to get some sleep. Jake was up all night worrying about his father. I could hear him crying as I were trying to fall asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

A few weeks had passed and his fathers condition remained the same, and to be honest, Jake and his mom seemed like they kind of accepted that this was the way that things were going to be.

We were back at the house, his mom would just go to work and lock herself in her room until she had to go to work again and Jake and I were preparing to go back to Korea for the Winter semester.

Mrs Sim did not want to see us leave, and she made it very clear. We were her last hope with everything going on with her husband. I really wish me and Jake could stay back to support her but we have jobs and bills that we have to get back to, and life can’t just pause for us. We promised we would let her know how we are feeling, how much we missed each other and everything else that went along with saying goodbye.

We leave in 3 days, and we made it our mission to hang out with his mom as much as we could before we left. She hasn’t taken a break either… no time to her self she just has to keep working to pay for the house and the piling medical bills.

Those last few days, we took Mrs. Sim out for lunch at her favorite Thai restaurant. She seemed to genuinely smile for the first time in weeks as we joked and reminisced about times when all 4 of us were together. One night, we rented some classic movies she loved and made her favorite snacks. We cuddled up on the couch, enjoying the familiar feeling of just being together as a family again, if only briefly.

Jake and I helped around the house as much as we could - running errands, doing yard work, and cooking meals to give his mom a little respite. We made sure to soak in every moment because we didn't know when we'd all be together like that again.

~~~~~~~~~~

When it came time for our early morning departure back to Korea, Mrs. Sim took us both in for a tight hug, her eyes brimming with tears. "Take care of each other," she whispered hoarsely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ Jake grabs our suitcases out of the trunk and his mom pulls me to the side.

“Please promise to take care of him for me. You have always been a safe place for him, I can only imagine how he has been feeling” she begged. I held bother of her hands in the palms of mine. “I promise, Mrs Sim, I will do everything in my power to take care of him, don’t worry. You have other things to worry about” I reassure her pulling her into a hug.

Layla climbs through the back of the car from the front seat and jumps out of the trunk to say good bye, jumping all over me and Jake just like when we first arrived. “Yes you’re such a good girl” he scruffs up her ears while giving her a kiss on the forehead. I gave Layla some belly rubs before his mom guided her back into the car.

“Please text me when you board, and call me when you land, I need to know that the two of you are safe.” said his mom. “Of course” we pulled her into one last hug. “I love you guys” she sobbed “I love you too” we said in unison as we walked towards to enterance, leaving his mom in the parking lot.

~~~~~~~~~~

The ride back home was hard for Jake. 10 hours of restlessness. The only time I saw Jake act kind of okay was at our layover in Manila. I tried to leave him be for most of the trip.

-

We landed at the airport in Seoul and made our way back through customs and immigration, I swear the process of getting out of the airport is more stressful than planing a trip itself. We load our things into my car, missing the excitement that Layla brought to the car ride.

Before we got into the car, Jake comes behind me and turns me around into a hug. “I am really worried about her… my parents have been together for so long I can’t imagine how she would react with out him” he cried into my arms. “Your mom is a strong woman, I know it. She has you and I know she will be able to get through it.” I rub his back and lay my head into the crook of his neck.

I walk him over to his door and open it, letting him get into is and rest, we still had a 45 minute drive back to our place. I just let him ‘rest’ his eyes the whole way and I sat in silence trying not to wake him. The ride was bumpy, or maybe I was more aware of my surroundings not given that Jake wasn’t talking my ear off the whole time. I don’t mean it as a bad thing but he does a great job at keeping me company in the car. But that element was absent this time.

We were outside of our house quicker than expected. Jake was still fast asleep, he looked up he most peaceful than I have seen him these past few weeks I really did not want to wake him up. “Jakey we’re here” I whisper and gently grip his shoulder. He groans. He untucks his arms from under his shirt and rubs his eyes, trying to adjust to the light.

We make way up to the door, he didn’t bother grabbing anything out of the car but I was completely okay with grabbing everything if it meant he would get some rest. As soon as we stepped in the door, he took off his shoes and hurried to his bedroom, he didn’t ever bother changing his clothes before plopping onto his bed in pure exhaustion.

I found myself following him to the bed and sitting on the edge and grazing his back with my fingernails. My hands made way up to his hair and I combed his strands with my fingers. He turns over to lay on his back and I sit and admire his beautiful face while his eyes are closed. So peaceful. I couldn’t fight the urge to lean down and give his a soft peck before heading back to the car.

He didn’t seem to mind, his lips were soft as they instantly melted into mine for a few seconds. He didn’t seem supprised or shocked at all. He made it feel natural. “Thank you” he said, barely audible. I leaned in for another kiss, a smile building on my face as our lips met. No verbal response was needed, my smile against his spoke for itself.

~~~~~~~~~~

We had gotten back into our normal work and school schedule following the break. I still was not seeing Jake as much as I would like and it seems like I was getting less and less information by the day on his dad, which worried me. I tried to call Mrs Sim every single day to check in and get updates, as well as update her on mine and Jake’s life. She treated me like a friend. Like a daughter. I am very thankful to be accepted by her in that way.

Jake was clearly getting more stressed with work and school and I couldn’t figure out a way to ease the stress for him, all I could do was hope that it wouldn’t end up being too much.

Mrs Sim told me briefly once while we were on a phone call that me and her call way more often that her and Jake do. Jake has always been a texter and his Mom simply had to deal with not hearing her baby boys voice as often as she would like, which is why it was weird when me and Jake were laying in my bed around 11pm and his phone starts ringing.

Both of us were on the verge of falling asleep and the light from his phone screen made the situation more uncomfortable. At first Jake just reached over and turned off the ringer.

“Hey did you even see who it was? What if it was important” I question his instinct to end the call. “Fine let me look” he groans.

He reached over and grabs his phone and looks at the screen ‘Mom’ is what it read. “Answer it!” I urged him. Jake was hesitant. I think he thought that this was going to be the call, which he has been preparing to avoid at all costs.

Instead of letting the line go to voicemail, I snatch the phone out of his hand and answer if myself. “Hello Mrs Sim, is everything alright?”

“I am so glad to hear your voice. Is Jake around? It is important. Put it on speaker” she said.

“You’re on speaker” I informed her.

“Jake, your father is home, I picked him up about an hour ago. The doctor said that septic shock caused him to go into the coma, and they were able to treat the infection and keep him steady with some blood and IV fluids. He woke up yesterday and has shown no signs of complication ever since. I will take him back in a few days for testing and a check up. They saved him Jake… They saved him.” His mother explained ecstatically, crying tears of happiness.

Jake’s face immediately lit up, with what I could see from the light of the phone screen. He instantly started crying.

“Baby I wish you were here right now. he misses you so much” he claimed.

Jake couldn’t even speak through his tears and his hitched breathing. “I love you so much mom, tell dad I love him and I will see him soon”

He sets the phone down and buries his face into my chest, letting out full on sobs. the toll that this situation has taken on his body physically and mentally was very obvious and I know he has been wanting good news.

~~~~~~~~~~

Weeks had passed and we came back to Australia for the Winter break. Jake was more excited than ever. When he saw his dad get out of the car at the airport, I had never see Jake run so fast in my life. Their hug seemed like it was out of a movie and he had been latched to his dad everyday since being back at his house.

His parents kind of picked up on me and Jake’s relationship, and didn’t question why I was wanting to sleep in Jake’s room and not the guest room any more.

We were laying there facing each other, admiring each others beauty in the dim moon light shining through the blinds.

“Tell me Jake, do you believe in fate?” I questioned lowly.

He looks somewhat startled. “Y’know, I have never really thought about that. After everything that has happened this year, I think I would say that I do” he confirmed, stroking my cheek with his thumb.

“Yeah I think I do too”

[nanamineedstherapy]

Can you explain why nanago makes more sense than satosugu

OK, sit down, because this isn’t just a ship, this is a post-mortem. I love Nanago/Gonana because it’s the most adult, most tragically plausible what-if in JJK—like something delicate and unsaid that fell through the cracks while everyone was screaming.

First off: Nanami died trying to get to Gojo.

Like, literally. He wasn’t running aimlessly—he was heading toward B5. Toward the prison realm. Toward him. And no one talks about it. No one acknowledges that the final direction of his dying momentum was Gojo. Not safety. Not escape. Him.

That alone speaks volumes.

And here’s the thing: Gojo, with his blinding charisma, never stops performing—even in grief. But Nanami sees through that. And not in the "oh he’s secretly sad" fanon way. I mean deeply, in the kind of way that unsettles Gojo. Like looking directly at the sun and not flinching. That’s why I love scenes where Gojo is radiant, slightly deranged, and Nanami is watching with this unreadable, weary softness—a look that says "you’re killing yourself and calling it duty." Nanami was always capable of seeing what Gojo would never say aloud.

Gojo looks bewitching. Nanami looks at him like he’s already mourning him. And that’s the whole ship.

Now here comes the psychological autopsy:

Nanami is a hyper-functional depressive. All structure, routine, and withdrawal. He doesn't know how to ask for an emotional connection, but he knows how to give care in practical, quiet ways—and he craves a target for that care, or it turns inward and rots him.

Gojo is a charisma-addicted, touch-starved man with abandonment trauma so bad he thinks being needed is the same as being loved. He’s terrified of intimacy but craves validation. Most people either worship him or resent him. Nanami does neither—he just sees him.

They don’t just make sense—they stabilize each other:

Nanami gives Gojo structure and care without demanding performance. He’s the only one who’d tell Gojo to sit down, eat something, and shut up—and Gojo would listen.

Gojo gives Nanami purpose outside of grief. Not as an ideal, not as a child to save, but as a man who is barely holding it together. And that’s what Nanami needed—not another burden, but someone worthy of his attention who wouldn't fall apart if he blinked.

Nanami fusses over people like a dad with no kids, and Gojo is a grown man with the emotional injuries of a war orphan. They would’ve grown into each other like vines if the world hadn’t already broken them in opposite ways.

It’s not about “soulmates.” It’s about missed timing.

Adult Gojo could have been saved if Nanami had survived.

And Nanami could’ve finally lived, if he had Gojo to pull him out of the trench of routine.

So… why Nanago instead of Satosugu?

Because Nanago is what happens after grief—after boyhood, after ideology, after the dream has burned out and you’re left with ashes and still have to wake up at 7 a.m. to go to work you hate even if you were once that wide eyed fool who believed in what they did before the real world sucked that out of you, and now, you are just a shell passing through life. Where once you planned for things, now things just happen to you and you take it with an eyeroll because what else should you have expected.

I don't hate STSG, they make sense in their own ways, but that's what it is at the end of the day, when you grow out of that spring, out of that old hoodie—the one you won’t throw away even though the sleeves are fraying and it doesn’t keep you warm anymore. You keep it because it smells like who you were before life ground you down. It has holes in it—even if it feels soft, it won't keep the cold away.

But eventually, you grow out of that version of yourself.

You need to put on a jacket now if you are to survive the cold.

Satosugu is a ghost story.

It’s young love that died in the womb. A "what could’ve been" that stayed locked in one spring. It’s the echo of a summer that never made it into fall. It's young love that never had to deal with gas bills and funerals, and eating alone.

But Nanago? That’s a relationship that could’ve existed. Quietly. Constantly. Fully adult.

Nanago is what happens when you survive.

Barely. Bitterly. Bored and exhausted and ageing by the hour.

Nanago is that moment in adulthood where you realise love isn’t a miracle—it’s logistics. It’s making space for someone else in your day, in your decisions. It’s Nanami packing an extra energy bar that he knows Gojo will forget. It’s Gojo learning not to interrupt when Nanami is reading. It’s quiet, stable, slow. No anxiety, confused for fireworks all the time. Just… not being alone, forgotten.

And that’s what Gojo actually needed.

Gojo didn’t need a second love. He needed a first real one.

STSG meant to break your heart, and they do.

Not because Suguru didn’t love him—he did. But love isn't enough when you're still trying to outrun the world.

Because at the end of the day, Suguru chose to leave him so that he could create a world where people like him, Gojo, small children—little girls like Nanako and Mimiko, could be saved. But he decided genocide was the way because it was easier then having to fucking stick around to not hurt others while hurting himself.

But if killing innocents would have been the solution, then we wouldn't progress; we would just perpetuate the suffering.

Suguru left. Not just Gojo, but everyone. He wanted to fix the world by ending it. Because destruction felt easier than choosing to stay and suffer with people. Because he thought hurting others might finally drown out his own pain.

Nanami left, too—but only because he had to. Not kill, instead, to do a job he hates, for people who would post a job listing for his position by the end of the day, even if he mysteriously disappeared, or was found dead in his apartment, because the neighbours smelled something weird and called the police.

He didn’t believe in the Jujutsu system after Haibara. He knew it would eat him alive. But he still showed up. He still did the job. He died walking into fire, not because he thought it would fix anything—but because someone had to get closer to Gojo. Even if it meant burning on the way down.

Nanami’s not a revolutionary. He’s a nurse in a war.

And Gojo? Gojo’s the patient nobody knows how to save.

But Nanami would’ve tried.

That’s the difference.

Satosugu was a dream.

Nanago could’ve been a home.

But that being said, if you wanna talk about how powerful of a girl-dad Suguru is, then I will die on that same hill with you. But despite him doing everything, his girls didn't get to live in the world he envisioned. It's poetic because in Hindu religious texts, there's a lot of talk about your parents' karma coming back to bite you.

After all, the debt is still pending.

I love that man. But he left.

Nanami would’ve stayed. That’s the line that divides fantasy from survival.

And Nanami… Nanami needed someone too bright to ignore and too stubborn to let him give up.

Someone who saw his silences and didn’t ask him to explain them. Someone who needed his steadiness without turning it into a leash. Someone who wouldn’t make him feel boring just because he wasn’t breaking apart.

Anyway, I’ll be crying in the pantry again. Please send tissues and financial aid.

Thanks for this amazing ask, Anon :P Hope it was not too raw and adult, but I thrive in looking at things with a realistic perspective.

Hope I made sense :)

The first gif is from @azurepath, they make great renaissance-esque Nanago art :) 3rd is by @nanagoing :) Rest, idk so hit me up for credits or removals.

[artdoingdan]

might I humbly request a lore drop about dungeon mart? what was the decision making process of who works in which department?

REQUEST GRANTED ✨✨

Okay so here's what I sketched at the VERY start to figure out everyone's positions.

In general, I'm pulling from my time working at the grocery store, NoFrills, so a lot of things are based on what I saw while there, but here's more specific stuff:

Laois/Falin (Produce)

This was my position at NoFrills and honestly, something about the idea of Laios being super analytical and passionate about fruits and veggies really spoke to me. People have been mentioning that Falin would be great in a pharmacy section (and I agree) but the NoFrills I worked at didn't have a pharmacy, plus I thought keeping the Toudens together would be cute.

Izitsumi (Grocery)

I just liked Izitsumi being deadpan and quietly going about restocking groceries until they HAVE to deal with customers begrudgingly

Chilchuck (Manager)

Okay okay I KNOW everyone's been commenting about how Chilchuck would never be in a non-union position, but guys.... the idea of a depressed, overworked, sick-of-dealing-with-everyone Chilchuck is just TOO GOOD. Chilchuck's one of the most grounded of the group, so I thought he'd actually do pretty well in the position. Plus I love the idea of him having to be manager, but also hating it lmao

Marcille (Assistant Manager)

For the stickers, I put Marcille in grocery, but I was honestly picturing her as the assistant manager (I just didn't want 2 management stickers lol). Whereas Chilchuck is more of the "hole away in his office" type, I picture Marcille being on the floor often and helping the other departments keep in order (especially grocery). I thought she'd be more efficient and content with the job, unlike Chilchuck, and would work well as a duo with him.

Senshi (Bakery)

Senshi could've honestly gone in any department. I almost made him manager, but the pull towards making him a happy baker was too strong 🍞 (The NoFrills I worked at also didn't have an actual bakery section, but the idea won me over). No matter what he did, I felt he'd be THRIVING.

Zon (Meat)

I was stuck between Namari and Zon for this, and even though Namari would've probably made more sense, I liked the image of this big intimidating orc dealing with the meat and having a bromance with Senshi.

Kabru/Shuro (Cashiers)

They were last-minute additions and aren't in this early sketch, but my reasoning was simple: Kabru's super charming and good and dealing with people, and I loved making Shuro miserable LMAO

---

Honestly, the Dungeon Meshi characters are so good you could put them wherever and it'd be interesting. This was just what I thought would be most fun for me to draw, but I've loved reading everyone's alternative takes on it 💜

[yandere-wishes]

｡ ₊°༺Meet me at our spot༻°₊ ｡

｡ ₊°༺Meet Me At Our Spot By The Anxiety༻°₊ ｡

જ⁀➴ Lost the ask for this but hopefully the Anon sees this and knows it's for them: excitedly chewing on legos OMG NO cause this is so juicy, like let me just rip out Jason's heart for a sec. Let me fill him with rage and break his heart a little.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ When Jason dies, he leaves a hole in your heart. One that you're certain the Red Hood can mend.

ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=♡=ᗢ=♡

Your sister doesn't appreciate the little bird that follows her like a shadow.

She says his presence is like an eclipse, an eerie, tiring thing.

Some day she'll miss the repartee, the attention, the "friend" she made along the way, someday when the boy lays in a coffin six feet deep, as little birds tend to do. She'll realize that he took a part of her with him. Buried beneath the earth, left to rot and waste.

Of course, she only grows more frustrated when you say such things.

When you remind her how fleeting and fragile this life is.

He was the happiest of them all. Cheerful little bird following his father through the shadows, chirping in joy as he skipped to echolocation. Playing with a naive kitty who never fully understood that they were meant to be enemies.

It's funny looking back, realizing how fickle children truly are. How you used to joke so earnestly about eating him whole and plucking his feathers from between your teeth. As you both sat on a skyscraper's edge sharing a juice box. Jason would laugh, would throw his head back, and kick his legs.

"That'll just mean we'd be together forever. I can haunt you from the inside."

You do truly wish it had been you that had killed him. That you had gotten the chance to peel the meat from his bones and savor their flavor upon your tongue. You would have enjoyed the crunch and pop of the cobalt between your teeth. Enjoyed finally, finally being able to crack open his skull and unburden him of his terrors.

But in the end, the kitty cat never reached the robin.

No, it was in fact the clown that gobbled him whole.

There's a part of depression that's relatively saccharine. The isolation and the silver of worry you feel, sweating off people when they note the vibrations of melancholy you emit. You see your mother's concern and your sister's vexation. You like how it makes you feel powerful. Like a divine decree to burn and kill. But you never do go after the clown. Your mother had forbidden such fruitless endeavors.

"I don't need you in a coffin as well".

Still, you long to wring the Joker's neck between your claws.

You had met him in the dark of an alley almost three months ago.

Requiem is held here often, in the shadow of your skyscraper. The armistice sanctuary where the two of you had spent the final quarter of your nights. No war, no fighting, just two kids in masks lying in the moon's gentle rays.

Your bag of jewels slumps over your shoulder. It feels like the weight of the world.

In the dark, a red thing moves. The ground shakes under his steps as the gloom slips off his body. He is rejected by the dark and unwanted by the light. "What you got in the bag Kitty Cat?" his voice is distorted, like an echo escaping a pit.

You jump, clawing for his arm upon descent, but the fabric he wears is too thick, the attack never reaches his skin. He uses your confusion to land a kick between your ribs. You slid over the concrete street, friction slivering the side of your uniform and the flesh beneath. When you look up again, he's seized the jewels and is halfway through scaling a nearby building. He turns to you, the white eyes of his mask sink into the crevasses of your soul. His fingers touch the side of his masked head in a mock salute.

"Haven't lost your touch sweetheart"

You spend most of the day sleeping in the sun, the only bearable thing left to do. You dream in shades of sugar plums and lilies. Sweet things that keep the bitter nightmares away.

It's gotten so hard to wake up lately.

So hard to stay awake.

Batman once told you that time heals all wounds. Maybe when you're older you'll forget the frantic patter of your heart when Jason smiled at you.  

A shadow blocks the sun, making you stir. Red menace that bears death like a perfume. When you look at him, your body chills. You choke on foreign nostalgia. Deja vu pricks at your bones trying to engrave itself upon the marrow. Why does the Red Hood feel like a forgotten memory? Like a lullaby, your mother used to sing.

He doesn't leave, he just stares. Unblinking white lights instead of eyeballs. Trained on your body. You feel naked under his gaze. It's almost as if he's torn you apart and memorized every little detail about you. Refusing to sew you up again. He leaves you an open cadaver for his cruel entertainment.

Hours pass, he only ever stares.

You've stopped sleeping since that day.

His ghost haunts you. Flickering in the moonlight as you sink beside an alley wall. When you look up, Jason is there beaming down at you. Jejune, unscarred in every way. You feel phantom kisses across your knuckles.

Just a street cat and her dead birdie.

When did depression and insomnia become such good friends?

"I miss you" you whispered, as tears slid down your cheeks. You blink, trying to relieve the irritation in your eyes. When something blunt and cold presses against your forehead. He's there, the red menace, the annoying thorn that wedged too deeply into your flesh. Pointing his favorite handgun at your head. You almost wish he would shoot.

When the light hits his helmet just right, it's like an open head wound.

"You look so ethereal in the moonlight, like a corpse bleeding out."

He's taken aback by your statement, he tenses, his fingers twitch. In anger or shock, you aren't quite sure. "You're really disturbed, you know that kitty?" His tragicomic lilt tastes so irritably sweet. You can't help but laugh like a madman.

Maybe Batman was right, maybe time does heal all wounds.

Maybe you've finally found your eschar.

When Red Hood punches you, hard enough to fracture bone, you can't help but relish in sickly-sweet sentimentality.

He's so familiar but you just don't know why.

Osteonic, pneumonic your body remembers while you do not.

"Keep throwing punches like that and I might think you hate me, darling." You blow him a fake kiss before he sweeps your feet, making you fall back.

He straddles your hips, pinning you to the ground. You gave him a fake pout before his hand is on your throat. Squeezing, harder and harder. It's like he's trying to push stars inside you, making you connect them and form constellations to say everything he never can.

Spots dance across your vision as you offer him a final giggle.

"Come on kitty, I thought you could take a little roughhousing."

It happens again.

He's so haunting in the daylight. Like a ghost twice dead.

He's staring

He's always staring

You didn't need to see his open casket

You would have thought him sleeping

He's dead he's dead he's dead

You say it so often these days it's like a mantra.

Jason, Red Hood.

Where does one begin and the other end?

You can't keep pushing the ghost of your childhood friend into the first new vigilante in town. But you can't help it.

It's like Jason's been reincarnated.

Like he's finally returned.

You've taken to reading Hamlet.

Not because you want to.

But because you feel like the answer to these phantoms lies between the ivory pages.

Or maybe it's because you wish to study Ophelia's madness. In hopes of finding a cure for your own.

You feel like Ophelia drowning in the river creek.

You feel like Hamlet arguing with apparitions.  

"I hate you." He screams one night, he's been chasing you for the better part of an hour after your recent heist at the museum. You laugh and throw him a kiss as you jump to the next building. But midair Red Hood tackles you, using your body to cushion his fall. Your bodies rest entwined atop that familiar skyscraper. "I love this place" you mutter from underneath him. "I used to come here with my best friend when we were young. It was..."

"...Our spot" he finishes. He lets out a bitter chuckle that sounds more like a profanity aimed straight at you. He stands again, knees keeping you pinned down, digging into your hips. His fist collides with your face again. He does it so often now you've come to almost love them.

"Jason" you murmur as the blood trickles down your nose, you feel something in your eye pop as you laugh. "You remind me so much of him".

Red Hood stands taller. For a second the world stills. He reaches behind and pulls up his helmet...

There's a popped blood vessel in your eye. Or many a concussion has bloomed within your skull. Regardless the vision flickering before you can't be real.

"I've got you under my skin" he murmurs as he lays a chaste kiss upon your cheek. "No matter what I do, I just can't get rid of the thoughts of you." He pulls your body up and embraces you so tightly. You only whisper his name like a scared prayer. Inhale his scent like ichore. He's too solid to be a ghost. Or maybe you're finally dead.

Jason buries his face in your neck. Muffling his sobs as he bites into your shoulder, letting your taste erupt inside his mouth. He's missed you, he's missed you more than anything else. It hurts knowing you'd be willing to replace him with someone else. Hurts that you fell for the first wise-cracking man in a mask that you met. But it's okay, it's fine, he can punish you later. For now, all that matters is that you're right where you belong.

At your spot, with him.

"I'll never leave you again kitty, I promise"

[rafesyangel]

Rafe gives reader silent treatment:(

The air was suffocating ,thick with silence, and tension the kind that wraps around your throat and chokes you . You sat there, at the dining table with him, your untouched plate on the table His gaze burned holes into your soul. As he let out a big disappointed sigh and approached you

Your voice cracked, small and barley heard but it was too late. You knew it the second those words left your pretty mouth The second your tone shifted. The second you looked at him

That he was really mad at you

You woke up grumpy as hell today. The day was cruel from the start you accidentally broke your acrylic , the sink overflowed, dinner burned, you were on the verge of tears all day

But none of that compared to Rafe storming in, already on edge, already furious, needing only the tiniest action to ignite the madness inside him.

“What the hell is that smell?” he growled, the moment he stepped inside the scent of charred food making him almost throw up You stood there,eyes glassy, hair a mess, wearing a shirt he hated, one with that stain on it.

You knew he would come home sooner or later And now you are crying?

“Rafe, no, there is nothing ” you tried, weakly your first mistake was thinking he’d listen. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

Rafe in a second crossed the room, already infront of you in his glory ,his hands seized yours, firm and unmovable, eyes scanning every inch of you for burns or bruises or anything Not because he just because that was what a normal person would do, No. Because you belonged to him. And damage to you was damage to him

“There’s nothing, Rafe. I’m not hurt.” But he didn’t let go. Not until you tore your hands away and quickly from his and snapped

“Rafe, seriously, stop! Just stop.” Your tone was loud , very loud that you didn't like it

It definitely didn't please rafe either

Since these words left your lips , when your voice raised at him  you felt it. That split-second of regret so heavy it crushed you.

“I need you to give me one fucking reason why are you acting like this" rafe eyes was on the ground next to you still demanding answers from you

“Like what rafe" you yelled at him , you didn't care anymore ,

"i'm...j..just tired and I feel so oversimulated a..an-"

“Is dinner done already?" Rafe cut you not giving a single fuck about your protests or your problems

You actually stood there amazed for a second , you let your tears fall now , there is no point in hiding them

"When you fix that attitude we can talk princess ' he muttered coldly as he left the kitchen leaving you standing there vulnerable, depressed and fed up

You actually made the table for him Rafe’s voice was low,a threat wrapped in silk. His eyes weren’t even on you, just staring at the ground next to your feet , he truly did want to face you but youre making it harder , you just stood there. Silent. Shattered.you still laid it out for him. Fork, knife, plate just the way he liked it.

He sat next to you on the table still not daring to have eye contact with you

"Are you gonna ignore me all day" you glanced at rafe again Still no response

but this time you broke down into tears , again, letting a sob trapped in you, it felt like someone was chocking you

“Listen rafe imsorryimsoosorry...I.. I.. I would never do this again I.." You were crying already trying to explain where all that attitude came from , face already swollen and red from the amount of tears you let tonight

At first rafe wanted to continue ignoring you like you were nothing,he wanted this cruel punishment to continue He knew the key to your discipline is silence

"Shhhh pup" rafe turned around to you , your cries changing his mind , he couldn't bear to see you in that moment, picking you up on his lap , letting you bury your face in his hard chest

A series of muffled apologies fell from your lips , grabbing into his neck like he is gonna dissappear at any second as Rafe gently rubbed your back , he told you it's ok and to calm down he isn't mad at you He will never get mad at you

"Next time your period is coming princess don't leave the bed "

[dipperpepper77]

Stuck in Winter.

Dipper's Depression

Tags: ANGST. LITERALLY SM ANGST. CAUTION! (Death, attempts, and substances mentioned) So sorry my little dippers. I had a dream and we will ALL suffer.

Context: You thought you had the wanderer mission controlled. You truly did. Hindsight is 20/20. You laid in a white coffin, cold and unmoving. You didn't really choose it out. But, white made you look like an angel. Their angel.

Xavier: He's a bundle of anxiety at this point. It was meant to be him first... right? He couldn't wait another lifetime for you. This one hit him the hardest. Three funerals. Three times he's had to lay you in the ground. He started writing. The shop was under his care since his friend wanted him to do something productive. Many books came to fruition. All with the same hero/heroine that had your charisma, looks, even the same jokes you told. Your memory laid in black ink on pages of devoted love. But, like clockwork Xavier would go to you apartment (he rented out your apartment when the lease ended). He would leave everything how you left it. "My light.. I'm home". No response.

Rafayel: Even he thought he'd make paintings in your honor. But, he couldn't. Everything reminded him of you and the you shaped hole in his heart. Grayson would see Rafayel having meltdowns constantly. Most of the time he'd throw or snap brushes that held paint that reminded him of you. Your hair color, the color of your lips, your eyes, etc. Your coffin laid in a mausoleum in the depths of the sea. He would always go visit it. Swimming laps around it before laying on top of the white coffin. "Cutie... I'm here. Missed me?" A crowd of fishes circled the mausoleum. His confirmation that you were listening.

Zayne: He's a mess. He got leave from work. Taking that time to visit all the places he went with you. One that journey he found a hallucinogenic. NO way would he ever do anything like this... but, he's desperate to see you. He laid there on his hotel bed. Clutching at his chest as he looked at the time go by. Why wasn't it working? Until it did. You laid on your side. It was so real... he could even feel you. Your warmth. The way you smiled at him. He nuzzled into you. "My love... stay." The cold hotel air lulled him to sleep. He slept well that night. The world wasn't that cruel to remind him he was holding a pillow and not you.

Sylus: He had bags under his eyes. He sat at the edge of his bed thinking your burial over and over again. Did he do a good job at sending you off? You were covered in all kinds of gemstones and beautiful shiny objects. He called over Luke and Kieran for an important task. Both getting a mausoleum behind his home. He was there every morning and night. Placing a soft kiss on your coffin. "Kitten... I'll be home soon alright" turned to desperation "Y/N... wake up. You're not still mad at me for leaving you first the first time... right?" Luke and Kieran weren't doing well either. They tried to walk up to comfort Sylus but ended up breaking down too. After all... who do you think left red and black painted roses on your coffin? Mephisto found his new resting spot on you. Never leaving you. Their best friend.

Caleb: The skin around his nails were red and raw. He was a mess. His only reason for living was gone. His emotions kept spiking only to neutralize. But, he was a pawn. Every single of his attempts were stopped in time. He allowed himself to kill without remorse. He was the ultimate killing machine for the fleet. His reward? The only reason he allowed this? Every night they gave him ten minutes. His memories altered. He saw you. You'd always praise him. You'd tell him you loved him. For a while it did work... it did. "Pipsqueak?... no... your eyes aren't that color..." The memories of you were getting fuzzy making the simulation not accurate. It scared him. He was forgetting you. He was losing you. "No.. TRY IT AGAIN. FUCK.. OUR PICTURES.. USE SOMETHING." His hands shook the more and more you stopped looking like yourself.

Dip Speaks: I'm SO sorry. I'll feed y'all something really good for compensation.

[felikatze]

follow up to this post i am wearing holes into the carpet.

this current arc on the TL FASCINATES ME because it just taps so much into what The Process is for Kim Soleum and what he loves about horror. Because yknow in that previous post I talked at length about how he loves to Figure Out And Understand The Monster.

so like. yeah. yeah of course he loves Braun's Late-Night Talk Show.

He gets to choose which guest appears, i.e. he gets to pick his favorite stories. And, as part of the crew, he gets to pick them apart and just hear them talk from a safe distance. Just the goddamn horror monster on a talk show talking about itself to the delight of the audience, and also to the delight of himself. This is The Perfect Fanservice for him.

It's like, yknow, a creator confirming all your theories about their work on a podcast. It's getting a good grade in media analysis.

And i'm also thinking about how he actually befriended Braun by appealing to Braun as a creator.

Because where Kim Soleum loves to read and understand stories, Braun loves to create stories. But Braun was trapped in that cycle of attention. He loved his Quiz Show format, but it was getting stale. The views were dropping, and that was depressing him. So he brings on a big flashy guest he doesn't even really like to keep the audience engaged.

And there's like, meta to that as well. Because the new format was just Horror and Gore up the wazoo, people getting killed left and right. There weren't rules on how to survive, you were just dead from the start. It was cheaper horror.

Cuz the knowledge that everyone dies in the end kneecaps tension just as much as knowing that everyone's gonna survive. Hell, knowing everyone dies has less tension than everyone living, because survival at least means excitement about what they might lose along the way.

So, Braun, as a down in the dumps creator, went with cheap thrills for audience engagement at the cost of his integrity. But Kim Soleum reminded him of why he loves to create shows in the first place. Braun wants thrill and laughter and showmanship. And, Braun wants his shows to be his.

The talk show format is a fascinating evolution of that, because talk shows are also about guests. But unlike the choir before it, a talk show lives and dies by its host. Instead of being superceded by his guest, Braun is collaborating with them.

In that sense, it's incredibly sweet that Braun wants to share this with Kim Soleum. Bringing back my old (2 days old) point about how our dear Roe also likes to write, writing as a form of understanding, as a form of analysis and respect, it's self-evident how Braun might consider him a kindred spirit! Wanting to share the joy of creating something fulfilling, from the heart!

where am I going with this. Right. There's still a lot of absurdity to Braun's existence, of course. What TV channel is this even running on? Who are the higher ups, where are the ratings coming from? But it's abundantly clear that all a lot of the horror monsters are sentient.

They have their own values and their own logic. And this logic is alien to humans, but it can be understood. And Soleum does a great job of that. Like bartering in an otherworldy botique to avoid paying with human lives.

And. paces in a circle. Braun did the inverse? Because, when Braun convinces Kim Soleum to go on the talk show, it is made explicitly clear that it is not coercion, or hypnosis, or brainwashing, or any sort of mental contamination. It's all arguments tailored to Kim Soleum. It's all information Braun only knows from spending so much time with and trying to understand his friend.

(...Jury is still entirely out on how much that Silver Ring is actually good for and there was at least some mind-reading involved. Doesn't change that the argumentation was sound and grounded, though.)

It's pretty wild to me, that this all started with the Smiley Stickers and the Good Friend, but when all that's gone, Braun still adores Soleum. Still calls himself friend.

Like all that just gave him a nudge in trying to Get It. By tagging along all this time, Braun's been getting the front row seat to the intricacies of human office drama, to trouble with roommates, to beefing with your superiors. Mundane drama that is either utterly alien to him or all too relatable.

I love the miscommunication of, Kim Soleum thought that the Good Friend was like, just a sliver of the original. But it was Braun, entirely, choosing to answer that call and stick around. Because he must've also been curious, about that strange human that changed him so.

I just. Love how much this flips the tables. From Kim Soleum as the one trying to understand to the one terrified to be understood so thoroughly, mortified that he's actually shared so much of himself with another person. That someone just fully gets his fears and his desires. And how it's not truly about going home, it's about getting out of here.

This relationship isn't going to end well. But it is deeply compelling.