#I’m not completely satisfied with the end result | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cowboygenesis · 11 months ago

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18+ knuckle up | astarion x reader

| buy me a coffee?

summary: after a drunken night and a dumb bet you're left in an emotional (and physical) chokehold by your favourite vampire companion.

pairing: astarion ancunin x afab!bard!reader tags: 18+, smut, fluff, switch dynamics, m/f, fingering, unprotected sex, resolved tension, playfighting, sex after training session. word count: 7.8k notes: this fic was SO fun to write even if im a gale girlie myself. this is my first attempt at writing ANY bg3 character, so i really hope i did okay. if not, let me know! comments help me improve my writing (and warm my heart, seriously, thanks to anyone taking the time out of their day to comment). anyways gang, no beta as ALWAYS, you know how we roll. ENJOY! masterlist.

It still made little sense to you.

You had honed your skills at the most prestigious music schools in Faerûn for years, pouring your heart into every note, every chord, only to find yourself shamelessly ridiculed for an entirely different kind of performance. And by a man you’d grown to like, no less.

"Get up, darling," Astarion’s voice drips with amusement, the self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips with infuriating smugness. His crimson eyes watch you with a predatory glint, locking onto your vulnerable form sprawled in the dirt—a definitive result of his frustratingly agile moves.

You groan lowly, propping yourself up on bruised elbows, wincing as a dull ache pulses through your body. A stray lock of hair falls in front of your face, and you blow it away in frustration.

"I’m starting to think this isn’t educational at all." You glare at him with all the venom you can muster, eyebrows furrowed as his arms cross.

Your eyes absentmindedly scan down his body, taking note of his slightly disheveled shirt and tousled hair. He looks… good. Beautiful, even. Basking in the soft moonlight seeping through the vast greenery above, he stands there like he’s in his element.

He chuckles, seemingly unbothered by your vapid tone. "Oh, but it is, my dear. Think of it as a new, humbling experience. Valuable in its own right."

You bite back a retort as he offers you a hand, his expression making your eye twitch. You never thought you’d fall for arrogance, yet ironically it’s your own conceit that might have brewed your upcoming downfall.

After a particularly boisterous night of drinking in camp—brought on by the recent victory over a pack of gnolls—you foolishly accepted Astarion’s challenge to best him in hand-to-hand combat. Your alcohol-addled brain had been more confident than your body, and now, after a series of harsh jabs and sidesteps, you were being taught the harsh reality of “real” combat.

Defeated, you eventually obliged a quick lesson from the master himself, which he had (admittedly suspiciously) made you take after losing your bet.

At the very least, the bruising would rid you of your lingering hangover once you were done taking the thrashing. Plus, you hoped it would bring you two closer. Figuratively and physically.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying your hesitation. "Come now, my dear, don’t be so stubborn. You seemed so eager at first,"

"You told me you’d teach me to fight, not fall on my damn face," you lament, but begrudgingly accept his help, allowing him to pull you to your feet.

His grip is firm, and the coolness of his skin sends a small jolt of electricity down your spine. You had often imagined what holding his hand would feel like during the colder nights alone in your tent, and while the circumstances ended up being less than ideal, it was good enough for you. For now.

You rub at your sore arm with a frown and catch that Astarion, unmistakably, stands completely unscathed, his pale complexion almost glowing in the ambient light.

"I’m thinking…” he muses, glancing at the weathered lyre resting peacefully by the roots of a tree. His lips curl into a smirk, and you can feel the teasing jab sting your pride. “Perhaps you’re better suited to the more... delicate aspects of life,"

Your jaw clenches. While bards famously went underestimated— a fact you were reminded of frequently— it hurt more coming from someone you so badly wanted to fuck.

"Oh, I don’t know," you say with a saccharine tone, brushing the residual dirt from your pants; your favorite pair, yet you’d probably end up having to toss them out after your poor performance today. "I think a harp string could make a fine garrote in the right hands."

Astarion’s laughter rings out clearly, and your heart skips a beat unbeknownst to you. "Dully noted. Fortunately for the both of us, we’re stripped of any weaponry in our current pinnacle."

Your eyes roll, running a hand through your disheveled, sweat-slick hair and adjusting your posture to the one he had taught you: one foot forward, back straight.

"Again," you demand, squaring your shoulders. If he wanted to mock you, fine— but you wouldn’t go down without a proper fight.

Astarion’s eyes widen, but his smirk never falters. He sighs in faux exasperation but quickly matches your posture. "So eager to be tossed into the dirt again, darling."

Your face flashes with heat at his painfully languid remark, your mind going places it probably shouldn’t. You knew the pet names were simply an inherent part of his vocabulary and that he used them generously, with everyone, yet a part of you liked to imagine they were reserved for you, and you only.

“Try me again,” you reply curtly, lowering your gaze as you feel the tension sprawling through your aching body.

He shoots you an arrogant smirk, his gaze penetrating your soul with an intensity you didn’t think possible. He bares his fangs, licking over his bottom lip lazily. “Let’s see it, then.”

Astarion approaches, but this time, you’re ready. As he moves to close the distance, you anticipate the first jab, ducking low before he can catch you off-guard. You dart to the side, aiming a swift thrust toward his midsection. It’s clumsy and unpracticed, but it seems to work.

Your fist connects with his toned stomach. He topples off-balance, but only for a fleeting second. His reflexes are too sharp, too honed through his century-long life for you to overcome with your pitiful attempt.

He catches himself with a graceful pivot, turning the stumble into a curt spin that has him facing you once more.

"Fast learner, are we?" he muses, watching you closely through his fists. "I might actually have to try now."

"Don’t flatter yourself," you shoot back, heart racing. At that moment, you recognize you can’t win. Not this time, probably not the next. But you don’t want to forfeit, even if it means enduring a day or two of terrible muscle soreness.

Every sidestep, every deflected blow, brings you closer, the air between you growing heavy with static. You aren’t sure if it’s the heat of the fight or the dangerous proximity, but you can feel it—an irresistible, undeniable pull.

"Careful now," Astarion purrs as you barely miss his face with a rugged swing. He catches your wrist, holding it tight as he leans in, breath ghosting over your ear. "You wouldn’t want to harm me, would you?"

You swallow hard, your body tensing under his tight grip. The closeness is intoxicating, but you force yourself to stay focused, pushing back against the growing heat in your chest.

"Maybe I would." You don’t.

For a moment, neither of you move. The world seems to narrow, the charged atmosphere thick with tacit suspense. You can feel your pulse hammering in your throat, senses sharp, attuned to every breath he takes as they intermingle with yours.

"Darling," a dramatic pout creeps onto his lips, only to be replaced by a sly grin seconds later. You feel his grip on your wrist loosening just enough for you to slip free. It’s a calculated move, once he grants you himself. "You wound me with your words."

You take a step back, breathless. This isn’t over, not by a long shot, yet your muscles fight against that thought. They scream at you with pain, worn and stretched by what feels like hours of sparring.

“Sounds like you’re the one trying to wound me,” you taunt, shooting him a lowered gaze. “Why’d you take me out here? Trying to make your next kill less obvious?”

The vampire had insisted you two train away from the bustle of camp, even if it meant missing out on tonight’s feast. While the rest of your companions enjoyed the finest ale Baldur’s Gate could offer, you were stuck trying to prove something to your crush.

Astarion's grin widens, his eyes flashing with amusement as he takes a slow, calculated step forward. “Now, now,” he purrs, voice dripping with mock innocence. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have seen it coming— no need for childish theatrics.”

You hold his gaze, refusing to let him see the slight tremble in your legs from the strain of the sparring—or maybe it’s from something else entirely, you can’t be sure. You know he’s dangerous, that this game you’ve been playing with him has always had its sharp edges. But there’s something about that edge, about the way he dances so easily between teasing and threatening, that weakens your knees and makes you breathless every damn time.

"Then why are we here?" you challenge, taking a step back to match his forward one. Your voice is steady, but your pulse is hammering in your throat. The woods feel like a world apart from camp, the sounds of chatter distant as you sit in your isolated little bubble of the world. “It’s a little… intimate, don’t you think?”

Astarion tilts his head, studying you with a curious twinkle in his crimson eyes. “That sharp tongue again,” he says quietly, “Do you truly believe I’d go through all the trouble of bringing you out here just to end you? If I wanted your death, I’d make it enjoyable for both of us.”

Your breath catches at his words. His words drip with venom, but somewhere deep down, in the depths of his blackened heart, you swear you feel an instance of temptation.

“What’s the game then?” you ask, holding his gaze despite the anxiety twisting in your chest. “Because by the Gods, I know you love those.”

Astarion’s smirk softens, but the intensity in his eyes never falters. He steps closer again, until there’s barely any space between you, his presence intoxicating. “Maybe I just wanted to see what you’re capable of,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety. “Maybe I wanted to see how far you’d let me push you before you push back.”

His hand hovers near yours, fingers brushing lightly against your skin, but he doesn’t make full contact.

“And maybe,” he continues, leaning in just enough that his breath grazes your cheek, “I’m curious what could happen once we both stop playing.”

Your heart is racing now, and you’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline from the sparring or the charged air between you that’s making your head spin a hundred miles an hour.

“You’ll never know,” you murmur, meeting his gaze with a boldness you don’t quite feel. “Because I’m not backing down from this.”

His grin widens at your rebellion, and with a swift, fluid motion, the man’s playful smirk turns into a vicious one. Before you can react, he spins you around, movements smooth and practiced, making you lose your balance.

Your back hits his chest, and within seconds he wraps one arm around your neck in a tight headlock— his grip is firm, but not painful. Your mind strays to his other arm, feeling it press against your waist to keep you securely against him.

“Such a feisty little thing,” he purrs into your ear, his breath warm against your sweat-slick skin.

You struggle against his hold, trying to twist free, but his grip is relentless. “Fuck you,” you manage to scowl, though the words are strained by the pressure on your throat.

Astarion chuckles softly, and you feel it reverberate through your body. “Oh, she bites back,” he teases, his voice a dark, seductive buzz. “Are you taunting me, darling?”

You try to shift your weight, to find a way out of the headlock, but his grip doesn’t waver. “You’re projecting,” you growl breathlessly.

“And you’re persistent,” he replies, “Suits you well.”

You feel a warmth spread through your belly, tickling your nerve endings and making your thighs squeeze. You thank the Gods he can’t see your flustered face right now.

And suddenly, he releases. Not fully, but his grip weakens enough to allow you a moment to slip out again, stumbling over your own feet as you face him.

“Here’s your second freebie,” he chuckles, getting into position again. “Careful, next one might come at a price.”

“Like I need a third one,”

You recalibrate, then in the spur of the moment, pounce. Your arms extend as they barrel toward him. His eyes widen, but he manages to catch them mid-air; his hands clasping into yours and pushing against you.

“Fair strategy,” he commends, and you sense it might at least be partially earnest. “Desperate, but fair.”

You strain against him, breath hitching when he periodically pushes back. Whenever he does, you feel his gaze boring into you with a crazed intensity.

Then, you try not to think about the fact your digits fit together really damn well— and fail. Take what you can get, right?

“What’s wrong, my dear?” he sneers, slender fingers tightening around your palm. He leans in, your chests threatening to collide. “Getting distracted?”

You grit your teeth, leaning in with your full body weight, but he barely budges. “You wish,” you shoot back breathlessly.

“I feel it,” he corrects in a whisper, leaning in just enough that his lips hover dangerously close to your ear. “It’s in your eyes. You’re not even thinking about our little lesson anymore, are you?”

Your breath hitches at his words, the undoubted truth in them cutting through the haze in your mind. He’s right. The bet, your lesson —somewhere along the lines, your sparring posture went lax. All that matters to you now is the palpable closeness, your hands in his, and his hot, idle breath on your neck. Your throat threatens to cast a strained groan, but you withhold.

“I—” you start to protest, but your voice falters. His chest is now pressed flush against yours, pushing you forward.

“Admit it,” he murmurs, his voice low, seductive. “And I’ll let you win.”

Your hands tremble in the small space they lock with his, the smoldering red of his gaze telling you he knows exactly what he’s doing—how his actions leave you a mess in body and soul.

“I won’t, I— I can’t,” you manage to stutter, but the words sound weak and unconvincing even to your own weary ears.

He chuckles softly, the sound reverberating through you like a slow current. “Liar,” he whispers, and you catch a glimpse of his pearly fangs in your hazed peripherals. “Not a good one, either. Another thing I should school you on.”

Your eyes roll, but the implication accelerates the growing tension within your guts. “Just how generous you are.”

His head tilts gradually, and you go pale as you catch his tongue running along the length of his bottom lip.

“No, darling,” he purrs, “I haven’t shown you generous just yet.”

And then, you catch his eyes darkening. There’s a certain mania to them when they widen, pupils blown out like a cat’s when he suddenly pushes firmly against you. Your feet stumble backward, staring into him as a wild grin plasters on his face.

You yelp when you lose balance, lips ajar and eyes closed shut as you feel your back crash into something soft, or at least, soft enough to leave you un-bruised.

When your eyes flutter open, he’s on top of you. You study his broad shoulders, the pale neck between them, and finally let your half-lidded gazes connect in a silent, tension-filled juncture.

The ambiance of dusk quiets down to a soft murmur, crickets chirping in the distance as his strong body hovers inches above you, hands placed firmly around your wrists to successfully lock you in place.

“Seems to me you’ve lost our little bet,” he purrs out, and your breath hitches as one of his legs slides between yours, slowly inching to put a distance between your knees.

All you can do is stare up at him hungrily, desperately, drinking in his weathered features and pray he’d let you run your fingers through his flaxen locks at some point in the night.

“No clever retort? That’s not the little bard I know and love,” he teases, and your hips almost buck into him at that one word. You know he doesn’t mean it, yet your teeth still clench when your body jolts in response to his familiar lilt.

“You’re playing dirty,” you finally breathe out, cringing at how strained your voice sounds as you lie under his weight.

“No one ever said this would be a clean game,” he retorts, his crimson gaze boring into you before gradually disappearing into your neck.

His lips hover over your skin, hot breath tickling the soft spot near your pulse point as you gasp quietly. You feel him hesitate, arms tensing and releasing over your own as if soaked in apprehension. You strain your muscles, eyes shutting in preparation for the inevitable, sharp bite coming onto your poor vein. Gods, was this his plan all along?

But then, you feel the grip on your wrists loosen.

Your eyes flutter open, and you quickly catch the tousled white locks in your neck as the vampire looms over you.

“Here’s your chance to run,” he hitches, and somehow he sounds just as out of breath as you do.

You lie on the blanket of moss, chest heaving and gaze tracing languidly over the treeline as you feel your body go limp. He’s giving you one last opt-out before… before something happens, be it a bloody massacre or... Or?

Your mind shrieks at you: take advantage, prove yourself on top in this stupid bet— but the little voice in your heart urges you to stay under his firm body; find out if your instincts rang true after all.

You stay. Not only that, but you let your hands slip out of his, one of them snaking down his shoulder while the other runs through his waves. They’re silky, and soft, and when you catch a whiff of rosemary in the air, your grip tightens.

“Astarion,” you whisper, voice surprisingly steady as your heart beats a constant rhythm into the space between you.

His body jerks abruptly, albeit subtly, and you feel him smirking— smiling— into the soft flesh of your neck. “So I was right, after all.”

His face withdraws from you slightly, the residual condensation of his warm breath leaving you shivering. You catch his gaze, half-lidded and scanning your expression with apt concentration.

“Feisty, spirited little thing,” he continues, inching towards you again.

Your stiff body jerks, grazing against him as your shaky hand snakes to his cheek. You cradle it gently but with urgency, and there’s a beat of silence before you finally understand what to do.

You inhale softly, catch his questioning gaze, and crash your lips onto his.

He groans softly when you meet in the middle, lowering himself with his arms. Your chest thrums with the beat of your heart, shooting waves of dopamine down your worn spine.

When you feel his nimble hand on your jaw, your lips part with a sigh. He matches your buzz with his own self-satisfied murmur, stroking your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

You smile. He’s sweet and bitter, and you whine gently into the kiss when you recognize brandy on his tongue.

This is what you’ve been waiting for all these lonesome months.

The culmination dawns on you like a powerful current, making your eyes squeeze and your hands tremble in his waves.

He seems to notice your tremor, but instead of slowing down or (Gods forbid) stopping, he dives deeper. You moan into his mouth as he wriggles a hand around your waist, holding you close to his hips and suddenly, you feel a steady pressure grinding into your crotch.

The movement is slow, precise, practiced. His hips buff into yours in a controlled rhythm, making you sense his already taut erection through the thick material of his linen pants.

“Do you get it now, darling?” he murmurs, breaking the kiss to stare lazily into your glassy eyes. “Look what you do to me.”

His hand snakes to your blouse, and before you can register what’s happening, you hear three ivory buttons pop off followed by the cool, evening breeze tickling your heated skin. You don’t need to open your eyes to know your nipples are standing taut in the chilly air, yet the image makes you redden.

“How— how unceremonious,” you croak out, moaning softly when his large hand begins palming at your right breast.

His thumb and forefinger squeeze at your erect nipple, toying with it in smooth, tactile movements and relishing the way his name sounds coming out of your kiss-swollen lips.

“Mm, forgive me,” he chuckles darkly, planting a quick, ardent kiss on your lips before lowering his face to your chest. His tongue licks a slow, tender strip up your sternum before he looks up to smile at you; it’s a genuine look of satisfaction, untouched by the plague that is his faux arrogance. “I’ll make sure to be good next time.”

’Next time?’

You look at him lazily, gaze puzzled and lips ajar to ask but he doesn’t even offer you the chance. His hand dips from your tits to the band of your pants, sliding underneath it with his finger, the coolness of his skin making you gasp.

His mouth assaults your other nipple with sucks, nibbles, and gentle bites, making you mewl under him as his hand continues to travel down the soft flesh of your thigh. He rubs it gently, lovingly, starting under your hip and slowly stroking his way toward the inner region, where you’re most sensitive.

“Divine,” he mumbles against your chest, pressing a kiss to your rib. “So divine.”

His free palm moves to your exposed belly, massaging it gently. You sigh at the slow, consistent pressure, moving your trembling hand to the back of his neck.

When your one eye pops open in curiosity, you see him snug against your body, face contorted with empathic fixation as he labors down your body. It’s intimate, yes, but also… loving. His tongue is warm against your breast, and his palms caress your skin with slow, delicate strokes; the same hands you’ve seen wield blood-soaked daggers and longbows.

He runs two digits along the stretchy fabric of your bottoms, lip caught between his teeth. He catches you staring and smirks up at you.

“Enjoying yourself?” he husks out, and you’re desperate enough to nod wordlessly.

He chuckles at your enthusiasm, hand smoothing down the waistband of your panties that peers from behind your bottoms. Not even your cutest pair, but oh well. He doesn’t even seem to notice, as his digits play with the elastic.

You’re already so exposed, but nothing can prepare you for what he does next.

With a few more kisses to your breasts, he tugs at the two waistbands, pulling down your pants and panties in one go.

The material slides off your legs and you hiss out, feeling the coolness caress your slick core. Your hands instinctively reach to cover up, but you’re stopped in your tracks by a strong grasp around your wrist.

“Oh no, no,” He looks up at you with an arched eyebrow, and somehow, despite his collected mien, you catch a soft dusting of pink across his cheekbones. “Don’t you dare deny me this view. Not after I’ve waited for so long.”

Your face heats up at the brazen comment, but that only seems to draw him closer. Your eyes flicker down to his lips, and he takes the hint immediately.

You connect in a heated kiss, and this time, Astarion is the one groaning against you. You work in tandem, like a gentle, effortless dance, heavy breaths intermingling in a sweet symphony of hums and sighs when…

You feel a touch against your heat. The contact is almost impalpable, yet your eyes flutter open in shock as the man’s fingers trace over your slit.

He withdraws from your kiss, hovering inches from your lips with a soft smile.

“S’unfair,” you slur, gazing up at him with a pleasure-drunken gaze. He exhales loudly, and you gasp. His fingers dip in, rubbing slow circles around your clit. “You— Gods—”

“Yeah? Tell me,” he taunts lowly, continuing his torturously languid movements with a devious smirk plastered on his perfect face. “What’s got you so bothered, my sweet?”

He dips down, teasing your entrance with his index. You pant softly at the prolonged stimulation, trying your damn best to stay focused on furrowing your eyebrows in mock anger.

“Got me so exposed and—” you trail tensely as his finger probes your entrance. “—And you’re still in your damn clothes.”

He hums in acknowledgment, but you doubt he’s even listening to you by how he surveys your body, bottom lip caught between his fangs. “I’m about to show you ‘generous’, like I promised.”

And then, he bottoms out. You moan, feeling two of his digits sliding into you, the slickness of your opening making it an easy feat.

You squeeze around him, and he pumps into you once, then twice for good measure. The sound of his movements is unbelievably and utterly obscene, making your stomach knot in delight.

“So wet already,” he purrs through a smirk, watching you writhe under him, “Don’t tell me our little sparring session got you this bothered.”

You roll your eyes, thighs squeezed tight around his wrist as you move your hips in tandem with his rhythm.

“Come on, talk to me,” he taunts again, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek and letting his fingers fuck you in a steady, purposeful rhythm. “Now’s not the time to get coy.”

He switches gears, stopping his movement so he can curl his fingers inside you. He presses against the sweet spot, his thumb reaching to simultaneously rub slow circles against your swollen clit.

You cry out at the newfound pressure, the warmth in your belly twisting into a vortex of fiery delight.

“I—” you mewl against him, wrapping your fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt. “I’m gonna— c-cum—”

His movements quicken at your desperate words, digits working hard against your favorite spot.

“Cum then, my darling,” he taunts firmly, his free hand roaming under your jaw and holding it in place. “Cum for me. Let me— let me look at you, sweet thing.”

Your glassy eyes struggle to focus on his face, but once they do, he hits something white-hot inside you.

His lips crash desperately onto yours, but you struggle to kiss him back through the blinding pleasure of your climax. It thunders down your legs, up your belly, making you cry out against his mouth as everything melts away into a wonderful oblivion.

The last thing you see before your muscles go lax is red.

He rubs your clit methodically through your high, letting you ride it out peacefully as he burrows into your neck again.

When your breath steadies, you feel his fingers slowly withdraw. The emptiness that follows makes you cry out softly, helplessly watching as the man runs his palms up and down your sides.

He presses a soft, soothing kiss against your swollen lips, and you can’t help but glare when you see that he’s still fully dressed, even after your heated orgasm.

He catches your pouting and raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, darling?” he purrs, pulling away to take you all in. You’re caught speechless when his hungry gaze scans down your nude body; starting at your smitten face and ending with a lingering glimpse at your spent pussy.

“Please,” you mewl out, raking your hands down his clothed abs. “Gods— Please take these off, I can’t—”

He does.

His hands momentarily withdraw from around you, and with a swift, deft move, he tosses his shirt off.

The silken cloth comes flying into the night like a phantasmal figure, and you watch it catch onto a stray branch to your right.

Your gaze skims hungrily down his sculpted body, watching his muscles tense and release with every little movement. Yes, you’ve seen him shirtless before, yet the context of your current predicament somehow makes it feel like it’s the first time all over again.

Unbeknownst to you, his hands work at his bottoms, swiftly unbuttoning the waistband and letting it sit loose against his hips. You catch a soft, white trail against the edge of his undergarments, leading down to a straining, tented mess below.

Your hand reaches out absent-mindedly, still drunk off the high of your climax and so, so desperate to finally feel him for yourself.

“Not so fast, darling,” he scolds, gently slapping your hand away and letting it wither at your side.

“Let me touch you,” you retort desperately, but he only chuckles as his fingers begin working at his waistband.

“You lost our bet,” he explains, sliding a thumb under the elastic and letting it lower. You catch the very base of his straining erection, and that taunting alone makes you gasp. “Gives me the upper hand.”

“Says who?” you hiss under your breath, failing to give him the glare he deserves as your eyes bore into his.

He gives you a once over, gaze drawing languidly over your exposed body, and only then does the extent of your nudity finally dawn on you.

“Don’t make me laugh.”

You shift under him, shimmying within the small space he allows, and he takes your brief distraction as a moment to unravel his pants completely. They drop to the ground behind you, leaving him in his undergarments, and you bite your lip at how dangerously lax they sit around his hips.

“I think I’ve left you waiting long enough,” he mutters, and your lips go ajar.

The thumb hooked into his briefs starts sliding down his waist, lower and lower until you’re finally even in terms of undress— and you’re ever so starstruck by the sight of his bulging cock hovering over your belly. It stands thick and taut within arm’s reach and you find the fact makes your mouth water.

Then, before you can think of touching him, you feel him place either hand below your knees. He looks up at you with a sly smirk, and you gasp softly when he pushes your thighs flat against your torso, feet in the air and scandalously exposed in front of him.

“You’re playing with me,” you mutter breathlessly, hissing as you feel his length stroking against your inner thigh.

His arms compress you tighter as you feel him lowering, the underside of his cock slapping against your tummy. The gasp that leaves your throat at the sudden contact widens your eyes, and he catches your gaze with his self-satisfied one.

“Do you like that I’m playing with you?” he follows up without a beat, his hips rutting forward. The movement is gentle, yet the pressure is enough to make you whine out in desperation— it’s also the only answer you manage to choke up for him before his cock slides between your wet folds.

“A-Ah— you fucking— fucking prick,” you hiss at the vampire, and so he bears his fangs at you through a wide grin. You find that it makes your breath hitch even amidst your despair.

“Now, now,” he reprimands, words syrupy, “bold words coming from someone so vulnerable.”

His nails dig into the soft flesh of your legs as he slides back and forth, taking meticulous care so that the head of his cock butts against your clit with every dip. The stimulation feels electric, and soon enough, you feel your still-sensitive body ramp up with heated energy for a second time this night.

A minute passes, yet it feels like an eternity. The air between you is thick with tension and the soft, repetitive harmony of your strained moans and his little gasps. You watch his eyes close in concentration, and despite his otherwise relaxed facade, you can tell he’s struggling to resist you by the way his eyebrows knit in the middle.

“Fuck me,” you breathe out, one of your hands extending to claw at his withholding forearm.

When your gazes meet, he looks surprisingly spent; eyes glassed-over, mouth ajar, and the slightest hint of sweat glazing his pale forehead. You realize that his domineering act seemed to come at the expense of his stamina: a resource you had slowly replenished in your comfortable position.

“Not— not yet, darling,” he hitches out, but the words appear tender and helpless to your trained ears. “I— I want to enjoy this— enjoy you—”

Your grip on his forearm tightens, making the bucking of his hips stutter. His eyebrow raises at your touch, but before he can shoot you a witty comment, you’re pushing him forward.

It happens within seconds.

Your knees straighten, feet slamming into his abdomen. He coughs at the sudden, unexpected impact, and you take the opportunity to grab tight onto his forearms. He falls backward, and just before his spine hits the soil beneath, you use the momentum to push yourself onto him.

When his eyes flutter open, you’re straddling his waist.

He blinks in brief confusion, surveying his surroundings before the crimson gaze finally turns to you.

He surveys your face, and you let him. The moment is like a silent meditation, heavy breaths intermingling as he takes your raw beauty in; the longing in your eyes, the soft dusting of pink across your nose, and ultimately, the plush of your lips he had ravaged mere moments ago.

Next, he moves to your body. His eyes scan down your taut nipples, down your tummy, and to the softness of your thighs squeezing his midriff to the ground. When he reaches the junction between your bodies, your hips buck as if on instinct.

“My, just how courageous we are,” he purrs under you, hands reaching to rub down the outside of your thighs. “I wouldn’t be so nice about your dirty tricks if I didn’t find this view thoroughly delectable.”

You shiver at his honeyed words, yet your gaze stays determined on him. Your palms go to rest atop his, marveling at the eccentric softness of his knuckles and the polarizing edge of the nails.

“No one ever said this would be a clean game,” you grin playfully, rocking your hips back to feel his hard length against the curve of your ass. When a soft hiss escapes his lips, you feel your ego inflate. “Sound familiar?”

His eyes roll, but the grin creeping onto his lips deceives him immediately.

His head tilts at you, fangs bearing in the soft moonlight. “You’re trouble.”

The mischief of your smile spins into a warm fondness. Your cheeks warm, and your heart swells, but you don’t quite understand why. “Oh how rich that is coming from you.”

And then you’re rising on your knees, hips hovering over his throbbing erection. Your palms connect, digits intertwining with his as you lower yourself onto him.

You test the waters first, letting his tip brush over your slit with feather-like touches. You hum gently at the teasing pleasure, and so does Astarion.

When you feel your tummy tightening with anticipation, you dive in. With a light shimmy, you line your hips with his, and with more desperation than you planned, you slide down.

You both hiss as the head of his cock penetrates you, the stretch making your palm tighten against his. You bend at the knees, eyes rolling into the back of your head at the delicious sensation of being filled to the brim after such a long, lonesome time.

Finally, you let your hips slam against his. The sudden, harsh movement makes you gasp out into the tantric air as his tip pokes against your womb. The dull pain quickly shifts into a flat, resonant pleasure, and you waste no time.

Your hips begin to buck against his, building a slow, steady rhythm until you’re confidently riding your vampire lover with a self-satisfied smirk on your lips.

Each thrust makes you mewl, moan, and cry out into the night, that pleasant angle of his cock hitting that same spot his fingers did just minutes ago.

His head rolls back into the ground, and with the remnants of his energy, he issues an occasional, quick rut into you. As it’s rare, you decide to savor it. You squeeze around him with the thrusts, and soon, you feel yourself running out of breath.

“I— I could let you do this for—hells— forever,” he hisses out, and suddenly, you feel his hands unclasp from yours and snake around your waist. “Where have you been all these centuries?”

Your upper body is dragged forward, your tits colliding with his toned chest when he pulls you into a tight, possessive embrace.

You gasp at the warmth between you, and your eyebrows soon furrow when you realize the position limits your hip movement. As you’re forced into a pause from your delirious riding, his lips crash onto yours.

Your tongues share a private, slack dance, heads tilting to adjust as you both hum and groan into the fiery kiss. You attempt to rut into him, and soon enough he gets the hint.

Keeping you immobilized against his chest, his hips pound up into you. The first few smacks are scandalously loud, and you revel in the newfound angle.

You’re lost in him, completely and utterly. When he moans, you respond with a hum— when his embrace tightens around you, you kiss him harder.

The familiar, fiery heat in your tummy bubbles up again. You feel it amp up, grow, and send jolts up your spine when suddenly, you’re being pushed up. When your eyes flutter open, you catch his still closed.

His chest stays firm against yours as he positions you upright, letting you straddle his hips as you’re both left sitting in the soft patch of grass and wildflowers.

With your body regaining its mobility, you start grinding against him again. The position allows for a deliciously intimate closeness, his cock burrowing deep into you as you resume riding him.

The pressure within you grows, emerging as a knot— threatening to unravel with every other thrust. Your clit rubs against the base of his groin, amplifying the pleasure into a sensation you’ve long forgotten about.

“A-Astarion—” you mewl out between kisses, and his hot breath tickles your face when he chuckles.

“Cum for me,” he sighs out, and the assertion comes off soft and pleading as it settles into the groves of your heart.

“O-Okay— I… I—”

He tightens his hold on your waist with one hand, as the other moves to cradle your cheek. His touch is unbelievably delicate and affectionate, and out of all the stimulation he had so graciously provided you this night, it’s that soft touch that sends you over the edge.

Your lips connect in one last kiss, and you moan throatily into his mouth. Your hips still, thighs squeezing as your pussy tightens around his cock in a moment of pure bliss. The steadily rising pressure in your belly finally tips over, sending a wave of bliss down your entire being.

Still, he keeps moving. You almost want to scream against him as his hips begin pounding into you again, the soft slaps quickening as he slowly peaks with you.

Withdrawing from the kiss to lean against your neck, he cums. Hard.

Your slowly declining climax seems to slam the gas pedal as you feel him release deep into you, the warmth spreading through your body like a genial embrace, a fact that makes him groan loudly against your mouth. Your breath stills in your throat, before finally releasing into a long, guttural moan— it echoes into the night, and your vision blurs.

White-hot bliss envelops your body, and you melt into Astarion’s for solace. You feel him grip you, caress your face, kiss away your adrenaline-fueled tears, and pant softly against your lips as your pussy spasms again.

Your orgasm envelops you in slow, pulsating waves as it withdraws, and you’re soon left huffing into the vampire’s flaxen locks. You think you hear him speak, but the ringing in your ears is too potent to know for certain.

Then, as the ringing finally retires, you hear him whisper your name. It’s a soft, patient call against the burning skin of your neck, one you commit to memory as you’re finally awarded your senses back— if only partially.

The forest feels exceptionally silent as you fall into his arms. You recognize the soft chirp of crickets in the distance, perhaps a distant hoot of owls, but it all seems to blend into an indecipherable blur as exhaustion floods your system.

Your head falls into the crook of his neck, and your mind sinks into the soft, languid thumps of his heart. His hand caresses your back, and you sigh deeply.

You sit there for what feels like hours, drinking each other in. You’ve waited so long, and finally, you’re at ease— it’s a feeling you wish to cherish, and if it wasn’t for the pesky passage of time, you’d choose to stay in this damned forest for eons; with him.

You feel him shift against you. His hands withdraw from your waist, and he whispers softly against you. “Come, my love.”

You hum in disagreement, face burrowing deeper into him. Yes, rosemary and brandy— now it’s clear to you.

He exhales sharply, and you smile into his neck. He waits for a beat, before placing a soft kiss to your temple. “Wait here.”

You nod gently and finally allow him to withdraw. The separation makes you sigh, your body shivering in the newfound cold of the night, but you persevere. In the longing to hold on to the moment for a little longer, you keep your eyes closed and hope he’ll return before you open them again.

You hear him shuffle around, walking from left to right, before finally returning to face you. “Hands up,” he mutters softly, and you do as you’re told in your pleasure-drunken stupor.

You feel him drape something silken over your sweat-slick body, the soft material draping your hips before coming to a stop at your thighs. When you breathe in, you immediately realize it’s not your shirt, so you grin.

When you’re comfortably wrapped up, he leans in. Once you finally sense the familiar warmth of his chest, you lean against his shoulder and breathe in his scent.

You’re surprised he does this for you. Tenderness is not exactly something you’d connect with a man of his past, of his skill. Yet, when his hands move to rest under your knees and back, you don’t resist.

He lifts you off the ground, letting your fatigued frame rest against him. He takes it upon himself to get you back to camp, safe and sound, and only slightly perturbed.

You drink in everything you can, letting yourself be greedy for once. The steadiness of his breath, his warm chest, the crinkling of leaves under his feet— it’s an image you swear to place, no matter what difficulties might threaten to befall you in the future.

And he’s silent up until you reach the campgrounds. The chatter of dinnertime has long died down, and when you open your eyes, you spot the crackling embers of firelight flickering away among a circle of stones. The flames cast a soft, warm light onto the closed tents, and you revel in the intimacy of the moment.

“Everyone met their bedtime while we’ve been naughty sneaking out,” he murmurs with a chuckle, and you close your eyes hurriedly in hopes of feigning slumber. Still, you can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face at his brazen comment.

You reach the outskirts and finally spot his tent just below an old, sturdy oak tree. You recall the talks you had out front so many times before, back when your feelings were just sparks of something much stronger and much, much warmer.

He crouches down and with an unsurprising agility climbs into the little shelter with you still in his arms. You lie slack against him, letting his arms lay you gently onto his woolen mat. You melt into the warmth almost immediately, sighing out dreamily when you feel his presence beside you.

It’s silent for a moment, and when your eyes finally flutter open, you catch him staring at you. His gaze is thoughtful but warm, lingering over your form with a certain glimmer.

“I guess it’s official, then,” you sigh out, closing your eyes again and letting a lazy smile drift over your features.

He pauses for a moment, then clears his throat. “What… what is?”

You chuckle softly at his awkward tone, shifting to the side and letting one of your eyes pop open to glance at him.

“My victory,” you state matter-of-factly before quickly shifting to your other side, facing away from him just to let a satisfied grin creep onto your face.

You don’t witness it, but his expression goes from tense, to disconcerted, to irritated in a matter of seconds. His eyes roll, and you suddenly feel a flat slap against your ass.

“Woah there, hey!” you gasp, followed by a cheeky giggle. Your head turns to face him from your comfortable position, and you catch him mirroring your grin.

“Quiet, now,” he commands softly, pivoting to lie beside you. His arm comes over your waist, pulling you into his chest. “Bet’s over, darling. I’m sorry to say, but you’ve not proven yourself capable. Shame, really.”

You blow a raspberry through your smile and shimmy closer to him, your body melting perfectly into his— a fact that has you near to falling asleep.

“Shame indeed. The look on your face was priceless when you ate dirt,” you shrug nonchalantly, “At least that’s the version I’ll be telling everyone come morning.”

He scoffs, the low rumble of it vibrating against your back, but his arm only tightens around you. You feel his face in your hair, breathing in your scent.

“If you do that, I might just have to kill you,” he mutters, but despite the intensity of the words, his voice is soft and loving against your head. His hand drifts to your belly, fingers tracing lazy circles against the soft skin there.

“You would never.”

He’s silent for a beat. Your lips open to build on your clever retort before you feel his sharp exhale on your neck.

“Sleep, darling,” he reprimands, squeezing your midriff gently.

You sigh contentedly, your lips brushing against the pillow as you settle deeper into his embrace. The tent is cocooned in warmth, but you feel the cool kiss of the evening breeze filtering in through the small opening at the entrance. Outside, the campfire crackles faintly, the last embers glowing like distant stars before fading into fine ash.

As you drift closer to sleep, wrapped in the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the world around you blurs into the peaceful haze of near-dreams.

Just as the veil of slumber begins to pull you under, you feel his lips press against your hair, a soft whisper brushing against your skin.

“As long as I'll live, I never could.”

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chris-prank · 7 months ago

Note

Hi, sorry if this is awkward but I’ve never sent an ask before 😭

I really like your series with Jacce, and I was wondering if you could write something (nsfw) with him receiving. Maybe some nipple play or pegging? Writhing around on the floor after writing this

Your ask wasn’t awkward at all don’t worry 💪🏻

And I can totally write about Jacce being on the receiving end (I’m keeping the nipple play for his main story, you guys will see what I mean later😏)

CW: NSFW, top reader, dom reader, sub yandere and teasing

It’s gender neutral so you can imagine that reader as a biological dick or a strap on.

･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡..｡.:*･

You were convinced you never saw Jacce trembling with this much excitement before, and that was saying a lot as he was always a horny mess when it came to you. You figured that it was because the roles were different this time around. You were in fact the one topping, something that you two wanted for a long time, but both parties had been too awkward to bring it up first. It all boiled down to Jacce intimidating size. You feared rejection at the suggestion of dicking him down, thinking he wouldn’t want to be in such a vulnerable position.

But there he was, laid out before you like a five star Michelin dish, with oil covering his erected shaft and all the way down to his hole. The latter was perfectly exposed to your eyes since Jacce had his legs spread out on each side, shuddering in anticipation every two seconds. You were perfectly lined up between them, your tip brushing against his asshole occasionally, and every time it did, you could hear the faintest whines coming from him. Seeing Jacce so eager for you and your cock made you want to turn him into a complete mess, as mean as it sounded.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you wanted this sooner?” You punctuated your question by finally sliding it in.

At the sudden feeling of his muscle widening, Jacce’s back lifted off the bed in a beautiful arch. “Haah! I-I just didn’t think you… Mmf... you would want to…”

“And why is that?”

“Be-Because… Ngff… I’m tall and-and hairy—” Seeing tears forming in the corner of his eyes you cupped his cheek, cutting him short in his self-deprecation.

“Don’t worry, it's even better that you’re big and hairy.” You leaned down to kiss the tears away, while moving your hips at a leisure pace, “because it’s more satisfying to turn you into a stupid slut that way.”

Jacce moaned at the mix of insults and compliments, while wrapping his legs around your hips to keep you close, pushing your shaft deeper into him as a result. You cooed some more reassuring words into his ear right until your pelvis was flush against him. Glancing down between your two bodies, you grinned.

“You greedy little thing.”

You leaned back again, wanting to have his whole body and face in your field of view. It made the man weakly reach for you with a small frown, so you gratefully took his hand, intertwining your fingers. With your free hand, you petted up his happy trail in a repetitive motion, just like someone would do to a pet they found irresistible. It was humorous how the tip of his cock would reach your arm and graze it subtly. That’s when your fingers meet a small bump on his stomach. Your brain didn’t even have the time to register what it was that Jacce cried out an ear scratching moan, his eyes rolling back in his skull.

You were stunned for a good moment, but soon you decided to try out a theory, pulling your hips back, while keeping your palm on his lower stomach, you met with his ass once again with a swift thrust. Just like you suspected, every time you pulled out of him the small bump would disappear then reappear once you were back inside, and that brought wicked ideas to your mind. As you now grinded against him, you applied more pressure onto his stomach. The effects were immediate, Jacce’s crossed legs squeezing you tighter and his fingers clenching onto your knuckles. During your administration, you could feel subtle shudders that coursed all over his body as well, including his dick, the tip of it smearing precum onto your forearm. It’s as if you had touched the right button in his brain, making it impossible for him to say anything except pathetic “Ah Ah” and muffled whimpers.

“Feel that puppy? That’s me all the way up there.” You rubbed your palm against it as you spoke, “doesn’t it feel weirdly good in your tummy?”

The mess under you opened his mouth agape in a silent scream, strings of saliva connecting his top and bottom lips. It was indeed an unusual sensation that made it impossible for him to define where the pleasure and the discomfort started or ended. Jacce’s mind was also too engulfed in pleasure at the moment to have any sense of self-control or dignity, his tongue lolling out of his mouth without a care of what he might look like. But despite his dazed state, his gaze was still drilled on you at the best of his effort and his grip on your hand stayed strong.

You hoped you could burn this image into your retina forever.

･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡..｡.:*･

Sorry if it took me some time to answer! I wasn’t satisfied with the first draft and completely started over 😅

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summer-oil · 11 days ago

Text

𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗘𝗫𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦, 𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗬𝗢𝗨 ; (𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗔𝗬)

SYNOPSIS: What awaits you in the Dreamscape is your quiet place of rest: a patisserie dyed moon-blue in the Moment of Midnight. Promised solitude just as illusory as the pastries on display, because you can’t seem to escape a certain fair-faced Halovian.

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

CONTENTS: sunday/reader, f!reader (referred to as young lady, miss— no she/her pronouns used), patisserie au (cousin of café aus), set in canon and fragmented across the timeline (the first four parts take place before 2.7, the fifth and final during it), fluff and banter, soft yan implications if you squint (coughs)(SUNDAY IS JUST WEIRD.), sunday-typical themes of dreams vs reality, reader is overworked and probably nearing a spiral, robin haunts the narrative in form of a keycharm, the yearning is there but buried under the boundaries of reader pov. sunday goes by ”wonweek” (since reader does not realize who he is. lol.) but he’s very much still sunday he’s just being annoying.

A/N: IT’S FINALLY DONE . this is a long overdue comm for my most beloved and cherished sunday fucker ( @stellamancer ) 🙂‍↕️ it was supposed to be 3k but it ran away from me completely … still, i’m satisfied with what it turned into!! i tried my best to do chicken wing boy justice, so i hope any sunday enjoyers who read this are pleased with the end result!! :’3🫶 ALSO big big thank u to my guardian fawn ( @coyotecrumb ) for proofreading and helping me with the editing process … i love u always …… anyway please picture me slamming into sunday at the speed of the astral express because wowww is he stressful to write LMAO. stupid gap moe loser

At the end of the boundary-line between dreams and reality stands a small, quaint patisserie— its doors always unlocked, opening wide when you tug at the handle.

"Welcome back!" sings the interior. "What can I get for you today?"

It rings out from behind the counter when the bell chime fades, when the door behind you closes. The same girl as always, her hands folded neatly on top of the marble; sleeves cuffed up to her elbows, a blue apron tied around her waist and embroidered with what look to be doves, pure white and fluttering across the fabric. She's smiling, like she’s happy to see you. You see it through the dim lighting, the entire lounge painted blue by the moon through the windows.

The air smells sweet. Buttery. Something like burnt caramel and rose jam, threading through the room.

You inhale, then exhale.

In the glamour of the Dreamscape, people hunger for all sorts of things. Luxury, adventure, shimmering bottles of soulglad— anything that gives the impression of living life to the fullest. The fresh wave of tourists are all off on such ventures, you'd assume. Fine dining, day drinking, sightseeing… gambling, of course. You check most of them into the Reverie yourself, help them with their bags, answer any questions they might have. Most of them are easy. Most of them are in the manual.

Some of them— like, are there any spots we should know about? Any hidden gems?—

Well.

Questions like that, you tend to leave unanswered.

Because there's only one true hidden gem worth mentioning, tucked away in The Moment of Midnight: where tourists are least likely to linger, where trouble stirs itself to sleep. Only one spot not yet trampled by rowdy dreamers, or sponsored by too-expensive brands. Bérylune, reads the sign, though you won't see it until you've ventured through a narrow alleyway and stopped in front of a bright-blue door, flickering street lamps on either side. There it stands, solitary. Like a secret just for you.

No way are you letting anyone in on it.

"Um, let me think." You shift your weight, absently, reaching up to fiddle with the straps of your handbag. The girl behind the counter hums.

"Of course! Please, take your time."

Your eyes glide left, to the faint shimmer of the glass display— what you've been dreaming of all evening. What you dream of at the end of every tireless workday. Where you inevitably end up once you've exhausted yourself on your late-night strolls around the Dreamscape, wandering aimlessly, no different from your usual rounds at the hotel. No room ever goes unbooked, so there's no point to sitting down and feigning relaxation.

The least you deserve is to treat yourself.

(It's not like you hate your job. You'd say you're lucky, all things considered: a hefty paycheck, golden lights wherever your gaze takes you, the superficial glimmer of casinos and streetlights lying at the center of what Penacony is. The extraordinary is routine. That, in itself, has become a kind of comfort. It's better than your old life. Less monotone. The city is always alight, so there's no need for counting stars.

And there's the Dreamscape, of course. Always close at hand, the hazy bliss in front of you.)

Pastries sparkle from beneath the glass, the sight of them enough to make your mouth water. Soft, pillowy slices of spongecake, slathered in honey, squished between fruit tarts weighty with strawberries. Ruby-red, summer-ripe. Your hungry eyes flit from side to side. The bell chime rings out behind you, but you scarcely hear it over the piano playing from behind the counter, soft compositions from an old-school radio— you don't know who the composer is, but you recognize the song. It never builds up to any crescendo, blissfully empty of weight, of intensity.

The room has begun to smell more and more like roasted coffee. An espresso machine purring to life. You think of mystery, of something illusionary. When you look down at your hands they're painted moon-blue.

(For you, this is heaven. The crème de la crème of what the Dreamscape has to offer. Not the Golden Hour, not any casino— but this.

And it's all yours.)

"I'll have the macaron set, please."

(… Mostly yours.)

Your gaze drifts to where the Halovian is standing, smoothing a steady hand down the fabric of his suit. His locks are next, rivers of silver running in between his thumb and forefinger, barely-ruffled by the breeze outside.

The lady behind the counter gives him a smile. To the untrained eye it's the same as ever, but you've worked in customer service all your life; you're well aware of what's real and fake, what expression says Please be normal, it's been a long day as it is, or I'm so happy to see you again. Seriously. It gleams brighter, much brighter, than the one she'd graced you with. A bashful flicker that has you wanting to sigh.

… Not that you blame her. He is handsome.

"Of course, sir. Will that be for here, or to-go?"

"To-go, for tonight. Have you been well?"

"Yes!" She shoots up, in the process of bending down to bring the pastries out from the display. "Ah, um. Yes, I have! And you?"

A quiet hum. He isn't looking at her, you notice. Rather, the golden cuts of his eyes are stuck on the glass, on what's gleaming behind it. Not the macarons he ordered, but a golden pudding tart. "I've been well," he says. "Thank you."

Then he's quiet. His voice is nice to listen to, like a late-night talk show host in the prime of his career, pleasant white noise to tune out the world with. Suited for lullabies and ghost stories. Your eyes follow him, vacantly, the way his fingers tug down his sleeve to check his watch, the brittle flutter of his wings when he exhales, pairs of silky-looking feathers twitching against his neck. One of them is pierced, though you can't see it from this angle.

This isn't your first encounter with the stranger. He's usually here around the same time you are, when the moon in reality would have showed its pearly-blue teeth; either gazing at the display when you enter, or sitting by a table in the corner with his lips against the rim of a porcelain cup. It's unusual for you to beat him to it; maybe work kept him late?

… Yeah, probably not. He's too pretty to be anything but a flashy tourist. A secret idol, maybe?

You humour yourself with the thought.

His pupils flicker, suddenly, golden ripples across the surface of his eyes. You're zoned out, watching them, only now noticing that he's angled his face away from the counter— the sharp lines of his jaw pointing in your direction.

When you realize he's catching your stare, his lips have already parted.

"Ah, pardon me," he says, silky-smooth, eyes curling into slits. Smiling cordially. "Were you about to order?"

Stupidly, you blink at him. After a moment, your gaze snaps back to the sheet of glass in front of you. "No, don't worry," your smile is barely-there, though you make an attempt— you never know who's important when it comes to Penacony. Never know when you might be speaking to an idol on vacation, or a CEO with the influence to get you fired. Best to be on the safe side. "I was still deciding, so…"

He waits for you to finish. When you don't, keen eyes of gold leave your face.

"I see."

Silence settles in the space between you. You don't dare look at him again, busying yourself with your choice of pastry, eyes flitting restlessly between them. Should you go for something syrupy sweet, or minty and refreshing..? He's facing forward, but the weight of his gaze is still searing your skin, the butt of a cigarette against your brittle cheek.

It's heavy. It leaves an impression.

(Because you've seen him, yes— but you've never caught his eye. Not for more than a moment, a quick glance or absent nod.

This is the first time you've spoken.)

When his voice calls out again, you've settled on a sizable fruit tart. Speckled with blackberries, the crust a nice golden brown, eyes focused on it when that bedtime story cadence echoes on your left. "I'd like them packaged, if that's alright." He tugs gently at the bottom of his glove, adjusting it with nimble fingers. "They're a gift."

Gift.

The word makes your mind halt, for a moment. Something in the way he wraps his tongue around it. Soft, albeit briefly.

The poor girl behind the counter must have heard it too. Because she's wilted by the time you've raised your gaze, hanging her head a little lower than before, hiding barely concealed disappointment behind a tight-curved smile.

"… Of course," she chirps, weakly. "One moment."

She places the macarons inside a small, rectangular box, lining them up one by one inside it; green, pink, ochre, repeated twice, a row of sparkling gemstones, only sliced into halves. Then she's closing it, wrapping her fingers around a silky blue ribbon to thread it around the front and back.

"Thank you for waiting," she slides it across the counter.

The Halovian hums, accepting it with careful hands. He pays, swiftly, brandishing a black card. Yep, definitely not a working class comrade. His halo gleams in the dim light, thrumming faintly when it catches onto its golden edge. Like church bells tolling on a far-away planet. "Thank you," he says, quietly. "Have a good night."

When he turns to leave, his gaze overlaps with yours. No longer than a second, a glimmer of sun-soaked copper— he reaches for the handle of the door, and the moment turns to vapour. Midnight air courses in as he slips through the gap, chills the base of your ankles, the tips of your fingers. A soft jingle, and he's gone.

His back disappears into the night, his shadow painted cornflower blue. You see it through the window.

(You wonder where he's going.)

"Excuse me, miss." A stale smile, and a downcast voice. "Would you like to order?"

You snap your head back into place. "Y-yes, please."

The fruit tart tastes as good as you expected it to. You eat it there, at a table in the corner— it's not like you could bring it back to reality, even if you wanted to eat it in the comfort of your quarters— sinking your teeth into the crust, feeling it crumble into pieces around them. The blackberries burst with juice, melting together with the cream, thick notes of vanilla and chestnut. You lick your lips with a happy hum.

Too good to be true, though you guess that's the point.

When you return to reality, the taste won't linger on your lips. Your body won't feel satiated. You know this, but you still keep coming back— to a badly-placed patisserie, in the least popular Moment of the Dreamscape— gorging on pastries made from dreams and stardust. As if just the illusion is enough to keep you full. As if you could keep going, and going, plucking every star from the illusionary sky.

It's a foolish thought.

(You suppose that's why you're here, anyway. The reason you can't pull yourself away from the Reverie, or the Dreamscape. In a way, you're perfect for each other.

Glamour, and delicacies, and questionable men.

… Truly, the essence of what Penacony has to offer.)

The next time you step inside, the patisserie is empty. No Halovian gentleman by the counter, nor by the tables, no silky-soft voice threading through the air.

Again, you beat him to it.

"Welcome back!" Smiles the clerk, her lips glossy and pink. The shade makes you think of cherry balm. With sluggish steps, you walk up to the counter, expression practically trampled in comparison to hers. You muster a weary upward tilt of your lips, a half-hearted nod— you don't have it in you to do anything more. The guests were just awful, today. Lips drawing into a thin line, flimsy excuse of a smile slipping off them, your gaze glides over to the glass-layered display.

A better you would be in bed by now. Watching a soap opera, waiting for your order of real food to arrive. But you're not better— you're just you— and if you don't get your hands on a treat within the next five minutes you think your brain will just burst. The lady behind the counter is humming to herself, the song unfamiliar.

"I'd like… a croissant," you order, tentative. "With chocolate filling, please."

She nods. "Any drinks, or will that be all?"

Your lips part, before slowly falling shut again. Something warm doesn't sound so bad right now, actually… "I'll take a cup of hot chocolate, too."

"Great! One second…"

You exhale faintly, blinking twice. Watching with unfocused eyes as she presses the tips of her fingers against the small screen in front of her. Beep. Beep— the noise just barely cutting through your muddled senses, your hazy peripheral.

"Aaand there you are!" She gestures towards the card reader, lacing her fingers together. "I'll get started on your order— will you be eating here?"

"… No." You shake your head, reaching for your pocket. "I'll take it to-go, plea—"

…

Your fingers spread out. One, after the other, like spindly limbs extending. Searching.

But no, there's nothing.

For a moment, all you can do is stand frozen in place. Eyes wide with disbelief— the beginnings of denial. Your fingers, still twitching idly in the pocket of your pants, stop smoothing over old receipts and loose change and lip balm— they turn as still as you. Seconds pass, no more than five, before a heaving sigh breaks past your lips.

Your wallet isn't there.

Clinging onto what remains of your sanity, your hand slips out your pocket, right into the next. But, again, nothing. You're sure it's not in your purse, because you didn't bring it with you, and you remember holding your wallet no more than half an hour ago— unless you're mistaken? It's no good, your brain is already too subdued for second guessing. When you raise your gaze the clerk is looking at you, blinking like she's confused. The scent of cocoa seeps through the air, her hands busy with the milk pitcher, and for once you wish the service wasn't so fast.

"… I'm sorry," you say, as clearly as you can manage— which is barely above a whisper, really. Your head hurts. You kind of want to cry. Being the responsible adult you are, you attempt to hold it in. "I… think I dropped my wallet."

"Oh no!" Her lips fall into a frown, but she seems hesitant on what to say next. "I'm sorry to hear that…"

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. You repeat it to yourself. It's just a croissant. Except, of course, it really isn't— it was supposed to be your well-deserved after-work treat, and you needed it today more than ever. The illusionary comfort only the Dreamscape can provide.

"Sorry," you repeat, breath pitifully stuck in the back of your throat. Ready to turn on your heel, and walk back into reality, your nails leaving crescents on your inner palms. It's subconscious— you barely feel the ache. "I'll… come back tomorrow."

"No need."

… A voice, feather-soft, calls out from behind you.

When you turn your head towards its source, two golden eyes stare back at you. A certain Halovian, parting his lips.

"I'll pay for it. Just add it to my order." He pays no mind to your bewildered expression, speaking candidly. How did you not hear him coming in? "A croissant for me as well, please. Savoury."

The familiar stranger walks up to the counter, not even sparing you a glance. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was referring to another customer with no wallet to their name. You're the only ones here, though. He says something to the clerk, something you don't catch, because you're too busy staring at his face like he just dropped down from the sky— crashed through the roof like a bird with burning feathers.

(Or an angel, maybe. An angel with just the right amount of wings, and a halo made of thorny gold. An angel with eyes like charred sunflower fields.

… Your mind is left entranced.)

"Oh, um. Alright! Will that be to-go, or…?"

"No, that's alright." He takes out his card. "We're eating here."

Only when it moves towards the card reader, does your brain finally catch up to what your eyes are seeing. Without thinking, you grasp onto his arm.

"W-wait, you don't have to!" Your fingers curl around the linen of his sleeve, the protest stumbling out your lips. Your mind is too jumbled up to realize what you're doing— you can't feel the heat of his skin, or the thumping of his pulse, but his eyes coil into slits where they meet yours. "Seriously, I'd hate to bother—"

"Oh, it's no bother."

He smiles, suddenly; stale, his earrings swaying when he tilts his head to face you. Hand gentle when it comes to lay over yours. His gloved fingers feel silky against your own, untangling them casually, before he smooths the flat of his palm down the fabric you creased.

"I'd be happy to," he says.

"… But,"

Without further pause, he slides his card against the card reader. A decisive beep. Paying for your order, seamlessly, the smile on his lips never slipping off his face; from this narrow distance you think you'd be able to see the weariness in his eyes, but it isn't there. Neatly tucked away, maybe. Or is he just a night owl?

You purse your lips, unsure what else to do. The clinking of plates fills the air.

"… Thank you," you settle on. A quiet breath.

"You're welcome." His reply is instant. "Though I suggest you pay more attention in the future. A lost wallet is no laughing matter."

… He's right, but something about the way he says it doesn't sit right with you. You decide to stay silent, until the plates have been served, until you're seated at a table in the corner right across from him. Two croissants in front of you, yours streaked and stuffed with chocolate, coated in a layer of powdered sugar, like snow on a mountaintop— a halved strawberry sitting neatly on top of it— his filled with lettuce, ham, and thinly sliced cheese. He watches you take a tentative bite, the crumbs sticking to your fingers, before reaching for his knife and fork.

"The Dreamscape is a safe place, relatively speaking." He continues, taking nimble bites between the words. "But that doesn't mean there are no souls who would take advantage over a young lady's naivety. It doesn't hurt to take precautions."

"… You mean, you think somebody stole it?"

An absent hum. "Not exactly." He's smiling, again, though it's hard to tell when the lights overhead intermingle with the shadows from the window to your right. His face is candle-lit, flickering faintly. "What I mean is— you should keep important things close to your person. For an adult, that's only natural, wouldn't you agree?"

(… He's making fun of you.)

"… It isn't like me," you explain, cringing at how defensive it sounds. As if sulking, you sink your teeth into the sugary croissant. "I'm not that scatterbrained."

The Halovian tilts his head, ever so slightly.

"… Good," he places his cutlery back on the table. Then: "Here you are."

You watch as he brings your wallet out of his pocket. Sets it down in front of you, the leather smudged with a light layer of dust— though the rubber charm you clipped onto it remains unsoiled, her smile devoid of flecks.

Baffled, you stare at it.

Then up at him.

"It was lying just outside," he tells you, voice like a news anchor mentioning the weather. Too casual, you think. He brings a pure white handkerchief to the curve of his lips. "—You have good taste. That collection was my favorite of last spring's."

In the moment, you decidedly ignore his knowledge on idol merchandise. The bewilderment still coursing through your veins takes priority, your voice dumb-struck when you ask—

"You had it all along?" A mortified pause. "Why didn't you give it to me earlier?"

"All actions should have consequences." He answers, simply. "Even something as idle as embarrassment has a strong effect on the mind… I'm sure you'll be more wary in the future."

You blink. Once, then twice.

The Halovian's expression remains carefully concealed. You see no notes of humour, nor of ill intent. Condescension, maybe, in the smooth line of his lips. The way he's looking at you. It's vague enough that you wouldn't notice if he wasn't saying something so…

… Socially obscene?

"I'm an adult," you finally bite, too exhausted to play at sounding cordial. Your brow twitches, restless with irritation. "… I don't need a stranger to gentle parent me, thank you."

…

Are you being rude? Sure. But you're tired, you've had an awful day, and— frankly, you don't have it in you to entertain whatever mind games he just admitted to using on you, even if he turned out to be the CEO of the Reverie himself. He's weird. Weirdo. Waste of a pretty face. The thoughts enter your mind, but don't turn into words.

… After all, you're still taking bites of the croissant that he bought you. The damage is done.

(You settle on silent, petty scrutiny— he's for sure the type to put a tracker on his girlfriend's phone. The motel stalker type.)

Finally, he speaks. "Pardon me," he smiles, a narrow line. "It wasn't my intention to offend you."

Through a mouthful of powdered sugar and chocolate, you offer him a dubious look. He seems to notice it. "That was only half the reason," he explains, clicking his pointer finger on the edge of the table. Rhythmic thumps, in tune with the composition playing from the counter. "To be honest, I'm not too fond of sweets. But seeing you enjoy them so openly is… refreshing." A beat. "In a sense."

… Is that supposed to be a compliment?

Moreover— how long has he been watching you? The thought lingers on your mind, for no more than a moment. You let it go when he speaks.

"What I mean is— I've been hoping to converse with you." The tapping stops, abruptly. He goes silent— a look in his eyes like he isn't really there, a faceless stare boring into you. "… This was a golden opportunity."

His voice is all honey and silver, but you aren't sure what to make of it. When his eyes flit away from yours, briefly, his halo remains unmoving. Overseeing. His pupils flickering like a pair of injured sparrows. There's a gap in the way that he's acting, you think.

Everything about the way he carries himself suggests social awareness, so—

… what's with this awkward tension?

(It's like he's a sheltered princess. Like someone locked him up in a tower, and told him how to speak to others— let him practice in front of mirrors, dance with marionette dolls. That kind of feeling. Like he's looking through you, rather than at you— like his mouth is being guided by a silent, invisible hand, lips tugged apart to make space for their words. But then, who is the dragon? The evil stepmother?

… Maybe he really is an idol. That would be the more grounded option. An out of touch celebrity vacationing on Penacony, unused to the mysteries of social boundaries. It would explain his knowledge in Robin merchandise, at least…)

Your stare must unnerve him. Or maybe he gets tired of waiting for a response. Either way, he lets out something like a chuckle; it shatters your thoughts. "Ah, forgive me… It’s unlike me to speak so brazenly. I've overstepped."

With graceful poise, he digs his fork into the nearly-finished croissant. Lifts the final piece towards his mouth, without so much as angling his jaw down. Silent, measured chewing, the seconds between his words filled with nothing but the white noise of the ticking clock behind him. It sits on the wall, hands counting down until sunrise, though it means nothing in the Moment of Midnight. Still hours away.

Like a snake slithering back into its nest, he stands up as soon as he's swallowed— swiping the tip of his tongue across the seam of his lips. The chair is pushed back into place, before he graces you with another easy-curved smile.

"Please, don't let me ruin your meal."

"Um— wait." Just as he's about to leave, you stop him. "What's your name?"

When he turns his head, his eyes catch the moon-stream from the window. Gold turns to silver in the white streak of light. The Halovian parts his lips, but no noise makes it past them— he seems to reconsider whatever he was going to say.

A quiet hum, at the juncture of his throat.

"… Wonweek."

"Ah… thank you, Wonweek." You probably shouldn't be thanking him, but it slips out before you can stop yourself. You're more preoccupied with other thoughts— such as, you don't know any idols with that stage name, so either he's lying or the work-stress is having a positive effect on your imagination— "For the food. And… for picking up my wallet."

He surveys you, for a moment. Doesn't say a word. Pupils coiling into thoughtful slits.

Silver locks sway, when he turns around.

"It was my pleasure."

… And then he's leaving.

(The barely-there afternotes of his cologne linger on the seat across from you, stitched into the polyester: deep, mellow amber.)

This time, Wonweek is already there when you open the door.

With the Charmony Festival just around the corner, it's a miracle you can still move your legs. All day— all week— nothing but guests, checking in from every corner of the galaxy. It's so hectic you've been demoted to carrier, lunging around suitcases twice your size while the senior staff tends to the visitors. There's a numbing ache in your limbs, all the way to the base of your joints. Splintered out across your nerves.

Yet you make your usual rounds. The dried blue tones of the midnight sky sweep across your cheeks, as you rouse the bell chime into life— and he's there.

A brief flicker of gold, and a subtle smile, his eyes catching yours when they glide across the lounge. The air is thick with black tea, steam drifting from the silver-lined rim of his porcelain cup, the pure white speckled with bluebirds. His lashes flutter shut when he takes a sip. As always, the radio plays soft piano.

"Welcome back! What can I get for you, today?"

The lady behind the counter offers you the same smile as ever. She painted her nails, you notice— blue, but a touch lighter than the shade of her apron. Like the evening sky of a particularly hot summer. You wrap your tongue around a quiet hum, eyes moving to the glass display. Squinting at the pastries under it.

… Honestly, you aren't sure.

"Having trouble deciding?" Wonweek chimes in, when you've been standing in place for a moment too long. There's a cordial smile on his lips, a cheery note to his voice; like he's in a good mood. He abandons his spot to come stand beside you.

"… A little," you admit. "I guess I'm not sure what I'm in the mood for?"

A soft, affirming noise.

"Would you like me to decide for you?"

When you raise your head, his eyes are gleaming. Shimmering gold, flickering playfully, though his smile is nothing but composed, his gloved hands folded behind his back as he awaits your response. You're silent, for a breath.

"… Sure," you then exhale, spur of the moment. "Why not?"

That seems to please him. At least, if his satisfied hum is anything to go by. Wonweek faces forward, the bridge of his nose falling into your peripheral.

"Let's see…" A thoughtful pause. "What would you say to a parfait?"

Your eyes follow the trail left by his steady gaze, stopping where it ends: on a tall glass filled with layers of custard and meringue, crushed berries and cookie crumbs, topped with dollops of cream and thick slices of fruit. The sight makes your mouth water. You're sure that he notices. That he can somehow tell.

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction, you simply reach for your wallet, making sure your voice reaches his ears when you ask: "Do you want anything?"

He blinks.

"… To pay you back," you explain, glancing at him cautiously. Hoping you'll sound even mildly assertive, through the fog around your after-work brain. "For last time."

"Ah." Another flutter of his lashes. "There's no need."

Your brows furrow in frustration. A moment's pause, until you're trying again, taking out your card while eyeing the display. Surely, there has to be something he'd want…? "It's only fair… I mean, you paid for mine, right?"

"Really, there's no need."

You turn towards him fully, lips catching on a sigh. "I want to."

"You aren't going to."

…

His smile is close-knit. Eyes curled into threatening crescents.

"You're too kind," he says, voice deceptively cheery. His eyes are sharp when he opens them, daggers gleaming in the dark of night. "But, really, I insist."

Any further protests die out on your tongue.

Wonweek ends up buying a lightly toasted sandwich, to go with his darjeeling tea. You recognize the scent when you've seated yourself across from him, led along by his not-so-subtle social cues, like a puppet on a string. Needless to say, he paid for it himself. You get the feeling he'd have done the same with your parfait, had you given him an opening— if only just to get back at you for suggesting otherwise.

Are all Halovians control freaks, you wonder? Or is it just him?

”Are you enjoying the Dreamscape?” He asks, sinking his teeth into the sourdough. Chew, and swallow. He licks his parting lips. ”Is it to your liking?

You lean back in your seat, mellow warmth seeping through your fingers when they curl around the handle of your cup. Rich espresso, a roasted fragrance. ”I am," you tell him, honestly. "I wasn’t sure about the pastries… but they taste just as good as in reality.”

”Of course.” He smiles, something unusual in his expression. ”They need to.”

…

You watch him silently, through lidded eyes. He's looking down at your plate, making an expression you can't put your finger on— then back up at you, seamlessly, his face falling back into something vaguely insincere.

Controlled.

"Are you enjoying it?"

(His smile curves up. It makes you think of a plant uprooted, tugged from its tender soil— on the cusp of being ripe enough to pluck.

It makes you think, for whatever reason, that you really shouldn't have asked.)

"I am." He answers, easily. "A dream that never ends… don't you think that's wonderful?"

"I guess so."

"Oh? Do you disagree?"

"Well, I…" You clear your throat. "Honestly, I think it's a little scary, sometimes."

He casts you a questioning look.

"Like… I want to stay here forever." You stir your spoon in circles, watching the espresso swirl, a night-black vortex. "There are people who start to feel that way."

"Is that so awful?"

Quiet. Stale, like the wrong edge of a scalpel.

The silence that settles when his words have left his tongue is strained, a bowl about to break in the heat of a bubbling furnace. In your mind, you play out the noise it'd make— clatter, and crack, shattering on the floor and breaking into porcelain pieces— your lips trying in vain to wrap themselves around an apology.

For what, though?

(You can tell from his tense brow you've upset him, but how?)

The seconds tick on, with the counting of the clock on the wall, a slow, steady mantra. As if to escape the unsettling atmosphere, you direct your gaze towards the tall glass in front of you. Wonweek chooses that moment to speak.

"… Reality breaks them." His voice bears more than sterness: it bleeds. Tears the silence into overripe halves. When you bite into your parfait you taste peach, streams of sticky nectar in between your teeth. "If the Dreamscape can offer those lost souls some relief, it can be nothing but a good thing."

Chew, and swallow. He isn't meeting your eyes anymore.

"I… see your point."

Seawaves of blue filter in through the window, dripping down the contours of his face. From his cheeks, to his jaw, the shadow between his nose and lips— the glow of a silverfish's squirming body. It disappears when the moon slips beneath a cluster of clouds, his expression obscured. "I've seen you at the Reverie," Wonweek exhales a breath, his voice strung tight, lips falling into a straight-laced line. It softens when they part, near imperceptible. "… You always look so tired."

He meets your gaze when it snaps up. Captures it, and holds it, his own eyes not once wavering.

(Before anything else— before your mind can catch up to the strangeness of those words— you think to yourself that he looks a little sad.)

"It's only when you're here… that you seem to be content." His fingers curl around the handle of the cup, and bring it to his moving lips, steam clouding his cupid's bow. An earthy scent, something like rain on an autumn morning. Wetting asphalt. ”In that sense, I thought you and I might be similar. Or, rather— I thought you'd sympathize with the Dreamscape as a whole. The respite it brings."

The three-eyed halo crowning him bears down on you, unblinking; his wings swaying in tune with his voice, a booming kind of quiet, like it's urging you to listen. You wish you could, but your mind is too occupied to truly understand what he's getting at. You can only think, blearily, through the white noise of your weary mind—

That you have never seen him before.

You're sure you haven't, because as strange as he's proved himself to be— he's annoyingly handsome. You'd remember his eyes, if nothing else. The twitches of his lithe fingertips, the subtle sense of self-perceivement in his voice.

(You've never seen Wonweek at the Reverie.)

"… You're struggling, too?" you ask, tentative. Wonweek simply smiles.

"I used to." His voice is non-concealing. "Things are better, now."

He sets the cup down with a quiet clink. You watch him, silently, even as you realize he doesn't plan on elaborating. His smile is familiar. It's like the one you see in mirrors, when you tell yourself the future is larger than this. In mirrors, reflected in marble countertops, on nights that never seem to end.

"If reality brings you nothing but suffering, then there's no need to open your eyes anymore... I've been wanting to tell you that."

You hear the leaving in his voice before he stands up, palms flat on the table when he rises to his full height. His plate is empty, save for a neatly sorted pile of breadcrumbs— he pushes his chair back and threads through his feathers, an absent sweep of his hand.

”I hope I'm not overstepping.” he adds, carefully. "Please, do take it to heart."

"… Okay."

One last smile, before he walks out the door. As always, you follow— with your eyes, as much as you are able, before the bell chime fades and takes him with it. You're left with a lacking, troubled feeling, but there aren't enough untangled threads in your mind to make space for it. You eat the remainder of your parfait in silence.

Behind you, faintly, resounds the ticking of a clock.

The next time you enter the patisserie, Wonweek is nowhere to be seen.

You sit by the window until the sun breaks through the clouds: until it would have, if it wasn't locked behind a never-ending midnight. A sugar-coated orange lining tearing the sky in half. Weeping dawn across its blue cheeks. There is no sight of him, even then— not of silver locks of hair, not of halos or of wings.

He doesn't come in the day after. Or the day after that. Days bleed into weeks. Strawberry shortcakes, lemon meringue, coffee with too much or too little creamer.

You sit by a table in the corner, and wait for a man that never walks through the door.

(At some point, you stop expecting him to.)

Sunday stops by the window. Inhales a breath.

You're there. As always.

(What should make him feel relief leaves him with trepidation.)

Silently, he gazes into the interior of the patisserie; the lounge is dim-lit, but he sees you, curled in on yourself by a table in the corner like a baby bird in a too-big nest. He clutches onto the image, for a moment. Considers leaving once or twice. Mr. Yang is waiting— he's on borrowed time, well past owing favours. It would be easier to simply cut this loss.

His steps towards the door are silent.

The midnight moon gleams just as blue as always, spilling cobalt all over the paved streets, the alleyway that led him here. His own shadow half-transparent. It's more beautiful than he remembers, though perhaps he should attribute that to his own disinterest— The Hour of Midnight never struck him as especially precious. No morning dawn, no golden light, no sound except that of distant partygoers. The glow of the moon seemed somber, if anything.

(He never quite understood why this was where you'd found your peace.)

For a moment his fingers simply linger by the handle, the chill of the wood dulled by the fabric of his gloves. His hand curls around it with tentative thought.

When the door slides open, his eyes instinctually close.

Darkness. It lays itself over his vision, a thick blanket wrung around the sockets of his eyes— Sunday waits for the chime of the bell overhead.

It answers, dutifully. The sound of glass clinking against itself, shattering quietly. When he steps inside, soft piano: Satie's Gymnopédie No.1.

The door falls shut behind him. He spares no glance towards the woman by the counter, much too preoccupied with the pair of eyes across the room. You've raised your gaze, the silver spoon between your fingers shining with the blue from the window behind you. The air smells of fruit, honeyed and ripe.

Sunday moves.

You're blinking up at him, dumb-struck, when he stops by your table. Watches your lashes flutter, feels his wings twitch with an emotion he doesn't want to name— something that ties a knot inside his abdomen, inside his chest.

It makes it difficult to speak.

(He likes that about you, that blissfully empty gaze. Likes the way it conceals nothing.)

Seamlessly, he takes the seat across from you. Doesn't smile, but his voice is light when he says: "Good evening." A quiet inhale. "How have you been?"

Silence lingers in the wake of his words. It does not unnerve him; he is nothing if not patient. Nothing but a content overseer. Content to watch your fingertips twitch, when you let the spoon you're grasping fall onto the plate, a quiet clink of metal on ceramic. It looks as if you've barely grazed the fruit tart.

You look well, he thinks. There are shadows under your eyes, but they're not quite as dark as he remembers them being. Not the absent, worrying smudges he saw in the CCTV— your eyes themselves look somehow clearer.

He wonders what caused it.

(He knows it's not him. Wishes it did not grate at him, in that shameful, ugly corner of his mind, still not cleansed of petulant pettiness—)

When your lips part he follows the drag of your cupid's bow. Your voice an arrow piercing through the air.

"Hi," you say, uncertainly. "It's… been a while."

"It has."

…

Sunday's eyes do not stray, even when your own begin to waver. "How have you been?" He repeats, after a moment's pause.

"Uh, good. Just fine." You tilt your head, softly. "And you?"

An exhale leaves him, amused. Part of him wishes he could give you an honest answer, but— well, how is he to summarize it? I fell from the sky. I had an epiphany, of sorts— no, that's misleading. I think I died, for a moment. Just enough to gasp for air.

How should he relay it to you?

"… I've been well, all things considered," he feeds you a vague half-truth, a small smile tugging at his bottom lip. "I was hoping I'd see you again."

That makes you look at him strangely. Your lips twitching open, and then falling shut, enough to have his hands wandering; fingers tugging restlessly at the smooth silk of his glove, the thin material stretching to accommodate his absent graze. Sunday hums, lightly.

"I'm leaving Penacony." He straightens his back, speaking clearly, the words filling his lungs with air that smells of honeydew. Of possibilities. "I’m well-aware it doesn't concern you. We're just strangers, after all… but I wanted to say a proper goodbye."

He's just tying up loose ends. That's all.

(He doesn't have it in him to hope for anything else.)

"… Why?" Your voice is pure, innocently curious. "If you don't mind me asking…"

"It's a long story. I'm certain I'd bore you."

You hum, tentative— reaching for your spoon. It scoops up sliced kiwi, foamy cream, brings a piece up to your parting lips.

"… Well, the Dreamscape has been crazy lately," you say after swallowing, your tongue dipping out to catch the fruit juice dribbling down your bottom lip. He follows it, absently. "I heard Sunday was exiled from the Oak Family, or something?"

An upward twitch of his lips.

With the heel of his palm, Sunday hurries to obscure it— masks it with an idle cough, though he's certain that it doesn't come off as very convincing. You go silent, like you're confused. The look in your eye is what tips him over.

A melodious chuckle breaks past his lips. Light and clear, a home-bound ocean breeze; when he speaks it's all but muffled, caught between his fingertips.

"You are… so out of the loop."

"… Huh?"

He shakes his head lightly, silver strands swaying, ghosting the skin of his forehead. Extends a hand across the table, his inner palm facing up. "Sunday," he says, eyes gleaming mirthfully. "My name is Sunday."

He can practically see the gears of your mind turn, click sluggishly into place, a series of mismatched blinks. Hopelessly endearing.

"… Not that Sunday, right?"

His smile only curls further. "I wonder."

"Are you? There's no way." You're starting to look panicked, eyes wide with disbelief. It shouldn't make him so amused, the visible embarrassment upon your features, he shouldn't be enjoying it as much as he is.

(Inwardly, he berates himself. Right now, he really is no better than Wonweek, is he?)

"I hope you can forgive me," he half-croons, dove-like, a weak attempt at stifling the joy in his expression. "I suppose I enjoyed teasing you. I was sure you'd catch on quicker, but I underestimated you."

You look mortified. It's almost, almost enough to pull another chuckle from his breast.

(No better than Wonweek, he repeats, quelling the urge.)

"… Actually," you say, after the silence has properly settled— your expression far less like you want to burrow your head into sand, sweeping a hand across the silence gathering dust between you, "I'm leaving Penacony, too."

That makes him still. "Oh?"

You nod. ”I quit my job this morning," your fingers trace the edge of the ceramic plate. "And without my job, I don't have a place to stay… so I'm going somewhere else. Not sure where, but, you know."

He hums, affirmative.

"I just had to get one last pastry." There's a smile on your face, albeit flimsy; he could probably tug it off with just a swipe of his thumb across the seam of your lips. His fingers twitch with the desire, but he kills it just as quickly. "I haven't been here in a while, actually. Not since the Charmony Festival fiasco… I got really busy, and you weren't here— well, it's not like that was why, you know, but still. I haven’t had one of these in a while.”

The trail of your wandering digits changes course. You break off a piece of the pastry at its center, crumbling dough between your index finger and thumb. A weary sigh escapes your lungs.

Saddened, he thinks.

"Tarts taste sweeter in reality... I think I forgot."

Sunday watches you in silence.

"… Yes," he exhales, after a moment's pause. "you're probably right."

The composition from the counter changes, Satie's replaced by the tender strokes of a violin, sweet and light, filling the empty space of silence; Ashokan Farewell. His eyelids flutter closed, curtains of half-translucent moonlight drawing shut across his face.

"You know," he hears himself speak, after a moment, "I think I'll follow your example."

When he stands up you follow, impulsively, first with your eyes and then with your body— knees audibly knocking against the leg of your chair when you attempt to rise the first time. He smiles at the gesture, his expression serene.

The glass display shimmers from afar, beckoning.

… Ever since he had those pudding tarts, he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it.

Sunday waltzes up to the counter, brandishing a gentle smile. "I'll have one crème brûlée, please." You come to a stand-still beside him. "And one for my companion, as well."

A tingling heat, where your gaze sears into his neck. He meets it from the corner of his eye, a playful cadence to his voice when he asks, "Unless you're already full? Or, would you like something else?"

A moment passes.

"… Crème brûlée is fine," you hum.

Sunday exhales. "In that case, we'll—"

"But I'm paying."

You side-step him with grace, tugging your wallet open. When you angle your face to meet his expression, there's something pleased about the way your lips are curved; he thinks of Robin, a gentle cat's grin, the look she'd give him whenever she'd foot the bill in secret.

It makes him chuckle, despite himself.

"Are you usually this stubborn?" he asks, eyes gleaming gold.

"Not really," you shrug. "I just don't like owing people favours."

He can sympathize with that.

Still, he pauses. Restrains the urge to be equally as stubborn; a struggle, it turns out, but he stays his hand. Tries not to listen to the voice in his head, familiar nagging, Don't let anyone do what you could do just as well yourself— a hand on the back of his neck. Even worse, the faded lull of his mother's voice, smaller, whispered. Somehow, it bears more weight.

(Oh my, are those for me? My little angel is such a gentleman.)

He swallows, imperceptively.

"… Are you sure?" he inquires. Your reply is instant.

"Yep."

Deadpan. You're weary of waiting, it seems.

Sunday sighs, his smile indulgent. Head lowered in a show of defeat. "… Alright," he concedes. "In that case, thank you."

”You’re welcome.”

"Next time," he continues, sharply, "will be on me, however."

The words linger in the air.

For a moment, he regrets them; almost certain that you've been put off. He's already pushing his luck, he's well aware of that, tongue twitching with a change of topic— willing it to be seamless, but it weighs down on the muscle like lead, iron searing hotly, a path from roof to throat.

You don't say a word.

Only still, briefly. Stiffen in place. You spare him a glance before your head flips forward, fishing the debit card out of your wallet, that Robin keycharm still dangling from its corner like a wind chime in the breeze. Her smile strikes him as mischievous.

"Mm," it's a shallow hum, more breath than word. "That's fine, then."

Sunday blinks. Has to swallow the affection crawling up his throat in pollinated flurries, an itch that reaches all the way back to the root of his ribcage. Leaves his feathers to twitch, no more than a wingspan's worth of fluttering, pinpricks of excitement spreading through his spine— an electric sensation he cannot put a finger on.

All he knows is that it makes his lips bloom. His hand comes up to cover it.

(Yes, that's right, he thinks. In the vast expanse of the cosmos— in some corner of the universe, wherever that may be— your paths will surely cross again. You'll find another patisserie. One with better lighting, where he can look at you properly from across the table: where he will not be able to hide the smile behind his fingers.)

The lady behind the counter looks bashful, watching the two of you in sheepish silence, as if unsure whether it's alright to chime in or not. Sunday should feel apologetic, but he scarcely notices her presence until she clears her throat.

"… Will that be for here, or to-go?"

The words break you out of your reverie. You sputter out a confirmation, visibly embarrassed, card nearly slipping through the gaps between your fingers in your rush to slide it against the card reader— and Sunday truly cannot help himself. His smile curls upwards, like a bird taking flight, a sunflower twisting its stalk towards the clear-blue sky. It breaks through the clouds, carelessly.

Outside the window, the crescent moon mirrors his expression.

#credits to @/strangergraphics for the pretty dividers !!! <3 #sunday fluff #sunday x reader #sunday x you #hsr x reader #hsr x you

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how2loa · 1 year ago

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can I change my appearance and genetics completely if yes how do? Recently I’ve experienced a lot of passing events that has caused me to hate what I look like and how I feel and my genetics as a whole i’m starting school this Friday and I want to do anything in my power to look different before school starts and feel comfortable with how I appear I have heard LOA and manifestation can change anything so I’m wondering if it works for this as well

HOW2LOA : manifest an appearance change !

shortened version: create your new desired story and stick to it no matter what. as with any other manifestation. but for those that want a more detailed explanation keep reading :)

manifesting an appearance change is just as easy as manifesting a car or manifesting money. here are some steps i’ve been taking to manifest my desired appearance

# 1 — identify what you would like to look like

find what you would like to change about your appearance. let’s say you want to change the look of your eyes. get detailed. do you want to change your eye shape? your eye color? the size? decide on the details. in the case that you want to change multiple features for example your nose, eyes and height, do the same for all features.

# 2 — think from the end

imagine you got your desire. you look in the mirror and you see that you look exactly as you wanted to. your feature(s) finally changed and now you have your ideal appearance. what would be your initial reaction looking at the feature(s) that changed. “wow, i love my button nose”, “my skin is so smooth”, “i’m in love with my blue eyes”. make affirmations that sound like YOU. there’s no magic affirmation, the best one is the one that actually sounds like an ordinary thought of yours.

# 3 — stick to the end

now that you have figured out how you would react mentally if you saw a reflection that you are satisfied with, stick to that story. mental diet is everything! persist until it materializes. remind yourself constantly about your new look for quick results. embody this new character that looks exactly as you want to. because you are them and they are you. once you make the decision it is done, you have your desired look.

# 4 — avoid the mirror

if you are good at ignoring circumstances and not wavering you can skip this step, but i encourage you to avoid the mirror. do not dwell on the reflection if you catch it as it will bring you back to the old story. it doesn’t matter what you see in the mirror. it can change in an second. if you decided that you look a certain way then that is true now end of story. you have it therefor you know it is yours. checking the mirror for changes and not finding any might discourage you. a good rule of thumb is, if you’re looking for it its probably not there. your manifestation won’t miss you.

# 5 — use placebos

another good way to get your appearance changes fast is to use placebos. you can pick small actions that people often use to glow up like drinking water, brushing your teeth, getting better quality sleep. you can also use habits of yours that you don’t even think about to your advantage like licking your lips or even blinking. “every time i drink water i lose weight”, “every time i sleep i get prettier”, “every time i blink my eyelashes get longer and curlier”.

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sukirichi · 1 year ago

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐁𝐘𝐄 | 𝐆. 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

In a world filled with too much cash and flashing lights, will a solemn and ironically private relationship of a celebrity chef and wealthy socialite branded as star crossed lovers remain full of adoration and sincerity?

cw. fem! reader. celebrity chef! reader. gojo is insanely rich. angst. unedited. suggestive (they make out and is implied to sleep together, but no explicit scenes are shown.) hurt with a little bit of comfort.

notes. i can’t explain it but there’s just something about this fic i’m not completely satisfied with... i feel like i could’ve written it better LOL but also i just wanted to write something casual

wc. 17k

divider from saradika-graphics <3

Contrary to what people may say, Satoru knows he’s worked hard to get where he is.

The silent yet sharp-tongued man whose mere sound of his shoes stepping in the hallway sent his employees rushing inside their cubicles with fear. Belonging to the top tier of society as a result of being born wealthy and powerful, his name was enough to have people’s knees quivering of what the young heir was capable of.

He had the world at the mercy of his hands.

His icy blue eyes were empty, cold, and relentless – a stark contrast to his angelic features that fooled people. With his face pasted on almost every magazine, and companies vying for his attention left and right, journalists begging for a five minute interview, it was no brainer the importance of Gojo Satoru. And with his looks that had every man and woman stumbling before his very feet, the line between angel and devil blurred thinner.

You see, being born a God in front of everyone’s eyes was not as easy as it seemed. Tabloids always spread fake rumors claiming the young heir did not deserve to handle his family’s group of companies due to the fact he didn’t even graduate college. Or that was too scandalous for his own good to keep up a good reputation. As someone who holds major stockholders in the mercy of his will, everyone expected better.

Satoru scoffed at it all. To him, those were nothing but measly words.

He was the Gojo Satoru. He could do whatever he wanted, however he pleased, and all the world could do about it was complain. Such rumors (albeit ringing with truth) did not affect his life whatsoever.

Still, it doesn’t come as a surprise to him how uncultured people preferred other companies to be on top of the food chain – like Zen’in Corp, or Kamo Inc. They had far better reputations (ha, Satoru thought sarcastically), and were more well-liked by Japan. Satoru knows better though. No one is truly kind when they had enough wealth to claim the world as their own. Naoya Zen’in’s smile was as natural as his blonde streaks, and Noritoshi Kamo wasn’t even the company’s real heir. The latter was a bastard, and the former an attention seeker.

At least Satoru was honest and did not put on any facades of being a good man. He knew he was not.

The other men were greedy, always ready to pounce at every opportunity to have another digit added to their bank account, their expensive colognes successfully hiding the stench of their evil nature and their perfectly chiseled features resembling those of a seductive demon’s. Satoru was not surprised that he was born in a castle that resembled hell. Though it does not bother him anymore, he used to be saddened by the fact that he had been close with them in his youth. They spent their days spent chasing each other in the garden and pulling the trigger of water guns mercilessly, but all that was forgotten when each of them were groomed into perfection, just waiting to see who would take over the throne and who would end up as subordinates.

A battle which Satoru won without breaking a sweat.

And just like that, friendships dissolved. Men who he once called his comrades became his rivals in the industry.

Being the eldest of the three, their blood boiled when the official announcement came: Gojo Satoru had officially been stated as the new president of the Gojo Group of Companies.

It was not an easy competition. The bond between friends were soon replaced with greed and hatred for each other. Both Naoya and Noritoshi were ready to rip him apart at every mistake he made, but they did not know how fortunate they were. While they spent weekends overseas in cruise ships with flutes of champagne delicately nestled between their fingers, fucking every pair of tits with walking legs, Satoru locked himself in an office at the young age of eighteen. Whilst everyone savored the flavor of youth, he was forced to make the wisest decisions when it came to business. And little by little piece, his humanity had shattered until it was destroyed completely.

Gone was the cheerful boy who always spent too much time playing with his dogs and not minding that his latest Gucci pyjamas had been stained with grass. In fact, he did not even remember that side of him existed at all.

That at one point in his life, he’d been a normal boy with a normal childhood – before the weight of the world wore him down.

Glancing sideways at his security team, the head guard, Toji, nodded and commanded something through his radio. All the guards dispersed and made way for him. In a matter of a minute, the employees who were walking aimlessly in his hallway had scrambled in their offices. Sighing tiredly, Satoru rolled his eyes. Toji opened the doors for him as he stepped out, the dull, gray exterior of the spacious room feeling like home more than anything else.

His secretary, Mei-Mei, bowed politely at him and handed him his caffė macchiato. His fingers reached for the cup before facing the glass walls. Beneath him, the entirety of Tokyo lay pulsing at his feet. With one scoop of his hands and a simple word uttered through his lips, he knew he could take everything. And he could if he wanted to, but such was the dilemma of having everything.

Satoru Gojo desired for nothing at all.

“This,” his father once said at the twelve year old him, his hand sweeping from the exact same place he stood in. “will all be yours soon, my son. You have the world in the mercy of your hands.”

The hot beverage burned his tongue. He reeled back, biting at his tongue in the process of soothing it as he listened to Mei-Mei list his agenda for today. He had just gotten home from Beijing less than an hour ago, and he couldn’t even sleep on the flight because he was swarmed with paperwork and a hundred more proposals to accept. Yet the exhaustion does not show on his face. In fact, there was a not a trace of it. His face remained blemish free and healthy thanks to the dermatologists who always gave him free treatments in exchange of endorsing them – which he never did.

Raising his chin high, he peeked past his shoulder to look at Mei-Mei, who had her tablet tucked in her armpit, silently awaiting his response. “Alert the Board of an emergency meeting within ten minutes, and I want Mr. Ijichi to bring me the real sales report regarding the Wangguo Resort for the past five months.”

Mei-Mei’s gasp is barely audible. Satoru knew his request was absurd, but it was her job to do everything he told her to. If she didn’t, well, the answer was clear as day. She could say goodbye to her lovely job.

Turning his back to her, Satoru scanned his nails lazily. He needn’t worry about anything. He knew Mei-Mei would always do what was needed at the price. But – his eyes narrowed – he was in desperate need of another manicure. Hours spent typing and calculating sales had chipped them, and he had to keep his appearance of a perfect man who had his life together. After all, he was Satoru Gojo – the flawless one. The god walking amongst humans. He could never quite tell when there were cameras ready to catch him off-guard, but he’d never risk that chance.

He had to be without fault.

“An emergency meeting?” Mei-Mei stumbled over her words, chuckling nervously as she swiped at her tablet, looking for a reason as to why he would ask her to do such a thing. Satoru nodded, fully aware that most of the members on the Board were in different provinces out to do their job, but he was the most powerful person in that building.

Nothing was impossible for him. His wishes were the law.

“What for, Sir?”

He slapped a red envelope with a golden seal down his desk, eyes forming into slits. Mei-Mei cowered under his gaze. “When I went to Beijing to check the status of our hotel, I found out that there had been issues regarding maintenance and plumbing reported for five months now, and no one told me about it? I run a five star hotel that exceeds the expectations of even royals, and I won’t forgive this treachery. According to the hotel staff, their supervisor had told them to keep the complaints confidential because they didn’t want me to know there’d been issues in the first place.”

Though he spoke smoothly and did not even stutter or waver the least bit, Mei-Mei had known him long enough to know that even the slightest twitch from his eyes meant he was furious.

This wasn’t the first time your brothers had tried to take whatever was yours in their possession, but the sales report of that hotel had been forged and the Board was aware, yet they did not inform you in fear of what your brother could have done to them.

This wasn’t the first time his staff had kept secrets from him. They all piled up until it became too big to ignore, and then Satoru had to step in. Seriously. Was he a joke to them?

“No, I take it back,” he said suddenly, plastering on a fake smile at his oblivious assistant who tried her best to conceal her relief. After all, Mei-Mei too had been tired with the amount of workload he gave her, but if she wanted remain as a woman with deep pockets, she just had to turn his wishes into reality. “Fire all members of the Board, and blacklist them. Make sure no local or foreign company will ever hire them, but because I am a man of mercy, they can still be hired as waiters or janitors.”

Mei-Mei’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, and it looked so comical Satoru would’ve laughed if he knew how to.

Instead, he smoothened out invisible creases from his three piece suit before sitting down, the harsh yet familiar blue light of his Mac desktop greeting him. His fingers skirted along the keyboard in the speed of light, and from his calm state, you would have guessed nothing happened, but this could be his downfall.

He’d always been warned to keep his temper in check, to think things through before coming to a final decision, but why would he?

If his own people would not respect him, then he wasn’t required to return the gesture. After all, he didn’t need them as much as they needed him. He could easily replace the figures making up the Board. But he was the president, the man who made those lazy, fat fucks rich. They had gotten too comfortable with their positions, and he needed to show them that he still held their lives on the line.

That ought to teach them a lesson.

“Sir, please reconsider this and don’t make decisions compulsively. The Board plays a big role in our company–”

“Tell me, Mei-Mei, is a King only considered a king when he has people to serve him?”

She falters for a bit, her eyes watching him cautiously. Satoru leant forward the slightest bit, the black glasses framing his face in a way he looked almost innocent. But the coldness of his eyes were enough of a telltale that he was not someone to be messed with. Aggravation and mirth danced in them almost mockingly. He could read her perfectly – this secretary of his. He’s not stupid; he knows she hates him. And why wouldn’t she? No one liked Gojo Satoru. He was mean, ruthless, and invalidated everyone who he deemed ‘lower’ than him. And yet, he hadn’t met a single person to prove him wrong.

The truth is that no one was as capable of doing things the way Satoru did.

He was the smartest person she’d ever met to the point it was frightening. Satoru always had a solution to whatever situation, with countless of secrets and tricks hidden under his sleeve. And he wasn’t as awful as everyone said he was. Yes, he was ruthless, that much Mei-Mei could admit, but only to everyone who deserved it.

Anyone who didn’t do their job right, or abused their power wouldn’t escape Gojo Satoru’s wrath. Call him a demon, or the devil’s son, but Mei-Mei saw him more of a judge who brought justice and punishment to those who did wrong.

Satoru leant back against his chair, satisfied with her answer before dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “A king remains powerful when his kingdom is omnipotent. I’m glad you understand that now,” he said, head snapping up as he remembered something. “Oh, and don’t forget to schedule a dinner with the others tonight at that new restaurant everyone has been crazing about.”

Mei-Mei nods, pressing ‘cancel’ to the rest of his agenda for the night. She made a mental note to call the restaurant ahead of time to tell them to reserve the place all for Mr. Gojo. Taking one last look at him, Mei-Mei realizes that if she wants to keep working with the devil, she had to stay on their good side.

“I’m not doing it.”

“Boss,” Yuuji whines, pouting as he holds your hands and shakes them in an attempt to make you reconsider. You merely scoff, freeing yourself from the younger one’s grip with a glare. “They said they’ll pay us handsomely if we reserve the whole restaurant for just the night, and I’m afraid we’ll close down if we don’t do what they tell us to. It’s not just anyone, you know. It’s the Gojo Satoru.”

You looked at him disapprovingly before resuming your task of cutting vegetables. “Our shop won’t close,” you reply confidently, “We only take reservations per table, not for the whole restaurant. They should eat somewhere else, I don’t care about the money.”

Of course you knew who Gojo Satoru was – everyone did. It was kind of hard not to know the guy when the entirety of Japan had been in love with him from the moment he was born. That wasn’t an exaggeration, either, because people actually had photos of the heir from when he was still a baby. ‘Such a beautiful boy,’ they cooed upon the sight of his stark-white hair. And when he finally opened his eyes, it was done for – the young Gojo Satoru had everyone wrapped around his finger before he even babbled his first words. So yes, you knew perfectly well who he was, and that was exactly why you didn’t like him.

For such a popular man, his reputation was anything but good.

You didn’t want him anywhere near you, or the restaurant you shed blood, sweat, and tears to build.

You were the newest celebrity chef the world crazed over. Not only were your dishes to die for, but your looks caught the crowd’s attention, too. Pair your introverted, awkward personality with your endless charm shown in your dishes, you quickly rose to fame. Tabloids and magazines alike starved to get a taste of your dishes – a glimpse of you, even. With the latest opening of your new restaurant in the city, people have been coming in endlessly, wanting to see the infamous chef for themselves behind the kitchen.

Yeah, you wouldn’t let that happen.

Unfortunately for the media, you would rather hide behind the kitchen doors than have to go through another dreadful interview. Apart from a few pictures taken by the paparazzi and endless praises from your customers in your skills in cooking, you remained a mystery – something you’d prefer to keep.

Having Gojo Satoru and his ‘peers’ over would completely ruin that.

As much as you loved your career, knowing you made money doing what you loved, you detested the attention it came with being associated with the rich. One day, you were elbow-deep in your dishes, and then you were suddenly being invited to the most pretentious social events. Wealthy people roamed around, content with making the price tags of their clothes their personalities. You didn’t mind at first. It was exhilarating, even, to be thrown into a world so different from the one you were born into. But after one gathering where three wealthy men offered to hire you as their personal chef, and promised extra pay for ‘special services’, you left that world behind.

You swore not to be involved with the socialites anymore, even if it meant more success for your future. You cared less about the money anyway – you were confident in your skills enough to know you could pave your way with your own hands. You would never accept money from their deep, dirty pockets.

“Boss, you need to see this!” Yuuji whispered harshly, tugging you by the apron. You grumbled upon being separated from your chopping board, but his words fell on deaf ears as you both watched the customers clamor in excitement, phones being pulled out of their pockets. Soon enough, your restaurant drowned with flashing lights, and an equally blinding smile from the tall man who entered, his cheeks flushed from all the attention. “Holy shit. He looks even hotter in person.”

Thankful that you had your contacts on, you could see the scene before you clearly.

The people rose from their seats, eager to have a picture taken with Japan’s most beloved. His security team immediately formed a protective circle around him when the people clamored, the Gojo heir apologizing because he didn’t allow pictures. He claimed tonight was a special night, and he merely wanted to have a private dinner with his childhood friends.

Oh, fucking great. He’s bringing others here, too?

As if the situation couldn’t get any worse, two, black and sleek cars pulled up into the driveway. Naoya Zen’in stepped out of the car, shades propped on his tall nose as he smirked at the cameras already being flashed his way. From the other car appeared Noritoshi Kamo, his lips pressed into thin lines while blatantly ignoring the chaos ensued from their mere presence.

Your eye twitched. You could feel a migraine coming already.

To say you feel enraged would be an understatement. You pushed past your crew with a stormy expression, prepared to tell these stuck-up elites to go visit another restaurant. Was it really that hard to give you peace? You never accepted their reservation to begin with. However, you didn’t make it very far when you felt a strong hand grasp your arm.

“Boss, please hold yourself back, it’s just a dinner they’re asking for. If you intervene now, this could cause a public commotion,” Yuuji glances at the three men from the corner of his eye before warning you, “They’re not people you can mess with.”

Soon enough, his former customers had dispersed out peacefully with the assistance of the family’s security team, and he grits his teeth in an attempt to contain his anger for pretentious people like them, watching as they occupied an empty table. One of the waiters approached them nervously, three menus in her hands and she’s about to hand them out when the eldest looking one spoke irritatingly.

You huffed. You hated how he was right. Successful, you may be, but you could never come close to their level of power and wealth.

With an apologetic smile from Satoru – who made four women faint from the sight – your previous customers dispersed with the assistance of Satoru’s security team. You gritted your teeth in an attempt to contain your anger. They were so pretentious! Naoya, especially, flicking two of his fingers at your waiter as a signal to clean up the table he wanted. Scurrying on his heels, your staff nervously approached them while the others cleaned up in the speed of light, and handing them the menu’s with shaky hands.

Noritoshi nodded once at the waiter who approached him, while Satoru paid them no mind as he flicked through the pages. Meanwhile, Naoya clutched the wrist of the waitress who’d handed him his menu, brushing his lips against her knuckles.

You watched as your waitress froze. You were about to push his hand away from her when Satoru beat you to it, his voice icy and his words cutting like a knife. “Can never keep your hands to yourself, huh, Zen’in? With the amount of women visiting your estate, I’d have figured you would know enough to never touch a woman without her permission.”

Naoya scowled, immediately dropping your waitress’ hands before plastering another smirk. “No need to be a killjoy, Satoru. But anyways, what’s the reason for calling us out of the blue? You know well enough I had matters to take care of in Kobe.”

Satoru doesn’t lift his gaze from the menu. “Actually, I don’t know that. I could care less about your schedule. But I figured I haven’t seen my dear old friends in a while and thought a meal would be nice.”

Noritoshi spoke up, and Yuuji whispers to your ear on how he was one of the most popular models in the industry, and third to to them in the top bachelors of the decade. “Cut to the chase, we don’t have enough time.”

“Calm down, why are you in such a hurry? Let’s order first shall we?” You plaster on a disgustingly forced smile, taking the tablet Yuuji hands you as you gravitated towards Satoru. Stupid bastard – he doesn’t even look your way. “We’ll take the Spicy Uni-Lardo Sushi in Lettuce Cups and Foei Gras-Steamed Clams.”

He listed a few more – the most expensive meals on the menu, too – and you jotted them all down with steady hands. Although the restaurant was eerily silent, you could feel the crew’s eyes watching over you from the kitchen like a hawk.

“Will that be all, Sir?”

Satoru hums, waving his hand in the air. “You’re dismissed. Now leave us.”

Your jaw dropped. This little – Yuuji snatched you back into the kitchen, but you’ll be damned if you didn’t defend your honor. Handing their orders to the other chefs so they could get started, you leant against the kitchen doors and peered out from the cracks to eavesdrop.

“Because I treasure my dear friends so much, I won’t waste your time any longer and get to the matters at hand. Naoya, let’s talk about the chain resort in the Wannguo branch, and Noritoshi, here is your lawsuit for fabricating my sales report that’ll land you a free six year vacation in jail.” A white haired woman appeared out of nowhere, pulling out a black envelope with bold letters reading ‘LAWSUIT.’ Satoru swiftly picked it and slid it towards the raven haired man’s way.

Noritoshi gaped at Satoru, “What’s the meaning of this, Satoru?”

“I should be asking you that. Isn’t it not enough for you I collaborated on this project with you? Are you that intent on kicking me out of my own company you’re sabotaging your responsibilities and lounging around in London?”

Deep down, you knew you shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But this was the type of drama you saw only in dramas, and you couldn’t tear your gaze away from them even if you tried.

Upon looking behind you, you saw your crew had paused in their work, too, intent on watching the drama unfold before your eyes. The Gojo Clan were practically royals in the country, always portrayed as indomitable and powerful beyond belief. It seemed hard to believe there were things that got under Gojo Satoru’s nerve, with his friends, no less. Sure, you’d heard Naoya scamming people here and there, along with rumors of Noritoshi abandoning his work in pursuit of pleasure.

And, regrettably, you assumed Satoru wouldn’t be any different than them. Now, you were getting a front seat view of what truly transpired beyond the surface.

Gesturing for your crew to go back to work, they all grumbled but obediently followed anyway. You took your attention off them and glanced back at Satoru, taken aback at the sight of pure irritation for his company – and if you looked a little closer, hurt pooled around those captivating eyes of his.

Perhaps he was human like you after all, and while he didn’t exactly give you a good first impression, you were decent enough to respect this was not something you could keep on wathcing. Resuming your work, you began to heat up the pans, their voices distant yet clear.

“Jail? Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t belong in a place like that!” Noritoshi, the younger one, shouted with an appalled expression, his hands slamming against the table as he sent an almost pleading look at Satoru.

“Then you shouldn’t have fabricated my documents to begin with.”

“Be careful, Satoru,” Naoya warned with a harsh whisper, “We were born with the eyes of the world around us, one wrong move and I’ll have the media ruin your tarnished reputation even more. You may be the richest amongst us three, but don’t think you’re invincible.”

“You asshole,” Noritoshi retorted, thin lips forming into a sneer. “If you were going to file a lawsuit against me, you couldn’t have done it privately? Don’t belittle us, one bad review of this restaurant and this place will burn down to pieces, and I’ll make sure you go along with it.”

Satoru’s melodious laughter made you all pause. “A death threat, how funny! You both truly are so sweet, but let me warn you that I have the press eagerly waiting for my signal, so act on your best behavior and pretend we’re having a hearty meal together,” In a matter of minutes, you interrupted by showing up with their food. Satoru’s eyes lit up as he clapped his hands in faux enthusiasm. “Oh, the food’s here, eat up! My treat tonight since you’ll all be losing your money anyway.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see Noritoshi glaring at his plate. Satoru had ordered you to serve him the seafood, and judging by Noritishi paling at the sight of it, he must’ve been allergic. Jesus. If he faints, or worse, dies at your restaurant tonight, it’d be completely pinned on you. You didn’t even do anything to be involved, and yet it seemed as if Satoru was dragging you down with him. Nevertheless, Noritoshi picked up his utensils. The scratching of silver knives against the plate filled the room, accompanied by the soft, jazz music that gave off a false, comfortable atmosphere.

Oh, but it was anything but that.

The tension was so thick in the air you found it hard to breathe. Satoru was like a ticking time bomb, Noritoshi was a few mouthfuls away from turning completely red in the face, and Naoya hadn’t stopped ordering refills of his wine.

Satoru dabbed at his mouth carefully with a napkin. What a shame, he thought. You had such a lovely restaurant, and your food was to die for. He would’ve enjoyed it if it hadn’t been for his so-called friends sabotaging his career.

“Here’s the deal – no, I do not need to make deals with my subordinates – here is what’s going to happen and listen carefully because I won’t repeat it again. Naoya, as from this hour, you are relieved of your duties as supervisor of our resort, but you’re free to have my vacation home there as compensation. As for you, Noritoshi, I’ll burn this lawsuit and forget your crime if you promise not to let even your name be spoken for the whole year. In other words: get out of my sight. Am I making myself clear?”

“How dare you do this to me?!”

“Sit down, Naoya, you wouldn’t want your pretty face to be ruined with that frown. Are we done here, boys?” Satoru enjoyed it, he really did.

To see two powerful crumble before him made him feel things he couldn’t quite put into his words. Entertaining, he called it, to know he was capable of cracking their tough personas. It made him wonder how many more buttons of theirs he could push before he destroyed them completely.

“Yes.” Noritoshi nodded with an almost pained choke, and Satoru leant back triumphantly. Because he was a model and sometimes an actor if he wished, he was more exposed to the media and cared more about his image more than Naoya did, thus making the former easier to manipulate and kneel down to his whim.

Satoru smiled, pleased. “Then you may go. Noritoshi, I’m keeping your car keys under my possession for the meantime, but my chauffeur will gladly chaperone you everywhere as long as I deem it necessary. And Naoya, I already sent my apologies to your escort, she’s as good as a stranger so you don’t have to worry about the press exposing your disgusting behavior.”

The latter looks up from his empty plate with wide, questioning eyes as if to ask how he knew about that, but he had never been a good liar. Satoru knew him well enough that he never took care of business matters and instead spent his days wasting the precious money his family had worked for just to pay the most ‘prestigious’ of escorts. He had a disgusting personality to ever make a woman land willingly in his bed, which is why he resorted to throwing his money just to have someone beautiful in his arms to flaunt off in social events, or warm his bed.

Though not in his line of sight, Satoru knew his bodyguard was watching. He stood up with grace, slapping a wad of cash down the table as a signal of his business finally dealt with. You expected him to leave the restaurant when he surprised you by heading your way. Eyes wide, your hands reached out to feel the doors when Yuuji subtly pushed you towards Satoru.

Oh, dear heavens. Yuuji was right.

The magazines and pictures of him didn’t do him any justice. He was absolutely breathtaking now that he was before you, his cold eyes now holding the tiniest bit of warmth as he regarded you. Back facing the other men, Satoru lowered his head. You stood there with baited breath, your heart pounding in your chest as his lips brushed over your ear. He was close enough that his expensive perfume wafted over you, and you could touch the ripples of his muscles bunching up against his baby blue shirt if you were brave enough to reach out.

“Thank you for the wonderful meal. I haven’t had a proper one since I was a teenager, and please don’t worry about what happened today, you won’t be involved in our personal matters. In exchange for your service, I will pay you generously.”

Satoru took a step back, and you stood there, muted and dumbfounded. You hadn’t expected he’d speak so softly to you when his words were harsh towards his ‘friends.’ And as if realizing the effect he had on you, a smirk ghosted at the edges of his lips. “Mei-Mei.”

Flashing you the best smile he could muster, he extended his hand to the side as his assistant pulled out a cheque. Satoru signed it without taking his eyes off you. He slid it your way, your eyes bulging out when you saw the ridiculous amount of zeroes he’d written on it. Instead of feeling pleased, irritation sparked in your veins.

You pushed his cheque back to his chest. And yes – your theory was proven correct – his muscles were hard and firm underneath that silk shirt. “I don’t need your money.”

You liked to think you had the upper hand when Satoru’s eyes widened by a mere fraction. It must’ve felt like a slap to his face, having someone refuse his money for the first time. But just as it came, the surprise vanished from his handsome face, slowly replaced by a teasing smile. Satoru leaned forward once more, bullying his way into your personal space until you were left with no choice but to share the same breaths of air.

He smelled like leather, wine, and something intoxicating that dared you to have a taste. Just one small taste, even if it meant possibly becoming addicted.

“Uptight and feisty, just how I like it,” chuckling to himself, Satoru draped his discarded suit jacket over his shoulders and sauntered out the door. “Expect me again, Chef. This won’t be the last time we’ll see each other.”

You prided yourself for being someone in control of their emotions.

Yet, you’re overwhelmed by the sight of hundreds of customers waiting in line as they all snap pictures and chatter excitedly among themselves. You frown when Yuuji barges into your office without knocking (a habit that you’ve told him to change, but he never seems to listen) and almost shoves a tablet in your face as he struggled to keep himself on his own toes.

“Boss, you should read this, it’s insane!”

“Gojo approved restaurant of celebrity chef, now a five star restaurant in Tokyo!” You read the headline monotonously, Satoru’s handsome face from that night pasted on the article and waving at the camera. You could almost hear his light, breathy voice telling him that one way or another, he would find a way to pay you. You can’t help but scowl, because out of all things, he decides to pay you with publicity and unnecessary attention.

“‘Members of royal families and prominent leaders from all around the world have been rumored to pay a visit to either one of the five branches of the new rising celebrity chef’s restaurant. Another hit for the Chef!’”

“Isn’t it great, boss?” the overly jovial noy giggled, and you try not to wallow in embarrassment. “That’s not all, watch this video, it was released last week.”

Yuuji clicked on a video clip, and you lean forward, ears intently focused on the footage. You’re not surprised to see Satoru walking down a familiar road inside one of the most well-protected villages. Adorned in a white fur coat with black slacks that hugged his legs perfectly, he approaches the horde of reporters waiting outside the gates with a polite smile. He waves at the flashing lights, careful to show off his Patek Philippe 5004T wristwatch.

Tch. Showy bastard.

“We saw you at The Green Garden last month enjoying a dinner with Naoya Zen’in and Noritoshi Kamo. Tell us, how was the food there?” A report asked, about to shove her microphone in his face that was blocked by his ridiculously muscled bodyguard.

Jeez, you thought, did that guy take steroids for breakfast or something?

“Oh, I don’t have enough words for it,” he purred, and you hold your breath for his next words. You’re a little surprised at how his breathy voice managed to sound commanding and husky at the same time. “When I walked in, the aroma was just mouthwatering, and don’t get me started on the meal itself. It was absolutely delectable, all the flavors practically melt in my mouth, and I don’t think I’ve ever spoiled my taste buds this much.”

Your brows shoot up. Did he mean what he said? People like him rarely spoke the truth – everything was a show for them. He would say whatever appeased the public, and you weren’t sure if he even had the time to enjoy your food considering he was stuck in… quite the predicament. Still, you don’t pause the video, barely hanging at the edge of your seat as you listen.

“I did hear the food there was good, especially since the Chef is quite gaining some popularity over the last few months,” another reporter stated, and soon they were all nodding their heads approvingly. “Still, you’re someone who has probably tasted something better. Would you recommend the Chef’s dishes?”

Satoru smiles, letting his bangs frame his handsome face as he stares right at the camera. You feel your breath get caught in your throat, solely because it felt like he was looking at you. Once again, you’re more captivated by the shine in his eyes, rather than the blinding light of his mischievous smile.

“Of course,” he smirked, “It would be a sin not to have a taste of her.”

Yuuji chokes on his own laughter beside you. He starts shaking you by the shoulders, completely unaware that you’re a goner by now. Everything the younger man says falls on deaf ears. You find yourself too immersed in the video clip, that teasing smirk on his face disappearing as th crowd pushed further and further. His guard steps forward just as Satoru flicks his hair to the side – an action that would’ve been condescending on most, but somehow looked elegant on him – and retreats back to his Audi. Not just any Audi either, but an e-Tron 2010 Spyder Concept.

Meanwhile, you can’t pick what could be hotter – that a man like him had the ability to make your usual indifferent self flustered, or that he drove a classic car instead of a brand-new one.

You shoot up from your seat, eyes narrowed and chest puffed with determination. “I need to go grocery shopping!”

It’s not rare that you went shopping by yourself. Yuuji usually accompanies you to complete the task faster, but you preferred to be alone today to take your time picking only the best ingredients. Not because you wanted to impress a certain millionaire, of course. Or was he a billionaire? You forgot, but he was definitely Japan’s darling, and one word of praise from him now had several bookings sent your way. He’d placed a standard, one you had to live up to.

You had three branches in the entirety of Tokyo, one more in Paris, and another in the Netherlands – the last branch you opened after you fell in love there during your last visit. The country enthralled you with its mesmerizing simplicity and beauty. It felt like a dreamland there, with everything from farm to table, and everyone adored the dishes you came up with. Once you’ve saved up enough to live comfortably for the rest of your life, you planned to live there – to spend the rest of your life in serendipity and contentment – hopefully next to your future husband.

Ever since you received the news (albeit without, the amount of people lining up at your restaurant was a clear tell-tale your sales had been skyrocketing), you admitted you felt pressured. You needed a variety of ingredients to experiment with, and hopefully add to your menu – something that both common folk and socialites could enjoy. After all, your main goal was to provide a wondrous magic in the form of a plate that was both simple yet luxurious enough to enjoyed as a treat to oneself.

Crossing off the carrot from your grocery list, you keeps pushing your cart through the spacious area. Your attention is divided between reading your to-buy list to surfing through each aisle. There was always a hidden gem if you looked hard enough, and that’s what you needed. A wild card of sorts, a completely never-seen before ingredient used in a new dish.

You’re so immersed with the task at hand you fail to hear the sound of footsteps nearing. Reaching for a bottle of wine (you cringed at the price), another arm shoots forward to reach for it at the same time. You pull back, the skin contact almost scalding to you. You open your mouth to apologize, only to have the words die in your throat when you come face-to-face with him.

Satoru was no less than tall and mighty, his cerulean eyes hidden behind black-tinted glasses. You can’t help but run your gaze over his figure – he’s now dressed in a white button-up shirt tucked in his dark blue jeans. Simple enough, yet you knew the price tags of his clothes would be enough to have you faint.

“Hello.”

“Hello to you too,” he grinned, firmly clasping the wine in his hands. He twists it around, analyzing its content before he hums to himself, pleased. “Great choice of liquor. I highly recommend this.”

The words stumble out of your mouth before you could stop yourself.

“I had no idea you went grocery shopping– I mean, why would you? You probably have others doing it for you and this is just another pointless, boring task–”

Satoru’s laughter is enough to make you shut up. Yep, okay, you totally screwed it up now. You scold yourself for a split second for being so awkward and not greeting him properly. But then irritation creeps in because you know Satoru isn’t different from the others. You should feel thankful for the publicity, yes, because Satoru’s singlehandedly made you skyrocket into popularity, but your pride told you that you don’t owe him anything. However, all rational thoughts fly out the window when you find yourself joining in his laughter – actually smiling – that you have to physically stop yourself from doing so again.

What the fuck?

You don’t smile. You don’t laugh. Everyone’s called you unpleasant and you take that with your chin held high. Yet somehow… you can’t help it when you’re in his presence.

Satoru tips his head to the side, and you forcibly look away with a clear of your throat. “I’m not shopping,” he says, “I was going to ask you what you’re doing here, but then again, no one goes to the grocery but to shop, right? And you’re a chef, so it’d be a rhetorical question.”

You nod slowly, unsure of what he’s getting at. He still keeps a firm grip on the bottle before he hands it over, making sure to brush his skin over yours in the process. You fight back the urge to shiver. “1949 Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand Cru, a vintage wine whose price was boosted for a post-world war appeal. Only a few hundred bottles are produced annually, and while not exactly scarce, it’s a rare piece.”

You scans the bottle in astonishment, your mouth forming an ‘o’ shape as you debate whether to buy it or not. A second glance at the price tag and you place it back without hesitation, not caring even if you could afford it, because there was no way on earth you were buying a five thousand dollar drink no matter how good it tasted.

“I take it that it’s not to your liking?”

“I don’t. I’m not much of a drinker anyway,” you reply honestly, mustering all your courage to face him. “If not to shop, then may I ask what you’re doing here?” You look behind him to see if his secretary or guard was around, but he seemed to be alone. As observant as ever, Satoru answers your unspoken questions without missing a beat.

“I’m here for business. This place is mine, and I came here to assess its monthly status.”

You look down at your cart, suddenly feeling small and shy as you mutter, “Of course you own this place.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks innocently, and you stumble over your words, your thumb circling your pointer finger nervously.

“I mean,” you start, pointing to the entirety of the brightly lit store that was almost the size of a concert arena. “This is a private membership grocery shop, and only people who are willing to pay a lot can go here. You’ve got many products here that aren’t available anywhere else, and it only makes sense it would be owned by the Gojo Family.”

“Owned by me, actually. This place was built when I took over, the idea entirely mine,” he corrects you and moves past, looking back with a confused expression when you don’t follow. “Well, aren’t you going shopping? Let me help you with it.”

You don’t know why you agree at his offer to help, but you don’t regret a single moment of talking to him. Satoru is stiff and rigid to his core, unlike his ‘friends’, but he was surprisingly a great conversationalist, and silences with him weren’t painfully awkward. He was also a lot smarter than he made himself out to be, but then again, you supposed one had to be intelligent to take over a group of companies at such a young age. And when he tells you deeply regrets not being able to fully appreciate your meals because he had ‘matters to deal with’, you can’t help the light fluttering of your chest that comes with it.

It starts out as slow burn, with a warmth barely felt if you didn’t focus enough. You can’t pinpoint exactly when you started to see him in a different light. In that moment, Satoru suddenly seemed small and almost vulnerable in your sight. Almost human. You can’t help but notice that he has his eyes glued to his feet – not because he’s uncomfortable with eye contact – making sure to not step over the dark lines from the white tiles. He was like a child going through an obstacle race, skipping at one point to another as he talks, and you stood there, wondering – just how much did this young man lose when he had to gain the world?

Through the eyes of the world, he was someone who had it all.

Born in a wealthy family with ancestors who never knew what the word ‘rent’ meant, and simultaneously blessed with good looks, you even remember a few articles written about him. How everyone was in awe and praising him for being a genius, but you believed everything came with a price – even the grandest of blessings.

You could only imagine what he must’ve been through. To be deprived of a normal childhood in exchange of a life of luxury, instead of being able to play under the rain. You could see him locked inside his father’s office, going through financial statements and attending board meetings at the age of sixteen. Meanwhile, you played at the cornfields with kids your age during that time, enjoying your youth and chasing after your passion.

But Satoru? He was constantly judged by the public for a single mistake, thus turning him into a make believe version of perfection.

Due to his lack of knowledge with cooking, he wasn’t of much help when it came to shopping. He was splendid company, however, and you felt soothed by his presence and his expensive perfume. It’s a scent you welcomed wholeheartedly, and so you find yourself asking him if he’d like to have dinner with you – at your restaurant – on a Friday night. When he doesn’t respond right away, you make up a lame excuse that you’re only giving him opportunities to look at the place much better than last time.

It makes Satoru stop in his tracks. You start to take back your invitation at his lack of a response when Satoru suddenly takes your hand in his, his eyes widening at how perfectly they seemed to fit (no matter how cliché that sounded.) He takes in the way your hands were rough and calloused from your labor, how it was a sign of all your hard work. Growing shy, you begin to pull back, but he keeps you in place – unconsciously squeezing your hand tighter.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes,” he smiles – and this time, it isn’t meant for the cameras. He’s not flamboyantly flashing his pearly whites, or trying to look perfect. It’s just him, with a small, shy smile meant only for your eyes to see. “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

“Okay,” you repeat, smiling shyly before finally – finally – squeezing his hand back.

You tug at your champagne dress uncomfortably. It might’ve been a little too tight for your liking, but Yuuji insisted it was the dress, and no dress would be better for tonight’s dinner. The strapless dress hugged your figure elegantly, the material flowing smoothly as it extends past your knees. Pairing it with some kitten hells, you were confident you cleaned up well – aside from the problem at hand that you couldn’t breathe. You weren’t sure if the dress was too tight, or you were simply too nervous.

You’d closed up the restaurant early in hopes of having some privacy, even going as far to close the velvety black curtains to hide yourselves from prying eyes. But with every minute that passed by, the special dish you’d prepared with your mother’s secret recipe grew cold. Not a single notification beeped from your phone. Not a text, or a call – not even from his secretary. Nothing but pure silence on his side.

Standing up with a grim expression, you pinch the candle to kill the flame.

What were you even thinking? Did you really think someone as untouchable like Gojo Satoru actually wanted to go on a date with you?

You looked around the restaurant that held a special spot in your heart. It might not be up to his standards, but it meant the world you. It was a product of your hard work and passion. This career enabled you to design it yourself, to build it from the ground up. You’ve decorated it solely to impress Satoru for tonight – with golden chandeliers hanging in a waterfall and teardrop patterns, the tables equipped with satin napkins and silverware polished to perfection. All that effort just went down the drain.

Your eyes fall to your wristwatch. Your father leant it to you before you moved to the city to follow his dreams, saying “Keep this, my sweet daughter. Time passes by so fast in the city and I don’t want you to lose a single second of your life. People will always pass by in a hurried blur, or not come at all.”

Isn’t that what you were doing right now, waiting for someone that might never come at all? He was right. You didn’t need to wait around. Satoru had his own life, he belonged to the city and its fast-paced rambunctiousness. You weren’t like him, you reminded yourself. You and him lived in completely opposite worlds.

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you sigh and start to pick up the untouched dishes.

Gojo Satoru was a man who lived and breathed along with the city, the erratic pulse of the city lights resembling the skip in his steps whenever the paparazzi caught up to him. Even if you were somehow on par with him with your own successful career, tonight was still a harsh reminder of the fact that there would always be a massive difference between the both of you.

Your purpose was to serve people and give them memories of a hearty meal. Satoru bent people with his own hands, and obviously wouldn’t even give you the time of day. Perhaps you’d read the signs wrong – if there were even signs at all. One praise from him didn’t mean he liked you, after all, and why would he? He’d admitted out loud he couldn’t even remember what your food tasted like. Hours and years perfecting your craft, and he’d forgotten it all because ‘he had matters to deal with.’ God. Did he see you like that, too? Just another issue to be dealt with, another box in his list to be ticked off?

You’re about to throw away the wasted food when the glass doors of your restaurant opened. You stood back, Satoru all but running and heaving so heavily with beads of sweat running down his face.

“Wait,” he gasped out, raising a finger to give him a moment. “Don’t – don’t close yet. Just let me breathe.”

Did he run here?

Frowning, you scan his outfit. He’s dressed up more than usual today, yet his coat jacket is wrinkled and his hair is all messed up, possibly from running all the way here. His baby blue shirt is also damp with sweat. You immediately reach for some towels and make your way to him – reaching up to pat his face dry when the two of you freeze. Your eyes are blown wide, and so are his. His chest staggers with each breath he takes, and delicately, he holds your hand. His brows furrow and he exhales, his breath minty and his scent intoxicating. You’re captivated with every inch of him – from his white lashes, to the slope of his nose, the fullness of his glossy lips.

You never realized how much you’d missed him until you thought he would never come.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice willowy soft. Closing his eyes, he reaches for your hands, burying his cheek into it and pressing a kiss to the insides of your wrist. The action is unbelievably tender, surprisingly intimate, but could anything feel more right? “My latest shipbuilding company just launched, and we had the opening ceremony at my newest cruise. I would have gotten here on time, but the formalities took longer than expected when a Duke came to send his congratulations.”

You open your mouth to say it’s okay, but you know it’s not. He knows it’s not. It’s already midnight and he made you wait for six hours – no calls, no texts, nothing to inform you he’d run a bit late. It makes you feel stupid for taking the time and effort to dress up, enduring the pain of having Yuuji force you to try on different dresses that would suit you best. It’s embarrassing enough that you don’t have friends to share this moment with. The poor boy had been so excited, too, texting you every hour to ask how it’s going. You just didn’t have the heart to tell him Satoru wasn’t coming.

A pregnant pause settles between you. You see Satoru swallow and fidget with his hands, almost as if he knows you’re disappointed in him. You’re really not, though. At least it wouldn’t be disappointment that you’re feeling. You’re just… hurt.

You look at him one last time. You’re about to call it a night, because you’re a person of punctuality, and you don’t take rejection very well – all of which Satoru has made you feel sensitive over. Right now, you feel humiliated and belittled. Like your time wasn’t worth as much as is. But then you see Satoru, the way he folds in on himself, looking down at his feet and gnawing at his feet that you can’t help that maybe he, too, mustn’t have wanted to miss this.

Sometimes it is so easy to forget Satoru was human too. That he struggled as well, that with his power came with the undeniable fact that this friendship – or whatever this budding relationship is – would not be easy.

You sigh, flicking his nose to call his attention in hopes of lightening the mood.

“I understand your work is more important than a dinner with a friend,” you declare slowly, gauging for his reaction. “But out of courtesy, I would have appreciated an early notice if you couldn’t make it on time.”

Satoru’s face lights up. Pleased with your answer, and undeniably taken aback – he was a master in his craft of sales; he knew the right things to say to get whatever he wanted, but social interactions were not his forte. He realizes though, right in that moment, that it’s something he’d like to work on more. He doesn’t want to see that look on your face again when he ran inside – your crestfallen face, a momentary lapse of relief and worry, and now with hurtful eyes.

“I’ll take note of that,” he promises, already moving to pull out your chair for you. “Shall we have dinner, then?”

“Actually,” you start, with a glint forming in your eye. “I think I’d want to have dinner on this cruise of yours, and maybe I’ll forgive you.”

Smirking at your answer, Satoru tilts his head sideways. “It’s not an everyday occurrence that I have to ask for someone’s forgiveness, so I don’t see why not.”

You liked to think you’re a simple person.

You love nature, and hold the firm belief that whatever is done upon you would always return back to the person. You remember crying in your mother’s arms when you were a little girl, frustrated that humans had tortured their own planet and how you wanted to reverse climate change. Growing up in the countryside surrounded by endless fields of crops and an abundance of greenery, the city and its chaos shook you to your core.

The flashing lights felt blinding and overwhelming. You hated the smell of smoke and pollution, feeling suffocated by the change in atmosphere. You found yourself often glaring at the tall buildings that always stood dominatingly over everyone, as if to say that its towering height could only be reached by those select few.

Its owners stood over you like gods watching from the sky, and they had the power to create their own temples that soared all the way to the sky – a galaxy and universe entirely of their own.

Now, you’re not so sure you still hold that same predicament as you take in the blueness of the sea, the salty breeze nipping at your skin. You welcome it with a shrug of Satoru’s coat around your shoulders, so enamored with the sound of waves lapping against each other. You don’t notice the man standing next to you, or the way he studies your reactions with an amused smile. He realizes you look so innocent like this – your mouth curling into small smiles as you point to the dolphins. The realization comes to him like a sudden splash to his face – that he’s never felt this light before, and it’s always only with you.

After taking you to his cruise, you practically pushed him out of the kitchen as you prepared another meal of two. The meal was nothing short of ravishing, making Satoru momentarily forget about table manners as he inhaled it. The expensive champagne and hors d’oeuvres sloshes around his stomach with each sway of the cruise. Dinner had been pleasant; you were a great listener who gave him his undivided attention – the type that made him squeamish because he felt exposed from the core within. He’d grown up used to people eager to please him, but this was the first time someone had listened to him intently with the intention of knowing him. And when you asked what made him sincerely happy, Satoru realizes that he does not have the answer to everything.

“I’m not sure,” he admits, twirling the fork aimlessly as he tries to avoid your prying gaze. “Happiness is fleeting in my world and… I’ve just never found it. My whole life, all I’ve ever done is work and make my business grow, and I guess I’m happy enough with that.”

You hum in response. He looks up to see you gazing at him, deep in thought. You almost looked sad in that moment – sad for him. It isn’t any later that he realizes you sympathize with him, an emotion he’d been alien to. It goes without saying that you felt the emptiness, the hollowness carved out from Satoru’s heart, and how lonely he’d been all this time. And you found it funny, how someone could have so much, and so very little at the same time.

“Come with me.”

He stares at your outstretched hand. It’s difficult to silence all the voices in his head before he places his hands in yours, trying not to melt when you smile up at him. Gently, you lead him to the balcony – the freshness of the air waking him up from his sense. Due to the fact that Satoru was a perfectionist and had zero tolerance, he designed the cruise himself to its glorious beauty. Yet he remained oblivious to the wonders of it all, the beauty of the moment from where he stood. The sea is calm and soothing, the whole expanse of Tokyo – his empire – visible from he stood. He tells himself the night isn’t beautiful because of the romantic lights, or the jazz music playing from the speakers, but rather it’s the celebrity chef who was starting to grow on him.

From the corner of his eye, he watches your smile grow bigger, your cheeks puffing out from the cold. It’s undeniably adorable. Ever since that night he met you, he’d read a few articles about you, and even had Mei-Mei call publishing companies to give him new copies of whoever featured you. You only had a few pictures taken – his shy, sweet chef – always wearing an apron and never a smile.

To see you with your guard down, looking so happy and free, he might’ve gotten his answer that night.

You were his happiness.

“Doesn’t it look beautiful?” you ask him, smile still so wide, and it is evident you adore nature. He makes a mental note to open an orchidarium soon, or perhaps a tea shop with only the rarest of leaves for brewing, silently hoping he’d get to see more of that smile.

“Yes, it does.”

Indeed, you looked beautiful like this. The bright lights of the city painted your skin in a warm glow. You looked like an ethereal combination between sunset and sunrise, and he swore in that moment you embodied the sea itself. You were calm, quiet, reserved – much like him – but you held this aura from your presence alone that made him feel safe; there was something about you that assured him he could just be… him.

You were like a breath of fresh air, and it would be a waste not to breathe you in.

Satoru calls out your name. When you look up at him, the breeze whips your hair to the side, exposing a set of hesitant eyes that makes him take a tentative step forward. It isn’t the wine, or the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He thinks it’s just you that makes him feel this way – undoubtedly whole and alive. He is not a man fond of making mistakes, and he is not about to make one now and not kiss you.

“Can I kiss you?”

He waits for it – waits for you to tease him, that he doesn’t have to ask. But there’s none of that. There is only the sharp intake of your breath, the minute way you grasp your pearl necklace to yourself. “I-I don’t know how to.”

Satoru steps closer until he’s only a hair’s breadth away. You turn rigid despite yourself, feeling his hand cup the back of your neck. You tilt your head sideways to let him have more access, his warm breath that smelled faintly of wine fanning over your skin.

“May I teach you then?”

You whimper in response, and he holds back a groan at the sound, silently wishing to hear more of it from the future. When his pillowy lips press against yours in the first contact, your eyes remain blown wide as you stare back at his closed ones. Fear settles in you that this is your first kiss, and you have absolutely no idea how to do it. But then he pushes back with a little more force this time, and you close your eyes and moan, your lips moving in rhythm with his. Your hand reaches up to fist the silky fabric of his suit that hugged his muscular figure sinfully. He’s firm and solid under your touch, like an anchor holding you down. And his taste – he tastes like everything you’ve ever wished for, everything you’ve ever wanted. He is the wine you get drunk on, the sugar you lick off your lips, and the taste of heaven on this earth.

Satoru swallows the moans you make, his large hands engulfing your face. With each sound you make, his tongue playfully pokes at your lips, begging for entrance. And you let him, melting at his touch and held up only by his firm grip sliding down to your waist.

The first contact of his tongue coaxing out yours to play has you almost quivering under him. Those large hands come up to the bare skin of your back, his cold skin sending a harsh bite to your warm, flustered one as he holds you steadily. Your other hand reaches out to tug at his hair and he groans, a sound so masculine yet so wanton that a flame burns within you. You find yourself battling your tongue with his – a sensual dance where there are no winners. A minute passes before you two break apart, foreheads pressed against each other as you both try to catch your breath.

“Can I keep going?” He asks, his deep voice faltering due to the lack of breath. You feel triumphant knowing you did that to him. Nodding, he places his hands under your ass and squeezes it in a silent command to jump, and you do so with your hands interlocked at the back of his head. Satoru dips down to kiss you again and turns you into a moaning mess. He rocks his body against you, grinds his muscles to the softness of your body, groaning when his erection presses up to your heat. How he managed to pull away in between kisses is beyond you. “Are you sure about this?” He mumbles against your lips.

“Yes,” you plead, crashing your lips back down to his. And somehow, Satoru stumbles to a room where he finally gets a taste of you.

Satoru is woken up by the harsh lights glaring at him.

Groaning, he places an arm above his eyes before deciding to sit up and start his day. The freshly washed linen of the blanket pools at his waist, and he squints his eyes to take in his surroundings. For a moment, the bedroom is unrecognizable, and when last night’s events become clear to him, he chuckles drily to himself.

Had he gone so far that he no longer recognized his own bedroom? But then again, he rarely went home. His properties all looked differently that he wasn’t surprised anymore.

Your neatly folded dress sits at the bedside table. His shirt – nowhere to be seen. He finds his pants at the pile of clothes left on the floor, though, and he quickly puts them on before the amazing aroma of waffles welcomes his senses. Walking out the room, Satoru is pleased by the sight before him – you in his shirt, bottomless, humming to yourself as you expertly maneuver around his kitchen.

Smiling, Satoru walks to the marbled countertops and wraps an arm around your waist. You stiffen under his hold before you realize it’s him.

“Good morning,” he greets, deep voice still a little croaky and you greet him back, resting your chin on his shoulder as he watches you crack some eggs. “Did you get a good sleep?”

You shrug teasingly and brush your lip against his ear, “Kind of hard not to, after last night’s events.” As you expected, his cheeks soon become dusted in light pink and you chuckle, leaning back to his solid chest with warmth blanketing you.

“Sit down, let’s have breakfast.”

Satoru is more than happy to obey. Munching gratefully, the comfortable silence is almost too good to be true.

It’s been months since you and Satoru started going out. You’ve both done a good job at keeping it from the media so far – a mutual decision because you liked your privacy, and Satoru didn’t want anyone tainting what he held close. He’s grown so accustomed to your presence that half of his closet is filled with your things. You basically lived at his house in Tokyo now, and your body just naturally angles itself in a way that allows him to always have him touching you.

Although you still scrunch your nose in distaste at the thousand dollar monotonous paintings that decorate his walls, you like being with him. You soon learn of his weird habit of not closing doors simply because he’s always surrounded by automatic ones, successfully eradicating his attempts at being a gentleman and having him open doors for you, but you don’t mind. Not really.

The past few months have been nothing but eye-opening for him, as he learns to love for the first time, and he could only hope this feeling in his chest isn’t something fleeting.

You were affectionate, never lacking or selfish when it comes to showing him how much like him, and he’ll admit he likes your kisses more than he’d like to accept, and that’s how he knows this relationship isn’t one sided. Still, the small fear that settles at the back of his head remains, that maybe you don’t love him, or at least, you’re not there yet. Watching you prepare his breakfast every morning, however, Satoru’s worries are silenced. He’ll worry about that another time.

He finishes first and moves to do the dishes, the loud running of water muting your hurried footsteps behind his. He can’t help but smile when you eagerly take the sponge from his gloved hands and look at him determinedly.

“What are you doing?” He asks teasingly, and you stick your tongue at him.

“Move, Gojo. We both know you don’t know how to wash dishes.”

Even after months of being with you, he’s still not used to the fact that he – a man everyone admired and – could experience a love like this someday.

You scrunch your nose up cutely that it takes all of his willpower not to bend down and kiss it. “I said move! Scoot your cute butt out of here.”

“Baby, it’s okay, I know you don’t know how to do it and I don’t mind. Besides, I have to learn to do this. What if we get married and have children, I obviously can’t let you do everything by yourself.”

You freeze at his words, your thick-rimmed glasses sliding off your nose awkwardly. Your whole life, you’ve dreamt of love, and imagined settling down and having your own family. Despite your rising fame and success, turning you into one of the wealthiest women in your country, you never planned to live as a celebrity chef for the rest of your life. You wanted to live simply, much like your parents, and to spend the rest of your days in a farm.

You’ve thought it about before, of course, the possibly of marrying Satoru.

But the thought had been too ridiculous at the moment. Satoru was always somewhere far away, rising from his seat with practiced elegance as he received yet another presitigious award for his endless accomplishments. The cameras would be pointed his way, and he basked under the spotlight. He thrived in it.

Your silence doesn’t go unnoticed by him. He watches as you revert back to your expressionless face, eyes looking directly forward at the white tiled backsplash of his sink that you know cost thousands. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.”

And it is true, you aren’t bothered by the least bit. Surprised, definitely, but you’re beyond elation at this point. You realize it doesn’t matter that you probably won’t get to live the life you want if you marry him – because he’s all you want. If giving it all up meant being with him, you would do so in a heartbeat.

Which is why you grit your teeth silently as you attend your first ball overseas, latched onto Satoru’s arm. You don’t miss the way everyone scrutinizes the seemingly average looking woman next to Japan’s darling.

Satoru doesn’t notice that you’re a bundle of nerves. He smiles brightly at the multitude of cameras pointed your way, making sure to show off the Gojo heirloom he decorated you with. It’s a gold ring with a hundred mini diamonds encrusted in it, the characters ‘Gojo’ engraved underneath. A horde of reports soon come into view, and instinctively, you duck your head when the lights become overwhelming. They all spew out questions asking since when the two of you have been dating – and this is the part you hated the most.

The part where your life becomes a piece for the people to feast on, instead of something you made for yourself.

You opt to stay silent and let Satoru answer everything. He isn’t fazed by the least bit, answering them confidently, although not giving away too much personal information. He tells them you’ve been dating for a year now, and it’s evident in his eyes that he feels strongly for you. Not a moment later, the cameras pan your way, the people eager to hear your side of the story.

“Chef, how have you managed to steal his heart?”

“As the old saying goes, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” you tell them, your heart beating a mile a minute from the discomfort of too much attention. You turn to your fiancé in hopes of consolation. He smiles at you encouragingly, the warmth and adoration pooling behind it immediately dissipates your nervousness. “As long as it’s for him, I don’t mind going to the moon and back.”

They seem satisfied with that answer, and you find yourselves in the front cover of both local and foreign magazines, the world crazed about the latest couple.

Satoru is lying on his tiger fur rug with crossed legs, leafing through every page of your photo album. His free hand absentmindedly rubs circles where it’s settled at your hip, the sound of his breathing steady and almost lulling. Yet, you’re bothered by everything lately – how you’re being reminded of everything you don’t like about this world – his world.

They don’t even know the real you. How could the world go from praising you for your skills in cooking, to being both shamed and admired for being engaged to Satoru? Your heart clenched at the multiple headlines that called you a gold-digger.

As if you didn’t have your own money.

“Hey,” Satoru mumbles, twisting a little from his position. You’re looking at everywhere but him, your heart heavy and mind a mess. It’s too late when Satoru notices the dark circles rimmed under your eyes, and he cups your face worriedly, tilting your chin to make you look into his eyes. Your own face has fallen, your eyes sad. He immediately feels guilt, unaware of what he made you endure at his expense.

Perhaps he wasn’t as observant as he claimed to be. Ever since he’s announced your relationship, you’ve received countless criticism from the public. Satoru never said a word about it, thinking these strangers’ words wouldn’t affect you, or that it didn’t matter because who were they, anyway? And you never spoke about it either, not wanting to put a heavier weight on his already burdened shoulders.

“I’ll take care of it, alright? I promise.”

You know what he means.

It means he’ll end up spending a lot of money – although to him it’s probably just a penny – as he has Mei-Mei get rid of those negative articles. You know he has enough power to shut down even an entire publishing company who attempted to say anything bad about you. You don’t want him doing any of that, abusing his power and throwing around his money just because he can.

Shaking your head, you reach forward and press your face against his chest. “You don’t have to do that. I just have to prove to everyone I am worthy of you.”

It is way past four in the morning, and you wake up with a stir, only to find the light of Satoru’s laptop illuminating his worn-out face. In front of him are a plethora of reports, glasses perched on top of his face. You sit up with a stretch, and he jumps a little at the movement.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“No,” you answer, rubbing your eyes tiredly and looking at his work. You don’t understand half of it, but you knows it’s something about a new hotel he’s planning on developing somewhere in the country. “It’s late. Why are you still working?”

“Business is business,” he shrugs, focusing his attention back to his work. The development plan has just finished, and the cost of construction is nothing but another penny less to his account.

The silence in the room stills. You strain your ears to listen to the sound of a faint clock ticking, Satoru’s steady breathing calming your nerves. His eyes are droopy and tired, and he lets out an exhausted sigh. Reaching over to pull the laptop away from him, you gently place your head above his beating heart. His shirt smells faintly of floral detergent, and you fist the fabric underneath your fingers.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t need to.

He places a soft kiss at the crown of your head, once, then twice, and a small smile fights through your face. The rhythmic thumping of his heart is just underneath your open palm, and you realize that Satoru is like the man-made river outside your house. He is calm, steady, always lulling you into a state of relaxation, and the music that is his love hums softly through your nerves until he places himself inside your heart.

The darkness of your room is a huge contrast to the flashing lights always directed his way, but it fits perfectly. Satoru is silent, even if he always brought attention to himself, and his muscles are firm underneath your touch.

His bicep curls around you to wrap you in a one arm embrace while his other hand rubs your back soothingly, and your bare thigh brushes against his groin. An innocent and accidental gesture, but it has your nerves firing up, and it just occurred to you how small you seem inside his arms. You found it funny, since Satoru could threaten to take away everything from you, yet you don’t feel like that around him. Here, you feel safe, warm, accepted.

You nuzzle closer to him with a frown.

“Take me somewhere.”

His chest vibrates with a hum, “Where do you want to go?”

“Take me to where your heart desires. Show me where you want to spend the rest of your life.”

Satoru can’t contain the smile that graces his face, and he holds your hand as you stare at Leiden in awe. He’s decided to take a one week break, and soon the two of you were nestled against each other in his private jet, and he’s not sure if he’s ever felt this happy before.

He learns that you love art and fancy medieval paintings the most, and you bounce happily when he takes you to one of the art museums.

Leiden is rich in history and culture, that much is evident with how the people still keep their traditions alive, and while it is still quite a popular city, the toned down bustling of people will always be a much preferred scene for him than Tokyo. The two of you have rented a bike to Noordwijk Beach, and you make him promise to swim with you there the next day. Wordlessly, he nods, basking in the way the warm light emitted from lampposts turns you into an ethereal being.

After returning the bikes into the rental shop, you swing your intertwined hands back and forth, pointing excitedly and exclaiming your delight at the lakes that surrounded the city.

A windmill sits in the middle of the city, and Satoru falls in love with the place even more. A smile is permanently etched into your face, and his heart manages to stutter even after being with you for so long, but he can’t help it. Lifting your interlocked hands to his lips, he kisses your palm, a fine pink dusting his cheeks as you stare at him incredulously. A moment passes before you giggle, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek.

Satoru didn’t know it was possible to blush even harder.

His stomach growls in hunger and you chuckle, leading him to one of your restaurants. Your waiters and chefs greet you excitedly, surprised that the owner dropped by unannounced. You lift a hand to tell them not to worry – you’re not here to evaluate anything. You’re simply on vacation, and you had full trust in your people. The pleased look decorating the customer’s face said enough that you didn’t have much to worry about.

Shrugging off your coat and placing it on the back of your chair, Satoru watches as you place your head in your palms, eyes directed outside the window. Outside lay the lake and a bunch of canoes housing the body of water, old couples walking around with wines hidden in paper bags, and the soft chatter and melodious laughter ringing from every corner of the place has him believing that perhaps this is paradise.

“Have you ever been before?”

“Once,” he replies with a small smile. “I came here for business. That hotel is mine.”

He points to a building that resembles a medieval castle, and you adjust the glasses perched on your nose to see it better. “Why am I not surprised?”

Letting out an amused laugh at your question, the both of you soon dig into the dish, bellies rumbling in satisfaction. You are half drunk on the way back to the small villa you rented, and he doesn’t question why you didn’t choose to stay at his hotel instead. There’s a little tumble to your steps as you stagger forward, mumbling incoherent words. Satoru presses you closer to his warm body to prevent you from falling forwards, his eyes crinkling when you tell him how much you love him. His heart whines at your words, because you’ve never told him that, and even though you’re drunk, he thinks he will be as equally euphoric if you tell him sober. He actually feels a little ashamed you said it before him because he’s planning to tell you sooner than later, and he clears his throat before pulling away from you.

You frown at his action.

Licking his lips nervously, Satoru pulled out a velvet box and went down on one knee.

“I know you’re drunk and this ring is a little too expensive than you’d like, but I don’t think there’s a better time for this, and we’ve been dating for so long that I just wanted to let you know–”

Grumbling in annoyance under your breath as an attempt to conceal your shaking knees, you lean down and pull him harshly by his collar to press your lips against his.

Satoru stiffens underneath your touch. He stops breathing, eyes wide from surprise. You only pull away when he doesn’t respond, your glasses sliding off your nose and bumping into yours. He lifts a hand to his wet lips, looking at you like you’ve just assaulted him, and judging by how plump lips looked red and swollen, you probably did. Not that he’d complain, of course.

“Of course I’ll marry you.”

Satoru lets out a nervous laugh that is laced with elation, his breath coming out in cold fogs due to the cold weather. His hands are shaking as he struggles to wear the ring around your hand, to which you roll your eyes and wear it yourself. He looks sheepish for a moment, scratching the back of his head, but you can’t find yourself to care.

This is where you belong, with him, in Leiden, and little did you know that you were fulfilling his dreams one by one.

The both of you walk back home with bashful grins coated in glee.

Satoru feels stupid that he suddenly feels shy. It would be a lie to say he’s dreamt of this ever since he was a child because he grew up knowing very little of it. He’s never dated nor felt any attraction for someone, always focusing on his work and further expanding the business to the best of his abilities. He never dreamt marrying for love could be a possibility. That this was now his reality. And when you steal a peck to his cheek that makes his face heat up further, he realizes nothing has ever felt more right.

You’re the only one he would ever need.

To say that you’re ecstatic to plan the wedding would be an understatement. Ever since you came back to Tokyo with hearts overflowing with joy, you could no longer contain the love you had for your fiance. You’d been looking at endless articles of what makes a wedding perfect, and you already had your wedding dress in mind.

The food tasting appointment you had this weekend was on hold since Satoru still had a tight schedule, something about the launch of a new resort in Bali, but he comes back to you with tired eyes and a satisfied smile.

“Hey,” you greet, rising from the couch to help him with his bags. Not that you needed to, Mei-Mei and Toji were already taking care of them, but you still wanted to be of help. Shrugging off his coat, Satoru plops down the couch with a groan. “Long day?”

He pops one eye open to offer a languid smile, “Long week, babe. I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you mumble, going behind him and massaging his stiff shoulders. Satoru lets out a moan at the sensation. And you? You can’t help but smile when you see that your engagement ring is still wound around his finger, and you wonder if the press had already noticed and started making a fuss about what you knew would be the wedding of the century.

Truth be told, you preferred the wedding to be small – with just your family and close friends. Satoru didn’t have any, but you respected his decision of hiring a wedding planner whose service cost a million. You protested at first, thinking it was unnecessary, but Satoru had already given you the check. The wedding planner seemed genuinely pleased to be working with you as well, leaving you with no other choice but to press your mouth into a thin line.

Ah, now that you think about it… “Are you free this Thursday? I wanted to introduce you to my parents.”

He stands up from the couch and walks to your shared bedroom, gently dragging you along with him. “Introduce me? Shouldn’t your parents already know me?”

You force a small smile as you bury yourself underneath the covers. “I meant formally, they’re going to be your parents soon, too.”

“Okay… talk to Mei-Mei to schedule that.”

You fight the urge to raise a brow. You couldn’t see the need to talk to his secretary to have time with your fiancé, but like you have been doing for the past few months, you only nod. Satoru wraps his arms around your waist after that, and it doesn’t take long before sleep blankets you both.

Somehow, you’d always known.

A relationship with Satoru wouldn’t be easy. There was too much unwanted attention and too little time to be with him. But he was worth the wait.

The food tasting went well. He ended up being more than pleased at your food choices, and you even bump your hips against his. Satoru wanted a cake that was two feet tall, with golden drapes hanging from the rods, silently demanding for caviar to be included. You shrugged it off, not minding his preferences as you continued speaking to the chef. The poor man had been trembling ever since Satoru walked in the kitchen, his phone pulled out and constantly interrupting the tasting as he speaks to his clients.

You felt bad for the old man, you really did. He was far more skilled than you, and you shook his hand politely before walking back to Satoru’s limousine.

It was finally time to meet your parents.

Reaching out for your fiancé, Satoru flicks your hand away. He shoots you an irritated look as he gestures to his phone, as if to say not to interrupt him during an important phone call. Reluctantly you retract your hand, biting the inside of your cheek as you let him go back to his business. Hurt and undeniably upset, you distract yourself with the small iPad on the seat in front of you, watching a lame show about fashion runways and whatnot.

“Yes, I know,” Satoru says through the phone, exasperated as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “What do you mean he can’t make it on time? He needs to be there to check the labels – you know what? Whatever, fire him, I’ll go there myself.”

Sensing his distress, you turn to him. He’s huffing and crossing his arms against his chest, a livid expression on his face. You don’t ask what happened because you know you won’t understand. You’re only happy Satoru finally lets you hold his hand. Pressing his head against the seat, Satoru squeezes your palm, watching as the familiar buildings of the city soon blur into a scenery of corn fields and flowery land.

To be truthful, you think he’s a little too overdressed for this occasion. He’s wearing the latest Burberry collection, the shades he’d pulled to shield his sensitive eyes from the sunset a little too… flashy. But, you thought to yourself, Satoru could do whatever he wanted.

Finally, after a long and grueling car ride that seemed to last forever, you reached your destination.

You immediately run to the farmhouse, leaving behind Satoru in your excitement. You’d been away from your parents too long that you missed them dearly. Behind you, Satoru tries to keep up his face – gladly welcoming the fresh air. From afar, the door to your house opens as you tackle a small, older woman into your arms.

Satoru’s gait is slow, precise, and elegant. He walked with purpose, standing behind you silently as he witnessed the sweet exchange between you and your mother. It’s then he notices, when your mother looks up from your shoulders, that her eyes twinkled the same you did whenever you saw him. She’s sweet, and a little too bubbly, as she welcomes him to your humble home.

And as if you’ve sensed his uneasiness, you look back to Satoru and offer an encouraging smile.

The entirety of your house is as large as his bathroom. And your couch squeaks uncomfortably when he sits on it. The leather is tattered and foam springs out from the little cracks and you almost look embarrassed, but he kisses your cheek to reassure you he doesn’t mind. Your father soon emerges from the kitchen holding a fresh pot of tea that he offers, and Satoru takes a hesitant sip – your family anxiously gauging his reaction.

The tea… It was actually sweet and better than anything he’s ever had, and when his cheeks start to warm from the attention, you all start laughing for no reason.

Satoru joins in the laughter. He doesn’t know why he did when he found nothing funny, but felt that it was the most appropriate reaction.

It was no wonder then that you were such an amazing chef. You must’ve inherited it from your father’s impeccable cooking skills. The stew he prepared was amazing, and Satoru had to control himself from slurping the beef stew – it tasted that good. Dinner was absolutely amazing, and you kept laughing and smiling from your seat as you conversed with your parents. Satoru doesn’t think he’s ever seen you this happy.

The baby pink turtleneck sweater you wore highlighted the softness of your heart, and even a blind man could see you really missed your parents. He felt like a stranger then; someone who watched from the outside as your mother reaches over the table to wipe a rice grain from the corner of your mouth. You whine at her gesture, obviously not wanting to be treated like a little kid.

“Mum, that’s embarrassing. I’m with the love of my life, you know,”

He almost chokes at his spoon when you say that, and your mother grins at him. “I wouldn’t worry about that, my dear, it looks like he really loves you no matter what.”

“Yes, Mother,” he agrees, squeezing your thighs from under the table, “I really do.”

There was a warmth in your home that he’d never known, and laughter was always present. Much like you, your father was a man of few words and passed out on the couch after three bottles of soju, leaving you and your mom to clean up after dinner.

Satoru offered to help, only to receive amused glances as if you knew he couldn’t do it. Embarrassed, he excused himself as you cleaned up, and sat on the curb outside your house.

From his peripheral vision, he could see Toji beside the car, standing tall and straight. The cold breeze from the countryside made his dark hair blow across the wind. As if feeling there were eyes on him, Toji peered at Satoru, nodding politely before looking straight ahead. His suit was Giorgo Armani, the one he’d gifted him on his birthday last year. He’s well-aware that Toji ended up making more money driving for him than you ever could with your restaurant.

And this was his reality. This was his world.

Someone like Satoru shouldn’t be sitting on the molded curb of a farmhouse with nothing but mountain and hills surrounding him. The moon and the stars were the only things that gave light to the field, and it was too humble for his liking. He didn’t belong here – that much was clear – and even the scarecrow standing a few feet away from him seemed to agree with its mocking glare.

Much too soon for his liking, Satoru feels a wool sweater being wrapped around his shoulders. He turns to you, a smile already on your face as you plopped down beside him. Playing with your fingers, you keep your gaze down at your feet, hesitant and nervous.

“Satoru… I know you won’t like it, but I’d like to wear my Mom’s wedding dress. It’s fine if you say no, I know you had Vera Wang make an entire collection for me already, but I thought I had to let you know…”

Satoru starts to play with the straw in front of him. He sighs, fiddling his smooth fingers around it before he clutches your hand in his lap. He’d held you a thousand times before, and yet he couldn’t remember if your skin was rough or smooth – only that it felt warm and he liked holding it. And as if he couldn’t help himself, his gaze studied you – how your boots are a little too big on your feet, and you smelled faintly of hay unlike the Maison Francis Kurkdjian perfume he’d gotten you. It was limited edition, too, and he’d had to pull strings just to get you one.

And you couldn’t even wear it for tonight.

An almost choked sob leaves his throat, his heart clenching uncomfortably. He did want you to wear your mother’s wedding dress. Being here, away from the press and businessmen who always tried to mess up his deals when he worked honestly, made him feel like for once – he was a normal human being. That he wasn’t some god whose footsteps were worshipped.

Your mother had welcomed him warmly, and she didn’t even gush about the expensive fabrics of his clothes. She saw him as if he was her own son, and he supposed soon enough he would be, but would he be good enough? She’d raised her daughter as a warm, loving, and humble person. You were down to earth and loved to stay solid and grounded – Satoru was a man who always reached for the stars.

What did that make you then? His fall from the heavens?

Satoru wonders how much of his thoughts were written on his face. You watched him, brows dipped downwards with a clenched jaw. He knows you’re fighting back something to say. He was too familiar with that look – since Mei-Mei always looked like that. The type of expression etched into his employees’ faces when he shouted at them for their incompetence, and they felt the need to defend themselves. They never did, out of fear Satoru would fire them.

Although you never said it, your face said it all.

He remembers the longing gazes you had to the farmhouses in Leiden with its windmill barns, or how your smile got bigger when a cute kid walked by and waved at you both. You don’t need to say anything because he knows what you’re thinking – that you’re blinded by your love for him.

He still remembers that damned event when your grip on his cat got a little tighter, how your hairline beaded with sweat as you kept fidgeting. You’d been uncomfortable that night, as you always did when you were in his world. You weren’t like this – placid, unreserved, happy.

And now he’s in your world. The words bubble up in your throat, wanting to wipe that disappointed look in his handsome face. You knew even if you say it now, Satoru wouldn’t listen or understand. And it’s funny – how he asked you to marry him, and how willing you were to give up on your dreams if it meant being with him. Even if it meant throwing yourself into unwanted attention, only to be criticized mercilessly – because that’s what it took to be with him.

He was a man with an empire, but with it came the price of being someone who destroyed others.

Somehow, it never crossed your mind it might include you, too.

“You’re right,” he says after a moment, “I would rather you wear Vera Wang’s gown. I hope you don’t find any offense in it, but our wedding will be the wedding of the century. I can’t have you wearing a nameless gown when the whole world will be looking.”

Your grip on his hand tightens for a second before it loosens. Satoru watches, with a heavy heart and an aching soul, as you nod slowly. Forcing a smile on your face, you stood up and walked away from him. You bid your farewells soon after that, with Satoru cringing the moment your parents began to refer to him as their ‘son.’

The whole ride back home is silent.

You’re passed out on his side, your soft snores filling the silence. Satoru reaches over to caress your cheek before leaning back in his seat, clenching his teeth hard to stop the tears from falling. He couldn’t put it into words – the air of finality settling over you once you reach his penthouse.

You’re exhausted from the day, stripping your clothes off before burying yourself under the covers. Your arm seeks out the familiar feeling of having him close next to you, and he indulges you, burying his face against the crook of your neck one more time – one last time. When you mumble his name in your sleep, Satoru swallows the lump forming on his throat, biting down on his lip before gazing at you – knowing you’d been his, knowing he’d miss this. Miss you.

And perhaps that’s what hurts the most – that he’s already missing you when you’re pressed up next to him, that he’s already mourning the presence of someone who he hasn’t lost yet.

But he knew, the end was inevitably near.

So he kisses you, long and hard enough that it hopes it leaves an imprint. You’re unaware of it all, still deep in your slumber even when his eyes betray him and a tear falls. The teardrop lands on your cheek before it slides down your jaw.

Above you, Satoru’s shoulders are shaking and he wants to laugh – because he’s never cried before. He’s never cried when his own friends tried to sabotage him. He’s never cried when the whole world called him a heartless demon walking in the body a wannabe man. He never cried when the world misunderstood him, yet here he was, perfectly content being in your arms, even if he doesn’t deserve it.

For once in his life, Satoru wanted to do what was right. If he couldn’t stop himself from ruining things and hurting those around him, then perhaps this time around he could prevent the only good thing to ever happen to him from shattering.

No amount of money would be able to give you what you truly wanted, and that’s all he had. Satoru had nothing but money, had nothing but it to offer aside from giving you back your freedom. He may be the one that you loved, and for that he would always be grateful, but he was also old enough to know that sometimes, love simply wasn’t enough. You had your own world, and Satoru had the entire universe.

The only world where the two of you could live happily was the one you spent apart from each other.

Unwrapping his arm around yours, Satoru silently trudges to the bedside table to wear his coat and shoes. Giving you one last glance, he takes off his engagement ring, and places it beside the framed photo of you and him in Leiden – this time with no flashing lights.

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru angst #gojo satoru #satoru x reader #gojo x you #gojo x you angst #gojo x reader angst #gojo x reader fluff #gojo satoru x reader fluff #gojo satoru x reader angst #jjk x reader #jjk angst #jjk x reader fluff #gojo x you fluff #gojou x reader #gojou x reader angst #gojou x reader fluff #gojo satoru fluff

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yanderemommabean · 2 months ago

Note

You did not in fact hear the last of the yandere opener and headliner, I just passively kept them in my brain with vague scenarios that weren’t worth sharing but now that has changed because I got tickets for a show in that same venue with a band that has similar vibes to them and now it’s gone from “What if they took me with them on their bus that night” to “What if they missed their chance and now have been staking out the rock shows in the city in hopes of finding me again.” (Also I felt I didn’t give the the headliner the attention he deserves so this is my apology to him.)

The two of them both simmering together in their want for me for months, resulting in them being a little more cooperative than they would be otherwise. They spent the rest of the tour picking up groupies that bear some resemblance to me to take the edge off, but they know they won’t be satisfied with cheap knockoffs. The only information they know about me is the name I gave to the opener when I met him at the merch table and the fact that I seemed to really enjoy their type of music. The headliner uses his connections to keep an eye on the reservations for as many rock shows in the city he can, and when the opener confirms one particular name as mine, they know they’ve hit the jackpot. And better yet, they have a few months to plan. They’ve waited this long, what’s a little more?

Day of the show, there I am by myself at the front of the line, scrolling though my phone as I wait for the doors to open. When I get a sense that someone’s standing near me, who do I see but the opener, who seems just as pleasantly surprised to meet again. We pass the time chatting away, with me none the wiser to the headliner behind the closed doors setting everything into motion. A little threat to security should they get in the way, a little bribe to the bartenders to look the other way should something wind up in my drink. By the time the crowd starts to pour in, he’s already taken his seat in a dark VIP table in the corner, watching me strut in with the opener’s arm slung around me.

Is he a little jealous that he doesn’t get to be the one cozying to me during the show? Absolutely, but he can begrudgingly admit that the opener was the one who built a rapport with me last time and is the ideal distraction. Less impulsive, less recognizable, less threatening. The fact that he was promised that I’d be bunking with him that first night if he let the opener have his fun tonight definitely didn’t hurt his resolve.

On his end, the opener’s on cloud nine from the moment I greeted him with a smile. With no barrier or merch table between us, he can smell my perfume, feel the heat radiating off my skin, hear every little giggle as he chats me up. It’s taking every ounce of his self control not to just pull me into a dark hallway and devour me, but he knows all good things come to those who wait. So he flirts and he dotes, taking in every word I say like it’s the new gospel, breaking down my walls bit by bit. As we stroll inside, he leans in to give me a quick kiss, saying he’ll be right back with our drinks and leaving while I’m still too flustered to object.

I don’t buy a single one of my drinks all night. Every time I start running low, there he is with a refill and an innocent smile, even as I tell him I should slow down, feeling dizzy and lethargic by the third drink. He coos that he’s seen me drink more than this before, I can handle more, he knows I can. Before the band performing that night has even completed their sound check, I’m wasted and incoherent, and just a little afraid as I finally pick up on how weird it really is seeing a man who lives a few hundred miles from this city again. Not that it does me much good as I collapse into his arms, the last thing I see being his eyes, gleaming with emotions I don’t want to think about.

For a second he holds me and just looks at me, moving some of my hair out of my face as he considers my unconscious form. It would be so easy to call off the deal, to snatch me away for his own fun. He wouldn’t even have to restrain me. I’d look so pretty, laid out on his bed for the taking, unable to protest or fight back. Just as he really starts to consider it, the headliner is there to grab his arm and start pulling him toward the fire escape. It’s for the best. The headliner would be insufferable if he felt cheated, and besides, it wouldn’t be half as much fun not getting to hear me cry and moan for him.

As I start to stir, the first thing I process is a tight pressure around my waist and a warm body behind me. Instinctively, I begin to shift and tiredly tug at my unknown restraint, only serving for it to get tighter as a low voice chuckles in my ear making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “‘Bout time.” My faculties properly returning, the panic quickly takes over my mind. Before I can get more than a quick thrash in, however, the arm around my waist pulls back and two strong hands grab my wrists, rolling me onto my stomach with a heavy weight pinning me down. It’s only as I’m forced into such a vulnerable position that I become starkly aware of my missing clothes. The stranger on top of me is slowly rutting against my ass, a prominent clothed hardness pushing into my skin in teasing, exploring motions. A deep groan of satisfaction comes from above me. “Fuuuck, you feel just as good as I’d imagined you would under me.” A particularly insistent thrust draws a whimper from my throat, and I feel the hands around my wrists tighten in barely contained excitement. “Maybe even better.”

My wrists are released, the man on top of me still planted too firmly on me for me to get more than a few squirms under him. My blood runs cold as I hear first the sound of a shirt being discarded somewhere in my periphery, and freezes solid at the unmistakeable sound of a belt coming undone. My struggle renews, but my arms are grabbed once more, yanked behind my back and secured together with the tight leather. Tears of confusion, fear, and humiliation begin to pour from my eyes, but all they get me is a condescending pat on the shoulder blades as I feel his hot cock now push directly against me, a hiss of pleasure slipping through his teeth. Not even bothering to get fully undressed, I feel the teeth of his jeans biting into my thighs as he slides his dick back and forth across my cunt, the head rubbing against my clit over and over again as I close my eyes and try not to think about how good it feels.

As he feels my cunt get wetter with every push against my sensitive bundle of nerves, the headliner can feel his mind go more and more blank. He’d dreamt for so long about what this pussy would feel like cupping his dick and none of those fantasies measured up to the real thing. Unable to hold back anymore, the hand that isn’t holding my arms hostage reaches down to adjust his angle, pushing directly against my hole. The reaction is immediate. My struggles renew yet again, panicked cries begging him not to do it, to let me go, but he’s barely even registering my words as he thrusts into me, his head finally consumed by the wet warmth he’s craved for months. He can’t help the deep groan that comes out overtop my pitiful crying, nor can he help the automatic push of his hips to force more inside of me, stretching me painfully as he sinks deeper and deeper.

When he finally gets all the way down to the hilt, he stops for a moment, panting, appreciating the sigh before him. My pretty makeup for the show smudged into his pillows, my shoulders heaving with painful sobs, my wrists still pushing against their restraints in hope of freedom. He’s never seen something quite so beautiful. One of his hands gently glides across my torso, taking in every curve as he gives my body a chance to adjust. His hand finally comes to rest firmly on my shoulder as he leans down until I can feel his hot breath against my face. His low, vaguely familiar voice murmuring empty platitudes into my ear, urging me to just relax and let it happen as his hips begin to stir in impatience.

Tired of waiting for me to hurry vu and accept him, the headliner pushes himself back up, gripping the belt tight and holding my hip as be begins to rail me into the mattress. Months of longing, of desperation, of frustration all coming out as once as he drives into my cunt, slamming into my g-spot again and again. I can’t even hold onto the mattress to ground myself, fingernails cutting into my palm as I try not to lose myself in the feeling. As I bite down my moans and whines, above me, he openly groans and rambles. “God, such a good tight little pussy. Knew you’d feel good, but holy shit, baby. You’re fucking divine. Taking me so fucking well, this is what you were born to do, huh?”

Between the filth spewing from how mouth, the thick cock pounding my insides, and my clit rubbing against the sheets with every rock of his hips, I never stood a chance. I cum within a minute, screaming into the pillow, body tensing and writhing as the high takes me over. Throughout it all, he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow. No, all he does is let go of my hip in favor of grabbing my hair, yanking my face up from the pillow. For the first time, I finally get a good long look at the stranger treating me like a living sex toy, and if I wasn’t already high off the nonstop waves of overstimulation, I’d have screamed again in horror at the sight of the renowned musician grinning down at me with a mad, loving gleam in his eye. “That quick, huh? Oh, we’re gonna have SO much fun with you.”

Across the hall, in his own bedroom, the opener lays back in bed, serenaded by the sounds of me crying in pleasure from the other side of the apartment the two had rented. While he regrets not taking me when he had the chance, he can’t deny the sounds of me being thrown over the edge over and over made for beautiful music. His own dick twitches from the confines of his boxers, but while he lazily palms over it, he decides against fully taking care of it.

After all, tomorrow is his turn, and he’d hate to spend that energy before the main event.

AAAHHH!!!! YES YES YES YES YES!!!! I love your brain!!! ugh I'm so addicted to how you describe things too, the way they grunt and taunt, how they roughly yank on the belt, how the zippers press against you- This was amazing!!!!

100/10 eating this again and again and again and again and again and again and-

-Mommabean

#yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #mommabean #yandere headliner #yandere band #yandere dubcon #yandere noncon #dubcon tw #noncon tw #yandere opener #poly yandere #ish #yandere male #yandere x you #anon confessions are amazing #anon asks

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luna-eclipse2000 · 1 year ago

Text

An Unexpected Surprise

How the AOT boys react to an unexpected pregnancy

Ft: Eren, Armin, Jean, Marco, Levi and Reiner

Trigger warnings: Mentions of sickness, pregnancy complications

Eren

- You get home from work at four and decide to sit for a half hour before making dinner

- You decide to make Eren his favourite since he warned you that this project he was going to be working on would be long

- You’ve made him this meal dozens of times before so you’re absolutely shocked when you feel instantly nauseous upon smelling the ingredients

- “God, what the hell? Is this all rotten?”

- You check the packages and see that none are even close to the best before date

- You still feel sick so you go to grab something to drink, but the movement sends you over the edge and you end up having to throw up in the sink

- “Shit… What’s going on?”

- You wipe your mouth with a paper towel

- You start to wrack your brain for anything that might’ve made you sick

- When you remember your night with Eren the last time you went on a date

- “Oh, no… Please no…”

- He comes home one night after a long day at work

- When I say long, I mean it

- He usually gets home around 5, but today he’s home at 7

- So he’s assuming that you made dinner and are waiting for him at the table

- Not that he expects you to cook for him

- He’s just assuming because of the time and the fact that you weren’t picking up his calls

- So imagine his confusion when he sees an empty table and a completely clean kitchen

- He checks outside and sees that your car is there

- “(Y/N)?”

- You don’t respond, so he calls out again

- When you still don’t respond, he gets increasingly worried

- So he runs upstairs to your bedroom and he still doesn’t see you

- But when he turns to go check out other rooms, he sees you on the floor of the master bathroom with your knees tucked up into your chest

- “(Y/N)?” He asks softly

- He heads straight into the bathroom and kneels down beside you

- “Sweetie, I was so worried. Why weren’t you answering me?”

- You look up at him and that’s when he sees that you’ve been crying

- “What’s wrong? Did someone say something to you? I’ll kick their asses, just say the word”

- “I-I’m sorry…”

- “Hey, don’t apologize. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

- You point to the counter silently

- He stands up and turns around to see five different pregnancy tests

- All of them are positive

- “Wait… You’re pregnant?”

- That phrase causes you to start crying again

- “I’m sorry!”

- He immediately kneels back down in front of you

- “Hey, it’s ok. Why are you apologizing?”

- “Because we’re not ready for a baby, and we never even talked about if we wanted kids or not.”

- He gently takes your hand and kisses your knuckles

- “I’m with you all the way, ok? No matter if you choose to keep the baby or not. If you want this, then we’ll get you everything you need to keep you both safe. If you don’t, then we’ll schedule an appointment in the morning.”

- You wipe your tears from your cheeks

- “I… I always did want to be a mom.”

- You can see his eyes light up at your decision

- “Really? You want to keep it?”

- You nod and start smiling

- He pulls you into a hug

- “We’re gonna be parents! You’re going to be amazing, I know it.”

Armin

- You started to prepare for your period since your app told you it was about to start

- But then it didn’t

- Two days later and it still didn’t start

- Now you’re getting nervous

- So you quickly go into incognito mode on your phone and search up reviews about different pregnancy tests

- Once you’re satisfied with two different brands, you wait for him to go off to a meeting before heading out and grabbing the tests

- You grab two of each just in case either gives a false result

- But each come back positive

- Now you’re terrified

- And when you’re terrified, you don’t tell anyone because you want to ignore the reality

- But your subconscious exposes you

- And the fact that Armin is so damn observant

- “Yeah, grandpa. We’ll definitely be there.” He says into his phone. “Yes, (Y/N) will make the stuffing you all love so much. Ok. Bye, grandpa.”

- He hangs up his phone and heads to the living room where you’re sitting

- You’re wrapped up in a blanket, something you only do when you’re upset or not feeling good

- “We’re gonna be going to my grandpa’s for thanksgiving this year.” Armin tells you. “Everyone can’t wait for your famous stuffing.”

- “I’m not going.” You tell him

- “Why not?” He asks. “Did something happen last time?”

- You shake your head and pull the blanket tighter around you

- Armin walks around the couch and sits beside you

- “Is everything alright? You can tell me, you know.“

- “Everything is fine.” You assure him, despite knowing that he doesn’t believe you

- “Ok, and now the truth.” He says. “I know you better than that, angel. Your smiles have been empty for days, you’ve been binging your comfort show, and you’ve only eaten things like nuggets and mac and cheese.”

- Armin stands up and walks away

- You didn’t think he’d react like this

- You weren’t expecting him to jump for joy

- But you thought he’d hug you and tell you everything would be alright

- That he’d hold your hand through the whole thing

- You hear him running back down the stairs and know that he’s got a bag packed

- You can practically hear him say-

- “Will you marry me?”

- What?

- Your eyes fly open and you see him kneeling in front of you

- He’s got tears in his beautiful blue eyes

- “What?” You asks aloud

- “I’ve been wanting to ask you for months now. Grandpa gave me my grandmother’s ring when I told him. I wanted to ask you at the beach where we met but… this felt perfect. We’re gonna have a family and I want you to know that I’ll be with you throughout this, and forever. Please, (Y/N). My beautiful (Y/N). Marry me.”

- You start crying again but with tears of joy

- “Yes!”

- He laughs and takes your hand from the blanket

- He kisses your knuckles as he places the ring on your finger

- He then cups your face and starts kissing it absolutely everywhere, causing you to start laughing

- “I love you so much!” He says

- “We’re probably gonna put your grandpa in the hospital, you know?” You say.

- “I’ll have the ambulance on speed dial.” He says

- He then leans down to your stomach

- “Hi there, baby. I know it’s still too early for you to hear me, but I don’t care. I’ll read you all kinds of stories, and I’ll sing to you. I’m going to get all the parenting books I can so you grow up in the best house possible. I’ll protect you always. No matter what.”

- He then looks back up at you. “You’re not lifting a finger for the next few months, ok? I’ll take leave off of work. I’ll even get a bell so you don’t have to yell.”

- “Are you gonna wear a maid’s outfit?” You ask, totally joking

- “If you want me to.”

Jean

- You stare at the test sitting on the bathroom counter

- You start to cry

- You live in a two bedroom apartment and just graduated college

- There’s no way you’re prepared for a kid

- But you know you want to keep it

- Your mind instantly goes to Jean

- There’s no way he’s gonna want to have a kid yet

- He’s so handsome and you’re about to look like the title character in Moby Dick

- You pick up your phone and write out a text

- Jean’s hanging out with his friends at the bar when his phone goes off

- He sees your name on the screen and smiles as he clicks on the notification

- But then his face falls when be reads your message

- “We need to talk”

- No emojis

- No “I love you”

- No “Don’t worry, but…”

- Luckily he’s only had a few sips of his drink so he’s perfectly fine to drive

- “Hey, man. Are you ok?” Marco asks

- “Yeah, you look like you’re about to shit yourself.” Connie says

- “(Y/N) said we need to have a talk.”

- Both of his friends suck in a breath

- “Good luck, man.” Marco says

- “Maybe buy some flowers on the way home just in case.” Connie suggests

- Jean nods and stands up. “Start planning my funeral.”

- “We’ll miss you, buddy.” Connie says as Jean walks back to his car

- Connie was right though, he’s shitting himself

- He keeps running through the day

- Did he say something wrong?

- Did he forget to do his chores?

- Was he supposed to go straight home?

- He’s practicing the apology he’s going to give you based off the different things he could’ve done to make you mad

- He knows from previous relationships that the line ‘We need to talk’ is only said when he’s fucked up

- He doesn’t know how true that statement actually is

- He’s practically shaking as he arrives at your shared apartment

- He’s practically praying that you don’t leave him

- He sees you sitting at the dining room table waiting for him

- “Hey, honey.” He says softly, like he’s walking through a minefield, as he takes his shoes off and walks over to you

- “Have a seat, please.” You instruct

- Jean does as he’s told

- This is it

- You’re about to break up with him

- “I don’t know how to say this…” You say

- He can already feel tears welling up in his eyes

- Maybe if he grovels now and proclaims his undying love, you’ll give him another chance

- He loves you so much, he can’t-

- “I’m pregnant.”

- His mind stills

- Everything goes silent as his mouth opens a bit

- “I know we’re not ready for a kid.” You say. “So I’m offering you an out. You can go pack your bags if you want, I understand. A kid is a big responsibility and we’re both just starting out in our careers”

- “You’re… We’re going to have a kid?” He says

- You honestly get taken aback by his voice

- It’s so soft you swear he spoke like if he said it any louder, that you’d shatter

- He gets out of his chair and kneels down beside you, grasping your hands

- “I’m not leaving, (Y/N). I’ll never leave you or our kid- A kid! Oh, what do you think it’s gonna be? You know what? I don’t care. As long as both of you are healthy. I’m gonna take care of you better than ever before ok? Do you want anything right now? Ice cream? Pizza? Wine- Wait, no you can’t have that. Grape juice that I’ll put into a fancy bottle?”

- You laugh at his sweetness

- You kiss him sweetly and feel tears run down his cheeks

- “I love you.” You say

- “I love you more.” He responds

Marco

- A few days ago you realized how sluggish you’ve been feeling

- So just to be safe and to rule out the big possibility, you bought a test from the local drug store

- And when it came out positive, you felt a flurry of emotions

- You were excited because that means you get to start a family with Marco

- You’re scared because you’ve heard of everything that can happen during pregnancy

- You’re sick just thinking of how much pain you’re going to be in

- So in this state of jumbled feelings, you sort of shut down

- You don’t express your feelings at all, barely eat and barely talk

- Marco’s noticed all of that

- You barely even touched dinner last night

- And you didn’t even the pancakes he made you this morning for breakfast

- He figures your mad at him about something so he offers to do the grocery shopping by himself so you can rest

- Now that the food is out of the way, he makes his way over to the gift section of the store and grabs a box of your favourite snack

- He then heads over to the toys and picks up a stuffed bear he thinks you’ll like

- And then finally over to the flowers to buy you a beautiful bouquet of your favourite flowers wrapped in your favourite colour

- “Darling, I’m home!” He calls out as he opens the door

- He sees you still sitting in the kitchen so he walks over with the gifts in hand

- “I bought you something.” He gives them to you and then sits down. “I don’t know what I did but I’m sorry. Can you tell me so I know not to do it again?”

- “I’m not mad at you, Marco.” You say and then look over to him

- “Oh. Then why didn’t you eat dinner or breakfast?” He asks. “Are you feeling sick?”

- “No. Well, yes, but that’s not why I didn’t eat. I guess I’m just a little stressed.”

- “Is it something I can help with?” He asks

- “Marco… I’m pregnant.”

- He blinks a few times

- Are you being serious?

- “Is this something we’re happy about?”

- “I think so.” You answer. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

- Marco smiles happily and kisses you sweetly

- “We can turn the second spare into the nursery!”

- He starts rambling about all the things he’s excited to start doing

Levi

- You’ve been feeling a lot more tired than usual

- Seeing as you work with kids all day, this is extremely annoying

- You sigh as you lean against the bathroom counter while getting ready for work

- “Maybe it’s that time in my cycle?” You wonder

- You open your phone and pull up your period tracking app to see what phase in your cycle you’re at

- But instead, it tells you that your period is four days late

- You’ve never had an irregular period before so this fills your gut with unease

- You’ve always been careful so there was no need to keep any pregnancy tests on hand

- You quickly check the time and see that you can go to the drug store that’s around the corner and make it home before you would have to leave

- So you throw on a pair of shoes and book it outside, clutching your bag nervously as you walk down the street

- You grab three different brands just to be safe, not caring which brands or how expensive

- You also pick up a water for you to chug on the way home

- You’re glad that Levi has already left for work so that’s a bit of pressure off your shoulders

- But it’s waiting for the timer to go off that causes you to pace back and forth in front of the counter

- You jump when the alarm finally blares

- You take a breath before looking at them. The first has a plus sign, the second says positive, and the third says pregnant: 2-3 weeks

- “Shit…”

- Levi comes home from work at his usual time and immediately smells cleaning products

- You have the same love for cleanliness that he does

- It stems from your job as a kindergarten teacher since you see sick children almost as much as if you were doctor

- He figures that there was a cold or flu outbreak at the school so you’re doing your annual fall deep clean

- He removes his shoes at the door and places down his bag then goes to find you

- He wants to help you clean so the both of you can relax for the night

- He finds you at the kitchen counter scrubbing like your life depended on it

- He opens his mouth to greet you when he notices how red and raw your hands look

- “How long have you been cleaning for?”

- “Don’t know.” You answer simply, setting off alarm bells in Levi’s head

- He walks up to you and grabs your hands

- He knows that for your hands to look like this, you would’ve had to be cleaning for a lot longer than if you started right when you got home

- “What’s wrong?”

- You don’t look at him

- “Levi, please. Let me go.”

- “Not until you tell me what’s wrong. You’re practically hurting yourself at this point.”

- “I… I’m pregnant.”

- Levi stiffens a bit

- You two were careful, you’re always careful

- But you’ve talked about kids

- He knows you want them

- You both have good, stable jobs so it’s not about money

- “Why aren’t you happy? I thought you wanted kids.”

- “I do but…” You trail off. “I know how much mess and sickness bothers you. Kids get sick all the time.”

- He lets your hand go so he can gently move your head to look at him

- “Hey. It’s ok. Getting messy and sick are just normal kid things.”

- “But I’m gonna get sick, too!” You remind him. “I’m gonna throw up all the time, and I’ll blow up like a balloon, and I’ll-“

- “Do you think I care about that?” He asks genuinely. “I’ll take care of you when all that happens. If you have some stupid craving in the middle of the night, I’ll go get it for you. I’ll make sure you both are safe and healthy, even if I have to get dirty in the process.”

- You smile, feeling your anxiety wash away

- “Now, let’s go put some cream on these hands, ok?”

Reiner

- You’ve been feeling a little under the weather lately which is unusual for you

- You’ve always had an amazing immune system

- So you start freaking out, trying to figure out why you feel nauseous around the smell of apples

- Maybe you’ve developed an allergy

- So you set up an appointment with your doctor to see if she can figure it out

- When she asks if there’s any chance you could be pregnant, you practically run out of the office

- Once you’ve calmed down, you realize that she could be right and you should know

- So you buy the best (and most expensive) test the drug store has to offer

- You can’t help but bounce your leg and rub your hands as you wait the agonizing few minutes

- And then you see the word ‘Positive’ pop up on the little screen

- Reiner’s at work when he gets a call from you

- Because he’s with his boss, he figures he’ll call you back right after he’s done

- But then you immediately call back

- “Reiner, is everything ok?” His boss asks him

- “Um… I’m not sure. Can I quickly take this?”

- His boss nods so Reiner stands up and turns away as he answers

- “Hey, ba-“

- “R-Reiner.” You interrupt him

- He can hear you sobbing so he goes on high alert mode

- “Baby, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

- “I-I’m scared.”

- “Ok, where are you?”

- He’s already headed out of his boss’ office and back to his own to grab his keys

- “Home.”

- “I’m coming, ok? I’ll be there as soon as I possibly can.”

- “O-Ok.” You say and then hang up

- He speed walks to his boss’ office, who looks concerned when he sees Reiner

- “I need to go. Not sure what’s going on.”

- “Yeah, go.” His boss says. “Don’t worry about clocking out, I’ll do that for you.”

- He nods and speed walks out of the building then books it to his car

- “Road safety laws, prepared to be ignored!”

- It takes about half an hour to get from his work back to the apartment

- He makes it in 15

- And that’s only because he hit two red lights that he couldn’t blow through

- He damn near drops his keys as he quickly puts them into the lock and opens the door

- “(Y/N)?”

- He sees you on the couch with your head in your hands

- You look up at him with red puffy eyes

- “Hey, what’s wrong?” He says and walks up to you

- You start crying again so he sits down and lets you cry into his suit

- He shushes you softly as he runs his hand through your hair

- After a few minutes, you finally calm down enough to tell him your news

- “I’m pregnant.”

- He looks at you with starry eyes. “Really?”

- You nod and wipe your eyes. “I’m scared, Reiner. You know that my family has a history of complications during pregnancy and labour. What if all that happens to me?”

- “Ok, first question. Do you want this baby?” He asks you

- “What? Of course I do.”

- “Then prepared to be absolutely pampered, complications or not.” He says. “And if there are complications like the rest of your family, I’ll take a leave of absence and take care of you. I’ll carry you to the bathroom if you’re even a little bit nervous about tripping or something.”

- “Really?” You ask, starting to feel a bit less nervous

- “Of course! And if we have to, we’ll book a hotel near the hospital. Either because it’s safer or for your own peace of mind.”

- You smile and hug him. “I love you, Reiner.”

- “I love you more, (Y/N).”

#aot fluff #attack on titan #jean kirschtein x reader #jean kirstein x reader #eren yaeger x reader #eren jaeger x reader #armin arlet x reader #marco bodt x reader #marco bott x reader #reiner braun x reader #levi ackerman x reader #shingeki no kyojin #snk fluff

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