#considering it's taken like. ... years. between chapters.

[eviemonroeer]

The Monroe Effect: Chapter 18

Set in between Seasons 5 and 6 of ER. It's original material y'all!

Warnings: varying pregnancy symptoms, Carter's crappy parents (mainly his mom)

WC: 2.4 k

ER story belongs to original creators, just adding on my own original charter.

Taglist: @pleasecallmeunhinged, @rainmg, @arigoldsblog, @queenslandlover-93, @hagarsays, @antisocialfiore, and @snowflames-world

Main Story: prev | next

Snapshots: prev | next

The next couple of weeks were a blur. I finally had my twelve-week appointment where I was cleared to return to nursing duties with the promise I would take it slow at first. That was something Carter took very seriously. He made sure I stayed off of big traumas and basically snagged me for every one of his patients, so he knew how I was doing at all times. It was a little suffocating, so we had to have a discussion about it. As twelve weeks turned into thirteen, he gave in to letting me help with cases Mark or Kerry were on, which was a welcome break. We had gone out a couple more times as we were able to manage, mainly dinner or a movie, whichever fit. But it was nice to be separate some of the time too. 

The baby was doing very well considering our start. As I reached fourteen weeks, I started to round out a little more. It wasn’t noticeable through my scrubs just yet, but in just the right shirt or dress, you could tell something was there. My morning sickness was still coming and going, but way less frequently than before. Mainly I was just tired. Growing a human on top of working ER shifts was no joke. Carol and I liked to commiserate on that daily. I had also called my aunt and finally told her I was expecting. She was excited for me and hoped everything would go well, and promised to find the time to visit once the baby was born. Just the reaction I expected her to have; nothing angry, but nothing over the top. However, I was not prepared for the next family members I would have to face. 

Carter had come over for dinner. I had actually cooked for a change and was excited to finally watch Speed with him for the first time. However, while I was plating the meal and serving, I could tell something was wrong. He was fidgety and quiet; two things Carter typically wasn’t unless he was hiding something. He was even pushing his food around with his fork when he typically dug right in at the end of a long day. 

“What’s wrong?” I bluntly asked, taking a bite.

Carter looked up, opening his mouth to lie most likely. But I raised an eyebrow and his lips shut. He closed his eyes, sighed, and then looked back at me. “My parents are coming to town, and they want to have dinner.” He paused. “With both of us.” 

“Oh.” I said, my eyebrows shooting up a little. “You told them about me?” 

“Not in specifics. Dad asked if I was seeing anyone, and I mentioned you.”

“Mentioned me. Well, uh, did you mention this?” I gestured down to my belly. 

“I did not.” He admitted. “I really wasn’t ready to have that conversation with them.”

“You know you’re going to have to at some point. This baby is going to come faster than we want.”

“I just want them to meet you first. Get a chance to know you before we drop the bomb on them.”

“Oh yeah? And when is that going to happen?”

“Friday night.”

I coughed, choking on the bite I had just taken. I took a drink and cleared my throat. “Excuse me?”

“My parents are going to be in town this weekend. I understand if you don’t want to come, but it is the first time I’m seeing them in person in literal years. I could really use someone to bounce off of.”

I sighed and looked at that sad puppy dog face. There was no way I was going to be able to say no to it. “Uh, okay. Yes, I will meet your parents this weekend.”

Carter leaned forward and kissed me. “Thank you.” He pulled back. “There’s just a couple of things you’re going to need to know.” 

 

I pulled at my dress for the millionth time, turning and examining myself from every angle. It was a simple black midi dress with an asymmetrical hem and for the most part it was hiding my slight baby bump pretty well. However, I was still scared Carter’s parents were going to be able to tell I was pregnant the moment they saw me. 

“You look beautiful.”

I turned to look at Carter, who was leaning in the doorway. He can gone with a dark blue button up, dress pants, and some nice shoes. Why did he always have to look so effortlessly good all the time? It wasn’t fair that I had to hem and haw over every little detail. That I had to try on a million things and still not find the right one.

“I don’t feel beautiful.” I groaned and turned back to my mirror. “I feel huge. Your parents are going to know the minute they see me.”

Carter shook his head and walked over to me, wrapping his arms around me so he was holding my bump. “You look beautiful. It’s going to be okay.” He kissed my neck. “Let’s get going. We don’t want to be late.”  He walked over to the bed, handing me my shawl and clutch. “You’re gonna be great.” He kissed my hands and led me out the door. 

   

Carter put a hand on my lower back, walking beside me as we followed the waiter to the table. The restaurant was nice, had a valet and everything. Everyone was dressed really well, and I suddenly felt too casual. As we got into the heart of the restaurant, we were led straight to a table where two people who were undoubtedly Carter’s parents sat. They both stood as we walked up.

The man was literally an older version of Carter with grey hair. They were both the same height from what I could tell with a relatively same build. It was nice to see the future didn’t look too bad and now I knew where he got the nose from. The woman though I could tell was like stone and didn’t seem like she would take to kindly to funny business. Her dark hair was pulled back in a low bun, her lips fixed in a harsh line. 

I gulped. What the fuck had I gotten myself into?

 “John.” The man said, coming over to shake Carter’s hand. 

“Dad.” Carter responded, extending the gesture. “Hi mom.” He walked over to the woman and kissed her cheek. “Mom, Dad, this is Genevieve. Evie, this is Jack and Eleanor Carter, my parents.” 

“Nice to meet you.” I said, trying to put on a sincere smile despite my nerves. I held out my hand to his dad, who kissed it and his mom who shook it. When we all finally sat, Carter pulled out my chair. “Thank you.” I whispered and Carter smiled at me before taking his own seat. A waiter came around and started pouring wine. 

“We went ahead and ordered drinks.” Eleanor said, taking a sip. “It’s a vintage red. Very good.” 

“Thanks mom.” Carter said, his eyes darting to me. I smiled again but reached for the water glass in front of me. 

“So, John, how are things going for you at work?” Jack asked, reading over the menu.

Thus began the small talk portion of the evening. Carter mainly led the way, talking about work and giving his parents updates on his life. I would describe everything as pleasant as we ordered our meal and fell into casual conversation. However, I could feel Mrs. Carter’s eyes on me as she took note of everything I did. And eventually, I was put on trial at the table. 

“Where are you from Genevieve?” Eleanor asked, completely ignoring the current conversation to start this new one.

“Uh, Ohio. I moved here after I finished school.”

“Oh, what’s your degree in?” Jack asked, a little more engaged and curious then Eleanor. 

“I have a Bachelor of Science in Nursing. I’m an RN and I also have EMS certification.”

“An RN? So, you must work with John?” The question was back to Eleanor.

“Yes ma’am. We both started at County at the same time.”

“For his residency?”

“No, when he was a third-year medical student.” 

“How old are you?” 

“I’m 25. I turn 26 in September.”

“Oh, you’re younger.” She said with a note of disdain as she took a sip of wine, something I was extremely jealous of. If I weren’t pregnant, I’d be on my second or third glass by now. Carter grabbed my hand underneath the table and gave it a squeeze as the waiter returned with our meal. I stomach sank a little as I grabbed my knife and fork. 

“So, Genevieve, does medicine run in the family for you?” Jack asked as he began cutting his steak. A bit of blood pooled out as he did so, and I felt my stomach flip. “John is the only one of us who went into the field, much to our disapproval.”

“Uh, no. My mom, Diane, was a seamstress and had her own shop. She did everything from baptism dresses to wedding dresses.”

“What does she do now?”

I bit my lip and forced a smile. “Uh, she actually passed away. She’s been gone almost ten years.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“What about your father?” Eleanor asked, without the slightest hint of sympathy.

“Mom.” Carter pleaded. “Maybe let’s cool it on the interrogation.

“I’m just trying to get to know Genevieve. So, dear, what does your father do?”

I held my tongue the best I could. “I actually don’t know. I haven’t seen him since I was two.” 

“So, dad how were the Hamptons this year?” Carter quickly asked, trying desperately to change the subject. 

“There were some storms, so we decided to go to Martha’s Vineyard instead.” Thankfully Jack was also trying to relieve the tension as best he could. I tried to focus back on my meal, but the minute I cut into it, my stomach churned again. ‘Please don’t do this now baby’, I directed towards my stomach. I was already having a hard enough time. 

“Genevieve, are you feeling alright?” Eleanor asked, raising an eyebrow. I looked up to meet her cold stare. “You’ve barely touched your food and you haven’t had any wine. Or is it not to your taste?” 

“Mom.” Carter hissed, giving her a warning. 

“No, it’s great Mrs. Carter. I’m just not very hungry.” I looked down at my dish again and felt the wave of nausea roll over me again. Any other time I would have devoured the pesto covered meal, but right now the Carter spawn was not having it. All they wanted was Doc Magoo’s pancakes. Of course, tonight had to be the reoccurrence of my morning sickness. I grabbed my water glass again, swallowing slowly to keep my stomach at bay. 

“We can order something else if you’d prefer.” Jack offered, taking another bite of his medium rare steak, which again, wasn’t helping my stomach. 

“It’s alright. Thank you.” 

“John, is there something you need to tell us?” I turned back to Eleanor, who was studying me heavily, the same way she had all night. I swallowed again and smoothed out my dress, trying to suck in my stomach. She knew, she had too. She was just waiting for someone to say it out loud. 

Carter sighed and closed his eyes before speaking. “Uh, yes.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin before grabbing my hand and putting it together on top of the table. “Mom, Dad. Evie is pregnant. About four months along.” Jack coughed before swallowing hard. 

“Is it your baby?” 

“Mom! What the hell?” 

“Eleanor!”

“What? Women try this kind of thing all the time, especially with your cousins. Why would it be any different this time around?” 

“Evie’s not like that.” 

“Every woman is like that if they want money bad enough. John, this phase of yours might be fun now but you need think about the repercussions. 

“A phase? Repercussions? What the hell are you talking about? Evie is my girlfriend, and we are having a baby together.”

“She’s not like us John. Who’s to say she’ll even be around in a year or two? And then what about the money you’ll have to pay her.”   

“Excuse me ma’am, but I don’t need your money.” I said and all eyes snapped to me. I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice steady and calm. I had sat their paralyzed in fear for to long. “As I mentioned, I have a job. One I love, might I add. I have my own place, which I pay every bill for. I like my life. I don’t care about or need any of your money. Just your son. Excuse me.”              

I threw my napkin down on the table and got up, bag and shawl in hand as I headed back towards the door. How the hell could she think that what she said was justified? She had no idea who I was. She barely spoke to me all evening, just coldly stared and judged. She never even gave me a chance. I went outside with the purpose of catching a cab to get as far away from this place as soon as possible.

“Evie, wait!” I didn’t turn, but I could hear and feel Carter run up beside me. “Hey, look at me.” I refused. “Please look at me.” He gently turned me to face him, and I tried to hide the tears pooling in my eyes. He grabbed my chin and lifted my head up. “Do not listen to a thing my mother said in there. I have never, nor would ever think you got pregnant for my family’s money. She was out of line, and I am so sorry you had to go through that.”

“I knew she wasn’t going to like me.” I choked out. “From the minute I sat down I knew she looked at me like I wasn’t enough.”

“Evie....” Carter grabbed me and brought me to his chest, holding me close and tightly. I had known Carter too long to think he would ever agree with his mother. But it still sucked that one of the only grandparents my kids would ever have, thought I was no better than the dirt under her shoes. “What can I do to make this better?” 

I sniffled and looked up at him. “Can we go get pancakes, please?” 

Carter smiled and wiped the tears from my eyes. “We can have anything you want.” 

“Right answer.” Carter chuckled and wrapped me in his arms tightly. He kissed the top of my forehead as the valet pulled back up with his car. We hoped inside and headed for Doc Magoo’s where I stuffed myself with all the breakfast food I wanted, worlds away from that horrible dinner table. 

[orcelito]

i miss akechi goro so much. maybe even enough to finally finish that ladue chapter 3

[ahundredtimesover]

Something About You (06) | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: friends au, vacation au, slow burn, romcom-ish vibe; adulting; inspired by AYS; PE teacher!JK and researcher!OC; fluff, comfort, smut (?)

Chapter Warnings: foul/explicit language; alcohol consumption, kissing (18+)

Word count: 22.3k

Series Masterlist

Status: Complete

Series Summary: You and Jungkook have been friends for a decade. And while he’s the charming and dependable, often reserved boy-next-door, he���s also just been a friend - a constant in your life, a part of a whole, and someone who’s seen all the flawed and probably unattractive sides of you.

A resumption of your friend group’s out-of-town trips has caused you to spend more time with him. And somewhere in between the morning coffee in the forest, running around in the snow, and watching the sunset on a boat, he’s become something more. And you’re not quite sure how to deal with it.

🎶: Beautiful Soul by Jesse McCartney || Yes or No by Jungkook

A/N: The last one (and a bonus)! It was a short journey but thank you for gushing about these two with me. They definitely have my heart. [KILIG] I hope you one day find someone you could settle into, too (could be anyone, or a dog I guess). Please enjoy! ☺️

The day after you get back from a mini-vacation is always the toughest. 

You drag yourself to work on Tuesday and spend much of it daydreaming about the past weekend and everything that happened - from spending time with your friends to eating the most amazing food. It was four days of unforgettable memories that you’ll hold dear, especially considering the big changes happening in the lives of people you care about.

There was a change in yours, too - your feelings for Jungkook, specifically, and your acceptance of it. You didn’t want to expect much during the trip but you suppose that going with the flow meant you let things surprise you and they did. 

From briefly holding his hands to being taken care of, you found yourself falling into what once were very normal and natural occurrences between you two and enjoying them. There was comfort and familiarity but also a rush of emotions that somehow felt new - thrill, anticipation, overwhelming desire but contentment in things being the way they are. 

There were moments where you felt like you wanted to confess, like when you laid by the pool one evening and looked at the stars or when you watched the sunrise together on that final morning. That was always your thing, though. You’re assertive when it comes to what you feel for other people and you tend to let them know right away because you don’t like wasting time. 

But not with Jungkook, as you feel that letting things happen and progress gradually is the more natural way of going about it, even if it feels like your feelings came out of nowhere. 

In a way, they did. All it took was one conversation with your friends that got you thinking. But all you had to do was pay attention to your feelings and that’s what made you realize that maybe the comfort and familiarity you’d always felt with him was part of the process. 

The 10 years of friendship was 10 years of experiencing heartbreaks and learning life lessons separately but being there for each other regardless. That’s 10 years of slowly adjusting to each other, allowing parts of yourself to intertwine and fit with his, and then finding out that you want more than what friendship can give you. 

Maybe hold hands longer, or cuddle and kiss. Or more specifically, hold hands while watching something beautiful together. Or cuddle after a long, tiring day. Or kiss to express your care and appreciation in ways that words can’t. You suppose it’s experiencing life together in a new way - next to him where you wish you’ll always be. 

It’s unlike you to feel like this. You don’t always wait. You act on your desires immediately because you know you can always walk away if it’s not returned, and it’s something you can live with. 

But not this time, not only because you have something to lose but because desiring him is something you enjoy. Understanding what you feel, letting it settle, and then basking in it are part of the experience that you want to embrace because then you know you’re not rushing; then you know it’s real. 

What’s also part of the experience is not knowing how to act and missing him. Like when he didn’t text you all Tuesday because he crashed when he got home after teaching PE all day, or when he messaged you the next day asking how you are and you stared at the text for five minutes because you didn’t know how to respond. 

Or when he miraculously replied in the group chat about going to your place on the weekend but then sending his apologies the day after that because he got dragged into a school trip that he couldn’t say no to.

Today is Saturday, and you’ve been cranky since last night. You know it’s not his fault but you can’t help the empty feeling at not having him around and not being able to tell him about it. 

You’re lying in bed with your thoughts going from one deep corner of your mind to another when your doorbell rings. You drag yourself out of bed and find Jimin, Taehyung, and Mo-eum smiling as you open the door. 

You greet them with a pout before letting them in.

“Wow, nice to see you, too,” Jimin says sarcastically as he places the food and drinks on your coffee table. 

“Hey, don’t be hard on her. I’m sure she’s happy we’re here,” Mo-eum smiles.

“Yeah. She just wishes that Jungkook was, too,” Taehyung adds. “I mean, I don’t blame her though. That’s how it is when you like someone.”

“Why are school trips scheduled on a weekend?!” You whine. “And why is he the one who had to be the substitute chaperone for it?!”

Your friends endearingly smile at you and hold in their giggles because they’re not used to seeing you pouty about Jungkook not being around. 

“It’s the science club’s trip to an observatory that they scheduled this weekend because of the planets’ alignment tonight,” Mo-eum explains. “And Kook’s in the roster of substitutes so he got called in at the last minute because one of the teachers got sick. It sucks but that’s how it is.”  

“It’s crazy that they just assume he’s free on the weekend,” Jimin shakes his head. 

“Well, he doesn’t have his own children to take care of, that’s for sure,” Mo-eum corrects. 

You know she’s right and you can’t really blame anyone for Jungkook not being here. Come to think of it, he probably prefers catching frogs at the swamp and building tents with his students over being stuck with your rowdy group in your apartment just watching movies. You also just spent the last weekend together so missing today wouldn’t be much of a big deal to him.

You’re the one who’s sulking because you miss him, and the weight of your feelings hits you again. 

“I can’t believe I like him,” you sigh as you sink onto the floor by your sofa. 

“I can’t believe you haven’t told him you like him,” Taehyung says as he munches on your lunch of fried chicken and beer. 

“Tae, it’s just been a week,” you glare at him.

“Really?” He cocks an eyebrow. 

You definitely seemed confused for longer than that.

“Fine, a few weeks, then,” you correct yourself.

“Still a few weeks more than your usual,” he hums. “I mean, you tend to kinda go for it the moment you realize you like someone.”

“Well, he isn’t just someone,” you say softly now. “He’s my friend and that makes all the difference. I can’t just walk away from him if he doesn’t like me. This is a risk in itself! Why– ugh, why did I even convince myself to give in to my feelings?!”

“___, let’s breathe a bit, yeah?” Jimin rubs your back to calm you down. “He literally just couldn’t make it today and it’s because of an obligation and not because he didn’t want to be. Okay? You can’t just assume the worst and end up regretting letting yourself feel what you feel. You haven’t even told him you like him!”

“When would I?” You pout again. “And it’s not like I’m planning it like this major event or anything. I want it to be natural but I’m also thinking - for how long should I let things be this way? Do I drop hints and then back off if he seems uninterested? Do I tell him outright? Do I wait?”

“I think, for once, you’re overthinking,” Jimin sighs. “Just see what each day brings. Did you talk this week?”

“We were texting on Wednesday. He confirmed coming today but we've both been busy since then,” you narrate. “I don’t want to just keep texting him.”

“Why not?” Mo-eum asks.

“I don’t know, I’m kinda shy. I’m cautious of being assertive and I don’t want him to think he has to reply all the time because I know he’s not the type,” you explain. 

“Again, overthinking,” Jimin says. “Just do what you normally do. And do what you want. That’s how things developed anyway - you, doing things naturally, so keep it that way. And when you think you’re ready, then tell him how you feel. We’re here to support you with whatever you decide. Okay?”

“Okay,” you sigh, leaning on his shoulder before you stand up and say you’ll shower because you just got out of bed. 

“Bum,” Jimin yells as you make your way to the bathroom. 

“Shush, I’m sad,” you groan.

When the door shuts, Mo-eum turns to the two men.

“So, until when are we gonna pretend that we don’t know that Jungkook likes her, too? Are we just gonna hide the fact that they like each other to both of them?” She whispers. 

“Mo-eum, we promised that we won’t meddle so we won’t tell her, the same way we’re not telling Kook that she likes him,” Taehyung responds. 

“Well, you asking Kook if he likes ___ and Jimin suggesting to ___ that she could like him is kinda like meddling, isn’t it?” Mo-eum asks. 

“Hey, my question was totally innocent,” Taehyung defends.

“And I literally just floated an idea. I didn’t even know that Kook already liked her that time,” Jimin counters. 

“Okay fine. So now they like each other and we’re the only three people who know. Why aren’t we doing anything?” Mo-eum wails. “___ is sulking because Kook isn’t here and Kook is texting me, asking what we’re doing as if there’s anything more to say about movies and drinks!”

“Because we’re good friends who’ll nudge them here and there but then we’ll let them confess at their own time and place,” Taehyung says. “We did our part last weekend. I left them alone and stopped myself from teasing them so that I wouldn't ruin their moment.”

“True. And I made sure no one else wanted to watch the sunrise with them on Monday morning,” Jimin adds. “I had to do hypnosis on Joon to convince him that he didn’t need to see it just so ___ and Kook could have their alone time.”   

“Fine,” Mo-eum agrees. “So do we just let them figure it out from here?”

“For now, I think we just wait,” Taehyung nods. “I’m leaving soon so we’ll have more time to see each other and that means more chances of them spending time together or being alone. I just hope they figure their shit out while I’m still here so I can celebrate.”

“We’ll see. I mean, you have that farewell party next Friday and something has been happening every night out,” Jimin states. “Who knows? Maybe it will happen then.”

The three of them quickly change the topic once they hear the door unlock and you return to the living room. You look less upset now and there’s a bit more life on your face and they know you probably just needed to cool off.

“You feeling better?” Mo-eum asks as you reclaim your seat next to her on the couch. 

“I think I just needed a shower,” you chuckle, thinking to yourself earlier how silly you are for sulking.

Of course you wish Jungkook was here, but just thinking about him being with his students and witnessing something pretty spectacular tonight makes you smile. 

He loves his kids. He’s a proponent of learning outside the classroom and he’s often talked about how he enjoys joining excursions and field trips because of the other things he gets to teach them. He loves his job and his passion for it - no matter how quiet or subdued compared to yours - is incredibly attractive. You can’t wait until he tells you all about it. 

Your friends look at you softly and take your word for it. You’re one who says what she means and they suppose you just needed to rein in your feelings so you could get over them. 

“Alright then. Movie time,” Taehyung smiles.

You sit in between him and Mo-eum, alternating leaning on their shoulders, as you watch his picks for today. You go from action in Reservoir Dogs to heartfelt romcom in About Time - his favorites - which means you go from tense to cry-laughing the entire afternoon. You get food delivered for dinner and your friends stay until close to midnight. 

The two glasses of wine you have make you sleepy, but you don’t crash out right away. The minutes before you do, you think of Jungkook again and how he’s doing. You wonder if he got to marvel at the night sky and if he’s warm enough for the night. You wonder, too, if he was thinking about you. 

You learn the next morning that he was, as you wake up at 10 AM to a photo of the sunrise from him. It looks like it’s taken by a lake, and you see the light illuminate on the water. It’s stunning, and you smile as you stare at it and feel the rush of thrilling yet wholesome emotion at the thought of him thinking of you when he took this.

[to: bunny kook] that’s so pretty, kook! It looks so calming

[from: bunny kook] yeah it was.

[from: bunny kook] i think the one in jeju was better though

You spend the remainder of the morning just giggling to yourself and kicking your blanket out of excitement. 

It’s silly acting this way over one text, but you suppose that’s how quickly you’ve fallen into the deep end of this whole liking Jungkook thing. You might also be overthinking because him saying that the sunrise in Jeju was better could literally mean that he liked the view there more. That was followed by a pod of dolphins swimming so you’d understand if that was his reason.

But then again, there was also you. He told you about the sunrise. He asked you if you wanted to see it. You’d like to think that you’re the missing variable this time and maybe that wouldn’t be a stretch. So you bask in it for a while even if he messages that he’ll get back to you later once they’re on the trip home. 

You go about your day running errands. It’s mid-afternoon when he sends a text that they’re on the bus heading back to Seoul and you reply that you’d just gotten back to your apartment to do some chores. You talk like that for the next hour or so as you constantly check the clock, hoping that it wouldn’t be too much if you ask him to have dinner somewhere nearby when he arrives. 

But as luck would have it, their bus gets caught in traffic. And when they finally arrive at the school, he has to wait for the last remaining student to get picked up before he could leave. It’s not that late in the evening but you think it’s late enough to hang out, and given the weekend he’s had, you suppose he’d just want to lay in bed and get some rest.

So that’s what you suggest that he does.

[from: bunny kook] where should I get food delivered? 

You laugh at his question, not because it’s funny but because it seems silly that he’s asking you. You decide to call him and reason to yourself that it’s much easier than texting, which is true. You’re folding your clothes after all.

“Are you really asking me about food?” You gasp when he picks up the phone. 

“Well, you’re the one who always orders delivery,” he chuckles. “I’m kinda drained; I can’t really think right now. What do you recommend?”

You think about it, really think about it. You don’t want to disappoint him with your food choice so you give him options of your favorite burger joint, your go-to donburi place, a noodle house, and a Chinese restaurant - all hearty and definitely his type of food. He decides on getting a rice bowl and he orders while you’re on speaker.

“Alright. That should come in half an hour,” he informs you.

That’s enough time to talk, you think, so you ask him how the trip was. 

“Oh, there’s so much to say. And I have to show you the pictures so I’ll tell you everything the next time I see you but it was really fun,” he shares. “The guides taught the kids about the different plants in the forest and which mushrooms are poisonous. Then we set up tents on a field and then went to an observatory to look at the stars. They loved seeing the planets on the telescope and it was just nice to see them excited.”

“That sounds fun, Kook. Glad you got to be with them then, even if it was a short notice trip,” you say, and meaning it. 

“Yeah, I just wasn’t ready, especially having just come from a trip. Mr. Im was the other option but it was his son’s birthday so he begged off,” Jungkook sighs. “I still would’ve enjoyed movies at your place though. I heard there wasn’t any horror on the list.”

“Nope. Tae’s choices. Plus, neither one of the guys wanted to sit next to me and Mo-eum,” you laugh. “Jimin said we would’ve watched something scary if you were there since you don’t mind being yelled at.”

“Hey, you’ve improved. We watched The Thing last week and you yelled just one time,” he points out.

Not like you could admit that the only reason why you didn’t react like you normally would was because you were more nervous doing something silly with him so you just laugh and agree. 

“Well, what a weekend for you, huh? I’m sure you’re exhausted, and you go back to work tomorrow,” you say, wishing he would’ve had time to rest.

“It happens. It’s part of the job and it’s fine,” he hums. 

Jungkook stops himself from saying more, like how he wished he got to spend even a bit of today with you. But he wasn’t sure if it would’ve been too much if he insisted, given that you were doing errands all day, too. And well, he would’ve been obvious as well, even if looking back, sending you the sunrise picture then saying that the one in Jeju was better could’ve given him away. 

He woke up at dawn for a quick hike up a hill to watch the sun rise because he wanted to reminisce about last weekend and be reminded of you. It still looked pretty but it felt different doing it on his own. 

He recalled the last morning in Jeju - your little squeals every time he drove through a hump then feeling you tighten your hold on his waist for security, sitting on the ledge and seeing your smile grow wider as the sun ascended, and the way you held his hand in awe as if things didn’t feel real unless you had something to touch. 

You thanked him for taking you there and said that you’ll always remember that moment. He blanked out and couldn’t say that he’ll always remember it, too. A part of him wishes that he’d been braver that day and just told you how he felt, but he thought of the plane ride and the drive back home and how awkward it would’ve been if you didn’t feel the same way and he didn’t want to put you in that position. 

But what he’s learned these past months is that the thrill, the anticipation, the curiosity and yes, even the regret, are all part of the experience. It’s part of settling into the feeling and settling into you and he knows that at the end of the day, whether he crashes on the ground or he lands safely, the comfort of these past few months because of you is what he’ll remember. 

That’s what he wants you to remember, too.

You hear the doorbell ring on Jungkook’s side of the line and you internally sigh at having to end the call. Despite how close you’ve become recently, you’re not exactly at the level where you talk this much and while someone’s doing something else, so you offer to hang up.

There’s a beat of silence on his end and you resort to calling him out to retain that sense of normalcy in your friendship.

“You chew loudly,” you reason. “You eat like a child sometimes.”

“Uhm, and you don’t?” He counters. “You’re the one who eats while yapping.”

“I like to multi-task,” you say. “I can nourish myself while arguing a point or narrating a story.”

“You’re silly,” he chuckles now, but he decides to let you go.

He would’ve wanted to stay on the line with you but you’re sensitive to chewing sounds and he can’t help himself with how he eats sometimes. He’s not really the type to be on a phone call for long but he doesn’t mind it with you because you always have something to say. You fill the silence that he doesn’t know what to do with, and even when there’s nothing to say, he just likes knowing that you’re there.

“But yeah, I’ll go ahead and eat. Thanks for the recommendation. The food looks delicious and their serving is huge,” he states.

“Yup, thought you might like that part,” you laugh. “Get lots of rest, okay? And uh, see you soon? Tae said he’ll organize dinner this week and then there’s his farewell party on Friday.”

“Yup. He’s been blowing up my phone with reminders. I’ll see you then. Bye.”

You finally hang up and lay on the pile of clothes that you stopped folding since getting on the call with Jungkook. It’s become increasingly clear that you want more of him and you’re trying not to get overwhelmed and be swept away by your emotions. 

You know what you feel for him is real; you just don’t want to scare him off with how deeply you feel it. You have to remind yourself to tone it down and give him space to breathe because who knows what he’s feeling, too?

Maybe your friends do or maybe they don’t. Even with their non-stop teasing and their penchant for pushing your buttons, you know enough that they won’t meddle or at least, act or say anything on anyone’s behalf. 

You’ve seen it with Seokjin and Hayoung and even Suhyeon and Hoseok. And while Jimin has his Yoongi-Gyu-rim agenda, you know that he knows his boundaries and he’s letting them figure things out on his own. Kinda like what he and Taehyung and Mo-eum are doing with you. 

But you’ll see Jungkook again like you said. Maybe the time to tell him would be then.

The American restaurant that Taehyung chooses is quite loud and full for a Wednesday night. He doesn’t mind it though, since it’s like preparation for him on how the next year of his life is going to be like. He’s leaving for New York next week and he wants to brush up on his English and American pop culture knowledge, which is why you’re all here during quiz night. 

You got stuck in a meeting and took a cab here and more noise isn’t exactly what you need right now but you suppose it’s fine. You’d go anywhere for Taehyung and you know that this kind of vibe is what he seeks sometimes. 

He runs to you when he sees you enter the restaurant and gives you a tight hug. It hasn’t sunk in yet but you know soon that it will, so you hold him tighter and whisper that you’ll miss him but you already hate this place.

“Ha! I figured. Yoongi’s been cursing me under his breath since he arrived, too,” he laughs. “But don’t worry. My parents’ house on Sunday for lunch and it’ll be better. They serve the best milkshake and lava cake here so order them.”

He grabs your hand then whispers. “I saved you a seat,” and gestures to the space next to Jungkook.

“Weren’t you sitting there a while ago?” You ask.

“Yeah, because I was saving it for you. Hoseok and Namjoon are still on the way.”

“Tae,” you pull his hand now, as you recall your thoughts from these past few days of where your friends might stand in this whole situation. “What does this all mean?”

“What?”

“This…” you sigh as you gesture towards Jungkook. “Letting me sit next to him and, I don’t know, things you’ve said?”

“Because you’re my friend and I support what you feel,” he smiles tenderly. “Nevermind his side, whatever it is. What matters to me is that you get to experience something new and good, something that makes you feel good about yourself, and something that you could settle into and that makes you feel like it’s right.”

Your face softens as you process his words. Your friends know you as someone who dives right into things and doesn’t care much for the consequences because you’ve always managed to get through them, whatever the end result was. With Jungkook, you’ve learned to settle into the feeling, experiencing every fun and exciting and scary part of it and you suppose that’s made you appreciate yourself, too. 

“But hey, you know me,” he continues. “I’m not gonna let you crash, especially when I won’t be around. Take that how you want.”

His smile is a bit cheeky this time as he pulls you again towards the table. He takes the seat across from you while you take the one he supposedly saved, right next to Jungkook.

“Hey,” he greets. “Heard you got caught up in a meeting.”

“Yeah. The CEO of some Foundation was at the office and my manager dragged me along,” you sigh. “I left my car at the office because I was too tired to drive.”

“Well you’re here now. You feeling okay?”

“Yup, all good now,” you assure him. “So, Tae said the milkshake and lava cake are good so I’m getting both. What did you order?”

“None yet, I haven’t made up my mind. What are you thinking?”

You browse the menu and go through a bunch of choices with him before you settle on barbecue ribs while he orders a steak sandwich and lobster mac and cheese. You get the chocolate milkshake while he gets vanilla.  

The conversations around you are constant, this despite the fact that you all spent several days together not long ago, but you suppose so much has happened since then. The wedding preparations continue. Taehyung has finalized his rent of an apartment in Manhattan and booked a local modeling gig. Mo-eum’s up for a service award. And Hoseok spearheaded a massive fashion collaboration. 

You sometimes forget that your friends are at the top of their fields because of how natural and human they are outside of their jobs. It’s a relief, you think, that despite everything that goes on in their lives, your circle of friends will always be home. 

You think about the man next to you and feel that way about him, regardless of what he feels for you. You suppose that’s what Taehyung meant about experiencing something good for a change. 

Jungkook feels like home. Whether it’s one you move on from or one you stay in for a long time is something you have yet to find out, but you’re settling in it comfortably now and you like it.

And when he nudges your shoulder to show you his food then offers you the first spoonful of the mac and cheese, you start to think that maybe you like being here for now. You like the comfort and the carefree feeling of it. There aren't any expectations nor demands. 

You just… like him. You like being around him. You want to hold his hand and it’s okay if you don’t get to yet. You want to know how his lips taste but you can wait until the time comes. You want to drown in his warmth but leaning on his shoulder would be enough to satisfy you. 

This is different for you, too. You’re often impatient and needy. You need to get your hands on whatever you want the moment you decide you want it. Maybe with Jungkook, you will, eventually. Maybe it isn’t now. 

You enjoy the night more than you thought you would. Your table wins first place on the quiz. Taehyung wows the entire restaurant when he sings Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby on the jukebox. 

And you savor every bite of your ribs and share the lava cake with Jungkook. You notice him pushing the chocolate syrup and vanilla ice cream on your side of the plate so you could get more of it and your heart jumps at this. 

It’s the little things, you realized the other night. He’s so good at them. He pays attention even if sometimes it seems like he’s spacing out but you’ve noticed him notice everything. You wonder if he’s noticed the change in you, and if he has, you wonder if he’s just going with the flow like you are, just waiting for the right time to make a move. 

“Your mind’s gone elsewhere again,” he chuckles, disrupting your thoughts. “The ice cream’s melting.”

“Ah, you know me,” you shrug and finally take that final spoonful. “It doesn’t stop… thinking. It freaks me out sometimes.”

“Hmm. I hope your thoughts never scare you though.”

“They’re not always good, you know?”

“They’re still yours,” he counters. “You don’t have to be scared of yourself.”

You nod and smile, and you wonder how he does it, how he just calms you down with words or even with a look of assurance. 

This is the version of you that likes him. And like you’ve realized, you like this version of you that likes him. You start to wonder if you’ll also like the version of you that gets to be with him and if he’ll like that, too.

Dinner finally ends after most of you run out of energy. It’s a work night, after all, and it’s just the middle of the week. Since you left your car at your office, Jungkook offers to drive you home. 

You nod, and just when you thought you’d get to be alone with him again, Namjoon asks if he could hitch a ride, too. He has to pass by a friend’s apartment and he lives in the same block as Jungkook. 

“Uh, sure,” Jungkook nods. “Let’s go. I’ll just drop ___ off first.”

“No problem,” Namjoon smiles.

You laugh at how things are turning out, as the rollercoaster of emotions gives you a whiplash. You say goodbye to your friends and when you get to Jimin, Taehyung, and Mo-eum, they’re frowning and asking why Namjoon is cockblocking you right now. 

“Oh shush, he isn’t,” you chuckle. “It’s fine. I liked tonight with Kook.”

And you mean it. You sat next to him and he talked about the school trip. You scooted closer so you could hear each other over the noise. You got to see his smile again and felt that comfort that being with him gives. 

And all that felt enough, reminding you that this isn’t like all the times before. It assures you because what Jungkook deserves is certainty and you think that’s what you can give. 

Namjoon sits in the passenger seat with you sitting behind him. And you don’t mind at all; you like listening to him ramble about things. So does Jungkook, as he laughs and asks questions, even as he constantly looks at the rear view mirror and meets your eyes. 

You feel the rush whenever he does, like this tingling feeling all over your body, especially when you see him smile right after from the back of the passenger seat. It does quell the noise in your mind a bit, as it constantly goes from wanting to tell him how you feel to wanting to bask in this feeling a little while longer. 

You arrive at your apartment and Namjoon reaches out his hand from the front for you to shake as a goodbye. Jungkook turns to you with a softness in his eyes, like a look of contentment mixed with a bit of regret that you probably mirror. 

“Good night, ___. Don’t hurt yourself, yeah?”

“I’ll try,” you chuckle. “Thanks, Kook. I’ll see you guys again.”

You walk up the steps of your apartment and glance back to see Jungkook’s smile before he drives off. 

Jungkook looks at himself in the half-body mirror and nods, feeling satisfied with his chosen outfit for this Friday night. 

It’s Taehyung’s farewell party before he leaves next week and all your friends are obligated to go. Not that Jungkook wouldn’t, but he at least prefers to go in peace, and not with the said man knocking at his door and demanding they go to the Club together. And then judging him for what he’s wearing.

“Nope, you’re not wearing that,” Taehyung shakes his head. “Choose something else.”

“What’s wrong with a shirt and jeans? I actually think I look pretty good when I’m in a basic outfit,” Jungkook argues.

“You do. But Kook, you need to look irresistible.”

Jungkook turns around and gives his friend an incredulous look.

“Why?”

“Because I have hot friends and if one of them fancies ___ and asks her out, what are you gonna do?” Taehyung challenges. “Are you gonna sweep in with your basic outfit and make her pay attention to you? I mean, what are you even doing at this point?”

“Okay, you’re being harsh,” Jungkook scowls, wondering where all this accusation is coming from. “And hey, I’ve been doing a lot, okay? I take her home, I text her, I… I’m affectionate with her.”

“Yeah, normal things I guess,” Taehyung rolls his eyes. “But what are you telling her?”

“That I like spending time with her?”

“What about hey I like you, should we date?”

“None of that… yet,” Jungkook sighs as he sits on the couch and leans his head back, suddenly feeling stressed at this sudden attack. “Why are you rushing me anyway?”

“I’m not rushing you. It’s just that you’ve liked her for months but you haven’t told her yet. I’m just wondering why. I mean, you haven’t really been saying much about it recently.”

“Because I don’t know how to express it,” Jungkook admits. “I never know how with these things. And I told you, I want her to settle into me, slowly. If I confess to her without that happening then it might freak her out and I don’t want that. I want her to actually like me back, you know?”

Taehyung merely hums, cautious not to give anything away. While he, Jimin, and Mo-eum have talked about not meddling, it doesn't mean it isn’t frustrating when he has to pretend like he doesn’t know anything, especially when you and Jungkook are so painfully unaware of what the other is really feeling. 

It’s tempting to tell Jungkook about what you feel, the same way it’s tempting to tell you that he’s actually been pining for you for a while now. Or even to just lock both of you in a room and urge one of you to confess, or blast it on some speaker that you both like each other. Though Taehyung doubts it’d ruin things, he doesn’t think it’s the most natural way to go about it.

He supposes that one downside of being long-time friends who end up liking each other is that things that may seem normal actually already mean something more. Perhaps it’s a defense mechanism, and it’s probably why you haven’t picked up just how much Jungkook likes you and why he doesn’t seem convinced that you like him, too. Maybe it’s also because you’re both focusing so much on how you feel and not what each other’s actions probably mean.

But like he said, he won’t meddle but he could nudge. And dictating how Jungkook looks tonight is one way he could do that. Taehyung already knows how you react to the man and if Jungkook sees that, it might give him the confidence this time.

“Okay then. Entice her,” Taehyung says as he gets back to the conversation.

“What the heck does that mean?” Jungkook laughs at the absurdity. 

“Just… wear something that fits the occasion more than jeans and a shirt. Like, something that you think would impress her.”

Jungkook nods and thinks it’s not a bad idea. He never felt like he needed to try with you when it came to how he looked or presented himself. He’s always dressed in jeans or joggers with a shirt or a jacket whenever he meets you and you never mind. Not that you have a reason to. You even seem to like it when he’s in his oversized hoodies because they’re comfortable, which is what you said about the one he lent you in Jeju. 

But maybe if he wants you to see him differently, dressing up might be one way to do it. So he heads to his closet and puts on an outfit that he thinks might work then asks his friend if it’s okay.

“Hmm,” Taehyung circles him. “Jeans and boots are on brand. Switch the jacket with a leather one. And good choice with the tank top because she likes nice arms and you better flaunt them.”

“I’m not gonna remove my jacket there,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, although he admits feeling confident about his physique.

He may have seen you look at his body a little longer than usual during your last trip and he admits it made him feel good, even if he wondered why you didn’t say anything because you tend to be vocal about those things. 

Taehyung disregards him and pulls out a belt from the drawer as a final touch.

“Wear this.”

“Oh, I forgot I had this,” Jungkook says as he puts it on.

“I bought that for you years ago! Can you appreciate the fancy things I get you and wear them?!”

“Yeah, I will,” Jungkook laughs. 

He assesses himself in the mirror and thinks that he looks infinitely better. He feels good in it, too. He’s unsure if being dressed up would do much but he hopes it will, at least in terms of giving him the confidence to drop even bigger hints about how he feels. And then depending on how you react, maybe he’ll confess, too. 

He looks back at your trip and the times you’d held his hand - consciously and instinctively - and your moments of silence and comfort that were somehow laced with tension. He’s hopeful that he’s not hopeless when it comes to you. 

Taehyung hums in contentment at his friend. He knows that with you, the feelings are new and you’re still getting used to them. A few days on an island where Jungkook was half naked half the time already got you all hot and bothered and made you attentive to how it affected you. 

Maybe seeing Jungkook with this mature yet casual look could do something to you, too. And if it’ll help push you to be honest about what you feel, maybe that’s what the two of you really need.

You stare at yourself in the restaurant’s bathroom mirror and think you look good enough for a night at the Club. 

You got dragged to a sponsor’s dinner and had to quickly choose what to wear so you could go to the Club for Taehyung’s farewell party right after. You went for a sparkly top and white skirt ensemble paired with blue velvet heels and it makes you feel a little flirty and confident, which is what you need if you want to see where this whole thing with Jungkook could lead. 

Not that you expect that anything huge would happen but if you could have moments again, then that wouldn’t be bad. Taehyung gave you a heads up about his hot friends being present and quite frankly, you don’t care. You already know that Jungkook’s the only one you’ll have your eyes on and you’re excited to see him.

You put your hair down then head out. You finish the dinner and get in the car that Taehyung sent for you since he wanted to make sure you got to his party on time, even if you’re punctual and he’s just early. He said he wanted to be with his friends as long as possible. And that he dragged Jungkook with him so you can’t be late. 

You aren’t, but when you arrive at the Club, it’s already packed. Taehyung has always been a social butterfly so you didn’t expect any less but still, this is way too many people for your liking. 

You make your way in and spot some familiar faces. You heard that there are reserved tables for you and your friends so that’s where you try to go, but Jihyo gets to you first and starts dancing with you. 

“Just like college, hey?” She giggles, and you laugh at your memories from those days.

You’re glad you remained friends with her. She always matches your friends’ energy and right now, it’s pretty high, as you spot Jimin and Mo-eum dancing their way towards you. 

Jimin hugs you and compliments your look, stating how it feels so girly, a contrast to Jungkook and his leather jacket. Your eyes immediately flit to where he is, and you spot him on the table, laughing with Namjoon as they engage the people who pass by to greet them.

He looks so handsome with his parted hair, especially when he combs it with his fingers like he often does. You see the neckline of his top and that is definitely not a shirt like you expected he’d wear, and your heart does a thing at the thought that he’s in a tank top again. Just the image of him in one gives you the shivers. 

He meets your eyes and it takes you a few seconds for it to register, but you manage to smile and wave in time. Hopefully he doesn’t pick up the pattern of you constantly zoning out whenever you look his way. 

You manage to get out of your dancing circle and head to the table where your friends are. Namjoon engulfs you in a hug and praises you for a recently published research from your team that he already finished reading. Hoseok and his girlfriend get to you right after, and you quickly get into conversation because it’s been a while since you’ve seen her. 

You constantly glance at Jungkook who just sips his drink while chatting with whoever is near him. There’s a tiny smirk on his face after you meet his eyes though, and you see it from your periphery. You wonder if he’s waiting for you to go to him like you are.

It takes a while but you make it around the table after greeting everyone, finally ending up where Jungkook is. He softly smiles at you before giving you a hug and whispering hey. Your body chooses to shiver again in response.

“Hey,” you greet back then look at him from head-to-toe. “Did Tae dress you?” 

“Sort of,” Jungkook chuckles. “He told me to change from something else and made me wear the belt and the jacket. Does it suit me?”

You’re unsure if this is a trick question. Or a test. You’re losing your mind over this outfit and he’s fully clothed. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “Different from your usual outfits and this is… mature.”

He snorts in response. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You realize the other connotation of what you just said and try to make something up but your brain already isn’t functioning at full capacity so you wave him off.

“Whatever. It means what it means.”

He says something but you can’t hear him over the loud music so he leans closer and whispers in your ear again.

“I said the outfit looks nice on you. It’s very chic.”

“Oh, thanks,” you mutter, feeling the heat on your cheeks. “I, uh, I tried. Tae has hot friends and—”

You stop mid-sentence at the stupidity of your words. Your brain truly isn’t functioning right because you obviously dressed all prettily so the man in front of you would pay attention to you but you go on about Tae’s friends who you don’t even care about instead. 

You turn away and curse at yourself internally, unable to properly correct yourself to Jungkook.

“Right, of course,” he replies. 

As if by some cosmic occurrence, Taehyung appears next to you and pulls you in a hug. You thank him for the ride and he says his car and chauffeur are there for you should you decide to go home early, which he won’t mind you doing. He steps back and looks at your outfit.

“I like this vibe,” he hums in approval. “Doesn’t she look nice, Kook?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook sips his drink and nods. “I’m sure everyone would think so.”

He doesn’t look you in the eyes, not like what he was doing just a minute ago, and you feel stupid all over again, so you try to get out of it.

“I, uh… bathroom!” You blurt out. “I… I have to go.”

You turn around and scold yourself repeatedly until you find Jimin on the dance floor and pull him to a nearby table. 

“Jungkook complimented me and I said I tried to look nice because Tae’s friends are hot and I’m so stupid because why the fuck would I say that!” You yell in one breath. “Is my brain secretly jeopardizing my chances with this man without me knowing? Whose mind is this?! Why is it dumb?”

Jimin, who’s clearly had some to drink and is no doubt endeared by your yapping, chuckles and hugs you.

“Oh, ___. You become a little silly in front of Kook. I think that’s normal.”

“It’s stupid,” you pout. 

“It's not the end of the world though. He already thinks you look good.”

“I said his outfit is mature.”

Jimin snorts this time and assures you it’s fine. You probably just need a drink to calm your nerves. It’s a different environment with him this time, at least since you’ve admitted to yourself what you feel, and saying things you don’t exactly mean happens.

“Come. Let’s have a shot.”

Jimin pulls you to the bar and orders you something that might help a bit. Hayoung arrives shortly after and says she needs a drink for Seokjin so he’ll start loosening up and stop clinging to her. You talk a little bit and you glance at Jungkook every chance you get. 

He’s talking to Jihyo and your other friends and dancing a bit when they make him. You feel silly for leaving his side and wish you were next to him because even if you’d seen each other a few days ago, it still feels like it’s been so long. 

But right when you’re about to head back to him, your hand gets pulled again and you turn to see Gyu-rim dragging you back to the bar. 

“I need you. You’re sensible and direct,” she tells you. 

“Do you need me, too?” Jimin pops up next to you with his sickly sweet smile. 

“No. You give me a headache,” Gyu-rim deadpans, prompting Jimin to giggle and head back to the dance floor. 

“Okay. What do you need my brand of sensibility for?” You ask your friend. 

“Yoongi hasn’t minded me all night. I need you to tell me it’s normal and I shouldn’t worry.”

“Why would you worry about it?”

Gyu-rim shrugs and looks away. 

Yoongi doesn’t always mind people and it’s one of those quirks of his that everyone’s just accepted. Not unless he’s not usually like that with her. Or something happened and he should be minding her. Either way, it’s bothering her, and as someone who usually doesn’t care, Gyu-rim seems to be caring a lot.

And then it hits you.

“Do you… do you like him?”

Gyu-rim’s resting bitch face doesn’t give much until she starts blinking rapidly. Then she nods.

“Oh my god! That’s… that’s amazing,” you squeal. “Wait, this doesn’t have anything to do with Jimin and his pact, right? You can’t have him putting things in your head, Gyu.”

“No—yes, I mean… I liked Yoongi before Jimin ever said anything,” she admits. “Jimin has this weird thing about knowing, I guess. He’s probably an empath or something but the moment he started yapping about that pact shit and teasing us, I started thinking that maybe it’s not just me, that maybe someone else could see… something between me and Yoongi.”

“How’d you know you like him? I mean, you’ve been friends for so long,” you ask, hoping you could get a bit of insight from someone who probably knows what you’re feeling.

“He just always made me smile.”

“But you… you rarely smile,” you furrow your brows.

“Inside, ___,” she groans, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I always smile inside when he’s around. Like, he just makes things better and I don’t know anyone else who does that for me.”

“Can I ask what it was about him that made you feel all this?”

Her lips slowly turn up.

“He can handle all of me, you know? I’m aloof and impatient and uncaring and I have all this baggage but he just lets me be and deals with all that because he just does,” she says, and you see the tiniest of smiles on her face. “I’m never too much for him. And he’s just the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

You smile this time because that’s the Yoongi you know. He’s very accepting of people and he has this quiet warmth about it. But even if it’s something you see in him as well, it’s Gyu-rim who feels differently. And just like you’d told Jungkook before, parts of us adjust around other people and you find someone who fits you right and then you just want to be with them all the time. It’s not very different from how you feel, too.

“Okay, so back to the part about telling you that you shouldn’t worry,” you say. “You shouldn’t worry. This isn’t Yoongi’s crowd nor is it his scene, you know that. And sometimes that makes people uncomfortable. It makes them not think straight. Do you think something’s bothering him though? What were you doing before that?”

“We were drinking last night, just talking about stuff, you know? About growing old and shit and my mom called about some family friend’s son who’s visiting Seoul and that I should bring him around so I did and—”

“Wait, he’s the other guy who was at our table?” You ask. 

You remember some unfamiliar dude that you just smiled at then passed by. You didn’t think he was actually with any of your friends. 

“Yeah… I mean, where else would I take him? I took him to Co-ex earlier and—”

“What if Yoongi isn’t used to seeing you with another guy anymore? I mean, it’s been a while since you’ve been with someone. Maybe he wants to talk to you but the dude is… there? And he doesn’t want him to feel uncomfortable or Yoongi himself… doesn’t know how to act?”

“Hmm,” she hums. “See, that’s more sensible. Hoseok said Yoongi might be jealous or something.”

“That’s… that’s also possible.”

“No. Stick to what you said,” she frowns. “That’s… that’s more realistic. I don’t want to hope for Yoongi to be jealous because that implies something.”

“Fine. He’s just unsure of how to act because he’s used to things just being you and him. So just talk to him. Don’t give in to his awkwardness. He doesn’t push anyone away so just stay next to him then he’ll give in!”

“Okay then,” she nods. “You know your shit, huh?”

“I just… listen to podcasts, I guess,” you lie. 

If she doesn’t believe you, she doesn’t show it. She nods again, buys you a drink, then walks off. You watch her approach Yoongi with a glass of whiskey. They don’t talk at first but you see her try to engage until he finally says something, turns towards her, and then all is normal again.

You pat yourself on the back for handling that rather maturely. But your little triumph ends quickly, as Mo-eum stands next to you at the bar and asks you why you’re there.

“Gyu-rim had a crisis and I helped her with it. She bought me a drink.”

“Oh. I think Yoongi likes her,” Mo-eum says matter-of-factly.

“Oh,” you say in surprise, deciding on keeping mum about what you know.

“But anyway. Back to you. Why are you here instead of where Jungkook is? Don’t you plan on letting him know what you feel?” She asks.

“I… I probably do,” you convince yourself. “I just said something stupid and I’m letting that settle first by not being around him. What do I even say?”

“I don’t know. You’re the one who asks the guy you like out,” she shrugs.

“Do I look like I’m confident about this Jungkook thing?!” You exclaim. “I don’t even know what to do or say or if I should even do it now.”

“Do you need a nudge or a push?” She asks. “Because I’ll do it for you.”

You look at her questioningly before she turns your head towards a direction in the Club and there you see it, Jungkook by a cocktail table, talking to a girl.

He’s bending down to hear what she has to say over the music, and she tiptoes to get closer to him. And while it may be totally innocent, just the sight of him being that close with another woman makes your heart sink. 

“I, uh…” you stutter, unsure of what to say. 

“Jimin said she’s a friend of theirs from middle school so they go way back. And she happens to be a model-actress friend of Tae’s,” Mo-eum explains as she leans back on the bar table. “They just bumped into each other and caught up. Small world, huh?”

“She, uh… She looks happy to see him,” you state.

The woman is laughing and patting Jungkook’s arm and he looks engaged, too. He’s smiling and watching her talk and maybe they’re really just catching up and there’s not much to it. It’s also possible that with all the serendipitous meetings that happen everyday, this might be the one that changes it for them. 

Because it happens. Two old friends meet again after years and who knows if they had history? It’s possible that there were hidden feelings and now they’ve matured and can finally express and act on them. Or maybe these grown up versions of themselves are what they need, and you’re just standing by, watching it unfold for both of them. 

Your mind’s already conjured so many scenarios, many of them involve Jungkook and the woman holding hands. But you notice him meeting your gaze and you quickly look away. 

“She is. I heard they haven’t seen each other in so long,” Mo-eum says. “Imagine seeing a middle school classmate after decades and finding out he’s pretty cute.”

You turn to your best friend with a frown. She’s never provoked you like this.

“What? I’m just saying. She might scoop him up before you even get a chance to tell him you like him. I don’t even know what you’re waiting for.”

“I’m just being cautious,” you reason. 

“Hmm. Does caution get you the guy?”

You disregard her question and continue.

“I’m enjoying how we are now without directly talking about feelings,” you add.

“Okay. But are you enjoying now?”

“Clearly not! What the fuck, Mo-eum. I never get jealous. What is this feeling?!”

“It doesn’t feel good, does it?” 

You panic inside as the scenarios flash before your eyes again. You may be a bit dramatic but that’s how you are and it’s how you deal with things. 

“Okay, I can’t do this,” you say as you start walking to the opposite direction of where Jungkook is. 

But Mo-eum pulls you back.

“Yah! Where are you going?”

“Just…” you start, briefly looking at Jungkook again who just happens to meet your eyes every time. “Somewhere. To take a breath. I don’t know. I can’t be around for this.”

“You were already avoiding him. You can’t keep doing that all night,” she sighs. “Didn’t you say that you don’t want to act differently because if you do, he’ll ask you what’s wrong then you’ll end up telling him everything?”

“Exactly! And I can’t… do that at a Club! And not with the image of him with another girl drilled in my mind,” you pout, your head bowing down now. 

“___, hey. Look at me,” she says, shifting your body to face her. “That might not even be anything. I’m sorry for putting things in your head. But… you have a chance to spend time with him so take it. You can’t just keep skirting around what you feel when you already know you like him. And I can see that you like him a lot.”

“I do,” you say with furrowed brows and she laughs at how angrily you say it. 

“You look like Kook when he eats something really delicious.”

You frown at her teasing and you let her drag you back towards your table where you see Jungkook is now at. With the girl. 

Your dramatic ass won’t let the logical part of you win. You don’t care. You’ll go full Yoongi mode tonight. 

You stay at the cocktail table next to your friends. Jungkook, you know out of courtesy, introduces you to the woman as a friend from middle school. You greet her as you would any person, and she seems nice and she’s also really pretty. 

She gets back into conversation with Hoseok and his girlfriend because they apparently have common social circles. You’re reminded that you live in your bubble with your friends and they’re connected to more people outside of your group. Their talk about fashion and other things that you can’t relate with makes you zone out.

As you’re about to turn to Namjoon next to you, Jungkook approaches your side.

“Hey, ___. Are you—”

“Do you want a drink?” You interject. “I’m heading to the bar right now.”

He looks at you with pursed lips before he answers.

“Just a glass of Coke.”

“Okay. An amaretto sour for me then,” you nod before heading out.

Jungkook watches you make your way to the bar for the nth time in the past two hours or so. He’s barely spoken to you all night and it’s all he’s wanted to do but you’ve been off talking to other people and he’s getting a tiny bit jealous. He was on his way to you when a friend from middle school called him and they got to talking. 

Maybe the second time he caught you looking at him before you looked away should have signaled to him that he should just go to you and make sure you don’t get away again but he’s been hesitant all night, and only because you look unsure and uncomfortable. You also did say that you dressed up because Taehyung’s friends are hot and there have been all these mixed signals and he doesn’t know what to do.

When you get back to the table and place the drink in front of him then immediately head to the couch and sit between Hayoung and Seokjin, Jungkook sighs to himself. You’re so pretty tonight and he hasn’t even been able to appreciate that because you’ve been feeling so far away.

“Oh, Kook. Don’t be too sad I’m leaving,” Taehyung says as he appears next to him. “I mean, that’s why you look upset at my farewell party right?”

“It’s too early for that. You literally scheduled to see me every single day next week,” Jungkook playfully shakes his head. “Sorry. You’re not the reason why I’m upset right now.”

“Is it ___?”

“She’s been avoiding me all night. You said this outfit is supposed to make me look irresistible!”

“And you do! I’ve had so many people ask for your number and beg me to introduce them to you but I lied and said you’re dating someone.”

“How does that help me?”

“So no one would tail you!” Taehyung says. 

“Doesn’t matter, does it? The one person whose attention I want can’t even stay more than a minute next to me.”

Taehyung can only sigh at his friend. 

“She’s seated now. Take the seat in front of her and try again.”

“Okay,” Jungkook says softly.

He always enjoyed it when you just found your way to each other during nights like this but he supposes he’s got to make it happen this time.

So that’s what he does, as he approaches the couch and takes the small chair in front of you. He quickly gets into conversation with Seokjin and Hayoung and he looks at you tenderly, hoping he gets to telepathically tell you that he just wants to be near you. 

You suppose you’ve been a little too dramatic tonight. It’s unlike you to be bothered like this, especially since you tend to make the first move because you don’t like wasting your time. But with Jungkook, you just don’t want to screw things up. You don’t want to say things that you’ll regret. But you also don’t want to completely isolate him.

So you smile a little, at least to just acknowledge that he’s there. 

Not far away, your three friends congregate. 

“So, uh… about those two,” Jimin gestures to where you are. “We said we won’t meddle but we’ll nudge. Can we just push them? The tension is killing me.”

“I know! ___ got jealous when Kook was with your friend,” Mo-eum tells Jimin. “I’m so tempted to tell her she has nothing to worry about.”

“Kook is upset that she’s been ignoring him all night,” Taehyung groans now. “And look at them. They’re just looking at each other like, can one of you just make a move!”

“So… we push?” Jimin smiles.

“I’m gonna shove them towards each other at this point,” Taehyung says.

The three of them approach the couch and it’s at that moment that Seokjin and Hayoung stand up to say that it’s already 12 so they’ll be heading out.

“Okay, Cinderella. I  see that Yoongi and Gyu-rim are ready to head out, too,” Taehyung hums. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”

“I’m… gonna go ahead as well,” you say, deciding right then that you’re too tired from all the emotions of tonight.

You’ll sort yourself out after a shower and then you’ll figure things out from there. Maybe text Jungkook and try to be normal.

“Oh, we can take you home,” Seokjin offers. 

“Nope, she’s out of the way!” Taehyung exclaims. “Plus, I told her I’d take care of her ride home. You guys could go ahead. Bye!” 

You look at Taehyung curiously. Once your other friends leave, he smiles at you.

“Actually, uh, I made the chauffeur take someone else home because she’s really drunk,” he lies. “So I’m booking you a cab and since it’s late, Kook, can you please go home with her and make sure she’s safe and stuff? You can come back here but I also know you’re tired from a full day of classes under the sun.”

Your eyes widen the entire time Taehyung speaks, and you glare at him in question and disbelief. You want to refuse but Jungkook agrees immediately. 

“Sure, uh. If that’s okay with her,” he says, looking at you then quickly turning away.

“Yeah, it should be fine. Nothing we haven’t done before,” you state, trying to sound unbothered. 

You go around and say goodbye to the others who are still staying then head down once Taehyung gives you the car details. Jungkook tails you and stands behind you while you wait for the car to arrive. 

It’s a little tense, as you’re not used to being awkwardly quiet with him. You’re often talking and making fun of each other after a night out and well, comforting him a few other times. So this feels new and different and not the good kind. 

You find ways to distract yourself. You look at the street across from you, turn around to see if any other familiar faces are leaving the Club, and put your hand out to confirm if that’s a drizzle you feel, all the while avoiding Jungkook’s direction. You remember he’s there when he says that the car has arrived, and he opens the door for you before he slides in. 

“You good?” He asks.

“Yup,” you respond without looking at him. 

You stare out the window and sense him looking at you then look away, which is pretty much how this whole evening has been. You feel the tension thicken and the heat rise to your cheeks. You hate that you’re being like this, especially when you decide to look at him, only to find him turned to the window this time. 

You sigh to yourself and know that you have to get your shit together, and just as you’re about to say something, the car stops and you’re already in front of your apartment. 

The rain decides to fall at this moment, and when you get out of the car after Jungkook, he hovers his jacket over your head and urges you to start walking. You both run to the building damp from the rain, and you tell him to join you upstairs so you could return his hoodie.

He follows you to his apartment with his jacket in his hands, and right as you enter, there’s a sudden downpour followed by loud thunder. You check the weather forecast and it doesn’t seem like the rain will ease anytime soon.

“Stay the night, Kook,” you say as you turn towards him, feeling genuinely worried now. 

“Is that okay with you?” He asks with a tinge of sadness in his eyes. 

“Of course,” you say softly, as the guilt of how you’ve been acting overtakes you. “I’ll set up the couch.”

You give him a hanger for his jacket and you both follow your routine whenever he’s over. He retrieves his toothbrush and gray towel from the drawer while you put the sheets on the sofa bed and place his hoodie on top. You shower after he does and see that he’s finished the glass of water you put out for him earlier. 

“Are you okay there?” You ask before walking to your bed.

“Yeah, thanks,” he half smiles. “Sleep well, yeah?”

“I will. You, too,” you smile back.

And just like that, you’re gone, and Jungkook has never felt you so far away.

Jungkook lies on the bed that you’ve set up for him, always with the two pillows and the humidifier next to the side table because he’s told you once that he sleeps better when he has one on. 

He at least knows through this that you don’t hate him, whatever your reason for that would be. You may have avoided him earlier and may have been quiet throughout the car ride and avoided his gaze every chance you could, but maybe he didn’t make much of an effort to talk to you either. He wasn’t sure how to, and with his feelings intensifying everyday, he just doesn’t know how to go about this the right way. 

He could do that now, perhaps break the ice and get even just a small conversation going until you’re both acting normally again. But it’s late and you’re probably tired. 

He decides to pull his shit together tonight and build the confidence to talk to you tomorrow, which could lead to him admitting how he feels. With both of you in this weird limbo, it’s hard to act without knowing if he’s crossing a line or staying too far behind it. Without the expectations, he doesn’t know if he’s acting as he should or if there’s more he could do. 

Jungkook sighs to himself with all the thoughts running through his mind. He just wants to be next to you, listening to you talk about how your day has been and what weird thoughts and ideas you have again. 

He just wants to hold your hand. The few times that you did while you were in Jeju all felt so nice and so natural. He hopes they could last longer and he could savor them this time. He wants to cuddle you, too. You always look so comfortable and he already knows he could get rid of his tiredness and stress if he could just hug you at the end of the day.

But there’s nothing he can do now. You’re probably fast asleep and he wishes he was. If only it wasn’t this hot. 

He sits up on the couch and gets a feel of the air, which definitely is not as cold as he expected, given the rain outside. You don’t have a cooling fan in sight and the only air conditioner is the one in your sleeping area, which usually seeps into the living room but it’s not strong enough tonight.

So Jungkook removes his shirt, the one that you lent him, leaving him in just his sweatpants, which he’s also tempted to get rid of. But he keeps that on and lies back down, hoping the air would cool a bit and that being shirtless in your living room isn’t too disrespectful. 

Not far away, you’re tossing and turning in your bed. You’re afraid you might have screwed up this time, as you recall the sadness in Jungkook’s eyes as you quickly ended the night. 

You didn’t annoy him, didn’t talk to him, and didn’t give him the smile you usually do. The times he went home with you from a night out, you were always comforting him and now, it seems he needs comforting because of you.

You think about talking to him, not wanting to end the night the way you did, with awkward and unsure half smiles and just this uncomfortable feeling of not being right with him. 

You briefly hesitate as he might be asleep already, but the sweat on your hairline alerts you of the temperature in your apartment. You sit up and wonder why it feels warm inside despite the rain, but you don’t want to think science right now and instead just turn your air conditioner as low as possible.

And then it hits you. 

Jungkook is outside, barely reached by the cool air, and you don’t have any fan out there for him. You know he can’t sleep when it’s hot, so you quickly get up and take the few steps out of your sleeping area to your living room only to stop in your tracks. 

Because lying on your sofa bed is Jungkook in nothing but his sweatpants, the rest of his body bare, and his tattooed right arm over his eyes. 

He must’ve felt hot and removed his shirt, which you don’t blame him for, so you take the fan underneath your desk then tiptoe towards the other end of the room so you could plug it in. 

But right as you do, sparks appear, causing you to shriek in panic. Jungkook wakes up and immediately rushes to you.

“___, what happened?!”

“I tried to plug the fan but there were sparks,” you explain. “Let me try th—”

“Did you feel a shock or something?” He worriedly asks as he takes your hand and massages it.

“I… uh, no. I’m fine,” you reply, settling your eyes on your palm that he continues to rub before lifting your gaze to meet his. “I just wanted to turn the fan on because I know you can’t sleep when it’s hot but…”

Your eyes fall to his very bare chest and you suddenly feel even hotter.

“Now I’m scared something’s up with my wiring,” you continue. 

“It could be anything. We can check it out tomorrow,” he suggests. “But don’t worry, I’ll be fine here.”

You know he’s trying to appease you but you don’t want him to sleep uncomfortably. So you suggest something else, something that might feel a bit tense but it might also be what eventually will make things feel normal.

“Or you can, uh, sleep next to me, on my bed,” you say, biting your lip in nervousness. “It’s cold there. The air doesn’t get through here much.”

“Are you sure?” He asks. 

“Yeah, Kook. It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

“Right,” he nods, remembering Sapporo and how it felt being next to you. “Okay then.”

He wears his shirt then follows you to your bed. He lays on one side and waits until you’re lying down as well. He wishes you goodnight and closes his eyes, hoping that would help quell the mix of nervousness and excitement he’s feeling. He needs it to keep himself from blurting everything to you at this hour. Maybe all that could wait. 

But something prompts him to open his eyes, perhaps that need to see you again before he falls asleep. And as he turns his head, he sees you lying on your side, the covers tucked under your chin, and you, still wide awake, looking at him.

Jungkook catches you by surprise, prompting you to pull the covers over your head and hide under the blanket, just in case he’s asleep but his eyes are open, which apparently happens. 

But he is, in fact, awake because now, he’s attempting to pull the blanket down, as if knocking on your built up wall, asking you to come out.

So you do, as you slowly reveal yourself and find him lying on his side now, too, facing you.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

“I, uh,” you start, unsure how to say everything and if you even should at this time. “Yes?”

You wanna apologize for how weird you’ve been but that also means you’d have to tell him you like him, and that also means explaining how you got to this point and then saying what you want to happen now. 

You’re not even sure if he feels the same way, so you’re now also thinking of what to say in that situation. You basically made it impossible for him to cop out because he’s literally about to sleep next to you, and now you feel stupid for even making him stay. 

But you also can’t go on longer being this awkward around him. It doesn’t feel right. And now that he’s here, you’re able to see him up close again, which you’ve been wanting to do all night. And you just—

“You’re not hard to read, you know that, right?” Jungkook chuckles as he settles in his position more comfortably. “Your face has like, a dozen expressions all at once.”

“I just…” you start, your mind bouncing from one thought to another, being pulled to different scenarios and scripts of how you’re going to go about this. 

You sit up from the bed and lean against the frame.

Your face distorts and this prompts Jungkook to laugh again. He sits up and faces you.

“So, are you gonna share even just one of the million things that are in your head right now?” He asks. 

“Fine,” you groan, knowing that there’s really no other way but to go through it. 

You’re just gonna have to face the consequences of what you’re about to say, whatever it is. And that could include kicking yourself out of your own apartment out of embarrassment.

“I know it seemed like I avoided you all night and well, I did,” you start.

“Yeah, you did,” he hums. “I wasn’t sure what I did. I wanted to ask you and—”

“You did nothing wrong. It was all me,” you shake your head. “I said something stupid early on and I was just trying to get my shit together and then I saw you with that… friend of yours from middle school and I… got scared. And then I just acted weird all night. It was really silly.”

“Why were you scared?” 

“I believe in serendipitous encounters. And that felt like one. One that could… lead to something more,” you say softly, like a whisper, afraid to manifest it into the world.

“And why would that matter?”

You close your eyes and think that this is it. Of all the times that you asked a guy out because you told them you were interested in them, none of those made you feel nervous. This time, you’re feeling every possible emotion all at once and you just want Jungkook to keep you steady.

“Because I… feel… something… for you…” You stutter, avoiding his eyes because you’re unsure if you want to know his reaction or not.

“Care to elaborate?” Jungkook asks, not wanting to rejoice just yet and instead bask in this feeling of being on the cusp of something more with you. That’s if you mean what he hopes you mean.

“It’s, uhm…” you try again, knowing you’re gonna have to suck it up.

You mentally smack yourself in motivation. Better to just say it all out here than delaying it.

“I guess it started with a moment when something felt different. And then I woke up the next day and I was just thinking about you, wondering how your day’s been and then wanting to hear you actually talk about it,” you ramble. “And then I thought, oh I want to actually see him, and then I do and then suddenly my heart’s doing this weird thing that it’s never done around you and then I’m clammy and nervous but also… happy? And then I try to look at you but I can’t because now you’re like, attractive to me and I never thought that before and–”

“Wow, way to tell me I’m ugly,” he teases to mask how nervous and excited he is, even with everything you’d just said that also makes him want to leap for joy.

“No! That’s not what I mean,” you backtrack, smacking his chest and then apologising when he yelps in pain, although you doubt he actually felt that, but you say sorry anyway. “What I meant was that you’re obviously objectively handsome but that… that’s never affected me before but now it does and–”

“How is it affecting you now?” He pushes. 

“It’s making me giddy!” You yell, surprising you and him, but you continue. “Like, fuck you’re handsome but also, since when were you this handsome and what the hell am I supposed to do about it? And so when a girl is next to you, giggling and touching your arm, I’m like, of course she also thinks he’s handsome and then they’re gonna hold hands and date and shit and that makes me irrationally upset and like my tummy wants to explode and– stop smiling!”

“I’m sorry I just…” he smiles softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call me handsome. It’s just nice to hear you say that.”

His heart melts at the pout you give him, and he just wants to get to the part where he confesses his feelings but he also can’t get enough of you rambling like this.

“So, when have you started feeling this way?” He asks.

“Jeju,” you mumble. “Maybe before that. Probably on the plane or something, I don’t know but… yeah,” you continue, looking away and sighing. 

He’s drawn this out so much and you internally smack yourself again because you definitely did not think this through.

“Look, if you don’t feel the same way, it’s totally fine. I can handle rejection. Let’s probably buy some more alcohol because I don’t have enough and I would need a lot so I could pass out and forget this ever happened,” you blurt out. “And then I’m just gonna have to not show my face to you for a while but I’ll get over it, really.”

“Why would I want that?” He asks, his earlier cheeky expression now replaced with an incredulous one. He nudges your knee so you’d look at him. “And why do you think I’d reject you?”

“Because!” You smack his chest again in reflex. “Accepting the worst is my way of coping. And you’re not even saying anything. You just keep asking questions. Are you a researcher? You’re not, so why do you keep–”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He raises his hands in submission but flashes you a shy smile. “I’m not doing this right. I guess I just wanted to hear you ramble about how much you like me.”

“Why?” You ask, crossing your arms.

“It makes me think I’m not crazy, since I feel the same way.”

“What?!” You yell again, something you realise is a defense mechanism of yours this time to drown out the sound of your beating heart that he can probably hear.

“I feel all of that - wanting to know how you are, wanting to see you, then wanting to see you again, feeling my heart do these weird things whenever you smile at me or pinch my cheek or lean your head on my shoulder,” he explains, and now he’s the one who can’t look at you in the eyes. “I woke up one morning and just had you on my mind. The whole day,” he continues. 

“Since when?”

“Sapporo. Maybe before that. Probably when you stood up to my ex or something,” he echoes your words. 

“That was half a year ago, Kook,” you say, the reality hitting you that he already liked you when you started getting confused. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Well, I was dropping hints,” he admits. “Driving you around, saying that I want to spend more time with you, texting you… I even sent you that sunrise picture from the school trip and said that Jeju was better and well, I assumed you knew it was because we watched it together then.”

“I…” you try, although you’re unsure what to say. 

In hindsight, he was doing a little more than usual, but you were blinded by what was normal for you and didn’t want to delude yourself, even as you were thinking of all the worst possible outcomes. 

“And I didn’t wanna risk it,” he adds. “I mean, it was a risk keeping it either way. You could one day just say you like some guy you met at a cafe because, well, you believe in whirlwind romances and serendipitous encounters, like you said. But I also thought to let you settle into me, you know? The way I learned how to settle into you. And maybe prepare myself for a possible rejection in case you didn’t feel the same way.”

“Well, I confessed first,” you point out. “Were you gonna tell me if I didn’t?”

“Yeah like, tomorrow morning or something,” he laughs. “The feelings just kept growing. But I didn’t want you to feel pressured or anything. I still value our friendship, even if I want more.”

“Well, I don’t feel pressured to like you back given what you feel since, well, that’s what I feel, too.”

“Good,” he chuckles, thinking how ridiculous but so on-brand your confession to each other is. “So does this mean we’re dating?” He cocks an eyebrow, wanting to now jump to that part where he gets to express all that he feels to you in different ways.

“I guess,” you shyly nod, then giggle when his smile causes his nose to scrunch and his eyes to sparkle under the moonlight. “That’s the logical next step, right?” You ask, slowly inching your legs closer to him. 

“It is,” he nods, shortening the distance between both of you this time, even if he’s still in disbelief that this is really happening. “Is there any other logical next step we should take? Like, I don’t know, kiss or something?”

“Ah, so that’s what you want to get to right away,” you laugh.

“It’s just one of those things that I woke up one day and thought to myself I wanted to do,” he admits. “And hold your hand, stuff like that.”

“Yeah, me too,” you respond, biting your lower lip in response to how his eyes keep darting to them. 

“Okay then, that settles it,” he says, his voice now low that it causes your stomach to tangle in knots,  especially when he leans closer to gently boop his adorable nose against yours. 

“Still wanna get drunk and forget about all this?” He teases as he looks you in the eyes.

“Depends on how well you kiss,” you tease back.

“Oh,” he grunts. “You’re gonna challenge me like that, huh?” 

His look turns lustful as he shifts his body and slowly lowers you to lie on your back. He hovers over you with his one arm above your head while the other gently lays on your waist. 

Much as you want to push his buttons, especially with the obvious hunger in his eyes, there’s still that tinge of softness that you hold onto.

“Definitely not a night I’d want to forget,” you whisper. “You can kiss me now.”

He savors your features, and much as he’d wanted to hungrily kiss you all over just seconds ago, you look so soft that he wants you to experience all his gentleness tonight. 

And that’s what he does, as he delicately places his lips against yours and he feels you smile into the kiss.

It’s wholesome and languid, as if you’re testing the waters and convincing yourselves that this is really happening. It’s like you’re slowly familiarizing yourself with what could be your everyday, but it’s hypnotic just the same. 

He pulls away and all he sees is this tenderness in your eyes that he’s never seen on you before. You thumb his cheek as your eyes map his face and he’s overwhelmed by how much you’re savoring him. The gentleness after all your intensity is what he likes most about you and he gets to see and experience that up close. 

You pull him for a kiss now and it’s deeper, hungrier, as you take control this time. Your tongue seeks entrance, something he immediately grants, and you moan at the pleasure, at the high it gives. 

Because that’s what kissing him feels like, like you’re up in the air, your mind dazed yet filled with so many thoughts and nothing all at once. Your hands travel to his back and you pull him down while you push against him, feeling his body react to this intimacy, to this intensity. You feel like you’re running out of air but that you also can’t live without this. 

And then you’re able to breathe and you feel empty and full at the same time. And really, really giddy. Your heart is racing from all that. Jungkook kisses you so good, you want to do it over and over again.

You pull away and kiss his cheeks. He giggles before removing himself from you then lays on his side. He props himself on his right arm and you turn to face him.

“This is weird,” you say.

“You say that after kissing me like that?” He asks incredulously. “You’re really something, huh?”

“Excuse me, what does that mean?” You gasp.

“Just seemed like you enjoyed it a lot,” he teasingly shrugs.

“Yeah, and it seemed like it got you excited, too.”

You gesture down and he laughs. You definitely felt his dick poke your belly earlier and you’re proud of yourself for being able to keep it together. 

“Can’t help it. I mean, I’ve been thinking of doing that for a while,” he says so casually, and it makes your heart race once more. “But I guess it might take some getting used to. You’ve always been affectionate to me in a playful, let-me-annoy-Jungkook type of way,” he laughs. 

“And you’ve always been affectionate to me in a let-me-help-this-helpless-woman type of way,” you laugh back. 

“I guess massaging your weak legs and giving you piggyback rides give off that vibe,” he hums. “That changes now, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” you smile then kiss his lips again. “I’ll have you know that I’m very affectionate. I… I need to feel it, too.”

“I know,” he says, softly brushing your cheek. “And I’ll always give that to you.”

“Good,” you say, yawning now.

He chuckles at your sleepy eyes. He lays on his back and nudges you to hug him. You do, and you start talking about what you’ll do tomorrow until you fall asleep mid-sentence. 

Jungkook laughs again. It’s just like Sapporo, but tonight is so much better, he thinks, as he wraps his arm around your shoulder and you snuggle even closer to him. 

He’s settled in this home and so have you, and he can’t be any happier.

You wake up with the sun in your eyes, and you think it might be really up there by now for it to be this bright. 

You lift yourself to look at Jungkook, still adorably sleeping and you’re reminded that last night really happened, and you’re not imagining things anymore. 

You smile to yourself at how it all unfolded and that regardless of how, you got here, and you really don’t wanna screw this up.

You turn to the other side and try to get off the bed for your morning routine, but strong hands pull you, flushing your back to his taut chest. You’re engulfed in his arms now and you sink into it even if you say you’re gonna heat up water for the coffee. 

“Coffee can wait,” Jungkook mumbles in your ear, as he lays his leg over yours, giving you no chance to get away. 

And you don’t really want to, not when he’s holding you like this and his morning raspy voice is giving you the shivers. 

“But I wanna face you,” you whine.

So he loosens his hold and you turn around to face him, only to be suffocated by his chest so you complain again that you can’t breathe. 

“Make up your mind,” he groans, but you just laugh and adjust yourself despite him tightly wrapping his arms around you.

And it’s nice, you think, how despite the initial weirdness of being intimate with a person you’ve only been platonically affectionate towards for years, this moment feels natural. It feels comfortable and safe and a place that you could easily slot yourself into and it’ll feel right. 

You shift again so you could look at him, this time with the sunlight brushing his face and he looks just as beautiful. You don’t fight the urge and you kiss his cheek, then his jaw, then his neck. He’s groaning then giggling in response and he tickles you in retaliation so you bite his nose and he groans even louder.

“Did you just bite my nose?!” He looks at you incredulously. 

“Couldn't help it,” you reply with your puppy eyes that he’s so weak for. “It’s so cute.”

“I never knew if you were just making fun of me or what,” he chuckles. 

“I’m endeared by it,” you state. “Like, I just want to squish your face all the time. And now I want to keep kissing it, too.”

“Kissing’s good,” he hums. 

You smile at him, kiss his lips, then scurry off the bed to heat water and wash up in the bathroom.

Jungkook finally lets you go and laughs to himself at how silly he feels over wanting to hold you a bit longer, even if he’d done it the entire night. He woke up to your kisses and there was no better way to start the day, and he’s afraid to get used to this because he knows he’ll keep looking for it.

But he can think about that later on. Right now is what matters and being able to act how he wants around you and express what he feels is freeing. He can still tease and make fun of you then hold you right after. 

He stretches his arms as he familiarizes himself on your bed. He looks around and gets to take in your space, the one you’d quickly let him into. 

You have enough plants in your sleeping area and he knows it’s Mo-eum who comes over to make sure they’re all alive. You have some art pieces that he knows Taehyung got for you, and there are some cute and playful trinkets that Jimin buys you for fun. 

He sighs at his absence until he spots it - the snow globes he bought for you during your Sapporo trip, perched on the shelf of your desk next to a group picture in the snow.

You made space for him, he thinks, and he knows you’ll keep doing that to each other from now. 

His thoughts are disrupted when his phone starts to ring and he sees that there’s a group call incoming so he picks it up. Taehyung looks like he’s on a boat, Jimin is in his car, and Mo-eum is at her parents’ house, as Jungkook can hear them bickering in the background. 

“Oh, Kook picked up,” she chirps. “I wonder if ___ is still asleep.”

Jungkook disregards her comment and instead asks what everyone is up to. They share where they are and Taehyung says he just wants to check up on his friends after his party, which he does all the time.

“Where’s ___?” Jimin asks this time. “She did say she got home last night. Speaking of which, Kook! What happ—”

“Were you looking for me?” You ask, as you pop up on the screen cuddled next to Jungkook. 

It takes a while for it to process but you slowly see your friends’ faces turn from curious to surprised.

“Oh my god, are you two fucking?!” Jimin exclaims.

“Better. We’re, uh, we’re dating,” you say, giggling shyly.

“Fucking finally!” Jimin yells. “I knew it was gonna happen. My senses are never wrong.”

“See, ___. You had nothing to worry about seeing Kook with a girl last night!” Mo-eum adds.

“I actually lied about my driver taking home a drunk friend last night,” Taehyung smirks. “We needed a way for both of you to be alone.”

“Oh my god, you’re all so dramatic,” you playfully roll your eyes. “Well, thanks for scheming then. It rained and my fan sparked and I told him he could sleep on my bed and I got all weird then boom, we’re here!”

“That’s… one way to put it,” Jungkook laughs. “But yeah, she confessed first and here we are.”

You pinch Jungkook in response and he yelps in pain, but you do express your agreement. 

“Who’d have known he’s been crushing on me for months, huh?” You shrug.

“I did,” Taehyung exclaims. “Kinda sensed it in Japan but I didn’t ask him until after.”

“What the— well, you were kinda sus,” you hum. 

“You mean like, leaving you to your alone time? Making Kook give you a piggyback ride? Yes I was,” your friend laughs. 

“Well, now you can stop ogling him in secret and just do it shamelessly,” Jimin smirks. “Kook, did you know she was losing her mind over your body in Jeju? She even hit her head on the boat because she panicked seeing you half naked.”

“Park Jimin, you fucking brat,” you cuss him, earning you his sickly sweet teasing smile.

“Oh, so that’s why,” Jungkook says. “I thought you were just perpetually zoning out.”

“She was. Because you were half naked!” Mo-eum reiterates.

“Okay guys, I think he got the message,” you groan at your friends. 

“Hmm. I didn’t know all that. Let’s do something about that later then,” Jungkook whispers in your ear. 

Your cheeks heat up and you shyly smile, prompting Taehyung to state that you’re being freaky already.

“Oh shush. You were all pushing for this,” you counter. 

“Yes, we were. You both looked like idiots from this side,” Taehyung laughs. “But thanks to the universe, I guess. We were trying hard not to meddle.”

“Well, you pushed a bit but this still happened,” you say softly now. “We’re uh, still getting used to it and it literally just happened last night.”

“So… are you announcing it to everyone during Tae’s lunch tomorrow?” Jimin asks. 

“I will if you won’t,” Taehyung states, and you laugh and say that how you’ll act will give it away anyway. 

“Okay, then. That’s another celebration on the list,” he smiles. “Well, I better go. I just wanted to check if our nudging last night resulted in something and it did. See you guys tomorrow!”

You drop the call, not without Jimin smirking and teasing and praising the heavens right before it ends. You and Jungkook laugh and share that that’s exactly how you expected the call with your friends would go.

“So… you have a thing for my body, huh,” he teases. 

“It’s not so bad,” you nonchalantly hum. “But hey, that was literally the last thing I noticed, okay? I like you for your heart. And your cute nose.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever,” he laughs.

You kiss his cheek before pulling him off the bed.

“I heated water for our coffee. I like how you make it,” you smile sweetly.

“Okay, Princess,” he teases. “I’ll make us coffee, then.”

You decide to head out for lunch at a cafe right after. It feels natural going on a ride with Jungkook, laughing and talking throughout the drive that he insisted on doing, and then choosing different dishes so you could try more things.

Even holding his hand feels natural, even if it’s something quite new. You reach out and he’s right there, looking for you, too. 

He’s also used to how you are whenever you’re out. You turn to him to ask about a store you want to check out and he’s dragging you there a second later. You go to the supermarket and start blurting things you want to eat and he’s putting ingredients in the cart right after. You pass by a dessert stall and he gives in with just your smile. 

It’s barely been a day but this already feels like a dream. You think that throughout your friendship, he’s always been the attentive and dependable one. You don’t doubt that he’ll continue being those things now that you’re dating, but you also wonder how you’ll be. You could only hope you could be someone he could depend on, too. 

You return to your apartment and unload your groceries. You decide to head over to his place to spend the night, so you pack some clothes and drive there. You’ve been there a few times but now you get to settle in it, too.  

He tells you to sit on his couch once you arrive while he cleans up his room. He obviously didn’t expect all this, and he wants to make sure you’re comfortable in his bed later on. 

You offer to help but he doesn’t let you, so you watch from your seat as he goes in and out, taking out his sheets to launder, vacuum cleaning the floors, and putting on the humidifier with the patchouli scent that you like.

Jungkook is larger than life in the simplest and purest of ways. You remember a conversation you had months ago about how you both change lives differently. You do yours through research that affects programs and policies while he does it one student at a time. You give your whole self to every project that lasts months or years, while everyday, Jungkook shows up for his kids to teach or to just be there for them. 

He possesses a quiet passion that’s constant and unchanging. It’s comforting in its persistence, as evidenced by how he stood by you as a friend all these months, even if he had already felt differently. It’s one you feel blessed to have witnessed all these years, and you’re now at the cusp of receiving it, as you already know that he will be exactly what you need him to be at any moment. 

This is when the fear creeps in and you’re new to this. When it comes to your relationships, you don’t think this much. It’s the one aspect of your life that’s dictated by feelings alone so once it stops feeling right, you cop out. 

But you don’t want to do that this time, not with Jungkook who deserves so much, and you start to question your worthiness. 

“Your mind’s going places again,” he says, disrupting your thoughts.

There’s no teasing tone this time, but a bit of worry and comfort.

“Do you wanna share them with me?”

You nod, knowing that if there’s anyone who’d understand and assure you, it would be him.

“Come, sit on my lap,” he says, as he takes a spot on his couch.

“Why?” You ask.

“Because if it’s as serious as it looks, then I wanna make sure I get to hold you when you talk about it,” he answers. “And if, for some reason you wanna walk out that door because you’re scared or something, I could at least hold you down and make you stay. Because I really want you to, regardless of what you’re thinking.”

You nod, realizing that he could see right through you. So you take up his offer and climb on his lap.

“I’m… I’m a lot to handle, Jungkook.”

“I know,” he smiles.

“Kook, I mean it. I get chaotic and unhinged. I complain a lot, all the time. I have moments of shutting out and shutting down and I get so into my job and I let it get to me and I…” you explain. 

Your heart races at the expression of all your flaws and vulnerabilities. Jungkook has seen these sides of you but to have him see them up close? To be at the receiving end of those? It’s quite terrifying. 

“I’m just a lot,” you finish, bowing your head in shame.

“Why do you think I like you?” He questions, tilting your chin to face him. “It’s because of all those. And the fact that you’re fiercely loyal and unapologetic and funny and gentle and caring. You’re a good person so yeah, you’re… a lot, whatever that means for you. For me it just means that you’re… you. And I like all of that. That’s why I’m here, you know?”

You go from smiling to wanting to cry. None of your partners ever assured you that way, but you suppose you were never scared enough to let them know the things you fear or worry about. You were never that open or honest. You weren’t sure if you trusted them enough to accept all the vulnerable and raw parts of who you are, and things ended before they could reveal themselves.

“Plus, you’re not the only one,” he continues. “Do you think you can handle me?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You chuckle. 

“I’m a lot to handle, too, ___. I tease a lot and I get reckless sometimes. I live life the way I want and do whatever I want. I shut out and shut down just like you but I also get clingy and I… like having the attention of the person I like. I can get insecure and jealous sometimes and I hate it,” he admits. “And I feel too much but I’m not good at expressing that, especially in words.”

“You just did though,” you point out. 

“Not all the time. But even then, I could be a lot for another person, I know that. So whatever you’re worrying about, I worry about that, too.”

“I just don’t wanna freak you out. And I don’t want to freak myself out.”

“We’ve known each other for years and I know dating a friend isn’t really your thing. But being friends for as long as we have means I’ve seen so many sides of you and I’ve adjusted to who you are and I’ll keep on doing that, the same way you’ve adjusted around me and will continue to,” he assures you. “You’re not gonna freak me out, ___. You’re already everything that I want.”

“Okay,” you say softly, feeling like you can breathe lighter with every assurance he gives.

“But how are you freaking yourself out?”

“Because this is all new, Kook,” you say. “I always feel so intensely and then the fire runs out but with you I… I feel everything, the intense and the not so intense feelings. There’s this desire for you, like I wanna rip your clothes off and do things to you but I also feel endeared by you like I just wanna keep you in my pocket and make sure nothing hurts you. I admire you for so many things and I want you to achieve everything you want in life. I wanna take care of you but I want you to take care of me, too.”

He chuckles then smiles then softens at your words. They sound exactly like you, and he wishes he can say everything the way you can, because he feels all those things just the same.

“There’s so much more I feel that I can’t even put into words, like they just came out of nowhere but they also feel so familiar because you’re comfortable, Kook. You’re my comfort and I’ve just never felt this way before,” you add. “I’m afraid to lose you, and it just all hit me today and that… that freaks me out because I don’t want to let you down.”

“And you won’t. I mean, it’s a relationship, ___. Things will get hard and there’ll be disagreements and challenges but we’ll get through them together, okay? You’re my comfort, too, and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t plan on screwing this up.”

“Me, too,” you shyly smile. “I really like you. Like, holy shit, I really do.”

“That’s nice to know,” he chuckles, enjoying the way you’re so honest about this. “I do, too.”

His hands that were holding yours drift to your side, caressing your thighs then making their way to your hips to pull you closer. His eyes turn lustful as they flit to your lips and you just know your eyes mirror them, as the intense desire gradually overtakes you.

You kiss him so deeply that you feel it everywhere. Your mind screams of how much you want him, your heart is beating insanely fast, your skin burns with pleasure at his touch, especially when his hands sneak under his hoodie that you’re wearing, and you feel all that and more in your cunt, pooling in essence and desiring him even more. 

But you stay right where you are, wanting to be able to control the emotions so they don’t control you, wanting to be sure you don’t get lost in all of it that you’re unable to pay attention, to appreciate, to savor. 

You pull away, your glassy eyes meeting his, and he smiles softly at you and you know he understands. You hug him tightly and you both stay there, letting the gentleness take over this time.

Jungkook prepares dinner not long after. He makes his version of makguksu, making sure yours caters to your low tolerance of spicy things, and bakes pork belly in the oven. 

You watch him work around the kitchen, feeling your heart swell at just seeing him be him. It almost makes you feel silly that everything he does triggers something in you - either a cuteness aggression or intense desire - but it does. 

You suppose if you’d paid attention much sooner, you would’ve been losing your mind a long time ago but then again, you probably wouldn’t have been the right person for him then. The thought terrifies and comforts you. You’re reminded of what Hayoung told you in that cafe during your Jeju trip, about wanting to be the right person for each other at the same time. 

There’s a lot of fear you’re bringing with you and Jungkook mentioned earlier about the baggage he carries after his failed relationships. Without saying it, you made another unspoken promise to each other of letting all those go. 

“You okay?” He asks you as you’ve zoned out on him again.

“Yes, just thinking of how much I like you,” you beam at him before hugging him and kissing his cheek.

“You’re cute,” he giggles then kisses your lips.

You feel hot all over again and it’s this mixed feeling of desire and endearment all at once. You suppose it’s something you’re gonna have to get used to, and you wouldn’t mind it at all.

He lets you taste your sauce and you insist that a hint of more heat won’t hurt, so he adds a tiny squirt and sets that aside. He serves the meat on a tray and lets you take your seat. He brings out a whiskey bottle, the one you got him from Sapporo, pouring you a glass each.

“A memento of our friendship,” he says, echoing your words from not long ago.

“I…” you start, laughing at the memory. “I meant that. But I also hoped I didn’t draw a line that day.”

“Not necessarily. And I knew what you meant,” he smiles. “But our friendship got us here, ___. That would always mean so much to me, even if we didn’t end up dating.”

“I feel the same, Kook,” you smile back. 

Dinner ends and you insist on cleaning up. You watch a scary movie that has you seated between his legs and curled in his arms. Once it’s over, you’re panting in fear but like you always say, it’s part of the experience. You’re glad that now includes hiding and screaming on his chest when it gets intense, and then laughing about how you reacted right after. 

Once you’ve washed up, you enter his bedroom and wait for him to finish with his shower. You look around his room and spot the shelf with photos and mementos. There are some class pictures and a few with the teams he coached over the years; there are several with your friends dating back to college, too.

And then there are the Teacher of the Year awards and thank you letters from his students. You smile at these, as you’re reminded just how much this vocation means to him. You point them out once he returns to his room and you see him blush when you read out some of his students’ words of praise. 

“Are you good with little kids, too?” You wonder out loud as you settle on his bed. 

“I substitute for the first graders sometimes,” he hums. “They like me a lot. They run to me when I do yard duty during recess.”

“Hmm. I hope I don’t see that.”

“Why?” He asks.

“I might fall for you even more. I can only like you so much, Kook,” you say. 

There’s a hint of playfulness there but you also sound like it’s a real problem, and this makes him laugh. You’re endearing when you’re this expressive, and he only hopes he could express just as much as you do.

“I don’t see how that’s a bad thing,” he hums. “I’d like that actually.”

You smile in response, knowing that’s not far from happening. 

Like you expected, liking him isn’t hard, and it hit you like a freight train today that you’re feeling so much more for him than you thought you would. He may have liked you first but you definitely fell into the deep end pretty quickly and pretty hard, and you’re learning that despite the initial worries, it doesn’t scare you that much anymore. You’re diving into this head first, and it’s also why you’re trying to pace yourself, trying not to drown in all that you feel.

He turns off the light then switches on the lamp on his bedside. You lie in bed and wait for him to lie next to you, but then he stops himself.

“So uh, I usually sleep without a shirt on,” he informs you.

“I don’t see how that’s a bad thing,” you echo his words.

“Okay. I just wanna make sure you won’t faint or anything,” he shrugs. “I mean, you did admit how much you liked seeing me half naked and stuff. Then again, I can do CPR but I’d rather kiss you while you’re conscious.”

You laugh at his teasing and feel the heat rise to your cheeks, especially when he finally removes his shirt and blesses you with a sight that you definitely have been thinking about. 

He’s left with just his boxers on and you can’t help but eye him up and down and bite your lip in the process. It’s different being able to desire him openly and up close. It’s also different seeing him embrace it, as he smirks at you while watching you obviously lust over him.

So you play along.

“I think I’ll be fine,” you tease back. “I mean, I can do that, too.”

You remove your shirt and you watch him visibly gulp at the sight he’s never actually seen before - you, bare, on his bed, in nothing but your cloth shorts. 

You cock your eyebrow at him as if challenging him to do something. And you really hope he does.

His lips part as his eyes gaze at your swell breasts. The way he’s looking at you makes you shiver and you feel it everywhere. Your now pert nipples definitely do, and it seems that he’s taken notice, too.

“Hey, keep yourself together,” you tease now. “I can’t do CPR so please remain conscious.”

“I’ll try,” he mumbles, as he makes his way towards you on the bed.

There’s hunger in his eyes and you feel it when he cups your cheek and kisses you fervently. You moan into the kiss but you don’t move, letting your body take in all that desire and spread all over you instead. You remain unmoving, even when he starts kissing down your jaw, then your neck, then down the valley between your breasts.

You know he senses you panting though, but that just urges him to do it slowly, grazing his tongue against your skin and leaving a trail towards your buds. He sucks your nipple, then moves over to the other one, all while he keeps himself steady on the bed with his knees, his one hand loosely holding onto your waist.

He’s slow and gentle, as if he wants to take his time and savor this, too. Perhaps he can sense the pace you want to go and he’s going along with it.

You’re holding yourself back from jumping on him and doing everything right now but you’re learning that it’s not that hard. Sure, the desire to lay down and have him kiss you all over your body until he’s sliding inside you is there, but it’s one you can manage. You want to settle into all this first, and you think he knows that.

He kisses you along the path he took earlier until he’s back on your lips, then he pulls away and boops your nose. 

“Hmm. I survived,” he says, prompting you to giggle.

He finally lies down and you do the same. He pulls you close to him and faces you.

“You’re cheeky, aren’t you?” He chuckles. “And unfair. You’ve seen me shirtless so many times so you already knew what to expect.”

“Doesn’t mean my reaction would be any different,” you hum. “Plus, there’s literally no other reason for you to see my boobs before today. But I’ll have you know, this is the quickest I’ve ever shown them to anyone.”

“That’s nice to know,” he laughs. “And it’s an honor. Thank you. They’re very beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like them.”

He laughs again and you like that despite this very new thing you both have going on, the comfort and playfulness haven’t gone away. You’re just bolder and flirtier now and that’s the fun part of it.

He props himself on his right arm as you talk deep into the night. You continue your narrations of the past trips you’ve had, starting from Chungbuk last fall when you spent a lot of time together, to Sapporo in winter when things had already changed for him, and then to Jeju not long ago when things had changed for you. 

The more you talk, the more everything makes sense. You used to be so averse to the idea of falling for a friend because the progression of feelings over time didn’t really make sense to you. Like your friends said, whirlwind romances were all you knew.

But being friends with Jungkook allowed both of you to get to know each other with no ulterior motive or hidden desire. It was pure and natural and you suppose that’s how you learned to adjust to each other, to understand each other, and to know how to be what the other person needs. 

The whole time you talk, his hand mindlessly caresses your bare torso and takes your hand. You can laugh and tease each other and remain where you are. It lets you pay attention to the sound of his laugh, to how his eyes sparkle, to the dip on his cheek when he smiles, and to how gentle and caring he is. 

You fall asleep against his chest and in tangled limbs with your heartbeat on pace with his.

Jungkook wakes up to the sight of you still bare next to him with your arms bent upwards. You look endearing, even if that arm hit his face in the middle of the night.  

He laughs to himself. It was bound to happen at one point; he just didn’t think it would be this early.

You’re still in deep sleep and it allows him to bask in this moment with you. There are no inhibitions and worries, just a whole lot of feelings. Tempered in its physical expression they may be, Jungkook feels all of it from his end and from yours. 

It’s what he always liked about you, too - that you feel so much and you’re not afraid to show it. You’re giggly and excited around him, blurting out that you like him when you have the chance. It doesn’t really diminish it for him because words carry so much weight for you, and he appreciates it every time you say it. 

He hopes he gets to express everything he feels for you. Maybe not in the exact same way but in ways that matter. 

You moan in your sleep and turn towards him, reaching out because you always need something to hug, so he pulls you close and you pull him in. Flushed against his chest with a bit of room to breathe, you settle in his hold. 

He lets you stay there and he smiles to himself. He’d only dreamt of all this not long ago, and now he gets to live it.

You wake up not long after with kisses on his chest up to his neck before you face him. 

“Good morning,” you mumble. “Did you sleep well with my half naked self?”

“Yes, I did,” he laughs. “You hit my face though. That’s a first.”

This wakes you up completely and you look at him in apology.

“Don’t tell me I hit your nose.”

“You did,” he nods. “But hey, I can now say I’m one of the guys.”

“Oh no,” you pout, kissing it. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re good. It’s one of the relationship hazards I was very much aware of,” he laughs. “And I don’t mind at all. I mean, I get to wake up to this.”

You’re lying on your back now and your breasts still make his breath hitch. He kisses them again and he loves the way you heave when he does. He can imagine how much more you’ll react once he kisses other parts of you that he’s been yearning for but the time will come, he thinks. 

He’s following your pace, he reminds himself. Perhaps you need to settle into the other intimate acts and he doesn’t mind, not when he gets to experience a different kind of intimacy with you. Such as right now.

Such as walking to his bathroom and brushing your teeth and washing your faces together. And sharing kisses in between drinking the coffee he prepares. And zipping up your dress and hearing you tell him you like how he looks in jeans and a shirt. And having moments of silence then bursting in laughter over some memory while holding hands in the car on your way to lunch. 

You and Jungkook let go of each other before entering Taehyung and Seokjin’s parents’ house. You decide you’ll announce your relationship when something related to it comes up, so you shush your friends who do know when they come up to greet you.

You take your seats next to each other on the dining table and look at the local food spread that you know Taehyung will be missing. You control your smile whenever Jungkook passes you a dish or puts food on your plate and you stop yourself from doing the same but then decide it shouldn’t matter so you do it, too. 

This is normal between all of you, including leaning on his shoulder because of how good everything is. No one seems to be thinking any different, until the conversation leads to last Friday and what everyone was up to. 

Mo-eum and Jimin talk about closing the Club at 4AM and then riding with Taehyung to his friend’s house for his day trip at the lake. Suhyeon shares that she got surprisingly drunk and dragged her boyfriend to the playground where they got soaked in the rain. Namjoon danced all night then fell asleep on Hoseok’s couch. 

And then there were the early leavers - Yoongi had coffee with Gyu-rim then drove her home, and Hayoung craved kalguksu so Seokjin made it for her. Your cousin asks you if you slept right away after you got home since you didn’t look that well, prompting laughter from the younger ones, including Jungkook.

“Actually, it was a funny thing that happened,” you start. “Tae, uh, booked me a car and asked Kook to come home with me then it rained hard so I told him to stay over but it was hot so I plugged the fan but it created a spark so I told him he could sleep on my bed… and then I told him I like him and he said that he likes me, too, so now we’re dating!”

Several shocked and questioning pairs of eyes stare back at you and you almost wonder if there’s a glitch in the system.

“She’s not joking. That all really happened,” Jungkook follows up, chuckling at how everyone seems to be speechless.

“Oh my god. Our babies,” Suhyeon finally speaks up and beams at both of you. “This makes me so happy.”

Hayoung hugs you from behind and heads to Jungkook to do the same. There are expressions of surprise and joy and observations of both of you spending more time together. 

Hoseok says he didn’t really see it coming but that thinking about it now, it’s not that unexpected because of how well you and Jungkook get along. Seokjin notes that your closeness with the man isn’t the same as with Jimin and Taehyung and maybe that’s also why. 

“So, how’s your fan?” Yoongi asks, causing you to snort at his unrelated question but you think this might be a bit of an interesting moment for him, too.

“It’s fine. It just acted up that night and I don’t have any wiring issues,” you state. 

“So, this all happened on Friday, huh?” Namjoon asks. “I barely saw you and Kook talking though. What made you admit it?”

“Well, I… saw him with a girl and my mind went all over the place and I guess I got jealous,” you chuckle. “That happens, you know? Sometimes the person you like is just one serendipitous encounter away from finding a person they could be right for and you have to claim your spot, something like that. I, uh,” you continue, glancing at Jungkook as he takes your hand under the table. “I’ve liked him for a few weeks now and I was just waiting for the right time.”

“Well, I’ve liked her for months and I could’ve been one serendipitous encounter away from losing her,” Jungkook shakes his head. 

“So, you liked her first and didn’t say anything? Just like Seokjin?” Hayoung laughs.

“Yeah. He liked me first but I fell harder,” you confess.

“Oh, like Hayoung, then,” Seokjin teases, earning him a playful slap from his fiancé who also agrees.

“It runs in the family, I guess,” she smiles. 

Seokjin wraps his arm around her shoulder and kisses her forehead. It’s a soft sight, as he wasn’t always this affectionate but Hayoung brought out that side of him.

You often wonder how that happens, how one person becomes more of something because of another, or which qualities of their partner they acquire after some time.

You wonder what you’ll be more now that you’re with Jungkook. Maybe you’ll be calmer and less neurotic. You might actually even be more responsible and independent. Whatever it is, you hope he’ll like you even more. You wonder, too, what traits he’ll start acquiring now that he’s with you.

The conversation continues, as Jimin, Mo-eum, and Taehyung come clean about the little things they were doing throughout the Jeju trip to make sure you and Jungkook spent more time together. You’re amazed at how your friends managed to just nudge but both of you are the ones who still made it happen. 

You’re reminded of what Hayoung said about her and Seokjin, how the other could’ve chickened out after someone confessed, considering the good friendship that’s on the line; it’s a lot to lose for something you’re unsure will work out. 

But they chose to make it work and be the right person for each other, and that mirrors how you and Jungkook just went for it, too, with neither one of you forcing or rushing it. You glance at Yoongi and Gyu-rim, oddly observant this time around and you hope it works out for them on their own time as well.

Lunch ends and the afternoon is how it always goes. Some people are just chatting and drinking while others are playing games. You’re doing the latter, as you try to beat Taehyung in Street Fighter, which you do, and then he decides you should all play Fall Guys instead. You glance at Jungkook who’s chatting with Hayoung and Seokjin and you could only guess what that’s all about, but you might have an idea.

Jungkook has his eyes on you as he talks to your cousin. A lot of it is about the wedding and meeting your entire clan in less than two months. But it’s also about you and how happy she is that you get to be with someone like him; she even goes as far as welcoming him to the family. 

He knows it’s just been over a day but the feeling that all this feels so right doesn’t escape him and he doesn’t want it to. Sure, you’re still in the honeymoon stage and challenges will come your way but with a group of friends like the one you both have, he thinks you’ll be okay.

It’s a thought he holds onto as you finish dinner and on the ride home. You insisted on driving him to his apartment, even if he suggested booking a cab from your place instead but you won, stating that it’s work day tomorrow and it’s better that he gets to rest right away. 

You stop in front of his building and though you hate saying goodbye, knowing you’ll see him again and again comforts you.

You turn to him with a pout and your puppy eyes that say you don’t wanna let him go. You laugh at yourself with how silly you are, but he looks at you with a soft smile. He cups your cheek and kisses you, gently at first then it deepens by the second until he pulls away. You sneak a last one on his lips before he gets out of the car.

And then he calls you.

You put him on speaker while looking at him on the driveway from inside your car and laugh.

“Miss me already?” you tease.

“Maybe,” he smiles with his nose scrunched. “Just wanna make sure you get home safe. Stay on the line until you get there?”

“Okay,” you smile back before driving away. 

It’s a 15-minute drive but it’s enough time to talk about your respective schedules for the week. You hang up to take a shower and then lie in bed to find a message from him. 

[from: bunny Kook] just remembered we have ministry of ed people assessing us tomorrow

[from: bunny Kook] should i wear blue or maroon tracksuit?

[from: bunny Kook] or maybe gray? 

You giggle at the messages, as you start to see what he’s like when he’s really comfortable. You can imagine him staring at his closet, frozen in thought, even if all his tracksuits probably look the same anyway. But he’s sharing with you his random thoughts, and this is a man who barely even replies, much less read messages.

But now he’s video calling you and he asks why you’re laughing when you show up on the screen.

“Nothing,” you smile. “I’d go with the gray.”

“Okay,” he says, not even thinking about it. 

He lies in bed and talks to you once more and you’re giddy and endeared at how he doesn’t want to let you go just yet. It’s just been two days but you already can’t get enough of each other. And you wish it would stay that way. 

He finally hangs up after a drawn out goodbye. You suppose this is what will change with him now that he’s with you, and you smile yourself to sleep at the thought.

You spend most of the week after work with your friends, as the day of Teahyung’s flight draws nearer. You go to an arcade on Tuesday, do karaoke on Wednesday, then play bowling on Thursday. You eat at all the restaurants that he’ll miss, and on Friday, you and Jungkook pick up Jimin, Mo-eum, and finally Taehyung to drop him off at the airport. 

It’s not the first time you’ve done this but you suppose so much has happened in between. It’s bittersweet, knowing you’ll all be separated again, even if he’s off to do the thing he loves most in the world. 

Taehyung gives each of you a hug. When he gets to you and Jungkook, he claims the big role he played in getting the two of you together.

“I mean, I planned all the trips so… yeah, I was pretty instrumental,” he smiles.

And you give him credit for it. You give your props to Jimin and Mo-eum, too, who somehow managed to keep you level-headed enough throughout all this. 

You bid Taehyung goodbye and head to your apartment for some takeout dinner and a night of drinking and talking about how the past few months have been.

It’s later on in the evening when it’s just you and him that Jungkook goes back to the thought that he really could’ve been one serendipitous encounter away from losing you. 

You could’ve met someone at Taehyung’s farewell party or one of Jimin’s many cool friends. It could’ve been someone at one of your conferences or a guy ordering the same drink as you in that newly opened cafe near your office. 

But he quickly dispels the thought, as he watches you snuggle closer to him as you fall into deep sleep, settling into his hold, like what you naturally did just a week ago when all this happened. 

He likes you so much and contrary to what you think, he fell just as hard for you. And the more he settles into this, into you, the stronger he feels that even if you’ve known each other for years, you’ve had several serendipitous moments these past months that got you here. 

Maybe it was waking up when you did that second morning in the forest that had you sharing coffee and talking about things. Maybe it was your car breaking down that led him to driving you to Cheonan, or even seeing Si-an at the club. 

Maybe it was being seated next to you on the plane to Sapporo or your lightbulb going off. Maybe it was being the lone pair to fly to Jeju at night or the locals telling him about the sunrise spot that had you joining him that final morning. 

It could’ve been one or all of them but they led you closer to each other. He doesn’t think there’s a better way of ending up where you did than this - you, tucked in his arms, settled so naturally in his hold, as if you were always meant to be there.

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[sylusxyou]

Hey God, it's me again /ref

Sylus with a reader that has family related trauma. More specifically trauma stemming from an abusive father and due to this they have a lot of trauma responses. Flinching at sudden movements, cowering and hiding when breaking something, frantically apologizing for every little mistake, crying very easily, the whole nine yards. And like these responses come way before Sylus even knows the story behind them

oh my lord... i'm so sorry this has taken me a while. i had no inspiration to write this week, but it finally hit me today. i'm realizing i struggle with requests a bit because once my brain gets started in a direction it's nearly impossible for me to veer it anywhere else... with that said, it may not be exactly what you were looking for but i hope it's close and that you enjoy! content warning: mentions of physical abuse (slapping/hitting), angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, non-mc!reader word count: 2.8k divider credit: @uzmacchiato

Memories of shattered glass, shouting that rumbled through your body, and stinging redness across your cheek flooded your mind. You looked down at pieces of a vase that you assumed was worth more than you’d make in the next 5 years combined. Maybe longer.

As a kid you had learned to reign in your clumsiness. You were always aware of your surroundings and you honed your reflexes to catch or swerve when the inevitable happened. Surely as an adult you should be able to avoid situations like this altogether. You had let your guard down though. You were careless. 

Sylus had invited you over for dinner. When you arrived, he was wrapping up a meeting in his office. Kieran and Luke had instructed you to wait for him in the living room. Luckily, you brought a book with you everywhere you went. Legs a little restless from the drive over, you decided to take a few laps around the living room while you dove into the next chapter. 

You weren’t paying attention and now you were frozen in place, eyes unable to move away from the damage you had done. How were you going to explain this to Sylus? ‘I’m sorry, I was walking around with my nose in a book an ran into the side table.’ What a pathetic excuse. You momentarily considered running off, driving back home, before you had to face him. That was out of the question though. He knew where you lived and surely wouldn’t let you off that easily. You’d have to face the music eventually. 

In the distance you heard the sound of a door opening and closing. Footsteps moved your way and you immediately recognized them. Sylus was coming. Anticipatory tears began to form in your eyes. You stayed in place, refusing to face him as you felt him enter the living room behind you. 

“Is everything okay, kitten? I thought I heard a crash.” His tone of concern only made your tears well up more. He thought you were hurt. The minute he saw what you did, that concern would be replaced with anger, maybe even rage. You were certain of it. 

Your voice was barely a whisper as you replied, “I’m so sorry.” 

“Sorry?” Sylus began walking towards you. “What are you sorry for?” 

He came to stand behind you, his chest not quite touching your back, but close enough that you could feel the heat of his body. Over your shoulder he peered down to the ground, the destruction glaring back at him. 

There was silence between you as Sylus grabbed your shoulders and began to turn you towards him. You wanted to resist, close your eyes shut, hang your head, whatever it took to avoid looking him in the eyes. To delay what you believed was inevitable. It was no use though. You knew it would be better to just accept whatever punishment was about to be bestowed upon you. 

That’s not right. When your eyes fell on his face there was a soft smile. Not the kind he wore when he was playing with his prey. This was the kind he gave you every day when he held your hand or brushed your hair behind your ear. It should have been darker. He should be upset. Maybe he’s lulling me into a false sense of security…

Sylus looked at the small tears falling from your eyes. He slowly reached out his hand to cup your face and brush one of the water droplets from your cheek with his thumb. “Now why are you crying over a broken vase?” 

“That vase probably cost more than my annual salary!” You gasped. 

He chuckled, “Oh, it absolutely did.” 

You looked at him like he was crazy which only made him laugh more. He pulled you into his arms, one hand wrapped around your waist and the other cradling your head. “I don’t care about some vase. Things are replaceable and replacing it wouldn’t even make a dent in my wallet.” 

Sylus pulled back to look into your eyes. “I was worried you had hurt yourself. You didn’t get cut by the glass, did you?” 

His eyes scanned your body as you shook your head. “No, I just wasn’t paying attention and ran into the table.” 

“That’s good.” He placed a soft kiss on your forehead. “Sweetie, you could burn down this entire place. As long as you emerged from the ashes unscathed, I’d consider nothing lost.”

Warmth rushed through your body. You felt your heart pounding in your chest. This was completely bizarre. You wanted to smile and laugh at the ridiculousness of what he said, to bathe in the words that he used to tell you he loved you without quite saying it. But you couldn’t. This reaction was so far from what you had experienced in the past. It was hard to believe someone could respond to broken property with anything but anger. You couldn’t shake your shock. 

Sylus furrowed his eyebrows as he searched your blank face. “What’s wrong, kitten? Are you sure you didn’t get hurt?” 

You shook your head. “No, I’m okay. I just expected you to be angry.” 

He smiled and leaned down to press a soft kiss on your lips. “I find it very difficult to be angry with you.” 

This made you smile, finally feeling like you could breathe a little. 

Sylus gently squeezed your shoulders and began to moved back. “I need to go finish this meeting but I’ll be out soon and we’ll have dinner. I’ll send Luke and Kieran to come clean this up. Don’t touch anything. I don’t want you getting cut.” 

You nodded and watched him walk out of the room. As you sat down to wait for Luke and Kieran your mind drifted back to the look in Sylus’ eyes. Hardly ever had you been met with such gentleness in your childhood. Years of being attacked and hurt over the smallest mistakes had made your walls impossibly high. The way Sylus treated you made you wonder if it was time to start knocking them down a few layers. 

Some days later you found yourself in Sylus’ kitchen locked in a staring match, stillness between you as hardly mixed batter dripped from his face down to his clothes.

You had been eager to bake him the new chocolate chip cookie recipe you found. He had insisted on helping you. It was his kitchen after all and you were powerless to resist him. You hadn’t wanted to anyway. There was a certain domesticity to baking cookies together that made your heart flutter. If only the shady criminals he did business with could see him like this. 

Sylus’ kitchen was stocked to the brim the state of the art appliances. You had been so eager to try them out, especially the electric mixer. You had to make due with a hand mixer at your apartment, so when Sylus pulled out his fancy mixer you actually squealed. 

After dumping all of the ingredients into the metal bowl you excitedly went to turn on the mixer. However, in your excitement you had failed to realize the difference between your hand mixer back home and the appliance in front of you now. At home you had to use the highest setting from the get go. Here, that was the completely wrong move. 

Sylus wasn’t able to stop you before the contents of the bowl went flying everywhere. You quickly turned the mixer off and looked at him, mouth agape. Both of you had been hit but he had gotten it much worse. 

Everything had gone quiet. His mouth was drawn into a tight line and the only movement from his was the rapid blinking of his eyes trying to see through the mess on his face. 

You began to stutter, “Sylus, I-I’m so sorry! I w-wasn’t thinking. I got too-“

He cleared his throat to cut you off. One of his hands wiped across his face, smearing the not-quite-batter onto his fingers. Suddenly his hand moved towards your face to seek it’s revenge. You quickly turned your head to the side and squeezed your eyes shut. 

It was an involuntary reaction, one that made Sylus pause. There was something off about the way you flinched as you turned away. You were afraid and he noticed. 

You hadn’t really thought Sylus was going to hit you. In fact, you were becoming increasingly certain with each passing day that he would rather condemn himself to hell than cause you any pain. You couldn’t help it, though. Sudden movements, especially towards your face, had historically meant one thing for you. It was engrained into your brain. 

When the sting never came, you slowly opened your eyes. Your heart sank when you saw the look on Sylus’ face. 

“Kitten…” his voice was soft and broken, garnet eyes glassy. He knew. 

You gave a pitiful laugh, “Sorry, I overreacted.” The sad excuse for a smile on your lips did nothing to defuse the tension.

“Stop.” His voice was stern, but filled with empathy. He grabbed your hands and pulled you to the kitchen table where you both sat. 

Sylus’ hands squeezed yours like letting go would be the most painful thing in the world. “Will you tell me about it?” 

Avoiding eye contact, you sighed, “I’ve never really told anyone before.” The soft brush of his thumbs across your knuckles kept you grounded. 

Talking about it scared you. It would make it too real and you’d much rather pretend like it never happened. But as you sat with Sylus, the man who you were growing to love beyond what you ever thought possible, you wondered if you had any other choice. If you continued to avoid it, were you really allowing yourself to be fully loved? 

Sylus wanted to know everything about you. It was easy to talk about your taste in music or tell stories of times you’d embarrassed yourself at work. Talking about things like your father and how he abused you, that was much harder. 

As you focused on the feeling of his hands, though, your courage rose bit by bit. When you finally made yourself look Sylus in the eyes, your heart squeezed. The man in front of you continuously surprised you the more you got to know him. He was equal parts strong and soft, dangerous and safe, relentless and patient. He was a man who teared up at the mere thought of someone intentionally hurting you. 

Sylus wanted to love you with everything he could. You wanted to let him. It would be difficult, maybe even painful, to relive the past with him. But you knew at the end of it all he would hold you and show you what it meant to be truly loved. 

“It was my father,” you began, “though he wasn’t always that way. My mom died when I was six and he couldn’t handle the grief.” 

You laughed, though it was devoid of any real humor, “It’s a pretty cliche story to be honest. Dad was buried in grief and started drinking. It was a slow progression, just yelling or telling me I was bother. He didn’t hit me for the first time until I was seven.” 

Sylus scooted his chair closer to you, legs resting on either side of your own. His grip on your hands never loosened and the look in his eyes was a swirl of fury and devastation. 

“Keep going,” he urged. 

You took a deep breath and continued, “I was helping him with the dishes. It was my job to dry them. Of course everything he handed to me was dripping wet. It was inevitable, I guess, that something would slip from my grasp. I shattered a mug. It was one of my mom’s favorites which meant my dad used it almost every day.” 

Your hands were shaking now, but you willed yourself to finish, “I knew he would be mad. By then I was used to being yelled at. What I didn’t expect was for him to slap me across the face. He started apologizing immediately, hugging me while I cried. He promised he would never hit me again. That was a promise he was never able to keep, no matter how many times he made it.” 

Sylus pulled you up from your seat by your hands and sat you across his lap. One of his hands grasped your waist tightly as the other laid in your lap, continuing its soothing strokes across your knuckles. 

“I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry he ever laid his hands on you.” His voice cracked, the effort he was putting into not breaking down painfully obvious. 

You gently touched your forehead to his and smiled softly. “It’s nothing you need to be sorry for.  You have no fault in this.”

“Still, I-“ 

“It’s okay,” you reassured him as you pressed a finger into his lips, “it got better as I got older. Not because of anything he did. I was just able to learn what triggers to avoid, to get out of the house more, and he started to care less and less about where I was.”

Sylus shook his head. “I want to kill him.”

This made you laugh, “I’m afraid he beat you to it.” 

Sylus eyes widened and you let go of his hand to cup his cheek. “It wasn’t intentional. At least, the police didn’t think so. His drinking was out of control and by the time I was sixteen he had been heavy into drugs as well. I guess his carelessness caught up with him and what he mixed that day killed him.” 

Silence washed over the two of you again. For a few moments you just sat there together. The longer you stared into his eyes the harder it became to hold back the tears. You had tried to keep it light, to let the bitterness outweigh the hurt. But the way Sylus looked at you was disarming. He saw beyond the dark laughter and the emotionless retelling. He saw the pain that plagued you. 

He pulled you close and gently rocked you in his arms. Once the tears started it was difficult to make them stop. So you didn’t try. You let yourself come undone in the arms of the man you loved. Sylus didn’t ask anymore questions, didn’t urge you to continue speaking. He simply held you and whispered words of love and encouragement into your ear. 

‘It’s okay.’

‘I’ve got you.’

‘You’re safe with me.’

‘You’re so strong.’ 

It was hard to tell how much time had passed like this. Eventually the tears ran out and the air in the room felt less heavy. You pulled your face away from his chest, wiping the tears from your eyes. As you sniffled, you took a good look at Sylus’ face. A laugh began to rumble in your chest and, though you tried, you were unable to keep it from bursting from your mouth. 

Sylus look at you in surprise. “Did I miss something? What’s so funny?” 

“I’m sorry,” you giggled, “it’s just, I was so caught up in telling you my story and crying that I forgot.” You grabbed his face with both of your hands. “Your face is still a mess.” 

A wide grin spread across his face. “That’s right and I have you to blame, kitten. If I remember correctly I was just about to enact my revenge.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Mm, yes,” he hummed, “but before I get back to my plan, I need to clear something up.” Sylus leaned in so his face was inches from yours. 

His voice was barely a whisper as he asked, “You know I would never intentionally hurt you, right? Not emotionally and certainly not physically. I would rather die.” 

You gave him a quick peck on the lips and sighed, “I know that. I didn’t think you were actually going to hurt me. It was just an involuntary reaction.” 

“Good,” he replied, “we’ll work on that. But in the meantime…” 

His voice trailed off and the gentle, loving look in his eyes was replaced by something deeply mischievous. “You should run, kitten.”

As you and Sylus chased each other around his kitchen, cookie batter repurposed as a weapon, you felt a part of your heart begin to heal. It had been painful to relive the past, but you knew it was worth it. You were confident that before long, with time spent in Sylus’ warm and caring presence, you would stop expecting pain and start anticipating love.

[cuntyji]

MEOW OR NEVER ౨ৎ GETO SUGURU X READER

summary: when your mom told you to steer clear of men, you didn't think she meant all of them - fur, whiskers, and all. but hey, maybe naming your cat mr. pickles was where you went wrong, considering she's apparently a mrs. now. and oh, she's pregnant. great. just fantastic. enter suguru geto, your drop-dead gorgeous neighbor, who's not just good at stealing glances but also at being a reluctant father - well, kitten father. turns out, his annoyingly smug orange menace named gojo's the reason you're now an unplanned (grand)parent. is this co-parenting arrangement going to end in peace, or in pieces? or worse, feelings? spoiler alert: suguru geto's got more than just child support to offer, and he's about to prove it in ways that'll have you questioning who the real stray here is.

warnings & tags: fluff and crack, eventual romance, no angst, geto is a year older than reader, geto is an (international) law student implied to be rich, reader's college program is not specified, strangers to friends to lovers, eventual smut (oral, f & m + 69). cast: geto, catoru (gojo is a tabby cat), yaga, sukuna, choso, yuuji, shoko, brief mention of utahime and nanami.

author's note: how i feel adding a graphic after not touching any editing apps since eight grade: 🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺. first long-fic on here and it is obviously for my @norikuna <3 i had so much fun writing geto, i hope you like this, and yes i named her mr. pickles after your meet-cute fic/s. ‼️ i recommend reading on ao3, as tumblr's formatting this fic very poorly and often times the fic has long paragraphs mashed together. i'm so sorry, but please enjoy!

chapter one: guess who's expecting (hint: it's not you)

when your mother warned you to stay away from men, you didn’t realize she meant all species of men. in your defense, you didn’t even know mr. pickles was…well, a dudette. a full-fledged woman, even.

judging by her usual air of indifference toward the struggles of life—whether it be a broken mug, burnt toast, or the existential dread and fear of capitalism looming over you—you’d assumed she was male. an assumption, it seems, born of sheer hubris. after all, you’d done thorough background checks on everyone else you let into your life. everyone except the stray cat that had waddled into your overpriced studio apartment one rainy night and decided it was hers.

the truth? you didn’t mind. between cramming for your degree and surviving the post-mortem of your relationships (both romantic and platonic, because apparently humans are terrible at consistency), mr. pickles became the one reliable constant in your life. albeit a hairy, aloof constant who occasionally brought you hairballs and dead bugs as sacrificial offerings to her goddess. you, of course, were said goddess.

any normal, functioning adult would have taken her to a shelter, or maybe put up a flyer: “found: one stray cat, bad attitude included.” but you, lonely soul that you were, took her in. except, it hadn’t been that simple. no, the first night you met her was anything but serene.

you were drunk. plastered. wobbling through the door with a bag of takeout in one hand and your heels in the other, ready to collapse onto your bed and dream about a life where rent didn’t cost your soul. but instead of an empty apartment greeting you, there she was. sitting smack in the middle of your living room like some furry squatters’ rights advocate, tail flicking with utter disdain.

you froze, still holding the doorknob, as your eyes locked with hers.

"what the—" you whispered, blinking hard to confirm you weren’t hallucinating. nope, she was real.

the cat let out a long, guttural “yeowwwwwwwwwl,” like she was just as horrified by you as you were by her.

you screamed. naturally. "who are you?! how did you get in here?! security’s supposed to be good—oh my god, is that a rat?"

she screamed back, launching into an impressive round of yowls that rattled your very bones. it became a chaotic symphony of you, still holding your takeout, pointing at her with your shoe, while she darted back and forth in an apparent panic over your panic.

"okay, okay," you gasped after what felt like hours but was probably five minutes. "just—calm down! i’ll call the cops or animal control or—do i even know animal control’s number? is that a thing people know?!"

the cat paused mid-panic, tilting her head as if considering whether you were worth the hassle. then, slowly and with the grace of a self-proclaimed queen, she sat back down.

you stood there, panting, wide-eyed, and still clutching your takeout like a lifeline. "are…are you done? can i move now?"

she gave a single chirp in response.

you blinked. "was that a yes?"

another chirp.

"okay, cool. good talk," you muttered, inching toward the kitchen counter to set your stuff down. "you know, you really picked the wrong apartment to haunt, bro. you don’t wanna hang out here."

she followed you, hopping onto the counter with zero hesitation.

"oh, you’ve got nerve," you grumbled, waving a hand. "get down. that’s…oh my god, is that chicken grease? you’re gonna get salmonella. do cats get salmonella?"

the cat meowed, which you took as a very sarcastic no.

you sighed. "great. now i’ve got a cat."

let’s rewind back to the future, to the moment you found out mr. pickles had a party of tiny paws brewing in her belly. it wasn’t an epiphany that hit you like a bolt of lightning—no, it was a series of increasingly bizarre events that gradually chipped away at your ignorance until the horrifyingly adorable truth came crashing down.

first, let’s talk about “pinking up.” apparently, around 16-20 days into pregnancy, a cat’s nipples turn pinker and more prominent—a fact you learned after a very awkward google search. not that you were actively inspecting mr. pickles’ nipples. that felt…wrong. but you did notice, eventually. the weight gain started subtly, a little extra fluff around her midsection that you brushed off as the result of switching to a premium brand of cat food. "guess the organic kibble’s working," you mumbled one evening as mr. pickles sprawled on the couch like a spoiled heiress. she blinked at you, unimpressed, before rolling onto her side, belly on full display. it was… rounder than usual. suspiciously so. but denial is a hell of a drug.

then came the morning she beat you to the bathroom. literally.

you were nursing a wicked hangover, the kind that makes you reconsider every life decision leading up to the night before. groaning, you dragged yourself out of bed and toward the bathroom, only to freeze in the doorway. there was mr. pickles, perched in your shower cubicle, hurling her guts out like she’d been partying harder than you. "what the—" you started, but she cut you off with another violent retch. you just stood there, slack-jawed, your own nausea momentarily forgotten. "are you… hungover? can cats be hungover?" she ignored you, finishing her business before hopping out of the shower with a nonchalance that screamed you’ll clean that up, right?

and the sleeping? don’t even get started on the sleeping. mr. pickles, your once lively (read: temperamental) companion, now spent her days passed out in the weirdest positions. you’d leave for class, catch her sprawled upside down on the couch with her legs in the air, and come back hours later to find her in the exact same spot. the first time it happened, you panicked. 

“mr. pickles?” you whispered, crouching beside her. no response. 

"oh my god, are you dead?" you poked her back. nothing. 

just as you were about to call your landlord and have him prepare for the worst, mr. pickles let out the laziest, most judgmental yawn you’d ever heard.

then came the personality shift. the mr. pickles you knew—the one who hissed at your laptop every time you opened it, as if microsoft word had committed a personal offense—was gone. in her place was a clingy, purring ball of affection. she started curling up on your lap while you worked, purring loud enough to rival an industrial saw. “awwww, who’s a good kitty?” you cooed, melting into the moment. and then she shed enough fur on your clothes to build a second cat.

but the final straw, the one that shattered your fragile understanding of reality, was the nesting.

you came home one evening to find mr. pickles frantically rearranging your laundry basket, clawing at the clothes and dragging them into a fluffy pile. she paused when you entered, her eyes wild with an intensity you’d never seen before.

"uhh…what are you doing?" you asked, only to be met with a deep, guttural growl. "okay, that’s new," you muttered, backing away slowly. "you do…whatever that is."

it hit you then. the weight gain, the puking, the clinginess, the nesting. oh my god.

"oh my god," you whispered, clutching the counter for support. "mr. pickles is a girl."

your world tilted. memories of every time you called her sir or buddy flashed before your eyes. you were the problem.

you rushed her to the vet the next day, bursting through the door like a contestant on a reality show. "she’s been acting weird," you blurted to the receptionist. "and by weird, i mean…is she pregnant?"

one checkup later, the vet turned to you with a warm smile and uttered the words that changed everything: “congratulations, you’re a mother.”

your jaw dropped. "what? no. no, i’m not. she’s—she’s the mother!" you gestured wildly to mr. pickles, who was now lounging on the exam table like this was all very boring. the vet chuckled. “well, technically, that makes you a grandmother.”

a grandmother. you, a college student, were a grandmother.

as you drove home in stunned silence, mr. pickles stretched out in the passenger seat, her belly looking smugly round. you glanced at her, still reeling.

“does this mean i have to start calling you mrs. pickles now?”

she purred. of course she purred.

chapter 2: welcome to parenthood, kinda

the day after the vet visit, you were a woman on a mission. holding mr. pickles up like she was a fragile artifact, you found yourself wandering the corridors of your apartment building, knocking on doors and attempting to uncover the truth behind your feline’s unexpected condition. sure, your mother raised you single-handedly, but did that mean you had to take on the role of a cat grandmother solo? absolutely not.

the first stop was masamichi yaga, your landlord. you weren’t sure why you started with the most intimidating person in the building, but desperation has a way of clouding judgment. his door creaked open, revealing the towering man himself, wearing a slightly bemused expression. “uhh …good morning, mr. yaga,” you stammered, clutching mr. pickles tighter for moral support. “i—uh—wanted to ask…do you have a cat?” he raised an eyebrow. “a cat?”

“yeah,” you said, awkwardly adjusting your grip on mr. pickles. “because, um, she’s pregnant, and i was wondering if—well, you know…”

yaga blinked at you for a moment, then let out a low chuckle. “no, i don’t have a cat. the only thing i house around here is pandas.”

you stared at him, waiting for the punchline that never came. “...pandas?”

“yup. no cats.”

you decided not to press further. “right. okay. thanks, anyway.” you shuffled away, cheeks burning, as he closed the door behind you with a definitive click.

next, you made your way to choso’s apartment. you’d seen the guy a few times in the hallway—tall, always dressed like he’d just walked out of a corporate ad, with an aura of quiet exhaustion that screamed salaryman. when he opened the door, he looked down at you with mild surprise, a coffee mug in one hand. “hi,” you greeted, feeling oddly self-conscious under his gaze. “i, uh, have a question. do you happen to own a cat?”

choso blinked, glancing at mr. pickles, who let out a disinterested meow. “no, i don’t.”

“are you sure?” you pressed. “because my cat is pregnant, and—”

“i’m sure,” he cut in gently, though his tone held the same weariness you felt every monday morning. “i barely have time to take care of my brothers, let alone a pet.”

“brothers?”

“yeah.” he took a sip of his coffee. “one of them’s a high schooler. the other one…well, he’s sukuna.”

you froze. “wait. sukuna? as in, the scary guy with the tattoos who glares at everyone when he smokes in the hallway?”

choso nodded. “he’s not so bad once you get to know him.”

you had your doubts but decided not to argue. “right. okay. thanks anyway.”

your next stop was shoko’s apartment. you’d always admired her cool, no-nonsense vibe, but the dark circles under her eyes told you she probably didn’t have time for a pet. still, you knocked. when the door opened, shoko stood there, looking like she hadn’t slept in three days but somehow still pulled it off effortlessly.

“hey,” you said, trying to sound casual. “do you have a cat?”

“a cat?” she repeated, leaning against the doorframe. “no. i’m barely home enough to keep my plants alive, let alone a pet.”

you nodded, biting back a sigh. “yeah, that makes sense.”

“why?” she asked, eyeing mr. pickles. “is she yours?”

“yeah. she’s pregnant.”

shoko raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “congrats, grandma.”

“don’t remind me,” you groaned. “thanks anyway.”

lastly, you tried suguru geto’s apartment. according to the building’s handbook, he was your neighbor on the floor above. but when you knocked, there was no answer. “great,” you muttered, glancing down at mr. pickles. “our prime suspect isn’t even home. what now?”

mr. pickles responded by squirming in your arms, clearly unimpressed with your sleuthing skills.

defeated, you trudged back to your apartment, where the reality of impending grandmotherhood sank in further. with no leads and no one to pin the blame on, you flopped onto your couch, setting mr. pickles down beside you. she stretched lazily, looking far too pleased with herself.

“this is your fault, you know,” you muttered, pointing a finger at her. she responded with a purr, curling up into a fluffy ball of indifference.

great. just great. looks like you were in this alone—again.

evening rolled in, and with it came mr. pickles’s dinner time. lately, you’d been overly cautious about her diet and mood—the whole pregnancy thing and all—but tonight? tonight she was testing your last nerve. there she was, stationed by the door like her life depended on it, yowling dramatically with an almost operatic flair. her tail flicked like a metronome, her cries growing more pitiful by the second. “oh, come on,” you groaned, setting her food bowl down with an exasperated sigh. “what’s with you tonight? you’ve eaten like, three times already.”

mr. pickles, naturally, ignored you, clawing at the door with all the determination of someone who just had to get out. “fine,” you muttered, stomping toward the door. “but i swear, if there’s a stray out there, you can explain yourself, motherf—”

you flung the door open mid-rant and promptly froze.

standing in your doorway was a man. a ridiculously tall, stupidly handsome man with long, silky black hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck and bangs that framed his angular face like he’d just stepped off the cover of handsome landlord quarterly. he wore a plain black sweater, dark trousers, and an expression that was equal parts bemused and apologetic. but your attention snapped to the cat he was holding aloft—an orange tabby with piercingly bright blue eyes that were somehow both smug and indifferent at the same time. “uh…hi,” he said, his voice deep and smooth with an edge of uncertainty. “this yours?”

“that’s…not my cat,” you managed, pointing awkwardly at the tabby.

“figured,” he said, glancing past you into your apartment where mr. pickles was now peeking out, her ears perked and tail bristled like an antenna. “he’s mine. name’s gojo. found him sitting outside my door screaming his lungs out, so i thought maybe…” his words trailed off as his gaze flicked between you, mr. pickles, and gojo. then, realization dawned on his face.

“wait.” he looked at mr. pickles, then back at you. “is your cat…?”

“pregnant?” you supplied flatly. “yep. as of about a week ago, thanks for asking.”

geto—because of course you’d figured out that this very handsome man was suguru geto from the floor above—blinked, visibly processing this information. “huh,” he said finally, his brow furrowing as he glanced at gojo. “but…gojo’s neutered.”

“what?” you blurted, staring at the smug orange tabby who looked anything but neutered. “yeah, had it done ages ago.” geto tilted his head, clearly as baffled as you. “so how the hell…?” you pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling a headache blooming. “you’re saying there’s no way it could’ve been him?”

“not unless he figured out how to reverse a neuter,” geto said dryly, his lips twitching in a bemused smile. you both looked at the cats the—gojo, lounging smugly in geto’s arms, and mr. pickles, glaring daggers from the safety of the couch. “okay,” you muttered, mostly to yourself. “if not gojo, then who? because i don’t exactly let her out, and she’s been acting weird for weeks.”

“well…” geto began, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “he did sneak out a couple of times last month, but i didn’t think—”

“oh my god,” you groaned, cutting him off. “are you telling me your supposedly neutered cat is actually some kind of feline lothario who managed to knock up my cat on one of his escapades?”

“it’s not like i planned this,” geto defended, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone. you shot him a look, but before you could respond, gojo meowed loudly, almost like he was bragging. “great,” you muttered, throwing your hands up. “just great. now i have to deal with kittens, rent, and figuring out how the hell to co-parent with the guy next door who can’t keep his cat under control.”

geto chuckled, his dark eyes twinkling with genuine amusement. “well, if it helps, i’m pretty good with kids. or kittens, in this case.” you stared at him, incredulous. “this isn’t funny.”

“oh, come on,” he teased, his smirk widening. “it’s a little funny.” you groaned again, retreating into your apartment. “this is a nightmare.”

“or an adventure,” geto countered, stepping back into the hallway with a casual wave. “let me know if you need any help. babysitting, moral support, whatever.” and just like that, he was gone, leaving you with a very pregnant mr. pickles, a smug orange tabby, and far too many questions about how you’d managed to land yourself in this ridiculous situation.

-

the realization hit you as soon as you pressed "send." oh no. oh no, no, no. 

did you really just text suguru geto—your neighbor, a man who likely had better things to do than deal with your ridiculous antics a demand for child support? for cats? you flopped face-first onto your couch, groaning into a throw pillow. “what the hell is wrong with me?” mr. pickles, lounging on the armrest, flicked her tail and let out a smug little chirp, as if she’d orchestrated the entire debacle. “you’re no help,” you muttered, rolling onto your back to glare at her.

but it was too late now. the text was sent, sitting in geto’s inbox like an uninvited guest at a party. you imagined him reading it, probably over a cup of coffee in his immaculate apartment upstairs, eyebrows raised in disbelief before muttering something like, what the hell is this?

“what was i expecting?” you asked the ceiling. “a courtroom? with gojo cat wearing a tiny tie and confessing his sins?” mr. pickles yawned, completely uninterested in your spiral.

“ugh,” you grumbled, standing up. “whatever. it’s his problem now.”

-

bleary-eyed and still half-asleep, you shuffled to the door the next morning to grab the newspaper. the universe owed you at least one boring morning after last night’s embarrassment. but as you opened the door, your sleep-deprived brain screeched to a halt. there, sitting on your front porch, was a 5kg bag of premium cat food, the kind you’d seen in the store once and immediately walked past because it cost more than your monthly grocery budget. “what the…” you muttered, crouching down to inspect it.

taped to the bag was a folded piece of paper with the words “child support :)” scrawled in smooth, confident handwriting. beneath the note was what looked suspiciously like a paw print in ink. you squinted, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. “no. absolutely not. did he—did they actually ink up the cat for this?” you glanced down the hallway, half-expecting geto to pop out from behind a corner and yell “gotcha!” but it was eerily quiet. mr. pickles, who had wandered over to investigate, sniffed the bag and let out an excited meow, her tail curling in approval. “of course you’re happy,” you said, picking up the note and reading it again. “this is like winning the lottery for you.”

you flipped the paper over, looking for more, but that was it. just “child support :)” and a smug paw print. “oh my god,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “he’s good. he’s really good.” you set the bag inside and grabbed your phone, your thumbs hovering over the keyboard. what were you even supposed to say to this? thank you? an apology for being unhinged?

before you could overthink it, a new message lit up your screen.

geto: hope this helps. let me know if you need anything else. gojo says hi.

you stared at the message for a long moment, torn between laughter and mortification.

“what do i even say to that?” you asked mr. pickles, who was now trying to claw her way into the bag of food. she didn’t respond, obviously, but you took her enthusiasm as a sign to type out the least embarrassing reply you could muster.

you: thanks. mr. pickles says hi too. sorry about the text, was half-asleep. really appreciate this though.

a reply came almost instantly.

geto: no problem. wasn’t sure how much to get, so i just grabbed the fanciest one. figured she deserves it.

you snorted, shaking your head. “what are you, cat royalty?”

mr. pickles let out a pleased chirp, pawing at the bag triumphantly, and you couldn’t help but laugh. whatever this situation was, at least mr. pickles was happy. and, okay, maybe suguru geto wasn’t completely terrible either.

you thought life couldn’t get more ridiculous after the whole “child support” stunt. but somehow, suguru geto managed to raise the bar so high that it was practically doing pull-ups in the stratosphere. because when you stepped out of your apartment to grab some fresh air and regroup after being up all night with a cuddly mr. pickles, you realized geto had turned this entire ordeal into a neighborhood event. “did he… throw a party without telling me?” you muttered to yourself, narrowing your eyes as you spotted a small, hand-decorated sign taped to the landlord’s door. it read: "congrats to the new parents: gojo & mr. pickles!”

“new parents?” you said aloud, incredulous.

as if summoned by your confusion, choso’s door creaked open, and yuuji popped his head out, looking entirely too enthusiastic for such an early hour. “hey, neighbor! did you see the banner?” you blinked at him. “banner?” 

yuuji pointed down the hallway. you squinted and, sure enough, there it was — a banner strung across the hallway ceiling that read: "welcome baby kittens!!!" in what looked like glitter glue. “oh my god.” you pressed a hand to your forehead. “he didn’t.”

“he totally did!” yuuji grinned, stepping fully into the hallway. “he came by earlier and told me about gojo being a dad. so cool, right? i mean, gojo’s kind of an idiot, but hey, every cat deserves a shot at fatherhood.”

“yuuji,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose. “he’s not an actual dad. this isn’t a sitcom. it’s just…biology.” yuuji shrugged. “biology, destiny, same thing. oh, by the way, geto dropped off cookies! want one?” you looked down and noticed yuuji holding a plate of cookies shaped like tiny cats.

“what the—did he bake these?”

“nah, i think he bought them,” yuuji said, biting into one. “but still. pretty neat, huh?” you groaned, muttering, “neat isn’t the word i’d use.”

just as you turned to head back into your apartment and escape the madness, there was a loud, insistent scratching at your door. you froze. “don’t tell me…”

yuuji, still chewing on his cookie, pointed. “that’s probably gojo. he’s been making rounds all morning trying to visit your cat. i think he’s really taking this fatherhood thing seriously.” you stormed to your door and there he was—gojo cat, gojo the cat, his bright blue eyes wide and hopeful as he pawed at the doorway like a love-struck romeo. “oh, for crying out loud,” you muttered, scooping him up and holding him at arm’s length as you entered your house. “what do you think you’re doing?” gojo meowed pitifully, his tail flicking as he looked past you toward mr. pickles, who was curled up on her blanket, looking utterly unimpressed. “she’s not interested, casanova,” you told him, turning to yuuji. “can you take him back before he climbs my curtains again?” yuuji laughed, taking the cat from you. “no problem. come on, gojo. let’s give her some space.”

as yuuji disappeared down the hall with gojo, you closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a long sigh. but before you could even sit down, your phone buzzed.

geto: hope you’re enjoying the festivities. gojo’s a little excited, but who can blame him? parenthood changes you.

you stared at the message, your eye twitching.

you: i'm one sleepless night away from snapping. please stop turning my life into a hallmark movie.

geto: don’t be shy. you’re the real hero here, grandma.

you groaned, tossing your phone onto the couch. mr. pickles, who had been watching the entire ordeal with an air of feline superiority, let out a small, smug purr. “don’t you start,” you told her, flopping onto the couch. “at least it’s a long weekend.” but deep down, you knew there was no such thing as peace—not when suguru geto and his ridiculous orange menace were involved.

-

suguru geto was not having a good day.

he sighed, leaning back against his couch as the familiar hum of embarrassment settled over him. gojo cat, sprawled across the armrest, gave a half-hearted meow, probably to mock him. he’d woken up to him scratching at his front door like a lunatic, yowling for his morning ritual of inspecting the hallway for signs of mr. pickles. the normally smug and self-satisfied orange menace had been acting weird for days—restless, meowing at windows, and straight-up bolting every time geto so much as opened the front door. it had taken geto exactly one trip downstairs to realize why.

you. or more specifically, your cat.

geto hadn’t even known you had a cat until he’d knocked on your door last week, with mr. pickles in the background like some furry empress. now, not only did he know, but he also had the dubious honor of being the grandfather of mr. pickles’ unborn kittens. “how did it even come to this?” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the glittery “welcome baby kittens!!!” banner he’d put up in the hallway. he knew he was making things worse for himself, but honestly, it was better than sitting in his apartment, spiraling. he sighed, looking down at gojo, who was perched on the armrest of the couch, lazily licking a paw. “you couldn’t just chill, could you?” geto said, narrowing his eyes at the cat. “no, you had to go and ruin my already complicated life. do you know how awkward this is? do you?”

gojo blinked at him, clearly unbothered. “of course you don’t,” geto muttered. “you’re a cat.”

the thing was, geto had genuinely thought he’d be cool about this whole situation. sure, it was a little weird to be co-parenting kittens with the girl he’d had a hallway crush on for months, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t handle it. except he wasn’t handling it. he’d told yuuji. he’d told yaga. he’d even left cookies for shoko. and now half the building knew about gojo’s escapades. “what am i doing?” he groaned, leaning back on the couch and covering his face with his hands. “you know, this is all your fault,” geto muttered, glaring at the cat. gojo, unbothered, blinked lazily.

geto had been a lot of things in his years of life—student, aspiring lawyer, occasional cat dad—but one thing he wasn’t was smooth when it came to you. you, the girl from another department who lived one floor below him. you, the one who always looked like you belonged in a wes anderson movie, with your half-hidden smiles and humour. you, who somehow managed to make even the most mundane hallway interactions feel like they had a gravitational pull. geto groaned, pressing his palms into his face. he was this close to becoming a tragic cliché. 

it wasn’t like he’d never tried to talk to you before. he had. there was that one time in the campus library, where he’d psych himself up for twenty minutes only for you to leave before he could string a coherent sentence together. or the time in the cafeteria when he thought about offering you a seat at his table but chickened out because he was certain his friends would tease him for weeks. “this is what rock bottom feels like,” he muttered to himself.

he wasn’t even supposed to live in this building. as an international law major with a full schedule and internships on the horizon, he should’ve been in one of the fancier complexes closer to campus, but fate—or sheer bad luck—had landed him here. not that he could complain. not when you were his downstairs neighbor. he had always figured you were out of reach, though. you had this aura of being completely in your own world—poised, a little reserved, but not in a way that came off as unapproachable. more like you were quietly observing the chaos around you, letting it wash over you like a passing breeze. and he’d been content to admire you from afar. well, mostly content. but now? there was a knock at the door. 

geto froze.

“please don’t let it be her,” he whispered, praying to whatever higher power might be listening.

it was you. standing in his apartment building, holding a note he wrote about “child support.”

“hey,” you said, holding up a piece of paper. “you forgot this.”

“oh,” he said dumbly. “right. thanks.”

you stepped inside, looking around at the various cat-themed decorations geto had somehow acquired in the past 24 hours. “so… big fan of cats, huh?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. geto felt his face heat up. “uh, yeah. something like that.” you smirked, crossing your arms. “you know, you didn’t have to go all out like this. it’s not that big of a deal.”

“not a big deal?” geto repeated, incredulous. “your cat is having kittens with my cat. that’s, like… monumental.” you rolled your eyes. “they’re cats , geto. not royal heirs.”

“still,” he said, crossing his arms defensively. “i’m just trying to be responsible here.” you looked at him for a long moment, and geto swore he saw the tiniest flicker of amusement in your eyes. “responsible?” you repeated. “is that why you’ve turned our hallway into a petting zoo?” geto opened his mouth to argue but stopped when gojo jumped down from the couch and strutted over to you, rubbing against your legs like the shameless flirt he was. “traitor,” geto muttered under his breath. you crouched down to pet gojo, a small smile tugging at your lips. “well, at least someone knows how to make a good impression.” 

geto stared at you, his brain short-circuiting. “uh, yeah,” he said finally. “he’s… he’s good at that.” you stood up, brushing cat fur off your hands. “anyway, thanks for the food. mr. pickles appreciates it.”

“no problem,” geto said, trying to sound casual. “you know, if you ever need help with… anything, just let me know.” you raised an eyebrow. “like what? cat parenting classes?”

“sure,” geto said, shrugging. “or, you know, anything else.” you gave him a long, considering look before finally nodding. “i’ll keep that in mind,” you said, turning to leave. “thanks, grandpa.”

geto groaned as the door closed behind you. “what am i even doing?” he muttered again, looking down at gojo, who had jumped back onto the couch, looking entirely too smug. the cat meowed, as if to say, you’re welcome.

chapter 3: first we stalk, then we brunch

later in the evening, you found yourself huddled under your comforter, laptop balanced precariously on your knees. mr. pickles was curled up at your feet, occasionally flicking her tail, as if silently judging you. you ignored her. tonight, you had a mission: to do a deep dive into the enigma that was suguru geto. you weren’t proud of yourself, okay? but curiosity had officially killed the cat—or at least put her temporarily out of commission. like any sensible person armed with curiosity and internet access, you turned to linkedin. not instagram, not facebook—linkedin. because nothing screams “serious investigation” like stalking someone’s professional achievements. “let’s see what we’ve got, mr. pickles,” you muttered, typing “suguru geto” into the search bar on the holy grail of professional snooping. mr. pickles perched regally at the foot of your bed, her gaze judgmental as ever. “don’t give me that look,” you muttered. “i’m doing this for you.”

within seconds, his profile loaded up, and your jaw practically hit the floor.

suguru geto wasn’t just good-looking. oh no. he was an overachiever of the highest order. his profile picture was annoyingly perfect: a candid (but totally staged) shot of him sitting at a café, holding a cup of coffee in one hand while looking thoughtfully into the distance, as if he’d just solved world hunger. his headline read:

suguru geto | international law student | aspiring global policymaker | passionate about justice and equality

“ugh,” you groaned, scrolling further. “passionate about justice? who is this guy?” his bio didn’t help matters. it was filled with phrases like ‘dedicated to fostering positive global change’ and ‘committed to bridging the gap between policy and implementation.’

“committed to being annoyingly perfect, maybe,” you muttered, side-eyeing mr. pickles. she let out a half-hearted meow that you chose to interpret as agreement. his experience section was even worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it. a summer internship at the UN where he ‘assisted in drafting resolutions and collaborated with member states on sustainable development initiatives.’ worked as a legal intern at some fancy law firm with a french name you couldn’t pronounce, where he ‘focused on international human rights cases, with a specific emphasis on refugee protection.’ not to mention being a volunteer coordinator for a charity in sri lanka, where he ‘organized relief efforts and distributed supplies to displaced families during the holiday season.’

“okay, mr. pickles,” you said, glancing at the unimpressed feline. “this guy’s either a saint or a robot.” what shocked you most wasn’t his saintly résumé, but the fact that he went to the same university as you. you stared at the screen, stunned. “how the hell did i not know this?” his “education” section confirmed it:

bachelor’s in international law | current student

active member of the debate team and global policy forum

that explains it, you thought. you were a year younger and in an entirely different department—he probably had his head buried in treaties while you scrambled through your own projects. still, the idea of suguru walking the same hallways as you sent your mind reeling. “was he in the cafeteria when i spilled coffee on myself that one time?” you wondered aloud. as you continued scrolling, you stumbled upon his posts. his posts swung wildly between annoyingly inspirational and oddly endearing.

the first was a very cheesy, slightly-too-polished “ringing in the new year” post, complete with a stock photo of fireworks and an unnecessarily long caption: ‘as we close the chapter on another year, let us remember the power of community and resilience. cheers to 365 days of growth, learning, and striving for a better world!’

“uggghhh, gag me,” you snorted, though you couldn’t help but admire how polished it all was.

then there was a post featuring none other than gojo cat sprawled on a cushion, mid-snore. the caption read: ‘cats are not just pets—they are companions, teachers, and sometimes, our greatest confidants. thank you, gojo, for reminding me to appreciate the little joys in life.’

“confidants? really?” you muttered, holding back a laugh. “what secrets are you sharing with your cat, suguru?” the pièce de résistance, however, was a post about his recent trip to sri lanka. it included a photo of him kneeling next to a group of kids, all of them smiling brightly, while he held a giant sack of rice. ‘spending christmas eve here has been a humbling experience. giving is not just about material wealth but about offering hope and kindness. #holidaygiving #payitforward’

“oh, come on,” you groaned. “who even has time for all of this?” mr. pickles let out an approving meow, her ears twitching at the picture. “not you too,” you sighed. just as you were about to close the tab, a final post caught your eye. it was from a few months ago: a blurry picture of the university quad, with a caption that read: ‘sometimes, it’s the quiet moments on campus that remind you why you started this journey. grateful for this space, these people, and this path.’

“quiet moments, huh?” you mused, leaning back against your pillows. “maybe he’s not all bad.” mr. pickles let out a disapproving chirp, as if to say, focus on the fact that he’s responsible for my current condition, thank you. and just when you thought you’d seen it all, there was his international cat day post. gojo cat lay sprawled in the background, his belly exposed, looking utterly unbothered. geto had written an almost poetic ode to feline companionship. ‘in a world filled with noise, cats remind us to listen to silence. they are the quiet guardians of our souls.’

you couldn’t help but snort. “quiet guardians? mr. pickles, your baby daddy is a poet now.” mr. pickles gave a soft chirp, as if to say, better him than some nobody. “fine,” you relented, closing your laptop. “maybe he’s not terrible. just… annoyingly perfect.” but as you lay back against your pillows, a nagging thought lingered: why had he never said anything? you’d walked the same hallways, shared the same campus, yet he’d never even made a passing hello. was he too busy, or something else? either way, you weren’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed. probably both.

-

suguru geto prided himself on being polished and refined. and he had standards okay? he wasn’t some creep skulking around in the shadows. he was a man of composure, logic, and discipline. but all of that went out the window when it came to you. he is also an upstanding citizen who just happened to know your spotify account, which he checked semi-regularly. for research purposes, obviously. it started innocently enough—getting your instagram handle. no big deal. he hadn’t even followed you right away, worried it might seem weird coming out of nowhere. it was all very calculated: a "friend of a friend of a classmate of a third cousin" pipeline that eventually led him to your public page. a click here, a scroll there, and boom—your instagram aesthetic was forever seared into his memory.  but social media wasn’t enough. no, geto was too curious (and maybe just a bit too pathetic) to stop there. this led him to your spotify.

now, he didn’t just stumble upon your spotify profile by chance. this particular treasure hunt began at a house party at the start of the year. utahime had made a collaborative playlist for everyone, and while everyone else just added their favorite songs, geto decided to dive deep. deep as in scrolling through over 150 accounts connected to the playlist just to find yours. “there it is,” he had muttered triumphantly back then, his lips twitching into a satisfied smile. “gotcha.” and from that moment, your spotify profile became his guilty pleasure. your profile picture at the time? a blurry photo of what looked like you holding a glass of wine at some fancy rooftop bar. but the playlists were the real treasure.

your “gym rat” playlist was his favorite, with high energy tracks, peppered with one or two questionable choices. seriously, why was there a taylor swift song in the middle of your workout playlist? your “in the clerb, we all cryin’” playlist was interesting to say the least, comprising of indie ballads, heart-wrenching acoustics, and, for some reason, a single abba track. then there was “road trip,” featuring everything from funky throwbacks to an absurd number of songs by chappell roan. “you’ve got taste,” geto muttered to himself, clicking into the playlists one by one. “questionable taste in some areas, but still…” he often scrolled through your profile aimlessly, not necessarily looking for anything new, but just existing in your world, even if it was through music. tonight, he found himself back on your page, like some kind of masochistic ritual.

his eyes drifted to his chrome tabs, where your spotify was bookmarked for easy access. it was right there, sandwiched between his email inbox, an online soba delivery menu, an article titled “10 Tips for Acing Your Next Law Internship” and a tab about international trade law regulations. “no new playlists,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair. your gym playlist hadn’t been updated in six months (“what happened to your gym rat era?”), and your grwm playlist was untouched. “slacking, hm?” gojo cat, perched on the edge of the desk, gave him a slow blink. “boring night for you too, huh?” geto sighed dramatically, glancing over at gojo cat sprawled on his lap. the feline barely flicked an ear in response. “don’t look at me like that,” geto said, narrowing his eyes at the feline. “this is completely normal behavior. i’m not stalking. i’m just… maintaining a healthy level of interest.”

“it’s not creepy,” he justified aloud, more to himself than to anyone else. “it’s resourceful. i’m just staying informed.” gojo cat stretched lazily, letting out a yawn that sounded suspiciously judgmental. “oh, don’t start,” geto shot back, tapping lightly on the cat’s head. “you’re the reason i even know her in the first place.” geto’s eyes flicked to your “gym rat era” playlist again. still untouched. “what happened to that, by the way?” he asked no one in particular. “gave up? hit your personal best and retired early?” gojo cat pawed at the corner of his laptop, as if trying to close it.

“hey, no,” geto said, swatting the cat’s paw away gently. “i’m in the middle of something important.” his finger hovered over the profile picture you’d updated—something blurry and vaguely artsy. probably taken at a bar or café. he debated clicking it but stopped himself. what was he expecting? some secret hidden bio like “hey, stop creeping”? he sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “i’m not weird, right?” he asked the cat.

gojo, being a cat, offered no answer.

“right,” geto muttered. “this is perfectly reasonable. i’m just… interested. it’s not like i’m walking past her door at 3 a.m. or something.” a fleeting daydream crossed his mind—what if the two of you had a shared playlist? something intimate and special, where you both added songs and left little comments. “‘thinking of you when i added this,’” he mused in a mockingly cheesy tone, shaking his head. “god, what am i, thirteen?” still, the thought lingered, making him smile despite himself. just as he began to close the tab, a notification popped up.

[beef_boss_69 has followed you.]

his entire demeanor shifted. “beef boss? beef boss?” geto practically spat the name out. “who the hell—what kind of username is that?” he clicked on the profile, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the new follower. it was a faceless account, with no playlists or followers of its own. “oh, great,” he grumbled. “a bot. or worse, some guy who thinks he’s funny.” he glanced at gojo cat, who looked thoroughly unimpressed. “don’t give me that look,” geto said, pointing at the cat. “you’d be upset too if some guy named beef boss was muscling in on your territory.” gojo cat chirped, which suguru took as a sign of agreement. “exactly,” geto said, nodding to himself. “i mean, what’s next? chicken king 420? pork prince 88?” 

he sat back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “i should just send the linkedin request,” he muttered to himself. “rip the band-aid off. what’s the worst that could happen?” gojo cat let out a loud meow, almost as if to say, you’re never going to do it. “shut up,” geto shot back, though there was no heat behind his words. he closed your spotify tab, ignoring the way his stomach twisted at the thought of actually interacting with you. maybe tomorrow, he thought. or next week. or the next time beef boss made a move. as he shut his laptop, he made a mental note: tomorrow, he’d work up the nerve to send you a linkedin request. baby steps, right?

-

you weren’t even sure what had pulled you out of bed that morning. was it the ungodly racket outside your door? the growing guilt of not actually reading the paper you insisted on having delivered? or maybe just the suspiciously human-sounding yowls of mr. pickles as she nested in the corner of your room? either way, you’d dragged yourself out of bed, eyes half-closed, hair resembling a bird’s nest, and shuffled toward the door in your favorite—read: most embarrassing—pajamas. and there he was.

suguru geto, standing in front of your door in the crisp morning light, wearing an athletic jacket, sweatpants, and the expression of a man who was absolutely not ready for this level of chaos. attached to his hand was a leash, and attached to the leash was none other than gojo cat himself, strutting like he was the king of the neighborhood. “morning,” geto greeted, his tone breezy but his face clearly betraying some inner turmoil. you blinked at him. “is that… is that a harness?”

“yep.” geto scratched the back of his neck. “gojo here insisted.” as if on cue, gojo cat let out an overly dramatic meow, his bright blue eyes locking onto yours. he looked like a lion surveying his kingdom =—or, more accurately, a spoiled housecat demanding tribute. “you’re taking your cat for a walk?” you asked, still half-asleep and very much regretting this encounter. “yeah, he’s been getting a little… restless,” geto said, glancing down at the fluffball who was now trying to paw at your door. “and by restless, i mean clawing the walls like a maniac at 3 a.m.” gojo cat let out another meow, this one louder, and then craned his neck to peer behind you, as if expecting mr. pickles to emerge in all her pregnant glory. “okay, what’s he doing?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at the cat. “probably hoping to see his baby mama,” geto replied with a dry chuckle. you stared at him, your brain still buffering from the sheer audacity of that sentence. “baby mama?”

“look,” geto started, suddenly looking flustered, “i was wondering if you… i mean, if she … maybe we could —”

“spit it out.”

“do you wanna join us for a walk?” he blurted, his cheeks faintly pink.

gojo cat meowed again, clearly seconding the idea. or maybe he was just demanding that you bring mr. pickles along. you sighed, glancing over your shoulder at the aforementioned queen of your household, who was currently sprawled on her side like a beached whale. “she’s not exactly in the mood for exercise.” “please,” geto said, his tone bordering on desperate. “it might do her some good. and honestly, it might keep gojo from trying to scale your window again.” you pinched the bridge of your nose. “fine. but you owe me breakfast for this.”

“deal,” geto said immediately, his relief almost palpable.

after an embarrassingly long five minutes of wrangling mr. pickles into her carrier—complete with angry hisses and a swat to your hand—you emerged from your apartment, looking like you were about to march into battle. “ready?” geto asked, his smile equal parts charming and sheepish. “let’s just get this over with,” you grumbled, hoisting the carrier while mr. pickles glared daggers at everyone in sight. as the four of you set off, gojo cat kept glancing back at the carrier, chirping softly as if trying to woo mr. pickles through sheer persistence. “he’s really laying it on thick, huh?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “like father, like son,” geto joked, then immediately looked mortified at his own words. you snorted, finally cracking a smile. “careful, geto. i might actually start thinking you’re funny.” he grinned, his confidence seemingly restored. “well, miracles do happen.”

mr. pickles, meanwhile, let out a low growl from her carrier, clearly unimpressed with the whole ordeal. gojo cat chirped in response, pressing his face to the mesh side of the carrier in what could only be described as a show of devotion. “is he always like this?” you asked, watching the ridiculous display. “only when he’s in love,” geto replied, shooting you a look that lingered just a second too long. you pretended not to notice the way your heart skipped a beat. “well, he better not get his hopes up. mr. pickles isn’t exactly the romantic type.” geto chuckled. “guess he’ll just have to win her over.” as the morning sun climbed higher, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, this whole ridiculous situation wasn’t so bad after all.

geto meanwhile, was mentally spiraling. he didn’t know what was worse—the “like father, like son” line he’d just dropped on you or the fact that you didn’t immediately burst out laughing and leave him and his ridiculous orange tabby in the dust. instead, you stayed, which only made things harder for him. literally. his heart was pounding so loudly he was sure even mr. pickles could hear it from inside her carrier. he was trying to play it cool, but how was he supposed to do that when his so-called son was busy embarrassing the hell out of him? gojo cat was living his best life, pulling on his leash like a dog on a mission. his blue eyes sparkled with excitement as he trotted beside mr. pickles' carrier, occasionally pawing at the mesh as if trying to “connect” with his beloved. mr. pickles, for her part, was clearly over it. she sat in the carrier like a disgruntled queen, her ears flat and her glare sharp enough to cut diamonds.

“your cat’s persistent,” you said, watching as gojo cat did a full circle around the carrier before flopping dramatically on the sidewalk, belly up, in what looked like a plea for attention. “he’s… special,” geto replied, attempting to reel in the leash as gojo cat kicked his legs in the air, rolling onto his side to stare mournfully at mr. pickles. “gojo, stop being weird.” gojo cat let out a pitiful meow, his paws pressing against the carrier like he was performing some romeo and juliet reenactment. “is this normal?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you crouched to take a closer look. “define normal,” geto deadpanned, tugging the leash again as gojo cat started to nudge his face against the carrier. “he’s just... enthusiastic. about life. and apparently, love.”

“mr. pickles looks like she’s about to murder him.”

mr. pickles, indeed, was having none of it. when gojo cat got too close, she raised a paw and batted at the mesh with a low growl, making geto jump. “okay, timeout,” geto said, scooping gojo cat up with one arm while holding the leash in the other. gojo cat squirmed, letting out a series of indignant chirps as if protesting his removal from the “love of his life.” “you’re really committed to this cat dad role, huh?” you teased, standing back up. “it’s not a role,” geto replied, attempting to adjust gojo cat in his arms as the feline twisted dramatically, his tail flicking with determination. “it’s a lifestyle.” you snorted, and geto decided right then and there that he would endure any amount of humiliation for the sound of your laughter.

meanwhile, gojo cat had decided he’d had enough of the timeout. with a sudden burst of energy, he wriggled free from geto’s grip and made a beeline back to mr. pickles’ carrier. he pawed at it again, letting out a chirp that sounded suspiciously like, notice me, senpai. “jesus christ, gojo,” geto muttered, scrambling to grab the leash. “can you give her some space for five seconds?”

“he’s determined,” you said, your lips twitching as you watched the scene unfold. “i’ll give him that.”

“determined to get us kicked out of the building, maybe,” geto grumbled, finally managing to wrangle gojo cat back.

mr. pickles, now thoroughly fed up, turned her back to the carrier door, her tail swishing in annoyance. she let out a loud, irritated meow, as if to say, enough of this nonsense. “looks like the queen has spoken,” you said, nodding toward mr. pickles. “yeah, well, tell that to this guy,” geto replied, holding gojo cat up like a misbehaving toddler. “i swear, he’s got no chill.”

“takes after his dad, huh?” you said with a sly grin.

geto froze, his cheeks heating up. “i—uh—he’s not my biological—uh…”

you laughed again, shaking your head. 

“relax, geto. i’m just messing with you.” but before geto could recover and try to salvage what was left of his dignity, gojo cat let out another loud meow, squirming in his grip. “great,” geto muttered. “and now i’m the guy whose cat ruins his chance to make a good impression.”

“who said it was ruined?” you said casually, your gaze meeting his for a brief, heart-stopping moment. and just like that, geto decided that maybe—just maybe—gojo cat wasn’t the worst wingman in the world after all.

honestly, when you first saw geto on linkedin yesterday—highlighted internships, connections with every fancy-sounding legal firm, and posts that made him look like a diplomatic demigod—you thought, oh, great. another rich boy who probably orders his coffee by listing ten modifications and has never eaten instant noodles in his life. add gojo cat into the mix, and you were sure this guy was going to be the embodiment of an annoying private school kid, complete with a pet who demanded bottled water and artisanal treats. but this? this was unexpected. geto was, dare you say it, fun. the man actually cracked jokes, didn’t have that holier-than-thou attitude, and seemed genuinely nice. how was he even an international law major? weren’t they supposed to be the glorified MUN kids of society?

“so, what do you think of him?” geto asked, glancing down at gojo cat, who was currently doing his best impression of an olympic sprinter, chasing a rogue leaf across the path. “him?” you asked, smirking. “i think he’s a menace to society.”

“hey, that’s my son you’re talking about,” geto said, mock-offended. “like father, like son,” you shot back, and you caught the faintest twitch of his lips. “you wound me,” geto replied dramatically, clutching his chest like you’d just dealt a fatal blow. you laughed despite yourself. “i mean, am i wrong? you’re kind of a menace too, you know. showing up with that “like father, like son” line earlier.”

“that line was gold, okay?” he said, defensive but clearly holding back a grin. “besides, it worked. you’re still here, aren’t you?” you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “you got lucky. i needed some fresh air.”

“ah, so i’m just a side quest for your morning routine. noted,” he said, looking mock-wounded again. “don’t make me regret this,” you said, though your tone was light. but then, of course, you had to spiral. because what kind of person just casually smells like bamboo? why were you even thinking about how he smelled in the first place? no, focus. you were not about to develop a crush on mr. linkedin extraordinaire.

“so, um,” geto started, scratching the back of his neck. you noticed he did that a lot when he was unsure of himself, which was oddly endearing. “did you, uh, happen to notice we go to the same university?”

“oh, i noticed,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “what i didn’t notice was how i never saw you around campus before.”

“i keep a low profile,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. 

“low profile? you? with your fifteen linkedin posts about networking events and charity galas?” you teased. he flushed, and you bit back a laugh at the sight of the ever-composed suguru geto getting flustered. “that’s professional stuff,” he said, looking anywhere but at you. “different vibe.”

“sure, mr. diplomat,” you said, grinning. “but seriously, why haven’t we crossed paths before?”

“well, you’re a year younger,” he mumbled, “and in a different department. plus… i might’ve…”

“might’ve what?” you pressed, leaning in just slightly.

“might’ve avoided you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “avoided me?” you repeated, blinking. “why?”

his face turned a shade darker. “because i didn’t know how to talk to you, okay?” you stared at him, caught off guard by his sudden honesty. for a moment, neither of you spoke, the sound of gojo cat rustling through the bushes filling the silence. “well,” you said finally, breaking the tension with a small smile, “you’re doing fine now.” he looked at you, his expression softening. “yeah, maybe.”

and just like that, the flustered energy transferred to you, because how was this guy suddenly so disarming? you quickly turned your attention to gojo cat, who had now returned, proudly carrying a twig in his mouth like it was some grand prize. “your cat’s weird,” you said, hoping the heat in your cheeks wasn’t too obvious. “takes after his owner,” geto quipped, a little more confidently this time. you snorted, shaking your head. “yeah, well, you’re lucky i don’t scare easy.”

“lucky, huh?” he said, his lips curving into a small, genuine smile.

you groaned inwardly. maybe you were spiraling. if mr. pickles could talk, you’d be subjected to a very long, exasperated lecture right now. and honestly? she’d have a point. because here you were, fumbling in front of what could only be described as a god-sent man—minus his questionable taste in cheesy pickup lines and feline companions. and judging by the way she was scratching insistently against the carrier’s mesh, mr. pickles had had enough. “alright, alright,” you muttered, unzipping the carrier. “but behave, okay? no swatting.”

the minute she stepped out, in all her pregnant, regal glory, gojo cat lost his mind. if there were an olympic event for wooing, he’d be taking home gold, no contest. he was meowing nonstop, his tail flicking like crazy, hopping in excited circles around mr. pickles. “good god,” geto muttered beside you, watching his cat’s antics with a mixture of horror and amusement. “he’s… persistent, isn’t he?”

“persistent? your cat’s acting like he just won the lottery,” you said, watching gojo cat crouch low and wiggle his butt like he was about to pounce. “mr. pickles deserves the best,” geto said with a smirk, his tone dripping with mock sincerity. “she deserves peace and quiet,” you shot back, laughing as mr. pickles calmly let gojo cat have his little moment of excitement before promptly swatting him on the nose.

gojo cat froze, blinking in shock. then, as if nothing happened, he tried again. another swat.

“he doesn’t give up, does he?” you said, shaking your head. “like father, like son,” geto said with a shrug, and you snorted.

“oh, so you’re like that too, huh?” you teased, raising an eyebrow at him. he froze for a second, his brain clearly buffering. then he laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “i like to think i have a bit more self-control.”

“hmm,” you said, pretending to consider. “debatable.”

“harsh,” geto said, placing a hand over his heart like he’d been wounded. things weren’t any better for geto. watching you laugh at his lame attempts at humor was doing something dangerous to his brain. you were so close, and the way your eyes lit up when you laughed…

he couldn’t help it. he felt the same urge gojo cat must’ve felt—like physically shaking, meowing, jumping, doing whatever it took to make sure you were looking at him. but he was a man with poise (he reminded himself), so instead of resorting to anything outrageous, he blushed furiously, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. “you okay there?” you asked, noticing his face had turned an alarming shade of red. “yeah, yeah,” he said quickly, waving you off. “it’s, uh… warm out here.” you glanced up at the sky. it was barely sunny with a light breeze. “sure,” you said, smirking. “totally the weather.”

“don’t call me out like that,” he mumbled, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck again. “you’re cute when you’re flustered,” you said before you could stop yourself, and the words hung in the air for a second too long. his head snapped toward you, eyes wide. “what?”

“i — nothing ,” you said quickly, suddenly very interested in the stray thread on your sweater. “no, no, go on,” geto said, leaning in slightly, his voice teasing now. “what were you saying?”

“i said nothing,” you insisted, but your face was practically on fire. he grinned, leaning back and crossing his arms. “mm-hmm. sure.”

you groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “mr. pickles, save me,” you muttered, but she was too busy fending off gojo cat’s latest round of attention to care. and next to you, geto was grinning like an idiot, his blush finally starting to fade as he realized he might not be the only one spiraling.

amidst the awkward giggles and blushes, your stomach decided it had enough of the coy flirting and declared war. a low, awkward rumble escaped, loud enough for both you and geto to freeze. “was that…?” geto began, his lips twitching.

“no,” you lied immediately, your face heating up. “that was probably…gojo.” as if on cue, gojo cat meowed loudly, almost like he was backing you up. but mr. pickles wasn’t having it, her head snapping toward you with a “you’re kidding, right?” look. geto, bless his golden heart, didn’t press further. instead, he scooped up a very indignant gojo, who was in the middle of another extravagant attempt to woo mr. pickles. 

“sounds like breakfast is overdue,” he said, grinning. “my treat, as promised.” you hesitated, watching as mr. pickles, the opportunist she was, pranced toward her carrier with the regal air of a queen boarding her royal carriage. she gave you a look that screamed, what are you waiting for? let’s go, servant.

“uh,” you started, scratching the back of your neck. “so, funny story — i didn’t bring my wallet, and even if i did…” you trailed off, remembering the bleak state of your cashapp. $27.53 stared back at you the last time you checked. it was a miracle you even had that much. “...i wouldn’t be able to afford it.” geto blinked at you, as if you’d grown a second head. “what?”

“yeah,” you said, already feeling the mortifying urge to dig a hole and crawl into it. “i’m, uh, broke. like, hilariously broke. economy, y’know?” you added with a weak laugh. “you think i’m letting you pay?” geto said, looking genuinely offended. “what kind of guy do you think i am?”

“a nice guy?” you offered, unsure where this was going. “no, no,” he said, shaking his head. “a gentleman.”

oh god, the drama. you stifled a laugh. “well, excuse me, mister gentleman. i just didn’t want to assume you’d pay.”

“assume away,” he said, already heading toward the nearest fancy breakfast café like he hadn’t just kidnapped you and the cats. “i’ve got you covered.” you glanced down at mr. pickles, who gave you a look that screamed, hurry up, i want my eggs.

the café, of course, was fancy. fancier than anywhere you’d normally set foot in. as you walked in, clutching mr. pickles’ carrier like a lifeline, you whispered to geto, “you couldn’t pick a normal place?”

“normal?” he asked, arching a brow. “what, like mcdonald’s?”

“that would’ve been perfect, ” you muttered. he just chuckled. “relax. it’s on me. besides…” he leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “i have a reputation to uphold. international law guys don’t slum it, you know?” you snorted. “you’re so full of it.”

“maybe,” he admitted, grinning. “but you’re here, aren’t you?” you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling as you followed him to a table, where gojo cat immediately tried to climb onto the nearest chair, only for geto to gently push him back down. “don’t even think about it,” he told the cat, who meowed indignantly. mr. pickles, meanwhile, sat primly in her carrier, surveying the café with a look of mild disdain. she was probably judging the lack of gold-plated bowls. “so,” geto said once you were seated, his tone casual but his eyes warm. “what are you having? and don’t say something cheap to be polite.”

“how’d you know i was going to say that?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him. he shrugged. “just a hunch. order whatever you want.”

you hesitated, glancing at the menu. everything was overpriced, and you were 80% sure a single pancake here cost more than your rent. “fine,” you said finally. “but if i order the most expensive thing on the menu, i don’t want to hear you complain.”

“deal,” he said, smiling like you’d just agreed to marry him. god, he really was trying to woo you. and judging by the way your heart was doing somersaults, it might’ve been working.

the cafe was everything you imagined a “fancy breakfast spot” would be—muted beige tones, big windows letting in soft sunlight, overpriced art hanging on the walls, and tables filled with people who somehow looked like they owned hedge funds. there were plants too, the kind that didn’t seem real, and a faint jazz tune played in the background. if geto was trying to impress you, he was definitely succeeding, albeit unintentionally making you feel a little out of place. but all of that took a backseat the moment you heard that voice.

“you’re joking,” you muttered under your breath as you caught sight of none other than ryomen sukuna, towering like a goddamn villain straight out of a noir film. the cigarette smell hit first, faint but unmistakable, lingering on his dark uniform. his face twisted into a scowl the second he spotted your table. “ugh, pets,” he grumbled, eyeing the carrier with disdain. “this is why this place is going downhill. who even lets cats in here?”

“good morning to you too, sukuna,” geto said smoothly, leaning back in his chair with a calmness that only pissed sukuna off further. you, on the other hand, were seconds away from panic. this is choso’s brother? you’d seen him before, sure—usually smoking in the hallway and glaring like everyone had personally wronged him. but now? here? as your server? gojo cat immediately picked up on your distress—or maybe he just didn’t like sukuna’s face—because he started growling in geto’s lap. it was the tiniest, most pitiful growl, but sukuna’s eyes snapped to him, narrowing in challenge. “what’s that thing’s problem?” he asked, jerking a thumb at gojo cat. “his problem is you , ” geto said, smiling. “can’t say i blame him.” sukuna shot geto a flat look before turning his attention back to you. “what are you having?” he asked, his tone sharp enough to cut steel.

you panicked, your eyes darting to the menu. “uh… ummm …i’ll have the, uh…” you started, struggling to pronounce the ridiculous name of the dish. “the croissant…something?”

“you mean the croissant aux truffes?” sukuna interrupted, rolling his eyes. “yeah, got it. anything else?” you shook your head furiously, feeling your face heat up. “and you?” sukuna turned to geto, clearly already over this interaction. “my usual,” geto said casually, resting his chin on his hand. sukuna raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a mean smirk. “your usual , huh? what’s that again?”

geto froze for half a second, his cool demeanor slipping ever so slightly. “you know what my usual is,” he said, his voice a little sharper. “do i?” sukuna asked, feigning innocence. “must’ve slipped my mind.”

“it’s soba,” geto hissed, his calmness now completely abandoned.

“oh, soba,” sukuna said, nodding slowly like he’d just solved the mystery of the century. “got it. soba. anything else, your highness?” geto glared at him but didn’t say anything, and sukuna walked off, muttering something under his breath about “stupid regulars.” the moment he was out of earshot, geto leaned back in his chair and let out a dramatic sigh. “i’m never coming back here.”

“really?” you asked, raising a brow. “because it sounded like you practically live here.”

“not after this humiliation,” he said, though the way his lips twitched betrayed the fact that he wasn’t as annoyed as he pretended to be. you couldn’t help but laugh, the earlier tension melting away. “for what it’s worth,” you said, “your ‘usual’ sounds pretty fancy too.”

“don’t,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “i’ll never live this down.”

from the corner of your eye, you saw gojo cat attempting to claw his way out of geto's lap, probably planning to finish what he started with sukuna. mr. pickles, ever the drama queen, merely yawned, completely unfazed by the chaos. it was going to be a long morning.

sukuna’s approach to serving was efficient, sure, but it was laced with the kind of attitude that made you question why this place hired him in the first place. he practically slammed geto’s soba on the table with a smile so forced it could rival a ventriloquist dummy, and your croissant—although perfect—arrived with a snide comment about “petting zoos” under his breath. you gave him a tight-lipped smile, muttering a quick “thank you,” while geto tried to hide his snicker behind his hand. sukuna walked off, grumbling something about “pretentious cat dads.”

“don’t mind him,” geto said, breaking his chopsticks with practiced ease. “he’s just like that with everyone. well, maybe worse with me.”

“so you’re special, then?” you teased, tearing off a piece of your croissant. “you could say that,” geto replied with a grin, feeding gojo cat a tiny bit of soba under the table. gojo, the shameless flirt, lapped it up happily, ignoring mr. pickles’ death glare from her carrier. things were calm, peaceful even—until the gaggle of women arrived.

they were the type you’d expect to see in glossy magazines: perfectly coiffed hair, subtle but expensive-looking makeup, and outfits that screamed “we brunch in designer clothes.” they made a beeline for gojo cat, cooing and fawning like he was some sort of feline casanova. and, like the attention-seeking traitor he was, gojo lapped it all up, practically preening under their praise. “oh my god, look at him!” one of them squealed, petting gojo as he leaned into her touch. “he’s so cute!”

“what’s his name?” another asked, giving geto a smile that could only be described as predatory. “gojo,” geto said, chuckling awkwardly. “you named him after yourself?” one of the women teased, clearly mistaking him for the egomaniac in question.

“uh, no, actually—”

“oh, sugurruuu!” another one interrupted, clearly recognizing him. “it’s been ages! how have you been?” you raised an eyebrow as the women began circling him like sharks. apparently, they were his seniors from a past internship, which made sense because they had that polished, professional air about them. “we missed you at the office!” one of them gushed. “you were so good at handling those client presentations,” another added, her tone a little too sweet for your liking.

you took a bite of your croissant, trying to ignore the sudden twist in your stomach. it wasn’t like you had any claim over geto, right? and yet, seeing him chuckle nervously and entertain them, even though it was clear he was uncomfortable, made you bristle. beside you, mr. pickles was practically vibrating with irritation, her tail flicking furiously as she watched gojo soak up the attention. she let out a low, guttural growl that you could’ve sworn mirrored your exact mood. “he’s such a ladies’ man,” one of the women purred, gesturing to gojo. “just like his owner, huh?”

“actually,” geto said, his voice cutting through the chatter. he looked at you, his expression unreadable but his tone steady. “this is my partner.”

wait, what?

the table went silent for a moment as all eyes turned to you. the women’s faces fell ever so slightly, their previously cheery expressions dimming as they processed the information. “partner?” one of them repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief. “yep,” geto said, leaning back in his chair with a small, satisfied smile. “we’re co-parenting these two,” he added, gesturing to the cats. you blinked, your mind racing. co-parenting? he wasn’t wrong, technically speaking, but the way he said it made it sound...a lot more serious than it actually was. the women muttered half-hearted congratulations before awkwardly excusing themselves, their heels clicking against the tiled floor as they walked away. once they were out of earshot, you turned to geto, your cheeks burning. “partner, huh?”

“what? it’s true,” he said, a hint of smugness in his tone. “we’re co-parenting.”

“you do know how that sounded, right?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.“sounded perfect to me,” he said, giving you a lopsided grin. you rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. maybe, just maybe, you liked geto a little more than you thought. meanwhile, gojo cat continued basking in his stolen glory, and mr. pickles finally settled down in her carrier, clearly satisfied with how the situation had turned out.

chapter 4: he brought kibble, you brought your heart

the days following your chaotic breakfast outing became a mix of heartwarming absurdity and mild chaos, all thanks to geto and his ever-determined cat. 

it started with the pet supplies. one offhand comment about needing more for mr. pickles, and suddenly geto was at your door with an entire armful of toys, treats, and nesting materials. “you said you needed stuff,” he shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he handed you a bag that looked heavy enough to contain bricks. “this is…a lot,” you said, peering inside. “did you buy out the entire pet store?”

“nah, just the essentials,” he replied, brushing off your comment. “besides, i had to get stuff for gojo anyway.”

the “stuff for gojo” turned out to be a single can of tuna.

then came the vet visits. geto had decided, entirely unprompted, that your vet appointments were now his responsibility. he would show up unannounced, a coffee in hand for you and a carrier for gojo in the other.  “i don’t think the vet needs to see gojo,” you’d said the first time he came along. “you never know,” he’d replied, entirely serious. “what if he has sympathy symptoms for mr. pickles? he’s been sneezing a lot lately.”

“that’s because he shoved his face into a pile of dust bunnies,” you deadpanned. still, you couldn’t deny how much easier it was having him around, even if it meant enduring his occasional attempts to one-up the vet with random facts he’d googled beforehand. “you know, some studies say cats feel pain differently during pregnancy,” geto commented as the vet checked mr. pickles over. the vet gave him a flat look. “that’s…not entirely accurate.”

“huh, weird,” geto said, leaning back with an entirely too smug grin. “i’ll look into it more. it’s good to stay informed, right?”

meanwhile, gojo cat’s relentless courtship of mr. pickles had reached new, unhinged heights. every day brought a new “gift” for her nesting area, ranging from sweet (a soft sock) to outright concerning (a half-dead lizard that had you shrieking and yuuji wielding a plastic lightsaber like some kind of jedi exterminator). “gojo, no!” you’d yelled, trying to wrestle the lizard out of his mouth. “don’t hurt him!” geto shouted, entirely missing the point as he held gojo back. “don’t hurt him?!” yuuji echoed, brandishing the lightsaber dramatically. “what about me? what if it jumps at me?!”

amidst the chaos, mr. pickles remained the picture of serenity, carefully arranging each of gojo’s offerings in her nesting area like some kind of bizarre art installation. she even started tolerating his presence, which was a minor miracle in itself. “look at them,” geto said one day, gesturing to the two cats as they napped side by side. “they’re like us.” you raised an eyebrow. “one of them brings in literal trash and the other barely tolerates them. which one’s supposed to be me?”

“well, obviously, you’re mr. pickles,” he said with a grin.

“and you’re gojo?”

“exactly.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “geto, you’re ridiculous.”

“and yet, here you are,” he teased, nudging your shoulder lightly.

despite the chaos, you couldn’t deny that your little makeshift family—complete with a sock-stealing, lizard-catching cat and his annoyingly thoughtful owner—had started to grow on you. mr. pickles seemed calmer, you felt more relaxed, and even geto’s awkward attempts at affection were kind of endearing. maybe, just maybe, these two weren’t so bad after all.

but honestly, you should’ve known geto would take a casual dinner and make it look like an event. the moment you opened the door and saw him standing there, you realized just how badly you underestimated the man’s ability to weaponize his looks. he’d ditched the usual button-ups for a fitted black turtleneck that clung to him like a second skin, paired with tailored gray slacks that looked more expensive than your monthly rent. his hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail, but a few stray strands framed his face just enough to be annoyingly perfect. and then there was the smell—some cologne that was equal parts warm and spicy, making your knees wobble like a newborn deer.

“you…uh, look nice,” you managed to stutter, awkwardly gesturing him in. he chuckled, stepping inside. “thanks. figured i should dress up a little since you’re going all out with dinner.” oh, so now it’s your fault for making dinner sound like a five-star experience when it was really just some pasta and garlic bread. meanwhile, your own reflection in the hallway mirror mocked you mercilessly. you were still in your semi-formal college attire: a blazer that was slightly too big, a wrinkled blouse, and pants that had seen better days. you could have changed, but no, you thought you’d save time and effort. bad call.

dinner itself went surprisingly smoothly. mr. pickles and gojo cat managed to coexist at the food station, which was nothing short of miraculous. out of the corner of your eye, you saw gojo nudging a small portion of his food toward mr. pickles, who sniffed it delicately before accepting. “look at them,” geto said with a soft smile, catching your gaze. “sharing like that. think it’s love?” you scoffed, trying to ignore how his smile made your heart race. “or maybe gojo’s just trying to butter her up so she doesn’t swat him later.”

“harsh,” geto replied, leaning back in his chair. “you’re cynical. i like it.”

after dinner, you were about to tackle the dishes when geto, ever the overachieving law student, pulled out his macbook. the glow of the screen illuminated his face as he typed furiously, answering emails and looking like the poster boy for "i have my life together."

“work?” you asked, carrying a stack of plates to the sink. “just a few emails,” he said, not looking up. “one of the partners at my internship sent over some last-minute questions.” you blinked, watching him with mild disbelief. “it’s a friday night.”

“welcome to international law,” he said dryly, fingers flying across the keyboard. against your better judgment, you found yourself… impressed? his focus, his confidence, the way his sleeves were rolled up just enough to show off his forearms—it was annoyingly attractive. “ugh, law students,” you muttered under your breath, scrubbing at a plate. “what was that?” suguru asked, looking up with a smirk. “nothing,” you said quickly, turning back to the sink. “just saying how dedicated you are.” he laughed, the sound low and warm. “you’re bad at lying, you know.”

“and you’re bad at taking a break,” you shot back, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks.

after a few more minutes of typing, geto finally closed his laptop and joined you in the kitchen. “here, let me help,” he offered, rolling up his sleeves further. “you cooked,” he said, taking a plate from your hands. “least i can do is clean up.” you wanted to argue, but the sight of geto, sleeves rolled up, standing beside you at the sink, made your brain short-circuit. “fine,” you mumbled, handing him a dish. “but if you drop one, i’m not forgiving you.”

“noted,” he said with a grin, elbow brushing yours as he worked. as you both washed dishes in companionable silence, you couldn’t help but glance at him every now and then, heart doing a stupid little flutter each time he caught you looking. maybe this dinner wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

geto had never been one to overthink simple things. he prided himself on his ability to stay cool and collected, whether it was during an exam, an internship interview, or wrangling gojo cat after he’d somehow escaped onto a neighbor’s balcony. but here, standing next to you, washing dishes, his heart was doing its best impression of a jazz drummer—completely out of rhythm and far too loud. he tried to focus on the task at hand, scrubbing a plate with the precision of a surgeon, but his brain was too busy short-circuiting over the sheer domesticity of the moment. you, standing next to him, a faint smile on your lips as you passed him a dish. mr. pickles and gojo cat sitting like a mismatched elderly couple in the corner, their rivalry seemingly paused for the evening. this was too much. domesticity was his weakness, and you were unknowingly his kryptonite.

"you know," he started, trying to sound casual, "i’ve been working on my forearms lately. gotta make sure gojo has a sturdy perch when i carry him." your laugh was soft but genuine, and it hit him right in the chest. "oh yeah? is that why you’ve been flexing every chance you get? because i was starting to think you were just trying to flirt." he froze, plate in hand, before turning to look at you with a mock-offended expression. "flirt? me? that’s slander. i’m just a humble man with well-defined forearms doing his civic duty.”

"right," you drawled, rolling your eyes as you handed him another dish. okay, suguru, he thought. focus. this is the perfect moment. ask the question. it’s not that big of a deal. except it was a big deal. because it wasn’t just about asking if you’d like to carpool to college every day. it was about getting more time with you, sharing little moments like this. he cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. "hey, uh…you know how i drive to college every day?" you glanced at him, a little confused. "yeah?"

"and you, uh, also go to college every day?"

"correct," you said slowly, raising an eyebrow.

he could feel his palms starting to sweat despite the soapy water. this was ridiculous. why was he nervous? it was just a question! but somehow, the thought of you saying no made his stomach twist. "so," he continued, trying to keep his tone light, "i was thinking…maybe we could drive together? you know, save on gas, reduce our carbon footprint, that kind of thing." you blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. "you want to carpool with me?"

"yeah," he said quickly, nodding. "i mean, it makes sense, right? we’re both going the same way, and i wouldn’t mind the company. plus, i’ve got this playlist i’ve been dying to share." that wasn’t entirely true. his playlist was a chaotic mix of instrumental lo-fi, 90’s rock and songs gojo cat seemed to enjoy, but he’d happily curate something just for you if it meant hearing you laugh and sing along. 

"you’re serious?" you asked, and he swore he could see a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. "dead serious," he said, putting on his best poker face. "it’s a purely logistical decision, of course. nothing to do with the fact that i think you’re great company or anything." you stared at him for a moment before breaking into a laugh, and he felt his shoulders relax just a little. "okay," you said finally. "sure, let’s carpool." he grinned, feeling an almost embarrassing amount of relief. "awesome. you won’t regret it, i promise." as you turned back to the sink, he couldn’t help but steal a glance at you, his heart still doing its offbeat jazz solo. yeah, this was going to be good. better than good, even.

the last dish was set on the drying rack, and with it came the awkward silence that always followed. you and geto exchanged a glance, both of you clearly trying to decide what came next. do you send him off with a polite "thanks for the help," or do you suggest something casual? ugh, why was this so hard?

"soooo," you started, awkwardly fidgeting with a dishtowel. "uh, do you…want ice cream?" geto blinked at you, his expression pleasantly surprised. "ice cream?"

"yeah, you know, frozen dairy, sugar, flavors," you said, waving your hands vaguely like you were describing some rare delicacy. "do international law students even like convenience store ice cream? or are you more into, like, artisanal stuff churned by monks in the alps?" his laugh was low and warm, the kind of laugh that made you feel like you’d just won something. "as tempting as alps-monks-churned ice cream sounds, i’m fine with rocky road if you’ve got it."

rocky road. he’s perfect, you thought as you rummaged in the freezer, pulling out a pint. mr. pickles, ever the queen, trotted over and sat primly by your feet, tail twitching as if she expected you to serve her a scoop. gojo cat, on the other hand, had found a stray spoon to bat around the kitchen floor like it was his life’s mission. you handed geto a bowl, and he graciously accepted before pulling out his macbook and setting it on the table. "mind if i put something on?"

"as long as it’s not UN debates or a soba recipe tutorial," you teased, leaning over to peer at his screen. to your credit, you weren’t snooping—you were just curious about what kind of stuff an international law student kept on their homepage. but the minute you saw it, you froze. nestled among his neatly arranged bookmarks for email, law journals, and a soba takeout joint, was your spotify profile. your brain went into immediate overdrive. oh dear god. oh no. oh yes. wait, what?

you fought the urge to gasp, to point, to scream into the void. instead, you settled for the most nonchalant reaction you could muster. "huh. your bookmarks are so…organized." but your awkward tone gave you away, and geto, sharp as ever, followed your gaze. when his eyes landed on the offending bookmark, he paused mid-scoop, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. "oh," he said, clearly trying to play it cool. "uh, yeah. that’s—uh, for convenience. you know, for when you share playlists and stuff."

"totally," you replied, nodding far too enthusiastically. "makes sense. who doesn’t bookmark their friends’ spotify profiles?" you were lying through your teeth, and you both knew it. but instead of feeling weirded out, your heart felt like it might actually burst. he bookmarked your spotify. this ridiculously attractive, smart, and funny guy has done something so nerdy and cute, and you think you might die. the silence stretched awkwardly until you couldn’t take it anymore. "so…what’s your favorite playlist of mine?" you asked, trying to keep your tone casual but failing miserably.

geto, to his credit, recovered quickly. "probably the one you called ‘in the clerb, we all cryin’.’ it’s got a lot of questionable choices."

"questionable choices?" you gasped, feigning offense. "excuse me, those are carefully curated emotional masterpieces!"

"right, right," he said, nodding solemnly but with a teasing glint in his eyes. "masterpieces like, what was it? ‘torn’ by natalie imbruglia followed by party rock anthem?"

"that’s called range, geto."

he laughed again, and you swore it was the best sound you’d ever heard. meanwhile, gojo cat had successfully cornered the spoon under the fridge, and mr. pickles let out an indignant meow, clearly unimpressed by the lack of attention directed her way. "anyways," you said, clearing your throat and desperately trying to steer the conversation away from how much your soul had ascended, "what are we watching?" he smirked, clearly enjoying your flustered state. "how about a soba recipe tutorial? you know, for research purposes."

"get out of my house," you deadpanned, throwing a napkin at him. but deep down, you couldn’t stop smiling. maybe you did like geto. just a little. or a lot. who’s counting?

-

the youtube video played on, gordon ramsey passionately dissecting the finer points of why "tiramisu supremacy" should be the law of the land, but you weren’t paying attention anymore. instead, you were hyper-aware of the ridiculously attractive man next to you, lounging on your bed, casually eating rocky road like he wasn’t a complete menace to your sanity. gojo cat had stationed himself at your feet, swiping lazily at a loose thread on your blanket. mr. pickles, in a rare display of domestic harmony, perched regally on a pillow next to geto like she was claiming him as her territory. you could almost hear her smug little cat thoughts: this one? yes, acceptable.

meanwhile, you? you were losing it. somehow—through some strange twist of fate or cosmic joke—your head had ended up resting on geto’s chest. his chest. his sculpted, unfairly perfect chest. you told yourself it was for comfort, or convenience, or whatever excuse your brain could scramble together. oh god, is this okay? what if he thinks i’m weird? or worse, what if he doesn’t care at all?

his arm was just kind of… hovering there, like it didn’t know what to do. his bicep flexed every time he adjusted, and you swore it was on purpose. it’s not on purpose, idiot. calm down. "you good there?" his voice cut through your internal spiral, warm and teasing. you cleared your throat, suddenly self-conscious. "uh, yeah. totally fine. just... comfortable, i guess."

"comfortable, huh?" he echoed, his tone light but his heart doing cartwheels. she’s comfortable. okay. don’t freak out. play it cool. meanwhile, geto was absolutely not playing it cool. this is fine. this is normal. people hang out like this all the time. friends. buddies. totally platonic. on a bed. watching gordon ramsey. with her head on my chest. oh god, i’m dying. his arm was still hovering awkwardly, and it was starting to cramp. should he just—? no. too much. but maybe? before he could overthink it further, you shifted slightly, glancing up at him.

"you can, you know," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. he blinked down at you, dumbfounded. "can what?"

"put your arm around me," you mumbled, cheeks heating up like a furnace. geto’s brain short-circuited. oh god, she said i can. she actually said i can. is this real? am i dreaming? where’s gojo? he needs to see this. wait, no, absolutely not. this is private. oh god, my arm.

"uh, yeah. sure," he finally said, his voice cracking just a little as he tried to sound casual. his arm settled around your shoulders, warm and solid, and you let out a content sigh. meanwhile, internally, he was screaming. this is the best day of his life.

"you’re stiff as hell," you teased, glancing up at him. "sorry, it’s just—i’m not used to—" he fumbled, trailing off. "chill out," you said with a soft laugh, your hand lightly resting on his chest. "it’s just me."

just you. the girl he’d been pining after for weeks. the girl whose spotify profile he’d bookmarked. the girl whose cats he’d willingly co-parented like an idiot in love. he wasn’t even sure how he was still breathing. "yeah," he said softly, his lips quirking into a small smile. "just you."

"hey, are you even watching?" you asked, gesturing at the screen where ramsey was now passionately defending the honor of cannoli. "uh, yeah. totally," he lied, having absolutely no idea what was happening in the video. "oh yeah? then what’s his stance on panna cotta?" you challenged, raising an eyebrow. geto paused for a second, then grinned sheepishly. "panna whatta?" you groaned, laughing despite yourself. "you’re hopeless."

"hopelessly charmed," he muttered under his breath, but thankfully, the loud volume drowned it out. gojo cat let out an exaggerated yawn, curling up at the foot of the bed, while mr. pickles blinked at both of you with what could only be described as approval. and for a brief moment, with you curled up against him, geto thought that maybe, just maybe, domesticity wasn’t so bad after all.

the clock on your bedside table glowed 9:30 pm, the red numbers a cruel reminder that sunday was slipping away. geto shifted slightly, the arm around your shoulders reluctantly moving as if to signal his departure. right. college tomorrow. responsibilities. but neither of you moved. instead, his attempt to lift his arm ended in a poorly executed maneuver that pulled you closer—much closer. suddenly, your face was inches from his, and you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. his breath hitched. oh god. oh no. oh yes. what if he does something stupid? like kiss you? no, bad idea. abort. retreat. pull away. you’ll think he’s weird—

you kissed him first. his brain went blank.

your lips pressed softly against his, a tentative, curious movement that sent every coherent thought in his mind scattering like autumn leaves in the wind. your lip balm—something fruity, maybe peach?—lingered on his lips, blending with the faint taste of rocky road ice cream. his heart stopped, then kickstarted with a force that left him lightheaded. "oh," he murmured against your lips, his voice barely audible. "oh?" you pulled back slightly, a teasing smile quirking your lips. "i — i mean —" he stammered, his cheeks flushing a deep pink. "uh, wow."

"wow?" you laughed softly, your hands sliding up his chest, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt. "shut up," he groaned, but his grin betrayed him as his hands instinctively found your waist, steadying you as you moved to straddle his lap. oh god. oh god. she’s on my lap. this is not a drill. repeat, this is not a drill. "you’re awfully red, suguru," you teased, your tone light, but the way your fingers brushed against his jaw made his pulse race. "yeah, well, you’re—" he cut himself off, his eyes flickering to your lips before meeting your gaze. "you’re unfairly pretty, okay? and i’m trying not to pass out here."

"pretty?" you echoed, feigning innocence as you leaned in closer, your noses brushing. "is that all?" he chuckled, low and breathy. "pretty, gorgeous, unfairly cute. take your pick." before he could spiral into another wave of self-doubt, you kissed him again, and this time, he responded in full. his lips moved against yours, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to savor every second. his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him, his fingers flexing like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. in the background, gordon ramsey’s voice bellowed something about undercooked risotto, but neither of you noticed. this is what dreams are made of, right? he thought. her lips, her taste, the way she’s holding onto me like i’m her favorite person in the world. rocky road and lip balm and… gordon ramsey? okay, ignore that. focus. focus on her.

"you good there, suguru?" you murmured against his lips, your voice laced with amusement. "good?" he echoed, his hands sliding up to cradle your face. "i’m amazing. incredible. best night of my life, no contest."

"you’re such a dork," you laughed, your forehead resting against his. "yeah, well," he said, his smile softening as his thumb brushed along your cheek. "you like this dork."

"i do," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. his heart soared. he tightened his hold on you, his lips ghosting over yours once more as he whispered, "good. because i don’t think i’m letting you go anytime soon." the clock ticked on, but neither of you cared anymore. responsibilities could wait.

-

just as geto’s lips brushed against yours for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, a loud, synchronized cacophony of meows erupted from the corner of the bed. you both froze.

there sat gojo cat and mr. pickles, staring at the two of you with matching expressions of feline judgment. mr. pickles, her fur slightly puffed and her eyes narrowed, let out an indignant mrrrow that sounded suspiciously like "get a room." gojo cat, ever the instigator, joined in with an exaggerated meeeooowwww, his tail flicking dramatically as if to say, "seriously? right in front of us?"

“oh my god,” you mumbled, burying your face in geto’s neck as he chuckled, the sound rumbling against you. “i think we’ve offended the fur babies,” he said, clearly trying not to laugh too loudly as gojo cat began pacing in circles, yowling like a siren. “offended? they sound like they’re trying to declare war,” you muttered, pulling back reluctantly. “maybe they’re just jealous,” geto teased, his dark eyes twinkling as he reached up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. “jealous of what?” you scoffed, glancing at the cats. mr. pickles was still bristling like a wronged queen, while gojo cat was now attempting to paw at the edge of the bed for dramatic emphasis.

“of this.” geto smirked, leaning in like he was about to steal another kiss, but mr. pickles let out a sharp hiss, cutting him off. “okay, okay, time out!” you said, waving your hands in surrender. with a sigh, geto released you, though his hand lingered on your waist for a moment longer. “guess that’s our cue.” you followed him to the door, the cats trailing behind like disapproving chaperones. gojo cat let out one last, drawn-out meow as if to say "good riddance," while mr. pickles sat primly by the door, glaring up at geto with all the disdain she could muster. “she’s really protective of you, huh?” geto said, slipping his shoes on. “always has been,” you replied, your hand resting on the doorknob. “probably doesn’t help that you keep bribing her with treats.”

“bribing?” he repeated, feigning offense. “that’s called building trust.”

“sure it is, mr. international law,” you teased, leaning against the doorframe.

he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “speaking of trust, uh… i’ll pick you up tomorrow? for class?” you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “trying to make this a habit now?”

“well,” he said, his cheeks pinking slightly, “i figured i’d bring you another one of those fancy croissants. and, you know, maybe see you smile first thing in the morning again.” your chest tightened at his words, warmth spreading through you. “smooth, geto.”

“is that a yes?” he asked, his voice softer now, his gaze locked on yours. “yeah,” you said, your lips curving into a smile. before he could step out, he leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a quick but lingering kiss that made your heart race. when he pulled back, his smile was uncharacteristically shy.

“goodnight,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“goodnight,” you replied, watching as he walked away, his hands stuffed into his pockets but his stride noticeably lighter.

as you closed the door, you turned to find mr. pickles sitting side by side, staring up at you with unreadable expressions. “don’t look at me like that,” you said, pointing at her. “you’re the ones who ruined the moment.” mr. pickles let out a chirpy meep , as if to say "i’m just doing my job," before padding back to her nesting area with an air of smug satisfaction. you shook your head, unable to stop the grin spreading across your face. whatever this thing with suguru was, you didn’t want it to end. not now, not ever.

chapter 5: justin bieber and other forms of groveling

you swung the door open, expecting to find a text from geto telling you to come downstairs like a normal person. instead, you were met with him. suguru geto, standing at your doorstep, looking like he’d just stepped out of a gq photoshoot. “morning!” he greeted cheerfully, his voice as smooth as his suit. yes, a suit. a dark, perfectly tailored one that hugged his broad shoulders and slim waist just right, paired with a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the top, exposing just a hint of his collarbone. the whole look was topped off with a skinny black tie and shiny leather oxfords that somehow made you question if you were even allowed to walk next to him. and don’t even get started on his hair—pulled back into a low bun, with a few loose strands framing his stupidly perfect face. “why—why are you here?” you stammered, gripping the doorframe for support because, honestly, this man might be a health hazard. “thought i’d save you the trip downstairs,” he said casually, though his lips curled into a smirk like he knew exactly what he was doing. “besides, i wanted to see you earlier.” great. now your heart was doing this weird fluttery thing, and you hated it. “you know you could’ve just texted me, right? like a normal person?”

“where’s the fun in that?” he quipped, his voice tinged with amusement.

ugh. 

the first thing that hit you when you slid into his car—a sleek black bmw z4 convertible with the top down—was the overwhelming scent of car cleaner mixed with him. “did you—did you just get this cleaned?” you asked, wrinkling your nose at the smell. “maybe,” he replied, a little too quickly. you glanced at the dashboard, which was spotless and gleaming. the leather seats looked freshly polished, and there wasn’t a single crumb or speck of dust in sight. well, except for the faint trace of orange fur on the passenger seat. “you missed a spot,” you teased, pointing at the fur. “gojo,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “aw, don’t be mad at him,” you said, grinning. “he’s just marking his territory.”

“yeah, well, he’s not paying for this car, is he?” suguru shot back, though the corners of his lips twitched upward. the car smelled like money, honestly. the leather had that rich, almost intimidating scent, and the steering wheel looked like it had been handcrafted by someone with a phd in luxury interiors. but somehow, there was this comforting undertone of suguru’s cologne—spicy, woodsy, and ridiculously distracting. you tried to act normal, like you weren’t suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were to him in this car that felt way too intimate for a ride to campus. “so, what’s the occasion?” you asked, nodding toward his suit as he pulled out onto the main road. “internship meeting after class,” he explained, keeping his eyes on the road. “wanted to make a good impression.”

“yeah, well, mission accomplished,” you mumbled, more to yourself than him, but he still heard. “what was that?” he asked, glancing at you with a playful smirk. “nothing,” you said quickly, your cheeks heating. as he drove, you found yourself sneaking glances at his hands on the wheel. his sleeves were rolled up just enough to expose his forearms, which looked unfairly muscular for a guy who claimed to “barely have time for the gym.” the veins running up his arms were just… there, taunting you.

“you’ve been working out, huh?” you blurted, unable to stop yourself. he chuckled, a low, warm sound that made your stomach flip. “noticed, huh?”

“kind of hard not to when your biceps are trying to break out of that shirt,” you retorted, trying to sound nonchalant. “oh, this?” he said, flexing his forearm slightly as he adjusted the gearshift, clearly showing off. “ugh, stop,” you groaned, covering your face with your hands. “you’re so annoying.”

“and yet here you are,” he teased, shooting you a quick grin before turning his attention back to the road. as you sat there, half-annoyed and half-smitten, you couldn’t help but think that this man was going to be the death of you.

-

the two of you sat in the car outside your campus building for a moment longer than necessary. the engine was off, but the atmosphere buzzed with something heavy, something neither of you dared to name yet. geto had one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, but you weren’t fooled. his jaw was tense, and his thumb tapped nervously against the leather, a small tell that you’d come to recognize. he didn’t want this ride to end. neither did you, if you were being honest. “so,” you started, your voice almost shy. “thanks for the ride.” he glanced over at you, his dark eyes soft but smoldering all at once. “yeah,” he said, his voice low, “anytime.” and just when you thought he’d let you leave, he moved.

his hand—large, warm, and calloused just enough to send a thrill through you—slipped behind your neck, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sent goosebumps racing down your arms. the touch was firm but gentle, commanding but tender.

“come here,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

you didn’t even have time to process before he pulled you in, his lips crashing against yours with a fervor that left you breathless. this wasn’t just a goodbye kiss; no, this was something deeper, something that spoke of longing and frustration and a thousand unsaid things. his lips were soft but insistent, moving against yours like he was trying to memorize the feel of you, like he didn’t care that the windows weren’t tinted enough for the scene unfolding inside. his tongue swept against your lower lip, asking, no, demanding entrance, and you couldn’t deny him. the taste of him—coffee from earlier, a hint of mint, and something uniquely suguru—was enough to make your head spin. your hand instinctively came up to his chest, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt as if to steady yourself. but instead of pulling away, he deepened the kiss, tilting his head to get a better angle, and you thought you might actually lose all sense of reality.

when he finally pulled back, it wasn’t abrupt. no, he lingered, his lips brushing against yours one last time, as if reluctant to let go. his breathing was heavy, his cheeks slightly flushed, and when you looked up at him, you saw the faint sheen of your lip gloss smeared on his mouth. his lips—pink, swollen, and thoroughly kissed—were enough to make your brain short-circuit.

“you’ve got—” you gestured vaguely to his mouth, your voice shaky. he raised an eyebrow, smirking in that infuriatingly confident way. “lip gloss?” he guessed, his thumb brushing over his bottom lip like he was testing the feel of it. “yeah,” you mumbled, feeling your own cheeks heat up. “good,” he said simply, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “i’ll keep it.” you wanted to scream, cry, and maybe kiss him again all at once. instead, you just sat there, dazed, as he leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“guess i should let you go now,” he said, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t entirely thrilled about the idea. “yeah,” you managed to say, though your legs felt like jelly just thinking about walking into that building. as you stepped out of the car, the smell of car cleaner and his cologne still lingering around you, you could feel the weight of people’s stares. it wasn’t like fancy cars were a rare sight, but you stepping out of that car, looking thoroughly flustered and kissed? yeah, that was something. you glanced back at him one last time before closing the door. he gave you a small wave, the smirk still firmly in place. “i’ll pick you up later,” he called out, and you swore you heard the faintest hint of smugness in his voice. “yeah, okay,” you replied, trying to sound normal even though your entire body felt like it was on fire. as you walked toward the building, your mind raced with one singular thought: suguru geto was going to be the end of you. and honestly? you were okay with that.

-

as geto shifted gears and eased into a parking spot, he let out a long breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. "oh, suguru, what a smooth operator you are," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his already-perfect hair. but as his fingers grazed his lips, he froze. oh no.

your lip gloss—that faint pink menace—was still there. he squinted into the rearview mirror, tilting his face left and right like he was analyzing evidence at a crime scene. yup, definitely there. and definitely noticeable.

“cool. love that for me,” he said under his breath, grabbing a tissue from the glove compartment. he dabbed at his lips gently, trying to erase the sheen. but no matter how much he rubbed, it refused to disappear completely. a faint tint lingered, stubborn and utterly humiliating. not that he minded, of course. secretly, he was fighting the urge to giggle like a high schooler who just got his crush’s number. she kissed me, he thought, his inner monologue doing cartwheels. and now her lip gloss is on me. does this count as shared property? do i need to buy her a ring now? he glanced at the building where you’d disappeared moments ago. a soft smile tugged at his lips, but then he caught his own reflection again, and the smile turned into a scowl.

“focus, suguru. you’re an international law student, not a lovesick teen,” he muttered, trying to psych himself up. but then, completely unbidden, the lyrics hit him: shawty’s like a melody in my head that i can’t keep out—

“oh my god, no,” he groaned, dropping his forehead against the steering wheel. “pull it together.” he sat up straight, fixing his tie like he was about to walk into court, not class. still, his thoughts wandered back to the kiss. he could still feel the warmth of your lips on his, the way you tasted faintly of coffee and lip gloss. “yeah, okay, maybe i’m a little lovesick,” he admitted to no one, sighing dramatically. a loud honk snapped him out of his reverie, and he jerked upright, eyes darting around. some guy in a beat-up sedan gave him a look as if to say, get moving, pretty boy.

“right, right, focus,” geto muttered, putting the car into park. but the distraction had already done its damage. in his daydream, he’d nearly considered driving through the building instead of parking near it. and not for the first time. last semester, there’d been that unfortunate incident where he’d been too engrossed in memorizing legal jargon to realize he was barreling toward the curb. it wasn’t his finest moment, but hey, everyone made mistakes. this time, though, it wasn’t legal jargon messing with his head. it was you.

after ensuring his car was perfectly parked (and double-checking for rogue curbs), he checked his reflection one last time. hair? immaculate. tie? sharp. lips? …still faintly pink. he sighed, leaning back in his seat. "well, if anyone asks, it’s my new look," he muttered, smirking to himself. but deep down, he wasn’t bothered. in fact, the idea of walking into his building, pink lip gloss and all, knowing it was from you? yeah, he could live with that.

-

you glance at your phone for what feels like the millionth time, the lock screen mocking you with its time: 6:45 p.m. every minute that ticks by feels like an eternity. where the hell was geto? the man who swore on rocky road ice cream and cats that he’d pick you up after class. “ugh, liar,” you grumble under your breath, clutching your phone tighter. you dial his number again, half-hoping, half-dreading, that he’d pick up. the line rings once, twice, and then straight to voicemail. “figures.”

the campus courtyard is thinning out now, with most students heading home or to their dorms. you, however, are still standing at the edge of the parking lot, looking like the poster child for loser-core chic. a group of girls you vaguely recognize from your department walk by, their giggles low and conspiratorial as they glance in your direction. one of them nudges her friend and whispers loudly, “see? i told you. you can’t trust law guys. they’re always playing games.” you stiffen, feeling your cheeks heat. okay, rude. but also…they might have a point?

“poor girl,” another one says, her voice dripping with pity. “she probably thought she was special.” your jaw tightens as you resist the urge to shout back, no, actually, he’s probably just late! maybe traffic, or… or… you groan inwardly. even you don’t buy your excuses anymore. just as you’re debating whether to crawl under a bush and live there forever, your deskmate, nanami kento, approaches. ever the epitome of politeness, he clears his throat softly before speaking. “hey,” he begins, adjusting the strap of his leather satchel. “are you, uh, waiting for someone?”

you force a smile, trying to appear less like a rejected rom-com protagonist. “yeah, uh… my ride’s just running a little late.” nanami’s brow furrows slightly, and he glances at his watch. “it’s been over thirty minutes.”

ouch. okay, way to rub salt in the wound, kento.

he sighs, looking almost…sympathetic? “i could drop you off if you’d like. it’s on my way.”

normally, any sane, self-respecting woman would jump at the chance to be chauffeured home by nanami kento—a man so punctual and reliable, he’s basically a walking swiss watch. but alas, you are neither self-respecting nor particularly sane at this moment. “thanks, nanami, but i’m good,” you say, waving him off with a grin that’s probably more pained than reassuring. he nods slowly, clearly unconvinced but too polite to argue. “alright. take care, then.” as he walks away, you let out a long sigh, your earlier bravado crumbling. “ugh, geto, you’re so dead,” you mutter under your breath, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. by now, the campus is nearly deserted, and the idea of taking the bus home looms over you like a dark cloud. with a resigned sigh, you check the bus schedule on your phone. the next one isn’t due for another 15 minutes. just perfect.

the bus ride home is as glamorous as you’d expect—fluorescent lights that make everyone look vaguely ill, the faint smell of stale chips and rubber, and the occasional bump that sends you jerking forward. you plop into an empty seat, your bag clutched tightly on your lap. a group of teenagers in the back snicker about something, and the guy across from you is humming off-key to whatever’s blasting through his headphones. yeah, this is way better than being driven home in a bmw z4, you think bitterly, rolling your eyes.

the faint scent of orange fur clings to your bag, and you wonder if it’s from gojo cat sneaking into geto’s car this morning. the thought makes you irrationally mad all over again. i bet the car is fine. he probably just forgot or something stupid like that. you lean your head against the window, watching the city lights blur past. the rhythmic hum of the bus is oddly calming, but your thoughts are anything but. what if he’s hurt? a small, worried voice pipes up in the back of your mind. but you squash it quickly. no, he’s just being an idiot.

-

geto is convinced this is how he dies—not by some massive legal scandal or a tragic car accident, but by sheer embarrassment. the moment the clock hit 6:00 p.m., he knew he was doomed. when the hands of time ticked past 6:45, panic set in. it’s fine, he had told himself, gripping his steering wheel with white-knuckled determination. she probably hasn’t even noticed yet. but she had noticed. oh god, had she noticed. every missed call and unread text was like a dagger to his heart. he could practically feel your disappointment vibrating through his phone. the sheer audacity of his internship, requiring him to sit through endless discussions about treaties and bylaws while you were out there—waiting for him like some rom-com protagonist.

and what does he find when he finally arrives at campus? absolutely nothing. a deserted lot, the soft hum of crickets, and not a single trace of you. he rubs a hand over his face, groaning as he slams his car door shut. great, suguru. really great. not only do you make law students look unreliable, but you’ve also officially cemented yourself as a clown in front of the only person who matters.

so, he does the only thing a desperate man can do: breaks every traffic law ever invented, zipping through yellow lights and cutting corners like it’s his goddamn personal mission to get to the apartment before you disappear entirely. “please don’t hate me,” he mutters under his breath as his bmw roars down the street. “i’ll get on my knees if i have to. maybe not in public, but like…if it comes to that.”

meanwhile, you’re trudging through the dimly lit hallway of your apartment complex, the bus ride home having sucked every last ounce of life out of you. your feet ache, your bag feels heavier than ever, and your faith in men has plummeted to new depths. he didn’t even call back. the audacity, you think bitterly, fumbling for your keys. wasn’t i just defending international law men this morning? god, i’m so stupid.

you’re too busy cursing geto to notice the looming figure leaning casually against the wall by the elevator—sukuna. he smells like croissants and cigarettes, an objectively weird combination that somehow works when it’s him. his uniform—a black button-down rolled up to the elbows and an apron slung lazily over one shoulder—is dusted with flour. “yo,” he greets, his voice low and gravelly as always. you freeze mid-step, praying you don’t look like a drowned rat after that miserable commute. “uh, hey.”

“late night?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow as he takes in your obvious exhaustion. “something like that,” you mumble, trying not to sound as annoyed as you feel. sukuna’s sharp eyes flick to your bag. “bus, huh? thought you were too fancy for public transport these days. what happened to prince charming?” oh great. just what i needed, you think, rolling your eyes internally. “prince charming is currently on my list,” you snap, more to yourself than him. “yikes.” sukuna lets out a low chuckle, his smirk infuriatingly smug. “guess mr. perfect isn’t as perfect as you thought.”

“okay, first of all,” you shoot back, “i’m not having this conversation with you. second, why do you even care?” he shrugs, clearly unbothered. “i don’t. just funny to see you slumming it with the rest of us peasants.” before you can muster a witty retort, the sound of rapid footsteps echoes down the hallway. you both turn just in time to see geto rushing in, his tie slightly askew and his expression one of pure panic.

“there you are,” he blurts, skidding to a stop in front of you. his eyes dart between you and sukuna, his brows furrowing slightly. “oh, now you show up,” you say, crossing your arms. “did you have fun ghosting me for two hours?”

“wait, i can explain—”

“can’t wait to hear this,” sukuna mutters under his breath, earning a glare from you.

geto runs a hand through his hair, his words spilling out in a rush. “i got stuck at my internship, and they don’t let us use our phones— stupid rule, i know—but i swear i tried to get to you as fast as i could. i even broke, like, five traffic laws. maybe six.” you narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “and that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“no! i mean, yes! i mean…” he groans, clearly flustered. “look, i’m sorry. really. i’ll do anything to make it up to you. please don’t be mad.” sukuna snickers, leaning back against the wall. “wow. anything, huh? bold move, law boy.”

“can you not?” you snap at sukuna before turning back to geto. “fine. you can start by explaining why my calls didn’t matter enough for you to pick up.”

“they did matter!” geto insists, his voice rising slightly. “i swear, if i could’ve answered, i would’ve.” sukuna snorts, muttering, “sounds like excuses to me.”

“dude, seriously?” geto snaps, finally losing his patience. “guys, enough!” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “i’m too tired for this. suguru, if you’re really sorry, you can start by leaving me alone for the rest of the night.”

geto’s face falls, but he nods reluctantly. “okay. yeah. i’ll go.” as he turns to leave, sukuna shoots you a smug grin. “guess prince charming isn’t so charming after all.” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

-

you’re sprawled out on your couch in the most dramatic fashion imaginable, mr. pickles perched on your chest like some kind of feline overlord. her tail swishes back and forth, slapping your face occasionally as if she’s judging you for your life choices. can’t even secure a law student, her gaze seems to say. and honestly? fair. lanas haunting voice croons “the other woman” from your speaker, because of course your brain thought this was the perfect soundtrack to your misery. who is the other woman, his degree? you wonder, staring blankly at the ceiling while mr. pickles kneads your collarbone with zero regard for your comfort. maybe it’s the un charter. maybe she’s prettier than me. you groan, picking up your phone to scroll aimlessly, only to see it light up with a string of notifications. it’s geto.

geto: hey. geto: i’m so sorry, seriously. geto: please don’t hate me. geto: gojo cat is crying.

and there it is, a picture of gojo cat edited with comically large tears streaming down his face. you snort despite yourself.

geto: i can explain. geto: the internship is evil. geto: satan himself probably drafted those treaties. geto: and i had to read them all. geto: sorry :((((

you roll your eyes but feel your lips twitch. the messages keep coming.

geto: look, i even made a playlist called “my apologies” to make it up to you. geto: song 1: sorry by justin bieber. geto: song 2: call me maybe by carly rae jespen. geto: song 3: i’m a fool by cee lo green.

you’re this close to laughing when another message pops up.

geto: please forgive me, i’ll do anything. geto: i’ll even let mr. pickles sit in the bmw.

now you’re grinning. typing back, you send:

you: door’s unlocked.

the next sound you hear is heavy footsteps thundering down the hallway above. you blink. “he’s running,” you mutter, barely containing your laughter. within seconds, there’s a knock at your door, and when you yell for him to come in, the door swings open to reveal a completely disheveled geto. his hair’s a mess, his suit jacket is halfway off his shoulder, and he’s panting like he just ran a marathon. “you’re serious about leaving your door unlocked?” he breathes out, a hand on the doorframe for balance. “why are you out of breath?” you ask, trying not to laugh. “you live one floor up.”

“sprinted,” he replies, straightening up. “priorities.”

mr. pickles hops off your chest with a disgruntled meow, sauntering over to sniff him. she gives a little approving chirp before settling down by his feet. “even mr. pickles forgave me,” he says, grinning like an idiot. “so, am i forgiven?” you lean back into the couch, trying to look unimpressed. “you sent me a justin bieber song.”

“a classic apology move,” he counters, stepping closer. “and gojo cat cried. that’s how sorry i am.” you roll your eyes but hold out your hand. “fine. you’re forgiven.” he takes your hand, pulling you up from the couch into his arms without hesitation. “good. because i’m never missing another ride again. next time, i’m picking you up in advance, like a whole hour early.” you snort. “you’d probably park outside my window and text me to hurry up.”

“absolutely,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “i’ll even bring coffee. and croissants.” mr. pickles lets out a loud, approving chirp. ah, love.

-

it did feel a little ridiculous, the way you were sprawled on top of geto on your couch, both of you tangled together in a heap of limbs. but neither of you seemed to care. he had one arm slung around your waist, keeping you steady, while his free hand lazily traced circles on your thigh. you were lying chest to chest, close enough to feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek. "you know," he said, voice slightly muffled as he buried his face in your hair, "if i ever screw up like that again, i’m giving mr. pickles full authority to end me. claws out, no mercy." you lifted your head to meet his gaze, one eyebrow raised. "oh, she’d do it too. and with that belly of hers, she’s got some extra power now."

as if on cue, mr. pickles let out a loud, approving purr from her spot at the other end of the room, delicately grooming her very pregnant self. her tail flicked in what you could only assume was satisfaction at being included in this hypothetical revenge plot. geto chuckled, his hands tightening slightly on your waist. "there you have it. mr. pickles as judge, jury, and executioner. i’m officially terrified." you smiled, tracing the line of his jaw with your finger. "as you should be. she takes no prisoners."

“and neither do i,” he murmured, his tone dipping as he tilted his head up to kiss you. the shift in mood was sudden but not unwelcome. his lips pressed against yours with the kind of determination that made you forget how to breathe for a second. his hands slid to your hips, holding you in place as he leaned back against the cushions, taking you with him. "you’re really trying to prove a point, huh?" you teased, breath hitching as his grip tightened. "i don’t think words are enough," he said between kisses, his voice low and smooth. "actions speak louder, right?" and speak they did. his hands wandered lower, firmly grabbing the soft curve of your ass, earning a surprised squeak from you. "suguru," you warned half-heartedly, though your hips involuntarily shifted against him. he grinned up at you, the picture of smug satisfaction. "what? i don’t hear you complaining."

“yet,” you shot back, but your body betrayed you, rolling your hips again as heat pooled in your stomach. "thought so," he said, voice dipping into a near growl. his hands guided your movements, holding you steady as he kissed you again, deeper this time. it wasn’t just apologetic; it was hungry, desperate, and laced with a promise to make up for every missed second. mr. pickles, ever the unbothered queen, yawned loudly from her perch. apparently, the impending chaos was none of her business. 

things were absolutely peachy—literally and figuratively—because there you were, straddling geto on your worn-out couch like it was the most natural thing in the world. his tie had been discarded somewhere (you’ll probably find it wedged under the couch cushions next month), and his usually crisp shirt was wrinkled beyond salvation.  his hands, warm and firm, roamed over your thighs and hips, eventually settling on your ass, which he seemed determined to commit to memory with the way he kept squeezing. it was flattering, really. all those squats and lugging around mr. pickles’ oversized carrier had not gone unnoticed.

“you’re really into this, huh?” you teased between kisses, nipping at his bottom lip just to feel the soft hitch in his breath. he grinned against your lips, shameless and unrepentant. “what can i say? i’m a man of taste.” his hands squeezed again, making you jolt slightly. “and damn, this is a masterpiece.”

“oh my god, suguru,” you groaned, half-laughing, half-mortified. “you sound like a bad rom-com character.” he tilted his head back, letting out a deep, rumbling laugh that made your stomach flip. “hey, i call it like i see it. can’t help it if i’m honest.”

“yeah, well, your honesty’s about to get you kicked off this couch,” you shot back, though your hands betrayed you, sliding up his chest to cup his face. “oh, c’mon,” he said, leaning up to kiss you again, softer this time, like he was trying to remind you exactly why you hadn’t kicked him out yet. “you’d miss me too much.” and then, because suguru geto couldn’t let a moment of peace exist, he smirked and said, “besides, you’re the grandma of the house. gotta respect my elders.” you froze, pulling back just enough to stare at him with a look that could melt steel. “excuse me?”

“grandma,” he repeated, entirely too pleased with himself. “you know, since you’re mr. pickles’ mom and all. technically makes you—”

“i swear to god, suguru,” you interrupted, cutting him off with a sharp pinch to his side that made him yelp. “do you have a death wish?”

“what? it’s a term of endearment!” he tried, though his laughter betrayed him. “you’re lucky i like nerds,” you muttered, but your lips betrayed you, curving into a reluctant smile as you leaned down to kiss him again. “lucky indeed,” he murmured, hands finding their favorite spot once more. mr. pickles, meanwhile, let out a loud, judgmental meow from her perch, as if to remind both of you who really ran this house.

and geto? geto was panicking. like, full-blown, internal monologue of doom panicking. sure, he looked calm on the outside—well, except for the faint pink creeping up his neck and the way his hands were starting to tremble just a bit against your hips. but inside? oh, it was a mess.

he loves ass. he loves your ass. in fact, he loves you. and while those three facts should be enough to keep him focused and confident, they were doing the exact opposite. because—plot twist—he hasn’t exactly been in the game for a while. “okay, breathe, suguru,” he muttered to himself under his breath, trying to keep his cool as your hands idly played with the collar of his shirt. but your superwoman instincts picked up on everything , and your raised brow as you looked down at him only made things worse. “you good?” you asked, voice soft and teasing, but laced with genuine concern. “yeah, totally,” he replied too quickly, clearing his throat like that would erase the way his voice cracked. “i’m just—uh. just, you know... thinking.” you tilted your head, watching him with that infuriatingly cute little smile that made his stomach flip. “about what? you’re usually a lot smoother than this, geto.”

“oh god, i’m blowing it,” he groaned, letting his head thump lightly against the back of the couch as he finally let the words tumble out. “it’s just... it’s been a while, okay? i’m out of practice or whatever, and now i’m worried i’m gonna, like, disappoint you or something. and that grandma joke? yeah, that was supposed to kill the mood so i could avoid all of this.” you blinked at him, caught between laughter and disbelief. “are you serious right now?”

“painfully.” he sighed, running a hand through his hair, his other hand still planted on your hip. “you’re amazing, and i just... i don’t want to mess this up.” for a moment, you just stared at him, and he could feel himself shrinking under your gaze. but then, the smile that spread across your face was nothing short of wicked. “oh, suguru,” you murmured, leaning down so your lips brushed against his ear. “you have no idea what’s coming, do you?” his breath hitched as your hand slid down to the buttons of his shirt, popping one open with a practiced ease that made his heart skip a beat. “w-what do you mean?”

“i mean,” you said, voice dropping to a low, sultry tone that sent shivers down his spine, “i’m about to make sure you never, ever doubt yourself again. you’re gonna be too busy thanking me to think about whether or not you’re ‘out of practice.’”

he swallowed hard, trying to think of a coherent response, but all that came out was a strangled, “uh — okay.”

“good,” you said simply, shifting your weight and sliding down his lap. and as he looked down at you, wide-eyed and completely at your mercy, one thing became crystal clear to suguru geto: he was absolutely, 100%, in over his head.

-

diva down? diva down. the diva in question being you.  you, the self-proclaimed diva of the century, were currently on your knees, ready to turn suguru geto’s jittery, bashful energy into something far more relaxed—well, if relaxed meant completely wrecked. and honestly? you were thriving. “oh god,” geto let out a breathless laugh, raking a hand through his loose hair as he looked down at you, his cheeks pink and his eyes hazy with anticipation. “you don’t have to—”

“stop,” you cut him off with a teasing smirk, fingers already working on his belt with the precision of someone on a mission. “don’t ruin my moment, suguru.” he laughed again, that soft, breathless kind that made your stomach do flips. “right, wouldn’t dream of it.” as you slid his belt free and popped open the button of his slacks, you couldn’t help but notice how his chest rose and fell just a bit faster, the faintest hint of nerves lingering in his gaze. “you good up there?” you asked, giving him a little grin. “y-yeah,” he stammered, licking his lips. “just... uhh, taking it all in.”

“oh, you’re gonna be taking a lot more than that in a second,” you teased, tugging at his slacks. he groaned, tipping his head back against the couch as he laughed again, but he still lifted his hips eagerly to help you slide the fabric down. and holy shit.  those slacks had been doing a lot of heavy lifting, and now, with them out of the way, you were faced with undeniable proof that suguru geto was not just hot, but also packing. “damn,” you muttered, your eyes widening just a bit as you took him in. “what?” he asked, his voice tinged with nervousness, but also curiosity. “nothing,” you said quickly, though your smirk betrayed you. “just... wow.”

“wow?” he echoed, his brows lifting.

“wow,” you confirmed, leaning in closer. “you’re full of surprises, huh?”

he chuckled softly, his hand coming down to rest gently on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a way that was almost too sweet for the situation. “i could say the same about you,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “oh, suguru,” you said with a teasing lilt, your hands bracing against his thighs as you leaned in, letting your breath ghost over him. “you have no idea.” and as you finally got to work, suguru let out a sound that was half laugh, half moan, his head tipping back as his hand slid into your hair. yeah, it was definitely going to be a long night—for both of you. and honestly?

bless men raised by their mothers. or at least men who respect women beyond a surface level, because suguru geto? he was proving himself to be a certified sweetheart even with his brain turned to mush. "god, you're...you're so good at this," he babbled, voice pitched just enough to send a shiver down your spine. "like—ohhh, fuck—you’re perfect. seriously, i don’t know how—fuck—you’re even real."

you couldn’t help but smirk around him, though the sheer earnestness in his tone was making your head spin. suguru wasn’t just moaning—no, he was giving you a running commentary like his life depended on it. and honestly? the mix of his praise, his ridiculous vocabulary, and the raw honesty of his reactions were doing more for you than you cared to admit. "shiiit, babe," he groaned, his hand tightening in your hair as his hips shifted just slightly, like he was trying to hold himself back. "you’re incredible. so... so fucking—god, you’re beautiful." you hummed against him, letting the vibrations travel through him, and the broken moan he let out in response was almost enough to make you moan.“i—fuck,” he stammered, his free hand clenching and unclenching on the couch cushion as though he was trying to ground himself. “i can’t even—fuck, you’re amazing. you know that, right? like, amazing.” 

it was ridiculous, really. this level of detailed, horny babbling shouldn’t be hot, and yet, suguru’s desperate, unfiltered honesty was doing a number on you. you’d kiss him if your mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied. “you’re gonna—oh fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, his words punctuated by a low, shaky laugh. “like, actually. no coming back from this. you’re—shit—so perfect, babe. i don’t even know how you’re real.” you glanced up at him briefly, catching the flush on his cheeks and the dazed, almost reverent look in his eyes. he looked wrecked already, and you weren’t even close to finished. yeah, men raised right were a blessing. and suguru geto? he was living proof.

suguru was going to cry. or die. or both. maybe at the same time. because when a simple, god-loving, god-fearing man like him thought of you—his girl, his love—his mind didn’t stop at the surface. no, it wandered far, far into the future. he dared to dream big: marriage, a nice house with you, gojo cat and mr. pickles running the place with their eventual brood of kittens, and maybe, if he let himself get really carried away, a kid or two of your own. but this? this was not in the script. not the way he imagined this happening, not this soon. was he complaining, though? no, not one bit. still, suguru couldn’t shake the way his brain was short-circuiting. what if you thought this was weird? not the moment itself—because, holy shit, this moment was unreal—but the way he couldn’t control the ridiculous rambling bubbling out of him.

“god, you’re... you’re gonna be the death of me,” he stammered, his voice breaking slightly as his hand tightened on the couch cushion beneath him. “seriously. i’m done for. you’ve—fuck—you’ve got me wrapped around your finger. literally, figuratively... h-hell, every way there is.” he let out a shaky laugh, his other hand brushing the edge of your jaw, his touch featherlight like he was afraid he’d break you—or worse, wake up and find out this was all a dream. “you have no idea, do you?” he murmured, his tone softening even as his breaths came uneven. “how much i—fuck, how much i love you.”

that admission was supposed to stay locked in his chest, hidden away alongside the future house and the diary full of thoughts he would probably never admit aloud. but there it was, laid bare in the open. his throat tightened as he watched for your reaction, his heart pounding in his chest like it was trying to break free. his mind raced with every possibility—what if you thought he was moving too fast? what if this ruined everything?

you were going to die. or cry. or both. maybe not in that order, but the emotional whiplash was real. because while you were—let's face it—giving the performance of your life, suguru geto had the audacity to play the wildest card in his hand: he told you he loved you. the words hit you like a sucker punch, making your brain screech to a halt. you paused, pulling him out of your mouth with a slick, obscene pop, a strand of spit still connecting the two of you as you gaped at him like he’d just told you the earth was flat. “wait, what?” your voice was hoarse, a little breathless, and full of disbelief. your hands remained steady on his thighs, but you weren’t about to let that slide. “say that again.”

suguru blinked at you, his flushed face half-covered by the messy curtain of his hair. and yet, somehow, he still looked every bit the breathtaking dork you fell for. “i... i said i love you,” he mumbled, his voice soft, but you could see the telltale signs of his nerves in the way his hands fidgeted at his sides. oh, you knew you won now. your lips curved into a sly, wicked grin, your heart pounding in your chest for reasons that had nothing to do with what you were doing moments ago. “good,” you said simply, your voice low and teasing, before brushing your thumb over his hip bone in a way that made him shiver. “because i love you too, suguru.” the way his eyes widened, his chest hitching in disbelief, was almost enough to undo you completely. but you weren’t done. oh no, not by a long shot.

you leaned in again, doubling down on your efforts with a newfound determination, your mouth warm and eager as you took him back in. this time, you didn’t hold back, letting him feel just how much you meant those words. the soft noises tumbling out of him turned into broken, desperate moans as you let him slide deeper, letting him bump against the back of your throat with a confidence that made his hips jerk. “holy—fucck, baby, ” he gasped, his voice trembling as his hands instinctively tangled in your hair. “you’re—oh my god—i can’t—”

and just like that, he was gone. the way his body tensed, his hand gripping the back of the couch like a lifeline, was all the warning you got before he tipped over the edge, his release hitting you with an intensity that left him trembling beneath you. you pulled back slightly, swallowing and smirking as he looked down at you with dazed, love-struck eyes, his chest heaving. “you okay there, lover boy?” you teased, wiping your lips with the back of your hand as you crawled up to straddle him. he groaned, dragging his hands over his flushed face, but even through his embarrassment, you could see the adoration shining in his gaze. “you’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, but the small, lovesick smile on his lips said he wouldn’t have it any other way.

somewhere in the tangled chaos of his mind, suguru was thinking about reciprocity in customary international law—something about how states are expected to treat each other in kind. why this popped into his head as he helped you up from your knees, he had no idea. maybe his brain was short-circuiting from everything that had just transpired. or maybe it was just his nerdy coping mechanism for the sheer intensity of what was about to go down. either way, he shelved the thought because all he knew—clearly, distinctly, and beyond a shadow of a doubt—was that you needed help. erm, his girl needed help. and suguru geto? he was nothing if not a gentleman. “alright, up you go,” he said, his voice warm and teasing as he hooked an arm around you, effortlessly lifting you.

before you could even fully process what was happening, he threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, carrying you to the bed. “oh my god, suguru!” you squealed, smacking his back, but there was no real heat behind it. " shh, this is for your benefit,” he said, laughing softly as he adjusted his grip. and with a surprising amount of precision for a man who had just been thoroughly flustered minutes earlier, he tossed you onto the bed. somehow, miraculously, you landed gracefully—no awkward angles or unflattering positions. before you could catch your breath, suguru was already yanking down your pajama shorts, his movements sure and deliberate. his hair, still a little messy from your earlier efforts, framed his face as he looked down at you, his dark eyes filled with a mix of affection and hunger. you smirked, propping yourself up on your elbows. “you know, if you’re really feeling sorry, there’s one thing you could do.” his brows raised, intrigued. “oh? what’s that?”

“sit down,” you said casually, leaning back against the pillows. “because i’m sitting on your face.” suguru froze for half a second, and you could swear you saw his soul leave his body. but then he let out a low, almost reverent laugh, his hands already sliding up your thighs as he knelt onto the bed. “you’re killing me,” he muttered, his lips curving into a grin that was equal parts adoring and wicked. “but if you insist…” and as he settled himself beneath you, looking up at you with pure devotion, he thought to himself—if he had a ring right now, he’d propose without a second thought.

sit on his face? seriously? where the hell did that confidence come from? because let’s be real—have you ever sat on someone’s face before? no? yeah, that’s what i thought. so it really serves you right for hovering over suguru’s face in the most awkward, hesitant way possible after you practically tore your underwear off like a woman on a mission. and suguru, bless his sweet, sweet soul, was waiting so patiently. expectantly, even. until he let out this deep chuckle—low and warm and way too sexy for your own good—and before you could spiral any further into overthinking, he reached up and yanked you down onto his face. oh. OH. there was no time to process, no moment to think, because suddenly the same mouth that usually went on and on about laws, treaties, and whatever international nonsense was now french kissing your cunt like it was his one true calling in life.

you moaned—loud and borderline pornographic—but could you really help it? suguru groaned against you, the vibrations shooting straight through you as his grip tightened on your thighs, holding you firmly in place like he had absolutely no plans of letting you escape. you tried. god, you tried to play it cool. tried to pull a geto on him with a little bit of horny babbling of your own, figuring he’d appreciate the effort. but every time you so much as opened your mouth to string a coherent sentence together, suguru would double down on his actions—his tongue flicking or curling in ways that had you seeing stars—and whatever you’d been planning to say vanished into the void, replaced by high-pitched whines and breathy moans.

“suguru—oh my god—”

he hummed in response, the sound smug and almost teasing as he looked up at you from between your legs, his dark eyes practically glowing with amusement and pride. “you talk too much,” he mumbled against you, the words muffled but clear enough to make your face heat up. and honestly? you’d be offended if he weren’t so goddamn good at what he was doing.

geto was putting in the work. the work. and you? you were trying not to cry or completely lose your mind, but if you did, you had a sneaking suspicion he’d love it more than anything. the man had a thing for drama—especially if it was drama he caused. but in the middle of all this face-sitting, tongue-lapping, thigh-gripping madness, you noticed something else.

geto was hard. painfully so. the sight of him below you was already sinful enough, but the way his erection strained against his boxers, twitching every time you moaned his name, was almost too much. his response time to recover was unreal—maddening, even—but considering it was you on top of him, you liked to think you deserved the credit. and since a wise saying says to love your neighbor as yourself, you decided to help a man out. literally. your hand snaked down between you two, wrapping around his length with a touch that had him freezing for a split second. “what are you—oh, fuck, ” geto choked out, the sound muffled against your thighs as you yanked down his boxers and started stroking him.

he let out a garbled groan and—you couldn’t make this up—spat. he outright spat onto your cunt, the hot slickness dripping between your folds, and you? you loved it. the move earned him a sharp gasp, followed by a breathless laugh as you sped up your hand, squeezing him just enough to draw out those pretty whines you loved so much. “oh my god, suguru,” you teased, voice shaky but teasing nonetheless. “did you just—?”

“shut up,” he grunted, his words nearly swallowed by a low moan as you swiped your thumb over his tip. “you’re the one—fuck—driving me insane right now.” and judging by the desperate way he buried his face against you, tongue moving feverishly as his hips bucked into your hand, you’d say he was enjoying this just as much as you were. but the real kicker? when you came, your body instinctively pressed down against his face, your thighs squeezing tight enough to almost cut off his air supply. geto didn’t complain. not once. if anything, the muffled groan against your cunt and the way he jerked against your hand as he came told you he’d gladly die like this if it came to it. but luckily for both of you, you lived to tell the tale.

once the both of you had managed to throw on some semblance of clothing, clean up, and collapse into the bed, that’s when reality hit geto like a brick wall. what. the. hell. just happened. as he laid there, his arm slung lazily around you, your soft breathing against his chest, his brain decided now was the perfect time to spiral. he glanced over at mr. pickles, who sat perched on the counter in the kitchenette, her tail flicking in judgment. the cat looked like she was debating calling the authorities on him for defiling her beloved owner. oh god. what does this make the two of you?

no, scratch that. the real panic set in when he remembered: he told you he loved you. not in some subtle, cute, roundabout way either. no, it was the full-blown, l-o-v-e type of confession. the kind he wrote about in his secret diary he kept under his bed. the kind that implied white picket fences, shared dreams, and a life together. and judging by the way you were pressed against him, one leg draped over his, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his bare chest (because yes, the formal shirt had been entirely ditched), you were either about to let him down easy or...

oh god.

“you okay?” your soft voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts, your hand pausing its movements as you tilted your head to look up at him. he cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing. “uh, yeah. yeah, totally fine.” you squinted at him, your lips twitching like you were trying not to laugh. “you sure? you’re looking a little... out of it.” well, there was no way out of this now. in all his dorkus glory, he blurted out the dreaded question:

“so, uh... what are we?”

the words hung in the air for a second, and geto wanted to melt into the mattress. but instead of laughing or teasing him, you smiled, your expression soft and fond. “what do you want us to be?”

“i mean...” he swallowed hard, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “i said i loved you, so... maybe something serious?” you grinned, pressing a kiss to his chest. “good. because i’m not letting you go after that performance, lover boy.” and just like that, geto decided he could die happy. even if mr. pickles never forgave him.

chapter 6: the class you’ll never forget

geto woke up feeling like the main character in some rom-com where everything had finally fallen into place. the sun was shining directly on his face, his skin was clear, the tension that had been tying his muscles in knots for weeks was gone, and most importantly, there was you snuggled up next to him. your soft snores were music to his ears, and mr. pickles' contented purring from her nesting area completed the picture. everything was perfect. except for the yeowling.

it started faint, like the distant sound of a car alarm, and grew steadily louder. groaning, geto rubbed his face. “what the hell...?” he suddenly bolted upright, realization hitting him like a freight train. “oh no. oh no, no, no.” you groggily stirred beside him, blinking up at him in confusion. “what’s wrong?”

“gojo,” he groaned, flopping back against the pillows dramatically. “i left him alone in my apartment last night. he probably thinks i’m dead.” you blinked, then snorted. “that’s dramatic, even for a cat.”

but geto wasn’t joking. he’d seen gojo cat throw tantrums over him leaving for ten minutes to grab milk. this? this was abandonment on a grand scale in the eyes of the overly dramatic feline. as if on cue, the voice of your landlord, yaga, boomed from the other side of the door. “keep that cat quiet, or i’m calling animal control!” you gasped indignantly, sitting up. “excuse me! mr. pickles would never—”

“it’s not mr. pickles!” geto groaned, already throwing on his pants. “it’s my overly theatrical—”

just as he was about to open the door to go upstairs, a loud thud echoed from the direction of your fire escape. the two of you froze.

“what was that?” you whispered.

geto peeked out the window, his jaw dropping. “oh my god. no.”

there, perched precariously on the fire escape outside your window, was gojo cat. his tail swished furiously, and he was glaring through the glass like he had just tracked his runaway owner down on sheer willpower alone.

“he... jumped from my window to yours.”

“that’s, like, one story up!” you exclaimed.

“i know!”

gojo cat let out another ear-piercing yeowwww! that sounded suspiciously like he was cursing geto out in feline language. “okay, okay , i’m coming!” geto sighed, sliding the window open to let the cat in. gojo cat pranced inside with all the dignity of someone who had just won an olympic gold medal, ignoring you entirely as he hopped onto geto’s torso and began aggressively kneading his shoulder. “i’m sorry, okay?” geto muttered. “i didn’t mean to abandon you.” gojo cat meowed smugly, his forgiveness conditional.

“so... how mad would you be if i told you yaga still thinks this is mr. pickles’ fault?” you asked, biting your lip to hold back a laugh. geto groaned, flopping back onto the bed, gojo cat still perched on his chest. “this is my life now. cat dad, tenant offender, and boyfriend to the world’s most beautiful woman.” you grinned, kissing his cheek. “and don’t you forget it.”

gojo cat, ever the drama queen, was about to make a grand display of his wrath, his tail swishing like an emperor preparing to deliver a royal decree. but then, he saw her.

mr. pickles. lounging in her nesting area, belly round with her impending litter, she cast him the most witheringly judgmental side-eye known to catkind. it wasn’t even subtle. her disdain radiated like heat off asphalt, and for a moment, gojo cat’s indignant rage faltered. but then, like the suave rogue he believed himself to be, he straightened up, puffed out his chest, and strutted toward her with a confidence that could only be described as delusional. it was all tail flicks and exaggerated steps, as though the very floor beneath him had the privilege of bearing his paws.

and then—smack. the grand feline tumbled, face planting into the ground with all the grace of a wet noodle.

you tried to stifle your laugh, but the sound still slipped out. geto choked back a snort, muttering, “that’s my boy.” mr. pickles, however, did not laugh. no, the dignified queen merely let out a single approving chirp, a sound that might have translated to "pathetic, but amusing." gojo cat, undeterred by his embarrassing mishap, rose with renewed determination. and with the kind of courage that made you question if he had a screw loose, he approached mr. pickles once more, his intentions clear.

“no way,” you whispered.

“he wouldn’t,” geto added, equally mesmerized.

but he did. gojo cat, in what he undoubtedly believed was the ultimate gesture of love, began grooming mr. pickles. grooming her. and she let him.

for a moment, you thought she was going to swipe at him with all the fury of a hormonal mom-to-be. but no. she actually closed her eyes, her purring like a soft motor. it was... surreal.

“did we just witness the biggest romance of the century?” you asked, genuinely baffled. “bigger than us?” geto teased, pulling you closer. “way bigger,” you deadpanned.

as you both watched the unlikely duo share their moment, you couldn’t help but laugh. gojo cat was clearly putting his all into his attempt at love, and mr. pickles? well, she looked like she was actually enjoying it.

“ah, love,” geto sighed dramatically, resting his chin on your head. “even dumber than us,” you added, shaking your head in disbelief.

-

you were on cloud nine, feeling a level of peace and contentment that only came from having a hot law nerd boyfriend and a cat with enough sass to rival gojo cat himself. geto's bmw hummed quietly beneath you as the two of you cruised toward campus. it wasn’t just the morning coffee kicking in; it was the knowledge that if this man dared to be late—even by two minutes—mr. pickles would end him. like, not even metaphorically. she’d leap on him, claws out, and make him regret. because mr. pickles loved his hair. she loved kneading it, curling her paws into his long, luscious locks as if claiming her personal throne. and honestly? you got it. if you were a cat, you’d do the same. hell, even as a human, you’d do it (and did, regularly).

as he pulled into the parking lot, the goodbye routine began. “don’t forget to text me when your class ends,” he said, already pulling you into a warm hug. “don’t forget to pick me up, or we’re breaking up,” you countered sweetly, earning a laugh from him. “you’re scary, you know that?” he teased, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “and you’re my very gorgeous, very whipped boyfriend,” you shot back, leaning up for a kiss. he wouldn’t dream of ghosting you—not when you were this beautiful, amazing, kind, and, obviously, a little unhinged. as he opened your door and helped you out like the true gentleman he was, he insisted on walking you all the way to the front entrance. his hand rested at the small of your back, a gesture that had you swooning even as you teased him.

“you do know you’re going to be late, right?”

“worth it,” he replied with a grin, bending down to kiss your cheek. but just as you were about to part ways, a booming voice shattered the moment.

“GETO! LAW STUDENTS BUILDING! NOW!”

you both turned to see a very exasperated professor waving frantically at him from across the quad. you couldn’t help but laugh as geto sighed, muttering under his breath about how “love is a battlefield.” he gave you one last kiss, muttered a promise to pick you up later (or else), and jogged off. you watched him go, smiling like an idiot as you whispered, “ah, love.”

the day started fine. better than fine, actually—you left geto’s bmw with a kiss and the knowledge that your cat, mr. pickles, was safe and sound in her nesting area, glaring at gojo cat with the fury only a pregnant feline could muster. but halfway through your lecture on post-modern feminist theories (a riveting topic, truly), your phone buzzed. it wasn’t a normal notification. no, it was the cctv feed suguru had installed as a “gift” to keep an eye on your “queen” (read: your absolute dictator cat). and there she was—mr. pickles—kneading her nesting area with an urgency that sent a chill down your spine.

“oh. oh no. oh dear god.” you whispered, staring at the screen as she let out a war cry that could only mean one thing: grandmahood was happening. you shot up from your seat so fast your desk screeched against the floor. “is everything okay?” your professor asked, startled by your abrupt movement.

“uh, yeah! just — cat emergency! she’s — uh — giving birth!” you stammered, already halfway out the door.

“congratulations?” someone in the back called out, earning a round of laughter you had no time for.

you sprinted through campus like a woman possessed, your backpack bouncing behind you as you cursed yourself for not realizing mr. pickles’ morning mood wasn’t jealousy but labor. and then—because fate had to test you—geto appeared, casually strolling toward the law building with his usual unbothered grace. “babe?” he called out, watching you bolt past him like you were auditioning for the olympics. “no time to explain!” you yelled over your shoulder. he frowned, putting two and two together because, let’s face it, the man’s a genius. “is it mr. pickles?!”

“YES!”

and then he started running behind you.

“suguru!” you wheezed, already out of breath. “GET YOUR CAR!”

“why?” he shouted, effortlessly keeping pace with you.

“because we’re running across a campus that’s like thousand acres and I WILL DIE!”

he paused, muttering something about how you were so dramatic, before pivoting on his heel and sprinting toward the parking lot.

you barely made it to the main road before suguru’s bmw skidded to a stop beside you.

“get in!” he barked, throwing the passenger door open.

“i swear to god, if she starts delivering while we’re stuck in traffic —”

“she’s not gonna start without you,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“cats don’t work like that, suguru!”

“well, neither do women, but here we are,” he shot back, pulling into the driveway of your building.

you bolted out of the car, taking the stairs two at a time while suguru trailed behind with all the urgency of a man who knows he’ll be the one cleaning up whatever mess awaited. when you burst into the apartment, mr. pickles was mid-contraction, glaring at you like, finally, my useless human has arrived. gojo cat, meanwhile, looked terrified, hovering at a safe distance as if he was considering calling 911. “okay, okay, we’re here!” you panted, dropping to your knees beside mr. pickles. suguru followed, looking at the scene with wide eyes. “do...do we call a vet?”

“no! she’s got this. we just have to support her!”

“support her how?”

“i don’t know! emotional support?”

“she’s a cat!”

mr. pickles let out a low growl, silencing suguru’s protests. “okay, okay, i’ll shut up,” he muttered, backing away slightly. the door creaked open, and there stood shoko, still in her scrubs and sporting the exhausted yet curious expression of someone returning from a night shift only to walk straight into chaos. “what’s going on here?” she asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. you barely spared her a glance as you clutched suguru’s arm. “mr. pickles is in labor. it’s a whole thing. prayers are appreciated.”

“prayers?” she scoffed, stepping closer. “i’m a doctor. i got this.”

relief washed over you. “thank god, shoko! we could use an actual professional!”

but the moment she peeked over the edge of mr. pickles’ nesting area and caught sight of a tiny kitten halfway out, her calm demeanor shattered.

“OH MY GOD, WHAT IS THAT?!”

“what do you think it is?” suguru deadpanned, visibly unimpressed. “i don’t know! i didn’t sign up for this!” shoko shrieked, stumbling backward and holding her hands up as if warding off an unholy demon.

you blinked at her, utterly dumbfounded. “aren’t you a doctor?”

“a human doctor! this is nature gone rogue! ”

mr. pickles, clearly unamused by shoko’s dramatics, let out a low, guttural growl that sent the so-called professional scurrying back to the doorway. “you’re on your own,” shoko muttered, lighting a cigarette like the events unfolding in your living room weren’t directly her problem. meanwhile, gojo cat, always the overachiever, decided he needed to help. unfortunately, his idea of help involved attempting to paw at the nearest kitten. “don’t even think about it!” suguru warned, his voice laced with exasperation.

but it was too late—mr. pickles, mid-contraction, turned her fiery gaze on gojo cat, who froze like a deer in headlights. one wrong flick of his tail, and mr. pickles let out a feral hiss that could have sent shoko back to med school. gojo cat, realizing he had crossed the line, slinked back to the corner, tail tucked between his legs, his usual swagger replaced with what could only be described as embarrassed defeat. “well, that’s one way to keep him in line,” you muttered.

“this is insane,” shoko said, still watching from the doorway. “how do you people live like this?”

“we manage,” suguru replied, his tone completely void of humor as he massaged his temples.

the next hour was a whirlwind of cat screams, your whispered words of encouragement, and suguru pacing like an expectant father in a sitcom. “should we name one after me?” he asked at one point, earning a glare from both you and mr. pickles as she finally let out one final push, and another tiny kitten entered the world. you let out a relieved sigh, and suguru finally cracked a smile. he was crouched beside you, holding your hand as if you were the one giving birth. “you did amazing,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“she did amazing,” you corrected, motioning to mr. pickles.

“team effort,” he replied with a grin.

and as mr. pickles began cleaning her newest babies, shoko muttered from the door, “you’re all insane. call me when it’s over.”

“you’re the godmother, shoko!” you called after her, earning a muffled string of curses as she disappeared down the hall.

“we’re gonna need so much cat food,” he muttered, pulling you close.

ah, the miracle of life.

-

a few weeks had passed since d-day—delivery day, or as suguru had renamed it, “domestic chaos day.” the kittens were growing faster than you thought possible, transforming your once peaceful apartment into a battlefield. mr. pickles ruled the roost with an iron paw, while gojo cat’s ego took a daily beating as the kittens bested him at every turn. every time one managed to leap higher, run faster, or swipe his tail just right, his tail would puff up in indignation like a furry balloon. you’d managed to rehome a few of the kittens, starting with shoko.

her kitten—affectionately dubbed “roach” for her uncanny ability to survive despite zero effort—was the perfect match. low-maintenance, unfazed, and perpetually napping. shoko had initially protested, but now you’d catch her sending you pictures of roach curled up in her sink or casually perched on her liquor cabinet.

then there was yuuji. poor, sweet, persistent yuuji. he’d campaigned harder for a kitten than some politicians do for office. the boy went through hoops — begging you, suguru, choso, sukuna, and even mr. pickles. you weren’t sure how he’d pulled it off, but eventually, he was deemed worthy of a black-and-white troublemaker he promptly named “gumi.” the kitten adored yuuji and spent most of his time riding on his shoulders like a parrot, though you suspected yuuji let him get away with far too much.

sukuna, on the other hand, had reluctantly taken the runt of the litter after it refused to leave him alone. “don’t need some damn cat,” he’d grumbled the entire way home. now? the tiny kitten followed him everywhere, even sneaking into his apron pockets after he came back from work. he pretended to hate it, but the soft grumbles about “stupid runt” were always followed by careful, protective pats on the kitten’s tiny head.

but the biggest surprise of all came when suguru decided to make your relationship public—on linkedin. linkedin, of all places.

it had started as a joke. you’d teased him about not “properly asking you out” after all this time, and before you knew it, he’d crafted a three-paragraph-long post about you. “in a comitted relationship with the love of my life, and no, this isn’t a humble brag — it’s a masterpiece,” he’d typed with the fervor of a man defending his dissertation. the post included references to romantic literature, quotes from classic movies, and, somehow, a detailed analysis of how mr. pickles and gojo cat played pivotal roles in your story.

you’d wanted to die of second-hand embarrassment, but the post blew up. colleagues, professors, and even strangers commented, congratulating the two of you. “you’re insane,” you’d told him, hiding your face in his chest as he laughed. “insane about you,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

life wasn’t perfect — it was loud, chaotic, and occasionally overwhelming. but with mr. pickles, gojo cat, and your ridiculous yet lovable boyfriend, it was better than you ever imagined.

feline parenthood? best decision ever.

[sitepathos]

From Gold to Mold

Chapter 11: The Interview

Note: Didn’t really plan on making a chapter like this, but I thought we were overdue some filler before we got into some real drama. Enjoy!

You let out a loud agitated sigh as you power down your computer and slouch in your office chair.

Since you got back from Metropolis, you’ve been working on a free update to thank all your players for their support and voting to make Salvage Rights the Indie Game of the Year; working on an update that’ll satisfy the players and be easy to develop and implement was difficult enough, but all the drama with the Waynes made it even harder.

It’s been four fucking years since you left Gotham! Even when you moved back to Goodsprings, you couldn’t help but think about all they’d done to you, from Bruce acting like you’re an intruder in his “perfect” house to Damian being your personal demon. You’d managed to put hundreds of miles between yourself and them, but they still managed to have a hold on you. Sure, you knew you were in a home you owned fair and square, not Wayne Manor, but there were still instances where you caught yourself looking over your shoulder to make sure no one was behind you or peeking around corners to make sure a room was empty before you walked in.

Even with the Megamycete constantly reminding you, it took you the better part of a year to get it through your head that you no longer needed the survival tactics that had kept you alive in Wayne Manor as you’re the only one in your house.

It’s taken the last three years, but you were finally ready to move on with your life, look towards the future and leave Gotham, Bruce Wayne, and his merry band of bastards behind. You published your game, people loved it almost immediately, and you had been rewarded for your efforts with fame and fortune.

You finally free and could actually be happy for the first time in years.

Now, he and his children come and plague you, trying to drag you back to the place you hated from day one.

He made it clear that he never considered you his son (hell, what he said the night those three bastards kidnapped you proved that), always showering Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian with a fatherly love you had slowly realized would never be meant for you and shoved you aside in favor of showcasing the children he was proud of. Eventually, you were forgotten by both Bruce Wayne and the larger world as no one in Gotham’s media class ever asked where you were, why weren’t you with them at this party, or when was he planning on throwing you your own introductory gala like his other kids.

As time went on, you took steps to separate yourself from him, never telling anyone who your father was and only accepting Gould as your proper last name (although if you ever found some guy to marry you, you’d definitely be open to changing your last name).

Then, that son of a bitch shows up and ruins everything, your face plastered all over the news, primarily in Gotham and Metropolis, and you can’t go anywhere without people staring, whispering, and bombarding you with several questions (many of them being if you could set them up with your “siblings”).

You were finally living the life you’d dreamed about and he had to go and ruin it! You’d known that Bruce Wayne is a miserable motherfucker who can’t stand to see anyone around him to be happy (you’d listened in on plenty of arguments between him and the others whenever one of them tried to strike out on their own to figure that out), but you never thought that he’d be so petty he’d try to drag you, the son he never wanted, back when he saw you happy for once in your life.

You look down at your hands and imagine what it’d feel like to have them wrapped around his neck, squeezing the life out of him and seeing him realize that despite his strength as Batman, he was powerless compared to you; the relief you would feel as you saw the life leave his eyes as he accepted that the son he never wanted was the instrument of his destruction.

You revel in the brief sensation of satisfaction that passes through you from your daydream.

(You may get your wish,) the Megamycete says, bringing you out for your fantasy.

“How do you figure?”

It doesn’t answer, but you feel sensations of anxiety and apprehension radiate from it.

“What’s wrong,” you say, getting a little afraid.

Over the last four years, you’d never known the Megamycete to be afraid of anything.

So, seems like things are about to go from bad to worse in your life.

(We reached out to the Bats. They know of both our existence and our bond with you.)

“What,” you exclaim, standing up from your chair. “You told them? Why?”

(We thought we could reason with them for you. They—)

“How could you do that? Now they know about you! They weren’t going to stop coming and my only ace in the hole is you! I’ve lost that advantage thanks to you! For a sentient mushroom that has the knowledge of thousands of people, that was a pretty stupid thing to do!”

You’re pissed. Really pissed.

You had a feeling that the night with Bruce at the Gala wasn’t the end of things and all of his children visiting you proved it. The Bats have made it clear they’ll do whatever they must to accomplish their goals and for whatever reason, they’ve decided you’re their goal.

Sure, you went overboard a little demonstating your strength when dealing with Jason and Damian, but that they had no idea your strength came from the Megamycete and that was only the surface what you were capable of. If they decided to come at you in force, they were in one hell of a surprise when you fabricated hardened mold armor right in front of them and do to them what you did to Joker. You know they’ve fought plenty of villains with powers, but the mold is stronger than all of them combined and you’d make them regret ever meeting you as you tear them apart and scatter their intestines across the ground.

But now, thanks to the Megamycete, they know that you’re not alone and who knows what else?

(We are sorry,) it says, its tone remorseful. (We thought we could persuade them to leave you alone. We were wrong.)

“Yeah, no shit! If they weren’t listening to me, what made you think they would listen to you? Hell, you know how Bruce feels about metas, knowing I’m one probably made things worse! He’s probably making some cage to hold me right now!”

You tap into the roots scattered around Gotham and focus on Wayne Manor, but are surprised to find you’re unable to connect.

(They have started removing our roots. We have accelerated the growth of the surrounding roots, but they are taking steps to prevent their regrowth.)

“So, we have no idea what they’re planning. Great, that’s just great. Terrific job, man. Really, just superb.”

(We thought we could help.)

You exhale a sigh and wave a hand through your hair, trying to come up with a plan on where to go next.

“How did it go down, exactly? What happened?”

The Megamycete uploads its meeting with them into your brain and it flashes before your eyes, from the Megamycete torturing some of them by turning into their dead ones to them learning about you killing your would-be murderers and Joker and Harley.

You thought you hated Bruce Wayne enough, but apparently you don’t hate that man enough.

How someone can be so delusional is astounding to say the least. Honestly, he deserves to be thrown in Arkham and studied, along with all the others.

They ignore you for most of your life and treat you like shit and now that you’re finally happy, they want to drag you back to Gotham.

And why?

Because they “love you?”

Bullshit.

They feel guilty and they just want to feel better. You know no one in that damn house is capable of feeling real love and once they feel better about themselves, they’ll go right back to ignoring you.

(They are truly delusional. They think their past behavior does not matter and you should be brought back to their fold.)

Yeah, you got that from Jason. The bastard wasn’t able to get away from Bruce and Gotham (because despite all his bluster, all he wants is that man’s approval) and because he couldn’t do it, he thinks you shouldn’t be able to.

Selfish, all of them.

“You fucked up. They were going to find out eventually, but thanks to you, we’re gonna have to deal with them sooner than we expected.”

(We know. We overestimated our abilities and brought trouble upon you. We apologize. Truly, we do.)

You understand where its heart was in the right place, but it still doesn’t change the fact that the Bats are probably going to be breaking down your door any day now.

Just then, there’s a knock at your door, making you freeze.

Shit, are they already here? Are they in regular clothes or are they in their capes and cowls? Are they really that desperate to bring you back to Gotham that they’d really raid your house in the middle of the day for anyone walking by to see?

You tap into the roots surrounding your house and see not Bruce Wayne or any of his kids darkening your door. Instead, you see a black haired woman dressed professionally standing on your porch.

“Who the hell is she?”

(We do not know. She is definitely not a resident of Gotham as we do not recognize her.)

That certainly doesn’t make you feel better. You know Bruce is resourceful as hell and isn’t afraid to use any dirty trick in the book to get what he wants.

(She does not appear to have ill intents. She is too delicate-looking to pose a threat to you, nor is her purse large enough to hold a weapon large enough to harm you.)

Looks can be deceiving. After all, Bruce is a member of the Justice League, where Martian Manhunter is and you can see Bruce using the alien to transform and trick you into lowering your guard. When that man gets obsessed over something, he doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.

Still, you can speculate to the moon and back, but until you open the door and talk to the woman, you’ll never know for certain. Sure, it could be related to your current Bat problem, or it could be something else.

So, you walk through your house and up to your door.

“Who is it,” you call out.

“Lois Lane, Daily Planet,” she responds. “I’m here to ask Y/N Gould for an interview.”

Lois Lane? You’ve heard Bruce and the others say that name when talking about Metropolis and Superman and you’ve seen the name when reading a few news articles for school assignments, but you’ve never seen any pictures of her, so you had no idea the woman standing on your doorstep is the very woman famous for being one of the very few reputable journalists left in the world.

You unlock the door and open it just enough to stick your head out to see her face to face. You look into her eyes and see no ill intent or hidden motives.

“Mr. Gould, I presume,” she asks, a gentle smile on her face.

“You want an interview with me? What for?”

“Your relation with Bruce Wayne. As I’m sure you know, he’s the most famous man in Gotham, if he so much as sneezes in public, several news articles are written to publish it. Gotham’s media has always covered whenever he adopted another child, but out of nowhere, he appears at a video game awards ceremony and claims you’re his son and you call him a sperm donor. No one can forget when Damian Wayne appeared at a gala and was declared Bruce Wayne’s biological son. It made quite the stir when you pushed him and made it clear you had nothing but animosity towards him.”

Oh yes, you can remember the many days of fawning Damian got when he moved into the manor, leaving you bitter since all you got was a few minutes of people asking about your mother before forgetting about you in favor of all the others.

“What is it you want,” you say, trying to remain polite. “I lost years thanks to Gotham and Bruce Wayne and I’m not eager to lose any more dwelling in the past.”

“I want to hear your side of the story,” she says with a determination that surprises you. “You clearly suffered due to him and I want to help you tell your story to the world.”

You’re actually speechless at that. You know pretty much all of Gotham worships at the Alter of Wayne and his influence expands far beyond the city’s borders, leaving very few people willing to hear anything that would portray him in a negative light. It’s very safe to say Gotham is a cathedral dedicated to both Bruce Wayne and Batman.

To hear that someone with a reputation and influence like Lois Lane would want to listen to you and help you tell others your life’s story is nothing less of a shocker.

“I can’t say you’ll like what I have to say, Ms. Lane,” you say as you open the door wide and stand in the doorway. “I know Bruce Wayne is an institution of Gotham, but I can tell you that wasn’t my experience.”

“This isn’t about my opinion on Bruce Wayne or any of his children. This is about what you experienced during your stay in Wayne Manor.”

“And how much are you wanting to know?”

“Everything. Or, as much or as little you’re willing to tell me.”

Her words strike you to your core. It’s been years since you’ve had anyone really interested in what you have to say. Sure, Alfred was always willing to listen to you, but you learned early on that you had to hold back on how you really felt about Bruce Wayne and his children as any criticism you had about them was a failure on his part.

The poor man did the best he could, but those people are clearly beyond any form of help outside of being locked in padded cells.

“Come in, please,” you say, steeping aside so she could enter your home. Once she’s in, you close the door and lead her to the living room. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, water, soda?”

“Anything’s fine, thank you.”

She sits on the couch while you rush to the kitchen and prepare two glasses of ice water, a crystal pitcher full of more water, and a small bowl full of grapes and load it all onto a tray and carry it back to the living room. This is the first time you’ve ever had a guest and you want to make a good impression.

“So, where would you like to start,” you ask as you sit in your favorite chair, your glass of water in hand.

“I’d like to ask about your mother, if that’s alright,” she answers, pulling out a writing pad and pen from her purse. “I managed to find newspapers relating to you around the time you moved to Gotham, but they were very few and none of them had anything regarding your mother or your past.”

You stifle a chuckle at the thought of being one the front page of a few newspapers no doubt rotting in the Gotham Gazette’s archives. You were probably the center of news for all a week before Bruce adopted Tim and stole the spotlight, leading to the tradition of you being pushed further and further back whenever Bruce collected another troubled kid.

“My mom was Maria Gould, a famous writer known for romance novels set during the Age of Sail.”

“That Maria Gould,” she asks, looking up from her notepad in shock. “I didn’t know you were related to her?”

“You know her?”

“I was an avid reader of her books.” She gives a small chuckle. “I actually use to daydream of interviewing her when I first started at the Daily Planet.” He smile then shifts into a sympathetic frown. “I remember reading about her death in the paper. I knew it said she had a son, but I didn’t see the connection until now.”

“She died on my sixth birthday. It’s been sixteen years since that day and I can still remember it so clearly.”

That day haunts you to this day. You got to school so happy and excited for Momma to come pick you up after school, thinking about how much pizza you’d eat and what presents you’d get.

You had no idea that when you told her bye that day, it would be for the last time.

(Your grief is still so profound, even after all this time.)

That day ended in the loss of your Momma and your life went from bad to worse when Alfred picked you up and brought you to Gotham to live with that bastard.

“I can tell you loved you very much,” she responds, her expression sympathetic.

“Yeah,” you say, suppressing a tear. “Yeah, I did.”

“So, did you have any idea who your father was? Did she ever tell you or did you ever ask?”

“Yeah, I did ask when all my friends were celebrating Father’s Day and I realized I didn’t have a Daddy like my friends. She said that she didn’t know who he was. She didn’t say it, but when she said she was “young and dumb,” I later found out that meant she got drunk and had sex with a guy she didn’t know.” A ghost of a smile graces your face. “She said when I came along, I set her on the right path.”

“I say you did,” she responds, returning your smile. “Being a parent often makes people turn their lives around.” She jots something down in her pad before looking back at you. “So, when did you move to Gotham?”

“Immediately after the funeral. The sheriff drove me back home to pack up most of my stuff and when we got to the house, Alfred was waiting for me.”

“Wait, Bruce Wayne didn’t pick you up himself?”

“No, Alfred said he was too busy with work and couldn’t come.”

“His firstborn son loses his son and he couldn’t even make the time to get you,” she angrily mutters to herself as she writes. “And how did he react when he saw you?”

“It was almost like he was staring at a stranger in his home.”

You can still remember how you felt when you met Bruce Wayne for the first time; it was the first time you’d ever felt like someone didn’t like you and it really hurt.

“He barely said a word to me before telling Alfred he was going out.”

“Doing what,” she asks, clearly getting angrier and angrier by the second.

For a brief moment, you entertain the idea on ousting Bruce’s dirty little secret and telling the world that he’s Batman. He’d be drowning in so much attention and legal battles that he wouldn’t be able to bother you ever again.

But then, the rational part of your brain convinces you that by telling everyone Batman’s secret identity would invite a lot of trouble your way. After all, all of Bruce’s kids are vigilantes, so many would automatically assume you were one as well, leading you to being dragged into Bruce’s legal and publicity quagmire.

Also, there’s the very real possibility that all of Bruce’s enemies would come after you seeking revenge and while you were more than capable of dealing with whatever came your way, you’d really rather not deal with it altogether.

“I don’t know,” you say. “He said he had work to do, but this is Bruce Wayne we’re talking about. Chances are he was in some sleazy club with a girl on each side and one on her knees if you know what I mean.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” she agrees. “Now, a week after you moved to Wayne Manor, Bruce adopted Tim Drake. Did you two get along?”

You bark a bitter laugh. “He took one look at me and decided I wasn’t worth his attention. If you ask me, there’s always been something wrong with him. He’s always watching people, taking note of everything they do and obsessing over finding out his secrets. If you ask me, he’s not right and his parents knew it. That’s why they were always leaving him behind when they went to dig sites or parties.”

She’s definitely interested in that as she seemingly writes down everything you said, word for word.

She stifle a chuckle at the thought of Tim Drake being asked what the fuck’s wrong with him every time he goes anywhere.

“What about Dick Grayson? Everyone in Gotham says he’s everything a good big brother should be.”

Yes, you remember the celebration he got when the Gotham Gazette named him the World’s Best Big Brother for the tenth year in a row.

A celebration you weren’t invited to.

“He was a brother to me. When I first moved in, he always carved out time for Tim, but couldn’t give me the time of day. After being blown off a few dozen times in favor for of his other siblings, I eventually stopped asking him.”

“What about Jason Todd?”

“He gave me a black eye when we met.” She gasps at that. “Yeah, he’s a brute. He’s always going on about Jane Austen, but underneath that veneer of an intellectual, he’s Crime Alley trash. Honestly, Bruce should’ve just left him in that part of Gotham. With his poor anger management and proclivity for violence, he’d fit right in. Animals belong in the wild.”

“What about your half brother, Damian Wayne?”

“That little shit pulled a sword on me and nearly tried to take my head off.”

“He what?”

“Yeah, an actual sword. I was able to get out of the way, but he gave me a scar on my cheek. It took me a few years, but I was able to find a way to make it invisible, especially when I looked in the mirror. Every time I saw it, it reminded me of how little I mattered in that house.”

“What did Bruce Wayne do? Surely he knew about it?”

“He was in the room when it happened. All he did was carry him out while he was yelling insults about me and my Momma. And Dick said he had a difficult upbringing and I should forgive him.”

“Forgive him for almost killing you,” she exclaims, her eyes wide as saucers and a look of disgust on her face. “You can’t be serious!”

“I wish I was, Ms. Lane, but Dick’s made it clear that Damian’s his favorite and had he managed to kill me, I’m sure Dick would’ve just taken him out for ice cream and told him that he can’t go around killing people.” You let out a bitter laugh. “You know, he had some nerve calling my Momma a ‘whore’ when I know the secret about his mother.”

“You do,” she asks, leaning forward, her pen and pad ready, indicating you have her full and undivided attention. “Everyone’s asked Bruce about the identity of Damian’s mother and the details relating to the birth, but he’s told us nothing. Are you willing to shed some light on this?”

For a brief moment, you actually ask yourself if this is right. With all the things Damian’s done to you, is it really acceptable to tell the dirty little secret regarding his conception? After all, if you were in his shoes, you’d kill to ensure your secret never saw the light of day.

(But he would not hesitate to tell the world your secret if your situations were reversed,) the Megamycete chimes in. (And does he not deserve some comeuppance for his many transgressions against you?)

You have to admit, it has a point. And besides, this’ll give the Wayne Family a massive shitstorm they’ll have to deal with and your mind’s immediately made up.

“I know her name, but I don’t want her coming after me, so I’m afraid that part of the secret stays with me.” Lois nods, so you continue. “His mother raped him.”

She gasps and you know you’ve passed a point of no return now.

Then again, daring to defy the “great” Bruce Wayne was a point of no return, so this is just adding fuel to the fire.

“She drugged his drink and got him to agree to sleep with her, all for the sole purpose of getting pregnant because she believed him to be of a superior quality.” You lower your voice to mutter, “I can tell you she was greatly misled.”

After that, the interview breezed by, asking about how Steph and Cass treated you to the conditions you were kept in. You told her everything, about how Damian would go out of his way to make you miserable to how Bruce couldn’t be bothered to do anything for you and it was Alfred that kept you alive. In fact, it was only the poor butler that seemed to care about you and you were confident that had you died, Bruce would just be pissed about the inconvenience your death caused him, from having to find a place to bury you to making up a story to tell the media.

It was only when you told her the story involving Damian and your Momma’s pen did you realize that not only was she crying, but so were you.

You knew how that memory made you feel, but had forgotten how much it pained you until you told her every detail. Funny how the brain tries so hard to suppress the worst moments of your life.

“Why do you think they treated you like this,” she asks, trying to keep her voice even to disguise the fact she’s obviously upset. “From everything you’ve told me, it sounds like they really didn’t see you as a Wayne.”

“Because I was the consequence of Bruce’s stupidity. He got drunk and did something stupid, leading to me, and he didn’t like that he was forced to live with him and ruin his family’s image. And because I was normal.”

“Normal?”

“Yes, normal. I had a normal life with Momma while all of the have colorful backgrounds. And I���d like to think that I’m average looking and averagely intelligent with nothing special about me, compared to everyone in the Wayne Family, who always thing their the best looking and smartest people in the room. Plus, I wasn’t damaged goods until Bruce Wayne came into my life. I guess the tragic death of my Momma wasn’t enough for him to make him love me.”

Those words cause you to let out a choked sob as more and more memories of your time in Wayne Manor start surfacing, memories you’d prefer to keep buried.

“I think that’s enough reminiscing for one day,” you say, wiping your eyes and standing up.

“Yes, I think I have everything I need,” she says, doing the same thing.

“Is there anything I can get you before you go, Ms. Lane,” you ask as you lead her to the front door. “Maybe a drink or a snack for the road?”

One of Alfred’s many lessons was how to be a good host and he’d flip out if you didn’t offer her something.

“No, thank you, Mr. Gould, you’ve given me more than enough.” She hesitates for a moment before getting close to you, her arms at both your sides. You freeze up, thinking the worst is about to happen when you realize she’s hugging you. “I’m so sorry for your loss and what you had to go through growing up. No one should ever have to experience such neglect.”

Outside of Alfred, it’s been years since anyone’s hugged you. Last time you were hugged by anyone not the butler was when Momma first died; Goodsprings is the type of where everyone knows everyone and you’re pretty sure you had the entire town giving you hugs before and during the funeral.

“Thank you,” you whisper, returning the hug.

“I know it doesn’t undo the damage he’s done, but I promise this story will make everyone see who Bruce Wayne truly is.”

And with that, you two separate and you wave goodbye as she gets in her car and drives off.

(You made the right decision to tell her everything,) the Megamycete says as you close and lock your door. (We must say, we are surprised you chose not to tell her their roles as Gotham’s vigilantes. Surely the benefits of exposing them outweigh the projected consequences. Or at least balance out.)

“Believe me, I was plenty tempted, but having the enemies of Batman knocking down my door would be more trouble than it was worth. Sure, I could kill them all, but it would only be a matter of time until I was put in a situation where too many people would ask too many questions.”

“We see your point. Besides, her story will no doubt cause more than enough trouble for him and his band of misfits.”

A part of you makes you wish you were back in Gotham so you could see the backlash Bruce is about to be hit with.

Granted, it’s a small part, practically microscopic, but it’s still there.

“I understand, but—“ Bruce says before hearing a click, indicating the call has been ended.

“Another bad phone call, Master Bruce,” Alfred says as holds out a cup of tea.

“Yes,” he sighs, putting his phone in his pocket and taking the cup with one hand and rubbing his temples with the other. “The Humanitarian Ball. The event organizers said they didn’t want ‘cruel and heartless monsters’ bringing a bad name on their event.”

Ever since Lois Lane’s article titled The Forsaken Gould of the Wayne Family came out two days ago, he’s experienced set back after set back; in less than forty-eight hours, Wayne Enterprises’ stock has lost half its value, many large companies have dropped out of their business deals, and more than a few people have withdrawn their invitations for high-profile events.

But none of that compares to the massive gap between you and him getting even larger. He knew that he’d wronged you, but being able to read it in black and white just drives the point even further.

He just wishes that it could’ve stayed between you, him, and your siblings. His family may be celebrities in Gotham, but he prefers to handle the family’s drama behind closed doors.

He’s held his family together through thick and thin and he’ll continue to do so.

And he’s had a hard time doing that over the past two days.

He’s read and reread that article ever since it came out, unable to go a single day without looking at it. He had no idea that he made you feel like you were a mistake he felt embarrassed over or that because you weren’t anything like them, you weren’t worthy of his love.

He knows he’s failed you, but he wants to fix all of it! He wants to embrace you and never let go and to put you up on a pedestal for all of Gotham to bask in and know that you’re the most treasured member of the Wayne Family.

But until they find a way to rid that mushroom in your body and bring you back home, they can’t start fixing their mistakes.

The media’s had a field day with the article ever since it came out, hounding them every time they go out in public, asking them how they could sleep at night knowing they kept you in tiny guest room on the other side of the manor or about how Bruce could treat the son born from Talia drugging him with such love while treating the son born from a drunken one-night stand with such disdain.

He was shocked to learn that you knew of them being the Bats, but to learn you knew the truth regarding Damian’s birth…

Just how much did you know? Did he ignore you so much that he didn’t know you were nearby whenever he talked about anything, even sensitive information that he only talked to Alfred about.

Were you practically invisible to him the entire time you lived here?

Of course, Damian’s pissed that people are calling Talia a rapist and asking if he knew. All this made him a powder keg ready to go off, but what made him really go off was when one of his more elitist classmates made the snide remark that Damian was right to treat you like he did because you came from “some low class author” and simply weren’t worthy of being a member of high society, his son broke the boy’s nose and said he wasn’t worthy of saying your name.

He really wished Damian would’ve let him handle it by framing his parents for tax evasion and illegal business dealings (of course, he still did it, that little shit should’ve known better than to think he had the right to even think about you). They already have enough problems on their plate, they don’t need to add assault to it.

Dick really took it hard when he read that you didn’t think of him as a big brother and Lois Lane had called for him to be stripped of his status of Gotham’s Best Big Brother.

If there’s one thing Dick holds dear in this world, it’s his status as the family’s big brother and would bend over backwards for any of his siblings, be it driving them to the other side of Gotham or helping them with a case.

Dick already felt bad when he realized he’s always ignored you in favor of his other siblings, but that article pushed him over the edge, making his oldest son lose his trademark energetic behavior, choosing to spend all his time in your old room. And if Bruce is very quiet and he creeps close to the door, he can hear Dick’s muffled weeping and apologies.

His heart breaks for his oldest. If he could, he’d undo his and his children’s wrongdoings towards you and bare the memory of it if it meant you being here, where you belong, and not hating them.

Jason also took it hard; Jason knows that he has a problem with his temper and has tried everything under the sun to keep it under control, but his upbringing in Crime Alley and his torture and death at Joker’s hands have left marks on him that he’ll be dealing with for the rest of his life (and Bruce would pay any price to undo them). Jason regrets taking his anger for him out on you when he returned, thinking you were another “replacement” like Tim when he sees you and him had so much in common, you’re practically related.

Tim’s sequestered himself in his room, glued to his computer desk; he’d been in your old room almost everyday ever since they learned of their neglect towards you, thinking the almost bare room would provide some glimpse into your mind that he can use to get into your good graces and make you return home. After the article, many of them tried to rationalize that this Megamycete was twisting your mind and make you hate them so much, but that’s when Tim admitted that he found an old journal of yours, going back to when you first moved in and detailing everything they’d done to you, the last entry detailing Damian throwing your mother’s pen into the yard while it was raining.

He hates how he handled that situation; at the time, he thought you were just making a big deal over some silly little pen (fuck, that was how he really saw it back then), but you were just protecting the only thing you had of your mother, uncaring what it would cost you. He’d like to think he’s do the same thing had someone tried to take his mother’s pearls (you really are his son, aren’t you).

When Tim said he had your journal, they all tried to get it from him, Damian going as far as to bring out his sword and threaten to take it by force (Bruce really needs to consider confiscating that sword due to all the trouble it’s caused). Hell, Jason actually begged to be able to read your journal, but his son would not surrender the book and has been hoarding all the information for himself.

The girls have been silent since reading it, which is never a good sign since Steph is always making noise. He tried to comfort Cass when she read that you don’t consider her a person because of the way she looks at people, like she’s trying to find strengths and weaknesses before attacking them (apparently you also know of her upbringing as a weapon), but his second daughter wouldn’t accept his gestures, signing that you had a point and that she’d never break free of her origins as a living weapon.

And Damian… His youngest has been eerily quiet, but it doesn’t take his detective training to realize he’s fuming on the inside (it seems to be a prerequisite in this family to deal with emotions in unhealthy ways). Bruce had asked him if he was angry that you had exposed the secret of his birth and all his youngest said was that it was his penance for his transgressions against you (his heart breaks that his youngest thinks he deserves this as some sort of punishment).

He was already having a hard time containing the fallout of the world finding out his firstborn son is you, not Damian, and that he’s basically not acknowledged you at all in the last decade, but this article has made it next to impossible to find a convincing lie to tell the media that you came back willingly when they ultimately bring you back home.

“This fucking Megamycete,” he growls, setting the teacup on a nearby table not so gently. “It’s ruined everything.”

“How do you figure, Master Bruce,” the man responds, an eyebrow raised.

“It’s making him lash out, do these things. I know we wronged Y/N and he has every right to hate us, but he shouldn’t be capable of this, should he? There’s no way he’d ever say these things willingly.”

“Do you think you know Master Y/N to make such an assessment?”

That makes him pause.

He has no illusion that he never took the time to sit down with you to have an actual conversation, but his blood still courses through your veins; he’d never do something like this, nor would Damian or any of his other children.

Did your hate for them… for him run that strong? That you despise them so much that you’d expose and put them all on display for the world to see?

Would you go as far as exposing their secret identities?

“What do you think, Alfred,” he says after a moment of silence. “You obviously know him better than all of us. Would he ever do something like this?”

“I think that he wishes to exact revenge for the many years of neglect you all inflicted upon him and that this is his opening volley,” the man says with no hesitation or restraint.

That makes him flinch.

“So, you’re saying he hates us,” he asks, afraid of the answer the butler will give him.

He knows you have every right to hate him, god knows he’s made his children hate him on several occasions, but if you hate him… hate them enough to do something like this…

He knows he’s not strong enough to handle it.

“I think he’s dreamed of making all of you pay for what you’ve done to him for years. And with this Megamycete within him, I say he’s more than a match for you and the children.”

“You’d think he’d attack us?”

“When I held Master Y/N in my arms, I could see the fury beneath his tears. Master Damian use to take delight in giving Master Y/N a demonstration in his combat prowess. There’s no doubt in my mind that Master y/N wishes to return the favor.”

He won’t allow that. He’s hurt his children in multiple ways and his children have hurt one another in multiple ways over the years and every time it happened it created a rift that was never truly repaired, merely covered over. There’s been enough pain and misery in this family to last several lifetimes.

He’s fought tooth and nail to keep his children together and he’s not about to let one slip away.

He understands you want nothing to do with him or your siblings, but like it or not, you’re his son and his children belong in Gotham, under his roof.

“Have the tests on the root samples finished yet?”

“Yes, they were finished just a little while ago. I’m afraid to say that none of the toxins you have in stock had any noticeable effect on them.”

He curses at the news. He had hoped the toxins he keeps so deal with Poison Ivy would be as effective on the Megamycete, but that is unfortunately not the case.

“What about the in-depth analysis on the blood sample?”

“From what the analyzer could tell, the Megamycete seems to behave like a benign cancer, slowly eradicating Master Y/N’s native cells in order to replace them with unstable mold versions, which are able to be manipulated and altered into whatever he desires.”

That certainly makes coming up with a strategy on how to counter your abilities; sure, he has a few ideas based on a few villains and heroes that have similar abilities to you, but until he sees what you’re capable of firsthand, he won’t have anything concrete.

The thought then leads to him having an idea, one he’s eager to act on.

“I’m going out, Alfred.”

“And where are we off to, Master Bruce?”

“I’m going to see my son.”

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[callsign-swan]

Into The Maw Of The Beast

Chapter Three

The beast comes to collect a girl from your village every year. When you are chosen, you don't realise that the beast is a man. A man under a curse that only you can break.

A beauty and the beast retelling

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six

Your pillow moved. It was the strangest sensation, like somebody was pushing you to a sitting position from beneath. 

You opened your eyes and looked around. Nobody was in your room with you, just the house waking you up. 

“What is it?” You asked the castle. 

Your door opened and shut, like it was waving at you. You slipped from the bed and walked over to the door.

It was incredible, the way the castle communicated. No words, just gestures. Moving a door like a 'come hither' motion. Candles lighting to lead the way. Magic truly was fascinating.

You walked out of the room and followed the steadily lighting candles down the hall. The castle led you down the stairs, your every movement silent against the carpet, your hands holding the skirt of your nightgown against your body.

"Where are we going?" You wondered out loud as the castle led you down the same halls Charles had taken you down just earlier in the day.

The kitchen doors opened and shut, waving to you. You strode forward and stepped through the doors.

The kitchens were alive. Well, more alive than you'd seen it thus far. Lights on, the smell of good food, and lively chatter. This wasn't the castle of the beast.

One man sat at the table, an instrument in hand. He pushed his blonde hair away from his eyes as he talked to the man cooking. Shorter, dark hair and dark eyes. But he was pretty. He was so damn pretty.

The cupboards opened and shut in a rhythmic manner.

Both men stopped their chatter. They turned towards you, surprise on both of their faces. But then the blonde smiled. "She said she was bringing somebody to meet us!" He cried and patted the table.

Your eyes widened in surprise. "You speak to the castle?" You asked him, stepping closer. But you were still conscious that you were interrupting something, An intimate moment between men who considered each other friend.

"He thinks he speaks to the castle," said the dark haired man by the cooker. "She communicates to us, in her own way. She told us that we needed to cook, so we started cooking."

You looked between the two of them. There was already some food on the table, steam rising from the dishes. "I feel like I'm interrupting something," you confessed, your grip on your skirt tightening.

"Come off it," the blonde said, putting his instrument down. "None of us can taste anything, so Yuki did this all for you," he said and gestured to the seat opposite him. "Come, sit down."

The chair moved on it's own accord, inviting you to the table. You stepped forward and sat in the chair. But it still felt uncomfortable, being the only one to eat.

You gave them your name, a polite introduction. They introduced themselves back. Liam and Yuki. Human. Just like Charles, you thought them to be utterly human. But you knew better than that.

"Why can you not eat?" You asked, leaning forward. Your stomach made a noise, but you didn't yet reach for the steaming dishes.

Liam shrugged his shoulders. "Can't eat. Can't sleep. Can't die. Can't age," he mumbled, letting his instrument rest against the wall behind him. "Can't leave this fucking castle."

"What he means to say is that food tastes like shit to us. We don't need to rest and we've been alive a hundred years, never growing old," Yuki finished.

Reaching across the table, Liam pushed one of the dishes towards you. "Eat up," he said.

You obeyed. Your stomach quietened as you began eating. The aroma of the food, the taste of it was incredible. Like nothing you'd eaten in the years living in the village. If this was the treatment 'guests' of the beast got, why did they ever want to leave?

You released a noise from your lips, an embarrassing, broken moan. "This is incredible," you mumbled, settling back in your seat.

"Glad you think so," Yuki said, placing the final dish down and sitting between yourself and Liam. "When the master said you weren't coming down for dinner, I didn't think I'd get to cook tonight."

You sucked in a steadying breath. Eat don't. I don't care. That was what he had said. "I didn't think he would allow you to cook for me," you confessed as you grabbed another disk. Just to taste what else Yuki had to offer.

"What did you do to piss him off?" Liam asked.

You thought back to the library. He seemed to get angry so quickly all because... what? You had been staring at him, at his. Pulling your lips between your teeth, you tried not to smile. "I was staring at his horns," you confessed.

"That will do it," Yuki replied, his voice no more than a mutter.

"He's very sensitive about those."

You looked between the two men. "I gathered."

Yuki and Liam made themselves easy to talk to. They answered any questions you had, but the conversation was much more than just about the magic. You understood it better now. You understood how the curse worked, how it came about, what it meant for the men who had once been part of the castle staff.

But not even they understood what happened to Max. The transformation he undertook, the beast he became.

At least now you understood why he was sensitive about his horns.

But the evening became night and you grew more and more tired. Hunger and the castle was no longer going to keep you awake, not now that your belly was full.

"I should retire," you said to the two men.

Liam and Yuki rolled their eyes. "Must be nice," one of them said, but you couldn't tell which one. Both of their grins told you all you needed to know about the statement, pulled your own smile from your lips.

"Sleep tight," Yuki called as you disappeared out of the door.

Immediately, the sconces lit up, guiding you back towards your bedroom. "That was very kind of you," you said to the castle as you walked back, your voice little more than a whisper. "I was starving."

The castle gave no response, no indication that she had heard you at all. But you knew she had, you knew she understood your gratitude.

Entering your bedroom, you carefully shut the door and sat on your bed. The candle by your bedside lit up as you climbed beneath your blanket.

***

"Show me her."

Max was getting sick of that phrase. His mirror should've shown him you every time he picked it up.

But it glowed bright before you appeared. You, sitting in the castle kitchens, indulging in the food made for you by his chef. Good food, he remembered from well over a hundred years ago. If he still got hungry, if he still had the ability to taste, he would have been salivating at the sight.

But it wasn't the food he cared about.

It was you.

You, laughing and smiling with two of his old staff. Even had they explained the curse to you, your expression didn't drop. You weren't disgusted and scared the more you learnt about it, about him. No, you were fascinated.

Just as he was fascinated with you. He watched the way you walked back to the room, talking to his castle all the while. His castle, the cursed being it was, truly liked you.

More than liked you. The castle cared for you.

He put the mirror down as pain filled him, as it did every other night. He took off his clothes, stripped down to nothing before the change destroyed them. That was a trick he had learnt in the early days of the curse.

Fur sprouted on his body. His nails and teeth elongated into tusks and claws. Even his ears changed, becoming furry and pointed, like that of an animal.

Only his eyes, horns and tails remained the same.

He became the monster you so feared. The monster you would one day love, if his mirror wasn't lying.

That wasn't a fate he wanted for you.

Abandoning his mirror, Max walked. It was easier to walk on all fours, his conformation preferring it. He really was a monster, a beast. An animal.

He stalked through the halls of his castle. The lights flickered off as he did so, dimming the world around him. But his eyes allowed him to see.

He walked past your room, his footfall heavy. Heavy enough to wake you, if he wanted it to be. But he didn't want it to be.

Show me her. He didn't have to say it for the castle to know what he wanted. Your door slowly swung open, the hinges making an effort not to make a sound, not to squeak with it's movements.

He could see you. Your head against the pillow, blanket covering your body.

The castle was cold. Freezing cold. During the day it was gorgeously warm, not boiling, but not creating cold in the shade. But at night, there was no warmth to be found. The castle tried. She really tried, but there was little she could do.

He stepped into your room.

You had to be cold. You didn't shiver, like your body wasn't awake enough for it. But Max knew what he would find if he touched you. Skin like ice.

The cupboard in the wall, disguised to look like nothing more than a pattern in the wood, opened. On his hind legs, Max pulled out a blanket. He could still walk and talk like a man in his beast form, but he found it more comfortable on all fours and his voice was gravelly.

He was gentle with the blanket, stopping his claws from tearing through it. He laid it over your body and you immediately seemed to settle. Your body relaxed as you subconsciously grabbed the blanket and tugged it closer.

Max left your room and the door shut silently. He continued on through the castle. It was a lonely, boring existence, being the beast of the castle. His old staff avoided him and Max understood why.

It was his fault, afterall.

His fault that they had all been cursed, his fault they could never live their lives. Their families had ages and died, leaving them behind over a hundred years ago. More than that, he suspected, but it was hard to remember.

The village just beyond the castle was alive. It always was a night after he took someone that the celebrations began. Before you entered his castle, you would have joined in with the celebrations. Another year of being free from him.

But now you weren't free from him. You were in his clutches, never to leave until you died. Either by his hand or your own.

Just a few days until he lost you.

Max watched the sunrise. Tomorrow he would have to face you as this monster. He didn't want to watch you flinch away from him when you saw his face. The way you stared at his horns. You would hate the rest of him, he knew. You would scream and cry and cower in fear at the sight of his claws and teeth.

The sunrise was beautiful. It was always beautiful. Every morning, the sky going from black to orange to blue. His kingdom was beautiful, even if it wasn't really his anymore.

He looked down, watched as Charles completed his morning ritual. He stretched before he ran towards the castle gates. But he could get no further than that, his body just stopping, unable to go forward. "Fuck!" He shouted.

Hundreds of years of this. Hundreds of years of watching Charles try to leave, unable to.

Were you awake yet? You would be able to leave. You would be able to walk out of the castle gates, no problem. You wouldn't be held back by some invisible force.

A stabbing feeling shot through his chest as he thought about you leaving. But he knew what it was like to be trapped. You shouldn't have to feel that way.

He had to let you go.

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[ginandvodka-writes]

Poisonous blood: Chapter 1

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Female Reader.

TW: Rape, adult-minor marriage, forced marriage, domestic violence.

Word count: 3.4k | Masterlist Next →

You were a lonely woman, ever since you have memory. As an orphan child you had no family or an official tutor. Of course, you lived in an orphanage with a lot of other girls in your same situation with five adults taking care of you all in addition to the professors and maintaining staff. You considered yourself lucky since you ended up in a descent orphanage, maybe the staff weren’t the most affectionate, but they weren't bad and treated you all well, and that was a victory itself.

You hadn't many friends, you and all the other girls functioned as a family for each other, even when sometimes you argued and didn't have a perfect relationship, it was all you all had, and for you it was a brute diamond. But outside that little family it was rare for all the girls to have friends and get along well with normal people, and you weren't the exception. It was like a huge invisible barrier between you and the outside world, one that only a few of you managed to break once grown up and must face the outside.

Despite that you lived normally, at least until you turn thirteen.

A few weeks after your birthday, the orphanage had a significant change. From now on it'll depend on the local church. At first it wasn't a big change, of course now you all must receive religion classes and go to the church every Sunday morning to receive the Lord's sacred word, but since you all didn't believe in God, you took it as a 'fairytale class", full of fantastic stories about heroes and villains.

And you wished that it were like that, just a fairytale.

The father was strange, you all knew it, presenting himself as a merciful man, but that in closed doors wasn't that man of God he said to be. Many of the women that went to the mass loved him since he was in his thirties, handsome and had a big charisma, and he treated you and all your sisters well, at least since your home became part of the church the donations increased, and you could eat meat more than once a week.

But there was something about him that made you all keep a distance. Now that you were in your early thirties you got all the signs, but back then when you were just a child, an innocent thirteen-year-old didn't notice them.

He tried to approach you all with the excuse of teach you how glorious god was, but his real intentions were others, and although at first you all tried to keep your distance as your older sisters warned you, little by little he managed to charm all of you. It started with little comments that flattered you all, 'you look gorgeous today miss', 'you're a beautiful creation' and things like that. Then came manipulation, making you all believe that you were already women, young adults ready to explore the world and be loved by good men like him.

Lastly, direct contact.

Slight touches, kisses near the lips, sweet words, calling you all his little wives. Until finally he caught you in his evil red.

Thirteen years, five months, four days. That was your exact age the day he took your innocence.

It hurt, and you didn't understand what happened in all its extension, but he manipulated you to believe that that was normal, that it was the Lord's will since he was a pure man chosen by God.

From that day on you were his little wife, as he loved to call you, and since you thought it was normal you let him touch and kiss you, taking you despite that it didn't always feel good, or you didn't want to.

A month later you got pregnant.

Your period didn't come, and you started to feel nauseous every morning. He was the one who noticed first.

And just like the coward sick man he was, he made a plan in which, in addition of being innocent, he would be your hero, your guardian angel.

He told everyone that a young unknown boy took your purity just like Satan had taken Eve's innocence. But despite that, he wouldn't leave you alone to carry a bad man's child.

That's how he became your beloved husband.

He married you just two weeks before his announcement. Of course, the orphanage director opposed it, but what could she do? Now they depended on the church and by extension on him. If it wasn't for him your home would've been demolished and all your sisters separated into different orphanages, with no promises of seeing each other again, or even worse, end up in a violent orphanage.

The worst part that was all the father's followers sanctified him, saying he was a kind of Jesus Christ reincarnation. His devotee women even overwhelmed you with their presence and questionable tips. Telling you that you were so lucky to be such a good man's wife, and that from now on you'd to be a perfect god woman, cooking for him, keeping his house clean, obeying him without a question and in resume, being his slave, a doll with no will or purpose beyond his wishes.

What could you or the orphanage staff do?

Nothing. Not against a powerful man as he was.

Soon you turned fourteen, and shortly after you gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.

And oh god if you weren't so scared.

You were scared from the first moment you knew you were going to be a mother, but now that you had your baby outside you, in your arms and feeding from you it was a completely different story. Of course you loved your little girl, but love is not all what keeps a baby and a mother alive.

The first weeks you were a good mother, but more because you must, like an automatic switch that was telling you day and night what to do to keep your baby safe, not because you felt ready.

For god's sake you were just a child.

You didn’t have many memories from the first month, most of the time you just zooned out you were in a dissociative state where your brain disconnected itself from the outside world to save the energy you needed to protect your baby and keep yourself alive eating three times a day. Well, along with your new wife’s duties.

But then, when your brain got accustomed to this new routine, that it understood that at least you were safe and had a roof over you, you started to feel again, connecting with the outside and well, your baby became your most powerful strength.

She became your home. Thanks to her you could face this new world of maternity, and since the normal world was still strange to you, she was your safe place too.

You did your chores just as you did with your sisters back in the orphanage, feed your husband and do whatever he pleased, went to his masses, read the bible, and kept your baby girl safe and happy.

Sadly, it didn't last long.

Little by little your husband started to push you aside, at first it hurt, not because you loved him —because you didn't, but because you learned that he would be your pillar and your strength until the day you die.

After all he and his loyal followers manipulated you to believe that you were nothing without him.

Soon you discovered that he had lovers among his most devotee women, and not only that, but he used his position as a man of God to get into prostitutes’ beds and other poor women that just like you and your sisters, hadn't many options but to obey their savior.

I do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man; rather, she is to remain quiet… Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord.

Fortunately, he always used condom, only God would know how many STI’s you'd gotten because of his sick libido.

Now, once more you had to rebuild yourself piece by piece, with your heart broken and the fear of being abandoned you clung even more to your baby, hiding her from her father's sins.

That was your life, being a teenage mom married with a hypocrite man who abused every woman he had a chance with.

He always found reasons in the bible to justify his actions, in the most twisted possible way. And among those stupid reasons he found the excuse to harm you physically.

The first time he hit you, your baby was four, and he did it just because his coffee was too sweet. It wasn't, he just wanted an excuse to unleash his fury on you. It was a blow right in the face, you stumbled, and your nose bled so much you stained not only your clothes but the floor too.

He apologized later, and that's how the second stage of his abuse started.

He hit you because of stupid little reasons, a wrinkle on his collar, his tea was cold, you hadn't cleaned the table well, and the list went on. Then after an hour or two he apologized to you promising that it wouldn't happen again as long as you were a good wife and learnt about your mistakes.

Apparently, you never learned about them, no matter how perfect you tried to be, that his house was squeaking clean as a teacup or that his clothes were neat, he always found reasons to harm you.

With time things got worse, by the time your daughter was seven he stopped to apologize since you would never learn ‘in the good way', after all you were just a woman, and women are dirty creatures who need god's purification.

And despite that, you endured everything, for your daughter, to give her the life you always wanted, with a lovely family, your own home, delicious meals, and a normal life in the normal world. She never saw him hitting you, at most she heard your cries a few times, and when she saw your bruised face or the bandage covering your limbs or the way you barely could move, you only told her that they were just accidents, that you'll be fine soon.

"Mommy's a clumsy woman, sweetie, don't worry about me."

And just when you thought it couldn't get worse, it did.

The third stage came. He started to tell your daughter terrible things about you, that you were a bad woman, a bad wife and therefore, a bad mother. You were lazy and didn't do your chores well, didn't want to please him, your damn husband, a man of God. You were selfish, full of sin and always wanted more and more from him, and since you only studied until eighth grade you were also stupid and ignorant.

He was only a poor man that had to put up with you, he was just trying to make a good woman out of you, to put you to the lord's path.

Poor man of God.

And of course she believed him, she was just a little girl after all, innocent just like you were when he abused you and stained you with his dirty hands.

By the time she turned nineth she hated you from the core, despite you in a way you never thought it could be possible, especially for a child.

No matter how tender you were with her, how much you loved her and that you were the sweetest mother, she hated you, and when her father told her his reasons to harm you, she began to believe that it was your fault for being a dirty woman.

Your heart broke into a thousand pieces, you could endure his abuses, but this? Your daughter's contempt was something you couldn't bear. Being honest, she always was the only reason why you haven't taken your life, not even now that she hated you.

And if it wasn't enough for him, he crossed a line one day.

You almost died that day. He broke your left leg, hit you until you vomited blood and lost conscious for about three whole minutes, and consequently you lost your ability to hear out of your right ear.

It was a massacre and not conformed with you dying in the middle of his living room, he spat at you and left, warning you to clean up the mess you'd caused before he came back.

And your daughter saw everything, but didn't say anything, just remained at the stair’s feet watching you with hatred, with her beautiful blue eyes looking at your broken body as if you had deserved it.

You didn't know how, but you managed to call 112 before losing conscious again.

By the time you woke up you were in the hospital, covered in bandages and a cast in your leg, you couldn't hear with your right ear and the worst part; your daughter wasn't anywhere. Instead, it was an old man with a black uniform in her place, a cop, worsening your fears. He was distracted until he heard the vital signs machine peeping fast and approached you trying to calm you down, which was not easy. Not after all you’ve endured.

With the doctor’s help the police officer explained to you that you were fine, and despite the sequels you survived, and your daughter was fine too, safe with one of your sisters since given the circumstances an emergency trial was held for temporary custody. Your husband was detained and being prosecuted not only for your case but also for other abused women who, upon learning of your case, joined the lawsuit.

You knew he was an abusive man but wasn’t aware about all the damage he had caused. Vulnerable women that searched for help, imprisoned women whom he visited to impart the word of God, little girls that, just like you were orphans, and sadly, among them were some of your sisters.

It was a long process, as well as exhausting. Your daughter hated you because in her eyes you were the bad one in that abusive marriage, you were the bad woman, a villain that snatched her innocent father away from her. So, in addition to all the psycho-emotionally exhausting legal process, putting up with nosy people that wanted to know everything about you and your daughter ―including your husband’s sick followers that defended him alleging he was just doing the right thing at putting you in your place, you had to endure your daughter’s hatred.

It wasn’t easy, it lasted months, almost a year. You had to live in a temporary women shelter’s since everything was in his name, and you and your daughter had to go to therapy. While you were prescribed a few medications, your daughter was worse every day, to the point of yelling at you and hit her therapist twice out of rage because of the traumatic experience she had.

But finally, after a year of challenging work, trying to heal yourself and your daughter, things started to look up. You got a job as a waitress that allowed you to move to another place, a new one far away from everything, away from your husband and his sick devotee followers that blamed you for almost dying at his hands. It was a tiny apartment, with two little rooms, one bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen. Your daughter started going to a normal school ―a non-religious one, where she stayed from Monday to Friday and passed the weekend with you. And despite the tremendous change, it helped you both to improve your relationship.

She never became attached to you as she was before your ex-husband’s manipulations, and despite everything she still missed her father, but at least she didn’t hate you anymore and from time to time she even told you that she loved you.

And that was your life for the next eight years. As your daughter grew up, she became more independent, a little rebellious, like all the other teenagers her age but a good girl after all, intelligent, jolly, and beautiful, the living image of her father.

You managed to give her a peaceful normal life.

Too many extra shifts in the restaurant so you can take time off and go see her school presentations and allow you to buy her little special gifts, sleepless nights reading books about emotional support to help her through every stage of her life, denying yourself personal pleasures to give her what she needed or wanted, like a good cellphone when she took the third place in public speaking, nice clothes so she could feel confident when went out with her friends, and don’t forget all the times that you’d spend hours in the kitchen to cook delicious meals to she and her friends when they visited her.

Your baggy eyes, sleepless nights, fears and nightmares that you kept to yourself, dizziness due to fatigue and zero social life outside your workplace were worth it to make her happy despite your hard past.

Finally, she turned eighteen and was accepted into college with an eighty percent scholarship ―the other remaining twenty percent would be paid with all the inheritance your ex-husband left for her. Once more you took several extra shifts to save enough money to buy her the cellphone she always wanted and take her to a nice restaurant to celebrate.

The day she had to leave came, as always, she wasn’t the most affectionate, but that didn’t matter to you, not when she hugged you before leaving, promising to come back by Christmas.

And now there you were, walking through the supermarket halls, returning half of your list after having made a call to your daughter.

“Sorry mom, I’m not going to be there for Christmas.” Those simple words broke your heart, but you managed to smile despite that she wasn’t seeing you and spoke calmly.

“It’s okay hun, don’t worry.” You could hear the noise at the other end of the line, no doubt she was already celebrating. “Have fun my dear. And say hello to your friends!”

You were sure she didn't hear your last words because the moment the words 'and say…’ left your mouth the line went dead.

Well, now you had to buy only a very few ingredients for a little meal for Christmas, just for one. Despite your broken heart you understood her, after all she was not a little girl anymore, she was leaving behind her teens and exploring the adult world, of course she’d prefer to spend holidays with her friends and not with her mom. Maybe you’d have given anything to spend holidays ―and any other special date, with your sisters and the parents you never had, but your daughter was different, she had a happy life, a normal one.

You sighed sadly but managed to smile softly knowing that your most precious one was happy and enjoying her life.

 While you continued walking through the market halls you couldn’t help but think about your life, all that you’d lived and had to go through, the remanent trauma that still lingered in your soul, going out from time to time, your loneliness, your truncated wishes, your sisters with whom you only spoke occasionally since they’d moved to another cities, and even other countries. Your fears, your dreams, your hopes, everything.

And this last year wasn’t easy either, now that you were completely alone your home felt kind of cold. You wanted to believe that maybe now you could start something new, take up your hobbies again, but you were so afraid of making a fool out of yourself that you’d stopped before even starting, more times than fingers in your hands. The worst of all was that you craved for some company, a friend to chat with, to share little special moments and bring warmness to your home.

Maybe a dog or a cat would be perfect. It would keep your mind busy while making you loving company.

You were so absorbed in your own mind that you didn’t notice that you were walking straight head towards someone’s cart, and by the moment you noticed it was already late, both carts got stuck and, in your clumsiness, you ended up throwing them on the ground.

Now, yours and someone else’s groceries were scattered all over the ground. And not just a random person, but a behemoth of a man covered all in black, half face hidden behind a surgical mask and a fearsome gaze that looked at you as if you had insulted his mother.

What a good way to celebrate Christmas.

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 004. the blueprint.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 4.3k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: holyyyyy its finally here !!! this chapter was totally supposed to be the chapter that kind of puts things in perspective and establishes some world building BUT ALAS I GOT SIDETRACKED... -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

The lecture hall is silent, save for the occasional shuffle of paper and the measured rhythm of Anaxagoras’ voice. The afternoon light cuts sharp lines across the rows of desks, dust motes drifting in the air like suspended thought, catching on the edges of his words.

“A fractal begins with a base function,” he says, voice steady but threaded with something deeper—something that hums in the spaces between his syllables. “This is its essence. The foundation upon which all complexity unfolds.”

He doesn’t write an equation. Instead, his hands move through the air in clean, deliberate arcs, shaping the concept in motion.

“The Mandelbrot set,” he continues. “begins with a simple recursive function. A value is taken, transformed, then fed back into itself. Each iteration alters the outcome—but the fundamental pattern remains.”

He pauses, letting the weight of his next words settle into the quiet.

“Small differences in the starting value can lead to vastly different structures. But no matter how much it expands, the same signature is imprinted within it. Recursion does not create randomness. It does not erase its origin. Instead, it refines, elaborates, expands. The original form is never lost—only expressed in infinite variation.”

The pen in your hand is warm from where you've been holding it too tightly.

Anaxagoras moves seamlessly into the next thread of thought. “The human mind operates on patterns,” he says, underlining the phrase on the board with a slow, deliberate stroke. “Not in the sense of mindless repetition, but as a structured, evolving process. We recognize, reinforce, and refine information based on prior input.”

Something tugs at the edge of your mind.

“Consider language acquisition,” he continues. “A child is not born knowing a language, yet the structure for it already exists. Exposure, experience, and interaction shape the outcome, but the capacity is inherent. The process is iterative—the same foundation, refined through use, altered by context.”

Your pen hesitates, ink pooling in a single dot on the page.

Ilias nudges your arm. “That same page has been open for five minutes,” he mutters.

You don’t answer. 

It’s there. Right there, just beyond reach—woven between the lines of his lecture and the contours of your own thoughts.

Your gaze lifts to him.

Anaxagoras isn’t looking at you directly, but you recognize it now—the way his tone shifts when he lingers on certain ideas. His phrasing is precise, yet measured, as though anticipating the moment someone follows him past the obvious.

Anticipating you.

Ilias nudges you again. “You’re making the face.”

You blink. “What face?”

“The one where you’re about to say something wildly specific that sounds normal to you but makes the rest of us reconsider whether we know what words mean.”

You swat at him without looking, keeping your attention fixed forward.

"If individuality is a function of iteration," you say suddenly, the thought slipping free like a thread pulled from a greater weave, "then at what point does the original form stop being relevant?"

Silence.

A shift in the air—it’s subtle.

Anaxagoras pauses. The chalk in his hand stills just before it touches the board. But he doesn’t turn. Not yet.

"You assume it does," he says instead, his voice measured. "Why?"

You hesitate. "Because—" You try to grasp at the thought, but it’s slipping, unraveling. "Because if every iteration changes, then the original—"

"Changes how?"

You blink. "Through variance. Accumulated difference."

He nods, but it’s not satisfaction. It’s expectation. "And yet?"

You frown. "And yet it still carries the same process—"

"So is it severance?"

You inhale sharply. "No."

He turns now, finally, and the weight of his gaze lands fully on you. "Then what is it?"

You search for the word, the shape of the idea curling at the edge of your thoughts.

"Extension?" you murmur.

Anaxagoras watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then—so slightly you almost miss it—his fingers tighten around the chalk.

"Hm."

A pause. 

The weight of his gaze—assessing, acknowledging, remembering, as though he’s not just hearing your words but recognizing them, as though he’s tracing a pattern he’s seen before but can’t quite name.

Then, just as smoothly, he turns back to the board as if nothing happened, resuming his explanation.

You exhale sharply, pressing your lips together to stifle a grin.

You’re not sure if you should thank Anaxagoras or be absolutely, thoroughly frustrated with him.

Maybe both.

He takes a step forward, chalk tapping against the board in a series of crisp strokes as he shifts the topic. And then—

“Ilias.”

Ilias straightens instantly, caught mid-whisper.

Anaxagoras doesn’t turn. “If a system is defined by iterative transformation, how do we distinguish between growth and replication?”

Ilias scoffs, leaning back like this is the easiest question in the world. “Obviously, if a system changes with each iteration, it’s growth. If it just repeats the same process without meaningful difference, it’s replication.”

A beat.

Anaxagoras finally glances over his shoulder. “Incorrect.”

Ilias blinks. “What.”

Anaxagoras turns fully now, expression unreadable. “Your answer assumes that change alone defines growth. It does not.”

From beside him, you let out an involuntary snort.

Ilias’ head snaps toward you. “Oh, now you have an opinion?”

You press a hand to your mouth, eyes gleaming with barely suppressed amusement.

Anaxagoras waits.

Ilias flounders for a moment, then straightens again, clearing his throat like he can salvage this. “Okay, well—uh. If the transformation process is… uhh… significant enough, then—”

A long silence.

You don’t even try to hide your giggle this time.

Ilias throws his hands up. “Why are you laughing? You got to say your freaky little statement in peace!”

Anaxagoras raises an eyebrow. “Language.”

Ilias pales.

You wheeze, turning away.

Ilias exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair like he’s fighting for his life. “Alright, fine. Recursion isn’t just about repetition, but about… contextual… refinement..?”

The silence hung thick, oppressive, as Ilias struggled to string together a coherent thought. His hands fumbled with the papers in front of him, and his voice cracked under the pressure. It was clear to anyone with half a brain that his attempt to impress Anaxagoras had backfired—again.

Then, cutting through the stillness, came a voice. Quiet but firm.

"It’s not just about change. It’s about the system responding to its environment. If it doesn’t, it’s not really transformation. It’s just… repetition."

Ilias’s head snapped up. The voice had no warning, no introduction—just a cool, steady presence that seemed to effortlessly cut through the tension.

For a split second, he blinked in confusion, his mind scrambling to process what had just happened. He’d been so caught up in his own rambling, he hadn’t noticed anyone else was around. But there, seated a couple chairs over, was a girl he hadn’t seen before. Dark, hair, eyes sharp with quiet confidence, arms folded across her chest. She was a mystery—a calm, collected contrast to the chaos that he had just created.

Ilias swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "That was… uh. Really well put." His laugh was quieter this time, edged with something like genuine relief. "I was—yeah. Definitely struggling there." He hesitated, then, almost earnestly: "Thanks."

The girl didn’t say anything right away. Just tilted her head slightly, studying him with a kind of quiet amusement.

Anaxagoras’s gaze flicked between them, the silence stretching just a beat longer than comfortable. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose, barely a sigh but just enough to be perceptible. His eyes landed back on Ilias.

"Struggling is a generous term," Anaxagoras said dryly.

Ilias groaned, dropping his head onto his desk with a thud.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Anaxagoras exhaled slowly, a faint, begrudging noise escaping him. His gaze flickered back to the girl for a moment, a brief acknowledgment that didn’t quite touch his eyes.

“Acceptable,” he said, his voice crisp and without fanfare, before his attention returned to Ilias. “This time.”

It was as close to praise as Anaxagoras was ever likely to give.

You grin. “That was impressive. Truly.”

Ilias glares. “I hate you.”

But across the room, Anaxagoras’ gaze flickers back to you for a fraction of a second—just enough for you to notice, just enough to make your pulse quicken.

And then, as always, he moves on as though nothing happened.

Yet, your thoughts linger, trailing behind you as the lecture ends, as you gather your things, as you step into the quiet corridors where the conversation still churns in your mind, unfinished.

The evening air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of autumn leaves as you and Ilias walk down the winding campus path, the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes the only sound for a few moments. It's a comfortable silence—both of you are still processing the mental gymnastics Anaxagoras just put the class through.

And then, of course, Ilias ruins it.

“I’m being publicly executed in that classroom,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Every. Single. Lecture.”

You glance at him, amused. “What are you even talking about?”

He throws his hands up. “Oh, I don’t know! Maybe the part where he treats me like an enrichment activity for the class while you get revered like some kind of academic deity.”

You snort. “I am not—”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he cuts in, shaking his head dramatically. “You don’t know what it’s like to be the designated clown. To live in fear of the moment he decides today is the day to obliterate me for sport.”

You raise a brow. “Maybe if you stopped making questionable philosophical takes—”

“No. It’s too late for me. But you—” He points accusingly. “You get the pauses.”

You blink. “The what?”

“The pauses,” he repeats, exasperated. “You ask something, and he actually stops. Like, for a second, he’s just standing there, processing, recalibrating his entire existence before he answers like he saw it coming all along, and proceeds worships the ground you walk on. Meanwhile, I breathe wrong, and he materializes a ten-minute verbal essay on why I’m incorrect.”

“…That’s not true.”

“Oh, it is,” he deadpans. “I’m a walking rhetorical question to that man. You, on the other hand? He actually looks pleased when you speak. It’s sickening.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “You’re being dramatic.”

“And you,” he sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, before something catches the corner of his eye– "Hey! It’s a dog!"

You barely have time to process before he veers off-course, pointing toward a scruffy-looking mutt curled up near a campus bench. The dog lifts its head, ears perking, but doesn’t bolt. Its fur is a patchwork of colors—mostly brown, with streaks of white and black—and though it looks a little unkempt, it seems well-fed.

"Do you think it's a stray?" you ask, stepping closer.

"I mean, it’s wearing a bandana." Ilias crouches, squinting at the little fabric tied around its neck. The dog watches him, tail thumping hesitantly against the ground. "Could be a lost pet. Or maybe it just—"

The dog trots forward, sniffing at your shoes before nudging its head into Ilias’ leg. He yelps, stiffening. The dog wags its tail harder.

"Okay," he breathes, lowering his hand. "Okay. This is happening."

Just as his fingers brush the dog’s fur, a voice interrupts. "Ah—hey, hey, don't scare him!"

You turn towards the source—a striking figure with windswept white hair, piercing blue eyes, and an air of effortless charm, jogging up to you, grinning like you’ve all just been reunited after years apart. His crisp, button-down shirt is a pristine shade of ivory, tailored to fit perfectly without appearing rigid. Over it, he wears a sleek, deep-blue blazer, unbuttoned, its lapels lined with subtle gold embroidery that catches the light as he moves. The blazer is paired with well-fitted slacks of a similar navy hue, pressed yet comfortably worn. A fine gold watch glints on his wrist, peeking out whenever he gestures animatedly. His shoes—polished but practical—carry a quiet confidence, much like him.

His energy is immediate, warm and bright, like he’s been waiting all day for a reason to talk to someone. 

"Sorry about that!" He slows to a stop, catching his breath. "This little guy's not a stray—he just likes hanging around here. We feed him sometimes."

You blink. "We?" 

The dog immediately abandons Ilias and darts across, tail wagging furiously as a second man crouches, offering food from his hand—a stark contrast. This one has sharp red eyes, dusty red hair falls at his shoulders. He, in contrast, wears black. A fitted, long-sleeved dress shirt clings just right, the top few buttons left undone, exposing the faintest hint of skin. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing the inked patterns winding down his left arm. A single silver ring rests on his hand, catching the light as he idly scratches behind the stray dog’s ears. His charcoal-gray slacks fit comfortably, cinched by a belt with an unembellished black buckle. Unlike… blondie’s polished look, his ensemble leans effortlessly sharp—a perfect balance of refinement and disregard. 

"That answers that," you murmur.

The white-haired one—Phainon, judging by the way his companion sighs his name in exasperation—grins. "Sorry if he harassed you. He’s just a friendly little guy. I’m Phainon, by the way! And the one who’s pretending not to give a damn right now is Mydei."

At his name, the other man—Mydei glances up briefly, gaze flickering over you and Ilias before returning to his task. He places the container on the ground, and the dog immediately perks up, trotting over to eat.

Ilias, still kneeling awkwardly, exhales. "Okay. Not a stray. Noted."

Phainon beams. "Yeah, he just likes people! Kind of like me."

"Don’t compare yourself to a dog," Mydei mutters, scratching behind the mutt’s ears. Despite his dry tone, there’s a distinct lack of bite to it.

You exchange a glance with Ilias, who looks like he's trying to decide whether this interaction is going to be amusing or exhausting.

Mydei, meanwhile, finishes setting down the food, and the dog immediately perks up, trotting over to eat. Phainon watches with fondness before turning back to you both.

Ilias, undeterred, crouches slightly, watching as the dog happily devours its food. Then he tilts his head. "Wait, does he have a name?"

Phainon perks up. "Oh! Yeah, we call him—" but before the word fully escapes, Mydei cuts in flatly. "No, he doesn’t."

Phainon sighs, as if wounded. "Well, someone refuses to name him anything else–" 

"He doesn’t need a name," Mydei replies, scratching the dog behind the ears. "He’s fine as he is.” 

“We call him—his name is Dog." Phainon interrupts and proudly exclaims. 

Mydei exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "'Dog' is not a name."

"It's a perfectly functional name," Phainon counters, crossing his arms. "It tells you exactly what he is."

"It tells me you’re uncreative," Mydei mutters.

Ilias lets out a quiet laugh. "The dogs name is… Dog?"

Phainon nods enthusiastically. "Yes! And he responds to it! Watch—Dog!"

The dog does, in fact, lift his head, ears twitching.

Mydei gives him a long, unimpressed stare. "He also responds to literally any sound you make. You could call him ‘Toaster’ and he’d do the same thing."

Phainon gasps. "Toaster is kind of cute."

"Absolutely not."

You exchange a glance with Ilias, both of you barely holding back laughter. The dog—Dog?—wags his tail, blissfully unaware of the existential debate happening over his name.

Phainon turns his attention back to you, his grin softer now, less performative. "Anyways, you two should join us in the evenings if you’d like to befriend Dog over here! We usually hang out around here and—well, I do… and Mydei pretends he just happens to be here."

"Because I do," Mydei deadpans, but he doesn’t refute any further, turning his gaze to you instead.

Ilias glances at you. "Well, I don’t have anything better to do."

You hum, considering. The dog has finished eating and is now curled up against Mydei’s side, content. Phainon looks at you expectantly, his posture light, easy.

...That does not sound like a productive use of your time.

"... I’m in." you say. 

Phainon cheers, Ilias pats you on the back, and Mydei only shakes his head, unimpressed.

But even as laughter rings in the air, your notebook sits heavy in your bag, pressing against your side like a restless thing. The pages whisper against each other with every step, the unfinished nonsensical equations scrawled within tugging at you like a sleeve caught on a nail—persistent, insistent, refusing to be ignored.

Maybe that's what brought you here, you tell yourself.

The door to Anaxagoras’ office door creaks as you push it open, stepping into the dimly lit office. Anaxagoras looks up from his desk, dark eyes flicking to the threshold with the mild expectation of a routine interruption. But when he sees you—alone, unannounced—something in his expression shifts.

You don’t exactly wait for permission, as you cross the room, pull out the chair opposite him, and sit.

His pen hovers over the page. He does not tell you to leave, nor does he acknowledge your quiet audacity. Instead, he sets his pen down, fingers pressing lightly against the desk’s edge, and waits. A slight lift of his brow, but no verbal response. Just patience. A steady, expectant silence.

"Professor," you greet, as if a sliver of formality might excuse the sheer audacity of your unannounced arrival.

Your gaze flickers down to your notebook, its pages filled with hurried, half-formed thoughts—equations scrawled into the margins, trailing off as if they were abandoned mid-realization. You don’t need to check them. You already know they lead back to the same question.

"The base function," you begin, voice measured, "remains the same, no matter how many iterations occur. No matter how much complexity emerges, the original structure is never erased."

Anaxagoras leans back slightly in his chair, studying you with the kind of intrigue usually reserved for theorems that refuse to be solved.

"And?"

You exhale, fingertips brushing over the ink-streaked paper. "If that applies to consciousness—if the mind isn’t just pattern recognition, but recursion—then that means identity isn’t fixed. It’s an evolving expression of an underlying structure." 

Something flickers in his gaze. He rises.

Not abruptly, not impatiently, but as if drawn by the gravity of the conversation. His chair scrapes softly against the floor as he crosses the small space between you. He does not sit at the edge of the desk, does not fold his arms in some passive stance of authority.

Instead, he leans over your notebook, shoulders nearly brushing yours.

The scent of coffee lingers on his shirt, mingling with the fainter trace of old paper and ink. His gaze moves over the mess of your notes, scanning the tangled web of equations and annotations, before settling on you again.

"You're making an assumption," he says, voice lower now, more measured.

You tilt your chin slightly, meeting his gaze. "Of what nature?"

His fingers hover near the edge of the page, not quite touching, but close enough that the movement draws your attention. "You assume that the core of identity—the thing that stays the same through every iteration—is purely structural." 

The silence stretches between you, taut as a thread on the verge of snapping.

Your breath is steady, but something in your pulse betrays you. He is too close. Not inappropriately so, not in a way that crosses any boundaries—only in a way that makes the air shift. The room smaller. The moment stretched just slightly beyond its logical bounds.

It would be easy to answer. To argue, to press forward, to let the academic current carry you both into safer waters.

Instead, you only watch him. 

And for the first time, you wonder if he feels it too.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your pen.

"The base function has to be structural," you counter, though your voice is softer now, measured against the weight of the space between you. "If it weren’t—if it were mutable at its core—then what holds continuity between iterations? What prevents identity from collapsing into chaos? What keeps one’s identity from falling apart?"

Anaxagoras doesn’t move away. He studies you the way he studies difficult problems—patiently, intently, as if waiting for the answer to emerge in real time.

"And yet," he muses, "if it were purely structural, if the function was rigid rather than dynamic, then identity would be deterministic. There would be no true variation between one individual. and another"

Your breath catches—not at the words, but at the way he delivers them. Low, deliberate, as if testing their effect. 

Your eyes flicker back to your notes, searching for the answer already buried in the ink-scrawled equations.

"If recursion alone dictated identity," he continues, fingers brushing the page near a half-written derivation, "then all of our decisions would be predictable, predetermined by the constraints of that function. But something else is at play."

You glance back up at him. "Emergent complexity."

A small, almost imperceptible nod. "Iteration isn't replication. Each step in it's expansion is influenced not just by the base function, but by external conditions—context, interference, interaction. No two paths are identical. Every recursive process has the potential for divergence."

You inhale sharply, following the thought as it unfolds, as it threads itself between the logic you already understand and the realization taking shape. 

He watches the shift in your expression—sees you arrive at the same conclusion.

"If identity," you say slowly, "is shaped not just by its internal function, but by its interactions—"

"Then when two distinct but intrinsically linked patterns cross paths," he interjects, "neither walks away unchanged."

The words land too heavily.

Not just because they are true, because they make sense.

But because he isn't speaking in hypotheticals anymore.

For a moment, neither of you move. He is still leaning over your desk, too close, breath dusting lightly against your shoulder—warm, uneven, just barely there. His presence presses into the space between the pages, the margins, the frantic scrawl of your thoughts. 

Your fingers brush against the edge of your notes. "And what happens," you murmur, almost to yourself, "when two of these... structures become entangled?"

Anaxagoras holds your gaze.

"You tell me," he says.

A slow breath. Hesitation.

"...Change is inevitable," you murmur. "Not a choice, not an accident—just a consequence of proximity." 

Something flickers across his expression—too brief to name, too quick to be certain.

He should correct you. Should challenge the conclusion you’ve drawn.

Instead, he watches you, head tilting just slightly—less like a professor considering a theory, more like something else entirely.

Your breath stills. The moment lingers too long.

You shift slightly, glancing down at your notes.

"Perhaps," Anaxagoras says at last, his voice quieter than before, "but not all change is equal."

"... And what determines the difference?" you ask, softer now.

His eyes don’t leave yours. "The depth of the resonance."

The night air hums with a quiet sort of clarity as you step out of the grove, the weight of the conversation still curling around your ribs like an uncollapsed waveform. The campus pathways are near-empty at this hour, bathed in the soft glow of lamplight. Each footstep crunches softly against the gravel, the rhythm steady, measured—nothing like the chaotic pulse beneath your skin.

You aren’t entirely sure how long you sat there in his office. The concept of time had blurred somewhere between the pages of your notes and the weight of his gaze. Between the fractal recursion of thought and the unsettling realization that—perhaps—you weren’t just speaking of equations anymore.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag as you walk.

(If recursion applies not just to thought but to interaction—if the base function of identity is altered through contact—then what does it mean that his presence lingers in your mind long after the conversation has ended?)

The wind shifts, cool against your skin, but it does little to steady the unshaken cadence of your pulse.

Anaxagoras had let the silence stretch before you left. No dismissal, no final remark to wrap the conversation into something neat and containable. Just that lingering weight—his dark eyes studying you, as if waiting for you to arrive at the realization before he acknowledged it himself.

(The depth of the resonance..?)

You exhale sharply, shaking your head as if that alone could unravel the thought from your mind.

Your dormitory looms ahead, its familiar outline silhouetted against the night sky. The building is quiet when you step inside, the soft hum of distant voices muffled through the walls. You move through the dimly lit corridors with muscle memory, feet carrying you forward while your mind is still somewhere else.

Your door clicks shut behind you, shutting you into the quiet stillness of your room.

Everything here is familiar. The unmade bed, the clutter of books on your desk, the notebook you’d left open earlier with some half-scribbled thought that now feels embarrassingly simplistic. The air smells faintly of old paper and the lingering trace of coffee grounds from this morning—scents that should root you back into the present.

But they don’t.

Not when your mind is still back in that office.

Not when you can still hear the quiet cadence of his voice, the deliberate pause before he spoke—

You press your fingers to your temple, willing yourself to unspool the loop of recursion that has latched onto your thoughts.

It’s fine. This is fine.

The conversation had been an extension of an intellectual discourse, nothing more. You were both speaking in abstracts, exploring a hypothesis. That’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done.

Then why did you feel so different?

You swallow, exhaling through your nose.

Your notebook is still in your hands, the pages curled slightly from the way you’d gripped them on the walk back. Slowly, carefully, you set it down on your desk, flipping back to the last scrawled equation.

Identity = f(Iteration, Context, Interaction)

A slow inhale. Your fingers brush over the ink-streaked margin, a reflexive motion—an attempt to ground yourself.

Then, after a moment, you reach for your pen.

The ink flows smoothly as you add another line beneath the equation, hesitating for only a second before you let the words take form.

Resonance determines the rate of transformation.

You stare at it.

And then—slowly, deliberately—you close the notebook. 

-> a/n: hey, if you've made it this far i SERIOUSLY commend your strength. i had to take several breaks while proofreading this because i, the writer, myself could not process their words at one stretch... erm... so, here's a mini explanation with an analogy, if any of you are actually interested in what they were talking about. Imagine you're building a snowman. At first, it’s just a small snowball in your hands. But as you roll it, more snow sticks, and it grows bigger and bigger. You stack more snow on top, shape it, maybe add a scarf or a carrot nose. No matter how much it changes, the first snowball—the one you started with—is still there, buried inside. It never went away, it just became part of something bigger. That first snowball here is like the core of 'identity'. Everything else—your experiences, choices, and changes—builds on top of it, but it’s always there, shaping who you are.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette@hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom@yourfavouritecitizen @sugarlol12345 @aspiring-bookworm @kad0o @yourfavoritefreakyhan @mavuika-marquez @somniosu

[lxmelle]

Those letters for his students was like Gojo’s way of showing consideration for them.

That’s what Geto Suguru, the “Gojo translator”, would say to them, if he was there.

I mean, there was a reason they were best friends - Geto understood him the best. He helped him learn how to (and the importance of) connecting to others - how to not be lonely.

It was the same in the scene with Kuroi. Right before he shouted for Gojo over the time, he just instinctively knew how to connect with Gojo and helped others with sympathising with Gojo.

I didn’t play the JJK game but I think the undercurrent dynamics is similar. Their bond. The exclusivity. Love. The whole breakup was about their friendship. The change the new generation got was also due to the path forged by them. As it stands, Gojo is shown to be largely misunderstood and nobody aside from Yuta has shown much affection for Gojo. Maybe Yuji ... to some degree. But I digress.

Maybe it’s an unpopular opinion, but considering how Geto-centred Gojo’s GIGA Character book was, he was likely influenced by Geto’s strong protective love for his “family”.

It makes sense to me that Gojo thought it would be important to put the students’ minds at ease with any thoughts/questions about their family. Hence the letters to help tie up loose ends.

Megumi was shown to be thinking about his father, whin he assumed was out there somewhere. Even if he didn’t want to know, there is a subconscious level of unfinished business from thinking this. And to know that Gojo killed him, may have helped him realise that his sensei had his back all this while. He was worth protecting all this while. That chapter of his life can truly close.

And just how bloody typical of his sensei, who has no “delicate-ness” about him!

As a sensei, and as a person, Gojo always protected others from his own personal concerns. He and Geto both stubbornly lived & fought “alone” because this was just their belief as the burden of the strongest = to protect others. The line was drawn and Gojo only ever wanted Geto to understand him, hence his conversation in 236. Only ever needed Geto by his side: hence his only complex was Geto leaving him behind.

We see this in how Shoko felt distant from them both. Stating in her inner monologue how she could never love either of them, but she was there - insinuating what they had between them was not something she could give (love) but her friendship was there if only Gojo let her in. And we see it in how, when she tried to connect with Gojo post-unsealing, by including Geto’s body as someone to be retrieved, he was a bit taken aback, starting his sentence with a long pause “……...” and keeping it simple / not elaborating (だな - it’s like the equivalent of a “yeah” but implies agreement).

Also, the fact the students and others can joke and call him an idiot, etc. means he really hid it well. Gojo protected them all. (As a teacher and adult should, I guess.)

I’m reminded of this scene.

Geto helped Gojo empathise & “not bully the weak”, but to also consider what else may be important... even if they may not think so themselves.

Until they receive what they thought they didn’t want, only to realise it was what they needed after all.

Cuz… y’kow: people (especially children) don’t always know what they want or need.

Sometimes what you want isn’t what you need. What you need isn’t necessarily what you want.

Gojo & Geto lived through that too... didn’t they? On so many levels… wanting, needing, denying, losing, yearning. Carrying their burdens they had nobody to share with. Making decisions on their own. Giving to the other a piece of their heart. Sacrificing themselves. Accepting each others loneliness as their own. Thinking they were better off loving the other by being apart.

The painful lessons that shaped the way for the new world. Children given the protection from The Strongest Sorcerer of the Modern Era. Granted a world with fewer curses for 10 years due to the Strongest Curse User.

Children who had adults to guide, protect, and care for them.

Children who do not have to be killed for the mistakes of others, who were forced to commit sins, or for being born a certain way.

I think every single sorcerer who were adults helped the kids in some way. The layers and layers of this story is just... overwhelmingly beautiful.

Much remains to be seen now. I’m worried that Yuta will have to live in Gojo’s body and that Kenjaku’s eerie words of Yuta being “the next Gojo Satoru” will extend beyond that battle.

People on X seem to be speculating whether a world without curses will exist (going back to jjk 0 and Geto’s ideals). What of the barriers without tengen? Some question reality as we are being shown - is it an elaborate dream? Hm.

I hope for the plant/flower trio at least... Megumi and Yuji can use their shared tragedy as vessels who committed sins to bond and support one another. Nobara is a great buffer and heroine in her own right. Their dynamics are really amazing. Independent, yet so bonded.

I’d love to see Gojo & Geto at peace. I guess whatever happens, chapter 236 is a bit like salvation. And doesn’t Megumi’s smiling pic (above) look similar? If these two smiled as if they had no regrets , we can assume Megumi smiled sincerely upon receiving the letter, too.

As long as Gege doesn’t do anything to change it.

Please please don’t. They deserve a reward for their hard work and sacrifice!

[casualhedonists]

✩ it don’t need your loving, it just needs attention ✩ (chapter four)

pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Reader

warnings: NSFW (18+), snow being snow, themes of sex work (not the reader), cuckolding, eventual smut, fake relationship, unprotected sex, themes of voyeurism & mild exhibitionism, murder/violence mention (but no actual murder) (not yet at least?), MAJOR manipulation/gross power dynamics + generally darkish themes, roughhousing, overstimulation, insane amounts of teasing, some mild dubcon scenes/allusions to dubcon, some power play, lots of switching between dom/sub dynamics, oral sex, thigh riding, face sitting, degradation, dirty talk, edging/orgasm denial, eventual piv, i’m new to full on smut bear with me here (and pls tell me if i forgot anything!)

chapter: 4/?

SERIES MASTERLIST

words: 6.3k (🫠)

i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.

a/n: thank you for your patience while i got my shit together (christmas edition). enjoy, this filth seems to get longer with each chapter. i’ll be gone for a few weeks over the holidays, so no chapter updates for a bit, but have no doubt i’ll be back for more in the new year &lt;;33

Coriolanus Snow was not a patient man. He’d played the long game enough times in his climb to the top of Panem to know that once he got up there, he wouldn’t be sitting on the sidelines anymore, waiting for life to happen to him. He would take what he wanted from whoever he wanted, with no delay.

Who were you to tell him what he could and couldn’t have? Who were you to deny him, walking away like you’d won, like you’d just played him like a fiddle and left him out in the dust? He replayed your self-satisfied smile as you disappeared from his view and he stood there, considering his options. The most tempting would be to follow you back to your room, to shove you up against a wall, to tear off his jacket and watch that smug look melt right off your face.

The second would’ve been to send for the whore, but it would’ve been a cheap thrill and besides, you’d made a point of getting rid of her.

He’d almost had you, he could see it. Could see the quiver in your lip as your blown-out eyes had rolled open, before you’d climbed off his lap. He was certain that if he chipped away at enough of your resolve, you’d give in. The thought of having to work for this incensed him, who were you to make demands from the President himself?

But the calculating part of his brain decided, with disdain, that he would have to be patient for once. He doubted you could go very long before giving into him; he’d seen it in your eyes, it had taken everything in you to leave him that night.

You wanted to go on a power trip? Fine. Snow knew it would be short lived, and you were making enough of a spectacle of yourself that it should prove entertaining to him. He decided he was going to let you have your fun, brief and fleeting as it may be. He always did enjoy a chase, and he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

You wanted to play? Fine.

He closed his door, leaving it unlocked.

Let the games begin.

Breakfast was a sweet kind of torture. You’d wrapped a short, silk dressing gown around your underwear set from the night before, confident after your first good night’s sleep in weeks. Headed downstairs early, so you could be there when he walked in.

“Morning, sweetie.” You smiled as you sipped at a cup of coffee.

Snow’s eyes narrowed. He sat opposite you without a word, pouring himself a cup and buttering a piece of toast. His morning paper was neatly folded on the side, and you eyed it quickly, before taking him in.

It was subtle – something probably only you could pick up on, knowing what you did – but it was there, in the slight crinkle of his usually perfect shirt, in the way he took coffee instead of tea, in the way he focused carefully on spreading the butter to every edge of his slice of toast. You glanced down again, a mischievous sense of pride filling you up.

You’d gotten under his skin.

Finally.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “I don’t know about you, but I slept like a log. You?”

His eyes met yours heatedly, but he didn’t reply. One of his footmen stood posted by the door, eyes straight ahead.

“No?” You faked pity. “You look a little tired, Coriolanus. Rough night?”

Nothing. He didn’t respond to your taunts, but instead took his paper, unfolding it, and you watched intently with a glint in your eye as you saw him react to something slipping out of the pages and into his lap.

He let out a surprised scoff, lowered the paper, and looked straight at you. Your eyebrows raised in response.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, with a lilt in your voice.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady.

“Leave us, please.” He said to the footman, without breaking off his stare once. The footman obliged, closing the door behind him. His eyes bored into you with a similar intensity as they had the night before.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” He asked, but it was flat like a statement.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You batted your eyes, feigning innocence.

He lifted his hand from his lap, holding up the pair of white lace panties you’d tucked between the folds of his newspaper. Raised his eyebrows in a question.

“Oh,” you smiled. “Whoops. I’d been wondering where I left those.”

His stare remained unfaltering, and you rubbed your legs together.

“Very cute, sweetheart.”

You smirked.

“You think so? Just something to remember me by. Lucille said you’ll be gone until tomorrow for work, I wouldn’t want you forgetting about last night.”

His eyes darkened, never leaving yours as you stood, making your way down the table.

“It’s a shame, really. I feel a little guilty about what I did. I got you all worked up for nothing.”

He scoffed, watching as you got closer.

“Yeah, you seem all torn up about it.”

You hummed, reaching him, and nodded at his lap, where his hand gripped the white lace.

“May I?”

“Be my guest.” He said tightly.

You straddled his lap again, and he looked up at you. You felt another surge of that power, standing over him with very little between you, as you ran your palms over his jacket, smoothing it out, then plucking the white rose from his breast pocket, and tucking your panties inside. As you pushed the rose back in, you smiled, satisfied.

“I should be more careful about misplacing things,” you mused, “Could’ve sworn I threw those in the laundry. You want to know something funny?”

“What?” Snow watched your hand pull away, and you met his gaze again.

“I’m not even sure I’m wearing a pair right now.”

It happened so quickly, it knocked the breath out of you. One second, you were balanced with your legs either side of his, and the next, you were pushed back onto the table as he stood, grabbing your waist, and leaning over you. A plate shattered on the floor, but Coriolanus didn’t flinch.

You squirmed but he gripped your hips harder, sliding one hand up to support your back and stop you from toppling straight onto the table. The cold wood pressed into your bare legs, and a glass dug into your back. You realised with a shaky breath that your dressing gown had fallen open. He was stood flush between your legs, pinning you down.  

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He snapped.

“I told you, didn’t I?” A hum as his hips rolled into yours. “Whatever I want.”

“I could force your hand, you know.” He commented. “Right now.”

“You think I wouldn’t want you to?”

His face was unreadable. His head dipped towards yours, and when he spoke it brushed against your lips.  

“You really are a whore.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I know you’re all bark and no bite. You want to know why I know that, Snow?”

He huffed.

“Why?”

“Because I think you like chasing me.” Your eyes lowered to your legs, pressed apart by his hips. Your ankles wrapped around his lower back and pressed him in further. His jaw clenched.

He followed your gaze, and you felt his breath hitch when he saw that you weren’t lying, there was nothing between the two of you except his pants.  

“Fuck.” He whispered.

It did something to you, hearing him so desperate. You pulled him in again with your heels, and he looked back at you. He rocked his hips, velvet cloth rubbing against your bare cunt, and you gasped at the feeling, still sore from last night.

Any time now.

“You want to fuck me, Snow?” You whispered. “Do it. Right now, I won’t stop you.”

His breaths were heavy as he rocked his hips again, firm, and it was obscene, really, how you could feel the outline of his cock pushing against you through the thick material, and his breath was getting laboured.

Almost there.

“Knew you’d give in.” His voice was rough as he pressed in harder, and you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, “So fucking desperate. Didn’t expect you to open your legs this soon, though. Thought you’d rile me up for a few days first. But look at you,” he rambled, “giving up so easily. Where’s all that fight now, sweetheart?”

A loud rap sounded at the door.

There it is.

You couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across your face as he stopped still.

“Oh,” you blinked innocently at him, “I wonder who that could be.”

“President Snow? We’re ready for you, sir.” The footman’s voice was muffled through the door.

“Well, would you look at the time? I guess duty calls, Mr President.”

He scowled, shooting ice cold daggers at you.

“You bitch. You knew.”

“And you fell for it.” You smirked, digging your heels into his back again. “Who’s desperate now?”

He scoffed, meeting your eye again.

“You think you’re so smart, little girl. You really think I’d mind if they walked in on me fucking you into the table?”

“I know you’re not against having an audience, Snow. But what are you gonna do, hang the health minister if he walks in? I know you’re not above it, but it’d be a slight inconvenience. Surely there are wiser ways to spend your precious time.”

“Yeah? Try me.”

His nails dug into your back as he pulled you in closer. For just a second, you had a doubt. But not long enough.

“I’m calling your bluff, Coriolanus Snow.”

He shook his head. Peeled himself off you with a huff, and tried to smooth out his shirt, glaring at you the whole time.

“I’ll be right out.” He called.

You slid off the table and stood, tying your gown, then reaching to fiddle with his collar. He batted your hand away.

“Let me.” You reached out again.

“Fine.”

Your hands smoothed over the material, straightening it out, then once you were satisfied, they rested on his chest for a beat.

“You look handsome.” You confessed quietly, not meeting his eye as you spoke. You could feel his stare burning into you as you did. When you finally looked, his expression had shifted to something unreadable again. Confusion, perhaps. It was times like these when you wished you could read his mind.

The moment finally passed and you cleared your throat, trailing a hand over his breast pocket, a physical reminder of the game you were intent on winning.

“This was fun.” You declared with a smile, putting the mask back on. “Hurry back. What time shall I expect you?”

“No later than noon.” He watched as you stepped away.

“I look forward to it,” you smiled, playing with the string of your gown, “sweetheart.”

With Snow out of the house, you jumped at the chance to head straight upstairs, making a beeline for his room. Something inside you just knew the door would be unlocked, that he wouldn’t be able to resist. You were right.

At last, you were able to take a good look around the room, touring it as if it was some art museum. And it wasn’t far from it; with wood panelled walls and strong beams on the ceiling, plush velvet throw pillows and bedsheets, with crisp white linen tucked underneath. You wandered around for a while, brushing your fingers over the sides, taking it all in. It was perfectly neat, almost jarringly so. You wondered if he always kept it like this, or if it was for your benefit. Since he’d probably guessed you’d be going inside, you took little guilt in peeking into a few drawers, and flipping through the pages of the book on his nightstand.

Your curiosity then took you into the bathroom, where, after scanning the shelves, you decided to undress and take a shower, steam and the smell of his soap filling the large room. You took the opportunity to slide your hands between your legs and replay the morning’s events, filling in what you’d have had liked to have happen instead of him leaving. When you were finished, you wrapped yourself in a soft towel, and walked out, spotting a glass bottle of cologne on the edge of the sink. With a smile, you gently sprayed a little on your wrist, breathing it in, sighing deeply as the smell of him went to your head.

You got dressed again, thumbing through his closet, basking in the buzz you had from being in his space. You sat on his bed, taking his room in from a new perspective. When you were satisfied, you headed back to your own with a smile, only coming back that evening with a handful of your things, before falling into a peaceful sleep under his sheets.

A few days passed after that morning, and you barely saw Snow. He’d come back, but gone straight to his office, where he proceeded to spend long hours on the phone, stuck on some important business you had no business nosing about.

So, you waited, your games paused and painfully anticlimactic. You hated feeling like a helpless housewife, but this was apparently what you’d been reduced to. You saw your friends some of the evenings, and your family on others. Then you’d come home to hover outside Snow’s locked study to listen to the sounds of pen on paper, peppered with the occasional sigh. You would have waited for him to come out, but you gave up as the hours drawing longer. He stayed holed up in his office, night after night, and by the time he’d finished the evening’s work, sleep had long carried you away.

It hadn’t all been dull; you’d fallen into a habit of sneaking pairs of your underwear in with the clean laundry that was carried up to his room, and that had earned you a little attention, but it was merely in passing. A few heated glances at the dinner table, a brush past each other in the hallway. You’d go so far as to say it was almost like flirting, only laced with the undertones of something far heavier. It wasn’t enough for you now that you’d tasted what you could have if only you reached for it, and you started to go a little stir crazy again.

One of these nights, you’d slipped into his empty room after dark, and lay in his bed, trying to stay awake as long as you could, but sleep caught up to you and by morning, you woke alone, wrapped in soft sheets, no sign of Snow except for a slightly warm dent on his side of the bed that had long been abandoned.

You got nothing. Not a touch, not an argument, not a kiss. For a week and a half, until he was called away again. Your annoyance had started to creep back up on you tenfold by then, and you were practically crawling out of your skin.

You saw your family for dinner more and more, making a habit out of filling the empty space he'd left with small talk and laughter. It was on one such night, when you'd been silently mulling over what move to make next, that your mother mentioned a name you hadn't heard in years, and you knew right away what to do. You were done hiding away, you wanted to make yourself known. Make every second Snow spent in your presence a living hell, and a reminder of what you’d denied him. You'd hoped for something outrageous, something that would push him to the very edge. And if this didn't work, nothing would.

Nathaniel Greene was an old flame of yours. He’d always been good to you, warm and well-meaning; and he was handsome, in a gentle, boyish way. When your mother mentioned him, a beautifully cruel idea struck you. You weren’t naturally as cold-hearted as Coriolanus, but as the weeks had gone by, you’d begun to believe that maybe, in order to win this, you needed to be. Nathaniel would be perfect; the two of you had been school friends, you had history, something Snow couldn’t compete with, and you knew that would drive him insane. He was all soft edges, smiles, and pleasantries, everything that Snow wasn’t.

You felt a sliver of guilt as you began putting your plan together, but you reasoned that you and Snow had bruised each other, and low blows were what it would take for you to press into his the hardest. This was always never going to be simple; it was a messy game, and you needed to get your hands dirty.

Besides, he’d paraded a whore around the house for you to watch him fucking for weeks on end. It was fair game, you reminded yourself. So with that decided, you rose to the occasion, and the plan was set into motion.

That was how it came to be that on the day Snow returned, he walked in to find a guest sat in his living room. You were all false smiles and batted eyelashes when you saw him.

“Coriolanus, you’re back. I’d like you to meet Nathaniel, he and I used to be friends at school.”

Nathaniel rose from his seat on the sofa, and leaned toward Snow to shake his hand.

“Mr President, sir, it’s an absolute honor to be in your company. You have a lovely house.”

Nathaniel missed the slight tick in Snow’s jaw, but you didn’t. He offered his hand in response.

“The pleasure’s mine. Any… friend of my girl is always welcome here.”

My girl. The words went straight to your head, and Coriolanus pulled you in for a kiss that lingered half a second longer than usual, like he knew.

“Would you like some tea, sweetheart?” You asked, “Nathaniel and I were just catching up.”

“I remember that summer.” You laughed. “Your aunt took us to the coast, and we swam in the ocean at least twice a day. It was so cold one morning, your cousin’s lips turned blue. And on the way home, we had to stop at that inn, do you remember it?”

“With the owner and his crazy beard.”

“The crazy beard owner!” you exclaimed. “And the room you and I stayed in was so laughably small, the bed touched three of the walls all at once. Cozy, though.”

Nathaniel glanced awkwardly between the two of you, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, those were, uh… good times.”

Fire ran rampant through Snow’s eyes. You didn’t look directly at him, but your peripherals gave you plenty of satisfaction.

He was enraged. Good. You’d been mercilessly torturing him for the better part of an hour.

“Oh, Nathaniel, that reminds me, I’ll go get the book I was telling you about earlier.”

“Book?” He frowned, “I don’t-”

“You know the one! I’ll be right back.” You interrupted, then practically bounced out of your seat and walked toward the library. At the far end of the large room, you paused, pretending earnestly to scan the spines for a particular title.

You were quiet, making sure you could hear the echo of Snow excusing himself, followed by steady footsteps approaching you from behind.

“Something wrong?” You asked, keeping your back turned.

He grabbed your waist and spun you around. Backed you up until you were pressed to the wall, wooden shelves digging into your spine.

“Give me one good reason,” he spat, “why I shouldn’t kill that boy right now.”

You blinked.

“What’s wrong, Snow? Can’t take a little jealousy? Surprising, given your recent choice of company.”

“So that’s it? All this to get a rise out of me? You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.” he scoffed.

You smiled, meeting his eye.

“Oh, but maybe I should. See, Coriolanus, here’s the thing.” you leaned towards him, running a finger down the front of his dress shirt, catching over each shining button as it glided down. “I haven’t decided if I should fuck him, yet. What do you think I should do?”

“I think,” he snarled, grabbing your wrists and pressing them against the wooden shelves, then dropping his voice down to a whisper, his breath mixing with yours, “that I should fuck you right here while he listens in the next room, and show him who you really belong to.”

You faltered, if only for a few moments. Your pride wavering as you heard the want drip from his voice, still getting used to his eyes skating across your skin the way you’d hoped and prayed they would for months. If you wanted it, you could take it right now, and you almost folded. He moved in ever closer, and your head dropped against the bookshelf, letting his lips graze your neck, blonde curls dusting your shoulder. You stayed there, suspended, letting it roll over you like water.

“What would your little friend in there think, if he could hear how much of a whore you really are? I wouldn’t even let you cover your mouth. I’d just hike up your slutty little dress and send you back out there with cum dripping down your thighs. How do you think he’d like you then?”

Your breath hitched, and you squeezed your eyes closed, pressing your legs together. Tried to rationalise the logic of throwing your plans to the wind and letting him stake his claim on you.

You considered it. Briefly.

But you were already in so deep, you had to see this through. Snow had fucked with you, then left you out to dry, and you had to make sure he would never do it again. So no, you wouldn’t be the one to fold. He would, on your terms. And now wasn’t the time, not yet.

So you collected yourself. Pulled away, batting your pretty eyes at him.

“Oh, but I’m having so much fun.”

“Don’t test me. You’ve proved your point.” he seethed, stepping closer, and one more inch and you might burst-

“Nathaniel’s waiting. I’ll see you at dinner, Coriolanus.”

With that, you slipped away, silently catching your breath.

You’d just finished dinner alone, no Snow in sight, and you were walking back towards the hallway when the doors swung open.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Your hands were above your head as Snow pushed you into the dining room wall. This was starting to become a habit. A sly smile pulled at your lips.

“Stings, doesn’t it? Getting a taste of your own medicine.”

He got in close, rage burning hot in his eyes.

“What you did was different, and you know that."

"I don't know, Coriolanus, was it? I've just been so bored, lately. Idle hands, I suppose."

If looks could kill, you'd be a goner.

"That's your excuse? At least I had the decency to fuck a stranger. Tell me you didn’t-”

You laughed.

“You really think I’d do anything without making sure you watched? God, Snow, you don’t know me at all.”

He moved in closer.

“If you ever do that again, if you so much as look his way, I’ll have him whipped in the middle of the city. Or maybe I won’t bother. I’ll just have him hung, and I’ll make sure you’re there at the front of the crowd to watch him drop, knowing his blood is on your hands. Do you understand me?”

You set your jaw. Shrugged.

“Okay.”

He frowned. You took pride in the way you could see it, him trying desperately to figure you out.

“Okay?” He repeated.

“You heard me. You think I really care enough about him, that I’d invite him into the house just to make you jealous, then expect him to end up alive? How stupid do you think I am?”

You did care about Nathaniel, at least enough to not want him dead, but Snow couldn’t know that. Not for this to work.

“You’re bluffing.” But you could hear in his voice that he wasn’t sure.

“Am I? Your threats don’t phase me, Coriolanus. Do your worst, I don’t care anymore. What, did you think I’d try to talk you out of it? You think I’d beg?”

His bewilderment caused him to drop your wrists, and you took the chance to push yourself away from the wall.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But I won’t fold. I meant what I said that night. You want me to be yours, you want to own me? You have to earn it. My way. You’re not going to get anywhere trying to scare me into submission. It won’t work.”

Disbelief flashed across his face. You stood your ground, raising your head up high, leaning in.

“I don’t want to fight you, Coriolanus.” You confessed. “Your room. An hour. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Say what you wanted about Coriolanus Snow, but when you asked him to be on time, he obliged. You didn’t even need to hear his footsteps to know he’d come, which you’d grown finely attuned to by now, enough to hear them leave his office two rooms away and walk the short distance to his room, swinging open the door you’d left decidedly ajar.

And you made sure what he walked in on was a sight to behold; you, sprawled out on his bed in nothing but a white shirt of his, unbuttoned all the way down, falling to your sides. Your head pressed into his silk pillowcases, legs parted lazily as your hand rubbed slow circles on your clit beneath the red lace of your underwear. You could tell from the look on Snow’s face when you rolled your head to the side and looked at him that you’d had the desired effect, that you’d orchestrated this perfectly, because he couldn’t take his eyes off your hand, hips rocking into it, the visual made all the more lewd by the scrap of fabric hiding your movements, leaving his brain to fill in the blanks.

You slowed.

“Glad you could make it.” A small smile formed on your lips.

“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

“I have. Your bed’s a lot softer than mine.”

He hummed, crossing his arms.

“Why did you ask me here, sweetheart? This is my room, after all.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and even that small motion wasn’t lost on him. Your hand stilled.

“I waited for you.” You said quietly.

He let out a sigh, ragged and tired.

“I know. I’m sorry, sweetheart. If you knew how badly I wanted to see you-”

“Don’t. I don’t want your apology.”

His expression gave way to confusion for a split second.

“Okay. What is it you want?”

You paused, gaze flitting between his eyes and his mouth. Then you swallowed, your voice an embrassing whisper.

“I want your mouth on me.” It almost hurt to hold his stare, but you did.

“That so?” was the response. You cleared your throat.

“You say you’re sorry, Snow? Prove it. I’m right here.”

He paused, like he was mulling you over. Like he was figuring out just how to play his cards. Then a small smile pulled at his lips.

“Take your hand away.” His voice was rough, and it gave him away.

You obliged, watching him step towards the bed, towards you. He rolled up his sleeves, eyes on yours and your stomach twisted.

There he is.

“If you’re going to be making demands, it’s only polite that you ask nicely. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You nodded, flushing under his stare.

“You want me to take these off?” He smoothed his hands up your thighs, thumbs hooking into the band of your panties. You'd missed feeling his hands on your skin.

You nodded again, and he tutted.

“Yes.” You corrected. “Please.”

“Good. It was about time you learned some manners.” He slowly slid them off, and you lifted your hips to help him. His gaze slid between your legs, and you shifted your knee so you were covered.

“Not getting shy now, are you? Open your legs for me.” He instructed, and you obliged, burning under the heat of his gaze as he unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it off before moving in towards you, kneeling on the ottoman. You were already soaked, and you could feel the heat building even more, just from having him near you, having him see what a dripping mess you were.

“Shit.” It was no louder than a whisper, but your perked ears caught it and you pressed your lips together.

He tentatively pushed his thumb through your folds and you whined, a look on his face like he couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at. Did it again, and it caught on your clit, your breath hitching in your throat.

“Please.”

“Good girl. You know how many times I’ve thought about this over the past week? I’ve lost sleep over it.”

“Coriolanus.”

He smoothed his hands over your thighs again, and you yelped as he suddenly pulled you forward, hooking your legs over his shoulders. He kept staring, and you couldn’t take it, blood rushing from your head, so you dropped it back onto the pillows.

“Look at me.” He squeezed your thigh.

You did. You felt a sliver of pride as you noted the slight flush in his cheeks, like maybe he was more worked up than he was letting on.

“You know how many times I came all over those pretty panties of yours, wishing you were wearing them? Think I lost count.”

You couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped you as his breath brushed over your folds, wound so tight you thought you would burst.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart. Say it again.”

“I want your mouth on me. Please, put your mouth on me.”

You didn’t need to tell him twice, because with a sharp inhale, he pressed his mouth onto your cunt and dragged his tongue over your clit, slowly, firm and deliberate, like he had an itemised list of exactly how to cause your undoing. You gasped at the sudden contact, and your hips bucked off the bed, before his fingers gripped into your hips the way they had the other night, and slammed you back down.

“So fucking needy. Were you really that worked up? Parading your little boy toy around will do that, huh?”

“I’m sorry.” You gasped, as he worked his tongue over your clit again, tracing slow, firm circles that made your legs weak. You grabbed a handful of his hair, blonde locks twisted between your fingers as he pulled away again. You whined.

“See, that’s the thing. I don’t think you are. But you will be.”

You didn’t have time to wonder what that meant, because his tongue was all over you again, lapping at your entrance, lips sucking loudly at your clit as you moaned, free hand twisting creases into his bedsheets.

“Fuck.” You keened as your hips bucked harder, searching for friction that was so close to being enough. Your heels pressed into his back and your hand tightened in his hair, to which he retaliated by digging his nails into your thighs, scraping against the almost-healed bruises that were left from the previous week. The pinch brought you further into that headspace, where you could feel yourself slipping away, crying out as you thrashed under the pressure of his tongue on your cunt.

You kept rocking your hips, hopelessly trying to grind against him, but his hands held you down firmly, keeping the pace torturously slow. You couldn’t help your spaced-out brain from slipping back to weeks ago, when you’d watched him do the same to his whore on this very bed, and you made a sound of protest that just melted in with the rest of your noises, going unnoticed.

You didn’t want to feel this way, to feel disposable, like he could just have his way with you and throw you out. You knew that if you didn’t do something, you’d lose yourself altogether. And you couldn’t bear that thought, of having to give in. Not like this. Not when he held all the cards again.

“I want to sit on your face.” You breathed without thinking, strung out and desperate. Coriolanus pulled back. A smirk on his lips, which were swollen red and covered in your slick. You whimpered as the soft light caught him, showing you the mess you’d made of his face, dripping down his chin.

“Do you now?”

“Please. I’ll ask nicely, I’ll – I’ll beg, if you want me to. Just please, let me sit on your face. I can’t take it anymore, I’m so-” You broke off, gasping as he pressed a soft kiss onto your clit, causing your legs to jolt.

“Poor thing. You really want it, don’t you?”

“Yes. Please, I’ll do anything. Just… please.”

“Good girl.” He murmured, trailing soft kisses down your thigh. “Since you’ve asked so nicely, I’ll let you. Just for a few minutes, okay? Think you can cum that fast?”

“Fuck, yes. Thank you.”

A messy tangle of limbs as he pulled his shirt off, sliding flat onto the bed, hands guiding your shaking legs as you inched over his torso. It was nearly too much, watching his pretty face as you lowered yourself onto him, but you couldn’t look away, hands grabbing the headboard to steady yourself. You couldn’t help but think back to that night, riding his thigh like you were being paid for it. As he carefully eased your hips down, thighs either side of his face, you knew this was going to be a hundred times better than that. And Snow didn’t disappoint, lifting his head to nuzzle your clit as you sucked in a breath, hips jolting forward. You dropped a hand to grab onto his hair, and he didn’t retaliate this time, letting you wind your fingers around his curls as you started to move slowly, rocking your hips against his mouth.

This was much better. The angle was perfect, pressure everywhere you needed it, and you tipped your head back as you moved, one languid lick causing it to drop forward again to look at Snow.

The only time he really moved was to pull you in firmer, and the motion reminded you of how he’d pulled you into his thigh, and before you knew it the ache in your stomach was growing into a throb, burning you up until it felt molten, until you felt drunk from it. The coil tightened further as you got into it, rolling your hips, tugging Snow’s hair to the point where you were sure it must’ve been hurting him, but he either didn’t care or just didn’t stop you. As your hips bucked faster and you looked down at his face, eyes hazy as he ate you out like he was starved, you couldn’t help it, you just started talking, rambling near nonsense and it wouldn’t stop.

“Fuck, that’s it, right there. You’re gonna make me cum all over your face if you keep that up. Holy shit.” Your grip in his hair tightened, so hard it was pulling his head back so you could grind against him just right, clit catching on his nose, cunt spasming against his tongue, and he winced, a broken sound escaping the back of his throat, but it only egged you on. Your voice breathy but taunting, getting cockier by the second.

“Does that hurt, baby? Am I pulling too hard?” His eyes narrowed, but his tongue only fucked into you harder. “You can take it though, can’t you? Fuck. You’re being so good for me, letting me fuck your face like this. Feels so fucking good. Shit, I thought you’d take more convincing, but look at you, eating from the palm of my hand.”

His hands gripped into your hips again, nails digging crescent moons into your skin, and you tightened your thighs around his head which only made him dig harder, the pain tipping you over the edge as you shouted out, hips jerking as your thighs shook, and Snow only pressed in firmer with his tongue as you came, riding out your high with a strangled sob.

He didn’t give you chance to come down from your orgasm, instead pushing you off his face and flipping you over. You landed on your back, scared for a second that you’d be punished for getting carried away, but his lips met yours in a sudden battle for dominance. You moaned into his mouth as you tasted yourself on his tongue. He’d never kissed you like this before. It lit another fire in your stomach, just when you thought you were done.

After what felt like a lifetime getting drunk off each other, he pulled away, and you got to see the mess you’d made of this man. There he was, propped above you, the most powerful man in the country, blonde hair a sweaty wreck of tangles, parted lips sore and swollen, your cum smeared across his mouth and chin, mixed with the trail of your wet tongue in the places you’d just cleaned him up.

You tasted it on your lips, heard it in his laboured breath, saw it in his blown-out eyes, felt it in the small space between you.

This was what power felt like.

He was shaking his head incredulously, like he couldn’t quite believe you. Then, ignoring your hiss, his head dipped between your legs again, smooth tongue rolling over you like cool water on a burn. You flinched, a broken sound slipping from your lips.

“Oh, come on. You can give me one more, right?”

Fuck.

“Coriolanus, I can’t-” You whined as his hot breath lit you up, long fingers sliding inside you.

“You will. Come on, baby. You can take my fingers, can’t you?” His voice mimicked yours as he opened you up, speeding up a little. You hummed as he pressed against your sweet spot, and you hated how it seemed like it was so easy to him, to take you apart like this.

“Good girl. Look at me.” He scolded, when your eyes rolled back, squirming from the overstimulation, pressing his thumb against your clit just to watch you jolt.

“You’re going to do something for me. You’re going to promise me you won’t ever see him again.”

“What? Who, Nathaniel? I-”

He pressed into your clit again, mean, and you squeaked.

“Don’t say his fucking name. Promise me, right now. Say it.”

“I promise. Never again. I’m sorry, fuck, I’m so sorry.” You sobbed.

“Good girl.” He smiled.

“Don’t want anyone else, just you, please. Please, Coriolanus. Will you promise me too?” Your words were airy, and your voice shook.

He slowed his fingers, and shifted himself up to place his lips on yours.

“I promise, sweetheart. It’ll just be us.” His fingers pressed into you harder, scissoring lazily, but every movement lit all your nerve endings on fire. You were so wet it was almost humiliating, or it would be if you weren’t so turned on, obscene sounds bouncing off the walls as he worked you open. Coriolanus could tell, smiling as he whispered praises, sweet nothings into your ear and added a third finger, thumb brushing across your clit as the sensitivity quickly morphed into more pleasure.

“You close again, baby?”

You only whimpered in response, head jerking as your eyes squeezed close, arm sliding down to grab his wrist, pushing it further. You were wrecked, and he knew it. It was his doing.

“Ah.” He knocked your hand away with a knowing smile. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart. I’m listening.”

You paused, at a mental crossroads, but as he twisted his fingers just right, pressing deeper, you dropped all your inhibitions. Squeezed your eyes closed, cunt gripping his fingers, and confessed.

“I want you to fuck me.” You whispered.

You knew full well what it meant. You didn’t care anymore; you’d had your fun, and you were ready to fold. Lay all your cards out on the table. This ache inside you had never felt so loud. You refused to open your eyes, which were threatening to fill with desperate tears.

“Ask nicely.” He pulled his fingers back, dragging them along your sweet spot. You were starting to lose feeling in your legs.

“Please. Please, fuck me. I’m done, now, I promise. I won’t do it again, Coriolanus, I’m so sorry-”

“Say it again. One more time. Look at me.”

You sighed, eyes flooding with hot tears. You finally opened them.  

“Please, Coriolanus. Fuck me.”

He smiled, but as quickly as it arrived, it morphed into something sinister.

“No.”

His hand stopped, fingers slipping out of you before you could stop them. Your high started to slip away. You rocked your hips, confused out of your mind. Driven to your edge, and then in the same breath, catapulting to a stop.

“I- wait, no… what?” You sounded delirious.

He shrugged, casually lifting his fingers, sucking them off with a pop.

“I don’t think I will. You’ve done quite enough, and I’ve had a long day. So I think you should be on your way now.”

You gaped, dumbfounded. The tears threatened to spill down your cheeks, but you held them in like they were your last shred of pride.

“But… you said we wouldn’t… I thought-”

He traced a hand across your check, gently, and it took everything in you not to sob.

“I meant what I said. But I’m not quite ready to forgive and forget. You should go and get some sleep.”

“Coriolanus, I- please.” You begged him, eyes wild and desperate.

“Stings, doesn’t it?” He raised his eyebrows and something inside you sank like a heavy cruiser. “A taste of your own medicine.”

a/n: sorry mom

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[badgalsasuke]

So I just want to go back to Naruto Gaiden once again and how it tells us the way adult Sakura interacts with other women, specifically women with some sort of connection to Sasuke.

INO

Although in Naruto Gaiden we're not given a single panel where Sakura talks negatively about any women, chapter 10 of Naruto Gaiden gives us the clearest example of how off-screen she definitely does talk negatively about some women.

Ino is greeting Sasuke after years of not seeing him, we have no idea how many years had passed since the two interacted but considering that Naruto is the only person that sees him often & Sasuke didn't return to Konoha for Naruto's wedding, they've probably haven't seen each other since Sasuke left the village to go on his atonement journey, so about 12 years.

Yet the moment Sarada sees and hears Ino she is wary of her. In the next panel we see her with her arms up looking uneasy and distressed with the words BLOCK (in other translations it says STEP IN) above her, indicating she's either signaling Ino to stop talking to Sasuke or blocking Ino from physically approaching Sasuke. Ino is of course dumbfounded by this and Sakura is behind them laughing nervously in embarrassment.

This indicates to us that Sakura has talked about Ino in a negative light to Sarada. We know that Ino had a crush on Sasuke when they were 12 that she eventually grew out of and Sakura must know this because Ino is now married to another man who is also the father of her own child and yet Sakura still sees her as a threat to her relationship with Sasuke to the point Sarada herself sees Ino as a threat to her family.

KARIN

We're not shown a single interaction between Sakura and Karin but we're given enough information to know that Sakura's thoughts on Karin are somewhat complicated.

So first things first.

Kishimoto has never written about the circumstances that brought Sasuke and Sakura together. What we know is 1. Sasuke rejected Sakura after she suggested to go with him on his atonement journey. 2. Sasuke didn't return to Konoha for Naruto's wedding (which was written in a very shady way). 3. Sakura went after Sasuke after Naruto's wedding (which was also written in a shady way). 4. They traveled together alongside team Taka during Sakura's pregancy. 5. After Sakura gave birth to Sarada she went back to Konoha to raise the child all by herself and Sasuke had no intention in being present in Sarada's life (had Sarada not chased Naruto and Naruto not taken Sarada to Sasuke, who knows when Sasuke and Sarada would've met).

Keep in mind Sasuke never cared about Sakura before Sarada. In Naruto, Sasuke pretty much says he doesn't care if Sakura lives or dies, and in Naruto Gaiden, Sasuke still doesn't care about Sakura after Sarada is born as we see how he looks less than amused when he sees Sakura after years of no contact and how he keeps denying her any sort of affection (they've never kissed).

So it's safe to assume Sasuke still didn't care about Sakura while she was pregnant with Sarada (yikes) which lead us to believe it was Karin who took care of Sakura during her pregnancy.

Karin reveals to us, the readers, very important information:

Karin delivered Sarada.

Sakura gave birth at one of team Taka's hideouts.

Karin gifted Sarada the pair of glasses she wears.

Those glasses are Karin's and the ones she had within reach considering Team Taka doesn't hangout around kids (in chapter 8 we see small Sarada wear glasses too big for her).

Karin is fond of Sarada, she calls her "Sarada-chan" and has also kept her in her mind long enough to know that Sarada has grown out of the pair of glasses she gifted her as a baby (chapter 10).

Karin even preserved Sakura's umbilical cord that Sakura didn't take with her.

Basically, Karin likes the child. Some people interpret this information as proof that Sarada might be an experiment that Karin was involved in, but that's not what this post is discussing so let's digress.

How does Sakura feel about Karin?

Unlike she did with Ino, Sakura doesn't talk shit about Karin, instead she simply doesn't acknowledge her at all. This obviously leads to a messy situation: Sakura took a picture of teenage Sasuke with team Taka (but not her umbilical cord lol) and plastered her own picture over Karin's face.

What is particularly funny is that had Sakura just had that picture of team Taka framed normally and Sarada eventually asked about the woman with glasses she could've just said "Oh! that's Karin she's the medic-nin that delivered you when you were born :) she also gifted you the glasses you wear. I wonder what she's up to now?" perfectly normal response that would've answered some of her daughter's doubts and calmed her insecurites. But no, Sakura had to be very secretive about it because God forbid there are other women in Sasuke's life.

When Sakura is told that Sarada found the picture of Taka and ran away to find her dad this is her reaction.

She knows she fucked up. Also, it's very bizarre behaviour to act like this towards the woman who basically looked after you during your pregnancy and who has your child's best interests at heart. Even as an adult Sakura is still a male-centered woman. She cares about having a man before anything else hence her behaviour. Any woman that she feels threatens her status as Sasuke's wife is an enemy to her, she either talks shit about them, ignores their existence or in some twisted way tries to take their place.

Although I personally believe Sakura does care about and loves Sarada, I also believe Sakura sees Sarada as an extension of Sasuke thus as an extension of her status as Sasuke's wife. Sarada is the only proof Sakura has that she and Sasuke are together because that man could not care less about her, so in a twisted way Sakura doesn't want Sarada near other women in the way she doesn't want Sasuke near other women and she also wants Sarada to mistrust other women in the way she mistruts other women.

This insecurity not only reflects poorly on Sakura but also showcases how fragile Sakura and Sasuke's marriage is if Sakura and Sarada have to be up in arms everytime a woman approaches Sasuke.

What Naruto Gaiden shows us is that Sakura is an emotionally stunted, immature, selfish, male-obsessed woman who in order to feed her self-delusions has no issues of hurting her daughter along the way. Just sad.

Now I wonder how she feels about the fact that it was Naruto who brought Sarada and Sasuke together and who was able to pacify a dismayed Sarada. Always Naruto and never her.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Let's Play Pretend - 8 | bodyguard!Bucky

Character: Bucky Barnes x singer! Female reader

Summary: You just wanted to hide here and find peace from the mess that wasn’t caused by you. But then, your hot neighbor bothered you. As if that wasn’t enough, the enemies you hated found you too.

PART 1 , PART 2 , PART 3 , PART 4 , PART 5 , PART 6 , PART 7 , PART 8 , PART 9 , END.

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I published my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

"Your manager—I smell death on her," Bucky said, his voice low and serious.

You scoffed. "Stop kidding."

"I'm not." His eyes locked onto yours, unwavering. "When I was in jail, I met a lot of people. Murderers and innocent people—they have different smells."

You raised a brow. "So, what? You have a super nose now? Like a drug-sniffing dog?"

Bucky smirked. "Yeah, I’m Scooby-Doo." But despite his teasing, his expression remained tense, as if he could actually smell something rotten lingering around Selena.

You tried to hold back a laugh. "Pfft."

Ignoring your amusement, he continued, "While I’m gone, I want you to stay with Vert."

Your smile faded. "Wait—you’re leaving? And stay with my boss? Why?"

"I’m doing an investigation, that means I'm going to leave you alone. And Vert have bodyguards." His tone was firm.

Bucky leaned back slightly, tilting his head. "I noticed them. Strong ones, probably ex-military." He smirked. "But I’m stronger."

You nodded slightly. As much as you hated to admit it, he was right.

"Why are you telling me to stay with Vert?" you asked, your voice quieter now.

Bucky took a step closer, his gaze darkening. "I have a feeling I’m dealing with an obsessive psychopath."

A shiver ran down your spine. You swallowed hard.

He moved even closer, lowering his voice. "I don't want anything bad to happen to you while I'm gone. If it does, Vert’s guards can use their bodies to block bullets and knives while you run."

Your stomach twisted at the thought. "You really think it’s that dangerous?"

Bucky nodded. "I’ve seen this before. I know what I’m talking about."

You hesitated before asking, "Have you found any clues?"

He exhaled through his nose. "Not yet, but I will. Clues always show up when you least expect them. Just like how Scooby always finds the answer."

You tried to lighten the mood. "Guess that makes me Shaggy?"

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. "Don’t follow any strangers, Shaggy."

You met his gaze and nodded. "I know."

Something had shifted between you. A deeper trust. You weren’t sure when it happened, but you could feel it.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

Bucky felt a weight lift off his shoulders as he dropped you off at Mr. Vert’s house. Knowing you were safe, surrounded by armed guards, made it easier for him to focus. The night air was cool as he pulled his hood over his head and blended into the streets, heading toward the police station.

His destination wasn’t the front entrance—walking in there would raise too many questions. Instead, he took a side alley, knocking on a rusted metal door. A few seconds later, it cracked open just enough for a pair of sharp blue eyes to peer out.

“Hey, Bucky.”

The man who greeted him was Steve—a familiar face from his time behind bars. Steve had changed a lot. The once-skinny man, malnourished from years of rationed prison food, now stood as tall and built as Bucky. Prison had hardened them both, but Steve had taken a different path after getting out.

He had rebuilt himself, cleaned up his record, and taken a job as a criminal profiler. Meanwhile, Bucky had retired—well, until now.

“I need your help,” Bucky said, his tone sharp and to the point.

Steve smirked knowingly. “It’s about your girlfriend, isn’t it? You’re a lucky man.” He sipped his coffee, watching Bucky’s reaction.

Bucky flinched at the word girlfriend. He hated how people kept assuming that. It made him uneasy.

“Yeah, yeah…” he muttered, brushing it off.

The two men started walking. Strolling into a police station and casually flipping through case files wasn’t an option, so they took a quieter route, heading toward a nearby park.

Steve glanced at Bucky from the side. “But you know what? You deserve something good. Back in prison, you always looked after me… and the others.”

Bucky let out a short breath, his expression unreadable. “That place was hell.” He kicked a stray rock on the sidewalk. “But look at us now—breathing fresh air… mixed with the smell of piss.”

Steve snorted before breaking into a laugh. Bucky smirked, shaking his head as they continued walking.

They reached the park, settling onto a bench beneath a flickering streetlamp. Steve leaned back casually, but his hand moved subtly, slipping a thin manila folder onto Bucky’s lap.

Bucky flipped it open, his eyes scanning the documents. As he read, his jaw tightened.

His suspicions were right.

“This is the missing piece,” he muttered, flipping to another page. “I knew it.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “That was quick.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, his voice low. “The assistant. She’s the culprit.”

Steve frowned. “Selena, right? She’s been on the suspect list, but there’s no strong evidence.”

Bucky shut the folder, gripping it tightly. “I can help you catch her. But we don’t have time to wait.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “I need you to send a patrol car to her location. Now.”

Steve studied him for a moment before nodding. Without hesitation, he pulled out his phone and started making the call.

At that moment, Bucky’s own phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen.

A text from you.

S.O.S.

His blood ran cold.

His grip on the phone tightened, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Without another word, he bolted from the bench, his instincts screaming that he was already too late.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

Staying in Mr. Vert’s condominium felt safe, just as Bucky had assured you. The place was heavily guarded—bodyguards stationed at every corner, their sharp eyes scanning for any possible threat. If someone tried to harm you, they wouldn’t get far.

Yet, despite the security, you couldn’t shake the tension in the air.

It wasn’t fear of an attack. It was something else—the awkwardness of being in the same room with your boss.

You took a breath and finally spoke. “Sorry to bother you.”

Vert glanced at you from his seat, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand. His expression, as always, was unreadable.

“I don’t show it,” he said smoothly, “but I care for my employees.”

You hesitated before saying, “Mr. Vert… this might sound crazy, but I feel like you and Bucky are… similar.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Oh?”

“The arrogance, the cockiness—both of you have it,” you pointed out.

Vert smirked, amused.

“But more than that… the way he plays guitar.” You grabbed your phone and pulled up the recording of your last performance—the one where Bucky had unexpectedly replaced your guitarist.

Vert leaned forward slightly, watching the screen. The way Bucky’s fingers moved across the strings, the fluidity, the confidence—it was eerily familiar.

If someone looked up his background, his success as a savvy businessman would overshadow his past. He didn’t use a sad background story to boost his public image. He started as a guitarist, then became a composer, later a manager, and eventually decided to build his own music label.

Vert exhaled through his nose. “Hoo… interesting observation.”

“It’s just a guess,” you admitted.

“Play the live show,” Vert instructed.

You tapped the screen, and the two of you watched the footage together.

Bucky played like he had been part of the band all along. No hesitation, no mistakes.

“It could be,” Vert mused. “There’s a possibility. I didn’t know he could play guitar.”

You nodded. “That makes two of us. When I asked him about it, he just said—”

“I don’t know. Whenever I grab a musical instrument and copy the teacher, I can easily follow it. Maybe my birth parents were geniuses. But hey, I’ll never know.” Bucky shrugged his shoulders.

“Does that mean you watched my performances?” you had asked him.

“I have to understand more about my client, right?” he had replied.

It's amazing how Bucky mentioned his birth parents as if it meant nothing, while you pretended that everything with your parents was fine, when in reality, it was far from it.

Vert tilted his head. “Strange talent.”

“I thought so too,” you murmured.

Then you remembered what else Bucky had said.

Vert leaned back. “Back in the ‘80s, the hippies were wild. No one could tame my generation. The parties, the drugs—unlimited.” He smirked, but there was a hint of something darker beneath it. “And I always woke up in bed with different women.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that.

“I read that Bucky’s an orphan.” Vert hummed, swirling the whiskey again. “Wouldn’t hurt to get a DNA test.”

Instead, you changed the subject. “By the way, about Selena…”

Vert arched a brow. “Hmm?”

“How was she as your new manager?”

You hesitated before adding, “The thing is… I don’t feel comfortable around her. And I have this gut feeling that she sabotaged my last performance.”

Vert studied you for a moment. “So… you want to fire her.”

“Yes,” you said firmly.

He nodded. “I’ll make it official tomorrow.”

Relief washed over you. “Thank you.”

Vert smirked. “Like I told you… I may not look like it, but I care.”

Before you could respond—

The lights suddenly went out.

The entire condominium was plunged into darkness.

Your heartbeat spiked.

The room fell into eerie silence, save for the faint humming of emergency power trying to kick in.

Your hands tightened around your phone.

A bad feeling settled in your chest—worse than before.

Your fingers flew across the screen as you quickly typed out a message to Bucky.

S.O.S.

This time, you didn’t doubt it—something was very, very wrong.

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My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing is FREE on Kindle for a few days. Check it out!

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[steveslevis]

throughout the great war

chapter 1 - bruised like violets

azriel x hewn city escapee!reader

summary: you come to Velaris hoping for a way to escape the horrors of Hewn City, and you’re immediately taken into the custody of the High Lord of the Night Court. you don't expect him to accommodate you so willingly, and you definitely don't expect him to inform you that you'd be entering a courtship with his Spymaster, Azriel.

warnings: mentions of torture, death, sexual assault and previous violence, death threats, arranged marriage

word count: 3.8k

series masterlist

As night approaches on your fifth day away from Hewn City, fear finally starts to settle into your bones. 

It’s the dead of winter and you’re in the middle of the mountains in the Night Court, cold chilling you to the core as you trek through the piling snow. The only thing keeping you afloat in the sea of white is the sight of Ramiel ahead of you, and the three stars atop its peak. Those glittering shards in the sky remind you of what you’re trying so hard to find, freedom. 

If only you could muster up enough strength to winnow just one more time. One more leap with your remaining strength hopefully would be able to get you somewhere safe. Your mind races as you think of what you can do, as you think about how you can make that last leap before the chill of the night takes you.

Settling onto your knees on the edge of a cliff, you stare up at those three stars for only a moment before squeezing your eyes shut. In the back of your mind, you can see where you want to go, where you know you’ll be safe. It’s a place you’d only been once, during your early years of life, when your brother had snuck you out of the city for a day of fun. You could barely envision it now, but the thought of the bustling streets filled with smiling people and bright shops fills you with hope.

It fills you with enough hope that you’re finally able to make that leap through the nothingness, finally able to make that leap towards the place you barely remember.

Finally able to make that leap towards the place that’s kept you motivated enough to stay alive for these past two hundred and seventy six years, despite all of the horrors you’d endured. 

Upon your descent from the nothingness between places, your knees thud against cold stone. The sound of whirling wind is replaced by the sound of laughter and music, and what seems to be a river on the other side of you. 

When you gather enough strength to open your eyes, the sight in front of you nearly brings you to tears. 

You go unnoticed where you land, at the mouth of an alleyway near a closed bakery. Fae lights twinkle above you, all throughout the street that you gaze down, lighting the way so you can see dozens, if not hundreds, of smiling fae on the road. There’s a butcher on the opposite side of you, a spice market across the way, and a handful of bustling restaurants. It’s a beautiful sight, the relief that fills your chest is unmistakable as you realize this is the place from your dreams, the city that you’ve yearned for since you were a young female. 

The relief doesn’t last for long, though. 

A plume of darkness swirls around your knees as your happy tears fall, making your brow furrow as the light from above you seems to diminish. Your heart pounds in your throat as you finally dare to look up, catching a glimpse of midnight black boots before tears blur your vision. Your head is fully tilted up when you blink them away, and your gaze locks with a pair of dark hazel eyes for only a moment. 

It’s only a moment before you’re engulfed in shadows, and in that moment you know you’re probably not going to like wherever it is you’re being taken 

___________________________________

The dungeon is cold and damp, reminding you all too well of your old home, of the cell that your father considered to be your bedroom. 

If it weren’t for the fact that there was a mysterious winged male looming above you now, you would’ve been convinced that you were back in that same basement you’d been locked in for over fifty years. 

“You’re not a citizen of Velaris.” he states simply, eyes narrowed as he reaches for the dagger at his side. “You have a chance to explain yourself freely, explain how you ended up in the middle of the city. Or I’ll have no choice but to make you confess.” 

You cower away from the male then, back slamming into the wall as he takes a step towards you. Tears fill your eyes as you shake your head, mind immediately brought back to all those times that your step-father, and the others, came into your so-called bedroom to torture you. Shadows snake around your wrists and throat tightly, constricting against the skin in a way that makes you let out a strangled scream as you squirm.

“I–I’m sorry!” you yelp, squeezing your eyes shut as you shudder in pain under the weight of the shadows on your skin. 

“Just confess what your intentions are.” he demands cooly, twirling his blade in his hands as he stares at you with dark eyes. “Tell me what you’re doing in this city and I’ll think about sparing you.”

“P–Please!” you cry out, a sob falling from your lips as you stare up at him. “I–I’ll tell you anything you want, I’m from H–Hewn City. I–I winnowed here from the mountains. Please, please don’t hurt me, please don’t kill me.” 

Your lip quivers and your hands shake as you curl your legs up to your chest, hoping to make yourself as small as possible so he’ll have mercy on you. Your body is almost entirely numb now, only feeling the fear gnawing at you as you rock back and forth on the cold stone floor, pleading softly to be spared while the shadows finally loosen their hold on you.

He almost drops the dagger when he finally takes a good look at you. As he watches you repeat the phrase please don’t hurt me over and over again, something stirs in the male’s chest. 

A sob catches in your throat when you hear him stagger, looking up to see him staring down at you with wide eyes. He’d staggered a step away from you, something like shock written on his features as he hastily shoved the dagger back into its sheath. 

“Stay right there.” he says in a low voice, “My shadows are watching you. So if you try to move, I will know.”

You don’t have time to question what he means about his shadows watching you, as he all but vanishes into thin air a second later. 

A shadow skitters around your wrist after he disappears, but it’s a gentle caress compared to the way they bound you as you were shadow-walked into this basement by the elusive male. The darkness swirls around your skin, seemingly attempting to soothe the bruises littering your arms as you sit there, quietly awaiting your fate. 

Though he’s only gone for five minutes, it seems like you’re alone for an eternity before the darkness brings him back to the cell. He’s not alone this time, though. Two high fae winnow into the room after him, and your heart threatens to fall through your stomach when they step into the cell, into the light where you can see them.

The High Lord and Lady of the Night Court are standing over you, their presence all but taking the air out of your lungs as you attempt to scramble to your feet in order to bow for them, just as the citizens of Hewn City were made to do every time they visited. You fall to your knees when you try to stand the first time, all of your energy wasted on your final winnow into the city, so you opt for bowing on your knees in front of the couple. 

A soft and surprisingly kind laugh falls from the High Lord’s lips as you do, but you don’t dare to look up as your mind races. You don’t even dare to look up when you hear someone shuffle towards you, shifting onto their knees in front of your cowering figure. A gentle hand caresses your shoulder, and you finally dare to look up from where you were staring at the stone. 

When you finally do, you see the High Lady staring at you with kind eyes and a gentle smile, sitting knee-to-knee with you on the dungeon floor.

“Hello, it’s Y/N, isn’t it?” she says slowly, letting her hand fall from your shoulder as you sit up. Your brow furrows as you look at her and nod, unsure of how she knows your name. “I met you during our last visit to your court.” 

Your mind races as you think about the last visit from the Inner Circle to the Court of Nightmares, though you don’t remember much. You do remember drinking one more glass of wine than your step-father had permitted you to drink, though, which had made him mad enough to throw you into your cell at the end of the festivities. He hadn’t even cared that you hit your head on the stone floor as he’d locked you up for the night, which explained why you couldn’t remember meeting the High Lady. But still, you nod at the woman in front of you, feigning a smile as she studies you.

“We aren’t here to hurt you.” the High Lord says from behind her, flicking a piece of invisible lint off his shoulder. “We just want to know why you’re here and who sent you.” 

“I–I, nobody sent me.” you stammer, shaking your head as you hastily wipe a tear from your cheek. “I w–winnowed here because I came here once during my childhood, with my brother. We visited once and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since. He–He told me this place was the Court of Dreams, I–I don’t know, I didn’t even know where I really was winnowing. I–I just willed myself to come here because I wanted to be somewhere safe for once in my life.”

“Safe?” the High Lady says, brow furrowed as she continues. “Were you in danger in the Court of Nightmares?” 

Feyre knew the answer to her own question before she asked it, as Hewn City was not a safe place for many females like you, but wanted to hear it from you. Your lip quivers as your eyes flicker between the three fae in front of you, as you contemplate your next words very carefully. 

“It’s okay, Y/N.” she says gently, reaching her hand out to hold yours, but you cower away from the touch quickly.

Your heart races, immediately regretting pulling away from the female. You flinch at your own quick movement, sure that she or one of the two males behind her are going to hit you for the mistake, but the blow never comes. Her hand retreats into her own lap instead, sorrow and understanding swimming in her eyes as she looks you over again. 

“Would it be easier for me to read your memories instead?” she suggests, a sad smile on her face, “Rather than speaking about it out loud?”

You nod slowly at the female. Soon after, you feel a talon of power raking through your mind, making you gasp in shock. 

It’s okay, she reassures you through your own mind, It’ll only take me a minute, I’ll be out as soon as I can.

You swallow harshly, but force another nod as she focuses all of her energy into the expanse of your mind. It’s not painful by any means, but it definitely feels weird to have someone snaking through your thoughts, to have the High Lady of the Night Court viewing your worst memories from your time in Hewn City. 

As promised, she’s in and out of your mind in under a minute, leaving you staring at her with wide eyes as she looks to the High Lord who stands at her right. He gives her a knowing nod, as if they’re talking without words, and the High Lady stands up then. She looks down at you after standing, offering both of her hands to you in order to help you up. You hesitantly take her hands, slowly rising from the stone as she holds on to you. 

“I’m going to take you to our home, to get you cleaned up and let you get some rest, if that’s alright with you.” she suggests. 

You furrow your brow at her kindness, something you haven’t experienced in a long time, but mumble a quick thank you in agreement as she winnows the two of you from the dungeon. 

__________________________

It’s well past dawn during the next day when you finally wake, squeezing your eyes shut as the light hits your eyes when you roll over. 

You forget where you are for only a moment, shooting up in the large, comfortable bed to reorient yourself to your surroundings. You quickly remember that you successfully escaped Hewn City less than a week ago, and had somehow escaped interrogation from a very mysterious male and ended up spending the night in the home of the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court. The room you slept in was large and bright, the four-poster bed in the middle was large enough to accommodate at least four of you in all honesty. 

Once you relax slightly on the bed, you hear voices outside your room, two that you’d come to recognize as the High Lord’s and the male who’d attempted to interrogate you, who you still hadn’t learned the name of. 

“There’s no fucking way, Rhysand.” the male sneered, you could hear the frustration in his voice. “I won’t tell her, not like this.”

“Regardless of if you tell her, you will do as I say, you will ma–” the High Lord’s voice is cut off by a growl.

“Don’t.” 

Rhysand sighs in response, and you can feel the tension carrying through the hallway as you listen in. No more harsh words are exchanged between the two, and a knock on your door shakes you from your trance. 

“C–Come in.” you say hesitantly, unsure of what the males want from you. 

It’s only Rhysand who pops his head in the room then, giving you a kind smile as he looks over at you. 

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, to which you nod in reply, “Good. We would like to meet with you in the drawing room whenever you’re ready for the day. Nuala and Cerridwen left some clothes on the dresser for you, there should be any toiletries you may need in the en-suite bathroom as well.”

“T–Thank you, High Lord.” you squeak out, giving him a meek smile. 

“Please, call me Rhysand, or Rhys, okay?” he requests.

“Okay, Rhysand.” you say with a curt nod, though it feels wrong rolling off your tongue. “Thank you.”

He smiles at you again before retreating from the room, leaving you alone to get ready. 

Feyre had sent her handmaidens, Nuala and Cerridwen, up to help you get cleaned up the night before, but knew better than to do so now. You had broken down in tears when the females tried to help you undress, as the horrors of your past flashed through your mind at the feeling of someone else tugging at your clothes to take them off. Though you knew they meant well, you couldn’t help the places where your mind went in that moment. Feyre apologized profusely after, and assured you that you’d be left alone to get ready from now on.

So now, you get ready in solitude, slipping out of the sleep clothes you’d been given the night before. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror after sliding the shirt off your shoulders, the first time you’d truly looked at yourself in years. You were almost unrecognizable compared to the girl you once knew yourself to be, bruises and cuts littering your emaciated frame. It takes all your strength to finally look away, shoving down any emotions that threaten to bubble to the surface as you hastily throw on the black dress and matching shoes you’d been provided. 

As soon as you’re dressed, you exit the bedroom and head down the stairs at the end of the hallway to make your way to the drawing room. It’s almost impossible for you to get lost on the way, as you hear multiple voices carrying through the home as you step down to the first floor. 

You don’t expect to be greeted by seven fae adults and one child seated in the drawing room, all snapping their attention towards you when you walk into the room wordlessly. You recognize almost all of them as members of the High Lord’s Inner Circle, with the exception of the two females who look strikingly similar to the High Lady, since you’d seen them all at events in Hewn City over the years. The child sat in Feyre’s lap, so you assume the child is hers. 

“Y/N.” Feyre calls, smiling softly at you as she pats the seat next to her. ”Please, come join us.”

You’re hesitant to sit at first, but the promise of sitting next to the High Lady, who’s been nothing but kind to you, keeps you from denying the request. All eyes are on you as you finally sit down, perched on the edge of the couch as if you’re ready to run away at any moment, not an ounce of trust in your body as you stare at the fae in front of you. 

Rhysand goes through each person in the room, introducing you to everyone, ending with the male who tortured you in that basement less than 24 hours ago, who you now know is named Azriel. He only stares you down as he’s introduced, shadows swirling around his large wings as he sits perched on the arm of the couch opposite of you. You politely smile at everyone else in the room, but your smile fades as your eyes meet his, hurt replacing the fake-niceness you’d put on for the others. You swear you see a flicker of regret when you look into his hazel eyes, but it’s gone so soon that you’re convinced it wasn’t real.

“Right, now that introductions have been made, it’s time to discuss how our new guest will be fitting into the family.” Rhysand begins, looking your way as your brow furrows.

Truthfully, you’d assumed yourself to be a prisoner in this court despite their fair treatment. You’d assumed they would send you right back to Hewn City after giving you a good meal, that they’d send you right back into the grasp of your step-father, right back into the hell you’d lived before. But, it didn't seem like that anymore.

“Y/N, you will be moving into our other home named the House of Wind, where Cassian, Nesta and Azriel currently reside.” the High Lord explains, you don’t miss the way Azriel’s jaw twitches at the mention of living with you. “Although we are offering you a place in this court if you would like it, we cannot hide your presence from those in Hewn City, including your mother and step-father.” Your breath hitches in your throat at the mention of your family, heart aching as you think about what it would be like when they discover your whereabouts. “I will be informing Keir and your family about your choice to reside here, but I cannot enforce this without reason.”

“W–Without reason?” you ask, brow furrowed as you look up at the male. 

“Although I am their High Lord and will assure that they do not disturb you while you are in my city, I will have to give them a reason to not do so.” he continues with a nod, “I will be explaining to them that you are to be wed, Azriel, and we shall claim that the reason you ended up in this court was because you were pulled here by your mating bond. Though, none of that is true aside from the fact that you two will have to marry in order for this ruse to work.”

Your chest feels like it’s going to give out as Rhys continues to speak, your ears ringing loudly as panic takes over your entire body. You don’t notice the way Azriel watches you closely, the way his shadows flick towards you in order to soothe your panic and calm you without the others noticing.

The male who’d nearly strangled you with shadows and threatened to kill you was to be your husband, your fake mate. You couldn’t believe the situation you were in, it all seemed so surreal. But in all reality, you knew it was the only way to escape the fate awaiting you in Hewn City. You knew it was the only way to escape the constant abuse from your step-father and his friends. 

You don’t know how much time passes before you feel a hand rest atop yours, breaking you from your internal panic. 

Feyre is staring at you when you finally snap back to reality, concern lacing her features.

This is strictly for show, you do not have to do anything with Azriel that you don’t want to. Feyre assures you through your mind, her voice soothing in the sea of screaming in your brain. I promise you that we will keep your safety and comfortability a top priority in this court, you are safe here. 

You smile weakly at her and her mate, nodding slowly as tears shine in your eyes. 

“I will send word that your wedding will be tonight,” Rhys replies, giving you a weak smile in return, “but that it is a private ceremony. Only we will be present, since the two of you just need to exchange rings, so no need to worry about any of them intruding.” 

You blink back tears as you nod once more, the whole room silent as they watch you closely. 

You look over to Azriel then, taking a shaky breath as you try to collect yourself. The second your eyes lock with his, he looks away and stands from the arm of the couch, storming out of the room quickly. Another round of hot tears flow down your cheeks then, not caring that these fae you’ve just met are seeing you sob, not caring what they think about you in the moment.

The only thing you care about is that you’re to be wed to a male who couldn’t care less if you lived or died. 

Something twinges in your gut as you think about the hatred in Azriel’s gaze, heart aching as you worry yourself with the internal conflict of your new husband loathing you. You’re not sure why the hatred has you so up in arms, he’s only meant to be your husband for show, it shouldn’t matter, but you can’t escape the thought of how you thought marriage was supposed to be something special.

Before you can continue down your spiral of emotions, you shove your feelings aside and sit up straight, ready for your next instructions, because who were you to question your High Lord’s logic, right?

taglist (add yourself here): @acourtofbatboydreams @mich0731 @famouslywaiting @teenagellamaangel @alliex-o @dreamloud4610 @angelbunny222 @bookishbishhh @fanficscuziranout @buckingforbuckybarnes @thefandomplace @feyretopia @mad-hatters-lover @kissesfromnovali @mulledwinetea

[cherryheairt]

The Line

Viktor x reader slowburn

chapter one

Masterlist

baby Viktor is on my mind today and I wanted to write a childhood friends to lovers trope (my absolute fav because of its softness). Like wdym this kid is just on his own most of the day and his only friend is a deranged scientist GET AWAY FROM HIM. and THEN what do you mean he grows up to also have his only friend/situationship be his lab partner who prioritizes his gf 😭🙏 then I happened upon a small detail that someone pointed out, which was that Viktor (child) always paused before he spoke because he was mentally translating from his native tongue to English.

also, Tyler Joseph you will always be famous (his life action singing of The Line inspired this)

"My body's on the line now

I can't fight this time now"

Years of living in the Undercity had made you grow to expect three certain things. One, that everyone always wanted something from you. Two, that no one is trustworthy. And three, that only you can help yourself.

You considered yourself lucky to have someone to raise you. Not your parents, who either died or left before you could remember, but a woman who was tough as nails and didn't take shit from anybody. Tiff, the name she told you but never quite matched her, worked at Babette's brothel during the night and slept most of the day. This left you sleeping with a knife under your pillow, knowing that you were ever more vulnerable without an adult in the home. During the days while she snored away in the only bed in the studio apartment, you went off to waste the day away. Not being homeless was a fortune you hadn't expected to be granted, especially when Tiff never mentioned any connections to your parents. No debts or favors to be fulfilled, just a child plucked off the damp streets of the lanes.

The best place to be was the river. It was small compared to most, but shallow water was safe water. In the upper part of the lanes, where sunlight actually hit and water wasn't as polluted, many children of the Undercity made it their safe spot to hang out. You came every day to pick up canteens of fresh water from flowing falls between the rock formations. Two canteens every day for you and Tiff to drink until the next. After filling them, you spent the hours Tiff slept observing the children you'd grown up with. You made a point to sit on the sidelines, never mingling with them or making friends. You knew the time might pass faster, but something always prevented you from making the first steps.

Perhaps it was your fears of being an outlier or your penchant for stuttering when you were nervous or excited. Tiff always hated that habit and just waved you off to stop talking entirely. You'd taken to staying quiet unless spoken to first, although you never really talked to many people in the first place. Tiff, the guy down the street, Pato, who made the best and cheapest takeout food, and the occasional visiting coworker of Tiff's who crashed at the apartment. With all the free time you had, you filled it with random hobbies.

First, there was reading. With whatever books you could find lying around, you taught yourself the basics of language. Although you couldn't get far past that, considering Tiff was also never taught how to read as a kid. She comforted you by telling you no one needed it down here. Reading was a topside luxury. You moved on to drawing, which also didn't last very long. Supplies cost money that Tiff was unwilling to spend on wants instead of needs. You used rocks as your utensil and walls as your canvas, stopping only when your hands were dry and bleeding from the grip you had to use on them.

Stealing was your calling, Tiff had told you. With your quietness and keen eyes, you were skilled at sneaking around. After giving up all other options, you tried to help around the house with bills and rent instead. To earn your keep, which you knew wouldn't last forever. You started with pockets, your small size and nimble fingers making it all too easy. Wallets, jewlery, pocketwatches; all made their way from unsuspecting victim's hands and into Tiff's savings. A nice man by the name of Benzo bought whatever valuables you showed him, shaking his head all the while in slight disappointment at your thievery. You moved to the occasional house that had a cracked window or broken door lock. You never took enough to be devastating to the owners, but just enough to make a difference with every person you took from. The guilt quickly went away after the first few times, with Tiff validating that "hey, everyone's got to get by, kid. It'll teach them to keep their shit tighter."

You watched with satisfaction as Tiff was able to work shorter shifts occasionally. Once a week, she would take you past Pato's shop and to a place that served sweet milkshakes. A small delicacy that never failed to make both your and your guardian's mood shine.

Today, you were back at the river. The sun rose lazily from the time you arrived, watching it the entire time while waiting for other kids to file up in the area. The peace and quiet of the morning turned into a rowdy afternoon. It seemed busier than usual, children of all ages splashing around and tossing toys around while boisterously laughing.

Curled up in your space on a batch of rocks, you soaked the sunlight in. Parallel to you, on another raised batch of stones that kids like to stand on and 'fight' over, climbed a girl your age. With tan skin and curly hair, you remembered her as Sky. She tried making friends with you months ago, but your tense silence led her to give up after days of one-sided conversation. Still, you liked seeing her thrive among the rest of the kids. From a distance—like everything else you observed.

Today, another had caught her interest. Peering over the edge, you saw a mess of dark brown hair holding something in his lap like a precious heirloom. Briefly, you wondered if what he guarded would sell for anything good. The two stared at each other for only a few moments before Sky was called away by the group. Hesitantly, she left back over the rocks.

You stayed at the ledge. Inching ever so closer, you squinted to try and peer over his shoulder. While he focused on it and twisted a few metallic gears, you noticed the cane sitting by his side. Handmade, presumably, and likely by himself, judging by the contraption in his hands. When it made a loud 'click!', you startled enough to be thrown out of place. With a yelp, your grip on the rock had loosened, and you fell to the sand in a heap.

Groaning, you raised yourself pathetically to your hands and knees, spitting out sand from your mouth and wiping the rest off your face with the back of your hand. Not very well, from the indents you felt on your cheeks and chin. Glancing over at the boy, you saw him staring at you as if you were a ghost.

More than embarrassed, your face and ears burned stove-hot. Sitting up with scratched up palms and knees, peaks of raised white skin and red mixed together through the grains of sand.

"...Are you alright?" A heavily accented voice asked. Bright amber eyes continued staring down at you, but he made nary a move to assist. In fact, he clutched his thingy, which you now know as a boat, even closer to his torso as if you'd take off with it.

Grimacing, you nodded. Scooting past him to the water, you cupped up some and washed it over your scrape. Wincing at every touch, you cringed at the scolding you were in for at home. Can't run from angry bystanders after an unsuccessful theft.

No, not with your legs burning like this. It would be at least a week before you could be on the streets helping Tiff again.

"Your nose is bleeding." He pointed out from next to you. You jerked your head up, meeting his eyeline. Narrowing your eyes, an annoyance flowed through you. When did he move? Why had you not heard him?

Wiping at your nose roughly, you indeed found red dragging from your hand to wrist. Before you could dunk your head unceremoniously under water, a piece of cloth was thrust in front of your face. Winding back, you were surprised to see the boy merely offering it to you instead of taking advantage of your distracted mind to attack. You didn't carry anything but the water flasks, anyway, but still you stayed cautious.

"Hold your head down, not up." He instructed. Eyeing him, you almost scoffed outwardly at his assuredness, as if you didn't know how to handle a nosebleed. Grabbing the cloth, you cupped it around your nostrils and sat forward. Dizzy, the water in front of you seemed to spin.

He took a moment to adjust himself, slowly sitting next to you with a safe distance. The stream steadily flowed with a calming tune in your ears as time seemed to pass eternally slow. He kept the boat in his lap idly, legs crossed politely to take up less space even in the empty area.

After minutes of silent waiting, you uncovered and held the cloth away. Finding it absolutely unsalvagable, you glanced to the boy apologetically. He shrugged, not moving to take it back. "Keep it. It's only a hankerchief."

Folding it to wet and wipe excess blood from your face, palms, and knees, the sting lingered on, but the pain from tiny pebbles digging into your skin stopped. From your peripherals, you saw him staring. Turning, you raised your brows as if to ask, 'what's your problem?'

Again, he nearly flinched back. "Ah—my name is Viktor." His accent sharpened on the end of his name. It was considerably thick but not entirely foreign to you. Many people congregate in the lanes and hailed from other countries, including those of different languages or species, like Vastayas or Yordles. His mother tongue wasn't one you spoke but instead heard flowing through the markets on a lively afternoon. "What's yours?"

Pursing your lips, you bit your tongue. Unsure if the words might fumble coming out of your mouth, you resigned to write it in shaky letters in the sand grains. It wasn't neat or even, but you at least knew to spell your name and Tiff's in case of emergencies.

Viktor spoke your name aloud, feeling the syllables roll off his tongue in his accent. You nodded once, confirming that he pronounced it correctly. You pointed towards the mechanical boat in his hands, curious to know whether it worked or not, considering how it had only sat lamely in his lap since you first saw him.

He looked down in surprise, remembering he had been working on it the entire morning. "I named it Sunny." He started shyly, cheeks turning pink from the attention on him. "I finished working on her today."

You smiled slightly, urging him to go on. Looking between the boat and the stream, your eyes sparkled with curiousity. He seemed hesitant, perhaps embarrassed at the possibility of the small ship not working. After some careful thinking in his own little space, he finally sat up and wrapped his hand on a little crank, the same that startled you off the ledge.

He winded it a few times, slow and steady. When he popped the lever out and it made a loud 'crick!' Yet again, you held yourself from flinching. Mesmerized, you watched as the boat's winded gears turned the ship's paddles forward. He smiled brightly, tooth gap showing itself from between his lips as he giggled softly. He placed the boat gently into the water, allowing it to row itself downstream. Quickly, he beckoned you up at the same time that he took hold of his cane to lift himself.

You both followed after Sunny. Sand turned to rock and your knees burned as you trailed behind Viktor, always keeping your eyes on the boat as it sped faster than you expected. The water got deeper when the overhead rocks turned into a cave, one that you'd been too fearful to explore alone before. As it sped and the water became more of a current than a stream, you and Viktor had to start into a run.

Unfortunately, due to his leg and needing the cane just to walk, Viktor couldn't keep up. He tripped, yelling out as he fell to the rocks. "Viktor!" You yelled too, surprised at your own concern for the stranger. He was quick to recover, focused on the boat still heading further into the stream. You offered a hand as he used the other for his cane, seeing his ears brighten from what you guessed was embarrassment at the fall.

"We're even now." You mumbled out, quiet voice echoing in the small cave.

He stood taller upright, fixing his gaze between you and the now-dissappeared boat. "You can talk?" He asked, looking frustrated at the loss.

Fighting to urge to bite back a sarcastic response, you sighed and nodded. You had to remind yourself that most might assume you were totally mute or unable to speak for a physical reason, like Viktor had. You might assume the same if you met another like yourself. It was simply easier not to.

"Oh." He deflated, disappointed that you had stopped. "Let's find Sunny. I can't lose it." He turned around, determined to find his special project even in the dark and damp cave. Truthfully, although you often ran around the lanes on your own, the dark still scared you. Huddling closer than acquaintances should, you were nearly clinging to Viktor's arm as he led the way.

If he was bothered by the shoulder-to-shoulder touch, Viktor did not say a word. In fact, you could hear his breaths grow quicker as you decended. He was equally as frightened as you were, but he put on a brave face despite it.

Descending the cave, Sunny continued its drift downstream faster than either of you could keep up. You only heard the mechanical sounds whirring and turning in the internal parts of the machine and the water wheels against the surface. Finally, you heard it stop like it was jammed on something. A dim but frankly pretty purple light came from your destination. When entering another opening of the cave that widened from the narrow entrance, you found yourself in awe of the naturally growing violet flowers on the stone walls.

Flowers or fungus? Either way, they were luminescent and possibly the best thing you'd ever seen in the lanes.

A slithering caught your attention, and Viktor pulled you down to hide behind a jutting stone. You gasped, and Viktor was quick to slap a hand over your mouth regardless of the fact that the man and his large lizard companion definitely knew you were there. You both kept your eyes glued to the pink creature, wondering what it was and if it was aggressive or not. You knew that in a moment of great adrenaline, you could run away from anything, but your new friend could definitely not.

The creature roared, spotting you both huddled together. You clutched his hand tight, squeezing your eyes shut and bracing yourself for an imminent attack.

A voice, not your own or Viktor's, startled you both. "Don't be afraid." Soothing, almost fatherly.

"Did you build this?" It was the man, possibly in his early 30's or so and human, sitting on a rock that was bathed in sunlight from a small opening in the top of the cavern and inspecting Sunny in an impressed way.

Viktor stood up slowly, wary of the pink lizard, but even more curious.

"Why aren't you two playing with the others?" He continued, seeing as neither of you answered verbally.

Viktor stepped out, letting the cane speak for him. The man hummed thoughtfully, running a hand over the mechanisms. "Loneliness is often a byproduct of a gifted mind."

"What—" You swallowed harshly, scolding yourself internally for stuttering in front of both of them, but forced yourself to finish now that their eyes were on you. "What is that?"

"Oh," he started, looking sideways at it as if he'd forgotten it was there. "This is Rio. She is a rare mutation that I cultivated myself." He said, sounding almost somber.

Viktor and you exchanged a glance as the pink lizard named Rio blinked at you both. It was cute, as cute as a beast five times the size of you could possibly be. You'd rarely see pets around the lanes—far too expensive for the normal citizen to keep around.

"Here," he stood, plucking one of the purple flower things from his pocket. "Would you like to feed her?"

Viktor stepped forward first, cane tapping with every small step he took. The flower was tightly clutched in his small hand as he approached the lizard, carefully eyeing her mood to see if the flower or himself might be her meal. To your amusement, Rio eagarly gobbled the flower up and left a string of thick saliva on his arm. You giggled, moving to pet her now that you were sure she was friendly. The lizard purred under your gentle touch, yellow eyes blinking innocently up at you and sniffing for more treats. Viktor joined you as Rio settled down on the rock like the movement exhausted her greatly.

"She's dying." The man said simply. You gasped, protectively stroking behind her ear spikes as if the comfort might protect her from his blunt statement. "I am trying to provent that. The mutation must survive." He said darkly. You disliked his tone, thinking of how ominously he spoke and how detached he viewed the beautiful creature. Like it was an experiment and not a being.

"Can I help?" Viktor spoke up.

He seemed surprised, but smiled slightly at the offer. "You want to assist me?"

Viktor shrugged, but you could tell he was eager to help Rio get better. And possibly just have a friend, even if that friend was an old man in a dimly lit cave.

"And you?" The man's grey eyes found you, still petting the lizard and pretending you were invisible. It was easier that way, to stay in the shadows and be unheard and unseen.

You struggled to find the words for a moment, face hot at your admittance. "I'm not smart, like Viktor is." You glanced to the boy next to you, who seemed to smile and crinkle his wide amber eyes at your words.

The man held a comforting hand on your and Viktor's shoulders. "I'll find a role for you both." He didn't even mention your useless stumbling or give you a nasty look for taking too long to speak. Tiff wouldn't have let you get two words in before rolling her eyes and ignoring you. For some reason, you felt a strong attachment to the strange man.

Happily, you nodded. "I want to help, too!"

Stutters are complicated to write and tedious to write the stereotypical format of "S-s-stutter" which is often not accurate. Based off experience of knowing someone with a chronic (?) stutter, people with a stutter often repeat the entire word until they can move on with the next, which is what I imagined the mc to do. Its not written out but implied for the sake of smooth formatting. Her stutter is neurological and stems from her caretaker not properly taking time to speak with her and teach her language beyond clipped sentences. As mc grows older and more confident, she grows out of it as most children do (though thats not to say people with stutters can simply grow out of it as if its a bad habit, every case is different)

I legit dont even have Netflix anymore but keep started these series (Alice in borderland, squid games, Arcane) that NEED netflix to write scenes from ughhh but its so overpriced for even the Ads version of subscription, so basically this is now a one-shot until I decide to buy Netflix again bc I started this when I had it 😇

[untitledrockstar-if]

Q: WHAT ARE THE CONTENT WARNINGS?

substance abuse, allusions to abuse, sexual content, mental health struggles and infidelity. this game is intended for mature audiences and depicts dark themes that are sadly normal in the entertainment industry.

Q: WHAT IS MC’S ROLE/JOB?

they’re currently the partner of a rockstar and are considered an It boy/girl. you can choose a career later on and pursue dreams outside of the band.

Q: WHAT ARE THE CAREERS WE CAN CHOOSE FROM?

actor/actress, artist, musician and model for now. 

Q: HOW OLD IS EVERY CHARACTER?

mc: 27, ronan/roxanne: 29 about to turn 30 in game, charles/colette: 40/41, scarlett/samuel: 28, milan/margo: 23 and ????: 28

Q: WHO CAN YOU ROMANCE?

ronan/roxanne, samuel/scarlett, charles/colette, milan/margo and ????

Q: WHO IS ????

that will be revealed in game and I won’t spoil it now.

Q: ARE DRUGS REQUIRED TO BE TAKEN?

at the beginning, yes. mc has fully immersed themself in the lifestyle of the band and does drugs and drinks.

Q: WHY IS MC SO MEAN TO RANDOM CHARACTERS/THE REST OF THE CAST?

because they’ve been living this lifestyle for 3 years and the industry oftentimes changes people for the worse.

Q: WILL THE INFIDELITY TAKE PLACE BETWEEN R AND MC?

yes.

Q: IS THE CHEATING GOING TO HAPPEN REGARDLESS OF OUR CHOICES?

yes, it’s an important plot point later on.

Q: CAN WE CHEAT ON R IN RETURN?

yes, you can.

Q: DOES R REALLY LOVE MC?

they do! people still do stupid shit to people they love however. 

Q: CAN WE BREAK UP WITH R?

yes, but not at the start.

Q: DO WE HAVE TO BREAK UP WITH R?

no, you don't have to.

Q: CAN WE GET BACK TOGETHER WITH R?

yes, but that will take some time.

Q: WILL R CHANGE IF/WHEN MC LEAVES THEM?

they might try to get better. 

Q: WHAT HAPPENS WHEN (X)?

I won’t spoil anything. let’s just wait and see.

Q: HOW WILL R REACT WHEN (X)?

that will be discussed in game.

Q: CAN YOU TELL US WHAT WILL HAPPEN WHEN THEY BREAK UP?

no, as we are at the beginning and I want to leave at least some things as a surprise. 

Q: CAN WE LEAVE R AFTER CHAPTER ONE?

no. mc and R are going to be together happily until the end of the first third of the game.

Q: ARE SEX SCENES MANDATORY?

yes. R and mc communicate through sex a lot and this game relies on romance and sex will be part of it.

Q: CAN MC BE ON TOP TOO/MORE DOMINANT?

yes, but seeing as there’ll be 4 different variations of every sex scene based on the gender of your RO and the mc themself, I won’t offer too much  input in terms of choices who will be on top when. the scenes play out the way I feel are best and you can’t be a strict top/bottom this time around. 

Q: CAN YOU ADD (X) TO THE STORY?

no. I plotted this game already and want it to play out the way I envision.

Q: WHY DIDN’T YOU WRITE R AND MC LIKE (X)?

because I didn’t.

Q: WHAT INSPIRED THIS IF?

general gossip I’ve read, shows and movies depicting the reality of what being a star entails. certain books like tshoeh and djats.

Q: HOW LONG WILL IT BE WORD COUNT AND CHAPTER WISE?

around 9/10 chapters are planned but I’m not sure about a wc yet.

Q: DID R LOVE THEIR EX?

yes, in their own way.

Q: WILL BE EXPLORE HOW MC AND R MET?

yes, mc’s and R’s past will be depicted and discussed at length.