#is this why they failed the previous study?

[itsnotyouithink]

AFRAID

SUMMARY: After a study session thick with tension, a quiet dare slips between the two of you: pass the test, and Tara will be at your next game. You’ve never cared about school — but now every page, every note, feels like a shot at something you can’t name yet.

PAIRING: tara carpenter x fem!reader

WARNINGS: mature language

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: being sick during summer is terrible and wtf is this heat

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—————————

The lawn was a frying pan. Your team? The eggs.

You were drenched—shirt clinging to every dip of muscle, sports bra soaked through, ankle taped and already starting to throb again. Your mouth tasted like Gatorade and iron. Coach had you running suicides like he'd personally been offended by your existence. And still, you didn't stop.

Because she was there.

Tara Carpenter sat under a sad excuse of a tree with crossed arms and murder in her eyes, looking like she'd rather be set on fire than outdoors - which you guess was one in the same considering the temperature. Her navy T-shirt was stuck to her back, her black shorts riding up her thighs, legs folded beneath her like she was trying to vanish into the earth. Sunglasses dangled uselessly from her fingers.

Her book was open but completely ignored. Her eyes, though?

All yours.

You caught her more than once. Every time you wiped sweat from your jaw, every time you winced and shook out your ankle, her gaze drifted. And every time you caught her, she looked away just a little too slow. Like she knew better. Like she couldn't help it.

When Coach finally called for water, you didn't go to the cooler. You went right to her.

You dropped to the blanket like your body had short-circuited, one leg stretched out, one arm slung lazily across her textbook. Your head tilted back, neck glistening, chest rising and falling like a warning siren.

"I hope you're writing this down," you muttered. "This is what greatness looks like."

"You're sweating all over my Criminal Law notes," she replied dryly.

"You're welcome. They've been blessed."

"I'm going to set you on fire."

"You already have, Carpenter."

Her mouth twitched.

Just a little.

From her other side, Mindy made a noise that sounded vaguely like a scream into her hands. "Can you two not flirt during heatstroke?"

Anika peeled her sunglasses off. "No, this is amazing. This is enemies-to-lovers but the enemies part is just foreplay."

Tara turned her face slightly toward you. Her cheek was flushed. Her jaw tight. But her voice? Smooth as ever. "You look like you just lost a fight with a hose."

You grinned. "You still think I'm hot."

"You're literally steaming."

"You like it."

"You're delusional."

"You're obsessed."

She exhaled hard, then turned back to her book—still untouched. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

"Oh, I do," you said. "I just want to hear you say yes."

"To what?" she asked, not looking up.

You leaned in, voice lower now. "Come to the game."

Tara blinked.

"You've never come to one," you continued, still close. "You sit here during practice. You ask questions during tutoring. But you've never seen me play. Really play."

Her fingers tapped against the spine of the book. Then stopped.

You tilted your head. "Scared it'll make it worse?"

"Make what worse?" she said too fast.

"The thing you're pretending not to feel."

She rolled her eyes. "You've had one too many heat strokes."

"Forty points, Carpenter. I’ll drop forty next week, if you show up. You don’t want the team to lose, now do you? Oh, and you should bring me Gatorade."

She stared at you. "You think you'll actually hit forty?"

You smirked. "If you're there? Easily."

"And if I say no?"

"I won’t even get off the bench."

She tilted her head at you with a smirk, “Seeing you fail is my excitement, why would I let you succeed?” Tara shrugged, “Besides, you’re exhausting."

You let your knee brush hers. Let it linger. "You're still here."

She looked down at where your leg touched hers, then back at you. "If—and this is purely hypothetical—you pass your film studies test..."

You leaned closer. "Yeah?"

"Maybe I'll show up."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe."

You looked down at her mouth. Then back up. "Do I get anything else?"

"Yeah," she said, eyes flicking to yours. "A cold Gatorade and a restraining order."

You laughed. "I'll take the Gatorade."

"You're not getting the kiss."

"I never said kiss."

"You were thinking it."

You didn't deny it.

She didn't move away.

Mindy clapped like someone had just hit a buzzer-beater. "Oh my Gosh, she's gonna show up and she's gonna fold."

"I'm not folding," Tara snapped.

But when you stood—slowly, lazily, stretching enough for your jersey to ride up and reveal just a sliver of your lower stomach—her sunglasses came up faster than her defense ever could.

You turned as you jogged back to your team, calling over your shoulder, “I’ll text you my favorite Gatorade flavor later!"

Tara didn't answer.

But her thumb hovered over her phone screen for the next ten minutes.

And her eyes?

Locked on you.

⸻

Your dorm room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of notebook pages and the occasional groan you make when your brain short-circuits.

The overhead light is too harsh, so you've turned it off and settled with the small desk lamp in the corner, which casts a yellow glow across your notes. Your film studies textbook lies cracked open in front of you, highlighters and loose paper scattered around it like the remnants of a storm. Your laptop screen is split between the lecture slides and the Google Doc you're barely holding together - Brad Pitt glares at you through the screen.

You've read the same sentence four times. You don't even know what mise-en-scène is anymore. You're sweaty from practice, sore from pushing through drills on a busted ankle, and your eyes are starting to blur—but none of that matters as much as the fact that if you fail this test, she doesn't show.

A passing grade is all you need, B- or higher! That's the deal. And you want her in the bleachers more than you've wanted sleep in a week. You stare at the screen again, thumb hovering over your phone. It's past midnight. You've already chugged an iced coffee. It didn't help.

You send the text.

[1:03 AM — You]

you up or do you value sleep and sanity

You watch the typing dots appear, vanish, reappear. Your heart thuds like a free throw.

[1:05 AM — Tara]

what's wrong

is this a medical emergency

did you forget what a director is again

You smile in spite of yourself.

[1:05 AM — You]

worse

i don't get any of this

can you come help

like actually

i think i'm gonna fail and then i'll never get to see u in the student section

There's a longer pause this time. Then:

[1:07 AM — Tara]

give me ten minutes

don't do anything you’ll regret, i’ll be right there

You stare at the screen. Blink. Sit up straighter. Something tight and strange winds low in your stomach.

Tara Carpenter is sneaking out. For you.

————

Ten minutes later, she's in the hallway.

Well—trying to be in the hallway.

The dorm's fluorescent lights buzz low overhead, flickering slightly, and she pulls the hood of her sweatshirt up like she's about to commit a crime. Her arms are folded tight across her chest, and she walks like someone trying not to be perceived. Tara had never been in the athletics dorms before - Chad chose to go a more safer route for himself after the murders. She rolled her eyes at the spirit practically oozing from the walls — the bold signs, posters of the athletes, and the infamous Bulldog statue at the end of the hall wearing a crown and funnily enough, your jersey.

She's nearly to your door when she hears them.

"Carpenter?" a voice calls down the corridor. "No way."

Tara freezes. Slowly turns her head.

There, just outside the lounge, half a dozen of your teammates are sprawled across beanbags and couches, a few still in practice gear. One of them—Dani—is eating instant noodles straight from the cup and staring like she's just seen a ghost.

Tara blinks. "Hi," she says flatly.

"Wait," Ava says, sitting up so fast her hoodie falls off one shoulder. "You're here? For her?"

"I'm... delivering notes," Tara lies. Poorly.

"For her film test?"

"Yes."

"Right. At one in the morning."

Tara sighs.

Dani's eyes narrow. "Are you two, like... dating?"

"Absolutely not.”

"So you're just studying in her dorm. At 1 a.m." They all glance at each other quickly, like they’re in on a joke she isn’t a part of.

Tara mutters something under her breath. Then, louder, "Can you just point me to her door?"

The team snickers as Ava leans her head out dramatically. "End of the hall. Left side. You'll hear the tragic groans of someone crying over poor formatting."

"Tell her she owes us sprints if this ends in a forehead or cheek kiss," Dani adds. Another one of your teammates chimes in, “Full suicide sprints if it’s on the lips!”

"I'm ignoring all of this," Tara mutters, already walking again.

⸻

You swing open the door.

Tara's standing there in a black zip-up hoodie, sleeves pulled over her hands, her bun falling apart in the best possible way. Her eyes are tired, but alert, dark and shining beneath the low dorm hallway light. There's a red flush creeping up her neck—probably from the walk, maybe from passing your teammates, definitely not from nerves, definitely not.

"You rang," she deadpans.

You step back and gesture her inside. "Welcome to the disaster zone."

She steps in, eyes sweeping over the room with that same semi-judgmental expression she always wears when she's trying not to smile. Your desk is an explosion of papers and coffee cups. Your bed is half-made, like you gave up halfway through fixing it and decided to suffer in it instead. The desk lamp in the corner casts everything in this golden-yellow haze, soft and a little hazy, like the warmth left in a gym after a long practice. She tries to ignore the posters practically hanging off the walls - Fight Club, The Arctic Monkeys, and a poster of.. a pie with the mathematical pi symbol in the middle?

Tara drops her bag with a soft thud and moves toward the bed like it's routine—like she's done this before. She sinks onto the edge, crossing her legs under her and tugging one sleeve down so it hangs over her knuckles.

You eye her, amused. "Comfortable?"

She lifts a brow, tugging her hoodie tighter. "If I'm gonna babysit your academic survival, I get a soft surface."

There's a flicker of something behind the sarcasm—a softness to the way she settles in, back straight against your pillow, like she belongs here. Her knee bounces once before she steadies it with her hand against the royal blue sheets.

"Wow," you say, settling into your desk chair and spinning it halfway toward her. "You've grown into such a nurturing presence."

"Shut up and open your notes."

You grab the crumpled packet from the pile and scoot closer, spinning the chair to face her directly. You're close now. Not close enough to touch. But close enough to feel the subtle pull of her presence. The way her breath shifts when you lean forward. The small, almost-invisible tension in her shoulders when your knee bumps the side of the bed.

Her eyes flick to your ankle—still wrapped, still swelling slightly. She doesn't say anything about it. Just gestures at the notes. "Start."

You try. You stumble. You're tired and wired and every word feels like static.

"Okay," she says after a beat, "Define diegetic sound."

You glance at her. "Um..."

She leans forward slightly, just enough for her shoulder to brush your bent knee. Her voice drops. "Don't make me regret this."

"Sound that... exists in the story world?"

Tara hums. Approving. Barely.

You glance up at her. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes are watching you closely.

"And non-diegetic is like... the score, voice-over, stuff only the audience hears."

She nods, slowly. "Not bad."

You smirk. "I'm hot and smart. Dangerous combo."

"I wouldn't go that far," she says, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

"And yet," you say, flipping the page. "You came all the way down here just to watch me study in short shorts.

Tara blinks. Her gaze drops—too quick, too obvious.

You grin.

"I came to stop you from failing."

"Same thing."

She exhales, but it sounds like she's trying not to laugh. She takes your notes from you, her fingers brushing yours—warm, quick, deliberate. There's a pause when they touch. You feel it. She does too.

"Okay," she murmurs, skimming the page, "talk to me about cinematography."

You groan. "That's the one with... framing?"

She nods. "Composition. Lighting. Color. Movement. It's what you think of when something feels like a movie."

"Like this?"

You gesture vaguely between the two of you—her on your bed, hoodie rumpled, lamp casting golden shadows across her collarbone; you, in a hoodie you never zipped, sitting a little too close, leg pressed against the mattress like it's holding you up.

She doesn't answer right away.

Instead, she looks at you. Really looks.

"You're tired," she says quietly.

You blink. "That's your takeaway?"

"You look like you're gonna pass out."

"Maybe I'm just overwhelmed by your beauty."

She snorts. "You're ridiculous."

"You're pretty when you're annoyed."

"I'm always annoyed."

"Exactly." You smile.

There's a beat of silence.

You watch her carefully. The way her fingers curl slightly in the fabric of your blanket. The way her mouth opens like she's going to argue—then doesn't. Her lashes are dark, casting soft shadows on her cheeks. You want to trace them with your thumb.

"You're not gonna fail," she says again, gentler this time.

You nod, biting your lip. "You think I'll pass?"

Her voice lowers. "I think you want to impress me."

Your mouth curves.

"I think," she continues, "you'd study for twenty more hours just to make me show up."

You tilt your head. "Would it work?"

She leans back on her hands. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"You're still flirting," she murmurs.

"You're still here," you counter.

She blinks slowly. Doesn't reply. Just... watches you. The quiet between you stretches and deepens, full of all the things neither of you are saying out loud. Tara glared at you, “Is that your favorite line?”

You shrug and push your notes off your lap. "Okay, lightning round."

She straightens, already smirking. "You're gonna fail the lightning round."

"If I get four out of five..."

"No."

"Three out of five?"

"Still no."

"You don't even know what the deal is."

"I know it involves kissing."

You pause. Let the silence hang.

Then: "Is that a no?"

She doesn't answer right away. Her eyes linger on your mouth for a second too long.

"Three out of five," she says finally, voice barely above a whisper. "You pass. I come to the game. And... we talk about the rest after."

You exhale slowly. "That sounds dangerously close to a yes."

"It's dangerously close to a maybe."

"Progress."

She looks down, smiling—just for a second. The kind that slips out before you can stop it. Then she grabs your notes and whacks you lightly in the chest.

"Back to work."

“No lightning round?” You argue. The response that’s given is a simple glare, “You ruined that idea when you involved kissing you into the mix.”

But when she shifts forward again, her leg brushing yours, her voice low and quiet as she starts quizzing you—there's no mistaking the way the air tightens between you. No denying the soft press of something growing where grades and flirting collide.

She stays for another hour.

And when she finally gets up to leave, her hoodie sleeves pulled back down to her wrists, she pauses in your doorway.

You glance up.

Her mouth opens.

Closes.

Then, quietly, without looking at you: "B- and up, right?” You nod, heart skipping.

"Okay," she says, backing out of the room. "Make me show up, Varsity.”

The door shuts gently behind her.

And you sit there, notebook still open, pulse hammering in your throat, knowing damn well: you're not just passing that test.

You're playing for her now.

⸻

The doors to the humanities building creak open behind you, but you're already squinting into the heat.

It's late morning, but the sun's high and heavy—spilling down across the quad, coating the sidewalks in gold and turning every step into a slow drag. The humidity hangs low, dense and unmoving, the kind that makes your skin feel just a little too tight and your shirt stick to your back in damp, uncomfortable patches.

You've got your hoodie tied around your waist like a security blanket. Your shoulders ache from sitting too stiff for too long, and your brain feels like it's been rung out and hung on a line to dry. You survived your Film 101 test—barely—and you haven't even had the nerve to check your grade yet (you were busy shedding an exhausted tear or two in the bathroom).

But then you see her.

Tara.

Standing near the low brick ledge that curves around the quad's edge, partially shaded by a tree that does absolutely nothing to help with the heat. She's leaning casually against the stone, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle, the toe of her sneaker lazily tapping the ground in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

She's in a fitted black tank top and soft gray hoodie unzipped halfway, sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Her hair's pulled half-up in a loose, slightly messy twist that should look careless—but on her, it's lethal. A few strands of her bangs stick to the sides of her neck, damp from the heat, and the breeze lifts the rest just enough to make her look like she walked off the set of a film you're not cool enough to be in.

Her sunglasses are perched on her head, nudging her hair back from her face, and she's holding an iced coffee in a way that's almost theatrical—lazy, precise, like she knows it draws attention to her ring covered fingers.

She doesn't see you right away.

But when she does—her eyes flick up, and she smiles just barely, like it's a secret she wasn't going to share unless you made the first move.

"You look like hell," she calls as you approach, her voice flat and fond at the same time.

You drag a hand through your hair, still catching your breath from the nerves of the exam. "Thanks. I'm going for post-apocalyptic student athlete."

"You nailed it. Very The Road, but make it sweaty."

You stop a few feet from her, close enough to smell the faint sugar in her coffee and the sharp, clean scent of whatever soap she uses. She's got her whole I'm too cool for this act on full display, but her eyes are too sharp to sell it. She's scanning you—taking in your flushed face, the slight drag in your step, the twitch in your fingers.

"So," you say, trying not to sound too breathless, "how much do you know?"

She sips her drink, lets the ice rattle. "About what?"

You tilt your head. "Don't play dumb, Carpenter."

She doesn't look at you right away. Instead, her gaze flicks to some imaginary spot past your shoulder, like she's debating how much to admit.

Then: "You passed."

You blink.

"You got a solid B," she adds. "He curved it."

You let out a breath so loud that it turns into a laugh, half-shocked, half-weightless. "Holy shit. I was ready to fail and spiral for like, a month."

"You still might," she says, smirking over the rim of her cup.

You squint at her. "How'd you know?"

Her lips twitch. "The portal updated twenty minutes ago."

"Did you check before I got out?"

"I was... curious."

You raise a brow. "Curious?"

She shrugs with one shoulder. "Nosy. Whatever."

You grin, stepping just a little closer, enough that your shoes are nearly touching. "Admit it. You care."

Tara scoffs. "I care about the chance of never having to tutor you again."

"When I do pass and I don’t need you anymore, you're gonna miss me." When I don’t need you anymore, that hit Tara.

"I'll manage."

There's a pause—too long to be casual. Her eyes drag over your face, lingering for a second on your mouth before flicking away.

"So," you say, softer now. "You're coming?"

Tara raises a brow.

"To the game," you clarify, even though you both know what you meant.

"I never said that."

"But you implied it."

"I implied a maybe."

"But now it's a yes."

She crosses her arms, iced coffee nestled in the crook of her elbow, fingers drumming lightly against her bicep. "You're awfully confident."

"I passed the test we thought I’d bomb. What's more impressive than that?"

She laughs under her breath. "Is that what this is? A seduction via GPA?"

"I have layers."

"Mm. Like a freshman's film analysis."

You grin. "If you come, I'll drop forty."

She hums. "That sounds like a threat."

"It's a guarantee."

Tara eyes you like she's trying to figure out if she should kiss you or kill you. Maybe both. She shifts her weight, her knee grazing yours in a way that doesn't feel accidental at all.

"And what do I get if I show up?" she asks.

You don't even blink. "A free show. Me, center court. You, second row. I'll even do a special hand signal at you if I'm feeling bold."

"I will walk out."

"You'll stay. You'll bring Gatorade. Red."

"That wasn't part of the deal."

"It is now." The grin on your face makes her shift her stance, you keep talking like you usually do. “I was thinking a hand gesture like this,” you put two fingers over your heart and then point it to her, “or if I’m feeling really bold I could do the full-on I love you sign.”

Tara doesn't reply. Just watches you for a moment, jaw tightening slightly like she's trying to hold something back—an eye roll, a laugh, a blush. She turns, finally, slowly beginning to walk away.

But halfway down the path, she tosses a final look over her shoulder.

"If I show up, it's not for the Gatorade," she says, almost too quietly.

You swallow hard.

"Then what's it for?"

She smiles—sharp and low and dangerous. "You'll find out. If you don't choke."

And then she disappears into the heat, leaving you dumbfounded.

[bitterballad]

the roommate agreement.

━━━ © bitterballad

PLOT! You and Eren were assigned to be roommates in a co-ed dorm. Your opposing lifestyles lead to some amusing clashes, but over time the two of you find a way to co-exist with one another. That comfortable rhythm turns into something more once someone flirts with you at a party.

WARNINGS! modern!au. college!au. slight praise kink i think... overstimulation, PROTECTED sex (always wrap before you tap)

NOTES! hiiiii eren is silly in this fic bc i said so. i also made him a sports medicine major bc i wanted to. word count is 4.3k. enjoy!

You were going to kill your roommate. It's six in the morning, you fell asleep maybe three hours ago, and he's awake rummaging around his side of the dorm. He does this everyday: up early, headphones in listening to god knows what, and waking you up with his antics.

"Where is it?" He muttered to himself. His words were too loud for your liking, though most would say his everything is too much for your liking.

You press a hand to the bridge of your nose, pinching it lightly. "What the hell are you doing?" You asked, voice groggy.

Erens head shot up, looking at you for a second before he goes back to rummaging. "I can't find my other sneaker."

"So?" You counter.

"I need it to run."

"Run barefoot for all I care. Just be quiet." You groan, wanting this conversation to be over with so you can go back to your lovely dream. 

He huffs at your words. "I am being quiet."

"Be quieter!" You pleaded. Whether it was with him or god, you didn’t know.

He gave you a tight-lipped smile, and went back to his previous actions. He attempted to be quieter, but that just wasn’t enough. You tossed and turned, trying to find a spot on your twin sized bed that was farthest away from his noise. Obviously, that didn’t work.

It’s times like these you regret accepting the co-ed dorm. Sure, none of the other dorms had room, and this one was way cheaper. But you would take expensive girls over Eren.

This noise will never end. You knew it at the bottom of your heart. So instead of wasting time trying to fall asleep and failing, you sat up in your bed, got one of the books laying face down next to your legs, and began studying. Your computer was already open from last night, and you had highlighters and pens littered across the blanket. 

“If you must break the law, do it to seize power: in all other cases observe it.” You mumble, eyes scanning through the words on the page, barely comprehending this. Why the fuck did you choose Pre-Law?

Eren’s head shot up. “What are you doing?” He asked you, eyes and voice full of curiosity. This is the first time he’s seen you like this. He usually witnesses you study at your desk for a brief moment before his Physiology class. Other than that, it’s passing moments. This time, he’s taking you in, analyzing everything about you.

“Studying. I have a test tomorrow and I can’t sleep.”

Your eyes had already diverted back to your computer, but he stayed trained on you. As he slipped his shoe on (yes, he found it) he noticed the bags under your puffy eyes. Was this his fault? 

Guilt flashed in front of him and coursed through his veins. Of course this was his fault. He’s a loud 20 year old boy. He should have some manners when living with a girl.

Digging through his nightstand, he placed a bottle of something on your desk before heading out.

The bright rays of the laptop burned your eyes. With each scan of a sentence your eyes itched more. You sucked in a large breath before slamming the laptop shut, groaning with a mix of annoyance and crankiness.

Your eyes dart to the nightstand, landing on a small, purple bottle of melatonin gummies.

A smile graces your lips.

You pop two gummies into your mouth and lean back against your headboard, letting the artificial strawberry taste settle on your tongue.

He's already gone, the door shut behind him a few minutes ago, but the echo of his presence lingers. You stare at the door for a moment longer than you mean to, the corners of your mouth twitching.

Stupid, thoughtful bastard.

The next few weeks fall into a strange rhythm. Eren still wakes up too early. You still stay up too late. But now, he leaves you small peace offerings—sometimes it’s melatonin, other times it’s an extra protein bar tossed onto your desk without a word. You never say thank you out loud, and he never asks for one.

Instead, you start leaving the window open before you sleep because you know he likes the fresh air after a run.

You catch him glancing at you more often. Not the usual up-and-down guys do when they’re checking you out, but the kind that lingers like he’s trying to read something written on your face. You pretend not to notice. You’re both pretending.

Then one night, it changes.

You come back to the dorm earlier than usual, slumping in with your bag dragging behind you. You’re exhausted, your notes are a mess, and your brain feels like overcooked pasta. You don't even bother turning on the light.

You expect to be alone.

Instead, Eren’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, headphones in, scribbling something in a notebook. When he sees you, he pulls the buds out. “Hey.”

You grunt a tired hello.

He watches you toe off your shoes and collapse face-first onto your bed. “Rough day?”

You answer with a muffled noise into your pillow.

There’s a pause. Then: “Wanna talk about it?”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “Since when do you ask if I want to talk about things?”

“Since I got tired of you pretending you’re fine when you’re obviously not.”

You blink.

He shrugs, trying to play it cool, but you catch the way his fingers twitch in his lap, the way his jaw clenches like he regrets speaking.

You sigh. “Law is eating me alive. I have two midterms, a paper, and a TA who literally sighs every time I open my mouth.”

“Want me to kill them?” he asks casually. Too casually. Maybe you’re living with a serial killer.

You snort and ignore the thought. “Yeah. Bury the body in the woods behind the gym. No one would find it.”

He grins, and just like that, the weight in your chest lifts a little.

You sit up slowly, rubbing your temples. “You’re not…bad at this, you know.”

“At what?”

You hesitate. “Being…someone I can count on.”

That gets him. He freezes for half a second before he looks away, color blooming on his cheeks. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters. “I’m still a pain in the ass.”

You smile tiredly. “Yeah. But you’re my pain in the ass.”

The words hang in the air like a held breath.

He looks at you then, really looks at you. The light from his desk lamp casts shadows along his jaw, his cheekbones, and something softer in his eyes.

That moment doesn’t end. Not really. It stretches over the next few days like a string pulled too tight—neither of you breaking it, but neither of you acknowledging it either.

You tiptoe around it, side-stepping the way Eren starts waiting up for you after your late-night study sessions, the way he always asks if you’ve eaten, the way he starts playing music you like when you're both in the room.

And you? You stop wearing headphones when he's around. You start taking his hoodie off the chair and wearing it when your laundry’s overdue. You don’t mention it. He doesn’t either.

You're both cowards, really.

One night, you’re both in the room, coexisting in your usual not-quite-comfortable silence. You’re curled at your desk, typing up a paper with a half-empty cup of tea going cold. He’s lying back on his bed, his sketchbook balanced on his knee.

It’s been an hour since either of you spoke.

Then he says, out of nowhere, “Do you think we would’ve been friends if we weren’t roommates?”

You look up from your screen. “What?”

He shrugs, still not looking at you. “Just wondering. You kind of hated me at first.”

“I still kind of hate you.”

He grins. “Yeah, but now you make it sound cute.”

You toss a pen at him. It bounces off his forehead. “Asshole.”

He tosses it back. “So? Would we have?”

You pause. He’s being serious. It’s in the way he fiddles with the spiral of the notebook, the way his gaze is fixed on the ceiling like he’s afraid of what your answer might be. You don’t want to lie. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I don’t usually let people like you get close.”

“People like me?”

“Loud. Relentless. Hot.”

He turns his head toward you so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. “You think I’m hot?”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t take it back. You go back to typing instead, as if you didn’t just drop a hand grenade into the center of your shared space.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, and you try not to squirm under the weight of it.

Then he says, soft enough that it’s almost a whisper, “I wouldn’t have minded chasing you a little.” Your fingers pause on the keys. He clears his throat, pretending to be more casual than he is. “You know. If we hadn’t been roommates. If I’d met you in class or something.”

Your chest tightens. You don’t know what to do with that kind of honesty. So instead, you do what you do best: pretend. “I would’ve ignored you completely,” you say without looking up. “Blocked you on all platforms. Reported you to campus security.”

“I’d find a way.”

He says it like a promise.

The next weekend, Jean invites you both to a party off-campus.

You don’t want to go. Parties aren’t your scene, and the idea of standing around in a too-small apartment trying to shout over music while nursing a warm drink sounds like the seventh circle of hell.

But Eren gives you that look—wide eyes, raised brows, that barely-suppressed grin that says I dare you—and suddenly you’re digging out a clean pair of jeans and brushing your hair like it’s a real event.

When you step out of the bathroom, he’s leaning against the doorframe waiting for you, and the way his gaze flicks up and down your frame is not subtle.

You roll your eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, biting back a smirk. “You clean up okay.”

“You’ve seen me with crusty eye bags and ramen breath. Don’t pretend I’m suddenly cute.”

“You’ve always been cute,” he says, not missing a beat.

You open your mouth to fire something back, but nothing comes out. He walks ahead of you before you can figure out what to say.

The party is a blur of noise, cheap vodka, and body heat.

Jean’s apartment is packed with people you vaguely recognize from lecture halls and campus cafés. You get separated from Eren almost immediately, and you don’t panic—but you also don’t stop glancing around for him every few minutes.

You’re standing near the kitchen when a guy approaches you. He’s tall, grinning like he’s used to getting what he wants, and he leans in close when he talks. Too close.

You’re trying to politely brush him off when you feel a warm hand slip around your waist.

“There you are,” Eren says, voice too casual. “Been looking for you.” The guy backs off immediately, muttering something under his breath as he disappears into the crowd. Eren doesn’t remove his hand. You don’t ask him to.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

He looks down at you. “You okay?”

You nod, then gesture to the living room. “Wanna get out of here?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

Back in the dorm, there’s a quiet that settles between you. Not awkward—just…waiting. You sit on your bed, shoes still on, and watch him toss his jacket onto the desk chair. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly.

You frown. “For what?”

“For dragging you there. Should’ve known you’d hate it.”

“I didn’t hate it,” you lie. Then you sigh. “Okay, maybe I did. But it wasn’t your fault. That guy was a dick.”

His jaw tightens. “You sure he didn’t touch you or—?”

“He didn’t,” you say firmly. “You got there just in time.”

He exhales through his nose, the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Eren,” you say softly. “Why do you care so much?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he walks over, slow, careful, like he’s approaching a wild animal. He stops when he’s standing in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint citrus of his cologne.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he says, voice low. “But somewhere between you hating my guts and stealing my hoodies…I started thinking about you all the time.”

You swallow.

He takes a step closer. “It’s stupid. We’re roommates. It’s messy. But I can’t stop.”

Your heartbeat is deafening in your ears. You whisper, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I think I’m already in too deep. And if you don’t stop me now, I’m gonna kiss you.”

You stare at him. Then you lean forward.

Your lips slot into his like puzzle pieces. It's messy, anxiety inducing, and above all it's addictive. He’s addictive. Eren Jaeger is your own personal brand of heroin, and fuck you were feining for a syringe. 

His lips go from yours, to your cheek, jaw, and then trail down your neck. Your breath is heavy and your mind is blank. All you can think of is Eren. 

“You good?” He mumbles, lips still on your neck. “Got all quiet.”

You blink, and the words come out breathless. “I’m good.” Hands meet his brown hair, gently pulling him away from your neck. It’s ironic, considering you don’t want him to stop. Regardless of what you want, he goes back to your lips, humming as you happily accept it. 

The pain in your legs must be mirrored in his, cause he quickly pulls you onto his bed, sitting you on his lap and letting his hands rest just above your hips 

His hands flex against your waist, thumbs pressing into the space between your ribs and hips like he’s trying to ground himself. Almost as if hes trying to prove that you’re actually here, straddling him, kissing him like you’re a starved woman.

And maybe you are. Maybe you’ve been hungry for this, for him, for longer than you would like to admit.

Your fingers stay tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth, He’s warm beneath you, heat radiating from every inch of him, and when your hips shift forward without thinking, the sound he makes nearly breaks you.

It’s anything but holy, but you would worship it if given the chance.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice low, gravelly. “You can’t do that unless you want me to lose my mind.” You do it again anyway, hips rolling slow, just to feel the way his breath stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, cheat heaving. “You’re not playing fair.”

You smirk, eyes hooded. “Wasn’t aware this was a game.”

Eren leans forward, mouth ghosting the shell of your ear. “Then I’ll make some rules.”

And just like that, you’re on your back, his hands splayed on either side of your head, his lips crashing into yours again like he can’t stand the space between you. It’s less polished now, more desperate. Tongues, teeth, the slow drag of your bodies pressed together as the kiss turns hungrier than before.

His hand slides up beneath your shirt, fingers grazing over your stomach, hesitant. He breaks the kiss long enough to search your face. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I don’t,” You whisper, breath catching.

That’s all it takes.

He kisses down your collarbone, slow and reverent, while his hands explore the shape of you like a map he’s memorized in dreams. You arch into him, and he exhales a shaky breath against your skin. 

“Been thinking about this,” He confesses into your shoulder, voice wrecked. “About you. For months.”

Your hands trail down his back, nails dragging lightly along his spine. “Then stop thinking.”

He shivers at the contact and then looks up at you, eyes burning. “Yeah?”

You nod, pulling him back down with a kiss that’s all heat and need. His mouth is on yours before you can even catch your breath. His hands roam, bold and greedy, as they explore the new skin he’s been denied for too long. You’re gasping into his mouth as his fingers tail up your ribs, brushing the edge of your bra.

“Can I?” He asks, voice rasped against your lips.

“Yes.” You breathe it like a secret.

He makes quick work of the clasp, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle, and you feel the fabric slip off your shoulders. The moment your chest is bare, he pauses, only for a moment, to take you in.

“Jesus,” He murmurs, more to himself than to you. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

You feel heat rise to your face, but before you can say anything, his mouth is on you. Hot. Wet. Slow. He kisses down one breast while his hand kneads the other, and the contrast of the warmth and pressure sends sparks racing down your spine.

You arch up, hips grinding against his thigh for friction, and he groans. It’s low and rough and into your skin, and the sound of it makes you want more.

“Eren,” You whisper, nails digging into the back of his shoulders. A silent plea.

He pulls back, lips swollen and glossy, eyes almost as dark as sin. “Yeah, baby?”

The pet name knocks something loose in you. Your hips roll again, this time with more purpose, and you feel the harm press of him between your thighs. “You have too many clothes on.” You pant, tugging at his waistband. 

“I’m working on it,” He chuckles, breathless. “I was a little preoccupied.”

You help him kick off his sweats and boxers in a messy tangle, your underwear and his shirt discarded somewhere along the way. Then you’re both bare, skin to skin, nothing in between. Suddenly the air shifts, the tension isn’t playful anymore. It’s charged. Heavy.

He leans over you, one hand braces beside your head, the other sliding down your thigh. His fingers dipped between your legs, and when he finds how soaked you are, his breath stutters hard. 

“Shit. You’re-”

“Don’t say it,” You gasp, already writhing from the way his fingers are teasing you. “Just, please, Eren.”

He doesn’t make you beg.

Two fingers slip inside you, slow and deep, curling just right as his thumb circles your clit. Your back arches off the bed and a broken moan escapes your lips.

“God, look at you,” He whispers, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “So fucking perfect like this. Falling apart.”

Your hands grab at him blindly. His hair, his arms, anything to anchor you as his fingers pump into you with a steady pace. It’s filthy and deliberate and you love it. He watches every twitch of your body, every gasp that tumbles from your lips, almost like he’s memorizing this.

When you’re trembling beneath him, thighs shaking, he withdraws his fingers. A whine escapes you, but he ignores it. “You ready?” He asks, voice hoarse. 

You nod, unable to form words at the moment.

He fumbles for a condom in the drawer, tears it open, and rolls it on. Then he’s between your legs again, hand guiding himself to your entrance, and he pauses just long enough to meet your eyes. “Last chance” He murmurs.

“Please.”

That’s all he needs.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until he bottoms out. Still, it’s not enough, Not for him, not for you. He gorans low in your ear as you clamp around him, your body greedy.

“Fuck. You feel so fucking good,” He grits, pulling out halfway before snapping his hips forward again, harder. “I knew you’d be like this.”

A gasp escapes you, nails digging into his shoulders once more. He sets a pace that's deliberately slow, but deep. Every thrust knocks the air out of you. His hips grind against your clit with every stroke, sending jolts of pleasure sparking through your core.

“So well. Takin’ it so well.” He mumbles, dragging his teeth along your neck. “Didn’t think you’d let me fuck you like this.’

You let out a broken moan. “Didn’t think—fuck—didn’t think I needed this.”

He groans against your skin. “You do need this. I can feel how badly you need it. Just look at you.” He adjusts his angle slightly and drives into you harder, You arch, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

“Eren!”

His hand comes down to grab your thigh, spreading you wider. “Right there? Tell me.”

“Please. Right there, don’t stop—”

“I’m not stopping,” He says, panting now, sweat slicking his brow. “Not even close.”

You come hard, harder than you expected, the orgasm pulling a cry from your throat and a shudder through your whole body.

But Eren doesn’t let up.

While you’re still trembling, oversensitive and wrecked, he slows only for a moment, just long enough to kiss your cheek. “You’ve got another one in you. I know you do.”

You blink up at him, dazed. You open your lips to protest but all that comes out is a soft moan. He doesn’t give you time to protest

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit again with cruel precision. “C’mon. Let me see you fall apart again.”

You’re already on the edge. He picks up the pace, rougher this time. The drag of his cock against your still-sensitive walls makes you cry out, hips twitching as your body fights between escape and need.

“Too much?” He mumbles against your ear, but the way he keeps fucking into you say thats he knows the answer. You shake your head, biting your lip to keep from screaming. “Then take it.”

Your second orgasm crashes into you like a wave, this one messier, tears welling in your eyes as your body convulses around him. You sob his name, legs shaking around him like a vise.

“Fuck—baby—gonna come.” He pants, losing rhythm. “You’re unreal.”

He groans your name like a prayer as he thrusts deep, hips stuttering. He comes with a grunt, burying himself in you to the hilt as you both shake.

But even then—even then—he doesn’t pull out. Instead, he kisses you, slow and dizzying, letting your breathing sync.

Then you feel his hand trail down your stomach again.

You flinch. “Eren—”

“Please,” He whispers, almost begging. “Wanna see you fall apart one more time.” Your hips lift to meet his touch. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then lower. Your neck, your check—as his fingers slide back between your legs. “You can take it. You’ve been so good. Please.”

You cry out as his fingers circle your clit again, slick from both of you. The stimulation is brutal, your nerves frayed, thighs trembling.

But God, the way he watches you—like you’re his favorite thing in the world, like you’re his to break and rebuild—it keeps you from wanting to stop. He slips two fingers inside and curls them just right, and this time, when you come, it’s with a full-body quake. Your vision whites out. Your voice breaks. Your hands fist the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded.

And Eren?

Eren looks at you like he just saw a god.

Your body is limp against the mattress, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick with sweat. Every inch of you aches in the best possible way. Eren’s hovering over you, barely holding himself up on trembling arms. His hair is a damp, wild mess that falls into his eyes. He looks completely ruined. Like he gave you everything he had. And somehow, he still smiles.

“Holy shit,” He says first, breathless. “You good?”

You huff a laugh, dazed. “I’m not sure I exist anymore.”

Eren chuckles and collapses beside you, flopping dramatically on his back. “You absolutely exist. You just don’t have bones right now.”

You roll your head toward him, barely able to lift an arm. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

He shoots you a smug, sideways grin. “I’ve been holding back.”

You raise a brow. “That was you holding back?”

“I didn’t even tie you up.” He shrugs, trying to sound casual, but clearly holding back laughter.

“Yet.”

That gets him. His gaze snaps to yours, and there’s a flicker of something. Anticipation, amusement, and a little fear. “Hold on. That sounded like a threat.”

You turn your body toward him just enough to poke a finger into his bare chest. “You ever pull that ‘just one more’ thing again without warning me, and I will be the one in charge next time.”

Eren grins. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

You blink at him, deadpan. “You should be terrified.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he throws an arm over his eyes and groans. “I’m so into it, it’s disgusting.” He says embarrassed. 

You both laugh, soft and breathless, wrapped in the aftermath of everything you just did and everything that might come next. The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s warm. Comfortable.

He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand, watching you like you’re still a little unreal. Then, quieter: “You’re staying here tonight, right?”

You give him a look. “Eren. This is our room.”

He blinks. “Oh. Right.” A pause. “Still felt like I should ask.”

You smile, slow and fond. “Of course I’m staying.”

“Good,” He says, tugging the blanket over the both of you. “But I’m sleeping in your bed tonight. It smells nicer.” He doesn’t make good on his word, pulling you into him instead. 

A chuckle comes out. “Try it and I’ll smother you with your own hoodie.”

He grins like he’s never been more in love with someone in his life. And as the two of you sink into the covers, tangled, sore, and completely satisfied, neither of you bother pretending anymore.

tag list: @ickbite @halfwayhearted @pedriache

[abimee]

i dont think tyche ever tried putting althaea into academia but her mother wanted her to attempt it since she wants her to be well-rounded and a learned indivitual as she works underneath the current azem, so she was signed up for some academia classes to try and get althaea to branch out in what limited stuff tyche could teach her and her sister at the horns. i think althaea was a confusing student because she did well with the application aspect of things but not the basics, like she was good at the application of conceptualization and in creating things but was absolutely dogshit being tested on theoretical and the basic blocks of conceptualization like working details and undewrstanding how to manipulate aether, and the teachers would be confused and ask her how she applies conceptualization if she doesnt understand it and she always reponds with ''i just do it!". her and hythlo were in the same grade because i consider them the same age while emet is older and was out of doing classes but not yet ready for Anyder-level study, so he would try and help althaea study but she was always too caught up in other things to pay attention. on the other hook i think hythlo started off really strong in the basics but intentionally shot himself in the foot with the application, but the difference is that the teachers could tell she was just intentionally sabotaging herself to grade low. they were both told that if they just pushed themselves they could do better and could even end up going to an Anyder one day, and for a bit hythlo's grading got really good before it suddenly dropping down to althaea's level of bad (in a grading score of 0-100 i think althaea always scored around 39, or a shitty little F)

why? well for althaea they know why and its that she doesnt work well academically. shes too consumed within herself and understands information in a specific way, and while she can solve problems her application of solving them is absolutely batshit insane and not at all the way youre taught yet she somehow comes out with the right answer. They cant see directly into her brain to see what she does to conceptualize things but somehow despite having no clue the process and details of it could always manage it, and it came to the point where no matter what they tried teaching her she somehow found an insane way to go about something yet achieve a good outcome and it was just obvious that alongside this she wasnt very good at being taught things so they just let her slide. But she was not at all fit for going to any Anyder and was told as much, so she went back to her father and told him she finished up her classes and that theres not much for her to do now besides just keep working under azem. Hythlo was a different case where the teachers had an iron grip on them to keep them in and try to pass them to an Anyder because they had amazing technical abilities and with the right study behavior and classes could become a high honors student, but all she did was keep sabotaging her grades until they basically couldnt get them to stop and just tried to grade them on ''what they knew she knew''. He even got a letter of reccomendation to study at the Anyders but he just gave it to althaea to make into a paper bird. This didnt stop anybody from still talking about him being a good fit for the convocation and his skill with aether sight is bar none though

[wwinterwitch]

friendly banter — bucky barnes

summary: sam asks for your help on a mission. you're reunited with him, Joaquín and Bucky. the last one really likes to banter. you think it's just a friendly exchange. it's actually a bit more than that

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader (+ platonic friendships with sam and joaquín)

word count: 5k

tags: friends to lovers, sharing feelings (awkward but cute), reader is a hacker and former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, fluff, undisclosed feelings (mutual), kissing

note: this was kind of a mess but i'm back after a long time on not writing any fics! i'm currently in my last months of studying to become a lawyer (yay) and writing fics has proven to be very therapeutic during this time. this may or may not suck but i enjoyed writing it so i hope you enjoy it

please reblog and/or comment if you enjoy!

all masterlists | marvel masterlist | part 2 (features the thunderbolts* now)

"Got eyes on it?"

You stop walking as soon as you hear that question, staring ahead in disbelief. "You mean...the huge panel in the middle of the room?" you ask with obvious sarcasm, trying to speak as quietly as possible through your comm as you make your way further inside the darkened room.

It’s a typical security room with tons of cameras pointing to every corner of the building. To your relief, the presence of your group is apparently still unnoticed as your eyes wander across the various screens in front of you, noticing no commotion or an unnecessarily large group of unfriendly-looking guys rushing to find you. The large panel control installed in the middle of the desk before you is the thing that immediately gets your attention as you walk closer, always keeping in mind the task at hand.

All you really have to do is hack into the system to disable the security protocols long enough for Sam and Joaquín to sneak into the top floors of the building to retrieve the data that they wanted from the bad guy's records in order to find out more about the gang they'll be (hopefully) putting behind bars soon.

This is not the first and definitely not the last time you'll be doing these kinds of favors for Sam. Your friendship goes way back, when you were still a nobody at S.H.I.E.L.D. that somehow managed to get on Captain America's good graces after that whole Washington fiasco. You're still unsure why Steve always thought so highly of you. Then again, he was the type of guy who never failed to see the potential in other people, even when they couldn't quite see it themselves.

Now, you get to help the new Captain America, who's also as dear to you as the previous one was...perhaps just a tiny bit more annoying, but one of your dearest friends regardless.

As you rush over to the panel, you have to jump over the unconscious body of a security guard that Bucky (another dear friend you met thanks to Steve) took care of before you walked inside, quickly taking a seat in front of the large keyboard to start doing your part of the job.

You hear the unmistakable chuckle from Joaquín as you quickly type in a series of codes and commands. "Jeez, I missed having you on our missions!"

"Awwh!" you mutter with genuine endearment. "I missed being part of these missions too, buddy!"

"And we're still going out for drinks after this, right?"

"Are you genuinely asking me that, Joaquín Torres?" you ask, sounding overly offended on purpose.

You hear him laugh again, but before he can say anything back, you hear Bucky interrupting the exchange. "How about we focus on not getting caught here and then you guys can discuss your night plans?"

"Uh-oh, old man got upset," you joke soon after, finishing to type in the last few codes to fully disable the security system. Surely they have some backup protocol that would soon trigger the alarm to alert these guys of an unwanted visitor, but by then all of you will be long gone. It really is a very simple mission.

"He's jealous you're not taking him out for drinks," Sam jokes back, and then you immediately hear Joaquín agreeing with him.

It's a normal occurrence for Sam to be making those kinds of jokes involving you and Bucky. He has been making those types of remarks for as long as you can remember, fully convinced the two of you "have something going on" as he has put it before. You really try not to think too much about it because, first off, Sam loves to say shit just for the sake of pissing you and Bucky off and, second...you really don't want to let those comments get to your head.

You don't want to let yourself wonder about the what if's of that. There was a time in your life when you did allow yourself to fantasize about the possibility of actually "having something going on" with him, but you learnt to shut off that part of your brain in order to avoid getting your hopes up regarding a situation that just wouldn't happen outside your imagination. Hearing Sam’s silly remarks would only bring you back to those days.

Bucky has been one of your best friends for years and he has never shown the slightest of hints that he might be interested in you in the way you would like (at least not that you're aware of), and there was absolutely no way that you would ever make the first move and risk embarrassing yourself in front of him or, even worse, losing the friendship you two have. You eventually just got comfortable in the abyss of eternal friendzone and learned to accept it. If there was ever going to happen something between the two of you, surely it would've happened by now.

Still, Sam seems to be holding onto that rope for dear life and refuses to let it go. You can't deny it’s a bit uncomfortable to hear those jokes though. They somehow make you feel like somehow you got caught and everyone knows you have a secret crush on Bucky, but you've learned to adapt over the years.

"First part's done.” Leaning back on the chair, you watch the percentage bar on the screen before you, completely ignoring Sam's little joke. "A few more seconds and you're up guys!"

"Hallway’s clear," you hear Bucky say, still guarding the room where you're currently in. "How much time do we have to get out of here?"

"Uh...I can't say for sure. Anywhere near five to thirty, maybe?"

"Minutes?"

"Seconds."

"Oh, great," he mutters ironically.

"Well, I'm sorry. We're hacking into a very sophisticated system that I don't entirely know how it works!" you snap back at him. "Besides, the whole point of this is to give Joaquín and Sam enough time to sneak inside without having to deal with a bunch of guards going straight for them. Bad guys will know we're down here and they'll come looking for us first."

"Isn't hacking your whole thing? How do you not know how it works?" he asks, and just by the tone of his voice you know he's trying to piss you off, because he knows that's exactly the type of comments that would make you upset. If that type of comment came from a stranger you would be strangling them right now, but it’s Bucky, and he seems to enjoy annoying the shit out of you.

"Big talk coming from someone who still asks for my help because he barely knows how to unlock his own phone."

The sound of his faint chuckle immediately makes you smile, perfectly picturing the way he's probably rolling his eyes just barely right now, trying to suppress a smirk as if you could possibly see him right now, knowing he hates when you point it out to him.

"You have to give me some credit, though. I know how to program emails on that thing now. Soon enough I'll be taking your job, so you better watch out."

You can't help but laugh at his reply, slightly shaking your head as you realize you’re getting distracted by him, trying to keep your focus on what you're supposed to be doing right now rather than indulge in a never ending back-and-forth with him. As soon as you type the last codes and the large SECURITY SYSTEM: DISABLED alert pops on the monitor, you quickly rise up from your seat. "You're up guys, hurry!"

"On it!" Sam replies as you rush outside the room.

Before he even says anything to you, Bucky is quickly guiding you down the hallway with the intent of getting out of there as soon as possible, turning to look at you with a confused expression when you stop walking and, instead, start yanking his arm to go in the opposite direction.

"What are you doing?"

"The exit is that way," you point out as if it’s obvious.

He looks even more confused now, and slightly annoyed. "Don't think so. That's the way we entered, but there's another way of leaving this place a lot faster."

"No, we can't change the plan!"

He definitely looks annoyed now, trying not to snap at you. "I'm not changing the plan. Exiting that way has always been the plan. If we go that way, we'll-"

Before he can say anything else, the loud sound of an alarm blasts through the entire building, signaling that you've been discovered and you'll be having company very soon. As if that wasn't enough, the door of the room you were previously in opens violently, and the guard that was previously unconscious on the floor is frantically alerting more people through his radio.

“Oh, that’s great,” you point out, slightly panicking right now because you’re still inside the building. “You decided to wake up early, huh?”

Bucky immediately grabs the guy by his bulletproof vest to throw him against the wall, taking his barely regained consciousness to his advantage. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice about six other guys coming towards you, turning around the same corner you wanted to run towards as part of your escape plan. Sadly, that's when you realized maybe the direction Bucky was suggesting was better.

You’re unsure of what to do now. It's not like you haven't been taught how to take down a few bad guys, but your specialities have always involved computers rather than physical combat. Almost as if he could read your mind, Bucky turns towards you for a quick second. "Go! I'll catch up to you." Again, almost as if he knew that you'd try to ask if he was sure about it, he immediately shouts yet another "Go!" before you're finally deciding to do as he says, running down the hall in the direction he has intended to go before.

Hours later, second after second that passes by, you’re more and more convinced that you'll never hear the end of it. If only you could go back in time and just agree with Bucky's plan rather than trying to argue with him. It would have spared you a lifetime of him reminding you how he was right and you were wrong.

Turns out his exit plan was the one you should've followed all along, because it actually led to the engine room which immediately meant being in a much less crowded part of the building to escape without risking bumping into more people.

All of you had enough time to change into something more comfortable to go out for drinks. Initially it was something you and Joaquín had planned alone, but evidently the two of you didn’t hesitate to invite Sam and Bucky. Of course they accepted the invite, and of course Bucky has done his very best to keep reminding you of your little mistake.

"Listen, if you don't want shit like that to happen again, just let me know your plan beforehand."

"But I did let you know. The problem is that someone is not really a good listener."

"No. Letting me know- like, properly letting me know, would've been telling me before we got inside that building."

Bucky smirks as he leans back on his chair, and it's obvious to you he's really enjoying this banter. "Plan changed at the last minute. If you would've just followed my lead, we could've left that building a lot faster."

"Ah, so you do recognize that wasn't the original plan!" you exclaim with a triumphant grin, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "You changed it all by yourself and didn't tell me."

"Changed at the last minute," he repeats, as if to correct you. "You wanted me to stand there and explain every detail to you?"

"Oh, as if explaining it would've taken you hours! You’re always so dramatic."

"Children," Sam commented, interrupting the banter with an unamused expression. "I had to trust the operation to literal children."

Bucky scoffs at that comment, watching as Sam lets out a chuckle, shaking his head after witnessing this whole interaction between the two of you.

"Kinda makes you appreciate having an actual professional around, huh?" Joaquín says right after, flashing a charming smile in Sam's direction.

"Oh, please!" you, Bucky and Sam reply in unison, earning an offended look from Joaquín.

Soon after, Bucky is speaking again. "You know what? I'll give you some credit. You managed to do your part of the job…decently."

It’s obvious he wants a reaction from you, but even if your banter is entertaining, you know you can't keep bickering the entire night. Once again, you can’t help but to feel embarrassed, as if everyone at that table knows your little secret regarding your feelings towards Bucky. As if some innocent banter between friends could ever give it away. Besides, the four of you are here to celebrate your mission was a success, and the fact that you haven't seen the trio in a long time makes it the perfect opportunity to catch up.

Pretending to fully ignore his last comment, you turn to look at Sam from across the table. "You. I haven't seen your lovely face in a while," you start, watching him physically get ready for whatever silly comment you might come up with. "Tell me what you've been up to...I've seen the photos of you shaking hands with the President," the reference to Everett Ross sounding anything but endearing.

Sam sighs, shrugging. "Yeah, well, I guess you can say it's part of the job," he simply replies before taking a quick sip of his beer. "I can't say I'm thrilled about it, but I figured it's best to compromise a bit and keep the man happy. As long as he stays in line, I'll cooperate."

"Of course you're not thrilled about it, Sam. That's the same guy that put your ass in a prison in the middle of nowhere like you were some kind of top security criminal!" you reply almost immediately, still in disbelief at the revelation of any sort of alliance between him and Ross. Sam's expression lets you know that even he is still conflicted about it, not really knowing what to say. After taking a brief pause, you try to say something else to lighten the mood, not wanting him to think like you’re judging him for it. "Hey, I understand having to keep up appearances. I get it. And please accept my deepest condolences for having to deal with that piece of shit."

Your last comment makes the three of them laugh, and Bucky takes the opportunity to change the subject. "And what have you been up to?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious. "It's been a while since any of us has seen you."

"Well, my life has been all over the place the last few months. As all of you know, I moved into a new apartment. I loved my roommate, but I felt it was time to just live by myself, you know?"

"So no plans of leaving New York to move to D.C., huh?" Joaquín asks with a smile.

You return the smile immediately. "As fun as it would be to live closer to all of you weirdos, no. I plan to stay in New York for now. I'm just really comfortable there with the new apartment, the promotion I got a few months ago, the fact that most of my family and friends are there..."

"But not all your friends," Sam quickly points out, pretending to sound incredibly offended by your last statement. "But since we’re talking about friends and just social life in general...are you still single?"

"Why are you always so interested in my love life?" you joke with a playful grin, taking a sip of your margarita to leave him wondering the answer just a few seconds more. "Yes, I'm still single. Queen's full of creeps," you added shortly after. "Are any of you seeing anybody?"

"Proudly and happily single," Joaquín replies, raising his drink up as if to cheer before taking a sip.

Sam gives him a very visible side-eye. "Yikes," is all he says regarding that, turning back to you. "I'm not interested in dating right now, to be honest. I’m quite a busy gentleman, you know?" 

“And you say ‘yikes’ to me?” Joaquín says immediately after, looking dumbfounded.

You chime in before any of them could add anything else regarding that. “Bucky?” you ask, turning to look at him as you await his answer.

It was a bold move to directly ask him that question. On one hand, you know Bucky has always been a loner so you’re almost certain that he’s single. But there’s always that tiny percentage of probability that you’ll learn a truth you’re not sure how you’ll handle. He’s your best friend, of course you’ll be happy if he’s happy…but the idea of him revealing to you that he’s dating someone might actually make you physically sick.

You notice Bucky gets uncomfortable right away. “I’m single too.”

The pleasant feeling of relief lasts just a few seconds. The fact that Sam laughs at Bucky’s reply has your mind spinning, not understanding why he would laugh at that. Why the fuck is he laughing? Should you start panicking already?

"Actually, our buddy has been on a few dating apps, I believe."

Oh no. 

Even when you try to remind yourself not to care about anything remotely romantic involving Bucky- or at least, not to care more than a platonic friend would, you can deny the news of him possibly dating someone or even just randomly talking to any person in those apps makes your stomach turn. It really wouldn't be dramatic to claim that you could quite literally throw up right now at the thought of him and someone else right now.

It's not common to hear any sort of updates regarding Bucky's love life because...well, there's never any developments. He's never shown interest in anyone, and as far as you know he's never had any sort of relationship with anyone like that– serious or casual. What if he's interested in exploring that part of his life now? What if he has found someone already and you're about to hear him talk all about them? It makes you genuinely sick, but you try your best to act as unbothered as you possibly can, forcing you to mask your disgust and heartbreak with pleasant surprise.

"Is that so?" is all you say.

He looks even more uncomfortable by the subject, choosing to look down at his almost finished beer. "It's not...I was just trying to put myself out there," he says awkwardly, shrugging. "Long story short, online dating is not for me. I hated it."

You could tell he doesn’t really like talking about this subject, so you try to quickly ease the tension with a bit of humor. Besides, you're probably better off without hearing anything regarding that topic anyway. "It's because you couldn't figure out how the whole swiping thing worked, isn't it?"

Bucky immediately seems to relax with your joke, chuckling a bit. "It took me a few days actually." He takes a quick pause before continuing. "I probably should've asked you for help."

If there was any hidden message behind his last statement, it completely goes over your head because you genuinely thought it was just part of your playful banter regarding his lack of skills when it comes to technology. You laugh, and in return Bucky offers you a smile because that's as much hinting as he dares to do out loud, especially if Sam and Joaquín are sitting right there. He's incredibly used to you never getting his subtle implications anyway.

In front of you, the other two guys are watching this exchange unfold, and it's hard to tell which one of them has a bigger urge to tell you to stop being so fucking oblivious already. As subtle as he can be, Joaquín pokes Sam's side with his elbow to give him a quick heads-up before speaking. "Considering everyone's almost finished, Sam and I are getting another round of drinks."

The two of them are standing up when they notice you're grabbing your purse and standing up as well. "Oh, I can go with you. I have to go to the restroom anyway."

The two of them want to yet again yell at you to please get a grip on the situation, but Sam just silently takes a seat as you and Joaquín go over to the bar, quickly telling him what you want to order before heading towards the restroom.

A few drinks later the four of you are finally leaving the bar. Sam and Joaquín left to their respective houses while you and Bucky shared an Uber back to his own place. He was kind enough to let you crash in his spare room for the night. It's not like this is the first time you've ever stayed at his apartment when you visit the boys, but you can't deny the idea is both thrilling and terrifying- not like anything would happen to make you feel like that...you two are just friends...but, still...your silly head likes to get silly ideas sometimes.

Deciding not to indulge in your little fantasies, you decide to start a conversation. "Update on the food?" you ask, turning to look at Bucky, who sits comfortably on the sofa of his living room.

"Like ten minutes away," he says, taking a quick look at the screen. "How come you haven't congratulated me for knowing how to order food with this thing?" he added with evident surprise, making you chuckle.

"Because you keep saying 'this thing' like it's some mysterious device completely unknown to mankind," you reply, and before you can stop yourself, you continue. "It's cute, I guess, so congratulations."

Bucky's grin grows wider. "Oh, so it's cute?"

You try really hard not to panic, feeling incredibly embarrassed. The fact that he seems to be enjoying what you just said makes it even worse, because you know he’ll use that to tease you now. He just finds any possible excuse to do it. "Cute as in lame."

He chuckles. "Right."

Not knowing what else to say, you clear your throat before walking towards him, taking a seat next to him as you try to come up with something else to change the subject immediately. "I'm starving," is all you say, mentally scolding you for such a poor effort.

As soon as you're sitting, you unsuccessfully try to ignore the butterflies in your stomach when he leans just a bit closer...perhaps if you weren't hyper vigilant whenever the two of you are too near you might've missed it. And then, he stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, right behind you.

For a second, you even thought of mocking him for such a move, but bringing more attention to it would only make you that much nervous, and you really don't want to embarrass yourself. And most importantly, you don't want your silly mind and your silly heart to get their hopes up. You're just friends, nothing else.

"Me too," he agrees, the playful grin on his face still not disappearing. "Might have to steal a few fries from you."

"Oh, I'd really like to see you try stealing my food," you reply in the same playful tone, leaning just a little closer to him without even noticing that you were actually doing that.

"I think I deserve some compensation after what happened today. You know, for all the unnecessary ass-kicking I had to do."

"Just when I thought you had moved on from that!" you reply, jokingly slapping his knee. "It wasn't my fault, it was yours for not telling me the plan on time!"

"You should've just trusted me," he insists. "But you always have to be right on everything..."

You know he's joking. There's something about bantering with you that seems to absolutely fascinate him. "Yeah, and you always want to piss me off."

Bucky chuckles again, and that's when you feel his hand gently resting on your shoulder, his arm fully around you. What the actual fuck is going on. "What, you think I like pissing you off?" he asks, tone slightly lower than before, which inevitably makes the butterflies in your stomach multiply. "Is that why you think I do it?"

You were quiet for a moment, your brain not entirely registering what's happening. "I mean...yeah."

He stops for a second, and you almost see a hint of hesitation on his face before he speaks, letting out a frustrated sigh. "For someone who claims to be so much more clever than anyone else, I would've expected you to figure it out sooner," he starts, shaking his head with a soft smile. "I've been actually flirting with you, doll."

The comment evidently takes you by surprise and all you can do is to stare back at him like a complete fool. His arm around your shoulders, the proximity, the fact he had the fucking audacity to call you that nickname...did you somehow fall asleep on his couch without noticing and this is the type of oddly-realistic dream your brain decided to come up with? Are you still standing there like a fool just fantasizing and this one just got way too immersive? And did he really just say that he's been flirting with you?

Noticing you weren't saying anything, he decides to continue, looking a little hesitant and disappointed with your silence. "You know, it'd be really nice if you say something..."

"Awful way to flirt," is all you could come up with, which immediately makes him burst out laughing. 

"Maybe," he agrees. "But I can’t believe you didn’t figure it out. I mean…Sam and Joaquín did a long time ago."

"The three of you share the same brain cell, of course they figured it out a long time ago,” you reply, still in complete shock to be having this conversation with him. Were you really that blind? "You could’ve just asked me."

"You know I'm not direct like that," he replies, and the shy look on his face almost makes your heart melt. "Like I said, I was relying on your impressive intelligence to figure it out."

You let out a soft chuckle after his last comment, immediately giving him a warning look. "Don't." He looks back at you for a few seconds, almost wanting to challenge you after noticing the way you’re looking at him. Soon enough, he’s unable to hide his smirk anymore. "There it is," you point out, knowing he hates that.

Bucky lets out a soft grunt as a complaint, resting his head on your shoulder. Encouraged, you immediately move a hand up to his hair, affectionately playing with it. The two of you stay like that, simply enjoying being so close to each other. It feels incredibly right.

"So how do you feel?" he eventually asks, perhaps feeling braver to ask now that he doesn’t have to look into your eyes when he does.

You don’t reply right away, still feeling incredibly nervous despite knowing he does like you back. Eventually, you do build up the courage to say something. "I like you. Like, a lot."

Bucky moves back to look at you know. The look on his face gives you the impression that he wasn’t expecting you to be so honest with your answer, perhaps expecting another silly joke or sarcastic remark. And even though you thought about the possibility of choosing a more humorous approach, after keeping your feelings for him locked up and stored away for so long, you really needed to just say it.

Instead of saying something back, Bucky tightens his grip around your shoulders just enough, using his other hand to grab your chin right before kissing you. It certainly takes you by surprise, but you're quickly returning the kiss as you just completely melt in his arms, still trying to convince yourself that this is not some kind of hyper-realistic dream.

His hand swiftly moves to your cheek as the kiss continues, the gesture so incredibly delicate, a sharp contrast with the pure need he’s transmitting through the kiss. It’s desperate, passionate, intense…like he’s been waiting an entire lifetime to finally be able to experience this, grateful for the absolute privilege that it is to kiss you.

One of your hands moves up to the back of his neck and your touch seems to encourage him that much more because before you know it, he's taking the opportunity to gently bite your bottom lip, right before continuing to make out with you.

Much to yours and Bucky's disappointment, the sound of his apartment's doorbell echoes through the apartment, indicating the food you previously ordered has arrived.

He reluctantly pulls away with a soft grunt. "Food's here," he comments out loud, offering you a soft smile. He takes a brief moment to look at you, brushing his thumb against your cheek in an affectionate manner, dreading the idea of having to leave this couch. "I'll get it."

"I can help," you offer almost immediately.

Instead of replying right away, he leans in for a short kiss. "I'll get it," he insists, quickly making his way to the door after another buzz could be heard.

You sat in his living room in complete disbelief of what just happened, thankful that he's not here right now to see your goofy smile and blushed cheeks. He'd probably tease you to no end if he did see that.

Not knowing what else to do, you immediately reach for your phone, opening your messages. You knew exactly who would be the right people to share the news with.

'uhm so we just kissed??????' you texted, the first message in the group chat you just created with Sam and Joaquín.

Joaquín is the first one to reply. 'HELL YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!'

'FUCKING FINALLY.' Sam texts shortly after.

[be-xkyy]

𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑆𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝐷𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑦

Warning: sexual content, age gap (23-35), delusional attitude, forced breeding, breeding kink, mention of marriage, mention of children, noncon, r4pe, conspiracy, physical abuse, abuse of power.

Tagging list: @kthehoeforfictionalmen ★ @dreamlessnight ★

Divider credits: @cafekitsune ★ @bernardsbendystraws ★

Masterlist

Yandere Sugar Daddy who is the CEO of a famous 6-star hotel chain that has been in his family for decades.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who always liked young and beautiful women, although he never settled down with any, he likes to pamper and adore his lovers by giving them everything they want.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who broke up with his Sugar Baby just a few days ago after she told him that she loved him and wanted to formalize her relationship with him, she was cute but boring and he didn't see himself spending his life with her, fuck no. So he left her.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who after that didn't waste any time in re-entering SugarLove.www a famous Sugar Daddy page where he found all his previous Sugar Babies.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who after a few long minutes searching for the right candidate for him, he finally found her, he found you. In your profile picture you looked divine, he looks at your profile from top to bottom looking at your photos and he was sure you were the one for him, so he sends you a message asking if you want to go to a restaurant to meet up... but you don't answer.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who gets impatient when the minutes go by and nothing happens. He decides to wait a little longer while he works in his office, when the hours go by he sees how the sun sets, he grabs his phone again and is disappointed when he doesn't find any answer, what's more, he doesn't even see the message.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who when he gets out of the shower the next morning checks his phone, a smile spreads on his lips when he sees a message from you, finally. "Hi, I'm sorry I didn't answer you before, but I was a little busy, I like the idea of ​​meeting you, how about tomorrow :)?" He doesn't hesitate to answer you sending the address of the restaurant and the time, you accept.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who arrives earlier at the restaurant, the waiter guides him to the best table that overlooks the night city, he asks the waiter to bring his best wine, he nods and leaves, the minutes pass when he sees you arrive, he smiles and stands up admiring your beauty, he doesn't hesitate to flatter you while he moves your chair so you can sit down before sitting in front of you.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who talks to you all night while you have dinner and drink wine, you tell him that you are studying a law degree which is an expensive career for you, a friend of yours entered the website and now lives stable and can even pay for the degree, that is the main reason why you entered SugarLove.www, he listens to you attentively, when you tell him that this is only for a while and that you are not looking for anything serious, he agrees and accepts.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who takes you to his hotel that same night where you end up having mind-blowing sex, the next day he pays two months of your tuition in advance, during the following months he and you spend intimate moments, he takes you on vacations, buys you luxurious things and you have sex all the time everywhere, by the time he realizes it he is already in love with you.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who starts taking you to business meetings and family gatherings presenting yourself as his girlfriend to your great discomfort, whenever you two go back to your apartment you scold him and he just shrugs his shoulders saying that by saying that he saves both of you the awkwardness of having to explain your relationship.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who tries to act like nothing is wrong but fails miserably. He gets tense when you're on your phone for too long. Are you talking to another guy? Are you cheating on him?! Unbeknownst to you, he ends up having your phone connected to his so he can see everything you do.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who gets jealous when he goes to pick you up from college and sees you at the door talking to a guy. His knuckles turn white around the steering wheel and when he parks he honks for a long moment getting your attention. You quickly say goodbye and approach him, getting in the car. You greet him and lean over to kiss his cheek but he grabs your jaw and kisses you hard on the lips.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who gets more heated during sex, calling you his wife and saying he'll give you his babies even though it makes you a little uncomfortable you take it as a fetish, that is until you feel something warm inside you and you realize he took off the condom, that's the straw that broke the camel's back, you walk away from him angrily grabbing your clothes yelling at him while you get dressed, saying he's crazy, you tell him it's all over between you before leaving.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who doesn't understand why you act like this, do you know all the women who would like to date him? All the women who would like to have his babies? He only took off the condom with you, only with you, you should feel honored but instead you get upset? He spoiled you. Yes he did. But now he'll show you why you shouldn't be an ungrateful brat.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who starts off simple by blocking your phone, then has an eviction notice sent to your fancy apartment (which he pays for by the way) and last but not least he pays for you to fail each and every one of your exams at university, which completely destabilizes you as you watch your life fall apart overnight.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who a few days later goes to your apartment, walks in with his key and sees you packing your bags with teary eyes, he tells you he forgives you for your attitude, in fact he wants you two to get married, who needs a degree after all? You insult him for making his life hell and he frowns, are you still an ungrateful brat? He's going to punish you.

He comes towards you in great strides so you startle trying to get away from him, but he grabs you hard by the hair making you let out a squeal of pain he pulls you closer to him and growls near your ear.

“Why can't you just take what I give you like a good girl? You always have to be so ungrateful, I'm starting to think you like making me angry.”

You shake your head but he pushes you face down on the bed, pulling down your pajama shorts along with your panties and you try to kick him off on your own so he grabs your waist with one hand keeping you still and with the other hand he spanks you hard leaving your soft skin burning and sore, you started to sob quickly and he stopped.

“Well, look at that are you crying? It was only 10 spanks girl, you're a cry baby huh? Weren't you planning on being a tough lawyer?”

He hears you sob louder and sighs rubbing the red flesh of your ass with his hands before unbuckling his belt pulling down his pants and boxers releasing his fat cock which stands up happily, he grabs your hips lifting your ass as you bury your head in the mattress, he pumps his cock once before guiding it into your pussy sliding inside your warm tight channel.

“Fuck— you feel so good girl, it seems like your little pussy missed my cock so much... poor thing, my little one was neglected for almost a week because of your bratty attitude.”

He hears you babble something he doesn't understand into the sheets but he ignores you, his hands squeeze your ass while he rams you hard from behind, the dirty sound of slapping mixed with the thick smell of sex fills the room accompanied by his grunts and your muffled sobs, he separates your ass cheeks and without stopping thrusting into you he uses one of his fingers to rub your wrinkled hole.

“Hey you never let me fuck you around here, tell me are you a virgin? Well never mind once we get married I'll make sure not to leave a single one of your holes unused, by the time I'm done they'll all be shaped like my cock.”

You shudder in fear at his words causing your pussy to tense around him, he lets out a low chuckle as he grabs your hips ramming into you with renewed vigor, you bite down on the sheets and dig your nails into the mattress, his cock slamming again and again against your bruised cervix causing your eyes to roll back in the back of your head from the overwhelming pleasure, he grabs you by the hair lifting you up and forcing you to lean your back against his chest, you lean your head back over his shoulder and he licks your ear the wet sensation making your juicy pussy clench even tighter.

“God I wish you could see the face you're wearing right now it's so fucking erotic, you look like a whore how can you expect me not to put a baby in your womb when you make faces like that?”

He kisses your ear and uses one of his hands to rub your clit in firm circles bringing you over the edge a few more thrusts and you end up cumming all over his cock you let out moans as you arch your back he lets out a grunt as he feels your pussy squeezing him like a vice and then he stops cumming deep inside you his seed paints your core he pushes your body down onto the mattress collapsing on your back without pulling his limp cock out of you he murmurs.

“Since you're not going to college anymore I thought it would be best to move into a house, a big one, before our kids are born, you know little ones are adorable but a big problem and I want to have you all to myself before they get here.”

[grotesquevi]

about those smut prompts, 59 and 16 with ellie?

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎qué calor hará sin vos en verano.

cw   # 18+ mdni, ellie's packing in this sue me, she also has a serious oral fixation, strap sucking (also refered as cock), dom!ellie no regrets i love switching, dirty talk, she's a little rough in the end lets go pride month. this is part of an smuull celebration as i reached 1k followers, the reqs are now closed to this dynamic tkm.

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ wc: 1.7k || 1k directory || previous

it's always like that. traps you in a butterfly net when her kisses makes you inebriate of her hands, to the amount of time she's been kissing you, demanding in a constant pull and release — sometimes your study buddy's kind enough to let you take over, but others she's using her hand to keep you still, fingers gripping on the sides of your face tightly cause she wants to invade you, spread her very own self in the corners of your mind until she's all you can think about.

so ellie knows. knows about how you get turned on when her lips get swollen, when yours seem to hold a pulse on their own and you look at her with those bedroom eyes she cannot resist: she's been planning it all along. now you forgot about the huge test you have, your textbooks rest wide open in your bed and you cannot understand why the fuck you choose her to be your study pal when it always ends up like this.

it seems irrelevant now even when that was the whole reason for meeting up in the first place, you can't be failing the most important algebra test of the semester but either way you're there, letting her kiss you with that cocky i-just-won-the-lottery grin you've experienced before.

her thumb follow the edges of your mouth, skin that beneath ellie's fingers does nothing but tingle as you bite the digit before she's suddenly blurting out: — "i'm packing."

"what?- is this a new thing i should be aware of?" you ask cause it's damn stupid to pretend you haven't been fucking her before, that it wasn't new. "hold on, did you plan this all along?"

"it's not my fault you didn't get the memo to it, i was eye-fucking you the entire class."

"no you weren't" you are quick to reply almost rolling your eyes in response — damn liar. "you were falling asleep. i really needed help with this though."

"so no more kisses, then?" her declaration makes you scrunch your nose in response as she's putting some distance between your body and her's cause the little fucker loves to tease, make you mad before she's all over you again: is it that easy to pull away? "no more kisses. focus on algebra. i get it."

and ellie's actually explaining the next exercise, making you try your best, rarely good at pretending you're listening, slightly furrowed brows like you are thinking about what she's saying when in reality, you're too damn distracted in the details she spilled like a shared secret: she's fucking packing.

is it too dirty to be trying to look down in between her legs? how the fuck did you not notice before? it's there and its surely making you distracted.

"sooo- packing."

"are you listening? that's not algebra" it makes ellie laugh utterly pleased: she knows how to get under your skin, pester all your thoughts. "dunno, i'm just trying out new things, why not?"

"and how is it? you know, the experience and all."

"weird. but it's good weird- like i'm always prepared for action."

"you are the most stupid girl i've ever talked to" you're joking, she's laughing and god: she so stupidly wants to kiss you, so stupidly wants to pull you closer, let you feel between her legs to prove her point: prepared.

"that's not taking away the fact of how i'm helping you to study a subject you should know" you're close and its a game ellie wants to play at all costs when her hand reaches your hair and she's toying with the strands of it in between her fingers — "did you understood what i talked to you about? the variants."

"yes."

"explain it to me then" the invitation catches you off guard when ellie gives you the pencil she used to resolve the exercise you paid no attention to, staring at the page in dead silence "do it and you'll get a nice reward."

"you're making fun of me," you seem to give up after a moment when you can feel the tension in ellie's gaze and instead, you turn to face her before speaking again. "you know i wasn't paying attention."

"no, cause you're thinking about me," it may be a playful joke but she's serious when saying it, when her hand wraps around your neck as a way to pull you closer when ellie's digits rest against your pulse point. "about me. packing."

"stop making fun of me-"

"i'm not making fun of you" your study buddy shakes her head "do you understand how much your curiosity turns me on? quit fucking around and open up."

christ. her words make so much sense when she's forcing her thumb in the warmth of your mouth, testing you, pushing against your tongue for a moment before going deeper, making the saliva coat you chin almost too quickly as she shoves a second finger inside and jesus fuck.

goes down your throat, makes your gag reflections kick in but you're staying there, there as she fills your mouth and ellie smiles flustered as ever, engulfed in the way your lips close around her fingers when taking her in — "that's good, fuck- that's actually so-so good."

your lips curve into a smile and there it is, that filthiness in the air that drowns ellie's room in a frenzy state, the thin strains of saliva that connected you to her hand, your tangled hair, how already the air's so damn hot to function correctly.

"if you're so curious about me packing, take a closer look then" your breathing hitches on the back of your throat when she's kissing you again like she's not being a damn freak for a moment, withdrawing her fingers only to replace them with her tongue. "on your knees." 

she's suddenly good at giving you commands, at feeling superior when standing tall, making you kneel right in front of her: gentle. be gentle. ellie needs to remember herself a couple of times as her finger’s thread in your hair to guide you down. your hands seem to work on their own when fighting with the button of her jeans, and her chest feels lighter than ever when you're pulling the fabric down her legs and licking your lips like you've come across a new kink.

"it's blue," you point out "are we going for something alien-like?"

is it payback? sure it must be cause ellie's blushing at the mention of the blue dildo that rested against the metal circle attached to the harness on her hips — "should i get a realistic one?"

"no, i was thinking about purple- or pink."

“are you comfortable?” she asks when her fingers are taking you by the chin, making you look up to her to regain your attention. your knees will be sore but the sight of ellie looking down at you with a cocky smile is quite enough to make you nod forgetting any pain. “good. open your mouth then and warm up to my cock. spit.”

she would've done it before if it meant she would have the pleasure to have you like this, gathering a nice amount of saliva before you're spitting right over the dildo as you're using your hand to spread it over, seeking for her approval, any kind of word of reassurance she could provide:

"yeah, like that. you're doing good."

she's gonna get your initials tattooed on the fucking ribs. even if it hurts, even if she regrets it after, she's gonna carry you everywhere, under her skin, always in her flesh. ellie decides it when suffering from fuzzy brain, when she's wishing to the greater powers of the universe on the fact that she should be feeling all of it, how your mouth wraps around the blue toy and she's refraining from moving against your mouth so she can reach deeper, how you're covered on your own saliva when it should be her arousal all over.

"you're getting used to me, baby?" she asks, voice too distant to even try to answer "you just like to please huh? like to be a good girl."

she's slow cause she wants to enjoy it, savor the moment in her mouth like a candy that consumes eternally, like weed burning in rose petals. she moves her hips slowly, plunging herself deeper, holding your head as you're working her out.

how can she not dig the obscenity of it? the sounds you make as you're choking, struggling to breathe as you look up to her with pleading eyes: — "more, you want more?"

she gets you, understands your needs when she's pushing deeper now, when tears appear in the corners of your eyes and you're trying so hard to take her entirely. do good. warm-up, her words settle in the back of your brain when ellie's placing a gentle pace, allowing your mouth to shape up to the dimensions of her cock, throat wrapping around the silicone as you're taking her deeper, deeper and fucking deeper.

it's pathetic when the friction's enough to make ellie close to cum, when she's getting more erratic in between movements and suddenly she's fucking your mouth without gentleness in her actions, getting off from the devastation in your face, on how you force yourself to reach deeper against all odds.

"so pretty with mouth full of cock" the words slur together as there's this lewd sound filling the air, her dick being too slippery when invading your cavity, messing up with your breathing — "bet your pretty cunt will look equally as gorgeous fully stuffed, don't you think?"

you're consumed by her, by her hands grabbing your head as she's using you, on her words of praising, the way the muscles on her stomach seemed to flex with each movement. you'd nod at anything she's saying at this sick point.

"is this the best way to keep your attention? now you hear what i'm saying, baby? i should be teaching you algebra with my cock in your mouth. maybe you'll learn better with a little extra help."

yes. ellie's always right cause how was it?

does not matter how much you try it, you're always there, trying new things, acting like you're her girlfriend, trapped in her butterfly net.

[drdemonprince]

It’s true that America has one of the lowest voter turnout rates in the industrialized world, with only 62% of eligible adults turning up to the polls on a good year, and about 50% on a typical one. But if we really dive into the social science data, we can see that non-voters aren’t a bunch of nihilistic commie layabouts who’d prefer to die in a bridge collapse or of an untreated listeria infection than vote for someone who isn’t Vladimir Lenin. No, if we really study it carefully, we can see that the American electoral system has a series of unique features that easily account for why we find voting more cumbersome, confusing, and unrewarding than almost any other voters in the world.

Let’s take a look at the many reasons why Americans don’t vote:

1. We Have the Most Frequent Elections of Any Country

Most other democratic countries only hold major elections once every four or five years, with the occasional local election in between. This is in sharp contrast with the U.S., where we have some smattering of primaries, regional elections, state elections, ballot measures, midterm elections, and national elections basically every single year, often multiple times per year. We have elections more frequently than any other nation in the world — but just as swallowing mountains of vitamin C tablets doesn’t guarantee better health, voting more and harder hasn’t given us more democracy.

2. We Don’t Make Election Day a Holiday

The United States also does far less than most other democracies to facilitate its voters getting to the polls. In 22 countries, voting is legally mandated, and turnout is consequently very high; most countries instead make election day a national holiday, or hold elections on weekends. The United States, in contrast, typically holds elections on weekdays, during work hours, with minimal legal protections for employees whose only option to vote is on the clock.

3. We Make Registration as Hard as Possible

From Denmark, to Sweden, to Iceland, Belgium, and Iraq, all eligible voters in most democracies are automatically registered to vote upon reaching legal adulthood. Voting is typically regarded as a rite of passage one takes part in alongside their classmates and neighbors, made part of the natural flow of the country’s bureaucratic processes.

In the United States, in contrast, voter registration is a process that the individual must seek out — or more recently, be goaded into by their doctor. Here voting is not a communal event, it’s a personal choice, and failing to make the correct choice at the correct time can be penalized. In most other countries, there are no restrictions on when a voter can register, but in much of the United States, registering too early can mean you get stricken from the voter rolls by the time the election rolls around, and registering too late means you’re barred from voting at all.

4. We Make Voters Re-Register Far Too Often

In countries like Canada, Germany, and the Netherlands, voter registration updates automatically when a person moves. In the United State, any time a person changes addresses they must go out of their way to register to vote all over again. This policy disadvantages poorer and younger voters, who move frequently because of job and schooling changes, or landlords who have decided to farm black mold colonies in their kitchens.

Even if a voter does not change their address, in the United States it’s quite common for their registrations to be removed anyway— due to name changes, marriages, data breaches, or simply because the voter rolls from the previous election year have been purged to “prevent fraud” (read: eliminate Black, brown, poor, and left-leaning members from the electorate).

5. We Limit Access to Polling Places & Mail-in Ballots

In many countries, voters can show up to any number of polling places on election day, and showing identification is not always necessary. Here in the United States, the ability to vote is typically restricted to a single polling place. Voter ID laws have been used since before the Jim Crow era to make political participation more difficult for Black, brown, and impoverished voters, as well as for those for whom English is not their first language. Early and absentee voting options are also pretty firmly restricted. About a quarter of democracies worldwide rely on mail-in ballots to make voting more accessible for everyone; here, a mail-in ballot must be requested in advance.

All of these structural barriers help explain why just over 50% of non-voters in the United States are people of color, and a majority of non-voters have been repeatedly found to be impoverished and otherwise marginalized. But these populations don’t only feel excluded from the political process on a practical level: they also report feeling completely unrepresented by the available political options.

6. We Have the Longest, Most Expensive Campaign Seasons

Americans have some of the longest campaign seasons in the world, with Presidential elections lasting about 565 days on average. For reference, the UK’s campaign season is 139 days, Mexico’s is 147, and Canada’s is just 50. We also do not have publicly funded campaigns: our politicians rely upon donors almost entirely.

Because our elections are so frequent and our campaigns are so long and expensive, many American elected officials are in a nearly constant state of fundraising and campaigning. When you take into account the time devoted to organizing rallies, meeting with donors, courting lobbyists, knocking on doors, recording advertisements, and traveling the campaign trail, most federally elected politicians spend more time trying to win their seat than actually doing their jobs.

Imagine how much work you’d get done if you had to interview for your job every day. And now imagine that the person actually paying your wage didn’t want you to do that job at all:

7. Our Elected Officials Do Very Little

Elected officials who spend the majority of their hours campaigning and courting donors don’t have much time to get work done. Nor do they have much incentive to — in practice, their role is to represent the large corporations, weapons manufacturers, Silicon Valley start-ups, and investors who pay their bills, and serve as a stopgap when the public’s demands run afoul of those groups’ interests.

Perhaps that is why, as campaign seasons have gotten longer and more expensive and income inequality has grown more stark, our elected officials have become lean-out quiet quitters of historic proportions. The 118th Congress has so far been the least productive session on record, with only 82 laws having been passed in last two years out of the over 11,000 brought to the floor.

The Biden Administration has moved at a similarly glacial pace; aside from leaping for the phone when Israel calls requesting checking account transfers every two or three weeks, the executive-in-chief has done little but fumble at student loan relief and abortion protections, and bandied about banning TikTok.

The average age of American elected officials has been on a steady rise for some time now, with the obvious senility of figures like Biden, Mitch McConnell, and the late Diane Feinstein serving as the most obvious markers of the government’s stagnancy. Carting around a confused, ailing elderly person’s body around the halls of power like a decommissioned animatronic requires a depth of indifference to human suffering that few of us outside Washington can fathom. But more than that, it reflects a desperation for both parties to cling to what sources of influence and wealth they have. These aged figures are/were reliable simps for Blackstone, General Dynamics, Disney, and AIPAC, and their loyalty is worth far more than their cognitive capacity, or legislative productivity. Their job, in a very real sense, is to not do their job, and a beating-heart cadaver can do that just fine.

You can read the rest of the list for free (or have it narrated to you on the Substack app) at drdevonprice.substack.com!

[powderpinkprincess]

Speeding Ticket [Lando Norris x reader]

description: You get your first speeding ticket.

Lando was sitting at the kitchen table, mindlessly scrolling through social media when he heard the front door open. You finally arrived home. He had been waiting for you to text him back, so he could finally order food for lunch. You didn't see his texts, but he didn't want to call you, knowing you were in an important meeting. Yes, technically he had lunch at home, but that was the healthy stuff his dietitian made him eat, and he didn't feel like forcing down those veggies this today.

You shuffled into the kitchen with an unreadable expression on your face. You pressed your lips together into a thin line as you approached him, nodding stiffly. "Hi."

Lando could immediately tell that something was off. He frowned, setting his phone down on the table and turning to look at you properly. "Hey, everything alright?" he asked, studying your face.

You rummaged through your handbag and took out a white envelope. Then you put it on the table and slid it to him as if you were a part of some underground mafia, trying to arrange a business.

Lando raised an eyebrow at your weirdly ominous gesture, but he took the envelope off the table. "What's this?" he asked, lifting his gaze from the envelope to your face. Why were you acting so strange?

 "I got a speeding ticket," you mumbled sheepishly. "Thought I would tell you before you got the notification."

It was awkward and you felt especially bad because this morning you took his car, not yours. The tires of your car haven't been changed for a while now, and when Lando realized that the previous night, he told you not to drive it until it was done. Therefore, his number plate was shown on the ticket, not yours. Besides, you've never even gotten any kind of a ticket before, and now your first one was while driving your boyfriend's car.

Lando tried to keep a straight face, he really did. He tried to act serious, but the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk as he suppressed a cheeky smile. He could've been really annoyed at you for speeding in his McLaren, but he found your grim face much more entertaining than he should have.

 "How fast did you go?" he asked, unable to contain his amused expression.

 "Sixty," you pouted. The speed limit in the urban areas of Monaco was 50 km/h, as it was full of twisty, narrow streets, tunnels, and traffic jams. Funny enough lots of people owned sports cars there, yet they were never allowed to drive fast.

Lando's smirk widened at your answer. "Sixty?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows. "You did 60 in a 50 zone?" He tried to sound serious, but the grin spreading across his face betrayed his failed attempt. "You do know you're not street racing right now, right love?" he teased, his eyes glinting with amusement.

 "I am a threat to your job, am I not?" you mumbled, crossing your arms. You were secretly a little relieved that he wasn't angry with you, yet you felt bad.

Lando chuckled at your words and leaned back in his chair, his smirk slowly transforming into a playful grin. "Oh yeah, you're a real danger to me," he teased, his tone still light. "I should watch out. You'll be taking my seat in no time."

You watched him in silence for a moment before you sighed, letting his arms fall to your side. "Seriously though, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get your car in trouble."

Lando's expression softened as you apologized. His initial amusement was replaced by a hint of genuine concern. He reached out and took your hand in his, his touch gentle as he gave it a comforting squeeze.

 "It's okay, babe," he said softly, looking up at you. "I'm not mad, I was just teasing you. Besides, it's just a ticket. It's not the end of the world."

 "I got points on my license now," you whispered, your eyes filling with tears.

Lando noticed the tears welling up in your eyes, and his heart immediately sank at the sight. He stood up, stepping around the table to pull you into a tight hug. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as he spoke.

 "Hey, it's okay," he attempted to soothe you. "It's not a big deal, really. I'm more surprised these are your first points with the way you drive sometimes."

You let out a sad chuckle and wiped your eyes. "Is this the way you are trying to comfort me?"

Lando grinned, his usual, cheeky personality resurfacing. "It's my special brand of comfort," he teased, before his tone turned serious again. "But honestly, love, it's just points on a license. It'll be okay. We'll pay the fine, and it'll be as if it never happened."

 "Nothing will be ever the same," you whispered dramatically.

Lando snorted at your statement and rolled his eyes playfully. "Oh, love, you and your theatrics," he said, his teasing smirk back on his face. "It's a ticket, not a world-ending catastrophe."

 "I didn't even know what to do, it was so awkward," you started explaining the way you got pulled over. "The policeman asked if I drank, and I was so startled that I accidentally said yes."

Lando's eyes widened in a mixture of disbelief and amusement as you described what happened. He couldn't suppress a laugh that escaped his lips. "You what?!" he stifled. "You told a policeman you were drunk?"

"Accidentally! I was trying to seem cooperative and say yes to whatever he wanted," you tried to explain yourself, but that only made Lando cackle louder. “Stop laughing! I thought he was going to take away my license right on the spot.”

Lando studied your face for a moment, trying to assess the emotional damage you suffered. Then he pulled you into a hug again and stroked your back.

 “Do you want to order Chinese? We can buy those stupid fortune cookies you love. Maybe they will tell the future of your license,” he offered, unable to stop himself from teasing. This was just so amusing.

You lightly smacked his chest. “Oh, shush, aren’t you supposed to be eating healthy anyway?”

 “I didn’t break any rules today yet. I must catch up to you,” he retorted.

You couldn’t help but finally smile. “Alright, let’s order then.”

 “How lucky that I don’t have to find out how to sneak cookies into a prison cell,” he added, sending you a quick glance before he picked up his phone from the table.

 “Lando!”

He started laughing again.

[daycourtofficial]

Tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one - part 8

Pairing: Eris x Azriel x reader | WC: 5.9k | warnings: discussions of pain? idk

Summary: the aftermath of sleeping with Eris isn’t as confusing as you thought it would be. Things with Azriel are getting better in a way you hadn’t expected, until a discussion with Rhysand opens the two of you up to a new idea that might solve all of your problems

Author’s note: happy @polysjmweek !!! Yall have been feral for this and I’ve been doing my best to get this out. It’s a bit fillery, but we have to set some stuff up!!

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The afternoon passed in bed with Eris, the scent of Azriel becoming weaker and weaker as the minutes ticked by. Eris had asked you to try to inflict pain, allowing you to touch him without any hesitancy.

It was a strange sensation. You were used to stitching pieces back together (either by hand or by magic). Decades of your life were devoted to learning everything about the varieties of fae - different skeletal structures, the extra musculature of winged fae. Illness, disease, injury - you were a generalist, preferring to be able to treat any ailment you ran into.

But he insisted you try and try again, each attempt at streamlining your magic in the opposite direction going nowhere, leaving you exasperated and slightly embarrassed at failing before the Vanserra. Despite that, it was almost nice being in the cabin with him. He was still Eris, spouting off insults every five minutes. As the afternoon wore on, his barbed words seemed less sharp, almost lazily thrown in a half assed attempt.

But still you felt a deep ache inside of you, some small pang in the back of your throat like something wasn’t quite right.

After about an hour or so, you wanted to give up. It was just a theory Eris had - in all your years of studying and meeting healers, you had never heard of this ability. You became more exasperated with each attempt, growing more and more convinced this was Eris’s attempt at procuring his own amusement.

“Think of Azriel.” Eris’s voice had cut through the thick air of disappointment you were suffocating in. What did Azriel have to do with this? And why had he been so far from your own thoughts for hours, when he was always at the forefront of your mind these past few months?

“What?”

“Think of Azriel. Think of the arrows in his back and in his wings. You felt his pain. Now remember it.”

You took a deep breath, stilling yourself, allowing Eris’s words to wash over you. You closed your eyes, trying to step into the memory. You thought about the living room of the cabin, the open space with minimal decoration. Azriel’s shallow breaths filled your ears, only allowing yourself to breathe after each of his. Your nose twitched at the copper smell, how every part of you had been roaring at the scent of his blood. How you clung to hope, wanting that feeling to surge through your hands and make its way into Azriel’s skin. You wanted him pieced together with every bit of hope or happiness you harbored, his skin a mosaic of your affection.

Your stomach dropped at the memory, pouring yourself fully into the moment that was days past, not allowing yourself the comfort of knowing he is somewhere in Velaris and he is fine. You had to live in the past, reaching for that feralness you dampened way down. Every sense heightened, the pain you took from Azriel was on the tip of your fingers. You were giving the pain life, letting it live in the very tips of your hands, feed off your blood and energy. its sole creator.

If one's lucky, pain only lives on in memory. Now it lived at your fingertips, growing and festering, waiting to latch onto a new host.

You exhaled slowly, grabbing Eris’s hand one last time. You weren’t really sure what to do, so you just swirled patterns on the palm of his hand, your fingers moving up to his wrist but going no further. You were tracing nonsensical swirls to etch into his skin, maybe even his soul.

The male did not react, staying as still as he had during all of your other attempts. Your heart dropped at the disappointment, feeling shame creep up your neck at having Eris watch you fail again.

So much for him considering the two of you equals. Fitting he’d only consider someone capable of inflicting harm to be an equal.

Your ministrations stopped, the silence of the room stilling your movement. Every other time you had tried, each failure was met with some response from the redhead. Now he sat silent, a sight you had never seen before.

Slowly, you cracked open an eye, unsure of what you wished to see. His pale arm was still extended toward you, but the freckles were now hidden beneath raised red abrasions. Your path of swirls overlapped each other, but they were easy enough to still follow. They all made varying trails of raised red skin, some parts more scratched, others looking more like painful welts.

You gaped at him, surprised such a thing could come from you. Something took root in your chest - pride, maybe? Healing magic was one of the most well documented types of magic, one of the most common and most useful. A large percentage of high fae had varying degrees of healing powers - from accelerated self healing to regrowing limbs. And you had just done something never documented before. Perhaps never even accomplished before. A huge, cheesy grin overtook your face, and a shocked laugh came out as well.

“Even songbirds have claws, don’t they?”

Finally looking at Eris’s face, his sharp features were an attempt at indifference. He held his face neutrally, and weeks ago you would have been fooled, but his eyes gave him away. They sparkled a rich amber in the light, losing the dark edges to make way for something brighter.

Looking at him now, the mask peeled back enough to see his enjoyment, you knew this was the Eris that Azriel had fallen so in love with. So disarming not even centuries of hatred could withstand it.

-

You left the cabin behind you not long afterward, the door finally giving so the two of you could leave. Maybe the shadows heard your laughs, allowing your exit? Or maybe Azriel wasn’t willing to allow his mates to miss dinner?

Whatever the case, you were happy to winnow back to Velaris, your stomach desperate for food. You had a one track mind as you headed for one of your favorite restaurants, a casual, quaint restaurant that had your favorite booths to curl up in and read on lunch breaks. The glow of the restaurant met your eyes, but someone bumped into you, their shoulder hitting you lightly. You looked as they apologized, continuing to shuffle off before you could say anything, their brown hair swaying.

Your gaze lingered just long enough at their retreating form that you noticed the stationary shop you had passed by. Without thinking, you doubled back, walking inside to find perhaps the most gorgeous shop you’ve ever been inside. Dark wood floors and counters, notebooks and pens and every organizational need was color coded.

You get your bearings long enough to pick up some pens and a journal, not really thinking, just doing. Seeing the shop made you think of Azriel, his secret devotion to journaling offering you insight into his inner life.

The past few weeks had been a tangled web of emotion, a back and forth of what lay ahead of you. You needed to unscramble your own inner life, figuring out what you thought and how you felt and write down every detail to look back on. You paid for your supplies, cradling them beneath your arm as you walked back across the street before being recognized by your hostess. She immediately found a small booth, offering it to you before scurrying off.

The hum of other patrons, bits of their conversation, and the hustle of the staff allowed your mind enough background noise to sort out the day you had. This was exactly where you needed to be. Alone with your thoughts, but productive. Now you get to spend a few hours tucked into a booth, scribbling it all out. You started the journal where this whole saga began - when your mating bond with Azriel snapped into place. Four months now felt like a lifetime ago, but that first day was seared into your memory.

It was a usual day. You had gone to work. You had a few patients that needed immediate tending to, the four males having been lost in the woods for quite a while. They would be fine, but you had stayed late to ensure a continued watch, waiting for one of the other junior healers to take over for you.

In the chaotic stretch of time you and Madja were helping them, you hadn’t been aware of just how much time had passed until your patients had been stabilized and a large Illyrian had made his way into the workshop.

Azriel’s face betrayed nothing, except a bit of relief at you being alive in front of him. At the sight of him, you turned to the window, not having noticed the setting sun that had sent the place into darkness.

“Az! I hope you’re not upset with me, merely lost track of time.”

He looked over the four beds, the four males all tucked into multiple blankets, redness in their cheeks and noses.

“I can see that.”

“They’ve been in the woods for a week,” you whispered low enough so the patients would continue sleeping but Azriel would still hear. He hunched over slightly, getting closer to you as you continued. “Poor males lost themselves on the Atterage Slope.”

Azriel sucked in a breath, somewhat familiar with the rocky terrain. He looked at the males again, wondering how they managed to make it out that far.

“What were they doing out there? Usually only Illyrians go out that way. Uneven paths are difficult without wings.”

“Tell me about it.” You chortled. “They seem pretty young. I think they’re in their thirties.”

Azriel nodded as if it was reason enough, remembering the dumb adventures of his own youth. The ridiculous schemes Cassian and Rhysand had pulled him into. The few schemes of his own he pulled them into.

It was a miracle none of them were this bad off.

“Ah, to be young and so brave.”

“You sound old saying that.”

Azriel’s wings fluttered slightly, the slight gush of air causing you to snort. In that breath of a laugh, your world tilted as if you had lost your balance, but you hadn’t moved. The air held a heavy dusting of magic to it, your vision nearly sparkling with it. Everything felt stronger, some sense of connection holding you steady despite your wobbly knees.

Looking at Azriel now felt as if you were allowed to look at the sun. What it must feel like to gaze upon the one thing that gives everything life, every aspect of your world orbiting around it just for a flash of its warmth.

The breath caught in your throat, before allowing for a new inhale of air that somehow felt crisper, as if the oxygen in it knew you weren’t the same as you were thirty seconds ago. As if every piece of life were more intense now that your universe had an anchor.

Azriel was your anchor, your lifeline, your tether to this world. Someone who was supposed to see your darkest parts and love them. Someone who would do anything for you.

There were theories about mates. Some people thought it was a matter of fertility, others thought the Mother was selecting for complementary traits in mates. You always liked the idea that mates were what you weren’t, giving one a new perspective to consider.

Reflecting on that day, it felt silly to wait so long. Each attempt you made to tell him the truth that lingered on your tongue at all hours failed miserably. The timing never felt right, and as happy as you had been about it, you had needed some time to adjust.

You adored the shadowsinger, his company one you always enjoyed. But were either of you ready for a long term commitment? Feyre had told you over a glass of wine once that all Azriel had wanted was a mate, leaving him pining after females in hopes they were his.

You had spent so long devoted to your studies, and now as a junior healer, were truly feeling your stride. Flings and short term relationships happened, but nothing you’d ever want to commit to for a year, much less the rest of your life.

But you spent those four months observing Azriel. How he drank his coffee, how he liked to sit in front of windows in the morning to warm his wings, how he always sat next to you and was the first to get up if you wanted anything.

You saw his pessimism, catching glimpses of the self-loathing that threatened to drown him. Some deep part of you knew that if you were right about mates, if they were chosen for complementing each other, your optimism and hopefulness was exactly what he needed. And his loyalty and steadiness was what you needed from him.

But how did Eris play into all of this? What did he provide that Azriel needed?

All of your thoughts had been logged in your journal, your food here and gone in the time you spent in your mind, deciding it was time to go home.

You had no way of making it up to the House of Wind without a winged escort. You could winnow, allowing the drop to just bang you up a little. Or you could walk the ten thousand steps and continue to think.

Restlessness crept up inside you, your foot tapping to expel the nervous energy. The steps would take longer and allow you to clear your head a bit more, potentially allowing you to sneak in unnoticed.

But they would suck.

Nesta’s smug face appeared in your mind, echoing her sentiments of a ticking clock. You sighed, making your way into the stairwell, letting the stone help still your racing mind.

-

***

The ascent hadn’t been as bad as you thought, even though your thighs were on fire. You couldn’t look over the side of the stairs, the dizzying height enough to make you want to hug the wall as you climbed up the quiet stairwell.

But you made it. Barely breathing, but you made it.

All you wanted was to collapse into bed, or to even lean against the doorframe for a few minutes, but if you stopped now, it’d take you ages to get back up. Rest was not an option until you were sure it would be hours before you’d expect to rise again.

The house was quiet as you crept through it, the pain in your legs sending hissing sounds from your mouth with each step. The halls were dark, a stillness in the air only there when all three of your roommates were away for training. The stairs to your bedroom were so close, you just have to make it through the kitchen where you can easily creep past Nesta and Cassian’s floor and make it to where yours and Azriel’s chambers lie.

“Have fun wherever you snuck off to?”

You stilled, Cassian’s booming voice bouncing off the walls of the stairwell. The laugh behind the words wasn’t quite right, a bit stilted for the usually jovial Illyrian.

“I didn’t do much sneaking.” Cassian shrugged as if you hadn’t said anything at all, either completely ignoring the lie or not believing it.

“Elain dropped off some cookies earlier. Want one? Otherwise I’ll eat them all and Nesta will be mad I didn’t save you any.” You turned, coming back down the stairs as he held out the box stiffly. The cookies did look great, a sweet aroma wafting from them you had missed in your panic to get to your room.

“Couldn’t you just not eat them all?”

His jaw clicked, the slight grind of his teeth loud enough for you to hear. He rummaged through the box before he held out a cookie, pointing it at your neck. “Couldn’t help myself. Just like whatever leech you tangled with today.”

Your hand flew to your neck, trying to shield whatever hickeys laid there. Beneath one of your fingers the skin was tender to the touch, a sure sign of Eris’s pleasure. You untucked your hair, draping it over your neck in a shameful attempt to hide away the day’s activities. The movement wafted the scent of Eris through the air, a quick momentary flash of pale skin and bedsheets, his intoxicating scent of whiskey and bonfire leaving you hungry for more than the cookie in front of you.

Cassian just watched, his outstretched arm acting as a guide to the marks on your now semi-covered neck. The two of you stared at each other, neither conceding in this strange standoff. The general was almost disappointed and upset to find you in such a state, as if he were your jilted lover.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. Not even the mating bond in your chest was upset.

So why was Cassian?

You gave up, snatching the cookie from his hand a bit more forcefully than you should have.

“Does Azriel know?”

You choked on your cookie, coughing lightly. Heat climbed up your chest at Cassian’s question and the fact that you could feel a slight ache in between your legs. You crossed them, trying to limit the smell of your arousal from making its way to Cassian.

“Yes. Azriel knows.” He didn’t - at least not yet. There was no way to properly tell your mate you slept with his other mate.

But he knew you were with Eris. Was the reason you were with Eris.

It was Cassian’s fault for not specifying.

He eyed you wearily, not touching the cookies as you turned from him, ascending the stairs and away from his scrutinizing gaze.

-

Your first day back at work was less than fantastic. Madja hovered over your shoulder, watching your every move. You bit your tongue the whole day, knowing better than to ask her to give you space. She’d respond with some variation of ‘I don’t want to, but you leave me no choice’ or ‘I trained you to not burnout, what other teachings have you foregone?’

Easy, menial tasks filled your day, but your mind was so numb by the end you walked much more leisurely to where you usually meet up with Azriel. Your feet strolled the familiar path, everything familiar and ordinary while you felt anything but.

You could have mentioned to Madja the progress you had made with Eris, but it felt too much like a secret between the two of you. You also didn’t want to tell anyone before fully gaining control over it. You were able to hurt him once. You needed more practice, more control over it.

You had soaked in the tub for a long while last night, scrubbing away all traces of Eris. Your neck had healed overnight, gone were the purple and red marks Cassian had seen in the kitchen. Though they were gone, you still felt their bite whenever you pressed into the skin, the dull pain enough of a reminder that it had been real and not some figment of your imagination.

Catching sight of Azriel at the end of the road sent flutters through your stomach, your mind restarting again as you blinked away the mundanity of your day. You couldn’t stop the smile that broke out on your face, your steps quicker to reach him. The matching smile on his face was like a siren song, pulling you to him.

“You are a nice sight after the day I’ve had, even if you did lock me in a cabin yesterday.”

It surprised you how light you felt seeing him. The past few weeks his face had made you into a melting pot of emotion, but now you only felt calm. Even if he had locked you in a cabin, the outcome was quite fruitful for you, so your ire was in short supply.

“Surely any face is better than boils and warts.”

“None of those today. Just Madja lecturing me every ten minutes. I hope your day fared better.”

His eyes twinkled as he looked down at you, a few of his shadows gently rolled down your arms, intertwining in your fingers. Their cool touch was familiar, a stark contrast to the heat that had radiated from Eris’s skin the previous day.

“Not much better. Tedious. Annoying brothers.”

“Oh, not both of them I hope.”

“Rhys wasn’t too bad, Cassian was the main bother.” You grimaced, lightly toeing your shoe in the street.

“That might be my fault. He found me when I came home last night and he force fed me a cookie.” His eyebrows raised at that, a confused laugh coming from him.

“Why didn’t you say no to the cookie?”

“It was one of Elain’s, who am I to turn that down?”

“Have you eaten anything since the cookie?”

You thought back over your day, the wearisome day not even broken up with a nice break for food.

“I had some coffee this morning.”

“That’s not food.”

You rolled your eyes, lightly jabbing him in the ribs with a finger. At that moment, your stomach decided to growl loudly enough to bring a slight smirk to Azriel’s face.

“Are you doing anything tonight? We could get dinner somewhere.”

“Yeah? Where would you want to go?” You stepped closer, invading his space. He smelled just like he always did, that comforting scent of night chilled mist and cedar that felt like a romanticized version of camping. You picked up hints of the bonfire smell that clung to Eris, melding so perfectly with Azriel’s scent it was practically hidden to everyone but you.

“Do you like comfort food?”

“Love it.”

“Then it’s a surprise.”

“So full of secrets.”

He only smiled, his arms wrapping around the backs of your legs and your shoulders, quickly pulling you into his chest before shooting off into the sky. Your laughter echoed down the street, bouncing down the alleyway.

How many times have you been cradled by him as he soared through the skies, his great wings beating against the air? The number could be in the thousands and it would not matter. Your heart stalled each time, and if you looked down you were sure to find the organ in the place you had just stood.

“You’re cruel!” You shouted over the wind directly into his ear. He flinched at your volume.

“I believe cruelty is in my job title.”

“I believe it has a stipulation that you’re not allowed to be cruel to me.”

“Forgive me. I’m not a fan of such formalities as titles.”

“You brought it up!” Azriel landed the two of you onto the balcony, his feet cushioning the impact. You laughed into his ear, incredulous and loud, not adjusting for the stillness his landing provided.

“Must you assign blame for everything?”

The sun cast away his shadows, his smile bright as the warm rays hit his wings. He looked wonderfully happy, practically glowing in the light. You weren’t sure you had ever seen him so happy. His eyes were on your face, golden flecks nearly blinding with joy.

“Ah, great for you two to join us!” Rhys’s voice burst the bubble, Azriel’s beaming face turning into a scowl before he looked at his brother. The spell was broken, the shadows back over his face before speaking.

“What is this?” His grip on you slackened, your body practically spilling from his arms. You stood unsteadily, not expecting the sudden loss of him. Gaining your balance, you looked around to find several familiar faces around the usually empty dining table. Despite it being Cassian and Nesta’s home, Rhysand sat at the head with Feyre on his left, Cassian and Nesta on his right.

They all looked serious, their faces not giving anything away. You knew Nesta and Rhys were usually at odds, but to see them seemingly united on some front slightly concerned you. Nesta wouldn’t even look at you, her jaw tight as she looked at Rhys.

“We wanted to discuss something with you.” Rhysand was clearly the one taking charge with whatever this intervention was. Azriel stood guarded, one of his wings slightly blocking you to keep him between you and his family. He stayed silent, waiting for Rhysand to say more.

“The gala in Hewn City is next week - Eris will be attending.” Azriel stiffened next to you, the color draining from his face. Everyone else was quiet, Azriel’s plea loud at the pause. “Rhysand-“

Rhys put his hands up, leaning back in his chair, his eyes focused on you, not even looking at his brother.

“Well he does like you, doesn’t he?”

“What? What’s the problem, Az?” Azriel ignored you, his glare fixed in Rhys, only occasionally flickering to Cassian. None of what Rhys was saying made any sense. What do you have to do with Eris and Hewn City? And why was Azriel acting like it was a death sentence?

“Surely you don’t think Eris is so foolish to fall for the same trick a second time.” Gone was Azriel’s joyous laughter, his voice on the precipice of violence.

“Somehow I think it’ll work quite well this time.” Rhys looked at you, every ounce a feline predator having found their next meal. You stepped back at his gaze, never having felt so pinned in place before. “Won’t it?”

The question lingered in the air, but you still weren’t quite understanding. They were gaps in your knowledge, but you had always figured Rhysand wouldn’t leave you in the dark quite like this.

“Azriel, I don’t- what’s he talking about?”

“Yes, Azriel. What are we talking about?” Rhys cocked his head at Azriel, mimicking your questioning tone.

“They want to offer you as bait to Eris. Charm him to what - propose?”

Rhysand finally turned to his brother, violet eyes desperately searching into Azriel’s. You could feel Azriel’s apprehension and rage through the bond - he felt like a cornered animal, ready to attack and maim at any minute.

You still weren’t quite getting what the problem was. No one other than Rhys would look at you, their eyes focused on the ringleader of this intervention. But interventions had a reason, one you were only tangentially understanding.

You had spoken to Nesta before of Eris, asking her if he was as difficult as he seemed. It was practically a lifetime ago when you told her you pitied the fae mated to him. Looking at Azriel, you felt heat creep up your chest and neck at how wrong you had been.

“We can’t let potential allies slip through our fingers, Azriel.”

Rhys deflated just slightly, clearly unsatisfied with what he found in Azriel. He turned back to you, sizing up his prey. It sent shivers down your spine. You looked to Nesta again, looking for some sense of solidarity, of not feeling like a cow at auction, but she gave you none, only looking at the table in silence.

“Think about it, sleep on it, give me an answer in a few days.”

Azriel’s palm was gentle as it pressed against your back, quickly ushering you from the room, shielding your body with his wings. His long strides conveyed his urgency to get you out of there, your own feet barely keeping up with his speed.

Azriel pushed you into your room, his shadows scoping every inch of the room, tugging on every door and window, ensuring the room was secure. His face darkened, his hands almost shaking with rage. You had never seen him like this, his anger chilling the room by a few degrees.

“I can’t believe they’d do this. Suggest this. Allow you, urge you to marry him.” Every word was hurried and rushed, each a half formed thought you didn’t fully follow. His words were biting, but you didn’t flinch nor back down.

“I don’t understand, Az. Eris isn’t the evil villain they think he is.” You were certain you could talk him down, get him to see that this isn’t the death sentence he’s acting like it is.

“Thankfully. But they don’t know that. They’re offering you to this evil monstrous version of him. As well as marching you straight to Beron.”

He was practically on high alert, his body still guarding you, his shoulders straight and ready for any enemy attack.

You had forgotten about Beron. For one brief moment, you had forgotten the danger that Eris lived in constantly.

“I will be okay.” You didn’t have any reason for such confidence, but deep in your chest you knew it to be true. You knew Eris wouldn’t allow any harm to come to you.

“I don’t like this. I don’t like how they’ve banded together on this.” You could practically hear how loud he was thinking, his mind racing as he paced back and forth in front of you.

“They know something.”

It came through like a clang, the thought rattling around your mind.

“They think they can use me to get Eris to do whatever they want.”

Azriel looked at you, realization dawning on his features. His lips parted, making a slight ‘o’ as he stared, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“They want to use him through you.”

You nodded, your jaw ticking at the idea of making anyone beholden to them through their mate.

“They think he’s my mate.”

You wanted to tell Azriel about your romp in the sheets with Eris. The urge wasn’t coming from a place of guilt, but rather just the urge to confide in him, to ask him what it could mean.

But now didn’t feel like the right time. There were more pressing matters.

“They think he’s my mate.” It was half-formed, the idea coming through to you. How you could play this, how all of this could play out. As nosey and annoying as Azriel’s family was, they may have just handed the two of you the perfect card.

“Azriel, this could solve everything. I go to Autumn as Eris’s bride..” you trailed off, hoping he would pick up on your train of thought. A moment later he was standing straighter, his shadows moving to swirl on the floor instead of at his shoulders.

“And I could join you as a guard, as your protector.”

“Do you think Beron would allow that? He’d assume you’re there to spy.”

He thought for a long while, his face scrunching with the effort of concentration. He was still annoyed, but his breathing was slowing down, his stance relaxing.

“It would allow me to visit Autumn more without them becoming suspicious at least.”

A hazy plan was forming between you two. Could this actually work? You certainly weren’t Eris’s favorite person, but surely you could get along well enough to live together. And maybe he could provide some protections for you against Beron.

“I think there’s more to-“ he was cut off by someone at your door, three quick knocks telling you exactly who it was. Azriel disappeared into the shadows in your closet as the door opened, Nesta making her way into your room. She looked around the space, expecting to find someone.

“I heard voices.”

“You’re hearing things, Nesta.” You were a bit cross with her, unable to help the betrayal you felt as she allowed Rhys to offer you up to Eris. Nesta had been your friend and watching her sit idly by as you continued asking questions, not understanding, only enraged you more.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know Rhys was going to ask you to do this.” She looked sincere, the care for you she harbored clear across her face.

“It’s fine, Nesta.” It wasn’t, but you wanted her to leave so you could keep talking to Azriel. You didn’t want to have this conversation now, didn’t want her to know how happy it would make you.

“No. I didn’t - I think Cassian told him.”

“Told him what?”

“That I think you and Eris are mates.”

Wherever Azriel was, you were sure he was listening. You felt tingly at having figured it out yourself, but you played dumb, the shocked expression on your face was one that was just fake enough to continue to lead her on this trail of thinking.

“Why would you think that?” You had already deduced their idea, but you didn’t quite know why. Her eyes tracked the book that still laid on your nightstand, the book you had gotten in secret to mourn the mating bond between you and Azriel.

“Is that the secret? Is that what you can’t tell me? Azriel knows, right? He’s been covering for you.”

“Yes.” The lie rolled off your tongue, “Azriel knows.”

You hated lying to Nesta, the action nearly giving you a rash somewhere on your shoulder. It was your one tell, but you couldn’t give it up now. You’d let them think you and Eris were mates, slowly easing them into the actual reality of how messy and entangled yours, Azriel, and Eris’s lives were.

It was a bit silly. Surely Azriel could just tell his loved ones about his own mateship.

But now, looking at Nesta and seeing the depths of pity in her gaze, you knew why Azriel had never told them.

For a moment, you wondered if that’s how they’d look at him if he told them of your mating. Would they be happy it wasn’t Eris for you? Your heart panged a bit, so much heartache and pain over Eris.

“I didn’t tell you because I had a hard time believing it myself.” You chuckled self-deprecatingly, rubbing your arm as you stood awkwardly. “You caught me.”

If she thought you were lying, she didn’t say. Or give anything away to indicate it.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad.” You looked up only to find her face full of resolve. “I’m much younger than all of you and unaware of the full history, but Eris seems… well, surely if the Mother mated the two of you it was for a good reason.”

“Perhaps good breeding stock.” Nesta shook her head, looking you over.

“No, there’s something about you. There must be something about him, too. He’s very lucky.”

The two of you stared at each other for a few moments, letting the silence wash over you. Eventually Nesta lightly clapped her hands together before saying, “well, I’ll be off for the evening. I have to pick a fight with my mate for bringing Rhysand into all of this.”

You gave her a small wave before she turned around, closing your door softly as she exited. You listened as her footsteps retreated down the hall and down the stairs, the house now quiet before Azriel rematerialized before you.

“Do you want to come with me to see Eris? I’ll need to brief him on the plan.” Your feelings toward the redhead had become so complicated, you weren’t sure if you wanted to see him or not. The mating bond roared in your chest, some territorial ache winning out over the idea of watching the mated pair interact.

“I’ll stay behind.”

Scarred hands held the back of your head, pulling you closer, his lips gently meeting your forehead. The action warmed you down to your toes, such intimacy from Azriel a rarity you cherished.

“Be safe. I’ll be back.”

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-angst @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @milswrites @the-golden-jhope @hannzoaks @secretlyhers @tothestarsandwhateverend @sarawritestories @chxosangxl @quiet-loser @thegreyjoyed @paankhaleyaaar @acoazlove

Azriel taglist: @brieflyclassymortal @thisiskaylin @magicstrengthandcourage @book-obsessed124 @slytherintaco @userxs-blog @emryb

Eris taglist: @magicstrengthandcourage @book-obsessed124

[rin-may-1103]

Delilah's language (part two)

Previous | Master Post | Next

"Tomorrow?" Danny repeated, glad he had set his cup down.

Mr. Wayne smiled, relieved Danny hadn't completely brushed him off. "yes, it's tomorrow. Damian, my son, is a huge conservationist. he gets it from his mother."

Danny blinked but before he could cut in, Mr. Wayne continued, "Oh! not that I don't care about the environment and stuff, it's just-"

"I get it," Danny reassured. he did not want to get stuck listening to Mr. Wayne try and fail to 'fix' his self-perceived mistake. "but I still don't really understand why you want me there..."

like sure, the kid's a fan of Danny or whatever (he was still trying to wrap his mind around that one.) but would the kid actually want Danny at his party? wouldn't that be like... he didn't know, weird? to just have this random guy from Illinois show up?

"Right!" Mr. Wayne coughed, scratching his face in embarrassment. "once Damian learned that the purple back gorillas would be in Gotham, I suggested we have his birthday party at the zoo. He told me he wanted to know everything he could about their species. so, I invited all the scientists working with the gorillas to the party so he could talk to them."

Danny nodded in understanding when Mr. Wayne glanced at him, even if Danny thought that that was the most fruitloop way he could have gone about it. then again, Danny's pretty sure all billionaires were fruit loops...

"He started digging into their history once he learned about them, and after some digging, he discovered that you basically saved their species. He has declared that he must meet you at all costs. something about needing to know their language?" Mr. Wayne trailed off, looking at Danny as if to see if he knew what his son meant.

If the kid was looking to Danny so he could learn the language then that meant he read the same paper Danny had. the scientists that had dedicated themselves to studying Delilah had printed one claiming that the purpleback Gorilla language was apparently hard to learn. (Even if Danny had been able to understand it pretty easily and told them so.)

they had listed Danny as the only person fluent in it so far, which now that Danny thought about it was kinda rude. they hadn't asked to put his name in there and now look at him! being visited by Fruitloops looking for him to be at their son's birthday parties.

anyways.

so, if the kid, Damian, read the same paper, he must have concluded it would be easier to learn the language from someone who was already 'fluent' than try and teach himself. (something Danny can't blame the kid for, but still.)

"KIDS!" Dad's voice bellowed from downstairs making Mr. Wayne startle and turn to glance down the hall. "IT WORKS! IT WORKS!"

...

"so, when do we need to leave?" Danny asked, all previous paranoia and reservations thrown out the window.

mr. Wayne slowly turned back, his brows furrowed in confusion. "we, uh, we'd have to leave in," he glanced down at his watch, his eyes widening a little, "an hour. I have to leave in an hour."

mr. Wayne then frowned as he looked back up at Danny, "I just need your parent's permission and you can come with me now, or I can arrange for another flight for you later tonight or early tomorrow?'

danny did not want to find out how they were going to test their new machine, so, he turned and cupped his hands around his mouth as he shouted, "HEY MA! CAN I GO WITH MR. WAYNE TO HIS KID'S BIRTHDAY PARTY?!"

it was silent for a second before she shouted back, "SURE! JUST BE BACK BEFORE WE LEAVE FOR OUR TRIP!"

oh, right. his parents had a trip planned for their anniversary. something about a huge ghost or demon trap in Wyoming they wanted to investigate.

"YOU'RE LEAVING TOMORROW THOUGH!" Danny shouted back, "DAMIAN'S BIRTHDAY IS TOMORROW! I CAN'T GO IF I WANT TO BE BACK IN TIME!"

"OH! UH, THEN JUST BE SAFE! TAKE YOUR BLASTERS WITH YOU!"

Danny blinked, then shrugged. He could do that. turning back he found Mr. Wayne staring at the floor, his brows raised and furrowed in concerned confusion. Danny didn't know someone could make a face like that, but seeing as Mom had finally gotten Mr. Lancer to curse in front of him last year, it wasn't that surprising.

"let me pack my bag and then we can get going," Danny announced, standing up and grabbing his cup from the table, silently offering to take Mr. Wayne's as well. the man handed him his full cup and watched as Danny walked away.

well, at least Danny had already told the other ghosts to leave him alone for the rest of the week. they shouldn't get into too much trouble while he's gone. speaking of trouble, Mr. Wayne lived in Gotham, a place riddled with crime and violence.

dupping the cups into the sink, Danny turned and rushed up the stairs. unplugging his phone, Danny sent Sam and Tucker a text to let them know he wouldn't be in amity for the rest of today and tomorrow. he also let them know he'd keep them updated.

once done with that, Danny turned to his closet and rummaged around until he found his old backpack. pulling it out, he dumped the contents onto his desk and made quick work of packing his essentials. Clothes, phone chargers, and ectoplasm in case of emergencies. Mr. Wayne said he'd pay for the travel fair and hotel expenses, so Danny only needed to worry about food.

glancing in the mirror, Danny finally noticed he was still dressed in his pj's. he took a second to debate whether he really cared enough to get dressed properly or not before shrugging. Mr. Wayne's already seen him in them and they're comfy, no point in changing.

zipping up his bag, Danny tossed it over his shoulder and quickly ran downstairs. Mr. Wayne was walking around the room, studying a few of the leftover project pieces that his parents had left lying around. man, Jazz was going to be so annoyed once she learned they hadn't been picking up after themselves. again.

"Alright, Mr. Wayne. I'm ready when you are." Danny greeted, stepping into the room. the man turned to look at him, a strained smile on his face, "Just Bruce is fine."

"Alright, mr. bruce then." Danny agreed, gesturing for the man to start making his way to the door.

mr. Bruce heaved a sigh, shook his head in resignation, and turned to walk out the door. digging his keys out of his pocket, Danny turned to shout into the house one more time, "BYE MA, DAD! I'M LEAVING! HAVE FUN ON YOUR TRIP!"

not waiting for a response, he closed the door and locked it. turning around, he found Mr. Bruce studying him. lifting his brow in confusion, Danny started making his way down the steps and over to Mr. Bruce's fancy car. why the man had a fancy car when he said he'd be flying Danny didn't know, but he's pretty sure it has something to do with image or something.

Vlad did the same thing after all.

Next

[blondejellykitty]

₊♡ ˚⊹ a quiet love ₊♡ ˚⊹

୨୧ james potter x shy!reader ୨୧ not all love was like the movies portrayed them, but that doesn't mean it isn't good a/n: (1.9k words) happy valentines day!

Honestly you two getting together shocked everyone, even James himself was surprised you agreed to date him. You both were polar opposites, he was loud and outgoing while you were quiet and shy.

You both did have things in common though, like your kind hearts, your infectious humor and your Transfiguration class. Which coincidentally was how you both met.

You'd been failing behind on the assignments and Professor McGonagall assigned James to tutor you just until your grade rose a little higher.

You both agreed to meet at the far back upper level of the library. You were so sure he would bail. It wasn't hard to hear about James Potter and his troublemaker friends around school. But he'd showed up, on time and with a set of notes and books for you both to look over.

Everytime you think back to those early study sessions you cringe at your past self. It would've been easier to talk to a startled turtle. The most you said was a swift 'see you later' once the session had ended.

But that never deterred James. If anything it seemed to push him to get past your walls. He was nothing but patient and kind while explaining the Flobberworm to Fritter incantation all the way to explaining the Bird-Conjuring Charm and everything in between.

Eventually you did warm up to him. Your quiet word responses turned to shy short sentences. Then by the time you were passing Transfiguration with flying colors you and James were able to laugh and joke together.

Once the study lessons were over, he invited you to Hogsmeade with him the following weekend. No one had ever tried asking you before and you'd only gone there once with the second year tour, so you were very excited to go, and with such a good-looking boy too. You were over the moon!

The weekend trips became a regular every two week deal between you both. As well as Friday afternoons you both would study in your old spot in the library together.

After a few months of this sweet routine, one Friday the library was cleaned as someone threw a smoke bomb or three inside, which stained the walls and floors with multicolored powder. James had sworn to you it wasn't him but you caught that gleam in his eyes and shook your head in dismay.

He'd offered to study in his dorm, he said him and his friends found a way to disenchant the staircase when they needed to, you chose not to think too hard on the reason why.

He'd led you to the Gryffindor common room which unsurprisingly was styled in red and gold. You both passed fellow students sitting in the red couches that were placed around the fireplace, and past the students sat by the tall windows at desks. Thankfully both groups of your peers were engrossed in their gossip or studies to pay attention to the rule breaking happening in front of them. Or maybe they were used to James breaking the rules.

James flicked his wand and the winding staircase shimmered a silver colour and he ushered you up quickly. As you reached the top of the stairs you were met with a long hallway with two brown doors, one on each side. You looked back and the stairs had stopped shimmering and James pointed to the end of the hallway.

At the end of the hallway were two sets of staircases, the left staircase spiraled down and the right side staircase spiraled up. He gently directed you to the right staircase. Thankfully this time not needing to be enchanted. At the top the next level was the same setup as the previous floor. He pointed you to the door on the right.

As you approached the wooden door you could faintly hear muggle music playing from inside. He scooted past you and opened the door for you dramatically. You entered and took in the chaotic room.

A large square rug took up most of the floor, it was red and gold with the Gryffindor crest on it. Sitting down on the rug leaning against the wooden bedframe sat Remus, with a thick book in his hands.

Four beds pushed against each corner of the room, in between each horizontal bed was two chests on either side of the room. The chests seemed to act as dressers, two tidy and neat while the other two looked like a clothes tornado ran through it.

At the opposite wall of you, was two long windows with two desks in front of it and a third in between the gap. Two of the desks had books and papers stacked on and around them. The last desk was occupied by a blonde boy who you recognized as Peter. He was hunched over the wooden desk scribbling something on a sheet of paper.

The walls were littered with muggle posters of bands and singers, along with various quidditch players. A record player was blaring a muggle song you hadn't heard before from the right corner bedside.

Lying flat on his stomach on the farthest right bed was Sirius. Of course it was his music playing, you thought with a small smile. James had told you about his friends before formally meeting them, not like you hadn't observed them when running from different Professors.

Sirius was the only one to look up. His pretty eyes met yours.

"Well, isn't this a delightful surprise?" His teasing voice lifted over the music. He quickly sat up, leaning over the record player and turned it down slightly.

"What's a doll like you hanging around ol' Jamie?" His playful smirk widened as you felt your face warm in embarrassment. James had warned you about this.

"Oi, piss off we're studying" James' loud voice held no real heat to them which eased you greatly.

"Ah, 'studying' sure. Uh-huh. You want us to leave you two love birds alone then?" Sirius said very theatrically. If your face was warm before, it was burning now. You could almost feel the heat waves bouncing off you. You hoped no one could tell.

Remus looked up from his seat on the floor. "What're you studying?"

You looked down in surprise, you'd almost forgot he was there. It was even more surprising he was looking at you when he asked. You gulped.

"Transfiguration and Potions" You fumbled out, you felt victorious that you hadn't stuttered through it.

"I have some notes from Potions class if you need it" He said softly before returning to his book. You realized he was shifting the subject away from Sirius and his teasing. How sweet.

"Thanks Moony" James walked and flicked through the papers scattered on one of the free desks before muttering something to Peter that made him start to scribble faster and pick up a bigger textbook. James grabbed a handful of notes and showed you to the closed bed to the door on the left. He sat leaned against the pillows while you sat with your back against the wall.

He handed you Remus' notes and started opening up the textbooks.

You often thought back to that day, and how nervous you were to befriend James in the first place. You often laughed about it. Right now you were on your way to those exact dorms.

James had taught you the spell to make it easier to visit their dorm whenever you needed to. You used the well used spell and made your way up towards their room.

The four boys were scattered around the room when you entered. James' smile widened at the sight of you.

"Love! I was just thinkin' about you" He practically sang from where he laid on his bed.

"When aren't you?" Sirius snorted from his spot on his bed, where he read a muggle magazine with his head hanging off his bed.

"Sorry sweetie but I'm not here for you just yet" You walked past James' bed straight towards his neighbor where Remus sat with a notebook in his hand writing away.

James made a dramatic gasp, his cries echoed around the room. In what he'd call 'utter dismay' which was what you'd call a hilarious performance.

"Hi Remus" You smiled sweetly at him, trying to batter your eyelashes at him.

"Hi flower" He smirked, knowing what you were doing he leaned into his trunk roof pocket and pulled out some of his famous chocolate.

You giggled, "Thank you!" You childishly ran back towards James' bed and flopped down next to him while guarding your precious sweets from him.

"What the hell?" Sirius's head whipped up so fast you almost winced for him.

"How'd you do that?" Peter practically whined out from where he sat in his bed munching on Fudge Flies and Jelly Slugs while studying.

"This is blatant favoritism!" Sirius now kneeled on his bed, waving his hands around while James fell back onto his pillows laughing loudly.

"This isn't funny, do you have any idea how long it took to bribe him for some? all she had to do was ask!" Sirius wailed. Remus hid his chuckles behind his notebook.

"I guess I'm just the favourite, huh Sirius?" You teased from the safety of James' bed.

Sirius scoffed flopping backwards into his bed.

"I liked you better when you were quiet" He grumbled into his pillow which he'd placed over his head.

You turned around to face James. His cheeks were flushed from all his laughter and his glasses were slightly wonky. You reached and corrected their position on his pretty face. He gently smiled at you.

“Hi” He whispered, his eyes tracing your face with a warmth that left you giddy.

“Hi there” You whispered back with a giggle.

He lovingly kissed your cheek, then moved to your temple, then above your eyebrow. Which made you giggle. He kissed the bridge of your nose. He kissed you only just missing your lips with a soft laugh.

Kissing James never felt like fireworks or a spark, it felt soft and warm like a beloved blanket keeping you safe from the cold.

“We’re supposed to be studying” You gave a half-suppressed laugh.

“Mhm, yeah but that’s not as interesting as you are Love” He teased with a playful smirk.

“Ya know we can still hear you right? It’s revolting” Sirius chimed in, loudly expressing his concerns.

James reached behind him, lifting his pillow from behind him he threw it across the room hitting Sirius straight in the face.

Both you and Peter cracked up at Sirius’ briefly stunned face.

“This is war Prongs” Sirius said rather seriously, ironically.

“You’re on Pads” James narrowed his eyes and grabbed the last pillow left on his bed and hopped up.

Both boys raced towards each other in a very heated pillow fight. James kept aiming for Sirius’ hair, which wasn’t taken well. Sirius aimed for James' legs in hopes of knocking him over.

“They’ll be at it for awhile” Remus sighed, like this was a regular occurrence which it probably was you though. 

Remus placed his notebook back into his trunk and pulled out even more of his sweet chocolate. Remus looked between you and Peter with an unspoken question.

You and Peter ran and jumped on Remus’ bed, and he shared his chocolate between you three as you all watched the two doofus’ battle each other.

[dailynnt]

FRIENDS WITHIN TOUCHING DISTANCE

⊹ Summary: Jungkook and you, his childhood friend, live together in an apartment, sharing space as roommates. Your relationship, built on years of friendship, is gradually becoming strained by growing sexual tension. You decide to become friends with benefits, trying not to complicate your feelings. But Jungkook's world is not so simple. When you begin to realize that he is hiding something, you open the veil of his double life - a world of mafia, criminal activity, and risk that could ruin not only your deal, but everything you valued in each other.

⊹ Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ Fem!Reader

⊹ Characters: The Reader, Jeon Jungkook, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung, Min Yoongi, Kim Seokjin, Kim Namjoon, Jeon Hoseok.

⊹ 🔞 Age restrictions: 18+

⊹ 👩🏼‍❤️‍👨🏻 Relationships: ⚤

⊹ 📘 Number of part: 1/30

⊹ 🖇️ Tags: best friends, friends with benefits, slow longing, sexual tension, protected sex, unprotected sex, alcohol, drunken sex, inexperienced main character, mafia au, illegal trade, deaths of minor characters, weapons, swear words. Tags will be added as the story is written.

⊹ 👩🏼‍💻 From the author: I was supposed to write a completely different story, but my muse disappeared. So I wrote this story to replace my previous one for some reason. I had the idea for a long time and I just finished the first part, which I couldn't finish for more than 7 months. I wonder what will come of this story. The Jungkook I created here is not like himself at all, but maybe he could have been. So who likes to read fanfiction about friends who become lovers then please give this story a lot of love.

⊹ ⚠️ Warning: English is not my native language, so there may be mistakes in the text. Please don't get mad at me too much! Those under 18, please don't read this story!

≣ Chapter Index ↓

Part 1. These fucking rules

The clock read 10 am. You left your room to satisfy the hunger that was making your stomach cramp. You went to the fridge and opened it. There was nothing in it but eggs and milk.

Yesterday you spent the whole day at the university and came home late at night. You had lunch in the campus cafeteria and didn't eat anything else. So your hunger was intense. You remember reminding Jungkook, your best friend with whom you were roommates, several times that it was his turn to buy the groceries for the week. You even wrote him a list because you knew for sure that he wouldn't buy everything he needed, and it wasn't a good idea to eat chips and beer.

Obviously, Jungkook didn't do what he was supposed to. The result was an empty fridge. Jungkook must have had more important things to do than buy groceries. Your stomach made a high-pitched growl. You felt your anger grow in direct proportion to your hunger. You slammed the refrigerator door shut.

Your eyes fell on the couch. Clothes were scattered around and on the couch. You raised your eyebrows and walked toward the clothes. You were seething with anger, not only did this careless guy not do what he was supposed to, but he was also leaving a mess behind. You were going to talk to Jungkook about how he was breaking the rules you had made on the first day you lived together.

It was Jungkook's idea. You decided to move in together because the apartment you were living in was too expensive. You were a student on a scholarship and could barely make ends meet, and only a part-time job at a convenience store allowed you to pay your rent. But you had to quit that job because you started to fail in your studies. The university where you were studying was supposed to give you a good profession, and you wanted to help your parents, who lived in a small town near Seoul and made soy sauce. They put a lot of love into you and did everything they could to give you a decent profession and to make you feel good about yourself. That's why studying well was a big priority for you.

And then one hard evening, when Jungkook came to your place for a beer, you complained to him about how unfair life was. He suggested that you move in with him and pay only for food and utilities. At the time, you thought he was joking or had had too much beer, but it turned out he was very serious. That's how you started living together.

But as it turned out, living with Jungkook was quite a challenge. He didn't keep the house very clean and liked to bring girls over almost every night. At first, you put up with it, of course, feeling a little irritated by it. But when you were trying hard to study and staying up late at night, it was difficult to learn the material by listening to the moans in Jungkook's room. So you decided that in order not to interfere with each other's lives, you needed rules.

You suggested some rules to Jungkook, and he kindly agreed to them. But he almost never wanted to follow them, so you often had small arguments about them.

It happened this morning, too, when Jungkook didn't buy any groceries so you will have to go the convenience store near your house to buy some food. You were in a terrible mood. But you were even more angry when you found Jungkook's clothes and women's things scattered around. You stared at the door of his room as you realized that he had brought another girl over that night.

With your eyebrows raised, you went to the kitchen and fried an egg for yourself. You flatly refused to go to the store because you knew that if you did, you would definitely buy food for Jungkook. And you wanted to teach him a lesson.

You were sitting at the table eating an egg when Jungkook's bedroom door opened. A sleepy Jungkook came out of it. He didn't have a shirt on, just the shorts he often wore at home. His hair was sticking out in all directions and his lips were pouty. You felt make muddle inside. And you felt like this every time Jungkook was half-naked. Even though he was your best friend, you couldn't help but think that he was a man, and a pretty good-looking one at that. You quickly gave him a glare full of lightning and continued to click the phone.

Jungkook noticed you and purred in satisfaction and headed in your direction. He came up behind you and bent down to look at your phone.

"Good morning," you heard next to your ear. Jungkook's voice was low and deep because he had just woken up.

"Morning!" you said dryly and continued to read the group chat with your classmates. Jungkook immediately realized that you were in a bad mood. He looked at you for a few long seconds and decided to start a conversation with you again.

"Did you fry the eggs? Where's my portion?" - He asked. You continued to ignore your friend.

Jungkook was about to ask you why you weren't talking to him when his bedroom door opened. The girl with whom Jungkook spent the night came out. You and Jungkook looked at her. She had the typical appearance of the girls he usually brought home. Slender, not tall, and with long black hair. Of course her figure was perfect.

She was completely Jungkook's type. You were her absolute opposite. You thought that Jungkook would never like you. Every time you met another girl that your friend brought home, you compared yourself to them for some reason. You were tall, but certainly shorter than him, and you had dark blond hair. Your figure was beautiful, but you definitely weighed more than 60 kilograms.

Jungkook's this night passion was standing in only her underwear. She rubbed her eyes and when she noticed you and your friend looked at her, she was visibly embarrassed.

"Uh, good morning." - She said quietly.

"Good morning!" you mumbled. You felt uncomfortable. Irritation threatened to burst out of you. You suddenly wanted to leave. You stood up abruptly, almost hitting Jungkook who was hovering over you. You quickly put your leftover food in the sink and hurried to your bedroom.

When you got into your room, you slammed the door and fell onto your bed. The morning did not start well. You were angry at Jungkook for not following the rules you had set up with him. You had always been good at following them, but your friend didn't seem to care about them. You had to do something about it. You decided to talk to Jungkook and remind him that you two had made those damn rules and that if he didn't follow them, you would have to find another place to live. Of course you didn't want to move away from him. It was convenient and beneficial for you to live with Jungkook in a way. But the irony was that by saving money you were paying with your nerves.

It was about half an hour after you heard the door slam, which could mean that Jungkook's girlfriend had left. You needed to take a shower because you had go to the grocery store to buy food. So after waiting about 10 minutes, you took all the things you needed and left the room.

Your gaze quickly glanced around the living room and kitchen. Jungkook was nowhere to be found. The apartment was quite quiet. You thought that he had gone to sleep in his room or might have gone out. You felt irritated again. But maybe it was for the best that he was gone. You walked to the bathroom door and was about to open it when it opened and your eyes met big black eyes.

Jungkook's hair was damp, and he was shirtless and wearing shorts. You shivered. You felt the heat spreading through your body. You continued to stare at each other for no more than a second, but it felt like an eternity.

"Do you want to take a shower?" Asked Jungkook, still standing in the aisle. "I thought you were sleeping".

"Obviously, I want to take a shower!" You replied dryly, turning away from Jungkook. You didn't notice his eyebrows jump up.

"What's wrong Y/N? Why are you so angry this morning?" - Jungkook asked as he approached you.

"Are you seriously asking me why I'm angry?" - You turned to Jungkook, trying not to look at his beautiful body.

"I'm asking because I don't understand what's going on? Did I do something wrong?" - You stared at your friend in shock. How can he ask you if he did something wrong when he does it all the time?

"Just tell me, are you really stupid or are you pretending to be?" - You clutched the T-shirt in your hand. Jungkook laughed at your words. Does he think it's funny?

"I'm not a mind reader, baby. So you'd better come right out and say it." - Jungkook's calling you "baby" made you even more angry. Usually you liked this affectionate nickname, but not on this terrible morning.

"What am I supposed to say to you, ha-Jeon? I'm like a fucking parrot to you all the time, and you don't do anything I tell you!" You wanted to talk to Jungkook in a calmer manner, but since you were an emotional person, it was hard to contain the anger that had long been in you. Your heart was pounding and your ears were ringing. You didn't understand why you were angry, but the more often Jungkook broke the rules and your personal comfort, the angrier you became. You'd been studying a lot lately, and the exam was about to start. Your tension and fatigue were making themselves felt, and Jungkook's behavior wasn't helping your situation.

"Y/N calm down. Are you mad at me for not buying the groceries?" - You didn't answer thinking "Hallelujah you guessed it".

"I really wanted to do it, but Jimin called and I went to his place, and then he dragged me to the club." - You continued to drill Jungkook with a menacing stare and he felt more and more guilty.

"Of course, how can you say no to Jimin and not pick up another beauty to take her to bed!" - You was indignant.

"Oh come on, Y/N are you mad at me for bringing a girl again?" - Jungkook asked.

"No, genius." - You snapped. "I'm mad because you forgot about the fucking rules again."

"Rules?" - Jungkook sighed. "You're doing this again?"

"Again?" you repeated his words quietly. Jungkook didn't want to argue anymore and walked past you. The scent of Jungkook's shower gel that you loved so much filled your nostrils. You gave your friend a shocked look.

"Jungkook, we created those rules for a reason, so that we don't violate each other's boundaries." - You explained, standing behind your friend as he gathered his scattered belongings near the couch.

"We weren't too loud!" - Jungkook tried to make excuses, but he sounded annoyed.

"It's not about being loud or quiet. You brought a girl home again, even though we agreed that we wouldn't bring partners. You didn't buy the groceries, even though I reminded you three times yesterday to do so. You constantly leave things scattered around, and I only go and clean up after you." - You could not stand it.

"Then don't clean it up, I didn't ask you to!" - Jungkook snorted.

"Are you serious now, Jeon?" - You laughed with a bit of hysteria. "We've been living together for almost three months now and you haven't followed a single rule, even though you promised you would every time!"

"I tried." - Jungkook admitted. "But these rules are..." He paused to find the right word. "All I'm saying is that I want to do whatever I want in my house!" - Jungkook turned to you and you, catching the look in his big deer eyes, stared at him. For a few unsuccessful seconds, you tried to figure out how to react to his words, but all you felt was anger mixed with guilt. It was your idea to create these rules, but he agreed to them, why didn't he tell you something was wrong?

"But... I mean, yes, it's your house and you can do whatever you want, but we agreed together that it would be more convenient for us!" - You said in despair.

"So let's just forget these stupid rules." - Jungkook said. He dropped the things he was clean up. All you could hear was the sound of your own heart in your ears. You're going to have to find a new place to live. Jungkook is not comfortable living with you. You can't continue to study normally and live in a bachelor's house without food and with the prospect of seeing a new face every morning of the girl your friend brought over. You exhaled loudly and closed your eyes for a moment.

"Well..." - You stuttered. "If you're not comfortable living like this, I'll have to find another place to live." - Jungkook stiffened. His eyebrows reflexively drew together, showing his face in a state of deep misunderstanding of what you said.

"What do you mean?" - He said sharply. "Why would you want to find another home?" - You looked at Jungkook and saw him getting angry at the whole situation. Your heart was beating like crazy, and anger was in almost every cell of your body. But the thoughts running through your head made you feel guilty. You wanted to make life easier for both of you when you made up these rules, but it seems like Jungkook had a hard time following them. He was used to living a certain way of life, but when you moved in with him, all of his usual things became forbidden or restricted. Knowing his freedom-loving nature, you understood why he resisted. But he agreed, he had the opportunity to add his own rules or offer something of his own. He just agreed, and that's what annoyed you the most right now. He was deliberately breaking the rules even though he knew how you would react.

Jungkook walked over to you. He stopped right next to you. You were only one step away. You did not take your eyes off him and tried to look only into his eyes. The fact that Jungkook was not wearing a shirt did not make your condition any easier. You always felt uncomfortable when he was naked.

"Y/N, let's calm down. You don't have to look for another home. You can stay with me. Let's just live without any of these stupid rules. Just together. As friends." - Jungkook wanted to touch you, but you took a step back.

"How do you envision that, Jeon?" - You huffed. "We're going to live without food in the fridge, you're going to bring a new chick home every night and I'm going to greet her cheerfully every morning. We'll live in an apartment where things are scattered and sometimes we'll have to clean them up. Or maybe we'll have fun when I bring my boyfriend here and he fuck me so you can hear my moans. Or bring friends from the university and sit here until the morning drinking beer or soju. Make life chaotic and have fun." - You almost burst into tears. Jungkook stared at you in confusion and surprise.

The words about your moans echoed in his head. "She's bringing her boyfriend? Does she have a boyfriend?" - Jungkook thought.

"Listen, Jungkook. I can't live like this. I am sincerely grateful to you for taking me in. But we are not a contractual marriage couple. I don't want to follow you around and clean up the mess you make. If we live together, we have to respect each other's boundaries. That's why those added rules were invented. But if you're not comfortable with them because I want you to, then I really need to move out." - You finally finished your monologue and exhaled heavily. Jungkook was silent for a few more seconds and then laughed to your surprise. Quietly and almost mockingly. Your face was again distorted by anger.

"Oh my God, you just gave me a good one." - Jungkook chuckled. "You've been holding it all in for so long. You should have told me earlier." - You thought you were going to strangle him. This arrogant half-naked man who is supposed to be your best friend.

"You think this is funny? I..." - You wanted to finally tell Jungkook what you thought of him, but he suddenly grabbed you in a hug. Without the possibility for you to move at all. He pinned you down so that your arms were pinned at your sides. You struggled in his metal grip, but to no avail. The struggle didn't last long, just a couple of minutes, and you didn't have the strength for more. You calmed down just as Jungkook leaned against the crook of your neck. His face was completely lost in your hair. You stood there for a few moments until you felt the vibration of his voice on your neck.

"Are you calm?" - You could feel your friend's breath leaving a trail on your neck, passing through your hair. "You're like that fire, baby." - You wanted to start pulling away again, but Jungkook held you tight, almost preventing you from breathing properly. "I'm so sorry." - He said. "I'm an asshole for not thinking about you." - Jungkook looked up, straightening up, and saw you almost holding back tears. He was hurt that he had brought you to this state.

"Please don't cry because of me, I'll follow your rules. And this time for sure." - He smiled lightly. "Just please don't go anywhere." - The tear you'd been holding back for so long ran down your cheek. Jungkook immediately wiped it away, not wanting to see you cry.

"I'm sorry, I was wrong too. I should have talked to you calmly instead of getting angry and yelling at you. We should have talked about it normally." - And you finally burst into tears. Jungkook was embarrassed and held you close again.

"It's okay, baby. I deserved you to yell at me." - These words made you cry even more. "Hey, don't cry, it's okay. We've worked it out. Please don't do this, I feel like a fool for making you cry." - You wanted to calm down, but the emotions you had been holding in for so long finally broke free. You had to cry out all the anger that had been building up inside you.

Jungkook picked you up in his arms and walked over to the couch where things had been scattered until recently. He still held you and after that seat down with you on his knees. You were crying so much that you didn't realize where you were sitting. He comforted you by stroking your back.

It took some time for you to calm down. You were hardly crying anymore, just sobbing slightly. Jungkook looked down at your crying face.

"Your eyes are red now." - You met his big black eyes. And suddenly you realized that he was holding you in his arms. One of his arms was around your waist and the other one was around your legs. You felt pressed against his naked torso. Only your T-shirt separated your bodies. For a moment, you thought, "It was interesting to feel his body by my own." You blushed at the intimate thought and quickly forced it away.

"Hey, are you okay?" - Jungkook asked you, looking at your face again. You tried to laugh.

"I'm fine." - You said in a tortured voice. You felt Jungkook's body relax.

"I'm glad to hear that." - You continued to sit there, but you seemed to be the only one who felt awkward. Because Jungkook didn't want to let go of you. He kept stroking you, running his arm around your waist. You didn't say anything. You thought about what to say. Or should you just say that you had to go to the shower, because that's why you left the room. Jungkook leaned against your shoulder and said with a desperate voice.

"Let's not fight anymore over these damn rules." - Begged Jungkook. All you could manage was a soft "let's." You wanted to say it more firmly, but your condition did not allow you to.

"Y/N," - Jungkook called to you gently. "Let's not fight at all. I hate it when we fight!" - He confessed. You hated fighting too. Before you moved in with Jungkook, you hardly ever fought at all.

"I want everything to be fine with us. But it doesn't depend on me alone. I'm ready to compromise and solve all the problems at once." - You said.

"Then we have a deal?" - Jungkook held out his hands to you, extending his little finger and thumb. You smiled and intertwined your little finger with his and touched his thumb to seal your truce.

For a moment you sat there in silence and hugged each other. You wanted to tell Jungkook to let you go. But he was in no hurry. He seemed to like you sitting on his lap, or he was pretty sure you weren't going anywhere.

"God, we fought like we were married," - Jungkook said, laughing. You tapped him on the shoulder. What is he talking about?

"Don't be silly, Jeon. We were arguing like friends who just moved in together." - You said. Jungkook's face turned sly.

"You're be like that: I can't live like this. I'm going to leave you. I can't clean up after you all the time." - Jungkook laughed. His soft laugh both irritated and attracted you. "Doesn't that sound like something a wife would say to her husband?"

"If the world goes to destroyed and I'm told that I have to become your wife to save it, the world will die." - You replied sarcastically. Jungkook stopped laughing for a moment and looked at you with a challenge.

"No way!" - He didn't believe it. "You would love to marry me. I know you dream about me every night." - You were flustered by his words and almost boiling at the same time.

"Maybe in your dreams, Jeon. I think you're the one who dreams about me every night, or imagines my face when you look at that girl you're fucking." - You said in a triumphant voice as you poked your finger into Jungkook's bare chest.

"How did you know about that?" - Jungkook asked in a serious tone. "I confessed to you when I was drunk?!" You gasped at what you heard. You wanted to say something. Jungkook's seriousness made you believe that your joke was true. But your guess was shattered by your best friend's mocking laugh.

"You should see your face now!" - He said, almost laughing. You hit him again, but this time harder, but it seemed like it didn't matter to Jungkook. You tried to get up from his lap, but your attempt was unsuccessful, as your friend's strong arms pinned you down.

"You're a real ass. Let me go, I need to take a shower."

"I haven't finished talking to you yet." - Jungkook said in a purring tone. You tried to pull away.

"For example, I'm done talking to you. So go put some clothes on and go get some groceries, we need to make lunch." - You said.

"Yes, I'll go to the store right now. I'll even make us lunch, but you have to answer some questions for me." - Jungkook agreed and offered a deal.

You thought for a second, studying his sly look as it wandered across your face. He's definitely going to ask you something personal. What was he up to?

"And dinner, too, if you want to hear the answers to your questions." - You've outplayed your best friend. You finally stopped wriggling and sat down with your arms crossed over your chest. Jungkook didn't mind your conditions and smiled smugly.

"Deal." - He cleared his throat. "You said something today while we were fighting. You haven't told me anything lately." - You glanced over at Jungkook, who was obviously searching for words to ask you something. You wanted to laugh because it's usually not a big deal for Jungkook to ask you anything. And this applies to any topic. "Did you get a boyfriend?" - He finally asked. His eyes ran over your face, carefully studying your expression. He wanted to know if it was true, if you had found someone to fuck you so that he could hear your moans.

You expected to hear any question, but not this one. What makes him think you have a boyfriend? "You said something today while we were fighting."Jungkook's words echoed in your head. A puzzle formed in your head and you laughed.

"Oh my God, is that all you remember from what I said?" - You laughed. Jungkook looked at you, waiting for an answer. Of course, that wasn't the only thing he remembered. He also remembers how you said you were going to moan. "I don't have a boyfriend. Look at me. It's not physically possible with my study schedule." - You glanced over at Jungkook. He seemed... pleased? "I said it as a possible scenario." - Jungkook couldn't hide the relief he felt. He sniffed his nose out of old habit and asked another question.

"Good. Then I have one more question, and then I'll let you go. Have you ever had sex?" - You instantly blushed. Who even asks that question so directly? It's so...so...You seem to have forgotten how to think and speak. How you were supposed to answer questions.

It so happens that you haven't had sex. You didn't even date anyone. Studying took up all your free time, both at school and at university. The guys who met you almost immediately disappeared when they saw what a nerd you were. But you didn't care about those idiots because you didn't have time to meet anyone. Your friends and your studies were enough for you. It's not that you didn't think about getting a boyfriend. You're 23, but don't you have to study and become successful first, and then look for someone to date and have sex with?

Living with a friend who was a man under the same roof and who brought girls almost every night, and hearing those fucking moans made you think for a moment that you too want to feel hugged, kissed and made to feel so good that you moaned loudly. But you stopped yourself every time. First of all, you don't have time, and secondly, who would want to date a girl who only allows books in her bed?

You looked away from Jungkook and stepped your hands into your lap. Should you answer him or not? Will he mock me? Let him try and make me feel bad for him.

You were brought out of your thoughts by your friend's voice.

"Baby? I asked you something!" - He insisted.

"Why do you want to know that?" - Turning and meeting Jungkook's gaze, you said.

"Just tell me. I want to know." - He said firmly. Your heart started to race again. The blood was pounding in your ears. Why should you be worried? He's just your best friend. You're always honest with him. You know a lot about him because Jungkook likes to brag about his intimate accomplishments.

"No." - You said. "I didn't!" - Something strange is happening between you two today. Jungkook is acting strange. Even though he seems to be the same Jungkook, why can't you stop thinking about how he's making you feel.

Jungkook smiled lightly. "I thought so." - That was all he said. You wanted to know why he asked you that, but he let go of you, urging you to get up. He stood up after you and looked down at you from the height of his height. You had to tilt your head a little to look at his face.

"What would you like for lunch and dinner?" - Jungkook asked before you could ask your question. You felt a little embarrassed and answered: "Chajamyeon and Samgyopsal."

"I'll be back soon, you go take a shower." - Your friend said, picking up his clothes that he had thrown around yesterday. A moment later, Jungkook's broad, naked back disappeared behind his bedroom door.

⋮ ≣ Index ↓ ⋮ Next chapter ↱

[kyri45]

Kyri!!

I am fucking vibrating!

In my FanFic serious The Westward Sun.

(Still a WIP so it's not posted)

MK finds out he's Macaque and Wukong's son by, and lets run through the list here:

1: accidentally manipulating his shadow, 2: finding a second pair of ears while washing dust out of his mane after training his monkey form, and 3: realising that practically speed running through the training that THE Sun Wukong spent literal years learning isn't really possible if you don't already possess the magic.

So he confronts Nüwa.

(Haven't figured out how, again, still a WIP)

And, after quite literally screaming at her for answers, she goes on to explain the nature of Order and Chaos.

(Because he definitely needs a culture/ history lesson whilst in the middle of an existential crisis.)

One can not exist without the other.

To have true Chaos, you must maintain a semblance Order. To have true Order, you must maintain a semblance of Chaos.

There must be a Method to the Madness and a sense of Madness within the Method.

It's the Balance of the Universe, so to speak.

So, to create a true Harbinger of Chaos. She'd have to combine the two elements of that balance.

The nature of Order and Chaos is:

Energetic and Calm.

Impulsive and Rational.

Open and Reserved.

Bold and Soft.

Careless and Cautious.

Optimistic and Pessimistic.

Abrasive and Gentle.

Like the Sun and the Moon

Now, after that explaination, MK points out that, since she doesn't need exsisting life to make new life, she easily could've done all of that combining the elements thing without actually using the energies of two monkey men with the biggest "divorced couple" vibe in the Universe.

So why?

(Actual exerpt from the chapter below)

~~~

She hummed at the question, raising a hand and tapping at her chin, just under her bottom lip, with her index knuckle as a thoughtful expression graced her face. Her eyes, curious and gentle, examined the little monkey before her, studying him in a way that, for some fucking reason entirely unbeknownst to him, could only be described as sympathetic.

After what seemed like years, her eyebrows flew to the nonexistent ceiling above them, as if she had reqched an unexpected epiphany. Eventually, a chuckle left her, followed by another, then another, and more until Nüwa's voice had disolved into pleasant laughter. It was warm and sweet, wafting through the empty air like the scent of fresh bread.

MK felt his shoulders relax, feeling at ease with the sudden change in atmosphere as the Goddess' laughter increased, every giggle and snort bouncing against the nonexistent walls surrounding them.

"You know-" She paused, allowing a bubble of laughter to pass her lips "-it's the funniest thing!" Another giggle.

She placed a hand on her chest, smiling at him.

"I... I don't really know myself!" She didn't even try to bite back the giggle escaping her, eyes once again studying him, this time with care.

"It just felt right."

Mk went to respond, mouth opening and closing in confusion, like a fish.

Only to find himself back in his room in the blink of an eye.

Literally.

"Holy shit... Mei's gonna flip."

~~~

I've been working on The Westward Sun ever since S3 came out and did a whole lot of rewriting after S4 & 5, so I was super proud of that idea.

And then I got distracted, and a little overwhelmed, and worried that it might've been a bit of a stretch.

You have no fucking idea how excited I got when reading this and the previous chapter! I was vibrating!

Like:

"Yes! I'm not the only one who had this idea! It's not as far-fetched as I was worrying it was! I'm so fucking excited!"

And now here I am.

Also, just reading the comic has helped me improve my drawing skills. Do you have any idea how easy it is to draw clothing wrinkles now? I used to have so much trouble getting wrinkles to look nice, and failing because they ended looking too detailed, then I experimented with the way you draw them (which I assume is roughly inspired by Studio Ghibli films)

And it's fucking easy now!?

You're a beautiful human being.

Have a nice day.

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

This is an absolutely beautiful explaination on how Chaos can work!! I wanna steal that (joking, I wont of course) but I'll definetely tag you and link this post if anyone ask me how chaos magic work because you describe it beautifully!

[jailforwriter]

Let's delve into...

Look, I know you don't like to fail. I KNOW. Neither do I. But do you know who will—and should—fail a lot? YES, your characters! Failure does all the nifty things writing teachers promise us will keep the story interesting: raise the stakes, bring emotions to a boil, and keep things from stagnating and/or getting predictable. Triumphs have their place, and should be present (unless you enjoy metaphorically kicking your readers in the shins, which, hey, more power to you!) but your characters can't always win. That's boring, and unfortunately, boring is the biggest noncriminal sin in entertainment. The good news is that, when your character does win, their previous failure is going to make it all the more satisfying. Doesn't that make you want to nail that failure for maximum improvability? (Hey I HEARD YOU rolling your eyes just now. Rhetorical questions are NOT cringe. Rude.)

So, what do I mean by a "good failure"?

Basically, when they mess up naturally, because of their own choices, in a way that reflects their flaws. "But wait," I hear you say, "does that exclude the possibility of an external circumstance making for a good catalysts for failure?" Nope! There are no hard and fast rules in writing, and shit does, indeed, just happen sometimes. Happen poignantly, even. But your character can't be entirely blameless in every scenario because then things get *taps on chalkboard* BORING. Seriously, consequences are so cool, I promise.

Okay then, why do I want a good failure?

Emotional resonance: do you remember that time you studied hard and still failed the test? Betcha that felt real bad. Yeah, it's that, but magnified by however many people died (or were sad about it! The stakes don't always need to be cataclysmic).

Catalyst for organic growth: do you remember how failing that test made you decide never to pull an all-nighter cramming again? Perhaps even reassess your relationship with God, your identity, and your place in the universe? Yep. And it felt earned, too. Huh.

Narrative depth: how mad were your parents about that test? And how much did it suck getting your Nintendo taken away because of it? That was compelling, realistic tension, baby! It put you right on the—unfun, but necessary—path to making that eventual success feel meaningful. Yay.

Relatability: you know, I felt kinda bad writing all that stuff about how failing that test wrecked you. Because I have empathy, certainly, but also because I've been there too! Mistakes are human, and few things are more effective at humanizing someone than making them an honorary cringefail loser. (This holds especially true if they're usually the god king of being hot and correct, btw.)

Fine, so how do I go about writing that?

Foreshadowing: why, yes, everything DOES always come back to foreshadowing. Good catch! See, foreshadowing marks the difference between a failure being contrived and awkward, and landing because it was tragically inevitable. The character has been making bad decisions that will come back to bite them all book, and the time for gleaning lessons from the teeth marks on their ass is now.

Make the failure specific and personal: sure, failing a test is a universal experience, but failing the most important test ever conceived in the history of mankind and if you fail your mom will hate you and your girlfriend will leave you and you'll go bald isn't. Make 'em feel it where it hurts!

Consequences: internal or external, they better be tailormade to catalyze change. Be it damaged interpersonal relationships or crippling self-doubt, they better not walk away from their mess-up willing to do it again. (NOTE: exceptions may apply in negative character arcs, but even then, the next time they make that mistake, it shouldn't be the exact same one again. It should be so, so much worse.)

Redemption: following on from the last point—make it a turning point! Show me how things are fifty kinds of broken now and how your character plans on rebuilding the mess using the tools they just got from chucking the toolbox full-tilt at their lives.

Examples be upon ye:

Simba in The Lion King: hopefully we can all agree that thinking you caused your father's death is a valid reason to crash out. However, the important thing here is that the crash-out was not eternal. It allowed for an emotional development cooldown period, and when it did end, empowered Simba to make his triumphant return all the more triumphant. Do you think smacking his geriatric uncle off a mountain would've been half as hot if his emotional arc and subsequent redemption had been underbaked? No. Literally. C'mon, lock in.

Zuko in Avatar: The Last Airbender: ahh yes, the king of redemption arcs, which kinda also makes him the king of cringefailing (both externally and internally! Very illustrative, thank you, Zuko). But I bet you don't just remember his struggle with capturing Aang. In fact, I'd bet quite a few buckaroos what you most remember is his struggle with honor. Could it be because you're grateful for what each setback did to help him find his? What about how they taught him that true honor was internally cultivated rather than externally conferred? And the fact that he chose to help the person whom he'd vowed to destroy in order to get it, for which he used the tools he painstakingly won throughout his arc? Hmm. Perchance. See what I mean? It just feels right when things come full circle, and boy is a good failure shaped like zero!

Ultimately, I hope you found something useful here and that, the next time you're down in the trenches of narrative predictability and character stagnation, you consider pissing in their metaphorical coffees. Thank you!

Happy writing!

[bogor-o]

OKAY so first off my narilamb au is specific to my lamb n nari bc 🤪 but imma start off w/ an incomprehensible copy/paste of a ramble i had

all these ramblings are still rough but u kno!!!!

it's a bridgerton au specific 2 my narilamb(ovidia/narinder) where the bishops would be the closest to the bridgerton family equivalent and Shamura being the head of family trying to help their siblings find courtship so they will be set but narinder would be the most difficult of them all because hes stubborn and convinced that being married would make him miserable and every season hes had several interested suitors but hes rejected them all until he comes across ovidia, now considered a spinster after several unsuccessful seasons because all their previous suitors found them too high maintenance and itd be no different with narinder but itd be similar to bridgertons kate/anthony situation and they're so into eachother it makes them look fucking stupid!!!!

ALRIGHT now to get more into it, as far as family and dynamics go, obviously with Shamura being the head of the family they very meticulously keep things in order and its why their considered one of the most affluent families and they've very easily found partnership because it was probably more business than anything but it works for them, and when time came for kallamar to start looking it was smooth because of how enthused he was, and it was really obvious with him how many wanted in

the way i see it, nothing is strictly monogamous, but it's seen as "lower class" to have too many spouses because the merging of so many families is probably seen as greedy, desperate, something something for one reason or another-- that said, kallamar definitely has multiples, and if not for being such a prestigious family and shamuras own reputation, it couldve been worse so they got a freebie there

but with narinder, having seen the way his brother is with his spouses vs the way shamura is with theirs, hes seen an instance of a loveless business deal in one, and complete obsession to the point of disregarding everything else that hes so fucking disinterested in courtships especially in the way its been presented to him

hed be able to hold off shamura long enough to get away with putting off courting anyone, a lot of it having to be about "focusing on his studies and career" and while hes had PLENTY of potential suitors come knocking but he's always turned them away but when time comes for heket to debut its when the pressure is really on for narinder

THEN on the flipside there ovidia who has been insistent on taking on every role in their family, the head of which is the oldest matriarch who has yet to decide on who the next head will be and they have TRIED to court people but every potential suitor has just not lived up to the impossible standards theyve set but even WHEN theyre about to settle- something goes wrong and the courtship sinks and its always on the others terms

their family is large, but theyre only wealthy in the sense that such a large family that sticks together can hardly fail when everyone does their part. that alone make their name well known even if its unconventional

its at the start of the latest season that they try again where they first meet narinder and while everything almost seems perfect, the chemistry is almost instant but then they get a little too candid and ovidia talks too much about their situation and it triggers the part of narinders brain that fears becoming like shamuras marriage and a scathing remark both stuns and pisses off ovidia

one second everything is amazing, they seem to be on the same wave length, strong goals the other respects, even finding an initial attraction in the other but then he opens his mouth and theyve had it

they blow up at him and suddenly everything he does pisses them off and they'll start nitpicking everything about him and be right and their observations piss him off and then he starts going off on them along the lines of "i can see now why each season passes you by" to which ovidia is ready with a "as though your own haven't? one is left wonder if studying is why you've put off finding a spouse, or if that mouth of yours is to blame"

it self destructs right then and there and while they have no intention to cross paths again, of course they do

and it becomes some kind of pissing contest to find a spouse before the other does just to prove a point to the other than they CAN in fact find one and they both end up sabotaging each other unintentionally bc theyre still so into each other and in the short time they've gotten to know the other and even through the bickering it becomes apparent theyve put effort to remember things

its stupid, its messy, its what it is and im still thinking about it more.............

[sixeyesonathiel]

a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

CH06 – scientific breakthrough : gojo satoru actually cares. terrifying.

pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader

summary : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. you invited him to play during recess? he chose studying instead. you tried to give him chocolates? he rejected them for the sake of your dental health. you called him boring and never looked back.

years later, you’re a party girl with daddy issues, and he's the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university. when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off—except gojo keeps finding you at every exclusive club, dragging you back to work like the menace he is.

you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

oh no.

tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending

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chapter summary : step six in ditching the world's most persistent nerd: do not let him see you unravel. do not let him wrap his jacket around your shoulders. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, ask him why he cares.

a/n : if you've ever thought 'being seen and understood is my worst nightmare,' congratulations, this chapter was made for you. warning: daddy issues, trust issues, emotional repression, and an overwhelming amount of unhealthy coping mechanism. please prepare for a descent into emotional instability, an aggressive refusal to acknowledge feelings, and the psychological horror of realizing that someone actually cares and perceives you. if you cry, just know i cried first. enjoy the suffering.

tuesday morning arrives with a weight that refuses to leave, pressing against your skin like a phantom touch. the air in your bedroom is thick, unmoving, the blackout curtains shielding you from the sharpness of daylight, but the world outside doesn’t wait for you to wake up. your phone vibrates relentlessly on the silk sheets beside you, each buzz stacking over the last—shoko and the others, no doubt demanding the details of your spectacularly underwhelming night.

you don’t need to read their messages to know what’s waiting for you—the sharp demands, the thinly veiled disbelief, the inevitable outrage the moment they find out. after everything, after all the effort, after every calculated move designed to have gojo satoru unraveling in your hands, he had remained untouchable. he hadn’t faltered, hadn’t stumbled, hadn’t even tried to resist—because there was nothing to resist. it hadn’t been a struggle for him.

your fingers hover over the keyboard before you scoff, throwing the device aside, silk rustling beneath it as you stare at the ceiling. what the hell is there to even say? no matter how you replay the night, the outcome remains the same: he had been amused, entertained, not once slipping from the effortless control that made your blood boil. there had been no hesitation in his gaze, no faltering in his movements, just that insufferable confidence, that detached curiosity, as if you were an interesting puzzle rather than a woman he should be losing himself to. it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, sharp and lingering, an unfamiliar frustration curling up your throat. you’ve never had to work for this before.

the thought alone is enough to send another wave of irritation through you, hot and unrelenting. it claws at your skin, prickles at the edges of your composure, demanding release, but before you can bury yourself beneath the covers and pretend the morning doesn’t exist, your phone rings. the sound is unmistakable—soft, elegant, demanding attention in a way that sends a slow dread curling through your stomach. your father. you stare at the name flashing on the screen, willing yourself to ignore it, but the moment stretches too long, the hesitation already an answer in itself. so you school your voice into something light, something detached, and press accept.

“morning.”

“good morning, angel.” his voice is smooth, warm, rich with indulgence, every syllable dipped in something sweet enough to rot. the way he says sweetheart makes your skin prickle, saccharine and too much, like a candy coating over something rancid. he is never this affectionate without reason. “did you sleep well?”

your grip on the phone tightens, knuckles paling beneath the pressure. why is he being like this? your mind flickers through possibilities, but none of them settle right. instead, you exhale, tilting your head back against the pillows, eyes tracing the crystal lines of the chandelier above you. “i guess.”

there’s a pause—long enough for you to hear the faint scratch of his pen against paper, the quiet clink of a glass being set down. then, almost absently, he says, “yesterday, you spent fifty million yen in one store.”

you don’t blink. “and?”

his laughter is easy, effortless, like you’re a child caught sneaking sweets before dinner. “fifty million yen—in a luxury mall.” he exhales, bemused. “my dear, you could have spent billions somewhere more exclusive. i didn't gift you a private jet for nothing.”

of course.

the implication settles like lead in your stomach. he doesn’t care that you spent. he cares where.

you almost laugh. almost. but it isn’t funny—it never is. because of course, it isn’t about the number, not about excess, not about waste. you were raised to believe that money was meant to be spent, that the act of spending was as natural as breathing. but there was a right way to do it, a way that upheld status, that reinforced power. the idea that you’d throw only fifty million yen at some glorified shopping center rather than invest in something truly worthy of your name is what bothers him. not the price tag, but the principle.

your fingers curl into the sheets, twisting them between tense knuckles. “it was an impulse buy.” you say, forcing lightness into your tone, feigning nonchalance.

“hmm.” another pause, long and measured, and you can already hear the faint smile curling at the edges of his words. “impulse is good. instinct is good. but you deserve the best, angel. never forget that.”

never forget that.

your jaw tightens, something sharp coiling beneath your ribs. you want to say something defiant, something that cuts, but there’s no point. he won’t listen, won’t argue—he never argues. he only corrects, like you’re a child who needs gentle redirection, a daughter whose worst flaw is an occasional lapse in judgment, a little girl playing pretend in a world run by men like him.

and then, just as you’re about to change the subject, he does it for you.

“by the way.” his tone is casual, smooth as a well-aged whiskey, but you know better. “i heard you’ve been spending time with gojo satoru.”

your breath catches before you can stop it, fingers twitching against the silk sheets.

you knew this was coming. you knew the second you stepped into satoru’s car last night that there would be eyes, that there would be whispers, that nothing you did would ever escape your father’s notice. it doesn’t matter how careful you are, how many shadows you slip through—his reach is longer, his influence deeper. he has always seen everything, and worse, he has always been waiting. waiting for you to slip, waiting for an opportunity, waiting for something he can use.

you school your expression, steady your voice, make sure nothing betrays the way your pulse thrums just a little too fast. “and?”

there’s a pause, deliberate, weighted just enough to remind you who controls the conversation. then, smoothly, indulgently, he says, “if you need help with anything—if there’s something you want—just let your daddy take care of it, hmm?”

your stomach twists so hard it nearly makes you sick.

you hate this part the most. the way he drapes affection over his words like a velvet sheath, disguising the edge beneath. the way he dotes on you, voice honeyed and rich, a father adoring his perfect daughter—his only daughter, his greatest investment. the way he makes you feel small, makes you feel precious, makes you feel like something to be protected rather than a woman who could destroy men if she wanted to. and the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that there is still a tiny, pathetic part of you that wants it.

that still craves it.

that remembers being seven years old, running to him in the halls of some grand, foreign estate, giggling, calling him daddy with all the love in the world before you were old enough to understand what he really was.

but you are old enough now. and you know exactly what he’s offering.

it has nothing to do with you. it never has. it’s not about protecting you, not about caring for you, not about making sure you’re safe, or happy, or even content. it’s about control. about power. about winning. he doesn’t just want you to have satoru—he wants you to own him.

because the gojo name is the only one that could ever stand next to yours without being eclipsed.

your grip on the phone is white-knuckled, nails digging into your palm. “i can handle it.” you say, and you hate how defensive it sounds, how it betrays you.

his chuckle is low, indulgent, a sound that makes something cold crawl down your spine. like you’re adorable. like you’re a child. like you don’t already know the game he’s playing. “of course you can.”

he won’t push. he never does. he’ll let the thought linger, let it fester, let you think it was your idea when you eventually cave. he has built empires on the backs of men who thought they were free. and maybe, if he were anyone else, you would admire it.

but he’s not. and you don’t.

he doesn’t scold you for partying. doesn’t call to ask if you’re safe, if you’re okay, if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you miss him. he doesn’t care that you spend your nights in the arms of men you don’t love, drinking yourself into a numb haze just to get through the week. the only thing that ever warrants a call is money. or business. or power.

you swallow the bitterness rising in your throat. “is that all?”

“that’s all, angel.” his voice is warm, pleased, dripping with effortless affection. like he loves you. like he’s proud. like he didn’t just remind you exactly what you are to him. “have a good day.”

the line clicks dead before you can answer.

for a long time, you just stare at your phone. the screen has long gone dark, but the weight of his words lingers, curling around your ribs like a vice, pressing down until your breath feels thin, shallow, insufficient. your pulse thrums in your ears, steady but too loud, drowning out everything else, leaving you with nothing but the sharp, bitter taste of control disguised as affection.

you already know how this plays out. shoko will take one look at you and see everything, utahime will start running her mouth before you even sit down, mei mei will hum like she’s already placing bets on your next move. you won’t let them see it. won’t let them see the way your chest feels tight, the way your thoughts are tangled, ugly, impossible to smooth out.

so you do what you always do. you overcompensate.

you drag yourself out of bed, tossing your phone aside, silk sheets shifting as you push to your feet. the room is dim, the air heavy with the scent of perfume lingering from the night before, a reminder of everything that should have gone differently. your bare feet press against the cold marble as you move, slow, deliberate, toward the walk-in closet that holds everything—every identity you’ve ever crafted, every version of yourself the world has demanded. rows of couture line the space, silk and lace and luxury draped on gold hangers, waiting. your fingers trail over the delicate fabrics, smooth and cool beneath your touch, before they stop on exactly what you’re looking for. before you even pull it from the hanger, you know how it will feel against your skin.

delicate lace, dangerously sheer, thin straps that barely cling to your shoulders. the kind of dress that invites attention, that commands it, that turns eyes whether you want them to or not. it’s impractical, inappropriate, something designed for dimly lit lounges and whispered promises, not for morning. but you don’t think about that. don’t think about the way the fabric shifts when you move, how it will ride up too easily, how it was made to be touched. you don’t consider the risks, don’t let the thought settle long enough to matter. you just want to feel different. anything but what you felt on that phone call.

your father’s voice is still there, thick with honeyed condescension, wrapping around your thoughts like a silk ribbon, too tight, too smooth. his words echo, threading beneath your skin, settling in places you can’t reach. never forget that. the indulgence in his tone, the amusement, the way he speaks to you like you’re a little girl playing dress-up in a world too big for you to ever truly hold. your fingers tighten around the fabric, the lace crumpling between your knuckles as you yank it from the hanger, careless. the dress is fragile, expensive, a masterpiece of design, but right now, it’s nothing more than a response. an instinct.

not a conscious rebellion—just something to drown out the sound of him in your head.

you slip it over your frame, the fabric whispering against bare skin, cool and weightless. thin lace straps sit precariously on your shoulders, barely there, teasing the line between elegance and something sharper, something that asks for trouble. the bodice dips lower than it should, the hemline threatens to ride up with every movement, but you don’t adjust it. don’t fidget, don’t fix, don’t care. you just let it be.

your fingers brush over the lace as you step in front of the mirror, taking in the reflection that meets you. bare skin, intricate patterns, sharp lines where softness should be. you don’t smile, don’t smirk, don’t pose. just look. at the way the fabric clings, at the way the dress was made to frame a body that is untouchable, untamed. at the girl who looks back at you, poised, effortless, unreadable.

not a child. certainly not an angel either.

you run a hand through your hair, exhaling slowly, releasing the tension in your jaw, in your shoulders, in the places his voice tried to settle.

you won’t see satoru today. won’t deal with any of it today.

you just need to get through the morning.

the moment your heels touch the pristine pavement outside the campus, the air shifts. conversations slow, falter, rearrange themselves around your presence like a ripple in still water. admiration thickens in the atmosphere, inevitable, predictable, a force of nature as certain as the pull of gravity. heads turn, necks crane, eyes drag over you in ways both deliberate and stolen, some lingering too long, some snapping away the second you meet their gaze. it’s an attention you know, an attention you’ve earned, an attention that normally fills something hollow inside you. but today, it barely registers. today, it’s just another weight pressing down on a mind already heavy with the residue of the morning.

they look. they always look. it’s the curse of beauty, the burden of being something designed to be admired, something that demands to be consumed whether you want it or not.

you can feel their eyes. the hushed murmurs, the split-second hesitations, the too-loud silence of those who don’t know whether they should stare or look away.

too short. too sheer. too much.

someone nearly walks into a pillar. another audibly gulps. one poor soul stares too long and gets smacked upside the head by his friend.

it’s nothing new. it should amuse you—the way people react like they’ve never seen a woman before, the way admiration tilts so easily into something flustered, something desperate, something stupid. you should bask in it, revel in the power that comes with turning heads without trying. but today, it barely scrapes against your consciousness. today, your mind is still tangled in the remnants of your father’s voice, in the slow-dripping venom of his words, in the way he made your entire existence feel like a carefully managed portfolio.

you don’t want to think today.

which is unfortunate, because the second you step past the gates, you are immediately ambushed.

“are you dead? kidnapped? in a coma? because those are the only acceptable reasons for why you didn’t text back—”

utahime’s voice slices through the air, sharp and unrelenting, demanding an answer before you’ve even fully stepped past the gates. her heels click against the pavement in rapid succession, a clear warning that she isn’t letting this go, not until you give her something. shoko is right behind her, exhaling a slow drag from her cigarette, eyes already half-lidded with unimpressed resignation, as if she’s counting down the seconds before this turns into a full-blown interrogation. mei mei lingers just a step to the side, not rushing to join but watching, a sleek predator in a silk blouse, gaze flashing with quiet amusement. she isn’t here to demand answers—she’s here to enjoy them. the longer you hesitate, the more valuable the entertainment becomes.

you barely get a breath in before utahime grabs your arm, manicured nails digging in, eyes widening as she takes you in like she’s seeing you for the first time. her gasp is so dramatic it practically echoes, drawing glances from the students loitering nearby. “oh my god.”

shoko exhales, letting the smoke curl lazily past her lips before finally giving you a once-over, her judgment slow, deliberate. “...you’re actually insane.”

mei mei hums, tilting her head slightly as she appraises your dress with something dangerously close to approval. “hmm. it’s a good look. though i think you’re about five seconds away from an old professor spontaneously combusting.”

utahime, still reeling, vibrates with barely-contained energy, her grip tightening around your wrist. “did you get laid?”

you jerk back, nearly stumbling in your heels. “excuse me?”

“that’s the only explanation,” she insists, gesturing wildly at your attire, nearly smacking shoko in the process. “i mean, this? this? this is an ‘i had amazing sex’ dress.”

shoko coughs out a laugh, nearly losing her cigarette, while mei mei arches a brow, intrigued.

you pinch the bridge of your nose, inhaling slowly through clenched teeth. “utahime—”

“so did you?”

shoko, ever the voice of reason, lifts a single brow, leveling you with a look that’s far too knowing for your liking. “this is about gojo, isn’t it?”

the air tightens, sharpens, a barely-there pause before—

utahime gasps. loudly.

“you didn’t reply because you were with him?!”

you groan, dragging a hand down your face, barely restraining the urge to physically shove her away. “no. i ignored you because i was sleeping.”

utahime narrows her eyes, leaning in slightly, searching your face for cracks. “suspicious.”

normally, you’d play along, feed into their assumptions, twist the conversation until it worked in your favor, thrive off the attention even as it disgusted you. but today, you just can’t. today, your patience is as thin as the lace on your dress, unraveling thread by thread, fraying at the seams. today, you just want the world to shut up.

“so,” shoko drawls, voice smooth, deliberate, entirely too knowing, “how’d the date go?”

silence.

a long silence.

mei mei smirks, slow and sharp, like she’s already decided this is the most entertaining part of her morning. utahime’s eyes widen, flicking between you and the others like she’s bracing for impact. shoko just stares, waiting, cigarette hanging between two fingers, the ember glowing faintly as if it, too, is holding its breath.

and then—utahime screeches.

“don’t tell me it didn’t work?!?”

you shove past them, making a beeline for the main building, your heels clicking against the pavement with enough force to warn them off. “i’m not talking about this here.”

“so it didn’t work!!”

you ignore her. absolutely not. you are not about to have this conversation in broad daylight, not when half the school is already staring at you like you’ve descended from a different plane of existence. their gazes cling like fabric caught on thorns, admiration and curiosity weaving together into something you should enjoy, something you usually enjoy. but today, it’s just another weight pressing down, another reminder of the eyes you’ll never escape.

unfortunately, your three best friends have never been known for their subtlety.

shoko matches your pace with infuriating ease, hands shoved into her pockets, exhaling smoke as she casually side-eyes you. “he didn’t react at all, did he?”

“not even a little bit?” utahime presses, still vibrating with residual disbelief.

you don’t grind your teeth. don’t scoff, don’t roll your eyes. you just… sigh. a slow, measured thing, precise in its weight, deliberate in its effortlessness.

“no,” you say simply, voice light, untouched, like last night wasn’t a complete failure. like it doesn’t bother you at all. “he wasn’t flustered. wasn’t thrown off. just amused.”

silence. a beat too long.

shoko’s cigarette pauses midair, a thin wisp of smoke curling toward the sky. mei mei’s fingers still mid-adjustment of her bracelet, the silver catching the light. utahime—predictably—is the first to react.

“okay, that’s not normal,” she says flatly, scanning your face like she expects to see a crack forming in your composure.

“definitely not normal,” shoko agrees, brow twitching upward, cigarette lowering just slightly.

mei mei hums, a thoughtful sound, gaze sharp beneath the weight of amusement. her nails tap idly against the gold clasp of her bag, rhythmic, unhurried, like she’s already dissecting you piece by piece. “and you’re… fine with that?” she doesn’t say interesting, but it lingers between the words, stretching the silence thin. she’s studying you, the way a predator studies a wounded animal—not out of pity, but curiosity, waiting to see if you’ll limp.

you shrug, careless, effortless, the picture of someone with nothing to prove. “why wouldn’t i be?”

the air shifts, subtle but undeniable, a quiet current of unease threading between you. your nonchalance is wrong, off, just enough to make them hesitate. they expected frustration, irritation, something dramatic—a sharp scoff, an exasperated eye roll, a low, venomous rant about how no one ignores you, least of all gojo satoru. but instead, you are calm. unbothered. untouchable.

except, they know you too well. they know the difference between control and detachment.

shoko exhales, flicking ash onto the pavement, watching you through the thin veil of smoke curling between you. “you’re taking this too well.” her voice is even, measured, but there’s something else beneath it—something wary, something bordering on concern.

“i am?” you tilt your head slightly, amusement threading through your tone, light and dismissive.

utahime folds her arms, gaze narrowing, the skeptical weight of her stare pressing down on you. “yes. you are. which is why i don’t believe you.”

your smile is easy, smooth, the kind that gleams like polished glass—pristine, impenetrable, impossible to crack. “then don’t.”

you turn without waiting for a response, stepping through the entrance, letting the doors swing shut behind you. the warmth of the building presses against your skin, heavy and familiar, but it doesn’t chase away the cold curling in your chest. their voices follow, softer now, hushed under the weight of what isn’t being said.

you’re fine.

really.

you step into the classroom, the cool air of the lecture hall settling against your skin like an unwelcome touch, sharp and grounding. the fluorescent lights cast a clinical glow over the rows of seats, the faint hum of the projector filling the silence as students murmur, shuffle, settle. you move through it with ease, slipping into your usual seat with the practiced grace of someone who has done this a thousand times before. nothing is out of place, nothing is unfamiliar, nothing is wrong. you are here, in your seat, in your body, in control.

you are not thinking about him.

but he is impossible to ignore.

he’s seated one row above you, posture as effortless as ever, one arm draped over the back of his chair like he owns the space around him. today, his glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, wire-rimmed and deceptively delicate, a sharp contrast to the well-fitted knit jacket layered over his crisp button-up. the fabric is expensive, subtly rich, draping over him in a way that suggests wealth without ever having to announce it. everything about him is composed, curated, intentional—right down to the way he doesn’t even look in your direction.

you don’t look at him either. not directly.

the lecture begins, numbers and strategies flickering across the screen, the professor’s voice a steady drone that fills the space without quite reaching you. you keep your eyes on your notes, let the pen move in smooth, precise strokes, let the rhythm of ink against paper give you something to anchor yourself to. satoru doesn’t move. doesn’t turn. doesn’t acknowledge you in any way.

the class drones on. you take notes. you listen. you exist.

you are fine.

and then, the lecture ends.

you push out of your seat immediately, movements smooth, efficient, calculated to leave. you don’t need to linger. don’t need to hesitate. the room is still filled with students filtering out, conversations overlapping, laughter cutting through the air in bursts of sound. you navigate through them with ease, heels clicking against the polished floor, your focus singular—get out, move forward, keep going.

and then—a grip on your wrist. the touch is firm, insistent, enough to halt you before you even see who it is. your stomach twists. you already know.

when you turn, it’s exactly who you expected—son of a major media company, charming in a way that feels practiced, manufactured, honed like a well-worn script. his smile is easy, his confidence effortless, the kind of man who has never been told no in a way that mattered. he’s been circling you for weeks, persistent in ways that should be flattering but aren’t, his interest another thing that clings like cigarette smoke—lingering, unpleasant, impossible to scrub off.

any other day you would've entertain his bullshit but not today—your patience is nonexistent.

you tug your wrist back, sharp and immediate, fingers curling into a fist to stop yourself from doing more. “not in the mood.”

he laughs, casual, dismissive, the sound curling around your spine like something rotting. “come on, don’t be like that.”

your eyes narrow, voice cold, cutting. “don’t touch me.”

he ignores you, reaching out again—too fast, too careless. his fingers brush against your arm, the movement not forceful, not aggressive, but clumsy, entitled, as if he is allowed. as if he is owed. you move to pull away, sharp and immediate, but it’s already too late. his hand catches, just barely, on the delicate lace of your dress—

and suddenly, the air shifts.

the sound is soft, almost insignificant, a quiet snap of thread, a whisper of fabric giving way. but the effect is immediate, mortifying. the thin strap of your dress slips off your shoulder, dragging the delicate fabric dangerously low—not enough to bare everything, but enough to make heads turn, enough to freeze the air around you, enough to make your breath catch in horror. gasps ripple through the lecture hall, sharp inhales, the rustling of movement as heads turn, attention crashing down on you in waves, heavy and suffocating. whispers start, too fast to track, words you don’t hear but know, voices curling through the air like the inevitable hum of scandal.

your breath catches, muscles locking—before anything else can happen, before you can even react, there is a presence.

him.

a shadow at your side, movement swift, seamless, a barrier forming between you and the world before you can so much as blink. fabric sweeps over your shoulders in one fluid motion, warm from body heat, enveloping you completely, drowning you in the scent of clean linen, something faintly sweet, something him. the shift in the atmosphere is instant, electric, the weight of his presence settling into the space like a hand closing around the throat of the moment.

gojo satoru.

he doesn’t just step in—he claims the space, effortlessly shifting the power dynamic, erasing everything else.

and for the first time in a long time since your group project with him started, satoru doesn’t look amused.

his voice, when it comes, is sharp, smoothed to a perfect edge, all the usual lightness carved away into something colder. “you should know better.”

it isn’t a suggestion.

it isn’t a threat.

it’s a simple, cutting truth, his tone even, satoru's words deceptively light, but carrying something weightier, something that lands with a finality that is felt. he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t acknowledge the way your body has gone rigid beneath the weight of his jacket, doesn’t give you even a second of respite before the next blow lands. “especially considering how much your father’s company relies on mine.”

the words sink deep, as intended.

the shift in the room is palpable, the media heir’s confidence cracking, realization dawning too late. satoru doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to—his name alone is enough, the weight of his position, his power, the gojo name rendering any resistance futile before it even forms.

your heartbeat is uneven, erratic, skin prickling under the lingering warmth of his jacket, the weight of it heavy against your shoulders, suffocating in ways it shouldn’t be. the scent of him clings to the fabric, clean linen and something faintly sweet, something distinctly his, something you refuse to acknowledge. it’s too much—too close, too consuming, too much like protection, like care, like something you never asked for. the last thing you want is to owe him for this, to let him think for even a second that you needed him. the humiliation coils in your gut, sharp and sickly, burning through your veins until you can’t stand it anymore.

you shove the fabric off immediately, movements sharp, rejecting it as fast as it was given, letting it fall from your shoulders like it burns. “i don’t need your help.” the words snap through the space between you, forceful, deliberate, a clear line drawn. you refuse to be saved. refuse to be something fragile, something handled, something pitiful. you don’t owe him for stepping in, and you won’t let him think you do.

satoru doesn’t blink, doesn’t budge, doesn’t react. “you really should stop punishing yourself.” satoru's voice is quiet, almost conversational, but it lands like a stone in your chest, rippling outward, impossible to ignore.

you glare, something clawing up your throat, something raw, something humiliating. “why do you even care?” the question lands like a challenge, sharp and biting, daring him to dismiss it, to laugh, to reduce it to nothing more than circumstance. because that would be easier, wouldn’t it? easier if this was just him being annoying, just another one of his games, another instance of gojo satoru moving because he can, not because he wants to.

because you don’t want him to want to. you don’t want him to care. but he doesn’t answer. and that’s the worst part.

because you need one. you need to know why. why does he keep stealing your food just to make you eat something healthier? why did he actually look close to mad? why does he care?

or—much better yet—for your own peace of mind, a denial.

for him to deadpan, to roll his eyes, to shrug it off. for him to tell you it’s just another one of his efficiency bullshit excuses, that you shouldn’t mistake it for anything else. that he just doesn’t want you to become a liability in your group project.

but he doesn’t say that, either.

his jaw simply tenses.

you glare, something clawing up your throat, something raw, something humiliating. “why do you even care?” the question lands like a challenge, sharp and biting, daring him to dismiss it, to laugh, to reduce it to nothing more than circumstance. because that would be easier, wouldn’t it? easier if this was just him being annoying, just another one of his games, another instance of gojo satoru moving because he can, not because he wants to.

but he doesn’t say that.

his jaw tenses.

a flicker of something passes behind his glasses, quick and unreadable, buried beneath layers of detachment before you can grasp onto it. his expression remains impassive, unreadable, but something lingers, something you can’t quite place. he has an answer—this know–it–all should have an answer—but he doesn’t say it. doesn’t give you anything.

he doesn’t know, doesn’t understand why he stepped in so quickly, why his chest still feels tight, why the sight of you so exposed, so vulnerable, made his blood run hot. he doesn’t understand the flicker of heat that had surged through his veins, the sharp, immediate need to erase the moment before it could settle. he doesn’t know why he acted on instinct, why his body moved before his mind even registered it, why he still hasn’t looked away.

and it infuriates you.

you scoff, stepping back, your voice curling at the edges, something bitter and sharp cutting through. “forget it.” the words leave your lips like an exhale, dismissive, as if the conversation is over, as if it never mattered. but your hands are still curled into fists, nails biting into your palms, and his glasses still catch the light when he tilts his head, watching you too closely.

but the moment you turn to leave, his hand catches yours—not rough, not forceful, but firm. the warmth of his palm seeps into your skin, steady and unyielding, sending a sharp pulse of something worse than humiliation curling down your spine. you expect him to play it off, to let that insufferable smirk creep onto his face, to ruin the moment with some lazy, self-assured remark.

but when you meet his gaze—his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose, low enough that you can see over the frames, straight into his eyes.

blue. too blue. too much.

they're not clouded with amusement, not softened with that insufferable glint of teasing. no, they're sharp, bright in a way that makes something inside you bristle—like he's looking through you instead of at you, like he's searching for something beneath your skin, something you're not sure even exists. his expression is unreadable, but the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch ever so slightly against yours, betrays something else. something that shouldn't be there.

before you can rip yourself from his grasp, he moves.

it’s effortless, infuriatingly so, the way he lifts the fabric, the way his hands find yours, guiding them through the sleeves, pulling the jacket over your shoulders in one smooth, practiced motion. the dim light catches on his lenses as he tilts his head, just slightly, shadows flickering across the sharp line of his cheekbone. his eyes remain steady, locked onto you even as he adjusts the fabric, even as he lingers for just a second too long before letting go.

his gaze doesn’t waver. doesn’t flicker with amusement. only scrutiny. doesn’t give you the easy out you need.

it should feel like an afterthought, like he’s barely paying attention, like this isn’t something significant, but it is. the sheer difference in size between you makes it impossible not to notice—the way the hem falls well past your dress, the way the sleeves engulf your hands, the way his warmth still lingers, wrapping around you like something inescapable.

his touch is fleeting, brief, barely there—but it lingers. and worse, so do his eyes. everything about him lingers.

you should pull his stupid jacket off. should throw it in his face.

you should pull it off. should throw it in his face.

but you can’t.

because the ugly, clawing feeling inside you is worse than anything you were prepared for. the overwhelming wrongness of being seen, the raw humiliation of standing in the center of a moment you never wanted to happen, the sickening weight of why does he care? pressing down on your chest like a vice. the warmth of the jacket should be comforting, should be protective, but it only makes your skin burn, only reminds you of how exposed you were, how easily he stepped in, how quickly he moved to fix it. the feeling is unbearable, twisting through you like a blade, and the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that this warmth, this action, his hands steadying the fabric around you, makes you feel safe.

and you hate that. you hate him for making you feel that.

the words rip from your throat before you can stop them, sharp and bitter and cruel, cutting through the tension like glass shattering against marble. “you’re so fucking annoying, gojo.”

his hands still for a fraction of a second.

the silence is deafening.

you don’t look at him. you can’t. if you do, you might see something in his expression that you don’t have the strength to acknowledge. so you rip yourself away, storming off, the oversized jacket swallowing you whole as you put as much distance between you as possible. it’s suffocating, drowning you in the scent of him, in the reminder of what just happened, in the unbearable reality that no matter how far you walk, he’s still there.

his fingers linger in the empty air for a second longer before he lets them curl into his palm.

the further you walk, the heavier it feels.

the weight of it—of him—lingers on your shoulders, an unwelcome presence wrapped around you like a second skin. his warmth still clings to the fabric, seeping into your own body heat, settling into you, like something permanent, something that refuses to be shaken off. every step away from the classroom should be enough to erase it, to strip yourself of whatever the hell just happened, to distance yourself from the moment that left you raw and exposed. but it isn’t. it follows you, clings to your skin, presses against your ribs like a hand refusing to let go.

your fingers twitch, clenching into the material, curling into the oversized sleeves that drown your hands. the scent of his cologne—clean linen, something faintly sweet, something him—curls around you like smoke, invisible and inescapable, creeping into your senses no matter how much you try to ignore it. the fabric is soft, expensive, carrying the residual heat of his body, and the knowledge that it smells like him, feels like him, makes something unpleasant coil at the base of your spine. you should take it off. should rip it from your shoulders, should throw it into the nearest trash can, should leave it behind.

but you don’t.

not because you want to keep it. not because you’re grateful. but because you can’t stop thinking about how this is what it feels like to be cared for.

even if it was just for a second.

even if it was just him.

the thought makes your stomach twist, nausea creeping into your ribs, pressing against your lungs, making your breath come too fast, too shallow. your hands grip the fabric tighter, nails biting into the sleeves, the pressure grounding and unbearable all at once. this morning—this entire day—has been a mess of feelings you refuse to name, thoughts tangling together into something suffocating. first, your father. his voice, smooth and honeyed, telling you that you deserve the best while making you feel like nothing more than a business investment.

then him.

stepping in without hesitation, without amusement, without the usual, insufferable smirk that makes your blood boil. there was no teasing, no lazy drawl of your name, no game for him to win—just action, swift and certain, as if he had never considered doing anything else. he moved without thought, without calculation, without the weight of expectation that comes with every single person in your life. like it wasn’t about proving anything. like it wasn’t about power. like it was just—natural.

it makes you want to scream.

because that isn’t how this works. people don’t do things without expecting something in return. every kindness has a cost. every touch carries intent. every moment of protection, of care, of concern is a currency, exchanged for something greater down the line. that is how it has always been—how you were raised to understand it, how you have lived through it.

not your father. never your father. his affection is measured, conditional, something draped over you like silk until the moment it tightens into a leash. not the men who orbit you, their admiration always tainted with hunger, drawn to status, to influence, to power they will never be worthy of but still reach for. not the socialites who call themselves your friends when it suits them, when your presence elevates theirs, when being seen with you is enough to tip the scales in their favor.

so why the hell did gojo satoru—of all people—look at you like that?

why did he help?

why did he care?

your throat tightens, a sharp breath cutting through the mess of emotions clogging your chest. you can’t be here. can’t sit in this damn school, in this damn jacket, with the weight of everything pressing down on you like a vice. the walls feel too tight, the air too heavy, the fabric against your skin an unbearable reminder of something you refuse to name. you need out.

you don’t think about it.

don’t text anyone. don’t call for a car. don’t plan where you’re going, don’t consider what it means to slip away like this, don’t stop to care. you just move, heels clicking against the floor as you weave through the hallways, ignoring the eyes that follow, ignoring the way your hands are still curled into the fabric of his jacket. you keep walking—out the doors, out the gates, out.

the streets of tokyo are busy as always, a blur of high-end cars and polished shoes, businessmen murmuring over calls as they slip past, their conversations blending into the distant hum of the city. the world moves around you, fast and endless, people existing in their own self-contained universes, unaware of the hurricane twisting inside your ribs. you barely register any of it.

when you reach the curb, you don’t hesitate. you lift a hand.

a taxi slows in front of you almost immediately, the driver’s eyes flicking to you in the mirror as you slide into the backseat, as the scent of cigarette smoke and worn leather curls into your senses.

“where to?”

you exhale, a sharp breath, tilting your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city blur past—too fast and too slow all at once. your lips barely part as you murmur, “fujimori lounge.”

the driver raises a brow—because who the hell goes drinking at 9:30 a.m.? precisely a student in tokyo’s most prestigious academy, drowning in an oversized jacket that doesn’t belong to her. but you don’t acknowledge it. just tap your nails against your thigh, eyes distant, thoughts even further.

when the car pulls to a stop, you don’t wait. don’t even look at the meter. just toss a thick stack of bills into the front seat, stepping out like the transaction doesn’t register, like money means nothing—because it doesn’t.

the bar is empty. of course it is.

the air is cool, still untouched by the scent of spilled drinks and bodies pressed too close together, the dim lights casting long shadows over polished marble and expensive leather. no music plays at this hour. no laughter, no hum of conversation. just silence.

perfect.

you make your way to your usual seat, slipping into the plush barstool with the kind of ease that only comes from habit. you’ve done this before. you’ve done this a thousand times before.

the bartender—one of the few staff working this early—gives you a once-over, sharp eyes flicking from your bare legs to the jacket swallowing your frame, but he doesn’t say a word. just reaches for the top-shelf bottles, already knowing better than to ask what you want.

the first glass is poured. you down it without hesitation.

the warmth spreads through your veins, dulling the edges of everything you don’t want to think about, smoothing out the sharp edges of your father’s voice, of the way gojo looked at you, of the unbearable weight of something you don’t understand pressing against your ribs.

the second glass follows.

then the third.

by the fourth, you don’t feel anything at all.

satoru notices immediately.

your seat is empty in every class you should be in, the space where you should be a glaring absence that gnaws at the edges of his thoughts. he finds himself glancing toward the door every time it opens, expecting you to waltz in late with an excuse dripping in charm, a haughty smirk tugging at the corner of your lips like you’re doing the world a favor just by existing. but you don’t. the day stretches on, lecture after lecture, and you remain a no-show. with every hour that passes, something twitches beneath his skin, something that refuses to settle.

his messages go unanswered. his calls ring into oblivion. you haven’t responded to anything about your supposed meeting after school for your project—not even a half-hearted promise to maybe show up, only to flake at the last second. nothing. not a single snide remark, not a single excuse. just silence.

and satoru doesn’t care. he doesn’t.

he tells himself that. repeats it like a mantra, like a fact carved into stone, like if he says it enough, it will become the truth. but his jaw tics when another message goes unread, when another call goes straight to voicemail, when the space where you should be remains empty.

it’s only when he’s making his way through the parking lot, hand already tugging open the door of his car, that he hears it.

“she messaged me earlier.”

shoko’s voice—calm, level, just loud enough to carry in the open air. he wouldn’t have paid it any mind, wouldn’t have listened, if not for what follows.

“she’s at fujimori. don't wanna be bothered she said.”

a pause. then utahime, her voice sharper, laced with disbelief. “alone?”

his stomach twists.

it’s ridiculous, really. this is your scene, your world, the life you slip into without hesitation. he’s dragged you out of luxury bars before, half-exasperated, half-annoyed, when you’ve flaked on your project meetings to waste the evening draped over some rich heir’s arm, drink in hand, laughter spilling from your lips like it means nothing. you are never alone. you surround yourself with people who adore you, worship you, want you, because that is how you keep control.

but something about this—about you being there alone, in the middle of the day—it doesn’t sit right.

because you never drink alone.

he gets in the car and drives.

the city blurs past, neon lights bleeding into one another, an endless stretch of color and motion that barely registers. his hands grip the wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles white against smooth leather, jaw locked as his thoughts loop over themselves, tangled and restless. the expression on your face when you asked him why do you even care?—it won’t leave him. it lingers, sharp and insistent, digging into his ribs like something that demands an answer. and the worst part? he doesn’t know.

the air inside fujimori is warm, perfumed with aged liquor and polished wood, thick with the scent of exclusivity. low, ambient lighting casts shadows against plush velvet booths, a setting designed for discretion, for indulgence, for things meant to be forgotten by morning. voices murmur over the clink of expensive glassware, laughter lilting through the air in practiced, polite intervals. it’s a place for people with power, for men who make decisions that shape the world over drinks that cost more than most salaries.

he finds you easily.

you’re still wearing his jacket. and somehow, somehow, that feels like a relief.

legs crossed, posture languid, head tilted in that way that makes people lean in, drawn by the promise of something fleeting, something they’ll never get to keep. but you’re too relaxed, too detached, laughing at nothing, the haze of alcohol making your gaze unfocused, your movements a little too loose. satoru has seen you like this before—watched you toy with admirers, with suitors, with men who think they are clever enough to hold your attention. but this—this feels wrong.

and then he sees them.

older. sharp smiles. expensive watches gleaming under dim lighting. their laughter is just a little too indulgent, their attention just a little too fixed. and satoru knows them—not personally, but enough. they’ve shaken his father’s hand. sat in the same rooms, exchanged pleasantries at corporate events, discussed numbers and deals over glasses of whiskey worth more than some people’s entire lives. their wives always at their sides, poised, perfect.

they do not look married now.

his jaw locks.

he steps forward, weaving through the lounge with effortless ease, the shift in his presence enough to make bystanders instinctively move. his stride is unhurried, controlled, but there’s something unmistakable in the way he moves—an inevitability, a force that cannot be ignored. the ambient hum of conversation continues, but there’s a subtle ripple in the air, a quiet awareness settling over those who sense that something is about to happen. his eyes are on you, the way your head tilts back, the curve of your mouth as you laugh at something meaningless, the way the men around you lean in, hungry for whatever attention you decide to bestow. he doesn’t hesitate when he reaches you, fingers already reaching for your wrist, already ready to pull you out of there—a hand blocks him.

one of the men steps into his path, movements slow, measured, deliberately casual. posture relaxed, but gaze sharp, the kind of gaze that belongs to men who are used to owning every room they walk into. “this is a private booth,” he says, tone mild, the words carrying the weight of entitlement, of money, of power that has never been questioned.

they don’t recognize him.

they see the glasses, the slightly loosened tie, the academic air about him, and they make their assumptions. he is young. dressed well, but not ostentatious. someone from a good family, maybe, someone privileged, but ultimately unimportant. someone who doesn’t belong in their world.

but he recognizes them.

and when they finally put the pieces together, it’s going to be hilarious.

satoru exhales through his nose, slow, measured, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips—lazy, effortless, mocking. “yeah?” he hums, voice light, almost amused. “you sure you wanna play that game?”

the men hesitate.

because there’s something in the way he says it, something in the ease of his stance, in the weight of his presence, in the way he doesn’t look at them so much as he waits for them to understand. and then—one of them finally really looks at him.

their face drains of color.

because suddenly, the glasses, the academic demeanor—none of it matters anymore. suddenly, they’re not looking at a student—they’re looking at gojo satoru. heir to the same conglomerate these men answer to. the son of the man who can make or break their careers with a single conversation, a single change in investment, a single disapproving glance.

the atmosphere shifts.

“we— we didn’t realize—”

“you didn’t,” satoru cuts in smoothly, voice slipping into something sharper, something that lands just beneath the skin. “but you do now.”

none of them stop him this time.

his fingers wrap around your wrist—firm, steady, but not rough—as he pulls you up, out of that suffocating booth, out of that moment before it can cement itself into something worse. you stumble, caught off guard, the weight of your body pressing into his side for just a fraction of a second—and then you laugh.

soft, breathy, almost delighted.

your laughter spills into the space between you, curling at the edges like smoke, laced with something light, something dangerous. your head tilts up, gaze locking onto his with a look that is far too unguarded, far too open, like the alcohol has burned away whatever walls you usually keep so carefully in place. “ohhh,” you purr, voice syrupy sweet, the kind of sweetness that rots, the kind meant to draw people in just before they realize they’ve fallen too deep. “you came all this way for me?”

your voice is a slow drag of something intoxicating, the promise of something just out of reach, but your gaze—your gaze is challenging. you aren’t grateful, aren’t flustered, aren’t even the slightest bit embarrassed that he found you like this. you aren’t the kind of girl who needs saving, who lets herself be rescued, and you want him to prove it. you want him to falter, to hesitate, to take a single misstep in whatever this is.

like you’re daring him to say it.

he doesn’t.

his fingers tighten around your wrist—not enough to hurt, not enough to demand, but enough to make it clear that he isn’t entertaining whatever game you’re trying to play. instead, he just starts walking, dragging you toward the exit, not sparing a glance back, not indulging the way you sway into him with every step. he ignores the way your heels scuff against the floor, the way your body tips unsteadily, forcing you closer to him than you should be. he ignores the heat of you pressed against his side, the weight of your breath so close to his skin, the way his pulse betrays him, thrumming just a little too fast, just a little too loud.

but you don’t fight him.

not until you step outside.

the cold air outside bites against your skin, sharp and unforgiving, but the warmth of his jacket still clings to you, drowning you in a scent you hate. it’s clean, crisp—him. something expensive, something effortless, something that lingers no matter how much distance you put between you. the streetlights cast a soft glow over you both, stretching your shadows long against the pavement, turning the night into something slow, something tense. his grip is still firm around your wrist, his expression unreadable, his presence unwavering.

then—you move. not to fight him. not to shove him away. but to prove a point.

you step closer, pressing into him, the movement slow, deliberate, calculated. your fingers trail over his chest with an ease that feels almost lazy, like you belong there, like this is just another game you’ve played a thousand times before. beneath your touch, you can feel the faint pull of muscle, the subtle warmth of him even through layers of expensive fabric, the steady rhythm of his breath as he watches you. because he is watching.

he always does.

"you dragged me out here," you breathe, voice low, teasing, inviting. your fingers curl into the crisp collar of his shirt, tugging just enough to make the space between you even smaller. his breath is warm against the cold, the scent of him thick in your lungs, the weight of his attention pressing against your skin like something tangible. your lips part, just barely, a soft exhale slipping between them before you murmur, “so tell me, satoru—”

your lashes flutter, head tilting, nails scraping lightly against the fabric beneath your hands, a slow, teasing drag that makes the space between you feel smaller. your voice is low, velvet-soft, curling through the cold night air like something dangerous, something meant to ruin.

"isn’t this what you wanted?"

he freezes. not because he’s flustered. not because he’s caught off guard. but because of you.

because of the way you’re looking at him—your gaze laced with something honeyed, something sharp, something that dares him to take. because of the way your lips part, the faintest inhale dragging against them, the way your fingers curl just a little tighter into his collar, like you know exactly what you’re doing, like you know exactly what you are.

he stares at you through the thin lenses of his reading glasses, a slow, deliberate sweep of his gaze, drinking you in like he has all the time in the world. your face is flushed from the alcohol, skin warmed beneath the dim glow of the streetlights, and he lets himself look—really look.

your lips, soft and glossed, teasing the line between smug and inviting. your throat, delicate, the slow rise and fall of your breath betraying how hard you’re trying to keep yourself still.

your fingers, still curled in his collar, tension coiling in the space between your knuckles like you don’t realize you’re gripping him so tightly.

and your eyes.

your eyes are still the same.

he had thought they were pretty once. years ago.

when you had stood before him with that small, decorated box of chocolates, your hands had been just the slightest bit unsteady, fingers gripping the edges like you were afraid he might not take it. your cheeks had been warm, lips parting with the kind of anticipation that only a child can carry—pure, unguarded, hopeful. there had been no ulterior motives, no calculations, no layers of intent buried beneath honeyed words. just you, standing in front of him, offering something small but meaningful, something that was supposed to matter.

he had crushed that softness with logic. you shouldn’t eat too much chocolate. it’s bad for your teeth. the words had left his mouth so easily, dismissive, practical—because he had been young, because he hadn’t understood. because he hadn’t known that sometimes, words mattered less than meaning, that rejection wasn’t always about what was being refused but about who was offering it.

but he understands now.

except right now, what you are offering him isn’t something soft. this isn’t something innocent. you aren’t offering him chocolates anymore.

you’re no longer offering him something sweet.

even so your eyes are still as pretty as he remembers.

he doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring into them, how deeply he’s drinking you in, until he sees it. beneath the teasing, beneath the deliberate tilt of your head and the press of your fingers against his collar—there it is. the flicker of quiet desperation curled behind the seduction, the way your body is pressed against him not to invite but to test, the way your lips part not to tempt but to prove a point.

the way you want to make him just another man.

the way you need him to be nothing more than that.

highschool memories come rushing in, your name was always whispered through the halls. not just for the things you did, but for the things you got away with. you were the girl who walked through the world untouchable, draped in the kind of indulgence that made others jealous, that made them watch. dress code violations that should have warranted a suspension. skipped classes that should have landed you on academic probation. detentions that stacked like a house of cards, waiting for the inevitable collapse. but the school never sent notes home. never called. because there was no point.

because no one would answer.

he had watched you sit in detention, week after week. always by the window, chin resting on your palm, eyes fixed on something far away, somewhere else. the tip of your finger would trace shapes into the condensation, movements idle, aimless, as if you were reaching for something just beyond your grasp. the teachers muttered about your wasted potential, voices dipped low like they thought you wouldn’t hear, like they thought you cared. but you never flinched. never reacted. just sat there, quiet and unbothered, like the world outside that window was the only thing worth your time.

he never said anything.

not when your skirts got shorter, your nights got longer, your reputation turned into something sharp-edged and impossible to hold. not when the boys whispered about you with voices dipped in reverence and speculation, when the girls watched you with a mix of admiration and disdain. not when you stopped trying—not in class, not in conversation, not in caring about the things that once might have mattered. you had been a hurricane once, bright and full of want, but slowly, you had quieted. or maybe you had just hardened.

and he had watched. stood on the sidelines. did nothing.

perhaps it’s bystander guilt—that sick, gnawing feeling that he should have said something, done something, been something other than a silent observer while you carved yourself into something unrecognizable. maybe it’s guilt for all the moments he let pass, for the times he saw you staring out the window in detention, your breath fogging up the glass as you traced invisible shapes into the condensation. maybe it’s guilt for hearing the whispers about you and never correcting them, for watching as your name became synonymous with something untouchable, something ruined, something easy to want but impossible to hold.

but something completely illogical tells him it’s more than that.

it’s care.

not the logical kind, the kind dictated by necessity or responsibility. not the required kind, the kind that comes from duty or expectation. not the kind that is owed.

it is simply care.

and that terrifies him.

because if it’s care, then it means this—you, standing in front of him, pressing into his space, testing him, daring him to be just like everyone else—matters. it means you aren’t just another girl he’s known in passing, another classmate, another name in the endless list of people orbiting around his world. it means this isn’t just some passing moment, something insignificant, something he can brush aside and forget by morning. because he’s never done this before. never stood at the center of something so fragile, something so deliberately constructed, something that feels like a trap but is really just a test.

and that terrifies him.

because satoru knows you.

not just the version of you that leans in too close, that lets people get drunk off the warmth of your skin, the tilt of your head, the way you offer yourself without ever giving anything at all. he knows the version of you that sat by the window in detention, tracing patterns into the glass, eyes distant, already somewhere else. the version of you that used to try, that used to push and pull and want things in a way that wasn’t so calculated. the version of you that once held out a box of chocolates with both hands, cheeks warm, voice quiet, waiting for something that never came.

so when your fingers curl into his collar, when your breath ghosts against his skin, when your lips part in something that is neither an invitation nor a plea, he sees it.

anyone else—any other man—would take this moment for what it appears to be.

but satoru sees you.

sees the game, the performance, the careful layers of seduction that don’t ask for something but demand it. sees the way you are begging him—without words, without even realizing—to be just like everyone else.

so you can understand him. so you can predict him. so you can tuck him neatly into the same category as all the men who only ever wanted one thing from you. so you don’t have to question why he is different.

his hands settle on your wrists—gentle, but firm. his touch is steady, grounding, the heat of his palms seeping into your skin like something meant to anchor rather than restrain. for a moment, he just holds you there, letting the weight of the moment settle between you, letting the tension coil and tighten like a drawn bow. then, with an exhale, he pulls you away.

“no.”

your eyes flicker, just for a second. something wavers. your breath hitches, barely audible, but he hears it. and then, just as quickly, the mask falls back into place. you scoff, rolling your eyes, stepping back like none of this mattered, like his rejection is nothing more than an inconvenience.

“coward.” you taunt, sharp and biting.

but your hands are shaking.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t give you anything to grab onto. just watches you, lets the silence stretch between you, thick and suffocating, filled with all the things neither of you are willing to acknowledge. the streetlights flicker overhead, the cold wind curling between you both, but neither of you move. finally, he exhales, slow and measured.

“let’s go.”

you grumble, reluctant but compliant, moving toward the car with the kind of begrudging acceptance that comes when there is no other choice. he opens the door for you, guiding you inside without a word, the warmth of his hand barely brushing against you before he pulls away. you slump into the seat, arms crossed, head tilted toward the window, refusing to look at him.

he gets in the driver’s seat, shifts into gear, and pulls onto the road.

the city hums around you both, neon lights casting fractured reflections against the windshield, the steady rhythm of tires against pavement filling the silence. you don’t speak. don’t glance at him, don’t move, don’t acknowledge his presence. just lean your head against the glass, watching the world blur past, streetlights streaking across your features like ghosts of something unspoken.

he doesn’t speak either.

he grips the wheel a little too tightly as he drives, the tension settling into his knuckles, into the curve of his jaw, into the spaces between his thoughts where your voice still lingers. why do you even care?

the question had landed sharp between you, a challenge thrown like a blade, demanding something from him that neither of you had the words for. he should have laughed. should have dismissed it as easily as he does everything else, let the moment roll off his shoulders with that same lazy ease he wears like armor. that would have been easier, wouldn’t it? if this was just him being annoying, just another game, another instance of gojo satoru moving because he can, not because he wants to.

the city lights streak across the windshield, casting fractured reflections against the glass, flashing against your skin where you rest, half-conscious, against the window. you’re quiet now, so different from the sharp-tongued, fire-eyed girl who had glared at him hours ago, demanding an answer he hadn’t been able to give. but he’s had time to think. time to feel the weight of the silence, to sift through the mess of thoughts that refuse to settle.

“i have an answer now.”

your breath stirs, shallow, delayed, like his words are pulling you from somewhere far away. your body barely shifts, movements sluggish with exhaustion, with alcohol, with something that leaves you unguarded in a way you never allow. "what are you talking about?" your voice is quiet, blurred at the edges, stripped of its usual sharpness.

his fingers tighten around the wheel.

he cares because he does.

not because of logic, or obligation, or the neat, efficient reasoning he applies to everything else. not because it’s convenient. not because he’s supposed to. there is no clean-cut explanation, no calculated rationale, no easy justification. just care. the kind that isn’t required, isn’t expected, isn’t supposed to exist.

he has the answer now.

but you’re too drunk to even remember the question you threw at him this morning, eyes burning, voice laced with something sharp and aching. too lost in the haze of exhaustion, the weight of alcohol pressing against your bones, your usual armor stripped away piece by piece. the version of you sitting beside him now—quiet, unguarded, fragile in a way you’d hate—wouldn’t even care to hear it. so what’s the point? what’s the point of saying something you won’t remember, something you’d only deny in the morning, something that shouldn’t matter but somehow does?

he exhales, a slow, measured breath, fingers drumming idly against the leather steering wheel before finally leaning back, gaze shifting toward the dim glow of the dashboard. his glasses slide just slightly down the bridge of his nose, and he absently pushes them up, jaw tight, expression unreadable in the faint flicker of streetlights outside. for a moment, he just looks at you—the way your head tilts against the glass, the way your lashes flutter faintly, the way your lips are slightly parted as if you might say something but never do. his chest feels tight. too tight. like the weight of this realization, of you, is settling into a space he never made room for.

“nevermind.”

his voice is quiet, barely audible over the hum of the engine, but it carries. settles into the silence between you, lingers in the air as if waiting for a response.

and then, barely above a whisper—“idiot.”

it’s grumbled, half-asleep, but he still hears it, still watches the way your lips barely move as you bury yourself deeper into the seat, breath evening out.

he gasps, the sound exaggerated, scandalized, an instinctive reaction that’s far more him than the heavy, suffocating thoughts he’d been drowning in moments ago. “my iq is higher than yours!”

you don’t respond.

just shift slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at your lips, before sleep finally pulls you under. he scoffs, shaking his head, but there’s something softer in the way he settles into his seat, something almost fond in the way his grip eases around the wheel.

because despite everything—despite the frustration, despite the push and pull, despite the fact that he knows you’ll wake up tomorrow and pretend none of this ever happened—he still cares.

and he still doesn’t know what to do with that.

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