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astrogre · 1 year ago

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Astro observations 2

Disclaimer: I would like to confirm that my observations are the niche ways in which a placement may manifest, it is the way I’ve noticed it in others, the people around me, celebrities, myself and in my studies. It is not the doctrine wide broad way the placement occurs for everyone.

Jupiter 7H can have a reputation of wanting EVERYONE. Anyone with a pulse, they like everyone, usually their dating history is so diverse that if you put all their love interests in a room together it would be the most strangest group of people. Drake has this placement and he is known for wanting, going on dates with or having a relationship with Nicki minaj, Ice Spice, Jorja smith, JLo, Kylie Jenner, Tyra Banks, Sza, Hailey Beiber, Serena Williams, literally everyone. Marilyn Monroe also has this placement and people would say the same about her. With this placement it can make the native have interest with a lot of people. You can have plenty of potential partners.

Having 12H placements Sun especially can make you feel like your gifts, talents, purpose or whatever planet topic is in it, was made for others. Like serving an ungrateful, complaining customer that ends up eating the entire plate anyway. You individually may not be selfless but it feels like the planet in the 12H benefits others and not you. It feels like a fire that burns to keep others warm.

Conjuncts to the MC (planets and asteroid) show what you are most known for in the workplace, what you’re like at your best self too. Any placements conjunct to MC show what you are like at the peak of your life and how you act in your career and what are known for in your career. That’s how MC can indicate what your career is because it focuses on who you are at your best and how others see you in the workplace and go off from there. Eg. Aquarius MC conjunct Uranus and Webb may indicate you being tech savvy at your best self so astrologers may assume you’re in tech industry or well known online, but you can still be for an example a doctor that aids in treatment with technology, your MC sign doesn’t mean you exclusively work in the industry the sign represents, it just shows you the way you work in the industry you pursue

Neptune 1st housers may look completely different to their parents. Like you can see a hint of their parents features on their face but they don’t look that much like them. They can be born with features that are contrary to their birth parents like red hair and blue eyes in an all brunette family. Or it can be a subtle difference like they appear as if they’re from a different country, people guess their ethnicity incorrectly like all the time.

With Neptune 1st house There is nothing particularly special about these natives physical appearance in particular, they MAKE themselves special. The way they carry their physical body and animate it, is what makes these people so different and admired. They’re like puppeteers for their physical bodies. This is a continuous pattern I’ve seen, like if you just saw these people on the street sure -you’d think they’re pretty.. but not necessarily “otherworldly”, what makes these individuals perceived as such is the way they control/express their behavior. I have noticed Neptune here makes people VERY controlling over their appearances, it does make me question if Neptune is a subtly secretly controlling planet, if it manipulates subconsciously, like a child conveniently stepping on other’s sandcastles when running on the beach so they don’t have to wait their turn for the buckets, these natives can accidentally bring about their ideal version of themselves to reality and everyone is like who is this??? It’s more so like they customised their avatar in their head and showed it to everyone here in the physical plane. It’s like they made themselves a game characters in a world full of civilian people, that’s why they’re so unique looking, it’s because they wrote themselves .

Unpopular opinion but Scorpio Venus isn’t a fun sexy placement that everyone hypes it up to be. It can make you constantly end up in relationships that have weird power dynamics and are just unhealthy. You may struggle to be in a soft loving relationship because it’s not intense enough but that just leads you/partners to manipulate and themes of control in your relationship. Sure, it may be considered“hot” but not healthy. Not love.

Also another thing I’ve realised with this placement, feminine natives attracted to men PLEASE don’t intentionally flirt with someone. You’re already so intense and magnetic without realising it that if you intentionally flirt with men it’s so extreme like a 0-100, that it can overwhelm/scare them because of how predatory it may feel 💀. If a man isn’t pursuing you, he’s not interested because your always appealing and screaming out a mating call even if your physically doing nothing.

Lilith opposite moon natives can have mothers who impose traditional lifestyle and beliefs on the native. For an example the mother may be controlling and imposing her ideas of humbleness, modesty, and traditional masculinity/femininity on the child. Defensive, like she is everything but a mother herself but subjects you to standards she cannot even amount to.

Uranus 2H feel like everything that makes them feel good and safe can be taken away in an instance. These people KNOW what it’s like to have the things they love abruptly taken from them over and over again by others or by nature, until they may even struggle to value the great things they have anymore. 2H rules your values and self worth, for these natives it gets to an extent where they don’t even value themselves because once they finally start to accept themselves they’re shown a perspective to them that they cannot accept.

It is said that the degree of a placement shows which age that planets energy starts to become active. Not sure how true that is but when you look at your natal chart, try keeping it in mind for yourself and look back to when you first had an experience under the themes of that planet. E.g for sun, when and what age did you feel seen, Venus who and how old were you for your first love or romantic partner

Sun conjunct Lilith. People with this placement may deal with their fathers highlighting the most non conforming features of themselves, the smallest of things you do will be escalated, this can manifest as slut shaming, being degraded for the way you are because you’re not “soft”, making you out to be like a chaotic mess, villainising you. Imagine having a loud snitch exposing your most “cancellable” traits. Britney Spears has this exact placement and I went to test if my hypothesis is true:

For Britney this placement is in the 3rd house which rules communication, hence why her father made comments about her like this, but say if it was in the 2nd house it could be done by a father providing less for his child because he deems them unworthy due to their non-traditional traits. This illumination of shame is done by the themes of the house this aspect is in.

All the Sagittarius influenced natives I meet always play a loud an instrument. I’ve seen it in Sagittarius suns especially and also in sag stelliums. I have no idea why, but they always do. They play things like drums, electric guitar. I’ve also seen that they can play piano and other instruments but it’s actually not their main instrument to play and if it’s not instruments they have an interest in LOUD hobbies, like cars.

Pluto in 11th house can have one of those character AI boyfriends, be in a relationship with their NPC rpg girlfriend/boyfriend, or they can just straight up play otome games and deeply feel like they have a connection to the character, these are the kind to marry their VR chat girlfriend and play mystic messenger.

Also Pluto 11Hs if your dreams and ambitions were to be vocalised to your peers, they may find you egotistical or someone to watch out for. You are a BIG dreamer. It’s giving Azula. I think Pluto 11H natives learn to keep their ideas to themselves if they want to be successful.

Natives with Aphrodite (1388) in 1st house, when describing you people may argue on the appearance or how you may present yourself as, or who they believe you are, alike to when the men witnessed Aphrodite in mythology, they would say “she had beautiful blonde hair and a soft voice” and another man would scream at him and say “nay, she was a red haired bold aggressive woman who goes for what she wants” this is because the men see what they want to see in her, they see their ideal beauty, but can both identify it’s the same person. When they see her in person at the same time they will only see what they think she is and will not be able to see her for herself. Could indicate in your reputation, you are idolised like Aphrodite but only being liked for your beauty/the persona they project on you.

Saturn 3rd house can make you have siblings that whip you up into shape, being a catalyst or aid to your best self, whether in a harsh way or a progressive way it depends on the sign. E.g Billie Eilish has this placement and her brother Finneas is a key aid to her success today by being the one who writes her music, and Kylie Jenner has this in Aries but her sister Kendall was her competition, worst critic, extremely condescending and critical of her body, her image, her skills even making fun of her for having lip injections in interviews etc which forced Kylie to feel insecure changing everything about herself but lead her to the popularity she has today.

Scorpio Mars isn’t a fun placement either, so many say that these natives are blessed, after all, Mars is in rulership, it gives them will power, survival instinct and makes them a shark. But people don’t discuss how being a Scorpio Mars can make you hurt others further than intended, it’s like tactically pulling the jenga block excited for your opponents next go but instead- you make the entire tower fall on your their face, they hurt themselves crying and the game ends bitterly. You won but at what cost? You can overestimate what people can take, and inevitably your loved ones may become the sorry victim of your sting. I think deep down Scorpio Mars natives know how much they hurt people and sometimes wish they weren’t so intense. I always think of Omni man from invincible having this placement.

Was working as an external motivational speaker for a school and this Gemini Sun teacher was so prim and proper, he’d sit crossing his legs and always be making sure students were extremely well behaved listening for anyone talking like this:

I’d say rather strict. He was timely, efficient hated tardiness and I knew he was a bloody mercurial with that prestige desk organisation and flick of fingers while typing (such sass),I thought he was a Virgo but, when I pried to get his birthday (which was very difficult as he was professional and loved etiquette). He was actually a Gemini Sun. Gemini suns you guys have the goofiest of smiles and energy but you can be scary to work under. It’s SO funny how differently Gemini suns treat those on the same authority standing as them compared to the ones they’re supposed to oversee. They’re like 👨‍⚖️🔎⏰ as a boss, but personally like: 🌸😃🌈 to their colleagues. You guys also have very snappy and sassy comebacks to disrespect it’s hilarious to watch outside looking in how you even come up with such remarks. I’ve also noticed you guys can be sucky and adoring towards your bosses, but strangely it works.

Capricorn MC, how does it feel to live my dream?? People with this placement are the most high earning, most dominant or the most respected and well known person in their field. Whether it be politics, modelling, office, technology, teaching, literally everything.. if you have Capricorn MC the way you handle your work is with an extreme amount of meticulous efforts. You go through the small print terms and conditions, execute the process with full clarity which is what makes you guys so successful. You don’t fuck around, Examples of people with this placement are Martin Luther King, David Beckham, Kendall Jenner, Rihanna, Mariah Carey, Heath Ledger, Nikola Tesla, Jeff Bezos, Alexander the Great. Notice how they’re all contenders for the title “Greatest of all time” in the fields they’re in. When they say that Saturns influence makes you established and remembered throughout history, it’s true. With Capricorn MC, you’re probably the first to set a record in the work you do and will be remembered as one of the foundations of the future.

I don’t want to reinforce stereotypes about Pisces moon. However, I’ve noticed that you really shouldn’t jokingly insult these guys. I think it’s because of their inclination to read between the lines and the underlying meaning of words that are said. They really don’t take criticism very well because they pick up the hidden meanings, e.g I once lived with one and he jokingly told me he’s going to lock me out of his room so that I don’t rob him and then I asked in all seriousness“why would I rob you?” And he was hurt and explained it’s because my question suggested that i thought he didn’t have nice clothes. (Which is true, im not interested in menswear nor his style). Perhaps this is a me thing though because im rather forthright with what I say. Maybe Pisces moons aren’t so sensitive, maybe we’re just cruel to them.

Also these natives are incredibly intelligent in terms of understanding emotions. I’ve noticed that they can easily grasp why certain people do certain things which is what makes them known to be “empathetic or forgiving” but it’s really because the concept of deep and complex emotions isn’t difficult for them to grasp. They’re like the Einsteins of human nature. And when I speak of empathy, that doesn’t mean they they can do no wrong, that’s a common misconception about Pisces moon, there are bad people within every placement but strangely Pisces moons if they are “bad” end up being forgiven for it because they garner sympathy from others. E.g Kim Jong-un, Edgar Allen Poe, Kesha, Coco Chanel, Kendrick Lamar, Vanessa Hudgens, Hilary Clinton, Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, Kanye West, Michelle Obama.

Fama (408) conjunct Mercury can indicate being well known for your ideas and thoughts, they can stand out or perhaps the way you communicate them does. You have an attractive mind that garners attention from many, people love to hear what you have to say, it’s like being lady wistledown from bridgerton. Ben Shapiro is an example of someone with this placement. He speaks very fast and is a famous conservative speaker engaging in debates with political royalty.

Ascendant conjunct Chiron forever being attacked for their appearance really saddens me. These natives can be treated normally but then once they do something that others don’t like, their appearance will be promptly targeted. E.g Margot Robbie (brutally called mid because male viewers didn’t appreciate her in the Barbie movie), Peter Dinklage (think he complained about dwarfism being represented in cinema but I can imagine he must have also grown up with a lot of unkind words), Priyanka Chopra (people coming for her when she married a Jonas brother), Selena Gomez (I don’t even know why but people attack her for her body apparently), Abraham Lincoln (this man wanted to free slaves I bet they made caricatures of him during the 1800s).

Venus in 10H, why is your relationship a Google search away. Everything we know about your love life is against our will. I know you love your partner but please. These natives can end up telling on themselves about the nature of their relationships. Examples: Jayda Smith (red table), Johnny Depp ( his released audio recordings), Billie Eilish (made a whole documentary about her relationship to her ex boyfriend) David Bowie (spoke pleasantly of his wife Iman any chance he got in many interviews), Kristen Stewart (cheating at award ceremonies).

Aries Mercury people are extremely motivational, they really know how to make others do something simply by their words, it can be for the bad or for the good E.g The rock (Dwayne Johnson) , Adolf Hitler, Albert Einstein, Queen Elizabeth II, Amber Heard, Mark Zuckerberg, Al Pacino, William Shakespeare. These natives can make an understaffed workforce win the battle because they remembered what you said, they’re usually quoted and the people with this placement can have really empowering but simple one liners that make you want to beat on your chest like King Kong and seize the day. Very influential and honestly the best people to have a pep talk from.

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kissofrindou · 2 months ago

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distance makes the heart grow fonder!

in which rindou misses you in his time in juvie

rindou x reader: pure fluff, likes & reblogs are appreciated!

distance makes the heart grow fonder — in the excruciating six months rindou’s been in juvie, he realises how true that is.

a part of him wants to blame the lack of fun or entertainment or any sort of proper facility in the rehabilitation center — a few hours a day at the courtyard where he practically just sits around, do some weight training whilst his brother socialises enough for the both of them, probably to garner another spot and connection. and another hour three times a day to eat bland and tasteless food that makes him truly rethink his delinquent life as he shoves soaking white rice that tastes like the water it was cooked in, or the chicken that definitely has been microwaved after being left out for multiple days straight. and then right after, its night time, lights off as he’s forced to “rethink” and “reflect” in the creaky hard bed that he’s still not used to despite nearing the end of his sentence.

and in these six months, youre all he can think about.

perhaps he’s taken for granted beforehand: you and him have never been apart after all.

sat right next to each other since kindergarten, your world and his has always collided, practically merged in one. your home was simply a walk away from his, and your parents adored him strangely enough. a routine, in contrast to his messy life with his older brother, one that he strangely likes and in recent times, missed dearly though he would never verbally admit it to anyone but perhaps some god who’s reading his mind.

it was easy, never having to make much of an effort. every morning, he would eat breakfast straight from the fridge into the microwave, grab his bag and walk to the bus stop you two met up in, get on the bus and go to school — nothing special. but now, stuck in his cell as though he’s been banished from society, he misses everything about it: he misses your voice and laughter as you two switched between topics from your weekends and school gossips and new shop items to get, he misses the occasional songs you two would share with the old wired earphones still kept in his wallet abandoned in his room that would alternate between your favourite songs that he can practically hum in his head even now and his that vibrates in his ear with the electric guitar and beats that had you two nod your head as though in agreement, he misses the unintentional touches during those trips that felt like electric shocks whether it was form the bumpy bus ride that had you push against him whether you two were sitting down or not or the fingertip bumping against each other in the cramp bus.

and in some twisted way, he misses school too, strangely enough. in a way, it was the place that brought you two together, red strings practically tying you too as well as the teachers who sought you out as the solution to rindou’s troublemaker personality though really, you were just as bad (though at least you haven’t been in jail). he misses the school lunches you two ran, hand in hand, to queue up for — japanese curry rice with his favourite katsu chicken which spice level varied according to the cook’s mood that day, cold soba noodles that was practically bathed in ice that melt away at the burning heat of the world, that stupid french toast topped his honey and sugar that always ran out too quickly — and most importantly you who sat right in front of him without fail every break, as though you two were the only one in this world at the corner of the canteen that no one dared bothered the two of you. he misses the classrooms, sitting right next to you in all of them: he misses the secret whispers and written notes talking about the boring classes, unwrapped candies shoved into both of your mouths, books standing on the table so you could have a quick nap mid lesson, eyes connecting to yours as you two lay your heads on the wooden surface, your smile sweeter than the caramel that’s bursting in his mouth as he bites down on the candy to not say his real feelings. he misses each and every class skipped: hiding in an empty classroom or at the back of the cold and quiet library that contrasted with your warmth or finding another new corner added to his memory long abandoned but now kept alive by the two of you, your head on his shoulders as you two do your own things, playing games, listening to his new beats he made the night before (with you in mind), napping and daydreaming about what the future held for the two of you.

and more so, after school: where you two would practically travel the world — whether in the crowded city and town, walking and laughing on the streets with your bag carried by him, dashing in and out of the stores as you two hear the saleslady yell after you and the salesman sighing at the sight of you two, hands holding your favourite ice cream (that he never tells you tastes really bad in his humble opinion), sampling food and drinks and items at the grocery store as he pushes you on the cart for no reason other than to be a nuisance (that is successful, considering the pointed glares and whispers at the passerbys). each time was a new adventure: different shops and different antics, different bites of equally bad ice creams and treats that you love all the same, different conversation and different days, and yet no matter what, he misses them all. not because he likes those overly-covered chocolate ice cream that tastes way too strongly, or because he likes those terrible-looking shirts that he buys simply because it makes you laugh, or because he has nothing else better to do but simply because you were there. your smile that practically acts as his sun makes the ice cream and treats tastes truly sweet, one that makes his heart swell up and aches at the same time, your laughs that sounds like inspiration for his next remix and beats rings just right in his ears to have another atrociously ugly shirt sit in his closet hung up for you to see when you come over, your voice that sounds like a song that he can’t stop replaying makes every single hang out and time spent with you just so mesmerising and addictive.

rindou remembers the first time you fell sick and didn’t go to school: it was pure torture, no one to talk to through whispers and post it notes, no one to sit with him to enjoy the sandwich he got that was practically stale considering he didn’t have the motivation to rush down as he would with you. it was so miserable that he left mid school and went over, buying hot soup and medicine on the way at some overpriced place that was near yours so it would still but hot when he got there, taking care of you that seemed so unnatural and strange to him but felt just right as he sat beside you, watching your sleeping face, wiping away the snot at the corner of your nose and drool at the side of your mouth that was slightly dry and pale. and now it was pernament, or at least for this six months — and really, he has half a mind to attempt to break out of here, if not the fact that you would probably not enjoy having a convict at your house (really, he knows you might not mind, but that would really ruin the impression of him to your parents that he still might need their blessing for for the future, but he digresses)

and after a whole six months, rindou gets released from prison: and instead of going home to sleep in his soft bed and rest up like his brother, or going to the club where he knows people would be all over him considering he’s the new talk in town after beating the back then best gang leaders in roppongi, he walks straight to your house, wearing some sweater his brother got his friends to get the both of them for their release.

and it feels natural, as though its like home: pressing your doorbell as he’s done a million times — every weekend to ask you to hang out probably at his favourite arcade to play those rhythms games or dance machines or claw machines, once in a while when he gets up and early and can’t be bothered to wait in the silence at the bus stop, or simply when he’s bored (and misses you).

and after a full six months, he thinks you look even better than his memory can serve him.

”hey, i’m back. missed you.”

a honest response from him, slipped out of his mouth despite his blank expression (and pink tinted face). but he doesn’t mind it, not when the smile he misses and has to scratch the back of his brain in the cell to remember the shape of it, not when he can hear your smile that makes his world go quiet, only you and him in this life together, not when you pull him by his shirt that makes his half-lidded eyes go wide as he crashes onto you, you on the floor and him on top of you. and he can’t help but laugh too, your world and his merging once more, his hands tugging onto yours, as he pulls you in: its magnetic , its natural, and its like home.

distance really makes the heart fonder: on both side, rindou thinks — his practiced facade gone when he’s in your arms as though your plushies that sits the same on your bed when he goes up later, when youre here with him and fitting with him just right like a puzzle piece so much that he feels whole again.

and perhaps, just maybe, he has to get his act together and confess a little quicker: he’s sure you think the same too, when you peck his cheeks in affection, you and him laying on your bed, eyes magnetic to each other, talking as though you two have never been separated, as though you two weren’t just separated by the stupid metal gates and barbed wires of his juvie, as though you two were truly connected by the red string that grew oh so resistant to the tearing and pulling of both yours and his facades and hidden love that has long melted into the open.

#rindou.<3 #rindou haitani x reader #rindou x reader #rindou haitani fluff #tokyo revengers x reader #tr x reader #tokyo revengers fluff #tenjiku x reader

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fernslivers · 18 days ago

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Highschool Sweetheart, University Love

In a chance happening, you're paired for a group project with the girl you've been dying to meet all school year. You're determined to befriend her, just as she's determined to hide away. But fate has already made it clear whose side it's on, and your connection follows you both to university, where it blooms into something more.

A/N: ANON, THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE. I've been chipping away at this piece for ages and it just kept growing. I did tweak it a bit from someone asking you out, as the original prompt mentioned, because I already had that on my list of topics for Modern Mizu headcanons (so you'll be getting it anyway). I hope that's okay! This was such a comforting fic to work on, honestly. It's the fluffiest (and spiciest) piece I've done so far, though naturally that means it's still full of minor angst and pining. I hope nobody minds if I tried out my hand at loser!Mizu. I champion the switch-Mizu supremacy.

Reader is meant as wlw, but their preferred gender isn't really specified.

((You can see the original prompt here: "https://www.tumblr.com/fernslivers/784084562788679680/had-thoughts-about-a-high-school-into-college-au" ))

TWs: Spice, some internalized self-image issues, insecurity, mentions of He*ji Sh*ndo and T*igen (in passing)

---

It started with a fight.

See, the teachers had a bad habit of pairing the quiet studious students with the rowdier ones, thinking they would balance out. Often, it does. And so, innocently, your teacher had tried to put the quiet Mizu with…Taigen.

Gasoline…meet spark.

“Enough! Enough!” Your teacher shouts over the chaos, waving her arms as she tries to separate them. Desks clatter to the floor, people shrieking and scattering out of the way, as she finally bodies her way in between them, fearless in the way only older female teachers ever are.

Silence finally falls.

Taigen is sporting a spectacular black eye, Mizu a split lip. Her bloodied teeth are bared, eyes blazing under her uneven bangs, while Taigen laughs mockingly from behind the teacher.

“Enough, the pair of you!” The teacher shouts again, furious. Both of them glare at the floor. She huffs, out of breath, and looks around the room. She seems too flustered to figure out what to do; she's also not the type to send kids for punishment without talking to them first. “We will deal with this after class. For now, Taigen, you are with him…”--she points somewhere on the other side of the room–”... and Mizu, you go there.”

She points. You freeze when you find yourself at the end of that point.

Your eyes slide from the teacher’s to Mizu’s. Two shards of ice glare back above a bloodied mouth.

Without thinking, you give her an awkward little wave. Here goes nothing.

—

You both work very quietly for a few minutes. You keep glancing her way–wary of that aura of anger still emanating from her, but unable to stop looking at the already swelling lip. She'd looked terribly fierce when she'd been fighting… the memory of that tooth-baring snarl is making your heart flutter strangely.

You've had a crush on this exact girl for most of the school year at this point. It started when you'd walked out of class and directly into a slim shape crossing the hallway; you'd looked up into the most beautiful eyes you'd ever seen, recognizing the new girl right away. She had apologized, quickly and efficiently, then turned away before you could say a word. You'd been watching her ever since. The way she walked with such a strange mixture of flinching and defiance; as though she expected to be struck down, and already planned on stubbornly getting back up. You had waited and waited for an opening, always had a smile ready on your lips when she passed by, but she never looked up, never gave you an ounce of an opening… until now.

Meanwhile, Mizu sulks, avoiding your gaze, already assuming that you hate this forced pair-up. She doesn't want to see you looking at her like she's a rabid animal you've been forced to sit close to. She wonders with a dull pang of resignation what stories you've heard, about her, about where she comes from. She had tried to catch Ringo’s eye when this all started–he can be annoying, but he is at least diligent. But he had already partnered with Akemi, sitting next to him. Then the teacher had partnered up who was left, and…

A soft voice catches her attention.

“That looks painful…”

She meets your gaze with a start, surprised to see your brow furrowing slightly in concern.

“S’fine,” she mumbles, but it's clear the swelling is starting to affect her speech, and she scowls harder at her own human limitations. You dig in your bag, pulling out a little pack of wipes. When she looks at you skeptically, you giggle nervously. “They're not scented or anything, but they're supposed to soothe…it might help?”

Wonderingly, she reaches out. You think she looks much less intimidating when her eyes are wide like this, her fingers hesitant. Nervous…almost shy.

She takes the wipe like she's preparing for you to snatch it back and laugh. When you don't, she smiles tentatively, as much as her swollen lip will allow.

—

The project goes surprisingly well. You both fall into a strangely easy rhythm of meeting for your free periods, occasionally after class … This is the first time Mizu has ever had a fellow student to meet up with. Eiji grumbles about her lack of presence in the forge, but she catches the edge of a smile as he turns away, shooing her out the door to the library, where you're waiting, every day for the next few weeks, with a ready smile that makes her guts feel squirmy.

Mizu handles the display; you handle the presenting. She blushes with half-hidden delight when you praise the artistic beauty of her work with genuine admiration. She'd always wondered if her designs merited any pride, but who could she ask? Eiji of course could tell her plenty about technical skill, but he isn't the type to bother praising her aesthetics, even if he could. And she feels a profound sense of gratitude when you field the questions at the end; blocking those that would previously have asked her joke questions just to force the weird kid to speak.

When the presentation concludes with a spattering of the usual bored classroom applause, you shoot her a beaming smile. She feels a little glow in her chest, swelling up like a warm bubble. This is the first project where she didn't end with wanting to sink into the ground and vanish.

The bell rings, and you walk with her out into the hall, the same way you have every day since the project started. She's grown used to the company, now. It's… really nice.

“That went so well!” You chirp, pausing in the hallway. “That's the first time I didn't hate a group project.” You rub your arm, wondering if you're saying too much. “I'm actually kinda sad to see it end…”

…Oh. Right.

The bubble in her chest pops abruptly.

The project is over. She’s got no further reason to spend time with you. Her suddenly empty ribcage aches; no more afternoons in the library filled with your chatter, no more emails and texts to cut the monotony of training and working with Eiji. She might never see your name pop up on her little flip-phone again. She's horrified to feel her throat tighten painfully.

Why is she so disappointed? What is this? Spooked by her own emotions, she panics, just as you start to speak.

“Would you maybe wanna–”

“I gotta get to class.” She blurts out over top of your words, turning on her heel and hurrying away, terrified you might see the emotion on her face. That would be humiliating. It was just a project.

You stare after her, your mouth still open on the half-finished invitation to hang out.

—

It takes another school year, and at least one more paired project, to get her to the point of even conversing outside of class-based activities.

You don't care.

You saw the way she warmed to you during that first project. And–frankly–you know what she's like with people she can't stand, you share several classes with people she has snarled at. If she wanted you gone, truly, she'd have cut you down already.

You’re determined to make this strange, prickly girl like you. It's like slowly coaxing in a wild animal; there's an honor in gaining that trust.

It's not easy.

She looks away when you sit next to her in class, mumbling her responses to your greetings. She hunches her shoulders and speeds up when you call out to her in the hallway, then hyperventilates in the bathroom stall, berating herself for being unable to just turn around. She won't sit with your friends at lunch; she finds them banal and irritating.

She sits very close by, though, close enough to hear the bright arpeggio of your laughter, to glance over the top of her sketch book and study the way your hand raises to cover your smiling mouth selfconsciously. Each laugh strikes like an arrow, a pang of wistfulness that she immediately resents. She feels irrationally jealous every time someone else prompts that laugh. She wishes you were laughing with her.

Sometimes, rarely, you do sit with her. Those are the best days. When she can sit quietly and let herself sink into your voice like a warm bath. You always ask about her newest sketches; she always hopes that you will, but can never bring herself to offer first. Slowly, she's begun to draw with the hopes that you'll soon be looking at these pieces and praising them. The praise begins to settle in her mind as pride in her own work; it's new, a little scary.

You never chatter too much; the silences are easy. In those moments, she knows you understand; the importance of giving each other room for thought, of knowing when you do choose to speak, it will instantly be picked up with warmth, of following a conversation half-started inside another person’s head. There's an intimacy in that silence, unquestioned and full-felt.

But the next day, you’re back with your friends, and she's left to wonder, to drive herself slowly crazy with doubt.

She has no idea that you come so rarely only because you worry you're bothering her. It would surprise her that her quiet presence is a balm to you the same as yours is for her. That she feels more real to you than anyone else in the school. That when she raises her pale gaze and listens to you, you feel like what you're saying has more weight than ever before. Simply by listening, she makes you slow down, think harder about what you say and what you believe. You feel yourself becoming more you every moment you spend within her simple acceptance. You'd sit there every day if you could; but instead, you only do it when you just can't stay away a second longer.

For her, those are bright moments of beauty, where she has your full attention, and she can believe that you're here because you feel that same need for her. For you, they are tiny moments of connection to something that feels already deeper and more special than the fleeting teenaged fancies of high school.

The day she finally, grumblingly, agrees to give you her social media accounts, it feels like getting the wolf to briefly let you stroke its muzzle. It is a prize you hug to your heart and allow to buoy you up for weeks afterwards. She trusts me–it electrifies you with excitement that even impedes your sleep.

The social media in question is bare-bones. No profile picture, no posts. Her friends list is hidden.

You don't realize it's because she created it for you.

Because you kept asking.

That hidden friends list is only two people long; you, and Ringo (who immediately discovered her page with the skill of a bloodhound, despite her attempts to be unsearchable).

For your part, you try not to think about the little thrill that pops through you when you notice a like from her in your notifications. You sometimes just stare at the grey outline of her blank profile photo, at her name next to it. Thinking about her. Wishing she would post some tiny hint of her life, her interests, anything that might give you a glimpse past the wall of stoicism. You aren't sure when you started posting your own content hoping she'd see it, but at some point towards the end of that second year, you can admit that you think of her with every new upload.

She regrets it every day; it makes it impossible to turn her brain away from you. It’s like a little reminder of you in her fucking pocket that dings every time you post a story, a picture, a note, a video–how many ways can people post on these things?? It's torture.

She consumes every pixel of it religiously.

Memorizes the exact curl of your real smile versus the one you think makes you look nice in photos. Learns what music you prefer to go with your posts. What days you’ll be putting up little Stories and why; the ones that come with being bored in class, the ones being out with friends, the ones when you're at home. She learns hints of what your room looks like through the back of your selfies.

She's not trying to be creepy; she isn't lurking in your bushes or something. It's just that you're…interesting. For some reason.

For the thousandth time, she slams the laptop shut abruptly, glaring at her ceiling, hearing the ring of Eiji’s hammer downstairs. Mizu he shouts up, and she hops to her feet, grateful for work to purge her mind temporarily.

It doesn't matter.

None of it matters.

You'll be gone soon, anyway, and she's certain you won't remember her. She's watched you from afar, seen how you're always happy, always smiling, with everyone equally.

Meanwhile, she feels like her chest only lightens when she's near enough to hear your laugh. The yawning pit of grief she feels when she looks at that looming graduation date…it feels impossible, like it can't truly happen. Surely something so essential to her life can't simply…leave?

It doesn't. Matter.

She's used to losing things. She'll adjust to this too, who cares? And you seem to have no problem being happy without her. You'll move on.

—

She freezes on the threshold of the dorm, statue-still with her cardboard box in hand. Behind her, Eiji crashes into her back and swears loudly. She doesn't move, even when his cane-tongs clonk her ankle. A pair of familiar eyes look up at the commotion, going as wide as hers.

“Mizu…?”

She drops the box. Before she can scramble for it, you’re leaping into her suddenly empty arms.

She's assaulted by the warmth of you, your familiar scent; only ever caught in wisps except for that one painful, poignant hug at graduation–the last time she thought she would ever get the chance to hold you close. As her brain struggles to reboot, her body reacts, wrapping around you, gripping you back tightly, as though she'll never risk letting go again.

“Mizu, I can't believe it!” She looks down into your beaming face. Your smile is so close. Have your eyes always been this full of light? Your skin so soft-looking, your hair falling so perfectly? She's still frozen, even with Eiji growing frustrated behind her.

“It’s like fate!” Your voice, that same bright peal of laughter.

She is so fucked.

—

Slowly, impossibly, you settle into a routine.

Not that it isn't torture. It absolutely is, to be so close to you, actually haunted by the scent of your shampoo, even your laundry soap. Even more devastatingly, your dorm begins to smell like both your scents mingled–sometimes she can catch a whiff of you on her own jacket. It's as though her own fantasies are laughing at her.

Every time she opens the door to find you glancing up from your bed with that bright smile, her heart lurches, a joy that is somehow knife-sharp. It hurts to look at you too long, and yet she can never satisfy the need to do so.

This is so much harder than high school.

For the first week, she lies awake, staring in awed silence as you sleep peacefully less than a room-length away from her. You're here. Not just on campus–in her room. It feels impossible to have gotten this second chance to be close, even if she'll never have you the full way she wants. This is already more than a blessing. It’s like a kind of greed; surviving on tiny gasps of your presence before, and now she can just breathe you in.

---

It only takes her that first week to notice that you always wake up too late to get breakfast before the hall closes.

As you shovel one of the pop-tarts from your care package into your mouth, again, frantically shoving your shoes into your sneakers without untying them, already looking around for your bag, a raspy voice arrests you.

“What do you usually eat in the morning?”

“Mmph?” You stop and turn to her; her voice has always had the power to do that. She speaks so rarely and always with purpose.

God, she looks good; you remember how long she's been doing her sword training now, and her body has that well-seasoned fighter’s slouch as she sprawls in her desk chair. You could just crawl into that lap... Whatever she did in your summer apart, it's working for her. Her high bun highlights the sleekness of her cheekbones, lets more light into those intense eyes.

Rousing yourself, you shake your head on an indistinct noise, waving at the poptart in your teeth.

She curls her lip up with a stoic look of disapproval. It shouldn't be hot; it really is. “If you could get up in time. Get real food.”

“Hmg–...mm…” You decide not to comment on the hypocrisy of this; you can remember how often she seemed to survive on tea and pure spite back in high school. You finish your bite hastily, pulling the rest of the pastry away to mumble around it, “I don't know… I'm not really very picky.”

You get a bombastic eye roll. She's grown a bit more confident over the summer as well, and that sharp sass you've always seen buried under the surface has come out in full. You're not complaining.

She leaves the conversation there, but the next morning, the clack of a plate dropping onto your bedside table is what wakes you. You squint up at her, confused; of course she's already dressed without a hair out of place. She swallows the thought that you look extremely cute like this, and soft, and warm, and she would very much like to burrow down into the extra plush blankets with–

“Eggs.” Her voice is as clipped as ever.

“Did you steal that plate from the dining hall…?” You push yourself up on one elbow, blinking, too disoriented to think to say thank you. “They have to-go boxes…”

She’s already turning away for the door; your voice is husky from sleep and it's killing her slightly.

“Eat.”

You eat about half the eggs; they aren't your favorite. She surveys the leftovers on the plate the next time she's in the room, but says nothing.

The next day it’s oatmeal instead. She watches as you crinkle your nose before hiding it in a flash, remembering this time to say thank you, and eating a bit to be polite.

Then bacon. Then waffles.

You thank her profusely no matter what it is; she grunts and flees. Every day.

You’re not about to be outdone. You begin to notice how often she gets back late to the dorm from her practices. You've got to take the breakfast plates back anyway (she keeps stealing them), or she'll try to do that for you, too, so…

The next time she comes in late, she drops her duffle with a sigh, and goes towards her side-table to grab a protein bar from her stash. She finds a takeout container waiting. She looks over at you, startled.

You smile. “Eat,” you tell her, playfully.

—

She keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to reveal some fundamental incompatibility. Maybe you put dirty socks on the radiator? Or talk loudly on the phone late at night? But as the autumn cools and the leaves crisp to burnt caramel and drop, things only grow warmer between you.

Slowly, your things begin to encroach on each other’s sides, her jacket slung over your chair on her way to sit on your bed, your books stacked on her desk, trying to entice her to read your favorites. Slowly, she finds that more and more Friday nights are spent curled distractingly close to you on one bed or the other, watching something on the laptop, instead of studying in silence or training at the gym. It still feels like a miracle when you turn to her and smile like she’s something special to you, but it’s no longer a bizarre shock.

When will you start to hate her? There must be something she's going to do that will turn you away, fill your eyes with the cold distaste she's come to expect as a greeting from others. When will she catch you gossiping about her? When will your smile suddenly turn cruel, and you reveal this has all been some ridiculously long joke? Or that you've just figured out that she's not worth your time? Surely you can't really be the only one who will never turn on her, another like sword-father?

One day she catches herself smiling even when she's alone–just remembering your laughter the night before.

Panic sets in. She's … happy. You make her happy. This is all going too well.

She’s getting in too deep. It can't last, she knows it can't.

She begins to pull away.

At first, you take it in stride; this is Mizu, she gets in weird moods, and you've seen her go through grumpy phases before. Something from class, something Taigen said–frankly, just her suddenly recalling that he somehow ended up at the same university is sometimes enough to put her in a funk.

But after the third week of untouched takeout containers, and two skipped Friday hangouts, it starts to sting.

You thought things were going well. What did you do wrong?

Suddenly, you're back in highschool again, wanting to sit at her table but afraid you'll piss her off by coming around too much, having to constantly calculate how much you can be with her before you scare her away. Have you been spending too much time around her? Is she burnt out on you? Every time you ask her to do something and she turns away with a shrug and a grunt, it feels like something breaks in your soul.

You can feel yourself wilting away, your smiles less ready as her scent starts to fade from your clothing and pillow. You blame yourself. You got too comfortable and forgot about moderation. You let yourself be yourself too much, and now you've lost her.

Maybe…maybe you can still fix this. Maybe if you just give her space, maybe spend some time with your other friends, and let her have more time to herself, she'll come back around again?

Mizu notes your cooling demeanor, the sudden absences from your room, the way you stop inviting her to shared activities, the empty spot on her desk where your books have vanished. Within her, something grows cold, and nods with cynical resignation. Things are going back to the way they were always meant to go.

It's better this way, she thinks, lying awake and staring at the ceiling.

She still feels cold.

She feels like something important is slipping through her fingers. There's another, realer panic, quieter and more confusing, bubbling under the surface that she can't quite grasp. She shoves it down deep and tries to ignore it.

Lying dead still, barely blinking, she watches the cracks in the ceiling fade out of sight in the dark, then slowly reappear as the room lightens with the next morning’s dawn.

The cold only grows deeper.

—

Akemi has had just about enough of this bullshit.

Seriously.

Her friend group is in tatters thanks to the two of you.

It used to be fun; you two were thick as thieves. If she invited one, the other would show up without being asked. And somehow with you next to her, Mizu would sometimes smile, maybe even talk! Not to mention, Akemi had less of an issue keeping the conflicts between Mizu and Taigen to a minimum. She even had time to chat to Ringo without having to manage two ridiculous hotheads slinging their swords around in endless dick-measuring contests that neither could seemingly back down from.

Now? Forget it.

If one of you shows up, the other shuts down or leaves. More often it's you showing up, which of course means half the time, Ringo scuttles off to make sure Mizu isn't dead in a ditch somewhere, so Akemi never sees either of them. When Mizu does make a rare appearance, she's so damn irascible that Akemi is genuinely starting to fear for her boyfriend’s safety. In the miraculous event that you do both join the group, she has to endure the cliched sight of you both staring longingly at each other when one is looking away, only to turn quickly when they glance towards you, prompting them to start looking longingly…

She’s never seen two bigger, more oblivious boneheads. My god.

Something simply has to be done.

When she mentions this to her boyfriend, Taigen offers to flirt with you to entice Mizu to act; Akemi is forced to pretend at jealousy just to keep him from getting his ego bruised by the fact that she’s sure Mizu would outright kill him.

See? This is exhausting. Everything is conflict. Can't a girl get some damn peace.

That said… Taigen might be onto something here.

While Akemi isn't willing to risk her boyfriend’s life … there is a party coming up soon. She's happy to gamble on a few less frat bros in the world if it means getting her friends group off of life support.

Time to rehearse how she's going to rope you into dressing up.

—-

How Akemi roped you into this, you have no idea.

You're grousing under your breath in the mirror, still struggling to get your hair to behave, when the door to the dorm room opens behind you. You freeze. Dammit. You had been trying to get out the door before Mizu got home, but you're so out of the habit of dressing up that you've lost track of time.

You turn warily around to find Mizu outright staring.

When she catches your eye, she drops her duffle on her foot, trips over it, and then shuts the door on the bag, having dropped it right on the threshold. Her expression shifts rapidly as you watch; one betraying wide-eyed flick up and down your outfit, her cheeks flushing, then a guilty flash as she catches herself doing it and quickly glances away.

“Hm. Fancy,” she comments dryly, looking down at her dropped belongings and finally managing to shut the door.

Picking up her bag with deliberate casualness, she then hangs her things up with unusual care, the activity keeping her back to you. The brief fizzle of certainty that she was checking you out dies in the face of her now-customary coldness.

“Yeah,” you mumble, giving up on your hair. You don't really care if you look good for this thing anymore. It's amazing how one reminder of the lost closeness between you two can immediately kill your mood. “Sorry–I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

She grunts in reply, stalking over to throw herself into her bed without looking at you, and grabs her sketchbook. That seems to be the end of her input on the matter.

Jesus. You'd think such a rare event as you dressed up would–... well, maybe some part of you had hoped she might– … Well, fine. Whatever.

Stifling a sigh, you pad over to the end of your bed and bend forward to start putting on your shoes. Maybe you'll talk to your RA about a room transfer, you think. This late in the year, they probably won't replace you and then Mizu will have a room to herself. That would probably be better for her… Your mood is dropping to gloom when she unexpectedly pipes up again.

“Where are you going.”

You're surprised enough to turn and glance at her, but she's firmly ensconced behind the book and hasn't looked up. You aren't aware that she risked a glance a moment ago while you were bending forward and nearly swallowed her tongue. All you see is a literal wall, hiding her face from you when she used to meet you with eyes like a warm ocean.

You feel yourself crack.

Okay. You've been patient. You've been nice. But now you're just confused, upset–and mad. You're not sure if it’s the sight of her face blocked by that sketchbook–the one you know almost every sketch in–or the way she’s demanding to know where you're going despite ignoring you for weeks. Maybe it's the way she definitely looked you up and down when she came in, then pretended nothing happened. Regardless of what it is, something absolutely evil burrows into your chest.

“I'm going to that party tonight at Heiji Shindo’s.”

You had planned to be gone, or at least to tell her you were simply partying with Akemi. You weren't going to tell her. You know exactly how much Mizu hates Shindo; admittedly, that might have been a private reason you let Akemi talk you into this. And for the first time since this all started, you find that you kind of want to piss her off. God, at least maybe then she'll do you the courtesy of looking at you.

You get your wish.

“What.” The sketchbook flops forward, covered by her hands, and you almost flinch at the expression on her face. She looks stricken rather than angry; naked shock and a genuine disbelief etched in every angular plane and line.

You grit your teeth; you can smell an argument coming like rain on the breeze. Too late to turn back now.

“I said I'm going to–”

“Heiji. Shindo.” She cuts in. Every syllable tinkles with ice. Her face is twitching, emotions shifting rapid-fire between dismay and disgust, disbelief and something deeper, something that crumples the edges of her mouth and makes your heart clench. You shake your head; already you regret everything.

“Yeah.” You swallow. “Akemi asked me to go. She thinks it'd be good for me to get out, meet some people.”

You can see her fingers tighten on the edge of her sketchbook.

“Meet people.” Her voice drops with disdain. “Dressed…like that.” She curls a lip, but as her eyes drift to your outfit, you can tell the snark is, as usual, masking something else.

You can't help the way your shoulder slump, even if you want to pretend she doesn't bother you. “What's wrong with my outfit?”

The snark melts off her face at once at the sight of your stung expression, and she looks almost regretful for a moment before her face disappears behind the sketchbook. “Nothing. It's fine,” she snaps. “Nevermind.”

You pause, biting your lip. It's clearly not fine. Only a few weeks ago, you'd have pursued it, but not now, not when you’re already afraid you've driven her away by being too pushy. You go back to fastening your shoes, and for a few moments, the only sound in the room is the skritch of Mizu’s pencil. It stops suddenly.

“I don't think you should go.”

“Huh?”

She takes a breath. “You talk to enough people,” she says shortly. You frown.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” mumbles the sketchbook. You can see her shoulders hunch around its edges. “... You're always out. With people.”

“Are you saying I get around or something?”

“No!” Horrified blue eyes peep over the top of the sketchbook, then disappear again. “… Just … the people at those parties…”

You wait, as you always do, for her to find her words.

“They're… they might be unsafe.” Even she sounds confused by her own words. What the fuck is going on.

“You know I can take care of myself.” You cross your arms, but your tone is less angry this time; you're staring at her in bemusement. This is the most she's talked to you in weeks.

“They’re not your style,” she counters irritably. She's grasping at straws now; even you can hear the mounting frustration in her voice. A little whisper of intuition stops you from flaring up, and you pause, studying the taut figure on the bed.

“Who says they’re not my style?” You ask, more softly this time.

“They're just not.” She sounds certain. Internally, you know she's right–but you're not about to cave to a literal blank page with no answers.

“Well … maybe it'll be good to broaden my horizons,” you counter. You hear a faint choke disguised as a scoff.

“Sure, get harrassed by some frat guy,” She snaps. “I'm sure that's what your social life needs.”

You stand for a moment longer, shoe in hand. You could get angry at her tone, or the harsh words. Maybe you should. But…

As slowly as if you were approaching a stray cat, you walk over and sit at the edge of her bed. Her shoulders hunch further as she feels your weight dip the mattress. She draws her knees up defensively. Suddenly, you're reminded of the girl you met in high school, the one that watched you and waited for you to pull away when you'd just seen her thrash another student. Who looked surprised when you reached out instead. Maybe I've read this wrong.

“Mizu? Why are you so worked up about this?”

“I'm not.”

O-kay. You can already feel the wall you're going to hit if you insist on pushing that angle.

“... Okay. Well. Why … don't you want me to go?”

“Because I don't want you to– …” She nips off the end of her sentence abruptly.

“To?”

“Just– … forget it.” She's not even pretending to draw anymore. The sketchbook is pulled almost touching her face, purely a shield. You've never seen her like this. She's avoidant, to the max. You do know that. But hiding behind a book, openly almost cowering–that's not Mizu. A little grain of possibility is beginning to take root in your mind. But it can't be…

“Mizu. Please.” You keep your voice soft, but you're starting to get concerned, and the distress is showing in your voice. “Tell me what's going on. Why don't you want me to go?”

“I don't care if you go.” Her voice is tight behind her shield.

“Mizu, come on.” Your voice cracks; you're trying not to cry. What happened to you two? All you've ever wanted was to be close to her; a friend if that's all she wanted, even though you wanted more. How did you make so much progress and then suddenly get caught up in such a tangled mess? The words spill out of you in a frustrated rush; you can't seem to stop them. “You've been weird for weeks, and…and I thought we were close, you know??” You stand up from the bed abruptly, beginning to pace. “I don't know what I did wrong. But you won't even look at me, much less talk to me– and now you’re finally talking to me again but just to tell me not to go somewhere without even telling me why–”

“Because I don't want you to meet someone.”

It's so quiet that you could have talked right over it, but Mizu’s voice has always had the power to stop you in your tracks. You stop pacing.

“… What?”

“I don't… want you to-... meet someone.” You can't see her face, but the words sound like they're coming out through a tightly clenched jaw.

… Ho-ly shit.

“Mizu...” You sink back down onto the bed, feeling a little dizzy. You're at a loss for words, your voice genuinely stunned. Does she… does she really mean…? Is she saying…? Suddenly, you're consumed by the need to see her face; you can't know if this is real until you've seen it in her eyes. You reach out tentatively, and try to pull down the sketchbook, but she grips it tight. Damn. You always forget how strong she is.

“Mizu, please? Talk to me?” Your voice is cracking again, trying to stay soft with such a potent need building behind it.

At your soft plea, she almost seems to flinch. After a moment, slowly, jerkily, she lowers the sketchbook. You glance at the page in passing, and then stare at it in surprise.

It's a rough outline, barely, but it's clearly you, in your outfit, perfectly represented in only a few graceful strokes.

You stare at it for a long moment, pieces fully clunking into place in your brain. Then, gently, you pry the sketchbook from her stiff fingers and set it aside, before reaching out to take her hands. You can feel her fingers spasm under yours, as though she's afraid to squeeze back, but wants to.

“You know, you're right that the party isn't really my style,” you say very quietly. Raising your eyes from your entwined fingers to her eyes, you finally see her face. You’re struck again with a vision of your very first meeting; she looks as lost and uncertain as she did in that first moment of connection. This makes … only the second time you've ever seen Mizu look afraid. You hold her gaze in yours. “I'd rather be here. With you.”

Her breath catches on an inhale, blue eyes widening even further. Convulsively, the long fingers suddenly wrap around yours.

“Mizu, I ... I really missed you lately,” you continue, your voice still quiet. Your eyes are searching hers, vulnerable with hope. Color is rising along the pale column of her neck, her lower lip trembling. You shift up the bed a little, closer to her. You're not going to ask her why she pulled away; now that this has happened, you know her well enough to guess. Actually, you suspect you might understand better than she could have explained it to you–if she even would have.

A giddy, excited nervousness is bubbling in your chest. She likes me. She likes me. She likes me. This is happening. Oh my god. Don't fucking blow it now.

“Did you…miss me?” You're close enough to whisper now, your fingers still entwined between you. Your voice is husky now, somewhere between enticement and encouragement.

“Yes.”

Startlingly, her hands suddenly tighten hard around yours. Squeezing, gripping like iron. You couldn't pull away if you wanted to–lucky that you don't.

She says it with such drive, almost aggressively. One of her hands slides to your upper arm, tugging you in closer with one unintentionally rough jerk. Her eyes never leave yours; the yearning suddenly revealed is so potent that it knocks you breathless for a moment.

“Yes,” she says, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Yes. I missed you. Yes.”

Your foreheads are nearly touching. She keeps her firm grip on you, but she seems at a loss now that you're close; she doesn't seem to know what to do next, only that she wants you as close to her as possible. She says your name hoarsely; you can see her pulse rabbiting in the hollow of her throat. I'd like to kiss you there.

You’re afraid to spook her. You don't want to accidentally ruin this before it even starts. Gently, you raise the hand that's still entwined with one of hers; you watch her eyes fasten on your lips as they near her hands, giving her time to pull away. As you breathe lightly over her knuckles, you can see her eyelids flutter for a moment, before the softness of your lips makes her swallow.

“Good?” You ask softly. She nods, swallowing again at your immediate, heart-melting smile.

She wants to kiss you. And–like she does with every goal in her life–she immediately throws herself directly into what she wants now that she knows how to get it, the hand on your bicep suddenly tangling in your hair, yanking you into a hard kiss.

It's clumsy with mutual inexperience, a bit toothy, but Mizu’s lips are on yours, her hands grasping you, her harsh breaths against your mouth–and that's enough to pull a faint moan from you as you scramble around on the bed to pull closer.

The dam of mutual desire is breaking after so many long years, both of you surprised by the other’s intensity, and your own. Nothing could stop the torrent now. In a rushing tangle of limbs, you end up in Mizu’s lap, one hand braced on the wall behind her, her face buried in your neck. “Smell so good–” she mumbles into the flesh of your throat, mouthing with inexpert passion at the soft skin. You feel woozy; this is real, her hands gripping at your hips, those slender fingers digging into the soft flesh there.

“Oh– fuck, Mizu…” your whine is almost lost in the rustle of fabric as you press yourself closer to her on top of the blankets.

With a desperate groan, she disentangles and pulls back to look up at you. “God–” She gasps, taking in your hazy expression, tracing down over the reddened marks littering your neck and shoulders, down to where your clothes are riding up, the skin of your thighs soft and vulnerable wrapped around her hips. “You look–... you're so–...”

“You too,” you say, breathless, sounding somehow both giddy and hungry. She looks fucking delicious. Her hair is coming down in tousled strands from its tidy knot, her blue eyes hazy, a heady flush painting her cheekbones. As she devours the sight of you greedily, you cup her face, bringing her gaze back to yours. “Mizu– I want you,” you say, simple and blunt, and watch the shudder roll through her.

Her eyes darken even as they widen. She buries her face in your neck again, hiding from her own reaction, struggling to control her breathing as she veers between painful, fearful joy and a deep chasm of arousal. “Fuck–” she rasps, her grip on your hips tightening almost painfully, dragging you closer, one hand skating up your back to wrap you in her grip fully.

“I want you,” you murmur in one reddening ear, again, and feel her shudder again, her teeth fastening into the meat of your shoulder. Your cry cascades into a moan. “I need you.” She hisses out your name again, maybe a warning–too much–too real–too powerful–or maybe a prayer answered, maybe some kind of grateful call and response. It's everything she never even let herself fantasize–it's more than she could ever believe she could have. It's terrifying. She clings to you tighter, presses her face closer to your skin, pushing away her terror with the feel of you, your scent like a drug around her.

“Mizu. I love you.”

You can feel the hot breath against your skin suddenly hitch and stop for a moment, her body going still. She pulls away again, looking up at you like she did before–the Mizu that took the wipe all those years ago, the Mizu hiding behind the sketchbook. Scared to hope, scared to reach out and take the connection even as she craves it desperately.

“I love you,” You whisper again, even softer, your hands cupping her face again. She closes her eyes, pressing her cheek harder into your hand, her breathing heavy. Her lashes are darkening--there's wetness under your cupped hand. When you lean in to kiss her softly, you can smell the faint tang of salt.

Her lips move automatically against yours for a moment, trying for that same clumsy urgency of that first kiss, but you hold her to a sensual pace–slow, gentle, thorough–making her feel the lingering depth of your desire until she's shivering against you. When you pull back, the blue gaze is raw.

“I-... I-I…” Her voice cracks; suddenly she looks stricken at her own lack of words. You can see the struggle on her face; to bare such a tender spot, after a lifetime that has battered her tender spots mercilessly. She says your name again, helplessly, her hands clutching at you. “I…”

“It's okay,” you whisper, pressing another kiss to her lips to silence her. You already know; just like every other unspoken moment that's passed between you two in the comfortable silences ever since your school days. There's no need for her to say it when she isn't ready. The sentiment is clear. “You don't need to, Mizu. I know.”

“I'm sorry–” she says anxiously–you cut her off with a soft nip to her throat, melting some of her anxiety into a moan.

“Don't be,” You murmur. “Just be here. With me.”

“I am– I am–oh–...”

As you trail more kisses down her neck, across your collarbone, you can feel her hips twitch up underneath you, and you smile, shaky with nerves, but determined, as your hands find the hem of her shirt. You're no more experienced than she is, but damn it if you aren't going to put those long hours of internet research to some constructive use.

“Fuck,” she hisses again when your lips close around one already tight nipple. “Ah!” She was utterly unprepared for the sharp jolt of sparks that shot straight from where your lips connected to her very core. You hum with delight, taking her soft cries as positive feedback as your tongue laves over the tight bud.

You would happily stay here all day, switching from one pert breast to the other, feeling her thighs clench around your waist with each swipe of slick muscle, but you take mercy on the helpless bucking of her hips, the way her voice is going higher and higher every time you switch nipples and start afresh.

Her toned belly flinches at the first kiss, as though even that were too sensitive, and her thighs twitch around you again as you breath over the slick mess between her thighs. When you look up, the nervous desire in her face is almost adorable; brows quirking up, blue eyes gone soft and hazy. You know you're not doing much better; you’re shaking, you want to please her so badly.

“Tell me if it's bad?” You ask her, a twinge of self-consciousness showing through your attempts at confident seduction. At seeing you nervous, too, some of the stress leaves her face--reassured that she isn't alone in being overwhelmed. She reaches out, stroking a lock of hair from your face.

“It won't be,” she whispers, shakily, and you smile, turning to catch her palm with a kiss, before your lips find her thigh and begin to move inwards.

She claps a hand over her mouth at the first swipe of your tongue along her slit, muffling a broken cry. Her taste already dominating your senses, you glance up, still unsure of yourself, but she nods, panting.

You bury your face in her folds at last. It's not at hard as you expected it to be; you just pay attention to what she responds to, finding your rhythm quickly as her moans and cries grow louder. God–fuck, I could die here and be happy. You don't look up again, lost in a daze at the taste of her, her arousal slicking your chin as she bucks her hips up frantically. She sounds perfect, and feels even better against you, all slick, wet heat and delicately fluttering muscle. She's already so keyed up that it takes nearly no time at all. When your lips find her clit and close around it, she abandons all attempts to muffle herself, both hands finding your hair as her thighs tighten around your head, shuddering helplessly and crying out your name to the ceiling as orgasm whites out her vision.

You work her through the aftershocks greedily with lips and tongue and fingers, until finally she's pushing you weakly away with a whine, legs falling limply to the mattress. Grinning, you crawl up to pepper very wet kisses to her neck and cheek, unable to hide your smug pride.

“The great Mizu, finally subdued,” you purr teasingly, your voice warm with affection, nuzzling into her cheek.

Her eyes snap open. The room suddenly spins around you.

You fall back against the mattress with a yelp, your outfit now fully ridden up to leave you exposed between parted, soaked thighs. A shadow blots the overhead light.

Mizu looms over you, hair a mess, skin sweat-slicked, pale eyes as sharply intent as a predator. Holy shit. Your skin is already tingling as she hooks your knees over her shoulders and drags you easily back towards her with a palm on the top of each thigh. Seemingly, you aren't the only one to have done your homework.

“My turn.”

Her voice is a husky, ominous rasp, an undercurrent of danger and play making your stomach flip.

Those burning eyes never leave yours, even as her face buries itself between your legs.

—

Akemi taps one heel on the sidewalk outside of the party, irritated. She tries to do something nice and what does it get her? She gets to be the Walmart Greeter for Heiji Shindo’s bash for over an hour while you leave her dangling. Five missed calls. Five! All the good booze is gonna be gone by the time she gets in there; she knows Taigen doesn't have the empathy to save her a bottle of anything good.

She opens her phone again, sighing at the sight of the long string of texts lining her side of the chat window with no replies from you.

Well?! Are you coming?!?!?!

She's not exactly expecting a response, so she surprised to see the three dots pop up within a few minutes.

Oh, I'm coming.

Just not to the party ;)

GIRL

WTF

TMI

You heart her texts without replying. Akemi sighs. So, as it turns out, the frat boys weren't the sacrifice this evening; she was.

Tut, tut. That's what I get for being the responsible one in this friend group, she tells herself, before turning and making her way into the party.

All in a day’s work.

Maybe she'll be lucky enough to get a sip of Malibu before she has to chug the orange-flavored Mad Dog.

#mizu x reader #mizu #blue eye samurai #anon ask #modern mizu #bes x reader #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu bes #bes mizu #mizu x you #mizu x y/n #bes #prose

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iguanodont · 2 years ago

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Introducing a new birg culture, and the reason the Twowi go to such lengths to cross the icy equator with their cargoes of rare metal and pungent gall-spice. The Ss’wassoum are a wealthy empire based on the far southern coast, where the sea-ice melts more quickly in the spring and its people first built their wealth on the sea-harvest. Their language is heavy on harmonized syllables, which lends their speech a distinctive musical quality. Family units are smaller than the fiercely clannish Twowi, and the gender divide is less rigid, though still distinctly matriarchal. Some of their most lucrative raw exports are refined tree-plastics and sea-silk, which is valued for fine textiles.

While the Twowi run on highly specialized industrial clan-towns, the Ss’wassoum exist in more diverse cities, though the class divide is impossible to ignore. The nobility are loud of dress and voice, with their ornate refined plastic head-dresses, vividly patterned veils, and resonators worn over the rear spiracles to enhance their voices. But despite all the attention they draw to themselves, their faces are always covered; to be perceived as gray-furred mortals akin to any commoner is inconceivable. They walk the streets as living demigods. Just below the nobility are the merchant class, which may approach their influence in wealth and education but are legally barred from the elaborate headwear and home exteriors of their superiors. Instead they adorn the insides of their homes with the latest in art and technology, particularly elaborate electric light fixtures crafted from imported Twowi metal. Commoners wear little at all in the sunny months, save for the occasional beaded sash and brass mandible-cuffs. Sailors and other hard laborers frequently adorn their bodies with scarified and dyed patterns to mark themselves for the goodwill of protective gods.

The Ss’wassoum government does implement a standardized education system of sorts, though only those of the upper class can test or pay their way into the finest schools, where they can master the high dialect and the art of Opinion. Historically, etiquette laws forbade the discussion of controversial topics in public spaces; these were reserved for halls of judgement. The rule is more of a social taboo these days, but an ancient loophole ruled that written forms of debate could be presented anywhere, and with the subsequent invention of movable type, a colorful written debate culture flourished. Wherever there is a public bulletin, a cafe wall, a blank space where people gather, you fill find posted essays on anything from the hypocrisy of the noble class to a long winded treatise on the merits of toe-biter clams. It is not uncommon for a debate topic to outlive the original essayists, as hills are chosen to literally die on are then proudly upheld by the writer’s descendants. So ingrained into Ss’wassoum society is this debate culture, that committed debate rivals may be legally recognized as a marriage-like partnership. Though the Ss’wassoum carry no expectations of monogamy to a reproductive partner, the correlation between rivalry and mating season partners does not go unnoticed. As a general rule, a worldly and strongly opinionated individual is more attractive.

Big thanks to @primalmuckygoop for pitching so many great ideas for these guys, including most of the lore on their debate culture, and the very name of this civilization!

—————

If you’d like to see more stuff in the works for birgworld, check out my Patreon!

Or you can support me through Kofi and Inprnt

#birgworld #birdbugs #worldbuilding #speculative biology

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selenepsyche · 5 months ago

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𝖥𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝖯𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖮𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌

Fama persona charts are a type of persona chart that you can use to look into how you might become famous, what you could be famous for, and your overall experience with it. The code for the asteroid Fama is 408.

I only looked at a few celebrity fama charts, but the first thing I noticed was that almost all of them had a lot of trines and sextiles, but mainly trines. Even the ones who are very problematic, such as Ice Spice. She has two grand trines in her fama persona chart.

Billie Eilish has a crap ton of trines and sextiles in hers. She has a 11th house stellium in Aquarius, with Uranus, Venus, Sun, Neptune, and Mercury. So it's no shocker why she has a massive fanbase. Her Chiron is also in the 10th house, hence why a lot of people relate to her music and find a lot of it healing. She easily connects with her audience.

Ice Spice also has her Chiron in the 10th house, but it's making oppositions to Jupiter and the Moon, hence why more people are finding it hard to relate to her and her music.

It was no shocker to see most musicians having their Fama in water signs or Libra. They would also have prominent 10th or 11th house placements, some with planets being opposite in the 4th house.

Of course, celebrities who have a crazy amount of squares and oppositions have had challenging careers. Like I stated, Ice Spice has one or two grand trines, but she has many oppositions.

Chappell Roan has a lot of trines, but also a lot of squares. For example, she has her Mercury square Saturn in her FPC. With her Mercury being in the 10th and Saturn in the 8th, we have already seen how outspoken she is about taboo topics and she isn't afraid to speak her mind, but that hasn't been going over well with the general public.

These observations bring back the statement that having a lot of trines is not always a good thing in a chart. Trines are great when used for the right things. Having a lot of trines makes things easier, but can make certain people less humble because they didn't have to struggle a lot to achieve whatever they were going for.

It's the same thing with squares. Some people say that squares are terrible, but they should be used as opportunities to grow.

I hope you all found this interesting and informative! If there are any celebrities you'd like me to do astrology chart readings for, comment and let me know.

#astrology #astro observations #astrology readings #birth chart #fama #fama persona chart #fama persona chart observations #fama asteroid #astrology observations #celebrity astrology #chappell roan #billie eilish

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betweenstorms · 2 months ago

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Chapter 6/1 of Skin Of Thunder The Ship of Theseus (previous chapter) (next chapter) (all SOT chapters) (masterlist) Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader

“If you replace every part of a ship, is it still the same ship?”

The night fell too early this time of year.

December’s touch was cruel, sharp round the edges, like the closing fist of a bad father. Thick snow tumbled out of the black sky in fat, heavy flakes, each one tumbling down through the smoking area’s floodlights, slow and lazy, like the world had finally stopped long enough to let itself rot in peace. They clung to the fabric of Ghost’s hoodie, like a thousand tiny hands, pulling everything down, down, down into silence.

He leaned back against the concrete wall, boots scuffing at a patch of greyed ice underfoot, watching his own breath bleed white into the night air. Ghost exhaled long, eyes half-lidded, gaze fixed on the moon, high and sharp, it looked like a nail hammered into the ceiling of the world. The rust colored glow of his cigarette cracked the dark when he dragged from it, weak embers flaring briefly before settling again into dull fire. God, he hadn't even wanted one, not really—just muscle memory at this point.

Habit.

Like everything else about him.

Or perhaps it was simply opportunism that stirred him. Seizing the moment. Because when he saw you with Soap, heading towards the designated smoking area, Ghost didn’t hesitate. His steps fell into place without thought, his eyes tracing the curve of your careful smile, the soft blush painting your cheeks as you waved at him. It was a small, quiet invitation, but to him, it felt like a pull from the very heart of a storm. And now you stood between him and Johnny, close enough that he could see the way your breath puffed out in soft, quick bursts.

Your coat was thick, finally something sensible for the weather, but the daft colour of it, soft periwinkle, made you look even colder somehow, like the faintest memory of spring amidst winter’s claws. Ghost noticed the colour of your pretty lips, the way they’d gone faintly blue around the edges. It made him want to reach out, to warm you with something more than the space between your shared breath.

Soap was doing most of the talking, as usual.

“Aye, Christmas up our way was always a bloody ruckus,” Johnny was saying, his own cig bouncing between his lips as he grinned down at you, cheeks pink from the cold. “Mum used to make clootie dumplings, ever had that, Dizz? Bloody great stodge, full of fruit and spice. She’d boil the bastard for hours and hours, kitchen steamin’ up like a damn sauna. Smelled like Christ himself was comin’ over for tea.”

Ghost only half listened, the words threading through the air like smoke. Easy to see, easy to lose.

He didn’t know how to sit in moments like these without feeling it splinter in his palms. Personal topics felt foreign against his skin, like trying to hold sunlight in fists made of iron. His own memories tasted like mud and sorrow. The sour stink of liquor on his father’s breath. The heavy smoke of burnt meat curling through the thin walls. The pitiful squeal of his bike’s wheels as he raced down streets powdered in dirty snow with his brother, the tires sticking, slipping, catching on patches of ice that tore skin from knuckles when they fell. The cold was always easier than the warmth of ‘home’, always safer than the bruised and angry faces he carried in his memories.

Anything to not be there.

Anything to be anywhere but there.

There had been no laughter, not really.

But you, oh you laughed just now, grounding him in the present as you huffed softly through your scrunched nose, arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to keep your soul tucked in where it was safe, shoving your hands deeper into your sleeves.

Ghost caught the sound like a hook behind the ribs.

“Sounds brilliant,” you muttered, bouncing slightly on your toes to keep warm. “Never had anything like that. Mum wasn’t much for cooking.”

What did she do then?

Ghost longed to ask, to peel back the layers of you, to know every fragment, every heartbeat that had shaped you. But instead, he held his tongue, the words sinking like stones in black water, watching Johnny fill the silence.

Soap shrugged, drawing in another lungful of smoke, exhaling it skyward like a prayer to the gods that never listened. “Reckon it’s an acquired taste. More a tradition than a treat, if you ask me. Half the point’s standin’ round bitchin’ ‘bout it while you eat.”

You smiled again, soft, shivering, like a candle guttering in the wind. Ghost watched you tuck your chin deeper into your scarlet scarf, nose pink with cold, eyes bright with something too tender for this hour, this place.

“So, big Christmases then?” you pressed gently. “Loads of family?”

Soap nodded, rubbing his gloved hands together with a briskness that suggested the cold was finally needling under his skin too. “Aye, loud buggers.”

Ghost tipped his head slightly as Johnny continued.

“My mum’s side, my da’s side, cousins spillin’ out the bloody door. Always someone cryin’, someone arguin’, someone pissin’ in the garden, thinkin’ they were bein’ oh so sneaky. And two older sisters, mind. Pair of madwomen.”

You blinked, surprised. “You have sisters?”

Johnny barked a hoarse laugh, sharp and warm like fire crackling on wet logs. “Course I do. Thought I crawled outta the earth like some wee goblin? Nah, had two older sisters. Still do, far as I know.” He rolled his shoulder, cigarette burning down between his fingers. “Lori and Moira. Both older, both absolute fuckin’ nightmares. Thought it was their life’s mission to get me killed before I was ten.”

You leaned in. “Really? What did they do?”

Soap gave a sigh, the cig between his lips casting a weak glow over the creases at the corners of his eyes. His breath fogged in the dark, curling around the battered edges of his smile.

“Where do I start?” he hummed, the sound low in his chest. “Right, picture this Dizzy girl, wee Johnny, barely a teenager, face full of snot. Wasn’t even Christmas yet, sometime round Saint Andrew’s Day. Snow thick, enough that you’d lose your wellies if you weren’t careful.”

You watched Johnny intently, hanging on his every word, but for Ghost, it wasn’t Soap that held his focus. No, it was you. Always you. The way the flickering light danced on your face, the way your gorgeous eyes caught every fleeting emotion, every moment of quiet, like they were the only things that mattered.

“My sisters, wee devils that they were, had this bright idea,” the sergeant continued, shaking his head. “Said they’d make me fly.”

“Fly?”

“Swore blind it’d work.” His mouth curled in a grimace of mock betrayal. “Daft as a brush, I believed ‘em.”

You snorted.

“They rigged up this contraption outta a sled, and a cord they nicked off a scaffolder’s truck. Tied it all together, pointed it downhill on the old embankment by the high street.” He puffed out a breath, laughing at the memory, though there was a ghost of something sharp in his eyes that Ghost recognised all too well. “Aye, shoved me off the top, didn’t they? Head first, like a bloody missile. Straight into the arse-end of a parked lorry. Split my head open like a ripe melon. Needed eleven stitches. Mum nearly had a heart attack.”

You covered your mouth with both hands, half in horror, half in uncontrollable laughter, the sweet sound fizzing out through your fingers like soda escaping a cracked glass.

“Jesus,” you gasped between snickers, “that's horrible!”

Fucking hell.

You really could laugh at anything, couldn’t you? Even stories soaked in bruises and splinters and the brittle ache of growing up too fast.

“Still,” you said once your giggles had settled, “at least you had them. Your sisters, I mean. Sounds… nice. In a weird, death-wish sort of way.”

Soap shrugged, tilting his head back, looking up at the stars like they might answer for any of it. “Better to have someone push you down a hill than not have anyone at all, eh?”

You tilted your head then, cherry-red scarf slipping a little, revealing the delicate line of your throat, drawing both men out without pushing. The snow crunched under your boots as you shifted closer to Johnny, bumping his arm with yours in a silent, wordless offer of comfort. Christ, you were good at that. Good at making men want to hand you things they didn’t even know they had left to give. You were quiet for a moment, then ventured.

“Are you... are you going back this year? To see them?”

And there it was.

Soap stiffened almost imperceptibly, like a wolf catching the scent of a trap. His smile went soft at the edges, peeled away from the bones underneath.

“Nah,” he said, voice light but hollow, like a tin can kicked down an abandoned alley. “Ain’t seen ‘em since I joined up. Lotta bridges burnt, y’know how it is.”

You froze, shoulders bunching under that myrtle coat like you’d been struck.

Like somehow, you hadn’t expected that kind of answer, though that was the only one there could’ve been. The snow seemed to fall harder then, muffling everything into a sort of thick, suffocating quiet. Your face crumpled at the edges, mortified, but Soap, bless his soul, only grinned, all teeth and fond, like he was soothing a child who’d bumped their knee, tossing his spent cigarette into the slush with a casual flick.

“Don’t fret, Dizzy girl,” he said, giving a small shrug that looked far too heavy for his lean shoulders. “Ain’t somethin’ that keeps me up at night.”

You swallowed, voice small against the yawning black of the night.

“Still... you miss them, right?”

Johnny shrugged again, the motion stiff under his coat. “Miss the idea of ‘em, maybe. Not the reality.”

That landed like a dull thud between you all.

A half-truth offered up like an old coin, too tarnished to spend.

Ghost flicked his gaze down in time to catch you peeking up through your lashes at Johnny, something tender and sorrowful twisting your mouth.

The wind stirred, its cold fingers slicing through the space between the three of you like the sword of Damocles, a silent threat hanging in the stillness of the truth, dragging at the hem of your coat, whipping Johnny’s mohawk into a mess. Snow clung to Ghost’s balaclava, melted against the worn fabric before freezing again in brittle little patches. It was as though the air itself was mourning something long lost, something buried beneath layers of time.

Christ, it was too fucking cold for talk like this.

“Right,” Soap said suddenly, clapping his hands together in a burst of sound that made you flinch. “I'm headin’ in. Cannot feel my arse anymore.” He flashed you a wink and then slung the door open, disappearing into the hum of fluorescent light and muffled voices beyond.

And just like that, it was only the two of you left in the falling dark.

The ember at the tip trembled, a dying beast in the hollow between them, fading into ash with every shallow drag. Ghost shifted his weight, the brittle crust of ice shattering under his boots like glass splintering in a cathedral, threatening to break if either of you moved wrong. The pull to leave was there, to nod curtly, mutter something about early morning drills, and retreat back into the cold where the emptiness was easier to endure, before this silence cracked wide open and swallowed you both whole.

However, something held him there.

He didn’t leave.

Instead, his fingers reached for another cigarette, a subtle motion, a desperate man searching for any excuse to stay, to linger just a little longer. The pack was battered, worn with time and use, much like the things he carried inside himself.

The flame flared, briefly lighting up the sharp angles of his jaw, like a death mask illuminated one last time before the grave swallowed it for good. His gaze shifted, out of the corner of his dark eyes, catching the small movements you made, your boots shifting, the way you crossed one ankle over the other, a new habit born from uncertainty, and the way your teeth worried at your bottom lip as if it might somehow protect you from whatever had to be said.

The silence between you was no longer just silence.

It stretched and strained, a noose tightening with every heartbeat, every unspoken word.

Ghost hated it. Hated how badly he wanted to fill it. Hated how little he trusted himself not to ruin everything if he tried. Still, he stayed rooted there, a stubborn man carved out of regret and want, dragging burning smoke into his lungs as if it might stitch the ache closed.

Finally, you broke the quiet.

“...I didn’t mean to make it weird, you know. Before. With Soap.”

Ghost blinked.

He needed the time to think.

“Wasn't weird,” he muttered finally.

You nodded too quickly, like a puppet yanked on frayed strings.

Then silence pressed down again. Heavy. Awkward. You looked down at the growing halo of melted snow at your feet. Ghost shifted, thumb tapping the cigarette against his lips, watching the ash crumble and fall at his feet like old sins. The cold gnawed at his knuckles, seeped through the thick hoodie and into the bones underneath, but he barely noticed.

His mind was too full of you, of the shape of your breath misting the air, the soft creak of your boots in the snow, the spark of your eyes flickering like forgotten stars in a crumbling galaxy.

You cleared your throat. Small. Tentative.

“You’re terrible at this. At conversations, I mean. Letting things not be super awkward.”

He huffed. “Never claimed otherwise, love.”

“I’m not much better,” you admitted.

A beat passed. Two.

Then, out of nowhere, you said, “I… uhm, also did something stupid once,” you mumbled, as if offering up a branch across a frozen river, daring him to meet you halfway.

Ghost raised a brow, flicking his gaze sideways to catch yours.

You were smiling again, but it was all corners and bitten lips, a nervous thing—fragile and uncertain, yet so undeniably real. But it wasn’t the smile that pulled him in. It was the way your eyes found his gaze, how they lingered there for just a heartbeat longer than they should have, like a silent confession that spoke volumes. That was all that mattered to him.

“When I was little,” you started, holding his gaze, “my friend and I thought it'd be brilliant to steal one of my grandfather’s pipes.”

“Pipes?”

You nodded, the ends of your hair brushing your scarf.

“Yeah, he had this… you know, glass cabinet full of them. Fancy ones, too. Proper polished, like he collected them the way other old men collect stamps or football kits. Looked at them like they were bloody relics.” You gave a sheepish little shrug, cheeks turning pink even more from cold or embarrassment, Ghost couldn't tell. “We thought... I dunno. That if we tried it, we’d be grown-ups or something. Silly, right?”

Ghost snorted. “Bloody hell. How old were you?”

“Twelve. Maybe thirteen.”

He shook his head. “Right pair of hooligans, you were.”

You chuckled, soft and breathless, and it bloomed in Ghost’s chest, something utterly awful and undeniably warm. It twisted in his chest, fierce and delicate, like a flower unfurling in the storm. Your laughter held him there, and for a fleeting moment, just for a second, it felt like the world had narrowed to nothing but the two of you. He couldn’t look away, not even if he tried. Your eyes anchored him, like your very existence depended on this fragile connection, and he found himself wishing he could hold onto it forever.

“So,” you continued, tone gaining a bit of confidence, “yeah, we snuck into the cabinet while my granny was baking in the kitchen. Nicked one of the smallest pipes, stuffed it full of dried lavender from the garden, because… uhm, we didn't have real tobacco.��

Ghost was staring at you now, the burning cig forgotten between his fingers.

“And?” he rasped.

You grinned, teeth flashing in the dark, like you couldn’t help yourself. “Took one puff each. Thought we were gonna die.” You mimed choking, doubling over slightly with a wheezy and theatrical cough, and Ghost felt an unwilling laugh catch at the back of his throat, stubborn as an old wound refusing to heal. He coughed into his glove, covering the huff of amusement, but you saw it anyway.

Fuck, he could tell. Your eyes crinkled, the corners softening in that way that made the edges of this broken world feel less jagged for a heartbeat.

“And then my gran came out,” you continued, dropping your voice into a low, mock serious whisper. “Apron on, slipper in hand. She caught sight of us coughing our lungs out behind the shed.” You mimed swinging an imaginary slipper, causing Ghost to snort. “Chased us around the garden three times before I slipped and fell face-first into the petunias. Grounded me for a week. No telly. No chocolate. Absolute hell.”

“Serves you right, sweetheart.”

Ghost could only shake his head, his gaze never straying from yours. Another silence fell but this one was different. Easier, somehow. Worn in, like an old jacket pulled on in the early morning, fitting awkwardly at first but settling as the day warmed.

And somehow, in the quiet weight of your eyes, he found something he had spent a lifetime searching for. It was as if the meaning of life itself, the thread that stitched all things together, rested there, in the warmth and depth of your unspoken understanding.

It was all too much, and yet, all too simple.

There were mountains in your eyes, dark and promising, suspended between storms, wearing the skin of thunder, oceans that cradled both life and death in their tender, terrible embrace. And Ghost wanted nothing more than to see the light forever bathing you, to watch it filter through your irises that held the vastness of worlds unknown, worlds beyond the reach of mortal hands.

God, how he longed to live there, to escape the weight of grief, the sorrow that clung to his bones like rust, and the promise of an end, a life unfulfilled. But in your eyes, he glimpsed eternity, a world where there were no endings, only the quiet, infinite hum of your soul. If only he could stay, to slip beneath the surface of your gaze, and never return.

“And you?” you asked quietly. “Have you ever done something that stupid?”

Ghost stiffened slightly.

That question, that quiet yearning to understand, it tore at him, raw and unrelenting. It gutted him with the kind of bleeding that only came from a place long buried, where emotions were locked away like ghosts in forgotten rooms. This push and pull, this silent dance of wanting and withholding between you—where your desire to get closer to him was as relentless as the wind outside—was a kind of torment he never knew he’d signed up for. Your breath, visible in the night’s bite, mingled with the warmth of your words, your history offered up to him like a fragile offering—a handful of light cupped delicately in your hands.

That same light flickered overhead, weak and trembling like a moth’s final flap of its wings, but there it was, impossible to ignore. Yet, something in him recoiled, knowing that the deeper you got, the more dangerous this was. And the irony? He was the one who wanted you closer, even as he pushed you further away.

And against all better judgement, he really wanted to meet you halfway.

He dragged another pull from the cigarette.

“Used to nick my dad’s motorbike,” he murmured finally, voice rough and low. “Left it out front of the chippy one time. Thought I’d take it for a spin.”

You tilted your head, listening, encouraging.

Ghost stared out into the snow, watching the flakes blur into the night like falling ashes.

“Could barely reach the bloody pedals,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Had to stand up the whole way, knees knockin’ into the handlebars. Got cocky. Took a corner too fast. Skidded on somethin’. Slammed straight into a brick wall. Nearly snapped the front clean off. Broke my wrist, too. Old man was fuckin’ livid. Had to pay for the damage.”

You winced sympathetically. “Ouch.”

You shifted closer, careful and slow, like approaching a wounded animal, your boots leaving prints in the snow. He didn’t look up. Couldn’t. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out all but the quiet murmur of your voice when you finally spoke again.

“Your dad... what was he like?”

Ghost froze.

Not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but inside, in the very core of his being, he stiffened, every muscle tightening under his skin like he was back on a battlefield, back under fire. His breath caught in his chest, and for a heartbeat too long he just stared ahead, where the floodlights smeared golden rings across the snow.

The cigarette burned hot and bitter between his fingers.

The mention of his old man dropped a familiar stone in his gut, heavy and jagged, an anchor dragging him down, down, down, into the kind of blackness he couldn’t share. Not with you. Ghost swallowed around a thick, bitter lump in his throat, tasted smoke and ash on his tongue as memories surged upward, violent and unwanted. And bloody hell, there was a time when a question like that would’ve earned an answer sharp enough to slice a man open. A warning, barked low through gritted teeth. Step back. Leave it. Get fucked.

Not this time.

Because it was you.

Ghost dragged a breath in through his teeth, slow and rattling, and exhaled it like it cost him something. “Wasn’t much to write home about.”

He expected you to press.

He braced himself, body tightening, preparing to snap the conversation shut with the force of a slammed door. However, you didn’t push. You just stood there quietly, next to him, silence softening around the edges, waiting him out in a way no one else ever did. It was unbearable, that patience of yours, how you let him decide when to speak, how to speak—

—or if he even spoke at all.

Ghost shifted, adjusting his stance. He took another drag, shorter this time, stalling for time, and finally exhaled into the bitter air. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, the edge dulled by something close to regret.

“One thing you learn out in the field, love,” Ghost murmured, voice raw with memories, “is that men who talk too loud about how fuckin’ good they are, how righteous—” he spat the word like poison “—they reckon themselves to be, those are the ones you gotta watch out for. Bastards who can’t shut up about their virtue are the same who’ll stab you in the back the minute it suits ‘em. Least the bastard showin’ you his fangs gives you a chance. You see him comin’. And my—”

He paused, let the words settle like ash in the stillness, then turned just slightly, enough to catch your profile in the bleak glow of the floodlights.

Your eyes were wide, serious, drinking in every bitter truth he laid bare, holding it carefully like you'd held his every admission before now.

“—my old man,” he continued, voice dropping quieter, rougher, barely above a whisper now, “was one of them. Thought the world owed him somethin’.”

Ghost’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering beneath the taut line of his balaclava. Meanwhile the snow had started to settle heavily now, layering your shoulders, catching in your lashes. You shifted slightly beside him, pulling your coat tighter around you. You said nothing, just let the silence settle around his words, absorbing them carefully, holding them close without judgement. He wanted to look at you properly, wanted to read what was hidden behind your eyes, but he kept his gaze locked firmly on the distant shadows beyond the lights.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Ghost crushed the remains of his cigarette into the snow, his boot pressing it deeper, grinding it into nothing more than ash and bitterness, as if trying to stamp out the remnants of the past. It left him raw, exposed, but there was a strange lightness to it.

“Didn’t tell you for sympathy.” he hummed quietly. “Told you because you deserve to know what kind of man you’re talkin’ to.”

Your head turned then, sharply, eyes wide with sudden intensity. “Simon, I—”

He cut you off, gentle but firm. “Ain’t tryin’ to scare you off, love. Just the truth. Take it or leave it.”

You didn’t speak immediately, but when you finally did, your voice was steady, sure, gentle. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Those four words landed softly, sinking into the silence between you like snowflakes, quiet and gentle but heavy enough to shift the balance of everything. Ghost stared straight ahead, heart thudding painfully beneath his ribs. He wanted to believe you. Bloody hell, he wanted it more than he’d wanted anything in a long, long time.

But trust—real trust—was a harder thing to surrender than blood or bullets.

Ghost dragged his eyes back to you, taking in your careful expression, your stubborn jaw set against the biting cold. Snow clung to your lashes, your hair, your coat, painting you silver and delicate, and yet your eyes burned with warmth, steady and unwavering.

He found himself nodding, almost imperceptibly, as if testing the weight of your promise.

“C’mon,” he said finally, voice husky, low. “You’re freezin’ your bloody arse off out here.”

You nodded, thoughtful, lips pressed together, turning with him as he started slowly towards the door. And as you walked side by side, leaving twin tracks in the pristine snow, Ghost felt something heavy lift slightly from his chest.

“If you build a new ship out of the old parts, which is the real one?”

Skin of Thunder Chapters

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