#your students are there because they actually want to be...

[kingkaisen]

HII I know your reqs are closed rn but I just want to send this now because I know im going to forget😭 I was thinking maybe an alternate version of your latest dad!gojo series with sick reader, but more angst as reader actually has a terminal illness? can be a sad or bittersweet ending, whichever you prefer!!

“I CAN’T LOSE HER.”

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Over two years ago, you & your husband, Satoru, adopted two of his teenage students, Yuji & Megumi. You also have a biological six-year-old girl and two boy-girl twin babies.

What happens when, suddenly, you start to cough up blood?

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: HEAVY angst, fluff, fem reader, canonverse, throwing up, mentions of blood, happy ending. No one can stand the idea of losing you, especially Gojo!

♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 6K

♡ — 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: this fic is part of my dad!gojo series, but reading the other parts isn't necessary. also, the reader doesn’t technically have a terminal illness!

“I must warn you,” the doctor stared into the reddened, tear-filled eyes of Yuji, then at Megumi’s trembling fist, and lastly, at the handmade Get Well Soon! card covered in doodles in the hands of the crying six-year-old girl by their side. “Seeing her this way could be traumatizing. I urge you to consider if this is the last memory you want to have of your mother.”

—

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER

It began with the coughing.

The evening was fine, in the beginning. Just fine.

Your two adopted teenagers, Megumi and Yuji, could be heard moving around the house as they prepared themselves for bed, taking hot showers and switching into random pairs of shorts and t-shirts. Your biological twin babies, Kaia and Kenji, along with your young daughter, Maya, were fast asleep.

Everything was going fine. Just fine.

Satoru Gojo’s blue eyes flickered up at you as you emerged from the master bathroom, a swirl of steam flooding the bedroom once the door opened.

A robe clung around your body. There was a smile, albeit a tired one, but a smile nevertheless, gracing your clay mask-covered face, and you approached Satoru — who relaxed on the enormous bed — with the little jar of that gray concoction in your hand.

“You know the drill, honey, come here.” You said, sitting on the side of the bed.

He leaned forward with a little smile.

“Will this stuff make me even prettier?” Satoru grinned.

“I don’t think you can get any prettier,” you joked, and a small giggle escaped you, one that made Satoru’s smile brighten as his heart skipped a beat.

Dipping the applicator into the clay mask, you then brought it to Satoru’s face and smeared it across his cheek.

“So, what do you rank that movie? Scale of one to ten.” Your husband’s words sounded rather funny, seeing as he was trying his hardest not to move his face too much amidst your little spa session.

“Hmm . . . I give it a . . . I give it an eight. The ending was a little predictable, but I enjoyed it,” you paused, dragging the application across his chin. “It’s hard finding films that everyone might enjoy. Yuji kinda likes everything, but Megumi likes movies that aren’t appropriate for Maya. And I think you just like bad movies.”

Satoru laughed then — he couldn’t help it.

“Says the woman who has seen Titanic, what, fifteen times in the last year or so and still gets upset when the ship hits the iceberg.” Satoru paused. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but the movie isn’t gonna change.”

“It could, you never know!” You laughed and continued to apply the face mask to his skin. “And you’re exaggerating. I haven’t seen it that much. It just seems that way to you because you roll your eyes whenever I watch it. Don’t tell me you’re jealous of 90’s Leonardo DiCaprio.”

“Jealous? Honey, didn’t you just say I couldn’t get any prettier?” Satoru playfully rolled his eyes at you. “Besides, I just don’t like it ‘cause it’s too depressing.”

“That’s kinda the whole point.”

“Yeah, but those tragic romance movies are always even more depressing to watch when you’re in love with someone. I can’t help but imagine what it would be like if I were stuck in that same situation with you. Ya know, if I weren’t as brilliant as I am in real life. And I can’t stand the idea of one of us dying on the other.”

Your smile faded then. There was a shimmer of something within your gaze — a gaze that now failed to lock with Satoru’s.

“What’s wrong?” The corners of his lips fell into a frown.

“Nothing,” you mumbled, putting the jar that held your clay down. Then, suddenly, you smiled and poked his chest. “Leave it to you to make the conversation sappy and depressing all of a sudden. Anyway, don’t forget to wash off that mask in fifteen to twenty minutes.”

—

Water dripped off of his face and splattered the sink as Satoru washed off the last of the gray product on his skin.

“Don’t forget to moisturize!” You rushed into the bathroom as he patted his face dry with a towel.

As soon as he turned his head in your direction, white cream was suddenly smeared across his face. You rubbed it into his skin, all while he groaned in protest.

“Is this moisturizer or sour cream? Why is it so cold?”

“Oh hush, you big baby.” The last bit of moisturizer had seeped into his skin, and you closed your container and set it on the bathroom counter. “The world's strongest sorcerer can’t handle a little cold moisturizer, huh?”

“Oh? I’m the one who can’t handle things?” Satoru’s hands found your waist, and he pulled you against him, right before his fingers started to gently dig into your flesh, tickling you. “Look at you, you can’t even handle being tickled.”

“Stop it, I’m not one of the kids,” you laughed, trying to push his hand away, but they found your hips, and held you close.

“I’ll stop once you-”

Satoru was interrupted by you suddenly breaking out into a fit of coughs.

He stepped away then, still grinning. He assumed that your coughing was the result of laughing too much.

But you weren’t stopping.

Your coughs grew louder. More forceful. You frowned in panic.

“Baby?” Satoru approached you, placing a hand on your back as you leaned against one of the bathroom sinks, covering your mouth with your hand.

“‘Toru-” you couldn’t speak. You could only cough.

Satoru leaned down, attempting to look at your face, and he saw it then.

The blood seeping from between your fingers.

“Oh my god,” His eyes widened. “Baby, you’re . . . that’s fucking blood.”

—

He didn’t drive you to the hospital.

He didn’t call for an ambulance.

Satoru Gojo carried you in his arms, warping the distance between your home and the nearest emergency room, and teleported right outside of their see-through doors.

He rushed inside.

Medical staff noticed you, the coughing woman with blood spraying out of your mouth, decorating the front of your robe, and the shirt of the man who carried you.

“My wife . . . she-she won’t stop coughing,” Satoru’s eyes were wide with panic. “She’s coughing up blood.”

He passed your body to the doctor in front of him, who then laid you on a gurney that a handful of nurses rushed over with.

“Will she be alright? Will she . . . what’s wrong with her? What’s wrong with her?”

“Sir,” the doctor placed a hand on Satoru’s shoulder. “I need you to calm down so we can get some information from you. I promise you we’ll do everything we can to help her.”

—

It was around two hours before midnight when Yuji slowly opened the door to Megumi’s dark bedroom. The light from the hallway filtered into his room, and Yuji could slightly see the lumpy figure that was his body hidden underneath his covers.

“Psst . . . psst . . . Megumi,” Yuji loudly whispered.

“I’m asleep,” Megumi mumbled back.

“No, you’re not.” Yuji stepped into his room then. “Megumi, c’mon, this is serious! I heard someone come through the front door! I think we’re getting robbed!”

“You’re a sorcerer who can punch through walls. You can handle it,” Megumi yawned. “Please don’t bother me unless they’re trying to take our coffee maker.”

Yuji heard footsteps.

He dashed into Megumi’s room and shut the door behind him.

“Yuji,” Megumi said, sitting up. He looked at the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Yuji, you are seventeen years old. Seventeen. You’ve eaten the fingers of the king of curses, killed plenty of curses yourself, and you possess some weird superhuman strength. If you don’t get out of my room by the count of three, I will summon every shikigami of mine to drag you out of here.”

“You don’t get it. Mom and Dad are missing!”

Before Megumi could respond, someone knocked at his bedroom door.

“Megumi? It’s Kento. There’s . . . been an emergency. I’m here to drive you and your siblings to the hospital.”

—

“Dad? What’s going on?”

Yuji rushed over to the slumped-over white-haired man with great urgency. Maya rushed over as well, wrapping a blanket around herself even tighter as she crawled into the open seat next to her dad, and let her eyes close.

Kento and Megumi held the two sleeping twins in their arms.

The waiting room was a spacious brown and white area that smelled of coffee and Clorox wipes. A television hung upon the wall played reruns of a home-improvement show.

“Dad?” Yuji called out yet again. “What’s wrong with Mom? What happened?”

“I don’t-I don’t know,” Satoru looked at the ground. He ran his large hand across his face, utterly exhausted. “The doctors don’t know. No one knows. I was just . . . we were just in the bathroom, messing around when she started . . . coughing up blood.”

Megumi’s eyes widened.

“She just started coughing up blood,” Satoru repeated softly.

—

Two hours had passed.

Two.

The waiting room was slowly filling with people who cared about you, despite the time of night. Maya was wide awake by now, excited to see so many familiar faces, but brokenhearted once someone told her you weren’t feeling well. Therefore, the young girl occupied herself by lying across the waiting room floor and creating a card for you with paper and crayons.

Everyone sat around, waiting for news, and after what felt like forever, a few medical staff members started to gather outside the waiting room.

Satoru and Kento rushed over to meet them.

Yuji couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he saw it.

He saw the look on Kento’s face. The pale skin. The wide, surprised eyes.

The blonde-haired man stepped back into the waiting room, but Satoru didn’t move.

Yuji and Megumi rushed up to Kento. He couldn’t look them in the eye as he spoke.

“She might go in two hours.”

There was a part of Yuji that wanted to laugh. Part of him thought that, surely, his dear Uncle Kento was joking.

Yuji smiled as a tear rolled down his cheek. “No . . . No, this isn’t true. You’re joking, right? This-This is just some kinda sick prank?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry to all of you.”

“Go where?” Maya, who walked over with the Get Well Soon! card she made for you in hand, darted her eyes between Kento and Yuji. “Where is mommy going?”

Megumi’s stomach churned then. A wave of nausea washed over him, droplets of sweat decorating his pale forehead, but Kento’s words had paralyzed him. He knew he needed to make a break for the bathroom, but his limbs were made of stone.

“She’s going to die. Another person I care for is going to leave me. She’s . . . My mom is going to die.”

It started to come up; the tiny bouts of soup he forced down thirty minutes prior to this nightmare.

Suddenly, Toge, who had arrived an hour ago, pressed a tiny garbage can filled with tear-covered tissue and snack wrappers against Megumi’s chest.

It caught the vomit just in time. He had felt hands on his back and arm as someone guided him to a nearby seat, his head slung over the garbage can within his grip now, and he stayed that way, puking up his insides even well after there was nothing left.

Yuji couldn’t recall when he found his way to the floor. But there he was. His back was pressed against a wall or a door — he didn’t fucking know or care. And his legs were bent upwards as if he wanted to pull his knees to his chest, but lost the desire to do so completely.

Nobara got down on her knees beside him. Her hand touched his shoulder, her face frowned with both enormous sympathy and a great deal of her own grief.

“I was talking to her the other day, Yuji. When she was talking about you, she went on and on about how proud she was . . . is. She was planning something special for you and-”

“Stop it. You’re not helping.” Though he spoke through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth, his words held no anger.

He only sounded broken.

It was something Nobara hadn’t heard before, and that terrified her, made her eyes go wide as the tears finally started to fall.

Kento didn’t mean to let Satoru leave his line of sight.

After he delivered the news, after he was burdened with telling your family that you only had two hours left to live, his worried eyes went to a vomiting Megumi, a collapsing Yuji, and a confused Maya, tugging on his clothes as she asked questions and didn’t quite understand the answers.

But Toge was helping Megumi, Nobara was doing her best to comfort Yuji, and two other people held your unknowledgeable babies while Maya’s cousin distracted her until . . . until someone could properly tell her that she would never see her mommy alive again.

That left Satoru. Who was comforting the husband? Surely everyone in the crowded waiting room had rushed out to be by his side, but as Kento darted his eyes across hugging figures and crying faces, he didn’t see him.

“Where’s Satoru?” Kento asked.

“He went down the hall,” a croaking voice that belonged to a relative with eyes like yours replied before dotting said eyes with a piece of tissue.

And no one went after him? Kento thought. Shit . . . damn it.

You were coming closer and closer to crossing the line between life and death with every second Kento spent searching for Satoru.

He asked several staff members if they had seen a white-haired man walk by, and finally — finally — someone pointed him in the direction of an empty hospital room.

Kento released a shaky breath, adjusting his tie as he gripped the door handle.

He turned it, opening the door slowly.

And there he was.

The hospital room, void of patients or anyone aside from Satoru himself, was dark. Clean.

Satoru was pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He didn’t halt his footsteps when Kento walked in — the blonde-haired man had no clue if Satoru even knew of his presence — as Satoru only faced the ground as he continued to walk.

“Satoru,” Kento called out, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him.

“Get out.”

“Satoru-”

“Get out.” His unsteady voice was barely above a whisper. But then, Satoru suddenly stopped walking, glared at Kento with bloodshot eyes and a face full of tears, and shouted at him. “Get the hell out!”

“No.” Kento approached the trembling man. “I’m not leaving you alone right now, Satoru.”

Satoru’s hands were lost in his messy hair. He gripped the white strands, darting his blue eyes around at every corner of the room as if he were searching for something.

“Get out. Please, please get out. I can’t do this. I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this. I’m not the- I’m not the fucking strongest. I’m not strong enough for this. I can’t fucking do this. I can’t lose her. Not her.” He was crying. Sinking to the floor. He would have fallen if Kento hadn’t caught him, sat on the hospital bed, and held the other man against him as best as he could. And Satoru continued to sob harder than he ever had throughout his entire life. “Oh god, I can’t lose her. I can’t lose her, I can’t, I can’t lose her.”

“Satoru, you need to go see your wife, right now. You need to be there.”

Satoru couldn’t speak. The next, brewing sob was stuck in his chest. It took his breath away — he couldn’t fucking breathe — it took everything away until there was nothing, nothing except for silent, dead air as he trembled, his eyes squeezed shut, and then, there it was.

That ear-piercing sob. That screaming cry.

Staff members gathered at the nurses’ station down the hallway could hear it, and even the nurses who had witnessed people grieve every single day for decades couldn’t help but let a tear fall.

Kento held him even tighter. His ears rang, and he couldn’t help but flinch, but his large hand was wrapped around Satoru’s head, fingers softly gripping his messy white hair, and he held him against his chest. Kento’s own tears splattered against Satoru’s head. From where he held Satoru against him, he couldn’t help but wonder if the sobbing man could hear his own heart breaking as well.

Satoru clenched his teeth, his breathing erratic. It came out in waves of hisses, gasps, wheezing . . . noises that sounded almost inhuman. Then, the sobs returned. He was sobbing, sobbing, and sobbing, soaking Kento’s shirt.

His body trembled violently, forcing Kento to adjust his grip on him as meaningless comforts spilled from between his lips: “It’s okay . . . It’ll be okay . . .”

That was when Satoru clenched his shaking fist. His nails dug into the flesh of his palm until a line of cuts formed, and blood seeped out and spilled onto the marble floor.

“You need to see her, Satoru. You need to see her before she goes.”

He wasn’t listening, and Kento couldn’t exactly blame him for that. But he knew Satoru would never forgive himself if he missed his chance to say goodbye.

“I can’t lose her . . . I can’t lose her . . . I can’t lose her . . . I can’t lose her . . .”

—

There were an endless number of cords, tubes, and wires running along the floor, being tended to by busy doctors and nurses, who were quiet out of respect — out of knowing — hooked both to the several machines that surrounded you, and hooked to your unconscious body as well.

Yuji was sitting on the side of your bed. His body was across yours, his shoulders rising and falling as he cried.

“It’s not fair,” his muffled voice filled the room. “Please don’t die, Momma. Please don’t die. I’m begging you . . . I’m begging!”

Maya crawled onto your bed then. The wires scared her a bit, and her fear led to her being mindful enough to avoid them as she made her way to your side.

Yuji pulled away from you at the sight of her.

“Maya . . .” his brown eyes were wide with tears, but the young girl ignored him.

She put her hand on your shoulder, her little face twisting into a frown when her touch did nothing.

“Mommy?” She called out, shaking you. “Wake up, mommy.”

Megumi couldn’t take it any longer.

He was standing by your side, holding your hand — which no longer felt like your hand, but something cold and swollen from the IV needles within your veins — but he let it go, rushing out of your hospital room, ignoring the calls of his name from people he didn’t bother looking up at. Not that he could. Not when his tears blurred his vision until everything before him was a mesh of disoriented shapes and colors.

There was a wheelchair being rolled down the eerie hospital hallway that squeaked every half-second. Megumi didn’t notice the person being pushed as he made his way to the nearest exit, and that person didn’t notice him.

The wheelchair was loud. Uncomfortably loud. Especially because, now, Satoru’s ear-piercing sobs had vanished, and silent shock came next.

He couldn’t speak. He didn’t blink. He could barely move.

That was the reason Kento put him in a wheelchair, and wheeled him into your hospital room.

It was crowded in there. Crowded with presents, cards, flowers, balloons, and snacks. Crowded with your relatives, friends, Satoru’s students, your sons, and your daughters.

Shoko was the first to notice Satoru being wheeled through the door. Kenji was resting in her arms, leaning against her shoulder, while Yuta held Kaia. He was the next to notice Satoru. The student’s face betrayed how he felt on the inside as tears quietly streamed down his reddened cheeks, and he held on to his teacher’s baby just a bit tighter.

With every push of his wheelchair, with every step made in the direction of your hospital bed, everyone stepped out of the way, almost one by one, clearing a path.

When Yuji turned around and saw his father, he got off your bed then.

Oh, Yuji was struggling, struggling to keep his sobs as quiet as possible, struggling to keep his shaking to a minimum, and once he stepped away from your hospital bed so Satoru could have his chance to say goodbye before it was too late, several pairs of arms wrapped around Yuji. He didn’t know who it was — he couldn’t see thanks to the tears — but he hugged back one of the people who hugged him while rubbing his back soothingly.

He could tell based on the softness of their body that it was a woman. It could have been his girlfriend, Yuko. Maybe Maki. Perhaps, Aunt Jane. Or his grandma. He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

When your unconscious body came into Satoru’s line of sight, his body started to shake more violently, but . . . but he used the little strength he had to pull himself out of that wheelchair and sit by your side.

His hand graced your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin like he had done a thousand times before, and the thought of this being the last time made him wish he were dying with you.

Satoru leaned down.

Sometimes, Satoru would wander into the master bedroom and notice that you were fast asleep. A mischievous smirk would appear on his face at the sight of his cute wife and her gentle snores, and he’d sneakily approach your bedside, lean down, and kiss your lips.

Now, he pressed his lips against yours, and much like during your slumber, your lips didn’t move against his. However, during those times, they were still plump. Still warm with life.

But now? Now, it felt like he was kissing a corpse.

Your body jolted.

For a moment, Maya thought she was witnessing one of her favorite fairytales come to life! The prince kisses the sleeping princess, she awakens, and they live happily ever after!

But though you were moving, your eyes were still closed.

Your body rapidly jerked, the nearby machines started beeping with great urgency, and she was being pulled off the bed by Uncle Kento, meanwhile, her father was calling for you as he too was pulled away.

Maya was being rushed out of the room, but she saw the strange people in those blue clothes surround you, and heard a word being repeated over and over again: seizure.

—

Two hours had passed.

You hadn’t yet passed on. Not yet. That surprised no one, as you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t fighting like hell to stay alive.

But there was no suffering worse than the waiting.

Two hours turned to three, then four. During which, people filtered in and out of both your hospital room and the waiting room.

Satoru, however, didn’t leave your side. His head didn’t so much as flinch in a different direction. His hand never let go of yours.

“I couldn’t convince him to come back inside. I’m sorry.”

That voice belonged to Maki.

She had been outside for the last fifteen minutes, trying her hardest to convince Megumi to return to your hospital room.

Yuji, who was sitting on the edge of your bed, turned his head to the side to glance at Satoru. His father was in his own world, though.

“I’ll try,” Yuji mumbled weakly.

“Yuji, are you sure?” Kento, who had now taken off his jacket and had one of the twins in his arms, raised his eyebrows. Everyone knew what his four worlds really meant. Are you sure you want to risk not being by her side when she goes?

“I won’t be long.” Yuji was on his feet.

He reached out, touching Satoru’s shoulder.

The man didn’t react to his touch. That world of his was all-consuming.

And with that, Yuji sought out the nearest exit and stepped into the fading darkness.

Megumi was sitting on a bench right outside the hospital doors. The distant streetlights did little to illuminate him or the path Yuji took to the bench. The teenager sat down beside his brother, and for a moment, they were silent.

“You need to be there,” Yuji said softly. “She’d want you to be there.”

“You’re wrong. She’d want us as far away as possible so we don’t have to see her this way.” Megumi’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You forget, I’ve known her since I was seven.”

“Don’t do this now, Megumi.”

“Do what? Tell you that I was right? That something bad was bound to happen soon enough?”

“Hey,” Yuji’s jaw trembled. “She’s still alive. She could still-”

“She won’t. You’re thinking like a goddamn child.” “You’re just like Maya. You think she’ll magically wake up. You’re the one who needs to wake up, Yuji. Nothing good ever lasts long. I told you that. Repeatedly. If you had listened to me, then you would’ve been prepared for . . . prepared for this.”

Megumi leaned over, his elbow pressing into his knee. There was some sort of odd noise that escaped him. Yuji couldn’t quite tell if it was a cry or if he was on the verge of puking again.

“Satoru won’t recover from this. He won’t. None of you will. But me? I’ll be . . . just fine. I knew better than to think that our happy family would . . . that our . . .”

Yuji was quite certain now that he was crying. As his shoulders trembled, his nails dug into the skin of his hands.

Yuji leaned forward and wrapped an arm around his brother. Yuji was, once again, crying as well; it surprised him, as he was certain that, by now, he would have run out of tears.

“Come back inside, okay? You need us and we need you. You might be right about her not wanting us to witness this, I don’t know. But we both know that, deep down, she needs us.”

—

Night turned to day.

As time drifted on and became one, long, miserable existence, Satoru could hear voices around him, speaking to you, speaking to him, speaking to others.

“Momma? It’s Yuji, again. The day I met you was one of the best days of my life. We had only known each other for forty minutes, and already, I knew what it felt like to be loved by a mother, ya know? Thank you for adopting me. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for . . . for everything. I love you, Momma.”

“I’m here too, Mom. I’m sorry I left earlier, but I’m here now. I just wanted to say that . . . I regret not letting you hug me more often. I regret taking so long to acknowledge you as my mother. I hope you know I appreciate everything you’ve ever done for me. I hope it’s not too late for me to finally tell you that I love you. But I’ll always regret not saying it sooner. I’m sorry.”

“Mrs. Gojo, it’s Nobara. Thank you for everything. All of the meals, shopping sprees, fixing holes in my uniform so I didn’t have to buy a new one . . . you’re an amazing woman. I wish you were my mom too, if I’m being honest here.”

“It’s Kento. Thank you for almost fifteen years of friendship. Thank you for making me a member of your family. I promise I’ll watch over them.”

The goodbyes were endless. Satoru heard every single one as he sat by your side, his eyes studying your face, his hand stroking your cheek.

Then, people started speaking to him.

“Satoru, you should try to eat something.”

“I’m going to set this water down right here, Mr. Gojo. We can bring food from the cafeteria up to your family.”

“Satoru, do you need to stretch, or use the bathroom?”

“Satoru?”

—

Day turned to night.

There was this dangerous amount of hope trying to sneak its way into the hearts of everyone waiting for what might have been the inevitable end.

After all, it had been almost twenty-four hours since the doctor inaccurately predicted your impending demise, and you were still hanging on. Still breathing. Still fighting.

The doctor informed everyone that there had been a slight improvement in your overall health, but he chose his words carefully — the last thing he wanted was to spread misplaced optimism. But he was confident that you weren’t going to cross the line from this world and into the afterlife tonight.

A lot of people went home then to tend to their needs. To shower, to sleep, to eat. The twins and Maya were taken to your house, being watched over by their aunt, but Yuji, Megumi, and Satoru refused to leave your side for longer than five minutes.

“Here,” Kento passed the two boys sitting in the chairs of your hospital room two sandwiches wrapped in foil.

They didn’t take it at first.

“Please, try to eat,” Kento said urgently, yet gently. “You need to eat something. You need to try.”

They took the sandwiches with great hesitation then.

Kento then approached Satoru.

“Satoru, you need to let us help you. You haven’t moved in a long, long time.”

There was a noise so quiet, Satoru wasn’t certain if it was a machine beeping or Satoru saying, “No.”

“Satoru-”

“No.” His voice was raspy. “Told her I’ll be right here. I’m not moving.”

“You can stay right here and still eat or drink something.”

“My wife is dying, Kento. I don’t give a damn about myself right now. I’m not doing anything. I don’t fucking care about what I might need.” Satoru took hold of your hand.

Kento sighed. He couldn’t help it. But even so, he stepped away. If it came down to it, he’d force some broth down Satoru’s throat later on, somehow, someway.

“Baby,” he croaked out. “I’m right here . . . I’m right here, baby. You’re not alone. I know you’re tired, sweetheart . . . I know. If-If you need to rest, it’s okay. I won’t . . . I . . . I love you so much, sweetheart. I’m not leaving your side.”

Aside from saying that he loved you, aside from promising to never leave your side, there was not one part of Satoru’s soul that believed what he was saying. He didn’t want you to leave him. He didn’t want to say goodbye. But, he also didn’t want you to die with the guilt and burden of knowing he was begging you to stay, and you couldn’t.

“I always say that . . . that we’re soulmates in every lifetime, remember?” His tears splattered onto your oxygen tube. “Wait for me. You’ll wait for me, won’t you, sweetheart?”

Satoru had been sitting still without any substantial food, water to quench his thirst, or decent amounts of sleep for quite some time. Therefore, he was certain he was hallucinating when he felt you squeeze his hand.

Your dry lips parted.

“‘Toru . . . ‘Toru . . . Sa . . . ‘Toru . . . eat.”

“Oh my god,” Satoru brought his ear to your lips, trembling as his tears started to slide sideways across his face. He was right. He was right! You were trying to speak. “Oh my god. Baby, can you hear me? Can you? Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“No, no, no. What’s wrong? What happened?” Yuji asked, his nibbled sandwich hitting the floor and spewing lettuce across it, and he rushed over with Megumi.

The boys feared the worst.

Naturally.

But when they made their way to your bedside as nurses started to flood in, they saw it.

The slight flutter of your eyelids.

They heard it.

The barely audible mumbles.

“Eat, ‘Toru . . . eat.”

—

The recovery of your mind, body, and soul was a miracle.

There was no other word to describe the event in which a person walks away from death itself.

When your eyes opened fully, Satoru fainted. Your two boys sobbed — this time, it was tears of joy — and they watched as the excited, albeit confused, medical staff tended to your needs.

Two hours later, Satoru had been unhooked from the IV the nurses had to force into his veins due to his severe dehydration and shock, and you had started to regain the ability to fully talk, open your eyes, and grasp the situation before you.

You blinked away your blurry vision as a nurse raised your bed a bit. Right before you was Satoru’s tear-soaked face.

“You’re alive,” he smiled tearfully, cupping your face. He smashed his wet lips against yours. They were warm with life yet again. “You’re alive. You lived. My baby fucking lived. I love you so much, do you understand me? I can’t believe it. I can’t.”

“Did . . . did you eat . . . did you eat something?” You asked weakly, your sunken eyes filled with concern.

Satoru shook his head in disbelief. “Sweetheart, please worry about yourself for once. I almost lost you, baby. I . . . oh my god. I almost lost you.”

Yuji and Megumi couldn’t wait any longer.

Yuji slung himself across you, rougher than he intended to, hugging you tight with his shaking limbs.

“Momma . . . thank goodness,” he cried.

“Be careful with her, Yuji,” Kento warned, but he couldn't help but let a couple of tears fall. “I’m going to call everyone and let them know.”

Megumi had to practically grip Yuji’s shoulders and pull him off of you, but not necessarily because he was practically crushing your weak body, but because Megumi needed to do something he hated himself for not doing enough. He needed to hug you.

Seeing that crying teenager take over Yuji’s spot, lean forward, and wrap his arms around you truly helped you grasp the reality of your situation.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I love you, Mom. I do. I swear I do.”

“I wasn’t done hugging her, Megumi!” Yuji tried to pull his brother away, but the dark-haired boy fought to keep his spot, ignoring him.

“‘m sorry for . . . scaring . . . scaring all of . . . you,” you mumbled, gently rubbing Megumi’s back. “Where’s . . . my little girl? . . . My babies?”

“They’re on the way,” Kento walked over, his phone in hand. He gave you a warm smile. “You are truly a fighter, Mrs. Gojo.”

Satoru had suddenly kissed you again, taking you by surprise, so much so that your oxygen tube almost fell out of your nose, and his tears started to wet your cheeks as well. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours and pressed a quick kiss against your cheek. “I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

—

You had to be transferred to a bigger hospital room with an enormous hospital bed. It was all because your sons, your husband, and Maya all wanted to cling to your side and never let you go, and your relatives, friends, and Satoru’s students practically camped out in your room over the next several days.

Kaia was lying on your chest, babbling as she placed her hand on your cheek. Meanwhile, Kenji was gripping your hair, falling against you as he tried to bite it.

“Mrs. Gojo?” Yuta called out, approaching your bedside with Toge by his side.

“Hm?” You gave them a tired smile.

“The other students and I were wondering if, well, whenever you had the energy, if we could-”

“If we could treat you and Satoru to the best dinner of your lives!” Nobara interrupted, practically bouncing with excitement as she reached for your hand.

“No, no, you guys don’t have to do that.”

“You almost died. We’re not taking no for an answer,” Maki said, standing near the foot of your bed. “Let us do something nice for you for once.”

You gave them a little nod, and the students cheered, though in truth, they had much more than a dinner planned. A dinner was part of it, yes, but they would also buy you tickets to a play you’ve been wanting to see according to Satoru, along with whatever else they could brainstorm and afford after adding up their money.

—

There was a party that began early in the day and lasted well into the night once you returned home.

There was more food than your refrigerator could hold, more gifts than you had room for despite the massive size of your home, and more love and affection than your heart could handle.

After everyone left, urging you to rest, you found yourself tucking Maya into her bed.

“Teeth brushed?” You asked.

“Uh-huh!”

“All clean?”

“Yep!”

“Tummy full?”

“Yep! Yep!”

“Stuffed animals kissed?”

“Uh-huh!”

“Ready to sleep?”

“No, nuh-uh,” the young girl shook her head. “I wanna stay up some more.”

“No, it’s well past your bedtime, honey.” You planted a kiss on her forehead. “Good night.”

“Night night, mommy. I love you very, very, very much.”

“I love you very, very, very, very much as well.”

You rose to your feet and left her room, but you didn’t make it far. Your two boys were standing in the hallway. Yuji approached first, wrapping his arms around you.

“Goodnight, momma. Love you,” he smiled softly.

“Goodnight, I love you more.”

It was Megumi’s turn then. His hug was more gentle than Yuji’s, but it lasted just as long.

“Goodnight Megumi. I love you,” you rubbed his back.

“I love you too, Mom,” Megumi mumbled. Pulling away, he said, “Goodnight.”

Your boys started to head to their rooms. Suddenly, Yuji paused.

“Oh! Uh, Dad asked for you to meet him in the living room,” Yuji said with a small smile.

—

You noticed the dancing flames across the walls before you fully stepped into the living room and noticed all of the candles.

The couches had been moved, and softly, gentle romance music played from a speaker — loud enough for you to hear it, but low enough for it not to disturb the children.

Satoru extended his hand to you, a gentle smile upon his face. “If you aren’t too tired, I’d love to dance with you.”

“Lucky for you, I feel just fine.” You placed your hand into his, your smile matching his own.

Your husband pulled you close, and slowly, you both began to spin and sway around the living room.

“Satoru?”

“Hm?”

“Be honest with me. Does a small part of you regret marrying someone who has done nothing except cause you grief and make you worry?” You looked into his eyes, searching his blue ones for answers to the question you asked with great hesitance. “I survived, but . . .”

“And that’s all that matters. You survived. You mean everything to me, so yeah, I get worried sick when something happens to you, but I think it’s an amazing privilege to love someone this much. It’s all too rare in this world.” Satoru kissed the top of your head. “There isn’t any part of me that regrets falling in love with you, marrying you, and having kids with you, and I never will.”

“I must admit, it’s kinda nice to be spoiled like this,” you said.

“Yeah? Well, I’ll even watch Titanic with you again. How does that sound?” Satoru made you twirl, and jokingly, he twirled as well, his heart skipping a beat at the sound of your laughter as he pulled you closer yet again.

“No thanks, we just went through our own tragic romance for a minute there,” gazing up at him, you continued, “I’ll settle for your awful movie picks for now.”

“What about my taste in music? Do you like this song?”

You listened to the beautiful melody for a moment. The song itself was rather familiar, and you smiled wholeheartedly as sweet memories of your wedding came flooding back to you.

“You know I do. It’s from our wedding.”

“I still can’t believe I actually married you sometimes. I love you more than you know.” Satoru grinned with satisfaction. He then captured your lips in a long, soft, and passionate kiss.

And as the song came to an end, you rested your head against your husband, and he held you, the love of his life, letting your warm body serve as a reminder that you were still alive.

You were still with him.

🏷️: @marvel-girl3 @goldenglow149 @luaqsv @sstoru @pinkfemdolly @satorusgummies @therealmrsgojo @leehriie @iminlovewqr0w @odessa-is-my-queen @melodycelos @stoneaf @dreamypirate @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @starlightanyaaa @arrozyfrijoles23 @yukiyaaaa @thaisszz55

[pokemonblack3white3]

You know how Lacey scares away boys by mentioning her dad. What if she also does this with Kieran. A club member is bothering her about something and finally she snaps and goes "I'm sorry there's nothing I can do about that but I can bring it up with Kieran next time I see him 😊" and suddenly the club member never had an issue at all and actually they have a study group they just remembered they need to get to right about now.

[blondechariot]

sajaboys x bakery worker reader? with a little teasing ? <3

pairing: Saja Boys x female!reader

warnings: Mild Flirting, Reverse Flirting, Group Flirting Attempt, Reader is a Barista, Humor, Mild Language

disclaimer: not my pic!

This was really fun to write!

It’s late afternoon. The warm scent of cinnamon rolls and fresh espresso fills the air, and soft indie music hums from the speakers. The café isn’t too busy — a few students are typing away on laptops, a couple in the corner is whispering over croissants. And behind the counter, you’re busy wiping down the espresso machine, your apron tied snugly at your waist, your name tag tilted just enough to draw attention.

The bell above the door jingles. You glance up.

And there they are — The Saja Boys.

Dressed down in casual clothes (hoodies, bomber jackets, caps pulled low), but they still radiate unmistakable charisma. You’ve seen them before — on posters, in music videos, dominating stage performances with fire and fury. But in person? They’re taller. Finer. Louder.

And they’re walking straight toward the counter.

Jinu leads the pack, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, the ghost of a smirk already tugging at his lips. Romance follows closely, arms crossed, scanning the room with curious eyes before settling them on you. Mystery is quiet as always, lingering a little further back, his hood up and expression unreadable. Baby is grinning like he already knows how this is going to go, and Abby is dragging his feet, clearly skeptical.

They huddle near the counter.

Jinu (to the others, low voice): “Alright. Fans love charm, right? Eye contact. Soft smiles. Confidence. Let’s see if it works on her first.”

Baby: “What if she thinks we’re weird?”

Romance (deadpan): “She will think we’re weird. The goal is to make her like it.”

Mystery (murmuring): “What if we end up flustered?”

Abby (flat): “You already are.”

You pretend not to hear — but you’re watching them from the corner of your eye, amused.

Then Jinu steps up to the register.

Jinu (in his smooth, practiced idol voice): “Hey there. You make all the drinks here, or just the good ones?”

You blink, deadpan.

You: “That depends. You asking because you want a drink or because you’re thirsty for attention?”

Jinu actually falters. Just a second. The boys behind him snicker.

Jinu (recovery mode): “A little of both. Can you blame me?”

You (tilting your head, unbothered): “I mean, you are kind of cute. In an ‘I practice my smirk in the mirror’ kind of way.”

Baby (elbowing Jinu): “She’s good.”

Romance (stepping forward): “Alright, let me try. One americano, please. And your number.”

You (smiling sweetly as you type): “Sure. That’ll be 4,500 won.”

Romance: “…And the number?”

You: “Oh, you meant mine? Thought you were asking for your order total.”

Baby loses it. Mystery hides a smirk. Jinu groans.

Baby (grinning, leaning on the counter): “Okay, okay — she’s unshakable. Let’s try this a different way.”

You (raising a brow): “You’re really all taking turns, huh? Is this a new PR strategy or a bet?”

Abby (muttering): “It’s both.”

Mystery (finally speaking): “We’re trying to win hearts. Yours seems… heavily guarded.”

You (cheerfully): “Not guarded. Just... not interested in melting for the first pretty face that walks in. You’d be surprised how many think being famous is a personality trait.”

That earns you a long pause. Even Romance looks intrigued now.

Romance: “Okay. So what does impress you?”

You lean on the counter, resting your chin on your palm, giving them a cheeky once-over.

You: “Someone who can flirt without looking like they’re on a drama set. Maybe someone who says something real. Honest.”

A beat.

Jinu (trying again, voice lower): “You’ve been on your feet all day, haven’t you?”

You blink.

Jinu: “Your shoulders look tense. Bet no one’s asked how you’re doing.”

Your flirty mask wavers for a split second.

You: “…Okay. That was smooth.”

Mystery (quietly): “He’s been saving that line for weeks.”

Jinu: “Shut up, Mystery.”

Baby (to you, hand over heart): “If it helps, I really do want a cinnamon roll. Yours smell amazing.”

You smirk.

You: “Now that’s how you win a girl’s heart. Compliment her pastries.”

Abby: “So we failed?”

You (grabbing cups, prepping their drinks): “Not failed. Just… consider me a final boss. The fans out there? They’ll swoon. But me?” You shoot them a playful wink. “You’re gonna have to work harder.”

They all fall silent, watching you pour the drinks like you’re performing magic.

Romance (to the others, half-joking): “Can we adopt her into the group?”

Mystery (nodding): “Or make her our PR manager. She’s scarier than the press.”

Baby (grinning): “Nah. I like her right here. Behind the counter. Where I can come see her every day.”

You slide the drinks across, a playful smile on your lips.

You: “Careful, Baby. Keep talking like that and you’ll make me blush.”

Baby (blushing first): “Too late.”

They leave with their drinks and slightly bruised egos — but every single one of them turns around at the door to sneak one last look at you.

You just laugh to yourself and go back to cleaning the machine, a little grin tugging at your lips.

Maybe idols can be cute when they’re trying too hard.

[butilovemymirror]

The point of gen-eds is not to teach what “upper classes should know within upper class society” unless you’re at a particularly pretentious private university. The point of gen-eds is to

1. Create well rounded graduates. That’s why the gen-ed says “art requirement” and then there’s a list of options for you to choose from. You, as an adult, should be able to create and find joy in others creation, regardless of what your major is. It says “history requirement” because you, as an adult, should be able to think critically about the past and how it affects the present and future. It’s not about the actual class or the contents, it’s about the skills.

2. Avoid students being stuck in majors they hate. If your advisor is doing their job, you should finish approximately 40% of your gen-eds before you are too far into your major to swap and still graduate on time. Do you know how many students discover something they never knew was an option because they picked a class in it off a list of gen-eds? Many students even discover hobbies through gen-eds, regardless of their major. College is a time where many students are independent for the first time, and many of them had their majors picked out by their parents. Gen-eds let them discover their own preferences. (And don’t try to say it’s all people switching to “useless art majors,” there are doctors out there who didn’t consider premed until they picked a bio class for their science requirement.)

3. Increase attendance in less popular classes. Yes, sometimes classes are listed as gen-eds because they were initially below the enrollment requirement, and listing it as a gen-ed allows it to be taught so that students who need it for their major can take it.

4. Promote interdisciplinary feelings of community. When you take a class with a wide range of people, and often end up doing group projects with them, it teaches you to value other perspectives and other people’s expertise. It avoids insular thinking, and encourages you to, when you join the workforce, consider who you have as a resource.

5. Make graduates more valuable. Employers want to know that the people they hire are capable. Sometimes, you have to sit through a meeting about something you don’t know very much about. A student who’s taken classes on a variety of things is more likely to contribute something valuable to that meeting because they have experience making connections that may not be immediately obvious.

[b3ach-bunn7]

ONE OF YOUR GIRLS ~ JASON TODD

Jason Todd is the unnaturally attractive TA in your college class. Your really hot TA that just found out you’ve been selling essays to your classmates

Contrary to what the majority of your English module thinks, writing an essay is really not that hard.

It just isn’t. You’ve written them at three in the morning with zero hours of sleep, in libraries, in bed. Even on the toilet on a particularly gruelling deadline. Everyone has those things they’re just good at, and yours has always been anything English related. Novels, poetry, sonnets. It’s partly why you’d even chosen this extra module for the year. You had an extra space to fill and you knew it wouldn’t impede on any work for your degree. It's an added plus that you enjoy it as much as you do, and an extra added plus that you’re earning money for it.

Maybe it's unethical to prey on the lesser-minded people in your class. It’s definitely an interesting discussion on the laziness that plagues Gotham College, but you’re not one to complain about it. At least it's you writing it, a human, and not some AI website that will single-handedly destroy the environment. You’re doing the world a service, if anything. And you only charge fifteen dollars per essay, which isn't bad. You do have some rules when it comes to writing. For example, you only will write four essays per coursework submission, mainly because there's only so many points you can make without just repeating yourself. So if the students decide they want to bid against who those five essays will go to, that’s not exactly your fault. Some of the more difficult assignments really gets the ball rolling. You guess an empty bank account is better than failing.

It’s all good fun until you get caught.

It’s not the professor that catches you. Mr Owen is a sweet man, and you think that even if he did realise what you were doing, he wouldn't have the heart to tell you off for it. He’d probably just be happy one of his students was having so much fun in class that she was doing other people's work. No, instead, it’s his highest graded ex-student, now TA, Jason Todd.

Jason is only three years older than you, having graduated last year, and was now helping out Mr Owen. You’re sure it’s for experience, or to fill up his CV for some work experience, but you don’t complain. The few classes he teaches every few weeks have been great. He’s  good. Really good, actually, which he’s surprising because the first time you saw him you’d thought he might’ve mistaken the lecture hall for the bodybuilding classes on the third floor.

Jason is entirely too attractive to just be a TA. You’ve, embarrassingly, scoured every modelling agency in Gotham you could find, because there is no way somebody who looks like that would just slum it in an Intro to English class. The defined lines of his chest and arms you can see over the button-ups he wears to class, the perfect poster-boy hair that always falls just right over his face. And you’ve heard the rumours about his motorcycle, which adds about ten points to his overall attractiveness. You’ve never seen Jason smile once, always looking over the class with that bored expression over his pretty face. He’s situated right next to Mr Owen at the front, his own desk that’s always cluttered with papers and pens.

You have no idea how he caught you. There are only about forty students in the module but still. You’re careful with what you write, making all your work different enough from the exemplary essays you hand in under your name that you were sure nobody would ever find out. Until, of course, Mr Owen is handing back your most recent submissions, and you find a sticky note tapped to the back of yours. Your brows furrow, confused, and you peel it off carefully to read it.

“You made the same point about Angelou’s simplicity in three different essays. If you’re going to keep writing them for half the class, don’t get sloppy.”

Your face heats almost immediately, your stomach sinking with a horrible feeling. You stuff the note under your paper, eyes immediately darting to where Mr Owen is still handing out the papers. But he’s not looking at you like he’s about to report you to the student board. He’s just rambling on about the new poet you’d all be looking at. He doesn't even look in your direction once he’s walked off. And when you consult the note again, you find that the handwriting looks nothing like his almost illegible scrawl. This is blocky and neat, and you feel that same swooping feeling in your gut when you realise who’s handwriting it is. 

And sure enough, when you do look up, Jason Todd is looking back at you with the smallest (and first) smile you’ve ever seen on his face.

You start praying that some impromptu tsunami will burst through the windows of the hall and whisk you away. It’s just your luck that the one time you want Gotham to deliver one of its life threatening incidents, the world outside is calm, the sun bright with mid-day light and the campus buzzing with students. You are decidedly not looking in Jason’s direction. You can live the rest of your life without seeing that smug look on his face again. 

You sort of feel like you’re about to throw up from nerves, but there’s something worse than the threat of expulsion bothering you; his stupid little comment. You’re not sloppy. He’s got some nerve calling you that. You’d love to see him come up with five different essays on the same fifteen line poem. Hell, you’d settle for three. 

You fidget uncomfortably for the next ten minutes. The room feels hotter all of a sudden, and you tug at the collar of your sweater. You don’t even know what to do. Will Jason report you? Or just keep leaving passive aggressive notes all over your essays? Your sloppy essays. Surely Owen will catch on, and then god knows what will happen.

Your eyes dart to the clock on the wall and you see that you only have twenty minutes left. You can definitely make it through without any incidents. And then you can run out of the classroom before Jason Todd can even look your way. It’s fine. Fine. 

Your thoughts are interrupted as Jason suddenly stands. He’s tall too, and when he takes the two boxes from Mr Owen’s frail hands your eyes don’t miss the way his arm flexes beneath today's light blue button up. 

“Thank you, Jason. Just to my office, please.” He nods, pointing to the other two boxes on the floor. “Feel free to take someone with you.” Mr Owen gestures vaguely towards you and the others sitting in the room.

You hear movement behind you and you can only imagine everyone sitting eagerly in their chairs to be picked by the hot TA. You, on the other hand, are very content in staring really hard at the table in front of you and avoiding all forms of eye contact, which is harder since you’re sitting in the front row. It works, for about ten seconds, before a loud thud jolts you, an embarrassing noise escapes your throat. 

“Do you mind?” Jason’s voice is deep and low, a lilt of Jersey accent curling around the syllables.

You could say no. But he knows what you’re doing and the way he’s looking at you with his hands braced on the desk is kind of intimidating.

You nod, getting up with little grace. You nearly trip as you round the desk, and quickly grab the two boxes. Jason holds the door open for you with one hand and carries the last two boxes with the other. He’s definitely showing off. But whatever. The walk to Mr Owen’s office takes about seven minutes. So fourteen there and back and then however long it takes to dump the boxes in his room and leave. You can do that. 

You’re not even sure why he asked you to do this. There were about fifteen willing people almost falling out of their seats to help him. And you were definitely not one of them.

Your trainers squeak against the tiled floor, and your hands are starting to tingle from the lack of blood flow. The boxes are heavy, and you try and readjust them to ease the pain a little.

“You alright there?” Jason speaks up besides you.

You glance at him from and find that he’s looking back with an amused expression on his face. Of course he’s not struggling. You’re sure those biceps could carry about six boxes all on their own.

“Yes. Thank you.” Your voice is clipped and sharp, and he bites back a smirk.

The two of you fall back into silence. Not for long though, because that smooth voice carries out across the empty corridor again.

“Your essay was good.” 

Your face feels hot again. This time when you reply, you keep your gaze firmly away from him.

“Thank you.”

“It’s very refreshing to see such original work.”

Oh, what a prick. 

“I mean, most of your class, it’s the same regurgitated ideas.” You only hum in response, and it doesn’t deter him.

“Honestly, it’s just sloppy. But I-“

“My work is not sloppy!” You nearly yell, turning to him quickly.

Jason’s brows lift in surprise, but he quickly schools his expression to something a little satisfied, that makes your irritation spike more. It’s maybe what he wants, and it’s definitely inappropriate, but you’ve never been very good at concealing your emotions.

“I’d like to see you write five different essays on the same topic for only fifteen bucks a paper. And on Mary Angelou no less! That poem was fifteen lines long!” You scowl, shuffling the boxes in your arms again. “There is only so much that I can say. And I don’t think my points were very sloppy.”

You two have stopped in the corridor now, and Jason looks completely unbothered by the boxes you two are lugging about, while you are ignoring the burn in your biceps.

“Fifteen bucks a paper?” 

You pause a little. You’re surprised that’s all he had to take from your outburst. You feel a little silly for yelling, and your voice comes out quiet when you speak again.

“Sometimes more. There’s a bit of a betting pool going around.”

He snorts, and it’s strange seeing it on his usually stoic face. “What’s the highest you’ve charged?”

“Thirty five. It was for the one on Finnegans wake.”

Jason laughs properly at that, and you can’t help the little smile that tugs at your lips. He continues walking and you follow after him. But only after hesitating for a little.

“That’s not half bad. Good money for a college student.”

You scoff. “It’s great money. Takes me a few hours to cough out the essays and I get a minimum of sixty every time.”

Jason only nods in a way you think might be impressed. Luckily, you finally reach the office, and he holds the door open for the two of you. You quickly walk in, the boxes landing on Owen’s desk with a heavy thud. You huff, rubbing your hands on the rough material of your jeans and squeezing them to get your blood flowing. You lean against the wall as you watch Jason flit about the room, shoving the boxes in the far corner and grabbing some papers from his desk. He doesn’t say anything while he does it, and it causes the nerves stuttering in your chest to increase. 

You bite at your lip. “You- You’re not going to tell Owen, right?” 

Jason looks up from where he’s rifling through one of the desk drawers. He fixes you with a steady gaze, tilting his head just slightly.

“I probably should. But I won't.”

You visibly relax, exhaling heavily. “Really? Why not?”

“Half the people in your class are just here to fill an empty class. People like you are actually good at what they do.”

Jason seems to find what he’s looking for, sliding the papers under his arm as he shuts the drawer with a click. “Letting you carry on this little side hustle means I get to read actually interesting work. Even if they are getting sloppier.”

You glare at him and he smirks, walking over to open the door once more. You don’t leave just yet. 

“You can’t call me good and sloppy in the same breath.”

“I think I just did.” 

You huff. “Fine. You’ll see. The next four essays won’t be sloppy.” 

God. You could live the rest of your life without ever hearing that word again.

———

You and Jason develop a little system.

You find out, after meticulous analysis over some of your friends papers, that all the essays are graded by Jason. It’s all in that same familiar scrawl, and after some not so subtle staring after a submission day, you see Mr Owen dumping all of the classes’ work on Jason’s desk. So you feel a bit of relief at not being caught and expelled.

It’s after your little interaction in the office that you start to find even more post-it-notes taped to the back of your paper. And it’s names. Names of all the papers you’ve written, which Jason seems to always find with alarming accuracy. The notes he leaves in the margins of your own works start to feel less like the professional scrawl you're used to, but a little more teasing.

“Excellent point. Johnson’s essay had one alarmingly similar.”

“You use ‘ergo’ a lot.”

“I agree. Patterson is overrated.”

You act like you hate it. Sigh and roll your eyes when you feel his heavy gaze from the front of the room when you’re being given feedback. Your seat is almost perfectly aligned with his desk so it’s hard to miss. When you’re daydreaming during the especially long lectures, and your eyes trail over to him, and sometimes you catch him looking back. 

Some days, while you’re leaving class, you linger by his desk, and the two of you talk. At first, you were just insulting the copy of War and Peace on his desk. You’d called him performative and he called you annoying. But you two talk more as the days go by, sometimes not about English, but about each other.

It’s fine. This is just- Actually, you don’t really know what this is. You don’t think it’s not allowed, college wise. He’s only three years older than you, and he’s technically not actually your teacher, so it’s not completely weird if you’re developing a little crush on him. 

But you don’t act on it. You never do, because there’s a distance between the two of you you’re both too nervous to cross. You don’t know how much of this is just for fun, and you’re not about to embarrass yourself by assuming anything further.

But things change one day.

Mr Owen is out sick, and so Jason is in charge of the lecture. The room is immediately more awake, everyone sitting on the edge of their seat to witness Jason in action. He usually sits back for Owen’s lectures, more focused on observing the class or typing whatever he does on his laptop. The lessons he runs are far and few between, so everyone is excited to see his teaching methods in action again. 

Or just to see him. There’s a lot of girls you don’t normally see so close to the front sitting in the same row as you. You’re sure it has something to do with the email Owen had sent last night warning about his absence.

“So. Who actually read The Wasp Factory?” He asks, hands holding him up on Owen’s desk. He’s wearing a white shirt, and the material stretches over the hard lines of his arms. 

There’s a bout of movement across the room, and you watch the girl sitting two seats next to you almost shoot out of her chair with how fast she sticks her hand up. Her lips are glossy and sticky, her shirt unbuttoned a little too low. Personally, you think it’s a little overkill, but Jason eyes land on her out of all the other eager-to-please students, so maybe she’s doing something right. 

“You’ve read the first five chapters, right?” He asks, and she smiles brightly.

“Yes, sir.” 

Jason nods. “Would you consider Frank a reliable narrator?”

It’s an easy question. Even your best customers can answer that. The girl seems to think the same, but just as her mouth opens to respond, Jason keeps talking.

“Frank demonstrates a vivid and unusual imagination from the beginning, and we know that his father is part of the reason. Frank even believes his own father, the source of all his education, to be unreliable with the information he provides him. Do you think both of them could be considered as unreliable narrators, or does the blame fall on the narrator we see, Frank?”

He doesn’t stop for breath once, words coming out untainted and smooth. The girl stammers a little, mouth opening. Jason’s face is expressionless. The room is quiet for a beat too long, and your face creases, cringing a little.

“Today would be nice.” You mumble under your breath.

Well. At least you thought it was under your breath. But it actually was loud enough that both the girl and Jason heard you. You watch his lips twitch with a barely concealed smile, and the girl turns to glare at you. Your face heats, guilt seeping into your skin. You really hadn’t meant for anyone to hear, and she doesn’t take the apologetic look you give her very seriously.

“Bitch.” She says, and Jason holds up his hand.

“No, since she’s so eager to talk, maybe she can try to answer my question.”

It’s a challenge. Careful brown eyes study you and you straighten slightly under his attention, aware of the rest of your class also looking your way.

“Well. I think that both Frank and his father are unreliable narrators, but in a different sense. I think as a reader, it’s obvious that Frank is going through a personal crisis because of Eric’s arrival, and his invasion of this world Franks created for himself leads to a personal crisis, which lets us finally see the truth he hides from us. His father, while not actively lying to the reader, spends Frank’s entire life lying to him, and so inadvertently lying to us. So I think that they’re both to blame. Sir.”

You tack on the honorific at the end for fun, and maybe to poke fun at the girl next to you. Maybe you really were a bitch, but there's a weird curl of jealousy settling in your chest that you can’t really explain, and it’s making you act like an idiot. Jason raises one eyebrow, just for a second, before he nods.

“Good work.” He lingers for just a second too long, staring right at you, before he turns to the rest of the room. “Now, what do we think the wasp factory actually symbolised?”

The rest of the lecture goes by uneventfully. You keep to yourself, doodling on the corner of your notebook, staring at Jason when he’s not looking your way. Teaching is a good look for him, you think. He’s good at holding the class's attention, and the matter-of-fact way he talks to you makes it feel more like a conversation than a lecture. When it comes time to pack up, you linger a little, avoiding the gaze of your new friend as she practically storms out the hall. The room is nearly empty when you make your way around the table, but before you can walk out, your name is called. By Jason, no less. 

You head darts towards where he's seated at his desk. “Yes?” 

“Can I talk to you for a second?” He fiddles with a pen in one hand, twirling it between his fingers.

You nod, hand tightening over your backpack strap. “Yeah, sure.”

When you make your way to the front of his desk, he slides over a leaflet to you. You begin reading it, but he explains what it is anyway. 

“I’ve got this conference tomorrow. Well, it’s more like a community thing. Free classes for upcoming students to see what the course and university is like so that they’ll sign up for it next year.” 

You glance up at him. “I’m already a student, if you couldn’t tell.”

He hums. “Oh, I’m well aware.”

You think it’s best for you not to dwell too much on that statement, and the teasing lilt of his voice. “I mean, would you be interested in coming down and helping out?”

Your finger pauses where it's hovering over the corner of the leaflet. “Me?”

Jason leans back in his desk chair. At some point in the lecture he’d unbuttoned his sleeves, and the fabric was folded up messily up by his elbows. His arms lean on the armrest and you will yourself to look up at his face. His hair is curlier than when he’d come in, the humidity frizzing it up and making it look ruffled, but you think it’s cute.

“You’re intelligent. Very intelligent, and one of the best students in this class.” He speaks with such conviction, and your face heats at the compliments.

“Owen can’t make it and I���d like to have a student there for the people coming to talk to. Might be easier to talk to a pretty face like yours instead of mine.”

Jason thinks you’re pretty. What a great day today has been.

You slip the leaflet back on his desk. “I’d love to. Do I need to bring anything?”

“No. Maybe just a book if you want to seem smart.”

It’s not a date. It’s really not. So there is no reason for you to be as happy as you are, or for you to be smiling as much as you are. You adjust your backpack once more. “Thank you for the offer, Mr Todd.”

He winces at the name, waving you off. “Please. Just call me Jason. We’re practically the same age.”

“Really?” You muse. “It feels a little unprofessional to just call you Jason.”

Jason’s tongue poke the side of his cheek, a smile curling against his lips. “You know, you might be right. You wanna call me sir again?”

Your face burns and you laugh a little nervously. “No, no, Jason is fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

You quickly walk out, desperate to get away from that teasing face.

—

It feels weird coming into college on a Saturday. The halls are crowded with fresh faces, all beaming with excitement and hands full of the college freebies. There's stalls set up outside the classroom doors, with what you assume is other student volunteers smiling behind them. That’s probably what Jason wants you to do today. He hadn’t given you much information, but you’ve come in eager all the same. You weave through the crowd, muttering apologies as you make your way to Owen’s room. It’s empty, apart from a few of the students who have showed up early, and you immediately spot Jason at the front of the room.

He’s wearing a black turtleneck that hugs his chest, and a sleek pair of trousers held up with a fancy sort of belt. Jason looks good. You think he’s dressed up a little more than usual, but you can’t judge him too much because you are too. It’s nothing too special, just a nice button up and jeans. It’s a big step up from the usual lumpy sweaters you come in with. It makes sense, though. This isn’t the same class of students he sees three times a week, but instead people he actually has to make a good impression for.

You just stare at him for a few seconds, still standing by the front door and clutching the strap of your bag. He looks up suddenly, and a small smile graces his lips at the sight of you.

“You came.” He makes his way around the desk and stops in front of you. 

Jason’s taller up close. And he smells good. Something spicy and crisp.

“Of course.” You gesture behind you. “Do you want me to set up one of those stalls outside?”

He makes a face. “Oh, no. You’ll be in here with me.”

His hand meets the small of your back as he leads you to his desk. You ignore the warmth that spreads over your skin at the contact, and dump your back beneath it. You sit down on his chair and spin yourself around.

“So this is what you see during all the lectures.” You ponder, fiddling with his penholder. 

Jason huffs a laugh. He leans against Owen’s desk, and he studies you. “You look nice.”

Your eyes dart up to his, red dusting your cheeks. The compliment is barely a thing, but you feel flustered none the less. “Oh. Thank you.”

Jason moves on quickly. “So. The whole point of today is to give these guys a taster of what these classes are like if they were to sign up when they’re enrolled. I won’t need your help with the lessons per say, but since you’re a second year and you’ve been an eager student all year, you’re here if they need to ask anything.”

You nod. “Am I supposed to chat you and Owen up to them?”

He laughs. “Well, I’d hoped you wouldn’t need to. You like the class enough that you write five essays at once for it.”

You glare at him as he smiles cheekily. When you turn to the room, you find it’s been slowly filling up while you’ve been talking, people quickly taking up the seats. It feels different from up here, all their faces trained on the two of you, and Jason watches you carefully.

“Nervous?” He asks.

“No. If you can do it then this will be a breeze.”

It sort of is a breeze. The first half is just like your lessons, and he’s found a short poem to go through with the class. It’s the same type of engaging content he keeps you all hooked with, and you watch the students eat it all up. Sometimes, when there’s a particularly stupid comment made, he glances at you slightly, like it's a private joke between you two. 

The second half is more for questions, and you’re surprised how many people want to talk to you. It’s a mix of high-school students and people starting next year, all queued up in front of the desk. They ask you about campus, the student accommodations. Some of them ask about your major and your studies, and some about Owen and Jason.

You’re well aware that he’s sitting quite close to you, but even if he wasn’t, your response would be the same. You sing his praises, complimenting his teaching methods and feedback. You tell them he’s a great TA and you’re sure that when he commandeers his own classes you’ll be in the front seat. He doesn’t say anything, but you feel his gaze from where he’s sat beside you.

The class was coming to a close, and most people had left. The majority of the students had prepared their questions, so you get through them quickly. This guy, however, seemed intent on wasting your time. He was one of the upcoming first years, and he was leaning incredibly close to talk to you. You’re not stupid enough to not realise when someone’s flirting with you, and you smile weakly, a little nervous to tell him you aren’t interested. 

“You know, maybe if I get your number I could text you any other questions I have.” He grins and you laugh weakly.

“Look, I-“

“You can direct them to me.” 

You didn’t even realise Jason coming up behind you, and his presence is sudden, hands resting on the back of your chair.

“My name should be in the college directory, which is available online.” 

His tone is clipped, and the boy in front of you doesn’t look too happy at his words. You don’t really care though, because Jason’s fingers brush against your shoulders and the contact keeps you distracted.

Jason and this guy are doing some weird alpha male thing in front of you, and you let it play out. The boy loses, and walks out, despite still looking a little agitated at the rejection. The rest of the room quickly clears up after, and then it’s just you and Jason. 

You sigh, stretching a little. “Well. I think that went well. Do you-“

Your words trail off, because the second the last person is out, Jason strides towards the door and locks it. Your mouth snaps shut as he does so, a flutter of something curling in your chest. He walks back over, this time stopping in front of you. You’re separated by the desk, and you wish he would’ve just come stand with you. The chair is soft beneath you, and your hand grips the soft fabric. He’s looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher. Just when you go to ask him if he’s okay, he begins speaking.

“Why do you think student-teacher relationships are such a popular trope in romantic literature?”

Oh. So maybe you aren’t the only one who’s been feeling the tension between the two of you. He asks the questions with the same air he asks questions in class, so you don’t hesitate to reply.

“I think it’s the power dynamics, and also the forbiddeness of it all. The taboo. It’s interesting to see people make the risky decision of being together knowing the consequences if they’re caught.”

He nods. He walks around slowly, and you turn in your chair so you’re facing one another. You have to look up to see him clearly, and you wonder if he can hear how loudly your heart is beating.

“I think people also like the desperation. The student has some sort of emotional relationship with the mentor, so.” Jason steps closer and you're surprised you’re even able to speak with this proximity. 

“They’re just eager to please in any way they can.” You finish, tongue darting out to lick your lips.

Jason hums. His hand comes up to rest on your shoulder. When you don’t push him off, it trails up, ghosting over your neck to settle on your chin, fingers gentle as they raise your eyes to look up at him properly.

“Is that you?” He murmurs. “Are you eager to please me?”

It feels like more than just a question. It feels like he’s asking for permission. 

The more logical part of your brain tells you that this is probably stupid. He’s not your teacher, technically, but there’s probably some regulations about a TA and a student going any further than just that. 

But unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, the less reasonable part of your brain seems to be louder. At some point during the lesson, he’d undone the first two buttons of his shirt, and his hand is curving against your jaw, and you wonder what it would feel like for them to touch other parts of your body. Jason always looks good, but right now he’s looking at you like it’s taking every fiber of his being not to do something reckless.  And honestly, you feel like you’ve done enough eye-fucking during class. You deserve this, really.

Your answer slips from your lips before you can really stop it. “Yes.”

He drags you to your feet, pressing you against the wall behind you two, the chair rolling and crashing into something you can't see. His eyes bore into yours, bright and a mosaic of blues you never really noticed. But you’ve never been this close to him before, one breath away from kissing.

Jason swallows roughly and you watch his Adam’s Apple bob. “We shouldn’t be doing this, you know.” 

His hand is warm where it grips your jaw. “The taboo, remember? That’s what makes this so hot.” You try to sound teasing but you just sound breathless. Desperate.

His lips twitch into a smile, and he hums. “Do you wanna be good for me?” 

You nod quickly, and in one swift motion he’s capturing your lips on his own. They move against yours steadily, his hands sliding down to grip your hips and push you against him harder. He tastes like the mints he leaves on his desk, and you sigh, heat coiling in your gut. Your arms trail up to drape around his shoulders, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. You whimper in the back of your throat as his teeth graze your bottom lip, his tongue deepening the kiss. Jason presses a knee between your legs, and your hand in his hair tightens. He groans, breaking the kiss, his breath as heavy as yours. His nose bumps the side of your face, and he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

“How did you know I liked you?” You ask, hands sliding down the smooth material of his shirt.

“It’s hard to miss you ogling me every lesson. Your seat is practically right in front of my desk.” He mumbles against your skin, and you can feel his smirk as he kisses down your jaw. 

You frown. “You ogle too. Don’t think I missed that.” You quip and he huffs a laugh. 

“So bratty.” He sighs. Jason looks down at you, eyes shining, and brushes a lock of hair out of your face.

“Let me take you out.” He suddenly says.

His lips are glossy from kissing you, and there’s a dusting of red over his cheeks and the tips of his ears. This close you can see a scar that runs down his sharp jaw, and smattering of freckles on his forehead. You’re not sure how you and your grandpa sweaters have landed a man like this.

“Really?” You sound a little in awe and he laughs.

“Yes, really. As much as I’d like to bend you over my desk, I think you deserve much better than that.”

“You- Well, yeah.” You nod, not trusting what else might come out of your mouth.

Jason presses a chaste kiss to your lips. “There’s always next time, though.”

guys i have a Jason Todd itch.. watching the superman movie has put me in a dc mood!! And also someone requested college Jason and idk if this counts but.. lowkey teacher x student is kinda lengers to me

ANYWYA Hope u all enjoyed!

[naoxm]

ִ ࣪𖤐 The Otaku's Heart

ᕱ⑅ᕱ Symptoms: You're just a normal high schooler, just like everyone else. Well.... except for the fact that you're a huge anime fan. You prefer to be alone most of the time, but somehow you attracted a giant puppy with you....

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Medicine: fluff, slightly angst, high school alternative universe, otaku!reader, gender natural reader, no use of yn, slight dancaemarch

₍ᐢ. ̫ .ᐢ₎ Notes: Omg?! 100 followers already?! (⁠(⁠(⁠;⁠ꏿ⁠_⁠ꏿ⁠;⁠)⁠)⁠) I'm so happy right now! (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧

You've been a huge fan of animes for as long as you can remember. You always stayed up late to watch your favourite anime or read a manga. Sometime, you would fall asleep in class, but the teacher doesn't really care since you always aced your exams.

The thing is, no one really knew anything about your obsession. Not even a single soul (except for your families). In school, you always keep up the image 'honor student' when in reality you're just a silly teenager who's addicted to hot fictional man who isn't even real.

But for some reason, one of your classmates, Phainon, the most popular guy in this school and championship of any sports (except for chess), always wanted to be your friend. He claimed that he's already curious about you since the day you enter this school. At first, you reject and told him you want to be alone, but he ended up following you like a lost puppy and eventually got along with you. You trust him so much that you told him your weird obsession.

"It's not weird." You didn't expect Phainon's reaction would be like that. Your eyes widened in shock as he continues. "I mean, everyone got something they like, right? I don't think it's weird at all, you just want to enjoy something you like."

Ever since then, you would yap about him your favourite animes and mangas, and it got to the point where he's willingly to watch or read your recommendations, just so he can listen to you talk.

'It's adorable', he thought.

But then things changed when a new transfer student came into your school. Caelus....was it? Anyway, you got along with him when you saw a keychain of one of your favourite anime characters on his bag. You two ended up becoming friends, although he mostly hang out with March and Dan Heng, that didn't stop the two of you being 'best buddies with same interest.'

What you didn't realized was a certain puppy is jealous how close you were with Caelus. Guess who? That's right, it's Phainon!

Phainon always wondered what he did wrong to make you drift away from his sight. No- not that you ignore, neglected him or anything! It's just that you don't talk too much as you used to with him. He feels a little bit sad, but doesn't want to admit it. But everytime he watches you talking with Caelus, his heart ached at how you laugh with him, happily smiling at him while Phainon just watched the two of you interact together.

"Am I not good enough for you?" His words escaped from his lips while walking home with you. You immediately stop your track as you turned to face with Phainon. His expression seems to be serious when he set his eyes on yours

"What do you mean?" You asked while your voice filed with curiosity.

"You don't talk to me like how you used you." His voice was stern, a frown formed on his face as he step closer to you. "You didn't talk about your obsession to me anymore. You spent more time with Caelus ever since he transfered into this school. Are you replacing with me?"

Your eyes widened in shock at Phainon's words. You didn't actually consider his feelings, you made him feel.....left out just because you spent too much time with Caelus instead of Phainon, who would always listen to your stories no matter how ridiculous it can be sometimes.

"Phainon , I didn't know you feel that way." You softly muttered out while approaching him closer, your eyes never left his while your hands searched for his.

"You're always popular and have so many friends unlike me, but I didn't know you actually really cared about me. But if you want to talk to me again, then I'll-"

"I cared about you because I like you-!" He whispered your name.

You're completely speechless at his words. You didn't know what to say. But you could find the right words, he interrupt.

"Okay, wait, that sounds wrong." He cleared his throat. "What I mean is, I really cared about you because I love you."

Your face is a complete mess with red hue as you tries to process his words. Phainon held your hand and squeeze them tightly, looking straight into your eyes while blushing like a high school girl who's having her first crush.

"I genuinely wants to be your friend because how lonely you are, but the more time I spent time with you, I actually had fallen for you. I was so happy to listen to you talk about your interest non-stop, it really made my day. I was so jealous when you start hanging out with Caelus more instead of me. So that's why I'm telling you this before it's too late, I love you. Please be my lover."

You don't know what to say. You never thought about Phainon anything more than a friend. But why, when he confessed his feelings for you, your heart start skipping a beat while you feels dizzy from with sparkles surroundings around the two of you.

Oh.

You actually like him.

You actually love him back.

Before Phainon could say anything else, you immediately shut him up by hugging him tightly as you nuzzle against his shoulder, your arms wrapped around his tightly while hiding your blushing face.

"I- I like you too...." You managed to stutter out, feeling flustered from his confessions. "Sorry, I mean I l-love you too...."

You could feel Phainon's imaginary tail wagging around as he hugged you back. He feel like the happiest men in the world when you told him you love him back.

Winning an otaku's heart isn't easy, but his efforts had been payed off.

"Finally, these two are officially dating." March watched you and Phainon from a far distance, hiding nearby a bush with Caelus and Dan Heng. The three of them had already known about Phainon's little crush on you. It was pretty obvious by the way he glared at Caelus whenever you happily smiled at him.

"Well, at least I don't have to worry about that guard dog anymore." A soft sigh escaped from Caelus while March just softly chuckle at his comment.

"Now that things are settled, should we grab some ice creams to celebrate? My treat, of course." Dan Heng faced at his friends, soft smile forming on his lips while watching the two beaming happily.

"Yeah! Let's go, it's really hot here right now." March smiled happily as she stood up, dragging Caelus to a nearby convenient store as Dan Heng followed behind.

For some reason, watching these two together made Dan Heng's heart softened.

Divider Credits: Cafekitsune

[shikiii-skadi]

It was Always You

SUMMARY: sebek realizes that malleus has your heart

PAIRING: sebek zigvolt x reader, malleus draconia x reader

WARNINGS: sad sebek :(

NAVIGATION: Twisted Wonderland Masterlist | Diasomnia Masterlist

Sebek did not like you.

You were just a random human that had the audacity to call the Great Malleus Draconia by a silly little nickname, instead of the Great Malleus Draconia, like everyone should address him. But the worst part was that his Liege was not bothered at all by this. No, you became a close confidant to Malleus without even trying. Which may or may not make Sebek feel jealous because he wanted to be there looking at gargoyles in the middle of the night with Malleus and be the one he confided in.

But it wasn’t him. It was you. It was always you. 

Sebek didn't want anything to do with you, but you soon began to show up everywhere he was. Silver invited you to the Equestrian Club. Lilia thought it was a great idea to bring you to Diasomnia. At lunch, you were now sitting across from him. And everything about you annoyed Sebek. So much so that he found himself thinking about you when he was lying in his bed at night instead of Malleus's greatness. 

Everyone loved you, but Sebek could only see someone unremarkable with the tendency to cause trouble. He was surprised when he found himself laughing at something you said. Genuinely laughing. He did not expect you to be funny at all. Seems that even humans could make good jokes. 

Eventually, Sebek had grown used to your presence. Which did not mean he liked having you around! But then you did something that completely caught him by surprise again. You gifted him a present for his birthday. Not only was he surprised that you actually remembered and got him something, but that your present was a most thoughtful one, he liked very much. 

After that, something within him changed. He felt strange when you were near. There was a warmth that both confused and unsettled him. Sebek wasn’t used to feeling vulnerable, and yet your presence stirred a softness he hadn’t anticipated. Whenever you spoke, his guard momentarily dropped, revealing a part of himself he rarely showed to anyone.

Now, instead of being annoyed with Silver for inviting you to the Equestrian Club, he felt himself looking forward to seeing your face when he rounded the corner to the stables. And felt his heart drop when you weren't there. During lunch, he made sure to save you one of the egg sandwiches you liked so much and that were always gone, even if it meant scaring a few other students away.

He even looked after Grim for you. It wasn’t even that Sebek was simply tolerating the task. No, he put his everything into keeping your cat companion safe and behaved. Because no matter how irritating Grim was, it was still clear to everyone that there was a strong bond between the two of you. So it was a great honor that you entrusted him with something so close to your heart. 

Sebek didn’t fully understand what was happening to him. The cold certainty with which he had dismissed you before was now replaced by a quiet, persistent pull he couldn’t deny. An urge to be near you, to protect you, to make you smile. Yet, embarrassment clenched his chest every time those feelings surfaced. It was confounding and, frankly, infuriating. 

So, in conflict with his emotions, he one day asked Silver what all of this meant and what he was supposed to do now. But Silver just told him that if it felt good to be with you, then he should just spend more time with you. Sebek was sure that Silver was also half asleep during that time. 

But by the time Sebek decided what to do, it was too late.

Sebek could still remember that one night vividly. And how his heart shattered into a million pieces. 

The night began not too differently from many others. While it was his and Silver's knightly duty to stay close to Malleus and protect him, the fae prince often sneaked off alone. 

Sebek followed the hint he got from someone, who claimed they thought they saw Malleus near one of the old ruins on campus. Sebek was very offended that the person could not answer his question with certainty. After all, everyone should be able to detect Malleus regal presence from miles away. 

But what Sebek saw, after entering the ruin, made him forget everything about his outrage towards the student. 

Sebek’s breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening as he stepped quietly into the shadowed corridor of the ruin. The soft glow of Malleus’s presence was unmistakable, yet what truly stole Sebek’s focus was the sight of you, standing close to the prince. A closeness so intimate and natural that it sent a pang of something unfamiliar twisting through him.

Malleus’s hand was resting gently on your shoulder, his eyes fixed on you with a softness that Sebek had never seen before. The usual grandeur and unyielding authority melted away in this private moment, replaced by a quiet tenderness that made Sebek’s heart ache in a way he couldn’t understand. You smiled up at Malleus, and the prince’s smile in return was like a secret gift, meant only for you.

For a long while, Sebek had wished to be as close to Malleus as you were. But now he realized in that moment he wanted to be in Malleus's place. To be the person you looked up to like this, like he was your entire world. To be the person who gets to see your vulnerability and protect it from ever being hurt again. 

But it wasn’t him. It was Malleus. It was always Malleus. 

Sebek lingered in the shadows, every breath weighted like lead in his chest. He should have turned away the moment he realized what he was witnessing. It felt wrong to stay, to intrude on something sacred and fleeting. But his feet were rooted to the moss-covered floor. He couldn’t look away.

Sebek’s breath caught again, just as you gently reached up and touched Malleus’s cheek. The fae prince leaned into your hand with a softness so uncharacteristic of the regal, composed figure Sebek knew. There was a glow in Malleus’s eyes. Not from his magic, but from something warmer, eternally gentler.

Then, Malleus lowered his head just slightly, lips brushing yours in a kiss that was achingly slow and reverent, as though he feared you might vanish if he wasn’t careful. His hand slid from your shoulder to the curve of your jaw, holding you close like you were treasure. His fingers trembled, barely perceptible, but Sebek saw it. Felt it like a blow.

When Malleus pulled away, he lingered near your face, forehead resting against yours as he whispered something so low, Sebek almost didn’t hear it.

"You have a light that brightens even the darkest places. To be near you is to feel the threads of fate weaving a beautiful tale. One I hope will never end," he murmured. "With you, I am whole. Where you go, I follow. Always."

"You don’t have to follow. Because I plan to stay by your side. Always," you answered, with that beautiful smile and blushing cheeks, that would have made even the most cynical person melt. 

Sebek’s insides twisted painfully. That smile. He’d seen it before. It brought warmth to even the coldest Diasomnia mornings. He'd caught himself thinking, foolishly, naively, that perhaps, someday, you would smile like that… for him.

His fists clenched uselessly against his sides, trembling with the effort of holding himself together.

The ruins felt suddenly suffocating, as if centuries of stone and moss had closed in on him. Sebek’s pride, his knightly devotion, all the certainty that had sustained him, splintered beneath the weight of a feeling he could barely name: heartbreak.

Sebek finally found it in himself to tear his gaze away. He turned to leave but then accidentally kicked a stone away, causing a noise that alerted both Malleus and you to his presence. 

 Sebek’s heart stopped for a moment as both of you turned toward the sounds of the disturbance. The tender, intimate moment shattered like fragile glass. He felt like all of this wasn’t real until Malleus's voice cut through the darkness, reminding Sebek that everything was in fact real. 

"Sebek," Malleus said. His voice was firm but not unkind. "What are you doing here?"

Sebek bowed his head slightly, swallowing hard. "My apologies, my Liege. I... I thought you might be in danger. Someone said they saw you here."

Before Sebek could make things worse, Silver came rushing into ruin. "Sebek, wait. Malleus is-" Silver stopped mid-sentence when he saw that he was too late. "I told you we aren’t needed tonight."

Silver might have said something like that when Sebek stormed off. Did that mean Silver knew? Did everyone know? Was it only lost on him how close his Liege and you were? 

Sebek felt a wave of shame crashing down on him, paired with the hurt and jealousy he felt; his heart might actually rip in two. He could only hear faintly when Silver apologized on his behalf for the disturbance, to which Malleus simply said that it was fine. Sebek's eyes fell onto you. You were standing there still close to Malleus, but no longer touching him. Your eyes were wide and filled with embarrassment. 

Silver approached him. "Sebek, let’s-"

Sebek didn’t wait for Silver to finish his sentence. He just ran off into the woods. The forest was thick with shadows, and Sebek stumbled through it, not caring where he was going. The sting in his eyes blurred his vision, and he hardly noticed the way the brambles tugged at his uniform or the wetness that seeped into his sleeves as he pushed past ferns and branches. 

He couldn’t even wish for a chance to have realized his feelings sooner and confess to you before Malleus, because that would mean he would steal away his Liege's chance of happiness. Malleus was his Liege, his prince, and Sebek’s duty was to protect him, not to compete with him for affections he could not fight for.

And, of course, given the chance, who wouldn’t choose Malleus Draconia as their partner? Sebek knew how great Malleus was.

Yet now, here he was, faced with a painful truth: the very person he had come to care for had already given their heart to Malleus. A heart that Sebek never could steal.

Even if Sebek dared to hope, dared to imagine himself standing alongside you, he knew in his bones that it would be a betrayal of Malleus. The very person he had sworn unwavering loyalty to and to protect.

What right did he have, really? To take from Malleus even a sliver of happiness, when it was clear the prince’s light shone brightest with you? Sebek clenched his fists, the weight of loyalty and love pressing in on him from all sides. How could he let himself want something that Malleus had already claimed?

It wasn't Sebek. It would never be Sebek.

[stevesgother]

I must I must I musssssssttttt have steve x reader k31, k22, s3 (teehee), r5 (unestablished/situationship), w1, w4, w33 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

ily pookie!! 1K LET’S FUCKING GGGGOOO!!!!

chlo...your brain... contains: MDNI 18+, mean!steve, degradation, public sex, unestablished relationship

emma's 1k celebration

You would've sooner taken an anvil to the head than work the closing shift at Family Video with Steve, but what were you to do? Call out? Steve was already covering for Robin, and hate it as you might, you really need to stay employed as a broke college student.

Across the room, Steve is reshelving tapes and the likes while you rewind at the counter. The entire display wobbles with every move he makes like he's doing it intentionally, the plastic VHS tapes making this obnoxious screeching sound every time friction catches between them.

Because that was the thing about Steve, wasn't it? He was arrogant and obnoxious; commanding attention everywhere he goes as if he can't breathe without it. It made your skin actually crawl with barely concealed irritation.

"Could you do that any fucking louder?" You mutter, uncaring whether he hears you or not.

"Could you rewind those tapes any fucking slower?" Steve snarks as he hoists the box onto his hip, jostling it more than he realistically needs to.

And that's the thing about you, isn't it? You're uptight and easily annoyed. Steve couldn't stand it, that permanent crease between your eyebrows from your incessant scowling.

If Robin were here, she'd lament that the two of you only seemed to behave like this around each other. You would've scoffed and rolled your eyes, because there's simply no way Steve has any other way of being. It's practically impossible to picture, like snow on the beach.

"Whatever, fuck you, dude." You tell him pointedly.

He's behind the counter with you now, grabbing the tapes you're finished rewinding, "Yeah, you wish." Steve snorts, and that might be your last fucking straw.

Despite him having at least a few inches on you, you manage to get the jump on him, pushing him by the collar up against the counter.

"What is your problem, Harrington?" You spit, centimeters from his face now.

But he doesn't bother telling you. He kisses you, like a fucking lunatic. And like an even bigger lunatic, you kiss him back.

Steve regains control quickly, like you figured he would. He hoists you up into his arms as he deepens your kiss; not languidly, but angrily. Hungrily. Like he has something to prove.

You're being shoved through the creaky metal door of the breakroom before you can even register that it's happening. It's like your body's on autopilot now, unable to stop yourself from working the metal buckle on his belt and pulling the zipper on his jeans; the same way he's working open the buttons on the front of your work shirt.

He's got a handful of your tits now, massaging and rubbing his thumbs over your pebbling nipples, your legs still wrapped around his waist. You haven't stopped kissing, both of you worried that this'll be over before it's even started if you do.

"Tell me you want me." Steve demands, trying to sound domineering but falling just short.

"No." You grit.

"It's okay, baby, I know you do." Steve sneers, "Pussy's fuckin' cryin' for me." His index and middle fingers collect the slick arousal pooling at your entrance. Then, as if to prove a point, he holds his fingers up to the light, right in front of you face; showing it to you before feeding his digits into your mouth.

"Suck."

And you do.

He uses the combination of spit and slick from his now soaked fingers to lubricate his cock, lining it up to you. You grab his face again, unable to tolerate his bruising stare for another second.

Steve pushes into you harshly, no time or patience for gentle touches.

"I knew you were a slut, but God, I didn't think it'd be this easy," he pants into your ear, and in an act of pure betrayal, your cunt clenches around him where he's fucking you into this breakroom table.

"Aw," he coos mockingly, "You like it when I'm mean to you?"

You can barely muster more than a pathetic fuck you, your brain fogging over from just how hard he's thrusting into you; hitting that delicious spot inside your walls.

"Fucked you stupid, didn't I, sweetheart?"

Whatever. Steve Harrington can talk all his cocky, arrogant bullshit all he wants as long as he keeps pounding you like this. You reach a hand between your legs to rub your clit, desperately trying to finish so you don't have to keep looking at Steve's stupid, smug fucking face.

The obscene nature of the sight seems to trigger something in Steve, as he attacks your neck in messy, open-mouthed kisses as you finish together.

Steve hides in the crook of your neck until he's done coming and not a second longer, pulling out and shoving his still half-hard cock into his underwear.

"Try not to get cum on the table." He tells you as he opens the door to exit the room.

"Dick." You mutter under your breath as you adjust your shirt. And you hate that you can't help but stare at his ass as he walks away.

[ducksido]

not sure if ur requests r still open but if possibke can u maybe do like an alien yuu ….. (ig yuu is still alien bcuz they r from another world butSTILL) like w antanae and visibly non-human alienlike features yk …. maybe weirddd mannerisms idk how toexplain … can u write how heartslabyul and the overblot crew would interact w them ? (if not all those characters then js heartslabyul :333)

Riddle Rosehearts

At first, Riddle is horrified. Not because Yuu is grotesque, but because they are so unpredictable. Their refusal to conform to NRC norms is chaotic to him—antennae that wiggle when excited? Speaking in fragmented metaphors? Floating off the ground when they’re focused? Unacceptable.

And yet… he notices their earnestness. Yuu follows the rules when they understand them; they just… misunderstand them a lot.

He ends up gently coaching them, correcting their odd gestures ("No, we bow like this, not with your knees backwards!") and privately wonders if they’re lonely.

Secretly thinks their ability to taste emotions through the air is fascinating. Embarrassed when they tell him he smells like "boiling roses and suppressed fury."

Ace Trappola

“Dude, are your eyes even real? Are those—wait—those are twitching?!”

Ace is lowkey terrified and very curious. He pokes at Yuu’s antennae the first day, gets zapped with static, and screeches. From then on, he nicknames them “Buggy.”

Makes jokes constantly: “Hey Yuu, want some space food? Or do you eat light waves or something?”

But he’s also the first to throw hands when someone makes fun of them for looking different. “Back off. Only I get to call them weird.”

He gradually picks up on their body language and can tell when their bioluminescence dims—he jokes less and becomes more genuine in those moments.

Deuce Spade

Absolutely tries his best to treat Alien!Yuu like any other student… but he is clearly flustered.

“Y-You look very… cosmically efficient today, Yuu.”

He tries to salute them. They respond with "Koopzoopbee" that accidentally activate a nearby magical device.

Deuce screams.

Despite the awkward start, he grows to deeply respect Yuu’s intelligence and perception. Their strange mannerisms become comforting to him, like how they chirp softly when they’re pleased or wrap their long fingers around teacups just to feel the warmth.

If Yuu ever defends him, even with some otherworldly power? He’s devoted.

Cater Diamond

Fascinated. Treats Yuu like a fashion trend waiting to happen.

“OMG, your markings GLOW? That’s so filter-core, we gotta take a pic together.”

He’s very touchy—unless Yuu expresses discomfort, he’ll be fixing their antenna angles for photos, painting little stars on their exoskin, etc.

At first, it’s superficial—but then he realizes he actually likes them. Yuu doesn't care about trends or aesthetics. They ask him strange questions like “What is a Cater?” or “Why do you wear many faces for others to see?”

Those questions make him reflect more deeply than he’s used to. It scares him. But he can’t stay away.

Trey Clover

Surprisingly unfazed. He’s just like: “Alright. You eat calcium spheres and drink sunlight. Got it. Want me to bake around that?”

Takes everything in stride—antennae, glowing patterns, even when Yuu phases slightly through walls.

He becomes a quiet caretaker, making Yuu special calming teas when their nervous system is overstimulated.

Yuu trusts him almost instantly. They like his “steady pulse” and say he smells like “clouds and groundedness.”

He’s the one they go to when their body glitches in a stress response or when they need someone to gently anchor them in this dimension.

Leona Kingscholar

At first? Disdain. “What’s this? Another freakshow?”

But he’s intrigued when Yuu doesn’t react to his provocations like most do. They just stare, head tilted. “You growl when angry. But not always.”

Eventually, he realizes they understand him in a way others don’t. They don’t fear his strength, nor worship it. They analyze him.

They once said, “You remind me of the suns from my origin world. Hot. Distant. Slowly dying.”

He almost chokes. Falls asleep beside them regularly after that.

Azul Ashengrotto

Horrified at first. “Please don’t touch the contracts. Or float into the ceiling again. Or—YUU GET DOWN FROM THERE.”

But he also sees business potential in Alien!Yuu’s unique abilities. They once helped him close a deal just by speaking to a client in vibrating tones only their species understood.

Azul tries to be composed, but when they tell him his aura smells like “wet coin and lonely,” he nearly short-circuits.

Very protective once bonded. They are a treasured anomaly in his life.

Malleus Draconia

THRILLED. Finally! Someone more out-of-place than he is!

They speak in obscure metaphors? He responds in ancient prose.

Malleus takes their bioluminescent patterns as a form of communication and learns to interpret them. Their first real conversation is done entirely through light pulses and magical auras.

They dance in the woods under lightning storms. Neither fully understands the other, but it’s transcendent.

Idia Shroud

Idia short-circuits the moment he sees them.

“IRL eldritch waifu?? N-no—I mean, alien! Nonbinary alien entity!! I mean—GAAAAAHHHHHH—”

Obsessed with their design. Tries to build tech that mimics their functions. Also: watches them sleep to see if they dream in binary.

Their odd nature is comforting to him. They’re not judgmental, they’re curious. And when they say things like “You vibrate at a frequency I like,” he has to lie down for 3 hours to recover.

Rollo Flamme

Disgusted at first. “This is why magic must be purged. You are a mistake of the arcane.”

But Alien!Yuu is untouched by his vitriol. They look at him calmly, without fear, and say, “You are very loud for someone so quiet inside.”

That comment unsettles him more than any spell could.

He avoids them—and yet finds himself haunted by their presence. They once floated beside him in silence for ten whole minutes. He couldn’t stop trembling afterward.

[yukkiji]

because he had to

because rin had to obey his family, he agreed to marry you—yet as you, who had quietly loved him for years, found yourself falling even deeper, you began to wonder if the way he stayed, listened, and chose you in the quiet moments meant he wasn’t with you out of obligation... but because he wanted to be.

starring. itoshi rin x fem!reader

genre. romance, angst, domestic fluff, slow burn, emotional healing, arranged marriage au, slice of life.

wc. 12.5k

cw. generational trauma, misogynistic comments, toxic family dynamics, emotional repression.

author's note: i actually wrote this since i can't sleep and this prompt has been sitting in my drafts for a while now

You first saw Itoshi Rin when you were around ten years old, at a grand charity gala your parents insisted you attend. You were still small enough to get away with hiding under buffet tables or sneaking extra dessert plates, but that night, something made you pause.

He was sitting at a corner table, not quite sulking but clearly not enjoying himself. His older brother, Sae, stood just a few feet away, surrounded by adults clapping him on the back, heaping praise for his early success in football. Rin sat stiffly, watching in silence, his small hands clenched in his lap. He must have been only a year or two older than you, but already you noticed the way his shoulders curled in—like he was used to shrinking himself down beside Sae’s spotlight.

What stuck with you wasn’t Sae’s fame. It was the subtle way Rin glanced at his brother—part admiration, part resignation. He looked like he was used to being second. But Sae didn’t look pleased either. In fact, the older boy was barely masking his annoyance, his lips in a tight line as though the attention was more exhausting than flattering. And in that strange moment—amid clinking wine glasses and adult laughter—you realized both brothers hated being there, just in different ways.

You didn’t talk to Rin then. Just observed him from behind your parents’ tailored clothes. And then you kept seeing him.

At more events—charity auctions, fundraising banquets, community celebrations that tied your two influential families together. Sometimes it was just a nod, a glance from across the ballroom, a shared glance when the grown-ups talked too loud or said the wrong thing. One time, at your cousin’s wedding, you didn’t realize your dress zipper had broken. You were too busy helping with the reception program when someone placed a warm jacket over your shoulders. You turned around in surprise, and there he was—Rin. He didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod before walking away. That coat smelled like mint and laundry detergent, and you remembered thinking how quiet boys always noticed the important things.

You ended up attending the same prestigious high school, though you were in different classes. Rin was already well on his way to stardom—dedicated to football, almost unreachable in his discipline. You found your own rhythm in the science labs and student council meetings, pouring yourself into volunteer work, biology papers, and late-night cram sessions.

Your family came from a long line of doctors—all men, all top of their class. You were the first daughter in generations to pursue medicine, but no one discouraged you. In fact, your parents were unusually supportive, proudly calling you their “game-changer.” Medicine wasn’t just a family legacy to you—it was your choice, your dream. You wanted it more than anything else. And after years of sleepless nights, caffeine-fueled revisions, and anatomy charts tattooed behind your eyelids, you had finally graduated.

You were now a first-year resident, newly transitioned from the chaos of med school into the grueling hours of internship. It was hard. No one romanticized the truth—thirty-hour shifts, patients coding, seniors snapping, hands that trembled from exhaustion. But you loved it. Every messy, sleep-deprived, adrenaline-filled second of it.

Rin’s trajectory wasn’t any less impressive. His family, known for producing world-class athletes and ruthless business tycoons, had high expectations—and Rin met every single one. He dominated the Japan Football League like a silent storm, precise and terrifying in his technique. Off the field, he ran training camps for aspiring athletes, managed a string of sports clinics, and co-owned a retail chain of elite gear stores. Rin wasn’t just a star player—he was building an empire with the same laser-sharp focus he had as a child.

You had accepted that your paths would always run parallel. Close, almost intimate, but never crossing.

Until the day you dragged yourself home after a brutal twenty-four-hour hospital shift, having juggled emergency rotations and review materials for your upcoming internship exams, and your parents sat you down at the dinner table.

They looked too calm. The kind of calm that came right before life took a sharp, irreversible turn.

“We have something to tell you,” your mother said gently, folding her hands.

Your father smiled, as if this was good news.

And then they said it.

You were engaged—to Itoshi Rin.

You didn’t complain—you saw this coming.

You had prepared yourself for it years ago, the possibility always lingering quietly in the back of your mind like a shadow at the edge of a doorframe. And truthfully? You didn’t care. Not in the way that made most women your age spiral into panic or daydreams. You had already built a life for yourself—a solid, hard-earned future that didn’t depend on anyone else.

You were a doctor now—first female in your family to make it past the impossible bar set by generations of male predecessors. You graduated with honors, fought tooth and nail through sleepless nights and clinical rotations, survived condescending mentors and soul-crushing shifts. You were already enough.

So if your name was to be tied to Itoshi Rin’s—if your future was to include a man chosen not by your heart but by obligation—you’d manage. Like always.

After all, you came from a long line of women who did the same.

Arranged marriages were practically tradition in your family—your mother included. But hers was the rare kind that bloomed over time. Your parents' marriage became something beautiful, built on mutual respect and unspoken understanding. What started as strategy became a sanctuary—resulting in a home filled with love, quiet strength, and two children who never once doubted what affection felt like.

Maybe, somewhere in your heart, you hoped yours would follow that path.

And to be fair—you liked Rin. Even before this engagement was proposed.

He was familiar to you. You’d seen him at social events growing up—quiet in the corners, head slightly bowed, posture straight, always watching. Always listening. You went to the same prestigious high school, though his reputation preceded him. Stoic. Calculated. Intimidatingly brilliant. You were never close, but your paths crossed often enough that his name never felt foreign in your mouth.

And now—it was bound to yours.

The engagement was announced the way everything in Rin’s world was—polished, pristine, and press-ready. A curated image for the public to consume. His family handled the release—a glossy photo of the two of you, a generic caption about love and legacy. It was posted to official pages, picked up by sports blogs, and spread across gossip forums before the ink on the paperwork even dried.

You didn’t even mind. You were used to pressure. To scrutiny. To people making assumptions about your life without knowing a single thing about it.

And that’s how you found yourself standing at the entrance of a penthouse—high above the city, luxury wrapped in glass and marble—gifted by Rin’s parents as a pre-wedding gesture. A shared space for a shared future.

You arrived first—boxes filled with textbooks, surgical clogs, and two dozen mugs from med school. You picked the guest room to unpack in, unsure if it was too soon to claim the master bedroom. Not that Rin would have cared.

He moved in two days later—silent, efficient, meticulous. No questions. No expectations.

Rin wasn’t cold—not the way people thought.

He was quiet. He was reserved. But he was also the kind of man who paid attention in the softest, most deliberate ways.

He cooked dinners on the nights you came home late, even if it was already past midnight. He didn’t complain when you were too exhausted to eat properly, instead placing a warm bowl in front of you, murmuring, “At least a few bites. I’ll warm the rest later if you want it.”

And when you had to study for your internship exam, Rin was there. Not in a loud or flashy way, but present in the little things. He brought coffee to your desk without asking, sometimes with a post-it stuck to the mug that read, You’re doing great. I’m proud of you.

“Don’t fall asleep on your notes,” he’d say, gently tapping your forehead with a knuckle when you dozed off mid-sentence.

You passed, and Rin celebrated it the way he knew you’d prefer. No huge party, no surprise announcements. Just him, standing in the kitchen with a cake—your favorite flavor—and a spread of greasy takeout food you craved after every long shift. He looked almost smug when you smiled at the sight.

“Thought you’d like this more than people clapping in your face,” he said, opening the plastic containers.

“You were right,” you murmured, leaning on the counter beside him. “This is perfect.”

After that, the transition into your residency was brutal. The hours were longer, the responsibilities heavier, but Rin was always around. Despite training for upcoming matches, juggling press conferences and overseeing his sports brand, he still found time for you. He’d text when he was on the way, and true to his word, he’d be there—waiting at 2am by the hospital’s parking lot in his car, music low, headlights off, eyes tired but patient.

“You should’ve gone home,” you’d tell him as you slid into the passenger seat.

“You looked like you needed a ride more than I needed sleep,” he’d reply simply, hands steady on the wheel.

Sometimes, when your shifts required staying overnight, Rin would send food—carefully packed, with your name scribbled on the lid in black marker. He’d even send two sets if he thought you forgot your lunch too. And when you finally returned home after days of being on call, he’d pull you into a hug so firm it threatened to break you.

“You smell like antiseptic,” he’d mutter against your shoulder.

“You smell like overpriced cologne,” you’d say back, muffled into his chest. But you never pulled away.

At home, you often ended up sprawled on the couch with your head on his lap, recounting the chaos of your day. Rin would run his fingers gently through your hair, pausing only to smooth the strands when they tangled.

“One of my patients coded and came back after six minutes,” you told him once, eyes wide with leftover adrenaline. “It was surreal. His eyes opened and he asked for water like nothing happened.”

Rin blinked, then tilted his head. “So he technically died?”

“Technically, yes.”

He let out a soft whistle. “You guys are scary.”

You laughed, breathless from the high of saving someone’s life. “You play in front of fifty thousand people. I think we’re even.”

Rin hummed. “Yeah, but no one flatlines on the pitch.”

Moments like these painted a picture of something gentle, something bordering on intimate. He remembered what snacks you liked after a long day. He learned how to recognize when you needed to talk versus when you needed silence. He was always there, always attentive, always kind.

But underneath it all—behind the small comforts and shared routines—you knew the truth.

He only agreed to the engagement because it was expected of him.

Because his parents arranged it. Because you were a match that made sense on paper—two heirs from reputable families, both successful in your own rights. Because this was how your world worked.

And you accepted that.

Because that was how it always went for women in your family. Because your mother had once told you that love wasn’t the foundation, but rather something you learned—if you were lucky.

So you stopped hoping for anything more than this quiet companionship, this respectful co-existence.

Because he had to.

And you would learn to be okay with that.

Okay with letting go of the little things—your favorite flowers not making the bouquet, the venue being in his family’s preferred country club, the gown being selected before you even had time to breathe. You would learn to nod when asked a question, even if the answer had already been decided for you.

Most of the wedding planning was orchestrated by his family. You quickly realized that your presence in the room was more ceremonial than necessary. It was his mother and aunts who ran the show, voices firm and faces practiced in subtle smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. They had a vision, and you—well, you were just expected to fit into it.

You said yes a lot. Yes to the menu, yes to the flowers, yes to the dress his mother thought would “balance out your shoulders.” It didn’t matter if you liked it. It was easier to agree than to fight a battle you were never going to win.

And always, always, their comments had a certain edge to them. Not loud enough to cause a scene, but sharp enough to cut.

“She’s always so tired, isn’t she? I suppose that's what happens when you're running around in a hospital all day,” his mother would murmur with a sip of wine.

“You’d think someone in medicine would have more time management,” an aunt said once while flipping through the guest list. “She nearly missed the cake tasting last week.”

Another chimed in, almost sympathetically, “Well, it's not easy balancing a career and a wedding. I suppose it’s admirable she’s trying at all.”

You smiled through it. Every time. You bit your tongue until it hurt and you smiled. Because you weren’t just marrying Rin. You were marrying into all of them. And after all, wasn’t this what they wanted? What your parents wanted? What was expected?

Rin wasn’t there for most of it. He had flown to Spain with Sae for a training camp. The timing couldn’t have been worse—or maybe it was perfect, depending on who you asked. His mother had taken it as a sign to step in fully. You, on the other hand, simply tried not to crumble.

But Rin... Rin still tried.

He would call you whenever he could—between practices, at odd hours when he knew you’d be on break or walking home from the hospital. His voice was steady, a little tired, but always laced with quiet concern. He didn’t say much, but he always asked if you were holding up, if things were too much, if you were eating.

And in those small, private moments, you felt seen.

You didn’t tell him everything. You never told him how his aunts would make you feel like an accessory instead of a bride. Or how his mother always looked at your hands like they weren’t delicate enough for a wedding band. Or how every time they brought up your job, it was as if it were a phase rather than the result of sleepless nights and years of sacrifice.

Still, Rin had this way of hearing what you didn’t say.

Maybe it was the way your voice dropped when you said “the venue’s fine,” or how long it took you to answer when he asked if you were okay. Maybe it was just Rin—ever quiet, ever watching.

And though he wasn’t there in person, though he couldn’t shoulder any of it physically, his presence still anchored you in a way no one else could.

You were drowning in table settings and fitting appointments and judgment disguised as advice—but whenever you heard his voice, even for a minute, something in you eased.

Even if you were exhausted. Even if your opinion didn’t seem to matter. Even if this wedding felt less and less like yours.

The engagement party was even more of a handful than you imagined.

It was hosted in a hotel ballroom—expansive, gilded, meticulously dressed in white and silver. On paper, it was flawless. But it wasn’t what you wanted.

You had hoped for something small, intimate. A quiet dinner maybe, a celebration with just the people who mattered most. Something you could actually breathe in. Something that wouldn’t feel like a PR move or a corporate gala in disguise.

But your preference didn’t come up.

Or maybe it did—but no one really listened.

His mother had already booked the venue before you were even asked. His aunts handled the guest list. Your own parents said it was “better this way.” You were told to wear the dress already selected for you and show up on time. So you did. Because what else could you do?

Guests arrived in waves—politicians, business partners, executives, hospital board members, distant relatives you’d never met before but were somehow still addressed by their titles.

You recognized none of their names. None of them were there for you.

You stood under the chandelier lights, in heels you didn’t pick, offering polite smiles to people who kept asking if you planned to stop working after the wedding. Some didn’t even know what your job was.

And the worst part?

You had just come off a 24-hour shift at the hospital.

You’d barely made it back in time to shower at the penthouse and lie down for two hours before hair and makeup arrived.

You were running on caffeine and adrenaline.

But you smiled anyway. Because you had to.

When you finally slipped away from the banquet hall, your legs ached and your throat was dry from talking. You found yourself out on the balcony, away from the lights and the noise, leaning on the railing just to keep upright. The cool air stung your skin, but it was the first real breath you took that day.

You weren’t alone for long.

The glass door slid open behind you, and quiet footsteps padded closer.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Rin said softly.

You turned your head slightly, exhausted eyes meeting his. He looked handsome as always in his suit, tie slightly loosened, dark strands falling into his eyes. He had only just returned from Spain a few days ago. You hadn’t even had the chance to really talk.

His gaze swept over you, taking in the curve of your shoulders, the subtle tremble in your arms, the way your back was turned just slightly—like you were too tired to keep your guard up.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice gentler than usual. “Are you holding up?”

You blinked slowly, the sting behind your eyes threatening to spill over.

“I heard you came straight from a 24-hour shift,” he added. “You barely slept, didn’t you?”

“Two hours,” you admitted, voice rough. “If that.”

He exhaled, jaw tightening. Not in frustration at you—but at the situation.

“This party... wasn’t what you wanted, was it?”

You gave a tired laugh, low and bitter. “What I wanted never really mattered.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just moved a little closer, enough that you could feel the heat of him next to you.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve pushed back. I should’ve been here.”

You shook your head, eyes fixed on the city lights beyond the balcony.

“They wouldn’t have listened to you either, Rin.”

“Maybe not,” he murmured. “But I still should’ve been beside you.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

And in that sliver of silence, the music from inside dimmed, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses faded, and it was just the two of you. Just like before—before the pressure, the plans, the politics.

Your eyes fluttered shut, just long enough to feel the weight of his words settle on your chest.

“I’m trying,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said.

And even though everything else felt staged and suffocating, this moment—with just him beside you—was the first time in weeks that felt real.

You tried. God, you tried to be the perfect little daughter-in-law they seemed to want.

Always coming presentable, showing up to their dinners with practiced poise and a strained smile, wearing soft-colored dresses and modest heels, even if you had to change in the hospital locker room. You’d sit through evenings with people you didn’t even know—CEOs, donors, investors, polished women who never broke a sweat, let alone a 30-hour shift—smiling through the remnants of a breakdown you barely had time to feel earlier that day.

Because earlier that day, you lost a patient. A young one. Cardiac arrest. And no matter how many times you ran the rhythm check or how many rounds of epi you administered, they never came back. You washed your face with cold water and shoved your grief into a neat little box so you could go to his family's dinner.

Because you didn’t want to be the disappointment. Not after everything. Not when you were the first female doctor in a long line of men. Not when their entire family had planned the wedding. Not when you still held that flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—someone at that table would see you for who you were.

But alas, everything has a boiling point.

Yours came at a dinner held in Rin’s childhood home. His entire extended family was there—your own parents, too, sitting stiffly at one end of the long, polished wooden table, like two pieces of fine china that didn’t quite match the rest of the set.

You had just come off a 30-hour shift, the last 13 hours of which were spent inside an operating room after the lead surgeon collapsed mid-procedure. You were the one who stepped up. Held the scalpel. Led the team. Saved the patient.

And then, running on half a protein bar and caffeine that burned your gut, you let Rin pick you up straight from the hospital. He offered to cancel the dinner, but you shook your head. “I’ll be fine,” you lied, pinching your cheeks for color in the mirror of his car.

You should’ve known better.

Because the moment you stepped into that dining room, you felt the eyes—judgment dressed as concern.

“She’s paler than the daikon,” one of his aunts said with a light chuckle as she sipped her soup. “Are you sure you’re eating enough, sweetheart?”

“You poor thing,” another aunt added. “Do you even have time to do your hair? You’re always so… busy.”

You tried to breathe through it, through the tightness in your chest, through the taste of iron at the back of your throat. Rin glanced at you, the muscle in his jaw ticking—but he didn’t speak. Not yet.

And then came the real blow.

“Well, I suppose it must be difficult,” one of Rin’s uncles said, swirling his wine like he was about to make a toast. “Being the only female doctor in your family. That’s quite the burden. But you’ll quit when you start a family, won’t you? I mean, no husband wants a wife too tired to care for the kids.”

Laughter followed. A low, agreeable chuckle from the end of the table, and a few muttered “true”s and “just saying”s that felt more like daggers than conversation.

“I mean, sweetheart, you’re just a resident—not even a full physician or surgeon yet at this point.” One of Rin’s uncles leaned back in his chair, lips curved in amusement like he was giving sage advice and not dismissing years of your hard work with a single sentence.

“He’s right,” another aunt piped in, her voice laced with faux sympathy, the kind that dripped more venom than concern. “You’re better off as a housewife.”

There was a beat of silence before another relative added, as if it were the most logical conclusion in the world, “Do you even know how to cook or clean?"

A few more chuckles followed. You weren’t sure if they were laughing at their own cruelty or at the look on your face, but either way, it made your stomach twist.

You sat there frozen.

Your hands rested in your lap, fingers curled so tightly into your palms that your nails bit into your skin. You looked at Rin��stiff and silent, jaw clenched, eyes cast low. Your heart pounded in your chest, not from embarrassment, but from the growing storm inside you. You mentally begged him to say something. Anything.

You silently begged him to look at you. To speak up. To make them stop.

But he just stayed silent.

"Excuse me," you said, your voice low and trembling as you stood up from the table. Your chair scraped softly against the hardwood floor, far too gentle a sound for the chaos building inside your chest.

You had barely taken a step when one of his uncles laughed again and muttered, “Overreacting, aren’t we? Must be the hormones.”

Something in you cracked.

You turned around.

"I followed everything you asked me to do," you started, voice shaking, but louder now. "I swallowed my pride and played the part you all wanted me to play. I stayed quiet while you planned a wedding I didn’t even have a say in. I smiled through every dinner, every meeting, every fitting—even when I felt like I didn’t belong."

You paused. Your throat burned, but you refused to cry yet.

“I stayed silent every single time you belittled my career. I worked ten—no, more—years of my life for those two letters after my name. MD. I missed birthdays, holidays, sleep, my youth, to earn that. And you all reduce me to a glorified housewife with no ambition—like I'm some accessory to Rin’s life and not someone who has her own.”

More silence. Their smug expressions turned neutral, uneasy. But Rin still said nothing. You turned your eyes to him—pleading, searching—for something. Anything.

Nothing came.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips.

“You know what? I don’t want this anymore,” you whispered, the words tasting like blood in your mouth. “You can find someone else who’s fine being your doll. Someone who’ll smile and nod and cook and clean and never talk back. Because I sure as hell am not her.”

Your voice cracked.

“You can talk shit about me all you want—I’ve gotten used to that. But you don’t get to talk down on what I worked my entire life for. I’ve poured every ounce of my being into becoming the woman I am. And you all sit there laughing like I’m nothing but a joke.”

Tears burned in your eyes. You didn’t want to cry in front of them. God, you hated crying in front of them. But it was too late now.

You looked at Rin again, and this time, your voice broke as your gaze locked with his. “And you. You saw how hard I worked. All those nights I called you from the hospital. All the times you told me I was incredible, that you admired me. You knew how much this meant to me. And you let them tear me to pieces right in front of you.”

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t move. Didn't reach for you. Didn’t say a word.

“I loved you,” you said, the final blow. Your breath hitched. “All these years—I loved you. Even before this stupid engagement. Even when we were kids and you barely looked at me at those family events. I loved you.”

Silence.

Your heart felt like it was collapsing inside your chest.

You reached up and slid the engagement ring off your finger. Your hand trembled as you placed it on the table in front of Rin.

“It’s over,” you whispered, voice hoarse and raw. “I’m calling this off.”

Then you turned around and walked out the door—this time, no one dared to laugh.

The tension that lingered in your absence was suffocating. It clung to the ornate walls of the dining room like smoke, thick with the remnants of mockery, judgment, and something worse—entitlement. For a moment, no one moved. Then, the silence was broken by a scoff. Rin's mother.

"Honestly," she said, dabbing at her lips with a cloth napkin, her voice dripping with faux exasperation. "I was just being polite, but I always knew that girl didn’t quite fit in with us. I have another girl in mind to continue this engagement. Someone better suited for this family. With better pedigree."

"Better breeding," muttered one of the aunts with a knowing smirk. "Not just some overworked girl playing pretend as a doctor."

One of the uncles snorted. “Her family’s money might come from hospitals, but it’s nothing compared to the legacy of the Itoshi name. A few doctors in white coats don’t hold a candle to generations of status.”

"All that effort," another chimed in with mock pity, swirling wine in his glass, "just to end up being a glorified caregiver in a glorified clinic. That’s not ambition. That’s settling.”

Rin had been staring at the ring the whole time. The one you'd taken off and left in front of him—gently, without a word, without drama, just the way you always did things. Quiet. Graceful. Strong. His fingers twitched.

Then—

“Shut the fuck up. All of you.”

The room snapped to attention.

Rin stood slowly, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His voice was steady but laced with the kind of fury that burned from the inside out.

“She just got off a thirty-hour shift. Thirteen of those hours, she was standing in an operating room after the head surgeon collapsed. And you have the audacity to sit here and laugh at her? Call her unworthy? She saved lives last night while you all drank champagne and polished your fucking heirlooms.”

He looked at each of them, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass.

“She is more admirable than any of you—than any of your wives who haven't lifted a finger for anyone but themselves. Who’ve never touched anything real other than a wine glass or jewelry they wear to cover up their loveless marriages and affairs.”

One of the uncles opened his mouth, “She’s just a glorified caregiver—”

“She’s a fucking doctor,” Rin barked, slamming his hand on the table, the plates rattling violently. “A better doctor than you ever were a father, or a businessman, or a fucking man, considering the only thing you’re good at is gambling away your inheritance and chasing women young enough to be your daughter!”

Another aunt tried to speak, but Rin cut her off too.

“And don’t you dare talk about her family like they’re beneath us. At least they earned their name. They built something from compassion and service—not from exploiting people or stepping on others just to climb higher.”

Sae stood then, trying to place a hand on Rin’s shoulder, trying to calm him. “Rin—”

“Don’t,” Rin snapped, brushing his hand off without looking at him. “Don’t try to stop me. You’ve done that our whole lives. Let me say what I need to say.”

There was something feral about him now, like he had been caged his entire life, and the bars were finally breaking.

He looked at his mother.

“You knew my only condition for this arranged marriage,” he said, voice low and raw. “You knew that the only reason I agreed to it was because it was her. I told you from the start—if it wasn’t her, I wasn’t going to go through with it. You knew that. And now you're throwing her away like she was disposable?”

“She overreacted—”

“No,” he snapped. “She endured. For months. She endured the cold stares, the snide remarks, the condescending tones from all of you, just to make this family proud. And I—” his voice cracked for the first time, pain flickering behind his rage, “I let her. I stood here and let all of you chip away at the one person who saw me for me.”

He reached toward the ring that sat untouched in front of him. The heirloom. The same one you left just moments ago with trembling fingers.

Rin picked it up and walked toward his mother, standing in front of her like a final act of rebellion.

“I don’t need this anymore,” he said. “This ring, this entire charade—you can keep it. Because I already had something made for her. Something I designed. For a proposal I planned. After all this bullshit was over. Something simple. Something real. Something hers.”

His mother looked horrified. The uncles murmured, but no one dared to interrupt again.

“I loved her,” Rin continued, quieter now, as if the rage was slowly hollowing out into something else—grief. “Since we were kids. I didn’t even realize it at first. But every time I saw her at those childhood events, every time she smiled at me like I wasn’t just the second son of a cold empire, I loved her. And now she’s gone. All because this family couldn’t stomach the idea of someone good being part of it.”

He took a shaky breath and looked back at the table one last time.

“And you—” he pointed at one of his uncles, “—talk like you're above everyone when you’re the one who couldn’t even stay faithful to your wife.”

"And you," he turned to another, "have the nerve to comment on love and worth when your own children won’t even speak to you."

He stepped back. “I stayed in this because I wanted to please all of you. I did everything you asked. Soccer. Branding. The name. But I set one condition—and you broke it. So now I’m done. I’m not marrying anyone else. I won’t play this role for you anymore. I won’t be your pawn.”

Rin turned and walked out, the weight of everything crashing down on his shoulders. He didn’t look back.

A sharp silence fell over the room in his absence—like all the air had been sucked out. Everyone was too stunned to move, to speak. The engagement ring Rin had left behind sat untouched in front of their mother, its presence colder than steel, heavier than gold.

Sae leaned back in his seat, dragging a hand down his face. Then he exhaled long and slow, like this entire dinner had been rotting from the start. His gaze swept across the room, not rushing, but resting—unforgiving—on each of their faces.

"You know," Sae started quietly, "I used to think keeping quiet was the best way to keep peace in this family. Smile through it. Swallow the poison and call it dinner."

His voice dropped a little lower, his tone chilling. "But after what I just witnessed? I think it's time someone tells the truth—no matter how ugly."

Their mother straightened, eyes narrowing, as if bracing herself. But Sae didn’t flinch.

"You sit there acting like Rin’s ungrateful. Like he's immature. But what I saw just now? That wasn’t a tantrum. That was someone finally realizing he’s done bending over backwards for people who only want him when he’s compliant and silent."

There was a shift in the room. An invisible thread pulled taut.

Sae laughed bitterly. “You all act so concerned about appearances. Your image. Your status. Your legacy. And yet behind all that, do any of you even remember how to care for your own blood?”

He looked at their mother now, sharp and unwavering. “You want to lecture Rin about duty? When all you've ever done is try to mold him into a version of himself that you could show off like an accessory at fundraisers.”

She opened her mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to defend herself—but Sae cut her off.

"You think I didn’t notice what you did to him all those years? How every time I tried to take on the pressure so Rin wouldn’t have to, you just redirected it harder on him? I left to shield him from this circus. I took the heat, the spotlight, the expectation. And somehow, you still made him carry it alone."

Sae paused, his jaw tense. “And I regret that. I regret leaving him with people who were supposed to love him, but instead made him feel like love was a transaction. Like he had to earn it.”

His father’s fingers clenched lightly around his glass. His mother said nothing, but her stare was steely, unrepentant.

“You wonder why Rin and I grew apart? Why he never wanted to follow in anyone’s footsteps?” Sae scoffed under his breath. “Maybe it’s because he grew up watching two people stay in a marriage out of obligation and image instead of love.”

His father’s lips thinned. “Watch yourself, Sae.”

“No,” Sae said sharply. “No more watching myself. That’s what we’ve all been doing—watching this family crack and rot under the weight of pride.”

He stood slowly, every movement deliberate, controlled, but beneath it all simmered an anger older than the silverware on their polished table. “You all just saw the girl Rin loves walk out of here with tears in her eyes. And instead of reaching out, you judged her. That’s the girl he’s talked about for years—told me how she’d find him at every function, how she actually listened when he spoke. How she made him feel seen.”

Sae’s voice dropped. “Do you even understand what that means? Feeling seen? Because Rin’s spent most of his life feeling like a shadow in this house.”

Another beat of silence.

He shook his head. “I’m going after him. Because clearly, none of you will.”

And without waiting for a reply, Sae turned and walked away—out the door, out of that godforsaken room with its stifling legacy and empty crystal glasses.

The air was cool that evening, the kind of soft breeze that carried old memories with it. Rin sat alone on the edge of the small football field behind their family home—one they used to play in as kids, back when the world was simpler. His cleats dug into the grass, half-forgotten as he leaned back on his hands, eyes turned toward the soft dusk sky.

He didn’t turn when he heard footsteps approach.

“You always did like brooding out here.”

Rin exhaled, almost amused, before glancing sideways. “And you always liked finding me when I did.”

Sae stood beside him, hands tucked in the pockets of his coat, eyes scanning the empty field like it still held echoes of their childhood laughter. “I didn’t come to pick a fight,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t think you did,” Rin replied, patting the grass next to him.

Sae hesitated for a second before sitting down. Silence settled between them—not heavy, but thoughtful.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sae said, “about how things turned out. And if… I ever made you feel like I was too far away from you. Not just physically. I mean… everything.”

Rin’s lips tightened. “I know you didn’t mean to. But yeah,” he admitted, voice softer, “it hurt. You were always the one I looked up to. And then suddenly, it felt like I couldn’t reach you anymore.”

Sae’s jaw clenched. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve done better. Should’ve been better.”

Rin shook his head, staring down at his hands. “We’re here now, I guess. That’s something.”

“It is.” Sae looked over at his brother. “You know… I’m proud of you. For not giving up on her. For fighting for the love of your life.”

Rin’s brows furrowed, eyes flickering to his brother. “Why are you saying that like it’s something you couldn’t do?”

Sae smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because it’s not something I did. I let her go.”

There was a long pause.

“Maybe it’s not too late,” Rin said. “You always told me life’s too long to carry regrets.”

Sae chuckled, low and self-deprecating. “Might be already too late, Rin.”

“But you never know.”

The older Itoshi brother looked up at the sky, eyes distant. “Yeah… maybe.”

Then, with a sigh, he stood and dusted his pants off. “Go to her.”

Rin looked up.

“Go,” Sae repeated. “She’s still your home. And I think she’s still waiting for you to find your way back.”

Rin didn’t hesitate. He stood, nodding once. And within the hour, he was in the car, heading toward the penthouse they’d shared since the engagement.

He entered quietly, hoping he hadn’t missed her by seconds. But the moment he stepped in, his heart dropped.

Everything was still in place. Her shoes by the door. Her favorite mug drying on the rack. Her coats still hung beside his.

But she wasn’t there.

He checked every room, calling out softly. Nothing.

The silence was deafening.

He didn’t want to assume the worst. So instead, he respected the quiet. He sat down in the living room and looked around—remembering all the nights she fell asleep on the couch waiting for him, the mornings she’d leave notes on the fridge after another night shift, how their life had slowly started to blend into one.

But he also remembered something else: the old apartment near the hospital. The one she used before everything—before the chaos of the engagement, before they were a unit. She hadn’t been there in months. Not since she moved in with him.

And though he didn’t know the exact address, he knew it was close to her work. He could call. He could search. But he didn’t want to push. He didn’t want to chase her too hard, not when she was still hurting.

So he stayed back. Waited. Gave her space, even if every part of him itched to go find her.

Meanwhile, in the quiet familiarity of the old apartment, you curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your lap, the cup of tea on the side table already cold and untouched. The walls still smelled faintly of old books and eucalyptus—home. Comfort. A scent you always loved.

It was quieter here.

No press calls. No stylists or wedding planners asking you to adjust your schedule. No constant reminders of the version of yourself you were supposed to become just to fit neatly into another family’s idea of what a wife should be.

Here, you didn’t have to smile politely when someone talked over you. Or pretend their backhanded compliments didn’t sting.

The doorbell rang, cutting through the silence. You hesitated, then stood, dragging the blanket along with you. When you opened it, your parents stood there—your father with his hands deep in his coat pockets, your mother’s shoulders slightly slumped but her eyes sharp with worry.

Neither of them said anything at first.

They stepped inside like it was instinct, like it would always be their place too. The door clicked shut behind them, and despite the air being still and thick with unsaid words, the apartment felt warmer just by their presence.

It was your mother who spoke first.

“What was that all about earlier?” she asked, voice softer than usual, but disappointed all the same. “You walked out of that dinner like you were setting fire to the table.”

You looked away, your throat tight. “Because I was tired of pretending.”

Your father sat down on the armrest of the chair across from you. “Pretending what?”

You swallowed hard. “That everything they said didn’t bother me. That I could just keep sitting there while Rin’s aunts looked me in the eye and made jokes about how I’m ‘too smart for my own good’ or that I should ‘take off the lab coat and put on an apron’ once I marry into the Itoshi family.”

Your mother’s lips thinned.

“They insulted me, right in front of everyone,” you continued, voice cracking now. “They mocked our family—said we were only good for hospitals and surgeries and wondered how someone like me, who works graveyard shifts in an ER, would ‘entertain’ a man like Rin.”

You laughed bitterly. “Then why did you even arrange this in the first place?”

There was a long pause. You looked between the two people who raised you—taught you how to stitch your first wound, taught you to never fold under pressure.

“We agreed to the engagement because we thought you would be happy,” your mother finally said, her voice quieter now. “Because we knew you liked Rin. You’ve liked him for years, even if you never admitted it. And when the Itoshis approached us, it… it felt like it made sense.”

You closed your eyes. “They don’t like me.”

“They don’t know you,” your father said. “Not the way we do. You’re a hardheaded girl, you always were. You never let anyone tell you what you can or can’t do. You broke every expectation the family had because you believed you could do better—and you did.”

You opened your eyes again, blinking through the haze.

Your mother took a step closer. “If you’ve made up your mind… if you want to end the engagement, then we’ll support you. And if you want to leave the country for a while, take some time to breathe, we’ll support that too.”

You looked at them both—your parents, tired from the dinner, from the expectations, from the tug-of-war between two families—but still standing here, with you. Choosing you.

“You’re not alone in this,” your father said gently. “You never were.”

Tears pricked your eyes, but this time, they weren’t from humiliation or exhaustion. This time, they came from the warmth that bloomed quietly in your chest—the kind only home could bring.

And that’s what you did—booked a one-way ticket from Tokyo to Tromsø, Norway.

No return date. No itinerary. Just your passport, one suitcase, and the aching exhaustion of trying to please everyone except yourself.

You had mentioned it to Rin once. A few months ago, back when the engagement had just been announced. When the two of you were still learning how to exist around each other—not quite strangers, not quite lovers. Just two people trying to navigate a decision made on their behalf.

It was during a quiet evening at your family’s countryside villa. The air was crisper there, and the sky spilled stars in a way Tokyo never could. You had both slipped away from the formal dinner after too many toasts, your head light from the wine and the pressure. Rin had found you sitting at the edge of the garden steps, your heels discarded in the grass.

“I read about this place once,” you said as he settled beside you, hands resting loosely on his knees. “Tromsø, in Norway. Far north. They say in the winter, the sun disappears for months. But the Northern Lights come out like a dream.”

Rin tilted his head. “Sounds freezing.”

You laughed softly. “It is. But kind of beautiful, right? A place where it’s dark all the time, but something still dances in the sky.”

There was a quiet moment between you, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled. Then Rin murmured, “Is that where you want to go when it all becomes to loud."

You glanced at him, surprised. Then you nodded. “Someday. I don’t know when. But I’d like to.”

He hummed. “Let me know when you do. Maybe I’ll go with you.”

And you had smiled at that. Silly, hopeful thing that you were.

But now, as the final plane descended onto the snow-dusted runway of Tromsø Airport—twenty-four hours later, red-eyed from layovers, your limbs stiff and heavy from travel—he wasn’t here.

The cold was immediate when the terminal doors opened. Icy wind kissed your cheeks as you stepped out, the kind that bit into your skin and made you feel alive all at once. You pulled your scarf tighter, breathing in frost and something like freedom.

You had booked a small cabin on the outskirts of the city, tucked near the fjords. It wasn’t much, just one bedroom and a stove that needed coaxing to warm, but it was quiet. Untouched. A world away from Tokyo’s blinking lights and bitter dinner parties.

You dropped your bags by the door and stood in silence, listening to the hush of snowfall outside the window. No phones buzzing. No family expectations echoing in your ears. Just the whisper of wind and the possibility of healing.

And as you sank into the unfamiliar bed that night, the aurora just beginning to shimmer faintly through the glass above your head, you wondered—

Would Rin still remember the way you said his name that night?

Would he still remember Tromsø?

You hadn’t left a clue. Not a note. Not a word to anyone. No paper trail, no last-minute phone call. Just the hiss of your apartment door closing softly behind you before the early flight from Tokyo to Tromsø took off into the violet-gray dawn.

This wasn’t supposed to be permanent. You didn’t come here to disappear.

You just needed somewhere quiet—somewhere that didn’t expect anything from you. Somewhere far enough to think, but not so far that it felt like running away.

He wouldn't remember.

That’s what you told yourself again and again. Not when you only ever mentioned it once, months ago, at the beginning—when everything between you and Rin was new and strange and teetering between civil and chaotic. When the engagement was still fresh and everyone expected you to smile, to bend, to be proud and graceful and agreeable in the way your parents always expected you to be.

He wasn’t supposed to remember. But part of you had hoped he would.

You’d been in Tromsø for just under a week, staying at a quiet rental near the harbor, surrounded by pale wooden homes and snow-dusted rooftops. The kind of town where the wind moved slower and people remembered your face after just one visit.

You hadn’t done much—read in bed, walked along the water, bought groceries in awkward English. And every morning, you stopped by the same small café just down the street. It had yellow doors, always warm inside. They already knew your order now: black coffee, two sugars, and a cinnamon roll with extra icing when the ache in your chest got too heavy.

And today, you were walking there again.

Boots crunching softly against a thin dusting of fresh snow, scarf wrapped tightly around your mouth. The clouds overhead looked like they hadn’t moved all morning—gray and full, like something was waiting to break.

You turned the corner. The café was up ahead.

But you stopped.

Because you saw him.

You blinked hard, then again, wondering if your mind was playing tricks on you.

Tall frame. Dark green hair, tousled and damp at the ends from melting snow. He was bundled up in a black wool coat, a thick navy scarf tucked neatly around his neck. He stood near the flower stall beside the bookshop, talking to someone—one of the local vendors, it seemed.

You ducked slightly behind a parked car, your breath catching.

His voice floated through the space between you.

“…Ah, I see. Thank you,” he said, bowing his head politely before taking a small step back.

The way he spoke—it was soft. Controlled. Like he’d said the same thing to several people already. You couldn’t hear what he’d asked, but the pattern was clear now that you were listening.

He was asking around.

You felt your stomach twist.

Rin was here.

In Tromsø.

Looking for you.

He moved to the next person, expression composed but weary. There were shadows under his eyes, even from where you stood. A tension in his jaw. His hands kept clenching inside his pockets like he wasn’t used to this—like he wasn’t used to not knowing where to find you.

And he looked like he hadn’t slept well in days.

Your heart kicked against your ribs, faster now, almost panicked. You hadn’t expected this. You didn’t plan for this.

What were you even going to say?

But then—he turned his head.

Slowly. Searching the street.

And then his eyes found you.

Your breath stopped.

You didn’t know what expression you wore, but whatever he saw on your face was enough.

Because Rin moved.

He started walking—fast, like he was afraid you might disappear if he looked away. Then he broke into a run, boots kicking up snow, scarf flying out behind him as he crossed the narrow road.

You couldn’t move.

You couldn’t breathe.

Until he reached you.

His arms wrapped around you without hesitation, pulling you into his chest like you were something precious he thought he’d lost. He held you with both arms around your waist, his gloved hands gripping your coat tightly, like if he loosened them even a little, you’d vanish again.

You hadn’t cried since arriving.

But something about the way his chin tucked over your shoulder, how he let out a shaky breath like he'd finally exhaled after holding it in for days—that undid you.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, voice low and rough and uneven against your ear. “For two days.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

His eyes were glassy, rimmed with red from cold and exhaustion. His brows furrowed as he studied your face, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“I didn’t know if you were actually here. I wasn’t sure if… if you even meant it,” he murmured. “I started thinking maybe I was stupid for trying. That maybe I’d misunderstood.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“I was already starting to lose hope,” he confessed, his voice softer now. “That maybe you weren’t in Tromsø at all. That maybe you picked somewhere else. Somewhere I couldn’t guess.”

He paused. His hands clenched at your sides again.

“But I still came. I still looked,” he said, voice steady now with something unshakable. “Because… you said it once. That if things ever got too heavy, you’d come here.”

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

“And I had to believe you.”

You swallowed. Your chest felt painfully full.

All this time… you didn’t know if he even cared. You didn’t know if your absence would be met with relief or indifference. You were bracing yourself for silence. For more cold.

But here he was.

Breathing hard. Shaking. Still holding you like it physically hurt him to let go.

He remembered.

And he came.

Not because anyone told him to. Not because he had to.

But because he wanted to.

Because it was you.

And just like that—

The tight knot in your chest began to loosen.

Your hand came up to his cheek, thumb gently brushing against the skin that was chilled from the northern wind. You didn’t even notice your breath catching until it came out as a shaky whisper.

"Rin… why are you here?"

He leaned into your touch like he had been starved of it—like this small gesture grounded him, reminded him that you were real and not some cruel trick of the cold.

“I came for you,” he said quietly. His voice didn’t waver, but his eyes—those storm-colored eyes that always guarded too much—were softer now, less composed. “Because I remembered.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. You were still standing on the cobbled path, the faint crunch of snow beneath your boots the only other sound besides the rush of your pulse in your ears. Tromsø had been your quiet escape, the place you once said you'd go if life ever got too heavy. A passing comment from long ago, half-laughed over in bed or under the sheets of a rainy afternoon. You never thought he’d hold on to it.

"I didn’t tell anyone," you murmured. “No one knew.”

“I know,” he said. “I figured you wouldn’t.” He looked around—at the rows of snow-covered rooftops, the quiet hills that framed the town like a secret. “But this place… I remembered how your eyes lit up when you talked about it. So I came here. Just hoping.”

Your chest tightened. You hated how well he knew you. You hated that even after all the tension, the silence, the weight of everything between you—he still knew how to find you. That he remembered where you’d go when you needed peace, even if it meant chasing you halfway across the world.

"I didn't think you'd actually—"

"I didn’t come to make you leave," he said, cutting through your doubt like a blade, his forehead leaning gently against yours. “I just needed to see you. To make sure you were okay. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t even have to forgive me yet. I just… I had to be here.”

The wind blew again, sharp but fleeting. Still, all you felt was him.

“Rin…” your voice cracked, just a little, and his arms tightened around your waist.

“If it’s space you need, I’ll give it. I’ll wait in whatever way you need me to,” he said, breathing in like he was memorizing the scent of your jacket, your skin, your quiet presence. “But I’m here. And I’m not letting you go again without knowing what you want.”

And just like that—his words unhurried, unpolished, but honest—your resolve, already thin and frayed, began to slip through your fingers like snow melting in your palm.

You ended up inviting him to the cabin where you were staying—half out of instinct, half out of something deeper that your heart hadn’t yet found the words for. It wasn’t much. Just a small wooden place tucked at the edge of a forest clearing, the kind that smelled of pine and silence and something safe. You had rented it without any intention of being found. Yet here he was—standing in the doorway, snow still caught on his lashes and his scarf damp from the wind.

He stepped in carefully, like he didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile peace you had built for yourself over the last few days. You didn’t speak much at first. He helped you take off your coat, set your gloves by the small heater near the door. The only sound in the cabin was the low crackle of the fire in the corner and the slow, nervous beat of your heart.

He sat across from you at the small dining table, elbows on the wood, hands clasped together like he needed something to hold onto.

“There’s something I should’ve told you sooner,” Rin said, finally breaking the silence. “That night. At the dinner.”

You looked at him, your expression unreadable.

“After you left,” he continued, eyes on yours, “I didn’t just sit there.”

He swallowed, jaw tight, as if replaying the memory still made his skin burn. “I told them off. My parents. My relatives. I told them they didn’t know a damn thing about you or what you’ve been through. That you’ve done more with your life—more good, more meaningful work—than any of them sitting around that table.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t interrupt. He went on, voice lower now, more careful.

“I told them about your residency. How hard you’ve worked. The way you’d still show up to shifts even when you were dead on your feet. How you’d tell me stories about your patients like they were the brightest parts of your day. I told them you weren’t just my wife because our families wanted it—you’re someone I’ve always admired. Someone I’ve always cared about.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything the snow outside could ever weigh down.

“I should’ve said it in front of you,” he admitted, voice cracking the smallest bit. “I should’ve defended you before you walked out. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

You stared at him—really stared. For the first time in a long while, his walls weren’t up. His apology wasn’t rehearsed. It was real. Raw. The kind of vulnerable honesty Rin rarely let anyone see.

You rose from your seat slowly, the soft rustle of fabric and the crackle of the fireplace filling the silence between you. Your eyes never left him.

Rin was seated at the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His jaw was tight, shoulders tense, as if he were bracing for a storm you hadn’t started yet.

You approached him with quiet steps.

When you reached him, your fingers reached out for his—hesitating only briefly—before you threaded your hand into his. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he looked like he was holding his breath.

His gaze flickered up to you, vulnerable in a way you’d only seen a handful of times in your entire life. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hope.

“Rin,” you said, voice low and steady. “What do you want to come out of this?”

He blinked slowly. Once. Twice. Then you felt his grip tighten around yours.

“I want…” he started, then faltered. “I want this to be more than just something we agreed to.”

You stared at him, heart climbing to your throat.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now. “I’ve always wanted you.”

The world seemed to quiet.

You barely managed to breathe. “What…?”

“I only agreed to this engagement if it would be with you,” Rin confessed, finally looking at you with eyes that burned straight through your disbelief. “That was my only condition. I told my parents—if it’s not her, I’m not doing it.”

You could feel your pulse in your ears.

“I didn’t know if you’d ever say yes to me if I asked on my own. Maybe because I’m not good with this—” he gestured vaguely between you, “—with feelings. With words. But even when we were kids, it was always you. Every year. Every time I saw you at those stupid events.”

Your heart stuttered. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” Rin’s voice was steady. “You were the only one who ever looked at me like I was more than Sae’s shadow. Like I was worth listening to. You’d tell me about your dreams, your stupid high school stories, your patients, your rounds… and I remembered everything. You made the world feel bigger, and for the first time, I wanted to be part of it.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

“I kept it all to myself because I didn’t want to mess it up. And then when our parents brought up the marriage, I told myself… maybe this was the only chance I had. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but if it was you—” he looked up at you, earnest and exposed—“I’d take it.”

He let go of your hand for a moment, and your fingers instinctively reached to keep the warmth of his touch. But he was already moving.

Down.

Onto one knee.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I wanted to do this right,” he murmured, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat. “Even if it came late.”

He opened a velvet box.

Inside was a ring with a pale pink diamond, delicately set in rose gold. The band was slim, elegant—simple in design, but breathtaking in execution. A custom cut. No gaudy flare, no excess—just quietly stunning. Just like everything Rin did when he cared.

“I had it made when I found out pink was your favorite,” he said, almost shy now. “Not because of the engagement. Because I thought maybe… one day, I’d get to ask you for real.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, lips trembling.

“Marry me, for real this time,” Rin whispered. “Not because they said we should. Not because it’s expected of us. But because you want to. Because I’ve always wanted you—and I’ll keep choosing you. Every time.”

Tears blurred your vision, spilling freely before you could stop them.

You fell to your knees in front of him, grabbing his face in your hands, shaking with disbelief and something deeper—years of silent longing finally catching up to you.

“You idiot,” you breathed, laughing through the tears. “You should’ve told me.”

“I’m telling you now.”

“And you think a pink diamond makes up for years of me thinking this was one-sided?” you teased, eyes wet.

He smirked, just a little. “It’s a start.”

You didn’t say yes.

You just kissed him—full, deep, and desperate like you were trying to make up for every day you had convinced yourself he didn’t feel the same. Like you were claiming him now.

And when you finally pulled back, forehead pressed to his, you whispered:

“Yes, Rin. For real this time.”

And in that quiet cabin, surrounded by snow and history and everything unspoken finally laid bare, Rin Itoshi smiled like he had everything he’d ever wanted.

Because he did. He had you.

And in that quiet cabin tucked beneath layers of snow, with logs crackling in the fireplace and the silence finally settling between confessions, Rin Itoshi smiled—not the kind of smile reserved for cameras or curated dinners, not the kind honed for politeness or worn like armor. This one was different. This one was unguarded and whole. It touched the corners of his eyes, curved his mouth in quiet reverence, and melted years of silence he didn’t realize he’d been carrying.

It was the smile of a man who, for the first time in a long while, felt like the weight of his world had finally found a place to rest.

Because in that moment, with your hand tucked safely in his, he had everything he’d ever needed. He had you.

There was no urgency to return to Tokyo. Rin stayed. Even when his agency called, even when his schedule threatened to snap back into its usual pace, he stayed. The world outside moved on, days bleeding into nights, but in Tromsø—between snowdrifts and coffee steam and the rustle of flannel sheets—time moved slower. Kinder.

He made you breakfast each morning, sometimes a little too burnt on the edges, sometimes just right. He kissed the sugar off your lips when you sweetened your coffee too much. He walked with you down the frozen paths, fingers laced in yours like he was afraid to let go. You shared memories like secrets under blankets at dawn, laughed in low murmurs, kissed in doorways, in the middle of cooking, while brushing your teeth. You held each other like you had all the time in the world. And maybe you did. Maybe time—this time—was finally on your side.

Rin never rushed. Never demanded. Never asked for more than what you could give. He simply stayed close, inching his way into the tender cracks of your heart until you forgot what it meant to be alone in love. Slowly, gently, he made you believe again—both in him, and in the life you could finally build without fear.

And Rin, in turn, began to free himself.

You noticed it in the way his phone calls grew shorter. His tone sharper. He started saying no—firmly, clearly. He turned down meetings without guilt, ignored messages that once would’ve sent him spiraling, and spoke less and less of the family that had always spoken for him. He didn’t rage or rebel. He simply… let go. Of expectations. Of appearances. Of people who didn’t see your worth or his. And in their place, he reached for something real. For you.

Then one night, the sky changed.

It was late—past midnight—and the world outside was quiet, blanketed in snow and silence. You were nestled together under a thick knit blanket when Rin nudged you gently, the air fogging in front of his mouth as he whispered, “Come outside.”

He didn’t say why, but his voice held something sacred, something childlike and awed. You slipped on coats and boots, fingers brushing as you stepped out into the night.

And above you—the heavens bloomed.

Green and violet streaks painted the sky, shifting like silk across the stars. It looked like magic. Like something out of a dream you forgot you had. The aurora shimmered, moved, danced across the canvas of the night like a prayer being answered.

Your breath caught, soft clouds puffing into the cold air.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, voice reverent.

Beside you, Rin didn’t look up.

His eyes stayed on you, unblinking, unwavering. The light from the aurora caught in your eyes, casting your skin in hues of emerald and lilac, making you look like something ethereal. Something made to be worshipped in silence.

“Yes,” he murmured, almost too soft to hear. “It is.”

You turned, a smile playing on your lips, but when you met his eyes—you knew.

He wasn’t talking about the lights.

Your breath hitched.

He didn’t look away. And in the middle of the snow and starlight, in the hush of the north, Rin Itoshi leaned forward—like the moment was too full, too sacred to speak through—and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t for anyone else.

It was just for you.

His lips found yours slowly, like he was memorizing the way you felt all over again. The cold air melted between your mouths, the warmth of him anchoring you even as the sky spun. It was a kiss that unraveled years of silence, a kiss that didn’t ask questions because it already knew the answer.

A kiss that promised he was here. Not because he had to. But because he wanted to.

You melted into him, hands tangled in the lapels of his coat, his arms wrapping around your waist. The aurora danced on, painting the snow with light, but the most beautiful thing in that moment wasn’t the sky—it was the boy who’d spent a lifetime chasing perfection finally choosing something messy, something soft, something real.

Choosing you.

And when he pulled back, his forehead resting gently against yours, he whispered—not to convince you, not even to convince himself, but simply because it was true—“I’m not going anywhere.”

In that sacred stillness beneath the stars, with snowflakes catching on your lashes and his breath mingling with yours, you finally believed him.

You believed every whispered word against the shell of your ear, every trembling syllable that carried years’ worth of emotions Rin never learned how to say until now. You believed it in the way his hand stayed wrapped around yours even as the cold numbed your fingers, in how his voice cracked when he said he never stopped looking—never stopped loving, in his own way.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Because the silence between you had never been empty—it had always been full of the things you never dared to say out loud. And now, the distance had crumbled into snowflakes between you.

When you both returned to Japan, not much had changed externally. The world kept spinning, your hospital still buzzed with chaos, Rin’s practices still ran long and grueling. Your lives didn’t magically transform overnight. But something had shifted. Everything was the same—but it felt softer now. Lighter.

He would still wait for you in the hospital parking lot, just like before. Except now, instead of sitting coldly in the driver's seat with a silent phone on the dashboard, he’d get out of the car the second he saw your white coat approaching through the night fog. And instead of you slipping in quietly after a long shift, he would meet you halfway, arms already open. He would pull you close into his chest, lifting your tired body slightly off the ground, and press a long, gentle kiss on your temple—or sometimes, directly on your lips, not caring who saw. “Missed you,” he’d murmur. “You look tired. Let me take you home.”

You teased him once—called him clingy, even—but all he did was hum and kiss your cheek again. “Don’t care,” he said. “I like being around you.”

At home, Rin became a lovesick fool. You’d catch him smiling—actually smiling—at the sight of your pink Crocs kicked off beside his neatly lined cleats by the genkan. It was such a small detail, yet it never failed to tug at something deep in his chest. Every time he came home from training, weary and sore, the moment he saw them, he knew: You came home to me.

There were nights he’d come back later than you, only to find you dozing on the couch, still in scrubs, medical textbook open on your lap and an empty mug of coffee nearby. He never woke you. He just sat beside you carefully, one arm around your shoulders, his forehead resting against yours as he whispered, “Mrs. Itoshi,” like a secret he never thought he could say out loud.

You blinked awake once after hearing it and laughed, hoarse from exhaustion. “You’re using that now?”

He looked at you with soft, sleepy eyes and said it again—this time with a small smile that only ever appeared when you were around. “Yeah. Gotta get used to it, don’t I?”

Planning the wedding became its own kind of comfort. It wasn’t a spectacle the way both your families had once envisioned it—this time, it was yours. Just the two of you. There were late-night Pinterest boards open on his iPad, your fingers twined with his as you discussed outdoor venues and minimalist themes. Rin always let you speak first, nodding at your ideas, occasionally chiming in with, “I think you’d look good in that,” or, “I want it to feel like us. Simple. Real.”

You'd share clips of wedding playlists while brushing your teeth together, dance barefoot in the kitchen while you cooked dinner, and giggle in bed about guest lists and seating arrangements. And even when you argued about flower colors or dessert choices, it was Rin who’d pull you into his arms and kiss your forehead. “As long as it ends with you walking down the aisle to me—I don’t care if we serve onigiri and water.”

You often ended your days curled on the couch, your head in his lap as you recounted your patient cases, the rare ones that left you in awe or the difficult ones that tugged at your heart. Rin listened—really listened—his fingers gently combing through your hair as he asked questions. “What ended up happening to the kid from the ER the other night?” “Was that rare infection what you thought it was?” He may not have understood everything medically, but he understood you, and that was enough.

Sometimes it was the other way around—Rin lying on your lap, scrolling through plays or stats while you reviewed case notes, highlighters in hand. He wouldn’t speak much, but he'd glance up at you every now and then with this completely smitten look, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real and his.

On weekends, when you had a day off together, he'd bring you breakfast in bed—badly cut strawberries and burnt toast sometimes, but you never complained. He tried. And that effort? That was Rin Itoshi’s way of screaming he loved you.

“I like seeing you like this,” he once said while you were in your pajamas, hair messily tied up, glasses on, bent over your laptop. “All soft. All mine.”

You chuckled, not even looking up. “I’ve always been yours, idiot.”

That night, he pulled you close as if vowing never to let go again. “Mrs. Itoshi,” he whispered again, lips against your bare shoulder.

“What is it, Rin?”

He kissed the skin just below your ear. “I’m so in love with you, it’s fucking embarrassing.”

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t tease. You just turned in his arms, kissed him back slowly, and whispered, “Me too.”

Because you were. And for once—it wasn’t out of duty, or pressure, or family expectation.

It was because you wanted to be his.

And this time, so did he.

Not because he had to—but because he wanted to.

© 2025 yukkiji ☾ creations by yukkiji — please do not repost, copy, or translate without permission.

[awxcoffeexno]

soft sounds from another planet | chapter 1 - off the face of the earth

series masterlist | next chapter >

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

genre: rom-com

summary: clark kent is not superman. he’s just a grumpy journalist with too much baggage and exactly zero interest in being interviewed, especially not by you, a sunshiney reporter who asks way too many questions and doesn’t take no for an answer. you’re not supposed to like him. you’re supposed to write a quick feature, turn it in, and go back to your regularly scheduled life. not linger on his front porch. not stay for coffee. and definitely not fall for the man who writes like he’s trying to outrun his own heart.

warnings: 18+, smut, mentions of canon typical violence even tho it's an au (cannot un-lex luthor lex luthor, soz)

word count: 2.2k

a/n: i'm a little rusty, bear w me but i loooooved superman sm and since ive been on a rom-com kick,, i just had to.

“I’ve found that most people will tell you the truth if you ask the wrong question long enough.” Clark Kent, “Interview Technique and Other Lies - An open letter to the journalism students of America, 2019”

you’ve been staring at the blinking cursor for eight minutes and thirty-four seconds, which wouldn’t be that bad if it weren’t on an empty google doc titled “digital loneliness in a post-pandemic cityscape.” you’re supposed to write a 1,200-word lifestyle feature. so far, you’ve written: “loneliness is…”

and then you stopped, because honestly? you’re not sure you know anymore. or worse, you know too well.

you tap your keyboard like that’ll fix something inside you.

“tell me you’re writing and not just admiring your font choice,” dani says, suddenly appearing beside you with a cup of something suspiciously green in one hand and a raised eyebrow in the other. dani, your editor, champion, tormentor, and unofficial life coach, who once edited an entire piece of yours using only fleabag quotes as comments after you got her wine drunk and forced her to watch it.

“don't make me an optimist. you'll ruin my life.” she’d scribbled in the margins.

dani is… dani. she always walks like she’s being timed. there’s something olympian about her gait: deliberate, kinetic, a little terrifying. at 6’1, she doesn’t really tower as much as she commands the air around her, as if ceilings move to accommodate her. when she laughs, rare, short bursts, like a balloon being let go too soon, it feels like applause you didn’t know you’d earned.

she’s the only person who ever made you want to work weekends. not out of fear (though that’s there, too), but because her approval is the kind of thing that makes you believe you're not completely wasting your twenties. she’ll knock three paragraphs out of your lede with a single, “too slow,” and then send you a picture of her lunch ten minutes later with the caption “nommy nommies.”

you don’t know everything about her - she’s private in a scandinavian way, minimal and pristine - but you know she used to figure skate competitively and once told you, over cocktails at a christmas party, that the trick to good reporting is “keeping your skates sharp and your soft parts softer.” you still don’t quite know what that means, but you’ve quoted it in two different extended family events and once on a bumble date, and all times gotten an impressed nod in return. it still makes you giggle.

she took you in when you barely knew what an em dash was and made you believe you were going to be someone. not someone important, necessarily. but someone who could write something that mattered. lol.

you straighten up. smile. you are the cheerful one™ after all. the girl who brings in muffins on mondays. the girl who says “no worries at all!” and actually means it.

“of course i’m writing,” you say, clicking randomly just to make the screen do something. “i’m deep in the magic. elbow-deep in isolation statistics and accidentally poetic reddit posts.”

dani gives you a look. the kind that says don’t test me, sunshine, but with love. mostly.

“cool,” she says. “just checking. deadline’s in six hours, and i need to pretend like we’re still a paper of record and not just a content farm for sad single millennials and the occasional corruption scandal.”

you nod, looking at the clock that tells you it’s lunch time. “six hours is a lifetime. i could fall in love and get married in that time.”

dani smirks. “not with your track record.”

ouch. but fair. but when she notices that you aren’t smiling back this time, she sighs and shakes her head.

“take a walk,” she says. “go outside, read a trashy novel, eavesdrop on some teens having an existential crisis on a park bench. find your story. and when you come back, maybe take a look at this.”

she hands you a thick manila folder.

you flip it open. it’s a profile piece request; freelance, technically. high-risk, high-reward. the subject: clark kent.

you freeze. you’ve read everything he’s ever written. his luthor laboratories exposé. the pulitzer pieces. the live leak...

your stomach twists. you remember the last byline, the last photo. then the silence. the speculation. and now-

“you want me to write about clark kent?” you repeat, and it sounds a little stupid in your own mouth, like when people say “i love you” too quickly in movies and everyone watching knows they don’t mean it.

dani nods, as if you’ve just correctly named the capital of uruguay. “yes.”

you blink. “you mean that clark kent? pulitzer-and-pulitzer clark kent?”

she grins like a lioness watching her cub take down a gazelle. “the very same.”

the room seems to tilt slightly. you’ve written front-page stories. you’ve exposed a congressman. but this feels… biblical. clark kent hasn't spoken to anyone in five years. he hasn't been seen in nearly three. the last time his name trended, it was alongside the words reckless, traitor, and murderer.

“i don’t think he talks to anyone,” you manage.

dani shrugs. “then make him.”

you let out a small, nervous laugh. “dani. come on.”

“this is big, kid,” she says, leaning forward on her elbows. “i’m not giving this to someone else. and i’m not asking if you want it. i know you do.”

she’s right. of course she’s right. this is the kind of thing careers are built on. hell, rebuilt on. this is the story that could carry your name into newsrooms you haven’t even dared to imagine yourself in. and clark kent? he’s the reason you got into this line of work in the first place. not just because of his prose, which is legendary, but because, back before everything went to hell, he wrote like people mattered.

“and hey,” her voice cuts through your thoughs. “deadline for your lifestyle feature is still 7pm.”

you want to glare at her because you have never once missed a deadline but you’re still dazed. your heart is racing now, and your palms feel clammy. if you do this right - really right - you’ll never have to pitch another goddamn story again.

clark kent. jesus christ.

–

you get home, flick on the light, and immediately step over yesterday’s laundry. it’s a one-bedroom with a closet-sized kitchen, an overworked radiator, and a view of the bodega’s neon sign across the street. but it’s yours and meera’s.

you toss your bag on the couch, hang your keys on the little ceramic cat meera bought you from the hospital gift shop - “because even doctors deserve cute things” - kick off your shoes, and collapse in front of your laptop like a woman on a mission.

the adrenaline’s still buzzing. somewhere between the last espresso and dani’s parting “don’t screw this up,” your brain has sprinted ten paces ahead.

you force yourself to start with the basics: a reread of clark kent’s greatest hits - or at least the ones you’ve dog-eared emotionally. the arms of the city. blood in the rubble. and, of course, the broken bell. his first pulitzer. the piece that made you want to be a journalist.

but not in the all the president’s men, trench-coats-and-righteous-indignation kind of way. clark’s writing didn’t make you want to chase truth, it made you want to hold it still, long enough for someone to feel it.

the broken bell covered the gotham sanitation strikes, but it cracked open the entire city. clark embedded himself with the people slipping through the cracks: nurses skipping meals to buy their kids textbooks, subway workers sleeping in break rooms, janitors who hadn’t been paid in six weeks. he reported on the dysfunction and dismantled the entire machine, piece by corrupted piece. budget cuts, hush money trails, a mayor who campaigned on empathy and governed like a banker with a vendetta. and then clark walked into a press conference, pressed record, and didn’t flinch once.

you remember your favorite line. you’d screenshotted it in college, back when meera still called you “baby amanpour” in your family group chat:

“they say gotham’s built on bedrock, but they don’t talk about the hands that laid it. the calluses, the backs broken under steel and snow. maybe they think we’ll forget. maybe they’re counting on it.”

it wasn’t just journalism. it was a punch in the throat.

and then he vanished. no bylines in five years. no panels, no podcasts, no alumni reunions. just... gone. the last thing he wrote was that article.

you dig into the obvious leads first: public databases, old newswires, even his ancient byline email. dead ends. his last known address is now owned by a hedge fund analyst and a french bulldog named miso. reddit threads spiral into fan conspiracies. a tumblr tagged #journalismdaddy went dark in 2019. his linkedin is a ghost town.

it’s not just that he disappeared. it’s that he disappeared clean. no trail. no statement. no explanation. the industry moved on. but you didn’t. couldn’t. not when he was the reason you’re here in the first place.

eventually, you open that article.

the luthor laboratories exposé is still online but barely. comments disabled. metadata stripped. halfway through, you feel the chill in your spine, a tone you’d missed before. the cadence is uneven. the voice, tight. something broke in him writing this. he was afraid. and he was right to be. two women died after that piece. two women whose names weren’t supposed to be revealed, but were, accidentally, during a livestream he gave while promoting the story. you remember the coverage. how fast it all burned. clark kent had told the truth, and paid for it.

you lean back in your chair, throat dry.

the world decided he was done. but you? you don’t know how to quit stories like this. he’s your white whale. your myth. your maybe.

you open a new tab. search: “underground press clubs.” “dead journalist forums.” “where did clark kent go?” you know it’s a long shot, but something in your chest refuses to let go.

and then, of all places, an old fucking 4chan thread, half-buried in conspiracy rambling:

my source says he went back to smallville after everything. never heard of it? yeah, no one has.

smallville.

you blink. you honestly haven’t.

you grab your phone. call meera.

she picks up after one ring, a heart monitor beeping in the background. “about time, fucking weirdo.”

“hi. sorry. but i have a question.”

“no. you have the voice. the idea voice. i can hear it.”

“have you ever heard of a town called smallville?”

she pauses. “like… kansas?”

“…how’d you know?”

“remember that journalist guy you used to be obsessed with? cute, tall, serious? did all the late-night stuff after his nobel prize?”

“clark kent? pulitzer, not nobel, you dunce.”

“yeah, fucking whatever. tonya in med school had an actual shrine. she used to watch the daily show clips of him like they were marvel trailers. anyway, she once said he was from some blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town in kansas. pretty sure it was called smallville.”

you actually bounce in place. sometimes you could kiss meera’s elephant memory.

this might actually be something if two different people can confirm it.

“hello?” she says, annoyed now. “did you die?”

“still alive! sorry. i literally called you about clark kent.”

“wait. seriously? why?”

you fidget with your notepad, flipping to a blank page. “i might be writing about him.”

there’s silence on her end. then, quieter: “be careful, sissy.”

you hang up and stare at your screen, her words echoing louder than you want them to. she’s never so quiet and that means her words hit harder.

between dani’s deadlines and meera’s late-night pep talks, you’ve somehow survived three years in this city. three years at the paper, and the last time one of your pieces trended, it was because a tiktok astrologer said your headline gave her a panic attack.

you’re good at what you do. you are. but you’re not where you thought you’d be. not yet. and looks like the key is clark fucking kent. the man who told the truth and then disappeared off the face of the earth.

you open the long-abandoned document titled: “new article/book - big serious project???”

and for the first time in months, you actually feel the electricity in your fingers as you type.

title: off the face of the earth.

(divider from @saradika-graphics)

pls pls pls don't hate this.

love, d <3

[elise-flaren]

just wanted to point out these comments rq:

And now for my point,

the line "they shouldn't be gatekept just because someone is more 'valid' then you" by that i'm guessing you mean the people who have actual physical health struggles? like the people who genuinely need the mobility aids? because if thousands of people started using mobility aids i suppose that could be better in a few examples, like that maybe tv would pick up on it and give us more disabled/ disordered/ diseased representation, and maybe prices would go down, and everything..

but, at the same time, if a ton of people who don't medically need them, start buying mobility aids, then they might not be available for those who do. not to mention using mobility aids when you don't need them can reallyyyy mess up your body. and, last but nowhere close least, it's a mockery of disabled people. "even just because you want them" is not a good reason. wegovy is a good example of this. at one point, people who needed the drug for their diabetes couldn't get it. why? because everyone started wanting it to loose weight with.

if everyone starts wanting canes, wheelchairs, and other mobility aids for dysphoria because they're able-bodied what is going to happen to them? we can take a guess.

now, for the other point i wanted to make,

"you deserve those special treatments" is something op said. by special treatments do you mean like accessibility stuff (sometimes referred to as special treatment), or do you mean like actual treatments as in meds? because i'll make a point against both.

if you had meant accessibility, then if everyone was given things like accessibility passes, or special passes, then they wouldn't be helpful for the ones who need it. for example, my parents took me and my friend to a place with rollercoasters recently. they have water misters on in the lines, and that's not safe for my health at all, so i have to get accessibility pass things. the pass lets me go into the ride through the exit, therefore i don't have to go through any water misters. because of this, the line is typically really short, since i'm going in through the exit, where other disabled people go. (they make you wait whatever the wait time for the ride was afterwords though, so i still do have to wait the same amount of time, just in a safe place for me)

now, if everyone had these passes, what would happen? everyone goes in through the exit, eventually, on a hot day, everyone complains about wanting water misters. oops, now i can't go in the exit anymore, since it has the issue i was trying to get away from in the first place! same for 5o4 plans in school, honestly. if every single student had a 5o4, the teachers would read them even less often than they already do. in middle and highschools, teachers have 100 to 300 kids in total in their classes. (obviously if you need a 5o4 pls go ask your doctors to sign off on one, please,)

and if you're saying anyone can take any medicine that they want to, even if they don't need it, that will mess up their bodies in unexplainable ways. most medicines honestly mess up disabled/ disorders/ diseased/ ill people's bodies soooooo much that it can cause other complications and/or the need for more meds. but the benefit outweighs the risk when you'll die/ get sick/ be in pain (etc) if you don't take it. abled people don't get the benefit from the meds, they only get the risk times two!!!

moral of the story, please don't use mobility aids, don't get accessibility stuff, and don't take meds, unless you really need it (and is preferably signed off by a doctor, but not all of us have the privilege, or the time, to do that)

(and uh if anything is spelled wrong please let it slide, my brain fog is horrible right now, i was struggling horribly to spell available (spell check is my best friend right about now))

hey guys... if you're transabled you deserve those mobility aids!! you deserve those special treatments!! you deserve those things that HELP your dysphoria, or even just because you want them! they shouldn't be gatekept just because someone is more "valid" than you. if they're meant to help, why ban people from using them?

[ryebread0605]

For the anon who asked for jade and Floyd (separately) with a closet masochist partner

idk why it got deleted the first time but I took time to work on the parts more so I decided to make them each longer and post them separately! Here’s Floyd’s part lengthened, jades will be posted later!

Alchemy class. A class so boring Floyd rarely ever actually did the work correctly because what was the point? It’s far more fun to him to watch his little shrimpy.

From the way their tongue pokes out a bit when they concentrate, to how their leg bounces with boredom, to even the tantalizing sight of them yawning, it all entranced the eccentric eel.

Although today, he noticed something different.

His shrimpy’s eyes were locked onto the pointer carried by professor Crewel, a small blush across their cheeks and their mind clearly focused on something other than class work. 

It took a few minutes for him to figure it out, but once he did, oh was he excited.

With a smirk, he walked up to your desk after class and slammed his hands down, making you jump from the abrupt awakening from your daydreams.

A smirk crawling across his face, he placed a hand on your cheek, slowly caressing it with the back of his fingers,

“What are you thinking about?” 

Your cheeks burning up, you look away from his gaze, 

“Nothing important.” And yet you both knew that was a lie. What you were truly thinking about now was having his hands wrapped around your throat as he pounded into you from behind, your body nothing but a helpless tool for his pleasure as you get left a mindless needy toy. Floyd giggled at the expression on your face,

“Shrimpyyyyy cmonnnnn~ maybe it would help if we snuck outta here and somewhere more… private~?” When you tensed up in response, he knew he had you right where he wanted you.

Students watched in confusion as he dragged you down the hall, tugging you into Azul’s office and locking the door, knowing the octopus mer wouldn’t be back until classes were done for the day,

“How about you tell me all those sick, twisted fantasies you have and I make you forget why you ever hid them from me in the first place~?” 

It was a little unnerving to say the least when he was suddenly all up on you and he could tell by your face that you felt the same way, but he wanted it. Badly. 

Little shrimpy had been avoiding him for days and he needed a fix. 

“No way…” You murmured as you continued to watch your classmates walk by the door, wondering what was going on inside. What they would never know was how close you were to letting Floyd take the reins. 

Before you could give yourself a chance to think about what you were doing, he took you hand in his and tugged you toward the couch, pulling your into his arms and leaning down to press his lips against yours, “Shrimpy cmon~”

When your lips were finally wrapped around his, there was no fighting it. 

You let out a low moan, arching your back as his tongue entered your mouth and swirled around with yours, your breath coming out in hitched pants.

The mer’s hands were all over your body as well, fingers teasing and caressing the curves of your body. His hand sliding down your chest, brushing against the soft skin of your lower stomach, then teasingly lower down to your thigh before finding his way back up to settle on your hip, all while holding your face close and kissing you.

You tasted the candy of his lips and he groaned against them, your lips sliding down to his neck, kissing the place where his throat met his shoulder, his hand running through your hair. You could feel his cock against your stomach through his pants and knew he was just as needy for you as you were for him. Your hands found their way under his shirt, sliding across his back, gripping and teasing as you nibbled on his jaw and neck and he groaned and kissed you back harder.

“Azul will be here any moment now, Shrimpyyy, we need to hurry…” Floyd whined as he broke the kiss, running his hands down your back as he pulled you close, “Flo-” he hissed as you bit his ear before kissing his neck again and hissed, “You are going to be the death of me~”

Giggling, you pushed his pants down with yours and let out a gasp as you felt his hard cock. 

The eel smiled, “Bet you were thinking about this all day~ weren’t you shrimpy~” he purred, tugging you close as he pressed himself against you. 

You tensed up, knowing you’d only been giving yourself a very small break for what he was about to do. 

He grabbed you and pulled you close, his hands cupping your butt as he spun you around and then threw you over the back of the couch, pulling your pants down before lining up with you and sliding into you.

You groaned as he pressed in, gripping onto the back of the couch as he groaned into your hair, “You feel so good, Shrimpyyy, I want to sink into you…” he whispered in your ear as he began to slowly grind against you, his hands gripping your sides.

You bit your lip, trying to remain silent as his cock slid in and out of you, but unable to control your moans, “I’m… sorry…” you whimpered as he continued to tease you with his length and he wrapped his arms around your waist, continuing to pound into you.

“Shrimpyyy you don’t have to be sorry to me for enjoying having my cock in your pussy~”he groaned as he shifted your weight around and flipped you back onto your back, sitting on your chest and continuing to pound into you, his hands reaching he groaned as he shifted your weight around and flipped you back onto your back, his chest on your chest and continuing to pound into you, your hands reaching up to squeeze his ass. 

“Awww, shrimpy loves my cock~” he teased as you wrapped your legs around his waist.

You whimpered as he continued to slowly grind into you, “Floyd-” your head throbbed as he began to thrust into you, his speed only quickening as you moaned.

“Hmm? Did you say my name, shrimpy?” he teased as he thrust into you.

His name poured from your lips over and over in almost a worship, hours passing until you two were finally done. Azul returned later to find the two of you naked lying asleep on his office couch. 

Now, whenever he wants to squeeze someone, he knows all he has to do is wrap his hands around your throat and your pretty little pussy gets all needy for him to pound into as much as he wants.

[whenmemorydies]

The Bear, Subtext and Ciphers

This post is a bit all over the shop so apologies in advance. I'm increasingly having conflicting feelings over the amount of time I'm willing to spend on Bear brainrot, given the state of the world. I also woke up thinking about ciphers and keys and had to write something down. We contain multitudes.

Subtext

If you follow the analysis of The Bear put out on this platform, you'd know that a lot of it is dependent on folks breaking down a whole lot of subtext. But what is subtext?

From Merriam-Webster:

A literary text often has more than one meaning: the literal meaning of the words on the page, and their hidden meaning, what exists "between the lines"—the subtext. Arthur Miller's play The Crucible, for example, is about the Salem witchcraft trials of the 17th century, but its subtext is the comparison of those trials with the "witch hunts" of the 1950s, when many people were unfairly accused of being communists. 

The Bear has heaps of subtext to parse through and for me, watching it is like a puzzle within a puzzle within a puzzle. I know that's not everyone's cup of tea but this stuff is my catnip. Its truly some of the most remarkable and rich storytelling I've ever come across on television.

Also: analysing The Bear has become a bit of joyous escapism for me in the current global, geopolitical context. Figuring out this puzzle of a show about community and love has been nourishing when the "civilised" West has deemed that its alright that millions of people - the majority of whom are babies and children - be subjected to horrendous genocidal violence and now, slowly starve to death because they are brown, Black and majority Muslim. Like I said here though, watching The Bear is not my resistance and nor should it be yours. I'm not going to pretend that in a time where children are being sniped in the head by an apartheid state, that my joy in watching a tv show is radical. Its not. Its a means of keeping me sane so that I can go and do resistance work elsewhere.

But I digress. Back to my dose of escapism.

The Bear conveys subtext through many means including:

script

colour theory

direction

acting

props

costume

hair and makeup

probably a whole lot of other shit that the film students and folks with industry experience have more insight on!

If you want some juicy subtextual analysis, you can't go past the #sydcarmy tag. Some of my fav writers who get/got into subtext are: @thoughtfulchaos773, @freedelusionshere, @fairestbeard, @currymanganese, @moodyeucalyptus, @mitocamdria, @bioloyg, @outmakingmoonshine, @brokenwinebox, @turbulenthandholding, @devisrina, @sydneys-adamu, @vacationship, @yangsharperavery, @ambeauty, @angelica4equity, @unlikelyjapan, @gongziyus, @yannaryartside, @marianasue20. I'm sure I've missed a bunch so apologies if I have.

Ciphers and keys

The Bear also uses the concept of a "cipher" in its scripts to help mask and reveal subtext. According to Merriam-Webster, a cipher is

a method of transforming a text in order to conceal its meaning; a message in code.

Ciphers can be deciphered by use of a key: a tool to decode the message. In the case of The Bear, I wanted to highlight the below keys which can assist in subtextual analysis of the show:

"She" = Sydney

The most recent and revelatory key for me was the one found by @mitocamdria in their fantastic meta here. This key delivered to us in 4x10 is meant to unlock the "under the table" conversation in 2x09 (and probably other instances I can't think of right now):

Carmy: She...She was just saying this thing about how [...]

Richie: Stop. Who is she?

Sydney: Me, I'm she. [...]

So that when Syd and Carmy have the below conversation in 2x09...

Sydney: I'm sure she's great.

Carmy: She is. She is. She's great.

Sydney: Yeah?

Carmy: Yeah. She's so great it scares the shit outta me.

...we know that the "she" Carmy is referring to is actually Sydney and not Dr Malpractice.

The Faks are Liars

Most folks who watch this show and have an ounce of media literacy would pick up that the Faks are fucked and are not to be trusted. But in case you took them as comic relief and nothing else, 4x05 gives us the below key about their role in The Bear:

Neil: Can we hold her? [where "we" = Neil and Ted Fak, and "her" = Nat's baby Sophie]

Nat: No, sweethearts.

Ted: Sug said I could hold it too. [where Ted is referring to a baby as an "it" - he is truly a lechy fuck]

Neil: She said we could hold her.

Richie: That's a lie

The Faks: Its not a lie.

Richie: That's a fucking lie.

Ted: It's not. Faks don't lie.

In 4x05 its made very plain that the Faks do, in fact, lie. They are liars. This has ramifications for many of their scenes, particularly where they insert themselves as advisors to Carmy and/or Claire. Like Neil telling Claire that Carmy likes her more than he likes himself in 3x09:

This lie gets refuted for us in 4x10 when Carmy tells us that its Sydney that he believes in more than he's ever believed in himself:

Fire = Arrogance, Bravado, (brittle/fragile) Confidence

This key comes to us from 2x07 Forks and the conversation between Chef Terry and Richie:

Chef Terry: I tried to open a giant place years ago. I had all these accolades. I was younger, I was on fire. I was arrogant, and, uh, I tried to move too fast. I couldn't keep the place open and the market crashed and I got killed.

Fire has come to be interpreted a few different ways on this show but in my view, this bit of dialogue from Chef Terry provides the most clarity in explaining its use in other contexts including:

In 2x05 Pop when Claire bizarrely says:

Mikey was cool. Like, he would set something on fire.

If "fire" in The Bear represents arrogance, bravado and brittle/fragile confidence, then Claire's description of Mikey as so cool he'd set something on fire makes sense. Carmy describes his brother as loud and magnetic in 1x08, which we see in action as Mikey recounts his Ceres story in 1x06. We also witness Mikey's bravado and brittle/fragile confidence on full display in 2x06 and at the start of 4x01. Claire's comment in 2x05 is even more prescient given that we find out from Richie in 2x01 that Mikey did, in fact, try to set something on fire: his entire restaurant.

Carmy also repeatedly alludes to fire in the show including in 1x05 Sheridan when he tells Marcus that he started a fryer fire after being awarded Best New Chef and had thought about letting the restaurant he worked at burn down so that his anxiety would disappear. While I can empathise with Carmy's mental anguish the idea of burning down an entire business on which many folks depend for their livelihood, where that fire could also risk harm to neighbours and others nearby, just so that your anxiety might be lessened...is plainly arrogant. This applies to both Mikey and Carmy and their "solutions" for their respective dilemmas.

Chef Terry's key also helps explain part of the Claire/Carmy fight in 4x03:

Claire: Why was the way you felt around me hard?

[...]

Carmy: It made me feel like I was on fire.

Claire: That's awful.

Carmy: No, no, it was the best.

If we watch the Claire/Carmy fight in 4x03 through the lens of Chef Terry's use of "fire", then we can see that the "best" feeling Carmy had when he was with Claire was a feeling of confidence (no matter how fragile or brittle that confidence was), having bravado, feeling like he had something to be arrogant about. In short, Carmy got to feel like Mikey, which felt good - felt like it was the best (given what white men are socialised and racialised to believe is the best) - in the short term. But as Chef Terry notes in her dialogue in 2x07, and as Mikey's character arc shows us: being on fire also means moving too fast, having everything crash around you and ultimately, getting killed.

Finally, Chef Terry's key from 2x07 also applies to Carmy using fire to not think about his brother's death which he tells Claire about in 4x07:

When, uh, Sugar called me about Michael, I was working. I was on the line. And, uh, I didn't want to think about it, so I put my hand on the burner. It wasn't a hot pot.

While there has been interpretation of Carmy's use of fire in this context as a means of numbing, I don't think thats what this is. Carmy wasn't deadening his reaction to Mikey's passing, he was diverting it to another form of pain. As Carmy tells us later in 4x10, he was putting something else in the way (the pain of a burn) so that he didn't have to deal with another real thing (the pain of his brother's death). This may sound cruel of me but it takes a spectacular type of arrogance, bravado and lack of self-awareness to believe that you can stem grief in this way: to believe that setting yourself on literal fire will make you the master of your emotions. By the end of 4x10, Carmy has come to realise this too, which is why he makes the decision to walk away from his role as EC of The Bear.

Keeper of the keys

I'd also like to point out here that Richie is integral to delivering each of the above keys to the audience. Its Richie who asks Carmy "who is she?" Its Richie who tells us that the Faks lie, and its Richie whose conversation with Chef Terry reveals what "fire" means on this show. This is consistent with his role as director/showrunner Chris Storer's author-avatar which was a theory put forward by @currymanganese and documented at length by @thoughtfulchaos773. I'm sure there are other keys he's associated with as well.

Have you come across any other keys in this show? Did they involve Richie? I'd be keen to hear about them so please reply, comment or tag me on your posts!

Happy deciphering!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Happy Birthday, Miss Raven!

5th installment of her birthday vignettes~

I crammed various pajama + groovy sketches at the end as well.

[ Night Raven College - Botanical Garden ]

Raven: … san! Leona-san!!

Raven: Rise and shine, Leona-san!!

Leona (looking grumpy, eyes closed): …

Leona (eyes opening): … Alright, alright. I’m awake. No need to keep naggin’.

Raven: Oh, that took a shockingly shorter amount of time than usual. Could it be that you’ve decided to mend all your ways, repented, seen the light, and made a switch?

Leona (scoffing): In your dreams. Just didn’t feel like givin’ the lady trouble today.

Raven: Lady…?! You... You can't possibly mean me, do you?

Leona: You see any other ladies around here? Yes, you, canary.

Raven (looking uncomfortable): ... I just felt a chill go down my spine. Are you plotting something?

Leona (looking grumpy again): OI. If you're going to act ungrateful, then I'll take it back.

Leona: Since tomorrow's special, I felt like being magnanimous today.

Raven: Tomorrow?

Raven (looking startled): ... Ah, that's right! Because tomorrow is...

Leona (smug): Hah. Finally remembered, have you?

Raven: It's Leona-san's birthday!

Leona: …

Leona, putting hands on hips: … That’s right, and don’t you forget it.

Raven: I won’t. (It’s difficult to ignore a presence like yours…) I’ll be certain to wish you a happy birthday! It’s the courteous thing to do.

Leona: Yeah, yeah. You better not go breaking that promise.

Leona: Run along now. Old man Crowley must be expectin’ ya home soon.

Raven (looking alarmed, then relaxing) : Ah, that’s right…! I should get going. Well, until tomorrow then.

*Footsteps sfx; Raven vanishes*

Leona, folding arms: …

[ Night Raven College - Raven's Room ]

*Door closing sfx*

Raven: Uncle, I’m home!!

*Crowley appears, his mouth moves*

Raven: Hmm? How was my day?

Raven, smiling: It was great!

Raven, looking a little tired: … Well, “great” if you exclude the little incident in Alchemy… and the mishap during Flight… and the argument that broke out during Magic History… and…

Raven: …

Raven: Okay, so maybe it wasn’t go great. But still!! It was relatively calm compared to the day before. That can be considered an improvement, right?

Raven: Never mind that. How was your work, Uncle?

*Crowley puts his hands on his hips and says something*

Raven: Eh… You visited various classrooms, but the students all groaned and rolled their eyes at you?

Raven: *sighing sfx* No respect for authority figures. Adults have it hard too, hmm?

*Crowley says something*

Raven: Oh, dinner will be ready soon? It’s just what we need to take our minds off of things. Alright, I’ll be down in a second.

*Screen fades to black, we fade back into Raven’s room in the attic.*

Raven: Phew, I’m full! Food really does taste better when you’re hungry.

*Papers ruffling sfx*

Raven: Now that I’m sated, it’s time to get down to business. To begin with, there is homework for each class.

Raven: After that, I should clean up the notes from the dorm leader meeting and send those out via email to everyone. I’ll send Malleus-senpai’s copy to Lilia-senpai. There’s a higher chance it’ll actually make it to him that way.

Raven: And then I have to proofread some items for Newspaper Club. The club leader wants the markups on his desk by tomorrow.

Raven: Oh, and my herb plants need watering…

Raven: I also wanted to work on that story I was writing! I was just getting to the juicy part where the icy love interest confesses his feelings to…

Raven, looking a little tired: Aaaah, looks like I might be burning the midnight oil again…!! There’s so much to do and not nearly enough time for all of it!

[ Night Raven College - Raven's Room ]

Raven, shaking: *insert bird warbling sounds here*

Raven: Pwaaaah~! It feels so nice to take a break warm bath after a long day. I was so productive too, heheh~

Raven: It’s no good to sleep with wet fea… I mean, hair. I should find something to do while I wait for it to dry.

Raven: Let’s see now… Where did I put that novel I was in the middle of reading?

*Rustling sfx*

Raven: Mm, what’s this?

「Survey on Quality of Life Improvements for the Student Body」

Raven: Oh gosh, I nearly forgot about this! It was pretty low on my priorities list. Let’s get you filled out.

Raven: …

Raven: How to improve quality of life for the student body? That’s a good question.

Raven: I don’t know much about what is expected of a typical human education or campus life. It’s difficult for me to gauge what is good and what is bad, what NRC has that other schools don’t and vice versa.

Raven: Students like me are essentially fish out of water. We’re left to fend for ourselves and figure out the nuances of this brand new setting we’ve been dropped in.

Raven: It’s so confusing sometimes.

Raven: Not only that, but there’s so many disputes between the dorms and even within each dorm! No one seems to know how to get along. It’s exhausting to be around!!

Raven: Why can’t they behave…? Is it that they just don’t see eye-to-eye?

Raven: … Wait, that’s it!! I know exactly what to put down.

*Scribbling on paper sfx*

Raven: ‘Implement a system to help acclimate students unfamiliar with NRC to campus life and to their fellow peers. This could include offering campus-wide tours, holding events that encourage cooperation, tutoring services, counseling for homesickness, cultural sensitivity sessions, and pairing incoming students with mentors they can pitch their questions to.’

*Scribbling on paper sfx*

Raven: ‘This would help students from different cultural backgrounds—humans, fae, beastfolk, and merfolk—better understand one another and their new home. If we establish this strong basis, we can reduce stress and there would be less fighting among the students population.’

*Scribbling on paper sfx*

Raven: I’ve got all kinds of ideas!! Better get them all out before I forget them.

*Camera zooms closer to Raven, who is smiling as she continues to furiously write*

[ Night Raven College - Raven's Room ]

Raven: *yawns* … Morning already?

Raven: Nngh, I should get up…

Raven: Aaah, I had such a strange dream.

Raven: There was a duck that became a girl and started attending ballet school.

Raven: The duck fell in love with a prince incapable of feeling. He seemed to be in love with another girl, one dressed in black.

Raven: And there was a valiant knight fighting with a pen instead of a sword!

Raven. I’d better write this down so I don’t forget it!! It could serve as inspiration for my next story.

*Scribbling on paper sfx*

*Closing book sfx*

Raven: Now to tuck the dream diary back onto its shelf…

Raven: Wah, I messed up the nest pretty badly. Am I finally getting used to sleeping like more of a human…?

Raven, moving from side to side: Let me fix up this blanket before I go.

Raven: … There!

*She moves across the screen; sfx of window opening*

Raven, smiling (camera zooms in on her, there’s a bunch of sparkles as she extends both arms): Good morning, my friends!!

*Birds chirping sfx*

Raven: Hehe, everyone has gathered.

Raven: Mrs. Robin, how are your eggs doing? Have any of them started to move?

*Birds chirping sfx*

Raven: No worries, they will soon.

Raven: Mr. Sparrow, did you remember to eat your breakfast before coming by to visit?

*Bird chirping sfx*

Raven: You caught a big worm on your way here? I hope it was delicious.

Raven: How is your nest coming along, Mrs. Blue Jay? If you’re missing materials, I can see what I can find to help.

Raven: Mr. Goldfinch, your coat is so neat! You’ve made an extra effort to preen yourself this morning.

*Raven continues to chat with the flock of birds*

*An alarm inside goes off and she startles*

Raven: Oopsie, I’d better get going! It was nice catching up with you all. I’ll see you around, then.

*Fluttering sfx as the birds disperse*

Raven: Okay!!

*Slapping sfx as she smacks both of her cheeks*

Raven: Let’s do this!

[ Night Raven College - Crowley Residence Washroom ]

*Water splashing sfx*

Raven: If I were still a bird, that’d be the full extent of my routine, but…

Raven, shivering: I can already hear Vil-senpai’s phantom lecture ringing in my ears.

Raven: Birds regularly preen their feathers to keep them insulated, waterproof and aerodynamic. I suppose the human equivalent would be to take care of their skin and hair. I’ll do my best!

Raven: … Err, let’s see…

*Pages flipping sfx*

Raven: According to this book, Skincare 101… Products should be applied from thinnest consistency to thickest. That would be toner, serum, moisturizer, sunscreen.

Raven: I have to be careful with the ingredients. If they’re too harsh, they could disrupt the natural oils my skin produces, rendering the feathers useless.

*Patpat sfx*

Raven: Oh, and can’t forget oil.

Raven: To keep the hair healthy and lustrous!

*Rustling sfx*

Raven: Next, makeup. Makeup for Dummies says to dab of primer in the T-zones to create a smooth canvas to work on.

Raven: I’m new to this, so it’s best to go with a simple and natural look instead of crazy colors and bold eyeliner.

Raven: Then I’ll brush my fea… hair. Aaah, it looks a little too messy here and too limp in other places. That won’t do!!

Raven: A touch of magic, and it’ll be reshaped into nice, bouncy ringlets! Thank you, Hairstyling Spells.

*Sparkles*

Raven: Then I’ll tie it up into the usual pigtails. This will keep my sight clear and the hair out of my way.

Raven: There we go 🎵

Raven: Fufu, picture perfect if I do say so myself. I’ve certainly improved since my first day here.

Raven: I’ll be a full-fledged proper lady in no time at all!

[ Night Raven College - Main Street ]

*Running sfx*

Leona: …

Raven: Leona-saaan~!!

Leona: Well, well, well, if it isn’t the headmaster’s little golden girl. To what do I owe this honor?

Raven: I’ve come to fulfill my promise.

Leona: Have you now. This should be good.

Leona, folding arms: Well? I’m waiting.

Raven: … N-Now I’m too nervous to say it with you staring at me like that.

Leona: Hah? What sort of excuse is that? Don’t keep me waiting. If you’ve got it on the tip of your already, then spit it out.

Raven: Can you at least glance off to the side?!

Leona, groaning: As the lady wishes.

*He closes his eyes and turns away*

Leona: …

Leona: … Happy birthday, canary.

Raven: Eh? D-Did you say something?

Leona: …

Leona: Nope, nothin’. Must be your imagination.

Raven: If you say so.

Raven: Happy birthday, Leona-san. Let’s work hard today too!

Leona: … Yeah, let’s.

… Now comes the part where I tell you I didn’t actually finalize a sleepwear design 🧍‍♂️so it’ll look like Miss Raven isn’t wearing anything in the card illustration sketches 💦 Pretend that she is, I just couldn’t settle on one iteration to go with.

I know I wanted a nightgown of some kind, but couldn’t find a shape I was happy with. I took some inspiration from Princess Giselle’s animated pink princess gown and real world turquoise gown, but I wanted the pajamas to look fluffy and white like the clouds Raven is used to. The little bits sticking out in one version are supposed to be a bird’s down feathers, which are very soft. Her headband is also fluffy and white like a cloud! Forehead reveal— At one point, I considered sticking curlers in her hair too.

This is another variation; it involves a lacey sleeveless white nightgown with an oversized cardigan that's slipping off her shoulders. She still has the same fluffy slippers, which was perhaps the only recurring element across her pajama designs. The nightgown has a transparent train in the back which is supposed to resemble the fluffy tail of a bird. The white color is meant to emulate the good and pure white birds she wishes to emulate, like doves and swans.

The pillows in the top right and bottom left of the initial card art sketches have bird/feather motifs and some have words stitched into them to resemble a page in a book. The top and bottom borders are meant to resemble a worn page torn out from a book as well. Oh, and if you’re wondering what the weird circle thing around Raven is, it’s one long twisted blanket that she uses to form a pseudo “nest” atop her mattress to sleep in. She’s all scrunched up so she can fit in that “nest”.

I was stuck between two concepts for the Groovy. Since the general idea is that Miss Raven is able to speak with the local birds, I wanted to give the Groovy a Disney princess-esque vibe.

In the first image, it’s shot from an extreme bird’s eye view, as if you, the viewer, are a bird descending to give a morning greeting. In the second image, Miss Raven is seated at her vanity and brushing her hair. Various bird friends are helping her get ready for the day by fetching her hair accessories.

One idea I didn’t sketch was a Groovy where Raven would be lying on her belly and scribbling in her diary.

Bonus doodle of Miss Raven struggling with her makeup application:

[natequarter]

my doctor who ocs, because i'm bored:

the sixteenth doctor (he/him), who lives in stubborn denial of the fact that he has regenerated with tits. his new motto is "top surgery and testosterone can fix life's problems". they can't, because life has a way of throwing aliens and unwanted vaginas at you, but by rassilon if he isn't going to try. in other news, he's brown now

anatoly (né [REDACTED], they/them), genderless former killing machine who was loomed as an adult to fight in the time war but ended up being put into stasis (aka long-term storage) when the war ended. now they have no coherent sense of identity, some cute stickers, and a whole lot of trauma! probably on their fourth or fifth regeneration, but their timeline is... unstable. what could possibly go wrong?

adam douglas (unclear on what a pronoun is, but he/him), a catholic carpenter from 1554 who was supposed to be hanged for murder (the doctor is not clear on whether he actually did commit murder or whether he was framed) but got accidentally transported onto the tardis... whilst he was being hanged. still devoutly religious, still politically incorrect, still calling people saracens when he definitely shouldn't be. the doctor is working on it. due to the aforementioned hanging he lives on the tardis and is getting really into twentieth century scifi

tamsin courtney (she/her), an evangelical servant from the mid 1540s who travels part time on the tardis and, predictably, quarrels with adam. and the doctor, when he doesn't get her back to her job on time.

sadie isaac parrick (she/her he/him), your run of the mill young human woman from the twenty-first century who turns out to be your run of the mill trans man. depressed broke uni student. meeting the doctor, especially after he regenerated into a body with tits and then immediately ran to get the nearest space top surgery, awakened something in him for sure. eventually gains a cursed talking sword, because i'm pretty sure that's what all trans people want in life

david llewelyn (né david smith, he/him), born in the 40s but accidentally whisked from the 1980s to the 2010s after an accident with a nearby time machine. welsh with an english father, but torchwood helped him with the paperwork after he landed in 2010s cardiff completely unprepared - hence the surname change. a friend of isaac's, and helped him fight off the obligatory eldritch monster which lives in the basement of your baptist church and lures people in with orange squash and sudokus