#and if you guys send me asks i will try and answer...

[livwritessometimes]

I Have Not Given Up On Us Yet

: Part 16 (Max's Version)

: Who knew all Max needed to do was get drunk in order to get his life together

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: Main Masterlist

…

It was almost 12 by the time Y/n had gotten the call, and by 12:05, she was on her way. The entire time, she kept thinking about how she almost didn't answer. What would have happened had she not?

By 12:30, she was in the station, standing awkwardly in front of the help desk, waiting for the officer in front of her to finish the phone call he was having. Looking around the station, she could feel her heart beating in her ears. There weren't many people there, just one other person waiting in the chair near the door.

"Hi, sorry for the delay. How can I help you?" said the officer. Snapping her attention back to the man, Y/n said, "umm...I got a call. I'm here to collect Max Verstappen." "Ahh you must be Y/n, right? Yes, just fill out this form and he's all yours. I'll send someone to get him," said the officer as he ushered someone to go get Max. "Umm, officer, is it okay if I ask why he was arrested?" Y/n said as she looked up from the forms. "He was drunk and got in an argument with the bartender. We detained him before things could escalate. He's lucky the bar didn't press any charges," said the officer as he excused himself to finish some work.

After filling the form, she handed the officer the paperwork. "Y/n!" Her head snapped in the direction of the voice. There stood Max, in a hoodie and jeans, looking sheepish, like a kid who got caught stealing candies before dinner. Once he confirmed it was her, he rushed towards her. "I can't believe you came!" Max said as he pulled her into a hug. Standing there stunned at this man's drunk antics, "Oh Max, you absolute idiot, of course I came," she said as she pushed him away and started to head for the door. She reached the door only to realize Max was not following her. "You coming or what?" She questioned. "Yesss, I gotta pee first," said Max as he made his way to the washroom. Y/n sighed at that and took a seat, waiting for Max to return. "Good look with that," said the officer she had interacted with before, walking away.

Max was quieter now. He had been since he returned from the washroom. He kept looking at Y/n and then looking away. It was fine for the first fifteen minutes, but now it was starting to annoy her. "If you wanna say something, just say it," she said before looking back ahead again. "Nothing, It's just, I- I feel so stupid," said Max as he rubbed his face, trying to sober up. Y/n looked at him, waiting for him to continue. "I didn't want you to find out about this because I thought you'd leave me," Max said before he stopped walking. She turned to face him as he continued, "But my dad, you know how he can be. He kept saying all this stuff. Like I'm not doing enough, I'm wasting my time. There are the years where I should 'Focus on my career' and I just-" Max took a deep breath as he looked up, struggling to find the right words. "I just, I thought maybe he was right. So I thought ending this was the right thing to do but then you left, and it didn't feel right. All of a sudden, the house was empty, and I kept telling myself that it was fine, cause I'm supposed to focus on my future, right? But it's not. I don't think it ever will be," said Max as he finally looked at Y/n.

She stood there, taking in everything he had to say. "Do you hate me?" Max asked. By now, his eyes were slightly red. "Cause it's okay if you do. I am used to messing everything up," he finished. Taking his face in her hands, Y/n said, "You didn't mess everything up." "When I realized how late I was, I had rushed to get back home. I was so scared that I was gonna upset you even more, and then I saw what you did and it made me feel so guilty. I thought to myself, maybe you are better off without me. Girls like you don't deserve guys like me," Max said as a tear rolled down his eye.

They stood there for a while, looking at each other, unsure of what to do next. Both had said things that hurt the other, and this was not something they could just forget and be done with. Slowly, Y/n let go of his face and grabbed his hand, pulling him in the direction of their apartment. "I'm not promising anything," Y/n said, looking at Max. "But I have not given up on us yet," she continued as they made their way home.

…

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[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 WITH NO ONE TO SHARE THE MEMORY OF FROST

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you can't keep going on like this. it's been six months since you took over as boss of the port mafia—six months since you killed mori—and nothing is adding up. you don't understand why you did what you did, and everyone always hits you with the same reasoning: it was for the betterment of the port mafia. you can't accept it, and you need answers, but you can hardly breathe with all of the enemies circling yokohama. you allow yourself one night of freedom. you shouldn't have.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: LETS GOOOOOOOOOO YAYYAYAYAYAYYYYYY INSTALLMENT ONE POSTED AT LAST. PLSSSSS CIVZAI NATION, I HOPE YOU GUYS DIDN'T LEAVE ME </333333 i hope you guys enjoy the first part MWAH MWAH <333 civzai fridays will be every other friday from here on out! so next one is coming the 27th. reblogs and comments always appreciated!!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia boss!reader, civilian!dazai, mentions of alcoholism, temporary amnesia, dazai is mentally unstable, so is reader, both of them are struggling LOL, grieving (reader), a bit of suicide ideation (that's a given from dazai, a little bit from reader too tho), as always: reader is part of the mafia, expect mafia behavior from her, she is not a good person.

SEE: THE LAND IS INHOSPITABLE (BUT ARE WE?) SERIES MASTERLIST

Red was once your favorite color.

Every Monday morning, you would start the week off with a fresh set of red roses in the vase on your desk, courtesy of Mori. He sent it with a note, usually asking you to do something for him or bemoaning the fact that you ignored another invite to brunch. You hardly ever read the notes he would send along with them, and sometimes you would toss the flowers too if he pissed you off enough the week before, but you never could help the small smile that curled to your lips when you first walked into your office and saw them every morning without fail.

Every Tuesday at three in the afternoon, you would meet Elise for teatime. She would shoo Mori out of his own office and dart around the room trying to finish setting everything up before you got there, not knowing you were already leaning against the door watching her scramble. Her red dress fluffed out around her as she panicked to get the cookies presentable, and she would screech when she saw you standing there watching her, slamming the door in your face until she was ready to let you in.

Every Wednesday, you would go down to the ports to ensure that all the week’s shipments arrived without any trouble. You would come back to your office late in the night to write up the report for Mori to review in the morning, and you would always find a drawing waiting for you. Usually just of you and Elise, but sometimes she would add in Mori or Chuuya or Kouyou, or all three—she always drew you in a red dress because she wanted you to wear one to match her, but you always said no, and she added little hearts along the border of the paper. You think she must’ve spent hours making sure that they were all even. Unlike Mori's notes, you kept every drawing from Elise in the top right drawer of your desk.

Every Thursday, Mori would send one of his direct subordinates down to your office as a messenger to invite you to dinner with him on Friday. You hardly ever looked up at the man, always too busy with your own work, only barely catching sight of the red tie he wore around his neck before you told him to get the hell out of your office.

Every Friday, in spite of your complaints, you would meet Mori for dinner at a rooftop restaurant in Naka-ku. You arrived five minutes late, just to keep him sweating, but his expression always lit up at the sight of you entering the private room. He never sat down until you did, so when you entered the room, he would be standing next to his seat with his hands behind his back, red scarf hanging around his neck and a ribbon of a matching color tied around yours—the only time you ever used to wear the gift he gave you back when you were a child. 

You never realized how much comfort a color brought you until you were deprived of the very things that you associated it with. Now, Elise’s dress haunts you around every corner, and you see Mori’s reflection in the mirror every time you dare to look into one—their blood stains your hands no matter how hard you scrub it away. The very color that once brought you solace is now the cause of your heartache.

Your throat swells as your hand closes around one of the wilted petals lying on the desk you’ve long abandoned, looking down at the drawing on the wood surface that must’ve been left months before. You haven’t been back to your office since taking over Mori’s, and you regret coming down here as soon as you step into the suffocating place where time seems to have come to a halt.

It’s been six months, but you’ve hardly had the chance to even mourn. You don’t even know if you have the right to mourn. This is on you, isn’t it? Your decision, your coup—not only were you the one to make the plans, you were the one to look him in the eyes and pull the trigger… and for what?

You let out a shaky breath as the withered petals crumble in your hand, letting them fall back onto the cool wood. You sigh and turn your back to them, leaning against your old desk, head hanging down. A mistake because your gaze immediately lands on the scarf that you pulled off Mori’s corpse. You swear you can still see the blood dripping off of its ends, pooling on the ground below you.

Luckily, the sound of someone opening the door to your office draws your attention away. Your gaze lifts until it lands on Chuuya, whose hands are shoved in his pocket as he looks over you quickly, a concerned expression clear on his face.

“You shouldn’t be wandering around alone,” he murmurs. “Why didn’t you tell Klaus or Akutagawa where you were going? Me?” 

You exhale deeply, shaking your head as you look away, gaze settling on the skyline of the city and the rising sun in the distance. The night is over, and any peace you might’ve had is gone with it. You miss when night raids and compromised weapons shipments were the biggest stress you had. Now, you had to deal with them, and you had to spend every waking second in heated discussions with the government, trying to dissuade them from sending in the Hunting Dogs to Yokohama.

They want someone to blame for the conflict with the Guild that rocked the city and the video that was released of you half a year ago, and they can’t get you now that you’re the only thing holding the East’s criminal underworld together unless they want an incident to put the Dragon’s Head to shame. They want Klaus if they can’t have you—they haven’t said it explicitly, but you know it’s true—and you’re not giving him over, so you’re desperately trying to brace yourself for a potential conflict with the military police. 

“I’ve hardly had a moment alone since I took over, Chuuya,” you reply after a second. “I’ve had someone with me every hour of the day. I’m in our main headquarters, I can afford to step away for fifteen minutes.”

“You’ve had six assassination attempts on you within the past two weeks. Three in this building,” Chuuya counters coolly. “You’re trying to risk everything we did just for fifteen minutes alone.”

You inhale deeply, jaw ticking at Chuuya’s comment. You know that he’s right—a few moments alone is not worth the potential risk that comes along with it. You don’t have an offensive ability or really any way of defending yourself if you’re ambushed while alone, but there’s only so much you can take of people hovering around you every second of the day. If it’s not Klaus, it’s Akutagawa. If it’s not Akutagawa, it’s Chuuya. If it’s not Chuuya, it’s Iceman and Albatross. If it’s not Iceman and Albatross, it’s Atsushi and Kyouka. You can sneak away sometimes, usually when it’s the Flags assigned to you, but those moments are far and few between, certainly not enough to rid you of the suffocation you feel on a daily basis.

“Give me a break,” you say quietly in response, the fight draining out of you. “Please.”

Chuuya falters at the frailty in your voice, shoulders slumping as he makes his way over to you. His eyes are heavy with emotion as they scan over you, and your lashes flutter when he reaches out to cradle the side of your face—the leather of his glove is achingly familiar against your skin. You can’t help the way you instinctively lean into his touch.

He lets out a long breath before stepping closer to you, pulling you to his chest. You’re boss of the Port Mafia now, and you can’t afford to show any weakness unless you want people to take advantage of it, but you’re in the privacy of your old office with your most trusted friend, so you allow yourself to sink into his arms, face dropping to rest in the crook of his neck. His hand slides to the back of your head, his other arm wrapping around your waist. 

You can’t remember the last time someone held you like this. You want to savor it, but you don’t let yourself. With Chuuya’s body flush against yours as he comforts you, you can feel his heartbeat, though he’s become adept at lying to you with a straight face over the past half a year, his heart won’t lie.

“It’s been six months, and I still can’t understand why,” you say quietly, eyes sliding open, but you keep your head resting on his shoulder as you feel him tense.

“Why?” Chuuya prompts you to explain, trying to keep his voice light and conversational, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up.

“Why I killed Mori,” you say, gaze trained on Chuuya’s neck as he visibly swallows.

“It was for the—”

“For the betterment of the Port Mafia,” you finish before he can. “That’s what everyone tells me, and that’s why I remember doing it.”

“Then, what’s the problem?” Chuuya asks instead of confirming that it’s because that’s what happened—a mistake. “Hm?”

“You know something that I don’t, Chuuya.” You finally voice the suspicions that have been plaguing you for months. Chuuya’s heart rate spikes, and it’s all the confirmation you need. “I see. And you’re not concerned that I’ll order you to tell me what you know?”

“Don’t,” Chuuya says tightly. “I won’t forgive you for that.”

You exhale deeply. Having gotten what you need, you pull away from Chuuya, evading his gaze when you catch the hurt expression that crosses his face when he realizes you only indulged in his comfort to get information from him. You look down at your desk, fingers brushing the note Mori left for you with the now-withered roses six months ago. You haven’t opened it yet, and you don’t plan to, but you let your fingers trace the cursive hime on the front of the envelope. 

“At least tell me if I did the right thing,” you whisper, voice hoarser than you intended for it to be. “Please, Chuuya.”

“I wouldn’t have supported you if you didn’t,” Chuuya tells you after a few agonizing seconds of silence. “Cao Xueqin just landed in Tokyo. Mishima is hosting him until we get there. Are you ready?”

It’s his way of telling you to drop the subject—you can’t be centered on the past when there are threats at your doorstep just waiting for the first opportunity to strike—but it’s hard for you to move forward when you don’t even understand your own motives for killing your-

For killing Mori.

It’s for the betterment of the Port Mafia, but everything Mori has ever done has been for the betterment of the Port Mafia. Something just isn’t right about the reasoning—even if he did make questionable decisions concerning the Yakuza syndicates and outright bad ones against the Guild, it wasn’t enough to justify your eagerness to displace him as boss. Your ‘driving motive’ was the hand he supposedly played in your arrest half a year ago, conspiring with Ace to use you as a scapegoat to get the government off the Mafia’s ass but…

Your hand flattens against the note he left for you, eyes lingering on the roses he made sure to replace every week without fail.

He would never do that to you. You know in your heart that there’s something else going on, but you don’t know what, and you don’t know why you’re unaware of it. It’s hard for you to focus when you feel like you’re not understanding something so fundamental. 

You need to know why. You need to know why you really killed him, you need to know why you don’t know, and you need to know why Chuuya knows but won’t tell you. 

But first, you have to deal with Cao Xueqin.

“Yeah,” you finally say. “Yeah, let’s go. Hopefully, this shit doesn’t take all day.”

From the way Chuuya grimaces, you have a feeling that it absolutely will.

------

Dazai doesn’t think about you anymore.

He doesn’t think about you when he wakes up in an empty bed every morning, and he pretends he doesn’t instinctively reach out for someone who is not next to him. He doesn’t think about you when he passes by a bookstore and sees the book he almost decided not to publish in the wake of your betrayal, and he pretends he doesn’t wonder whether or not there’s a bookstore close to the Port Mafia base, and if you’ve maybe seen it in passing. He doesn’t think about you while walking home after a day of lounging around the detective agency near Motomachi Shopping Street, passing by the ports to get to his apartment, and he pretends he doesn’t whip around when he thinks he sees a familiar figure shadowed by the setting sun.

He doesn’t think about you anymore. 

He really doesn’t.

Dazai takes in a deep breath as he adjusts his shoulder bag, attributing the way his eyes suddenly sting with tears to the midday sun shining directly into them. He shouldn’t be thinking about you, at least, but for some reason, you’ve already crossed his mind twice today, and it’s making him sick to his stomach. He knows it’s because he’s hungover, and whenever he’s hungover, he’s more prone to accidentally letting his thoughts run astray, but he wishes he would stop.

A part of him wishes that he could forget like you have. You took the easy way out by erasing your memories of him and going on with your life; he doesn’t haunt you the way you haunt his every waking second. You have it easy, and you don’t even know it. You don’t wake up with his name caught between your teeth like he does with yours. You don’t see him in the gaps between people’s faces on the street or hear his laughter in the wind like him. You don’t flinch when someone says the words forgot or abandoned, because those words mean nothing to you.

But for Dazai, it’s different. You’re in everything. He should hate you for wiping your memories clean of him, but he doesn’t. He envies you. He wishes that it were him. He told you once that he’d rather die than forget, and he thinks that maybe it still stands, because he can’t imagine a life without the memories of you, but sometimes… Sometimes, he thinks it might be easier. Sometimes, he wishes that it could be him who forgot, and you who was suffering being haunted by the ghost of him.

He’s moved on, he reminds himself like there isn’t still a gaping hole in his chest that he’s been trying to drink and fuck away for over half a year now. Nothing does the trick no matter how hard he tries to act like it does—taking someone else back to his bed is only bearable when he’s drunk enough to pretend it’s you, but it’s a double-edged sword in that once he’s drunk enough to start thinking about you, he can’t stop, and it always floods over into the next morning.

At least he’ll be at the Agency soon—he’s only a block away now, and then he can waste the day bothering them and trying to find some new inspiration for the new idea he had for a book. He hasn’t been able to get a single word down on paper despite making every effort. He’s resorted to filling up a journal with depressing poetry, hoping that if he rage writes and grief writes all of his emotions away, he’ll be able to move on and actually get to working on the new novel.

He isn’t exactly sure how he ended up with the Armed Detective Agency; he’s not complaining because he thinks the past six months would’ve been much darker without them in his life, but he does wonder why they took him in the way they did. He knows it has something to do with Yosano’s relationship with you and Ranpo supporting her, but he was surprised the rest were so quick to accept it.

“Hellooooo,” he sings as he enters the cafe beneath the Agency. 

The cafe manager immediately turns his attention to Dazai, a small smile curling at the corner of his lips. “Dazai-kun, do you want a coffee before you head upstairs?”

“No, thank you, Uzumaki-san,” Dazai replies. “I’m going to head up. I’ll be down in an hour or two to try to sway your lovely wife astray.”

He tosses the cafe manager a wide smile, but the older man only rolls his eyes with an exasperated smile. “You’re going to end up being whipped across the head with another wet towel, Dazai-kun.”

“Worth,” Dazai calls over his shoulder before disappearing up the stairs to the fourth floor.

Dazai pretends he’s not almost out of breath by the time he gets up there, flinging open the door dramatically with a “Guess whooo!” only to pause when he doesn’t immediately get a response. His brows furrow as he makes his way deeper into the office, snooping around a bit until he hears some noise from what sounds like the first conference room.

Dazai isn’t technically a detective, and he probably should just lounge in the waiting area until someone comes out who he can annoy, but they’ve let him get away with enough that he can’t help the curiosity getting the best of him. He creeps around the corner and sees the whole group of them sitting around a table in the conference room, looking at something projected on the screen.

Dazai only barely registers the way Yosano’s expression shifts as soon as she notices him, rising to her feet. In the back of his mind, Dazai knows he should scamper back into the waiting room and pretend he wasn’t snooping, but he finds himself freezing at the sight of the image on the projector, mouth going dry and blood running cold. 

“Dazai,” he hears Yosano say distantly, but he can’t even draw his attention away from the screen. “I texted you, I said you probably shouldn’t come in today, I-”

“My phone was dead,” Dazai replies, but his voice sounds far away, even to his own ears. “What is… Why…”

Why are you on the projector? 

It’s a faraway, grainy image of you, but it’s you—Dazai would recognize you anywhere, and he feels like he’s been punched. He’s over this, over you, he tries to convince himself of it over and over again, but he just can’t draw his eyes away. He hasn’t seen you since that last day at the safe house, and the sight of you again after all of this time is ripping open all of the wounds that for months, he pretended were healed.

You look different now—he expected it, of course, it’s been over half a year, but nothing could’ve prepared him for actually seeing you again. He almost finds it hard to breathe, lungs clogged and body tense. It looks like CCTV footage from the ports, you’re standing with Nakahara Chuuya and your subordinate, Klaus, and Dazai has never seen you so tired before.

Even back at the beach house when he cornered you into admitting what was happening and why you were being so cagey, it’s nothing compared to this. Even with the image being as grainy as it is, he can see the lifeless expression on your face, and even though he knows he shouldn’t, he can’t help the worry that bubbles in his chest. He should feel gleeful that you look as miserable as you do, at the idea that maybe you’re even half as miserable as he’s been without you, but he only feels concerned. And guilty. He feels guilty for accusing you of taking the easy way out when this clearly has not been easy for you.

Then, he pushes the thought away instantly. This was your choice. Dazai didn’t get a choice. There’s no reason he should be concerned, and there’s especially no reason for him to be feeling guilty.

“We got a request from the government regarding the Port Mafia.” It’s the President, Fukuzawa, who speaks up, and the surprise of it is enough to finally draw Dazai’s gaze off the screen.

“Sir, should we be—”

“It’s fine,” Ranpo interrupts, green eyes visible as he gazes at Dazai curiously before shooting a pointed look at Fukuzawa, waiting for him to continue. Dazai found that they don’t really question Ranpo much at all, so he’s not surprised when Kunikida backs down, even if he does still look perplexed as to why they’re telling Dazai the details of their new case. 

“The government was suspicious that there was a transition of power happening with how quiet they’ve been the past few months,” Fukuzawa explains, and Dazai swallows thickly, knowing exactly what power transition must have happened. “There’s been an uptick in activity the past month that they can’t handle on their own. This image was captured at one of the ports in Naka-ku four nights ago during a raid by the military police on a warehouse suspected of being owned by the Port Mafia. They were ready for it; twenty-nine officers were killed in the conflict that broke out, another eighteen still in critical condition. These three were at the center of it.”

“The one on the left is Nakahara Chuuya, a confirmed executive of the Port Mafia and one of the strongest ability users in the world. He’s been at the top of the nation’s most wanted list for years,” Fukuzawa continues, and Dazai has a feeling he knows that he doesn’t need to explain this, considering Dazai’s former relationship with a Port Mafia executive, but he supposes it’s better to keep up appearances. He wouldn’t be in the best spot if his connection with the Port Mafia became public knowledge—the less people who know all the details, the better. Even in this room, only the detectives are aware of Dazai’s past with you. “The young boy in the red is supposedly the new boss’s personal bodyguard—nineteen-year-old Klaus Mann, a wanted terrorist throughout Europe and Asia. Three years ago, he was added to the list of the Seventeen Worldly Evils at number nine after massacring several military units in Eastern Russia. Four hundred and thirty-six soldiers were killed in the rampage.”

Though Dazai thinks he should be more stuck on the fact that the stupid teenager that screeched at the sight of plastic skeletons in your apartment and looked like a kicked dog whenever you scolded him is on the list of the Seventeen Worldly Evils alongside some of the most villainous individuals Dazai’s ever had the misfortune of learning about, he’s more stuck on something else.

New boss.

His gaze drifts back up to your image on the screen, but this time, his eyes linger on the red scarf draped around your neck—the one he vividly remembers Mori wearing that day. Dazai knew that this was your plan, but it’s different hearing that you succeeded. It’s different knowing that you’re actually the Port Mafia boss now.

Does that mean that you killed Mori?

 If he weren’t so devastated over how things turned out for the two of you, he would almost be impressed that you were capable of following through with a plan like yours in the midst of the chaos and confusion of your memory being altered. But he is devastated, and angry, and resentful, so his jaw only tightens in frustration.

“New boss?” Dazai whispers, voice faint. He ignores the grimace that crosses Yosano’s face at his question to keep his eyes trained on you. He feels bitter again—angry—you could have succeeded with him at your side. You didn’t have to stoop to this; you didn’t have to—

“The woman in the middle is suspected to be the new boss of the Port Mafia,” Fukuzawa answers, and Dazai’s gaze averts to the ground immediately. “Under the new regime, the Port Mafia has expanded rapidly, and it’s left the framework holding this city together unbalanced. There’s no longer a functioning government check on the Port Mafia, which leaves them open to acting out of their jurisdiction.”

Dazai swallows as Fukuzawa clicks onto the next slide, gaze focusing on a vaguely familiar smiling face.

“The new mayor of the city,” Fukuzawa explains, although Dazai is fairly certain that’s not where he knows him from. “Walter Lippmann.”

“The actor?” Tanizaki asks doubtfully, brows knit together.

“And suspected Port Mafia affiliate,” Fukuzawa agrees, clicking onto the next slide, which shows that same man sitting with you and another familiar face. That’s right—he was one of the ones he met that day at the safe house, so is the other man sitting with you in the picture.

You don’t look quite as lifeless in this image—it’s less grainy than the CCTV from the warehouses—but you certainly don’t look happy. The smile on your face is convincing, but Dazai can tell that it doesn’t reach your eyes. He’s seen your real one often enough to know that.

“So what does the government want us to do?” Kunikida asks, straightening in his seat to frown at Fukuzawa. “If they can’t do anything, what makes them think we can?”

“They’re using us to knock the Port Mafia down a peg, obviously,” Ranpo says, unwrapping a lollipop and sticking it in his mouth, leaning back in his seat carelessly. “We’re not bound by the same rules as they are. They want us to either get proof to have Lippmann removed from office, or they want the kid, Klaus, so they can do something to prove to the rest of the world that the Port Mafia is still under control.”

Dazai suddenly doesn’t want any part of this. His stomach churns, and his eyes are a bit unfocused as he directs his attention to the wall. He wasn’t prepared to hear about you today—he hasn’t spoken about what happened to anyone, even Yosano, who Dazai is pretty sure has a good idea of what happened, considering her past with you. He’s tried so hard to pretend that you don’t exist, and he just wasn’t prepared to have reality tossed in his face like this.

Shit. 

He needs fresh air desperately; the room feels too stuffy, the air too stale, what little is getting to his lungs is not enough, and it’s making his head feel light.

“Are you okay?” He hears Yosano ask, but her voice sounds so far away. He wants to snap at her—does it look like I’m okay?—but no words leave his parted lips. “Dazai, you—”

“I need to step out. Ah, too much crab last night. Yosano-sensei, you're so right, I need to change my diet. Don't mind me,” he finally pushes out, voice wavering in spite of his attempts to joke around as he quickly comes back the way he came, only getting to the main room before he has to lean on one of the detective’s desks, hand pressed to his mouth as he tries to hold back heaves. He hears someone follow him, but he doesn’t bother to look until he feels them touch his shoulder—he knows it’s Yosano, but he still jerks away. “Don’t touch me.”

So embarrassing, Dazai thinks, desperately trying to get a hold of himself. He’s been careful to keep a light demeanor around the detectives. He doesn’t want to be too off-putting and push away the only people he has left, but he can’t help the way his body physically reacts to the image of you after all of this time, and he certainly can’t help the way his whole mind feels like it’s collapsing at the reminder of your betrayal after he’s tried to shove it away for so long.

He hates you, he thinks desperately, but even as the thought crosses his head, he knows it’s not true. He doesn’t think he could ever hate you, but he’s so… so angry. He’s so angry and resentful, and he’s hardly allowed himself to really come to terms with the fact that you forcibly removed him from your life by wiping all of your memories of him when you knew he needed you and when he told you that he would rather risk being with you than alone again.

Dazai usually has a silver tongue, but he can’t even put into words the pain that he’s been suffering every day knowing that you’re out there living your life unaware of his existence when six months ago you would look at him like he’s the only thing that mattered in the world, when you treated him like he was something worth risking everything for. He’s woken up drenched in sweat from nightmares where he would run into you again, and your gaze would flit over him like he’s not even there, like he’s no one. 

“Dazai, what… happened between the two of you?” Yosano asks after a moment, voice quiet. “I don’t… I still don’t understand-”

“Nothing, I'm fine. I told you, it's just the crab," Dazai replies, trying to keep his voice light and giving her a smile that he knows doesn't reach his eyes. She frowns at him, but he looks away, doing his best to pull himself together before he can embarrass himself even more. “I should go.”

“Dazai…” Yosano starts to say, but Dazai ignores her, fixing his shoulder bag and starting to make his way out of the Agency. He only stops when he hears Ranpo call his name.

“We could use your insight,” the detective says flippantly. “You know more about the Port Mafia than any of us. If we don’t succeed in at least one of these requests, the government plans on sending in the Hunting Dogs to deal with them, and if they do that… Well, let’s just say there’s a good chance Miss Coup D’etat ends up being their first target. They don’t want to target her, because as much as she’s been pushing boundaries with the government, the threat of her and the new Port Mafia is keeping a lot of foreign organizations out of Japan, but they will go right for her throat if they can’t get her in line somehow.”

Dazai stiffens at his words, an unsure feeling spreading through his chest at Ranpo’s words. Instead of agreeing, he gives the other man a dirty look.

“Ah, Ranpo-san, you really know how to make a man feel wanted,” Dazai sighs airly, ignoring the sting in his chest. “I wondered why you kept me around so long. This was why, huh?” 

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Ranpo says irritably, “I’m the greatest detective this world has ever seen—I don’t need you for anything. I don’t need anyone for anything.”

Dazai presses his lips together and is about to walk away, but freezes when Ranpo’s eyes open to focus on him. He thinks he’s seen the man open his eyes no more than a handful of times in the months he’s spent hanging around the Agency, and two of them were today alone.

“But no,” Ranpo continues, more serious now. “I didn’t agree with you hanging around here because we might need you in the future. I agreed because you looked lonely and like you needed someone.”

Dazai doesn’t respond. He shakes his head and turns to leave as he repeats more hoarsely, “I should go.”

“Think about what I said,” Ranpo calls after him.

Dazai has absolutely zero intention of doing that, but he does intend on getting shit-faced drunk to forget about everything that’s happened today.

------

You think this meeting would be far more bearable if you were drunk. 

For ten hours, you’ve been sitting across from Cao Xueqin, and you’ve made no progress since you first arrived. In fact, you think you might’ve taken steps backward, if anything, because you’re becoming increasingly more frustrated with how the man seemingly has a billion different ways to phrase the same request, and he’s becoming increasingly more frustrated with how you seemingly have a billion different ways to say no.

Having the Sun and Steel merge into the Port Mafia as a subsidiary branch meant that you were also acquiring oversight of their narcotics trade. It was the only condition Mishima had to the merger—he didn’t want to lose everything he built, and you could sympathize with that—and although you were displeased by the prospect of involving the Port Mafia with narcotics, the benefits outweighed the risks. 

Now, you’re faced with the consequences because, of course, Mishima didn’t tell you that he’s been in constant conflict with the Red Chamber over the shipping routes in the East Asia Sea. He was still dealing with the aftermath of a fight that broke out between the two organizations at sea when he agreed to the merger and didn’t find it prudent to warn you of it before you arrived in Tokyo to a displeased mafia boss who has lived by the eye for an eye principle his entire life.

Eighteen deaths, including one executive, for the Red Chamber, only nine for the Sun and Steel, no executives; and Cao Xueqin has the nerve to come to Port Mafia territory and demand the lives of nine members, including one of your executives, in recompense. You had half a mind to have Chuuya kill him the moment he made his demand, but it would only cause more issues in the long run—the Red Chamber is like a hydra, kill one head, and two more take its place. If you’re going to go to war with them, you need to salt the foundations their organization is built on, or you’ll never be rid of them.

And you can’t afford to do that right now because you still have the government on your ass and the threat of the Hunting Dogs hanging over your shoulders.

What a mess, you think irritably, cool gaze drawing back over to Mishima, who has the decency to be shameful as he looks away. You have a feeling that he did this on purpose—that this is why he was so amenable to merging with the Port Mafia. You’d expected more pushback from him than you got; you should’ve questioned it more than you did. The only reason they would jump to accepting this was if they needed the Port Mafia’s protection, but you’d been so overwhelmed with the coup that you took your blessings when you could.

Of course, they weren’t actually blessings. Nothing is ever that easy for you.

“Maybe we should come back to this another day,” you finally say, putting your cigarette out on the table. God, you don’t even want to know how many you’ve gone through today. It comes out like a request, but it isn’t really because as soon as the words leave your lips, you’re rising to your feet. “How long will you be in Tokyo?”

Cao Xueqin smiles thinly as he replies, “Until this is settled.”

“Lovely,” you say, careful not to let the distaste show up on your face. “Perhaps it would be more efficient if you were staying at a hotel in Yokohama—that way, we don’t have to travel to and from Tokyo just for negotiations.”

Cao Xueqin would have come to Yokohama to begin with if he had wanted to stay in the city. He doesn’t because it’s the heart of Port Mafia territory, and you know this, but you want to remind him that he has no right to make any demands of the Port Mafia when he’s too wary of it to even step foot in its city. 

His smile tightens, clearly understanding the point you’re trying to make, and he answers tensely, “It’s easier for us to remain in Tokyo.”

“I’m sure,” you reply, amusement audible in your tone. “I’ll contact you when I get to Tokyo tomorrow. Have a good night.”

You don’t wait for a response—usually, you would wait for the other party to leave in order to keep up appearances, but there’s no point in hiding your annoyance. Everyone in the room knows that neither you nor Cao Xueqin is pleased with how the day turned out, so there is no point in pretending, and you just want to get home. You need a drink desperately.

Chuuya trails behind you as you leave. Mishima is the one who comes to walk next to you, an awkward expression on his face. When his lips part to say something, you raise your hand to silence him.

“We’ll speak another time,” you say tightly. “Have a good night, Yukio.”

Mishima sighs, gaze lowering. “Have a good night,” he echoes quietly. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“Another time,” you repeat, stressing the words this time as you give him a flinty look from the corner of your eye. Hearing his bullshit apologies right now would only serve to piss you off more. If he were truly sorry, he never would’ve hidden this from you to begin with. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Mishima replies, coming to a stop at the top of the steps while the three of you continue down to where Albatross is waiting in the car.

Before you get in the car, you turn to look at Chuuya. “Can you…”

You don’t have to finish what you’re asking for him to know what you’re going to say, which you’re grateful for because you never know who’s listening. But you don’t want Cao Xueqin freely roaming around Port Mafia territory, so you need him to go make sure one of Verlaine’s special ops units is in the area and can tail him while he’s in the city. 

“Yup,” he agrees, reaching out to squeeze your bicep before turning his attention to Albatross. “Get her back safe.”

Albatross waves his hand to dismiss him, rolling his eyes, and Chuuya scowls at him before casting you one last long look and taking off.

“Get her back safe,” Albatross mocks in a pitched voice once you sit in the passenger seat next to him. “The fuck else am I gonna do?”

You let out a huff of laughter, smiling down at your lap. Your fingers thrum against your leg as an idea comes to mind now that Chuuya is gone. You give Albatross a curious look from the corner of your eye as he pulls off the side of the street to start driving back to Yokohama. You give him a sweet smile that only makes him suspicious.

“I want to stop at a bar when we get back to the city,” you finally say firmly.

Albatross has the nerve to laugh in your face—the only person who hasn’t started treating you differently now that you’re boss. “Oh, I get it now—the warning wasn’t because of me, it was because of you. No fuckin’ way.”

Your brows furrow as you turn in your seat to face him. “I’m the boss,” you remind him. “I want to stop on the way back.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck,” Albatross says in response, giving you a pointed look before looking back at the road. “I’m the one behind the wheel. We’re not stopping at a goddamn bar. Drink in your office.”

You let out a frustrated puff of air as you look away. “I want one normal night, Albatross, please-”

“Sure,” he agrees too easily, so you know something else is coming. “Let me go get the Black Lizards set up around whatever bar you’re trying to stop at. We’ll make it a whole operation.”

You shake your head as you let out another sigh. “Forget it,” you murmur. “Let’s just get back to the base.”

Albatross groans. “Come on, doll. Don’t hit me with that.”

“Hit you with what?” you ask bitterly. “I dropped it, isn’t that what you wanted?”

Albatross rolls his eyes, but his lips flatten as he stares out at the road, a conflicted expression on his face. “Why do you want to go to a bar so bad?”

“I need a break from headquarters for the night,” you say quietly. You don’t know how to tell him that you’re haunted by the face of the very man you killed; that you can’t even look in a mirror without seeing him, that being in his office and sitting at his desk makes you sick to your stomach, that wearing his scarf feels like the weight of the world around your shoulders. So, instead, you just say, “It’s suffocating.”

But Albatross is Albatross, so he knows exactly what you mean. He always does. You want to hate the sympathetic look he casts your way, but you relax when he reaches out to squeeze your hand. Your fingers tighten around his instead of pulling away.

“I’ll call Iceman. He’ll meet us there, and we’ll wait outside, yeah?” Albatross finally compromises, turning his head to look at you. “No bringing anyone back to HQ otherwise Chuuya will find out. You find someone you wanna fuck, then we’ll bring you to one of our hotels and tell him tomorrow what you just told me. Deal?” 

“You’re so crude,” you complain, but you already feel a weight lifted off your chest at the realization that you won’t have to spend tonight spooked by shadows that take the form of achingly familiar figures. “... Thanks, Albatross.”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand again and letting your joined hands rest in your lap. After a few moments, he turns his head to look at you and says, “Just don’t fuckin’ tell Chuuya.”

You laugh. “As if I would.”

------

Dazai doesn’t know how he finds himself back at the bar he met you, of all places.

He hadn’t even realized where he was walking until he was standing outside with his hand around the doorknob. By that point, he was so desperate to numb all of the emotions that had been wreaking havoc on his chest and mind all day that he just gave up and went in, acknowledging that it probably wasn’t the best idea but too frustrated to care. 

He regrets it now, though—he feels like he’s suffocating sitting in the same exact seat he was in when you first walked through the doors the night the two of you met. His fingers are tracing the same etch in the wood underneath the bartop that he was fiddling with when he was rambling to you, and his gaze is trained on the top-shelf whiskey that you were drinking that night; it doesn’t even seem like it's been touched since then. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised—most people coming to this bar can’t afford that type of liquor anyway.

It’s almost dusk, and Dazai is still on his third drink—he went back to his apartment before heading to the bar, and he ended up lying in his futon staring up at the ceiling for hours until his thoughts became too unbearable to deal with without alcohol. He’s only just now starting to feel the buzz, and it’s just not enough; every thought that crosses his mind is centered around you. Memories of his time with you that you no longer have, questions about what you might be doing, fantasies of how things might be if you’d actually listened to him instead of going through with your shitty plan.

Dazai’s throat spasms as he takes another long swig of his drink—the burn in his throat isn’t enough to take away from the pain that shoots through his chest. He misses you. He misses you so badly that it physically hurts, and he wants to hate you for what you did, but he can't even bring himself to do that. He’s angry, and he’s hurt, but most of all, he’s frustrated.

Frustrated that you took away his choice.

Frustrated that you wouldn’t listen to him.

Frustrated that you erased all of your memories of him.

Frustrated that you left him alone when he asked—no—when he begged you not to. 

It’s all so unfair, and he knows life has never been fair. Dazai, of all people, knows that, but you were always fair to him. Maybe he’d gotten too used to it, but the most unfair part of all of this is that he can’t even bring himself to hate you. He wants to, he’s tried to, but the closest he’s gotten is the burning resentment he feels for you on nights like these.

Every time he remembers you’re out there living your life without knowing he even exists after all of the months you spent with him, it makes him sick with anger and distress. He can feel the bile rising in his throat and the acidic burn on his tongue because how is it possible that you can just not know him when you used to look at him like he was your entire world? 

Nobody had ever looked at him the way you did before, nobody ever treated him the way you did, nobody ever loved him the way you did, and nobody ever will again because you chose to go and completely cut him out of your life. The only person who ever loved him so unconditionally no longer even knows he exists.

He misses the door to the bar opening when he takes another long gulp of his whiskey, trying to ignore the sting in his eyes and the tremor in his fingers. He should find someone to distract himself with—that’s the only thing that sometimes works when he gets like this. If he leaves himself alone all night, plagued with thoughts of you, he’ll end up drinking himself to a bridge that he can never bring himself to jump over and end up sleeping on a bench in some shady park too close to the ports.

He’s about to turn around to seek someone out—he doesn’t care who, but he’d prefer if they had some similar features to you, that way, when he gets drunk enough, he can trick his brain into thinking it’s actually you—when his traitorous brain conjures up another horror:

How many people have you been with since you wiped your memories of him?

Dazai freezes in his seat as he stares down at the amber liquid sloshing in his glass—he’d slammed it a bit too hard on the bartop when the question crossed his mind, and he can vaguely see the bartender giving him a dirty look from the opposite side of the bar. Dazai has been with quite a lot of people since you left him, and he’s had the memory of you as a major deterrence, be it because some nights he gets too sick at the thought of anyone but you touching him or that the person he sought out realizes he’s a bit too fucked in the head and makes an excuse to leave, but you…

You don’t even have the memory of him as a deterrence, and Dazai knows better than anyone how sought after you were. It was the root cause of many of his insecurities when the two of you were together; he remembers the event he attended before the two of you were official, how people were drawn to you, put off by the fact that you were dancing with him. People would jump at the opportunity to be with you and—

Dazai feels sick, swiveling around in his seat a bit too quickly because he’s desperate for a reprieve from his own mind. He doesn’t even care who anymore. The first person who looks at him will do as long as they can take his mind off you. He just can’t deal with being stuck with his own thoughts as company anymore, and he…

Huh?

His gaze settles on a figure standing just a few feet away from him, and Dazai thinks that his mind must be playing tricks on him—it certainly wouldn’t be the first time in the past six months. He blinks twice, trying to clear his vision, and his brows furrow slowly in confusion when the figure doesn’t immediately disappear. His mouth goes dry, and his throat spasms as he tries and fails to swallow a sudden rock lodged in it. 

There’s no way-

“Hey,” a voice that’s unmistakably yours says easily, an inquisitive lilt to your tone as you look over him with achingly familiar eyes. “Have we… met before?”

[carlislefiles]

long distance | fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento, yuuji itadori ╰►living apart for a little while didn't seem to big a deal when it first started, but now he realizes that you've made being alone absolutely miserable and he copes...not at all. 12.5k words

a/n: hi hi! back with another headcanon post about the jjk men being so embarrassingly down bad for you, so nothing new of course. this was actually a request, so I hope it's what you wanted!! thanks for leaving a request, I love to get them :] warnings: cussing, kissing, vaguely yandere!suguru but he's trying his best not to be. I think that's all. some are canon compliant, i.e. sorcerer au, cult!geto, etc. and some are not; don't read too much into it please because I'm stupid and don't think very hard. enjoy <3

he always got nervous sending you off on missions. it’s not that he didn’t think you capable of handling yourself. no, megumi knows that you are. but curses are capable, too. capable of pain, capable of torture, capable of damage, capable of murder. he’s watched it happen one too many times. he’s come close to it himself, much too close for comfort.

so that ache is already permeating when yaga assigns you a mission. but this is not like most missions. long games were for special grades or, at the very least, adult sorcerers. you were still in school, still learning. but yaga thinks that’ll be good for you. so he sends you with nanami to some shabby motel in the middle of tokyo to retrieve a cursed object. all in all, no big deal. 

you didn’t cry when you left, didn’t cling to him at the train station or demand nightly calls or send him with some obnoxious token to remember you by. you kissed him, told him you’d be gone for a while, and promised to text when you could.

he didn’t think it would be this hard. it’s been four days. no messages from you yet. nothing but an empty text thread and that stupid blinking cursor in the box where he keeps typing things and deleting them. did you eat? are you okay? I miss you. deleted. deleted. deleted.

megumi isn’t good at being needy. he isn’t good at much when it comes to feelings, honestly. he’s trying not to think about the fact that the dorm feels colder without you. that yuuji keeps asking if he wants to hang out and he keeps saying no. that even nobara noticed he’s been quieter than usual. and then, finally:

“hey!

things are quiet here. I’m okay. 

nothing’s exploded, no one’s dead. don’t worry too much, okay? I know you are.”

he stares at the message for a full minute before answering. it’s the most emotion he’s shown all day. 

“trying not to. 

can you call tonight?”

that night, you do. your hair’s messy, you’re already in pajamas, and the lighting is bad. megumi thinks you look perfect. you don’t say much. you eat in front of the camera—instant ramen in a paper bowl, chopsticks clacking softly.

“you can never repeat this or I will kill you…but I’m kind of missing gojo-sensei’s late night convenience store trips for sweet treats. I’ve eaten plain noodles for the past three nights.” 

“yeah, but you’ll live.” god, he’s such a little shit.

you grin through a mouthful of noodles. “barely. nanami lectures harder than yaga. and he watches me eat like I'm gonna throw my food away or something.”

megumi tilts his head a little, lips twitching. “I would’ve watched you eat too.”

“yeah, but you wouldn’t judge me for only eating the noodles and leaving the broth.”

“...yes I would.”

you gasp, mock betrayal written all over your face. “that’s rich coming from the guy who eats cold miso soup straight from the fridge.”

he doesn’t deny it. doesn’t even blink. just says, “it’s convenient.” you both pause, a lull in conversation. "well, you should go to bed." he says, almost longingly, like he really doesn't want you to.

"wait, no! I still have to finish eating and write a mission debrief. don't leave me alone to this torture," you whine dramatically.

"isn't nanami on the other side of the wall? won't he get annoyed with us talking?" but it's a feeble, pathetic excuse. he doesn't care if nanami's annoyed, he wants to keep talking to you. but megumi is so painfully polite.

"nah," you lie. "he's probably writing his mission debrief. or laying in bed trying to pretend he doesn't miss his girlfriend."

"fiancée," nanami corrects, from the other side of the wall. you roll your eyes and keep eating, and that settles the matter.

megumi watches you from his own desk, textbook open in front of him, highlighter in hand. he doesn’t get much studying done. he keeps glancing at the way your hair falls into your face. the way you hum a little under your breath while you eat. the way you keep glancing at him to see if he’s still looking.

you tell him about the mission in vague terms. enough that he knows you’re still safe. you tell him how boring the town is, how the cursed energy’s been faint but persistent, how nanami makes you check in at regular intervals like a human tracking collar. you joke about it, but megumi hears the fatigue under the laughter.

still, you smile at him. stretch your arms over your head. let out a soft sigh and curl up on your thin little bed in the background. “you tired?” he asks.

you nod. “gonna pass out in a second.”

“I’ll stay on the line.”

you don’t argue. just mumble something like “okay, ‘gumi,” and turn the camera so it’s angled toward your pillow. he hears your breathing first. then the quiet shuffle of your blanket. and then—nothing. he doesn’t hang up. just listens to the soft rhythm of you sleeping and sets his phone down beside his own pillow. it’s the only thing that keeps the nightmares at bay. from that night on, it’s routine. if you don’t call, he doesn’t sleep.

some nights you eat in front of him again. sometimes he reads to you from the literature class you’re missing. you tell him you don’t miss the essays, but you do miss him reading to you, even if it’s monotone and serious. he takes it as a compliment.

he tells you that yuuji says hi. that nobara’s plotting to replace you as his “emotional regulation buddy” with a plush panda she won at an arcade. that gojo told the entire class you’re devastated to be missing “your favorite, beloved, beautiful teacher.”

you make gagging noises over the mic. megumi smirks. “gross,” you groan. “if I die, let that be the last thing anyone hears from me. not gojo-sensei slandering utahime’s good name as my favorite teacher.”

“you’re not dying, and utahime isn’t your teacher.”

“I know. just saying. and she’s still my favorite.”

he doesn’t like that kind of talk, even in jest. but he lets it slide. mostly because your voice is starting to fade again, and he can hear the soft, sleepy rasp that means you’re seconds away from unconsciousness. “goodnight, gumi,” you whisper.

he swallows. “goodnight.” he stays on the call long after you’re out, usually the whole night. he wakes up and nanami’s already dragged you out of bed. but sometimes, early in the mornings, earlier than he’d need to get up, he wakes to the sound of you saying “bye gumi,” before leaving. 

the calls had become a rhythm. a soft beat he could rest his heart against. so when the call doesn’t come—when you don’t pick up—megumi’s world tilts.

it’s a wednesday, just past three in the afternoon. he calls because he misses your voice, because he’s been holding on by the thinnest thread and hearing you breathe over the mic somehow makes him feel like his chest isn't full of barbed wire. it rings once. twice. four times. and then it goes to voicemail.

he stares at his screen. tries again. still nothing. he tells himself you’re probably just busy with the mission. maybe you’re asleep. maybe nanami’s giving a debrief. maybe your phone’s dead. maybe—maybe you’re hurt. maybe you’re bleeding out in some cold concrete stairwell and your cursed tool slipped from your hands and—

he calls again. and again. it spirals quick. too quick. he forgets how to sit still. paces his dorm room like the floor’s going to fall out from under him. pulls his hoodie tighter around him. shoves his phone in his pocket. takes it out. checks his texts. nothing. checks the school emergency threads. nothing. pings gojo just in case—doesn’t get an answer, which just makes it worse.

he feels it building in his chest—this clawing panic he hasn’t felt since he was a kid, since he watched his sister's body be wheeled away, since he realized he was alone in a world that doesn’t care how scared you are.

and then—his screen lights up. [your contact]: incoming facetime call. he answers before the first ring even finishes. “hello?” his voice is raw, low, already cracking.

“gumi,” your voice spills through the speaker, breathless, warm, real, and he can see your face, your phone propped up on the pathetic excuse for a desk in your motel room. “m’so sorry I didn’t answer.”

he exhales so hard it’s almost a gasp. the air rushes out of him like a lung finally punctured, like he’d been holding it the whole time. “what happened?” he asks, too fast.

“nanami was ripping me a new one,” you sigh, dragging the words out like a dramatic retelling. “I dropped a cursed object. by accident. no curses escaped or anything, he’s just being nanami about it.”

from somewhere behind you, nanami’s voice cuts in, sharp as a blade, “it was for your own good!”

“yeah yeah,” you mutter, rolling your eyes so hard he can hear it. “for my growth as a professional sorcerer, I know.” megumi doesn’t laugh, exactly. but something like a breathless, stunned smile pulls at his lips. you’re okay. you’re fine. his fingers are still trembling.

“don’t do that again,” he mutters. “don’t—don’t scare me like that.” he knows it’s irrational, that you’re on a mission and if you’re busy–for example, getting your ass chewed for a dumb mistake—he can’t expect you to drop everything for his phone call. 

“wasn’t on purpose, gumi.”

he knows that. he knows. but it doesn’t matter. logic doesn’t cushion the way his stomach still aches from the half hour of imagining you gone. “when you get home,” he says, voice rough, “we’re talking about this. about these long missions.”

“mm,” you hum. “you know we can't avoid them forever.”

“don’t care.”

you snort. “so bossy.”

“promise me.”

you go quiet for a second. not teasing, not stalling—just watching him through the camera, reading the too-serious look in his eyes. “…we’ll talk about it when I'm back,” you say softly.

megumi doesn’t push it. just says, “fine.” but he’s already made up his mind. he’ll talk to gojo. he’ll talk to anyone. no more of this. no more weeks without seeing you. no more half-breathing panic every time you don’t pick up. because he needs you too much to keep pretending this is normal.

you get home just after 2 a.m. about three weeks later.

you don’t expect anyone to be awake. especially not megumi. but the second you creak open the door to your dorm, you feel the warmth of the heated blanket across your bed and the familiar smell of your perfume hanging in the air like a ghost. he’s curled up on your desk chair, long legs tucked beneath him, phone in hand.

his eyes snap open the second the door clicks shut. “you’re late,” he mumbles, already standing. “you said midnight.”

you grin, exhausted. “blame the traffic. and nanami’s rigid driving; he’s almost as bad as ijichi.”

he’s already crossing the room. grabbing your bag from your shoulder. pulling the blanket draped over your other arm. but then he pauses—just a breath—and pulls you to him. no hesitation. no asking. he grabs you hard. arms like a vice, face buried in your shoulder, breath shaky against your skin.

you groan half-heartedly. “m’all gross. smell like gas station snacks.”

“don’t care.”

he holds you for another thirty seconds. maybe more. long enough that your fingers twitch against his back, grounding yourself, grounding him. long enough that your eyes sting with something quiet and familiar and good. then you pull back, barely.

“gumi,” you murmur. “shower. let me shower.”

he sighs through his nose but lets you go. watches you shuffle off into the bathroom, yawning as you go. he doesn’t lie down. he just sits.

legs tucked up, back resting against the headboard like he’s trying not to make himself too comfortable. because this isn’t his room. this isn’t his bed. but it smells like you—your detergent, your body spray, something floral and sugary he’d never be able to name but would recognize in any crowd. and it’s unbearable.

he hasn’t smelled you in weeks. and now you’re twenty feet away, humming off-key in the shower, and the reality of it slams him in waves. you’re here. you’re safe. your voice doesn’t sound strained. you aren’t limping. you’re home. and he feels—well…he doesn’t know what he feels. something like grief. something like longing, bent inward.

he picks at a loose thread on your blanket. he can hear the muffled splash of water. you’re probably using the shampoo he restocked before you left. the thought—so small, so domestic—makes his throat feel tight.

he hadn’t meant to wait here. he told himself he’d just check your room. make sure everything was warm. maybe leave a note. but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. not when the hours ticked past midnight. not when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the leftover tremor of panic clinging to his fingertips.

he’s not used to missing people. not like this. not in a way that guts him clean. he’s used to solitude. used to quiet. used to locking every sharp emotion behind his teeth. but you—you’ve made his silence heavy. you’ve made being alone unbearable. his eyes flicker toward the bathroom door again. he can hear the faucet shut off. movement. a cabinet. your toothbrush rattling. nothing special. ordinary things. and it moves him in a way nothing else has in days.

he wonders if you ever felt this way when he was on a mission. when he went quiet for hours. when his texts were flat and dry and full of nothing, just the bare bones of logistics. he never knew what to say. still doesn’t. you had always carried the weight of their communication, laughing off his ellipses and single word answers. he hated that it took your absence to realize how much he had taken that for granted.

his hand drifts toward the spot on your mattress where you usually lie. he presses his palm to the indentation there, barely noticeable, like a memory. like the way your body had fit there so many nights, warm and half-asleep and reaching for him.

he closes his eyes for a second. just one. listens to the lock click open. you come out in an oversized shirt and…are those his socks? gross, he thinks. they’re yours now. your hair is damp and messy and you’re rubbing at your eyes like you’re already halfway asleep. you don’t even notice the look on his face. which is good. because he’s looking at you like you hung the stars.

he doesn’t say a word when you climb into bed beside him. doesn’t flinch when you tug his arm toward you, drape it around your waist like it belongs there. doesn’t speak when you whisper something about the drive, about being sore, about the ramen being even worse on the way back.

he just holds you. pulls you into his chest like he’s still scared you’ll vanish again. like if he doesn’t wrap around you tight enough, you’ll disappear back into the wind.

and when you mumble, “shouldn’t’ve waited up for me,” into the fabric of his shirt, his breath catches.

he wants to tell you how much it wrecked him to wait. how every second of not knowing was its own kind of torture. how his heart felt like it was bleeding out in the dark. but he doesn’t. he just tightens his grip. noses into your damp hair. “couldn’t wait,” is all he says.

he hated leaving. hated the silence of being apart from you. hated the dull throb that settled in the hollow of his chest the second he stepped outside your shared space. it wasn’t about control. it wasn’t even about the cult, not really—though geto did have obligations. rules to keep, people to placate, power to maintain. no one ran an empire of belief and blood by sitting on their ass. but still.

the thing about being away from you was that it felt like waking up in the middle of a dream and finding the world gray and unrecognizable. suguru had known grief. he had known rage and cruelty, had held the hand of sorrow like an old friend. but this? this constant ache of missing you—of living in days you weren’t part of? it was a quieter suffering, but no less violent. it chewed at him from the inside.

you didn’t help. of course you didn’t. he could feel your affection like sunlight on skin, even from miles away. you texted often—too often, really, if he were a lesser man. if he didn’t live for every single message.

there was the blurry selfie you sent one morning, barely lit by dawn. bedhead in every direction, your eyes puffy with sleep and your mouth slack, crust of drool shameless at the corner. you looked like a disaster. you looked like home.

the bed misses you, you’d written beneath it. oh, and I do too. he stared at that photo for longer than he should’ve. long after he’d replied with his usual: go back to sleep. it’s too early. (you replied with bossy. he smiled.)

there was a picture of miso soup you made. you’d captioned it with theatrical misery: I made enough for you and I. guess I’ll have to eat it all myself :/

he laughed. a real one, from deep in his chest. he scared one of his subordinates with the sound. what a shame, he wrote back. 

there was a day you sent him a photo of yourself cross-legged on the floor, nanako braiding your hair and mimiko painting your toes the brightest glittery pink imaginable. they’d hijacked your phone and typed with relentless confidence: she so pritty sensei u better come home soon or we keep her

he’d answered with: the prettiest. she’s mine, not yours, he’d teased.

it struck him then, for maybe the hundredth time, how strange this life was. his days were grim and sterile. the smell of iron lingered on his clothes. he spoke to liars, sycophants, zealots. he disposed of the wretched, the corrupt. and yet…you were sending him soup. selfies with sleepy eyes and too-big shirts. pictures of your toes being painted like you had nothing better to do. like you weren’t worried about the dark parts of his life clawing too close to yours.

he missed you like a wound misses the stitch. like a man freezing misses the flame. you were busy, he knew. but not too busy. you always made time to call. the sound of your voice through the phone cut through everything. made it easier to breathe. he’d been in the middle of a meeting once when your name flashed across the screen. walked out without explanation. no one dared follow.

you greeted him with a teasing pout. “aww, you look tired, sugu.”

he rolled his eyes, dragged a hand down his face. “do I?” he murmured.

“yeah,” you said, soft. “a little.”

he considered lying. pretending he was fine. that he was just tired from work, from travel, from the endless cycles of doing what he believed was right. but instead, he just exhaled. let the truth out like smoke. “I just miss you.”

there was a beat of silence. a rustle as you shifted in bed. “I know,” you whispered. “you’ll be home soon. you’ll be in my arms before you know it.” you know that if you tell him you miss him, he’ll be ditching whatever cult business he needs to tend to tomorrow and driving home to you.

he closed his eyes. let the sound of your promise sink into his bones like warmth. that one sentence carried him for days. suguru geto had built a life from ruin. constructed an ideology from loss and pain and righteous fury. there was blood on his hands, and there would always be. but the knowledge that you waited for him—chose him—that you wanted him to come home, not as a leader, not as a god, but as a man—it was enough to keep going. only for so long, though. 

he’d decided he’d come home early. your precious, domestic texts and sleepy phone calls were only sustaining him for so long—small, bright glimpses into a life he was meant to be living in full. he’d stared too long at a photo of your socked feet propped up on the coffee table, your caption reading, these little guys are cold without you, and just…decided.

he wasn’t needed as badly as he was wanted. his responsibility to the cult weighed heavy, yes, but not heavier than the one he gave himself the moment he started loving you. and god, he loved you. so earnestly. so indulgently. as if he could worship the loneliness out of himself just by touching you enough, giving you everything you never asked for, offering you every corner of his heart like he owed you interest.

you told him he didn’t have to. he knew that. you never demanded a thing. never pressured. never made him feel like love was something transactional. but he had made a quiet promise to himself, sometime in the crook of a sunday morning with you pressed against him and sunlight painting your cheek—he’d love you so well, the world would forget it had ever been cruel to him.

so he came home. late. quiet. shoulder-heavy from travel, but stomach-light with the anticipation of seeing you.

he slipped into the house like a ghost—except ghosts don’t bring bags full of wrapped sweets and your favorite soy milk. ghosts don’t stop to make sure their footsteps don’t creak. ghosts don’t pause at the edge of the kitchen, heart pounding like they’re sixteen and about to kiss someone for the first time.

you were there. barefoot. bent over the stove in one of his old t-shirts, hair clipped messily, humming something tuneless as the smell of pan-fried dumplings filled the air. the domesticity nearly knocked him out. you looked like a dream he’d never dared to wish for.

and then you turned. and screamed. and launched yourself into him, clinging with all the force of a hurricane wrapped in a t-shirt and lavender body mist.

“when did you get back—how long were you standing there—why do you smell so good—wait, aren’t you supposed to be gone for another week—are you hungry—”

he just shushed you, kissed your hair, held you so close you whined, and cooed softly as if calming an overexcited cat. “missed you too,” he murmured. “so much, I couldn’t wait.” you’re flushed and breathless and glowing. and for the first time in too long, he feels…calm. like his body’s no longer stretched across two continents. like he’s whole again.

you finish cooking together, except his arms never leave you. he presses himself against your back, kissing your shoulder when you season something absentmindedly, humming when you sway a little to the music in your head. you tell him things he already knows from the phone calls, but hearing them now—woven with your laughter, punctuated by your hands brushing his as you grab plates—feels different. realer. better.

he makes you sit on his lap as you eat, feeding you little bites with his fingers, biting them himself just to feel your giggle against his jaw. “so clingy,” you murmur teasingly.

“deal with it,” he says, nuzzling into your neck.

the compliments come in waves, unfiltered. he missed your voice. your hair. the way you sit, slouched and cozy. the way you smell like rice steam and your favorite lotion. he missed your laugh, your offbeat commentary, the way you act like his t-shirts were always yours first.

you tease that he’s acting like you’ve been gone for years. but he just cups your jaw, tilts your head to kiss you slow. “felt like longer.”

you clean up together. he dries, you rinse. he hums as you put the dishes away, as if it’s some sacred duet. then, without a word, he scoops you up bridal style. you shriek. he grins, soft and sleepy. “bedtime,” he says simply, and that’s that.

in bed, he tugs the blankets high over you both, arms wrapping like he never wants to let go. your back presses to his chest. he buries his face in your neck. he doesn’t even speak. just breathes. in. and out. like your skin is the first oxygen he’s had in weeks.

and then you whisper, so mocking and sarcastic. “looks like you’ve missed the bed as much as it’s missed you.”

he doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed. he just hums, nose still pressed behind your ear. no bed is a bed without you in it. no life is a life without your warmth next to his.

you’d known gojo for years. adjacent, mostly. orbiting one another like curious planets in a system too chaotic to align—too many curses, too many tragedies, too many times your paths almost crossed. he was always a few feet away. loud and laughing, or solemn and deadly. the strongest. the best.

everyone seemed to gravitate toward him. you didn’t. not out of spite—just…you didn’t need to. and that alone made you unforgettable. you weren’t dazzled by the brilliance. you didn’t stumble when he walked into the room. you just met his gaze like he was anyone else. and god, that was all it took.

he spent months chasing you. ridiculous, grand, pathetically sincere efforts to earn your attention, your time, your affection. he hated how much he loved it. and he loved it. because for once, it wasn’t about being the strongest. you didn’t want his power. you wanted him. and now that he had you, nothing else quite compared. not even close.

of course, hard, cruel missions were just a part of his life—ugly constants that weren’t going anywhere. and he accepted that. he didn’t whine about it (too much). but what killed him now, what actually made his chest feel tight…was missing you. this was new. this ache, this yearning. he’d missed people before. friends, students, the dead. but this was different. a slow, golden kind of missing. like homesickness, but gentler. like longing, but soaked in love.

he left for a month-long mission—business, training, extermination, bullshit—with megumi and nobara in tow. the only thing that kept him sane was the note you’d slipped into his pocket. “good luck, handsome. not that you’ll need it <3” written in your loopy, familiar handwriting, laced with your perfume, folded once with intention. he kept it in the pocket of every uniform he wore. reread it constantly. swore the ink still smelled like you even after week three.

and then there were the calls. the constant calls. megumi swore he was going to throw gojo’s phone off a mountain if he heard your voice through it one more time. “eight hours,” megumi muttered once, utterly horrified. “eight hours. what do you even talk about?” gojo just smirked. “everything,” he said simply.

because it was true. you two talked about everything. and nothing. from global politics to what cereal you had that morning. you talked like it was oxygen. like if you stopped, the spell would break. and god, when you weren’t talking, you were texting. constant little updates that meant nothing to the world but meant everything to him. took a nap on your pillow. it still smells like you <3

burned my toast this morning, please come home and fix my life.

yuuji just dropped kicked a vending machine. your son is out of control.

he replied to everything. with emojis. with voice notes. with dumb selfies and long paragraphs and out-of-pocket comments that made you laugh until your stomach hurt. he’d wait five hours in a hostile zone for a curse to reappear and spend all of it reading back through your messages like they were scripture. he loved your voice. your thoughts. your jokes. your complaints about the coffee machine. your book recommendations. your grocery lists. you.

sometimes, late at night, when he was finally alone and the world had quieted, he’d just…watch you. on facetime. your camera angled toward your desk or the stovetop or your bed. sometimes you were talking, humming, scribbling notes. sometimes just brushing your hair or stretching. and he’d be still. quiet. eyes a little glassy. you were so real. so alive. and so impossibly his.

he didn’t even know what to say, half the time. which was rare, for him. he’d just murmur your name, and you’d glance at the screen and smile. and that was enough. he didn’t realize this kind of love existed before you. the soft kind. the quiet devotion. the love that doesn't demand anything except presence. and now? he can’t imagine surviving a single mission without it.

yes, he misses you. terribly. desperately. consumingly. he misses you like it’s a full-time job. like it’s a cursed technique in itself—one that gnaws at his chest and makes him sigh like a victorian widow. megumi and kugisaki are beyond sick of it. 

“did you know she was valedictorian?” “she expelled a special grade curse today, did you hear about that?” “she’s thinking about getting blonde highlights, what do you think? 'cause I think she’ll look gorgeous.”

and to make it worse, he says all of this unprompted. out of nowhere. while they’re eating. walking. fighting a curse. like he’s legally obligated to mention you every fifteen minutes or he’ll spontaneously combust. megumi glares. nobara sighs. gojo just smiles like the happiest idiot on earth. because honestly? the ache? the missing you? it’s the most beautiful pain he’s ever felt. how lucky is he, really? to love someone so good it makes his chest hurt? to have a reason to want to come home at all? he thinks about that a lot. how he used to come back from missions to empty dorms and empty beds. how his life used to feel like an endless hallway with no one at the end. now? he’s got you.

so he sends you things. takeout from your favorite place, delivered to your door like clockwork on tuesday nights. trinkets from roadside stands. little notes, scribbled on receipts and napkins and hotel stationery, folded into snail mail envelopes with poorly drawn hearts and terrible handwriting. souvenirs from tokyo, as if it’s not your backyard. “this made me think of you,” he always writes. every single time.

and when he finally comes home—god, when he finally walks through that door…you’re there. his house is dark except for the lamp you’ve left on. you’re curled up on the couch, eyes fluttering, a blanket pulled halfway over your lap, waiting for him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. and just like that, he forgets he’s tired. forgets the drive. forgets nobara and ijichi bickering in the backseat. forgets everything except you.

his chest cracks open and sunlight pours out. he practically launches himself across the room to scoop you up, spinning you in a dizzy circle before you can even stand. you’re real, he reminds himself in his head, pressing kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your forehead, your nose, like he’s checking if you’ve been replaced by a doppelgänger. you’re here. you’re mine.

you’re laughing, breathless, arms looped around his neck as he carries you like a bride to your own couch. he smells like wind and exhaustion and sweets. his hands are everywhere—tugging your hair gently, holding your face, gripping your waist like he might float away without you. and the talking—oh, the talking—it starts instantly.

you’re telling him about the neighbor’s cat and your lesson plans and the weird dream you had last night, and he’s telling you about the guy who tried to stab him and how megumi learned a new technique and how he missed you so much it made his stomach hurt. you don’t stop talking. it���s like trying to drink from a firehose of love. overwhelming and nonstop and absolutely intoxicating.

you both fall asleep in the living room that night. you, tucked into his chest. him, whispering half-conscious declarations of love into your hair.

“I missed you so much, baby. like, actual physical pain. never leave me. ever. I'll die. actually. dead. gone.”

you just hum and stroke his hair. and he clutches you tighter. because this is his whole world. and it talks to him in your voice.

it was just a three-month internship. just one summer. twelve weeks, eighty-four days. not even a full season. but, to takuma, it felt like a lifetime.

and it was a critical opportunity—one of those shiny, brag-worthy, fate-altering positions that made people blink twice when they heard the name. working at a renowned fortune 500 company. a place with glass walls and brushed steel fixtures and a breakroom espresso machine that cost more than your entire rent. takuma was lucky to even be employed there. he was luckier to be handpicked. he couldn’t say no. even though he wanted to.

a whole summer away from you was a particular kind of torture he wasn’t built to survive. and it wasn’t like he’d be lazing about in a cushy little dorm, feet up, texting you all day. he’d be working. up before the sun. in meetings. taking notes. running errands. being important™.

and you’d be busy too. school was out, which meant full-time hours at a job that drained you to the bone. you were practical like that. no-nonsense. bossy in a way that only he could make soft. you took one look at his hesitation and gave him that look. and that was it.

you made him go. told him that your relationship could never come between him and his future. told him he had goals and ambition and plans—and none of them would matter if he didn’t take himself seriously enough to chase them. he called you mean. you kissed his forehead and told him to grow up. he left the next morning with tears in his eyes and your hoodie in his carry-on.

he was a good boyfriend. no, a great boyfriend. but long distance revealed a hard truth: you were the one managing all the actual boyfriend tasks. you texted him reminders like his mother.

take your lunch break. they legally have to let you.

coffee is not breakfast. I swear to god, takuma.”

we can only talk for five minutes. go to bed.”

go to sleep. do not respond to this. I'm serious.

and he whined about it, obviously. because he was a little brat and he missed you like hell. but being bossed around by you? being cared for by you from miles away? it melted him. reduced him to mush, to goo, to something warm and stupid and in love.

he thought about you constantly. obsessively. you weren’t just on his mind—you were his mind. his default brain setting. his internal monologue. his every other sentence in conversation. his coworker was going to snap.

by week two, the poor man knew your full class schedule, your favorite brand of hair conditioner, and the name of your cat from middle school. takuma would not shut up. not during meetings. not during breaks. not even while writing quarterly summaries. his fellow intern had to physically swat his arm to stop him from zoning out mid-presentation because takuma was daydreaming about you in too tight tank tops and daisy dukes. (which, by the way, you rarely wore, but in his fantasies, they were basically the only things in your closet.)

he was losing it. and the worst part? you weren’t even out partying. you weren’t living your best hot girl summer. you were at home, being responsible. studying for a semester that hadn’t even started yet. working long shifts at a minimum wage hellhole that absolutely did not deserve you.

he thought about you when he typed emails. when he walked through security. when he accidentally dropped his pen and found your scrunchie in his pocket.

you consumed him. and it was kind of…concerning.

you didn’t even text him much. you were sentimental in theory, not in practice. but he’d set your custom ping—something soft and sparkly and obnoxious—and every time it went off, he dropped everything. his clipboard, his sandwich, his laptop (once). nothing mattered more than those three words lighting up his screen.

miss you.

ate some strawberry pocky today. reminded me of you.

you better bring me a souvenir.

simple stuff. barely even emotional. but it had him blushing. smiling at his phone. kicking his feet like a high school girl in a shoujo anime. god, he was gone. he’d sigh and press his phone to his chest like it was your face. he’d write six drafts of his reply and delete them all. he didn’t want to sound too clingy—which was hilarious, because he was. completely. desperately.

he nearly sobs at his desk. a fellow intern throws him a concerned glance from across the boardroom. the last week of the internship, he’s jittery. manic. he can’t sit still. can’t focus. his work’s still excellent, but it’s powered entirely by the promise of you.

I bought the ingredients for your favorite udon to make when you get home :) 

oh god. a fucking smiley face. you never sent those. he throws his head back and groans like he’s been shot. the guy next to him asks if he’s okay. “just in love,” he sighs dramatically. seven days. seven days until he can lie across your lap and whine about capitalism and let you pet his hair while he tells you about his boss’ entire schedule from memory. seven days until he can finally, finally, come home.

he’s texting you dumb updates the entire train ride home. like, every single thought that crosses his mind gets sent to you as a message.

just passed a field of sunflowers. thought of you.

guy next to me is eating chips. I want to fight him.

I'm wearing the cologne you like. do I smell good from here?? 😏

and you’re reading them all. like they matter. like they’re important. because they are. you’re hearting each message. sending him little thumbs up emojis, laughing silently at his nonsense, and responding with fast fingers because you’re at work and you really shouldn’t be on your phone—but you can’t not. it’s takuma. he’s coming home.

the anticipation eats at you. he’s only hours away. and still, it doesn’t feel real. three months is a long time. three months is forever. three months made you forget what it’s like to hear him laugh in person, to feel his breath against your skin.

tonight’s dinner will be fun. your friends insisted. “celebrate!” they said. “you’ve been holding it down on your own, you deserve a night!” and yeah, they’re right. but when takuma actually gets there—god. it’s too loud. too many people. music blasting. laughter ringing. someone’s yelling about a spilled drink and someone else is screaming over a beer pong table. it’s overstimulating. and he’s exhausted. and he hasn’t seen you in eighty-four days. and all he wants is to be somewhere quiet with you.

then—he sees you. standing in the yard, talking with a few friends, untouched by the chaos. the rest of the world blurs.

he sees you. tank top. daisy dukes. a glass in your hand, your other arm crossed loose under your chest. hair kissed by sun, smile subtle, barely-there gloss. you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. and he’s not thinking anymore. he’s moving. across the lawn. through the bodies and beer and sweat and laughter.

you turn, meet his eyes—and that’s it. he kisses you like he’s trying to wake up from a bad dream. like he’s afraid if he doesn’t touch you fast enough, you’ll disappear again. his hands are wrapped around you, one in your hair, the other around your waist, pulling. he holds you like oxygen. he breathes you in. he kisses you like you’re a prayer he never said out loud.

someone whistles. someone cheers. one of your friends gasps out a half-laugh, half-“oh my god.” but none of it registers. just the way your fingers curl into his shirt. just the way your breath stutters when he finally pulls away. your eyes flutter open and you’re smiling—shy, surprised, soft.

and then—he grins, dazed and breathless. leans in again and murmurs, "I love your outfit.”

and you smirk, head tilted, knowingly smug. “I thought you might.”

"let's go home, yeah?" and you nod. yeah. home.

choso and you hadn't been dating for long. the concept of romantic love was still relatively new to him—foreign, even. for most of his existence, his idea of love was synonymous with protection, with blood, with survival. this was different. now, he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was definitely, 100%, desperately, ridiculously in love with you.

but that sensation was new. often overwhelming. sometimes he’d just stop mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-thought, and look at you—brows drawn, head tilted, eyes wide—like he couldn’t quite figure out how all that affection fit inside his chest. he wasn’t built for this. not really. he didn’t know where to put all of it.

he didn’t say “I love you” often. not yet. not because he didn’t feel it—but because he was terrified that once he said it out loud, it would never stop coming out. like a dam breaking. like a wound that wouldn’t clot. to cope, he defaulted to closeness. physical presence was grounding. if he could see you, then he could breathe. you didn’t seem to mind. neither did he. you spent so much time together that megumi started calling you “the parasite couple” under his breath. choso didn’t take offense. parasites were just misunderstood.

when you left on a two-week-long mission, he stood by the door, stiff and silent, while you packed. his stomach felt strange. not painful—just...loud. like there were nerves bubbling in his bloodstream. his general thoughts were that he was worried. he trusted you, sure. he knew you were competent. but humans were fragile. you'd once bruised your knee walking into a coffee table. what if something actually dangerous tried to hurt you?

he considers asking yaga if he can go too—just stay a couple towns over, pretend it's a coincidence—but yuuji talks him down. “dude. don’t be weird about it. she’s gonna be fine. they wouldn’t have sent her if she wasn’t capable.” he knows yuuji’s right. he hates that yuuji’s right.

he hugs you for a long time before you leave. he doesn’t want to let go. not because he’s being dramatic—but because his brain keeps cataloguing the things he might miss: the sound you make when you stretch, your fingers in his hair, the way your socks never match. he helps carry your single bag to ijichi’s car and lingers near the curb while you make small talk with your reluctant chauffeur. he’s glad you're not flying. planes are unnatural. “giant metal bird coffin” is what he calls them.

before you climb into the backseat, you kiss him. it’s not a dramatic, cinematic kiss. it’s soft, familiar. your lips are a little chapped. the kind of kiss that promises i’ll come back. his heart stutters so hard in his chest that he sways slightly on his feet. you smile at him—that smile—and he wonders how anyone survives this feeling.

maybe one day, your kisses won’t give him heart palpitations…maybe. but he doubts it.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” you promise, tapping your fingers twice against his chest, just above where his heart is hammering. “and now you know how to facetime me. you can see me anytime you want.” he nods solemnly. like you’ve given him a sacred task.

he tries to be subtle. he really does. he drafts every text twice, sometimes three times, trying to land on just the right combination of calm concern and casual curiosity. he thinks he’s being clever. he is not being clever or subtle in the slightest. he leaves you voice notes, asking questions, rambling.

what time did you go to sleep last night? don’t talk to strangers. did you bring your charger? what’s the exact longitude and latitude of your hotel? do you have enough socks? just double checking—when do you come back again? did you eat? you should eat. I'm not saying you didn’t eat I'm just—just checking. ignore me if you already ate. actually don’t ignore me. respond when you can. no pressure

“you don’t have to text her every five seconds,” yuuji says, halfway through a cup of instant noodles. he doesn’t even look up when he says it. “you’re gonna give her stress wrinkles.”

“she doesn’t get stress wrinkles,” choso says flatly, still staring at his phone. “her skin’s too perfect.”

“okay, see, that’s exactly what I mean.” yuuji finally looks up, waving his chopsticks for emphasis. “you’re spiraling.”

“I'm not spiraling,” choso says, with all the conviction of a man who is absolutely spiraling.

“you sent her fourteen messages in three minutes, dude.”

“she could be in danger.”

“she said she was taking a shower.”

“.......showers are slippery.”

by day three, the nerves have fully colonized his chest. he’s not just lovesick. he’s worried. anxious in the way only someone who's lived through the worst can be. you’re strong. he knows that. he believes that. but strength doesn’t mean invincible. it doesn’t mean untouchable. and you’re so selfless, so catastrophically kind. the kind of kind that gets people killed.

choso’s seen too many strong people fall because they were too busy protecting someone else. what if it happens to you? what if you’re too busy shielding a civilian to dodge a hit meant for someone else? he tries to explain this to you on facetime. several times, actually. but he always gets distracted.

because you answer the call, freshly showered, hair damp and curling, hoodie swallowing your shoulders, and look up at him with those wide, unassuming eyes like he’s not a man currently being held together by string and blood manipulation.

you talk about your day. every detail, every dumb anecdote. the mission report you had to rewrite because gojo kept adding dramatic sound effects. the vending machine that ate your change. a black cat you passed on the way back to the inn. you talk, and choso listens. listens like it’s scripture. wide-eyed, silent, lips parted slightly like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your voice. nodding slowly, rhythmically, like a metronome. “uh huh.” “yeah.” “that sounds…like him.” “uh huh.”

he’s so mesmerized that you swear, one night, you see a tiny sliver of drool start to escape the corner of his mouth. “choso,” you giggle, leaning closer to your screen. “you’re staring.”

he blinks. slow. like he’s waking up. “I'm always staring,” he admits quietly. “you’re the only thing I want to look at.”

you short-circuit a little. he doesn’t even realize what he’s said. he insists you fall asleep first every night, even though you’re exhausted and he’s clearly worse off. “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re okay,” he murmurs. and he does. at least for a few hours. you’re always gone by the time he wakes up—already off to scout a cursed site or drag gojo out of a sugar-induced stupor. and the anxiety…it creeps back in. like tidewater. slow but sure.

still, your texts help. short. direct. enough to tell him you’re alive and functional.

leaving to go scout out a site with excessive cursed energy. I promise I'm being careful. I’ll text again in a couple hours. gojo is the most annoying person on the entire planet, remind me of that next time I accept a mission with him.

he rereads every message five times. he takes screenshots. it’s pathetic. he knows that. but the truth is: he would give anything—anything—just to hold your hand for five minutes. to feel your pulse, warm and steady beneath his fingers, and know that you’re safe.

he didn’t realize love could feel like this. it’s always been, up until this point, soft. kind. beautiful. overwhelming in a lovely, poetic way. like the sun coming out for the first time and stretching warm fingers across his skin, melting all the snow left behind from years of cold. you made him feel safe. known. like maybe he wasn’t just a collection of trauma and blood anymore—but something real. something deserving.

but this? this kind of love? it hurts. it aches in places he didn’t know could hurt. a deep, bone-weary throb that settles in his chest and pulses every time he thinks about you being somewhere he’s not. every time he imagines you standing alone in a cursed place, facing something dangerous. every time he glances at the empty space beside him and remembers it’s going to be empty for another seven days.

he didn’t know missing someone could feel like this. he didn’t know it could feel like grief. it eats away at him that he can’t be with you. not even to interfere—just to be there. in case. what if you need something? what if you drop your water bottle and no one picks it up for you? what if your shoelace comes untied and you’re too busy to notice? what if your hair gets caught in your jacket zipper and it takes you ten full minutes to get it out and you end up frustrated and alone and—who will help you, if not him? he should be there. he should always be there.

his hands flex at his sides. his body hums with this low-level urgency he can’t shake. fight or flight. protect or perish. the same instinct that kept his brothers safe for years is now turned toward you—and he doesn’t know how to channel it when you’re not near him.

and he’s not sure what to do with that. not sure what kind of man he becomes when he doesn’t have a purpose. when his job is to wait. he hates the silence in his room. it’s the worst kind of loneliness. knowing you were here and now you’re not. but you always seem to catch him mid-spiral, facetiming him exactly when he decides it’s been too long since he’s seen your face and heard your voice. 

because for you, yeah, being apart was hard. you missed him—his quiet presence, his constant check-ins, his overbearing love masquerading as casual concern. it wasn’t easy. but you functioned. you coped. you did your job and stayed in touch and kept your head on straight. choso…did not. he was a mess. restless. worried. half-feral. the ghost of your warm body in his bed haunted him like a curse. now that you’re back, he’s not wasting a single second pretending he’s fine.

you get home late. everything is quiet. the streetlights are humming and the world feels soft at the edges, like it's been waiting for you to come back. you're not expecting anyone. you thought you told him not to wait up.

but there he is—choso, standing near the steps with his hood up, hands in his pockets like he’s trying to keep them from shaking. he looks like he hasn’t slept in years. like he’s rooted in place by some force bigger than him. his eyes catch yours in the dark, and something in his shoulders loosens.

you barely get a word out before he’s crossing the distance and crushing you into a suffocating hug. you’re mumbling something about needing to unpack or go turn in mission reports to yaga’s office. he mumbles, arms locked tight around your shoulders, “not important. I've got you now.”

you laugh into his hoodie. “hello to you too.” he hums. it might be a greeting. it might be relief. you’re not sure. you didn’t realize how much you missed him until you felt the way your body settled into his. your bones remember him. your heart remembers him.

“we should take more missions together,” he adds a moment later, voice still low and flat like he’s making a tactical recommendation.

you grin, tired and stretching like a warm, lazy cat in the cold. “okay. that would be fun.”

he doesn’t say anything to that, but his arms tighten around you. just for a second. you don’t know how much he needed to hear that. he missed you so much he thought it would kill him. not in the poetic sense. in the actual, physical, hurting sense. two weeks felt like a lifetime. it felt wrong. unnatural. like something vital had been ripped out of his life and taken on a mission without him. you always said you were fine alone. but he wasn’t.

he scoops you up. not because he wants to be cute about it. because his body demands it. because now that he has you again, he's not risking even the smallest chance of you slipping away. the steps to his dorm are a blur. the hallway barely registers. all he knows is the way your weight feels in his arms, familiar and right, like you were made to rest there.

he doesn't even let you unpack. he doesn’t ask. just lays you down in his bed like he’s tucking away a treasure. joins you seconds later, pulling you in with the neediness of someone who's been cold for weeks and has just found the sun again. you sleep, finally. and he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

by morning, his arms are deadlocked around your waist. his face is pressed into the back of your neck, breath steady, but there's a tension in him that never quite fades. like even in sleep, he’s preparing for the moment someone tries to take you away again.

you shift. once, twice. no give. you’re held fast. but it doesn’t feel suffocating. it feels nice, familiar. you press your hand over his, tangled at your stomach. his fingers twitch, tighten, tangle further. choso, even now, asleep and still, is reminding you: you’re home. 

nanami married you for a reason. and it’s not because he was feeling impulsive. he doesn’t do impulsive. no—he married you because he never wants to be apart from you. ever. even back when you were dating, before the shared toothbrush holder, before the joint tax returns, before you casually wore his surname like it had always belonged to you—he hated leaving. you didn’t live together yet, but every second spent away from you was filled with torment. not the dramatic kind—just the kind that gnawed slowly and methodically.

what if you got off work bone-tired and skipped dinner? who would cook for you? who would put a heating pad on your back and massage your feet and let you drool on his chest during a 90-minute documentary about the politics of Japan’s train system? what if your car broke down and it was raining and you didn’t have your umbrella and your phone was dead and your heels were too high? what if there was a sorcerer’s gala while he was away—who would hang off your arm, look stupid in a suit for you, worship the ground you walked on like a trained husband-shaped puppy? what if you opened a jar and the lid was too tight and you strained your wrist trying to twist it off? who would open it for you? who would kiss your wrist better and say, “you loosened it for me” just to make you feel strong? what if your neck hurt because you slept wrong and nobody was there to adjust your pillow, rub your shoulders, and scold you for not sleeping ergonomically? what if you had a nightmare and woke up reaching for him, but he wasn’t there? who would tuck you back in and whisper that you’re safe? who would pull you into his chest and fall asleep breathing in the scent of your shampoo? what if your zipper got stuck on your favorite jacket and you were late for something and already frustrated and flustered? who would help you without laughing, without teasing, without judgment—just gently fix it and kiss your forehead and say “you look beautiful”? what if you finally got around to assembling that bookshelf and it collapsed halfway through? who would wordlessly take over, follow the manual to the letter, and build it better than ikea ever dreamed?

he hates what-ifs. they make him feel helpless. because what if you needed him, and he wasn’t there? it simply eats him alive. so now that he has you, now that it’s legal and spiritually binding and signed on paper, he’s simply decided that leaving you is no longer an option. a trip away from his wife is inhumane.

he once went on a long mission right after you two got engaged and swore he aged five years in those short weeks. he didn’t sleep a full night. didn’t enjoy a single bite of food. got irrationally angry at a hotel pen. so, no—travel is out of the question.

which is why you’re currently shoving him out the door, a pressed shirt and briefcase in hand. “it’s gojo’s bachelor party,” you say. “it’s five days long,” he says, like the words physically wound him. “you have to go,” you insist, ignoring the withering look he gives you. “I don’t have to do anything,” he counters. “you’re his best friend.” the glare he gives is withering. “and, his only friend that isn’t 16 years old.” he scoffs. “I’m his coworker. and besides, he’s friends with shoko.” “oh please. ieiri would never admit to being his friend. she hates him more than you do.” so he goes. begrudgingly. and when the plane lands, he’s already got your contact pulled up. texts you: Landed safely. Will call you after I’ve unpacked. Love you. punctuation and all. capitalized. formal. very him. you read it at work and clutch your phone to your chest like a teenager.

he facetimes you as he unzips his suitcase—facetimes, even though he hates it, says it’s awkward. “you don’t even look at the camera, you look at yourself,” he once grumbled. but you pick up before the first ring finishes. “KENTO!” you squeal. “I didn't think you’d facetime!” he smiles, soft and slow. “I wanted to see your face,” he says, like it’s just a fact.

you coo. he blushes. you tell him you miss him. he immediately replies, “don’t tempt me. I have a browser tab open for a return flight in three hours.” you laugh. “you just got there. go have fun, kento.”

he sighs and props you up on the hotel room desk like it’s a Zoom call with a board of executives. “I’m not fun,” he mumbles. shocking. you tease him until he cracks a smile. you tell him you love him. you do the thing where you blow him kisses through the phone and he pretends to be embarrassed, but he loves it. gojo has to knock on his door for five straight minutes before nanami finally hangs up and leaves for the night’s events.

you get a text a few hours later. Goodnight, my love. the timestamp is ridiculously late.

you text back: good lord, how late did gojo make you stay out?

nanami: Why are you still awake? you: you’re texting me at 2am and i’m the one getting scolded for being awake?

he spends ten seconds too long responding, so you call. “if you thought I was asleep, why’d you text?” you tease. he sighs. “I was hoping you wouldn’t reply until morning.” “you know I can't ignore you,” you tease, but he looks so serious. he goes silent. just breathes into the phone. “sleep well, darling,” he says. “you too,” you reply, knowing he won’t, not without you there. 

the days blur together. calls in the morning while you’re brushing your teeth. calls at lunch while you eat in your car. calls when you’re off work and he’s getting ready for that night’s activity. you complain about having to ride the train home. “I hate that,” he mutters. “I hate that I'm not there to drive you.” “then come home,” you say sweetly, fluttering your lashes and smiling. “oh, don’t tease me. I’d do anything to be home with you. gojo signed us up to minigolf this evening.” the look he gives you says he’d rather driving a knife into his stomach. 

you jokingly suggest he take gojo to a strip club. he looks physically ill. “why on earth would you—?” “it’s a joke, kento.” “it’s not funny.” “you’re right,” you laugh. “you’d cry if a woman touched you that wasn’t me.” he doesn’t deny it.

he’s silent for a second, then says: “it wouldn’t be right.” you laugh; nanami kento, the eternal gentleman. 

he texts you on his final night, and he’s clearly drunk. not in a stumbling, slurring, karaoke-on-the-table way—nanami would rather set himself on fire—but in a way only you would notice. his texts lack punctuation. no capitalization. no perfect syntax. just: back at the hotel. alive. gojo is an idiot. and when he calls as he’s unlocking his hotel room, it confirms everything. there’s a muffled thud. a pause. and then, low under his breath, as he walks face-first into the bathroom doorframe: “fuck.”

you gasp like he just punched a nun. “kento kiyomasa nanami—did you just cuss?” “…it slipped.” “you never cuss.” “I do occasionally.” “kento. I’ve known you for three years. you’ve cussed maybe five times, and this is your first ‘fuck.’” he groans dramatically, and the sound is just shy of a whimper. when he finally tilts the phone to his face, he looks…wrecked in the softest way. tie gone. white shirt rumpled and unbuttoned halfway down his chest. slacks nowhere to be seen. hair tousled like he’s been pacing and running his hands through it nonstop. eyes sleepy, flushed, and glassy. he’s laying on his stomach like a teenager at a sleepover.

meanwhile, you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, backlit by your nightstand lamp. damp hair clinging to your shoulders, your skin glowing from moisturizer, oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder. and you’re giving him that look. that sleepy, “i love you so much it’s criminal” look.

he stares. you smile. minutes pass. finally, you tilt your head and laugh gently. “kento, what did you even call for? you’ve barely said anything.” he sighs like he’s just been caught mid-crime. “…I just needed to see your face.” “well, you’ve seen it. time for bed.” “no.” he shifts, gripping his phone like it’s a life preserver. “don’t go.” “okay…why not?” “I need to keep seeing your face.” you snort. “I'll stay on until you fall asleep, sweetie. but just think—if you sleep now, tomorrow will come faster, and you’ll get to see me in person.”

“...I could just stare at you all night and see you tomorrow.” “go to sleep, nanami.” “eugh, don’t call me nanami. it’s kento. or—sweetie. I liked that.” he doesn’t have the clarity to be embarrassed by that admission. you barely say anything, but your smile says it all. it floors him. nicknames weren’t your thing. you once told him calling someone “babe” felt like being cast in a cw show against your will. but he lives for these rare little indulgences, like a victorian man being handed an ankle.

he’s out in minutes. drunk sleep swallows him whole. and when he wakes the next morning—groggy, puffy-eyed, collared shirt all wrinkled and buttoned wrong—the call’s still on. your phone is face-down on your bed, but he hears you breathing steadily. you never hung up. neither did he. he doesn’t have the heart to end it.

you wake up not long after, hair wild, muttering about needing caffeine and how you’re out of creamer and if this is how society collapses. he listens, entranced, while brushing his teeth. packs while you throw on an outfit and kiss the phone goodbye. you don’t mention his drunken rambling. don’t tease him (yet). you just talk like normal, and he’s so grateful he could die.

when he lands—when he walks through the gate and sees you there, bouncing on your heels in the middle of terminal 9, grinning like the sun—you run to him. you launch yourself into his arms, koala-style, and he catches you with a grunt. you pepper kisses all over his face, ignoring the small crowd around you. you’re cooing, giggling, sing-songy voice saying, “you’re home, you’re home, you’re home,” like it’s magic.

once upon a time, there was a version of nanami who would’ve been mortified. who would’ve rolled his eyes and muttered about professionalism and “appropriate conduct.” that man is dead. this nanami holds you tighter than what’s probably allowed by airport safety regulations. he’s not letting go. not again. you finally pull back, brushing a hand over his jaw, cheeks flushed. “so…” you grin, wiggling an eyebrow. “feeling sober? or do I need to drive? might give you some more time to stare at my face.” he groans. but as you laugh—arms still locked around his neck, your perfume faint and warm and unmistakably you—he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder and breathes you in like it’ll fix every crack in him. and it does. it does.

after a week of blaring music, bad cologne, and gojo’s incessant, brain-melting antics, this—you—feel like quiet. like calm. like coming home in the most literal, soul-deep way.

I'm never leaving my wife again, he thinks, and it's not a casual thought. it's a vow. a personal mandate. a declaration of absolute truth. the world without you was gray, predictable, and painfully dull. but now—now you’re here and smiling, and suddenly everything is color again. texture. sensation. a rush of heartbeat and heat and softness that could crack a lesser man clean in two. he kisses your temple like it’s a lifeline and exhales, long and low, into your hair. god, he loves you. so much it might actually kill him.

“let’s go home,” he murmurs. “I’m never doing this again.”

you pull back, suspiciously pleased. “a bachelor party?” “no. leaving you.” you blink, pretending to swoon dramatically. “oh, wow. should I faint?” “you should be impressed,” he says flatly, “at how long I was able to stay away.” “I am,” you beam, cupping his cheek. “I love you, sweetie.” it’s a joke, but his soft smile is so painfully serious. 

“I can't believe fushiguro is letting you spend the whole summer with him,” you tell yuuji, voice tinny through the speaker but smiling all the same.

“I know! it’s probably gojo-sensei’s doing, but I’m gonna pretend it’s just ‘cause he’d miss me way too much to go the whole summer without me.”

yuuji grins so wide it nearly splits his face, angling the phone so you can see the infamous fushiguro in the seat beside him. the look megumi gives you both is deadpan—dry enough to wrinkle a desert. you almost feel bad for him. almost. but you know better. megumi loves your boyfriend almost as much as you do. which is saying something, because loving yuuji feels like breathing: unconscious, necessary, natural.

they're on the train heading toward gojo’s not-so-humble mansion—bachelor pad energy, unlimited snacks, a pool, no rules, god help megumi. you spent last summer together, you and yuuji. he’d visited your hometown, chased your nieces around the backyard, helped you carry groceries down warm, cracked sidewalks. he got sunburned and bought popsicles from your corner store and slept with his head in your lap while you rewatched your childhood favorite movies.

this year, it’s megumi’s turn to have him. and honestly? it sucks. you miss him. constantly. in the big, heavy ways and the small, sweet ones. but there’s something beautiful in this version of love too—in the kind that stretches across space without fraying. you send each other everything. pictures. stories. little moments from your day. he shows you a blurry photo of a sunset over the pool. you show him a neighborhood cat you’ve decided to name after him. he sends you a selfie soaked to the bone because gojo threw him in fully clothed. you send a picture of your niece covered head to toe in pink sharpie (her little sister’s doing).

it’s like you never left each other. but you did. and when the day winds down and the calls get softer, more tired, more sincere—when megumi’s asleep on the other side of the room and yuuji’s voice drops to a whisper—he admits it. “I just can’t wait to see you again.”

and it hurts. because you’ve both been pretending not to miss each other too much, but the ache is real. quiet. familiar. you miss his laugh in the room. you miss his warmth. his over-the-top affection and the way he always holds your pinky first when you reach for his hand. and yuuji—he’s doing fine, technically. gojo is chaos incarnate. megumi’s company keeps him sharp. but his heart? his heart is still at home with you. every night, every call, every time he folds his pillow in half to mimic the way you used to curl up next to him.

you send him a letter the first week. it's handwritten. covered in doodles of your faces, your inside jokes, your hearts and stars and half-scribbled lines that turn into love notes without meaning to. he opens it in front of megumi and immediately starts crying.

“you two are disgusting,” megumi mutters, smacking him upside the head.

“oh, shut up! I know you miss your girlfriend too, fushiguro. at least mine sends me cute things.” yuuji hugs the letter to his chest like it might run away if he lets go.

megumi smacks him again, harder. “yeah, well, my girlfriend’s not a sappy baby.” lies, they miss each other terribly, they’re just too proud to admit it. they bicker for twenty minutes, but yuuji tucks your letter under his pillow that night. sends one back the next day. it becomes a tradition. a sacred exchange of stickers and pages and half-dried tears all summer long. he saves every one of your notes. brings them back to school in september like precious cargo.

mid-july, you send him a photo of you wearing his favorite red hoodie. he calls immediately. “you are in so much trouble right now,” he says, dramatic, clutching his metaphorical pearls. “i’ve been looking for that hoodie all summer!”

“it’s summer,” you say sweetly. “you don’t need a hoodie, sweaty guy.” ironic considering you’ve been wearing it all season. 

“you think I'm sweaty?” he pouts, wide-eyed, like this is the most offensive thing you could’ve said.

you laugh—head thrown back, sound full of warmth and life and you—and it breaks him a little. in the best way.

he gets quiet. his eyes soften. he blinks hard like he’s trying to press back tears, but they still shine.

“aw, baby…I miss you.” and he means it. he means it. loving yuuji is the easiest thing in the world. and missing him might just be the hardest. but you’ll both make it. love like this? it doesn't disappear with distance. it travels. it endures. it always finds its way back home.

the last week of summer, yuuji is buzzing. like, atomic levels of energy. chaos barely contained by skin and bone. his mood is so hyper, it’s starting to annoy even gojo—and that’s saying something.

“you’re acting like it’s been ten years,” megumi mutters on the train, as yuuji bounces his leg like a caffeinated kangaroo.

yuuji groans and dramatically slumps in his seat. “it feels like it’s been ten years.”

megumi rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out. “you facetimed her literally seven hours ago.”

but yuuji is immune to logic. he’s a man possessed. you’re waiting for him. you’re probably already in his hoodie like the absolute menace you are, and he’s going to get to hold you again, finally, finally, finally. he practically explodes off the train the second the doors slide open, and megumi has to jog just to keep him in sight. yuuji tears across the campus like he’s running a marathon with a girlfriend at the finish line. because he is.

except. you’re not there. he skids to a stop outside your dorm. knocks. waits. nothing. he calls your name through the door just in case. checks the time, double-checks his texts—you were supposed to arrive yesterday. you’d even texted him earlier today about how your dorm felt a little cold without him in it.

confused and weirdly heartbroken, he drags his duffel to his dorm instead, figuring maybe you’re off getting groceries or finding your ra or something. he’s mid-sigh, phone halfway to his ear, when he pushes open the door.

and there you are. sitting on his bed like you’ve always belonged there. music playing low on his speaker. legs curled up beneath you. reading a book you’ve probably read ten times. wearing his red hoodie like the little criminal you are.

you look up. blink once. and then—“yuuji!!”

you scream it like your life depends on it. you launch yourself at him with all the force your body can manage. he catches you like he knew you’d do that, like he’s done it a thousand times, and you kiss him all over—cheeks, forehead, lips, chin, nose—endlessly.

he’s laughing so hard his abs start to hurt, tears springing to his eyes, because you’re real and you’re here and you’re warm and soft and solid in his arms and the hoodie’s all stretched out from where you’ve clearly worn it all summer and god, he never wants to let you go again.

he buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to breathe you in. you smell like home. he could cry. he might cry. megumi walks in just in time to witness it and looks seconds away from walking right back out. you turn, grinning wickedly. he flinches a little when you launch a hug at him too, but lets it happen. “I missed you, too, megumi,” you say, so bright it’s hard to tell if you’re teasing. “even if you completely ignored all the adorable letters and I sent you, you emotionally repressed little cryptid.”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I kind of missed you too.”

yuuji practically melts at the scene. and then—you turn back to him. hands cupping his face. studying him like a miracle. “you look so tan,” you murmur. “and…did you get taller?” you always know just what to say to absolutely fluster him. 

your voice is so genuine it short-circuits his brain. he opens his mouth to respond and instead lets out something halfway between a wheeze and a squeak. you laugh again. the same laugh he’s been playing back in his head every night like a bedtime song. he kisses your forehead. he kisses your cheeks. he kisses your nose.later—once you’re both settled, once megumi has fled the scene like a man escaping a rom-com horror film, pretending he’s not off to go find his girl—yuuji turns serious for a second. his arms are wrapped around you, and he says it with all the honesty his full, stupid heart can muster: “I’ll have to tell megumi I’m sorry because I’m never doing another summer without you.” and you believe him. because when yuuji loves, he loves out loud. bold and bright and boyishly devoted. and you, wrapped in that love, never feel anything less than completely adored.

list of men who simply do not allow you to leave their presence:

sukuna ryomen

sukuna ryomen

sukuna ryomen

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All In 18

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power imbalance, low self esteem, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you meet a mysterious man on a night out with your sister. (petite!reader)

based on the winning option for this poll

Characters: casino owner!Bucky Barnes

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Bucky's reluctance to let you go contrasts your eagerness for the same thing. A twinge of guilt plucks in you as you walk away from the car. You should be grateful after everything he's done. The hair, makeup, dresses, books, everything. It was a good night and he's so attentive, but at the same time, his intensity makes you nervous. More than usual.

Your mom's at work. You depend on that to help hide your deceit. As you close the front door behind you, reality sinks in. You're lying to her. After everything, you're going behind her back. You can comfort yourself that the money will help out but it still feels wrong.

You should have a real job, not whatever this hole is you've dug. You can still try; still send out resumes, fill out redundant apps, but what would make it any different than before? Bucky is both your saviour and your defeat. That's all you can get. He's a good guy; rich and handsome but the situation is less than ideal.

You're thinking too much. You drag your feet to your room and shut yourself in. It's an instant relief to be alone. To be back in the place you always went to hide. You miss the quiet nights. It's not even been more than one night away yet it feels longer.

You stretch out and yawn. You're exhausted. What little sleep you got wasn't restful. You stay sprawled on your bed for a while before you peel away.

You get up and change into a pair of pajama pants and a cotton shirt. You grab a book and take it back to the bed. You lean your pillows against the corner of the wall and nestle in. As much of a whirlwind your life has become, you still prefer fiction.

Your anxiety spikes as you hear the front door. Your mom calls out. You wonder if she checked for you that morning. You mull the lies Bucky suggested...

"Honey bun?" She calls out.

You snap your book shut without marking the page. You hope up and hurry to the door. You crack it open and peek out.

"Mom?" You eke out.

"Oh, there you are! I feel like it's been ages. You're a busy bunny."

"Mhmm. Sorry. I should've... mentioned. It's a pretty full schedule."

"I know. So long as you're taking care of yourself. Aren't you?" She cheeps.

"Oh, yeah, of course." You answer as you clasp your hands behind you. "How's work for you?"

"It's work," she shrugs. "Happy to be home. You going in tonight?"

She heads for the kitchen and you follow. "Um, yes. I... I have another shift--"

"Shhhhhhhh," the long hush greets your entrance as you come into the kitchen. Roxy sips from a fresh cup of coffee.

"And hello to you too, hon," your mom rebuffs. "Late night?"

"Mmm, very," Roxy answers hoarsely, "probably later tonight."

"Ah, my girls," your mom puts her purse on the counter. "Such hard workers. So grown up."

Her preening makes you shrink down and your sister rolls her eyes. She taps on her phone with her thumb. "Yeah, well, you know, I might get a better gig soon. Somewhere bigger. Better pay."

"Amazing," your mom beams as she searches the fridge.

"Since." Roxy punctuates the single word as she jabs her finger in the air. "My loving sister won't put in a good word for me at the casino. But whatever. Wyla says she knows some people."

"That's wonderful. Just be safe. Both of you," she takes the chicken breast out of the fridge. "Hungry?"

"Um, I'll cook, mom. You just got in."

"I don't mind," she waves you off. "Really. Seems like I won't get to take care of you two much longer. Oh, dread the day."

You scrunch your lips up. You watch her for a moment then look down. You never lie to her. You tell her everything, not that you've ever had much to tell. You hate this.

"I'll help at least," you insist.

"Alright," she relents. "Rox, you feel like pitching in?"

"Pfft, no thanks. I gotta get ready. I'll eat later." Your sister takes her cup and struts away, eyes glued to her phone. Your mother ho hums.

"I wonder where she gets that from. Never taught her to be a brat," she tuts. You peek up and she smiles in your direction. "Ah, but I got you, don't I?"

You try to smile. Your cheeks pinch painfully. You clear your throat. "Yeah. Um... what're we doing with the chicken?"

You just want to focus on the simple task. Not on the lies. You want to pretend everything's normal. If you're good at anything, it's avoidance.

🃏

It's turning into a routine. Your mom drops you off at the casino. You walk up to the hotel and check-in, just like Bucky directed. He's been texting. A lot. You're anxious.

You get to the suite. There's an outfit waiting. A two-piece top and skirt. Shiny rose gold and figure hugging. To go with it, there are heels in a similar shade and a necklace with a single diamond.

The knock at the door isn't a surprise but still makes you jump. Bucky enters as you struggle to find your voice. He stops and his eyes skim up and down your body. He whistles and crosses the room. He reaches for you as he approaches.

"Well, doll, you are goddamn stunning," he frames your hips. "Mm mm mm. Beautiful and..." he brushes his hands up your sides and draws you closer. "All mine."

He leans down and you tilt your head. Your lips meet but you're unprepared for his ferocity. He pushes past your sealed lips and gags you with his tongue. One hand slips down to your ass as his other cradles your head. He rocks you as he presses his pelvis against you and growls.

When at last he lets you breathe, you're dizzy. You blink up at him and he smirks. "Sorry, can't help myself."

"It's... fine. I... I'll put on more gloss."

You turn and grab the tube of lip gloss. You bend to look in the fantasy as you unscrew the top. You slide out the wand and he steps up behind you. He bends over you, planting his hands on the table. You smear the sparkly shine across your lips. He watches over your shoulder and snarls. He once more rocks his pelvis into you.

"What about this? Huh? Our first time? You could watch the whole thing?" He bows and kisses your shoulder, rubbing his crotch against your ass. "I could still see your face..."

"Bucky," you squeak as you twist the gloss tube. "Um... you said you wanted to go play games, right?"

"We can but I really wanna play with you, kitten." He nuzzles your hair. "You just look so damn good right now."

"Thank you, uh..." you look at him in the mirror as he rests his chin on your head. With his arms penning you in, you feel trapped. "You look good too."

"I do?" He wonders with a coy tweak of his brow.

You nod. His dark hair is tucked behind his ears, his beard is thick but tidy, and he wears a sapphire jacket that makes his eyes even bolder. You can't help but smile. He really is a good looking man.

"Yes," you answer and gently touch his thick fingers. "Can't put in all this effort just to stay in."

"Ah, baby, damn, I know you're right but I wish you weren't," he growls and stands up. "Gotta show you off, huh?"

You grab his hand. "Uh huh." You never look forward to facing the public but the alternative scares you more. "Maybe this time, we'll win."

"Oh, I already have, baby," he raises your hand and kisses your knuckle. "I already got the best girl in the room."

🃏

Bucky's hand rests on your lower back. It's no different than the night before. He stops to speak with those who recognise him. He keeps you close as he does.

He stops at the bar and puts a drink in your hand. Cranberry with a twist of lemon. He gets his usual dark liquor.

You go to a table with a wheel. He sets your drink on the trim and helps you onto the tall stool. He squeezes your hip as if to make sure you're steady.

"Roulette," Bucky explains. "Mostly luck. Can't really be good or bad."

He beckons over your shoulder. An employee in all black appears with a tray of chips. Bucky accepts them and sets them on the table. "Benny," he says to the dealer. "This is my lady. She's going to make some bets. Give her a good spin."

"Yes, boss," the dealer responds and watches you patiently.

"Pick a number, doll," Bucky gestures to the table.

You look at the odd chart of numbers and all the different colours. You tap your fingers as others place their chips down on the squares. "Twenty-seven?"

He nods and puts a stack on. You wiggle your foot nervously. You don't want him to lose too much money.

"Alright, last bets." Benny calls out.

He spins the wheel as a ball bounces around it. Bucky runs his fingers up and down your back, sending chills all across you. His touch is so smothering, he just never stops. You squirm and glance around. You feel like everyone else is staring but you're too afraid to look at their faces.

"Twenty-seven." Benny declares. You flinch and sit up. Others groan, some sigh, and the chips are pushed toward you.

"Really?" You utter.

"Congratulations."

"Oh?" You stare at the pile.

Bucky tidies the stacks with one hand. You cup your chin and look at him. "Why don't you choose this one?"

"I spent all my luck on you, baby," he purrs.

You giggle. Sometimes the things he says make your insides all wiggly. And the way his voice sounds...

"Try your drink." He says.

"Oh, thanks." You grab your glass and take a bigger gulp than you mean to. The tart cranberry is laced with stringent vodka.

"Number?" He asks you.

"Mmmmm three?"

He puts a bet down again. The wheel spins. No luck this time; five. You shrug and take another drink.

You empty your glass quickly. Too quickly. Bucky picks up the tray of chips and signals again. He hands it to the same employee. He offers his hand.

"You need another drink."

"I can wait," you say.

"I do too," he intones.

He walks you back to the bar. As you turn and reach back to brace the seat of the high stool, he grabs your hips and lifts you onto it. You make a face and he chuckles.

"You're adorable," he praises and squeezes your hips. "Absolutely irresistible."

He turns, an elbow on the bar trim, his other hand fluttering to your thigh. He rests it there as the bartender approaches. "My regular and...doll?" He looks at you. "You want the same thing or..."

"Sure. Uhh, cranberry."

"Cranberry martini," Bucky corrects you. "Thank you, sir."

Bucky rubs up and down your leg as he steps closer. Each time he trails up, he gets a little closer to your panties. You shift and push your thighs together.

"You icing me out?" He wonders as he leans his cheek in his hand and stares at you.

"I just... I don't like... people seeing," you peek around.

"Ah, I know. You wanna keep it private. You want it special." He tickles above your knee. "I get it. I'm sorry, doll. I can't help myself. Not with you." He keeps his elbow on the bar and lifts his head. "You know, I've been thinking about this morning. About the shower..."

"Oh, uh, yeah," you touch your neck as it burns. "Well, that was just... that was new."

"You liked it though."

"Mmhmm," you hum and smile. "Yeah, it's fun..."

The bartender returns. Bucky pulls his arm off the bar and slides your drink toward you. You thank him and take it. You peer into the dark red cocktail and make yourself drink. You don't want it to go to waste.

"We'll have some more tonight," he grips his glass and hovers it in front of him. "Can I kiss it again?"

You nearly choke as you go to take a sip. Your eyes round at him. His cheek dimples.

"You can pull my hair while I do."

You swallow tightly as the drink in your hand trembles. Your lips twitch. You can't speak.

"You can sit on me. Right on my face." He slithers as he pets your knee. 

"Please, um, later. Erm," you trace along your neck nervously.

"What do you want me to do, doll?" He gets closer and brings his hand up to the nape of your neck. He looms over you. "You wanna touch me like you did this morning? Maybe you could use your mouth too?"

The glass nearly tips out of your grasp. You catch it and place it on the bar. You giggle nervously. Your ears are on fire.

"Well, er, sure," you murmur. "I--"

Your name booms out from behind you. Your brows rise even higher. You frown and Bucky's eyes raise pointedly. His jaw sets.

"Yo, it's me. You know? Your sister!" Roxy stomps up beside you. "Woah. Some job you got." She reaches to tug on your shirt. Bucky flicks her away. "They got a nice uniform for you and everything." She snorts and glares between you and Bucky. "This your boss?" She snickers. "Oh, sweetie, if this is the work you're doing, I coulda hooked you up."

You bat your lashes as your eyes wet, "no, Roxy, please... don't tell mom."

"Don't tell? Oh, I mean, I wouldn't if you'd told me but now... hm. You always were the good one." She taunts. "I can't believe you'd like to mommy."

"Roxy--" You slide off the stool and nearly fall. Bucky catches your arm.

"Too late." She sneers. "Go on and fuck your sugar daddy. I'll find my own." She glances at Bucky, razing him up and down with her eyes, then spins away. "Ha! Should've fucking known."

"Rox," you reach for her and Bucky pulls you back. You whine and put your fist to your lips.

"It's okay, doll."

"No, I..." you squeeze your hand tighter as you lower it to your chest. "No, I shouldn't have ever done this. I... lied--"

"You are an adult," he says. "You do whatever you want. Your sister gets no say." He grabs our shoulders and bends to look you in the face. "Don't let her ruin our night."

But-- but---"

"That's a problem for tomorrow, right, baby?" He brings his hands up to cradle your face. "Right now, you're with me. Come on, let's finish our drinks. It'll help."

"I don't... I don't know."

"Sit," his thumb brushes across your cheekbone. "I told you, didn't I? I'll take care of you. You don't worry about nothing."

[amatariki]

amatariki presents...

MISS AMERICANA & THE HEARTBREAK PRINCE 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ teaser

(𝓐UTREMENT) — the perfect girl of the school isn’t really perfect at all. and the playboy of the school doesn’t believe in love bcs he’s broken. two broken people, perfect for each other, right? maybe. but that's not to say it'll be easy if they do. there's a long way to go before they both find their happy ever after. that is if they have a happy ever after in store for them.

天使ℳade :: playboy!popular!nishimura riki x popular!fem!reader ⋆˚✿˖° 𝒆𝒔𝒕. (470) (ℒ)lust. /this is an unofficial list, the official one will be provided in the actual full fic when posted/ slow-burn, angst, fluff, skinship, kissing, regular playboy warnings (there will be povs from y/n and ni-ki), mental problem stuff/therapist visits, cheating

ᥫ᭡⊹ ࣪ ˖ (1) notification! hello guys! im trying to write a full fic bcs random brainwave. i havent successfully ever written a k-pop full fic but i have written like a whole novel with a friend before, so let's hope i actually finish this.

i have posted a heeseung drabble along w/ this right now and im writing a jungwon fic for @k-films 'k.i.s.s soundtrack' summer event. after the jungwon fic is posted, i may not really post anything else.

with summer holidays approaching, i will be travelling over the summer majorly contributing to my inactivity. this isn't saying i won't be posting anything at all.

i am auditioning for @enha-files 'daydream survival show' so i will ofc be posting fics for it if i am accepted. i may also take a break from mathp to write other fics ofc but do expect inactivity.

please reblog and give feedback. the more interaction i get on my posts the more motivated i feel to write because it lets me know that you guys actually enjoy my work and it gives me purpose, and i need the motivation now more than ever. TT

i will be having a separate taglist for mathp so if u guys want to be notified when the fic drops simply comment or send an ask asking to be added to the mathp taglist!

i've included a small teaser of the fic for y'all. please enjoy my lovely munchkins!

love, hugs, and kisses xoxo —briar

💋 #reblog for kisses ☆゙ catalogue ˖°— 𝐕𝐎𝐋. 𝐗𝐕

You pry your eyes away from the entrance in dismay. Your heart sank to your stomach, tearing at your sides as it went down with tiny hands equipped with sharp claws.

You try to shake off your negative thoughts as the principal steps up to announce the homecoming king and queen.

“Our homecoming queen this year is…” The principal pauses as he opens the envelope. Suspense hangs in the air, clinging to everyone in the room like a second skin. “...Y/n L/n.”

You step up onto the stage gracefully, plastering on the smile that captivated the entire school body. Bowing elegantly, you let the vice-principal place the tiara on your head before straightening to wear the ‘Homecoming Queen’ sash and then stepping away.

Underneath your facade, worry, disappointment, and a myriad of negative emotions swirled in the form of black moths around your heart in the pit of your stomach.

“Now, our homecoming king this year is…”

Your eyes flicked towards the entrance once again, silently willing him to show up. It was now or never.

“Our homecoming king is Riki Nishimura!”

Your gaze drops to the ground as the room fills up with whispers and murmurs as people try to find Riki.

You already knew the answer: he wasn’t here.

Before long, the entire school figured that out too.

“Well, it seems that Riki isn’t here today.” The principal clears his throat. “Therefore, our homecoming king will be our runner-up, Gunwook Park.”

The crowd applauds as you stand there silent, staring longingly at the entrance, as Gunwook takes his place next to you after receiving his crown and sash as homecoming king.

You turn towards him like a programmed machine, having done the same ritual last year when you were a freshman. You let Gunwook take your hand and lead you to the center of the dance floor, where you two will have the first dance as homecoming king and queen.

You force a gentle smile as Gunwook holds you. Students pair up all around you as the music begins to play.

As the music starts playing, Gunwook twirls you around the floor, impressing you with his smooth dancing.

However, all that crosses your mind is how good Riki is when he slow dances with you, how he was supposed to be twirling you around right now and not Gunwook.

You force the thoughts out of your head.

Homecoming was one of the most important days of the year for you. Riki knows how important it was to you. He must have an exemplary reason for missing this and you’d find out what that reason was when you saw him later.

For now, you were going to let yourself lose in the moment. You were going to talk to your friends, eat, dance, and have fun.

------ᝰ‧₊ taglist (perm & for mathp) open — nets! @k-films — ©amatariki 2k25

perm taglist: @chrrific @lezleeferguson-120 @koiiqqqq @ikeu05 @maewphoria

miss americana & the heartbreak prince (mathp) taglist: @rikivsco @heartsriki @el4ise

[mandatory-ftmbreeder]

I'm ftm, and I am super attracted to men, but I've never been with a man and I don't know how to start. I guess my question is how do you do it? I hesitate every time there's a chance at a conversation, and i can't fathom anything progressing beyond that. I feel stuck lmao.

I have a bit of a slow burn method to this lol.

Ask about his interests and try to establish common ground. Music, food, his clothes, monsterfucking, video games, whatever. If you tend to freak out in the moment and can't come up with topics to talk about, make a list of questions that you can memorize. Things like "Where are you from? What do you do for work? Do you come here a lot? What do you like to do to relax?" And use his answers as avenues to ask more questions. If he responds with "Oh, I like to watch tv and pet my dog after work to relax." You could ask about what kind of stuff he likes to watch, ask about his dog, ask if he likes animals. The important thing is to keep the conversation going. And find mutual interests!

I also rarely ever flirt upfront with someone. I'm very indirect and need a bit of time before I can do that. I much prefer to establish a bit of a friendship with someone, sense their vibe, and then start some lighthearted flirting.

After the initial meeting, I try to maintain contact with the guy through some means. Usually I ask for his instagram or whatever so then I can send him posts I think he'll like.

I also try to find excuses to invite him to hang out. Maybe I got a new video game he's been wanting, so I invite him over to play. Or a new cafe opened that I heard is really good so I ask him if he wants to come with me.

Once we've hung out a few times, I'll start some lighthearted teasing/flirting. I also like to say things that can easily be turned into a dirty joke: I might say "oh fuck you, suck my dick" and see if he responds with something like "Okay, give me a time and place" (possibly a good sign) or if he just kinda laughs uncomfortably or something (possibly not a good sign and I'll ease up)

Once I've established all that and feel like he probably is into me, I'll ramp up the flirting and get dirtier with it. I might also do shit like bend down in front of him and see if he says anything. Any excuse I can get to touch/tease/flirt/etc, I'll take it. Then I just keep trying to be alone with him (especially if we're also drinking or high), keep flirting, and eventually one of you is gonna give in and admit you wanna fuck. (Or kiss or whatever)

Despite acting like a cocky bitch on here sometimes, I'm actually quite hesitant, cautious, and indirect irl lol. This method may be weird or crazy idk but its how I go about it.

You can also look online thru reddit or fetlife or something but that's kind of a hassle and gets exhausting quickly. I prefer meeting people organically irl as much as I can.

Hopefully this helped and wasn't just a jumbled mess 😅

[babeitaintme]

hii, as a non book person, like, i tried. REALY TRIED. but i just couldn't! what about jason with a reader who realy wants to be into reading to talk with him about it but just can't focus on the books, maybe he read for her or something

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥❀࿐A TRUTH UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED (jason x reader) short ab a non-bookish reader :)

thank you for sending a request sweetie! as someone who loves books, this was a fun thing to write so I hope you like it <3

⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･･°❀⋆.ೃ

YOU KNEW what you were getting yourself into the very first time you stepped foot into jason’s small apartment. as he sheepishly lead you in and made a point to tell you to ignore the mess he had left in the living room, you could only focus on the copious amount of books that filled the space. he had a bookshelf filled with thick hardbacks, a pile of crisp paperbacks on the floor beside the coffee table, one opened on its face lying precariously on the arm his sofa, and a small stack of pocket sized novels sitting on the windowsill.

“who would’ve knew that big, scary jason todd was a bookworm?” you say teasingly, getting a closer look at some of the books beside his coffee table. he scoffed, “what, are you judging me now?” you take note of the names jane austen and james patterson before flopping down on his couch. “of course not. it’s honestly endearing. i love reading.” you respond, trying to keep your tone as cool as possible.

he raises a skeptical eyebrow at you before joining you on the couch. his arms slung behind you on the back of the couch and his body is fully turned to face yours. you take in his squinted eyes and furrowed brows, he’s about to interrogate you. “you mean to tell me that you,” he points his finger at you, “find it endearing that i like to read? oh please, you were literally just complaining to me yesterday about how your new professor is your least favorite because you can’t stand having to do textbook homework and text analysis.” his voice is playfully accusatory, the faux tone making his teasing all the more stressful for you. you shoot back immediately, “that is not completely true! i’ll have you know that i do love to read. just not archaic texts from my looney professor. in fact, i just finished a book and am looking for new recommendations.”

your lie comes out smoother than you anticipated and you’re confident you’ve fooled jason. he leans back a little bit and gives you a shrug before standing up to go to his windowsil. “touché. if you really want a recommendation i think you’d like little women,” he looks back and gently tosses the book into your lap, “hopefully it isn’t too archaic for you.” he says with a teasing smirk.

—

it had been approximately two weeks since you had the book conversation with jason. little women had been haunting you for the entirety of those 14 days. the first day of the book being in your possession, you went home determined to get through at least five chapters. you cozied up with a blanket, made a warm drink, lit some candles, etc. anything you could do to make the experience doable…you sure as hell did. however, you swear louisa may alcott was haunting you from the grave because you physically could not get past the first two chapters. and it wasn’t to say that the book was bad or that you weren’t intrigued—you did your research, little women was an incredibly influential piece of work. you just couldn’t get yourself to sit and read. so, when jason began asking you questions about it that you definitely couldn’t answer, you decided to do the smartest thing you could think of. you watched the movie.

and surprisingly, it worked. he seemed satisfied with your answers and you were glad to finally be free from the looming problem of classic literature.

that was until he came by your apartment one day for dinner.

you were seated at your small dining table engaging in you guys’ typical banter when suddenly, something caught jason’s eye. it was his copy of little women sitting on your kitchen counter. “oh shit, i forgot i gave you that book. did you like it? I can recommend you some more classics if you like.” he said, nodding towards the book that may as well be the bane of your existence. your blood ran cold and you looked as though you’d seen a ghost. jason notices but decides not to question as you respond while going to grab the book, “yeah i really liked it. i think i might be too swamped with my professor’s reading to start a new one, though.”

jason is immediately skeptical now and his suspicions are confirmed when you hand him the book. he opens it and spots your pink bookmark..smack dab in between pages 5 & 6. “babe..” he says cautiously. “you didn’t read it, did you?” he asks, his voice gentle. you decide to drop the facade now, rambling anxiously, “fine, i didn’t. but you have to understand that I really did try—like a real serious attempt. I’m just not a book person, jay. i just wanted to read something you’d like so we could talk about books together”—but he cuts you off with a peck on your lips.

“you didn’t have to lie about liking reading for me, sweetheart. trust me, i appreciate your dedication but i don’t love you any less because you’re not that into books.” he says, holding your hands and guiding you towards the couch in your living room. “c’mere. since you really want to try, i’ll read to you.”

you snuggle up to him on the couch and allow him to read to you, his voice soothing and his arm that’s wrapped around you filling you with warmth & adoration. maybe books weren’t so bad.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･･°❀⋆.ೃ

feel free to leave a comment :)

[miniscule-meow]

Isabell and the Lads (18)

Masterpost Wordcount ~1.4k First Part | Last Part | Next Part

---

Marcus holds her against his chest. He is warm and solid; equal parts calming and exhilarating. She wants to lean into the comfort, but her mind can’t quite avoid tripping on the scale of him. His body stretches out around her. In one direction she can just see the underside of his jaw as he stares up at the ceiling. In the other direction, his hand rests against his stomach some distance away from her. Beyond that, his legs stretch impossibly far, propping up against the other arm of the couch. From her vantage point, perched right on top of him, seeing his full scale like that is dizzying. She sits in the center of his chest, riding the waves of his breathing, rising and falling with him as he heaves a long sigh.

“This one was on me,” he mutters, pulling her attention back to the underside of his chin. “I escalated it, I know I did. Zeke just gets…” he trails off, making a few half-hearted and incomprehensible syllables as he searches for what he’s trying to say. Finally landing on, “he’s frustrating.”

Marcus’s arm shifts overhead, eclipsing her briefly in shadow as he reaches to rub his face. For a moment, Isabell thinks he’s going to leave it at that, but then he exhales hard. His hands settle down behind her once more.

“He just acts like he’s got it all figured out, and he doesn’t. I mean I don’t either, but at least I’m not pretending.”  Marcus tips his chin down to his chest in an attempt to look down at her, “I think he’s terrified.” 

She frowns, her brow pinching together slightly.

“I think he cares about you way more than he knows how to deal with, and that scares him.”

That just can’t be right.

Zeke doesn’t touch her unless he absolutely has to, he barely talks to her. It’s not an uncomfortable dynamic, but it’s distant. She’s just assumed that he was tolerating her presence at best. He felt bad that she was hurt, so he wanted to help her out, get her patched up and send her home as soon as possible. Great, because that's what she wants too. That's what she should want, at least.

The point is, it’s not ‘care’ it’s more ‘obligation.’

She finds it hard to believe, Zeke being afraid, terrified even, but Marcus seems so sure.

“You said you grew up with him?” she asks instead, afraid of all of the answers to the questions she really wants to ask.

This spurs Marcus into stories about him growing up. He’s got six siblings, and he’s in the middle of all of them somewhere. Zeke was an only child, their next-door neighbor. He was over a lot.

"When you have that many kids running around, what's one more, right?" as Marcus carries on, his hand shifts over her. He gestures, and semi-talks with his hands.

Then, his finger brushes against her back. She startles slightly but says nothing- maybe it was an accident. But then it happens again, a stroke up and down her spine. His touch is feather light, despite how massive he is. This is not just a random splaying of fingers, but rather, a very intentional movement.

She can safely say she has never been touched like this before.

Tingles shoot across her spine, following the repetitive brush of his fingertip. She’s caught between the desire to melt into him, and her nerves flaring at how she absolutely should not be enjoying this.

This is so wrong. He’s petting her, isn’t he? Shame twists inside her. She shouldn’t like this. She shouldn’t want this. A few weeks ago, this guy put her in a box, and now she’s just going to let him pet her?

Does she have no spine?

Her emotions war within herself. Wanting to trust this human, wanting to let herself feel so relaxed and cared for. She wants it so bad, her bones ache for it, but her mind refuses to settle. All she can ask herself in return is: what will this cost me?  

She has officially talked herself out of being relaxed. At the next delicate brush of his hand, she twists around and pushes against his fingertip.

“Too much?” He asks, stopping mid-thought, and pulling his hand back.

“Yeah,” she manages a response despite her trembling nerves. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re good. My bad,” he doesn’t make it awkward, just gives her space. He settles his hands on his stomach and continues his story as if he hadn’t been interrupted at all.

Eventually, the door gently clicks shut, signaling Zeke’s return. The energy in the room shifts. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. The gravity of his presence clings to his shoulders. He’s as stone-faced as ever, but he seems… tired. His coiffed hair is mussed, as if he’s been raking his hand through it. Marcus shifts, the ground beneath her turning into a wall as he sits up, gently tipping her into his palm.

“Hold on,” he murmurs, setting her down on the coffee table. “Hey man,” Marcus stands, approaching Zeke with open arms.

Zeke hesitates for a moment, and Isabell expects him to walk right past, brushing by without a word. Instead, he steps forward, and she’s surprised to see him slump into Marcus instead. It’s a comfortable familiarity that she didn’t expect to see from Zeke.

She notices, really notices, for perhaps the first time, that Marcus is taller, by quite a bit actually. She supposes she doesn’t often get the opportunity to see the two of them interacting from across the room. Normally, they’re right up close. At that point they simply loom, and it’s hard to discern who might be looming more.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus speaks first.

Zeke nods into his shoulder with a muffled, “Me too.” His words are so quiet she barely hears him.

“We good?”

Zeke nods again.

“Okay,” Marcus pulls away, giving him a brotherly pat on the shoulder.

Zeke’s attention turns to her, easily finding her on the coffee table. She freezes, no longer just watching, but a part of the moment now. Marcus peels off, giving them space.

He walks over, and she isn’t sure what to expect. He sits on the floor in front of her, trying to get close to her level, but still effortlessly towering over her. Her heart hums rapidly in her chest as she tilts her head back to meet his eyes.

His hand comes to rest on the table. Nearby, but not touching. Never touching. He can be so close with Marcus, yet he remains so distant with her. It’s easy to believe that comes from a place of indifference. But she remembers Marcus’s words, ‘I think he’s terrified.’

Zeke blinks down at her, his mouth flat, his jaw set. He certainly doesn’t look very terrified to her. He seems to be entirely composed. What is Marcus seeing that she isn’t?

“I’m sorry,” Zeke says quietly, “I recognize that I am a relatively controlling individual. I try to be conscious of that, but I’m sure you’ve noticed. It’s never been my intention to take advantage of your size. I don’t want to treat you like you can’t solve your own problems, or like you can’t fight your own battles. I shouldn’t have said anything. Or- at the very least- I could have talked to you about it first. I overstepped, I’m sorry.”

His words are careful and measured. It’s a well thought out apology. She looks up at him again, and it’s like she’s seeing him through a different set of eyes. She considers him for a moment.

“It’s okay,” she says, stepping forward. She closes the distance between them. Shy, but deliberate. She reaches out, willingly, purposefully resting her hand against his knuckle.

The weight of the gesture is not lost on Zeke. He freezes entirely beneath her touch. He may have even stopped breathing. It’s as if he thinks any movement at all would shatter the moment between them. As if he were to so much as blink, she would change her mind. She doesn’t. She’s choosing this.

“You don’t… have to,” Zeke’s voice is halting, full of hesitation. No longer composed, well-rehearsed sentences. She’s thrown him off his rhythm. She’s surprised him.

“I know,” she says, not pulling away.

His focus is entirely on her, his eyes flick down to where her hand is resting against his. Her gaze travels there as well. Her entire hand rests comfortably on his knuckle. He’s massive. And yet, here he is, his fingers barely twitch beneath her. He's letting her take the lead.

“Can we still watch that movie?” she asks.

“Of course. I’ll… make popcorn.” He rises slowly, as if pulling himself away from the moment requires effort.

[the-camp-half-blood-library]

200 Follower Event

Thank you guys so much for 200 followers! To commemorate, we're doing two special things:

One, we're opening our ask box for one week for a Mod Q & A! Any (appropriate) question you have, feel free to ask, and the mods will answer!

Two, we're doing a list of our top ten fics published before or during 2020. We know that after a fic is published, if it doesn't immediately get attention, often times it will get buried. So we've decided to compile a list of some older fics. Enjoy!

Opportunity Knocks by nikkiRA

Two years after the war with Gaia, Nico tries to run away again, but on the way he is ambushed by Aphrodite, who has decided to take a personal interest in him - lucky him. Nico finds himself stuck in a Groundhog Day situation, reliving the same day over and over until he can figure out what the hell Aphrodite wants from him.

Girl Talk by gingersprite

In which Annabeth spills her soul, Piper comforts, and a new friendship and mutual respect are formed.

Love is a fragile dance by @phantom-does-a-thing

Will doesn't think that Nico loves him, they just don't show love in the same way. This miscommunication might cost them their relationship if they can't talk things out.

Got You by bunkernine

And Leo grins because yeah, Jason’s got him.

"Take my hand." by unwieldyink

“Can you shadow travel us out?” “Of course,” Nico said. He took Will’s arm and then leaned into the wall of the pit, ignoring how dry his mouth felt. He called the shadows to obey him, but nothing happened. Panic fluttered in his chest. “I— I need to be calm,” Nico said. “My heart’s beating too fast right now.” “What, from the fall?” “Well, partly. But also…” Nico took a deep breath in. “Um, now might not be the best time to mention this, but I’m claustrophobic.” Nico felt hot, and he knew his hands were slick with sweat. “Like, really claustrophobic.” . um. angst time. drabble a day- day 5.

all we do is try, try, try by rosegoldblood

opposites attract. leo knows this. but he thinks that, for once, after seventeen years of life, he'd like to have someone who really understands him, matches him in fervor and mind. he finds it in someone a little unexpected, but he supposes it all makes sense in hindsight.

A Friendship Built in Legos by greensgables

Annabeth is feeling isolated on a ship with Leo, Piper, and Jason, but then realizes Leo isn't just comic relief.

Touch by Booklover2020

5 times Nico pulls away from Will's touch and the 1 time he initiates it himself.

Art Therapy by @aemond-apologist

Nico makes a friendship bracelet in therapy and realizes he doesn't have any friends to give it to.

You Scared Me by @thetitanwar

Percy was running, his feet his the pavement faster than he thought they could. His breathing was ragged, noise falling away until all he heart was his breathing and the rapid heartbeat in his ear. "Annabeth!" His voice was guttural and raw. It wasn't that he sounded desperate, he sounded like he was about to snap. "Annabeth, please!"

Thank you all again! Leave kudos, leave a comment, and happy reading! (And -- feel free to send us questions!)

-Mods 1 & 2

[kate-inthedarkness]

maybe some robert smut 👀👀👀 i saw on ur master list u have a little section, so maybe like u guys just started dating and it's ur first night together could be rly rly cute

This smut is a lot more detailed than my Eli one so I'm so sorry don't cancel me pls!!! (cries)

Thank you for the request my love xx

I Love You - Robert Keating

Summary: Read the request for the summary xx

Warnings: sexual content, explicit language, a very loving relationship and it's all very consensual.

A/N: Again, I'm sorry if this isn't great, I tried my best! If you feel uncomfortable reading this then don't read it!! Only read things that you're comfortable with and enjoy xxx

The air outside still held a trace of spring’s warmth as you and Rob stepped out of the cozy little Italian restaurant he’d chosen. Your hand was tucked into his, your fingers interlaced like you’d been doing it forever.

The soft glow of the city’s streetlights brushed against his face, catching the smile that hadn’t left his lips all evening.

“I still can’t believe you said yes. What do you mean you’re my girlfriend?” he murmured, squeezing your hand.

You nudged him playfully with your shoulder. “Was there ever a doubt?”

He chuckled, that familiar soft laugh that made your stomach flutter. “I dunno. I’ve been nervous about asking all week. Eli said I’d fumble it somehow.”

“Well, you didn’t,” you said, stopping in your tracks. Robert turned to face you, his brows raised just slightly in anticipation. “It was perfect. You were perfect.”

His eyes searched yours, something unspoken passing between you, and then he leaned in, pressing the gentlest kiss to your lips. “Let’s head back to mine, yeah?”

————————————

The moment the apartment door clicked shut behind you, something shifted. Maybe it was the way Rob looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world worth paying attention to—or the way his thumb brushed your hand as he dropped his keys on the counter.

Whatever it was, it made the distance between you feel unbearable.

“Come here,” he said softly, an obvious tone of hunger there, already closing the spaced between you.

His hands found your waist as yours slid up to rest on his shoulders. His lips were on yours before you could say a word—warm, hungry, and full of everything you both had been holding back all evening.

You melted into him, your fingers threading into his bleach blonde hair, the slight scratch of his hair against your palms sending a thrill down your spine.

He walked you backward gently, guiding you through the apartment like he’d done it a hundred times. Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, and you both laughed into the kiss, breathless and flushed.

“Fucking hell, you’ll be the death of me.” He groaned, his voice low and a little rough as he nuzzled against your jaw.

You tilted your head, giving him space, your heart racing at the way his lips trailed down to your neck before returning to your mouth with a new kind urgency.

You loved his lips being on yours more than anything, but that burning heat in the pit of your stomach needed more. You needed to jump in his bones at this stage just to feel some kind of relief.

“Shit,” you moaned quietly between a kiss. “Go-go back to my neck.” You managed to stutter out, and he wasn’t the one to say no to you.

You could ask him to get on his hands and knees and crawl for you, and he’d do it without a second thought.

The two of you had made out before, so he knew where you liked to be kissed, or little things that got you riled up, and the left side of your neck, right under your ear, was one of those spots.

His lips found the spot in an instant, and he wasn’t afraid to bite down on the sensitive area slightly, sucking the skin lightly after to try and get a moan from you.

“You sure about this?” He murmurs against your neck, voice low, husky with something between hope and restraint. His fingers brush under your dress, hesitating about mid thigh, waiting for your answer.

You pull his head gently away from your neck, looking him straight in the eyes and nodding. “Yeah,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I want this. I want you. Really, I mean it.”

He leans in. The kiss is soft at first—careful. His lips are warm, a little chapped, tasting faintly like the red wine from earlier. But then he deepens it, tongue teasing the seam of your mouth, and you melt into him with a quiet gasp. His hands find the zipper of your dress, and you practically jumped out of it, desperate to feel his hands on your bare skin.

His fingers splayed over your ribs, thumbs stroking slow circles just under your breasts. You’re not sure how you make it to the bedroom. It’s all a blur of mouths and laughter and demands.

But most importantly that wild, dizzy feeling of finally getting what you’ve wanted for so long.

Clothes come off in stages—his button up shirt practically being ripped open, the slow peel of his jeans, your dress was left behind in the hallway but he wasn’t shy to take off your bra, finally admiring the part of your body he’d been nearly craving to see face to face.

The drag of his fingers down your spine as he pressed you back against the mattress, dragging a low moan out of you.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says, almost like he’s saying it to himself. “Been thinking about this… about you…”

“Rob, baby, I love you so fucking much. But please, get to work I’m dying over here.”

You reach for him, pulling him down into another kiss, and this one is full of hunger, your bodies flush, his skin practically boiling hot against yours. His weight on you is grounding, electrifying. He kisses down your neck, slow and reverent, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue flicking just enough to make you squirm.

You gasped softly as his teeth grazed the soft skin above your breasts, and he smiled against your skin, his hands splaying wide across the outside of your thighs.

"You nervous?" he asked, pausing to look at you—his blue eyes suddenly a darker shade of blue, pupils blown, but still so gentle.

"A little," you admitted. "But not in a bad way or anything. It's just been a while since I've...you know."

His hand reached up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing along your bottom lip, slow and careful. "We can stop any time. Just say the word."

"I don't want to stop."

That was all he needed.

He kissed along your chest slowly, reverently, letting his tongue flick over your nipple before sucking it into his mouth. Your back arched instinctively and he groaned at the way you moved under him.

The feeling of his calloused fingers tracing your ribs, your stomach, it had you feeling like your head was stuck in the clouds. You finally managed to pull yourself back down to earth for a second when you noticed he was kneeling between your legs, pulling your underwear down at a teasing pace.

"You're shaking," he said softly.

"I know," you breathed. "I just...I want you so fucking badly."

Rob leaned down, lips brushing yours. "You have me."

Then his hand slid down your thigh, then between them, and you gasped as his fingers found you already wet, already aching for him.

"Christ," he muttered. "You're so fucking perfect."

He dipped one finger inside you, then another, curling them just right, his thumb brushing your clit in slow, patient circles. You moaned, hips lifting to meet his hand, and he watched you with something close to awe—as if seeing you come undone for him was a privilege he didn't quite believe he deserved.

"I'm obsessed with you, you know?" he whispered, kissing your jaw, your throat, your breast. "So obsessed."

You tightened around his fingers, gripping onto his wrist as you moaned out in ecstasy. But before you knew it, the feeling of his touch was gone, and you could've screamed from frustration.

"Come on, baby. I think we've both had enough of playing around." His smiled was close to a smirk, tone clearly teasing. You didn't know if you wanted to kiss him or slap him.

Probably both.

You watched his every move. The way his muscles flexed as he took his boxers off. The way he ran his fingers through his bleached hair as he took in a shaky breath. You couldn't possibly get enough of this man.

He reached across to the top drawer of his night stand, clearly in the search of a condom.

"I'm on the pill. We don't need to use one." you rushed to say. Just wanting to feel all of him with nothing in the way.

"Are you sure? You're still taking a bit of a risk without one."

"No, I'm sure. I just want to be able to feel you."

His face practically scrunched up in what looked like pain. Pain from you killing him with words.

When he finally slid between your thighs and pushed into you, he went slow—achingly slow—watching your face the whole time, checking for any flicker of discomfort. But all you felt was full, deliciously stretched, your legs wrapping around his waist as he bottomed out inside you with a low groan.

"God, you feel unreal," he chocked out.

He moved slowly at first, deep, measured thrusts that made your breath catch every time he rocked into you. His forehead dropped to yours, sweat beading along his hairline, threads of his hair sticking to his forehead.

"You're taking me so well," he murmured against your lips. "So tight around me. Let go, baby. Let me take care of you."

Your nails dug into his back, leaving marks down his spine as your body climbed higher, tighter. He sped up just enough to make your breath stutter, your moans getting louder, his hips snapping into you with perfect rhythm, hitting that spot inside that made starts burst behind your eyes.

"Rob—" you moaned, barely able to get the words out. "I'm so close, I—"

"I've got you," he said, voice rough, hand slipping between you again to circle your clit. "Come for me. Show me how good I make you feel, baby."

And you did—hard. Your whole body tensed, you cried out his name like it was the only work you knew, and clenched around him as your orgasm tore through you like a wave. He followed moments later, groaning into your neck as he thrust deep one final time and spilled inside you, hips jerking through his own release.

You stayed like that for a while—tangled, breathless, your limbs intertwined and skin flushed with heat.

After a long silence, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, whispering, "You okay?"

You nodded, burying your face in his neck. "That was...fuck me, that was good."

He laughed softly, brushing your hair back. "I couldn't agree with you more, beautiful."

Your eyes glistened as they locked with his. The two of you just admiring each other, not wanting to end this moment too soon.

"I love you so much." You whispered, your voice thick with emotion and love.

"I love you most."

"That's impossible, Keating."

"Hm, I don't know. Wanna bet?"

[for-your-modesty-dude]

Reentry Pt. 2

Part 1

A/N: So, funny story... I wasn't planning on posting another part today already, but I started to write and this just fell out. It just kinda... wrote itself. It's a short one and has not been beta'ed, so please excuse any grammatical/spelling errors. I sat down and banged it out in like an hour and a half. I'm really excited to explore this little coffee shop au, and I think it's a world I'm gonna exist in for awhile, if you all don't mind. I have other WIPs to work on, too, but I think this guy is gonna stay a steady constant for a bit. Bc I'm in love with this version of Eddie rn. As always, if you've got suggestions or requests, send them my way - I don't have a solid plot for this yet except a few scenes I knew need to be included. Anyway, thank you all for reading and making me feel seen. I love y'all sm. - Hy <3

p.s. please tell me if you want to be added to my taglist!

Summary: Eddie is having lots of doubts and struggling with day-to-day activities. You can't blame him - 5 years of incarceration will really throw a wrench in who you thought you were, but maybe a friend can help.

Warnings: Mentions of drugs and doing time.

Word Count: ~1.7k

You knew that Eddie had been avoiding having that homecoming dinner, but he couldn’t avoid it forever. The day of his interview at the bar, Steve and Dustin popped into the bookstore as they often did. You were just reorganizing some shelves when you heard their bickering as they entered - those two never stopped, no matter how old they got. 

“I’m telling you, man. Eddie is not feeling a dinner party right now. And he’s got that big interview later, I can’t just spring a surprise party on him like that. Plus, we don’t know if everyone is even available. Let it go, we’ll do something lowkey next weekend or something.”

“Steve,” Dustin started, with that tone of faux patience like he was talking to a toddler, “if he gets the job, he won’t be available for a dinner party next weekend, you’re aware of this, right?”

You just listened to the argument that Eddie clearly didn’t want to have a party right now. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, Steve was a good friend. Dustin was, too, just in a different way. They both wanted the best for their friend - but it was uncharted territory for all of them. You were pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of your name, and you turned with something of a surprised expression and a “hi!”

“Are you available for a dinner party tonight?” Dustin asked, straight to the point, and Steve had to add his side, too. 

“Do you think it’s appropriate for us to have a surprise party for a guy who is clearly struggling with rejoining society when he doesn’t seem to want to be around crowds?”

“Woah, there, gentlemen,” you held your hands up in surrender. “Yes,” you pointed at Dustin, “but I’m with Steve,” you pointed to Steve next, and Dustin let out a loud groan.

“How is he ever supposed to assimilate if he can’t even have dinner with a group of his friends?” Dustin insisted. 

He had something of a point, he did, but something about startling Eddie like that just didn’t feel right. He was so antsy, so on edge. You hadn’t known the guy before prison, but that didn’t matter. The person you’d started to get to know these past two weeks didn’t seem like he’d feel very comfortable with a surprise of any sort, much less a surprise dinner party. 

“You’re right. But you’re going about it wrong,” you said honestly. “I think the answer is to plan a dinner party and give him full warning of when it’s happening, where, with whom, and what’s on the menu. Yes, I agree he needs social interactions to properly assimilate, but let’s not overwhelm him all at once. He’s been so jumpy since I’ve met him. That’s not a guy you want to surprise.”

Steve gestured at you like he’d been trying to make this point to Dustin the whole time. Dustin, not one to back away, let out a rather dramatic sigh. “Fine. Whatever, fine. But only because you’re not going to help me if I do it tonight.”

That seemed to be enough for Steve. 

“We can do it here, if you’d like,” you suggested. “I can close the bookstore early, and we can use the cafe’s kitchen to finish up whatever dinner we want to make. Or we can order a pizza or something. But it could be nice, I’ll bring out the beanbags and stuff, and we can do it in the game room. Just a nice dinner for him to see all of his friends in one place again, but not overwhelming by being too formal or at anyone’s house. This way, if he wants to go home early, he can.”

There was a silence as both men considered this, and then they both nodded, seemingly satisfied with the idea. 

“Yeah, that’s cool. It’s a good idea. We’ll see when everyone is available and then get back to you.” Dustin nodded, and Steve gave you a grateful smile. 

When both of them lingered a bit in front of you, you rolled your eyes. “The usual, nerds?”

Steve guffawed as he and Dustin followed you into the coffee shop, “him, sure. I’m not a nerd,” he insisted, but you just gave him a look that shut him up. 

You got them their drinks and sent them on their way, helping a few customers before putting your apron away and starting towards the book shelves again. Before you could make it there, you heard the jingling of the bells above the door, and turned to find a disheveled and breathless Eddie. You just pulled your apron back on and hurried to the register with a smile. 

“Hey you!” You greeted, but he looked a little frantic, so your smile faltered. “Everything okay?”

“I-” he took a steadying breath, “I couldn’t go through with it. The interview. I stood at the door to the bar, and it was like all the blood drained out of me, and- I couldn’t do it.”

He nearly tugged his hair out as he stood before you, and you put a hand on his arm across the counter, “hey. Hey, it’s okay. Let me brew you a cup of tea, and we can go back and talk in the game room, yeah?”

He let go of his hair and nodded, eyes big and vulnerable. He didn’t know why he’d ended up here, telling you this of all people. Maybe it was that you didn’t have expectations of him, after all, you’d never met him before his stint. It felt easier to confide in someone who didn’t know who he was, or who he had been.

You put lots of care into brewing him the right blend of tea, sweetening it to his taste and then motioning for him to follow you. You hung up your apron and handed him the steaming cup, leading him into the bookstore and then back to the game room. It was decorated for the D&D campaigns your friends liked to run, and had a large table with comfy chairs around it, but most importantly, it had a comfy couch against one wall, and had a door that closed and locked for privacy. No one had rented the room out today, so you let him in and closed the door behind you. You gestured for him to take a seat, which he did, and then took the seat beside him, facing him. 

“You know it’s okay, right?” You asked him softly, “it’s okay to not have been okay enough to go in there.”

He sipped carefully from the cup and shrugged. “I’m not usually like this. People have never scared me before. That was, like, my whole thing. I was the town freak, and proud of it.” He paused, “well - not proud of it, exactly, but I wore it like a badge of honor. And now I can’t even walk into a bar for a job interview? How am I ever supposed to hold a job if I can’t even interview?”

You let the question hang in the air for a moment before responding, “Eddie, it’s normal that life feels wrong to you right now. It’s normal that you’re having a hard time doing things you never struggled with before. You know that, right? You really need to know that.”

Your tone seemed to ring true to him, and he took a deep breath, but nodded. “Yeah. I know that.”

“Good,” you smiled gently. “So, wanna interview here?”

Despite your previous offer that morning, he seemed taken aback by your genuine offer. He studied you for a moment, as if he expected you to hesitate or take it back, but eventually nodded. 

“Okay, how about tomorrow? Wednesdays around 8:30 there’s no one here, we can sit and have a drink and a pastry together and I can interview you, and you can ask me all the questions you want about the job. How’s that sound?”

Again, he seemed truly surprised by your kindness, and took a moment to agree. Really, he was just curious about you. He’d never met anyone as kind, as patient. Sure, he knew his friends loved him, and they really were trying, but there was something about the fact that they knew the old Eddie that put him off. It made him feel insecure - like they were just waiting to get him back. That they didn’t really know this Eddie. This guy was a stranger to them, and he couldn’t blame them. So your kindness to this Eddie, not pity, not walking on eggshells, but genuine kindness… it struck him.

“Yeah,” his voice cracked just a touch when he answered, and he cleared his throat. “Yeah, tomorrow, 8:30. I’ll bring my resume. You’re positive this is okay?”

“Yes, Eddie,” you said with a playfully exasperated smile, “I’m positive. It’ll be great. And who knows, maybe we’ll be coworkers,” you grinned at him.

He couldn’t help but to grin back, and something inside of him settled. He sipped at his tea again, and you just sat there together awhile, mostly in silence but also discussing the two books he’d gotten from you two weeks ago, and the books he wanted to try next. When you got up, you led him to the shelves to help him choose his next two. You promised he could pay for one, but you wanted to gift him the other, and he felt pretty special that you wanted to do so for him.

When he left, he seemed considerably less upset than he had when he’d arrived, and honestly, you’d taken that as quite the compliment to your comforting skills. Eddie was incredibly kind, so caring, and wanted so badly to succeed somehow in life. You hoped that maybe with this job, you’d somehow help him - that he’d find a home here, at the shop. You were rather looking forward to the interview with him, though you pretty much planned on hiring him anyway, no matter how the interview went. 

You had no way of knowing, but Eddie had gone back to Steve’s that day, seeming more himself than Steve had seen him in the time he was back. He didn’t know what had put Eddie so at ease, but he was grateful for it. He hoped it would last.

Taglist:

@am0iur @ali-r3n @hellmastereddie @ziggeddie @nojamsonmytoast @seedlingghost @loveu2themoonandsaturn @aliceheart247 @littlemissholy @daydreampending @justalotoffanfiction @midnightdragonzero @iyskgd @girlwedontcare @micheledawn1975 @kaita

[sparxwrites]

Any thoughts on the recent Hermitcraft (or whatever mcyt) videos? Just curious about what's up recently besides spambots on ao3. Hope you're doing well!

you might have to be a bit more specific than that! there's been a lot of videos. i am glad mumscarian are back to their usual "doing crimes, but primarly through the vector of having a negative iq when in each others' presence" behaviour, because that's one of my fave genres of content <3

(and i'm fine! just very, very busy - we're up at a full-time job and two part-time jobs now, hobbies and social life and personal freelance projects not included - and i've not been terribly inspired to write fic right now. unforch, i'm extremely dependent on sth being my special interest to produce fic for it, and whilst i still like hermitcraft it's no longer a special interest. i've been busy working on some original writing tho, which tragically will probably never make its way on here, but please rest assured that it's absolutely baller.)

[meo-eiru]

Gonna close asks again rq until at least I'm done with the masterlists

[definitelynotshouting]

In the least possibly pressury way, as in feel free to ignore this if it isn’t something you want to do, this is just purely bc i reread the hunger au and am hungering for more - do you have any updates on how the next chapter is going?

Also (this is the same anon who asked how Impulse confronted Grian a little while ago btw in case ur seeing a slightly pattern) would you feel like expanding on how the other hermits or non hermit lifers felt when they found out Grian made the life games? Or how they feel about the state he’s ended up in? (tho i completely get that that is probably a thing ur going to explore anyway im just having thoughts)

Anyway this is such a good au, ur writings fantastic and im loving what ur doing. As a writer myself I may be taking some notes on how u r writing these characters because the way you make us feel exactly what they r feeling is incredible!

I wish i could give more updates on hunger au's progress but to be completely honest with you anon, my irl life kinda uh 😅😅 just completely imploded right as i was getting back into the groove of things. I am making progress still, but its slower than i'd like-- by necessity ive had to emergency pivot my attention to more pressing matters going on rn 😭😭😭😭 trust me when i say its probably frustrating me more than anyone else at this point

I appreciate the compliments a lot tho!!! All of yalls encouraging words mean the world to me and make getting through these difficult situations a little bit easier❤️❤️❤️ i wish i could say more about how the hermits reacted, but thats actually MAJOR spoilers that im very excited to show you guys in-fic, so for now all i can really say is that you'll have to see :]]

[kamabokobun]

Oh my gosh I finally found your blog, just here to say your designs are super beautiful .

Also, you have anymore lore/info dumps to givve of your OCs/characters?

HELLO!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! Your compliment means a lot to me!

As for Lore… for my undragon’d girlies, Naydra has siblings :) she’s the eldest

Also I like to think her family are the ancestors of rauru and mineru. Mainly because mineru is associated with owls in-game (her mech has a very similar “owl face” to the owl on the zonaite outfit and her temple has statues of owls) which are associated with the triforce of wisdom :)

[may-stuff]

not trying to be a diva because I cherish every single interaction I have here and I love and respect everyone, but it pisses me off when someone sends me an ask and it starts with something like "I need you to write..." or "I want you to write..." like. what happened to hello, how are you?

and I'm not saying that you must address me like I'm some mighty entity. no. I'm just a girl. and because I'm just a girl and I try hard to be as polite as I can, at least, don't talk to me like I'm a machine that you can give a command and it'll comply. in case you were wondering, I'm a person.