#ch03

[wayliparker-co]

call me when you get a second - chapter three 🫶

i miss you (i hate it)

There must be something in his voice, something defeated, edging into dangerously familiar territory, because Max squints at him again, straightening her spine and shooting him her most serious look. “Mike, are you sure this is, like, okay?”

Mike scoffs. “Of course it’s not okay, Max. He looked- he was so beautiful. And he hates me.”

“No, I- I get that, and that sucks, but you’re not…” she pauses for a moment, clearly struggling to find the words. “You just seem more calm about it than I might have expected, and sometimes when you get like that it’s a sign that you’re about to do- to do something drastic. Like- calm before the storm, or whatever.”

Mike stops drumming his fingers against the table, giving her a long look. “I don’t do that anymore,” he says after a moment of consideration, “you know that.”

“I do,” Max allows, a little haltingly, “but it’s- it’s Will.”

playlist 🫧

[campbyler]

*reddie’s your byler*

ch03 of acswy coming july 21 😆🥞

[campbyler]

THE NOISE I JUST MADE OMFG

I thought I’d work on this wip I started after reading chapter 3, during the wait for chapter 4 of acswy @campbyler 🤗 the hammock scene was the funny classic romcom moment I needed and I wanted to focus on that valuable millisecond after the tangle of limbs but before they jump apart 🤌🏽 lmfao

am enjoying this chaotic little universe! @wiseatom @andiwriteordie @astrobei

click for better quality / reblogs are appreciated <3

[itisaterriblelove]

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO WAKE ME.” 

On the positive side, Elle was feeling better. Better about me and better about life, apparently. No more death-glares and bans on the word “fuck.” On the negative side: Elle was feeling better at seven in the mother-fucking morning. “Is the fucking sun even up?”

I yawned with my eyes still closed, as Elle bounced excitedly on my bed. I knew it was her even before she’d said anything because of the bouncing. Clay or Violet wouldn’t have gotten onto my bed, for one, and for another if either of them had wanted me at this time of morning then it would definitely be the beginnings of a fight.

Ugh. Like a month ago someone had played a prank on Violet and filled her shampoo bottle with spiders. They were fucking tiny rubber things, but she’d still run out naked and screaming. I’m not gonna lie and say that Clay and I didn’t crack the fuck up about it. I mean, I might have to bleach my brain at some point to get the image of her naked ass out of my head… But it was fucking hilarious.

Still. I wasn’t the one who did it. I had no part in it, actually.

Sometimes I ate her food, I was guilty of that shit. And sometimes I recorded over her stuff on the DVR. And—okay!—sometimes I helped Clay to pull a prank on her when she needed to be taken down a peg or two. But that girl had the worst fucking attitude, I swear to God. So really she deserved it.

Doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t do the Spider Shampoo Prank. But she does not fucking believe me, and she keeps boobie-trapping my shit. 

Point is, if Violet was waking me up at seven in the morning then she would be doing a lot worse than just bouncing on my bed. And no way was Clay up right now. So, yeah, I knew it was Elle. Plus, it was always Elle.

Well usually. But lately we’d managed to get out of sync with each other, and every little thing seemed to push her moods to the extreme these days. 

Elle climbed on top of me—right fucking on top of my prostrate body, laying comfortably in my bed, ensconced in my covers. She straddled me and poked me in the face.

“Wakey-wakey! Eggs and bakey!” 

She smelled sweet and flowery in this entirely girly, entirely fantastic fucking way that made me want to push her right on the damn floor.

She felt even better than she smelled.

“There better be eggs and bacon when I open my eyes,” I grumbled, cranky, and still not looking at her. I yawned again. “I am trying to fucking sleep, Elvis Hirsche.” The full name was serious business and she knew it. Usually I just stuck with “baby.” 

“Don’t be grumpy, Gavin.” She actually fucking chided me. Unbelievable.

“Elle.” I swatted at her, but it was half-hearted and she was too wide awake not to be able to dodge it. I hit nothing but air.

“Gavin, Gavin, Gavin!” She bit the bottom of my chin and my eyes popped wide open.

“Fuck, Elle.” I would have pushed her off of me if she hadn’t moved the second before I could do it. This was the thing about Elvis Hirsche: She did not fucking understand personal space. She was always touching me, and I definitely didn’t hate it. But sometimes, like first thing in the fucking morning when a girl is literally sitting on you when you wake up?… Yeah. I liked it too much.

And that was not a feeling I wanted associated with Elle. Not in this lifetime, anyway. 

“Come on, sleepyhead. I’ve had four waffles with whipped cream and chocolate syrup. Oh, and a hot chocolate.” Her smile was too wide not to be adorable, but I was still too irritated to be charmed.

Okay. That was a fucking lie. But I couldn’t help myself, Elle was literally the cutest person in the entire world.

I still groaned, though. “Who the hell let you have that many waffles?” 

“They let you make your own in the East Campus dining hall, duh! No one let me, I went to breakfast by myself.”

“Damn it, Elle. Where was Eli?!” Elle’s twin brother usually monitored her sugar and candy intake when I wasn’t around to do it. Although I had my suspicions about what “monitoring” really meant to Elijah Hirsche. But that was another story for another day.

Elle on this much of a sugar high was dangerous for everyone and everything.

“Sleeping in.” She shrugged. “There better be some candy in my fucking candy drawer.”

I groaned. At this point, I was almost entirely sure that she did that shit on purpose. But that didn’t stop my body’s reaction when I heard her say fuck. All the blood rushed south. There was something about her saying it—the worst part was that it was person specific—that turned me on. Maybe it was because I knew that Elle never swore—she didn’t even like to—unless she was trying to get a reaction out of me.

“I’m taking a shower. Stay the fuck out of that drawer.” I grumbled at her, pushing the covers away and reluctantly climbing out of bed. It was definitely a better option than laying in bed and letting Elle push all of my buttons. If she didn’t look so damn innocent then I’d be one hundred percent sure that she knew exactly what she was doing to me.

“You said you’d give me guitar lessons today,” she reminded me, as if I didn’t already know why she was there. I nodded at her, yawning again, and ran a tired hand through my sleep-dragged hair. She grinned at me. 

“You look like that duster from Beauty and the Beast.”

I flipped her off and she grinned wider. “You said you wouldn’t wake me up.” I reminded her. I didn’t have any classes today until two in the afternoon, and Elle had agreed to let me sleep in if she came over early. She always agreed to let me sleep in and she never, ever did it.

“I’m sorry. But I was so excited!” She squirmed where she was sitting, as if she couldn’t keep still, and I knew that she really couldn’t. Yeah, I bet she was excited. Four fucking waffles? And whipped cream and chocolate sauce! 

Elle crinkled her nose at me. “Hurry up and shower, you stink!”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Oh, yeah?” And even though I knew I probably shouldn’t, I paced the bed and pounced on her anyway.

She screeched, already giggling before I even started to tickle her, and tried to wiggle away from me. “Yeah! Get off me before I throw up!” But she was breathless as she said it, so the words came out through laughs and pants as she fought me off.

“You love it.” I teased, letting her go. “If you wake Violet, I’m gonna pretend I don’t know you.” Elle kept giggling, unfazed.

“I’m going to tell her you gave me a key.” 

I shuddered at even the thought of Violet’s reaction to that. She could be a real—I hated to use this word, but in this case it was so fucking necessary—bitch when she wanted to be. Not because she was a woman. I fucking loved women. But because she was just plain psycho.

“You better not, baby.” I leveled a look at Elle but she just looked back at me, innocent and serious. I shook my head at her. “I mean it. Stay out of the candy drawer.” 

“I mean it! You smell like a garbage can.” She plugged her nose at me and I rolled my eyes.

“I’ll know if you sneak one bite,” I warned.

She giggled. “I know you count the candy, Gavin. Relax, you big baby. I’ll be good!” 

Yeah, she knew I counted the candy but that had never stopped her from sneaking some. And it wasn’t like I could do anything about it once she’d already eaten it. Elle on too much of a sugar high was like watching the Energizer Bunny act in an episode of Glee. Life became some sort of high speed musical.

Seriously.

I groaned at the thought and shot her one last threatening look before snatching up a change of clothes and heading to the bathroom. It was a quick shower (and a cold one), but I was slowed down by the fact that I had to make sure there weren’t any traps set in the bathroom for me to encounter. No dye in my shampoo bottle or anything like that; I wouldn’t put it past Violet, especially because I was fucking serous about my shampoo product. Hair this fantastic didn’t come without some maintenance.

So when I came out and found Elle curled up on the couch, munching on a frosted Pop-Tart, I was hardly surprised. I glared at her and she smiled beguilingly at me.

“Oops.” But even as she said it, she was shoving the last bit of it into her mouth, so I knew she wasn’t sorry. I sighed. 

“You can’t possibly have any room left in that tiny stomach.” Except I knew she could. I’d seen her pack down the food like a starving teenaged boy-band… Well, I’d also seen her in action every day, too, and she pretty much never slowed down unless I made her. So it made sense that she never seemed to gain a single pound.

Elle shrugged, her cheeks puffed out, and talked around the last of her food. “Hey, I found this in the kitchen, fair and square. It was lost behind the microwave.” She licked her lips contentedly and I tried really hard not to see the trail of her tongue as she did it. “Come here, let me see if you smell better!” And just like that she was up and bouncing around.

Yeah… It looked like it was going to be a long day.

[morticry]

there will be a gauze pause while I get back to work on actual patronage +some other projects. thanks for reading! will be back at it soon.

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART | MASTERLIST

Rafe Cameron's MASTERLIST

Pairing: Basketball Player! Rafe x Supermodel!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Content: marriage of convenience, fake dating, athlete!rafe au

NAVIGATION —

All Of TCH asks and thoughts

ALL THE CHAPTERS —

✦ Ch01 ✦ Ch02 ✦ Ch03 ✦ Ch04 ✦ Ch05 ✦ Ch06 ✦ Ch07 ✦ Ch08 ✦ Ch09 ✦ Ch10 ✦ Ch11 ✦ Ch12 ✦ Ch13 ✦ Ch14 ✦ Ch16 ✦ Ch17 ✦ Ch18 ✦ Ch19 ✦ Ch20 ✦

SOME EXTRAS —

✦ Moodboard01

✦ TCH!Reader's Fashion Style

✦ SMAU01 | SMAU02 | SMAU03 | SMAU04

✦ Rafe being horny

✦ Their Photo Gallery

Obviously, layout credit to bookie @zyafics

[campbyler]

SCREAMING

Alright this is the first time I post art here and post art generally after long long time, It’s kinda intimidating but I felt so happy doing this and why not to share youkno, it’s just some silly drawings but I think it was perfect for practice (I wish wills hair hadn’t turned out that pointy also but well, ya fue).

I looove chapter 03 it’s so fun, how Will gets mad about Mike still looking good so he decides to throw more stuff, oh boy, how not to love them.

@campbyler You guys are doing it great, the dedication to not only this but all your works is awesome. I hope you like it :D

Oh and I haven’t finished ch05 AAAAAA

[sixeyesonathiel]

a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

CH03 – you can't flirt your way out of protein deficiency

pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader

summary : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. you invited him to play during recess? he chose studying instead. you tried to give him chocolates? he rejected them for the sake of your dental health. you called him boring and never looked back.

years later, you’re a party girl with daddy issues, and he's the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university. when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off—except gojo keeps finding you at every exclusive club, dragging you back to work like the menace he is.

you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

oh no.

tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending

previous | series masterlist | playlist | next

chapter summary : step three in ditching the world's most persistent nerd : do not wake up in gojo satoru’s condo. do not let him steal your custom-made designer heels. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, let him blackmail you with breakfast.

the pillow collides with satoru’s face with a satisfying thud, muffling his startled inhale. for a moment, he remains perfectly still, as if processing the sheer audacity of your assault. then, slow and deliberate, he peels the pillow away, adjusting his glasses with unhurried precision before leveling you with a heavy, unimpressed stare. sunlight filters through the windows, casting sharp edges across his cheekbones, his messy white hair catching the morning light like spun sugar. meanwhile, you are already smoothing the sheets, fingers lazily combing through your hair, entirely unbothered by your own violence. if anything, you look like the picture of elegance, stretching out against the expensive cotton sheets like a pampered house cat.

satoru exhales—not a sigh of frustration, but something closer to amusement, something too composed to be truly exasperated. “good morning to you too, princess.” his voice is dry, lightly teasing, but entirely unshaken, as if being assaulted first thing in the morning is just another tuesday. you narrow your eyes at him, suspicion curling in your chest, irritation already simmering beneath your skin. “i swear if you pulled anything—” your tone is accusatory, sharp, but he only raises a brow, the barest trace of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you drooled on my notes,” he deadpans, “if anything, i’m the victim here.”

silence. long. seething. you refuse to acknowledge that piece of information. instead, you inhale, tilting your head as if the past five seconds of conversation never happened.

you shift, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, only to realize something is missing. a second passes, then another, before it clicks. your heels. your very expensive, very limited-edition, custom-made heels with your initials engraved inside. your stomach twists. your eyes flicker to satoru, sharp with suspicion, and you feel it immediately—the way he knows you’ve figured it out. “…where are my heels?”

satoru takes an obnoxiously slow sip of his milk, because of course he drinks milk—because coffee is too bitter for his celestial tongue. he exhales, gaze flicking toward you, and—without a single ounce of remorse—says, “confiscated.”

your mouth falls open. you blink. “excuse me?”

he hums, completely at ease, swirling the milk in his glass like it’s aged wine. “can’t have you running off before breakfast.”

breakfast? he’s delusional.

you immediately push the blankets aside, scanning the room in a frenzy. where the hell did he put them? you check under the bed, inside the closet, even peek into the ensuite bathroom, but they are nowhere to be found. behind you, satoru leans lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching your efforts with the deepest amusement. “you can look for them,” he muses, voice rich with smug satisfaction. “but statistically speaking, you’ll give up before you actually find them.”

you clench your jaw, seething. statistically speaking, i am going to strangle you.

straightening, you cross your arms, eyes burning into him. “satoru, it’s saturday. you have to let me go.”

he tilts his head, expression unbothered. “do i?”

“yes!” you throw your hands up. “we’re not in class, i have no obligations, and you have no reason to keep me here.”

he hums, feigning thoughtfulness. “mm. incorrect.”

your brows furrow. “incorrect?”

his gaze sharpens, and something in his tone shifts—soft, but steady. “it’s not about keeping you here,” he says, voice smooth, deliberate. he takes another sip of his drink, placing the glass down with a quiet clink. “it’s about preventing you from running off to make another irresponsible decision.”

your arms tighten around yourself. your nails dig into your skin. “what irresponsible decision?”

he lifts a single finger, all patience, all calculation. “the one where you ignore our project, go out drinking, and pretend like the deadline doesn’t exist.”

your nostrils flare. “i wasn’t—”

his second finger goes up. “the one where you text me at two a.m. saying ‘i’ll make up for it, pinky promise’ and then disappear for another twenty-four hours.”

your mouth opens, then closes.

his third finger lifts. “the one where—”

“okay!” you snap, hands flying up in frustration. “i get it.”

he smiles then, all smug victory and soft amusement, sipping his stupid milk. “thought so.”

whatever. if you’re going to be stuck here, you might as well be comfortable. your dress is tight, your patience is thin, and gojo satoru is still standing there, too smug for someone who just kidnapped you over a stupid project. you exhale, tilting your head as if this entire situation isn’t already ridiculous. “at least let me change before you start your villain monologue.” he hums, unsurprised, already reaching for something. with an infuriating lack of effort, he tosses a neatly folded pile of clothes onto the bed, not even looking as they land perfectly in place.

you narrow your eyes, picking up the fabric like it’s personally offended you. oversized sweatpants, a soft cotton t-shirt—his clothes. obviously. your fingers smooth over the material, taking in how annoyingly soft they are, how they probably cost an obscene amount despite being so plain. gojo watches you with lazy amusement, arms crossed, waiting. “don’t flatter yourself,” he smirks. “they’re just extras.”

you scoff, holding the shirt between two fingers. “you expect me to wear this?” the fabric is light, draping between your hands like it was made to be comfortable. he shrugs, unbothered, like he hasn’t trapped you in his condo. “unless you wanna walk around in that tiny dress all morning.” you inhale sharply, hating that he has a point, hating that you agree. without another word, you snatch the clothes and turn on your heel. “where’s the bathroom?”

he gestures lazily down the hall. “take your time. i’ll be making breakfast.”

perfect. time to find your damn shoes.

the second you step out of the bathroom, fresh clothes hanging loosely around you, you’re focused. satoru is too relaxed, too confident, which means your heels are hidden somewhere close. you watch him carefully, studying the way he moves around the kitchen, looking for any subconscious tells. does he glance toward a certain cabinet? does he tense when you walk too close to a particular area? he’s sharp, but so are you when you wanted to be.

casually, you wander through the condo, trailing your fingers along the furniture as if admiring the interior. you open a drawer. satoru doesn’t react. you walk past the living room. nothing. but the second you get too close to the coat closet—his grip on the spatula twitches. your heart leaps. got him.

nonchalantly, you inch toward the closet, watching him carefully. his jaw ticks, just slightly, as you place a hand on the door handle. then—swiftly—you throw it open. jackpot. perched neatly on the top shelf, your heels gleam under the soft lighting, practically mocking you. you reach up, fingers brushing the leather but then—

“ah, ah, ah.”

an arm snakes around your waist, pulling you back before you can grab them. warm, steady, effortless. your breath catches for half a second before you twist in his hold, eyes burning into his smirking face. “bold move, princess,” he murmurs, voice rich with amusement.

you struggle, pushing at his chest. “let me go.”

“mmm, no.” he kicks the closet door shut with his foot, still holding you in place, like he isn’t taking any of this seriously. “gotta admire your dedication, though. i almost let you have it.”

“almost?” you glare, seething. “you were this close to losing, gojo.”

he chuckles, releasing you—but only so he can reach up and grab your heels himself, lifting them with ease. you watch, horrified, as he dangles them just out of reach, like a goddamn villain. “what was that about me losing?” he muses, smirking.

you grind your teeth, so close to committing a felony.

and then, before you can lunge for them, he tosses them onto the highest shelf, where even your most expensive stilettos can’t help you now.

“better luck next time,” he winks, already walking back to the kitchen.

you hate him.

statistically speaking, you are going to commit a crime.

the plate lands in front of you with an air of finality, accompanied by satoru’s insufferable smirk. he leans back, arms crossed, watching you with the quiet satisfaction of a man who knows he’s about to be annoying. steam curls from the freshly prepared food, filling the kitchen with the kind of rich, savory aroma that should be appetizing. but instead of appreciation, you only narrow your eyes at the dish, taking in the suspiciously nutrient-dense arrangement. the omelet is folded too perfectly, golden edges sealing in the spinach, mushrooms, and cherry tomatoes like some overpriced brunch order. beside it, the whole-grain toast is adorned with smashed avocado, a poached egg, and a pretentious sprinkle of chili flakes, sitting next to a bowl of greek yogurt, granola, and freshly sliced strawberries.

you stare at it like it personally insulted your entire bloodline. after a long, drawn-out pause, you lift your gaze, voice flat. “…why does this look like something from a wellness influencer’s meal prep vlog?” satoru doesn’t even blink. “because it has nutrients.” your lips press together, fingers tapping against the edge of the plate, contemplating violence. “you say that like it’s a threat.” he shrugs, unbothered. “your body probably doesn’t recognize them as food.”

you scoff, tilting your head, fully prepared to dismiss him and his ridiculous health agenda. “why are you even doing this?” he leans against the counter, adjusting his glasses with the same ease he delivers his next words. “logical reasoning. i can’t have you dropping dead or getting sick when we have a project to finish. given your current eating choices at the cafeteria, you’re at risk of becoming a liability.” your brows furrow as he casually lists off the stove evidences of your supposed malnutrition—your tray with a single iced coffee and a single croissant for lunch, multiple days in a row. the overheard joke from some acquaintance claiming you live off champagne, wine, and spite.

you hum, feigning intrigue as you lean forward, propping your chin on your palm, eyes gleaming with amusement. “so you watch me?” you purr, tapping a manicured finger against your cheek. “i didn’t take you for the obsessive type, satoru.” he doesn’t even flinch, simply reaching for his milk—because of course he drinks milk—before replying, “you wear billions yen worth of clothes to school every day.” he takes a slow sip, completely unfazed. “you’re hard to miss.”

your lips curl downward as you cross your arms, glaring at him. you hate him. you hate that he’s right. but most of all, you hate that your stomach growls, traitorous and weak, at the sight of the food. satoru, always prepared, simply sets his glass down and gestures toward the plate. “i’ll leave it here,” he says smoothly, “but you’re not getting your heels back until at least 75% of it is gone.”

your fingers tighten against your arms. “50%.”

satoru doesn’t even blink. “70.”

“60.”

“74.”

you groan, grabbing the fork, already regretting every decision that led you here. the first bite is annoyingly good, the kind of well-balanced meal that tastes fresh in a way your usual diet does not. satoru watches as you grumble through another mouthful, amusement flickering in his gaze like he’s thoroughly enjoying this. you hate him. him with his stupid carrot. him with his stupid perfect family. him with his stupidly delicious breakfast.

you shove the plate away with dramatic flair, as if the very act of finishing a balanced meal has physically wounded you. the scrape of porcelain against the table echoes your irritation, your chin tilting upward in defiance. satoru, completely unbothered, lifts his cup with an infuriating smirk. he takes a slow sip, stretching out the silence between you like he’s savoring this exact moment. “there. happy now?” you huff, extending your hand expectantly, fingers curling. “great. now give me my shoes.”

satoru hums, head tilting, eyes glinting with something far too thoughtful for your liking. the pause is just long enough to make your stomach twist, a telltale sign that he is about to be insufferable. finally, with a lazy shrug, he exhales. “hmm. nah.” you blink. “gojo.” his smirk widens, and you know—you know—this is going to be a battle.

“look, princess, i did the work last night,” he says smoothly, setting down his milk with a soft clink. “you owe me at least a couple more hours of focus.” the way he says it—calm, reasonable, completely unshaken—only fuels the fire burning beneath your skin. you open your mouth to argue, to tell him he owes you for this entire ordeal, for stealing your shoes, for ruining your Saturday. instead, he slides something across the floor toward you, the sound soft against the polished wood. cotton slippers.

you stare at them. then at him. then back at them.

oh. oh, so this is war.

your fingers twitch, nails pressing into your palms as you wordlessly slip your feet into the slippers. no reaction. no visible irritation. he wants a fight? fine. you storm toward the door, posture sharp, head high, fully prepared to make the most dramatic exit of your life—until something catches your eye.

you freeze.

the full-length mirror by the doorway reflects a horrifying truth. oversized t-shirt. baggy sweatpants. cotton slippers.

oh. oh, hell no.

your breath catches in your throat, a slow, creeping horror settling in your stomach. there is no reality where you let anyone see you like this. your heels—custom, initials engraved inside—are the only way you are leaving this condo with your dignity intact. your fingers clench at your sides, jaw locking as you inhale through your nose.

retreat is the only option.

the study is set up like a war room, everything meticulously arranged—his laptop open, notes stacked neatly, a fresh glass of milk still steaming beside him. satoru settles into his chair with practiced ease, fingers already moving over the keyboard like he was born to do this. you, on the other hand, drag your feet, slumping into the seat across from him like you’re being held hostage. which, technically, you are. you sigh—long, exaggerated, a pointed display of suffering. three minutes pass before you do it again, just to be insufferable.

satoru doesn’t even glance up. “you sigh that dramatically again, and i’m charging you per exhale.” you shoot him a glare, arms crossing as you sink deeper into your chair. he remains unbothered, typing away, his attention focused entirely on the screen in front of him. the case study sits between you like a physical barrier, detailing how high-end brands manipulate exclusivity to maximize profits. for once, he is the one completely immersed in work, and you are the one plotting something else entirely.

he’s too focused. too comfortable. you need him distracted. so, as he types, you lean forward—slow, deliberate—elbows resting against the table, chin propped in your palm. your movements are fluid, effortless, the kind of ease that comes with knowing exactly what effect you have on people. “you know, satoru…” your voice is honeyed, smooth, the kind of tone that makes men listen.

he doesn’t stop typing, but you see it—the brief flick of his eyes, the way his fingers hesitate, just for a second. “no,” he hums, still focused. “but i have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

your smile curves slow, knowing, as you tilt your head just enough to let your hair cascade down one shoulder. “you work so hard,” you murmur, trailing a single finger along the edge of his notebook. “shouldn’t you take a break? relax a little?”

he hums again, as if actually considering it. your breath catches—not from nerves, but from the anticipation of winning. and yet—

“fascinating,” he says instead, voice lower now, laced with quiet amusement. “i seem to recall you saying you’d ‘just sit pretty and get the grade.’”

your lips part slightly before you recover, before you let the smirk return, slow and deliberate. “i could help you relax,” you whisper, voice edged with something dangerous, something inviting.

satoru finally looks up.

and oh, he looks.

not in the way you expect—no fluster, no hint of weakness, just sharp, assessing eyes that take you in entirely. his glasses are missing, leaving nothing to obstruct the clarity of pale blue, framed by thick lashes, unreadable and steady. his hair is slightly tousled, the result of him running his fingers through it absentmindedly, a stark contrast to the crispness of his tailored shirt, sleeves rolled up with casual elegance.

he has always been unfairly good-looking, but this—this—is irritating. because as per the disney movies you watched as a kid—nerds aren’t supposed to look like this. nerds should be awkward and fumbling, stuttering when girls like you flirt with them. they should be socially inept, incapable of handling someone like you.

gojo satoru is none of those things.

he is calculating. meticulous. impossible to throw off balance. and worst of all—he’s looking at you like he already won.

your stomach tightens, and you hate that it does. it’s an involuntary reaction, a betrayal of logic, and yet you feel it—low, insistent, coiling beneath your ribs like something dangerous. satoru hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, hasn’t done anything except look at you, but somehow, that’s worse. his gaze, sharp even behind the lenses of his reading glasses, is steady and assessing, pale blue cutting through the space between you like a finely honed blade. he isn’t flustered. he isn’t falling for it. he’s just sitting there, adjusting the sleeves of his neatly pressed shirt with the ease of someone who already knows how this will end.

then, finally, his lips curve into a smirk, slow and deliberate, like he’s humoring you. “huh.” a quiet, thoughtful sound, like he’s observing a puzzle in motion, waiting to see if the pieces will fall into place. anticipation curls in your stomach—warmer now, thrumming—because you recognize this game, have played it before, have won before. but just as you settle into that confidence, just as you prepare to push further, he shifts. a subtle tilt of his head, a glance downward through his glasses, a movement so calculated that it makes your breath catch.

and then he leans in.

closer. slow. mirroring your energy perfectly, matching you in a way that makes your pulse stutter. his movements are effortless, precise, not the hesitant reaction of someone caught off guard, but the deliberate advance of someone fully in control. his breath is warm against your skin, a ghost of heat, and for the first time tonight, you feel the weight of his presence like something tangible. framed by his reading glasses, his gaze flickers down, cool and unreadable, his expression impossible to decipher. he is closer than he should be, closer than you expected, and the moment stretches between you, stretched thin, electric—

then, voice dipping lower, teasing, “tell me—what’s the ROI of this strategy?”

you blink.

“…what.”

he leans back, smooth, unbothered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as if that’s all this was. his hands return to his notes, fingers tapping idly against the paper, focus shifting like you hadn’t just offered yourself up to be indulged. “return on investment,” he repeats, tone bordering on conversational, as if this is a casual business discussion and not an outright reversal of power. “if i stop working to entertain you, what’s the profit margin?”

your lips shut at that.

but you are nothing if not determined.

so, as satoru turns his attention back to setting up the presentation slides, fingers skimming across the keyboard, you shift slightly in your seat, stretching out one bare leg beneath the table. it’s lazy, absentminded—except it isn’t. the movement is slow, deliberate, just enough to brush your foot against his calf, a soft touch, fleeting, barely there. his fingers pause over the keys for the briefest second, hesitation so minuscule that most wouldn’t notice. but you do.

he doesn’t react.

your lips curve, pressing a little more, your foot nudging against the muscle of his leg, lingering warmth against fabric. you hum, voice dipping lower, amusement threading through your words. “you know…” the suggestion is light, teasing, edged with something playful, something calculated. “this project would be so much more fun if we loosened up a little.” your touch lingers, slow and patient, waiting for the inevitable reaction, waiting for the shift in his composure.

satoru finally looks at you again.

except—this time, his gaze sharpens.

your breath catches, but you keep your smirk, waiting, expecting something—a quip, a flustered look, a flicker of something to prove that this is working. then—without breaking eye contact—his hand moves. fingers grazing over your ankle, warm, steady, barely a whisper of touch. your pulse skips, anticipation curling at the base of your spine.

then, effortlessly, gently—he lifts your foot, his fingers skimming over the curve of your ankle, warm and deliberate. the touch is barely there, almost reverent, like he’s handling something fragile, something worth preserving. your breath catches, pulse tightening in anticipation, but he doesn’t waver—doesn’t hesitate—as he guides your foot downward. soft fabric brushes against your skin, unwelcome, final. and before the weight of the moment can settle, before you can even think to react—he pats your ankle.

twice.

it is the kind of gesture meant for small children, for sleepy kittens curled up in their beds, for something harmless—something lesser. like a parent indulging a tantrum. like you were never playing the same game to begin with.

and then, just like that, he returns to his keyboard, his attention already elsewhere.

you gape.

he did not just do that.

“you’re predictable.”

satoru's voice is calm, absentminded, like he’s merely making an observation. like he has already moved on from whatever game you thought you were playing.

silence. absolute, deafening silence.

heat prickles at the back of your neck, irritation creeping up your spine like a slow-moving fire. this isn’t new. it’s never been new. he’s done this before—stolen the upper hand, outmaneuvered you, made you feel small without even trying. when you were five, chocolates cradled in your hands, heart wide open—only to be met with rejection. when you were fifteen, watching him sit there, perfect, untouched by the kind of ruin that had hollowed you out. it has been years of this, and now, here you are, again.

but this time—this time, you thought you had him. and yet, there he sits, completely unfazed, as if you never stood a chance. your nails dig into your palms, jaw locking, frustration bubbling up before you can stop it. in the game of seducing countless of nameless idiots who call themselves men, you have been winning, effortlessly. and for the first time in a long, long time—you lost.

and you hate it. hate that he saw through you so easily. hate that he dismissed you so effortlessly. hate that he’s right.

so you do the only thing you can do—you tilt your chin up, smooth down your shirt, and pretend like it doesn’t bother you.

(it does. it really, really does.)

you sulk as you scribble down numbers, barely sparing them a glance, not even pretending to check your work. bored, you start reading over satoru’s shoulder, eyes skimming across the words on the screen as his fingers move over the keyboard. at first, you’re only half-paying attention, your chin propped up in your palm, counting the seconds until you can leave. but then—something catches. a tiny inconsistency, a missing link between numbers and reality, something he should have accounted for. your frown deepens, and before you can stop yourself, the words slip out. “…wait.”

he doesn’t stop typing, but his head tilts slightly, acknowledging you. “hm?”

your hand gestures vaguely at the screen, brows furrowing. “you missed something.” that finally gets him to pause, his fingers hovering over the keys. your eyes flicker over the data again, mentally sorting through the logic. “your numbers are right, but this doesn’t account for social perception. brands don’t just limit supply to make something rare—they manufacture desire.”

he exhales, slow, thoughtful. “…elaborate.”

you tilt your head, considering how best to phrase it, tracing a pattern against the wood of his desk with your finger. “luxury brands aren’t just selling exclusivity,” you murmur, the thought coming together as you speak. “they sell identity. people want what they think will make them feel important. it’s not about who can afford it—it’s about who wants to be seen affording it.”

satoru stills.

it’s subtle—the way his fingers stop moving, the way the air between you seems to shift. when he finally turns to look at you, his usual lazy amusement is gone, replaced by something sharper. it’s the first time you’ve seen him really listen, really assess you like you’re more than just a puzzle he’s already solved.

“…huh.”

your brows pull together. “what?”

his gaze flickers over you, unreadable. “nothing. just… didn’t expect you to actually think about this.”

your lips curl, chin tilting slightly. “surprised i have a brain?”

he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “nah. just amused you actually use it.”

your hand moves before you think, launching a pen straight at his head.

he dodges, of course—leaning slightly to the side without even looking up, still grinning. “that was uncalled for.”

“so is your entire existence.”

he smirks, tapping his fingers against the desk, but there’s something else beneath it—interest, still lingering in his gaze. “tell me more.”

you blink. “…what?”

he gestures toward the screen, expectant. “the whole ‘manufacturing desire’ thing. break it down.”

your eyes narrow, skeptical. “…why?”

he leans back in his chair, arms crossing as he watches you. “because it makes sense. and you clearly have thoughts on it.”

you hesitate. there’s no teasing lilt in his voice, no smug challenge—just a casual statement, an easy invitation to keep going. and for a brief second, something flickers in your chest—something foreign, something unsettling, something dangerously close to satisfaction. because satoru gojo, for once, is actually listening to you.

you should be smug about it. should be flipping your hair, rolling your eyes, brushing it off like his sudden interest doesn’t get under your skin. but instead, you just stare at him, momentarily thrown off by the simple fact that this is is new.

so you scoff, tilting your head, voice deliberately light. “wow. gojo satoru, actually listening to someone else? historic.”

he just grins, spinning his pen between his fingers. “nah. just enjoying the novelty of you saying something that isn’t complete nonsense.”

there it is. the irritation you needed to shove away that strange feeling in your chest.

you huff, grabbing crumpling a sticky note and tossing it at his head. “never mind. i take it back. go back to being insufferable.”

satoru dodges again, still smirking. “too late. tell me more.”

you almost do. almost get caught up in the fact that he wants to hear what you have to say, that he’s watching you like you actually matter. but then reality settles in—the project still unfinished, your actual shoes still out of reach, and the longer you entertain this, the longer you’re stuck here, in his oversized clothes, in his stupid cotton slippers, playing his stupid game.

your lips press into a thin line. focus.

with a dramatic sigh, you stretch out your arms, feigning disinterest. “whatever. let’s just finish this so i can get my heels and leave.”

he smirks, tapping his pen against the desk. “wow. didn’t think you’d be the one saying that.”

you roll your eyes, already reaching for the keyboard. “shut up and pull up the market segmentation reports.”

satoru huffs a quiet laugh but complies, spinning his laptop around. “yes, ma’am.”

afternoon sunlight spills through the windows, stretching long shadows across the study. the air is thick with the remnants of concentration, the quiet hum of progress settling between you. the introduction is done—barely, but enough to count—so when satoru pushes back his chair and stretches, you barely glance up. when he leaves the room, you assume it’s to grab another glass of milk or some other infuriatingly wholesome thing. but when he returns, something gleams in his hand, catching the light.

“here.”

your head snaps up. your heels. your very expensive, custom-made, long-suffering stilettos, finally returned to you. you don’t waste a second—snatching them from his grasp and shoving them onto your feet with the desperation of a woman reclaiming her dignity. the familiar height steadies you, makes you feel normal again, no longer reduced to the soft, pitiful comfort of cotton slippers. before he can say anything else, you grab your dress from the guest room, tossing it over your arm like a war trophy, and stride toward the door without a single glance back.

“alright, thanks for the hospitality, gojo. it’s been terrible.”

you know you look ridiculous—white t-shirt, oversized sweatpants, designer stilettos, party dress draped over your arm like evidence—but you refuse to acknowledge it. if you have to walk through tokyo looking like a scandal waiting to happen just to escape, so be it. commit to the bit. escape with what’s left of your pride. but just as your fingers brush against the doorknob, a hand catches your wrist.

you turn, slow and deliberate, gaze flat, unimpressed. satoru stands there, leaning against the doorway like he has all the time in the world, arms crossed, posture relaxed in that effortlessly smug way that makes you want to throw something at his head. his expression is unreadable, but his presence alone is an obstacle, another roadblock standing between you and your much-needed exit. his voice is calm, too casual, as he says, “i’ll drive you back.” there’s no inflection, no hesitation—just a simple statement, as if it’s already decided.

you hum, tilting your head, considering him for a moment before your lips curve. “aw, can’t bear to let me go yet?” the teasing lilt in your voice is light, effortless, a carefully crafted trap—but he doesn’t bite. doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t scoff, doesn’t even give you the satisfaction of a reaction. instead, he watches you, expression steady, the corner of his mouth twitching—mildly amused but not enough to give you the upper hand. when he finally speaks, his voice is smooth, completely unaffected. “no.” simple. final.

your pout deepens, purely out of spite, fingers lazily tracing the smooth fabric of your dress draped over your arm. “don’t worry,” you murmur, eyes glinting with mischief. “you’ll see me in your dreams.” it’s meant to be a parting shot, something to fluster him, something to at least chip at his infuriatingly composed exterior. but satoru just exhales through his nose, something close to a laugh—not mocking, but certainly not flustered, either.

he raises a brow, unimpressed, amusement barely concealed behind his glasses. “i’ll see you in class, where you’ll be late, as usual.”

your eye twitches. annoying. so annoying.

his gaze flickers downward, scanning you, slow and assessing, like he’s only now taking in the full absurdity of your situation. then, finally, his lips curve—barely noticeable, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the edges. “you are about to walk around tokyo in a white t-shirt, my sweatpants, and heels—while carrying your skimpy little dress like evidence.”

you don’t react. just stare.

but of course, he isn’t done.

“probability of people assuming you just got kicked out of some guy’s condominium? 86%.”

your jaw clenches.

“probability of old women on the train side-eyeing you in disappointment? 94.3%.”

your eye twitches.

“probability of you running into someone from university and them recognizing the pants as mine? 78%. higher if they have working eyesight.”

deep inhale.

he taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, tilting his head slightly as if going over the numbers again. “probability of them taking a picture and posting it on the university forum with a vague, scandalous caption?” he pauses, lips curving ever so slightly. “mmm. 67%.”

you hate him.

you hate that he’s right. hate that he’s always right, that no matter how much you maneuver, no matter how much you scheme, he somehow stays three steps ahead. but more than anything—more than his arrogance, more than his stupidly smug expression—you hate that you now have two options. one: suffer the consequences of your own stubbornness. two: let him win.

so you choose violence instead.

before he can say anything else, you latch onto his arm, syrupy sweet, bright-eyed and deadly. your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, your full weight pressing against him like a clingy girlfriend, voice dripping with feigned resignation. “you’re right, gojo,” you sigh, exhaling dramatically, batting your lashes. “guess i’ll just have to stay by your side, huh?”

his gaze flickers to you, mildly amused, as if you’ve just done something vaguely entertaining but ultimately unsurprising.

no blink. no hesitation. no telltale crack in composure—just the slow, deliberate way his eyes skim over you, unreadable, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even seem remotely affected, only watching you with a kind of detached curiosity, like he’s waiting to see what else you’ll try. then, with infuriating ease, he lifts a hand, adjusts his glasses, and exhales—slow, bored, utterly unshaken. “guess so.”

and then—without a single pause, without even acknowledging your grip—he starts walking.

your brain short-circuits.

your heels dig into the floor, fingers tightening around his sleeve, gaping. this was not the plan. he was supposed to freeze, to stammer, to at least acknowledge what you were doing. instead, he just keeps moving, unbothered, uninterrupted, dragging you along with the same level of concern one might have for a shopping bag hooked around their wrist.

“…you were supposed to be flustered.”

he shrugs, effortless, not even sparing you a glance. “try harder.”

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[tojisun]

AHHHH thank u smm <333

our shallow graves — 02

recom miles quaritch x recom fem reader

!! smut (between fwb outside of main pair) - minors dni; heat (as theme); mean quaritch; power imbalance; reference to (made up) past; worldbuilding; fast slow-burn; switching povs; weapons; reader adopts a nickname (callsign) which gets used // 5.1k words

: luvv writing from a chara’s pov n not just the reader’s <33; my bff wanted a love triangle but noo there would never be, i swear; replaying lady gaga and thenbhd as i write this; i hope u guys would luv this!!

↦ hydra - recom machine gun (not the door gun in the samsons); y70 - bullpup rifle/skel bullpup

prev // m.list // next - tbp

camaraderie with the colonel seemed to deteriorate overnight. your only saving grace is that it seemed like no one understands why his slight recognition for your talents evaporated quickly, the team having been reduced to shooting you with concerned glances whenever quaritch continues to ice you out.

you wanted to believe that it didn’t bother you much, but the taste of failure sits heavy on the tip of your tongue. quaritch is your superior, someone you were willing to interact with at an arm’s length, but now, even that seems impossible. 

“give him time,” walker says as you two enter the gun range, modified with an open ceiling to allow your na’vi bodies to breathe without the need for the respirator. “he’s probably still pissed because recon was delayed but c’mon now, we need extra time to take on the hellhole pandora’s about to be.”

you hum, your mind far away, as you begin to line up in one of the shooting stalls. you feel bare without your hydra but walker insisted on practicing with the Y70. 

“for good time’s sake!” she said, laughing when you rolled your eyes at her, calling her out on the fact that she only preferred the rifle because it was what she was exceptional at. 

your tail swishes behind you slowly before stilling, suspended in the air – a perfect imitation of your focus. you purge your mind of all thoughts, steadying your breath as you gaze at the moving targets. thrill runs down your spine at the first fire, the bullet going through the head of the target in a clean, single shot right at its temple. it is almost too natural how you were able to fire off the other bullets, muscle memory kicking in as your years of experience rush back to you, engulfing you with a single focus.

clean shot upon clean shot; head, heart, lungs – every vital organ and artery that you were aiming at were hit. it is like nothing existed in that moment, not your new life or your repeating nightmares of your death or even quaritch. it is just you and that rifle, against the world.

it was the first real taste of freedom you ever had from the moment you woke up in pandora, fifteen years after the war. 

walker stalks towards you with a grin, her rifle slung on her shoulder, looking smug as she shows you her perfect tally. you grin at her, feeling your tail finally untense, swishing around in languid satisfaction. 

“look at you with the perfect shots,” she says, dramatically whistling as though she wasn’t a better marksman than you are. 

“i have a good teacher,” you reply, winking at her. she chuckles, shaking her head, and you wish she had her braids down just so you can see them bump against each other. 

“and you are welcome.” walker places a hand on her chest before bowing theatrically, making you erupt in hearty giggles. 

comfortable silence settles as you two walk back to your quarters, ears flicking at each sound that rumbles from the belly of the compound. 

the sensitivity of your heightened senses brings you back to the night the colonel caught you sneaking out of mansk’s room, pure anger shimmering within his beautiful golden eyes and poison coating his hissed-out words. you do not know what set him off – you do not want to believe that it simply had been because you and mansk fooled around, not when quaritch has done worse.

(in your brief encounter with the human colonel quaritch, you have seen them together only once. the babe was swaddled in thick blankets, leaving only tufts of sandy hair visible to curious eyes. 

you tried not to linger when you saw how the colonel walked around with the child in his arms, cradled gently, carefully, his usually-stern face melting into something kind. into something human.

the harbinger of destruction. a father.

you couldn’t wrap your head around the man. not even as you watched in silence, obscured from his line of sight, as he nuzzled his nose on the boy’s forehead, breathing him in.

pandora’s real first human, a boy blessed by eywa, and there he was, held in the hands of the man who would threaten her balance.)

“maria,” you call, slowing down your steps and turning to look at your friend.

walker hums, tilting her head to meet your gaze. “what’s up?”

“do you, uh, know what happened to the kid?” you didn’t need to specify who it is that you meant. 

she stops walking, her brows furrowing in hesitant confusion. you lick your lips, wondering if you might’ve overstepped, after all, walker may be your friend, but her loyalties will always be with the colonel. even back in hell’s gate, she always separated her friendship with you from her duty – it felt like she constantly lived two different lives. 

“it’s just that i can unwind with you,” she used to say, huffing when the clips she used to pin her bun got lost within the gelled strands of her hair. you would pull her to your bed, chuckling quietly, before taking over, gentle hands familiar with her hair like it was yours that you were grooming. 

“why do you ask?” walker responds, twisting so she can fully face you.

you shrug. “i don’t know,” you say, a half-truth. “the memories are coming back to me slowly and one of them is him.”

walker remains quiet, studying you with pursed lips and narrowed eyes, before a sigh creeps out of her lips. you feel your heart lighten up, your body uncoiling from the tension, and you shoot her a small smile, grateful for her trust. 

“i dunno, to be honest,” she says as you two begin walking again, your steps this time are more languid. you two don’t entertain the gawking humans who scurry out of the way as you and walker make your way back to your rooms, busy murmuring to each other.

“they probably sent him back to somewhere in terra where relatives could take care o’him.”

you grunt, nodding, choosing not to prod any more. 

just before the two of you can part ways to enter your respective rooms, lopez comes running down the hallway, hollering your names.

“les’ go! colonel’s back from the meeting, and word is that we get our mission today!”

“thank fuck for that!” walker whoops. she meets your eyes. “rico, come on!”

you try to ignore the sudden swoop of paranoia that settles in your stomach, choosing instead to follow as walker and lopez run to meet with the others. you had hoped that you would’ve been able to fix whatever it was that happened between you and the colonel before the mission, but it seems like you don’t have that privilege anymore.

it seems like with quaritch, you don’t get mercy. 

-------

just like what lopez said, the colonel returned with orders from the brass that you all would be sent out soon – the omatikaya stronghold changed upon the return of the humans, and now you are all tasked to draw jake sully out. you are all given a week to prepare for pandora’s beasts – you are aware that they meant the na’vi more than the actual animals roaming the lush jungle.

recon was cancelled, the new schedule no longer permitted such opportunity; the general had, instead, ordered your squad to move in and navigate the hard way. you tried not to shrink at the withering look that quaritch shot you as he mentioned that. mansk shifted close, as though to show that he stood with you even against the colonel’s seething glare, but it seemed like it was the wrong thing to do as quaritch only seemed to grow angrier. 

you tried your best not to react, but your tail dropped, coiling around your thigh in the face of the colonel’s disapproval. you are too ashamed to look at the others, not wanting to see their own disappointment or even their pity so you kept your eyes on quaritch, using his authority to hide from the attention that your squad was giving you.

the meeting reaches its end, the colonel ordering wainfleet and zdinarsik to take over. mansk hovers, falling into step with you as you both move to leave the room together when the colonel’s voice stops you.

“rico, you stay. mansk, y’r dismissed.”

mansk shoots you a quick glance before nodding at the colonel and leaving with the rest. wainfleet had taken the lead as they all marched out with zdinarsik covering their back, the taller recom nodding at you upon meeting your gaze before closing the door behind her.

there is silence in the war room as you stand still, waiting for quaritch to make the first move. you rack your mind for another fuck up that he can berate you with, but nothing comes up, leaving you grasping at nothing but the bubbling anxiousness gnawing at you. 

“i suggested to general ardmore that we bench you, rico.” he raises his hand at your visceral reaction – your jaw falling open as you flinch, protests about to slip from your lips, as a now-aborted step almost draws you close to him. “listen to me first, corporal.”

you blink at the realization that his voice doesn’t denote any malice, the rich baritone is painfully neutral, and you think, then, how hearing his indifference just stings a whole lot more. 

you remain silent, watching with bated breath as quaritch pulls a chair out and motions for you to sit down. your legs feel like lead as you fall into it with no grace, your body going taut with tension when the colonel takes the one just in front of you. 

the space between the two of you is decent – it is the normal distance – but you can’t help but feel the warmth emitting from his bigger figure, almost like your body is singing for him. you try to breathe through your mouth, afraid that you will get a whiff of his scent, reducing you into a puddle of uncertainty and need. 

you blink your glassy eyes up at him, trying to focus, to listen, but it is like all those times that quaritch pushed you away had made you hypersensitive about him. he is all you can focus on; past the need to prove to him of your worth, he is all that fills you up. the way he smells, the way his eyes study you, the way his voice rips through the static – you want all of it. 

heat builds up in the pit of your stomach.

fuck. 

“you doin’ ok there?” the colonel asks, his indifference melting as worry bleeds into his tone. 

“i, uhm,” you begin, your voice faltering. you try to reel in your mind, grinding your teeth to snap you from your trance. 

“yeah.” you clear your throat, breathing in shakily. “i mean, yes sir.”

quaritch grunts, his eyes still pinned on you. “this is exactly why i wanted to leave you behind.”

that brings you out of the haze, your attention snapping back into a singularity. “permission to ask why, sir?”

quaritch sighs. “the science pukes mentioned how y’r still lagging behind. kid, i’m gonna be honest with you – i can’t afford a weak link.”

his words feel like knives carving into you. you’ve always thrived in your capabilities – you wouldn’t have gone far if you weren’t good, if not one of the best, and yet, in his eyes, your single fumble has cost so much. 

“pandora is gonna eat you up and spit you out – well, it already did, otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. and yet, general ardmore still insisted that we take you.” 

you watch as the colonel leans over, eating up the miniscule distance between yourselves to peer at you. “tell me, rico. just why are you so important to her?”

you wish you have the answer; you wish you have anything to give to him, to make sense of your own purpose, but nothing comes up. it is like you’re constantly floating around, untethered, and yet severely burdened at the same time. they tell you how the general favours you, and yet she has yet to tell you that herself, leaving you alone in navigating your position amongst the other recoms. 

the loneliness doesn’t stop eating at you.

“colonel, i really don’t know,” you finally utter, breaking eye contact to stare at the ground. 

quaritch clicks his tongue. “no, there’s gotta be somethin’ i’m missin’. i read your files, you know that?” he grins meanly when your eyes snapped back to him. “oh yeah, i did. and imagine my goddamn disappointment when it showed me nothin’ noteworthy.”

he stands up, his voice gaining strength, and you realize that you can now see his fury in its entirety.

“yeah, you’ve got a way with flying, but that skill’s practically useless unless we can get our own banshees. and even then, they ain’t machines – your skill’s obsolete. y’ve got a way with guns, sure, but so do the rest of my squad; it ain’t just lyle who’s got a great shot, after all. and yeah y’r hand-to-hand combat is good, but it ain’t the best.”

you feel tears pooling in the corner of your eyes as quaritch continues his admonishment. you feel like everything that you are is suspended in the air, carelessly peeled off and overturned until you are nothing but your skin and bones.

“y’know what i saw?” the colonel asks in a barely-contained snarl. 

you do not reply, but it doesn’t matter to him anyway. 

“i saw how y’r just a goddamn nobody because if you were any better, i would’ve taken you in before. so tell me rico, just what the hell are you doin’ here?”

you do not know what urged you to do it, but next thing you know you are standing mere inches before the colonel, breaching his personal space to poke at his chest. “i don’t need to prove myself to you,” you hiss. 

(it was a lie. after all, it was all you wanted to do. for him to acknowledge you. for him to – what do the na’vis call it? – see you.)

quaritch scoffs, pausing, before he lunges forward to grip your jaw, forcing your head to tilt up and making you look at him. you feel your breath leave your lungs, the blood rushing to your ears and deafening you. anything else seemed to stop, leaving you alone with your petering rage as you gaze up at him.

his breath tickles your lips and you gasp, soundless, feeling the desire exploding in your chest. you do not know what it is that he originally wanted to do because in the next heartbeat, just a slight stutter, all you feel is his lips meeting yours. 

quaritch devours your hiccuped squeak, his searing lips moving against your own, pulling out more of the little desperate sounds from your throat only for them to be swallowed hungrily by him. the kiss is hot, messy, but you can’t help but be obsessed with it.

his scent fills you up, settling deep in your chest and making you throb with want. you grip his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to touch more of him. but at the feeling of your hands, quaritch rips his lips from yours and scurries to back away from you.

you stand there, your chest heaving as you catch your breath, feeling your lips tingle from his kiss. you watch as his face crumples at the realization of what he’s done before it reverts back into faux stoicism, as though he isn’t affected by the kiss. as though he doesn’t feel the same burning desire that engulfed you whole.

“colonel-”

“no fraternizing with a squad member,” quaritch utters before he lifts his hand up to rub at his lips with the back of his palm.

“oh, so now we’re following the golden rule?” you mutter, the words bubbling out before you can stop them. 

you know that you crossed a line at the mention of what he’s done with socorro but you are too filled with a blazing storm of conflicting feelings, rendering you uninhibited as they clash in your chest and drain you of all your energy. you feel yourself shake at the intensity of your emotions – of your yearning – but the colonel continues to stand far away. far from your grasp.  

he’s made his decision. 

“get going, corporal. y’r dismissed.”

you run out of the room, not caring of the way the tears slip from the corners of your eyes to drench your cheeks, and pretending that you cannot smell the faint scent of the colonel sticking to you.

pretending that you do not feel something in you break. 

-------

looking for mansk was the easy part. not using him to drown out the weight of your conflicting feelings, that was the hard part. 

mansk has taken you in his arms, cradling you close as you wept on the crook of his neck. he was silent, like he already knew what it is that aches you, and you wonder how could he. you barely knew why you feel betrayal sit in the pit of your stomach; why you feel so drawn to quaritch – attuned to the sound of his voice and the staccato of his footsteps.

why do you ache for his touch?

if it is heat, if it is all biology, mansk does a good enough job in extinguishing the flames of painful need curling within your blood. and yet you couldn’t stop yourself from seeking out bigger and rougher hands and a gruffer voice, the southern accent looping around the vowels, making your stomach clench with desire.

quaritch is all that you’ve ever wanted ever since he first called your name, unknown familiarity sinking in your chest like a rock chucked to the ocean – the paradox is a metaphor of your feelings. funny, isn’t it?

“i don’t understand,” you murmur, sniffling as you pull your head from mansk’s shoulder. you wipe at your eyes, groaning at the futility of it when fresh tears fall and drench your cheeks anyway. 

mansk remains silent, his hands have fallen from your back to grasp at your wrists, the warmth from his palms not doing anything to soothe your nerves.

“it’s like he needed that little blip in my performance to finally rationalize the hate he feels for me, and then it just didn’t stop,” you continue, breathing in shakily. “and i wish i could just ignore him but, fuck, i can’t.”

you shake yourself from mansk’s touch, standing up from his bed to pace around his room. the pads of your feet are quiet on the metal floors and you ignore the shot of coolness that comes with every step. your braids, chopped just below your jaw, frame your face with stray strands sticking on your damp cheeks despite your frantic moving. 

“he’s there and he’s nowhere at the same time, devin. like, i try my best to avoid him but he’s always a consistent presence in my life. it doesn’t fucking matter if he’s ignoring me, not when he’s always in the same room, within the same space.” your voice raises, scratching your throat as anger and hurt bubble up, ever-so expanding until you are grasping at the remnants of your rationality. 

“and i want him. i feel like dying when i’m not with him and he-” you pause, a choked sob getting punched out from your lungs. mansk startles, clambering from his bed to hover by your side, not really closing in but standing just near enough that you can see the downturn of his ears, his worry etched on his face. 

“he doesn’t feel the same way, dev.” 

you crumble, feeling lightheaded from the explosion of anguish burning at your seams, and mansk finally embraces you. 

the first kiss was hesitant, chapped lips meeting bruised ones, and he doesn’t move until you are pawing at his shirt and tugging him close. mansk falls into his role easily, nipping your bottom lip as a distraction which you take eagerly.

quaritch’s snarl from many nights ago creep into your mind, his southern accent tearing through the sudden buzz of mansk’s touch, taunting you – “you reek.” 

you think just how upsetting it is to feel your desire expand into fanned flames at the memory of quaritch. at the memory of his anger – the only thing of him that he’s given to you freely. 

mansk rips his lips from yours, panting, his eyes dilated with desire. “rico, y’smell so good.”

your shirt is torn from your body, your cargos thrown over broad shoulders – not broad enough, not tall enough, not angry enough. 

you try to forget, to stop thinking, as mansk fucks you; thin fingers sliding along your slit and sinking into your heat, curling to prepare you for his length. not even the way three of his fingers overwhelm you with the feeling of being stuffed can silence the thoughts – ‘not thick enough, not long enough, not rough enough’ – and you bury your face on his pillow, trying to smother the tears. 

the slide of his cock should’ve rendered your mind into white static, but it seems like your veins are thrumming with a visceral need, one that you know only quaritch can quell. 

“choke me,” you mumble, blinking wetly up at mansk, your chest heaving at the muted desire filling you up. 

“what?” mansk asks, breathless, his body shaking from the crashing heat. 

“choke me,” you repeat, this time clearer. 

mansk hesitates, his wide eyes growing bigger, his scent curling into something darker. the wrap of his hand around your throat is sure, gentle despite your plea, before he squeezes. the pressure grounds you, feeding into your desperation. into your delusions. 

(you think of quaritch. it seems like you never stop thinking about him. 

he will take you the same way lava takes everything – devouring beyond flesh, nipping right into the core until all it leaves is the flames of a thousand suns. his desires will crush you, filling up the spaces between your blood vessels and your synapses with nothing but him. 

and you will love it. you will let yourself be scorched because ever since you have met him, all you knew was fire and how they lick up into your chest, swallowing your heart, almost like they are branding his name directly in you. 

like you have belonged to him even before.)

mansk wipes you with a towel, murmuring soft apologies when your body jolts in oversensitivity at the rough drag of the cloth. he passes you his shirt and then pulls you underneath the sheets, tucking you in for the night. 

“thank you,” you say, weakly smiling at him.

mansk returns the smile, brushing your braids away from your face. “just like old times.”

your eyebrows furrow, confusion triumphing over exhaustion. “old times?”

“yeah,” he grunts, falling beside you. “you’ve always liked the colonel and granted we didn’t fuck then, but you always vented to me so, y’know?”

mansk’s words wash over you like a crashing tide, pulling you from the shore and submerging you into the depths of the unknown. you grasp at your memories, flitting from one to the other, trying to find pieces of your affection for the colonel only to fall short. surely, you would’ve remembered. surely, the feelings, with how intense they are, did not just go away; that you did not just lose a piece of yourself.

you think of the haunting, how the colonel and socorro appear in your memories in fragments, and feel a twinge in your heart. was it not indifference? that all this time when you remembered her, when you used her to learn more about quaritch, it was because you liked him too? 

were you always a fool like this? searching for bits of quaritch in the hands of another, trying to claim the stray parts like they could be yours to begin with. 

“rico?” mansk’s voice breaks through your reverie. 

“i… i don’t remember.”

he turns to you in surprise. “what do you mean you don’t remember?”

“just that,” you say, your voice faint. “i don’t- i can’t remember.”

-------

the moment miles saw his reflection – blue and distinctly not human – he knew there was little of himself left in the hellhole that pandora had become. autonomy and freedom no longer meant much, not when he’s become a weapon. 

he’s died once, they said. had he still been the commanding officer in the compound, he’d have the shrink do drills at the stupidity of pointing out his untimely and obvious demise. 

no fucking shit he died. miles would’ve remembered turning into a goddamn na’vi if he didn’t. 

but, at the end of the day, his anger didn’t matter. like a freak show, he’s back – not really as the same man, but similar enough that the old colonel’s ghost thrums with hymns of vengeance, carrying over to miles’ own person. because miles may not remember his death, but he remembers jake sully’s betrayal.

the boy had chosen his people and miles had chosen his, it is that simple. 

the mission was straight-forward, but miles isn’t deluded enough to assume that it would be just as easy. he’s failed once already, after all. perhaps being a na’vi could switch the tides; perhaps being one wouldn’t matter – whatever it may be, miles is ready to carry the burden of killing jake sully.

with a single focus, miles lets the unfamiliarity of his new body roll off his skin like dew before forcing himself to learn and to adapt. painstakingly, he even tried to salvage the pieces of augustine’s research, hoping to find any scraps of information regarding the na’vi in her ramblings, but the compound has scrubbed themselves off the traitor’s books. don’t mind the fact that augustine’s the best goddamn na’vi expert, apparently, they rather bitch around under the pretence of unnecessary patriotism, instead of taking advantage of her research. 

when he asked who he should talk to regarding their physio, he was told that augustine was replaced by cooper. unsurprisingly, cooper was unable to fill in the shoes that augustine left, but miles preferred him anyway. the man has lesser empathy, lesser curiosity about the wonders of pandora. 

‘that’s good,” miles thought upon meeting cooper. ‘checkups will be clinical. none of that bitchin’ about morals.’

which was why it should’ve been easy transitioning into his recombinant body. it should’ve been.

then, you came along.

sweet, little, pretty thing that you are. you don’t even know what you do to him, walking around looking like you’re pulled straight  from miles’ spank bank material. you look darling with your short braids, pulled back with little clips like those that he remembers walker using, as your smooth voice ripples against the heavy tension building in miles’ chest.

there’s always this sweet scent that follows you, and it reminds miles of something that he couldn’t really pin down. it’s faint, teasing his senses with the little bursts until he began to be addicted to it. to be addicted to you.

he had been content with only getting a whiff from every time the two of you crossed paths, your chin ducking down in respect, saluting so beautifully that it had miles pretending that he didn’t have the itch to pat your head in approval. 

(you looked like the type to adore praises; the type to want to hear how you’re being such a good girl. all for him.)

he didn’t want to pursue more, remembering what happened when he last made that mistake, but it just felt so impossible to dismiss his interest in you as something that is only fleeting; something that is only physical, bound by the biological nature of his new body. 

maybe if he just pushed back harder against the general, then maybe he could be rid of you. maybe there would be nothing thrumming underneath his skin – he refuses to call it desire, afraid that by doing so, he would chain himself to the ache that he feels – and maybe you would no longer be his growing problem.

then: a spike in the air churned the insides of miles’ head, bolting his legs onto the floor. there was a sort of static, a rumbling charge that pierced past metal walls and choked miles into madness. 

he didn’t even realize what it was until he picked up the sound of your voice, pleasure curling against your words as you cried out a name. miles felt lightheaded, warmth crept up from his fingertips to the base of his neck.

(a shackle, one that spelt out your name. 

again, do you know what you do to him? what you reduce him to?)

the scent of your euphoria sent him into a feverish state, molten lava replacing blood as he burned. his breaths came out in ragged rasps, and miles gulped down the air as though he could taste you from it. as though that would’ve been enough.

miles knew what danger looked like, he knew what it smelt like, but he never expected that it would take your shape, testing him past his capabilities. so he lied, spitting in anger and lashing out as he held your hand, ignoring the way his skin tingled when it met yours, and he watched as your eyes glimmered with hurt.

fine. that’s fine. miles repeated this mantra until he clambered into his room, almost tripping over his boots, and made his way to his bed. 

there was a heavy pressure in miles’ ears as he tore off his belt, his teeth snapped together as he pulled his length out and fucked into his fist, breathing into the other one to chase the fading scent that you left. 

he lost himself in his thoughts, imagining that it had been him who reduced you into a moaning mess. that it had been him who you came to for your heat; that it had been him who made you cry, your whimpers slipping past shut doors until everyone could hear your sweet cries.

miles has always been possessive, he doesn’t need the soul drive to know that.

his orgasm ripped through him in muted pleasure, not enough to stoke the heat rumbling deep in his belly.

“fuck!” he growled, frustration bubbling up into his mouth as he screwed his eyes shut, trying to forget the way you look; the way you walk, the way you shoot your hydra or the way you maneuver a bird as though you and the machine are one. 

but it was futile. he’s ruined. 

you’ve ruined him.

prev

tagging (pls lmk if you wanna be added or removed!) - @hinataashoyos @babyduk213 @ilovebluedilfss

[campbyler]

this very oddly specific tiktok came up on my fyp today 😭

someone yeet that shit at mike wheeler!!!!!!!!

[mxnhoo]

about you. (n. rk)

"do you think i have forgotten about you?" ✎ nishimura riki and reader

CHAPTER 1 OUT NOW! synopsis in an attempt to live your life normally after being discharged from the hospital, it just so happens that many things suddenly feel off. certain objects, people, and experiences spark deja-vu and nostalgia, and it was a feeling you couldn't just brush away. you felt the need to dive deeper. you felt the need to know more about this feeling. you felt the need to find out who nishimura riki was. genre mystery, reader tries to discover a part of her past that is unresolved, haunting past, flashacks, reader wants to uncover the truth, healing, dreams, will add more along the way warnings hospitals, (mentions of) death, some tags omitted to prevent spoilers — read with caution, will add more along the way/add to the specific chapters cly's note every. single. time. i listen to about you, it makes my heart ache in this sort of way. it makes me feel like i've lost a piece of me, and hence i want to use those feelings to write this. if everything goes well and i don't lose motivation, this would be my first series! i hope you guys will support this and follow it through the end!

now playing about you — the 1975

ch01 — a glimpse ch02 - diving ch03 — peace of mind ch04 — the past. ch05 — nishimura riki ch06 — overhear ch07 — flowing ch08 — see you again. epilogue. KEEP IN NOTE everything (number of chapters, names) may be subject to change!

extra note i'm lowk scared but really excited to start writing but i'm really scared that i'll lose motivation and that when my break ends i won't have time to continue. i apologise in advance </3 PLS BE PATIENT W ME GUYS. IM ALSO SCARED THIS MIGHT FLOP

lmk if you wanna be in the taglist! (ill be so embarrassed if there's no one </3)

[theonlyonesora]

Masterlist : Shades of Love and Loss

Summary: Yuna’s world shatters when Suguru Geto, the man she loved with her whole heart, leaves Jujutsu High—and her—behind. Alone and struggling to cope with the void he left, she finds unexpected solace in his best friend, Satoru Gojo. Their friendship deepens when Gojo shows up one fateful day, two children, asking for her help in raising them.

As time passes, Yuna and Satoru create a life together, unconventional but filled with warmth and love. Just as she starts to believe she’s found her path forward, Suguru returns, reigniting old feelings and reopening old wounds. Torn between the ghost of her first love and the man who helped her heal, Yuna must decide: cling to the past with Suguru or embrace the future with Satoru and the family they've built.

Will love’s second chance be enough to mend her broken heart, or will she choose to protect the new life she’s come to cherish?

.

CH01 - Echoes of a Broken Bond

CH02 - Eternal Flame of Longing

CH03 - Echoes of Abandonment

CH04 - Whispers of Youth (2006)

CH05 - Golden Year (2006)

CH06 - Stay

CH07 - A Glimmer of Hope

CH08 - Joy in the Little Things

CH09 - A Surprise Responsibility

CH10 - A New Beginning

CH11 - Unconventional Harmony

CH12 - Fractured Bonds

CH13 - Shadows of Longing

CH14 - A New Dawn

You can finish reading on my Wattpad or Ao3

[midnight-bay-if]

I played your WIP today and absolutely loved every second of it! ♥️ The atmosphere is wonderful, your writing style catching and the cast is so unique and interesting. And I'll probably have to do multiple playthroughs, because I can't settle for just one RO, lol. I'm really excited for the next update!

On a different note here a few small errors I encountered:

• missing quotation marks, ch01+ch02:

- Ruth pauses before quickly catching herself and stuttering out her next sentence. N-Not that I'm trying to suggest Alek is a replacement for your father or anything."

- I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other from now on," he declares with much more confidence than he should.

- To be transparent, he had a lot to say about you. He certainly thinks highly of you

• stat screen: 

- when opening the relationships and picking current relationships, they are displayed above the usual stats instead of on their own page, including the companions as well

- same problem for the evidence section

• ch03:

- here Umbra wears gloves, a few sentences later you write about his pale fingers:

Umbra wets his lips as he fidgets, pulling at his gloves in what seems like a nervous tick.

... and later it's again mentioned that he didn't wear them ...

With bile in his throat, Umbra reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out the gloves he keeps on his person to hide away his shame, the same ones he should have already been wearing in the library.

- my MC's hair is dyed, here her natural hair color is mention instead:

Frustrated and vexed, you pull at the strands of your platinum blonde hair with a frustrated groan. 

- lowercase start of a sentence:

he disregards how numb his fingers feel against the cotton as he pulls them on.

- when helping Taj picking up the baked goods the following scene was rather confusing

You kneel beside him and begin helping gather the scattered bags.

and then suddenly what I assume to be the laughing response ...

You kneel beside him, reaching around to gather the scattered confectionery, but much like a student experiencing the uncontrollable bubbling of benign laughter ...

- mixed pronouns:

It’s hard to determine what conclusion he draws from the conversation, but by the time she stands again, the anger has dissipated.

variable mistake, missing $:

{t_his} breath tickles your cheek, followed by a strong spearmint with an underlying sweetness.

Thank you so much for taking the time to send these in. It's very much appreciated. Some of these are just the result of deciding to create an entire variable for the smallest little scene because I think it would be cute, lol. For example, the mix-up with Umbra and their gloves. I really need to come up with a better system for tracking variables.

Also, the entire stat screen is a work in progress at the moment. I haven't settled on how I want it to be set out yet; I just needed something that works for the time being.

I'm really glad you are enjoying the characters, and I'm working hard on improvements for the next update :)

[chireikiden]

Also on MangaDex!

[jordanvildosola]

Hands Down, Worst Quest Ever - (Fanart) WIP #4

Phew! That's a lot of Skellies. Now, time to vary them up a bit! Check out Hand Jumper, the original Webtoon by SleepAcross!

This piece is based on CH03 of HandJester, a Fanfiction of Cell 4 in a D&D Alternate Universe by QueenXFirefly!

Like my art? Follow me on Twitter!

[wayliparker-co]

call me when you get a second: masterpost

“I have to go, actually,” he says finally, though the expression on Mike’s face plainly tells him he knows he’s lying, and had expected the response before it came. “Like, now. Preferably.”

“Oh,” Mike says, decidedly disappointed but not exactly surprised as Will tosses a twenty onto the bar and hops out of his seat in one fluid motion. “Oh, well- wait, Will, hang on, I want to talk to you-”

“Yeah, well,” Will huffs, adjusting the collar of his jacket, “thanks, but I’ve actually had quite enough of hearing about what you want for one lifetime, so. I think I’ll pass on this one.”

OR: two boys, ten years, and a hell of a lot of drama <3

cmwygas is a multi timeline fic/universe crafted by yours truly, with chapter uploads every two weeks beginning friday, april 5th, 2024

ch01🫶

ch02 🫧

ch03 🫶

ch04 🫧

ch05 🫶

ch06 🫧

ch07🫶

ch08 🫧

ch09 🫶

ch10 🫧

ch11 🫶

ch12 🫧

ch13 🫶

ch14 🫧

ch15 🫶

ch16🫶