#it really sets itself apart from the others I think

[madbard]

Headcanon that Dust absolutely resents how much he resembles Classic. There are elements of this back in Dusttale, with how Dust prefers to hide his face and identity while building his LV, but this is more out of practicality (and even shame) than anything else. He doesn’t want his victims to recognize him because it’ll make it harder for him to sneak up on people, and a part of him really doesn’t want them to know that he was the one who killed him. The longer this goes on, the more his disguise transforms from a way of hiding his shame to a way of distancing himself from who he used to be. Sans would never kill all those people, but he isn’t Sans anymore. He’s not really a person anymore, he is the act of murder itself. He is Dust.

I think this would get way worse when Dust leaves his AU and enters the multiverse though, because right off the bat he encounters murderers, just like him… who don’t look innocent. Horror, Killer and even Cross are set completely apart from who they used to be. They are scarred and twisted and nightmarish. Looking at them doesn’t trigger memories of a happier, innocent past. They have renamed themselves, taken on a new identity - but for them, this change was physical as well. No one will ever mistake them for Sans.

So Dust wears his hood. He hides his face. He keeps his magic burning constantly, because if he stops his eyes will darken and there will be nothing setting him apart from the monster who died, years ago, the first time a knife ripped through his chest. The others realize it, too… Horror probably wouldn’t care either way. Cross would understand the desire to distance oneself from an old identity, but would ultimately be in a similar boat as Horror. Killer would bring this up to taunt Dust once he realized it bothered him - and would quickly get bored with it. Ultimately, the others would just accept Dust’s refusal to show his face, his hatred of his own voice and reflection, as part of who he is.

I like to imagine that one day, the gang get into a serious combat. It’s vicious and close; both sides are bloody and exhausted by the time it’s over. If one side wins, it’s by a hair, and not much of a victory. In the dazed silence following the battle, Nightmare slowly assesses each of his acolytes, ensuring that they are still alive and intact. When he reaches Dust, he pauses. The assassin is bloodied, slumped over. His HP is steady but low; he’s taken a lot of hits - more than most monsters would have been able to survive. His hand vanishes beneath his hood, carefully inspecting his face. That night, back at the castle, Dust steps in front of a mirror. He takes a deep breath and, for the first time in years, removes his hood to look his reflection in the eye. The combat left deep wounds across his face, injuries that would never heal completely, that would leave him permanently scarred.

Dust looks at his battered reflection and smiles.

[rockwgooglyeyes]

I babbled about it in the server earlier today but I might as well post something and attempt(?) to make it a little more articulate.

@bluemoonscape said that Till's cover of All-In is much more angsty than Hyuna's, and I'll admit, I went into listening with that in mind but it did prove to be true. Nonetheless, with the two of them being narrative foils, they are incredibly similar but set apart by certain fundamental differences and I think that might be shown pretty starkly in this cover. Of course, that's not necessarily true- Mizi and Ivan are foils and yet their covers only juxtaposed the circumstances of their love, both tragic in their own way, an effort in futility, ultimately pointless (as one of them was always going to die and Ivan believed wholeheartedly that Till would never love him).

To simplify it, Till's is far more anguished than Hyuna's, which is meant to be a celebration, something triumphant.

In and of itself, it feels like Till's version is more about ALNST than it is about anything else. "There's no point in fighting back, this is the march of the fools, endless cheers and applause" is reminiscent of their walk to the stadium at the very beginning, where Till flipped off the media. Not only that but the fact that now, Till is the only one left alive (that he knows of) they would truly be a march of the fools, cheered on as they walked into the gaping maw of death (some knowingly, some not). With Till's self deprecating nature and bravado, it doesn't feel too presumptuous to say that he is including himself in that "fools" because, despite how much he is going to fight to win, he may still believe that he's going to lose his round against Luka. After all, that's been the seygein's plan all along.

"Change the game with a single action, trust me and I'll show you" could be reframed to be about Till's round 2 where he smashes Freddie and barely gives Acorn a chance to sing or it could be about Ivan's sacrifice, in equal turn. "We only get one life so I'm living mine for me" is Till's resistance against oppression, his disobedience that ends with him locked up in a change but he still keeps doing it because he doesn't have any other option, not really. also the "I'll create a fantasy in this crazy world" very much feels like an echo of the fact that Till's rebellion becomes his persona as much as it is truly coming from the heart. He's creating a fantasy of the fight, of the resistance, and people like that- they like his anger, his fire, his fight, I mean, they wouldn't put it in the advertising otherwise, right?

Basically, almost all of the peppy, cheerful "hurrahs" in Hyuna's version of All-In, with Till seem self-deprecating or bitter/aggrieved. He is trying to prove a point, that he won't stop fighting, that despite the odds he'll stand up there on that stage and go all-in (but internally, he still believes that this is reckless, that this won't work, that there's no point).

[yourstormthlaylirahh]

.

[perlelune]

NDA | Coriolanus Snow

When you get hired as a nanny for President Snow and his wife's firstborn, you’re beyond thrilled and grateful. But quickly, the perfect facade melts, revealing the ugly truth of what actually goes on in the Snows' house.

Warnings: NON-CON, Capitol! Reader, Innocent Reader, Cheating, Coercion, Blackmail, Power Imbalance

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Your worried eyes track the frenzied glide of the woman’s quill over the notepad. You squint, hoping to discern some of the words she’s scrawling that way, but they are indiscernible…just like the stone-cold expression of the bespectacled woman on the other side of the desk.

She catches you trying to peek. Your heart jumps.

As her sharp green gaze zeroes in on you, you clear your throat and shift in your seat.

She puts her quill down and twines her fingers.

“So what do you think sets you apart  from the other applicants?”

You chew on your lip. When you arrived to offer your candidature this morning, you naively believed you’d be early. Instead, you were forced to join the tail end of the massive waiting line stretching far outside the Snows’ estate. It didn’t hit you before that moment, how prized the position is. Each of the women and girls you saw radiated excellent breeding and impeccable manners. Many probably attended the University and could double as a tutor if the need presents itself.

This isn’t your case. Your parents left you and your brother Laertes with nothing when they suddenly passed away in a rebel bombing. You couldn’t blame them. This wasn't the plan. Who plans on dying and leaving their two children to fend for themselves?

Still, you now have a list of bills the length of your arm coupled with a massive mortgage to pay every month. And as Laertes’ sole caretaker, you must ensure you can afford to send him to University once he completes his education in the Academy.

Circumstances denied you that chance. Despite being of university’s age, you couldn’t afford the cost of tuition and had to drop out as soon as you got accepted. You want better for your little brother.

So as soon as you heard the news that President Snow and First Lady Livia Cardew were in search of a nanny for their son Martius, you jumped on the opportunity to apply. You rose before the sun, rummaged through your mother’s closet to find her best dress, and hailed a car to come here.

It’s a long shot, of course. You’re not as polished and impressive as some of the other women. You’re also noticeably younger. But the wages promised alone compelled you to take a chance despite the odds being unfavorable.

Fiddling with your hands, you meet the woman’s impassive stare head-on.

“What sets me apart?” You mull over your answer. You could paint a false, august portrait of yourself, your skills and your accomplishments. Or try to at least.

But what would be the point of pretending to be someone you’re not only to be found out later on? So you elect to tread the path of honesty.

“Nothing,” you say. “But I’m a hard worker. A very hard worker. In fact, I already have three jobs, one at a bakery, another as a clerk in an antique shop and I assist Fabricia Whatnot at her boutique sometimes.” Panic quivers inside you as the woman quickly jots something down on her notepad. You swiftly specify, “...But I’ll quit all of them if I get the position, of course.” You lick your lips as knots tie your stomach. “I can learn everything there is to learn on the spot. I love children, and…” You trail off, gaze traveling to your lap as you muse if you should reveal more. Your fists clench as you add, “I have a little brother who’s a few years older than Martius, and I’m really hoping I get this opportunity so I can give him the life he deserves.”

An unnerving quiet occupies the air. The wait is agony, your nails digging painfully into your palms. The jagged drumming of your heart bleeds inside your ears as she studies you.

Eventually, she leans back in the velvet chair, her face betraying no thought or emotion.

“You’re dismissed,” she says.

Your heart plummets to your feet. You shakily rise, dispirited as you drag your heels towards the door. You steal a glance above your shoulder. The woman’s attention has already drifted away from you as she shouts for the next applicant.

You sourly exit the office. You try to swallow your dejection as you note how many women are still waiting in line, each of them likely more qualified and experienced. It’s obvious you tanked the interview. Shoulders slumping, you take resigned steps through the elegant, palatial hallways of the Snow’s mansion. You get lost in admiring the crystal and gold chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. There isn’t an inch of the house that doesn’t scream excessive, unattainable wealth.

You take your time soaking it in. Chances are you’ll never step foot in such a place in your lifetime ever again.

Distracted, you don’t notice the person in front of you before it’s too late. You bump straight into a hard, inflexible body. 

The sudden collision threatens your balance.

Fingers coil around your wrists as you stagger back, preventing your impending collapse onto the marbled floor.

As your attention drifts skywards, your jaw drops at who fills your vision.

“P-President Snow, my deepest apologies, s-sir,” you stammer, flames licking your cheeks.

As if you didn’t make yourself look dimwitted enough before, you now carelessly crashed into the leader of all of Panem. Just when you thought the day couldn’t possibly get worse.

You take him in. It truly is him. Shock fills you. 

 Tall and dazzling in a crisp white shirt and crimson vest that hints at his lean physique beneath the clothes, his signature blond waves slicked away from his face, he looks every bit the important figure that he is.

The flickering TV screen you own at home doesn’t do him justice.

A gentle smirk unfurls on his lips.

“It’s quite alright. I’m not made of sugar,” he jests.

“No…you’re not, your highness…majesty...I mean sir.”

Your blunder expands his smile. His cerulean gaze drags over your frame.

“Are you here for the nursemaid position?”

“I am, sir.” You unleash a deep exhale, his inquiry tossing salt on the fresh wound. The interviewer clearly wasn’t impressed by your less than stellar performance. Maybe you should have tried to mimic the way the girls with whom you attended the Academy behave more. They carry themselves with such confidence, wading through the world with the certainty of their destinies being secure, bereft of hardships unlike district dwellers.

You envy how carefree they get to be. Everyday you wake up worried you’ll come up short on a bill and you and Laertes will be forced to leave your family home. No matter how diligent you are at work, there never seems to be enough money to sustain the two of you. Even with three jobs, you’re barely eking out a decent living for you and your little brother. Many times, you’ve gone to bed hungry just so Laertes would not.

You don’t even realize tears have filled your eyes to the brim until a handkerchief is daintily pressed into your cheeks.

Flabbergasted, you blink up at President Snow. 

“Thank you,” you exhale, stunned by his kind gesture.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

You search his eyes. Genuine interest lights up his pellucid blue orbs.

Without much thought, you confess, “I just don’t think I did very well with my interview.”

As he scrutinizes you in silence, cocking his head sideways, embarrassment rushes through you.

Words anxiously leave your lips in a tremulous string.

“God, I’m so sorry, spilling my problems to you as if you’re not an extremely busy man, sir.”

He shakes his head. “It’s quite alright. And do not count yourself defeated, sweetheart.” Your pulse stutters when he bends over you to whisper, “You may have left a stronger impression than you think.”

He nudges the pocket square between your hands. It’s still damp with your tears. You gape at it in awe. President Snow’s initials are elegantly etched in the left corner of the fabric.

“Here. Keep it. Though I’d much prefer it if you didn’t cry.” He pauses, studying you. “Girls as lovely as you never should.”

His words send your heart into a frenzy. For a while, you’re too stunned to move. You then shake yourself back to reality, noticing you’re now staring at the empty space where he used to stand. He’s gone. You look ahead. He’s already miles away from you, wrapped in conversation with who seems to be an assistant of his. 

Your thumbs press against the soft fabric of the pocket square. Cheeks ablaze, you hold it to your nose. It smells like roses, the same delicate scent that wafted from him a few minutes ago. Your back prickles. You pivot and are astonished to find the envious glares of some of the applicants still waiting in line zeroed in on you. Self-conscious, you rush to continue your exit, fleeing away from the hateful stares. 

As the outside gates come into sight, you can’t suppress an elated smile. It’s not everyday someone meets President Snow and receives such a gift from him. Shoving the handkerchief in your pocket, you vow to place it somewhere safe and always cherish it. 

When you return home, your brother’s already sitting in the living room, his tiny brows scrunched in concentration and his nose buried in his books. Your stomach sinks. Everything you did today was for him. You can’t help but feel you missed out on a huge opportunity, one that’d have changed the course of his life forever. You glance around at the apartment. The walls are crumbling. The wooden floors are creaking. The pipes in the kitchen have been leaking for weeks, a measly bucket you must empty every morning the only thing preventing a flood. And at night, the pitter-patter of rodents’ paws resonates from the ceiling.

Every inch of your family home is in dire need of repairs.

Unfortunately, every penny you earn goes into rent and food, meaning the house falls apart a bit more everyday. Perhaps one day, you and Laertes will awake beneath the rubble of what’s left of your childhood home. Nightmares of that sometimes keep you up at night.

“How was the Academy today?” you chime, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. Worry twists your chest. There isn’t much left. You’ll need to make do with cabbage and whatever other veggies are left. Perhaps you could toss in some leftover dried meat and make a stew.

“My teacher signed me up for advanced trigonometry,” your brother announces.

You close the cabinet and beam at him.

“Oh, that sounds hard. I’m proud of you.” It doesn’t exactly surprise you. Laertes’ always been exceptionally smart. Even his teachers noticed how gifted he is from an early age. Unlike you, he breezed through middle school and now the Academy.

It’s why it’s crucial you make sure he can go to the University. A mind like his shouldn’t be wasted.

You brother shrugs, exuding nonchalance.

“It’s fine.”

You rush to him. You wrap your arm around him playfully and hug him in his chair, pulling his cheek like when he was little. You know he hates when you do that but you can’t help teasing him a bit. It’s your duty as a big sister after all.

“Don’t downplay it. My little brother’s a genius.”

He wriggles his way out of the hug, rolling his eyes. 

“Stop it.”

You head back to the kitchen and fire the stove.

“I’ll make you something,” you say, smiling at your brother.

His brows knit. “Make something for yourself first.”

You nibble your bottom lip. You truly hoped he wouldn’t notice, how much smaller than his your portions are. But he’s growing; he needs it. Much more than you. Besides, how can he focus at the Academy and be the brilliant boy he is supposed to be with a growling stomach? You won’t allow it.

“Laertes…”

He shakes his head, his expression firm.

“No. You always do this. This time, we split whatever is left.”

Heaving out a resigned exhale, you nod. You whirl to resume preparing dinner.

You gather a boiling pot from the overhead cabinet and place it on the stove. With the ease of practice, you begin chopping vegetables and tossing them into the pot. You add spices and water. The mouthwatering aroma quickly fills the kitchen. Pride swells in your chest. Your cooking skills have improved so much in the last year since your parents passed. You now manage to bring flavor to the blandest of meals. 

Once the stew’s ready, you pour a portion in each bowl, putting just a little more in your brother’s and praying he will not notice.

You place the steaming bowls on the table and take a seat opposite him.

“No books at the dining table,” you admonish, mimicking the exact tone your mother used with your brother. Admitting defeat, Laertes sighs and sets his homework aside. The tiny victory tugs your lips skyward.

He tells you about his day at the Academy while the two of you eat. You’re delighted to hear he’s making a lot of friends and he’s at the top of his class for most science subjects. He’s struggling a bit more with his poetry and ethics classes, but you encourage him by reminding him he can just ask the teacher for extra assignments to keep his grade up.

“I interviewed for a new job today,” you reveal, stirring the spoon in your bowl while waiting for your brother to eat more of his food.

“How did it go?”

“Well, it pays really well so I’m hopeful.”

The hope dancing in his eyes makes your chest ache. You don’t have the heart to tell him you made a fool of yourself today. You may not be gifted like your brother, but you want him to know he can rely on you at least.

Pursing his mouth, he looks down at his stew.

“That’s great. It’d be good if you didn’t have to work as much.”

Your smile falters. “Don’t worry. I have everything under control.”

“Okay.”

His dour tone stirs your concern. You wish you were better at hiding things from him, making his childhood as normal as possible. But your brother’s twelve now, and that’s old enough to sense when things are wrong.

He rises from his seat. You frown as you note there’s still food left in his bowl.

“Finish your plate before going to your room.”

Annoyance pinches his features but he still picks up his bowl and hastily guzzles down the remainder of his stew.

“Happy now?” he says, wiping his mouth.

“Yes. Very,” you cheerfully respond.

He gathers his books and strides towards his room. 

Your voice rises.

“Don’t stay up too late to study, okay? I love you.”

“I…love you too,” he mumbles.

You bask in the moment as you clean the table. Thankfully Laertes is still at an age where he says it back. One day he might not. So you must cherish every instant. Every conversation, every hug, every ‘I love you’. Because it could all vanish in a second. You learned that the hard way a year ago.

The day of the interview recedes to the back of your mind as you keep living your life. Work is harrowing, as usual, but you tend to your tasks as best as you can. Your arms ache as you knead the dough in the back of the bakery. You give yourself a second to wipe the sweat off your forehead. It’s been a hectic afternoon. There’s a massive pastry order for some Capitol heiress’ birthday due tomorrow. So you’ve been racing between the front desk and the kitchen in the back. A baker called in sick today, leaving you with twice the workload.

You know it won’t take much to crash into your bed and fall asleep tonight.

To make matters worse, the day hits its nadir when you get your pay that day. You peer inside the envelope for the umpteenth time. An anxious chuckle peals out of your lips. 

“I’m sorry I don’t want to complain, but…this doesn’t match the hours I put in.”

The owner scratches the back of his neck, a contrite expression etched on his face.

“I’m sorry too. With the new taxes imposed by the Capitol, I had to cut your salary.”

Slack-jawed by the news, no word leaves your mouth as you stare at him. He sighs.

“If it’s a problem, we can find someone else-”

“No, no,” you interrupt, blinking in panic. “Please, I need this job.”

He acquiesces and you’re forced to thank him despite feeling cheated. You actually scaled back your hours for your other part-times since this one paid more. What a waste. 

Dispirited, you return home. As you give the driver a bill for the fare, your insides wrench. Every bill counts. Perhaps you’ll need to walk back home from now on. The streets of the Capitol are notoriously dangerous but you can’t see any other way to save your dwindling wages. You already know you’ll need to request an extension for rent this month. How will you pay it, however?

You suppose you’ll have to figure it out. You always figure it out.

These are the somber thoughts swaying in your mind as you check the mailbox. 

Bills. Bills. And more bills. Your already sour mood plummets even more. But a slim, silver envelope sticking out from the pile corrals your focus. Curiosity surges inside you. It looks fancy and there’s a wax seal with the Capitol’s symbol keeping it shut. You rush to open it, heart fluttering in strange anticipation.

You unfold the neatly folded letter inside. As you read the words, you gasp, dropping the letter. Still trembling from shock and excitement, you bend to pick it up. 

You take a deep slow breath before reading it again. 

This time, a squeal escapes from your lips. 

You read it many more times to make sure your eyes aren’t just conjuring wild fantasies. 

After a while, you realize they aren’t. It’s true. 

Holding the letter to your chest, you toss yourself on your bed and kick your feet excitedly. 

You then place your palm on your forehead. In disbelief, you beam at the ceiling. 

Somehow…you’ve been hired to work for the Snows. You actually got the job. 

Perhaps there is light at the end of the tunnel.

You fidget before the iron gates, smoothing absent wrinkles on your skirt. It’s one of the best outfits you could find on short notice that wasn’t moth-eaten or visibly overworn. You pray it’s enough. You let your gaze wander. The Snows’ estate truly is majestic. The lush gardens. The beautiful architecture. You feel a little small as you admire the mansion.

Remembering yourself, you pivot to the man who drove you there. You fish inside your pocket for a bill and hand it to him. He stares at you blankly from the driver’s seat.

A weary sigh ripples behind you.

You turn, your eyes widening. It’s the woman who interviewed you that day. She wears the same stern expression.

“You don’t need to pay him,” she explains, dismissing the man with her hand. He nods and drives away. “He’s your assigned driver. He’ll pick you up each day and take you back home.”

“Oh.” You offer your hand. “Nice to meet you…again.”

She gives you a lengthy onceover, completely ignoring your gesture. Then she motions at you to follow her. You let your hand fall to your side. Heat blooms in your cheeks. Perhaps, you were too enthusiastic just then. Straightening your spine, you try your best to keep pace with her quick strides.

“I’m Pandora. I supervise most housekeeping duties for the president. I’ll show you around the estate. Then you’ll meet the young Master.”

She gives you a tour of the mansion. You’re even more amazed than last time though you try to suppress your awe and not stare excessively. She shows you the garden as well. The sea of snow-white roses makes your head spin. She specifies that the only part of the house that is off-limits is the west wing of the mansion, as these are the First Lady’s apartments and she must have rest and quiet.

She ends the visit by taking you to the nursery. A smile spontaneously finds its way onto your lips. A toddler plays with his toy train on the floor. With his blonde curls and bright blue eyes, he bears a striking resemblance to his father.

“That’s him? He’s so cute,” you whisper. Even the stern woman’s expression thaws a little as she looks at the child, softening ever-so-slightly. You send her a questioning glance. She gives you a nod of approval. 

You approach the boy and crouch in front of him.

“Hi. You’re Martius, right?”

He lifts his head and beams at you. You’re immediately endeared. Again, his smile reminds you of President Snow. You suppose one could probably take over the world with a smile like that. 

You turn to Pandora.

“Is his mother around? I should probably introduce myself.”

Her face pinches. “Mistress Livia has been unwell as of late. She is not to be disturbed today as she is quite tired.”

“Of course.” Your lips squeeze shut for a few seconds but curiosity gets the better of you. A question burns on your lips, one that nagged you ever since you got the job. It slips out before you can think it through. “Is this…Is this why the president and his wife require a nanny? The First Lady is sick?”

Pandora glowers at you. You flinch as she steps further inside the room, her searing tone like a whip.

“You are here to do your job, and nothing else. Mistress Livia’s health is no concern of yours. Do you hear me?”

You rise on shaky feet. You forgot yourself.

“I-I understand. I’m sorry I asked.”

“This reminds me. You have to sign this,” she says, handing you a pen and clipboard. A thin stack of papers are attached to the clipboard. The front page spells ‘Non-Disclosure Agreement’ in bold letters at the very top. You scowl as you flip through the pages.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a contract, one signed by every one of the President’s employees.”

“I don’t understand most of what’s written here…”

A frustrated exhale peals from her lips.

“I’ll make it simple for you then. For the duration of your employment here, nothing you see or hear must ever leave this house. You are here to care for the young master, that is all. Nothing else should concern you. Is that clear enough?”

You swallow thickly. It doesn’t sound hard at all. Discretion is essential in every job, isn’t it? But the way Pandora makes it sound, you’d assume there are bodies buried beneath the Snows’ estate. You’d laugh if her death stare weren’t so disquieting.

You peruse the contract, perplexed by most of the legal mumbo jumbo filling the pages. None of it rings any bell. You understand the gist of it however. You must preserve the president and his wife’s privacy. While you don’t know the specifics of the first lady’s condition, her public appearances have been few and far between in the last few years.

She used to be the envy of every woman in the Capitol. Beautiful, young and married to the dashing President Snow.

She was a fairytale princess come to life.

Then their son Martius was born. And when they held him up from the balcony of their mansion for all of Panem to gaze upon, they truly seemed like the perfect family.

Until one day, Livia Cardew simply…vanished.

She was noticeably absent from all the events of the season, some she even hosted herself. Tongues wagged of course, rumors and wild theories spreading like wildfire. 

But no one knew the truth of what had happened to her.

The matter seems delicate. You promise yourself not to bring it up again.

You click the pen and scribble your name at the bottom of the very last page.

“I’ve…never signed a contract like that before starting a job.”

Pandora lets out a wry chuckle.

“Well, you’ve never worked for President Snow.”

As promised, you quit your two other jobs to focus solely on Martius. You’re hesitant at first. Your departed parents taught you never to put all your eggs in one basket. And it’s exactly what you’d be doing by trusting the Snows. But when you receive your first paycheck, long before the end of the week, every qualm you had fades. It’s more money than you’ve ever had, more money than you expected. Rent isn’t an issue anymore. Neither is food.

Besides, gifts keep coming from the estate. Clothes mostly, for both you and Laertes, but also jewelry, perfume and other fancy things you don’t need. Overwhelmed by President Snow’s generosity, you try to send some of it back, but you don’t have the heart to return everything when you see your brother’s happy face when he opens his wardrobe one day.

You’ve caught the self-conscious glimpses he casts at his classmates sometimes, when not wearing the Academy uniform. Their clothes are always brand new and custom, perfectly tailored while his are stitched back together by your clumsy hands whenever they fray at the seams. You’re not a seamstress but you’ve always done your best. But you know your best doesn’t compare to the access and privilege those kids have.

Other than those blessings, your time with Martius has been a breeze. Only hazy memories of your brother as a toddler linger in your mind, but you don’t recall him ever being as sweet and calm as the little boy is.

It hardly feels like work, caring for the small child. You spend the day playing along with his games, reading stories to him and, as the day nears its end, the two of you feed the ducks in the massive pond behind the mansion. He even gives them names and gets upset when they fight with each other. 

“Lily doesn’t like James anymore,” he whispers to you one day, a sullen pout scrunching his tiny features. 

“And why is that?”

“I think she’s angry that he steals her food.”

You chuckle and ruffle his golden locks. The little boy always has a story for everything he sees. At all times, his world must make sense. So if he cannot find a reason to explain what fills his gaze, he’ll weave a tale that matches it. His stories are each more wild than the other and he sometimes utters words you’ve never heard a four year old use.

But you surmise it is expected from the son of the president. When he isn’t with you, the little boy is often with his private tutor. Even at his tender age, the importance of manners and eloquence is impressed upon him.

Martius tugs at your skirt when you make your way to the door. You look down. His blue eyes are pleading. 

“You’re leaving again?”

You heave out a long exhale. The little boy wasn’t so clingy before but with your bond growing, he’s been expressing more sadness from watching you go at the end of every day. 

You hunker down to his level.

“My little brother’s expecting me.”

His forehead puckers. “Stay…”

“I told you before, Martius. I have a brother. He’ll miss me if I’m not here.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, giving a begrudging nod. Tears already swim in his eyes though. Panic flows through you. You didn’t want to upset him. You pick him up and bounce with him in your arms to try to soothe him.

“Oh, no. Don’t cry, sweetie.” He buries his head in the crook of your neck, nearly squeezing you to death when he wraps his arms around your neck. His loud, tearful sobs swell in the room. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow like always, okay? So I need you to be brave for me.” His grip on you loosens as he sniffles. You put him down and the two of you pinky promise that you’ll return. Your heart twists at the sight of his tear-stained little face. 

You give his hair one last affectionate pat before rushing outside. If you stay, he might throw another tantrum. No matter what, you can never get mad at Martius. He’s just a child. In the absence of his mother, he’s bound to grow attached to any woman filling a role adjacent to hers. You loathe that you’re taking those moments from the first lady. Though it pleases you to have a steady job and spend time with the sweet boy, it feels wrong that she isn’t there. She should get to see her baby grow up. She should hear his inane ramblings and eccentric stories.

As time wears on, you’re dying to meet her and tell her about Martius. Is she truly so sick that she can’t even see him for a mere few minutes? You’re itching to break the rules and visit the west wing of the mansion. Sometimes you hear blood-curdling  screams and wailing coming from the dark halls but you never dared venture through them. You know that if you did, Pandora would crucify you.

Laertes’ well-being matters more than your curiosity.

Humming absently, you halt in your tracks in the middle of a hallway. Confusion has you blinking. A peculiar noise bounces faintly against the walls. Your gaze drifts sideways, where the noise seems to come from. You’re clocking out. Whatever’s going on in the house isn’t any of your business at this hour.

But what if someone needs help? What if it’s something bad? You’d feel awful if you learnt something happened the next day and you pretended to ignore it. So you gingerly approach the wall. Your fingers graze the tapestry covering it. 

Your eyes widen when the wall moves, a tiny crack forming in it.

Your eyes bulge. It’s an ajar door, you realize. A secret door one wouldn’t notice if they weren’t aware it was there. Light spills from the slight opening.

Confining your breath, you bend over the crack in the wall to get a glimpse of what’s behind it. 

The vision crowding your sight makes the blood in your veins freeze. 

President Snow rutting into a maid with his pants down to his ankles. His usually neat blonde locks are tousled, a few damp curls kissing his forehead. His massive cock glistens with the girl’s essence, disappearing into the girl’s spread lips over and over again. Her body is bent over the railing of the bed and her maid outfit is bunched around her hips, exposing her ass, the flesh trembling with each of the president’s harsh, pointed thrust.

Each time he snaps his hips he draws a broken moan from her. One of his hands is around the back of her throat while the other’s on the small of her back. He grunts low in his throat as she clenches around him, thrusting into her even faster than before. 

The obscene sound of their coupling rises, coalescing with the feral grunts spilling from the president’s mouth. In that moment, he’s not the poised gentleman you’re used to seeing, he is an animal in rut chasing his high.

A shocked exhale escapes your lips. Your hand flies to cover your mouth. President Snow’s head snaps up, his gaze landing straight on you.

Your heart slams against your ribcage.

You jump back from the door and push the secret door closed. You dart across the hallway, determined to find the exit as quickly as you can. You don’t glance back, your steps hasty and panicked. 

Pandora was right. It’s best not not to hear or see anything, to become a tomb in which secrets are buried.

You can only hope he didn’t recognize you through the tiny crack in the door. 

Though you’re shaken to your core, you continue your work as a nanny. You still need money. You may have set aside everything you made thus far, but it will only sustain you and your brother for a month or two. Besides, you’ve already handed in your resignation for your other jobs.  The positions have likely been filled. You can’t exactly show up out of the blue and ask for your former job back. 

No. So you convince yourself that it’s alright. You have a good thing going anyway. You’re making more than you hoped. The child is happy. You’re happy. All is well. Or it would be at least.

…If you could conjure the memory of President Snow railing into the maid far away from your mind. 

You want to forget it, bury the moment so deep in the abyss of your thoughts, it can never be unearthed.

But it isn’t so easy. Because every time your mind wanders even a little, you see him again. Skin glistening with sweat and blue eyes alight with lust. The image is tattooed into your brain. 

You wonder if the first lady knows. Perhaps it’s why she’s hiding away. The weight of her husband’s indiscretions may have grown too heavy to carry. It sours your heart. President Snow seemed so kind, good and noble. He was nice to you. You still have the breast pocket he gave you tucked away in a drawer. You loathe to think he’d do that to his wife. No woman deserves this.

You lift your head when your name is uttered. You get to your feet. Adrift in your thoughts, you didn’t realize Pandora was in the nursery. 

“Yes?”

“The president wants to see you in his office.”

Dread wrenches your gut. It’s exactly what you feared. Does he know? Did he see you? Your pulse picks up. What other reason would there be? He never summoned you before.

“Really, why?”

“He didn’t say, but I’m assuming it’s to congratulate you.”

Befuddlement wrinkles your forehead. “Congratulate me?”

Pandora heaves out a weary sigh. “Well, you’ve done much better than we thought,” she begrudgingly admits. “The young master smiles all the time.” She rolls her eyes. “Even if we must deal with his tantrums when you leave.”

A sliver of pride flutters through you with her admission. Pandora made her doubts about your capabilities plain and obvious from the beginning. It gladdens you that you may have changed her mind a little. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” She turns to him, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “It’s a small price to pay for his happiness.”

Your smile vanishes as she adds, “Now let me escort you to the president’s office. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you trail behind her. The entire trek to the president’s office, your stomach’s in knots. You keep wondering if it’s the day you’ll lose your job for being too nosy. You should have walked past the noise. You shouldn’t have peeked. 

You inhale a lungful of nerve as Pandora opens the door to his office and frees room for you to enter. Your clammy hands wrench in your lap. He’s sitting behind his desk. You stagger further inside the room as he motions for you to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk. He looks the same as the first time you stumbled into him, disarmingly handsome in an impeccable shirt and pants that flatter his long legs.

A sharp contrast to the version of him that has plagued your thoughts lately. 

His sky gaze follows you as you take a trembling seat.

“Are you settling in well?” he asks.

“Hm, yes,” you stammer, anxiously twining your fingers. “It’s pretty much the perfect job. I get to be around a cute child all day.”

“I hear my son is very fond of you.”

You bashfully dip your head. “He’s very easy to like. He’s such a good boy, sweet, kind, and curious. You and your wife are raising him well, sir.”

He hums in thought. “I can’t take much credit for that. I’ve tried my best to carve out time for Martius…but work’s kept me busy. As for Livia...” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Well she isn’t quite herself these days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He places one hand under his chin, scrutinizing you. You try not to twitch beneath his stare, your insides tight with dread.

“Hm, it’s strange,” he states after a minute that goes by like an eternity.

Your head rises. “What’s strange?”

“A girl like you.” His lips drag upward. “Sweet, nurturing, beautiful. Shouldn’t you be married already?”

Your lips part in astonishment. This isn’t the line of questioning you expected. “I-I’m not.”

“No fiancé?”

“No, sir.”

“A lover then?”

Warmth rushes to your face.

“No…”

He laughs, mirth dancing in his cobalt orbs.

“You must pardon me for being so forward but I simply find it astonishing. No suitors? It’s hard to believe since you’re so lovely, sweetheart.” He tilts his head. You shift in discomfort, his attention making you feel see-through. “I mean, a husband would have made your life easier than it’s been thus far, wouldn’t he, dove?”

A long exhale flows from your lips. “I’ve had offers, after I graduated from the Academy. There was even this boy, he was so kind to me.” The memory draws a small smile from you. “He proposed. I’m sure he’d make a great husband, but…”

“But…”

Your mouth dries.

“I know it’s probably naive and unrealistic but I want to marry for love, that great, life-changing love, like in those romance novels my mom used to love, not money or status.”

His eyes twinkle. “Or financial stability?”

Shame gathers in your chest. You know it sounds silly when uttered aloud. 

“I know, I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re not. It’s sweet that you still believe in love.” He appears lost in a faraway memory, his gaze hazing over with remembrance. “I used to believe in it too. I used to think, ‘Who needs wealth and success and power when love conquers all?’”

He chuckles but it’s bereft of amusement. 

“Really? What happened then?”

His gaze locks with yours. 

“I grew up.”

Confused, you frown. 

“But aren’t you and the first lady in love?”

Another laugh bursts from his chest.

“God, you’re sweet.” His tone lowers to a dulcet whisper. “It’s like none of the world’s ugliness has gotten to you yet.” He reveals matter-of-factly, “My wife and I hate each other.” His smile widens at your flabbergasted expression. “Always did. It’s best that way, more…efficient. Of course, there was a time, when we had…passion.” He licks his lips, something you can’t pinpoint flickering in his gaze. “But not anymore. She’s far too gone for that.”

He rises from his chair. You stiffen as he circles the desk, making slow steps towards you. 

“Which is why I must…satiate my needs wherever I can,” he mumbles, fingers lurking under your chin, forcing your eyes to fall upon him. “Do you understand my meaning, dove?”

“I…yes.”

Discomfort flares within you. Tension hangs in the air, so heavy it clogs your airways. 

He cocks his head, lips slanting crookedly.

“Do you really? With that innocent look in your eyes, it’s hard to tell.” His thumb sweeps over your shuddering bottom lip. “Men have needs. And am I not a man, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yes you are, sir.”

He bends over you to whisper in your ear. “You saw everything that day, didn’t you?” Your heart stops.

Flames lick your face as you bow your head. “I-I didn’t see anything.”

His warm breath ghosts over your earshell.

“Liar,” he mumbles.

Your pulse quickens.

He leans back and nudges your chin upward.

“Since my wife fell sick, I’ve been very lonely. And sometimes…” He looms over you, crowding your space as you peer up at him, fingers squeezing the arms of the chair. “I need something soft and warm to forget that feeling.”

President Snow slowly falls to his knees in front of you. His fingers find your thigh, starting to creep under your skirt. A devilish glint sparkles in his cobalt gaze. He finds your center, pressing the sheer fabric into your folds. You gasp. He chuckles at your reaction. He starts teasing you through your panties, tracing your slit and dragging over your tender bud. Your breath hitches as the air around you grows hotter. You grow slick beneath his finger, your thighs shaking as tingles bloom on your flesh.

“Sir…” you whimper, tears welling up in your eyes.

He pushes further inside you, adding another finger, and you unleash an audible breath. You try to close your thighs. He places his other hand on your knee to keep you open for him.

The air in your lungs grows thinner as he rubs your core through your soaked panties. The friction is a delicious torture. Pleasure pools in your belly causing your face to burn with shame. You’re getting embarrassingly wet with President Snow’s attention.

“I just want a little taste,” he murmurs, his deep timbre bleeding lust. “Just one time and it’ll never happen again,” he promises fervently as his lips graze your ankle. You find some relief when his fingers disappear from your drenched center. But your respite is ephemeral. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs at your panties.

Panic widens your eyes. Cheeks ablaze, you pull at the material between your legs with both hands. But he’s stronger than you and effortlessly drags the fabric along your legs. A wicked smile plays on his lips as tears glisten in your eyes. It’s soon down to your ankles. You squeal when the president yanks the panties off your foot, tossing them aside. Cool air sneaks beneath your skirt, swirling over your bare folds.

Hands over your knees to keep you spread, his wolfish gaze sweeps over your glossy folds. 

Your skin heats, embarrassment gathering in your chest. You’ve never been this vulnerable and exposed in front of anybody before.

“Please, President Snow, s-stop…” 

“But you’re dripping, sweetheart,” he states smugly, sinking a finger inside your weeping core, as if to make a point. Your breath hitches. He takes his finger out sluggishly. You clench when he grazes one of your sensitive spots. “Just as sweet as I expected,” he hums, obscenely licking your essence off his long digit.

Without a warning, he buries his head between your thighs. A sharp exhale leaps from your mouth. His cool tongue traces a wet trail over your folds. President Snow traces maddening patterns over your swollen bud causing your eyes to roll back.

You card your fingers through his silken platinum locks, hoping to push his head away. But the delightful sensations grow too overwhelming. You unravel beneath his sinful ministrations, your limbs twitching as the thread of your thoughts comes loose.

Your grip on his hair weakens. Your belly tightens, your chest rising and falling rapidly. 

You jolt as his tongue flickers over your tender heap of nerves. 

“P-President…” 

He purrs against your folds and the vibrations rock through your core. You squirm in the chair. Your thighs quake. Your vision dims, your mind blank as waves of pleasure swaddle you in their tide. Protests scatter on your tongue, replaced by wanton whimpers and moans.

Electricity ripples through your spine as you cry out.

Bliss engulfs you and your legs turn liquid. Shame swirls in your gut as your juices coat his tongue. He drinks your nectar, elation rumbling in his chest. 

When he lifts his head, you hardly recognize him. The feral glow in his gaze chills your blood.

There is no time to collect yourself, realize what just occurred, as the blonde gathers your limp frame from the chair and places you on his desk. Documents and papers are flung to the ground as he grabs your thighs and presses his throbbing hard-on against your cunt. 

He hastily unbuttons his pants, freeing his hard length. He fists his cock and guides it through your wet entrance. Your back arches, the sudden intrusion robbing you of air. He reaches the hilt of you in a few seconds, giving you no time to accommodate his thick girth. You collapse over the desk, weak whimpers leaving you as your walls are stretched to their limit. He drags out of you, his pupils flaring as they trace the motion of his length in and out of you. Coriolanus leans over you. He snaps his pelvis into your hips, each of his thrusts tearing tearful moans from your throat.

When you turn your head, hot tears flowing down your cheeks, he grabs your chin so you’re forced to meet his lustful stare. Bracing himself on the desk, he reaches between your bodies to pinch your swollen clit. He plucks at your soft bud until you shatter around him with a sob. His throat bobs, a look of sheer bliss flitting across his face when you clench around him.

“I’ve been dying to fuck you the minute I saw you,” he confesses, trailing soft pecks over your collarbone. A sinister chuckle peals from his lips. “The way you looked at me with those sweet, innocent eyes…it made me rock-hard.” He tilts your chin towards him, his thumb skimming over your parted lips.

Satisfaction glimmers in his eyes as they flick over your prone form.

“You should thank me. Those boys at the Academy wouldn’t know what to do with a girl like you…” His cock twitches inside you. Sticky warmth spills from him, painting your walls and dripping past your hole. Drops of his seed leak onto the desk. A throaty sigh pours from President Snow’s throat as your cunt flutters around him.

His teeth nip the skin of your neck.

“...But I do.”

After what occurs in his office, you hope to avoid President Snow. Those hopes are swiftly dashed however. President Snow lied to you. It doesn’t happen once. In fact, you begin to lose count of the actual number.

Every time the president finds a little spare time, he summons you.

Sometimes you end up bent over the desk in his office as he pours the frustrations of the day into your warm hole. Sometimes he prefers you sprawled on your back in one of the multitude of luxurious beds in the mansion while he devours you as if you were his very last meal. And at times, he grows even more impatient and simply shoves you against a wall before ravaging you.

More than once, a maid or footman has walked in on the two of you, and you’ve had to swallow your shame and embarrassment.

As you’ve come to learn, the entire staff is aware of Coriolanus Snow’s insatiable appetite and none of them seems to care.

You feel sick, desperate, trapped in something twisted and awful you never signed up for.

But how does one say no to President Coriolanus Snow? The entire Capitol yields to his every whim. And you are the same. Here to bow and smile and lie back whenever he demands it.

You long to focus on your job, to care for Martius and nothing else. Whenever the boy looks up at you with those innocent blue eyes, eerily similar to his father’s, your stomach wrenches. You pray he never comes to learn what kind of man his father is. You wish he’d stay just as kind and sweet as he is now.

Those are the thoughts drifting through your mind as you watch Martius play with his toy trains. Your eyes wander towards the window. Outside, orange and purple hues are bleeding into the sky, the afternoon nearing its end. Your stomach coils. It’s during times like these that President Snow often seeks you out. You’ve tried to run away from him but it’s all a game to Coriolanus, and he always delights in chasing you through the hallways.

Your brows crumple as you note that Martius has stopped playing. He drops his toy and rushes to your side. Confounded by his behavior, you’re on the cusp of asking him what’s wrong…but your gaze follows what caught his attention on the other side of the room.

You fall silent, your eyes rounding in shock.

“Martius. Come here, my love,” says the blonde woman in a white robe and nightgown, her arms wide open.

Time stands still for a few seconds. It takes you a while to realize who stands before the door. She looks so different, more ghost than woman, her glassy blue eyes hollow and sunken. But her likeness is unmistakable. Even with her graying, limp tresses and ashen complexion, you recognize Livia Cardew. The president’s wife.

You bolt to your feet. Arms still open, Livia takes slow steps towards Martius.

“I’m your mom, sweetie. Don’t you remember me?”

The little boy’s fists clutch your skirt as he hides his face against your leg.

“You’re not my mom.”

A stricken look twists Livia’s features as she shrinks. As if her own son just drove a knife through her heart. Your chest twinges. While her abrupt appearance is a shock, you can’t imagine how she must feel. You place a hand on Martius’ back and try to nudge him forward.

“Martius. It’s the First Lady, your mother. Go on, hug her,” you urge softly.

He shakes his head, tears filling his eyes as he hides behind you even more.

You’re stunned. Has it truly been that long?

“Martius-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence, Livia lunging at you, her eyes wild with fury.

“You! This is all your fault,” she hisses. She points at you and scoffs, “You’re his new whore, aren’t you?” Her mouth wobbles as she grips her head. “First you take my husband, now my son.”

Martius begins to sob. His loud cries overlap with his mother’s frantic yelling. You cover his eyes, tossing Livia an apologetic look.

“First Lady, I never meant-”

Before you can explain yourself, she grabs a nearby vase and smashes it. White roses scatter on the floor. Stomping all over the petals and broken glass, she collects one of the shards and races towards you. Terror numbs you. You freeze as Livia aims the shard at you, scarlet droplets dripping on her nightgown as she squeezes her fist around the glass.

Your eyes shut as you wait for the inevitable strike.

You shiver, waiting still.

But it doesn’t come.

“Livia, darling, that’s enough. It’s time for you to sleep and take your medicine.”

The familiar sound of Coriolanus’ voice causes your eyes to snap open. 

You watch him restrain a struggling Livia. She curses at him, fighting him with all her might. It’s a painful spectacle. 

“No, don’t touch me!” Other staff members rush into the room. It takes several people to hold Livia down, colorful expletives pouring from her mouth as she punches and kicks whoever comes close. “You’re killing me! You bastard! Give me my son back! Martius! Martius!”

The child trembles against your skirt, his tear-filled gaze stuck to the floor.

Eventually someone manages to stick a needle into Livia’s neck. She instantly goes limp, arm still reaching for her son in her last conscious second.

“Take her away,” Coriolanus instructs.

The first lady’s flaccid form is dragged out of the room. Still shaken by what you just witnessed, you don’t move a muscle. President Snow approaches you, worry swimming in his blue orbs. 

“Are you alright, dove?” He cups your cheeks, his brows crumpling as his gaze settles on your neck. “I’ll have Doctor Gaul look at you. She has an ointment for that.” He caresses your cheeks, smiling. You gape at him. How can he smile at a time like that? “It won’t even scar. I promise.”

You graze your neck. Your fingers come away bloody. Oh. Livia nicked you with the shard but you didn’t even feel it. Perhaps adrenaline numbed you to the pain.

“Dada,” Martius chimes, lifting his chubby arms.

Coriolanus’ face warms as he picks up his son. He tosses him in the air and catches him. Martius giggles through his tears.

“My sweet boy. That was very scary, wasn’t it?” he says, balancing his son on his hip. Martius nods and wipes his nose. Coriolanus flicks his cheek, beaming at him. “Don’t worry, son. The scary lady won’t bother you anymore in a few months.”

A wave of ice blows through your veins. You wonder why the president uttered those words with such certainty. Like a promise. Or a prophecy. Almost as if he knows exactly when the grim reaper will come knock on his wife’s door.

The next day, you hand over your resignation to Pandora. Her expression is skeptical as she gauges the manila folder you give her.

“This is for the president,” you announce.

She unleashes a deep exhale. “You should reconsider, sleep on it.”

You almost laugh. Sleep on it? You can hardly find rest, the picture of a disheveled Livia Cardew crying out for her son haunting your nights. Whatever befell upon the poor woman, you wouldn’t be surprised if her husband somehow had a hand in it. It broke your heart, seeing her like that, her own son unable to recognize her. You also despise the role Coriolanus forced you to play in erasing her memory.

All of it feels wrong. 

And most of all, you don’t want President Snow to use you to satisfy his lewd desires anymore. He took all your firsts, all the moments that should have been beautiful, and made them a nightmare you have to relive every time he touches you.

You respected him; you admired him. Now you can’t be in his presence without dread whispering through you. What will he make you do this time? How will he make you small and powerless again?

“I can’t…I can’t do this anymore. He can hire someone else to care for him.”

Pandora purses her lips and shakes her head.

“It’s really not that simple. The president has developed…a fondness for you.”

You bristle. “I have to go back home. Laertes is expecting me.”

“You won’t like what comes next, trust me.” Her gaze narrows. “No one leaves the president.”

Ignoring the shudder elicited by her daunting words, you pivot and make a beeline towards the exit. Pandora’s voice echoes down the hallways.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Depleted, you glumly make your way to the gates. You enter the car that takes you back home everyday. Your thoughts wander as the Snow’s house grows smaller through the car window. You were thrilled when you got this job. It felt like kismet after the year you and your brother had. A rainbow after the rain. A slice of hope.

How it all went to hell so quickly. You’re still reeling from it. You’ve no idea what you’ll do next. The only thing you know for certain is that you will not step foot into the Snows’ estate ever again.

The car suddenly halts. You bump your head into the passenger’s seat. Wincing, you grip the sides of your head. As you retrieve your senses, you look around. You stopped.

You toss a questioning look at the driver.

But before he can respond, the car door opens and you’re yanked outside. Two pairs of strong arms drag you away from the car.

You take in the blue uniforms of the men. Terror pulses through your blood.

Peacekeepers.

Noting the guns at their sides, you stop trying to resist. There’s no fighting against them, ever. They are the Capitol’s fist and carry the President’s will. You don’t stand a chance. In fact, you likely never did. You slump in their grip, despair thrumming inside you.

They escort you to a black car with tinted windows. Your pulse soars. You’ve only ever seen one individual step out of this car.

The peacekeepers toss you inside and slam the door shut.

Your fearful gaze rises to him.

He casually sits in front of you, his eyes narrowed.

“You disappoint me, dove.” He lets out a weary sigh. “After everything I’ve done for you…you try to leave me. I thought you were smarter than that.”

You twine your hands, sputtering, “I-I’m not the right person for this job, sir.”

He slides his fingers under your chin, tilting it upward.

“Oh but you’re perfect. My son loves you. You’re sweet, dutiful and most importantly…” He smirks. “You are mine. Mine to hold, spoil and fuck whenever I please for however long I please.”

The prospect fills you with dread. He wants you to be his toy again, submissive, available whenever he pleases.

“Sir…”

His jaw ticks, his hold on your jaw tightening.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if your brother could attend the University, free of charge? A bright young mind such as his, I believe he deserves it.” His blue eyes twinkle. “Instead of, let’s say…end up in a District, his name chosen as a tribute in the next Hunger Games.” Your heart sinks to your feet. “That’d be awful, wouldn’t it? So cruel…” he mumbles, stroking your trembling bottom lip.

“No, please,” you beseech, tears swelling in your eyes. Your brother’s all you have left in the world. Nothing can happen to him. 

Coriolanus fondles your cheek, the tender gesture a sharp contrast to the wicked words rolling off his tongue.

“It’s all up to you, then, dove. As long as you behave, I’ll give you the world. But if you act like a little brat again…” A threat lurks in his soft tone, a glint of madness swaying in his cobalt orbs. “I really don’t know what I might do.”

Chills dance over your spine.

“I promise to never do it again,” you blurt out.

He pulls out a square from his breast pocket. It’s identical to the one he used the first time.

But a lifetime seems to have passed since that moment, the world now so different from what you imagined, and the man before you…even more so.

“Good girl,” he lauds while swiping away your tears. 

He shoves the pocket square back in its place. Coriolanus then beams at you as he starts unbuttoning his shirt and undoing his pants.

“Now, I’ve had a long, exhausting day. So how about you get on your knees for me and make it better with that sweet mouth of yours, dove?”

[mononijikayu]

supersonic — gojo satoru.

Finally, Gojo breaks the silence, his tone surprisingly serious. “Was it really that bad?” You blink, confused. “What… what do you mean?” He leans back slightly, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that catches you off guard. “That I like you. Was it really that bad to hear?” “......I’m sorry, what?”

Genre: Alternate Universe — Canon Convergence;

Warning/s: General Rating, SFW, Romance, Fluff, Humour, Comfort/No Hurt, Strangers to Friends, Friends to Lovers, Sorcerer! Reader, Tsundere! Reader, Feelings, Romantic Confession, Getting Together, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, Happy Ending, Gojo Satoru Loves Reader But Reader Doesn't Know How to React;

Words: 8k words.

Note: the bubble words is gojo saying you shouldn't fall hard for him!!! i didn't think this would be longer than 5k but I just??? i swear someone has to tell me not to make stuff longer because i feel bad that its way too long and people just suffer my yapping </3 anyway, i love you all!!! thank you so much for reading once again <3

masterlist

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YOU LIKE TO THINK THAT YOU HAVE GOOD MEMORY. You often boasted to Atsuya about your memory, especially during exam season or when the two of you had to write detailed reports after every mission. It was a point of pride—being able to recall every detail with sharp accuracy, a skill that set you apart.

But lately, that once-reliable memory has been betraying you, twisting itself into something both frustrating and bittersweet. Because now, instead of recalling battle strategies or obscure curses, you find yourself remembering everything about him. Gojo Satoru.

No matter how much you try to push the memories away, they persist, etched into your mind like an indelible mark. It’s infuriating because he’s the last person you want to think about. Yet, there he is, popping into your thoughts when you least expect it, with that smug grin and irritatingly carefree attitude.

You can’t forget that day during the Sister School Goodwill Event in your first year. It’s impossible. That was the first time you met Gojo Satoru, and even now, the memory of it lingers like a stubborn shadow. He was everything you couldn’t stand—arrogant, always grinning like he knew something you didn’t, and constantly cracking jokes that got under your skin. The moment he opened his mouth, you knew he was in trouble.

He’d waltzed into the event with an air of confidence that bordered on cocky, his white hair catching the sunlight as if to announce his presence to the world. You remember the way his sunglasses glinted as he surveyed the arena, looking completely at ease, like he owned the place.

And maybe, in a way, he did—after all, his reputation had preceded him. The strongest sorcerer of his generation, a prodigy unlike any other. Everyone was talking about him, and you had been curious, but when you finally met him, that curiosity quickly morphed into annoyance.

It wasn’t just his arrogance; it was the way he seemed to have an almost supernatural ability to push your buttons, like he had a map of your every weakness. From the moment he opened his mouth, you knew he was trouble.

He didn’t even bother with formalities, didn’t extend his hand or offer a respectful bow like any normal person might when meeting someone new. No, Gojo Satoru made his grand entrance with all the subtlety of a peacock in full display.

“Hey there, I’m Gojo Satoru. Don't fall in love with me too much, okay?” he said, his tone so light and casual it was as if he was talking about the weather. 

And then came that wink—oh, that infuriating wink. It was the kind of wink that dripped with self-assurance, as if he’d already decided that the world, including you, was his playground. The kind that made your blood pressure spike and your temper flare in an instant.

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you glared at him, eyes narrowing into a scowl that you hoped would convey just how unimpressed you were. But if you expected him to back down, to maybe realize that he’d crossed a line, you were sorely mistaken. Gojo didn’t just take your scowl in stride—he laughed, a sound that was as easy and carefree as everything else about him. 

The laughter caught you off guard. It wasn’t mocking, but it wasn’t exactly kind either. It was the kind of laugh that made it clear he was enjoying this, enjoying you. It was like he’d found a new toy to play with, and your irritation only made it more fun for him.

“Aw, come on, don’t look at me like that.” he’d said, still chuckling. “I’m just trying to lighten the mood. We’re supposed to be having fun with this, right? No need to be so serious.”

But you were serious—deadly so. This wasn’t some lighthearted game to you; it was a competition, a test of skills and strength, something you’d been training for relentlessly. The Sister School Goodwill Event was your chance to prove yourself, to show that you weren’t just some novice from Kyoto who could be easily brushed aside. And here was Gojo Satoru, with his casual grin and infuriatingly relaxed demeanor, treating the whole thing like a joke.

Yet no matter how much you glared, or how much you tried to put him in his place with your icy demeanor, it seemed to only amuse him more. He had this way of tilting his head just so, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, as if he were daring you to say something, to try and put him in his place. But what could you say? Anything that came to mind seemed to bounce off him like water off a duck’s back. He was untouchable, not just in skill but in personality.

And that’s what really got to you. The way he seemed to glide through life without a care, untouched by the things that would have sent anyone else into a spiral of self-doubt. He was arrogant, yes, but it was the kind of arrogance that was infuriatingly earned. He knew he was good—no, he knew he was the best—and he wasn’t afraid to show it.

As the day went on, you found yourself trying not to react to his constant quips and jabs, but it was like trying to ignore a particularly persistent mosquito. The more you tried to brush him off, the more determined he seemed to get a rise out of you. And the worst part was, he was succeeding. Every time you shot him a glare or bit back a retort, he’d just laugh that infuriating laugh, as if to say, “See? I knew I’d get to you.”

It was like he could see right through you, past the carefully constructed walls you’d built to keep people at a distance. He saw how much you cared, how much you wanted to succeed, and he poked at that vulnerability with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Not because he was cruel, but because he found it entertaining.

And that’s what made him so insufferable. He wasn’t just some cocky sorcerer throwing his weight around—he was someone who enjoyed getting under your skin, who relished in the challenge of breaking down your defenses. To him, it was all a game, and you were the unwitting participant. 

Looking back now, you can almost see the moment he decided you were worth his attention. It wasn’t when you scowled at him or tried to brush off his comments; it was when he realized that no matter how hard you tried to ignore him, you couldn’t hide the way he got to you. And from that moment on, it was as if he’d made it his personal mission to see just how far he could push you.

He was everything you couldn’t stand in a person—arrogant, overconfident, and far too comfortable with himself. But even then, there was a part of you that knew there was more to him than just that. A part of you that recognized that behind the jokes and the winks, there was someone who saw the world in a way you didn’t quite understand, someone who, for better or worse, was going to be a part of your life whether you liked it or not.

That was the beginning of your tumultuous relationship with Gojo. Every interaction since then had been a battle of wits, with him always managing to get the upper hand, no matter how hard you tried to stay one step ahead. He was insufferable, and yet… you can’t stop thinking about him.

You remember how Gojo had effortlessly dodged your attacks during that time. He was skilled and perceptive. It wasn’t just that he was fast—he moved with a fluidity that made it seem as though he was dancing rather than fighting.

Each time you lunged at him, he sidestepped or spun away with an ease that was almost maddening. His grin never faltered, never wavered. It was as if he were enjoying the entire spectacle, completely unfazed by your every attempt to land a hit.

“Come on, is that the best you’ve got?” he’d taunted, his voice carrying a casual amusement that only fueled your frustration.

The way he said it, so nonchalant and dismissive, made it clear he wasn’t just teasing—you were genuinely failing to impress him. It wasn’t just a challenge to him; it was a game. And for someone like Gojo, who seemed to have everything handed to him on a silver platter, the stakes felt almost trivial.

What made it even more infuriating was the way he seemed to almost predict your every move. No matter how you changed your strategy, how you tried to outthink him, he was always one step ahead. It was as if he had a sixth sense for reading your intentions, a talent that made him appear almost supernatural. Every dodge, every counter, was executed with a precision that left no room for error.

In that moment, it felt as though the fight wasn’t just about physical skill—it was a battle of wills. You were pouring everything you had into trying to best him, to prove that you were more than just a novice from Kyoto. But Gojo’s demeanor, his seemingly effortless ability to avoid and counter your attacks, made it feel as though you were trying to fight against an immovable force.

It wasn’t just that he was good; it was the way he made it look so easy. It was like watching someone play a video game on the easiest difficulty setting while you were struggling on the hardest. His ease in the face of your best efforts was both impressive and infuriating. It was clear he was toying with you, not out of malice but because he genuinely enjoyed the challenge, however mild it might have been for him.

Every time you threw a punch or unleashed a spell, his reaction was a mix of amusement and mild surprise. It wasn’t as if he underestimated you—he knew exactly what you were capable of, and he relished the chance to outmaneuver you. His grin was a constant reminder that he was having fun, that he wasn’t taking this seriously because he didn’t have to. For him, it was all just another day, another opportunity to show off his skills.

“You’re strong!” He tells you with a grin on his face. “Let’s be friends! Give me your phone number, quick!”

"Huh?"

"Hurry, bring out your flip phone already!"

"We're in the middle of a one on one, you idiot!"

"So? I wanna be your friend!"

And that was what made him so exasperating. The whole event felt like it was being played out on his terms, with him in control of every aspect. To him, it was less about proving himself and more about showing just how superior he was in a way that made it almost seem effortless. The arrogance wasn’t just in his words; it was in every action, every movement that demonstrated his dominance.

For you, the fight was a matter of pride, a chance to show that you were more than capable, that you could stand toe-to-toe with someone of his caliber. But every time you saw that grin, every time you heard that taunting voice, it drove home the fact that no matter what you did, you were always going to be playing catch-up. And the more you tried, the more it seemed like you were just feeding into his amusement.

The whole experience left you feeling both frustrated and oddly impressed. Frustrated because you couldn’t seem to catch him, no matter how hard you tried. Impressed because, despite your annoyance, you couldn’t help but admire his skill and confidence. It was a bittersweet combination of emotions, one that made you both present and respect him in equal measure. And as much as you wanted to forget that day, Gojo’s presence in your mind remained an ever-present reminder of the challenge he represented—and the way he seemed to effortlessly stay one step ahead.

But what bothers you the most is how, despite all of his flaws, there’s something about him that draws you in. No matter how hard you try to deny it, those memories of him, those moments where he’d flash you that grin or make a ridiculous joke, are seared into your mind.

You find yourself remembering the smallest details—the way his voice sounded when he teased you, the warmth of his hand when he’d casually patted your shoulder after a mission, the way his eyes, hidden behind those sunglasses, seemed to see right through you.

It’s maddening because you’ve spent so much time trying to forget, trying to focus on anything but him. But no matter what you do, the memories remain, vivid and persistent. And it leaves you wondering, despite everything, why you can’t just let go. Why, after all this time, you’re still thinking about Gojo Satoru.

Back then, when you first met Gojo Satoru during the Sister School Goodwill Event, you had quickly dismissed him as just another arrogant brat who seemed to have the world handed to him on a silver platter. His cocky attitude, the way he flaunted his abilities, and his effortless charm made it all too easy to write him off.

To you, he was nothing more than a figure of annoyance—a sorcerer who, with his overconfidence and privileged position, would never be someone you’d get along with. It seemed clear from the start that your paths would never truly align.

Fast forward to the summer break of that year, and you find yourself face-to-face with him again. The sun blazes overhead, turning every outdoor spot into a sweltering inferno.

You're trying to navigate the heat while staying cool, but Gojo Satoru appears as if the oppressive temperature doesn’t affect him at all. His white hair seems to shimmer in the sunlight, and he’s wearing his trademark sunglasses, the kind that makes him look perpetually unbothered.

You’re waiting in line at a smoothie stand, desperately trying to cool down with a cone in hand. You were fanning yourself, trying to evade the intensity of the strong Kyoto sun. That’s when he shows up, casually strolling towards you with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face.

“Hey there, struggling to beat the heat?” Gojo calls out, his tone light and teasing. 

You roll your eyes, not in the mood for his games. “It’s scorching out here, Gojo. Not exactly the time for you to be playing your little tricks.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, leaning against the counter with an exaggerated sigh. “I’m just here to offer some company. Can’t have you melting away all alone, can I?”

You try to ignore him, focusing on your drink as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “I’m fine. Really.”

But Gojo isn’t deterred. He follows you as you leave the stand, his presence like an unwelcome shadow. “So, where are you headed next? I hear there’s a nice little café down the street. We could cool off there.”

“I’m not interested, Gojo.” you snap, quickening your pace.

“Are you sure?” he persists, easily matching your stride. “It’s not every day you get to hang out with the strongest sorcerer in town. I promise I won’t bite.”

You shoot him a skeptical glance. “You’re really not going to give up, are you?”

“Not a chance,” he grins. “You look like you could use a break, and I could use some company. Besides, I’m a great conversationalist. You might even enjoy it.”

Despite yourself, you find his persistence a bit endearing. You sigh, finally relenting. “Fine. One quick stop at the café, and then you leave me alone.”

“Deal!” Gojo exclaims, his grin widening. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

At the café, as you sit across from him, the air conditioning feels like a blessing. Gojo Satoru is still as relaxed as ever, leaning back in his chair with that same self-assured smirk. “See? Much better, right?”

You can’t help but smile a little. “Yeah, this is definitely better. But don’t think this means I’m going to start liking you or anything.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, captain!” Gojo says, his tone playful. “I’m just here to make sure you’re not melting away into a puddle of frustration.”

As the conversation flows, his teasing starts to feel less like an annoyance and more like genuine fun. He talks about his latest adventures, exaggerates stories in his usual dramatic fashion, and even shares some surprisingly insightful observations about the work you both do. Somehow, he manages to not get on your nerves today.

“You know,” he says between bites of his own ice cream, “for someone who hates me so much, you sure seem to enjoy spending time with me right now.”

You snicker, shaking your head. “I don’t know about that. I think I’m just making the best of a bad situation.”

“Well, I’d like to think it’s more than that.” Gojo says with a wink. “Maybe you’re starting to see that I’m not just a cocky brat. Maybe I’m actually kind of fun.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Gojo.” you warn, though you’re smiling. “This doesn’t change anything. I still think you’re incredibly annoying.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” Gojo chuckles. “But I’ll take that as a win for now. Maybe one day, I’ll get you to admit that I’m not so bad after all.”

As you finish up your meal, you reflect on how different this encounter is from your first meeting. The arrogance is still there, but it’s mixed with a kind of charm that’s hard to ignore. Despite yourself, you find that you’re enjoying his company, and maybe, just maybe, there’s more to him than the cocky façade he puts on.

By the end of the day, as you part ways, you can’t shake the feeling that this summer break—this unexpected reunion—might just be the start of something different. Gojo’s persistence has managed to chip away at your defenses, and you’re left wondering if there’s more to this irritating sorcerer than meets the eye.

You tell yourself he’s still as annoying as ever, but your heart betrays you, pounding in your chest whenever he’s near. You don’t understand why, but you can't help but feel drawn to him. Every time you think of how he made you laugh when you least expected it, or how his confidence seemed to shield you from the world, your feelings get more confusing.

Is it possible that the guy who irritates you so much is the same one who’s now making your heart race? You can’t figure it out, but one thing’s for sure—something has changed, and you can’t ignore it anymore. You try to shake it off, convincing yourself it’s just the heat messing with your mind. After all, why would you like someone like Gojo Satoru? 

He’s arrogant, overconfident, and never takes anything seriously. But then, you remember how, during that first encounter, he didn’t just laugh at you—he noticed things. Little things. Like how you tried to stay strong even when you were clearly out of your comfort zone, or how you struggled to keep up with the fast pace of the event but never gave up.

You tell yourself it’s nothing, that he’s just good at reading people. Yet, the memory of his voice, the way he looked at you with those sharp eyes hidden behind his glasses, keeps replaying in your mind. The more you think about it, the harder it becomes to deny what you’re feeling.

It’s frustrating. You’re not supposed to like someone who drives you crazy, who makes you question everything about yourself. But here you are, your heart beating faster every time you think of him, and that infuriating smirk of his. Why did he have to be so… so irritatingly charming?

You find yourself wondering what it would be like to see him again, to have him tease you just so you can feel that strange flutter in your chest. But then, you immediately scold yourself for even thinking that way. There’s no way you could actually like him… right?

But deep down, you know the truth. No matter how much you try to deny it, the thought of Gojo Satoru won’t leave your mind. And with each passing day, the line between irritation and affection blurs just a little bit more. Yet you can’t do much about it. One way or another, somehow—you were just stuck with him being around. In Kyoto or Tokyo, or everywhere else. He’s just somehow always round. 

Months passed by, and it was summer again.

You’re sitting with Shoko Ieiri under the shade of a tree, fanning yourself with a hand to combat the relentless summer heat. It’s one of those rare, blissful afternoons where you’ve managed to carve out some free time. With Utahime-senpai occupied with a mission from Gakuganji and no assignments on your plate, you decided to take advantage of the break to catch up with Shoko. The two of you have become quite good friends over time, and her presence is a welcome relief from the sweltering heat. And you think that even under this hot summer this year, you’ll end up becoming better friends.

Shoko leans back against the tree, her posture relaxed as she takes a sip from her drink. She listens with a wry smile as you continue your tirade. You’ve been going on about Gojo Satoru for what feels like hours now, pouring out your frustrations about how annoying and insufferable he is.

“You wouldn’t believe it, Shoko. He just—ugh! He keeps showing up everywhere I go! It’s like he has a personal vendetta to make my life miserable.”

Shoko raises an eyebrow, her smile barely containing the amusement she’s clearly feeling. “And yet, you don’t seem to be able to stop talking about him.”

“That’s because he’s impossible to ignore!” you exclaim, waving your fan more vigorously. “He’s always so… so smug! Always grinning like he’s got some big secret. I can’t stand it!”

Shoko chuckles, taking another sip of her drink. “You know, the way you’re describing him, it almost sounds like you’ve got a bit of a crush.”

You nearly choke on your own breath. “A crush? Are you kidding me? I can’t stand him! He’s arrogant and insufferable. There’s no way I’d ever—”

Shoko cuts you off with a knowing look. “Oh, come on. It’s perfectly normal to be irritated by someone you’re secretly interested in. You’re practically obsessed with him.”

“I am not!” you insist, your face turning a shade redder as you realize how ridiculous you must sound. “I’m just... venting! He’s always there, poking at my patience, and it drives me insane!”

“Uh-huh.” Shoko says, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “And yet, you’ve been ranting about him for an hour now. You don’t do that with just anyone.”

You huff, crossing your arms defensively. “That’s because he’s a special kind of irritating. There’s nothing romantic about it, Shoko. It’s purely aggravation!”

Shoko leans in, her expression teasing. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say. But if you don’t want to talk about Gojo, maybe we should switch topics.”

Before you can respond, a familiar voice calls out from behind you. “Hey, I didn’t realize I’d find you here.”

You turn to see Gojo Satoru standing a few feet away, his sunglasses reflecting the sunlight in a way that makes him look even more infuriatingly cool. Beside him was Geto Suguru, who had a face that reflected yours. He was, you supposed, as done as you were with the man with bright cerulean eyes. You purse your lips. He’s grinning, that same smirk plastered across his face as he casually approaches.

“What are you doing here?” you demand, trying to keep your irritation in check. “This is a private conversation, Gojo. Leave us alone.”

“Yeah, Satoru.” Geto parrotted back, his hands in his pockets. “Leave them alone!”

Gojo just laughs, seemingly unfazed. “How cold! I was just passing by and thought I’d say hello. But it seems like I’m interrupting something. Were you talking about me?”

Shoko suppresses a grin behind her drink as you try to regain your composure. “No, we were just—”

As Gojo stands there, still grinning, Shoko decides to have a little fun. She leans in, looking as though she’s about to share a juicy secret. “Actually, I was just telling her how annoying you are,” she interjects with a playful nudge. “In detail too. Nothing was held back.”

Gojo’s smirk only widens, clearly amused by Shoko’s teasing. Before he can respond, Geto Suguru—who has been hovering just out of sight—steps into view. He’s carrying a large bag of sweets and looks somewhat frazzled, his usual cool demeanor slightly ruffled. He looked so worn out, you think. Much too much heat and Gojo, you feel for the guy.

“Honestly, you should have called me. Geto says with a grin, eyeing both you and Shoko. “I have a lot more to share about this freak.”

You turn to Geto, eyes wide in surprise. “What did you just call him?”

“HUH!? Suguboo, how dare you call me a freak?” Gojo’s voice rises in mock outrage, his face turning into an exaggerated scowl.

Geto rolls his eyes, clearly unbothered by Gojo’s antics. “You dragged me around Tokyo to buy sweets all day. I can’t feel my body anymore.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his expression one of mild exasperation. “You’re currently not on my good side.”

Gojo throws a hand up in dramatic defense. “Hey, I had to make sure you didn’t miss out on the best sweets Tokyo has to offer! It’s not my fault if you overindulge.”

Geto shakes his head, still grumbling. “I’m pretty sure it was more than just overindulgence. I was about ready to collapse by the end of it.”

Shoko laughs, thoroughly enjoying the banter. “See, you’re not the only one who has complaints about Gojo. Even Geto here has his grievances.”

You look from Shoko to Gojo and then to Geto, feeling a mix of amusement and relief. The dynamic between the three of them is light and playful, and it’s clear that there’s a strong sense of camaraderie, despite the occasional grumbling.

“Well, it’s nice to know I’m not alone in my irritation,” you say, letting out a small chuckle.

Gojo’s grin turns into a more genuine smile as he turns to you. “Hey, don’t be too hard on me. If I’m really that annoying, at least I’m entertaining.”

Geto snorts, clearly unimpressed. “Entertaining or not, you owe me for today. We’re going to need a serious dessert break after all that.”

You nod in agreement, feeling more at ease with the situation. “Agreed. And Gojo, don’t think you’re off the hook just because you showed up here. I’m still not happy about you popping up everywhere I go. You’re so annoying!”

Gojo raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Annoying, huh? Well, I guess that’s one way to describe me. But if I’m annoying, why do you keep bringing me up?”

You groan, feeling the heat on your face increase, whether from the sun or from embarrassment you can’t tell. You didn’t want to know.  “Oh, just go away. We were having a perfectly nice conversation before you showed up.”

Gojo chuckles and leans casually against the tree. “Well, I was hoping you might invite me to join you. But if I’m that annoying, I guess I’ll just have to prove I’m not.”

Shoko looks between you and Gojo, clearly enjoying the scene. “You know, it’s kind of nice to see you two together. It’s like watching a rom–com soap opera, but with crazy strong superpowers.”

You shoot Shoko a mock glare, though it's clear you’re not truly upset. The corners of your mouth twitch into a smile despite your best efforts to look annoyed. “Thanks for your support, Shoko.”

Suguru Geto, still holding the bag of sweets, grins broadly. “Shoko, you and your talent for fueling fires. I swear, you live for this kind of chaos.”

Shoko, not missing a beat, gives an exaggerated bow. “Anytime, folks. I’m here for your entertainment. It’s my specialty, after all.”

Geto chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m starting to think you enjoy stirring up trouble more than actually helping out.”

“Maybe,” Shoko admits with a playful glint in her eye. “But where’s the fun in being boring?”

You can’t help but laugh at the exchange. It’s moments like these, filled with light-hearted teasing and genuine friendship, that make summer breaks so enjoyable. The heat of the day, the annoyances of the past, and even the unexpected encounters with Gojo seem to fade into the background as you relax with friends who make even the most mundane moments entertaining.

“Well…..” you say, still smiling, “if I have to deal with more of Gojo’s antics, I’m glad I have you two around. It definitely makes the experience more bearable.”

Shoko grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “We aim to please. Just remember, if Gojo starts getting on your nerves again, you know where to find us.”

“Absolutely.” Geto adds, lifting the bag of sweets in a mock salute. “And if you need more sweets to get through it, I’ll be your guy. Though, I can’t promise I won’t complain about it.”

“Oh, Suguru! There’s a Digimon-themed café nearby!” Gojo exclaims, excitement clear in his voice as he checks his flip phone. His eyes are practically sparkling with enthusiasm as he waves the phone in front of Suguru and you.

Suguru Geto, clearly exhausted from the earlier sweet spree and the relentless summer heat, groans. “Hehhhh, I don’t wanna go anymore, Satoru. I’m tired.”

Gojo, however, is undeterred by Suguru’s reluctance. He leans in, practically vibrating with eagerness. “Suguru, please! You can sit down throughout while I do my thing. They have card trades going on there right now! You know how rare those are.”

Suguru looks at Gojo with a mix of amusement and frustration. “Card trades? Really? Is that what’s got you so worked up?”

“Yes!” Gojo says, his voice rising with a mixture of pleading and excitement. “I’ve been looking for a specific card for ages. This is my chance!”

You watch the interaction with a smirk, enjoying the dynamic between the two. Suguru’s exhaustion is palpable, but Gojo’s enthusiasm is infectious. It’s clear that Gojo is determined to drag Suguru along, no matter how tired he is.

“Come on, Suguru!” Gojo continues, his tone softening as he tries to appeal to Suguru’s better nature. “Just a little while. You can rest while I geek out over the Digimon stuff. And there’s bound to be something good for you too, right? Maybe a nice, cool drink or something.”

Suguru sighs, clearly defeated but not entirely unmoved. “Alright, alright. But if this turns into another full day of Gojo dragging me around, I swear I’m going to collapse.”

“Deal!” Gojo says, beaming with satisfaction. “I promise we’ll keep it short. Just a quick visit, then we can head back. I owe you one, for real.”

Shoko could only sigh as though this is the hundredth time today. “Looks like we’re going to a cafe.”

“How do you deal with this everyday, Shoko?”

She shakes her head. “Believe me, you do not wanna know.”

As the four of you make your way to the café, you can’t help but chuckle at the contrast between Gojo’s boundless energy and Suguru’s weary resignation. It’s moments like these that highlight the unique blend of personalities and friendships that make summer days so memorable.

When you finally arrive at the Digimon-themed café, the atmosphere is lively, with colorful decorations and enthusiastic fans trading cards and chatting about their favorite characters. Gojo is immediately in his element, diving into the card trades with a fervor that makes you smile. 

Suguru, though still looking a bit tired, finds a comfortable spot to sit and relax, occasionally glancing over at Gojo with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. Shojo sat beside you, sipping her cold peach iced tea. For a moment, the three of you look at Gojo and think he seems almost like a child.

“You’re a trooper, you know that?” you say, handing him a cool drink you picked up from the café. “I don’t know what I would do if Kusakabe dragged me half across town for a Digimon card.”

Suguru takes a sip and smirks. “Yeah, well, it’s not every day you get to see Gojo this excited. I guess it’s worth it. Plus, more excitement for him means he’ll be less active at the dorms tonight and not bother me.”

“That….” You paused. “So he runs out of energy too, huh?”

Suguru nodded. “Well, Satoru is a human being too. He gets tired too.”

“I think I like this version of him better.”

Shoko snickers. “You sure you don’t like him?”

“Now, now. Don’t scare them away, Sho.” Suguru smiles back at his friend. “If anything, they might be the last shot for Satoru to be a human being. After all, love makes one completely human.”

“B–but that’s not….. I don’t like him like that! He’s annoying and I just….”

“Denial that sounds like absolute lies is wasting Mother Earth’s air, you know?”

You shoot Shoko a playful glare, but your frustration is tempered by an internal chaos that’s increasingly difficult to ignore. Gojo, completely absorbed in his Digimon card quest, is a whirlwind of excitement and enthusiasm. His eyes are locked on the card he’s been wanting, and the moment he finally acquires it, his face lights up with an infectious joy that makes it hard for you to look away.

As Gojo gushes over the card and exchanges high-fives with fellow fans, you’re left sitting at the table with Shoko, trying to make sense of your own turbulent emotions. Your mind feels like a jumbled mess, caught between irritation and a confusing, unwelcome admiration. The way Gojo’s energy radiates around him, how his excitement seems to draw everyone in, including you—it’s all so bewildering.

Every time Gojo moves closer, whether he’s showing off his latest acquisition or simply passing by with that characteristic, carefree swagger, your heart races a little faster. It’s a reaction you can’t quite explain, and no matter how much you want to deny it, it’s becoming increasingly clear that you’re affected by him more than you’d like to admit.

You glance over at Shoko, who’s watching the scene with an amused expression. “How does he do it?” you ask, more to yourself than to her. “How does he make everything seem so... effortless?”

Shoko’s eyes sparkle with mischief as she leans back in her chair. “Oh, come on. You know exactly how he does it. It’s the same way he manages to get under your skin so easily.”

You try to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks, feeling a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the way he gets so wrapped up in things. It’s like nothing else matters to him.”

Shoko chuckles softly. “It’s his passion. It’s what makes him who he is. And it’s probably why you can’t seem to get him out of your mind, even when you try.”

You groan, running a hand through your hair in exasperation. “I don’t know what’s going on with me. I thought I had him all figured out, but every time he’s near, it’s like everything I thought I knew just... unravels.”

Shoko’s grin widens as she takes a sip from her drink. “Sounds like you’re having a hard time sticking to your own rules. Maybe you’re just more affected by him than you want to admit.”

You shoot her another glare, but this time it’s softer, tinged with resignation. “Yeah, well, thanks for pointing that out. I really needed the reminder.”

As Gojo returns to your table, holding up his prized card with a triumphant grin, your heart skips a beat. His enthusiasm is undeniable, and despite your internal struggle, you can’t help but be drawn to his infectious energy. He flashes a quick, radiant smile in your direction before turning his attention to Suguru, who’s still looking somewhat worn out but is clearly amused by Gojo’s excitement.

“Look what I got!” Gojo announces, waving the card in front of Suguru and you. “It’s the one I’ve been searching for!”

You try to muster up a response, but the sight of Gojo’s unabashed joy and the warmth of his smile make it difficult to focus on anything else. Your heart continues to beat faster, and despite your best efforts to keep your feelings in check, it’s becoming increasingly clear that Gojo’s presence has a profound effect on you.

Shoko leans in closer, her voice a soft tease. “Looks like you’re in for an interesting summer. Who knows? Maybe there’s more to this adventure than just the heat.”

You let out a soft sigh, feeling a mix of frustration and acceptance. As Gojo continues to share his excitement with Suguru and the other café patrons, you find yourself caught up in the moment, realizing that no matter how much you try to resist it, Gojo Satoru is undeniably a part of your world now—one you can’t seem to escape, no matter how hard you try.

“I’m craving some ice cream, it’s still too hot.” You muttered under your breath towards Shoko. “I’m going to go and buy some.”

“You want me to go with you?” Shoko asked, looking up towards you. 

You shake your head. “I’ll need some time to think for a bit. Besides, it's just around the corner.”

She nodded back at you. “Okay, then call us when you come back. Gojo might be here a while, the nerd he is.”

“Sure.” You managed to mutter as you walked off.

It didn’t take you long to get to the ice cream store. You settle into a corner booth, hoping the relative solitude will give you a chance to cool down both physically and mentally. The air conditioning provides a much-needed respite from the relentless summer heat, and the cold, creamy sweetness of your ice cream is a soothing balm for your frayed nerves.

Despite the comfort of the cool air and the calming effect of the ice cream, your mind refuses to be at peace. It keeps drifting back to Gojo Satoru—his teasing words, that infuriating grin, and the effortless way he seemed to handle everything while you were left feeling like a tangled mess of frustration and confusion. You replay the scene in your head over and over, each replay adding another layer to your mounting exasperation.

You stab your spoon into the ice cream with a little more force than necessary, your frustration spilling over into the simple act of eating. The satisfying crunch of the spoon hitting the ice cream echoes your internal struggle. You're so lost in your thoughts that you don't notice the door of the shop opening until a familiar voice breaks the silence.

“There you are.”

You freeze, spoon halfway to your mouth. Slowly, you look up to see Gojo Satoru standing in the doorway, his tall frame casting a shadow over your table. He’s got that same easygoing smile on his face, but there’s something different about his expression—something softer, almost hesitant.

“Where’s Suguru and Shoko?”

“They wanted to stay behind to rest up.”

“....Makes sense. You drained them up from energy.”

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, not waiting for an answer as he steps inside and takes a seat next to you at the small table.

You can’t help but feel a surge of panic mixed with irritation as you watch Gojo settle into the seat next to you. Of all the places in the city, why did he have to find you here, in this tiny ice cream store where you’d sought refuge from the chaos of the day? The familiar flutter in your chest is back, and despite your efforts to remain calm, your heart races as he sits down across from you.

Gojo’s presence feels overwhelming, and the proximity only amplifies your confusion. You can’t seem to reconcile the image of him as the carefree, teasing troublemaker with the more subdued, almost earnest expression he wore earlier. The combination of his unexpected arrival and the emotional turmoil from the day makes it hard to focus on anything else.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The only sounds filling the space are the steady hum of the air conditioner and the occasional clink of your spoon against the bowl of melting ice cream. It’s a stark contrast to the earlier energy of the café and the animated conversations you’d been a part of. Now, the silence feels almost oppressive, adding weight to the tension hanging between you.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, trying to focus on the ice cream, but the act of eating feels mechanical, a mere distraction from the growing unease. Each clink of your spoon against the bowl seems louder than it should be, amplifying the silence and making it harder to ignore the pounding of your heart.

Gojo, seemingly unfazed by the silence, takes a casual sip from his own ice cream. His relaxed demeanor is in sharp contrast to your internal turmoil, and it only serves to heighten your frustration. You want to break the silence, to say something that will diffuse the tension and make sense of the situation, but the words elude you.

Finally, Gojo breaks the silence, his tone surprisingly serious. “Was it really that bad?”

You blink, confused. “What… what do you mean?”

He leans back slightly, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that catches you off guard. “That I like you. Was it really that bad to hear?”

“......I���m sorry, what?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you suddenly feel the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. But the words won’t come out. Instead, you’re left staring at him, wide-eyed and completely at a loss for what to say.

Gojo’s expression softens, and he gives you a small, almost shy smile. “I’m not the best at being subtle, I know. But I meant it. I like you.”

Your heart skips a beat, and in your shock, you try to respond—but instead of words, all that comes out is a choked gasp as you accidentally inhale a spoonful of ice cream.You start coughing, the cold dessert lodged in your throat as you struggle to catch your breath. Gojo’s eyes widen in alarm, and he quickly reaches over to pat your back, trying to help you out. 

“Hey, hey, easy! Are you okay?”

You manage to swallow the ice cream, though your throat still feels cold and tight. Your face is burning with embarrassment, and you can barely bring yourself to look at him. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine… I just… you just…”

Gojo lets out a relieved laugh, though there’s a hint of concern in his eyes. “Sorry, didn’t mean to shock you that much. I guess I should’ve picked a better time to say it, huh?”

You don’t know how to respond. Your mind is a whirlwind of emotions—confusion, disbelief, and something else you can’t quite identify. The fact that he just confessed, out of nowhere, is overwhelming, to say the least. He waits for you to say something, his usual playful demeanor tempered with genuine concern. 

“I’m serious, though. I know I tease you a lot, but that’s just because I like being around you. You’re fun, and… well, I like you.”

You feel your heart pounding again, and you’re not sure if it’s because of his words or the way he’s looking at you. It’s different from his usual teasing gaze—there’s a sincerity in his eyes that you’ve never seen before.

“I…” You struggle to find the right words, but nothing comes out the way you want it to. “I don’t know what to say.”

He smiles, that playful edge returning just a bit. “You don’t have to say anything right now. I just wanted you to know how I feel. But… if it’s too much, I’ll back off.”

You shake your head, feeling a mix of emotions too tangled to sort out. “No, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting this. At all.”

Gojo’s smile softens, and he reaches out, gently taking your hand in his. “It’s okay. We don’t have to figure it all out right now, okay?”

You nod slowly, your mind still reeling from everything that’s happened. As he sits there beside you, holding your hand in his, you realize that despite all the teasing and frustration, there’s something undeniably real about the way he’s looking at you now. Maybe, just maybe, this summer heat isn’t the only thing making your heart race.

Gojo’s hand is warm against yours, and the feeling sends a flurry of butterflies through your stomach. He’s still looking at you with that playful grin, but there’s a tenderness in his gaze that makes your heart flutter.

“Sorry for springing this on you out of nowhere.” he says, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles. “But I couldn’t help it. Seeing you all flustered and cute earlier… I just had to tell you how I feel.”

You glance down at your hands, trying to process everything, but all you can focus on is the way his fingers are interlaced with yours. It’s surprisingly comforting, and you find yourself feeling a little less overwhelmed by the situation.

Gojo leans in a bit closer, his voice dropping to a soft, teasing tone. “You know, you’re even cuter when you’re flustered. I might have to make it my mission to see that expression on your face more often.”

You feel your cheeks heat up again, and you instinctively try to pull your hand away, but Gojo holds on gently, his smile widening. “No escaping this time. You’ve caught my attention, okay?  I’m not letting go so easily.”

You huff, trying to sound annoyed, but it comes out more flustered than anything. “You’re such a pain, Gojo.”

“Ah, but I’m your pain, right?” he quips back, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “I never said that.”

“Well, I’m saying it." he replies, leaning in even closer until you can feel his breath against your cheek. “And I think you secretly like having me around, even if you won’t admit it.”

You’re about to protest, but the words catch in your throat when you see how close he is. His face is only inches from yours, and the playful grin has softened into something more sincere.

“I like being around you, you know?” he murmurs, his voice gentle. “Even if I drive you crazy sometimes.”

You swallow hard, your heart thudding in your chest. There’s something incredibly endearing about seeing Gojo like this—still teasing, but with a softness that makes your heart melt.He pulls back just enough to give you a bit of space, his expression turning thoughtful.

 “You know, I’ve had a lot of people in my life, but no one’s ever made me feel the way you do. It’s different with you… in a good way.”

You blink, taken aback by the honesty in his words. “Really?”

“Really.” he says, his smile warm and genuine. “You’re special to me. And I don’t want to let go of something that feels this right.”

Your heart swells at his words, and for a moment, you forget all the teasing and frustration. All you can think about is how sincere he’s being, how much he actually cares.

Gojo must notice your softened expression because he chuckles lightly, his eyes twinkling. “Now, I know this is a lot to take in, but… would you mind if I tried something?”

You tilt your head, curious. “What?”

Instead of answering right away, he reaches out with his free hand, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is featherlight, almost hesitant, as if he’s waiting for your reaction. When you don’t pull away, he smiles softly and leans in closer.

“Just wanted to see if you’d let me do this.” he whispers, and before you can respond, he presses a quick, gentle kiss to your forehead.

The contact is brief, but it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine. You stare at him, wide-eyed and speechless, while he pulls back, looking pleased with himself “There,” he says with a grin. “Now you can’t say I don’t have feelings for you.”

You finally find your voice, though it comes out more like a squeak. “Y-You… Gojo!”

He laughs, not at all fazed by your reaction. “What? Too much? I thought it was pretty sweet.”

You bury your face in your hands, trying to hide the furious blush spreading across your cheeks. “You’re impossible!”

Gojo just chuckles and gently pries your hands away from your face, forcing you to look at him again. “I might be impossible, but you’re stuck with me now. So… what do you say? Think you could handle having someone like me around a little more?”

You glance at him, and despite your embarrassment, you can’t help but smile. “You’re not going to give me much of a choice, are you?”

“Not really.” he admits, his grin turning playful again. “But I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

You sigh, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. Instead, there’s a warmth spreading through your chest that you can’t ignore. “Fine,” you say, pretending to be reluctant. “But if you keep teasing me like this, I’m going to get back at you.”

Gojo’s eyes light up, and he leans in with a smirk. “Oh, I’m looking forward to that. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

And just like that, the tension melts away, leaving you with a strange sense of contentment. You don’t have everything figured out yet, but with Gojo sitting beside you, still holding your hand, you think maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t mind figuring it out together.

[octoberautumnbox]

The Cute and Caring Noona from Apartment 424

CLC/Kep1er Choi Yujin & Male Reader

Categories/warnings: smut, older girl, undisclosed age gap (nothing creepy tho), soft dom Yujin, titsucking, nursing handjob, cowgirl, creampie, breeding, overstimulation a lil bit

Word count: 3.5k

a/n: discordant waltz chapter alr planned out dw i just wanted to switch things up a lil, this was a blast to write :D 

“Hey, so good to see you! Come in!” 

You take off your shoes and Yujin pulls you in for a hug. The aroma of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies fills your nostrils and sends your stomach growling. 

“Hi, Noona. It's great to see you again.” You back away from the hug, but Yujin keeps you within arm's length with her dainty hands on your shoulders. You admire her simple yet adorable outfit, which only compliments her bright personality.

“Take a seat, cookies are still cooling down but dinner is ready!” 

She plops you down at the dining table and sets your plate and silverware. While she buzzes from cupboard to table and back, you draw your eyes from one tiny dish to the next. Kimchi, lettuce leaves, cheese cubes, the works. At the center of the table is a small grill, with a pan sitting on top and evidently expensive cuts of beef like what they go crazy for in variety shows sizzling enticingly. 

You keep from drooling at the last second at the feast before you, and you manage to choke out, “Wow, are we expecting more people, Noona? This looks delicious.”

“No, just the two of us,” Yujin says cheerfully as she places your chopsticks at the right side of your plate. “Too much?”

“Way too much! You really pamper me whenever I come by. Thanks, Yujin-noona.” 

She chuckles cutely while covering her mouth with a finger. “You visit too rarely for a neighbor. Come by more often and I can tone down the food, okay?” 

She takes her seat next to you and squeezes your hand. Skillfully and quickly, she picks up a piece of beef from the pan, a leaf of lettuce, just the right amount of kimchi, a leaf of perilla, and finally a cube of cheese. She presents you with the expertly made wrap and brings it to your mouth, saying “Ahhh.”

~~~

She sets the plate of cookies on the coffee table in front of you as you offer her the other half of the blanket. She joins you on the couch and shuffles right up to you, placing her head on your shoulder and bringing your arm around her. 

The movie starts playing and the necessary studio intro clips crescendo onto the screen. “This is one of my favorites. You'll love it too.” She snuggles more comfortably into your side and sighs a breath of relaxation. Squeeze her shoulder, tell her wordlessly that you're excited to love this movie as well.

~~~

You come to, and groggily you look around. It's of little help, as the TV shut itself off sometime ago and the lights are all out. You feel a shifting weight beside you and your face suddenly fills with a scratchy texture and the sweetest scent you've probably ever smelled in your life, no doubt a faceful of your neighbor’s hair. 

“Yujin-noona, wake up. We fell asleep and the movie's over.” 

You try to shake her awake gently, and it works. Yujin sits up slowly and tries checking the time on her phone. After the initial short-lived blindness, she sets it down and rubs her eyes. 

“It's late. Sleep over. No buts.” Knowing you had no choice, you submit and help her help you walk and stumble yourselves up the stairs and to her bedroom. 

She plugs a star-shaped night light into a low wall socket and the pair of you fall into the bed. You cuddle into her side this time and she graciously wraps you in her arms. The smell of her hair and her bedsheets fill your nostrils again with a calming fragrance.

However, in an act of dastardly betrayal, your brain for whatever reason thinks your sweet beloved neighbor Yujin-noona is… something more. As you take in more and more of her scent, and gaze up from her side to see the way her eyes are shut lighty and her lips are slightly parted as light snores slip through, your heart beats a different rhythm as if just now realizing and admiring the beauty that is Choi Yujin. 

“This can’t possibly be,” you think to yourself, “she’s my neighbor and very close friend. I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this.” You continue to fight down your subconscious feelings from bubbling up into your conscious mind, but the fullness of your tummy and the comfiness of the way you’re in bed with her prove it a challenge. 

“Something wrong? What are you thinking about?” You’re taken aback by Yujin’s sudden words. “Are you okay? Tell Yujin-noona what you need.” She rubs her eyes again and meets your gaze. In possibly the worst stroke of luck you could ever have had in this life, as she negotiates her hand back under the covers, she comes into light contact with you in the middle of you pitching a tent in your pants.

“... Oh.” is all Yujin could get out before you turn beet-red and stutter your apologies. 

“Shit, Noona, I’m so sorry! I- I should go- I’m sorry.” Your mind fills with shame at how you’ve ruined such a nice and pure friendship with your lovely neighbor. You try to stumble out from under the blanket, pushing Yujin away, but once again she places her dainty hand on your shoulder.

“Stop that right now. Come here.” Her command is mild but assertive. She lifts up the blanket to welcome you back, patting the space beside her in her bed. You sheepishly rejoin her under the fluffy covers, but before you settle, she makes another set of commands.

“This is my house, so for me to be a good host, you will tell me anything and everything you need. That includes this,” she whispers breathily, palming the growing bulge in your pants, “Most. Of. All.”

You can do nothing but whimper at her unrelenting touch. It doesn’t help that she’s already fiddling with the waistband of your underwear and wrestling it out of her way. What’s worse, your position in bed with her makes it impossible for you to look anywhere but to meet her eyes, or maybe…

“Use your words, baby boy, tell Noona exactly what you need.” An evil grin forms across her mouth, painting her features with a sinister shade of lust. 

“Noona… Could you please…” The words barely struggle out of your mouth, and even then you’re not saying anything of value. Yujin only chuckles more, covering her mouth with one finger, before prodding you incrementally yet ever closer to the edge.

“I can’t read minds, baby boy. You’re going to have to do better than that.” 

“Noona, your… your top, please. Take it off.” Wide-eyed, you watch as she grabs the piece of clothing by the hem and starts pulling up. Her belly button comes into your view as she goes on tantalizingly slowly revealing more of her creamy skin to your hungry eyes. 

The top then clears past her ribs, and she slows down ever so slightly, keeping you on the edge. You choose to relieve some of the pressure in your crotch yourself by stroking your dick to the unbelievably lewd sight, but Yujin has other plans.

“No, bad boy. Only Noona gets to play with that tonight.” In saying so, she lets go of her top, covering everything she showed you so far, to swat your hands away from masturbating. A deep sense of regret fills you, knowing that only you could be blamed for delaying your pleasure. However, Yujin seems satisfied that you learned your lesson and resumes her striptease.

She reaches a critical point in her teasing, bunching up all of the fabric so far right under her boobs. Her nipples poke through the thin fabric, and you fight the urge to just dive into her tits and ravage them to your heart’s desire. She relishes in the burning gaze you’re subjecting her to, as if getting off to being ogled by her neighbor and best friend. She grows a few shades redder in the face to match yours, but ultimately she pulls her top up past her breasts, freeing them and letting them bounce. With the top now only covering her neck and shoulders, she opts to tease you more:

“Like what you see?” she asks sultrily while winking at you. She cups each of her tits with her hands, presenting them to you, and tweaking her nipples to get them hard for you. Yujin takes her lower lip between her teeth, obviously growing more and more aroused at the thought of letting you take her right then and there.

You try to find some spit in your mouth to swallow, but it’s dry as a desert and you’re left breathless instead. You swear that you could just die right there and be happy with the life you’ve lived so far, and with how your noona is treating you, you just might actually pass.

“Baby boy, I’ll say again: Tell Noona exactly what you need.” Her top finally leaves her body and she shows herself off to you. Her fingers snake through her hair and you’re blessed with an unobstructed view of the most luscious tits you’ve ever seen. 

“I want…” You try forcing words out of your mouth again, but Yujin makes the job (and you) so extremely hard. “I want to suck your tits.”

“Not with that attitude, mister. I am your Noona and you will speak to me with respect.” She’s got you now, her deadly scold wringing your neck and cutting off what little airflow your lungs had. You’re left with no choice; submit to her will.

“Yujin-noona, please let me suck your tits, please…” Your tongue hangs out of your mouth, anticipating the imminent pleasure of her boobs on your face. It means the world to you when she places a hand behind your head and pulls you closer.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it, baby boy? Say ahhh…” You follow her command and she gently pushes her left breast into your mouth. Her skin tastes delicious, and her nipple is just the right stiffness to lick and nibble and worship.

She guides you to a more comfortable position, and you find yourself laying down while Yujin is on her side, still with her boob in your mouth, while she pulls your arm towards her right boob to fondle and grope as you please. 

“Is my precious baby boy comfy?” she asks much too cutely for what she’s making you do to her. “Yesh noona, ahm conhfy…” you mutter out with your tongue still wrapped around her nipple. 

“Good boy…” she moans breathily. While you’re taking your fill of her perfect body, she makes her desires known: she wants you too. 

Yujin finds your cock again and strokes it through your pants. “Baby boy, do me a favor, would you?” Her request makes itself apparent with the way she’s reaching under your waistband, and you could do nothing but oblige and strip yourself as quickly as possible of both pants and underwear.

“My perfect baby boy…” Her tone is laced with venom as your musk reaches her nostrils. She places a fingertip on the slit of your cock and spreads your precum all over the head. “What I’d give to do to your cock what you’re doing to my tits right now…”

Her pace speeds up, and while you have half a mind to ask her to slow down, you know you have no right to ask her of that. Instead, you go for the next best thing.

“Yujin-noona,” you surrender, her breast falling out of your mouth and onto your cheek, “could you please let me fuck your pussy?”

She chuckles again, but more evilly this time. “Of course, my sweet baby boy, but you’re gonna have to follow my lead.” 

“Anything for you, Noona.”

She places you properly down onto the bed, making sure you’re comfy, and plants a kiss on your cheek. She forces you to watch, with a hand on your cheek guiding your face, as she peels off her shorts to show you more of her skin: her smooth legs, creamy thighs, and plump ass you now have the pleasure to grope as much as she’s willing to let you. She climbs on top of and straddles you, the large wet spot on her pink-and-white striped panties nearly leaking her juices onto her thighs, before she takes your hard and throbbing cock into her hands again. 

“Will you be my good baby boy, sweetheart?” She spits into her hand and rubs it all over your dick, causing you to groan in pleasure.

“Yes…” “Yes, what, hmm?”

“... Yes, noona, I’ll be your good baby boy…”

“Perfect, just what I wanted to hear.” She pulls her panties to the side and rubs the head of your cock against her soaked folds. The heat radiating from her sex spurs you on even more, the delayed gratification of slipping into her causing your breaths to heave. Yujin takes on sharp inhales and slow exhales as well each time she teases her clit with your head.

Deciding to finish teasing you, Yujin finally gives you what you’re craving. She sinks down slowly onto your cock, making sure to feel every single vein inside her. Her descent is slow and deliberate and you watch as more and more of your length slips past her pussy lips and into her tight cunt.

“Ffffuck, baby boy, you’re going to split me in half with a cock like this…” 

It starts to overwhelm you: the warmth from her slick, the tightness of her cunt, the clenching of her walls against your cock as if desperate for a climax as early as this. You surely want your noona like this for much longer than just a few seconds more, but you’re in absolutely no control at all.

“Baby boy, tell me if you’re close, okay?” You nod furiously, and Yujin drops herself violently onto your crotch, pushing every last inch of your cock into her cunt. “Ah, fuck! Yes, baby boy, fuck me with this thick cock of yours!”

Grab her tiny waist, feel her smooth skin, pull her up ever so slightly. Then, pull her back down onto your dick, feeling her walls clench around you so needily again. The pair of you find a rhythm, and not long after, Yujin herself bounces up and down on your shaft like a pogo stick.

“Shit, baby boy, you feel so fucking good!” She somehow finds little adjustments that push you deeper and deeper into her cunt, and in turn you hit her good spots more and more. It gets progressively more difficult to keep from creampie-ing her right then and there, but you fight for more time to receive her love.

With every thrust into her core, Yujin falters ever so slightly. You notice between her lewd moans and grunts that she’s arching forward, slowly but surely bringing her closer and closer to you. Eventually she gives up trying to stay upright, and she falls forward only to catch herself with her elbows planting deep into the mattress on either side of your head. 

“Tempting, no? Hah, hah, come on, my sweet, good baby boy, give ‘em a little suck.” Barely registering the lewd words coming out of her mouth, you take her right nipple in between your teeth. Tug respectfully, but tug hard. The sensation of your teeth on her sensitive nub drives her insane, bringing her to the heights of her pleasure, and somehow even higher still. She lets you know just how blissful she is with groans and pleas you can’t help but indulge.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re killing me! My god, yes, please, harder,” and many more nonsense filler words spill from her mouth while you fill her cunt again and again and again. The more she rides you, the more her sweet and tight cunt leaks her juices all over her bed, causing the wet spot to make itself known to you once it grew big enough under her. At the same time, you struggle harder and harder to get your own body under control, fighting back your orgasm for just a bit more time with her like this, just a bit more.

“N- Noona, it feels so good, you feel so fucking good on my cock, Yujin-noona…” You’re completely at her mercy, and her mercy is heaven. With every bounce she makes on your cock you grow harder and hornier for her, only to be welcomed into what might be the wettest, neediest, fullest pussy in the world. You can’t get enough of her: not your cock pistoning into her cunt and poking at the entrance to her womb, not your mouth sucking and biting desperately at the flesh of her perky tits, not your hands roaming all over her body and groping every part of her you can. 

“Baby boy, you’re making Noona feel so fucking good too,” she confesses hazily, and only then you notice that her eyes are falling half–shut and her straining to keep riding you. Her thighs are jiggling with her trembling core, and you figure out that she’s been spraying her girlcum all over your crotch for who knows how long now. 

Her pussy only serves your cock so much better now, wetter and slicker and definitely tighter with how her pussy refuses to let you go. The feeling of her hips convulsing against you almost nearly pushes you over the edge yourself, you’re trying so hard to hold off, but she’s so cute and caring, and she’s so fucking hot…

“Noona, I- I’m so fucking close, Noona!” But Yujin is long gone, lost in her continuous orgasm, doomed to keep leaking from her cunt and mouth and riding you without her better judgment to stop. Wherever Yujin is in the confines of her mind must be drowning in pleasure to keep fucking herself on you like this.

You’re gone too, as even though you know it wouldn’t be that hard to pull her tight body off you yourself, you’re completely in love with the idea of cumming just like this. Your cock buried deep inside your friendly neighbor Choi Yujin, who fed you, hung out with you, treated you like a real brother, only to take advantage of her dazed state of mind to paint her velvet walls white with your cum, filling her to the brim with your baby-making seed, subjecting her to the motherhood of your child…

“Baby boy, do it, shoot all of it inside, sweetheart. Fill Noona up. It’s okay.” On primal instinct, you let out a low growl and grip her ass roughly. Only now do you notice how much she was moaning loudly right into your ear, tinnitus ringing a high-pitched and dizzying tone that wouldn’t stop. Your arms and legs burn with how hard and fast you’re manhandling Yujin’s body, fucking her like a wild animal that knew nothing but sex. She hasn’t stopped orgasming, you feel her slick spread more over your crotch. Her elbows finally give out and she collapses onto you, fully vulnerable to you.

“I’m Noona’s good baby boy” is your last thought before your orgasm takes over your mind. Thrust deeper than ever into her core, shoot your seed straight into her womb. Her strained voice makes one final effort to scream her earth-shattering ecstasy as each spurt of your spunk shoves itself into her, eventually forcing her cunt to leak both her and your cum out in globs. You even lose yourself in the throes of pleasure and forget that you might be hurting her; all you need to know is that her body is yours to use and breed as you like. Keep pistoning into her all the while your cock sprays your love deep into her fertile body, one spurt, two, three, five, eight, eleven, before you lose count and just focus on feeling good with your cute and caring noona. 

Once the world stops spinning and calms down, you find yourself dizzy and gasping for air through a dry-as-a-desert mouth. With fatigue plaguing every part of your body, you can’t even find the strength to get into a less uncomfortable position. Your eyes try to drift lazily across the ceiling, getting your bearings, but Yujin has one last command for you.

“My sweet baby boy, you did so well for Noona. Get your rest, baby.” She places her hand on your eyes, pushing them shut. She keeps her hand there, making sure you don’t open your eyes again while you feel her lips planting kisses on your face, trailing a line from your cheek to your neck. Finally, she licks and then nibbles your lower lip lightly, rewarding you for doing such a good job. 

“B-but what about the mess? And you might get preg–” “Shush now, let Noona worry about that, okay? Sweet dreams, baby boy.”

You stand no chance against her; your fatigue takes over your body and the calmness of the air lulls you into a sense of serenity. As the final nail in the coffin, Yujin refuses to get off of you despite your best attempts at pulling out and pushing her off. Without even realizing it, you fall deep asleep amidst her comforting weight, tender kisses, and soft coos.

~~~

a/n: i went into this fic blind actually. only when I was about half done did I think to check if yujin was actually good at cooking at all but turns out shes not :/

[hifugoro]

thinking sooooo hard about the removed akechi mementos request. not only because we got to see him Ace Detective-ing (peak!) but because the moral of it all is so. Akechi. very long rant incoming

one of the major things that I think sets him apart from the rest of the thieves is that he doesn’t believe that circumstances lessen the effects of actions. like at all. there are multiple examples of this but the cutscene during marukis fight where he’s the only one to keep attacking (and him being the only one to show outright disdain towards maruki in general) + the thieves den conversation with yusuke about shido / madarame (Y: “Perhaps there was a certain misstep in his life that eventually led him so astray.” A: “So you’re saying he may not have been truly evil? Your drivel’s as outlandish as always…”) are ones that stand out to me most. he doesn’t care about what causes bad people to be the way they are, and he doesn’t care what otherwise good people’s intentions are when they do bad things. the act itself is what matters

it goes without saying that this extends to himself, I mean he outright states that he cant comprehend the phantom thieves not just killing him after the engine room fight. he didn’t mean that as a “wow... I can’t believe you’re being so nice to little old me….” moment. it was him being genuinely confused as to why they’re still trying to get him on their side. because he didn’t say anything he said to gain pity points with them, nor does he think the things he said deserve enough pity points to spare his life

and then you have this mementos request. in which a corrupt diet member has a son with his mistress, who subsequently commits suicide, and then falsely accuses the son of a crime many years down the line. “you all want to help that poor victim, don’t you?” akechi says. the poor victim, who was enacting a revenge plot on his criminal father that made him into a criminal as well. huh.

again, this is all coming from the guy who like a month ago, got a heartfelt speech about how he can still come back from what he’s done because the thieves can understand where he’s coming from. this happens at (arguably) his emotional lowest, where it probably hits harder than it could at any other time. and this is his direct response to that. this is him saying, in essence, that their kind words at the end were nonsensical, because his circumstances Don’t Matter

after he sends these texts, morgana goes “But akechi is just like him…” because it’s true, but that’s the Point. It makes no difference that akechi can empathize, and place himself directly in toji’s shoes. he had a hunch about the truth the entire time, and he still aided in making toji’s act of extortion exposed. understanding the viewpoint of someone who does bad things Does Not Matter to him

and that, to me, is what his sense of justice is at it’s core. which is why in the end, he doesn’t have that same sympathy for himself that everyone else does. he killed people. end of story. no other notes

and my god! I really wish they kept this in, because it really hammers in that extra layer he has to him. atlus do you hate me

[angelltheninth]

Hi, I was wondering if you could do The Hazbin Cast x Reader, where they and Reader are having a romantic moment to themselves, and before anything more could happen, suddenly something or someone ruins the moment?

See... I both hate and love this trope. It's funny as hell, but frustrating as hell too.

Pairing: Charlie Morningstar, Vaggie, Alastor, Lucifer Morningstar, Angel Dust, Husk, Sir Pentious, Adam, Vox, Valentino x Reader

Tags: fluff, kissing, interrupted romantic moment, canon typical violence, blood, suggestive, date night

A/N: I would punch anyone who interrupts me. And I'm not a violent person. So uh... these characters have an effect on me lmao.

Charlie acts very calm unless either or both of you is in any state of undress. There’s no one more affectionate than her, displaying that in front of others is fine with her, she wants others to know of her love for you. It’s a different thing if it’s in a more intimate setting where she expected to have alone time with you. With a deep breath, some blushing and a groan she would try to get rid of distractions as soon as possible but at the same time. she would apologize to whoever interrupted you for shooing them away.

Vaggie has a blade at hand and it is promptly thrown next to the head of whoever interrupted you. Deep down she is a huge romantic and enjoys being romanced a lot, on the surface she is a badass fighter and she had an image to uphold with many people. There’s a lot of yelling and cursing, probably more than one threat of killing someone before she is back by your side, grumbling and murmuring to herself about forgetting to lock the damn door.

Alastor threatens to tear apart anyone who interrupts you, he puts that out as a warning because of how many times it’s happened in the past and he’s grown tired of being in a middle of a dance or cuddling and someone barging in wanting something. Usually he’s the one who walks in without knocking, now he’s getting to see how it feels. It doesn’t feel good, a full record scratch, even his shadow looks pissed off at even the slightest interruption.

Lucifer is in good spirits recently so even something as an interrupted date doesn’t get under his skin, if it was before it would have been a different story. Right now wile a little annoyed he can forgive and forget, after all no one saw anything too scandalous, although some would say that seeing the King of Hell in handcuffs is pretty scandalous by itself. As long as this doesn’t happen again it will be fine, although he knows you will tease him for it later.

Angel Dust obviously doesn’t mind it too much, on the surface at least, he is a porn star so getting watched is part of the job. That’s in the studio at least, at the Hotel he has the privacy he never had before, he likes it a lot actually, it’s almost too good to be true. Maybe he will occasionally flirt with or tease who ever interrupted you but in these four walls he is all yours and he won’t let the mood be spoiled by anyone, including his boss.

Husk groans and pulls your face close to his neck to help you hide your flushed face from the onlooker. How is this so perfectly timed, right when he wanted to take your clothes off and have a bit of fun with you someone just had to walk in. Well they’re really lucky he’s not as powerful as he once was otherwise they would be splattered all over the walls right now and would have to put themselves together while he makes out with you.

Sir Pentious hides his face behind his hat the moment someone enters his bedroom and sees you on top of him. Damn it, he told his Egg Boiz to make sure no one enters his bedroom, which also applies to them, until one of you steps out first, no matter what noises are heard from inside. As soon as you’re done and you think you’re gonna sleep he slithers out and starts working on plans for a new machine to make sure no one interrupts you ever again: a doorbell with a laser.

Adam yells at the person who interrupted the two of you because damn he’s been waiting the whole day to have you all to himself, all moody and pent up. This is his time with you, which means that no one gets to tell him he’s needed elsewhere before he’s done with you. He wraps you up with his wings if he sees you’re getting embaressed but really now, considering everything you do together getting watched shouldn’t be an issue.

Vox flinches when he gets a ping that someone’s crossed in front of his cameras which he set up just so no one catches the two of you in a compromising position. He sighs as he pulls away and covers you with a blanket, hiding your body from anyone’s view but his, which is funny because he has an insight into almost everyone else’s love life. For a demon like that he wants to keep his own affairs fairly private, at least the bedroom kind.

Valentino grins at the person who walks in on the two of you, he has zero shame regardless of your own level of shame he will brag about everything that happens and if someone sees it then even better. Besides he is the Overlord of the the porn industry, you knew things like this could happen when you began your relationship with him. He is so comfortable in fact that he will just keep going, kissing you occasionally to tell you that you’re doing a good job in front of a crowd.

[cowboy-heart]

'interview with a butch' - a fake interview reflecting on butch-femme dynamics! inspired by the amazing piece by @llovely, which you can read here :)

(ID below read more)

[an original, interview-style poem called 'interview with a butch':

when did you know you were butch? I knew by the time I was sixteen, but that’s only when I found the word. I’ve been butch since the day I was born, at least since I was just a few months old and threw an earth-shattering tantrum whenever my mum tried to put me in a dress. (both laugh) your poor mum!

I remember being a little butch knight, chivalrous even before I was double digits. my best friend only lived up the road from school, but her parents were running late and she was scared to do it herself. so I walked her up the hill, her arm linked in mine, pride balancing on my chest. and when I got her to her door, I said that we should kiss like adults do when they say goodbye, and we took it in turns to kiss each other on each cheek. when I walked home I felt something the size of a boulder in my stomach, but I didn’t know what it meant yet, just that there was something about myself that set me apart.

how did you feel with your first femme? oh, man, even for a writer that’s hard to find the words for. (laugh) let’s put it this way: before I had my first femme, I always felt like something was missing in my relationships – not just in the relationship itself, but in me. I felt broken and wrong, unsatisfied and selfish. I thought that maybe I just had too high expectations or something. hell, even with sex I felt like something was missing, like I couldn’t find my own desire.

But then, then I had my first femme. How graphic can I be here? (laugh) as graphic as you want! okay, good!

watching my stomach hang over my harness, long nails in my hips, I felt like I had a second sexual awakening. I felt the most present in my body I’d ever been, and like I could be in them forever. I didn’t feel dissatisfied, or wrong. when their hand held mine and played with my fingers I felt lightning shoot through me. it was like realising I was a lesbian all over again. but even outside of romance, femmes are my friends, my family, my community. talking to femmes, being around femmes, I’ve never felt so seen and loved. I can handle every sharp look, every slur thrown my way, just because my armour was polished by femmes.

do you find your roles restrictive? they’re liberating. I think sometimes people see me and think that I had to fit into this constrictive box, that I disallowed myself to enjoy anything feminine. the reality is that for butches, we find the word we’ve been searching for our whole lives. I can’t even remember finding the word, isn’t that crazy? it felt second nature. it somehow perfectly described everything I’d ever felt, exposed me to a community of people who were just like me outside of my Tory town! (pause)

I think there’s a tendency even in leftist, LGBT spaces to think that masculinity is oppressive, and femininity is liberating and oppressed. but it’s really not like that. we’re punished for deviating from our assigned gender, whether you’re a masculine woman, or a feminine man, or something in between the two. I’ve had gay men try to convince me to let them do my makeup, I’ve had gay women tell me that they’re “so glad” I don’t have ‘toxic masculinity’ like “other butches”. femininity was a cage for me, something I had to imitate to survive the perils of high school, but it was never me. masculinity liberated me, and it’s not inherently toxic. I love to carry the bags, hold open the doors, cry in pride, protect those I love. and there’s nothing like coming home at the end of the day to a sweet femme, ready to rub my tired muscles. man, I’m not good at concise answers, am I? (both laugh) no, but I love it!

what do you think of people who see your relationship as heteronormative? they’re twats! (both laugh) now, that’s a concise answer! no, no that’s not fair. here’s what I’d say to them:

I see it as…a complex gender performance. no, that makes it sound like it’s play pretend. they’re complex gender…expressions, dynamics, play, desire, euphoria. a butch and a femme together is no more heterosexual than a bear and a twink, a top and a bottom. it’s a dance that we know in our bones, like we knew each other in a previous lifetime and we’re just falling back into our favoured rhythm. even every fumble and awkward gesture is a part of it. we fall into sync and into each other, we tenderise each other’s gender, affirm it, and love every minute of it. we’re not two sides of the same coin, you talk to any butch-femme couple and chances are our priori (edit: interviewee meant propositions) are the same but our conclusions are not; we’re the same side of the same coin, just one is the top of the tail and the other is the bottom of it. is that a euphemism? (laugh) take it as you will!

I’m no man, my femme is no woman, and I’m no less butch when I’m wearing a kiss-the-cook apron and cleaning their kitchen, and they’re no less femme when they’re putting together a shelf or driving me to work. To look at us and see a heteronormative imitation of cisgender predetermination is proof of their own lack of nuance – do you think all dogs are boys and all cats are girls, too? (both laugh)

I think in a lot of ways, butch-femme dynamics are inherently transsexual. or, in the very least, good friends of transgenderism. If you can’t see us for what we are then chances are you’ve got your own internalised gender biases to unlearn.

I’ve always been butch to my bones, but when I’m with my baby I’m on cloud nine. I feel desired, my gender revered and loved.

so, what you’re saying is, you feel seen? I do. we see each other and nurture each other. I’ve never really liked being called ‘beautiful’, but when it falls from the lips of a femme, I know that they’re not seeing me as feminine. I feel most comfortable to explore the depths of both my femininity and masculinity with them; I don’t feel restricted to a role.

maybe that’s what people are missing about it: our homes are temples of gender exploration and devotion.

end ID].

[astronomodome]

I think it’s kind of crazy how Skizz’s arc in the life series is so integrally defined by his being a loyal soldier of the Red Army in third life, a position in which he felt comfortable and confident in his value to the server. The archetype he sees as the ideal team, one that not only protects each other but works for the wellbeing of the server, that template that he follows is the Red Army. Every season since, he falls into a leadership role whether he intends to or not, and every time he tries to recreate that formula with the team he leads. And here’s the thing: it never works.

In Last Life, team BEST’s first objective is to not only secure the enchanting table, but to make it free to use for everyone. Their goal here is to become the “heroes of the server” through this, and Skizz openly says that. However, any victories they achieve are plagued by the fact that… well… there never really was a team BEST. There’s a team BE and a team ST and they work together in theory, but as soon as there’s cracks in the foundation- a boogeyman here, an accidental death there, it falls apart (never all the way while Skizz is alive, but still). Skizz dies a lonely failure of a red life, wearing the initials of his team on his head and haunting them after he dies.

In Limited Life, he gets a chance to try again. Bdubs was the most obvious point of failure for BEST, so why not replace him with sweet and reliable Impulse? And yes, as a group, TIES works much better. Unfortunately, this season doesn’t go well for Skizz, and he’s in the weeds so to speak pretty much the whole time. But one of their crowning achievements- blowing up Bread Bridge- is rationalized by Skizz to his team as a heroic and charitable act. Another set of heroes. But not the strongest players out there. Skizz dies to keep it going just a little longer.

In Secret Life, he has the Heart Foundation, which differs a lot from what Skizz claimed it to be. On paper it’s three people, but in practice it’s just him and Tango (I love BigB but he really was not the most engaged with the group here). On paper Tango’s the leader, but Skizz can’t really keep from taking charge. Again, we get a charitable motive: using the heart-giving system for good (and profit, of course). And Skizz even has plans for when it goes south: they turn the heart’s smile upside-down and start killing. But even this plan fails; as in Last Life, people take advantage of the team’s kindness, and then the heart itself burns down before they get a chance to change it. Skizz dies trying and failing to right this wrong, even by proxy.

What makes this so so interesting is how formulaic it is. I don’t even mean that in a bad way. It’s fascinating how Skizz always, always falls into this pattern. Icarus reaches for the sun and, for his hubris, falls the same way every time. And Tango is there

[dark-dawn]

₊˚ ⊹｡ BIRDS OF A FEATHER ｡ ⊹ kageyama tobio

✭ summary: perhaps even in the vast, chaotic expanse of all the planets and stars and galaxies, you would always find each other. in every world, every universe, again and again. or, your photo shoot is interrupted by your ex-boyfriend.

✭ pairing: kageyama tobio x model!reader

✭ contains: exes still in love, mutual pining, slight angst, post-timeskip, alcohol + smoking, everyone is very touch-starved and can't keep their hands to themselves, longing and devotion!!, happy ending <3

✭ word count: 3.6k ✭ a/n: i recently watched the movie, and now i can't stop thinking about kageyama. so here we are :)

you were nineteen when you broke up with tobio.

back then, the world seemed to constrict around you – streets narrowing, air thinning – as if the universe itself conspired to magnify the ache in your lungs. it was as though every passing moment folded in on itself, squeezing tighter with each breath, until you felt suffocated by the weight of your own existence.

but maybe you were just nineteen, and everything felt worse then.

you find comfort in the idea that among the countless universes unfurling across the cosmos, there exists one where you and him are together, where the threads of fate intertwine just right. perhaps you first meet in a quaint coffee shop on a rainy afternoon, where you’ve forgotten your umbrella, and he offers to share his own. or maybe it’s a bustling bookstore, where your hands reach for the same novel, and your eyes meet with a spark of recognition, as if your souls can recognise each other through touch alone.

and maybe there is a universe where he doesn’t become a professional athlete. he’s just tobio, a boy with kind eyes and dreams that don’t pull him miles away from you. there, perhaps, saturday mornings are spent in bed, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and pastries lingering in the air. golden morning light would filter through the curtains, casting a hazy glow over your bodies, and your joy would radiate so intensely that your vision is filled only with each other. you’d fight over silly things, like whose turn it is to do the dishes or whether the couch should be moved two inches to the left. but even in those moments, there’s a comfort, a certainty that at the end of the day you’d still find yourselves curled up together, sharing the warmth of the same bed.

in another universe, maybe it’s not so perfect. there are arguments that sting, silence that stretches too long. and yet despite the cracks and the flaws, you choose each other, again and again.

but here, in this reality, you were nineteen when you broke up with tobio. you cried until there were no tears left, until the numbness set in and the world seemed dull and grey.

and then you learned to navigate life without him, because the world wouldn’t end because you broke up with your boyfriend. 

three years later, tobio is... well, he’s still a professional athlete, at the peak of his career now. sometimes, his name pops up on your social media feed, accompanied by images of him on the court, sweat glistening, determination etched into every muscle, into every pore. it still feels strange, seeing him there, and not by your side.

there’s an undeniable magnetism to him, a gravitational pull that draws your gaze despite your best efforts to look away. he’s a force of nature, like a raging wildfire or relentless flood; more natural disaster than a man of flesh and bone. you can’t help but feel a pang of something – nostalgia, perhaps, or maybe a twinge of envy. you always liked to watch him play, but now you’re really on the sidelines. 

seeing him on your phone is always a reminder of just how far apart your worlds have drifted, how different your paths have become. he’s soared to unimaginable heights, and you can’t reach him anymore.

you miss him. it’s an ache you can’t seem to shake.

but you’re not doing bad per se. you’re a model now, signed to an agency, and getting semi-regular jobs, too. it’s a far cry from your nineteen-year-old self who was too insecure to ever apply. you remember how daunting it was at first, the fear of rejection teetering on your shoulder blades. it lingers still, in the long hours and perfectionism, but you’re proud of yourself.

you just miss him.

---

you’re at a club when you find out you landed the most significant booking of your career.

you’re not exactly thrilled to be there – a promoter had convinced you to come, and, well, you needed the money.

the bass thumps through the floor, reverberating up your legs as you stand near the bar, nursing a drink. neon lights dance across the crowd, illuminating the faces of strangers lost in a haze of alcohol. you take a sip, the liquid burning as it slides down your throat, momentarily distracting you from the mess around you.

you pull out your phone, the screen casting a faint glow against the darkness of the club. your fingers fumble for a moment before you manage to unlock it, the pulsing music and jostling bodies making it hard to focus. a notification from your agent pops up, and you squint at the words, trying to make sense of them in the dim light. you blink, then read it again, just to be sure.

you got the job.

it’s for an athletic brand. not exactly the glamour you’ve dreamt of, but the pay... the pay is good. and working for them means exposure, means more opportunities down the line. sure, it’s not the pinnacle of your aspirations, but it’s a step – a big one – in the right direction. and right now, that’s all that matters.

you’ll celebrate later, you decide, once you’re somewhere quieter, somewhere you can properly let it sink in. maybe with friends and family, but definitely not with a text to your ex, telling him how well you’re doing, how he would be proud of you.

you wonder if there will be a day when you don’t think about him.

---

kageyama did not cry when you broke up with him. he had wanted to, he thinks, but at the time he just felt numb – like a cold emptiness had settled deep within his chest, drowning any semblance of feeling.

in the days that followed, he replayed the conversation in his mind, searching for some hidden meaning, some clue as to why it had all fallen apart. but the truth eluded him, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. he only remembers the disbelief, as if the ground had suddenly dropped out from beneath him.

but tears? they didn’t come. just a hollow ache, a void where your presence used to be.

and so, he buried himself in his work, throwing himself into training like usual. volleyball has always been his world – not just a game, but a language he speaks fluently. from the moment he first picked up a ball, he knew he had found his calling, his purpose in life. it was the very essence of who he was and is.

he still remembers a conversation you had with him – about how rare it was to know what you were destined for, to have a passion that consumed you so completely. he sometimes wonders if that’s why you had drifted apart. but he couldn’t blame the sport, not really.

sometimes, in the quiet moments between matches, he allows himself to wonder what could have been if things had ended differently between you. he envisions alternate paths, where your story together didn’t reach its abrupt conclusion – where you shared an apartment in tokyo and spent sunday mornings tangled in sheets. where every glance, every touch, was infused with a sense of belonging, of being exactly where you were meant to be.

but as quickly as these visions materialise, they dissipate into mist, swept away by the roar of the crowd. he makes a conscious effort to redirect his focus, reminding himself that the only path worth pursuing is the one ahead – toward the next serve, the next point, the next victory.

because the world didn’t end when you broke up with him. and kageyama, ever the competitor, refused to let it break him.

three years later, it had honed him to a razor’s edge, forged him into one of japan’s best players.

his pride in his career runs deep – every milestone, every hard-fought victory, every bruise and callus on his hands stands as a testament to his dedication and skill. he finds solace in the rhythm of the game, the familiar feel of the ball in his hands. it’s a dance he knows well, a symphony he conducts with ease. and in those moments, when he’s completely immersed in volleyball, the ache fades to the background, and he feels whole again.

and yet, he still misses you – still loves you. he doesn’t think he will ever stop. you were more than just a memory, you were a part of him, too. a missing piece that no amount of success or recognition could replace.

in the end, he accepts it. the longing, the ache – they’re part of the same drive that makes him excel on the court. he channels that energy, that unresolved emotion, into every match, every practice session, pushing himself to be better, to achieve more.

he finds himself tangled, however, in a web of obligations he never quite anticipated. adverts, interviews, appearances – the demands weigh heavy on his shoulders. it’s not what he signed up for, but he grits his teeth through the endless photo shoots, smiles plastered on his face for the cameras. he knows it’s all part of the game.

he can almost picture your reaction, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you watch him stumble through the world of fame and publicity. he was never one for the spotlight – comfortable only around a select few, always at ease with you.

as he scrolls through his emails, a notification from his manager catches his eye. his next commitment is for an athletic brand – a familiar name that he’s collaborated with in the past. he quickly scans the details, noting the time and location of the shoot. it’s familiar territory, a well-worn path he’s treaded many times before. at least with this one, he’s just advertising sportswear – something he practically lives in already.

he just didn’t expect to do be doing the campaign with you.

---

your agent had given you the heads up beforehand. “it’s the usual routine,” she assured you, though her tone betrayed a hint of urgency. “but there’s a chance a well-known athlete might join for some test shots. don’t worry about it, just be professional.” it was patronising, but you appreciated the warning nonetheless. dropping that you’d be working with a celebrity isn’t out of character for her; she has a talent for delivering bombshells with the same nonchalance she’d use to tell you it might rain.

like when she casually mentioned that your recent shoot would be featured in a major magazine, just as you were about to walk out the door. or the time she informed you, in between sips of her almond-milk latte, that a renowned director would be on set to “observe”. these little surprises were her specialty, and you had come to expect them, even if they never failed to set your nerves on edge.

arriving at the studio, you’re greeted by the usual hustle and bustle. anxious, over-worked assistants scurry around, trying to ensure everything is in place. the aroma of coffee brewing in the corner wafts through the air, mixing with the faint scent of hairspray. you take a breath, letting the atmosphere ground you. celebrity or not, you know what you’re doing.

like usual, you’re ushered into the wardrobe area, shedding your street clothes for a sports bra and leggings. the stylists swarm around you like bees, their skilled hands darting in a flurry of motion. they adjust, pin, and tweak, ensuring every seam and fold falls perfectly into place. it is a carefully curated illusion designed to sell as much merchandise as possible, and you are just another product on display.

the crew members move with practiced efficiency, adjusting lights and tweaking camera angles until everything is just right. the photographer, a tall man with an air of calm authority, greets you with a small smile. “let’s start with some warm-up shots,” he suggests, positioning you in front of the camera.

you begin with basic poses, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, finding your balance. the photographer’s assistant calls out directions, “chin up a bit, shoulders back, hold that!” the camera clicks incessantly, capturing every subtle movement.

and then, just as you’re settling into it, you hear a voice to the side of you – familiar, unmistakable. turning around, you find yourself face to face with a figure from a chapter you believed firmly closed: your ex, the famous athlete you’re supposed to be working with.

the boy you broke up with when you were nineteen.

the shoot halts momentarily as the director moves to make introductions, but –

“we already know each other.”

he’s just as handsome as you remember, maybe even more so. time has been kind to him, sculpting lean muscle and a confidence that wasn’t there when you were younger.

he’s standing there, just mere feet away, and every detail of his face is still seared into your mind – the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the furrow of his brow. you know him well, even now. every hidden scar, every freckle. you would know him blind.

he doesn’t even glance in your direction.

perhaps he intends to keep things strictly formal, a prospect that suits you just fine. it would be easier, you think, to feign ignorance, to spare both of you the discomfort of awkward interactions when you had once loved each other so fiercely.

it’s strange to be so close to him and not be able to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin under your fingertips.

you realise with sudden clarity that you still want to touch him.

but you can’t think like that. not right now. you have a job to do.

“we’ll get a couple of shots of you together and then you’ll be done for the day!”

---

you thought he wouldn’t be good at modelling, too stiff, perhaps, but your bodies still recognise each other, still remember how to fit together side by side.

it’s almost unfair how effortlessly pretty he is.

you’ve always felt like you had to work twice as hard just to feel remotely confident in your own skin. your beauty doesn’t come naturally, and you suppose the modelling industry thrives on that. on contorting and sculpting a new image, a new person, with every photo.

you wonder if he feels similarly, in interviews and adverts and under the scrutiny of the public eye. it must weigh heavy on him too, you think.

you hope he’s okay, and you realise you could ask him, maybe, if that’s still okay?

as the photoshoot gradually draws to a close, you find yourself hesitating, unsure whether to linger or to swiftly retreat. part of you wants more time, to look at him for a little longer, to be by his side once more. but another part of you, perhaps the more cautious side, warns against overstaying your welcome, against stirring up old emotions that may be better left untouched. you glance at him, catching his eye for a brief moment, before turning away.

you quietly pack your bag and step outside for a smoke, seeking comfort in the familiar ritual. it was a bad habit – one you had picked up about a year ago from a girl you did a casting with. the cool air offers a brief respite from the swirling thoughts in your mind, but as you exhale a plume of smoke, you can’t shake the uncertainty gnawing at your insides. you’re so unsure of yourself – you hadn’t felt this way since you were sixteen, nervous about your first date with the boy on your school’s volleyball team. do you want to say hi? do you want scream at him? both? neither?

he makes the decision for you. he always was so decisive.

“this wasn’t where i’d expected to find you.”

“no?” you’re not sure if you should be offended or not. does he mean modelling?

“what’s that supposed to mean, kageyama?” the words come out blunter than you intended – they’re not the words you had planned late at night, missing his body next to yours.

but it’s been years since you’ve spoken to him.

“tobio.” he smiles reflexively – your voice always had that effect on him. 

“what?”

“you never called me kageyama.”

“tobio.” his name still reminds you of home, but it clings to your tongue like honey, sweet and heavy, coating every word.

“what do you mean?” self-doubt trickles down your throat. you wonder if you will ever stop caring what he thinks of you.

“i suppose i just pictured you somewhere far away from this world,” he pauses. “stupid, really. you’ve always been so pretty.”

you’re not sure how to respond to that, either.

“listen, i..." he begins again, then hesitates, as if grappling with his own thoughts. “i just meant to say i hope you’re doing well. that you’re happy.”

a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. “you know, before we left school, i gave it – what – two years before you were on japan’s team. you always were an overachiever.”

“i had good motivation, wanted to make you proud.”

the wind shifts, blowing his hair across his face. you extend your hand, fingers instinctively brushing away the strands. he stares at you, unflinching, as if the world outside you and him no longer exists. like he never wants to look away.

“you have always made me proud,” you confess.

a moment of silence, then, “i miss you.” he says it like a prayer, faithful and devoted. still, after all this time.

“don’t say that.”

“why not?”

“if today didn’t happen, you wouldn’t have seen me again.”

“i would’ve found you.”

“and how could you be so sure?”

“because some things are inevitable. fate, i suppose.”

“you can’t just say things like that, tobio,”

“i’m not saying it lightly. i mean it.”

“i know, but it’s been years. people change.”

“maybe,” he concedes, taking a step closer. “but some things don’t.”

you were already aware of his fixations long before your paths crossed – achieving what he has demands an undercurrent of obsession to temper the blaze of brilliance. you did not predict how that obsession might manifest when directed towards a person. how it might feel.

you’ve never been kind enough to refrain from taking everything he lets you, never had the sense to check the depth of a river before wading in. perhaps you will always stumble blindly into the waters, ignorant of the depths that may swallow you whole, heedless of the currents that may drag you under.

and so you kiss him.

a little noise of surprise leaves his lips, but he quickly recovers, as if he had anticipated this turn in the conversation. like it was inevitable, instinctual.

you can feel the contours of muscle through his shirt, his uneven breaths, the overwhelming intensity of his lips against yours. there’s a hint of indecision in his touch, wavering between tenderness and urgency. soft, gentle kisses intermingled with fervent, desperate ones, like he can’t decide between cherishing and consuming.

he leaves you breathless and desperately needing more as his lips trail along your jawline. your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, as if afraid to let go, as if this moment might slip away like a dream.

you wanted this. wanted him. you don’t think you ever stopped.

“you drive me mad,” he breathes. “always, always on my mind.”

but you were nineteen when you broke up with tobio, and now three years have slipped by.

(and you’re outside a photo studio, thankfully deserted, but that’s beside the point.)

so you draw back slightly, breaking the intensity of the moment but still close enough to feel his warmth. his touch lingers, torn between holding on and letting go.

you had been in his presence for just a few hours and you felt raw, like skin scraped against pavement after a fall, exposed and stinging with every touch.  

“this is a terrible idea,” you whisper, the words heavy.

“i don’t care. i’ll follow you wherever you go.” he has always been one to worship, always the type to pour the entirety of his being into his devotions.

and who were you to argue with him – to oppose such faith?

---

the photos of you and him go viral. oddly enough, you’re not surprised – there’s something about the way you fit together, the connection evident in every frame. people comment on how familiar the two of you look, how effortlessly intimate.

then, one of tobio’s fans unearths old pictures of you and him together, tucked away in the depths of his twitter account. you both look so young, almost unrecognisable compared to the refined public images you now project. there’s a rawness to the photographs, a sense of innocence preserved in pixels. you stand shoulder to shoulder, his arm draped casually around your shoulders, and you both radiate such genuine happiness.

his previous tweets were a monotonous stream of game highlights and obligatory promotions, and it’s clear he rarely uses his account for personal matters. yet, among the myriad of mundane updates, there is a tweet asking him if the two of you are back together.

and then, in a move that could only be described as infuriatingly nonchalant, he responds with a single word.

“yes.”

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹。look my way, you’re what i crave | gojo satoru

wc: 2.6k

summary: you and gojo made a promise to yuuji.

contains: f!reader in mind but no pronouns used, food trip/taste-testing, many food descriptions, a little bit of (playful) jealousy, pouty gojo, yuuji calls reader sensei, established relationship (but no label).

a/n: a small extra scene that takes place some time between col 2.5 and col 3! not a food expert nor am i japanese, so food descriptions are just based off first-hand experience and some research i’ve managed to do! there are some switches in povs (gojo-reader-gojo) but i tried to keep it as distinct as possible! this is also my birthday gift for you, niku @stellamancer!! thank you for sharing this idea with me and for loving the col couple as much as i do!!

collection masterlist: conversations on love 2.5. and my body keeps saying (it's yours) <- you are here -> 03. so this is what it means to be in love + (extended scene) too good to be mine

‘Losing’ isn’t a word in Gojo’s vocabulary. 

If it is, it’s usually addressed to the other party. 

He’s been a winner ever since he was born, two blue eyes and an extra four hidden, holding power that manifests itself only once every few centuries. Some argue that he was born for that reason: to win, without doubt, incontestably. 

And he supposes, most of it is true—which is why he can’t believe the loss he’s feeling right now, standing in front of the Daifuku stall across from you. 

Never in his entire life did Gojo ever anticipate himself losing to anything. But with the way you’d casually nodded off, signaled so nonchalantly that you’d follow him but clearly didn’t—it has his head turning, finding you midbite a singular, shared stick of Yakitori.

He thinks he might have just experienced his first loss. 

And the victor is none other than Itadori Yuuji. 

.

You made a promise to Yuuji. 

Back when he was still up for execution by virtue of being Sukuna’s vessel, you’d laid your confidence in Gojo. 

“Sensei, do you really think it’s possible?” he asks, voice hesitant but eyes tinged with hope. You were discussing the ways his execution could go down—if it even will go down. 

Shoko’s always pointed out that the most dangerous thing about you is hope, and how you hold onto it so deeply that you pass it onto others like a disease, spreading it to seep into skin and bones.

Gojo calls it your hidden technique, the trump card you pull out when everyone’s knocked down, spirits low. It’s what sets you apart, he thinks, how you’re able to survive in a world that serves as an antithesis to the values you hold. 

“If Satoru said to leave it up to him, he’ll find a way,” you answer immediately, like you’ve known it all this time, experienced it first-hand—a memory. Then you add, an affirmation that sounds so close to fact, it reassures him, “he always does.” 

“Let’s go to Osaka and eat all the street food when everything’s done.”  

You made a promise to Yuuji, and here you are now, with Gojo, keeping it. 

The streets of Osaka are bustling, crowded pretty much any time of the year—carts of all sorts of street food lined up with restaurants hidden in every corner. Neon banners and LED signs light up overhead, a twinkling food heaven reflected in Yuuji’s eyes. 

It must be his first time here, you surmise, because he’s looking at every food stall like he’s ready to devour. You glance at Gojo, hands tucked in his pockets with his blindfold sitting snugly on his face. His presence is bright, blending in with the light, and he turns his head to you slightly, flashing you a small smile. 

You tell yourself the warmth you feel is because of the heat radiating from all the vendors’ stoves. 

“Sensei, what do you want to try first?” Yuuji interrupts your train of thought, but you’re sure he doesn’t mean to. He’s just excited, and his energy has always been infectious, spreading to both Gojo and you. 

Gojo isn’t too big a fan of savory things, so you know you’re going to end up having to choose. You take a look around you to survey each stall, before turning back to Yuuji with a plan on how exactly you’re going to eat and conquer. 

.

Gojo watches—the way you zig-zag across the street, following Yuuji as he walks up to each vendor. It’s both amusing and endearing seeing you being just as, if not more, enthralled at all the savory options in front of you. 

Between the two of you, he’s always had the sweet tooth, so it tickles something in him that even when you don’t, your food-tasting game plan still consists of alternating savory-sweet-savory food.

Yuuji’s first pick is of course, Okonomiyaki, an iconic must-have in Osaka. He orders one piece at first, but you insist on two, knowing that the boy is more than capable of finishing a single one on his own. On the frying sheet lie columns of the pancakes–a simple mixture of flour, eggs, and cabbage–fried and coated in flavors bursting of sweet, savory, and smoky. The lady vendor is generous with the toppings and sauce she pours over it, packing the two pancakes in separate plastic containers before handing one to you and the other to Yuuji.

You turn back to find Gojo a few steps behind you, so you beckon him closer.

“Let’s share,” you whisper, once he sidles up next to you. The plastic crinkles in your hand as you try to slice a piece, Yuuji’s muffled ‘whoah’ heard from the side. 

You blow on the slice, lips shaped into a small ‘o’; he doesn’t want to stare, not with Yuuji right there and neither of you having made anything official yet—

—but this is really tempting him to kiss you. 

He doesn’t know if you can tell—any hint of his desire concealed by his blindfold, but you shove the slice right to his lips. And while it isn’t graceful at all, with the sauce probably smeared all over his mouth, it’s a good distraction from how much he wants you instead of the food right now. 

The texture of the Okonomiyaki hits right every time, the crunchy and creamy combination providing a great contrast that complements how sweet and savory it is. The bite you take after his has your expression mirroring Yuuji’s, and he takes out his phone to capture this memory.

“Gowo-shunsheh! Tek a shulfeh!” Yuuji shouts, mouth still full as he lifts his fingers up into a peace sign. You grin, ear-to-ear, evidence of your happy tummy; he wants to pinch your cheeks. 

“Okay, copy!” he raises his phone up at an angle, fingers hovering over the volume button as he grips the edges, “ready! 1…2…3… say Okonomiyaki!” 

Only Yuuji shouts it, and when Gojo reviews the photo, you’re halfway through a fallen smile—face contorting into disbelief that he said something that cringey, in typical, loud, Gojo fashion too.

“Hey!” he points out, zooming into your face in the photo, “Again! You’re not smiling!” 

You shoot him a look. 

“We can try it with a .5 this time, the kids love it these days.” he suggests, flipping the phone and gathering you and Yuuji closer. 

He takes two photos: one with flash and one without, and the moment he counts down, you mumble right by his ear to please not say ‘Okonomiyaki’ when you have to smile—he chuckles. 

And he says it again. Both times. 

You expected no less, but at least you tried. 

“You should be our human tripod next time,” you tell him, letting Yuuji go ahead. 

The photos look good, with you tiptoeing as you balance a hand on Gojo’s shoulder, Yuuji at the back with his hands raised, holding the empty plastic that used to house his Okonomiyaki.

“Knew you were just using me,” he pouts, hand reaching behind to rest at your lower back. 

It’s been the subtleties with him this trip, tonight especially. 

“Yep,” you play along, smiling oh-so-sweetly, “I knew those freakishly long arms were good for something.” 

Before he can retort with something cheesy, along the lines of: ‘to hold you’ or ‘to hug you in your sleep’, you move away, catching up to Yuuji. 

Your pick, for Gojo, is Taiyaki. It’s not his favorite thing to eat, but it’s sweet, and is still a good, nostalgic dessert, you’d like to think. Batter is poured all over the fish molds before being filled with the red bean filling. Then, after a few minutes of waiting, it pops out perfectly, ready to be eaten by the three of you. You ask for two again, only because this time, you know Gojo can finish one whole. 

But when his eyes land on the Taiyaki you’re biting from and he realizes very quickly that it isn’t his, he feels a pinch. 

It's a good thing the crunchy outside and soft, full inside of the Taiyaki is enough to make him shrug off the feeling. For now.

As the food trip goes on, you end up in many more stalls—

—a Takoyaki one, where Yuuji’s ‘ooo’s’ and ‘aaa’s’ are heard every time the balls are flipped and formed. The cooking on it is perfect, the pieces of octopus sitting just right with enough bite as flavors of soy and Worcestershire come through in its glaze. Gojo only eats one from the set of six that you ordered, and he wishes he just waited, because now Yuuji is eating half of the last one you couldn't finish. 

—a Kushikatsu one, deep fried beef and vegetables coated in crispy, crunchy breadcrumbs and dipped in Tonkatsu sauce. Yuuji ends up finishing three whole sticks, while you manage to eat one. It’s an animated conversation between the two of you that Gojo can’t seem to insert himself into. A part of him feels a little pathetic now, tailing you both like a dog, but he just wants a little bit more of your attention. 

—a Soba shop (not so much a stall) that serves amazing Cold Soba he definitely isn’t missing out on. Yuuji is practically buzzing, excited for anything noodles; it’s the main reason you’d suggested Osaka in the first place. He ducks in the shop last, Yuuji first with you in the middle, and when you settle in your seat right beside him, he snickers endearingly. Gojo can see everything, you’re reminded of that everyday and in moments like this especially. Right now, it's the way you sigh as soon as you release the top button of your pants immediately.

You pout at him as you’re served an order each, the dipping sauce in small ceramic as the noodles lie in bamboo boxes. It’s refreshing and light, just the right balance of sweet and savory; the buckwheat noodles have a lovely bite to them, not at all mushy. When he glances at you, halfway through your bowl, he can tell that you’re already full. 

But just as he offers to finish yours—

“Sensei, are you going to finish that?” 

—there’s Yuuji.

You shake your head, pushing your bowl towards him; Gojo feels that pinch returning. 

A few good minutes of walking find you on the way to another stall—

—a Yakitori one that Yuuji practically skips to, as if he didn’t just finish a bowl and a half of Cold Soba, three sticks of Kushikatsu, three and a half pieces of Takoyaki, a half of one Taiyaki, and a whole order of Okonomiyaki.

Gojo decides to sit this one out, eyeing the Daifuku stand across the street. He’s gone here plenty of times before, but never with you—and if there's anything he wants you to try out here, it's fresh, special mochi, all soft and delectable, delicate in the way its decorated.

He takes off his blindfold, ruffling his hair. With Yuuji having gone ahead, it’s just the two of you. 

“I’m going to buy Daifuku, there’s a special one I want you to taste,” he whispers excitedly, wiggling his eyebrows. 

The expression on your face is the last thing he was expecting. 

Your eyes are dazed, half-lidded, almost like you’re sleepy, and you blink at him twice before you’re able to fully process what he just said. You could be having a food coma right now, just standing. 

“Oh, okay,” you hum, nodding as you smile, dopey, “I’ll follow.” 

He considers just waiting for a bit, because he wants you to go with him. But you insist and shoo him away, telling him that the Daifuku might run out by the time Yuuji reaches the front of the Yakitori line.

So he goes, and maybe it’s a little petty, and immature, and stupid-silly, but he hates how this entire food trip has felt like a battle for your attention between him and Yuuji. 

Even though he’s probably the only one who feels it.

So it’s one-sided. Definitely. 

And he’s losing. Terribly. 

Each individual piece of Daifuku looks majestic, pink mochi with red bean filling, sliced in the middle to leave room for a whole syrup-glazed strawberry. He orders two boxes to bring back home and an extra two pieces, one for the two of you to share and the other for Yuuji. 

Gojo’s mouth is watering and he really wants to take a bite already, but you aren’t anywhere near him. So when he turns around and spots you, mid-chew on the last few bites your stomach can take from that shared Yakitori stick—he feels that pinch again. Because throughout this trip, all you’d done was split savory food with Yuuji, and all he wanted was a bit more attention, sharing half-bites with you. 

When you finally meet his eyes across the street, signature blue amidst bright reds and neon greens, he’s pouting, and he hopes he’s making it very obvious that he wants (needs) you to go to him. 

Your eyes widen before crossing the street, Yuuji right on your heel. 

“Whoah, Gojo Sensei! That looks good!” Yuuji’s voice booms, earning a few looks.

Gojo holds one Daifuku on each hand, the other two boxes tucked in a plastic bag hanging by his elbow. 

“It’s their special one!” He smiles at Yuuji, handing it over. 

You look at him curiously, head tilted to the side as you watch him closely—how his smile doesn’t really reach his eyes. 

Once Yuuji moves out of earshot, his series of ‘mmm’s’ blending in with the bustle of market chatter, you face Gojo and open your mouth wide, “Aaaah,” 

Gojo doesn’t move for the first few seconds, but you meet in the middle eventually, his hand inching towards feeding you while you move your head closer. He keeps his palm open under your chin, cupping it to serve as a catch tray for any filling that might spill out. 

There’s something about the look of you, half-sleepy and asking to be fed, that makes him feel warm and fuzzy—like that pinching feeling earlier never existed. Like he’d gladly do this everyday if you asked for it. 

The soft, plush exterior of the mochi touches your lips, and you bite, the filling oozing out just enough for you to get a good portion of it. Flavors of red bean and strawberry hit your palate, and the filling doesn’t leak, but the syrup coating the strawberry catches onto your nose when you move away. 

At the tip of your nose is a shiny red spot, glistening under the busy lights. The expression on your face is pleased, content—your head doing that side-to-side sway whenever you like the taste of something. 

“Mmm,” you smile at him, “it’s yummy.” 

And he doesn’t know what it is, if it’s the look you’re giving him, or if it's something in the air tonight, but he feels warm and full and still very much like he wants to kiss you. 

So he decides, damn all the passersby.

He does one quick scan around him, making sure that Yuuji, at the very least, is away from the immediate vicinity. And when it’s all clear, he leans in. 

Gojo kisses you on the nose in the middle of a busy street food road, and his lips are soft, almost feather-light, swooping in quickly before anyone can notice. You’re stunned into silence, but the moment you come to, he’s already swiped the strawberry syrup off you. 

His cheeks are starting to turn pink, the sides of his neck already as red as the signs on the food stalls. And he can tell you feel it too, with the way your sleepiness seems to have faded into what now looks like surprise.

Still cute though.

(Always will be, in his eyes). 

So, ‘losing’ isn’t really a word in Gojo’s vocabulary. 

But if it is, he thinks he’d gladly lose to you. 

(Still not to Yuuji though. He maybe still has to keep an eye out for that one).

thank you notes: to niku for being there always!! from answering my questions, brainstorming together, and just all-around everything!! col wouldn't be what it is now without you!! i love u, i hope i gave your love for food justice, niku!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[lalal-99]

Kitty’s New Best Friend {l.f.}

113 "Either I'm insane or you were just masturbating in our living room." 133 "You're being shy now? Really?" 141 "How many times have you jerked off to me?"

Felix x afab!reader | trope: friends to lovers, roommates | wordcount: 2.4k

Synopsis: When your roommate comes home unexpectedly, he finds you in a compromising position on the living room couch, moaning his name. Fortunetly, he's had a hunch about your feelings for a while, and he's willing to help you out.

Warnings: explicit content | dni if your under 18

Smut Tags: Smut | Explicit Sexual Content | Porn with some Plot | Fluff and Smut | Mutual Pining | Semi-Public Masturbation | Oral Sex (reader rec.) | Teasing

Note: I wrote three different version of this over the past two years. This one was the best one, by a mile. Hope you enjoy. Please leave comments, if you want to encourage more content.

Again, thanks @jl-micasea-fics for letting me use your prompts. I know it's been two years, but still, credit where its due :)

Taglist: @skzho @bubblelixie @flakywig @itsallaboutkey @avyskai @mekuiikore @changbiddies0325 @knowleeknow @sensitiveandhungry @svintsandghosts @poutypoutybin @hyunjinswifeee @sunlitwilderness

Tumblr works on a reblog system. Please consider reblogging this post so that it can reach more people.

Please don't flag as mature or repost this story - Thank You!

He didn’t use to appear in your dirty dreams.

Only months ago, you didn’t need to put a face on the main character of your fantasies—the imagination itself enough to get you going.

That had certainly changed.

It could have been Felix sauntering your shared apartment without a shirt one too many times. It could have been the shoulder to cry on he had lent you after your ex. Hell, it could have even been as trivial as a kind smile for no apparent reason.

Your brain simply shut off and your kitty assumed control. Universally deciding that your roommate was a fitting image to get turned on to.

Now, his face made an appearance in every single one of your daydreams.

When Felix emerged from his room in nothing but a pair of loose hanging sweatpants, your mind went right back to it. It was ridiculous. You didn’t even listen to where he went off to, your fingers already running over his creamy skin in your mind. You felt like a teenager, arousal taking over you the second Felix left the apartment.

None of your other roommates were home which was fortunate. Sure, you could have gone to your bedroom to be safe. But how could you, when the heat reached you right there in the living room. Like it had happened in the shower a few days ago after Felix had sneaked in to get his lotion. You had told him you didn’t mind when in reality, you did. Just not in the way he might have thought.

That day and in your following fantasy, he hadn’t left, but instead joined you under the hot water.

Humming Felix’s name at the sound of your fingers running through your folds, you internally scolded yourself for thinking this way about him. A boy who was so innocently oblivious, he probably had no idea you even jerked off in the first place. Someone so sweet, he brought you candy when you were on your period, brewed you tea after a long day, or gave you massages when... Well, whenever you wanted one.

You were completely immersed in the scenario you had set up in your head, knot in your stomach tightening. So much so your brain took a second too long to recognise the familiar sound of his keys.

Things went very fast from there.

The door opened and Felix walked in to the sight of you. Rushing your hand out of your shorts, your neckline was red from the heat, your hair messier than when he had left. Mere minutes earlier.

“Felix? What the hell are you doing here?” you questioned, shock written on your features. “I thought you went out.”

“I—“ He scanned the situation and before you could stop him, he figured it out. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I went to get some snacks for the movie.”

Oh yes! The memory of your short conversation suddenly came back to you.

Felix had come out of his room, shirtless, recognising the movie playing on the TV in front of you. He had asked you to pause it, so you could watch it together once he came back from the store. Getting you snacks and a bottle of your favourite white, like the perfect roomie he was.

“Were you…” A smirk appeared on Felix’s face as his view wandered down your body to your pants. “Either I’m insane, or you were just masturbating in our living room.” Noticing your eyes shifting and your cheeks reddening in the light of the TV, he yelped. “Oh my God, you were masturbating, weren’t you?”

You struggled finding another excuse that could explain your hands down your pants. Not that it mattered, anyway. Nothing you said, no explanation you could have given, would get your roommate to believe he hadn’t just walked in on you.

Felix placed the grocery bag on the kitchen counter and strode over to the couch, sliding on next to you. The shit-eating grin on his face only heightened your embarrassment. Not so innocent after all, now that he held something over your head.

“Stop being so smug. It’s not like you don’t do it.” You scratched an invisible itch on your neck.

“But I don’t do it out here where everyone can walk in. Do you have no shame?” Felix was teasing you now, the previously cutesy behaviour shifting. You couldn’t quite pinpoint his demeanour, but it almost seemed seductive. Like, he was definitely flirting, and not in his usual, sweet way. If his next words were anything to go by, it felt even more so. “Or did you want me to walk in on you?”

You almost choked on your saliva. “What? No! Of course not.”

The redness on your face darkened further.

Why would he ever suggest that you had masturbated out in the living room on purpose? Unless… Maybe, subconsciously, you had done just that. Perhaps you wanted to make use of the possibility, him walking in on you. So he could finally help you scratch the itch himself. Not his imaginary self, but the real one, in all his glory. Could your brain have betrayed you like that, without you noticing?

You didn’t quite know what to think.

“It’s fine. I won’t tell anyone about this.” Somehow, that relieved you. Not like you had expected Felix to go around, gloating about it. It still relaxed you to hear it from the man himself. “I only have one question, then we can stop talking about it. Forever.”

Your jaw dropped at his words. So he was blackmailing you now, too? Felix, out of all people. Nice Felix, who never hurt a fly. Cute Felix, whose love language were hugs and cuddles. Smug Felix, who somehow had the upper hand right now.

Your kitty purred at his intrigue, surprising even yourself.

“How many times have you jerked off to me?”

You must have had a mini heart attack at that very second. Unfortunately, you didn’t land in heaven. If anything, this was hell.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Felix replied, bottom lip wandering between his teeth. “And I heard you, moaning my name before. So, how often do you think about me?”

“I don’t— I didn’t— I mean— What?” You were sweating now, unable to form simple sentences. And that was before his hand landed on your naked thigh, squeezing. That’s when you lost the ability to breathe, stomach tensing.

“You’re being shy now? Really?” As his fingers drew figure eights onto your skin, they wandered further up your leg until he reached the hem of your shorts. He played with the band, keeping his irises on you, and your kitty hissed. His proximity was a dangerous game. “What if I told you, I’ve been thinking about it, too?”

What. The. Fuck?

He leaned in, lips close enough to feel his breath on you, and you got dizzy. You didn’t remember drinking any alcohol, but you damn well felt like it. As though you had gotten intoxicated, high, and now you were left to deal with the aftermath.

“Been thinking about you so much. Taking you in your room. In the shower. On this very couch. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His fingers entered your pants, playing with the hem of your underwear. Your breath hitched when his hand cupped you, smirk so close to your face you could hear it. Felix clicked his tongue when he felt your wetness. “I knew it. Not so shy now, are we?”

And you weren’t. Shy, that was. Overwhelmed, sure. Embarrassed, yes. But not shy. Not when you detected the tent in his own sweatpants. Felix wanted this, just like you. Felix was your roommate, best friend and now, potential lover. If anything, you felt most comfortable around him.

The feeling heightened when he gave you a gentle push, urging you to lay back. Felix’s face remained so close to yours, eyes glued to each other as he situated himself above you. His fingers started teasing as he leaned down, faintly pressing his lips to your pulse point. Your eyes stood wide open, searching the ceiling for possible answers to the one question you had.

How the fuck had this happened?

Felix kissed down your body, through the valley of your chest and over your tank top. Right down to your shorts. He must have been able to smell you, but you didn’t care. It was Felix, after all, the boy straight out of your dreams.

“Y/N,” his soft voice called you to catch your attention. When you met his gaze, the world stopped for a moment. The lust had momentarily vanished from his irises and what overtook was care and love. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

“Don’t.” Your answer couldn’t have come faster, and you meant it. Under no circumstances did you want him to stop. Ever.

With that, the primate inside him gained back control, ridding you of your pants and underwear. All the while, Felix’s stare remained on your face, smiling between kisses he planted on your naked stomach. As though he wanted to capture all your focus and wouldn’t let you divert your eyes for anything.

A last smile sent your way and he dove in.

Your mouth stood agape as you watched him, connect his mouth to your clit, lightly sucking. You spread your legs so he could slot between them, and slot, he did. Key fitting in a lock, he kept your knees apart with his body, the whole couch becoming your playground.

Felix nibbled on your clit like it was sweet candy, gazes locked as his tongue came into play. Prodding, exploring. He looked sinful, like a devilish angle as his blonde locks tickled your bare thighs. A fucking dream-come-true, in the most literal sense.

Licking down your folds, he tasted you, humming in delight. His own personal five course meal.

Early on, you had been taught to never eat with your hands. That it was rude and crude, and ill-mannered. When Felix did it, it was nothing if not delicious. To watch, to hear, his fingers spreading you and entering in soft, gentle strokes.

Soon enough, he was three fingers in, knuckles-deep, petting the sensitive spot so deep you never reached it yourself. And there he was, doing it with so much ease, over and over. Kitty’s new best friend.

For a moment, you lost control, throwing your head back with a loud moan. When Felix squeezed your thigh, gently but determined, you brought your head back.

“Eyes on me, Kitten.”

A whimper at the nickname made him smirk as he scissored you open. His tongue prodded against your opening in sync, delightful as your stomach tensed.

“Oh, fuck—” You brought your hand to his head, tangling your fingers in his hair. Guiding him, at least as much as he let you. “Please.”

Cocking his head, Felix teased you, playfully confused by your words.

“Please, I need you. Inside. Please.”

With one last calm suck on your nub, he snaked his way up your body. Fingers remained inside you for now, distracting you.

“But I already am. You have to be more specific, Kitten.”

You clenched at the words, and he visibly noticed.

“Your cock. I need you inside me. Please, Felix.” If those words hadn’t driven him crazy already, persuading him, your next ones sure did. “Kitten needs your cock.”

He groaned, fingers coming up to touch your lips. You opened them, licking over his moist rings and he lost himself in the sight. “Such crude words for such a cute Kitten.”

Smearing the last of your essence over your mouth, he began licking it off, taking his sweet time. And then finally, after he had already done much more intimate, he kissed you. Careful and collected turned to desperate and chaotic as tongues melted into one.

Kissing Felix was natural, like you had done it so many times before. And you would have continued doing it, if it hadn’t been for the more pressing issues.

When you bucked up into him, rubbing your naked crotch against his clothed one, he smirked into the kiss. “Eager Kitten.”

“Desperate,” you corrected, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him into you.

Felix drew away to rid himself of his shirt, kneeling on top of you. It must have been the hottest thing you had ever been lucky enough to witness. As he untied the knot in his sweats, your sight remained on his toned torso. Sculptured abs followed a set of muscular pecs and his prominent collar bones. You wanted to kiss every inch of his body, wanted to lick it and bite it, too. That was if he let you.

But not right now. Not when all you wanted was for him to devour you like his favourite desert.

Like the absolute menace he was, Felix tugged the hem of his sweats down, revealing the absence of underwear. And to think he walked around the apartment like that, unsucked. It was a real shame.

He stroked himself a couple of times, the other hand running through his messy locks. An undeniable God in human form.

You might have even been drooling, but before you could check, he hovered over you again. “Like what you see?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, curling upwards to connect your lips again.

With your legs still around his hips, it was easy for Felix to position himself. Your walls were clenching already, craving penetration. Some relief. Anything. It didn’t actually matter, as long as it was Felix doing it.

“You know,” he mumbled between kisses, tugging at your lip. It was in that moment, as he was so close, that you noticed the desire in his eyes. But it wasn’t just desire, but so much more. Adoration. Longing. Attraction. Love. “If you had told me about your secret from the start, we could have done this months ago.”

How he had come to know about your infatuation? You had no head to figure it out right that moment.

“However, we do have a lot to make up for. Better get to it, right?”

When Felix slid into you, your eyes rolled back into your head as your breath got caught in your lungs. Finally, after months of distanced yearning, he scratched the same itch that had plagued you for so long.

And your kitty was satisfied at last.

Masterlist Leave your thought

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

eddie wakes up with a red string tied from his finger to yours, no idea where he got it, and no idea how to tell you that you're caught on the end of it. soulmate!au. fem!reader, 16k.

content warnings mentioned issues with self image, implied body dysmorphia, reader is insecure/a touch shy, alcohol, a short kiss after one character has been drinking, weed mentioned but not used by eddie or reader. please read with care! requested here ♡

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Eddie remembers the party in flashes. The feeling of his thick-soled creepers caught on the floor, wings in fly paper. Someone's headphones cracking like a wishbone between two hands and a fist fight in the backyard. Your hair touching some degenerate's cheek as they leaned down to kiss you, and the shudder that ran through you as you opened your mouth. Beer. Beer, cheap wine, another beer. 

While he realises the beer may be fogging his memory, none of the fractures explain the piece of string tied to the marriage finger on his left hand.

He stands in the tiny trailer bathroom with his back against the door, the hustle and bustle of his Uncle Wayne's morning routine filtering through the flimsy door. It bends under his weight. Anymore pushing and it'll fly off the hinges.

The string withstands reasoning. Eddie wasn't particularly alarmed when he couldn't slide it off of his finger that morning, half-falling out of bed and desperate for the bathroom. He figured himself the victim of an elaborate prank, toppling out of bed to follow the red string where it stood taut. He chased it to the door and gave up when he realised that it disappeared down the dark stretch of road leading out of the Hills. 

Panic set in somewhere between peeing and a pair of scissors falling apart around the string in the kitchen. Like even the touch of the string was an insult, uncuttable. 

From there he tried yanking, buttering, slicing. The butter made his fingers greasy and the knife went dull. To the touch, the string is thin. Twelve pieces of strand like doubled embroidery thread, plain cotton to the eye, maybe polyester if the minimal iridescent shine is a clue. He can spread it out between his fingers and thumb, he just can't cut it off.

"Eddie, what the fuck did you do?" 

Eddie winces and drops his hand from his eyes. The string slides down the doorway where it's trapped with a light shushing.  

"What?" Eddie shouts back to Wayne. 

"Don't what me, son! Come here." 

Eddie groans and hangs his head. Pissed, he scrounges through the laundry for a shirt that's in acceptable condition and attempts to put it on but the insufferable string refuses to play nice. It bends, snags, and Eddie can't find a way to get it off —he has to pull the string toward him, pleased if sceptical to find that despite its taut nature, it will allow him enough length to get an arm through his sleeve. 

"What the fuck," he mutters, looking at the mirror in disbelief. The purple-yellow bruise haunting the hollow of his right eye has shrunk since last night, to his relief. Upon reflection, Eddie doesn't think it'll draw much attention. 

The string doubles back on itself, a red line up the length of his arm to his armpit where it disappears into the sleeve. From there, it snakes down his stomach to pull out from the bottom hem. 

If whoever has the other end of the string decides to pull, his shirt will rise up. Awesome. Really great. He's a fucking streaker.

"Edward Albert Munson, if you don't get in here!" 

"Wayne," Eddie says, pushing open the bathroom door with a suffering sigh, "what do you want me to say? I can't get the fucking thing off'a me." 

Wayne is thoroughly unimpressed where he stands in the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest and gaze on the countertop by the sink. 

Eddie's confused at first, complaint dying on his lips as he remembers the mess he made in a mad dash for freedom half an hour ago. Butter shines yellow and melted on a small plate, the broken scissors tossed frustratedly aside, a useless knife in similar fashion at the bottom of the sink. 

"What the fuck, Eds?" Wayne asks.

Eddie holds up his hand. "I don't know!" he says, exasperated, eyebrows halfway up his forehead. "I woke up with it, I can't get rid of it." 

Wayne's turn to be confused. But, like his newphew's, his confusion doesn't last long. "What happened to your eye?" 

"The string?" Eddie asks, waving his red string around for emphasis. Bruises are commonplace, were nearly normal the summer between nine and tenth grade, this weird magic string is anything but. 

"That what kids are calling shiners?"  Wayne asks, taking Eddie's face in a rough hand. "At least say you got one in too." 

"I don't remember." 

"You don't remember?" Wayne asks, a mixture of unimpressed and horrified. 

"No, I…" He bats Wayne's hand away, giving his tired-faced uncle an abashed smile. "It's fine, Wayne. I was at Gareth's last night." 

"Ah, well that explains it. What does your bruise have to do with the state of my kitchen? You try cutting it off?" 

Eddie turns from Wayne to grab the scissors and knife. He wraps both in paper towel until the sharps (or not so sharps) are covered and tosses them in the trash, scrounging for a bottle of bleach under the sink to wipe away his buttery mess. "You're focused on the wrong disaster, Wayne. Like, I tried following the string out the door and it's a half a mile long. I'm gonna follow it in the van." 

"Is this, like, a trend? Speaking in tongues to get out of trouble?" 

"What are you confused about?" Eddie asks, spinning back to hold his hand in Wayne's face. 

Wayne doesn't look like Eddie, he's not so dark in the hair or eyes, and he obviously doesn't look like Eddie's mom, but the smile he gives him now was one Eddie's mom wore all the time, enduringly fond. Wayne takes Eddie's hand, turning his nephew's palm this way and that as the string slithers against pale knuckles. It almost writhes. 

"What am I supposed to be seeing?" 

"That's not funny." 

"I'm not joking." 

"Wayne," Eddie says, his shirt rising as he pulls on the string to catch the light. It shines in a way that isn't normal, too many colours like the scale of a deep sea fish. "This!" 

"Right… I can't see whatever it is you're seeing. How hard did you get hit? Jesus, I asked you to stop getting yourself in these messes, you could get seriously hurt."

Wayne doesn't waste another second looking through Eddie's string. The weight of a long shift rests between his shoulders, abates as he brings the chipped rim of a Garfield mug to his lips. Eddie swears the chubby cat is mocking him, cruel eyes smirking at his misfortune.

"Unbelievable," Eddie mutters, ditching the whole scene in search of his dingy black sneakers. 

Wayne chuckles and opens the cabinet where they keep their cookies and coffee cakes, calling, "You want breakfast?" 

"No! I have delusions to attend to. Need anything while I'm out?" 

"A new pair of scissors."

Eddie pretends to stab himself in the eye by the front door, over and over. His frustration calms. He slips into loose laced sneakers and grabs his jacket where it's hanging on the coat rack, digging for his keys.  He elbows the door ajar, and doesn't notice his van isn't in the driveway until he's standing at the bottom of the porch steps, flabbergasted. 

"Did you wanna borrow the sierra?" Wayne asks from the door. 

Garfield looks on in silent judgement. 

Wayne generously lends Eddie the sierra. He's relieved when he shuts the door on his string and it behaves like regular old string (which is to say, it doesn't buckle the metal), but then he tries to grab the steering wheel and his finger almost pulls from the socket, stopped by the string. His relief ends. 

"Fuck fuck fuck," he says, opening the door, gathering some string and closing it again. Righted, he pulls his shirt back down his torso and starts the car. 

Eddie's hoping he can follow the string to its beginning, but at this point he's sure he got his shit rocked hard enough to forget being hexed by a devious yet loveable warlock —the string can't be a real string. It doesn't tangle around the wheels of the car as he drives over the faint line of it leading from Forest Hills into Hawkins' town centre, it just vanishes, like Eddie's winding it around a bobbin. 

He takes the first exit on the traffic circle reluctantly, away from the string and toward Gareth's house, where Eddie assumes he left his beloved van. He can't believe how wasted he must have been, and now that he's accepted the string as an irksome constant but prioritised it below van retrieval, the hangover he should definitely have rears a head. His stomach hurts, his eyes are sand, you were fucking kissing somebody else last night— 

Eddie might throw up. He rolls down the window and sticks his head as far out of it as he can justify while driving. The roads are quiet, a late morning in Hawkins pockmarked by the burr of lawn mowers chewing up perfect lawns and the spray of illegal sprinklers. The sun emerges slowly and then all at once, licking his naked arms with the promise of sunburn should he continue the day unprotected. Eddie never seems to tan. He hates the sun, anyway, the glare of it bouncing off of the road in a blinding dotted line. He unfolds the visor over his seat.

Needless to say, he's in a shitty mood when he finally gets to Gareth's house, spying his van wedged in the driveway between a miscellaneous ford and a buick.

Hungover, too hot, trying not to panic about the red string choking his knuckle. It can't seem to decide on how tight or loose it's going to sit. It tightens as he climbs out of the sierra, loosens as he walks toward his van. 

"Hey, gorgeous," he says, patting her freshly lacquered body with love. She's all jet black now, rust buffed and wheels shiny. 

There are bikes crowded against the house wall like toppled dominoes. The window shades are closed but the door is wide open the hinges, the sharp smell of booze wafting out into the sun. Give it enough time and Eddie's sure the sun'll bake all the milling bodies into a brand new smell. 

"Hey, man," Jamison greets, sitting on the kitchen counter and unfairly put together considering the bottle of sours he demolished alone last night, "you survived." 

Gareth is face down at the table next to a plate of cold toast, jelly congealed. Jeff stands by the patio door smoking a cigarette that smells exciting, and Macy stands doing the dishes at the sink.

"Got the girl doing the dishes. Classy," Eddie says.

Macy drops the sponge she's using into the water, soap bubbles dripping from her fingers. "Thanks for offering." 

He relents. The mess they've made —and it is generous to call it a mess, more apt might be an explosion, or a weather event— is extensive. Pizza boxes upturned, tomato sauce and stringy cheese smashed into the fridge like a modern art piece you'd see at MOMA. Eddie wouldn't put it past drunk or high him to have done it, declaring some statement of pretentious high horsery, so he doesn't comment on it. If it was him, he doesn't wanna know. 

"Some party," Jeff says through smoke. 

Eddie pulls the stopper out of the sink to let the water drain. He doesn't roll like that. "What the fuck happened?" 

Gareth rouses at Eddie's question, said as it is with vigour, and remembers his toast. He takes a bite and turns in his seat to blink blearily at Eddie. For a second, Eddie kids himself into thinking his friend can see the string currently spilling water onto the floor like a tightwire. 

"You lost your shit and wrecked my house, you stupid bastard." 

Eddie looks to Jamison, as if to say, that true?

Jamison pushes a long arm behind his back and stretches. "Y/N was hooking up with Cory Wilson and you took it like a champ, in my opinion. We had a good time." 

"She hooked up with Wilson?" he asks, dread pooling in his stomach. The string shudders as you had, Eddie remembers, your chin tilted up and your eyes closing into sweet dark lines, painted lashes squeezed together. 

"She took you home," Macy says, muffled, a hair tie between her lips. She lets the thin blonde strands of her hair fall back to her shoulders. "She didn't stay the night?" 

"That would've been kind of sick," Jeff says. 

"He could barely walk," Jamison agrees. "Okay, I'm lying. You were fine." 

"I figured she'd have to stay, the way you were begging her. Ditch Wilson, baby, he doesn't know you like I know you. We can make it work, just say you'll stop seeing him." 

Eddie drops a plate in the sink with a splintering crush. The answering roar of laughter tells him what he hadn't had breath to ask. No, he didn't really say any of that shit. 

"You were drunk, not stupid," Jeff says.

"Not that stupid," Jamison corrects. 

Eddie frowns down at the broken plate in the sink for a breather. Nerves abated, total loserdom escaped for another day, he holds his damp hand up in the air.  "Any of you fuckers seeing this?" 

"Get a new tattoo?" Macy asks. 

He shakes his hand, the string (still caught in his sleeve, line like a bright vein up his arm) shaking. "You don't see it?"

"Your artist is gonna be pissed, they hate cheaters." 

Eddie sighs. "Can someone pass me the trash can?" 

They clean the house together in fits and starts, all nauseous, all wishing they'd had the sense to have a chill get together, just the five of them. Gareth declares his home a no go scene for the rest of summer and Eddie doesn't bother offering, nobody wants a party at the trailer park. Seeing the disco ball missing a rainbow lense under the stairs, a jumbo box of popcorn sprayed over the entire downstairs bathroom, and poor Manny Gomez cup-locked where he snoozes on the Persian rug in the lounge, Eddie wouldn't agree to host a party ever, even if he lived in one of the rich kid cribs like Harrington. It takes hours to put it right.

The longer he cleans the looser the string becomes. It drops to the floor (seemingly done with no regard to the laws of physics, having magicked itself out of his sleeve at a point, unnoticed) and trips him up as he walks downstairs. Eddie led a one man search party for Gareth's pet fish who some idiot transferred to the bathtub. The fish flops around at the turbulence of his trip inside of a temporary cup, but Eddie manages to return the poor thing to its tank uninjured.  

"It's fucking sick," he says, crouching down to follow the fish as it reacclimates. Its big black eyes are like sequins set in orange glitter, scales glistening, a shimmering of purple and teal blues kissing its underbelly as it swims. "You're a beautiful creature. I'm sorry somebody tried to evict you, babe." 

"He's a boy." 

"Yeah, and he's a babe." Eddie bites his tongue. 

You bend at the waist. With the shades still drawn, the brunt of the light entering the room is from your left, and the right side, the side closest to Eddie, is lit blue by the fish tank. You smile gently at the goldfish puttering around between artificial seaweed, an expression that grabs Eddie by the intestines. You feel his gaze, turning your face ever so slightly to his. 

"Don't look as nice without makeup, I know," you murmur. 

You're dressed differently today, stripped back in one way and more beautiful all the others, bare-skinned, no makeup or glitters to hide behind. Eddie remembers every detail of what you were wearing last night, the details stamped into his temporal lobe (before he drank his weight in other peoples booze). Black tights that shimmered slick oil as you moved and a tiny dress to boot. You're not a small girl, thighs there and grabbable and so un-grabbed, and when you bent down Eddie's shamefaced to say he followed the line. He loved how you looked last night, loves how you express yourself, but he craves how you are now, the lesser seen side of the same coin.

"You look nice." He cringes, his reflection in the fish tank glass a horror. Eddie never actually managed to shower this morning. If he doesn't smell like pale ale it'll be a miracle. "You do. At least one of us showered." 

"I'm surprised you're alive," you say with a fond smile. Eddie never takes your insults to heart because you never say them to hurt. You're easygoing. You're light incarnate. "I haven't seen you drink that much since graduation." 

"Macy says you took me home." He stands at full height. You follow suit. 

"Kicking and screaming. You told me you were going to drink every drop of Mr. Lashlee's bourbon or die trying, and you tried." 

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asks. He can be volatile when he's intoxicated, like a fish out of water. 

You gesture to his cheek. "Hurt yourself. You were freaking out and your hand kicked back. I didn't think it would bruise. Does it hurt awful?" 

Your sympathy melts him. Eddie shakes his head, lying through his teeth, "I can barely feel it." 

Your hoodie drowns you, your jeans not as oversized but hiding the feats of your thighs from view. He can't say he's not disappointed, though it's cute on you, your jeans rolled at the ends to showcase mildly mismatched crew socks and a pair of converse, their rubber shiny with newness besides a small sharpie heart on the left toe. Trapped beneath them is Eddie's string. 

He tugs it out. You show no sign of feeling it as the string snaps upward like an elastic and stops short. It goes stiff as a stick, tied from the knuckle of his marriage finger and leading…

To the knuckle of yours. 

Like matching rings.

Eddie thinks, Sure. If I'm delusional, of course it's something to do with you. 

"Don't suppose you can see it?" he asks, pulling against the string. The red band expands to accommodate you, rather than tug you inward. It has a mind of its own, apparently, listening to Eddie only on occasion. 

"The bruise?" you ask, confused. "It's hard not to see. But it's not too bad. You could buy some powder for it if it bothers you, but I think it makes you seem cool." 

"I don't seem cool?" 

You smile as though you're sharing a joke. If you are, Eddie hasn't heard it before. 

It's weird, crushing on someone. He can't remember feeling this way growing up, spending sun-soaked days at playgrounds and parking lots and the pool, wet to the knees, you and your friends sitting under the shade of the umbrellas. The first time he saw you there, in your bikini bottoms and your big white t-shirt bent over a book, he didn't feel any sudden revelation. No spark. No pulled string. He thought you were pretty without bragging about it and he met you not long after that at a nondescript barbecue. Then he stopped hanging out with his middle school friends and flunked two years. He forgot you existed. And now he knows you again, he feels more and more of himself bending and twisting trying to be what you want him to be, or what he thinks you want, at least. If you want Wilson, he can be Wilson. Eddie can kiss like a fish and wear too much cologne, he can sell out and cut his hair to the ears. 

Well, maybe not that far. I still want to be me, he thinks, eyes on your hands and the string stretched between them. The red seems darker now, onyx hued, ropey as blood. 

"What are you doing here?" Eddie forces out. Not surprised, you and Macy are close enough that you've formed friendships with the whole gang of merry misfits, but wondering if his string has pulled you here. Does he have any say? 

"I thought I'd help with the aftermath, see if anybody wanted to get burgers, the works." 

Eddie catches a flicker of nervousness in your stance, the half-step backwards you take when his shoe nears your own. The string loosens.

He doesn't have any intention of making you uncomfortable. He probably smells like a dumpster, he wouldn't blame you for needing space. And if who you were kissing last night is indicative of who you'll be sidling up to again in the future, Eddie has low hopes for you both. 

"Burgers?" Manny groans from the floor. 

You turn slowly on one heel. "Hello, Manny," you say, angling your head to line up with his. "Someone's drawn on you." 

"What did they draw?" Manny asks, rubbing his smeared face sluggishly. 

You look to Eddie for guidance. The reality of Manny's tagging is embarrassing. 

"It's a dick, I'm afraid." Eddie offers Manny a hand. "With disproportionate, uh, baubles." 

"But I'm sure Benny won't care," you say.

—

Benny makes Manny wear a baseball cap pulled down low, because This is a family establishment, Man. Every time you see the thick-lined drawing on his cheek you smile and feel awful for it, but luckily Manny seems to be taking the joke well. 

If you'd fallen asleep at the party last night and woke up with a semi-permanent tattoo of similar calibre you'd be too mortified to bother leaving the house until it was gone. You're not thrilled with your appearance as it is. Any cruel additions would have you housebound. 

Guilty, you take a bite of your burger to hide your smile. Eddie's already clocked it, generous enough to pretend he hasn't noticed, and Macy finds it funnier than you do, so she's yet to notice your amusement. The rest of the boys are making ornaments out of plastic straws. Gareth is shit, Jamison better, but Jeff takes the cake with a three layer birthday cake, candles included. It strains to break as he adds another candle. His bloodshot eyes show no signs of anxiety. 

Manny grabs a napkin and knocks your ice tea. The cup sloshes but doesn't spill, ice cubes clinking and beads of condensation racing down the sides of your glass. You pick it up to feel the cold. Lately you've been morose. The cold, any sensation, can put distance between you and the heavy for a while, but there's no cure. And now you've gone and let Cory Wilson of all people kiss you for the simple fact that he wanted to. 

He's the first person who's ever wanted to kiss you. 

But you don't want him to kiss you again, and you're not sure how you manage it. Do you have to tell him you're not interested? Probably not, it was just a stupid kiss. He dipped down, his lips hot, his smell nice if overpowering, and it was right for a while, it was what you wanted, but then his hand dropped down rather than up, searching for something to take rather than something to hold. 

It's not how you pictured it. 

"You okay?" 

You raise your eyes, ice tea in hand. Eddie splits his attention between you and a basket of crispy crinkle cut fries loaded with cheese and bacon bits. He's nonchalant, his shoe tapping into yours as he leans forward for another bite. He chews, and he waits for you to answer. 

"I'm alright. Thinking about work." Bad lie. "Gareth said you got a new tattoo?" 

"Nope. I've been thinking about getting a new one to fill the gap under my puppeteer," he says, extending his arm to show you it in the light, the ridge and weave of his veins stark against his white skin. They're especially fierce leading down to his wrist, as is the small notch on the outermost side. You reach out to touch it without thinking, fingertip rubbing carefully over the bump. 

Eddie pushes his arm closer. "I want something here." He draws a half circle with his opposite pinky in the empty space. "But I can't think of what I want. Sometimes you go to the shop and they have a bunch of flash sheets and you like one of them enough to get it, right? I don't know."

It means a lot to you that he'd let you touch him without asking. You should've asked. 

He should've asked you, but he was drunk. You're not sure he was thinking straight. 

You sit back in your seat and finish your iced tea, feeling the cold slide down into your chest. You shiver at the feeling. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" Eddie asks. 

"Why wouldn't she be okay, Munson?" Manny asks. 

"Quiet, dickhead." 

Manny snorts, grabbing a greedy handful of Eddie's fries as punishment for a low blow. Eddie couldn't care less, clearly, his focus on you and your moping. You step into a sweeter smiling version of yourself that you save for times like this. 

"You know I work for Deenie DIY?" you ask. 

"Of course I know that," Eddie says, and not in the way people do sometimes where they assume you're insulting their intelligence, but the nice way. Like knowing where you work is easy information to carry.

He's the nicest of his friends, which is a credit to him; they aren't a bad bunch.

"So, I have this coworker that keeps bringing soup to work, and she swears that someone is syphoning off a couple of spoonfuls before lunch every day…" 

Eddie listens to your story with a weird expression. You bumble through the twists and turns of the world's stupidest fable, how she blamed a bunch of different people and now no one likes her, and the soup was getting warmed up by the fridge lights —it was her own fault. He listens, he smiles and nods and offers commentary that's funnier than the original story, the entire time with a downturn to his lips. You hate seeing him like that, but you don't know what to say. 

Plates left streaked with ketchup and mayo, glasses dotted by greasy prints and lip smackers, you and your friends tip as generously as twenty-somethings can afford and decide to head back to Gareth's for a couple of hours. It's barely past noon on a Saturday in late July. Nobody has to work for at least thirty six hours. You pile into two cars, arguing about what tape to play for the ten minute drive. Eddie ends up in the seat beside you somehow, and he doesn't shy away when the car takes a bend and you lean into his side. 

He puts his arm behind your shoulder. "Sorry," he says.

"It's okay." 

You lift your head. The memory of his face hovering close to yours, the sweet smell of cheap cherry wine on his breath, his hand clumsy with drink but kind as it climbed your back, your dress thin enough to catch your death, thin enough to feel like he was touching bare skin. Sorry, he'd said, you're just so fucking beautiful. 

"I gotta take my uncle's car back. Wouldn't do me a solid and come with?" he asks. 

— 

You follow Eddie in the van. He can see you in his rear view mirror, your hands on his steering wheel, the window down and the breeze ruffling your hood. 

Jeff was too high to drive and Eddie wouldn't trust Jamison to drive a moped. Gareth can't drive and okay, Macy can, she's good, but Eddie chose you for a reason. The string tied between your hands clings from door to door. 

Eddie pulls the sierra into the driveway in front of the trailer, holding two fingers up to you as he hops out and jogs up the steps. Two minutes.

"Wayne? Brought the car back." 

"How's your bruise, Eds?" 

Wayne's laying on the couch with a blanket over his legs, coffee cup swapped for a plate of cookies and a bag of chips. Eddie leans on the doorway, Wayne's keys on his finger. The string bobs back through the door, as if to say, Hey, she's over here, dipshit.

"It's fine, what are you eating? Did you have breakfast after I went?" 

"Yeah I had breakfast, I'm a grown man." Punctuated by the crunch of potato chips. "It's lunch time. This is my lunch." 

"Let me make you a pot pie or something." 

Wayne waves him off. "You're going back out. Who's in the van?" 

"That's Y/N." 

Wayne smiles knowingly. "Ah, is it?" He stands up with remarkable speed putting his plate of cookies on the table. He ducks down to peek through the window, and you must see him or wave, Wayne waving back. "Make her come say hi." 

"I won't be making her say shit." 

"She was nice last night." 

Eddie cringes, having forgotten you were his saviour. "Do I wanna know what you said?" 

"I said you were an idiot and an embarrassment, and that your safe return deserved a reward. You should invite her over for dinner." 

"No, because that's, like, a couples thing. Come and meet my parents," Eddie says, shoulders jumping, hands up in jazz hands, "laugh at my baby photos." 

"I don't have many of those. Got a bunch of you when you were fourteen and deep in the glam rock obsession." 

He used to say Eddie could wear whatever he wanted and paint his face a hundred different colours as long as Wayne got to take a picture. 

"Great, I'll invite her, and you can show her your nice album of reasons not to date me." 

"Son, why don't you just ask her to dinner? Worked in my day." 

"You're not even old. And I was going to," Eddie whines, rubbing the flat of his forehead ineffectually. "Then she was kissing this idiot Cory Wilson last night. I blew it. Lost my chance."

"I still think you should ask her for dinner. Any sense about her and she'll say yes." 

It's one of those reassurances your mom says to you when you're down on your luck. Handsomest guy in the world, how could anybody say no to that face? 

"Maybe I'll ask her." Eddie smiles nervously. "We're gonna go hang out, cool? You going to Dean's?" 

"None of your business. Yeah, I'm going to Dean's, just to help him fix his hand saw. I'll be back before six. See you then?" 

Eddie tosses Wayne the sierra keys. "See you. Don't drink too much." 

"Ironic, Edward!" 

Eddie leaves the trailer feeling vaguely hopeful about you; maybe Wayne's right. Kissing somebody doesn't mean you're married, but the window of opportunity to let his feelings be known is getting smaller the longer he waits. And seeing you standing against the grate of the van with your hands in your pockets, slice of your calves peeking out between your socks and jeans, big sleeves on your hoodie falling up one arm, he doesn't know if he can wait anymore. 

"Hey, would you wanna get out of here?" he asks. "Like, ditch Gareth's for a bit?"

"And do what?" 

The string shortens as he closes the gap between you. He twists it around his finger. It's tied to you —it must be a sign. (Or he's imagining it and he has, like, a paralytic brain worm eating its way across his eyeballs.) 

"I don't know, hit the goodwill? I have somewhere between twelve and sixteen dollars with your name on it if you're interested." He tries not to shrug, can't help it. "Only if you want." 

"Yeah. I want to." You worry your lip. "I'm not dressed to go out." 

"Are you kidding? You look fine. You look good." 

You rub your wrists together, grimacing. 

Eddie can roll with the punches. "Or you could go home and change first?"

"Would that be okay?" 

Eddie's glad for offering to witness the spectacle of your bedroom. The string seems to hate him but love you, giving you space all the way here and yanking him like a bad dog when he strays too far. You change behind your closet door and it forms hearts at your feet, unperturbed by the mountain of rejected shirts and skirts. 

Eddie lounges in a bean bag by the door, taking in your belongings as he waits. You've crafts on your desk, little origami cranes made of paper you've painted with watercolour. Phthalo blue and alizarin crimson foiled with short, skinny strokes of gold etching. Intricate and simple, time and care poured into each sheet. 

"Are you sure I'm okay by here?" Eddie asks. 

"Can you see me?" 

"No." Eddie can see shelves of books with creased spines, your made bed and all your mismatched sheets, the candles on your window sill —moonlight meadow, half-burned and sun-bleached; candied sweetheart, untouched; white lily and freesia, a double wick with only one melted tunnel—, and the soot stain unfurling like a soft-edged flower around the curtain pole. "Can't see anything." 

"Then don't worry." 

The sun ticks higher into the sky as an hour stretches into a second since you left Gareth's together. Eddie likes his room, his dense kingdom of the stuff that make him him, but he likes yours for the quiet. He can picture you sitting cross legged on your bed with a book in your lap, your back arched uncomfortably forward, a day old drink of water on the ceramic coaster with tiny bubbles clinging to the sides of the glass. He thinks he'd like that, to sit here and watch you, listening to one of your CDs, the string between you bouncing with each turn of a page. 

Eddie pulls on the string experimentally. Determined to fuck with him, it becomes a tauter thread, and the momentum of his tug tips you over. Your hand follows the line and the sudden slip pulls you into view without a shirt. Eddie flinches and looks as far away from you as he can. 

You laugh to yourself, but the sound is bitter, like burning coffee grounds on the tongue. 

"Is everything good with you?"  

You and Eddie are friends. Not great ones, but enough to have been able to ask you to ditch the others. There have been hundreds of seconds alone, the two of you sitting together at tables edged by arcade machines, diner booths, bowling alley benches, waiting for the others to get back, and those are moments where Eddie found time to fall in love with you. The string must be a manifestation or those seconds, threads of time tied together that join you forever, even if you can't see them. They're there. Eddie cares about you and it makes his throat hurt to hear your unhappy sounds; you have a morosity to you that he isn't heartless enough to ignore. He doesn't want to. 

Everybody has an unseen misery weighing them down. Eddie needs to find a way to hold yours for you. Just for a bit, however long you need. 

Unless Cory Wilson is going to take that mantle. Maybe that's why you're sighing; Eddie would be pretty upset if he had to remember being kissed by Wilson. He was already upset about it, and Wilson didn't kiss him. 

"Hey," Eddie says, peering between his fingers. With you definitely out of sight, he lifts his head. "Seriously, are you good?" 

"I don't know what to wear, that's all. Sorry for taking so long." 

"We could sit here till tomorrow and that would be cool. We don't even have to go, but you don't have to stress about what you're wearing. It's goodwill." 

"I always get stressed about what I'm wearing." 

"Is that a girl thing?" 

You toss a pretty flowered dress over the closet door. It slinks under its own weight and puddles on the floor. "I've always been like this, I get too focused on looking nice, it winds me up." 

"You always look nice." 

Your laugh says you certainly don't believe him. "Thanks, Eddie." 

"I'm not just saying it to make you feel better. You'd look nice in a potato sack." 

"Like Marilyn Monroe." 

"Who?" 

You appear in a sliver, naked arm linked to an unseen but unignorable naked chest, your face over your shoulder and a beatific silkiness to your smile. "You know who she is. Happy Birthday mister president? Blonde, with her beauty mark." You tap your top lip with your pinky. 

"Oh, right. Did she wear sacks often?" 

"Someone said she was beautiful because her clothes were designer and made to fit, so she did a photoshoot in a potato sack to prove she was beautiful." 

"You could totally do that." 

"It's not other people I need to convince." You retreat behind your closet door again, your voice half as clear as you confess, "I think… I've always been like this. I look in the mirror and I don't even know who I'm seeing. She doesn't feel like me." 

Eddie's ridiculous sitting on a beanbag while you bare your heart. He swears in his head and climbs onto tired legs, his hangover beating like a dull knife between his eyes for a moment while he gets used to standing. 

You take his silence for something else. "Sorry, ignore me. It's weird." 

"That's not weird. It's not." He tries to say what he means and not the first words that come into his head. "You know, I used to feel that way. Growing up, in junior high, I felt like such a poser. Even when I started being myself, I didn't feel authentic. Does that… is that similar?" 

"I guess so. How did you make it stop?" 

"Okay, this is gonna sound bad, but my mom died." Eddie twists a ring around his knuckle, the string tangling between fingers. "And I didn't care for a while. And then I got older." 

"I'm sorry," you murmur. 

"It's okay. I didn't say it for sympathy. That's just what happened." Eddie sits gingerly on the end of your bed. He doesn't want to intimidate you —after all, you're a young woman alone with him in a state of undress. A vulnerable young woman, if you're as upset as you're beginning to sound. "I'm trying to make you feel better with the worst personal anecdote ever." 

"You don't have to make me feel better. I shouldn't have brought it up, I don't…" 

"You can tell me anything," he says. 

You appear again, this time fully clothed. Black skirt to your knees —the sickest skirt you've ever worn— and a thin gauzy camisole, you look beautiful, and insanely uncomfortable. "Really?" you ask, hands wringing.

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. I promise." 

"Well. Last night," —Eddie sees flashing lights, the carbon bubbles in a spilled beer— "I let somebody kiss me."

He knows. It's agony. Eddie waits for you to continue with an open expression despite the feeling your confession inspires; he assumes this is what a knife to the eye feels like, the willing horror of letting you use it. 

"Nobody's ever wanted to kiss me before, so I let him. And I'm shit scared that I'm never gonna recognise myself in the mirror, so I'll keep letting him kiss me." You wring your hands meanly. "Sorry, I know I sound like a bad movie. Why is talking about your feelings this awkward?" 

"That was your first kiss, last night?" 

It's not the right question. You wince visibly. "I know, I'm in my twenties, it's embarrassing." 

"No, that's–" Eddie sighs. "That's not what I meant." What did he mean? Fuck, I wish it could've been me, and Jesus, that doesn't make a lick of fucking sense. You aren't right, for starters, Cory Wilson isn't the first person who's ever wanted to kiss you, he's just the bastard that got lucky enough to have you reciprocate. "Wait, was it okay? Did he corner you?" 

You sit on the end of the bed with a small smile. "No. He didn't pressure me." 

"Was it what you wanted?" 

"Not really… I guess I don't know what I want." 

Is that rejection, or is he self-absorbed? Should he take the hint, or is he just another guy making it about himself? Eddie leans back into your bed to escape the heartbreak of being close to you, the string anchoring his hand in place as he tries to scratch his chest. 

"It's not embarrassing to get your first kiss in your twenties," he says, eyes roving over the lines of a small paper butterfly, black cardstock like ink against your white ceiling. "That's what your twenties are for." 

"Don't bother, I know exactly how you lost your virginity." 

Eddie scrunches his eyes shut, can't stop himself from smiling as his wry voice scratches out, "Listen, everyone knows how I lost my virginity, but that's not the point." 

"You'd think a seventeen year old would make marginally better decisions." You're teasing, not shaming, your smile playful. 

"No, you wouldn't. Seventeen year olds are stupid. I thought I knew what I wanted at seventeen and now I'm twenty three and the only thing I know for sure is that I don't know a thing. The point of being twenty is doing shit for the first time. It's our first time being grown ups." 

"That's wise," you say. 

"Fuck off." 

You lay down beside him. The string whips like a ribbon in the wind before falling into the shape of a heart again, clearly pleased to have you near. 

"It's not embarrassing," Eddie says quietly. "But when you get your second kiss, I think you should save it for someone you want to kiss. Don't just let someone have it because you're not sure of yourself." 

"That's a nice sentiment, Eddie, but I already gave it away." 

He swallows his surprise, a tiny spike of agony. "How was that one?" 

"I'm not sure about it. I don't think it counted." 

"Do I wanna know?" 

"I'm not sure about that, either." 

"Was it Wilson?" he asks. 

You turn your cheek into the bedsheets. He can hear the fabric brushing your skin, turns ever so slightly to meet you, a few inches all it would take to breathe the same air. 

"Eddie," you say, very, very softly. 

His heart eases into his mouth a beat at a time until it's thrumming between his ears. 

"Yeah?" he asks, his tone a twin. 

"I think I need to cancel our plans." 

It's not what he's expecting you to say. 

—

There's a black velvet jacket dotted with embroidered stars hidden under your bed, their silver thread like cosmic dust. Music pounds the floor and shakes the house's foundations, seeping down into Macy's damp basement one rippling riff at a time, the bass of it deep in Eddie's chest, but he can't stop thinking about your jacket. Did you know it was there? 

The string tied to his marriage finger grows restless the longer you and Eddie are apart, bouncing like a shockwave whenever he thinks your name. In fact, all it takes is the idea of you, the slightest memory of your smile, your hands, the way you tell stories to the group with your shoulders turned to him like he's there alone, and the string flinches. 

"Are you okay?" Manny asks. 

Eddie drags his way up the couch. "Hey, Man. You got the dick off your face. That's great." 

Manny lifts his cheek. "Had to steal some of my mom's make-up. Can't tell, huh?" 

The colour match is dubious, now he's mentioned it. Eddie doesn't have the heart to tell him, flopping back into the crisp, cracked leather seat beneath him. A circle of his face is sticky where it clings to the couch. It's among the worst feelings of this earthly plane, grim as ice cream dripping down your hand on a hot day, or perpetually gutting heartbreak like he suffers now. 

"I think I'm seeing things," Eddie says. 

"Jeff has stuff for that." 

Eddie groans loudly. With the way he feels it's not melodrama. Just pure human anguish. He groans again when nothing changes, fisting his hair in two aching hands. He's clenched and unclenched his hands for hours all day, trying to force the hurt away from his chest, chasing breathlessness to the tips of his fingers. Pins burn his palms. 

He knew in the back of his mind that you weren't going to want to date him. Realistically you have options, even if you think you don't, and his being your only option wouldn't inspire romance anyways. Being someone's last resort isn't love. None of it was love, you aren't in love, but Eddie thinks he could've been. He was halfway there, falling, whatever the poets might say —Eddie wants you. Wants to do stupid shit with you. He can picture the scene like he has before, that first bouquet of flowers, lilies with big white petals and purple sunspots. The cellophane would crinkle in trembling hands pressed to his chest, their stems leaking dew into his hardly worn button up. He'd pass them to you with more confidence than he feels and tell you that you're pretty. You're always pretty. 

He's not pretty, he's barely funny. He was stupid for thinking you'd like him too. 

The string is pale pink. Eddie loops it around his finger thoughtlessly, worsening the sting of pins and needles. 

There were times… 

He clutches his chest. The nausea he's feeling can't be understated.

There were times when you could've been in love with him, he thinks. Splitting a cigarette you had no business splitting on the steps of Jeff's porch, your vanilla chapstick softening the filter. Holding his hand for support as you made the hike down to the lake, your fingers curled around his like you worried you might hurt him. In the passenger seat of his van on the way to your house, laughing as he sang along to a Van Halen guitar solo. You could've been in love with him. 

But Eddie didn't ask you out. He didn't do what Wayne said, because goodwill is not dinner, and now you're probably happily sequestered in Wilson's BMW. He jumped the wrong gun and he blew it. 

"Seriously, Munson, are you good?" 

"Peachy." Eddie holds up the sign of the horns, pinky and index finger up, thumb holding his marriage and middle finger down, face buried in an old cushion. 

"Let me go get you a joint." 

"I gave it up." 

"Dude. Pizza it is." 

Eddie waits for Manny to leave before he turns onto his back. Last night in the shower after a knowing shoulder squeeze from his Uncle and a frankly overflowing bowl of microwave spaghetti, he pressed his forehead to the tile and let it all ache. He might have cried or water may have streamed from his hair, he genuinely doesn't know, but he knows he's in danger of another round of the same if he keeps thinking about you. 

He's a big boy. He can cope with your decision. 

"Eddie, what are you doing?" 

Eddie sits up with a handful of clicks. "Robin?" 

"Hey," Robin says, "whaddya know, I followed the smell of sadness and rejection and here you are." 

She's dressed fancy, her hair in a rare updo, faux pearls dangling from her ears to kiss the collar of a leather jacket. "Shit, you're so cool, Buckley." 

"Thanks. You okay?" Robin asks, sitting on the arm of the couch. 

Eddie's stomach churns as her perfume reaches him, the sweet, subtle smell of vanilla under white musk. He leans his face against the starched denim of her jeans. "Who told you?" he mumbles.

"Steve. Who else?" Robin pats his head. "But Jeff told him. And I was talking about your bruise." 

Eddie waves off her concern. "Where is Steve in my hour of need?" 

"Smoking a not secret cigarette with Jeff," she says, a melodic cadence to her usual light rasp. 

"I wouldn't risk Jeff's cigarettes." 

She snorts a laugh, "Steve would risk his life for a cigarette. He loves to say that quitting was easy, but he drinks half a beer and starts gasping like a fish." Robin mimes Steve's apparent desperation, to Eddie's delight.

She smiles as his laughter peters out, tilting her head to the side. "So… was it bad?" 

"I don't know." He rubs his eyes. "The last time I got rejected was in senior year, and it was– I didn't even like her, you know, thought she was pretty, but this is different." 

"Sorry, Eddie," she says, pushing her bottom lip up into her top one, a bubbled pout that betrays how out of her depth she feels. 

Eddie isn't trying to make it awkward. "That's okay. I liked her, she doesn't like me, it's cool." The string flails. The music from upstairs gets louder. "What the fuck is happening? I thought Macy said it was a quiet one." 

Robin and Eddie start up the basement stairs to the main body of the house. The air is warmer and thicker, the faint smell of hotdogs and burgers grilling in the backyard filtering inside through the patio doors. "You know," Eddie says, glaring at the sudden crowd, "there's an atari down there." 

"Sorry, I think I'll have to keep my idiot out of trouble." Robin points at Steve near the stereo with Jeff, the two of them laughing hard enough to bruise as they mess with the pitch of the music. "Steve! You'll go deaf in your good ear if you don't stop!" 

"What?" Steve shouts. 

Robin rushes over to drag him away from the stereo. Eddie doesn't want to be your best friend, but if it was a friendship like Steve and Robin's he would consider himself lucky to have it, smiling as she wraps her arms around his chest from behind and pulls him away, sniffing at him, her nose wrinkled as she gives a reprimand too low for Eddie to catch. "I'm serious," she says as they grow closer, weaving around the living room coffee table and retreating back into the slim hallway leading to the basement stairs, "where are your earplugs?" 

"In the car, Rob. I'm fine, I promise." 

"Sure. Alright, Eddie, would you keep him away from the stereo?" Robin shoves Steve toward him. "Thanks so much." 

"I'm not high," Steve says as soon as she's gone. 

"While that's uber convincing, honeybear, I don't care if you are," Eddie says lightly. "Not a cop. Wanna go get a burger?" 

They move away from the living room and into the kitchen, where Steve nearly trips over the door jam and Eddie forgets for the first time in days how awful he feels. 

He sits Steve down at the glass table next to Macy herself and a younger friend of Manny's. Jamison and Gareth stand at the grill arguing about who's doing what, but Jamison proves to be the better grillmaster and the better friend, dropping two burgers on paper plates in front of them not more than twenty seconds after they've sat down. "For you, my poor little Munson," he says, smacking the ketchup and mayonnaise down between them. "Eat up." 

"I can't get the cap off," Steve complains, welding a bottle of mayonnaise at him like a dagger. 

Eddie sighs. Steve is definitely high. "You know Jeff doesn't smoke plain rolled cigarettes, right? Like, you knew it was weed?" 

"Whaaaat?" Steve asks exaggeratedly. "Open my mayonnaise." 

"Plausible deniability," Eddie says. "I like it." 

He finds that taking care of Steve is a good distraction, but there's only so much care a grown man needs, high or not, and Eddie's gaze is pulled to the string. It's impossible to stop thinking about you on the other end of it. He tries not to look at the string at all, but he can't, being as permanently tied to his finger as it is. What's worse is seeing people tread on it. The colour fades slowly, once a strong red, now a meek pink. At this rate it'll be bone white by the end of the night, like a vein with no supply. Maybe that's how this ends. You stay kissing Cory Wilson and the string dies. 

As he thinks it, the string tightens. The pink turns rosy, turns healthy, red as a rose, vice-like on his finger. Eddie knows without knowing that you're near. He could've guessed without the string's shifting, your presence the antonym of sixth-sense chills. He turns back toward the house and catches a glimpse of you as you walk past the patio door in your black velvet jacket, those tiny sparse stars like needlepoints from this far away and glinting as you turn to let Robin pass. 

"Holy fuck!" Robin mouths, Steve's earplugs in a small pouch meant for coins in hand as she speed walks down the short path to the table. "She's here!" 

"I can see that." 

Robin sits on the chair next to Steve's. He passes her the last half of his burger and takes the earplugs from an outstretched hand, shaking them from their pouch. You'd never look at him like this with mayonnaise on his top lip, thigh to thigh with loser-sweetheart Robin Buckley, and think he'd be violent. He isn't, truly, his hearing loss the result of getting his ass handed to him hard, and the motivation of a pacifist who wears ear defenders to the movies. 

"You're gonna have to speak up," Steve says, pushing the plugs in. 

"Yeah, man." He doesn't have much to say anyhow. His stomach is curled in knots, the string a tightrope without walkers between him and you in the kitchen. You're talking to someone, walking one way before rushing the other. "What the fuck?" Eddie asks, sitting up. 

Macy stands as somebody gasps. Eddie's quick to follow, Gareth jumping back out of Jamison's reach as the grillmaster swings a long pronged fork his way. "What?" he asks cluelessly. 

Eddie follows the string to you, stepping over the patio doorjam and into the cacophony of the kitchen. Blaring rock music vibrates through Eddie's worn shoes, but it doesn't occlude the vehemence of Cory Wilson's slurring. "I should've known," he hisses. 

Eddie would stand in front of you, he should, he's going to, but he doesn't and he can't fathom why. He's glued to the spot as you defend, "I didn't know. And I didn't do it on purpose." 

"Are you fucking with me?" 

"No." You sound startled rather than scared, but the cagey way you've moved back and the curl of your hands into fists says otherwise. "No, I didn't kiss you to–" 

"To what? Guess it doesn't make a difference. I should've known. Two guys in one night's a good night for a girl like you, huh?" 

You flinch away. It could be the pull of the string or the panic on your lips as you struggle to speak, or maybe Eddie's done being a coward who half-asses his life even if you're not gonna kiss him like he wishes you would, whatever it is, it has him standing in front of you unafraid. 

Cory Wilson is rough. Eyes bloodshot, evil on tequila sliders from the sugary brown stain on his collar, he takes one look at Eddie and starts laughing. 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, a girl like her? Why don't you explain it?" Eddie asks, his voice burnt, almost acrid in his own mouth. "What, you plant one on her and you think it's alright to talk to her like that?" 

"Eddie," you say. 

He reaches back gently, his fingertips brushing your abdomen. 

"You're a fucking classless act, Wilson, you always have been. You don't talk to her like that." 

"Why don't you stay out of it, freak?" 

"Dude," Jamison says. "No way. Get the fuck out of here." 

"You can't stay out of it, can you? It makes sense now I'm seeing it," Cory rails. 

This is so teenaged angst and Eddie's over it. You'll have to forgive him but he's feeling territorial. This is Macy's house, they're your friends, and Cory was a dick before he kissed you. "This is embarrassing, dude," Eddie says over the island, meeting Cory's eyes straight on. "Don't do this shit." 

"It was you, right?" Cory asks, nodding, mind made up already. He peers around Eddie's shoulder to stare at you incredulously. "Him?" 

"It doesn't matter!" you insist, stepping forward. "Why does it matter? I said no, I don't wanna go home with you, I'm sorry, I told you more than you needed to know because I thought it would help you get it, and I'm sorry I let you kiss me! I'm sorry, I thought it was best to be honest with you." 

Eddie's thinking you don't have to say sorry for anything. Cory's thinking about the milling crowd of young adults haunting the corners of the kitchen and pressed in from the hallway, rounding the island with his chest puffed up. 

"It was Munson, wasn't it?" 

You take a step back into Eddie. "It's fine," he says to you quickly, because coward or not he'd never let someone hit you, but you're pushing him behind you. You're protecting him. 

"Yes, it was Eddie!" you say. "So what? It has nothing to do with you."  

Macy cuts in, all red hair and glare. "Okay, enough. Cory, you have to leave, man. You can't yell at girls in my kitchen because they don't want to sleep with you." 

Eddie stares at the back of your head. 

Did you kiss him? That second kiss, that was with him?

"You kissed me?" he asks quietly. 

Your lips part as you look at him from over your shoulder. Macy and Jamison argue with a red-faced Cory, Steve asks Robin what someone just said and Robin shouts the answer, but Eddie couldn't tell you what anyone's truly saying if you paid him to, his attention on the pillow of your bottom lip and searching upwards as you exhale. 

"Eddie, you kissed me." Your eyes are soft, the starts of your brows hooked together. "You really don't remember?" 

"I kissed you? When?" He grabs your arm, pulling you toward him. "At Gareth's place?" 

"I took you home," —you drop your chin, a new panic about you as your voice drops, waning, tenuous as spider silk— "you were wasted, you'd been drinking Macy's wine and Mr. Lashlee's bourbon and I didn't mean for it to happen. I wasn't trying to get you to kiss me, Eddie, I just asked why you were upset." 

"What did I say?" 

"You said that I was beautiful. That you wanted to kiss me, and then you did." 

Sorry, he'd said, you're just so fucking beautiful. 

"And then you freaked out like you'd been laced about string between your fingers. I took you to your room and told Wayne you ate a bunch of hotdogs on the turn." You won't meet his eyes. "I'm sorry. I never meant for it to go that far." 

A glass smashes. Eddie takes your hand, pulling you away from the scene and through a curious crowd to the back door. He closes the patio doors behind you and half jogs you down past the smoking barbecue and all its leftovers, chairs pulled out haphazard from the garden table and food discarded. 

He has to be quick, he doesn't know how much time he has before everyone comes flooding back out of the house.

You're strangely timid, shame having sewn your brows together. "Eddie, I'm sorry," you say, your hand wriggling weakly in his to be let go. He lets it fall.

"Sweetheart, stop. Just stop. I'm the one who's sorry… I think I–" He sighs, you're so fucking beautiful on loop in the back of his mind. "I remember. I know I made a move. You didn't do anything wrong." 

"I should've stepped away faster. I wasn't expecting you to kiss me." 

"I shouldn't have kissed you." 

"It was just a peck, Eddie. It's okay, 'cos it's not that I don't want you to kiss me ever, but you were drunk. I should have–" 

"You didn't do anything wrong," he insists, cutting you off before you can criminalise yourself with a vehement shake of the head. "But that's– that's–" He chokes on his question. "What did I say about the string?" 

"The string?" you ask, and fuck! Fuck, you look beautiful now, beautiful still as the night moves forward and the day's last lazy dregs of sunlight dapple your skin through the hanging branches of the surrounding sycamores. You stuff your hands in your pockets and pull your jacket around your tummy to hide from the cold, the string tugging with you. Your eyes are wide with confusion. "You wouldn't stop talking about it. That's when you hit yourself, your bruise?" 

"After I kissed you, or before?" 

"After, but… why does it…" 

"I'm going to sound crazy." 

You laugh softly. "No different than usual, then." 

Eddie opens his hand and holds it out for yours. The string on his finger is loose but not long, moreso when you give him your hand. "I know you can't see it, I get that it's ridiculous, but there's a string tied from my third finger to yours. This red piece of thread like my nanna would use. I woke up yesterday morning and it was there. I thought maybe I was going crazy, because I like you," —he swallows air, no idea why this is so hard— "and I saw you kissing that loser and I figured it was some quasi manifestation of how much I want to be near you, like torture, but it was after I kissed you. It appeared after I kissed you." 

"So we're connected by a string?" you ask slowly. 

Eddie's genuinely ecstatic that you'd even entertain it. "Yes!" 

"Show me," you say. 

"I can't." 

"Well, where is it?" 

The string is tight as a wire again. Eddie runs his finger along it, hoping that'll help. You can't see the string but you can see the ease with which he follows it, how his finger slides from one end to the other seamlessly. Inspired suddenly by the memory of your bedroom, Eddie grabs the string near the middle and pulls. 

The string deigns to do his bidding, yanking your hand forward. 

You pull it back instinctively. "Is that a trick?"  

"There's a string. I've been losing my mind trying to show people, I tried to cut it off. It's impenetrable." Eddie stamps down his excitement in the face of your less enthusiastic frown. "It runs from me to you." 

You rub your marriage finger, the string a strong and shimmering crimson at your touch. "I can't feel it, but you pulled me." Your eyes are shiny. "Eddie, you like me?"

"Yeah, I do." He can't believe he's admitted to it out loud. No escaping it. Of the two secrets he just told you, it's the least terrifying. He wants to say more and he wishes he could take it all back, your confusion tangible in the lines of your frown, your gloss-sticky lips drawn thinner. 

He's interrupted. 

"Hey, Y/N!" Macy calls, slipping through the doors, Robin on her heels. "You okay?" 

Eddie steps back from you guiltily. 

"I'm fine! I'm fine, Mace, I was trying to let him down easy and I kept saying the wrong thing." You drop your hand out of the air. "I'm sorry." 

"Hey, it's okay, I don't care. I don't want people yelling at you, that's all." She spies on Eddie out of the corner of her eye. 

"I'm not yelling at her," he defends. 

"Yeah? You should both come back inside, then. Have a drink. That's why you're here, right?" 

She smiles until Eddie realises, defeated, that she's not gonna leave you alone out here with him. That's fine, he's glad people are looking out for you, but fuck is it annoying. He's finally told you about the stupid impossible string that links you together and you almost believed him, he could see it, and worse, his confession lays at your feet unanswered. 

Macy pulls Eddie back by the t-shirt as you walk on ahead, where you're quickly commandeered by a concerned Harrington, a chocolate milkshake in his hand that he instantly attempts to share. "Eddie," Macy says, jaw dropped in emphasis, "you kissed?" 

He covers his eyes with his hands, palm out, solid rings digging into his eyelids. "Not really," he says, a pounding headache emerging between his eyes. "No. I guess not." 

—

Hawkins library smells musty with disuse. Dust motes swim between beams of light shining down through dirty windows, an aged yellow colour painting the pages of the book splayed in front of you. You'd originally retreated into Hawkins library in the pursuit of one thing alone: resolute, guaranteed solitude. You'd considered disconnecting your phone, but your address isn't a secret. The only sure fire way to be alone was to leave, and to hide. 

No twenty-two year old Hawkinite spends their Sunday mornings at the library. You'd carried a litre bottle of water and a tupperware of sandwiches into the recesses of the old building and dropped into a creaky desk bright and early. For a blessed, blissful half an hour, you set your cheek to cold wood and closed your eyes, content to be unreachable. 

It's not that you don't want to see people. Not that you don't want to see Eddie. You don't want to be seen. Not today. 

Some mornings you wake up and feel wrong. You can shower, dress in new clothes, wear makeup and nice shoes and pretty bangles, but none of it makes any difference to your poor self-esteem. You figured every woman feels this way —what is there to love in a world that advertises solutions to problems you didn't know you had until they printed it in magazines? But it's been getting worse. 

Now you're lonely enough to let acquaintances kiss you for the simple reason that they want to, and insecure enough to attribute that want to a specific motive, but Eddie said he kissed you because he thinks that you're beautiful. Because he likes you. Because a string runs from his hand to yours that can't be severed. 

The latter feels as mythological as the former. 

It's a mess. You've asked a thousand questions. Would the situation be cleaner if you rejected Cory? Did Eddie kiss you because he realised he could, that you'd let him do it? Cruel. Not his style, and mean to think of him, but a worry nonetheless. From there the questions broaden, immature in root. Does Eddie actually like you? Would he be your boyfriend? Does he want that, do you want that, is he okay? Was he high last night? Was he ill? 

You flick through tomes with sweat thumbprints pressed deep into the corners and sides, scanning mildly then feverishly for an answer. Love myths, old legends, everything the librarian can give you on fantastical sweethearts —soulmates.

Eddie thinks that there's a string tied from his finger to yours to torture him as a link to what he wants, but can't have. 

It doesn't make much sense. Eddie Munson could have you if he asked nicely enough. 

That might be the problem. He's never asked anything of you. Eddie's a giver, constantly, a thousand little gifts. Your hair is nice like that. Do you want to sit here? You'll get the next one, but he never lets you get the next one. 

His very best gift was small. Waiting for Gareth to bring the car around and hiding from the early summer rain under the Hideout's short veranda, you and Eddie sitting on a cold wall, his jacket underneath you as he insisted to stop you from catching a chill. You remember thinking he was pretty even with his hair in his eyes, his cheeks hollowed in concentration. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, offering a glimpse of a guitar pick tucked inside of the plastic photo window. "This is my best kept secret, okay? Don't go spreading it around," he'd said from the corner of his mouth, deft fingers folding the length of a receipt into a square. He tore the excess, leaving himself with an incredibly small scrap to start with. From there he made the paper crane swiftly, folding neat corners and twisting the snout, placing the finished craft on your stocking-clad knee. "Here." 

"How did you do that?" you asked, awed. 

He made you a square of your own, shuffled closer to you on the wall, the heat of his hands near yours to correct you and his patient demonstration booting your heart into overdrive. You remembered every step of his origami even weeks later, folds of paper brushed by the soft memory of his fingertips on the back of your hand, accidental touches, and the smell of him, so close. 

Those paper cranes in your room, tens of them sewn like popcorn strings at christmas… 

You shake the thought from your head and close the book. Maybe you do like Eddie. Maybe you have all along (tenuously, waiting to get let down, and thinking there wasn't a chance in hell he could ever like you back). And now he likes you back? 

This obsessive retrospection is bad for your head. Sighing, you stand from the desk you've monopolised and stretch your arms over your head, taking a breath to peer down at your fruitless investigation. The string is in his head. He punched himself pretty hard the night you took him home —he's reeling from the after effects of booze and a mild concussion, no doubt. His mind is playing tricks on him. As far as you're concerned, there's no string. (But your hand moved when he pulled. But you want it to be real.) 

You pull the books to your chest and ferry them back to the lonely shelf they came from toward the back of the aisles near the audiobook stand. 

Fuck, you think to yourself, kneeling by the mythology section to begin putting your books back in a vaguely organised manner. Your reading provided no answers, and you're starting to worry it's none of the scenarios you'd contemplated, but a mean-spirited joke. What would Eddie ever want with me? you think, neatening the edges of the books slowly. 

Realising you like him, his chaste kiss, the red string, it's a lot to take in. You aren't sure what you believe, but you'd love to believe Eddie, in both of his confessions. 

You're standing and dusting your knees when you see it, a small cloth bound book shoved between encyclopaedias on the shelf above. It's more like a personal notebook than a novel. You reach for it on a whim. The cover is selenite white, slightly coruscating in the light and broken only by the weighted lines of Chinese characters painted with the bristle of a squirrel mop brush. You trace the last of the characters mindlessly, the English translation beneath it reading, Chinese Folk Mythology. 

You open the book to the first page, blank; the second, the titular; and the third, contents. You flick through creation myths and cosmology, defeated before you've even begun. You really want Eddie to be telling the truth about this —if he is, it means he's telling the truth about liking you, puts real feelings behind his tipsy kiss. 

The first and last burst of colour stops you short. 

The red thread of fate. 

A red line furls from one corner of the page to the second page opposite, shot through phrases, your eyes catching fast on choice words. Invisible to the mortal eye. Marriage of two souls. Tangled, knotted, but never broken. Fate. 

You sit on your knees on the floor of the library, the pages spread flat under your hands and their minute trembling. 

— 

Eddie checks his hair in the rearview mirror again. "Loser," he says, looking himself straight in the eye. Then he smiles with teeth, kicks open the driver's side door, and drops out of the van with a crushed bouquet of flowers held to his chest. 

Today's been a nightmare. Between you (always you, his only thought of the growing mess he's made) and Wayne, he's been flayed. 

"Your room is a pigsty, Eds, I'm not happy," his uncle had said, glaring at him over the lip of his coffee mug. Garfield absent and replaced by genial Odie, Eddie still felt abjectly judged. 

"I've been busy!" Eddie defended, too worried to eat and instead working his way through five pieces of nicotine gum at once, his jaw aching with each magnanimous chew. 

"Yeah, busy turning down shifts and spending all your money on burgers and beer." 

"I'm way too old for this," he said through gum bubbles. 

"Exactly! Too old to need reminding. If we get bugs I'm kicking you out." 

Wayne would never kick Eddie out, but that wasn't the point. "Wayne, I'm having a crisis. Could you have, like, a modicum of compassion for me? Your only nephew? In his time of need?" He clutched his chest. "Christ, man." 

Wayne leaned backwards in his chair to fish the trash bags from a miscellaneous drawer. "This is compassion. Don't be gross." 

His room was chaos rather than gross, knick-knacks in their wrong places and two hampers worth of laundry piled behind the door. The whole time he cleaned, he debated if it was appropriate to call you, and when he finally bit the bullet and picked up the phone you didn't answer. That's fine, except he called Robin (who was predictably nursing a rumpled Harrington back to health but had enough wherewithal to ask for the hot gossip), Macy (who told him to leave you alone if he was causing trouble), Gareth (who laughed), and Shauna (fucking Shauna) in search of you, and nobody knew where you were.

It got to the point where he couldn't not check on you. Couldn't stay stuck in the narrative anymore of your will we won't we. It hurt his chest too much, a real anxiety with claws to match. He hit Bradley's for a bouquet but the flowers they had were wilted slim pickings, and then he raced to the bakery before he thought about it too much and left empty handed. 

Imagine buying a girl baked goods for her to reject you. Eddie in the rain with his paper bag of croissants and dying flowers. 

He couldn't find you through the phone, but he has a secret weapon: the string that leads from him to you tied tight to his finger, a compass without magnets. He followed it in the van to this secluded spot overlooking Hawkins town, and knew he was in the right place when he found your car parked on the hill. 

His palms clam on the way up, pine needles crushed to mulch under his cons. Dirt crusts their white toes and puddle water splashes over the tongues, seeping into his socks. The rain slows to a pittering that beads down the arms of his jacket and along the ridge of one finger, welled cold at the line of a titanium ring. 

The string is trodden and dirty on the ground. Eddie toes at it as he goes, the thread red but not taut, leaving you closer than he expects you to be, perched on a picnic table with an umbrella held loosely on one shoulder. 

"Hey," he says, tensing as you tense, softening his voice appropriately. "If you don't wanna see me I understand, and I'll leave, but I wanna talk to you… If that's cool." 

You peer down at the umbrella handle under your fingers. "Sure, Eddie. You don't have to leave." He counts his lucky stars, more when he sits on the bench beside you and you ask, "Are those for me?" 

He fights through nerves, flowers squeezed to death in his grip. "They're for you. I had to buy a couple of bunches. These are the best of the worst." He offers you the flowers, cellophane crinkled in his hand, not half what he pictured but somehow better for being real. "I'm sorry." 

"Don't say sorry for giving me flowers," you murmur in your way, not mindless but small. Not tentative, just careful. 

"I'm not sorry for giving you flowers, I'm sorry that they're wilting. I wanted to get you a bunch from Leaven, you know, impress you even if it was too late. I'm sorry for a lot of things, actually. Mostly kissing you without asking first." He doesn't mean to say it like that— oh woe is me. "I want to be honest with you," he confesses, quieter. "Stuff feels weird and awful." 

"I know what you mean," you say. 

"But talking to you isn't like that. Talking to you is..." He scratched his neck sheepishly. "This is going way worse than I pictured." 

"Yeah. Yeah, it's pretty bad." Your voice is calm against his awkward panic. You aren't ridiculing him, the opposite. You're in the same terrified boat. It's reassuring at least to know he's not alone. 

You put your hand out without turning his way. Eddie stares at it with another gasping round of chest pain but takes it swiftly in both hands, too much. Why are you this fucking weird? he asks himself. 

"I think I believe you." 

Eddie bites the inside of his lip. Your hand is marginally smaller in his, softer by yards, and easy to pet at your admission. He feels this bone deep longing to stroke the back of it and he does, the side of his thumb tracing the faint indentation of bones beneath your skin with the care of someone handling a more delicate artefact, the string shortening, shortening, until it's all but disappeared. You're hardier than a rough hand-hold, he's wanted to do this for so, so long. 

"About what?" he asks. The string? Or his affection?

"About the string." You struggle with the flowers and the umbrella in your other hand but make no attempt to take the first back from his grip. 

He waits for you to say more, seconds turning to minutes, his palm growing sweaty in yours. Eddie wants to be cool like a rockstar who knows you want him and doesn't care, and he wants to be sweet and gentle and give you the respect you deserve, but mostly he wants to make it out of this conversation with you at his side. He's not sure how to do it, but holding your hand as you want him to is a start. 

"I have to ask you something," you say finally, as though the words have been dragged from the root of you. "This string… this isn't all a joke, is it? That would be– that would be sick. If it's not real." 

"No!" Eddie interrupts. "It's not a joke, I get if you think I'm crazy but I'm not trying to mess you around–" 

"I don't think you're crazy. This whole situation is crazy. It doesn't make sense." 

"But you believe me?" he asks. What he's really asking is Would you believe me, please? He's so tired of being alone with this. 

"I found this book at the library." Your hand livens in his, your fingers pushing between his to twine together solidly. "Talking about the red thread of fate. There's a myth that people who are destined to get married have an invisible string tied from their fingers. It gets bigger and smaller, and you can't cut it no matter how hard you try, but I still didn't know if I believed you. You could've read the same book." 

Didn't know. Past tense. "What changed your mind?" 

"How would you know where I was if you were lying? We're twenty minutes outside of town." 

"I could be a stalker." 

"Do you want me to believe you?" you ask with a laugh. 

"Of course I do," he says warmly, spurred by your laughter, pulling your arm bodily into his and encouraging you closer. "You don't have to believe that we're destined to be together, but the string is real." 

"And you like me." 

Eddie's turn to laugh. "I do, yeah. So much it's embarrassing." 

"Everybody knows but me?" 

"Kind of." 

"Oh." You lay your cheek against his shoulder. Almost like you're testing his limits to see if you're allowed. 

Rain dots lightly on his jacket arm, the chill of the weather sudden and obvious. He covers your wrist with his hand to hide you from it, knowing he should offer to take you somewhere warmer but needing to stretch this moment, his chest alleviated of anxiety pangs for the first time in almost a week. 

"You really think I'm pretty?" you ask quietly. 

Eddie stares at the top of your head. "You're the sweetest thing I've ever seen. Even if you don't believe it yourself, you're beautiful." 

It's not that Eddie thinks you're going to cry but you come apart, slow fissures in the last of your strength. He takes the bouquet from you to lay on the table behind and closes your umbrella, letting the drizzling rain kiss the tops of both your heads. You look as nervous as he feels. "Come here," he says, desperate for you to feel better. "C'mere." 

You sew your arms under his as he wraps his around your shoulders, the string stretching so as not to hurt you. Your voice comes rushed and low, honesty now that you're no longer face to face, "I like you too, Eddie. Ever since you made me that paper crane, I think." 

He rubs your back. "You don't have to sound upset about it," he teases, trying to rescue you from tears. He'd hate to see you cry. 

"This has all been such a mess." 

He hugs you harder. "I know. I promise I'll make it up." 

"But it's not your fault." 

"Maybe, but that's kind of the point of being with someone. Looking after each other, cleaning up messes. I want to." 

"You're with me," you repeat carefully. 

Eddie pulls back, taking your face into his hand. The string lines your cheek like a teardrop curved down the slope of it. He strokes the red thread gently with his thumb. "I want to be. You think that could work? Us?" 

Your fingers curl into the crook of his elbow. You nod into his touch. "If this isn't a trick."  

"It's not a trick. I'm in love with you," —he wants to lean in, and he can't, not yet, not while a fraction of you still thinks he couldn't want you sincerely— "everything about you. I think I have been for a while." 

"In love…" you murmur into yourself. 

You lean forward slowly, stilted, and when Eddie leans in to meet you your eyes flutter closed. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thinks. He might have kissed you before but he doesn't remember it anymore than a phantom, a ghost, the echo of a memory. He remembers what he said and the blooming pain of his hand kicking back into his eye a thousand times clearer than how your lips felt, he has no idea what you like, where to put his hands—

You kiss him first. You lean in, and you kiss him gingerly, waiting for an impending cruelty or rejection that's never going to come. He keeps it gentle, holding his breath as the tip of his nose slides across yours and his head tilts to allow better access, a proper, full kiss. 

For someone who hasn't had very many, you're a good kisser. A little too still. Eddie sees no harm in it, moving back a millimetre to wade in again immediately, his left hand rising to join the right on your warming face and prompting you into a braver reciprocation. 

He smiles at the feeling of your bottom lip pressed against the seam of his mouth. His jacket sleeve creaks as your grip tightens. 

It's a lovely kiss, even if it's tenuously taken. It's everything. For a while the rain doesn't matter, steams off of him, but it must fall too harshly for you to ignore, peeling away from him, so, so carefully. He meets your softened gaze with a similar expression. For once, you seem completely present, and better, your smile is real. 

"Was that okay?" he asks, sliding his hands down the lines of your neck, feeling for nothing in particular. Feeling to feel, wanting to learn every hill and bow of you. 

"It was better than the first two," you say, an endearingly bashful answer.  

"That's not difficult. One was from a wet-nosed, mouth-breathing imbecile and the other one was from Cory Wilson." 

You laugh without restraint, a full-bodied sound that echoes down his arms. "I think you mixed that up," you say nicely. 

Flirting! Eddie could burst into tears. "You think? How about slimy, frizzy loser?" His hand lives a life of its own, squeezing your shoulder as he suggests, "Desperate and unobsequious uggo?" 

Raindrops catch your forehead as you tip your head back briefly, laughter bubbling on your lips, your relief a palpable saccharine. "In what world are you an uggo?" 

"What, do you like me or something?" He takes another kiss, lips lingering, longing for just a few more seconds. "Notice how you didn't disagree with 'desperate'? 'Unobsequious'?" he murmurs, a quarter inch from your mouth. 

"You're not desperate," you murmur back, almost inaudible under the patter of rain. 

"But?" 

"But I don't think unobsequious is a word." 

"No?" he asks, kissing you again. The awkwardness is gone, replaced by a melding need. "You don't think so?" 

"No," you defend. He can hear your fondness. 

Eddie presses a tight kiss hard enough to feel the impression of your teeth over your lips before tearing himself away. Kissing you isn't a tenth of what he wants from you; there's a lot to tell you. He needs to start now. 

Your lips part as though you've a question to ask, too, but you bring a distracted hand to his hair. "Your hair's getting curlier in the rain. It's…" 

You falter. 

"I'm drowned, huh?" he asks. 

You try to say no. Your hand wavers shy of a coil, listless, "No way," you whisper, eyes on your hand now, on your marriage finger and the red string playing at your knuckle, shimmering with a fish-scale sparkle as you pinch it between your thumb and forefinger on the opposite hand. "I can see it." 

"You can see it?" Eddie asks, leaping onto his feet. 

Your face is transformed, infinitely, impossibly prettier by your beaming smile as you clamber to stand in front of him, stretching the string between your bodies experimentally. "I can see it!" 

"You can see it?" he asks, vaulting his weight into you, his arms working around your back in a squeeze. 

You pull your arm up between you both and twist your wrist this way and that, the string following your whims as you lean back in the circle of his arms. Your eyes flicker between him and the string, as though you're working out which one is an illusion. Eddie and the string are both real. 

"We're really soulmates."

Eddie doesn't know if he believes in soulmates, but he believes in the hopeful colour to your voice as you say it, and the tacky skin of your cheek as he leans in for your fifth kiss, your sixth, each one better than the last. 

If his soulmate were going to be someone, he'd want nothing more than for it to be you. 

—

"Come on! We're so late!" 

Steve detaches himself from the frankly killer novel in his lap to turn, his sunglasses casting you and Eddie in a sepia tone as he drags you bodily down the path to their picnic spot. You giggle girlishly at Eddie's telling off and the bodily nature of his pushing, flopped like a fish out of water in his arms. 

"I'm hurrying, Eds, you're just faster than me." 

Eddie pretends to drop you, to your roaring delight, your laugh echoing across the park and drawing the eyes of Steve's summer club. 

"Here comes happy and happier," Robin groans. 

"You wanted them to date," Steve says, turning to his best friend where she lays on the blanket beside him, his jacket a pillow under her neck. "You have sleep in your eyes." 

"I'm tired," she defends, struggling into a sitting position. She wipes her eyes with the bottoms of her palms, mean, words stretched with a yawn as she continues, "Please tell me Eddie has the basket." 

"Nope," Max says, slamming down on her knees next to Robin, her jeans already grass-stained. 

"Y/N has it," Lucas clarifies, sitting down with them in similar fashion. 

Steve's daunted by them when they're together, but he leaves his commentary at an unintelligible curse word, his head tipped back in annoyance. They're constantly pulling the carpet from under him, practically manufacturing flaws to tease him about, Max whip-smart and Lucas loyal to a fault. 

Still, he likes them. 

More than he likes Dustin when the curly-haired boy sits down next to Steve and takes his hat off. "Feel how sweaty this is getting." 

"Rather not, dude." 

Eddie speaks, closer now, and Steve misses the words but not the tone of them. Dripping, almost sleazy affection, the kind that knows what it is unabashedly. You stand on toes to kiss the highest point of his cheek as quickly as you can, your hand on his trap.

"Hey!" Eddie shouts to their turned head, waving a hand of rings, calluses and bandaids. "You guys look like meerkats." 

His cheeks are rosy red with blush despite the moderate temperatures today, the sun set to come out in an hour or two when the cloud cover moves. Said meerkats make room for you on the picnic blanket, where you share the bounty of your basket, sandwiches and cut fruit. "There are chips in the car," you say. 

"You cut up fruit?" Robin asks. 

"Eddie did. I watched." 

"And ate the best cuts," Eddie says proudly, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to drown you in a hug. You slink an arm begins him to hug him in return, your face pressed with delight to the curve of his neck. "As is her right." 

"Don't be disgusting!" Mike calls, a baseball bat in unconfident hands.

"You sure you know how to use that thing?" Eddie calls back. "Lucas, I thought you were helping him, man? Help him!"

"Some people are beyond help." 

"Shut up, Dustin." 

Despite an abundance of company and a ton of shit to do, you and Eddie are distracted by one another, and Steve isn't stupid enough to not get why. They didn't see you both for a week, and then you emerged from your self-imposed quarantine as grossly in love with one another as Steve has ever seen two people be. Like, maybe the happiest couple ever. In some loud ways but mostly quiet ones, hands held, fond cheek kisses to say hello, these weird paper birds you make for each other whenever there's a scrap of paper left lying around. Eddie's doing it now, having stolen the sticky note Steve was using as a bookmark to craft a teeny tiny crane, Steve, their called cranes. One second it's a pink diamond and the next he's performing an intricate twist, four last folds, and placing the finished product on your knee. 

Steve's sort of jealous, but you guys are too in love, honestly. It's nice if you're in it but too intimate if you aren't (nothing maliciously done, of course), so he rounds up the troops for the first round of baseball to give you guys some privacy. 

If he's expecting you two to start French kissing when he leaves, he's not correct. He wouldn't know it, back turned to you as he takes first bat, knees bent and waiting for Erica to serve, but you guys talk. Talk talk talk. Eddie can talk for Indiana and you listen in your way, wryly amused, promising any minute now that you're gonna get up and spread out on the field.

"Is this a bad idea, sports? What if it beheads someone?" 

"It knows how to behave," Eddie assuages, hand on the blanket next to your thighs, turned toward you, effectively locking you in. "We don't wanna get that involved. You look too good right now to ruin."

Nothing can fix the insecurities you hold instantly, but knowing someone wants to kiss you regularly has helped. Eddie's constant compliments have done even better. He's easy about it, no fuss, no bravado, praise said like fact. Come here, pretty girl, I got a present for you. Hey, gorgeous. You should do my hair, yours always looks so good. And the photos —he has a disposable in the glove box, and insists on taking photos of you when you're especially happy. Now that he's your guy, that's often. 

"You're saying I wouldn't look good if I sweat this off?" you ask, gesturing to your face and your makeup. 

"I know you'd look good." He dips down for a kiss, as if daring you to suggest otherwise. It's a touch rough, twice as devoted. Things are heady for a time, the two of you stealing another short moment to add to the list, your kiss made of twin smiles.  "Maybe we can use it to our advantage," he suggests, pulling back to stroke your cheek. 

"The string?" you ask. 

Eddie steals a last quick peck before his hand climbs onto your leg, giving your denim-clad thigh a pat. "We'll use it to trip people up. Come on, it'll be fun. We'll get Harrington flat on his ass," he says, clambering onto sure footing.

"No way," you say, leaning back to see him, your hand nudging aside a plate of sandwiches. You shield your eyes from the sun as it comes out, sunlight like spun gold spilling down your arm. "I'm not helping you hurt your friends." 

"What, those guys? They're just my D&D subs." 

You shake your head at him in disapproval. 

"I'm kidding!" he says, reaching down for your hands. "Get up, sweetheart, we'll only trip someone if we need to win. Stop fighting me, you know it's useless. I always win." 

"You cheat," you sigh, letting him help you onto your feet. 

"I cheat," he agrees, kissing your cheek, then the opposite, before holding them in both hands and leaning in. "I love how you sound when you know you're losing–" 

"Shut up–" 

"You get all breathless," he says, his face drifting closer, and closer, "all shy on me." 

"If I knew you were gonna try and embarrass me this much I never would've said yes to being your girlfriend," you say, half-glaring at him with a wave of affection brimming behind your poor acting. 

"Really?" he asks. His voice is low, a little rough. 

"No. But you have to stop, okay?" You laugh, nudging him in the stomach with your knuckles. "I wanna play baseball." 

Steve waves Eddie over from home base to field on his team while you join Max, Robin, and Lucas in line to bat. "This isn't enough people for baseball," Eddie says, crushing emerald green bluegrass beneath his shoes. The rainfall last week made for lush vegetation. 

"Yeah, which is why you were supposed to invite more people," Steve quips. 

"I was busy." Eddie rolls his shoulders. "We don't need more people to win. We got this." 

"We do not got this! And no going easy on Y/N, okay? I don't care if you're together, we need to play to win. Loser's buying the winner's pizza and I just got Sheila out of the shop."  

"Are you kidding?" Eddie asks, stretching his arm behind his head, his eyes across the field where you laugh at Robin's side. "Obviously I'm not going easy on her. Why would you think that?" 

"Seriously? This is the worst honeymoon phase I've ever seen. I figured you guys wouldn't even be able to play on different teams, like, major separation anxiety." 

Eddie does this thing with his hand, his thumb plucking an invisible string. "I don't need to worry, man. I know exactly where she is." 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading, especially if you got all the way to the end! hope you enjoyed ♥

[lordprettyflackotara]

hitchhiker || chapter three || the proxies

tw: mentions of murder (the usual), descriptions of gore, simpy Tim

a/n: the next chapter is going to be sum else. prepare yourselves now ;)

<— chapter two

You turned to Nova, who quickly led you over to your living room.

“I understand being excited about this case but I could’ve invited him in if you weren’t here,” You sighed. Nova’s curls were in space buns, her bare baby face staring back at you with a frown. “Well I guess it’s a good thing I was here then. Last thing you need is dick from a literal hitchhiker,” She argued sassily. She put her hands on her hips, giving you a motherly look. You rolled your eyes, Nova reaching out and grabbing your wrist.

“I have to show you, you’re the only person I can trust,” She explained. She led you over to your living room, documents and photographs laid all over your white living room carpet. “Is it really okay for me to see all of this?” You questioned. She sat down on the floor, excitedly patting the spot beside her. “Absolutely not but that’s why no one else is going to know, right?” Nova said, arching an eyebrow. You joined her on the floor, the sight of all the papers overwhelming. “Right,” You agreed. Nova began dividing up the papers, placing three in front of you.

“They found Winston’s body. Did an autopsy and everything,” Nova began. Your eyes widened in horror. “Found his body? He’s dead?” You gasped. Nova nodded. Her face flashed a glimpse of sadness for a moment before it hardened again. “He was slaughtered. His body was completely dismembered, his torso the only thing left,” She explained. You felt your stomach churn. “Oh God,” You whispered. She began looking for a certain paper, shoving the others aside.

“My guess is that they tried to make his corpse unidentifiable. But they were morons. They didn’t account for his daughter’s name being tatted on his chest. Dead giveaway.”

You arched an eyebrow, “They?”

“I think there’s three of them.”

She pointed at the photographs in front of you. Each one contained individual silver bullets, with different backgrounds. “Those bullets are from a revolver and they’ve been found in all of these cases. From Florida to South Dakota to Oregon,” Nova told you. She brought out three more photos of two women, one man. “Those murders were of the head chiefs investigating this symbol,” She told you. She then held up a crumbled piece of notebook paper with an X through a circle.

“Meanwhile in Rhode Island, Utah, and New York, we’ve found at least four victims with a similar slash wound to the throat,” Nova told you. You cringed at the thought of her bluntly showing you the gore, but instead she held up diagrams of the bodies. Each were drawn and had notes dissecting every little mark on the victims body. “Every single one of them were slashed in the throat with the same blade. Look, same start and end point every time. No jagged edges, just a straight blade,” She pointed out. Nova braced herself as she showed you another pile.

“Now the third set of the victims seem to have it the worst. In Texas, New Mexico, South Carolina and countless other states, there have been findings of bodies like this,” She told you. She set out at least ten papers, the drawn diagram autopsies. You felt your stomach churn as you soaked in all of the pictures. “T-they’re all-” You stuttered, swallowing. Nova nodded affirmatively. Each drawing showed only the torso of the victims, the arms, head, and legs completely chopped off. In each of the drawings the torso itself seemed mangled, torn apart.

“It looks like they’re shot or sliced to death, before they’re dismembered,” She said. You felt your mouth run dry. “One of them shoots the victims or slices them, the third dismembers them,” She told you. You couldn’t make sense of what you were seeing. You grabbed the dreaded symbol of death. The paper was so crumbled it would’ve torn it if you weren’t careful. “I don’t understand, all of this torture and despair over this symbol?” You asked. Nova shifted through the papers, digging out a report. “I don’t know what it means, but I know whoever it belongs to doesn’t want it getting out there,” Nova said. She nervously bit her bottom lip as her eyes darted across all of her papers.

“Who was the first detective? How did they find it?” You asked. She brought out a picture of a tall detective, his hair buzzed and green eyes lit up as he smiled for the photo. “This is detective Wolf. He was investigating a triple homicide. It looks like a daughter murdered her entire family at fourteen and escaped. When they went through the home drawings with those symbols were everywhere,” Nova said. She showed you a picture of the girls bedroom. Pictures of the symbol were plastered all over her walls, along with words scratched onto the walls itself. He’s coming. There’s no escape. It’s him.

The words appeared to be scribbled onto the wall with raw charcoal. Jesus Christ they should’ve gotten that kid some pencils. “Now they just assumed the girl to be schizophrenic. That was until they found the same symbol all the way in Kansas,” Nova told you. You noticed the under eye bags that hung under her chocolate orbs. When was the last time she had slept? “Similar case. Teenage boy lost his shit, stabbed parents to death while little sister was at daycare. Investigated his room and guess what? Same symbol. Same ominous words,” She told you. Digging through her vanilla folder she held out a newspaper article to you. “Now here’s the funny part. Detective Wolf wasn’t killed until the symbol was found again. It’s like whoever this symbol belongs to went back to cover their tracks,” She rambled.

You put your hand on her shoulder, snapping her out of her addictive trance. “I think you’re onto something,” You admitted. She looked at you, her lips dry and face paler than usual. This case looked like it was draining her energy. “But with that being said you need to watch your back. Whatever gang or person or thing that’s behind this has no problem traveling to slaughter someone to keep it sacred. You need to watch your back,” You advised. Nova gave you a tired smile. She placed her hand on yours. “I’m going to solve this case. Just keep a lookout for me on the civilian side of things, alright?” She asked. You nodded. You watched as she grabbed her papers, putting them in a particular order as she organized them back into her folder.

“Why don’t you crash here for the night? Take the bed and i’ll join you in a bit. I think old episodes of friends are running at this time of night,” You suggested. Nova clipped the folder together, securing her findings. “Thanks, you’re the best,” She said. You both rose to your feet, Nova quick to throw her arms around you. “I don’t know what i’d do without you,” Nova mumbled. You squeezed her tighter, knowing how the stress of cases affected her. And truthfully, you didn’t know what you’d do without her either.

“Hey don’t stay up too late, you have work tomorrow!”

\/

You did in fact stay up too late, resulting in you falling asleep on the couch. You were awoken by knocking on your front door. Groggily you dragged yourself over to the door, trying to remember if you put on make up last night so you could rub your eye. You were so tired you didn’t look through the peephole, opening the door. You became fully awake at the sight of Tim. Quickly you brushed your hand over your tangled hair, suddenly becoming self conscious of your appearance. But why should you be? He’s the one that left dinner. He looked he hadn’t slept, his brown eyes looking back at you. He wore his standard mustard yellow jacket, a bouquet of red roses in his hand. You opened your mouth to speak, Tim quick to stop you.

“I know what you’re going to say and before you do let me just say, i’m sorry,” He rambled. You shifted your weight to one leg, looking up at him. Maybe you were a simp. Maybe you were just down bad. But you decided to overlook his weird behavior. “Apology acknowledged. The roses…?” You started to ask, your voice trailing off. Tim awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re for you. I didn’t know what your favorite flower was but I assumed roses would do for now,” Tim said shyly. It was your first time seeing him so relaxed when speaking. He appeared to be alone, Brian and Toby no where in sight. “Apology accepted or denied?” Tim asked you. You took the roses from him, smelling the delicate flowers. “Acknowledged for now. Don’t push it,” You say sternly but in a soft tone. Tim gulped as you signaled for him to come into your apartment.

“You look like you didn’t get much sleep,” You commented. You reached under your kitchen sink, grabbing a vase for the flowers. “Neither do you,” He deflected, trying to change the subject back to you. He liked talking about you. Talking to you. Your face went red as you looked down. “Oh well uh, I was up late with Nova. Fell asleep on the couch,” You admitted, embarrassment practically dripping off of you. You grabbed a pair of scissors, cutting the stems of the roses. “Is Nova your roommate?” Tim asked curiously. You put some water in the vase, finishing cutting the stems. “Oh no she just has a key to my place. Comes over during the day usually but she spends the night sometimes,” You explained.

Tim walked over beside you, leaning against the counter. He was much taller than you, his gaze fully centered on you as put the roses into the vase. His mind was rattled for many reasons. Some suspected Nova had a crush on you but you were oblivious. Some thought Nova was going to endanger you because of her line of work. And some were just flat out jealous a stranger he didn’t know got to spend the night with you instead of him. “Want some coffee?” You asked. Your sweet voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “I’d love some,” He chirped. Your apartment was extremely small to Tim. It looked like you had attempted to make it tidy, but with it being so small all of your items looked cluttered.

“Straight black right?” You asked, setting the vase on your counter. Tim gave you a small smile. “You remembered,” He commented. You popped the empty coffee pot into the machine, pushing a button so the coffee would brew. “Hard to forget when you didn’t order anything else,” You replied. Huh. You were not as oblivious as Tim thought you were. Tim was typically nauseous ninety percent of the time. The only time his body ever really ate a hearty meal was when Masky fronted. If anything, Masky was so gluttonous it explained Tim’s consistent nausea.

Another suspected reason was Tim’s diet. Tim’s diet consisted of coffee and cigarettes. Yum. “So about last night I uh… I want to make it up to you,” Tim told you, trying to continue the conversation. The smell of coffee filled his nose, the scent flooding your apartment. “I thought that’s what the roses were for?” You asked. Mentally you felt like you had every right to be stand offish. Tim and Brian disappeared randomly. And although you were grateful for some time alone with Toby, that didn’t excuse their actions. Especially when no explanation was provided. Not one that’s good enough anyways.

“They are but I wanted to um, ask you if uh, you wanted to go out with me sometime today. Just the two of us,” Tim asked. He felt like a fourteen year old kid who just asked out his middle school crush. You felt your face flush pink. Did Tim just ask you out on a date? “I work until around ten tonight. Are you okay with that?” You asked slowly. After your previous breakup you hadn’t had too much experience with men. A tension began to bubble in the room, one you hadn’t realized was there before. Was Tim trying to hit on you? “Works for me. I don’t think much will be open but we can always walk around the Davidson park,” Tim suggested. He could feel his nerves eating at his bones as he awaited your answer. Davidson park was a massive park given to their town by the state, large oak trees and multiple kinds of flowers planted all over the place.

The coffee had finished brewing, your hand wrapping around the coffee pots handle. “What about Brian and Toby? I know Brian doesn’t like me but Toby and I had a nice walk home together,” You said dryly. You went to grab two mugs, the only two that were clean. You stared at them in the cabinet, your hands hovering over them. You mentally scolded yourself when you realized they were both hello kitty themed. Thanks Nova. “Don’t take Brian personally. He has a hard time socializing. We never stay in one place too long and he’s scared of getting attached,” Tim explained. Technically he wasn’t lying. You tried to nonchalantly pour you both cups of coffee, ignoring Tim’s eyes examining the hello kitty mugs. “What about Toby?” You questioned. One mug had hello kitty dancing and in the other one she’s winking with a wand. You mentally face palmed. Not exactly like there was a more ‘masculine’ mug you could hand him. Or honestly, literally any kind of boring adult mug would’ve worked.

“I think it’s great you guys like each other but i’d like the honor of getting to know you too,” Tim answered quickly. You poured both cups of coffee, deciding on Tim getting the dancing hello kitty mug. He took it without question, sipping the steaming coffee like it was nothing. “Alright let’s call it a date. I’ll meet you at Davidson park around eleven?” You suggested. Tim nodded, watching as you scooped a spoonful of sugar. He couldn’t help but want this routine all of the time. He’d make sure you were taken care of, pampered and fed. With the lack of clean dishes and yesterday’s clothes still on your body, it was apparent to him you were struggling. He didn’t want you to struggle ever again.

As Tim sipped his coffee, all he could think about was all of the ways he wanted to take care of you.

“Hey y/n?”

“Hmm?” You hummed, grabbing your almost empty creamer from your fridge.

“Nice mugs by the way.”

[lilasamaaa]

The night we met | Lando Norris x Reader

Genre | Fluff.

Word count | 2.6K

Warnings | None for once! Enjoy some peace.....

Summary | When Reader's best friend sets her up on a blind date with one of her long-time friends, she expects anything but the evening she's about to experience.

Author's note | This piece is the result of yesterday's poll! Another poll will be coming soon for y'all to decide what's next :)

"I'm really not sure if it's a good idea, Alice," she sighs, looking over at the bed where her friend is seated, behind her.

"What makes you say that?" Alice replies, arching an eyebrow.

"I have a list of reasons, actually," she states, pulling out her phone.

"You and your damn lists!"

"I know you hate them, but they help me clear my mind," she says, clicking on a note.

"Alright, let's hear your reasons then," Alice laughs. "But I'm warning you, I'm going to dismantle them one by one."

"Okay," she starts. "Reason one is : I don't know him."

"That's kinda... the whole point of blind dates," her friend says, rolling her eyes.

"Well, you agreed to this. I did not. You know how anxious I get when I don't know people," she says, head low.

"Lando is a really nice guy," Alice says, coming close to her friend and stroking her hair. "I just know he'll put you at ease right away."

She takes a few seconds to think, biting the inside of her cheek. It's not the first time she's about to go on a date with someone she's never met before. Even though she doesn't know him, she's not really worried about Lando. She's more concerned about herself, to be honest. She's not a model of eloquence, doesn't consider herself particularly pretty. She's sure her date will do his best. What she's not sure about, is if she'll be able to overcome her own anxiety about the whole situation.

"Reason two, then," she says, focusing back on the note. "I don't know a thing about racing. What are we even going to talk about?"

"Well, something else. I'm sure Lando would be delighted to talk about something other than work for once," Alice replies, winking.

She wasn't lying, she thinks. She really has an answer for everything.

"Shoot me with reason three, baby," Alice says, letting out a laugh.

"Reason three," she replies, eyeing her friend. "Let's say I don't fuck up, which would be a miracle in itself, and we hit it off. How am I supposed to maintain a long-distance relationship? We're not talking about Brighton or Cambridge, we're talking about another continent. Several times a year."

"Well, I'm glad you're thinking so much ahead," Alice replies, earning a frustrated grunt from her friend. "There'll be plenty of people who are in the same situation as you. You can always ask for advice from other WAGS," she concludes, laughing.

"You're insufferable."

"Was there a fourth reason to debunk, or are we done here?" Alice asks.

"There is, actually. That's the last one," she says, staring at her phone. "Every time I've gone on a date like this, without having seen the guy... They were never really... to my taste," she begins. "So I've never kissed them, never went any further. But if I like him, what am I supposed to do?"

"What's the real question?"

"Am I supposed to kiss him on the first date? I don't want him to think I'm easy. Is it better to play hard to get and..."

"Wow, you're overthinking this," Alice says, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I don't have any answer to give you. Just... Go with the flow. And if you're not sure about what to do, let him take the lead. Okay?"

An hour later, she's walking through the streets of Bristol, trying to calm her breathing, her thoughts, her already racing heart. She's checked the address Lando had sent her about ten times before leaving Alice's apartment. On principle, she takes out her phone, checking one last time. Her phone indicates that the restaurant is less than a minute's walk away, at the corner of the street she's on. There's still time to turn back, she thinks, before gathering herself. No. He doesn't deserve that.

In front of the restaurant, she casts a quick glance inside, checking if he's already there, before remembering that she doesn't even know what he looks like. Well, she has a vague idea. She's seen pictures on Alice's Facebook and Instagram over the years, but his precise features escape her. She remembers curly hair, beauty spots. Not much more. She's not sure if she would recognize him in a crowd.

She pushes the door and slips inside the buzzing restaurant, politely greeting the waitress who welcomes her.

"I have a reservation for two," she says. "The name's Norris."

"Ah yes, he's already here, in the second room. I'll take you to him," the waitress replies, flashing a smile.

Her heart stops. He's already here? She deliberately arrived fifteen minutes early to have time to settle down quietly, to gather herself. To wash her hands if they're too sweaty. This was not how it was supposed to go at all, she thinks, feeling the anxiety rise.

The waitress guides her through the tables to the small room at the back of the restaurant. On the way, her brain disconnects, giving way to total panic. I knew it was a bad idea, she tells herself, biting her lip. I'm going to make a fool of myself. The waitress suddenly stops, saying something that her brain doesn't comprehend before walking away and she looks up, meeting his gaze.

Oh, wow, she thinks, eyes widening. That man is too handsome for his own good.

"Hey, it's nice to meet you" he says, extending a bouquet of white tulips to her. "Alice said those were your favorites."

She smiles, taking the bouquet before burying her nose in it. Alice, you little sneak.

"Thank you so much," she replies, feeling her cheeks flush. "They're stunning."

Lando pulls out her chair before sitting back down, not taking his eyes off her. Feeling his gaze on her, she dives intensely into reading the menu. Or rather, she pretends to, because she's not even reading, just trying to avoid the attention the driver is giving her.

"You seem nervous," he states, still looking at her.

Feeling her cheeks turn red, she holds her menu higher in front of her face, hiding a little more. "Hey," he says, putting his finger on the menu to lower it. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry. I'm just really bad at this," she replies, finally looking at him. "Dates, conversations, one-on-ones. It's not about you, I swear."

There we go, she thinks, head low. We've been sitting for ten minutes and I've already messed everything up.

"Would you like to go somewhere else?" he asks, and she looks up, furrowing her brows.

"What?"

"I don't want you to feel uncomfortable, that wasn't the intention," he says. "A romantic dinner may be a bit much for a first date. So, if you want to go somewhere else, do something else, it's not a problem."

"But... We're already sitting," she says, confused.

"It's no big deal," he replies, shrugging. "The restaurant is packed, they won't go bankrupt because we leave. We can just tell them we don't like anything on the menu."

She lets out a laugh, covering her mouth, astonished by the driver's suggestion.

"If you could go anywhere, a place where you feel comfortable and safe, where would you go?" he asks, his big eyes detailing her.

She thinks for a moment, looking upwards, biting her lip again.

"If we really had no limits... I'd go to the sea," she replies, thoughtful.

"Let's go then," Lando says, rising up and taking his jacket.

"What? Lando, we can't do that," she says, still sitting. "The good beaches are like, an hour drive away."

But Lando has already circled the table, jacket in hand, extending his hand to her.

"My car's parked outside," he replies.

She doesn't understand what's happening, so for once, she sets aside her brain and listens to her heart, grasping his hand and allowing him to guide her towards the restaurant's exit, the driver only stopping to explain briefly to the very understanding waitress that an emergency has come up and they have to leave, carefully slipping several bills in her hand as a tip - and as compensation.

Outside, Lando leads her to his car, their hands still intertwined, her heels clicking on the cobblestones. He opens the door for her and she slips inside, her heart racing.

"I've never done anything like this in my entire life," she says, staring straight ahead.

"You should never force yourself to do something you don't want to do, though," he replies, looking through the rear window to reverse, leaning indirectly towards her. His scent reaches her nose and she can't help but look at him closely, detailing every detail of his profile. His clear eyes. His beauty spots that remind her of constellations. The curly lock of hair that crosses his forehead.

"Does Ogmore work for you?" he asks, snapping her out of her reverie.

"Ogmore's perfect," she replies, eyes glistening.

They set off, and as the English countryside landscape passes by through the window, she notices that for the first time since she left Alice's apartment, she isn't feeling anxious. Her heart still beats just as fast, sure, but she suspects it's not really because of stress anymore. Lando rummages between their seats and eventually pulls out a cable, which he hands to her.

"I don't mind driving, but you're the DJ," he says, laughing. "Put on some music. Let me know who you are."

She grabs the cable before connecting it to her phone, scrolling through her Spotify playlist. So you want to know who I am, huh? she thinks, blushing again, before clicking on her favorite song.

The first notes of "I'm Outta Time" by Oasis resonate in the car, and Lando shoots her a surprised look.

"I actually love that song," he says, smirking. "What does it tell about you?"

"Well," she starts. "As you must be starting to suspect, I strongly identify with the idea that the sea is the only place that manages to calm me down, where I truly feel free."

"I'm with you on that one," he replies.

"And then... It's quite personal, but to me, the song's about someone who's lonely. Someone seeking comfort, a pillar, someone who can support them through everything. But also someone they'd be willing to let go out of love."

Lando turns his head towards her, and she gets lost in the softness and understanding reflected in his eyes. The song comes to an end, and she clicks on "On Melancholy Hill" by Gorillaz.

"I promise I'm not depressed," she says, meeting his gaze, while he lets out a laugh.

"This one's talking about the sea, again," he states.

"There's that," she says. "And there's this dreamy feeling. It's about frustration, about pressuring yourself to achieve big things, when maybe..." she stops for a second. "Maybe just being with your person is enough. Maybe there's no need for more," she finishes, looking out the window, troubled by the feeling of having said too much.

"I get it," he says, still looking at the road ahead.

"You do?" she asks.

"Of course. I'm not the last one to have dreams and goals, as you can imagine. But at the end of the day, when all that's over, what's left? What do you turn to?"

The rest of the journey goes on in the same way. She plays a song, explains why she likes it, what it makes her feel, what it reminds her of. Lando listens attentively, interweaving her narrative with his own anecdotes, sharing his thoughts, his fears. That's much more intimate than a restaurant, she thinks. But somehow, she doesn't mind.

Forty minutes later, a sign indicates that Ogmore is the next exit, and Lando turns onto the narrow road, which soon becomes a path. They leave the car in a parking lot, where only a few cars are parked before embarking on the sandy trail. Before them, the sun has begun to set, tinting the sky with orange, pink, and violet hues.

"Just in time," Lando says before plopping down on the sand. She sits beside him, closing her eyes. Absorbing the healing sound of the waves.

"Thank you so much for this, Lando. You have no idea how much it means to me," she says, feeling emotional.

They both lie there, side by side, without saying a word, lulled by the sound of the waves.

"Do you remember the night we met?" Lando suddenly asks, looking at the sky and the stars that the onset of night begins to reveal.

"What do you mean?" she asks, turning on her side to look at him.

"It was last year," Lando starts, as she furrows her brows, completely lost.

"I'm not sure I understand," she replies, confused. "I've seen you in pictures... But this is the first time we meet."

"Alice's birthday, in London," the driver specifies, and she dives into her thoughts, trying to rewind time. "You were wearing a black dress. Backless."

"I... I remember the birthday, and the dress," she begins. "But I don't remember you. Well, I remember Alice saying you had something come up," she continues, lost.

"I had a work function, couldn't get away. But I still stopped by, dropped off Alice's gift," he explains.

"I'm sorry, Lando," she says, embarrassed. "I don't remember seeing you."

"We crossed paths in one of the hallways of the bar. You were leaning against a wall, talking to someone... Jeff? Greg?" he says, closing his eyes as if trying to remember.

"Jeff? My boyfriend at the time?"

"Yes, that was him. You two were arguing about something, I can't remember what. The tone started to escalate, and you walked off towards the restroom."

"I remember that."

"I found myself in front of Jeff, and I told him, "You shouldn't argue with a pretty girl like that. She deserves better". He told me to fuck off, to mind my business, and left," he recalls, laughing.

"Wow, I had no idea," she says. "Him and I broke up like, four months after that anyway."

"I know. Alice told me."

"Why would she tell you that? It must not be of much interest to you."

"I'd mentioned to her that I found you beautiful. In fact, to be honest, I think I said you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen," the driver says. "So one morning, she texted me. Said something like... "She broke up with Jeff. Time to grow a pair."

"Wow," she says, laughing in shock. "I didn’t know that."

Silence falls. Neither speaks for several seconds. He, wondering if he's said too much. Her, wondering what she should conclude from the driver's words.

"So..." she starts. "When Alice told me that she had planned a blind date..."

"It was my idea," he says, meeting her eyes. "But we couldn't say that."

"Oh, my god," she says, laughing again. "I can't believe you two."

A particularly turbulent wave crashes at their feet, making them yelp and quickly stand up. They're suddenly face to face. Wrapped in a heavy silence. One that cannot last.

"So you did, then," she finally says.

"What?"

"You grew a pair," she replies as he bursts out laughing.

"You're not angry at me, are you?" he asks, taking a step forward.

"I'm... quite surprised, I won't lie. But I'm not angry, no. I've never had a first date like this," she confesses. "I've never felt so listened to, so understood... In so little time. It started off badly, and yet you... you made me feel like I could be myself."

"You can," Lando says, taking her hand. "That's all I want."

"Will you think I'm moving too fast if I kiss you?" she suddenly asks.

"No," he says, coming closer until their breaths meet. "I won't."