#things to avoid in nyc

[ekimdesonbaharbaskadir]

TripAdvisor Things to AVOID in NYC (and what to do instead) Things to do in New York

TripAdvisor Things to AVOID in NYC (and what to do instead) #NewYork Things to do in New York #thingstodoinNewYork #travel #NewYork Watch the TripAdvisor Things to AVOID in NYC (and what to do instead) video till the end. 19743 Views – 865 Likes. You also like and comment. This video will give you an idea about the subject you are wondering about. In this video, we’re sharing 5 things to avoid…

[unproduciblesmackdown]

truly 2 trans 2 furious is also extremely like [billionsposting as people never meant to be here yet having the symposium while not necessarily having a good time but we can also analyze &/or simply play around with it in other ways with an easy ability to deconstruct things enough for that & perhaps have a good time, perhaps have something way more complicated than that but which could also be called having a good time] like including in its having the "there's a nonbinary f&f character" entry in there at all through kompensoing & monitoring billions since & drawing funny little guys about it (winston, e.g., and taylor) and then also that like, Any & Every Entry in 2 trans 2 furious is of that genre of crucial tour de force visionary symposium understander posts that get 2 notes. and then compiling that is like yes of course this wins an award, a surprise but also not really at all.

[designernishiki]

I wanna flesh out a yakuza oc but every time I think about it I end up thinking about an oc of mine who already Exists who’s not a yakuza oc. but is, in fact, an oc who is a yakuza. and that fact is genuinely completely unrelated

[allbeendonebefore]

looking outside these past couple days be like “is it cloudy or is it haze” and the haze is coming back : ) great. i had a bit of trouble breathing/fever after weeding in the garden for less than 20 minutes yesterday and the aqhi isn’t even that bad.

[tfw you spent all spring cautioning your friend in montreal not to visit during fire season and now you’re like Come Over, at least we have Less fire than you apparently]

[mostlysignssomeportents]

All bets are off

When unions are outlawed, only outlaws will have unions. Unions don't owe their existence to labor laws that protect organizing activities. Rather, labor laws exist because once-illegal unions were formed in the teeth of violent suppression, and those unions demanded – and got – labor law.

Bosses have hated unions since the start, and they've really hated laws protecting workers. Dress this up in whatever self-serving rationale you want – "the freedom to contract," or "meritocracy" – it all cashes out to this: when workers bargain collectively, value that would otherwise go to investors and executives goes to the workers.

I'm not just talking about wages here, either. If an employer is forced – by a union, or by a labor law that only exists because of union militancy – to operate a safe workplace, they have to spend money on things like fire suppression, PPE, and paid breaks to avoid repetitive strain injuries. In the absence of some force that corrals bosses into providing these safety measures, they can use that money to pay themselves, and externalize the cost of on-the-job injuries to their workers.

The cost and price of a good or service is the tangible expression of power. It is a matter of politics, not economics. If consumer protection agencies demand that companies provide safe, well-manufactured goods, if there are prohibitions on price-fixing and profiteering, then value shifts from the corporation to its customers.

Now, if labor has few rights and consumers have many rights, then bosses can pass their consumer-side losses on to their workers. This is the Walmart story, the Amazon story: cheap goods paid for with low wages and dangerous working conditions. Likewise, if consumer rights are weak but labor rights are strong, then bosses can pass their costs onto their customers, continuing to take high profits by charging more. This is the story of local gig-work ordinances like NYC's, which guaranteed a minimum wage to delivery drivers – restaurateurs responded by demanding the right to add a surcharge to their bills:

https://table.skift.com/2018/06/22/nyc-surcharge-debate/

But if labor and consumer groups act in solidarity, then they can operate as a bloc and bosses and investors have to eat shit. Back in 2017, the pilots' union for American Airlines forced their bosses into a raise. Wall Street freaked out and tanked AA's stock. Analysts for big banks were outraged. Citi's Kevin Crissey summed up the situation perfectly, in a fuming memo: "This is frustrating. Labor is being paid first again. Shareholders get leftovers":

https://www.vox.com/new-money/2017/4/29/15471634/american-airlines-raise

Limiting the wealth of the investor class also limits their power, because money translates pretty directly into political power. This sets up a virtuous cycle: the less money the investor class has to spend on political projects, the more space there is for consumer- and labor-protection laws to be enacted and enforced. As labor and consumer law gets more stringent, the share of the national income going to people who make things, and people who use the things they make, goes up – and the share going to people who own things goes down.

Seen this way, it's obvious that prices and wages are a political matter, not an "economic" one. Orthodox economists maintain the pretense that they practice a kind of physics of money, discovering the "natural," "empirical" way that prices and wages move. They dress this up with mumbo-jumbo like the "efficient market hypothesis," "price discovery," "public choice," and that old favorite, "trickle-down theory." Strip away the doublespeak and it boils down to this: "Actually, your boss is right. He does deserve more of the value than you do":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/09/low-wage-100/#executive-excess

Even if you've been suckered by the lie that bosses have a legal "fiduciary duty" to maximize shareholder returns (this is a myth, by the way – no such law exists), it doesn't follow that customers or workers share that fiduciary duty. As a customer, you are not legally obliged to arrange your affairs to maximize the dividends paid by to investors in your corporate landlord or by the merchants you patronize. As a worker, you are under no legal obligation to consider shareholders' interests when you bargain for wages, benefits and working conditions.

The "fiduciary duty" lie is another instance of politics masquerading as economics: even if bosses bargain for as big a slice of the pie as they can get, the size of that slice is determined by the relative power of bosses, customers and workers.

This is why bosses hate unions. It's why the scab presidency of Donald Trump has waged all-out war on unions. Trump just effectively shuttered the National Labor Relations Board, unilaterally halting its enforcement actions and investigations. He also illegally fired one of the Democratic NLRB board members, leaving the agency with too few board members to take any new actions, meaning that no unions can be recognized – indeed, the NLRB can't do anything – for the foreseeable future:

https://www.npr.org/2025/01/28/nx-s1-5277103/nlrb-trump-wilcox-abruzzo-democrats-labor

Trump also fired the NLRB's outstanding General Counsel, Jennifer Abruzzo, who was one of the stars of the Biden administration, who promulgated rules that decisively tilted the balance in favor of labor:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

Trump is playing Grinch here – he's descended upon Whoville to take all the Christmas decorations, in the belief that these are the source of Christmas. But the Grinch was wrong (and so is Trump): Christmas was in the heart of the Whos, and the tinsel and baubles were the expression of that Christmas spirit. Likewise, labor rights come from labor organizing, not the other way around.

Labor rights were enshrined in federal law in 1935, with the National Labor Relations Act. Bosses hated – and hate – the NLRA. 12 years later, they passed the Taft-Hartley Act, which substantially gutted the NLRA. Most notably, Taft-Hartley bans "sympathy strikes" – when unions walk out in support of one another. Sympathy strikes are a hugely powerful way for workers to claim value away from bosses and investors, which is why bosses got rid of them.

But even then, bosses who were honest with themselves would admit that they preferred life under the NLRA to life before it. Remember: labor militancy created the NLRA, not the other way around. When workers didn't have the legal means to organize, they organized by illegal means. When they didn't have legal ways of striking, they struck illegally. The result was pitched battles, even bloodbaths, as cops beat and even killed labor organizers. Bosses hired thugs who committed mass murder – literally. In 1913, strikebreakers working for the Calumet and Hecla Mining Company started a stampede during a union Christmas party that killed 73 people, including many copper miners' children:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Italian_Hall_disaster

Workers didn't take this lying down. Violence was met with violence. Bombs went off outside factories and stately mansions. There was gunfire and arson. Bosses had to hire armed guards to escort them as they scurried between their estates and their fancy parties and their executive offices. The country was in a state of near-perpetual chaos.

The NLRA created a set of rules for labor/boss negotiations – rules that helped workers claim a bigger slice of the pie without blood in the streets. But the NLRA also had benefits for bosses: unions were obliged to play by its rules, if they wanted to reap its benefits. The NLRA didn't just put a ceiling over boss power – it also put a ceiling over worker militancy. Von Clausewitz says that "war is politics by other means," which implies that politics are war by other means. The alternative to politics isn't capitulation, it's war.

Trump has torn up the rules to the labor game, but that doesn't mean the game ends. That just means there are no rules.

The labor movement has many great organizer/writers, but few can match the incredible Jane McAlevey, who died of cancer last summer (rest in power). In her classic A Collective Bargain, McAlevey describes her organizer training, from a tradition that went back to the days before the National Labor Relations Act:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/23/a-collective-bargain/

McAlevey was very clear that labor law owes its existence to union power, not the other way around. She explains very clearly that union organizers invented labor law after they invented unions, and that unions can (and indeed, must) exist separately from government agencies that are charged with protecting labor law. But she goes farther: in Collective Bargain, McAlevey describes how the 2019 LA Teachers' Strike didn't just win all the wage and benefits demands of the teachers, but also got the school district to promise to put a park or playground near every school in the system, and got a ban on ICE agents harassing parents at the school gates.

This wildly successful strike forged bonds among teachers, and between teachers and their communities. These teachers went on to run a political get-out-the-vote campaign in the 2020 elections and elected two Democratic reps to Congress and secured the Dems' majority. McAlevey contrasted the active way good unions involve workers as participants with the thin, anemic way that the Democratic Party engages with supporters – solely by asking them for money in a stream of frothing, clickbait text messages. As McAlevey wrote, "Workplace democracy is a training ground for true national democracy."

Militant labor doesn't just protect labor rights – it protects human rights. Remember: MLK, Jr was assassinated while campaigning for union janitors in Memphis. LA teachers ended ICE sweeps at the school gates. Librarian unions are leading the fight against book bans.

The good news is that public opinion has swung wildly in favor of unions over the past decade. More people want to join unions than at any time in generations. More people support unions that at any time in generations.

The bad news is that union leadership fucking suuuuuuuucks. As Hamilton Nolan writes, union bosses are sitting on vast, heretofore unseen warchests of cash, and they just experienced a four-year period of governmental support for unions unheard of since the Carter administration, and they did fuck all with that opportunity:

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/confirmed-unions-squandered-the-biden

Big unions have effectively stopped trying to organize new workers, even when workers beg them for help forming a union. Union organizing budgets are so small as to be indistinguishable from zero. Despite the record number of workers who want to be in a union, the number of workers who are in a union actually fell during the Biden years.

Indeed, some union bosses actually campaigned for Trump, a notorious scab. Teamsters boss Sean O'Brien spoke at the fucking RNC, a political favor that Trump repaid by killing the NLRB and every labor enforcement action and investigation in the country. Nice one, O'Brien. See you in hell:

https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2024/08/teamster-union-trump/679513/

Union bosses squandered a historical opportunity to build countervailing power. Now, Trump's stormtroopers are rounding up workers with the goal of illegally deporting them. Fascism is on the rise. Labor and fascism are archenemies. Organized labor has always been the biggest threat to fascism, every time it has reared its head. That's why fascists target unions first. Union bosses cost us an organized force that could effectively defend our friends and neighbors from Trump's deportation stormtroopers:

https://prospect.org/blogs-and-newsletters/tap/2025-01-28-trumps-lawbreaking-also-aimed-at-workers/

Not every union boss is a scab like O'Brien. Shawn Fain, head of the UAW, won an historic strike against all three of the Big Three automakers, and made sure that the new contracts all ran out in 2028, and called on other unions to do the same, so that the country could have a general strike in 2028 without violating the Taft-Hartley Act (Fain was operating on the now-dead assumption that unions had to play by the rules):

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/11/rip-jane-mcalevey/#organize

A general strike isn't just a strike for workers' rights. Under Trump, a general strike is a strike against Trumpism and all its horrors: kids in cages, forced birth, trans erasure, climate accelerationism – the whole fucking thing.

A general strike would build the worker power to occupy the Democratic Party and force it to stand up for the American people against oligarchy, rather than meekly capitulating to fascism (and fundraising), which is all they know how to do anymore:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/10/smoke-filled-room-where-it-happens/#dinosaurs

But before we can occupy the Dems, we have to occupy the unions. We need union bosses who are committed to signing up every worker who wants workplace democracy, and unionizing every workplace in spite of the NLRB, not with its help. We need to go back to our roots, when there were no rules.

That's the world Trump made. We need to make him regret that decision.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/29/which-side-are-you-on/#strike-three-yer-out

[foreveia]

palentine’s day ⤨ kuroo tetsuro

⨭ genre; fluff, childhood best friends!trope, valentine’s day special!

⨭ pairing; kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 18.5k

⨭ description; kuroo suggests a “palentine’s day” when you both admit to being adults with no sense of a love life on valentine’s. that being said, obviously he becomes yours.

⨭ warnings; profanity, alcohol, suggestive dialogue

⨭ a/n; guys i made this over the course of like one day. it's literally NOT proofread at all (i am not sober rn and will do so tomorrow morning) so if ur early, deal with it. jk thank u so much for reading my bullshit on ur valentine's if ur reading this also check out 'in full bloom' aka pt 1 of my valentines gift to tumblr

edit; gave up on proofreading so if u find any mistakes. well

song i listened to writing this: 'pretty in pink' by lostboycrow

one.

JFK stands for ‘John F. Kennedy’ International Airport, but as you wait in the masses outside the pick-up zone, you can’t help thinking that it should really stand for ‘Just Fucking Kill’ yourself.

You tend to avoid the airport as much as humanly possible since TSA agents are evil and you always get lost, but today, you’re forced to be here: Kuroo’s flight lands in ten minutes, and he whined so much about the cost of an Uber to your apartment that you finally gave in and agreed to pick him up yourself.

Predictably, you’re already regretting it.

The arrivals area is a literal zoo: people standing way too close, aggressively waving handmade signs that say things like Welcome home, Papa! and Jorge & Melissa 4Ever!, and a seemingly endless stream of passengers getting on and off flights. A man in a suit shoves past you, nearly smacking you in the face with the obscenely large bouquet of roses he’s carrying, and an elderly woman parks herself directly in front of you with a luggage cart, as if she has no idea that you exist. Meanwhile, Kuroo is nowhere in sight.

Leaning back against a pillar, you sigh and clutch your coat tighter around yourself, because despite being a major international airport, JFK still hasn’t figured out how to keep the cold air from blasting in through the automatic doors. The little icon next to Kuroo’s flight says baggage claim, which means you probably have another fifteen minutes before he actually appears—maybe more, if he’s being slow (which he always is).

You pull up your messages.

(3:27 PM) y/n: hurry up tetsu: awh, miss me? 😘 y/n: keep it up and i’m leaving without u

Shoving your hands back into your coat pockets does little to restore warmth, and the irritation building in your chest isn’t helping. You should’ve just let him suffer through the Uber surge pricing. He deserves it: you’re already letting him crash at your place for the week, rent-free.

Your phone buzzes again.

(3:32 PM) tetsu: omw. don’t leave me 🥺 tetsu: remember when u were a baby and followed me everywhere?

You scoff, choosing not to dignify that text with a response.

What a bitch. It’s been years since you last saw him, ever since you moved to NYC for your PhD and he stayed in Japan to work for the JVA, but some things never change: he’s still the same guy who kept you humble your whole childhood, who was your older brother’s—and by extension, yours—sole and only friend, who was the coolest person you knew as a kid because he was in second grade and you were still a kindergartener. You grew out of it by the time you both hit middle school (though he, unfortunately, never grew out of reminding you).

And now he’s here, in your city for a full two weeks as he promotes some upcoming tournament. You guys call semi-regularly, but it really is different when he’s here in real life and in person, because you can no longer just hang up when he starts to get annoying. 

That’s when a pair of arms suddenly loop around your waist.

A startled jolt runs through you, heart seizing in your chest before the familiar scent of his overpriced department store cologne registers. Funny how smells bring back memories; he’s been using the same Armani Acqua Di Gio bottle since your undergrad years (you’re both shocked and impressed that he hasn’t finished it yet). His arms squeeze lightly, then drop away.

“Hi, babyface,” he coos, smirking.

Spinning around, you glare at him for still clinging to that dumbass childhood nickname—he overheard your parents call you that literally once, and has insisted on it ever since. He’s probably the sole person left in the world who refers to you that way, but whatever—you’ll tolerate it for two weeks.

Kuroo stands there, dragging a comically oversized suitcase behind him. Honestly, he doesn’t look all that different from the last time you saw him, three years ago when he and Kenma sent you off at Haneda Airport. He’s still got the same stupidly tall frame, same messy bedhead that somehow makes him look effortlessly cool instead of disheveled and gross, like it should.

But he’s older now. More… grown up. His face is leaner, more refined, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he smirks, as smug as always. It’s not that he’s annoyingly attractive, you tell yourself: his confidence is just so in-your-face, it’s impossible not to notice.

“Took you long enough,” you huff, crossing your arms.

He holds up a paper cup from some overpriced coffee joint inside the airport. “In my defense, I needed this. Been up since three in the morning.”

“Oh, poor you.” You roll your eyes. “Let’s just go. I’m sick of this crowd.”

“You Kozumes are all the same,” he grins, but when you turn to lead the way, he swings an arm around your shoulders with easy familiarity, guiding you through the herd of people clamoring for their reunions. The crush of bodies is suffocating—someone smacks into your elbow with a backpack, and you shoot them a dirty look. Kuroo just laughs and steers you closer to him, like he’s shielding you from a crowd of middle schoolers who haven’t learned personal space.

“Where’re you parked?” he asks, glancing around. The overhead speakers crackle as an announcement for a flight to Chicago booms through the terminal.

“Garage 4,” you say, just loud enough to be heard over the noise. “It’s, like, a mile from here, so get ready to hike.”

“Sounds like fun,” he drawls. “Can’t wait.”

A scoff slips out, but the tug at the corner of your mouth betrays you—there’s something about him that makes you nostalgic for days when running around after him and your brother was your favorite activity. You guess old habits die hard; he still reaches back when you fall behind, still makes sure you’re not lost in the crowd.

When you finally reach the elevator, the two of you squeeze in with half a dozen other travelers plus an extremely disgruntled-looking airport employee. Kuroo tries to maneuver his luggage behind him without bumping everyone’s ankles, which, of course, is a losing battle.

“Sorry,” you mutter to the group while jabbing the button for the garage level.

The elevator lurches upward. From the corner of your eye, you catch Kuroo’s sideways grin.

“What’re you staring at?” you ask after a moment, realizing his gaze is fixed on you.

His lips twitch. “You. I haven’t seen you in forever, remember? Trying to see what’s changed.”

You resist the urge to smack him because this space is way too cramped for violence. “What’s changed is that I have zero tolerance for your bullshit now.”

He lets out a loud laugh, drawing a few curious glances from the other passengers that should make him feel more embarrassed than it does. “Sure, you do,” he murmurs, leaning in. “That’s why you came to pick me up, right?”

“I should’ve let you take the subway. You’re lucky I’m so kind and benevolent.”

Unfazed, he grins. “I’m very lucky,” he agrees, voice dropping an octave that sends a weird heat through your cheeks.

Thankfully, the elevator dings and the doors slide open, saving you from having to come up with a retort.

Stepping into the parking garage, the cold air slams into you instantly—JFK has no business being this miserable in February. Tucking your chin deeper into your coat, you exhale sharply and brace yourself against the wind.

Kuroo whistles low under his breath, dragging his suitcase along the pavement with a clatter. “Damn. This city really doesn’t give a shit about warmth, huh?”

“Welcome to New York,” you deadpan. “Now shut up and walk faster before I lose feeling in my fingers.”

He chuckles, shoving one hand into his coat pocket while gripping his suitcase handle with the other. You can hear the low hum of an airplane overhead, the distant honking of taxis below, the way his footsteps fall in sync with yours. It’s strange—how easily he slots back in, like no time has passed at all.

Your car is parked at the far end of the lot, tucked between an SUV and a sedan that’s way too close to the line. “There,” you say, pointing.

Kuroo groans. “You weren’t kidding about the hike.”

You ignore him, fishing your keys from your pocket as you approach the driver’s side. “Just get in, princess. Your chariot awaits.”

He snorts but doesn’t argue, tossing his suitcase into the trunk before sliding into the passenger seat. The moment you settle in behind the wheel, you blast the heater, letting the warmth seep back into your body. Kuroo exhales in exaggerated pleasure.

“Ah, yes,” he sighs, holding his hands up to the vents. “This is the hospitality I deserve.”

You shoot him a look as you adjust the side mirrors. “Buckle your seatbelt. I wanna go.”

“So eager to get me home already? At least buy me dinner first.”

“Get out.”

Kuroo smirks, clicking his seatbelt into place. “Not a chance—you’re stuck with me now, babyface.”

And you just sigh and kick your car into gear, promptly backing up and heading out of the maze of a parking lot, because even if you were to argue, it would be a lie. You’ve been stuck with him for almost two decades, and whether for better or for worse (definitely for worse), you don’t see that changing anytime soon.

two.

Your apartment building’s leasing office has plastered pink and red hearts on just about every open space in the hallway, so it’s safe to say that you’re slightly annoyed as you lug Kuroo’s freakishly huge suitcase to the door of your flat. The wheels squeak in protest, and you’re 99% sure you hear something clanking around inside—like maybe he’s sneaking free weights in there, or some equally ridiculous item you’re going to have to store somewhere in your already-cramped closet.

“Seriously,” you grumble, pausing to readjust your grip, “what did you pack? An entire gym? A small car? Did you kidnap Bokuto or something?”

Kuroo, trailing behind you with his coffee cup that’s somehow still not finished yet, lets out an overdramatic groan. “Oh, come on. I need my suits, my shoes, and, of course, my extremely heavy hair-care products. Gotta keep this—” he gestures at the bedhead that somehow counts as a hairstyle for him “—looking flawless for the cameras.”

“You’re insufferable,” you say.

“It’s okay,” Kuroo replies, stepping around a giant pink heart taped to the floor. “You love me anyway.”

You roll your eyes, key in hand as you finally reach your door. Jamming the key into the lock and wriggling it furiously, you mutter, “I can’t believe I’m letting you stay with me. Your fancy JVA job couldn’t get you a hotel?”

“They could, but the Marriott doesn’t have you,” he says proudly as you drag the suitcase over the threshold and inside your apartment, propping the door open with your hip. “I’d rather stay with my darling friend in her little one-bedroom place on the Upper East Side.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes again—half because you’re exhausted, half because your heart is doing that annoying stutter-step in your chest, and you really don’t want to analyze why. Instead, you drop your keys on the small side table by the door and flick on the overhead light.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, and the words come out more begrudging than you intend. Despite this, he kicks off his shoes very casually, setting his half-empty coffee on your kitchen counter and taking a quick scan of the place. Inside, your apartment is as cozy as ever—small, but comfortable, and the warmth from your radiator is a welcome contrast to the drafty hallway. You drop the suitcase in the living area, exhaling with relief.

He smirks, reaching out to flick one of the pink paper hearts taped to your kitchen cabinet. “Didn’t know you were such a fan of love.”

“The leasing office gets way too into seasonal themes. They gave us all these cut-out hearts to tape up, like we’re in grade school,” you scoff, crossing your arms. “I figured it was better to play along than have them slip passive-aggressive notes under my door.”

“Ah, yes, the joys of city living,” he intones. He peels one heart off the cabinet and sticks it onto his own chest like a ridiculous badge. How appropriate.

“The bathroom’s down the hall to the right. Towels are in the cabinet.” You pause momentarily, considering. “Do you think you can fit on the couch?”

Kuroo regards the couch in question—lumpy cushions, old springs, barely big enough for someone your size—then flicks his eyes to you, expression dry as if to say obviously not. In truth, you aren’t totally surprised. He’s always been freakishly tall, and the piece of furniture doubling as your “guest bed” is basically a glorified loveseat.

“Uh,” you say, slightly distracted as you take in the way his broad shoulders fill your kitchen, “maybe if you sleep diagonally, you could?”

He gives you a slow, sarcastic clap. “Wow, babyface. Thank you for that helpful geometry lesson.”

Your cheeks warm, partly in annoyance and partly because something about him looking so large in your space sets your nerves on edge. “Well, then I don’t know what to tell you,” you mumble. “Unless you wanna sleep standing up against the wall.”

Kuroo crosses his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. “That’s not exactly comfortable, either.”

You throw up your hands. “Then what do you expect me to do? I only have a full-sized bed in my room, and that’s barely big enough for—” You stop yourself, but it’s too late. You can practically see the grin forming on his lips.

“Oh?” He shifts his weight, the corners of his mouth tilting upward. “I don’t mind sharing. We used to all the time.”

You open your mouth to retort, but no sound comes out. You can’t deny that a part of you has already considered this possibility. Sure, you’ve known him forever, but the last time you shared a bed, Kenma was also there, and you were eleven-years-old having a sleepover because you were all way too invested in Monsters, Inc.—very different from sharing a bed with him now. 

“Tetsu,” you start, forcing yourself to sound composed, “my bed is also a tight squeeze. There’s no guarantee we’ll both fit comfortably.”

Kuroo shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m not picky. I can do my best to take up minimal space.”

You snort. “You? Minimizing anything? Please.”

He laughs, and the rich sound echoes in your small living area. “I’m not that tall.”

“Pretty close,” you counter. “But fine.” You exhale, feeling the weight of two weeks’ worth of future awkwardness settle on your shoulders. “If you promise not to kick me in your sleep, you can share the bed.”

He smiles with infuriating smugness, like he’s won some big debate or secured a massive deal. “Noted. No kicking, no thrashing. I can be a good boy when I need to.”

At that, you turn away and take a sip of your water, because if you let yourself stare at him any longer, you’ll start overthinking everything (you already are). Like how you’re going to handle waking up next to him. Or how it’ll feel if one of you accidentally rolls over onto the other in the middle of the night. 

“Go shower. You reek,” you say instead, tersely and very much avoiding eye contact. 

Kuroo salutes you with two fingers. “Yes, ma’am.” He starts unzipping his massive suitcase, rummaging around for clothes. When he locates what looks like sleepwear, he straightens and tosses them over one arm. “I’ll be quick. Don’t fall asleep before I get back.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say, heart still fluttering at the reality of what you’ve just agreed to. 

You’re about to share a bed with your old friend—your insufferable old friend, who shows up with enough luggage to stock a small department store, calls you babyface, and then makes your heartbeat skip whenever he so much as looks at you a certain way.

So in other words, you think you’re probably fucked.

three.

He emerges from the bathroom a little while later, hair damp, wearing a rumpled t-shirt and basketball shorts that show off way too much of his long legs. You pretend you don’t notice. In the meantime, you’ve perched on the edge of your bed—both of your bed, you remind yourself, trying not to linger on that detail—flipping through your phone for the best takeout options.

“You hungry?” you ask, keeping your voice casual. “I’m too tired to cook.”

Kuroo sets his towel on the back of a chair and rubs at his damp hair a final time. “Absolutely. I owe you for picking me up anyway. Let me buy dinner.”

“Deal,” you say, pulling up a nearby Mexican joint’s online menu—you can almost taste the cilantro and lime already. “I vote burritos. Guac and chips on the side. Whaddya think?”

He moves to sit beside you on the mattress, leaning in to read the menu on your phone. Your shoulders nearly brush, and you feel a flicker of awareness at the close proximity. 

“Let’s do it,” he says. “I’m a sucker for a good burrito. Extra beans, though, or it’s not worth it.”

You snort, tapping in your order. “Fine. But don’t complain if you regret it later.”

He laughs proudly. “I have no regrets. Order some chips and salsa, too.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you finalize your selections on the app. “Fried plantains or no? They have them here.”

“Absolutely. Throw ‘em in.”

Satisfied, you place the order. “Alright, burritos en route. They said it’ll be here in about twenty-five minutes.”

Kuroo drops onto his back for a moment, groaning dramatically into one of your pillows. “I might not last that long.”

“Quit being dramatic or I’ll eat your half when it arrives.”

He pops back up, smirking. “You’d miss me if I starved to death.”

“Sure,” you say dryly, setting your phone aside and hugging your knees to your chest, getting comfortable. “Anyway, what’s been up with you lately? Aside from the glorious JVA life. You haven’t actually told me much.”

Kuroo shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, humming nonchalantly. “Mostly traveling, setting up events. Lately it’s been a lot of PR for an upcoming international tournament—making sponsor deals, meeting with potential partners, that sort of thing. It’s never-ending.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you say, and mean it. “But you seem to thrive on that chaos.”

He smiles. “I like keeping busy, yeah. What about you? Kenma mentioned something about you publishing an article in a big journal.”

A self-conscious warmth settles in your chest. “It’s not that big,” you insist. “Just a decent academic journal. But yeah, I’m pretty proud. Trying to balance that with my research duties and teaching labs at university is… a lot.”

He bumps your shoulder gently with his own. “Still, that’s impressive. Your parents must be bragging left and right.”

You exhale, a small smile tugging at your lips. “They are. Kenma, too, apparently.”

“He’s proud,” Kuroo confirms, then yawns. “Man, I’m wiped. But I gotta stay conscious long enough to demolish this burrito.”

As if on cue, there’s a buzz from your phone. You glance down to see a delivery notification: Your order is arriving soon.

“Perfect,” you murmur. “I’ll grab it in a minute. Might as well eat in here—it’s more comfortable than the couch.”

He grins, reaching to grab his wallet from his bag and handing you a few twenty-dollar bills. “I’m not opposed to an in-bed picnic.”

A few minutes later, you’re answering the knock at your door. Your hallway briefly fills with the mouthwatering scent of fresh tortillas and spices; you’re only realising now that this is practically the only thing you’ve had all day. Once you pay the delivery person, you lug the paper bag back to the bedroom. Kuroo shifts to sit cross-legged, making space for the containers between you.

“Dig in,” he says, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

You unwrap your burrito, steam curling upward, and suddenly you’re reminded of all those nights you spent eating junk food with him and Kenma back in Tokyo—late-night convenience store runs, microwaved meals shared on the couch while you watched random movies. It feels oddly nostalgic; you almost want to put on Shrek 2 (the best one) just for the sake of it.

“Mm,” you manage around a mouthful of seasoned rice and beans. “That’s gas.”

Kuroo tears into his own burrito, letting out a satisfied hum. “New York burritos aren’t half bad. Who knew?”

You smirk. “They’re still not exactly authentic, but they’re decent. We have some good Mexican places nearby—if you stick around long enough, I’ll take you to this hole-in-the-wall joint in Queens that’s even better.”

He perks up. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.” Then he gestures at one of the pink hearts still taped to your wall. “Speaking of good times, we got Valentine’s Day coming up, right?”

You pause, taking a sip of your soda to stall, humming. “Yeah, next week. Not exactly my favorite holiday.”

“You doing anything?” he asks, fishing out a chip to scoop some guacamole.

You shrug, eyes fixed on your burrito. “No. I’m, uh… single. So it’ll just be another Tuesday for me. Maybe a glass of wine and some Netflix.”

He nods slowly, as if absorbing that information. “Right. Me too, actually. Single, I mean.”

You hazard a glance at him. “Really? I figured you’d have someone lined up,” you tease, trying to keep your tone light. “You’re always bragging about how charming you are.”

He snorts, looking faintly amused. “No takers at the moment, guess I gotta step up my game.” Then he sets his burrito down, brushing stray bits of rice from his fingers. “Honestly, though, I’m not looking to date just anybody. I’m picky.”

The confession sends a flicker of warmth through you. Don’t read into it, you warn yourself. “Well, guess that means we’ll both be alone on V-Day.”

Kuroo’s face brightens with an idea. “Doesn’t have to be alone-alone. We should hang out! Watch a movie, go ice-skating, corny shit like that. We’re in New York City, after all.”

Your stomach does a little flip, and you hope he can’t see the sudden rush of heat in your cheeks. “You want to hang out with me on Valentine’s Day?”

He shrugs, looking casual, but there’s a softness in his eyes. “Why not? Better than moping around separately. We can do the whole anti-Valentine’s vibe. Or, y’know, a Palentine’s Day.”

“Palentine’s Day,” you echo, rolling the phrase around. Part of you wants to jump at the chance, but you’re also cautious—because this is Kuroo. Kuroo, who’s seen you when you were still climbing into Kenma’s bed every time you had a nightmare. Kuroo, who carried you home on his back when you twisted your ankle playing tag at the park. Kuroo, who knows about every embarrassing photo of you in your entire house and is featured in practically half of them. 

Kuroo, who was your first childhood crush, who took you to your senior year formal, who still makes your heart stutter like no one else.

Jesus fuck.

“Sure,” you say at last, trying to sound nonchalant. “That could be fun. As long as you’re not too busy with your JVA stuff.”

He offers a crooked grin, the one that always makes your pulse pick up. “I’ll make time. Promise.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the sound of wrappers crinkling and the hum of traffic outside. You focus on your burrito, but every so often, you peek at him from the corner of your eye—how his long lashes cast faint shadows on his cheekbones, how he smirks just before taking another bite.

When you finally polish off the last of your dinner, you exhale in satisfaction, leaning back against the headboard. Kuroo does the same, patting his stomach. “That really hit the spot,” he says. “Might have to get seconds tomorrow.”

“We can’t keep eating like this,” you tease, crumpling up your napkin. “We’ll both end up broke, living off takeout.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Worse ways to go, babyface.”

You give him a mock glare, but you can’t hide your faint grin. Babyface. Somehow, it doesn’t annoy you the way it used to. Maybe it’s the nostalgia, you think, or maybe you’re just too used to it by now.

“Anyway,” he adds, glancing at the clock on his phone, “you ready to crash? ‘Cause I’m about to pass out any second.”

A twinge of nervous excitement flutters in your chest. You’d momentarily forgotten the whole bed situation. You clear your throat, stacking up the empty takeout containers so you can toss them. “Yeah, I guess so. Let’s clean this up, then… bed.”

He nods, stretching his arms overhead. His shirt lifts slightly, revealing a sliver of toned abdomen, and you quickly look away, pretending to focus on tidying up. Two weeks, you remind yourself. He’ll only be here for two weeks, and then things go back to normal—whatever normal means when it comes to the two of you.

But for now, as you glance up to see him smiling at you—fond, amused, and something else you can’t quite name—you have the strangest feeling that nothing about this trip will be normal. And you’re not sure if that terrifies you or thrills you.

Considering it’s Kuroo, the answer is probably both.

four.

As it turns out, Kuroo lied about being a supposed ‘good boy’, because he grabs just about everything in his sleep, including your comforter, your pillow, and you.

The first thing you notice upon waking is that your arm is asleep—completely, pins-and-needles numb. The second thing you notice is that it’s probably because Kuroo is draped all over you like an overgrown cat: one arm slung across your waist, a leg hooking over yours, and his face half-buried in the pillow you share.

It’s still early. The faint gray glow of dawn filters through your curtains, and the radiator in the corner hisses quietly, pushing lukewarm air into the room. You try to move—gently, so you don’t jostle him too much—but his grip tightens reflexively, pulling you closer.

Your pulse hammers a little faster. Not exactly the start to the morning you pictured when you offered to share a bed. Hesitantly, you lay there, blinking sleep from your eyes as you let the situation sink in. On one hand, he’s so much warmer than the drafty air swirling around you. On the other… well, this is Kuroo.  

He shifts in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. You can’t help noticing how his dark hair flops forward onto his forehead, or how his breathing sounds steady, almost comforting against your ear. A little flutter stirs in your chest, and you decide it’s definitely the awkwardness. Or maybe hunger. Definitely not anything else.

You inch your free arm over to nudge him carefully in the side. “Hey,” you whisper, cringing at how scratchy your morning voice sounds, “mind letting me breathe?”

He stirs again, blinking blearily. When he opens his eyes, for a split second, he looks adorably confused—like he’s forgotten where he is. Then the realization dawns, and a slow, smug grin spreads across his face.

“Mornin’,” he drawls, voice husky from sleep. And he still doesn’t move his arm.

You clear your throat, refusing to let your face heat up too obviously. “Care to explain why you’re suffocating me?”

“Am I?” he says, sounding wholly unrepentant. “Sorry, babyface. Didn’t realize you were so delicate.”

Rolling your eyes, you lift your numb arm and give him another nudge. “At least release my limbs so I can feel them again.”

He finally relents, scooting back a few inches but still remaining obnoxiously close, the mattress dipping under his weight. You sit up, wincing at the twinge in your shoulder, and rub at the pins-and-needles sensation. Meanwhile, Kuroo stretches luxuriously, arms overhead, shirt riding up just a fraction.

“Not a bad night’s sleep,” he remarks, yawning. “This bed’s cozier than it looks.”

“No thanks to you,” you grumble, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. Despite your best efforts to stay composed, you can’t quite suppress a tiny shiver at the morning chill. “Next time, keep your limbs to yourself.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you make a great pillow,” he counters, smirking.

Before you can toss a pillow at him in retaliation, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach over, scanning the screen: a news alert and an email from your department. With a sigh, you set it aside for now.

You flick your gaze back to him, noticing how the sunlight is slowly brightening the angles of his face. “What’s your schedule like today?” you ask, if only to give yourself something normal to focus on.

He scrubs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair—somehow, it still looks frustratingly cool—and shrugs. “Meeting at noon with the local organizers. Press conference in the late afternoon. After that, I’m free.”

“Alright,” you say, pushing yourself off the bed. “I have a lab to teach at eleven, so I’ll be gone most of the morning and early afternoon. I’ll give you a spare key in case you need to step out while I’m gone—just don’t get lost.”

“Aw, you’re giving me a key to your place?” His grin turns positively wolfish. “This relationship is moving so fast.”

You scowl, but the corners of your mouth twitch. “Shut up,” you say, grabbing a sweatshirt from a nearby chair and tugging it on. “I’ll make coffee, then we can figure out breakfast.”

Behind you, you hear the creak of the bed as Kuroo stands. “Coffee sounds great,” he says, padding after you. “But only if you have the good stuff. None of that cheap instant brand.”

He catches up to you in the hallway, and for a moment, you’re hyper aware of how tall he is, how his eyes are still a bit sleepy, how your bedhead probably resembles a hedgehog. Yet, there’s a comforting ease in the way he fits into your space—like he’s been here a hundred times before, even though it’s been years since you last lived in the same city.

You toss him a lazy glare over your shoulder. “You’re lucky I still have some leftover beans from when Kenma visited. Otherwise, you’d be stuck with the dreaded instant.”

Kuroo feigns a dramatic shudder, but his grin stays easy. As you flick on the kitchen lights, he leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. It strikes you again how right he looks here, in your cramped little kitchen, sporting wrinkled sleep clothes and bed hair you’d tease him about if he didn’t look so… comfortable.

“By the way,” he says, voice lower, still thick with morning grogginess. “Thanks for letting me crash here. And, y’know… for not kicking me out of bed for being grabby.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you say, ignoring the warmth creeping into your cheeks as you fill the kettle with water. “Tonight, you stick to your side, got it?”

“Scout’s honor.” He raises three fingers in a mock salute, the picture of insincerity.

You roll your eyes and turn on the stove, waiting for the water to boil. He shuffles a little closer, peering at the kettle. He’s definitely invading your personal space again, but maybe you’re starting to get used to it, if the jump in your heartbeat is anything to go by.

It’s a strange, domestic moment: you, still half-asleep, and Kuroo, leaning in with his arms caging you in, braced on the kitchen counter, with the faint hum of traffic outside. Despite the tingle in your arm and the slight ache in your stiff neck, you realize you don’t hate the idea of waking up like this. For once, you’re not quite as alone in the big city, you justify to yourself. 

He meets your gaze, one brow raised. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, dropping your eyes to the kettle. “Just that the coffee needs to hurry up or I’m gonna be late.”

He chuckles, the soft rumble filling the space. “Sure, sure.”

But he doesn’t push, just stays close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. And for now—just this once—you decide to let it be.

five.

Kuroo looks unfairly good in a suit.

You realise this while you’re curled up on your couch, half-watching the new season of Single’s Inferno on your TV and half-dozing off with a bowl of stale popcorn balanced on your lap. The door swings open without so much as a warning knock—typical—and then there he is, in all his post-press-conference glory: crisp blazer, tailored trousers, tie loosened just enough to give off a casual but effortlessly hot vibe.

Your stomach does a funny little flip. It’s probably the stale popcorn.

“Hey,” he says, shutting the door behind him with a nudge of his shoulder. “You look cozy.”

“I am cozy,” you huff, wriggling deeper into your throw blanket. You drop a piece of popcorn into your mouth and make a face when it crunches unpleasantly. “You look… fancy.”

He glances down at his outfit, as if he’s just remembered it exists. “Right. Forgot I was still wearing this.” A small smirk crosses his face. “Didn’t want to keep the fans waiting, so I came straight from the conference.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m sure your admirers really appreciated that.”

“Jealous?” he teases, toeing off his polished dress shoes. His shirt collar gapes slightly as he unbuttons the top, revealing a sliver of skin at his throat. Annoyingly distracting, even after all these years.

You pointedly look back at the TV, where two contestants are locked in a tense conversation about who picked whom for a date. “Not even remotely.”

“Ouch,” he says, sounding mock-offended. “And here I was, about to tell you that I saved you some fancy hors d’oeuvres from the event. But if you’re not interested—”

You sit up immediately, dislodging your popcorn bowl. “Wait. Real food?”

Kuroo snickers, pulling a napkin-wrapped bundle from his pocket. He tosses it onto the coffee table with a flourish. “Straight from the VIP section. Mini sliders and some kind of salmon tartare thing.”

You snatch it up without hesitation, peeling back the napkin to inspect the offerings. “See, this is why I tolerate you.”

“Tolerate?” He feigns a dramatic gasp. “Babyface, we’ve been through too much for that kind of slander.”

You grunt, already stuffing a mini slider into your mouth. “I don’t know. If I remember correctly, you used to tie my shoelaces together and push me into Kenma just to watch me trip.”

Kuroo grins, unbothered. “Building character.”

“Being an ass.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” he singsongs, shrugging out of his blazer. As he drapes it over the back of the couch and rolls up his sleeves, you glance at him from the corner of your eye, trying not to be obvious about it. 

Because it’s unfair, really. He’s always been annoyingly attractive, but there’s something different about seeing him like this—sleeves rolled up to his forearms, tie loose, like he’s caught between polished professionalism and the boy you used to know.

Kuroo flops down next to you, stretching out his long legs. “You know,” he muses, “you’re getting a little too comfortable trash-talking your own husband.”

You freeze mid-chew. “Excuse me?”

His smirk widens. “Our wedding? First grade? Ring any bells?”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flutters treacherously. “Oh my god, not this again.”

“Oh, yes, this again.” He props his chin on his hand, clearly reveling in your reaction. “It was a beautiful ceremony. You wore that little yellow dress with the flowers on it, I looked dashing in my Spider-Man t-shirt, and Kenma officiated with a Pokémon book instead of a Bible. Very classy.”

You scoff, tossing a balled-up napkin at him. “It was a fake wedding.”

“That’s not what you said at the time,” he counters, smug. “You said we’d be married forever.”

You glare at him, but warmth is creeping into your cheeks. “I was six.”

“And yet,” he hums, leaning back against the couch, “you still haven’t divorced me.”

You want to argue. You really do. But the memory of that afternoon—standing in your backyard, clutching a dandelion bouquet while Kuroo grinned at you with all the unearned confidence of an eight-year-old—unfolds so vividly in your mind that you go momentarily speechless.

It’s stupid how much of that day you remember. How he laced his fingers with yours, grinning like he had just won something. How Kenma droned through a “ceremony” while barely looking up from his Game Boy. How, when it was over, Kuroo had squeezed your hand and whispered, Guess that means you’re stuck with me now, huh?

He’d been right, even if you both did eventually grow up and start dating around. And yet, as you sit here—knees almost touching on your too-small couch, the memory of that dandelion bouquet and his smug, gap-toothed grin dangling in the air—you realize there’s a piece of you that never truly left that backyard.

You swallow the last bit of the mini-slider, hoping it’ll ground you. “So,” you say, feigning a dismissive shrug, “we grew up. We definitely child-broke-up.”

Kuroo’s dark eyes glint with amusement as he shifts his weight, the couch cushions dipping under his long frame. “Mm, I don’t recall signing any annulment papers. Actually, I can’t recall you ever giving me back my ring.” He holds up his left hand to wriggle his empty ring finger. “I guess I should’ve at least invested in a proper Band-Aid ring for you.”

You make a face, ignoring how your heart lurches at the implied you he keeps tossing out, like he’s reminding you this is your story—both of yours. “Band-Aid ring, huh? How romantic. You really know how to woo a girl.”

“You always did love Pokémon bandages. Remember how you insisted on Bulbasaur for every scrape?” There’s an unmistakable fondness in his tone, and you wonder if he’s indulging in the same wave of nostalgia that’s been drowning you since you let him through the door.

Trying not to give yourself away, you tilt your head, pretending to examine him. “I see your memory is as annoyingly perfect as ever.”

He flashes a grin. “I have an eye for important details—like your shoe size, your favorite weird pizza topping combo, and the fact that you still haven’t actually denied liking me.”

You snort, heat creeping up your neck. “In your dreams, Tetsu. Where do you get off assuming things, anyway?”

He spreads his hands, tie swaying lightly at his chest. “Can you blame me? You did let me crash at your place. You drove all the way to JFK in rush-hour traffic just to pick me up. If that’s not love, I’m not sure what is.”

You open your mouth to argue but close it again when you realize you’ve got nothing. Yes, you did pick him up. Yes, you did offer him half your bed. And yes, some traitorous part of you is glad he’s here, sprawled out in your living room, reminding you of all the reasons you used to practically worship him when you were a kid.

“You’re insufferable,” you say finally, in a voice so soft it barely carries any bite.

Kuroo chuckles, shifting so he’s angled toward you—elbow braced on the back of the couch, one long leg tucked underneath the other. “Goes both ways, babyface. You’ve always driven me insane.”

The word always lingers in the space between you.

You try to distract yourself by flicking the TV volume higher, but the dating show is a blur. “So how was the press conference?” you ask, setting the empty napkin aside. “Any major breakthroughs? More sponsors falling for your cheesy grin?”

His responding laugh is short, a bit self-conscious. “You know how it is: they ask the same questions—how the tournament’s being organized, who our top competitors are. I say the same rehearsed lines. Then I shake some hands and get out.”

“Bet you loved the attention, though,” you tease, nudging his ankle with your foot.

“Of course,” he deadpans, “you know me too well.”

A quiet pause descends as you both sink further into the cushions. The overhead lamp is dim, casting long shadows on the walls. It feels intimate—too intimate, almost. A far cry from the raucous energy of the press conference he must’ve attended.

“Do you…” You’re not sure why you’re hesitating. Maybe it’s the sudden vulnerability creeping in at the edges of your rib cage. “Do you ever miss being a kid? Everything felt simpler back then.”

His gaze settles on you, something soft reflecting in his eyes. “Yeah. A lot, actually.” He reaches out—hesitates for a second—then pokes the side of your thigh. “But I’m glad some things haven’t changed.”

Your breath catches. “Like what?”

A beat. Then: “Like you still call me out on my bullshit. You’ll still eat half my food if given the chance. You still follow your own weird rules—like never paying for Netflix because you say you can mooch off Kenma forever.” He grins. “And you still look at me the same way. Even if you won’t admit it.”

He doesn’t elaborate further, and you’re too caught off guard to pry. Look at him the same way—what does that mean, exactly? You’re suddenly hyperaware of how close he is, how he’s studying you in the dim light, how the old tether between you two has always refused to snap, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

“Anyway,” he says, shifting back with a little exhale, “got any more of that stale popcorn? I’m starving.”

You clear your throat, trying not to sound frazzled. “Go for it, but don’t complain when it tastes like cardboard.”

He leans over, snagging the bowl from the couch cushion and taking a bite. “Mmm, delicious cardboard.”

His faux-enthusiasm makes you roll your eyes—again. But there’s a familiar warmth curling in your stomach, almost like relief that this little moment is yours to share. Like you’ve both come home, just for a second, to the world you used to know.

You let the show drone on in the background while the two of you work through the stale popcorn in comfortable silence. Every now and then, one of you drops a sarcastic remark or a joke about the contestants on-screen. But beneath the banter, there’s something else stirring—a question you’re not sure either of you is ready to ask.

For now, you settle for glancing sideways at him, at the way his profile looks against the glow of the TV. You let yourself wonder, just briefly, what it would mean to take that childhood promise seriously again. And though you push the thought away almost as quickly as it comes, there’s no denying the giddy little thrill that runs through you when you realize Kuroo might be thinking the exact same thing.

six.

Three days later, it’s the weekend, and you’re free of labs and classes. So obviously, that’s the night Kuroo manages to wheedle you into going to one of his PR parties—with obviously, a Valentine’s theme because the entity in the sky hates you. 

“I still can’t believe I agreed to this,” you say in slight disbelief as you wait in the lobby of your apartment for your Lyft. You’re just the slightest bit wine tipsy already and are stumbling a tad bit on your three-inch heels. Kuroo stabilises you with an arm, pulling you into him. 

“You’re such a lightweight,” he says, amused. 

You scowl at him, nudging your heel against the toe of his polished dress shoe. “Says the guy who made me do a round of shots before we even left.”

Kuroo lifts his free hand in mock surrender, though the grin playing on his lips betrays zero remorse. “Hey, I never forced anything. You’re the one who decided it’d be a good idea to keep up with me.”

“You can probably metabolize alcohol through sheer arrogance alone,” you mutter, leaning into him a bit more when your heel wobbles on the slick tile. The building’s lobby has a floor so shiny you can see your own reflection. You catch sight of how red your cheeks look—definitely from the wine.

He snorts, sliding his arm more securely around your waist. “Arrogance is a powerful superpower.”

Before you can retort, the Lyft driver texts that they’ve arrived, and you and Kuroo shuffle through the lobby’s sliding doors. The crisp February air slaps you in the face, clearing some of the pinot-fueled haze from your head.

“God,” you hiss, crossing your arms over your chest as you walk up to the waiting car. “Why does it feel like it’s negative a thousand degrees out here?”

Kuroo hums sympathetically, tugging you close so you can huddle in his warmth. “Isn’t it romantic? Attending a Valentine’s party in frigid weather, half-tipsy, with your beloved husband—”

You jab him in the ribs. “Do. Not. Start.”

“Ow.” He laughs, not sounding at all wounded, and opens the car door for you. “Alright, princess, let’s get you warmed up.”

You slide into the backseat, tucking your purse by your feet. Kuroo follows, closing the door. The car smells faintly of peppermint and some floral air freshener, and the driver has a local pop station on low volume.

“Party tonight, huh?” the driver says, catching a glimpse of your outfits in the rearview mirror. “Happy early Valentine’s Day.”

You force a polite smile. “Yeah, it’s a work thing for… him.” You gesture vaguely at Kuroo, who’s already fiddling with the seatbelt.

Kuroo pipes up, flashing an easy grin. “She’s being modest. She’s the star of the show.”

You give him a side-eye, but your stomach flips a little at how casually he includes you in his world. “I’m definitely just background noise. He’s the big fancy PR guy.”

He drapes an arm across the back of the seat, leaning in with that smug energy you always pretend to hate. “C’mon, babyface, we both know you’re the real highlight.”

The driver chuckles to himself at your banter and pulls out onto the main road.

The city lights blur by, and despite the wine, you’re keyed-up enough to notice just how close Kuroo is. His thigh presses against yours as the car bumps over a pothole, and you catch his scent—still that overpriced cologne. You almost tease him for using the same brand since undergrad, but some part of you likes the familiarity too much to make fun of it.

Kuroo scrolls through his phone—likely checking last-minute details for the event—and you let your gaze wander. You wonder what you’re walking into: a Valentine’s-themed volleyball PR party probably means pink cocktails, goofy heart-shaped decorations, and sponsors angling to chat up Kuroo for new deals.

You sigh softly, leaning back into the seat. At least you’re not teaching labs tomorrow.

Feeling your eyes on him, Kuroo pockets his phone and glances over. “You okay?” he asks, voice quieter so the driver can’t overhear. “Too tipsy?”

“Barely,” you lie. “I’m fine.”

He studies you for a moment, then nods. “If you get overwhelmed or bored, just say the word, and I’ll whisk you out of there.”

Your heart does that unfortunate flip again. “I won’t hold you back from schmoozing with your sponsors,” you say, trying to sound casual.

Kuroo just shrugs. “Eh. The only person I really need to impress is right here.”

He grins when you roll your eyes for the millionth time, but there’s a note of sincerity in his gaze that makes your pulse stutter uncontrollably (and feeling less and less like it’s the wine).

seven.

The Lyft pulls up to a sleek downtown hotel with a bright red banner above the entrance: Welcome, Pre-Valentine’s Volleyball Gala! The curbside is abuzz with people stepping out of taxis and rideshares, all dressed in varying degrees of fancy.

You thank the driver and step out. Immediately, the cold hits you again, but Kuroo’s hand is there, steady at your back. Together, you make your way through the glass doors into the lobby, which is decked out in pink and red balloons. You spot a heart-shaped ice sculpture near the reception desk and suppress a grimace.

“This is… a lot,” you say under your breath, scanning the crowd. Everyone seems to be brandishing name tags and sipping champagne. A table off to the side offers color-coded wristbands for something—“Single,” “Taken,” “Open to Networking,” and so on.

Kuroo leans in close, lips by your ear so you can hear him over the lounge music. “Brace yourself, babyface. Corporate Valentine’s chic in full force.”

You can’t help a snort. “Don’t call me babyface in front of everyone,” you hiss, trying not to look self-conscious.

He smirks. “Fine. Mrs. Kuroo it is.”

You elbow him gently in the ribs, and he lets out a playful “Ow!” just as a man in a suit rushes over to greet you.

“Kuroo, hey!” The guy beams and extends a hand. “Glad you could make it. We’ve got the sponsors over by the bar, and the press is setting up in the lounge area.”

“Thanks, Daichi,” Kuroo replies smoothly, shaking the man’s hand. “I’ll swing by and say hello in a minute. Oh—this is my plus-one.”

The man’s smile widens. “Great to meet you!” He doesn’t even blink at the slightly flustered expression on your face, just hands you both event badges. “We’re color-coded, so choose whichever suits your mood. And enjoy the party!”

You glance at the bands in your hand: pink for “Single,” purple for “Open to Collaboration,” red for “Taken.” There are even gold ones for “VIP.”

“Seriously?” you mutter, turning to Kuroo. “This is next-level marketing cheese.”

He laughs, plucking a gold band from a nearby tray and snapping it onto his wrist. “I’m definitely VIP, babe. No shame.”

Rolling your eyes, you settle for a purple one—“Open to Collaboration” seems neutral enough, right? You have no intention of wearing the pink “Single” band all night.

Kuroo’s gaze flicks to it, and you catch a slight smirk before he ushers you forward into the main ballroom.

Which, by the way, is massive: vaulted ceilings, floating heart-shaped lanterns, a champagne fountain at the center. You can practically smell the wealth. A DJ in the corner is playing some inoffensive house music that somehow fits the glittery vibe.

“Wow,” you breathe. “They really didn’t hold back.”

“Volleyball PR events rarely do,” Kuroo says, threading his fingers through yours before you can process it. It’s casual and familiar, like he’s done this a thousand times, but your heart jumps all the same. “Let’s grab a drink, yeah?”

He guides you toward the open bar. A bartender in a bright red bow tie greets you with a grin, asking for your orders.

“Champagne for me,” Kuroo says, then glances down at you. “And for my lovely companion…?”

You pause. “Champagne’s fine. Might as well fit the theme.”

As the bartender works his magic, you turn to Kuroo. “So, what’s the plan? Do we mingle for half an hour and then dip? I’m not sure how long I can stand being reminded that Valentine’s Day is literally next week.”

Kuroo’s eyebrow quirks. “Aren’t we hanging out anyway? We promised each other a palentine’s date—remember?”

You feel your cheeks warm. ��I remember. Just… these decorations are overkill.”

He hands you a champagne flute, then raises his own in a mock toast. “To corporate romance,” he says with a smirk.

You clink glasses, taking a sip. The fizzy sweetness bursts across your tongue, and you can’t help but think it tastes like anticipation—like something is about to happen tonight that neither of you saw coming. Then you convince yourself that it’s just the alcohol. 

Over the next twenty minutes, you watch as Kuroo does his job—he introduces you to a cluster of sponsors, some old teammates, and a few local sports reporters. He’s charismatic in that effortless way he’s always been: breezing through small talk, sprinkling in jokes, and deflecting every flirty comment from others with easy charm.

You mostly hover by his side, alternately sipping champagne and trying not to feel out of place in your heels. Every so often, his fingers brush your elbow or settle low on your back, like he’s silently telling you: You’re not alone here.

It’s strangely reassuring—even if you can’t quite decide what it means.

Eventually, the crowd disperses into smaller clusters, and you manage to snag a moment of relative quiet near the pink-lit fountain in the center of the room.

“You okay?” Kuroo asks again, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. “Not too bored?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine. It’s actually kinda funny watching you switch between your used-car-salesman voice and your normal voice.”

He snorts. “You want me to hit them with the real me? That might be too much for these delicate souls.”

“I can handle it,” you say, surprising even yourself with your boldness—maybe it’s the champagne.

Kuroo’s gaze flickers, something mischievous in his eyes. “Oh, I know you can handle me, babyface. You’ve done it since you were six, right?”

Your heart skips. He just won’t let you live that childhood wedding down. And, annoyingly, you don’t really mind.

“Stop it,” you say, but there’s no heat in your voice. “Anyway, what’s next on the agenda? Are you supposed to give a speech or something?”

He rakes a hand through his hair, making it even more disheveled. “Nah, not tonight. Just an appearance—shake some hands, charm some sponsors.” He shrugs, then lowers his voice. “We could slip out soon, if you want. Go somewhere else—somewhere less… pink.”

The offer sits in the air between you. You can’t help wondering what exactly he’s proposing. Drinks at a quieter bar? A late-night walk under the city lights? Going back to your apartment to continue that half-finished bottle of wine?

You muster a casual tone. “I’m not opposed. But won’t your absence be noticed?”

“I showed up, I mingled,” he says, brushing off your concern. “That’s enough for them.”

He flashes that signature grin—so easy, so Kuroo—and a flutter of nostalgia collides with the champagne buzz in your bloodstream. You think about how this night started: you, tipsy in your lobby, letting him steady you on your heels. You think about Valentine’s Day looming, and how all of this might be leading to something (which, you’re still trying to figure out if it’s good or bad).

“Alright,” you say, taking another sip from your glass. “One more round of goodbyes, then we escape.”

Kuroo’s eyes linger on you, almost thoughtful. “Deal.”

He downs the rest of his champagne and sets the empty flute on a nearby tray, offering you his arm. The little gesture makes you laugh under your breath; he’s always half-joking, half-serious. But you slip your hand into the crook of his elbow all the same, taking advantage of the moment with a small grin. 

He is your date tonight, after all.

eight.

You two end up at a 99cent pizza shop.

It’s one of those shitty ones, where the lights blink every other second and are open 24/7 and catering exclusively to drunk people. You order a pepperoni slice (which is $1.50, absolutely criminal), Kuroo gets a slice with mushrooms and peppers like a weirdo, and a ten-piece garlic knots because you’re both absolute whores for shitty food. 

The cashier barely looks up as you pass over a crumpled bill, his expression one of pure indifference. It’s the kind of place where no one gives a shit if you waltz in wearing a ballgown or, in Kuroo’s case, an untucked dress shirt and a loosened tie that screams former professionalism turned reckless abandon.

Kuroo nudges your shoulder as he grabs the tray of food. “Find us a seat, babyface.”

You glance around. The booths are occupied by a mix of exhausted bar-hoppers, students pulling all-nighters with greasy paper plates in front of them, and one guy hunched over, presumably contemplating his life choices. Classic New York.

You settle for a two-seater in the back corner, mostly because it’s the only spot that doesn’t look like it’ll give you tetanus. Kuroo sets the tray down between you, sliding into the seat across from you with that ridiculous, smug expression that hasn’t left his face all night.

“You’re staring,” you say flatly, reaching for a garlic knot.

He props his chin on his hand, unbothered. “You look cute.”

Your hand freezes mid-air. “What?”

Kuroo, the absolute bastard, takes a slow bite of his pizza like he didn’t just casually drop a grenade into your bloodstream. “I said, you look cute.” He gestures vaguely at you with his slice. “All dressed up in a shitty pizza joint. Very Serena van der Woodsen in Gossip Girl vibes.”

You recover quickly, snorting as you take a bite of your garlic knot. “You did not just compare me to Serena van der Woodsen.”

“Hey, I know my pop culture references.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “But seriously. I like this look on you.”

The warmth in your chest spreads far too quickly. You shove it down with a bite of pizza. “If you’re trying to butter me up, it’s not gonna work.”

Kuroo smirks. “You sure? It worked when we were kids.”

You shoot him a look. “I was six. You bribed me with strawberry Pocky.”

“And you fell for it every time,” he says, grinning. “You were so easy to manipulate.”

You kick him lightly under the table, but there’s no real venom behind it. He just chuckles and takes another bite of his pizza, chewing thoughtfully before glancing at you again.

“So,” he says after a moment. “What was the verdict on tonight? Was it as painful as you thought?”

You hesitate, twirling the crust of your pizza between your fingers. The thing is, you actually had fun. Not just tolerable, get-through-it-and-leave fun, but actual, laughing-with-Kuroo-in-the-middle-of-a-stuffy-corporate-party fun. The realization makes your stomach flip.

“It was fine,” you say, playing it cool. “Drinks were good. Company was tolerable.”

Kuroo barks out a laugh. “Tolerable? Damn, I’ll take it.”

You roll your eyes, but the way he’s looking at you—so easy, so damn fond—makes it hard to breathe for a second.

You clear your throat, glancing down at your plate. “Anyway, it was nice to see you in work mode. You actually seemed like a functional adult.”

Kuroo sighs dramatically. “I know, it’s exhausting.”

You snort. “I imagine so. Having to use, like, three brain cells at a time.”

“It’s really pushing my limits,” he says with an obnoxious frown. 

The conversation drifts into easy territory—inside jokes, exaggerated retellings of childhood disasters, a debate about whether New York pizza is actually better than Tokyo’s (you say yes, he remains stubbornly neutral). It feels natural, like slipping into an old sweater that still fits perfectly despite the years.

At some point, he reaches across the table, swiping a garlic knot straight off your plate.

“Hey,” you protest, swatting at his hand too late.

Kuroo just smirks, popping the whole thing into his mouth. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law, babyface.”

“Possession is going to be me slapping you in the face if you steal another one.”

“Violence,” he muses, chewing. “That’s how you treat your childhood husband?”

Your face heats. “Tetsu.”

He winks. “Relax. I’ll buy you more next time.”

Next time.

The words hang there for a second longer than necessary. He says it like it’s a given, like this—you and him, nights like this—is a thing that should keep happening.

And the stupidest part? You don’t hate the idea… not even a little bit.

You pick up another garlic knot, breaking eye contact like that’ll do anything to slow your heartbeat. “You better buy me more.”

Kuroo just leans back, watching you like he already knows something you don’t, and you are slightly terrified of whatever that implies.

nine.

Monday night, after you get home from an excruciating day of labwork (like… you entered at 6 AM and left the next day at 2 AM—you’re really going through it these days), Kuroo is already changed and in his pajamas, reading a book and playing a vinyl you bought when you went through your #artsy stage. He looks up with a smile from his spot sprawled across your couch as you come in, drop your keys on the side table, and promptly collapse on the floor.

“I’m so tired,” you wail, fake sniffling, slumped against the wall. Kuroo looked momentarily alarmed until your pleading; he lets out an exhale that’s vaguely close to a laugh when he realises you’re just being dramatic.

“Welcome home,” he says, his smile practically audible in his voice. “Take it you had a long few day… days.”

You sigh, nodding, wobbling over to the couch and plopping on top of him. You’re so tired you don’t even care about the proximity—you want to lie down, right now. “Yeah. But I think I’ve discovered something pretty interesting, so I’m hoping I can get into Neuron this time around.”

“You’ll get it,” Kuroo says completely calmly, sounding insanely confident in you. He doesn’t even look away from his book—just lifts his arms enough to let you put your head on his chest, and then resting them against your shoulder blades. “Smartest girl I know.”

“...Shut up,” you mutter, burying your face into his t-shirt to hide your embarrassment. 

You let out a weary groan, face still hidden in Kuroo’s t-shirt, and he just chuckles under his breath, shifting slightly so you can get more comfortable. His hand finds its way into your hair, fingers raking through it in a surprisingly soothing motion—like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Can’t believe you’re still awake,” he remarks, eyes darting back to his book. “Look like you’re about to pass out any second.”

“Very astute observation,” you mumble into the soft cotton. “Nothing gets past you.”

He snorts, lightly tapping your shoulder in retribution before turning a page. “Hey, just looking out for my genius scientist here. Big day tomorrow, right?”

Your face scrunches up in confusion. “Big day? I mean, I guess I have more lab stuff…”

Kuroo tilts his head, arching an eyebrow at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Not that,” he says, exasperated. “Valentine’s Day, babyface. Remember?”

Your heart does a quick, uncomfortable skip. Valentine’s—not Palentine’s. The difference lands in your head like a small explosion, especially considering you’ve both been referring to it as Palentine’s up ‘til now.

“O-oh,” you stammer eloquently, trying to recover. “Right. Valentine’s. Sure.”

He watches you carefully, eyes gleaming with amusement as he gently closes his book. “You didn’t forget our plans, did you?”

Plans. Right. He invited you for something—ice skating or a movie, or maybe both. You’d said yes in that flustered, I’m-pretending-this-is-just-a-friendly-thing way. But the way he’s saying it now, with that particular lilt in his voice, has your mind racing.

You force yourself to sit up slightly, though you don’t leave the comfort of lying half-on-top of him. “I—uh. I didn’t forget. I guess I’m just… used to calling it Palentine’s.”

Kuroo smirks, brushing a thumb across your cheek with casual familiarity. “Oh, right. My bad. I must’ve slipped.”

Slipped, he says, which makes your pulse do an annoying little flutter.

“I mean, it’s not like it matters,” you continue quickly, your words tripping over themselves. “We’re just hanging out—like always. Whether we call it Valentine’s or Palentine’s or ‘Tuesday’… right?”

He hums in response—low in his throat, almost thoughtful—while his hand drifts from your hair to the back of your neck in a comforting weight. “Sure,” he says, a bit too lightly to be casual. “Whatever you wanna call it.”

The tone in his voice suggests that maybe it does matter, that maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t want to hide behind the ‘Palentine’s’ façade anymore.

A moment of silence settles between you, broken only by the faint crackle of your old vinyl spinning and the ever-present traffic outside. Your nerves feel strung tight as a bitch, and you wonder if he can sense how tense you’ve suddenly gone.

“Anyway,” he says, clearly trying to alleviate some of the awkwardness, “I was thinking we could do something painfully cliché tomorrow. Romantic comedy marathon, maybe. Or that ice-skating idea. Hot chocolate, the works.”

You glance up at him, meeting his gaze. “That sounds… nice.” You fidget with a loose thread on his t-shirt, trying not to overthink every micro-expression on his face. “You sure you won’t be busy with, like, sponsor stuff, or—”

Kuroo rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Are you kidding? I’d rather be with you—binging Netflix, falling on my face on the rink—than stuck in another press conference.” He gives a lazy shrug, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Besides, I’m all yours tomorrow.”

I’m all yours.

There’s that pesky little flutter in your chest again, ramping up several notches. You wonder if he can feel your heart pounding where you’re still sprawled half-across his torso. Possibly. Probably.

“That’s… good,” you manage, trying not to think too hard about the myriad ways Valentine’s could be interpreted. Trying not to let the prospect of him wanting more—maybe wanting you—send you into a full-blown panic. Because a teeny, traitorous part of you is really hoping that’s what it means.

“Now,” he says, clearly sensing the rabbit hole your mind might be running down. “It’s past midnight, and you’ve had, what, negative hours of sleep?”

“That’s not even physically possible,” you argue, though your eyelids suddenly feel very heavy.

“Sure it is,” he counters, wrapping an arm more snugly around your waist as he tugs a throw blanket from the back of the couch. “I’m pretty sure you’re living proof. C’mon. Let’s just crash right here for a bit.”

You don’t have the energy to protest, and honestly? The idea of dozing off to the low hum of the vinyl, warm against Kuroo’s chest, is downright tempting. Besides, you’ll have to drag yourself to bed eventually—but for now, this cozy bubble is enough.

“Fine,” you mumble, feeling your limbs already going slack. “But if I drool on you, it’s your own fault for not kicking me off.”

He laughs quietly, letting the book he was reading slip onto the coffee table. “I’ll live. I’ve survived worse. Like the time you threw up all over me after that carnival ride in middle school.”

You grumble something incoherent in protest, too exhausted to muster a real comeback. The corners of his mouth twitch in amusement, and he shifts just enough to angle you more comfortably against him.

As your eyes flutter shut, you can’t stop replaying the word Valentine’s in your head. Tomorrow. Kuroo said it so easily, like it was obvious. Like it was a given that you wouldn’t just be celebrating as friends or old childhood buddies. Warmth pools in your chest, a mix of excitement and nerves. Maybe you’ll just have to see how tomorrow plays out—maybe you’ll finally figure out if this… thing you’ve been dancing around for so long is actually real.

Because if there’s one thing you are sure about, it’s that Kuroo has always had a way of turning your world on its axis. And this time, you really hope he doesn’t stop at Palentine’s.

ten.

You wake up to the smell of french toast.

Which, honestly, you lowkey don’t love nearly as much as waffles. But you aren’t going to be picky after your crash out last night. 

You stumble into the kitchen, vaguely rubbing your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, blinking away the sleep to read the Eevee alarm clock Kenma bought you when you moved in. 12:19PM. Honestly not your worst: once, during finals season in your undergrad years, you pulled a three-day all-nighter and passed out for sixteen straight hours after. Kuroo had to practically drag you out of your dorm room after that one; he and Kenma basically froze your phone with the amount of texts they sent in a futile attempt to wake you up. 

Kuroo’s back is to you as he stands at the stove, his compression shirt accentuating his muscle definition. He looks straight up like a model you’d see at the mall in a Calvin Klein billboard, and it makes you flush as you remember he said Valentine’s last night. He senses you without even turning around—he, without even bothering to look up, says, “Mornin’, babyface. Do you want strawberries or whipped cream?”

“You doubt me. Both,” you snort, stepping closer. Despite your attempt at nonchalance, your stomach flips when you get closer and can see just how freakishly good he looks in that stupid ass shirt. The memory of him casually calling it Valentine’s still sizzles in the back of your mind.

Kuroo casts you a brief over-the-shoulder grin. “Both it is, princess.” He deftly flips a slice of french toast on the pan, the sweet, eggy aroma curling toward your nose. “Hope you’re hungry. I got a little carried away.”

“Oh, I’m starving,” you say, eyeing the small stack of bread slices he’s already prepared on a plate. “Seriously, I might eat all of this. If you don’t move fast, you won’t get any.”

He chuckles, dropping another piece of bread into the batter. “Noted. I’ll keep that in mind while I guard my breakfast with my life.”

You open the fridge for the strawberries, and sure enough, there’s also a can of whipped cream on the shelf—Kuroo came prepared. “I can’t believe you actually planned this,” you mutter under your breath, rifling around. “Is this your way of bribing me to be your Valentine?”

He pretends to think about it. “Might be. If it works, I’ll make waffles next time, too.”

You huff a laugh, grateful your face is still hidden in the fridge so he can’t see the fond smile spreading across your lips. Might be. It’s clear he’s leaning full-throttle into the idea of spending this entire Valentine’s Day with you. The thought warms you more than you want to admit.

Sliding the carton of strawberries onto the counter, you catch him drizzling a bit of honey on the toast. “Fancy,” you tease, dragging out the syllable.

Kuroo shrugs one shoulder. “Hey, can’t help being an overachiever. Besides…” He flips off the stove burner and slides the last slice of french toast onto the plate, stacking it neatly. “I missed this.”

You glance up, curiosity and something else tangling in your chest. “This? Cooking breakfast?”

He sets the spatula aside, turns around, and leans against the counter. “Cooking breakfast for you,” he clarifies, pausing as if testing how you’ll react. “Y’know, we used to hang out all the time—before you left for New York. I guess it just reminded me of those days. Late nights, lazy mornings, that sort of thing.”

Your cheeks warm at his candidness. “We still hung out a bit after we graduated,” you offer, though you know it was never the same once you’d moved halfway across the globe for grad school.

Kuroo nods, his hand lingering on the handle of the frying pan as if he needs something to ground himself. “Yeah, but once you officially moved here? We both got busy. Kenma did his whole streaming empire thing, I jumped into work. And you were—”

“Neck-deep in studies,” you finish for him, remembering those endless days in the lab, how you’d chug energy drinks and blink against fluorescent lights until your eyes burned.

Kuroo taps the counter with his knuckles, a soft exhale escaping him. “Uh-huh. And Kenma and I, well… we kinda promised each other we wouldn’t make a big deal about how much we missed you.” He flashes a small, wry grin. “Figured you already had enough to worry about without dealing with our whining.”

You pause, strawberries in hand, staring at him. “Wait. You both made that promise?”

He nods, and for once, you catch the hint of sheepishness in his expression. “We might have texted constantly about how weird it was without you around,” he admits, chuckling under his breath. “But we agreed to keep it low-key so you could focus on your research. Didn’t want you feeling guilty if you started missing home too much.”

Your chest tightens. “I—God, that’s so stupid of you guys.”

He arches an amused eyebrow. “Stupid?”

“I would have been fine!” you insist, though a pang of fondness (and maybe regret) flickers through you. “Yeah, I’d have been sad, but I would’ve rather known. Going months without hearing from you two sometimes was way worse.”

He huffs a laugh, pushing off the counter to move closer. “Yeah, guess in hindsight, it wasn’t the best plan. But we were, what, twenty? Twenty-one? And mostly worried you’d drop out of grad school to come home if we made you feel bad.”

“Drop out?” You roll your eyes. “Please, as if I’d ever let you be that important.”

Kuroo tosses you a smirk, but there’s a gratefulness in his gaze. “Hey, I’m plenty important. Just not more important than a doctorate in neuroscience.”

“Damn straight,” you retort, but your heart is pounding too hard for sarcasm to land with its usual punch. He missed you. More than that—he and Kenma both actively hid how much they missed you, just so you wouldn’t feel sad or guilty. That’s… an annoying level of sweet.

Before you can dwell on it, he gestures to the french toast. “Anyway, let’s eat? Unless you’d rather stand here and get all sentimental.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, but your tone is more flustered than harsh. “Give me the plate.”

He hands it over with a dramatic bow, then grabs the strawberries and whipped cream to set on the table. You both sit across from each other, and he insists on adding the toppings to your serving, swirling an absurd amount of whipped cream atop each slice.

“Seriously,” you scold, swatting his wrist when he won’t stop pressing the nozzle, “we don’t need that much foam sugar.”

He just laughs. “Oh, come on, babyface. Live a little.”

“Hmm,” you reply, biting the inside of your cheek to hide your grin. “Fine. But if I get a sugar crash in like two hours, you’re dealing with the aftermath.”

He mock-salutes you. “Yes, ma’am.”

It’s a small, silly moment, but something in the easy way you banter—especially right after that confession about how hard it was when you left—makes your chest swell with warmth. Perhaps it’s just the Valentine’s vibe that has your mind spinning in circles, but you can’t help wondering what he’s getting at here.

You try a bite, letting the sweetness and cinnamon melt on your tongue. “Damn,” you mumble through a mouthful, “this is actually pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” He sets a hand against his heart in mock offense. “I slaved away in the kitchen—”

“What, for like ten minutes?” you interrupt, snickering. “Yep, truly backbreaking labor.”

He pretends to wipe away a tear. “Your gratitude is overwhelming.”

Despite the teasing, he looks satisfied when you reach for another slice. You don’t miss how his eyes follow the movement, nor how his gaze lingers on your face, like he’s taking mental snapshots of you enjoying the meal. It’s disconcertingly tender—especially for a guy who’s teased you your entire life.

Eventually, when you’ve both eaten more than enough, you lean back in your chair, hand resting on your full stomach. “All right, Chef Kuroo. That was acceptable. Now what’s the plan for the rest of Valentine’s Day, hmm?”

He clears his throat, fiddling with a piece of crust on his plate. “Well, we could go ice skating later—like we talked about. If you’re still up for it. Or we could do that rom-com marathon and eat a bunch of store-bought chocolate. Or both.”

“That’s… definitely an option,” you say slowly, feeling a little thrill ripple through you at how nonchalant you’re trying to be. “Which one first?”

He meets your eyes, a hint of a smirk curving his lips. “Why not flip a coin?”

You snort, standing up and collecting the dishes. “No way. I have the worst luck with coin tosses.”

“Then I’ll rig it so you win.” Kuroo grins, pushing back his chair to follow you to the sink. 

“And you call me the overachiever,” you toss over your shoulder, cranking on the faucet. You start rinsing plates, the soap suds foaming around your fingers.

“Mm,” he murmurs, stepping up behind you. “At least let me help.”

He crowds in, reaching to take the plate from your hand. You don’t protest—mostly because your entire body goes rigid at the realization of how close he’s standing. His chin practically brushes your temple, and you can feel the warmth radiating off him in waves.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The only sound is the running water, the faint drip of the faucet, and the thud of your own heartbeat in your ears. You can’t help the way your breath catches.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, noticing your sudden stillness.

“Yeah,” you manage, forcing yourself to relax. “Just spacing out.”

His lips twitch into a small, understanding smile. “Same here.” Then, with a deft motion, he takes the plate from you and resumes scrubbing, shoulders barely an inch from yours in your cramped kitchen.

This shouldn’t feel so charged, right? He’s just helping you do dishes. But everything with Kuroo feels different this morning—like there’s some invisible line you both keep brushing against, neither one wanting to take the leap but both too invested to step back.

When the last plate is clean, he sets it on the drying rack, shuts off the water, and dries his hands with a dishrag. “So,” he says, turning to you. “Breakfast? Check. Next item on the Valentine’s agenda?”

You roll your eyes—can’t believe you’re actually calling it Valentine’s now, you think, but you don’t correct him. Instead, you tilt your head, as if deep in thought. “Well, you did promise me cheesy romance, so maybe we do the rom-com marathon first and ice skating afterward, if we still have time.”

His grin is immediate. “Sounds perfect.” He turns and saunters toward your living room, tossing the dishrag onto the counter. “I’ll pick the first movie?”

You’re about to agree when you suddenly remember—he said he’d rig the coin toss. So you raise an eyebrow. “Wait, how do I know you’re not just rigging this in your favor?”

Kuroo snorts, grabbing the TV remote. “Hey, I’m giving you exactly what you want, babyface. I call that your favor.”

You roll your eyes for the millionth time, but you can’t keep the small smile off your face as you follow him into the living room. For the first time in a long while, you feel light—like maybe the missing piece of your life that you left behind in Tokyo is right here, making you french toast and joking about Valentine’s Day.

eleven.

You easily binge Netflix’s Love Is In The Air recommendations for several hours, to the point where, by the time that you wrap up The Kissing Booth 3, the sun has already started to set. Outside your fourth floor apartment, you have a relatively unobstructed view of the way the sky melds into a blend of purples and blues, casting shadows and making your living room’s lighting feel even warmer.

Somehow (you say, knowing full well that you climbed into this position with full intentions of doing so) you end up curled up in Kuroo’s arms, one of your legs draped over his thigh while his arm wraps snugly around your shoulders. His other hand lazily scrolls through the Netflix homepage, searching for the next rom-com victim. You barely pay attention, though—too busy noticing how ridiculously warm he is, how easy it is to fit against him, and how the dark colors of the setting sun outside look so damn pretty.

Finally, after a half-hearted scroll through the Looking For The One category, you decide: “I’m hungry. Let’s get sushi.”

He perks up, setting down the remote. “Now you’re speaking my language. Which place should we order from?”

“There’s this little spot a few blocks away that does really fresh rolls,” you say, grabbing your phone from the cushion beside you. “They deliver in like fifteen minutes, too.”

Kuroo nods, giving you a light squeeze. “Cool. Just let me know how much I owe you. Or consider it your Valentine’s gift to me, I guess.” He snickers.

You roll your eyes at the terrible suggestion, pulling up the menu on your phone. “I’ve got it, I’m feeling generous. Plus, this place is kinda special to me anyway.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Special? Because the sushi’s that good?”

You shift, trying to type your order without meeting his eyes. “Uhh… well, an ex brought me here once. That was back in like, grad school.”

Kuroo’s hand stills against your arm. “Excuse me?” he says, feigning dramatic outrage. “I can’t believe you’d talk about your sordid affairs on Valentine’s Day, babyface. You wound me.”

You snort, giving him a playful shove that doesn’t move him even an inch. “Relax, it was ages ago. It’s not like it was a big deal. I mostly liked him because he kinda looked like—” You stop mid-sentence, eyes widening.

“Kinda looked like… what?” Kuroo parrots, amused suspicion lighting up his features. “Finish that sentence.”

You clamp your mouth shut and tap furiously on your phone screen instead. “Nothing. Just forget it.”

His eyes narrow. “Oh, no no no, you don’t get to drop that bomb and then pretend it never happened. Spill.”

“It’s none of your business,” you reply swiftly, your cheeks burning. “And for the record, it’s definitely not what you’re thinking.”

He sets his jaw, locking you in place by tightening the arm wrapped around you. “Alright, guess I’ll have to guess. Let’s see—you liked him because he kinda looked like…” He pauses, tapping a finger to his chin in exaggerated thought. “Me?”

“Oh my god, no,” you say, maybe a bit too quickly. “That’d be weird, Tetsu. You’re—well, you’re you.”

Something fleetingly vulnerable flashes across his face. He frowns a little, brow knitting. “Do you really think so?” His tone goes quiet, serious in a way that has your stomach dropping.

Your pulse stutters. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean—” You flail, phone clattering onto the cushion as you try to find his gaze. “I just—look, it’s not weird. Of course I—I mean, you know I—” You exhale shakily, feeling your words tumble over themselves. “I like you, Tetsu. Please don’t be upset.”

There’s a beat of tense silence… and then Kuroo bursts out laughing. Actual, stomach-jostling laughter. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose as he struggles to compose himself, and you realize, with rapidly boiling annoyance, that he’s been messing with you.

“You jerk!” you sputter, smacking him on the arm. “That wasn’t funny! I thought I actually hurt your feelings.”

He just grins, easily absorbing your weak swats. “Aw, sorry, babyface. You should’ve seen your face, though.”

Your cheeks feel molten. “I hate you sometimes, you know?”

“Mm-hmm,” he drawls, pulling you back against him, his palm smoothing over your shoulder. “But the good news is, now I know you do like me. And that some of your exes looked like me, which is a really nice ego boost.”

You groan, burying your face against his chest. “Shut up.”

He keeps talking anyway, voice taking on a more pensive note. “I mean, it’s not like I can judge. I think about you whenever I meet someone new.”

Slowly, you lift your head, eyebrows knitting. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs one shoulder, as if it’s no big deal. “Just, like, whenever I go on a date, I find myself comparing them to you. They’re never as funny or as smart, or I wonder if they’d get along with Kenma the way you obviously do… that kind of thing.”

You stare at him, mouth slightly open. “Tetsu…” You’re not sure how to respond to that confession. Warmth and a spike of adrenaline rush through you, and you can only open and close your mouth in silence.

At your speechlessness, Kuroo just laughs, scrunching his nose in amusement. “Aw, come on. It’s not that shocking, is it?”

“Uh,” you manage, blinking. “I—uh.”

Your brain is short-circuiting, so you do the only thing that makes sense in your frazzled state: you announce, “I’m gonna go pee.”

“What?” He snorts. “Really? That’s your best response to my heartfelt confession?”

“You think I chose this response?” you squeak, scrambling to your feet. Your cheeks feel like they could combust. “I don’t control your unfiltered romantic drivel, and you don’t control my bladder, okay?”

Kuroo just shakes his head in disbelief, though his eyes gleam with delight. “I’m not stopping you, babyface. Go pee. The sushi’ll be here in a few minutes anyway.”

You nod, fleeing the scene for the bathroom, heart pounding in your ears. Even as you slam the door behind you, you can hear him chuckling softly in the living room.

Leaning against the bathroom door, you take a steadying breath. He compares everyone to you. You literally admitted you like him, too. And he’s laughing, because this is all apparently just… normal. Suddenly, the entire dynamic shifts—like everything you’ve both been dancing around for so long is right there, out in the open, and you’re not quite sure what to do next.

Well, you do know one thing: you really do need to pee.

“Okay,” you mutter, “priorities.”

And as you step toward the toilet, part of you wonders how to keep your composure once you walk back out to him—because from here on out, there’s no more pretending you don’t both feel something real.

twelve.

After peeing and washing your hands with your favorite bougie ass soap (Christmas gift from your boss; you could never afford it at department store rates), you whip out your phone and call Kenma. You know it’s 8 AM over there, so there’s a good chance you’ll be waking up your brother, but you don’t care because you need his objective opinion right now.

It takes until the third call, but on the fourth ring, he finally picks up. 

“What?” he mumbles groggily. “I was sleeping.”

“Sorry, but I don’t care. Give me some good advice right now,” you hiss into your phone, pacing back and forth in front of your shower like a maniac.

You hear fabric rustling, followed by a prolonged yawn. “Fine. I bet it has to do with Kuro.”

You freeze, biting down on your lip. “...Maybe.”

“Ugh,” Kenma sighs. “I literally can’t believe you’re calling me about him at eight in the morning.”

“It’s not that early, y’know.”

He grumbles something incoherent under his breath, then says more clearly, “So what’s the crisis? I’m not sure how many brain cells I have at this hour.”

You rub your forehead, letting out a strangled groan. “Kenma, is it weird if I kinda—I don’t know—wanna make out with him? Like, a lot? Maybe not just make out—maybe, like, really make out—” You shake your head vigorously, cheeks flaming. “But is that weird?”

There’s silence on the other end for a long moment. Then Kenma’s voice, flat as ever: “That’s my sister and my best friend you’re talking about. Gross. But also not really weird. Because I literally officiated your wedding in second grade, remember? You two are basically old news.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, your free hand clenching at your side. “Oh my God, not you too. Kuroo keeps bringing it up, and now you’re enabling him. When did that wedding even become a real memory to everyone but me?”

“Uh, it’s always been a memory. You wore a yellow dress, he had a Spider-Man t-shirt, I was reading from a Pokémon handbook.” He yawns. “I was, like, seven, but I still remember, because Kuro wouldn’t shut up about it. And apparently, still won’t.”

“Yeah, well,” you huff, pacing faster. “He mentions it daily, I swear, and it’s driving me insane—like, I get it, we had a pretend wedding when we were literal children. Does he have to bring it up every chance he gets?”

Kenma’s voice goes deadpan. “He brings it up because he likes you, dumbass.”

Your pacing halts so abruptly you almost trip over the bathroom mat. “...Oh.”

A beat passes; the only sound is your heart thudding in your ears.

“Yeah,” Kenma continues, dry as day-old toast. “He’s liked you forever. You’ve liked him forever. You’re both idiots. Congrats.”

You gawk at the phone, mind spinning. “Wait—he—he’s always…? Does everyone know this except me?”

Kenma yawns again, unperturbed. “Probably. I mean, we weren’t exactly subtle growing up. Dad used to tell me he was more worried about you running off with Tetsu than, like, your middle school crushes.”

You gape. “Seriously?”

“Mhm.” You hear the faint click of a laptop or a Switch—knowing Kenma, he’s probably opening up a game to pass the time. “Anyway, is that all you needed to ask? Because I’d like to get at least another hour of sleep.”

You groan, but you can’t quell the swirl of hope rising in your chest. “This is… surreal. He just told me earlier—like, not directly, but he basically said he thinks about me whenever he meets someone new. And I might’ve implied I like him too—oh God, Kenma, what do I do?”

He’s quiet for a moment, presumably considering. “Make out with him. I don’t know. You literally said that’s what you want to do.”

“That’s it? That’s your profound, brotherly wisdom?”

“What else do you want me to say?” he drones. “You both already know you like each other. This was the most obvious outcome in the world. Just do your thing, get it out of your system. Or get married again if you want. Could be a nice full-circle moment.”

You let out a mortified noise, pressing your forehead to the cool tile of your bathroom wall. “You’re—urgh, never mind. Thanks, Kenma.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “Tell Kuro he owes me five bucks for something… I’ll think of a reason later. Bye.”

Before you can protest, he hangs up, leaving you with your phone still pressed to your ear. You stare at the blank screen, a mix of exasperation and relief swirling through your chest.

He likes you. You like him. You’re idiots—Kenma’s words, not yours. And apparently, neither of you has been hiding it as well as you thought.

You inhale slowly, trying to calm your racing heart. Then you square your shoulders. “Okay,” you say to yourself, “I can do this. Just… go out there and act normal. Or as normal as possible while wanting to jump his bones. Easy.”

With that pep talk, you push off the wall, open the bathroom door, and step into the hallway, with completely unfounded confidence in yourself.

thirteen.

That confidence goes straight out the window because as soon as you walk back, you are caught off-guard by Kuroo standing in the middle of your living room, hands behind his back and wearing the guiltiest expression you’ve ever seen, obviously hiding something from your view. You’re scared, and immediately a little suspicious. 

“What are you doing?” you ask warily, taking very slow, careful steps toward him. “What is that?”

He ignores the question entirely, instead breaking into a triumphant grin. “Babyface,” he declares, “I have a Valentine’s Day gift for you.”

All the tension in your shoulders uncoils in one quick moment of relief. “Oh.” You snort, rolling your eyes. “Okay, this should be good. What is it—a frog? A cricket? Remember when you gave me that cricket in fourth grade?”

Kuroo stifles a laugh, as if recalling the memory of your horrified shriek when you opened a tiny shoebox to find a chirping insect. “I was trying to teach you about biology. You always liked science-y stuff,” he defends. “Besides, a cricket is romantic if you think about it long enough.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Please don’t tell me that’s what’s behind your back right now.”

He steps forward, eyes warm with mirth. “I promise. This is way better.”

He produces a small, flat object from behind him—a rectangular folder, sealed by a thin, glossy cover. At first, you’re genuinely perplexed. It’s too big to be a normal card, and there’s no way it’s a book, unless it’s some custom print job. The corners are crisp, the material looks like maybe photo paper. Curiosity coaxes you closer.

Catching your confusion, Kuroo grins wider. “Look inside.”

With a hint of skepticism, you slip your fingers under the cover, peeling it back. Inside is a high-quality color print—like a medical scan or something from a research article. Black-and-gray cross-sections and bright neon highlights fill your vision, and as you blink, trying to parse the image, your mouth goes dry. You recognize the shape of a human brain from an fMRI scan: swirling patterns in vivid oranges and reds indicating activated regions.

“Is this… an fMRI?” you breathe, your hand trembling slightly as you lift the print to the light. Definitely an fMRI, your trained eye confirms—distinct slices, certain labeling, the faint text from the imaging software. “Tetsu, why the hell are you giving me…?”

He shifts, almost shy, scratching the back of his neck. “I asked one of the JVA’s partnered sports med facilities to do a little favor for me.” A pause. “A small, borderline unethical favor.”

Your eyes dart back to the vibrant splotches. “The nucleus accumbens,” you whisper, tapping a bright orange blob near the center. “And the hippocampus. They’re… lit up.” You draw in a sharp breath. “These areas activate when you’re—”

“—experiencing motivation, reward, or strong emotional attachment,” he finishes gently, voice hushed. “Like, for instance, thinking about someone you love.”

Your heart stutters so violently you nearly drop the print. “So, you—this is… from your brain?” you manage, your throat suddenly tight.

Kuroo nods, looking almost bashful, which is a jarring contrast to his usual smug confidence. “They scanned me while I was, uh… focusing on a particular mental image.” He glances away, expression uncharacteristically shy. “I figured you’d like the hard data. You being a scientist and all.”

You force yourself to swallow past the dryness in your mouth. “You’re telling me you literally got an fMRI done while thinking about… someone?” Your voice trembles on the last word, and you can’t quite meet his eye.

He exhales a quick laugh. “Uh-huh. Didn’t take long. I just, you know, had to fill out some forms, promise it was for a PR stunt about brain health or something. Then I, well, closed my eyes and pictured—”

“Who?” you interrupt, not even caring that you sound breathless. You’re clutching the fMRI print so hard you can feel the edges biting into your fingertips.

Kuroo’s grin turns downright sheepish, and he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Take a wild guess, babyface.”

Heat floods your cheeks, your mind flashing back to all the data you’ve read about how the nucleus accumbens is heavily involved in romantic love, addiction, reward. All those nights you taught undergrads about dopaminergic pathways and the hippocampus’s role in forming new memories—specifically, emotional memories.

“You… you were thinking about me?” you ask, voice scarcely above a whisper.

The sheepishness melts into something warmer. “Yeah,” he admits, gaze holding yours. “Obviously.”

For a moment, your living room goes silent—no hum of traffic or whir of appliances registers in your ears, just the thud-thud-thud of your heart as you stare at the bright orange smears on the print. He was literally focusing on you, flooding his mind with thoughts of you, enough to trigger all these hallmark signs of love and emotional resonance in his brain.

“You—” you start, but your voice is shaky. You take a breath, dropping your eyes to the image again. “This is probably the strangest and most… scientifically romantic thing anyone’s ever given me.”

He clears his throat, stepping closer. “I hoped you’d see it that way. I know you’re not into the typical Valentine’s gifts—flowers and cheesy cards. So I thought, you know… I’d show you proof.” He shrugs, but there’s an earnestness in his eyes that makes your chest tighten. “Real, measurable proof that you’re always in my head.”

Overcome, you tear your gaze from the print to search his face, half expecting him to burst into laughter and say it’s another joke. But there’s no sign of teasing. He’s dead serious, a bit vulnerable, and it reminds you painfully of how you’ve known him forever—how under all the arrogance and jokes, he’s always worn his heart right there on his sleeve.

“I—” You can’t find the words, so instead, you lean forward, pressing your forehead gently against his shoulder. The fMRI print stays clutched in your hand at your side, but the rest of you rests against him, trying to steady your breathing.

Kuroo’s arms come up, enveloping you. You feel the softness of his shirt and the warmth of his body, and it’s equal parts comforting and electrifying. “So,” he says softly, voice rumbling through your hair, “was this too much?”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze. “No,” you say, the corners of your mouth tilting up in a shaky smile. “It’s just… a lot to take in.” You let out a small laugh, one that wobbles on the edge of tears. “You literally went out of your way to prove you’re thinking about me with actual neuroscience data. How am I supposed to top that?”

He grins, the tension in his shoulders easing. “You don’t have to. Maybe just trust me when I say you’re stuck in my head, yeah?”

A breathless little chuckle escapes you. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I… can do that.”

For a second, the two of you just stand there, pressed together, the overhead light casting a soft glow on the fMRI print you still clutch in your trembling hand. Then Kuroo’s voice breaks the silence:

“Hey,” he murmurs, “since we’re on the subject of your super-scientific interest in my reward pathways… maybe we can do a little experiment?”

Your brow arches, a half-laugh catching in your throat. “An experiment, huh?”

“Mhm.” He carefully closes his hand around your wrist—the one holding the print—guiding it so you can set it gently on the coffee table nearby. Then he slides his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up to his. “I wanna see if I can spike some more activity in that region. Because I’m definitely thinking about you right now.”

Your heart stutters. The last time he teased you about wanting to test something, you were six years old, and he was coaxing you into believing that tying your shoelaces together would make you run faster. This, though? Vastly different stakes.

Still, your lips twitch into a wry smile. “Just… kissing me won’t show up on an fMRI unless you, I don’t know, plan on hooking up electrodes or something.”

He smirks, fingers trailing up to brush the line of your jaw. “Nah, no fancy medical tech needed. I just want an empirical result—like, say, a moan or a heartbeat spike.”

A shiver runs through you, and you swear you can feel your pulse jump beneath his hand. “You’re such a nerd,” you whisper, lips quirking. “But sure. For science.”

He laughs softly, the sound warm and easy, like the last golden light of sunset spilling through half-open blinds. Then, before you can think too much about it, he closes the distance, tilting his head just slightly as his lips brush against yours in a kiss that is warm, lingering, and unhurried. It steals your breath, not in the way a storm might, but like a tide gently pulling you under, enveloping you in something deep and inevitable.

The taste of him is familiar yet new all at once—there’s the faint trace of the toast from earlier, or maybe just the memory of it, mingling with something sweeter, something unmistakably him. His fingers ghost along your waist, their presence featherlight but grounding, like a silent promise that he’s here, he’s real. And when he pulls you closer, his body pressing flush against yours, you feel it—the way your heart flutters wildly against your ribs, the way warmth spreads through your chest like a sunrise breaking over the horizon.

For a moment, the world holds its breath. Everything fades away—the hum of the city beyond the window, the soft glow of the overhead lights, even the thoughts that usually crowd your mind. There is only this: the way his lips move with quiet reverence, the quiet hitch in your breath as your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric of his shirt, the subtle shift of his body as he deepens the kiss just enough to make your pulse race.

And then, suddenly, you realize—you don’t need a machine or a calculation to tell you how you feel. The answer is already written in the way your entire chest hums, in the way your skin tingles where he touches you, in the way something inside you feels like it’s come alive, like a supernova has replaced your heart.

God, the astrophysics department should be studying this instead.

When he finally pulls back—foreheads brushing, breath mingling—he searches your eyes, his own half-lidded with affection. “So,” he murmurs, “did I succeed in lighting up your hippocampus?”

Your laugh comes out a little breathless. “If you keep that up,” you say, pressing a palm to his chest, “you might just rewire my entire brain.”

He grins, leaning in again to drop a quick peck at the corner of your mouth. “Good. Then I’ll have all the data I need.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in for another lingering kiss, feeling the warmth of his smile against your lips. In the back of your mind, you’re distantly aware that your own reward pathways might be exploding, nucleus accumbens glowing neon, hippocampus forging brand-new memories like a bonfire. And for the first time in a long time, you’re okay with letting the feelings have free rein.

Because sometimes, science can capture how people feel, but it can’t fully capture why. And right now, with Kuroo’s arms around you and that precious fMRI print still waiting on the coffee table, you think you’ve finally found your “why” in the easiest, most obvious place of all:

He loves you, and you love him back.

fourteen.

Three hundred and sixty-four days later, Kuroo is helping you move into a new apartment. In Tokyo. Because Columbia offered you the chance to do an exchange with the University of Tokyo before the end of your doctorate studies. For two entire years, slicing open human brains and figuring out what’s going on beneath, because your article published in Neuron made the cover page and you got a fat and juicy grant from the school. Two entire years of being close enough to hear your parents bragging about you in person again, and to have shitty takeout dinner with Kenma after his video game streams but before his corporate mojo. 

And two entire years of getting to live with your boyfriend. Kuroo, your very wonderful boyfriend who you love more than life itself and who you want to be buried with one day. The Kuroo who was the first person you liked at six years old and is still who you like at twenty-six. The Kuroo who you have successfully managed an international relationship with because you’ve already went three years apart without the spark dying. Still, you’re absolutely beaming as you carry in boxes and boxes of clothes, because you always love getting to be with him, in person and in real life, and now you get to every single day.

You can’t hang up on him when he gets annoying anymore, but it’s worth it when he makes you breakfast daily and reaches for you in his sleep. 

You heave another box into the apartment—this one filled with mismatched mugs you’ve collected from half a dozen coffee shops—and set it down with a groan. Kuroo flashes you a grin from across the living room, one hand resting casually on his hip as he surveys the chaos of half-unpacked boxes and hastily labeled luggage.

“You brought an entire suitcase just for shoes,” he points out, amused.

“Hey,” you protest, wiping sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand, “if I’m living here for two years, I’m not just gonna live in sneakers.”

He ambles over and nudges the box with his foot. “I guess that’s fair—though I’m not carrying that one up another flight of stairs if we end up moving again. You’ll have to bribe Kenma for help.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh slips free. “Fine, fine. Now, major question: where are we putting our bed?”

He waggles his eyebrows, eyes bright with mischief. “We?” he echoes, as if you haven’t been living together for all of thirty minutes. “I’m pretty sure I get ultimate bed placement rights, given my extensive experience in interior design.”

“Oh, sure, because black-cat-themed t-shirts and old gym hoodies scream ‘interior design mogul.’”

He smirks. “Hey, I’ve got taste.” With that, he gestures expansively toward the center of a wall in the room you’d marked for the bed, where the largest patch of light from the window splashes onto the floor. “I say we put the bed there. We’ll get a queen, obviously.”

You raise an eyebrow. “A queen? As if you’re actually gonna stay on your side.”

His grin turns lazy. “Exactly. I can find you in the expanse.”

“And you wonder why I think you’re annoying.” You toss him a mock exasperated look, which only earns you another chuckle.

“You still chose to live with me,” he points out, that devilish glint in his eyes returning, “because you’re stuck with me, right here.”

“Lucky me,” you tease, while your heart still does that stupid flutter thing at the thought of waking up next to him every day.

He walks over and presses a quick kiss to your forehead. It’s such a simple, tender gesture that you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face.

“Speaking of tomorrow,” you say, turning back to break down an empty cardboard box, “it’s Valentine’s Day. Any big plans, or are we just, y’know, gonna eat convenience store chocolates while finishing the bed frame?”

Kuroo shrugs, far too casually for someone who’s obviously up to something. “Mmm, I might have a surprise,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Of course you do. You and your surprises. Is it expensive, by chance?”

His brows lift in feigned innocence. “Depends if you consider a diamond ring expensive.”

You almost drop the box, now flattened and very, very large. “A what now?”

He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “You heard me.”

He’s kidding. He has to be fucking kidding, right now. He did not spend a small fortune on a rock for your finger.

“Fucking return that,” you blurt instantly, your heart skipping not one but multiple beats. “That’s so expensive. Why would you do that?”

“Well, if I’m gonna get my future wife a ring, I’m gonna make it an investment,” Kuroo replies with an ease that makes your chest tighten all over again.

“Wait—what the… Are you—are you serious?”

He leans closer, lips tilting in a secretive smile. “I guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

Your mind whirls, half in shock, half in outright giddy disbelief. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything: his calm breathing, the faint noises from the street outside, the way the newly painted walls catch the late afternoon light.

“Are you messing with me?” you finally manage.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says, and then taps the tip of your nose affectionately. “But trust me, you’ll like it.”

It’s maddening and wonderful all at once, and you can’t help but wonder how on earth you got lucky enough to stumble into a future that looks a whole lot like happiness—especially if it involves a ring.

But for now, you tamp down the frantic beating of your heart and glance at the corner of the room. “Right,” you say, clearing your throat. “Queen bed. Got it.”

He laughs. “We’ll get the perfect one tomorrow. After all, we have at least two years of me latching onto you in my sleep, and then… maybe forever.”

And you roll your eyes, but you know what’ll happen tomorrow. Because of course you’re going to say yes. Because Kuroo Tetsuro has been the love of your life since you were a kid marrying him with dandelions, and because in every version of your imagined future, he’s still there, standing across from you at the aisle, regardless of if it’s a Band-Aid or an engagement ring he’s putting on your finger. Because he still makes every reward center in your brain light up (and because you’re putting that fMRI in your office at the university). 

Honestly, love is a system of chemical reactions. Scanners and artificial intelligence will probably take over the world sooner or later, and the scientific community is getting better and better at understanding the whys. You can measure the dopamine flooding your brain, track the firing of mirror neurons, and map out which regions of your cortex light up at the sound of his laugh. But still, science is flawed, because all the scanning techniques in the world can’t replicate the soft, certain rhythm of his heartbeat under your palm, or the way his eyes crinkle in tender amusement when he looks at you.

In this moment, your hippocampus diligently encodes every detail: the slight scuff on the floor, the teasing quirk of his lips, the warm press of his shoulder against yours. The memory crystallizes, even before tomorrow’s promise fully forms, because you already know the answer. You always have.

When you finally pull your gaze away, the last rays of sunlight spill over the spot where you’ll put your new bed—the place you’ll fall asleep entangled in each other’s arms, night after night. You picture the days ahead: lazy mornings that begin with his sleepy kisses, evenings spent side by side, peeling back the layers of the human mind and finding new depths in each other all the while.

And as your heart thrums with a rhythm that science can’t quite pin down—something that defies clean categorization in textbooks—you realize that in this bright, messy, glorious future, every neuron in your body is wired just for him.

And if that’s not proof enough of love, you’re not sure what is.

⨭ closing notes; i love being able to write bc i can create purely self indulgent things like this. i'm a neuroscientist and my bday is nov 14 (exactly 9 months after valentine's day) and im from nyc so this one really has a lil kick to it. did u notice i made it perfectly 14 chapters cause feb 14 lol i rly used my brain for that one. anyway happy day of love!! whether ur celebrating or not, please know i love u all <3

[noctiva]

im branching out of my box. view this as a premonition of what’s to come.

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Eyeless Jack - General Headcanons

CW: mentions of cannibalism, blood and gore, self-destructive thoughts, mentions of mating cycles, mentions of self-hatred and body dysmorphia

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I can not believe I haven’t talked about Jackie poo on this blog yet…. my fellow canadian <3

Visual/Appearance

We’ll get the obvious out of the way, grey skin duh. Cool toned, looking almost blueish in the sunlight. No eyes, constantly leaking a tar-like substance that drips down his cheeks and neck.

Has fangs and claws, both of which, incredibly sharp. He doesn’t ever need a scalpel, his claws are sharp enough to slice open skin like butter. Paired with razor sharp teeth, that can sink into muscle like it’s a rare steak - strong enough to crack bones if he really wants to.

Well groomed, dark brown hair. I’ll talk about this more in a second, but Jack remembers what it was like to be human, and so his appearance is a soft spot for him. Keeping the one thing that still looks human about him well-maintained is very important to him. He usually gets one of the other proxies to cut it.

Pointy ears, that articulate like a cat’s would. Perk up when he’s happy or excited, flatten when he’s pissed or frightened (though, he’s very rarely frightened).

He has a tail!!! Every time someone draws jack without a tail an angel loses their wings. I kid! But for real though, he’s got a tail. Looks like a rat tail with a big tuft of fluffy black fur at the end. Very soft, but also sensitive - so don’t touch it unless you’re close to him.

Tall and big!! Literal monster of a man! I’m talking like, 6’7 without his boots on. He was scrawnier as a human, but the whole ‘getting turned into a demon’ thing was like a cheat code for getting jacked. Big broad shoulders, calves for days, thighs that could split a watermelon in half. (🤤🤤)

I think he’s got a roman nose and an upper bite. His fangs poke out even when his mouth is closed.

Veryyyy clear skin. Like almost in an uncanny way. Kinda looks like a porcelain doll with how unblemished it is.

Wardrobe

Wears almost exclusively dark clothing. The shit that leaks out of his eyes stains everything, including his shirts, and so it got annoying. Nowadays he basically only wears black to try and counteract this issue. (Unless he’s wearing his lab coat!)

Big ol’ hoodies and even baggier jeans (also black). Think… Tech wear meets lazy stoner. Baggy, but in an intentional way. Loves those pants that have a shit ton of straps on them for no reason. He’d totally wear Tripp NYC if he could get his paws on it.

Combat boots at almost all times. He tucks his jeans into them.

Big side bag guy. Has a crossbody bag and a hip bag on him whenever he goes out to hunt. Guess what he keeps in them :)

He’s almost always wearing his mask, unless you’re like really close to him. As I said before, he remembers being a human. He remembers what he used to look like. So, knowing what he looks like now is always jarring, no matter how many years pass. He thinks he must look terrifying, so he’s not too keen to be subjecting his appearance to everyone else.

Again, actually pretty particular about his appearance! So unlike a lot of the other proxies, he hates it when his clothes rip and tear. Will be washing the blood out of them the moment he comes home from a hunt.

Usually prefers to eat shirtless because of this, as a way to try and avoid all that mess.

Personality

Stoic, and analytical.

It’s pretty hard to tell what he’s feeling most of the time, because his mask hides his expressions and his tone doesn’t give much sway.

Very closed off, extremely hesitant to let anyone close. Even the other proxies. He’ll play the role as their doctor, but that’s as far as he’ll really go in terms of relationships with them.

It’s because of two things, and both of them stem from Jack’s distaste towards what he’s become.

1. He doesn’t trust himself. He knows that who are friends, and who are food, but he doesn’t trust that his feral demon brain won’t blur that line from time to time. He likes to keep interactions minimal, to decrease the chance of that ever happening. He’d literally never forgive himself. 2. He doesn’t think he deserves it. He’s a cannibalistic, bloodthirsty demon, and he’s aware of that fact. He doesn’t think a creature such as him needs, nor deserves normal human relationships - because he isn’t human anymore, after all.

An actual sweetie if you do manage to wriggle under his skin.

Soft spoken and so incredibly kind, like some sort of angel trapped in a demon’s body.

He’s a big giver. Extremely selfless. Will willingly put himself in danger to save a friend. It’s not like he’s going to die, and he’s well aware of how to patch himself up if it’s really bad.

In relationships, gets flustered very easily. He was like this when he was human, and it carries over.

Honest to a fault. Will say whatever he’s feeling, whenever he feels it. If it hurts whoever he’s talking to he’ll be incredibly apologetic, but that wont stop him from doing the same thing in the future.

Big listener! Not a huge chatterbug himself, but he’ll sit and listen for as long as you want to talk to him. And, he’ll retain it all. He’s got a great memory.

He does not remember how to speak english. He can understand it, but for some reason his tongue just can’t figure out how to form those words anymore. I personally headcanon that he’s fluent in french, because canada, but I could see him speaking russian too.

Growls when he’s mad and chuffs when he’s happy. Like a tiger <3

General

Has an INSANE sense of smell and hearing. He can smell people from a literal mile away. And if you’re a woman, he can smell it when you’re ovulating <3 His ears can pick up sounds that no one else even thinks about, like the sound of your blood rushing through your veins.

Because of that, he hates it when people smoke. It’s already such a strong smell for people with normal noses, but for him? It’s literally headache inducing. He genuinely can’t stand it. Light up a smoke around him and he’ll be a mile away in a matter of seconds.

Alcohol and drugs don’t affect him. Demon things! Sober for life!

He’s blind! Like completely. In my brain he echolocates like a bat would, and his heightened hearing makes it easy to know who’s approaching him just by the difference in the way their feet hit the ground. His nose will sniff you out before that though.

Obviously, very well versed in the medical field. But he weaponized that knowledge against himself when he was first transformed. Performing experiments on himself. Cutting into his stomach just to time how long it took until the wound closed up completely. Removing his own organs just to see if he could still survive without them.

The results of those experiments were… Not good for his mental health.

Because they made it all too clear, that he was not in fact human any more.

Jack went a little crazy with it for a while. Doing the absolute worst to himself all in hopes that maybe he’d prove himself wrong. Cutting an arm off, leg off, cutting his own damn tongue out - all just to heal every single injury.

He does not have very high self worth. He views himself as a nasty, abomination of nature - because that’s what his experiments proved that he was. Not human, just some sick amalgamation that looked almost like one.

He can’t see himself (because… blind) but what he’s felt under his fingertips tells him all that he needs to know. So, as I said before, he hates taking off his mask. He could only imagine the horrors he’d be subjecting people to if he did.

He knows what he looked like as a human, and so knowing that his body has changed - but not knowing how much exactly, makes his stomach churn on a daily basis. He’ll run his tongue over his sharpened teeth and feel nauseous. Scratch his claws down his arm and nearly be sick right then and there. Feels trapped in a body he knows he wasn’t fit for.

Does not liked to be watched when he eats!! He’s already pretty pissy about this whole ‘being a demon’ thing, so to watch him during his most demonic activities? Yeah he’ll probably cry himself to sleep after.

He always smells like copper and sulfur, no matter what he does.

…He goes through mating cycles. Another thing that he absolutely despises about his new body. And you’ll know when it’s happening, because he will lock himself in his room and not leave until it’s over. (unless you’re his partner 😗)

Gets real feral when he’s on the hunt. Like, the human part of him completely switches off. He is brutal and messy. Doesn’t even retain his medical knowledge when he’s like this. Will tear through an entire abdomen just to get some kidneys even though he could’ve totally just sliced an incision in their lower back.

It’s like, common knowledge not to go anywhere near jack when he’s like this. He will not recognize you. He will tear you to shreds just like any other victim.

Oh, and he’s a very picky eater. Kidneys only! Everything else is yuck to him.

On a lighter note, he likes to knit :)

His claws are long enough that he doesn’t even need knitting needles.

Also a big fan of big brain games. Play chess or scrabble with him if you want him to fall in love.

Does not hunt animals! People only! Big animal guy. It’s like… You know how you feel way worse about a dog dying in a movie than a human? That’s Jack with eating.

Luckily, he only has to eat once a week, so that plenty time for another stupid human to wander into his territory.

I’m gonna headcanon that he purrs! Sue me!

Does not like perfume or cologne because of his sensitive nose. Too strong. Besides, your natural scent is 10x better.

—————————————————————————☆

ok! EJ has finally made an appearance on my blog!

he’s my side piece <3

[bunnydracula]

tomorrow will be the one year anniversary of the israeli escalation.

today, israel continues in its impotent meltdown, displacing and torturing and bombing gazan civillians while the most powerful nation on earth funds and runs cover for their crimes against humanity.

if you directly benefit from american hegemony and would like to do something to make your time on earth worthwhile, you can donate to the fundraisers you cannot possibly avoid on this website. you have seen them. these are human beings screaming for help.

my friend, mohammed al mansara, received less than $200 today. his wife and three children are relying on their father to receive enough funds to ensure that they are able to escape into egypt for medical treatment and the first night’s sleep in a year without hearing indiscriminate and deadly bombing coming closer and closer.

will you keep yourself entertained until all of this has passed and you can pretend you did everything you could? for some of you: that you really did anything at all? i am not trying to make you feel guilty. i am extending you an opportunity to be somebody better.

please help me help @save-mohamed-family. even as so many powerful people refuse to make things right, we can begin right now. right now.

[chefkids]

Claire is the physical manifestation of Carmy’s avoidance.

Before he got locked in the fridge Carmy chose to prioritize Sydney over Claire. But at Friends & Family night he ended up picking Claire over Sydney because he was being pressured by Richie and his avoidance kicked in again. This resurfaced his NYC Chef trauma, because Claire was a distraction to getting Sydney her star and the general success of The Bear. Then he tried to over compensate by turning into NYC chef all of a sudden and freaking out at Sydney. Because he wants to get Sydney a star but he’s also terrified of failing and having the NYC Chef “win” and wants to succeed out of spite for how he made him feel.

He left Sydney at Kasama to be with Claire because it was the easier choice for him than to put himself out there and be vulnerable with Sydney. Then he left her to go to that party with Claire and ended up having the Fishes Christmas panic attack. He left Sydney to cook for Claire, then ended up with the alleyway panic attack about Claire and Fishes. He left Syd at service for Claire and ended up with the NYC Chef panic attack then locked himself in the fridge and he is mainly concerned with Sydney and the staff through flashbacks. Using Claire as a distraction from Sydney always comes with a cost. And it always brings up the root cause of his avoidance which is his mother and the NYC Chef.

Carmy promised Sydney that he would not leave her alone after the fridge. And while he physically has not left her alone to be with Claire. He never mentally left Claire. 

Sydney suggested he should make a call after he got out of the fridge, and he thought she was referring to Claire instead of Richie, who is his actual 'family' and who he really hurt with his words. He apologized but in the most generic way possible and Richie knew he was just doing it to get it out of the way, which is why they're still fighting. He's still using Claire to avoid confronting his emotions for people like Richie and Sydney, who he knows he has hurt but who he really cares about. Sydney didn't give Carmy "permission" to call Claire then. He needed Sydney's push in his relationship just to call Claire his girlfriend. He thinks not talking to Claire equals prioritizing Sydney, but in turn he is still prioritizing Claire only just in his head, not physically, because he is still using Claire as an avoidance tool for his feelings for Sydney, his lack of apology for Richie, and even his lack of confrontation with his mother. 

In Season 3 we see him happy and panic free in Claire flashbacks. Because she is in a romanticized version of his past. We know he can be an unreliable narrator and see things that aren't fully there or twist things, and his flashbacks to his relationship with Claire is not the full picture. He's not thinking about all the times that being with her led to a panic attack after. He is using her to be avoidant of Sydney and what she means to him and what doing all of this for Sydney means.

He can't really answer Nat or Sydney when they ask “Why are you doing this?” because he’s still in denial about what he is really feeling for Sydney. But he can answer that he feels guilt whenever someone brings up Claire because that is easier to address.

Carmy is an avoidant. In Season 1 he oscillated between avoiding dealing with his actual grief about Mikey by just focusing on the restaurant and avoiding dealing with what was growing between him and Sydney by using the restaurant and his grief for Mikey, until it blew up in his face. He physically avoided the restaurant itself Season 2 because he needed to avoid his feelings for Sydney, but still projected his feelings for her onto Claire by doing everything Sydney enjoys with Claire until it blew up in his face with a panic attack about the two of them.

Then in Season 3 he couldn't physically avoid Sydney, so he mentally avoided her by trying to reframe his relationship with Claire as something joyful and carefree and peaceful. When we all know that the reality of it was something else. He tells the Fak's he can't apologize because it's too hard. He's avoiding apologizing to Claire for many other reasons too. Cause if he does he'll have to address the fact that Claire said she loved him, which I really don't think he loves her back like that. He'll have to face the real version of Claire and his relationship with her; which was not all sunshine and butterflies. It was filled with panic attacks and anxiety. So he'd rather live in a romanticized version of her in his head, missing her and filling his thoughts with her instead of Sydney, than face what was actually going on.

Sydney is still his muse. He slipped into thinking about Sydney that night by making a dish about her and by inviting her to go to Ever with him. He made that dish that was blatantly inspired by her standing right in front of him. He has been avoiding talking to her, and he clearly wanted to say more, but didn't know how or what to say.

Once Sydney left he started hearing the music from his time in the fridge, he threw the dish out and immediately started to spiral. He stared at the bar cart with party items for Richie's Tuesday Surprise. aka the Amusement and Enjoyment. Which is what he was trying to find with Sydney that day he had planned an inspirational food tour with her, but ended up ditching her for Claire at Kasama. And what he told himself he no longer needed in order to focus on getting Sydney a star.

He stands outside the fridge then Strange Currencies starts playing very quietly under the fridge music, "I don't know why you're mean to me When I call on the telephone." He then goes inside the fridge and "I don't know what you mean to me. And I don't know what you mean to me But I want to turn you on, turn you up, figure you out I wanna take you on" plays a little bit louder, which is basically what his deal with Sydney is right now. He doesn't know what she really means to him. He knows she calms him down and inspires him, but he doesn't ever say what that means to him out loud. Then it grows louder with "These words, "You will be mine""

Then he reached for his phone to try and call Claire. Because he's trying to drown out the song with Claire. The first time we heard it was when he first saw Claire by the fridge and once he rejected her, aka when he chose Sydney, the song got louder. Then when he wanted to take Claire to the restaurant, aka where Sydney was, after the party it played again. He knew it was for sure about Sydney from the panic attack, because with Claire it was backwards, she was his past, but with Sydney it was moving forward.

When he's debating pressing call to Claire, the fridge music overpowers Strange Currencies, because Claire is what keeps him frozen in the past and "haunted" by it. He practices saying sorry as the songs grow louder trying to drown each other out, and we see a clip of present day Claire working and Strange Currencies stops playing.

Then a flash of her in The Bear sitting on the garde manger aka cold prep, which was the same clip we saw of her when he was thinking about her when he was locked in the fridge, Strange Currencies plays again over it. He is still stuck on it even though she's moving on and living her life. Strange Currencies grows louder because he keeps trying to convince himself the song is for Claire and reverts back to the past when he thought it was for her that night he took her to see the kitchen.

Claire's I really love you voicemail plays. Then it cuts to who else but Sydney. I really love you. aka I really love *you*. Sydney. What he is actually thinking but avoiding. What stops Carmy is fearful avoidance, because Claire Sydney is so great she scares the shit out of him.

[jlheon]

୨୧ — jellyfish (nrk)

pairing. idol bf! nishimura riki x fem! reader genre. est. relationship + fluff wc. 1200 notes. based off when enha did macy’s/gma in nyc (i was there!) library.

synopsis. riki drags you on a late night walk on your last night in nyc

“i think you picked the worst night to go out,” you said to your boyfriend, zipping up your raincoat.

“i think today is a great day!” he fiddled with his plastic poncho hood because of course, riki doesn’t own a raincoat.

you two were standing in the hotel lobby in front of a mirror preparing to step outside. into the cold and wet new york city. riki was here for promotions and you insisted on tagging along, even after a long lecture with jungwon on discipline.

it was the last night before flying back and all you wanted to do was sleep in the comfort of your dry and comfy hotel bed with your boyfriend had other plans.

he loves america so much and wanted to go out at least once while they were here for the short four days.

if it meant time only permitted him free time on the last night, he was going to force you to go out with him no matter what.

riki stuck out like a sore thumb, the plastic material draped over his tall body was not discreet at all. even with the mask and his hood on he was probably easily recognizable to fans.

why did he have to ask the hotel staff for a poncho out of all things?

he could have easily bought a raincoat or borrowed jake’s. but no, riki doesn’t want to bother any of his members at this hour of the night.

it was around one o’clock in the morning, surely none of the stores would be open except for twenty-four-hour chains.

you just hoped and prayed none of his fans would be walking the streets of new york hoping to run into them at this time.

“okay, so where do you want to go first?” riki asked as you both exited the automatic doors of the building.

“shouldn’t you have something in mind?” you yawned, grabbing your boyfriend’s hand. “you’re the one interrupting my sleep schedule.”

“it’s fine ____! we’re not even going to be in this timezone any longer,” riki and you started walking down the sidewalk into the gloomy night.

“i’m still tired!” you scoffed, warm breath visible due to the cold temperature outside.

“let’s just walk and see where we end up.”

you walked clinging to riki for what felt like an hour, but in reality was twenty minutes. your eyes were so tired riki had to pull you along to avoid letting you step in puddles. though he debated letting you walk into one in hopes it would wake you up.

“____, look at the moon!” riki shook you, trying to get you to look up.

“i could have seen the moon from the hotel window,” you whined, opening your eyes to look at the sky. “why are there no stars?”

“i ate them.”

“shush ki,” you bumped his shoulder with yours. “can we go back yet?”

“it’s barely been half an hour,” riki pouted, walking you both to a bench under a streetlamp.

“it’s felt like two!” you replied, sitting on the damp bench. “ki the seat is wet!” you shot back up as soon as the water seeped through your pants.

riki laughed, then took off his poncho to lay it on the bench. the rain was only drizzles at this point so he wouldn’t get drenched but you still tried to hand it back to him.

“let’s just go back rik,” you handed it back to him.

“no! i don’t want to yet!” riki sat and pulled you down with him on his lap. “see it’s fine! now you won’t get wet.

“we’re going back at two,” you looked down at your phone checking the time, then slipped it back into your pocket. leaning back into his chest and closing your eyes.

“okay baby,” he wrapped his arms around you as you fell asleep.

riki sat on the bench, listening to your snores as he looked around the empty street. he knew jungwon was still awake and might have noticed his absence but he didn’t care. it’s not like he would have gotten any sleep anyway.

seeing your peaceful state made him want to sleep as well. it was now thirty past one, so he gave himself twenty minutes to nap before he would wake you up and return to the hotel.

before he could fall asleep his phone started vibrating and ringing. he groaned to himself before bringing the device up to his ear.

“what?” riki rasped into the phone.

“what do you mean what?” jungwon spat on the opposite end of the call. “where the hell are you two?”

“we went on a walk,” riki tried to calmly explain, making sure he was not loud enough to wake you up.

“well walk your ass back here right now, anyone could see you!”

“nobody is here i swear, we are just sitting on a bench!” riki whined. “i just wanted to see the city once before we left.”

“you don’t know that!” jungwon argued. “so come back now.”

“fine,” riki rolled his eyes, ending the call. “____, we have to go.”

“five more minutes,” you grumbled, dismissing him.

“jungwon called me.”

“but ki ‘m tired,” you yawned. “you’re the one who made us come here.”

“baby, we have to go before jungwon comes here himself,” riki explained, easing you off his lap, and onto the bench.

riki saw how unwilling to move you where and sighed. you continued to sleep completely unbothered by his statements hugging your legs to your chest. he looked at you one final time before forcing you to let go of your legs, which made you whine.

“baby, i’m going to need you to at least cooperate for now so i can get you on my back,” riki spoke softly, crouching in front of your tired figure.

“i’m sleepy!” you tried to curl back into yourself but it was unsuccessful as he was holding your legs in place.

“come on, i’m going to carry you back,” riki frowned, trying to get you to listen.

“okay…” you yawned for the nth time, opening your eyes to meet riki’s.

riki stood up and faced away from you, bending his knees so you could hop on. you sleepily latched onto his back and wrapped your arms tightly around his neck and torso. once he slipped his arms under your thighs he started on the route back to the hotel.

feeling your grip loosen he assumed you had fallen back asleep. not until he felt the plastic material of his poncho he forgot he’d been wearing get pulled over his head, followed by some of your giggles.

“you look like a jellyfish!” you laughed, peering over his shoulder to get a glimpse at riki’s face.

“baby, i thought you were sleeping,” riki looked over at your grinning face.

“no, i’m awake now,” you answered, looking ahead at the street lamps.

“if you’re awake it means you can walk.”

riki felt weight drop onto his shoulder after, which was you burying your face in his neck despite the plastic barrier. he chuckled to himself as he picked up the pace as he could see the hotel in the distance.

[notlongtolove]

petals and frost

hotch had called it a brief attachment—six months, no more. an agent liaison from the nyc office, sent down to smooth future communication, to streamline workflow. a brief attachment, hotch had said. too bad spencer hadn’t really remembered to keep it in mind. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst w no happy ending (sowie)

content: avoidant bau reader, non descriptive mentions of sex

word count: 2.8k words

note: written for @mggslover 1k event, congrats once again my love!!! yall can blame @esote-rika for that sadistic ending, i idea dumped that on her and said i didnt know if it wld be too angsty and she begged me to use it so... fuck yalls valentines ig (anyways spencer reid, just know that i, user notlongtolove, would neverrrr do that to you)

a line: You’re spring and the purple wildflowers on his skin are begging to be made yours, over and over again.

And some part of me came alive, the first time that you called me ‘baby’ The perfect genius of our hands and mouths. - Hozier, First Time

Hotch had called it a brief attachment—six months, no more. An agent liaison from the NYC office, sent down to smooth future communication, to streamline workflow. You were easy to like, easy to talk to, definitely easy on the eyes. A brief attachment, Hotch had said. The phrase seemed almost oxymoronic—Spencer hadn’t really remembered to keep it in mind. 

As it turns out, there are a lot of other things Spencer forgets around you. When you twist your hair into a haphazard ponytail mid briefing, he forgets the third personality trait of a classified sociopath. You don’t. Interpersonal offensiveness, Reid. That’s criminology 101. Emily makes a comment under her breath about his IQ being slashed in half. If you do hear her, you pretend not to. 

When you slide a beer across the table after your first case, he forgets that he doesn’t drink, masking a grimace as he takes a sip. You’re trying. He doesn’t want you to feel bad. By the time he’s on his second, his face is warm. Too fast, he tells himself. From the alcohol, definitely not from the way your thigh is pressed against his in the booth.

Later, when you’ve got him pinned against the wall under a dim lamppost kissing him breathless, he tries to forget the bureau’s policy on interoffice relationships. It’s after hours. You’re not really part of the team. You’re here contractually. A technicality. He can make an exception. 

You run your hands through his hair tugging faintly and he decides he will make an exception. 

The only thing Spencer doesn’t forget that night is the route from O’Keefe’s to his apartment though it’s a blur all the way from the cab to his apartment to his bed. He pulls you through his front door, fingers curled tight around your wrist. A tangle of limbs and lips pressed against lips feverishly, desperately—He’s certain he’s got that memorised. 

“I’m not…” you start, voice faltering between kisses, searching for the right words that just aren’t coming when you’re straddling him and he’s looking at you the way that he is, “not looking for anything… serious.”

Alarm bells go off in his head blaring amidst the euphoric haze he’s in. It’s a warning he registers but doesn’t heed. Caution. Danger ahead. He tells himself that if he squints hard enough, that if he really really tries—It’s a challenge. And Spencer Reid has never backed down from a challenge.

So he bites. Takes the bait. Plays along.

“What makes you think I am?”

You smirk like you don’t believe him but your fingers move to make quick work of the buttons on his shirt anyways. He tries to laugh when you joke about how you should definitely apply for a permanent spot on the team now, but it sticks in his throat. He distracts himself by closing his eyes.

“Spencer,” you say breathlessly, “you sure about this, baby?” 

His eyes snap open so fast it startles you, leaving you flustered, halfway to pulling back before his grip tightens at your waist, keeping you right where you are. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.

“W-what’d you just say?”

You blink back at him. “I asked if you’re sure about—”

“No, the—the other part. The last part.”

A pause. Then, deliberately, “Baby?”

Oh fuck. 

“Y-yeah. That.” He squeezes his eyes shut like he’s bracing for impact. “Say it again. Please.”

You smirk, the corner of your mouth twitching like you’re holding back a laugh as you lean down to press slow, open-mouthed kisses down his bare chest, whispering against his skin, “whatever you want baby.” Spencer has to force his eyes shut again.

You mark him up in the shades of purple wildflowers. Spencer shivers at the sight of them. Theres not much talking when skin finally meets skin. Spencer’s starved, insatiable, burning hot and ice cold all at once. This okay, baby? Yes, yes, god, yes. Can I? Yes, please, please do. Sweat pools around your bodies and Spencer tries to forget how much he wants to remember this moment. The purple wildflowers bloom across his skin—deadnettle, henbit, african violets. 

Oh, he thinks, this one’s gonna hurt, isn’t it? 

When Spencer wakes the next morning, he’s only mildly afraid to open his eyes.

He’s never done this before—doesn’t know what to expect. But he knows enough to predict the possibilities. Regret. Yours, not his. Shame, embarrassment, maybe even anger. You’ll be gone. Nothing left behind but the imprint of your body on his sheets, marks of purple left in your wake. 

Spencer Reid does not like not knowing. 

So he braces himself, steels his nerves, and opens his eyes—only to be met with something far worse.

You. 

Still here.

Curled up beside him, peaceful, angel deep in sleep, gut wrenchingly soft. In sleep, you’re nothing like how you are on the field. Out there, you’re a good shot, a great one, you think quick on your feet, you’re confident, never stuttering or stumbling like he does. You’re heaven on earth, right in his bed—He’s utterly ruined for it. He doesn’t know what possesses him to move closer, to let newfound confidence guide his arm around your waist. But he does. You stir, just barely, waking to the feeling of his lips pressed into your hair.

The morning melts into something else entirely. An abandoned attempt at breakfast in bed, clothes forgotten in a scattered trail from the kitchen counter to the couch. Unsanitary, he’d think, if he weren’t already too far gone to care. The boy’s insatiable once again, chasing a thirst only you seem to have awakened in him. It’s fiery and passionate as drinks you in, icy cold hisses when you nip at his neck. But you’re neither summer nor winter. You’re spring and the purple wildflowers on his skin are begging to be made yours, over and over again. The way your nails claw at his back, marks of sinful desire turning into ivy that grows to cover you both. It’s entirely all encompassing.

God, you have him in the palm of your hand and you don’t even know it. 

Dancing around the team is its own kind of purgatory. Turtlenecks in sweltering Texas heat which you make up for with a fleeting kiss to his cheek in the break room when everyone else has their back turned. Spencer tells himself to keep his feelings in check, to keep his adoration at bay. But it’s hard to when you exist so seamlessly within the liminal spaces of the team. Always in Hotch’s good books. Cracking jokes just dirty enough to make Morgan laugh and Rossi raise a brow. Even JJ loves you.

Silently, Spencer thanks the BAU’s abysmal budget for the run-down motel they’ve stuck you in. It makes it that much easier to convince you to stay at his place—only for a night or two, maybe three, maybe four, eventually a Baby, Hotch is gonna call us in soon anyway, and the freeway near yours is a nightmare in the mornings. You might as well stay one more night. He seals with a look, a soft plea, and you cave every time.

5 months and a week is what you’ve built together. Your days are disgustingly domestic and Spencer just can’t seem to get enough. It’s not like the two of you go out much. Long days (and longer nights) in the field leave you both drained, running on fumes. Just enough energy left to call in takeout accompanied with something strong for you, water for him. Just enough left to trade lazy kisses between bites and fall into bed tangled together. This is it, isn’t it?

Waking to rushed mornings, shared showers, half-hearted protests when you insist on shampooing his hair for him. Bare feet on hardwood floors and the bumping of hips in the kitchen as he makes coffee for two. Rendezvous on a crappy motel mattress that creaks beneath the weight of both of you when you run out of clothes for the week. Baby, we shouldn’t really—swallowed by the press of lips.

Your laughter comes to him in little bursts of light. You’re his absolute heart in human form. 

The purple wildflowers haven’t made an appearance in awhile but spring blooms in his chest all the same. When you inevitably drift off to the sound of his voice reading Spencer makes a mental note to bring The Iliad when he comes to visit. You’ll probably be done with Dante’s inferno by then. The weak fistful you have of his shirt tightens ever so slightly in your sleep and he knows what you want. He turns to shut off the light and fits himself against you, tucking you closer to his chest. Spencer tries to distract himself from the fact that you’re set to leave in a month. He’d drink dry the River Lethe to forget it if he could. Instead, in the quiet, he allows himself to think about what the weather will be when he gets the chance to visit you. 

He’s always wanted to go to New York. He’s never been the best flyer and he doesn’t know how he’ll fare on a flight without the comfort of his team and the jet’s coffeemachine. It’ll have to make do, he thinks. It’s only a little over an hour’s flight. He tells himself it’s basically nothing. He can handle it. Besides, he can always make the eight hour drive, or the six hour train. The options are endless, much like his devotion to you—He’ll walk to you if he has to. 

“Do you think you’ll have time for a trip when I come visit?” Spencer asks one night, eyes boring holes into the ceiling. You’re too busy fumbling with the buttons of his pants to catch the lovelorn grin tugging at his lips. “I know there’s probably a lot to see in New York, but I’ve been saving my days off. And if I catch Hotch on a good day, I think I could carve out a few more.”

“Oh, baby, I don’t know,” you murmur, distractedly, “I usually don’t get much time off when I’m back. Let me know if you are planning to come, though—I’d love to show you around for a day or two.”

The fuck? 

Show him around? A day or two?

It’s frosty. Ice cold. A slow caress of his cheek at arms length. Cruel in the way that kindness can be. He tenses beneath you, shifting upright so suddenly that you blink up at him, confused.

“Everything okay, baby?”

The frown on his face indicates he’s anything but okay. “Yeah,” Spencer lies. “I just… I just thought—I mean, you knew I was planning to come visit, right?”

You hesitate. “Spence, we didn’t really discuss that, I—”

“I know we didn’t.” He tries to keep his frustration subtle, but it slips through when he runs a hand through his hair sharply. “But this? Us? How could I not?”

You try again, gentler this time. “Oh, baby, you don’t have to. I know you’re really busy, and—”

“I want to.”

The realisation settles slowly into your features. And then, quietly—naively—he lets himself ask, “Don’t you want me to?” 

Silence.

Oh. 

Somewhere deep inside him the ivy shrivels and the purple wildflowers wither. It appears that spring has come to a close. 

“Spencer,” you say gravely, “I thought we talked about this—” He doesn’t hear the rest. It all dissolves into static, white noise humming in his skull. He hates that tone on you—the way it sounds so careful, so deliberate. Its how you talk to Hotch, to unsubs, to people that need to be managed. Never how you talk to him. Not how you talk to him when you share sly jokes and interlock pinkies at the back of the van, thighs touching when you share a blanket in the jet. Not how you talk when you whisper baby, stop, someones gonna see us when he insists on a chaste kiss to your nose and another to your forehead—Because how could he ever stop at one?

He blinks back into focus when you reach for his hand, thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles.

He should brace for the inevitable. He knows what’s coming, but he’s too far gone for it to matter, too far off the deep end for it to hurt now. What’s a stab to the heart when you make up for it with cotton-soft kisses and a feather light touch? I’m sorry, baby. Please don’t be sad. I wish I could stay too. Don’t be mad, okay? I don’t want you to be mad at me. As if he ever could be. Not when you’re kissing him the way that you are. Still, Spencer tries to tell himself that the wildflowers that bloom into rosettes beneath your touch are fragile things. He tries to carve it into his bones to remind himself that they won’t survive the winter of your absence.

It starts with the smallest frost, like soft snowflakes clinging to his lashes, signs he might have missed if he wasn’t already looking out for them. “Baby, you shouldn’t have,” you say when he comes home with a restock of your makeup remover. Spencer only shrugs, wordless. He knows you mean it. Not out of politeness, not out of gratitude, but because there won’t be any use for it soon.

Winter calls for shorter days, for less sunlight. It brings more cases, more exhaustion, more time spent apart. Nights where Spencer wakes up to an empty bed because you’d insisted on packing your suitcase, and insisted on doing it alone. As it turns out, the cold really does bite. 

It all couldn’t happen fast enough.

Nobody bats an eye when Spencer insists on tagging along to drop you off at the airport. It’s practical, really—an extra set of hands. Even Morgan doesn’t say a word, doesn’t call him lover boy with that knowing smirk. Maybe he would’ve if Spencer didn’t already look like he was on the brink of death. Hotch keeps his goodbye brief, a quiet nod, a quick squeeze of your shoulder after he helps unload your suitcase from the van. He mumbles something about keeping in touch, about how the door’s always open. 

Spencer is the one who walks you to your terminal. You walk briskly ahead of him, fingers curled loosely around the handle of your suitcase. You’d brushed off his offer to help—All the better because he has to shove his hands into the pockets of his coat just to keep them steady. He tries to count the steps between the check-in counter and security. All in all, both literally and ironically, too little too late. 

This is finality, signed, sealed, delivered. The clock has run out. Spencer Reid is out of time. And, for once, Spencer Reid is out of words. 

So, it’s you who takes his hand, pulling him closer. Drop me a call if you ever come visit okay? I will, I will. You’ll love it there. Take care. Call me whenever. This was amazing. You’re amazing. You’re so good. Too good. It’s you who tilts his chin and kisses him with such force he wants call it love. He would call it love. If you asked, he’d rip the wildflowers from his ribs and place them at your feet as proof disguised as an offering. You’re kissing like you’re trying to make him forget—where you both are, where you’re going, where he’s staying. You pull away, breathless, fingertips ghosting along his jaw when the intercom blares above you. He lets the last shreds of sunlight slip from his grasp when you walk through the gate. Spencer doesn’t stay to see if you turn back or not. He’s felt like an afterthought enough. 

The van is quiet when he climbs in.

Spencer ignores Hotch’s glances, keeps his head down, busies himself with the air conditioning. Granted, he rarely sits shotgun, but still, today, it feels colder than usual.

“She’s a great agent.”

“She is. She… worked great in the team.” Spencer’s fingers tighten around the vent. He nods, swallows around the lump in his throat. “You should’ve offered her a spot.”

Hotch’s eyes stay set on the road. “I did. JJ and I drafted a two-year contract for her.”

Spencer scoffs bitterly, “yeah? I’m sure Strauss took that well.” 

“Strauss had no issue with it.” 

That makes Spencer pause. His head turns, brows pulling together. “Then?”

A beat of silence before Hotch exhales, “she rejected it.”

The world stops. His stomach drops first, then his chest. Fragile stems and violet petals turn brittle, cracking as the frost works its way through him. Tiny pieces of petals and frost splinter his being. A brief attachment, no doubt. He should’ve known better. He should’ve noticed the subtlest change in the winds, distractions cloaked in tender touches as wandering hands made their way beneath clothes, apologies in a baby, I wish I could stay too. He really should’ve remembered to forget you. 

He feels the wildflowers inside him freeze over and with the gentlest shift of breath—They shatter.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you so much for reading! likes, comments or reblogs are very much appreciated!

[lostinlovingrevery]

VANNNNNNNNNNNN

surprise! it’s me!

im on the train home rn, probably not gonna write my nyc trip recap til later bc actually thinking and consolidating my thoughts is hard on the train

but im doing pretty good!!! really satisfied with my vacation, had a yummy croissant this morning and have another one in my moms bag :)

how are you? how is your day?? i hope it’s going well!!!

and of course, if you’re looking to write some logan headcanons… might i propose. playing drinking games with logan variants (sfw or nsfw or both!)

here’s a cowboy pookie for you!! <3

CAS!

I know you already told me a bit about last night and some of your trip, but I can't wait to read the full recap!!! Have a safe train trip, and enjoy your croissant!!!! (mmmm...haven't had one of those bad boys in awhile.)

My days good, I wore a pretty dress today (WITH pantyhose...Still got that pantyhose fic in my head...) and had a nice breakfast out with the fam (I ate WAY too much yesterday and today...ooff)

Oh!!! AND, I got good news, a class that I was trying to get in over the summer was closed, but I was able to get ahold of the professor and he's allowing me to join! SO!!!!!

WITH THAT!

I'm on track for graduating in August!! Whoop Whoop!

For the rest of the day tho I'm going to binge watch Marvel movies, work on cleaning my room, and maybe even get some writing done! (Possibly old man logan smut posted later...Jesus forgive me for that lol)

Also, cowboy pookie!!!! <3 <3

Drinking Games With Logan Variants!

MAINLY NSFW stuff below! Drinking, drunk sex, etc etc- you can assume there's pre-established consent in these (ESP 70S LOGAN LOL) ;) Also this tends to lean more towards the smut/fluff parts than actual drinking games lol

So, I never actually played drinking games, nor do I really drink other than this intro to wine class I took last spring (it was fun! But I did not like a single taste of any wine. Except for this one red wine was kinda okay but i don't even remember it now). I more enjoyed the chocolates that he paired with the wine LMAO

Origins Logan

The game probably started on a fun night out with yours and Logans friends/his coworkers

Probs a truth or drink type of game someone brings up.

It starts out simple, they always do. Silly things like "what's something embarassing you did in highschool"

of course as the night goes on and people get more drunk, and honest- the questions get worse, probably more intimate- even sexual in nature.

You knew Logan through your friends bf, who works with him. Always thought he was handsome, lil quiet and a tad intimidating but in an endearing way. You also thought you had NO chance with him.

He tends to take the drink option a lot more than a truth- disappointing you a bit because while you may have thought you had no chance you'd still like to know him better

He holds his alcohol well too- you never notice him sway or that sleepy look in his eye- never slurring even after his 6th beer for the night when your friend next to you is about to pass out for his 3rd.

You kept noticing throughout the night he kept looking at you. Staring at you over his bottle, watching you take every sip when you get too flustered over yet another embarrassing question about your past partners

Your best friend knows your lil crush on logan- and decides to put you on the spot- a horrible decision from her whiskey, but since you decided to bring up her secret-not-so-secret affair with her boss, you had to pay!

She asks you straight up. "Do you like Logan?"

If you werent on the spot, -or several drinks in - you could have saved yourself. Pulled off something along the lines of "yeah, he's a good friend!" but the questions had you sputtering and your face was on fire- and instead of answering you took a drink, avoiding logans gaze as he smirked.

The night ends soon after, most people too drunk to think of anything anymore and wanted to go home and sleep it off.

Logan catches you outside, checking on you to make sure you're okay to get home, you're flusterd, a bit embarrassed still and tipsy

he asks you why you'd avoid telling the truth during the game and you couldn't even talk- so you show him instead, pulling him in for a deep, passionate kiss and tasting your choice of drinks for the night on each others tongue

Trilogy Logan

Will make it seem innocent at first but really he's just trying to get you down and dirty

He's not exactly trying to get you flat out drunk- just to loosen you up a bit. You hold your purse strings around him a little too tightly- and he wants to get to know the real you, maybe a little too much- and the best way for that? Liquid courage.

You're both alone at the mansion saturday night. Ororo went out with some friends, jean and scott went to visit her parents. Charles even went to visit a "Friend". almost all students went home save for a few.

He prepared it- drinks set out and a stack of cards in his back pocket when he went to hunt you down- of course working, as you always do. It took him a bit to convince you but you gave in. Just a fun little card game that involves drinking

You never acted like you didn't like him- just seemed more tense around him- but he hears your heartbeat whenever he gets a little too close

Course he learns quickly that you do not hold your liquor well. By your third shot, you started to get relaxed quickly. A little more honest, a bit more touchy. A bit more...flirty

Maybe he brings up how you always put up a wall with him, and you get flustered, muttering how he makes you nervous- making him smirk and put his hand on your thigh

By your 6th shot you were all over him, the game forgotten as your straddled his lap and sucked on his neck- frumping over how quickly the hickey heals over before you can even admire your work.

"Why don't you keep trying? Sure one of em will stick eventually."

70s Logan

Can and will do anything he can to get you good and drunk - card games are the easiest way to do that.

He doesn't need you drunk to get you in his bed, already having tasted you multiple times- but he likes how pliant and needy you get with him when you drink

clinging onto him in the bar/club/where you're at for the night, whispering things he can barely understand because you're slurring your words and giggling but he knows they're dirty

and he likes the jealous looks yours and and his "Friends" shoot your way as they watch you lose yet another card game with him- whether on purpose or not and you smile at him deviously as you sip the coke and jack Daniels he got for you

he gets you home and in bed, pulling off your clothes with ease as your whining for him to hurry up and fuck you because just like how much he likes it- you like it too

sits and eats you out first

The way he can push himself inside you with ease, as you're babbling nonsense- your legs open and wide for him, your body was like a rag doll for him and he loves fucking you like this. Being drunk has made you more submissive, flexible, and you're begging him to don't stop- because just like him, whiskey makes you extremely horny

DOFP Logan

This prob happens during a date night and you guys decide to play strip poker- adding drinking into the mix for some extra fun

Logan is of course, always able to hold his liquor and a poker face- winds nearly every round and leaving you almost completely nude and tipsy

Of course the final round leads him wanting to claim his prize- you. However you werent so tipsy you were going to let him get away with it that easily. Maybe you weren't the best poker player but he could have at least let you win something. but no, he has to jump at the chance to get you naked first

You make him play another game- two truths and a lie. If he gets the lie right, he'll be allowed to do something to you- whatever he wants. if he doesn't- he has to drink- and you put on a new piece of clothing

Logan thought this would be a piece of cake- however, far from it. Maybe you weren't good at poker BUT you were very good at this game, full of spite and pettyness, smirking as he gets the lie wrong- something that was just barely the truth. Watching him whine with his now 6th beer in hand as you pulled your panties back on- and then your bra, your t-shirt-

When he finally gets it right though- talk about excitement. You're barely giving a moment to react before he dives into between your legs lapping at your cunt through your panties

Worst Wolverine

Probably as equally devious as 70s logan tbh

prob starts at a game night at Wades place

after wade passes out (not before drunkenly crashing into the coffee table and konking out there and then) and the others go home, you and logan are left with yourselves.

you weren't ready for the night to end, and logan looked barely tipsy even with as much as he drinked tonight- you decide to make things a little funner with him

inviting him over to your place to continue some games- and get away from wades snoring

its another case of drunken strip poker, and logan- who has recently gained a huge crush on you was EXTREMELY eager to win. and thought he'd be the one watching you strip

however you were just as good. Every round held electricity in the air. You managed to get him down to just his jeans and briefs before you even had to take off your shirt

he can see however you're getting tipsy and he's never been one to follow the rules- so he cheats. Yeah, you read that right.

Before you know it you're in your underwear- unsure how to grasp how that happened

and he's now too pent up to care about winning anymore, not when you're right there, ripe for the taking. Practically flips the table getting to you

its in the morning after, you're sleepily walking- or limping with soreness in your legs- out of your bedroom where logan was still passed out in your bed. you're wearing his tshirt, and starting to clean up when your find the cards he stashed under the table when he cheated- that motherfucker

couldn't complain tho, he did give you a pretty decent dick- down

BONUS!

Cowboy! Logan who invites you to play, it was just innocent drinking card game- one he's played hundreds of times before. However you were quite good at this lil game and you're both taking equal amount of sips of the whiskey he set out- before you know it he's fucking you on the table where the cards still laid splayed out.

Patch ! Logan who's already a quite established gambler who has his own personal lady luck by his side (you). You always sat and watched him play- admiring his skill with the games of chance- and decided to take your own chance by challenging him one night as he escorts you both back to the hotel penthouse room he's been paying for. He up the stakes- every round you lose (3 games each round) - you gotta do something special for him. ;)

You lose, a lot. And with next to no refractory period, he could do this all night.

[alexiroflife]

‘don’t ignore me’

“Across the Earth” Part 1: satoru gojo x reader

part 2 | part 3

Synopsis: you travel to NYC for spring break completely oblivious of satoru’s plan to follow you there

to sum it up: satoru does not take being avoided by you very well

WC: 12,731

The late afternoon glow of the setting sun milks the empty classroom through the row of glass windows touching the floor up to the ceiling. Most classes for the day have ended, and students scatter about the campus in search of food, study spaces, and each other’s company. It is no later than five pm, two days out from the university's suspension for spring break. 

The chaotic atmosphere of the large campus is finally subsiding after a month’s long hectic craze of last minute assessments and projects as people prepare for their much needed vacation from strenuous academics.  

Satoru Gojo and his best friends lounge peacefully inside their empty philosophy classroom, soaking in the rich rays of orange sun. A comfortable silence has settled over the group as Suguru works to finish an essay and Shoko toys with her lighter, flicking it open and closed repeatedly as she watches the small flame ignite and dwindle in her palm. 

Satoru, oddly quiet, has been tapping away at his phone, hunched over the back of a chair so that he is facing his friends who sit properly before him at desks. The three pay each other no mind, wrapped into their own dazes, when Satoru breaks the stillness and thrusts his phone into their faces.

The two stop, snapping up from their trances instantly, the glow of Satoru’s phone screen disrupting their concentration. Satoru says nothing, waving his phone back and forth tauntingly in order to keep their, what he assumes will be, short-lived attention.

They lean forward to examine what the device has to display and scrunch their noses as their eyes dart over words and pictures that stand out to them in clarification of what Satoru has done. 

Email confirmation. Seven day stay. Hamptons, New York, USA. 

Suguru looks up first, confusion and distrust swimming in his hazel eyes. Shoko puts her lighter down and takes Satoru’s phone from his hand gently next to peer down at the images of the extravagant, luxurious villa plastered all over Satoru’s phone with her own eyes. 

Satoru taps the back of his chair eagerly, eyes swapping between the brunette and the ravenette with an enthusiastic smile. “So? What do you think? You guys excited or what?”

Suguru crosses his arms atop his desk, leaning forward with eyes slim with suspicion as he tries to process what he has just seen. He places his pencil down next to his unfinished paper with the understanding that inquiring about whatever his best friend is planning will take a good chunk of time out of his work hour.

 “Satoru…” he begins tiredly, searching the snowy haired man’s jubilant expression for whatever true intentions lay beneath it, for there was always a reason why Satoru did the things he did. This applied especially to when his scheming led to greater absurdity, his actions as loud and ridiculous as the reasons he executed them. “Why did you rent out a villa in the Hamptons?”

Satoru shrugs. “The real question here, Suguru, is why not?” 

Shoko swipes her finger over the plethora of pictures Satoru’s email confirmation has to offer, brows jumping with subtle interest with each snapshot. “You want to go… to America?” she poses softly in a mumble, eyes glued to the phone.

“Ah, no. Correction: we are going to America! As a group!” Satoru exclaimed, leaning back with outstretched arms. “For spring break! Aren’t you guys excited?” 

Shoko finally looks up again, meeting Satoru’s eyes blankly, while Suguru rubs his forehead in exasperation. “And why would we be doing that?” 

“Well, because the first class round trip tickets are booked, and so is our stay, which you’re looking at right now,” the blue eyed man explains as though telling his friends two days before break that he paid for their expenses to travel across the world is completely justified and, far worse, normal. He leans over to point at the dates listed below the email confirmation on his phone, guiding his friends’ eyes to his finger. “See? Our stay starts Saturday, so we have to leave tomorrow.”

Suguru’s lips part in shock, eyes widening. “Wh- tomorrow?”

“It’s a twelve hour flight and we’ll be jet-lagged. Gotta plan ahead.”

The black haired man thinks he can just about wring out Satoru’s neck when that sentence falls from his mouth, for everything he is suddenly presenting is hardly something that has been planned ahead. 

Shoko looks over to Suguru to see what he is thinking and finds the agitation mixed with sheer awe at Satoru’s audacity will likely lead into yet another argument between the two that she is forced to witness from nearby. 

“Satoru, please tell me you’re joking,” Suguru scoffs. “We can’t just up and hop on a plane to America tomorrow- we have class, and none of us are packed for a week’s trip in a completely different country,” he reasons. “And America? Why the hell would you want to go there of all places?”

“Yeah, why not the beach?” Shoko chimes in monotonously, handing over Satoru’s phone to its owner. “There’s so many other options outside of the country. Like Bali, Greece, the Bahamas-”

“Or staying home and not springing a full trip out of nowhere onto your friends a day in advance?” Suguru interjects.

Satoru takes his phone back and pouts. “The Hamptons is on a beach, you guys. Didn’t you see the pictures? Our villa is like two seconds from the water,” he says. “Besides, who’s never wanted to go to the U.S.? Don’t you think it’ll be fun?”

“No, I don’t,” Suguru deadpans. “The Hamptons is in New York, Satoru. Don’t you know what New York is like? It’s disgusting.”

“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever been,” Satoru pokes out his tongue. “And what you’re thinking of is New York City. Where we’re staying is two hours away,” Satoru corrects. “It’s perfect. We can spend most of our time lounging in our big house and on the beach, and whenever we feel like it, we can drive down to the city to explore! It’ll be good to get a change of pace for us to embrace tourism.”

“I’m not going into that city,” Suguru frowns, and Satoru sighs loudly.

“Don’t be so reclusive, Suguru. You may like it.”

“I won’t.”

“Have a little faith!” Satoru groans, eyes peering dramatically over the frames of his round glasses. “We’re juniors. We shouldn’t just sit around at home all break doing nothing.”

“That’s not the point, Satoru.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you don’t like America,” Satoru waves his hand. “But you’ll get over it once you actually get there.”

“Do you think they’ll be friendly?” Shoko asks, lifting her chin in thought. It’s clear that she is already mentally preparing to indulge Satoru by going on this trip, for she had nothing better to do than to spend it away with her friends. After all, there are worse fates than shacking up in an outrageously expensive villa in the states. 

“Who, Americans or New Yorkers?” Satoru questions. “Either way, no, not at all,” he concludes, answering his own question. “But it’ll still be fun!”

Shoko shrugs, leaning back into her chair and propping her feet atop her desk. “As long as there’s water and food, I’m set.”

Satoru grins. “See? Look at that, Suguru, Shoko’s on board. So stop complaining and just go with the flow.”

Suguru clenches his jaw, astonished by the things he is hearing. He does not understand it. Not one bit. Satoru, though constantly flaunting his privilege to travel around, has never expressed direct interest in going to America. While he has toyed with the idea playfully in the past, Suguru had never taken his comments seriously because, to be perfectly frank, who would?

He knows something was up by the glint in Satoru’s eyes alone. Suguru knows his best friend very well, like the back of his hand, and knows entirely too well when there is an alternate angle to his seemingly random madness. After all, Suguru always found himself directly in the center of his spontaneous proposals. 

Therefore, when Suguru’s glare on Satoru hardens as if he is trying to physically see past his thick skull and into his mind’s contents, and Satoru stares back with a frozen smile, he knows that his gut instinct is correct. “What are you up to?” the hazel eyed man asks, furrowing his brows. 

Satoru’s smile stretches but does not quite reach his eyes. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking,” he replies coolly. “I simply want to treat my friends to a nice vacation. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes, it is.”

The albino slumps, rolling his chin over the rim of his seat grumpily. “You think so little of me, Suguru.”

“If it makes you feel better, I wouldn’t if I didn’t know you so well.”

Satoru’s bottom lip juts out and brows angle as he ponders the comment. “I’m not sure I know how to respond to that one.”

“Just cut the bullshit, okay?” Geto shifts in his seat, raising a brow at his sulking buffoon of a friend. “You’ve always got a reason for doing something, and this is no exception. So spill.”

Gojo’s eyes wander beneath his dim lenses, bouncing over every object of the room as his playfulness diminishes with Suguru’s accusation. “God, when did you get that stick shoved up your ass?”

“Since I’m twenty-one with a future career to think about. And so are you,” Suguru bites. “Stop stalling. Out with it.”

Satoru exhales again, closing his eyes. “I don’t know what to tell you. I hate to disappoint, but I’m only doing this out of the kindness of my heart and my hunger for exploration. You should be ashamed, throwing around these accusations and insinuating that there’s something more I want other than to have a once in a lifetime experience with the people I hold dearest to my heart-”

“You think, maybe, this has something to do with (Y/n) mentioning that she was going to New York for spring break the other day?” Shoko jumps in, her words droning on as if she were bored and her attention now elsewhere on her own phone, but her presented notion striking realization and dismay in the boys beside her.

Suguru’s eye twitches as everything pieces together in his mind. It was you. How hadn’t he understood sooner?

Satoru had taken a particular interest in you ever since freshman year orientation. 

While he, Shoko, and Suguru entered university having known each other all throughout high school, you were the new addition into their lives that Satoru had been rather insistent upon acquiring. 

It started with the freshman presentation in the auditorium. You happened to sit next to Suguru at the end of the row while Satoru sat on his other side and Shoko on his. You caught the blue eyed man’s eye immediately without even having to speak. But when you did, it was not to him but to Geto, leaning over and asking quietly if he knew where one of the dorm rooms was located, for you had yet to adjust to the size of the campus.

Satoru watched intensely out of the corner of his eye as Geto explained to you that he lived in the same building and would gladly show you around after the presentation. You thanked him kindly, a sweet smile rising to your face to match the charm in your light tone. Satoru nudged his friend harshly in the side when you turned away, ignoring the glare he tossed into his direction and leaning to whisper that he thought you were hot. 

Geto was quick to shove him away and hiss a warning, for he didn’t want Satoru scaring you off just after he made your acquaintance. Nevertheless, Satoru was determined from then on to learn who you were. And learned, he had.

You were attending University to study art and history, your hometown about five hours away from the campus by car. You were an only child, but came from an incredibly academically pressured environment. You were an honors student, here on scholarship, and you were so very talented. Your parents had wanted you to pursue something more practical, something that would show for the hours of mathematics and science practices that had been forced onto you while you were in high school, but the strenuous impact of high expectations and terribly little breathing room had pushed you into a different direction. 

You adored learning. You had a skill for it. You liked understanding the lens through which history has been told, how artists have come to detail the past, how history takes a hand in not only your daily society but the way in which daily society remembers it through art. You wanted to travel, to create, to fill your head with knowledge of past and present worlds, and though you could have been anything, this school and this path was what you chose. 

Your parents, of course, had not approved, so you were forced to work for your position at the university because they refused to fund you financially. You applied to numerous scholarship applications until you were accepted by over three, wrote hundreds of drafted college essays that eventually crafted your best piece of writing yet, and worked two jobs during school and the summer whilst simultaneously maintaining straight As. You worked damn hard, and all of that work had led you to where you were today.

You had only mentioned about a quarter of that information to the friend group as they led you to the co-ed dorms that they coincidentally all resided in and asked you questions to get to know you, but Satoru had learned the rest over the months and years. 

Despite Suguru’s warning for Satoru to back off, he did just the opposite and crowded your space as the four of you walked to the dorms after orientation. He was chatty, buzzing with an aura of privilege that you just could not seem to acclimate yourself to, at least not at first. Even so, Satoru was quick to welcome you into the group, inviting you to lunches and over to his shared room with Suguru within the span of barely two days. You were overwhelmed, to say the least, but grateful to have made friends so quickly. 

Satoru found himself intruding into your life just as he did with anyone else. No matter where you went, he had always found a way to turn up unexpectedly. Sometimes, he was alone, and other times, he was with Suguru or Shoko or both. 

As time went by, Satoru knew that he had gotten on your nerves the more comfortable you became. Gojo had blinked, and you went from a timid, kind stranger to the loud, bubbly, brazen woman you are today, who told him to leave you alone when you were trying to study and he was buzzing around your room like a nagging fly, and man, did he adore it. He adored your attention, whether it was positive or negative. He adored how your reactions to his lack of personal space proved that you were acutely aware of his presence, of his space, of his body near yours. He adored how, though you considered yourself to be friends with all three of them, he remained the only one that you would constantly bicker back and forth with when he did something to agitate you. 

He adored everything about his interactions with you, for half the time they were the only thing motivating him to trudge out of bed and take on the day.

You, on the other hand, had very different opinions of Satoru Gojo. The first time he spoke to you, he reeked of privilege and presented himself as a position in such subconsciously. He was the stark opposite of you, having been handed a place in school, a legacy, an estate, and money that could last him, his children, his children’s children, and so on, for centuries to come. He was in a clear position of power, holding his head high and strutting about campus as if he owned the place. 

Your first impression of him was that he was an arrogant, pompous brat.

As you got to know him, Suguru, and Shoko better, however, your disinterest in him faltered and you truly did begin to view him as a friend and as someone you loved spending time with. Though he was still spoiled as all hell, he was funny, he was intelligent, he was smart, and he was hardworking when he wanted to be. He wasn’t a bad guy at all though he was preposterously clingy and bothersome, but in an endearing, playful kind of way.

Nevertheless, Satoru Gojo would always be someone who viewed himself as above you. Someone who toyed with you for fun, who said and did things solely to get a rise out of you, who flirted with practically the entire population of girls on the campus, and who found it funny when professors berated him because they were just too “uptight.” Satoru was a brat, through and through, and you knew that he’d only hover around you if it served well for his entertainment. 

This fact hadn’t bothered you before because you thought you understood the dynamic that Satoru had built with you and with many others, but when you started feeling pangs in your chest when he grinned at you or envy bubbling in your gut when another girl approached him to ask for his number, your stomach sank with fear because you knew that your feelings were shifting against your better judgment. 

Consequently, you began distancing yourself from Satoru as best as you possibly could. Your texts went from all caps to lowercase as your tone dried, you stopped by his apartment with Suguru less throughout the week, and when he tracked you down, throwing an arm around you and asking what you were doing for the night, you would tell him you were busy studying with people who didn’t exist. 

It hurt you to behave in such a way, for you could tell that Suguru and Shoko were beginning to notice not only your shift in demeanor, but Satoru’s obsessive panic over why you were talking to him less. You tried to keep your friendships with the two separate from your feelings for Gojo, but the task proved quite impossible due to how attached the three of them were to each other. No matter how far you tried to pull away subtly, Satoru was there. Everywhere. 

This is what led you to decide that a trip out of the country would do you some good. You had always wanted to go abroad and your professor had presented an opportunity to you in New York to do research with a colleague on a selection of artifacts presented in the MET gallery. You scraped up the money for a ticket and an AirBnB in SoHo, along with the generous help of your university’s study abroad funding, and set the date. You had mentioned that you were going away to Shoko a few nights ago over the phone, but were unaware that your voice was on speaker as Shoko got ready for the bar with Suguru and Satoru catching wind of your brief conversation in the background. 

Gojo must have seen the opportunity to catch up with you, and snatched it.

Suguru groans, rubbing his hands over his face as he takes it all in. The only reason Satoru is so set on this trip is because he will be hijacking yours.

Satoru rolls his eyes, sitting back up and crossing his arms stubbornly over his chest, displeased with the general reaction to Shoko’s observation. “Like it’s a crime to be in the same place as her for spring break. That could be purely coincidental,” he tsks, casting his gaze to the ceiling.

“Satoru, oh my god,” Suguru grumbles.

“What?! It’s not a big deal! We’ll be two hours away from her and we can hypothetically visit her in the city if we decide to one day.”

“Are you seriously staking this entire trip on the chance of seeing (Y/n)? Satoru, I’m pretty sure she’s not staying home for a reason.”

“Duh, because she has a research thing.”

“No- I mean, she’s trying to get some space,” he urges. “From us.”

The notion does not sit well in Satoru’s chest, so he decides to ignore it. “Impossible. She loves us.”

“I don’t doubt that, but I also can tell that she’s been distant and wants a break. A break… far away,” Suguru emphasizes the last few words with earnest. “Come on, you had to have noticed too.”

Had he noticed? 

It’s all Satoru can think about, day in and day out. He looks at your text messages, reading back over your loud responses from months ago that have resorted to short words with periods, and at times nothing at all. He wonders why you don’t visit him often anymore, why you blow him off every single time he tries to hang out, and his heart hurts at the thoughts.

He doesn’t know what he has done wrong or if he has upset you in any way. For a moment, he thought it was a mutual distance that you were putting between all three of you, but the night you had called Shoko telling her about your trip and not him really put things into perspective. You were avoiding him. Not Suguru, not Shoko, but him, and he has no way of knowing why or how he could fix it. 

He misses you, and he’s not ready for you to decide that you want nothing to do with him anymore, so he’s following you, chasing after the chance that perhaps there is something he can do to make you laugh with him, smile at him, whack the back of his head again like you used to. 

“I don’t know, Suguru… maybe it’s you she’s trying to distance herself from,” Satoru hisses through his teeth, purposely deflecting blame from him as a coping mechanism. “I mean, after all, you do get in a crabby mood after certain classes. You probably said something mean to her one day and didn’t realize.”

“Shut up, you idiot, we both know that didn’t happen,” Suguru denies confidently, for he knows exactly why you have been stepping away. 

He has seen it in your eyes when you look at Satoru, the way you unintentionally cast annoyed glances Suguru and Shoko’s way when the four of you are out and Gojo is stopped by an enamored pretty girl, looking to drag him home with her. 

He sees the love all too well, in the both of you. He and Shoko both do, but they can not for the life of them understand how the two of you have been so blind to it. If you had opened your eyes for one second to see the reason why Satoru would wake up every morning to text you random, insignificant thoughts or followed you around like a lost puppy, you wouldn’t have been distancing yourself the way you are now. 

Nevertheless, Suguru supposes he understands. Satoru can be a lot to handle, and when you are trying to look up at him from the bottom of the pedestal that the world has placed him upon, it is terribly difficult to meet him eye level and see the truth in his gaze. 

“You need to be honest with yourself,” the black haired man proceeds. “And you can’t just intrude on (Y/n)’s privacy because you want to. It’s not fair to her.”

“What do you know about what she wants,” Satoru mumbles bitterly under his breath, turning to look outside the window in hopes of the scenery outdoors drifting him away from this enclosed conversation. 

Suguru shakes his head to himself, watching as Suguru pouts. “She’s not just your friend. She’s a friend to all of us,” he says, voice growing softer as he knows this is a sensitive topic. “Yes, it’s sad that we don’t see her as much anymore, but you have to respect her wishes. We shouldn’t go on this trip. Not if it’s to see her.”

Satoru is stubborn. Incredibly stubborn. He was raised receiving everything he asked for and more, therefore, he did not understand the concept of not doing something if he wanted to do it. And of course, when it comes to you, Satoru is willing to challenge all barriers in order to get to you. 

So he shakes his head in retort and allows a smile to return to his face. “Even if I were bringing us to America for her, which I’m not, the trip is already fully booked and paid for,” he grins, and Suguru feels the color drain from his face. Shoko chuckles quietly to herself in amusement, all too familiar with the shenanigans that Satoru pulls. Only she finds it far funnier and less agitating than Suguru. “So either way, we’re going. No ifs, ands, or buts. And as a matter of fact, I'm feeling extra touristy this year. I say we hit the MET while we’re in New York too. You know what they say… when in Rome,” Satoru nods, entirely too satisfied with himself. 

Suguru pinches the bridge of his nose, reluctantly accepting his fate. “I hate you.”

“Tell me about it,” the white haired man smirks.

“Even so,” Suguru starts, picking up his pencil once more in a half-attempt to conclude his closing paragraph. “We still have class tomorrow. Don’t we, Shoko?”

The said brunette hums. “True, but we’re not really going, are we? It’s the last day before break. No one will be there.”

Satoru stands abruptly, rekindled pride bursting in his chest. “Exactly. You’re gonna have to skip class just this once, Suguru. We’ve got a flight to catch,” he grins and Suguru grips his pencil so hard it almost snaps.

_______________________________

You huff as you slam your suitcase onto the hard floor of your temporary residence for the next week. The door shuts gently behind you, and you are finally gifted your first moments of isolated peace within your room. You step around your bag, exploring the space excitedly. You’re exhausted from your flight, more exhausted than you believed a person could be, but the spark of thrill buzzing in your body from making it overseas after a long journey is fresh in your mind. 

The space is far bigger than you thought after having been told of horror stories about New York’s cramped style of living. You have a cute kitchen that connects directly to your living space, which leads to a small balcony that overlooks the bustling streets and crowded stores of SoHo, New York. You see the corner that rounds to your bedroom and bathroom with a full shower, but rush to the balcony first. You throw the door open and step out, the muffled sounds of the city instantly hitting your ears with crisp clarity. You are seven floors up, looking down with wide eyes and a large smile, taking in the smoggy air and rows of brick buildings. You think to yourself that it is absolutely perfect. 

And what is best of all is that there is no Satoru in sight, no reminder of the heavy weight that weighs on your chest each time he is near, no image of his perfect face and haunting blue eyes, or that messy hair white as a cloud, or those glossy lips that always curl into a sinister smile. 

No, none of that here. You are free of him, of this burden of love for the next week, and you feel you can finally breathe. 

You settle in, unpacking your things and tucking your clothes away in the drawers, claiming the sunlit space as your own. You have a meeting early tomorrow morning with your professor’s research colleague at Central Park before heading into the museum, so you figure you could take the rest of the day to grab some food and rest, far too tired to explore a good chunk of the city due to the flight.

You go to sleep peacefully that night, the view of the city and busy noise surprisingly calming you into your slumber. Unbeknownst to you, however, while you drift off into a dreamless sleep, Suguru, Satoru, and Shoko are lugging their bags through the East Hampton airport.

-

You’re up bright and early the next morning. The first thing you do is check your phone subconsciously for messages from Satoru before recalling that your once steady text communication had come to a slow halt because of you, and that you two are in separate parts of the world. You pause, heart panging suddenly at the thought of Satoru, before shaking your head and pushing the thoughts away. This trip is not for you to sit around and think about that moron. You have work to do, sights to see, research to accomplish- and a meeting in an hour.

You rush out of your AirBnB after a half an hour, waving your hand aggressively on the sidewalk to hail your first cab. One eventually comes along after three have passed, and you set your destination for the South Side of Central Park. You dig into the cash fare you set aside specifically for cab rides and step out into the path leading into the plethora of greenery and liveliness of the park upon arriving. 

You are instantly filled with childlike wonder when you catch sight of street performers, vendors, horse drawn carriages, and artists. You look around, teeth biting into your lip harshly to suppress your smile. Though it is early morning, it’s already loud and busy as people rush to work or take morning jogs down the street.

Your phone rings before you can wander off to where you are not supposed to be, and you see the name of the colleague you are supposed to meet pop up. You quickly answer and trek off into the park, following his directions and finding him sitting at a bench atop a large rock. 

He is much younger than you expected when you approach him. He may be a few years older than you are now, stubble shading his face and brown hair cut short. You smile when he catches your eye, and he’s standing, reaching out to shake your hand with a warm grin. 

The two of you talk about your education, your experience with art history, and the goal of the research you would be helping him accomplish for your professor back at home. The two of you walk and talk as you head to the east side of the park to reach the MET gallery. 

He, who you learn to be named Aoto, is a grad student in his mid twenties attending a school in the city, an alum to your current college. Aoto is helping your art history professor collect data on how certain artifacts on display in the MET gallery have been discovered and acquired over the years, and to categorize them by culture and country of origin. Your job is to assist by essentially organizing the data and taking note of his findings by following him around galleries, lectures, and meetings, and you can not be more excited to start.

You then ask the dark haired man about his experience in the city, curious to know what New York is like from an insider’s perspective. He almost laughs and tells you that living there has changed his life for the better. He admits that it takes some getting used to at first, but once you have spent enough time here, there’s no going back. New York is a melding pot, he tells you, where anyone can work toward anything. It is a tough city to attempt to conquer, but it rewards you with so many connections and experiences that you can not find anywhere else. 

You take his words to heart, already admittedly inspired by the atmosphere around you. It is nothing like home, so boisterous and hectic, but lively, eclectic, and artful. It intrigues you.

You're snapping pictures left and right when you reach the MET, a wide, tan building with large banners cascading over the walls, advertising wonderful areas of exploration and collections within the museum. Aoto, far more casual than your professor had led on, chuckles at your excitement and offers to take pictures of you in front of the building with your camera. The two of you are standing on the steps of the museum for at least fifteen minutes, distracted by capturing images on your phone, before trekking inside.

And inside, your heart bursts as this building is where you are meant to be. Ancient Greek sculptures, fragments of middle eastern fabrics, plates collected from the Byzantine Era, works capturing prominent artists of the Harlem Renaissance, and more captivate your eyes, your heart, and your mind; the museum is a melding pot of history, new worlds different from the last lurking around each corner. You jump between signs, unsure of where to go next as you take it all in. 

Today, Aoto spends by giving you a tour and familiarizing you with the environment. He works there part-time with a membership and is able to give you an in-depth analysis of as many galleries as you can conquer within the few hours of time you have set for the day. 

When the tour concludes, he gives you a brief assignment to write down a list of the galleries you would be interested in focusing on for your short participation in his project as well as what you observed about certain artifacts that are on display. It isn’t much, but he wants to get your mind pumping with something before he puts you to real work throughout the rest of the week. You accept your task happily, moved by the pieces of history that you have already seen in the span of less than one day. 

For the rest of the afternoon, you find a nearby cafe and get to work, fixated completely on the works that have caught your eye in the museum. You type away the hours, jotting down observations, things that moved you, things that confused you, things you want to see. The sun is setting again before you even notice, and you get a buzz from your phone that brings you back up for air and concludes the dive into a rabbit hole that you have traveled through for a good chunk of the day. 

Aoto’s name pops up again, this time in a text. 

Dinner? I can show you a good spot near where you’re staying. We can talk work : )

You don’t see any reason for you not to accept, so you text back and agree. He sends an address instantly, and you’re packing your laptop and rushing out of the cafe to hail a taxi to head back to your place and put away your belongings before walking to your destination. 

You conclude that this is a nice change in pace from the constant harassment of Satoru as you sit across from your research partner at a bar and grill down the block from where you’re staying. It’s casual and friendly, refreshing, new. 

You talk about tomorrow's plans, your interest in the Arms and Armor gallery and the Islamic artifacts that you have analyzed earlier in the day. You also discuss your observation of missing fragments of Syrian tile or the preservation of torn carpet from centuries past. Many of the artifacts kept in the MET are still missing parts of itself that may likely never be recovered.

Once you finish discussing the day, Aoto tells you that tomorrow, you’ll be meeting up with him and a historian who will walk you through the findings of the Islamic Art collection. 

It is late when the two of you finish up. You step outside of the dim restaurant onto the sidewalk and into the cool air, facing each other to kindly bid farewell until the following day.

You smile to yourself as he walks away, heart fulfilled with the promise of a new week abundant with all the things you find joy in doing. You think to yourself that you are so very lucky to have been granted this opportunity, to travel, to learn, to experience, and that your spring break will be absolutely amazing. You grow excited even at the prospect of telling Shoko and Suguru about it when you return home.

You turn over your shoulder and prepare to walk home, eyes to the dark sky above before you lower them to look ahead…

And your face drops.

You squint, stopping dead in your tracks. Are you dreaming? Hallucinating? You must be, because there is no reality in which your eyes have caught a glimpse of that porcelain glow of silky hair in the midst of people walking by.

You scrunch your brows, a sudden aggressive sense of anxiety taking over you. Your heartbeat rises, the notion alone of seeing what you think you see makes your palms run cold with sweat and your body hot all over. No, you must be seeing things. Your mind is playing tricks on you, because there is no way in all hell that you just saw Satoru Gojo on the streets of SoHo, New York.

But then a path clears when people scatter to the sides, revealing two tall figures and a shorter  one ahead, and your jaw hangs wide open.

You have got to be fucking kidding. 

You wish someone was, that a prank is being played on you in poor taste, but your eyes have unfortunately not mistaken you. You could recognize your three friends anywhere. You watch in awe as Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, and Shoko Leiri saunter their way up the sidewalk into your direction. 

Satoru is looking around him with a childlike smile, flashing pictures of random people and alleys that hold no significance. He busies himself with the exaggerated pictures, looking everywhere but ahead of him, which tells you that he knows full well that you are standing nearby. 

Shoko stands behind him on his left with a cigarette propped between her lips, looking off across the street at an ice cream shop that catches her eye, and Suguru looks the most miserable of them all. Clad in dark, baggy sweats, he slumps on Satoru’s right, glaring in judgment at the people that brush by him, too close for his taste.

You don’t know what to say or do. You have half the mind to just turn around and walk off into a different direction, but Satoru’s eyes meet yours behind those damned glasses that he never took off of his face before you can even think about it 

He lowers his phone and parts his lips in feigned shock, cupping a hand over his forehead and leaning over to catch a better glimpse. He opens his arms wide upon detecting your face and his posture straightens. 

“(Y/n)! What a surprise, is that you?!”

His voice carries, turning heads as his tall form practically skips over to you and glomps you in a hug. You grunt, eyes wide and body frozen as the feeling of his body embracing yours fails to register very quickly. You stare off through wisps of white hair, tormented confusion written all over your face. Satoru is rocking your body side to side suddenly, acting as though you have not seen him in years, and for the blue eyed man, it may feel like just that. 

“It’s so good to see you!” he sings, pulling back with his large hands gripping your shoulders. You look up at him with a blank stare as he beams, pearly whites shining and fair skin tinged with a hint of pink on his cheeks. He chuckles when he looks at your expression, the bubbly sound making your head spin on your neck. “You look so shocked! Did you miss me?” he asks smugly, voice dipping lower as he leans his head in with a smirk.

You're speechless, stunned by his presence and distracted by his gut wrenching beauty. 

How the hell is he here? 

“Wh-” you stammer. “How- why are you-?”

“Why am I here?” he asks your unfinished question for you, and you nod stiffly. “Wanted to do some sight seeing for spring break, and I heard New York is great for tourists,” he grins, whipping out his phone camera once more to swiftly rush to your side and wrap an arm over your shoulders and snap a selfie of the two of you. You blink, the motion too quick for you to keep up with. Satoru steps back and looks down at his screen with a smile. “Aww, how cute! This one’s a keeper, for sure.”

A tinge of irritation captures you in the midst of your stupor when Satoru makes the picture of him smiling happily next to your ‘deer-in-headlights’ expression his new lockscreen. He’s messing with you, just as he always does, and for a moment you ponder whether this is truly a coincidence meeting him here or not. 

Suguru and Shoko slowly make their way over to the two of you. “Oh, guys! Look who I ran into,” Gojo gestures proudly to you. “Isn’t that funny?”

His friends do not look in the least bit surprised. When Suguru’s eyes swipe over you apologetically then back to Satoru with lingering annoyance, your suspicions are confirmed within seconds. “So funny,” Geto smiles tightly.

Despite his blatant displeasure in being here, Suguru is quick to mask his irritation and make his way over to you to hug you in greeting. “Sorry about this,” he murmurs to you before pulling away, and you’re reeling, overwhelmed. 

Shoko comes to you next with a soft smile, eyes lighting as she nudges your shoulder playfully. “Long time no see, huh? 

“Y-Yeah,” you stutter, flashing her a quick smile before glowering angrily up at Satoru. “What are the odds that we all find each other in America?” you hiss. 

“I know, right?” Satory shakes his head as if marveling at a joke. “The universe has a funny way of bringing us all together.”

Your eye twitches and your cheeks burn. You’re flustered, having been caught off guard by the one person you were trying your hardest to get away from. Now he’s here, after following you around in your heart, mind, and back home on campus, he has followed you overseas into another continent. 

You can’t escape him.

“So what are you up to? It’s dangerous to walk out here at night alone,” he says.

God, he is so insufferable. The very sound of his voice makes you want to slap him across the face in hopes that it will buffer whatever simulation you have been plopped into that has forced you to face Satoru Gojo of all people.

“Have you started your research yet?” Shoko inquires.

“Um… yeah, I got started with some stuff today. I actually just finished meeting with my research partner…”

“Oh, you were with someone then?” Satoru asks, pretending not to care. You can tell simply by the way he shoves his hands into his pockets and lifts his brows as though clueless. One thing you have learned about Satoru over the years is that his vision is eerily impressive and he observes things from miles away. In fact, he brags about his keen observational skills all the time, therefore, if he was able to see you from afar, he would have been able to see Aoto bid you farewell and walk away too.

“She just said she was with her research partner, Satoru,” Suguru adds, voice monotone. 

“I know, but I didn’t see any woman near (Y/n) before I saw her.”

You clench your jaw. “It’s a he,” you clarify flatly, eyes sharp on his face.

He nods slowly. “Ohhh, really now?” he hums, and you fight the urge to strangle him. “That’s interesting. Cool, good for you.”

“I’m sorry- what- I mean, how are you guys even here?” you change the subject to get clarification. “I didn’t think any of you were traveling for break. Shoko, you just told me the other night that you would be home.”

You don’t miss the exhale that Suguru breathes and the way Shoko’s eyes dart instantly to Gojo. “That’s a great question,” Suguru says. “Why don’t you ask Satoru? He’s the one who wanted to travel so bad.”

Satoru looks over at his best friend out of the corner of his eye, eyes hard as if warning him not to give him away. 

“Is that so?”

“You know me, (Y/n),” he turns to you giddily. “I love to go outside the box.”

“Clearly,” you bite, and he only grins that same stupid grin. You understand now. It was all his idea, as always. “So then, where are you guys staying? Here in the city?”

“Actually, no,” Suguru grumbles.

“Satoru’s rented a place up in the Hamptons.”

“The Hamptons?” you reel at Shoko’s revelation. “That’s a two hour drive from here!”

“We know,” she and Suguru say in unison, and you look at Satoru accusingly.

“Why would you make that drive at this time of night?”

The white haired man rolls his eyes. “As if it’s so crazy to want to rent a car to drive down to the city.”

“On our first full day on vacation, yes. It is,” Suguru says.

“Well, I wanted to see Times Square.”

“Times Square is on the other side of the city.”

“Okay, and? We can’t make detours along the way?” Satoru argues sassily. “Plus, my decision to make a detour and stop in the closest neighborhood led us to our friend! You guys should really be thanking me for reuniting us all like this.”

You almost wish you can’t believe this, but sadly, you do. 

Satoru Gojo is the only person you know who has not only the means, but the funds, and the audacity to book a last minute trip to New York solely to disrupt your peace. You can tell by Suguru’s face that he is not keen on spending time in the city, for he had always told you about his pet peeve of large crowded areas with unsanitary conditions. New York is the last place he would want to be, and the only reason he would even find himself here is if his nuisance of a best friend forced him to be. 

While Shoko does not look bothered to be in the city at all, you know her very well. Shoko is low maintenance, but she likes to relax, to unwind, and she most likely much prefers the Hamptons and the beach over an impromptu drive into a city with no water or signs of relaxation.

And then there was Satoru, arrogant, hardly ever serious, and all too pleased with himself. He knows exactly what he is doing, showing up in the same part of the city you told your brown haired friend you would be residing in for the entirety of your stay. The pictures you have posted on social media hours ago likely led Satoru to this very spot, where he stands with an air of satisfaction and delight around him. 

You witness the way girls’ eyes linger as they walk by, his presence giving off that of a model’s. He clearly is not native to the city, for you all stand out like a sore thumb, but Satoru specifically gives off a vibe of untouchable refinement and value that not many have seen before. 

You hate him, how much attention he gets anywhere he goes, how he is so painfully aware of it. You hate how smug he looks, how pleased he appears to be in your presence after having shown up so unexpected. You hate him and those captivating round eyes complemented by snowy lashes glimpsing over round frames. You hate his irritating smile that prods into subtle indents of dimples in his lower chin and the stretch of pink lips that you catch yourself ogling at during the worst of times. You hate the way he dresses so well, how he stands confidently adorned in a loose, linen shirt and jeans, and how his clothing smells of him hand in hand with his intoxicating cologne.

You hate him. You hate him so much. You hate how he won’t leave you alone, not even for a second, not even when you think you’re safe. He returns to haunt you, to flaunt himself all around you with no regard for how he makes you feel. He’s a brat. A spoiled, self-concerned, childish brat who you love with all of your being and you hate him. 

“Since we’re all here,” Satoru begins slyly, interrupting your train of thought with a shrug. “Why don’t you show us where you’re staying, (Y/n)? For old time’s sake.”

You try to regulate your breathing before you actually find yourself punching the white haired bastard beside you in the face. First, he springs himself onto you in the middle of the street, and now, he’s asking to intrude on your space. What gives him the right?

“I don’t think (Y/n) would want us marching into her space like that,” Suguru says pensively, doing his best not to further agitate you. He must have already seen the look on your face and determined that it is time for him to drag Satoru away from you and give you some breathing room. “After all, you’re working here, aren’t you (Y/n)? We wouldn’t want to distract you anymore than we already have.”

“Nah, (Y/n) would love to have us! Right?” Satoru speaks for you, moving behind you to cup your shoulders into his palms again.

You tense, his scent consuming you and his body heat radiating into yours. He’s so tall, you can feel his body dwarfing yours from where he stands so close. 

You want to kill him. 

“Come on,” he probes, grip on your shoulders tightening. “Just this once and we’ll be out of your hair.”

You know it's a lie the moment he speaks it into existence. Never once has Satoru come and gone so easily when you were involved. He always ensures to make a show of his pestering, sticking around you for as long as possible until he finally decides that he is happy with himself. You know that if you agree to letting him in, he won’t leave. At least, not for a long while. 

“Leave her be, Satoru,” Shoko waves at him. “She’s sick of your face already.”

“No one could be sick of my face, Shoko. It’s a work of art.”

“For real, Satoru. Let’s get out of this city already. It smells horrible,” Suguru adds.

“Hold on a minute, would you? We’re not going anywhere until we hear a yes or no from (Y/n).. Don’t be so impatient.”

Satoru happily places the spotlight onto you as your friends await a response.

Your first instinct is to tell them that it is getting late, that they should probably start heading back soon so that they are not driving past an unreasonable hour. You want to rid yourself of the thought of Gojo, of his eyes, his smile, his smell, his presence. You want to tell him off, to tell him that you want him gone, to go about your week as if nothing has happened.

You want to find the strength to do so badly, but you can’t.

As you stand there with your friends surrounding you, looking at their faces, you realize that you have missed them despite your desire to avoid Gojo for selfish reasons. You miss late night study sessions with Suguru in his apartment while you exchange laughs as well as answers for problems you were unsure about. You miss sneaking off into secluded areas of the campus to spark a flame in the dusk with Shoko, smoking until you were inebriated enough to bang on Suguru and Satoru’s door and demand food. And most of all, you miss Satoru. You miss the way he pestered you, the way he showed up outside of your classes, the way he took your phone to sneak a few pictures into your camera roll, the way he lounged on your bed and ranted to you about his father for hours while you listened as you painted your nails at your desk. 

You miss his company. You miss the way he makes you laugh. You even miss the way he makes you frown. 

You hadn’t realized before how difficult it had been to keep your distance from these people until seeing them here with you, and a wave of guilt sinks over your body. Suguru and Shoko are clearly attempting to do damage control before damage is inflicted by urging Satoru to leave you be, and them along with him, but despite your eagerness to stay away from Satoru, you find you don’t want him to leave you be. You don’t want any of them to leave you be. You miss your friends, and to turn them away now would be like rejecting them forever.

The four of you are out of the country together for the first time. You would be cruel to waste this opportunity to spend time with them after weeks of trying to step away.

So you sigh and give in, knowing that it is exactly what Satoru wants. “It wouldn’t hurt to have you guys over,” you say shyly, and Suguru and Shoko perk up. “Hell, we’re in America. Why not? I missed you guys.”

Shoko smiles, and against Suguru’s distaste for the city, he smiles tiredly with the shake of his head. He can only imagine that this trip will go into a far more chaotic direction that he had already believed. 

Satoru rejoices loudly, linking his arm around yours and yanking you to him. “Alright, (Y/n)! Lead the way!” he projects, marching forward and pulling you along with him. You stumble to catch up with his large strides.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming! Just slow down, you idiot!” you bark as he drags you past Shoko and Suguru.

The two exchange glances, sharing the same knowing look, before following suit. 

The four of you stop to grab pizza and a few beers on the way before entering your AirBnB. After Satoru familiarizes himself with the entire space, nosily peering into every nook and cranny, the four of you settle in the living room to eat with the balcony door open, allowing the spring breeze and ambiance of the city to drift into the space while you all keeled over in laughter, reminiscing over the past few years you have spent in each other’s company. Hours fly by until two empty pizza boxes sit in the middle of the floor, forgotten by your boisterousness. 

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on,” Shoko wheezes with laughter, leaning over in her seat on the sofa she shares with Geto to put out the ashes of her cigarette into the mug on that table. “What about that time Satoru got plastered and tried to scale the side of the science building?”

You and Suguru burst out cackling. You crane over your lap and Suguru throws his head back, amusement overcoming your bodies. Satoru rolls his eyes, tilting back the beer in his hand to prevent you all from seeing his smile.

 “Oh my god,” you cry. “He- He was yelling at us- for trying to tell him that the bricks- were too flat for him to grab!” 

“And then he made it up like five inches before falling flat on his ass!”

The three of you howl at the memory, stomachs aching from how hard you are laughing. “And his face after,” Suguru adds, swiping his hand over his face. “He was pissed at us like we did something wrong.”

“Because it was your lack of faith that fucked up my concentration,” Satoru butts in after lowering the bottle from his lips, thumb smoothing away drops of alcohol from his mouth. “I bet you I can climb that old ass building now. I know what to expect this time. I’ll be prepared.” 

“Sure, and you’ll break a hip this time around too.”

Satoru flips Suguru off from across the room, to which the dark haired man smiles with feigned politeness. 

“God, we used to get drunk like every weekend,” you say, placing your empty bottle on the floor next to the pizza boxes. You sit sprawled out between the couch and the chair that Satoru occupies, legs crossed before you. “How the hell did we get anything done?”

“Beats me,” Shoko chuckles, cooling down from her fit of giggles. “I don’t think I went to one class sober back in freshman year.”

“That sounds to me like you have a problem,” Satoru smirks.

“And you don’t? You’re a lightweight who actively chooses to get wrecked off three shots then makes it everyone else’s problem.”

“Wouldn’t me being a lightweight mean I’m less addicted?” he leans over his spread legs, sitting his elbows on his knees as he cradles his beer in his large palms. 

“No, it means you’re worse than any of us,” you tease, looking over to find Satoru’s eyes already on you.

He raises a brow. “Oh yeah? What about you, miss ‘emotional drunk?’”

You can hear Suguru snort, and you’re whipping your head between the two, offended. “Shut up! I don’t get that emotional.”

“(Y/n), you are so sappy when you’re drunk,” Suguru snickers. “One minute you’re taking a shot, the next you’re crying about how much you appreciate our friendship.”

Your face goes red. “I do not!” you deny.

“Oh, yes you do,” Shoko agrees.

“‘You guys, I just don’t know what I’d do without you!’” Satoru imitates your voice by scaling his own up a pitch, pressing a hand to his chest to encapsulate a touched emotion. “‘You all make me so happy! I love you all so much!’”

“Shut up!” you demand, fighting a laugh as Shoko and Suguru stifle their own. 

“‘Satoru, I know I’m mean to you all the time, but I don’t mean it! I love having you around! You make me smile!’” he sighs dreamily, batting his eyelashes, and your friends are laughing loudly again.

You crawl over to where Satoru sits and slap his shin hard, to which he looks down at you and grins snarkily. “Ow.”

“I do not sound like that,” you argue.

“Sure you do. I should know, I'm the one you always ended up babbling to.”

“Liar,” you groan.

“Whatever you say,” Satoru taps your nose lightly with his finger and you quickly swat his hand away.

“Oh! Suguru, do you remember that time (Y/n) cried over your hair?” Shoko brings up. 

It’s their turn to make fun of you now as you cross your arms stubbornly and listen. 

“She told me that she was crying because she was happy for me that my hair is so long,” the hazel eyed man recalls. 

“I mean, who wouldn’t?” Satoru chimes in. “Suguru was blessed with such beautiful, luscious hair, who wouldn’t cry over it? Isn’t that right, (Y/n)?” 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” you murmur. “At least I’m kind when I’m drunk.”

All eyes immediately turn to Suguru, and he freezes, laughter dying in his throat. “What?”

“You’re a fucking asshole when you’re drunk, Sugu, that’s what,” Shoko says. 

“Oh please, I’m not that bad.” 

“Tell that to those girls you made cry at the bar last year.”

Suguru grunts, pursing his lips in embarrassment. “I told them I was sorry.”

“Doesn’t make you any less of a monster off vodka,” Satoru says, and Geto throws an arm pillow at the blue eyed man’s face. 

You smile to yourself, leaning back on your hands and looking out the window at the city lights. “This is nice,” you say aloud.

Suguru and Shoko hum in agreement while Satoru stands to his feet after putting his bottle on the floor. “Isn’t it?” he announces loudly in content. “Aren’t you glad you ran into us and invited us here?”

“You invited yourself here,” you correct with a roll of your eyes. “But yes, Satoru. Yes I am.”

“We’ve missed spending time with you, (Y/n),” Shoko says. “You left me alone to deal with these two idiots and all they do is fight.”

“Because Satoru doesn’t take anything seriously,” Geto adds.

“It’s only ‘cause I love ya, Suguru.”

“Shut the hell up.”

You chuckle, bringing your knees to your chest. You glance at your phone beside you and see that the time reads 1:34 am. You cringe, unsure of where the hell the time went. “Damn, it’s late,” you say.

Suguru glances at his own phone and his brows jump. “Oh shit, yeah,” he observes. “Sorry, (Y/n). Didn’t mean to take up your entire night.”

“No, no. It's fine, I’m actually really glad you did.”

Shoko stands, stretching her arms behind her back with a sigh. “So, we hittin’ the road or what?” 

You can feel Satoru’s eyes on you in an instant, and you already know what he is going to suggest before he even opens his mouth to ask. You curse yourself internally because you know that you will regret proposing what you are about to propose, but you can’t bring yourself to watch your friends head out so late and drive two hours out to where they are staying.

Once again, Satoru’s decisions have become your problem. 

“Why don’t you guys just sleep over here for the night?” you suggest.

“...Are you sure?” Suguru questions. “I’m sure you’re busy tomorrow… and you’ve only been here one night.”

“It’s not a big deal. I meet with Aoto at ten tomorrow, so I’ll have plenty of time to get ready and see you guys off. Please, I wouldn’t forgive myself if I let Satoru drive you all back this late.”

“Aoto?”

“My research partner.”

“Ah,” Suguru nods, eyes flickering up swiftly to Satoru’s face before landing back on yours. “Well, if it’s not any trouble for you, we’d appreciate it.”

“Not at all. The four of us have had hundreds of sleepovers, this isn’t any different.”

“Alright, then. Thanks.”

The moment you stand up, Satoru is leaning himself against you, resting his heavy head on yours and squishing against your cheek. “You take such good care of us,” he coos, giggling when you try to push him away but struggle under his weight.

“Satoru, get off!”

The next twenty minutes fly as you spend them setting up the pullout in the living room (that you have only just discovered) and moving the coffee table to lay extra blankets and pillows next to the pullout. Suguru and Shoko take the bed while Satoru teases you about letting him sleep in the bed with you. You tell him to fuck off and he winks. 

Suguru and Shoko pass out within minutes, likely exhausted from Satoru pulling them along with him all day. You see Satoru setting himself up on the floor, taking off his glasses and setting them aside, when you sneak past quietly to step out onto the balcony.

You aren’t tired. Your mind is racing and your nerves are jumping with their awareness of Satoru sitting in your living room. You exhale softly, leaning over the railing and looking down at the still busy streets, watching taxis round corners aggressively and pedestrians chat loudly. You close your eyes, setting your arms on the rail and your cheek atop them, listening to the sounds and savoring the feeling of the cool night breeze against your flustered skin.

You soak in at least five minutes of silence before you hear feet padding behind you and the door opens and closes again. You lift your head and turn to find Satoru joining you. He walks up quietly and stands beside you, peering over the ledge in the same fashion you had as you avert your gaze. 

He does not say much, shockingly. Sleepiness is finally catching up to him as he looks down lazily, peacefully, unshaded blue eyes glossy beneath his long lashes. The soft distant lights of the street lamps illuminate his face with a dim glow while he hunches over, watching calmly. 

It is quiet between the two of you for a moment before he’s talking, a deep voice sending chills down your spine. “Do you like it here so far?” he asks softly, voice low.

You nod, pursing your lips and keeping your gaze down. “Yeah, it’s nice,” you tell him gently. “Really different from home, but nice. I like it.”

“I can see the appeal,” he agrees. “It’s busy like Tokyo.”

“Yeah, it is,” you nod. “I don’t think it’s Suguru’s style.”

A huff of amusement breathlessly leaves Satoru’s lips, the corners of his mouth curling. “It definitely isn’t. I had to practically drag him out of his room to get him to come with.”

“You know Suguru. He’s picky.”

“Very.”

“Shoko seems to be cool with the city though.”

“Mhm. There’s not much she doesn’t adapt to.”

“That’s true…” you mumble as a lull in the conversation arises. “...Satoru, why are you-“

“So what’s your research partner like?” he interjects, turning to look at you now. You furrow your brows, meeting his eyes when you face him. His face is serene, still, yet his eyes tell a different story. They’re alive with an eagerness for his question to be answered, a curiosity, a hint of frustration. You grow confused.

“…Why?”

He tilts his head. “I can’t ask about the person my friend is working with?”

“I- no, it’s just an abrupt question.”

“I don’t think it is,” he disagrees. “What’s his name again? Ayano?”

“Aoto,” you correct sharply.

“Right. So? How is he?”

His eyes don’t waver, and you pucker your lips with befuddlement. “I mean, he’s nice. I only just met him today, but I like him so far.”

“Yeah?” he says. “You must. I mean, you just met him and he’s already taking you to dinner.”

“…For work, Satoru. Dinner for work,” you say firmly, put off by his comment. “And he was being nice because I’ve never been in the city before.”

He nods and hums nonchalantly. “That makes sense,” he says, though you doubt he’s very understanding.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No, of course not,” he answered quickly. “It’s just, we haven’t talked in so long and you’re already…”

You leaned over on your elbow and turned to face him fully. “Already what?”

He smiles to himself and lowers his head, picking at his fingernails. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “It’s just been weird, that’s all. I had to find you in America to get you to talk to me.”

A still silence settles in the air again as you stare at him, attempting to comprehend what is going through his mind. “Satoru,” you begin, and you almost think you see him jump when you say his name. “Why are you here?”

His eyes glance up ahead of him before back down at his hands over the railing. “I told you, already. For spring break.”

“You expect me to believe that of all places in the world, you chose to come to the same place that I told Shoko I was going?” you question and he only shrugs. “I’m not dumb, Satoru. You’ve always done this.”

“Done what?” his brows angle. 

“This,” you emphasize to yourself. “You always find ways to- to-“

“To what?” 

His eyes are on you again, vibrant, intense. You struggle to respond under the isolation of his gaze. “You know what I mean. It’s just what you do. You push your boundaries with people,” you say eventually. 

“Am I pushing a boundary with you by being here now?”

“I don’t know, Satoru, I just don’t think it’s a coincidence that you show up down the street from me in a completely different country.”

“But what if it is?”

“It’s not, though.”

“But if it is a coincidence, would you still be upset? Would you still be asking me why I’m here?” he questions. “Because I think you would.”

“The point here, Satoru, is that it’s not a coincidence and we both know it. That’s the only reason why I’m reacting this way.”

“So what I don’t understand, right,” Satoru starts and you can sense a tone of hostility creeping into his voice, though it remains mellow,” …is why it’s all of a sudden strange for me to want to spend time with you.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re so busy focusing on why I’m here instead of just the fact that I’m here.”

“Yeah, because I know you.”

“Do you?” 

You straighten yourself, trying to act as if his words did not sting. “What’s going on, huh? What’s the issue?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, (Y/n). You stopped answering my calls and texts, you don’t hang out with me anymore, you leave the country without telling me…” he stops himself before he can go any further and turns to look down at you head on again. “Help me understand, did I do something wrong?”

You sigh and lower your gaze. “Satoru…”

“I just need to understand what happened between us. We’re friends, and all of a sudden you’re acting like we’re not. Even Suguru and Shoko see it, but you still talk to them more than you talk to me these days.”

“It’s not-“ you pause, trying to figure out what you want to say. You don’t want to talk about this right now. Not here, not with him. It’s too much for you to get into, especially so without revealing how you feel about him. “I’ve just been-“

“Busy?” he interjects, and you deflate.

“Yes, actually.”

“Okay,” he nods, ripping his eyes from you as if the sight of you temporarily blinded him. “I can handle you being busy, (Y/n), but I can’t handle being ignored. And you can’t tell me that you haven’t been doing just that.”

“I haven’t been ignoring you.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not,” you argue. “I’ve been giving myself space. It’s different.”

“But why do you need space from me? What did I do?”

“It’s nothing you did, per say, Satoru.”

“Okay, then why?” he pleads. “Why won’t you talk to me anymore? Why aren’t you happy to see me? If I haven’t done anything wrong, why have you pushed me away? If there’s nothing, then that would just mean that you chose to step away from me for no reason, and I refuse to believe that’s true.”

You can tell by the way he speaks that you have truly affected him by stepping away, affected him in a way you did not realize you had. 

You honestly didn’t think he would have cared either way if you had waned off your contact, but you were clearly very wrong. After all, like Satoru said, you’re his friend above anything else. 

He’s looking at you again, desperation swirling in his crystal irises. “So just tell me, (Y/n). Tell me what it is. What did I do? What can I do?”

You sigh, hardened exterior softening, because how could it not when he’s giving you those huge puppy dog eyes.

“If I hurt your feelings, I didn’t mean to,” you tell him. “That wasn’t why… I’m sorry.”

“I’m not trying to get you to apologize for something you knew you were doing, I just want to understand why,” he says gently. “But if you don’t want to tell me… I guess that’s fine. I can’t force it out of you. I just thought you should know that I’ve missed you.”

You feel your heart do that thing it does every time Satoru is around, and you melt slightly. “I missed you too.”

Then, he’s smiling again, as though he wasn’t just upset. Eyes bright and cheeks warm as he turns to you with a newfound warmth returning in his composure. “Did you really?” he inquires, bending over slightly and craning his neck down to you with a low lidded eyes and cheeky grin.

You scoff, pushing his head away and turning your head to the side. “Don’t push it.”

“Yes ma’am,” he teases. “But seriously though.”

He steps closer to you, eyes peering down at you with a soft gleam. You look up and stiffen as he nears further into your personal space, his hand gripping the rail as the other tucks into his pocket. 

“Don’t ignore me again,” he mutters, gaze piercing into yours. “Please.”

You stare at each other wordlessly, air bristling through your hair as an intensity swelters between you. You blink, swallowing nervously. “O-Okay. Sorry.”

He hums, a smile stretching over his face once more, and ducks down to wraps his arms tightly around your waist, hoisting you up in the air as he embraces you. You squeak, your arms grasping at his shoulder blades to steady yourself once you're off balance. “It’s okay, munchkin,” he squeezes you tightly. “I could never stay upset with you!” 

“Satoru, put me down!” you hiss, face flustering. 

He chuckles, setting you gently back down onto your feet. You put bashfully, straightening out your shirt as he looks at you sweetly. “Man, am I glad we made up. I would have done something crazy if this went on much longer.”

“Oh, you mean crazier than flying all the way to fucking New York?” you quip and he grins.

“I told you, I’m here for vacation. Not everything’s about you, you narcissist,” he says, and you can feel a vein bulging in your forehead. 

“Sure,” you grumble.

“Anyways, since we’re all already here, I think we’ll stay in the city one more day before heading back up to our place.”

You quirk a brow. “Um, you think Suguru is gonna be okay with that?”

“Not at all, but I’m the one driving, so he’ll have to be fine.”

You shake your head to yourself, laughing quietly. “He’s gonna kill you one of these days.”

“I’d like to see him try,” Satoru says, making his way over to the patio door. “Oh,” he stops and turns over his shoulder. “What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

“Well, I told you, I have a meeting at ten.”

“Oh yeah, with Aromo.”

“Aoto.”

“Same thing,” he sighs loudly, turning his eyes up. “Whatever, either way, we should all hang when you’re done. You know, before we head back.”

“While that sounds fun, Satoru, I’m here for research. I’m not sure I'll have much free time.”

“Right, like you’ll be doing work all day,” he says sarcastically.

“...Yeah. I might be,” you repeat with a straight face. 

“Uh huh. So, we’ll see you at one?”

“Wh- Satoru, I have to check with-”

“Great! Text us and we’ll meet you wherever you are when you’re finished,” he cuts in, not even allowing the word no to hit his ears. 

“No! Satoru-”

“Good night, beautiful,” he blows a dramatic kiss, swinging the door open. He reduces his voice to a whisper, mindful of his sleeping friends on the pullout behind him. “See you in the morning~” he wiggles his fingers in a dainty wave before leaving the balcony and shutting the door behind him, plopping himself down on his makeshift bed after making his way around the couch. 

You look after him in agitation, finding yourself alone and processing what Satoru has just said to you, the way he looked at you as he begged to understand why you took steps away from your friendship, the warmth of his arms as you held you tight, the gleam in his eye when he asked you not to ignore him. You shiver as the moments replay in your head, making you wonder how things have come to this. 

You sigh and turn back around to look out at the city one last time before turning into bed. It’s going to be a long week. 

[silhouetteonpaper]

The Rooftop

Summary: The rooftop was like your safe space. It felt even more familiar than the apartment you just moved into. Transitioning to the city wasn’t easy, and you had to do it all alone. But when someone else joins you at your secret spot, who would’ve thought where you’d be by the end of the week? Natasha Romanoff x Reader W/C: 2,985 Warnings/Themes: Angst, fluff, allusions to suicide, combat, abandonment A/N: I just moved to nyc and unfortunately Natasha does not live in the same building :( But it gave good inspiration for this fic I’ve been cooking up! I hope you enjoy! (this fic does contain brief mentions of suicide, but doesn’t outwardly state it. if you are ever feeling down, my DMs are always open.)

Crisp, cool air blew across the red of your cheeks, the partially dry tears making haste to fully evaporate. Puffy red eyelids left in their stead, yet you ignored it to look out at the city below. Your legs dangled off the concrete, a thin coat barely keeping you warm in the winter weather outside. The rooftop provided solace from the world— no matter what was going on in your life, there would be peace and quiet up here. Though, this apartment complex had a different view on the top floor.

Instead of being five or so stories up, this building was reaching for the stars at over fifty floors. You never imagined you’d move to a city where the buildings climbed to incredible heights, but here you were. The cars were smaller this high up, yet the lights were so much brighter. Each little window, each traffic light, each digital billboard traveling for miles into the distance; it all filled the muted buzz below with a warm glow. There was another difference with this new apartment building’s view, but it wasn’t one you encountered on the first night after moving in.

The third night was when this change occurred. A disruption to your peaceful evening, prompted by the redhead who jolted at the sight of your dark silhouette. “Oh, I’m sorry.” You spoke, turning around to see the woman in the low lighting. She had been so quiet when entering the rooftop, it was only the sharp inhale that gave away her presence. As the woman looked you up and down, you hoped she couldn’t see your red teary eyes under the dark night sky. “I stole your spot, didn’t I? I can leave…” But before you could move to get up, she waved her hand outwards to keep you in place.

“No, there’s no need. This is a shared space.” You nodded once, turning back to your former spot. Even in the dim lighting, you could see her lips curve into a soft smile. If you studied her expression harder, maybe there was something else in her eyes beyond that. “Are you new to the building?” The woman asked as she sat a few feet away on the ledge.

You wrapped yourself tighter in your coat. “Yeah, moved in just a few days ago. It’s quite the dream, but definitely more… busy— than what I’m used to.” There was a feeling like you could talk openly with this woman; the words easily formed regardless of your prior state. She made the bold move to not only join you, but spark up a conversation. It felt comfortable.

“Welcome to the city,” She laughed. It was low and raspy, making you smile in return. “You’ll get used to it eventually. I’m Natasha, by the way.” Her eyes met yours, and that’s when she noticed their glassy rim. 

You quickly introduced yourself, looking back out to the city before she felt the need to press. “Nice to meet you.” Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, but eventually her gaze fell back out to the vast streets as well.

“What got you to move here?” Natasha asked, keeping things light. You weren’t sure if she was purposely avoiding asking what was wrong.

You kept your eyes on everything but her. “Work. My new job is in the city, and I figured it would be easier to move all together than to commute.” Were you oversharing? You weren’t sure, and the exhaustion from crying earlier was making you slightly unaware of your words. That’s why you came up here in the first place; to think and to process the harsh transition. For some reason, Natasha was making you question your every move. You didn’t want to ruin her night with your sob story.

“Smart, probably easier that way.” She was likely just playing along, yet you hoped your small talk wasn’t boring her. The conversation would have been so much easier if you weren’t freezing in the winter wind. No matter how close you pulled your jacket, the chill still got into your bones. “You’re shivering. Why don’t you come inside for some coffee?” She was observant, you quickly realized.

Did you hear her correctly? Looking up at her, she was already gazing at you with gleaming eyes and questioning brows. Your lips curved into a sort of half smile; something about her was enticing. She didn’t mention your red eyes, or strange behavior. Natasha just went along with it all and invited you inside. How could you say no? “That would be lovely.”

Her unit was laid out similarly to yours, except she decorated hers completely different. Instead of the homey, cozy ambiance you created in your own apartment with the softest plush couch and all the warmest blankets you could find, Natasha opted for a sleeker, more stylish appeal. She had a leather couch in the center of the living room, paintings that seemed to have large price tags hung on the walls, and a minimalist clean feel on each kitchen counter. It almost seemed like she didn’t spend much time here. There wasn’t much live between the walls and expensive decorations, yet maybe that was the kind of person she was.

“Here,” Natasha handed you a white mug of steaming coffee. Natasha stood behind the counter, nodding toward a stool at the countertop for you to sit. The warmth was relieving as you held the steaming liquid between your hands, offering a nod in thanks. There was a silence, but not necessarily an awkward one.

“So,” You sipped at your coffee, debating what to ask her. Eyeing the paintings, you opted for the usual ‘get to know you’ banter. “What do you do for work?”

Natasha must’ve noticed your prior look around, as she smiled. “I work at a law firm.” That’s why she was so observant, it was likely her job to notice every detail. She poured herself a mug of coffee, but while her eyes were focused on the mug, yours were stuck on her. There was an interesting quality to her; she was forward, yet kind. She was classy, yet seemed humble. The incessant urge to get to know her only grew.

“How long have you lived in New York?” You kept the questions going, savoring the time with Natasha while trying to keep the silence at bay.

“Over a decade now,” She answered, tilting her head as more gears turned internally. “But I’m still learning new things about the city to this day.” Her eyes met yours again, and you smiled in response. Natasha was attempting to make you feel better about your nervous jitters regarding moving to a big city, and it was definitely making a big impact. It was proof that a little kindness could go a long way.

“Can I ask you something now?” Natasha questioned softly, wrapping her hands around the warm mug out of hesitance. You nodded, raising your eyebrows ever so slightly. Assuming she’d ask something taboo, you thought she’d propose a silly personal question that would help her get to know you. Why else would she ask permission? But the next words Natasha spoke made your heart sink. “What was going on before I got to the roof? Are you alright?” You realized you hadn’t even thought about your earlier episode since Natasha appeared.

It was probably quite the sight to walk in on. Someone dangling their feet over a rooftop with tears streaming down their face, protected by nothing but the warmth of their red cheeks. Most people don’t sit on the ledge of a building unless they have grim intentions. You hoped she couldn’t see that much, but her ability to notice even the smallest of details was becoming more clear. The truth was, you were completely overwhelmed. Moving to a new city was one of the scariest things you’d ever done. 

All your life, you lived in a small town where kids were expected to grow up and join the endless cycle of never escaping it. You were different; ever since the idea of graduating filled your mind, you dreamed of a life where you could leave and see the world. Your parents disagreed, and knew the wish would fizzle out eventually. But with perseverance, you got your degree, worked a simple job at home to save up, and finally received a job offer in one of the many iconic places you had dreamed of visiting.

It all sounded so perfect; moving to the city, working a job you loved, becoming the best version of yourself. But that reality was quickly slashed in half when your goodbyes were fronted with your parents cutting you off. They didn’t support you moving away, and you knew they wouldn’t. But a part of you hoped they would change their minds after seeing how happy you were here. So far, they’ve kept up the cold front, but you knew that this was just another hump to get over.

Your apartment was quickly furnished with each piece you meticulously chose beforehand. The cozy safe space was built, and you were ready to face the world outside. But to your dismay, the workforce on this side of the coast was quite contrasting to what you were used to. There was no evidence of a team that worked together, but rather competing employees and constant challenges to prove yourself. The first day of work was so overwhelming, you swore you’d never leave your apartment again. Still, the urge to keep persevering was embedded in you at this point.

Another day of work, and you were completely drained. If only you weren’t so excited to start, and offered to work the second you moved in. The inevitable breakdown commenced the moment you got home from the crowded subway ride; each slow stop into the stations urging your tears to finally fall as you rode back from work. You had no one to comfort you but the serene cityscape that coaxed you to move here in the first place. After sitting in the heavy weight of despair for a few hours, Natasha’s presence was relieving. Proof that people weren’t all terrible, and maybe the city had something good to offer.

You suddenly realized Natasha had been staring at you with furrowed brows for who knows how long; the silence had grown as she waited for you to respond. “It’s been a lot to move here as someone who isn’t used to the city,” You paused, trying to think of what to say. Natasha clearly cared about what was happening earlier, so you knew there was no reason to spare details. “My parents cut me off when I left home, so I’ve been on my own during this move.” You looked down at your nearly-finished mug of coffee. “Work has been terrible, and I’m worried I made the wrong choice.”

There was more silence, but you could feel Natasha’s expression soften. “I go to the roof to think. It’s what I did at my old place. I promise I wasn’t up there for any other reason.” You clarified, looking back up at Natasha to see her smile slightly.

“Good, because there was no way I was letting that happen.” Her tone was back to being direct, just as before. There was an unspoken comfort in the way she listened to you, like she somehow understood— or at least wanted to. You weren’t sure what it was, but you were thankful Natasha had entered the rooftop when she did.

“Is that why you sat with me, and invited me inside?” The question left your lips out of worry. If you weren’t a damsel in distress, would she take back her kindness? Maybe it was your recent anxieties forming in new ways; the abandonment from your parents had to have left a mark.

Natasha tilted her head again, you could tell that meant she was thinking. “Not completely. If anyone is out there crying alone, I’m not just going to leave.” You took a deep breath, offering her an understanding smile.

“Does this happen often, then?” You joked, sipping at the last drop of your coffee. She laughed, shaking her head.

“You’re my first rooftop rescue— in this apartment at least.” She winked, making the red of your cheeks return. “But in all honestly, I’m sorry about your parents. I’m glad you moved here, we have one less cranky neighbor now.” Her eyes lit up as you laughed. “If you ever need anything, I’m right down the hall.” Natasha was truly kind, yet cunning. Whatever this was between you two, you were beyond grateful.

After an exchange of numbers and a few lasting goodnights, you left for your own apartment. Coffee with Natasha was just what you needed, and the guarantee of seeing each other again kept you eager for whatever tomorrow had to offer. Her extended support instilled you with the urge to give living in New York one more shot. If you knew she was just down the hall, maybe living here wouldn’t be so bad.

—————

After you returned from a long workday, you were supposed to have a relaxing evening. The idea of walking down the hall and knocking on Natasha’s door pestered you all day; maybe you two could go for drinks, or have a night in. But you didn’t even get to take your coat off before chaos struck.

It happened so quickly. You put your bag on the bed, then there was a crash in the kitchen. Someone was in your apartment. You didn’t even remember dialing her number, but your only New York contact picked up in seconds. “Natasha,” your voice was quiet as you held the phone to your cheek, tears brimming in your eyes as you hid beside your bed. “Someone’s here, call 911.” Another crash. You winced. Natasha breathed heavily into the phone like she was already running, yet didn’t say a word before the line hung up. You assumed she was dialing the authorities as quickly as possible. You were wrong.

Crash. Your head fell into your knees. This was how you were going to die; not by falling off of a roof, but by being too defenseless to do anything. Smash. They were looting the place, but the next sound you heard wasn’t the echo of dishes breaking— it was the grunt of a woman. Natasha, you quickly realized as something thumped against the wall. She came here to defend you, but why? How could someone be so brave to fight against a few apartment thieves? Why didn’t she just call the police?

Silence. Oh god, how you hoped they didn’t hurt her. Your head was fully in your knees by now, red marks being left in the palms of your hands by how tight you were holding yourself. The bedroom door squeaked open, and your heart nearly stopped. “Are you okay?” The low raspy voice brought air into your lungs— it was Natasha, not one of the perpetrators. Raising your head, you looked up at the redhead who appeared without a scratch. She bent down beside you, her hand resting on your knee as you caught your breath.

“How did you..?” You muttered as tears fell onto your cheeks. “Are they gone?” You looked up to see her nodding and offering a hand. Taking it, you stood on wobbling legs as she took you out into the kitchen. With a racing heart, you didn’t know what to say. Did she scare the thieves off? The silence was ringing in your ears, yet you had no idea what would be lying in your kitchen as Natasha walked you out of the bedroom.

Two intruders, dressed in black, both unconscious and bleeding on the floor. Your hand covered your mouth in shock; it was almost more distressing than the broken dishes and littered belongings everywhere. “What the hell…” You slowly looked over to the redhead, who was fronting a stoic expression. Whoever that woman was, she somehow took out both of the criminals. “Who the hell are you?” You locked eyes with the woman before you who was a friend mere moments ago, but now felt like a stranger. As relieving as it was she dealt with the intruders, you had no clue if she’d be one too.

She inhaled sharply, eyeing both the intruders as if they’d stand back up for another round. “We need to get you out of here, c’mon.” Her hand found your shoulder as she softly pushed you toward the door, her urgency rising.

“No!” You shouted, turning on your feet to face her again. “Tell me what the hell just happened.” With words like ice, you stood frozen as the woman who seemed to be in a rush remained silent for a moment.

“I don’t work at a law firm,” She breathed. “I work for S.H.I.E.L.D.. This wasn’t a coincidence, someone’s after you. I don’t want to wait and find out what they’ll do next.” S.H.I.E.L.D., as in the big organization of trained agents? Natasha was an agent, and suddenly everything was making sense. Her insane ability to read small details; her knack for offering support; her ability to take out two enemies in seconds. You knew it was likely she was undercover, yet you still felt betrayed.

Regardless, the threatening manor of her words took precedence above all else. “Someone’s after me?” You questioned, watching Natasha’s every expression. What could someone possibly want with you? You had only lived here for a few days, yet whoever organized this clearly wanted to take care of it as soon as possible.

She nodded once firmly. “Yes, now move before I move you.” In that moment, you knew you didn’t have a choice— and that above all else, your life was about to get even crazier.

[milksockets]

this is something i have major shame around, but: i live in filth. not just mess or disorder (though those too), but actual, true uncleanliness. it accumulates to such a point that i have no idea how to address it... instead, i don't. and then, obviously, it only gets worse. living in nyc doesn't help, since even the tidiest of apartments is prone to invaders, so you can imagine what this looks like. i spent hours this morning agonizing over the fact that i've been waking up with diffuse, scattered + itchy bites--which would be sufficiently vexing on their own--but then i also encountered a teeny-tiny pest in my sheets and spiraled over what it could be. (it is almost definitely not a bedbug, which would of course be worst-case scenario.)

2 years ago, when i was going through a traumatizing (and i don't use that word lightly or loosely) breakup of the only even-approaching-healthy relationship i've ever been in, i lost complete control. it was the closest to relapsing i've gotten in years. but what ended up truly bringing me to my knees, so to speak, was when i realized how unhealthy my cat had become. she was horribly matted + couldn't properly groom herself. in the extremely self-centered life i've lived, she's pretty much the only creature i've been entrusted to take care of in a solo, long-term sense, and i felt i had completely failed her.

there has always been this disconnect for me when it comes to doing the mundane everyday tasks that, despite being dull/unenjoyable, are fundamental to a baseline of functioning so that we can be able to pursue the things that actually matter to us. until it reaches an absolute apex of discomfort, i ignore + avoid + neglect.

(i don't know the "point" of writing this except to be able to get some cathartic relief so i can not obsess + self-flagellate during my family weekend that would be challenging to endure even when i'm at my best.)

[kookyburrowing]

Different Languages AU Part 1: Wait, Fuck, They Don't Speak Basic?

First things first motherfuckers, let’s get one thing straight: Basic as a language does exist in this AU!  It’s just less common outside of the Core/Mid Rim.  SO.  What does that give us?  Well, it gives us way more interesting conflict, for one thing, and for another, so many languages.  Let’s get crackalackin! 

In the Outer Rim, Huttese is largely The Language To Speak.  If you don’t speak Huttese, you might as well just hurl yourself into the nearest bottomless pit now and save yourself the time and trouble.  Even in the Core and Mid Rim, Huttese is a very common language just because of how useful it is if you ever find yourself in the Outer Rim.  Most bounty hunters (i.e. Jango Fett, just for one completely random example) speak Huttese fluently, alongside their native languages.  Naturally, then, this is a language Anakin is very familiar with.  In fact, when he became a Jedi, it was the language he knew the best, and most people thought his speech was stilted in Basic because of this.  He spoke Basic maybe once every month on Tatooine—can you blame him?  

In the Mid Rim, each planet has their own language and conversations between diplomats are typically done as they are on Earth—via interpreters, to avoid any misunderstandings.  Padmé, for instance, does speak Basic, but that is the language she would use in the Senate, not on Naboo.  The same goes for Palpatine, but we’ll get to him in a minute, because he sucks and I want to not talk about him for as long as I feasibly can.  

The Core means Basic, Basic, Basic, because of just the sheer number of people making it necessary.  Coruscant is a weird case because of how communities develop there.  Since it’s kind of like a gigantic version of a modern city (I’ll use NYC as an example because I know it the best), it’s broken up into enclaves.  Cultures clump—it’s a thing.  Some neighborhoods in NYC are predominantly Jewish, some are predominantly Italian, the list goes on.  The same goes for Coruscant, although on a supersized scale.  There’s some areas where non-Mandalorians need not apply, some where everyone is a Twi’lek or Togruta, some where everyone is a Mirialan, et cetera.  Also, Coruscant dialects of certain languages are very much a thing.

Anyway.  Let’s talk Kamino, because that’s why I started this to begin with!  

Jango Fett is a Mandalorian.  He’s also a bounty hunter.  He’s from Concord Dawn and was a True Mandalorian.  Therefore we can guess he probably at the bare minimum speaks two dialects of Mando’a (Concord Dawn, True Mandalorian) Huttese, and has at least passing Basic.  He probably speaks more than that given how well-traveled he is, but those are the ones I can name for sure.  So Jango Fett, who speaks Mando’a and Huttese and Basic, encounters Count Dooku.  Count Dooku is from Serenno, but he was also a Jedi, so he probably speaks Serennese, Basic, Huttese, and a few more.  He may even speak Mando’a, but his dialects wouldn’t be likely to overlap with Jango’s.  Count Dooku tells Jango to go to Kamino and let them clone him in exchange for an exorbitant amount of money.  Jango does, because Jango is a thinking human being and thinking human beings under capitalism do not turn down exorbitant amounts of money in exchange for what amounts to (at most) being a three or four-time sperm donor.  

And on Kamino, our intrepid Mandalorian encounters something a bit weird.  The Kaminoans, being that they are an extremely isolated species and thus have absolutely no reason to have developed humanoid vocal chords, have to rely on droid translators.  Cool!  This means Jango can speak to them exclusively in his native language (Concord Dawn Mando’a), and they can speka to him exclusively in theirs, and everyone’s largely happy.  Jango negotiates the finer points of the contract, acquires an infant who he names Boba, and calls up some old friends (and acquaintances) to teach the clones to kick ass.  He informs them they don’t have to worry about speaking Basic, so they don’t bother speaking Basic.  

Thus, we have our setup.  The Kaminoans have no reason to make the clones speak Basic because literally none of these outsiders are bothering to inform that oh yeah there’s this whole common language thing going on, and said outsiders have no reason whatsoever to tell them because it would ultimately just be an inconvenience.  They’ve got a good thing going, and Jedi are required to speak more than one language anyway.  The clones can definitely find at least one in common!

So the clones learn to speak Mando’a, understand Kaminoan, and speak and/or understand one extra elective language.  Most pick something weird because they can—everyone around them speaks either Mando’a or Kaminoan so why would they bother with languages they don’t care about, like Basic?  Unfortunately for the Kaminoans and the trainers in equal measure, they do also realize that in order to express themselves in private they need their own universal language, so they acquire one.  They just call it clonespeak to keep things simple, and for most of them, that’s their native language.  They feel most comfortable speaking in it because that’s the language they associate with safety and with their siblings/parents.  

Thus: the predicament.  

Obi-Wan arrives on Kamino.  Obi-Wan is a Jedi.  Obi-Wan speaks Basic. 

Uh-oh.  See, Jango is out of practice—the Kaminoans can’t make those noises.  Boba’s language skills begin and end with Mando’a and some random bits of clonespeak right now—he’s kind of conversational with Huttese but every once in a while he just throws in a Mando’a word or an idiom in clonespeak and Jango has to take a minute to breathe lest he slam his head straight through the wall in frustration because he doesn’t understand clonespeak.  And so much performing of charades, many awkward moments, and exactly one sentence in Basic later, Obi-Wan is heading back to Coruscant with several questions. 

First: why the fuck did Sifo-Dyas order an army who didn’t speak Basic?  No one knows.  No one can find any records of this order, for one thing.  No one knows who Tyrannus is, for another.  

And second: what languages do the clones speak?  Obviously, Mando’a is amongst them, but Jango’s extremely intensely staring son also spoke another, infinitely weird language and no one can find any record of it, and not even Jango seemed to understand him.  Do they understand the Kaminoans’ clicking noises?  Are they just mute?  Is it constantly Shut The Fuck Up Friday up in there?  What is going on?  

The Council loses their collective minds.  Shaak Ti is about ready to haul ass across the galaxy to collect these poor, lost young men—Plo Koon is right there with her.  Yoda is—well, Yoda is swearing loudly in several dead languages right now.  Mace Windu, ever the voice of reason, just has one thing to say: how about they meet the clones, first.  Before they panic.

In the face of this intense, all-consuming, glorious sensibility, the Council collectively shuts the fuck up.  They decide to let things run their course.  

And then Geonosis.  Quickly, Yoda collects several hundred clones, manages to communicate to one of them—who speaks a really weird, ancient, and fucked up dialect of Basic that could basically scan to Elizabethan English, and whose name is probably Kowalski—what he needs, and that one tells an older, larger and more intimidating one.  Then that one yells a lot in a language Yoda has never heard before, and several hundred clones are suddenly hauling ass into gunships.  

Enter one Anakin Skywalker and one Padmé Amidala, who are about to acquire some friends, none of whom understand a word they’re saying.  They fuck some things up, get strapped to some poles to be devoured by Space Beasts of some sort, and then escape.  

Battle of Geonosis happens.  Mace Windu quickly discovers that the answer to the question what do the clones speak is effectively every language except Basic, and the answer is also supremely inconsistent.  He is Suffering.  He is Experiencing The Horrors.  Obi-Wan is likewise fighting for his life because he speaks a fancy-ass dialect of Mando’a that the clones don’t understand.  This is because they, like normal people, don’t talk like dignitaries on diplomatic missions.  

Moving on!  Obi-Wan gets assigned Alpha-17.  Alpha-17 is a demon.  Actually.  He probably speaks Basic but refuses to out of spite.  This is the biggest asshole to ever stomp his way into a Venator and terrify Anakin Skywalker into cowering submission.  (He may even be why Anakin behaved like that as Vader.  We will never know!)  Like most clones, Alpha-17 speaks four languages.  Clonespeak, Mando’a, Kaminoan, and Huttese.  In that order.  So he has no real trouble communicating with either Anakin or Obi-Wan.  

What he does have, though, is a surplus of kids.  Like it or not (he insists he doesn’t) they are his kids, and he wants them to have a shot at having a moderately tolerable existence.  Enter everyone’s favorite group of six weirdos: Wolffe, Ponds, Fox, Bly, Cody, and Rex.  

Wolffe is easy.  He’s horrible with languages, and so gets sent to Plo Koon, who speaks through a translator anyway.  Add Mando’a to the translator, and bang!  Easy.  Done.  They understand each other perfectly.  

Ponds is also easy.  He, being sensible, learned Basic, so he goes to Mace Windu, who is equally sensible (and grateful for the easy transition).  

Fox, who is a scheming little shit and also just so happens to speak Naboo, get sent to Coruscant.  The Chancellor can’t get one over on him if Fox can understand every word he says, and most Senators have protocol droids with them for translation anyway.  

Bly speaks Ryll, so she gets Aayla Secura.  Again, easy.  

Cody, on the other hand?  Cody speaks the same languages as 17.  Cody has a favorite younger brother who needs guidance.  Cody, therefore, gets deposited with Obi-Wan, and Rex?  Rex gets Anakin.  

But the issue with Rex is he and Anakin have no language in common.  Rex’s elective language was Togruti, and like the rest of his batch he also speaks Tusken sign.  Because his batch are a bunch of assholes who wanted an extremely private way to talk.  

So.  Anakin and Rex start off the war with no way to communicate!  None!  Literally not one language in common!  

And they do try to communicate—via charades, via text, et cetera—but they don’t really have access to translation software on a regular basis and thus things become complicated.  

Things are made even more complicated by the fact that Rex, like Wolffe, is shit at language learning.  Anakin, who isn’t, could try to learn clonespeak, and does!  But when you can’t communicate with the person teaching you it is immensely slow going.  

And thus, our premise is complete.  How do you run a war with someone you can’t talk to?  

Well, it depends.  If you’re Anakin, you say, maybe I can figure a way around this.  

If you’re Pong Krell?  

I dunno man.  Yell?  Yeah, that sounds about right.