#i don't really know how to tag trigger warnings
Note
I may be a day or two early for wip wednesday but I absolutely need to know what happens next in ur time loop fic of Andrew
WIP Wednesday Andrew and Aaron Time Loop AU [part 2/4]
Part 1
on ao3 I would tag this as "Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings" so if you need to know more because you think there might be something that could trigger you, let me know and I'll let you know
He feels frantic as he drives on now familiar roads, his thoughts swirling in his brain and bouncing inside his skulls, unable to tell where one begins and the other ends, unable to make sense of the nightmare that he has found himself trapped in. Cars race past him as his thoughts race in his brain, images of Aaron's cold and pale body flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinks, the coldness of his brother's hand and the stillness of his chest something that will never stop haunting him for as long as he lives.
“What? Is something wrong?” Aaron asks as soon as he picks up the phone, worry clear in his tired voice.
Andrew's breaths get lost in his lungs, unable to find their way out.
Aaron is alive.
Aaron is alive again.
“Andrew?”
“I'm going to stay with you for a while,” is everything that he manages to say, his voice quieter than he intends it to be, his hands squeezing the steering wheel until they turn white.
“What? Why? Did something happen?” Aaron asks and Andrew wants to scream at him.
“No,” he says. “I'm already on my way.”
“Andrew,” Aaron sighs. “For how long? Don't you have games and practice?”
“I hurt my wrist so I can't play for two weeks.”
“You can't stay with me. I have plans.”
“What plans?” he asks, wondering how many times Aaron has lied to them before, how many other times has he pretended to be busy while his only plan was that of getting high.
“With my friends.”
“You don't have friends. I'll be there in a few hours. Bye.”
He doesn't give Aaron any time to reply, any time to protest, before hanging up, Aaron's voice making his head spin, his blood boil.
He wants to hug his brother, he wants to feel his chest move, his heart beat, his blood flowing through his veins. He wants to touch Aaron's skin and feel nothing but warmth. He wants to look him in the eyes and see them shine.
He wants his brother to never be dead again.
♤♤
He sits outside of Aaron's locked door, the clock inside of his head ticking and ticking, each second that passes feeling like a lifetime spent in hell, wondering if the call is going to come anyways, wondering if Aaron is already dead. More than once he wants to drive back to the hospital where Aaron died, where Aaron will die. More than once he takes his phone out of his pocket and dials Aaron's number without ever calling him.
It's ten minutes past three in the afternoon when Andrew's phone rings where it's sitting on the floor by his side. Andrew's breath gets caught in his throat, his whole body tensing at the sound until his every muscle aches and screams, begging to be released, his heart pounding against his ribcage.
But when his eyes finally find the courage to look down at the bright screen by his side, it is Aaron's name that meets his eyes and not the hospital's number (a number that had now been printed inside of Andrew's brain and that he would never be able to forget.)
“What,” he says flatly as soon as he picks up the phone, his muscles still tense, his heart still racing.
“Are you really waiting for me?” Aaron asks in a tentative tone that Andrew can't decipher. Finally Andrew starts to relax, Aaron's quiet voice like sweet honey washing over him.
He hums in reply.
“I'm- I'm almost there. Wait for me,” Aaron says as the words rush out of his mouth and stumble all over each other.
“I've been waiting for almost two hours so you better be quick,” Andrew replies, unable to deny to himself just how much he longs to finally see his brother alive.
Andrew had long since learnt to keep his emotions trapped inside of his ribcage. Some would oftentimes run away from him, slip through the cracks, escape from their perfectly built prison: in the morning with Neil's peaceful face resting by his side, the brighg sun shining on him, his hair messy, his face puffy, a soft smile on his lips; in the night with Neil's flushed body under his, his warm hands gently placed on his shoulders, his soft moans filling the quiet room.
But it had been a long time since his emotions had come crashing against his chest, threatening to split his ribcage open, uncovering his most safely guarded secrets. He had forgotten how much it hurt, how raw and vulnerable it made him feel.
“Hey,” Aaron says breathlessly, breaking the silence and coming to stand in front of a motionless Andrew.
Andrew just stares at him blankly, taking notice of every single thing that is Aaron, of every aspect of him, every detail. Aaron looks tired, Andrew notices, his skin is pale, ink spilled under his bloodshot eyes but his pupils are normal, he looks rail-thin, his collar bones heavily pronounced.
Andrew says nothing as his brain reminds him of the list of “Common Physical Signs of Drug Usage” that he had read once on the library's computer when he was fifteen.
“You ambush me like this and you are not even going to say hi?” Aaron asks as he opens the door, but there is no strength in his voice, no malice in his words.
“Hi,” he says as he walks inside the now familiar house, his eyes falling back on the family picture displayed in the living room.
“Give me a second,” Aaron says before running inside his room and closing the door behind himself, probably trying to tidy up the mess that Andrew had already seen.
He sits on the couch, unable to come up with a plan of action, with a strategy. He had already asked Aaron before if he had relapsed and Aaron had denied it. Would he ever tell Andrew the truth if he asked?
“So,” Aaron says as he walks out of his room with a black trash bag. Andrew just looks at him. “Are you going to tell me why you decided to crash at my house for who knows how long?”
“Am I not allowed to want to spend some time with my dearest brother?” he asks with a sweet and ostensibly fake smile on his lips, trying not to think just how much truth was actually hidden in those words.
Aaron scoffs at him, “Sure, because you totally just wanted to spend some time with me,” he says and something in his voice makes Andrew pause. He just stares at him, his brows furrowed, trying to figure out something that he knows is standing right in front of him and yet he cannot seem to be able grasp.
There's a tense silence for a few seconds as Andrew just stares at his brother, at the way air fills his lungs, as the way his chest moves.
“Fine,” Aaron breaks first. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, as if he's dealing with a troublesome kid. “Fine. You don't have to tell me now. Just- Are you okay? It's nothing bad, right?”
Andrew is taken aback by the concern in his voice before anger fills his vision. No nothing too bad, he wants to say. My own fucking brother died. No biggie.
“No, nothing too bad,” he says between clenched teeth.
♤♤
They spend the rest of the afternoon playing on Aaron's old PS2, the same one that he has owned longer than Andrew has known him. It was quiet and comfortable and Andrew could tell there was something else going on inside of his brother's mind, something that was clouding his brain, making his moves sloppy, his attention fragmented.
“Do you feel like you are going to relapse?” Andrew asks. “Don't lie to me.”
“Where does that even coming from? Fuck-” Aarons scoffs as he misses a jumps and falls down a cliff.
“Do you?”
“No? Not more than usual,” he says distractedly, his whole attention on the game in front of him.
You used today and you died, Andrew almost says. Stop fucking lying.
“If you feel like using again, just tell me,” is all that comes out of his mouth, his eyes landing on Aaron's focused face. “Promise.”
“Sure,” Aaron says, his eyes never leaving the TV screen.
“Promise,” he repeats loudly.
“I- I promise,” Aaron says, his eyes finally meeting Andrew's.
Andrew knows it won't be enough. Aaron had lied before and he would have no qualms in lying again, in breaking a promise. But he found it difficult to worry when Aaron was sitting right by his side, their shoulders brushing against each other, Aaron's warmth washing over him.
It's 7 pm when Andrew silently gets up from the couch and heads towards the kitchen with the intention of preparing them dinner.
“What the fuck Aaron.”
“What?” Aaron says from the living room, the sound of the game almost drowning his quiet voice.
“Why the fuck is you fridge completely empty?”
“Oh,” Aaron says, turning off the game.
Andrew waits for a second, then two, expecting to receive an actual reply from his brother but getting only silence in return.
“We can go grocery shopping tomorrow,” Andrew says, sitting back down on the couch, his hand grazing Aaron's shoulder. “Let's just order take out for today.”
Aaron nods as Andrew takes his phone out of his pocket to order take-out but notices a couple of unread messages from Neil.
To: 0 Neil:
I'm going to stay with Aaron for a while
From: 0 Neil:
is everything okay?
To: 0 Neil:
I'm here to figure it out
Dinner is quiet, just like the rest of the afternoon had been quiet. Aaron's gaze never leaves his food, his eyes unfocused, his mind full of thoughts that Andrew isn't able to read.
If only he could jump inside of Aaron's head and search through his brain, Andrew thinks, maybe then he would find the answers he's looking for, maybe then he would find the right questions.
He used to think of Aaron as someone easy to read, his goals and ambitions prosaic. He always thought he knew what Aaron wanted, what he longed for. Every action Aaron took and every comment he made used to be something Andrew could decipher and understand. And yet, now that he's standing in front of him, he wonders if he ever really knew Aaron at all, if this whole time he had been reading Aaron's signals all wrong.
“Why don't you have any friends?” he asks, his eyes scanning Aaron's face for a reaction, for a sign.
Aaron's pauses for a second, his eyes focused on his food, “Of course I have friends,” he says, his eyes meeting Andrew's. “Why would you think that I don't have any friends?”
Aaron's face doesn't betray him, his eyes seem truthful and his voice doesn't shake. If Andrew hadn't known better, he would've believed him, he would've fallen for his lie. How many times, he wonders, has Aaron lied straight to his face? How many times has he tricked Andrew before?
I can tell when you're lying to me, he used to tell Aaron. Now he wonders if he ever really could.
“Don't lie to me,” Andrew says, his voice cold, his gaze unforgiving.
“I'm not-”
“Don't lie to me,” he says again, his gaze just a little softer.
“How would you even know,” Aaron muebles as he puts more food in his mouth with his brows furrowed and an uncharacteristic pout on his lips.
In the past, Andrew would've pushed. In the past, Aaron would've been colder.
“What's going on with you,” the words leave Andrew's mouth without his permission.
“I just-” Aaron says before shaking his head, something that Andrew can't read flashing in his eyes. “I'm tired. I'm going to bed now.”
Andrew can't do anything but watch as Aaron retreats back to his room and closes the door behind himself with a soft click. He sighs as he drops his head on the couch and stares at the white ceiling feeling lost and confused. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do.
He doesn't know how to save Aaron from himself.
♧♧
The first week passes quickly, Aaron spending most of his days at the hospital and his evenings locked in his room studying while Andrew is left alone with his own thoughts and fears, images of his dead brother spinning like a carousel inside of his brain.
Every night he wakes up from nightmares, his body numb and damp with sweat, Aaron's cold body flashing behind his eyes.
Every night, he sofly opens Aaron's bedroom door and stares at his brother as he sleeps, at the way his chest rises and falls, at his pink skin and slightly flushed cheeks.
He's alive, he tells himself, over and over again. And yet he can still remember when Aaron hadn't been alive.
♧♧
“We should do things together,” Andrew tells Aaron one morning while he's still lying on the couch after having spent a whole night googling “How to make sure your brother doesn't relapse again”.
“What?”
“Make a list of things that you want to do and we'll do them.”
“Why?” Aaron asks, walking out of the kitchen.
“You don't want to?” Andrew replies, tilting his head.
“You always have a reason for things.”
“If you don't want to-”
“I do,” Aaron interrupts him, his eyes wide.
“Then make the list and give it to me when you get home this evening.”
“I just don’t- Fine,” Aaron says with a sigh as he heads for the door. He stops there for a second, his hand on the handle and his bag over his shoulder.
“What,” Andrew says as he takes his phone from the coffee table.
Aaron just furrows his brows and shakes his head, “Bye,” is all that comes out of his mouth before leaving the apartment.
Androw looks at the closed door, his heart racing like it does every time Aaron leaves his sight. He can feel little ants crawling under his skin and he knows that's where they'll stay until he'll see Aaron, alive and breathing, again.
♤♤
That evening Aaron comes back later than usual. Fourteen minutes later, to be exact.
Andrew is pacing the length of the living room when he hears the jingle of Aaron's keys as he pushes them in the lock. A few seconds later, Aaron walks inside the house and throws his coat on the hanger as if nothing is wrong.
“You're late,” Andrew says between gritted teeth as he stalks towards Aaron.
“What?” Aaron asks in confusion and bends down to untie his shoes.
“If you come home late you have to text and let me know.”
“I'm not even that late, just a few minutes and-”
“Fourteen.”
“What?”
“Not a few minutes. Fourteen minutes.”
Aaron sighs as he stands back up, confusion written all over his face.
Fourteen minutes of Andrew picturing Aaron's cold body in a back alley, on a white hospital bed, in a closet, in the middle of an empty street.
Fourteen minutes of Andrew picturing Aaron's vacant eyes staring at the sky, his pale skin tinted blue with death, his chest unmoving, his heart still.
Fourteen minutes of Andrew recalling Aaron's cold fingers in his hand, his icy forehead under his lips.
Fourteen minutes of waiting for his phone to ring, for the Doctor’s voice to inform him that his brother had died.
“I'm sorry,” Aaron says but it comes out as a question.
“Whatever,” Andrew replies before leaving a confused Aaron at the door and locking himself in the bathroom.
“Tell me something,” he says on the phone, his arms tightly wrapped around his legs as he sits in the corner between the sink and the wall.
He doesn't listen as Neil talks about his day, about practice, about anything and everything that comes to his mind. He lets Neil's calm and soothing voice wash over him, until it seeps into his brain, into his bones. Until breathing doesn't hurt anymore and the ants have left his body.
“Why won't you tell me what's wrong?” Neil asks on the other line, his voice full of worry.
“Aaron,” he says, his brother's name burning his lips as it leaves his mouth.
“Is he sick?”
“I just need to make sure he doesn't do something stupid and accidentally kills himself in the process.”
“You think he's going to?”
“I know he is.”
“Alright,” Neil says with a sigh. “But you have to promise me something.”
Andrew humms.
“Don't hurt yourself while trying to help him.”
Andrew stays silent for a second. There is nothing that he wouldn't be willing to do if it means saving Aaron from his fate, “I can't promise that.”
“Andrew-”
“He's my brother, Neil.”
“Does he even want to be? He just left you and Nicky and never looked back. Why would you put your mental well being at risk after all of your hard work for someone who wouldn't do the same for you?”
“That's not how it works.”
“What?” Neil asks.
“This is not a deal or a transaction. I'm helping him because I don't want him to be dead, not because I want him to do the same for me, not because I want him to give me something back,” he takes a deep breath and shakes his head even if Neil can't see him. “I just don't want him to be dead.”
“Fine just- just be careful and call me when you need to.”
“I will.”
A knock on the door interrupts Neil in the middle of a sentence, “I made dinner,” Aaron's soft voice comes from the other side when Ansrew doesn't reply.
“I have to go,” he says.
“Call me,” Neil replies before hanging up.
They eat dinner quietly on the couch, the sound of Aaron chewing something crunchy loud in the silent room.
"If you still want I have the list” Aaron says with downcast eyes.
“Then get it,” he replies after another long silence.
Andrew watches as Aaron rushes towards his bedroom, his bowl hastily placed on the coffee table.
Why are you so different, he wants to ask but doesn't.
“Here,” Aaron says a few seconds later as he hands him a wrinkled piece of lined paper, Aaron's elegant handwriting filling the page.
Andrew just nods at the paper and places it on the sofa by his side.
“You're not going to look at it?”
“I'm eating,” Andrew replies.
Aaron nods, his lower lip trapped between his teeth, a dot of blood staining his skin.
“Stop that and eat,” Andrew says, tapping Aaron's chin with his finger.
For a second it looks like Aaron is going to say something but before anything can come spilling out of his mouth, Aaron shakes his head and goes back to his dinner.
♧♧
“We're going for a picnic,” he tells Aaron on Wednesday, a week and a day after Aaron's death.
“What?” Aaron asks as he looks away from the open book on his lap.
“It's in your list, isn't it?”
“I mean, yeah but-”
“You have an hour to get ready. Chop chop.”
The sun is high in the sky by the time they reach the park. It's still a little cold outside, the air a little chilly, the sun a little weak.
“This is so nice,” Aaron says as he fiddles with the hem of the table cloth that Andrew had placed on the ground. There is a smile that Aaron is trying to hide on lips and it makes the ants under Andrew's skin disappear for a second.
“I always saw families having picnics when I was in primary school,” he tells Andrew as he bites the tuna, mayo and lettuce sandwich they had bought at the café near that park. “It would be better if Nicky were here too.”
Andrew just hums in reply.
“What's your favourite sandwich?” Aaron asks, trying to fill the silence.
“Probably-”
“Wait,” Aaron interrupts him. “I'll try to guess.”
Andrew looks at him a little puzzled as Aaron furrows his brows, a look of deep concentration painted on his face.
“I've got it,” he says after a few seconds, a crumb of white bread falling from the corner of his mouth. “Pulled pork with BBQ sauce.”
Andrew just nods.
“Now you,” Aaron says as he takes another bite from his sandwich.
“Me what?”
“Guess my favourite,” Aaron says, sounding a little too excited, his smile too bright.
“It's not that hard to guess. It's the same as mine. It's what we always got from highschool to college.”
“Mine is meatballs,” Aaron says quietly as he takes another bite of his sandwich.
“Since when?” Andrew asks. It had been years since the two of them had last eaten a sandwich together. Andrew can't help but to wonder what more he missed in Aaron's life.
“Since I was seven and a guy from school gave me a piece of his because I didn't have anything to eat,” Aaron says calmly without looking at Andrew. “I hate BBQ sauce.”
“But we always for pulled pork and BBQ,” Andrew says. It was their favourite, they would always eat it together for dinner after school.
Aaron just shrugs, “It was your favourite,” he says.
“But you-” Andrew begins but is interrupted by a ball landing on his leg.
“I'm so sorry,” a kid shouts as he runs towards them with his brother behind him. “We are so sorry. It was an accident.”
“It's fine, no one got hurt,” Aaron says, picking up the red ball and giving it back to the kid. “Just be more careful next time.”
“Oh my god it's clones,” the smaller child says while hiding behind his brother. “Like in star wars.”
“It's twins you idiot,” the older brother reprimands him as they run away.
♧♧
When Aaron gets back home on Thursday's evening at 9:45, he looks tired and upset. His shoulders are hunched, his movements slow, his eyes never once lift from the floor.
“What's wrong?” Andrew asks from where he's sitting on the couch.
“Just a bad day at work,” Aaron replies, his voice so low Andrew has to strain to hear him.
“Come,” he says, patting the couch.
“I just want to-”
“Come,” Andrew says again.
Aaron trudges towards the couch and Andrew can see a little tremor in his hands. He looks for signs of drug use but comes up empty.
“Speak,” he says as soon as Aaron is sitting on the couch by his side, his chin resting on his knees as he hugs his legs to his chest, his dirty shoes on the couch.
Aaron opens his mouth but no words leave his lips, just a shaky breath.
“It's okay,” he says as he watches the tremble in Aaron's lips. “Take a deep breath.”
Aaron shakes his head, his eyes wet, “I told his brother it was going to be fine but I-” a dry sob breaks Aaron’s sentence right in the middle. “It was just a little kid and it wasn't even- it really wasn't-”
“It's okay, Aaron,” he says even if he knows it's not.
“And his brother was just there alone and I told him- Andrew I told him that it would- that it would be fine,” there are tears running down his reddened cheeks.
“Can I touch you?” Andrew asks and waits for Aaron to nod his permission before taking Aaron's hand into his own. “You did what you could.”
Aaron closes his eyes for a second, “Can you-” he shakes his head.
“Can I what?”
“Nothing. It was silly.”
“Tell me,” Andrew says. “I'll decide if it's silly.”
A pause and then, “Can you sleep in my bed tonight?”
There is a longer pause, silence fills the room as Andrew thinks it over.
“I told you it was silly,” Aaron says, his eyes now open. “Forget about it.”
Andrew stays quiet for another second, “We can,” he says.
He waits for Aaron's breathing to go back to normal, for the tears to stop flowing down his cheeks, for the tremor in his hands to subside, and then he helps his brother back on his feet and towards his room. Aaron's legs are still shaky, his hold on Andrew's hand tight.
“I'll go wash up,” Aaron says, taking his pyjamas from where he had thrown it that morning and heading for the bathroom.
Andrew sits on the side of Aaron's bed as he waits, scanning the room. He finds it to be more tidy than it had been when Aaron had died, but still disorganised and messy.
“Why is it so messy?” he asks when Aaron walks back into the room. “You always used to keep everything tidy and in perfect order.”
“I just-” Aaron shakes his head and lets the sentence die. Andrew looks at him.
“Come on then,” he pulls down the covers and lies under them. He had missed sleeping in a real bed.
“You don't have to,” Aaron says standing in front of the bed.
“I know,” Ansrew replies. “It's my choice. Just don't touch me.”
“I won't,” his brother reassures him before climbing on the bed.
They lie in silence for a while, Andrew on his back, Aaron on his side, his eyes trained on Andrew.
“You're staring at me,” he says as he looks at Aaron from the corner of his eye.
“When I was a kid,” Aaron whispers as if he were sharing a secret. “I always wanted a brother to share everything with.”
Andrew hums in reply.
“I wanted to build a fort with covers and cushions that only me and my brother could enter. Our secret place where we would always be safe and never lonely.”
Andrew turns on his side and looks at his brother in the quiet dark.
“Goodnight Aaron,” he says, placing his hand on top of Aaron's.
“Goodnight Andrew.”
♧♧
“We are going to the market,” he tells Aaron Friday morning as soon as Aaron leaves his room
“I need to be at the hospital at 1 pm,” Aaron replies.
Andrew nods, “We're leaving in an hour.”
Andrew had never been to a farmers market before nor had he ever wanted to go to a farmers market.
“This is so fun,” Aaron is saying as Andrew tries to dodge the crowd of people that is flowing around him. “Look.”
Andrew isn't sure what Aaron is pointing at, nor does he care that much. The crowd is overwhelming, people constantly bumping into him and touching his body.
They walk around for a while, Aaron pointing to flowers and plants, fruits and vegetables as if he were in a museum instead of a street market.
“Did you know that to make just one pound of honey it takes 2 million flowers?” Aaron asks as they walk past a stand of honey. “Do you like honey?”
“What?” Andrew asks, distracted by a woman who bumped into him.
“You like sweets, so I was wondering if you like honey.”
“I don't know. Never tried.”
“Oh then I should totally buy you some. Come on,” Aaron says walking towards the honey vendor.
“Do you like honey?” Andrew asks as they wait for their turn.
“It's not really something you can eat spoonfuls of or you'll get sick, but I like it.”
They sit on a bench away from the crowd as soon as they buy the honey.
“Here, taste,” Aaron says, scooping some honey on the wooden spoon the vendor had given them.
Honey is sticky and sweet and it makes Andrew's throat burn a little because of the overwhelming sweetness.
“You don't like it?” Aaron asks with a little frown on his face.
Andrew shakes his head.
“Sorry,” Aaron mutters while closing the honey lid.
“What are you apologising for?”
“I thought you would have liked it,” Aaron shrugs.
Andrew just stares at him confused, his face blank.
“It's whatever,” Aaron says as he gets back up on his feet. “We should go home.”
Andrew watches as Aaron throws the jar of honey in the first street bin they find while they head towards Andrew's car.
♧♧
“Neil's playing today,” Aaron says on Sunday as Andrew is cooking dinner.
“Yeah,” Andrew replies because he noticed Aaron hates not receiving a reply.
“Do you want to watch the game?” he asks but then immediately turns on the TV without waiting for Andrew's reply.
When he goes into the living room with their dinner (Aaron's favourite italian pasta), the game has already started and Aaron is comfortably sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, a fluffy blue blanket around his shoulders.
“Thank you,” Aaron says with a smile, taking one of the plates from Andrew's outstretched hand and placing it on his legs. “It just started so you didn't miss much.”
It surprises Andrew how much Aaron talks during the game, how much he notices about the players and their plays, how much he knows about Andrew's team.
“Yeah, he's been doing that the whole season. He really needs to work on that.”
“You've been keeping up with the championship?” Andrew asks.
“Not really, I just watch the games where you, Kevin or Matt play.”
Andrew purses his lips as a mix of emotions explode in his chest. He wants to dig deeper, to ask why. Aaron never showed up for the foxes reunions at Wymack’s place, he cut all contact with everyone, he never once showed any interest in anyone, any will to be their friend.
Andrew wonders when had Aaron stopped making sense. He wonders if Aaron had ever made sense in the first place at all or if Andrew had made up a version of his brother in his head that had never once been real.
They spend the rest of the evening watching the game, a little smile on Aaron's lips as his hands flail around when he tries to explain sometimes to Andrew.
Could it have always been this easy? He wonders. Did Aaron have to die twice for them to finally spend time together like normal people?
Maybe, Andrew thinks, maybe everything can be fixed.
♧♧
“We are going to the zoo,” he tells Aaron on Monday morning while Aaron is still lying in his bed.
“What?” he asks, his voice low and full of sleep.
“Get ready, we're leaving in an hour.”
Andrew hates the zoo. It's boring and uninteresting. He doesn't care about where any of the animals came from nor from what they had been saved. It's cold and cloudy and the tips of his fingers are frozen. But the zoo was on Aaron's list and it seems to be working perfectly as a distraction: Aaron keeps speed-walking from one enclosure to the next, reading out facts that he seems to find interesting and cool.
“And this one was saved after hunters shot him down and he lost his ability to fly,” Aaron says after three long and excruciating hours of walking around the zoo surrounded by screaming children and annoying adults. “Isn't that so heartwarming?”
“Heartwarming?” he asks, focusing on the sad little bird sitting in the middle of a huge green field.
“Someone found him when he was just about to die and decided that he was worthy of being saved. They took care of him and gave him a new home.”
“He's a bird who can't fly. Alone in a huge field. It would've been more merciful to just let him die. What kind of life is this?”
He can feel Aaron's gaze on him as he looks at the bird but when he turns towards him, Aaron's eyes are back on the bird. He doesn't look excited anymore, his gaze soft and sad, something that Andrew can't decipher in his expression.
“It's almost lunch time,” Aaron says, looking away from the bird. “We should go home.”
♧♧
“Next time you are the one who has to visit,” Andrew says on Tuesday morning as he packs his bag. “We should also invite Nicky,” he adds.
“Sure,” Aaron says but there is something strange behind his eyes.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes, just- I'm just very very tired,” Aaron says, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“You are not feeling like you're going to relapse, right?” Andrew asks, staring right into Aaron's eyes.
“What? No. No I don't,” Aaron replies, his eyebrows knitted together.
“Promise.”
“I promise,” Aaron says lightly.
“This is very serious Aaron. Promise me you won't touch any type of drug for any reason.”
“Andrew. I promise I won't touch any type of drug. Unless I'm administering it to a patient. Good?”
“Good.”
“Can I- Nothing,” Aaron says with a shake of his head.
“Tell me.”
“It's silly. Forget about it.”
“I'll decide if it's silly,” Andrew says.
“Can I hug you goodbye?”
Andrew is silent for a second. He can't remember ever hugging Aaron in his life. Not once.
“Yes,” he says.
Aaron moves slowly towards him, as if walking towards an easily spooked animal, afraid that I'll run away. When he's finally standing in front of Andrew, he carefully lifts his arms and places them around Andrew's neck, his cheek resting on his brother's shoulder. Andrew can feel Aaron’s warm breaths on his neck, his brother's heartbeat pounding on his body where their chests are touching.
Aaron is alive. His brother is still alive.
He tightens his hold around Aaron's waist. He had never hugged his brother before, he thinks again. In two other lives Aaron had died without ever getting to hug his brother.
Andrew could've gone his whole life without ever getting to share something as trivial and mundane as a hug between brothers.
♧♧
It's Tuesday, the twenty-second of May at six in the afternoon when Andrew's phone rings, the soft voice of a doctor on the other side, the words coming out of her mouth venomous and wrong, lies that Andrew can't comprehend, can't accept.
“That's impossible,” he says getting up from his couch. “Aaron promised he wouldn't touch any drugs. He promised me.”
Aaron promised. He had promised.
“Drugs?” the Doctor asks. “I'm really sorry for the misunderstanding Mr. Minyard but Doctor Minyard's cause of death isn't drug related.”
“What? He didn't overdose?”
“No, Sir. Your brother he- he I'm so sorry. He jumped off a bridge. I'm so sorry.”
Aaron had always claimed that he didn't feel like he was going to relapse. Why hadn't Andrew believed him.
He had been asking the wrong question the whole time. He had tried to solve the wrong problem.
Can I hug you goodbye? Aaron had asked a few hours ago.
Yes, Andrew had replied.
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screaming
#literally almost threw the fuck up#i HATE theowing up#ugh#yuck#ow#ew#i am so scared of throwing up#also i might have a doctor's visit in ny future today 🫶#if only to satiate my school#ik why im sick#i have a shotty immune system on a good day#and shoving me into a small ass school with alllll those people was NOT a good idea#bc i pick up EVERYTHING#but if i don't go in today i go to the doctor#for notes for the days i missed#so they wont send me in for truency#woo hoo#bugs junk#tw emetophobia#i don't really know how to tag trigger warnings#so#???
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So, first off, this is not an attempt to kink shame (dubcon and noncon are great!) but I do keep seeing a thing in fics (I do NOT see this irl in kink spaces nearly as often) where like. A character will interrupt the flow of the scene to check consent
And I don't mean in an "are we still green?" Or "what's your color?" kind of way, but I mean. The author has tagged the fic and indicated via prose and/or author notes that they are doing their Due Diligence to make sure this fic is Righteously Consensual from top to bottom, No Question About It
And a character will ask for full sexual consent either directly or indirectly or renegotiate the boundaries of the kinks being practiced AFTER the sex acts have already begun.
Here's the thing: horny brain isn't great at making decisions! irl in kink spaces, there's often a lot of emphasis on negotiating BEFORE the scene begins, perhaps even with a space between negotiation and the scene if it's with a new/unfamiliar partner (maybe it's a few minutes while things are set up, maybe the partners negotiate a day or more in advance! It depends!), and not changing the parameters of the scene after someone is already horny or god forbid already in subspace.
Again, these are perfectly fine rules to break in fiction, when the author is aware of it (most characters are not going to be fully familiar with safe, sane, consensual practices and the traffic light system, nor would we want them to be!) but I'm increasingly finding fics where the author DOESN'T seem aware, which takes a normal fic (in-character, with reasonable but perhaps even somewhat dubious practices, which the author isn't emphasizing or preaching about) into Red Flag Territory (a character, OOC, yanking me out of the scene to behave like a PSA about consent instead of conforming to the horny tone of the scene, and perpetuating unsafe practices anyway)
If you are writing a master manipulator or someone who wants to have a gotcha, you totally said it was okay on a character they are trying to bone (which is well in the realm of non/dubcon) that's fine! This PSA is not aimed at you. But if you are trying to write someone who Cares Strongly About Consent, then perhaps be more aware of when is an appropriate time to escalate the situation (sexually speaking) or ask for consent!
#like you don't see this shit in the sex pollen tag!#those folks know exactly what they're doing and they're having a great time#and i don't want to call anyone out specifically because like. this is a multi fandom issue#and i see it mostly in fiction space#written by people who are probably not active in their local kink community#but i did just see a really egregious and specific example which triggered this rant I've been sitting on for a WHILE#like. people who are writing heat fics also typically know! if the sub is gagging for any phallus it's not the time to ask for consent!#they're well past that point!!!#it's the fics in between that think they're doing uwu soft romance with a bit of spice#that don't know how to warn for shit and make me very concerned for their safe sex practices in the future#this is 10000% more egregious if you DO write a character who is keenly aware of SSC practices#if your character goes to kink dungeons or has opinions about the traffic light system#they probably should know not to fuck with renegotiating mid scene#this has been a psa
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Whump Reference Post for Fingernail Removal Torture
Hi whump writers of Tumblr! I recently made a little introduction post in which I said I’d be making reference posts. This is one I already had typed up, because for some reason this was the first thing I thought of.
There are no images attached, but I’m putting the rest of the post under a readmore since the majority of the content is semi-graphic written description of the how-to’s and wherefore’s and such of fingernail removal torture.
To be clear: I will be going into as much depth as I possibly can without using images. The content of this post will be purely academic. There will be no artistic liberties taken. This post is meant to be as accurate to (and descriptive of) a real-life situation as possible.
I hope some part of this post eventually winds up being a helpful resource for someone!
1) Not as painful as it’s made out to be
-It's painful, but definitely not to the extent it’s shown in movies or whatnot. A lot of the "pain" comes from the shock factor of seeing your body without something it’s always had, as well as the inherent "wrongness" that comes with experiencing a part of your body being removed.
2) There is very very thin film of skin between the fingernail and the finger.
-If one is careful in removing the fingernail by peeling it back slowly, one can preserve this thin piece of skin.
-If one pulls the fingernail back quickly and without taking care, this thin film will rip, and the nail will pull away with bits of flesh attached.
3) The flesh under the nail will be vertically striated.
-If one uses the peel-back method, and is careful to not let the thin film of skin between the nail and the flesh rip, the skin/flesh underneath the nail will be as visibly striated as the fingernail itself.
If you look closely at your fingernail right now, you’ll see that there are many tiny grooves from the tip of your nail to the base. This is true for all human fingernails. If the nail is peeled back with sufficient care, those striations will be echoed on the skin underneath the nail.
4) The “peel entirely off” method versus the "peel back and then stop" method versus the "pull out entirely" method.
-The “peel entirely off” method is how I will refer to the method of grasping firmly the tip of the fingernail in some sort of vice (usually pliers) and then peeling it backwards, moving the pliers from the nail at the tip of the finger towards the hand itself. Using this method, the nail will remain firmly grasped in the pliers the entire time. The movement of the pliers only stops when the base of the nail is ripped entirely out of the finger.
This will necessarily result in ripping out a fair bit of skin past the cuticles, as the technical base of the nail (aka��“nail matrix”) is generally around half a centimeter hand-wards past the cuticles (and follows the curve of the nail, so is deeper than the cuticles as well). Due to the nature of skin, I would expect a tear reminiscent of an extremely deep hangnail that goes from the base of the cuticles to at least halfway between the first and second knuckle (and at most goes to the second knuckle).
In this case, it is not guaranteed that the nail will grow back. There is a chance it’ll come back, but there is also a chance that the nail matrix is permanently damaged and will not be able to grow a new nail.
Since every human is different, there’s not an exact science to determining where a person’s nail matrix is before it’s ripped out. A (very) general rule of thumb is to follow the curve of the existing fingernail, and draw a point on that curve before it hits bone. Obviously, this is extremely subjective.
-The “peel back and then stop” method is how I will refer to what is essentially the previous method, but one stops before the nail-ripping goes past the cuticle and snips off the peeled part, leaving a milimeter or so of fingernail existing on the nailbed.
In this case, it is assured that the nail matrix is undisturbed, and the fingernail will grow back.
This is the method I will assume is taken for the future steps
-The “pull out entirely” method is how I will refer to the situation where one grasps the protruding part of the nail firmly, and applies force away from the hand and in the direction the finger points.
In this case, there’s a large chance that the nail will rip. This depends largely on the care taken with the pulling object (pliers, usually) to grab the nail exactly parallel with the sides of the pliers.
If any part of the pliers digs into the nail at a singular location, this will create a point at which pressure will build up, and the nail will likely rip at this location. The strength of the individual’s nails also affects the ripping. The individual’s nail strength can vary based on nourishment as well as on a general person-to-person basis.
Personally, I do not recommend this method.
-If one wants to make the removal definitely permanent, there’s the possibility of peeling it back all the way down and out, and then chemically burning where one assumes the nail matrix is. (Some serious irl hikers do this to their toenails on purpose, to reduce the chances of getting ingrown toenails from being laced into hiking boots for days on end.)
Removing the nail permanently will obviously reduce the opportunity to peel it off again, but will give a permanent Horrific Aspect to the victim.
5) For the first three days, the exposed flesh will be painful.
-The entire tip of the finger will be a constant deep and throbbing pain. Any deviation from this norm will be an increase in pain, never a decrease (save medication or an ice-bath-for-full-minutes immersion to the point of numbness).
-Any contact with the exposed nailbed will increase the pain. Knocking the exposed flesh against anything, even extremely gently, will result in a visible bright red welt under the thin layer of skin (bright red on light skin only! on darker skin, the welt will still be visible, but will show as a dark red-brown). It is a visual similar to an extremely tiny, non-protruding blood blister. Knocking the nailbed against something less gently will result in fully scraping off that delicate outer layer of skin.
-Using the finger for anything will be painful (though not unbearably so), and it may even be painful to bend the finger at all.
-Any moisture on the exposed flesh (including anything from regular water to antibiotic ointment) will hurt a lot. This will intensify the throbbing at least twofold across the entire nailbed, and will also result in an amount of stinging as if one had just realized one had been stung by a bee.
6) For treatment and healing thereof (if quick healing is desired)
For those first three days, any bandaid application is inadvisable
-The exposed flesh will be so tender and vulnerable that any bandaid (even the non-stick kind) will stick to the exposed flesh and rip it upon removal. I can only assume this is in part due to the curvature of the finger, which means that any wrapping-around type bandaid will inherently put pressure on the nailbed, resulting in sticking.
-To promote healing, the first three days should be without any sort of covering on the wound.
After the first three days, a scab will form.
-At this point, the pain will be much less. it might be uncomfortable to bump the nailbed into objects, but it will not be the same pain as in the first three days.
-The wound will also be much less sensitive to moisture.
-When the scab starts to crack (usually a vertical crack), one should apply antibiotic ointment and a bandaid. At this point in the proess, it is desired for the scab to remain as consistently moist as possibly. This will help the scab fall off when it is ready to do so.
-At this point, the finger can be used normally (within reason) without much (if any) pain.
After two or three days with the bandaid covering, the scab will start to fall off.
-One may expedite this process if one is careful.
-At this point, the skin on the nailbed is sensitive to the touch, but not to the point of pain.
-There will be some dry, loose skin around the edges of the nailbed.
-The previously visible striation will no longer be there.
-Pressure on the exposed nailbed will not be necessarily painful, but it will feel decidedly Odd. Though not painful, It will be an extremely sensitive area.
-The nailbed will be a delicate pinkish color.
Around a week after the initial scab falls off, there will appear to be another scab. It will be a relatively thin layer of dry, dead skin.
-If the nail is allowed to grow normally, it is likely that it will cover this second scab before it has the chance to fall off.
-If the stub of the fingernail is trimmed routinely, it is possible for the scab to fall off, leaving only relatively smooth unblemished skin where the nailbed is. This skin will be roughly the same color and texture as the skin on the tip of the finger.
7) The rate at which fingernails grow back is extremely slow
-The average growth rate is about 3.5 milimeters per month. There are several factors that can cause this to vary:
-Fingernails on the dominant hand grow back faster than the nails on the non-dominant hand.
-Fingernails grow back faster than toenails.
-Nails grow back faster in warm weather than in cold weather.
-Depending on the nail and the aforementioned conditions, one can expect a total regrowth time of anywhere from three to six months (or more).
8) Life Without Fingernails
-Fingernails affect a large part of our everyday lives. We mostly use them when we’re manipulating objects with our hands, and we use them to scratch. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but it’s a lot. It’s hard to explain just how weird it is to not have fingernails to someone who’s never experienced it, but here goes:
-Fingernails are the Hard Backs used to brace our fingers against a hard shell when we manipulate something with our hands. If you pinch your fingers together right now, you’ll see a white band along the top of your fingernail. This is where the pressure from the pinching goes; it’s braced against your nail.
-Picking something up without fingernails feels extremely odd the first few hundred times you do it. It takes a long time to get used to it.
-Writing is even worse. Without the hard shell backing your fingers, the pencil tends to slip out of your grip more often. If you usually have long enough fingernails that you balance your pen/pencil on them, you’re extremely likely to have the pencil completely slip out of your grip multiple times a sentence.
-You don’t realize how much you unconsciously scratch itchy parts of your body until you no longer have the ability to do so. If you’re only missing a few nails, you have to consciously adjust your hand so that you can scratch with the existing ones. If you’re missing all of them, you have to actively find an external object to alleviate the itch.
Some places on the body one can scratch with their teeth, but for most places, one needs to either find an “itch stick,” or rub that part of their body on something scratchy. A lot of clothing is scratchy enough to work for this. One needs to learn how to vary the pressure so that one can alleviate the itch without tearing through the skin or scratching themselves.
Pros:
-Body horror
Fingernail removal is a more mentally significant mutilation than cuts or burns, if only because it draws on the "that was there and now it's not" aspect of body horror.
-Can be inflicted more than once
Since fingernails grow back, they can be removed again and again and again. Though it may take some time for the nails to regrow, it isn't even close to the type of permanent that’s chopping off a finger or a toe.
-Helplessness
Since it takes a few days for the nailbeds to heal enough to be able to use one's fingers, a complete removal of all fingernails will take away one's ability to use their hands. Even after this initial period of extreme sensitivity, the lack of fingernails is something most people aren’t prepared for. The previous section explaining how fingernails affect daily life is significant here.
Cons:
-Can’t repeat often.
Once a fingernail is off, it's not coming back for at least three months (likely longer). It doesn't have the relatively quick reset time that burns or cuts do.
-Relatively short amount of time in pain
All of the pain is in the first few days. It is inconvenient afterwards, but there is little to no pain at this time.
-Amount of care needed
One needs to be relatively careful inflicting this. Fingernails are not as resilient as you'd think, and the likelihood of them ripping before you can finish ripping them off is fairly large if you're not being careful.
If you have a short-tempered or impatient whumper, this might not be their particular wheelhouse.
Conclusion
Overall, I’d say that the effectiveness depends entirely on the desired result. The time it takes for the fingernails to regrow versus the amount of time in which the subject is in pain is not a very productive ratio, so if you’d want your whumper doing a particular torture regularly, I wouldn’t recommend this.
However, if the whumper’s goal is to appeal to the body horror aspect without permanent damage, this is a great option. The fact that it takes nails so long to regrow gives the victim a sense of horrified freakishness. It also has the added benefit of reducing the victim’s maneuverability far after the fact.
The semi-visible nature of this method of torture can be effective if one wishes to horrify characters outside the whumper/whumpee relationship. You don’t immediately look at other people’s hands when you meet them, and as such it might take a while for outside characters to notice the lack of fingernails (especially if they’re past the three day mark). But once they notice, it will be hard to look away.
#whump#whump writing#whumpblr#whump community#whump reference post#this is the post i already had typed up i hope it passes muster#i tried to be as exhaustive as possibly because i KNOW there's so many details one needs when writing a thing#investigative journalism but with injuries that's us here at sbfws#ummm i don't know what to tag this#if y'all want a trigger warning tag for this stuff please let me know?#or if y'all want to be added to a tag list also please let me know??#also also please feel free to make specific post requests if y'all want?#i don't know how timely my responses to them will be but i will FOR SURE try to get to them as soon as i can#just like#if you're a whump writer who fuckin hates having to do research into different types of injuries hit me up!#(especially the weird injuries)#(fingernails are all fine and good but i thrive on the Weird Stuff There's Barely Any Research On you know)#(I really like researching weird niche stuff)#(you'll be doing me a favor if you give me something Decidedly Odd to fixate on)#nail gore#nail whump#hand whump
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something that's been weighing on my mind ever since learning about the situation with ezra / toonimal is seeing how these predators will take the active hostility that is frequently directed towards minors in online spaces to their advantage and use it to prey on vulnerable children. i think that we as adults in online fandom should probably come together and maybe rethink the language / manner we go about interacting with kids bc clearly the way things are rn is causing active harm.
like obviously, if you're an adult and aren't comfortable with minors interacting with you or your content, you should be allowed to set that boundary and should be vocal about it, ( especially if the content you create isn't safe for them to consume. ) but i don't think talking to them like they're a blight on all that is good and holy is the way to go about it. maybe just saying you're an 18 plus account will suffice, you don't have to tell them to fuck off.
#i'm opening myself up for ppl to leave the stupidest takes on this post but whatever i need to get this off my mind#before anyone says anything about the kids on that website. they're grooming victims. they're literally kids being taken advantage of#show them some fucking kindness and be understanding that they're the victims in this situation#idk what it is about becoming an adult that causes so many ppl to lose their empathy towards minors it's weird#like yeah kids can be annoying and pushy on online spaces sometimes but a lot of them are old enough to know online etiquette lbr#alot of us were annoying kids on the internet at some point we should understand that you don't just. get a handbook for how to act online#that's shit you learn overtime but ppl seem to forget that#they also seem to forget that talking down to kids isn't gonna teach them shit they're not gonna listen to you if you treat them like idiots#what i'm trying to say is that we really need to talk to minors more respectfully and maybe give them a little grace#( obviously there will be situations where some of them need to be yanked up by the collar but there's ways to go about that >>>#without treating them like shit )#these kids need to know that there's spaces for them to be online safely without having to stumble into places that'll pray on them#we all know how much it sucked to be a kid online we should want better for the ones coming in after us ya know#sorry if this comes across as preachy it just breaks my heart and boils me blood to see kids being taken advantage of like this#especially when there's ways to prevent it idk#how do i even tag this....#mj.txt#there's trigger warning on the linked post btw#tw csa mention
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#if you had any hope nick could ever be redeemable here's your sign that that's just not gonna happen
Bold of you to assume we don't want to make him worse
LMAO that's the spirit
#ask#anon#arsenic#me too anon. me too#my unethical boy...#he hasn't killed anyone or anything in the storyline i have planned out which is a fucking miracle#...in all fairness it's just because i want him to have as much plausable deniability as possible#and yknow. murder makes him undeniably a. murderer#anything he does to sunny is something sunny technically agreed to. i want to keep that a theme#i don't know how to say this in a way that isn't horrible but-#i want people to be able to victim blame sunny in a way that sounds so reasonable they don't realize it's victim blaming.#toying with the idea that sunny is not /at all/ a perfect victim. i like it when you can question the morality of his actions#(instead of having it clear-cut that Nick Is Bad And Sunny Is The Poor Unwilling Victim™)#the perfect victim doesn't exist and i'm kind of tired of seeing that type of abusive relationship be so... black-and-white#most of what i've seen is so over the top and neatly separated into good and bad boxes it doesn't feel real.#in the real world no one's perfect. sunny sure as hell isn't. but while that would make him toxic to anyone who isn't Nick-#-it doesn't mean he's not a victim#(also we all know what happens to domestic abuse victims when they have a cluster b pd. the fuckin. victime-blaming festivals i've seen)#tw victim blaming#i talk so much in tags i have to add trigger warnings about them. i should really stop rambling#rant
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lol
#humungous trigger warning for the tags in the post#but i just need to vent somewhere and i don't want people irl to be in my business about this#or to get too worried and all...#tw: mentions of death and weapons and mental illness and suicide and sh-ing and abuse etc.#please feel free to ignore like i said i just need somewhere to vent#anyway i'm just so sick of being alive fr i've been so massively suicidal this past week and i'm so tired#having bpd AND bipolar AND depression AND ptsd and etc....#it really hurts so much#and my personal life is in fucking shambles like i just don't know what to do anymore#i feel so fucking alone all the goddamn time#so many friends don't give a fuck about anymore like they straight up just don't check up on me or anything#and my ex... i just. why can't you be more fucking understanding of what i'm fucking going through because of you#how the fuck did you turn my months-long depressive episode into me not caring about you cause i couldn't open about what i was going thru#i get you were fucking lonely but i was trying not to fucking die i was over here being talked off ledges#and then sending me a voice memo saying that you were lonely and trying to make an effort but i just didn't care about any of it#it's not fucking about you!!!! i didn't even let my own girlfriend or best friend in!!!! that's what fucking mental illness is!!!!!!#you promised that you'd be more understanding about my mental illnesses when we started talking again#what the fuck is this then?#why am i breaking down every time that you ignore me or take forever to text#like... she's gone back to calling me by my name instead of calling me 'baby' like she always has#she hasn't called me by my name since we first started talking it's been literally fucking years#and not saying i love you to me anymore...#and how can you fucking promise to stay in my life and still be my 'friend' and then fucking ignore me and don't answer my text messages#how the fuck am i supposed to feel that you haven't responded to me in over 24 hours but you react to days old ig messages from me#i fucking hate having borderline for fucking real i hate that she's my fp it hurts so fucking much#i feel like a fucking child i can't deal with this#i literally woke up from my sleep at like 3 or 4 am this morning nearly screaming#and then my gf found me on the living room couch crying and cuts all over my arm and a kitchen knife next to me#my left arm has been stinging all day from the fresh wounds#too painful to bandage them at the moment
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Crazy? I was crazy once. They locked me in a room a rubber room with rats, the rats made me crazy. Crazy? I was crazy onc- *Gets shot*
#Idk#This came to me and I wanted to share it#tw shooting#I don't know how to trigger warnings work#how do i tag#I came up with this when I started saying the thing and then it came to me that that would be really annoying if someone else was in the#Room with me#a rare original post#gun mention#I genuinely don't know how they work
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people really say that us, as a society, don't have a problem with fatphobia and then some kind of influencer/singer will go on ig live and say "well at least cancer made me lose weight hehe". like what the fuck
#rena.txt#how is this any kind of funny/acceptable to say?? like sorry you have a illness like that BUT wtf??#don't come at me with any kind of 'everyone copes with stuff in their own way' bc this sounds wrong anyway. like are you really glad that#the illness is making you lose weight?? like idk i cant even find the right words this all sounds so weird#its so weird and terrible to hear so nonchalantly bc i also know someone that is going through a terrible situation rn with her cancer and#she broke down into tears saying how the illness made her so slim she looked dead already. like idk idk idk this feels all so wrong#also i'm not sure how to trigger warning this. shoot me a message if you need me to tag this in any way#ALSO let me add how this comes from privilege too bc this famous guy has all the money in the world to pay for the best doctors and#eat 'healthy' as much as he wants and just. idk i should just shut up
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AO3 Etiquette -UPDATED
Based on both decent and not so decent replies, I have made some changes to my original post below.
It would seem a whole new kind of AO3 reader/writer is emerging and it is becoming clear not everyone quite understands how the website community works. Here is some basic guidance on how most people expect you to go about using AO3 to keep this a fun community archive that funtions correctly:
As well as likes, kudos is for when the story was interesting enough to make you finish reading. If it sucked or was badly written, you probably left. If you finished it, you liked it - so kudos.
If you really liked it, you should try to comment. It can be long and detailed or a literal keysmash. Writers don't care, we just love comments.
No critisism unless the author has specifically asked or agreed to hear it (so use your notes to say if you want some constructive feedback). Even constructive critisism is a no-no unless an author note tells you it's okay. No, posting it online is not an open invitation for that. Many people write as a fun hobby or a way to cope with, among other things, insecurity and just want to share. Don't ruin that for them. I've seen so many authors just stop writing coz they can't handle the negative emotions the critism brings, and it's only meant to be a fun thing shared for free (pointing out tagging errors is not included in this).
Do not comment to ask the author to write/update something else. It's tacky and off-putting and will probably have the opposite effect than the one you want.
There is no algorithm, it's an archive. Use the search and filter function to add/remove the pairings/characters/tropes etc. you want to read about and it will find you the fics that fit the bill.
For this to work, writers must tag and rate stories. This avoids readers finding the wrong things and missing the stuff they want. I don't care how cringy that trope is in your eyes - it gets tagged.
The tag exception is if you don't want to tag a million things or spoil your story, you can rate it as "chose not to use warnings," and maybe tag the bare minimum.
Don't censor tags. How can someone exclude a tag if the word isn't typed out correctly? There are no content bans for terms so don't censor them.
If the tags are mostly content/trigger warnings, especially if they are things considered very fucked up or graphic, you might want to use "dead dove - do not eat" to ensure people know that you're not messing around with tags and what they get is exactly what you've warned them about.
Character A/Character B means a ROMANTIC or SEXUAL relationship of some kind. Character A&Character B is PLATONIC, like friendship or family.
Nothing is banned. This is an rule because banning one thing is a slipperly slope to banning another and another, until nothing is allowed anymore. Do not expect anyone to censor for you. Because of the tags system, you are responsible for your own reading experience.
People can create new chapters and sequels/fic series any time after they "complete" a story. So it's considered perfectly normal to subscribe, even to a finished story. You can even subscribe to the author instead just to cover your bases.
Do not repost stories or change the publishing date without an extremely good reason (like a complete top to bottom rewrite or an exchange youve written for going public). It's an archive, not social media. No one cares what's the most recent, only what fits their tag needs.
Instead of deleting a story you wrote if you hate it - consider making it anonymous or orphaning it so others can still enjoy it, without it being connected to your name anymore. If you still want to delete it, fair enough.
It's come to my attention that metaworks ARE allowed on AO3, which is something I wasn't aware of. So if you do post an essay or theory, please tag it as such so others can choose to search for it or exclude it. Art is also allowed.
The only reason this archive works is because NON ONE PROFITS. Do not link to your ko-fi or patreon or mention monetary gain in any way or you violate the terms and risk having your account removed. If anyone does link, it leaves the archive open to people claiming it's for profit and having the whole thing removed.
I KNOW there's plenty more I missed but I'm trying to cover most of the basics that people seem to be struggling with.
I invite anyone to add to this, but please explain, don't berate.
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#tw for the comments gonna talk about eating / dietary things / weight loss all related to illness not to ED#but just giving the warning bc and some butfer so you don't have to read the tags if you would be triggered#also i said comments i meant tags you get what i mean#anyway uh so obvi i've been ill for the past month and can barely exert myself with any physical activity#and i'm on a bland diet to help ease my symptoms so i can only eat certain foods and have been sticking to it for two and a half weeks now#but between low appetite being a symptom & eating unappetizing foods & having such a low energy level my appetite is in the fcking ground#yesterday i had one packet of apple sauce and half a sleeve of saltines#the appetite just continues to get worse so i have been eating less and less every day#not intentionally#but the gurgling and rumbling is much easier to deal with the pain & nausea i feel every time i eat#or having to run to the bathroom to get sick#or deal with forcing myself to eat something soooo unappealing#my ND food preferences have been a pain in the ASS with this let me tell you#i don't keep scales around so i have to remember to ask to be weighed at the doctor's on friday#not so i know how much i weigh but so i can compare it to when they weighed me three weeks ago#i have rlly bad body dysmorphia so i can't really tell when my weight or body changes#it doesn't affect my sense of body image any more i've just accepted i don't understand how my body looks and define it for myself#but that means like i cannot tell if i have been losing weight or how much or see any of the changes on myself if there are any#it's also really annoying being part of such a diet culture fatphobic family#i was complaining to my parent and sibling about how i'd already lost a chunk of weight after my tonsil surgery#and now i'm potentially losing even more in a short period of time#and they both said 'so?! that's a good thing isn't it?!'#... nno . no it's not#none of my clothes fit and i lost weight by being starved of nutrition during recovery in both cases so ... ?? how is that a GOOD thing?!#ughhhHhh#i just want it to be friday already so i can see my doc and get to next steps#hikey
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gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]
kickoff ch.9 words you've been wanting to hear
ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader (f)
ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying & drinking while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.
ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot, marijuana use, sexism, sexual harassment (verbal only)
ᰔ chapter. 9/x (probably 12)
ᰔ words. 15.6k (WHY DO THEY KEEP GETTING LONGER)
a/n. HELLO MY DEAR KICKOFF READERS IVE MISSED YOU ALL SO MUCH i am soooo sorry for the wait on this one. this chapter felt very vulnerable to write for some reason lmfao, but i really hope it was worth the wait :''') see you at the bottom!! if there are typos or some things don't make sense i'm so sorry i literally gave up on proofreading this i just ended up raw-doggin it and then posting it
nav. ch1 :: ch2 :: ch3 :: ch4 :: ch5 :: ch6 :: ch7 :: ch8 :: ch9 :: ch10 (pending)
☾·̩͙꙳ moodboard no.1
♬.*ﾟplaylist
an additional author's note. hellooo ellie here. there are some additional warnings/tags for this chapter, i added them to the tags above, so if you know you have any sort of triggers, please refer to them before reading! but if you don't have any and don't want to be spoiled ab anything then you can keep reading lol. thank youu <33
--
The restaurant address that Kai sent you was just a ten minute taxi ride away, save for the five minutes you spent trying to evasively maneuver through the hotel lobby in order to avoid running into people you’re not too keen on seeing right now, a list that stacks up to just one person at this moment.
It’s a Korean barbecue place, it’s been ages since you’ve been to one, probably since they’re way too expensive for any sort of outing you could afford these days, but the crisp sizzling sounds of the grills and the savory air has your mouth watering in a way that makes you indifferent to the cost. Anything to get this churning feeling out of your stomach.
It’s instantly brought to your attention that Hana’s tipsy off of Soju because she’s slid out of the booth the second you emerge to the tablestide, and she’s onto her feet to pull you into a hug. You hug her back.
“I’m ssssoooooooo glad you’re—hic—here,” she says, voice sounding loud near your ear, but her embrace is surprisingly calming to you.
Her face appears flushed when you pull away, and you give her a smile and a kind hold of her elbow. “I’m happy to be here, sorry for coming late, I just decided I wanted to have dinner with you all.”
Minato is pulling on Hana’s arm to get her to sit down, which she finally agrees to, and you glance to the left side of the table where Kai sat, meticulously turning over pieces of meat on the grill. His eyes are on you, and the seat next to him is empty.
“You look nice,” he says, eyes falling to your lap under the table once you’ve taken a seat next to him.
Your eyes fall to your lap as well. “Oh. Thanks. I wasn’t really trying to look any sort of way, though.” Just faded jeans with a few rips & holes you made yourself, way back in high school when that sort of thing was trendy.
“I know,” he says, smirk heard perfectly through his words, “I like that.”
You ignore him, a fleeting thought passing through your head of how annoyingly forward men are to women they’ve met within a day, just something you’ve noticed recently, and then you’re accepting the glass of Soju that Minato’s poured for you. Quick to tip it back, you feel a burn on your tongue that’s just enough to distract.
“Today’s game was pretty interesting,” Minato speaks up, picking up a few pieces off the grill with his chop sticks and placing them on Hana’s plate first before taking some for himself. You find the gesture sweet. “The first half was intense.”
Hana nods enthusiastically, elbows rested on the tabletop as she waves her hands around in the air. “Uh huh, uh huh, the boys kicked the ball like whoosh. Goes all over the place! Can’t get a—hic—can’t get a single shot. No, I mean me, I can’t get a camera shot. Not them, they can get the shots of goals. The goals of shots? Huh.”
“Alright, you’ve had enough,” Minato grumbles as he drags the glass of Soju that she was nursing away from her.
Kai lets out a laugh beside you, his knee bumping against yours under the table. “I’ve watched so many of these soccer games for this job, and I’ve still got no damn clue what the rules are.”
You blink down at your empty plate for a second before grabbing the silver chopsticks laid neatly on your napkin, and taking some food from the center of the table. “Really? I’ve only been to a couple, and I feel like I get the gist of it.” Maybe it’s because you had a personal interest, though.
Kai lets out a low whistle next to you. “Okay, you’re a smartass then.”
You give him a sidewards glance. “Maybe you’re just dumb?”
Your own words startle you a bit. Minato lets a laugh out, but under his breath, while Hana does absolutely nothing to conceal hers. Kai’s eyes just widen. You bite down on a carrot stick.
“Hey, hey, hey, y/n,” Hana chirps, tapping at your wrist, “do you know any of the soccer players? Utahime said you doooo.”
You swallow slowly to buy yourself time, but give a preliminary shake of your head before answering, “no, not really.” You catch a whiff of the cologne on your wrist when you lift your glass to your lips.
“Oh,” she sulks her shoulders and then sinks down into the booth again, her head falling onto Minato’s shoulder. The man stiffens a bit and then there’s a content smile playing at his lips. A hint of a smile develops on your face too at the sight when you put two and two together. What an adorable little crush. It makes you feel sick.
Kai pours you some more Soju the second you drink down the last of it in your glass, and you nod to him as a thanks. “Pretty sure most of my photos from the first half are fucked,” he says, dragging the opening of the bottle against the rim of your glass before pulling it away, “didn’t realize until way later that my aperture was way off.”
You bring the glass to your lips, inhaling before taking a sip. You’re about to speak up about that when Minato beats you to it.
“Are you serious?” he asks, disappointed, like they’re suddenly talking business now. “I better see some good shots. Your side was where most of the action took place. Like that through-pass, tight behind the defensive line, from Nanami Kento to Gojo Satoru before he sunk it a couple mins before the half ended.”
You choke a little on your Soju at the mention of Gojo’s name, and then all three of them are looking at you. You wave a hand in front of your face. “Sorry.”
Kai grumbles something under his breath and then stuffs a piece of pork belly into his mouth. “Yeah, whatever, man. I’m pretty sure I got some good ones. Don’t worry.”
Dinner goes on like that, where you count the number of times Kai thinks that someone saying something funny across the table is an excuse to press his thigh against yours, but at least the cute way that Hana and Minato seem to inch closer to one another all night is enough to put you at some sort of bitter ease. But that unsettling feeling in your stomach from a couple of hours ago still lingers.
The four of you stand outside the restaurant, heels rocking back and forth in the cold as you all take up the last chance to debrief the day, and then Minato’s glancing at his watch.
“Alright, it’s probably time to head back. We can all share a ride to the hotel, it’s cheaper that way,” Minato says. Hana’s clinging to his sleeve.
“Oh, uh, I was going to stay here. There’s a cool camera shop around the corner. I was gonna check it out,” Kai says, pointing over his shoulder before glancing at you. “Wanna come? I saw they’ve got used film cameras.”
You twiddle with the hotel key card in your pocket. It’s cheap plastic, could break easily with just the right amount of pressure. Like your resolve right now. “Sure.”
He smiles at you.
“Alright, well I need to get this one back to her room,” Minato says with a sigh, pointing to Hana, “so I’ll see you all at the next game?”
You and Kai nod at him and then watch as he walks away with Hana on his arm towards the curb, pulling his phone out to call for a ride.
“Where’s this camera shop at?” you ask Kai once the silence between the two of you stretches out a little too long.
“It really is just around the corner,” he says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He starts walking down the row of miscellaneous shops and establishments under dim street lighting, and you follow after him before the two of you circle to the adjacent end. A tiny shop in the distance catches your eye. The LED sign above the storefront was blinking sporadically, and read 17th St Camera & Rentals, except half the letters were extinct of any light. Next to it was a 24/7 liquor store.
It’s only when you walk right up to it that you realize the sign dangling behind the glass door that says closed.
“Oh. Bummer,” Kai comments in a flat tone. “I swear it was open before I got to the restaurant.”
You sigh, pulling your phone out to glance at the time. “Yeah, at 8pm? It’s past 10 now.”
He looks at you and taps the camera case still hung at his neck. “That’s fine. I’ve still got a camera to show you, anyways.”
You blink your eyes at him, suddenly feeling a bit exhausted and then glance over your shoulder at the curb of the street to see if Minato & Hana were still there waiting for a ride. You don’t see them anymore.
A distraction. Wasn’t that what you wanted?
“Yeah, show me.”
Kai seems to know the area better than you, since he walks down the haphazardly lain sheets of concrete across the ground with more confidence than a tourist would. The thought occurs to you that maybe the newsletter photographers have eaten here before during their time in Kyoto.
“What made you start working with the newsletter?” you ask, glancing at him as the two of you walk down further, into what seems like a neighborhood.
He shrugs. “First job I could find out of college. I had a lot of freelance experience, so I’m assuming that’s why they hired me.” He nudges your arm with his elbow. “What about you?”
“I’ve known Utahime for a while. She was impressed with my work.”
“Ahh, connections,” he muses, “smart. That’ll get you far as an artist.”
He suddenly stops walking and peers off to the right, into a darkness that you can’t really make anything out of until you’ve spent a few seconds staring too. He walks in that direction, the loud echoing stomps of his boots on concrete no longer audible once he crosses the threshold onto grass, and you follow behind to what seems like a deserted children’s park. You wish there were more trees in the city. There are a lot here in the countryside, and it makes you homesick for something you’re not even sure of.
A gust of wind brushes through, rattling the set of swings hung on rusty chains. The wood chips underneath your feet feel stale, with no snap to them at all as you follow Kai through the playhouses set up in connected fashion. There are two picnic benches, one looks like it’s been freshly painted with faux effort to improve its image in the line of sight of the street, while the other has red paint peeled back to reveal bronze underneath the moonlight, neglected and tucked behind a few trees. The latter is what he chooses.
He slides into the bench, and he shakes his head when he sees you try to take a seat on the other side before patting at the seat beside him. “It’d be easier for you to take a look at my side.”
He has a point, so you sit next to him instead. Although at this point in the night, you were feigning interest. He zips his camera bag open and you take a better look at the lens. There’s no way it was as cheap as he told you it was.
“There’s no way this was as cheap as you told me it was,” you say.
He laughs, pulling the camera out and handing it to you. “Yeah, maybe the guy cut me a deal since I’ve bought from him before.”
You’re smart enough to put the strap around your neck, even though you’re only holding it a few inches above the table, because a camera like this deserves the care and respect. The material is minimalist and sleek, and it’s heavy in your hands. You click the shutter button, screen coming to life with a few mechanic chirps. “Woah. Is it LCD or OLED?”
“LCD.”
“That’s nice,” you say, “paying for the OLED just seems silly to me.”
“I concur, Canon. Color accuracy is king.”
He shuffles to pull something out of his pocket while you continue to inspect the camera in your hands, and you see him fidget with said thing over the table in the corner of your eye. The flick of something and the light of something makes you turn your head to face him, and he’s pinching the end of a joint to his mouth, lighting the other end.
He gives you a glance when you stare for too long, inhaling from it before pulling it from his mouth. “What?” You can see the smoke leave his mouth in the chill of the air.
“Is that why you chose the secluded bench?”
“I did? Didn’t even notice.”
You blink at him, and he places his elbow on the table to lean closer to you.
“Do you mind it?” he asks.
“No, not really.”
“Wanna smoke with me?” Two fingers pinching the origin of smoke tilt towards you. “This is my good weed, though, so, I charge by the drag.”
“That’s ridiculous, and no thanks. It doesn’t suit me.”
He lets out a laugh, releasing whatever tension he was building in your space, and the smell of weed is nauseating, but at least it's a new sensation to you.
“You’ve gotta be the only film major on the planet that doesn’t smoke weed. How do you manage?” he asks, the orange flicker of his joint being the only color you can distinctly see under the similarly flickering street lights.
Your finger traces the rim of the camera lens and is careful to not smudge the glass. “I think I manage just fine.”
“Yeah. With delusion,” he says, coughing, scattering smoke into the air this time instead of a clean blow.
You turn a bit in your seat to face him more, placing the camera down. “You’re extremely blunt.”
His eyebrow raises in amusement and you close your eyes with annoyance at the pun. You brush it off.
“I mean, seriously, I get you’re probably just looking out for me, I guess. I appreciate that. But do you really think my dreams of becoming a filmmaker are that far-fetched?” you ask. There’s a crack to your voice at the end that you didn’t like.
He sighs, setting his wrist down on the table. There’s a long pause where he thinks about what to say. Probably the most you’ve seen him consider what words leave his mouth next. “I was in the same shoes as you, y/n. A couple years ago. I, too, had big dreams of making movies. I was going to apply to film grad school as well, although you’re shooting higher than I was at the time. There’s no way I would’ve gotten into UTokyo’s.” He tilts his head to the side a few times while looking straight off ahead. “I sent scripts in everywhere. To every fucking production company, creative agency, you name it. Never got a callback, not even once. While all my fellow grads were landing decent, respectable jobs.” He brings the joint to his mouth again, but he doesn’t inhale, just bitterly bites it. “I could’ve went on like that, but,” his brow furrows, “I’ve seen my peers torture themselves for years for those dreams of theirs. I swore I wouldn’t be one of them. Because they’re all delusional fucks.” He finally glances at you. “Are you one, too?”
Your shoulders drop a little and your lips purse. “I don’t know yet. It’s too early to say.”
“It’s never too early to say, if the outcome is all the same,” he tells you.
You consider his words for a moment. It’s the easy way out. You should consider yourself lucky. Everyone wants a reason, a sign, to turn away from the one thing they’re scared to think about. And here he was, giving that to you on a silver platter.
But if what you wanted was really all that fragile, then it means there’s nothing to show for any of it. For all the effort it took you to get here, and all the effort you’re still willing to give.
“I’ll keep going until I fail,” you say, “or until I succeed.” It’s not really something you say for him, but for yourself.
He juts his bottom lip out and raises his eyebrows, slowly nodding his head, like he’s impressed by you. But his posture remains lax. “I mean, you’re working this job. You’ve got some sort of plan, at least. It’s not like I’m your parent to tell you what to do and what not to do.” He finally takes another drag, eyebrows pinching together at the same time his fingers pinch close to the burn of his joint to pull it away. “What’s that one saying? You can take a horse to the water, but you can’t make it drink.”
“Wow. You don’t sound a day older than sixty-five.”
He smirks at you. “You’ve got a lot of attitude, Canon. Where does it come from?”
You sink a little in your seat, turning away from him to look down at your hands that were still messing with the features of his camera. “My annoying feelings lately.”
“Feelings about what?”
You consider telling the truth. But you don’t. “My car is in repair and I’m not sure I can afford to pay for the bill, since things keep coming up with it.” It was the thing at the top of your mind at the moment though, for some reason, so partially truthful.
He laughs. “Yeah, cars have a way of doing that when you’re finally getting caught up on bills.”
“At what point does spontaneously picking up random, obscure jobs go from omg I’m so excited to have this opportunity to I just need the money?” you ask.
“You mean you’re not already at that point yet?” he says with a scoff. “Soon, then.”
You sigh.
“Y’know I used to work at this lousy cinema a few miles away from Central,” he tells you, hand tapping the table with a rhythm that makes no sense. “Busted my ass working minimum wage on night shifts because I thought I’d catch a big break in conversation with a director, as if Martin Fucking Scorcese would choose to host his opening night at a random Edwards in Tokyo.” His tapping on the table stops. “Tell me that isn’t pathetic as hell.”
“That’s pathetic as hell.”
“The things you’ll do for money,” he says with a sigh. He sounds detached, like it’s really just a message for you.
You lick your lips, skin feeling dry from the wind that occasionally brushes by, and when you glance at Kai again, there’s a grit to his jaw.
“Should’ve been born as one of those damn college athletes,” he grumbles, sucking in fast through the joint that was close to withering away. “Those fuckers don’t pay tuition.”
The harsh colors of the soccer team’s color-coded practice schedule on your phone are visible when you blink, as well as the exhaustion under Gojo’s eyes in the warm lighting of the hotel lobby earlier tonight. “They work hard.”
He looks at you. “I work hard, too.”
Your shoulders tense. “I’m sure.”
“You work hard as well.” Just to include you.
“Yeah.”
“I mean, you can’t tell me that it’s fair.”
Your mind wanders to some of the people you’ve met on that team, who have been nice to you. You think of Gojo, and the memory of him makes you wish you were with him right now. Despite everything.
“I guess it’s not fair,” is all you say, a tactic to diffuse the conversation, one that you’ve had to use twice with him today. The sound of the swing chains clinking together from the wind in the distance runs a chill down your spine.
You feel heavy in your chest, and you glance at the joint pinched in between Kai’s fingers. He’s not keeping an eye on it, so it’s easy to steal, and you bring it to your lips before sucking in. You instantly let out a few coughs. He’s looking at you with surprise. And you’re still in desperate need of that distraction you’ve been craving.
“How long does it take for it to kick in?” you ask, coughing again and pressing a hand to your chest.
“Super long when you can barely stomach a single drag.”
You try again. He watches you. You swear you feel a buzz this time, and you hand the joint back to him. You feel like you’re having an out-of-body experience.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Good,” you tell him, “really good.”
“That’s gotta be placebo, Canon.”
“No, really,” you sigh it. Even if it was, maybe your mind was just blessing you with a single moment of reprieve. “I feel…really good,” you say with your head in a haze. “Best I’ve…” you don’t know why you have to blink back tears, “best I’ve felt this whole week.”
Kai’s silent next to you. You look over at him, and he’s got a scrutinizing expression on his face. His eyes are glazed. “You seeing anyone right now, Canon?”
It’s the savory question you know has been on the tip of his tongue. Ignorantly asked, as if you would’ve been sitting here with him right now in the dead of night if the answer was yes.
“No.”
He’s leaning towards you, and you’re dazed and also sleepy. His face is close now, there’s an urge to giggle, which means there’s no way this is all just placebo, and when his lips dip towards yours, you’re conscious enough to push him away by a weakly fisted hand pressed to his collarbone.
“Oh. I. Um,” you stutter.
“What?” he asks, eyebrow raised, still close to you.
“No. No thanks.” Because it felt wrong.
He fully pulls away from you, and runs a hand through his hair, a deep sigh leaving him. “Alright.”
You’re breathing faster now, surroundings feeling vague, like you’re in sweltering heat but the air only bites cold.
You stand up suddenly. “I…I want to go back.”
“Go back where?”
“To the hotel. To my room.” You pause. “I mean, by myself. Not with you. We can share a ride, though.”
He stands up too, hands reaching for you, gripping the straps of his camera still hung around your neck and he pulls it off to place it back into the case. You feel like you’ve lost favor with him somehow. “Okay. Sure.”
“But not with you.” You felt the need to clarify again.
“I get it, Canon. It’s fine.”
—
“Maybe you just need to fuck him aggressively without mercy.”
“I beg your finest pardon?”
You’re sitting in a booth inside this streetside KFC with Mina sitting across the table, waving a fry around in the air, and with Nobara next to you as she tries to open a packet of ketchup with her teeth. The hangout the three of you have been hyping up all week, just to be sat in the same place you always go to. You were about to take a bite out of your sandwich, but you set it back down on your tray.
Mina points the fry at you and shrugs. “I’m saying. Maybe you’re having such a hard time getting over Gojo because you got so close to fucking him in that bathroom, but you didn’t, and now you’re in, like, this constant state of edging.” She bites down on the fry. “The clit knows what the heart doesn’t.”
“Your theories never fail to amaze me,” you mumble, sinking further into the booth.
“Perhaps it’ll take the edge off.” Mina sucks through the straw of her Diet coke. Nobara finally succeeds in opening her packet of ketchup.
“I doubt it. Besides, I technically already gave him an invitation to,” you say, fingers rubbing at your eye with a swipe as you wince from the memory, “and he rejected me, so, still swimming in the self hatred from that one.”
Mina hums. “There’s no way he’s not foaming at the mouth for it, y/n. Men never let a meal they were craving go unfinished,” she states, dramatically stabbing a chicken nugget with a fork.
“What kind of pigs do you guys associate yourselves with?” Nobara asks. She’s a lesbian, by the way.
“I raise another question. Why are we talking about this in a public restaurant?” you offer.
“Listen, babes,” Mina continues, like your words fall on deaf ears because she’s got some point to make, “it’ll either poof. Make your feelings go away like the drop of a hat because you find out he’s a bad lay. Or it’ll be so good that you realize you’re never getting over him and you’ll be thinking of his dick instead of your husband’s on your wedding night.”
“We’re. In. A. Public. Restaurant.”
Mina steals a biscuit from your tray. “If it ends up being the first outcome, then the whole thing was my idea. If it’s the second…then just know that Nobara has steered you wrong.”
“Why the hell do you have to drag me into this?” Nobara asks.
You’re about to take a bite from your sandwich again when you’re interrupted by the buzzing of your phone in your purse. You pull it out and glance at the caller ID, then let out a sigh.
“Sorry, I have to take this,” you mumble, slipping out of the booth and towards the restaurant’s exit, pushing the tense door open with a gust of fresh air brushed through you.
“Hello?” It’s the car repair man. “Really? I thought you said it was fixed.” Apparently something else came up. “Okay…how much longer will it be in repair?” Much longer than you had thought. “And how much will it cost?” Much more expensive than you had thought. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, really, I feel as though every time I’m on the line with you all, I have to wait longer to get my car back, and the bill just racks up higher.” They’re trying their best. “I know. Is it necessary to fix in order to drive, though?” State laws require it. “Okay…thanks for the update.” And then you hang up without another word, and with all the frustration in the world.
You head back inside and grumble about your car woes to Mina and Nobara, who try their best to respond with interest.
“Why can’t your insurance cover it?” Mina asks.
“Apparently they can’t claim it’s because of those rocks I drove over,” you sigh, “since it looks like it’s been a problem for longer than that.”
“Can you afford it?” Nobara asks.
“Not really,” you say. “I’ll just have to postpone having my car for a bit.”
You sigh with a glance out the window of this fine dining establishment, into the blue skies just beyond, head drowning out the voices of Mina and Nobara as they continue to grill you about all sorts of questions that you don’t have the energy to answer right now. You had another student loan payment to make once you got home today, and just the thought of it makes your heart drop a little. And you realize you just can’t afford to be picky about your financial situation anymore.
—
“Thanks for helping me out with this,” you say, footsteps over familiar grassy hills as you head towards the UTokyo’s practice field, your digital Canon EOS hanging from your neck.
“Sure,” Kai says as he keeps pace next to you, “why the sudden mission, though?”
You’re gazing off straight ahead, a nervous pit in your stomach since it’s been a while since you’ve walked across this landscape towards the field.
“I just feel like I need to diversify my income somehow,” you sigh, the buzzwords leaving a bitter taste in your mouth as you say them but it was the reality of your situation, “to make ends meet. When you mentioned freelance work during our conversation last week, it made me think it’s time for me to pick that up too.”
Kai hums. “Yeah, it’s a good plan. I’ll try to show you what I know.”
Once you’ve made it to the top of that hill, the one that oversees the field, your eyes instantly scan the field for familiar silhouettes, and your breath catches in your throat when you spot Gojo passively kicking a ball back and forth between one of his teammates for warm-ups.
It’s the second time you’ve seen him since that argument the two of you had in the hotel lobby, the first being at the post-game conference in which you did everything in your power to swiftly avoid him, and you plan on keeping that up. There’s also an urge to run away, but you’re starting to realize that’s not much of an option anymore.
“Honestly, you don’t really need to worry too much about shutter speed with freelance like you do for shooting sports,” Kai is mumbling next to you as he messes with the settings on his camera, the two of you making your way down the hill towards the field, and you’re not really listening because your eyes are on Gojo, who’s yelling something across the field to his teammates with a look of concentration on his face.
“Uh huh, I see,” you say. You see Kai glance at you in his periphery.
“You again!” you hear a familiar harsh voice call out, and you turn on your heel to face Coach Yaga who’s standing a few feet away in his custom UTokyo tracksuit with his arms crossed against his chest. “Why are you on my field?”
You hold your breath for a second. “Hi, Coach Yaga, so sorry, but I’m just here to take some more photos.”
He lets out one of his hmphs, unrelenting. “You’re a distraction. Get off my field.”
“D-Distraction?”
“Coach!” Suddenly, Geto’s in your line of sight as he emerges with a light jog up to your side. “You should really be nicer to our photographers, they give us a lot of publicity for our games. And publicity means funding.”
Coach Yaga narrows his eyes. “I need all my players focused right now. Even during practice.” He gives you a disapproving glance and you’re still confused, but also weirdly angered.
“Excuse me, Coach Yaga, but last time I checked, this field is technically open for all students. And I’m a student,” you say to him, crossing your arms across your chest now. “So, I can be here if I want.”
You have no idea if that’s true at all, but sometimes you’ve just gotta fake it ‘til you make it.
Coach Yaga grumbles something and then waves his hands in the air. “Fine! I’ve no bandwidth to argue about this anymore! Just don’t distract my players.”
You’re shocked that it worked, and Geto nudges you with an elbow to correct your expression so that Coach Yaga doesn’t catch on to the bullshit you just spewed.
“Are you here to take some photos?” Geto asks, facing you. He’s got his hands on his hips, breathing slightly fast, some of his hair falling onto his forehead.
“Yeah, I am, just for practice though. I’m here with—” you glance at Kai, who’s standing with his fists shoved into his pockets, “Kai. He’s also with the newsletter.”
There’s a moment where Geto studies the two of you for a second before speaking. “I know,” he says, extending his hand out for Kai to shake, which he does, “I think I’ve seen you around. Not sure if we’ve formally met, but it’s nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, likewise.” Kai’s hand is then shoved back into his pocket.
You feel awkward suddenly, and then quickly say something to Geto about how he should probably get back to practice, which he agrees to, and then you’re standing at the chalk sideline with Kai as he shows you the ins and outs about digital photography.
“Have you tried shooting in burst mode?” he asks, switching the feature on your camera and then handing it back to you. You sling the strap around your neck.
“Hm…” you start, pointing your camera across the expanse of the field to multiple areas. The trees off into the distance, the goal posts, Coach Yaga’s yapping Pomeranian. “Not really…” The grass beneath your feet, the sky above your head, and then blurrily focused before settling on Gojo who stood in the distance straight ahead.
You see through your viewfinder that he’s caught sight of you too, a look of surprise on his face seen only by the level of zoom, and you glance up from the screen to make eye contact with him in reality. He’s fully staring at you, and you can barely see the way his expression relaxes from that one of athletic concentration to something wistful and strange that you’ve had a hard time reading lately.
“Canon? Are you even listening?”
“Huh?” you snap out of it and look at Kai. “Sorry. Could you repeat that?” You quickly glance toward Gojo again, and his line of sight points towards Kai now.
“I was asking if you’ve tried panning before,” he says, reaching for your camera, pulling it towards him, but the strap around your neck means you’re pulled closer to him too.
“Satoru!” Coach Yaga yells in the distance. “Eyes on the ball!”
“Just got to set your camera to manual mode first,” Kai mutters, confusion in his voice. “Where the fuck is it?” He’s turning your camera in his hands, which only has you stumbling with another small step towards him, your chest pressed flush to his arm, and he looks down at you for a brief second with a smirk on his face.
You hear the sound of a ball being kicked on the field, followed by the shout of one of the players.
“Ah, here, found it,” Kai says, handing your camera back to you, and just as you’re about to say thanks and you hold your camera up, you’re hit straight in the face by a flying object and fall backwards onto the grass with a painful thud.
What the fuck?
Where are you?
Who are you?
Okay, that’s dramatic, it wasn’t that bad.
There’s shouting in the distance as you hold your head with a groan, eyes shut tight with images of your life flashing behind your eyelids, and when you open your eyes again from where you’re sat up on the grass, you’re surrounded by soccer players.
Gojo’s suddenly in your line of sight, knelt down beside you and he’s holding your shoulders, trying to get you to look at him but you’re still blinking away the stars you’re seeing. “Fuck, y/n, are you okay?” he asks, and you register the concern on his face.
“Dude,” one of his teammates kicks the heel of his cleat, “where the fuck were you looking? It was clear as day I was tryna pass to you.”
Gojo grumbles something to him, his brow furrowed, and he’s lowering his head to try to make eye-level contact with you but you’re still holding your head with a wince.
“Oh shit,” Kai comments, “she’s bleeding.”
You pull your hand from your face to glance down at the wetness that you feel, and bright red color stains the tips of your fingers.
The next thing you register is Gojo picking you up off the hard grassy ground into his arms, and starts carrying you away down the field.
“W-What the hell are you doing?” you ask, his pacing across the grass is fast and you have to wrap your arms around his neck to keep from getting dizzy.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he says, voice strained in his throat, and you’ve never seen him look so worried before.
“The hospital?! Please don’t, I don’t have health insurance right now.” His face is so close and you’re distracted from the pain of your headache.
“You’re bleeding on the face, I’m taking you whether you like it or not,” he grumbles.
You dig your nails into his shoulder through the nylon of his shirt, and he hisses from the pain before stopping in his tracks. “I don’t need to go to the hospital, Satoru, I just need a fucking bandaid.”
“You could have a concussion.”
“A concussion?!” You kick your feet for him to let you down but his grip on you only tightens. “You’re being ridiculous. Let me go, or I’ll bite you.”
He scoffs at that and continues walking forward. “You’re gonna bite me? That’s the most threatening thing you could come up with?”
“I’m being so dead serious, Gojo Satoru. No hospital.”
He grumbles something under his breath at your use of his full government name, and then says “fine” but he’s still walking down the grass until his cleats begin to tap on concrete, and then on what sounds like tile as he carries you into a building a few yards from the field.
He seats you on a cold counter, your hand gripping the faucet of a sink, and you finally take a comprehensive look at your surroundings. light blue, faint scent of chlorine in the air
“Is this…a locker room? The men's locker room?”
He sighs, bending his knees a bit to look at your face closely. You flinch when his hand reaches out, and he pauses, but you relax slightly and then he rubs his thumb over your cheek. You feel the smear of a droplet of blood. “Yes. I need running water.” He turns the faucet of the sink on to run his thumb under.
“For what?” you ask. His thumb is running over your cheek again.
“To take care of this cut.” He disappears behind a tile wall for a moment. You can hear metal clanking, probably of a locker opening and closing, and he re-emerges with a first-aid kit.
You slide your butt across the counter to the edge, about to hop off and make a run for it when he grabs your hips and puts you back into place. “Don’t even think about it,” he grumbles. He leans forward, grips you strongly, and you see that he’s still breathing heavily from practice, strands of hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and you can practically taste the salt on his neck.
You press your shin to the front of his thigh, desperate to put some space between the two of you. “I don’t wanna be in here. Men are scary.”
“Well I can’t take you into the women’s locker room,” he says, ripping the packet of an antiseptic wipe open with his teeth, “I’d get registered as a sex offender.”
You attempt at an escape again, and he’s quick to get his hands on you to stop it.
“Quit manhandling me, or I’ll scream,” you threaten through gritted teeth, because you’re still mad at him. For everything.
“Go ahead,” he says, using his knee to spread your legs apart, then finds a place to stand between your thighs to get closer to you. “I’ve got a lot of ways I could shut you up.”
You blink at him, breath catching in your throat, and the expression on his face tells you he’s not interested in dealing with your stubbornness anymore.
“Just hold still,” he grumbles, placing the packet down on your thigh and then stepping off to the side to wash his hands under the sink.
“What exactly happened?” you ask, watching him dry his hands off with a few paper towels. One moment, Kai was trying to explain good digital photography to you, and the next you were dizzy from being knocked back onto the ground.
“You got hit by a soccer ball.”
“I know, but how?” You remember your camera hit your face from the impact too, and now you’re worried about it.
“I…wasn’t paying attention when my teammate passed it,” he admits with a sigh, finding his place in front of you again, the knuckles of his clean hand brushing across your cheek, caressing. Your expression softens slightly. He uses a hand spread across the small of your back to push you forward to him, then he gently passes the wipe over your wound.
“Oh okay so, you failed to protect me from a flying soccer ball.”
He pulls his hand from you to read the lettering on the back of the packet. “I’m patching you up now, aren’t I?” he says, annoyed. “…oh fuck, I was supposed to go in with water first.”
“So glad to be in such good hands right now.”
He gives you a pointed look, but you ignore it and turn your torso to see your reflection in the mirror for the first time. You had a small wound on your cheek, right over the bone, with some bleeding and it’s wider than it is deep. But when you look at Gojo again, who’s putting some ointment onto a Q-tip now, the look of guilt and worry on his face makes you feel satisfied for some reason, and you wanted to make it worse.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, brow furrowed, applying the cold gel to your cheek.
“Mhm. A lot.” Not really, no.
“Fuck. I’m sorry,” he sighs, head dipping towards you slightly to get a better look, “can you feel this?”
“Ahh, yeah. Ouch. So much.” Barely.
His other hand is placed flat on the counter next to where you’re sitting, and you allow it when his thumb starts to run soothing circles over your hip.
“Hmm…” you start, wide eyes looking up at him as he seems to lean closer and closer to you with every word that leaves your lips, “I really wonder if it’ll leave a scar.”
He looks tortured. His hand that was maneuvering the Q-tip in his hands drops to the counter now, and he brings his other one to your face, cupping your cheek. His eyes dart from the wound, thumb pressing at the plush of your cheek, and this time, it hurts a little so you wince. His expression is tense, some sort of inner turmoil you could read across his forehead, and then his jaw hardens.
“Who was that guy you were talking to earlier?”
You blink a few, then tilt your head slightly. You feel like you’re on a game show, where there’s four options and only one right answer. New boytoy, gay best friend, fuck buddy, or— “He’s my coworker.”
“That’s it?”
“Mhm.”
“Has he tried anything funny with you?”
You almost roll your eyes. “No, dad, he hasn’t.”
“Woah. Say that again but make it daddy.”
“Hey just a quick question for you. Where do you get the audacity?”
His bent index finger finds a place under your chin, tilting your head up so you’re forced to look at him. “It’s your fault, really. I can’t help it sometimes,” he says, voice lower now. You’re squirming a little, wanting to push him away but his lips get close to your cheek, brushing near your wound, like he wants to make it all better somehow. “I really am sorry,” he whispers, near your ear. There’s a whimper you have to stifle in your throat. He pulls aways just enough to where he can look into your eyes. “A cut…” he starts, thumb now passing over your bottom lip, “on your pretty face.” He sighs. You shouldn’t, but when he prods, you tuck his thumb under your front teeth and your tongue presses slightly against the padded skin of it. He looks like he’s being driven to insanity, and his other hand has no shame at all in pulling you towards him, to seat you at the edge of the counter, and you miss the texture of his thumb on your tongue when he pulls it from your mouth. But it’s so he can dip his head down to kiss you instead.
Of course the sensation of his lips on yours only lasts for a second, because the universe really fucking hates (or loves?) you, so the loud clanking of a metal water bottle against tile interrupts with harsh reverberation throughout the locker room walls, and he pulls away from you when you jump at the sound.
You both turn your heads towards the origin, located at the curved end of the entryway hall, and one of Gojo’s teammates is standing there with his duffle bag slung around his neck and hanging heavily to his thigh, his water bottle clutched in his hand. He blinks at the two of you.
Oh. It’s the one you kissed at that party a few weeks ago.
“What—…Why is there a—” his teammate starts, panicked, turning his head to double check the sign on the locker room wall as if he’s hallucinating, and when his eyes land on you again, they widen with recognition. His gaze shifts, and his chin tips down at the sight of Gojo’s irritated side eye from where he was still all up in your personal space. “…you know what. Nevermind.”
His teammate’s eyes are on you again, and you give him a shy little wave, just a fluttering of your fingers in the air paired with a small smile, legs swinging back and forth under the counter. He lets out an amused scoff from the entryway, lifting his hand to return the gesture, some cheeky grin on his face as he then scratches the back of his head before turning on his heel to leave the locker room, out of sight. You let out a sigh, hand dropping to your lap, and you don’t need to look at Gojo to tell that he’s staring at you with disbelief.
“What the fuck was that—”
“You,” you interrupt him, finger jabbing at the center of his chest, “have seriously got a lot of fucking nerve,” you hop off the counter, “to not only allow a soccer ball to sock me in the face,” he’s taking a step back with every harsh jab of your finger, “but to also hold me hostage in a mens’ locker room,” his back is pressed up against cold tile wall now while he just looks down at you with wide eyes and something akin to fear, “and then, oh my god, the audacity to kiss me?”
“I—”
“I don’t wanna hear it!” you yell, which shuts him up. “You really are just a fucking player.”
He’s stiff, not wanting to catch a punishment from you right now.
“But it doesn’t matter,” you grumble, still drilling your finger into his ribcage with the intent to cause pain. You didn’t need to be this close, but his body is warm, probably due to the blood pumping from practice, and it feels nice to be pressed up against. “Because I don’t have feelings for you anymore, so just fucking get over yourself.” It was a lie if you’ve ever told one, but you wanted to believe it so much that it could come off as the truth.
His eyes narrow down at you, eyebrows flattening. “You don’t have feelings for me anymore?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
You roll your eyes. “Why? Because you want me to keep suffering?”
He grabs your hips, then makes a motion that is evident of his desire to pull you flush to him, but he stops himself. There’s a moment where he just takes a few deep breaths and looks at you with a hardened expression, then a split second where his eyes fall to that little cut on your cheek, and every single feature of his face softens, and then he lets you go.
You take a small step back, breathing heavily of your own, and you feel the ghost sensation of his fingertips wrapped around your hips. It makes you feel dizzy, and your thoughts are a mess.
He sighs. “Sorry. For the soccer ball, and this locker room. But I’m not really sorry for kissing you, and if that makes me a jerk, then so be it.”
Your heart is beating fast. “You are a jerk, Satoru,” you say. He doesn’t like you, he doesn’t want you. A mantra played over and over in your head that you’ve started to hear it at night. “A real fucking jerk.” And you leave him standing there in a way that feels like the hundredth time.
—
2:34pm kaito (work): yo
2:34pm kaito (work): i had my guy look at your camera
2:35pm kaito (work): it’s pretty fucked up
2:37pm you: :( oh okay isee. does he have an estimate for the fix? the lens is okay though right?
2:39pm kaito (work): yeah lens is fine, you should really count your blessings on that.
2:40pm kaito (work): but nah, fix would be around the same as the cost of it, so you’re better off getting a new one
2:42pm you: i don’t have thousands of yen laying around unfortunately. my car bill has sucked me dry
2:44pm kaito (work): well let me check with him. maybe he can hook you up with a good deal on a used one
2:45pm kaito (work): i got a 50% off on one of my canon cameras i bought from him a few years back. maybe he’s still got some like that
2:46pm you: yes could you check with him please? thanks so much, really
2:48pm kaito (work): sure. although i think the guy that kicked the ball to your face should be paying for your camera replacement
2:51pm you: they were just practicing. it’s their field
2:56pm kaito (work): alright. btw, you free tonight?
You blink at your phone screen from where you were sprawled across your bed. Before you have a chance to type out a response, your phone lights up with a phone call from kaito (work). You accept the call.
“Oh, hi,” you say.
“Hey, are you free tonight?”
“Oh uhh, I was just about to check my schedule.” You shake your head at your inability to come up with an excuse on the spot.
“Okay,” he says on the other line. You hear the sounds of cars honking in the distance. “Well let me know. I just left my camera guy’s shop, and he was telling me about how one of his friends does visuals for a short-film director, and that the director is looking for an assistant.” Kai grumbles something about someone he walked past being rude. “I think the director’s agency is Verve Films, so.”
You sit up in bed, eyes wide at the mention of the name. “Oh, oh wow. That’s insane.”
“Yup,” he says, “anyways, apparently the director is busy as fuck, so he left the hiring process up to my camera guy’s friend. I told him I knew someone that might be interested. Are you?”
You take a deep breath in and out. “Yeah, I am. Most of my experience on my resume lines up with short-film, so I’d be able to—”
“Alright great,” he interrupts, “so we can hold the interview tonight.”
“We?” you ask.
“Well yeah, me, my camera guy, the hiring guy. Maybe go for drinks or something.”
Your brow furrows. “That hardly sounds like an interview.”
Kai sighs. “Well, it’s not an interview for a desk job or something. It’s more of like—well, like building connections. I know you know all about that, since Utahime got you the newsletter job.”
Well, yes. She put a word in for you, which helped get the interview, but you still went against qualified applicants. “I guess.”
“It’ll be like that. Most opportunities you’ll get if you still want to pursue filmmaking are going to be like that,” he tells you, “if it feels informal, it means you’re doing it right. You might not think so now because you’re still in school, where they practically serve opportunities to students on platters, but it’s going to be different in the real world.”
You lay your head back onto the pillow, feeling like you’re receiving a lecture you didn’t ask for, and your first instinct is to pretend that you know better than he does. But when you think about all the stress recently, all of the not knowing, and the unsure, you question if you should start leaning into the advice of the people around you, and start to accept this career path for what it’s known to be. Unruly, unconventional, and a lot of times, unfair.
“I see. Well, can I think about it? Tonight is too soon, I’d need time to research the director, put a portfolio together, and also do some interview prep,” you say, pulling your phone from your ear to glance at the time.
“Well, tonight’s the only night that works since their team’s shooting abroad for the weekend and they leave tomorrow morning,” he says.
You purse your lips together.
“But also,” Kai says, “it’s the nice thing to do, y’know, since my camera guy is taking the time to look at your camera for free, you could at least help his friend out. By the way, he just texted me, he does have some used Canons available at discount.”
You close your eyes for a second, just trying to process this conversation right now. Kai was speaking too fast, hardly enough time for you to even think.
“So do you want to do the interview tonight?”
“Yes, sure. Okay. Just— just send me the details. I’ll be there,” you say.
“Alright cool, will do.”
You say bye, and then he hangs up.
A few hours pass by, where you spend some time putting together a flash drive of a couple of your best short films you’ve worked on in the past with other directors, as well as a portfolio of some recently developed film photography. The last thing to do was grab your emergency stash of print outs of your resume, and then you stuff it all into a folder before glancing at the mirror to take in your reflection. It felt extremely weird to show up to a job interview in something as casual as what you were wearing right now, but Kai insisted to not wear anything business. But at least you opted for jeans that don’t have any DIY holes in them.
Your face is glued to the navigation on your phone screen the second you get out of the taxi, and you walk down the bustling nightlife streets of Tokyo to get to this bar that Kai sent you the address of. But just as you’re about to turn the corner to your destination down the bar strip, you bump into someone’s chest due to lack of paying any proper attention.
“Ah— I’m so sorry,” you say, your grip on your phone tightening when you realize it was about to get knocked out of your hand, and then you look up to see a familiar face.
“Oh!” Geto exclaims from where he’s standing right in front of you, “You’re everywhere, y/n. What are you doing here?”
You open your mouth to speak, hesitate for a second, and then continue. “I’m here to…get drinks with some of my friends.”
He gives you a smile. “That’s nice. I am too.” He points over his shoulder to behind him. “Nanami got into his MBA program earlier this week, so, Satoru, Choso and I are buying him a few rounds. Or possibly a million. The plan is to incapacitate him as punishment for giving up on playing in the national league with us.”
You humor him with a laugh. “That’s sweet. Or not? Well anyway, tell him I said congrats.” Your heart starts to beat a little faster, because from the direction Geto came from, it meant Gojo was likely just around the corner somewhere. “Where are you heading to now?”
“We’re bar hopping, and I think I forgot my phone at the last one we went to over there,” he says, pointing across the street. “So I’m going to go look for it.”
“Oh alright,” you say. “Good luck with that. I’m going to go find my, uh, my friends.”
Geto tilts his head at you and had a slightly more serious expression on his face, glancing at the folder in your hands. “Thanks. And stay safe.”
You nod at him and then walk past him to round the corner onto the street that had groups of people loitering in front of restaurants, bars and all sorts of establishments as they wait in the cold to get inside or be seated. You recognize the name on one of the signs hanging as the one Kai sent you in his message, and when you’re a few feet away from it, you spot Kai. He’s wearing his typical street photographer wear, with a red flannel over a gray shirt and pants that are possibly a size too big for him, but that’s likely the style he was going for. He’s standing with two other people.
“Hey,” you greet Kai first, who has a pleasant look on his expression before he greets you back and gestures to the two people he was with.
“Yo, this is Junichi, my camera guy,” he says. “Don’t bother shaking his hand, he’s a germaphobe. Gotta keep ‘em clean for the electronics.”
“Oh,” you say. Junichi is a big man, broad shoulders and thick muscles. His neck is almost as thick as his bicep, and he has no hair on his head. His arms are crossed. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for taking a look at my camera.”
He nods at you in acknowledgment. “Sure thing. Pretty Boy here says you want to buy one of my used Canons. I don’t refurbish them, so you’d better know how.”
Kai sighs, nudging Junichi a little with a fist. “Relax, dude, we can talk about that later. Also, stop calling me that.”
Your eyes flicker to the right, where another man stood, who you assume was Junichi’s friend and this Verve Films director’s visual effects specialist. He’s similar in stature to Kai, with that casual artist look, and he has a scuffle of facial hair littering his jaw in less of an intentional fashion but rather a five-o-clock shadow fashion. You vaguely register the scent of weed, familiar to the one that lingers in the photo lab on campus after class hours. He reaches his hand out to you first.
“Hi, I’m Ren. I work in visual effects for director Akira Ko at Verve.”
Your eyes widen as you shake his hand. “That’s amazing. I’ve studied a lot of his contemporary works, I’d love to learn more about his process.”
Ren lets a fast exhale out through his nose. “Yeah, you’ll learn a lot under him.” He pauses to shove his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Most of his assistants always do.”
“We’ve been waiting for too damn long,” Kai interjects before you could ask any questions about the assistant position, and he glances at his watch, “and there’s still a lot of people ahead of us.”
You glance around to the small groups of people gathered in front of this bar on a lively Friday night, eyes jumping from one area to the next, until a familiar silhouette catches your eye.
You see Gojo standing with Nanami and Choso a few strides away, near the lamppost. He’s mostly turned away from you, Nanami nudging his arm annoyed at something he said, and the sound of his laughter in the air makes your heart feel like it’s at stray. Like that was where you were supposed to be right now, not here.
You watch him from the distance as he sighs, shrugging his shoulders up and down slightly before crossing his arms when Choso gestures towards the entrance of the bar, and so he looks in that direction too. He’s frowning slightly and he brushes some of the hair fallen over his forehead away from his eyes, in that boyish way that makes your heart skip a beat, and you know he’s just doing it to see a little bit better, but it makes you want to cry.
Geto walks up to them and rejoins their little circle, and holds his phone up in the air, and then there’s the melody of their voices bouncing off one another’s again. Geto rests his elbow up onto Gojo’s shoulder, leaning in a bit closer to tell him something, and when Gojo hears it, you see his entire body tense before his wide eyes are searching his surroundings, until those eyes land on you.
Your breath catches, and you hold his eye contact for only a moment before you look away, because it almost felt like too much to bear.
“What’s that folder in your hand?” Ren asks you, and you turn completely to face him so you can’t see Gojo in your periphery at all anymore.
“I just brought some of my work, for your—er, I guess Mr. Ko’s—reference if he’d like to see it after today’s…interview,” you say. “There’s a flashdrive, too.”
Ren has an amused look on his face and he shoves Kai’s shoulder with his palm. “Dude, you didn’t tell her?”
Kai shakes his head. “Tell her what?”
“Ohh, I see how it is,” Ren muses.
“What?” Kai asks, starting to sound annoyed.
Ren tips his chin up slightly to study Kai’s face, and then his look of amusement dissipates into one of understanding. “Nothing.”
“Tell me what?” you prod.
“Just that you didn’t really need to bring all of that with you,” he says. “Sorry for the trouble.”
You shake your head. “It’s fine, but if you could still give it to him—”
“I’m surprised Kai suggested someone when I asked if he knew anyone,” Junichi jumps in, “I’m used to him grumbling on and on about how shit the work is in filmmaking. Would’ve thought he’d convinced you to look the other way by now.”
You blink at the gruff man, then look at Kai, and he’s just staring down at the dirt of his shoes. “Well, we had a conversation about it. But I’m pretty set on what I want to do,” you say.
Kai lets out a scoff. “Yeah, I don’t really know how else to warn you about the shit show you’re in for, but if you want to be in debt to grad school for the next couple decades of your life, then it’s up to you.”
“Hey, jackass, try to be a bit nicer,” Ren speaks up. “She’s got some goals. Big fuckin’ deal.” He turns to you. “Although, he’s got a point sweetheart, school’s not going to get you anywhere in this industry.”
You frown. “A lot of directors I look up to went through graduate schooling. Most, I would say. I don’t understand where this rhetoric is coming from.”
“It’s coming from real people with real experience,” Ren says, and you dislike the way he takes a step closer to you to reiterate his point, “honestly, you should save yourself some time and give up on applying. It’s not worth it.”
“I’ve already put my application together,” you say, brow furrowing slightly, “I’ve asked professors for my references, spent the past four years working on my profile—”
“But working under a director, I mean really getting to work under one, beats all of that. Which is why you’re here, right?” Ren asks, but it’s not curious, it’s testing.
You feel a sheen of sweat build at your forehead, even in this cold, and you clench your hand into a fist once, twice, thrice. You’re breathing fast, and the three sets of eyes that are staring so scrutinizingly into your soul right now have you faltering, like if they took another step forward, tried to intrude what you thought you knew one more time, you’d fall backwards over the cliff.
Suddenly, a hand wraps around your upper arm, and when you turn your head to the left, you see Gojo standing there.
“Hey,” he says to you, sparing one single sidewards glare towards Kai, who immediately averts the eye contact, before Gojo’s eyes are on you again, “can I talk to you for a second?”
You look at the three men in your circle, who suddenly adopt skittish body postures, and Gojo doesn’t really wait longer than a few seconds before he’s pulling you away from them over towards the edge of the curb towards the street.
“What?” you ask once he lets go of your arm.
“What are you doing here with those guys?” he asks.
“I’m—…why does it matter to you?” you ask.
“It matters to me because of the fucking absurd conversation I just overheard,” he says, “now answer me.”
His tone annoys you, and you cross your arms. “Are you eavesdropping?”
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he says, taking a step forward to you, “who are those guys, and why are you here with them?”
You blink at him, furrowed brows relaxing slightly as you drop your crossed arms to your side, and you stare straight ahead at the blankness of the white t-shirt he’s wearing, as your mind runs blank to his question. Why were you here with them? Was it because you had no other plans? Was it because the opportunity sounded too good to be true, and you just had to see for yourself? Was it because you’ve been unable to sleep at night from all the stress, the financial worries, the rejection, and you just want to finally feel like you’ve done one good thing for yourself? To feel like you’re at least making one step in the right direction, no matter the cost?
“I’m here for a job interview,” you say to him. Your tone is flat, and you feel numb.
“A job interview?” he asks, with just about as much incredulity you would’ve expected to hear from him at that answer, “At a bar? How does that make any sense?”
“It…” you start, “sounded fine.”
“It sounds shady as fuck.”
“This doesn’t concern you, okay? I’m—…I’m just trying to make my goals work for me, Satoru, and I really don’t expect you to understand.”
“Why wouldn’t I understand?” he asks. There’s confusion in his voice, and maybe even a little bit of hurt.
“Because you can’t even understand how unfair and painful it is for me that you keep—” you have to purse your lips together briefly to fight back the knot in your throat, “…that you keep interfering with my life everywhere I go.”
His expression softens, and he silently stands in front of you for a moment. His eyes dart across your face, and then he reaches out to grab your hand. “Listen, if you still want to get drinks tonight, then just get drinks with us. But don’t hang out with those guys. They’re bad news, especially the dude with the flannel, and I don’t think you’re in a good place right now to see that.”
Your eyes see white fury at that, and you all but snap. Because the irony of this whole situation, is that you’re not in a good place right now because of him. Because of all the pain that he’s put you through, for promising to stay away but then always being near, for saying he doesn’t want you but then acting like he does.
“You know what I think, Satoru?” you ask through gritted teeth, yanking your hand from his grasp.
He’s looking at you, studying. “What?”
You take a step forward, threateningly, and he takes a step back so that he steps off the curb and onto the road, and you’re at eye-level with him now. “I think that you’re jealous,” you say, eyes glaring daggers into his.
He blinks at you, almost dumbfounded for a moment before he says “what?”
“You’re just fucking jealous that I seem to be moving on after you rejected me, because for some weird reason, you think it’s okay to not want me, and yet not want me to be with anyone else,” you say, practically hissing the words. “You don’t like seeing me with any guys other than you? You don’t want to believe me when I say that I’m over you? You’re not sorry for kissing me? Even after knowing,” you take a pause to breathe, because you feel like you can’t, “even after knowing that I like you,” eyes blinking fast because you don’t want him to see you cry right now, “you know that I like you so fucking much, and that it’s hurtful, and that it’s wrong— and even after all of that, you act the same, and still won’t promise me any commitment of your own.”
He’s looking at you with an expression you can’t read, but you’ve lost all interest in trying to understand it anymore.
“You don’t want me hanging out with them?” you repeat after him, “I’m not listening to that. Because it’s possessive. And it’s wrong.”
At the mention of them, Gojo clenches his jaw. “That has nothing to do with you and me, right now. What they’re trying to convince you of doesn’t make any sense, and it won’t help you achieve your dreams either, y/n.”
“You don’t know anything about my dreams, Satoru,” you say, just to hurt him. But you think about the sincere expression on his face the first time you met him when you told him that you wanted his help with your assignment. You think about the playful nudge of his elbow that night he stayed with you on the curb, and told you that you just had to try to put yourself out there, because you couldn’t accomplish anything without facing your fears. You think about how he’s always the first to like every single one of the slideshows you post of your pictures on Instagram. You think about the adoration in his eyes, reflected off the moonlight through the hotel window, when you told him about a little cottage on the countryside, one you’ve always wanted, and those eyes told you that he was really rooting for you. “You don’t know. Because you—” there’s an echo of words in your head. Someone else’s words, not yours, “Because you’re a college athlete. And—” you let out an exhale, “and you don’t pay tuition.”
His brow furrows. There’s a beat of silence as his confusion settles in. “What?”
“You were born blessed with talent, and you’re popular, and people adore you, and you don’t have to worry about internships, or jumping from job to job just to make something of yourself,” you say, picturing your life in your head along with all the strife, “or about all of the sinking debt, and the worry, and the— and the car repair bills,” you say, almost with a scoff, eyes sheening with tears, like you’re losing your mind, “all of the fucking car repair bills.” Your chest is heaving as you shake your head. “Because you’re set for life as long as you kick a fucking ball.”
His lips purse together, like he can tell there’s more on your tongue to say, more hurtful words, and he wants to hear you say them. And so you do.
“You’ve never had to suffer or worry about a single thing in your life. So don’t pretend like you understand what I’m trying to do here tonight,” you say, inflection signing off on the end, to tell him that you’re done.
He stands in front of you, practically motionless except for the slow movement of his chest as he breathes. His expression, tense and hurt, softens slowly, and you see him digging his nails into the skin of his palms through fidgeting clenched fists at his sides. And then he relaxes them, too.
“Does that make you feel better?” he asks.
His question confuses you, and for some reason, regret washes over you. “What?”
“Does thinking of me that way—…does it make you feel better about all of this? Between us?”
You’re breathing fast, eyebrows pinching upwards to look at him, and the defeated expression on his face makes your heart ache. He’s waiting for an answer, and so you give him one. “Yes.”
He glances down at the ground for a moment, then at your collarbone, before meeting your gaze again. “I’m sorry. For everything. And I—” the words catch in his throat briefly, “I’ll try to leave you alone tonight.”
His use of the word try doesn’t escape you, but you give him a furtive nod, and he studies your face for a few moments before he steps back up onto the curb and walks past you. You watch him walk all the way, no longer with that confidence or conviction you’re so used to seeing in him, as he steps back into his circle, to Geto’s side. Geto gives a small glance over his shoulder to look at you with discerning eyes before looking at Gojo again, and then he’s turned away from you.
Heavy feet drag you back to Kai, Ren, and Junichi, and you feel feverish. They mention something about the table being ready, and you nod. The bar is rustic, with more tables than barspace, and the four of you are seated and then presented with a small food menu. You’re seated next to Kai, Ren is right across from you, and Junichi is to his right. You watch a waitress usher Nanami, Choso, Geto and Gojo to one of the tables as well, two away from yours, and you forcefully blur your vision so you don’t have to catch sight of the expression on Gojo’s face.
“So,” Ren speaks up as his eyes peruse the food menu and Junichi waves the waitress over to order a round of sake, “tell me more about your experience, sweetheart.”
You blink at him, eyes feeling heavy, heart feeling heavy. “I’d prefer it if you called me by my name.”
Ren lets out a coo, and you briefly glance at Kai who’s shaking his head with a sigh. “My bad, y/n. Your experience?”
Your hands play with the folder sitting in your lap. “I started writing screenplays for small-scale directors when I was a freshman, and was greenlit on a couple into my sophomore year. One of the films I worked on, I had directing credits for, and it was nominated for best screenplay at Etoile Film Festival the year following.”
Ren swallows slightly, shifting in his chair and pushing his shoulders back, like he’s trying to establish himself now. Kai is clenching a fist on the surface of the table.
Ren clears his throat before speaking again. “Wow, okay, so you’ve actually got some serious shit going on.” His voice is a faux octave deeper. “What do you know about being a good assistant? Ever worked in customer service? Secretary?”
“Oh, I mean I have worked in customer service, but I wasn’t done sharing about my experience—” you try to say but Junichi cuts you off.
“First round’s on me,” he declares, “for bringing her out here.” He tips his chin to you and then sends Kai a glance.
A waitress brings by a bottle of sake, and Junichi begins pouring drinks into the glasses, then slides them across the table. Kai gives Ren a pointed look.
“Don’t get too wasted,” Kai says to him as he brings his glass to his lips, “you start running that mouth of yours a little too much when you do.”
Ren grins at him and immediately knocks down the glass Junichi barely finished pouring from him in one go, and the gruff man beside him is grumbling. “Whatever you say.”
Something had been bothering you since you came here. “Wait,” you say, pointing between Kai and Ren, “do you two know each other already? Because,” you turn to look at Kai, “on the phone earlier, you sounded like you didn’t.”
Kai’s eyebrows raise in surprise, as though he’s discovered you have some skill for foresight. You glance at Ren, and he gives Kai a puzzled look.
“Uh, yeah. I’ve known Kai for years,” he says, “we go way back. We went to highschool together.”
Kai shifts a little in his chair. “Sorry. Probably forgot to mention it.”
You glance down at the glass of sake in front of you, and the way it twinkles under the lighting of the bar. You slowly bring it to your mouth, taking a small sip, and the way it coats your tongue is less than pleasing.
“Can you tell me more about the assistant position?” you ask Ren, who’s emptied out the bottle of sake and waving someone over to order more. He already has a slightly flush to his face.
“Yeah, yeah, will do,” he says, “but first, let me tell you about what I do in visuals.”
Another round of sake is dropped by, and then another, followed by another, as Ren continues to ramble on and on about what he does for work, and how it’s entirely integral to the final piece of the film, although you’ve never really had a terrible level of appreciation for visual effects in short-film craft, since it’s hardly much work. But you wouldn’t say that, you just continue to nurse your one glass of sake as the three men surrounding you knock back more and more, and there’s slurs to their speeches now.
“Sooo, I’m so sorry, sweetheart—I mean y/n, for cuttin’ you off earlier,” he says, “but what was that experience you wanted to talk to me about?” Ren asks from across the table, and his eyes are all traveling over you.
“I…” you start, “well, I started to work with one of my professors last year, she’s a two-time Cannes Film Festival winner, and she let me under her wing for one of her projects last year.”
“Who is she? Oh wait, nevermind, probably wouldn’t have heard of her anyways,” Ren says, but when you fail to laugh, he waves his hand in the air. “Joking, joking. What’s her name?”
“Naoko. Naoko Ogigami.”
“Oh shit. I have heard of her,” Ren says, followed by a shallow hiccup. Junichi shrugs his shoulders, and when you look at Kai, he’s nodding slowly and toying with the rim of his glass with a finger.
“Yes. Well, anyways—” you start up again, before Kai sets his glass of sake down particularly loud.
“This is all bullshit. Really. I told you, filmmaking is a waste of time. Just focus on your photography, and your freelance or whatnot,” Kai says, grit to his jaw, face looking red with possibly something other than just a tipsiness.
Ren lets out a laugh. “Fuckin’ Kai. What a pessimist. Don’t listen to him, sweetheart,” he says, slurred, and you furrow your brow at him with a glare, “sorry. Don’t listen to him. Trust me, you’ll learn a lot under Mr. Ko. He’s a suuuper nice guy.”
“What’s the compensation?” you ask. It’s a brazen question, one you’d never ask so soon in a formal interview process, but this table was hardly anything formal.
“Real good. Mmm I think like…5200 yen an hour, and then also, you get your foot in the door.”
“Oh,” you sit up a little in your chair. It was higher than most entry-level anything for undergraduates or even new grads.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he drawls when he sees you’re more interested. “Good stuff. Kai used to pick these kinds of jobs up, too, back in his college days. I remember. Although, he’s hardly Mr. Ko’s type, so I doubt he’d be any good for this one.”
Your head snaps to Ren again at his words, face tensing.
“Tell her about what a job like this—hic—entails,” Ren says as he extends his glass out for Junichi to pour him another.
Kai glances at Ren once, and you watch him grind his teeth for a moment, and then there’s a hint of a smirk on his face.
“Oh. Y’know, clerical work. Stuff like printing scripts out,” Kai starts, Junichi filling up his glass and then he raises it into the air to watch the liquid swish around, “grabbing him coffee. Making sure his trailer is stocked.”
“Blowing him in said trailer,” Ren says. It’s something quiet, under his breath with a small laugh, where you could barely hear it across the table. But you heard it nonetheless. And your heart sinks to the core of the earth.
“Excuse me?” you say. The benefit of doubt sitting on your shoulder, watching in disbelief as well.
“He’s joking,” Kai says, quickly, “runnin’ his mouth.”
“Oh fuck off, Kai,” Ren says, throwing his hands up in the air, “don’t act like that’s not why you brought her here.”
Your head slowly turns to Kai, who can’t meet your gaze. Your eyes flicker to Junichi, who looks amused.
Ren leans over the table, elbows resting on top, to look you straight in the eyes. He’s got a sleazy smile, and you can smell the alcohol on his breath, and he dips his tone down low enough to where you can hardly hear it over the sounds surrounding you in the bar. “That’s how you’ll make it in this industry, sweetheart. Whether you like it or not, you’ll be working under those directors until you make it.”
You stand up so fast that your chair falls behind you, hand raised in the air, and you swiftly slap the man across from you so hard across the cheek that it leaves his skin even more red than the flush from before, and your palm is stinging.
There’s gasps all around the bar, hushed voices, eyes on you, but you don’t care. There’s not a single thing in the world you care more about right now than the anger swelled in your chest.
Ren holds his cheek, surprised, blinking like a pathetic animal. He almost looks like he’s about to cry, and you let out a scoff at the sight.
You turn to face Kai, whose eyes are wide and he’s staring up at you. Your fists are clenched at your side.
“Is this why you brought me here tonight?” you ask. Your voice is trembling, anxiety at the wake, the white anger spotting your vision. But there’s also pain. So much pain, and you’re just so fed up with all of it. “Because your belittling, condescending words weren’t enough to tear my hopes apart, so you had to humiliate me in front of your friends instead?”
Kai holds his hand up. “Woah, Canon, relax. He was just joking—…” Kai glances at Ren, who’s still holding his cheek and biting down on his lip, and then his gaze hardens. “Y’know what? It’s about fucking time you get this wake-up call, y/n. I’ve been trying to do the nice thing to steer you in the right direction, and the least you could—”
“Steer me in the right fucking direction?!” you’re yelling now, registering the way your voice echoes in the bar. “You know what I think this is all about, Kai?” You grit your teeth, “You’re a sick, stupid, sexist fuck who didn’t have the balls to go after what he wanted. So miserably pathetic that you’ve got no other fucking business than to pull people down to your level.”
Kai pinches his eyebrows together, hand on the table clenching into a fist.
You lean down closer, an exasperated scoff leaving your lips. “Why don’t you go be his assistant instead? Since I’m sure you’re good at taking it up the ass.”
Kai’s eyes twitch, “you fucking—”
You grab his glass off the table and throw the alcohol into his face, eliciting another round of noises around the bar, and his mouth falls agape in shock before he gets up out of his chair, hand reaching out to grab for you. You close your eyes shut with a flinch to expect pain. Any sort of pain. But you don’t feel anything at all.
When you open your eyes, you see Gojo standing to your left, veins of his arm tense with the tight grip he has on Kai’s forearm, and you can see he’s practically shaking with rage. He steps in front of you, guarding, and you can’t see the expression on his face, but the fear in Kai’s eyes is enough to say it all.
“That’s enough,” he says, the clench of his jaw evident through the strain in his voice, “try to put your hands on her again, and I’ll split your fucking face in half.”
You can see Kai’s breathing pick up from where you’re peering over Gojo’s shoulder, and then Gojo shoves him backwards right as Choso kicks the fallen chair to his feet so he trips over it backwards then hits the ground with a loud and indignant thud.
Gojo’s hovering over Kai, his hands shoved in his pockets as he glares down at him, while Geto and Nanami put space between you and the other two men at your table. You feel a searing flush to your cheeks. You’re breathing fast, the peering eyes all around you are scrutinizing, looking at you with surprise, confusion, shock, and pity. Your mind is racing, and you wonder what your parents would think of all this. What your friends would think of all of this. What the people who support you would think of the fucked up situation you’ve found yourself in, and the humiliation courses so deep through your veins that you just want to run away and hide. The ground could swallow you whole right now, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
You take one step back, then another, before you turn on your heel to rush out the door into the night, and you barely register that it’s raining. You can feel your heart thumping fast in your chest and in your head, that familiar knot in your throat twisting tight as you walk fast down the street and ignore Gojo’s call of your name from behind you.
You don’t want to see anyone right now. You don’t want to be seen by anyone right now. Especially Gojo, of all people, because he was right about everything, and the fact that you had shut him down about it, and the way that you had shut him down about it makes your head numb and your breathing pick up fast.
“y/n,” you hear him call out from behind you, his pace is getting faster and so you’re resorting to longer strides as well, puddles of water splashing under your feet with every step, “just wait—”
“I’m seriously,” you start, and the tears begin to fall, “I’m seriously so, so, so, so, so fucking embarassed right now,” you gasp out the words with no air left in your lungs to breathe as you continue to run away from him, “so please, just leave me alone.”
You can picture it all in your head. Something like I told you so from his lips, because after what you’ve been put through tonight, you just want to assume the worst in people.
But just as you round the corner into an alley, feeling lost with the sight of a dead end, you feel a hand wrap around your arm and then you’re being pulled into an embrace.
Your eyes are blinking with tears streaming, your face buried in a chest that is warm, with a heart beating so fast that it’s keeping time with your own, and the fragrance that surrounds you is so painfully him that it makes you sob even more.
Strong arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and Gojo rests his chin at the top of your head. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, and you can feel the rumble of his voice, “I just needed to stop you from running.”
Your arms are weakly raised, an outline over his torso but not yet grabbing on, until you hesitantly do. And when you hold onto him, it’s so tight and strong, and you realize that after everything between the two of you, it’s the first time you’ve been wrapped in his arms.
“I feel so stupid,” you start, already hating the words because you want to be stronger right now, but you can’t.
“You’re not stupid,” he quickly corrects you, “those guys are fucking insecure losers. You’re just trying your best. You always have, for as long as I’ve known you, and it’s something you should be proud of yourself for.”
You don’t know what to say to him, you just cling to the damp fabric of his shirt in the rain.
“Things are going to work out for you, no matter what, because I know you’ve got what it takes and you’re willing to work hard for it,” he says, his chin nuzzling so you’re tucked into him even further, “and if things don’t work out, that’s okay, you’re strong and you’ll always get back up. And I want to be there to help you through everything.”
You pull your face from his chest to stare up at him, droplets of rain falling to your face and making you flinch occasionally. “I’m confused.”
His hand comes up to cup your face, swiping at a tear on your cheek, or maybe it was rain. “I thought that—” he starts, his thumb briefly running over the small cut still healing on your cheek, his brow furrowing, “I thought that I’d be okay with watching your life from afar, through cropped pictures on a screen,” he says, a chill running through you, “but I can’t. It’s killing me. And I’m really sorry that it took me this long to tell you this, but I like you so much and I really want to be with you.”
Your eyes widen at his words, and you don’t know how to feel. You push your face into his chest again. His thumb runs circles at your side through the dampness of your shirt.
“There are a lot of reasons I didn’t feel like I could date you, or show up for you,” he says, “but the pain of not getting to be with you, of not getting to hold you, and just share my life with you is way worse than whatever reasons I kept trying to convince myself of.”
You nod slowly, because there was a part of you deep inside that knew that all along.
His grip on you relaxes slightly and you take that as a request from him for you to look up at him, so you do. “I know I’ve put you through a lot of pain, and I’m really not a perfect person, but if there’s room in your heart to forgive me, I promise you that I’ll do everything I can to make you feel happy and cared for.”
Your eyes study his face for sincerity. They’re words you’ve been wanting to hear, words you could’ve pictured in your head, but the adoration in his eyes makes you realize you never could’ve imagined the true sweetness of those words when they’re said from him.
You press your cheek to his chest again. You’re not crying anymore. “I’m sorry for what I said to you earlier. About kicking a soccer ball, and having it easy,” you bite down on your lip, because now there’s tears in your eyes again, “I didn’t mean it.” You sniffle a little, “I know you work hard. And it was a really mean thing to say.”
He sighs, holding you flush to himself. His cheek presses against the top of your head. “That’s okay, you don’t have to apologize for that.”
“But I do.”
There was no grudge at all. There was nothing withdrawn from you, nothing taken away as punishment. He just held onto you, exactly as you are, and you felt so safe in every second you spent in his arms.
You look up at him again. His hair is damp, strands clinging to his face in all the places they usually fall over, droplets of rain falling from his fringe onto your face and he does everything he can to wipe them away. “It’s too late,” you tell him, and he immediately knows what you’re referring to.
He just holds you closer. “I know.”
“I don’t have feelings for you anymore,” you say through a sniffle.
He knows you’re lying, and that you say it just out of spite, but he holds your head to his chest. “I know.”
“You’ll have to beg and grovel, and even then, I might not like you ever again,” you say, gripping so tightly onto his shirt for purchase, your voice sounding muffled as you breathe in the scent of him. “That’s your punishment.”
He presses a kiss to the top of your head. A firm press of his lips, lasting as he takes a few deep breaths. And then he kisses the same spot again, staying still in that position as he repeats himself.
“I know.”
--
a/n. phewww thank you for reading, i swear, this chapter felt like a goddamn war to write. my emotions were all over the damn place, i think cause i wrote from a place of bitter experience lol.
i dedicate this chap to my lovely friend she’s a film major (she inspired me to create this story) and i srs wouldn’t be able to write kickoff without her 😭💕 dear M♥︎, i thought of you sm while writing this chapter, i can only hope i’ve captured even the slightest bit of the understanding i will always aim to have of you, and that you feel seen. i’m incredibly proud of you, always rooting for you, so often thinking of you, and terribly missing you so much rn (plsssssss visit meee😩💔 ) dedicated w sm love 💕
-bitchasshoe
this chapter is also dedicated to anyone who’s going through a hard times n maybe just trying to figure themselves out :”) i am so proud of you, you should be so proud of yourself, there’s still so much to live and learn, and i hope the universe blesses you w everything you’ve ever wanted!!
big thank u to my lovely m00t @quinnyundertow she pulled me out of my writers block for this chapter and also beta read a lot of it for me
there’s only three chapters left for kickoff (i’m gonna cry just thinking ab it :”)) which doesnt sound like a lot but there’s still a lot i’ve got planned 😭 i’m just noticing that i very poorly planned the second half of this series. chapters 1-6 combined have less words than chapters 7-9 combined 😅✨ sooooo i may increase the chapters from 12 to 14 by splitting them up to make it easier on me, or just stick to the plan and come out with long chapters like the last two. idk. i’ll figure it out.
thank u to everyone for reading i love you all dearly 😭💕 i’ll see you in the next one!!
➸ you're all caught up!
➸ wrote some kickoff headcanons here
--
taglist: @who-can-touch-my-boob @therealestpussyeater @lost-resonance @hojoslutoru @foulprincesscycle @luniunia @alekssashka7 @bsdicinindirdim @tsukikourito @getitsatoru @slut-4-gojo @cactisjuice @kissofife @tiredflame132 @cliosunshine @ethereally-lyann @btszn @prince-wyiilder @semra4 @gojosimp26 @drthymby @ninitoru @bbyxxm @fvsm4x @sadmonke @zoinks1010 @bakuhoethotski @horisdope @sykostyles @aquaberrydolphin @colouringfrogssittinginleaves @ri-sa20 @purplehallow11 @mwtsxri @ritsatoru @bxddiebloss @chwesuh-imnida @mo0nforme @viware @still-fking-single @megumisthirdog @gintokhi @karvokr @cierocanteat @imjustaweirdnerd @ronniebird @bloopsstuff @mwtsxri @witchbybirth @tetsuski @fffinskye @gh0ulkz @beabadobeee @mandysfanfics @erencvlt @laviefantasie @sukunamylovexoxo @girlkissersco @itzjuliana @yell0wdreams @1dimas7 @strayedjeno @mo0nforme @yungbloode @sullybrothersmate @oaooaoaoaoa @swagangelllamawolf @banenemilk @inniesblog
(hope i didn't miss anyone thank u all sm!!)
#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen fanfiction#gojo satoru#gojo x reader#gojo smut#jjk gojo#geto suguru#gojo satoru angst#nanami kento#choso kamo#series#yaga masamichi#alternate universe#college#college au#soccer#sports au#fraternity#sorority#tw drinking#partying#anime#romance#smut#fluff#angst#jjk smut#long fic#jjk series#ongoing series
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I’m Not What You Need (But I Am)
Miguel O’Hara x female reader
Summary: “When you sit there/acting like you know me/acting like you only brought me here to get below me”
You have a concern to bring to Miguel, but when he hears what you really think of him, he doesn’t let you off so easily
Tags/warnings: smut (18+), oneshot, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, kind of missionary idk what to call it, dominant Miguel, brat taming, orgasm denial, dirty talk, choking, sort of strangers to lovers, maybe a little bit of a hatefuck if you squint, reader is a Spider person, def a bit out of character
Wordcount: 3.5k
Find on Ao3 here :3
"Why are you coming to me with such trivial annoyances?" Miguel O'Hara asked you from the platform of his lab, at least ten feet above you. He was tapping on various screens, not giving you eye contact. It felt purposeful, pointed.
"I'm sorry, I thought you wanted to know when fights broke out. Keeping the peace and all that." You felt yourself growing warm, anxiety fluttering in your stomach.
"What I want," he said, his tone growing short. "Is for people to sort out their own bullshit, so I can worry about what's important. Which, if you haven't noticed, is much bigger than you and I and some stupid fight in the lobby."
As soon as he said it, you knew he was right. But he was still being an asshole. You were only trying to help.
You put your hands up in defense. "I just thought you'd wanna know." Then whispered under your breath "douchebag," as you turned to walk away.
But your progress was halted by something tugging at your wrist. You looked down to see what it was, and closed your eyes, quietly cursing yourself. Neon red webbing.
"You wanna run that by me again?" Miguel asked.
You swallowed a lump in your throat. "Nothing, it was nothing. I'll just leave."
You tried to pull free, but he was reeling you in, like a helpless fish on a hook. "Oh, no," he said, sounding somewhat amused. "No, I heard you. 'Douchebag,' eh? Not very creative. But…" he paused when you were closer, close enough that he could look directly down at you. "I want to hear you say it again. Face to face, this time."
You frowned. "How can we be 'face to face' when you're so high above me?"
He wagged a finger at you. "You've got a point there." In a sudden flash of tingling, your Spider sense triggered. But Miguel was too fast, he'd been doing this for far longer than you had. In an instant, you were wrapped in neon red and being hoisted upward onto the platform. He planted you right in front of him, putting his hands on his hips and leaning down so his eyes were level with yours. "Happy?"
You huffed. Why was he like this? A self-satisfied grin played at the edges of his plush lips as he scrutinized you with bloodshot eyes. Finally registering how close he was, and how huge he was, you started turning red. He could throw you around like you weighed nothing, couldn't he? He had just lifted you up here with hardly any effort. You'd never thought about another Spider like this. Sure, you were all strong, but there was something in Miguel's upper body that you couldn't free from your thoughts, something in those massive shoulders, something-
"Well?" He asked, breaking your trance. "I don't have all day."
You met his eyes. They looked so tired. You didn't want to insult him anymore. You wanted to leave and pretend like the thoughts you had about him never existed.
But you knew what he needed to hear.
"Douchebag," you repeated.
He smiled, and it was humorless. "It's nice to know that this is what people think of me. That I did this for all of us, and everyone in our worlds. And the word that comes to mind when people talk to me is…?" He raised an eyebrow prompting you.
"...Douchebag."
"That's right!" He pointed a finger at you. "I don't ask for much. I ask for people to listen and respect the operation. And that means respecting my time, too, eh? No more coming right to me with petty fights that people can solve on their own."
You just stared back up at him, hardly registering his words. Respect time, no more fights, whatever. His hair looked so soft.
"Got it?" He asked, starting to sound frustrated again.
You nodded.
"I need to hear you say it."
"G-got it."
"Good." He patted your shoulder. What an odd gesture. It was very nearly caring. "Let's get you out of here." He flexed his hand, talons coming free. He quickly swiped at the webbing he had wrapped you in, the strands snapping and falling to the floor in shreds.
Your heart was hammering in your chest. His brow furrowed. "Listen, I know I'm scary, but I'm just doing my job."
You shook your head. "I'm- I'm not scared."
"Are you not? Dios mio, I can hear your blood pumping."
His heightened senses were going to be your death sentence. The longer he stood staring at you, the worse your thoughts became. But you couldn't bring yourself to move away from his attention. You crossed your arms, trying to make yourself small so he would stop looking at you.
He raised an eyebrow. "What, do you wanna be friends or something?"
No, you thought, I want us to be something different.
Despite your best efforts, you blurted out, "no, in all honesty, I've never really liked you that much." Why did you say that? What was wrong with you?
He cocked his head, his eyes widening, processing what you just said. He started to nod. "Oh, wow. Great. Thank you so much. What a productive conversation. And you're still here because…?"
"Because you getting the last word in is infuriating to me." You couldn't stop yourself. You knew this was bad, but you couldn't stop.
"How do you think I feel? You came here for the sole purpose of bothering me and now you won't leave me the shock alone." He pointed at you again, forefinger lightly jabbing your collarbone. "You. Can. Leave. This is my lab, you little brat." He spoke the words through gritted teeth, and you could just barely see his elongated canines, gleaming and sharp in the light of the lab's computer screens.
Oh no.
You stood there, just blinking at him. You've never seen someone so annoyed looking so attractive at the same time. It wasn't fucking fair.
He suddenly started, the anger from his face vanishing, confusion taking its place. "Oh yeah?" He asked, his voice taking on a mocking tone. "That's why your heart is pounding?"
Fuck.
"What, uh… what do you-"
"Don't play dumb with me.” He placed a gloved finger under your chin, tilting your head up towards him. “I can smell that you're turned on. Is that why you came here to bother me? So you could gawk at me? And maybe I'd fuck you if you were lucky."
You backed up, nearly slipping off the edge of the raised platform. Miguel reached out and caught your hand, pulling you in close to him. Unconsciously, you splayed your hands on his chest to steady yourself. His body was so warm and inviting, and you were drawn into it like a little planet circling a blazing sun.
What was happening, what were you doing?
"Is that what you thought?" He asked, seeming to echo the questions you asked yourself, his voice growing more quiet as he looked down at you.
You quickly raised your hands away from him, closing them into loose fists and crossing your arms again. "No," you said, truthfully.
"But you're thinking it now." He nodded. "Aren't you?"
After a pause, you nodded too.
"I really need to hear you say it." He probed.
"I'm…. I'm thinking about it now."
"Oh, are you? Thinking about what?"
You swore under your breath, doing a poor job of hiding a scowl. You should've known he wasn't going to make it easy for you.
"Thinking about you fucking me." You grimaced after admitting it, waiting for him to mock you and disown you.
He smiled. "That's funny. I thought I was a douchebag."
"Fuck you, man!" You threw your arms up into the air, turning around and preparing to hop down from the platform.
“No no no, come on, now,” he said, grasping your wrist with a large, warm hand. His grip was surprisingly gentle. “Why don’t you give me a chance to change your mind?”
You looked him in the eyes, and there was a small spark there. You sighed, unable to deny the reaction your body had to him. You wanted him. And he was offering himself to you. What reality was this where that was even possible? Not ten minutes ago, you were hardly closer than strangers. “Okay,” you said, offering him a small grin. “Don’t fuck it up.”
“Oh, I won’t.” In another swift movement, he swept you up into his arms and laid you down on your back on the lab floor. He was above you, arms on either side of your head, boxing you in. You could hardly see anything past those vast shoulders. You swallowed. He raised one hand to your head, petting your hair. “Look at that. You really are so pretty. Couldn’t help thinking it even when you were pissing me off earlier.”
You furrowed your brow. “I thought you wanted to change my mind, asshole, is this-”
He cut you off as his hand lowered, skating down your side and brushing against your breast before traveling even further. You exhaled shakily, trying to prepare yourself for this. Miguel O'Hara was touching you. Miguel O'Hara was going to fuck you.
When he reached the curvature of your hips, he fondly squeezed, humming to himself. "Soft… so soft. You wouldn't want an asshole like me to eat you out, would you?"
Your brain short-circuited at how blatant he was. "No, I- I would, I really fucking would, Miguel."
"Oh, are we on a first name basis, now?" He hooked a clawed finger into the fabric of your suit, ripping a huge gash into it so he could access you. That… that was your good suit. You bit down on your bottom lip, trying to keep yourself from quipping back at him as he scooted downward, wrapping his arms around your thighs and lining himself up with your pussy. You threw your head back in anticipation, screwing your eyes shut. How was this real? How was-
You gasped as his tongue made gentle contact with your sex, slowly and carefully licking a long swipe from your opening to your clit, like he was savoring the first taste of you.
"You taste even better than you smell, amor."
Fuck, he was savoring you. You trembled beneath him, your hands tentatively reaching down to tangle with his hair. And it was even softer than you thought it would be.
"That's it," he encouraged. "Hang onto me."
You listened, your grip on his hair tightening. As if that were his cue, he brought his tongue back to your aching pussy, lapping at the wetness that was all but dripping from you. Your body immediately felt too hot on the metal floor, and you were convinced that you were beginning to melt under the warmth of his tongue. The almost-penetration was sending you spiraling; he was giving you nothing that you needed while somehow simultaneously answering your every secret desire. You needed that mouth on your clit. Your greedy, aroused body needed more, more. You had him all to yourself and he was teasing you. It wasn't fair.
You whimpered as you gripped soft locks of his hair, waiting for him to take the plunge. Waiting…. And waiting. But he just kept lapping contentedly at your entrance, just barely dipping his tongue inside. The feeling was pleasant but infuriating. What was he trying to do? Did he want you to beg for it?
Oh.
…He couldn't be serious.
But that was the only conclusion you could reach. After all, he'd been asking to hear you say things this entire encounter, prompting you to be vocal. All you had to do was swallow your pride.
"M-Miguel…?" You asked, your voice quiet.
He stopped, picking his head up slightly, looking at you from under his thick brows. "Mm? What is it?"
"Please, um… please…." Your voice caught in your throat. Why was this so difficult?
"Oh, you're begging me now? What could you possibly be begging for… Isn't this what you wanted?"
You narrowed your eyes as he held your gaze with that lackadaisical expression.
"Please," you started, feeling humiliated. "Please suck on my clit."
"Good girl. All you had to do was ask." In no time at all, his mouth was back on you. He zeroed in on your clit, taking the sensitive bundle of nerves into the wet warmth of his mouth, sucking on it just as you needed. The feeling was so intense and you couldn't suppress any of the noises that escaped you. And the noises he made didn't help in the slightest. He was humming as he worked your clit, the gentle vibrations of his voice adding to the overstimulation. He stopped for a moment to instead use his tongue, and the pointed attention was delicious.
"How are you feeling, amor?" He asked without fully pulling away from you, his voice slightly lisping from the contact.
"Good," you gasped, feeling like you were getting close to the edge. "So, so good. Please keep going."
"Tell me when you're going to cum."
"Yes, yes I will."
He continued his efforts, mercilessly devouring you, a cacophony of wet sounds rising to meet your ears. You could feel your orgasm building, your body singing. He was playing you like an instrument. That warm, pulsating feeling was building deep inside your core, threatening to burst apart with every second.
Your grip on his hair tightened. "Miguel, I'm- I'm gonna-"
Your back started arching and you closed your eyes as… nothing happened. He pulled his head away from you. You opened your eyes to see him looking at you from between your legs, one of his eyebrows raised.
"Wha- what?"
He smirked. "Oh, this? It's nothing... It's just that douchebags usually don't care about making women cum."
Your jaw dropped open. This again? You gritted your teeth, your clit swollen and thrumming with your pulse. You needed release.
"I'm sorry." You said, your voice desperate.
He raised his eyebrows, amused. "Oh, wow, that was fast." His tone was so matter-of-fact.
"I'm sorry for calling you a douchebag and an asshole, I was wrong about you. Please let me cum." You spat the words out so quickly that you hardly registered what you were saying.
"How could I say no to that?" He returned to you, gripping your thighs more firmly than he had before, shamelessly moaning into you as you started to curl up off the hard metal floor. Your orgasm was so close, it was right within your grasp. Your breath started going ragged as you held onto him for dear life. In a white hot burst of pleasure, you came, swearing loudly as Miguel drank up every bit of you, letting you ride your orgasm out on his skillful tongue. He slowed down right as you did, matching your pace perfectly until you were a heaving mess on the floor in front of him.
"My turn, now," his voice came through the fog, it sounded distant. But you could feel strong arms lifting you up and all but dropping you onto your back on one of the lab's computer consoles, its screen turning off in response. He dismissed a section of his high tech suit, his manhood coming free. You couldn't help but gawk at him. His body was unreal. From the small window he created, you could see hard lines of muscle carved into golden skin. Your head started spinning again.
He began pumping his hard cock as he looked down at you, spreading your legs further open with his free hand. "See how easy it is to get what you want when you aren't being a brat?" The way his muscles flexed through his tight suit while he worked himself was maddening. You wanted- no, you needed him to fuck you. You needed him inside you.
You nodded your head, answering his question.
"So, tell me what you want."
"I want you to fuck me," you answered, still panting from your orgasm. "I want to feel you so badly. Please, Miguel."
"You're a fast learner," he purred, bringing his cock to your folds and lubricating himself on the mess you two had made. He slid over your slick entrance, his head touching your aching clit as he moved up and down. "I'll fuck this pretty cunt for you, since you asked so nicely."
He positioned himself at your entrance and slowly pushed himself inside of you, inch by thick inch. You moaned, the feeling of finally being full was luscious, he was pressing at your walls from all angles. At last, when he was in up to the hilt, he stayed there for a moment while his large hands found your waist.
"My God, look at you. You took all of me, and so shocking well. You," he exhaled, seemingly taking a second to compose himself. "You feel so good."
"Thank you," you whispered, breathless. He was praising you. It was… nice to hear. Stubbornness be damned.
He chuckled to himself. "Please and thank you? You really do learn fast. You've earned this, amor." And with that, he pulled himself out of you, slamming back in with a hard slap. Over and over, he fucked you with the entire length of his cock, hitting spots inside of you that you weren't sure even existed. "Lemme hear you, I wanna hear it all."
You obeyed. "O-oh my God, Miguel, fuck. It's… it's so good. Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you."
Thanking him fueled his fire; his grip on your waist tightening, red eyes sparkling wildly. "Good girl, that's it… watching my cock disappear inside of you… it's making me crazy. You like getting fucked by someone you hated before all this? You wanna get filled up by someone you don't even like?"
"Yes, please." Your back arched into him, the pressure from his unwavering thrusts overwhelming you. The feeling was impossibly perfect, your body tingling from your head to your toes. He really did fit inside of you so well.
"You'll get it, baby. Keep being good for me, you'll get it."
As he continued, his hands roamed your body. Groping at your breasts, resting on the soft slope of your stomach. You grabbed one of his traveling hands, a rogue feeling overtaking you as you brought it up to your throat.
His eyes widened in disbelief. “Y-yeah? You want me to choke you?” He sounded excited.
“P-please,” you huffed, grabbing onto his forearm.
“Holy shit, you’re something else.” He began applying gentle pressure to your airway as he kept fucking you. It was the perfect amount of constriction; suppressing your breath intake just enough for your head to feel pleasantly airy. He was good at that, why was he so good at that?
Between the way he was pounding you and the way he was choking you, your muscles started to bear down on him.
"Yes, yes, squeeze that cock. Good girl. You’re gonna get what you want.”
You clenched down on him, your orgasm rocking you to your core as he fucked you through it. It hit you in giant waves, crashing over you and pulling you into the undertow. You felt completely drunk on it. The warmth of it was everywhere in your body, all the way up to your fingertips. Your head swam, your eyes rolling back into your head. Miguel swore to himself, his tempo becoming more irregular. He released your throat, hands flying down to grip the console. You thought you could hear it cracking.
“God, you’re tight. I’m gonna fill you up.”
“Yes,” you rasped, your body shaking.
He growled as he came inside of you, bearing his fangs in clenched teeth once more, and you could feel his cock twitch followed by the heat of his seed as it stuffed you full. He lingered over you, his eyes looking frenzied as his gaze flicked over your face, his chest heaving with every recovering breath.
You released a deep sigh, smiling tenderly at him. “Thank you, Miguel.”
“You, uh,” he started awkwardly, running his hands through his hair. He still hadn’t even pulled out of you yet. “You earned it,” he repeated.
He took a short, unsure step back, as he pulled his length free from you. You could feel his cum leaking from you upon his release. There was so much of it.
He held his hand out to you to help you up, and you grasped it, smiling again as you got to your feet.
“I’ll clean this mess up, but you.…” He scanned your frame. “...I’ve got a pair of pants on one of the lab chairs down there.” He pointed toward a particularly cluttered section of his space. “Bringing them back would be a much better excuse to see me than a fight in the lobby.”
#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara smut#miguel o'hara#smut#my writing#ive got another one for you you sick bastards#this one was not beta read in the slightest so bear with me pls#hope you enjoy!#i will not stop the metalcore title/summary naming convention anytime soon so my condolences
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FAMILY, OF SORTS. — in which kafka, blade, and silver wolf are an odd but quite special found family to be a part of.
— trigger & content warnings. mentions of unspecified injury.
— pairings & notes. fluff, found family. kafka & teen!reader, blade & teen!reader, silver wolf & teen!reader. 1.3k words. reader is a stellaron hunter. reader is gender neutral (they/them pronouns used).
— author's notes. the sillies <3 APHE POSTING???? APHELION POSTING REAL AND TRUE????????? i had a request for this on my old blog (from my dear beloved moot @starryshinyskies <3) so i decided to finish it 💪 nd tagging @www-brontide since i know you were excited for this post HEHE anyways how are we feeling about this formatting? if you guys don't like it i'm very open to changing it back. i'm just experimenting with my post format is all 🫶
kafka seems strangely motherly to me. caring and doting in her own unique ways, but also quite strange and odd in those same ways. an enigma of sorts.
she is the kind of person to always send the stellaron hunters' youngest member texts throughout the day; these texts range anywhere from silly and inconsequential to sweet messages letting [name] know that she was thinking about them.
(her doting nature is not dissimilar to how she thinks of and regards the trailblazer... hm.)
KAFKA
My coat got stained again :(
Won't you help me clean it when you get home, little one?
[ 1:22 PM ]
KAFKA
I saw a new movie today.
It made me think of you. It was quite to your tastes.
Perhaps we should go see it together sometime, hm?
Ah, but you're probably asleep by now...
That's fine. You do need it more than the rest of us.
Sleep well, darling.
[ 11:34 PM ]
she thinks of her little one quite frequently and has been known to pick up little trinkets from different planets that reminded her of them. a phone charm, a set of rings, something more practical like a new weapon... she once returned with a nice coat that matches one of hers. her gifts are always unpredictable but nonetheless very thoughtful.
and when or if they get injured, she is the one who treats their wound(s) with a tender hand.
she does chide them, however.
"you are a stellaron hunter, little one," she reminds, pulling the bandages wrapped around their wound a little tighter, making them wince. it is akin to a slap on the wrist—not enough pain to seriously harm them, but enough to force them to take her words to heart. "if it is not a part of the plan, try your best not to get caught or injured, hm? silver wolf doesn't like to see you this way, and it causes a unique stir in bladie. your getting injured causes quite the unrest among us all! do be more careful next time."
if there is ever a night during which they are struggling to sleep, they are more than welcome to seek out kafka's company.
she would be willing to read them to sleep, if that is what they desired.
however... a far easier method that would ensure they would stay asleep? her spirit whisper ability, of course.
they know kafka would not use it to harm them.
kafka finds their earnest trust beyond endearing. the trust of a little one like them is quite an important gift! the least she can do, she thinks, is assist them when her assistance is needed.
and sometimes, that just means lulling them to sleep.
blade is quite a difficult person to read, regardless of whether he intends to be so or not.
some days, he is distant and prefers to keep to himself. others, less so.
this, though, should not be mistaken for a lack of care. in fact, he cares quite deeply. his care is simply very quiet and he desperately, earnestly, truly does not wish to cause [name] harm.
he is also most likely the one who spars with them and trains them in the ways of combat, which... he isn't exactly the gentlest at doing. training sessions can be quite frustrating in that they often emerge sore and with new cuts and bruises (but really, these injuries are small and insignificant; they are confident in saying that blade would never truly hurt them, nobody in their family would). he does mean well in his tough methods, though.
the universe is not kind or gentle. it will never treat them that way. therefore, he does his best to prepare them so that they can effectively handle the universe's cruelty and defend themselves from it.
one of the ways in which his quiet care manifests is through his treatment of the small wounds he gives them during training. kafka has said many times that she can treat them, but blade always insists on doing it himself.
out of all of their coworkers, blade becomes the most restless when they're away. he gets particularly antsy when they've been gone for a long period or when they're out there alone. kafka always giggles and points out to him how utterly restless he becomes when such circumstances occur.
(he should be assured that they can handle themselves, given that he is their mentor—there is surely nobody else who would know their skills as well as he would—but somehow he simply isn't.)
blade is also, generally speaking, the most protective.
should they come back injured... if it is anything other than a shallow scratch on the cheek, a rage hotter than the brightest star burns under his skin. in those moments, he almost does not dare to touch them, for fear that he might harm them unwittingly... but he does. his hands are somewhat rough when he snatches their face and tilts their chin around to get a better look at the blood (is it theirs? he hopes not) and grime dirtying their face. there is a terrifying threat present in his voice when he demands, not asks, "who did this to you?"
(if kafka was not present in these moments, he might worry that his mara would get the best of him. thankfully, kafka is intentional and present in such situations.)
unless the ones responsible for the wound have already been adequately... taken care of, he will do so himself. there is nowhere in the universe that the perpetrators could hide from him.
it's about protecting them, but it is also about sending a message.
something along the lines of "anyone who lays hands on them will suffer a fate worse than death," perhaps.
death is anything but a terrible fate to blade, but he knows that it is the worst imaginable to some. he will be certain to deliver something infinitely worse, something beyond imagination, to those daring to hurt his younger teammate.
silver wolf is perhaps the least enigmatic of their little family. she isn't an open book, per se, but she's easier to read than kafka or blade... at least, for someone like [name], anyway.
she never fails to harrass them to play a few rounds (which tends to spiral into many, many rounds...) of a game or two with her. why them, specifically? she insists that blade isn't good at them and kafka is kafka. really, it may very well just be that she enjoys spending time with them, but she—of course—will not simply say that.
however... she bullies them terribly about how bad they are. it comes from a place of affection!
she is also the type to win them every single prize at carnivals, just because she likes the joy it seems to bring them. when she encounters rigged games, however, she becomes all the more motivated by her unadulterated annoyance to beat them.
what do you mean she of all people can't beat this awful and horrible rigged game? her???? the silver wolf????? seriously????????
unfortunately, it does not always end in her victory, even when she is infinitely motivated by her anger.
...and she really isn't above just taking one of the prizes when the stall's owner isn't looking. she has done so multiple times for [name].
she would definitely try to teach them hacking (keyword: try) if they aren't already familiar with it. since it has come in handy for her, she figures that they might also find use in it. it's her quiet way of looking out for them.
(her more obvious way of looking out for them is often seen when she is on missions with them. most commonly, it manifests as her snatching their arm and pulling them out of the way of an enemy before obliterating said threat.)
silver wolf is totally the sort of person to pinch their cheeks (to different degrees, kafka and blade also do this!). they are very cute to her.
overall they are a weird but very special little family to be a part of <3
please consider supporting your writers by reblogging and leaving a kind tag or comment. it really helps me out!
#✧— aphe's creations.#divider by @/cafekitsune ♡#bonus: elio is your weird uncle that shows up on holidays gives you credits and tells you enigmatic secrets /hj /lh#hsr x reader#honkai star rail x reader#kafka x reader#blade x reader#silver wolf x reader#platonic hsr#platonic honkai star rail#hsr platonic#platonic x reader#platonic kafka x reader#platonic blade x reader#platonic silver wolf x reader
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BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND!GOJO SATORU | FIC RECS
A/N: Been obsessed with the Brother's Best Friend trope recently, specifically regarding Satoru, and I really wanted to share my favorite fics created by the amazing writers listed below. ALSO I wanted to do this because I haven't made one of these recommendation lists in awhile, and I love to do them number one to help promote the writers I love, and number two because when I find a trope I love with a character I wish I had a list like this to just find fics instantly LMAOOO. PLEASE feel free to recommend me your favorite brother's best friend fics if you know anymore and FEEL FREE to send me an ask at anytime if you're searching for fics of a certain trope I'd be happy to make more lists. Now enough of my yapping, I got ahead of myself and I'm posting this now but I'll update as I find more fics.
WARNING: I WON’T BE MORE CLEAR ON THIS! If you proceed to these accounts make sure to look at the rules and warnings. please respect the account owner, as most of them don’t want people under 18 on them. ALWAYS READ WARNINGS ON FICS TO INSURE YOU ARE RESPECTING THE WRITERS GUIDELINES!!!
One more thing! IF YOU LIKE A FIC PLEASE REBLOG NO MATTER THE ACCOUNT! The easiest way to show a creator you care and that their work is being appreciated is to reblog reblog reblog! They spend hours of their time creating work FOR US. The least we can do is REBLOG!
accounts under the cut. (last updated January 4th, 2024.)
IF IT’S ONLY A TOUCH…AITA? by @tteokdoroki This one is so good and the most recent one I read. It's the perfect amount of angst and smut. It does have some descriptions of the reader having braids, darker skin, and brown eyes so if you don't like when it's not vague about how the reader looks then this is probably not for you. However, those descriptions do not match me at all and I didn't have a problem while reading at all. I think you should definitely give it a read if you like the brother best friend trope!
BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND by @cptnleviackerman This one was so good for it only having so few notes. definitely go hype this one up because it deserves it. Read the tags before you continue on though because some of the themes could be triggering! Other then that this one was super good.
HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE TO FUCK YOUR BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND? (FOUR WHOLE DAYS) by @saetoru SOOO GOOD. I love this fic so please go check this one out!
CRYBABY. by @ieirism AHHHH I FORGOT ABOUT THIS ONE. This one was soooooo goood. It is really fluffy and has so much sweet satoru. love love love.
TELL ME YOU DON'T WANT ME by @awearywritersworld I completely forgot about this one but from what I can remember it was really sweet. All angst and fluff and omg their dynamic after sugurus death is just so sweet.
YOUNGER BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND GOJO by @satocidal this is just a little drabble but the smut>>>>> that's all I have to say. go read!!
#gojo satoru#brother's best friend!Gojo Satoru#gojo satoru x reader#gojo x reader#gojo x you#jujustu kaisen#jjk gojo#jjk satoru#satoru x reader#satoru gojo#satoru x you#gojo smut#gojo fluff#gojo angst#jujutsu satoru#jjk x reader#satoru smut#satoru fluff#satoru angst
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Harder.
╰﹒ sometimes a slip of Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley’s hand is all the push you need.
content/warnings: swearing and suggestiveness; gn!reader; wc: 1k
a/n: gods, it's been years since I've last posted my stories online, but I couldn't sleep after playing CoD and... well. those who get it, get it. feedback and requests are welcome! ♡
Your feet pounded the cement as you ran through the cargo hold, finding security from the midst of the rusty metal containers.
All around you shouts and calls erupted from your friends' lips—some followed by warm laughs, others by deep curses, as the Task Force 141 submerged into the practice session.
"Gaz, do you copy?" The call passed your lips as a warm chuckle, as you crouched behind an oil container. "I've just gotten Soap's dog tags."
"Oh, I know." The reply was spoken with a laugh. "He's sent Ghost to come and find you. Fuckin' dumb on his part, considering that—"
"His tags are the last ones we need to win." You nodded your head. "Any visual on him? The last I've seen him was when he swiped poor fucking Roach off his—"
"I only needed his dog tags, didn't I?"
You grinned at the deep voice echoing from the other side of the container. You should have focused on listening to him approaching, but then, when did you ever really hear him coming?
"Funny," you chuckled back at the man, as you planted your feet steadier against the ground, careful to not make a sound. "You see, Lieutenant, your tags are exactly what I need. So why don't you just go ahead and toss them to me? We can take it real nice and easy."
"'Cause that's how you fuckin' like it, eh?"
You could hear the laughter in his voice, slightly breathless from the time spent dashing around under the scorching sun. Just moments before you had cursed the heat under your breath as you'd felt the pearls of sweat rolling down your forehead. Running in full gear tended to get to the fittest of the force, yet it did have its benefits, too.
Benefits, such as the sound of Ghost's vest brushing against the metal of the container. At your ear level, right around the corner to your right.
You wet your lips with your grin. "Want me to show you just how I like it, Lt.?"
"Darlin', you and I both know that I can read you like an open fuckin' book."
You could hear the brush of his vest against the metal again, as he moved closer to you. You knew he was out of paint-ammo: Gaz had gotten away with his tags from mere luck only moments prior, which meant that you had the higher ground. The moment he moved to lunge at you, could take him down with a single pull of the trigger, and grab his tags off his soon-to-be paint-covered vest.
Yet what was the fun in that?
With an arched brow, you laid your gun on the pavement. The screech of it against the ground, as you kicked it out of both your reaches, did not go unnoticed by Ghost.
”Sure you wanna do that, love?”
"Just to make it fair and square," you chuckled.
"You know I can't just kick off half my fucking body, yeah?"
"Wasn't it just this morning that I wiped the floors with your—"
A gasp and a curse were all you could manage, as your back collided with the hard cement of the ground. Handling the shock of the impact was one thing, but seeing him towering over you, fucking victorious, was another pill to swallow.
"Jesus fuck, Ghost." Despite your voice being a mere pained groan, you could not shake off the laughter from your features: the same laughter that glimmered in his eyes. "You know we're just fucking practicing, right?"
"I know. But you see, whatever the fuck it was that you said about takin' it nice and fuckin' easy—," he chuckled, as he crouched by you, "just doesn't do it for me. So what do you say I take these…"
His skeleton-patterned gloves reached for the chain around your neck, and just as you rolled your eyes at the certainty of your team having lost over you letting down your guard, the events began to unfold.
Whether it was from his finger slipping on your glistening skin, or from you turning your head at the exact wrong moment—perhaps it was from the combination of both—his hand did not wrap around the chain of your dog tags.
Instead, Ghost's fingers wrapped around your throat.
One moment he was sure of the victory of his team. Next, his brain could not function. For there you fucking were, on your back with your eyes slightly widened and lips parted, and his hand—his goddamn gloved hand around your throat from all the fucking places.
The worst of it all was not the wave of embarrassment that flushed through him. The worst of it was how fucking good you looked.
Yet he knew.
He knew.
No, he should have known better than to let his guard down: to allow himself to get distracted by the tug of the corners of your lips, as you tilted your head ever so slightly, chest rising and falling with your heavy breaths, your eyes fucking twinkling.
Yet as the fingers of your hand rested on his and the word passed your lips, fucking pretty, who could blame him?
"Harder."
To hell and fucking above. From your breathless request, his lips parted involuntarily under his mask. To say what, he did not know: plead, maybe, for the first time in his life.
No, it wasn't pleading and begging you wanted from him, was it? Quite the fucking opposite.
No. Focus.
Fucking focus, Lt.
Using the fleeing moment of his racing thoughts to your advantage, you pushed off the ground and brought your knife—sheathed—to his throat. The twinkle in your eyes was brighter than ever, and as you laughed, the sound was all but menacing.
"Really, Ghost?"
"Don't even fucking begin," he cursed, breathless, as your fingers wrapped around the chain around his neck, and tugged off the dog tags.
Yet as long as he had tried to deny it, it was not the slight touch of humiliation of having lost that made his head spin. You—he wet his lips, as he watched you twirling the tags around your finger—were going to be the goddamn death of him, and for one reason or another, he was ready to welcome it with open fucking arms.
“Ready for round two, sarge?” His chuckle was deep as you tossed his dog tags back to him, your eyes twinkling with challenge. “You know, I’m not gonna take it fuckin’ easy on you now.”
“Oh, that’s mutual, Lt.”
That—Ghost wet his lips with a chuckle—that he was fucking counting on.
#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley fluff#ghost cod x reader
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