#twelfth grade (or whatever)

[20genderchild]

#literary inspired web series #the lizzie bennet diaries #nothing much to do #lovely little losers #project green gables #twelfth grade or whatever #whoa when did dougecheek get ahead of poebel by a FRACTION #anyways. FIGHT!

[rationalseries]

I miss the heyday of literary inspired web series so much and I'm so glad to have found you!! Do you happen to know of any other such webseries from this year or last?

We do too! There aren’t many nowadays but here’s the few we know of:

(Followers: if we missed any please feel free to contribute!)

-Headless - inspired by Sleepy Hollow, made by @shipwreckedcomedy, and featuring a lot of familiar LIW faces!

-Drew and Oren - quarantine sequel to Twelfth Grade or Whatever, this follow up is at least partly inspired by Taming of the Shrew. Made by our friend and music coordinator Jules at @quipmodestproductions.

-Tincho Fierro - this one just started airing, it’s based on Argentinian novel “El gaucho Martín Fierro” and seems to be going for the classic vlog style so far. It’s in Spanish and has English subtitles available.

#liw #literary inspired web series #headless #drew and Oren #Tincho fierro #shipwrecked comedy #quip modest productions #twelfth grade or whatever #literature #webseries friends #anon #ask

[kitkatabasis]

Rewatching Twelfth Grade (or Whatever) and GOD I forgot how funny Eliot Barnhart is.

#Twelfth grade (or whatever) #Twelfth grade or whatever #12gw #Sadly couldn't find any record of them acting as an adult #Hope they enjoy whatever they're doing #D speaks

[panneshirley]

giftober 2023 | day 7: water

call me katie / project green gables / twelfth grade (or whatever) / project dashwood / the autobiography of jane eyre / lovely little losers

#giftober #call me katie #project green gables #twelfth grade (or whatever) #project dashwood #the autobiography of jane eyre #lovely little losers #katie minola #peter glover #anne shirley (project green gables) #gilbert blythe (project green gables) #liv belcik #marianne dashwood (project dashwood) #brandon crieff #jane eyre #beatrice duke #* #im going out of order its fine #giftober2023

[strangersteddierthings]

The thing is, Steve has learned, that becoming untouchable isn't all he wants it to be.

People were too quick to try and reach out for him, ask for more than he was willing to give. He hadn't wanted to give up his first kiss to some random girl at some random boy's twelfth birthday party because of spin the bottle. He hadn't wanted to play Seven Minutes in Heaven with Jenny Jackson or Linda Simons at Tommy's birthday party the following year. He did want to take Mary Linscott to Snow Ball, but she just wanted to make out behind the bleachers instead of dance with him. He didn't want to do that but then Brian called him stupid for not wanting to, and asked if he was queer. So, Steve had turned right back around and dragged Mary back under the bleachers, kissing her until it was time to go to prove Brian wrong.

(Even though Steve knows Brian isn't wrong. That Steve had wanted to ask Brian to the dance as much as he'd wanted to ask Mary but knew better than to do that. He saw how they treated Eddie Munson last year for the suspicion of liking other boys and Steve wasn't going to let that happen to himself.)

Brian had congratulated him after and asked what base he got to. Steve didn't want to get to any bases, but he couldn't say that, so he just punched Brian in the arm and said 'more bases than you' which was true because Brian's date didn't kiss him even once.

Then Carol Perkins approached him at lunch, shortly after Snow Ball, and asked if Steve would be her first kiss. Not because she wanted to kiss Steve, but because she wanted to kiss Tommy H, but didn't want to be bad at kissing. Steve agreed because he liked Carol. Not in the way she liked Tommy, but mostly because she'd asked.

No one had done that yet.

She came over to his house on a Saturday because she didn't want Tommy to catch them and think she didn't like him. They made out in his room because, despite his parents being home, they didn't really care who was in his room with him or if the door was open or shut. Probably didn't even notice he had someone over. She leaves an hour later.

By Tuesday Tommy and Carol are an item and by Friday they were Steve's best friends.

However, for reasons Steve doesn't understand, more girls keep asking him to be their first kiss. And maybe it's because he's already got a reputation, or maybe Carol let slip he'd said yes when she asked, but Steve finds himself kissing a lot of girls he doesn't want to. He doesn't know how to say no. Can't find a reason too. Brian's words play in the back of his mind every time he thinks about saying no.

(Are you stupid? Are you queer? He doesn't want to be either of those things, and given his grade in biology and pre-algebra, he's really only got a hope of avoiding the queer label. His father would tolerate a stupid son. He doesn't think he'd survive if his father had a queer one.)

There are a few girls he's been crushing on that ask him and that was nice. One, Alice Baker, even becomes his girlfriend for a month. His first relationship.

Soon eighth grade gives way to being a freshman and Steve, who has always been handsome and cute, catches the eye of upperclassmen now.

And Steve's not sure how it happens, but he ends up moving past first base with another girl whose name he can't remember, or possibly never knew. He doesn't remember asking her for hers when she led him into one of the bedrooms at the house this party was at while he was way too tipsy.

And then it just grows. The reputation and what people expect from him, and he doesn't want it, but he's never said no before so can he start now? Doesn't he need a reason to say no? If he doesn't have a reason, does that make him queer? He should be wanting this. What boy doesn't want this?

And maybe he does want it. But not like this.

He doesn't want to be slightly drunk at yet another party, following the first girl that grabs his wrist and pulls him after her into whatever secluded area they can find. He doesn't want to keep saying yes when he wants to say no.

The summer between freshman and sophomore year he confides in Carol. It's a risk. Carol can be cruel, quick with her words to tear you down, to spread the rumor that will ruin your life. But she's also fiercely loyal.

He tells her he's tired of kissing people he doesn't want to.

Carol is quiet for a long time, and Steve almost thinks he's made a mistake. But then she speaks.

"Okay. Let's make a plan."

And they do. Then suddenly Steve is untouchable. Carol teaches him how to see the weakness in people and call it out. How to wield his facial expressions as a weapon and a shield. How to put on the air of being the most important person everywhere you go so well that everyone else begins to believe it. How to fall back on the fact his parents are rich, gone often, and, almost most importantly, well known in the community. It gives Steve's name a weight to throw around.

More importantly, all of that culminates in people no longer asking things of him. Instead, they look to him to take the lead, they wait to be asked. It makes Steve feel in charge of his life for once.

But now.

Now, years later, having survived a spring break from Hell and averted the apocalypse, Steve watches Eddie hang off Argyle with ease, fling an arm over Jonathan's shoulder while laughing at a joke, easily pull Dustin into a headlock or wrestling match.

Easy touches that Steve should be able to do, too. A jealousy wells inside him almost as much as the unease he feels in his stomach at the mere thought of letting them know they're allowed to reach out and touch him, too. That Eddie's allowed to reach out and touch.

But then he remembers what happened when he let people have that power over him and he can't bring himself to do it.

It settles in Steve, then, the realization. When you become untouchable, you're unable to touch.

-

@nburkhardt @i-less-than-three-you adding my own lil bit of angst into the mix now (:

#pre steddie #my fic #cw dubious consent #internalized homophobia #steve kisses a lot of people he doesnt want to because of peer pressure and his own fear of not fitting in #it is also implied steve has sex with people when he didnt really want to #steve harrington has bad parents #touch-starved steve #also if you know the song that last line is from i am smooching the top of your head softly

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦

˗ˏˋ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ˎˊ˗

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 — teacher!jeff skinner x teacher!reader 𝐰𝐜 — 2.4k 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 — their students decide to play matchmaker before a school dance; will their scheming pay off?

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — written to fill a short n sweet request last year for my patreon fic-mas <3 and if you catch the lil nod to two of our favs, you're a real one

“I know we’ve been having a hard time concentrating this week, which is understandable with all the excitement surrounding the Snowball Dance, but you do have one more day of work before you can totally kick back and check out,” Jeff Skinner, a high school social studies teacher, says after the tardy bell chimes.

The students are settling into their seats but listen intently.

He continues, “That being said, I will still be collecting your annotations for chapters eighteen through twenty that we started during Monday’s class. While I’m doing that, a sign-up sheet for the Unit 5 case study presentations will be floating around the room. If I were you, I’d grab the earliest slot available to get it over with and be done for the semester. But, hey, that’s just me!”

His twelfth-grade AP Government class meets this with a chorus of groans. A subset of students lightheartedly boo him from the back row. Oddly, though, the ruckus pleases him.

Mr. Skinner strives to create a classroom environment where the teens feel comfortable sharing their honest feelings and have the space to do so if they choose. Their vocal push-back signifies their trust in him. He also appreciates their mutinous spirit because it arose after their deep dive into the Declaration of Independence and its twenty-seven grievances; they were combative but in the name of freedom for the cohort and the individual. Jeff saw that as a Teacher Win.

“I know, I know. I’m a tyrant, and you hate me. But unlike this country, this classroom is a monarchy, not a democracy,” he returns the teasing. “And if you looked at our agenda when you walked in this morning, you would’ve seen that—because I am obviously the nicest person ever—I have allocated today’s class period to independent work time. So, you can complete whatever you may need. That means putting any final touches on this week’s chapters, polishing up your Supreme Court case PowerPoints with your partner or group, or finishing any outstanding assignments.

And if you recall, I give full credit for late work, so long as it's on my desk before the cut-off tomorrow at noon. You’re welcome." Sarcasm is his favorite—and most effective—bonding strategy. "If you're squared away, you know where the board games and art supplies are. Just no more explicit drawings. I don’t care, but Mrs. Benson next door does.”

The class laughs, fondly recalling the fiasco the day before Homecoming.

A couple of students decided to use their free time to create a few political illustrations. While they were historically accurate and objectively hilarious, they were not “school appropriate,” according to the 9th-grade Geography teacher who glimpsed the comic strips as she passed the open door.

She demanded Jeff punish the perpetrators for their vulgarity, but instead, he had the drawings laminated and bound into a resource book. Said book has since found a home on a bookshelf, wedged comfortably between Howard Zinn’s A Power Governments Cannot Suppress and The Words We Live By: Your Annotated Guide to the Constitution by Linda Monk.

In his peripheral vision, Jeff sees a student waiting by the door and invites them in. He segues, “Before I leave you to your own devices, it looks like we have a visitor from ASB. So, please be nice, give them your full attention, and don’t embarrass me. Capiche?”

The class agrees to comply, and the boy, an underclassman if he had to guess, hesitantly walks to the front of the room.

Jeff remembers how intimidating seniors felt when he was that age, so he gives his students a pointed warning over the kid’s shoulder. A few of them perk up, noticeably straightening in their seats.

“Good morning, everyone. I’m Leo, and I will be filling in for Gabby today.” He looks down at the printout of the day’s announcements and clears his throat. Then, Leo begins reading them aloud:

“Feeling stressed this finals season? Stop by the quad next week during both A and B lunch blocks to decompress with some therapy dogs. If you need further or individualized support, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson will be opening up their schedules for one-on-one sessions. Appointments can be made using the yellow slips in the main office.

Work permits are available in the career counseling hub. If you plan on getting a job or need to renew, please submit an application as soon as possible. No permits will be issued during Winter Break.

Remember that your final exam period is not the same as your regular meeting time or day, so be sure to check your portals this weekend for the updated schedule.

Still need a ticket for the Snowball Dance tomorrow night? Please stop by the ASB room or contact Owen Power, the senior class president, before sixth period today. They’re $15 with an ASB card and $20 without one. Trust me; you don’t want to miss out!"

The audience of seniors cheers, hooting and hollering out their delight. The underclassman beams, confidence swelling, and tucks the script away. His smile grows. “And now…drum roll, please!”

As the students bang their desks with open palms, textbooks, and stray pencils, the ASB student angles a pair of jazz hands towards the open door.

“Santa Claus!”

Peyton, the current school mascot—in an ill-fitting costume that's certainly older than he is—materializes in the empty space. He hauls a lumpy velvet bag over his shoulder as he saunters across the room. The tiny gold bells affixed to the sack twinkle with every step.

“Ho, ho, ho! Candy Cane Gram delivery!” Peyton bellows.

His impression is unexpectedly convincing, in Jeff's humble opinion.

“Santa” roots around in the bag and pulls the first set out. They’re paper-clipped together, indicating both were for the same person. “Taylor Zimmerman? Two for you!”

He passes the slips of paper back to the student who raised her hand.

The distribution of festive notes, an annual fundraiser put on by the junior and senior class councils to bankroll the dance itself, fades into background noise as Mr. Skinner begins looking over the pile of essays he collected last period from his squirrelly 10th-grade World History class.

The prompt had been to explore the impact of globalization in the post-Cold War era, and they’re off to a great start. The first essay's author touches on “transnational actors” and their impact on overall global wealth—in the introductory paragraph. Pride blooms in his chest. Maybe someone had been paying attention after all.

Jeff gets through three and a half papers—all 95% and above, but who’s counting?—before he feels someone standing over him.

“Uh, Mr. Skinner?” Peyton whispers in his civilian voice.

“Yes?” Jeff replies.

To mark his spot, Mr. Skinner sets his pen below a particularly eloquent paragraph highlighting how American consumer culture polluted local ecosystems abroad.

The sophomore nervously looks around the room. After deciding his peers were too engrossed in the social politics of sending and receiving Candy Cane Grams and Ice Court nomination speculation to hear, Peyton pulls a slip of paper out from inside the thick, red coat and sets it on Jeff’s desk. It’s crumpled, and the miniature candy cane is barely hanging on.

“This last one’s for you.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” Jeff smiles. The polite expression is meant to relieve the student from his classroom, but Peyton remains glued to his spot. Gently, he asks, “Is there something else I can do for you, Mr. Krebs?”

“Aren’t you going to see who sent it?” the boy asks, all toothy grin and twinkling eyes.

Well, that’s not at all suspicious, Mr. Skinner thinks as he slides the slip closer.

He scans the generic template, reading his name and room number scrawled beside washed-out festive clipart, but doesn’t understand the fuss... until his eyes drift down to the section for an optional message.

Mr. Skinner,

Just like a snowflake, you’re one of a kind. Be my date to the dance tomorrow night? It would make me SNOW happy!

Jeff almost believes it’s from you. Had he not been familiar with your handwriting, it would have been an excellent forgery. But, he knew your penmanship. Maybe a little too well.

His anchor charts were all in your hand; he could see at least three from where he was sitting. Jeff can’t recall the last time he attempted one on his own.

In exchange for mercifully sparing him from teenage ridicule due to his poor penmanship, he handled the construction and refurbishment of the props and sets necessary for the Winter Showcase and spring musical every year. Whatever you, the brilliant and beloved drama teacher, dreamed up, Jeff dutifully built.

Including, but not limited to, an impressive Audrey II, the iconic Venus flytrap from “Little Shop of Horrors,” a life-size bubble for their Glinda to float around in during performances of “Wicked,”  and the massive tire that anchors the dilapidated junkyard set for “Cats.”

He was ambivalent about musical theater when he bartered the informal contractor role, but Jeff grew to love it after a few years. Due in large part to your infectious passion.

He gives the mastermind—or masterminds, props for trying, though.

“Oh, wow!” Jeff exclaims, deciding to play along. Peyton's face brightens; there’s no way he’s not involved. “Out of respect, let’s keep this between you and me for now, okay?”

“O-of course, Mr. Skinner,” Peyton sputters, as though he’s shocked Jeff didn’t notice anything amiss or ask any follow-up questions. “That’s why I waited to give it to you. It felt too personal to announce in front of your entire class. Especially after the whole Homecoming thing.”

“Thing” wasn’t what he’d call it, but this kind of dramatic exaggeration was one of the many reasons he loved working with teenagers.

During a pep rally in October, the student body president crowned the two of you the faculty Homecoming King and Queen. Jeff wasn't even aware that was a thing he could win, and neither had you, but you bashfully accepted the titles and accompanying crowns in front of a thousand rowdy high schoolers anyway.

Later that night, you slow-danced to Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect” under a sky of twinkling stars—clear fairy lights repurposed from the previous year’s "Camelot" canopy—black glitter tulle, and a plywood crescent moon.

The students lost their minds then and were yet to get over it. Obviously.

“I appreciate that,” Jeff says, biting back his amusement.

Peyton salutes him and hoists the sack over his shoulder again. He and Leo say their goodbyes and move on to the next classroom on their route.

The remainder of the school day was agonizingly hectic. So much so that it meddled with his plan to swing by the auditorium where you held classes.

His projector kicked the bucket in the middle of his lecture on the two-way exchanges collectively known as the Columbian Exchange; Jeff couldn’t get it back into commission until his prep period, so he would have to explain how the triangular trade route emerged from colonial mercantilism policies in the new year. His 9th-grade World Geography class refused to participate in the activity he organized to mimic the Arctic landscape and harsh climate, so, somewhat reluctantly, he cut his losses and threw on an episode of Where On Earth Is Carmen Sandiego? And right before his sixth period, some bored senior pulled the fire alarm, forcing the entire school to spend the glacial afternoon lined up in the parking lot.

All that said, it was safe to say Mr. Skinner had never been happier to see his driveway and his dog than he was this evening. The border collie shepherd mix, Chips—affectionately named as a tribute to the trained sentry dog who became the most decorated canine in the Second World War—is waiting on the porch. Joyously, he howls when Jeff gets out of his car.

“Hey, buddy,” he says as he reaches down to scratch between the pup’s ears. Chips jumps up, his muddy paws landing on Jeff’s coat. He begins licking his owner’s cheeks with reckless abandon. “Okay, come on, crazy dog. Let’s get you back inside.”

Immediately after Jeff opens the front door, Chips darts down the hallway. He chuckles, shaking his head as he sheds his coat and tosses his keys into the bowl by the door.

Jeff rescued his dog as he was wrapping up his undergraduate degree at NC State, and the two were as thick as thieves up until a few years ago.

That’s not to say anything happened or there’s bad blood; Chips simply found a new favorite person.

Jeff trails after Chips, following the furry tail and the delicious scent wafting from the kitchen. He makes a pit stop at the fridge to grab a beer before turning to address his successor to the rescue's heart, standing at the stove stirring a giant pot of soup.  

“You won’t believe what happened in my second period today, babe. Every day, I’m surprised by how bold teenagers are. Hell, when I was their age, I was petrified to sharpen a pencil without asking. Their latest scheme wouldn’t have even crossed my mind. Seriously, I don’t think you could guess what shenanigans they got up to if you tried.”

He's met with melodic laughter, a sparkly sound that still makes his heart skip a beat.

“Maybe not, but I don’t need to.”

Jeff’s brows knit together, confused. Then his eyes zero in on the slip of paper identical to the one in his back pocket.

If it were possible, his jaw could sweep the tile floor.

“Guess we aren’t as sly as we think,” you smirk, waving a counterfeit Candy Cane Gram of your own in the air like a white flag.

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────────────

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⤑ to my inbox 💌

⬸ back to the catalog

⬸ back to the main blog

#ficmas 2023 #fic-mas 2023 #x reader #x you #x y/n #jeff skinner #jeff skinner x you #jeff skinner x reader #jeff skinner x f!reader #jeff skinner fic #jeff skinner imagine #jeff skinner fluff #nhl x reader #nhl x you #nhl x y/n #hockey x reader #hockey fluff #hockey x you #hockey x y/n #hockeyblr #hockey fandom #hockey fanfiction #nhl fanfiction #nhl fandom #*ೃ༄ by holy-pucks #nhl sabres #buffalo sabres

[20genderchild]

am I too late for this meme.

#twelfth grade or whatever #public history #the uncanny upshurs #viola messing #david t copperfield #wally upshur #agatha upshur #liv belcik

[m4ndysk4nkovich]

VERY LONG shameless headcanon: rotc ian

so we know that ian joined rotc when he was in 7th/8th grade, but we also know he had a g.i. joe as a kid, and i get that’s not an uncommon toy but it made me decide that ian always wanted to be a soilder.

like, we know that monica was a military brat. her father served for his country, and so she must’ve known a lot about the military. we also know that she hated her father, and frank says that monica’s parents ruined her.

so lets say one day shortly after little debbie gallagher was born grandpa bill (as he insists on being called) goes into the gallagher house, demanding to see his four grandchildren. he’s a very cruel man who judges them for their poverty, but as he starts to ramble on about his experiences in the marines, however, ian is extremely interested unlike the rest of them. he can tell.

ian asks him questions and he answers, and they’re all surpised by the change of tone in grandpa bill’s voice. he sounds much more loving and sweet when talking to ian, monica grumbles something about how he never talked to me like that when i was ian’s age.

grandpa bill leaves the house, complaining about how disgusting it is, and shows up only one more time (the only time after being his daughter’s funeral in twenty years or so) to give ian a present, a g.i. joe.

the gallagher’s didn’t get the luxury of toys, the only other toy that ian had was a teddy bear that he got from the hospital when he was born, which was now missing an eye, some stuffing, and was soaked in piss and sweat. so when ian got this g.i. joe he was so excited and would not let go of it. he kept it in his arms for an entire day, once, while eating breakfast, at school, on the bus, at dinner, in the bath, then to bed. it was his. so when he lost it on the train one day, he started sobbing so hard he was hyperventilating. frank called him a drama queen and monica was too high on coke or whatever she had taken to care, so they refused to go and find it, frank yelled at him for losing it in the first place, saying it was irresponsible. lip ended up somehow getting it back for ian, which made ian love his brother so much more. this was the day ian realized that lip was more paternal than frank was.

he stopped playing with the g.i. joe in third grade, and gave it to carl. when he found it years later it was all melted and gross. in fourth grade, he started playing football and basketball to get stronger for the army. his parents never went to any of his games, but kev and v did. kev was the one who got him onto the teams anyways (he coached basketball and knew the football coach).

in seventh grade, he was able to do jrotc, which he did. and he was great at it. so great that he decided that he was definitely going to not only be a soilder, but an officer. and he would also go to military school, preferably a really good one, like west point. that was around the time when he started doing 200 push-ups before school.

in tenth grade he used is rotc skills to impress linda. the summer before eleventh grade he began studying like crazy for west point, but found out that lip got in. in eleventh grade, he built that “fuckin’ obstacle training course thing” as mickey called it on the roof of an abandoned building. only mickey knew about it. he dropped out before twelfth grade, and didn’t go to west point. he instead joined the military, attempted to steal a helicopter, injured his hand, ran away, and became a stripper. a year later he was in military prison.

when carl gets into military school and starts waking up early and running with ian every morning, ian can’t help but feel a bit jealous because that was supposed to be him. but he pretends that he’s not and watches as his little brother follows in his footsteps- kind of. really the only way he actually follows in ian’s footsteps is by getting rejected from west point, which if carl actually got into, ian might have actually gone insane.

the end that’s a super long headcanon i didn’t even mean for it to be that long i should write a fic on this

#shameless #ian gallagher #headcanon #ian gallagher headcanon #rotc ian gallagher #jrotc #soilder ian gallagher #pre-canon shameless because i love it so much #carl gallagher #monica gallagher #frank gallagher #lip gallagher #debbie gallagher #fiona gallagher #kevin ball #veronica fisher #mickey milkovich #shameless us #gallavich #bill darrgen

[stargazer-sims]

1. Introduction (Video #1)

Caroline

Hey everybody!

My name is Caroline Okamoto-Nelson. I’m seventeen years old, and I live in Willow Creek. I like horses, cooking, shopping and J-pop. I really love swimming. I guess you might even say I'm obsessed with it. I'm really good at it too, and I have the medals to prove it.

People often comment that I look like both my parents, which is super funny to me since I’m not actually biologically related to them at all. I guess people say I resemble them because I have pale hair and blue eyes like Victor, and I have Japanese facial features like Yuri. Honestly, though, I don't mind if strangers assume I'm literally theirs. I am theirs in every way that matters, and being adopted is amazing because I know they love me enough to want to make me part of their family forever. I love them a lot, and even though I think about my biological parents sometimes, Victor and Yuri will always be my real parents.

Yeah, I have two dads, and to avoid things getting confusing I should let you know that I usually call them by their names. Some people think that's weird and a few people think it's disrespectful, but it's not weird to me. I started out as Victor and Yuri's foster child when I was six years old, after my biological father passed away, and I didn't want to call either of them Daddy or Papa or whatever. They were okay with that, and when they officially adopted me about a year later, the habit had already stuck.

I do call Victor 'Dad' sometimes, probably a lot more often than I call Yuri 'Papa'. Yuri says I only call him Papa when I really want something, which... is kinda not inaccurate. Luckily, he has a good sense of humour about it.

Let's see... Another important thing you should know about me straight away is that I'm blind. Before anybody starts demanding to know how a blind person can use a camera and make a video, remember blindness is a spectrum. Most people who fit into the category of blindness can see at least a little bit. There aren't that many people who're totally blind.

As for me, I was born with something called oculocutaneous albinism, which is why I look the way I do even though I'm one hundred percent Japanese. My condition means I have no pigment in my skin, hair and eyes, and it's why I have low vision.

I can see well enough to get around, but I do use my white cane at night or in unfamiliar places. I'm able to read large print, and I can see enough to use my computer and phone if I wear my glasses. I can do most normal things, actually. The only things that are really off-limits are driving and anything that requires good visual acuity, like cutting in a straight line, putting small objects together or sewing. Unfortunately, this means I'll never get to be a nurse like Victor. That's what I originally wanted to be, until I got older and started to understand my disability and finally realized that I don't see the same way everyone else does.

I don't want anybody to feel sorry for me because of my disability. I'm not unhappy or bitter about it and I don't need anyone's sympathy or pity. As a matter of fact, I have an awesome life, and I wouldn't want to change a thing.

On the subject of my life, that brings me around to why I'm making this video in the first place. I just started twelfth grade last week, and my best friends Forest and Camellia and I decided to sign up for media studies as one of our electives. The course runs for the whole school year, and we have to do one major project as well as some small assignments. Camellia and Forest got permission to work together — they're twins and they seem to want to do practically everything together — and they're making a podcast. I decided my project is going to be a documentary about myself. A video autobiography, I suppose you could say.

The plan is to chronicle my life from now till June, but it's not just going to be a video journal about random stuff that happens to me this year. I want to tell the story of my life so far, about how I went from being an unwanted baby in Japan to being the loved, talented, cute and successful person I am today.

These videos aren't going to be only me talking in front of a camera, either. I'm planning to interview my friends and family, and maybe also to give them the camera so they can record some thoughts of their own. Then, I'll edit everything and get it ready for the final presentation.

I've decided to call it Caroline & Company. I may be the main subject of this story, but nobody can exist alone. We all need company. I don't think it'd even be possible to survive without the guidance and support of family and friends, not to mention teachers, coaches, therapists, doctors and all the other people we interact with on a daily basis. Every person in my life is important, so I feel like they need to be acknowledged in some way.

Our teacher, Mr. Blanchet, is going to help our class design a website so that all our projects will be available for everyone to see at the end of the school year. Maybe it's nerdy of me to be excited for a school project, but I"m really looking forward to doing this, and I can hardly wait to see what my classmates come up with as well.

I think it's going to be an incredible year!

#ts4 #sims 4 #willow creek #Caroline Okamoto-Nelson #caroline & co #carolineandco #stargazersims

[kashimos-hajime]

—𝟐𝟕 - 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮, 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭... 𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 | 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮

pairing: getou suguru x fem!reader

summary: anonymous musician, kogane, had been dropping non-hints of who they were since they first began releasing music to the students of tokyo metropolitan technical college nine months ago to the frustration of everyone ever.

getou suguru, long-time (arguably #1) fan and campus heartthrob with a reputation is determined to find out exactly who they are before he graduates, and he has no idea where to start. that is, until resident idiot and best friend and roommate, gojo satoru, points him in the direction of you, the musical genius behind kogane

word count: 9.3k

a/n: thank you for waiting for this chapter! just a few content warnings before we start! there are mentions of suicidal thoughts, depression, and depictions of grief. i really want to emphasize that things that suguru goes through are not pretty and he did deal with heavy loss, which shows in the flashbacks and even now. please take care of yourselves!

[12:39 PM]

Gojo Satoru met Getou Suguru when he was fifteen. Getou was a new student who tested into the high school of their greater school which was an all-grade educational program from kindergarten to twelfth grade, but one had to test into every new division, so when Gojo Satoru went from middle school to high school, he sat next to a tall boy with long black hair during the exam despite knowing he’d get in by his parents recommendation alone.

The same boy with long black hair would ask if he could sit next to Satoru on the first day of class.

“Getou Suguru,” he introduces himself politely, smiling. He’s tying his hair up into a bun, sweeping hair that falls out behind his ear, and Satoru looks over his sunglasses at the boy. His smile is warm and easy, his eyes gleaming with an eager, sharp glint. “You’re Gojo Satoru, right? We were next to each other at the exam.”

“Yeah. I remember you.” He pulls the chair out and cocks his head. “Seat’s free.”

Satoru only truly began to know Suguru when they were seventeen, standing in a cemetery with snow falling all around them.

“Suguru,” he murmurs, approaching the boy who’s grown taller and skinnier in the years since they’ve met. The row of tombstones Suguru stands between are their silent witnesses, the air still and quiet away from the mumble of the attendees. 

It’s only been a few weeks since she died. The funeral process was long and arduous. Riko’s family had invited them both to the private wake and cremation, while a public funeral service was held a week after the fire. 

Suguru declined to speak at the public service, so Satoru went up in his place, but none of his words felt right, and they still sit all janky on his tongue even now as he stops by his best friend. Now, the forty-ninth day since Riko’s death, they’ve returned to inter her ashes, and Satoru thought, perhaps a bit foolishly, that because shijūkunichi has finally come, the grief would get easier.

And maybe, for Satoru, it has.

It’s why he feels the need to approach Suguru, who has slipped away to a far off corner of this haunted place, away from the rest of the small crowd gathered. Satoru has always latched on carelessly to whatever Suguru anchors to, but now Suguru is the one drifting, so maybe he has to step up. It makes him feel awkward, and out of his depth, but his best friend is going too far out—far enough that if Satoru waits any longer, he knows that Suguru won’t come back.

Shit, he thinks, sighing. When did everything get so fucked up?

Satoru stops a few paces back, hesitant to completely enter the far off world Suguru has crafted for himself since the fire. “What are you doing over here?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Suguru asks, a bit muffled, except it doesn’t sound like Suguru anymore. It sounds like someone taking hold of his best friend’s body and puppeting his mouth in a droning, lifeless monotone. “Trying to smoke.”

“Smoking at a funeral is classy,” snorts Satoru, walking until he is right next to him. There’s a frantic click, the sound of chattering teeth, and blue eyes fall to his best friend. Suguru’s hands are shaking around the lighter, and Satoru reaches over to steady his hand, clamping his entire fist over Suguru’s so that he can’t keep trying. A cigarette hangs, twitching, between Suguru’s trembling lips. Satoru’s gut drops. “Suguru, you know you can’t do that here.”

Suguru drops his hand away, but he doesn’t keep trying to ignite the butt of the smoke pinched between his teeth. “Why not? Who’s going to tell me to stop? Shoko?”

“Well, no, but…” Satoru struggles to put what he wants to say into words. “You’re the righteous one, Suguru. Preach about the side effects of smoking, and how it’ll kill you if you keep being careless. All the nasty shit like cancer and getting ugly really fast, and…” When did it get so hard to talk to him? “Besides, they taste awful.”

“Awful,” echoes Suguru, putting his cigarette back into his box. “Right. I dunno. I’ve tasted shittier things.” His boots shift in the crust of snow, and he sighs, breath misting. A beat. Then, he tosses the box of cigarettes towards Satoru who snatches it mid-air, tucking it and his hands into his jacket pockets. He glances back to make sure he won’t trip, before he backs up and finds himself a seat on a headstone. Resting his ankle on his knee, Satoru lets his shoulders slump forward.

Suguru sighs, looking up at the sky. “I’m getting hungry.”

“You’ve lost some weight,” Satoru says, peering over his sunglasses. “An appetite is good.”

“I guess that’s true.” Suguru tilts his head over his shoulder, and a faint curve at his mouth makes him only look more tired. “I didn’t eat this morning. I felt too full.”

To be fair, Satoru barely managed to keep a bowl of oatmeal down. “Do you want to get something to eat?” 

“We should probably wait for the rest of ‘em.”

“Fuck it. They won’t miss us too much.”

“Kuroi-san might. She brought me those packets of soy milk cartons… and I said I’d get them later.” Suguru looks away again, and Satoru does not feel like he’s sitting two feet away from Suguru. He is sitting across a stormy ocean and his best friend is a speck in the distance, so impossibly far to reach. He could scream himself bloody, and Suguru would not turn around. “She said now that Riko’s dead, there’s no one else who’ll drink them, but she keeps buying the stuff out of habit.”

“She’ll understand. You could give some to your sisters.”

“The twins don’t like soy milk. My parents only buy it for me ‘cause I’m the only one who drinks it. They keep fucking asking me…” Suguru shakes his body out, his hair sliding over his shoulders in dull ripples of black before turning to look at Satoru. “Nevermind, yeah, why don’t we get something to eat.”

Satoru drives Suguru’s car for the first time on that day, and they eat, and drink, and it’s almost normal.

It’s almost untouched by death.

Except everywhere Suguru goes, the air decays, and Satoru breathes every second of it in. Suguru is Satoru’s shadow, but Satoru’s light is fading the longer he looks at his best friend struggling to even think about his next moment. He knows the he doesn’t mean to ruin everything. It’s partly Satoru’s fault, too—every time he looks at Suguru, all he can imagine is Riko and how she’s dead.

They walk the streets, chatting idly about nothing, until a store catches Suguru’s eye.

“Follow me,” he says, grabbing Satoru’s hand, and pulling him into the store. Letting out a surprised noise, he grabs onto his sunglasses and lets Suguru pull him into the store. Suguru grins at all the dispensers and aisles of the different candy, and grabs his wallet, turning to the white-haired boy. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, bemused.

“You like candy, don’t you? Sweet-tooth.” Disappearing between the shelves of the convenience store, Suguru picks packets off the shelves, and drops them into a basket he’s snatched. “I’ve been an ass,” he acknowledges, “but you’re sticking by me, so I gotta repay you.”

“I’d stick by your sorry ass even after death,” Satoru says, and means it more than he thinks. Suguru’s smile flickers, and the cracked sternum Satoru has been living with since he got the call of smoke circling the sky at his school, aches like an old knee in the rain. His heart sags. “You’re my best friend.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. I just wanna remind you,” he answers. “And don’t pay for this shit. Pay me back for something that really matters. Not money. I’ve got enough of that to last a lifetime, alright?” 

Suguru nods. “Alright.”

What Satoru doesn’t know is that when his best friend goes home that afternoon, he pours the three-quarters full soy milk down the sink, and leaves his house, empty carton in hand.

[FIVE YEARS LATER, AT THE SAME TIME]

“You said your boyfriend was coming?”

“Mhm, yeah.”

“One matcha latté, one iced americano, and one iced vanilla latté.”

“Thank you.” You watch as the server unloads their drinks onto the table, throat too tight to even speak, and you stare at your matcha so you don’t have to look up at the man sitting across from you, watching with an unreadable gaze. It makes you want to squirm out of your skin, to find out what it looks like when he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. “He’s late,” Sukuna observes.

“He had repetoire that ended at twelve-thirty,” you reply. “It’s on the other side of campus.”

“So, he’s a dancer?”

You nod, your phone tight in your hands underneath the table. Struggling not to glance at your screen, you finally look up at Sukuna who takes a sip of his drink. He looks the same. Same pink hair, same chiselled face that’s only grown sharper with age, same cropped length and big build and strong jaw, observant eyes that seem to catch everything, even when it doesn’t look like he’s looking.

Your heart aches, and you cup your drink, hoping the iciness will melt into your burning hands.

“How did you guys meet?” he asks casually.

“School project.”

“Your music stuff, right?”

Another nod. He clears his throat.

“If I thought I’d do all the talking, I would’ve done this over a phone call,” he remarks dryly, and your eyes meet his. He half-smiles wryly, and arches a dark eyebrow. “You used to be really talkative with me.”

“It’s been five years, Sukuna. Don’t you think that that sort of time should allow for some sort of rust?”

“True,” he allows. “Still.”

“Are we just going to keep dancing around the subject?” you breathe softly, and his eyes widen just barely. Sukuna tries to make himself hard to read, but you hate that even now you can see what guilt looks like. He looks away, expression darkening. “Isn’t that why you asked to meet up with me? So we can talk about this stuff?”

“I tried. You insisted that whole time that it was fine. I kept asking you if we were okay, and every time you said that it was water under the bridge,” he reminds you evenly. “That’s what you said.”

“I didn’t mean it. I was trying to fucking cope and not lose you as my friend.” You shake your head just as the door chimes to signify a new arrival. “We were friends, but… Sukuna, I—“

“Sunbeam,” a voice interrupts, and you tear your eyes away to see a familiar shape walking over. He’s dressed in loose clothes, and he carries his gym bag. Sweat sticks to his skin, and you wonder if he ran all the way here as he lets out a breath, shoulders rising and falling rapidly. You scoot over and he slides into the booth with you, kissing your temple. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you whisper, and he scans your expression before smiling and turning to look at the third person at the table. Sukuna’s eyes narrow at the intruder, sizing him up, and you place a hand on Suguru’s leg still pulsing with energy. “Uh, introductions. Getou Suguru, meet…” and the name catches but you swallow and bear it, “Ryomen Sukuna.”

“Nice to meet you,” Suguru says, and his hand clasps on your own comfortingly. Sukuna smiles.

“Nice to meet you, too. (Name)’s told me a little about you. All good things.”

Suguru grins, but it’s not warm like you’re used to. His hand squeezes tighter, and your heart rots at the anger behind his eyes. “I’m sure she’s lying.”

If Sukuna notices, he doesn’t comment on it. 

“This is yours,” you say, taking the vanilla latté and dragging it over to him, and he thanks you quickly before taking a sip. Your mind is a whirl, any thought you wanted to voice disappearing into fine sand. When Sukuna had texted you to set this meeting up, you had been with Suguru at a park sharing bottles of ramune and street food they had bought, and in between sweet strawberry kisses and the feeling of his hand on your face, you remember when he convinced you that he’d behave well if he came with you, how you let him take your phone to formulate a response with your approval.

You admit, knowing that Suguru’s so protective over you comforts your nerves more than Yuuta would’ve. After all, Sukuna doesn’t know a thing about Suguru, and Suguru has a flair of creating more game plans than needed. They have the advantage.

Suguru will keep you on the straight and narrow. He’ll keep you focused. He’ll…

“Baby,” he whispers in your ear, and you blink, looking at him. He tilts his head. “You feeling okay?”

You quickly nod. “Mhm.”

He observes you for a moment, disbelieving. Then, he kisses you forehead and you force yourself to pay attention to the conversation at hand. Suguru’s gaze flashes between the two of you, and a tug at your stomach forces you to smile at him.

“So, anything you want to talk about?” you ask politely.

“Well, tell me what you’ve been up to for the past few years. It’s been a while.”

“Nothing, really,” you reply. “Just university.”

“Music?”

“Yeah.” You look down at your drink and Sukuna chuckles. “Mostly composing, songwriting, that kind of stuff. I dabble in production.”

“She’s the best in her program,” Suguru says. You shoot him a skeptical look. “What?”

“You’re biased because I’m your project partner,” you tell him but he shakes his head.

“No, I’m not. You just are.”

“Suguru—“

“I believe him,” Sukuna inputs, tearing two pairs of eyes away from each other. “You practiced until your fingers bled for every school event. I remember you would bring your guitar to classes, and I’ve got a few bruises to count for it falling on me.”

“It was an accident every time,” you shoot back, your smile turning more genuine. “And I’m sure the bruises have disappeared by now.”

“A concussion or two…”

“Shut up,” you snap. “You’re always so dramatic. I always wondered why all the girls fell for your mystery when, really, you’re a big crybaby.”

“Says you.”

“(Name) being a crybaby?” Suguru cuts in, voice neutral. He gazes at you, eyebrows arched. “I don’t believe it.”

“She’s a big crybaby,” Sukuna affirms, the corner of his mouth pulling up slightly. His eyes narrow and you’re taken aback by the fondness there. “Every time we watched a sad video or read a tragedy in class, I had to ready the tissues, and that time she cried because someone pushed me down the stairs… or that other time when you thought Kashimo was trying to kill me…”

“He was trying to kill you because his girlfriend broke up with him for you,” you complain, face heating up. Leaning forward, you glare at him. “You showed up to class with a black eye.”

“Badge of honour.”

You shake your head, your lips twitching into a smile before you realize what you’re doing and you blink, drawing back and crossing your arms over your chest. Sukuna notices immediately, and you glance at Suguru who’s staring hard into his vanilla latté. Clearing your throat, you reach for his arm, and your boyfriend glances at you, pasting a smile on immediately at your concerned expression.

“We got all our drinks. Why don’t we get some air?” he suggests, eyes never leaving yours. He reaches to take your hand, and squeezes it tightly. You nod, and the three of them rise together. Sukuna moves to help you with your jacket, but Suguru reaches across you, snatches his wrist, grinning ear to ear—so wide you’re sure his cheeks hurt. You freeze.

“I got it,” he says, on the edge of snapping, and you watch his knuckles blanche.

If it hurts, Sukuna shows no sign of it. His eyes dart to Suguru’s, and there’s a moment of tense silence before the former draws back.

“Right. Force of habit,” the pink-haired man murmurs, his eyes flitting to you. You clear your throat as Suguru takes your jacket, helping you put it on before taking hold of your tote bag and helping it onto your shoulder. You smile, taking hold of your matcha before grabbing Suguru’s hand. He hauls his gym bag onto his shoulder and drains his vanilla latté before scooting out of the booth and following Sukuna out of the café. You pause, and Suguru looks back when he realizes you aren’t following.

You walk up to him, placing a hand on his chest tentatively. “Hey,” you whisper, kissing his lips. His eyes widen at the PDA, but you only flash him a supportive smile. “I like you.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I just don’t know you like he does. I feel out of my depth.”

“You don’t need to,” you assure him quickly. “He knows someone I’m not anymore.” His gaze searches yours, and you step closer. “Suguru, we can leave now. We don’t have to keep hanging out with him. I know it’s not fair to put you in this position and I’d rather cut him off than make you any more uncomfortable than you already are.”

“He makes you happy,” he whispers. You open your mouth to protest, but he shakes his head. “I can tell. Talking to someone who knew you, a different version of you and maybe the person you were born as, I like seeing you so… differently. I wish I could show you what I was like when I was in highschool before Riko died.” He lifts his head to brush his lips against the crown of your head. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not. I don’t have to lie around you.” He dips his head and their mouths slot together. Your eyes slide shut as his fingers brush along your jaw. The feeling of his soft mouth against yours makes everything wipe from your head for just a second until he pulls away, and his knuckle brushes along your face. You feel the beads of his ring against your skin, and you turn to look at his hand.

His counterpart ring sits there, and you take a sip of your matcha latté, smiling. 

“You’re so cute,” he mumbles, kissing your temple, and you look up at him. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

“Okay.” This time, you take the lead out the café and you push open the door to see Sukuna outside, sucking on a vape. He blows out the smoke, and you arch an eyebrow at the device in his hand which he pockets hastily. He notes your judgemental look, and shrugs facetiously.

“Better than cigarettes, isn’t it? You always fought me on that stuff.”

“Whatever. At least it smells better,” you reply, and they start to walk back towards the buildings where you and Suguru have your next classes just in case you need to make a hasty exit. You think of the benches near the studios, and mention that as your destination. 

Sukuna agrees. Suguru is silent.

You walk between them, hand-in-hand with Suguru. Their arms swing, and you lean into him as you talk to Sukuna. It’s much easier than everything betrays, and a part of you revolts at it. How can you stand there, listen to Sukuna talk about taking in his younger half-brother after his grandfather died, how that changed his life (when, a bitter part of you comments, you couldn’t), and act like this is all normal?

Suguru wraps an arm around your shoulders, and you hold onto his wrist as they near their destination.

“So, that’s why you and Itadori-kun have different last names,” you comment. “I haven’t met him or Megumi, but I’ve heard a little bit about them.”

“He and Megumi might be applying to university here.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Do you have any siblings, Getou-san?” Sukuna asks casually, and your boyfriend glances over.

“I have two little sisters. Twins. They’re a bit younger than your brother, though.” Suguru’s tone warms. “I have to take care of ‘em a lot, but it’s nice to have people depend on you, y’know.”

“I get that. I’m still new to taking care of him,” the other man admits, scratching his jaw. “But I guess I’m lucky to have skipped the part where he was younger.”

“Or, unlucky,” Suguru murmurs. Sukuna’s eyebrows furrow together, and you’re about to interject when someone saves you from that.

“Getou!” a voice cuts in, and the three of them look to see a woman approaching. A water bottle in hand and dressed in a leotard and a pair of thin joggers, Utahime approaches. She swipes the longer ends of her fringe out of her face back behind her ears and you raise a hand in greeting. “(Name). And, stranger.”

“Sukuna,” you supply, and Utahime eyes the man before turning to your boyfriend. Sukuna just stares back, silent.

“Are you coming to the drop-in tonight?” she asks instead, and you catch Sukuna taking another hit of his vape, blowing it over his shoulder away from you. He catches you staring and you roll your eyes.

“I dunno. I might have plans with the girlfriend,” your boyfriend answers. Utahime glances at you, but you only shrug and she lets out an annoyed sigh. “Why?”

“I’m trying to get a good grasp on who’s showing up. Some of the first years might be there early because they’re afraid of us, and if they’re gonna take up space, I wanna show up with a partner, and see if we can find a corner for ourselves just to make sure.”

“I think there’s a good reason to be afraid,” you say, smiling a little. Utahime huffs. “They see the fourth year with the scary face scar and they think they’re gonna get their asses handed to them.”

“They will if they’re anything close to cocky around me. So?” This, at Suguru.

“I can come for a bit before if you really need the manpower,” he relents. “I’m not really interested in the drop-in this week.”

“Why not?” you ask, sipping on your latté that’s mostly ice by now. “Not your style?”

“Just busy with other things.” Redirecting at Utahime, he runs a thumb underneath his bag strap. “Isn’t it a pas de deux?”

“Yeah. I thought we could partner if you came.”

“I think Choso mentioned he was going,” Suguru offers. “It won’t be too bad if he shows up.”

“I’ll shoot him a text.” Utahime glowers. “I’d rather die than pair up with a first year.”

“I know,” you murmur sympathetically, and she smiles grimly. “You’ll be fine. You’re great at dancing.”

“So are you, or so I’ve heard.” Winking, she takes a quick swig of water. Your mouth drops open, but she moves on to Getou before you can question her. “By the way, some of us were working on the Christmas showcase if you wanna come in early. When I left, Cygnets just started, but if you show up, they can probably shove you into the schedule before class starts.”

“You told her about…” You gesture vaguely and Suguru half-shrugs, looking at everyone except you. “What the fuck, dummy?”

“It was so romantic, I couldn’t help myself,” he says aloofly, but you grab his chin and make him look at you. He grins into your fingers. “What?”

“Dummy,” you repeat, squishing his cheeks. He surges forward to kiss between your eybrows and you screw up your face before he’s pulling back, smug. You let go of him, turning to look at Utahime. “Is anyone working on their projects with the music program?”

“Some fourth years are, but mostly it’s stuff we’ve got from our classes,” she answers. “I don’t think anyone’s doing their project piece.”

“We are,” Suguru says proudly. 

“Really?”

“I haven’t even seen it,” you lament. “He won’t let me until it’s perfect.” You squeeze Suguru’s wrist hanging over your shoulder to grab your attention. “You should go practice, y’know.”

He frowns, eyes flicking over your shoulder. “You sure? Our classes don’t start for another forty-five minutes.” You smile, nodding. “But—“

“Trust me,” you whisper. “I really wanna see that dance, and… maybe some things we can only say when we’re alone.” Your stomach cramps in doubt, but you stubbornly ignore it, cupping his face. “I’ll be just fine, baby.” He snatches a kiss from your palm before pulling you close by the shoulders and kissing your hairline. “I’ll text you.”

“Promise.”

“Yeah.”

Utahime clears her throat, and the two look at her. “I’m going back inside with or without you, Getou.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he complains. “Such a pain.”

“I’ll beat your ass.”

“Actually, you cannot do that,” Suguru replies, his hand slipping off your shoulders. You grab hold, and he flashes you one last quick smile, one that spells out every emotion you cannot name just quite yet, and he squeezes your hand, pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles before following Utahime. You watch him enter the building. He turns around and waves through the glass doors and you laugh to yourself, waving back.

It’s when he fully disappears that Sukuna speaks, and it nearly makes you jump. 

He blows a trail to the sky, and says, “So, you and Getou-san seem pretty close.”

“We’re dating. I’d hope we were close,” you retort, looking to watch the smoke disappear. The weather’s mostly clear, a darker clouds dotting the sky. Sukuna inhales deeply, and you look over at him to see if he’s taking another hit, but he isn’t. “You don’t have to stay with me. Class doesn’t start for a while.”

“I don’t really have anywhere to be. I cleared my schedule.”

“For me?” You intend for it to come out sarcastic, but Sukuna nods seriously. You scoff, heading for the nearby bench. “I was joking.”

“It’s been a long time, and I wanted to get to know you again.” You sit down, and he sits at the end of the bench, leaning forward onto his knees. The distance between them is a canyon. “Now that we’re in the same place, I thought… maybe there was a chance we could go back to being friends like when we were kids.”

Your hands in your lap tighten into fists. “Sukuna, I…”

“I know it’s my fault we grew apart. A lot of things happened between us,” he acknowledges deliberately, slowly, “but we were kids. And we’re grown ups now, and it would be nice for us to be friends again.”

You shake your head. “It’s a bad idea.”

“It can’t be this bad that you even refuse to look at me.”

“No, it can be. I can’t be friends with you. This was nothing but a courtesy between whatever used to be between us,” you tell him flatly. His eyebrows knit together and you clench your fists tighter, trying not to recall the days after where you had laid in bed, listless and afraid for your body. “I don’t understand how you could even suggest that. Did you really have no idea how much you hurt me? Did you even stop to… did you even care half as much as I did about what happened that night?”

“Of course I did, but…” A restrained groan. “You don’t know how many nights I spent replaying that day over and over, knowing it was a mistake, and hating myself for ever hurting you.”

“Maybe it was a mistake to you, but it happened, and all you ever did was run away from it when I just wanted to… to know why.” You glare at him and hope it is as scalding as you want it to be. “I liked you. I had feelings for you, and you just stepped all over them like it was nothing. It may have been years ago but to me, it still… everything inside me still hurts. I feel so ugly all the time because of you.”

At least he has the grace to sound genuinely remorseful and look you in the eye. Too bad you can’t stomach it. You wrench your stare into your lap. “I’m sorry. If I knew about your feelings, I would’ve never done that.”

Your legs go numb.

 Your knees feel weak and useless, just bone weights inside your flesh. You don’t think you can stand, despite how much you want to run. 

You can only speak. “You didn’t… know…?”

Sukuna’s eyes do not meet yours. He stares at a distant point in the pavement. “Hurting you was the last thing I ever wanted. If I’d known, I’d have been more careful and clear with my intentions, or stopped myself. I thought both of us knew what we were doing, but I was wrong. I normally have good judgement, you know that, but when it came to you, everything felt more uncertain. One thing led to another, and it kept going until I couldn’t stop. I made a mistake, you had no part in it, and—“

“Stop calling it that!” You snap your gaze to his, and his eyes narrow at your outburst, but you don’t care about his judgement anymore. Not at this moment. You hope never again. “How can you keep calling it that? It wasn’t a mistake to me. I thought… I thought you actually had feelings for me, but you just used me.” Shooting to your feet, you turn your face away just in case you start crying and Sukuna gets to his feet slower, his fingers reaching for your wrist. You yank yourself away from him, whipping around and stumbling back, clutching your hand to your chest.

“That’s not what happened.”

“Tell me then. Tell me what happened, because you broke my heart, Sukuna! You tore down everything I ever believed in and washed your hands of it. Of me.” You clutch onto the front of your shirt where your heart feels like it’s spilling out blood between your fingers and step closer to him, teeth gnashing together. “All my friends want me to hate you, you know? And you deserve it, but I can’t. You’re doing so well for yourself, and you seem like you’ve grown a lot, and you’ve always been smart and you have everything you ever wanted, so I should hate you. I’m still stuck here, pitying myself for ever falling for you but I just can’t hate you because I have this stupid hope that maybe something happened, that it wasn’t me, and that maybe you could’ve loved me, too. After all these years, if you’d come even two months earlier, I would’ve given you another chance, and you make me feel stupid! So tell me! Tell me what I did wrong that night!”

“Nothing. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Your throat swells shut in pain, and your eyes burn as you grit your teeth. “A part of me just knew that if I went to find you, I wouldn’t have been able to let you go,” he murmurs in a way that feels less like a confession and more like a poison. Cold water dumps over you, and your eyes widen as he sighs, resting his hands on your shoulders. The first drop of rain lands on your nose, and you blink, letting out a confused, mumbled huh, and shrinking back away from him. Suddenly, you feel so small. “You’re too good for me, you know. Look at you. You can’t even hate me.”

The rain comes harder and harder until it begins to mist, and you squint against it as something burns down your face. Your clothes begin to slick against your skin. “Sukuna…”

“You’re an idiot with a big heart,” he points out, smiling at the tears racing down your face and lifting a hand to brush them away. Your face is hot with shame. How can he tell you’re crying? Are you not as unreadable as you want to be? He’s the reason you tried to be like this, and you’re still failing. “My annoying crybaby. I didn’t want to care about you, but you just… kept trying and trying, and how could I help myself?” His tone strains with something older, something born before you ever knew him. It sounds like he’s in agony, but trying to stifle it, and it punches you in the gut. “You know what I learned on that drive home after everything we did together? That I’d ruin you.”

“I could’ve fixed you. I would’ve helped,” you whisper, voice trembling, and he chuckles, the sound cold and warm both. “Why didn’t you let me?”

“Because you can’t fix people, (Name). You can try, but you just can’t. I didn’t want your help back then. I knew what you wanted, and I couldn’t be that.” He brushes his hair back, and it’s so rain-slick the droplets that cling to his hand fall back onto you when he cups your face in his hands. “You couldn’t have fixed me. I didn’t want to be fixed, and the only good thing I could do was leave you alone.” At this, regret flickers over his face like a passing shadow, but it’s gone before you can be too sure, and he glances at the doors of the building. Sukuna chews on his cheek for a moment before finding your face again. “You’re a good person, with a good boyfriend who cares about you. I’m not here to spout shit about how I want you. Any sane motherfucker would want you.”

“You didn’t.”

He takes in your face with that intense stare that used to light a fire in you, and perhaps you imagine the way his eyes glance at your lips, but he only steps back, lets his hands fall away. Your eyes fall to the pavement, and you grimace against the tears that pour down your cheeks.

Sukuna’s breath had smelled like strawberries. 

He sounds very far away. “Yes, I did. And I’m fucking insane.”

“No, you’re not.” His eyes brand you where they touch your cheek, but you won’t look up. “You were good to me. Why else do you think I liked you?”

“I don’t know. Still think you’re crazy for that,” he laughs bitterly. “Either way, (Name), I’m here to stay. It’s up to you to do with that what you wish.”

“And if I want you to leave me alone? If I want us to be strangers, and we never speak again,” you demand shakily. “I do have a good boyfriend, and he takes priority over everything—anything—we might have between us.”

“Then… I’ll leave you alone.” It sounds so simple that way, but when you look at him, it is not raining anymore. They are standing in their high school uniforms, and it is sunny, and he is grinning ear-to-ear, and you are smiling, too. 

Oh, how you loved him, and how a part of you wants to love him again. This infernal boy, and the years of your youth spent imagining your life with him. 

Sukuna stands there, a broken image. Had he always been made of shards of glass so sharp you can feel each point digging into your lungs? Can you only see it now because of the cuts he’s inflicted on you that still ache in the rain? You want to reach out for him, but your hand will bleed. You know it will. So why does he still look like a piece you can fit into your life puzzle? A stained glass mosaic that can only be whole as long as you’re the one with the welding stick?

There is something wrong with him, he knew that, but you wonder if Sukuna ever realized there must be something wrong with you, too, to have a part of you still want him.

He half-turns away, and then, as if remembering something, he stops, and he doesn’t look at you, but you hear him just as clearly anyway, over the pounding heart, the thundering rain. “I really did want you, (Name). I just didn’t know how to love you the way you deserved to be.”

With that, for the second time in your life, Sukuna walks away.

.

“Hey, you good?” Mei Mei asks as she sits down next to you in class. You glance at her, and paste on a smile as convincingly as you can before nodding. You won’t admit that after he walked away from you, you had sat down on that bench and cried until you wouldn’t burst into tears in a classroom where someone you know could see.

“I just got caught in the rainstorm. That’s all.” Looking out the window, you try not to think about how you’re soaking wet from head to toe, how you should be shivering, but instead your stomach is in knots, and your neck is burning from where Sukuna’s fingers had held you. Your phone buzzes, you glance at your phone screen, and you hate how your heart twists when you see the name that’s waiting for you there.

When class ends, Suguru is already waiting outside, and you eye him warily, hoping your eyes aren’t swollen anymore. You hate the idea of him knowing you’ve cried.

“How are you here already?” you ask, confused. “Your class ends at the same time as mine.”

“I asked to leave a couple of minutes early,” he answers. The rest of your classmates file out behind you, and he takes your arm which is dry and warm, now, and guides you a little further down the hall. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Hey, hey. No. Don’t lie to me,” he urges. “I’m sorry I left you alone with him. It was on my mind during class, and I had to find you.” His tone is so apologetic, so hateful towards himself that you take his arms, rub his biceps but he runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “You didn’t answer my texts. I don’t know what I was thinking leaving you there with him.”

“We just talked about the past and we’re… we got closure. I’m fine. I’m not mad at you, and I’m the one who told you to go, so please don’t feel bad about it,” you say, which isn’t an entire lie. He scans your face, and you cup the side of his neck, slanting your head to press a quick kiss against his mouth. His eyes flutter shut, and he chases after you for another reassuring kiss. His arm curves around your waist, and he’s so warm you can’t help but shuffle into his chest, let him bury you into his body. You rest your chin on his shoulder as he lifts you up a little, swinging you in his embrace.

When he finally sets you down, he settles his hands on your hips and sighs. “I pulled my car around and I can drive you back to your place, if you’d like?” he asks, and you nod, taking hold of his wrists and stepping away. He interlocks their fingers. “I’ll buy you dinner later, too, and bubble tea.”

“You don’t have to—“

“No arguments, baby,” he says, “not today.” Your eyes soften, and you take in his glare, the way his jaw muscle keeps twitching. “I hate that I left you with him.”

“Stop it, I’m happy that you’re with me, and that’s all that matters. You’re a good boyfriend, who didn’t have to go through with all this shit today.” Squeezing his hands, you step closer and loop your arms around his neck. His lips barely brush against yours as you whisper, ‘Thank you.”

“I just want you to be happy,” he breathes, eyelashes dusting his cheeks as he closes his eyes, breathing you in. His palms rest on your hips, and his fingers dig in gently. “I really like you, (Name). I…”

Your heart is a stone in a river. Each current seeps into the cracks of it like silk, smooths the jagged edges, like a cool tide has soothed a burn that long has consumed your body, and you relax against him, fitting your mouth to his. He immediately raises a hand to cup the back of your head, and your eyes close, letting him use his other arm snaking around your waist to turn you around and gently guide you back until your heel hits the wall. Your shoulders follow suit, and his hand at the back of your head cushions your skull against the concrete wall. His entire body presses against yours, so lean and hot against your own you can feel his body heat bleed into your clothes.

You let out a sharp gasp. He pulls back immediately, his gaze full of worry. “Are you okay? Is this okay?”

And for some reason, your day, which has been fraught with nerves, exhaustion, and stress, feels like it’s all been leading to this moment where Suguru has you against the wall, your thoughts quiet and docile, your entire world for once not on guard or ready to attack.

You look at Suguru. He’s so beautiful. So beautiful it nearly hurts to look at him.

“I like you, too, idiot,” you mumble, grabbing the front of his hoodie, and yanking him into your mouth. He lets out a surprised noise but it disappears as he catches himself, his free hand by your ear, planted flat against the wall. Breathless and dizzy, you hungrily feast on his lips, and he gasps into your tongue before slipping his own tongue into your mouth.

Your stomach shivers and clenches, and he tears himself away, panting. Your body yearns for more, and your hands fall to his waist, fistfuls of hoodie twisting in your grasp as he assuages you with one last kiss, and then another, before pulling back.

“You okay?” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss your nose. Your eyes fall to rest on his plump pink mouth as you keep his hips close. He moves the hand on the wall to your jaw, and he tilts your head up, dark eyes searching yours curiously. You feel like you’re not quite attached to your body, in some sedated far off land, but it’s a good kind of empty. “If that was your way of lifting my mood, it worked.”

“Partly,” you admit. “I like kissing you, too, so it was an added bonus.”

He chuckles. “Good. I like kissing you, too.”

Suguru kisses the corner of your mouth, and you smile, but it falls away a moment later as you look down at his body, so poised and not moving an inch under your control. You can feel his lungs expanding against your knuckles, the way his abdomen clenches and releases. He’s caging you in against the wall, but there’s not a moment where you can’t slip past him and leave. 

What is the word for when an animal is willingly trapped in a cage? Is it domestication, or something far more unexplainable than that?

Suguru’s eyes watch your every movement, and his voice is unbearably tender as he asks after a moment of silence, “Are you alright?”

“I think kissing you was for me, too,” you admit at length, looking back up at him. His eyebrows twitch together in silent questioning. You sigh. “Seeing him doing so well hurts so much. He knows exactly who he is, whether or not he likes it, and I’m still here, feeling like that kid from highschool who doesn’t know what she’s doing. Why can’t I do anything with this feeling?”

“I don’t know, baby.” His thumb strokes your cheekbone. Suguru draws back to give you room, and you step away from the wall. Your hand interlaces with his, and you hold his wrist with your free hand, keeping close as possible to him. 

His grip pulses gently as they begin to walk out of the building. Their steps fall into time against the linoleum floors, and your head feels strangely quiet, but not empty anymore, in his presence. All your swirling thoughts, all the trains of what had just happened, the memories replaying over and over like a broken recorder—it all comes to molasses speed.

You feel exhausted. 

“When Riko died, I don’t think I was alive for a good year,” he says suddenly as they descend down the steps. Suguru’s one stair in front, holding on as if he’s afraid you’ll fall while he’s ready to catch you. “I didn’t really know what I was doing during that time. The teachers were only understanding because I was a top student, and now, I couldn’t even bother to show up to class, but I was also there on scholarship and scouting, so I had to eventually go back if I wanted to keep going to school there at all. Two weeks after the fire, I started going to class again, but I can’t really recall a single thing they taught me.”

You’re silent as you walk after him, and as they reach the landing, you snake your free arm around his, walking beside him again.

“I’m still trying to figure out who I am, and whether or not that’s something worth becoming, y’know. Five years doesn’t mean shit because I don’t remember half of it,” he continues. “I smoke, and don’t know if I’ll make it to thirty, and who the fuck knows what’ll happen tomorrow.” He shrugs and your eyes flit to his side profile. He stares ahead, relaxed, a relaxed smile on his face. “But… I’ve got good friends, two little sisters to spoil, a girlfriend I love being around.” His head lolls to meet your gaze, and his smile grows. Your cheeks begin to heat up. “If I don’t know if I wanna be alive, they can help.”

Your heart drops. “Suguru.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not suicidal or anything.” He smiles. “My point is, you don’t need to know anything for sure, by the way. We’re young. ’S long as you let me hang around, I’ll help you, baby. I promise.”

And for a second, it’s there.

Three fleeting words that tumble out of your throat, onto your tongue, and lie there so tauntingly. All you’d need to do is breathe life, and look Suguru in the eye, and tell him something you want to say. The impulse lives and breathes like pure fire, a giant crashing swell that overflows inside of you. The overwhelming sensation feels like it’s surrounding everything, every action you make as their arms swing a little, and he fishes an umbrella out of his bag with one hand, and oh… what other word could it be but love?

Or your own fictionalized idea of love. Who are you to know what love is? Maybe you don’t even know what the feeling you crave actually is. Love is a sweet poison, Sukuna taught you that, so why do you feel so full and warm, like you’d never starve in winter again?

You bite your tongue and look away, ignoring how your heart is aching so deeply you feel it in your gut. Oh, this love hurts, too. You think your world is crumbling beneath your feet as you rasp out, “Thank you, Suguru.”

“Of course, baby.” His index finger curls underneath your chin and a soft, gooey kiss guides your body. You close your eyes and let him kiss you, press your tongue against his own gentle one, and he kisses your tongue, your bottom lip, every inch of your mouth he can taste in a slow dance. It feels intimate, weirdly vulnerable, as if you’re standing naked in front of the whole school, but when Suguru pulls away, eyes cloudy and he lets out a breath that puffs against your skin, you don’t feel cold.

You swallow, lips parting as you try to wrap your head around the amount of times he’s kissed you in a span of twenty minutes, but he only smiles.

Tearing his eyes away and wrapping an around you, he kisses your temple, and doesn’t move to touch you further. You can’t help but sneak your own arm around his waist, rubbing your head against his shoulder.

“What do you wanna eat for dinner?” you ask, looking up at him. He pushes open the door to reveal the downpour that nearly overwhelms your voice, but he extends the umbrella, tucking you in close to him and stepping out into the misting torrent. 

“I wanna take a nap first,” he admits, “so I’ll be out of commission for a bit. You can do homework until you’re hungry and just wake me up.”

“A nap sounds nice after today,” you sigh. “I just changed my sheets, if you… wanna sleep on my bed with me.” He blinks, and you fight the heat crawling up your face, stubbornly looking at the sidewalk to check you’re not stepping ankle deep into a puddle. “Well, I’m just saying. You always fall asleep on the couch, so…”

“Are you sure? It’s not too soon? Or… I, uhm—”

“Take advantage of it before I change my mind, dummy,” you retort, and he wrangles you even closer, his arm curling around your neck so he can make a teasing kissy noise, cheek to cheek. You make a face, pushing him away and walking into the rain, speeding up your pace. He laughs, chasing after you with his hand outstretched, and you hear his sneakers splat against the pavement as you turn around. 

You’re getting soaked, but your smile grows as you grab his hand and yank him so he can shield you from the rain again. 

And this time, when he ducks close to your face, he kisses you properly.

.

The door cracks open, and Maki lets out a relieved breath. Finally. Home and sweet relief after an entire day of nonstop everything.

“(Name), I’m back!” she calls as soon as she enters their apartment. Shuffling her sneakers off in the genkan, she nudges them against the wall so they can have some semblance of organization in their place, but frowns when a pair of black runners that definitely don’t belong to her or her roommate take up a big space. She wrinkles her nose, scowling, but she can’t do anything about it now. You had texted earlier that your boyfriend would be coming over, but that’d been almost six hours ago.

 She stuffs her feet into her slippers and sighs, tossing her keys onto the kitchen counter and dumping her gym bag on one of the stools. Judo practice had been long and brutal, and she definitely needed a cold shower. Texting Yuuta that she made it back home, she sheds every layer of clothes she can, stripping down to her gym shorts and sports bra to cool down as she begins to walk around the kitchen to put her dirty containers from the day in the sink.

You still have to tell her how the whole Sukuna thing went down, although Maki isn’t sure if she has the mental capacity to deal with it right now. Opening the fridge, she pours herself a glass of water before walking into the hall to see what you’re up to. If Suguru’s over, it usually means you’re both in the living room, but seeing as the entire place is dark, Maki has a strange curdling sensation that migrates up her spine.

A memory haunts her still. Of someone showing up at her house, her fucking house of all places, with a tear-stained face, and dark purple under-eyes, and she hopes to whatever god exists, maybe even a little selfishly, that what she finds won’t be what her brain is already imagining.

The room to your door isn’t closed completely, and she tentatively pushes the door open wider to see your blinds wide open, allowing moonlight and a tiny bit of streetlight to come through, illuminating a forgotten laptop resting at the foot of your bed. The blankets are twisted and her eyes trail up the bed to see two figures entwined tightly. An outline of an arm, strands of hair gleaming silver. 

It’s an image that unexpectedly makes Maki’s heart crack, and she bows her head as a soft groan echoes in the room. Gaze snapping back up, she sees one of them shifting and they lift their head lethargically. She’s about to duck out when they reach a long, limber arm to turn on the bedside lamp.

“Maki?” a deeper, hoarse voice calls, and she freezes, eyes darting to a face curtained by messy black hair. Suguru’s squinting against the light, and he clearly’s just woken up (which is probably her fault, but Maki doesn’t entertain the thought). His arm’s trapped under a sleeping you who doesn’t seem to move, but he has you contained in an embrace against his chest. Your face is pressed against the front of his hoodie, and Maki has half a mind to ask how you’re even breathing, but she finds the joking words don’t come out. 

“How is she?” she asks in low tones instead. “That meeting. What are your thoughts on him?”

“I’ve a lot to say,” admits your boyfriend. “But, she handled it really well, so I’m keeping it mostly internal.” He leans back down on the pillow, eyes at half-mast. “Sorry. If you want me to go, I can.”

“It’s fine. I don’t have that permission to do that,” she says. “And you’re not doing anything immediately irritating to my being, so…”

“Thanks.” His face scrunches up. “Did you need anything?”

“Did you eat dinner, yet?”

“No. What time is it?”

“It’s nearly a quarter past eleven.”

“Shit,” he groans. He tosses his free arm over his eyes before reaching for his phone at the nightstand, and swiping it on. “Can I get something delivered here?”

“Yeah, fine.” She takes a sip of water, and as he scrolls the phone, the words she’s wanted to say since they’ve started dating begin to bubble. Maki avoids having one-on-one time with anyone who isn’t someone from her friend group, and standing in a room with Getou Suguru is not her ideal way of spending her evening, but… she needs to say this. She might not ever feel like there’s nothing to lose when she says this ever again.

“I had a lot of doubts about you,” she confesses suddenly. Suguru’s eyes, chips of charcoal, find hers again, “because of Sukuna. I hope now that you’ve met him, you understand why every one of us didn’t like the idea of you dating her at one point or another. A part of me still doesn’t because everything you do is too perfect for my liking.”

“I’m sorry?” He frowns and sets his phone back on the bedside table. “I know she’s your best friend—“

“She’s my sister.” Her grip on her glass tightens, the condensation seeping between her skin and the cup. “That’s why if you pull something like Sukuna did, if you do anything to hurt her, I’ll be the first one to know. And you’ll know I know, because you’ll wake up one day with two broken legs, and you’ll never dance again.”

His eyebrows rise infinitesimally, but after a while, he only lets out a soft breath and an accepting smile, and Maki has the premonition of dread that comes when she’s too far out of her depth. She wants to question that look, the way his eyes don’t glimmer with fear, or even any sort of defiance, only a mellowness that comes from death. Leaning in that slant of silver light, Getou Suguru looks like a ghoul, haunting and not quite alive.

But then, he moves like a human, and sinks back into the pillows, turns his back on her, wrapping you in tightly in a full hug again as he speaks, “Good. I’ll deserve it.” 

Maki’s stomach chills, and she closes the door behind her.

When she wakes up the next morning to you and him in the kitchen together, she watches as Suguru packs his bag, and scrambles eggs, and butters slices of bread for you to toast. And although she’s never noticed it before, there’s a certain dimness, a fading light in Getou’s eyes that only returns whenever he happens to glance at you.

a/n: thank you for reading! leave a comment/rb and let me know your thoughts. catch ya on the flip side

tags: @thelameless @lucyrocks86​ @kentospet @id-rather-be-an-outsider​  @ys2800​ @tuzuis4thwife @pidwidge​ @xbookmanx​ @kaitlyn2907​ @butterfly-skinnylegend​ @rumi-rants​ @bloombb​ @mykyoon​ @waterlily502​ @hanabihwa​ @drunkenlion​

#fic: sorry i love you #getou x reader #getou x you #getou x y/n #getou suguru x reader #getou suguru x you #getou suguru #geto x reader #geto x you #geto suguru #geto suguru x you #geto suguru x reader #jjk #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #my writing

[leviathism]

I am in need of more aromantic mc. May I request an aromantic mc giving romantic advice to Leviathan as they prepares to leave for the night? Buddy can't handle their nerves and needs a friend to help them sike himself up.

Thank you for your time. I wish you a pleasant night. :)

leviathan x gender neutral reader

Leviathan wouldn’t stop moving.

“C’mon,” you groaned out, yanking at his hair. “You asked for my help in styling your hair and now here you are—”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, looking everywhere but you. This would be normal but his eyes were moving to each object quicker than usual, his foot wouldn’t stop tapping the tiled floor, and his arms were wrapped around his stomach.

You sighed, stepping back. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean, what’s wrong?!” He exploded, throwing his arms into the air. “We’re going to the Fall and everyone’s gonna be talking and dancing and I’m gonna end up hiding in the bathroom!”

“No, you’re not.” You crossed your arms and gave him a look. “You know I’d drag you out. Besides, I’ll only be a few steps away from you the whole time. It won’t be that hard.”

“But I…” he flushed and looked away, embarrassed.

“But what?”

“I can’t flirt! Asmo and Mammon are gonna be there, getting all these dates and hookups and I’m gonna be the loser brother,” Leviathan whined and leaned over the sink. His lower lip pouted out. You rolled your eyes.

“Have you seen Mammon flirt? He’s not taking anyone home tonight.” Leviathan cracked a smile at that.

It didn’t last long though. He faltered and looked to the side. “But… ugh. What do people like?”

Why was he asking you? You squinted at him. This role always fell to you for some reason.

“Well, people usually like someone who is confident in themselves.” You watched as Leviathan wilted right on the spot. You winced. Maybe that hadn’t been the right thing to say. “Listen. You’re cute and hot. You just need to act confident for a single night. You ever hear the phrase ‘fake it ‘til you make it?’”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t work.”

“Yes it does! Sixth grade, english class. I had to give a presentation. My teacher loved it. I miraculously made it to the bathroom before I—”

Leviathan flailed his arms before he returned to his slumped state. “Ugh, stop! TMI! That’s not even the same either. You can’t equate giving a presentation to trying to talk to someone!”

“Sure you can. You just gotta get all the points in the categories you need.”

“You’re insane. You are worse than ME!”

You shrugged and grinned at him. “You asked for advice from me. You got what you asked for… Alright. Listen, I’ll help you out on the floor tonight, find you someone or whatever, but I get something in return.”

“Like what?” Leviathan frowned and stood up straight, suddenly serious. You poked him in the cheek, smushing his cheek in.

“I dunno. You’ll see. And I just remembered! You’re in luck. I know a bunch of men and some women who would like a pathetic little worm like you.”

“Pathetic?! WORM?” Outrage and then acceptance. “Umm…. Yeah. Are they nice?”

“You’ll have to go to find out.” You looked at his hair. The two of you were running out of time, so he’d just have to pull off the messy hair style. You ruffled your hand through it, ignoring his protests.

The two of you started to walk towards the door when Leviathan grabbed your arm. “Um… thanks. I’ll try and talk to them.”

You patted his arm before you remembered. “Please don’t mention your hobbies to anyone though. That’s something you only tell on your twelfth date.”

#obey me x reader #obey me x gender neutral reader #obey me x you #obey me x gn reader #obey me fluff #obey me x gn!mc #obey me x gn!reader #obey me x y/n #obey me #leviathan obey me #leviathan x gn reader #leviathan x reader #leviathan fluff #aro mc #aro reader #aromantic mc

[motownfiction]

the body

She can pretend all she wants, but Steph knows that the body sleeping next to her in bed this morning is the wrong one.

How did it even happen? She was never into Kevin Sheehan when they were in high school. Sure, she liked him fine, but that was the end of it. He was a slightly funny ginger kid who tried too hard to gain the other guys’ respect, so he never quite got it. When she found out Vicky St. John had been cheating on Nick Crosby with Kevin for most of eleventh grade and all of twelfth, Steph was a little impressed. Nothing beyond that. They had no connection outside civility. Polite laughs and nods in the hallway if one of them was in the other’s way.

And then, all of a sudden, Kevin is all in Steph’s way. On purpose. Because she wanted him to be.

As it turns out, he has some friend over here at Central. Somebody he knew from some camp or another, before the other guy moved away. He and Steph ran into each other, and they clung to each other at the bar all night long. Familiarity breeds … whatever last night was. They talked about how classes were going, what they were planning to major in, how happy they were to be out on their own, living by their own rules. Kevin shoved a handful of fried pickles in his mouth and said that was the beauty of it. If he wanted nothing but fried pickles and illicit beer for dinner, that’s what he would have. Steph said she was partial to late-night ice cream in the dining hall, and Kevin asked if she could show him. She started with vanilla, but she didn’t end there.

He stirs a little, and Steph prays he doesn’t wake up. She doesn’t want to talk to him because she’s worried she’ll start talking about all the wrong people again. Sam and Jill and everyone who makes her feel like things could be OK. Kevin deserves better than that. He’s not the right guy for Steph, but he deserves someone who wants him here for more than a night. Steph doesn’t have to know him well to know he’s a relationship guy, just like she’s a relationship girl.

That’s why it hurts to look at Jill, who wants to keep her options open.

Steph hears the door open, and she jumps out of her skin – embarrassing, seeing that’s all she’s wearing. Jill walks in, wearing last night’s clothes, and Steph wants to die.

Jill looks her up and down.

“Looks like you had fun,” she says. “I did, too.”

She kicks off her shoes, pulls off her sheer tights, and rolls into bed. Somehow, Kevin Sheehan sleeps like a brick through all of this.

Steph lies down and closes her eyes as tightly as she can.

Maybe she’s the wrong body in this room.

(part of @nosebleedclub january challenge -- day 18!)

#drabble #writeblr #ch: steph armstrong #ch: kevin sheehan #ch: jill edwards #year: 1985

[zerokrox-blog]

Based on this tiktok

The Anything but a Backpack Day in Hawkins High was started by a group of seniors who thought it would be a hilarious prank but it caught fire, it became a thing in the school. And it happened the week before exams as something to have fun with before the week's finals. 

Teacher’s had fun as well by not carrying their briefcases and instead following tradition they had to use something else. Some didn’t bother and just carried in their few notebooks. Some were creative and used whatever they had available. Miss Green, the gym teacher, used an old shoe box. Another teacher used a flower pot. 

So as the students came into the school the principal and teachers stood by the front doors seeing what people came in with as well as greeting students.

There were the typical, toy strollers, some boy came in with a brightly coloured piece of sheet metal holding his books. Two girls came in with their school books in matching red toy grocery-store carts. Munson and his friends all came in with their books a bright red wagon, which also carted Gareth who had broken his leg. One person carried their book in a pet carrier, while someone else was using a scooter. Some people used nothing, just their arms. Someone had taken a stuffed animal and turned it into a carrier. A boy in twelfth grade used a small driven lawn mower. Chrissy Cunningham came in with her books in a heavy looking tool box. Some of the basketball team used different tackle boxes. Billy Hargrove used an old tire to hold his books. 

A student came in with a large cardboard box. A girl who used a walker came in with her books neatly stacked in it, with a piece of cardboard around the back so no books would fall through. A few boys came in with their books in bike-baskets. One girl came in with her books in an old microwave. A boy was holding his younger brother who was wearing a backpack. Another boy was using an old baby sling. A girl was using a baby carrier. A random jock was using a baby car seat and another used a booster seat. 

Nancy Wheeler came in with her books in a large suitcase while Jonathan Byers carried his in an old suit bag. A few more students were using a wheelbarrow. 

The teachers were laughing. It was very funny. But then someone gasped and everyone looked up Miss Green, the gym teacher lost it. Steve Harrington was carrying an entire dishwasher on his back. He waved and both doors opened to let him in. Principal Higgins tried to help but Steve waved him away, not even sweating.   

“Steve.” Miss Green couldn't help but laugh, “why are you using a dishwasher?” 

Steve shrugged and gave a smile, “well it’s not a backpack and it wasn’t installed yet sooo I figured why not?” 

The student’s in the hallway laughed hysterically at his blase response. 

It was another successful Anything but A Backpack Day in Hawkins High.

#steve harrington #stranger things #stranger things ficlet #based on a tiktok #zerowrites #this is just for fun #i was laughing to hard #while writing this