#How the hell do people do that shit without it looking strange

[harpoonsnotspoons]

He needs lessons

[lilianne-tarot]

PICK A CARD: Your favourite things about your future spouse ✮⋆˙

✧˚. How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images above. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you, go ahead and read both!

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✧˚. My Masterlist🫶🏻

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ PILE I

Cards Pulled: High Priestess, the Chariot, Judgment, Justice, Knight of Wands and oracle cards

Okay, honey, welcome to this pile 1!! Let’s see into what you’ll be lowkey obsessed with when it comes to your future spouse hehe. Before I start this reading, I just wanna mention something really crucial here, UHM......... y'all are LUCKY AF. 😭😭like TF. Also for people who chose this pile, the person described here is sooo similar to the character of Sang Yan from the C-drama The First Frost. I haven't even watched that drama yet, just saw it all over tiktok and insta reels and it's soo crazy how I was constantly thinking about him throughout writing this. The way he carries himself in that drama and SPECIFICALLY HIS EYES. THIS PILE IS LITERALLY HIM. PERIODT.

First off, this person is Mysterious AF. Like you know when someone doesn’t post on social media but when they do, it’s in black and white with a strange caption and you’re like “HELLO? What does it mean??” so Yeah, that’s their entire vibe. It’s not that they’re quiet, NO NO, they’re intentional with everything they do. Everything they do feels magical to you, even if it’s just tying their shoes. You’re gonna love how they somehow make you slow down and listen more, not just to them but to your own damn intuition as well. I’m getting this image of you two sitting on the floor, legs touching, and you’re rambling about your day while they just watch you like you’re a rare eclipse. And they’ll say something like “You feel like the ocean right before a storm,” and boom. You’re ruined.

And OMG don’t even get me started on the emotional depth… because wow.

Yeah, I got CHILLS. Literal chills. ? Bestie, your future spouse doesn’t just love you, they DROWN in you. There’s a softness to them that feels ancient. Like they’ve lived a thousand lives and chose you in every single one. Their love language? Definitely some spicy combination of telepathy, forehead kisses, and knowing your exact comfort food without you saying a word. And yet, they’re not soft in the doormat way. HELL NO. Baby, this person moves. When they decide they want something? Game over. They’re a force. You’ll love how they’ll be gentle with your soul but a literal wildfire for your protection. Someone stares at you weird? They’ve clocked it. You’re nervous to speak up in a group? They smoothly redirect the convo so you shine. It’s that ride-or-die loyalty with a spicy side of “Don’t mess with what’s mine.”

Your future spouse has transformed by the time they meet you. Like… phoenix out of the ashes levels of rebirth. I’m seeing someone who may have had to break out of their own cycles, maybe even some shadow work that slapped, but they did the work. That’s something you’ll absolutely adore about them: their self-awareness. You’ll be so drawn to how they hold themselves accountable. They’ve probably been the villain in someone else’s story, and instead of playing the victim, they faced it. Shadow work? Check. Therapy? Likely. Apologies? Given when needed. They’ve done a full spiritual exfoliation, and now? They’re GLOWING. AND they treat you with such intentional fairness. They don’t play games, they don’t breadcrumb, and they sure as hell don’t ghost (WHEW. thank god cuz i hate that shit) What you’ll cherish most is how they show up for you, consistently. Every little action feels like, “I see you. I honor you. I’m choosing you, even on the messy days.”

And um, can we please talk about how HOT they are when they’re PASSIONATE??? Because the Knight of Wands is coming in LOUD with main-character energy and It’s giving “I’m dragging you into the hallway to make out because I missed you for two hours.” FJNIDNSBTRVIH There’s a bit of chaos in their passion, but like… the fun, flirty, seductive kind. You’ll catch yourself staring when they’re focused on something they care about, eyes lit, words flying, and it’ll hit you: “Damn. That’s my person.” Like they could be talking about some weird niche topic, idk, the ethics of time travel or why a band’s debut album was superior, and you’re just sitting there like, “Okay, philosopher.” It’s hot. It’s brainy. It’s unhinged. And it’s so them. (did i just describe my type here?) 

But here’s the real one, your potential most favorite thing? It’s how they love you through your shadows.

It tells me that they don’t just love your highlights, babe. They’re the one who knows about the parts you try to hide, and loves them deeper. You’ll feel so safe being raw with them. Like crying-on-the-floor-at-2am kind of safe. They’ll be the person who doesn’t try to fix it, they’ll just sit with you in it. You’ll finally feel like, “Oh. I don’t have to perform here.” Also, minor side message that just smacked me: they might help you release a generational wound. Yep. It’s giving “breaking ancestral chains with one good relationship.” I’m not saying they’re your healer (you’re healing yourself, boo), but they are a safe space that lets the healing happen. And the ocean symbolism? BABY. Their love is like the tide, constant, natural, overwhelming in the best way. You might not even realize how deeply they’ve rooted into you until one day they’re not there for a few hours and you’re like, “Why does the air taste different???”

Okay, a few more spicy psychic messages which I got throughout the reading I'll drop here before we close because the tea is still hot:

You’ll love their hands. Like, obsessively. Spirit keeps showing me images of their hands wrapping around yours, brushing your hair back, gripping your waist, yeah, you’re gonna be down bad. They have a “hidden” creative side. Music? Poetry? Painting war miniatures? IDK 😭but it’s something they keep private until they trust you, and once you see it? Prepare to melt. 🫠 They’re a consent king/queen. In the bedroom, in arguments, in making plans, they’re always checking in. Always making sure your voice is heard. It’s HOT. You’ll laugh together in the weirdest moments. Like cracking up during a serious movie or turning a grocery run into a full-on comedy sketch. The emotional intimacy? Unreal.

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𝜗𝜚˚⋆ PILE II

Cards Pulled: Death, Ace of Cups, Four of Cups, Five of Pentacles, Knight of Cups and oracle cards

OKAY BESTIE… buckle the HELL up. This pile??? This pile is literally a love letter from the universe, and it’s about your future spouse in a way that’s got me gasping and screaming into the void. Like, if you’ve ever wondered what it would feel like to be truly chosen, truly adored, and truly transformed by love??? this is THAT reading. I’m already sweating more because the cards are kinds big ones as you can see😭 . This ain’t a crush. This is main character's energy meets divine rebirth through love . And your favourite thing about this person? Oh honey... it's EVERYTHING they awaken in you. But let me explain because DAMN it gets DEEP. 💀

this pile is all about how utterly devoted and obsessed he is with you, but in that controlled, sexy, lowkey psycho but make it romantic way. He doesn’t say much, but when he does?? It cuts straight to your soul. He makes you feel like the only person that’s ever existed. And when he touches you? The world fades.

Okay so first of all, this love is not soft-launch energy. Actually there’s no soft energy here. It’s not the kind of love where you post a blurry arm on IG stories and call it a day. No no. This is Death + Ace of Cups type of sh*t. This person literally drags you out of a fog you didn’t even know you were in. Like, imagine going through life feeling fine, maybe kinda meh, autopilot vibes, and then BOOM. You meet this person and suddenly, colors are brighter. Food tastes better. Music hits differently. You’re like, “Wait, am I ALIVE again??” Yeah. That.

You don’t just fall in love with them. You fall in love with yourself through their eyes. Because they see you in this way no one ever has before. They don’t pedestal you in some weird, unreachable way, but they mirror back your rawest essense. And you start to remember who TF you are. ✨ Like, you start off this journey feeling a lil rejected, a lil disillusioned (Four of Cups + Five of Pentacles energy… hello loneliness my old friend), but through this love?? You rise. You blossom. You reclaim your power. The crown was always yours, you just forgot. They don’t give you your power back, babe. They just remind you where you left it. And that?! That is your favorite thing about them: they activate the version of you that had been buried under years of rejection, doubt, and disconnection.

Bestie, I’m not gonna sugarcoat, this is NOT some sunshiney, fluffy past you’ve been through. You’ve known the ache of being left out in the cold. Maybe you’ve been the one always giving, always chasing, always hoping for scraps of love from people who didn’t even deserve to speak your name. You’ve had your heart cold-stoned and ghosted and breadcrumbed, and you were probably starting to believe that maybe love just wasn’t in the cards for you. Enter: this person.

They don’t just walk in with roses and pretty words (though they absolutely do that too, Knight of Cups energy is full-on poetic simp vibes 😭). But more importantly?? They SHOW UP. When you expect abandonment, they stay. When you push them away, they lean in. When you flinch at love, they don’t take it personally, they just hold you through it. You’re not their project. You’re their equal, their mirror, their muse. And you’ll find yourself sobbing randomly, “Wait… this is what it’s supposed to feel like??” Because for the first time, love isn’t a battlefield. It’s a sanctuary. It’s not conditional. It’s safe. I’m not kidding when I say this person is the Knight of Cups in every form. So with this person prepare to also see the perfect blend of this combination. prepare for random voice notes at midnight because they saw a cloud that looked like your side profile. Prepare for forehead kisses, poetic ramblings, playlists that sound like your soul. But also?? It’s not performative. It’s not just vibes and aesthetics. It’s intentional.

They speak your love language fluently, even the ones you didn’t know you had. You like thoughtful gifts? Boom, they kept the receipt from your first coffee date and made it into a bookmark for your favorite book. You like acts of service? Baby, they’re doing your laundry and ordering your comfort food on a day you can’t get out of bed. You like words of affirmation? They’re sending full monologues about how divine you are. Honestly, at some point you’re gonna be like, “Can you STOP being obsessed with me for five seconds?” But also you’ll be like, don’t stop. Ever. 😭

Let’s circle back to that Death card because whew… this is the CORE. Your favorite thing about this person isn’t just what they do, it’s who they are and who they inspire you to become. You literally go through a soul transformation in their presence. They don’t fall in love with your mask. They fall in love with your shadow. With the parts you thought made you unlovable. With your mess, your moods, your madness, and suddenly, those parts stop feeling like flaws and start feeling like facets of your magic. And in turn?? You’ll start holding them that way too. You won’t be idolizing each other. You’ll be liberating each other. This love isn’t about being perfect, it’s about being real. It’s about death and rebirth. It’s about watching each other burn and saying, “I still choose you.” They are going to be your favorite revolution.

"Wear your power proudly and unapologetically" is not just advice, it’s what your future spouse pulls out of you. You’ve spent so long shrinking. So long waiting for permission. And this person? They’re gonna hand you the crown and go, “You were born royalty. Act like it.” And the best part? They don’t do it for clout. They don’t flaunt you like a trophy. They cherish you like you’re made of stardust and war paint. Your softest parts are sacred to them. Your weirdness? Worshipped. Your power? Encouraged. Like babe... you will feel both feral and safe in their arms. Do you know how rare that is????

Okay this is so random but it came through SO clearly, I’m getting this image of you hating Mondays your whole life, until this person shows up and suddenly?? You’re excited for the week. You’re looking forward to slow morning texts, coffee runs together, messy buns and “just 5 more minutes” cuddles before they leave for work. They re-sensitize you to the beauty of everyday things. And that is so underrated. They make your life feel like poetry again.

 Final random Favorite Things You’ll Obsess Over:

The way they say your name like it’s a prayer. Youll love listening to your name from them. Their ability to sense your moods before you speak. That would be their superpower, honestly. And also the contrast of their softness in private vs their strength in public.

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𝜗𝜚˚⋆ PILE III

Cards pulled: Six of Swords, The Empress, The Fool, Five of Wands, Ace of Swords amd oracle cards

OMG This pile wow. This is “you didn't know you were starving ‘til they fed you” energy. Wow that was deep LOL. They LOVE the full spectrum of you. Your sensitivity, your rage, your need to cry during commercials, he eats it up. Encourages you to take up space. He celebrates your chaos. And the banter would UNMATCHED.

So first off, let me just say this: I legit felt like I was watching one of those dramatic K-drama slow burns when I started reading this pile. Like ep 1 is you emotionally limping out of some messy chapter of your life, and ep 16 is you soft-smiling while they brush hair from your face and I’m crying just thinking about it 😭 but I digress—

Now let’s start peeling the layers of this absolutely BONKERS beautiful energy: your fave things about this person, Oh honey. It’s not just their looks (although, side note, the way they carry themselves, that quiet “I know who tf I am” swag? Oof. HOT). But no, what melts you? What gets you twisted in the sheets, It’s their consistency with their expression of emotions, their emotional maturity, and the fact that they’re lowkey your safe space after a lifetime of chaos. Yeah, I said it. The trauma you didn’t even realize you were still carrying, they help you walk that.

And listen. This person doesn’t swoop in and fix you, don’t get it wrong. They don’t love you despite your wounds, they love you with them. Like “hand-in-hand with your demons” type love. They don’t run when things get messy. You’ll sit there anxious and they’ll hand you a coffee mug and be like, “Keep talking, I’m not going anywhere.” THAT kind of presence. Yeah, bestie. That’s what you’re gonna worship. But don’t think this is some therapist in a man’s body situation either lmao. There’s a whole wild side to this person too, like, this person challenges the fck outta you.😂 They’re gonna debate you for fun, tease you just to make you roll your eyes, push your buttons not to be toxic, but because it turns them on to see you all passionate and fired up. The intellectual banter is chef’s kiss. Your fave thing about them is that you never get bored with them. They don’t just nod along, they’re present. They got opinions, they got a backbone, and they’re not afraid to go toe to toe with you when you are acting up (and honestly? You love it).

This pile is all about liberation. Your fave thing about them is how they remind you of who you are before the world made you smaller. They give you permission to laugh too loud, cry too much, and dream too big. And they're gonna do it all right beside you.

Now The way they see you… like, you're not just a person to them. You're a literal universe. The way they look at you when you’re ranting about something random, Or doing your skincare, Or just existing in oversized pajamas, They’re gone. Fully GONE. And because of that, you start to see yourself differently too, which is honestly the best part. Like, your favorite thing about this person is how they love you into softness, into full self-worth. They speak to the parts of you that felt unworthy and whisper, “More. You deserve more.” You start walking different because of how deeply they hold space for you.

 😩 Baby This person is your reset button. You’ve been carrying so much emotional weight from past relationships, maybe even from family crap, old fears, toxic exes, and here comes this person like… “Why are you still dimming your light?” this is literally them encouraging you to live a little, say yes more. Take the leap. Splurge. Cry. Yell. Make a mess. Be too much. They LOVE that you're extra. They don't flinch when you're chaotic. They jump off the cliff with you, giggling. (that one was a little exaggerated but nvm😭)

Like, your favorite thing about them is how much they let you take up space. Not just tolerate it. They encourage it. “You are worth every desire, every dream. Demand what is yours.” And this person believe in that. They fight for that. And I’m telling you right now, they’ll probably be the one who drags you to that dream vacation you were too shy to plan, or who makes you apply for the job you think you're not good enough for. They see your power. They know your value. And it becomes your favorite mirror. 💅

And YESSSS, there’s a sexuality to this pile too 😏.This person? They worship your body like it’s art. Like a damn temple. And it’s not just hot passionate nights, it's playful, explorative, curious, FUN. That “I can’t keep my hands off you but I also wanna laugh in your neck while doing it” kinda vibe. 😭That alone could’ve been the whole reading LMAO. But here's the secret sauce: the emotional intimacy hits harder than the physical. It's the way they look at you when you’re vulnerable. When you’re quiet. When you’re in your dark. They just get you. Like intuitively. You’ll be like “I didn’t even say anything” and they’re already making you soup or running you a bath or telling you to block that toxic friend. HOW DO THEY KNOW??? Idk, babes. Soul contract things. 💀

OH and one more image i saw, you're going through a rough time emotionally. You're bawling, maybe imposter syndrome, maybe an old wound opened up, idk, but this person, they stop everything and hold your face and say something brutally honest but loving like: “You forget who you are. Let me remind you.” And it floors you. Floors. You. 🥹

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Thank you so much for reading all the way through! I hope my reading resonated with you and that you had a lovely time going through it. If you enjoyed it, please like and reblog, it really means a lot! Let me know which pile you chose; I absolutely love hearing your thoughts and feedback on my readings! If my reading resonated you, you may consider buying my paid reading as it would really help me out financially♡

Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not fixedly predict the future. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

[cherrysinner]

pairing: frat!rafe x tutor!reader synopsis: reader attends a frat party where the theme is to dress up as your type warnings: fluff! wc: 1.3k

you'd never really been much into parties, your best friend constantly trying to get you to go to some of the various parties the social butterfly had gotten invited to, but you simply held up the book you were in the middle of and let out a soft hum as a way to say that you had your own plans. after some more pleading, lexi always gave up trying to convince you to come and left you in your own devices, returning in the early hours of the morning, trying to be as quiet as possible yet waking you up every time.

but this time, all the girl had to do was mention the frat party she was going to that night when you let out a sigh and told her you'd come with her. maybe there was a second reason you wanted to go, other than to just please your friend.

"we're having a party this friday."

you chuckled, turning your gaze from the book in front of you to the boy next to you, "you're in a fraternity, rafe. i'm pretty sure that happens every friday without exception."

your words caused the boy to roll his eyes, yet the small grin you'd grown to like still remained on his lips as he repositioned his backwards cap, "yeah, but it's a themed party. you should come."

"why?" you furrowed your brows in suspicion and confusion as to why he'd want you to attend, "what's the theme?"

"you're supposed to dress up as your type."

"and what are you going as? some kind of variation of jennifer from jennifer's body? or regina from mean girls?" you let out a small snort.

"guess you'll have to come if you wanna find out." the boy poked your forearm with the rubber end of his pencil, licking his lips, "i wanna see what kind of guys you are into. i bet it's some thrifty hipster dudes or some broody bad boys that secretly get hard for poetry and emily dickinson and shit."

you felt your cheeks warm from the memory as you placed the backwards cap on your head. you looked in the mirror, clad in loose jeans that hung low on your hips so it'd show off the calvin klein logo on your underwear, and a sweatshirt adorning the logo of your university. the outfit you wore looked just like something rafe would wear during one of your tutoring sessions. hell, he probably had.

lexi looked at you with raised brows, the muscular girl who usually wore dark, baggy clothes looked strange in the blue sundress she'd borrowed from you, her biceps basically protruding from the short sleeves, the girl's short black hair pulled up into a tiny attempt at a ponytail, wearing some simple makeup that you'd helped her apply.

"you're going as a frat guy? to a frat party?" she snorted, taking in your ensemble, "damn, you date so little that i had no idea that's the type of guy you were into."

you rolled your eyes, throwing her the handbag that she'd asked you if she could borrow, "and you're going as...?"

"a straight girl." lexi said, her usual shit-eating grin taking over her lips.

"in that case, you could've just worn like, a grey hoodie, those flared leggings, and a pair of white nike air force ones. most straight girls here do. i think you've failed at your assignment."

"shut up."

you were surprised by how many people actually dressed up according to the theme, especially over the number of frat boys wearing different types of skirts and dresses, some of them even sporting poorly done makeup looks on their faces.

having gotten separated from lexi almost the moment you arrived to the party, you were now leaning against the living room wall, hiding a part of your face behind a red solo cup half-full of some sort of concoction you'd found as you looked around. you'd always been better at standing aside, observing what everyone else was doing, rather than trying to join in.

you lifted the cup to your mouth and drank some of the nasty liquid, nearly spitting it out when you spot rafe chatting to his friends, just about managing to swallow it before you keel in laughter.

he stood confidently in a grey cardigan strewn over a white button-up that was so small on him it actually turned into a crop top, showing off the lower part of his abs, a faint happy trail as well as a defined v-line leading to a short black pleated skirt, his calves covered by black socks that ended just below his knees.

it seemed that your amusement had caught rafe's attention, as the moment you'd finally managed to straighten yourself up, the boy was strutting over to you, his hands on his hips in a way that almost caused you to go into another laughing fit.

"what's so funny?" rafe asked with lifted brows as he reached you, looking over your outfit with a pleased look on his face before gesturing to his own, "you don't think i look hot?"

"oh, definitely. the hottest." you snorted, bringing the drink to your lips and taking a small sip before pursing your lips in thought, "so, what's your type? britney spears?"

the boy's brows furrowed at that, "huh?"

"you look just like her in one of her music videos." you explained, your lips falling open in shock as his eyebrows continued to remain furrowed, "you don't know 'baby one more time'?"

"i haven't seen it." rafe shrugged, "what, you can't recognize who i'm trying to dress as?"

"i can't say i do. who?"

"i'm dressed as you."

you knew that if you were able to see yourself, your eyes would comically widen the moment the words left rafe's lips; and as you looked at him up and down, you realized, that his outfit was something you'd usually wear; just more lewd. "you're... dressed as me?"

"yeah. and clearly you're dressed as me."

"based- based on what?" you laughed incredulously, feeling your cheeks light up, bringing the cup to your lips and drinking just so you'd be able to hide a part of your face from the boy.

"well," rafe snatched the cap on your head, placing it on his instead, making his entire ensemble look even goofier, as he took hold of the front of your sweatshirt. "i'm pretty sure i've worn this exact same outfit."

"that doesn't mean anything… plenty of guys wear this." you mumbled from behind your cup, only to have rafe grab it from your hands, your eyes widening as you watched him finish it in one swallow, scrunching up the cup and throwing it on the floor somewhere.

cupping your chin with his finger and lifting it up so you were looking up at him, rafe brought his face closer to yours, his ice-blue eyes looking into yours in a way that made you feel like you were naked as his lips twisted into a knowing grin, "it doesn't?"

"n-"

before you could finish denying it, rafe's lips were pressed against yours; your eyes still wide open when his free hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer to him.

slowly, you felt yourself melt into the kiss, your eyes automatically closing as your lips moved against his. your hands were pressed against his chest, slowly moving down to feel his defined abs over the sheer button-up.

you could feel rafe's grin against your lips before he even pulled away, looking down at you with a knowing look on his face, the boy licking his lips causing you to bite down on your lower lip, your head spinning from just kissing him.

"so, that didn't mean anything, huh?"

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

the people (the people being me) yearn for mingi w a lactation kink, star please. thinking abt this at work rn im in hell i cant stop thinking about that man having such a huge oral fixation HELP ME -🌀anon

➯a/n: i'm just here to give the people what they want (the people also being me😓) ! i love how we ALL just agree that mingi has an oral fixation, something about him is screaming it so hard that the entire atiny community agrees 😭

hard hours 008:

Mingi + his out of control oral fixation = leaking

RATED XXXX. MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY.

❥Song Mingi x fem reader

♫Sweet - Cigarettes After Sex♫

(>ᴗ•)genre: pure smut

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: oral fixation. shockerrr. soft dom / sub dynamics, sub minki, lactation, dry humping, casual intimacy, lowkey mommy kink maybe ?, pet names: momma

♡masterlist + navigation !♡

₊‧⁺stardust˖⋆ @sunnysidesins @onyxmango @devilzliaison @ateezswonderland @queenofdumbfuckery @emilysecresy @kyomiingi @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @klllerwaifu @seonghwasslytherin @yoonglesbae @wolviejex @estrnrea @lover-ofallthingspretty @willowwyy @jaerisdiction @peelingpaint-heavyheart @satsuri3su @bubbly-moon @hannahstacos

18+.MINORS GET OUTTA HERE.

─..008.milk.───

⊹Mingi always has his mouth on something. Always keeping it busy. He can't function right if there's nothing going on in his mouth.

⟡Most of the time it's gum or something, just anything to get him through the day. But when he comes home to you, he just shuts his brain off and worships your body with his mouth for hours on end.

Today, it's your breasts that he focuses on.

Laying on top of you, wrapped up in your arms and legs softly as he sucks on your nipple gently. He isn't expecting anything to come out of it, it never does; and he's been doing this a long time. Your whole relationship, basically.

So when, today, an otherwise uneventful day, something sweet touches his tongue — he freaks the fuck out. His brain short circuits. He swallows, out of pure instinct, as he sits up with wide eyes to meet your own.

"Did you ju-"

"I think you made me-"

You speak over one another, shock undeniable. You both slowly look down to your chest — finding a small droplet of milk on the nipple that he was just licking. "Mingi, I think..." You breathe out shakily, "I think I'm leaking."

He can only stare, jaw dropped, as you reach and give your breast a small squeeze... and milk comes out. Dribbling down the round of your tit before his body acts for him and forces him forward to lap it up.

"Ah~ Mingi..." You moan softly, bringing your hand to cup the back of his head, "do you want to- uh, maybe, do you want to drink it?"

"God, yes," he pouts, staring down at your chest, "please let me..."

"I think I would really like that- ooooh, shit," you gasp as he latches onto your nipple again, cradling his head close and pulling him back down with your legs to lay flush against you.

Immediately, he's grinding into you. Layers of clothing be damned — he's humping into you with slow and clumsy movements, motivated purely by desire. Moaning and swallowing up every drop he manages to suckle out of you.

It feels... strange. Not in a bad way. Just entirely new and interesting. You like it.

Guiding his hand up to your other breast, you urge him to give it a squeeze — watching in awe mixed with disbelief as milk leaks between his fingers.

He whines, pressing his hips closer to you and tilting his head to lap at that nipple instead; slurping up the spilled milk before it can get away. "Holy shit," he pants, "holy fucking shit, Momma..." His usual nickname for you rolls off his tongue without thought, and when the thought catches up to him; he's chuckling breathlessly.

"You really are like my Momma now~"

─..008.milk.───

[idkwhatimdoinghere1655]

Shit, Sorry! - Charles Leclerc

<word count - 3628>

warnings: blood

Whoever invented the goggle games was a genius. To add to that, whoever's idea it was to make Charles and Carlos do goggle games was the smartest person to ever walk the earth. They were clearly very selfless too. Sharing that idea and making the Ferrari Boys do it in front of the cameras was just what the world needed to heal their souls.

You didn't want to ruin the recording with the cackles you were holding back as they flailed around, trying to play swingball after doing whatever the hell they were trying to accomplish before. It was very amusing, and you were glad to be asked to spectate as part of the Ferrari media team.

Why you were there, you didn't quite know, but you were glad to be there nonetheless. They were trying to coordinate with each other, but that quickly spiralled out of control as their competitive streaks took control, and they were just swinging for the fences to try and win.

The presenter was trying to help out Carlos, and she was looking out at the Ferrari personnel for someone to assist Charles. No one was stepping forward, so you took it upon yourself to help out the man from Monaco.

As you approached, you called out to him. "Charles, stop swinging, I'm here to help, OK?" you said, approaching him and putting a hand on his shoulder so he'd know what side you were on. 

"OK, OK, I am still," he said, putting his arms down so that the racket was down by his leg instead of hovering in the air.

"So I'm going to throw the ball, Carlos is going to hit it, and I'm going to help you hit it back, yeah?" you explained as he readied himself.

"Yeah, yeah, I've got it," he nodded, and you could only imagine how strange it looked from his angle. You threw the ball on the string in Carlos' direction, and he successively managed to hit it back towards you.

The next moments were all like slow-motion. Charles brought his hand up to hit the ball back, neither of which he could see. He did this without the help that you had offered, as you had not tugged his arm into position to hit the ball.

You tried to dodge his flying hand, but it was no use. It collided with your nose in a sickening crunch as you felt pain shoot through the entirety of your face. As your hands automatically came up to inspect the damage, you held them in front of your face as red spots of blood trickled down your skin.

"Fuck," you winced, trying to stop the blood with your hands as you watched it drop down onto the fake grass that you were stood on. You could tell by the way people were looking at you that it looked bad, and it felt horrendous.

Every time you moved your face you could feel the agony spreading beneath your skin as you fought back the tears that made your vision cloudy. "What happened? What did I hit?" Charles asked, slipping his goggles off from over his eyes.

He looked around at the people surrounding you, and followed their gazes over to you. You were doubled over, softly holding a tissue underneath your nose and you screwed your eyes shut, trying to ignore the pain. "Shit, Y/N, I am so sorry, are you alright?" he rambled, instantly feeling an overwhelming wave of guilt wash over him.

"Apart from the fact that I'm pretty sure you've broken my nose? Yeah, I'm doing swimmingly," you spat through gritted teeth. He placed a tentative hand on your shoulder, which you didn't much care about compared to the throbbing spreading from your nose to the rest of your face.

"Come on, I'll take you to the medical center," he said, taking some more tissues off a different team member to hand to you. You didn't want to be around him, even though you knew it wasn't his fault and it was an accident. The pain in your nose just fuelled you with anger towards the man from Monaco.

"Yeah, alright," you muttered as he gently pushed you with the hand that remained on your shoulder. No words were exchanged between the two of you, he didn't want to say anything to make it worse, and you couldn't guarantee you wouldn't call him some rather colourful names as a way to cope with the pain.

As soon as you arrived at the medial center, the people took one look at the tissues you were using to try and clog your nose, and the blood stains down your shirt and jeans and rushed you into a room.

Before you could protest, Charles followed you in, sitting in front the bed that was in there. "So what happened?" the doctor asked, tugging your blood-stained tissue holding hands away to inspect the damage.

There was still droplets of blood falling from your nose and onto your lap, but that was the least of your worries. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the grimace on Charles' face as your nose was revealed. "Charles accidentally whacked me in the face with a swingball bat," you deadpanned as Charles avoided your gaze.

"I'll have to clean it up before I can actually see what the issue is, alright?" the doctor asked, unable to see past the dark red blood that had dried around your nose and had been smudged around with your tissues.

"Yeah, yeah," you nodded, the slow drips of blood tickling your upper lip.

"Take a seat for me, please," the doctor told you, as he went over to the cabinet in the corner of the room to take out some cotton wool and whatever other cleaning equipment he would require. You sat yourself down on the edge of the bed, as Charles stayed silent.

His leg bounced up and down, and he fiddled with the rings on his fingers. You could tell the guy was nervous, and you knew he felt bad. You felt slightly guilty for snapping at him, but you had to admit that you were still annoyed at him. Even if it was only slightly.

Every time he looked at you, he saw the mess that he had caused, and felt even worse about what he had done. He didn't mean to hurt you, he'd never want to hurt you, or anyone. But he had, and the least he could do was stay there with you, even if he could tell you were still irritated at him. He couldn't blame you, he would have been if the roles were reversed.

As the doctor very gently cleaned around your nose, Charles' heart broke a little more with every pained, sharp intake of breath you took when he got a little too close to the (at the least) bruised cartilage.

You instantly looked better, if you ignored the blood on your shirt and jeans. The damage fortunately wasn't as bad as first expected, the blood adding to the severity of the incident. "So I don't think it's broken, just very bruised," he explained, turning your head from side to side to take a look.

"But I have no doubt it feels like it's broken, it'll be very tender for a short while. You may also experience a few nosebleeds every now and then, more than a normal frequency. That's just your nose healing, but it will remain crooked," he continued.

Will remain crooked... shit. Not only had Charles injured you, but he had altered your physical appearance. Great. Brilliant. Positively splendid. He couldn't really tell the difference, he still thought you looked pretty as ever, but it was the fact that maybe other people would.

"OK, thank you," you said, unable to smile at the doctor because your face hurt too much. And you didn't really have any reason to smile. 

"You can go whenever you're ready," he smiled, leaving you and Charles away in the silence of the room, the tape on your nose already feeling itchy and tickly.

"I'm really sorry, I'm really fucking sorry," he broke the tension.

"Don't, it's not your fault, it was an accident," you dismissed, not wanting him to apologise.

"But I should've been more careful, I knew you were behind me," he said, the tape on your nose reminding him of the feeling when he made contact with your nose. 

"It's fine, Charles. I'm not annoyed at you. Well, not anymore," you lightly chuckled, trying to make him feel a little better.

"I'll drive you to your hotel, I'll tell whoever it is that you've gone back," he said, standing and offering a hand out to you. 

"You don't have to-"

"Please? It's the least I can do," Charles interrupted you, flashing his signature, dashing smile and staring at you with those green eyes that could make any girl melt. 

"OK, OK, let's go," you agreed, taking his hand and letting him take you through the paddock and out to the back.

The ride back to the hotel was quick, and silent. Charles knew that if you wanted to say something, then you would. He was also very aware of the fact that moving your face in any capacity would more than likely hurt your nose, and he didn't want to add to the pain he had already caused.

As soon as you walked into your room, you went to the bathroom to see what damage had been done. Thankfully, you were expecting worse when the doctor had said it would remain crooked. It was slightly, but you had only noticed because you had been told it was off centered.

It was swollen, and the red was transitioning into some deep shades of purples across the bridge of your nose. You saw the dark red stains down your scarlet Ferrari polo, and you knew you had to get it off as soon as you could.

"You know, you're lucky Charles. It isn't as bad as I thought it would be," you said, as Charles stood against one of the cabinets and watched your every move.

"Well I think you still look pretty," he said, and his comment caught you off guard for a moment, and he thankfully couldn't see the blush that coated your already flushed cheeks. It was a given that he was a handsome man, anyone with eyes could see that. But, he had called you pretty.

"Admiring your handiwork now, Leclerc?" you quipped out of nerves. Instead of just saying 'thank you', you randomly decided to tease him a little, make him sweat a bit.

"Hey, I think the crooked nose suits you, it's unique," he chuckled.

"If you want to be unique, I know a great guy. Charles Leclerc will whack you in the face with a swingball bat during a stupid game and you're sorted," you said as he laughed. You collected a different shirt from the wardrobe and a pair of comfortable leggings so that you could change out of your bloodstained clothing.

Disappearing into the bathroom again, you swiftly changed and went back out, to find Charles stood in the exact same spot as he was. "Can I get you anything?" he asked, wanting to be of as much help as he could be for you, since he was the reason you were in the way you were.

"You can go back to the track now, I don't mind." you shook your head, sitting down on the edge of the bed. You wished you could have gone back to the track so that you could just carry on with your day, but there was no way your boss would have let you, and neither would the migraine that was setting in.

The dull throbbing felt like it was coming in from the centre of your skull, as if it were trying to break out of your bones. You screwed your eyes closed for a minute as the adrenaline from the day wore off, and even the slightest movement of your eyes seemed to hurt. The light made it harder for you to keep your eyes open, and Charles was quick to notice.

He walked to the windows and the glass double doors that lead to the balcony, tugging the curtains shut so that it wasn't as bright in the room. "Any better?" He asked, sitting beside you on the edge of the bed.

"A bit, yeah. Thanks," you weakly smiled, the darkness instantly making you feel better, even if it was only slightly.

"You want a paracetamol? Ibuprofen? I can run to the store to get some if you don't have any," he offered, and you found the attentiveness endearing. It was nice to have someone care for you in such a capacity, even if it was just in an attempt to fix a problem they had been the cause of as much as they could.

"I don't have any, I think I left the box I had at the track," you said, even the process of thinking was making your headache slightly worse with every notion that ran through your mind.

"I'll be as quick as I can," he said without skipping a beat, standing and scooping his keys off the side.

"You really don't have to, I'll go in a bit," you said, not wanting to inconvenience him. You had already forgiven him, deciding that all of your anger had come in the moment and was fuelled by the pain you were feeling at the time.

"Look, I am looking after you until you can go back to the track and until you can go back to work, and I'm not taking no for an answer, got it?" He said, and you didn't find any point in trying to argue with him. He was very clearly a stubborn man, and there was no use in trying to stop him when he and his mind set on something.

"Fine," you huffed, crawling under the covers and burying your head into the soft white pillows. With a triumphant smirk, Charles walked straight out of the room, the door closing behind him. You didn't realise how long Charles had been gone for, since you fell asleep shortly after he had left.

The door softly clicked open and closed as he said your name, but it fell on deaf ears. He smiled to himself as he saw you fast asleep, completely peaceful and happy. He set his items down on the side, sitting in the chair in the corner of the room as to not disturb you.

He felt like a bit of a creep for watching you sleep, but he had his phone in his lap to make him look busy if you woke up and spotted him. After a short while, he spotted a small trickle of blood drip down your nose. For a moment, he panicked, but then he remembered that the doctor had said it was normal.

He didn't want it to stain the crisp, white pillow case, and he didn't want you to have to go through the hassle of changing again just because another shirt had been stained; ultimately because of him. Padding over to the bathroom, he secured a ball of tissue into his hand and approached you again.

He crouched down beside you, gentling dabbing the tissue under your nose. It felt like he was smearing it around more than he was cleaning it up, but the volume was becoming less. All he could hear was the softness of your breaths and the nervous pounding of his heart as it threatened to wake you.

You slightly moved your head, and he retracted his hand quickly. As you settled again, he went back to blotting the tiny droplets of blood. But just his luck, or lack of balance, Charles leant forward slightly and lost all sense of stability and fell forward, having no choice but to put his hands on the edge of the bed to steady himself.

You opened your eyes, seeing Charles grimace as you did. "Hey," you softly greeted as he put the tissue aside on the bedside table.

"I brought paracetamols and ibuprofen since I didn't know which you preferred, and I brought sweets, since I figured a bit of sugar could be good for you." He explained, nodding over to everything he had picked up while he was out.

"The roses for your girlfriend?" You asked, the large bouquet seeming rather out of place.

"Girlfriend? Oh, no, they're for you. As a small sorry," he sheepishly said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Ah red, very apt," you smirked watching his eyes widen as he thought for a moment. You swore you could hear the cogs turning in his brain as he thought of what to say.

"Forza Ferrari?" he nervously giggled, but smiling made the dull thud in your brain worse.

"Touche, touche," you nodded, closing your eyes again. Charles retrieved you a glass of water and a couple paracetamols. "Thanks," you said, taking them off him and knocking back the water with the pills. It'd take some time for them to work, but it was worth it.

"Is my nose still bleeding or am I good?" you asked after spotting the blood-stained tissue on the bedside table.

"Not anymore, don't worry. Can I sit?" he responded, pointing at the small space on the edge of the bed beside you. You hummed in confirmation as he moved to sit beside you. He couldn't help but still feel guilty as he saw the state you were in, since it was his fault.

"I've got two things to ask of you, if that's alright," Charles said, unable to meet your eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Well the first one is, this is your free pass to whack me in the face as hard as you want, and I won't kick up a fuss or complain," he said, and you couldn't tell if he was having you on or if he was being completely serious.

"Really?"

"Really." he nodded, but you still didn't want to do it. Yes, he had permanently made your nose crooked, and he had caused you a great deal of pain over the past few hours, but you didn't want to make him suffer as well.

He had tried to make you feel better, and he had stayed with you, even when you told him he could go. And now he was asking you to offload your anger and exact your possible revenge on him. "No, Charles. That's not fair,"

"Neither is what I did to you," he quipped, "I am fully prepared to have a crooked nose too."

"I don't think you really want to be matching with me," you laughed, trying to imagine his picture perfect face with any slight impurity. But there was no way a crooked nose would make the one and only Charles Leclerc look bad.

"The crooked nose is cute, I think it'd be cool to match with you," he smiled, his words truly coming across as genuine.

"Well thank you, but I'm not going to do that to you," you said, and you'd feel unbelievably guilty if you had taken his offer up. If he had asked a couple of hours ago, you definitely would've given him a good slap, but now wasn't the same.

"Offer still stands, but now for number two. I would like to take you out for dinner, as a 'I'm really sorry, I fucked up, and I would like to make it up to you.'" he rambled, prepared for you to tease and make fun of his blushing and hesitation.

"You really don't have to," you said. It was sweet that he was asking to take you to dinner, but you didn't want him to just because he felt like it was his obligation to.

"But I want to, you deserve a nice night, and it'll be my treat," he continued, not wanting you to decline this offer.

"Then yes, I will go to dinner with you. I've already forgiven you, but I'll take dinner as collateral," you smirked, liking the idea of being treated for once. Life working for an F1 team was nothing short of fast paced, and when you were back at Maranello, you barely had enough time for yourself, let alone a significant other.

"And that is music to my ears. Well, maybe the fine tuned crunch of your cartilage, but you know," he chuckled, trying to make the most of the situation.

"So that's how you get so many women swooning over you, you damage them so then they'll never forget you. Now that is clever, Charles. Even for you," you laughed, and he wished he hadn't found it funny. He knew you didn't think he went around hurting women he liked, but he really hadn't given himself the best impression. 

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. So, how about after this weekend? In Maranello? There's this really sweet cafe that Carlos and I go to sometimes, they're open until really late and it's always dead past 4. It'll basically just be us," he explained.

You liked the privacy for two reasons: one was that the paparazzi wouldn't be able to hunt you down if you were somewhere that no one knew about. Two was that you could just enjoy Charles with no one else around. 

"This weekend in Maranello it is," you agreed, and the smile on his face was infectious. He couldn't help but grin. Somehow, he was taking the prettiest girl on the team to dinner, even after his moronic mistake that was fuelled by his unavoidable competitiveness.

He may have nearly broken your nose and permanently disfigured you, albeit only marginally, but he had still managed to make your heart soar. The world worked in mysterious ways, and who knew fate included goggle games gone wrong?

A/N - Rewatched this the other day and I just couldn't help myself! Bring back Charlos I am begging you, I miss my 'Rari boys. If you could give this a reblog, it would be greatly appreciated! Love y'all 💖

|masterlist|

[d3cay1ngst4tic]

— your wounds make me bleed.

synopsis. you, being the oh so powerful sorcerer you are, did not even realise the extent of your injuries until you found out that you couldn't stand without the support of something— after defeating the curse, of course. shoko's busy, so, satoru, being the gentleman he is (and also the strange source of comfort you have) decides to take matters in his own hands— while being a pain in the ass, obviously.

however, you joking about your death does not help— and satoru's carefree façade manages to slip, bringing back some memories he had tried to forget.

genres/themes. satoru gojo x reader, hurt/comfort, satoru and reader are highschool friends (frenemies ?), satoru and reader bicker a lot, satoru being a menace, reader is also a menace (lmaoo), mentions of blood (reader is injured), mentions of satoru's past, reader comforts satoru.

★ jiah’s notes. i miss him so much that it physically hurts me. send help LMAOO—

word count. 1.8k

“tsk. and here i thought that you could take care of yourself, at least,” the white-haired man tuts, and you feel yourself roll your eyes to the back of your head for god-knows-what time again— and that of course earns a smirk from him. “how disappointing. and ah, don’t roll your eyes so much. you might just have a view of your non-existent brain and pass out on me. jeez, i wouldn’t want you to dirty my couch.”

“how fascinating to hear that you care about something, satoru,” your voice feigns bewilderment— a simply amazed look in your eyes as you heave a blissful sigh. “at least you’re not as heartless as i thought. hang on there, expensive leather couch.”

“so you’re admitting you’d pass out, and the fact that you don’t have a brain,” satoru huffs out a laugh, finding amusement in the way you let out a small ‘tsk’ of annoyance.

something about satoru comforts you.

no, it isn’t the comfort that people idealise— no physical contact, no silly gifts or acts of service— it was his mere presence that soothed you, while irritating you at the same time. every word that flowed between you two was either a sugary sweet taunt or a blunt insult— yet, you two found solace in each other in a way that was beyond the comprehension of everyone around you.

including you two.

“if not having a brain will make me cope with your ass, then so be it,” a small smirk tugs at the corner of your lips as you watch satoru wrap the bandage in a firm, yet gentle grip around your arm, relishing in the way his eye twitches and his usual shit-eating grin widens in annoyance.

“at least i didn’t get my ass handed back to me by a grade one curse,” the man lets out a scoff. “seriously, how do you even get this beaten-up?”

“hey, ’t wasn’t my fault i only noticed my blood after defeating it,” you say, shifting your position on that damn couch of his, as you felt a sudden urge to fidget with something, “at least it got exorcised.”

“sure,” satoru says, and you swear you could feel him rolling his eyes even through the confines of his blindfold, “very impressive. at least it got exorcised.”

hearing him say those— your— particular words in that mocking, sing-song voice makes an irritated scowl break out into your face, and oh how it makes satoru smile so smugly— making you want to curse the hell out of this menace of a sorcerer.

“you’re applying too much pressure, dumbass,” you mutter, trying not to wince as his fingers tightened the bandages which covered the skin of your hands.

satoru raises a brow, tightening them even more. “deal with it,” he deadpans. “ ’s your fault, ya know? if i keep it loose you’ll start to bleed. again. over my couch.”

the damned couch again.

honestly? you knew that he couldn’t give lesser shits about the furniture, and that he was just saying that to piss you off. and what was even more infuriating was that it was working.

really, years of experience with satoru gojo had changed nothing— and everything in your feelings towards him.

“get it over with the couch, will ya?” it’s your turn to let out an annoyed scoff, which undoubtedly makes the sorcerer let out a snicker of his own.

“sometimes i wonder how you even ended up becoming a sorcerer,” satoru wraps a band-aid around your scratched fingers, “thought you’d leave the job and become a farmer or somethin’, y’know.”

“unlike you, i had spent too much of an effort in the projects yaga gave us in highschool, so there’s no way i’d let it go in vain,” you shake your head, “it would be too embarrassing.”

besides, you’d rather die than see satoru’s laughing face if you ever decided to change your profession just because you weren’t able to handle a curse or two.

“you never change, do you?” satoru huffs out a laugh, and oh god if he didn’t wipe that agonizing smirk off his face within the next second, you’d gladly do the honours— if only you weren't in so much pain, though, “always so damn reckless. it’s a miracle you have me to tend to your wounds, or else just where you be?”

“dead, most probably,” you say with sarcasm dripping down your words, expecting a scoff of amusement in response— but it never came.

you tear your gaze away from the dried gash on your arm to meet satoru's piercing, piercing stare— it was really a wonder how that guy manages to make you feel his eyes bearing into the depths of your soul even though you couldn't quite actually see them because of the shield his blindfold created.

satoru feels a whirl of emotions in him— eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, and you just know that he is not, in fact, amused.

not even in the slightest.

his heart is racing— and if he had his blindfold off, you’d see how his usually bright, azure eyes had a darkened glint in them— something which just screamed out the fact that he was unsettled, uncontrolled— afraid.

as the tense seconds pass, he gives you a little glare, his expression hardening.

“. . that’s not funny,” he utters, before averting his gaze down to your arm. his efficient hands wrap the gauze around your limb almost in a mechanical movement— the little frown never leaving his face, lips pressed into a thin line.

oh.

your gaze softens, watching the sorcerer quietly tend to your wounds, noticing how his gaze lingers on a particularly deep gash on your leg— how his fingers tremble ever so slightly when his touch stays on the burn for a little too long— you notice it, of course you do.

he's thinking about suguru again.

there wasn't quite a time when he didn't— at least he didn’t show it to anyone. but you, you see him for who he is— the lonely man who’s just wanted some love, and not just the title of being ‘the strongest’— the man who still yearns for his best friend to come back, even though he's . . . gone.

you always see through him.

you should've considered your words before joking about something like that, really.

no matter how much of an annoying bastard satoru may be to you, but still, he was satoru to you. not 'the strongest', not the guy who always had that stupid smile plastered on his face at all times, not the guy whom the world saw as undefeatable— no, he was something much, much more.

you watch his tense demeanour threaten to consume him alive— how his hands shake no matter how much he tries to make them steady, how his shoulders go rigid when they were usually slumped carelessly, how his bottom lip quivers— it was just a tiny movement, yet you manage to see.

how could you not see earlier that you words would've affected him? god, you felt so stupid.

“ . . hey,” hearing the soft tone in your voice makes something inside satoru snap— raising his head to forcefully avert his gaze from your injuries to your face— heart beating so loud that he’s unsure whether you wouldn’t have noticed.

but then again, you were you, and satoru was, well . . . satoru.

his eyes widen— seeing you open your arms with that soft, apologetic smile— and before the sorcerer knows, he’s burying his nose into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped tight around your injured frame; his lower body on the floor as he nuzzles into your arms on the couch.

most people would’ve hesitated, casted him a wary look of disbelief— the satoru gojo, reduced to a trembling mess just because someone joked about their death? the satoru gojo, who still blames himself for his best friend’s death? the satoru gojo, who’s known as ‘the strongest’— being vulnerable?

indeed, it is the satoru gojo, clinging onto you like a lifeline, large hands of his gripping you so tightly that he's afraid that you might disappear the moment his hold loosens.

your satoru.

arms wrapped around his neck as you shush him, bandaged fingers running through his snowy white strands whilst his shoulders shake— oh how you regretted saying that.

“ . . i hate it when you say stuff like that,” he mutters, and if you didn’t have a knack for noticing subtle things about it, you wouldn’t have seen a barely audible crack in his voice.

“ ’m sorry,” you say in a quiet, soothing tone, pulling away a bit to stare at his face, and god did your heart wrench— satoru's bottom lip was red from him biting on them so much.

gingerly, one of your hands unlatches itself from around his neck, going to gently slip under the hem of his blindfold — as you slowly pull it down, revealing those mystical eyes of his— so terrified that you feel the fear radiating off him.

he seems so, so vulnerable like this— a desperation and fright seizing his entire soul as he stares at you. you cup his cheeks, thumbs caressing his soft, warm skin.

“don’t . . . don’t joke about stuff like that,” he says in breathless, shaky whisper— eyebrows furrowing even more as his breath stutters, and from this moment on you swear to yourself to never say something like that again. not if it hurts satoru.

ever.

“i won’t,” you whisper, pressing your forehead against his, “ ’m sorry, satoru.”

you pull his head down so he’s laying it on your chest, arms wrapped around his neck as you massage his scalp soothingly.

satoru’s shoulders relax, his heart easing a bit from hearing your gentle tone, panicked eyes fluttering close as he lets out a small, shaky sigh, burying his face into your chest— so desperate for comfort, for some kind of reassurance that you are okay, that you won’t leave, that you’ll . . .

stay.

you run your hands through his fluffy locks, gently easing the tension that had accumulated within him with simple movements of your fingertips— earning a soft, relaxed sigh from him.

“keep doing that,” you hear him mutter, and you let out a hum in response, continuing to massage his scalp. “don’t . . . don’t stop. please.”

this is how two you seeked comfort from each other.

something that was beyond words— something that was beyond everyone.

including you two.

as you two lay on the couch— two souls craving reassurances from the other— time ticks by, but oh do you care? not even a bit.

“don’t leave me,” satoru whispers, and you find yourself letting out a murmur of approval, caressing his hair. “i was so scared, i can’t lose you too, i—”

“i’ll stay, satoru.”

and so, you do. as long as you’re here with satoru, he has nothing to fear.

as long as you stay.

☆ @stxrysnow on tumblr. do not copy or post any of my works without my permission.

[reallyromealone]

I need a SMILY FIC! Reader is the male version of Jessica Rabbit, and Smiley is his Rodger Rabbit. But nobody believes Smiley is married to the reader because they think he (the reader) is way out of Smiley's league. But it's Nahoya's sense of humor that won the readers heart.

Title: wifey

Fandom: Tokyo revengers

Characters: Tokyo revengers ensemble

Fic type: fluff

Pairings: smiley x reader, Draken x Emma, takemichi x Hina, hanma x kisaki

Warnings: male reader, reader insert, fluff, reader is tall, suggestive themes, mentions of threesomes

Notes:

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Smiley was a surprisingly private individual, he kept his shit to himself and so it was a surprise to everyone that he was not only in a relationship but engaged to one of the hottest person they ever saw.

(Name) Was a bombshell, the wet dreams of wet dreams.

"You are not engaged to him" Baji said simply and nahoya shrugged as he polished a glass at the bar area at the restaurant, him and Souya closing the shop for the day to have old Toman together for lunch "you are literally a gremlin! And he's like-- walking sex!"

"Keep getting bricked up for my fiance and I'm gonna kick your ass" smiley said coldly with a grin and Baji rolled his eyes "oi, Sanzu don't you deal with paranormal shit or whatever it is?"

"Parasocial and all the time, people think they know everything about me" he said simply as he sipped his sparkling water, Mikey nodding in agreement "I got people acting like they know exactly how I act... Real freaks"

"So delulu that he thinks he's with (name)" mitsuya picked up slang from his sister's and loved to use it much to the others groans.

"Keep acting like this and you're not invited to the wedding" smiley didn't have to wait to long though to prove his words true, (name) texting him that hes on his way with some snacks the pink haired man requested.

"Seriously, you're way to deme--"-- baby? They didn't have the chips you wanted so I opted for the second best thing" everyone turned to see (name) step in, the Haitani brothers awe struck and Draken surprisingly was the only one who believed smiley after all, how the fuck did Draken himself land Emma?

"Oh, 'hoya baby you didn't tell me you had company, I could have come at a later time" (name) was a fair bit taller than nahoya, from the looks he stood at the same height as hanma. Curves and an ass that could make a man drop, the married trio of pah, Draken and takemichi chatting amongst each other with no interest in the situation but the others... Smiley was about to break some fingers.

"Everyone, this is my fine as hell fiance! No we won't do threesomes so don't fucking ask!" (Name) Let smiley pull him to his side, the other kissing his cheek while he played with the hair at the nape of the older twins neck and smiled at Angry "I got you some gummy worms" he said calmly as he ignored the oggling from the others "it's a pleasure to meet Nahoyas friends, he's spoken of you all"

"Fondly I'm sure" kazutora said with a flirty grin and (name) tilted his head as he gazed into the others eyes "that's not the word I would use" (name) said simply as he watched the other struggle at (name)s naturally sultry gaze "how the fuck... Is this a thing" Kisaki said incredulously as Hanmas hand rested on the specticalled man's thigh, the boyfriends finding this fascinating yet strange.

Smiley was... Well smiley and (name) was sex incarnation.

"We met at a party and where everyone was trying to flirt... Hoya made me laugh" (name) said simply and nahoya looked SMUG as he let the other hold him close "why don't you head upstairs baby, I'll be up in a minute" Smiley sent (name) upstairs but not without a kiss that left (name)s (lipstick/lipgloss) on the others lips.

"You sure you aren't open to a threesome?" Mikey asked and smiley cracked his neck at that.

"Absolutely fucking not, you're not coming to the wedding"

[bloodied-blossom]

What if you're actually just a stupid serial killer?

1.9k Words; Ronin x Reader

Killer Chat! Fanfic

Basically, what if mc was a serial killer who was one slip away from getting arrested (They're not good at hiding the fact they're a killer)

`don’t be so obvious smh`

`You’re Gonna Get Caught`

EXE | file.exe

`ReceivedKey:k!llrch8t_b00t.mango`

`here Ya go there’s your Key`

`Whenever you’re Ready`

You stared at the incoming message and thought about it. Shit you were being obvious, but maybe it could be played off? You groaned, wanting to delete your post.. But that would make you look suspicious. So, you left it up and reread the messages you received. Who was this? Was this an ip grabber? Maybe law enforcement? Whatever it was, why not test your luck with it. Because clicking random links that strangers send you is definitely something you should always do without a second thought. When you clicked it, a tab opened up asking for your key. You remember the message also had this specific key for you to enter, and so you typed it up. After you finished typing, an app opened itself on your computer..

SLAUGHTERHOUSE_LOSERS_v.4.4.4.mango

What the hell. You were taken to a server with very few people. What exactly was this for? People who had the answers for the questions you were asking? Or idiotic people who just need more people to talk to. Whatever the case was, you would sit it out and see what was happening. As you were having your debate, you received a message.

`<goreboy> [00:01]`

`welcome the Newly Christened @\user`

`<hitmeuppp> [00:01]`

`AAA omg omg!! Welcome to helllllll`

`<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> [00:01]

`WELCOME WELCOME HIIIIII`

`<felicite> [00:01]`

`Nice to meet you!`

`<Angelic> [00:01]`

`Hi there! Glad to have another one with us ♥️`

`<goreboy> [00:01]`

`make Sure to take a Peek at #rules`

`there is Barely Anything but You Never Know`

Okay what the hell was going on? You didn’t expect most to be online, let alone greet you. What was this server? Slaughterhouse was a strange name for it, who were these people? All these questions circled in your mind.. And then you turned your attention back to the server.. You should probably start becoming active if you want more intel on it. You checked out a couple channels, including rules. It was literally only two messages and both were short.. One was a response to the first.. Something stood out to you though, the first sentence of the first message. ‘Be a serial killer.’ Either these people were a bunch of roleplayers, or they were like you. And you needed an answer fast. You did something any logical person would do.. And ask the most important question…….

` <user> [00:02]`

`So… what serial killer are you? @\goreboy`

`<goreboy> [00:02]`

`I’m on the News if you Must Know`

The news? There are a number of murderers you’ve seen on the news and idolized.. The Butcher being your favorite.. But there was no way this random person would be them.. Right?

..

It was worth a shot.

`<user> [00:02]`

`That means you’re…`

`you’re the Butcher?’

`<goreboy> [00:02]`

`ding ding Ding`

Your heart started racing. Your idol.. Your literal idol was talking to you! He had to be the one who invited you to the server! But how could you be sure that it was him? Would he confirm it? Give you proof? More and more questions flooded your mind as did your excitement. You couldn’t leave the server now, not with the chance this was actually The Butcher you were talking to.

`it’s Uninspired but Alas`

`that’s the Price Paid for Letting the Media Name you`

`<Angelic> [00:03]`

`Like you’d choose a cooler name`

`<goreboy> [00:03]`

`Well`

`mine would At Least be Devil Related`

`You'd think they’d Get That from the Satanic Circles that i Curl the Bodies into.`

Your smile widened. It was him alright. Through some digging, you were able to snag photos of his murders, and the media never discussed the state of the bodies after a good while. Curled up and distorted in a sinister way.. Oh you had to stay on this server. But you didn’t want to just give all your information away at once. You were going to play it safe and silent, stay as mysterious as possible. This would allow for some leeway, you could be whoever you wanted to be here.

------

It had been a while, and you were genuinely enjoying the server.. You were.. More awkward than most of them, confused and wanting to say the right thing but it always sounded strange. You could tell a few thought that as well, but had not commented on it… except for Ronin . He had been the thorn in your side that would not stop prodding and poking and urging you to reveal who you are. You didn’t comply, threatening him all the while. Who did he think you were? Would you have to admit to who you actually are soon enough? This whole persona you’ve put on to hide your identity was going to come crashing down.. They wouldn’t judge you, why keep it up. You were conflicted. You were already sure they were serial killers now, you were all the same. So why was it so hard to come out with the truth?

Is it because you think they’d call you a liar? Hunt you down and murder you for hiding the truth? Lose trust in you? It could be a number of things that you didn’t want to experience. This was a dangerous game you were willing to play. Besides all that confusing, conflicting shit, you’ve been having a good time. You’ve been flirty with The Butcher , playing into his hands knowingly. It was nice. He seemed weirdly into the fact you’d want him, want to date him. That you would place your aorta, as he put it, right into his hands. It was thrilling, exciting even. You were playing with the devil , you were playing his game. And you could not be more happy with how it was turning out.

------

`<goreboy> [19:43]`

`come on Darlin’`

`i’m waiting on That Proof`

`<user> [19:43]`

`The devil’s an eager one, isn’t he.`

`It’s almost adorable.`

`<goreboy> [19:44]`

`can You blame me?`

`you refuse to tell me about yourself, so mean.`

`you refuse to Give me proof of your crimes.`

`Just give me a name darlin’ and I could Look you up.`

`<user> [19:44]`

`Why do you want to know my killer name so badly?`

`<goreboy> [19:44]`

`i thought I made it obvious that i don’t Exactly trust you.`

`come now, my divine darlin’. just tell me.`

He’s pushy, really pushy. But in honesty, you couldn’t blame him. You should have been honest from the start.. But why doesn’t he believe you? You talk like a serial killer, though that's stereotypical, you’ve talked about your past murders, and even your planned future ones! Why does he need to know specifically which you are? Why is it so important?

What if he’s in love~ and wants to track you down? Or maybe hunt you down to kill you off. Whichever it was, both filled you with excitement. Maybe you should finally admit to him who you are.. Maybe then you’d be able to romance him without the faulty sense of trust you both share. You stare at the chat bar, wondering how to admit it.. Before you begin typing. You spilled your guts to him, thankfully not literally. Told him everything.. You even provided photo evidence of who you were.

------

Ronin’s smile contorted into a twisted one, he thought you were some stupid writer who got themselves into a situation they couldn’t escape. You were.. Stupid, really stupid with your methods. You acted strangely in the server, off put by any conversation about murders and what not.. But he could see it all now, it all finally clicked. You were acting that way to stay mysterious, to not show your true self. He felt himself falling in love in a strange, sick way. You were so much more than he thought you to be. He was in love with his divine experiment, his twisted little angel. He was in love with you, but he wasn’t going to let you know that easily.

`<goreboy> [19:47]`

`oh the truth. The sweet, enticing truth.`

`And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.`

`John 8:32`

He leaned back in his chair, his smile never really fading. He was enticed by your true nature and wondered how you would react in the server from here on out. You were playing his game nicely, you were even a deranged serial killer like him, or at least a serial killer. Twisted thoughts filled his head, all the things you two could do together.. All the people you could hurt and kill.. He’d be your little shoulder devil, urging you to be his little corrupt angel. It was perfect. You were perfect. The perfect victim for his little fantasy.

`<goreboy> [19:47]`

`this is making Me more and More excited for the day we meet.`

`keep your eyes peeled, sweetheart.`

`once I get my hands on you, i won’t Let You Leave`

He watched as you reacted hurriedly, confused and questioning what he would do, if he would tell the others, but he didn’t respond at all. He only watched you spiral in your private channel while chuckling. You really were cute, something of his most disgusting dreams. He stood, taking off his beanie and stepping to his dresser. He needed his iconic little outfit. He was getting impatient waiting to get to you, he wanted to be with you already. He needed to be with you. It was driving him insane really.

He laid his outfit out, grabbing his pocket knife and placing it right on top. If you changed your mind, if you didn’t want him like he knew you did, he’d give you the chance to end it all. His smile fell slightly, sad thoughts trying to wiggle their way back to the front of his mind. He pushed them down quickly. He wanted to replace those shitty memories, those shitty fucking feelings with these new ones. He wanted new memories with you. The one he loved in the present.

He left you with one final message.

`<goreboy> [20:01]`

`one more month, my angel`

`you can figure out who I am by then`

`can’t you?`

By the time you could go to respond, get mad at him for not answering your other questions, he had already logged off and started getting dressed for bed. He finished changing rather quickly, tugging at his hair and chuckling quietly. You were going to be the death of him. He fell onto his bed, a hand holding the shirt he had on right above his heart. It was racing. His face was flushed. He was becoming manic. Thoughts of you, your pretty face, your stupid hair. Your dumb voice. All of it flooded his mind. One month. That’s as long as he needed to wait. He’d keep toying with you from then, hoping you’d grow irritated and angry. Hoping you’d want to kill him all while wanting to kiss him like there was no tomorrow. He wanted to drive you fucking crazy, he wanted to see you go mad. He was excited to see you break under his hold.

“Oh darling.. You’re driving me insane.”

[purinfelix]

clumsy ⭑.ᐟ - franco colapinto

summary: being a mechanic is a tough enough job - but with a driver like franco who can be oh so distracting, sometimes it feels impossible w/c: 1.1k

a/n: woops this was meant to just be a blurb but i fear my franco fics can never be short ....

The chaos of the garage never failed to get your adrenaline pumping and this race weekend was certainly no exception. Ever since becoming a mechanic, you prided yourself on being able to enjoy the thrill of every grand prix up close, without actually ever having to step foot in the car. The only payoff was spending almost the entire race on edge, constantly nervous about when the next pit stop would be and whether you'd be ready - but it was a price you were more than willing to pay.

Intently, you watched one of the several large screens in the garage, chewing your bottom lip nervously. Tapping your foot restlessly you watched the cars go into another lap, keeping your eye on the two royal blue cars that belonged to your team. As they neared the garage you heard the familiar sound of them zipping past, and couldn't help but smile softly to yourself.

"Franco pitting next lap!" Your moment of peace was disrupted as the garage erupted into action, people shouting orders from every direction.

"Get him some hards, we're doing a tyre swap," an engineer next to you hissed with urgency, and your body moved instinctually to do as he said.

You can feel the familiar sensation of your heart beating out of your chest, that thrill that you love so much about your job - but also the immense pressure you feel. It helps a little, being part of a bigger team, but still the responsibility you feel is sometimes overwhelming. You crouch in position, at the front right wheel, gripping onto the tyre through your gloves - waiting.

Soon you hear the whirring noise signalling your next job is here, and sure enough you turn to spot Franco's bright blue car speeding in. Around you the team hurries, yelling out instructions and concerns but through your nerves you can barely hear them.

Before you realise it, he's right in front of you and for some reason his visor is flipped up far enough that you can see his eyes. You're caught off guard by how strangely charming he looks with his cheeks squished up like that - but the minute he winks at you, everything else falls silent. Everything else apart from your heart, which is speeding up even faster than you've ever felt it go before. You feel your cheeks flush quickly as your grip on the tyre in front of you loosens.

A muffled voice screams urgently from above you, bringing you back to reality slowly.

"What?" is all you can let out.

"The tyre! Put on the goddamn tyre!"

"Oh shit." You huff under your breath, finally regaining control of your senses and showing the tyre to the car in front of you. You watch as he speeds off, listening to the groans of the other mechanics around you. Normally your blood would be running cold after such a devastating mistake, but right now there's only one thing on your mind - the amused smile you saw in Franco's eyes as he drove off.

"What the hell was that? You just cost us like three seconds!" You turn to one of your superiors, whose face is contorted in disappointment. All you can do is begin rattling off sorrowful apologies and try your best to come up with a reason for your mistake that isn't three seconds of eye contact with your team's new charming driver.

Ultimately, the three seconds didn't seem to cost you too much - both of your drivers managed to score within points range for the day. Whilst the rest of the garage was busy rushing out to celebrate this fact, you simply lingered, relieved that your mistake would hopefully be forgotten, at least for now.

"Sorry for earlier, you hear a smooth voice from behind you as you're slipping off your gloves - causing you to jump. Spinning around you're once again met with Franco's green eyes, only now you're granted the benefit of the rest of his face too.

"Right, and what exactly are you apologising for?"

"Isn't it obvious? The whole tyre mishap."

"A little bold of you to assume that it had anything to do with you," you huff defensively, beginning to change your mind about wanting to be alone in the garage and beginning the walk out to the paddock.

"Well," he's following after you and as he comes up beside you, you catch a glimpse of the playful smile toying at his lips, "wasn't it because of me?"

"If that's what you want to believe, then sure, whatever floats your ego bud."

"To think a trained mechanic like you could make such a mistake," you feel your hands curl up into balls at the teasing drawl in his voice, "all because of a little eye contact from little ol' me?"

"Right, eye contact, a wink and a smirk."

"Aha!" His sudden jump in volume causes you to stop in your tracks and spin to face him. "So it was my fault after all."

You sigh, feeling your cheeks heat up in embarrassment at being caught out so easily. "Whatever," you mumble, resuming your walk out of the garage.

"Really, I'm flattered," he continues in a dramatic tone, "I didn't think my charms had such a strong effect!"

"Hey watch who you're talking to, remember at the end of the day who's responsible for making sure you can even drive out there." Despite your threatening words, the confident expression on his face doesn't falter even as he lets out a soft chuckle of amusement - which you try not to let get to you, but god it's like the music of angels.

"I really am sorry," he insists, "I didn't mean to make you do that, truly."

"Alright, glad we got that out of the way."

Before you can leave though, you feel him suddenly close the gap between the two of you - his breath hot in your ear. "I guess it just means the flirting will have to stay off-track though, hm?" His voice is like honey, and a lot deeper than the playful tone he was using before.

It stops you right in your tracks, urging your heartbeat higher than it's been all day. As you stand there, desperately searching for a witty quip back or even just words to fill the silence, he just leans back with a smile. He tilts his head, as if signalling for you to follow him, as if urging you to act like he didn't do what he just did, before walking casually out of the garage.

As you finally managed to unstick your feet from their place you reluctantly followed suit - and whilst you were grateful that your earlier mistake had been forgiven, now you were worried about the entirely new challenge you had granted yourself for the upcoming weeks.

taglist: (reply/send me an ask if you'd like to be added! <3)

@spreadyourwings-my-smiling-angel @alelo23 @scill-a @multifan-idk

[raytoebiter]

xv. young blood spills tonight (written work)

It's a really, really beautiful fucking day. That's no doubt. Like, at all.

Why's that, you ask?

Well, simply because the endless sea above you is winking at the little organisms with their clear blue skies devoid of the usual cotton white. Then, there’s also the breeze that has been blessing (bugging) everyone's asses by flipping skirts and sending papers flying.

And well, yeah, those are the usual signs that your day is going to go well.

The biggest catch, whatsoever?

Shitty Asshole (Scaramouche) finally decided to stop acting like there was a permanent stick up his ass with every interaction he had with you.

Or in simpler terms, he stopped bothering you.

And hey, going by your definition, it really means that he hasn't called you names nor did he prolong a conversation by unabashedly acting like a fuckboy to grind your gears.

And, well. That? That's really fucking strange.

Some people (Hu tao) may suggest going to the person, and asking, “hey, are you okay?” considering that the asshole looks like he got hired by a shitty animation studio and was overworked during the weekdays, but considering how much he irritates you on a normal day?

You would dare say; hell, no. You don't have any damn plans in crossing the lines of rivalry just to reignite the spark of hatred that's holding your relationship with him. You also don't got any damn clue if he stopped simply because he felt guilty for pushing you down (which, going by your interactions with him on Monday, doesn't seem to be the case at all) nor if he stopped because his ginger friend is finally shooting his shot (which also doesn't seem to be the case since it's unreasonable as hell).

Either way, you'd rather enjoy this blissful predicament rather than finding the catalyst behind it.

(You completely, and resolutely ignore the gnawing itchy bitch inside of you that keeps moaning about the fact that you haven't had a proper argument with the Asshole since Monday.)

And besides, it's not like it's any of your business to pry on his personal problems, right?

So yeah, the angel on your shoulder (that annoyingly sounds a lot like Hu tao) can fuck off, and the beautiful day you spoke of can continue on without any grape-hair bothering you.

A giggle left your lips, the sound utterly high. If you were in the right state of mind, you would've been nauseated with how you're acting.

But.. right now? You’re quite literally bouncing off from, holy shit, I'm gonna go on a date with Childe—to—Oh my god, what am I even gonna wear!?—to—He’s such a flirt, god, he's so attractive–

—and then, finally—wait, hold on, I need to fulfill that damn request, fuck!

With that, disgust burns your esophagus and you're instantly upset, because fucking hell. You have to hang out with the guy that's been avoiding you for.. what? A fucking week? Just ‘cause of some shitty obscure reason?

Like, seriously, come on. Pushing you off the stairs is nothing but a damn stepping stone for your hatred to go onward, right? It's really nothing, so why the fuck is he doing this cold-shoulder thing?

You scoff as you turn on your phone, opening the contacts app, then scrolling until you see the infamous, “the insufferable asshole whom i shall not dare interact”.

God, the nickname was such a great idea.

The conversation that lit against your face brings some sort of annoying churning in your stomach, and you scowl at the feeling. Don't tell me I'm feeling sentimental about this shit.

Then, as you shudder from the prick needles poking at your skin, you instantly chuck the thought to the murkiest depths of your mind; hoping to never be seen again because, holy fuck.

Deeply sighing, you clicked on the call button, index finger lightly tapping and making circles on the counter as you pressed the phone to your ear.

The phone luckily rings until it makes a familiar clicking sound.

“What—”

“Shut up, where are yo—actually, no, scratch that. Come here early, like right now, ASAP.”

A notable silence on the other line. You briefly wonder if you should've let him finish, but then again, any pleasant business the other had could fucking wait.

“Yeah, no. I'm on my way to the entrance road, dipshit,” the other bit out after a moment. There's light sweeps of air in the background, and a fleeting thought occurs to you that the Asshole might be walking considering the lack of engine noise.

You cross your legs, squinting at the door because wasn't the entrance road atleast 3 miles away from the café? isn't that so far?

“...Don’t tell me the Grand Scaramouche is actually walking? Whatever happened to your Porsche, hm?”

Scaramouche simply chuckled, the sound reverberating through your spine, sending shudders along the way. You end up reaching for the blanket that, fuck, was currently perched on a damn desk chair a feet away from you.

For a few seconds, the words simply hung in the air.

You have half a mind to ask what the fuck was up with him, only to absolutely shrug it off as you finally snatch the blanket, fabric warm and just so fucking perfect, goddamnit.

It's then the Asshole finally makes a noise and—

“Well, might as well enjoy the shitty scenery before I quit, right?

Your entire world stops. Not in the sense like those shitty romantic scenes, of course, but in the sense that you just discovered something so fucking shocking that your world quite literally stops functioning for a second.

Because, seriously, what the ever-loving fuck?

Don't tell me I fucking did something wrong? I didn't even do anything. Like, shit. But didn't we just have a talk in monday? didn't we, like err, fucking.. glare at each other in wednesday? What the fuck is up with this guy? Is he jealous? Wait no, that's not really reasonable. Is it Childe? Is he avoiding me because Childe told him to just so he could shoot his shot? Wait, maybe it was the push—no, fuck, wait. What was all that talk about, ‘wanting to stay here a little bit fucking longer, then—

A snort. A really, ugly and mocking snort, “you do realize you've been muttering all that like a stupid ass ESPN commentator, right?”

And right now, as tempting as the idea of screaming, “what the fuck do you mean!? what was all that beating for then!?” to him really is: you, a beloved fuckin’ saint, instead, made the very difficult and extremely mature decision to not push your luck.

And that is to hang the fuck up, LMAO.

Might be an overreaction considering that you once chanted a whole ass pseudo-manifestation on Scaramouche quitting for some inexplicable reason but..

..It's an embarrassment to your dignity to admit—but, fuck it, anyway.

You'd rather take a barrel of a sailor’s vocabulary ebbing out of his mouth rather than this odd silent treatment he's been doing with you.

It's not that you missed him or anything—god, no—it’s just.. really anticlimactic considering that the only connection the two of you have is your rivalry with him; with all the shitty remarks he makes, the brawls you have with him, and the constant bickerings that happens on a daily basis now that you were coworkers.

At some point, you've always kept the notion of having a relationship more than just hatred in the damn Pandora’s box, simply because you couldn't really fathom something stable and promising with him, especially with the Asshole’s personality being equivalent to having a fire up your buttcrack.

Not only that, there's no fucking way that asshole is getting away after pushing you off down the stairs (1), doing a whole pep-talk about wanting to stay in the café longer (2), offhandedly showing up to the first day with his goddamn porsche whom you haven't seen in a few days now and you miss it so bad (3), get into a brawl only to have your beloved grandmother see it and force the two of you into a 30-minute lecture on why fighting brings bad benefits (4), and be one of the sole witnesses of you having a panic attack (5) only to fucking leave?

Well, atleast he's got the fucking balls.

Feeling the rush of adrenaline, you pocketed your phone, the initial plan of changing out of your clothes completely and utterly forgotten as you hurriedly scurried to put on your shoes and bursted out of the room.

Your grandmother furrowed her brow at the sight and sound of the door slamming against the wall, “dear? where are you headed to? why are you still in your clothes?”

You grabbed your necessities (phone, check, money, check, food.. nah, scratch that), and sent a reluctant glance at your confused grandmother, “can I take the shift off today? I.. need to catch up with a friend super, duper quickly and apparently the ass—ass.. something is leaving today. And they didn't even tell me about it so—”

“Alright, alright,” Your grandmother gently interjected, attention now fixated on whatever was on the counter, “you ought to tell me these earlier though, okay? I'll call Xiao to help out.”

A groan left your lips, hand already twisting the knob as you turned one last time, “tell him to not act like a stuck-up dick though!”

And distantly, “make sure to bring an umbrella!” along with the cracked laughter resonating in the air as you took off.

–

The wind howled through the trees, sending chills up your spine. Your grandmother was fucking right. You should've bought a damn umbrella.

You rubbed at your arms, slowly contemplating whether to go back to the café and just endure the agonizing back pain for a couple of days, or wait in the goddamn bus stop since most likely, the Asshole will probably go through there.

The latter is so, so fucking tempting, especially with how there's light rain dotting the pavement now—

Wait, light rain?

Panic strikes, you cautiously and hesitantly glanced up at the sky, as if it was some blood-curdling demon drooling at the sight of a frightened prey. Fuck, you should've known it was going to fucking rain cats and dogs the moment you saw the skies being abundantly clear as fuck.

And, holy shit. The café is atleast a mile away and the bus stop is still at least 3 blocks down, fuck wait, what do I do!? Should I call the Asshole? Surely, he brought a fucking umbrella, right? Hold on, shit. Fuck this motherfucking—

Just as you’re about to curse the entire fucking mother nature bloodline, the featherlight droplets tapping onto your shoulders turns into something much, much more overwhelmingly heavier, soaking your head then your clothes.

A fleeting thought of jumping off the river near the café crosses your mind, but you immediately shrug it off.

Eventually, an exasperated groan left your lips, gaze now facing forward as you stared at the foggy mist that now started to descend on your way. Your back still aching even after a few days doesn't help, and the heavy rain patting your clothes, gradually soaking it certainly doesn't fucking help either.

God, a sick leave on Monday doesn't really sound like a happy-go-lucky choice, doesn't it? Sighing, you reach for your skirt pockets, rummaging through until you find the familiar device.

Immediately just as you take it out, it gets drenched.

Am I really going stupid?

You annoyingly frowned, slightly lowering your body to cover it from the rain as you frantically pressed the power button and—

Fucking voila! It's fucking dead! The bright 0% winking at you like a delicious fucking meal on the table!

For several fucking seconds, you frigidly stood there, hand loosely clutched around the jackshit motherfucking device, with your nervous system going haywire, and the absolute urge to snap your spine in half coursing through your body like blood flow.

Oh, and there's also the impending chill down there that holy fuck, you're going to get sick.

What a fuck-up day this is. All because of that damn Ass—

Okay, that's too unreasonable. You did choose this, after all.

Still. You shouldn't have fucking gone out. Hell, you should've listened to your grandmother.

A crackle above snaps you out of your thoughts, all suddenly aware of the fabric clinging to your skin with the coldest motherfucking sensation, and you shudder, pocketing your phone.

Right. Shelter.

–

After squeaky shoes, near-death instances (one of which being almost tripping over a damn dead toad in the middle of the street), and the occasional middle fingers from Mother Nature, you finally reached the bus stop. And as per usual, it's devoid of the crowd that used to piss you off when you were a kid.

Muscle movement from all over the years has you reaching out to the bench and lightly dusting it, only to realize what you were doing, deadpanned, then reluctantly sat at the wet bench. An embarrassing squeak of your shoes bringing heat to your cheeks.

Years ago, these roads, now looking as if they've been deserted, used to be the lone passageway to Qingce Village. A small, remote town near the Inazuma borders. However, because there were a shit ton of animals running around bare-assed (take the shitty toad as an example), the officials or whatever had to force the roads to shut down.

Now, it's officially been recognized as a restricted area.

Well, not really. Considering that some kids can still do shitty hide n’ seek once in a while, but it's often discouraged.

Well, fuck the discouragement, you can do whatever you want. Besides, it's not like the Liyue Qixing actually gives two fucks about it, especially now that Qingce village looks more like an abandoned town rather than an actual village.

Though, some tourists and occasional students seem to like the idea of abandoned places, so they’re often seen in the area doing whatever.

Your eye twitches when a drop falls just right in front of your nose, thoughts immediately halted. Fuck, should you really wait here for Scaramouche to show up? The biting cold fabric against your skin is really, really not comfortable. But in some way, it does kind of help with your back ache, so there's some benefits to that.

A shiver. Then, a sneeze.

Man.

You're so dead the moment you come back. You don't even know what time it is for fuck’s sake! But guessing from the time you left and the time you walked to get here, it must be around 4:35PM already. The rain is still moderately heavy, and the shitty roof, that's basically worn out rust, has holes in it, so it barely just does the job right.

The faint pattering of the rain against your shoulder feels soothing in some way, and the slight fog seems to disperse from all that shitty walk so now, the area is a bit visible.

And man, what a fucking calming shitshow. You ought to thank Scaramouche for this.

Wait, hold on, speaking of Scaramouche, hasn't it been at least an hour since you called him? And 3 miles is atleast..

You nervously chuckle, no way, right?

No way he reached the café while you were out here, shivering and dying from the rain, right?

It's been an hour. A full fucking hour!

No way. Yeah, nope. Nope. Nope, no, fucking nope.

There's just no way. You’ll see him in the street, wave him over, reprimand him until he stays, then force him to hang out to fulfill the request.

Yeah. Definitely.

And, anyway. What the hell was the Asshole up to? Out of nowhere, he just wants to.. quit?? What is up with that? You certainly know it's not about the environment, or anything. So, what the fuck was it? Not only that, he seemed casual about the ‘pushing’ incident too, so, really, what the fuck is he really up to—

A hand. A shadow of a hand creepily loomed over your form, creating a shadow just below your toes, and you jolted, heart suddenly skipping a few beats as you hastily turn around and holy shit—

“Scaramouche!?”

He carefully surveys you, the seconds feeling like an eternity as his hand idly floated mid-air, before he leered in disgust, “god, you look so fucking horrible right now.”

A dull ache throbbed in your temple, already feeling the Scaramouche-Induced-Migraine settling in the hypothalamus of your brain, “yeah, no shit. I look terrible, and ugly. Ever wondered why that is?”

Right now, the Asshole is clutching a beautiful, useful umbrella and there's a plastic bag hanging off of his forearm. A droplet falls right on top of your head, kindly reminding you once again of the beautiful, useful umbrella in his hold.

“Are you going to stop looking at my umbrella, or what? I'll share with you, don't worry.”

You narrowed your eyes in suspicion, “you didn't bring an extra one?”

He rolled his eyes, turning to the side, then to you, “are you stupid? your granny chased me out of the café to ‘find’ you. what idiot even goes out in a weather like this?”

His head tilts slightly upward in gesture, while you spiralled down in the fact that, fuck yeah, I was right. He really did reach the café first.

“Well?”

“Got bored,” you easily lied, shrugging your shoulders for the extra effect, “I didn't think it'd rain this.. hard.”

“So, you really are stupid.”

"Shut up! I just got bored, okay?"

“Well, blah blah, anyway. Let's go back to the shitty café,” he turned sideways, reckoning you over with his head like you were some shitty dog.

It only struck you as your eyes drifted to his in pensiveness that—this was the first conversation you've ever had with him since Monday. And, he was going to leave. Just like that.

And, god. You've gone two years. Two years without talking to him except the occasional blistering arguments on social media that still pissed you off to this day. Hell, you even went on four days without having a proper conversation albeit the fact that you saw him everyday in that.

You've managed just fine. Felt no difference. Felt nothing.

But.. fuck?

Why does it feel different when he's talking to you, then?

Why the fucking motherfuck does your heart feel the fucking need to feel fucking restless to the fucking point of fucking beating so fucking loudly?

You suddenly, and viciously regretted locking gazes with him, considering how there was now a huge ass stretch in silence as you two stared each other down; the gaze neither intense nor did it ebb hatred.

Though, the way his eyes settled over to yours do feel like he's stripping you down from your skin to your heart, and oh fuck, don't tell me he can hear my heartbeat? holy fuck, this is embarrassing, what the fuck do I do? why is he staring at me like that? don't tell me I have a leaf over my head?? wait, hold on. should I break the stare or what? this is so fucking embarrassing—

An amused sound between a snort and a laugh. Presumably an involuntary one as he covers his mouth in reciprocated shock.

“What's so funny?”

An slight smirk creeps at his face “you're such a mumbler.”

A frown, “that's not even a word—”

“Are we going back to the café, or are you going to keep standing there like an idiot who just got dumped? Because you really look like you got stood up by a piece of shit right now.”

Okay. Calm. One, two, three..

You tried not to let the indignance take over your face as you held up a pseudo smile in agreement. Scaramouche eyed you for a moment, and then sighed before turning around.

There goes my plan in taking him to hang out. Maybe I'll ask him after school tomorr—

Wait. Hold on.

“Wait, uh. Do you—”

His feet halted, just right in the center of your vision and only then did you realize you were looking down like an idiot. God, this is so embarrassing.

You hesitantly looked up, confidently glared at him square in the eye (since glaring has always been your forte with him) and blurted, “hang out with me. like, right now.”

Silence. You can already feel the regret creeping in when all he does is fucking watch, and watch with those shitty fucking ass purple motherfucking eyes with the imperceptible fucking glint shining in them and—

“What on the fucking earth,” his expression was flat, but he did have that aghast-amused tilt to his eyebrows.

That's how you knew it was a success. All doubt and humility instantly drained out of you as you grinned, the mean and confident one that you knew made your features look devilish, “what? it's gonna be your last shift anyway, and I had to take a shift off—don’t give me that look and don't ask why—so, why not just hang out with me? I'm sure grandma would let you off.”

“O..kay?” he drawled in incredulity, a brow curiously quirking up as he turned to you fully, “so, what the fuck are we doing today, Dora the Explorer?”

“Uh, we could—erm,” you tried. you failed, “I don't know! I haven't thought that far!”

“Okay, jack-ass. We're going back to the café—”

“No!”

“And drink some shitty warm water—”

“Nope!”

“And—”

Before he could fucking finish because it really was starting to piss you off, you tore the beautiful, useful umbrella from his hold, stumbling him forward as you slowly took a step back.

You watched the realization slash amusement crawl over his pale features, twisting it up to a scowl, “give it back.”

A blink, then an idea came to you along with an impish grin, “well.. you'd just have to get it from me, then.”

And with that, you took off.

Scaramouche gaped at you, looking absolutely debauched as he realized what you were the fuck up to. And at that moment, you smiled.

You give it at least three counts.

One… his head swerves left and right.

Two… his gaze locked onto you.

Three… then, he made a break for it.

A wet ass road isn't really a good place to run a marathon in along with the (still) heavy rain blurring your vision as you dashed to who-the-fuck knows where, but right now?

As the cold nips against your skin like some sort of fucking leech and the Asshole few meters away from behind you chasing like a madman..

It feels like a whole otherworldly experience.

You'd never imagined running in the rain, soaked and absolutely feeling the impending doom already, with your rival, out of all people.

–

“You're a real fucking idiot, you know that, right?”

Okay. Maybe you are a fucking idiot by, what? Running into the rain with what you presume was one of the best experiences you've ever had but had the shittiest fucking consequences? Yeah.

Presently, the two of you are fortunately situated on a cliff with a bench. Totally I-Know-a-Spot vibes with an abandoned ass gasoline station just right off the side. Though, how did the two of you manage that? Well, your dumbass decided to run off the forest and somehow managed to end up here.

At some point during your whole life living in these parts, you've always seen the cliff in your peripherals but never had actually gone through the effort of going to it. So, yeah more or less, it's really your first time being here and, holy fuck is it divine.

The sun kissed the area with gold, blessing the two of you with the warmth it gives. The scenery is really the fucking catch though; with the sun infront of you, half of the village seen just below, café being literally quite just under the cliff and whatnot.

Oh, and yeah. The rain stopped mid-way as the two of you ran, so right now, you're currently dying with the left-over chill.

A shiver runs through your body, and you breathed out a sigh, “you enjoyed it, anyway. you can't really complain, you know?”

He glares at you, awfully looking like a stray hissing after being dumped with water, “fuck, no. I almost tripped twice. Heard that? Fucking twice, [Name]. That was not fun.”

As if he didn't stifle a laugh when you accidentally dropped the umbrella, “yeah, sure, Mr. Nonchalant. Also, I stepped on a dead toad on the way here, so.. again. you can't complain, I've had it worse.”

A roll of his eyes, and god, one more roll and I swear to the universe, I'm gonna make that permanent, “okay, piss grenade.”

“Piss—excuse me, what?”

“You know, explosive and lethal piss? Stuck in a grenade, and when you throw it, it becomes a piss shower?”

Silence.

“Yeah,” a scowl formed on your face as you conjured an image, “that's not really..”

He narrowed his eyes, “don't kinkshame me.”

“What—”

“So, when is the hang-out actually gonna start?” you can see the shiver creepily crawling over his body, and he tensed like a cat.

Ha, cat. Cat…

You awkwardly cleared your throat, murmuring, “I don't know.. actually. Wanna—uh. Wanna stay here and like, I don't know, watch the shitty sunset, or something?”

And again, his face comically deadpans. You can probably see the iconic SFX behind the background as he watches you with keen, fucking purple eyes.

“Is this really the same [Name] [Last Name] that told me to fuck myself on Monday?”

A snort escapes your lips as you nudge him by the ribs, “haha, very funny. Yes, I am, you asshole. God, you really do have a derogatory kink, don't you?”

His eyes glint in mischief, voice raising a playful lint, “oh, yeah? don't tell me you have a praise kink? Come on, don't get turned off, I'll praise you just fine.”

Your jaw gapes, like absolutely gapes and drops, before dramatically scooting further away from him, “yeah, no. I'd rather eat my own hand than have you praise me like that ever. Please stop the harassment.”

“Sure, fruitcake. And we're soaking up the entire bench, and it feels so fucking disgusting. When are we gonna get back?”

Oh. That's right.

“Are you…” you gulp, heart fucking doing somersaults, “are you actually going to resign?”

And at that—a glimmer in his eyes caught your attention as he turned to you; a permission to open up, to spill whatever bullshit he wanted, and you? Well, who are you to refuse?

“No,” he answers, “well, after today and that shitty run, I decided to shove the middle finger to my mom and maybe ask to postpone the offer.”

A hum left your lips, swaying your feet back and forth, “what’s the offer about anyway?”

“A modeling offer. I was given a chance to undergo some sort-of fuckin’ teaching class about modelling—which, I don't fucking want, by the fucking way. But. Ugh, my mom forced me. After that, I'll probably inherit her company or some shit.”

That doesn't really..

As if reading your mind, he continues, clutching the edge of the bench a little tighter, “and the reason why I don't want to take it is because it completely fucks up my schedule; after-school hours? fucked, cowgirl style. weekends? fucked, missionary style. Hell, even holidays? fucked, mating press style.”

He sharply chuckled as you gaped at him, and you mumbled, “your mom is too..”

“Selfish? Annoying? Fucking overbearing? Yeah,” he interrupted with a scoff, the sound laced with so much bitterness, “and anyway, I think I'll postpone it until I'm done with Senior High School. I have plenty of reasons anyway.”

You slowly blinked, still trying to process how.. weirdly dictatorial his mom was. You don't really give a fuck in that part of the industry, considering that you're way too focused on school to actually give a fuck about anything else other than being a barista (and speaking of school, fuck, you still had that physics assignment that's due by 11:59PM).

And, anyway. Holy fuck, you're absolutely going to have a hard time processing the fact that you just had your first ever official uninterrupted emotional conversation with Scaramouche. Or anything that involved non-rivalry things at all. The others are definitely going to have a field day with this and, ugghhh, you can already feel the undeniable burn in your eyes and the sting in your throat—

“Okay, thanks for listening,” he states dryly, eye-judging you as a droplet from his hair falls, “so awesome of you to go on a mumbling tirade while I was pouring my whole shitty sou—”

“Shut up, you asshole! Jeez, my grandma’s gonna kill me after this. I left without saying anything, I didn't even bring the umbrella she gave me! All because I chose to hang out with you, ugh."

“Aww, scared I'd be out of your sight, fruitcake? you must love me that much, huh.”

“No,” you bluntly say, “absolutely fucking not. Gross, by the way. I was just worried about you since we stopped talking for a week, and now you're dipping? no way, you're still my rival and I'm not letting you go until I see you in second place in the final rankings.”

He raised a brow, “we could still be—”

“Shut it.”

“..Okay, you sap.”

“Gross.”

And for the first fucking time ever, a comfortable silence settles in and goddamn, you missed the sunset. Slowly though as you watched from above, the blue-ish fog dissipated from the sky, leaving an endless sea of ink with dotted white.

And of course, as usual, the Asshole opens his gasbag mouth with his gaze transfixed on the skies above, “I really don't like stars.”

Just as you're about to retort, or atleast shove him to the sides and tease him, he continues, eyes still fixed to the sky but this time with a frown, “it looks so unreal, sometimes. Like, what the fuck do you mean those are just huge balls of hot gases winking at us like we're some useless specimen? I'm not useless, goddamnit.”

You blinked slowly, then levelled the Asshole with such a deadpanned look, “are you really saying that.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Of course, it would involve your ego. Of course. At this point, it's probably as big as the whole space.”

Scaramouche smugly smirked, “Yeah, ‘cause the fucking space is as big as my dic—”

“—Well, how else do you spend your time than just.. sit and not contemplate about life then?"

“..I don't fucken know? I don't spend my time looking at shit like this and going, “oh! I'm gonna think about my life and how utterly depressing it is!” like most people do. I just do whatever shit that is worth my time.”

You gave him a blank look, “so pessimistic. You must be so fun at parties. And, hey, we don't just immediately start thinking about life and all that. Sometimes, we just, you know, come here to relax.”

“If we're talking about that, then I’d rather look at city lights from above.”

A shrug, “guess that's more like you.”

He scoffed with a smirk, “makes me feel like I'm the star looking down in all those shitty specimens.”

“Ooh,” you cooed absentmindedly, “okay, city-boy.”

That familiar scowl settled in and you jolted, not expecting the nickname to hit a nerve, “oh, fuck off!”

A blink. Then, another blink before the drawl of the nickname left your lips with a higher lint, “city-boy!”

“One more and I swear—”

“City-boy!”

“Fuck—”

“City-boy likes to look at species below and—”

“Fuck the fucking hell off, you fucking mumbling gnome!”

You two didn't share a laugh that night, but you did continue the relentless teasing until, until he had to forcefully drag you down all the way back to the café at Eight-Something in the Post Meridian hours.

Needless to say, the lecture that came after was as warm and soothing as chocolate milk with cookies, after a whole evening of teetering between just outrightly dying of hypothermia, or having to go on because life still wants you in its grasp.

───────────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────────────────

|| previous episode - next episode. ||

───〃★tunes of your heartbeat masterlist

synopsis: in which your fate somehow gets entangled into a messy jumble between punk music in cozy cafés, intense rivalry, cherished yakults, parallelograms and quantum physics, competitions in contests and rainy days. or in other words; the universe seems to fucking hate your guts for whatever reason and decided to curse your love life with your awful crass emo twink-a-fuck rival. the question is; did the curse work?

taglist (50/50): @toekissers , @raineyun @localscarasimp , @potteraep , @shutingstar , @feiherp , @scaraenthusiast1 @dazqa , @wraithisd3adinside , @x-hihihi-x , @court-jester-stuff , @automaticpatroltragedy , @lalalaloveallmydays , @trulyylee , @jayzioxx , @featuredtofu @kazemiya @help-whatdoimakemyusername , @skyoverkill1 @phoenix-eclipses , @anqelkoz , @miyakomari @saechiro @franaby , @swivi , @vixialuvs , @heusalettle @kunikissr @yomishen @mywillt0live , @baldrapunzel @jiminscarmex @sushitushi, @liuaneee , @shynsgore , @mechanicalbeat1 , @marivaudages , @okukura , @azzumei @lucid1tty @iloveescara @usagiarchive @kyouzki @theunhingedmf @kangyeonie @mi2ukiss @bubblebellaz @eternallykira-143 @lumiicch

• featured song - into the night by benny mardones

• notes - i've been planning to use this exact song for this chapter for MONTHS like i swear it was one of the first ideas that came to me when i first started the drafr outline for this smau LIKE UGHHH

• "i'd take you into the night," [name] taking scara to the cliff

• "and show you a love like you've never, ever seen," [name] and scara hanging out there and talking about life and silly shit hajdnsjn

• "it's like having a dream," cue "You'd never imagined running in the rain, soaked and absolutely feeling the impending doom already, with your rival, out of all people." HELLO??? I COOKED CHAT I FUCKING COOKED

so yeah that shit above was what i wrote in the draft LMAO

authors' notes - hey freaks guess who's back😝 supposedly, i was gonna post this like two days ago but then BUT THEN a shitty migraine fucked me ten times over the course of two days leaving me absolutely dead ass on my bed so. yeah. and anyhoo, any comments about this is SO much appreciated considering i spent the last week making this while in writer slump (5,3k WORDS BABYYY) and holy shit chat??? we're 50-notes away from??? ONE THOUSAND??? WHATTTTTTTT that was so fugkcing fast HRLP ME thank you for all the support regardless tho😞

p.s - might update more now since WOOHOO SUMMER BREAK IS FINALLY FUCKING HERE

(ask to be added or removed)

[bring-forth-his-sac]

THE MAN FOR THE JOB - PART 1

Summary: when your father makes a bad choice, you become Negan’s latest wife

Pairing: Savior’s Era Negan x virgin!Reader

Word Count: 4.4k

Tags: daddy issues, virgin reader, sexual innuendos, swearing, betrayal, alcohol

A/N: yea this is basically my take on that old fanfic meme of "you" getting sold to [insert random boy band/ celebrity here] except it's with Negan. It was going to be one long fic but I decided to break it up! Part 2 should be up next week and it will be filled to the brim with smut lmao

Sniffling. Panting. Choked sobs. And footsteps, slowly pacing up and down in front of you.

You focus on the sounds, your head hanging low and eyes glued to the floor. The last thing you saw was the man’s bat cracking down and then you looked away. 

Negan. A name you won’t be forgetting anytime soon. A man who had a grand announcement of who he was before ever making an appearance, as if he was headlining a festival.

You don’t know why these people chose your small group to torment or why they think your group would be able to find supplies for them. Not that any of that matters now.

To your side, you hear your father’s haggard breath. You could tell he kept his eyes up and watched what happened with the bat, the small grunts and sharp inhales of air being enough of an indicator.

“Phew! Now that’s what I call a workout,” the man continues to pace up and down, the shadow of his bat swinging by his side coming into your peripheral “I mean, goddamn! He was not going down easy, huh? Like cracking a goddamn walnut!”

Despite your group having no real leader, your father happened to be a talker– someone who truly believed they could talk their way out of any predicament. Unfortunately that meant he somehow became the unofficial spokesperson for your group. Boots stop in your sight, facing towards your father. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Blood runs off the tip of the bat, pooling on the ground. Your eyes drift over to it, watching the blood mix with the dirt.

All things considered, you feel lucky. The man Negan decided to swing at was someone you hardly knew. The poor guy was the latest addition to your group, someone who was only around for a couple of weeks before now. You still have your family, both of blood and those you consider family from how long you’ve all been travelling together.

“Well, I think we’ve done our fair fucking share,” Negan booms “got rid of another mouth you had to feed and we’re only taking half of your shit! Ain’t that good? I think that’s pretty damn good”.

He waits for your father to agree.

“It– … it’s good,” your father concedes, taking an audible gulp “T-thank you”.

Negan’s boots don’t move, letting everyone know that he’s not satisfied just yet. He simply watches the sniffling mess that is your father as he waits for more. Moments pass. Others cry. You hear Negan’s leather jacket groan as he shrugs.

“… That’s it?” he asks, a strange mixture of amusement and threat in his voice “I mean, shit, I should’ve gotten a thank you the second I said I’d only bash in one of your skulls! I think we’re past thank you’s”.

You keep your head down, almost too scared to move in case it draws his attention on to you next. 

“I gotta say, I kinda thought you’d have something better for me,” Negan sighs, scratching at his stubble “I’ve done a lot for you and your people and hell, I just got here! You don’t want to seem ungrateful, right? You’re not some ungrateful fuck who just thinks I’m doing all this shit out of the kindness of my heart, right?”.

Your father stutters, trying to get out words without knowing what to even say. Speaking to Negan is like defusing a bomb, constantly fearing you’ll say the wrong thing and set him off.

Slowly, you tilt your head to the side, trying to see your father. A part of you is terrified that this will be the last time you’ll ever see him breathing.

He sputters, a mixture of snot and spit glistening on his face. Even at the start of the apocalypse, he never looked as bad as this. Swallowing hard, you look back to the ground. Some of the others are still crying. A part of you wishes you could cry too but the tears refuse to come. Maybe it’s because you didn’t know the dead man well or maybe at this point, you’re simply numb to the horrors.

You retreat back to what you’re good at. Staying still and staring at the dirt in front of you, waiting for this nightmare to be over. You listen to your father continue to sputter on, not able to form a single word as he shifts in his spot, shakily moving some limbs. 

You don’t look up to see what exactly your father is doing, nor do you look up when Negan begins to walk again, his footsteps getting louder as he goes to pass you.

But he doesn’t.

Negan stops closeby. You’re not sure where precisely, once again not wanting to move your head. 

The noise that does catch your attention is the whooshing sound of his bat that’s too close for comfort. Acting on instincts, you immediately jerk your head backwards in the hopes of avoiding the impending smash. You look up, knowing there’s no point in acting like a statue if Negan’s already decided you’re next.

With wild eyes, you gawk at Negan. The sight you’re met with is worse than a quick crack against your temple. 

Lucille is right there, pointing directly at you. There’s a smile on Negan’s face but it’s different than before. That smile was cruel. This one is full of mischief.

“This one?” Negan asks, his eyes boring into you “Holy fucking shit, Christmas has come early! And I think I might too”.

You blink, unsure what he’s saying to you or why. Your mouth falls open, confusion lining your face before the sudden realisation hits. 

Negan may be looking at you, but he’s not talking to you. As if your body has the answer before your brain does, your head turns in the direction of your father. 

Refusing to look you in the eye, your father’s outstretched arm points directly at you. You don’t need to hear him say it to know what he means. Somehow, your trembling body stills at the raw betrayal. A cocktail of pain brews in your gut, one of hurt and confusion bubbling inside of you.

“No,” your voice comes out surprisingly strong as you shake your head “no, not me!”.

Despite Negan being in charge here, you don’t even address him. Something shifts within you. It’s not the sadness you would usually associate with something like this. Instead it’s a catalyst for something more fierce, a burning of rage that’s been building for too long.  

Negan ignores your words, too busy gloating now. “Well, damn! I thought you would’ve just got me a ‘Thank You basket’, not your daughter! Because I am assuming that’s your kid, right?” he continues to talk “well, shit, suppose I shouldn’t be calling her a kid actually. How old are you?”.

Despite this question being directed at you, you continue to ignore Negan. “No, you can’t do this to me! What— what the fuck is wrong with you?” your voice builds, eyes burning into your father “Answer me!”.

Whether he won’t look at you out of shame or denial at what he has done, you’re unsure. The only thing that is apparent is your father won’t be dignifying you with a response.

Turning on his heels, Negan signals for some of his men. “Put her in the truck” he says it so casually, the order barely registers with you.

The dirt crunches under the feet of more men but you’re not done. You want answers. “Are you fucking kidding me?” You argue at your father, your throat tightening “what the fuck have I done?! Why?”.

Nothing. Not even a tear. The only thing your father does is drop his arm back down by his side. 

“After everything?! Y-you’re just going to give me up?” Your voice raises, wanting any kind of acknowledgement.

Two men approach you, one grabbing your arm to hoist you up off your feet. In an flash, you kick out, getting one of them in the shin.

“Hey!” Negan suddenly loses his excitement, his voice a bark of authority as he points the bloodied Lucille at you “None of that shit or else it’s Daddy that’ll get it next”.

You scoff at his attempt to threaten you. If you’re being taken then all hope is lost. What’s the point in begging now? Especially for a man who just sold you down the river to hell. 

“Like I give a shit, dickhead” you spit out, each one of Negan’s henchmen taking an arm each as they haul you to an awaiting van. 

It’s jarring how fast Negan can change. Switching from a psychopath to a charming man within a matter of seconds, over and over again. He smiles widely as you get dragged off. 

“Wow!” Negan turns his attention back to your father “now I can see why’d you want to get rid of her as fast as possible! She’s got a way with words, that’s for sure”.

You wonder if Negan will be able to pry a reaction out of your father that you could not. But before you can see if he does, you're thrown into the back of the van and shut out from seeing the rest…

———————————————————

That all happened almost two weeks ago. It’s surprising to think you’ve been stuck in his goddamn parlour from hell for that long already. Thankfully, Negan has let you be, having some sense of how traumatic it’s been for you.

The second you arrived at the Sanctuary and got hauled out of the van, Negan said some words to his men and you were ushered off. He never even looked in your direction. You weren’t sure if you were grateful or annoyed that after everything, he wouldn’t even glance at you. 

After that, you were dressed up like a doll and sent in here with the rest of the wives. They don’t speak to you much, though you can’t blame them.

You’ve been trying to process how exactly you got here, what led up to this and how quickly your father not only folded, but decided to offer you up as the sacrificial lamb. 

With nothing else to do in the wives parlour, you spend most of your days thinking back, wondering when exactly did your own father stop caring about you.

Negan visits at least once a day, coming in to crack a few jokes and try his luck with a few of the women. Usually one will always leave with him. He has yet to approach you. Sometimes Negan goes quiet and lets an unusual lull of silence take place. That’s when you know he’s looking at you, waiting for you to meet his gaze so he can finally approach.

You never do though, simply doing what you did when you first met him and keeping your head down.

It seems to do the trick and he steers clear of you. Whether it’s because he feels sorry for you or he’s waiting for the right moment to strike, you can’t tell.

Every day is the same. Wake up, put on a godawful dress, walk down to the parlour with the rest of the wives and stay there until it’s time for bed. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are all sent up to you. Drinks are in the bar in the corner of the room too and so there’s no need for anyone to leave.

There are only three ways to leave the parlour during the day. Either you leave with Negan, everyone is summoned to the open area downstairs to watch someone get ironed or, your personal favourite, a bathroom break.

Despite how lavish they try to make the parlour seem, it’s still a room in an old factory. There are no private toilets attached to each room. Hell, they’re lucky there are bathrooms found on every level. From what you’ve heard so far, it sounds like Negan is the only one that has his own en-suite. Surprise, surprise.

The bathroom breaks are your favorite part of the day. It’s bliss. For the first few days, you were escorted from the parlour down the hall to the bathroom but now, the Saviors on guard just let you go do your business. It’s the only time all day you truly get to be alone. No one watches you and it’s the one place you don’t have to worry about Negan barging in.

It’s the one room that provides you with the tiniest bit of reprieve you yearn for. Most of the time you just stand there, eyes closed as you lean against the sink and take a deep breath. For a few precious moments, you don’t have to think about Negan or the betrayal of your father. And that’s exactly what you need now, that fleeting sense of relief even if it’s just for a few minutes.

Mumbling that you need to use the bathroom to the guards outside the parlour door, they move aside. It’s the only time they ever do, making you feel like you have a sliver of control.

The corridor is full of closed doors, many you’re not sure what is behind it or if each room is even used. Sometimes you wonder which one leads to Negan’s bedroom, just so you know which one to avoid.

Your shoes are the only noise in the corridor, clicking along. Usually the bathroom door is always open, but today it mirrors every other door. As you get closer, you hear the quiet sobs of Amber, who’s locked herself inside for a quick crying fit.

You sigh, leaning up against the wall and waiting patiently. This is fine. This just means you get more time away from the others. Shutting your eyes, you allow yourself to zone out for a few moments… until you hear it. 

The rhythmic, high pitched sound. The familiar tone, like a faint memory just out of reach. Your senses sharpen as the realization hits you, your eyes shooting open.

It’s him. 

Leaning with your back flush against the wall, as if that’ll make you invisible, you tap on the bathroom door.

“Amber?” You whisper, tapping again “Amber, I really need to go”. 

The muffled sound of shifting inside the bathroom makes you hold your breath, but no response comes. Desperate, you try the handle. 

Locked.

“Amber, come on!” you mutter under your breath, head turning from the door to the dim corridor,  waiting for him to appear.

There’s a beat of silence, then at the other end of the corridor, you see his silhouette. Broad yet lanky. Looming yet relaxed. Your eyes are drawn to the bat, hanging at his side. It looks prickly this far away, as if he’s holding a damn cactus and not a killer bat. 

You freeze, eyes never leaving the silhouette. As much as you don’t want your gaze to draw him closer, you don’t want to take your eyes off of him either. Taking your eyes off Negan is asking for trouble.

“Well, look who it is!”.

Shit. Staying against the wall, you say nothing in response. Negan moves closer, eyes watching you with amusement. Wagging a finger at you, he pretends to look suspicious “Now I sure as shit don’t think you’re supposed to be out here, unless you’re finally doing an escape attempt?”.

He lets the question hang as he saddles up beside you and leans against the wall. He keeps his eyebrows raised, as if he’s waiting for you to entertain his question with an actual answer.

Silence.

Negan nods “Hm… quiet today… per usual”.

The door beside you finally opens and a sniveling Amber exits. You note the sound of a toilet flush not greeting your ears. Maybe the bathroom isn’t just your place of solace.

Negan ignores how the young blonde tries to hide her red rimmed eyes. With one quick look at Negan, she lowers her head and hurriedly goes back down the corridor. 

Watching her go, you take a step towards the bathroom before she stops you. Lucille. Negan side steps you and his outstretched arm juts Lucille out until the top of her touches the wall. It acts as a barrier between you and the open door, making you stop again.

“How’s about a treat?” He asks “Instead of doing your business in that shithole, how’s about you come into my room, let you do your business on a real throne”. He snickers at his own joke.

It’s not a suggestion. It’s an order and you know it. Reluctantly, you meet his gaze. Negan’s eyes are sharp, tracking your every second and reading each minute reaction. The way his smirk flickers for just a second tells you all you need to know. He’s enjoying the control he has here, like always.

Keeping your voice steady, you finally speak. “You think you’re funny?” The words come out lower than you intend but you can’t help it.

Negan’s smirk widens, a slow, deliberate movement that’s more of a warning than anything else. “I don’t just think I’m funny, sweetheart,” he purrs, his voice a smooth rasp now “I know I am”.

He taps the bat against the wall and it echoes down the barren hallway like a clock counting down. “So? What’s it gonna be? You gonna make me wait, or are you gonna follow the damn order?” his tone hardens slightly.

You take a breath, your eyes flicking from Lucille to his face. Lowering your head, you turn away from the bathroom. 

Negan watches you in silence as you turn away, his gaze heavy but unreadable. The moment he turns to walk down the corridor, you silently fall into step behind him. This is the most vulnerable you’ve seen Negan. Back turned to you, unable to defend himself for the second it would take him to turn. And yet he knows you won’t attack. That you can’t.

When you reach his door, he simply opens it with a casual twist of his wrist, stepping inside first and then holding the door for you with a slight gesture. “After you,” he says, his voice thick with amusement.

You step inside. It’s decorated sparsely, but with an odd sense of comfort—like it’s a place someone actually lives in. 

A large bed sits in the middle against one of the walls, with a few scattered papers and books near a small table. He closes the door behind you and leans against it, still watching you with that unreadable smile. 

“Make yourself at home,” Negan drawls “bathroom’s that way.” He points to a door on the far side of the room.

It’s hard to ignore the fact that every inch of the space feels like it’s his, even the air you breathe. You make your way to the bathroom, his eyes following you the whole way. 

You step into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you with an unsettling finality. The walls are a calm beige and the light is surprisingly warm and comforting. Not that it helps with your situation. Your heart is already thundering in your chest, blood rushing in your ears, drowning out everything except the cold realization that you’re stuck here. With him.

He has you exactly where he wants you. Alone with him. No other wives to distract him or butt in and inadvertently save you from engaging with him. Now it’s just you, stuck in his private quarters, where no one will help.

You scan the small space, looking for anything that could help you escape. The sink is just a sink, the mirror above it large and reflecting the usual sight of you in a dress. The shower is large but useless to you now and the small, claw-footed tub looks like it’s seen better days.

Your eyes dart around the room, desperate. There’s no way out. Nothing to use as a weapon. Just a toilet brush although you’re not sure if you could stomach the humiliation of trying to bat off Lucille with that.

You take a few steadying breaths, forcing your thoughts into some semblance of order. Your eyes flick to the window. It’s a small, high-up one that’s barely big enough for a rat, let alone a person to squeeze through. And that’s not even considering how high up you are. No good.

Turning on the taps you let the water run, hoping it’ll make him think you’re just doing the usual. Taking some of the water you splash it on your face and the back of your neck. All of this is too much. 

How has your only time for peace turned into such a nightmare?

You use one of his fluffy hand towels to dry your face, patting your skin gently. 

And who the hell has white fluffy towels in the apocalypse?

You huff, turning off the taps. You’re met with silence, the taps not even offering an extra drip of water. The quiet presses in on you like a weight, thick and suffocating. At first, you think it’s just the quiet of the bathroom, but then you realize… there’s no sound of movement, no low hum of Negan’s voice, no casual whistling or muttered remarks.

Nothing.

Your heart skips a beat, hopeful that the situation isn’t as dire as you believed. You strain your ears, listening hard, but the only sound you can hear is your own shallow breathing and the distant buzz of the light above you. 

Has he left? The thought is both a relief and a curse. If he’s gone, then maybe, you have a shot at sneaking out of here and pretending none of this ever happened. You pause with your hand on the door handle, knuckles white from the grip. Holding your breath, you dare to listen again, straining against the silence, but still nothing.

Your instincts scream at you to get moving but your body stays frozen, unsure. Slowly, you turn the handle and step out. He’s not by the bed, or sitting on one of the couches. A part of you expected him to be sprawled out on the bed, waiting for you to take on your wively duty but thankfully, you seem to have been spared today. 

Silently thanking what or whoever is looking out for you, you start to take quick steps towards the exit. The coincidence that Negan has been called out or distracted just as he’s finally gotten you alone is big but not one you want to sit around and ponder. Darting around the bed, you’re just about to pass the couches when he speaks. 

“Bottled in 2006,” he reads the label of a bottle “well, shit, doesn’t that sound like a lifetime ago?”. As if to purposefully hide out of sight, Negan stands in the corner of the room, hovering by a small wagon of bottles. All alcoholic, you assume no less. You stop dead in your tracks and as if to approve, Negan gives you the ghost of a smirk.

As much as you want to ignore him and go, doubt clouds your mind. Is there one of his Saviors waiting outside, guarding the door? Does he want you to run?

“You a drinker, sweetheart?” he asks, despite already having two glasses out. You linger, not wanting to sit down and accept this predicament but not wanting to run into a barrage of gruff Saviors outside this room. 

Bringing both drinks over to his couches, one filled more than the other, Negan sits “Don’t matter anyways, why don’t you give this a try”. He sets the lesser one on the coffee table, waiting for you.

He waits a beat before ordering “Sit”.

Looking at the drink, you weigh up your options. Negan simply sits there, sipping his own drink. It’s as if he’s waiting for you to run, easily giving him a reason to treat you with a harsher hand. Whether that would entail you “working for points” like most of the others here or getting sent to the cells you’ve heard whispers about, you don’t know.

Swallowing your nerves, you force your legs to move. One step. Another. Your fingers brush the edge of the couch as you sit opposite him. 

You didn’t think it was possible for someone to annoy you so much. You hate him. Hate the way he sits there, casually sipping his drink as if you’re at some sort of fucked-up cocktail party. Hate the way he knows this is the last thing you want. The way he watches you. The constant smirking or grinning as if he’s a friend.

You look at the drink, fingers itching to throw it. Smash it against the wall and see it shatter against his belongings, staining it all. The temptation is there. But so is the fear of the consequences.

You stare at the drink in front of you, the amber liquid gleaming like some cruel invitation. It’s not just alcohol; it’s a test. A way for Negan to see if you’ll obey. A way for him to claim another piece of you.

Your hand trembles, just a fraction, but you catch it before it gives you away. You’re not afraid. Not yet. But the tension in your chest tells a different story.

Every muscle is tight, coiled, like you’re waiting to sprint or snap. You can’t decide if you should laugh or scream at the absurdity of it all. Here you are, sitting in a goddamn room with a psychopath, drinking his damn poison because—what? Because you’re scared of what happens if you don’t?

You pick up the glass, your fingers gripping it tightly. The crystal feels cold. You bring it to your lips, not daring to look at him. If you do, you’ll lose the last shred of whatever control you have left.

The liquid slides down your throat—smooth and sweet—but it leaves a trail of fire behind it. It burns like it’s alive, crawling through your veins to mark you.

Negan lets out a satisfied hum, having another sip of his own drink. “You’ve been here for how many weeks now?” he asks, well aware you won’t answer. When you prove him right, he smiles and gives you a nod “And you’re still hellbent on the silent treatment, huh?”.

Leaning forward, he balances some weight on Lucille, her spiky end sticking into the rug beneath him. “Well, sweetheart, I think it’s about time we have a chat”.

Like a monk sworn to their oath, you stay quiet. But you know the silent treatment can’t last long. And you know you’ll have to put up with this supposed chat. With none of the other wives or Saviors around to distract Negan, you’re left to fend for yourself.

There is, of course, one more thing you know. You’re fucked.

PART 2 FOUND HERE

[animamii]

Part deux to the Sweetheart Eren story ㅤ♡ྀི ₊

i didn't expect the junior year part to get that many comments on expanding lol it was just a follow up to some oneshots I wrote but y'all seem to like it. idk what to title this mini series tho lmfao help me come up with a name!

୨୧・・・୨♡୧・・・୨୧・・・・୨♡୧・・・・୨୧・・・・୨♡୧・・ ・୨୧

The next day at school rolls around. You don't see Eren at all before class. Not the usual shouting of your name as he runs to catch up to you. You don't see him in the halls through the first few passing periods either, which is strange as hell. It's now break, and you're grabbing a yogurt bowl with Historia, Ymir, and Sasha.

You're mindlessly stirring the yogurt, the spoon scraping against the plastic bowl as you try to ignore the way your chest feels tight. Like it's not being constricted from any breath. It’s been over twelve hours since the encounter with Eren, and the silence between you two is deafening. It’s all you can think about—his words, his reaction, the way he stormed off, and the way he looked at you like he was trying to tell you something without actually saying it.

"Hey," Historia says, nudging you with her elbow as she grabs a piece of fruit from her bowl, "are you okay? You’ve been off all morning."

You glance up at her, offering a tight smile that definitely doesn't reach your somber eyes. "Yeah, I’m fine."

Sasha, ever the curious one, leans in. "Come on, spill. What's going on with you and Yeager? You two haven't been this quiet around each other since... forever." Thinking back, you have never went this long without talking to Eren. Not even when you both caught a flu that made you both feel like you were on your death bed.

You shake your head. "It's nothing." But your friends know you better, it's always something.

Ymir, not missing a beat, raises an eyebrow. "Nothing? Really? 'Cause last time I checked, nothing doesn’t usually make you look like someone’s killed your cat then took a shit on your doorstep."

You laugh, but it’s hollow. "It’s just... Eren’s being weird."

"That’s one way to put it," Historia muses, having had a front row seat to the whole ordeal. "I mean, who else would storm off after overhearing a conversation with Floch of all people?"

"Right?" Ymir agrees, oblivious to your growing discomfort. "It was like watching a soap opera, but with more muscle and even more drama."

You try to shrug it off, but the frustration is still there, gnawing at you. Eren’s been distant, avoiding you like you have some contagious disease, and it hurts more than you want to admit. But you can’t—you won’t—chase after him. You’ve always been the one to wait, to hold back, while Eren does whatever it is that makes him happy. But this? It’s different. And you hate how much it’s making you doubt everything.

That's when he walks in, hood over his head and hands in the pockets. You feel your heart do that stupid flip in your chest when you spot Eren entering the cafeteria. Your eyes widen and maybe soften a bit as this is the first time you're seeing him all day. It's almost like you missed him, but with the way things are between you two, you know you shouldn't.

The space seems to widen around him as you watch him walk in, his usual confidence replaced by a strange, subtle hesitation. He keeps his head down, his hoodie pulled low over his face like he’s trying to hide, but you can still make out the sharp lines of his jaw and the way his shoulders tense under the fabric.

You want to look away. You want to pretend like seeing him doesn’t affect you, like you’re not aware of every tiny movement he makes. But you can’t. It’s like gravity itself is pulling your attention toward him.

Sasha notices the way your gaze lingers, and she nudges you again, her voice low. "There he is. The man of the hour."

You blink, quickly looking away, but the heat rising in your face betrays you. "Don’t make it a big deal," you mutter, but you can feel the tension building in the pit of your stomach.

"Uh huh," Ymir deadpans, clearly not buying it. "We’ll just act like you didn’t look at him like he’s the last Dr. Pepper hidden in the back of the fridge."

Before you can shoot her a sharp response, Eren’s eyes flicker over to your table. The briefest flicker of recognition passes between you two, and for a second, everything feels suspended—like time’s dragging on just to torment you.

You watch as his lips press into a thin line, his gaze dropping almost immediately, like he’s too embarrassed to face you. He looks away, scanning the room, and that’s when he notices Floch sitting across the room with a few other guys, laughing loudly. Eren’s posture stiffens, the slight tension in his neck almost like he’s trying to hold himself together. He avoids looking at you completely after that, walking past the table with his head down. You can feel the weight of the silence. His absence is more obvious than his presence now, and it's suffocating. But at the same time feels like the air has been sucked out of your lungs.

Sasha, who has been watching the whole thing unfold like it's dinner and a show, leans in again, voice teasing. "Okay, that was... something."

"Shut up," you murmur, taking another spoonful of yogurt, your focus completely shattered. You can't ignore the unease building in your chest. The way he avoided you, the way he looked at you like he was keeping a secret, and the way he moved like you didn’t even exist anymore… It hurts more than it should.

Historia, who’s been quietly observing, gives you a gentle brush to your shoulder. "y/n, do you want to talk about it? You know you can tell us."

You look up, your chest tightening even more. The idea of talking about Eren, of trying to sort out your feelings when even he doesn’t seem to know what’s going on, feels like too much. But you can’t hold it in forever.

Before you can answer, Ymir pipes up with a half-smirk, “If he’s really being this weird, then it’s only a matter of time before he either apologizes or gets dragged back into a scene by someone.” You don't seem to notice the way her hazel eyes flit to Floch, you're too preoccupied with the image of Eren looking at you with that look.

You can’t tell if she means it seriously or not, but it stirs something inside of you. Could Eren actually come around? Would he apologize? But just as you’re about to respond, the bell rings, signaling the end of break. You barely get a chance to say anything before the crowd around you starts moving, and the usual rush of students makes everything feel more chaotic.

As you gather your things and start heading toward class with your friends, you can’t help but look back at Eren. He’s standing by the door, talking to Floch, his posture stiff and closed off. And despite everything, despite the confusion, you want to make things right. But it’s so hard when you don’t know how.

₊˚⊹♡

Eren’s steps are heavy, his mind racing as he pushes through the crowd of students loitering between classes. He can feel the unease building in his chest, and it has nothing to do with schoolwork or practice. His focus is entirely on Floch—on that idiot who’s been flirting with you.

It’s not like he hasn’t seen it before. Floch’s attention is always on someone new, a new target to charm, to flirt with, to toy around with for a little while. But something about the way he zeroed in on you yesterday... it’s been gnawing at Eren ever since. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all.

He doesn’t like the way Floch’s voice gets all smooth and condescending when he talks to you, or how that smug look never seems to leave his face, as if he even deserves to talk to you like that in the first place. As if he deserves to talk to you at all. Eren can’t stand it. He hates that Floch thinks he can just walk in and take something he doesn’t deserve. And he especially hates how you don’t seem to mind it. Hell, you even smiled at him. Eren’s blood boils just thinking about it.

So when Floch spots him in the hallway, leaning casually against a locker giving him a cocky ass look, Eren doesn’t waste any time. He strides over, muscles tense, eyes narrowing as he approaches. Floch looks up from his phone, his expression nonchalant at first. Then it breaks into that annoying smirk.

"Well, well," Floch says, his tone all teasing. "If it isn’t the mighty Eren Yeager."

Eren doesn’t reply at first, just stands there, fists clenched at his sides. He’s not sure what to say, but the irritation surges within him. How dare he flirt with you like that? How dare he try to pull you away from everything you’ve always known? How dare he try to pull you away from him?

“Listen, Floch,” Eren growls, resentment evident in his tone, “stay away from her.” He doesn't even need to say your name for Floch to know just who he's talking about.

Floch raises an eyebrow, leaning in just a bit, as if savoring the tension in the air. "Oh? And why’s that? You jealous, Yeager?"

Eren’s teeth grit. "I don’t care what you do with anyone else. But don’t try anything with y/n. Got it?" Never in his life had Eren gotten so visibly upset.

Floch laughs, clearly entertained. "You’ve got it bad, huh? You’re cute when you’re possessive." He steps closer, eyes glinting with amusement. "You’ve been staring at her for years, but you never do anything. So maybe I should."

Eren’s chest tightens, heart thumping rapidly as he feels that surge of angered adrenaline enter his bloodstream. He feels like he’s about to snap. His hands twitch at his sides, itching for something—anything—to channel this rage into. "I’m not kidding, Floch. Stay away from her," Eren repeats, voice almost shaking with restraint. Eren had never been one for needless violence, always trying to be a mediator like his mother had taught him. But the way Floch was talking to him—the way he was talking about you—made him want to knock his ass out.

But Floch just shakes his head, a knowing smirk on his face. "You know, Yeager, you’re not really the type to say what you feel, are you? So go ahead. Keep being ‘the good friend.’ But maybe, just maybe, she’ll want someone who actually shows up."

With that, Floch gives Eren one last, infuriating look before walking off, leaving Eren standing there, his body still tense and his mind racing. Every word, every taunt from Floch, is like a slap in the face, and Eren knows he’s pushed to the limit now. This thing with you and Floch? It’s not over. And neither is what Eren feels. But the thought of it—it’s making him feel more lost than ever.

₊˚⊹♡

Eren doesn’t make it far before Historia and Ymir find him. It’s after lunch, and he’s been doing everything possible to keep to himself—hood up, headphones in, avoiding eye contact. Ignoring everyone and everything. But he should’ve known better.

"Yeager." The sharp call of his name makes his shoulders tense. Before he can turn, Ymir yanks his hood down, forcing him to face them. Historia stands beside her, arms crossed, looking far less aggressive but just as confrontational. Ohhhh he was in trouble now.

"Seriously?" Ymir scoffs, letting go of his hood with a dramatic drop. "You're really out here sulking like some kicked puppy?"

Eren rolls his eyes and pulls his hood back up. "Not in the mood, Ymir."

"Yeah? Well, neither is y/n," Historia says, tone serious but concerned. "She thinks you’re mad at her."

For a split second his eyes slightly widen, heart dropping. He never wants you to think he's mad at you. But then that image of you smiling at Floch floods his vision. It makes Eren’s jaw tighten, makes his chest swell with unnamed envy. He keeps his eyes down, but the weight in his chest only gets heavier at that.

Historia steps forward, voice softer but firm. "You’ve been avoiding her all day. Do you even realize how shitty that is?" Her blonde brows raise up, she can't help but be upset for you, one of her closest friends.

"I’m not avoiding her," Eren mutters, eyes looking everywhere but the two girls that stand before him. He knows just how well the couple can read him just by looking at him.

"Bullshit," Ymir deadpans, trying to look Eren in his shifty eyes. "You’ve been glued to her side since forever, and now suddenly you're a ghost? You expect her not to notice?"

Eren exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I’m not mad at her," he says, but the frustration in his voice betrays him, that slight crack to his words.

Ymir lifts an eyebrow. "Then what’s your problem? ‘Cause from where I was standing, you looked ready to rip Floch’s head off when he was flirting with her yesterday."

Eren bristles instantly, eyes going wide. "That’s not—" He stops himself, shaking his head. "Floch’s a piece of shit. He doesn’t actually care about her."

Historia narrows her eyes at him like a disappointed mom. "And you do?" Eren swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing.

Ymir crosses her arms, tilting her head to the side as she tries to make him crack under her gaze. "Yeah, ‘cause here’s the thing—you can’t stand the guy on a normal day, you don't even acknowledge the kid, but the second he pays some mind to y/n, you lose your shit?"

Eren clenches his fists, the memory of Floch flirting with you replaying in his mind. "You don’t get it," he mutters through gritted teeth.

"Then make us get it," Historia pushes, her voice forming into something somewhat sympathetic. "Because right now, it just looks like you’re mad some other guy gave her attention."

Eren scoffs, shaking his head. "You really think that’s all it is?"

Ymir shrugs. "I don’t know, isn’t it?"

Eren’s jaw flexes. His throat feels tight, words pressing against his teeth, stuck on the tip of his tongue. "Floch doesn’t give a damn about her. He just wants what he thinks he can have." His voice lowers, more intense. "He’s not interested in her—not the way he should be."

Ymir catches it first. Her smirk is slow, knowing but she tries to hide it. "Ohhh," she drawls. "And how should he be interested in her, Yeager?"

Eren freezes. Shit. Historia stares at him too, watching, waiting, like she knows something too. Like they know they finally caught him up in his web of complicated feelings.

"Forget it," Eren mutters, turning away. His heartbeat turns shallow, quick and anxious as he stumbles over his thoughts. He wants to run, to get away from his friends. Honestly, he wants to run off the face of the earth.

"Oh, no way," Ymir steps in front of him, blocking his exit. "You do not get to say that and then walk off. If you’ve got something to say about how y/n should be treated, say it."

Eren exhales sharply, looking up at the sky like he’s begging for patience. Or begging for God to strike him down. More so the latter because it would be easier than explaining his feelings for you.

"She’s not—" He stops, pressing his lips together before trying again. "She deserves better than that. Better than some asshole who just wants a quick hookup. Better than—than a guy who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing." His voice drops, almost like he’s talking more to himself now. "Better than me."

There it is.

The slip-up.

The confession that isn’t quite a confession.

Ymir’s smirk is full-fledged now, while Historia’s lips part slightly like she’s piecing something together. Comprehending his cryptic confession. Eren realizes it too late. His whole body goes stiff, regret flashing in his eyes. He finally opened that can of worms that was the flurry of feelings he harbored for you.

Ymir tilts her head again, more smug this time. "Huh. So you do like her." It had always been the most obvious thing in the world to her, to everyone, but Eren had finally, after all of these years, somewhat admitted his feelings for you.

Eren’s head snaps toward her in a shaky, nervous manner. "I never said that."

"But you didn’t deny it," Historia points out, holding a finger up to him. She's smiling, squealing on the inside. She just wants to run to you to tell you what she just heard. But she keeps her cool, acting nonchalant.

Eren scowls, puffing out some air. "You’re both annoying as hell."

Ymir just grins like a giddy child who knows something they shouldn't. "You’re in love with her."

Eren’s heartbeat stutters. His face visibly heats up. "Shut up."

"Oh, this is good," Ymir muses. "So let me get this straight. You’re jealous as hell but won’t do anything about it. You’re avoiding y/n because you don’t wanna deal with your feelings. And now you’re just hoping she magically won’t notice?"

Eren clenches his teeth so hard it almost hurts. "I don’t like her like that," he insists, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. He couldn't stay in denial any longer. Not after he essentially had admitted it to your closest friends.

"Uh huh." Ymir gives him a slow once-over. "Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, big guy."

Historia shakes her head, exasperated. "Look, whatever you feel—or don’t feel—just stop making y/n feel like she did something wrong. Because if you keep pushing her away, she’s gonna think you don’t care at all." Historia looks up at Eren with wide eyes, trying to convey just how important it is for him to do this. For both him and you.

That hits something deep in Eren’s chest. Racks him with guilt. The thought of you thinking he doesn’t care? That’s not—That’s not how this was supposed to go. It makes his stomach churn.

Ymir steps closer, voice dropping as she puts her hands on her hips. "And if you keep dragging this out? Someone else is gonna ask her out." She leans in, her eyes something serious. "You ready for that?"

Eren doesn’t answer.

Because the truth is—he already knows the answer.

And it scares the hell out of him.

[rosy-hollow]

｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈• ｡ﾟ╰┈➤ @lillycore ⦂ OH OH, since you’re requests are open, can I request high school au with sukuna (established relationship) where he asks reader out to prom and what they’d do there? 》 ✐ᝰ UHM YES?? I LOVE YOU THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE HEHEH

｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈• ｡ﾟ

If you ranked Sukuna Ryomen on a list of the classiest men alive, he’d be dead last.

You knew that when you started dating him. Hell, you’d been together for two years now, so if his lack of finesse bothered you, you wouldn’t have stuck around this long.

Which is why you weren’t even surprised when, in the middle of some random conversation, he just told you that you’d be going to senior prom together—like it was already a given. No asking, no buildup, just a casual declaration.

Because in his mind?

It was a given.

It was just a stupid dance, anyway. No need to make a big deal out of it.

Right?

God, he was so wrong.

Now, standing outside your door, waiting to pick you up, Sukuna feels something entirely foreign settle in his chest.

Nerves.

It’s almost pathetic, how anxious he is. Not even during high-pressure games does his heart race like this. At least then, he’s in his element.

This? This is uncharted territory.

Loving someone—hell, even dating someone—always seemed like something that happened in theory. Something that happened to other people.

But he didn’t just love someone.

He was in love with you.

So utterly and completely in love that the very idea of being without you makes him feel like a dead man walking.

You, with your pretty face and knowing smiles. The way your laugh makes his heart do annoying things. Your witty comebacks, your sharp tongue.

You make him feel alive.

And ironically, the second the door swings open—his heart stops.

You are breathtaking.

To be fair, you always are, but—god.

"Holy shit."

He doesn’t even realize he’s said it aloud until you giggle, stepping forward and shutting the door behind you.

Sukuna suddenly feels very grateful you insisted on matching outfits, because with the way you look right now—he’d be damned if you looked like anything but his.

Just the thought makes his feel strange - a good strange - inside.

You’re his.

And he’s yours.

“I… wow,” he mutters gruffly.

You hum, stepping closer, tilting your head in amusement. Teasing him.

“Is that a good ‘wow’ or a bad ‘wow,’ ‘Kuna?”

A large, warm palm finds the small of your back, pulling you in, his lips brushing over yours.

“Definitely good,” he murmurs, before pressing his lips against yours—the first of many tonight.

Some might call you a miracle worker for convincing Sukuna to actually drive to the venue. Because if he had it his way? You’d be heading straight back to his place, where he could have you all to himself.

It’s cute, honestly. The way he grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing stopping him from devouring you whole. Like if he so much as looks at you for too long, he’ll lose whatever shred of self-control he has left.

You, on the other hand, have no such limitations, happily being the passenger royalty you are.

So you drink him in—the way the streetlights cast shadows across his sharp features, how insanely handsome he looks in his suit.

You were just as whipped as he was.

Just... better at hiding it.

When you arrive, the entrance is already packed with familiar faces, student IDs in hand, waiting to be let in.

Sukuna steps out first, then, to your delight, makes his way around the car to open your door for you.

You giggle at his rare act of chivalry, taking his outstretched hand.

Inside, the venue is stunning—twinkling lights, lavish décor. You definitely have to congratulate your friend on the prom committee for a job well done.

Sukuna, however, could not give less of a shit.

Because while you’re admiring the decorations, he’s admiring you.

The soft, awed expression on your face is worth more than any stupid floral arrangement.

When you glance back at him, his eyes are warm—softer than they ever are in public.

You smile, leaning in to kiss him again, and he happily obliges, though it takes everything in him not to pull you flush against him and forget the whole damn dance.

When you pull away though, there’s a mischievous glint in your eye.

Oh no.

“‘Kuna~?” you draw out, sing-song.

He groans. He’s screwed.

“Will you dance with me?”

Sukuna just stares at you blankly.

“Fuck no.”

“Pleeeeease?”

Oh, fuck you and your stupid puppy eyes and your perfect face and your perfect everything—he can’t say no to you.

And that’s how he finds himself standing in the middle of the dance floor, awkwardly shuffling while you happily bop along to the music, grinning like this is the best night of your life.

It goes on like this for a while—your poor, hulking boyfriend completely out of his element, staying only because he loves you.

Then—suddenly—the music shifts.

The bass-heavy beats fade, replaced with something slower, softer.

Sukuna’s eyes widen slightly as yours light up.

You step toward him, all soft smiles and adoration.

You bow teasingly. “May I have this dance?”

Sukuna clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes. But there’s no real bite. “Ain’t I the one who’s supposed'ta ask ya that?”

You hum as he tugs you closer, his arms encircling your waist, your own draping around his neck. “Maybe… but I like to keep you on your toes.”

He lets out a rare, genuine laugh before kissing you again—deep, slow, tender.

He rests his forehead against yours, voice lower now, softer.

“That you do.”

Your eyes shine, drinking in the way he looks at you.

“And unfortunately for you,” you tease gently, “I always will.”

Sukuna snorts.

“You’re a little shit.”

But you both know he doesn’t mean it.

A/N: AHHHHHHHHHH (that's it, that's all I have to say)

[yanyandam]

(I just started following you and LOVE your work so far and… AHHH ITS AMAZING *chefs kiss*)

I was wondering if i could make a request JUST PURE FLUFF of a fic with Sanzu but the happy ending Sanzu u know how in the happy ending he becomes a pro YouTube with his sister?? Well do u think you could do Sanzu x painter reader with a big artistic mind??? Like where shes pregnant with his kid and having all these emotions making her artistic mind explode and sanzu is just posting lives/videos/pics reading out loud all the positive comments his fans are saying about her art though her 9 months pregnancy. Then going to a Timeskip where there 5-10 years old son/daughter (your pick) finds the old paintings there mom did while pregnant with them and asks sanzu about it to which he shows all the lives/videos/pics of reader painting and when pregnant and when reader comes backs from whatever she was doing she’s gets surprised to see their kid and sanzu painting together on a livestream

(AHHH sorry that’s its long and probably confusing you don’t have to do it if u don’t want to but it would be nice to see what you do with this NO PRESSURE PLEASE DONT FEEL LIKE YOU HAVE TO DO IT again LOVE your work <3)

YOOO omg this was so detailed I had to recheck stuff just to be sure I didn't misunderstand anything. HERE. It isn't very long but I hope you like it looove. LOVE YAA thanks for the support

SANZU X PAINTER!FEM!READER

Sanzu met her at school.

He barely showed up to class, maybe once a month, tops, just enough to keep the school off his back and say he “tried.” Just enough so the year wouldn’t be a total loss. Even he knew you had to fake it a little to keep the system from kicking you out too fast. Unlucky for him, they sat him next to the weird girl. The one who looked like she was in love with her pencils. Just her damn pencils. She was hunched over the desk like it was her altar, scribbling away while the math teacher's droning voice echoed through the room like static.

Haruchiyo stared at her sideways. She didn’t look up once. The table beneath her arms was covered in marks, doodles, notes written in tiny, loopy handwriting. All of it cluttered the desk like graffiti. It made his skin crawl. He hated mess. He really hated it when people treated trash like art. Faking interest in the lesson for a second, he clicked his tongue, leaned in a bit, and growled, “The fuck are you doing? Stop drawing on the table. That shit’s disgusting.”

She didn’t even flinch. Just kept sketching calmly, like his voice was background noise. And then, without looking at him: “Is it ugly?”

He blinked. “What?” She glanced at him for the first time. Her eyes were strange. Soft, but unreadable. Like foggy glass. “If it’s beautiful, it decorates. If it’s ugly, it dirties. So?” she asked, voice steady. “Which is it?”

Sanzu frowned, confused and irritated. “What the hell kind of logic is that?” She gave a little shrug, barely a movement. Like she didn’t care about his answer. He reached out and snatched the pencil from her hand with a swift motion, sharp like a slap. “Stop,” he snapped, voice low and venom-laced. “I fucking hate filthy shit.”

She didn’t fight back. Her hand just hovered mid-air for a second before resting flat on the desk again. She didn’t even look mad. No glare. No offense taken. “You’re not gonna grab it back?” he muttered, annoyed by her indifference.

“You’re not gonna give it back,” she replied. And finally, she looked at him, really looked. Not with fear. Not with challenge. Just this weird, distant calm like she was watching him from somewhere far away, even though they were just inches apart. “You don’t like dirty things,” she said quietly.

“No shit.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” she answered simply. “Just wondering what name I’ll write when I draw”

“You don’t need to know it,” he muttered.

She nodded.

—

“What the fuck is that?” he muttered, barely glancing at it. Sanzu sat on the cracked cement bench like it had insulted him. That’s when she walked up to him, again. He clocked her in his periphery, sketchbook clutched in her hand like it was sacred scripture. Without a word, she stood in front of him and held out a folded sheet.

“You,” she answered, plain as day.

His brows pinched together as he snatched the paper from her hand, unfolding it with the delicacy of a guy who never touched anything carefully. The drawing stared back at him: himself, sitting right where he was now, on that same busted bench. It was raw, a little messy, but there was something alive in the lines. Almost too alive. He blinked. “Yeah, I noticed it’s me. It’s also... not bad. But still, what the fuck.”

She tilted her head slightly. “I hope to revive some form of color in the depths of your dull eyes.”

He stared at her. “Stop speaking gibberish.”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she plopped herself down beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. For a second, neither of them spoke. Just the quiet hum of distant chatter and the occasional bird screaming like it wanted to join a gang. Then she looked at him, chin resting lightly in her hand. “Don’t you ever want to trade your gloomy life for something a little less... serious?”

His eyes narrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You always look mad. Even when you’re with your weird friend who looks like a vampire.”

“Wait—Baji? Are you spying on me?”

“A little,” she said, deadpan. “But it was unintentional. A coincidence.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Maybe. But so are you.”

Sanzu paused, gave her a sideways glance, then snorted. It wasn’t a laugh, but it was close enough to make her smile. “You’re fucking strange,” he muttered.

“Takes one to know one.”

Another beat passed. He looked down at the drawing again. It really was him, except maybe not the version he saw in the mirror. There was a softness in the sketch, tucked behind the sharp angles and tense posture. It made him uncomfortable. Like she saw something he didn’t want her to. “You seriously draw people all the time?”

“Not always. Just when something about them gets stuck in my head.”

Sanzu raised a brow. “So I’m stuck in your head now?”

She turned her eyes toward the sky. “A little. But it was unintentional. A coincidence.”

He huffed. But he didn’t hand the drawing back. He folded it neatly instead, stuffing it into the inside pocket of his jacket. A few kids walked by in the distance, laughing way too loud. The bell rang faintly from the building behind them. Sanzu didn’t move. Neither did she. “You should stop watching me,” he said finally, voice quieter.

“I probably won’t.” He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back against the bench like the world was too much to carry today. She pulled a small pencil from behind her ear and scribbled something tiny in her sketchbook. He didn’t ask what. He didn’t want to know. He just let her stay there, quietly, drawing lines around the edges of a kid with cracked knuckles and a thousand things he couldn’t name sitting in his chest.

“Here. My number.” She had actually cribbled her number with flowers around it.

Sanzu smiled.

Ever since that bench moment, something shifted. They didn’t plan to see each other again, but somehow it kept happening. Her sketchbook open while he laid back on the grass, eyes closed but fully listening. Sometimes they didn’t even talk, just existed near each other, comfortable in the quiet. Sanzu wasn’t the type to let people in, not even halfway, but she slipped through the cracks like sunlight through blinds. He didn't really hate it. But kind of.

He hated the way her presence made the silence less heavy. How she called out his bullshit without flinching. How she once sketched Mikey like it was nothing and handed it to him saying, “He looks like he bites people for fun,” and Sanzu laughed, genuinely did. How she remembered his favorite brand of cheesecakes and once stole a pack for him like it was an art form.

He caught feelings.

It crept up on him like a bad habit. One second he was making fun of the way she tied her shoelaces, the next he was staring at her lips mid-sentence, wondering what they’d taste like. Sanzu didn’t know how to confess. He’d never done that shit before. He didn’t even know if she liked anyone at all. But his dumbass heart wouldn’t shut up, so he did the only thing that came to mind.

He drew her.

Terribly.

He used a blue pen he found in his jacket pocket and one of those lined notebook pages that were already kinda crumpled. The result looked like a cross between a haunted doll and a criminal sketch, but he was proud of it. Sort of. So he waited after class one day, slipping the paper onto her desk like it was evidence of a crime. She raised an eyebrow when she saw it. “What’s this?”

He shrugged, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “You draw me all the time. Fair’s fair.”

She unfolded the paper slowly, curiosity in her eyes… and then she burst out laughing. Like, really laughing. Ugly, loud, head-thrown-back kind of laughter. “What the hell is this?! You made me look like I survived a house fire!”

Sanzu scowled, yanking the paper back. “It’s abstract, alright?! It’s art.”

She was still laughing, eyes glistening, tears threatening to fall. “This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s beautiful.”

He looked at her for a second, how happy she looked, how effortlessly she took the moment and turned it into something soft, and it stung in a weird, addictive way. “I like you,” he mumbled.

She blinked, catching her breath. “Because I laughed at your drawing?”

“No,” he said, shoving the paper back toward her. “Because you make me feel like I can breathe.” That shut her up. But the smile stayed.

—

Years later, no one could’ve guessed that the boy who used to barely talk, always looking like he had his two feet in apathy, would become a YouTuber. And not just any YouTuber. Sanzu & Senju, the chaotic sibling duo that somehow managed to rack up millions of views. Their content was just so entertaining and people loved them (not me though I clicked on the dislike button every time). Senju was the energetic heart of it. Sanzu was the wild card, sarcastic and oddly charming, with a stoic façade that always looked a little dangerous. And Takeomi was their not-so-known manager!

Their fans didn’t know much about his personal life. That was the way he liked it. Especially when it came to her.

She had become something of a legend in her own right: a professional painter, a digital artist, a graphist with a cult following in the design world. She never posted her face. Only her work. Abstract colors, twisted realism, raw emotion on digital canvases. She was the kind of artist that made people feel things.

And yeah, they were together.

Had been for a while, actually. Since those high school days when she mocked his terrible drawing and then cried laughing when he confessed with it. But she was never in the videos. Not once. No background glimpse, no tagged hand on Instagram, no anonymous voice off-camera.

Not because he was ashamed. Far from it. Sanzu just didn’t want to share her with the world.

She was his peace. His color. His most private form of joy in a life that had been built too publicly. Letting the internet chew on her identity felt like betrayal. Still, that didn’t stop her from helping him every step of the way. When the “Draw My Life” trend exploded in 2015, Senju begged him to do one. Sanzu wasn’t the type to get sentimental, but she insisted. And when he agreed, it was her who stayed up with him all night in their cramped apartment, sketching frames on the whiteboard, guiding his story out of him with soft encouragements and sharp jokes.

“Damn,” he muttered, watching her hand glide across the board, “it’s weird seeing my life come out in your lines.”

She paused, looked up. “Is that your poetic way of saying you’re traumatized?”

“Probably.”

That video went viral.

Fans loved the dark humor, the raw honesty. The illustrations, though: those were what stuck. “Who did the art?” people commented. “Those sketches hit hard.” Sanzu never answered. He just pinned a cryptic heart emoji and let it be. Over time, she became the silent architect of his aesthetic. His thumbnails, his merch, his channel banner, all her. And when he hit 1 million subscribers, she was the one holding the camera as he popped cheap champagne on their rooftop, laughing like a man who never thought he’d get here.

Only Senju knew the full picture. How much she meant to him. How Sanzu, the one who could barely say “I love you” without cursing in the middle of it, would sometimes sit in silence just watching her paint like it was his favorite show.

Sometimes she joked, “You’re just with me ‘cause I have better linework than you.”

And he’d reply, “I’m with you ‘cause you turned my life into art.”

It was fun, how the quietest guy on the planet had the quietest love story. But that’s the way Haru liked it. Because some things, the best things, didn’t belong to the internet. They belonged to late nights, shared playlists, ink-stained fingers, and stolen kisses between video takes.

They belonged to her.

She told him on a Tuesday. Nothing special about it, just one of those quiet, overcast mornings when the city felt a little too still. He was in the kitchen, arguing with the toaster. "Stupid piece of—" he was mid-slam when she walked in, barefoot, hair messy, holding a tiny white stick like it was a weapon of divine justice.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, blunt as ever.

He turned slowly. “…Sorry?”

She showed him the test, eyes wide but unreadable. “Two of them. Positive.”

Sanzu stared. He blinked once. Twice. Then placed the burnt toast on the counter with slow, almost religious precision. “…You sure it’s not one of those scam sticks?”

“I did two. And I feel like vomiting every five seconds.”

He stared a little longer, jaw tightening like his brain was buffering. “Wait, like… actually pregnant?”

“Yeah…?”

“Fuck.” Yeah that’s lowkey what you two did I guess? And then he sat down. Like, collapsed. Legs gave up, heart hammering in his chest. “I’m gonna die.”

“You’re not,” she said, walking over, calm and weirdly serene.

“I can’t be a dad. I don’t even water the houseplants.”

“We don’t have houseplants.”

“Exactly!”

But somehow, between the panic and the jokes and the sudden rush of weirdly tender silence, Haruchiyo didn’t run. He placed a hand on her stomach, even though there was nothing to see yet. Just warmth. Just the beginning of something terrifyingly huge.

“Shit,” he whispered. “I’m a dad.”

By month two, her hormones had turned her into a full-blown creative hurricane.

She painted like she was possessed: morning, noon, and three a.m. With charcoal-stained cheeks and wild eyes, she'd wake up from a dream and immediately sketch it out. Canvases piled up in the living room. The dining table was lost to acrylics and turpentine. Their walls looked like a gallery curated by Van Gogh on drugs.

He supported it the only way he knew how: chaotically, loudly, and publicly. At the end of every new video, right after Senju’s screaming outro, Sanzu added his own personal “ad segment.” “Before you click off—yo, check this out,” he’d hold up one of her pieces like a proud toddler with a macaroni sculpture. “This one’s called…uh…something. It’s wild. It made me cry. No cap.” People loved it.

What started as chaotic plugs turned into lowkey poetry.

“This one? Bro. She painted this after a nightmare. Said she dreamed the baby had wings. Look at the lines, man. That’s not normal talent.” His eyes would soften. Just a second too long. Just enough for people to start noticing.

@DJBigdaddyRin: “Wait, does Sanzu know this artist?”

@BajiKingTkyo76: “Why’s he always so emotional when he talks about her work?”

And finally, after three months of hinting and hiding and teasing. He cracked. It was in the middle of a video. A Q&A with Senju. Someone had asked, “What’s your favorite artist?”

Sanzu smirked. “Easy.”

Senju raised a brow. “Please don’t say Banksy just to piss people off.”

“Nah,” he said, leaning into the camera. “My favorite artist is the one who’s been painting her soul out in our living room. Who doesn’t sleep, eats pickles with whipped cream now, and…oh yeah, she’s pregnant with my kid.”

Senju’s jaw dropped. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.” He pulled out a painting. “This one’s called ‘Heartbeat.’ It’s our baby’s first portrait.” The internet exploded. Fan pages lost it. The comment section turned into a war zone of congratulations, shock, and genuine awe. Haru felt light.

Because finally, the world saw her the way he did: brilliant, strange, burning with color. Not just the mystery artist. But his artist. And soon, the mother of his child.

For the full nine months, her paintings became the internet’s favorite miracle. No drama. No chaos. No exposés or scandals, just soft, surreal colors and honest brushstrokes that somehow resonated with everyone. People said her work felt like dreams they forgot they had, like lullabies whispered from the belly of the universe.

Every week, Sanzu would post a new one.

“This one’s called ‘Womb’s Eclipse.’ Sounds metal, right? It’s actually… emotional as shit. I almost cried again…”

Sometimes the pieces would sell before he even hit ‘post.’ Other times, he didn’t want to sell them at all. “This one’s for the baby’s room,” he’d mutter, already picking out a frame. Their walls were lined with that pregnancy, swirls of love, fear, craving.. And after their daughter was born, the momentum slowed—but the reverence didn’t. Her paintings stayed online, immortalized. People still messaged about them, tagged her in recreations, tattooed fragments on their skin.

They had made a small, strange legend out of that season of their lives.

—

Years passed.

Their daughter turned seven in the middle of spring, cherry blossoms half-dying on the sidewalks, breeze still sharp enough to cut. She had her mother’s eyes, Sanzu’s temper, and an obsession with painting that only made sense once you knew who her parents were. That afternoon, she tugged on his sleeve while he was editing a video.

“Papa.”

“What?”

“I wanna paint.”

He blinked. “What, like right now?”

She nodded. “Right now right now.”

He grinned, already shutting the laptop. “Say less.”

They dusted off the old supplies. Everything still smelled like turpentine and nostalgia. Sanzu laid out a drop cloth, filled jars with cloudy water, and pulled out a couple of the preserved canvases from The Pregnancy Era. “These,” he told her, tapping the edges, “were painted when you were in mama’s belly.” She looked up at him, blinking. “Inside?”

“Like, swimming around. Kicking her kidneys.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yeah. And beautiful. And painful. You were art even back then.” He wasn’t expecting the wave of warmth that hit him, seeing her crouch over the paints like her mom did, tilting her head, chewing on her tongue in thought. It hit him so hard, he opened his stream setup and pressed “Go Live.” No filter. No warning.

Just a raw shot of Sanzu and his daughter surrounded by paint and sun, laughing, talking over each other, blending colors without rules. Viewers flooded in immediately.

@IzanaTenjikuFund: “Shit I misclicked”

@HotRacerMikey: “She looks like both of them!”

@ManaMtsyaQueen: “THE LEGACY IS REAL”

They painted whatever came to mind. A castle. A tiger. A portrait of Baji with hearts around his head (“He’s funny,” she said. “He’s scary,” Sanzu corrected). For an hour, it was just father and daughter building color into the quiet. And then, click.

The front door opened.

She walked in, keys jingling in her hand, grocery bag slung on her wrist.

“I’m ho—” she paused in the doorway.

Paint. Everywhere. Her husband and daughter covered in streaks of blue and pink. Two canvases in progress. A livestream active. A thousand people watching.

“…You went live?”

Sanzu looked up at her like a guilty kid. “Uhhh. Yeah. Kind of?”

Their daughter waved a brush. “Mama, look! We’re painting me.”

She dropped the bag on the counter and walked over, eyes scanning the chaos. The familiar smells, the messy brushes, the wall of sunlight across the table, it all came back. Like those nine months never ended. Sanzu handed her a brush.

“C’mon,” he said. “We’re missing your color.”

And just like that, she joined them. One family, three artists, painting a new memory together, on canvas, on camera, on the walls of every person who ever watched them become more than just creators.

They became home.

[sillygoofyqueer]

Bing-ge getting super sparkly/shiny jewelry with magical abilities and the wives are like “Ooh, could this be for me?” only, nah. It’s actually to lure in his future husband. Go away. XD

Ahhh! Shen Yuan making a safe haven for crows is a wonderful idea! Demonic crows or yao, whether they’ve cultivated human form or not, are all welcome! Regular crows too!

Since I love teacher Shen Yuan, of course he teaches all the younger ones too. Just because they spend half their time as birds doesn’t mean they can’t get an education!

The human half of his family are probably from some tiny village who gave offerings to the local crow demons and unintentionally became friends (crows being protective of their people and all). Their village is startlingly safe thanks to crows mobbing anyone who dares try to mess with them! There might be other half-crow kiddos running around too, thanks to the good relations. Shen Yuan tutors the village kids too of course!

(Tiny bit of angst, but Bing-ge burns with envy if he finds out! This half-demon friendly town was here the whole time?!)

This is adorable, Shen Yuan seeing these young children and just being like "...students." Sometimes, if the human children are extra lucky, he'll take them on flights as long as they have 'necessary payment' (usually a cool looking rock and proof that they've done their chores). It's impossible to find Shen Yuan without at least one crow perched on his shoulder or in his hair, unless he's going on - what the others describe as - dangerous escapades to nab cool stuff from Bing-ge's palace, in which he will know and stop anyone who tries to follow him because he's a dumbass with no self-preservation skills, not them! It takes him a startlingly long time to figure out that Bing-ge is leaving things for him on purpose, and he is undeniably shocked when he finds out. He eventually finally takes it as a form of courtship due to other demons' and humans' instance that it probably is. After doing research on crows courting one another, did you know that the males feed the females?? And sing to them?? SO, I immediately thought of the idea of Shen Yuan trying to reciprocate the courting (because he would never be so silly as to reject the emperor, no one in their right mind would) by randomly appearing in Bing-ge's room (much to Bing-ge's delight and confusion) and singing sweetly before feeding a willing emperor apple slices or some shit until Bing-ge reciprocates and feeds him in response and Shen Yuan just pauses and goes "hang on, am I the wife?" and immediately takes to the role without any thought. ("Why would Bing-ge be the wife, how foolish of me!") When Bing-ge finds out about the village that accepts half demons, of course he's a little upset! Why couldn't he have this sort of comfort and love in his life? Why did he have to suffer all this time?? Then he goes to this village so that Shen Yuan can show off his nest to the emperor (sign of trust?) and is immediately hit with the "I want to be here forever" train.

Also, the more you think about it, the funnier it gets actually lmao. He just shows up with these gorgeous trinkets and jewellery and sometimes even clothes (shiny embroidery of course), and they vanish and the wives are all like "where the actual hell are they going? Who do we even complain about??" and it could be like a background thing where the wives all get jealous of each other when there's actually just this bird guy who comes over quite often and started by stealing shit while dropping off helpful things. Imagine how strange that must be for the wives. "Ugh, [wife's name here] is taking all the attention away from us!!", "Really? I thought it was [other wife's name]." Meanwhile, there's just one wife (Liu Mingyuan most likely) who just knows and she doesn't tell anyone, content to watch as chaos ensues while the bird man and Luo Bing-ge fall deeper in love with one another, and the gifts get more elaborate each time. {part three! Part one, part two, part four, part five, part six, part seven!!}

[helluvathings]

Some thoughts on Ozzie's response at the trial

One moment that caught my attention, and I've seen a few reactors comment on it too, is that Ozzie's defense of Blitzø's right to a fair trial is lukewarm compared to Bee's. She gives a character reference, speaking about him almost fondly, while Ozzie offers one understated line.

He speaks lightly, but isn't that the kind of phrase usually accompanied by a side-eye and a pointed, "You do have a good explanation, right?" And I've seen a lot of Ozzie call outs for not just "sharing the truth," since he "knows what's really going on."

But the more I think about it, the more I feel like his slight involvement probably makes things look worse from his perspective. Tbf, the dialogue disparity could be timing constraints and wanting to make use of Kesha. Still, I honestly suspect Ozzie knowing more than Bee would make it likelier he'd be reluctant to outright vouch for Blitzø's character even if he supports a fair trial.

I do plan to touch on a few separate points. But the BIG thing I haven't seen brought up: Ozzie is the only person in that room who may know the extent to which Blitzø's use of the grimoire has actually, undeniably endangered Hell. I feel like this fact has sort of slid from people's minds, but as a reminder:

IMP obliterated part of Ozzie's ring directly outside his club. In a setting where there are likely security cameras, and at the very least, his bouncers were shown to be in the general vicinity. And there were cherubs with high tech battle suits visibly involved. Assuming Ozzie investigated this, his additional knowledge isn't actually in IMP, Stolas's, or Blitzø's favor at all.

Rewinding to touch on what Ozzie actually knows about Stolas and Blitzø's situation:

Ozzie is aware that Stolas has feelings for Blitzø.

He could guess, if he ever thought about it, that Blitzø must’ve been getting to earth a different way beforehand since his business precedes the crystal. However, he's never told this. Depending on how much he cared to look at the particulars, it possibly didn't occur to him at the time (though if he looked into the Lust Ring attack, he likely figured it out).

He also has no confirmation that Blitzø has feelings for Stolas. Fizz has probably speculated, maybe he shared Blitzø had come to Lust for toys—but Ozzie has only seen them together at Ozzie's, when he was more concerned with helping Fizz revenge-ruin their date than drawing any relationship analysis (except in the ways that helped him revenge-ruin their date).

Ozzie may also know about the anti-Blitzø parties, or at least that Blitzø has a poor history with relationships. Fizz knew his "love life [was] a pile of shit," and that giving the stage to Verosika during House of Asmodeus would get results, so at the very least, he seems familiar with Blitzø's bad habits. If Ozzie doesn't know Stolas is different, a very possible explanation might be that Blitzø had been using Stolas’s feelings to get the book. Not "forcing himself," but not really Lust King-approved.

I.e. Ozzie can assume “not forced,” but not “mutual feelings,” or “Blitzø did nothing wrong." Blitzø has also told him one of his skills is "killing things without giving fucks," so again, the background knowledge of Blitzø isn't necessarily a good thing here.

Then after Apology Tour, Blitzø went into a depression slump and probably cut off contact with friends, including Fizz. From Fizz and Ozzie's perspective, the day Blitzø got the crystal, his thing with Stolas outwardly ended, and he likely never shared much about what happened (if he didn't deflect outright). Fizz may have noticed and commented on Blitzø acting strange, but the circumstances are ambiguous.

To summarize: Ozzie can guess Andrealphus is full of shit, and that some sort of setup is happening. But he doesn't know "the truth," in the sense he could speak up and clarify everything.

What else he possibly knows:

IMP had a massive fight with well-armed heavenly beings in the middle of the Lust Ring.

This was shown to have caused substantial damage. Loona destroyed what looked like one of his buildings, on top of other property destruction, right in front of his club. If they had security cameras, Ozzie probably knows this. Like I mentioned before, two of his own bouncers were outside, alongside dozens of witnesses. If he investigated at all, there are ways he could piece together what happened.

A frequent reaction has been, “Ozzie knows everything Blitzø did was above board, he could’ve clarified.” But Ozzie has a lot of facts that actually look awful? Depending on what surveillance caught from that fight, Ozzie very well could've connected IMP to cherubs coming to Hell. To his ring specifically.

Two conclusions to be drawn from this:

If Ozzie has recognized as much, he hasn't said anything. Which is both him already covering for IMP, but it also means he's hiding something Satan would desperately want to know.

Ozzie has a legitimate reason to be upset at Blitzø and Stolas for bringing him into this. First because Stolas wasn't up-front about the formerly illegal details of Blitzø getting to earth (let alone moments like in Truthseekers where there's already been major transgression). Then afterward, when the spillover of their indiscretion caused damage to his ring and possibly got Lust Ring demons killed.

Ozzie is involved enough that all this could cause trouble for him if he's implicated

I've seen people say he'd be immune because of his rank. But while he'd physically be fine, Mammon was already going at him and Bee about their partners. Mammon has also threatened that Ozzie would "regret revealing" his love for Fizz, in pretty clear foreshadowing. Ozzie has a big, well-known weak point.

Also, Blitzø was on trial about unlawfully going to the human world (or doing it "unwittingly" as a pawn of the evil Mastermind Stolas). And this all happens while he has a registered Asmodean Crystal on his wrist. He even tries using it to get to Stolas while they're dragging him away. The more Ozzie speaks up, the more closely Blitzø is examined, and the clearer it is that Ozzie is involved with something illegal.

The legitimacy of Blitzø's behavior on Earth is a bit dodgy as well. Remember how Verosika let Blitzø win that bet because she was wary of getting into trouble for the conspicuous monster? They’re clearly supposed to keep a low profile. If Ozzie linked IMP to the Lust Ring incident and realized they've been stirring up trouble topside, his lack of interference may indicate he's already making allowances he legally shouldn't be.

Do I think the imagery of Ozzie and the other Sins falling in with Satan during the song may go complicated places? Possibly. And Ozzie clearly did want to help after Fizz’s text and seemed to feel he couldn’t. I don't think he's exactly blameless, in the sense he's aligned with a messed up system here. I also have no idea if the writers considered any of this, or if we're ever going to see Ozzie's thoughts or feelings about the attack on Lust. Maybe that was just a cool fight scene to set up the cherub/DHORKS threat, and it won't have further relevance.

But honestly, the fact that illegal use of the grimoire brought trouble to Ozzie's doorstep makes me more willing to shrug off his muted response at the trial. Even if Ozzie isn't aware, Blitzø and Stolas's lawbreaking led to an attack on his ring. If he is aware? It’s already iffy to expect he'd stick his neck out in a hopeless situation where it’d only get scrutiny turned his way. Wanting him to do so despite associating IMP with a heavenly threat and massive property damage? That's a big ask.

Maybe overthinking, especially if it’s revealed he doesn’t have much intel on the Lust Ring attack. But I feel like Ozzie knowing more about Blitzø's situation makes it harder for him to intervene, as opposed to easier. He may even have legitimate reason to feel like IMP has been endangering Hell, but has kept quiet for Fizz's sake.

Mostly, I wonder if it's coincidence that the show made that Lust fight visually, noticeably destructive, then next time we see Ozzie, it's Bee vouching for Blitzø's character, while Ozzie's statement focuses on getting an explanation. Her defense seems to be "he's cool, I don't think he'd do this." Ozzie's is more coded like, "It's fair to see what he has to say." Like maybe he's thinking it would be in character for Blitzø to have done something illegal and ill-advised that puts Hell at risk, so he'll stick with a safer defense. And honestly, I love Blitzø... but I also get why Ozzie might be ambivalent.