#Part II

[arttsuka]

I've been thinking about this clip a lot

[ofjonsafame]

Rick offers Michonne the stolen gun. Part II

[damagedcoda6669]

DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE RICK AND MORTY ANIME?

take this gay smelly cat in the anime style

[jonathan-cranes-mistress-of-fear]

The Batman - Part II || Fan-Made Poster

[anreed-gallery]

[ursaminorjim]

[imagine-lcorp]

Perfect Sense (Part II)

A/N: Helo my beautiful beans, always lovely to come back. You know I'm not gone, there's still so much to write, and thank you all for your patience, i love you and appreciate you like you have no idea. Here's part 2 of this fic, enjoy and let me know what you think :)

Lena Luthor x  R//Word Count: 2,355

Part I - Part II - Part III

-------------------------------------------------------

People in National City were used to seeing many things and, after a couple of alien invasions, they should have been less impressed by you, a giant werewolf running along the streets. However, people erupted in screams and cries as you moved along the streets, disoriented and overwhelmed.

The sounds of traffic, the constant honking of cars, screams and loud conversations. The strong smells of gasoline, smoke and trash, all mixed. The bright colors of the lights blinding you and bringing you sour memories. A frustrated growl escaped you, everything too much as you wandered without knowing where to go, and things didn't get better as you heard a new burst of screams behind you. Black vans moved within the traffic of the city, rushing to catch up to you, leaving more chaos behind. You soon realized you were once again a target and turned around, running as fast as you could.

With desperation building inside of you, you jumped to the side of a building, digging your claws into concrete walls, crawling your way up to the rooftop. Adrenaline started to pump into your system once the first shots at you were fired. Bullets impacted on the walls, a few flying too close to you. But you didn't dare stop or look back, concentrating instead on reaching the top of the building. That's why you didn't see the blur of red and blue that flew around and managed to overturn a couple of the black vans and was now headed in your direction.

It hit you before your hand could reach the edge of the rooftop and it knocked the air out of your lungs as it sent you flying across the street. In a few seconds, you fell on top of a parked car, crushing it as you then landed on the floor among shattered crystal. It took a second for your instincts to take over, making you take a defensive stance as you got up. You couldn't think as you looked frantically around for any clues of what had hit you.

"Going somewhere?" You head a voice and your eyes landed on a blonde woman, dressed in red and blue, standing a few meters away from you.

Behind her were the remains of the few vans that had been following you. You growled in response, showing your sharp teeth. If she was a friend or foe you couldn't say, and you were not going to stay to find out. Two took a step backwards, thinking the best way to make your exit, but she seemed to notice it.

"Be a good pup and stay where you are, alright?" She took a step forward. You didn't move but growled once again, your claws poking out enough for her to see. Then she raised both hands, trying to ease you with the gesture. "Easy, we don't have to fight."

You understood indedd there was no need to fight but you also understood this woman, whoever she was, had no intention to let you escape. So you stood there for a moment, debating what to do to when you caught it. You raised your nose and sniffled the air, the scent so subtle you would have lost it if you had left. With a deep breath, you inhaled it. Sweet and fresh, just like you had smell it on the fabric Dr. Jeremiah had given you. The scent. It was coming from that woman.

But it wasn't her.

The alarms went off in you head as you imagined this being a trap. A carefully crafted setting to test you outside the rooms you already knew, facing a new opponent designed to stand against you. It was a dreadful thought, that your only chance at being free was nothing but the definite test, to prove yourself one last time.

And if that was the case, you swore, she wasn't going to stop you and you were not going back.

The blond woman raised her brows, impressed as . She heard the sound of cracking bones u

The blond woman was ready for retaliation and raised her brows, impressed as she watched your claws and teeth get bigger. She didn't even flinch when your bones cracked under your skin, making you grew in size, revealing yourself as the dreadful beast that would have made your makers proud. Your dug your claws into the asphalt like knives on butter and your pitch black eyes were set on her you as you sprinted in her direction. She was confident it would be easy to deal with you and waited patiently for you. However, she was surprised when, instead of charging against her, you leaped high over her head to land and continue running behind her.

She followed your movements, rolling her neck and turning around to see where you were headed. She knew it would be impossible for you to outrun her if that was your plan but she started to truly worry when a black car stopped in the middle of the street, right behind where police officers were now gathering to help. From one of the back doors, a woman was getting out of the car, someone she recognized instantly.

Lena had been a few blocks away, heading to her apartment when she heard the commotion in the streets. She guessed Kara was dealing with something and it just took her a few minutes to reach her location, ready to help her friend. Although she never expected to come face to face with such a creature once she put a foot out of her car.

It was there. You ran. The scent. You kept running. Sweet and fresh, strong and clear.

All your will to fight against the blond girl was replaced by the urgency of following the scent. As soon as it had hit your nose you felt like it was a miracle, one of those improbable things Dr. Jeremiah used to talk about with you. Run and don't stop. Not until you find her, he had said and you were holding into that for dear life. Supergirl, didn't see this as a good sign, seeing as you were now three times your size, and that you still had that wild frantic stare.

Lena gasped at your figure fast approaching towards her and Kara used her superspeed to drag you away from her. She stood near her car as you were tossed away on the street like you were a giant scary plushie. You went back on your feet and looked at them both, growling and showing all your teeth. Particularly at Kara who looked back at you, surprised at how fast you seemed to recover from her punches.

"What is that?" Lena asked as Kara came to her side.

"I don't know. Werewolf?" Kara frowned confused.

Neither of them got the chance to further speculate as a line of big black cargo vans gathered in the distance. The heavy artillery was coming and Lena noted the way you turned around with a resemblance of panic in your furry face. The vans stopped, their rooftops opened and men with seemingly hunting rifles erupted from inside them, aiming their scopes at you, but also at Kara and Lena.

Chaos ensued as the first bullets flew. Kara felt one hit her shoulder as she shielded Lena, sending her a step back. With a horrified look Lena realized Kara was bleeding and she held Kara as her legs seemed to falter. Lena quickly tried to move them to her car, it was blinded so it would give them time to figure out what to do. Kara held her cape over them with her other arm, providing whatever protection she could as Lena opened the door. On the backseats they heard more shots but Lena ignored them as she closed the door and checked Kara's wound. It was superficial but the bullet had managed to tear through her suit and skin. With a deeper look at it, she discovered a few tiny green particles glowing at the edges of Kara's suit.

"Kryptonite." Lena whispered but Kara could still hear her.

"How do they got kryptonite?" Kara winced as Lena grabbed her arm.

"My mother…" Lena mused. "She's the only one that could have access to it. They must be from Cadmus, the creature too."

More bullets impacted against the car and they turned their heads to see little cracks forming on the windows. The Cadmus vans were approaching slowly, their shooters aiming confidently at them. Whatever kind of bullets they had, besides the kryptonite ones, they were going to reach them in no time. And adding to it, Lena caught sight of you running towards her car.

She noticed then a couple of shooters following your movements, pointing their guns at you as you ran in zigzag along the street. She wondered if they were trying to hunt you too and, if so, why would Cadmus hunt it's own creature. But Lena couldn't keep up with her musings as another round of bullets finally shattered the windows.

She covered herself with her arm and pushed Kara to the side so they wouldn't get hit by the broken crystal. It wasn't looking good for them, with Kara without her powers and Lena without a real plan of action, their last safe space had been breached. When she turned around again Lena could see the way the shooters prepared their weapons, the way you kept running towards them. They had get out of there.

Lena hurried Kara to get out through the other door, determined to keep her friend away from further danger. They were barely out when they heard more shots. Lena flinched, pushing Kara down to cover her and expecting to feel the sting of a bullet. When it didn't come, Lena turned around. Her jaw almost dropped when she found your enormous figure standing in front of the car, covering it.

You had sprinted again a second before the Cadmus goons started to shot, jumping left and right along the street, trying to get closer to her. Bullets flew but only a couple managed to hit you and you didn't even feel them as you rushed towards the car. Only when you reached the car and stood in front of it you felt a whole round on you. If you were hurt, Lena couldn't tell. You stood your ground, covering what you could with your body. You were protecting them, she realized with some confusion.

"What's going on?" Kara asked as she turned for a moment.

"Just keep moving." Lena held Kara as she turned again to watch out her own steps. "We need to get away from them."

You heard her and looked briefly at them, or rather at her, the black haired woman whose scent you had to follow. She pushed through the chaos of the streets helping the blond woman who was struggling with her steps now. They look on their faces told you they were worried and maybe a bit scared, something you understood too well. As you heard the shooters preparing another round you knew you had to do something to keep both women safe. So you turned around and did the only thing you had always known to do best. Fight them.

Kara and Lena found shelter around a corner. Despite Kara's initial protests, Lena convinced her of waiting for back up, and she seized the opportunity to look at you from a safe distance. Poking her head our from behind the corner and the line of parked cars in front of them, she watched as you ran back to the attackers. However, her suspicions became clearer as your stance turned more agressive. She saw you leap and charge against them, growling and showing more teeth she had ever seen in any animal. She saw you take out with ease the shooters from the roofs of the vans with your giant jaws, tossing them to the ground and chewing what you could to incapacitate them. Even as the target of more and more bullets, with your body you shoved the van against each other or overturned them. The men that managed to get out of them received the same treatment of your jaws and teeth. You were done soon enough. So quickly in fact that the calvary, Alex and the DEO teams, arrived only to witness what was left of it.

Lena grabbed Kara, trying to ignore for a moment your omnious presence, to take her to her sister. They needed to take the kryptonite out of her. Meanwhile, DEO teams were mobilizing around you but their movement alerted you and, before they could figure out what to do, you ran again.

You ran towards Lena.

Kara's instincts kicked in as she saw you. She took a step forward, standing between you and Lena, because even without her powers she wasn't going to let you attack her best friend. But then Lena moved too, pulling Kara behind her as she took a step forward. She stood her ground, placing herself in front of Kara as you charged against them.

"Stop!" Lena screamed at the top of her lungs.

You didn't know if it had been the order itself, after years of conditioning, or the way she had commanded you to do so, but your whole body immediately froze. Almost comically, you stretched your four legs and skidded a few meters, your claws leaving long marks on the concrete before coming to a halt in front of both of them. You lowered your butt and sat in front of them like a well trained dog, leaving whoever was near to see it speechless.

Kara watched surprised and confused as you tried to catch your breath. Blood poured out of your mouth and from the holes the bullets had left on your skin, which were now healing with incredible speed.

"How did you do it?" Kara asked letting out a breath.

"I don't really know." Lena kept looking at you, her mind racing to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. "But I'm going to find out."

[adreamerinseamajor]

so many references... I can't keep up..

[emonaculate]

Emon babbles II...

Woah... you guys loved the first drabble, huh? Honestly, I'm a little shocked at how well it did, considering I only had bits and pieces of a story. Thank you for all the support! I do appreciate all the feedback! Let me know if you'd like a full-fledged fic out of this, or if you'd prefer the drabble format.

Bandmate!Gojo x Readerــــــــﮩ٨ـ

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who is five months out from the infamous Welcome Home Palooza, sits alone in the dim glow of Studio C—his favorite room to rot in nowadays. Being alone in a studio is a hell of a lot easier than interacting with people.

The walls are padded in midnight blue, the air heavy with old smoke and the hum of equipment left on standby. The only light comes from a single desk lamp that flickers sometimes, like even it doesn’t know how to stay steady.

His guitar rests against his thigh, glistening as it mocks him. He plays the same three chords. Again. And again. And again. The tempo is off. The bridge won’t land. The chorus feels cheap. Everything he writes sounds like someone else wrote it. Someone who is trying to make a cheap, straight-to-retail stores' radio cash grab.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who is supposed to be introducing a brand-new song at their biggest show for long-term fans who actually KNOW what his music is supposed to sound like.

A homecoming. A resurrection. Or a slow, public execution. He can’t tell which.

The deadlines are crawling closer. The pressure is a weight in his chest. This is the first palooza he has ever had to do with Geto. Maybe, that's why its so hard for him to come up with new material. He stares at the notebook sitting beside him—blank, accusing, waiting. He’s written nothing. He doesn’t even have a title. Just a looping mess of sounds that refuse to mean anything.

Where the hell do you even start when everything already feels like the ending?

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojostrums the strings harder. Wrong. All wrong. The riff comes out ugly. He stops. Breathes in. Breathes out. Counts to four. Still wrong. He closes his eyes and leans back in the chair, head tilted toward the ceiling, waiting for the drop of something—inspiration, maybe. Grace. A ghost. Or maybe for the ceiling to collapse and kill him.

However he is only met with the response of silence. Then—his phone buzzes. He knows it's Shoko. She's the only one who checks on him anymore. She pretends to not care, but she has always been in his corner... even when he doesn't deserve it.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo doesn’t want to answer. He wants to let it go to voicemail. But considering he has gotten no where in the past three hours, he might as well. Not like he has anything better going on. He presses accept and stays quiet.

“Still hunched over in that studio?” she asks. No preamble.

“Still smoking those cancer sticks?” he fires back.

A pause. The kind that says you win this round, bitch.

“I’ve got news,” she sighs. “About Y/n”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo feels his jaw twitch. He says nothing. She had been an enigma in his mind since they had played together. He thought about how he looked at her and all he saw was Geto. He remembered the feeling of his heart rate spiking and palms growing sweaty as she removed the blindfold, ruining the illusion. There was something about the way she really looked at him afterwards. Like actually looked. Saw him. He panicked and bolted out of the room.

Shoko knows that silence. She keeps going.

“Execs said no. She’s out. Too new. Too unpolished. Not marketable enough. They used a lot of words to say ‘we’re scared of taking risks.’ You know the drill.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo doesn't answer at first. Not because he doesn’t have anything to say—but because he has too much. Y/n's playing has been stuck in his head since the audition like a melody with no name. He remembers the shape of her confidence. The fire in her voice when she said she could keep up with him—blindfolded. She turned Charmolypi into a conversation without knowing the history.

And now, just like that, he lost Geto all over again. I mean a new bassist. His grip tightens on the guitar neck until his knuckles pale.

“Say something,” Shoko pleads. “Or throw something. I don’t care. Just don’t sit there shutting me out again. ”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo lifts the guitar again. Plays the same three chords. They don't sound real anymore with how many times he has replayed them..

“Did they give a reason?” he mutters.

“I told you. Image. PR. All bullshit.” She pauses, then adds carefully, “They don’t think she fits our sound.”

Gojo snorts. “She was our sound.”

Another beat of silence.

“You gonna fight this?” she asks.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo doesn’t know. He wants to. But there’s something heavy hanging over it all—something rooted in the song he hasn’t finished and the person he hasn’t forgiven. Y/N reminded him of Geto, that was undeniable. Obviously, not in the way she looked, or talked. But in the way she made music feel like it still meant something. Like it could still save something.

But maybe Gojo doesn’t want to be saved. Maybe he was scared to try and push for this girl to join his band because he wasn't sure if he'd be able to push aside the fact that all he saw when he looked at her was his ex-lover. His bestfriend. The one that got away. What if that line blurred and he did something terrible? Ruined another person? He seemed to have a track record for ruining the good in amazing musicians.

Shoko seems to sense where his mind is drifting. “Look. You’ve got five months to write something that doesn’t sound like a eulogy. I’m just saying—maybe the thing you need to fix this… isn’t something. Maybe it’s someone.”

He doesn’t answer. He just keeps playing the same three chords, slightly slower now. Still not right.

"Just think about it. Don't forget to take a break, though." Shoko added before ending the call.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo , who gets literally kicked out of the studio by Shoko, doesn’t argue when she tosses a crumpled ball cap at his chest and jerks a thumb toward the door.

“You need air. And a damn attitude adjustment.”

He doesn’t bother lashing back. Not because he agrees with her— hell no— but because the fight feels like too much effort. Everything does lately. Maybe he should request his doctor to up his meds?

“Don’t forget the mask,” she calls after him as he walks down the hallway. “The last thing we need is another headline about your ‘mysterious public breakdown.’”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who’s dressed like teenage girl who just discovered streetwear's wet dream— navy blue ball cap pulled low, oversized white jersey flapping open over a long sleeve that hides his infamous yet easily recognizable tattoos, baggy cargo pants low enough to piss off any manager on payroll, and a plain black mask pulled snug over his face— blends in for once. A nobody in the middle of a city that only cares about nobodies when they become rich ass somebodies overnight.

The moment he steps outside, L.A. wraps around him— hot pavement, the smell of gas and cigarettes, the smear of sunset like an old bruise across the sky.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

He pulls it out, scanning a few messages. One from his agent — ignored. Two from fans who somehow got his real number again — blocked.

Then… An unfamiliar number. Just a single message.

did you really feel that threatened by how much better i am than you?

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo freezes mid-step. The corner of his mouth unknowingly twitches, almost against his will—not quite a smile, more like the idea of one. He reads the message again. He’s not used to being challenged, let alone teased this casually. He didn't even question how she managed to get his number.

It’s Y/n. Has to be.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo stares at the words, chewing them over like lyrics he hasn’t quite figured out how to sing yet. The audacity. The gall. The fact that she didn’t beg for a second chance— didn’t ask anything of him. Just hit send and dared him to deal with it.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo feels his face flush for the first time in years. God, what was he, a kid in grade school? No way he is getting flustered by a girl being this casual with him. He had snake bites and a tongue piercing for crying out loud! If he could sit through that pain, he could handle some random girl texting his phone. She's not just some random girl, though.

So what she was someone who, for the first time in forever, reminded him of why he started playing in the first place. That feeling. That fire. That ache. And it wasn’t from fame. Or fans. Or ego. It was from someone showing up and refusing to shrink beneath his shadow.

It didn't mean anything. He should ignore the text. He should block her and move on and keep pretending none of this matters. But instead, his thumbs hover over the screen. He types. Deletes. Types again.

you spelled “lucky” wrong.

He hits send before he can talk himself out of it. The reply comes quick.

bitch behavior. didn’t deny it though.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who now walks the block with a barely-contained laugh behind his mask, feels that same feeling stir in his ribs that he originally felt when they played together.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, whose feet carry him aimlessly down side streets and cracked sidewalks, past tattoo parlors glowing red with neon, taco stands setting up for late-night rushes, and murals half-covered in new graffiti. It's noisy, alive — and yet, it feels like he's underwater. Everything muffled. Everyone moving too fast.

He thumbs a reply, each word deliberately careless:

deny what? that you played like a high schooler with stage fright?

But before he can hit send, he pauses. Deletes the last half. He rewrites it. Too mean.

deny what? i didn’t know confidence came with delusion these days.

He stares at it for a second. Debating. Not bad.. not too mean? Its fine. Stop over thinking it.

Then: send.

His phone buzzes back within seconds.

says the guy who couldn’t even look me in the eye the whole time i played. what’s the matter, did real talent make you nervous? or am I just that breathtaking?

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo actually stops walking this time, standing in the yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. Is she flirting or mocking him? A couple passes him on the sidewalk, laughing softly as they brush hands. He doesn't move, doesn’t even notice.

There’s a subtle tightening in his chest. Not pain, exactly. More like friction. Pressure. Get a grip, you're Gojo Satoru. Worldwide superstar. Not some loser who has never felt the touch of a woman before. You don't like this girl; you like the fact that she reminds you of who you lost. Nothing more.

says the girl who was about to cry because her pinky slipped off the E string? don’t act like you didn’t flinch when i raised my voice. tough girls don’t blink.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo regrets the last sentence the moment it sends. Way too mean. Too much like the version of him Shoko keeps threatening to drag to therapy. But it’s already out there. Her reply takes longer this time. Five minutes. Then ten. He starts walking again, slower now. He cuts across a parking lot and sits on the edge of a short wall, staring out at the blur of headlights streaming down the street.

Finally, her response comes.

you’re right. i did flinch. because you reminded me what failure looks like. and i don’t want to end up like you. damn near passed out at the mere thought.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who has been called a genius, a god, a generational talent, sits in stunned silence, phone glowing back at him as if he looked hard enough, the message would rewrite itself into something more pleasant.

He blinks once. Twice. Then, he smiles. Not the cocky smirk, not the fake stage-grin. A real one. Twisted, bitter, maybe a little impressed.

ok. fine. show me how not to end up like me then.

The three dots bounce on his screen. Typing. Stopping. Typing again. But no reply comes. He leans back on his hands, looking up at the sky, the city lights washing out the stars. For the first time in months, he’s not thinking about Geto. Not about the way things fell apart. Not about how he ruined the relationship with the person he cared about most. Just about a girl who called him a bitch and made him want to pick up his guitar again— not to be better than anyone else. But to prove he still could.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, phone screen dims. Thirty minutes pass. Still no reply. He doesn’t like that.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo doesn’t like being the one left hanging. He’s the cliff, not the one dangling from it. The back-and-forth was fun. Sharp. Flirty without trying to be. But now that it’s quiet, all the self-assuredness he wears like cologne starts to wear thin. He checks the signal on his phone like it’s the service’s fault.

Then— buzz.

A message. No words. Just a location pin. A blue dot blinking somewhere less than a mile from where he’s perched.

wtf does that mean. hello? you forget how to type? are you luring me out to kill me bc ngl, i’d respect that.

No response. Gojo stares at the location again. He shouldn’t go. He won’t go. It’s probably just a flex. A test. A trap. ...So why is he already walking with the GPS pulled up?

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who has slipped through hundreds of backdoors in venues across the world, now walks quietly, alone, on side streets lit with strings of warm lights and the occasional flickering sign. He follows the map. It leads him to a small café tucked between a yoga studio and an old comic shop. The kind of place with mismatched tables and a chalkboard sign outside that says OPEN MIC / LOCAL TALENT NIGHT in scrawled white letters. It’s packed. People are standing shoulder to shoulder, heads tilted toward a small stage in the back, where a single spotlight beams down like a soft halo.

He doesn’t need to ask where she is.

Because there, in the middle of that warmth and color and attention, is Y/n. Alone onstage. No band. No fanfare. Just her bass slung low, her fingers moving with casual, devastating control. Her eyes are wide as she plays with a fever he couldn't describe. Her body swaying to a rhythm that doesn’t seem rehearsed, but lived in.

And the sound—God. Even her voice is pretty. It’s fluid. Gritty. Intimate. Full of breathless pauses and surprise riffs . She’s not showing off—not technically. She’s telling a story. And the crowd? They're caught in her gravity. No phones out. No talking. Just listening. She plucks a run of notes, and Gojo feels them.

Somewhere in his ribs. That little space between ache and awe. He leans against the doorframe in the back, hidden by shadows. Watching.

Y/N glances up mid-song, and for a second, her eyes flicker to the back of the room. He swears she sees him. But she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t flinch.

Just presses deeper into the melody like it’s a challenge, and Gojo swears he can hear it in the way her fingers shift: “You came.”

And something in his chest replies— “Yeah.”

The final note hums like the last breath of a storm. Y/n lets it hang, vibrating in the air for one extra beat before she slowly lifts her hand off the strings. No flourish. No bow. Just a nod— like that performance was for her, not them. Applause erupts, sudden and full-bodied. Gojo watches her give a tight smile to the crowd, say something polite into the mic, and then slip off the stage without waiting for praise.

She disappears behind a curtain for a moment. The next act sets up— two girls with matching hair clips and a shared acoustic guitar. The energy shift is immediate. But Gojo’s not watching them. Because she’s walking toward him now. Calm. Unhurried. Eyes pinned to his like she’s not even bothering to pretend this is coincidence.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who’s sat in green rooms with legends and walked off stage to standing ovations, suddenly feels too tall for his chair. He straightens up—too quickly— like he didn’t just get caught staring. Y/n stops in front of him and squints. Then, with all the flatness of someone pointing out a spilled drink:

"Your disguise is terrible, by the way."

Gojo blinks. “...You think so?”

She cocks her head, arms crossing. “You look like what an adolescent girl, too young to be on Tumblr, would climax over if she could dress her crush.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojosnorts— but behind the mask, it's more like a sharp exhale. She slides into the chair across from him. Her movements unceremonious, confident, like this was always the plan. Like he’s the one intruding on her evening.

"I’m surprised you made it," she says, flicking a glance toward the stage as the next act begins tuning.

“Only caught the end.” He says it casually, but the way his fingers tap restlessly at the edge of the table gives him away. “Didn’t think you were into open mic nights.”

“I’m not. But they’re into me.” She shrugs. “And this is the only place that’ll let me play without turning it into a PR stunt.”

She doesn’t say like your label did, but he hears it anyway.

A waitress comes by. Y/N orders with practiced ease, like she comes here often.

“Strawberry shortcake,” she says, pointing at Gojo with her thumb. “And an energy drink for me. Tall can. Yellow tropical.”

Gojo raises a brow. “Didn’t realize you knew my order.”

“I didn’t. You just look like you need something sweet to shut you up.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo opens his mouth to reply, but it’s gone— the wit, the snark. She’s leaned back now, arms over the chair, the dim café lights softening the edges of her face. Not smiling. Not trying to make him laugh.

Just looking at him. And it’s so unsettlingly… normal and easy. The waitress disappears. The music starts again— the girls on stage begin to sing something breathy and delicate about summer and loss. They sit there, saying nothing for a moment.

Then Y/n, softly speaks; her voice as sweet and light as it was during her audition originally:

"Why’d you come, Satoru?"

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo doesn’t answer right away. Because he doesn't know what would be worse— telling her the truth… or lying. That it wasn’t about rivalry. Or pride. It was because she made him feel something. Something that he thought he'd never feel again. The presence of Geto. All when she played. He could feel Geto's touch. His smell. His laughter that could echo off the walls for miles. That would be crazy to admit. Deranged. Wrong. So instead, he shrugs. Leans back in his seat.

“Wanted to see if you were as good as your ego said.”

Y/N smirks faintly, tilting the energy drink to her lips as it arrives.

“And?”

The waitress sets the shortcake in front of him. Gojo picks up the fork, breaks off a piece of strawberry, and answers with a mouthful.

"...You’re better."

They sit together for longer than they probably should.

A steady stream of local talent drifts on and off the stage— an indie rock duo with too much reverb, a slam poet who forgot half their lines, a jazz quartet that brought the house back to life. But Gojo only half-listens. His attention keeps drifting sideways, toward the girl sitting across from him, draining her energy drink and poking at the condensation on the side of the can like it’s more interesting than anything happening on stage.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who once sold out Narendra Modi Stadium in less than hour, can’t remember the last time he sat this still.

Y/n laughs at something the girl onstage says— a soft, bright laugh that bursts out of her without restraint. When she laughs, she laughs. Her whole body lifts like a wave cresting, shoulders bouncing, her nose crinkling as the sound fills their little corner of the cafe. And God, it hurts. Because she reminds him of him. Not just in the way her presence draws people in like gravity, though that's part of it. It’s subtler than that. Quieter. The resemblance is all in the details.

In the sharp slice of her eyebrow, like it was carved there by accident during a night too wild to remember. The small silver ring through the side of her nose, glinting under warm lights. The faint constellation of freckles that dust her cheekbones, barely there until she tips her face up to laugh.

And then there's her smile— wide, full, but with a crooked tooth that only adds to her charm. It's not perfect. Which is exactly what makes it unforgettable. She talks with her hands. Gestures big, like every word needs space to stretch. Just like Geto used to.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo feels it— the old ache, that space inside him where Suguru used to live. He thinks he’s gotten used to it by now. The hollowness. The silence. But watching Y/n from the side, it's like pressing on a bruise that never fully healed.

“Hey,” she says suddenly, voice casual, but her gaze is sharp. “You keep staring like that, and people are gonna start thinking you’re in love with me.”

He snorts. “If I were, it’d be purely out of admiration for your excellent fashion sense.”

“Oh yeah?” she leans in, feigning seriousness. “You trying to copy my look under that busted disguise?”

He grins under the mask, shaking his head. “Please. If I showed up dressed like you, I’d get mobbed.”

“Well then,” she raises her can in a mock-toast, “consider yourself lucky. No one here’s even bothered to ask if you’re the Gojo Satoru. Your anonymity’s doing great.”

“Thanks,” he says flatly. “I worked really hard to look this chopped.”

Y/N snickers and sits back, watching the next performer fumble with a mic stand. Then, after a stretch of companionable silence, she sighs.

“I’m okay with not being in the band, you know.”

Gojo’s fingers tense slightly against the table. Y/n doesn’t look at him. She just keeps watching the stage, her tone neutral.

“I knew when they brought me in, it wasn’t going to happen. You’ve got too much weight around that group. Too much grief. They want someone to fill a spot— not replace anyone. And I’m not trying to be a ghost in someone else’s place. I am my own person, y'know. ”

Her words hang heavy between them. Truthful. Unbothered. And Gojo, who’s spent months pretending he doesn’t care, finally admits — that’s exactly it. Suguru was irreplaceable. Not just because of the talent or the history. But because of who he was to all of them. To him.

And now here’s this girl: too loud, too honest, too damn talented; who won’t slot neatly into a role designed for someone long gone. Because she’s not a replacement. She’s herself. Gojo looks at her again and he doesn’t know what to say. But for once, maybe that’s okay. So instead, he nudges his plate toward her— one last bite of strawberry shortcake untouched.

“Wanna finish it?”

She looks at him, then at the cake, then back.

“Sharing sweets? You like me that much?.”

He shrugs. “Call it a peace offering.”

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who stands outside the little cafe, the buzz of streetlamps flickering overhead as L.A.’s night air kisses at the edges of his skin through the loose jersey he’s half-zipped. The world hums around him, but he only hears the echo of her laugh— still ringing behind his ribs like a leftover chord.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo who stands there awkwardly, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other idly spinning the cap of his lychee soda bottle, unsure if he’s supposed to say something else—something meaningful. But Y/N’s already turning; her energy drink can tossed into a bin with a flick of her fingers.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo who watches her walk away with an effortless bounce in her step, a light skip slipping into her stride like she forgot she was supposed to play it cool.

She doesn’t look back. But he does.

He watches her—shoulders relaxed, hoodie slightly oversized, her silhouette swallowed up by the city’s amber haze. The faint clink of her bass case as it shifts against her back. That goddamn silver nose ring catching the light. The way her plump-lipped smile had lingered a little too long in his memory.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who sighs so hard it fogs up it heats up the masks he has on. He tugs it off in a fluid motion and pulls off the cap, running a hand through his now-damp hair.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo who kicks at a pebble on the sidewalk and mutters under his breath, “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” like the universe dared to give him another person who shines too bright and burns just as fast.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who stands still long after Y/N has disappeared from sight, feeling that annoying tug in his chest — the one that makes him clench his jaw and pretend his heart doesn’t still flinch when he thinks about Geto.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo who realizes, as he exhales and rolls his shoulders back, that he doesn’t care what the label said. Or what bullshit reason they gave. Or how complicated it might be to add her to their lineup.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojowho makes up his mind right then and there, staring into the cool L.A. night, that she’s in the band— no matter what.

✮⋆˙Bandmate!Gojo, who is a lot of things—a menace, a legend, a walking PR nightmare— but he’s not a coward.

He'll fight the execs. He'll deal with Nanami’s judgment. He’ll deal with his own aching, unresolved ghosts.

But he is not letting someone like Y/N slip away. Not when she might be the only person in five goddamn years to make music feel alive again.

And especially not when she calls him a bitch and still somehow makes him want to write a song about it.

[omgthatdress]

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, (1, 2)

Westphalia (Westfalen)

Hesse

Spreewald

[coolthingsguyslike]

[oliveoomph]

Kit & Jade

Willow - season 1: part II

[daryltwdixon]

The Promise of Us: Chapter 23

Guess who's back? Back again? :)

You

“Oh god, oh god!” you whisper, breathless, each syllable getting louder and louder as you look down. Your back is up against the cold tile, chills running up and down your body as you sit back. Despite the cold bite of the counter underneath you, heat floods your system, blood pumping hard in your chest.

“Daryl!” you hiss, trying to contain your voice to a whisper but it’s no use. Your hands fist in his hair, eyes squeezing shut as the rush of pressure makes your body tense, then suddenly soften as you throw your head back. Pain shoots through your skull momentarily at the impact of the tile wall, but the overwhelming crash of waves through you are too strong, and the throbbing ebbs away as you catch your breath. 

Daryl Dixon stands up from between your legs, his face flushed, a cocky grin pulling at his lips. You’re still gasping for breath when he leans in, his mouth meeting yours in a hungry, almost desperate kiss.

“Someone could come in–” you murmur against the heat of his mouth, though the words lack conviction as he presses hot kisses along your neck, your skin tingling with each touch.

“Mmhm,” he grunts in response, his arms drawing you closer until there’s barely any space left between you. Your bare legs wrap around him instinctively, but your eyes still dart to the door of the communal bathroom as you tug at his hair.

“I got chores to do before the run today,” you try to insist, voice breathless but laced with a hint of teasing.

“Yeah? Me too,” he chuckles, and pushes down his pants with haste, realizing he’s losing daylight here as you continue to come up with more reasons why doing it in the bathroom, although your idea to begin with, was a terrible plan. 

“I gotta–” but he’s pushing into you, and all pleas and arguments are forgotten as your head lulls back in pleasure, and his hands find your hair before melting into you.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

Daryl

The sun beats down hard on Daryl’s neck as he crosses the courtyard, aiming for the shaded seating area. The refurbished picnic table had been a saving grace especially since the summer had hit hard and fast. He’s adjusting his pants as he makes his way over, his eyes glancing at Y/N, who already is seated at the picnic tables across from Beth and Maggie. His eyes linger as she smooths her hair—hair that was just tangled between his fingers. She’d insisted they not leave the bathroom together, not with their flushed faces and tousled clothes. And especially not walking into breakfast hand in hand. Daryl had rolled his eyes at the idea, but he knew it made sense. Wasn’t about shame—hell, the whole prison probably knew by now–but they weren’t gonna flaunt how…active they had been these past 6 months.

“Morning, Daryl!” a voice calls to him from the tables, and he turns to look at the resident that recently joined the group.

“‘Sup, Dr. S,” he says easily, and his head jerks over to the right when he hears his name being called again in greeting. Behind him, more people call good morning. He shifts awkwardly, not used to all this damn attention. His gaze cuts back to Y/N—sure enough, she’s looking over her shoulder at him, a faint smile playing on her lips.

His cheeks burn as he reaches Carol, who hands him a plate from the serving table. 

“Just so you know,” she teases, “I liked you first,”

Daryl grunts, already uncomfortable. “Stop,” he mutters, but there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “ ‘Sides, think ya might’ve been beat to that one already,” he chuckles, and Carol’s eyes glitter with amusement as she looks over his shoulder to where Y/N sits.

He shovels a few bites of food into his mouth, chewing as he eyes the yard. “Lotta new people around now,”

“Rick’s brought them in, fed them and is keepin’ ‘em safe…You’re gonna have to learn to live with the love,” Carol quips, giving him a playful smile.

“Right,” he grumbles.

“I need ya to see something,” she says, her tone shifting to business. Daryl instinctively glances over his shoulder, feeling Y/N’s eyes on him again. When their gazes meet, he can’t help but wink, a grin sneaking onto his face. She grins back, making his chest tighten. Before he can move, a kid with thick glasses walks up, hesitating.

“Uh, Mr. Dixon, I just wanted to thank you for uh, bringing that deer back yesterday,” the kid stutters, trying and failing to meet Daryl’s eye as he finishes, “it was a real treat, sir,” 

Daryl looks at Carol dumbfounded, who is smiling tightly watching him, and he could swear he hears Y/N’s giggles behind his back.

“And I’d be honored to shake your hand,” the kid continues, his name strikes Daryl then suddenly–Patrick, right.

Daryl holds back his smile, pausing and looking at his outstretched hand. He lifts his fingers to his mouth, cleaning off his breakfast, and slaps the kids hand with a tightly gripped greeting. The kid accepts with a wide grin, and pushes up his glasses when his hand comes away from Daryl’s.

Daryl grunts again, following Carol while pulling on his leather jacket. He keeps his eyes on the ground, listening to her as she leads him away from the group.

“It’s about today,” she says, “I don’t know if we’ll be able to spare a lot of people for the run,”

“That place is good to go. We’re gonna move on it,” he answers. 

“Yeah,” she grumbles, her eyes shifting toward the outer yard. “thing is–we had a pretty big build up overnight,” 

Daryl’s eyes follow hers, spotting the growing herd of walkers pressing against the chain-link fence. Their snarls carry across the yard, a constant reminder of what’s still out there. People are already working the fence line, stabbing through the gaps to thin the crowd. No matter how comfortable, inviting, and safe the prison felt these past 6 months, the outside always had a way of reminding you what was still out there. 

“There’s dozens or more towards tower three, it’s getting as bad as last month,” Carol says, folding her arms.

“More of us sitting here, the more it draws ‘em outta the woods,” Daryl says, chewing the rest of his breakfast, “them damn fence clingers start to herd up,”

“It’s manageable but unless we get ahead of it, not for long,” she says, resigned, but turns to him with an amused glint in her eye, “Sorry, Pookie,”

Daryl scoffs, elbowing her lightly before turning his focus back to the task at hand, but there’s a hint of a grin as he moves away.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

Daryl lifts another gas can, feeling its weight before tossing it into the truck bed. The midmorning sun is rising, sweat prickling at the back of his neck. Y/N’s footsteps catch his attention as she jogs up beside him, her breathing slightly labored from the jog over. Before he can say anything, he notices her tight-lipped expression, her amused gaze fixed over his shoulder.

He turns, following her line of sight, and spots Beth and Zack in close conversation.  There’s a flirtatious air between them as they smile at each other in the sunlight. As Beth starts to move away Daryl scoffs, and you both hear their last moments of the conversation.

“Okay–you gonna say goodbye?” Zack calls after her, his tone hopeful.

“Nope!” Beth replies, her chin held high, a cheeky grin still on her face.

Y/N chuckles softly as she toward the bike. He shakes his head, muttering under his breath.  “Like a damn romance novel,”

“Like you’re any different,” she teases passing by.

As the others load up the vehicles, Tyreese and Sasha are busy with the smaller car, Glenn triple-checking the gear inside. Bob, who still seems eager to prove himself, hovers nearby, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Daryl eyes him skeptically, then exchanges a glance with Y/N, who’s leaning against the motorcycle, watching the group with a quiet alertness.

“We ain’t gonna do it unless it’s easy,” Daryl reassures Sasha as she tries to convince Bob to sit this one out. He steps closer, his voice gruff but calm. Bob is new, but going on this run should be a quick in and out. Nothin’ too crazy, since they’d scouted out the place for weeks. The man nods, but Daryl can see the determination in his eyes. New people are always like that—desperate to contribute, desperate to matter. He gets it, even if he doesn’t fully trust the guy yet.

Once the final bags are loaded and the plan is confirmed, Daryl swings his leg over the motorcycle. He feels Y/N climb on behind him, her hands wrapping tightly around his waist. Her grip is firm, a comforting pressure that steadies him. As the convoy moves toward the gates, Daryl kills the engine when he spots Michonne standing with Rick and Carl, a chestnut horse by her side.

“Well, well, look who’s back,” he greets, his voice rough but welcoming.

“Didn’t find ‘im,” Michonne says bluntly, her expression serious, hand resting on her hip.

Daryl nods, understanding the weight behind her words. He’s seen that look on her before—focused, determined, like she won’t stop until she gets what she’s after. He can’t blame her; hell, he respects it. Just wishes she’d spend more time here, with their people instead of running off. He hears Y/N’s voice over his shoulder.

“Good to see you in one piece, Mich,” she says to her, but Michonne ignores the greeting.

“I’ve been thinkin’ of lookin’ over near Macon,” she says to Rick, who sighs without a word, “It’s worth a shot,” she says sharply when he turns away.

“70 miles of walkers,’ Daryl looks at her seriously, “You might run into a few unneighborly types…is it?”

Michonne is quiet as she looks between them all.

“We’re gonna check out the Big Spot. The one I was talkin’ about–just seein’,” Daryl says, steering the conversation with Rick now to the run.

“Yeah, I gotta go out and check the snares,” Rick’s eyes are behind Daryl, on Y/N, “Don’t wanna lose what we catch to walkers,” just out of the corner of his eye, she sees her nodding.

“I’ll go,” Michonne says abruptly, already turning away, her movements precise and deliberate. She heads to the truck surprisingly, hopping in for the run with everyone.

Carl calls to her, almost a desperate tone in his voice, “You just got here,”

She smiles at him over her shoulder, “And I’ll be back!”

Daryl revs the motorcycle, the vibration rumbling beneath him. Y/N tightens her grip around his waist, and he feels a small, reassuring squeeze. He tilts his head slightly, catching her soft smile out of the corner of his eye. Leaning in closer, her chin rests briefly on his shoulder.

“You ready?” she murmurs, her voice barely audible over the roar of engines behind them.

“Always,” he replies, his voice low and certain. Her lips find his ear, brushing over the shell of them as he turns back around to face the road. The goosebumps that rise over his skin never quite get used to her touching him like this. 

Rick pulls the gates open, and Daryl pushes forward, leading the caravan out of the prison grounds. As they pass the fence line, he steals one more glance back at the prison—at the place that’s somehow become home, even with all its dangers. Then he shifts his focus forward, to the road ahead, feeling Y/N’s warmth against his back as they ride into the uncertain morning. 

[rhiannons-bird]

The only good thing about time passing faster as an adult is that while I’ll basically wake up tomorrow with another year gone, at least this means all the highly anticipated release dates are just around the corner as well

[itsgettingunbelievable]

Michael Corleone

The Godfather, part II