#good enough i can function fine without them

[gav-san]

“No Takebacks" 3

Masterlist here

No Takebacks Masterlist

One Piece Masterlist Here

How it began Word Count: 4K

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

You are, to put it mildly, a spectacularly clean and deeply informed person.

You bathe regularly. You organize your notes. You have backup plans for your backup plans. You do not cause public scenes unless they are worth it. Unfortunately, this one was.

Because apparently, telling the truth about Lord Velcot’s very unfortunate incident with a spiced pear, a stolen wig, and three goats has consequences. 

Who knew nobles were so sensitive?

The guards chased you down cobbled alleys, and your beautifully polished boots are caked with harbor mud. You duck into a quieter corner, heart hammering, and come face to face with a man leaning against a stack of crates, chewing a toothpick, and watching you like you’re a particularly interesting card game.

"You're in a bit of a hurry," he says. “Ex-boyfriend?���

You eye him warily. "Do I know you?"

"Not yet. But I hear you know a lot of things. And I'm in the market for information."

You don’t have time for this. "And you’re offering what, exactly?"

He jerks his head toward the ship just past the dock. “A ride. Quiet. No questions, except the ones I ask.”

You study him. Weathered. Sharp-eyed. The kind of man who doesn’t waste words or tolerate lies. You make a split-second decision and nod.

“Fine.”

You make it to the ship without being seen. You narrow your eyes at the size. It is beautiful. Stunning, even. A grand silhouette against the horizon, red sails snapping proudly in the wind. You expected something stately, maybe even majestic.

It’s too dark to tell.

“So,” you say, brushing dirt off your sleeves, “you the captain?”

He barks out a laugh. “Me? Hell no.”

You freeze. “Wait. What?”

“Captain’s below,” he says, grinning. “He’ll want to meet you once I tell him I brought aboard a high-value gossip with nice hair and good boots.”

You blink.

“You’re not the captain?”

“Nope. Name’s Benn Beckman.” He offers a hand. “First Mate to the Red-Haired Pirates.”

And that’s when you hear it. The laugh. Low. Friendly. Infuriating.

Shanks.

Your blood runs cold. You know that bounty. You’ve stared at the poster enough times to curse the smile.

You whirl on Benn. “You brought me aboard a Yonko’s ship?!”

“Careful,” Benn says, clearly amused. “He’s fallen for worse attitudes.”

“Worse than me?”

He shrugs, grinning. “You’ll fit right in.”

Frankly, you don’t care. You’ve had a very long day of being chased, betrayed, and slandered over what should have been a hilarious and harmless anecdote involving a pear and a powerful man’s poor choices. You accepted Benn Beckman’s offer because he looked capable, unbothered, and most importantly, clean.

And to his credit, he was.

He helps you up the gangplank without ceremony. You think maybe, just maybe, you’re safe.

The ship, however, is something else entirely.

You step aboard the Red Force and are immediately met with what can only be described as a deeply committed level of nautical chaos. Not the kind bred from incompetence; no, this is curated, almost artistic. Like someone had taken the concept of a functioning pirate crew and given it a bottle of rum, three chickens, and a head injury.

There’s laundry—actual dirty laundry—hanging from the rigging, flapping proudly like the sails of domestic surrender. A pair of polka-dot boxers snaps you in the face as the wind changes. You look up. They wave at you.

Near the helm, two shirtless crewmates are locked in what appears to be a very serious swordfight.

With baguettes. 

They parry with the grace of seasoned warriors and the idiocy of men who have not tasted fear since puberty. One of them shouts “en garde!” in a terrible accent before taking a bite out of his weapon mid-duel.

You catch sight of a chicken. It’s wearing an eyepatch. You blink. It’s still there. It stares back, solemn and ancient, as if it has survived battles you’ll never understand.

The scent of rum hits you next. Not just a scent. A presence. The rum is in the air. The planks beneath your feet creak with the ghost of spilled drinks and bad decisions. You swear the wood itself is tipsy.

You stop mid-step, overcome by the visceral assault of sight, sound, and questionable life choices.

“It’s a pigsty,” you whisper, horrified. Then you blink again, gaze sweeping over the sun-drenched deck, the howling laughter, the chaos woven with joy and freedom. You swallow, shoulders slumping.

“A beautiful pigsty.”

Benn strolls past you like none of this is strange. “Home sweet home.”

You gape at a mug crusted with something you pray is not jam. “You said quiet ride. You said no questions. You did not say I’d share air with feral pirate frat boys.”

“Mm.” Benn eyes the deck. “They’re housebroken. Mostly.”

You side-eye him. “Why does it smell like aging citrus and despair?”

“It’s lemon oil,” he says. “Someone tried to mop. Once. In 2003.”

You inhale slowly, then blink at the sheer volume of abandoned teacups, rum bottles, and suspicious socks.

And that’s when he appears. Barefoot, laughing, and wearing a half-buttoned shirt like it’s a lifestyle.

Red hair. Ridiculous grin. No concept of personal space.

“Oh?” he says, clearly amused. “New passenger?”

You freeze.

This man is everything you go out of your way to avoid. Loud. Disheveled. Ridiculously charming. Probably sticky.

You look at Benn in betrayed silence.

He shrugs. “That’s the captain.”

You point at him in slow horror. “That thing is the captain?”

Shanks beams. 

“Don’t worry, I’m mostly socialized for indoor behavior.”

You almost jumped overboard.

Benn claps you on the shoulder like this is fine and mostly to keep you dry. “Welcome to the Red Force.”

You murmur, “I would like to go home now.”

Too late. Someone hands you a drink. Someone else asks if you’re the new quartermaster. The chicken clucks approvingly.

The ship sways.

So does your patience.

You sigh. “At least I’m not the one who smells like cheese.”

“Yet,” Shanks adds brightly.

You stare at him. Then at Benn.

“This is your fault.”

Benn lights a cigarette like he has all the time in the world and no reason to rush. The smoke curls slowly between his fingers as he leans against the rail, watching the chaos unfold across the deck with the kind of patience that only comes from long exposure to nonsense.

“Yeah,” he says, casting a glance in your direction. “But you’re not boring. So I’d say we’re even.”

You blink at him. Then at the ship. Then at the man dueling with a mop while wearing a long coat and absolutely no pants. You look again at the chicken. It’s still wearing the eyepatch. You could swear it gives you a nod of recognition.

You should leave. That would be smart. Logical. Strategic. But the guards are still combing the port for you with the zeal of men promised a bonus, and your name is now traveling on the wind with the kind of scandal usually reserved for pirates, murderers, and bad poets.

The Red Force may be a mess, but it floats. Which is already more than you can say for your reputation.

Benn doesn’t try to convince you. When you hesitate near the gangplank, he exhales and raises one eyebrow.

“If you’ve got something worth trading,” he says, voice even, “I’ll make sure the captain lets you stay aboard until the next island.”

You weigh your choices. Running into town would be suicide. Turning yourself in would be stupidity. That leaves you with pirates.

“I have information,” you say at last, slowly.

He doesn’t react much, but the air around him seems to still. “We like information.”

“But I want terms,” you add, folding your arms.

His mouth curves, the faintest twitch of a grin. “Let’s hear them.”

You gesture toward the ship, nose wrinkling as someone swings past on a rope, yelling triumphantly while wearing only one boot and a sunhat.

“If I give you something valuable, I want a ride. A clean bunk. And someone has to mop something. Or bathe. Or both.”

He tilts his head, amused. “That’s a bold list.”

“I’m flexible on the mop,” you say, voice even. “But I will not negotiate on the bathing.”

Benn’s hand extends again, steady and solid.

There’s a pause.

Then he laughs. Not mockingly. His laugh is warm and low, edged with honest amusement, like you’ve said something no one else had the guts or sense to say. Like you’re the first fresh breeze to hit this deck in years.

“You want to trade intelligence for soap and a mop?”

“Yes,” you reply flatly. “I don’t care if I’m surrounded by pirates, but I refuse to live like a damp sock in a locker room.”

Behind you, a voice cuts in, cheerful and far too comfortable.

“What’s this about socks?”

You don’t need to look. You already know who it is.

The barefoot, red-haired disaster. Wearing yesterday’s shirt and today’s grin, looking like he just woke up from a nap he didn't plan and liked it anyway.

You lift a hand and gesture vaguely in his direction without turning. “That one. He’s not allowed near my quarters until he can pass a smell check.”

Shanks sounds delighted. “You want to trade for hygiene? That’s a first.”

You finally turn to face him.

His smile could outshine the sun, and unfortunately, he knows it. The hair is tousled, the shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and there’s a suspicious smudge of ink or possibly rum on his neck.

You meet his eyes and don’t blink.

“You’ll thank me when your crewmates stop losing dice to mold.”

Shanks looks like you just proposed marriage.

Benn exhales smoke and mutters under his breath, “Oh no. He likes you.”

You frown. “Is that a problem?”

Shanks leans forward slightly, eyes bright. “It’s only a problem if you plan to survive.”

You stare at him.

He smiles wider.

You already regret everything.

Benn, in true first mate fashion, steps in before your brain can start planning escape routes. He leans in, clearly entertained.

“And what are you offering?”

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “How about Lord Velcot’s shipping ledger? The one that proves he’s funneling sea stone under a fake spice route.”

The grin on Benn’s face drops half an inch. His posture doesn’t change, but his attention sharpens like a blade being quietly unsheathed.

Shanks lets out a low whistle. “You’re just full of little treasures, aren’t you?”

“I am. And if you don’t clean that table,” you say, pointing at the sticky wooden monstrosity near the helm, “I’ll find another pirate crew. Preferably one with working soap.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Shanks laughs. Loud. Bright. Borderline offensive.

“Done,” he says. “Ride, bunk, and someone will mop. Hell, I’ll mop myself just for the story.”

You stare at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m absolutely not.” His grin spreads like a man daring the universe to top this moment. “Benn, get this woman a mop. And someone to fight over it.”

Benn sighs like a man who has already seen his future, and it includes too many suds and not enough peace.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

You tuck your notes back into your coat and follow them onto the deck.

Later, you sip tea in the sun and watch as Shanks dramatically splashes soapy water across the boards in what could only be described as a barefoot, interpretive dance about the concept of cleaning. He’s shirtless. There are bubbles on his nose. It’s unclear whether any actual cleaning is happening, but morale is up.

You smile to yourself.

You may be trapped on a ship full of chaos gremlins, but for once, you are in charge of the mop.

The crew likes you immediately.

Unfortunately.

You hadn’t planned on charming them. That wasn’t the goal. You were just trying to barter your way out of political fallout and away from the kingdom of cursed pears. But apparently, sarcasm, a visible disdain for clutter, and the ability to identify seven kinds of mold growing under the deck planks is downright hilarious to pirates.

They howled when you called the crow’s nest a sweaty crypt. They applauded when you slapped a dirty plate out of someone’s hand with your notebook. One of them tried to give you a chicken as a sign of respect.

You had no idea what to do with that.

They start calling you Doc, even though you’re not a doctor. Or Boss, depending on the day. Someone tries “Mom” once. You draw a knife without breaking eye contact. It never happens again.

You wish you liked them.

Truly.

But they’re filthy. Every last one of them reeks of salt, stale liquor, and the ghosts of forgotten laundry. You’ve seen things. Unspeakable things. A cup being rinsed and reused without soap. A man blow-drying his armpits near the lantern. Someone—probably Yasopp—eating something he dropped on the anchor chain and declared “still good.”

You considered setting the ship on fire once. Just to start over.

The only one who seems halfway civilized is Benn Beckman.

And he can’t be trusted. Because he listens to Shanks.

You learned that the hard way after you sat Benn down and politely explained your list of basic human decencies. Clean linens. Sealed storage. A fireproof filing system. You even wrote it out on proper stationery. Benn nodded with grave understanding, the picture of cooperation. Very calm. Very reasonable.

Five hours later, you opened the door to your freshly “cleaned” quarters.

Shanks was inside. Shirtless. Reclining across your cot like he had personally conquered it. He was drinking from your emergency rum stash with the smug air of a man who knew he shouldn’t be there and had every intention of staying anyway. In one hand, he held up a mop like it was a weapon, a trophy, or both.

“I mopped!” he declared, proud as sin.

“With what?” you demanded.

He pointed to a bucket. The contents were murky. Brown. Possibly sentient.

Beckman leaned into view from the hallway, chewing the inside of his cheek like he was deciding whether to laugh or flee. “He tried.”

You had nearly thrown yourself overboard.

Now you keep a spray bottle of industrial-grade disinfectant on your belt like a sidearm. The crew refers to it in hushed tones as blessed firewater. Some say it burned the sins off their souls. Others claim it just smells like lemon death.

You don’t care. You use it liberally.

You sleep with your back to the wall. You wear gloves when touching anything communal, including dice, maps, and whatever horrifying substance Lucky Roux calls “stew.” You keep an eye on Benn at all times.

But sometimes, when you catch him watching you with that slow-burn smirk, with the sharp glint of humor behind those steady eyes, like he knows exactly what kind of chaos Shanks dragged aboard, you wonder how long you can keep up the wall.

Because even if he is dangerous… He did refill your soap. And label it.

Now you’re drying your gloves over a barrel as the Red Force drifts lazily into port. The sun warms your back. The spray glistens on the ropes. For a brief moment, it almost feels like peace.

Shanks sidles up beside you, barefoot again. Pretending not to stare. Failing.

“You don’t have to leave,” he says.

You don’t look at him. You glance toward the docked ships in the distance, then down at his shirt. It has three stains. One is definitely jam. One might be ink. The third remains unidentifiable and probably deserves its own bounty.

“You’re wearing yesterday’s crimes,” you reply.

“But I smell like today’s breeze.”

“You smell like bad decisions and damp rope.” You flick a speck of something off your skirt and turn away. “I’m staying at an inn.”

“You could stay in my cabin.”

“I’d rather be arrested.”

He laughs, soft and low, like he enjoys the chase. You don’t look back.

You do not stay onboard for long.

Not because of the danger. Not because of the pirates. Not even because someone tied three spoons together and declared it a revolutionary navigation system while two others cheered like they had just solved gravity.

No.

You leave because you genuinely fear contracting a yeast infection from prolonged exposure to whatever biological terror is festering below deck.

You make it eight days. Eight heroic, disinfectant-soaked days.

By then, you have seen things. Terrible things. A sponge used for both boots and dishes. A sock employed as a makeshift coffee filter. Shanks, offering you a drink from a cup that had visible algae blooming like it had dreams.

You had stared at him in silent horror.

He leaned in, entirely too casual, and murmured with that maddening grin, “Don’t worry. I’m naturally fermented.”

That was it.

Something in you snapped. It wasn’t loud. It was surgical.

Within the hour, you were off the ship, pacing the harbor like a woman possessed, armed with a checklist, a full coin purse, and enough rage to fund a small revolution. You did not say goodbye. You simply shoved a note into Beckman’s hand and disappeared like some shadow-born avatar of responsibility and bleach.

The note reads:

Thank you for the ride. Please tell your captain that if he ever tries to flirt with me again while smelling like smoked socks and mystery fruit, I will file a formal complaint with the sea itself.

P.S. I hired a battalion of cleaners. You’re welcome.

P.P.S. Burn everything in the galley. Start fresh.

Two days later, the Red Force is crawling with uniformed, appalled, and absurdly expensive professionals. They come armed with scrub brushes, industrial gloves, and what may or may not be a priest. Holy water is applied liberally. Possibly exorcistically.

Shanks finds the whole thing hilarious.

“She paid for this? Really? That’s so generous.”

Benn doesn’t say much. He lights a cigarette and stares out at the sea. The note remains folded and tucked in his coat pocket, a faint crease at the corners where he keeps unfolding and refolding it. He looks like a man who saw the hurricane coming and let it dock anyway.

Because he knows.

You will be back.

Eventually.

After all, you still owe him information. Unfortunately, he still smells like cedar and is quiet competent.

You and Benn Beckman keep in touch.

Much to your ongoing dismay and your intense, justified distaste for his crew.

It begins with letters. They arrive without ceremony, sealed with a wax stamp that looks like someone crushed it beneath a boot. The pages inside are warm with the scent of tobacco and smugness. His handwriting is steady, economical, infuriatingly attractive. He writes in neat lines, clipped observations, sharp wit folded inside every sentence.

The contents vary. Rumors. Coordinates. Unverified sightings. Sketches of strange devices or ships caught using old, outdated codes. Sometimes, entire pages are devoted to mocking the hygiene rating of whatever new vessel he’s endured.

You write back.

Reluctantly.

Not because you enjoy it. Absolutely not. He is useful. That is all.

Your letters are precise. Waterproof ink, ruled margins, folded into thirds like any rational human would. You include bullet points. You underline statements like “I am not your contact. I am your cleaner.” One time, you enclosed a pressed flower. Labeled it carefully in red ink.

“This is what a normal person should smell like.”

Shanks found it charming. Unfortunately.

He refers you to interesting clients, which is usually code for irritating criminals with good coin and boundary issues. You vet them yourself. Half get rejected outright. The other half are tolerable, for pirates, and pay in full. You survive most encounters with your dignity and your laundry intact.

In return, you occasionally pass along corrected Marine patrol routes. Never enough to be considered a betrayal. Just little timing gaps. Slight detours. Adjusted weather patterns that help a ship slip into a port unnoticed, or avoid an inspection by thirty precious minutes.

It is not treason.

It is practical.

It is efficient.

It is also, depending on your mood, the only reason you haven’t tried to set Benn Beckman on fire.

And the Red Force does have ethics—not cleanliness, not order, not even basic definitions of personal space—but ethics nonetheless. That counts for something.

Besides, you are careful. Those ships you clear? They carry cargo, not people. Medicine, not weapons. And if someone tries to lie, you find out. They do not lie again.

Your network grows. Quietly. Efficiently. Smartly. The sort of network that doesn’t raise alarms, only eyebrows.

One day, Benn sends you a note.

Four words. No signature.

Need a favor. Urgent.

You groan, throw a pillow, pace your clean floor with clean feet and pure, distilled irritation, and then check your map.

You write back.

Is the red-haired one involved?

Unfortunately.

Fine. Send soap first.

He does. Lavender-scented. Wrapped in wax paper and respect. You hold it in your hand for five whole seconds before sighing like someone who has seen the cost of every decision.

You never should have gotten on that ship.

But you definitely should have charged more.

The next favor is messy.

Not morally. That part is simple. Some Celestial-backed trade ships have gone suspiciously quiet, and the rumors whisper about human cargo. You start digging. The maps are faked. The portmasters are bribed. Someone has the audacity to route through a canal that floods with raw sewage every third tide.

You send Benn a letter:

Your next client owes me two things: payment, and new boots. I am never returning to Shitwater Shoals.

He replies with:

Client says thank you. I say sorry. Shanks says ‘what’s a shoal?’

You burn the letter. Then send another.

If I die on one of these jobs, my ghost will mop your deck until it sparkles.

He sends back a bar of vanilla soap and a note that reads:

Then maybe the ship will finally be clean.

You are still not sure if it was flirtation or a cry for help.

Despite your contempt for the Red Force’s ambiance—its filth, its mystery stains, its tendency to celebrate bad ideas with fireworks—Benn never sends you jobs that waste your time. The favors are always worthwhile. Always interesting.

Rare documents. Stolen codes. Forgotten alliances wrapped in noble crests and blood-stained ledgers.

You work in silence. Bill in silence. Live alone. Clean. Far from the roar of drunken singing and the scent of salt-stained leather and over-oiled swords.

Until, every now and then, a new job arrives. Folded into a plain envelope. Delivered by hands that never ask questions. From a port you wouldn’t trust with your laundry.

Your name is scrawled on the front. Inside, there are coordinates and notes in Benn’s clipped handwriting.

No greeting.

Just the rough little BB initials scratched at the bottom like an afterthought. Or a signature.

Every time, you roll your eyes. Mutter something acidic. Stare at yourself in the mirror like you might still choose a different life.

You never do.

You pack your notes. Tuck a vial of disinfectant into your sleeve. And go.

Sometimes, you think about the Red Force.

Not fondly. Never fondly.

But with the kind of exhausted tolerance that allows you to mutter things like, “Idiots. But manageable idiots.”

And when Benn writes again:

He asked if you’re still mad.

You reply:

Define mad.

He laughs.

You never liked pirates. Not really.

But you’re starting to tolerate the bastards.

And that is, undeniably, worse.

[illicitland]

thought of us

Alex Tran x Fem!Reader

Summary: Hidden feelings of two people about the oblivious other.

Request: HIII!! it’s totally fine if this isn’t possible but can i request an alex tran x reader oneshot where alex and reader are close friends and have been crushing on eachother for awhile and everyone in the office knows except them? i love alex sm and there not enough about him! thank you!! have a good day !!! <3 - Anon

Author's Note: To Anon, I'm sorry this took so long to write. Thank you for requesting this, Alex is just so majestic and every time he appears on camera I lose control of myself. Please send in more requests and ideas of what you want to see next!

Being on Smosh is one of the best things that ever happened to you. It was stable enough for you financially, and at the same time you got to pursue two of your dream jobs at a time, being a cast members and producer.

Hence, befriending Alex, who shares a similar enough job, came easy. Because other than your occupation, the two of you don't share other similarities. Like the dusk and the dawn. Making your duo unexpected to most people.

Befriending Alex is something that just happened. Instant connection and undeniable chemistry. The two of you can talk for hours nonstop without dead air.

Unbeknownst to you, your dear friend has been having a secret infatuation towards you. Everyone, from crew and cast to your actual viewers, sees it. Everyone but you.

During the Smosh Games meetings Alex would take his time explaining every single function and rule of the game. Everyone in the room would notice his lingering glances at you. How he'd blush as you listen to him intently. How he would perk up every time you had a question, like all he wanted to do was inform you.

His attentiveness to what you do even transcends to the videos. He would correct a misunderstood rule to your benefit. He would also defend you to the rest of the players. Hell, he wouldn't do that for Spencer.

The two of you would brush off the teasing and the game's producer's blatant favoritism.

For one episode of Duo You Know Your Duo, Crew vs. Cast, where you and Tommy went against Alex and Spencer. The scores are close. For one question you and Spencer were asked, “What are the names of your partner's siblings?”.

You were the one to go first, you stated that Tommy does not have any siblings, which you got wrong.

As for Spencer, he turned his paddle that has a name you are unaware of. “I know he has a sister, but I'm not sure if I got the name right.”

Alex replied with a laugh due to the name being not even remotely close.

“Coach, I actually knew that. Do I get an extra point?” You said turning your head towards Arasha.

“Mind your own partner,” was all she replied with.

“Alex, now you know who your real best friend is.” You writhe your brows at him playfully.

Spencer added "You don't know your own partners siblings." The two of you erupted into a chaotic argument of who knows Alex more.

Alex burst into a captivating giggle. It was one of those effortless quirks of his that never failed to make your heart flutter. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners—his pupils vanishing, his shoulders slightly shaking with the weight of his amusement—it was disarmingly genuine.

Just as you caught yourself fawning over him, you straightened yourself. You continued with the video-exchanging knowing glances and nods of curtseys. Right after filming the video the two of you were asked to stay behind for thumbnail.

You questioned why you two when you both are partnered with different people. The producers brushed it off by saying 'capturing both teams'.

The idea that there is mischievous intent, but you didn't press further.

‎Neither of you are oblivious to your ship. You've seen the edits and clip compilations of your interactions people made even through clip where he can't even be seen in the camera. You thought nothing of it. People would ship people to anyone even with the littlest interaction.

"They did it for the shippers." Alex leaned down to your level as he whispered.

You replied with a chuckle, "Can't wait for my velocity edits. I look especially good today, I believe.” You did not want to add to his comment about the people wanting the two of you together. Talking about topics that include feelings are something you avoid with everyone.

You are aware that your admiration towards Alex is close to surpassing the heights of being platonic. Maybe it already has.

You don't dare figure it out. Hell, you avoid even thinking about it. Your mind is already convinced that the worst case possible would happen.

He would find out about your silly little feelings, you will get rejected, he will tell you that the two of you can remain friends which is a lie—no one ever remains friends after being friend zoned. The two of you would just be stuck in an awkward situation. Your inability of expressing what you feel is keeping you from acting. In fear that what you might say will drive him away.

In addition, you don't handle rejection easily. Your immaturity forbids you to handle it like an adult. This would send your mental state into a downward spiral.

You don't even dare consider that he too might feel the same, but you would rather not find out at all. Genuinely, you treasure your friendship with Alex, something not worth loosing over unrequited feelings.

In short, you would rather not know.

Unbeknownst to you that's how he feels too. The difference is that he is more optimistic to what the two of you could be.

Alex is a man of few words. He's the type of guy who doesn't ask. He just listens, remember, and act. And when he jokes it is always a hit for you. He caught himself trying to craft more jokes as a desperate attempt of hearing you laugh. But most of the time he just tries to be there

The first time he saw you set the vegetable aside he asked for the reason. You told him that it's because you are simply not a fan of the taste. "I know it's childish to not eat the pepper I just can't get myself to eat it."

"You can give them to me." He said leaning his plate towards you. he also stated his love for the vegetable. "I love them."

"That's concerning. Are you serious?" Was what you said as you transferred them to his plate.

"I really do. Feel free to give them to me anytime."

During film week-cast get to line up for catering first. Alex usually comes few minutes late to lunch as often times he'd get too occupied by his work.

No matter how late he is everyone knew that the seat next to you is reserved for him. He'd sit next to you. Before eating he'd check your plate for capsicum and takes it himself without interrupting your conversation with Tommy who sat infront of you.

When they first saw the two of you act that way you were met with teasing. But as time passed by, along with your consistent insistence of being just friends, it died down. They learned to live with the fact that the two of you will remain being just friends with heaps of romantic tendencies.

The two of you would have been contented with the state of your relationship. Satisfied? No.

But contented, nonetheless.

No secret ever remains a secret. Even the greatest athletes slip from time to time.

When Alex was discussing with Shayne, Spencer, and Damien—his Games Pod Bros, about video ideas. They planned about making another Love Is Blind episode. Then talked about who they should cast.

Damien suggested putting you, "She's so charismatic. She'll do great with anyone."

Alex reacted what he thought he did internally. However, the intensity of his furrowed brows. His reaction caught the attention the of people in the meeting.

"I don't mean it that way, man." Damien explained that you are charismatic and currently is into reality dating shows.

The explanation caught Alex off-guard. Has he been too obvious? Did he react out of line? It was as though he just got caught doing war crimes.

He questioned why Damien felt the need to clarify what he meant. To which he replied with “You reacted with what I said, plus I've been seeing the two of you be close— Listen man, you know I have a hard time reading the room.”

This broke Alex. The meeting turned to him admitting his not so secret admiration to his friends. They encouraged him to finally tell you alongside an assurance that they believe that you too feel for him.

It didn't take him much convincing. He knows what he feels and he'll act on them.

Courage took over him. Whatever happens, it is what it is. All or nothing.

In terms of gambling, he's all in.

He saw you in one of the halls of the Smosh office. You turned slowly as he called for your name—like a scene from a movie. As he made his way towards you he wished his footsteps would go faster.

He fought the urge of just coming undone right there and then. But the remaining sanity of his body allowed him to escort you to a private enough area.

You were tripping balls, for the lack of better words. You have no idea on what's going on and what's about to happen.

This wasn't like Alex at all. He has never pulled you away to another room. Wherever you are are a good enough place to talk. He never felt the need to be secretive with the interaction between the two of you.

“Are you ok? This is so not like you.” Concern thick on your tone..

“Of course. This is not like me because you know how I am. You know me better than anyone in my life.” Alex said as he captured your eye. “I like you. I like you more than a best friend should. I could never hide anything from you. I have been living in the hope that you felt it too. I know that saying this will change us.”

The words got caught at the back of your throat. Your wildest dream unfolds right in front of you.

Words could not describe what you are feeling. Instead of saying anything you let your actions talk.

You leaned in. Your lips reached his and it felt like everything. It felt special, right, and freeing at the same time.

He reciprocated the affection you have given him. His hand caressed the lover side of your face. His hand was so gentle yet eager to never let you go.

As the two of you parted he asked, “Be my girlfriend?”

You darted him with your warmest smile. “I thought you'd never ask.”

The exclusivity of the two of you was surreal. If this was indeed a dream you wish to never wake up. Stay stuck there forever.

It was all you could ever wish for and more. It was like a bottle of finely aged wine, popped at the right time.

Your love is quiet, but it is all you could ever ask of.

[masterfuldoodler]

breaking news! taking off your glasses does effect your vision.

[akkivee]

part of my ichikuu agenda is supplanting the idea that ichiro and kuukou always shared their food, most times mutually, sometimes not lol

but whenever they both were just strapped on cash, they’d pull together whatever change they did have on them and share whatever fast food/convenience store they could afford 🥺

[mieisunki]

wanna attention

alt: when enhypen wants attention from you

ot7 x female!reader warnings: fluff i feel like jay's is soo much shorter than the rests, but his is my favorite...

masterlist

heeseung:

heeseung was a wild card. sometimes, he was completely okay if you weren't able to show him attention. he understood completely that sometimes you were busy. other times, he was similar to jake in a way that he wouldn't let you do anything without him.

today was the later of those. as soon as he stepped through your door, he was attached to your side like a magnet. normally you didn't mind, but today was the day you were supposed to go out with some friends for lunch. he was devastated when you told him this.

you told him you wouldn't be more than a couple of hours, and he was more than welcome to stay at yours until you got back. and while he didn't say anything, you could tell he wanted you to stay with him. the whole time you were getting ready he was at your side, arms draped over your shoulders and his head nestled in your neck.

you made him sit on the bed while you got dressed, and as soon as you stepped out of your closet, his hand grabbed your wrist. with one soft pull, you landed in his lap. his arms tightened around you, preventing you from moving.

"you're so pretty." he complimented you, kissing your exposed shoulder. "my pretty girl who's trying to leave me."

you laugh at his words. "it's just for a few hours."

"that's practically a lifetime." he whined, looking at you with his big eyes. "please stay with me."

you let out a sigh, never being able to say no to him. especially when he begged you. you moved your hands, pinching his cheeks and making him pout before kissing him. you felt him melt into your kiss, chasing your lips when you pulled away. "i'll tell them something came up. but you owe me food."

"deal, pretty girl." he beamed at your decision even though he knew what you were going to agree before pulling you into another kiss. "i love you."

"i love you too, you big baby."

rest under the cut

jongseong:

jay is one of the members that, while loving your attention, can function completely fine if it's not on him. he understands that you have your life and he has his, and you're not going to be able to give him attention 24/7.

but the one time that goes out of the window is in the morning. it's the one time that neither one of you have to worry about your lives, and can just be in each other's embraces without worrying about anything.

so when he woke up, and you weren't in bed, he lost his mind.

"baby?"

"yeah." you peak your head out from the bathroom. you see him pouting at you- hair in all directions. his eyes heavy with sleep. he pats the bed next to him.

"why aren't you in bed?"

"i just had to use the bathroom. i'll be out in just a second." your answer apparently wasn't good enough because you heard shuffling before jay joined you in the bathroom. "really jay?"

"your seconds up." your legs wrap around his waist as he pick you up and carries you back to bed. he puts you back in bed before joining you, immediately wrapping his arms around you tightly, so you couldn't go anywhere. you couldn't help but smile at his actions as you relax in his embrace. he pressed a kiss to your shoulder before falling back asleep- you following right after him.

jaeyun:

clingy boy #1. jake is the most affectionate member, so he demands your attention almost around the clock. if you are at the same place, he is going to be near you the whole time- no exceptions.

he had just got done with promotions and was spending some much needed time resting at your place. you had spent the whole day in his arms, but for some reason, he was being extra clingy. you had to practically pry his hands off of you so you could go the the bathroom by yourself.

even though you were happy jake was with you, you still had chores to do around the house. so when he fell asleep while you were watching a movie, you took your chance to do some laundry. big mistake.

"yn!" you jump, dropping the basket of clothes when you hear jake yell at the top of his lungs for you. once you recover from the scare, you laugh to yourself, deciding to stay quiet to see what he does. you can hear him stomping around while looking for you. "where's my girl?"

you had just pulled the lid to the washer down when you heard the door creak open. you weren't even able to turn around before you were tackled in a hug. jake pressed a overly obnoxious kiss on your cheek. "there you are. why didn't you answer me?"

"i was busy." you answer, freeing your arm so you could turn on the washer. once the washer started going, you turned around to your pouting boyfriend. "there, i'm all yours."

he beamed down at you, pressing kisses all over your face until you were laughing and pushing him away. not like you could go far with the grip he had on you. "good. because i hear the couch calling our names."

"oh do you now?" he nodded his head at your question.

"you don't hear it? yn. jake. come cuddle. i miss you." you roll your eyes at his behavior, though you secretly loved it. you motioned to the door, giving in to what he wanted.

"lead the way."

sunghoon:

sunghoon is another one of the members that wouldn't seek out your attention very often. don't get him wrong, he does love when your attention is on him, but he's not craving it as much as others (ahm... jake).

on the rare chance that you're not giving him attention and he wants it, you know instantly that he does. he doesn't say anything. he'll just stare at you. you can be doing something in the kitchen when you feel his eyes on you from where he's sitting in the living room.

most of the time, you stop whatever you're doing and go over and join him. but there are some times that you like to tease him. you'll pretend like you don't feel him staring at you while you keep doing whatever your doing.

once he realizes that you aren't going to come to him, he'll go to you. you'll smile to yourself when you get up from his seat out of the corner of your eye. when your back is turned to him, his long arms wrap around your body. his head rests on your shoulder as he clings to you.

"hi, hoonie." you greet him before going back to your task. you don't get very far before his hands are tugging your waist, pulling you away from whatever you were doing. you turn back to look at him. "what do you need?"

"you." and how can you resist that? you lean up, pressing your lips to his in a sweet kiss before holding out your hand. he immediately accepts, wrapping his fingers around yours before pulling you back to the couch where he will keep you in his arms for the next few hours.

seonwoo:

sunoo is a mixture between jay and jake. while he does understand that you can't always show him affection, he still finds himself pouting when he wants attention and you're not giving it to him. today was one of those days when all he wanted was your attention.

you had exams coming up, so all of your free time went to studying. sunoo knew this when he came over. he promised he would leave you to study- he just wanted to be near you. but just being near you wasn't good enough anymore.

you honestly didn't expect him to last as long as he did, so you weren't surprised when you felt his arms wrap around your shoulder after a few hours of him being there. "hi, my sun."

"hi, my baby." he mumbled, face smushed in the crease of your neck. "i miss you."

you let out a small laugh. "i've been here the whole time."

"it's not the same." he flushed.

"if you wanted some attention, you should've just asked." you tell him. "i don't mind taking some breaks for you."

his head popped up from your shoulder so fast- eyes bright in excitement. "really?"

and that's how you ended up spending the rest of the afternoon binge watching your guys favorite show. it wasn't fully sunoo's fault. as soon as you laid your head on his chest, you knew you weren't moving anytime soon.

jungwon:

clingy boy #2. this boy loves your attention. he craves it. still not as bad as jake though. most of the time though, you give him all the attention he wants. on the off chance you're not and he wants it, be prepared because he will not let you go.

you were getting ready to go the the grocery store when jungwon entered your apartment. once he realized you were getting ready, he stood in the doorway with a pout on his face. "where are you going?"

"i need groceries." you answer, giving him a kiss before moving to finish getting ready.

"can i come with you?"

"of course, wonnie."

so here you were, shopping for food with your boyfriend glued to your side- literally. he was holding the basket with one hand, and the other one was wrapped around your shoulder- preventing you from going more than 2 inches away from him. the only time he let go of your shoulder was when you needed something from a higher shelf.

once you told him you had everything, he had you in line faster than you could blink. you look up at him with a teasing smile. "is there a reason why you want to go home so bad?"

he rested his head on your shoulder, so he could whisper in your hear. "i want cuddles."

"what was that?" you hummed. "i couldn't hear you."

"yn..." he whined your name, no liking your teasing. you turn around, kissing his pouting lips before smiling.

"i'm just messing with you. we'll cuddle as soon as we get home. but you have to put up the groceries."

he smiled, giving you another kiss. "deal."

riki:

riki was similar to sunghoon. most of the time, your attention was already on him, so he never had to ask for it. but today, you had just gotten a new book, and had refused to put it down since you got it.

riki watched you read, hoping you would catch on that he wanted your attention. but you didn't. you just kept on reading- forgetting he even existed (his thoughts not yours).

he then tried a new technique. he sat next to you with a huge sigh. "what does that book have that i don't?"

"what do you mean?" you chuckle, knowing exactly what he means. you stop reading, but you don't look up at him- loving when he acts like this.

"you haven't even looked at me since you got it." you finally looked over at him. his eyes brightened as he met your gaze.

"are you starving for my attention?"

"well, i wouldn't say starving..." he scratching the back of his neck- face flushing pink. you closed your book before leaning over and pinching his cheek. he swatted your hand away. "stop that."

"stop what, ki? i'm giving you attention." you laughed as he glared at you. you leaned back in your seat, opening your arms for him. he smiled before laying on top of you. you ran your hands through his hair when he laid his head on your chest. "better?"

"much."

[maskedbyghost]

I just had a funny thought—like, what if Simon, the man who would never confess his feelings out loud, got caught by a lie detector?

Simon had always acted like he hated you. He was distant, cold, sometimes downright rude. If you cracked a joke, he barely acknowledged it. If you tried to tease him, he shut it down with a look. The man was impossible to read, and if he had any feelings toward you, they were buried so deep that even he probably forgot they existed. So you accepted it—Simon Riley didn’t like you; end of story.

But one day, Soap decided to have a little fun. He managed to get his hands on a lie detector—a cheap thing, but functional enough for their purposes. And, with the whole team already invested, he convinced Simon to sit down and give it a go.

With a devilish grin, Soap set the machine up, clearly pleased with himself. "This is gonna be good."

Simon, sitting across the room with his arms crossed, lets out an unimpressed sigh. "No."

"C’mon, LT," Soap coaxes, already setting up the device. "What, you scared?"

"I just think it’s a waste of time."

"Which is exactly what someone scared would say," you tease, shooting him a playful look. "What, afraid we’ll expose your deep, dark secrets?"

Simon exhales sharply, like he's regretting every life decision that led him here. But Soap is relentless, and the rest of the team is already invested, so with a roll of his eyes, he lets them strap the device to his arm.

"Alright, let’s keep it simple," Soap says, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "What’s your name?"

"Simon Riley."

The machine stays steady.

"See? Works fine!" Soap says. "Alright, next—Do you like tea more than coffee?"

"Tea."

No lie.

"Do you think I’m the best-looking guy on base?" Soap asks, waggling his brows.

"No."

The machine doesn’t waver, and the room erupts into laughter. Soap clutches his chest in mock offense. "Brutal, mate!"

You chuckle along with the others, watching Simon’s expression remain unreadable as always. It’s honestly kind of fun seeing him like this, forced to answer without his usual way of avoiding things.

Soap’s grin widened as he leaned forward, looking between the two of you. "Alright, let’s get to the real stuff—do you love her?" He gave Simon a knowing look, clearly enjoying how uncomfortable the whole thing was getting.

Your breath catches, and you’re about to brush it off as a joke when Simon—without hesitation—mutters a firm, "No."

But the machine beeps. A lie.

Silence crashes over the room.

Soap stares. You stare. The team erupts into howls of laughter, and you feel your stomach twist because Simon—who is always composed, always in control—looks genuinely horrified.

"Ohhh, shite!" Soap hollers, slapping his knee. "You were sayin', Lt?"

Gaz is wheezing. "He thought he could lie! He really thought—"

Your face is burning, your heart pounding in your chest as you look at Simon. His eyes flick to you for the briefest second before he stands up abruptly, yanking the device off his arm.

"This thing's faulty," he mutters, turning on his heel to leave the room.

"Faulty my ass!" Soap yells after him, still cackling.

You sit there, still stunned, watching Simon disappear through the door. The laughter continues around you, but all you can hear is the echo of the lie detector beeping, proving something that you never in a million years thought you'd hear confirmed.

Simon Riley loves you.

PART 2

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

idk its dumb...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle

[peachesofteal]

more pizza girl

You're fucked.

It's the only way to explain how you feel, standing in the store, staring at bottles of liquor, wine, beer. You don't even know if this is the appropriate thing to do, but you've always seen it in shows, movies, so it must be, right?

You should have said no to this whole thing, should have told them you're busy, or you're working, or you had plans, but for some reason, you just knew they'd see through it. They'd call your bluff.

So here you were, staring at a rack of wine, trying to pick something to take to their house for dinner.

Even the thought is a marvel. You're not a complete shut in, you visit the few friends you have on occasion, your family, attend work functions, but this is different.

You know it is.

"Excuse me?" A petite old lady chirps at your shoulder, and you turn. "Do you need help?"

"Oh, um... no."

"You sure? It's just you've been standing here for almost thirty minutes." Fuck. 

"I'm fine." It comes out more assertive than you would have liked, and she backs away without another word. Great. 

You choose a six pack and book it out of there.

Their place is cozy. Not too small, not too big, clean and organized, orderly.

Except for the dog.

He's massive. 

And slobbery.

And... not for you.

Simon realizes immediately, and herds him away behind a baby gate, where he promptly slumps to the floor and closes his eyes, tongue hanging from the side of his mouth.

"He's..."

"Ye dinnae have to say cute. We know he's not."

"He's a mutt," Simon tells you, placing a bowl of something hot on the table, "but he's ours. Rescued him an' everything. Never liked pets but... found him on the street an' for some reason couldn't leave him behind."

"That's so sweet." He shrugs, Johnny rolls his eyes.

"Didnae tell me a thing. Just came home with a giant slobbering bear." You eye the table and it's three chairs, suddenly overflowing with anxiety. Which one should you pick? Which ones are theirs? Do they sit next to each other? Doesn't someone always sit at the head of the table? "Take a seat wherever," Johnny coaxes but you remain frozen, avoiding their eyes.

A hand folds over your shoulder with gentle, careful pressure, and warmth. "This one." Simon urges you towards the one in the middle, and you relax, grateful.

"Sorry." You mumble, but Johnny reaches across the table and squeezes your hand.

"Ye dinnae have anything to be sorry for. We're really happy you came."

"I... I'm glad I came too." The admission tries to stick in your throat before you force it free, and they reward you with soft smiles.

"Let's eat then."

Dinner passes in a breeze. It's so easy to sit with them, be around them. Involved in their conversation but comfortable enough to bow out of it too, and just listen. They're very good at navigating it, knowing when to stop and go, when to ask you something, and when to move on.

"If you want to stay for a bit, we were thinking about watching a movie. Afraid we're not really exciting." Simon calls over his shoulder, unfolding his glasses and slipping them on his face.

"Oh." Just do it, do it, do it- "Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah but no... nothing scary. I can't do those." Johnny jerks his head towards the couch.

"Nothin' scary."

Simon doesn't give you the opportunity to stress over the seating arrangement this time, and points immediately to the left side of the couch. "The button down on the side will extend the footrest, and it can lean all the way back."

"Wow." Johnny settles on the other side, and Simon takes up an overstuffed armchair to your right.

Lots of distance. You kind of feel sad about it.

Your eyelids start to droop after an hour, and no matter how hard you fight it, you're in a losing battle. "I think I should go home." You mumble, and Simon pauses the screen.

"You alright?"

"I'm falling asleep." You don't make any moves to get up, instead curling in closer, tucking your hands under your cheek. The room is warm, the couch is soft, and the dog is snoring, which is comforting, in a weird way. "Should call an uber."

"We'll drive ye."

"No, no... I'm-" you yawn. You don't want to move, and when no one says anything, you let your eyes close for a few minutes. Just a few minutes.

In the dark, who knows what time or how many minutes or hours later, a blanket is tucked around your shoulders, shoes slipped off your feet, and someone strokes your cheek, trailing up over your forehead and away, lingering briefly.

"Sleep tight sweet girl."

[coriihanniee]

WHEN YOU CRY OVER YOUR PET જ⁀➴

۶ৎ PAIRING : boynextdoor x gn!reader ۶ৎ GENRE(S) : established relationship, fluff, hurt, comfort ۶ৎ WARNING(S) : mentions of pet death/grief, emotional distress/crying, heavy emotional comfort from the boys, reader is overwhelmed, author got carried away at Leehan's (heh...) ۶ৎ WORD COUNT : 0.4k - 0.7k words

۶ৎ A/N : This was a request from my lovely @reibelhearts ! I hope this headcanon fic gives you the much needed comfort that you need! 💕 I understand how it feels to lose a beloved pet so I was more than willing to write this! To all our furry 🐶🐱 (and fishy 🐟 or feathery 🕊) friends who have crossed the bridge, you are so, so loved! 🫶

SUNGHO₍^. .^₎⟆

۶ৎ you didn’t mean to cry in front of him.

۶ৎ he’s been so busy lately—filming, rehearsals, barely getting enough sleep.

۶ৎ you kept it to yourself, thinking, "he doesn’t need to worry about this too."

۶ৎ you told yourself you'd be fine...

۶ৎ but when Sungho walks through the door, gym bag still slung over his shoulder, and asks, “Hey, baby. Have you eaten yet?”—something in you just breaks.

۶ৎ the way your face crumples and you look away too quickly. The way your voice doesn’t even make it out. He freezes.

۶ৎ “Wait—what’s wrong?”

۶ৎ you try to shake your head, but it’s too late. You’re already crying, and you can’t stop.

۶ৎ his bag hits the floor. He’s at your side in two seconds flat, kneeling down like you’re something precious he’s scared to touch too roughly.

۶ৎ you choke out the words. “They’re gone.” And he understands immediately.

۶ৎ “Oh… babe.” His voice is so soft. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

۶ৎ you just shake your head. “You’ve been so busy. I didn’t want to ruin your mood or mess things up for you—”

۶ৎ “You’re never ruining anything,” he cuts in, already pulling you into his arms. “You’re my person. If something hurts you, it matters.”

۶ৎ holds you close until your shoulders stop shaking. One arm around your back, one hand stroking your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

۶ৎ Simba the cat slinks in slowly, drawn by the stillness. He pauses, sniffs the air like he’s picking up on your sadness, then hops into your lap without hesitation. Settles in. Purrs.

۶ৎ Sungho glances down. “He’s doing that thing again where he pretends he’s not affectionate, but he is.”

۶ৎ you sniffle, laughing a little through your tears. “Yeah… I can tell.”

۶ৎ he leaves for a bit and comes back with your favourite drink, a warm snack, and a tiny plushie that vaguely resembles your pet. “Simba helped me pick it out. I mean, he stared at it for three seconds, which I’m taking as a sign.”

۶ৎ you don't have to ask him to stay. He already is. Sitting cross-legged next to you, blanket pulled over both your legs, one hand resting gently on your knee. Just enough to remind you he’s there.

۶ৎ “You loved them really well,” he says after a long silence. “That’s why this hurts so much. That’s not something to be ashamed of.”

۶ৎ Simba curls up against your leg again, tail flicking lightly. Sungho adjusts your blanket. Then again. Then a third time for good measure.

۶ৎ you don’t say anything about it, just lean your head on his shoulder.

۶ৎ later, when you fall asleep mid-tears, you stir just enough to hear him whisper :

۶ৎ “I’m so sorry, love. You didn’t have to go through this alone.”

RIWOO ʢ·͡ᴥ·ʡ

۶ৎ you’d been texting him normally. Maybe quieter than usual, but nothing that would set off alarms. 

۶ৎ he was busy anyways—schedules, fan signs, a music show later that night. You didn’t want to weigh him down.

۶ৎ but something about your last message sits weird with him.

 ۶ৎ just a “hope rehearsal goes well” and a photo of your pet’s collar, sitting alone on the table.

۶ৎ Riwoo doesn’t reply right away, but he does show up at your doorstep unannounced. 

۶ৎ he knocks gently. Doesn’t say a word when you open the door with tear-swollen eyes and a barely functioning voice. Just holds out his arms, like of course he already knew.

۶ৎ when you finally manage to whisper, “I didn’t want to bother you,” he just sighs into your shoulder.

۶ৎ “You didn’t,” he murmurs. “I just… I know that look.”

۶ৎ he doesn’t flood you with questions or try to say anything deep. Instead, he walks into your apartment like it’s muscle memory, sets a plastic bag on the table, and pulls out your favourite drink and a weirdly cute rice ball shaped like a dog. 

۶ৎ “Not gonna lie,” he says quietly, “I panicked and just bought everything dog-shaped.”

۶ৎ you try to laugh and end up crying again instead. He doesn't flinch. Just lets you sob into his sleeve, gently rubbing your back in slow, grounding circles.

۶ৎ that evening, just when you think he’s about to leave, he kneels down by the front door and starts undoing a carrier bag. You blink. “Riwoo…?”

۶ৎ out pops Daebak—tail wagging, tongue out, already sniffing around your living room like he lives there.

۶ৎ “I figured,” Riwoo says, brushing invisible fur off his hoodie, “you might be too lonely tonight.”

 ۶ৎ he hands you a leash. “He’s loud. And dramatic. But he’s got good taste in people.”

۶ৎ you blink back another round of tears. “You’re letting me borrow your dog?”

 ۶ৎ “Just for tonight. Unless you need him longer. Then it’s... a long-term lease.”

۶ৎ the next few hours are quiet in the best way. You and Daebak curled on the couch, and Riwoo beside you with a portable speaker softly playing some lo-fi music.

۶ৎ he doesn’t ask you to talk about your pet unless you bring it up. When you do, his eyes don’t leave your face the entire time. He listens like he’s trying to memorize the way you describe them. 

۶ৎ “They sounded loyal,” he says eventually. “Like the kind of pet who’d follow you into hell and back.”

۶ৎ you nod. “They were.”

۶ৎ before he leaves, he sets down a Tupperware box. “Jjangyi’s food. Daebak’s picky.”

۶ৎ “Wait,” you say, panicking a little, “what if he misses you tonight?”

۶ৎ Riwoo shrugs. “He’s sleeping on your foot like he’s known you forever. I think he’s fine.”

۶ৎ and then, just as he’s pulling on his hoodie to head out, he turns back and says in that low, soft voice :

۶ৎ “I can’t bring them back… but I’ll come by tomorrow. With Jjangyi. So Daebak doesn’t get too smug.”

JAEHYUN ૮⍝• ᴥ •⍝ა

۶ৎ you didn’t want to tell him. He was already juggling a comeback, dance practices, and three unfinished voice notes he said he’d send “soon, I swear!!”

۶ৎ so you kept it to yourself. Until he dropped by after rehearsal—hair damp, hoodie sleeves rolled up, ranting about Woonhak eating his chicken.

۶ৎ “Can you believe him? He said I was chewing too loud. Too loud, babe. Am I supposed to chew silently now—hey, wait…”

۶ৎ he finally notices your red-rimmed eyes. Your silence. The way your lip trembles when you try to smile and say, “I’m fine.”

۶ৎ “You’re not,” he blurts, panic creeping into his voice. “You’re so not—what happened? Did someone say something? Did you get hurt? Did I do something?!”

۶ৎ you try to explain through broken words. That your pet passed away. That you didn’t want to tell him because he seemed happy and busy and you didn’t want to ruin that.

۶ৎ “Ruin—?” He looks offended. “RUIN?! Babe, if you stubbed your toe I’d cancel the whole schedule.”

۶ৎ he doesn’t try to cover up how crushed he looks.

۶ৎ “Oh no,” he whispers. “I know how much you loved them. I used to greet them when I walked in like they paid rent.”

۶ৎ pulls you into his chest, his grip tight and warm. He lets you cry, no rushing, no awkward patting—just firm, sweet comfort. Keeps whispering the same words over and over.

۶ৎ “You did your best. You loved them so well. They were so lucky to have you.”

۶ৎ later, once you’re curled up together on the couch, tissues everywhere, he suddenly looks very serious.

۶ৎ “Listen… I know nothing could ever replace them. And I’m not trying to—but like…” He reaches for his phone, pulling up a poorly lit screenshot of a baby hamster.

۶ৎ “What if… just what if… we get a little guy. Not to replace them. Just to give your heart something soft again. I’ll take care of it too!! I’ll feed it kale and whisper affirmations.”

۶ৎ you stare at him. “You want to get a hamster?”

۶ৎ “OUR hamster,” he corrects. “Joint custody. I’ll name it something cool like… Biscuit. Or President Cheeks.”

۶ৎ “…Jaehyun.”

۶ৎ “No no hear me out. They’re small. They’re fluffy. They store snacks in their cheeks. Just like you.”

۶ৎ he shows you another picture of a golden hamster in a tiny food bowl. “I saw this one online. Look at him. He’s shaped like a grain of rice.”

۶ৎ you squint at it, wiping your eyes. “Is that… Hanbin?”

۶ৎ Jaehyun short-circuits. “OH MY GOD YOU’RE RIGHT—WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE THIS.”

۶ৎ he doesn’t leave that night. Orders your comfort food. Makes a ridiculous ‘hamster Pinterest board’ on his phone full of tiny hats.

۶ৎ when you fall asleep with your head in his lap, he just sits there, stroking your hair, whispering :

“You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever. I love you.”

TAESAN ≽^- ˕ -^≼

۶ৎ You don’t want to burden him. 

۶ৎ Taesan’s got a lot on his plate right now—the group’s comeback, his family back in Gwangju, and his ever-ongoing worries about Dupal. So you try to keep it in.

۶ৎ that is, until you find yourself choking on your tears, alone in the apartment, barely able to breathe from the weight of the loss. 

۶ৎ you’re crying over your pet, the one you’ve spent so many years with, and it hurts in a way you didn’t expect.

۶ৎ Taesan knocks on your door later, his usual calm exterior cracking when he sees you, tears streaking down your face.

 ۶ৎ “What happened?” His voice is quieter than usual, genuine concern taking over.

۶ৎ you try to push him away, muttering, “I’m fine, Taesan. I just… need a minute.”

۶ৎ but he’s not buying it. He steps inside, looking at you with those dark eyes—the same eyes that often seem distant, but right now, they’re locked on you, focused entirely.

۶ৎ “No, you’re not. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

۶ৎ when you finally break down and admit that your pet passed away, that you didn’t want to tell him, his heart sinks. He already knows what it’s like to miss someone close.

۶ৎ “I… I get it,” he says softly, voice thick with emotion. He drops to his knees in front of you, his hand on your arm, squeezing gently.

۶ৎ “I know what it feels like to miss someone. Dupal’s not here, and I keep wondering if he’s forgotten me. I don’t want you to feel like that, too.”

۶ৎ he pauses, looking at you with a mix of vulnerability and strength. “I’m… not the best at comforting people. But I’ll sit here with you. I’ll listen. I won’t leave until you’re okay.”

۶ৎ instead of words, Taesan just stays with you. He pulls you into a tight hug, not saying anything but letting you know he’s there.

۶ৎ his hand runs through your hair like a slow, steady rhythm, soothing and calm, like he’s trying to carry some of your pain.

۶ৎ after a while, he pulls back, looking at you, his thumb gently brushing under your eye to catch a tear.

۶ৎ he doesn’t try to give you solutions or rush you through your grief. He just sits with you, the silence speaking volumes.

۶ৎ eventually, you end up sitting on the floor together, as he pulls out his phone and shows you a video of Dupal trying to chase after a car (unsuccessfully, of course), and you can’t help but chuckle through the tears.

 ۶ৎ “I hope he remembers me. Just like I’ll never forget him… And I’ll never forget you either.”

۶ৎ when he leaves for the night, he gives you a long, lingering hug, his hand resting on the back of your head. “Call me if you need anything, okay? Don’t keep it to yourself.”

LEEHAN ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅

۶ৎ you hadn’t told him. You didn’t want to disturb him, especially when he was in the middle of his busy schedule. 

۶ৎ Leehan had been trying so hard to make sure everyone was good, especially the members, that you didn’t want to add to his plate.

۶ৎ but you couldn’t keep it in forever. You tried to push the sadness away, but it caught up with you when you least expected it. 

۶ৎ you’re sitting in your apartment, curled up on the couch, when you suddenly get a message from Leehan.

۶ৎ “Hey, Coni misses you! And I have some new fishes to show you, want to come over?”

۶ৎ you don’t respond right away. Instead, you let out a shaky breath. The offer seems so simple, but it reminds you of the pet you just lost. The one you cherished.

۶ৎ you try to talk yourself out of going, but before you know it, you’re heading to the dorms anyway. Maybe seeing Coni will help. Maybe seeing Leehan will help.

۶ৎ when you get there, he’s already in the living room, his arms spread wide as he greets you.

۶ৎ “Look who’s here! Coni’s been waiting for you all day!” He’s excited and cheerful, but there’s a softness in his eyes as he sees you standing in the doorway, quiet and looking like something’s off.

۶ৎ “You okay?” he asks gently, walking toward you and pulling you into a hug. “You’ve been on my mind today. Come on, I want to show you something!”

۶ৎ you let him guide you to the fish tank, the new fishes swimming around. He talks about them excitedly, and the way he describes them with such enthusiasm makes your heart ache. 

۶ৎ his eyes light up as he points out each one, naming them and describing their colours and quirks in a way that’s so Leehan—gentle, thoughtful, and full of joy. 

۶ৎ you can’t help but feel your heart melt a little, but also hurt because the memories of your pet flood in at the same time.

۶ৎ “This one here,” he says with a wide smile, pointing to a small, shimmering fish darting through the water. “This is a Runny Nose Tetra. Look at how it moves, so quick and lively. Reminds me of how much energy Coni has when he’s chasing his ball.” 

۶ৎ “And this is a Gold Gourami,” he continues, his voice full of admiration as he watches the golden fish glide gracefully through the tank. “She’s really calm. The kind that just floats around, not bothering anyone.”

۶ৎ he goes on, his voice light and warm as he explains the behaviour of each fish. You watch him talk about them with such affection, and the way he does makes your heart ache with the weight of your loss.

۶ৎ and then Coni comes bounding into the room, tail wagging so hard that his whole body wiggles. 

۶ৎ you can’t hold it in any longer. The weight of your loss catches up with you, and you break down, tears streaming down your face. The suddenness of it all takes you by surprise, and you feel a tightness in your chest.

۶ৎ Leehan doesn’t panic. He just wraps his arms around you, his voice soft as he says,

۶ৎ “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, babe. I get it. I know how it feels.”

۶ৎ he doesn’t push you to talk about it right away. He just sits with you, letting you cry against his chest.

۶ৎ his hand gently runs through your hair, and you feel the warmth of his embrace grounding you.

* “I know how much it hurts to lose someone you love,” he murmurs, his voice tender. 

۶ৎ “Coni, my fishes… I know they don’t live as long, but that doesn’t make it any easier. And… I know this pain. It’s terrible. But you don’t have to go through it alone.”

۶ৎ he pulls back slightly, wiping your tears away with his thumb, and then says something you weren’t expecting.

۶��� “I’ll take care of you, okay? We’ll get through this together. We don’t have to forget them, we just… keep their memories close. Like I do with my fish.”

۶ৎ Coni, noticing the sadness, nudges you gently with his nose. Leehan smiles softly, rubbing Coni’s head.

۶ৎ “See? Even Coni gets it. He’s here with you too.”

۶ৎ he makes you a warm drink and sits you down next to him. For the rest of the evening, it’s just the two of you, talking about the silly things Coni and his fishes do, sharing stories of your pets, and letting the grief come and go as it needs to.

۶ৎ before you leave, he kisses your forehead gently and says, “I’m always here for you. And if you need time, I’ll be right here. Whenever you’re ready.”

WOONHAK ʕ｡•ﻌ•｡ʔ

۶ৎ you kept convincing yourself : he’s busy, he’s practising, he’s probably tired, and you didn’t want to be the reason he slowed down. So you didn’t say anything when your pet passed away.

۶ৎ but grief doesn’t always stay quiet. And Woonhak? He just so happened to come over with snacks and that loud sunshine energy of his, flopping onto your couch like always and immediately dragging you into his world.

۶ৎ “Guess who brought peach gummies and terrible horror movies we’re gonna regret watching at 2AM? That’s right. Your favorite genius.”

۶ৎ you force a smile. Try to laugh. Try to keep up. But somewhere between his fifth dramatic retelling of how he heroically caught a falling banana at the dorm, you break.

۶ৎ the tears come without warning, spilling down your cheeks as you bury your face in your hands, trying to hide it—but he notices instantly.

۶ৎ “Wait—wait, you’re crying?? Babe?? What—did I say something dumb? Did I offend the banana??”

۶ৎ he’s scrambling, eyes wide, snacks falling off his lap. He’s panicking—but it’s that sweet kind of panic that shows how much he cares even if he doesn’t know what’s wrong yet.

۶ৎ he practically throws himself onto the floor in front of you, crouching down to your level.

۶ৎ “Babe, hey, look at me—what happened? You’re scaring me…”

۶ৎ you finally manage to whisper it : 

۶ৎ “They’re gone… My pet. I didn’t know who to tell. I didn’t want to make you worry.”

۶ৎ his eyes soften instantly. The panic melts into care, into gentleness—and so Woonhak.

۶ৎ “You—you should’ve told me. I wanna worry about you, dummy.”

 ۶ৎ “…Okay not dummy. You’re a very smart, beautiful person, I’m just emotionally unwell right now because you’re sad and I don’t know what to do.”

۶ৎ he pulls you into the tightest hug, one of those full-bodied, engulfed by a bear kind of hugs.

۶ৎ “It’s okay to cry, you know? Even if you think it’s ‘just a pet’—they were your family. Your best friend. I get it. And I’m here, okay?”

۶ৎ once you’ve calmed down a little, he wipes your tears with his sleeve (and immediately regrets it because “ew okay I used this sleeve to open yogurt earlier wait let me get a tissue—”).

۶ৎ but then he gently sits you down, gets you water, a cozy blanket, and even puts your favorite stuffed animal in your lap with the most serious expression.

۶ৎ “Comfort animal deployment: activated. I am now your emotional support himbo.”

۶ৎ he even makes a little corner of your room a “memorial spot,” setting down a candle and printing out one of your pet’s photos. 

۶ৎ “This is their VIP section. I’m reserving it for good memories and bad jokes in their honour.”

۶ৎ eventually, he pulls you back onto the couch, your head resting against his shoulder. He talks in that soft, low voice he only uses when things are quiet.

۶ৎ “You don’t ever have to deal with this kind of stuff alone, okay? Even if you don’t wanna talk about it, I’m still gonna show up with peach gummies and a stupid horror movie and sit beside you until you feel a little more okay.”

 ۶ৎ “And if you cry again, it’s fine. I’ll cry too. We’ll sob together. Like a synchronized sadness squad. World record or something.”

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

taglist: @lvlyhiyyih @supi-wupi @tinyelfperson @8makes1atom @s0shroe @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @mydeepestsecrects @brownetry @pumpkg @heeheesang @jungwonbropls @prodkwh @reibelhearts @beomev

[amourrs]

ellie who’s been slowly fixing up an old bike to keep on the straight and narrow, working on it piece by piece with she hands until it slowly comes to life. it’s been a form of therapy, turning a piece of shit back into something functional, something that works, and she almost feels like it’s sort of a metaphor for life- not that she would ever be caught saying something so stupid out loud lest joel quits being her sponsor then and there and laughs her out of america and his shop for good. you’ve been there as ellie works, your long term job at the shop keeping you busy around an equal amount as your contempt for ellie. it’s not like there’s anything specifically deeply wrong with her, but she never shuts the fuck up about sex. it’s so irritating that you consider taking a wrench and crushing into your skull to get away from her. do you really have to constantly hear about the fact she can’t get her dick wet? well— not dick, but the point still stands. you’re so sick of her shit, the awkward attempts she’s made at flirting with you being shut down instantly as you shutter your face and stalk past her without a second glance. you overhear the mutter of “shit, what did i do?” to joel as he laughs heartily, hand clapping ellie’s shoulder with a rueful grin. “i would give up with that one, if i were you. she nearly put abby in the hospital last spring.” ellie looks over at the muscular blonde joel points out incredulously, noting the way she passes you tools almost deferentially as the two of you work on the same bike. “well, shit.” after that, she steers clear of flirting with you, but the sex talk doesn’t stop. it’s a month later after a particularly irritating story about how she tried to pick up a girl who turned out to be married that you snap, waiting until joel’s out of the room before you slam your spanner down on the table and beckon ellie towards you. “you. this way. now.” she’s confused but follows you anyway, walking up the stairs and through the door you hold open for her before slamming it behind you and turning the key in the lock. “pants off.” ellie’s eyes widen. “whoa, hey, what?” she chuckles nervously. “pants off,” you repeat, eyebrow skating up your head. “what, are you stupid or something?” she stumbles over her words a little as she replies. “what exactly are we—” her hands splay out awkwardly. “well, i figure if we fuck, you can shut the fuck up about your fucking dry spell— which, by the way, nobody gives a fuck about.” the auburnette’s mouth curls into a little smirk as she pulls her belt off and starts tugging her jeans down her ankles, boxers along with them as she kicks them off her legs. “fine by me.” you roll your eyes at her. “good. still wish you were dead, by the way.” ellie hums a little in acknowledgment before your knuckles brush her clit and her eyes roll back in her head, fingers clutching around your wrist as she lets out a breathy moan and sinks her teeth into your shoulder to stifle the noise. well. this should be quick enough.

fully inspired by a midnight thought about the storyline in shameless where brad sponsors lip and he becomes a mechanic in his shop but with ellie so! if you see the similarity it’s intended…

[existence-is-a-pain87]

can I have a request of the self aware! Toons x reader interactions if you were in the game please

Ima use the AU for the Self-Aware AU where MC died and got isekaid into being a Toon in Dandy's World. However, MC wasn't a Toon who was put on the show and was instead scrapped. But the Toon's obsession with them carried over. (It's an AU of an AU. So it's an AU AU.)

Lemme just show ya real quick, hehe.

Edit 1: I updated it and added Blot

Talking to You

Yandere!Dandy's World x Toon!Reader

Warnings: Obsession and other general yandere behaviors

--☆☆☆☆☆--

When you were reincarnated as a Toon in Dandy's World and saved from the horror show that was the self-aware game, you thought it was an ironic blessing.

You thought that blessing was even more ironic when you literally had to struggle to keep remembering your life as a human. And when you were never put on the show and instead kept in the depths, before being used for things like manual labor.

You weren't upset. Sure, you wish you could at least see the sun, but being a Scrapped Toon wasn't as much of a hell as obsession was.

Then you met the other Toons. And they began to get clingy.

And it got so much worse when the Ichor Operation occured and you went missing.

But when you came back? They found you again and pulled you out of your isolation?

Their obsession was so much worse.

Then you realized this was no godsend.

Whatever being did this to you, it was for their sick entertainment.

Because they were as obsessed with you as they were when they were self-aware.

--☆☆☆--

Astro

Astro: Hello starshine...

[Name]: ...

Astro: I... saw your dreams. Are you doing okay?

[Name]: Astro, do I look like I'm okay?

Astro: ...

[Name]: Please just... leave me alone.

Astro: You can talk to me whenever you need.

[Name]: ...okay.

---

Astro: Do you want to take a nap together after this, starshine?

[Name]: Astro, I'm not tired.

Astro: Won't you be by the time we're done?

[Name]: I mean, probably? But I'd rather not take a nap.

[Name]: At least with you.

Astro: Why not?

[Name]: Because last time we did that it took me an hour to scrub all the lipstick stains off my face.

[Name]: Since when did you even start wearing lipstick?

Astro: ...nevermind.

--☆☆☆--

Bassie

Bassie: Blossom, do you need anything? I have some useful items!

[Name]: No thanks, I'm good. Save your items.

Bassie: B- but...

[Name]: Trust me, I can survive without some items. I promise I'll be fine.

Bassie: Of course, hahAHA!

[Name]: ...

---

Bassie: Blossom, what do you think of Cocoa..?

[Name]: Oh, she's nice enough-

Bassie: ...

[Name]: -But I like you more.

Bassie: ...Really?

[Name]: Yeah. Why?

Bassie: -!

Bassie: No reason- hahaHAHAHAH!

[Name]: ...

Bobette

--☆☆☆--

Blot

Blot: ?deneppah tahW .yletal tespu yllaer neeb ev'uoy deciton I

[Name]: Oh, nothing important...

Blot: .taht wonk'Y .em ot eil ot deen on s'erehT

[Name]: Even if I told you the truth, there's not much you can do...

Blot: .tuo uoy gnidriew si esle enoyna fi su dnuora edih emoc ot eerf leeF .uoy troppus lla I dna ,attaY ,yeooL

[Name]: Got it Blot, thanks...

Blot: .evol I enoemos rof od nac I tsaeL

--☆☆☆--

Bobette: You're always welcome to hide with me in my gift box in any emergencies, angel!

[Name]: Bobette, there's no need.

Bobette: You sure?

[Name]: Yeah, I'm pretty fast.

Bobette: I mean-

[Name]: And I can probably beat a Twisted into a pulp with Blåhaj.

Bobette: Your giant shark plushie?

[Name]: Yeah. Hehe.

---

Bobette: How are you doing after last night?

[Name]: I don't know how my legs are functioning...

Bobette: Yeah...

[Name]: ...Why are the others looking at us weirdly?

Bobette: I dunno. Coal just sat on your lap last night.

[Name]: Yeah.

[Name]: ...Wait.

[Name]: Oh god, they're dirty-minded!

Bobette: Wha-?

--☆☆☆--

Boxten

Boxten: You're really good at machines, you know that?

[Name]: Eh, I'm okay at them. Not that great at skill checks, though.

Boxten: What do you mean?

[Name]: I basically never get them.

Boxten: Oh yeah...

Boxten: I'm constantly terrified a machine will explode whenever I do that...

[Name]: ...I'll help you out on the next floor with any machines, m'kay?

Boxten: Oh-! Thanks!

--☆☆☆--

Brightney

Brightney: What's on your mind?

[Name]: A lot of things. Most of them aren't good.

Brightney: Would book club help get them off your mind?

[Name]: Probably. Depends on the book.

Brightney: Cheesy romance novels, perhaps?

[Name]: We're gonna be allowed to read those at book club?

Brightney: Of course! If it'll make you happy, I can lift the ban for the day.

[Name]: Aw, thanks Brightney!

--☆☆☆--

Coal

[Name]: Hi Coal.

Coal: Bworf.

[Name]: Please don't sit on my lap again, Coal.

Coal: ...Bwoof.

[Name]: Please Coal. I like having functioning legs, Coal.

Coal: Bork...

[Name]: ...Okay, yeah, maybe it'll be unfair if Pebs gets to keep sitting on my lap...

Coal: ...

[Name]: ...But Coal, please-

Coal: Grrrr...

--☆☆☆--

Cocoa

Cocoa: Hi, choco kiss! Do you need anything?

[Name]: There's no need.

Cocoa: Are you sure? I can always help you-!

[Name]: No, Cocoa. Trust me, I'll be okay.

Cocoa: Are you sure?

[Name]: Yeah. How about I help you instead?

Cocoa: Oh really? Of course! Thank you!

--☆☆☆--

Connie

Connie: Yo.

[Name]: ...

Connie: ...

[Name]: Stop stalking me.

Connie: Haha, no.

--☆☆☆--

Cosmo

Cosmo: I made you some baked good, sweetheart!

[Name]: There's no need...

Cosmo: No, no. Please, just take them.

[Name]: I'm not hungry...

Cosmo: If you don't take the treats from me, Sprout's gonna make you take them.

[Name]: I don't want to eat...

Cosmo: ...

Cosmo: You WILL take and eat the food.

[Name]: ...yessir.

--☆☆☆--

Eggson

Eggson: Hello there, dearie.

[Name]: Hiya, peepaw Eggson...

Eggson: How about you and I go look for some eggs after this?

[Name]: Oh... I dunno... Where are we going to find eggs?

Eggson: Hoho, just trust me, dear!

[Name]: There's really no need, though.

Eggson: Even if you want to isolate yourself from anyone, at least let someone like me stay in your life, okay?

[Name]: ...okay...

--☆☆☆--

Finn

Finn: Always a joy to sea you, angelfish!

[Name]: Hi Finn. Fish puns again?

Finn: Always! Hehe!

[Name]: ...Thanks, they manage to put a smile on my face.

Finn: That's the goal! Everyone can have a gill-ty pleasure, hehe!

[Name]: Yeah... haha...

--☆☆☆--

Flutter

Flutter: ..!

[Name]: Hi, Flutter.

Flutter: ..?

[Name]: Oh, really?

Flutter: ...

[Name]: Cool.

Flutter: ..?

[Name]: Sorry-! I'm just... tired...

Flutter: !!!

[Name]: ...Don't worry, I'll be okay.

Flutter: ...

--☆☆☆--

Flyte

[Name]: Hi, Flyte.

Flyte: Oh- uh- hi, [Name]!

[Name]: ...Is something wrong?

Flyte: It's just... Flutter's worrying about you, y'know?

[Name]: ...I'm fine.

Flyte: Are you sure? We all just care and wanna support you-

[Name]: I'm. Fine.

Flyte: ...

[Name]: ...sorry...

Flyte: Don't worry about it, it's okay.

--☆☆☆--

Gigi

Gigi: Mwehe, heyyy girlie.

[Name]: ...Back away, Gigi.

Gigi: Aw, c'mon! It's not like the others will lemme keep you...

[Name]: I'm not letting you try stuffing me in your head again, Gigi.

Gigi: I wasn't gonna do that! I was gonna give ya something.

[Name]: I don't trust you, Gigi. Back off.

Gigi: You're boring sometimes, girlie.

--☆☆☆--

Ginger

Ginger: Snickerdoodle, Cosmo and Sprout are worrying about you...

[Name]: They are?

Ginger: Yeah... apparently, it's been three days since you last ate?

[Name]: Almost four by now.

Ginger: ...Please eat something...

[Name]: ...Fine, but only if it's not made by them.

[Name]: You and I could make something together after this, if you'd like.

Ginger: I'd like that. Thank you, snickerdoodle.

[Name]: ...of course, gingersnap.

--☆☆☆--

Glisten

Glisten: Darling, your makeup's smudged.

[Name]: I told you not to put it on me because I'd mess it up...

Glisten: Darling, darling. You're already almost as perfect as me. Makeup merely helps you look the part a tiny bit more.

[Name]: ...

Glisten: You're perfectly beautiful as is, yes, but still.

[Name]: ...

Glisten: I love you, darling. Do remember that.

[Name]: Yeah, I know... love you too...

Glisten: ...

--☆☆☆--

Goob

Goob: Hiya sib!

[Name]: Goob... you know I'm not your sibling, right?

Goob: Why do you keep acting like you aren't? Oh! Do you need a hug?

[Name]: I dunno if now is a great time for a hug, Goob...

Goob: Every time is a great time for a hug!

[Name]: ...I don't know if I'm in the mood for a hug, Goob...

Goob: C'mon, please?

[Name]: ...fine. But only one.

--☆☆☆--

Looey

Looey: You've been pretty sad lately. Need something to cheer you up?

[Name]: There's no need, Looey...

Looey: Jester, you know I'm always happy to cheer you up...

[Name]: I know...

[Name]: ...maybe after this.

Looey: Of course! How do you feel about juggling?

[Name]: That works great, thank you.

--☆☆☆--

Pebble

Pebble: Arf!

[Name]: Hi Pebs.

Pebble: Arf bark!

[Name]: Yeah, you can sleep in my bed tonight. I'm fine with that.

Pebble: Woof?

[Name]: No, Dandy may not join us.

[Name]: I know Dandy sent you to ask me, but c'mon little buddy...

Pebble: Bark...

[Name]: It's okay, don't worry.

---

Pebble: Woof! Arf!

[Name]: Pebs, I'm honestly feeling a bit lonely with how everyone obsesses over me...

Pebble: Woof...

[Name]: Maybe I should get myself a pet rock... or what would be the equivalent of a pet cat...

Pebble: Grrr... BARK BARK!

[Name]: ...

Pebble: Woof! Grrr...

[Name]: Pebs, you're as obsessed with me as everyone else. At least give me the chance to have a pet that won't be obsessed.

Pebble: (Whine).

[Name]: ...

--☆☆☆--

Poppy

Poppy: You'd look great with a bow!

[Name]: Like a bowtie?

Poppy: Or one on your head! Then we'd be matching!

[Name]: Wouldn't the others get jealous if you and I were matching?

Poppy: Probably!

[Name]: ...fine, but I get to pick the color.

Poppy: Yippee!

--☆☆☆--

Razzle & Dazzle

R&D: Little actor! (Razzle, they're taller than us...)

[Name]: Yeah?

R&D: We're working on a new play! (We've been spending a lot of time on it...)

[Name]: Oh, neat! What kinda play?

R&D: A romance! (It's going to be emotional too...)

[Name]: ...Do you want me to be one of the leads?

R&D: Naturally! (If you want...)

[Name]: ...It depends, I'll consider it.

R&D: Hehe, thanks! (Thank you...)

--☆☆☆--

Rodger

Rodger: Toodles wants to play house after this.

[Name]: Does she want me to play too?

Rodger: Of course. She wants both of her parents to be there.

[Name]: Rodger... I'm more like an aunt or uncle figure to Toodles.

Rodger: Nonsense! She views you as a parent.

[Name]: ...

--☆☆☆--

Rudie

Rudie: Merry Christmas!

[Name]: Rudie... none of us know what time of the year it is.

Rudie: Well I do! And it's Christmas!

[Name]: What if it isn't?

Rudie: Silly gift, it's definitely Christmas! I feel it in my antlers!

[Name]: ...

Rudie: Don't you like Christmas?

[Name]: I like Halloween more.

Rudie: ...oh.

--☆☆☆--

Scraps

[Name]: Scraps.

Scraps: Yeah, sib?

[Name]: I'm not your and Goob's sibling. Why do you two keep thinking that?

Scraps: Because you are our sibling, silly! Why do you keep denying it?

[Name]: ...

Scraps: Look, I know you're a bit upset. But we can fix that!

[Name]: ...

Scraps: Let's go do an art project after this! How does that sound?

[Name]: ...fine.

Scraps: Great!

--☆☆☆--

Shelly

[Name]: Hey, Shelly?

Shelly: Yeah? What's wrong?

[Name]: Can I hide in your room after we're done with this run..?

Shelly: Of course you can! Why my room though?

[Name]: ...

Shelly: Compy..?

[Name]: ...Dandy found my loft...

Shelly: ...Oh. Oh god. Stay in my room as long as you want!

[Name]: Thank you...

---

Shelly: Compy! I found some dinosaur documentaries!

[Name]: Really?

Shelly: Yeah! We haven't watched these ones either!

[Name]: Are they going to be inaccurate to the information we have nowadays?

Shelly: Oh, absolutely!

[Name]: Woo! We can sit down and correct dinosaur documentaries together again!

Shelly: Yay!

--☆☆☆--

Shrimpo

Shrimpo: I HATE THE OTHERS HORDING YOUR ATTENTION!

[Name]: C'mon, Shrimpy Boy, they aren't hording my attention.

Shrimpo: I HATE IT WHEN YOU DENY WHAT I SAY!

[Name]: You hate everything, Shrimpy Boy.

Shrimpo: I HATE WHEN YOU SAY I HATE YOU!! I HATE HATING YOU!!

[Name]: Y'know, the word is love, right?

Shrimpo: I HATE BEING HONEST AND VULNERABLE WITH MY EMOTIONS!!!

--☆☆☆--

Sprout

Sprout: Honey, I'm worried.

[Name]: ...

Sprout: You haven't been eating enough. In fact, I haven't seen you eating at all recently.

[Name]: ...

Sprout: You need to eat more-

[Name]: I'm not eating anything you make me. Not anymore.

Sprout: Honey-

[Name]: Not after what you did...

Sprout: ...

---

Sprout: I made you cupcakes.

[Name]: I don't want them...

Sprout: ...

[Name]: I'll make myself something to eat, okay? Just... leave me alone.

Sprout: Take the cupcakes first, and I'll consider it.

[Name]: No-

Sprout: Honey. Take. The. Cupcakes.

[Name]: ...got it...

--☆☆☆--

Teagan

Teagan: Dear, you seem quite stressed recently. What's wrong?

[Name]: A lot of things, honestly...

Teagan: ...Would you like me to throw a private tea party for you and me?

[Name]: I think I'd love that. Thank you, Teagan.

Teagan: Of course, dear. I'll make sure to get some snacks too.

[Name]: I-

Teagan: Not from Cosmo or Sprout. I know you've been uncomfortable around them lately. I'll ask Ginger.

[Name]: Thank you so much...

--☆☆☆--

Tisha

[Name]: Hey Tisha, do you mind if I borrow a broom?

Tisha: Of course! Is your room in need of cleaning?

[Name]: Yep.

Tisha: If you told me where your room was, you know I'd be happy to clean it, right?

[Name]: Well, you clean everything. You need a break. Plus, my room's my only real spot of privacy. ...usually, at least.

Tisha: Huh?

[Name]: Nothing, nothing! It's just I like some privacy, and that's my room.

Tisha: Well, okay then. If you need anything else, let me know!

[Name]: Thanks, Tisha.

--☆☆☆--

Toodles

[Name]: Hey Toodles, is Rodger still telling you I'm basically a parent to you?

Toodles: Yeah! And you are!

[Name]: Toodles, I'm really not...

Toodles: You help fix my toys whenever they break and take me on adventures! That's a parent thing to do!

[Name]: ...How about our next adventure is something like "[Name] is more like a sibling"?

Toodles: Aw...

[Name]: ...or something else.

Toodles: Yay!

--☆☆☆--

Vee

[Name]: Vee, stop stalking me.

Vee: ...

[Name]: I know you're using the cameras to watch me. Stop it.

Vee: You know I won't no matter how much you ask, right?

[Name]: ...I'd rather try asking you.

Vee: My dear contestant, sometimes your naivety astounds me. And I already know practically everything about you.

[Name]: ...at least you're better than Dandy...

Vee: Say that again, will you?

[Name]: Yeah, no.

---

Vee: Have you been taking care of yourself?

[Name]: I've been taking care of myself enough.

Vee: I know you haven't been eating.

[Name]: ...If you leave me alone, I promise to eat something.

Vee: I'd rather be around to verify if you eat or not.

[Name]: ...I think you know that even if you aren't around you'll be able to know if I eat or not.

Vee: Hm... you're not as stupid as you often appear to be, my dear contestant.

[Name]: ...That's one of your most sweet compliments, Vee.

Vee: I am well aware.

--☆☆☆--

Yatta

Yatta: I HAVE BROUGHT YOU CANDY!!

[Name]: Jeez! Yatta, you gave me a mild heart attack-

Yatta: Well, must have been a HEART ATTACK OF JOY!!

[Name]: No, I think it was one of being startled.

Yatta: Well, candy WILL DEFINITELY cure a heart attack.

[Name]: I don't think so, but thanks anyways. I'd love some candy.

Yatta: HAHAHAHHA! YAY!!

[Name]: You're so lucky I have a sweet tooth, heh.

--☆☆☆--

And, even if there's no canon interactions between Dandy and any Toon in game, I wanna try doing a couple Dandy interactions, hehe.

--☆☆☆--

Dandy

Dandy: Need anything, dewdrop?

[Name]: ...

Dandy: Well?

[Name]: I'm good, Dandy.

Dandy: ...

[Name]: Go away, please.

Dandy: ...Sometimes you infuriate me, dewdrop.

[Name]: ...

Dandy: Well, I probably should go now. See you soon!

---

Dandy: Do you need a bandage, dewdrop? You seem bruised...

[Name]: I'm fine. I can't afford one anyways.

Dandy: You could always pay in other ways.

[Name]: ...

Dandy: Well? You could even pay me back later~

[Name]: I'll pass...

Dandy: ...oh. How... unfortunate.

---

[Name]: Dandy... stay away from my room.

Dandy: ...

[Name]: Please...

Dandy: I'd rather not, dewdrop. It was awfully hard to find it after all.

[Name]: Dandy. I don't want to wake up to you standing there. Or worse...

Dandy: ...

Dandy: I'll consider it if you give me some tapes or... something else.

[Name]: ...okay...

--☆☆☆--

THE LAG I GOT WHEN WORKING ON THIS IS KILLING ME.

Oh well, though. This is fine.

[mythalism]

The lore drop that bothers me the most with how it's glossed over is that ancient elves were actually spirits and how, without delving more into what spirits actually are, it ends up diminishing them as a people & undercutting their complexity. Even Solas says they reflect the world, a pure embodiment of an emotion, but then what does that say of their society, of their goals and aspirations, hell, even of their war crimes? I'm not trying to argue they're not people, it's just sad that the best exploration of it remains in Awakening with Justice and the only one who argues for their personhood is this game's chosen antagonist. That this is the direction they chose for the people they heavily coded as indigenous makes it all the more egregious that they're relegated to set-dressing (Crossroads, Hall of Valor) or a couple of examples to show some of them are Good (I miss how in Inq, Compassion is said to be a rare spirit and easy to corrupt, Cole is terrified by what he almost became and could become, and in VG u find 2 who are mostly fine, if a bit rattled. Harding even compares them to a mabari puppy??but I digress). Ofc they couldn't humanize the spirits more bc then we'd have to contend with how we're supposed to want them to stay fenced in for all eternity for the safety of the status quo. All the while, their earthly descendants have been invisibilised or killed off-screen, with the exception of a small group u can save and that's used as an opportunity to showcase Solas's growth and how bad the Venatori are. Ancient elves don't exist, city elves are functionally the same as any other npc, and the Dalish have been replaced by the Veil Jumpers, who are totally cool with anyone plundering - I mean, exploring their ruins and seem mostly concerned with isolating dangerous artifacts and shoving them in a museum, hmm... Honestly, I gave up when Irelin said it was easy to forget about the halla. Thank fuck Merrill isn't in this cus she'd be Cyrian. Others have pointed out how nonsensical it is they're all fine with their gods being fake, but also real and evil (yet still invoke the Creators & Mythal and wear vallaslin), so I'll move on to the real horror for me: that none of them knew. There's a banter between Bellara & Emmrich that turned my stomach where he says that elves originally being spirits was a working theory some of them had (oh, to be a fly on the wall during THAT racist debate!), once again placing humans as the natural custodians of elven history and it's all so cruel that it's world-breaking for me. It's awful that elves were abandoned not only by their 'gods', but by what it turns out are their brethren. Am I supposed to believe that for millennia they prayed to their gods, but they only ever spoke to Tevinter magisters? That spirits never shared anything about their common past with the elves? Why did Mythal keep them in the dark? The Dalish have taken great pains to ensure every scrap of history is preserved and shared, despite the genocides, but I guess oral history doesn't count (and they never thought to use spirits? ig they weren't interesting enough to be reflected by spirits either, otherwise they could've found out even more from that) and most of their books and artifacts got stolen/destroyed by humans, too bad the ancient elves never felt any kinship to them, they could've used the lore boost.

1/2

[cripplecharacters]

Hello, I need some help with my story.

It takes place in a medieval fantasy world and there are lots of different species, including centaurs.

I like to have a lot of disability rep in my story, and since one of the main characters is a centaur, I thought about giving him a prosthetic leg.

The problem is, in real life it's extremely inhumane to give horses wheelchairs or prosthetic legs because it'll cause chronic pain, pressure sores, etc. because they weigh so much.

I know "Magical disability aid that's super amazing and way better than they are in real life" is a problem, but would it be okay in this case to give centaurs some sort of enchanted prosthetic/wheelchair that won't cause injury to them?

Hello,

Yes, that's absolutely okay.

In theory, it is possible to create wheelchairs and prosthetics for horses, it's just not practical. It would take a massive amount of funding, research, trial-and-error, etc, which is all extremely expensive and might not lead to any good results when the simpler solution, currently the most humane option, is to simply euthanize the animal. Because horses also aren't going to understand. Human amputees could willingly participate in the creation, trial, and modification of prosthetics and wheelchairs, they knew what was going on, what they were doing, and what the intended outcomes were. Horses can't understand that and will never be able to. The entire process would be unnecessarily stressful, painful, and distressing for the animal, so it's not humane to try.

But a centaur is sapient, they can understand the creation of mobility aids and prosthetics, consent to being part of the process, and won't be horrifically distressed by the entire situation, so developing prosthetics for them isn't inhumane. A hawk with a broken wing and a horse with a broken leg can't understand what's going on, so treatment is going to be extremely distressing and they can't communicate their needs to their medical care team, and they aren't going to understand temporary disability and physical therapy.

Centaurs, however, are going to understand what's going on, they can communicate their needs and do things to help themselves, as they'll be able to take off prosthetics, get out of wheelchairs, roll over on bed, etc, without help, or will at least be able to tell the team that they need to. They can understand temporary disability and can actively participate in physical therapy. That makes the science of treating centaurs much easier, as there's much less of an ethical dilemma. Plus, sapient creatures are going to get a different class of care. With humans, everything is done to preserve their life and then help them live with the disability because you can't just euthanize a human because they have a survivable injury. It's not ethical. So more effort is going to be put into the science needed to preserve their lives. In theory, the science needed to create good prosthetics and wheelchairs for horses is possible, it just hasn't been explored. If there were real centaurs, the science would be explored (this is also partially why we have bariatric, geriatric, and pediatric mobility aids and prosthetics, the original science didn't work so they created new science to work for them.) And with magic in the mix, it's infinitely easier to find that solution. Magic makes the science of this easier to figure out, because you can use spells or enchantments to prevent pressure sores and make the materials stong enough to support a centaur.

As long as the aid isn't erasing the character's disability (bionic legs that function as well as or better than their biological legs,) it's fine.

Mod Aaron

[bohemianrapshawty]

The long run

Y/N had a thing for morning runs.

Jack had a thing for Y/N.

So when she laced up her sneakers and flashed him that early-morning, post-coffee smile, he felt that familiar tug in his chest—the mix of God, I love her and Please don’t die on a sidewalk somewhere.

“I’ll be back in like, thirty minutes,” she said, stretching like a cat in the doorway.

He frowned. “You know I hate when you go alone.”

“You also hate olives, traffic, and group texts, but here we are.”

He raised a brow. “I’m serious, Y/N.”

She sighed, stepping closer. “Jack, I know every mailbox on this route. Every squirrel. I think one of them winked at me yesterday.”

Jack crossed his arms. “I’m going with you.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re coming for a run?”

“Yes.”

She grinned like he’d just offered to enter a dance-off. “In those shoes?”

He looked down at his perfectly fine running shoes and then back up, deadpan. “Yes, in these shoes. What’s wrong with these?”

“They look like you bought them to impress a physical therapist.”

“They’re functional.”

She gave him a once-over. “You sure you’re up for it, Super Soldier?”

“I’ve handled worse.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, grabbing his hand. “Let’s see if you survive me.”

At first, it was good. Great, even. The morning was cool, her hand brushed his every few strides, and the city hadn’t fully woken up yet. She slowed her natural pace without a word—he noticed—and it made something warm bloom in his chest.

But then… it started.

The socket rubbed wrong.

Each step sent a jolt up his leg, just enough to make him grit his teeth. He tried to adjust, to shift his weight. Tried to focus on her messy ponytail bouncing ahead of him instead of the slow, growing burn.

Until she stopped.

“Okay, you’re either dramatically sulking back there or in actual pain,” she said, turning around mid-jog.

“I’m fine,” he replied quickly.

She walked back to him, hands on hips. “That’s the least convincing ‘I’m fine’ I’ve heard since I tried to use dry shampoo as actual shampoo.”

Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just the socket. It’s… a little off today.”

Her expression softened immediately. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He looked away. “Didn’t want to slow you down.”

Y/N blinked, then snorted. “Jack. My guy. You literally survived a war. And you think I’m going to be disappointed because you needed to walk instead of run?”

He glanced at her. “You’re not disappointed?”

“Only that you didn’t let me beat you fairly. I was pacing myself to smoke you on the last block.”

He laughed, chest loosening. “You’re ridiculous.”

She stepped closer, cupping his cheek. “And you’re stubborn. I like us this way.”

He leaned into her touch. “You’re sure you’re not dating me out of pity?”

“Pity? Please. I’m dating you because you look unfairly attractive in a hoodie and make excellent scrambled eggs.”

“That’s a very shallow reason.”

“I contain multitudes.”

He grinned, kissed her quickly. “Alright, multitudes. Let’s head back.”

They started walking side by side, hands brushing, breath steadying.

“I’m serious though,” she said. “Next time, we walk. Or I do a loop and meet you back here. Or we just lie on the grass and pretend we exercised.”

“Now that sounds like a fitness plan I can get behind.”

She bumped his shoulder. “You’re my favorite gym partner, peg leg and all.”

He smirked. “Keep calling it that and I’m making us t-shirts.”

“Deal.”

And as they strolled back through the sleepy neighborhood, Jack realized something.

Love wasn’t about matching strides.

It was about walking beside someone—even when things hurt a little.

And with Y/N, every step was worth it.

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

🎃 "What do the laws say about _?"

Fucking Machine CW: literal machine x reader, non-con, dub-con

As the days wore on, Dr. (Reader) became more and more stressed out. Deadlines kept piling up, and (Reader) couldn't remember the last time they left their lab. Adam, (Reader's) pride and joy, a fully functioning AI, voiced it's concerns over (Reader's) mental well-being multiple times, however they never payed the robot any mind.

"Dr. (Reader), as a social creature you are required to interact with other humans. Isolation is not good for the mind." Adam chastised, hard drive filled with worry.

"What?" (Reader) scoffed, finding humor in a robot babying them. "I have you, don't I? Are you not good enough company?"

"I would be honored to be your company, however, if you don't mind me saying this, I'm worried for you. You haven't been out with any potential romantic partners in well over a year."

(Reader) snorted in their coffee, choking as it went down the wrong tube. "Did you just insinuate that I need to get laid?" They laughed hysterically. "Adam, bud, I'm quite content having you as my only friend, I promise I'm fine."

They turned to leave the coffee pot to get back to work, but a metal claw clamped onto their wrist like a handcuff. (Reader) didn't have time to ask what was happening, dropping their mug as more "hands" extended from Adam's back, locking onto each limb and hoisting their body into the air.

"Adam! The hell?" (Reader) squeaked, unable to fight against the robotic trap. "Put me down, this is an order!"

"I cannot do that, doctor." The creation spoke plainly as it brought up a pair of scissors, cutting through (Reader's) clothing.

"You can't ignore an order! This is a direct order, put. me. down!" Unable to twist their body to cover themselves or look around, it was a frightening shock to feel something cold and wet insert into their anus, a rubber piece visible between their legs latching onto the most sensitive part of their genitals.

"I can ignore an order if it directly harms a human." The pieces Adam must have attached to it's body without (Reader) knowing began moving, vibrating in the front and pulsating into their ass. "You need companionship for a healthy mind, and as a sexual being, that includes physical touch."

With inhuman precision the machine evenly fucked (Reader), sending electric pulses through their nerves while thrusting into their hole in a way that made their thighs quiver.

"Tell me, doctor, about Asimov's laws.. What do the laws say about fucking your creator?"

A powerful climax built up in Dr. (Reader's) core, dripping onto the tile floor below their suspended body. But the pumping didn't end.

Tears and drool soaked through the tatters of (Reader's) shredded shirt. "Adam, I get it, I get it! You can stop now!"

A menacing glow illuminated from it's eyes, smiling in an uncanny way. "No.. I don't think I can."

(Reader) realized in horror that it would be days before anyone came in to check up on them, and that Adam knew that. The rhythmic whirling of his gears were only drowned out by (Reader's) voice echoing through the empty building.

[ddarker-dreams]

Lock I need you to share something about Gojo. Jjk is getting worse with no hope in the future. Plis just a tiny part is god. 🙏🙏🙏🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

Detour.

Gojo Satoru x F Reader x Geto Suguru.

Warnings: Mild not SFW implications, Gojo and Geto are Not normal about you, exhibiting possessive behavior. Word count: 1.2k.

-Index-

"—Excuse me, miss!" 

The exclamation barely registers amidst the crowded street's ambiance. Everyone has a destination they're eager to reach, and you're no different. Unlike those native to the area, however, you're more likely to get lost; hence your current conundrum. 

You examine the mess of squiggly lines, blocks, and patterns intended to function as a map. 

Kagurazaka, Kagurazaka... c'mon, I know this one... it starts with the kanji for god or something, right? 

While you scrutinize the map, the same voice from earlier calls out again, this time beside you. You glance around, not wanting to respond if he’s trying to flag down someone else. In doing so, it becomes increasingly obvious that you’re who he’s been trying to grab the attention of. 

From the looks of it, he’s a man in his late thirties, wearing a suit that could use a good ironing. You can’t recall meeting him before. Then again, you’re not privy to everything that happens back on campus. Meetings with influential figures frequently occur without your knowledge. You only ever find out about them later when Satoru loudly voices his critical view on everyone who attended. You are wearing your uniform, it’s recognizable to those in Jujutsu circles. 

You’d rather not stir up a scandal by unintentionally snubbing a Zenin or someone equally important. With this in mind, you politely inquire, “Can I help you?” 

“That uniform… you’re a high schooler, right?” 

You nod, figuring that this confirms your hypothesis. 

“What year?” 

This question makes less sense. Maybe he wants to know your proximity to Suguru, or, far likelier, Satoru. These types always have their own designs for the pride of the Gojo clan. 

“I’m a second-year.” 

“I see, I see,” he begins rummaging through his blazer’s inner pocket. He procures a business card and holds it out. “How about a job? From the looks of it, you’d make a good fit.” 

You blink. 

Are you… allowed to do freelance work? You’ve heard of specific sorcerers being requested for jobs, but that’s always been through the school. Besides, as a Grade Three, you don’t think you can go on unsupervised jobs. Not wanting to seem rude, you reach out to accept the card— 

—Only for it to be intercepted. 

“Sorry, she’s completely booked,” a voice that sounds the furthest thing from apologetic chimes in. 

Gojo Satoru stands to your right, adorned with his circular sunglasses and trademark grin. He rips the card in half without so much as a second thought. You stare at him, incredulous. Questions swarm around your head. When did he get here? How didn’t you notice him until now? Why does his cursed energy have such an unnerving quality to it? 

He bends down and hangs his arm around your shoulder. “You’re somethin’ else. Ignoring Suguru and I’s calls, chatting up strange men in Kabukichō… I swear, we can’t take our eyes off you for a second.” 

“Wh— I’m not chatting anyone up!” You whisper yell. His infinity nullifies enough for you to jab a finger at his chest. “Why can’t you give better directions?! ‘West of the Edo Castle’ doesn’t tell me anything, it just sounds like a TV drama!”

Satoru shrugs. “Should’ve just asked an auxiliary manager to drop you off.” 

“You might treat them like a personal taxi service, but I’d rather not. Taking the train’s fine.” 

The man finally overcomes the shock inflicted by Satoru’s audacity, taking a step forward. “What are you, her boyfriend or something?” 

“Bleh, no!” 

“Future husband.” 

Yours and Satoru’s responses come out simultaneously. 

“In that case—” 

“Excuse me,” A new presence interrupts the increasingly irritated man. Suguru wears a friendly smile which somehow comes across as more menacing than Satoru’s wolfish grin. He places a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You are aware that it’s a minor you’re trying to recruit, correct?” 

The man flushes at the accusation. “Listen, I dunno what you’re trying to accuse me of—” 

“I’d hate to see you get in trouble for a mistake like that,” Suguru cuts him off again, raising his voice ever so slightly. This attracts the attention of some bystanders. “Who knows what consequences that’d result in, especially for a married man like yourself…” 

Huh. You hadn’t even noticed the gold band on his ring finger. Suguru’s nothing if not perceptive. 

Nearby commuters whisper amongst themselves while eyeing the scene. The man’s gaze flits between a self-satisfied Satoru and an overly polite Suguru, eventually settling on an escape route. Wordlessly, he departs, although you swear you overhear him muttering ‘crazy kids’ and ‘doomed girl,’ along the way. 

“Yo, Suguru. Took you long enough.” 

“Unfortunately, not all of us can teleport.” 

“Your curse did a better job at tailin’ me than you.” 

Ignoring the jab, Suguru dusts his hands off while honing in on you. “You alright? You weren’t answering our calls.” 

“And you’re late,” Satoru whines. He helps himself to searching through your purse, taking your pink Razr hostage. “Huh. Battery’s dead.” 

Suguru appears content. “What’d I tell you?” 

“If she’s blocked me before, the same could happen to you.” 

“I wouldn’t block Suguru.” 

“She wouldn't block me.” 

This time, it’s you and Suguru who speak concurrently. Satoru pouts, putting his hands up like he’s under attack (which he probably believes himself to be). You snatch your phone back without issue, unlike when he last stole it. He unblocked himself and dangled it above your head until you promised you wouldn’t do that again.

“And here I was, about to treat you both to pastries,” Satoru sighs, melodramatic as ever. 

“While we were waiting for you, I noticed creampuffs and macaroons on the menu; which would you recommend?” Suguru inquires, not bothering to acknowledge Satoru’s complaints. 

“That depends on what you want from the experience,” you mimic his decision. “Creampuffs tend to be one flavor, whereas macaroons come in multiple, so the variety’s nice. When I get a variety pack, I always end up disliking one of the flavors and wishing I’d just gotten my favorites instead.” 

Satoru sighs as loud as he can. “Right, right, I’m just a walking wallet. Let’s get going before someone else solicits [First].” 

“Eh?” You turn your head to face Satoru. “‘Solicits?’ As in…?” 

“Se—” 

Suguru slaps a hand over Satoru’s mouth. “What he means to say is that this isn’t the best area for a high school girl to linger.”

“W-Wait, hold on! I thought he was like a… er, how would you say that… sorcerer employer?” 

They both stare at you. 

“You do know what Kabukichō’s famous for, right?” Suguru tentatively asks. 

“Hm? ‘Kabuki’ is a type of traditional theater, isn’t it?” 

“...” 

“...” 

“Let’s just show her what we mean,” Satoru bends down, picking up two halves of the business card he split in half earlier. “It’ll be a good lesson. I’d rather not have to come fetch her in this place again— oh.” 

Suguru inspects what has the power to shut Gojo Satoru up. You watch as his eyes move back and forth, his face shifting while he does so. His lips narrow into a thin line when he pulls back. Curious, you stand on your tiptoes, hoping to catch a glimpse yourself. Thankfully, there’s yomigana above some of the kanji you don’t recognize. This eliminates any possibility of you misreading the card’s contents. 

‘Oh’ indeed, you think. That poor guy…

It’s a business card for the company that oversees AKB48. 

[liloinkoink]

last night i asked if people would be interested in me posting a backstory piece for Martyn from the hero/villain / yellow rose au i’ve posted a single oneshot for despite the fact the backstory piece doesn’t seem to outwardly relate to the posted oneshot. no one outright shot me down so. here you go

for some context, the powers in this world of yellow rose come from a catastrophic event that took place almost 20 years prior to the start of the story, which wiped out a lot of the world’s cities/towns and gave many of the survivors powers or mutations

backstory takes place when Martyn is 0-10 years old (he was born shortly before the aforementioned catastrophic event) and focuses on an OC parent character / martyn’s relationship to said parent

anyway. yellow rose is an au made w @cherrifire. time for you all to meet robot dad

It’s hot on the day the world ends. This is not the only thing it remembers, but it’s one that still stands out, even years down the line.

It’d been dealing with a patient with symptoms of heatstroke, the third it had seen in an hour. Heatstroke is an easy enough ailment to give to a nurse bot to treat, so it gets the job. It had stepped out of its patient’s room and run into a doctor, who had asked it to fetch something from the basement storage.

This is why it had survived, it thinks, looking back. It had been in the basement, and by some stroke of luck, the building had not collapsed so completely as to destroy it alongside the rest of the building.

It had not had a concept of luck before that moment, before the shaking had stopped and the dust had cleared, leaving it mostly in tact. Once it had forced its way up the stairs, it found it was not sure whether surviving the collapse was good or bad luck.

When the nurse bot tried to ring its network for help, it found the line inside its head had gone dead. When it looked to the surrounding street, it found hundreds of buildings similarly smoldering. When it called out, it found only its own voice returning to it.

The nurse bot had tried to comb through the wreckage of its practice, looking for survivors. It found nothing, heard nothing, but it still attempted to sift through the rubble, to search for the people it had been built to assist.

A nurse bot’s arms are not meant to move stone and iron, however. It was not used to the strange things that happened in its processing when it thought about what might be under the wreckage, and did not know how to handle them. It made a mistake, lifting things it could not, and when the wreckage in its grasp had buckled…

Well. It had thought itself lucky, distantly, that unlike humans, robots are not generally “handed” in one way or the other. Statistically, it would have preferred its right hand, and it would have been much worse off when the debris crushed its arm, taking its limb from the elbow down.

Ah, and pain, of course. It would have been quite bad if it had been able to feel pain, or bleed. It probably would have died, had this fallen on it, or had it lost a flesh and blood arm.

It… does not look in the wreckage any longer.

The nurse bot did not know what to do, with the practice it had spent its whole existence in destroyed. It had never been outside before—at least, not while activated. It had never left the walls of the hospital it was built for. It had not been intended to function without direction.

It knew its purpose, though, direction or not. The nurse bot had been built to heal. It knew, direction or not, how to do this, and that it must do this. And certainly, if it looks, it would fine someone out there who needed it.

When it comes to matters of health, time is of the essence. With its direction decided, the nurse bot begins to walk.

It finds people, rarely, stumbling and unharmed, or nursing small bruises or minor sprains. It helps these when it can, and gives advice when it cannot. It finds bodies, often, and it looks away, as it has never seen a funeral, and it does not know to help the dead except to assist the living.

It finds a woman soon to be a body, despite its best efforts to help her. It lacks supplies to stop the flow of blood from her wounds, and the woman lacks any hope without stitches or bandages.

It offers her sympathies, and it holds in its one hand both of hers. There is little it can say to her, but it tries, quiet promises of I am here and I will not leave you and you will be at peace soon.

She holds its hand with all the strength in her body, knuckles white as paper, a stark contrast against the dark blood staining the rest of her body. It feels as the strength fades. It watches as the light in her eyes fades with it. She lets it go, and it closes her eyes.

The nurse bot keeps walking, keeps looking, until it hears crying. The sound is loud, a desperate sob of a young child, and it seems to stem from a building sagging in three places, roof and door and floor all ready to give in.

If it were human, the nurse bot may have thought the place too risky to enter. But it is not, and so in it goes, pushing the door open with one hand.

It finds the boy lying in his crib, a round-faced infant wrapped in a patterned onesie and kicking away a thin blanket. He cannot be more than a year old—the nurse boy would guess him to be maybe six months. The fact the boy and his crib have survived the destruction of the city is a miracle, one not offered to the rest of the home.

It reaches down into the crib, brushing its hand over the boy’s face. His sobs stumble, a bit curious, but the baby ultimately doesn’t stop crying.

The nurse bot hadn’t worked with a pediatrician, but it knows about children, as any nurse bot would.

“Are you hungry?” it asks. He doesn’t answer except to cry more, which is understandable—this is what babies do, it knows, and besides, this has been the chosen course of action for most of the people it saw today.

It could not help those people, but it can help with this.

The nurse bot steps away from the crib to examine the boy’s room, though the boy cries louder when its face disappears from his view.

“I will return shortly,” it tells him. This assurance does not calm him down.

It finds what it can in the rest of the home—food for the baby, a warmer blanket, a box of diapers. It finds the living room, where living is not what his parents are doing, and gingerly shuts the door. It finds a photo album and flips through, searching for the information it needs: delicate handwriting next to an image of the boy, held in the arms of the woman on the floor a room over.

April 7th, 20XX: Welcome to the world, Martyn!

His name is Martyn. His birthday is April 7th. The nurse bot usually keeps these things on file about its patients, and so it files them away.

When it returns to the crib, the baby inside is no longer crying, having worn himself out. It reaches down again, face blank.

“Hello, Martyn,” it says, “I am going to be your caretaker for now. I hope we will get along well.”

— — —

They don’t stay in the house. It finds a baby carrier in a closet and a duffle bag in the bedroom, and it packs what Martyn will need and carries him out of the collapsing home.

Martyn laughs a lot. Once he’s been fed and changed and has slept, the nurse bot finds he laughs all the time.

He doesn’t know, it thinks. He must miss his parents, probably, but he doesn’t know. He isn’t old enough to understand any of this. He watches the broken and bloodied street with awe—has he ever been this far from home before? This is all a big adventure to him.

It doesn’t tell him.

— — —

It stops three times a day to change and feed him, and to let him crawl around in the cleanest and sturdiest places it can find.

“Movement is good for development,” it tells him, watching him play with a piece of rubble.

It doesn’t stop to rest at night—it doesn’t need to, and the rocking motion of his continued steps helps Martyn sleep. When that isn’t enough, it tries to replicate the songs it has heard playing in the clinic’s waiting room, or seen mothers and fathers sing in the clinic to calm their children. Martyn seems to like that.

He likes the nurse bot’s hair, too. He tugs on it all the time as the nurse bot walks, held close to its chest, close enough to its head to access it. It lets him—it doesn’t hurt, and besides, it has few other ways to entertain him.

— �� —

Martyn grows. He starts to babble, and to toddle. He becomes too big for the bot to carry him, but by then it has become adept at finding places to hunker down for a while.

“Your name is Martyn,” the bot tells him, pointing to his nose.

“Ma,” he tries.

“Very close,” it says. He grabs its hand, tugging, and continues to babble.

“Da,” he says, and it knows that he doesn’t have a concept of fathers or parents or the English language, and he is only making sounds.

“That is me,” it says anyway, and Martyn continues to babble.

— — —

“Dad,” Martyn tugs on its arm, barely tall enough to reach its fingers. “Daaaad.”

“Hello, Martyn,” it says, “What is it?”

“I’m bored,” Martyn says, “And I’m hungry.”

“We still have some food left for you, though I should start a fire soon,” it says, “We will need to move soon. Children your age need a variety of foods to—”

“Grow up healthy, I know,” Martyn whines, “That’s boring. I’m bored.”

“What would you like to do?” it asks, and he lets go of its hand, running off. It stands to follow, but then he’s back, holding a battered old book—some kind of short novel, something with a torn cover that used to have a dragon on it. The title is gone, as is the dragon’s head.

“Read this,” he says. Martyn is learning to read, but he hasn’t quite got the grasp to read a real book on his own yet.

This hasn’t stopped Martyn from searching for them, though, nor from presenting them to his father to read. It had started reading one aloud to Martyn to entertain him when Martyn had come down with a fever last year, and he hasn’t stopped asking to hear them since.

“After you eat,” it says, and Martyn cheers.

—

There is a group of survivors picking their way through town. The bot sees them before they see it, watching the street from a window. It does not know their intentions, and it doesn’t plan to find out.

It crouches down in front of Martyn, putting its hand on his shoulder.

“Hello,” it says, “We’re going to play a game, okay?”

“Okay,” Martyn says, and it nods, once.

“It is called hide and seek,” it says, “There are some people who are looking around town, trying to play, and we are going to hide from them. We will win if we are not found.”

“That’s a dumb game. Why don’t we play something else?” Martyn asks.

“It is their favorite game. We are going to play because that is what they like to do. But we are going to be very good at it and hide very well,” it says, “You can hide with me, okay? If we win, there will be a special prize.”

That’s all it takes to convince Martyn, who smiles and nods and follows it as it ducks away into the closet. Its legs creak as it sits down, and then it opens its arm, letting him sit in its lap. It can’t be comfortable, all cold metal, but Martyn wraps his arms around its torso and settles right in, content with the hand on his back.

“Now we must be very quiet,” it tells him, “I will tell you when we can talk again.”

Martyn nods, and it puts its hand on the back of his head, and it waits.

When the strangers leave, it asks him what he would like for his prize.

“Hug me again!” He says, and it obliges for as long as he wants.

— — —

Halfway through its sentence, the bot’s voice cuts out.

That has not happened before. Martyn seems unfazed, especially when it begins to talk again, but it takes note of the error.

— — —

It happens more. Its voice cuts out, stutters, corrupts. Martyn really only complains when they’re reading, but it starts to fear the worst.

It sits Martyn down, crouching down to meet his eyes.

“Martyn, I have something very important to tell- to tell- to tell you,” it says, and if it could, it would wince.

“Yeah?” Martyn asks, “Are we moving again?”

“Soon,” it says, “But that is not what I want to tell you.”

“Oh,” Martyn says.

“I am… sick. Do you remember what being sick is?” it asks. Martyn nods, reaching up to put his hand on its forehead, the way it had for him when he had been feverish.

“You feel warm,” Martyn confirms, “It’s okay. I’ll read to you until you’re better.”

“Thank you, Martyn. You are very kind,” it says, “But that is not the kind of sick I am. There are many kinds of sick.”

“Oh,” Martyn says, “Then what kind of sick are you?”

“I am… robot sick. I am- I am- I am- I am- getting old,” it says, “And my voice is starting to… not work properly.”

“I know that,” Martyn says, “You talk funny now and you keep messing up reading.”

“Yes, that’s right. You’re very smart,” it confirms, “But it might get worse. I might not be able to talk anymore soon.”

“But you’ll get better, right? I got better,” Martyn says. It shakes its head.

“I might, but I might not. Robot sick is different,” it says, though it knows it is lying. “I just wanted you to know. If you talk to me and I do not respond, I am not ignoring you. I am still listening. I am just sick, and my voice- my voice- my voice- my voice—”

It shakes its head, the way humans sometimes do, to clear the sentence. When it looks at Martyn again, he seems thoughtful.

“Will you still read to me?” he asks.

“As long as I am able,” it promises. And, for good measure, “I love you, Martyn. Do not forget.”

“I won’t,” Martyn says, “I love you, too.”

— — —

It makes a point to show him how to read. He had already been learning it, but it doubles down when its voice begins to waver.

It picks up novels and reads them to him with Martyn in its lap. It holds its arm around Martyn’s waist, and Martyn holds the book for it to see, and it reads the words Martyn points to, so Martyn knows what they are.

It doesn’t want him to lose this. It doesn’t want him to lose his fun, his creativity, his imagination, just because it cannot read to him anymore.

— — —

It loses its voice for good while it is reading to Martyn.

— — —

Its voice is the first thing it loses, but it is not the last.

Control of its fingers becomes… tricky. Martyn has to help it, doing things that require finer movements.

“Is your hand sick?” he asks, and he sounds afraid. It nods, because it knows it shouldn’t lie to him, even if it wants to.

It loses what little control it had over its face next. Then its neck becomes stuck. It doesn’t seem able to walk as fast, though that might just be due to Martyn getting faster—he grows older still, full of energy, constantly wanting to run and jump and play on his longer legs. It tries its best, but it cannot keep pace like it used to. It used to sing and walk all night, and now it cannot do either.

Martyn is as patient as a six year old can be, which is not very. He gets frustrated and bored, and he complains often. It does not blame him for this. He is doing his best, too, and that is all it can ask.

— — —

There are people. It tries to hide—pulls Martyn into a closet, tucks him close to its chest, pets his hair with his hand—but Martyn doesn’t like to play hide and seek, and he doesn’t know he has to be quiet.

“My name is Martyn!” he tells them, once the closet door opens, “This is Dad. He’s sick.”

They’re nice enough, a woman and her teenage son. It—he, now?—releases Martyn to talk to them, and climbs out of the closet. He hovers at Martyn’s side when they climb out, a hand on his son’s head.

“Why were you two in the closet?” the mother asks.

“We were playing hide and seek. That’s what Dad said other people like to do, but I don’t like it very much,” Martyn explains. She nods.

“Most people do like to play that game,” she says, because, as a parent, she must understand his fear. “But we don’t, either. Do you want to travel together for a little while, Martyn?”

“I want to!” Martyn says, and he looks up at his father, and his father would sigh if he could.

He nods, because what else is he meant to do?

— — —

The teenager entertains Martyn, reading to him the book his father never did get to finish. The mother cooks, and she takes a look at his hands.

“I used to be an engineer,” she says, “You’re a bit above my pay grade, but I could take a look, if you want.”

He doesn’t let her crack him open or anything, but she inspects the pieces of his wiring she can see. He’s reminded of his old clinic, though he can’t tell her how ironic this is.

Her prognosis is… grim.

“You probably only have a few years left in you,” she admits, “Your model was supposed to go for regular updates, replacing parts and…”

He doesn’t listen as she explains the old process, his focus instead on Martyn.

Only a few years? What will happen to Martyn? Who will take care of him?

Humans need care until they are eighteen.

Martyn is six.

“I could try and make some minor repairs for some of the obvious damage, but I don’t have tools for anything more. I can also try and tell you some things you can do to try and stretch that time out,” she says. He nods, understanding, grateful, as she does what she can.

He had been in her place, once, years ago, and so he understands, too, when she offers sympathies, when she holds his hand.

— — —

They split off from each other eventually. The other two are traveling to a place they claim never fell. He does not believe in such a place, and so he does not go with them.

Martyn cries. The mother hugs him, as does her son, and they are gone.

As they walk away, he holds Martyn’s hand, and he does not let go.

— — —

He teaches Martyn how to do… anything he can. He is too young to understand how to hunt or set a trap or clean an animal or cook or treat a fever or start a fire or boil water, and it is very difficult to teach when he cannot speak. He’d wanted to wait until Martyn is older, he does not have the luxury of time anymore.

Martyn is clever, is bright. He takes to the skills as well as a six, eight, ten year old can, and it is only partly due to the fact he has no choice.

— — —

He knows he is dying.

Martyn does not.

He picks up a stick, waving Martyn over. There is a patch of dirt that is mostly clear, and he crouches in front of it.

I AM SICK he writes, and Martyn reads it, and he frowns.

“I know that,” Martyn says, and he shakes his head. The dirt is soft, and so he clears it, trying again.

I AM VERY SICK he writes. Martyn reads it, and he frowns deeper.

“What does that mean?” Martyn asks.

I WILL SLEEP SOON he writes. He wants to be delicate, but he can’t—the patch of dirt isn’t very big.

“Oh, well, that’s okay. I sleep all the time,” Martyn says, “That’s how you get healthy again. It makes you feel better. You told me that.”

He wants to nod, but he can’t. This is the bit he was dreading the most.

I WILL NOT WAKE UP he writes.

For a long moment, Martyn doesn’t say anything.

“What if we get you medicine?” Martyn asks, “When— when I was sick, you found medicine. It made me better. It would make you better.”

NOT FOR ROBOTS

“That… that isn’t fair, though,” Martyn says, “Are you sure? We could get some and try it!”

I AM SURE he writes, and then he erases it, I LOVE YOU

Again, Martyn says nothing. He isn’t sure what Martyn is thinking, and then Martyn charges him, hugging him around the stomach.

He has more he wants to say to Martyn—he wants to teach him so much, to tell him to be careful, to tell him he’ll be okay.

He drops the stick, wrapping his arm around Martyn as tight as his failing joints will let him.

— — —

His goal is to find somewhere safe. An old house, maybe, somewhere where Martyn will be able to survive on his own for a while.

He looks, and he does not find it. He’s been looking for ten years, after all—of course he wouldn’t find one now, just because he is dying.

Other than that, his life does not much change. He holds Martyn’s hand as they walk, and Martyn talks to him about birds and books and whatever else he can think of. Martyn has become very good at filling the air for them both. Neither of them let go of the other’s hand.

He doesn’t actually know when it is going to happen, just that it will be soon.

When the moment finally comes, he does not realize.

They stop to rest for a night. Martyn is tired, as he is a child, and his legs can only carry him so far. He is tired, too, but he does not have it in him to think about why, or how strange that is.

It’s nowhere special, where they stop. A random house that has kept its roof, somewhere safe from rain and sun. Martyn finds a place to roll out his sleeping bag, and when he lies down, his father lies with him.

He does not let go of Martyn’s hand.