#instead of just answering in a rush

[sexisbetteronthemoon]

Just read your newest fic at 3am and I’m already obsessed it’s so good! No worries if you don’t have an answer since this fic is just a little oneshot, but do you think the lion swap would affect Keith and Lance’s animals? Would Shiro lose his?

!!! i was contemplating this! :D

like i'm still not sure on a chapter 2, but i was thinking about these things and if i do go for it, it'll cover this. i was even thinking that the animals might even shift over time to take on new forms as the paladins grow as people, or that maybe they remain the same but get older in conjunction with them.

was also thinking that maybe Keith would come back from the space whale, and during a fight, his little sausage dog suddenly becomes a huge fuckoff creature before shifting back to a sausage dog like nothing happened.

for Shiro, i thought maybe his animal could 

a) stay behind in coma so they're not really sure what's going on and they still don't have answers

b) be awake but translucent and none of them can touch it or communicate with it (and it basically haunts the Black Lion)

c) get stuck with Shiro in the Black Lion, and Lance's serval can see it when they or are otherwise unconscious like Lance can see Shiro.

meanwhile, Kuron has no animal and can't get a new one! but somehow, the black lion still responds to him! weird! wonder what that's about! 👀 

d) it could also straight up vanish, and Shiro would have to make a new one to pilot again, so there's the added bit of "i'm missing a piece of my soul and idk if i can handle cutting off another piece" (this one's my favorite tbh)

just! so many thoughts! so many possibilities!

i also want to write Allura's as the pokémon Diancie lol (except it would be an altean creature, not a pokémon).

with the Lion switch, their animals could change like their bayards do and they switch back and forth, idk, this au is in my brain now..

also lowkey had the thought that Keith's sausage dog changes into a copy of Kosmo when he takes the Black Lion, except red, and everyone is like, “What the fuck is that? A space wolf? Keith, you have a space wolf now? Okay, edgelord.”

and Kosmo fucking LOSES IT in excitement that his dad is like him when they encounter each other. (Kosmo even considers Keith's soul piece to be its dad. oh no, help i'm crying!)

[barcodenumber00]

although I enjoyed season2 I missed the unionisation themes that were being set up at the end of the first season. lumon presenting a history of conflict between departments to incite separation, MDR and O&D choosing to bridge the gap of distance anyway. The unfinished map Petey made suggesting that the severed floor was larger than they initially comprehended, the anti-severance protest groups outside of lumon fighting for workers' rights. we had a brief hint of that at the start of the season with lumon assimilating the MDR uprising into its incentivisation methods, the implication of lumon as an international enterprise with the new characters that were very quickly dropped and forgotten about, and it was interesting to see the background contextualisation of lumon's industry being propagated by child labour (especially considering the severance procedure in effect makes the adult innies like children, tabula rasa innocents).

but the majority of the characters became incredibly isolated this season anyway and the show became less of a satire of workspaces and more about the way severance as a procedure complicated their romantic relationships. I was kind of hoping this season would lean into some more consequences with regards to petey's legacy in mark's mind post reintegration, and also the mapping out and unionising of other isolated departments on the severed floor beyond the oddity of mammalians nurturable.

[cotl-eyesofdeath]

What went wrong the first time around with the kids? What was narilamb's fatal flaw as parents?

Short answer:

Lambie’s manipulative with a need for control even when it comes to their loved ones, and while Narinder tries his best he’s still kind of a mediocre dad that let Lambie do whatever they wanted to their kids as long as it wasn’t physically traumatizing

Long answer:

After like a thousand years of being a cult leader Lambie starts thinking that they want a break from all their responsibilities, and so they decide to try having a child with Narinder to see if they can keep the cult leading in the family. On account of their… eldritch-ness, Lambie’s unable to have children the regular way, so they needed to use a ritual that would actually make it possible. Use your imagination for that part.

They didn’t expect it to work since they kinda just bullshitted it, but somehow it did work and so Narinder ends up carrying their firstborn, which they name Yarna. From her birth Lambie has groomed Yarna into becoming the perfect cult leader, just like Narinder did with them, but there were still a few doubts in their mind. They decide to have another child, Chanto(Narinder carried a him too), and raise him as a sort of back-up plan. They also decide to raise backups to the backup but with children of their followers instead of having another of their own, starting a sort of cult leader/disciple school. This along with Lambie’s selective shows of affection breed jealousy and rivalry between the two siblings- Yarna believing that being the next cult leader is her rightful place as the firstborn and afraid of losing her position, and Chanto just wanting to prove himself to Lambie and get the same treatment that Yarna gets.

Narinder notices the growing tension between the siblings and does his best to teach them to cooperate with eachother and keep a healthy relationship, but his idea of a “healthy sibling relationship” isn’t the best to begin with… still, he warns his kids of what happened with his own family with stories of the past, but that’s pretty much all he does. Aside from keeping them apart so they don’t fight, he doesn’t do anything else, and the kids have heard his stories so many times that they start to tune them out and forget- retreating into their own world of spite and jealousy. This is all made worse by Lambie deliberately stirring up trouble between them, seeing them as in competition with eachother and their schoolmates and making no effort to hide it, believing that if they’re in competition with eachother then they’ll strive to be better and pick off the weaker ones.

Jealousy runs amok between them. Yarna has always had an advantage with being the firstborn and first student, giving her more time than all the other kids to learn and hone her skills as a cult leader. This obviously makes her the biggest source of jealousy for everyone else since they’re basically playing catch-up and hoping that she’ll get behind somehow to actually give them a chance. Though this also means that there’s extremely high expectations put on her to be the most model student of the entire cult, causing her punishments to be even more extreme when she does make a mistake, and Lambie’s punishments for her are the worst of all. Since she’s the most promising student, she’s the one that Lambie pays the most attention to and that’s an extremely sharp double-edged sword- not just for her but for everyone else too. Lambie pays the most attention to Yarna, so she gets most of their affections, leaving everyone else basically in the dust. Nobody else gets as much of their attention and praise as Yarna, but this also means they’re allowed much more freedom and their punishments for mistakes aren’t as severe.

Chanto as the second born is at a disadvantage with their studies that they try their hardest to overcome, and though the hard work does pay up and they inch ever closer to Yarna, in the end they feel like they could never reach her- not only in their studies but also personally. Both of them want affection from Lambie, their parent and beloved god, but Chanto also wants Yarna’s affections too, at least at first. They believed that if they caught up to Yarna then they could both have fun as siblings while also getting Lambie’s attention. Yarna, of course, only sees him as a rival. What he gets praised for is something she’s expected to do without it, and when he does something bad he’s punished with a lot less severity than a small mistake that she would make. Not only that, but he has a freedom that she craves. Yarna is constantly on edge and acting perfect all the time, studying 24/7 and doing it all with a forced smile she’s perfected to look natural all while her own brother is allowed to play around outside in the trees and with the other kids. She believes this is an injustice, and so every chance she gets she “disciplines” Chanto herself, using his naivety and craving for affection against him, becoming his biggest bully. She would berate him, steal his food, destroy his things, and spread rumors about him all around the cult in hopes of getting his reputation so low that Lambie will finally discipline him the same way they discipline her.

Years of bitterness, jealousy, anger, hate, and routine neglect pass by and Yarna is still the first in line for cult leader status. Lambie’s attention has turned solely to Yarna after a while, practically ignoring all the other students in favor of constant monitoring of her to make sure she doesn’t mess anything up. They’ve gone from grooming her into the perfect cult leader to instead turning her into a mini version of them, feeling that they could only leave the cult in her hands if she did everything as they would. This has led to them ignoring even Chanto, their other child, who has started defecting against their leadership due to this neglect without them even noticing. Their plans of pitting their kids against each other in order to make them better leaders has failed, turning one into a constantly stressed internal mess and the other into a secret dissenter that slowly blooms a rebellion in the dark of night, growing it steadily for years. Chanto has realized that Lambie has been abusing him, his classmates, and most of all: Yarna. He tries to help her out of the situation several times but she never lets him- she’s too deeply brainwashed and still resents him for what she couldn’t have. She’s going to follow the path that’s been laid out for her like the obedient half-sheep she is or die trying- and, well… Chanto will free them both from their lifelong misery, by any means necessary.

A few more years pass and Yarna has finally taken her place as the new cult leader while Chanto and half of the original cult have dissented and split off to live somewhere else. This, in theory, should make everyone happy, but… neither Yarna nor Chanto are at ease with the other group’s existence, and so there’s still friction between the two, but a war wouldn’t benefit anybody as of now and so they’re just keeping their distances for now. At least, that is until the dissenting group settles into a place with an abundance of a specific resource, causing them to thrive more than the original cult.

I’m gonna speed this up because I’ve been writing this over the course of several weeks and I’m tired but basically:

Trade negotiations are started but eventually fail so bad that it snowballs into a war, Yarna and Chanto leading their own respective armies

Lambie leaves the two groups to fight amongst themselves believing that it’s just another one of their kids’ sibling fights while Narinder is freaking out knowing that this will kill both of his kids. He attempts to convince Lambie to join the fight only to protect the kids and make sure that they don’t fucking die even if it means killing everyone else because he doesn’t have any power in this situation. It works but way too late

Lambie goes to the war site and finds their kids. Dead. They stabbed each other in the heart and died at the same time, the consequences of Lambie’s actions being this. They kill every single cult member- old, new, dissenting and loyal, deciding that starting from complete scratch with only Narinder is the best course of action.

This isn’t the first time they’ve had to start over with only Narinder, but while the first time was accidental this one was on purpose, and it hurts a lot more. Lambie truly is devastated at the loss of their kids but it’s Narinder who took this the hardest. He will always love the lamb and how ruthless they can be, but this… this made him realize how much more evil they could be. However, what hurts the most is just how complicit he realizes he had been.

The whole situation changes them both but mostly Narinder, leaving him in a state of shock for so long before he finally starts to grieve.

5 stages of grief and all that, shit gets really weird between the two of them for a long time before they finally start to mend their relationship again because they’re bound to each other no matter what so they might as well keep their relationship amicable at least. After like a thousand years of self reflection and improvement(mainly Narinder but he has the lamb change a bit too) they decide to have another kid, but just one this time, and they name her Mary(the little lamb). Narinder is more present and active and the lamb isn’t trying to mold and manipulate her into the perfect cult leader so she grows up into a pretty decent and happy person, even though she can see the dead and is haunted by her parents’ past mistakes in the form of her dead siblings trying to steal her life. She has a bee boyfriend and likes poetry.

[miquella-everywhere]

The DLC make me understand Hyetta and the whole "the greater will made a mistake"

Because this whole DLC was a mistake

This heavily implies that the Greater Will is just Fromsoft in general, in which case Metyrs whole thing with the Greater Will abandoning everything makes perfect sense sadly 😔

[project-sekai-facts]

it seems that something's going on about the current vbs event and story. i haven't been able to update on the jp events aside from some of niigo, can i ask what's currently happening here??

VBS IS SURPASSING RAD WEEKEND. Their whole thing since Burn My Soul has been doing these tasks that Ken gave to them so that they'd be able to surpass it. An had to sort out her feelings with Kohane, Akito had to hype everyone up about VBS' return and goals (and sort out his inferiority issues and perfectionism along the way), and Toya had to make songs for their event (it sounds boring but first concerto was a really good event please read it). During that time they've got Kotaro and Tatsuya back since they quit following LUTF. Arata is still MIA and it was heavily foreshadowed in BREAK DOWN THE WALL that Arata's Feelings would be dealt with in a Toya event but looks like we're gonna get him back now??? Maybe they'll deal with his emotional baggage later bc this is VBS arc ender 3 (presumably) so they've gotta do SOMETHING for the next several years.

[not-poignant]

The end of Constellations was so beautiful! I wanted to ask... does Arden like Gwyn once he gets to know him? Will Efnisien and Augus meet again?

Hi anon,

So, we can already tell Arden likes Gwyn through how much he shows care when Gwyn gets Efnisien during the emergency re: Efnisien not being able to eat. Arden praises him, calls his actions perfect, tells him he did great, exchanges numbers, reassures him, and tells him he'll be in touch. These are not the actions of someone who doesn't like someone else. These are also not the actions of someone unsure about someone else.

Gwyn is an unreliable narrator, like Efnisien, his assumption that Arden doesn't like him doesn't actually match up to how Arden behaves around him after the first three chapters!

Since you mention the end, you can literally see in the last chapter that Arden is favourable to Gwyn in some of the things Efnisien says. And also something Arden suggests in like the third last paragraph! If you take Gwyn's uncertainties away, it's pretty clear that Arden doesn't dislike Gwyn at all, and appreciates him being in Efnisien's life.

As for Efnisien and Augus, maybe!

[lucky-aces]

.

[macbethz]

did you guys know about this the whole time and not tell me

[dreamersscape]

Curiosity Killed the Cat: A Dreamersscape Story

Which doesn't seem quite fair, really, considering although I like cats a great deal, you still wouldn't call me a cat person.

Step #1: Love Kakashi Hatake far too much as a character.

Step #2: Scroll through his tumblr tag. Slowly start noticing that people often draw parallels between him and another character from the currently-running Jujutsu Kaisen manga and anime, Satoru Gojo.

Step #3: Think, "This is fine. It appears they're mostly just comparing their similar character designs and they both have unique things going on with their eyes. I'm not seeing anything that's really piquing my interest with this series; I'll just quickly look up if there's anything more to these comparisons beyond surface-level resemblances and that will be that."

Step #4: One of the next things you learn about Gojo is that a common clickbait-y way to frame discussion around parts of his personality is along the lines of, "Does Gojo have a God complex?"

Step #5: Think, "Ah, okay. That's likely an exaggeration, but probably Kakashi and Gojo can't be all that similar, or at least I likely wouldn't feel much the same about them as characters. Now I'm simply curious how far off Gojo actually is from having a God complex and then I'll be done."

Step #6: Did not back out of this rabbit hole at this juncture.

Step #7: Hard to recollect exactly the order of things from here, but learned that Gojo is the teacher for his own group of 3 fifteen-year-old students (and also previously taught older students since he's the head of first-year high school students at his very small school), learned back when Gojo was a student at this same school he had a very close friend who was instrumental in imbuing Gojo with his current moral principles and this friend is now dead, and learned that Gojo is the unequivocally strongest character within his universe's power system, and thus while he has a LOT of confidence in his own abilities and can be a bit cocky and a show-off, he definitely doesn't think of himself as godlike (anyone who's familiar with JJK and reading this--I'm aware of 'the honored one' thing, hang on a sec).

Step #8: Decide, "Alright then. Well, I am starting to get more intrigued by this series. Maybe I'll look up a little more about it and watch the first episode or two. It'll be fine. After all, I get now why people are reminded of Kakashi by Gojo and vice versa, but it certainly sounds like Gojo's personality is basically the opposite of someone who's convinced they're scum and is incredibly unassuming and humble and could honestly use a bit more self-worth so he at least possesses a modicum of self-preservation inclination. Gojo seems to have a lighthearted, goofy side that is partly used as a cover for his deeper emotions, and I might get attached to that based on other characters I've loved, but that still ought to be pretty safe. If I do wind up liking Gojo the most out of all the characters, there's no way he'll put me through the same heart-wrenching agony as seeing Kakashi being a paragon of strength of character and sheer goodness, while inwardly he can't see anything of value in himself."

The thing is, I wasn't wrong.

But clearly, I underestimated the pain I could still experience at the hands of a Kakashi-adjacent character.

(All I'm about to explain is completely non-spoilery, by the way. And by that I mean I'm not going to be ruining any major plot points or the "viewing experience" of watching the anime or reading the manga. Anything I reference that happens at any point beyond the first few chapters, I'll be as vague and opaque about it as possible, as well as very brief. And it will also all be basic background info/set up level stuff.)

Okay, so before I get to the real kicker, let's start with Gojo's dream.

In the world of Jujutsu Kaisen, the chakra equivalent is called cursed energy. However, cursed energy is not a life force. Cursed energy arises from people's negative emotions, and if the quantities of negative emotions emitted by the populace is large and concentrated enough, this creates cursed spirits of various sorts. For example, humanity's collective fear and pain experienced through natural disasters created a cursed spirit out of that resulting enormous amount of cursed energy. Cursed spirits usually aren't sentient, but almost unerringly they cause great harm and often death to humans. The number we're given at the start of the manga is around 10,000 unexplained deaths and missing persons per year in Japan are the result of curses.

Jujutsu sorcerers are the people who exorcize (or destroy, more like) cursed spirits to mitigate that as much as possible. They exorcize the curses with cursed energy-fueled techniques that are unique to each sorcerer. A sorcerer's innate cursed technique (CT) is said to comprise around 80% of their potential/talent as a fighter of curses. We're told that over the course of the last, I don't know, century or so (?) - the date at the start of the series is June 2018 - curse spirits have been increasing in strength and number. However, the incredibly rare combination of the Limitless cursed technique and the Six Eyes in-born trait Gojo was born with is so powerful that his birth alone swung the balance from being in the curses' favor back over to the side of the jujutsu sorcerers.

Details on Gojo's childhood are quite sparse, basically the only things we know about the Gojo family are it's one of the three big clans in jujutsu society and they're very wealthy. As far as I'm aware, Satoru is the only member of the clan we've ever met. So there's only supposition for what his home life was like up until he started at Jujutsu High, but we do know that because his possessing both the Six Eyes and Limitless was the first occurrence of such in 300-400 years, his existence was something of a spectacle and many sorcerers came to visit him just to see it for themselves, and too, he was the target of curse users (sorcerers who use jujutsu for evil and their own selfish gain) in pursuit of the over 100 million yen bounty placed on his head since he was very young.

It would be pretty reasonable to assume Gojo was subsequently rather sheltered and perhaps quite lonely as a child, but at the same time praised and lauded for how he was so naturally, prodigiously powerful. It only makes sense that Gojo has more than a little pride in his strength and puts so much stock in that. I'm sure he really enjoyed the attention and notoriety he received, and he never expresses resentment regarding any pressure that might have been put on him as a kid to be the infallible (future?) vanquisher of curses (although later I do think he places more and more pressure on himself to "take care" of everything and be responsible for the safety of everyone in the jujutsu world and beyond), and yet I do believe it's apparent he understands he didn't get to have a "normal" childhood. As a part of one of the big clans, he was surrounded and immersed in the political power plays and jockeying for prestige and influence by jujutsu society's elders/leaders/'higher ups' from the start (we don't know when or how it happened, but presumably because he's the strongest living Gojo, at the start of the story Satoru is the head of the clan), and these higher ups view Gojo in terms of how he can best be used for their own benefit. Outside of his high school best friend and later a few of his students, Gojo has very few people who have more than a cursory understanding of who he is as a person, who seem to want to know him, not the living embodiment of the title 'The Strongest', but just Satoru Gojo. Gojo likes being The Strongest, but when that's all everyone around him appears to care about, it leaves him feeling very isolated and alone.

As I mentioned before, though, Gojo never complains about this. He doesn't ever even imply "because I was treated this way, I want to prevent anyone else having to go through that." He does tell one of the people he's somewhat close to what his aim is and what the reason is behind it, but it's worded in a way where the person is confused by Gojo's explanation, and we as the reader can't even be sure he's referring to himself, since it could just as easily be in reference to his deceased friend.

It's informed by his experiences growing up certainly, but Gojo's fierce desire to give the kids he watches over the opportunity to fully and freely enjoy their youth is not about regretting what he missed out on; it's about what he can do for them, doing all he can to protect and preserve their childhood and making sure no one can take that away from them.

I realize I haven't exactly explained what precisely Gojo's 'dream' is and how it ties into all this, so I'll attempt to circle back to that now.

Jujutsu Kaisen begins with our main character, Yuji Itadori, accidentally stumbling his way into the jujutsu world by doing something very dangerous in order to be in what he thinks is a better position to help his friends out of a bad situation. He succeeds in helping his friends, but what he had to do to make that happen is an action that is punishable by death under jujutsu regulations. Naturally, Yuji was unaware of that, but it doesn't matter to the sorcerer higher ups. Gojo hears about the situation, intervenes, and is able to get the elders to suspend Yuji's execution for the time being. I'm glossing over a bunch of stuff but let's roll with that for now. While Gojo is explaining the whole situation to Yuji, the first thing he tells Yuji about the higher ups is that he thinks they're a bunch of cowards. And really, that's just the tip of the iceberg for how Gojo feels towards these leaders. He's not a fan of them by any stretch of the imagination. I said above Gojo never voices resentment directed at them over his lack of a carefree childhood, and that's true, however his dislike of the higher ups does seem to be partly personal. We just don't know the specifics other than that when he criticizes them (to their faces or a fellow colleague) he sticks to their wrongful actions on the whole, not how they've wronged him. A handful of episodes later, the higher ups pull something really awful and underhanded while Gojo is away on another mission, a scheme that is partially motivated by wanting to get back at Gojo for interfering with Yuji. Newly and deeply angered by this, Gojo delves further into the corruption at the top of the jujutsu world and then tells us about his dream:

A similar scene happens one year previous to this:

(Gojo doesn't use it anywhere near as frequently, but his saying 'what a pain' about many a situation still manages to give me Shikamaru feelings and I enjoy that.)

What stands out to me the most here is how much Gojo WANTS the students/his allies to be equal to or surpass him in strength. He's not at all concerned with keeping his position and accompanying power all to himself like the higher ups are. During one of the first chapters of the manga/show, to allay someone's uneasiness over potential danger, Gojo tells them, "Don't worry, I'm the strongest." It's only later that we learn when he was much younger he was originally quite happy to say, "Anyway, it should be okay. We're the strongest." I really think he would like nothing better than to be able to say that once again.

In an unusual turn of events for me, when I caught up to the JJK manga a few months ago, I actually had pretty good timing with what was currently going on, but now the story is starting to enter into its final stages and it seems like a lot of people in the fandom feel the narrative is very possibly leading to Gojo's death in some way that will better enable this brighter, less corrupt future for the jujutsu world and his students that he's been working towards this entire time. I don't think that would be a bad outcome, I'm not against noble sacrifices entirely, but I really, really, really don't want to see this happen. And here's where my unexpected Kakashi-adjacent feelings come into play. The reasons for why I'm so invested in seeing both Kakashi and Gojo live to be a part of the better world they helped create are pretty different. Yet, they're also not miles apart. I don't think Gojo has as many doubts as Kakashi that he has a place in the future of which he dreams, but from what I can tell his main focus is on that future existing for everyone else. Maybe he believes that is his purpose as The Strongest? Probably he does have every intention of being there with his fellows. I just want that for him so very much. For the few glimpses of kid!Gojo we got, who always looked so solemn; for the teenage Gojo with the biggest, goofiest smiles, who had so much connection ripped away prematurely; for Gojo the teacher, who works so hard to make every kid feel welcome and excited and to know they aren't alone. I'm aware of the kind of story I'm reading--Jujutsu Kaisen is unrelentingly brutal to its characters. It's a matter of course to have your heart mercilessly stomped on over and over reading JJK. It's not the sort of story where you can reasonably expect a happy ending. Unfortunately, I'm much too optimistic of a person for this manga and I'm far too attached to the story and characters and I'm in way, way too deep.

But let's ignore all that for now and get to the Kakashi-adjacent part of Gojo which clobbered me over the head with feels even worse than what I've already detailed!

@panharmonium, when you've reached this part of the post, I can't really guess what you're thinking about it all, but what if I told you that one of Gojo's students, Megumi Fushiguro, the Sasuke-adjacent one, was, along with his one-year-older step-sister Tsumiki, quasi-adopted/looked after/raised by Gojo from the time Megumi was six/in first grade and Gojo was just nineteen? By blood, Megumi is actually a member of the Zen'in clan, another of the three major clans in jujutsu society. Gojo, fresh out of high school and still newly, painfully estranged from his best friend, hears by chance that Megumi, who's on his own at this time apart from Tsumiki (also parentless), is about to be sold to the Zen'in because of the cursed technique he's just manifested, and although it has nothing to do with him, Gojo goes to Megumi and asks him if he wants to go live with the Zen'in. Upon learning if he chooses this, Tsumiki will be very unhappy (the Zen'in clan cares nothing for her and they are by-and-large super blatantly misogynistic), Megumi says no and Gojo's like, "Cool, that's great! I'll take care of everything and I'll make sure you two have everything you need. I want you to grow up strong!" And then there's a moment in the manga, where present-day Gojo is taking a nap and dreams of this first meeting between himself and Megumi and when he wakes up to his three students coming to see him he does this:

AND THE SECOND SEASON OF THE ANIME JUST STARTED AIRING A FEW WEEKS AGO AND THAT MEANS I'LL BE ABLE TO SEE THIS MOMENT ANIMATED POSSIBLY AS SOON AS AUGUST 3RD (DUB PROBABLY AUGUST 17TH) AND I'M GONNA DIE. HE LOVES THAT KID SO MUCH!!!!!

So obviously that's super sweet and all, but maybe you're thinking, "Okay, that's nice, but do they really have that Kakashi 'n' Sasuke vibe?" and to that I say, "CHECK OUT THIS SHORT VIDEO AND THEN HOPEFULLY I CAN REST MY CASE."

Also, it is now my most important goal in life to draw a Kakashi & Sasuke version of these panels so I can dedicate it to you (and padmerrie if she wants in on this):

Of course, I'm not saying Sasuke and Megumi are carbon copies of each other (or Kakashi and Gojo for that matter, as I've tried to delineate above). Megumi has a bit of a grumpy disposition, but he's also very polite; he always calls Gojo "Gojo-sensei" and he uses "-senpai" for all the upperclassmen (who he met previously to becoming a student at Jujutsu High). Megumi is the dog guy in JJK and Gojo's more reminiscent of a cat in some respects. Etc., etc., etc. But in general, I really hope you see the vision!

While I'm at it, I might as well show you the little Gojo & Yuji video that naturally gives me all the Kakashi & Naruto feelings:

Yuji's already got the jubilantly-tackle-hug-your-sensei part down! (Although, of course, Gojo's much less resistant.🥰)

It is admittedly much more of a stretch to say Nobara is Sakura-adjacent, but I have seen someone describe her as a 'gremlin child' and I love that about her! <3

Anyway, I totally get if none of this is up your alley for whatever reason or you don't have the time to get into JJK if this happens to persuade you or if you just want to prioritize other stuff right now. *I* didn't mean to get into it, after all! The plan for my looking into JJK was to be purely for enhancing my love for Kakashi, and I failed spectacularly at limiting myself to that. I just thought I would share to see if it would be a fun read for you. :)

[tallaennatargaryen]

Wife Speak

Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: You asked Bucky to install the security camera a month ago, and he still hasn’t done it. You take matters into your own hands, to his vexation.

Warnings: Bucky's been too busy to do what you asked, you put yourself in slight peril, worried!Bucky, gentle manhandling, protective!Bucky, mention of previous injury, my own lack of construction know-how so I apologize for any inaccuracies, no use of Y/N

This is my first time writing in second person so hopefully I did okay! This was inspired by this short I saw on YouTube.

You were good at a lot of things. The team’s go-to “girl in the chair,” there was no one better at intel, strategy, quick escape plans, and getting into just about any system you were presented with. You’d had the Avengers’ lives in your hands countless times, and never led them to put a foot wrong. Somehow, you, a girl with just a bachelor’s degree, a–perhaps excessive–perfectionist streak, and a mini fridge full of energy drinks to help you stay sharp on overnight missions, had become indispensable to the Earth’s mightiest heroes.

But you couldn’t install a security camera above your front door.

As smart as you were, you were probably equally as uncoordinated. All the bruises in odd places told the tale of your frequent misfortune. Walking by itself often presented a perilous challenge, so standing on a ladder, balancing precariously with expensive equipment and sharp objects in your hands seemed like a perfect recipe for a trip to the ER and a costly bill for tech replacements.

Which was why you’d asked your husband, a super soldier with a metal arm and a keen eye for home repairs, to do it.

A month ago.

And three weeks ago.

And two weeks ago.

And last week.

You were tired of waiting. Bucky, of course, was busy, and often away on missions, but you only ever asked him to do it when he had a moment to spare. He’d said he would, every time you’d asked, but there was still no camera above your front door. On top of it all, the camera had been Bucky’s idea, a little extra security for when he was away on missions; it was one of Stark’s smart cameras, which could differentiate between a mailman dropping off a package and a criminal about to break into the house. Bucky didn’t exactly know how all of that worked, but he was good with the installation, and you both knew better than to assign the job to you. But the camera had sat there for a month, collecting dust on the dining room table, and despite all his promises, you knew it was time to take matters into your own hands.

And maybe get a little payback while you were at it.

It was a warm spring day, and the front door was open to let the breeze in but the screen door was in place to keep the bugs out. Bucky was in the kitchen, making lunch, so he’d be able to hear everything easily, between his proximity, the open door, and his enhanced hearing. Smirking to yourself, you set up the ladder as quietly as possible, knowing that that alone would tip Bucky off and make him come rushing out before you were ready. If this was going to get done today, you needed to execute the full plan.

Picking up the electric drill and the mount for the camera, you put one foot up on the ladder, and held down the trigger of the drill for a few seconds, causing a loud whirring sound to tear through the quiet midday air. Just as you took another step up and held down the trigger again, Bucky’s voice carried out from the kitchen.

“Doll?” he questioned, and it took everything in you not to laugh. You gave no answer, instead only whirring the drill once more as you climbed to the top of the ladder. “What are you doing?”

You might have felt bad about the panic and concern in his voice, but if he’d done this a month ago when you’d asked, you wouldn’t have to go to such lengths to have it be done. Natasha had called it wife speak, when women use their sly little tricks to get their husbands to do what they need to. She used it with Banner, Pepper used it with Tony, Wanda used it with Vision; it was a universal language amongst women when requests and orders just weren’t cutting it.

Holding the mount up against the wall, you furrowed your brow in concentration as you tried to figure out how to hold the mount, place the screw, and drill it in all at the same time with only two hands. Judging by the purposeful footsteps pounding towards the front door, you knew you wouldn’t have to keep trying to figure it out for long. Still, you kept up the ruse, because he needed to think you were serious about doing it yourself if he was going to get it done right this minute.

“Baby, what are you doing?” Bucky asked, voice raising with alarm as he found you balancing precariously on top of the small ladder. Paying him no mind, you decided to just wing it and put the drill into the head of the screw, pulling the trigger to send the screw spinning into the wall. For extra effect, you added a little wobble, just enough to make Bucky worry more but not so much that your uncoordinated self would actually fall. “Honey! Stop! What are you doing?”

“What?” you responded innocently, still not turning around. “I’m putting up the camera.”

“Why?” His hands grasped at your waist, but you pushed him away as you continued your ruse and placed the next screw.

“Because it needs to go up?” you said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, because it was, hello, and you’d asked him to do it so many times. Once more, you placed the drill into the screw head and let it rip, watching it spin into place. Maybe you could do it yourself. Maybe impatience was all it took to overcome your incoordination. 

“Baby. Baby, baby, baby.” Bucky’s hands were on your waist again, this time with a firmer grip so you couldn’t brush him off so easily. “Come off the ladder.”

“It needs to go up, Bucky,” you insisted, milking your moment of acting for all it was worth.

“I know, so I’ll do it, okay? Just please, come off the ladder.”

“I’ve asked you a million times over the last month to do it and you still haven’t, so I’m gonna do it and then I’ll know it's done.”

The drill was slightly stuck in the screw head once it was screwed all the way in. You gave it a tug, and the force of it combined with the resistance of the drill to come loose caused you to tip backwards slightly; for a moment, you thought you might fall, but you regained your balance after a second or two. Still, it was a second or two too long for Bucky, who’d had enough of asking nicely and being patient. 

“Alright, that’s it,” he declared, using his strength and his grip on your waist to lift you off the ladder and set you on the wooden boards of the porch like you were little more than a doll. You almost grinned at the move, as being on the receiving end of his enhanced strength and fierce protectiveness always made your stomach do somersaults. By the time he spun you around to face him though, you had regained your self-control and regarded him with a displeased scowl. “What are you doing, huh, doll? You know I don’t like you up on that thing.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you huffed, “Well, someone has to put the camera up, since you’ve proven yourself incapable.” You turned to step back onto the ladder, but Bucky grasped your arm gently and pulled you to him, maneuvering at the same time to take the drill and the remaining screws from you. You resisted, but even when he was diluting his strength, you couldn’t hope to best him, so instead you started to complain, “Bucky-”

“I know, doll, I know,” he said, voice soft as he pried the drill and screws out of your hands. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and then your nose for extra contrition. “I’m sorry. I should’ve done it when you asked me to, but I’ll do it right now, okay? Just…please stay off the ladder?”

“Why? ‘Cause I’m a girl?”

Bucky chuckled in amusement, his free hand rising to cup your cheek and pull you closer so he could press a sweet kiss to your lips. You melted against him instantly, as you always did, because Bucky always kissed you like he was trying to transfer his heart from his body to yours, deeply and wholly and with every ounce of love that he had. After a moment, he pulled away, though he kept his nose touching yours as his twinkling eyes gazed at you adoringly. “It’s not because you’re a girl, it’s because it’s you, doll. The last time I trusted you with a drill and screws, you drilled your sleeve into the wall and broke your finger trying to pull it free.”

Nose scrunching and lips pouting, you did your best to fight off a smile, trying to lay it on just a little thicker to make sure you would get what you wanted. “Promise you’ll do it right now?”

“Pinky promise.” Bucky held up his pinky finger between you, and you locked yours around it. “You can stay and watch if you want, just to be sure. I think you’ll like the view.”

Rolling your eyes, you gave him another quick peck before stepping back and nodding for him to climb up the ladder. Once his back was turned and he was on the top step, your mischievous smirk returned in full force, not only because of your triumph, but because you really did like the view.

[whenstarsundress]

you hadn’t meant to start a fight, not really. but rafayel had this uncanny talent for pushing all the right buttons with that silver tongue and pouty mouth. a careless comment here, a teasing grin there until suddenly the mood snapped, and you walked away instead of feeding into the bickering.

he texted that night.

still mad at me, little star?

you know i didn’t mean it.

fine. be like that.

you didn’t respond. you turned your face into the pillow, groaning softly. you were still mad. angry enough to stay quiet, but not angry enough to stop rereading his messages.

don’t leave me on fucking read.

your mouth fell open at this message. it was bold, even for him. maybe also a little hot.

your phone buzzed again, almost vibrating off the nightstand.

answer me.

another buzz.

i’m outside.

your heart stopped. you rushed to the window and pulled back the curtain and there he was. in the middle of the night, arms crossed over his chest, expression dark, hair tousled, that velvet shirt clinging to him like sin incarnate.

his violet eyes lifted and locked on you. you froze and then your phone lit up again.

if you don’t open the door, i’m climbing through your window like a movie villain. don’t test me.

you opened the door and he was on you in seconds. mouth crashing into yours with a hunger that bordered on desperation. his hands gripped your waist, then your face, like he didn’t know which part of you to hold first, like he’d spent all day aching for you and didn’t care how mad you were as long as he could taste your mouth.

“i hate you,” you whispered against his lips.

“you left me on read,” he pouted—pouted, even now—walking you backward, hands sliding under your shirt. “i went insane.”

“you deserved it.”

“i don’t care.”

his fingers curled in your hair as he kissed you deeper, tongue pushing past your lips, claiming every last inch of your mouth with possessive heat. he backed you into the bedroom with that smooth, predatory grace he always had, soft and sharp at the same time, velvet and danger. he pulled your shirt over your head, breathing hard.

“i kept seeing you walking away,” he murmured, trailing his lips down your neck. “i hated it. i hated how i let it happen.”

“then don’t let it happen again,” you whispered.

“i won’t.” his voice dropped. “you’re not going anywhere.”

he made sure of it. he laid you down like you were the only thing that had ever mattered, kissed you like he was still fighting the memory of losing you. his hands going straight to your thighs, parting them as he sank to his knees at the edge of the bed.

“i was an asshole,” he said, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “i know i was.”

he didn’t wait for permission. he just kissed your inner thigh, slow and soft, and then higher. higher and higher, until his lips met your heat through the thin fabric of your panties and you exhaled a soft, broken sound.

“i can say i’m sorry a hundred times,” he murmured against you, the warmth of his breath making your hips twitch, “but it won’t mean anything unless you feel it.”

and oh, did he make you feel it. he dragged your panties down your legs with reverence and pressed his mouth to your core like a man starved. his tongue moved slow, deliberate, needy. one hand gripped your thigh, the other snaked up to hold your stomach down when you started squirming.

every flick of his tongue, every suck against your clit, was an apology. every moan he coaxed from you was a confession. he looked up at you as he did it. deep, violet eyes locked to yours, drinking in your pleasure like it was his penance.

you came with your hand tangled in his hair and his name a shattered moan on your lips. but he wasn’t done. he climbed over you, mouth glistening with your warm arousal, pupils blown wide.

“still mad?” he rasped. you could barely breathe, let alone answer. “good.”

because then he kissed you, deep, filthy, still tasting like you, and slid into you with one smooth, punishing thrust. your back arched. his name escaped your throat again. he fucked you slow and unrelenting at first. like he needed you to feel how sorry he was from the inside out. his forehead pressed to yours, hand laced with yours against the pillow, the other gripping your hip so tight you’d wear the bruise tomorrow.

“i love you,” he whispered against your mouth. “say you forgive me.”

you didn’t, but you wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper. his eyes fluttered shut before they opened again. he never looked away, not once.

even as you fell apart beneath him a second time, and a third. even when his voice broke as he spilled into you, burying his face in your neck with a choked, “mine. mine. mine.”

even after, when you were both trembling and tangled and silent in the dark, he held your face in his hands, lips ghosting over your cheeks like prayer. “i’ll never fight with you like that again,” he said.

you smiled, dizzy and dazed. “good. because next time, you might not get to apologize with your mouth.”

“there won’t be a next time.”

you both knew there would be.

“so, i better make tonight count.”

and he did. over and over again, until you forget why you were fighting in the first place.

[madamechrissy]

Stripper! Satoru

Pairings- Stripper! Satoru x Bride! reader

Summary- You've been promised your entire life to Naoya Zenin, and now there's just one night left. Never having a choice, or any freedom, raised to be his perfect bride- your friends throw a party with the hottest male revue show there is, and that's where you meet him - Satoru.

Warnings - MDNI- Satoru is basically Magic Mike, angstyyy, explicit sex, loss of virginity, oral ( f receiving) sweet/whipped Satoru, sheltered reader, kissing, drinking, reader is engaged (arranged marriage) so morally gray but it's Naoya so fuck him, emotional asff , open end for now! (story will wrap it up) <3

This will be a FULL length multichapter fic after I finish a cpl wips, it's been eating me up to write so I want to show you at least a preview of it! tag list open for when it's released, drop a comment if you wanna get added! it's a long one <3

Stripper! Satoru who is the star of the biggest male revue in the nation, he's always showing off his well oiled, defined abs, and making every girl there feel so good. He loves watching how they tremble as they touch his abdomen, loves the way they giggle when he dances, straddling them in their chair, brushing their cheeks with his fingers, a wink that makes them melt.

Stripper! Satoru oils his toned, muscular body before each show until it's gleaming under the lights, hips undulating as he tossed that cowboy hat into the air, clad in assless chaps and a thin tie, with some black silk on his cock that shows his entire outline. And God was he packing, the other dancers of the review get the oohs and ahs, but he is always center stage and thrives in it, in the looks of everyone dying to bring him home.

Stripper! Satoru and his crew have an exclusive party tonight, for a bride to be - and she must be wealthy, because they're walking right into a mansion, dressed up as cops tonight, Satoru loves to put on a good show for these women, his white hair tucked under a police cap, as he rings the doorbell, which opens with what he assumes are the bride's friends. They're already giggling and rushing the men in, one pulls Gojo aside, whispering in his ear - 'please, make her smile tonight... she's really...' he doesn't need the rest of the answer when he sees your face, so lost and broken, and it makes him falter.

Stripper! Satoru has never seen a bride not giggling and excited, once or twice he absolutely saw them nervous or worried, some of them would want to sleep with him or the crew as their 'last night' of freedom, and most of them were usually fine giving it to them. Not Satoru however, although he has hooked up with his fair share of women, he does not sleep with brides to be, as much as they have tried, he does have a couple small boundaries and that is one.

Stripper! Satoru still gave them a good show, he still licked across their skin and let them touch his body, he put a smile on their faces, made them blush, he made them all soaking wet. But he's never encountered the sad eyes that meet his now, the nervous biting of your lower lip as you look around in utter confusion. Your friend sighs, tugging Satoru down now. 'Arranged marriage, and he's... fucking horrible. Please, help her forget for one night?' he sees now why they paid so much, it's clear your friends love you, as the lights turn off and the LEDs turn on, your face is illuminated with red light, haunting him as he almost forgets the routine.

Stripper! Satoru and the crew begin to 'pretend' to arrest you and the girls, fake handcuffs on their wrists while the men press the girls down on the chairs, beginning their 'pat down'. But as Satoru approaches you, and touches your skin with the toy, fake metal of the cuffs, you just sigh, making him pause. The music continues, but he instead gently presses you on the seat, getting on his knees now, as your eyes drink the prettiest man you've seen once he takes off those dark shades. Your breath catches when he gently brushes your hair off your shoulder, and asks - 'Are you even okay with this, sweetheart?'

Stripper! Satoru doesn't realize, you've never been asked if you're okay with anything, your whole life was just made so you can marry the leader of the Zenin clan, so that you were a pristine, perfect and untouched wife. You take a shaky breath, easing in his presence, finally having someone ask if you were okay was something you didn't even have growing up. To come from a stripper dressed like a cop was surprising, but you instantly relax, thighs spreading just a bit, which his insane blue eyes dart to. 'I'm sorry, yes, I want to, please...'

Stripper! Satoru has never felt whatever the fuck it was when he touches your skin, the sensations shooting through him, he watches goosebumps rise on your skin when his crew grabs his attention. He smiles, looking at you once more. 'I'll give you the funnest night, I promise' you giggle, you don't think you've ever giggled, nodding as he steps back, and the men play that music and rip off the fake outfits bit by bit. That's when your tummy clenches, heat pooling, watching Satoru's body revealed as he rolls his hips, and your friends all smile at you, seeing you actually happy for the first time since you heard the wedding was impending.

Stripper! Satoru is insanely talented, not just his ripped, perfect body, but how he moves it, so clearly the leader of them all, surely they all had gorgeous bodies, but something about him drew your avid attention. You get flustered and shift as you study his movements, and his eyes just won't leave yours, they kept glancing at you, a smile on plump lips while they all strip down, and then step close to each of you, you're the only one without the cuffs, they sit on your lap instead. Satoru braces his arms on either side of you, breath trailing across your neck when he dances between your thighs, abs flexing right in front of your face. Your breath dances on his skin as you nervously exhale, feeling your heart pounding in your chest.

Stripper! Satoru runs the most famous male revue for a reason, he's about as charming and confident as it gets, it's enigmatic his pull, but mostly you keep looking at those eyes, getting lost in them - for a moment forgetting your wedding to Naoya tomorrow - a man you've known bits and pieces of for a long time, long enough to be terrified of him. For a moment you let go and smile nervously, you touch his slick muscles when he puts your fingers on his chest, and the laughter carries through the room. As their set ends, an entire party begins, with shots everywhere and dancing, you see your friends stealing little kisses, envying their freedom, but the blue eyed man with slicked back white hair seems to focus on you, taking your hand and bringing you into a dance then. You giggle again, shaking your head. 'I can't dance... what's your name? The real one, not the stage name' you say, looking up at him then, and he tugs you closer against him. 'It's Satoru'

Stripper! Satoru uses a stage name, but for some reason he wants you to have that name, a hand sliding down your body over your pretty white dress, addling his mind. 'Anyone can dance, you've just never tried, sweetheart' you shake your head again, but he's already moving your hips for you, turning you so that your back presses against him, and that's when he feels it, your sweet body against his making him ache in ways he hasn't in a long time. 'See, you're dancing now' you lean back against him, shutting your eyes then, just feeling him. 'My friend set you up to cheer me up, huh?' he sighs against your ear, aching to press a kiss against your neck, but knowing he shouldn't. 'You do have good friends, but I just like dancing with you'

Stripper! Satoru has you downing another shot, the atmosphere is intense- these parties get this way, frequently, another perk of being the most famous male revue was endless beautiful women, and making bank on top of it. Satoru notices the dilation of your eyes when you take one more shot, licking your lips before peering around so shyly. 'Everything okay, these parties get a little...' he's asking about you again, the mere thoughtfulness pushes you to step forward, pulling him down by the black bow tie he's got on, nothing else but a black speedo at this point, revealing the body carved out like a statue, but he lets you yank him down, eyes lowering to your lips. 'If I could, have a kiss, a real one before I... don't get a choice anymore' your whisper ends him, his heart breaking for a girl he doesn't know, even in a haze of liquor and undulating bodies, everything fades but you.

Stripper! Satoru can't help but ask in surprise - 'you've never kissed?' and you see the surprise in his eyes, you look around, the music still blaring, overwhelming your senses. 'No, never, um... I shouldn't-' Satoru breaks his own rule then, slamming his lips down on yours, your first kiss, one you will think upon when it's just that cruel man looking down at you instead. You gasp against his lips, inviting his tongue to dance inside your mouth, yours dances along his, messy and clumsy but following every movement like a dance itself. He feels it then, his cock throbbing from a kiss, you don't seem to notice or maybe don't even want to say something as it presses high up on your tummy, while his hands slip up your body, for all eyes to see. But your friends clearly are pleased- they wanted you to have one night of fun, even if it wasn't what you were 'supposed' to do.

Stripper! Satoru has you against a wall before you can blink, like a switch went off in his mind and all that turns on is you. His hands are on either side of you when he pulls back, taking a breath, cursing softly, your breasts are rising and falling as you look up at him, desire for the first time in your life overtaking you. 'Thank you, Satoru' you smile sadly, was it better to not kiss at all than to have this? 'Is it that bad, the guy?' he murmurs then, and you look down, trembling just a bit, and his instinct is to protect you when he doesn't even know you. Satoru is protective of those he loves, but this feeling makes no sense. Tears fill your eyes and you sniffle, looking away, but he tilts your chin up, swiping one off with a thumb now. 'Thank you for tonight, I see why you're so popular...' he tries to smirk then, raising a brow. 'Because I'm so sexy?' you giggle even through your tears, you've never laughed so much in your life, shaking your head, making him pout. 'You're kinda mean, you're saying I'm not?'

Stripper! Satoru is trying to tease it off, the feelings throbbing though his body, but you're too much when you say - 'no, it's because you're really something special' another tear falls despite tremulous lips, swollen from his kiss, he feels the eyes on him, this isn't what he does, never ever the bride, but it's like he can't drag himself away from your gravity. Kissing you again is too easy, lifting you like it's nothing is even easier, the way you cling to him and lose yourself as the two of you are now locked in a room is even easier. Your dress slips up your hips with a silky whisper, his big hands gripping your hips and dragging you against him, you whine out as you feel it, the sweat dripping against your skin while he barely holds it together, ignoring the fact that he knows better, forgetting that you're not his, and how badly that for some reason feels to him, while he's got your back on a bed, kissing down your breasts and tugging at your dress now.

Stripper! Satoru has his mouth devouring every pretty inch of skin you allow him to, hot and hungry while you melt under him, clothes dissolving with gentle tugs, baring you to his vision, his fingers dance across your skin like you're a canvas and they're delicate paint brushes at first, then they're more insistent, more pressure, hungrier and hungrier for you. 'Fuck, you're beautiful...' he doesn't say that either, of course he compliments, but he's never seen someone earn that title quite like you, when he frees your breasts and they gently bounce from your bra, when your nipples perk up just for his mouth to suck on. When your hands entwine in his silky white hair, and he's pulling one into his mouth, while the other hand twists your other bud taut, and your cunt starts drooling, throbbing, one that's never been touched, even by yourself. Sheltered and taught it's all terrible, your friends had shown you some things but you're mostly lost to anything Satoru is doing, just lost in how good it all feels.

Stripper! Satoru pauses for a moment, as he's licking a trail between your breasts, eyeing you under snowy lashes, watching as you breasts rise and fall. 'We should stop now, before... I can't stop' his husky declaration is filled with need, your hand rushes through his hair, taking a shaky breath and whispering - 'would you be my first?' he pulls back, terrified at the statement, his mouth wide open, he knows it's too far to do, his morals grey enough, just hovering. 'He's cruel and he's... awful to women, it won't be happy for me. I just want once, to be my choice...' Satoru swallows nervously, lifting one of your thighs now, pressing his cock against your heat, watching your head fall back. 'You're really stuck in this? there's no way to get out of it?' you shake your head, trying to focus as your body responds to him. 'N-no, there's no way, y-you don't have to just I-' he moans then, internally cursing himself, because he's already intoxicated off you. 'Your choice' he repeats softly, you nod quickly, taking shaky breaths and gripping his shoulders. 'My choice'

Stripper! Satoru has his long pink tongue slipping across your panties, hot and wet against your cunt, the material pressed tighter and tighter, you're whining out, uncaring of any noise you make, the first time any one has touched you and it's with his mouth. Satoru moans against you, vibrations making your cunt throb when he yanks your panties to the side, baring your perfect, pretty pussy to his hungry gaze, glistening already with your slick. You cry out now, hips raising up for more, when he places a lewd kiss on it, honeyed arousal pouring from your little hole. You should be more nervous right? Afraid of a stranger seeing you? But you're not, you're so ready the moment his mouth latches you're screaming out, hips bucking, whining out at how good it feels.

Stripper! Satoru loses it once he tastes you, those panties slipped down your thighs, torn between leisurely teasing you and straight up devouring you. He opts for the latter, slipping panties down your thighs and gripping you by the fat of your ass, bringing your cunt flush so he can bury himself. He drowns in your cunt as his tongue lavished your walls, while you are rolling your eyes back, breaths coming in little pants while he licks every part of you, tastebuds soaking in your flavor. He has you falling apart under him in moments, your gummy little walls gripping his wet muscle, feeling you tremble underneath him as your first orgasm rocks you so hard you can't see.

Stripper! Satoru presses one more kiss, leaning over you and slipping down that thin satin layer between you, revealing a thick, long cock, you gasp when you see how huge it is, for one moment wondering how it would fit, when he kisses you so messy and desperate, hot heavy cock slapping your skin. 'Satoru!' Your cry makes him leak precum against your inner thigh, as he looks down at you, sighing. 'Are you sure, sweets? We can stop here' again, he gives you the choice, despite speaking through gritted teeth, as if he's in pain, holding his breath and just watching you. You shock him then, hand sliding down to touch his cock, a featherlight brush that almost makes him cum, eyes meeting his now. 'I want it, please'

Stripper! Satoru isn't going to turn down your sweet plea, your desperate ask under him, asking him to take something so special, but he understands you, he knows you need to have a choice without even knowing you. He kisses you then, more intimate in moments than he has been with women before ever. His cock teases and dips against your soppy little hole then, pressing slightly and feeling your tight resistance, moaning as he does. 'It will hurt just a sec, okay sweetheart?' You nod then, and the pain hits, sharp and sweet and addictive, he pauses, letting you adjust, trying not to bust from how fucking right you feel, how perfect. Instead he holds back, watching you with bright blue eyes. 'You okay honey?' - and making you relax under him, the burn and stretch mixing with pleasure the further he presses, nodding eagerly, dragging him back down for a kiss, which he whimpers into as he thrusts inside.

Stripper! Satoru hardly holds back, knowing it's your first time, shaking with the effort not to fold you in a mating press and fuck you to the hilt like he wants. 'Perfect, fuck you feel s'good, mnh...' he's muttering those words as he pulls back and thrusts further, stretching you out impossibly, she's soaking down his veiny length to accommodate, while she pulses from her aftershocks, and you feel that fullness, you're so full. Satoru shoves in harder, deeper, seeing what you can take, your head falls to the side to be littered with kisses, careful not to mark you, though God he wants to, to bite and bruise every inch of skin with his teeth. He wants to leave bruises on your hips, fill you with so much cum you drip him when that man comes near you - but he knows that's fucking stupid.

Stripper! Satoru is pussy drunk so fast, as you open for him, as you loosen your hold, arching your hips up to meet his thrusts, unleashed as you scratch his back, leaving your marks, marks he'll wish will never leave in the coming days. You kiss across his neck, teeth sinking into it and leaving your bite, as he bottoms out in your perfect cunt, the echoes of the squelching wetness and your cries mixing with the smacking of skin, as he loses his control, and you fall off the edge with him. Moans and sighs, gasps and cries, all while he's filling you over and over, bringing you closer to the brink, losing anything and everything all under his long, lithe body, the shadows casting and stretching across the wall, of him over you, of your thighs wrapped around his narrow waist.

Stripper! Satoru has never felt anything like you gripping him, never tasted anything like that honey lingering on his lips, fucking you and dragging his tip on your spot just so, until you shatter, cumming blindingly, crying out his name as you do. He quiets you with a kiss, your cunt spasming around his cock and gushing down further, making a mess of the bed, of him, of you. You're blinking back your vision as you gasp and he leans up, dragging you all the way down his length, his whine so sexy while his head falls back, veins in his arms bulging as he grips you so tight, watching the bulge in your tummy as he slowly moves in and out. 'cum once more, please, wanna feel her again' his whisper is met with a jerky nod, when he finds your clit with the pad of his thumb, running in circles and shoving in so deep he slams your cervix.

Stripper! Satoru watches the pretty bride - not his, how are you not his? - cum for him then, thighs shaking, your head falling back into the soft pillows, and he's done for, leaning forward to pump a few more times, fucking you through that orgasm, before he pulls out with a gasp, wishing he could finish in you, instead pumping that cum on your tummy, white networks of ropes decorating it as it moves up and down with your heavy breaths. You start to come to, when he's cleaning you up, when he's wiping the soreness between your thighs, when he's holding you and kissing you. You feel the emotions hit, the overwhelming pleasure can't override this one singular feeling - dread - and moreso now that you felt this, that you know what it is, to feel so perfect and cherished by a stranger.

Stripper! Satoru panics when you cry, 'was it too much, are you hurt sweetheart or-' you shake your head, hugging him to you tightly, sweet kisses on his neck and cheek then. 'No, it was perfect, so perfect Satoru. Thank you' you shouldn't be thanking him, he musees to himself, letting you kiss him as the knocks finally sound on the door. He gently helps you get dressed, the party is clearly still going on but your friend wanted to check on you, to see your disheveled state she just smiles, rushing off and apologizing, but your skin is decorated in your blush, and he sees it, the fear in your gaze. 'Am I horrible?' he shakes his head then, kissing you again. 'No, you're perfect' and it just leads to more, he can't stop kissing your skin, he can't stop fucking into you, each time hurting less and just feeling better, letting you ride him tentatively, holding you from behind as he fucks you, until the two of you fall asleep, against each other.

Stripper! Satoru overslept clearly, as you're all ready to leave - for a wedding to a monster - and most of the men are hungover, sipping coffee and ready to go home. When he does get dressed in the normal clothes he brought with, you hold his hand, looking down and swallowing, not knowing what to say - that you think in one night you fell for a man - that you'll never be available. It sounds too cruel to say to someone, when there's no future, so instead you hug him tightly, and he holds you against him, trying to hold back everything he wants to say and do. 'Are you gonna be okay?' he asks softly before he leaves, and you smile as brightly as you can, nodding. 'I will be. Thank you for... everything.' one more sweet kiss, and Satoru has to let your hand go, knowing he will never have you again eats at him and he was just inside you, he can't even speak or answer a question, all he can think of is you.

Stripper! Satoru seems like a fantasy, as you walk down the aisle, seeing the bored and cruel gaze staring right at you, dark brown eyes with murderous intent, a nasty smirk as he assessed you. Tousled blond hair, he looks instead at a few of the women sitting in the benches waiting, winking at them instead, before turning back and setting his jaw. When you stand in front of him he yanks back your veil, eyes narrowing and humming to himself. 'Suppose you'll do' he says then, leaving you to feel sick as he grips your wrist, unceremoniously putting a glittery ring on it. 'that hurts...' you whisper weakly, and he squeezes harder, glaring now. 'Keep your mouth shut, little bitch, got it? you're my property now' you sink back, knowing then, the pit in your stomach had been correct, the rumors must be true- he is horrible.

As you sit through the ceremony, as your friends try to comfort you are sent home, as your entire world crumbles and ends, you try to cling to the memory of feeling special, beautiful, you feel his touch, you feel his caress - his gaze. You cling to it as your eyes fill with tears, as your stomach fills with nausea, as he's yanking you onto his lap and laughing cruelly at you. You think of him...

Satoru

Soooo yes this will be a long one, and dw it will end happy somehow! Comment for tags of you're interested in their story <3

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[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

You hear Xavier return from his mission, his footsteps silent against the floor. You quickly whisper, “Stay quiet,” to an imaginary person and scramble away from the closet just as he enters.

His gaze locks onto you immediately, eyes narrowing slightly. Without a word, he scans the room. He crosses to the closet first, sliding it open in one swift motion. Finding nothing, he moves to check under the bed, then behind the curtains.

“Xavier, what are you doing?” you ask innocently.

He doesn’t answer, continuing his search. He checks inside cabinets barely large enough for a child, peers over the balcony, and even lifts the mattress from your bed frame.

The silence grows heavier as he inspects the bathroom, opening the shower curtain with unexpected force. He returns to the living area, crouching to look under furniture too small for anyone to hide beneath.

When he finally faces you again, his expression hasn’t changed, but something in his eyes has shifted— dangerous gleam that wasn’t there before.

“Who were you speaking to?” he asks.

“No one,” you smile. “because I was just messing with you.”

He studies you for a long moment before stepping closer. Then he pulls you against his chest, holding you there as if to reassure himself that you’re still his. You feel him inhale deeply, taking in your scent, confirming you’re alone, that no one else has been here.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

“Quick, hide!” you whisper dramatically to the empty space beside you as Zayne’s key turns in the lock. You’re sprawled suspiciously in front of the couch when he enters, medical bag in hand.

He pauses in the doorway, eyes flicking from your awkward position to the seemingly empty room. One eyebrow arches perfectly.

“Care to explain why you’re blocking the couch like it’s harboring a fugitive?” he asks, setting his bag down.

“No reason,” you reply, too quickly.

He looks around the room from where he’s standing, checking behind curtains and under tables. He then approaches you in the living room, studying your face intently. “Your pulse is elevated,” he notes, suddenly holding your hand, his expression hardening slightly.

“You realize I can tell when someone’s been in our space,” he kneels before you. His thumbs trace small circles on your wrists, measuring your pulse. “Whatever you’re hiding, whoever you’re protecting... tell me. I won’t judge, but I need to know.”

The concern in his eyes makes you instantly regret your prank. “There’s no one,” you admit. “I was just playing around.”

Relief flashes across his face before he composes himself. “That was...” he starts, then pulls you close instead of finishing his sentence. You feel him press a kiss to the top of your head.

“Don’t worry me like that again,” he whispers against your hair.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

“Don’t worry, he won’t find you,” you whisper loudly, diving away from the bathroom door just as Rafayel enters your apartment.

His head snaps toward you. “Who are you talking to?” he demands, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“No one,” you say innocently.

“Don’t lie to me,” he hisses, stalking toward the bathroom. “Who’s in there? Who are you hiding?”

He throws the door open, finding nothing but empty space. His search grows increasingly frantic, tossing cushions aside, yanking open cabinets. He pulls the shower curtain so hard it partially tears from its rings.

“You’re not seriously hiding anything from me, right? Right?” He overturns a basket of laundry. “I’ll find them, and when I do—”

He pauses, noticing something on the balcony, and rushes outside. Finding nothing, he returns, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

“I know someone’s here,” he insists, checking under the bed for the third time. “I can feel it. You’re acting strange.”

“Rafayel, there’s no one here,” you interrupt, fighting laughter.

He freezes mid-search, turning slowly. “Really...?”

“Just a joke,” you explain, holding up a peace sign.

His expression morphs through confusion, relief, and finally settles on outrage. “Ha, ha, of course, you wouldn’t hide anything from me,” he grumbles before pulling you close. “You scared me. I thought someone was trying to take you away.”

He won’t tell you that he was so ready to burn that person down and throw their ashes in the ocean.

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

“Stay hidden,” you whisper conspiratorially to the empty closet, hearing Sylus’s approach. You barely make it to the couch before he enters, his presence filling the room instantly.

His eyes find yours. “Interesting greeting,” he remarks smoothly, closing the door behind him with deliberate slowness.

You feign innocence, but his smile only widens. Without warning, objects around you begin to rise—books, vases, furniture—suspended by his Evol.

“I do enjoy games,” he says softly as the apartment dismantles itself around you, every hiding spot exposed. “But not ones where you keep secrets from me.”

The lamp drifts toward the ceiling. The couch levitates six inches off the floor. Every drawer in every piece of furniture slides open simultaneously.

“Whoever you’re hiding must be exceptionally small,” he observes, watching a teacup rotate slowly in midair. “Or perhaps exceptionally foolish to think they can escape from me.”

When his search reveals nothing, he steps closer, the items still floating ominously around the room. He lifts your chin with one finger, examining your expression.

He cups your face with gentleness despite his current passive-aggressive demeanor. “You do realize Mephisto can see everything, right?” The mechanical crow suddenly caws from your balcony. Since when did he get here?

“It’s no one! Promise!” you protest. “Can you put my stuff back down now?”

He deliberately lets everything settle back perfectly into place. Not a single item out of position.

“I was about to compliment your hide-and-seek game, kitten,” he pulled you close against him. “Should I say I won this round?”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

“He’s coming! Hide!” you whisper loudly to no one, diving behind the couch just as Caleb enters.

His smile vanishes instantly. “Who’s here?” he demands, voice shifting to his command tone.

Before you can answer, he’s moving through the apartment, checking every possible hiding place. “Come out now, and I might let you leave intact,” he calls out, voice dangerously calm.

You watch in amazement as he systematically tears apart the apartment, looking increasingly agitated when he finds nothing. He flips the coffee table, checks behind the curtains, and yanks open every cabinet door.

“I know you’re here somewhere,” he announces to the empty room, frustration building in his voice. He moves to the bedroom next, and you hear drawers being opened and closed with increasing force. When he returns, his expression has hardened completely.

“Where are they?” His eyes scan the room once more, calculating, planning. “I’ll tear this place apart if I have to. They can’t hide forever.”

“Caleb, there’s no one here,” you finally admit. “It was just a joke.”

His expression freezes, processing this information. The dangerous aura recedes slightly.

“Yeah, yeah, very funny, Pipsqueak. You really do know how to make people worry,” he says sarcastically, trapping you in his arms. His hold is tight, possessive, as he caresses your hair. There’s no doubt about just how seriously he takes any threat to what belongs to him—you.

I just saw a reel about this TikTok prank, and it made me want to write it down for them 😹

[sai-int]

[ pt 1 ] fwb!simon pt 2

--

you blink at him. once, twice, four times over, trying to make sense of the words he just said.

i’m in love with ya.

the words hang heavy in the air, thick enough to choke on.

“oh,” is all you manage at first. then, when the silence stretches too long and he’s still looking at you like that—like he’s waiting for something, hoping for something—you force yourself to shake your head.

“simon, i’m sorry,” you say, voice quiet, careful. “but i don’t feel the same way.”

you think saying it plainly will be best, will make it hurt less. but you watch his face, watch as the flicker of something in his eyes dims, and you realize there’s no easy way to crush a man like him.

he merely shrugs. nods. like you just told him it’s going to rain later.

so you nod, too, because what else can you do? you reach for your shirt, slipping it back over your head, shimmying into your shorts with hands that shake just a little. the silence is unbearable now, a thick, suffocating thing, and it only gets worse when you clear your throat and ask, barely above a whisper—

“do you want me to leave?”

his answer comes immediately. “yeah.”

you freeze for a second, embarrassment creeping up your spine, then you nod again (you’ve seriously got to stop just nodding) and scurry out of his room and to his front door, yanking it open and slipping out into the hallway. your heart is in your throat, your face burning as you rush across the hall to your own apartment, slamming the door shut behind you before pressing your back against it.

fuck.

fuck, that was so embarrassing.

you spend the night drowning in self-pity, staring at the ceiling as everything replays over and over in your head like a bad movie you can’t turn off.

why didn’t you stop it sooner? why didn’t you shut it down the second he started calling you baby instead of slut? why didn’t you flinch when he pressed his forehead to yours, when his hands stopped gripping and Çstarted holding?

you didn’t just let it happen—you basked in it. soaked it up like a sponge, let it fill you—let him fill you—and now you can’t tell if that was just muscle memory, a latent yet insatiable reaction to being wanted, or if it actually meant something.

fuck, if you weren’t already embarrassed, that would do it.

meanwhile, across the hall, simon doesn’t sprial. doesn’t even wallow in the face of rejection.

he pours himself two fingers of his finest bourbon, sits back on his couch, and sparks up a cig. inhales deep, lets the smoke curl through his lungs before exhaling slow.

he's got a plan.

the next evening, your phone buzzes.

simon: come over. door’s open.

you stare at the message for a long minute, heart thudding, stomach twisting itself into knots. this is it. this is where he tells you it’s over, where he curses you out for being a selfish cunt, for leading him on, for taking all he gave without giving anything back.

and you deserve it.

so you brace yourself, tugging on a light sweater, slipping into your shoes. every step across the hall feels heavier than the last, and by the time you’re standing outside his apartment, you have to take a deep breath before pressing your palm to the door.

you push it open.

instead of anger, instead of harsh words or something hauled at your head, you’re met with the warm, rich scent of something cooking.

what the fuck?

your brows pinch together as you step in deeper, looking around cautiously. “simon?”

no answer, but then you see him—standing at the small table in the center of his apartment, just finishing setting it. two plates, two glasses, candles flickering dimly in the low light.

what the actual fuck?

your stomach drops. maybe he poisoned the food. maybe this is how you’ll die.

“what’s going on?” you ask, wary, eyeing the plates like they might explode.

simon pulls out a chair. just looks at you, waiting.

you hesitate, then slowly pad over and sit. your hands fold in your lap, your throat feels tight.

he lowers himself into the chair across from you, elbows on the table, fingers laced together.

he watches you.

you both eat in silence.

the only sounds are the soft clinks of silverware against plates, the occasional scrape of a chair as one of you shifts. you force out a weak, “this is good,” because it is—really, it is—but also because the silence is suffocating.

simon just grunts. keeps eating.

so you do too. fork to plate, bite after bite. the food is great, but you barely taste it past the tight knot in your throat.

when you're both done, he wordlessly stands, gathering the plates and taking them to the sink. you watch him move—watch the way his muscles ripple under his fitted t-shirt, the way his blond hair is perpetually tousled, the way his face, bare of any mask, is set in quiet concentration as he rinses the dishes.

you don't even realize you're staring until—

thwap.

you flinch as he flicks your forehead, his thumb and middle finger snapping against your skin just hard enough to jolt you back to reality. you blink up at him, startled, as he stands in front of you, hand extended.

you hesitate, then slip your fingers into his.

he pulls you up, and before you can register it, he's on you—his hands firm on your waist, his lips swallowing yours entirely

you squeal at first, but his lips are so soft, so sweet and full of something heavy, something deep.

you melt into him.

and that's just stage one of simon's plan, to woo you.

that night he fucks you so good you can’t even think about leaving his bed, let alone moving. He splits you open on his cock, ravishing you to the nines. he takes his time, makes you feel it, makes sure you can feel every ounce of his devotion each time he makes you cum (6 times in one night, a new record)

by the time he's done, you're ruined. wrecked in the best way possible

when morning comes, you're knocked, body heavy and sore, limbs tangled in his sheets. you don’t even stir when he rolls out of bed, grabs your phone from where you dropped it the night before.

he types out a quick message to your boss

you: sorry, got covid. can’t come in for two weeks.

sent—delivered—read—probably fired, too (you won’t be needing a job with him around, silly)

you shift slightly, murmuring something incoherent, but you don’t wake.

simon smirks to himself, tossing your phone onto the nightstand.

(don’t ask how he knows your passcode)

stage two is integration.

the next time beckons you over to his place, you notice something’s… off.

your favorite coffee beans are sitting next to his cheap instant shit. your shampoo, your conditioner, your body wash—all neatly lined up in his shower. there’s a hoodie you thought the building’s dryer must’ve gobbled up weeks ago, just neatly folded on his dresser. The chapstick he’s tasted on your lips countless times now sits atop his bedside table.

you blink at the sight of it all, brows furrowed. you pick up the chapstick, turning to him with a questioning look.

he doesn’t even try to deny it.

“figured you’d be 'round more often,” he says, completely casual, completely simon about it.

like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like you’ve already signed a lease and are moving in next month (you are, you just don’t know it yet, doll).

you should argue. you should tell him ‘no, we’re not doing this’, but you don’t. instead, you swipe the chapstick over your lips, put it back where you found it, and pretend you don’t feel his eyes on you the whole time.

he smirks to himself, taking your silence for what it is. acceptance.

stage three of his plan? move out!

oh, but not him. 

you wake in your bed (for once) to find simon standing in front of your dresser.

your dresser.

he’s holding one of your shirts—some thin, worn-out thing you only sleep in—twisting the fabric between his fingers.

you rub the sleep from your eyes, voice groggy when you ask, “what the hell are you doing?”

he doesn’t even turn around. “doin’ you a favor.”

“a favor,” you repeat, voice flat.

he glances at you over his shoulder. “yeah. consolidating.”

and that’s when you notice—your drawers are open, half-empty, your closet missing key pieces. your things are gone.

panic flares in your chest. you throw the blankets off, stomp over to him, grab the shirt from his hands. "simon. where the fuck is my stuff?"

he shrugs, completely unbothered. "my place."

“your—” you cut yourself off, taking a deep breath, hands clenched into fists.

“figured it’d be easier this way,” he continues, like he’s explaining something obvious. “y'know, since y’spend all your time there anyway.”

you gape at him, dumbfounded. “you stole my shit?”

he tilts his head, considering. “nah,” he says finally. “just moved it.”

“without asking me.”

he steps closer, towering over you, eyes heavy-lidded and knowing.

“would you ‘ave said no?”

you want to say yes. you should say yes.

but the truth is, you don’t know. because when you think about it, when you really think about it—you never liked sleeping alone. never liked waking up to an empty bed.

and simon—your simon—he knows that. knows you better than you know yourself.

so instead of arguing, instead of pushing him away, you let him tip your chin up with two fingers.

“mine. got that, pet?,” he murmurs.

you nod.

{ people that expressed interest/taglist }

@pyxrin @xxrsi @skeletonsucker @spaceinvadernelly @coeurbrule @forgotmypasswordagain

[cuntyji]

the first video nanami ever posted was filmed on a shaky phone propped up against a bag of flour.

he was making bread—simple, easy, the kind of thing he found comfort in after long days at work. his hands moved methodically, kneading the dough with a quiet precision, and though he spoke very little, the video was oddly calming.

he hadn't expected much from it. maybe a few views, maybe a couple of people who’d appreciate the lack of unnecessary chatter. but the comments were overwhelmingly positive, people asking about his technique, his recipe, his voice—deep, smooth, effortlessly steady. so he made another video. then another.

it was the late-night upload of him singing "baby one more time" by the marías that changed everything.

filmed on an old macbook with a grainy webcam, the lighting barely enough to make out his face, the video had been an impulse decision—one he almost deleted. it was just him, sitting on his couch, his voice low and hushed, the way he usually sang to lull yuuji to sleep. but the internet clung to it like ivy, twisting and reaching until the video had over a million views by the end of the week.

"who is he." "why is this the most intimate thing i've ever heard in my life." "he looks exhausted and sounds like a dream, i'm in love."

he thought it would pass. but it didn't.

his subscribers doubled overnight. the demand for more was loud, insistent. nanami, being nanami, didn’t rush to meet it. instead, he structured it into his routine: one video a week, a mix of baking and singing—because baking was reliable, and singing had never been something he shared outside of yuuji’s bedtime.

his channel evolved. the baking videos became polished, edited with subtle precision. he switched to voiceovers, explaining each step in that same low, deliberate tone that made people feel like he was speaking just to them. and when he sang, it was always songs that carried a quiet sort of nostalgia.

"he only sings songs he sings to his kid to sleep i’m crying." "his lullabies are better than half the music industry." "i don’t know his name, his age, or his face properly, but i know his banana bread recipe by heart."

nanami never explicitly talked about being a single dad, but it was impossible to miss. yuuji’s voice sometimes made cameos in the background, muffled questions about homework, laughter when nanami burnt the edges of a cake. he didn’t hide it, didn’t play it up. it was just a part of his life, and his audience adored him for it.

his faq video—one of the few times he ever directly addressed personal questions—answered almost nothing.

"are you married?" "no." "how old are you?" "old enough." "what's your name?" "nanami."

the mystery only made people more obsessed.

"i know nothing about him but i’d die for him." "his hands. his voice. his existence." "the fact that he bakes and sings for his kid and still won’t tell us his age is crazy."

he now posted twice a week. one video was always baking, the other was whatever he wanted—sometimes music, sometimes a quiet q&a, sometimes just a video of him making tea while rain hit the windows.

people knew everything and nothing about him at the same time. they knew the exact ratio of brown sugar he preferred in cookies but not what city he lived in. they knew he tucked yuuji in every night with a song but had never seen his full face in a single frame. they knew the precise cadence of his voice when he said “and that’s how you make the perfect loaf” but had never heard him say “i love you”—and yet, somehow, they felt like they had.

the internet had fallen in love with him. and nanami, quietly, without even trying, had changed his life with nothing but flour-dusted hands and the sound of his own voice.

[whosashan]

SILENT TREATMENT

PAIRING: Love and Deepspace men x reader

SYNOPSIS: How would they react when given the silent treatment by you.

A/N: Hope you enjoy!

Xavier

Xavier is a patient man—truly, he is. He’s long grown accustomed to your peculiar ways, your little oddities. At times, he struggles to make sense of your antics, yet somehow, that only makes you all the more endearing to him.

The two of you sat across from each other on the couch in your apartment, the dim glow of the television flickering across your faces. The faint scent of vanilla lingering in the air from a candle burning on the coffee table, mixing with the remnants of popcorn and the intoxicating scent of your lover. A movie played—a familiar pastime for the both of you whenever time allowed with your busy schedules. You stole a glance at him, watching the way he sipped on the drink you had made earlier, fingers loosely curled around the mug, his gaze fixed on the screen. The rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the ceramic told you he was completely absorbed.

It was only when he finally noticed your unwavering stare that he turned to meet your gaze. And for a brief moment, he could have sworn that if looks could kill, he’d already be dead.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. Concern laced his voice, reflected in the blue of his eyes. Ironically, the sight of his worry only seemed to frustrate you further.

Since the moment he arrived, he had barely paid you any attention, too caught up in the film to acknowledge you properly. It was frustrating—how could he? He should be paying attention to you, not some cliché movie about time travel. The urge to turn it off crossed your mind, but you decided not to do that. You didn’t want him to notice how irritated you were.

Instead of answering, you merely turned your gaze back to the screen, feigning indifference. Even then, you could feel his eyes lingering on you, his confusion palpable.

The couch dipped slightly as he shifted closer, his warmth seeping into your skin. The space between you shrank, yet you remained still, stubborn in your silence.

"Baby..." His voice was soft, coaxing, and it took every ounce of restraint not to let your resolve crumble right then and there. His touch, his tone—it all made your heart ache in the most infuriating way. But pride held you firm, so you continued to ignore him.

And then, without warning, you felt him nuzzle into the crook of your neck, breathing you in as if he could commit your scent to memory. A shiver ran through you, your body tensing for a split second before surrendering to his warmth. He placed a slow, deliberate kiss just below your jaw.

"Talk to me." His voice had taken on a firmer edge now, more insistent, though still laced with quiet desperation.

When silence was his only answer, he did something unexpected. A sharp sting bloomed against your neck. He had bitten you.

"Xavier!" you gasped, jolting in surprise.

"So you do hear me," he murmured, exhaling softly, almost as if in relief.

You turned to face him at last, pouting. He was smiling—just barely—but there was no mistaking the satisfaction in his expression. He had won. He always did, you could never truly say no to him.

"Will you finally tell me what's on your mind, princess?" The pet name sent butterflies straight to your stomach, quickening your heartbeat.

A beat of silence passed before you relented, arms crossing in defiance. "You're not paying any attention to me. You’ve been glued to that movie this whole time—what's so fascinating about it, anyway?"

A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest. He pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek before pulling you into his embrace, his arms winding securely around you.

"Then I suppose I’ll just have to make it up to you," he murmured. "Starting now."

Zayne

"Darling."

Zayne's voice drifted through the quiet apartment, low and slightly hoarse—a telltale sign that he hadn’t been awake for long. It was a rare morning where neither of you had to rush off to work, a quiet reprieve from the usual chaos.

And yet, you remained silent.

Utter disbelief rooted you in place. The audacity. The betrayal. The pastries you had been looking forward to all night, the ones you had carefully chosen to enjoy with your morning coffee, were gone—devoured by none other than your sweet-toothed lover.

Under normal circumstances, it might have been a minor grievance, something to brush off with a sigh and a shake of your head. But after the past few days of relentless stress at work, this was simply the final straw.

You wouldn’t take it out on him, of course. He hadn’t known. It wasn’t his fault.

So instead, you ignored him. Well, at least until you calmed your nerves down.

Rather than making coffee, you opted for tea, hoping it might ease your irritation. You moved through the kitchen quietly, the warm mug cradled in your hands, its steam curling up toward your face.

And then—familiar hands.

Zayne’s arms wrapped around your waist, his touch effortlessly grounding, the press of his lips against the top of your head unbearably tender. He always had a way of melting through your defenses before you even realized it was happening.

His voice, smooth and deliberate, broke the silence. "Is something troubling you?" He rested his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.

Still, you said nothing.

He shifted slightly, gently turning you to face him. His dark hair was still tousled from sleep, and his eyes, half-lidded and heavy with lingering drowsiness, studied you with quiet curiosity. And for a moment, you faltered. He looked devastatingly good like this—soft and unguarded in the early morning light.

But then, the memory of your missing pastries resurfaced.

"Did I do something to upset you?" His tone remained even, but there was an unmistakable thread of concern woven beneath his usual stoicism. He reached for your free hand, the one not cradling your tea, and brought it to his cheek. His lips brushed over your wrist, something he has done countless times before, his touch effortlessly affectionate, yet it made your heart flutter, gaze softening.

You sighed. This man was going to be the death of you.

"You ate my pastries." Your voice was flat, your brows pulling together in a small frown.

A beat of silence. Then, understanding dawned in his expression.

"Ah," he murmured. "I see."

His grip on your hand didn’t loosen as he met your gaze, unshaken as ever. "I sincerely apologize, love. Allow me to make it up to you—come out with me, and I’ll buy you as many pastries as your heart desires."

You narrowed your eyes slightly. "Are you attempting to bribe me, Dr. Zayne?"

A ghost of a smile played at the corner of his lips, the closest thing to amusement you would get from him this early in the morning.

"Is it working?"

Rafayel

It was the third time this month that Rafayel had summoned you to his studio under the guise of an "emergency."

And, just like the last two times, there was no real emergency—just another one of his elaborate attempts to steal your attention.

Normally, his antics would have made you smile, maybe even laugh. You’d always found his dramatic nature endearing, his endless need for your presence almost charming. But work had been relentless lately, stretching you thin. The days blurred together in a mess of exhaustion, your mind too preoccupied with tasks and responsibilities to indulge him as easily as before.

The first time, you found it amusing. The second, you let it slide. After all, how could you deny your lover a bit of attention? But now, standing in the middle of his paint-streaked studio, his so-called "emergency" nothing more than an empty excuse, you could feel frustration simmering beneath your skin.

"Y/N!" Rafayel’s voice carried through the room, laced with exaggerated despair as he reached for your hand, his fingers wrapping around your wrist before you could step out the door.

You paused but said nothing.

His grip tightened just slightly, his expression shifting into something almost comically wounded. "Are you actually mad at me?" He blinked at you, as if the very idea was beyond comprehension. It was clear he hadn't considered that disrupting your work might genuinely frustrate you.

You turned to face him, your expression firm. The moment his gaze met yours, he pouted—a soft, almost theatrical downturn of his lips that tugged at your heart despite your irritation.

Damn him.

You sighed, tearing your eyes away and attempting to leave again, but Rafayel wasn’t having it. His hold on your wrist remained firm, his grip gentle but insistent.

"Wait—I'm sorry!" His voice pitched slightly in alarm, his usual playful demeanor faltering as he scrambled to fix the situation. "I didn’t mean to make you mad. I just…" He hesitated, shoulders slumping slightly. "I just wanted to see you."

There was something so utterly boyish about the way he said it—so completely unguarded. You could hear the pout in his voice even without looking at him.

You exhaled slowly, some of your frustration ebbing away.

"Rafayel…" you murmured, your voice softer now. Turning back to him, you reached up, cupping his face in your hands. He leaned into your touch instinctively, his paint-smudged fingers ghosting over your own.

"I'm not mad that you want to spend time with me," you reassured him gently. "But you can’t keep making up emergencies when you know I’m working. It’s not fair, love."

His brows knit together, guilt flickering across his features.

You huffed out a small laugh. "I’ll take a day off soon, and when I do, I’ll be all yours. No interruptions, I promise."

The transformation was instant. His entire face lit up, joy replacing every trace of guilt as he all but tackled you into his embrace, arms wrapping around you like he never wanted to let go.

"You swear it?" His voice was muffled against your shoulder.

"I swear."

Rafayel pulled back just enough to grin at you, that familiar spark of mischief returning to his gaze. "Good. Because I already have about ten different date ideas, and I expect full participation."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Of course you do."

And just like that, your frustration melted away.

Sylus

You sat in Sylus' kitchen, at the grand kitchen island, indulging in whatever you felt like having at that moment, though the food did little to ease the frustration simmering beneath your skin.

Mephisto had been following you again.

The mechanical crow had a way of appearing when you least expected it, its glowing eyes tracking your every move like an ever-present specter. It unsettled you, always lingering just at the edge of your vision, a silent observer in the shadows. You even found him in your apartament once, still wondering how he got there.

You had spoken to Sylus about it more times than you could count, but the man seemed utterly unbothered, amused even, by your grievances.

“Are you planning to ignore me all day, sweet girl?” His deep, velvety voice broke through the silence, laced with the usual undertones of amusement. “I’ve already told you—Mephisto has simply taken an extreme liking to you.”

You clenched your jaw, fighting the urge to roll your eyes, and instead busied yourself with your meal. When that wasn’t enough of a distraction, you reached for your phone, scrolling aimlessly through the screen in an attempt to block out his presence.

But Sylus was nothing if not persistent.

You could feel his gaze on you—heavy, assessing, waiting. The subtle heat of his presence grew nearer, the faint scent of his cologne—dark spice and expensive leather—curling around you.

Then, effortlessly, he plucked the phone from your hands.

Your head snapped up, a scowl already settling on your face as you turned to glare at him. He, of course, remained entirely unruffled. A slow smirk curled his lips, and before you could snatch your device back, he tucked it into his pocket.

“You’ll get it back once you decide to talk to me.” He settled onto the stool beside you, elbow resting against the marble, his posture entirely relaxed as he watched your reaction with open amusement.

You huffed, turning away without a word. If he thought this was going to be enough to pull a response from you, he was sorely mistaken.

But you had underestimated Sylus.

The moment you stepped away, you felt his hand catch your waist, firm yet effortless, and in one fluid motion, he pulled you back against him. Your breath hitched as you collided with his chest, the warmth of his body pressing into yours, the scent of him dizzying.

He sighed against your ear, low and indulgent. “You’re being difficult.”

You scoffed, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

“I do not wish to be followed and monitored by your mechanical crow. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, thank you very much.”

Sylus hummed, his fingers still resting against your waist as he turned you to face him. His expression remained unreadable, though there was something in his dark gaze—something knowing, something teasing.

“I know you are,” he said smoothly. “Alright, I’ll tell him to tone it down.”

Your brows furrowed, your skepticism evident, but you knew this was the best concession you would get from him.

“You’re terrible,” you muttered, though there was no real venom behind it.

He chuckled, his arms slipping around you fully, pulling you against him in a slow, deliberate embrace.

“Whatever you say, sweetie.”

Caleb

The apartment was warm, bathed in the soft glow of dimmed lights, the scent of home-cooked food still lingering in the air. Rain tapped gently against the windowpanes, a quiet backdrop to the clinking of dishes as Calebmoved around the kitchen, tidying up after dinner.

You sat at the dinner table, absently poking at the meal he had made you, though your appetite had long faded. Something gnawed at you, a strange ache settling in your chest that you couldn’t quite shake.

Caleb, of course, noticed immediately.

"You’re looking at that food like it personally offended you," he quipped, glancing over his shoulder. "What’s wrong, pipsqueak?"

You didn’t answer.

Your frown deepened as you idly pushed your fork against the plate, the silence between you stretching just a little too long.

The sound of running water cut off. Moments later, he was at your side, kneeling beside your chair, bringing himself to your eye level. His presence was steady, familiar—the scent of his cologne mixed with something undeniably Caleb.

Then—poke.

His finger prodded your cheek, once, twice, thrice, in an attempt to get a reaction out of you. Anything. He hated seeing you like this, all quiet and brooding.

"Guess you’re not that talkative now, huh?" His voice was teasing, but his eyes—warm and intent—searched your face for answers. The boyish grin he wore, the same one that had always made your heart falter just a little, did nothing to ease your mood.

You sighed, your gaze drifting—away from him, away from his teasing expression—to his neck. Bare.

The necklace. His necklace. Your necklace. The one you had given him, the one he always wore.

It wasn’t there.

He caught the flicker of emotion that crossed your face, and just like that, he understood. Of course, he did. He had known you for too long, had memorized every little shift in your expression, every mannerism that gave you away.

“I took it off while I was at work,” he admitted, watching you carefully. “Left it in my uniform and forgot to bring it with me.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line.

"But it’s safe," he reassured, reaching up to tousle your hair with a careless grin. “I’ll make sure to bring it next time, okay? Don’t pout on me now.”

You winced. “Caleb! I just washed my hair!”

And just like that, the tension was gone, washed away as you swatted at him in protest. His grin widened as he swiftly dodged your hands, the shift in your mood exactly what he had been aiming for.

The next thing you knew, you were chasing him through the apartment, the air filled with your laughter as he weaved through the furniture, just out of reach.

"Alright, alright, truce!" He lifted his hands in surrender, though the smirk on his lips told you he had no intention of actually stopping.

For now, the necklace was forgotten. For now, there was only this—the warmth, the laughter, the easy way he pulled you back in, just like he always did.