#so i guess you could say i'm doing pretty well

[theorphicangel]

hee hee sukuna sunday again!!!

can u pls do one when reader gets injured/sick and sukuna takes care of her

preferably with a lot of fluff🙏

thank you for your service I love your writing!!!

ahhhhhh thank you for sending a sukuna thought!!! i really enjoyed writing this ahhhhh i love soft kuna :((((((

the room is still spinning when you wake up from your nap. the first thing you notice is the constant throbbing in your head from a headache indicating that your medicine has already worn off.

you cough a little and mucus gathers in your throat but you swallow it down. your mouth feels dry and your body still feels so hot. you haven't left the bed, apart from the times you went to go throw up but your body still feels extremely exhausted.

beside you, the left side of the bed is empty and your heart sinks when you don't find sukuna by your side. but who could blame you when you're basically deathly ill? the last thing you want is for him to get ill too.

the room echoes with your cough again and as if on cue the bedroom door creeps open. and there your lover is, dressed in his usual sweatpants and hoodie with a tray in his hands. he enters, walking slowly so that the contents of the tray don't spill.

"you feelin' any better?" he asks, placing the tray on the bedside table. There is a bowl of soup, glass of water, medicine and tissues laying at your disposal.

you shake your head but soon regret your actions when your head throbs. "nope." you croak and your voice sounds unnatural even to you. "i feel worse i think."

you don't miss the wince on his face at your reply and you shuffle against the headboard, even this simple movement makes your bones ache a little.

"eat this and take some more medicine." he looks around a little before spotting something on your desk. walking over, he picks up a thermometer.

you smirk at him as he fiddles with it, multiple beeps coming from the thermometer as he turns it on.

"look at you nurse ryomen." there's a tone of seduction in your voice you think or maybe it's because your nose is blocked.

"don't call me that." he mumbles, not even looking up at you.

"i think you would look hot in the uniform."

now you have his attention.

"what the hell is wrong with you?"

you tap your forehead. "i'm delirious from my fever, remember?"

"no wonder." he says before letting out a sigh, "just eat."

sukuna doesn't leave whilst you eat, watching you take each spoonful. you blow a little on the spoon to cool it down. "how did you know this was my favourite?"

he shrugs, "you have loads of cans of this shit at the back of the cupboard."

you smile a little, "guess you could say i'm pretty prepared."

"but i made this myself."

the spoon pauses midway before reaching your mouth. "you did? how?"

he stares at you as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "i just took the ingredients from the back of the can...."

you're not sure if it's your exhaustion from being ill but somehow your eyes begin to well up. you sniffle, letting the spoon fall into the bowl.

sukuna frowns, you were fine just a minute ago. "what's wrong now?"

"you made this just for me?"

"yeah." he says, a little dumbfounded. "it's nothing special."

your heart squeezes and your stomach churns at his innocence. sure it may seem like the bare minimum to him but to you it's everything.

"oh kuna..."

"if you keep crying you'll end up making the soup more salty."

you let out a laugh, wiping away any tears on your cheek. "will you do something to cheer me up?"

he rolls his eyes but you know he'll listen. "what?"

" will you still wear a nurse unifo-"

before you can even finish your sentence sukuna shoves the thermometer in your mouth.

[graceisinthelibrary]

As you know, I love these prompts, so:

If you're so inclined, I'd love no. 13 "You think you're untouchable, but you're not."

:)

Good evening and hello!

I did my best to fulfil your wish. The execution is not really new, but sometimes it is nice to uncork a classic trope, lol.

"I know you think you're untouchable, but you're not." With a hint of exasperation in his voice, Siegfried Farnon stared at his housekeeper and shook his head. To her big dismay this was a situation, in which she couldn't present him with a valid argument to rebut his claim.

It wasn't even eight o'clock in the morning and she was sitting on the exam table. One half of her face was bruised and battered as if she had been caught in a fistfight and her right arm was hanging in a sling, hurting even worse.

For the last couple of minutes he had treated a nasty abrasion on her cheek and temple and had made sure her shoulder wasn't dislocated or broken, just strained. He had done all of this in silence, but now that his task was finished, his restraint was a thing of the past.

"You could at least try and not look too happy about it," she retorted briskly. Aside from the fact that she was in a lot of pain, her right arm being secured in a sling meant that she was also pretty much indisposed. She wouldn't be able to work for days, if not longer, and she also couldn't do her blackout warden rounds. In other words, she would be confined to bed or to the sofa. She would be useless and being useless was one of her worst nightmares.

So, there was no need to put any more salt into her figuratively wounds.

"I'm not happy," he assured her. "But I told you so."

With furrowed brows she stared at him. It was true. He had told her not to cross the yard before he had cleared it from the snow and the ice that had built up over night. "I asked you to wait for a couple of minutes before you went out, but, of course, you thought you had to ignore my advice."

"Just because I know your 'a couple of minutes' and mine happen to differ quite often," she shot back.

"Mrs Hall, you wound me," Siegfried gave back. "Just admit that your reckless actions caused this, not my idle way of ignoring your orders."

She rolled her eyes, more annoyed with herself than him. Of course, he was right. He had offered to clear the backyard after making a phone call. It had been her own impatience, her inability to move cautiously over a layer of snow and ice just to get herself some fresh eggs from the barn. The way to the barn had been tricky, but she had managed not to slip. Only on her way back, she had lost her balance, and now her face, her shoulder and the eggs were toast - literally. They didn't even have breakfast yet, and while she had lost her appetite, Siegfried's stomach was audibly rumbling. To make it all worse, the smell of burnt toast and salted eggs were reaching her nostrils. Helen tried to cook. It was a disaster in the making, but with her bad arm she wouldn't even be able to crack an egg.

"I'm so angry with meself," she finally admitted.

"You're human, Mrs Hall," he said and she noticed that his voice had lost its mocking sound. "I know, you don't like to hear it, but taking things a little more slowly would do you good."

"More slowly?" She repeated, scoffing. What was he even talking about? As slowly as he and others took it when the phone called? The notion was absurd, coming from him it was nothing but ridiculous.

He took his time before he answered, and she sensed that he was about to give her a piece of his mind that she wasn't quite ready to hear. "It's been six weeks since you know that Edward has survived the sinking of the Repulse. In fact, you know he's on his way to back to England for further treatment and while we all know that you like to keep busy to distract yourself until he's finally here…" He sighed, struggling to get the words out. "I guess what I want to say is, there's only so much a person can…well…bear." He established eye contact with her and she did her best to swallow her rising tears, but her throat was hurting. A big lump had built inside of it, making it hard to breathe. Her instinct hadn't failed her. She hadn't wanted to hear this. Quickly she lowered her eyes, because she couldn't stand the worry and the righteousness that plainly written all over his face, and stared into her lap.

"I'm not saying you should put up your feet and read all day, not that you'll have much a choice for a couple of days now, but you could take it a little more easy," he suggested. "And trust us to help you."

"Leave Helen the cooking?" She sniffed.

"I wouldn't go that far." He cleared his throat. "But I'm serious. You've been exaggerating it for a while now, and it's eating at you." At least he didn't mention that he thought she looked haggard or awful, but sometimes she felt his eyes on her, knowing he was concerned, but too well-mannered to voice his opinion. She had lost some weight and when she looked at her own reflection in the mirror, she saw a grey face and lines of worry that had spread all over her face.

She wasn't blind, just unwilling to reset. She wouldn't, not until Edward was back on English soil.

She wiped a lonely tear from her face as he slowly placed her pinny over she shoulders and gave her healthy one an encouraging squeeze. "You're not alone. We're here for you." He reached inside his pocket and gave her his hanky.

"I know," she nodded. "But I…"

"I know," he assured her. "I do. I invented this mood. I'm an ostrich and the whole world is sand."

Now he had managed to make her chuckle. "Ostriches are very elegant birds," she said and let her eyes travel along his deep red waistcoat with the fitting tie. It was one of her favourite outfits on him, and she loved ironing that tie.

"You'll feel better in a couple of days," he assured her. He pulled one of the drawers open and gave her a couple of pills. "For the pain."

"Are you sure that's not just for cats?" She asked, rolling the pills in the palm of her hand.

"It's not. I won't poison my pick of the bunch."

"You're afraid you could end up at Helen's mercy for the foreseeable, aren't you?"

"You know me so well," he conceded, but then his face sobered up. "But you will rest for a couple of days. Read a book, listen to some records. Give yourself time to heal, and if you feel the need to vent, come to me. I can take it."

She didn't doubt it. He had proven time and again that he was able to take whatever mood she was throwing at him. Why he did put up with it all she didn't know, and she didn't dare to ask him. With a heavy sigh, she nodded. He passed her a glass of water, watching her closely as she obediently swallowed the painkillers.

Just when she wanted to hop from the exam table, he placed his hands on her waist and helped her down. Ever so gently she glided down to the floor, supported by his steady grip. For a moment their bodies touched, and she held her breath upon the unexpected and intimate gesture. She hadn't felt a body against hers in ages. It felt surprisingly good, even life affirming.

"Thank you," she whispered, unsure what she was thanking him for. Stitching her up? Pep-talking her? Touching her in way no man had in over a decade? It had been a gesture that suddenly made her feel daringly feminine and somewhat beautiful, despite her soiled appearance. A warmth, consuming and bold took hold of her.

"You're very welcome, Mrs Hall," he replied, looking deeply into her eyes. "If we hurry, you can coach Helen on making scrambled eggs without burning down the scullery."

"Yes," she agreed, still a bit irritated by the emotions his touch had evoked in her. It was dangerous terrain. The line between them had been recklessly challenged this morning and it wasn't even eight o'clock. "Yes," she repeated, still standing only an inch apart from him. "Let's save what's left to save."

[asinglebluefeline]

I love your vessel AU do you have anything more about it than you already posted ? Like Dick and Nightwing’s relationship or how they function together with the powers and all 👀

!!!! :D

I've got some loose thoughts about how the Vessel of Nightwing AU could start:

- Dick becomes the Vessel basically right after taking on the name, but it doesn't really have any immediate effects, so he doesn't realize at the time.

- then one day patrol gets slightly messy, and he gets injured. Nothing serious, just some bruises. He puts on some salve or whatever, and goes to sleep.

- he wakes up, and the bruises are completely gone. "That's weird," he thinks. "I guess I wasn't injured as bad as I thought." But there's a lot of work to do so he just forgets about it.

- Next time he gets injured, it's a mild knife wound. Nothing much, but the skin is cut, so he puts on appropriate dressing on the wound. The next day, he takes off the bandages to clean and redress the wound, but... the cut is gone. That's. That's not supposed to happen. He remembers the last time he healed so fast on his own. He decides to investigate.

- He does a bunch of medical tests. Everything's normal. So he goes for help to his friends.

- (I'm not a 100% sure yet what powersets do each of the Titans have, but I'm pretty sure Raven would be a logical choice here? Since she is both a healer and has some degree of telepathy/mind powers? Comic Book Knowers pls let me know if that's right, I wannna know! (Especially in this timeline - very early Nightwing era.) In the meantime, let's say he goes to Raven.)

- And she's like: Yep, dude. There's something weird inside you. BUT!

- borrowing again from Action Comics #886, where deity!Nightwing says about himself: "such is my fate and my duty, [...] to stand alone in the dark. All-seeing, never seen." Basically the idea is that in the darkness he sees and knows everything, and he himself cannot be seen.

- so Raven's like, "yeah, there's something. But I have no idea what. Can't see a darn, it's like it's dark there. Almost like there's nothing to be seen."

- That's not reassuring.

- maybe she's even like "something is different, but it's almost like it's you, and nothing else" Because! Again, in that storyline in Action Comics, the Nightwing, when talking to his host (Chris Kent), always refers to himself and his host as "us". As in, when he talks to Chris, he adresses him as "us". And when he talks about himself, he refers to himself as "us". (And isn't that something to unpack :)) So it could be difficult for outside observers to differentiate Dick and Nightwing.

- So, after learning absolutely nothing except "something ain't right", he tries to find answers somewhere else, going around to anyone else who might know.

- He learns absolutely nothing.

- (I think it's fair, since the Nightwing is a deity-level being, whose one of the main things is Not Being Seen. And nobody is actually sure there even is something to be seen.)

- The Reveal in my mind goes in a classic Naruto-inspired fashion: during a Titans mission Dick takes a bad hit and gets knocked out, wakes up in his "mindscape", where there's this giant fricking dragon. What.

- To save Dick's life (and his teammates') Nightwing takes over Dick's body and promptly defeats the bad guys with Cool Powers.

That's all I got so far xD What's the fallout? ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

Some more general thoughts:

I think in the beginning Dick wouldn't be happy about the situation At All. Having a super powerful, unknown entity locked inside you, who has the ability to take control of your body at will? Yeah, no thanks.

I've been also wondering about how Dick would have ended up as a Vessel in the first place. And I actually like the idea that it wasn't up to the Nightwing. More like Rao's will or it Just Being How The World Works - if you take on the Nightwing's name and his mission, then you might end up with the rest of him as well. Somehow.

I also think that (unlike in the comics) the Nightwing can't really just leave the host at will. They're stuck with each other, whether they like it or not.

Now, since the Nightwing is supposed to fight evil, I think that it would influence how he "uses" Dick as a Vessel a lot. Because controlling someone's body against their will or harming them? By definition - Very Bad. (And I do like the idea of Dick being non-Kryptonian making him a somewhat less compatible host - mainly due to his body being less able to handle superpowers.) So I think that at the beginning the Nightwing would keep his actions more passive, aiding Dick when needed it and supplying him with Knowledge. After all, Dick is very dedicated to the Nightwing's mission (with or without him) and quite competent at it, and sometimes interference is just counterproductive.

In my head the main arc of the AU would be about them learning to be a team. As Dick trusts the Nightwing more, be learns to use his powers and grows more comfortable working together with him. And the better they get at working as one, the less harmful the Nightwing's powers become to him - they become his own in a way.

[aajxs]

✷ now i'm all alone (i guess i'll never learn) ft. franco colapinto !

🥁 જ⁀➴ franco thought he was doing the right thing by kicking you to the curb to further his career. he never thought you were hindering the band skill-wise, he just thought you were a distraction he didn't need. and then you started showing up to shows years after he left you behind, and he's hit with all the reasons why he misses everything you were.

alternatively: three times franco colapinto is okay with being in love with you, and the one time he decides he's done letting it distract him. ( 8.6k / unedited )

pairings ✷ guitarist!franco colapinto x ex-bandmate!drummer!reader (au)

contents ✷ self sabotaging / jack doohan is caught in the crossfire / kimi is blunt asf and the only one who actually stands up to franco / arguing / franco and reader never even dated this guy just has issues / this one might be worse than georges / there is a lot of fluff but it is immediatly ruined don't get it twisted / sad ending / mentions of alchohol and marijuana consumption (very vaguely) / i don't know what else to add this is NOT proofread

authors note ✷ i apologize if the spanish is bad im not fluent by any means (i barely escaped highschool spanish) and had to use translate for some of it 💔💔 but anyways, second installment here we are

i recommend listening to. . . maple syrup by the backseat lovers . . .whilst reading for the best experience

masterlist / navigation / series masterlist

FRANCO DIDN’T think he would regret you this much.

Well, actually, regret can be a pretty vague word. But it’s easier to say that than admit he misses you.

The new guy is good. Great, even. But Franco sometimes glances over while he's on stage, fingers strumming the guitar he’s gotten so used to in practiced precision, and thinks that it should be you instead of some dunce that barely has any chemistry with the rest of the band.

Kimi reminds him pretty often that he’s an idiot for dropping you just because he’s in love with you, and it sparks arguments more often than not. The new drummer, Jack, doesn’t realize it because he’s too busy trying to prove he’s good enough to have a spot in the band, but you were pretty similar to glue, and the gaping hole that you left when Franco insisted on sacking you isn’t one he can fill too easily.

It’s been a long time, nearly thirteen full months of booking practices with different percussionists, changing the music for shows to make it sound good without drums, and trying to find someone good enough to even compare to you, and Jack isn’t bad at all. If anything, with enough time, he could be better than you. 

Kimi thinks it's great that they’ve actually found someone good, ever the optimist. Ollie just wants a drummer; he doesn’t exactly care if it's Jack or some other random, but he tends to agree with Kimi more often than not. Isack misses you almost as much as Franco, having found a best friend in you after years of playing together, but it doesn’t take a professional to see the immense skill Jack brings to the table now that you’re not in the picture. None of that means Franco wants him to take your spot, because, as crazy as it might sound, the selfish and fucked-up part of Franco really just wants you.

And that fucked-up part of Franco must have conjured you back into existence somehow, because you’re lingering in the back of the crowd at this dingy bar they booked for some exposure after going on a nine month hiatus because you were cashiered and they didn’t have a drummer, looking like you should be the one next to him on stage, not Jack fucking Doohan.

Somewhere in that pretty head of yours, Franco thinks you must have assumed he forgot about you amid the band's growing fame, because in all honesty, if you really knew how much he lets giving you the boot torment him, you wouldn’t be nodding your head to the rhythm of his guitar or swaying along to the music he wrote in the crowd right now. 

The setlist only consists of eight songs, and you’ve made eye contact with him fifteen times and counting in the span of three. He can tell from where he stands between songs that you’re well aware the way he drifts towards the back of the stage isn’t out of habit or absentmindedly. It’s because he sees you, and the guilty part of him that threw you under the bus a year and a half ago tends to rise when you’re even moderately brought up.

You don’t go backstage after the show like Franco thought maybe you would, because even though you were kicked out and technically not allowed to enter the band-only areas now that you’re not a member of said band, you’re still friends with everyone. Well, everyone except for Franco, because why would you like him after he got you sacked?

He’s quieter than usual when the crowd is gone and they’re all tiredly sitting in an ambiently lighted backroom, his guitar in the case you helped him decorate somewhere next to all of his other belongings, and a faint scowl on his face as he's sprawled out on a dainty couch he doesn’t think he could sleep on if he tried.

Franco is still slick with sweat from the show, his damp t-shirt long discarded and his jeans halfway there with the belt unbuckled and the denim waistband sitting low on his hips. A few curls are stuck to his forehead, not quite dry, even as he sits directly under the vent blowing cold air onto him.

Kimi has been eyeing him since he peeled his shirt off and plopped onto the couch. Ollie gave him a side-eye twenty minutes ago while they were cleaning up things on stage, then muttered something to Kimi that Franco couldn't quite make out. Isack, likely trying not to say something that will piss off Franco, has been chewing the inside of his cheek since they walked backstage. And Jack, the ever clueless rookie, won't stop talking.

Franco sits up suddenly, the jolt of movement catching Kimi's attention from where he sits lazily a few meters away. Franco swings his feet off the couch and onto the coldness of the floor, planting them softly as he scans each of his bandmates.

He doesn't even care to wait until Jack is done talking before he rudely cuts him off to ask, “Who invited her?”

And all eyes are on him, and the sudden words strike a silence that gnaws at the walls. Franco's thick brows raise, shoulders tense as he looks around, awaiting an answer.

It's evident by the stares he's getting that they know exactly who the ‘her’ is. Kimi speaks up first, “Why does it matter?” He questions bluntly, running his fingers through his hair tiredly.

Franco’s lips purse, “Because I asked.” He replies curtly, cracking his knuckles against the couch absentmindedly.

Kimi is about to spit something rude back when Isack finally cuts in, “It was me.” He admits, biting nervously at the nail on his thumb.

Franco's head snaps in his direction, taking his friend in. “Te has vuelto loco?” Franco angrily spits, his native language slipping out of his lips in frustration. “Why?” He inquires, brows pinching together. have you gone mad?

Isack purses his lips, nearly flinching at the irritation written all over Franco. “She told me she missed the band. I thought maybe I'd invite her to a show…” Isack trails off, shrugging as his eyes try to find focus on anything but Franco.

He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath in Spanish as he rises from his spot and walks over to his things.

“Am I missing something?” Jack questions quietly, scratching the back of his head in confusion.

Franco swallows the flurry of insults lingering on his tongue and decides to simply send the Aussie a glare as he slips on a fresh shirt, buckling his belt and throwing his bag over his shoulder before picking up his guitar case.

Kimi catches the rude look and sighs, “You don't get to be a dick to him just because you're still stuck on her.” He snaps, accent thick as he scolds Franco.

Franco shakes his head, voice low as he mutters, “You don't get it.”

Kimi scoffs out a laugh, “You kicked her out of the band because you fell in love with her, it's nothing we don't know already.” He bitterly says in response, voice nearly raising an octave out of anger.

“No hagas eso. Don't put words in my mouth. I kicked her out because she was a distraction!” Franco bites, throwing a hand into the air and gesturing at nothing in particular. don't do that.

“Oh my God, Franco, we get it! You're in de-ni-al!” Oliver snaps, pronouncing each syllable of the word with angry emphasis, “Go home and look in the mirror, then try and tell us you're not still hung up on her!” Oliver adds, his usual silence when it comes to the history between you and Franco is now broken.

“It’s been a year already, Franco. If she can move on from it, you can too.” Isack says, shaking his head as he gathers his things.

Jack lingers, hands up like he's either admitting defeat or about to de-escalate the situation. 

Franco pauses in his advance to the door, brows furrowing. He debates saying something. Anything. But no words can really measure up to the way he's feeling, especially not after seeing you for the first time in a year. You were in the crowd, not next to him, where you’ve always belonged, and a part of Franco thinks that him being the reason for that might be what hurts the most. He grips his bag a little tighter, shakes his head softly, then pushes through the back door. 

The drive back to his flat is quieter than usual. Just him, the road, and the starry sky he hopes you look at and think of him the same way he does you.

When he gets home, the first thing he does is shower. He tries not to look too hard at anything in his room when he walks through it, because unfortunately, the busy schedule he's on doesn't call for throwing away everything that reminds him of you and what once was.

Your pictures still litter his walls, polaroids with scribbled dates on them and printed photographs of you and him together, but most of them just you. Always you. He doesn't have the time to tear them down, but he doesn't think he could ever throw them away even if he did. Your nauseously purple sweater hangs in his closet, bright and probably dusty from sitting unworn for so long. It still smells like you and the nights you spent together, and when he's looking for something to wear in the mornings, sometimes it catches in the corner of his eye, achingly you, and he has to pretend it's not even there. 

You and Franco never dated. You were never much of anything before he convinced you to join his band, just connected by mutual friends and two people who never really sought out one another. All he knew was that you played the drums, and you were good. And then you actually practiced together, just to see if there was any chemistry, and you had him hooked from the second you touched the spare drumset in Kimi's garage. 

The spark was undeniable. They had finally found the drummer they had been looking for. But you? You were fucking amazing, and not just when it came to the instrument.

You reeled him in without even realizing it, and suddenly what was once small jokes between practices turned into seeing each other every day, even if you were doing nothing at all. You weren't just a bandmate anymore; you were his best friend.

And Franco loved you, and it didn't even creep up on him. He knew from the second he saw you reach for the sticks that you were going to be a problem. But he nurtured it anyway, and what was supposed to just be a friendship between bandmates became something so much bigger than either of you could've imagined.

So Franco threw it away. Three long years of trying to make something big, and he tossed you to the side because he let his feelings get the better of him. 

Because that's all he really knows what to do with the good things that come his way.

Franco thinks the first time he realized there might be a chance for him to fall in love with you was the day he invited you to discuss the band over coffee.

It was one of those gloomier days, when the rain never seems to stop, whether it's in soft droplets against windows or full-blown storms. 

You were ten minutes early, which surprised him just a bit. Franco was there a little less than five minutes after you, and he caught you sipping a warm latte in the corner of the small joint the second he walked in. Your eyes were caught on the rain outside, and he learned soon after that hazy weather like that was always your favorite.

Franco slides into the seat across from you, catching your attention when he shakes the table while getting into the booth. A few dark curls stuck to his forehead, his lips evidently a little bitten, like maybe he had been anxious about this moment, and his sweatshirt engulfing him warmly. He's a little more dressed for the occasion than you, but still casual with a navy blue sweatshirt and black jeans that he has to fold up at the ankle because they're a size too big. His shoes are worn, white going on grey, but he doesn't seem to care about the creases and fading color. 

Your eyes scan his face, a familiar one just from the gatherings you've seen him at where your respective friend groups mix into one, and the occasional nod of acknowledgment whenever you happen to pass each other. Never awkwardly, just mutual respect.

“Hey, Franco.” You smile, friendly and soft, because you know the request that's coming might ruin your week. 

Franco lets his lips upturn, twitching into a small smile. “Hey. Been a while, no?” He drawls, accent heavy and voice quiet, like this is some kind of secret drug deal. In the long run, it honestly could have been. 

Franco ended up addicted to you, if that counts.

The last time you saw Franco was at a party with too many people and even more alcohol, and you were the only two relatively sober people. You smoked a quarter of a joint with one of your girlfriends, but it wore off quickly enough that by the time you were behind the wheel, your mind was clear. Franco took a single sip of a half-and-half, then stuffed his hands into his pockets because he said it tasted funny.

You ended up hanging out with him for a good portion of the night, and you mentioned in passing that you play the drums. Only occasionally, because somewhere down the line, some asshole taught you to hate doing what you're good at because if you're not the best, then you're nothing at all. Franco told you that was stupid. 

It took a while, a month maybe, but he convinced you through a friend willing to play messenger that meeting up was a good idea, and maybe playing again could be good for you. You complied, only because you were tired of the back and forth. Also partly because you thought Franco was cute and thought it was endearing that he called you sweet things in Spanish, but you never told him that bit. He definitely knew.

“Guess it has,” You give him an uneven smile. God, this feels like a date. You shudder softly, the coldness radiating off the window causing a chill to run down your spine.

Franco blinks, eyes scanning you like he might find something that you didn't already know was there. “What's your price, cielo?” He asks, the endearment slipping past his lips naturally. sky

You almost scoff, but it comes out as a small laugh. “This isn't a charity case, I'm just here to see what you're about.” You shrug as you smile. You have a feeling your cheeks will be hurting by the end of this meeting.

“What, do you not think I'm serious?” He asks, flashing a boyish grin like his charm might sway you an inch.

You shake your head, “No, not that. I'm saying I'll hear you out.” You pull a face, something between a half-smile and the kind of face you make when you're trying not to laugh.

“We’re not much right now, really just a garage band, but once we have drums, I think we'll be great,” He raises a brow at you, leaning back into the booth, “I play guitar, Kimi is pianist, Ollie is vocals, and Isack is bass. It's kind of messy, but we're really getting somewhere! I promise you won't regret this,” He trails off, rambling with evident excitement in his voice. And you listen with a small smile playing on your lips, leaning into the table with your hands wrapped around the warmth of your latte.

You cut him off when he starts talking about how well you'd fit in the group. “I don't play very much anymore.” You remind him softly, in the same way you would a stray you're trying not to scare off.

“Come on, don't give me that,” Franco squints, the raw passion in his eyes as he speaks catching you a little off guard, “Once you start, you never really stop.” He exhales a short laugh.

“Franco, I'm not trying to say I'm rusty. I’m trying to say I don't know if how I was taught to play will be good for this,” You gesture between the two of you with your hand, words slipping out hesitantly.

He tilts his head, “I wasn't aware there was a this. I thought you were just thinking about it.” He says, a teasing lilt in his tone.

“I am thinking about it,” You reply, licking your lips before adding, “But I wasn't ready for you to show up thinking I was already game because I said I'd talk with you.” You half-joke, averting your gaze. 

There's a hurt look on his face that flashes for a split second you can't bear to look at, so you quickly add, “By no means do I doubt that you're going to do big things. But I…” You trail off, wincing at the thought of touching a pair of sticks after years of playing on and off, “I don't know.”

Franco watches you for a moment, then two, then three or four, basking in your words in a silence that stretches.

“One practice.” He says, holding up his pointer finger.

You go to say something with a look on your face that says you're going to refuse, and he leans a little further into your space before cutting you off, “One practice, please, cielo.”

And really, honestly, who are you to say no when Franco looks like that and talks to you like that? So you agree. One practice.

“This is the girl I was telling you about, the drummer!” Franco says excitedly as he introduces you to his bandmates. You have to clarify that you don't play anymore, but brush it off just like Franco did. 

Kimi is the youngest, but you think that if Franco weren't the curator of the band, he'd be the one taking the lead with the way he cuts between songs and tells everyone where they're messing up. Oliver tends to just go with what Kimi does, but he has a nice vibe to him, so it works. He speaks up when it counts. Isack is all grins and fun facts and has something so steady about him that you nearly agree to join on the spot just because of how friendly he is. And of course, there's Franco. You think he'd be a great poster boy in the future with that pretty face of his, all charming smiles and eyes that hold enough emotion behind them to make you wonder.

They're all sweet, full of energy, and the passion that you never really delved into when you used to play. Franco was right when he said you'd fit like a glove.

They say they're okay with you just watching, listening to a song or two, but they'd love to hear you play. You tell them maybe.

You watch from an old couch that sits in the corner of Kimi's large garage while they play, the familiar smiles on their faces that you only see on people with real passion and even realer talent. You know music like you know your name, and hearing them play? They're good. But not as good as they could be with a set of drums.

Franco sees it. Watches intently as your eyes drift to the set off to the side, the set that no one really touches unless they're trying to be loud. The sticks they only ever throw at each other, never actually use. The drums that could be yours if you just asked. As much as he wants to know your story, the true reason why you quit, he just wants to hear you play.

The garage is warm enough that you've slipped out of your jacket, letting the thick fabric rest on the arm of the couch. The shirt you're wearing is a size too big, the neck a little stretched and the color faded both from wear. Your shoes have been kicked off because Kimi told you to get comfortable, and your sweatpants are tucked into mismatched fluffy socks because you swear it gives insulation.

You rise from your spot, pretending to stretch like you've been sitting down any longer than five minutes, and try to nonchalantly make your way over to the drumset where it haunts the corner of the garage.

Franco stops playing, and when Kimi notices, he stops too. It's like a domino effect, the way they each pause, all eyes on you. 

You send them a look, “Don't mind me, continue.” You flick a wrist, brushing them off. They share knowing stares before restarting the song with a curt ‘desde arriba’ from Franco. from the top

You pull the set out of its spot, letting it skid against the floor momentarily before stopping somehow next to Franco. He gives you a look as he strums, fingers flirting with the strings of his guitar in a practiced rhythm, something bordering on approval with a pinch of admiration in his gaze as he eyes you.

You grab the drumsticks and slip onto the stool, adjusting the drumset to your liking as you nod along to their song. One stick twirls absentmindedly, like it was always meant to be in your hand, and the other sits idle as you dust off the unused instrument.

Somewhere between notes you don't know and strums you've only just memorized, you find a rhythm that matches up with theirs, and you play.

And you were good. Insanely good for someone who hadn't touched a drumset in almost years. Franco thinks that if the song had gone on any longer, his knees might've buckled and he still would've crawled to you.

You're sitting a little off to the side, watching Kimi, Ollie, and Isack throw half-eaten grapes at each other from where you sit next to Franco, when it hits you.

Here, in Kimi's way too big house with his dangerously expensive instruments and parents that don't care enough, is where you want to be. You don't know them as well as they know each other, but their love for the music is enough to make you want to try. 

You never had an outlet in the songs; it was always practice, perform, repeat. And then you quit, and shut yourself down by getting rid of the one thing you loved because of the faults of someone else, and the blame that seemed to always land on you. But with these boys, with Franco, you see a future you wouldn't have even deemed imaginable two weeks ago.

The room is loud, and you aren't sure when a TV got turned on, but you don't seem to mind it when you finally say, “Okay,” in a defeated mutter.

“What?” Franco asks, brows creasing as he glances over at you. 

You elbow him, “Don't make me say it.” 

His bottom lip tucks between his teeth, gnawing softly before he says, “Come on, cielo,” Franco says playfully, flashing a knowing smile that reaches his eyes.

“Okay, I'll join your band, Franco.” You shake your head, letting a smile you weren't sure why you were biting back in the first place make its way into your lips.

Franco wishes he could've seen the future back then, because maybe it would've saved the two of you some hurt.

The second time was a while after, just you and him on a road trip after a long show.

Franco is sitting lazily in the passenger seat of your old beater, the vehicle now long replaced but once your dearest possession, which barely got you from point A to point B without the air conditioner breaking or something else acting up.

Usually, you handle all the bookings because, out of everyone, it's not a secret that you're the most organized. But with exams haunting your schedule and practices wearing you down, you let Isack sign you guys up for a set in his hometown.

You did not realize his hometown was a four-hour road trip when he mentioned it to you, so you told him ‘Sure’ without thinking too much about it. Franco was, to say the least, a little pissed. It didn’t take much convincing to calm him down and make him consider the positivity this show could bring into account. Another town means different people listening, and different people listening means more exposure. 

Franco was still mad when it came down to the decision between cancelling or going through with it, but you’re you, and Isack is so wholeheartedly Isack, so you ended up spending Saturday morning lugging your band equipment into the trunk of your beater before spending the rest of your day resting and going over songs before performing that night.

The show itself was good, but the exhaustion of it all hit hard and fast once it was over. Kimi woke you up from a nap backstage, one you didn’t even know you drifted into, and told you it was time to head out. Isack told all of you that he was just going to spend the night at his parents' house and that he’d take the train home tomorrow, so that left Kimi in Ollie's car and Francos in yours.

You’re nearing the two-hour mark when you pull into a gas station after rubbing your eyes for twenty minutes. 

“Tired?” Franco asks from the passenger seat, leaning into the door as he eyes you.

“Yeah. D’you want anything from inside?” You ask, blinking slowly as you search your wallet for some cash. 

He hums, scanning your tired face, “Something with caffeine in it, please?” he requests. You nod curtly before making your way in.

You come back out of the gas station to Franco in the driver's seat, already having adjusted it to his liking, and a blank look on his face as he scrolls mindlessly on his phone. You pause for a moment, but get into the passenger seat anyway. “You sure you wanna drive? We can-” You start, voice a little softer from exhaustion.

Franco is quick to cut you off, slipping his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants as you hand him his energy drink, “No, it's fine. Get some sleep, I'll drive for a while, mi cielo.” He shakes his head, opening the drink with a crisp crack. my sky

You blink, eyelids heavy as you open your snack. You exhale, “Wake me up when you get tired, ‘kay?” You say making yourself comfortable in the passenger seat. 

Franco starts driving, eyes drifting over to you on occasion as you steadily fall into a deep sleep. Your breathing evens out eventually, and Franco is careful not to let any road rage get the best of him in case it might wake you up. 

It’s been a long six months, but Franco has tried his best to make sure you feel comfortable in the band. The rest of the guys all love you, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t love you, too. You’re good at what you do, and that kind of talent isn’t found in just anybody. He doesn’t say it much, but Franco is happy they got lucky with you.

You haven’t been around much recently due to midterms and constant studying, but when you’re not busy, you’re with them. Whether it's for a spontaneous lunch that Ollie brought up in the group chat out of nowhere, or for the long practices that seem to stretch on forever, you’re always there. 

You see Franco the most in comparison to the other boys because you go to the same university. You’re always sending each other nods or waves across the room when you’re on campus at the same time, both rushing to your respective lectures. It’s the little interactions that he knows make your day, so he always tries to keep you on your feet with minuscule stuff like slipping you your favorite protein bars when he passes you in the halls because he's well aware that you tend to stop taking care of yourself when you get busy and find your focus snatched by things you deem more important. 

The small interactions between the two of you eventually turned into something a little grander. You quickly went from waves across the hall to hanging out and doing absolutely nothing with each other and calling it fun. Your platonic hangouts sometimes felt more like dates, and it wasn’t long before simply cielo turned into mi cielo. Still, neither of you ever mentioned it because, regardless of how everything about the other suddenly settled deep into your bones, you’re still bandmates. It’s a silent but mutual agreement that the band always comes first. 

Franco gets off the highway and stops in the half-empty parking lot of an apartment complex an hour and fifteen minutes later, eyelids drooping and vision blurring. He reaches over with a small whisper of your name, rubbing his eyes as he does so, and softly taps your shoulder until you stir awake.

You hum, still under the influence of sleep, “Do you want me to take over?” You croak, attempting to blink away the exhaustion.

He shakes his head, “Can we just stop for the rest of the night?” Franco asks quietly, “Your backseat is big enough for both of us.” He adds, blinking groggily.

You eye him for a moment, taking in his request. It doesn’t really process in your clouded mind, but you nod anyway because more sleep sounds insanely good right now. Franco locks the doors to your car and pulls the keys out of the ignition while you send a text to the group chat letting them know you and Franco are taking a break for the night, and you will be back on the road in the morning. 

It’s a cold night, and you’re lucky you have a warm throw blanket in the backseat because if you didn’t, you and Franco would be freezing to death tonight. The two of you crawl into the backseat and get comfortable. Your limbs tangle together familiarly, and Franco pulls you in close by your waist as he drapes the blanket over your entwined bodies.

You mutter something against the warmth of his chest, burying your face into his hoodie. He hums, “What was that?” Franco asks quietly, the silence of the car surrounding you.

You huff, “Said I’m sorry.” You repeat a little louder.

“Nothing to be sorry for, mi cielo.” He whispers in response, hugging you a little closer to him as his eyes fall shut.

“Whatever you say, Franco.” You murmur back tiredly, sighing one last time before your eyes close. 

You seep into a deep slumber before he does, your body pressed into his warmly. It’s not the first time you and Franco have slept in the same bed with your limbs tangled and silence consuming you. But, for some reason, it feels a little more sacred in the discomfort of your backseat. Franco stares at the roof of your car for what feels like hours, breathing you in as you sink into your dreams, before finally finding some sleep.

Sometimes, when Franco is alone and guilty and you’re on his mind, he thinks about that night as he lies still in his bed. The cold air of his bedroom surrounds him the same way the silence of your vehicle and crisp night breeze did. Except here, the only difference is that you aren’t there to warm him up and coax him into sleep with your weight atop of him, and he’s spending his nights alone instead of with the only person he ever imagined sharing a bed with. 

One night, when you’re a little bored and you know Franco has nothing going on, you show up at his flat with a goal.

“I want to learn how to play guitar.” You beam the second he opens the door, wearing a shirt that's probably his and a pair of sweats that look ready to pool at your feet, plus a puffer you likely just threw on because you knew he’d give you a mouthful if he saw you weren’t wearing a jacket. He notes that your shoes are already off and under your arm because you know better than anyone how he is about shoes in the house.

Franco opens the door a little wider for you, allowing you to slip past him and into his home. “Where is this coming from?” He asks, watching as you place your shoes next to his by the door. 

You glance over at him, taking him in for a moment. Topless because even though it’s chilly outside, his apartment is quite warm. Sweatpants low on his hips, enough to expose his boxer band just slightly. His curls are a little disheveled, like maybe he's been lazing around in bed all day. You avert your gaze as you slip off your jacket, “You look cool when you play. I want to learn.” You say, hanging the zip-up next to his. 

He stands idly for a moment with his eyes on you. You stare back, excitement brightening your features. Franco isn’t sure how he’s supposed to say no to you, especially when you wear that familiar cheeky smile that always seems to tug at his heartstrings involuntarily. 

“What experience do you have?” He questions softly, raking his fingers through his hair.

“Uh… I know how to play Mary Had a Little Lamb?” You offer. Franco squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing a laugh.

He turns his back to you with a low “Ay, Dios mío…” and starts towards his room with you following close behind. oh, my god

“So what’s my first lesson, Señor Colapinto?” You joke, giving him a lopsided smile as you plop down onto his mattress.

Franco gives you a sideways look as he reaches for his acoustic guitar, “First of all, never say that again,” he says, eliciting a laugh from you, “Second of all, just play what you know and we’ll go from there,” he adds shortly after, handing you the guitar and taking a seat next to you.

You hold it a little awkwardly, like maybe you haven’t used one in a while. Franco clocks it immediately, “No. Like this.” He says firmly as he reaches over, moving your hands with his own and positioning you correctly. 

You blink softly, a little stunned by how soft his touch is. You’ve felt his hands before, but it’s different when it’s like this. They’re rough in a way a guitarists should be, all calloused and worn fingertips, but the graze of his palms over your skin is almost reverent. When you glance over at him briefly, you find his eyes already on you. He makes a face and averts them quickly, catching himself. He sinks back, “There,” Franco clears his throat before muttering, “Try that.”

You exhale softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. You strum a few times, clumsy and uneven, barely even music. It makes him grin anyway.

“I thought you said you knew the song?” He half-jokes, eyeing you as you play. 

You glare at him before replying, “Okay, I used to. I’m just… rusty. I personally think I’m a prodigy.” You joke back, scrunching your nose.

Franco narrows his eyes at you, “Well, if the plan is to kill my strings, then yes, you’re off to a great start.” He replies sarcastically. 

You feign offense, letting go of the base and clutching your chest, “Have some faith in your student, Franco.”

He hums, clearly entertained, “I’ll have some faith when you stop holding it like a medieval weapon.”

You nudge him with your elbow in response, biting back a smile. Every time you do anything with Franco, it feels like his goal is to make your cheeks hurt from constantly grinning. He retaliates by fixing your hand placement again, a little slower this time, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. “Here,” he says, voice a bit softer than before. “Let your hand rest here. You’re too stiff.”

You exhale softly, from his proximity or the instruction, you aren’t sure. Your knees are almost brushing, and his hair is about to fall into his face, and a part of you wants to reach out and fix it. You don’t, but the thought lingers. Instead, you pour your focus into the guitar and manage to pluck out a melody that could maybe, possibly be mistaken for the beginnings of a song.

Franco flashes a grin. “See? Not bad.” He says, poking you softly.

You beam at the praise, tongue jutting out the corner of your mouth as you try it again.

“So, next lesson after practice tomorrow?” You ask, “I think I’m ready for the electric.” 

Franco raises a brow, “Hold your horses, mi cielo,” he sends you another look, “You’re not even through your first lesson yet.”

“But you’re a great teacher.” You compliment, eyes searching his face, “And I’m an extremely determined student.”

Franco meets your gaze for a second too long, lips pursing as he looks away. He reaches over to adjust the tuning pegs without asking, “We’ll see,” He says, glancing at you again, “Try not to get ahead of yourself.” 

He is really trying not to read into it, but his thoughts are betraying him. Franco wonders, for only a brief second, if maybe the fact that you’re wearing his t-shirt, sitting on his bed, and holding his guitar like it's the most natural thing in the world, if the lingering glances and not-so-subtle touches mean something to you, too.

He blinks away the thought when you begin playing again, strumming the chords. Your rhythm is only marginally better than it was a minute ago, making it painfully easy to admit, “Alright, so maybe I’m not ready for the electric guitar.” You wince. You quickly recover, adding a quick, “But I do think I deserve a gold star, just for effort.” 

Franco snorts as he leans back into his palms, “You can have a gold star when you can play a full song without making the guitar sound like it's out of tune.” He replies immediately.

You tilt your head, “Maybe it is out of tune.” 

“Trust me, it’s not.” He laughs.

You pout jokingly, “When did my best friend become a bully?” You retort with a dramatic huff.

His brow quirks, “No one told you to barge in demanding free lessons, pajarito.” little bird

“I guess you’re right. God forbid a girl try something new.” You sigh, sarcasm lacing your tongue.

Franco shakes his head, an amused smile tugging at his lips as he replies, “You’re impossible.”

The room quiets for a moment. It’s not awkward, just irritably still. Franco’s eyes drop to where your hand rests on the bed between you, just barely brushing his. You notice, because of course you do, and open your mouth to speak.

“I miss hanging out, just me and you.” You say after a beat, “It’s been a while.” 

Franco swallows hard, nodding slowly as his eyes flick back up to yours again, “Yes. Yeah. Me too.” He stammers quietly.

You both sit idly for a little while, the quiet warmth of the moment engulfing you like a tight hug as the guitar falls forgotten beside you. The heat of his apartment wraps around both of you like a blanket, and you let it simmer. 

Eventually, Franco shifts. He picks up the guitar and places it gently into his stand across the room, “Alright, woman,” He says from where he stands, subtly stretching. “You hungry? I was going to make something to eat before you got here.” 

You smile, already hopping off the bed to follow him into the kitchen. “Only if you let me be the taste tester like always.”

He glances back at you over his shoulder, eyes glimmering softly. “Deal.”

Franco thinks about that night more often than he’d like to admit.

It wasn’t anything extraordinary. There were no grand gestures or any lines crossed, no confessions. He wonders if the familiarity of it all tugged at you in the same way it did him.

He still remembers the way you looked when he opened the door. Messy, comfortable, familiar. You wore his shirt without asking, like you had a right to it. Like being a part of his space was second nature to you. And he let you in without hesitation, like he always did.

What haunts him the most isn’t your off-key playing or the jokes you traded like clockwork, it was the things in-between. The way your fingers curled around the neck of his guitar, clumsy as they were. The way your thigh pressed softly against his. The way your smile stuck to his brain like it was printed there long after you headed home for the night. 

And maybe it was really nothing, just another one of your whims. A moment where you decided that leaning into him was okay because it was easy. Familiar. Maybe the way you stared longingly at him over the glass against your lips while he cooked was nothing at all. 

But still, he thinks about it. About how close your shoulder had been to his on the bed. About how easily his fingers had found yours while correcting your grip. About how you didn’t pull away.

Franco would never admit it out loud, but the subtle realization that hit him that night stuck to his ribs like a splinter. Small, quiet, and painfully sharp.

Franco isn’t sure when he realized he was in love with you.

It’s not like it was some dramatic lightning bolt that struck him down out of nowhere. There was no kiss, no tearful confession. It crept in slowly, between passing moments where you were both aware of the rising tension but never did anything about it. Somewhere in there, it started throwing Franco off.

Seeing you at practice made him fuck up notes. Watching you perform on stage nearly made him drop his guitar. You’d catch him watching sometimes, and then smile in that way you always do. Lopsided, reckless, like you knew exactly the kind of effect you had on him.

And maybe you did. Maybe that was the worst part.

He tried to brush it off. Told himself it was just stress and exhaustion building on him. But the kind of admiration he held for you was the kind that only happened when two people spend too many sleepless nights writing music in the back of a garage that isn’t theirs or flinging noodles at each other when the conversation gets too deep. The kind that only forms when you laugh too loud at his jokes or purposefully mess up at practice just to keep it going longer or fall asleep on his shoulder after shows. Franco didn't want to fall, didn’t want to enjoy the way his heart fluttered in his chest. He really tried not to.

But God, you made it impossible.

It was a slow, torturous realization. It settled into his bones and weighed him down enough that Kimi started to notice. And then Ollie. And then Isack. And he bets you did, too. Franco bets you always knew.

Loving you wasn’t something he could do. Not really. Not when you made a point to draw a line in the sand every time he got too close. Franco hated that he let the line consume him.

But the longer it stretched between you, the harder it became to ignore. Every shared glance felt like a misstep. Every accidental brush of your arm set something off in him that he couldn’t afford to feel. And every time he caught himself writing lyrics that sounded too much like the things he wanted to say to you, or looking for your laugh when things got too quiet, he felt like he was slipping further from the version of himself he was supposed to be.

The focused one.

The driven one.

So he started pulling back.

At first, it was subtle. Less eye contact. Fewer late-night writing sessions. Shitty excuses that helped him miss the after-parties or the post-rehearsal hangouts. He told himself it was necessary. That it wasn’t personal, no matter how much it really was. That boundaries were good.

But honestly? The space made it worse. Franco couldn’t stop watching you, hearing snippets of you in every song, impatiently waiting for you to say something about him floating away. He couldn’t help but wonder if maybe you were waiting for him to do something about the unspoken gap that he purposefully put between you two. You knew Franco wouldn’t risk it, because if he said why, if he crossed that line, it would break him in two.

So, instead of admitting that maybe he’s alright with loving you, he did the only thing he knew how to do. 

Franco cut you.

It happened on a Friday night after a rough show. You were complaining about something wrong with your sticks backstage, hair a mess, eyeliner smudged, legs folded beneath you naturally because, for some reason, you always seem to belong in every room you stride into. Franco couldn’t even look at you. Couldn’t speak without feeling like something in his throat was tearing itself into shreds.

When the others filter out, he doesn’t immediately rise. He sits for a moment, thinking to himself how he’s going to approach this. He hasn’t said much since the others left. Not even when you cracked a joke about Ollie nearly tripping over the mic stand mid-chorus, or when you asked if he wanted to grab a bite like you always do after a set.

The second you clock his silence, you start to feel it. That familiar low hum of something not being right.

The drumstick you were absentmindedly twirling falls still, and you open your mouth to ask, “Are you good?”

Franco doesn’t look at you, but you note the way his jaw tightens and the way his shifting stops. “Can we talk for a second?” He asks lowly.

You sit up a little straighter, legs unfolding at a slow pace. The room suddenly feels too still, but instead of brushing it off, you say, “Yeah, of course.” 

He drags his hands down his face, huffs out a sharp exhale like he’s about to pull a pin from a grenade, and he looks over at you.

“I think it’s time for you to step away from the band.”

The silence hits like a joke that doesn’t immediately land.

You blink. “What?” You ask, brows creasing in confusion.

Franco averts his gaze and makes it a point not to meet your eyes as he stutters out a quiet, “It’s not… it’s not personal.”

Your voice hardens when you reply, “That’s bullshit.”

Franco winces. He knows it is. He knows you know it is.

You stand quickly, pushing yourself off the couch in frustration. “So what is it, then? You think I’m not pulling my weight? That I’m holding you back or something?”

He finally looks at you. Some disgusting mix of guilt, regret, and something you can’t discern all flicker in his eyes at the same time. “No, that’s not it. You’re not holding us back. You never were.”

“Then what the fuck, Franco?” you snap angrily. “What changed?”

He hesitates. Franco knows what he’s supposed to say. That he should just put the truth on the table and be done with it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he breathes in slow. Forces the words out like he’s trying to believe them himself.

“I just… I need to focus. We all do. And things have felt off recently.”

You shake your head, a dry laugh leaving your lips, but there’s no humor in it. “Okay, so I’m a distraction now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Your voice cracks, the desperation on your face as your voice rises causing him to silently wince.

You cross your arms over your chest, biting the inside of your cheek as you hug yourself out of discomfort. You hate that your eyes are starting to sting. Hate that he won’t look at you properly.

You step back, like distance will make any of this easier to understand. “You could’ve just talked to me. You didn’t have to blindside me like this.”

Franco doesn’t reply because he can’t. He wants to tell you that you’re in every lyric he writes. That every time you laugh in your designated corner of Kimis garage, it makes him forget what he was angry about before coming to practice. That you’re not a distraction. Fuck, you’re the only thing that’s made any of this feel worth it. But none of that would help now, because he has already dug his grave; he just has to lie in it.

You exhale sharply, like you’re trying to force the unshed tears back into your eyes. “Fine.”

“Wait—”

“No, it’s fine,” you interrupt, voice hollow now. “If that’s what you want.”

You walk to the corner, grabbing your jacket and your notebook from the floor. Your drumstick is still on the couch. You leave it.

You glance back at Franco before you step out, chin twitching because you’re trying not to cry.

He’s standing in the same spot. Stiff. Silent. Staring at the ground like he hopes a hole suddenly opens up and swallows him.

“You don’t get to call this not personal,” you say, voice low. “Because you and I both know that’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

And then you leave. The door shuts behind you, and the way it slams echoes through Franco’s ribs.

He doesn’t chase after you. He just stands there, surrounded by shut-off amps, still instruments, and all the things he wishes he had the courage to say but never did.

You’re at the next show, too. Nobody invited you to this one, he made sure to make it clear to Isack that it wouldn’t happen again. But you come anyway, no invitation needed. You’re a little closer this time, a little less afraid to make yourself known in the crowd. 

You don’t go backstage after the show this time either, but you make sure to wave at them on your way out. Franco is the only one who doesn’t wave back.

It’s been a year, and even after telling himself that it was necessary, that the band needed focus, that you were a distraction he couldn’t afford, he still lets it eat at him to no end. Because Franco never once believed you weren’t good enough, and knowing that’s probably what you thought in the end swallows him whole.

He watches your silhouette disappear into the night, and for a long moment, Franco wonders if you’d ever consider coming back. Not as a distraction. Not as a placeholder in the crowd. But as his bandmate, the one thing he knows you were always meant to be if nothing else.

He wanted to shout after you, to beg you to stay because he didn’t last time, to explain that the only thing he really needed was the courage to admit how much he missed you.

But the words sit heavy in his throat like stones, so he stays silent, because that’s what Franco is good at.

The line between what he thinks could have been and what he knows will never be grows wider still.

© 𝗔𝗔𝗝𝗫���

@satorinnie , @vainvenus

[violetquart-z]

closer - Verso Dessendre/Reader oneshot

*Cross-posted on AO3 @ quartzviolet*

"Tomorrow we head for the heart of the Paintress, so let's make sure we're well equipped." Lune speaks at the campfire, looking up from the notebook she's scribbling in. "Perhaps I should stock up on a few more tinctures…" Sciel responds back in a hum, as you walk by everyone and collect their bowls from tonight's dinner. "Thanks." Maelle gave me a soft smile. You grin back at her, feeling glad that she's processing her grief of Gustave a little more to the point where she's able to bring herself to smile again. You walk off, stacking the bowls and bringing them closer to the washing area of the cliffside, as you begin to rinse the questionably coloured stew that Lune made tonight. 'Hmm - maybe I'll just cook tomorrow night…' You think to yourself.

"Need help?" A familiar deep voice calls out from behind you.

"Gah!" You yelp in surprise, fumbling with the bowl and dropping it onto your foot. It didn't hurt - if anything, the embarrassment of dropping something so ungracefully hurt your dignity the most. You feel like Monoco when he smacked himself in the face with his own staff. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you jump." Verso apologises, and your cheeks redden. "No, it's not your fault. I'm just startled easily." You ready yourself to bend down to pick the bowl up from the ground, but Verso has already beat you to it. You gratefully take the bowl from him, yourfingers brushing against his, suppressing the shiver that threatens to travel up your spine. "Thank you." You say, your voice just above a whisper. "It's no problem. How's that injury on the back of your neck going? You took a pretty awful hit." Verso checked in as you finish rinsing the bowl, placing it upside down. "It's hard to tell, it hurts the most when I'm looking upwards - I'm worried it's going to reopen." You reply. "Do you mind if I check…?" Verso asks courteously. "Go ahead, I don't want any surprise pain in Old Lumiere tomorrow." You agree, keeping your back turned to him as you fish out the last pair of cutlery from the wooden basin. "I'll just move your hair - it's hiding your wound." Verso notifies, and you hum in acknowledgement.

You feel his fingertips barely brush at the side of your neck as he scoops your hair up in his hands, your hair held up in his loose fist as you feel his breath barely fan against your skin, as he checks the purpling gash at the nape of your neck. Subconsciously, your hands let go of the cutlery and they find themselves gripping at the edge of the basin, knuckles slowly turning white at the sensation of Verso's touch. "Is it okay?" You clear your throat, trying to sound nonchalant as you feel his thumb very softly stroke the edges of the wound. "How bad does it hurt when I touch it here?" Verso asks softly, and you grimace a little. "Um, a bit." You chew on your lower lip. "It doesn't look infected but the swelling is still quite bad. Hang on." Verso replies, and quickly calls out to Lune for a bandage and healing salve.

"Oh shit, yeah that's gotta hurt." Lune says as you hear the soft clink of the glass bottle as she hands the items to Verso. "I thought it was okay… I guess I shouldn't assume when I can't really see it though." You sigh as you watch Verso dip his fingers into the pot of healing salve. As soon as the earthy green paste makes contact with your skin, you could swear it makes a 'sizzle' sound at the cool relief it provides to your wound. Despite the instant cooling relief the salve gave, your body was still feeling warm and flush at the feeling of Verso's body heat. His chest only centimetres away from your back, his hand threaded in your hair… "I'll need to wrap this around your neck, you'll just need to hold your hair for a moment." Verso instructs, and you release your vice grip from the wash basin as you raise both of your arms to hold your hair. You feel Verso's warm fingers brush against the sensitive skin of your neck, as he fixes the cloth around your neck, expertly bandaging it to be both taut but gentle. "T-Thanks…" You mumble, dropping your hair down as you face him with a small, grateful smile. Ah, shit. His eyes are really intense to look at. "If it hurts, don't hesitate to come to me if you need help. You don't need to burden these things alone." He whispers reassuringly, and you nod.

The trip to Old Lumiere wasn't too long, thankfully. Perhaps 2 hours tops on trusty Esquie's back. Everyone slides off his back, looking at old Lumiere in awe. It looked so dystopian, like a shattered fragment of a mirror into Lumiere back home. Despite how desolate and crumbling Old Lumiere's appearance was, you could envision how lively and grand Old Lumiere once was. As you continue to approach the stairs that descend further into Lumiere, you come across a blockage - towering buildings smushed together with what appears to be glowing gold swords skewered into them. An unstable homunculus of crumbling architecture. "Ah… Do we climb it? That might be too dangerous. Hmm… We'll need a way forward." Lune ponders out loud. "Alright - show off a bit, Monoco." Verso turns to Monoco in an amused tone, his arm outstretched with a smirk as if to challenge him. "Just admit you can't do it yourself." Monoco taunts, sauntering forward. You and Maelle both exchange a glance at the pairs antics, stifling a giggle. We watch as Monoco transforms into the stalact we witnessed earlier, his icicle-clad form rising in the air as he slams down and- "PUTAIN! MONOCO!" Verso yells as the debris of the impact flies everywhere, sending us all flying in separate directions.

"Merde… My neck." You ignore the sweltering pain at your neck and rub the grains of dirt away from your eyes. Verso extends a hand to you, which you gladly take. "Is it okay?" Verso immediately pulls you in close by the shoulder, lifting your hair to check your wound. "It doesn't feel like it's split open." You confirm, and hear him sigh in relief. You cheeks redden at the proximity and touch again. If he keeps this up, it'll be impossible to not fall for him… "Monoco can be a bit… Overzealous at times." Verso sighs apologetically, snapping you out of your thoughts. "A bit." You nod in agreement, before you both share a laugh.

"So… Where are we in relation to the rest of Old Lumiere?" You ask after a brief moment of quiet. "Good question. That blast sent us a fair way. I believe we got sent flying quite north, so let's turn back using the bridge and see how we fare if we find the old city centre." Verso suggests.

It didn't take long for you both to become surrounded by Nevrons as you began to move, however you both took any that crossed your path down with ease. But what you were not expecting was a tiny, floating little Nevron, that was almost impossible to hit or trap, hovering around you both to exhaust you when fighting other Nevrons. It was weighing you both down, and getting on both of your nerves.

"Bastard! I've finally got you!" You yell, slamming your mace down onto the tiny head of the Nevron as Verso finished it off. You both watched the tiny thing no bigger than the size of your head release a plume of vapor in both of your faces, before disintegrating into nothingness. "Yuck." You frown, wiping your face as if the strange coloured steam hadn't already evaporated into your skin, clothes, and nostrils. "Shall we continue?" You call out to Verso as you arise from your knees.

After passing the large bridge ahead and wandering further into the towering maze of decrepit buildings, your body began to feel hot. Like your body was burning. Every nerve in your body began to prickle and swelter as if an invisible match had been struck against your skin. "V-Verso, I feel a bit unwell. It's not my neck, I just feel kind of sick." You stammer, as a glossy sheen of sweat forms across your forehead and the top of your shoulders. "I might need to rest for a sec. It feels hot, but I know for a fact that this place was cold when we first entered, since we're so high up." You deduce, whilst almost tripping on your feet as your body grows hotter. "We can afford to take a break. I don't feel sick - did you possibly develop a cold overnight?" Verso asks, his voice full of concern. "No, I felt fine earlier. Well-rested too." You shake your head. Your vision blurs, the dark sky and huge golden swords in the sky blurring together, causing a kaleidoscope of dark grey and yellow to swim in your vision. Lurching forward, you wretch and heave as your body breaks out into a cold sweat. The exhaustion was becoming too much. "It's not safe here in the open, come on, let's get indoors and you can rest." Verso voices in a soothing tone, helping you stand as you enter the most in-tact looking building nearby.

The building looks as if it were a quaint little bed and breakfast in another life. Books, cushions, and other little knick-knacks litter the floor, covered in a layer of dust. You tread carefully down a flight of stairs into what appears to be a cellar, a significantly less dusty spot to rest. "B-But the others may not find us…" You comment, sliding down the wall to the stone floor. "We'll move as soon as we can - right now though, the Nevrons will certainly find us before they do." Verso reasons, striking flint against a half-burnt pillar candle. You watch as it emits a gentle amber glow, softly illuminating the cellar. Your clammy palms press against the cool, grey stone. You momentarily lift them and watch the print of your hands form and disappear with the condensation. "I don't understand what happened." You frown, downing a healing tint formulated with a cleansing herb. "I- Hmm. Yeah, let's just see how it goes with a cleansing tint." Verso seems to cut himself off, but you pay it no mind since the man is regularly cryptic. You try to wait for the effect to leave your body for a few minutes, but you only feel drowsy as time drags on. "It's not working, maybe I can just sleep it off." You say, flopping your body onto the hard stone, grimacing at the feeling of the slightly jagged cold stone poking into your cheek. "Oh my- That's not good for your neck or your face. Here." Verso whispers, sitting down next to you as you prop yourself up on your wrists with an inquisitive look. "But then you'll be uncomfortable." You mumble. "You can nap on me. I'll manage - I'm not the one sustaining a neck injury and a face full of Nevron pollen." Verso reassures, shuffling himself down as his legs sprawl outwards. "Thanks." You shoot him a grateful glance as you shuffle onto him, your head resting on his shoulder. Wordlessly, Verso pulls you into an embrace, gently moving your head from his shoulder to his chest. "Comfier?" He asks in a whisper. "Much comfier. But if you keep this up you're going to make me fall for you…" You mumble haphazardly, burying your reddening face in his chest before dozing off.

Soft moans from your lips echo throughout the abandoned cellar. Verso's jaw is clenched tightly as he's using every ounce of his willpower to restrain himself. And he considers himself to be a very self-restrained man. But the woman he's fallen for is moaning his name in her sleep, her face buried into his chest, as one of her legs is hiked up and thrown against his thighs while she's slowly grinding her hips into the side of his thigh to seek that sweet release and… "V-Verso…" That would do it.

"O-Oh." You splutter, you didn't reach your high yet, but you awoke due to the feeling of your own body moving around so much in combination with that dream… And then reality comes back into focus. You're in a dimly-lit room, and you're not in your bedroll or on the stone floor, you're halfway straddled on a warm body. Verso's. Your eyes fly open, wide in surprise as you clamp your hand over your mouth, immediately pulling away from his body and scampering to your knees. "You're awake." Verso greets - he tries to keep a nonchalant tone but his voice seems a pitch higher than usual. "I- um, yes. I'm so sorry, that must've been so uncomfortable for you. I'm so sorry if that came off as disrespectful and it was completely inappropriate of me, I…" You trail off as he shoots you an amused glance, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. "Did you mean it?" Verso asks, and you bite on your bottom lip. "Mean what?" You ask. "When you moaned my name." Verso answers in a low voice. "I-I…" Your mouth momentarily gapes open and shut, like a fish out of water. "Yes." You breathe out, scrunching the hem of your Expedition uniform's shirt in your fist, unwilling to look him in the eye after your admission. "Good. Because I've been wanting to make you moan my name for a while now." Verso whispers. His eyes wordlessly beckon you closer, as your hands press back down onto the cool stone floor to briefly crawl on all fours at a slow, languid pace - like a cat hunting its prey, before kissing him. The mere action and motion of your body stoked the building tension and passion between you both to a boiling point.

Breaking away from the kiss, Verso's hand cups your cheek, his thumb gently stroking it. "Do you want to finish what you started?" He whispers, and you nod. Silently, his hands guide your hips as you straddle his thigh, as you both kiss again. This time, the kiss is deeper, more fervent. You lower your hips back onto him, and despite the layer of clothing between you both, you were so slick and aroused from your previous actions that it doesn't't matter. Your hips buck against his thigh as his name spills over your lips, meanwhile his mouth has travelled from your lips to your neck, placing hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses on the column of your throat as you sigh in pleasure. "A-Ah… So good…" You moan, body ignited by the friction and pressure you were chasing against his body. "Yeah… I've got you. I've got you…" Verso rubs little circles into the side of your waist as you grind down, harder. "O-oh, god… I-I'm so close…" You exhale breathlessly as you capture his lips for another kiss, his warm hands travelling down to your hips to help maintain your frantic rhythm. "That's it… That's my girl… Ride it out for me…" Verso whispers as you stare into his pale grey eyes. Those words alone spurring you on until… "F-fuck! Verso… C-Cumming…" You splutter, biting down on your lip as you ride out your high. A few exhales later and your body slumps down in between his legs. "Better?" Verso asks, and you breathlessly nod.

"Looks like you've got your energy back, should we go?" Verso asks. You look down at him - his cock clearly straining against his pants and making a very obvious tent. "But I didn't get to make you feel good…" You trail off, your eyes flickering to his obvious arousal. "It can wait. We don't intend on dying here, right? You we'll have much more time when we set up at camp." Verso reminds you, and you nod with a pout.

You'll be sure to repay him later.

[thepoisonroom]

honestly continually taken aback at how squeamish citizens get if you're honest about the practical calculus of immigrating, even the ones who think of themselves as pro-immigration! like why are you suddenly stumping for The Good Immigrant archetype bc i promise the immigration bureau is NOT going to fuck you!!!

[the-worms-in-your-bones]

wow, my housemate known for being an asshole is being an asshole again, who could have guessed

[danganronpasurvivoraskblog]

(V)

...I appreciate you doing that and shutting him up, but please don't assault your coworkers. I don't want you getting in trouble with the Foundation...

I'm sorry, sir.

I told you not to call me sir. We're classmates Mukuro. You can call me by my name.

...A-Alright...Makoto...

I...like your new haircut, though. I wouldn't have thought it was a mistake if you hadn't told me.

...Really?

Yes. It is...quite fashionable. You look much younger with it like this.

...Is...Is that so...?

Well...I guess I'll keep it around a little longer then...

All because a pretty girl complimented you...Boys, amiright?

You recovered from that pretty quickly.

Well, I still haven't heard the results of our contest. Who killed the most bears?

Well, assuming the competition started after Mukuro showed up, I...

...wasn't really keeping track.

For real!?

I was trying not to die while you two threw bear chunks everywhere! Ugh...look, we'll call it a draw.

Hmph!

Tch...!

...Does that mean we both get headpats?

I-I didn't make that promise! You made it for me!

Aw, but look at the little dog's faaaaace! How could you say noooo?

...

*Kuripa jokingly puts his hands on Mukuro's shoulder, but she DOES appear to be pouting in disappointment.

...*sigh* Fine...C'mere...

...!?

*Makoto reaches out and begins to rub Mukuro and Kuripa's heads.

...~

*Mukuro looks flustered, but unnaturally happy for her usual stoicism. Meanwhile, Kuripa...

*PANT!* *PANT!* *PANT!* *PANT!* *PANT!* *PANT!* *PANT!*

UWAAGH!?

*THUNK!*

*WWHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZZZZEEE!!* not the other riiiiiiiib! *THUD!*

*Mukuro nails him in the other lung this time, and he once again collapses.

Do something like that again, and the next time I thrust something between your ribs, it will be the end of my knife...!

The Warblade Returns...

So now the real question is are you little cocksuckers capable of feeling FEAR!?

RRRAAAAWWWRR!

...!

Ah-!?

*SLASH!* *SLASH!* *SLASH!*

*CLANK!* *SMACK!* *CLUNK!*

Aaaaahah...!

*As soon as Kuripa issues his challenge, one of the Monokumas lunges at him with a feral snarl. But before it can even reach him, he snatches it mid-air by its short, stubby neck. With a cold glare and barely a flicker of effort, he raises his sword and tears the mechanical bear into ribbons, metal parts and sparks scattering across the room.

PUHUHUHUHUHU!

RRAAGGGH!

*CLAANG!*

RAARARR! RRAAAAAAAAARRR!

*SLASH!* *SLASH!* *CLANG!*

*A second Monokuma charges, claws glinting as it swings at him with a wide slash, but Kuripa’s blade meets it with a sharp clang, halting the attack instantly. More of the robotic beasts rush in with relentless aggression, their claws slicing through the air, but each strike is deflected, parried, or simply ignored. None of their blows leave a mark.

Come on! We gotta get a move on!

*Makoto helps one of his other operatives to his feet, who is clutching at his arm where the Monokuma slashed at him.

Looks deep...but it shouldn't be lethal. We have medical experts upstairs just in case.

Here! I'll help you!

*As Kuripa fends off the bears on his own, Makoto gathers the rest of his men.

Agent: Sorry sir...we're useless.

No, you're not...These things are just way too strong. And they caught you by surprise, so that's not your fault.

Agent: But Kurafto...since when is that kid so strong?

...Your guess is as good as mine...

HIIIRRAAGGGH!

OOOGH!

AAAGGH!!?

*The two nearest Monokumas attempt to flank him, but with two clean, fluid motions, Kuripa cuts them both down, each split open with a single, precise slash.

AWAAAAAAAAAAAARRRR!

*CHING!* *CHING!* *CHANG!* *BANG!* *CLINK!*

HHNNGGH!

*Another snarls and roars in frustration, but the Ultimate Animator doesn’t flinch. He shrugs off its frenzy of blows like they’re nothing more than raindrops.

Get everyone out! This could get messy!

*SLASH!*

RRAWR!

*WHACK!*

UGH! HYAAGH!

*SWOOSH!* *CLANG!*

GGRRRRRRRR!!?

YAHHAAAGGH!

*SLAASSH!* *SLASH!*

AAGGGGH!

*SMACK!*

*Kuripa retaliates with a wide, arcing slash. The Monokuma leaps backward, narrowly dodging, then counters with a powerful kick that knocks Kuripa off balance. He stumbles back a step, only to recover instantly and slash again, this time his blade connecting. The two clash in a brutal exchange of steel and claws, but despite the bear’s desperate attempt to block the assault, it’s eventually torn apart and hurled into the wall in pieces.

Right! You heard him! All of you, get up the elevator now!

Agent: What about you, sir!?

I'll stay here, just in case he needs any help. I'm not a good fighter, but some help is better than no help.

It's fine. This isn't my first rodeo.

AAAAWWOOOOOOOO!

[seaofreverie]

Woah, kind of lost myself there for a couple of days. But Hi again

[sskk-manifesto]

(｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

[asmodeusamaryllis]

I don't think I can keep being open minded to n@tl@n guys

[xcziel]

my mental acrobatics: what if he posted that song title in particular for himself as a kind of meta-commentary to show he knows it actually wasn't his win?

[audiovisualrecall]

Oh I think my tmj on the left side subluxates, it explains a few episodes of severe pain and difficulty chewing which i was able to alleviate with supporting/pressing my fingers against the tmj and flexing my jaw gently. I don't think it's currently subluxated, but it's at least irritated/inflamed/something is up, I am experiencing paint in the joint and a feeling of stiffness. I mean idk what else those episodes could be or why it's hurting now. My right tmj isn't hurting. (tmj is the joint, I have tmj dysfunction which is what is generally called tmj).

So anyway that's fun and I'm thrilled...

[absolutemea]

FratBoy!Sukuna x Chubby Reader

A/N: Hi guys so im probably gonna make this a series if it's a hit and you guys like it! So opinions are much appreciated. Also feel free to make requests or tell me things!

Part 1 next

"C'mon ma. One date that's all I'm asking" he prodded.

Yes. The one and only Sukuna is asking little ole you out on a date. This isn't the first time, no it's not even the second, but instead the fourth time just this week.

"I've already said no. Take a fucking hint. I don't know why you keep asking" you replied back with a snap.

You weren't mad, no, you were furious. Because you knew how guys like him are. He's a frat bro, who's known for fucking girls like a demon and doing them even worse emotionally. And it seems like you're his newest conquest. You're not his usual type either. You've got more... more to you're body, brains, and personality than he's used to. You're everything he's know not to go for. So why would he of all people be asking you out? It felt like this was some type of sick joke that you weren't in on. Y'know what...

"Actually Sukuna, since you seem so desperate. I guess I'll help the needy and go out with you on a date." You give him your best fake smile and batted you pretty lashes at him.

"Y'know I should really be pissed at you for that bratty attitude, but I'm just glad you finally came to your senses."

"I'm free friday at 6:30 pm. Be at my door step on the dot and don't dress like a bum." You spit out and turned on your heels before walking away.

...

Eventually, friday came around much to your surprise it was 6:25 when you got a knock on your door. He was early? Was this man actually serious about this date?

You were a bit taken aback by him being actually fairly on time. You quickly snapped out of your daze and did a once over in your mirror before walking to the door and opening it. To your surprise Sukuna in all his glory was wearing a white button up with rolled up sleeves that hugged his body perfectly and black slacks that fit like a glove. His tattooed forearms were out and showing. You stood there soaking in all his beauty. Before speaking up.

"You clean up well."

Sukuna on the other hand, his brain couldn't even process the words you were saying. He was too busy gawking at you like an idiot. He was almost drooling at how your little dress fit your thick frame so perfectly and how your heels made your legs look delicious. Oh and don't even start him on your pretty face. You were so damn perfect he had to hold himself back practically. But he snapped out of it when he realized you were staring at him like he was dumb.

"Yea and you well... you look damn fine. Give me a little spin?"

"No, now you're just pushing your luck." You laughed.

He swallowed hard. Then, gave you an up and down look once again before licking his lips and smirking. You rolled your eyes and grabbed your purse off the rack before walking out the door and closing it behind you. To your surprise he offered you his arm and you intertwined them. You walked beside him to his sleek black corvette. God you forgot he was a rich asshole. He opened the door for you before climbing into the car. He then walked around the car and through the rearview mirror you could see him run a hand over his face.

The drive was quiet expect for the soft hum of the radio and engine. You just looked out the window the whole time and fiddled with your hands. Maybe you were starting to regret this? It just felt wrong like you didn't belong, but that's not a feelings you unfamiliar with. You could tell he was driving into the nicer part of the area where you could never really afford to be around. He finally pulled into the parking lot of a fancy restaurant... one that you had happen to be dreaming about going to. How did he know? Maybe it was a coincidence? You looked around and were honestly excited maybe if the date doesn't go well you at least get a delicious free meal?

Sukuna stepped out of the car and walked around to open the door for you. It seemed like he was remembering his best manners. You slowly stepped out and took a look around before hooking your arm around his. He guided you into the restaurant which was filled with patrons who were far above your status. You were busy taking in the place in awe before you heard the Sukuna speak up.

"For Ryomen"

"Oh. yes, right this way." The hostess answered

What you happened to pick up from the small interaction was the nasty look the hostess gave you and the sweet flirtatious one she gave Sukuna. "The fuck in her problem" you thought. But you brushed it aside knowing this was a part of being out with an attractive man. You mindlessly let him guide you as you thought about how him asking you out was weird. How you weren't the type of girl he was usually seen with. But those thoughts were cut short when you hear him speak up.

"Yo, ma, you here with me?" He laughed softly.

"Huh?" You looked confused for a bit until you realized he was holding out your chair for you. "Oh, yeah. Sorry."

You took seat and gave him a small nod. The table was out on a secluded patio which was nice as you could feel the small chill of the fall night cooling down your anxiety. That's when the waiter came around and asked for your drink orders. Sukuna got a whiskey needing something to take the edge off and you a flavored sparkling water. He soon left after giving you two time to look at the menu.

"Didn't like the way he was looking at you." Sukuna blurted out after watching the waiter walk away.

You stiffled a laugh before speaking, "And I didn't know you were the jealous type."

"I don't get jealous. I just simply didn't appreciate him eyeing my date like a piece of candy."

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. It was one date and one you didn't even wanna be on and he's already acting like a guard dog. You've never heard of this side of Sukuna. Maybe he just keeps it under wraps.

Fairly quickly the waiter comes around back with your drinks and you flash a small smile before mumbling a "thank you." Oh how that got Sukuna mad, you haven't smiled at him like that once since he's began pursuing you. He clutched tightly on his glass and took a sip, swallowing hard and letting the whiskey burn his throat.

This was gonna be one long date you both thought...

[cattian-matrix]

been debating on what to say for longer than i've expected, going anon for this ( although i mayyy suspect you may already know who i am just by my writing style but- welp! xd ) ; if i say anything even remotely wrong, you are free to ignore this ask /gen

you're enough. i think one big step is learning you don't have to be enough for everyone else because it's impossible to do that. you can't please everyone, you can't not please everyone aswell ; 8 billion people in the world, it's almost destiny that atleast 100 of them will be bothered by your existence, and other 100 will not.

although, it's okay to feel that way. it's okay to feel like you have to please everyone, to feel like you have to make everyone happy, to feel worthless if that's not the case. it's okay and you're allowed to feel that way. you are not to blame for feelings that you cannot control.

i won't say i understand, but as a fellow people-pleaser, i can say that i can atleast get the feeling. and i want you to know that it's okay. feel free to open up, to be vulnerable, to cry, to feel worthless, to feel like you're not good enough, to feel like your entire existence is entitled to only making people happy - you're allowed to feel all of those things and more. that's okay.

embrace those feelings instead of shoving them away, be kind to yourself by allowing yourself to just feel. it's okay.

it's so easy to just say you're worth, but you're not gonna believe me if i say you are. so i ask you to say those things to yourself instead, and the multiple times you feel like that's just luck, or you're being a fraud ; that's when you know you're doing great. that's when you know you are worth much more than what that voice in your head tells you.

your worth as someone is much more than what your acchievements tells you ; accept yourself as someone who is allowed to feel, to mess up, to regret, to cry, to be successful, to be kind to oneself, to feel and be all of those things and more.

that can be quite hard to do, but look how far you've gotten. you're still here, aren't you? easier said than done, i know. and it won't get easy, not even one bit - but, and i mean it genuinely : you got this. you genuinely got this.

not sure what to say anymore, so i'm just gonna say that i'm here if you wanna talk. my dms are open for you , and i will be there to give my support to you just as much as i can.

<- sincerely, a moot.

...

hey. thanks. /gen

I'm surprised that you even bothered to write out the message. it's odd because I had a weird thought of "they'll just ignore it"/"I want someone to notice this."

I'm still here. Yeah. That is something.

(Holy shit you made me cry with this /gen /pos)

I think I've grown relatively desensitized to people caring about me (not because of them, but because I've truly forgotten what it's like to have someone actually comfort you, especially when said person barely knows you.) but I seriously, seriously appreciate people (like you!) that bother to send me messages like this.

it does help make things better. like- seriously.

(still somewhat in shock because why would anyone care about how I'm doing and take time out of their day to write or do anything for my sake?) but I want to say this did make me feel a lot better. not okay, but a lot better. /gen /pos

be kind to yourself. now hang on a minute didn't I write something literally about this-

oh. i guess i'm just not taking my own advice.

[krysmcscience]

Did somebody say Bill shouldn't be allowed to swear? I think somebody said Bill shouldn't be allowed to swear. Thanks to that, have these retooled The Good Place jokes:

The "powers that be" can refer to either the Theraprism staff, the Axolotl, or just. Ya know. Disney in general. Or all three! Whichever you think is funniest. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The "party" Bill's referring to is Weirdmageddon, of course. He was quite the ashhole to everyone back then.

Ford has probably gotten pretty good at the 'tune out your psychopathic ex with dank memes' challenge.

It must be very cathartic to be able to make Bill shut up whenever you want with just the press of a button. I'm sure Ford doesn't abuse this ability at all.

Oh, sure, 'Not now,' he says, before he immediately backs out of the newly-made hole in the Theraprism wall. 🙄

Don't worry, Bill doesn't get far.

also yeah i know this one doesn't have an attempted swear - i just wanted to use the joke because of the massive stink-eye involved in it because it makes me laugh

⬇️ More goofs beneath the brief ramble if you wanna skip it lmao⬇️

Why is Ford even there, you might ask? Well, he either decided he preferred to watch Bill suffer in person over being distantly and repeatedly harassed with the same evil desperation book for the rest of his life, or he got roped into some kind of contrived community service for 1.) all his many counts of interdimensional thievery, and 2.) his ignoring all the very clear warnings to NOT summon Bill in the first place (which I like to imagine is also illegal). Theraprism staff were just like, 'Wait, this guy matters to Bill? Ooh, we can USE that! It might be the only thing that can help him want to get better!' It is not considered that throwing Ford at Bill so soon after Weirdmageddon could instead make them both WORSE - in new and altogether special ways! :D

Anyway, I'm calling it the Community Service AU, and I am most likely not going to do anything else with it beyond appropriating these silly Good Place jokes. So, feel free to adopt the concept if y'all wanna??? Just make sure that Bill is still not allowed to swear, no matter what, full stop. It's gotta be a real linguistic corkblork of a situation for him, is all I'm sayin'.

Finally, have these bonus Good Place jokes, but with Handyman!Bill this time:

'Opposite tortures' doesn't sound so bad...at least until it's an all-powerful chaos entity known for torture saying it.

you may think i forgot mabel's cute pink cheeks but the truth is that i did in fact forget but then immediately stopped caring which makes it okay, SHHHHHHH

And, finally:

lmao this is shit

True facts, if you cram Season 1 Eleanor Shellstrop and Michael into a singular triangle shape, they turn into Bill Cipher. This is science, look it up. Or don't, and just trust the source that is me, bro.

Anyway, I should be in bed, y'all have fun with these, I guess. Tune in after like a week or so and maybe I'll have an addendum to my comic about how Bill was drawn naked for karaoke night. Because him actually being naked was not the only thing I considered as a plausible explanation. XD

Also if you see any inconsistencies or errors in any of these comics, No You Do Not :D

Also also, reblogs are rad as hell and I appreciate every single one, just don't repost, please and thanks. Every time a repost is made, an artist somewhere cries. :,)